Aqua’s POV
One week.
Seven days.
That was how much time stood between Steven and me and a wedding.
I stood beside him at the kitchen table with a pencil in my hand and tried to make the number feel real.
It did not.
The table in front of us was covered with papers, lists, notes, and small pieces of fabric Mrs. Bell had sent through one of Fredrick’s people before Steven and I had even finished walking home. There were flower suggestions written in careful handwriting. Ceremony notes. A guest list with almost nothing on it yet. A page Steven had labeled things weddings apparently need and then underlined three times.
Beneath that, in smaller writing, he had added:
Do not panic.
Then, lower:
Probably panic a little.
I touched the edge of the page and smiled.
Steven leaned over the table, one hand braced near a list of flowers, the other holding a pencil he kept tapping against the wood. His brow was furrowed as if the paper might attack him.
“Why are there so many different kinds of flowers?” he asked.
“Because for weddings, different flowers can have different meanings,” I said. “I heard some are chosen because they mean love, devotion, purity, new beginnings… things like that.”
“I know that.”
I looked at him. “Then why did you ask?”
“Because there are too many different kinds of flowers to choose from.” He lifted the paper slightly. “This says white roses, lake irises, star jasmine, moonshore bells, bluebell vines, and something called silver breath. What is silver breath?”
“I do not know.”
“It sounds like a medical problem.”
I pressed my lips together.
Steven looked genuinely concerned by the list.
His hair was slightly messy from how often he had dragged his hand through it. He wore a heather gray shirt, because apparently Dylan had been right to question whether Steven owned anything else.
And even if Steven did own anything else, I suspected he would choose the heather gray shirt anyway.
His pencil tapped against the table in an uneven rhythm.
Tap.
Tap tap.
Pause.
Tap.
The rhythm made his nerves visible.
I reached over and placed my hand over his.
The tapping stopped.
Steven looked at me.
“We do not have to choose everything this morning,” I said.
“I know.”
“You do not look like you know.”
“I know in my head. The rest of me is late.”
I smiled.
His gaze dropped to my hand.
To the ring.
It kept happening. I was beginning to notice all the little ways his eyes found it. Not with doubt now, not exactly. More like wonder. As if he still expected the aquamarine to disappear and needed to remind himself that it had not.
I turned my hand slightly, and the stone caught the light from the kitchen window.
Blue flashed across the table.
Steven’s expression softened.
Every time he looked at it like that, something inside me went still.
Not the stillness Atlantis had taught me.
Not the silence of standing straight while others spoke around me.
This stillness was warmer.
Chosen.
I looked down at the papers again.
One week.
The words Fredrick had said in his office still echoed in my mind.
Focus on what the two of you want the ceremony to be. Not what Atlantis would expect. Not what the Salvatore Clan might demand. Yours.
Ours.
I wanted that.
I wanted it so badly it frightened me.
Because wanting had always felt dangerous before. Wanting had been something to hide, something to fold small inside myself so no one could use it against me. Wanting had never belonged in wedding plans. In Atlantis, marriage had been spoken of in terms of alliance, duty, bloodlines, tides, expectations.
Not flowers.
Not laughter.
Not Steven standing beside me in a gray shirt, worrying over silver breath.
I picked up another paper.
“Colors,” I said.
Steven straightened a little. “Okay. Colors. I can do colors.”
“Blue.”
He stared at me.
I stared back.
Then he smiled. “I like this plan.”
“We may need more than one color.”
“That’s where they get you.”
“Who?”
“Wedding people.”
I laughed softly.
Steven looked pleased with himself for making me laugh, and that made me laugh more.
Then I looked over the pieces on the table: the flower suggestions, the little drawings, the soft swatches of pale fabric.
“Blue for the main color,” I said. “Green for the greenery. Leaves, vines, maybe pieces around the flowers. And silver for small details.”
Steven looked down at the page as if making sure he understood the difference.
“So not green everywhere.”
“No. More like something living around the blue.”
He nodded slowly, then wrote it down.
Blue main color. Greenery. Silver details.
