Page 133 of Wild Then Wed
“They’re loud,” he adds, his voice a little quieter. “Even though they’re small. Loud when they need to be. And soft when they don’t.”
My eyes sting. My hands are still, even though I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
“And the thing is…the male wren is the one who sings first. Every morning. Even if the world around him is still dark.”
He folds the paper back once, gently, and I swear I can feel my whole body trying to keep it together.
“I don’t know if I believe in soulmates,” he says again, more softly this time. “But I know how you’ve made a home out of this. Out of me. And if I had to choose someone to keep choosing, even on the worst days, even in the dark…it’d be you.”
And then, simply—
“If there’s a version of forever that exists in this world—I want it with you, Wren Wilding.”
Those cobalt eyes—bluer than the river in spring when the ice breaks and the light finally touches the water again—don’t blink. Don’t move. They just hold me there.
And then it starts. The quick, shallow breathing. The low-level panic. The kind that usually hits in the middle of the night when I remember I forgot to call the vet or that I left a load of laundry in the washer twelve hours ago. But now it’s here. Wedding-day-present.
My eyes flick to the left—an instinct. Miller is wide-eyed. Lark has her lips pressed together so tightly they’ve disappeared. Sage is doing that polite thing she always does where she stares at the floor and pretends she’s not deeply invested in the plot.
This is fake. It’s a production. Costumes and scripted lines. I’ve been telling myself that for weeks, and it’s mostly worked.
But standing here in front of him, after hearing those vows, looking at the way he’s looking at me like I’m something worth remembering—
It doesn’t feel fake at all.
It feels…safe.
It feels like the way my dad used to look at the mountains in October. Like no matter what was changing, that part was still good. Still his.
It feels like setting something heavy down after carrying it for too long and realizing you don’t have to lift it again alone.
The pastor clears his throat gently. “That was beautiful,” he says to Sawyer, voice warm and even. Then he turns the page in his book, eyes flicking down as his tone shifts into something more formal.
“May I have the rings?”
Lark steps forward from behind me. She doesn’t say anything, just holds out her hand with Sawyer’s band in herpalm. Simple gold. I take it carefully, my fingers shaking slightly, and turn toward him.
He holds his hand out for me, and I swallow hard. He’s watching me with that still, unreadable expression he’s so good at.
I take his left hand, and my stomach tightens. It’s warm. Rough. It’s built fences and driven cattle and saved animals. His fingers are long, knuckles pronounced, veins raised just enough that I feel my cheeks heat before I can stop them.
The band slides on easily. My fingers shake a little as I press it into place.
The pastor turns to Sawyer. “Now, place the ring on Wren’s finger.”
Sawyer reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out my ring—my ring and the band—and takes my left hand in his.
He slides the rings on one after the other—first the diamond, then the band that clicks gently into place beneath it. His hand lingers, thumb brushing once more across the back of mine.
“Sawyer Raymond Hart, do you take Wren Margaret Wilding to be your lawfully wedded wife—to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”
Sawyer doesn’t pause. His mouth lifts—not a full smile, just enough to make my stomach turn over—and he says, “I do.”
And somehow, it feels more intimate than anything he’s ever said to me.
Then the pastor turns to me.
“Wren Margaret Wilding, do you take Sawyer Raymond Hart to be your lawfully wedded husband—to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”
