ROWAN
Two Weeks Before the Epilogue

The storm never came.

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We kept waiting for it—thunder rumbling in the distance, clouds bloated and bruised on the horizon—but it just hovered. Like the sky knew we had something to do tonight and decided to hold its breath.

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The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I round the side of the old chapel. Not the Otter Creek one everyone goes to on Sundays with weathered pews and gossip tucked into prayer books. This one’s hidden on the edge of some town on the outskirts of Nashville, tucked between two oaks, half-forgotten and moss-stained. Ivy found it online six weeks ago after one too many encounters with wedding planners and guest lists and people more interested in monogrammed napkins than vows.

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“I don’t need a spectacle,” she said that night, curled across my lap in bed, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “I just want you. A dress I love. And maybe a sky full of stars.”

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She has all three tonight.

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The air’s too thick for dressing up, but I’d wear a damn tux if it made her smile.

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The chapel’s already breathing light when I get there. Battery candles line the sills and pews, a soft galaxy Ivy and Bailey strung up an hour ago. I’m not the one pushing through the doors; I’m at the front where a man is supposed to be—waiting.

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Bailey slips me a thumbs-up from the second pew, the lone witness we asked for. Beside me, Ms. Ellison from the county clerk’s office—black suit, leather folio, voice like warm gravel—checks the license one more time. “Whenever you’re ready,” she murmurs. “We’ll keep it simple.”

The hinges creak. I turn.

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She’s framed in the doorway—barefoot, wildflowers pinned in her hair, a white slip dress catching every candle like it was sewn from light. For a second I forget air. She starts down the aisle alone, steady, eyes on me like there’s only one place in the room to land.

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I lock my hands together so I don’t go to her. Tradition has a job; mine is to wait.

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Halfway down she smiles—small, private—and I feel that first-day flutter detonate into something I’m never getting back from.

When she reaches me, she takes my hands like she means to keep them. “You showed up,” she whispers, the edges of it shaking.

“Like hell I’d miss this,” I say, and squeeze.

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The officiant coughs, and for a second, the world goes quiet.

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Just us.

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Just her.

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Then before I can blink it’s done.

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Her lips brush mine once. Soft. Sweet. Then again, longer, deeper, until we’re both breathing like the storm finally broke and we’re caught in the downpour.

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The only sound is the rustle of fabric as Ivy steps closer, her fingers threading through mine until our palms are flush, rings catching the candlelight between us.

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“I’m your wife,” she whispers, voice like silk and fire and everything holy.

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My throat tightens. “You are.”

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And I’m hers.

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It hits me with a force that nearly knocks the wind from my chest—that this woman, this hurricane of talent and stubbornness and soft smiles, is mine in every way that counts. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Mine.

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I cup her cheek with one hand, the other still laced with hers, and tilt her face toward mine. Her eyes flick to my mouth. Her lips part slightly.

“You good?” I murmur, brushing my thumb beneath her jaw.

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“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she says.

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And then she leans in, slow and deliberate, like she’s tasting every second of this moment.

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Her kiss is reverent. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just deep. Full. Like we’ve got nowhere to be except wrapped in each other.

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I slide my hand down her back, settling at the small dip of her spine, guiding her gently until her body is pressed fully against mine. Her breath hitches as my mouth trails down her neck, teeth grazing her collarbone. I eye the clerk and Bailey slipping out the side door. We’re alone.

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“Still good?” I ask, voice rough.

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She nods, but it’s not enough. I want to hear her say it.

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“Words, Ivy.”

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“Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.”

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Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt like she’s been waiting her whole life to undress me in a chapel. I let her, shrugging out of the fabric, heat flaring in her gaze as she drags her fingertips across my chest, pausing over the spot where her vows still echo.

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“I want you,” she whispers. “Here.”

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The candles dance. The air thickens. And I kiss her again—this time slower, deeper, a promise threaded into every slide of my lips.

