Kyler
Charlottesville, Virginia
We’re supposed to be planning a wedding.
Guest lists. Venues. Flowers she doesn’t care about and a cake she won’t eat. Normal shit. Civilian shit.
But instead, she’s pulling me toward a brick courthouse in her college town in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, grinning like we’re late for something that doesn’t exist.
And I follow her.
Because I always do.
Because even when she’s spinning out and reckless and refusing to let the wreckage inside her breathe. I still love her.
Her hand is warm in mine as we cut across the lawn, and she’s humming some song she probably heard in ballet class this morning.
She looks over her shoulder at me and smiles like she’s not dragging a thousand pounds of weight behind her ribs.
Like she’s not still waking up in cold sweats.
Like South Africa didn’t rip something out of her she hasn’t been ready to name.
She hasn’t told me what happened.
Not all of it.
I was fucking there. I saw the gashes. The bruises. I cut the tape and rope from her wrists. I felt the way her pulse jumped when I touched her for the first time after.
But she won’t talk about it. Not with me. Not with her friends. She told the agency the basics. Told the debriefing officer what he needed to hear. She wasn’t sexually assaulted, the doctors in Germany confirmed that.
But the rest?
It’s locked so tight I don’t think she even knows how to find it anymore.
Still. She’s beautiful. Not in the delicate, dainty way I once thought.
But in this wild, carefree way that makes my chest ache.
Her white gauzy dress floats around her knees, and her blonde hair is down, catching sunlight like it’s woven into the strands.
She looks like a dream someone would try not to wake up from.
“You sure about this?” I ask quietly as we reach the courthouse steps.
She turns, and for a second, just a second, I see something flicker in her eyes.
Not doubt.
Just fear.
Not of me.
Of what’s still chasing her.
“I want you,” she says, brushing her fingers up my chest and fisting them gently in my shirt. “And I don’t want to wait anymore.”
I touch her chin. Tilt her face up. “I’d wait forever if you asked me to.”
“I know,” she whispers, voice cracking just a little. “But I need this now.”
There’s no one else around.
Just us and the heat off the sidewalk and the sound of distant traffic.
I press my forehead to hers. “You deserve the big wedding. The white dress. The vows under an oak tree. The champagne and dancing with your best friends by your side.”
Her manicured fingers tighten on my shirt. Her nails are always perfect. Like a chip in them would allow someone to see through her armor.
“But I’ll do it your way,” I say softly. “Any way you want. Because all I’ve ever truly wanted is you, Ivy.”
Her eyes fill, but she doesn’t blink. Instead, she kisses me, fast, sweet, and full of something sharp beneath it. Then she turns, grabbing my hand again, tugging me up the stairs like if she doesn’t move fast, she might not move at all.
I didn’t wear my dress blues. I couldn’t. They feel like a uniform for funerals and today is something else. I’m wearing khaki pants and a linen button-down, the sleeves rolled to my elbows.
She signs her name with a little flourish, fingers shaking the tiniest bit. The clerk barely looks up. There’s another couple waiting.
Ivy looks up at me, that wild, wrecked, radiant smile finally breaking through.
And for the first time in weeks—probably since I carried her out of that hellhole in South Africa—she looks light. Not like she’s pretending. Not like she’s escaping. But like something deep inside her is breathing again.
Like maybe she’s not running.
Maybe she’s not haunted.
Maybe she’s just here. With me.
Fuck, I want to believe this is enough.
We don’t wait long and the justice of the peace doesn’t waste time.
“Ivy Amelia Berkley,” he says, glancing at the paper and then back at me, “do you take this man -”
“I do,” she says, cutting him off.
She’s still looking at me. Voice steady. No shake, no stammer.
Just truth. Or maybe hope.
Then it’s my turn.
And the words hit my throat like a freight train. Not because I doubt them. Because I don’t. Not even for a second. But because saying them out loud feels like trying to pin down something that’s always shifting. Like holding on to light before it slips through your fingers.
“I do,” I say quietly. “Of course I do.”
I don’t care that she’s still broken. I don’t care that she’s not ready to talk or that she wakes up in the middle of the night, breathless and silent and shaking. I just want to be the one who’s there. The one who doesn’t leave. The one who stays even when it’s hard.
The officiant keeps talking, but I barely register the words. Something about the power vested in him. Something about commonwealth law and duly sworn vows.
And then…
“You may kiss the bride.”
I don’t grab her. I don’t pull her in like a man starved. I lean in slow. I let her feel every second of it, like I’m asking for permission even though we’ve already crossed every line.
My lips meet hers, and it’s soft. Sure. A promise without words.
It’s: I’ve got you.
It’s: You’re not alone.
It’s: Even if you never tell me what happened, I’ll carry the weight anyway.
When we break apart, she leans her forehead to mine. Eyes closed. Breathing uneven, but not from fear. From something quieter. Peace.
Or maybe something trying hard to resemble it.
“We’re married,” she whispers.
“We are,” I answer, tightening my arms around her and pressing a kiss to her hair. “You’re stuck with me now, Ivy.”
She huffs a soft breath, almost a laugh. “I think I already was.”
I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach all the way.
Because I know love like this—the kind that burns fast, fierce, and bright—can be the kind that leaves only ashes behind.
But I hold her tighter anyway. Because for now, we’re here. For now, she’s mine. And maybe if I keep telling myself that my love will be louder than her silence, then maybe time will soften the edges and one day, she’ll stop pretending she’s fine.
But deep down, I know.
I didn’t fix this.
I just caught her when she was falling.
And I’d do it again.
Even if she’s still bleeding beneath the skin. Even if this is a bandage and not a cure. Even if I’m terrified that I won’t be the thing that saves her in the end.