The sun held too long above the water, like it hadn’t decided whether to bless or expose them. The ceremony was simple, intimate. Thirty years deserved no less, Claire had said. Barefoot on the grass behind the house, the ocean behind her, she looked like a woman who had everything she wanted. Maybe she did.

Tom stood beside her, his hands loose at his sides, his tie abandoned hours ago. He hadn’t wanted the ceremony, but he had agreed. That had been his pattern for years-let things happen, say yes softly, disappear inside the decisions of others. Today was different.

To the left of the white folding chairs, their friends formed a casual semicircle. Beth, already misty-eyed. Mark, chewing a mint like it was a small burden. Lucas and Julian, hands loosely linked, too observant to pretend this felt normal. The officiant read from a small, leather-bound book Claire had chosen because it felt both vintage and coastal. Her sense of style had always been frustratingly good.

She spoke first. Clear, warm, unrehearsed. She didn’t read from a card. She didn’t need to.

"Tom," she said, "you are the calm to my current. The anchor that keeps me from chasing every wave, and the quiet I never knew I needed until you gave it. I chose you then. I choose you now. And I will keep choosing you, no matter where the tide pulls."

Everyone sighed. Even Julian, who hated vow renewals.

Tom was supposed to speak next.

He looked at Claire. Not at her eyes. At the space between her collarbone and her shoulder, where she always freckled in the sun. He had loved her once. Or maybe he still did. But not in the way that mattered anymore. Not in the way she wanted. He had rehearsed a speech. He had chosen his words. And last night, he had told Beth and Lucas. He was going to say no.

Not in those words. But in the way that would matter. He was going to end it.

He opened his mouth.

A sound like thunder cracked across the lawn.

Gasps. Shouts. Julian ducked. Beth grabbed Mark’s arm. Claire turned, already moving toward the source.

The barn. The new one.

The one with the glass kiln.

The one she had poured her savings into. The one she had installed herself with Nate’s help. The one that now bloomed into flame, a rising orange fist punching through the cedar roof.

Claire broke into a run.

Tom didn’t follow.

The guests scattered. The officiant dropped the book. Someone called 911.

Tom stood still, the unfinished vow like smoke in his mouth. Not yes. Not no. Just a space that held both.

The flames reflected in his eyes, and no one remembered what he had been about to say.

Three months later, five of them landed under a different kind of sun.