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I hold her through the aftershocks, one hand stroking her thigh, the other resting over my heart like I’m pledging fealty.

And maybe I am.

No. Not maybe.

I already have.

Eventually, she slides down, kissing her way down my chest. Her mouth is soft and reverent, and when she takes me into her mouth, I groan. Deep and guttural, the kind of sound that echoes in my bones.

But I stop her. Not because I don’t want it— God , I do—but because I want more.

I want her .

I cup her face and pull her gently up, brushing her hair away as I whisper, “I love you, Amy Jacoby McCormick.”

She stills, eyes soft and wide, lips slightly parted.

“I love ye naked. I love ye clothed. I love when ye stand up ta ma Mum, even when I’m hidin’ behind ye.”

She huffs out a watery laugh, and I keep going.

“I loved when ye teared up at her story. I love that ye dinna understand ma siblings, but ye put up wi’ them anyhow. I love that ye were by ma side all these months, nursin’ me through injury—physical and mental.”

Her fingers splay against my chest, and I think I can feel her heartbeat through her palm.

“I’m sae grateful that yer mine,” I say softly, forehead to hers, “but more than that, I’m grateful ye picked me. Ye didna have to. And I’ll spend the rest o’ ma life provin’ that ye made a good choice.”

Her mouth crashes into mine, not careful now and not slow. It’s every vow we made in the hot springs and every promise that came before that, all tangled up in breath and lips and skin.

She wraps her legs around me and pulls me in.

And then there’s nothing left but the rhythm of love, the sound of our names whispered into satin sheets, and the mirror above us bearing witness to every beautiful, sacred second of it.

Her body welcomes mine like we were made for this, for each other. The heat, the closeness, the way her breath hitches against my cheek, it’s almost too much.

And yet, not enough.

Our eyes lock.

No words.

None needed.

Everything we’ve lived through—the chaos, the farce, the zip ties, the swan deflation-by-moose—it all could’ve unraveled us. Another couple might’ve cracked. But not us. We laughed. We argued. We cried.

And somehow, we ended up closer.

Stronger .

Her hips move, slowly at first, guiding me, grounding me. I hold her tighter. Memorize the way her eyes flicker. The tiny tremble in her lip. The press of her hand against my heart. We’re speaking entire volumes in silence.

Her gaze says: I see you .

And mine says: You are everything .

Then—pain. A sharp jolt, just behind my brace. I grunt, and she instantly stills.

“Oh, my God, did I hurt you?” she gasps, pulling back.

“Nae, love,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just a twinge. But let’s try somethin’ different.”

I guide her gently, tenderly, onto all fours on the bed, her hair spilling over one shoulder in soft waves. I rise, standing by the side of the bed, hands on her hips, keeping my stance easy, grounded. From this angle, it’s easier on my knee, and the view…

Saints preserve me .

Her whole body arches, beautiful and strong and soft all at once. I ease back into her, one hand sliding up her spine.

And when we move, it’s not fast or frantic. It’s everything we are, steady, certain, intimate. A rhythm that belongs to no one but us.

She reaches back and curls her fingers over mine, anchoring us together.

And when we come, it’s as if the whole room exhales. Like something sacred just happened in the most ridiculous, over-the-top, heart-themed place on the planet.

It’s not funny.

It’s real .

We collapse onto the sheets, tangled and breathless, and I don’t let go.

I won’t, not for anything.

Not ever .

We lie there, entwined and warm, the satin sheets clinging to us like they've joined in holy matrimony, too. The air smells like lavender, steam, and satisfaction. Her head rests on my chest, one arm slung across my stomach.

I swear my heart beats slower just because she's close.

“I think I broke a world record for most emotions in a single 24-hour period,” she mumbles against my skin.

“Aye,” I murmur, running my fingers through her hair. “Joy. Rage. Terror. Moose-related horror. Lust. Rage again.”

“Don’t forget handcuff-related shame.”

I chuckle, my chest moving beneath her. “And zip tie remorse.”

She giggles, then lets out a long sigh. “They want brunch, you know. Tomorrow morning. With us. Together.”

“Brunch?” I blink at the ceiling. “They were just released from police custody. Shouldn’t they lie low for a while?”

“They’re already planning a reception next year. Two of them. Boston and Edinburgh.”

“Mum told me she’s draftin’ a spreadsheet.” I groan. “For vendors.”

Amy lifts her head, propped on one elbow, her hair wild and glorious, her eyes still soft from everything we just shared. “What have we done?”

I reach for her hand and bring it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers… and then to her rings. The gold and the diamond facets catch the light.

“We got married,” I whisper. “With our parents here, and on our terms. Not theirs. An’ it was the best thing I’ve ever done. No castle. No ballroom. No country club. Just a swan, some rafts, and a moose named Randy.”

“And love,” she says softly.

“Aye. Loads o’ that.” I press my forehead to hers. “I canna wait to start our life, Amy Jacoby McCormick.”

She smiles, and that smile sinks right into my bones. “Same.”

Outside, the waterfall still splashes. Somewhere, our mothers are probably texting florists. But in here, right now, it’s just us.

Husband.

Wife.

Finally .