“September,” I say immediately.
Jackson freezes mid-step. “Wait, really? That’s only a few months away.”
I nod. “You said you liked September, the way the air changes, and the soft sunlight. You said Santa Cruz feels like home, so let's do it here.”
“You remembered all that?” Jackson’s mouth hangs open.
I lift his hand and kiss the ring. “I remember everything about you.”
His face does that thing, softening into something vulnerable and overwhelmed.
“September,” he repeats, like he’s trying it on.
“It will be worth it, Jack. Being able to go into next season with you as my husband.”
Jackson’s smile turns wicked through the tears. “Are we doing, like… a big wedding?”
I shrug. “We can have whatever kind of wedding you want.”
Jackson hums, thinking. “Okay. Specifics. I want… I want something beachy but not cheesy.”
“Agreed.”
Jackson keeps talking, suddenly animated, like this is the only kind of planning that doesn’t scare him.
“Santa Cruz. September. Maybe—” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “Wait, do we want the ceremony on the beach or, like… somewhere overlooking it?”
“Overlooking,” I say immediately. “Sand is unpredictable and the wind can be rude as fuck. Your grandma would hate it.”
Jackson laughs. “True.”
“We do the ceremony somewhere with a view,” I continue, already mentally building it like a game plan. “Reception nearby. Good food. Good music. People who love us. No drama.”
Jackson points at me. “No drama is an impossible request.”
“It’s a boundary,” I say, dead serious. “No exceptions.”
He giggles, then looks at his ring again, softer now. “I want something personal,” he says. “We don’t need three hundred people.”
“We’ll write our vows,” I say. “Real ones.”
“Yeah,” Jackson swallows. “That sounds like us.”
“And,” I add, brushing my thumb over his knuckles, “we do it how you need it. Your schedule. Your health. Your comfort.”
I love the way his eyes shine again.
“You’re going to plan this like a baseball season.”
“With spreadsheets.”
He groans. “No.”
“Yes.”
Jackson shoves me gently, laughing. “Okay, okay. September, right here. We’ll start looking at venues. We’ll figure out dates. We’ll?—”
I stop walking again and Jackson turns back, brow furrowing. “What now?”
