Those big brown eyes staring up at me, glassy and wrecked and still somehow unbreakable.
She was scared.
So was I.
“Especially now.”
I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink.
Didn’t give her a fucking out.
Because that moment?
That wreckage we just walked through?
That was the first honest thing either of us had done in years.
We kept walking.
Side by side.
Toward the courthouse steps that looked more like a damn execution platform.
I squeezed her hand.
Hard enough to make sure she knew this was real.
Every step we took was a declaration.
Every heartbeat, a fucking war drum.
My chest burned, full of fire and fury and a need I couldn’t name anymore.
But I wasn’t scared of it.
Not with her here.
Not when she chose me.
We climbed those steps like soldiers.
And I didn’t look back.
I walked into that courthouse with her hand in mine, and a war still burning in my chest.
The second we stepped inside the courthouse, the air hit different.
Stale. Cold. Loaded. Felt less like a place where people got married and more like a place where shit went to die.
The walls were blank. Silent. Watching. Like they were waiting for us to crack.
But her hand was in mine.
So let the place fucking try.
Near the entrance, Rhys Ackerman stood like a stone statue in a tailored suit, arms crossed, expression unreadable—except for that twitch of a smirk when he saw us.
He held my suit over one shoulder, like a body bag.
