No chaste blessing from on high.
The priest offers a short introduction in Irish, the vowels curling like smoke in the silence, and then the rest in English, crisp and almost cold.
He moves through the words like a man marking coordinates on a map.
A few nods, the sign of the cross, a phrase about God's will, and then he steps back.
We face each other.
I feel the air still between us, that breathless pause between before and after.
The vows are legal, not lyrical.
They speak of unity, protection, shared intent.
When it is my turn, I do not say, "I do."
I say, "I will."
The distinction is deliberate, and when the words pass my lips, I see the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of understanding that he does not miss a thing.
He takes my hand.
His fingers close around mine, warm, firm, not controlling but not soft either.
His palm fits mine exactly, like something already decided.
The ring is simple, heavy, cold as it slips into place.
He waits for me to return the gesture, and I do, watching the gold slide over the thick joint of his finger.
His hand flexes once, slow and deliberate, like he is testing the fit.
Then the priest nods.
"You may kiss the bride."
I expect something brief.
A brush of lips for the cameras, a political gesture.
But Ruairí steps forward, one hand liftingto cradle the side of my face, his thumb skimming along the edge of my jaw like he's feeling the shape of me for the first time.
The other hand rests at the small of my back, fingers splayed, warm through the silk, anchoring me so I cannot step away.
And then he kisses me.
His mouth covers mine with excruciating, delicious slowness, firm and hot and possessive.
I feel his breath, taste whiskey and heat, feel the press of his body lean into mine just enough to make my breath stutter, just enough to let me know that he is not pretending.
His thumb tilts my chin, guiding me deeper, and when I don't resist—when I give in, just slightly—he rewards me with more.
His mouth parts mine, not forcefully, but with the kind of pressure that leaves no question about who leads this dance.
His teeth catch my lower lip, a glimmer of pain and promise, and for a second I forget the pews, the priest, the ghosts watching from the windows.
He kisses like a man claiming territory.
