The day was beautiful.
It was also loud.
By four, voices had begun separating into hard layers. Light from the harbor doors became too bright. I lost the final sentence of a conversation with Trevor while he was still speaking.
Amber.
I touched two fingers to Reid’s wrist.
He stopped immediately.
“Break?”
“Yes.”
His concern did not transform into panic.
There was no public announcement.
No insistence that I could endure another ten minutes.
We slipped into the office, where Marian had arranged a recliner, dim lamp, water, medication, and a sign on the door that read GROOMS RESTING. DO NOT TEST ME.
Reid closed the blinds.
I sat and loosened my collar.
“Head?”
“Two.”
“Language?”
“Slow.”
“Do you want me here?”
“Yes.”
He knelt and removed my shoes.
“I can do that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
“I’m your husband.”
“That is not a medical qualification.”
“It should come with benefits.”
I smiled.
He pressed a kiss to my knee.
The room quieted.
