Warm.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Warm and solid and steady in a way that my body registers before my brain can interfere. My fingers curl slightly without permission, like they’re searching for balance.
My pulse leaps, traitorous and fast.
Camden inhales sharply. Just once. A quiet sound, barely there, but I hear it. Feel it. Like he didn’t expect this either.
Our hands tighten together, instinctively.
This is supposed to be strategic. Contained.
My chest tightens, and every instinct I have screams that this is dangerous territory.
I want to pull away.
Camden looks like he does too.
His jaw flexes. His thumb twitches, then stills, like he’s consciously stopping himself from doing something comforting. Familiar. Human.
Neither of us lets go.
The room seems to fade at the edges. The judge’s voice continues, calm and even, but it sounds distant now, like it’s coming from another floor.
All I can feel is his hand.
The contrast between us. The difference in size. The fact that he’s being so careful, like he knows exactly how much pressure to use and no more.
My shoulders relax without my permission.
I focus on my breathing. In. Out. Keep your feet on the floor. Keep your heart from running off without you.
Eventually, the judge pauses, glancing down at her notes.
My fingers finally loosen, just a fraction.
Camden’s do too.
The judge’s voice settles into a steady rhythm, the kind designed to move things along without inviting emotion.
This is a civil ceremony. Legal. Efficient. Streamlined to remove anything that might complicate consent with feeling.
There are no vows of love.
No promises of forever.
Noin sickness and in healthortill death do us partto haunt us later.
Instead, there are names. Dates of birth. Confirmation of identity. A clause acknowledging that this marriage is valid and binding under state law.
I nod when I’m supposed to nod.
I answer when I’m prompted, my voice sounding calm and distant, like it belongs to someone who has her life together. I have a lot of practice sounding like that.
Camden responds beside me, his voice low and steady. It doesn’t match the tension I can feel in his hand, or the way his shoulders are set like he’s holding something back.
I don’t look at him again. If I do, I might lose my footing.
