Her fingers slide into mine.
The officiant clears his throat. The ceremony begins. Words about partnership. About choosing each other daily. About building something not in place of the past — but alongside it.
I don’t drift.
I don’t brace.
I stay.
When it’s my turn to speak, I don’t look at the crowd.
I look at her.
“I thought loving again meant losing something,” I say, voice carrying in the open air. “I thought it meant letting go of what I had.”
Her eyes shine but don’t waver.
“You didn’t replace anything,” I continue. “You expanded it. You walked into a house that still carried smoke and you didn’t try to air it out. You just lit a candle and stayed.”
Her fingers tighten around mine.
“You didn’t ask me to forget,” I say quietly. “You asked me to live.”
A breeze lifts her hair across her cheek. I brush it back gently.
“I don’t promise you easy,” I say. “I promise you real. I promise you steady. I promise that when it gets hard, I won’t retreat. I won’t hide behind duty. I won’t give you half of me.”
She swallows.
“I choose you,” I finish. “Fully.”
Her breath shakes slightly when she begins her vows.
“You tried to protect me from yourself,” she says softly. “You thought wanting me made you reckless.”
A few quiet laughs ripple through the crowd.
“You’ve never been reckless,” she continues. “You’ve been afraid. And you still chose me anyway.” She steps closer, voice lowering. “You didn’t need saving,” she says. “You neededsomeone to stand beside you while you rebuilt.” Her hand lifts to my chest. “I’m not here to erase your past,” she whispers. “I’m here to build your future.”
I inhale slowly.
When the officiant declares us husband and wife, the rooftop explodes with cheers.
I don’t hesitate.
I pull her to me.
The kiss isn’t frantic.
It isn’t desperate.
It’s deep.
Claiming.
Her hands slide into my hair, fingers curling like she’s anchoring herself. My hand settles at her lower back, holding her steady against the wind and the world.
The crew whistles.
