He never planned to fall in love.

Didn’t believe in it. Didn’t want it. Not with the life he lived—the recklessness, the chaos, the late nights, the noise. He was perfectly fine being untethered.

Then you happened.

You didn’t ask him to change. You didn’t try to fix him. You just showed up—loud, stubborn, impossible to ignore—and for the first time, he didn’t push someone away.

You crashed into his world like a storm, and he let you stay.

And now, you’re walking toward him—eyes bright, wedding dress catching the light, every step undoing him more than the last.

He should be terrified.

Because if he ever lost you, it would destroy him.

But he’s not afraid. Not anymore.

He just looks at you—like you’re the only thing that ever made sense.

Mine, he thinks. You’re mine.

And he’ll spend forever making sure you never forget it.

Later, as the two of you sway beneath the lights—his hand at your waist, your forehead resting against his—he leans in, voice barely above a whisper:

“So tell me, love—do I still take your breath the way you take mine?“