The sound of the ocean hums through the open balcony doors, soft and lazy, rolling against the cliffs below. Italy looks like a dream tonight—liquid gold spilling from the last light of the sunset, the faint taste of salt still clinging to your lips from where Rafe kissed you earlier.

The day feels endless and easy.

You’d spent it wandering narrow streets hand in hand, the smell of pizza dough and sun-warmed basil following you everywhere, the both of you laughing like you’d never known how to before.

Now the villa is quiet except for the faint buzz of cicadas outside, a glass of wine forgotten on the nightstand, and the soft sheets cool against your skin.

You’re stretched out on the bed in one of those hotel robes, skin still warm from the sun, scrolling through photos from the day—his arm around your waist at the fountain, his grin bright and boyish under the shade of his cap, your hair tangled from the wind and your laughter so full it nearly glows.

He’s beside you, lying back against the headboard, shirt half undone, tan skin catching in the lamp light. He’s been watching you for a while now—idly toying with the silk ties of your robe, looping them around his fingers, unlooping them again, lazy and content. There’s that small, secret smile tugging at his mouth, the one that only ever appears when he’s thinking something dangerous or sweet.

“What?” you finally ask, glancing up from your phone. He hums, shaking his head slightly, that smile deepening.

“Nothin’,” he says, low and lazy. “Just lookin’.”

“At what?” you tease, pretending not to know.

The air between you tightens, warm and heavy with the kind of closeness that still makes your chest ache, even after all these years. His fingers find the bow at your waist again, tugging just enough for the fabric to sigh against your skin.

“At my wife,” he murmurs.

The word makes your breath catch every single time. Wife. It still sounds unreal, too big, too soft, too beautiful to belong to you. You glance down at your left hand—the glint of the gold band catching in the light—and for a heartbeat you’re back at the ceremony a couple days ago: his trembling hands, the way his voice broke halfway through the vows, the stupid, radiant grin that stayed on his face all day after.

He notices the way your thumb brushes the ring and smiles, softer now. “You still can’t believe it?” he asks.

You shake your head, smiling back. “Not even a little.”

Rafe laughs quietly, the sound low and rough, and leans down until his lips find the corner of your mouth. The kiss is slow, lazy, unhurried—just a brush, a promise. He smells like sun and salt and the faint hint of smoke from the fire pit downstairs. His thumb traces the hollow at your throat, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’ve been my girl for three years,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that the words feel like a secret pressed to your skin. “Now you’re my wife. Guess I’m still tryin’ to believe it too.”

You laugh softly, curling your fingers into his shirt. “You better,” you whisper.

He grins at that, that wild boyish thing he’s never quite lost, even now. He leans back on one hand, still lazily playing with the tie of your robe, eyes tracing every inch of you like he’s trying to memorize this version of forever.

“So,” he says, the word slow and teasing, his grin turning sly, “you know what comes next, don’t you?” You narrow your eyes, half suspicious, half smiling. “What?”

He tilts his head, pretending to think, the pad of his thumb sliding just under the edge of the silk. “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Cameron,” he says, drawling it like he’s testing the sound. Then his gaze flicks up to meet yours—blue, mischievous, full of that familiar heat.

“We have to perform our marital duties to each other.”

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says, still grinning, catching your wrist before you can pull back. “But you’re still blushing.”

He smiles then—small, real, perfect—and kisses you again. Slow. Certain. Married.