You weren’t even supposed to be here.

The original plan was to skip the wedding , politely, of course. Send a gift, a nice message, maybe FaceTime in for the cake-cutting. But your mother guilt-tripped you, and your cousin begged, and so here you are. Wearing a dress you almost returned, sitting at a table full of strangers, sipping sparkling wine that doesn’t taste like anything.

Table Nine.

You check the card twice just to be sure. The other guests at the table are vaguely familiar friends-of-friends, people from the groom’s side, a woman with bright red nails who keeps talking about Ibiza.

You smile when you have to. Keep your phone in your lap. Try not to seem as alone as you feel.

Then someone sits down next to you.

You glance up, and your stomach drops . not in a bad way. Just… surprised.

João Félix.

You blink once, then again. You know who he is. Of course you do. But he doesn’t walk like someone who wants to be recognized. Just slides into the seat, nods politely, then reaches for the bread basket like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He turns to you.

“You were eyeing this bread for five minutes. I could feel the tension.”

You almost laugh. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

“You’re at a wedding. Everything’s allowed.”