Let's go upstairs.

Sounds good.

So they do that. It's a pretty suite.

And she is tired of feeling sad, so she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him.

Kisses. Distractions. Not being sad.

You were going to make me stop thinking, she reminds him.

So less clothes, less hair-braiding, Idaia-Idaia-Idaia on his lips and in his arms and in his mind -

He is very good at his job.

He loves her. He says so. 

She loves him. She is not nearly coherent enough to muster words to that effect but they are married so he can tell anyway.

Yes he can.

"I love you," she gasps when she can string three syllables together again.

I know. I can tell. It's wonderful.

"You're wonderful."

Squeeze. "I'm so glad I have you."

"Me too."

He can't think of anything else to say that isn't vaguely depressing so he just kisses her and holds her close.

It doesn't take her long from there to drift off to sleep.

He listens to her dreams and hums and sends her happy feelings.

She has happy dreams.

One of them involves going apple-picking and kissing the juice off his chin when he wasn't careful enough biting into the fruit.

One of them involves playing some kind of Kilaiuossan chasing game across the halls and rooms of a spatially-impossible mansion.

...One of them involves an adorable black-haired baby.

Cuddles. Singing. Maybe someday.

And in the morning she wakes up, and stretches a little, and shows absolutely no inclination to stop actively snuggling him.

You have such cute dreams.

I'm glad you think so. That house'll be useful at some point, I bet.

Totally. When you have godlike powers from being the first thousand-year-old human.