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Until the unmistakable whoop of a police siren slices through the misty air.

Heads turn as a bubblegum-pink police car pulls into the car park, lights flicking off as the vehicle glides to a stop in front of us. The heart-shaped town seal gleams on the door.

Out steps Chief Luke Luview in his red uniform with crisp white trim, like a cross between Cupid and a Mountie.

“Good afternoon,” he calls out, sunglasses gleaming as he strides over the shore.

Archie materializes like a tactical meerkat.

“Everything is in order, Chief. Alcohol permit approved and filed. Three-hour allowance, no violations so far. I have documentation on hand should it be required.”

Luke raises an eyebrow and gives Archie a slow nod of professional respect. “You’d make a great deputy, if you ever want a side hustle.”

“I’ve already mapped out the town’s escape routes in case the mothers destabilize,” Archie replies. Luke nods approval, then turns to Amy and me.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick. Your wedding has been the most entertaining one I’ve ever not broken up.”

“Thank ye, Chief,” I say, claspin’ Amy’s hand a little tighter. “We’ll try not ta cause ye any more paperwork.”

Luke swivels to face our mothers, both of whom are still pink from the soak.

“Marie. Fiona.”

They freeze like two bairns caught red-handed with icing on their faces.

“I’m not arresting you,” he says, voice calm. “But consider yourselves on unofficial probation while you’re in Love You, Maine. No disturbances and no unauthorized sit-ins. And you are persona non grata at Love You Harder. If you visit there, you will be trespassing.”

Marie opens her mouth. Closes it.

Fiona scowls. “Define ‘disturbance.’”

“I don’t want to define it,” Luke replies. “I just want to not hear about it.”

Jason calls out. “Hey, Luke, you think you could come down to Mendon next week and say that exact thing in my kitchen? Bring some zip ties?”

Luke smirks. “Only if I get hazard pay.”

Everyone laughs, and Nessa quietly begins collecting empty Champagne bottles.

Suddenly, off to the far right where Amy left her giant pink swan, there’s a ripple of movement.

Nessa stops mid-pour. Luke’s head whips around, staring from behind those shiny sunglasses.

The rest of us go still and a hush falls over the hot springs.

“Everyone stop moving,” Luke says quietly in a tone that means this is not a drill.

I turn my head slowly.

There, just beyond the edge of the clearing, emerging through the mist like something from a wildlife-themed fever dream, is the largest, most confused-looking moose I’ve ever seen in my life. Actually, he’s the only moose I’ve ever seen in my life.

He’s massive. Antlers like a bicycle rack on steroids. Shoulders like aa American football linebacker. Eyes, well… unsettled.

And he’s nuzzlin’ the swan raft.

“The hell—?” I start.

Luke sighs. “That’s Randy.”

Amy blinks. “Randy who?”

“Randy the moose,” Luke replies grimly. “He was hit by a car a few years back. Took a hit to the head. Cracked skull. Never the same after. Survived, but he’s got... issues.”

“What kind o’ issues?” Da asks.

“The kind that make him think inflatable pool toys are viable copulation partners.”

There’s a pause while we all ponder that. Then Marie gasps. “You mean?—?”

“He humps things,” Luke says flatly. “Cars. Travel trailers. Dumpsters. Once tried to seduce a fiberglass cow outside a steakhouse a few towns over.”

“Oh, dear God,” Amy mutters.

“Is he dangerous?” Fiona demands.

“Only if you’re a Subaru.”

And then Randy goes full throttle.

He mounts the swan.

The six-foot swan head lurches backward with a sad squeal of air. Randy grunts and the raft responds with a low, wheezy honk.

Nessa drops a Champagne bottle, but catches it last second before it crashes to the ground.

“The iPad!” she yells, diving for the tripod and shielding it from the sight of nature at its most unhinged.

Instinctively, I wrap an arm around Amy as everyone starts to shuffle back toward the rocks, Champagne flutes still in hand, trying to pretend this isn’t happening.

“Do we—do we stop him?” Jason asks weakly.

Luke shakes his head. “You don’t interrupt Randy. That’s how you lose a bumper. Or a limb.”

As the poor inflatable swan sags lower under the... strain, Fergus mutters, “Well. That’s no’ the ending I expected, but a swan and a moose shaggin' isna the weirdest thing I've seen at a wedding.”

All I can do is hold my new wife close, raise my glass high, and try not to make eye contact with the moose. Everyone’s rooted to the spot, watching him make inappropriate love to a floating poultry decoration.

The swan lets out another pitiful honnnnk , its neck lurching like it’s seen things. Terrible, inflatable things.

