The van broke down outside a town called Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, population 6,147, elevation hot enough to melt film.
It was July, two and a half years into the honeymoon that refused to end. The engine coughed once, twice, then died with a sigh on the side of Route 25. Heat shimmered off the asphalt. Flash yowled from her carrier like she knew the adventure had hit a wall.
Nova popped the hood. Steam billowed. Elara stood beside her in cut-offs and one of Nova's old track tanks, rings glinting sweat-slick on their fingers.
"Radiator?" Elara guessed.
"Or the whole damn engine decided it was time to retire with us," Nova muttered, but she was smiling.
They pushed the van to the only mechanic in town, a sun-leathered woman named Lupe who took one look at the green paint, the red door, the bumper stickers that read DEVELOP IN THE DARK and RUN TOWARD HER, and said, "You two are the wives from the internet."
Elara laughed. Nova blushed. Turns out a photo Elara had posted from Big Sur (them kissing under redwoods, rings front and centre) had gone viral in certain circles. Lupe fixed the van for parts and a signed print.
While they waited, they rented the only Airbnb in town: a tiny adobe casita with a courtyard, a hammock, and a bed under a skylight open to the stars.
They stayed a month.
Truth or Consequences became the first place they ever stayed long enough to unpack.
They bought thrift-store furniture: a kitchen table with one short leg, a velvet couch the colour of desert sky at dusk. They hung fairy lights from the vigas. Elara turned the second bedroom into a darkroom. Nova designed a xeriscape garden in the courtyard: succulents, agave, and a tiny pond for Flash to terrorise.
They got jobs. Elara shot portraits at the local hot-springs resorts, brides and retirees and cowboys soaking in mineral water. Nova consulted on the town's new community park, turning an empty lot into raised beds and murals.
Nights belonged to them.
The courtyard became sacred. They dragged the mattress out under the stars, made love on woven blankets while meteors streaked overhead. Nova on her back, Elara riding slow, rings catching starlight like they were made of the same dust. Nova's hands on Elara's hips guiding rhythm, Elara's head thrown back, coming with the Milky Way spilling across her throat.
They soaked in the private tubs at the springs after closing. Water 108 degrees, steam rising, Nova's mouth on Elara's breasts, fingers inside her, ripples spreading with every thrust. Elara came floating, Nova following, their moans echoing off adobe walls.
They fought too. Real married fights.
About money. About whose turn it was to clean the cat box. About Elara staying out late, shooting a wedding, and coming home smelling like someone else's champagne.
One night it boiled over. Nova slammed a cabinet. "Sometimes I miss the road."
Elara's voice cracked. "We can leave tomorrow."
Nova's eyes filled. "I don't want to leave. I want to know we still could."
They stood in the kitchen breathing hard, rings heavy on fingers.
Elara crossed the space first, kissed Nova fiercely, teeth clashing. Clothes ripped. Nova bent Elara over the table, spanked her until her skin bloomed red, then ate her from behind, tongue in her ass, fingers in her cunt, until Elara sobbed apologies and came shaking.
They made up slowly on the courtyard mattress, Nova tied to the hammock posts with fairy lights, Elara edging her for hours with ice from the springs, and her mouth hot in contrast. Nova begged in Spanish and English and broken Korean Elara had taught her. Elara finally let her come, then untied her and held her while she cried.
They instituted rituals.
Sunday mornings: farmers' market, fresh tortillas, Elara photographing Nova bargaining for chiles, Nova sketching Elara's profile against adobe walls.
Wednesday nights: darkroom dates. Elara was developing prints while Nova watched from the doorway, then fucked her against the enlarger, chemicals sloshing, safelight turning skin blood-red.
Friday nights: hot springs. They claimed the same private tub every week, made love in the water until their fingers pruned, rings fogging with steam.
They got tattoos. Matching tiny cameras on their inner wrists, film advancing into a track spike. The artist cried when they told the story.
Flash got a sister: a three-legged kitten from the shelter named Shutter. The cats ruled the casita, slept between them, purred while they scissored slowly under the skylight.
Money stabilised. Elara's portraits were sold at the local gallery. Nova's park design won a state award. They bought the casita outright with a loan from Miss Connie, who cried on the phone and sent a housewarming fruit basket the size of a small child.
They hosted their first Thanksgiving as homeowners. Abuela and Elara's aunt flew in, bickered over the kitchen, and produced a feast that fed half the town. Queer kids from the high school showed up shy, left loud and full and loved.
After everyone left, they made love on the kitchen table still sticky with flan, Nova's back arched, Elara's tongue cleaning caramel from her skin, fingers deep inside until Nova came with abuela's recipe book clutched in one hand.
Winter came mildly. They drove the repaired van to White Sands at full moon. Dunes glowed like another planet. They stripped naked, rolled down hills leaving body prints in gypsum, made love in a cradle of white, rings the only dark things for miles.
Spring brought baby talk. Not urgent. Just whispers.
"What if," Nova said one night in the hammock, Elara's head on her chest.
"What if," Elara agreed, fingers tracing the camera tattoo.
They tabled it. Travelled instead. Weekend trips to Marfa lights, Big Bend stars, Santa Fe galleries. Always back to the casita, to the courtyard, to the bed under the skylight.
They renewed their vows every year on the rooftop anniversary. Drove to Vireo, climbed the fire escape with Flash and Shutter in carriers, made love under the same sky that saw the grape ring pop, then drove home to New Mexico before dawn.
The home they carried on their backs became the home they planted roots in.
The van stayed parked in the driveway, red door faded but proud.
They never stopped honeymooning.
They just learned how to do it with a mortgage and two cats and a garden that bloomed desert roses in the courtyard where they still made love under the stars like the first night they almost ran out of road.
Truth or Consequences became truth and consequences.
They chose both.
And stayed.