“Okay,” he said. “I can go with that.”
His pencil hovered for a second longer.
Then he glanced at me.
“What about red?”
I looked at him.
He seemed almost embarrassed for asking, his pencil resting near the word silver.
“Red?”
“Not everywhere,” he said quickly. “I know this is more… you. Blue and green and silver. But maybe…” He touched the place near his chest. “Could I wear a red rose? On my outfit. Like a boutonnière, I think that’s what it’s called. Just one. For the Salvatore side. For me.”
His eyes flicked away.
“It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”
Something in my chest softened.
Steven was not trying to take the wedding over. He was not trying to cover my colors with his. He was asking for one small piece of himself to stand there too.
“One red rose,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“I like that.”
His gaze returned to me. “You do?”
“Yes. You should have something that represents you.”
His shoulders eased.
He wrote it down carefully.
Steven — red rose boutonnière. One. Do not overdo it.
I smiled.
“You wrote a warning to yourself.”
“I know myself.”
“That is wise.”
“I am trying.”
I looked over the table again.
The flower lists.
The colors.
The ring on my finger.
Steven’s red rose written in pencil.
I had not expected to enjoy planning a wedding.
In Atlantis, the thought of marriage had always felt like standing still while other people dressed my future around me. There would have been ceremonies chosen before I entered the room. Colors chosen because they honored the palace. Flowers chosen because they represented bloodlines and alliances. A dress chosen because a princess was supposed to look a certain way beside Orion.
But this was different.
Steven stood beside me in a heather gray shirt, worrying over flowers and asking if one red rose would be too much.
We were choosing together.
Maybe that was why the wedding felt less like a door closing around me.
Maybe, for the first time, it felt like one opening.
Violet smoke curled through the living room.
At first, I thought it was a shadow.
Then the air sweetened with the scent of stone after rain and something floral I could not name.
Steven’s head snapped up.
I turned so quickly my hip bumped the kitchen table.
One of the papers slid toward the edge.
Steven grabbed it before it fell.
Dipsi Stone was sitting in the armchair.
Not standing.
Not arriving.
Sitting.
As if she had been invited, welcomed, and offered tea sometime before either of us noticed her.
One leg crossed over the other, violet fabric draped neatly over her knee, brown eyes bright with mischief.
“You know,” she said, looking over the mess of papers on our kitchen table, “for two people planning a wedding in a week, you both look tragically under-supervised.”
Steven stared at her.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to know your flower notes are in danger.”
“My flower notes?”
“Yes. They lack drama.”
I blinked. “Dipsi?”
Dipsi’s smile widened. “There she is. The bride.”
The word made my face warm.
Bride.
It still felt strange.
Beautiful, but strange.
Dipsi rose from the armchair and drifted closer to the kitchen table, her gaze traveling over the lists, sketches, fabric pieces, and Steven’s worried handwriting.
“I came to congratulate you both,” she said. “A wedding in one week. Very romantic. Very sudden. Very likely to irritate at least one kingdom. I approve.”
Steven’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Were you invited?”
Dipsi placed one hand over her chest.
“Steven, please. I am wounded.”
“You don’t look wounded.”
“That is because I suffer prettily.”
I pressed my lips together.
Dipsi looked at me, delighted. “See? She understands.”
“I do?” I asked.
“You will.”
Steven rubbed a hand over his face. “That somehow sounds like a threat.”
“Only to boring people.”
Steven looked at me as if asking whether we were boring.
I did not answer.
Dipsi reached the kitchen table and leaned over the notes with far too much confidence for someone who had not been asked to read them.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Steven quickly placed one hand over the page labeled things weddings apparently need.
Dipsi’s eyes dropped to his hand.
Then lifted to his face.
“That one must be especially tragic.”
“It’s private.”
“It is on a kitchen table.”
“That doesn’t make it public.”
“It makes it vulnerable.”
“Dipsi.”
She smiled. “Yes, Steven?”
“Are you here only to make fun of my notes?”
“No. I also came to make them better.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It should be. I have excellent taste.”
