“Babe! The groom is not supposed to see the bride,” I said, heat rushing to my cheeks despite myself.
He closed the door behind him with an easy confidence, eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t believe in bad luck when it comes to you,amor.”
And then he was standing in front of me.
His hands came to my waist like they belonged there – because they did – and he leaned in, kissing me gently, reverently, like this moment was already sacred. The room fell away. The summer light. The mirror. Everything except him.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his gaze slow and full. “You’re so beautiful,mi amor,” he spoke like it was a fact written into the universe.
I barely had time to smile before he kissed me again, deeper this time, his thumb brushing my jaw. My hand rose on instinct, cupping his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under my palm.
He pulled away, eyes dropping to my left hand.
“What?” I asked softly, already laughing when his fingers gently caught mine. He tugged my engagement ring down just enough to reveal the delicate cursive beneath it.
His name.
Inked into my skin.
Matching my own name tattooed on his ring finger.
A month ago – late at night, too spontaneous – we’d stayed up talking until the city slept. One thing had led to another, and somehow we ended up in a tiny tattoo shop in the middle of the night, laughing quietly while ink etched permanence into our skin. I never would have guessed he’d do this – Matteo, who’d always sworn off tattoos.
But I guessed love had a way of changing rules.
He lifted my hand, pressing a kiss to my ring finger, right over the ink. Then another to my knuckles. Then my palm. Each one slower than the last, like he was committing the moment to memory.
“I love this,” he murmured. “I love that it’s ours.”
Before I could answer, he was kissing me again – hungry now, unapologetic. I leaned into him, lace brushing his suit, heart racing, knowing the world was waiting outside that door.
But for a few stolen seconds, it was just us.
And it always would be.
So, when he lifted my dress up, over my waist, I was already undoing his belt.
Ten minutes later, we walked out together, fingers laced, hearts still racing – not from nerves, but from each other. My lips still tingled and I still ached between the legs from just having Matteo inside me. My dress felt warmer, lived in.Loved in.
The garden opened up before us, sun-drenched and intimate, white chairs arranged in a soft curve beneath flowering trees. Roses climbed the stone walls. The air smelled like summer and promises. Everyone was already there – family, friends, the people who mattered – turning as one when they saw us.
This time, when I stepped forward beside Matteo, there was no performance to hold together.
This time, I meant every word I was about to say.
When the officiant spoke, I listened – not because I had to, but because I wanted to. When I said my vows, my voice didn’t waver. My hands didn’t shake. I wasn’t thinking about strategy or optics or survival.
This time, my heart was pure.
This time, my love was true.
I looked at Matteo as I spoke, really looked at him, at the man who had broken me open and stitched me back together with patience and devotion. He watched me like I was the only thing in the world, like the sun itself had paused just to see what I would say next.
When it was his turn, I felt every word land somewhere deep in my chest, permanent and steady.
When we saidI do, it wasn’t an agreement.
It was a choice.
