A week later, at our reception, Rowan rolled to the center of the room.
“Ready, babe?”
“Always.”
He braced himself and stood. The room went still.
I caught my cousins whispering, “Is he really going to try?”
Let them watch.
Rowan leaned close. “You lead, Mik.”
I smiled through tears. “I’ve got you.”
And we moved together.
People clapped—awkward at first, and then steadier, until the room filled with applause. Step by step, pause by pause, laugh by laugh, Rowan and I moved together. The blur of faces around us didn’t matter—I felt only his hand in mine, the weight of his trust, and the rhythm we created.
My mom stood at the edge of the room, tears streaming openly.
When the song ended, Rowan collapsed back into his chair, breathless but smiling.
“Was it good enough?” he whispered, voice raw.
I knelt beside him. “It was everything.”
Mom approached, her voice breaking. “I was wrong. And I almost made you doubt something real. I’m so sorry, Mikayla.”
Rowan nodded, relief flickering across his face.
Later, after everyone had left, we sat together on our bed—shoes kicked off, clothes wrinkled, exhaustion heavy but sweet.
He looked at me seriously. “Still happy you married me?”
I laughed. “Ask me tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after that.”
He kissed my forehead. “Deal.”
In the months that followed, we learned to fight for each other in countless small ways—doctor appointments, awkward stares, hard days.
Because love isn’t about what’s missing.
It’s about who keeps showing up, even when it hurts.
Rowan showed up. I did too. And that was enough.
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