Holding out his empty hand, he wiggled his fingers in faux impatience. You place yours inside of it, palm touching his, his thumb automatically moving to smooth over your knuckles and fingers, to remind himself that you are real and have been for all this time.

Opening his closed palm, he showed you what appeared to be, well, a ring. Gold banded, clearly Victorian in inspiration, with a marquise cut jewel in the middle of it.

“What is that?”

You knew the question was silly but couldn’t stop yourself before it bubbled out.

“It was my mom’s. Back when I couldn’t remember what happened, something told me to keep this even when times were bad enough I probably should’ve pawned it and when it all came back to me…” he trailed off slightly, dropping your hand and plucking the ring out of the palm of his own and holding it between his thumb and index finger.

The red stone of the ring glinted beneath the light, all of the memories of his mother encapsulated in one little piece of jewelry.

“You don’t have to give me that,” you immediately started, touched yet uncomfortable with the idea of being given the last piece of his mother he has.

“I want to give it to you…I’ve wanted to for a long time,” he started in defense of himself, sighing defeatedly. “But I wasn’t sure if you ever wanted to tie yourself to me in a way you couldn’t just walk away from.”

Feeling ashamed for making him doubt you even the slightest bit, you moved to wrap your hand around his forearm, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort.

“Stop it, Dante.”

For once, he didn’t chuckle or diffuse anything with a joke.

“I’m serious. It’s one thing to know somebody’s too good for you and to anticipate the day they realize it and leave. It’s another thing entirely to wonder if you’re a bad person for wanting to keep them even if you don’t deserve it.”

Emotion overwhelmed you, leading you to squeeze his arm a second time. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

He shook his head in disagreement, his usual smirk twisted into something humble, maybe even a little fearful when you really looked at him.

“I don’t know about that. What I can tell you, though, is that I’ve always wanted you to be mine for as long as possible no matter how bad it might make me,” he shrugged, not quite apologetically, reaching for your hand and once again clasping it in his own. “So what do you say, will you make it official with me?”

Sniffling, you nodded, lips trembling too hard to do much else besides it as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

You were finally going to be Dante’s wife, not just his confidante or his better half or “those two idiots” as you’ve been called on more than one occasion.

“Now that’s a proposal,” you finally joked to lighten the mood, mouth no longer trembling, tears gliding down your cheeks, aware that the fun part of it all was only beginning.

And now you stand in front of the mirror, pulling your favorite lipstick across your lower lip wearing the dress you picked out just for the occasion.

In a few hours, you will be his inarguably. No loopholes, no wiggle room.

Joy washes over you and it doubles when he enters your bedroom, the same tiny space he’s occupied for so long and will forever if today goes as planned, his large hand.

“What’s on your mind?”

Across the years you’ve spent at his side, Dante has asked you this question in many formats but this time it feels heavier, like he’s still waiting for that other shoe to drop.

Being a runaway bride is far from your style yet it’s like he can’t believe it either, like this is a dream or a fantasy or some wicked spell he’s under that’s going to end if he blinks or breathes.

You’re real, though, he’s smoothing the wrinkles over your rear out of the back of your dress, while you’re attempting to look at him surreptitiously in the mirror. Legend says it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before they exchange their vows, which very well may be true although you’re both willing to risk it if it means getting to see one another at all.

He’s as handsome as can be in a black tuxedo, his hair brushed over his eyes alluringly.

“Oh, you know, just mulling over the entire history of us as one does,” is all you can manage to say, mouth a bit dry from both disuse while you’ve been focused on getting ready and getting a glimpse at the man who is about to be your husband.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Dante asks, standing at your side as he always has, wrapping his arm around your hip.

“No and you’re crazy for even saying that,” you tut, turning away from the mirror that reflected your primping back at you to face him, shifting your body gradually until you’re standing as close as you can possibly get in the small quarters.

“I’m having kind of a hard time believing that this day has finally come…” you trail off, struggling to find words succinct enough to describe the feelings rushing through your mind.

It would be easier to simply tell him the truth.

“You could’ve died at any time, Dante. Or just disappeared because you were fond of that for a while or I don’t know, met someone else, or even decided you didn’t want to be with me. I’m thrilled this is finally happening but you can’t get to this spot without waking past all of the other ones we’ve been in too, you know?”

It’s not the best time in the world to breathe life into your worst fears and insecurities but if you can’t voice them to your husband, who else is there? Thankfully his uncanny ability to ease you kicks in, almost supernaturally, and he lowers his voice to speak to the deepest and most fearful parts of you.

“Okay, I’ll own the disappearing but the dying? The leaving? Why would I do any of that?” He asks, reaching behind you to pick one of the small flowers off of your vanity to place in between strands of your perfectly coiffed hair.

“Because people change their minds and you aren’t exactly living a danger-free life,” you mutter softly, subconsciously leaning into his touch even after all this time.

The fear that has run through you wildly begins to dissipate, leaving little but that familiar feeling, the same one you had the first day you met him behind.

Today begins that forever you always wanted. You tilt your head downward slightly to hide the smile crossing your lips. Dante reaches to lift your chin with his thumb, chuckling slightly at his blushing bride.

“Don’t make me upset, it’s my wedding day,” he jokes. His tone is light as air, soft words drawing an exhaled giggle out of you.

There’s his girl, his life, his purpose, his, well, everything.

Dropping your chin, he plucks another flower off the vanity and oh-so-gently places it, tilting his head to make sure it looks good from all angles.

Nodding, he’s satisfied that you look perfect by your own standards, despite always being perfect by his.

Who else would love him the way that you do? The day he met you, he knew you were special. Different from other people, more giving and kindhearted than you’d ever let people comfortably say about you without a slight argument leaving your lips.

You have shown him that love can change a person’s life and even more than that, it can make you see your own as valuable once again.

The two of you should’ve done this years ago but there’s no changing the past so he only smiles down at you, bow tie hanging loosely around his neck.

“You’ve never changed your mind about me even if you probably should have many times,” he carries on in that low, honeyed voice that warms you from the inside out. His hands find their home on each of your arms, pulling you into his chest. You blink up at him, eyes clear and kind and beautiful as always, and for a moment he’s overcome with the emotion he tries so desperately to bury beneath all of his layers.

My god, he loves you more than anything. You’re the only one, human or demon or anything in between, who has ever allowed him to be just Dante. A lump forms in his throat and he attempts to clear it by swallowing though his voice still strains when he speaks.

“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

That sums everything he feels up pretty nicely. Shaking your head, you reach to cup his stubbly cheek, pushing his hair off of his face in a fluid, familiar motion.

“I’m the lucky one and always have been,” you argue lightheartedly, being exactly who he’s known you to be since that day that sealed both of your fates.

“Just accept the compliment, sweetheart. You aren’t going to outdo me today, not while you look like that.”

“Have you looked at yourself lately?”

“Hey,” he warns, even if it lacks bite. “Let me tell my wife how beautiful she is without any pushback, alright? Maybe how sweet and kind and how good she smells too. Is that allowed?”

“It is a special occasion so I’ll make an exception,” you mumble, a jumbled cross between a whisper and a giggle and a girlish sigh. “Because I’m so sweet and all.”

You have foolishly spent today worried that being husband and wife would change things drastically, aware that you’re late enough to the altar that most of your like-aged friends have already been with their spouses long enough to at least vocally dislike them.

Fortunately, standing in your room, bantering effortlessly as ever you realize that nothing will change except for a pair of rings on designated fingers.