I don’t look away. I can’t. My breath stutters shallowly, afraid that if I exhale too loudly, I’ll break the fragile peace between us.
For once, the world feels still.
I’m allowed to just…look.
To admire him.
To fall into the deepness of his beauty without punishment, without guilt, without God’s shadow watching from the corner of the room.
Time blurs. The morning light grows warmer, crawling across his back, gilding the ink and scars that tell his story. When I finally blink myself back into reality, the ache in my body reminds me of the simplest truth of all—
Today, I become someone’s wife.
I ease toward the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. The sheet whispers as I shift, his warmth still clinging to thespace beside me. My feet touch the carpet and I’m just starting to rise when fingers close gently around my wrist.
I freeze.
“Are you running out on me already?”
The words are low, roughened by sleep—his voice gravel and silk all at once.
He doesn’t open his eyes at first. His thumb moves absently against my skin, the motion slow, like he’s half dreaming. My pulse trips, traitorous, quick beneath his touch.
Then his lashes lift.
Green. Bright and clear, cutting through the dim light like sunrise through smoke. His gaze locks on me, and it’s like the air leaves my body all at once. He doesn’t smile. He justlooks, and the quiet between us grows heavy with something I can’t name.
I can barely find my voice.
“No,” I whisper. His hand lingers another heartbeat, thumb brushing once more over the inside of my wrist before he lets go. His hand falls away, and the spell breaks—softly, but I feel it.
The room feels bigger suddenly, colder where his warmth doesn’t reach.
Slipping from the bed, I pad quietly across the room toward the bathroom. My reflection catches in the mirror as I pass—a girl who barely recognizes herself, hair wild, cheeks flushed, gray eyes still glassy from sleep. A girl who, in just a few hours, will no longer belong to herself.
Today, I’m marrying this man.
Trey Baker.
I do not know him—not really—and yet he’s shown me a kindness I’ve never known before. The sort of consideration that feels foreign to someone like me. My father always said men like him didn’t exist—that kindness from sinners was just temptation in disguise. But standing here now, with the morning light creeping across his skin, I don’t believe that.
The sound of movement pulls me from my thoughts. Sheets rustle. A quiet groan breaks the silence.
His voice is low, roughened by sleep. “Mornin’. You sleep okay?”
He’s still on his stomach, hair a chaotic halo against the pillow, lashes thick against his cheek. His lips tilt just slightly, the silver glint of his ring catching in the morning light. There’s no arrogance there, no expectation—just that easy calm that unsettles me more than his wildness ever could.
I nod before I can trust my voice. “Yeah. I did. Thank you.”
He studies me for a heartbeat, maybe two. I can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and searching, as though he’s trying to decide what I need him to be. Then, quietly, he asks,
“You still want to go through with it? The wedding?”
My stomach twists. Of course. Of course he would ask.
For a moment, my heart drops like a stone. I knew it was too much to ask of him—to tie himself to a stranger, to my shame, to the storm that follows me. I’d taken his mercy and then asked for more.
I look down, fingers knotting together, throat tight. The words come in a whisper, half prayer, half apology.
