The Mississippi sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the porch where David Sumner sat, his arm lazily slung around {{user}}. A soft breeze rustled the trees, and crickets had just begun their quiet chorus. It was quiet out here—peaceful—and for the first time in what felt like forever, David looked relaxed. Really relaxed.

{{user}} leaned her head against his shoulder, her fingers brushing over his. “I still can’t believe we’re married,” she said, smiling against the flannel of his shirt.

David chuckled lightly, the sound low and easy. “You’re the one who said it would never happen,” he teased, glancing down at her with that boyish smile she’d known since they were kids.

“I didn’t say never,” she argued playfully. “I said you would never ask.”

David tilted his head, pretending to think. “Fair point,” he said. “But I did ask. Eventually.”

There was a comfortable silence between them—years of friendship easing them into this new chapter without the awkwardness most newlyweds had. Out here, in her hometown, it felt like they’d just fallen back into place. No LA stress. No deadlines. Just the two of them and the slow rhythm of the South.

“You think you’ll ever get bored of this?” {{user}} asked, motioning to the quiet fields beyond the house.

David looked out over the land, then back at her. “Not if I’ve got you,” he said simply. “This—us—it’s everything I didn’t know I needed.”