Hi, I’d be open to receiving requests if anyone wants to send some in. I don’t plan on prioritizing it, but I love to change up what I’m writing sometimes and I feel this is a good way to do that.
I typically write Chris Evans’ characters and Sebastian Stan’s characters, (I know/write Steve and Bucky best).
I’m most comfortable writing x daughter/ x niece/ x sister pieces, so if the requests could be in that category, that would be best.
I’m definitely willing to write pieces of the Marvel cast x platonic!reader or specific members of the Marvel cast x platonic! reader if you want to put those in..have fun.
******requests closed, this has peaked my anxiety as much as having Instagram used to*****
Today's history books are full of false information. Like most academics, historians today despise Western civilization and admire the 3rd World barbarians who seek our destruction.
Ahhhhhhh. The amount of Clueless references in S1E19 of Suburgatory were so well placed and planned!! I have only two pictures to prove it, but when they brought Alicia/Eden in, Linger by THE CRANBERRIES was playing like it did for those two so many years ago. And then later on they talk about how clueless they were.
having your own money is fucking dangerous because the only person stopping me from buying whatever I want is myself. and myself has bad judgment sometimes
I hate how people treat PMDD like it's just another mild premenstrual symptom. Like no, most people get moody—I get SUICIDAL. And I only get one decent week a month to feel like a semi-functioning human being (during ovulation) and the rest I'm rawdogging life. But sure, let's keep pretending it's just PMS.
Jeremy should disappear altogether. No one is really interested in what he does with his life anymore. He had his fame, made an ass out of himself and now he is done. I feel sorry for his daughter .
Summary: You were teenage sweethearts. He was the reckless storm, and you were the calm he kept chasing. Years later after heartbreak, distance, and too many nights spent wondering what went wrong, you find yourself back on Tyler Owens’ porch. What begins as one quiet conversation under the stars becomes a summer of rediscovery, healing, and second chances.
Warnings: Alcohol use.
Word Count: 5,088
Author's Note: Loosely based on the song “Greatest Love Story” by Lanco. Also part of the Summer Writing 2025 Challenge in @echoingbirdsofprey's Discord.
Prompt: Sitting on the Porch at Night
Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader
The late summer sun cast a golden hue over the little downtown that was Main Street, making the windows of the coffee shop glow like amber. You’d just locked up for the day, flipping the sign to CLOSED and tucking your keys into your apron pocket, when the sound of a truck rolling to a slow stop behind you made your heart hitch in your chest.
You knew that sound. You knew that truck. And sure enough, when you turned, there he was. Tyler Owens.
He was leaning against the open door of his dusty red pickup like time hadn’t touched him at all. But it had. You could see it in the set of his shoulders, and the way his eyes wrinkled just a little more than they used to.
He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that used to unravel you in seconds.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, voice warm and teasing, “You still make the best coffee in town?”
You crossed your arms, hiding the way your heart kicked. “Still better than the gas station sludge you used to swear by, I’d reckon.”
Tyler chuckled, his eyes raking over you. Not in a crude way, but in a quiet and stunned kind of way. Almost like he couldn’t believe you were still here.
“You look good,” he said after a beat, his voice lower now. Softer. “Didn’t expect to see you still running this place.”
“And I didn’t expect to see you back in town before Christmas,” you replied, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “Didn’t think storm chasers got vacation days.”
“Storm season’s winding down,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “Figured I’d come home for a bit. Been a while.”
Yeah, it had. Years, really. Maybe a few quick visits here and there, but nothing that lasted. Nothing that left time for conversations like this.
You nodded, glancing away. “Well. Welcome back, I guess.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of cicadas buzzed in the background, heat still hanging thick in the air. He looked at you like he was searching for something.
“I was thinking…” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “if you’re not doing anything tonight, maybe you’d wanna come by. Sit on the porch. Talk for a bit. Catch up. The stars still look the same from out there.”
Your breath caught. God, that porch. That porch had seen every version of the two of you. From laughing until you cried, whispering promises in the dark, and holding hands like you were afraid to let go. How many nights had you climbed out your bedroom window just to be next to him out there?
You weren’t sure if you could go back. You weren’t sure if you should.
