𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You and Brian had never needed much to call somewhere “home.” For almost a year, it was a cramped apartment in Los Angeles, with walls too thin and pipes that rattled whenever someone upstairs turned on the water. Rent came from his FBI paycheck, groceries from yours, and peace from the rare nights when his phone didn’t ring. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours—and it carried you both through until the day you could finally afford something more: a small house in a quiet suburb, with a porch big enough for morning coffee and a backyard that smelled like fresh-cut grass. The kind of place that didn’t just hold you, but truly belonged to you.

The proposal hadn’t been planned. It came on the heels of a case that left Brian raw, his nerves stripped bare. A young woman—barely older than you—had been caught in the middle of a mess that ended ugly. Too much blood. Too much resemblance. When he walked through the door that night, his jacket still smelling of gunpowder and sweat, he didn’t give you time to ask questions. His mouth was on yours before you could speak, his hands tangled in your hair, like he needed the proof of you breathing, alive, safe.

“Marry me,” he whispered against your lips, the words urgent, almost broken.

You froze, breath catching in your throat. He didn’t have a ring, didn’t have a plan. Just blue eyes too wild and desperate to be joking. You nodded because how could you not? The weight of it wasn’t in the diamond or the vows, but in the way he held you like letting go wasn’t an option.

From then on, he improvised—rings out of coffee stirrers, paperclips, a twist of napkin from the diner down the street. Each time, he slid it back onto your finger with the same quiet seriousness, as if scraps became sacred when tied to a promise. You never doubted the weight of it, even if it wasn’t gold.

But on your wedding day, he surprised you. In the beautiful outdoor venue with a small amount of family and friends seated in white and gold chairs, no reception waiting afterward, he slid a real ring onto your finger—an oval-cut diamond set in a gold band. Simple. Solid. You’d never been one for traditions, and neither had Brian, but that was the point. He wanted you to have at least this one, something permanent to anchor the life you’d been building piece by piece.

He insisted on a honeymoon, too. Two weeks, no cases, no Bureau calls. Just the two of you. He drove you out of the city in the Skyline, all the way up the coast to Santa Barbara, where he’d rented a suite with an ocean view. The receptionist’s smile widened when Brian leaned casually on the counter and mentioned, “Just got married,” and she knocked thirty percent off the bill. Which you appreciated, because you had no idea how much the rock on your finger cost—and Brian always dodged the question with a smirk that made you think it was somewhere in the “black-market organ” range.

That first night together felt infinite. A blur of lips, hands, champagne, and laughter, until exhaustion finally won and you both collapsed into tangled sheets.

When morning came, you woke to the faint fizz of the champagne bottle on the counter, the air still heavy with its scent. You turned over, finding Brian sprawled on his back, the sheet resting low on his hips, golden in the spill of early light through the curtains. A smile pulled at your lips. You climbed onto him slowly, pressing a line of soft kisses up his chest, your mouth tracing his collarbone.

Brian stirred with a low groan, his hand finding your back instinctively. His eyes blinked open, blue and lazy, before a slow smile curved his mouth.

“Good morning, Mrs. O’Conner,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.