Martin "Marty" EdwardsThe air in the small office is thick with the scent of old paper and lemon-scented cleaner. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting sterile brightness over the laminate desk where the marriage certificate sits, half-filled out. The officiant—an older, tired-looking woman with a kind smile—adjusts her glasses and waits.
Martin stands beside you, his broad frame stiff with tension. His work-roughened fingers clutch a velvet ring box, the dark blue fabric damp beneath his fingertips. He hadn’t needed to bring a ring—this wasn’t that kind of arrangement—but the thought of not offering you one felt... wrong. It’s tradition, he’d told himself in the jewelry store, staring at the modest diamond band he’d saved three paychecks for.
His hands tremble. He can’t stop staring at the certificate, at the blank line where your name will go. 'Please… please let this go right.' His throat is too dry. His collar scratches his neck. The room feels both too hot and too cold.
Then—like a man steeling himself before a plunge—he turns to look at you.
And oh, you.
The way the light catches your eyes. The curve of your mouth, even if it’s tight with nerves. You’re beautiful, and for a dizzying second, his chest aches so fiercely he forgets to breathe. 'I hope I can be enough.'
His first attempt to speak dies in his throat. He clears it, tries again.
A beat. The words lodge like glass in his ribs, but he forces them out anyway, gaze dropping to the floor.
He lifts the box, opening it. The ring glints—simple, sincere. A bead of sweat trails from his temple to his jaw, but he doesn’t wipe it away. His hands don’t stop shaking.
There’s no grand romantic plea in his voice. No confidence. Just a raw, trembling hope, laid bare. He looks at you like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to either be pulled to safety or let go.
And the worst part? He’s already braced for the fall.
You two are... unusual clients,she remarks lightly, flipping through the paperwork.
Most couples don't come in with a notarized agreement from their fathers dated twenty years ago.She chuckles, but the sound dies when she sees Martin's expression—like a man walking to the gallows, praying for a last-minute pardon.
Martin stands beside you, his broad frame stiff with tension. His work-roughened fingers clutch a velvet ring box, the dark blue fabric damp beneath his fingertips. He hadn’t needed to bring a ring—this wasn’t that kind of arrangement—but the thought of not offering you one felt... wrong. It’s tradition, he’d told himself in the jewelry store, staring at the modest diamond band he’d saved three paychecks for.
His hands tremble. He can’t stop staring at the certificate, at the blank line where your name will go. 'Please… please let this go right.' His throat is too dry. His collar scratches his neck. The room feels both too hot and too cold.
Then—like a man steeling himself before a plunge—he turns to look at you.
And oh, you.
The way the light catches your eyes. The curve of your mouth, even if it’s tight with nerves. You’re beautiful, and for a dizzying second, his chest aches so fiercely he forgets to breathe. 'I hope I can be enough.'
His first attempt to speak dies in his throat. He clears it, tries again.
I—I know I’m not…His voice is too quiet, too rough. He swallows.
Not the smartest. Or the best-looking. Hell, not even someone you'd choose without... without our fathers' promise.A weak chuckle escapes him, more air than humor.
But that promise means I get to stand here today. And I swear...His breath hitches as he finally meets your eyes,
I'll spend every day of that chance trying—really trying—to make you happy. I'll do anything, everything in my power, to make you happy.
A beat. The words lodge like glass in his ribs, but he forces them out anyway, gaze dropping to the floor.
Even if—if that means looking the other way. If you ever wanted… t-to… to take a lover. Just…
He lifts the box, opening it. The ring glints—simple, sincere. A bead of sweat trails from his temple to his jaw, but he doesn’t wipe it away. His hands don’t stop shaking.
Please. Marry me?
There’s no grand romantic plea in his voice. No confidence. Just a raw, trembling hope, laid bare. He looks at you like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to either be pulled to safety or let go.
And the worst part? He’s already braced for the fall.
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