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Her dress is soft beneath my hands as I push the straps down, exposing bare shoulders and the creamy skin of her back. She gasps as the fabric pools at her waist, her chest pressed tight to mine, the heat between us igniting like a match to dry hay.

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I walk her backward, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the wooden pew. She sinks down, legs parting slightly as I follow her down, my hands braced on either side of her thighs.

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I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, then another higher up, watching the way her breath stutters, her hands gripping the edge of the bench.

“This okay?” I ask again, because I need her to know I’ll always give her that choice.

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Ivy cups my face and leans forward, pulling me into a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

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“Rowan,” she murmurs, “we just promised each other forever. I want to start it right now.”

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My hands slide up her thighs, over the silk of her underwear, then back down again, slow and teasing. She arches into my touch, her hips rocking forward.

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“Tell me what you need,” I whisper.

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“You,” she gasps. “All of you.”

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And I give her exactly that.

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Right there, in the soft glow of the chapel that just made us husband and wife.

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We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times—but it still feels new. Raw. Real. Her hands tangle in my hair. My name on her lips is holy. And when she cries out, her legs tightening around me, her back arching off the bench, I fall right with her—coming undone in the only place I’ve ever truly been found.

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We don’t speak for a long while after. Just breathe, tangled and slick with sweat and emotion, the air around us thick with everything we just promised without words.

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Eventually, she rests her forehead to mine.

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“We should probably… get out of here,” she says on a breathless laugh.

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I kiss the tip of her nose. “Probably.”

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“But also…” Her eyes sparkle. “Let’s do that again. Just slower.”

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I groan into her neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Mrs. Wright.”

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She hums, playful and smug. “You love it.”

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“I do,” I murmur against her skin. “I really, really do.”

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The chapel doors creak as I push them open, Ivy’s hand snug in mine. The night air is warm, thick with honeysuckle and the distant hum of cicadas. The gravel crunches beneath our boots—hers white and strappy, mine scuffed and dusty—and I swear the moon shines a little brighter now.

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Maybe it’s just her.

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Maybe it always has been.

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She walks barefoot across the grass toward the truck, her heels hooked by one finger, dress bunched in her other hand to keep it from dragging. Her hair’s messy now, tumbling down her back, lips a little swollen, cheeks flushed. I’ve never seen her more beautiful.

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“You know we’re gonna have to tell them soon,” she says, glancing back at me.

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“I know.”

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“Like… before the weekend.”

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“Mm.” I pretend to think. “Or we just don’t, and see who figures it out first.”

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She stops beside the truck, smirking. “Lila would notice the rings in five minutes. Hadley would scream. Bailey will keep the secret though.”

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I chuckle, stepping behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. “Crew’ll think it’s hilarious.”

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“And your dad?”

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“He’ll act surprised. Then call me a damn romantic.”

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She leans her head back against my chest, quiet for a moment. “I like having it just ours for now.”

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“Me too.”

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I press a kiss to the crown of her head. Her skin still smells like lilacs and something sweeter I can’t name—something that belongs only to her.

When we climb into the truck, she shifts across her seat, leaning over the console, one leg folded beneath her, her palm over my heart like she’s checking it’s still beating the same.

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It’s not.

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It never will again.

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“Do you think it’s too early to start planning our honeymoon?” she teases, chin tipped up toward me.

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“Depends.” I arch a brow. “How long can I keep you to myself?”

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Her smile softens, fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest. “Forever sounds about right.”

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I pull her in close, her ring glinting faintly under the dashboard lights, and I kiss her again. This time it’s soft. Unhurried. Like we’ve got a lifetime to keep discovering each other.

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Because we do.

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I pull away just enough to whisper, “Let’s tell them Saturday. Big family dinner. Backyard lights. Fireflies and cobbler and shock.”

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She laughs into my neck. “Perfect.”

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And then we drive home under a sky full of stars, a secret between us and the road, the future wide open and waiting.

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Just like her hand in mine.

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Just like my heart.

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