Accidentally Married for Christmas in July (You've Got a Match #4)

37. Bex #2

Kit inhales, gaze sweeping the room. Then, in a gentle tone, she says, "I should probably move some things here."

My pulse does a small jump, but it isn't panic. The suggestion feels right. I just nod. "You should," I agree, scanning her face.

She arches an eyebrow. "Like, more than just a toothbrush and a stack of binder tabs."

I grin. "More than that, yes. A few clothes, maybe. A pillow you like."

Her expression softens into a real smile. "All right, we'll make it official. I'll gather stuff over the next week."

A weight I hadn't realized I was carrying slides off my shoulders. It's that simple. We're out of the limbo of are we or aren't we and into something that looks a lot like the real thing.

She glances at a note on the fellowship schedule, then turns to me again. "We should also probably tell people."

I snort, leaning back into the sofa cushions. "You mean about the." I glance pointedly at her left hand, which bears the thin film camera tattoo we'd done, and the ring that she wears on occasion.

Kit nods, a wry tilt to her mouth. "Yes. Our entire we're-technically-married situation. Sofia knows, Nico knows. Your parents have a more general sense. Jordan probably guessed all of it. But my parents." She trails off.

I breathe out. "Right. They still think we're just dating."

"They do," Kit says. "I want to tell them in person. I was thinking Thanksgiving, if that's all right with you. I know it's not a small thing to come to Wellesley for a holiday."

I toss my notepad aside, turning toward her fully. "So you want me to come to Wellesley for Thanksgiving. As your wife."

She holds my gaze. "I want to bring my wife to Thanksgiving, yes."

The straightforwardness of that sentence sinks in. It's the first time either of us has plainly said it without disclaimers or jokes at the end. My throat tightens with a surge of emotion, the kind that's equal parts disbelief and joy. I manage a nod.

"Okay," I breathe.

Her eyes glimmer, and she exhales like she'd been waiting, maybe half afraid I'd refuse. "Okay," she echoes.

I drop my gaze to her hand, finding the slender lines of that camera tattoo. I reach over, tracing the ink with my thumb. She watches me silently, her expression open and warm.

Then I lean over to the drafting table, rummaging through the top drawer.

Buried under some pens and spare sketches are two slender silver rings, the ones we'd gotten that wild night in New Orleans, the ones we'd kept quiet about.

I'd stashed them here after returning from Hollyvale, not certain what to do with them.

I set them on the coffee table, right between the scattered fellowship papers. The overhead lamp casts a faint sheen across the rings.

Kit's breath catches. She lifts one, turning it over between her fingers. Then she glances at me.

I swallow. We'd never had a conversation about wearing them in everyday life, fear and caution had kept me from pushing it. But it feels like the time to set that caution aside.

Wordlessly, Kit pushes the ring onto her own finger. The fit is exact, never altered from the day we'd impulsively sized them in the chapel. She offers me the other ring. I take it with a hand that trembles just enough for me to notice.

I slide it on. The metal feels cool at first, but warms against my skin instantly. Something about that moment, two simple rings on the coffee table, overshadowing even the official documents for her fellowship, feels like the real vow we'd been waiting to make.

We sit like that, quiet, letting the shift sink in.

Outside, Brooklyn exists in its usual clamor of activity.

A siren wails a few blocks away. A neighbor's voice filters through the open window.

The mundane chaos somehow makes this moment more meaningful, because the world has no idea how big it is.

I turn my hand, seeing where the ring catches the lamp's reflection. Then I look at Kit. "You know," I say half under my breath, "from a documentary perspective, we have a pretty good origin story."

She narrows her eyes in that playful, exasperated way. "We are not the documentary."

I can't help a grin. "I'm just saying: impulsive wedding, hidden marriage, best friend's sister. It's a pretty convincing narrative arc."

A laugh sputters out of her. "If you want a cameo, I'll give you a cameo. But I'm putting you in the acknowledgments and that's final."

I press a palm against my chest in mock satisfaction. "Aw, that's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said."

She lets out a real laugh, a warm, unreserved sound that vibrates through me. I recognize the timbre as hers, the unguarded Kit I'd half expected never to see again after our meltdown in Hollyvale. But here she is, in my apartment, wearing our wedding ring, about to build the life she truly wants.

I breathe her in, letting that moment register as deeply as it deserves. This is it: the partial chaos, the unpolished edges, the stolen victory of choosing each other despite all the reasons we could have said no.

We end up sinking back into the couch, my feet in her lap, the fellowship paperwork strewn around us.

My phone buzzes a few more times with congratulatory messages from Nico, who'd apparently decided to spam me with progressively more ridiculous digital stickers.

I chuck the phone aside after glancing at them.

Kit clears some space on the coffee table so the papers won't get mixed up with the inevitable clutter.

At one point, she reaches over and brushes my hair behind my ear. "I'm nervous," she admits softly. "About telling my parents. About moving here full time. All of it."

I nod. "I know. But we'll handle it."

She exhales. "We can call them tomorrow to set the Thanksgiving plan in motion?"

"Sure," I say, my voice easy. Because once you've quietly maintained a marriage for months without their knowledge, inviting them to a turkey dinner is basically small potatoes.

Kit's mouth curves in a small grin, like she recognizes the irony too. She gives my ankle a gentle squeeze. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being calm when I'm anxious," she says, "and for letting me be anxious when you're calm."

I shrug, the corners of my lips lifting. "It's how we roll."

She leans in, pressing her forehead against my shoulder. I soak in the warmth. My gaze drops to the ring, it still catches the light in that subtle, grounding way. And I realize I'm breathing freely, deeply, like I'm not waiting for the next shoe to drop.

The world outside is still busy. The apartment, though, feels like its own contained sphere of possibility.

The next several months will be complicated, sure.

We have families to convince, trains to ride, fellowship tasks to meet, a film to make.

And somewhere in all that, I'll keep inking new art, keep building my half-sketched projects.

Kit pulls back, noticing where my attention had gone. She lifts her left hand, showing the camera tattoo perched above her wrist bone, right where a watch might normally sit. She traces it with a fingertip. Then she taps the ring. "I guess we're official, Mrs. Russo-Bennett-or-whatever-we-are."

I catch a small laugh. "I guess we are."

She exhales, lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. "Feels pretty good."