Rawley was a black hole of commentary, but he didn’t look angry. If anything, he seemed relieved, like this was an outcome he’d always hoped for, but never dared suggest.
We hit town in record time. Main Street was all but deserted—too early for the weekend crowd, too late for breakfast traffic. Macon parked directly in front of the county clerk’s office, ignoring the “permit parking only” sign with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how much shit the local sheriff would put up with from him.
Inside, the clerk—an elderly woman with cat-eye glasses and the patience of a saint—barely blinked when we told her what we needed. She slid a clipboard across the counter and pointed to the lines. “Names, birthdates, signatures. Both of you.” Her gaze lingered on my hand, on the subtle swelling at my stomach, and she gave me a slow, warm smile that felt like an inheritance.
We signed the forms. Rawley and Jojo each took a line as witness. Jojo added a heart next to his name and giggled so hard he almost dropped the pen.
Macon squeezed my shoulder as we waited for the certificate. “You sure about this?”
I looked at him, really looked. The lines around his eyes, the scar on his left brow, the patch of skin on his chin that would never quite grow in a full beard. I looked at the ring on my finger, at his hand on my arm, at the clerk smiling at us from behind her stack of forms.
I nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
The wedding itself was barely a minute—clerk reciting the standard language, us standing in front of a faded flag, exchanging rings again for the camera phone Jojo insisted on using. We kissed, soft and fast and careful, and the room erupted in polite applause.
Jojo cheered. Rawley just shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
They gave us a temporary certificate and told us the official one would come in the mail. Macon folded the document, slid it in his pocket, and caught my gaze. His eyes were damp, but he didn’t look away.
We left the office to find the sky even bluer, the air sharp with the promise of rain that wouldn’t come for hours. We piled back in the truck, and for the first time, it really did feel like a family.
On the way home, Jojo insisted on stopping for pie at the diner, even though it was barely noon. We sat in a vinyl booth, all four of us, and demolished two slices each. Macon watched me eat, the old pride replaced by something softer, warmer, like he’d finally given himself permission to believe.
Back at the ranch, Rawley walked us to the porch, then pulled Macon into a hug so tight I thought something might snap. He did the same for me, holding on a beat longer than I expected.When he stepped back, his eyes were wet, but he just coughed and said, “You did good, Little Brother.”
Jojo made us pose for three more pictures, then vanished inside the house. He’d barely closed the door before I felt Macon’s arms around me, strong and certain.
He pressed his lips to my temple. “You’re my omega now. Officially.”
I grinned, the joy so big it barely fit inside my skin. “You’re my alpha. Try not to fuck it up.”
He laughed, a full, wild sound, then swept me up and carried me over the threshold, wedding-night style, even though I was almost thirty and wearing sweats. I didn’t even try to protest. It felt right.
We stood in the quiet hallway, our arms full of each other and the future, the rings on our fingers gleaming in the soft spring light.
“Home,” I said, and he nodded.
“Home.”
* * * *
That night, the house was quieter than any place I’d ever lived. Even the pipes, notorious for their haunted groans, seemed to hush out of respect for the new order of things.
Macon and I lay side by side in the old guest bed, covers kicked down to the footboard. Our hands were twined together, fingers locked so tight that when the moon shifted through the window and hit our rings, it looked like a closed circuit, a loop with no way out and no reason to want one.
Neither of us said much at first. There was a good hour where we just traced the scars and whorls of each other’s skin, counting the breaths, the new beats of our own hearts.
But after a while, the future started to creep in.
“Where do you want to live?” I asked, surprising both of us.
Macon rolled onto his side, propped himself on one elbow, and looked at me like I was the only person left on earth. “I figured we’d stay here for now. Rawley would have a fit if I stole you away already.”
I snorted. “He’s got Jojo. He’ll survive.”
There was a beat, then: “You don’t want to move into the Hargrove place?” His voice was neutral, but I could feel the carefulness behind the question.
I shook my head. “It’s a palace. And haunted by Victor’s energy. All the bathrooms have gold faucets. It’s a lot.” I hesitated, then pushed ahead, because today had been about saying the real thing and not the thing that kept people happy. “I want something that’s ours. Not a legacy, not a mausoleum. Just… us.”
