We make it to the shoreline, Mac stretching like he’s preparing for battle.
“A few more hours of freedom before you enter the sacred union of slow, consensual suffocation,” he says, grinning.
I punch his shoulder, laughing. “At least I’m getting suffocated by a woman who actually wants me—and knows how to use her mouth.”
He groans, already jogging ahead. “Joke’s on you—I like a little danger with my blowjobs.”
Theo chokes on his laughter, muttering something about trauma. I just take off after them both, sand flying underfoot.
After our hour run—okay, ten-minute run, fifty minutes of pure fuckery along the shoreline—we head back to the rooms to shower and suit up for the ceremony.
The three of us step inside the tavern, suit bags slung over our shoulders. And I stop. Hard.
The place has been transformed.
Vintage string lights crisscross overhead, Edison bulbs casting a soft amber glow. The whole tavern looks like it was lit by fireflies. Romantic. Timeless. Just a little bit unreal.
At the water’s edge, the arch rises from the sand like something out of a fever dream. Forged from twisted driftwood and rusted iron, it leans slightly with purpose—imperfect, powerful. One side is wild with florals: delicate pastel flowers, black calla lilies, and greenery that looks like it grew straight from a haunted fairytale. The other side is stripped back, clean. Balanced. Intentional.
Sheer fabric drapes loosely from the top and catches in the breeze, the edges curling like smoke. The colors are subtle—soft blush, warm ivory—but they shimmer faintly as they move.
Rows of nearly a hundred chairs stretch out across the sand, each one wrapped at the back with a sheer chiffon ribbon: blush and merlot. Alternating. Perfect.
The sound of the ocean blends with the low hum of voices from the team finishing setup, and for a second, the weight of it hits me—this is it. This is where we say forever.
Theo whistles low, hand resting on the back of one of the chairs. “Damn. Looks like a Vogue shoot threw up out here.”
Mac snorts, taking it all in. “Yeah, if Vogue got drunk, wandered into a gothic fairytale.”
Theo grins. “It’s not bad, though. I mean… for something that ends with a guy voluntarily giving up his closet space.”
Mac smirks, tugging at the merlot ribbon on the nearest chair. “If I ever get married, someone just hit me with one of these and end it quickly.”
After we change into our suits, the wedding guests start to arrive. Huxley walks over and asks about our vows. I tell him—our officiant—that we wrote our own.
We are moments away from my happily ever after.
The sun is just starting to set, and everyone has taken their places—Mac is standing next to me in a black suit with a blush-colored tie. I have never seen my best friend clean up so well. Next to Mac is Theo, a last-minute best man, but he has become a huge part of our friends' circle.
Huxley is standing behind me, and the guests stand and turn as Layla toddles down the aisle, my stepmom Vanessa steadying her with a hand. She is carrying the small bouquet of flowers that just so happens to have the rings tied to them. My baby sister looks adorable in her blush-colored dress.
Ansel steps out next, owning the aisle like it’s a runway. Her dress is deep merlot, sleek and elegant, with soft blush accents that catch the light when she moves. There’s a slit up the leg—not dramatic, just enough to say she didn’t come here to be forgettable.
Off-the-shoulder sleeves, a fitted bodice—simple but bold, like everything about her. Her bouquet is tied with silk in the same colors, and her lipstick matches the dress exactly.
Theo and Mac both utter “Goddamn.” Both might need to pick their jaws up off the floor.
I don't respond. Because the music changes to the Youngand Beautiful instrumental version.
And just like that—everything else fades.
The breeze shifts. The sun sinks a little lower. And there she is.
God help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.
And I’ve never been more afraid; I’m not worthy of it.
The breeze shifts. The sun sinks a little lower. And there she is.
