Updated Mar 13, 2026 • ~3 min read
After Venice and Florence, we head south to the Amalfi Coast.
Positano specifically. Cliffside hotels and lemon trees and ocean views that look like paintings.
Our hotel room has a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. We spend mornings there, drinking coffee and watching boats in the water below.
“I never want to leave,” I say on our third day.
“We have to eventually.”
“Do we though?”
Holden laughs. “Yes. We have jobs. Responsibilities. A lease.”
“All of that sounds terrible compared to this.”
“Agreed. But also, we built that life together. It’s worth going back to.”
He’s right. As perfect as this is, I miss our apartment. Our routine. Our real life.
But I’m not ready to leave yet.
We spend the days exploring. Hiking the Path of the Gods. Swimming in hidden coves. Eating seafood and drinking wine and watching sunsets.
On our last night, we’re on our terrace. The sun is setting, painting the sky impossible colors.
“I want to do this every year,” Holden says suddenly.
“Come to Italy?”
“Take time. Just us. No work, no family drama, no stress. Just this. A reset. A reminder of why we chose each other.”
I lean into him. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let’s make it a tradition. Our anniversary trip. Wherever we want. Just us.”
“Deal.”
We watch the sun disappear into the ocean.
Tomorrow we fly home. Back to reality. Back to work and bills and all the normal parts of being married.
But tonight, we’re here. In this perfect moment. Together.
“Thank you for the best two weeks of my life,” I say.
“Thank you for marrying me.”
“Which time?”
“Both times. All times. Every time.”
We stay on the terrace until the stars come out. Then we go inside and make love one last time with the Mediterranean breeze and the sound of waves below.
This is the end of our honeymoon.
But it’s the beginning of everything else.
The flight home is long. We’re exhausted but happy.
When we land, reality hits immediately. Holden has seventeen work emails. I have nine missed calls from clients.
“Welcome back to real life,” he mutters.
“It was nice while it lasted.”
But driving home—to OUR home—I realize something.
I’m excited to be back.
Italy was perfect. But this is ours. The life we’re building. The apartment we share. The routine we’ve created.
This is home.
When we walk through the door, everything is exactly as we left it. Our coffee maker on the counter. His shoes by the door. My wedding planning books stacked on the table.
It’s messy and real and absolutely perfect.
“Home,” I say.
“Home,” Holden echoes.
We unpack. Do laundry. Order takeout because neither of us wants to cook.
And sitting on our couch, eating Chinese food, jet-lagged and exhausted, I realize—
This is just as good as Italy.
Maybe better.
Because this is ours. Every day. Forever.
END OF CHAPTER 25
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