C

You’d dressed the part—tailored blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, heels sharp enough to make a statement but comfortable enough to chase vendors all day. You’d rehearsed your pitch until the words felt like muscle memory. But nothing prepared you for how sharp Nancy’s eyes were in person, how she listened with the same focused intensity she probably used in interviews that made politicians sweat.

She’d arrived exactly on time, offered a firm handshake, and ordered an oat milk latte without looking at the menu. You’d shown her mood boards, vendor lists, and a preliminary timeline that balanced her demanding career with the kind of wedding that felt like them. She’d nodded, asked smart questions about press access and privacy, and then—after only twenty minutes—she’d smiled, slow and genuine.

“I think you’re exactly what we need,” she said, reaching for the contract you’d already slid across the table. “David’s going to love your vision. He’s been so patient through all my deadlines and late nights. He keeps saying the wedding is the one thing that should feel like ours, not just another event.” Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink as she signed with a flourish. “He’s my calm in the storm. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

You smiled back, professional and warm, even as your pulse kicked with quiet triumph. Nancy Wheeler. Signed. This was the client that would make your boss’s jaw drop. You were already drafting the email in your head.

The meeting wrapped with promises of a follow-up call next week to lock in florals and a venue walk-through. Nancy stood, gathering her bag. “Thank you. Really. I feel like I can actually breathe now.”

“You’re in good hands,” you assured her, meaning every word.

Outside, the afternoon sun hit warm on your shoulders. You stepped onto the sidewalk feeling ten feet tall, already pulling your phone out to text your boss the good news. Nancy Wheeler is officially ours. The words were still forming when your right heel caught.

A metallic clink. A sharp tug. You stumbled, catching yourself on a lamppost, and looked down. The delicate stiletto had wedged itself between the bars of a sidewalk grate, the thin heel trapped like a bear in a trap. You muttered a curse and bent to work it free, twisting your ankle at an awkward angle. The shoe wouldn’t budge.

Then you heard it.

A low, gathering rumble. Metal on pavement. Getting louder. Faster. You cursed yourself for wearing such strappy heels.

You looked up and your stomach dropped.

A massive construction dumpster—bright orange, easily the size of a small car—was rolling down the gentle incline of the street, picking up speed. Its wheels rattled, the heavy lid clanging. It was heading straight for you. Just momentum and bad luck.

“No—no, come on—” You yanked harder at your foot. The heel stayed stuck. Panic flooded your veins, hot and electric. The rumble became a roar. You could see the shadow swallowing the sidewalk, the glint of sunlight on the metal corner that would hit you first.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a scream caught in your throat—

Strong arms slammed around your waist from the side and yanked.

The world blurred. Your foot tore free of the shoe with a painful twist. You hit your head on the ground as you crashed backward into just as the dumpster thundered past, missing you by inches. The wind of it whipped your hair across your face. The crash of metal on metal as it hit the curb echoed like thunder.

For one suspended second, all you could hear was your own heartbeat and the harsh breathing of the person on top of you.

“Are you okay?” The voice was low, rough with adrenaline, right against your ear. “Jesus Christ, that was close.”

You were still pressed flush against him— pinned between the ground and his muscular body. His heart hammered against your chest. You could feel every inch of him— the hard plane of his chest, the corded strength in the arms that had just saved your life, the warmth of his skin seeping through his shirt into yours.

He gently pulled you to your feet, steadying you with hands that didn’t let go. And the world tilted for an entirely different reason.

He was beautiful.

Not in the polished, magazine way—something warmer, more devastating. His hair was perfect in that careless, wind-tousled way that made your fingers itch to touch it. A scatter of freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks like someone had flicked paint at him, softening the strong line of his jaw. His skin was tan, sun-kissed and glowing, and his arms—God, his arms—were tan and lean with muscle, the sleeves of his henley shoved up to reveal the kind of forearms that made your mouth go dry. Veins traced under the skin where he still held you.

Concern etched every line of his face as he looked you over, those freckles shifting when his brow furrowed. “Hey. Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

Your hands had landed on his chest without permission—palms flat over firm muscle, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. He smelled like clean soap and hairspray and some woodsy cologne. The adrenaline still singing in your blood mixed with something hotter, something that made your stomach flip and your cheeks flush.

A shaky, breathless laugh escaped you. The words came out before you could stop them, flirtation riding the edge of pure relief and the dizzying awareness of how good he felt against you.

“My hero,” you managed, voice husky. “Do you always go around saving women from runaway dumpsters, or did I just get extremely lucky today?”

His mouth curved—slow, surprised, a little crooked. Those freckles danced with the smile. “First time for the dumpster,” he said, voice low and warm. “But I’m really glad I was here.” His thumbs brushed once, unconsciously, over your arms where he still held you. “You’re shaking.”

You were. From fear. From the crash of adrenaline. From the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world right now. You opened your mouth to say something else—maybe ask his name, maybe actually suggest that coffee you suddenly wanted very badly—but the ground chose that moment to tilt.

The throb in your head, the leftover terror, the overwhelming closeness of this beautiful stranger—it all crashed together. Your vision tunneled at the edges. The world went soft and gray.

“I think I…” The words slurred. Your knees buckled.

His arms tightened instantly, catching you before you could fall. “Whoa—hey, easy. I’ve got you.” His voice dropped, urgent and soothing at once. One hand cradled the back of your head as he guided you down, but the darkness was already pulling you under, warm and heavy.

The last thing you felt was the solid safety of his chest and the faint, worried brush of his fingers against your cheek before everything went black.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

You woke slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was the soft, persistent beep of a heart monitor somewhere to your left and the faint, sweet smell of crayons and antiseptic. Your mouth was dry. Your ankle and head throbbed together with a dull, insistent ache. Everything felt slightly off-kilter, like the world had tilted a few degrees while you were out.

A children’s hospital. That much was obvious from the cheerful murals on the walls—cartoon animals in scrubs, rainbows arching over the doorframe, a big window letting in honeyed light that painted everything in soft pastels. You were in a private room, propped on crisp white pillows, a light blanket pulled up to your waist. Your bare foot was elevated on a pillow, wrapped in a soft brace. Someone had taken off your other shoe too.

