A/N: All finished! Sorry it took a while, and that it's short, but hopefully you enjoy this little conclusion to their story. Thank you guys so much for reading and for your support; it has been solely responsible for getting me back into writing after years of inactivity and every review continues to bring a smile to my face. So thank you, thank you, thank you!

Here's Breakfast. I hope you like it! Until we meet again! xoxo

Breakfast

I wake to the sounds and smells of breakfast wafting in from the kitchen. It takes me a moment to get my bearings—the bed and the room aren't a familiar sight first thing in the morning. And then something flutters in my stomach, because they aren't just his. They're ours.

The night before is a blur. The pregnant silence of the car ride; the simplicity of my own signature, suddenly changing everything; the way my father had looked at me; the way Link had looked at me.

And then the coruscant, ardent things that had come afterwards.

I roll over in the veritable cloud of pillows and loose a breathy sigh. It's still hard to believe any of this is real, hard to believe that something so huge, so life-altering, could feel so… not huge, and normal. Because nothing has changed. And yet everything has.

I'm married.

And part of me is concerned that I'm not terrified or panicking. Because shouldn't I be? But I'm not. Everything was perfect. He was perfect.

And I doubt very much that I will ever tire of waking to the sounds of him making me breakfast.

The shuffling in the kitchen stops and he emerges in the doorway not long afterward—shirtless, I note with some glee, and while part of me momentarily tries to shove the juvenile response aside, a larger part shoves back and tells it to shut up because he's mine now and I can do whatever I want.

"Shoot, I was trying not to wake you," he says, grimacing as he notices my attentive gaze, but his disappointment is short lived. He sets the tray on the foot of the bed with very little ceremony, smiling as he kneels on the mattress to greet me properly. He kisses me slowly—and long enough to suggest he's gone without for a very long time—and says when he's finished, "Good morning."

I dither between inquiring after what he was spending so much time on in the kitchen or pulling him back down to the mattress by the neck, but in the end my scientific curiosity wins out.

"What were you making me?"

His eyes glitter a bit, and it makes me glad I asked. He rolls to sit next to me and leans over to tug the tray closer.

"I've been thinking about what I was going to make you for our first breakfast for a while," he admits wryly, and my pulse heats at the way his eyes gently lock with mine. "Hungry?"

I nod, beating back a more aggressive response, and finally focus on the plate and its foreign offering. After a few seconds of unsuccessful deduction, I ask, "What is it?"

He cuts me a corner with the edge of a fork and assembles a bite, and smirks, leading it toward my mouth, "Just try it."

I'm tempted to refuse just to spite him, but if I've learned anything about Link it's that I will be missing out majorly on all things culinarily blissful if I don't trust his instincts when it comes to food. So I cave and take the bite, losing the will not to gush as the fork slides away from between my lips. When I've sufficiently recovered, and he's looking at me with that familiar, infuriatingly smug face, I compartmentalize what I can.

"Vanilla. Banana, nutmeg, cinnamon. Something alcohol. Brandy?"

"Do you love it?"

I arch a slender brow, trying very hard to be difficult. "What is it?"

"French toast."

"That is not french toast."

"It's basically french toast."

He takes a lackadaisical bite while I swallow my pride and admit, "Yes, I love it."

"Good," he says, smirking gently, and I pry the fork out of his hand. He leans closer as I go to take some more, his eyes turning tentative, and presses his lips softly against my bare shoulder. "How are you doing?"

I can hear the hint of concern in his voice, something part adoration and part fear, and I sink down into the pillows, turning so I can see his eyes.

"You mean because I ran off and got married last night?" His mouth twitches, betraying the reflexive smile that wants to creep out at the mention of our escapade, and his eyes flicker to my lips, but he stays quiet, waiting for me to finish. I shrug noncommittally. "Not bad."

His smile breaks out at that, and he tugs me closer by the waist, hovering over me with a gentle expression in his eyes. "I'm serious."

