You’re standing barefoot on the cool hotel tile, fingers resting on the champagne glass you forgot you were holding. The night is quiet now, the hush that follows music and laughter, when you can finally hear your own breathing. The balcony doors are open, curtains billowing like sails. Beyond them, the ocean glows silver in the moonlight. It smells like salt and freedom.

You’re still flushed from dancing, hair a bit mussed, pinned curls falling around your shoulders. Your white dress is draped over a chair—he insisted on helping you out of it slowly, carefully, not tearing a single button. Now you’re in one of his shirts, much too big, sleeves slipping over your wrists. It smells like him: leather, soap, cedar, and the faintest trace of sweat from all the hugging and dancing.

You catch your reflection in the mirror—a newlywed glow you can’t quite believe is real. Twenty-one, and married. But there’s something new in your gaze: softer, more secure. You’re not just you anymore. You’re his.

Nash is sprawled on the bed behind you, propped on one elbow. He’s stripped down to jeans, belt unbuckled, hair damp from the quick shower he took while you sat on the counter, swinging your legs, watching him with giddy disbelief. He’s older by four years, but it only means he knows how to look at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing.

His face is shadowed but you see that slow, easy smile. The scruffy beard you love, the strong jaw, the calm, steady eyes that track you everywhere—not possessive, just anchored. He’s always been like that: not the loudest man, but the one you listen to. The one who listens to you.

The wedding was perfect, almost unreal. He planned it all, refusing to show you anything until the last minute. You cried when you walked in and saw the white peonies, the arches of fairy lights, your family and friends gathered on the cliff at sunset. He wiped your tears with his thumb and grinned like he was proud of making you cry. He told you if you didn’t cry, he did it wrong. And you did cry—for joy, for love, for every promise stitched into your skin.

The ceremony was simple but heavy with meaning. He promised you’d never have to worry for anything; he had enough for both of you. You said you’d work anyway. You’d never be the type to just stay home, and he only nodded, said he wouldn’t want you to be anything but yourself. The kiss at the end felt like the first time all over again, the world falling away.

Now you just stand there, breathing it in. The room smells like leftover cake, faint perfume, and him. The hush feels sacred. You sip the last of the champagne even though it’s warm.

You set the glass down and turn to face him. His eyes are on you like he’s memorizing every inch. Your pulse jumps. You can feel the promise in the night ahead—intimate and quiet and forever.

You pad over to the bed and crawl onto it carefully, curling against his side. He shifts to make room, wrapping an arm around your shoulders without a word. You press your nose to his chest and breathe him in. He’s solid and real and yours.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. The only sound is the waves outside, the distant echo of someone else’s party on the beach.

Finally he breaks the silence in that low, easy voice that always makes you feel safe.

“You happy?”

Your answer is muffled against his skin, but he hears it.

“More than happy. I’m yours.”

His hand tightens on your shoulder. He exhales, releasing the last of the day’s tension. You feel it too—the dropping away of guests, expectations, spectacle. It’s just you two now. Husband and wife.