“Francesca and Matteo, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”
“I have,” Matteo and I responded together, though our voices lacked honesty.
“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”
“I am.”
“Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?”
“I am.”
“Since it is your intention to enter into the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his Church.
“Matteo, do you take Francesca to be your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and to honor, until death do you part?”
“I do.”
“Francesca, do you take Matteo to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him, until death do you part?”
“I do.”
The words settled into the space between us, heavier than they should have been.
The rings came next.
Matteo took my hand, his touch careful, reverent. The band was cool as it slid onto my finger, resting there like it had always belonged. When it was my turn, I lifted his hand and placed the ring on him, my fingers brushing his knuckles, feeling the quiet strength in them.
Wine followed. Then bread. We shared the cup, the deep red liquid catching the light before touching our lips. The bread was warm, torn and offered, symbolic and binding. Every movement felt deliberate, choreographed by tradition older than either of us.
Then the priest lifted his hands.
“May God bless this union,” He said, voice resonant. “You may seal your vows with a kiss.”
Time slowed impossibly.
The room seemed to fall away – the guests, the power, the whispers of what this marriage meant beyond us. I turned toward Matteo, the movement instinctive, inevitable.
He was already looking at me.
The intensity of his gaze rooted me in place, dark eyes searching mine with something unreadable – something dangerous. My pulse thundered in my ears. For a suspended moment, it felt like the truth hovered between us, fragile and electric.
This was supposed to be nothing.
A formality.
Yet the way he looked at me – like he was memorizing my face, like this moment mattered – made my chest tighten.
I swallowed, still holding his gaze.
The kiss waited.
Matteo’s hand came up to my face. His palm was warm against my cheek, his fingers firm as they framed my jaw. He leaned in slowly, deliberately, and when his lips met mine, the kiss was soft – almost reverent. He angled his body just enough, turning his head so he blocked the view, so no one could truly see us.
Respectful.
But the second his mouth pressed fully to mine, the world shifted.
The cathedral erupted in cheers, applause echoing off marble and stone, but I barely heard it. The kiss deepened – not rushed, not hungry, but meaningful. Grounding. The kind of kiss that stayed with you long after it ended.