She reached for one of the flower pages, and Steven moved another paper away as if protecting it from a cat.
Dipsi glanced at him.
“Careful. If you keep guarding the papers like that, I shall assume you are hiding something sentimental.”
Steven froze.
Dipsi’s smile became sharper.
“Oh. You are.”
A little red touched Steven’s ears.
I looked at him. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
Dipsi leaned toward me. “It is always something.”
Steven slid the paper farther away. “Can we focus on the part where you appeared in our living room?”
“Very well.” Dipsi straightened. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said, because despite everything, I was glad she had said it.
Her gaze softened for the smallest moment.
Then the mischief returned.
“You look lovely with a ring.”
My fingers curled slightly.
The aquamarine pressed cool against my skin.
“Thank you.”
Steven’s expression gentled when he looked at my hand.
Dipsi noticed that too.
She seemed to notice everything.
Her eyes moved from his face to mine, then back to the papers.
“Now,” she said, “what disasters have you prepared for me?”
Steven leaned back. “For you?”
“You cannot expect me to ignore a wedding happening directly within reach.”
“We could try.”
“You could also try holding back the tide with a spoon. Neither would be productive.”
I looked down at the table to hide my smile.
Dipsi’s gaze dropped to one of the lists.
Her fingers slid the paper closer before either of us stopped her.
“Witnesses,” she read.
Steven leaned over. “That’s still not finished.”
“Clearly.”
I shifted beside him. “Dylan agreed to stand with Steven.”
“How sweet of him,” Dipsi said.
Steven blinked. “That sounded genuine.”
“It was. Try not to make it strange.”
He closed his mouth.
Dipsi tapped the empty space beneath Dylan’s name.
“And here we have the problem.”
“We have not chosen my witness yet,” I said.
“How fortunate that I arrived before you made a less interesting decision.”
Steven slowly turned to her.
“You’re volunteering?”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously?”
Dipsi smiled. “Why else would I be here?”
I looked at her. “You knew we needed a second witness?”
“There are many things I know, dear sister.”
“That was not an answer,” Steven said.
Dipsi did not look away from me.
“It was not for you.”
Something quiet passed through the kitchen.
Not magic.
Not exactly.
More like the feeling of someone stepping closer to a truth without saying its name.
Dipsi looked back at me, her smile softer now, though no less pleased with itself.
“You do not mind that I am offering to be your second witness, do you?”
I stared at her.
The words sounded like a question.
Almost.
But Dipsi said them as if she had already stepped into the space beside me and was merely allowing me a moment to notice.
“I think it’s up to Aqua to decide,” Steven said.
Dipsi glanced at him. “How noble.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. That is why I said noble instead of annoying.”
Steven’s jaw shifted.
I could tell he wanted to argue, but he held it back for me.
That mattered too.
Dipsi could fill a room with smoke and confidence. Steven could burn the room down if someone pushed me too hard.
But here he was, standing beside me, making space for my answer.
I looked at Dipsi again.
She was impossible.
Too confident.
Too fast.
Too used to deciding where she belonged before anyone else could decide whether to make room for her.
And yet, beneath the sparkle of her words, something warmer moved.
Dipsi had not looked at Steven when she asked.
She had not looked at Fredrick’s note.
She had looked at me.
As if she already knew there was a space beside me I did not know how to fill.
As if she had seen it from wherever Dipsi saw things and come before I had to ask.
Maybe that was why I did not feel angry.
Stunned, yes.
Confused, yes.
But not angry.
Dipsi always seemed to arrive like smoke through a crack in the world, pleased with herself and impossible to predict.
But perhaps she also knew when she was needed.
And perhaps, for once, I was glad she had come when she did.
I opened my mouth.
“I…”
Dipsi’s smile widened.
“Well,” she said. “I will take your silence as a yes.”
Steven stared. “You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“That does not make it valid.”
“It makes it efficient.”
Dipsi turned back toward the flower list, tapped it once with a manicured finger, and wrinkled her nose.
