We practiced in small bursts.
“Okay,” I said, standing in front of him. “You’ve got me. Lean if you need to.”
“I will absolutely need to, Mik.”
He pushed up, gripping my shoulders. His whole body shook, breath tight.
“Easy, honey,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”
“Lean if you need to.”
***
A week later, at our reception, Rowan rolled to the center of the room and looked at me.
“Ready, babe?” he asked.
“Always.”
He took a breath, braced himself, and stood.
The room went still.
I caught two of my cousins near the bar, the same ones who had asked if I was “sure about this” before the wedding.
One of them whispered something, eyes fixed on Rowan.
The room went still.
“Is he really going to try?”
My chest tightened. Let them watch.
He leaned in close, voice low. “You lead, Mik.”
I smiled through my tears. “I’ve got you.”
And this time, we moved together.
***
People clapped, awkward at first, then steadier, a step, a pause, a laugh between us. The room blurred. I felt only his hand in mine, the weight of his trust.
My mom stood at the edge, crying openly.
Let them watch.
When the song ended, Rowan collapsed back into his chair, out of breath but smiling.
“Was it good enough?” he whispered, voice raw.
I knelt beside him. “It was everything.”
“I was wrong,” she said quietly. “And I almost made you doubt something real.” Her voice broke. “I’m so sorry, Mikayla.”
He nodded, and I saw relief on his face.
Later, after everyone had left, Rowan and I sat on our bed, shoes kicked off, wedding clothes wrinkled.
“It was everything.”
He looked at me, serious. “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 a hundred 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.
He showed up. I did, too. And that was enough.
“Still happy you married me?”