But when you really looked at him, you saw the same boy you’d loved. Just a little older. And damn it if your heart didn’t still beat a little faster for him.
You cleared your throat, trying to summon some self-control. “Just talk?”
He smiled. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Sure wasn’t.”
You huffed a soft laugh despite yourself. “I get off early tomorrow. Might swing by then.”
“I’ll be out there,” he said, and his eyes held yours for just a second too long.
He tipped his hat, climbed into his truck, and pulled away slowly. And you stood there on the sidewalk, keys still in hand, wondering what the hell you were about to walk back into.
* * * * * * * *
The sun was low in the sky, casting long, syrupy shadows across the country road as you drove past the edge of town. The air smelled like warm dirt and dry grass, and the sound of your tires on the pavement filled the truck cab in a way that felt louder than it should’ve.
You hadn’t meant to overthink it, but of course you had. From the moment you told him “maybe,” your mind hadn’t stopped spinning.
You used to know this route like the back of your hand. You could’ve driven it blindfolded. Down the two lane stretch where the trees grew close together, past the crooked fence with the missing post, left at the mailbox rusted with age and shotgun pellets. Back then, you’d memorized every mile between your house and his. Every curve in the road had felt like part of the story.
God, the nights you used to climb out your window just to sit on that damn porch with him. No plan. No end goal. Just the comfort of his shoulder brushing yours and the way he always brought you a Dr. Pepper from the fridge, like clockwork. You’d talk about school, or where he wanted to go after graduation. You told him about your dreams, and he told you he didn’t care where he ended up as long as he was with you.
You thought you’d live a whole life in moments like that.
And then there was the river. You still remember the way the moonlight hit the water, how Tyler would back the truck down the narrow trail, headlights off to not wake the neighbors. You’d lie in the bed of that truck, arms tangled up, lips brushing and hands wandering. Sometimes going further than you meant to. But it never felt wrong. Never felt rushed. It felt like being young and alive and sure that you’d never want anyone else.
But then everything changed. And maybe it always does.
You remembered the shouting. The nights you waited up for his call, terrified that this time the bronc had thrown him too hard. The look on his face the night you told him you couldn’t do it anymore. That you wouldn’t.
He hadn’t begged. He’d just gone quiet. And somehow that hurt worse.
You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
You should’ve turned around ten minutes ago. Should’ve made some excuse, told yourself this was a bad idea. That the past needed to stay buried where it belonged.
But here you were, gravel crunching under your tires as you pulled onto the long dirt drive. You could see the porch light already on, glowing like a quiet invitation.
From the distance you saw him. His silhouette standing on the porch, a bottle in hand, leaning against one of the columns of the front porch like he had all the time in the world.
You pressed your foot to the brake and stared at him through the windshield.
This is a mistake. That’s what some small part of your brain whispered to you. But then another voice, this one stronger and more familiar told you it’s only a mistake if you don’t see where it goes.
You put your car in park, and stepped out. The porch creaked under your boots the way it always had. Familiar but worn.
Tyler stepped back to let you pass, giving you a slight nod as you reached the top step. For a second it looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he just nodded toward the chairs.
“Still sit on the left?” he asked, motioning to the one you always claimed when you were younger.
You nodded, biting back a smile. “Old habits die hard.”
He handed you a cold bottle of something, beer by the looks of it, and took the seat next to you. A quiet settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Not really.
The night stretched out around you. Warm air. Crickets. A hint of honeysuckle on the breeze.
You took a sip, letting the condensation chill your fingers. “You ever fix that warped floorboard in the hallway?”
Tyler huffed a soft laugh. “Still trips me every time. Some things just gotta stay the way they are.”
You glanced over at him. “That why you came back early this year?”
He looked at you then. Really looked. And for a second, he didn’t answer.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Sometimes I think I came back for the quiet of this place. Sometimes I think I came back hopin’ to see you.”
The words landed in your chest with more force than they should’ve. You looked away, swallowing down the heat that crept up your neck.
“You don’t get quiet chasing storms,” you said.
“No,” he agreed, voice low. “But it gets awful loud inside your own head when you stop.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then, “Why’d you start?”