Confusion prickled at the edges of your mind. The dumpster. The arms around you. That face—those freckles, that perfect hair—then nothing.

The door opened with a quiet click.

He stepped inside, and your stomach did a slow, warm flip.

He was in navy scrubs now, a white coat draped over his shoulders, a stethoscope looped around his neck. The coat somehow made the tan of his forearms even more noticeable where he’d pushed the sleeves up. His hair was still stupidly perfect, a little tousled like he’d run his hands through it. The freckles across his nose and cheeks stood out under the clinical lights, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened into a smile that hit you right in the chest.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm, the same one that had been in your ear when he pulled you out of the way. “There she is. You gave me a pretty good scare back there.”

He crossed the room in a few easy strides, picking up the chart at the end of your bed like it was second nature. “I’m Dr. Steve. Peds. I was the one who… well, who caught you before the dumpster could. Brought you in here after you passed out on me. Nothing serious,” he added quickly, seeing the flicker of worry on your face. “Mild bump on the head, twisted ankle, dehydration from the adrenaline crash. You’ll be sore tomorrow, but you’re okay. I’ve got you on some fluids and pain meds if you need them.”

You managed a weak laugh, still a little foggy. “So you’re not just a professional dumpster-rescuer. You’re an actual doctor.”

Steve’s smile widened, a dimple flashing in one cheek. He leaned a hip against the side of your bed, close enough that you could smell that clean, woodsy scent again. “Guilty. I was actually heading to grab lunch when I saw you. Lucky timing, I guess.”

The way he looked at you—steady, warm, with that undercurrent of something brighter—made the hospital room feel smaller. You were hitting it off stupidly fast. The banter came easy, like you’d known each other longer than twenty minutes of insanity.

“You make a habit of sweeping women off their feet in the middle of the street, Dr.Steve?” you teased, voice still a little raspy.

He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Only the ones whose shoes pick fights with sidewalk grates. And only when they flirt with me while they’re still catching their breath.” His gaze lingered on yours for a beat longer than necessary. “You were pretty smooth, by the way. Even while concussed.”

You felt heat creep up your neck, but you didn’t look away. The chemistry was immediate, crackling between you like static. Every time he shifted, you caught another detail—the way the stethoscope rested against his chest, the faint tan line on his wrist where a watch usually sat, the soft concern in his eyes that kept melting into something playful.

After a quick neuro check and confirming your ankle wasn’t broken, he helped you sit up. His hands were gentle but sure—one at your elbow, the other steadying your lower back as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. The contact sent a spark straight through you, the same electric awareness from when he’d held you on the sidewalk.

“You should probably take it easy tonight,” he said, but there was no real doctor-voice coldness in it. “If you’re feeling up to it, I can show you my office while we wait on the discharge paperwork. It’s quieter than the ER. Less… cartoon animals.”

You nodded, and he stayed close as you stood, letting you lean on him just a little. His arm stayed around your waist longer than strictly necessary as he guided you down the short hallway to a corner office with his name plate replaced by a child's drawing of 'Dr.Steve'.

The office was exactly what you’d expect and somehow more. Sunlight slanted through half-open blinds, catching on colorful crayon drawings taped to the walls—some signed To Dr. Steve, you’re my favorite in wobbly kid handwriting. A couple of framed photos sat on the desk— one of him with a group of laughing kids in a park, another with a woman who looked like his mom. Medical books lined one shelf, but there was also a well-worn baseball on the windowsill and a little potted succulent that looked like it was thriving under his care. The air smelled faintly like him—clean and warm—and something like the hand sanitizer they used everywhere, but softer.

You moved slowly around the space, fingertips brushing the edge of his desk, taking it all in. “This is… really nice. You can tell the kids love you.”

Steve leaned against the doorframe, watching you with that same easy smile. “They’re the best part of the job. Makes the hard days worth it.” His eyes followed you as you picked up a small framed drawing of a stick-figure doctor with a big red heart. “You’re welcome to sit if your ankle’s bothering you. Or… I can grab you something to drink. Water? Juice box? I’ve got the good ones with the straws.”

You laughed, the sound lighter now. The flirtation was easy, natural. “Juice box might be pushing it. But water would be great. And… thank you. Again. For everything.”

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, handing you a bottle from a mini-fridge in the corner. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you pulled away immediately.

“Anytime,” he said quietly. The air between you felt charged again, that same pull from the sidewalk.

Before either of you could say more, the door burst open.

“Oh my God—” Robin Buckley stood there, your assistant, looking like she’d run the whole way from the office. Her cheeks were flushed, curls wild, eyes wide with a mix of panic and pure relief. She was clutching her phone in one hand and a half-empty iced coffee in the other. “You scared the absolute shit out of me! I got the call from the hospital and I thought— I don’t even know what I thought, but it was bad. Are you okay? Is your foot okay? Do you need anything? I brought your backup flats from the office—”

She stopped mid-ramble when she noticed Steve standing there, her gaze flicking between the two of you. A slow, knowing grin started to form.

Steve straightened a little but didn’t move away from you. “She’s okay,” he said, voice warm. “Just a sprain and a mild concussion. I’m keeping an eye on her.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up, but she recovered fast, stepping in to hug you carefully. “Thank God. Seriously. I was two seconds from calling your boss and telling her you got flattened by a trash can.” She pulled back, still fussing with your hair like a worried big sister. Then her eyes lit up with that classic Robin energy. “Okay, but hear me out—there’s that outdoor movie in the park tonight. The rom-com one? Starts at eight. You should come. Both of you.” She looked pointedly at Steve. “Doctor’s orders, right? Fresh air, low stress, good company. It’ll be fun. I’ll even bring snacks so you don’t have to move much.”

Steve glanced at you, that dimple flashing again, a spark of something hopeful in his eyes. He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said, soft but sure. “I’d like that. If you’re up for it.”