“And do not choose anything dull merely because it is practical. Practicality is a slippery path.”
Steven looked offended. “I wasn’t going to choose anything dull.”
“You were considering it.”
“I was not.”
“You are wearing gray while planning your wedding, Steven.”
He glanced down at his shirt.
“That is unrelated.”
“It is evidence.”
I pressed my lips together again, but my shoulders shook once.
Dipsi saw it and smiled like she had won.
Violet smoke began gathering around her.
“I will leave you two to your planning,” she said. “Try to survive the flowers.”
Steven lifted the list. “I was already trying.”
“Try harder.”
“Dipsi—”
She vanished before he finished.
The smoke folded inward, leaving only a faint sweet scent in the air and one of our pencils rolling slowly across the kitchen table.
Steven stared at the empty armchair.
Then at me.
“Did that just happen?”
I looked at the witness list.
Dylan’s name.
The empty space beneath it.
“I think she just made herself my witness.”
Steven leaned back slowly.
“That feels illegal.”
“She is not human.”
“That explains too much.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Steven looked relieved when he heard it.
Perhaps he had been waiting to see whether I was truly okay.
I was.
Or I thought I was.
The strange thing was, I felt better than I had before Dipsi arrived.
People deciding things around me was not new. Atlantis had perfected that long before I ever set foot in Worthington. A future placed before me. A marriage discussed as if I were a piece on a board. Duties pressed into my hands before I understood what my own hands wanted to hold.
Dipsi had, in her own way, pushed into a decision.
She had entered without warning.
Taken the space before I could decide how to fill it.
Asked a question and accepted the shape of my unfinished answer as permission.
And yet, it had not felt the same.
Not entirely.
There had been no cold command in her voice. No weight of crown or kingdom. No expectation that I should obey because my life belonged to something larger than myself.
Dipsi had been pushy.
Very pushy.
But beneath the sparkle and smoke and unbearable confidence, she had offered herself.
Not Steven.
Not Fredrick.
Herself.
As if standing beside me mattered.
As if I mattered.
I looked at the empty space beneath Dylan’s name again.
“I think she came at the right time,” I said softly.
Steven followed my gaze to the paper.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
I picked up the pencil.
The blank space beneath Dylan’s name waited.
I wrote carefully:
Dipsi.
Steven watched the pencil move.
“Are you sure?”
I paused only for a moment.
“Yes.” I looked at Dipsi’s name. “I think Dipsi has a point. Her being my sister and my witness is probably the best move for us. Especially because she holds so much authority in her family.”
Steven went quiet.
Not upset.
Thoughtful.
His eyes moved from Dipsi’s name to Dylan’s, then to my ring.
I could see the moment the shape of it reached him.
Dylan.
Dipsi.
Worth.
Stone.
Standing beside Salvatore and Waters.
He wanted to say something.
I could tell.
Maybe he wanted to ask if Dipsi had planned that.
Maybe he wanted to ask if this was about protection or politics or some strange piece of the Four Families I still did not fully understand.
But he did not.
His fingers touched the edge of the paper, near my written answer.
“If you want her there,” he said, “then I want her there.”
Something in my chest softened.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, then looked toward the living room.
“I still think she cheated.”
“She probably did.”
“Can witnesses cheat?”
“With Dipsi, I think most things are possible.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No.”
The papers shifted slightly in a breeze that had not come from the window.
Both of us stared at the living room.
Nothing happened.
Steven narrowed his eyes.
“Dipsi?”
No answer.
The room stayed quiet.
He looked back at me.
“I’m going to be suspicious of all air movement for the next week.”
“That may be wise.”
We tried to continue planning.
Tried was the important word.
Steven circled blue and green as possible colors, then added silver accents beneath it. I sorted the flower list into flowers I recognized and flowers that sounded like enchantments. Steven wrote ask someone who understands flowers on three separate pages before realizing he had done it.
Then we reached the guest list.
The page was almost blank.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Steven’s pencil rested against the table.
“Well,” he said quietly, “obviously my family isn’t coming.”
I looked at him.
