It began with a whisper between sheets.
Adam's breath against Violet's collarbone, a quiet moment between sleep and sunrise.
"We should get married," he murmured.
Violet blinked, her body still tangled in the comforter, her soul still somewhere in a dream. "What?"
He lifted his head, face half-shadowed by early light, the faintest smile curling his lips. "I mean it."
Violet laughed—soft, breathless, unsure if she was dreaming. "That's your proposal?"
"I thought it was romantic," he said, deadpan. "You know, vulnerable. Honest. In bed. Bare."
"You're an idiot."
He kissed her. "A romantic idiot."
She tucked her fingers into his hair and whispered, "Ask me when I'm awake."
So he did. That night.
---
It wasn't a grand gesture. No bended knee in a public place. No flash mob. No ring hidden in a cake.
Just a rooftop.
The same rooftop where they once sat in silence, too afraid to say the things that now flowed so easily between them.
Violet was in pajamas, hair a mess, a paint smudge still on her cheek. Adam wore mismatched socks and carried two cups of mint tea.
He handed her one and cleared his throat.
Then, with hands shaking and eyes warm, he said:
"I want a hundred more late nights with you. A hundred more poems, burnt toast breakfasts, and 'I'm sorry' fights followed by better kisses. I want to build a life where you're in every room, every laugh, every heartbreak I survive. Will you marry me?"
No ring.
No orchestra.
Just him.
Violet didn't cry—not at first.
She blinked, took the tea, set it down, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Yes," she whispered, like a promise sealed to the stars.
Then, of course, she cried.
---
The news spread fast.
Not because they announced it, but because Maya screamed when she noticed Violet wearing a cheap sunflower ring Adam made from studio wire and leftover resin.
"You didn't even tell me?" Maya gasped.
"We were going to," Violet said, amused. "Tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow!" Maya wailed.
Theo dramatically fainted onto a beanbag. "I knew it. I dreamed about this. I'm psychic."
"You dream about everyone getting married," Maya scoffed.
"Still counts."
Later, Violet told Adam, "We should've eloped."
But she didn't mean it. Not really.
---
Planning began in bursts of chaos and laughter.
Violet didn't want a wedding at first. She said the word made her think of white tulle and forced smiles and people she hadn't seen since middle school.
Adam agreed. "Let's make it ours. Let's make it weird and wonderful and just... us."
So they did.
They decided on a spring wedding, in the garden behind Studio Still. Theo offered to DJ. Maya took over decoration planning like a general preparing for creative battle. There was no guest list yet, no official dress or color theme—but already, the space bloomed with possibility.
"I'm going to build a floral arch," Maya said one evening. "Out of driftwood and peonies and vintage string lights."
"You hate floral arrangements," Theo pointed out.
"I hate boring floral arrangements," she corrected.
---
Violet found herself painting more.
Not commissions. Not even pieces for the gallery.
Just feelings.
Explosions of color. Soft pinks and blazing oranges. Hands reaching, lips meeting, branches twisting toward the light.
One day, while cleaning the studio, Adam found a new canvas tucked behind the easel.
It was a painting of their hands—his and hers—intertwined, with a garden blooming from their palms. He stared at it for a long time, then quietly hung it on the back wall, beneath the string of fairy lights.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
---
Two weeks before the wedding, Violet received a letter from her father.
It was short. Formal. The kind of message that might have come from a stranger:
Dear Violet,
I heard the news.
Congratulations.
I won't be attending, but I wish you well.
—Dad
She read it twice.
Then burned it.
Adam held her hand as she did, his thumb brushing gentle circles over her skin.
"He doesn't define you," he said.
"I know."
But her voice cracked a little.
Later, Violet stood in the garden alone, watching the trees sway in the late afternoon breeze.
For a moment, she let herself feel the weight of the absence. Then she turned toward the studio where laughter echoed, where her real family waited.
And just like that, she was okay again.
---
On the night before the wedding, it rained.
Not a drizzle.
A storm.
Maya nearly had a meltdown. "The garden is going to flood. The chairs are going to float away. Oh my god, should we rent kayaks?"
Theo was oddly calm. "It's just water. Let the universe baptize the lovebirds."
Adam, meanwhile, sat on the floor folding paper cranes.
Violet joined him in silence.
"They say," he told her, "if you fold a thousand cranes, you get a wish."
"Are we wishing for clear skies?"
He smiled. "No. I'm wishing that the chaos never stops feeling beautiful."
She rested her head on his shoulder. "You're a strange, strange man."
"And you said yes."
---
They didn't sleep that night.
They sat under a blanket fort in the studio, eating popcorn and rewatching their favorite indie film on Maya's old projector. Thunder rolled like a lullaby in the distance, but they stayed wide-eyed, fingers laced, hearts thudding too fast.
At some point, Violet whispered, "Do you think love is supposed to feel like this?"
Adam tilted his head. "Like what?"
"Like falling. But not scary. More like... you're jumping, and someone's catching you before you even realize you left the ground."
He didn't answer at first.
Just leaned over and kissed her, slow and deep and grounding.
Then he said, "Yeah. I think it's exactly like that."
---
The next morning, the storm had passed.
The garden was soaked, yes. The wooden chairs wobbled slightly, and the grass squished underfoot.
But the sky?
The sky was glorious.
A soft pink sunrise broke through the clouds, and the air smelled of new beginnings.
Guests trickled in slowly—neighbors, studio regulars, friends they hadn't seen in years. Maya wore a bright orange dress and cried at least three times before the ceremony started. Theo played a moody acoustic version of a Taylor Swift song on his guitar. Someone's toddler ran off with the ring and had to be bribed with cookies.
It was chaotic.
It was imperfect.
It was theirs.
Violet walked down the stone path barefoot, holding a bouquet of wildflowers and sunflowers, her dress simple and flowing, her eyes fixed on Adam.
He looked like he was trying not to burst into flames.
When they reached each other, Violet whispered, "You look like a man who just saw magic."
"I did," he said. "You walked toward me."
They laughed. They cried. They said their vows—raw and clumsy and breathtaking.
And when the moment came to say I do—they didn't whisper.
They said it boldly.
Like thunder.
Like art.
Like love that had been waiting its whole life to be named.
---