Wild Then Wed

Prologue

SAWYER

Four years ago

The whole house smelled like cinnamon.

Julia had a thing about seasons. She didn’t just decorate for them—she fully committed.

October meant candles in every room and something constantly simmering on the stove that made the whole house smell like a bakery.

She told me it was called potpourri or some shit.

All I knew was it smelled like cinnamon, oranges, and whatever else she decided felt like fall.

It was excessive. It was kind of ridiculous. And it made the place feel exactly like her—warm, loud, and impossible to ignore.

She liked for everything to feel like a moment . Said people were always rushing toward the next thing. Said that’s how you miss your life.

So I was trying not to rush. Trying to live in the moment. Which happened to include being knee-deep in a crib manual written by Satan himself.

“I’m convinced this thing was designed to ruin me,” I muttered, cross-legged on the nursery floor with an Allen wrench and a deep sense of personal failure.

Julia was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over the top of her belly like she already knew I was in too deep. One hand rested on the curve of it, protective in a way that wasn’t performative. Just instinctual, like she’d always been built for this.

She wasn’t even trying, and she was glowing. Not in the cliché pregnancy glow bullshit way. Just…lit from the inside out.

Her hair was still damp from her shower, curling at the ends. That almost-black color that looked blue in certain light. Olive skin all golden and flushed. Brown eyes locked on me like she was keeping a running tally of every screw I managed to mess up.

She was wearing one of my old T-shirts—over-sized, soft, the sleeves halfway down her arms. She looked exhausted. And beautiful. And fully prepared to tell me I was doing everything wrong.

“I told you we could wait until Crew got back to do that,” she said, one brow arched.

“Absolutely not. This is my child’s crib. I’m bonding.”

“You’ve been bonding with the same screw for twenty minutes.”

“It’s a very complicated screw.”

She shook her head and walked in, barefoot, dodging half a mobile and a small pile of pink crib sheets on the floor.

The room was already half-done—lavender paint on the walls, white dresser assembled, a stack of baby books she’s been reading, all about breastfeeding and hypno-birth. Whatever the fuck that was.

And there were butterflies. Everywhere.

Paper ones, painted ones, decals on the walls, tiny hand-stitched ones. She said it was because Violet would be delicate. Soft. Beautiful. “Violet has to have butterflies, Sawyer. How could she not?”

I said it was because Etsy had taken over her brain.

She bent to dig through the box I hadn’t even gotten to yet, muttering something under her breath. I caught the tail end of a grunt when she stood back up.

“Hey,” I said, dropping the screwdriver and narrowing my eyes at her. “You’re not supposed to be doing stuff like that.”

She rolled her eyes without looking at me. “I’m pregnant, Sawyer. Not dying.”

“Still.”

She arched a brow at me. “Are you going to talk to me like that when she gets here?”

“Damn right I am.”

Julia rolled her dark brown eyes and walked to the window, bracing one hand against the sill and the other over her belly like it was second nature by now.

“I still think the crib should go here,” she said, nodding at the corner where the sun would hit in the mornings. “More light. It’ll feel warmer.”

“It’ll feel like a greenhouse.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re so wrong.”

She turned around slowly, her expression neutral except for the flicker of amusement in her eyes. “I’m carrying your child. Are you sure you want to keep arguing with me?”

“I didn’t realize we were arguing. I thought I was right and you were just busy ignoring it,” I said, sorting through a handful of screws that all looked the same but apparently weren’t. “And what if she sweats through her clothes during her naps or something?”

Julia let out a snort and leaned her head against the window frame.“She’s not going to sweat through her clothes, Sawyer.”

“She’s a baby. She doesn’t get a say.”

“She’s my baby, which means she’ll be fine because I’m always right.”

That got a laugh out of me. Quiet and low, but real.

Julia walked back over, the T-shirt catching at her thighs. She looked down at me with a smirk. “You wanna know what I think?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I think you like arguing with me.”

I sat back on my heels, gave her a once-over. “I do like when you get all hot and bothered. Makes me wonder what else I can get you worked up about.”

She laughed—head tipped back, the sound echoing off the lavender walls like she didn’t care that it was late or that her ankles were swollen or that we were sitting in the middle of a half-finished nursery.