His voice was careful, but his jaw had tightened a little.
“No,” I said softly.
“And your family isn’t coming,” he said.
I looked at Dipsi’s name on the witness list.
“Besides Dipsi, I guess.”
Steven nodded.
“Besides Dipsi.”
The quiet stretched between us.
Not sharp.
Just honest.
“So no guests?” he asked.
“I suppose not.”
“Is that normal for a wedding?”
He gave a faint, humorless laugh. “No. Not really.”
“Oh.”
“But we did decide to have a small, quick wedding,” he said. “That was kind of the point.”
“Yes.” I looked down at the empty guest page. “I suppose you are right.”
He turned toward me.
“Are you unhappy about that?”
I thought about it.
The question deserved a real answer.
Atlantis would have filled a hall.
There would have been rows of people watching, whispering, measuring whether I stood correctly, smiled enough, and carried Atlantis’s dignity the way a princess was expected to.
A Salvatore wedding, if Robert controlled it, would likely have been something else entirely.
Not softer.
Not freer.
Just another room filled with expectations wearing different colors.
This wedding would not have that.
No crowd.
No palace.
No clan watching Steven with hungry eyes.
No kingdom watching me to see whether I belonged to it more than myself.
Only a few names.
Only the people who had chosen to stand with us.
“I do not mind if you do not mind,” I said.
Steven looked at the page.
“I don’t mind.”
“You are sure?”
“Yeah.” He smiled faintly. “I mean, it’s not like we planned this the normal way.”
“No.”
“And it’s not like normal has helped us much.”
That was true.
I looked back at the witness list.
Dylan.
Dipsi.
Fredrick would officiate.
And Fang…
“Fang should come,” I said.
Steven’s face softened. “To the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“He’d be offended if we didn’t let him.”
“He is part of this.”
Steven’s eyes gentled.
“Yeah,” he said. “He is.”
He turned the guest page toward himself and wrote:
Guests: Fredrick. Dylan. Dipsi. Fang.
Then he paused.
“Does Fang count as a guest or security?”
“Both.”
“He would like that.”
“He would pretend not to.”
Steven wrote beneath Fang’s name:
Guest/security. Possible official groom critic.
I laughed.
The sound eased something in the kitchen.
Four names.
That was all.
It should have felt too small.
Maybe it would have, once.
But looking at the list, I did not feel empty.
I felt protected.
Not trapped beneath a crowd.
Not displayed.
Protected.
The wedding slowly began to take shape in little pieces.
Small ceremony.
Outside, if weather allowed.
Near the lake or the hill.
Blue as the main color.
Greenery.
Silver accents.
One red rose boutonnière for Steven.
Dylan as Steven’s witness.
Dipsi as mine.
Fredrick officiating.
Fang present, whether anyone could stop him or not.
The dress remained the hardest part.
I had avoided that paper the longest.
It sat near the middle of the table, written in delicate handwriting.
Bride’s attire.
Not gown.
Not royal dress.
A careful word.
A word that left room.
Fredrick had likely chosen it on purpose.
Steven noticed me looking at it.
“We don’t have to talk about that right now,” he said.
“I know.”
But I kept looking.
In Atlantis, bridal clothing was not only clothing.
It was a statement.
A daughter of the Waters line did not simply wear something beautiful. She wore expectation, duty, and whatever image the kingdom needed her to become.
I remembered the kind of bridal clothing Atlantis would have expected.
Light fabric arranged to move in water. A beautiful top shaped for a princess. Sheer pieces meant to trail around my fin when I swam. Pearls, perhaps. Silver thread. Everything elegant. Everything graceful.
And very little of it chosen by me.
But when I was younger, I used to look at human wedding dresses in old catalogs I kept hidden in my room.
I liked the white ones most.
Lace.
Soft skirts.
Little buttons.
Beaded straps.
Dresses meant for walking down aisles instead of swimming through palace water.
I had never known if I wanted one because it was human, or because no one in Atlantis expected me to have it.
Maybe both.
Steven’s hand covered mine.
