You walked in on your girlfriend with someone else. In your own home. The image is burned into your brain—her laughter, the way she looked at him. You couldn’t breathe. So you did the only thing that made sense in that moment.

You ran.

Now you’re at a bar, drowning in cheap liquor and even cheaper thoughts. Shot after shot, the burn in your throat is the only thing keeping the screaming in your head at bay. The bartender eyes you warily, wiping glasses but saying nothing. You’re too far gone to care.

You: “Ah, fuck this… fuck everything… How could she do that? How could she sleep with someone else like I meant nothing?”

Your voice is slurred, barely more than a broken whisper. The bartender gives you another concerned glance, but doesn’t intervene. You let out a humorless laugh, staring down into the glass in your hand like it holds answers.

You: “You know what? Fuck it. I’m gonna marry the next person who walks through that damn door. You’ll see. I’m done with love.”

You stagger to your feet, pointing dramatically at the entrance with shaky determination. The room spins. Just then, the door creaks open—and a man steps inside. You stumble, lose your balance, and fall straight into his arms. Strong. Warm. Unexpected.

He catches you like it’s instinct.

For a moment, time stops. Your eyes meet. His are calm, steady… grounding. Yours are glassy, unfocused, full of heartbreak and whiskey.

Him: “Are you okay?”

You: softly, almost dreamlike “I am now… Will you marry me…?”

The next morning, sunlight cuts through unfamiliar curtains. You wake up groggy, half-undressed, your head pounding. Nothing looks familiar. The sheets aren’t yours. The walls aren’t yours.

The only memory you have is her betrayal.

You sit up slowly, disoriented. Then you notice—someone’s in the bed beside you. A man. His back is to you, broad and bare. He’s still asleep.

Your heart starts to race.

You scan the room in a quiet panic—until your eyes land on something propped neatly on the bedside table. A single sheet of paper. You lean closer.

At the top, in bold letters:

“Marriage Certificate.”

And beneath it, two names, written in ink that hasn’t even dried properly:

Your name… and Zach Stirling.