“It’s not plastic this time,” Beth whispered, giggling as she slid Bryce’s ring onto his finger.
The wind carried the scent of woodsmoke and fresh grass. Brock shifted beside Bryce, his joy rivaling that of the groom.
“I promise to lead us toward Christ,” Bryce said, voice cracking. “To hold your hand when you’re hurting. And to neverstop chasing you.”
Beth’s eyes filled with tears. Her fingers curled tighter around his.
She hadn’t remembered the first time they said I do.
Bryce kept his promise.
This time, she would remember every second of their wedding.
The ceremony blurred at the edges, as if she was drifting in and out of her body.
Bryce’s hand never left hers.
Pastor Steve said something about the mystery of marriage—Christ and the Church—about the sacredness of covenant. Beth heard the words, but mostly she heard her heartbeat and felt the weight of her gown.
Finally, the words Bryce had been waiting for.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Bryce didn’t rush. His hands slipped gently to her waist as he leaned in, and when their lips met, the crowd disappeared completely.
He kissed her like he meant it.
When he pulled back, they both exhaled—at the same time.
The reception unfolded with a relaxed rhythm as Beth and Bryce made their way around the porch, greeting guests and soaking inthe warmth of the evening. The string lights overhead cast a soft golden glow, and the laughter of family and friends drifted through the cool mountain air like music of its own.
The firepits were glowing now, drawing small clusters of guests closer as twilight deepened. Their warmth pushed back the chill, and each pit had its own little stash of marshmallows, graham crackers, and three kinds of chocolate—classic milk, dark, and chocolate peanut butter cups.
Beth’s bare feet padded across the wooden porch—her shoes long forgotten somewhere in the yard. She didn’t care. Her dress skimmed the floor, catching the breeze, and her hand stayed in Bryce’s whenever possible. Everything felt light.
Somewhere in the background, Frank Sinatra crooned through the speakers, followed by Dean Martin and the rest of the Rat Pack lineup that Bryce had quietly slipped into the playlist just for her. The music made the night feel dreamy, like something lifted out of time.
When Bryce pulled her into a slow dance under the moonlight, Beth didn’t protest—even though she warned him—for the third time—that she was terrible at this kind of dancing. She stumbled once, then twice, laughing into his shoulder as he steadied her with both hands on her waist.
“So you said,” he laughed, “but I’ve never seen you look more graceful.”
They slow danced, a little awkward at first, but completely wrapped up in each other.
The cake was simple at first glance—but the closer youlooked, the more it pulled you in. Three soft tiers wrapped in ivory frosting, with smooth ripples of stormy blue marbled through each layer. Gold leaf edged the torn textures like sunlight catching on water, giving it just enough shimmer. It was the kind of cake you paused to admire before cutting. A little modern. A little wild. Completely Lynn.
Beth hesitated to cut into it, until Lynn appeared at her side, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed.
“If you two don’t slice that thing in the next ten seconds, I will personally smash it in your faces.”
Beth and Bryce exchanged a look. With a good-natured laugh, they cut the cake and fed it to each other, no frosting-smearing, much to Lynn’s dramatic disappointment.
Beth caught her rolling her eyes and muttering, “Cowards,” as she walked away.
The night was perfection.
The new porch swing had been turned into a cozy place of honor for the bride and groom. Tray tables had been fastened to the armrests like old-school desktops, giving them the perfect perch to eat, talk, and simply be together.
Bryce leaned close, his shoulder brushing hers as he gestured toward the swing with a smug grin.
