“The third,” I said, looping again, the fabric dragging slowly between our hands, “is for patience. For every moment you’ll need space and I’ll need to listen instead of fix.”
She let out a shaky breath, smiling like the memory of every storm we’d weathered was caught in her lungs. “And for everytime I’ll have to trust that silence doesn’t mean distance. That love can be quiet, too.”
I paused—not to speak, but toseeher. To memorize the tear hanging from her lashes, the sunlight spilling over her hair, the steadiness in her eyes that told me she understood what I couldn’t say out loud. In that pause, I hoped she felt the gratitude, the awe, the promise that this wasn’t just a ceremony. It was us.
“The fourth,” I continued, “is for mercy. For forgiving what’s human and choosing to stay anyway.”
Her fingers tightened, her accent curling into the air between us. “And for remembering that staying isn’t surrender. It’s strength. It's a choice. It’scommitment.”
I drew one last breath, lifting our bound hands between us. The tartan shimmered under the sunlight, woven red and blue and green and gold. “And the final knot,” I said softly, “for devotion. For never leaving you wondering if I’ll fight for us.”
Her voice broke on a laugh that was half sob. “And for never making me forget that love is the bravest thing we do.”
I tied the last knot, slow and deliberate, sealing us together. Auri watched every movement with tears spilling freely now. The tartan crossed over our joined hands, warm and steady, like a living pulse.
The fabric held. The moment held. And so did we.
The wind caught Auri’s veil again and wrapped it around our wrists, tangling with the ribbon as if the universe wanted to be part of it too.
I swallowed hard and looked down at what we’d made. Her skin against mine. The colors of my lineage binding the life I wanted to build. The past, the present, and the future, knotted together.
Colette’s voice felt distant, almost secondary to the pounding of my heart. “Let this knot be a reminder that your love enduresnot because it is perfect, but because it is chosen. Over and over, in every season.”
Auri sniffled. My hands tightened around hers.
“Tha gaol agam ort,” I whispered. “Forever.”
She didn’t need a translation; somehow, she just knew. She just grinned radiantly and responded, “Je t’aime. Always.”
For a moment, the world went quiet. Just us, bound together by a promise older than language itself.
“Callum James Fraser,” Colette stated, “do you take Aurélie Camille Dubois to be your wife?”
“I already do,” I said, voice rough, the words catching in my throat.
“And Aurélie,” Colette continued, “do you take Callum to be your husband?”
Auri’s laugh broke through her tears, bright and breathless. “With every heartbeat,” she said.
Colette pressed her palms together, a reverent nod. “Then by the ties that bind and the love you’ve both vowed, I pronounce you—heart and hand—husband and wife. You may seal your union.”
I didn’t wait for the cue. Neither did my wife.
Our bound hands rose between us, awkward and perfect, still tangled in tartan and veil as we found each other’s faces. Her fingers brushed my jaw; mine cupped her cheek. Then she was on her toes, and I was bending down, and we collided in a kiss that wasn’t careful at all.
It was salt and sunlight and everything we’d fought to keep. It wasus.
Somewhere behind us, Ivy whooped so loud the olive grove echoed. Marco shouted something wildly inappropriate, Kimi muttered “finally,” and Lucy’s laughter broke into tears just as she started strumming again.
Auri grinned against my mouth, laughing as I kissed her again and again and again. Bound hands. Bound lives. Bound everything.
And I swore I could feel the universe exhale.
The wind softened. The tartan loosened, brushing over our wrists but holding firm, the veil tangled somewhere between her fingers and mine. I couldn’t tell where the fabric ended and her skin began, only that everything—her hair, her breath, the cherry gloss on her lips—was pressed against me like the world had finally clicked into place. Every circuit, every scar, every crash I’d ever survived had been leading here, to this stillness, to her.
And on that ridge, with her mouth still smiling against mine and the Aegean whispering below us, I realized I’d already won.
My wife was the only trophy I’d ever need. The only victory that ever mattered. She wasn’t my finish line. She was my fuckinglegacy.
