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Nessa Martini steps in first—sleek as ever in a fitted camel coat over a black turtleneck sweater, high-waisted tailored trousers, and black leather booties. She’s got the effortless kind of style that makes you hate her a little until she smiles, and then you just want to follow her into battle.

Right behind her is Matt Draper, and I don’t care how many times I’ve seen him, I still have a moment of whoa.

Matt is built like a Marvel character. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw. Kind eyes. He’s wearing a charcoal wool peacoat and jeans. The man looks like he should be sermonizing from the top of a mountain while casually lifting a fallen tree off a trapped dog.

Nessa spots us and waves.

“Hey!” she says, leading Matt across the room. “I want you to meet Matt properly. We’ve got to take a minute to talk ceremony details.”

Although we’ve met before, proper introductions are made, with handshakes and cheek kisses. Matt’s handshake is firm, but Hamish clocks the guy immediately.

They exchange the universal bro nod of respect for each other’s quad routines.

We all slide into the booth like we’ve done this a dozen times. Rider, who appears with perfect timing, has already cleared our table and wiped it down.

“Drinks?” he asks, pen ready.

“I’ll have the local pale ale,” Matt says.

Hamish perks up. “Make that two.”

Nessa and I exchange a glance and say at the exact same time: “Dirty martini.”

We both laugh.

“Okay, twins,” Rider mutters, then heads off.

Hamish leans over to Matt. “So, ye actually do weddin’s and deadlifts?”

Matt chuckles. “That’s basically my job description.”

Rider is drawing the two pints of beer and shaking our martinis, pouring them both swiftly. He’s efficient, fast in a place where it feels like time stopped, so why be quick? He delivers the drinks and leaves menus on the table.

Nessa slides her martini closer and sweeps the room with an appraising gaze. “You know,” she says, “I could do an entire video shoot in here. The atmosphere is just so specific. Like, if flannel had a scent, this would be it.”

I grin. “Pine, sweat, beer, and nostalgia?”

“Exactly. The Maine après-ski vibe, but without the overpriced fondue and influencer panic.”

Matt chuckles into his pint. “It’s just good old New England history,” he says. “Reminds me of a pub I went to down in Plymouth. Crooked walls, creaky floors. Ceiling beams that could concuss a tall man.”

“Rider would call that ambiance,” I say.

Matt nods, relaxing into the seat like it belongs to him. “You can’t fake this kind of place. It either earns its charm or it falls down trying.”

Nessa sips her martini. “Honestly, I think Love You deserves way more attention than it gets. If it weren’t for the permanent Valentine’s Day branding, this place would be a dream for winter weddings.”

“It’s got heart,” Hamish offers. “Aye— and the goat’s still stompin’ on it.”

That gets a laugh from all of us.

"What's wrong with the Valentine's Day branding?" Matt asks her. "I think it's cute."

Her nose crunches slightly. "Cute. That's the problem." Our eyes meet, that look that says we understand each other perfectly.

The men shrug at each other.

As the chatter–and our drinks–dwindles, Matt leans forward a little, directing his attention to me and Hamish.

“So, how do you want to handle the vows tomorrow?”

My mind goes blank. “Oh. Right. Tomorrow.”

Nessa gives me a knowing look over the rim of her glass.

“Nessa told me this will be a swimsuit wedding,” Matt continues. “I’ve done a few hot springs ceremonies over the years. You’d be surprised how emotional people get when they’re both underdressed and overheated. Steam is a nice wedding accessory. Sets the mood.”

Hamish raises an eyebrow. “Ye’ve done a hot springs wedding before?”

Matt shakes his head. “Not here. This’ll be my first in Luview. But hopefully not my last.”

Hamish grins. “We’ll do our best ta leave a good impression.”

“You already have,” Matt says with that calm, grounded minister energy. “And tomorrow, you get to make it official. In a bathing suit. With steam.”

“Romance,” I mutter. “Always better when it’s moist.”

Nessa nearly snorts her olive. Her phone buzzes and she gives us a rueful look and focuses on her screen, perfectly threaded eyebrows coming together. She texts something back, then her eyes open wide as she reads.

"Um, excuse me," she says, holding up a finger. "I'll be right back."

Matt's eyes track her as she steps into an alcove near the bathrooms.

"Work emergency?" Hamish asks.

Matt chuckles. "Uh, if there is, it’s you guys. You’re the emergency."

"Us?" I take a big sip, because if we're the emergency, something's gone wrong.

Very wrong.

Nessa reappears a moment later and walks back to the table like she’s just seen a ghost . Her whole energy is apology, horror, and deeply fashionable confusion.

She slides back into her chair, grabs her martini, and downs the rest of it like it’s anesthesia. Then she sets the glass down with a gentle clink, looks us dead in the eye, and says flatly, “There’s a situation. With your mothers. And your fathers. Possibly all of them.”

My stomach lurches.

“What kind of situation?” I ask, trying not to choke on the olive I just accidentally bit in half.

