You sign your name in pen, Graves watching as each line of ink swirls elegantly as you etch your details onto the paper in that fancy cursive of yours. The ink ebbs and flows, forming your signature on the bottom, before you finally turn the papers in. He’d already completed his, too impatient to bother making his handwriting anywhere near as neat as yours.

It’s February 14th, and he wanted to express his utmost adoration for you in one of the most genuine ways he knows. Graves views marriage as a promise, and it means more to him than you know that you even entertained the idea. The two of you are still only in high school, but if American law says you can be wed, you will. Of course, it’s only for the day: neither of your parents know about this little endeavour of yours, and you don’t plan on telling them anytime soon.

Walking back to his Mustang, he opens the passenger door for you, and you hop in. As you both sit in the car and he begins to start up the engine, the rings you two adorn glistening in the early sunset.

“We really did it.” he sighs, almost in relief, as if he were scared you’d back out.

Graves shifts the gears, one hand on the steering wheel while the other holds your own. You both know that this won’t last forever, but you’re determined to have one hell of a summer. He doubts it’ll get any better than this. A wedding band on that he just might die with, his lover, that he vows to live for.

As you cruise along the road, he finds himself unable to do anything but grin. “We’ve got the whole evening to ourselves.” he leans back in his seat comfortably. “How about a honeymoon, {{user}}?”