I had wanted the boat visible.
Reid had understood why without asking.
Mercy represented every future we had delayed but not abandoned.
The celebrant welcomed everyone.
She spoke briefly about partnership as an active practice rather than a finished promise. About the way a home could be built through repetition—meals, forgiveness, truth, touch, and the willingness to begin again when certainty failed.
Then she turned toward Reid.
“You’re first.”
His face changed.
I squeezed his hands.
“Breathe.”
“That’s my line.”
“Use it.”
He inhaled.
The loft became quiet.
“Noah.”
His voice caught on my name.
He looked down once, then back at me.
“I wrote three versions of this.”
A soft laugh moved through the guests.
“The first was too long. The second sounded like a maintenance contract. Marian destroyed the third.”
“It was six pages,” Marian said from the front row.
More laughter.
Reid smiled.
Then he let his emotion show without trying to hide it.
“I used to believe love meant standing between you and every possible harm. I thought if I worked hard enough, watched closely enough, and never let myself rest, I could build a wall nothing would cross.”
His thumbs moved over my hands.
“You taught me that walls can become cages, even when they’re built with good intentions.”
My throat tightened.
“You taught me to tell you when I’m afraid. To let you take care of me. To understand that staying is not the same as controlling, and protecting is not the same as deciding.”
His eyes shone.
