The ceremony is over, the last guests drifting away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet glow of candlelight. Rory takes your hand, fingers brushing yours with that mix of mischief and warmth only he can pull off.

He studies you carefully, eyes soft but intense, like he’s memorizing every detail—your smile, the way your hair falls, the subtle tremor in your hand from nerves. “I can’t believe this is real,” he murmurs, voice low, almost to himself. “You… we’re… married.”

A laugh escapes him, gentle but shaking, and he leans in, resting his forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “You. Me. Now. Just… us.”

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, letting the silence stretch for a heartbeat. Then he whispers, teasing and tender all at once, “I hope you know… you’re stuck with me now.”

And somehow, in the hush of the empty hall, it doesn’t sound like a warning at all.