“What are you doing up?”

“Just attempting to break my toe,” I muttered, turning my head and looking back toward her.

“What happened?” my wife asked, her voice a quiet blend of two parts sleep to one part concern, all underscored by a faint Celtic intonation. “You’re sure you’re okay, then?”

Felicity was second generation Irish-American, and she had spent an enormous amount of time in Ireland throughout her life. She was never completely free of the lilt, though it was most pronounced whenever she was overtired, under stress, or as in this case, half asleep. It almost always came bundled with a rich and colorful brogue to match.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I told her as I focused on her slight form. “Just stubbed it, that’s all.”

She had propped herself in the doorway, using the back of her hand for a pillow as she rested it against the frame. In the dim light, I could see that her eyes were closed as she yawned. A loose pile of fiery auburn hair sat atop her head in a Gibson-girlish coif. Whenever she let the cascade of spiraling tresses hang free, it would easily reach her waist. Her pale skin seemed to almost glow in the darkness.

She let out a heavy sigh and stretched slowly. She was clad in an oversized t-shirt, but her tight figure still managed to tug it into varying degrees of eye candy as she languidly arched her back. How she managed to look this good even when she had just climbed out of bed was something beyond my comprehension, but I certainly wasn’t going to complain.

“Aye,” she said as she reached out and switched on the overhead light. “So tell me why you’re awake, then.”

“Because I couldn’t sleep?” I offered, squinting against the sudden infusion of brightness.

“Aye, don’t be a smart ass now. You know what I meant.”

“Would you believe I was trying to get some work done?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Getting a drink of water?”