6:45 A.M.

What am I doing up at this ungodly hour?

What am I, Jensen Ross Ackles, doing staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, arms folded above my head and Dani's head tucked against my bare chest in the quiet stillness of the morning?

I'm thinking. Hell, I'm philosophizing. It seems like my brain kicks into hyperactive mode when I'm trying to sleep, its activity soaring to unparalleled heights and challenging me to ruminate issues of deep philosophical importance when all I want to think about is the softness of my pillows.

I contemplate, for instance, why life is unfair.

Dani mumbles something in her sleep, her dyed, lavender-scented hair tickling the bare skin of my pectoral muscle.

I bite my lip and shut my eyes, trying to remain still so as not to wake her, trying not to long instead for dark, natural locks that smell like musk and man. Despite the stillness, my brain remains very much awake, running like a crazed hamster on its wheel.

Is life unfair, or it just the fault of us humans and the decisions we make?

Decisions like marriage.

Furthermore, when did I become an adult? I think I missed the point where my troubles went from picking out my morning outfit to picking a life partner.

I blink groggily at the lemon-yellow sunlight pooling on the polished, oak-panelled floor by the bed. Its soothing softness is a balm to my restless soul: clear and warm, casting pastel shadows throughout the luxurious bedroom.

What if...

I sigh when Dani rouses beside me, eyelashes feather-soft against my skin. The pale dawn light filtering through the window compels me sit upright and stretch my muscles. I rise sluggishly to my feet, silky white sheets sliding down my body and exposing inch after inch of my nudity. I pad quietly across the room and stop at the window. Resting my hands on the ledge, I furrow my brows as I peer outside.

What if I've made a mistake?

My eyes take in the clear sweep of morning sky: a pale, overcast grey, holding the promise of rain. My thoughts stray to him. I'm quite sure they will forever stray to him. I wake up thinking about him and I go to bed thinking about him.

What if...

I'm equally sure that him will never be the same noun ever again. Him is imbued with heavy connotation; he is the man that turned my whole life upside down, challenged my every belief about myself and what I want, perhaps even what I need. He shook my world up like some sort of oversized snow globe, and I wonder fleetingly if the little pieces of tinsel-snow will every truly settle to the bottom.

A quick glance at my alarm clock confirms that he's still jogging. I bite my lip, unable to suppress a soft, rueful smile at the thought of those long legs churning up dirt, sneakered feet pounding at the well-worn trail, the wind whipping across that angelic face.

Unbidden, my mind conjures up the image of that same hair mussed by my hands as I card my fingers through it roughly, those slender legs wrapped around my hips, that face a vision of pure ecstasy, head thrown back, eyelashes damp and bitten lips slick and swollen as I...

When I was a kid, all I had to do to amend my mistakes was say I'm sorry and the problem tended to dissolve without much further fanfare.

Fat load of good that would do me now. I'm not a child anymore.

I reach for my phone on the beside table and my fingers work of their own accord, typing out my routine message.

Me: Five more minutes. You can do it, Mish :)

Even though he's at my home in Malibu, Mish insists upon adhering to his regular exercise routine and chasing the sunrise every damn morning.

The soft smile persists onto my face as I pad sleepily over to the en-suite bathroom.

Mish thinks I love him for his body. He thinks I'm overly enamoured with those toned muscles, that lean, sexy torso and that fine-as-hell ass...

He's right.

That man is a fucking work of art. I'm hard twenty-four-seven just being in the vicinity of that rich, golden skin, wide, cerulean eyes and dark hair, ever windswept and adorably ruffled. I'm addicted to the taste of his plump, pink lips, the tender bite of those perfect teeth, the touch of those delicate fingers, ferocious tenderness in their grasp on my skin...

But there's so much more to him that draws me in.

Almost mechanically, I shuffle through the drawers and cabinets, producing my toothbrush, toothpaste and shaving cream.

His perverse obstinacy and the fierce determination that get him up at this hour every morning, that relentless passion and drive... I find that shit equally sexy.