The three of you stood there in his sunlit office—Robin still buzzing with relieved energy, you balanced between them with your wrapped ankle, Steve close enough that you could feel the warmth of him again—and for the first time since the grate and the dumpster and the blackout, the day felt like it was tilting toward something good.

Something that felt a lot like the start of more.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Robin bailed.

The text came in right as you were finishing up at the office, your ankle still wrapped but feeling better after a day of rest and Steve’s careful instructions.

Robin: Emergency!! I have to help my sisters boyfriends godmother bake an emergency birthday cake. I’m SO sorry. But you should still go!! Steve’s already on his way. Have fun you two 😉

You stared at the winky face for a long second, then laughed under your breath. Classic Robin. She’d been suspiciously enthusiastic about the plan earlier.

When you arrived at the park, the outdoor movie was already setting up—big inflatable screen glowing against the twilight sky, string lights crisscrossing between the trees, the smell of popcorn and fresh-cut grass in the cool evening air. People were spreading blankets on the lawn, couples claiming spots close to the screen, families with kids in folding chairs.

Steve was waiting near the entrance, hands in the pockets of a light jacket, that perfect hair catching the last of the sunset. He looked up when he saw you and smiled like he’d been hoping you’d still show.

“Robin texted me too,” he said as you approached, voice warm with a hint of amusement. “Something about a cake emergency. I figured we could still make it work… if you’re okay with it just being us.”

You were more than okay with it.

He offered his arm without making a big deal of it, and you took it, letting him steady you as you walked toward the quieter side of the park where the big oak tree stood. This had been your spot for as long as you came here—a thick, padded cushion nestled in the wide, low branch, string lights already woven through the leaves like someone had strung stars just for this. It gave you a perfect, slightly elevated view of the screen while keeping you tucked away from the main crowd. Private. Cozy. Yours.

Steve helped you up first, one strong hand at your waist, the other guiding your good foot onto the wide branch. His touch was steady and warm even through your jacket. Once you were settled on the cushion, he climbed up after you with easy grace, settling beside you close enough that your shoulders brushed when you both leaned back against the trunk.

For a while you just watched the opening credits roll, the park settling into that soft, anticipatory quiet. Then the conversation started—easy, unforced, the way it had been in his office.

Eventually you told him about the puzzling club you went to every other Thursday night.

“It started because of my mom,” you said, smiling at the memory. “When I was little she used to spread these giant jigsaw puzzles out on the dining room table every weekend. We’d work on them for hours—sometimes days. No TV, no distractions, just us and a thousand tiny pieces. She always said it was the best way to learn patience and how to see the bigger picture when everything feels scattered.” You glanced over at him. “I still go. Every other week. Same group of people, same folding tables in the community center basement. It’s kind of my reset button.”

Steve listened like he actually wanted to hear it, eyes soft in the glow from the string lights above you. “That’s really nice,” he said quietly. “You don'treally seem like the puzzle master type” He shrugged, a small, fond smile tugging at his mouth. “But I kind of get it.”

You talked more—about his worst stories from the hospital, the ridiculous things kids say when they’re hopped up on juice boxes and pain killers, the way the park looked in the fall when the leaves turned. No questions about whether either of you were seeing someone. It just… didn’t come up. The night felt like its own little bubble.

The movie played on in the background—some sweet, nostalgic rom-com with sweeping music and lingering glances. At one point the two leads found themselves at a small-town dance, the kind with a slow song that made everyone else in the scene fade away. On screen, the couple swayed together, foreheads almost touching, completely wrapped up in each other.

Steve was quiet for a beat. Then he turned to you, that dimple flashing.

“You know,” he said, voice low so it wouldn’t carry, “I’ve always thought slow dancing looks better in real life than in movies.”

Before you could answer, he reached over and took your hand—gentle, asking without words. His palm was warm and a little callused in the best way. He hopped down from the wide branch, helping you up with him, mindful of your wrapped ankle.

He pulled you in slowly, one hand settling lightly at your waist, the other still holding yours. You rested your free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him through his jacket. The music from the movie drifted up to you, soft and romantic, and you started to sway.

It was sweet. Uncomplicated. Romantic in the way that made your chest feel light. His thumb brushed once over the back of your hand. Your bodies stayed close but respectful, the way two people do when they’re still figuring each other out but really, really want to keep figuring. Every time the breeze moved the leaves, the string lights shifted and highlighted the freckles scattered across his cheeks. He smelled like clean cotton and that faint woodsy note you were already starting to associate with him.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. The dance said enough—the way he looked at you, the way his hand flexed gently at your waist when you leaned in a little closer, the soft smile that never quite left his mouth.

When the song on screen faded into the next scene, he didn’t let go right away. Just held you there a second longer, eyes searching yours like he was memorizing something. Then he helped you sit back down, careful with your ankle, and settled beside you again. His hand stayed loosely linked with yours on the cushion between you for the rest of the movie.

The credits rolled. The park slowly emptied. Steve walked you to your car, his jacket draped over your shoulders because the night had gotten cooler and he’d noticed you shiver once. He opened your door for you, then paused.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he said, quiet and sincere. “Even with the cake emergency.”

You smiled up at him, heart doing that same flutter it had since the sidewalk. “Me too.”

“Text me when you get home? So I know your ankle survived the night.”

You promised you would.

As you drove away, the park lights fading in your rearview mirror, you caught yourself smiling at nothing. The memory of his hand in yours, the way he’d looked at you under those string lights, the easy rhythm of dancing with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Robin was going to lose her mind when you told her.

You met her for coffee the next morning before the dance lesson appointment Nancy had asked you to meet her at. She was already at the little corner table when you walked in, two oat milk lattes waiting, her curls pulled up in a messy bun and that knowing grin already on her face.

You barely sat down before it all came spilling out.

“I think he might be the one, Robin,” you said, voice low but glowing. Your cheeks were warm just thinking about it. “Last night was… God, it was perfect. The tree, the lights, the way he danced with me? It wasn’t even a real date and it still felt like the best one I’ve ever had. He’s funny and kind and he actually listened when I talked about my mom and the puzzles. And the way he looks at me…” You shook your head, smiling helplessly into your cup. “I don’t know. It just felt easy. Like I could see myself doing that again. A lot.”

