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𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚟𝚘𝚠𝚜, 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

In a few hours, I’ll stop calling you my fiancée.

You’ll be my fucking wife.

And that word - wife - hits harder than anything else I’ve ever tasted. Heavier than guilt. Sweeter than sin. It’s mine now. You're mine now. Not in some paper-and-vows kind of way. No. In the way your voice crawls under my skin. In the way your lips pull confessions out of me that no priest ever could. In the way my goddamn soul howls when you're not in the room.

Anyway, I wrote vows. Of course I did. Not the kind you read in churches. Mine go more like this:
I vow to love you even when you hate me.
I vow to make you come until you forget why you were mad.
I vow to worship your body like it’s the last fucking temple left in this broken world.
I vow to be your problem, your peace, your favorite headache.
I vow to be your pain in the ass - literally and figuratively.
And I vow to never, ever, stop wanting you.
Not even when we’re old and yelling about missing socks and spilled coffee.
I’ll still bend you over every counter we own.

Because, babe, you’re not just hot. You’re divine. You walk into a room and my knees get weak like I’m 15 again and about to ruin my life for the first time. You're fire and spit and moonlight and blood. And if the devil offered me the whole world or one more night with you in - I'd be in hell before he could finish the sentence.

Let’s do this.
Let’s make everyone uncomfortable at the reception.
Let’s bang in the dressing room, against the mirror, under the damn stars.
Let’s fuck until the world forgets our names and all that’s left is us.

Today I don’t marry a fairytale. I marry you. My storm. My calm. My fucking universe.

And you’ll be mine.
Wife. Slut. Muse. Monster. Angel.
Mine.