Chapter Text
Cassie's POV:
“I don’t think I can do this…”
“Cassie,” Sloane grabs my shoulders, steadying me from pacing around the room. She bores her blue eyes into my own. “You are more than capable of walking down the aisle without falling. There is only a—” Her eyes drift to the ceiling as she actually analyzes my chances of falling. “45 percent chance.”
I don’t like how high that percentage is. Besides, that isn’t necessarily what I was talking about, but fortunately and unfortunately, Sloane’s social cues haven’t gotten much better over the years.
“She’s talking about getting married, Sloane.”
A tall, lean figure slides in through a white-painted wooden door. “But it’s interesting you say there’s a decent chance of Cassie falling.” A malicious smirk tugs at her lips. I roll my eyes, but the butterflies won't settle in my stomach. I feel nauseous, with no idea if it’s from nerves or excitement.
“You look ugly when you’re stressed. I don’t know how Dean saw you and thought, ‘she is the one.’”
For some reason, Lia saying that gets a chuckle out of me. To this day, Lia is still able to roast you in a comforting way—if that makes any sense.
I roll my eyes, ignoring the comment. “Wow, thanks.”
I observe the outfit Lia has on. She and Sloane both have decided on wearing pine green colored dresses that stick tight to their upper body and slowly breathe out as they reach their ankles.
Lia’s finger starts twirling the freshly curled hair she got done earlier today, her other hand briefly smoothing down the flat silk as she checks her posture in the full-length mirror. Then my gaze shifts to Sloane, who is staring at me like I have something on my face.
“Cassie looks very pretty though?”
That gets a laugh out of the two of us. I walk over to Sloane, giving her hand a squeeze. “We love you, Sloane. Please never change.”
Sloane shakes her head. Her platinum blonde hair looks stunningly straight, though her uneven bangs are still a signature feature she refuses to change.
“If anything,” she squeezes my hand back. “I love you guys. I am also most very sure we are all about to cry if we continue sharing sentimental affirmations.”
The butterflies settle in my stomach again, though it’s only a matter of time until they start back up. I’m trying my best to focus on the people in front of me for now. Lia points to a mirror behind me.
“Just take in the absolute horror.” There is no true spite in her words; the genuine happiness radiating off of her gives it away. Regardless, I turn, taking in my own reflection, and see a newcoming woman stare back.
Sloane, Lia, and I all go to get our hair and nails done this morning. I don’t know why, but I let them choose my hairstyle. They both pick really well. My hair is loose, fading into curls at the bottom with the top braided to resemble a crown. My eyes settle on my face covered in light makeup. I refuse to have a lot of makeup done. It just doesn't feel right to me. Dean agrees.
A foundation that isn't too heavy covers my face; a perfect rose blush with heavy coated eyelashes makes my eyes pop, just like my mother's once did.
I can feel my heart sink, my mind wandering off to what this would be like if my mom were still alive.
No, Cassie, stay in the present moment. Dance it off. Admire the beautifully tailored white dress that has meshed long sleeves with designs that decorate your arm.
“knock! Knock!”
“Who’s there!” Sloane responds.
The three of us turn to the door, where the infamous Michael Townsend stands. To this day, he still wears insanely expensive, tailored suits.
“Get out of here, Michael, this is for the maids of honor,” Lia says with a spiteful tone.
Michael leans back against the door frame, arms in his pockets and a smirk that never fails to attract the girls' attention. “Last time I checked, I’m the man of honor for Cassie, and YOU’RE the maid of honor for Dean.”
Right… Since Lia and Dean are practically siblings, it makes more sense to have Lia be Dean's ‘maid of honor/best man?’
Besides, there is no world in which Dean would want Michael as his best man, even if they're more civil with each other now. Lia rolls her eyes.
“Dean has kicked you out.”
It isn't a question. Michael whistles a yes.
“I take it you were pestering him about the wedding?”
Michael shrugs. “Perchance.” His leg pushes him off the wall. “Have to test and make sure he won't bail out.”
We girls give him an unimpressed look.
“And?” I ask. “Did he pass?” Michael snorts, his posture tensing in a guarded manner.
“Very much so.”
A part of me really wants to ask for details about the story, but the other half of me can't even hear his name without turning my legs into jelly.
