The weddings happened like a dream—six ceremonies braided into one celebration, vows spoken under big Montana sky, flowers from Charleston blooming against rugged land like proof that love could travel and still root.
My parents were there, overseeing every stem like it mattered, because it did. Cassie cried. Lily tried to throw petals at everyone. Mason and Bo looked suspiciously proud and pretended they weren’t.
And somewhere in the middle of it, while everyone was focused on the six couples, I held my own secret close.
Because I was going to be the seventh.
I’d already chosen the dress—hidden away where Micah couldn’t find it.
Micah had told me once that control was safety.
I intended to give him something else.
A surprise that felt like home.
A yes that didn’t require him to fight for it.
When it was time, the world narrowed to the space between us. I stepped forward in my wedding dress—soft white fabric catching the Montana light, skirts whispering around my legs—and I saw it all happen on his face. The confusion first, then recognition, then something like awe cracking straight through his composure. His breath hitched hard enough that I felt itacross the distance, like the sight of me had knocked the air from his lungs.
“Joy,” he breathed, like my name was a prayer.
He forgot where he was. Forgot there were people watching. Forgot that he was a man who’d faced gunfire without flinching. His eyes tracked every step I took, like if he looked away I might disappear.
When I reached him, he didn’t speak. He just lifted a hand, hesitant for the first time since I’d known him, like he needed permission to touch what he was seeing.
I nodded.
His fingers brushed my waist, then tightened, grounding himself. His voice came out rough. “You’re real.”
I smiled through the sting in my eyes. “So, are you.”
The ceremony unfolded like it had always been waiting for us.
Portia stood calm and radiant, orchestrating without intruding. Words were spoken about roots and return, about love chosen daily.
When it was our turn to speak, Micah took my hands like they were the only solid thing left in the world.
“I don’t know how to love safely,” he said quietly. “But I know how to love completely. And I choose you. In every version of my life.”
My throat closed. I forced the words out, anyway.
“I spent my whole life believing love was something you earned by being easy to keep,” I said. “You taught me that love can be fierce and still be gentle. That I don’t have to disappear to be chosen. I choose you, Micah. In every place we’ve been—and every place we’re going.”
He broke then. Just a little. His forehead pressed to mine as the officiant smiled knowingly and gave us a second we hadn’t asked for, but needed.
When we were pronounced married, the cheers were loud and unrestrained—brothers shouting, women laughing, someone crying openly without apology.
I looked out and saw my parents.
Momma had both hands over her mouth, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, pride written into every line of her face. Daddy stood tall beside her, eyes bright and wet, nodding to himself like he’d always known this was coming. My siblings were beaming.
When the last kiss was kissed and the last cheer rose and the guests were guided back to the cabins, the night softened into something intimate.
Bonfires crackled. Laughter drifted low and easy. The men shed their jackets and leaned into the night like boys again—barefoot, beer bottles clinking, shoulders loose.
Fourteen Dane men gathered with their women like a circle of constellations finally aligned.
Someone popped champagne.
