Some couples tell you who they are. With Evgenia and Geri, you watch it happen. She is the planner, the one who runs every scenario in her head before deciding anything. He says yes first and figures it out later, as long as it involves no heights and no roller coasters. She told me that when the world feels like a stormy sea, Geri walks in, hugs her, and the water goes still. I liked that image when I heard it. By the end of their wedding, I understood it. Their Sundays are slow on purpose. The gym, the sauna, something good on the stove, friends if friends come. And underneath it all sits the quiet rule they keep coming back to: they choose each other. Every time. Even when it is not easy.

The story starts in Bath, in the strangest spring anyone can remember. It was Evgenia’s final year of studies, and Geri worked on her street. He had noticed her walking to the city centre and was too shy to say hello. Then the first lockdown closed everything, and he was sure he had missed his chance. Life disagreed. He moved houses, and it turned out he was exactly next door. Gardens were the only place anyone was allowed to be, so that is where they began. Years later, he drove her to Paphos because she had told him it had the best sunsets on the island. He had secretly booked the hotel. She felt unwell that afternoon, woke up cranky from a nap, and nearly suggested watching the sunset from inside. They stepped onto the balcony instead. She turned around, and he was on one knee.