“We can pick something simple,” he said quickly. “Or not a dress. Or no fancy anything. I don’t care what you wear.”
I looked up.
He went red.
“I mean, I care. I mean, I’ll think you look beautiful no matter what. I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
He exhaled. “Good, because I didn’t.”
A small laugh escaped me.
His fingers curled around mine.
“I don’t want you to feel trapped in any of this,” he said.
The words touched the quiet fear I had been trying not to name.
I looked back at the paper.
“I want to wear a dress.”
Steven waited.
Not pushing.
Not filling in the silence.
I swallowed.
“A human wedding dress,” I said softly. “White.”
His expression softened. “Okay.”
“Something beautiful.”
“Definitely.”
“Lace, maybe. Thin straps. A soft V-neck, but not too low. Something fitted enough to feel graceful, but not so tight that I cannot move.”
My cheeks warmed, but I kept going.
“A fit-and-flare shape, perhaps. Like the mermaid dresses in the catalogs, but softer.”
Steven reached for the pencil, then paused. “Can I write that down?”
“Yes.”
He wrote carefully:
Dress — white. Human wedding dress. Fit-and-flare. Lace. Moves like water. Aqua chooses. Not Atlantis.
My throat tightened.
“Steven.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at the note, then at me. “Too much?”
“No.” I touched the edge of the paper. “It is right.”
His expression softened in a way that made my chest ache.
“Okay.”
I looked at the fabric pieces scattered near the flower notes. Most were white or silver. One was blue so pale it nearly looked like morning. Another shimmered green when tilted toward the light.
I picked up the white fabric first.
It was soft between my fingers, smooth on one side and delicate on the other, with a lace pattern that reminded me of seafoam caught on the edge of waves.
“This,” I said.
Steven looked at it.
“That one?”
“Yes.”
I held it against my wrist and tried to imagine it shaped into something fitted but not suffocating. A bodice that held without trapping. A neckline soft enough to be pretty, not deep enough to make me feel displayed. Thin straps, maybe, with small beads or sequins catching the light like water under stars. Lace sheer enough to look delicate but not bare. A skirt that fit through the waist and hips before loosening lower, flaring just enough to move when I walked.
A fit-and-flare shape.
Something with the elegance of a mermaid gown, but softer.
Fitted enough to feel graceful.
Loose enough that I could move.
A skirt that opened lower, not too sharply, more like water widening after it passed over stone.
The thought made me pause.
In Atlantis, being a mermaid princess had been used against me.
Here, maybe it could simply be beautiful.
Steven was watching my face.
“What?” he asked softly.
“I think I know what kind of dress I want.”
His eyes brightened.
“Yeah?”
I nodded.
“White. Fit and flare. Maybe with lace. Thin straps. Something elegant, but not too revealing.” My cheeks warmed again. “Something that feels like me.”
Steven stared at me for a second too long.
Then he looked away quickly.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
I blinked.
Then I laughed, and his face turned redder.
“I did not say anything improper,” I said.
“I know, but my brain pictured it, and now I’m trying to act normal.”
Warmth rose into my face too.
“Steven.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.”
“I’m engaged. I’m allowed to be overwhelmed by dress descriptions.”
I covered my mouth, smiling.
He wrote:
Dress — Aqua knows. Ask dressmaker. Do not picture too much or Steven dies.
I reached over and took the pencil from him.
“That part does not need to remain.”
“It was for accuracy.”
“It was embarrassing.”
“Both can be true.”
I crossed out the last line.
Steven looked mournful.
“You are editing my truth.”
“I am protecting your dignity.”
“I had very little left.”
“That is why I am helping.”
His laugh warmed the room.
For a while, wedding planning felt easier.
Not easy.
Never easy.
But easier.
We talked about flowers again. White roses. Lake irises. Maybe moonshore bells, though I wondered if they had already appeared too often. Steven said no flower could appear too often if it made me smile, which was sweet and unhelpful.
We wrote down food.
Small cakes.
Tea.
Fruit.
