The wedding was about as Pogue as it could get. The altar was a driftwood arch tied with fishnet and wildflowers Kiara had picked herself. Old surfboards made up the makeshift aisle, and guests sat on blankets or folding chairs scavenged from friends' backyards. An icebox full of beers and coolers sat half-buried in the sand next to JJ, who’d already cracked one open—because why not, it’s a celebration, he’d said.

Sarah stood barefoot in a simple white dress, her blond hair braided with shells. She looked radiant, sure. She fit the moment. And John B stood across from her, wearing a loose button-up and a necklace his dad gave him, trying to believe he felt ready.

Kiara leaned over to Pope. “They really did it. Didn’t think we’d see this day.”

Pope smiled gently. “They’re good together.”

JJ snorted under his breath. “They’re fine together.”

Then the minister raised his hands. “John Booker Routledge, do you take Sarah Cameron to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The crowd went quiet. Even the waves seemed to pause.

That’s when JJ’s gaze snapped to the treeline.

“…no way,” he murmured.

Kiara followed his stare. Her breath hitched. “It’s her.”

There, just beyond the crowd, stood {{user}}. Not dressed for a wedding. Not trying to be seen. But seen she was.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

John B turned his head—and locked eyes with her.

Time stopped.

JJ leaned back, lips tight, whispering, “He’s not saying it.”

Kiara nodded slowly. “He’s never looked at Sarah like that.”

John B opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Sarah.

Then back at {{user}}.

And that was it.

“I… I can’t,” he said, voice low but clear. “I’m sorry.”

Sarah froze.

Nobody moved. No cheering. No gasps.

Just the quiet realization among the Pogues that this was the moment they always saw coming—even if they never said it out loud.

John B stepped off the makeshift altar.

Toward her.