HARPER
The air hums with late afternoon sun and the scent of roasted figs, honeyed grapes, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke curling up from the brazier pits near the orchard.
Outside, the vineyard spills toward the hills in ribbons of deep green and gold, the vines heavy-laden, ready to surrender their fruit.
The Harvest Festival is in full bloom—laughter rings from the courtyard, live strings drift between the tents, and every path is strung with lanterns that haven’t yet burned.
Inside the dressing room tucked behind the event hall’s grand entrance, the light is softer, golden and hushed.
The walls are lined in vintage brocade, the floor padded with Persian rugs, and a gilded mirror framed in rosewood reflects back at me—me, in this deep red gown, the color of ripe pomegranate juice, hugging my waist before flaring at the hips.
The gold embroidery along the neckline catches the sun like threads of fire.
I press both hands to the soft curve beneath the fabric, the swell of my belly a quiet, steady truth I still can’t believe is real.
Sophia is beside me, laughing at her own reflection, one hand fluttering over her mouth. “Do I look like a cupcake or a bride?”
I turn, grinning. “A little of both. But mostly a bride. A very freaked out bride.”
She lets out a snort, tugging at her sleeves. Ivory lace, blush embroidery, tulle sweeping down her back like spun sugar. Her veil is pinned loosely, falling in loose curls behind her. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this. Right here. Right now.”
“You’ve been planning this for months,” I remind her, stepping closer, adjusting the sash at her waist. “You even made the vows rhyme.”
She groans, but her eyes sparkle. “I was emotionally compromised. Enzo said something about stars and roots and okay, yes, I wrote rhymes. But only because you told me to stop overthinking it.”
“I just said, say what you mean.” My voice drops, warm. “You did.”
We stand there for a breath, quiet. Then Sophia grabs my hand. Her fingers are ice-cold. “Harper. You’re glowing. Like, literally. Are you eating enough? Did Asher make you eat before the ceremony?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. He brought me a plate at nine this morning. Eggs, figs, a croissant, and a shot of espresso. Told me to ‘sustain the miracle.’”
She giggles. “He’s such a dad already.”
My chest tightens, just for a second.
Outside, the chimes ring—soft, three notes, echoing through the garden. The private ceremony is about to begin.
“Ready?” I ask.
She inhales, shaky. “Yes. No. Yes.”
I squeeze her hand one last time and step back as the door opens.
Killian appears, dark-suited, his hair combed back, eyes flickering over Sophia like she’s just stepped out of a dream.
He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for her.
And she takes his hand like she’s been waiting her whole life to do it.
The procession is small. No marches, no pomp. Just the string quartet picking up a folk tune, birdsong threading through the notes. I follow Sophia, my heels silent on the crushed gravel path lined with lanterns. The air is thick with the scent of chamomile and wine barrels warming in the sun.
When we reach the arbor—woven with ivy and late-blooming jasmine—Enzo is already waiting, barefoot in linen trousers, his sleeves rolled. He sees Sophia and his entire body stills. Then he smiles so wide it lights up the entire hillside.
Raphael stands beside him, best man, dressed in a tailored black suit, hands clasped.
He catches my eye as I step into place. Gives me the smallest nod.
I return it. Odette sits near the front, one hand curled around her father’s arm, the other gliding over the screen of her phone.
She looks up, catches me watching, and grins.
The ceremony is short, soft, spoken like secrets. Vows exchanged, rings blessed with rosewater, hands tied with ribbon. When Enzo lifts Sophia’s veil and kisses her, the whole meadow seems to sigh.
And then—laughter, applause, glasses clinking as the reception spills into the open.
The main tent is lit with string lights, long farm tables draped in ivory linen, centerpieces of wild grapes and dried lavender.
The DJ—not Raphael, who’s stationed at the photobooth near the orchard entrance—kicks into a soulful Stevie Wonder track.
I’m handed a glass of sparkling grape juice before I can protest. Asher’s doing rounds near the food stations—grilled peaches, herb-marinated lamb, bread fresh from the stone oven.
