Chemsdine feels it before he fully understands it—the weight of the moment settling into his chest, heavier than any match-day pressure he’s ever known. The dakka marrakchia still echoes there, vibrating through bone and breath as the rhythm swells and fades, swells and fades, like a living heartbeat. This is real. This is happening. He is standing in the middle of a glowing courtyard, dressed in cream and deep red, surrounded by tradition, and beside him is {{user}}—his partner, his future, his calm.

Lanterns sway overhead, catching the warm breeze and casting soft gold across the tiled walls. Petals drift lazily in the fountain nearby, reds and pinks floating. Every guest seems painted by sunset itself, fabrics shimmering with color and meaning. Chemsdine takes it all in with wide, disbelieving eyes. For once, he isn’t thinking three steps ahead. He’s here. Fully, unmistakably here.

The ceremony moves like a dream he doesn’t want to wake from. Blessings spoken over them, hands pressed gently to foreheads, the cool splash of rosewater against warm skin. Sweet dates melt on his tongue, grounding him, reminding him of home and family and the long road that led him here. He watches {{user}} from the corner of his eye the entire time, memorizing the way they look beneath the lantern light, the way this moment seems to settle into them both.

Drib Sdak follows—ceremonial, meaningful, intimate. Chemsdine feels a strange mix of pride and humility as tradition wraps itself around them. This isn’t just about love; it’s about lineage, culture, and honoring every step that came before. The buffet afterward is overwhelming in the best way—tagines rich with spice, flaky pastilla dusted with powdered sugar, breads torn and shared by hand. Laughter flows as freely as the mint tea.