Chapter Five #2
“Town,” said Macon, already heading for the stairs. “You’re witnessing something.”
Jojo blinked, the realization dawning in real time as his eyes ping-ponged between us. He glanced at the ring on my finger, then at the identical one on Macon’s, and clapped both hands to his mouth.
For a second, I thought he might pass out from excitement. Instead, he did a little hop, scattering flour like pixie dust, and sprinted for the mudroom.
I had a second to breathe before Macon reappeared at the top of the stairs, already changed into a shirt with actual buttons and a collar, which must have taken years off his life expectancy. He looked ridiculous and perfect. He pointed at me. “You good to ride?”
It took a beat to realize he meant the truck, not the other thing. “Yeah,” I said, then, “Can we take five minutes to at least rinse the river gunk off my jeans?”
He nodded, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
I scrambled up the stairs and found a pair of clean pants and a soft blue t-shirt, neither of which matched, but both of which fit. My hands shook as I pulled the jeans up over my belly.
Thank God for elastic waistbands.
I took a quick glance in the mirror: face flushed, hair wild, lips still pink from the river wind. I looked—happy. Not put-together, not presentable, but happy.
It was new, and I liked it.
When I got back downstairs, Macon was waiting by the door, fidgeting with the keys.
He slipped a hand around my waist, careful to avoid the part of me that was still tender, and guided me out to the truck.
Jojo was already in the backseat, bouncing with so much energy I thought he might rupture something.
“Rawley?” I asked, just as Macon started the ignition.
Macon snorted. “He’s finishing a call. If he’s not out in one minute, we leave him.”
Jojo leaned forward, voice at a whisper. “Is this really happening?”
I twisted to face him, and the look in his eyes was so pure, so unfiltered, that it made my throat ache. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s really happening.”
We both looked up as the front door banged and Rawley stormed down the walk, hands shoved in his jacket pockets and a scowl parked on his face. He got in, shut the door with surgical precision, and glared at Macon. “You could have waited.”
“We did,” said Macon. “For a whole sixty seconds.”
Rawley looked at me, at the ring, and at Macon’s hand on my leg. His mouth did a weird, twisty thing, but he just said, “Let’s go.”
Macon peeled out of the driveway like he was responding to a code red.
The ride to town was fast and silent, except for the radio, which played nothing but country ballads and intermittent static. I spent the drive half in a daze, my hand never leaving Macon’s.
The world outside blurred into new-green fields and distant fences, the sky so clear it looked like a stage backdrop. Every minute, Macon would squeeze my hand like he thought I might vanish if he let go.
Jojo hummed along with the radio. Every time I glanced in the rearview, he gave me a thumbs-up.
Rawley was a black hole of commentary, but he didn’t look angry. If anything, he seemed relieved, like this was an outcome he’d always hoped for, but never dared suggest.
We hit town in record time. Main Street was all but deserted—too early for the weekend crowd, too late for breakfast traffic.
Macon parked directly in front of the county clerk’s office, ignoring the “permit parking only” sign with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how much shit the local sheriff would put up with from him.
Inside, the clerk—an elderly woman with cat-eye glasses and the patience of a saint—barely blinked when we told her what we needed.
She slid a clipboard across the counter and pointed to the lines.
“Names, birthdates, signatures. Both of you.” Her gaze lingered on my hand, on the subtle swelling at my stomach, and she gave me a slow, warm smile that felt like an inheritance.
We signed the forms. Rawley and Jojo each took a line as witness. Jojo added a heart next to his name and giggled so hard he almost dropped the pen.
Macon squeezed my shoulder as we waited for the certificate. “You sure about this?”
I looked at him, really looked. The lines around his eyes, the scar on his left brow, the patch of skin on his chin that would never quite grow in a full beard. I looked at the ring on my finger, at his hand on my arm, at the clerk smiling at us from behind her stack of forms.
I nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
The wedding itself was barely a minute—clerk reciting the standard language, us standing in front of a faded flag, exchanging rings again for the camera phone Jojo insisted on using. We kissed, soft and fast and careful, and the room erupted in polite applause.
Jojo cheered. Rawley just shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
They gave us a temporary certificate and told us the official one would come in the mail. Macon folded the document, slid it in his pocket, and caught my gaze. His eyes were damp, but he didn’t look away.
We left the office to find the sky even bluer, the air sharp with the promise of rain that wouldn’t come for hours. We piled back in the truck, and for the first time, it really did feel like a family.