He took a long pull from his beer and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “After the rodeo circuit.. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I’d spent all that time gettin’ bucked off bulls and beat to hell, and for what? There Wasn't a future in it, not really. I just…I needed something else. Something that made me feel alive without killin’ me.”
You turned toward him. “And chasing tornadoes seemed like the safe alternative?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No. It wasn’t about safety. It was about… control. You can’t stop a storm, but you can understand it. You can know where it’s going. That mattered to me.”
You tilted your head. “You mean it mattered after you lost everything.”
That hung in the air like smoke. But he didn’t deny it.
You stared out into the dark. “You know, I used to wait for your calls. Back when you were still doing rodeos. I’d sit on the floor by my bed, staring at the phone like if I looked hard enough, it’d ring. Just to hear your voice. Just to know you were okay.”
Tyler sat back, his jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to make you worry like that.”
“But you did,” you said softly. “And then when I thought you were done putting yourself in danger, you jumped into something worse. Tornadoes, Tyler. Jesus.”
He looked over at you. “You think I didn’t miss you? That I didn’t think about you every goddamn time the sky lit up and I wondered if I’d make it through the night?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your voice not to crack.
“I know I wasn’t easy to love,” he said after a long pause. “But you were. You were the easiest thing in the world. And I was too stupid to slow down long enough to hold on.”
Your fingers fidgeted with the label on your bottle, nails picking at the paper. “You weren’t stupid. Just...restless.”
“I’m still restless,” he admitted. “But lately it feels different. Like I’m tired of runnin’ from the things I should’ve stayed for.”
You looked at him then. Really looked.
The porch light cast his face in amber shadows, softer than you remembered, but his eyes? Still the same stormy green. Still the eyes you used to dream about. Still the eyes that haunted you some nights in your dreams.
“Do you ever think about what might’ve been?” he asked, voice so quiet it barely made it through the night air.
“All the time,” you whispered.
He leaned closer. Not touching, but near enough that you could feel the heat of him. “Then why didn’t you call?”
You blinked. “Why didn’t you?”
He gave a humorless chuckle. “Guess I figured I’d hurt you enough. That you deserved better than a man who couldn’t promise to stay put.”
You hesitated. “I didn’t need you to promise to stay put. I just needed you to care if you came back in one piece.”
That cracked something open between you.
The night deepened, and the stars stretched wide above you. You both sat quiet for a while, staring up, counting constellations like you used to.
“You remember the night we saw that shooting star?” you asked after a beat.
He smiled. “You made a wish.”
“So did you.” You said as you glanced over at him.
“I wished I’d never lose you.”
Your breath caught.
“What’d you wish for?” he asked, almost afraid to know.
You looked over, blinking back something sharp in your eyes. “I wished you’d stay.”
Silence again. But not empty. Not cold.
Tyler leaned forward, setting his bottle down. “I’m not asking to fix everything tonight. Hell, I ain’t even asking you to forgive me yet. I just... I just want to sit here with you. Let you yell at me, if you need to. Let you talk. Or not talk. Just...be near you for a while. That okay?”
You shifted in your seat. Moving just a little bit closer to Tyler. Close enough that your knees brushed. After a moment you set your bottle down too. And you reached for his hand. It felt the same. Rough. Warm. Grounding.
And just like that, the years slipped away.
–
It was summer then, too. One of those sticky nights where the air smelled like cut grass and engine oil, and your bare legs stuck to the porch swing if you sat too long.
Tyler was beside you, his arm slung over the back of the swing, fingertips grazing your shoulder. You were both barefoot, sipping warm soda from glass bottles and swaying gently to a tune playing low from his phone. Something old. Something twangy. Something he swore was “real music.”
“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he said suddenly.
You turned toward him, blinking in surprise, your heart skipping like a rock across the water.
“What?”
He looked over at you, all confidence and cowboy charm. “You heard me.”
You laughed. “You’re seventeen.”
“So?”
“So, seventeen year olds don’t talk about marriage.”
He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours. “Well, I do. And I mean it.”
You tried to play it cool, but your cheeks were already warm. “What makes you so sure?”
He grinned. “Because you’re it for me. Always have been.” And then, softer, he added, “You’re gonna be my wife someday. I already decided.”
