Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Trey
Marry You – Bruno Mars
The minute I push open the door to Logan and Mac’s room, I’m hit with chaos.
Sam’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, eating cereal straight from the box like a gremlin who’s given up on dignity.
Chace is shirtless, brushing his golden mane like some bored king holding court from the nearest chair. It makes me grin. Who knew long hair was such a chore?
Wait. Oh yeah—me.
Because every time mine starts getting too long, I end up snagging it on shit. Zippers. Jewelry.
See, I’m usually behind them, hands tangled in their hair, whispering filth against the back of their neck. You know, the kind of talk that gets them trembling—good girl, look at you, taking my cock like a needy little whore—and then, rip.
A tuft of hair or an extension in my fist. Instant mood killer.
Moral of the story—long hair looks hot, but it’s a liability. That’s why mine stays just long enough to grab.
Logan’s leaning against the dresser, coffee in hand, looking way too calm for a guy whose idiot best friend is about to marry someone he met while running from Casper the Diddling Ghost.
“I wanted to say good morning, dumb fuck—or something mean,” Chace mutters, lifting his mug like a toast, “but after catching a glimpse of her in passing…yeah. I get it, bro. I’d wanna save her too.”
He grins, lazy as sin. “Maybe not marry her, though.”
I pause in the doorway, hand still on the frame. “Good thing you don’t have power of attorney over me or my decisions, because I, my fine gentlemen, am not mentally deficious.”
“Deficient,” Logan corrects without looking up.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said deficious, which isn’t even a word.”
“Are you sure? It sounds like one.”
“Trey,” Chace groans, “you’re doing the Downton Abbey thing again.”
“Fuck.” I rub my face.
“Shitting yourself?”
“Uhh—”
“That’s a yes,” Sam crows, cereal flying from his mouth. “Good. You should be. This is fucking nuts.”
“She’d understand if you had cold feet,” Logan offers, his voice calm. “People in long relationships get them all the time leading up to the day.”
Like a lifeline thrown in open water, I want to grab onto his words and hang on. “You ever get that feeling with Mac?”
Logan quirks a brow, smiling faintly. “She might. She’s always been her own person…but me?” His tone softens. “I’m gonna marry that woman. I don’t see anything past the day without her in it.”
“That sounds real fucking healthy,” Chace mutters, rolling his eyes. “We get it—big tough guy’s pussy-whipped.”
Logan finishes his coffee, completely unfazed. “I’m joking,” Chace blurts. “Didn’t land, I guess…”
“Nah, you lost aura with that one,” Sam says through a mouthful of cereal.
“You gotta finesse it,” I throw in, smirking.
“Oh, yeah?” Chace challenges.
“Sure.” I nod sagely. “Like…Logan, does it ever get weird, you know, with Mac and Braden looking so much alike? When your balls-deep in her, do you ever—”
Silence. Total, immediate silence.
“That was…” Chace stammers. Sam’s mouth hangs open. Logan doesn’t move. The air turns dense.
“Trey,” Logan says—low.
“And that, gentlemen,” I mutter, “is how one digs a grave.”
Oh, shit. I fucked up.
He’s going to bludgeon me with his Spanish sausage.
Death by chorizo.
“Anyway, gotta skedaddle! Pretty sure I heard Mac calling my name.”
I try to pivot, but a vice-like hand clamps on my shoulder, spinning me back around.
“Trey.”
“Yes, my paella prince?” I grin, my stomach turning. I didn’t mean it like that. If I actually upset Logan…the guilt hits fast and hard, hollowing me out.
Logan’s lips twitch into something between a snarl and a smile. “Braden would be belly-laughing at that,” he says finally. “So today, you still get to get married. But Baker—” he steps close, blue eyes burning—“you’re on thin ice.”
The heat in his stare could melt metal—or make me swoon. Not sure which is worse.
“If you didn’t wanna get married, bro,” Sam pipes up, “you could’ve just said so. That was way sketchier than saying no.”
“Yeah, picking on Logan’s bad for your health,” Chace mutters.
“You’re telling me. I think I’m getting a panic boner,” I say.
Logan looks me up and down, head tilted, then steps back slowly like he’s studying a specimen.
“This all started because you said shit,” I blurt.
“Don’t look at me!” Chace calls from the corner.
“You’re both on my shit list,” Logan mutters, but there’s laughter in his tone now.
Sam shakes his head, cereal crunching between his teeth. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this, bro. Like—marriage. Legal documents. Rings. Vows.”
“So, everything’s set up,” Chace says, leaning back in his chair. “All that’s left is for you to pick which of us gets to be the flower girl.”
