Chapter Text
The off-season sun poured through the wide bay windows of their townhouse just outside DC — a charming, ivy-clad row home they’d picked together in a rush of hope, optimism, and Jean’s obsessive Zillow scrolling. The hardwood floors were covered with open binders and color swatches. There were dresses on racks, mood boards leaned against the walls, and a massive wedding planning spreadsheet projected onto their living room TV.
In the middle of it all, Jean sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair in a messy bun, sports bra and shorts, tossing Jordan almonds into a bowl like she was training for the three-point contest.
She scowled at the spreadsheet.
“Second,” she muttered. “Second place. Rookie of the year.”
Emma, perched on the couch in one of her effortlessly elegant silk robes, sipped an oat milk latte and didn’t even look up from her iPad. “Still on that?”
Jean pointed at the TV. “I averaged 14.3 points per game. Led all rookies in defensive rating since the All-Star break. I was robbed.”
Emma finally glanced down, one perfectly sculpted brow lifting. “You’re also the youngest starter in the conference. Your team gave you a four-year extension, and you’re literally planning a wedding with a Congresswoman. But yes, by all means, sulk harder.”
Jean narrowed her eyes. “You’re not helping.”
Emma smirked. “I’m trying to decide if we want silver or pearl napkin rings. You’ll forgive me if I don’t organize a protest rally over a rookie award.”
Jean chucked an almond at her. Emma caught it midair, chewed once, and returned her attention to the tablet.
“Anyway,” Emma said smoothly, “I’m very proud of you. My little All-Defense starter.”
Jean’s scowl broke into a grin. “You’re such a menace.”
“And you love me for it.”
“I do,” Jean said, more softly this time, standing and walking over. She flopped onto the couch, draping her legs across Emma’s lap and letting her forehead rest against Emma’s temple. “I really do.”
Emma reached for her hand, lacing their fingers. “So. Big question.”
Jean looked up.
“Live band? Or DJ?”
Jean blinked. “That’s the big question?”
“For today, yes. Tomorrow we argue about signature cocktails. And Thursday we have a floral consultation.”
“Okay, well… DJ. But only if they let me do the Wobble.”
Emma groaned. “You are not doing the Wobble at our wedding.”
Jean kissed her cheek. “Try and stop me.”
They were quiet for a moment, watching the planning screen scroll slowly through RSVP tabs and seating charts. Jean reached out and moved one of the sticky notes with her toe. It read: Final fitting. Emma. Vera Wang.
“You’re really doing this with me,” Jean said suddenly.
Emma turned to her. “What?”
Jean’s voice was softer now. “All of it. The games. The injuries. The travel. Now the wedding. You never even blinked.”
Emma smiled. “I blinked a little. But only when you told me you wanted your cousin with the ukulele to sing during the vows.”
Jean snorted.
“Jean,” Emma said, voice quieter now. “There was never a version of this where I wouldn’t do it with you.”
Jean looked at her, eyes soft.
“And you know what’s wild?” Emma continued, brushing a stray strand of red hair from Jean’s cheek. “I stood in the Capitol rotunda last week giving a floor speech about affordable housing, and you know what I was thinking the whole time?”
Jean shook her head.
“That in three months, I get to walk down the aisle and marry you. And that’s the only podium I’ve ever really cared about.”
Jean blinked fast. “You’re not allowed to make me cry before the makeup trial.”
Emma kissed her knuckles. “Too late.”
Jean buried her face into her fiancée’s neck. “Emma Grace Frost,” she whispered, “you better promise not to run for president until after our honeymoon.”
Emma laughed. “Deal.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, soft jazz playing in the background, wedding planner emails pinging quietly in the inbox neither of them was checking.
Then Jean perked up.
“Wait. Do we have a guest list count yet?”
“162,” Emma said without missing a beat.
“Is that with or without my teammates?”
“With. But only three plus-ones. Your agent RSVP’d no.”
Jean sighed. “Thank god.”
Emma leaned in, kissed her shoulder, and whispered, “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”
Jean grinned.
“I better be,” she said. “Or I’m blaming my second-place trauma.”
Emma just rolled her eyes, kissed her again, and pressed play on their wedding playlist draft — and together, they melted into a love that was louder than any arena, softer than any silk, and stronger than any missed trophy.