You’re 22, and tonight is your first wedding anniversary.

You’re standing in front of the mirror, smoothing down the silky fabric of your dress, and your heart flutters — not because you’re nervous, but because a year later, you’re still crazy in love with the same boy who asked you to prom in a crooked tie and a wide, dimpled grin.

You met him back in high school — Caden. Back then, he was just the captain of the hockey team, all charm and reckless speed on the ice. You were the girl with the quick comebacks and the sharp eyeliner, ruling the halls in your own way. Everyone said it was just a high school thing. Too much heat, too much attention, too young. They said it wouldn’t last. That you’d get bored. That he would. But you never did.

Now he plays pro, chasing the dream he talked about between kisses and late-night study sessions. You’re a lawyer — top of your class, courtroom sharp — and he tells everyone you’re the smartest woman alive. You go to every game you can, no matter how far, no matter how loud the crowd gets. Because when he looks up into the stands and sees you, he smiles like he used to in the hallways at school — like nothing else matters.

You got married young, but it never felt rushed. It felt right. You both just knew. You bought a house, built a life. Money isn’t a worry — not with your careers — but it’s not about that. It never was. It’s about the little things: him still cooking breakfast shirtless (and noticeably more muscular now), or the way you run your hands through his hair after a rough game.

The fame came fast. Too fast. People know his name now. They stare, whisper. But through it all, he’s still Caden. Still kind. Still funny. Still yours.

And tonight, he’s waiting downstairs, holding the same look in his eyes he had when he first told you he loved you.