The bells rang softly, their chimes drifting through the air like petals caught in a breeze. Colden stood beneath the archway of the Everhart garden, dressed in ceremonial navy, the fabric tailored to perfection, the collar pressed just so. The dandelion was still tucked into his lapel, a quiet rebellion against tradition.
The garden was transformed. Lanterns hung from the trees, glowing like stars. The hedges were trimmed into spirals, and the fountain at the center bubbled with rosewater. Nobles mingled in muted tones, their laughter distant, their eyes turned toward the aisle.
Colden's heart beat slowly, deliberately, like it was waiting for something.
He glanced to his left, where Francis stood with a silver tray of champagne flutes, nodding politely to guests. To his right, Carmine adjusted the hem of a maid's dress, her fingers quick and precise. Elaine was nowhere to be seen.
The music shifted.
Colden turned.
Marco walked down the aisle.
He wasn't dressed like a noble. His coat was simple, dark, with a white shirt beneath and boots that had seen real roads. His hair was brushed back, but a few strands still curled at his temple. His green eyes were steady, and his smile — soft, unsure — made Colden's breath catch.
No one whispered. No one stared.
They simply watched.
Marco reached him, and for a moment, neither spoke. Colden extended his hand. Marco took it.
The officiant began to speak, but Colden barely heard the words. His gaze was fixed on Marco's face — the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his fingers trembled slightly as they held Colden's.
"I never thought I'd be here," Marco whispered.
Colden smiled. "Me neither."
The vows were short. Honest. Colden promised laughter, warmth, and truth. Marco promised patience, kindness, and a home that felt like safety.
When the rings were exchanged — simple bands of silver — Colden felt something shift inside him. Like a door opening. Like a storm passing.
"You may kiss," the officiant said.
Colden leaned in slowly, unsure, afraid of breaking the moment.
Marco met him halfway.
The kiss was soft. Gentle. Like the first breath after a long dive.
The crowd applauded, but Colden barely heard it. He was lost in the warmth of Marco's hand in his, the scent of dandelions, the way the world felt suddenly quiet.
They walked together through the garden, past the fountain, past the lanterns. Guests threw petals, and Colden laughed — really laughed — as Marco pulled him close.
"I didn't think you'd choose me," Marco said.
"I didn't know I could," Colden replied.
They sat beneath the willow tree, the one that had stood in the garden since Colden was a boy. Its branches swayed gently, and the light filtered through in soft gold.
Marco leaned his head on Colden's shoulder.
"I'm glad you did," he said.
Colden closed his eyes.
"I love you," he whispered.
And then — the light shifted.
The garden faded.
The petals stopped falling.
Colden opened his eyes.
He was alone, sitting upright in his bed at the inn, the sheets tangled around him, his chest rising and falling too fast.
The dandelion was still in his lapel.
His hand trembled.
He pressed it to his heart.
"I love him," he said aloud.
The room was quiet.
But inside him, everything had changed.