Gage #3
Rosie lets out a delighted gasp. “HE SAID UNFAIR. That’s love language.”
My mom nods fiercely like she’s on Rosie’s team in some invisible tournament. “It is!”
My dad, calm as ever, mutters, “We’re going to need to calm down.”
Linda says, “No we’re not,” through tears, and Reece’s dad gives up and just smiles like he’s proud and devastated at the same time.
Reece steps closer, and I realize my hands are still clasped like I’m holding onto my own sanity. She reaches for them—just takes them—and it steadies me immediately.
Of course it does.
Her fingers squeeze once, and her voice drops so only I can hear it. “You okay?”
The fact that she’s checking on me when she’s the one about to walk down the aisle is so Reece it almost makes me laugh.
“I am now,” I admit.
She narrows her eyes like she knows, then she smiles anyway—merciful. “Okay.”
And because the room is full of witnesses and my mother is vibrating and Rosie is basically vibrating in a different font, Reece tilts her head, sweet and wicked, and says at a perfectly normal volume:
“Don’t cry.”
Rosie whispers loudly, “If he cries, I will cry, and then I will sue everyone.”
I take Reece’s hands and lift them, pressing my mouth to her knuckles because it’s the only thing I can do without breaking apart. It’s warm. Real. Grounding.
Reece’s breath catches. Her eyes soften.
I look up at her and let the truth live in my face for a second.
“You look…” I pause. “Like the best day of my life.”
Her laugh turns into a blink-blink-don’t-cry attempt. “Gage.”
“Too much?” I ask softly, teasing just enough to keep her breathing.
She shakes her head, a tiny smile. “No. Just… don’t make me ugly-cry before I even get to the ceremony.”
Rosie appears at her shoulder instantly. “If you ugly-cry, I have setting spray and a vision.”
My mom nods like she’s part of the glam squad. “We have backup plans.”
Patrick mutters, “There are so many women in this room.”
My dad claps him on the shoulder. “It’s safer not to fight it.”
Reece laughs again, and it’s the most beautiful sound.
Somewhere behind us, Rosie makes a noise like she just won an Olympic medal.
My mom whispers, “I’m going to explode,” and Linda whispers, “Me too,” and both dads suddenly become very interested in the ceiling.
Reece pulls back first, smiling like she’s trying to tuck the moment into her pocket.
“Okay,” she breathes. “Now we do the part where we pretend we’re normal in public.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You’re asking a lot.”
She squeezes my hands. “Try.”
“I will,” I say, and it’s not a joke. It’s a vow before the vows.
A knock sounds at the door—someone with the gentle urgency of schedules and ceremonies and the world waiting outside.
“Five minutes,” a voice calls.
The room shifts. Moms wipe tears. Dads straighten jackets. Rosie adjusts the bouquet like she’s handling sacred relics.
Reece’s eyes hold mine one more time—quiet, steady, brave.
My chest tightens with love so big it feels like it should have its own weather system.
“I’ll see you out there,” I tell her.
Reece smiles, soft and sure. “Yes you will.”
I step back, forcing my body to cooperate, and the room parts like it knows this moment matters.
As I head toward the door, Rosie leans in and whispers, “If you mess this up, I will haunt you.”
I whisper back, deadpan, “Noted.”
My mom calls after me, voice thick with joy, “Go marry her, honey.”
I turn one last time.
Reece is glowing—nervous and happy and loved, surrounded by the people who raised us, the people who kept showing up, the people who always knew this was coming.
And then I walk out.
Down the hallway.
Toward the ceremony.
Toward the aisle.
Toward the moment where I get to choose her out loud, in front of every witness we’ve ever had.
My father stands near me, calm and steady, and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, and it’s the easiest yes of my life.
“She’s incredible,” he says softly.
“I know,” I whisper.
Reece comes down the aisle and my brain does a strange, wonderful thing—it flashes through years.
Porch lights.
Train rides.
Her saying “always.”
Her laugh returning after heartbreak.
Her hand in mine on the train like it belonged there.
And now—this.
The moment where everything we’ve been building becomes official without needing to be loud about it.
Reece steps up to me.
Her eyes shine.
She whispers, just for me, “If you cry, I’m going to pretend I didn’t see it.”
I let out a breathy laugh. “If I cry, you’ll definitely see it.”
Her mouth curves. “Fair.”
We say vows that aren’t grand speeches.
They’re honest. Specific. The kind of promises you can actually live inside.
When it’s my turn, my hands are steady even though my chest isn’t.
“Reece,” I say, and my voice catches on her name like it always has, like my body still can’t believe I get to say it here—out loud—forever. “You’ve spent years carrying everything like you had to. Like needing someone meant you were asking for too much.”
Her eyes shine, and my throat tightens.
“I’m not going to love you like that,” I tell her. “I’m going to love you like you’re allowed to lean. Like you’re allowed to breathe. Like you’re allowed to be held without paying for it with guilt.”
She makes a tiny sound—half laugh, half emotion.
“I promise I’ll be steady,” I say. “Not just when life is easy. When you’re overwhelmed. When the world is loud. When your brain is running a hundred miles an hour and you’re trying to pretend you’re fine.”