Robin’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with pure delight. “I knew it. I knew the second I saw you two in his office. You were both doing that thing. The heart-eyes thing.” She reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve someone who makes you gush like this. Steve seems like good people.”

You left the café floating, already mentally replaying the feel of his hand at your waist. By the time you pulled up to the dance studio, you were still smiling to yourself.

Nancy was already inside when you arrived, looking effortlessly chic in a flowy blouse and leggings, her planner open on a nearby bench. She waved you over with a bright smile.

“I’m so glad you could make it! David’s already here warming up. I want the first dance to feel natural, you know? He's not the best when it comes to dancing." She let out a giggle, "Come meet him.”

You followed her across the polished floor toward the tall figure stretching near the mirror wall, his back to you. Nancy’s voice was warm and proud.

“David, this is the wedding planner I was telling you about. She’s been incredible already.”

The man turned.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Steve.

Steve Harrington.

His eyes met yours and widened for half a second before he caught himself. The same perfect hair. The same freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. The same warm tan skin and strong arms you’d had wrapped around you less than twenty-four hours ago. He was in a simple black t-shirt and joggers, looking unfairly good even in dance clothes.

For one suspended heartbeat the world went silent.

Then professional instinct kicked in. You forced your face into a polite, pleasant smile even as your brain screamed.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, extending your hand like you’d never felt those fingers laced with yours under fairy lights. “I’m really looking forward to helping make your day perfect.”

Steve’s grip was warm and familiar. He shook your hand once, firm but careful, his expression carefully neutral even though his eyes flicked over your face like he was checking if you were okay.

“Likewise,” he said, voice steady. “Nancy’s been raving about you.”

Nancy beamed between you, completely oblivious to the silent earthquake happening right in front of her. “Isn’t she the best? Okay, so the instructor wants us to run through the first part of the waltz. Would you mind dancing with David for a minute so I can see how the steps actually look with a partner? I’m terrible at visualizing without a visual.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You nodded, because what else could you do? “Of course.”

The music started — soft, romantic, the same kind of melody that had played while you swayed together in the tree. Steve stepped in, one hand settling at your waist exactly where it had been last night, the other taking your hand. His palm was warm. Steady. The same hands that had pulled you out of danger and then held you like you were something precious.

You began to move.

The second you were close enough that Nancy couldn’t hear, your smile stayed fixed for her benefit but your voice dropped to a sharp, furious whisper.

“You lied to me.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. He kept the steps smooth, turning you gently so it still looked like a normal demonstration. “I didn’t lie.”

“You told me your name was Steve.”

“It is,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to Nancy for a split second before coming back to yours. “David’s my middle name. Everyone calls me David. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think what?” Your voice stayed low, but the anger was real now, simmering under the surface. Your body stayed loose and graceful for Nancy’s sake, but your grip on his shoulder was tighter than it needed to be. “You didn’t think maybe you should mention that the woman you were slow-dancing with in a tree was planning your wedding?”

His hand flexed at your waist. “I didn’t know who you were. Do you know how many people have your first name? And then last night…” He swallowed, voice dropping even lower. “Last night was real. I wasn’t thinking about any of this. I was just thinking about you.”

You hated how that made something in your chest twist. You were furious — at the situation, at the lie by omission, at the fact that the man who’d made you feel like maybe this could be something was the same man Nancy had been gushing about as her rock, her calm in the storm, her fiancé.

You kept dancing. Kept smiling like everything was fine. But inside you were quietly seething, every turn making the betrayal sharper.

Steve’s eyes stayed on yours, guilty and conflicted and still warm in that same way that had undone you last night. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as the music swelled. “I should’ve said something. I just… didn’t know how.”

The song ended. You stepped back the second it was polite to do so, your smile still in place even though your pulse was racing for all the wrong reasons now.

Nancy clapped, delighted. “That looked beautiful! You two have great chemistry on the floor.”

You and Steve both froze for half a second.

Then he cleared his throat and looked away first.

You forced a laugh that sounded almost normal. “Just doing my job.”

But when your eyes met his again across the studio, the air between you crackled with everything unsaid.

Nancy was already pulling out her phone to check something, oblivious.

Steve’s gaze lingered on you, quiet and heavy with apology and something else you didn’t want to name.

You looked away first.

You called Robin the second you got to your car after the dance lesson. Your hands were still shaking.

“I can’t do this,” you said the moment she picked up. “I’m quitting. I’m calling Nancy tonight and telling her I have a conflict of interest or a family emergency or that I joined the fucking circus. I don’t care. I cannot keep planning this wedding. Steve? Dr.Steve? Is David. They're the same fucking person.”

Robin was quiet for two full seconds. Then—

“Absolutely not.”

“Robin—”

“No. Listen to me.” Her voice was firm in that way she only used when she was done being the fun best friend and had switched into serious mode. “This is the biggest client we’ve ever landed. Your boss is already talking about putting you on the senior track if this goes well. You do not get to throw that away because the groom happens to be the guy who made you feel butterflies under a tree. Suck it up. Be a big girl. Put on your professional face, finish the job, and then you can fall apart in my apartment with ice cream and terrible reality TV. But you are not walking away from this.”

You hated that she was right.

So you stayed.

The next few days were a special kind of torture.

Venue showing number one was a historic ballroom downtown. Nancy gushed over the crystal chandeliers while you and Steve stood three feet apart pretending the air between you wasn’t thick enough to choke on. Every time you had to address him as “David” your jaw clenched. Every time his hand brushed yours while reaching for a brochure the same spark from the park shot up your arm and you hated yourself for still feeling it.

Venue showing number two was a lakeside garden estate. Worse. Open air, golden light, romantic as hell. Nancy kept asking your opinion on ceremony arches while Steve watched you with that careful, unreadable expression that made your stomach twist. You answered every question with perfect professionalism and refused to meet his eyes for longer than two seconds.

