Chapter 22
WREN
I can’t feel my feet.
Not in a poetic, swept-off-them kind of way. I genuinely cannot feel my feet in these heels. I think they’re still in the shoes—somewhere below the too-tight satin and the too-exposed skin and the terrifying realization that I am standing in a packed venue, pretending to marry Sawyer Hart.
Every eye is on me. I can feel them.
The slit in this dress feels criminal. Was it always this high? I don’t remember it being this high.
It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. The dress is hugging every inch of my body like a second skin I can’t peel off, and I can’t decide if I’m more concerned about flashing someone’s grandmother or passing out from the sheer force of trying to hold it together.
And then there’s him.
Sawyer.
Right in front of me, looking infuriatingly gorgeous.
Tux tailored to his body like it came with him.
Sandy hair freshly cut. Stubble trimmed along his jaw.
He smells like pine and some subtle cologne that probably cost a fortune.
His eyes are on me. Blue—but a darker shade than mine.
Almost cobalt, but deeper at the center.
Green and brown radiating out, like little sunbursts.
He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs once, slow, and then his gaze drags down the length of my body.
Again.
God.
The slit is definitely too high.
My pulse kicks up and I force my hands to stay still, even though every instinct is screaming to shift my weight or pull the fabric lower or disappear altogether. I remind myself that I chose this. I signed up for the performance. But no one said anything about him looking at me like this.
He blinks, just once, and his eyes meet mine again. And for a second—just one quiet second—I forget the crowd, the dress, the plan, the pressure.
I just feel him. And I hate how much I like it.
The pastor starts speaking, his voice echoing slightly through the mic. I hear words like unity and commitment and sacred vows , but most of it is white noise. My pulse is louder. Steady, insistent, tucked behind my ears like it’s trying to drown everything else out.
I’m hyper-aware of literally everything.
The weight of the makeup on my face, heavier than I’m used to.
The heat of the lights. The feeling that my spray tan is no doubt sliding off of me in real time, no matter how confidently Miller swore it wouldn’t.
I can’t stop wondering if there’s an orange streak forming behind my knee.
Then the pastor’s voice shifts slightly.
“And now, the vows,” he says, and turns toward me. “Wren, you may begin.”
Sage steps forward and hands me the folded piece of paper I gave her earlier.
I take it, trying not to fumble it, and feel the ridiculous flush of embarrassment over the fact that I even wrote them down.
But this—this didn’t feel like something I could wing.
Even if it’s fake, I didn’t want it to sound like I don’t care.
I unfold the paper. My fingers are steady, which surprises me. I clear my throat, glance at Sawyer once, and start reading.
“I didn’t grow up dreaming about my wedding day. I didn’t plan out colors or flowers or what kind of cake I’d have. But I did wonder what it would feel like to stand in front of someone who made me feel…steady. Like home.”
My voice feels too loud in this too quiet room.
“I don’t take promises lightly. And I know better than to expect perfection. There will be days we misunderstand each other. Days we argue. But I promise to stay. To keep showing up. To keep choosing you in the ordinary, quiet, nowhere-special moments that no one else will ever see.”
I feel the nerves start to settle, just a little.
“I promise to tell the truth. To stand next to you when it’s hard and when it’s easy and when it feels like everything else is shifting. I promise to protect the life we build. To protect you.”
There’s a weight to that last sentence that hangs between us.
“And I’ll laugh with you. I’ll argue with you.
I’ll do the dishes even when I don’t want to.
I’ll hold space for every version of you.
I promise to mean what I say, and to say what I mean.
And if nothing else, if every plan and promise we’ve ever made falls apart, you’ll still find me here. On your side.”
I look at him again. Really look.
There’s something soft about the way he’s looking back at me. Focused, but not intense. And it undoes me in this small, unbearable way because I don’t know if it’s for me or for the crowd or for the version of us we promised to perform today. But it feels real. It feels like it’s just for me.
His smile is small. Lopsided. Like he’s trying not to smile but gave up halfway through. It feels like something private. Like I’m the only one in this whole venue who gets to see it.
I hand the paper back to Sage, who steps forward just enough to take it and mouths, Good job , before stepping back. My fingers feel awkward now without anything to hold. I smooth them down the front of my dress and remind myself to breathe. In and out. In. Out.