On the way home, Jojo insisted on stopping for pie at the diner, even though it was barely noon. We sat in a vinyl booth, all four of us, and demolished two slices each. Macon watched me eat, the old pride replaced by something softer, warmer, like he’d finally given himself permission to believe.
Back at the ranch, Rawley walked us to the porch, then pulled Macon into a hug so tight I thought something might snap. He did the same for me, holding on a beat longer than I expected. When he stepped back, his eyes were wet, but he just coughed and said, “You did good, Little Brother.”
Jojo made us pose for three more pictures, then vanished inside the house. He’d barely closed the door before I felt Macon’s arms around me, strong and certain.
He pressed his lips to my temple. “You’re my omega now. Officially.”
I grinned, the joy so big it barely fit inside my skin. “You’re my alpha. Try not to fuck it up.”
He laughed, a full, wild sound, then swept me up and carried me over the threshold, wedding-night style, even though I was almost thirty and wearing sweats. I didn’t even try to protest. It felt right.
We stood in the quiet hallway, our arms full of each other and the future, the rings on our fingers gleaming in the soft spring light.
“Home,” I said, and he nodded.
“Home.”
* * * *
That night, the house was quieter than any place I’d ever lived. Even the pipes, notorious for their haunted groans, seemed to hush out of respect for the new order of things.
Macon and I lay side by side in the old guest bed, covers kicked down to the footboard. Our hands were twined together, fingers locked so tight that when the moon shifted through the window and hit our rings, it looked like a closed circuit, a loop with no way out and no reason to want one.
Neither of us said much at first. There was a good hour where we just traced the scars and whorls of each other’s skin, counting the breaths, the new beats of our own hearts.
But after a while, the future started to creep in.
“Where do you want to live?” I asked, surprising both of us.
Macon rolled onto his side, propped himself on one elbow, and looked at me like I was the only person left on earth. “I figured we’d stay here for now. Rawley would have a fit if I stole you away already.”
I snorted. “He’s got Jojo. He’ll survive.”
There was a beat, then: “You don’t want to move into the Hargrove place?” His voice was neutral, but I could feel the carefulness behind the question.
I shook my head. “It’s a palace. And haunted by Victor’s energy.
All the bathrooms have gold faucets. It’s a lot.
” I hesitated, then pushed ahead, because today had been about saying the real thing and not the thing that kept people happy.
“I want something that’s ours. Not a legacy, not a mausoleum. Just… us.”
Macon smiled, slow and wide, then leaned down to press his forehead to mine. “I’ve always wanted to build a house. Not a mansion. Just a place where the walls knew our story. We could pick a spot down by the river, build it up from nothing.”
The thought of it—a place that started with us, not my father, not the Steeles, not even the damn goats—sent a surge of heat through my chest.
I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, hard enough that his teeth scraped my lip. He didn’t complain. He just pulled me on top of him, letting my body settle where it wanted, his hands tracing the new shape of me like he was mapping something holy.
“You’re good with your hands,” I said, and he laughed, muffled under my hair.
He cupped the back of my skull, then brushed the hair from my forehead. “You make me want things I never thought I could have. You know that, right?”
I nodded against his throat, breathing in the scent of skin and sweat and the faintest trace of sawdust.
We lay there, tangled together, the rise of my belly pressed to his ribs, our legs knotted in a way that would have made a chiropractor wince. I felt his palm span the small of my back, thumb stroking lazy circles over the stretched skin.
“I love you,” I said, and didn’t flinch from it.
He squeezed me so tight I thought I’d split, then whispered, “Mine,” into the space behind my ear.
The word wasn’t a cage. It was a release.
Later, when the moon had crawled across half the sky, I found myself on my back, Macon’s hand resting over my heart, his breathing slow and even. I stared at the ceiling, at the new shadows cast by the future we’d just signed into being.
I thought of every version of myself—the one who tried to disappear in cities, the one who nearly ran away to Portugal, the one who spent an entire childhood invisible except as a punch line. None of them felt real anymore. They were just stories I used to tell myself to survive the emptiness.
This was different. This was substance. This was having someone who saw you, every broken part, and said, “I want this one. He’s the one.”
I ran my thumb over the silver band on Macon’s finger, then on mine, anchoring myself to the weight of it.
“You still awake?” he mumbled, voice half sleep, half promise.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I don’t want to miss any of this.”
He turned, so our faces were just inches apart, and smiled. “I won’t let you.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the rain start up again outside, the soft creak of the house settling, the steady rhythm of Macon’s heartbeat under my palm.
When I finally drifted off, it was with the certainty that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Home, at last.