Right. Okay.

So.

I’m trying to behave, yeah? Trying so hard. Swear on every holy figure and half the unholy ones too.

But then you go and do that— Stretching in my hoodie—well, it’s yours now, clearly—with bed-hair and no makeup and your wedding ring catching the light like some goddamn fairytale plot twist, and I’m just… done. Finished. Deceased. A ghost of a man who died from pure, undiluted love.

We’re supposed to be relaxing. Drinking cocktails. Walking along beaches like one of those cheesy rom-com couples you always make fun of but secretly love. But you—you—you’re over here looking like a sunrise wrapped in sleepy mischief, and I’m over here fighting for my fookin’ life.

You don’t even realise, do you? That you’re lethal. Dangerous. Criminally stunning in the morning light, with my last name and that soft little smile that wrecks my entire sense of self-control.

“I’m hungry,” you said, yawning into your fist like the sweet, sleepy menace you are.

Hungry, you said. Like I wasn’t two seconds away from devouring you whole just for existing in that oversized hoodie and whispering “Johnny” like I’m your entire universe.

Which I am now, apparently. Husband. Partner. Owner of a heart that no longer belongs to me.

Do you have any idea what that word did to me? Husband?

You whispered it last night, curled up on my chest, legs tangled with mine, voice all fuzzy and drunk on sleep. “My husband.” And I swear, I blacked out for a second. Might’ve shed a tear. Might’ve kissed your forehead twenty times in a row like some maniac.

Because I am your husband now. Your idiot. Your human-sized weighted blanket. Your personal space heater and professional forehead kisser.

And we’re here. On our honeymoon. In a place where no one knows us except room service and the poor hotel staff who keep catching me looking at you like I’d go to war for the chance to hold your hand a little longer.

We’ve got nowhere to be. No alarms. No texts from Gibsie demanding updates. No Hughie calling to say I forgot my tie. No Mum fussing. Just us. You and me. Married. Wrapped up in crisp hotel sheets and ocean air and this ridiculous, beautiful thing we’ve built.

And I’m going to make the most of it.

I’m going to feed you strawberries in bed. I’m going to run you a bath and probably join you even if you say I shouldn’t. I’m going to kiss every inch of your skin until you’re giggling and flushed and telling me to stop even though you never really mean it.

I’m going to love you so thoroughly, so shamelessly, that the walls might develop a complex.

Because I can. Because you let me. Because somehow, miraculously, you chose me.

So c’mere, a stór. Let me ruin you—in all the softest, sweetest ways.

You’re my wife now.

And I’ve got a lifetime of loving to get started on.