I blink. “That’s it? No one’s gonna tell me I’ve completely lost my fucking mind?”
Sam raises a brow. “Have you not?”
“I—” I glance between them, hands half raised. “She needed help.”
Chace leans forward, deadpan serious. “So? A normal person might call the cops, or a shelter, or—hell, I don’t know—a therapist. But you? You’re like, oh, no, I better marry her.”
“In all seriousness,” Sam says, wiping cereal off his lip, “you marrying a stranger isn’t exactly out of character for your dumbass.”
“She’s not a stranger,” I snap before I can stop myself. The words hang there, too sharp, too fast. All three of them exchange looks, and I instantly regret how defensive that sounded.
Logan crosses his arms, that quiet older-brother energy he carries filling the room. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “She’s been through hell. I can give her something safe—at least for now.”
Chace lets out a low whistle. “You’re sure your idea of safe is actually, you know…safe?”
I shrug. “Would you rather I left her there?”
Chace shrugs back. “Fine. You win. But we’re still roasting you at the reception.”
“There is no reception,” I mutter.
Sam grins. “There is now.”
Logan smirks. “We’ve been busy since you left.”
“Hell no,” I say, though the corners of my mouth twitch.
Chace kicks my leg. “You’re gonna make such a pretty husband. Maybe we should get you one of those little boutonnière things.”
“And what exactly is that? I don’t speak French. Mac’s the only one of us who does…well, maybe you too, Logan?”
Sam bursts out laughing, cereal threatening to spill. Logan just shakes his head, that put-upon big-brother sigh slipping out.
He nods toward the pile of bags Mac left by the dresser. “She told me to make sure you wear what she picked out.”
I groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Chace perks up instantly. “Ooh, fashion show!”
“No,” I say, dragging a hand down my face. “Mac’s taste might have me looking like a disco ball.”
“Yes,” Chace corrects, already on his feet and elbow-deep in the bags. “Mac’s got taste. Maybe she got you a little bow tie. Maybe a tux with glitter.”
“Am I getting married or stripping?”
“It’s your wedding, bro,” Logan muses, voice dry. “So probably both.”
He lifts his coffee mug, smirking. “Also, it was last-minute, so don’t think Vera Wang. Maybe just…Wang-Wang is what you got.”
For a second, we all just lose it. The laughter’s loud and raucous—the kind that rattles the walls and fills the cracks in the air.
For a minute, it feels like our kind of normal. Like we’re just four idiots in a hotel room, no trauma, no ghosts, no wedding under duress. Just the band. Logan catches my eye over the rim of his cup and nods once, subtle but solid. “We’ve got you, man.”
It’s not loud. Not sentimental. But I feel it.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”
Chace finally finds the outfit Mac had delivered and holds it up like he’s presenting a prize on a game show.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the groom.”
I groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grins wider. “Nope. Black dress pants, crisp white shirt, and a vest that looks like it was tailored. It no doubt cost a small fortune but fuck it. It’s your money. I approve.”
Sam whistles low. “You’re gonna look good, man. Real ‘rock star goes respectable’ vibes.”
“Yeah, because that’s what I was going for,” I mutter, snatching the clothes from Chace’s hands before he can start critiquing my boxers next.
“Don’t forget the shoes and the jacket,” Chace calls after me as I disappear into the bathroom. “Mac said they were Italian leather!”
I shut the door just as his laughter rings out.
By the time I come back, dressed, they’re all staring. Even Logan sets his coffee down.
Chace’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, holy shit. Look at you.”
Sam nods slowly. “You clean up nice, Baker. Who knew?”
I roll my shoulders, uncomfortable under the attention.
“I look like a fucking penguin.”
Logan loses it.
“Don’t make me start on you again, Logey Wogey,” I warn, pointing at him. That just makes him laugh harder—like, doubled over, wheezing kind of laughter
“What’s so funny!?” I demand, freaking out a little. I’ve seen Logan mad, drunk, heartbroken—but laughing like this? It’s unnerving.
He chokes out between laughs, “You…you’re both penguins.”
It takes me a second. Then it hits. Because sera is basically a fucking nun.
And suddenly, I’m two seconds away from crying into this rented tux.
Chace wipes at the corner of his eye, still grinning.
“Penguins aside, I still think you need a boutonnière, bro. Maybe a pop of color—something that screams, ‘I’m domesticated now.’”
“What the fuck is a boo-tonny-air?” I ask.
“It’s a flower,” Sam says, deadpan. “You pin it to your lapel.”
“Oh. Wait—I thought that was a prom thing? The wrist flower? The… corsage?”
