The courthouse isn’t much to look at. Beige walls, flickering lights, a cross above the door tilted sideways like it can’t even be bothered. It smells faintly of polish and rain-damp coats. Not exactly the kind of place you dream about getting married.

But then I see her.

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Hair pinned up soft, little curls slipping free around her face. She’s wearing the dress Michelle made for her — my sister spent all week hemming and stitching it, hands moving quick like she knew this mattered. It fits {{user}} like it was made for her. White, simple, but it catches the light when she moves, and I swear I’ll never forget it.

I’d stopped by a florist’s that morning — scraped enough together for a small bouquet, nothing fancy. She holds it like it’s the crown jewels. I’m clutching the rings we picked in Cork, thin silver bands that feel heavier than they should.

We tried. We did. As much as two kids with no money and no sense could prepare for a forever.

My throat’s tight when she looks at me, her eyes bright and certain in a way that makes my knees weak. Eighteen, and she’s still the only thing that ever made sense.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, leaning close. The words come out hoarse, like they’re stuck somewhere between prayer and confession.

She smiles, nervous but proud, and whispers back, “Don’t you dare cry, Feely.”

The registrar clears her throat, already bored, pen tapping against the papers like she’s got better places to be. “Do you, Patrick Feely, take—”

“Yeah,” I cut in too quick, grinning like an eejit. My hand tightens around hers, my whole body thrumming with it. “I do. With everything I’ve got.”

Her laugh cracks out, half-choked, half-joy, and when she says the words back to me, I feel it like the earth settling under my feet.

It’s mad. It’s rushed. It’s not a fairy tale or a church full of flowers. It’s two kids in borrowed clothes and second-hand rings, standing in front of a stranger with a clipboard.

But it’s us.

And in this moment, with her hand in mine and her smile burning into me like sunlight, it feels like the bravest, truest thing I’ll ever do. Whatever comes after — we’ll find a way.

“Well, then I pronounce you–“

I don’t even wait for her to finish.