Jay-Jay's POV
Hotel corridors had never felt this long.
By the time we reached the suite door, my feet ached from dancing, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my heart still beat in the rhythm of the reception—laughter, music, C‑in's ridiculous "from gangs to gains!" chant echoing in my head. The world outside still glowed with Thames lights and the last fading sparkles of Percy's illegal fireworks.
Inside, it was quiet.
Keifer slid the keycard, and the door swung open to soft yellow light, floor‑to‑ceiling windows, and London spread beneath us like a secret. Rose petals trailed over the bed in a cheesy heart shape that screamed "Rakki has been here." A bottle of something bubbly waited on ice, two glasses beside it, and a little handwritten note in Freya's dramatic cursive: "No fighting. Hydrate. Use protection. You're welcome."
Heat rushed to my face.
Keifer read it over my shoulder and choked on a laugh. "Your friends are menaces."
"Yours helped," I shot back, spotting Felix's awful drawing of a stick‑figure bride and groom in the corner.
The door clicked shut behind us. The muffled noise of the city stayed where it belonged—on the other side. In here it was just us, the low hum of the air conditioner, and the sound of my own breathing suddenly way too loud in my ears.
He stepped closer, pulling at his tie, eyes never leaving mine. "Hey, Mrs. Ulupong."
The word hit different this time. He'd called me that jokingly before, in whispered teases and half‑serious daydreams. Now it sat in the air with weight. Real. Legal. Sacred.
I swallowed. "Yeah?"
"Still sure?" His voice dropped, the usual cocky edges smoothed by something softer, deeper. "You can say no to anything tonight. We can just sleep, eat all the room‑service food, argue about movies. You set the pace."
A knot in my chest loosened. Of course he'd start with that.
"I'm sure about you," I said, fingers finding the blue beads of his bracelet—the same beads echoed in my ring. "I've been sure since you dragged me out of nightmares and into stupid London rain."
He exhaled, relief flickering across his face before something more primal sparked in his eyes.
"Come here then," he murmured.
He reached for the pins in my hair first, hands gentle, almost reverent. Veil off. Clips slid free one by one, each soft clicklanding like a countdown. My scalp sighed with relief. He smoothed his fingers through my hair, untangling curls the way he did when I woke from bad dreams.
"Better," he whispered.
"You're just happy I'm one step closer to demolishing this dress," I muttered, but my voice shook a little.
He cupped my face. "I'm happy you're here. With me. On purpose."
The kiss started slow. Not the showy, applause‑earning kind from the ceremony. This one was quieter, like a secret we were finally allowed to say out loud. His lips were warm, familiar, and yet not—the same boy, new title. Husband.
The word made my stomach flip.
His hands stayed careful, hovering at my waist like he was asking permission with every movement. I answered by stepping closer, pressing into him, letting the layers of lace kiss sharp suit fabric. My fingers slid under his jacket, pushing it back off his shoulders. He let it fall, breathing hitching when my hands traced the line of his shirt buttons.
"Jay…"
I pulled back just enough to see his face. His pupils were blown wide, but there was no rush there. Just that same question he'd asked a hundred times in different ways: Are you okay? Do you want this?
"Lock the door," I said. "I'm not having C‑in burst in with confetti."
He huffed a laugh, did as ordered, then returned to me like he'd been gone hours. He took my hands, lacing our fingers together.
"Let me help?"
I nodded.
He undid the tiny buttons at the back of my dress slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Each one slipped free with a soft tug; cool air kissed new skin, sparks following the path of his fingers. He pressed small, lingering kisses along my shoulder as the lace loosened, his breath warm against my neck. By the time the dress finally puddled at my feet, my legs felt like they might not hold me.
He stepped back, eyes roaming, but not in the greedy way I'd seen in too many boys before. His gaze was hungry, yes, but there was awe there too. And something like gratitude.
"Wow," he said simply. "I knew you were beautiful. I didn't know it could get illegal."