And God, she was beautiful when she laughed. Hair falling into her face, eyes bright, full lips parted. That round belly stretching the front of my shirt in a way that should’ve looked ridiculous, but didn’t. It looked like everything I didn’t know I wanted until she gave it to me.

She caught me staring and grinned. “Is this some weird version of foreplay?”

“If it is, I’ve never been so into home improvement.”

She rolled her eyes again, but her cheeks flushed as she looked at me. “You’re terrible.”

“You married me anyway.”

She shook her head, smiling because she knew she didn’t regret a damn thing. And for a second, she looked so at ease—like she’d finally exhaled after holding her breath all day.

That’s when I looked at her again. Really looked.

She was so fucking beautiful it hurt sometimes. And not in that overdone, poetic way. Just in the simple, gut-level truth of it.

She looked like home. She was my home.

“Come here,” I said.

She pushed off the wall with a sigh, waddled over, and dropped down next to me on the nursery floor with zero grace.

“I’m gonna need you to help me up later,” she muttered as she shifted closer and leaned into me.

“Not a chance. We both live down here now.”

She elbowed me gently, then rested her head on my shoulder, her hand settling over her belly. “Who do you think she’ll look like? Because I actually think there’s a good chance she could look like me. With the dark features and all.”

I nodded. “She better.”

“She’ll have your nose.”

“She’ll have your mouth. Your laugh. Probably your temper.”

Julia made a soft noise at that. “God help us.”

“She’s getting big,” I said, resting my hand over her stomach. “Feels like you’re smuggling a small linebacker in there. Maybe two.”

She gave a soft smile. “She kicks the most when she can hear you.”

My throat tightened, and for a second, everything just…paused.

Fire was crackling somewhere down the hall in the fireplace. The lavender walls looked less ridiculous than I expected. Julia’s head rested on my shoulder. Her hand on our baby. My tools scattered like I’d forgotten I was supposed to be doing something other than falling in love with all of it.

She turned her head to look at me, one brow raised. “You think we’re actually ready for this? Raising a small human and not screwing it up monumentally?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But I’m glad I get to screw it up with you.”

She huffed out a breath, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You know she’s going to hate us both one day, right?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“She’ll probably need therapy.”

“I’m already accounting for it.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she nudged her nose against my jaw. “I’m glad I get to screw it up with you, too.”

She reached out and tugged on the edge of my shirt until I leaned in and kissed her. Her lips met mine with the quiet certainty that came from years of knowing exactly how I kissed—how I always tilted my head the same way, how I slowed down when I wanted it to last.

I kissed her like I didn’t care that my knees ached from kneeling on hardwood. Or that I’d probably have to rebuild this whole damn crib because I’d lost track of what piece went where.

Her mouth was certain, gentle, and familiar in the way home feels when you’ve been gone too long. She made a low sound when my hand found her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of the shirt— my shirt—until they landed on the bare curve of her belly. Warm. Full. Alive.

She inhaled against me, her breath catching as our lips moved slowly—no urgency, no heat. Just this quiet, reverent wanting. My forehead dropped to hers when we finally broke for air, her palm resting over the back of my neck, thumb tracing lazy circles there.

I was already leaning in to kiss her again when she whispered against my mouth, “You better not fuck up that crib, by the way.”

I smiled into her lips. “No faith in me?”

“Zero,” she murmured, brushing her nose against mine. “But I love you anyway.”

I kissed her again—deeper this time—my thumb still stroking over the place where our daughter was growing beneath my hand. And I didn’t say it, but I thought it.

I’d build a hundred cribs—break every piece and start again—just to keep this. Just to keep her.

She pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her lips brushing against mine, smirking just a little. “You’re so in love with me.”

I didn’t even hesitate.

“I am,” I breathed, the words catching between her lips and mine. “I’m totally fucked.”

She laughed.

And I didn’t know it back then.

I didn’t know it would echo through this room long after she was gone. That I’d hate the smell of cinnamon after this night. That I’d stand here months later, palms flat against the lavender wall, begging the silence to give me something—any piece of her—back.

I didn’t know we were already counting down. That time was running out quietly, cruelly, right under my feet.

I thought we had more nights like this. More time. More everything. But I was wrong.

Because I finished the crib.

And then I buried the woman who was supposed to stand over it, humming lullabies I’d never hear.

I never got to lay my daughter in it. Instead, it became a room waiting for a life that never came home.

And I’ve been trying to survive the silence ever since.