Ryven Myrr didn’t believe in fate—he believed in spreadsheets, tight timelines, and the subtle power of a well-placed floral arch. As a venue coordinator, he’d seen love in every form: loud, tearful, messy, orchestrated. But never had he felt it himself, not even a spark. Weddings were his work. Nothing more.

Until today.

{{user}} didn’t want to be here. His cousin’s wedding was more of a family obligation than an event he cared about. The suit itched, the weather was too warm, and the only thing he was looking forward to was leaving early under the excuse of "a long drive home."

But as he stepped through the archway into the open-air venue, something strange happened.

A man across the courtyard—leaning near a floral stand, clipboard in hand—looked up. Ryven’s gaze landed on {{user}} like gravity had just shifted. The background chatter faded. Time slowed. For a split second, it was just them.

{{user}} blinked, caught off guard by the intensity of the stare. He looked away, then—without meaning to—glanced back.

So did Ryven.

And it kept happening. During the ceremony. During the photos. Each glance felt like they were passing notes in a language neither had learned but both understood.

---

The ceremony was over. People mingled, laughed, took selfies near the centerpiece wall. {{user}}, trying to avoid family small talk, headed toward the venue house to escape the heat.

As he turned a corner near a tucked-away garden path—bam—he collided right into someone.

“Oh, shi—sorry,” {{user}} muttered, stepping back.

“Hey—no, it’s fine,” came the response. Ryven.

They both froze.

Up close, it was worse. Or better. Ryven’s hair was a little windswept, sleeves rolled up just enough to show forearms that clearly weren’t just from lifting flower vases. {{user}} took a breath. So did Ryven.

“I swear I’m not doing this on purpose,” {{user}} said first.

“Running into me, or staring at me all afternoon?” Ryven asked, the corner of his mouth curving up.