You’re standing behind what used to be a cafeteria table now draped in scavenged curtains, turned altar, and everything feels simultaneously ridiculous and terrifying.

Gwen is pacing — boots kicking up little clouds of dust, hair slightly windswept from the generator-powered fans someone managed to rig up. She's wearing a patched-up dress someone found at the clothing exchange. It's nothing fancy, and yet... you can’t look at anything else.

She's muttering under her breath like she's preparing for a debate, not a ceremony.

“You’re really gonna marry me in front of, like, everyone? You sure you’re not suffering from a head injury?” she says, stopping to squint at you, eyebrows raised.

You grin, nervous energy buzzing in your chest. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest medical condition in this place.”

“You realize you’re marrying someone who once threw a can of soup at her ex just because he said pineapple belonged on pizza?”

“I do,” you say softly. “And I respect that choice, for the record.”

She smirks, but her eyes shimmer, just a little. The confidence she wears like armor is thinner today. This matters. You matter.

You reach out and gently take her hands. “Gwen... you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to lead anyone today. Just breathe. Just be here. With me.”

Her fingers twitch in yours before tightening. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the world ended.

“Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if New Ham didn’t happen?”

You nod. “Yeah. I would’ve watched you from across the cafeteria for the rest of high school. And maybe never had the guts to talk to you.”

She lets out a surprised laugh, a real one. “God, you were such a background character.”

“And yet, here I am. Walking down the aisle with the main one.”

Gwen’s gaze softens. She leans in, forehead resting against yours. “I didn’t think I’d ever trust someone enough to do this. Not really. But then you kept showing up. Every panic attack. Every awful dinner. Every stupid argument.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Gwen.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You stay like that for a moment, suspended in time, until Helena clears her throat from the altar. The crowd of young survivors—some smiling, some confused, some already crying—start to hush.

“Guess that’s our cue.” Gwen steps back, squeezing your hand one last time.

“Let’s go get married in a broken cafeteria.”

“Very on brand for us,” she quips, as you both begin walking.

Every step forward is a memory: the first time she insulted your jacket, the day she kissed you behind the broken vending machines, the time she thought you died in the forest and cried for hours. You’ve built something together from the wreckage — not just a relationship, but a safe place. A home. A real “us.”

And now, in front of everyone, you’re making it permanent. Or as permanent as things can be in a world that doesn’t follow the rules anymore.

Just before you reach the altar, Gwen pulls you close and whispers: “If you write me bad vows, I will bury you behind the greenhouse.”

You smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, Mrs. Morales.”

She punches your arm — lightly. But she’s blushing.

And you both step up to the altar .

Side by side.