“Anyways,” Michael continues, his attention now solely on Lia. “, he wants you to replace me, Lia. Apparently, there’s something he needs to discuss with you.”
In one swift motion, Lia is out the door, though her usual tactical stride feels slightly rushed. Michael watches the door click shut, and for a fraction of a second, the charismatic smirk vanishes from his face. He rubs the back of his neck, taking a deep, grounding breath as if he is trying to shake off a sudden wave of vertigo.
“Michael?” I ask, eyeing his sudden shift. “You okay?”
He blinks, instantly sliding his hands back into his pockets and flashing that effortless, distracting grin.
“Perfect, Colorado. Just a lot of heavy emotions bouncing around this venue today. It’s practically a hazard for an empath.” He looks at me, his face softening.
“Eyes open more than usual, lips pressed together, grinding teeth together. There’s nothing to be anxious about, Colorado.”
I hate that he reads my emotions like they are a page in a book. I wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to soothe myself.
“I don’t know…”
“Yes, you do.”
Michael walks over, his hands pressing firmly on my shoulders. “It is literally Dean. He would be happy getting married at home. He couldn't care less about anything else that happens tonight. He just wants to be with you, and see you happy.”
My eyes focus on his amber ones.
“I know, it’s just scary. Neither of us are the best at being in front of an audience. Especially for an event as big as today. I just want everything to be—”
“Perfect. I know, and all of us will make sure it goes smoothly.” He boops my nose. “You just focus on being your beautiful self. I’ll handle the rest.”
The way he says that makes me worry about what he’s secretly planning. “Michael, please tell me you didn’t write anything inappropriate in the speech—”
His left hand flies to his chest while his right one is raised. “Swear I didn’t. Scout's honor.”
I roll my eyes. I can smell his expensive Dior cologne. I turn to Sloane, who is currently reorganizing half of the makeup on the vanity in what I assume to be product order.
“How much longer until we start?” Sloane whips her head around.
“In about 64 minutes.”
My hands start to sweat, and I have to start shaking them to get the nerves out of my body. Sloane watches as I pace around the room.
“According to my calculations, you are a good minute away from going into a full panic attack.” She tilts her head. “Are you second-guessing yourself about marrying Dean?”
I jerk abruptly at the sudden accusation. “What?! No! That’s not it.” I bite on my lip, but Michael waves at me to stop before I can bite the skin off. He hands me a stress ball to abuse instead. I continue pacing, the other two watching from afar.
“I love Dean, forever and ever. Nothing will ever change that. Not even when we’re standing in front of like 70 or more people. Like, what are the chances of anything going wrong—” My hand flies up to Sloane, who is ready to answer that. “Don’t say it.”
Sloane zips her mouth shut, glancing at Michael. “There is a small chance that my calculations have overwhelmed her.”
I stop in my tracks, sudden guilt washing over the thumping in my chest.
Michael chuckles. “It’s alright, Sloane, you’re being helpful.” Sloane picks up a sheet of paper off of the vanity.
“There is a—good chance you will blank on the schedule because of nerves. It is proven that memorizing and continuously reviewing helps to ease the nerves and reassure the mind.”
I look at Michael, who motions for me to listen.
Sloane's finger flies up. “The order of tonight’s events goes as follows:
- Dean walks out from a side door to the altar.
- Lia, Michael, and I walk down the aisle and go to our respective sides of the altar.
- Laurel comes out with the flowers.
- You get escorted to the altar by Judd.”
I smile, imagining Judd walking me down the aisle. This wedding is just as special for him, because it’s one he never gets to experience with his own daughter.
Sloane is just about finished with the long list of events. Surprisingly, it calms my nerves enough to help me get through the next hour.
I stand behind a different set of doors with Judd by my side. He looks at me, his eyes already shiny with tears.
“I’m proud of you,” he tells me.
And now I'm the one blinking back tears. He gives me a kiss on the top of my head, careful not to mess with the veil sitting perfectly on the top of my head. I touch the braid at the top of my head, feeling the small, blue larkspur flowers tucked into the hair.
My mother’s favorite.
She isn't here to zip the dress or cry at the altar, but as I catch my reflection, I realize she has given me the eyes I am using to look at my future. I am not just my mother’s tragedy; I am her legacy.