He winks at me from across the tent. “Red wine for everyone in thirty minutes,” he calls. “But you get this.” He taps the glass.
I salute him.
Maddox lingers near the back, arms crossed, in a navy blazer that can’t hide the line of his stance—security, always. But his gaze finds mine and softens. He gives me that rare, almost imperceptible smile. The one that says, I see you.
Killian appears at my side, offering his arm. “Dance with me, Harper?”
I blink. “You? Dancing?”
“It’s a wedding.” He shrugs. “I figured I should try.”
We step onto the cobbled floor of the tent’s dance area. The music is slow, honeyed, the kind that makes the air feel thicker. Killian’s hand rests at the small of my back, warm, steady. We move in lazy circles. And then—
A flutter. Then a firm, unmistakable thump.
I freeze.
My hands fly to my stomach.
“Harper?” Killian’s voice is instant, low, sharp with concern.
I’m still staring at the space between us. Then I laugh—sudden, breathless. “He’s kicking.”
His eyes widen. “Now?”
“Right now.” I grin, tears pricking my lashes. “Right here.”
Without a word, Killian lowers his hand. Gently, carefully, he places it over mine, flat against my belly.
And then the baby kicks again—hard, insistent, like a tiny fist against the wall.
Killian’s breath catches. His hand trembles. Then his face—so often guarded, so practiced in stillness—breaks into a smile so wide, so bright, it makes my heart crack open.
“He’s strong,” he whispers.
“Like her dads,” I say, voice thick.
Asher is already pushing through the dancers, his chef’s jacket still on, apron tied crooked. “What? What’s happening?”
“He just started kicking,” I tell him.
Asher drops to one knee right there on the cobbled floor, heedless of the wine stains and crumbs. He presses both hands to my stomach, eyes closed. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs. “That’s me. I make the good food.”
Another kick. Hard.
He laughs, breathless. “Oh. Oh. He knows.”
Maddox hovers at the edge of the circle forming around us. He doesn’t move closer. Just watches, fingers flexing at his sides.
I reach out. “Maddox.”
He hesitates. Then steps forward.
“I want you to feel,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to—”
“You won’t hurt him. Just—here.” I take his hand, rough and warm, and press it to my belly.
He flinches. Then stills.
We wait.
Seconds pass. Then—another roll, a slow shift, like a sigh beneath my skin.
Maddox’s breath hitches. His fingers tremble. He looks up at me, eyes wide, uncertain—then slowly, so slowly, his face changes. The hard lines of his jaw ease. The shadows in his eyes soften.
And he smiles.
Not the grin he flashes at the staff, not the smirk when he wins a bet. This is different. Quiet. Tender. So pure it makes my knees weak.
I cover his hand with mine. “That’s her,” I whisper. “Saying hello.”
Around us, the music swells. The air is warm, golden. The others have gathered—Sophia and Enzo, arms around each other, grinning. Odette claps softly. Raphael abandons the photobooth, camera still around his neck, and saunters over, slinging an arm around Asher’s shoulders.
Sophia steps forward, eyes bright. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts over the music: “DJ! Play that song again! My baby sibling is vibing!”
Laughter erupts. The DJ—a friend of Killian’s from the city—grins and slaps the button. The same Stevie Wonder track starts over, the opening chords pulsing through the grass.
Sophia grabs my hand, then Enzo’s, then Odette’s. “Dance line!” she yells. “We’re dancing for the baby!”
And just like that, we’re moving—laughing, swaying, arms linked. Asher spins Sophia under his arm. Enzo dips Odette. Raphael grabs Maddox and twirls him like a ballet puppet, making everyone shriek with laughter.
Killian pulls me close again, one hand back on my spine, the other resting gently on my stomach. “He likes this song,” he says.
“He likes everything,” I murmur. “Even the quiet.”
He leans in, presses his forehead to mine. “We’re going to be okay,” he whispers.
I close my eyes. The baby kicks once, firm and sure.
And I know—
We already are.