He’d known this was a bad idea the moment she slammed the magazine down on the kitchen counter and declared, “This is it. This is our honeymoon.”
Glamping.
The word alone made his eye twitch.
She’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wedding brochures and unopened moving boxes, glossy pages spread out like sacred scripture. The model in the magazine looked effortless—silk slip dress, barefoot, champagne flute in hand, fairy lights glowing softly behind her while the sun dipped romantically into the mountains.
“This,” she’d said dreamily, tapping the page, “is not camping. This is aesthetic.”
He’d raised a brow. “That’s camping with better PR.”
She’d ignored him, obviously.
Now, three days into their honeymoon, he stood ankle-deep in damp grass outside a so-called luxury tent that looked nothing like the photos. The canvas sagged slightly in the middle, the fairy lights flickered like they were on life support, and somewhere nearby, an insect was screaming like it paid rent.
He glanced at her.
She was sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed—if you could call it that—staring at a mosquito bite blooming angrily on her ankle. Her white sundress was wrinkled, her hair frizzing in ways no Pinterest board could’ve prepared her for. The silk scarf she’d packed “for vibes” was now tied around her neck like emotional support.
He bit back a smirk.
She’d said glamping was romantic. Said hotels were boring. Said she wanted something “different” for their honeymoon—something that would feel like a story worth telling.
Right now, the story smelled like damp wood and regret.
“I thought,” she said slowly, voice tight, “there would be… flooring.”
He leaned against the tent pole, arms crossed, watching her process the betrayal in real time. “You’re on the ground.”
“It said king-sized bed.”
“That is a mattress with confidence issues.”
Her glare snapped to him. “Why are you enjoying this.”
“I’m not,” he lied. Then corrected himself. “Okay, maybe a little.”
She groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “The pictures had a bathtub. Like, outdoors. With flowers.”
He tilted his head. “There’s a hose.”
“That is not the same thing.”
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the distant crackle of a campfire and the unmistakable sound of something skittering nearby. He watched her shoulders slump—the exact moment the fantasy died.
She’d hated glamping from the start. He knew that. She’d laughed at it, mocked it, called it “rich people pretending to struggle.” And yet, the second she saw it framed beautifully in a magazine, she’d convinced herself this would be different.
Reality had other plans.
She finally looked at him, eyes tired, pout forming despite herself. “I hate this.”
He stepped closer, crouching in front of her, hands resting lightly on her knees. “You lasted longer than I thought.”
“That’s not comforting.”
A smile tugged at his lips anyway—soft this time, not teasing. “Hey. It’s our honeymoon. Not a survival challenge.”
Her gaze softened, the frustration melting into something quieter. “I just wanted it to be perfect.”
“I know.” He brushed his thumb over her knee, right above the mosquito bite. “But perfect was never the location. It was always you freaking out over bugs and pretending you’re fine.”
She huffed a laugh despite herself. “I am not pretending.”
He leaned in, forehead resting briefly against hers. “We can leave tomorrow. Book a hotel. One with walls. And air-conditioning.”
Her eyes lit up like he’d just proposed again. “Really?”
“Really.”
She exhaled, sinking into him, muttering, “I knew glamping was a scam.”
He smiled to himself, arms wrapping around her as the tent lights flickered overhead.
Worst honeymoon idea?
Yeah.
But watching her admit she was wrong—curled against him, barefoot, annoyed, still his wife?
Worth it.