We know the truth: love doesn't care about your politics or your past or the boxes other people try to put you in. Sometimes it just shows up in the storm and changes everything.
"So," Wes says when we break apart, his forehead resting against mine, "ready to go home, Mrs. Carter?"
The ring on my finger catches the afternoon light—a simple band with a small diamond and two tiny leaves etched into the metal.
"Always," I tell him. "But first, I need to check on the compost demonstration. I think someone's been adding meat scraps again."
He groans. "Your romantic pillow talk needs work."
"Says the man who proposed after a lecture about soil microorganisms."
"You loved it."
"I totally did," I agree, then kiss him again because I can. Because he's mine and I'm his and somehow, against all odds, we make perfect sense.
As we walk back toward the festival hand in hand, I catch sight of the memorial plaque for the Sugar Queen, now surrounded by dozens of healthy young trees. The grove we built together—his careful planning and my passionate vision, creating something beautiful from something broken.
Just like us.
Later that evening, after we've cleaned up from the festival and shared takeout Chinese food on our back porch, Wes disappears into the house and returns with something hidden behind his back.
"What are you up to?" I ask, curled up in the porch swing we installed last spring.
His grin is pure mischief as he reveals the handcuffs, dangling them from one finger. "Thought we might celebrate a successful festival."
I laugh, heat pooling low in my belly at the familiar sight. "You know, Deputy Carter, most husbands reward their wives with flowers."
"Most wives don't look at handcuffs like they're the best gift ever," he counters, settling beside me on the swing.
"Fair point." I hold out my wrists with a mock-serious expression. "I suppose I am under arrest then. What's the charge this time?"
"Being criminally beautiful," he says, clicking the cuffs into place with practiced ease. "And for making me fall more in love with you every damn day."
"Guilty as charged.” I laugh with glee as he lifts me, carrying me to the bedroom. “Lock me up, and throw away the key.”