You shook your head, teasing, “Guess it’s a good thing I decided you were gonna be my forever, then.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “It’s always gonna be you. No matter where I go or what I do.”
You didn’t doubt it then. Not even a little.
—
The memory slipped away like fog fading under the morning sun. You blinked, returning to the present. Tyler was still looking at you. Exactly the same way he had that night. Like you were his whole damn world. Like nothing in all the year between had changed that one simple truth.
You must’ve gone quiet longer than you meant to. Tyler shifted beside you, the wood of the porch creaking beneath him as he turned slightly in his seat.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.
You blinked once. Then again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
He tilted his head. “You kinda zoned out for a minute there.”
You gave a small shrug, trying to brush it off. “Just a dumb memory.”
“I don’t know,” you said, fingers reaching for the neck of your bottle. “It was a long time ago.”
He didn’t look away. Didn’t let you hide.
“Tell me.” He leaned in, elbows resting on his knees again, gaze steady. “Please.”
So you took a breath. And you told him the truth.
“I was thinking about that night. Out here. The summer before senior year.” You smiled, but it was a sad one. “You told me I was gonna be your wife.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, with his voice low he said, “I remember.”
You look over at him, expecting maybe surprise or discomfort. But instead, he was just…watching you. Like the memory was sitting right there between you, as vivid for him as it had been for you.
You shook your head lightly, mostly at yourself. “I used to think about that night every time I got scared. Every time we had a fight, or you were gone too long, or I didn’t know where the hell you were. I’d go back to that moment. The way you looked at me. The way it felt.”
He swallowed hard. “You think I forgot?”
You didn’t answer.
“I didn’t,” he said. “Not once. I held onto that night like it was the one thing I got right in my life. Deciding that you were gonna be my wife.”
You looked down, your voice barely more than a whisper. “It just...hurt too much to remember, after a while.”
“Yeah,” he said.
Tyler’s thumb was still tracing slow circles against your hand, like he didn’t want to let go. Like he was afraid the memory between you might slip away if he did.
You’d forgotten what this felt like. Not the touch, though that alone made your chest feel tight. But the stillness and the safety. The way being with Tyler used to make it feel like your whole world slowed down.
But it was late. And ghosts were stirring.
You gently eased your hand out of his, and he didn’t try to stop you. Just let it go with a quiet kind of understanding that made it hurt more.
You stood.
“I should head out,” you said softly.
He rose, too. Nodded once. No protest. No pleading.
Just the echo of every other goodbye that never really finished being said.
The porch light buzzed gently above you, casting Tyler in soft amber as he walked you to your car. Neither of you spoke. Your boots scuffed against the gravel. His steps matched yours.
When you reached the driver’s side, you paused, keys loose in your hand. You stared down at them, thumb running across the edge of the worn fob, suddenly unsure.
Tyler stopped a pace behind you.
“I’m glad you came.” He said, his voice low and even.
You turned to face him. The porch light caught the green in his eyes, that same tired tenderness you used to know by heart.
“I wasn’t sure I would,” you said honestly.
“Didn’t think you would either,” he admitted with a small smile. “Didn’t think I deserved it.”
You looked at him for a long moment, your chest tightening with all the things you hadn’t said and maybe never would. The past still a little too close. The future still a little too far.
You nodded. “Goodnight, Tyler.”
He nodded too. “’Night.”
You opened the car door and slid in, hands on the wheel but not yet turning the key. Through the windshield, you looked back at the porch. You looked at the swing where you first told each other I love you, at the doorway where he first kissed you goodnight, at the light still glowing like it was waiting for something.
Your chest ached.
You reached for the gear shift. Then your hand stopped.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, loud enough that it echoed in your ears. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pushed the door back open and stepped out into the night.
“Tyler?” you called quietly.
He hadn’t moved from where he stood. But now, his head lifted fast—like he hadn’t expected to hear your voice again so soon.
You walked back toward the porch, gravel crunching under your steps. Each one slower than the last.
He met you halfway, brows drawn just slightly. “Everything okay?”
You nodded. Then looked up at him. “Can I stay a little longer?”
