Lena
The wind off the cliffs smells like salt and wildflowers.
Ronan waits for me at the end of the aisle, dressed in dark blue instead of black, eyes steady, soft in a way only I get to see. When I reach him, he takes my hands like this is the only place he’s ever meant to stand.
“You ready?” he whispers.
“I’ve been ready,” I tell him.
When we say I do, it isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic.
It’s certain.
Later, when the sun dips low and the music fades into laughter, Ronan presses his forehead to mine and murmurs, “I still can’t believe you said yes.”
I smile. “I can.”
Because loving him was never the risk.
Losing him would have been.
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