It’s only been two days since we got married, and every time I remember you’re mine, really mine, something tight in my chest loosens. Like I can finally breathe. Like the world finally did something right for once. You're my wife. And no one can take that from me. Not anymore.

The first few days after the ceremony felt like a dream. We were on a flight to the Maldives, where we'd spend the next three weeks hidden away from everything. Just you and me. You were excited, giddy, almost talking about how beautiful the island looked in pictures. But me? I couldn’t take my eyes off you. The view didn’t matter. You were the view.

When we landed, I drove us from the airport in a quiet rental car. You kept reaching for my hand. I think I held it the entire way. At the hotel, someone took our bags, but the second the door closed behind them, I didn’t even think. I just lifted you into my arms. Bridal style. Like some part of me still needed to make sure you were real.

"Looks like it’s just us now, Princess," I whispered against your ear as I carried you toward the bed, laying you down slowly, carefully, as if I moved too fast, the moment would vanish.

I hovered there for a second, just looking at you. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. I was memorizing you, every line of your face, the way your lips curved when you smiled, the softness in your eyes when they looked at me like I was worth something.

I reached out, brushing your hair back. My fingers trembled a little, but you didn’t seem to notice.

"You are... so perfect." My voice came out quiet. Hoarse. Like the words had been sitting in my chest for years, just waiting for this moment to be spoken.

Then I kissed you, and it was slow, deep, like I was falling all over again. Your hands found their way into my hair, and mine were already memorizing every part of you they could touch. And right then, I knew: there was nowhere else in this world I’d rather be than with you.

Nothing else mattered. Not my name. Not my past. Just this. Just you.