Page 31

Laughter still soft on my lips, I turn to Alex and thread our fingers together. The celebration hums behind us—voices rising in rhythm, the scent of roasted pork and taro sweet in the air, plates passed hand to hand.

While the others lay out the feast, I take Alex’s hand and lead him away from the gathering—to the part of the fale where the mat waits.

My Samoan wedding gift to him.

It’s not large. Not ornate. But every strand carries hours of work. Thought. Intention.

“I made something for you. For us.”

His brow lifts, but he says nothing—just watches me with quiet curiosity as I kneel and unfold it. The fine mat stretches open between us, the light catching its woven symmetry.

Alex sinks to his knees beside me. He doesn’t reach for me right away. Instead, he runs his hand along the edge of the mat, his fingers brushing each ridge, each woven line a story he’s reading with his palms.

“Magnolia––” His eyes stay on the mat, as if looking at me might break whatever’s holding him together. “You made this?”

I nod. “It’s my first completed one.”

Still, he doesn’t look up. His fingers press flat, like he’s trying to feel everything I poured into it—every fold made during stolen moments, every lesson passed from mother-in-law to daughter. Every piece of me.

“It’s not perfect,” I whisper. “I still have a lot to learn, and I need practice.”

He lifts his gaze and looks at me—eyes shining, lashes wet. And I see it all––the weight of his love, the depth of his pride, a respect that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

“It’s perfect,” he says, voice raw. “Because it came from you. Because you chose this. Chose us. This is more than a gift, Magnolia. This is a promise I’ll never forget.”

He pulls me into his arms and presses his lips to the crown of my head.

Together, we carry it to the head of the long table, where platters are being set down and laughter spills into the salt-thick air. We smooth it out there—deliberate, proud—at the place where tradition gathers, where stories live.

Where legacy begins.

The feast unfolds. Woven mats surround the tables, and every inch is covered with platters of traditional dishes: palusami wrapped in banana leaves, taro roasted to perfection, suckling pig with skin crackling under firelight, and bowls of oka fresh from the sea. The smell alone is a blessing.

I sit beside Alex, his hand still laced with mine. His other arm rests along the back of my shoulders, fingers brushing my upper arm. We’re barefoot and blissed-out, wrapped in the warmth of family and flame, music and meaning.

The breeze rolls in from the sea, carrying hints of salt and coconut smoke, fluttering the edge of my lavalava.

Everywhere, there’s motion. Singing breaks out mid-meal—unplanned, unrehearsed, but perfectly in tune. It rises from the mouths of elders and cousins, lilting and full, harmonizing with the rustle of leaves overhead and the murmur of waves beyond.

Violet twirls into view, cheeks pink from the coconut wine, her laughter tumbling out. She’s dancing with Elias under the string lights, moving without grace but full of joy. Every time he spins her, she laughs louder.

Alex’s thumb brushes mine. I glance up and catch his expression. It’s not playful or proud. It’s something quieter, deeper.

“You okay?” I whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I’ve never been better.”

I lean into him, resting my temple against his jaw, and he tilts his head to press a kiss into my hair.

Night falls slower here, different from the city where it drops all at once like a curtain. Here, it fades and melts into the horizon in streaks of tangerine and lavender.

By the time the plates are mostly empty and the fire has settled into a soft glow, I’ve curled closer. My legs are draped over Alex’s lap with my head tucked beneath his chin. One of his hands rests over my heart.

I close my eyes for a moment and let myself absorb everything––the press of his thumb against my chest, the last hint of gardenia clinging to my hair, the echo of laughter around the table, the low hum of a language I can’t translate but already love.

I slide my hand over his on my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t ask why. He just kisses my temple again, and the only sound between us is the sea. Alex’s hand curls around mine, his thumb brushing my wrist as the last of the feast winds down.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss just behind my ear. “I have something for you.”

I turn toward him, surprised. “You do?”

He smiles—crooked. That always means something’s coming. “This one’s not wrapped. But it’s been burning a hole in me all night.”

A flick of his chin toward the firepit is all the hint I get before he steps away, disappearing into the shadows beyond the lanterns. I sit up, confused—until I notice the others shifting, glancing at each other, some already turning toward the beach.

“Come on,” Violet whispers, pulling me to my feet. “You’re gonna want the front-row view.”

The hush that settles over the gathering differs from earlier. Not somber, not solemn—but something expectant. Alive.

Then I see him.

He steps into the firelight barefoot. His chest is bare, his tattoos catching and holding the light. The fire doesn’t just illuminate him—it crowns him. And for a moment, my breath leaves me altogether.

He’s alone this time.

The first time I saw him do this dance, it was with his cousins. A breathtaking storm of sound and flame. But this time, it’s just him.

This is for me.

The drums begin low. A pulse. A heartbeat. Then the flames leap to life.

The fire knife blazes in his hand, and he spins it once, twice—then launches it into the air, catching it with effortless precision. Every movement is deliberate, every arc of fire a sentence in a language I’m still learning but feel down to my bones.

His body moves like he’s done this a thousand times. His arms slice the air, his feet pound the earth. The fire kisses the sand and climbs the sky again.

The drumbeat rises, and so does the heat. The sweat slicks his skin, the glow of the flames gilding his back and shoulders. And even through the intensity, even as sparks spin past him and smoke coils in the air—he finds me.

His eyes lock on mine, and I swear I stop breathing. Because this isn’t just performance. This is an offering. Legacy. Devotion.

Each movement says something he hasn’t put into words. Each toss of the blade, each crackle of flame, is him telling me this is who I am, and I am yours .

He throws the blade one last time, higher than before. It arcs, spinning through the sky—and when it falls, he catches it clean, sinking into a low stance as the drums stop all at once.

Silence.

The cheers erupt around me, but I’m frozen. My hands pressed to my chest. My throat tight with an awe I can’t name.

He walks toward me, still breathing hard, eyes blazing, and I meet him halfway.

“I love you,” I whisper, rising onto my toes to kiss him. “And that was so damn hot.”

The fire still crackles behind us. And somewhere, deep in my chest, something new and ancient settles into place.

He didn’t just give me a performance. He gave me his past. His pride. His fire.

And now it’s mine, too.