Then held up a ring.
Not huge.
Not flashy.
Perfect.
“Emily Rose Whitaker,” he said, voice shaking, “I once refused to fake-marry you because you deserved honesty.”
My chest tightened.
“I still believe that.”
He swallowed.
“So honestly, I love you. Not because you survived. Not because you were sick. Not because I wanted to save someone after losing Lucy.”
His eyes shone.
“I love you because you are bossy, impossible, brave when you have to be and dramatic when coffee is bad. I love you because you reclaimed a wedding, a body, a future, and somehow my life too.”
I was crying.
Of course I was.
“I don’t know how many years any of us get,” he said. “But I know I want mine beside you.”
Meatball barked once, as if voting.
Owen looked annoyed.
“Please ignore him.”
I laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
Owen froze.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He stood too fast and nearly slipped on the kitchen rug.
I kissed him while the smoke alarm screamed.
It was perfect.
Our real wedding was small.
Forty people.
Backyard.
No rented actor.
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