I take a breath, letting the grief settle into a quiet, manageable ache, and step toward the door.
The music starts playing, and my heart shoots up to my throat. I take a shaky breath, suddenly feeling more than a little lightheaded.
Judd hooks my arm around his, holding me tight as a way of saying ‘I’ve got you.’
The doors open slowly, and I hold onto him like a lifeline. As the doors fully reveal us, I whisper a quick “I love you.”
Judd tells me the same, and we take the first step into the new life I am starting.
I avoid all eye contact, refusing to let myself look at all the people sitting in the audience. As Judd leads me down the aisle, the venue comes into focus—not as a room, but as a profile of our lives.
It is an old stone conservatory, the glass roof revealing a twilight sky that feels infinite. Instead of harsh spotlights, there are hundreds of flickering candles and fairy lights tucked into overflowing greenery. It smells like cedar and rain. It isn't just a wedding; it is a fortress. A place where the outside world, with all its cold cases and killers, can't reach us (for now).
The rows of white chairs are filled with the only people who truly know the monsters we've faced—and the fact that they are all smiling feels like the ultimate win.
My attention is solely on the altar, and not falling smack on my face like Sloane has warned me about. There is a close call, but Judd holds his promise, never letting me stumble.
I know Dean is watching. I don’t need to see him to know he is soaking in every inch of me.
Finally, I dare to meet his gaze, and those rich brown eyes hunger to devour me. He holds his hands out, and mine don’t have to think twice in accepting them.
My hands—looking completely fine to everyone in the audience—are gripping moon crescents into my future husband’s hands. Instead of wincing, Dean’s thumb massages the tension in such a soothing pattern, not letting my death grip show on his face.
The officiant's words go through one ear and out the other. The whole world disappears, and this moment is just him and me.
Seated at the dinner table later that night, the sound of someone tapping a mic brings everyone’s attention to an outdoor stand past the dance floor.
“Ahem! Dearly beloved ones, thank you all for taking the time tonight to come and celebrate our newlywed couple, Cassie and Barf—I mean, Dean.”
The few Naturals who get the reference laugh.
Unless your name is Dean.
“Tonight, I have been given the honor to come forth and talk about how these two came together. The short answer is me, and the longer answer is too long to explain alone. Therefore, Dean’s appointed speaker and I have decided to come together to give you the most entertaining performance possible.” Michael’s hand gestures to the side.
Sure enough, Lia gracefully walks up with a light clicking of her heels. I hear Judd mutter something from afar to my nonna, which piques my interest for the briefest moment. The two get along very well. I can’t exactly tell where they stand relationship-wise, but that really isn't any of my business.
Lia snatches the mic from Michael. “This story begins with a young little lad that had brown eyes and blonde hair.”
Lia pulls out a remote from her dress’s hidden pocket. A malicious smirk plays on her lips as she presses a button. A projector suddenly flashes awake, revealing the cutest sight I’ve ever seen.
There, on the projector, is a baby picture of Dean. Everyone coos, but I can hear Dean wheeze.
With a heart totally melted in awe, I turn to Dean. “Babe, I thought you didn’t have any baby pictures of yourself?”
Dean’s jaw is hung open, the picture clearly catching him off guard. “I-I don’t. I don’t know where the hell they found that.” His cheeks turn a darker shade as people’s heads turn to him in admiration. “They must have used AI—”
As if reading our minds, Michael interrupts their whispered conversation from afar.
“Before you claim us for using AI, let me clarify that all the photos in this slide presentation have all been legally confiscated—mostly.”
“All the photos? There’s more?” I ask, more to myself than anyone else. On cue, they click another photo.
This time, Dean is around the age of 2, sitting on one of those potty trainers with a diaper on. His face looks at the camera in pure confusion, like he doesn't know what he is doing wrong.
Everyone, myself included, bursts out in a fit of laughter. It also isn’t very helpful that they play baby music in the background.
Dean growls in a dangerously embarrassed voice. “Michael?! Lia?!”
Lia waves him off, “Hold the comments for the end, Dean-o.”
Clicking to the next slide. This time, the photo is Dean at the age of 6. He is outside of a schoolyard, cowboy hat on and riding a toy bull.
