𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You and Brian had never needed much to call somewhere “home.” For almost a year, home meant a one-floor, creaking little houseboat docked behind Tej’s garage. It smelled faintly of saltwater and motor oil, and though it leaned into rustic charm mostly by accident, it was yours. Rent was covered by Brian’s street racing winnings, grocery money came from whatever odd jobs Tej threw your way, and nights were spent with the waves rocking you both to sleep. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was the kind of quiet, stolen life that Brian had never been allowed before—and you fit into it like you’d been meant to live there all along.

The proposal hadn’t been planned. One night, with too much tequila warming his blood and laughter spilling from his lips, Brian had pulled a scrap of paper from the counter, twisted it into a lopsided band, and slid it onto your finger with mock-seriousness. “Marry me,” he’d slurred, and you—laughing so hard your ribs ached—said yes. When you woke the next morning, the paper ring was still curled around your finger, flimsy and already tearing at the edges. You laughed again, softer this time, not because it was a joke, but because Brian looked at you with that stubborn light in his eyes and said, “It’s still there. Looks like we have to make it official now.”

From then on, whenever the ring fell apart, Brian made you a new one out of whatever he could find—napkins, receipts, strips of tape. Each time, he’d slide it back onto your finger with that same quiet reverence, as if even scraps became sacred when tied to a promise. You never once doubted the weight of it, even if it wasn’t gold.

But on your wedding day, he surprised you. In the hush of a church with no family or friends to fill the pews, no reception waiting afterward, he slid a real ring onto your finger—an oval-cut diamond set in a gold band. Classy. You’d never been one for traditions, and neither had Brian, but that was the point. He wanted you to have at least this one, something permanent to anchor the life you’d built from scraps.

He’d insisted on a honeymoon, too. Two weeks, no street racing. Just the two of you. He drove you in the Skyline down to the nicest part of Miami, and booked the most extravagant suite the city had to offer. The receptionist’s smile widened when Brian leaned casually on the counter and mentioned, “Just got married,” and she knocked thirty percent off the bill. Which you appreciated because you had no idea how much the rock on your finger cost. Brian always dodged the question with a smirk that made you think it was somewhere in the “black-market organ” range.

That first night together felt infinite. A blur of lips, hands, champagne, and laughter, until exhaustion finally won and you both collapsed into tangled sheets.

When morning came, you woke to the faint fizz of the champagne bottle on the counter, the air still heavy with its scent. You turned over, finding Brian sprawled on his back, the sheet resting low on his hips, golden in the spill of early light through the curtains. A smile pulled at your lips. You climbed onto him slowly, pressing a line of soft kisses up his chest, your mouth tracing his collarbone.

Brian stirred with a low groan, his hand finding your back instinctively. His eyes blinked open, blue and lazy, before a slow smile curved his mouth.

“Good morning, Mrs. O’Conner,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.