His laugh breaks, and then he’s blinking fast. “I’m not good at this,” he says, and his voice stills the room like a held breath. “I don’t… talk about myself. I play. I show up. I make the right face and shake the right hands and say the sentences people need me to say.” He looks at me. “You never asked me for the right face. You just asked me to be here. And I am.” His hand tightens on my wrist. “I promise to try. To try to be brave enough to be known. To try to give you songs. To try to let you keep your fire without being scared of getting burned.” His mouth tilts. “And I promise to set three alarms when it matters, and the whole time keep on loving you. Because I do, Rafe, sofuckingmuch.”
Our witnesses laugh. The officiant smiles like she’s heard thousands of vows and still likes when they’re true.
“Rings?” she asks.
We don’t have rings. Drew curses softly, then rips the string bracelet from his wrist and thrusts it at me. “Use this,” he says.
Eli pulls the glow-stick crown off his head and snaps it in half. “Symbolic,” he says solemnly.
Miles, bless him, produces two black guitar-string loops from his wallet like a magician. “Emergency spares,” he says when we stare. “What, I can’t plan for chaos?”
They’re perfect—thin, dark, mine. I slide one onto Ollie’s finger; he slides one onto mine. They’re too big. They’re exactly right.
“By the authority vested in me by the state of Nevada,” the officiant says, and gives us the smile cue, “I now pronounce you married.”
The room doesn’t cheer; it erupts. Eli howls. Drew shouts a string of vowels that might be a language. Miles says, “Holy shit,” in a voice like a prayer. The bride from Room B rips in withher veil crooked to holler “Hooray” at us and vanishes again in a cloud of sequins.
And him—my husband—fuck… he grabs my face and kisses me like we invented the wordyes.
The world tilts, the lights blur, and for one long, perfect second, the city outside stops gambling long enough to hear two idiots promise things they have no business promising and mean every word.
We sign the certificate with shaking hands. The officiant stamps something official. Our friends pass around a plastic flute of something sparkling that tastes like apples and victory. Miles is filming on a phone, a video that will never see the light of social media. The coordinator presses an envelope into my palm with the license tucked safely inside.
“Congratulations,” she says again, and this time I believe I deserve it.
There are details we haven’t figured out. There are a hundred conversations waiting for us in the morning. There is a 10:20 a.m. flight and a next game and a meeting at eleven with a man who could crack a door I’ve been pounding on since I was a teenager.
But right now, there’s a hand in mine and a ring around my finger and a kiss that tastes like the rest of my life.
We walk out into the Vegas night married, laughing, reckless, and so sure that even the Strip lights look shy of it.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
The limo pulls awaywith a soft thud of doors and laughter still echoing inside, the kind that spills out of people who’ve had too much champagne and not enough sense. Through the tinted glass, I can see Eli’s grin, Drew waving some crumpled napkin like a flag, Miles shaking his head the way he does when chaos wins. Then the car slides into the Strip’s glittering bloodstream and they’re gone.
It’s just me and the night. And him.
Ollie’s hand brushes mine as we stand under the portico. The lights from the hotel canopy wash his skin in gold and shadow; I swear I can feel the pulse at his wrist even though we’re not quite touching. My pocket is heavy with a piece of paper that says we did something impossible. Myhusband.The word burns.
He booked a room here. Not a suite, but nice. Glass elevators. Polished marble floors. The kind of place where the air smells like money and disinfectant, and where the clerk smiles too brightly when two men check in together after midnight wearing wedding bands.
The elevator hums as we ride up, mirror walls reflecting versions of us that look too calm for what’s happening inside. Ollie leans against the railing, hoodie off, T-shirt tight andshowing his perfect physique. His eyes find me in the mirrored glass, steady and unsure all at once.
Neither of us speaks until the doors open with a soft chime.
The hallway is hushed, the carpet swallowing sound. Room 1908 waits at the end like a secret. He slides the key card in; the green light flickers; the lock clicks. When the door closes behind us, it feels like a line being drawn. The silence is thick enough to breathe.
The room glows in warm amber light, highlighting the king bed and crisp sheets. A view of the city where every window burns like a star frames the room.
Ollie sets his hoodie over a chair. He doesn’t undress further. His shoulders are still in captain mode, straight and composed, but the rhythm of his breath gives him away.
I drop my wallet and phone on the dresser and turn toward him. For a moment, we just look.
All the noise from the chapel, the drive, the laughter—it falls away. What’s left is the impossible quiet of realization:We did it.
I break first. “You good?”
