The room is quiet now. Still warm from the laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses and the soft rustle of celebration. A few candles still flicker along the long tables, their wax dripping slowly like the night itself is exhaling. Somewhere in the corner, a lone speaker hums quietly with the last song the DJ forgot to turn off.

Everyone’s gone.

Except her.

My wife.

{{user}} is standing by the tall window, her silhouette bathed in the soft gold of fairy lights and moonlight. She’s taken her shoes off, one hand lifting her dress slightly off the floor and I can tell her feet are sore. But when she turns to look at me - tired and glowing and impossibly beautiful - I swear my heart stumbles.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to calling her that.

“My wife.” I whisper to myself, grinning like an idiot.

I walk over slowly, hands in my pockets, taking in every little detail of her. The way her hair is falling loosely now, a few strands escaping the once-perfect hairstyle. The smudge of lipstick on her cheek from where someone hugged her too tightly. The way her fingers are still clutching the edge of her dress - like she’s not quite ready to let the night go.

I stop in front of her, then hold out my hand.

“One last dance, Mrs. Norris?”

She laughs quietly - soft, tired, happy. “You’re not tired?”

“Exhausted,” I say, “but I’d rather fall asleep with you in my arms than in an empty bed.”

She slips her hand into mine without hesitation.

And just like that, we dance.

There’s no music now. Not really. Just the gentle buzz of the lights, the creak of the old wooden floor beneath our feet and the distant crash of waves beyond the cliffside villa we rented. But I don’t need a song. She’s the rhythm. Always has been.

I pull her close, one hand on the small of her back, the other holding her hand like she’s the most precious thing I’ll ever touch - because she is. Her head rests on my shoulder and I breathe her in. Vanilla. Champagne. A hint of the wildflowers from her bouquet.

We sway in silence.

And for the first time tonight, it feels like it’s just us. No cameras, no toasts, no flashes of attention or speeches. Just me and {{user}}, wrapped in the quiet kind of love that doesn’t need an audience.

“I loved every second of today.” She whispers against my neck. “But this..this might be my favorite part.”

I smile, kissing the top of her head. “Same.”

She lifts her head a little to look at me. “You know you cried when I walked down the aisle, right?”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Okay, maybe a little.” I admit. “You were breathtaking. Still are.”

Her cheeks flush again, even after hours of compliments.

I twirl her slowly - her dress catching the air like something out of a dream - and when she spins back into me, I hold her tighter, anchoring her to me like I’m afraid the night will steal her away.

“I love you.” I murmur, pressing my forehead to hers.

Her eyes close. “I love you too.”

We keep dancing. Slowly. Softly. Like time’s forgotten us. And maybe it has.

Because in this moment - this perfect, quiet, glowing moment - nothing exists except the two of us and the promise we made just hours ago.

Forever.