If I’m being honest, I think some stubborn part of me hasalwaysbeen his. Everything inside me settles at the admission.
The minister nods. “Chloe, do you take Aiden to be your husband…?”
“I do.” The words slip out like they’ve been waiting on my tongue since I was nineteen.
“And you, Aiden?”
“Absolutely, I do.” His thumbs sweep over my knuckles, setting fire to my skin despite the cold.
“Rings?”
Panic flares again until Aiden reaches into his pocket and pulls out two rings: a simple diamond solitaire and two diamond bands.
“They were my mom’s,” he says softly. Almost shy. “They’re yours. Or we can go pick out a different set, later. You don’t have to?—”
“I’d love to wear them.” My voice is barely audible.
Something fractured behind his eyes softens, and for a heartbeat, I feel her here, with us. This woman, who loved Christmas and their farm so much, built a legacy into her son’s bones.
And she raised a son who loves and protects so fiercely that he struggles with reining it all in.
While the minister talks about what rings symbolize, the gravity of what he’s offering nearly levels me. Family has always been the highest priority to Aiden, and as he slides the rings onto my finger, one by one, I realize that, whether or not it’s intentional, he’s choosing me.
And when I slide the ring Harper hands me onto his finger, I realize I’m choosing him. I can fight how badly I want this, or I can accept it.
What’s a little more risk when everything else is already on the line?
The words are supposed to be pretend, but my heart doesn’t know the difference.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Colorado, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
So much for “no kissing today.”
The rule pops into my head, flimsy and half-hearted now.
“Hey.” Aiden tips my chin with his calloused fingers, the gentle scrape of his thumb anchoring me. “There’s my wife.”
The last word lands tender, dangerous. My breath hitches at the realization that we did it.
We’re married.
His palm skims my jaw, curls to the nape of my neck, and then his mouth finds mine. The kiss is soft and sure, but it detonates a thousand quiet fireworks under my skin. It lingers, deep enough to make my knees forget what they’re for. And it’s restrained only by the fact that we’re still standing in front of a minister.
Grief and years and hard-won resilience live between us now, and somehow that makes the space between us burn sweeter.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, mouth curved like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“I owe you,” he says quietly. “And I fully intend to pay up once everyone stops interrupting us.”
My breath stutters. “Mr. Big Talk.”
There’snothingfake about his touch or the way he’s looking at me right now, like we’ve genuinely crossed over into something neither of us is ready to stamp words on.
Like I’m beautiful and steady.
Like, I didn’t agree to this in desperation.
We are not the kids we were, and that makes this feel less like a risk and more like a plan.
