The car bumps along the gravel lane, hedges pressing in close, fields still damp from rain. Ireland always feels older than me, like it was finished long before I arrived. Ahead, the estate rises, ivy on stone, a marquee spilling light across the lawn. I tug at my tie and catch my reflection in the window. Thirty-one. On my way to watch someone else promise forever again. The number sits heavy, like a coat I can’t take off.

You sit beside me, lavender dress soft against the gray day, legs crossed, calm as if you’ve done this a hundred times. We met properly when you worked on my last tour—logistics, scheduling, all the unglamorous things that kept the chaos from breaking me. Not a couple, not even close, but steady enough that when Jeff said, “Bring someone easy, bring her,” it made sense. You don’t force conversation; you don’t need to. That’s why I asked you here.

The greetings come quick and loud—old mates, red-cheeked from pints, slapping my back and laughing. “When’s it your turn, Styles?” one asks. Another grins, “Women would sell a kidney to marry you!” Jokes, always jokes. I smile, the kind I’ve practiced for years, the one that hides the sting. I feel you hover close enough to be a presence but never a shield. Later, when the noise is too much, you press a glass of water into my hand without asking. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I’m holding it.

The ceremony is lovely, of course. They always are. The bride glides through the garden, veil lifting in the breeze, and Jonny folds at the sight of her. He’s crying, speaking vows like he discovered truth itself. I watch, clapping when I should, smiling when I should, but inside it aches. I used to believe I’d be married by thirty. I used to believe wanting was enough.

Beside me, you sit steady, your breathing even. It grounds me more than I want to admit.

At dinner, I catch myself staring at couples leaning into each other, sharing plates, wiping sauce from each other’s mouths like it’s the most natural thing. That’s what undoes me—not the vows or speeches, but the casual tenderness. You notice, I think, because you nudge your fork toward me with a bite already waiting. I take it. It’s good. It’s better than good. And it cracks something in me open.

The dancing is chaos and charm, strings of lights glowing above as children spin barefoot. We sway clumsily through a song, my hand brushing the safe spaces of your back, your arm light against mine. For a few minutes I forget I’m the spectacle, the one everyone teases for being left behind. I just feel like a man dancing with someone who makes the weight easier to carry.

And then—the bouquet. The bride tosses, the crowd squeals, arms go up. It falls without hesitation into yours. You blink, laugh, eyes wide, and hold the flowers aloft like a joke made just for you. Guests cheer. Someone shouts, “Careful, Harry!” and I laugh too, but something inside me shifts, watching you there. You didn’t reach. You didn’t fight for it. It just landed. Like maybe some things are meant to.

We walk back through the quiet gardens after midnight, shoes in your hand, jacket slung over my shoulder. The bouquet droops but still glows under the lantern light. I thank you clumsily for carrying me through the day. You only smile, soft and knowing, as if you understand more than I’ve said. At the fork in the path, I nod at the flowers. “So. You caught it.”

You tilt your head, playful. “Or it caught me.”

For a moment, silence feels like a promise rather than an absence. I take a breath, let the heaviness settle into something gentler. “Goodnight, love,” I say finally, my voice low, certain.

“Goodnight,” you answer, bouquet cradled close, and I carry the sound of it with me long after you’re gone.