“Well,” I mutter, wrapping my arm tighter around Amy. “This is no’ exactly the kind o’ sex I imagined for ma weddin’ night.”

SMACK!

Mum’s hand connects with the back of my head, the sound sharp as a tart slap of wet laundry.

“Hamish McCormick!” she barks. “Have a wee bit o’ class!”

“Jus’ sayin’,” I grumble, rubbing the back of my skull. “He’s makin’ a strong case for celibacy.”

At that exact moment, Randy gives one final thrust that sounds like it came from the depths of his injured, romance-confused soul, and the swan explodes .

BANG!

A dramatic flurry of pink plastic and sad, flaccid deflation fills the air as Randy rears back in what can only be described as moosey existential horror. He freezes for one second, then bolts, lumbering off into the woods like he’s being chased by the swan's inflatable flock.

Silence.

Then total, glorious chaos.

Jason doubles over laughing, holding his knees.

Mum mutters, “Well, that’s one fer the wedding album.”

Da raises his Champagne glass and declares, “An’ that’s why ye always go for the reinforced PVC models!”

Marie looks like she might actually pass out from cackling.

Archie, uncharacteristically ruffled, wipes at his glasses like he’s trying to erase what he just saw.

Even Nessa finally cracks and howls. "I have no idea how to write this up in my report. Kari and Katie won't believe it."

"You have plenty of witnesses," Matt says, laughing. "And you could take the shredded swan back to HQ as evidence."

"I refuse to touch that thing. They can fire me. No."

Luke adjusts his red cap, clearly fighting a smile as he gives Amy and me a crisp nod. “Well. Congratulations again to the bride and groom. You’re welcome in Love You, Maine any time.”

Then he pauses, pointing toward the forest where Randy vanished.

“But maybe next time... stay away from Love You Harder.”

"Good advice fer Randy, too. He kens now what happens when he loves it harder."

And with that, Chief Luview climbs back into his pink police car and drives off into the mist, a man whose jurisdiction has truly seen it all.

This is the town where every day is Valentine's Day, after all.

Even Randy had a heart-on.

We barely make it back to the suite before we’re tangled up in each other like we’ve been apart for years. Amy’s hand is in my hair the second I shut the door behind us, her laugh breathless against my neck as I walk her backward toward the bed.

The heart-shaped one. Covered in red satin sheets and likely still vibrating from whatever madness we set it to last night.

She collapses onto it with a bounce, her blonde curls wild, eyes wide, her mouth already parted like she’s about to ask me to do everything and nothing at once.

I don't wait for instructions.

I follow her down onto the bed, kissing her like I’ve been starved for air, stripping us both as we go—shirts, shorts, whatever we managed to throw on earlier—gone with impatient hands. She arches beneath me, her legs wrapping around my waist so hard, it’s like she’s trying to weld us together.

“I’ve never had sex with a married man before,” she teases, her voice low and rich.

“Aye?” I grin, lips brushing her collarbone. “I’ve never had sex wi’ a married woman, either.”

“We should tell our spouses,” she whispers.

“Let’s send them a strongly worded letter,” I murmur, mouth finding hers again.

She’s fire and softness and strawberry lip balm, the kind that tastes like spring and wedding cake and her .

I kiss lower, leaving a trail down her body like I’m marking the moments. She gasps as I move between her thighs, her hand finding the back of my head. She’s already wet, already open for me, and the first touch of my mouth has her writhing against the sheets, hips rising.

The ceiling mirror catches the flicker of her—flushed cheeks, parted lips, head thrown back—and her eyes drift open, locking on her reflection.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes, watching us.

“Aye,” I say softly, flicking my tongue just so. “God’s got nothin’ on this.”

She moans, low and startled, and I keep going, hands gripping her hips as I take my time, letting her feel it.

Letting her feel me .

And then she pulls my hair, just enough.

“Hamish,” she says, voice rough. “Let me.”

I let her flip us.

She straddles my chest first, hair spilling forward like a curtain. And then she shifts, knees bracing near my shoulders, her thighs tightening around my head.

Sweet Jesus .

There’s nothing in this world I’ve ever wanted more than this woman, right now, loving herself through me, her hands in her hair, her body moving in time with her heartbeat and mine.

I grip her thighs, feeling my new wedding ring with joy against her skin, and pull her close, groaning into her. Her breath catches, and then she lets go—completely, beautifully, utterly.

Married. To her.

Aye.

Heaven's got nothing on this.

She shatters in my arms, trembling around me, breath ragged and chest heaving with beauty I can barely take in.

The way she moves, wild and free and completely mine, it carves something out of me.

A memory I’ll never lose, even when I’m old and gray and yelling at the neighborhood kids to stay off my lawn.