22. Shanay
Twenty Two
Shanay
I don’t cry when I slip into the dress.
Or when Brie zips it up and Tara gasps, “Oh my god, you look like a walking sin.”
I don’t cry when I see the little white lace veil clipped into my curls, or when Aunt May hands me a bouquet of soft spring peonies tied in a ribbon the exact shade of Mike’s eyes.
I don’t cry when the music starts.
But the second I step outside and see him?
Yeah. That’s when I almost break.
—-
We kept it small.
Misty Mountain’s version of small still means half the town turned up, but the ceremony’s held at the lookout point. Snowcapped peaks in the distance, soft green budding on the trees, the sun high and golden.
Mike stands at the end of the aisle in a crisp dark shirt and rolled-up sleeves, a simple boutonniere pinned to his chest. No tie. No jacket.
He looks like he couldn’t care less what anyone thinks.
Except he does.
Because when I take my first step down the aisle, he forgets to breathe.
His chest rises once—deep and sharp—like he’s been holding it in for weeks and can’t anymore.
And then his jaw locks.
His hands flex at his sides.
And his eyes—God, his eyes—burn into me like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
—-
I walk slow.
Not because I’m nervous.
Because I want him to look.
The dress is off-white, fitted, hugging every curve he’s already ruined and worshipped a hundred times.
My veil is short, my heels are low, and my lips are painted in the shade he once growled “mine” against.
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t blink.
He just stares like I’m the only fucking thing in the world that matters.
When I reach him, I don’t wait for a cue.
I take his hand.
His fingers wrap around mine and hold tight.
Still no smile.
But his voice—when he leans in close enough for only me to hear?
Low. Rough. Unsteady.
“I’m gonna fuck you in this dress later.”
I nearly laugh.
I nearly faint.
“Not if I fuck you first,” I whisper back.
That earns me a low rumble in his chest.
The kind I feel.
—-
The vows are short.
The kiss is long.
His hand grips my hip when I lean in, just a little harder than he should in front of a crowd.
And when Clara declares, “You may kiss the bride,” he doesn’t just kiss me.
He claims me.
All over again.
And I let him.
Because I’m his.
Forever.