I forgot about this part.
Getting married is one thing. Sealing it with a kiss? That’s another.
My lungs pinch with nerves andmaybeexcitement? It’s hard to tell, but whatever cocktail of emotions Sean is serving in me, it’s making it harder to breathe, making me almost have to pant to get air. Sean puts his palm on my face, his hand as steady as his eyes are sure, and he guides my mouth to his.
Our lips brush in an echo of our first two kisses, but it’s sweet and almost stately and perfectly appropriate for the moment.
But then Sean snakes an arm around my back, his fingers clutching my waist, and he pulls me close. I feel him smiling against my mouth as his beard grazes my skin. It’s somehow prickly and smooth in a way I like more than I should, with that intoxicating oaky smell.
When he spins and dips me, a small squeal escapes me. It feels both spontaneous and like we’ve been doing this for years. Like we’re not faking.
At all.
I laugh, even as our lips press together—this time firmer and deeper, chaste yet charged. One of my hands finds the back ofhis neck, my fingers tugging on his long hair. The other hand clutches my bouquet like it’s going to keep me from falling.
“Come on,” I hear one of my brothers grumble .
Sean pulls me back upright, and we’re both grinning when we part. I wipe lipstick from his mouth with my thumb; he swipes his finger along my chin, checking for beard-burn. It’s such a strangely adorable, intimate moment that I feel a warmth inside me. Whether it’s panic or hope heating me, I’m not sure.
But the feeling lasts through the toasts. Through the dinner and dances. Up until the moment it’s time for us to get into his truck, complete with cans tied to the back, and drive back to his place.
A place Scottie had some of my things moved into last week, because I was too busy prepping for the wedding.
And by busy, I mean overwhelmed.
Overcome by the reality that the marriage license is only the beginning.
But we’re here now.
Sean parks in the back of a converted brick building, tucked down a sleepy street off a main road. It looks like it used to be the kind of general store you’d see on Main Street USA, but now it’s split into two apartments, with ivy crawling up the walls.
The lot is lit by a single overhead lamp, casting soft gold over the hood of his truck. There’s a small wooden staircase climbing one side, framed by crepe myrtle trees. The faint scent of honeysuckle carries on the night air.
We walk up the steps, the boards creaking slightly beneath our feet—not in a way that feels rickety, but in the way that shows it’s been well used and well cared for. Like the stairs have stories.
One day, mine will be one of them.
The landing is narrow and framed by a railing that looks like someone recently sanded and painted it. There’s a simple coirmat at the door and an overgrown rosemary plant that makes the air feel fresh and homey.
“I think this is the moment I sweep you off your feet,” Sean says with a half smile as he unlocks the door and pushes it open.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Someone could be watching. This town has eyes everywhere.”
I laugh and then laugh harder when he scoops me up like I hardly weigh a thing. He opens the door and maneuvers me in—we’re both a little too tall to make this easy—and then he kicks it closed with his foot and sets me down.
Close.
“Welcome home,” he says. His eyes aren’t dancing or twinkling, though. His brow feels a little too heavy.
I place my hands on his chest for a quick moment?—
And then I pull my eyes away and turn. “Let’s see what we’re working with,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. Trying not to read into how the mood has become so much more serious.
His place is exactly what I imagined: neat, simple, masculine without being performative. Wooden floors and walls. A leather couch. Clean counters in the galley kitchen. There are no weird smells. No leftover bachelor energy. No last-minute stress-cleaning vibes (painted rail aside).
Only Sean.