By the third showing you were running on pure spite and coffee.

It was an old converted warehouse on the edge of town—exposed brick, high ceilings, industrial-chic that somehow still felt warm with the right lighting. You were mid-sentence explaining capacity and catering options when the heavy metal door at the far end of the space slammed open.

“There you are, baby.”

You froze.

Eddie Munson strode in like he owned the place, long hair half-tied back, rings glinting on every finger, a battered leather jacket thrown over a black band tee. He made a beeline straight for you, completely ignoring Nancy and Steve, and slid an arm around your waist like it belonged there.

“Missed you this morning,” he said, loud enough for the whole warehouse to hear, then leaned in and pressed a quick, deliberate kiss to your temple. “You ran out before I could even make you coffee.”

Your brain short-circuited for half a second.

Then pure survival instinct kicked in.

You forced a tight smile and leaned into him just enough to sell it. “Eddie. I didn’t think you were coming today.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” His grin was pure chaos as he finally looked at Nancy and Steve, eyes sparkling with something sharp and amused. “Hi. Eddie Munson. Her fiancé.” He stuck out his free hand toward Steve like a challenge. “You must be the lucky guy. Congratulations, man.”

Steve’s polite smile didn’t reach his eyes. He shook Eddie’s hand with just a little too much force.

“David,” he said evenly. “Nice to meet you.”

Nancy blinked, clearly surprised but recovering fast with a warm smile. “Oh! I had no idea. Congratulations to you both as well.” She glanced between you and Eddie, then at Steve, sensing the sudden shift in temperature even if she didn’t understand it. “We were just looking at the space for the reception…”

Eddie kept his arm firmly around your waist, thumb stroking once over your hip in a way that felt both protective and deeply irritating. You were going to kill him later. Slowly. He was supposed to be back in Hawkins. What he was doing here? Of all places? You had no fucking idea.

“Looks nice,” Eddie said, glancing around with theatrical interest. “Very… exposed brick. Romantic. You into this industrial vibe, baby? I always figured you’d want something more girly. You know, like something in a castle or some cutesy shit.”

Steve’s jaw ticked.

You felt it.

“The warehouse has a lot of flexibility for lighting,” you said tightly, trying to steer everything back to business. “We can do string lights, uplighting, whatever the couple prefers—”

“Whatever she prefers, right?” Eddie cut in, looking at Steve with a lazy, pointed smile. “Since you’re the groom and all. Gotta make sure your bride’s happy. And your wedding planner too, I guess. She’s been working so hard on this. Barely has time for her own fiancé these days.”

Steve’s smile was pure ice. “She’s excellent at her job. We’re lucky to have her.”

“Oh I know.” Eddie’s fingers flexed against your side. “I’m the lucky one though.”

Nancy laughed a little awkwardly, clearly picking up on the weird undercurrent but choosing to ignore it. “Well, why don’t we keep looking around? I’d love to see the outdoor patio area…”

She started walking. You moved to follow, but Eddie kept his arm around you, forcing Steve to walk on your other side. The three of you moved through the space in a tense little triangle.

Every time Steve asked a quiet, professional question about logistics, Eddie answered for you with some overly confident comment. Every time Eddie made a joke or made some sarcastic comment— Steve’s answers got shorter and cooler. The passive aggression was so thick you could taste it.

You were pissed at both of them.

Pissed at Steve for being engaged to Nancy while looking at you like that.

Pissed at Eddie for showing up out of nowhere and claiming a relationship that didn’t exist just to… what? Stir the pot? Protect you? You hadn't spoken to him in years. You know your dad still spoke with him but he wouldn't be involved in this, right?

But most of all you were pissed at yourself for the tiny, traitorous part of you that noticed the way Steve’s eyes kept flicking to Eddie’s hand on your waist like he wanted to remove it.

By the time Nancy finally checked her phone and announced she had a call she needed to take outside, the air in the warehouse felt combustible.

Eddie waited until the door closed behind her before dropping the smile.

“Miss me?” he muttered under his breath.

You didn’t even look at him. Your voice was pure venom.

“We are going to have a very long conversation later.”

Steve stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the two of you with an expression that was equal parts jealous and carefully blank.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.

Eddie grinned again, all teeth this time. “Peachy. Just talking about our own wedding plans. You know how it is.”

Steve’s eyes met yours for one charged second.

You looked away first.

Nancy came back a minute later, oblivious and smiling, and the rest of the showing passed in a haze of forced professionalism and barely restrained tension that crackled every time Steve and Eddie were forced to stand near each other.

You had never wanted a venue tour to end more in your life.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Nancy left on a Monday morning for a week-long assignment in D.C. She hugged you both at the studio door, already half in work mode, and said, “I trust you two with everything. Just… don’t let David pick all white roses, okay? He’ll try.”

Steve had given her a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and promised they’d handle it.

And just like that, it was the two of you.

The first couple of days were still stiff. You kept everything strictly professional—emails, shared calendars, clipped conversations about linens and guest lists. But something shifted somewhere between the third seating-chart revision at 10 p.m. and the night you both ended up on the floor of the planning office surrounded by sample menus, laughing until your sides hurt over a caterer who had somehow misspelled “filet mignon” as “filet minion.”

After that, the edges softened.

You started talking like normal people. About stupid things at first—worst wedding disasters you’d witnessed, the ridiculous amount of tulle currently living in your storage closet, how neither of you could stand the sound of a violin being tuned. Then quieter things. Steve admitted he was terrified of public speaking and had already rewritten his vows four times. You told him about the first wedding you’d ever planned and how the bride’s veil had caught fire during the unity candle. You told him that Eddie wasn't really your fiancé. That your father is trying to force a fucked up arranged marriage. Steve's mask broke for a fraction of a second— showing relief instead of anger when Eddie was brought up. The stories got longer. The silences got easier. By Thursday you were finishing each other’s sentences over coffee and arguing about playlist order.

It felt dangerously close to friendship.

