Evelyn stands off to the side, watching with that composed, unreadable expression of hers. She looks like someone observing an experiment that is proceeding exactly as expected. I try not to resent her for that.
The room smells faintly of polished wood and paper. The scent of boardrooms and contracts and decisions made with pens instead of hearts.
I keep staring at the rings on the small table near the judge.
They are simple. Unadorned. Neutral to the point of anonymity.
No diamonds. No engraving. No symbolism beyond what the law requires.
These rings were chosen not to mean too much.
My chest tightens anyway.
I tell myself that’s ridiculous. This is a transaction. A solution.
And yet.
Something about standing here, holding another person’s hand while the law stitches our lives together, cuts deeper than I expected.
The judge’s voice echoes slightly in the room, formal words bouncing off sterile walls. I feel like I’m drifting, like I’m watching this happen through glass.
I wonder if this is how astronauts feel during launch. Strapped in. Countdowns happening around them. No real control left once the engine starts and the acceleration begins.
I risk a glance down at our joined hands.
Camden’s thumb is still, resting near my knuckles but not touching them. Like he’s acutely aware of exactly where the line is and refuses to cross it without permission.
A tremor moves through my arm. I can’t tell if it’s nerves or something closer to grief.
Then the judge looks up and gives a small nod. “You may release hands.”
I let go immediately.
The separation sends a strange aftershock through me, like my body had adjusted to his presence faster than my mind could catch up. My fingers curl briefly in empty air before I force them still at my side.
Camden releases at the same moment. I feel it more than I see it.
Our hands retreat like they were never there.
The room feels colder.
I swallow and focus on the floor, on the solid ground beneath my feet.
Safety. Structure. Distance.
Not whatever my nervous system is currently trying to negotiate.
I square my shoulders just as the judge reaches for the final paperwork.
This part, at least, I know how to handle.
Paper never surprises you.
The judge gathers the paperwork with practiced efficiency. Pages are signed. Witnesses add their names. A seal is pressed into place with a quiet, definitive thump that feels far too loud in the room.
She steps back and offers a small, polite smile.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You are legally married.”
