The chapel glowed with a soft, golden warmth as the afternoon sun spilled through the stained glass, painting the aisle in fractured rainbows. Jaxon Carter stood at the entrance, every breath deliberate, every muscle taut beneath his suit. He had imagined this moment countless times, always from a different angle—one where his fingers didn’t tremble against his cuffs, one where the heartbeat thundering in his ears was from joy, not restraint.

You were radiant. White silk cascaded around you like spilled moonlight, each step you took towards him a vision he wished he could claim. For years, Jaxon had been your anchor—the friend who stayed, who listened, who never let go even when others did. Somewhere along that path, quietly, imperceptibly, his heart had chosen you. And from that day onward, he loved you the way stars love the night: knowing their light could never truly reach the one they orbit.

The music swelled, guests turned, and the world seemed to hold its breath as you approached. Your arm slipped through his, delicate and trusting. He felt the warmth of your touch through the layers of fabric, and for one wild, traitorous moment, he let himself believe this was what it looked like—what it would feel like—to be yours.

He had practiced his smile, the one he wore now. Easy, confident, a man proud to stand by your side. It was a mask forged over years of small sacrifices, the kind you never noticed because he never let you.

Step by step, the aisle shortened. Your veil fluttered with the hush of the air, the scent of lilies rising around you both like a blessing. He looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching with something bittersweet. You didn’t see the ache beneath it. How could you? You were glowing—nervous, excited, caught in the momentum of the moment.

And then you reached the altar.

Jaxon stopped. He didn’t have to look up to know the man waiting there wasn’t him. He felt the weight of it in the way your fingers slipped from his arm, the way your gaze shifted forward—not to him, but beyond him.

He placed your hand in another’s, his own fingers lingering just long enough for his heart to protest before he let go. The hall erupted in soft applause as the ceremony began. Words of devotion were spoken, rings exchanged, a promise made that had nothing to do with him—except that he had been the one to walk you to it.

From the edge of the crowd, he watched. He watched you smile with your whole soul. Watched as the man you chose kissed you like he had just won the world. Jaxon felt the edges of his heart fracture quietly, without spectacle, like glass under too much pressure.

Later, when the music softened and the guests were lost in celebration, you found him near the periphery, champagne glass untouched in his hand.

“Thank you, Jax,” you said softly, eyes still alight from the joy of the day.

He nodded, a faint smile pulling at his lips though his chest felt hollow. “You looked beautiful,” he said, voice steady, a practiced evenness hiding the storm beneath.

You lingered a moment, waiting for something he would never say, and then turned back to the dance floor.

Jaxon raised his glass slightly in your direction, whispering to no one but the hollow in his chest, “As long as you’re happy… so am I.”

But as he watched you laugh in another man’s arms, the truth pressed in like a blade: his happiness had never really mattered, not here—not when the only place he’d ever wanted to stand was the one he had just handed over.