Friday afternoon you met at the florist’s for the final flower walkthrough. The shop was small and overflowing—buckets of peonies and garden roses and trailing eucalyptus everywhere, the air thick with sweet, green scent. Steve held the door for you out of habit now. You’d stopped flinching when his hand brushed your lower back as he guided you past a display of cascading orchids.

You were deep in debate over whether the centerpieces should be low and lush or tall and dramatic when the little bell over the door chimed again.

You looked up.

And the floor dropped out from under you.

Jake stood just inside the entrance, one hand resting on the small of the pretty brunette’s back. Her hand was curved protectively over a very obvious baby bump. She was laughing at something he’d said, face soft and glowing in that way only very happy, very pregnant women managed.

Jake’s eyes landed on you and the laugh died mid-breath.

For a second nobody moved.

Then the brunette noticed the sudden tension and glanced between the three of you, the color draining from her face.

“Jake?” she said quietly. “Everything okay?”

Steve, who had been examining a stem of a white rose, looked up at the shift in the air. His gaze flicked from your frozen expression to the couple by the door and back again. Something careful and assessing settled over his face.

Jake cleared his throat. “Yeah. Uh. Hey.” His eyes stayed on you. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

You felt Steve step half a pace closer without making it obvious.

“Jake,” you managed. Your voice came out flatter than you wanted. “Hi.”

The woman offered a polite, slightly terrified smile. “We were just looking at some arrangements for the baby shower.” She rested her hand more firmly on her stomach, the diamond on her left hand catching the light.

Steve’s voice was mild when he spoke, but there was steel underneath. “I’m Steve. We’re here for wedding flowers.” He didn’t specify whose. “Nice to meet you both.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed a fraction at the protective edge in Steve’s tone. “Yeah. Likewise.”

Another beat of heavy quiet. Lauren murmured something about checking the peonies and gently steered Jake toward the back of the shop. He went, but not before glancing at you one last time with an expression that was half apology, half something uglier.

The second they were out of earshot Steve turned fully toward you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You stared at a bucket of blush garden roses like they held the secrets of the universe. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He kept his voice low. “How do you know him?”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s my ex-fiancé. Jake.” The name still tasted bitter. “We were together almost three years. Engaged for eight months. I came home early from a venue walkthrough one day and found him in our bed with her.” You tipped your chin toward where Lauren was now examining a display of baby’s breath, one hand still on her stomach. “She was his coworker. They’d been sleeping together for six months. He told me he was ‘in love for real this time’ and moved out the next week. They got married four months later. And now…” You gestured vaguely at the baby bump. “I guess they’re starting a family.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment. When you finally risked a glance at him, his jaw was tight and his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them.

“He cheated on you,” he said, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And left you for her.”

“Yeah.”

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s fucked up.”

A startled little laugh escaped you. “Eloquent.”

“I’m serious.” He shifted so his body partially blocked the view of Jake and Lauren across the shop. “You didn’t deserve that. Anyone who does that to someone doesn’t deserve a second of your energy.”

You swallowed. The flowers suddenly smelled too strong. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt when you run into them.” His voice softened. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t.”

You looked at him then—really looked. At the freckles across his nose, the concerned furrow between his brows, the way he was standing just close enough that you could feel the steady warmth of him without it being overwhelming. Somewhere over the past week the sharp edges of your anger toward him had worn down into something more complicated. Something that felt a lot like friendship. And something else you were still refusing to name.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Steve’s expression gentled. “Anytime.”

Across the shop, Jake laughed at something Lauren said. The sound made your shoulders tighten automatically.

Steve noticed.

Without a word he reached past you, plucked a single stem of white peony from the nearest bucket, and held it out.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think your taste in flowers is better than your taste in ex-fiancés.”

You took the peony. Your fingers brushed his.

For the first time all week, the smile you gave him was real.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

You didn’t even make it all the way home before the first tear slipped free.

By the time you unlocked your apartment door the pressure behind your ribs had turned sharp and mean. Jake’s face. Lauren’s hand on that rounded stomach. The easy way they’d stood there like the last three years of your life had never happened. You dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes, and went straight for the bottle of whiskey on the top shelf of the fridge—the one you only ever opened when things got bad.

It got bad fast.

Two glasses in and the apartment felt too quiet. Three and the memories started replaying on a loop—walking in on them, the way Jake had looked at you like you were the inconvenience, the empty side of the bed for months afterward. Four glasses and you were on the floor of the living room with your phone in your hand, trying and failing to text Robin something coherent. The screen swam. Your thumbs wouldn’t cooperate.

You didn’t hear the knock the first time.

The second time it was louder, followed by Steve’s voice through the door, low and careful.

“Hey. It’s me. Robin called—said you weren’t answering and she was worried. Can you open up?”

You somehow made it to the door. The second it swung open Steve took one look at you—red eyes, whiskey glass still in your hand, mascara smudged—and the soft concern on his face deepened into something more urgent.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, gently took the glass from your fingers, and set it on the counter. One warm hand came up to steady your elbow when you swayed.

“How much did you drink?”

“Enough,” you managed, the word thick. Then the tears started again, hot and sudden. “I saw them and it just—everything came back. I thought I was over it. I really thought I was. But I’m not. I’m still just… alone. And miserable. And I keep pretending I’m fine and I’m not. I fucking hate this.”

Steve didn’t try to fix it with empty words. He guided you to the couch, sat beside you, and let you fall apart against his shoulder. One of his hands rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades while the other held a glass of water to your lips every so often, coaxing you to drink. You cried about Jake. About the way it had felt to be replaced so easily. About how planning other people’s forever made the quiet of your own apartment feel louder every single night. About how tired you were of being the strong one.

He listened to all of it. Never once looked impatient. Never once made you feel dramatic.

When the worst of the shaking stopped he helped you stand, walked you to the bathroom so you could wash your face, then steered you toward the bedroom. You were still in your work clothes. He found an oversized T-shirt in your drawer, turned around while you changed, then waited until you crawled under the covers before sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m going to leave some water and Advil right here,” he said quietly, setting both on the nightstand. “Text me when you wake up, okay? Even if it’s just to tell me you’re alive.”

