I slid the band over her knuckles, slow and steady, just above her engagement ring. The metal caught the sun, a gleam of platinum and fire. The movement felt instinctive, like muscle memory. Like taking Eau Rouge flat-out, trusting the curve, trusting the car, trusting myself.
As natural as breathing. As natural as loving her. Every beat, every breath, every piece of me bound up in that motion.
“I seal the vows I’ve spoken and all the promises still unspoken,” I echoed quietly.
Her fingers flexed against mine, trembling, her light pink nails catching light. My eyes met hers, tears swimming in their depths softly, beautifully, the way she always did when her heart was too full to contain.
Then it was her turn.
She took my hand, tracing the lines of my knuckles before sliding the band home. She turned the ring, and when I saw the interior, something inside me fell to its knees.
Engraved along the curve was her handwriting. The soft rise of herm, the deliberate downward stroke I’d seen a thousand times.
mon amour, mon champion
Not a phrase or a famous quote, but her own vow written in a circle, to be pressed against my heartbeat for eternity.
No beginning. No end. Just the truth of us.
Her voice shook but didn’t break. “With this ring, I seal the vows I’ve spoken and all the promises still unspoken,” she said softly, her accent lilting over each syllable, that sweet French melody I’d fallen for, crashing and burning straight into herarms like Icarus hadn’t fallen from grace butbarreledright into it. The way her tongue curled around every word was devastatingly gentle, catastrophically romantic enough to send me into overdrive. “For today, and every day after.”
The gold was warm against my skin. The air smelled like salt and sunlight. For one perfect second, everything else fell away.
“For today, and every day after,” I repeated, hypnotized by her.
And then Colette clasped her hands in front of her chest. “And now,” she announced, “we’ll bind what the heart has chosen. I understand the two of you have chosen to include a handfasting today.” She glanced between us. “This is not something most of us here are accustomed to, but I had the honor of doing my research to help guide it.” Her lips curved with something close to awe. “And I can tell already, it’s perfect for you.”
Auri smiled shyly, eyes shimmering, and I swear the entire island tilted toward her.
Colette continued, her voice low, reverent. “This Celtic tradition symbolizes the binding of two lives—two souls—into one shared path. The ties do not restrain; they represent choice. The choice to love freely, fiercely, and faithfully, every day.”
I felt the ribbon in my pocket before I moved. The weight of it had been against my heart all afternoon.
I pulled out the strip of Fraser tartan. My mum sent it with a note that said,Let it bind you to something better than we were.
My throat burned as I smoothed the fabric between my fingers.
They’d been through hell, my parents. Years of silence and shouting and trying again anyway. I used to think that was what love was: endurance at all costs. But I know better now. I don’t want to survive love; I want toliveit.
And that’s what this is. A promise not to repeat the past, but to rewrite it.
Auri smiled through her tears. “It’s beautiful.”
I reached for her hands—dainty, shaking, perfect—and placed the tartan across them. “This ribbon has seen fights and forgiveness,” I murmured. “It’s seen two people try and fail and try again. But it’s still holding strong. That’s what I want for us.”
Then I began to wrap it. Once, twice, each movement slow and intentional. Precious like a prayer and steady like a breath.
I hesitated, debating whether I should speak my intentions out loud or keep them to myself. Then I figured this marriage would only ever be as strong as what we gave it—together. So I cleared my throat.
“The first loop,” I whispered, not bothering to speak louder than what only Auri could hear, “is for resilience. For every time we’ll have to rebuild from the rubble.” I pulled the tartan tight enough to feel her pulse beneath it.
“And for every time we already have,” she whispered back, trembling but certain. “We’ve rebuilt every version of us stronger and softer.”
“The second,” I murmured, turning her palms toward mine, “is for grace. For learning to speak softly even when we’re hurt.”
Her thumb brushed the edge of my wrist, eyes glinting gold through the tears. “And for remembering that softness doesn’t make us weak. It’s what’s kept us human.”
God, I loved her. Even now, she refused to let me stand alone in this tradition. She met me in the middle, molding it into ours.