"Babe?" Dani's quiet mumble drifts across the space between us, words laden with drowsiness. "You okay?"

I work the brush against my teeth, scrubbing furiously and creating a lather of minty paste which I proceed to spit into the sink. I rinse my mouth out, jaded by the sound of rushing water and the squeak of the the tap.

"I'm fine."

I set my toothbrush back and pick up the razor. In smooth, deft strokes, I draw the blade across my stubble, slicing cleanly through the cream-beard I've dolloped on my face.

Something in my reflection catches my attention.

Squinting, I lean closer to the mirror. My eyes focus on a single strand of hair just above my left eyebrow. A silver hair.

I frown at the intruding fibre, gleaming bright amidst its dirty blonde counterparts.

I can't help but feel like it's winking at me under the vanity lights. Yeah, I'm getting old and I'm sorry definitely won't cut it anymore.

I hear shuffling in the bedroom and the rustling of sheets as Dani gets out of bed. I hear her yawn and can picture, without even looking, the shape of her slender figure outlined against the morning light as she raises her arms above her head in a lascivious stretch.

I splash water onto my face, washing away the shaving cream, squeezing my eyes shut against the icy liquid assaulting my features. Sputtering, I draw both hands cross my freshly-shaven cheeks, rewarded by a smooth expanse of skin. My fingers linger over my lips and I can still taste him.

"Morning," Dani yawns, shuffling over to me. I chuckle at her disheveled hair, falling haphazardly across her face.

"Morning," I rumble, leaning in for a quick peck on her cheek.

Dani stops my hand and lifts it to her belly, settling it over the impressive bulge. Over my unborn children.

I let my hand drift over the smooth, taut swell of skin, heart thudding as I imagine two tiny heartbeats just beneath my palm.

Dani leans in then and I meet her lips in a kiss. Our tongues move together in practiced synchrony, familiar and reassuring and safe. The warmth of her breath on my face, her hand settling lightly on my bicep, are grounding forces, and they remind me. She is my wife. She is my family. She is the mother of my children.

I pull back and regard her softly, eyes damp with emotion.

She was perfect.

Is.

Is perfect, goddammit.

I know I'm not a child anymore; I know this only too well. And still I can't help but want to clasp my hands together and squeeze my eyes shut. With every fibre of my being, I will myself not to mean the words.

But I whisper them anyway.

"I'm sorry."

I try to convince myself that this insanity will pass, that the tinsel-snow will settle and my life will resume its normalcy. That I don't regret anything, haven't made any mistakes, am happy, complete, whole. But my mouth betrays me yet again, just like it does when it kisses his lips.

I'm so sorry.

"What was that, babe?"

I blink dazedly, my vision gradually focusing on Dani standing before me, looking perplexed.

"Huh?"

Her face softens into a titillating smile.

"Were you thinking about me again? You had that faraway look in your eyes."

"What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I was."

"I knew it," she smirks, leaning over to plant a parting kiss squarely on my lips. "I know you so well."

She pulls back and saunters out of the bathroom.

"I'm taking JJ over to Olivia's for her play-date," Dani calls over her shoulder, "and then I'm showing Gen and Jared that spa we love so much. I promised them yesterday at the club that I would take them. They're considering buying a membership for when they stay over. I don't know how long we'll be out, so ask Misha to fix something for your lunch."

"Of course," I mutter absentmindedly. "Yeah, have fun."

I lean against the doorframe, watching my wife slip on a pair of trendy, white jeans and a cashmere top. She scoops up a clutch purse and a pair of nude pumps from the walk-in closet before leaving the room.

Moments later, I hear the front door open and click shut, signalling Misha's return.

I spend a few minutes propped against the headboard of the king-sized bed with my laptop, catching up on bills and sifting through emails from my agent. After a while, I hear the three adults and JJ slip out of the house, Dani's key turning in the lock preceding the starting of the car.

