“Should we have had this conversation before sending the invitations?” he asked.
“No,” She exhaled. “It’s a lot. But what part of our relationship hasn’t been?”
Bryce offered a wry smile, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
“Anything else?” he asked gently.
She hesitated. “This might sound wrong, but... what hurts mostis knowing I’m a part of that history now. Only—I don’t get the memories. I don’t remember our wedding night. I don’t remember making our baby. Just the aftermath of losing my virtue... and the consequences.”
The elevator hummed in the background. Beth turned to go, but Bryce caught her hand and slowly pulled her back.
“Please look at me.”
She did.
“You didn’t lose your virtue,” he said softly. “Even drunk, you held to your convictions. That’s strength most people never have.”
Then he kissed the scar at her temple, his lips lingering.
“We can’t change the past. But soon—on our real wedding night—I get to give you a memory you’ll never forget. That night, and every night after... if you’ll let me. And next time we make a baby, Lizzy?”
He smiled softly, voice warm and sure.
“You’ll remember every second.”
Brock stepped into the loft and came to a stop.
The sight that greeted him was something out of a movie—Beth and Bryce, forehead to forehead, eyes locked in a quiet, intimate exchange by the kitchen island.
“There wasn’t a tie, so I figured it was safe to come up,” Brock said, one brow lifted, amused. “Want me to leave again?”
“No.”
“YES!”
Their voices overlapped—Beth’s reluctant, Bryce’s firm.
Bryce searched Beth’s face, finding something new in her eyes. Something softer. Settled. With a final kiss to her lips, he turned to face his brother.
“Fine. Come in. The wife says you can stay.”
Brock grinned as he stepped fully into the loft, balancing two pizza boxes in one hand and a six-pack in the other. “I come bearing gifts,” he announced, like a surfer delivering salvation.
Bryce squinted at the bottles. “Is that beer?”
“Nope.” Brock turned the labels outward with a flourish. “Root beer. Because unlike you, I never got the appeal of drinking something that makes you act dumber and feel worse. Plus, it felt right—clean slate, fresh start, new marriage all that.”
Beth let out a surprised laugh—a small sound, but it wasn’t forced or brittle. It was enough to make Bryce glance at her, his shoulders loosening slightly. Brock noticed.
“And besides,” he added, softer now, his tone slipping into something warmer, more genuine, “it felt like a root beer kind of night. Safe, sweet, and still something worth sharing.”
He crossed the room and set the boxes on the counter, glancing between the two of them. “You guys okay?”
Beth nodded, her smile tentative but real. “Getting there.”
“Cool. I’m not here to pry—just here to bring food, vibe a little, and remind you both that whatever storm you’re in—it’ll pass. Just don’t forget to come up for air—and look up. He’s still steady, even when the swell feels huge.”
Brock slid a pizza box toward Beth and popped open a root beer, passing it her way.
