The golden afternoon sun bathed the rolling hills of Paul’s Scottish farm in warm light, wildflowers swaying in the breeze as a rusty old hay wagon creaked to life behind an obliging tractor.

Paul—now your husband, still pinching himself at that fact—laughed as he hauled you up into the back of the rickety wagon. His flannel shirt was already dusted with hay, and his cheeks were pink from laughter (or maybe just pride). "Oi! Mind yer step there, Mrs./Mr McCartney," he teased with a wink, using your new name like it was some grand joke between you two.

He plopped down beside you on top of freshly cut grass and clover-scented hay bales—close enough that his knee bumped yours when they hit another bump over rocky terrain: "Richest honeymoon ever?" He gestured dramatically at their humble setup; no luxury hotels or private jets… just dirt underfoot and sheep bleating obliviously nearby while tractors sputtered like tired old men past sunset glow:

"Worth every penny."

(And oh.) (It absolutely bloody was.)

His arm slipped around your waist then—not hiding how giddy this all made him anymore —tilting head toward yours so voice dropped low only for you:

"...Y'know I'd marry ya again if I had ta."

He was such a romantic.