"Stop worrying," I say, tossing my eyes in an meager attempt at flippancy. "Everything's going to be fine."

"I'm not worried about everything," he counters, and then leans down to drop a sweet kiss on my lips. "Just you."

He keeps going, kissing my cheekbone, the corner of my jaw, that tender spot between my neck and shoulder that makes my vision turn rosy, and I'm ready to ditch this conversation and move on to less wordy forms of communication when I hear a kettle whistle.

"Tea water's ready," he mumbles against my throat, and he pulls away to answer it, leaving me bereft. He gives me a penitent smirk and says, "I'll be right back."

I stuff a forlorn forkful into my mouth as he leaves, but then decide this is probably a good opportunity to check on my appearance. I peel the covers away and tiptoe to the bathroom, shivering a little at the cool morning air.

I plant myself in front of the mirror and grimace. My hair is a mess. My makeup is a day old. There's also evidence that suggests I was engaged in less than ladylike behavior recently: my lips are a little swollen and there's a trail of marks raised along my neck and collar that definitely weren't there before. In a happy turn of events, lingering on those details makes my eyes a little brighter and brings a gentle flush to my cheeks, and I decide I can work with that.

I give my hair a much needed tousle and clear away the sagging makeup around my eyes as best I can with my fingers and some tap water, and I open the mirror and dig out some mouthwash while I'm at it. I'm not exactly glorious but it's not bad considering my entire morning routine is still at my apartment.

By now I'm pretty cold, so on my way back to the bed I reach into his closet and pull out a button-up shirt. I smile without meaning to as I pull it on and free my hair from the collar—it smells like him. I had just worked my way up to fastening the button that might have made the outfit pass the bare minimum for modesty when I hear Link nearing the doorway.

And then the teacup he's carrying hits the floor and shatters.

My eyes snap up to his, and we stare at each other dumbstruck for a frozen, lingering moment. And then we both thaw and dive for the mess at the same time.

"Gods, I'm such a klutz," he breathes, and for some reason I'm feeling totally mortified. "I just didn't expect you to be wearing—"

"No! I know—I should've asked, it's just I didn't have a change of clothes—"

"Don't be ridiculous, I don't mind, I just—I'm going to get a towel."

"Ok," I squeak, fixating on collecting the teacup shards while he hurries past me towards the bathroom.I catch myself tucking my hair behind my ear too many times, and it makes me flush deeper.

He emerges just a couple seconds later with a hand towel and a trash can, and we resume sopping up the spilled tea and depositing what remained of the sacrificed cup in awkward silence.

"Um," he tries.

Finally I manage a nervous laugh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you like that."

"No, no, it's fine," he dismisses me, smirking privately. "It wasn't so much that I was surprised as it was that you looked—"

Our eyes lock. Suddenly his smile is gone and my cheeks start burning.

In the next instant he's reached across the distance separating us and pulled me into his lap, and his kisses are so insistent and heated that it's all I can do to remember to breathe. He lifts me suddenly and deposits me on the edge of the mattress with intent—

And then his cell phone rings.

His expression is unamused as he pulls away, and I bite my lip in a feeble attempt to mask a laugh; his eyes trail down to my mouth, and something about what he sees emboldens him.

"They can leave a message," he decides, diving forward again, and I reel at my own impudence as I skirt away.

"What if it's important?"

He wrinkles his nose at me as he concedes, reaching for the interruption where it's sitting on his nightstand.

"It's work," he grumbles, turning to sit on the edge of the bed as he answers. "What?"

I drape my arms across his shoulders from behind while I eavesdrop, enjoying the smooth planes of his back while he's distracted. I can hear Mikau's muffled voice on the other end, sounding irritated.

"That's right," Link says, actually a little penitent. "I had forgotten."

I plant a kiss on his shoulder and trace my fingers absently along his collarbone, and listen to Mikau demand how he managed that.

"I got married last night."

There's a beat of silence, and then a garbled reaction.