The room breaks into laughter again, the sound bouncing off the walls—loud, stupid, warm. The kind that makes you forget, just for a second, that the world outside is a mess.
When it dies down, Logan steps forward. Doesn’t say anything right away. Just studies me with that half-smirk of his that never gives anything away.
“Braden would’ve fucking loved this,” he says quietly. The laughter fades in an instant. My throat tightens before I can stop it.
“If I upset you earlier—with that shitty joke…”
He shakes his head. “We’re cool. I told you. He’d have found it funny.”
“Good,” I mutter, eyes dropping to the floor. Logan’s eyes stay locked on mine. “He’d be right next to Mac—telling her what color the flowers should be, making sure your shirt was ironed right. You know how he was. Everything had to be perfect.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. My chest aches in that old, familiar way—the space Braden left never quite filling, no matter how loud the world gets. “He’d probably be giving me shit about it too.”
Logan chuckles softly. “Definitely. He’d say you’re out of your damn mind, then hug you anyway.”
I look down at my hands, the tattoos that tell the story of who I’ve been and who I’m still trying to be. “He’d like her,” I murmur. “Seraphina. He’d see her the way he saw things. Like she was light, even when everything else was dark.”
Logan’s smirk softens, something like fondness flickering in his eyes. He claps a hand on my shoulder, firm but not heavy.
“Brother, he had a thing for redheads. He might’ve beaten you to it.”
For a second, the air catches in my chest. Then Chace lets out a low whistle, and Sam nods like a sage monk mid-breakfast.
“Yeah,” Sam says, voice full of quiet conviction. “We got you, Romeo.”
Chace stands and claps me on the shoulder. “Go be the hero, Baker. We’ve gotta get ready. Give us ten minutes then meet us downstairs, and Trey…Try not to trip walking down the aisle, yeah?”
“Not a fucking chance.”
They file out one by one, Chace still laughing, Sam tossing me a wink, and Logan lingering last. He pauses at the door, hand on the frame.
“She’s safe with you,” he says. It’s not a question.
I nod once. “Yeah. She is.”
He studies me for another beat, then gives that quiet, approving nod that means more than words. “See you downstairs, little brother.”
The door clicks shut. The silence that follows hums with everything unsaid.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The guy looking back isn’t the same one who ran from the tunnels. He’s steadier. I glance at the faint scar along my jaw, the ink coiling across my neck, the shadow in my eyes that time hasn’t erased.
Braden would’ve laughed. He’d call me dramatic. Tell me I was finally becoming who I was supposed to be.
“Yeah,” I mutter to the empty room. “I hope so.”
Then I grab my jacket and head for the door.
The hallway feels different now—quieter, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
I stop halfway down, pressing my hand against the cool plaster, trying to steady the rhythm in my chest.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve stood in front of thousands of people, lights blinding, amps screaming. But this—this stillness before I see her again—has my pulse sprinting like I’m back on stage before the first chord hits.
My fingers twitch against my thigh. I take a breath, then another, trying to shake off the nerves that won’t quit. This isn’t about spotlights or crowds. It’s about her.
Seraphina.
The girl who walked out of a church and straight into the ruins of my soul, like she was meant to rebuild it.
“Get it together, Baker,” I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair.
When I finally lift my hand to knock, I barely get a chance before I hear, “Nobody come in—hot naked action going on!”
I freeze, knuckles hovering mid-air. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of frantic shuffling—feet on wood, a thud, a whispered curse. The door cracks open just an inch, a sliver of light cutting across the hallway.
Mac’s wide blue eyes meet mine, and she sucks in a sharp breath. “Holy shit!” Her grin breaks across her face as she pushes the door open a little farther, looking me up and down. “Trey, you look... wow.”
I shift, tugging at the cuff of my sleeve, heat creeping up my neck.
“Uh, thanks.”
She laughs softly, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“Meet us in the kitchen. The cars’ll be here in five minutes to take us to the city hall. But—” she pauses, glancing over her shoulder before turning back to me, her expression softening—
“I want her to make an entrance. She looks…” Mac trails off, shaking her head with a grin that’s equal parts proud and emotional. “You’re one lucky guy, Baker. Real or fake, this girl is truly something else. I hope you know that.”
The words land heavy and right in the center of my chest.
I swallow hard, my voice low, barely above a whisper.
“I do, Mac. I do.”
Her smile widens, then she closes the door gently, leaving me alone in the quiet again.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the wood grain of the door, willing my heart to slow. Somewhere inside, I hear her laugh and every nerve in me catches fire.
Then I push off the wall and head downstairs to wait.