Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
The morning of the wedding, Bash woke up alone.
They’d stayed at separate places the night before—tradition, Margot insisted. Ivy was at Margot’s apartment. Bash was at the house they now shared.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought: Today I marry Ivy Sinclair.
The thought made him smile. Then panic. Then smile again.
His phone buzzed.
Ivy: I can’t sleep. Too excited.
Bash: Same. Want to break tradition and meet for coffee?
Ivy: Margot says no. Something about bad luck.
Bash: Since when do we care about bad luck?
Ivy: Since she threatened to murder us if we ruin her perfect wedding timeline.
Bash: Fair. See you at the altar?
Ivy: See you at the altar. Don’t be late.
Bash: I would never.
Ivy: I love you.
Bash: I love you too. So much.
The ceremony was at 4 PM in the town square.
They’d set up a simple arch decorated with flowers from Mrs. Fletcher’s garden. Chairs for a hundred guests. String lights (Mrs. Fletcher had won that battle) for when the sun set.
Bash arrived early, dressed in a navy suit that Ivy had helped him pick out. Leo stood beside him as best man, looking nervous.
“You good, Chef?” Leo asked.
“I’m perfect.”
“Not having second thoughts?”
“Not even first thoughts. This is right.”
The guests arrived. The town had shown up in force. Mrs. Fletcher in the front row, already crying. Mayor Whitmore ready to officiate. Margot as maid of honor, looking smug that everything was going according to plan.
The music started.
And Ivy appeared.
Bash’s breath caught.
She was wearing a simple white dress—tea-length, lace sleeves, vintage style that was so perfectly her it hurt. Her red curls were half-up, flowers woven through. She was glowing.
She walked down the aisle alone—no father to give her away, but she didn’t need one. She was giving herself. Choosing this. Choosing him.
When she reached the altar, she was crying happy tears.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi,” Bash whispered back. “You’re beautiful.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
Mayor Whitmore cleared her throat. “Shall we begin?”
The ceremony was short and sweet. Mayor Whitmore spoke about love and partnership and the journey they’d watched Bash and Ivy take—from enemies to friends to partners to this.
Then it was time for vows.
Bash went first. He’d written them down but put the paper in his pocket. He wanted to say this from his heart.
“Ivy,” he began, voice rough with emotion. “Two years ago, you moved in next door and disrupted my entire life. You were too loud. Too cheerful. Too bright. And I tried so hard to hate you. But you didn’t let me. You knocked down every wall I built. You saw through every defense. You loved me when I was grumpy and difficult and convinced I didn’t deserve it.”
Ivy was crying openly now.
“You taught me that joy isn’t weakness. That softness is strength. That success means nothing without someone to share it with. You made me want to be better. Kinder. Braver. You made me want a life beyond my kitchen. And I promise you—today and every day forward—I will choose you. I will show up. I will love you through the grumpy mornings and the stressful dinner services and the moments when we both want to give up. I will be your partner in everything. Your equal. Your home. I love you, Ivy Sinclair. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life proving it.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the square.
Ivy took a shaky breath. “Bash, I wrote vows. They’re in Margot’s purse. But looking at you now, I just want to say this: You’re my home. You’ve always been my home, even when we were fighting about parking spots. You see me—really see me—and you never asked me to be anything other than exactly who I am. You make me feel safe and valued and loved in ways I never thought possible.”
She took his hands.
“I promise to sing terrible pop music at 5 AM just to make you smile. I promise to stress-bake when you’re spiraling and remind you that you’re enough. I promise to be your partner in every adventure, every challenge, every moment of joy and sorrow. I choose you, Sebastian Moreau. Today and always. You’re my person. My love. My perfectly grumpy, secretly soft, absolutely wonderful husband-to-be.”
Bash was crying too now.
Mayor Whitmore was crying.
Pretty much everyone was crying.
“The rings?” Mayor Whitmore managed.
Leo handed over Ivy’s wedding band. Margot handed over Bash’s.
They exchanged rings, hands shaking, eyes locked on each other.
“By the power vested in me by the state and the town of Willowbrook,” Mayor Whitmore said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Bash, you may kiss your bride.”
He did.
Soft and sure and full of promise. The square erupted in applause.
When they broke apart, both grinning through tears, Mayor Whitmore presented them to the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Moreau!”
The applause was deafening.
The reception was at their house.
They’d set up the backyard with tables and lights and a dance floor. The food was incredible—of course. A collaboration between their teams, every dish perfect.
Bash and Ivy made the rounds, greeting guests, accepting congratulations, soaking in the joy.
“How does it feel?” Margot asked. “Being married?”
“The same,” Ivy said. “But also completely different. Like everything clicked into place.”
“You two are adorable. I’m going to get drunk and cry about it.”
“Please do.”
The speeches were heartfelt. Leo talked about watching Bash transform from grumpy chef to happy husband. Margot told embarrassing stories about Ivy’s early crush. Mrs. Fletcher gave unsolicited marriage advice that somehow wasn’t terrible.
Then it was time for the first dance.
Bash led Ivy to the dance floor. The DJ (they’d won that battle) started playing their song—ironically, a Taylor Swift ballad that Bash now admitted he loved.
“You’re dancing to Taylor Swift at our wedding,” Ivy said, grinning.
“I’m dancing to whatever makes you happy.”
“You’ve gone soft.”
“Completely. It’s your fault.”
They swayed together, and Bash thought: This. This is everything.
Not the Michelin star. Not the reviews. Not the success or the acclaim.
This woman in his arms. This life they’d built. This love that felt bigger than anything he’d ever imagined.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For saying yes. For choosing me. For building this life with me.”
“Thank you for being brave enough to let me in.”
They kissed, and their guests cheered.
The party continued late into the night. Dancing and laughter and joy.
And when it was finally over and everyone had left, Bash and Ivy stood in their backyard, looking at the remnants of the celebration.
“We’re married,” Ivy said.
“We are.”
“How does it feel?”
“Perfect,” Bash said honestly. “Absolutely perfect.”
They went inside, and Ivy noticed something on the kitchen counter. A small box with a note.
For your first breakfast as husband and wife. – Mrs. Fletcher
Inside: a jar of her homemade jam and a loaf of fresh bread.
Ivy started crying again. “This town.”
“I know.”
“I love it here.”
“Me too.”
They went to bed, exhausted and happy, and Bash thought: I’m married to my best friend.
Life didn’t get better than this.
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