Vesper's POV
"You're flying to California again? That's the third time this week."
Theodora's voice crackles through my phone as I settle into the first-class cabin, the Manhattan skyline shrinking beneath the clouds.
The flight attendant offers champagne I decline with a distracted wave.
"Fourth, actually, if you count the red-eye on Tuesday that turned around due to mechanical issues and required rebooking on Wednesday morning."
I adjust my seatbelt and lean back against the leather.
"Though I suppose that counts as one extended journey rather than two separate attempts at reaching the same destination."
"You're keeping track of technicalities now? The Vesper Armitage I know would have bought the airline by Wednesday afternoon just to ensure reliable service."
"The thought crossed my mind, but Elowen suggested that might be excessive for someone who claims to be learning patience and restraint."
I smile despite myself, and the expression feels foreign on my face after a year of forgetting how.
"She's flying to New York tomorrow, actually. We're meeting for dinner at that Italian place in Tribeca she mentioned during our call last night."
"The one where you proposed the merger with Henderson three years ago?"
"Different Italian place. This one doesn't have traumatic associations with hostile negotiations and shareholder revolts."
Theodora laughs, and the warmth in it carries across three thousand miles of airspace.
"You sound different, Ves. Lighter, somehow, despite the jet lag and the constant commuting and the general chaos of whatever this courtship situation has become."
"It's not a courtship."I pause, reconsidering the accuracy of my own statement.
"Or perhaps it is, though the traditional frameworks don't quite apply when you're rebuilding trust with someone you already know better than anyone else in the world. We're learning each other again, Theodora."
"That sounds exhausting and romantic in equal measure."
"It's terrifying, actually. Every dinner feels like a first date with someone who already knows all my worst qualities. But the distance helps, strangely enough. Every flight is proof that we're both committed to making this work."
The call ends as the plane reaches cruising altitude, and I spend the remaining hours reviewing documents I don't actually process.
My mind keeps drifting to the restaurant in San Francisco where Elowen and I shared breakfast just days ago.
We're circling each other like survivors of the same shipwreck, grateful to be alive but uncertain whether the rescue boat can hold both our weight.
The week passes in a blur of flights and dinners and late-night calls that stretch until dawn.
Elowen's voice becomes my favorite sound—the way it softens when she's tired, the way it sharpens when she's arguing a point she feels strongly about, the way it catches when she tells me she loves me.
On Friday, my phone buzzes with a message that stops my heart.
Meet me in Vegas. Rooftop bar at the Aria, 8 PM tomorrow. Bring Theodora and Sloane.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, processing the implications.
Vegas. A rooftop bar. Our closest friends specifically requested.
I dial her number before rational thought can intervene.
"You got my message."
Her voice carries a smile I can hear across the connection.
"I was wondering how long you'd take to call with questions I'm not going to answer."
"Elowen, what exactly are you planning? Because the combination of Las Vegas and a specific guest list suggests a scenario I want to be certain I'm interpreting correctly before I start making assumptions."
"What scenario would that be, Vesper? I'm curious to hear your analytical breakdown of my invitation."
"You're asking me to marry you."
The silence that follows stretches long enough that I wonder if the call has dropped.
Then Elowen exhales, and I hear the tremor beneath her composure.
"I spent a year watching you through magazine covers, Vesper. I spent twelve months building a life that felt hollow because you weren't in it, convincing myself that sacrifice was the same as love. And now that I have you back, I don't want to waste another minute pretending that patience and propriety matter more than choosing each other while we still can."
"That's not an answer to my question."
"Yes, Vesper."
Her voice cracks on my name, raw and honest and utterly without defense.
"I'm asking you to marry me tomorrow night in Vegas, surrounded by the only people whose opinions actually matter, because I'm done being sensible and I'm done being afraid and I'm done letting anyone else's expectations define what our love is supposed to look like."
I grip the phone so tightly my knuckles ache, and the joy that floods through me is so acute it borders on pain.
"I'll be there by seven," I say. "And Elowen? I'm wearing white. If we're doing this, we're doing it properly."
***
The rooftop bar glitters beneath the desert stars, the Vegas strip sprawling below us like a river of light.
Theodora and Sloane stand near the railing, champagne glasses in hand, their expressions cycling between disbelief and delight.
Elowen waits by the officiant in a cream silk dress that catches the wind, her hair loose around her shoulders the way I've always loved it.
She looks like a dream I never let myself have, and when our eyes meet across the rooftop, the rest of the world dissolves into background noise.
"You came," she says as I approach.
"I will always come, Elowen. Across any distance, through any obstacle, for as long as you keep asking me to show up."
I take her hands in mine, feeling the familiar warmth of her fingers lacing through my own.
"Though I reserve the right to complain about the flight schedules afterward, because cross-country commuting has given me strong opinions about airline efficiency."
She laughs, and the sound rings across the rooftop like bells.
"You can buy the airline next week if it makes you feel better. Tonight, I just need you to say yes."
"Yes."
The word emerges without hesitation, without calculation, without any of the careful strategizing that has defined my entire adult life.
"Yes, Elowen. A thousand times yes, and every yes after that until we run out of days to keep choosing each other."
The ceremony is brief and perfect. We exchange vows that are more promise than poetry, words that matter because we mean them rather than because they sound impressive.
Theodora cries. Sloane pretends she isn't crying. The officiant pronounces us married, and when Elowen kisses me beneath the desert stars, I finally understand what it means to come home.
Afterward, we pose for a photograph—her arm around my waist, my hand clasping hers, both of us grinning like fools who've just gotten away with the heist of a lifetime. The caption writes itself.
She said yes. Actually, we both said yes. Details to follow, but the important part is this: love wins.
I post it to Instagram before either of us can reconsider, and Elowen watches the notifications begin to flood in with quiet satisfaction.
"By morning, the whole world will know," she murmurs against my shoulder.
"Let them know."
I pull her closer, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with champagne and desert air.
"I'm done pretending that loving you is anything other than the best decision I've ever made, Elowen."
She tilts her face up to mine, and her smile carries the weight of everything we've survived and everything we're about to build.
"Then let's give them a story worth telling."