"I'll be in later. Tonight, maybe," he says, trying to placate him, just as I begin experimentally tracing the length of his perfectly tapered ear with my lips. He turns gently into it, evidently distracted, and murmurs, "Or maybe not."

He manages a shuffled dismissal over Mikau's panicked blathering before he hangs up on him and turns in my arms to pick up where we left off, reaching to replace the phone on the nightstand and missing so it clatters onto the floor.

"You can't just—" I object, breathlessly, between his advances, "—they need you to—"

"I got married yesterday," he counters, voice husky with desire, and my pulse races. "I'm on my honeymoon."

He turns his attention to my jawline, my neck, my throat, and somewhere in the blissful haze, eyes closed, I manage, "Not that your penthouse isn't lovely, but I had pictured something a little less pedestrian."

He hums in agreement, planting one last, chaste kiss on my collarbone before settling back to look me in the eye.

"I've been thinking about that," he says, smiling up at me lopsidedly. "Where do you want to go?"

"Honestly I… hadn't given it much thought," I admit.

A spur of the moment extended vacation was never on the agenda before, and while a honeymoon with Link had been becoming a more and more plausible scenario in recent weeks I had sort of shelved it behind other checkpoints.

"I could take you to Hebra," he murmured, drifting a little closer. "We could get a cabin and shieldsurf at sunrise, and then spend our nights under the stars and the Northern Lights in the hot springs."

I quirk an eyebrow, impressed. "That's adventurous."

"And then when you get tired ot the snow I can whisk you to Floria Falls, and we can stay in a treehouse in the jungle and watch the great dragon Farosh rise over the ten waterfalls with the moon."

He eases us back, cushioning me in the pillows, and I praise him softly, "Very romantic."

"We could go to the coast after that, spend some time in a bungalow in Lurelin and snorkel in the reefs every day. Then travel north, stay in the real Domain in Lanayru and eat amazing food and wander the streets at night under the glow of the luminous stone spires."

Suddenly it hits me that none of these trips are hypothetical to him, and that they aren't separate. I stare as he carries on, my voice trapped somewhere in my ribs.

"We could tour every winery in Akkala, and then spend some time at the cliffs overlooking the sea. Death Mountain is sort of prohibitively hot; and I guess I could take you to Gerudo Town if you want to go, but I don't know if there's a lot we can do there together.

"What do you say, Zelda?" he asks, tantalizingly close now. "Do you want to take a trip around the world with me?"

Finally I blink, brow puckered. It's so unexpected, and wonderful, and perfect, and—

And I should have known.

"Really?" I whisper, voiceless, and even though he's wearing that smug smirk again I can't say I really regret it.

"Really."

He closes the last bit of distance, kissing me again—slowly at first, but then more deeply, more deliberately, as he senses my will to resist crumbling fast. Somehow he manages to unfasten enough buttons to coax my sleeve off my shoulder, and I realize too late that my window of coherent thought is all but about to close.

"Link," I breathe, scrambling with my last few seconds of lucidity. "What about work?"

"Work can wait."

"What about—" I don't even know why I'm being difficult. Old habits, I guess. "What about breakfast?"

That gives him pause. He spares the tray a glance, and I can hear the gears whirring. He's nothing if not doting, and I did say I was hungry.

"Breakfast," he echoes. "Yeah."

He's so apparently deflated that I can't help but laugh.

"It's ok," I try to appease him, "we don't have to eat it."

"No, no, eat," he demands, sitting up with me and dragging the tray closer. "No wife of mine will ever be hungry. Not if I can help it."

I smile and kiss him sweetly. "All right," I accede, and as I reach for the fork I accidentally flip it off the tray, sending it clattering to the floor.

We both start at its violent trajectory and then laugh, and simultaneously say, "I'll get it."

And as we reach, forms stretching, legs entwining, bodies touching, and our hands meet just shy of the silver handle, I catch his eyes sweeping me once before they lock, utterly lacking contrition, with mine.

And then we forgot all about breakfast.