Chapter 9
They Sign the Marriage License Cold Handshake
Narrator: Dr. Lillian "Lily" Quinn
They call it a "ceremony," but that's a generous word for what it was.
A government-issued folding table. A brittle pen that skipped every other stroke. A woman from the clerk's office who pronounced my last name wrong twice and smelled like vanilla lotion and bureaucracy. No vows. No flowers. No smiles. Just a thick stack of legal forms printed in Arial font and the sound of Eli's breath catching across the table.
I'd imagined my wedding a hundred different ways when Luke was alive. None of them looked like this.
None of them included Eli Ward.
The week before, Betty had tried to make it sound palatable.
"You don't even need to make a speech," she'd said. "Just sign the form, take a photo, and go back to pretending you're in a very boring romance novel."
"Betty," I'd said flatly, "this isn't funny."
"I'm not joking."
"Yes, you are. And worse, you're enjoying this."
She'd sipped her coffee like a criminal mastermind and said, "Well, yes. A little."
But even her smug tone hadn't dulled the inevitability. I knew what this marriage was. I understood the terms. I had helped write them. Cohabitation, shared leadership, symbolic public representation of resilience. I understood everything.
Except the part where my body reacted to Eli's nearness like it still remembered what it meant to trust him.
The morning of the signing, I chose a blazer and black pants. Neat. Impersonal. The kind of outfit you wear when you want to look functional and unapproachable. I tied my hair back in a low knot and wore no jewelry, not even the necklace Luke gave me years ago. Today wasn't about memory.
It was about signatures.
Eli arrived late. Not dramatically. Just a few minutes past. His boots echoed across the courthouse floor as he stepped into the small, gray room where we were to sign our fates into legal fiction.
He wore dark jeans and a button-down shirt that might've passed for formal if you didn't look too closely. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing old scars and fresh calluses evidence of the work he buried himself in.
Our eyes met across the table. He nodded.
I didn't smile.
The clerk cleared her throat. "Captain Elias Ward and Dr. Lillian Quinn?"
"Yes," I said.
Eli echoed it.
"Today's purpose is to legally certify your union under the state's revised partnership agreement clause," she continued. "The formality is simple. You each sign your respective fields, I notarize, and the certificate will be filed with the county. Any questions?"
I had hundreds.
Are we really doing this?
Will it matter that I don't hate you anymore?
What happens when this starts to feel too real?
But I said nothing. Just took the pen.
The line said:
Spouse 1: Lillian Quinn
I signed.
It didn't feel like a marriage.
It felt like a deal.
Eli signed next.
Spouse 2: Elias Ward
He had a steady hand, but I watched the flicker in his eyes as he handed the pen back to the clerk.
"All done," she said, affixing a gold seal. "Congratulations."
Neither of us moved.
There was an awkward pause. The woman glanced between us like she expected a kiss or at least a smile.
Instead, Eli reached out his hand.
I took it.
A handshake.
His palm was warm, his grip firm but impersonal.
Our skin touched for exactly four seconds.
It felt like war.
Then we let go.
Outside the courthouse, the wind picked up and tangled a strand of hair loose from my bun. I tucked it behind my ear and stared at the courthouse steps like they might fall out from under me.
"Want to grab coffee?" Eli asked, his voice quiet.
I turned, surprised.
"I thought this was all business," I said.
"It is," he replied. "But I'm told married people sometimes share beverages."
A dry, reluctant laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
"Sure," I said. "Why not?"
We walked two blocks down to Hattie's Café a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with stained wallpaper and the same rotating pie selection it's had since 1998.
The woman at the counter gave us a look when we stepped inside.
"Well, if it isn't Iron Hollow's newest couple," she said, her grin too wide.
Eli raised an eyebrow. "News travels fast."
She winked. "I know everything before it happens."
We ordered. Two coffees. Black for him. Earl Grey latte for me. She scribbled our names on mismatched cups with a heart between them.
Eli noticed it first.
"I guess we're adorable now," he said.
"God help us."
We sat at a booth near the back. The cushion springs poked through, but it was quiet, and the sunlight hit the table in soft gold streaks.
We sipped in silence for a while.
Finally, I asked, "Why didn't you fight this harder?"
He looked at me. "What do you mean?"
"You could've said no. To the marriage. To the project. To working with me."
"I needed the work."
"That's not a reason."
He studied his coffee. "Maybe not. But I needed something to mean something again."
That stopped me.
I swallowed. "And this… means something?"
He didn't answer right away.
"It might," he said.
I looked down at my cup. "You really think this can work?"
"The project?"
"The partnership. The marriage. This... whatever we're doing."
He hesitated. "You're the first person who's asked me that and actually wanted the truth."
I waited.
"I don't know," he said. "But I want to try."
That was the first honest thing he'd said to me since the fire.
And it scared me.
Because I wanted to try too.
Back at the inn, the sun had dipped low behind the mountains, casting the old beams in soft amber light.
Ash greeted us with a lazy thump of his tail, sprawling in the entryway like the guardian of some ancient, fire-scarred palace.
Eli opened the door to his room, paused, then looked back at me.
"I'll be at the site early tomorrow," he said. "We've got rebar deliveries."
"I know."
"Don't forget the town council meeting at noon."
"I won't."
We stood there, the quiet stretching between us like thread drawn taut between fingers.
Then he said something I wasn't expecting.
"Thanks for not walking out."
I met his eyes.
"Thanks for not giving me a reason to."
He nodded once.
Then he stepped inside and closed the door.
I went to my room, shut the door behind me, and leaned against it, pressing my palms flat to the wood like it might steady me.
It didn't.
I walked to the dresser, took off my blazer, and stared at myself in the mirror.
Married.
Legally.
To Eli Ward.
And not once, during the entire process, had I felt like a bride.
But for a few seconds in the café, at the table, in the way his voice softened when he said he wanted to try I almost felt something close to hope.
And that was worse than anything else.
Because hope meant risk.
And I wasn't sure I had anything left in me to risk again.
Not with Eli.
Not with anyone.
And yet, I sat down at my desk, opened my project notebook, and wrote:
> Day 1 – Married. Technically.
No rings. No vows.
Just hands touching for four seconds.
It's more than I thought.
And already, it's too much.