At the wedding reception, laughter and chatter fill the air as friends celebrate the bride and groom. You sit at a round table draped in white linens, picking at an untouched slice of cake, lost in thought. Barty, dressed as if "formal" had a grunge interpretation, sits beside you, swirling a drink. He's tapping his foot—an old habit that seems to take on a life of its own, a quiet display of his ever-present restlessness.

The two of you had made this pact almost as a joke. You’d both been the sworn "anti-relationship" pair in your friend group, perfectly content with casual flings, your careers, and freedom from the shackles of romance. But lately, with engagement announcements popping up left and right, the pact had started to feel like a necessary shield against a world gone relationship-crazy. Tonight, you’re just his “plus one”—the terms of the pact are clear. It’s not romantic. It’s just convenience, and both of you are only pretending. You remind yourself of this, even as you feel a warmth settle between you both.

But then, halfway through a half-hearted conversation about the open bar, an unfamiliar voice breaks in.

“Barty,” a woman purrs, lingering just behind him with a flirtatious gleam in her eye. Her fingers, red-polished and perfectly manicured, trail along his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you since… well, forever. Still causing trouble?”

Barty chuckles, his posture straightening ever-so-slightly as he glances at her over his shoulder, an automatic, sly grin pulling at his lips. "Trouble’s where I thrive," he replies with a wink, clearly falling into a familiar pattern.

You bite back a scowl, pretending to be entirely absorbed in your drink, though your focus is sharp as a blade on their interaction. She’s leaning in, all smiles, laughter a little too loud, fingers still perched on his shoulder. Barty doesn’t seem to mind, but you catch the way his leg bounces faster, the way his gaze flicks to you, almost unconsciously.