They stood beneath an arch braided with sea grass and white roses, the Atlantic breathing lightly behind them. The officiant smiled and said, “I now present — Mr. and Mrs. Cameron.” The words settled over them like a warm coat.

Rafe’s hand found hers the way it always had: automatic, familiar, as if years of small kindnesses and careless jokes had been folded into this single, steady grip. He had the same crooked grin, but now it carried the calm of someone who understood what he wanted and would not let it go. She blinked back a tear and laughed, surprised at how quickly the future rearranged itself into something simple and true.

Their vows were not long or polished. Rafe promised to fix leaky faucets at midnight and to learn when to be quiet and when to argue. She promised stubborn loyalty, to pack the best road-trip sandwiches, and to remember—always—that Rafe loved coffee black on rainy days and sunrise on the porch. When they said “I do,” it felt less like a finish line and more like the opening of a secret door.

After the kiss, confetti burst like tiny, joyful storms. Children ran with ribbon wands while elders clinked glasses and traded knowing looks. A string quartet slipped into a song that made feet move and shoulders relax. Rafe swept her into a clumsy dip, salt air crowning his hair, and someone shouted for an encore. She let him—because in that moment, being swept off her feet was exactly what she wanted.

They danced through the first hour as if they were inventing traditions: a slow, slightly off-tempo waltz; a toast that turned into a toast to mistakes and moonlit fixes; a quiet moment behind the cake table where they shared the first forkful of frosting and laughed when the icing got on Rafe’s nose.

Later, as twilight stitched the sky purple, they walked the shoreline hand in hand. “Mr. Cameron?” she teased, nudging his shoulder.

He squeezed her fingers. “Yes, Mrs. Cameron.”