But he didn’t listen.
Instead, he reached across me, unbuckled my seatbelt, and before I could blink, hauled me over his shoulder with an obnoxious grunt of satisfaction.
“Callum!” I shrieked, clinging to his back as the rain drenched my dress in seconds, slicking it to my thighs.
He didn’t even flinch. Just started striding through the downpour like it was his fucking coronation.
“You’re absurd,” I yelled over the storm, breathless with laughter as my hair plastered to my face and the wind lashed around us. “I’m not even in heels!”
“Exactly,” he called back, completely unfazed. “You’ve got no excuse to slow me down.”
Lightning cracked in the distance. My entire body was vibrating—cold and giddy and drunk on the way he always made even the simplest things feel like a fever dream.
“You could’ve carried me like a normal person, you lunatic!” I added.
“Could’ve,” he agreed. “But then how the hell would I smack your assandunlock the door at the same time?”
I snorted with laughter, head dropping forward against his back as he delivered a very enthusiastic slap to my thigh and juggled me effortlessly in one arm.
“This is not how the bridal tradition goes!” I cried through my hysterics.
“It is now,” he said smugly. “Fraser-style.”
And fuck if that didn’t make something low in me tighten.
He reached the door, still carrying me effortlessly, and unlocked the door with one hand. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and finally set me down in the entryway. Both of us dripping, breathless.
“You’re soaked,” I murmured, grinning up at him.
His eyes flicked over me, slow and reverent. “So are you.” He tucked my wet hair behind my ear. “And this is the first time I get to say: welcome home, Mrs. Fraser.”
God. The way he said it. Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like a man who never thought he’d get to say the words out loud.
My chest burned.
“Welcome home,” I echoed softly, pressing up on my toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Now get those wet clothes off before you ruin the floors.”
He smirked. “Is that what we care about now? Floors?”
“Yes,” I said, flicking the waistband of his jeans with a grin. “Because weownthem.”
He groaned but stepped back, dragging his shirt over his head and tossing it toward the laundry nook like he’d lived here forever. Like this was already second nature. I peeled out of my damp dress as we moved into the kitchen, each of us shedding layers and laughing under our breath—skin clammy from rain, hair tangled from wind, hearts still raw and cheeks still flushed from our sexcation-turned-honeymoon.
I lit one of the candles on the counter while he fumbled with the kettle, the scent of sandalwood and cedar rising up.
Our house smelled like wood and home and old books. Like lavender and citrus from my shampoo. Like leather from hisjacket. Like rain and salt and the love we’d left steeped into the sheets.
It smelled like us. Our life.
He passed me a mug of tea, and we stood there for a while in our underwear, sipping quietly as the storm crackled outside.
“I still can’t believe it,” I whispered eventually, setting my mug down and leaning into him. “We’re married.”
“I can,” he said, his voice low and sure. “I’ve spent my whole life running, thinking I had to earn peace. But with you, I stopped chasing it and started living it.”
I blinked up at him, tears threatening again—but this time they didn’t scare me. They didn’t unravel me.
Because I wasn’t coming apart anymore. I wassettling in.
