Page 121 of Seven Minutes
“Adrian,” I said against his lips. “You idiot. That’s perfect.”
He exhaled as if I’d just freed him.
And I realized this night wasn’t even close to being over.
I didn’t sleep much.
Not from nerves—more from the anchoring warmth of Adrian curled around me like he was afraid I might disappear before morning. He kept sliding his fingers over my skin in that absent, unconscious way he always did when he was feeling something he didn’t know how to voice.
When pale light finally bled into the room, he stirred behind me.
“You awake?” he murmured into my shoulder.
“Yeah.”
His warm lips pressed softly to the side of my throat. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
We dressed quietly in casual clothes. I didn’t ask where we were going; something about the moment didn’t invite questions. It felt sacred in a way that made my chest tighten.
Outside, the air was cool enough to raise goosebumps. Mist hovered low among the rows of vines, catching the early sunlight in a faint pink haze. The world smelled earthy and of new beginnings.
We walked down a sloping path, hand in hand. Our fingers laced together, squeezing, staying connected. Halfway down the hill, Adrian stopped, tugged my hand gently, and said, “Shoes off.”
I blinked at him. “Are we children?”
“Today? A little.” He grinned. “Humor me.”
I kicked off my shoes. He did the same. The damp dirt was cold under my feet, grounding and quieting something inside me I didn’t realize was buzzing.
We reached an opening between the vines. A small wooden arch stood there, simply decorated with a few wildflowers tied to the posts with twine. No chairs. No officiant. Just the two of us, the sunrise, and the rows of grapes stretching out like a promise.
Adrian swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“This is it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you want it.”
I stepped closer until our chests brushed. “I want it.”
That was all it took.
He took both my hands in his, palms warm and a bit shaky. The sun crested the ridge behind him, spilling light around his shoulders. He reminded me of every version of him I’d ever loved—all of it right here, within reach.
He cleared his throat. “I, uh… didn’t really write anything down.”
“Good. Your speeches are terrifying when they come with notecards.”
He laughed, breathless, and that laugh broke the dam.
He squeezed my hands, looking deep into my eyes. My heart thundered in my ears.
“Eli… I married you twelve years ago thinking I knew exactly who I was. What I wanted. How life was supposed to work. And I loved you then, so much I didn’t have the maturity to understand the weight of it.”
His voice thickened, becoming uneven.
“But I love you more now. I love you with context. With failures and fights and fatigue. I love you with every scar we put on each other and every scar we helped heal.”
I felt my throat close, and tears stung my eyes.
“I love you in all the ways that matter,” he whispered. “Not the ways I thought mattered. I choose you, again, with clear eyes. With both hands. With the man I am, not the man I pretended to be.”