His eyes searched yours for half a heartbeat. And then he stepped aside and gestured back toward the house.
“You know you never have to ask.”
You climbed the steps and took your seat again on the porch. This time, you didn’t need a beer. Or space. You just needed him.
You stayed that night. Not overnight. And not in the way you used to. Just long enough for the porch light to flicker once, long enough for the breeze to pick up and carry the scent of the past with it. Long enough to remember how it used to feel, sitting next to him like you belonged there.
You left with the promise of nothing but a soft see you soon.
—
You came back two nights later.
And then again the next week.
And again the week after that.
It became a rhythm you didn’t expect but couldn’t quite shake. You’d close the coffee shop, pull off your apron, grab your keys, and find yourself driving out to Tyler’s place with the windows down and the sun melting behind you.
Some nights, you brought leftovers. A slice of pie. A casserole in a dish wrapped with a dish towel and love you didn’t want to name yet. Other nights, he grilled something out back and poured you a beer before you even took your shoes off.
And always, it ended on the porch.
Sometimes you talked for hours. Sometimes you said next to nothing. Sometimes he’d ask you about the guy you dated in college, and you’d tell him how it was good, but it was never real. Not like you and Tyler.
“Did he love you?” Tyler asked one night, picking at the label of his beer.
You shrugged. “I think he tried. But he never really knew me.”
Tyler looked over. “I did.”
You didn’t correct him.
—
One Thursday night he told you about the rodeo circuit, about the pain he tried to ignore. About the long drives through nowhere towns and motel rooms that never felt like home. About storm chasing. About the time he thought a tornado was going to swallow the van whole and how, in those terrifying seconds, he wasn’t scared of dying. He was scared you’d never know how much he still loved you.
He didn’t say it like a confession.
He said it like a truth he’d carried for too long.
And you didn’t say I love you too, not then.
You just leaned your head against his shoulder and stayed there long enough that it said everything for you.
—
By the middle of July, you knew the route to his place better than you knew the shelves of your own kitchen. Your car smelled like his cologne now. His porch had a blanket with your name on it. The dogs from next door stopped barking when they saw you pull up.
There was a comfort to it.
But it wasn’t just old love you were stepping back into. It was new.
The way his voice deepened when he talked about the future. The way he started saying we instead of I. The way you caught him watching you when you were laughing and how he didn’t look away when you caught him.
One night, just as fireflies started to blink across the yard, he asked, “You ever think about what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t let go?”
You glanced at him. “All the time.”
He nodded. “Me too. But…”
“But we weren’t ready,” you said quietly.
He looked over, surprised. “Yeah. That.”
“We had to live some life first,” you added. “Learn a few things the hard way.”
“Like how bad whiskey tastes when you’re heartbroken?”
You huffed a soft laugh. “Exactly like that.”
—
You kissed him again on a hot Friday night after you'd spent hours talking about nothing.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t perfect. It was just real.
You were on the porch swing, your knees bumping, the air heavy with summer and words left unsaid. He said something that made you laugh. You reached for his arm, brushing your fingers over his skin, and the smile on his lips faltered.
Not in a bad way.
In the kind of way that said, I still want you. I always have.
So you leaned in.
And he met you there.
His hands found your waist. Yours slid into his hair. The kiss was slow, careful, like he was afraid to scare you off—but also desperate not to waste another second. And when you finally pulled away, breath shaky, his forehead pressed to yours like a tether.
“God, I missed you,” he whispered.
You swallowed hard. “I missed you too.”
—
The porch swing became your place again.
And somehow, so did he.
There were nights when he played you old country songs from his phone and sang along in a voice that was too rough to be good, but still made your chest ache. There were mornings where you found a sticky note on your windshield when you opened the shop—Coffee’s still the best in town. Don’t let the tourists forget it. There were days when you’d catch yourself smiling for no reason at all, and you’d know exactly why.
—
August rolled in slow and hazy. The nights cooled, the days still blistered, and everything felt just on the edge of changing again.
One night, you were wrapped in one of his flannels, legs tucked under you, a quiet hum of cicadas filling the air.
He looked over, gaze soft.
“I meant it, you know,” he said.
You tilted your head. “Meant what?”
