I nod because I can’t speak.
Then my dad steps back and takes his seat.
And now it’s just Nico and me at the front of the chapel, facing each other.
He looks at me for a long beat.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“Hi,” he murmurs, low.
I laugh, a breathy little thing.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
His eyes soften.
Not in a weak way.
In a way that makes my chest ache.
“You’re okay?” he asks.
I nod, even though my eyes are burning.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m perfect.”
“Yes, you are.” He holds my gaze.
Then he lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles, slow and reverent, like we’re not standing in front of a crowd.
Like this is private.
Like it’s always been private between us, even when it wasn’t.
The priest clears his throat.
Nico lowers my hand but doesn’t let go.
He stays close.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
And as the ceremony begins—words about love and commitment and vows—I feel something settle in me.
Not relief, exactly.
Certainty.
Because I’m not walking into this blind.
I’ve seen Nico at his worst.
I’ve seen what he does when he’s hurt.
I’ve seen what he does when he’s angry.
I’ve seen what he does when he loves someone.
