“May I?”
“Now you ask?”
“Always.”
“Yes.”
He kissed me.
Not the careful public kiss we had practiced.
His hands trembled against my jaw. Mine caught the lapels of his suit. Emotion made the first contact clumsy and the second deep.
The cheers became louder.
Someone whistled.
Not our signal.
Just noise.
When Reid drew back, his eyes were wet.
“Husband,” he whispered.
The word struck differently now that it was true.
“Husband.”
His smile was the one I had learned without memory.
Hope permitted to remain.
The reception stayed in the loft.
Talia’s food truck provided dinner. Miriam brought pear cakes. Marian guarded the schedule with enough authority to keep speeches short and guests fed.
Caleb spoke for three minutes about the first time I corrected Reid’s wiring plan during a job interview.
Reid objected to several facts.
No one believed him.
Owen described me as the only man he knew who could forget six years and still remember exactly how Owen mislabeled drawers.
I threatened to revise his inventory access.
Leah spoke about childhood.
Not the painful parts.
The time I dismantled the family toaster at nine and rebuilt it with three unnecessary lights. The winter I slept beside a sick dog because I believed no one should be frightened alone. The way I had always chosen repair before replacement, even when people were more complicated than machines.
“I used to think that was stubbornness,” she said. “Now I think it was hope.”
I had to look down.
Reid’s hand covered mine beneath the table.