The pastor clears his throat. “Those were beautiful vows, Wren,” he says, nodding toward me. “Sawyer, your turn.”
I don’t know why I hold my breath, but I do.
He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Thank God. For some reason, the idea of him winging it would’ve unraveled me more than I’m willing to admit.
He unfolds it slowly. Glances at me once, then starts to read.
“I didn’t think I’d be here again. Not because I didn’t want it. But because I did. And the last time I wanted something this much, I lost it.”
I swallow hard. It’s too quiet in here. He’s too close. And still, he keeps going.
“I’ve spent years trying not to feel anything too deeply. To keep my head down. Be useful. Be the guy who doesn’t ask for anything, so he doesn’t lose anything.”
I glance at him, just for a second.
“And then you walked into my life without asking for anything, either. You just…made it hard not to want more.”
He keeps going.
“You showed up in the middle of a life I wasn’t sure I was still living. You stood in front of a man I wasn’t proud of being and didn’t look away. You challenged me. You calmed me. You made me laugh when I hadn’t remembered how. You saw things in me I forgot were there.”
I breathe in once, slow.
“I don’t know that I believe in fate. Or signs. Or soulmates. Or that things always work out the way they’re supposed to. I’ve lived too much life to believe in clean edges and happy endings. But I do believe in moments. And I think every moment I didn’t know how to keep going led me to you.”
He doesn’t look nervous. His voice is calm. His words are quiet but full. And I hate that I can’t breathe right now. That my throat feels like it’s closing around every sentence like it’s mine to swallow.
“There’s this thing about wrens—the birds,” he says, and I see his friend grin slightly off to the side, like he knew this was coming. “They mate for life. Did you know that?”
I didn’t.
“They build nests out of anything they can find. Tiny scraps, broken twigs, plastic wrappers, hay. Whatever’s there, whatever’s enough. They make homes out of whatever they’ve got. They’re scrappy like that. And once they pick a mate, they stay. Through storms. Through winters. Through everything.”
The church is silent.
I don’t know how he’s doing this. How he’s saying all this like it’s not cutting straight through me.
“They’re loud,” he adds, his voice a little quieter. “Even though they’re small. Loud when they need to be. And soft when they don’t.”
My eyes sting. My hands are still, even though I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
“And the thing is…the male wren is the one who sings first. Every morning. Even if the world around him is still dark.”
He folds the paper back once, gently, and I swear I can feel my whole body trying to keep it together.
“I don’t know if I believe in soulmates,” he says again, more softly this time. “But I know how you’ve made a home out of this. Out of me. And if I had to choose someone to keep choosing, even on the worst days, even in the dark…it’d be you.”
And then, simply—
“If there’s a version of forever that exists in this world—I want it with you, Wren Wilding.”
Those cobalt eyes—bluer than the river in spring when the ice breaks and the light finally touches the water again—don’t blink. Don’t move. They just hold me there.
And then it starts. The quick, shallow breathing. The low-level panic. The kind that usually hits in the middle of the night when I remember I forgot to call the vet or that I left a load of laundry in the washer twelve hours ago. But now it’s here. Wedding-day-present.
My eyes flick to the left—an instinct. Miller is wide-eyed. Lark has her lips pressed together so tightly they’ve disappeared. Sage is doing that polite thing she always does where she stares at the floor and pretends she’s not deeply invested in the plot.
This is fake. It’s a production. Costumes and scripted lines. I’ve been telling myself that for weeks, and it’s mostly worked.
But standing here in front of him, after hearing those vows, looking at the way he’s looking at me like I’m something worth remembering—
It doesn’t feel fake at all.
It feels…safe.
It feels like the way my dad used to look at the mountains in October. Like no matter what was changing, that part was still good. Still his.
It feels like setting something heavy down after carrying it for too long and realizing you don’t have to lift it again alone.
The pastor clears his throat gently. “That was beautiful,” he says to Sawyer, voice warm and even. Then he turns the page in his book, eyes flicking down as his tone shifts into something more formal.
“May I have the rings?”
Lark steps forward from behind me. She doesn’t say anything, just holds out her hand with Sawyer’s band in her palm. Simple gold. I take it carefully, my fingers shaking slightly, and turn toward him.