The Wedding Videographer

I've filmed two hundred and seventeen Somali weddings.

Birmingham to Brighton. Manchester to Mile End. Every weekend is the same: the dirac, the gold, the mothers crying, the aunties fighting over seating arrangements.

And her.

Amran. Twenty-nine years old. Bridesmaid at every wedding I work. Never the bride.

"You again?" she says when she sees me setting up at the Dorchester.

"I could say the same thing."

"My cousin Hodan." She gestures at the chaos around us. "Fifth wedding this year. I'm running out of bridesmaid dresses."

"Maybe it's time you switched roles."

She laughs—bitter, beautiful. "Not everyone is meant to be a bride, Mr. Videographer."

"Yusuf."

"What?"

"My name. You've known me for two years. You can use it."

She looks at me differently then. Like she's really seeing me for the first time.

"Yusuf." She tests the name. "Come find me during the reception. I'll tell you a secret."

I find her in the coat closet.

Not by accident—she texts me the location. When I slip inside, she's waiting in the dark, still wearing her burgundy bridesmaid dress.

"Lock the door."

I do.

"You want to know why I'm never the bride?"

"I've been wondering for two years."

"Because I don't believe in it." She steps closer. "Marriage. The whole performance. I've watched a hundred couples promise forever, and half of them are divorced within five years."

"Cynical."

"Realistic." She's close enough now that I can smell her perfume. "I believe in other things."

"Like what?"

"Like this."

She kisses me.

It's fierce.

Desperate. Two years of wedding small talk and professional distance combusting in a coat closet while a hundred guests celebrate something she doesn't believe in.

"Yusuf—"

"We shouldn't—"

"I know." She pulls at my shirt. "I know we shouldn't. I also know I've been watching you film all these happy endings and wondering what you'd do if I offered you something else."

"What are you offering?"

"No promises. No forever." She pulls back, looks at me with those dark eyes. "Just tonight. Just this. Is that enough for you?"

It shouldn't be.

I've spent my career capturing people's happiest moments. I believe in love, in commitment, in the things she's rejecting.

But I also believe in her.

"It's enough for now."

I lift her onto the coat rack.

It groans but holds. Her dress rides up—all that burgundy fabric bunching around her waist—and I find she's not wearing anything underneath.

"Prepared?"

"Hopeful." She gasps as my fingers find her. "I've been watching you too, Yusuf. The way you move. The way you see things others miss. I've been wondering—"

"What?"

"If you'd see me."

"I see you." I slide two fingers inside her. "I've always seen you."

She moans—quiet, controlled, aware of the party just outside the door.

"More—"

I give her more.

I drop to my knees among the fur coats.

Her thighs spread for me, one heel hooked over my shoulder, and I taste her like I've been wanting to for two years.

"Oh God—"

"Shh. They'll hear."

"I don't care—" But she bites her lip, muffles the sounds, lets me work her in silence.

She's sweet and desperate, her body responding to everything—every lick, every suck, every moment of attention she claims she doesn't need.

"Yusuf—I'm going to—"

"Let go."

"I can't—someone will—"

"Let. Go."

She does.

Comes with a strangled cry, her thighs clamping around my head, her hands fisting in the fur coats around us.

"Inside—" she gasps before she's even finished shaking. "I need you inside—"

I stand.

Unzip.

Push into her while she's still trembling from the first orgasm.

"Yes—finally—"

She's tight. Hot. Her body pulls me deeper as I fill her, and she wraps her legs around me like she's never letting go.

"I thought you didn't believe in forever," I manage.

"Shut up and fuck me."

I do.

Hard and fast, the coat rack slamming against the wall, coats falling around us like witnesses. Outside, the music swells—someone's giving a toast—but in here, there's only us.

"Yusuf—I'm—"

"Me too—"

We come together.

Clinging to each other in the dark, surrounded by Burberry and Canada Goose, while someone's cousin celebrates a marriage neither of us believes will last.

After, she fixes her dress.

Checks her lipstick in her phone's camera. Looks at me like she's already preparing to pretend this didn't happen.

"That was—"

"Don't." I catch her hand. "Don't act like this was nothing."

"It was sex in a closet at my cousin's wedding."

"It was two years of wanting finally becoming something." I pull her closer. "I don't need forever, Amran. But I'm not going to pretend this doesn't matter."

She's quiet for a long moment.

"I've been hurt before," she finally says. "A man who promised forever and left after six months. Since then, I don't let anyone—"

"I'm not asking for promises." I kiss her forehead. "I'm asking for a chance. Let me take you to dinner. Let me show you that not everything ends badly."

"And if it does?"

"Then we'll have had some good meals first."

She laughs—surprised, genuine. "That's either very romantic or very stupid."

"Probably both."

She comes to dinner.

And breakfast after. And a weekend in Brighton where we don't leave the hotel room. And slowly, carefully, a relationship that neither of us expected.

"I still don't believe in marriage," she says six months later.

"I know."

"But I believe in this." She squeezes my hand. "I believe in us."

"That's enough?"

"It's everything."

A year later, I'm filming another wedding.

Amran is there—not as a bridesmaid this time. As my partner. My assistant. The woman who doesn't believe in forever but holds my hand through every ceremony anyway.

"Do you ever wish—" I start.

"No." She knows what I'm asking. "I love what we have. I don't need a dress and a ring to prove it."

"Even though you look amazing in those dresses?"

"Even so." She kisses my cheek. "Now go film the first dance. I'll make sure the aunties don't block your shot."

I film the couple swaying together.

Through the viewfinder, I see Amran watching me. Smiling.

Maybe she's right. Maybe forever is just a word.

What we have is real.

And real, I'm learning, is better than any promise.