Holy. Shit.
I’m married.
Again.
The thought doesn’t just hit me—it bursts inside my chest like fireworks, bright and loud and impossible to ignore.
Only this time?
This time it’s real.
No loopholes.
No missing paperwork.
No backpedaling to where we’re technically not married.
Just us.
Benji slides the ring—a beautiful antique silver ring with a small sapphire in the center that he had in his pocket, the same one we found in a tiny pawn shop near the ocean three and a half years ago, the one that I left on top of the storage boxes filled with his things from our old place the day I left in my van—onto my finger, and I swear my whole body hums the second it settles there.
My breath catches in my throat when he hands me the matching band to slide onto his ring finger.
It’s not even about the metal or the stone—it’s what it means.
What it fixes.
What it claims.
What it promises.
My breath catches.
“You kept them?” I whisper.
“Always,” he replies.
And then he’s kissing me.
Hard.
Deep.
Like he’s been holding it back and now he doesn’t have to anymore.
Like this is it.
Like this is forever.
The officiant is still talking—something about signatures and copies and legal filings—but I don’t hear a word of it.
Because Benji’s mouth is on mine and everything else just disappears.
The world fades.
The noise drops out.
And it’s just him.
