He turns the screen to me.
“Delete it,” he says. “Please.”
I do. My thumb trembles over the trash icon, and then it’s gone. He empties the folder—gone gone—and my chest loosens by an inch I hadn’t realized was tight.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I should be thanking you,” he says, exhaling. “For walking down that aisle anyway.”
He grins, a little sheepish, then nods toward the untouched plate. “Celeste will kill me if you don’t eat something before we greet. We’ve got to keep your blood sugar up. Did you even have breakfast?”
“No,” I admit, plucking a pastry. Flakes rain down my fingers as I bite in—butter, herbs, salt—and only then do I realize how hungry I am. He holds out a napkin, and I let him. It feels like a ceremony all its own.
On the other side of the ivy, someone starts the string version of a pop song that I love. This day couldn’t get any more perfect.
I step closer to Ash, tuck my hand into his. “Ready to go?”
His eyes go soft. “In a minute. There’s something I have to do before—”
He bends and finds my mouth.
The world narrows to just me and him. His palm comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb skimming the place just beneath my ear like he’s memorizing it. The kiss starts careful—almost reverent—like he’s tasting the moment to make sure it’s real. I feel the cool brush of his ring against my cheek, the faint clink of mine where our hands are laced, a little punctuation mark of promise.
I rise onto my toes without thinking. He smiles against my lips when I do, and the smile turns the kiss from soft to certain. He tilts his head; I open for him; the rest of the courtyard blurs into a hum ofdistant laughter and the low purr of the library’s old clock. He tastes like mint and something sweeter I can’t name, the kind of sweetness that makes you greedy.
When we part, it’s only far enough for breath. His forehead rests against mine. We’re both smiling in that dazed, private way that feels like a secret handshake.
“Okay,” he whispers, voice rough. “Now I’m ready.”
“Me too,” I say, and I am—my pulse steady, my mouth tingling, the ivy flickering shadow-light over us like a benediction.
We step out from behind the ivy and the whole garden turns toward us. A cheer rises—scattered at first, then one bright wave. Someone whistles. Someone else shushes the whistler. There’s clapping, laughter, the low rumble of a hundred soft congratulations, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
Ash squeezes my hand. Between the hedges, Celeste’s team laid runners the color of cream pages, and tucked little bud vases down the center—garden roses, ranunculus, sprigs of rosemary that release their scent when you brush them. Place cards sit in vintage library pockets, our guests’ names stamped like due dates. The table numbers are “Chapter One,” “Chapter Two,” all the way to “Epilogue,” and it’s ridiculous how much joy that silly detail brings me.
The air is warm without being hot; a sycamore throws generous shade, its mottled bark looking like it’s been hand-painted by time.
We make it three steps before Nina barrels into us like a glittery meteor. Her mascara is absolutely not waterproof, and her smile is a mile wide.
“You DID it!” she cries, flinging an arm around each of us. We sway under the force of her hug, and I feel Ash’s laugh against my shoulder, startled and delighted. Nina pulls back just enough to cup my cheeks. “I knew you would,” she says, voice breaking onknew. Thenshe points at Ash without looking away from me. “And you—don’t make me threaten you in a public place. I will.”
Ash lifts both hands in surrender, grinning. “Noted, ma’am.”
Nina sniffles, shoves a wad of tissue at me, then promptly hugs us again because once isn’t enough. When she finally lets go, she fans herself with a place card and stage-whispers, “Okay, I have TWO speeches prepared and one lip-sync performance in case the mood tanks.”
“God help us all,” Liam mutters, appearing at her shoulder.
My brother looks like himself again—not that strange alchemy of protective and proud that only happens on big days. His tie is crooked, as always, because he never lets anyone fix it. His eyes are glassy, but he’ll deny it until the day he dies.
“Hey,” he says, and the word lands soft.
I step into him and wrap both arms around his middle. He smells like peppermint gum and the cologne Dad wore. He hugs back like we’re still kids and I scraped my knee and he’s mad at the sidewalk for existing.
He clears his throat as we separate, then turns to Ash. For a beat there’s just the hum of the garden and the two of them standing a foot apart, some old thunder still rolling far away.
Ash extends his hand first. “Thank you for today.”
Liam stares at it long enough to make me want to hold my breath. Then he takes it—firm, no games. A quick, sincere handshake. The kind men do when they meanI’m still watching you, and alsoI’m in your corner if you do right by her.