I swallow hard. “I promise I’ll protect your peace. I’ll protect your heart. I’ll protect the life you’ve built—and I will never make you feel like you have to shrink to fit inside mine.”
Her breath shudders, and my chest goes tight with something that feels like awe.
“And yes,” I add, because I’m still me and I still need her smile, “I promise I’ll always make your cocoa with marshmallows. Not two marshmallows. A reckless amount. A medically irresponsible amount.”
She laughs—real laughter—and the room softens with it.
“I promise I’ll warm up our car before you come outside, and I’ll pretend not to notice when you steal my heat vent like it’s a crime you’re proud of.”
Her eyes crinkle, and I can see her trying not to cry, which makes me want to pull her into my chest and keep her there.
“But here’s the serious part,” I say, and my voice drops lower. “I will provide for you in every way that matters. Not because you can’t— because you deserve to be chosen. You deserve to be cared for without having to earn it.”
I take a breath.
Her tears slip free then, and my chest cracks open in the best way.
“And if you ever forget,” I finish softly, “I’ll remind you. The way I always have. I’ll show up. I’ll stay. I’ll love you—steady, safe, and sure—until it’s the only thing you feel.”
When it’s her turn, Reece exhales like she’s stepping off a ledge and into something solid.
“Gage,” she says, voice shaking, and then she laughs because of course she does. “You’ve set the bar so high it’s honestly offensive.”
The room chuckles, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“I promise I’m not running anymore,” she says, eyes bright. “I’m staying. I’m choosing hope. I’m choosing you. And I promise I’ll let myself be loved the way you’ve loved me all along—without apologizing for it.”
I blink hard, because my eyes are doing something dramatic and my mom is absolutely going to be smug about it later.
“I promise to be honest,” she continues, softer now, “even when honesty scares me. I promise to tell you when I’m spiraling instead of pretending I’m fine. I promise to let you in—fully—because you’ve never once made it unsafe.”
Her hand trembles as she reaches for mine, and I lace our fingers together like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been ours.
“And,” she adds, a little mischief slipping in, “I promise to keep you humble.”
I lift a brow.
She smiles through tears. “I will still turn your radio down.”
The room laughs. I do too—low, helpless—because that’s my girl.
“And I promise,” she finishes, voice steadying, “to choose you back. Not because you’re easy. Because you’re my love, my best friend, and my home.”
When we say “I do,” it doesn’t feel like a beginning.
It feels like a continuation—like the next page finally got written.
At the reception, the laughter is constant.
My mother is unstoppable—thriving in a way that suggests she personally invented joy. She’s dancing with a grin so wide it’s contagious, dragging my dad in. My father lets her, smiling so much his face looks unfamiliar in the best way.
Reece’s parents keep looking at us like they can’t believe we’re real adults now, like at any moment someone is going to tell them we’re still eight and about to build a blanket fort that “connects our houses.”
Rosie gives a toast that starts sincere and immediately becomes a roast.
“I would like to formally accept your apology,” Rosie says into the mic, voice booming through the room. “For ignoring my matchmaking prophecy since high school.”
Reece and I exchange a look—one part love, one part surrender.
Then, perfectly synchronized, deadpan, we say, “We’re sorry.”
The entire room laughs. Rosie wipes a tear dramatically like she’s receiving an award. “Thank you. This is healing.”
Reece leans into my side and whispers, “She’s never going to let us live.”
I kiss her temple. “Nope.”
We dance under twinkle lights. We eat cake. We laugh until our faces hurt. We are so loved it feels like the room can’t contain it—like the air is thick with every person who watched us grow up and kept waiting for us to catch up.
And later—much later—when the building quiets down and our guests drift out into the spring air in soft clusters, Reece and I step outside for a breath.
The night is cool. The grass smells sweet. The sky is clear.
Reece slips her hand into mine, her ring catching the light, and exhales like she’s letting go of a weight she carried for years.
She looks up at me, eyes soft and bright, and her voice is low—private.
“Turns out the love of my life was literally next door,” she says.
I smile. “Convenient.”
“Rude,” she adds.
“Perfect,” I finish.
Reece laughs, leaning her forehead to mine.
My chest tightens. I kiss her slow—steady, sure.
When I pull back, she smiles—warm, full—and says the line that makes everything in me settle like it always has when she says something true:
“Now I get to call my best friend…”
She pauses, eyes flicking with mischief.
“…my husband.”
I laugh, low and helpless, and pull her closer, arm firm around her waist like I’ve earned the right to keep her there.
Reece squeezes my hand. “And for the record,” she adds, voice sweet and smug, “I will still be turning your radio down in the morning.”
I tilt my head. “Even as your husband?”
“Especially as my husband,” she says. “It’s my constitutional right.”
I look out over the quiet grounds—the twinkle lights fading behind us, spring air wrapping around us like a promise—and it hits me all over again:
Next door became forever.
Not suddenly. Not magically.
In a thousand small choices.
And now—out loud.
We go back inside to our people. Back into the warmth. Back into the life we’re celebrating.
And this time, when we show up—
it’s not as neighbors. It’s as forever.