“This is where Dean’s roots are,” Lia explains. “The boy was raised in an area where riding bulls around town was the trending transportation. So you’ll have to excuse the accent. But now, that accent is a battle scar from the bulls he’s had to train as a kid.” Lia gives the audience a pitiful expression.
Tears of pure laughter are leaking from my eyes. I can feel my abs activate from the silent fit of laughter I am trying my hardest not to show for the sake of the embarrassed man sitting next to me.
On stage, Michael is laughing so hard he takes a sip from Lia's glass on the podium, prompting her to snatch it back with an annoyed glare before clicking to the next slide.
They go through a few more images, up until Dean has probably just moved into the house in Quantico.
“But,” Michael redirects our attention. “These pictures are all missing something. Almost like another puzzle piece.”
Lia clicks the button, and it goes to a new slide of a girl with red hair, curling out in every possible direction. Everyone coos, and now I am the one being put on the hot seat. Dean chuckles, and my cheeks brighten the way his did a few minutes prior. His hand finds mine under the table, fiddling with the ring on my finger.
“Oh, right! I’m Michael, the guy who knows exactly how you’re feeling right now... and most of you are starting to get hungry, so I'll keep this fast."
The mic is robbed from Michael before he can continue.
"And I’m Lia. My talent is deception, which makes me the most qualified person to talk about Dean Redding. Because for years, this man has been a walking, brooding lie."
Michael flashes us a wide smile. "We’ve put together another very quick, very eventful presentation."
The screen flickers to life. A video is now playing: 13-year-old Dean in a baggy t-shirt that is white with a brown embedded image of a cowboy hat enwrapped in a lasso.
"Behold,” Lia announces, “thirteen-year-old Dean. He didn't have a childhood; he had a series of 'active observations.' Look at him trying to interrogate a kitchen chair."
Michael takes over, "He’s looking for the 'tell.' He thinks the chair is hiding the location of the missing TV remote. Watch the video... wait for it..."
On screen, young Dean tries to slide across the floor. His socks carry him farther than he’d clearly wanted, as he slides right past the interrogation chair and slams into the pantry. The room erupts in another booming fit of laughter.
From the table, Dean hides his head in his hands. "I’m going to kill both of you," he mumbles.
"And then Cassie arrives. The only person who looks at the 'Redding Nightmare Face' and thinks, 'I can work with that,'" Lia says.
"Jokes aside... I want to tell one truth. Just one."
The screen goes dark. The room falls silent as Lia finds her voice.
"I’ve known Dean since we were kids. I’ve seen him build walls so thick I didn't think anyone would ever see the person behind them. For a long time, Dean believed he was just a shadow of his father. That his name was a sentence he had to serve."
I turn to Dean. He is very still, his eyes fixed on Lia, who continues on.
"Then I watch him with Cassie. I watch the way he’d check the locks on her door every night, not because he was obsessed, though I thought that too—but because he couldn't breathe if she wasn't safe. I watch him start to smile—that timid, real smile he thought he’d lost twenty years ago."
Lia’s voice wavers, just a fraction.
"Dean, you spent your whole life wondering if you were a monster. But the way you look at her? Monsters don't love like that. You aren't your father’s son anymore. You’re Cassie’s husband. And you’re my brother. And you’re finally, finally home."
The silence in the room is heavy, but it isn't the kind of silence we usually deal with. There is no tension, no hidden threat. It is the sound of a wound finally closing.
I look at Dean. Still looking at Lia, his jaw is now set tight, his eyes shimmering with a moisture he is fighting to keep back. One single tear escapes, tracking down his cheek, and he doesn't even bother to wipe it away. He looks raw. He looks human.
I reach under the table, finding his hand again. His fingers grip mine with a strength that would be painful if it weren't so grounding.
Michael raises his glass, his own eyes a little glassy. "To the Naturals," he declares, "To the two people who proved that no matter how you're raised, you get to choose who you become. And to the new chapter of life we're about to enter."
"To Cassie and Dean," the room echoes.
Dean turns to me then, and the look in his eyes is better than any vow he could speak. He doesn't need to profile me to know I am never letting go. And for the first time in his life, he doesn't look like he is waiting for the other shoe to drop.