Photo session

The photographer led them to the garden courtyard where late afternoon sunlight filtered through oak trees, casting dappled shadows across manicured hedges. Paul felt the heat on his bare shoulders, the weight of the dress's train dragging behind him like an anchor made of silk and lace.

"Beautiful! Now, Gerry, pull her close. Jackie, tilt your head toward him—yes, just like that."

Paul tilted, angle perfect, chin lifted to catch the light. His hand rested naturally on Gerry's chest, fingers splayed against the lapel of his tuxedo. He felt Gerry's heartbeat beneath his palm, rapid and unsteady.

"Smile for me, Jackie. Think about the honeymoon!"

Paul's smile came easily—bright, mischievous, full of promise. He let his eyes drift to Gerry's mouth, lingering there just long enough to make it deliberate. Gerry's breath hitched. His arm tightened around Paul's waist, pulling him closer until their bodies pressed together, hip to hip.

The camera clicked. Once. Twice. A dozen times.

"Perfect chemistry, you two! Now, Gerry, dip her."

Gerry hesitated. His eyes searched Paul's face, silently asking permission. Paul raised an eyebrow—go ahead—and let himself fall backward, trusting Gerry's strength to hold him. The world tilted. Paul's hair spilled toward the ground, his back arched, dress pooling around them. Gerry's face hovered above his, close enough that Paul could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes.

For a suspended moment, neither moved. The photographer kept snapping, oblivious to the tension crackling between them.

"Kiss her," the photographer called.

Gerry's jaw tightened. His grip on Paul shifted—one hand cradling his back, the other sliding to cup the nape of his neck. Paul's pulse quickened. He parted his lips slightly, unconsciously, and watched Gerry's gaze drop to his mouth.

Then Gerry leaned down and kissed him.

It was different from the altar kiss. Slower. Searching. Gerry's lips moved against Paul's with careful precision, like he was trying to decode something hidden beneath the surface. Paul responded instinctively, tilting his head to deepen the angle, letting Gerry lead while his own body hummed with unfamiliar warmth.

The camera kept clicking. The photographer kept cooing encouragement. Neither of them heard it.

When Gerry pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "Paul," he whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Paul's smile sharpened. "Mrs. Carver," he corrected, voice low and teasing.

Gerry's expression twisted—guilt, desire, confusion—before he schooled it back to neutral. He pulled Paul upright, steadying him as the photographer moved to adjust the lighting.

"You're good at this," Gerry muttered.

"At what? Being your wife?" Paul smoothed his dress, checking that everything sat properly. "I'm a quick study. You know that."

"That's what worries me."

Paul glanced at him sideways, catching the tension in Gerry's shoulders, the way he kept clenching and unclenching his fists. "Relax. We're selling a fantasy here. Might as well make it convincing."

"It's too convincing."

"Is it?" Paul stepped closer, voice dropping to an intimate murmur only Gerry could hear. "Or are you just realizing that bodies matter more than you thought?"

Gerry's jaw worked. "Don't."

"Don't what? Point out that you're attracted to this?" Paul gestured to himself—to Jackie's body, to the dress, to the whole elaborate construction. "That when you kissed me just now, you weren't thinking about consciousness or souls or anything philosophical. You were just feeling."

"Stop."

"Make me."

The photographer clapped her hands. "Alright, lovebirds! Let's get the bridal party in here. Jackie, you stay right where you are. Gerry, we need you with your groomsmen for a few shots."

Gerry stepped back, breaking the moment. His expression shuttered, unreadable. "We'll talk later."

"Looking forward to it," Paul said sweetly, and turned to pose for the next set of photographs.

________________________________________

The bridal party shots dragged on. Paul stood among Jackie's bridesmaids—Amanda, Sarah, Jen—all of them giggling and fussing over "Jackie's" dress, touching up makeup, adjusting the veil. Paul played along, laughing at their jokes, offering quips that landed just right. He'd spent enough time around them at dinners and parties to mimic Jackie's dynamics with each one.

But his attention kept drifting to the groomsmen on the other side of the courtyard. To Jackie, specifically, standing rigid in Paul's body, looking profoundly uncomfortable in the rented tux. Their eyes met across the distance. Jackie's expression was raw—pleading, broken, desperate.

Paul looked away first.

Amanda looped her arm through his. "You okay, babe? You seem distracted."

"Just overwhelmed," Paul said, channeling Jackie's tendency to deflect with vulnerability. "It's a lot, you know? Everything happening so fast."

"I bet," Sarah chimed in. "But you look amazing. Seriously. I've never seen you more radiant."

Radiant. Paul turned the word over in his mind. Yes. That's exactly what he felt. Not anxious or frightened or lost—radiant. Like he was finally visible in a way he'd never been before. Like every eye in this courtyard was drawn to him not because of his charm or wit, but because of what he was: the bride. The center. The sun around which everything else orbited.

"Thanks," Paul said softly, and meant it.