Page 5 of Yours, Now and Always
His eyes lock to mine.
And the love I see in them knocks the air straight out of my lungs.
“As far as I’m concerned, you said your vows to me the other night.”
“No, I didn’t,” I whisper. “I proposed. I didn’t make promises. I didn’t tell you?—”
“Amelia,” he says, his thumb grazing my cheek, his hand steady on my jaw. “You came back to me.”
A beat.
A breath.
A truth so big I swear the room tilts around it.
“You showed up and walked straight through that crowd just to get to me. You looked me in the eye, in front of the whole damn world, and told me I was yours.”
His fingers press a little firmer. Not rough. Claiming.
“You think I need vows?” His voice is low. Wrecked in a way only love can be. “Princess, youwerethe vow. Coming back to me that night...thatwas your promise. That was your love. No speech you give today can top that. You walked through fire and found your way home. And I felt every goddamn step.” He leans in, his forehead almost touching mine. “You don’t have to tell me how you feel or what you’ll do. You already showed me.”
Tears are now tracking down my face. Probably making me full raccoon now. But since my man doesn’t care, I choose not to either.
Instead, I say, “You’re so annoyingly good at this.” My voice is shaky. “I imagined a perfect wedding...I wanted to make it perfect for you. And you just...” I gesture vaguely at his entire being. “...show up in a suit and ruin me instead.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just waits in his intense way. Not moving until I say yes.
So, I sniff and wipe under one eye with the back of my hand, and murmur, “Okay, let’s get married.” I put my hand to his chest. “Give me five minutes.”
His brows lift. Only slightly. Like he’s amused, but also one second away from throwing me over his shoulder.
“I’m not going far,” I add. “I just need to...remove the emotional mascara flood situation, maybe reapply some deodorant, and find a bra that isn’t trying to quit life.”
“Five minutes, Amelia. And then you’re mine.”
I spin on bare feet, sprint-walk toward the bedroom, calling over my shoulder, “Five minutes! Maybe ten! Maybe don’t count!”
The door slams behind me and I immediately lose three seconds just standing there blinking at the wall as if it’s going to give me divine guidance.
Okay. Focus. This is fine. You’re just getting married. In a living room. After crying. And raccoon-mascara streaming down your face.
Totally normal Wednesday.
I strip at warp speed and ransack my closet like it’s hiding the Holy Grail of Emergency Wedding Outfits.
Spoiler: it is not.
I land on a black slip dress I bought on clearance and have never worn because it’s “too much cleavage for a school recital” and “not enough cleavage for a date.”
Perfect.
Shoes? I look at them. They look back. We both agree today isn’t the day.
Bra? Sure. Is it the right one? No. Is it clean? Unclear.
Deodorant? Applied like I’m painting for my life.
Makeup? We’re doing the Lord’s work with concealer and a lash curler. The mascara’s gone rogue. We’re letting it go.
