Chapter 25
Finn
The sun is setting by the time the three of them get back.
I’m not surprised. I might have kept a closer eye than usual on the credit card I once gave the twins for gas and meals and hotels if the drive is long enough. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I wanted a rough idea where Cassidy is without having to text her every ten seconds.
Don’t get me wrong, I text her a half dozen times. Little things, asking how the trip is going. I manfully resist telling her how I miss her.
My father snorts when he sees me staring at my phone instead of getting any work done. I flip him off, studiously ignoring him and pretending I’m not looking at my phone for the third time in a minute, hoping for another text.
She’s always been right there, even if we barely ever interacted before all this. But in a short amount of time, I don’t know what to do when she’s not around.
It’s a little scary to process that she can so easily navigate between worlds. A lot of supernaturals can with varying levels of accommodations, but Cassidy can just go. She fits in there as well as she does here. She doesn’t need this place like I do. I literally can’t leave, but she can.
It’s funny that she enjoys flying with me so much, when she’s the one who can spread her figurative wings and have the freedom to fly wherever she wants.
But she’s choosing to stay here. That’s literally what this has all been about, how she doesn’t want to leave. I remind myself of that, and my heart calms down. She’ll be home soon.
On the drive home, she texts me pictures of the fox installed at its new home, and tells me how much the old lady genuinely adores it, and I do appreciate hearing that. But I want her home.
My father leaves at his normal time, and I sit here pretending to get work done, but I’m much more absorbed in my phone than I am my drafting paper.
Finally, Tate pulls into our driveway, and Cassidy climbs out, turning to thank them before coming over to the workshop.
I like that she knows I’ll be here. And yes, sure, the lights are still on, so it’s pretty obvious. But I like that we have a routine now.
“Hi.” She stands in the doorway, looking around bashfully. I don’t know what’s gotten into her head, why she’s suddenly shy, but I sweep her up into my arms, hoping to squeeze it right out of her.
“Welcome home, wife.” It feels so fucking right to say that. Wife. Home. “How was your trip?”
“Productive. Got a ton of pictures, texted with G about her classes on the way home, you know.” She wiggles, but I don’t want her far away from me, so I carry her over to sit on the bench where I’ve been working. “How about yours?”
Much less productive, unless you count missing her as productivity. “It was fine,” I say. “It always takes a bit to transition from one project to the next.” A truth, even if it’s not the only reason there’s not much to show for today.
“I bet.” She looks around for a moment. “Any hint on what you’re starting next? People would love to see that online.”
“It’s sitting right underneath your pretty ass,” I tell her. It’s a rough sketch, and I didn’t mean to place her right on top of my work, but who can blame me? She’s much more interesting than work.
She slides off the bench, raising an eyebrow when she finds the slightly rumpled sketch. “Somehow I thought that was a come-on.”
“Do you want it to be one?” I am more than on board with that.
“Maybe later.” She turns the drawing to get a better angle, phone already in hand to capture some photos. But when she tugs the corner, she freezes. “Finn, what’s this?”
I have no idea, so I step closer, only to stop breathing when I see it.
It’s the sketch I did of her back when we first got married. “Oh. That.”
“Yeah, that.” She’s still staring at it, and she moves the new sketch out of the way so she can see it fully. “Finn, this is—”
“I didn’t think you’d like being made into a sculpture,” I say when she can’t find the words to explain what it is.
“And I’m not sure I have the skill set to make you; you’re not my usual style.
But you’re fucking gorgeous, baby, and I had to get it down on paper.
” I glance at my rough sketch. It’s not perfect, and I wish for a second that I had the skills to make it capture everything I adore about her.
“This is how you see me?” she asks quietly, tilting her head to get a better view of the art.
I tilt her chin so she’s looking at me. She can have the sketch if she wants it, look at it all damned day if it shows her how perfect she is, but I want her to see how serious I am when I say this.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Inside and out, baby; I’m obsessed with every inch of you. ”
Her eyes dart down and she’s quiet for a second, and I let her take that all in. Maybe I’m overstepping. We are married, but that might be too close to real feelings for a relationship so new. Maybe—
She reaches into her pocket and takes something out, hidden inside her closed fist. “I picked these up today. Then I worried they were too much, maybe kind of stupid, but, well… here.” She opens her fist, revealing two gold bands to me.
Wedding bands. My heart is hammering in my throat. She bought us wedding bands.
“You’re fucking perfect, baby,” I breathe, unable to fully articulate what I’m feeling. I’m definitely falling in love with her. It’s too soon to say it, considering we only started our relationship a week ago, but it’s true anyway.
She bought us wedding bands. Surely, she’s feeling it, too.
“Not perfect,” she contradicts me. “And it might not fit, but…”
I take the ring from her that’s clearly meant for me and slip it onto my hand. “It’s pretty close,” I tell her, tilting my hand so I can examine my ring.
I never thought I’d be wearing a wedding band. My mother had certainly started to believe it would never happen. But here it is, nearly perfect on my finger.
“It is? Good. I gave my best guess. The jeweler was definitely worried. Kept trying to hint that I might be over-estimating. And like, I wanted to tell him that I’ve had those fingers inside me. I think I know how big they are.”
Fuck yes she has, and I’ll do it again. She moans so sweetly when I push my fingers inside of her.
But even the thought of that can’t distract me right now, because my wife needs her wedding ring.
I pluck it from her palm, running my finger over the metal as I pull it to my lips, pressing a kiss to it before I slide it onto her ring finger.
“My wife,” I say, and I’d like to say it comes out declarative, but the truth is it probably comes out stunned.
I almost can’t believe this is all true.
She brings our connected hands to her mouth and kisses my knuckles. “My husband,” she murmurs, and that does it for me.
I feel like marrying her all over again, like I need to say my vows again when I fully understand what they mean. To have and to hold, for richer and poorer, as long as we both shall live. And after, whatever is after, because I’m not letting this woman go.
“I’m so glad you agreed to marry me,” I tell her.
She giggles, so sweet and adorable. “I think you agreed to marry me. It was a favor for me, after all.”
Sure, but I asked her. Was damn insistent about it, too, and it’s not just because she deserves to stay in this town. That was a good enough reason all on its own, but I wanted more. I wanted her.
And now I have her. Wedding bands and all to prove it to the world.