Sophie’s POV
The wedding favors are ready for pickup across town—custom engraved compass keepsakes, each one etched with our initials and wedding date.
Adrian insisted on them as a last-minute addition, something about "finding your way home to love." At the time, I thought it was sweet. Now, driving across town to pick them up, the symbolism feels heavy and complicated.
Adrian is stuck in a meeting with the officiant, finalizing ceremony details. The shop closes early on weekends, and we need these favors by Monday for the final table setup.
Which is how I end up in Bellamy's car, just the two of us, heading to an unfamiliar part of town.
"Noah must be so excited about his suit by now," I say, filling the silence as we merge onto the highway. Small talk feels safer than silence. "Last time I saw him, he kept asking if he'd match you."
A slight smile touches Bellamy's lips. "He does: navy blue, clip-on tie, the works. He's convinced he's going to be the 'best big boy' at the wedding."
"He will be," I say, and something warm spreads through my chest thinking about Noah in his little suit. "Amelia won't care about any of it, obviously. She'll probably sleep through the whole ceremony."
"She's been sleeping better?"
"Finally. Four-hour stretches now instead of two. It's life-changing."
We fall into easier conversation—the safe territory of child milestones and parenting challenges.
Bellamy tells me about Noah's latest obsession with construction vehicles. I share Amelia's new habit of grabbing everything within reach. It's comfortable, familiar, the kind of talk we've had dozens of times before.
Until we arrive at the shop and everything shifts.
The vendor—a harried-looking man in his sixties—greets us with barely concealed stress. "You're the Lewis wedding?"
"Yes," I confirm. "Here to pick up the compass favors."
"Right. There's been a... situation."
He gestures to the back room where I can see stacks of boxes.
"Your order got combined with another event's shipment. It's twice the size you expected. I'm so sorry, I'm here alone today and I've got three other pickups scheduled…"
"It's fine," Bellamy interrupts smoothly. "We can load it ourselves. Just point us to the boxes."
What follows is a series of trips to the car, working in synchronized silence.
The boxes are heavier than expected, awkwardly sized. Bellamy takes the heavier ones without comment. I grab what I can manage. Back and forth, wordless efficiency, both of us focused on the task.
On the final load, we reach for the same box simultaneously. Our hands collide—his fingers brushing mine, warm and solid and sending electricity straight through my nervous system.
We both freeze.
Neither of us pulls away immediately. The contact lasts maybe three seconds, maybe three hours—time does something strange. I look up and find Bellamy already looking at me, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes betraying everything.
Want, restraint and frustration. The same complicated mess of feelings I'm drowning in.
My breath catches. I should step back. Should make a joke about the timing. Should do anything except stand here with our hands touching, the air between us crackling with everything we're not saying.
"Bellamy…" His name comes out barely above a whisper.
He cuts me off, his voice quiet but firm. "Don't." Not angry, just careful. Protecting both of us from whatever I was about to say. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. We both know where that leads."
He's right. We both know. This moment, this tension, this thing between us that keeps growing despite every attempt to contain it—we know exactly where it leads, and neither of us can afford to go there.
I nod, force myself to step back, to break the contact. Grab the box with both hands, focusing on the weight of it, the physical reality of cardboard and compass keepsakes instead of the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin.
We load the final box in silence. Close the trunk and thank the vendor. Get back in the car.
The drive home is thick with unspoken words. Every minute stretches, heavy with everything neither of us is saying.
I keep my eyes fixed on the passing scenery, hyperaware of every shift in the car, every breath, the small space between us that feels simultaneously too close and impossibly distant.
At one point, Bellamy's hand rests on the gear shift between us. I stare at it without meaning to—his fingers, the way they grip the leather, the tension in his knuckles.
I remember those hands on my wrists, pressing me against the wall in my bedroom. Remember them steadying me during my pregnancy, protecting me, never asking for anything in return but always present, always solid.
My own hands twist together in my lap, clasped so tightly my knuckles go white. The space between us might as well be an ocean. Might as well be nothing at all.
When we arrive home, Adrian's car is already in the driveway. He must have finished his meeting early. Bellamy pulls in smoothly, puts the car in park, and the spell breaks—we're back to reality, back to appropriate boundaries, back to the roles we're supposed to play.
Adrian emerges from the house as we're opening the trunk, his face lighting up with cheerful energy. "Perfect timing! Let me help."
He's oblivious—completely, blissfully unaware of the tension that's been suffocating us for the past twenty minutes.
He thanks Bellamy effusively for helping me, kisses me hello with casual possession, starts unpacking boxes to examine the favors.
"These turned out great," Adrian says, holding up one of the compasses. The metal catches the afternoon light, our initials gleaming. "Finding your way home to love. Perfect symbolism, right?"
I watch him handle the small tokens, turning them over in his hands with satisfaction, and guilt crashes over me like a wave.
Here's my fiancé, excited about our wedding favors, planning our future, and all I can think about is the man standing three feet away. The way his hand felt against mine. How close I came to saying something I can't take back.
"They're perfect," I manage, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears.
Bellamy makes his excuses quickly—Noah needs to be picked up from his playdate, security reports to file.
Adrian barely notices him leaving, too focused on organizing the favors into boxes for Monday's table setup. I watch Bellamy walk to his car, get in, drive away without looking back.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. Dinner with Adrian. Bath time with Amelia. Wedding-related phone calls and final confirmations. Normal life, normal routine, everything exactly as it should be.
But that night, lying in bed with Adrian's arm heavy around me, I can't stop thinking about Bellamy's hand on the gear shift.
How close I came to reaching for it. How badly part of me wanted to close that small space between us, consequences be damned.
Eight days until the wedding. Eight days to get my heart in line with the choice I've already made. Eight days to stop wanting something I can't have.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I can feel is the ghost of his fingers against mine, the electricity of that brief contact, the weight of everything we're not saying.
Eight more days.