Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 202

Sophie’s POV

The church is more beautiful than I expected for a rehearsal.

Someone, probably the wedding coordinator, has already set up sample arrangements: white roses and peonies on pedestals flanking the altar, soft lighting that makes the stained glass windows glow, everything elegant and ready even though the real ceremony is still six days away.

I arrive with Cleo, both of us slightly breathless from rushing across town through traffic. Adrian is already here, standing near the altar talking with the officiant—a kind-faced woman in her fifties who's been incredibly patient with all our last-minute changes.

Eleanor sits in the front pew holding Amelia, who's dressed in a tiny white outfit like she knows this is important. And in the back, positioned discreetly near the door, Bellamy stands with professional invisibility.

I feel his presence immediately even though I'm not looking at him. It's like a magnetic pull I've learned to recognize and ignore in equal measure.

"Sorry we're late," I say, approaching Adrian and the officiant. "Traffic was terrible."

"You're right on time," the officiant assures me with a warm smile. "We're just getting started. Shall we walk through the ceremony beats?"

What follows should feel routine, mechanical—just a practice run, blocking out movements and timing.

But standing at the altar across from Adrian while the officiant explains processional timing, where to stand, when to exchange rings, where the vow cards will be placed—my heart races with the reality of it.

This is real. In six days, we'll be standing in this exact spot, speaking these exact words, making these promises in front of everyone who matters. The rehearsal suddenly feels less like practice and more like a preview of a future I can't quite believe is actually happening.

"Now, when you reach this point in the ceremony, you'll face each other and join hands," the officiant instructs.

Adrian reaches for my hands, and I notice immediately that his palms are sweating slightly. He's nervous. Actually nervous.

The realization steadies something in me—we're both terrified, both stepping into this unknown together. Neither of us has done this before. Neither of us knows if we're going to be good at it.

But we're jumping off this cliff together, and somehow that makes it less frightening.

"You'll exchange your personal vows here," the officiant continues. "Then the ring exchange, then the pronouncement, then…" She smiles knowingly. "Well, we'll get to that part."

Cleo practices walking down the aisle as maid of honor, her heels clicking on the stone floor. Halfway down she wobbles slightly and makes an exaggerated face.

"I promise not to trip on the actual day," she calls out, and everyone laughs. The tension breaks, and suddenly this feels less like a solemn ritual and more like what it should be—a celebration with people we love.

"Now let's practice the recessional," the officiant says. "After you're pronounced husband and wife, you'll walk back down the aisle together. Adrian, you'll offer your arm like this."

It's just a rehearsal. Just blocking. Just making sure we know where to stand and when to move. But when Adrian tucks my hand into his elbow and we walk together down that aisle, something shifts inside me.

This is happening. We're really doing this. In six days I'll walk this same path as Mrs. Lewis, legally bound to this man, promising forever in front of God and everyone we know.

The weight of it should terrify me. Instead, I feel something settle into place—like a decision I've been wrestling with has finally been made, not by my head but by something deeper.

We reach the back of the church and the officiant claps her hands together. "Perfect! You're naturals. Now, let's run through it one more time from the top, just to make sure everyone's comfortable with timing."

During the break while the officiant consults her notes, I glance around the church. My eyes find Bellamy's across the space—he's still positioned near the back, watching with an expression I can't quite read.

Something between support and sadness, like he's witnessing something beautiful and painful simultaneously.

Our gazes hold for just a moment. I see everything he's not saying written in his eyes—goodbye, congratulations, I wish things were different, I hope you're happy. All of it compressed into one look that makes my chest tight.

I force myself to look away first, back to Adrian who's now talking with Eleanor and bouncing Amelia gently. My daughter, my fiancé, the life I'm building. Real, tangible, right in front of me.

"Alright everyone, one more run through," the officiant calls. "And this time, let's practice the kiss. Just so you know where to stand, how to angle, all those little details that help the moment feel natural."

We take our positions again. Walk through the ceremony beats. The officiant delivers her lines about love and commitment and choosing each other daily. Then she reaches the crucial moment.

"You may now kiss your bride."

Adrian grins—that specific smile that's all mischief and intensity combined.

He pulls me close and kisses me thoroughly, deeply, nothing rehearsal-like about it. His hands frame my face, his mouth claiming mine with an enthusiasm that makes everyone laugh and a few people whistle.

When we break apart, I'm breathless and smiling despite myself.

He's looking at me with such raw happiness, such genuine excitement about marrying me, that I feel something loosen in my chest—all the doubts and complications and confusing feelings that have been weighing on me for weeks.

This is why. The way he looks at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted. The intensity of his focus, the completeness of his commitment. The way he loves me without reservation, without holding back, giving everything even when it terrifies him.

I fell for this man three years ago when he challenged me to be smarter, work harder, think deeper. I fell for his brilliance and his darkness and his unexpected moments of vulnerability.

And standing here in this church, practicing our wedding, I remember why I said yes when he asked me to marry him.

The rehearsal ends with final instructions and reassurances. The coordinator confirms timeline details. Eleanor hugs us both, tears in her eyes. Cleo squeezes my hand and whispers that I'm going to be a beautiful bride.

Everyone begins filtering out—the officiant to her car, Eleanor with Amelia to get her home for bedtime, Cleo after extracting promises that I'll text her later. Until it's just Adrian and me lingering in the empty church, neither of us quite ready to leave yet.

"Are you ready?" he asks quietly, taking my hand.

I look around—at the altar where we'll stand in six days, at the aisle I'll walk down in my dress, at the space that will hold all our promises and witnessed by everyone we love.

The stained glass windows glow in the late afternoon light. The sample flower arrangements fill the air with a subtle fragrance. Everything is beautiful and ready and waiting for us.

"Yes," I answer, and my voice is steady, certain. "I'm ready."

I mean it. Whatever doubts I've had—and there have been many—whatever complicated feelings exist with Bellamy, whatever fears lurk about Adrian's secrets or my own uncertainties about graduate school or being a good mother while pursuing my career…

In this moment, standing in the church where I'll become his wife, I'm sure.

This is my choice. Adrian is my choice. This life, this family, this future we're building together—I'm choosing it freely and completely.

Adrian pulls me close, resting his forehead against mine. "Six more days," he murmurs.

"Six more days," I echo.

And for the first time in weeks, the countdown doesn't feel heavy with doubt. It feels like anticipation. Like excitement. Like the beginning of something I actually want rather than something I'm forcing myself to want.

We walk out of the church hand-in-hand, and I don't look back to see if Bellamy's car is still in the parking lot. Don't check to see if he watched us linger, if he saw this moment of certainty between Adrian and me.

Six more days until I become Mrs. Lewis.