I snorted, tension snapping just enough for me to swat his chest. "Shut up."
"Can't," he whispered, pulling me in again. "Not tonight."
His turn came next. I tugged his tie loose, fingers fumbling slightly as I slid it from his collar. Top buttons undone revealed familiar skin, scars I'd traced a thousand times with my eyes but now touched with new intention. His chest rose and fell beneath my palms, steady but deep. When I brushed the faint jagged line near his ribs, his hand caught mine.
"Still here," he said. "Still yours."
"I know," I said. "I was there, remember?"
We laughed, both of us, soft and a little shaky. It helped. It made the room feel less like a film scene and more like us—two idiots who had survived too much to be scared of something we had chosen together.
We moved to the bed in no rush at all, half‑tumbling, half‑guided by the pull between us. Sheets cool against my back, his weight a familiar comfort above me, the outside world reduced to a distant glow. My heart raced, but so did his—I could feel it where our chests pressed together, syncopated beats finding a shared rhythm.
He kissed down my jaw, my throat, pausing every so often like he was checking if I'd push him away. I didn't. I tugged him closer instead, fingers digging into his shoulders, grounding myself in the solidity of him—the boy who had sat beside hospital beds, who had faced my mother's storms and Kaizer's shadows, who had asked a thousand times if I wanted to stay and never once forced me to.
When it finally happened—when we crossed that last line we'd both tiptoed around for so long—it wasn't fireworks or some perfect, choreographed scene. It was messy in places. There was awkward laughter when he knocked his elbow against the headboard, a pause when my nerves spiked and we had to breathe together, forehead to forehead, until the tremor eased. He asked "Here?" and "Like this?" more than once. I answered honestly, sometimes with words, sometimes with the way my body leaned in or shifted away.
What made it perfect wasn't that it was flawless.
What made it perfect was that it was ours.
By the time we collapsed tangled in sheets, breathless and spent, London felt a million miles away even though it glittered just outside our window. My skin hummed, muscles pleasantly sore, heart strangely calm. Keifer lay on his back, one arm under my head, the other draped over my waist, thumb drawing lazy circles on my hip.
"Hey," he whispered after a while.
"Mm?"
"We didn't die," he said. "That was my main worry."
A laugh burst out of me, unexpected and bright. "Out of everything we've survived, this is what you're scared of?"
"Look, performance anxiety is real," he deadpanned, then sobered, turning onto his side to face me. "But seriously… you okay?"
I looked at him—the stupid fringe falling into his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the exhaustion and softness mingled in his expression.
"I'm more than okay," I said. "I'm… safe."
His eyes shone at that, just a little. "Good. That's the only thing I cared about tonight. The rest we can… keep learning."
"Practice makes perfect," I murmured, tracing the line of his lips.
He caught my hand, kissed my knuckles. "Careful, Mrs. Ulupong. I might hold you to that."
"Pretty sure you already are," I said, glancing pointedly at where his arm cinched my waist.
We lay there watching the city lights for a long time, talking in low voices about everything and nothing—about honeymoon beaches and stupid Section E bets, about what surname I'd use on my passport, about how surreal it felt that after all the nights we'd spent wondering if we'd live to see tomorrow, we were now arguing over pillow choices and breakfast menus.
Eventually, sleep tugged at my bones. I shifted closer, tucking my face into the space beneath his collarbone that had somehow always felt designed just for me. He held me tighter, his breathing evening out, chest rising and falling under my cheek.
On the table beside us, my ring glinted softly in the dim light where I'd slid it off to avoid scratching either of us. His bracelet stayed on, as always, pressed against my arm where we touched.
Husband and wife.
Not just in front of witnesses. Not just in legal documents.
Here, in the quiet, in the soft and the silly and the sacred, we sealed what all the chaos had tried to break.
Our first night wasn't the end of the story.
It was the calm, steady beginning of all the mornings we'd wake up and choose each other again.