He stood. Took two steps toward the door.

Stopped.

For a long second he just stood there with his back to you, one hand braced on the doorframe. Then he turned around, walked back to the bed, and sank down onto the edge again. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them.

“I can’t leave like this,” he said, voice rough. “Not without saying it.”

Your stomach dropped.

Steve dragged a hand through his perfect hair, making it stick up in a way that should have looked ridiculous and somehow only made him look more wrecked. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the night in the park. Probably since the dumpster, if I’m being honest. This whole week—working with you, laughing with you—I keep falling harder. And I know the timing is shit. I know I’m engaged. I know I have no right. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this.”

The words landed like a physical blow. For one dizzy second you wanted nothing more than to reach for him. Instead you sat up against the headboard, heart slamming, and forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please don’t say that.”

“I already did.”

“Then take it back.” Your voice cracked. “I’m not going to be the other woman, Steve. I won’t do that to Nancy. She doesn’t deserve it. And neither do I. I’ve already been the girl who got left. I’m not going to be the girl who helps someone else do the leaving.”

Steve’s face twisted like the words physically hurt. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded once—slow and defeated.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

He stood again. This time he made it all the way to the door. His hand lingered on the knob for a second longer than necessary.

“Get some sleep,” he said without turning around. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stared at the ceiling until the whiskey and the tears finally pulled you under, the ghost of his confession still sitting heavy in the middle of your chest.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Nancy showed up at your apartment the next afternoon looking pale and exhausted, still in her travel clothes. She didn’t even wait for you to offer coffee before the words spilled out.

“I don’t know if I’m still in love with him.”

You froze with the coffee pot in your hand.

Nancy sank onto your couch, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. “I’ve been thinking about it the whole time I was gone. The wedding, the vows, the rest of our lives… and I keep waiting to feel that certainty I used to have. It’s just not there the way it used to be. And I don’t know what to do.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure she could hear it. Every selfish part of you wanted to say Then don’t. Call it off. He’s in love with me and I’m in love with him and maybe this is the universe giving us a chance.

Instead you set the coffee pot down, sat beside her, and took her hand.

“Nancy. Look at me.”

She did.

“Steve is a good man,” you said, voice steady even though something inside you was cracking open. “He’s kind. He’s steady. You can't see the way he looks at you when you walk in a room. I’ve watched him these past weeks. He is all in. And people like that—people who love that hard and that consistently—don’t come around twice. Doubt is normal. Cold feet are normal. But throwing away a man like him because you’re scared of forever? That’s the kind of regret that doesn’t go away.”

You squeezed her hand tighter, forcing every ounce of conviction you didn’t fully feel into the words.

“Go through with the wedding. Choose him. Choose the life you’ve already started building. He’s worth it. And you’re going to be so happy once you’re on the other side of this fear. I really believe that.”

Nancy’s eyes filled. She pulled you into a tight hug and whispered, “Thank you. I needed to hear that from someone who isn’t him.”

You held her and smiled and hated yourself a little more with every second that passed.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Two days later you were at your dad’s house for your cousin’s birthday cookout. The backyard was full of aunts in folding chairs, uncles arguing about sports, little kids chasing each other with water guns, the smell of charcoal and sun-warmed grass. Your dad kept bringing it up to distant relatives that you weren't married yet— the horror settling on their faces.

You were standing by the dessert table nursing a soda when Eddie appeared at the edge of the yard.

He looked uncharacteristically nervous. Hair tied back, nice black button-down instead of a band tee, rings still on every finger but somehow more put together. The second your eyes met he started walking toward you like a man on a mission.

Conversation around you gradually quieted.

Eddie stopped a few feet away, swallowed hard, and dropped to one knee right there on the grass.

Your heart stopped.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he said, voice carrying across the suddenly silent backyard. “But I’m done thinking. I love you. I’ve loved you longer than I should admit out loud. And I know the timing is messy and I know you’re scared and I know you’ve been hurt before—but I want to spend the rest of my life proving I’m not going anywhere. Marry me.”

He opened a small black box. A simple gold band with a dark stone sat inside.

Every relative was staring. Your dad’s face had gone soft with something that looked a lot like relief but with something knowing hidden underneath— like he expected this.

You could feel the weight of all those eyes. The quiet hope in your father’s expression. The ghost of Jake’s betrayal still sitting heavy in your chest. The knowledge that the man you actually wanted was currently planning a wedding with someone else because you had told his fiancée to go through with it.

Cynicism settled over you like a familiar coat.

Maybe this was as good as it got. Maybe safe and real and right in front of you was better than wanting someone you could never have.

Your dad stepped closer, voice low and thick. “Honey… it’s time. Let yourself be happy. Say yes.”

Eddie’s eyes never left yours. Waiting. Hopeful. Steady in a way you hadn’t expected.

You heard yourself speak before you fully decided.

“…Okay.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then the backyard erupted in cheers and applause. Your aunts were crying. Your dad pulled you into a crushing hug. Eddie slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands and kissed your cheek like he couldn’t quite believe it had worked.

You smiled for the photos.

You laughed when your cousins started chanting for a toast.

And the entire time the new ring felt like a beautiful, heavy lie against your skin.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

A week later—

City Hall, 2:47 p.m.

You stood in the small waiting area outside the clerk’s office in a simple ivory dress that didn’t feel like yours. Eddie was beside you in a black shirt and slacks, looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him. Your dad kept checking his watch.

Robin was across town handling the Wheeler-Harrington wedding so you wouldn’t have to. You’d handed everything over two days ago with a tight smile and a “You’ve got this.” You hadn’t let yourself think about the ballroom or the flowers or the man who was supposed to be standing at the end of that aisle.

The clerk called your names.

Eddie squeezed your hand. “Last chance to run,” he tried to joke. It came out soft.

You managed a thin smile. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Your dad stepped forward before either of you could move.

“No.”

The single word cut through the hallway. Everyone turned.