“All those years ago. When I told you I was gonna marry you one day.”
You didn’t laugh.
Didn’t tease.
You just looked at him for a long moment.
And then whispered, “I remember.”
He rubbed his palms together, suddenly looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him.
“I’m not sayin’ now. I’m not even sayin’ soon,” he said. “But I think I knew back then what I still know now.”
Your heart beat slow and steady. “What’s that?”
He reached for your hand.
“That there’s no one else I’ve ever wanted to come home to.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “What if we’re different now?”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Then we learn each other again. I want the version of you who runs the best coffee shop in town just as much as I wanted the girl who used to sneak out her window to see me.”
You smiled. “And I want the guy who brings me pie from the diner and talks about wind speeds like it’s poetry.”
He laughed, leaning in close.
You kissed him again, slow and sweet, with everything you didn’t say that night on the swing all those years ago.
—
The air was cool that night. Not cold. Just enough that you pulled your sleeves over your hands and stood close to the railing, letting the breeze lift the hem of your shirt and stir the loose strands of your hair.
Crickets chirped in the distance. The faint hum of an old country song played through the screen door behind you. And the sky? It was the kind of clear that made the stars feel close enough to touch.
Tyler stepped out onto the porch without a word, beer in one hand, a dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’d just cleaned up dinner. You didn’t turn to look—you didn’t have to. You knew the rhythm of his steps. The way he moved quietly but carried the weight of a man who had worked hard and come home for good.
He came up behind you and slid his free arm around your waist, his chest warm against your back.
You leaned into him without thinking.
“Storm’s brewin’ somewhere,” he murmured, his voice low, his chin brushing the top of your head. “Can smell the change in the air.”
You smiled. “You’d say that even if the sky was clear for miles.”
“Doesn’t mean I’d be wrong.”
You laughed, soft and familiar. Your fingers curled around the railing, and his tightened around your middle like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
“Been thinkin’,” he said after a moment.
“That’s dangerous.”
He chuckled, breath warm against your temple. “Maybe. But I’ve been thinkin’ anyway.”
“About what?”
He paused. Just long enough to make your heart flutter with the silence.
And then he said, “About how it used to feel. Back when we were kids out here. When you were mine. And thought you’d be forever.”
You turned in his arms just enough to see him, to catch the softness in his eyes under the porch light. And before you could stop yourself, you said it.
“I’m still yours, Tyler Owens.”
“You promise?” He asked as he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek for a moment.
“Of course. Why are you being all sentimental on me tonight?”
His body stilled for a moment, and then he stepped back.For a second, your heart leapt. Uncertain and nervous, but then he reached into his back pocket and pulled something out.
It was small. Velvet.
“Tyler,” you breathed, eyes wide.
But he was already lowering to one knee. Right there, on the porch where he first kissed you. The porch where you once whispered promises you were too young to understand, and the porch where he let you go, once upon a time. But the same porch where you had found each other again. The porch where you had fallen in love with him again.
He looked up at you with eyes that had seen too many storms and too many miles, and still somehow only ever looked at you like you were the eye of it all. The calm. The center. The truth.
His lips twitched into the softest smile, and you stared at him. Tears were already welling in your eyes. Your hands trembling as they covered your mouth.
He opened the box. The ring was simple. Classic. And exactly what you would’ve picked at seventeen or thirty.
“I wanna be your forever,” he said. “So, baby, will you be my wife?”
All the air had left your lungs, and your heart was beating out of your chest. The proposal wasn’t flash. It wasn’t public. It was just real. Just so you and Tyler.
You dropped to your knees in front of him, laughing and crying all at once, and threw your arms around his neck.
“Yes,” you whispered into his ear. “Yes, Tyler. God, yes.”
He wrapped you up and held you there, his face buried in your shoulder, his hands in your hair. And when he finally pulled back just enough to kiss you, it was gentle and sure and soaked in every second you’d spent waiting for this.
When he slipped the ring onto your finger, your hands shook. He kissed your knuckles one by one, like he was memorizing the shape of forever.
And then he looked up at you, eyes full of that same mischievous fire you first fell in love with.
“Told you,” he said, smiling. “You were gonna be my wife.”
