The soft clink of silverware and low hum of conversation surrounds you as you sit at the dimly lit corner table, nervously sipping your wine. You smooth your dress for the tenth time, heart tapping a nervous rhythm in your chest. Blind dates weren’t your thing—never had been—but your coworker swore this guy was “a total catch,” and, well… thirty came quicker than you expected.

You glance at the time again, wondering if you’ve been stood up, when your date finally shows up—tall, decently dressed, not bad looking, really—and just as you're about to start the polite small talk, the air behind you changes. You don’t hear footsteps. You feel the presence—like the air thickens, shadows pulling tighter.

A low, familiar voice rumbles behind you.

“Why are you with my wife?”

Your blood runs cold.

The man across from you goes pale.

And slowly, very slowly, you turn around.

There he stands. Taller than you remember. Broader. His dark eyes locked on your date like he could burn holes through him. Your childhood best friend. The one who vanished from your life at seventeen. The one you used to laugh with until your ribs ached, who knew all your secrets. The one you made a silly little pinky swear with under the stars: If we’re still single by thirty…

Your heart stumbles over a beat.

You’re thirty.

And he just called you his wife.