Something warm for Fang, though Steven said Fang would insist he did not eat human celebration food and then judge everyone who did.
Then Steven turned another paper toward us.
“Vows,” he said.
My heart gave a strange, nervous little twist.
“Vows.”
“Fredrick said there are standard legal words. State vows, I guess. The things people have to say so the human part counts.”
“That sounds very official.”
“It sounded very Fredrick when he explained it.”
I smiled.
Steven tapped the paper with his pencil.
“But he also said we could make our own vows if we wanted. For the Four Families rite. Or just for us.”
My fingers tightened around the fabric sample.
“Our own vows.”
“Yeah.”
The idea felt different from choosing flowers or colors.
Flowers could be wrong and still beautiful.
Colors could be changed.
Vows were words I would stand inside.
Promises spoken where others could hear them.
I looked at Steven.
His expression was careful.
“I think it would be nice,” I said. “To make our own vows. Don’t you?”
His face softened.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Steven looked down at the blank page and moved it carefully between us.
“Do we write them now?”
I thought about that.
Part of me wanted to ask him what he would say. Part of me wanted to hear it immediately, to hold the words before the wedding day and know exactly what promise would meet me there.
But another part of me wanted something untouched.
A moment waiting.
A promise not yet opened.
“Maybe we should keep them private,” I said.
Steven looked up.
“Until the wedding?”
I nodded.
“If we say them now, they will already belong to this kitchen table.”
His gaze softened.
“And you want them to belong to the ceremony.”
“To us in that moment,” I said.
Steven nodded slowly.
“I like that.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He smiled faintly. “It also gives me a week to figure out how to say everything without sounding like I’m actively falling apart.”
“You may fall apart a little.”
“That’s probably unavoidable.”
“It might be sweet.”
“It might be humiliating.”
“Both can be true.”
He laughed under his breath and wrote:
Vows — private until wedding. Try not to fall apart too much.
I smiled.
“Do I get to see that line?”
“No.”
“It is on the table.”
“That makes it vulnerable, apparently.”
“You are learning from Dipsi.”
“That is terrifying.”
We left the vow page mostly blank after that.
Only one line sat at the top:
Our own vows. Private until the ceremony.
I did not know exactly what I would promise yet.
Not now.
Not with the table covered in flower lists and fabric scraps and Steven standing so close beside me that his shoulder brushed mine when he breathed.
Those words deserved quiet.
Later, when I was alone, I would think about them properly.
I would write them without Atlantis in my ear.
Without fear in my hand.
Without anyone telling me what a princess owed.
Steven leaned back and rubbed his face.
“We should probably eat something before I accidentally choose silver breath out of hunger.”
“That sounds wise.”
“I can make eggs.”
“You always make eggs when you are nervous.”
“They are reliable.”
I stood beside the table, still holding the white fabric.
Steven noticed.
“You can keep that one,” he said.
“It is only a sample.”
“Still.”
I folded the fabric carefully and placed it beside the vow page.
The white cloth rested beneath the words like a small piece of something I had not known I was allowed to want.
A dress.
A promise.
A witness.
A future.
Steven stood beside me, close enough that his fingers brushed mine.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he slipped his hand into mine.
The ring touched his skin.
“Still okay?” he asked.
I knew what he meant.
Dipsi.
The small guest list.
The wedding.
The week.
All of it.
I looked at the list again.
Fredrick.
Dylan.
Dipsi.
Fang.
Blue and green.
Silver accents.
One red rose.
A white dress that moved like water.
Vows kept private until the day they became real.
“I think so,” I said.
Then, after a moment, I smiled. “But if Dipsi appears again, I want her to wait until I finish answering.”
Steven nodded gravely.
“We’ll make it a rule.”
“She will ignore it.”
“Probably.”
“She may improve it first.”
“Definitely.”
I leaned into him, just slightly.
The kitchen smelled of paper, pencil lead, morning light, and the faint trace of violet smoke.
One week did not feel like enough time.
But for the first time, the future was not being arranged around me.
It was being made with me.
And that made all the difference.