HERMIONE
We leave the sea behind on our final honeymoon morning.
I pack the last of my things, folding memories into silk and linen, sun-drenched hours between laughter and kisses. Dylan is downstairs talking with the pilot — we're flying to Pero next, one last detour before we go home.
That's when I find it.
Tucked inside his travel bag, beneath his neatly pressed dress shirts and leather-bound itinerary — a navy envelope. My name on the front, written in his handwriting.
Hermione
Only open if you ever need to remember what this love was built on.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the waves whispering in the distance, and open it.
My Dearest Hermione,
If you're reading this, then maybe I did something stupid like leave it behind. Or maybe you needed to be reminded of something powerful: this love — ours — was never an accident.
You changed my life the moment you looked me in the eye and didn't flinch.
I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in miracles.
But I believe in you.
And because of you, I now believe in us.
You gave me back the parts of myself I buried in concrete. You made me laugh when I didn't remember how. You made me want to live slower — to breathe, to feel, to hold.
If the world ever turns cold again, if fear ever creeps into your brilliant, fierce, beautiful heart — read this and remember:
I chose you.
I will always choose you.
Even if the sky breaks. Even if the stars burn out.
You're the home I never knew I needed.
My first peace. My forever war. My everything.
Forever yours,
Dylan
By the time he returns to the room, my hands are trembling.
He sees the letter in my lap. Freezes.
"You weren't supposed to find that," he murmurs.
I cross the room in three steps and crash into his chest. "You wrote me poetry and hid it in a shirt. Who even does that?"
His arms close around me. "A man who loves his wife."
I look up at him, tears and laughter in my throat. "Say it again."
He leans in. Kisses my forehead.
"My wife."