Her breath caught, but I wasn’t done. I pulled my arm back and turned to face her more fully, leaning a shoulder against the headboard. I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, heart thudding like I was already at the altar.
“Back home in Scotland, it’s tradition to tie your hands together with a tartan during the vows. Handfasting, they call it. My parents did it. My gran always said the knot shouldn’t come loose unless the love does.”
“That’s beautiful,” she whispered, also turning, curling a leg under her. Her eyes softened, her hand brushing over mine. “It’s the first time I’ve heard you refer to Scotland ashome.”
I sat with that for a second, letting the hush settle around us—waves beyond the glass, her thumb still brushing over my knuckles like it might anchor me there.
“I guess I haven’t in a long time,” I admitted quietly. “For a while, it stopped feeling like mine. Just became a place I left behind.”
I paused, breathing her in. Citrus and lavender and something warmer—something that felt like it belonged in every room I’d ever want to live in. My skin smelled like her, and I was pretty sure this was Heaven.
“But with you…” I glanced down at our hands, the glint of her ring catching the morning sun. “It’s like returning somewhere I didn’t realize I missed. Not because of the place. Because of the feeling. Like finding the front door unlocked after years away, and the lights still on inside.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked at me like I’d given her something special.
“So yeah,” I finished, voice thick with it, “maybe it is home. Because now you’re in it with me, and I’m not alone anymore.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment, just looked at each other, and an understanding seemed to pass between us. We had our families, sure, butwewere each other’s family now. That’s what this next step meant. Now, all our problems and obstacles became a shared burden.
“There’s this other one,” I said, softer now, almost fragile, like I was afraid to break this moment. “The bride wears a sprig of white heather in her bouquet for good luck. And the groom pins a lucky coin to the inside of his jacket for prosperity.”
She hummed. “I love hearing about this. Your family, your culture, your traditions. It makes me feel like…” She trailed off, eyes shining as she looked at me. “Like I’m getting closer to you. Not just the man in front of me, but the boy you were, the place you’re from. The whole story.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Because my whole life, I’d tried to outrun where I came from. Yet somehow, she made me want to remember it all. To share it. To bring her into it.
So I did.
“There’s one where you share a drink from a quaich,” I murmured. She frowned, confusion flickering across her face, and I huffed a laugh as I explained. “It’s like… this little two-handled cup. Symbol of trust and unity. Everyone takes a sip after the vows, and it’s supposed to bind the couple and the families.”
Aurélie blinked slowly, like she was committing it all to memory.
“I want that,” she said simply. “All of it. The knot, the coin, the heather, the drink.” She bit her lip, then gave me an adorable little smile. “I want your traditions to be mine too.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then we’ll do it all, baby. Every last one.”
She looked down, then back up, a faint flush blooming across her cheeks. “I could show you mine, too. The French traditions, I mean.”
“Oh?” I teased gently. “Do they also involve symbolic alcohol and public vows to ruin each other forever?”
She giggled, leaning closer, fingernails clinking against the ceramic mug she still clutched. “Not quite. Though, there is champagne.”
“Of course there is.”
She rolled her eyes fondly. “We toss coins at the newlyweds as they leave the church, usually centimes. It’s our way of wishing prosperity upon them. And there's this tradition where the couple drinks from acoupe de mariageat the reception. It’s shaped like a shallow bowl and passed down through generations. Supposed to bless the union with fertility and good fortune.”
She trailed off, the edge of a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “I think the fertility part skipped me, though.”
My chest tightened, but I didn’t let the air go heavy.
“Maybe it didn’t skip you. Maybe it’s just waiting for the right timing.” I paused, brushing my thumb across the back of her hand. “My mum used to say some things needed the right season to bloom.”
Aurélie looked up at me, the weight of it all soft in her eyes.
“She was kind of known for that stuff back home,” I added. “In our village, you went to my mum instead of the doctor. Or when the doctors couldn’t help. She always had a balm or atea or some ancient recipe passed down through generations of Highland women. People swore she could cure anything.”
Aurélie’s lips parted in surprise. “Really?”
