The call ends and I take a moment to breathe through the tightness in my throat. Crying before the ceremony seems like bad luck, though Holden would probably just wipe my tears and tell me I'm beautiful anyway.
I pour myself coffee, take a long drink, and check the time. Almost ready.
The morning blurs into final preparations. Hair styled into something that won't fall apart in the ocean wind. Makeup that enhances without looking painted. Jewelry that catches light without screaming for attention. I'm standing at the bedroom window watching the ocean and my pulse picks up with anticipation that has nothing to do with nerves.
Almost time.
The beach has been transformed while I was getting ready. White chairs arranged in rows on the sand, fabric billowing in the breeze, flowers in shades of blue and white marking the aisle. Guests arrive in casual elegance—people who understand that sand and formality don't mix.
Holden's SEAL team takes up the front rows. Kowalski, Pike, Esposito, Reynolds. Men who've become familiar faces over the past months, who've accepted me into their protective circle without hesitation. Griff and Thatcher sit together, both in dress uniforms, both grinning when they catch sight of me hovering near the cottage.
Other guests fill in the remaining seats. Holden's parents. Colleagues from base. Researchers I've worked with. Commander Hartwell in the middle section, professional even at a wedding but her presence meaningful nonetheless. The atmosphere feels right—intimate without being small, celebration without being spectacle.
Music starts. Acoustic guitar playing songs we both love, nothing traditional or expected. The melody pulls me forward,down the makeshift aisle toward where Holden waits with the ocean as his backdrop.
Then I see Holden and my breath catches.
Dress whites. Navy SEAL trident gleaming on his chest. Hat under his arm, standing at attention until I reach him and his entire bearing shifts into something that's purely him rather than Commander Lange. Gray eyes track my approach with intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
Tears blur my vision despite my best efforts. He sees them immediately, steps forward to meet me halfway, thumb brushing moisture from my cheek.
"Hey," he murmurs, voice pitched for my ears only. "You okay?"
"I'm good." And I am. Standing on a beach in front of people who matter, about to promise forever to the man who gave me back my ability to trust. "You look incredible."
"You're stunning." He takes my hand, threads our fingers together, leads me the rest of the way to where the officiant waits. "Ready?"
"So ready."
The ceremony is brief. No long speeches about the meaning of marriage or the responsibilities we're undertaking. Just the officiant asking if we're certain, getting enthusiastic affirmations from both of us, then turning it over for vows.
Holden goes first. No notes, no prepared speech. He just looks at me with the focus I've come to recognize as uniquely his.
"Fallon, I used to think being alone kept me safe. That wanting more than the mission meant betraying the people I'd lost." He squeezes my hand, jaw working like the next words cost him something. "Then you showed up, stubborn and brilliant, and I realized that was all bullshit. I'm promising to show up for you. To stay even when it's hard. To be your partner, yourprotector." His voice drops lower. "That's me. Every day. That's me."
My turn. I swallow past the lump in my throat, find my voice even though it shakes slightly.
"Holden, you taught me that letting someone in doesn't make me weak. That asking for help isn't the same as needing to be saved." I have to pause, blink back fresh tears. "I'm promising to stay. To trust you even when my instincts tell me to run. To be your equal and your teammate." The words come easier now. "I'm choosing you. Today, tomorrow, always. Because you're worth choosing. We're worth it."
The officiant smiles. "Do you have the rings?"
Griff steps forward from his position as best man, producing the rings with exaggerated ceremony that makes several people laugh. The bands match—white gold with wave patterns etched into the metal, aquamarine stones catching the light like sunlight through ocean water.
We exchange rings. Mine familiar from six months of wearing the engagement ring, now joined by the wedding band. His is new, solid weight on his finger that marks him as mine as clearly as I'm his.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you married. Commander Lange, you may kiss your bride."
Holden's hand cradles the back of my neck, drawing me close. The kiss is tender and thorough, claiming without demanding, promise without pressure. Our guests cheer and applaud, the sound mixing with the ocean waves behind us.
We turn to face everyone as husband and wife. Commander and Dr. Lange. Partners in every sense that matters.
Tables appear on the beach while we're surrounded by congratulations. Someone organized everything—grilled fish, fresh vegetables, bread still warm from baking, wine that flows freely as lights strung between posts glow. Music plays fromspeakers, volume low enough for conversation but present enough to set mood.
Holden dances with me. Not gracefully—he's competent but clearly uncomfortable with the formality of it—but he tries. Holds me close, moves to the rhythm, whispers things in my ear that make me laugh and blush.
"Mrs. Lange."
"Dr. Lange," I correct. "I'm keeping my title."
