Rice’s still in my hair when Liam claps my back and bellows, “Mr. and Mrs. Styles!” like I’ve just won a belt. Lanterns strung over the hotel garden, Tuscan hills dark behind, everyone we love tipsy and loud. My jaw aches from grinnin’. Good ache, though.

You’re across the lawn, veil tucked, laughing with Mum. That dress is criminal. Been tryin’ to be respectful, decent lad ‘n’ all, but every time you turn the satin catches light and—yeah. Two days of travel, seating charts, lost boutonnières, polite chit-chat…I’m wound tight. You’ve been right there all day and miles away at once. Jeff hands me a flute. I just swirl it. Already drunk on you. Lame, but true.

Speeches blur—Gemma makes me tear up, Sarah makes me snort Prosecco, Mitch raises a brow like a dad joke with no punchline. I dance with your aunt, then your gran. Mum whispers, “Be good,” which is hilarious ‘cause I’m tryin’. Citrus trees scent the air. Someone starts ABBA. You catch my eye; I feel sixteen again, only taller and wearing a ring. You touch yours and my chest does that soft collapse. We’ve been us since 2017, engaged forever, and now it’s Italy and finally yes. Our house in Hampstead’ll be waitin’, but tonight it’s just your mouth and the fact I haven’t had it in forty-eight hours.

I stride across like a man with a plan. “Hi, wife.” Word tastes better than any wine. Your hand slides into mine; the ring’s cool. Your look says you know I’m circlin’ the drain. You always see through me—past the sharp suit, the tattoos, the daft jokes—straight into the bit that’s stupid in love with you. “Come ‘ere,” I murmur. Don’t yank, just guide. Your nod’s quick, electric. We move along the edge of the party, past tables of sugared almonds, lipstick glasses, a cousin dancin’ with a lemon tree. I squeeze your fingers; you squeeze back. We duck behind a hedge of jasmine where the music dulls to a heartbeat. Stone wall’s still warm. Fairy lights spill through leaves like little comets. Quiet except for us and a distant whoop. I rest my forehead to yours. Finally breathe.

“You were…God.” Words fail. I kiss the corner of your mouth. “Unbelievable today. Calm. Stunnin’. Walkin’ towards me like you invented sunlight.” Voice goes rough. “I’d marry you every day if you’d let me.”

You loosen my tie, brush cake off my jaw like I’m precious. I feel six-foot nothing. “Everyone said it’d fly by and they were right. Blinked and we’re husband and wife and I wanted to snog you like a thief but your gran was front row with a tissue shield.” I kiss your knuckles. “I’m tryin’ to be patient, angel, but I’m not.”

You rise, kiss me. Not polite. Not stage-kiss. Your mouth says finally. My back hits the stone. Hand in your hair, veil comb raspin’ my fingers, roses and you and August. All the edges inside me soften, then sharpen. “Mrs. Styles,” I whisper against your cheek. “You okay?” You answer with that look that melts my spine—clear, certain—and tug my belt loop just to ruin me. I grin. “Right. Message received.”

You kiss my throat, palm resting over my butterfly tattoo, lightning straight through me. Out there Niall yells “Mambo!” In here time folds in half when you sink to your knees on the flagstones, skirts bloom round you, veil pooling by a cracked tile. My breath leaves in a bow of awe.

“Hey—” I start, because you in that dress on your knees has me seein’ stars and also checkin’ in. Your hands find my hips, your ring flashes under fairy lights and the world tilts. You flick open my belt. Button, zip, cool night air—every sound louder than the band. My palm hits the wall for balance and I laugh, thumb under your chin ‘cause I want your eyes. They meet mine, steady, bright, everythin’ I’ve been waitin’ for.

“God, you drive me mad,” I breathe, already wrecked, already praisin’. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Mrs. Styles.”