We.
My heart somersaults.
When we walk into the chapel, I expect tacky décor, cheap lights, maybe an Elvis impersonator. Instead, it’s simple. Clean. Soft music plays overhead. Twinkling lights hang behind the altar, casting a warm glow over everything.
My throat tightens.
Grant guides me forward, his hand never once leaving mine.
The officiant smiles at us, handing Grant a small velvet box I didn’t know he had provided.
He thought of rings. Of course he did. My eyes sting again. He always thinks ahead. Always plans. Always protects.
The ceremony feels like it happens in slow motion. The officiant speaks. Grant turns to face me fully, taking my hands in his. His thumbs brush over my knuckles in slow circles. My heart races.
“Do you, Grant Bennett?—”
“I do,” he says immediately, voice steady as steel.
I laugh breathlessly. Then the officiant turns to me.
“And do you, Rowan Turner?—”
“I do,” I whisper.
Grant exhales softly, like he’s been holding his breath for days.
He slides a ring onto my finger—simple, elegant, and silver with a tiny stone. It fits perfectly.
My hand shakes as I slide his band onto his—thick silver that looks right on his strong, scarred hand.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Grant steps closer. Slowly. Purposefully. His hand cups the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, and he leans in, brushing his forehead to mine for a moment.
Then he kisses me.
Soft.
Certain.
Mine.
When we walk back out onto the street, hand in hand, the city lights seem brighter. The air feels lighter.
And for the first time in years, maybe ever, I feel like my life is starting instead of surviving.
I glance up at him. He squeezes my hand.
“We’re married,” I whisper.
His mouth curves. “Yeah, Ro. We are.”
And somehow…
It feels right.
SEVEN
