“My name is going to be Francesca Owen. Seems like our names just smashed together.”

“I think that’s the point.”

Fran smiles, and it’s her genuine smile—the one that peeks through when I say something that truly delights her—not my usual brand of sarcasm. It’s a smile I’ve earned. That in itself justifies the hour we’ve spent in a New York courthouse watching other couples stand in front of a judge and tie themselves in matrimony.

We were told it would be less crowded than usual today, which is exactly why we chose Friday the 13^th to get married. Some people may think it’s bad luck, but us? We’ve seen our fair share of bad luck and this is nothing.

“Maybe I’ll start going by Owen too,” Fran whispers. “I think I like that a bit better than silly old Fran.”

“Good, I was getting tired of that name too.” I sling my arm over her shoulder. As usual, Fran relaxes under my touch. Even after nearly three years, that never gets old. “It’s settled. We’ll be Owen and Owen.”

“Never mind,” she grunts. “We sound like a law firm.” Her eyes grow wide and she scoots closer, patting my knee repeatedly. “Hang on, hang on!” Her voice is low enough to hopefully not be heard by the other couples around us, but is still high-pitched as it comes out, like she can’t contain the brilliance of her idea. “You can take my last name and be Owen Evans! Then go by Evan!”

I chuckle, leaning closer to kiss her cheek. I can’t help myself.

“I think Nat may get upset that she knitted the wrong initials on our marriage quilt,” I say.

“Ah, good point,” she muses with a slow nod. “She’s already sensitive about her knitting skills. You know, I think Lara wasn’t very thorough when she taught her—”

A squeal from the front makes both of us jump and I clutch her shoulder tighter.

The woman with big hair reaching up to the heavens and the gold chain wearing man holding her hand embrace in a very passionate kiss after the judge announces them man and wife.

“Oh, okay, that’s… well, alright,” Fran mutters as the woman devours her now-husband’s thin lips with her own.

“I think her jaw may unhinge,” I whisper.

“Absolutely.”

“And… yes, snakeville here we come.”

I’m having horrible flashbacks to the reality television show with people whose first kiss is on their wedding day. Fran demanded we binge watch it then suggested we could be on that show.

“I think it’s a bit too late to be on there, don’t you think?” I’d said. “Well, considering…”

“We could do that super romantic thing where we wait until our wedding night to have sex,” she suggested. She wasn’t saying the same thing ten minutes later when I had her pinned in the papasan with her panties to the floor. Over the past few years, I’ve learned every bit of Fran I can, including how to make love in that egg-shaped chair.

“What do you think marriage will be like?” Fran whispers, leaning into the crook of my neck. Her flowery scent hasn’t changed since the day I met her, and it remains just as intoxicating.

“We’ll fight all the time,” I deadpan. Her elbow shoves my side, and I laugh. “See? You’re already being a great wife.”

“I reckon I’ll wear white all the time.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Including my knickers.”

I peek down to see her slide the hem of her lacy maroon dress up and reveal a pure white garter attached to black opaque tights. I instantly harden.

“You minx,” I mutter. “When did you get that?”

She slides her skirt back down as my hand inches toward it, giving my wrist a light slap.

“Naughty,” she chastises. “Not yet. And Nat mailed it.”

“I’ll have to thank her later,” I growl, hoping it’s low enough that someone might think we’re discussing something simple like what’s for dinner tonight instead of when I’ll have her bent over my knee.

“Thank me first,” Fran whispers. Her hand snakes to my crotch and I have to move it away just as she did mine.

“Didn’t you say that’s naughty?”

Yeah, I can’t wait to grow old with this woman.

“Elijah Owen and Francesca Evans?”

Fran whips her head to face me and her smile is everything I crave—giddy about this moment, disbelieving that we’ve made it here, and distinctly lacking any form of reservation. I just know, like how we just know things about each other, like we read each other’s minds.

And there it is: a small, barely noticeable dimple on the right side of her cheek. It only appears in special moments. I may have seen it a total of three times in our entire relationship, like she saves it for the intimate times.

