“Tell me a happy story,” the dryad sleepily mumbled to her wife, curled up in her arms.

The mermaid smiled and ran a gentle hand along the dryad’s cheek.

“The legends of the moon and the sea never meeting are false. They meet each night, they kiss with each high wave and every moon beam.”

The dryad made a soft noise of happiness and drifted to sleep.

The dryad awoke just before dawn. A creature of the sun, she is, by nature, a morning monster. Smiling, she noted she somehow had maneuvered into the “little spoon” position in her mermaid wife’s arms at some point during the night. Extracting herself more gently than likely necessary, as the sleeping sea maiden followed the moon and ergo could sleep through an apocalypse if it happened early enough in the day, the dryad got up and out of bed.

She poured herself a glass of nectar, selected a book, gathered mail that had been delivered over night, and returned to bed. The dryad curled under the covers. No matter the season, the bedroom was always at least a bit chilly in the mornings.

Without fully wakening or opening her eyes, the mermaid made sounds of dissent until the dryad’s thigh was found. The mermaid laid her head in her wife’s lap.

“Tell me about roots,” the mermaid mumbled. “Ten more minutes of sleep, tell me about roots, then I’ll get up,” she promised hollowly.

It would be, at the very least, an hour and the dryad knew this.

“They dig,” the dryad replied with a voice as soft as blue violet secrets, “like arms and hands and fingers into the soil.” The dryad gently pushed her fingers through the sleeping mermaid’s thick, coarse hair. “They seek out water and bits of magic and every beautiful thing they need.”

Before long, it would be time for breakfast, then dishes, and then chores and the day’s business and adventures and everything wonderful or necessary or both.

But for now, there was her wife’s head in her lap, sleeping and snoring in protest to the early hour. Smiling to herself, the dryad opened the book and quietly read.

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