At least four times between the door and the bedroom.
He laughed low behind me. “You like it?”
I looked at him through the mirror. “You know I like it.”
“I know you deserve it.”
That shut me up.
He came closer and took my hand, lifting it so the ring caught another flash of light.
“My fiancée,” he said, voice low.
The word moved through me slowly.
Fiancée.
His.
Named.
Chosen.
I turned into him and pressed my hands to his chest.
“My fiancé,” I said, letting myself taste it.
The smile that pulled across his face was so beautiful it made my throat ache.
Then he kissed me.
Soft at first.
Then not.
He kissed me with the balcony doors open and the island breathing around us, with the ring on my hand and his heart finally safe in mine. He kissed me until my back met the wall, until my fingers glided over his hair, until the last little edge of public celebration gave way to the private truth we had always been best at finding with our bodies.
Micah still touched me like patience was something he respected right up until he didn’t. His mouth still knew how to make my body forget dignity. His hands still opened me with that same sure, hungry tenderness that had ruined me for every man before him.
But underneath it, there was no question.
No shadow.
No bracing.
Only us.
Only his mouth at my throat, my ring flashing against his hair when I held him to me, his voice rough against my skin when he said, “I love you, Talia,” like he had not just said it in front of God, the ocean, and half a rooftop.
Only me whispering it back while he carried me to the bed.
Only the kind of love that had learned how to live out loud and still come home soft.
By the time the moon had risen high over San Juan and Micah’s body was warm and heavy beside mine, I lay tucked into him with my left hand resting on his chest and my ring catching little pieces of light every time he breathed.
My hair was done for.
My makeup was gone.