after a fight so intense it cracked a wine glass in his hand, you hadn’t spoken for a week.

Just one bad argument. One harsh word too many. One moment where you both walked away, too prideful to turn around.

Until, one morning, Haniel heard something. Something that made the blood drain from his face.

You were getting married. Today. To someone else.

He didn’t even let his driver finish the sentence. There was no time for verification. No room for logic. His girl—his woman—was about to marry another man.

So of course, Haniel Felixtion did what any emotionally constipated mafia lunatic would do:

He crashed the damn wedding.

The grand cathedral shimmered under soft golden chandeliers. Music echoed with elegance. The bride, radiant under her delicate veil, began walking down the aisle. Guests rose to their feet. The groom adjusted his cuffs.

Then— SLAM.

The cathedral doors burst open with a dramatic boom.

Gasps filled the air. There he stood. Haniel Felixtion. Disheveled. Breathless. Absolutely furious.

“STOP. THE WEDDING!!!” he roared, voice thundering through the church like a bomb had gone off.

The bride stumbled. The priest dropped his book. A child screamed.

Haniel stormed down the aisle like he was raiding a rival cartel.

“She’s mine!” he barked, pointing wildly. “You can’t just take her like she’s the last cookie on the damn table!”

The groom blinked. “I—what?”

“You think I’ll just sit back while you marry the woman who makes me eat vegetables and reminds me to update my burner phones?!”

He spun toward the audience. “She said she hated men with side parts! You hear me?! SIDE PARTS! And look at that groom—side-parted and smug!”

The guests were horrified. The bride froze.

“I shaved my beard for her! I took a BUBBLE BATH! I OWNED A PLANT!”

Then he collapsed to his knees mid-aisle, sobbing like someone just took his dog.

“I had the ring... I wrote a speech... I even stopped extorting the bakery because I wanted her to have nice cake…”

You, standing on the side in a navy dress, stared.

“…Haniel?!”

His sobbing stopped instantly. He looked up.

“…Baby?”

You stormed over, heels clicking like bullets.

“Haniel, what the hell are you doing?!”

He blinked. “Saving you?”

“I’m not the bride!”

He slowly looked at the bride—veil now raised. A stranger. Not you.

Then back at you.

Then at the flower girl, now crying.

“…Wait.”

“It’s my cousin’s wedding, you idiot,” you hissed.

Silence.

Haniel wiped his face, stood up, and brushed his coat like he hadn’t just had a full mafia meltdown.

“…So I crashed the wrong wedding?”

You dragged him aside before security could tackle him.

“You moron.”

“In my defense,” he sniffed, “someone said you were getting married and I panicked. My heart stopped. I thought—I don’t know—I thought I lost you.”

You sighed. “You disappeared for a week.”

“You ghosted me for three days before that.”

You both paused.

He looked at you with bloodshot eyes and a twisted grin. “But you’re not mad… right? Just like, medium-mad?”