You and Rafe had only been married a few months, but somehow it already felt like forever—in the best way.

The mornings were slow and soft, full of sleepy kisses and tangled limbs. The nights were spent laughing on the couch, cooking terribly together, falling asleep mid-conversation. It wasn’t perfect—but it was yours. Real. Happy. Home.

Tonight, though, was different.

Rafe had gone to Toppers’ place for his stag-do. You trusted him—but there was always a little hum of worry in your chest when he was out drinking with the guys. Still, you kissed him goodbye with a smile, told him to be safe, and locked the door behind him.

You had just started to drift off when you were ripped from sleep by the sound of the front door slamming open.

Boom.

Your heart launches into your throat.

You sit up in bed, frozen for a second. Was that…? No. Maybe it was the wind.

But then you hear the unmistakable thud of footsteps. Heavy. Uneven.

Your blood goes cold.

Throwing on your robe, you race down the stairs, adrenaline flooding your veins.

And then you see him.

Rafe.

He’s standing in the doorway, shirtless, hair tousled, cheeks flushed from alcohol and wind. He’s smiling like he just won the lottery. His eyes are glassy, and he’s gripping onto the wall like the floor might give out beneath him.

“Rafe,” you breathe out, your body still buzzing with panic. “What the hell—are you okay?”

He beams at you, wide and boyish. “Baby…” he slurs, swaying slightly. “I’m gonna marry you.”

You blink. “We already are married.”

“Again!” he declares, pointing a wobbly finger at you. “Let’s do it again. Tomorrow. Next week. Forever.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. The fear still clings to your skin, but it’s melting away with every second you see him still breathing, still stupidly in love with you.

Then your eyes drop to his chest.

And your heart stops for a whole new reason.

It’s written there, just above his heart. Fresh, angry red ink still wrapped in raw skin.

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Your name. Tattooed in bold, permanent letters. Right across his chest like a brand. Like a vow.

You stare. “Is that… real?”

Rafe glances down like he forgot it was there. Then looks back up at you with that proud, dopey smile. “It’s so you know. Forever.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing, half horrified, completely overwhelmed. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You got a tattoo at three in the morning? While drunk? On your chest?”

“I love you,” he says dramatically, as if that explains everything.

You step closer, inspecting it. The skin’s a little swollen and there’s a smear of blood—clearly fresh. But it’s clean, decent work. Not completely disastrous. Just… very Rafe. Wild, impulsive, heart on his sleeve—or chest, apparently.

“You could’ve gotten an infection,” you murmur, brushing your fingers gently over his ribs.

“But I got you,” he says, grinning.

And that’s when your heart just gives up and melts.

You sigh, cupping his face in your hands. “You absolute idiot. Come here.”

You pull him into a hug, careful not to press too hard on the tattoo. He’s warm and solid and a little sweaty, and he wraps his arms around you like he’s anchoring himself back to earth.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair. “Topper’s party was boring. You’re more fun.”

“You’re drunk,” you whisper, but your smile betrays you.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “I’d do it again. The tattoo. The wedding. All of it. I’d marry you a thousand times.”

You take his hand. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You lead him upstairs, arm around his waist as he leans into you, humming some off-key love song. You help him into bed, wrap the covers around him, kiss his forehead, and whisper that you love him too.

Later, when he’s fast asleep and softly snoring, you trace your fingers over the letters on his chest. A little messy. A little insane.

But so full of love.

Just like him.

And just like your marriage—beautifully imperfect, and exactly right.