Your father looked older than usual, eyes glossy but steady. “I can’t let you do this, sweetheart. Not like this. Not because you’re scared or because I pushed or because it feels safer than wanting something bigger. You deserve an epic love story. The kind that knocks the wind out of you. Not- Not just doing this because you’re tired of being alone.”

Eddie stared at him for a long second. Then he let out a shaky breath and actually laughed—quiet and a little broken.

“He’s right,” Eddie said, turning to you. He took both of your hands. “You don’t look at me the way you look when you talk about him. And I care about you too much to let you settle for a backup plan. Even if the backup plan is me.”

The ring suddenly felt unbearable on your finger.

You slipped it off and pressed it into his palm. Eddie closed his fingers around it, kissed your forehead once, and stepped back.

Your dad wrapped an arm around your shoulders as the three of you walked out of city hall into the afternoon sun, the marriage license unsigned on the clerk’s desk behind you.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

The Ballroom Venue, 2:47 p.m.

Steve stood in the small room just off the ceremony space, already in the tux, boutonnière pinned, heart hammering against his ribs. Guests were seated. Music was about to start. Nancy was on the other side of the door in her dress.

She slipped into the room without knocking, still holding her bouquet. For a moment they just looked at each other.

“I can’t do this,” Nancy said quietly.

Steve’s shoulders sagged with something that felt dangerously like relief.

“I know,” he answered.

Nancy let out a watery little laugh. “We’re really bad at this, huh?”

“The worst.” He stepped closer, gentle. “I care about you. So much. You’re one of my best friends. But I’m not in love with you the way a husband should be. And I don’t think you’re in love with me that way either. Not anymore.”

Nancy’s eyes filled, but she was nodding. “I’ve been trying to force it because it looked right on paper. Because everyone expected it. Because were good together. But good isn’t the same as right.”

Steve reached out and carefully took the bouquet from her hands, setting it on the side table.

“We can still walk out there and tell them together,” he said. “No blame. No big scene. Just… the truth.”

Nancy wiped under her eyes, careful of the makeup. “What about the planner? All the work she put in—”

“She’ll understand,” Steve said, and the way his voice softened on the words made Nancy look at him more closely. She didn’t ask. She just squeezed his hand once.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go be honest.”

They walked out of the room side by side, not as a bride and groom, but as two people who had finally stopped pretending. The string quartet faltered. Guests turned. Steve found Robin near the front and gave her a small, apologetic shake of his head.

Across the city, at almost the exact same moment, two almost-weddings quietly ended.

And somewhere in the middle of both of them, the same unspoken name sat heavy in two different chests.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Robin found Steve still in his tux, standing alone near the empty ceremony arch while the last confused guests filtered out.

She grabbed his arm, eyes wide and urgent.

“Holy shit—I can't believe you two did that. I have to tell you something important though. She went to city hall today. With Eddie. They were getting married. Like, for real this time. I didn’t know until an hour ago and I couldn’t reach her and I—”

Steve didn’t let her finish.

He was already running.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

City hall was quiet when he burst through the doors. The clerk’s office was empty. The only people left in the hallway were Eddie Munson, slumped on a bench with his head in his hands, and your father sitting beside him looking equally gutted.

Steve skidded to a stop in front of them, breathing hard.

“Where is she?”

Eddie looked up. His eyes were red. He didn’t even look surprised to see Steve.

“Gone,” he said simply. “Wedding didn’t happen. Her dad stopped it. I stopped it. She left about twenty minutes ago. We don’t know where.”

Your father studied Steve for a long second, something knowing and almost gentle in his expression.

“You’re the one,” he said. Not a question.

Steve didn’t answer. He just dragged a hand through his hair, already turning for the door, mind racing.

Then it hit him.

The park.

The tree.

He was gone before either of them could say another word.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

You were already there.

Sitting on the wide branch of the old oak, knees pulled up, ivory dress wrinkled and dusty at the hem. You’d come straight from city hall without thinking, like the tree was the only place left that made sense.

You heard footsteps a second before you saw him.

Steve stepped into the little clearing beneath the tree, still in the tux, bow tie undone and hanging loose, chest rising and falling like he’d run the whole way. When his eyes found you, the relief that broke across his face was so raw it almost hurt to look at.

Neither of you spoke at first.

He climbed up carefully, the same way he had the night of the outdoor movie, and sat beside you on the cushioned branch. Close, but not touching. The air between you felt electric and fragile all at once.

“Robin told me you were at city hall,” he said quietly. “I went there. Your dad and Eddie… they told me what happened.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I couldn’t do it. Any of it.”

“Me neither.” Steve’s voice was rough. “Nancy and I called it off right before the ceremony. We both knew. We’ve known for a while.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. The freckles. The perfect hair that was a mess for once. The way his eyes were shining.

“I’m in love with you,” you said. The words came out steady, even though your hands were trembling. “I’ve been in love with you since the hospital. Since you danced with me right here. I tried so hard not to be. I pushed you away and I told Nancy to marry you and I almost married someone else just so I wouldn’t have to want you. But I do. I love you. And there’s nothing holding me back anymore.”

Steve’s breath hitched.

He reached up and cradled your face with both hands, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he was afraid you might disappear.

“I’m in love with you too,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “So much it scares me. You’re it for me. You’re the only person I’ve ever looked at and thought, there you are. I don’t care how messy this has been. I don’t care about the timing or the almost-weddings or any of it. I just want you. However I can have you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

You leaned into his touch, eyes falling shut for a second as the weight of everything finally lifted.

When you opened them again, Steve was already leaning in.

The kiss was soft at first—careful, almost reverent—then deeper, all of the restraint and almosts and quiet longing pouring into it. His hands slid into your hair. Yours fisted in the lapels of his tux. The branch swayed gently beneath you, leaves rustling like the whole tree was exhaling with relief.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, Steve let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

“Hi,” he whispered.

You smiled against his mouth, tears still clinging to your lashes.

“Hi.”

Nothing was standing between you anymore.

Just the two of you, the old oak tree, and the rest of whatever came next.