When they begin their descent together, it is not ceremonial in the dramatic sense. It is deliberate. Zane does not walk ahead of her, and he does not guide her as though she requires assistance. He matches her stride exactly. Their steps fall into rhythm naturally, the way they have learned to move through crisis and calm, through argument and reconciliation, through exhaustion and renewal. There is no choreography to it. There is memory in it. There is muscle memory born of shared storms and stubborn hope.
The music swells gently behind them, strings warm and steady, carrying them forward without rush. The petals scattered along the aisle shift under their steps, releasing a faint scent into the air as if the ground itself is aware of the moment. Sunlight glints against Zane's cufflinks and catches in the delicate lace at Willow's shoulders. Nothing about it feels theatrical. Everything about it feels earned.
