You know that feeling when your love story feels bigger than the world around you? Like you could weather anything together, like you're the last two people standing after everything else falls away?

That's what I saw that evening at Rubjerg Knude.

This lighthouse has been fighting time for over a century. Built in 1900, it once stood 200 meters from the coast. Now it's right on the edge—moved in 2019 to save it from collapsing into the North Sea. Sand dunes have buried and revealed it repeatedly, nature's way of reminding us that nothing stays the same. It's a monument to survival.

Standing there, I could see it immediately: two people choosing each other not despite the wreckage, but because of it. Sand, wind, silence. Connection as a form of rebellion against a world that keeps changing around them.

The wind was relentless—she was shivering, but they stayed. They held on. This wasn't about pretty sunset photos. This was about the kind of love that endures when everything else shifts beneath your feet.

I told them: "You're the last couple on earth. Everything's changed, but you found each other in the ruins." And suddenly we weren't just shooting photos anymore. We were creating something that felt like a memory from the future.

Standing there, watching them choose presence over polish, I realized how many ways love can be witnessed. Look at movies, look at storytelling—love gets told apocalyptic, tender, raw, cinematic. But couple photography? We've boxed ourselves into the same golden hour formula every fucking time.

This session reminded me that your love story can be anything. Post-apocalyptic. Cinematic. Epic. It doesn't have to fit their template.