The pounding in your head came first. Then the dry mouth. Then—well—his arm draped across your waist.

You blinked your eyes open slowly, one at a time. The unfamiliar ceiling. The too-clean hotel room. The distinct smell of stale vodka and… was that strawberries?

And then—

“Oh my God,” you whispered, sitting up too fast, the sheets falling, “Is this a wedding ring?”

Beside you, Damiano groaned, squinting up at the ceiling like it had personally offended him. His hair was a mess, eyeliner smudged beneath his lashes, and his voice came out like gravel and sin. “Can you turn the sun down?”

You shoved his shoulder. “Damiano. Focus. What the hell did we do last night?”

He blinked once. Then twice. Then his gaze dropped to your hand. His own lifted. Matching rings. Shiny. New.

“...Shlt.”

Your heart was beating too fast, and you were pretty sure you were going to be sick. Or scream. Or both.

He sat up with a wince. “Okay, okay, let’s not panic.”

“You married me,” you hissed.

“You married me,” he countered, then cracked a half-smile. “...So, technically, we’re both idiots.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“Do you remember anything?” you asked.

He was quiet for a second. Then: “Just... tequila. And you saying something about not believing in love but still believing in accidents.”

You let out a breath. Laughed—just barely.

And then his voice, softer, almost careful. “Do you... want to undo it?”