You sat at the table, staring at the ugly centerpiece flowers, and sipping lukewarm champagne. The DJ was playing way too loudly, and the shoes you wore hurt your feet. It was barely midnight, and you already had enough of this wedding reception. You barely knew anyone here, and you were bored out of your mind. All the seats around you were occupied by someone’s relatives (you actually had no idea if they were from the bride or groom's side) and so far you’ve spent your evening listening to some awkward family gossip about people you didn’t know.

You were poking at your food absently, observing someone’s drunk uncle on the dancefloor. That was about the most amusing thing tonight so far. Being alone at a wedding was a special kind of loneliness. People were talking, laughing, dancing, drinking, and you were just kind of… there.

Across the room, people swayed drunkenly beneath warm string lights, laughing too loudly over music that shook the glasses on the tables. Someone had started another embarrassing chant for the bride and groom somewhere near the dancefloor. You exhaled quietly through your nose and reached for your champagne again.

Someone at the neighboring table burst into drunken laughter loud enough to make half the room turn and look. You stared down into your champagne for a moment, wondering how much longer you had to stay before leaving would stop being considered rude. Probably at least another hour. Maybe two.

God.

“You’ve got the same look I had about twenty minutes ago.” The voice was warm, smooth, carrying amusement without mockery.

You glanced up, and noticed a man standing beside your table - he looked considerably more put together than most people left in the reception hall at this hour. Dark button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, suit jacket nowhere in sight anymore. Calm posture, relaxed, but attentive.

He seemed like someone who knows enough people to survive socially, but not enough to enjoy himself. And just like you, he was drained by the evening spent being polite to strangers.

He nodded slightly toward the empty chairs around your table.

“Mind if I sit? Everyone I know here’s either dancing, drunk, or giving relationship advice nobody asked for.” There was the faintest smile on his face. Easy and genuine.

You invited him to sit with a small nod of your head, and he pulled out the chair beside you and sat down, setting his drink carefully on the table.

“Kyle,” he introduced himself. “Though most people call me Gaz.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the dancefloor, where somebody had nearly tripped into the wedding cake.

“…starting to think we might be the only sane people left in the building.”