Her dress is a cathedral of its own—embroidered lace sleeves like frostwork, bodice fitted to her delicate frame, the skirt billowing in soft candle-lit ivory. The veil trails behind her for yards, sheer and shimmering, catching the light like a comet’s tail. Her blonde hair has been curled into soft, old-world waves, pinned with a scattering of pearls like fallen snow.
She glows. Actually glows.
A warmth rises up my throat, so sharp it borders on pain. This woman—this impossible, infuriating, brilliant creature—is walking towardme. I don’t deserve her. I’ve never deserved her. But I’m too selfish to give her up. Too ruined by her love to let go.
The music swells, and she starts down the aisle on her Rouge's arm—slow, steady, radiant. Every pew she passes gets swallowed into that glow. People turn their heads like she’s the first sunrise they’ve ever seen. And me? My hands are trembling. Cillian O’Dwyer—Devil of Dublin, red-handed tyrant of the city—is shaking like a boy at his first confession.
She lifts her eyes to mine, and Christ— I’m done for. Her smile is small, soft, secret. The kind she saves only for me. The kind that turns every ruthless part of me into something obedient and holy.
The closer she gets, the worse it becomes. My heart is a riot. My breath is a prayer. She is everything. My brightest sin. My quiet salvation.
She reaches the halfway point of the aisle—gold light pouring through her veil, dust catching on the lace like glittering snowfall. Every step she takes is a vow before the vow. A promise before the promise.
And I— I stand here, pinned to the altar by something bigger than faith. She’s almost to me now. Almost mine. Almost forever.
She reaches me. God help me, shereaches me. My hands are steady when I take her bouquet—steady when I slip trembling fingers beneath the edge of her veil. But the moment I lift it…Christ.
Her hair catches the winter light like spun gold. Her eyes—soft, shy, luminous—knock every last thought out of my skull. And the dress… the lace, the beading, the sweep of it behind her like she’s dragging heaven down the aisle with her.
She blushes when I stare too long. So I lean in, close enough that only she will ever hear it, and whisper:“You didn’t walk to me, a rún.You brought every miracle in this city to its knees.”
Her breath catches. Her smile trembles into something shy, startled, devastating.
She whispers back, “Cillian…”
And I swear the bells outside answer her. The priest clears his throat gently, a man used to unruly couples, and the church shifts—everyone rising a little taller, settling a little deeper into the pews. The air thickens with candle smoke and winter roses.
And then it begins. The old rites. The traditional Irish Catholic liturgy. The words half the city knows by heart—because half the city is holding its breath outside in the snow, waiting for Dublin’s Devil and his golden girl to make it official.
I take her hands. She squeezes once—steadying me. The priest drones on about love, covenant, unity, sacrament. I don’t hear a word. Because all I can think is:In ninety seconds, I will vow my whole goddamn soul to her.
“Cillian O’Dwyer,” the priest finally says, ancient and booming, “repeat after me.”
I swallow, my thumb brushing over her knuckles. She smiles—soft, luminous, devastating.
“Tógaim mé tú, Siobhán Kelleher,1” the priest intones. “Mar chéile dhlíthiúil dom2—”
My voice is low, steady, dangerous. “Tógaim mé tú, Siobhán Kelleher, mar chéile dhlíthiúil dom—”
“3Le grá agus le dílseacht,” the priest continues.
“Le grá agus le dílseacht,” I echo, watching her throat work as she breathes.
4“I gcónaí agus go deo.”
“I gcónaí agus go deo,” I finish, and Christ help me, it feels like a battlefield oath—like blood and eternity and choosing her over the whole world.
Her eyes shine. She tries to blink it away; it only makes one tear slip free. I catch it with my thumb. Then the priest turns to her.
“Siobhán,” he says gently, “your vows.”
She inhales—slow, shaky, heartbreakingly soft—and repeats the Irish words with that perfect, lyrical voice that ruined my life the first time I heard it.
“Tógaim mé tú, Cillian O’Dwyer,” she whispers. A murmur ripples through the church. “My lawful husband.” She squeezes my hands harder. “Le grá agus le dílseacht,” she continues, voice breaking on the last word. My chest cracks open. “I gcónaí agus go deo,” she finishes.
Forever. Her forever. Outside, the bells begin ringing early—Dublin prematurely celebrating like even the city can’t fucking wait.
The priest clears his throat. “The rings, please.”