I set my laptop aside and leave the room, trotting down the stairs two steps at a time. Even before I reach the massive kitchen, the heavenly fragrances of omelette and French toast - maple bacon, by the smell of it -  assault my senses, making my knees weak.

But not as weak as the sight of Misha cooking gets me.

I wonder what's going through his mind as he stands there whisking those eggs, that utterly fucking delicious apron hanging low on his taut, little hips. He's ruggedly gorgeous with that unruly head of dark hair and those big, beautiful eyes, a very particular shade of marine blue. Cloudless day blue. Caribbean Sea blue. Fuck me sideways blue. And those strong cheekbones, sharp jaw, beautifully tanned skin...

He has no idea what goes through my mind when I look at him, no freaking clue how pants-droppingly beautiful he is, how much I want to pounce on that lithe body and ravage him in front of my family and friends. There is something quaintly sexy about Misha cooking, the mere sight of which makes my wonder muscle twitch happily in my jeans.

"Hey," I murmur in his ear, wrapping my arms around those beautiful, slim hips and nuzzling his sweet-smelling neck. "Good morning. How was your jog?"

"Morning," he hums, focused on the omelette. "Same as always, rough."

"Why don't you quit then? I bet we can find other ways to burn calories together..." I let my voice trail off suggestively, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply as I burrow my face against his hot, inviting skin. Yeah, I could really use a piece of him right now. And always.

"I'm not going to quit running. And besides, I happen to know for a fact that you appreciate the effort I put into staying fit," Misha smirks, and he has one hell of a point, because I do. I really, really, do. But still... "Plus I told Dani I would take care of breakfast-"

"Fuck that," I retort, unfazed. "Tell Dani to make breakfast herself for once, and you and I can eat it off each other in bed."

Yeah, discretion isn't in my repertoire. Misha knows I'm frank, but the query still catches him unguarded, and he flushes.

"She has enough to worry about, Jensen."

"Then let me make the food."

Misha stifles a disdainful laugh at the prospect of my, admittedly poor, cooking skills.

"Why, so we can sell it as a biological weapon?"

Ignoring the insult, I wrap an arm firmly around his waist, the other settling on his ass and fondling it affectionately. I smile when he whirls around to face me. "Just where do you think you're putting your hand?"

I lean in closer, until our foreheads are touching, refusing to relax my possessive grip on him.

"My ass," I answer cheekily, as though claiming it as mine is completely natural.

Misha snorts but turns around again, dutifully occupied once more with his cooking. "Mish," I whine, licking a hot, wet stripe along his perfect jawline. "Ugh. Friggin' unattainable heavenly piece of ass... Come on."

Fuck, he's too gorgeous for his own good. I'd choose to eat this messy-haired, blue-eyed sex muffin over breakfast any day. Metaphorically, of course...mostly.

For a second, I allow myself to indulge in a fleeting fantasy of how the morning might play out if we were married and this were our house and there were no one else around. We'd probably fight over first dibs at the coffee machine, and Misha would end up pinned against the counter with the whole pot spilling onto the hardwood floor, and then I'd fuck him hard against the cabinetry. Later, he'd try to get dressed and I wouldn't let him, kissing his hipbones and burying my nose in his pubic hair and then we'd be fucking in the armchair by the fireplace, just like that. We'd tackle each other to the ground in garage, and he'd lean me against our car and slowly suck me off...

A sudden sly smirk kicks up the corner of my mouth as an idea registers in my mind. I quickly snatch the wooden spoon from Misha's grasp before dashing out of his reach.

"Jensen," he sighs patiently, planting both hands firmly on the counter. "Your plan isn't going to work."

Which doesn't make me happy, because I need him. I'm used to tapping that very waking minute of the day. Heaven knows I've gotten more action sneaking around behind the handlers' backs with him in the space of one convention than in an entire year of sleeping with Dani. Then again, I also don't see Dani much because I work in another country. But I digress.

"Fine," I scowl, "but I've still got your spoon."

Misha scoffs, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

"And I've still got your ass virginity."

Touché.