Three months after she got a new job—nearly two and a half years ago—we’d been in her small kitchenette, attempting to make blueberry scones in celebration. We hadn’t realized beforehand that she didn’t own a sifter, so we were haphazardly trying to add flour and, of course, it ended up more on the floor of the kitchen than in the bowl. She suggested we make flour angels and seeing her there, surrounded by the white flour with her blonde hair splayed out on either side of her head, I knew I had to tell her I loved her. But then, I saw that dimple—something new—like a gift to me. So subtle but saying so much in such a small space.

Before I could open my mouth to tell her, she interrupted me to say, “Bloody hell, I love you.”

To which I had responded, “Who is ‘hell’? I’ll kill the guy.”

She laughed for a while on that one.

“Uhm,” the man up front looks at his paper again. “Elijah Owe—”

“We’re coming!” Fran calls, turning her head back to me, her eyes scanning mine, her hand running through my hair, falling between each finger. She likes doing that. I prefer it when she does.

“Well maybe later—” I mutter, and she covers my mouth with her hand.

The dimple is still there. This is the longest I’ve seen it on her face—the look of pure joy.

The second time I saw it was at Natalie’s cottage one year ago. I surprised Fran with a trip back to her hometown to see her cousin. We ate dinner at their favorite pubs, I saw a very drink indulgent Fran perform the fabled table dancing, and I reveled in her happiness. I swore in that moment we would move back to England for her. She ran away to escape cheating men, but there was no reason to run anymore.

We rise from our seats, shimmying our way through the aisle and to the front where we join hands in front of the judge.

The third dimple sighting was when I was on the floor of our apartment just one week ago, splayed out like a crime scene outline with a ring box in my hands.

I had intended to propose by sneaking into the house and setting up candles. We weren’t one for romantic gestures, or candles for very obvious reasons, but I figured that was the time if any. Then Fran came out of the shower, soaking wet, completely nude, blinking through the soap in her eyes, and likely seeing the outline of an intruder when I wasn’t supposed to be home for hours. Brutus’s barking didn’t help either.

Were I not so distracted by her soapy body, I might have been horrified at the expression on her face that held equal parts terror and determination. She barreled toward me, shampoo bottle in hand.

“Wait, Fran, it’s me! FRAN!”

We both tumbled to the ground.

“You arse!” she’d yelled.

“God, you’re like a quarterback when you want to be,” I grunted from the floor. “Where did that come from?”

“Self-defense classes with Emma have been productive.” She huffed, still out of breath as soap suds ran from her hair down her body.

“Clearly.”

All romantic gesture lost, I presented the box in the palm of my hand. She rubbed the soap from her eyes, and finally took in the real sight before her: me in a now damp suit with a ring box.

“Aw, I’m naked and you’re proposing to me?” she said, her bottom lip trembling and her shoulders slumping.

“Sounds par for the course for us.”

Then she smiled and I saw that dimple—the sign of so much happiness. She didn’t need to say yes. That smile told me everything.

It may not have been the story some people would like to tell in mixed company, but we shared it any chance we got. Because it was us: combative, sharing words we didn’t need to say, and just as surprising as our lives had been up to this point.

My heart pounds, but I’m not nervous—not about the future, anyway. I might trip in front of a room of New Yorkers, but it’s Friday the 13^th so of course I might. But nothing is nerve-wracking about marrying Fran. Because how could we be nervous when this feels like our destiny?

I don’t know what the judge says. I don’t even know what I repeat back because I know the words mean only a fraction of things I’ve said before and the feelings I’ve felt the moment I saw Fran dinging that bell like a crazy woman in the furniture store.

That bell broke me from the boring haze of life and brought me Fran.

We didn’t want to wait any longer to get married.

“…in sickness and in health…”

Between her work visa issues and enduring long-distance for one year while we waited for paperwork to process, we were excited for the future.

“…for richer or poorer, so long as you both shall live…”

We’d done our waiting.

“I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Elijah and Francesca Owen.”

The words bring me back and finally hearing her name combined with mine is something I didn’t know I needed.

I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, pulling her mouth close. She’s already halfway to me, hands capturing my jaw, caressing every curve as our mouths meet and we kiss for the first time as man and wife.

In tandem and as one unit, just as we were always meant to be.