64. Dean
Dean
The world had gone quiet, except for the sound of her breath against his chest.
Dean lay on his back, watching her in the soft lamp light. Her cheeks were still flushed, her hair a mess, her lips swollen from kissing him.
His heart felt too big for his chest.
Fiona—his wife, his fiancée —was curled toward him, one arm draped over his ribs. Her breathing had slowed. Not asleep, but close.
He looked down at her hand where it rested on him. Bare. Familiar. Sacred.
He lifted it gently, brushing his thumb across her fingers, one by one. The soft pad of her ring finger, smooth and empty. Not for long.
“I’m going to put a ring on this,” he whispered, more vow than promise.
Fiona blinked slowly, her smile lazy and warm. “You already did.”
Dean kissed her knuckles. “A new ring for a new husband. A better husband.”
She tilted her head toward him. “You want to have another wedding?”
He imagined watching Fiona walk toward him in something simple and beautiful, her face radiant with joy. He imagined promising himself to her. He imagined Fiona putting a ring on his finger, claiming him, forgiving him, loving him, choosing him.
He grinned, a little sheepish, at how strongly he felt. “Yes. Backyard. String lights. Your kids making the centerpiece art.”
“They’re really into glitter right now,” she warned him, arching an eyebrow.
He kissed her hand again. “You can cover me in glitter, Fiona. Just marry me again.”
She didn’t answer. She just looked at him for a long, quiet moment—like she was memorizing the face of the man she’d chosen twice.
Her fingers curled into his.
And Dean felt it in his bones: this time, he was going to get it right.