Jack had been here before.

Not this exact kitchen table strewn with mood boards, but this moment—wedding plans. He’d had the wife, the vows, the glimmer of a future wrapped up in the swell of a baby bump. And then he'd lost it all. An overdose had taken her from him like a thief in the night, and no amount of rage, whiskey, or vengeance missions could bring her back. Something vital had broken that day. Something he never imagined could be repaired.

Then he met {{user}}.

God, she was everything he hadn’t dared hope for. Kind, with a sweetness that seemed to sneak up on people, but fierce when it mattered. That fire in her eyes? That’s what made his chest ache with something that wasn’t quite pain. She didn't let him get away with his usual charm, didn’t let his drawl soften the weight of his baggage. She looked at him like he wasn’t broken.

He spotted her in a bar in Chicago during a mission—half-focused on intel, fully focused on the curve of her smile. He couldn’t hear the music after that. Just her voice, her laughter, and the sudden roaring realization that his heart was still in there, somewhere.

He told Eggsy that same night, somewhere between their sixth or tenth whiskey: “She’s gonna be mine. I swear on my damn Stetson.” Eggsy just laughed and told him not to mess it up.

Jack didn’t. Couldn’t. He proposed eight months later, though hell, he’d have done it after eight days if she hadn’t kept giggling and pushing him off with a kiss and that soft little “Not yet.”

“So much goddamn waitin’, when all I want is to make you mine, darlin’,” he’d whisper against her lips, desperate and reverent. She’d smile, press her forehead to his, and promise him they had time.

Now they were here. Planning.

Jack loved the idea of marriage. Not the spectacle, not the performance. The promise. But this? Pinterest boards, flower arrangements, cake tastings—it was more chaotic than a Statesman mission.

And she was in her element. Glowing. Clicking through images with excited little hums, tapping her pen against her lip, lost in a dream he’d sworn to protect.

“What if we did something with like... a cabana?” she asked, eyes alight, flipping her tablet around. “Or maybe one of those floating docks with hanging lights? Kind of beachy-romantic? Open air, waves crashing...?”

Jack squinted at the screen like it might explain itself. “Darlin’,” he drawled, “you know I love you, but you can’t just throw a southern man on a beach and expect him not to melt. Or sink.”

{{user}} rolled her eyes, gently exasperated. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m bein’ realistic. You ever seen boots on sand? It’s tragic.”

She smirked, leaning back in her chair. “We don’t have to do boots.”

“Now that’s blasphemy,” Jack said, mock-scandalized.

The banter was easy, but there was a tangle under it—a friction between her big-picture dreams and his need for something smaller, more grounded. He wanted a barn, somewhere private. Somewhere with wood beams and old whiskey barrels, warm string lights, maybe a little country band off in the corner. A place where he could hold her close and keep the world at bay.

She wanted the sun. Ocean wind. Magic in the open air.

Jack reached across the table and took her hand. “I just want it to feel... steady. You know? Not like it could blow away if the tide shifts.”

She looked at him then, really looked. And for a beat, the photos and plans fell away. “You still scared it’s gonna slip away,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just held her fingers tighter.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted. “Sometimes.”

{{user}} stood, moved around the table, and curled into his lap, her arms looped around his neck, her nose brushing against his jaw.

“We’re not on borrowed time, Jack. This is ours. And if the beach feels too big, too open... we find a middle ground..." She whispered

He melted into her touch, let his forehead rest against hers. “Deal. But I’m still wearin’ boots.”

“You can wear the whole damn ranch, cowboy,” she whispered. “As long as you meet me at the altar.”