Nessa winces. “I don’t know yet. My texts from Archie haven’t been coming through for the last two hours.

Cell service is spotty around here, and I just got a flood of messages, all out of order.

There’s definitely movement, possibly coordinated.

I’m so sorry. I need to make a few calls and untangle what’s actually happening.

I think after this, Katie is going to have to approve Archie's demand for satellite phones as standard equipment in locations like this.”

She stands, gently pats Matt’s hand, and says, “Take over. Reassure them. You’re the minister, be ministerial.”

Then she vanishes again, heels clicking softly across the wooden floor.

My mouth goes dry. My heart pounds.

I look at Hamish.

Something’s wrong. Something big.

And I’m pretty sure the quiet is about to end.

Matt watches Nessa disappear into the alcove again, then turns back to us with a steady presence that feels grounding.

“Nessa gave me the basics about your elopement,” he says, his voice low and empathetic. “That you’re escaping two mothers with two very different visions of your wedding—and claiming your own.”

I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak. Hamish squeezes my knee under the table.

Matt’s expression is calm, thoughtful. He leans in just slightly, like he’s telling us a secret meant only for us.

“It’s a powerful thing, making your own path. There’s this moment in everyone’s life–sometimes it’s loud and dramatic, sometimes it’s quiet and internal–where you stop being someone’s child and start being your own person. If you’re lucky, you find a partner to do that with.”

I glance at Hamish, who’s watching Matt like he’s reading from a sacred scroll.

“What you’re doing here,” Matt continues, “is more than a ceremony. It’s a declaration. You’re saying, we choose this. Not because it’s what’s expected or because it makes anyone else happy, but because it’s what you want. Together.”

He pauses, letting the weight of that land.

“Your parents love you. That’s not in question.

But sometimes parents get so caught up in that love, in the dream of what your life could be, that they forget to see what your life is.

What you want versus what they want for you.

Who you are now–adults, partners. People who deserve respect, and autonomy, and the space to create your own world. Your own future.”

Something in Hamish shifts beside me.

He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, trying to do it subtly. His other hand finds mine and laces our fingers together.

I look over at him, blurry now through the tears in my own eyes. He gives me the gentlest smile I’ve ever seen on his face.

And in that moment, I realize that this– this– is the part of the wedding that matters most. Not the venue, or the dress, or the perfect playlist or seating chart.

Just this.

Two people choosing each other, below a dartboard that smells faintly like fried onions.

Hamish clears his throat, his fingers still tightly laced with mine.

“I agree,” he says to Matt, voice rough but steady. “What ye said—it’s right. But the push-pull of it all? Bein’ loved by yer family but wantin’ independence? It’s brutal sometimes. Makes ye feel guilty for even wantin’ to grow.”

He pauses, staring down into his half-finished beer.

“I miss my da’s wise counsel. He always saw straight through the madness.”

I nod, throat tight. “I wish I could talk to my dad, too. He’s been my lifeline through all of this. Managing Mom. Calming her down. Holding her back from staging a hostile takeover of the venue, the guest list, and my uterus.”

Hamish snorts softly, but there’s a shared ache in the air now. Grief for the living, that kind of quiet longing you can’t talk yourself out of.

Just then, a blur of camel coat and stress energy reappears at the table.

Nessa.

She half runs, half glides over, eyes wide, phone clutched in a grip that looks dangerously close to snapping.

“Okay. Emergency confirmed. Archie just got word of a massive breach.”

Hamish and I both sit up straighter.

“What kind of breach?” I ask slowly.

And that’s when the front door to Bilbee’s slams open with the kind of force reserved for action movies and unmedicated family reunions.

Dad– my dad!–and Fergus burst through in full dramatic dad-glory. Dad’s coat is askew and he’s breathing like he sprinted the entire way here. Fergus’s scarf flaps behind him like a superhero cape.

Fergus scans the room and spots Hamish.

“ Son! ” he bellows, voice echoing through the low-ceilinged pub.

Hamish bolts upright so fast, he knocks his chair back.

“Yer mums have joined forces and they’re comin’! We tried ta warn ye, but yer texts got stupider and stupider, and then Jason saw yer picture on the Instabookface and recognized this place, so…”

He pauses mid-sprint, mid-declaration, mid-chaos, and sniffs the air.

“Oh, aye. Nice pub.”

Then he swivels toward the bar.

“A pint o’ yer finest!” he shouts at Rider, who blinks with his one visible eye before grabbing a glass, like this is somehow not unusual.

Fergus doesn’t wait for the beer. He grabs a chair from the next table, drags it over like the fifth Beatle returning to the band, and plunks himself down at our four-top like this is his regular Tuesday hang.

Hamish is frozen.

Dad leans in the doorway behind him, panting. “They’re… at best...an hour… behind us.”

Matt, calmly sipping his beer, looks around the table and says, “So. About those ceremony logistics…” as Hamish curls his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in.

He's a fortress of love and protection.

Good.

Because we need one.