A deep, grounded, absolutely certain yes.
The music changes before I’m ready for it.
One soft chord, then another—slow, warm, the kind that lands straight in your chest and stays there. Conversations taper off. Chairs shift. A hush moves through the lodge like someone dimmed the world.
The coordinator lifts a hand toward me, a quiet signal.
Here we go.
I step into place at the front, spine straight, heartbeat anything but.
The bridal suite door opens.
And there she is.
Every instinct I’ve ever had—from playoff nerves to overtime adrenaline—fires at once. My hands flex uselessly at my sides. My throat tightens so fast it feels like I forgot how to breathe.
Charlotte steps into the doorway on her father’s arm, and for a second, my vision actually blurs.
God. She’s everything.
The dress is beautiful and elegant, and fits her like it was made for her alone. Her hair is half-pinned, curls brushing her shoulders, and shimmering earrings catch the light.
But it’s her expression that hits the hardest.
Her eyes find mine, instantly, like they’re magnetized. And the minute they do, her shoulders soften, her chin lifts, and her smile is slow, sure, impossibly warm.
Sophie lets out a tiny gasp from the front row, hand pressed over her mouth, eyes bright. The room’s gone quiet and distant, every person fading to background.
Until it’s just her.
Charlotte starts down the aisle, her father matching her steps. Her bouquet is winter greens and soft white blooms.
Each step feels like it rewrites everything I thought my life was supposed to look like.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, but it doesn’t help.
Because she’s walking to me.
Because this moment—the one I told myself I didn’t deserve, the one I convinced myself I’d never get—is actually happening.
When she reaches the front, her father leans in, murmurs something, and kisses her cheek. She squeezes his hand once before he steps back.
And then she’s standing in front of me.
Close enough that I can see the faint tremble in her hand. Close enough that I can feel her breath mix with mine. Close enough that everything inside me settles, clicks, exhales.
“Hi,” she whispers.
It’s barely sound. Barely breath.
But it hits like a puck straight to the ribs.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice rougher than I expect.
Her fingers brush mine as she hands off her bouquet, and my whole body reacts before my mind does: relief, awe, something deeper than both.
And standing here, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
