The bouquet slipped from my fingers and hit the pavement with a wet thud. Rain poured down, mixing with the mascara streaks on my cheeks. I couldn’t breathe. One minute I was running from the chapel, the next I was collapsing against a brick wall, gasping like I’d been punched.

Then he was there—James. His dark uniform soaked through, voice steady despite the storm. 'Hey, look at me. Breathe. I’ve got you.' An ambulance idled nearby, its lights painting the alley in pulses of red and blue.

He checked my pulse, asked my name, wrapped me in a thermal blanket like I mattered. No judgment. Just care.

Two weeks later, over terrible hospital coffee, he joked, 'We should get married. You’d get better health coverage.' I laughed—until I realized he wasn’t entirely joking.

Now, standing in front of the justice of the peace, my secondhand dress clinging to my frame, I stare into his calm green eyes. This isn’t how I imagined my wedding day. But it feels… right.

Then the door bursts open. A woman in a tailored suit strides in, holding a file. 'James Kensington, you need to come home. Your father is dying.'

His face goes pale. My heart stops. James… who?

I clutch the bouquet—a simple bundle of wildflowers—and wait for him to speak. The priest clears his throat. The woman stares at me like I’m a stain to be removed.

Do I demand answers now? Do I walk out before the vows are said? Or do I take his hand and pretend this doesn’t change everything?