I hadn’t seen Jamie in years—not properly, anyway. As kids, we were inseparable every summer. Go-karts in the morning, FIFA tournaments all afternoon, and scheming how to steal more dessert from his mum’s kitchen. Then I started racing more seriously. One thing led to another—tests, flights, interviews, a lot of growing up too fast—and we just drifted apart. But when the wedding invitation arrived, handwritten with a note that said “You better show up, Lando,” I didn’t even hesitate.

And here I was. Somewhere in the countryside. Rustic barn wedding, fairy lights, acoustic covers of pop songs playing in the background. It was nice. Really nice, actually.

I arrived solo. Not exactly breaking news—I’m used to showing up to events alone. Most of the time, it’s easier that way. Fewer questions. But by 8 PM, that choice had begun to feel… idiotic.

Couples swayed under dim lights. Laughing. Dancing. Whispering things to each other with stupid grins. My table was decent company—two other cousins, someone’s university friend, and a guy who kept trying to convince me he almost made it into Formula 2—but it was still painfully clear I was solo.

Then I noticed her.

She was sitting two tables away, at a table with—wait, one, two, three, four, five... seven seats? An odd number. That had to mean something, right? One seat unpaired. And she was sitting in it. Alone.

She was... stunning. Long hair, tucked behind one ear. Burgundy dress that matched the wine in her glass. She wasn’t scrolling her phone or pretending to be busy. Just sitting. Observing. A little like me, honestly.

I stared too long. Looked away. Then looked back. Damn it.

I downed the rest of my Old Fashioned in one go, set the glass down with maybe too much confidence, wiped my palms against my pants, and stood up.

“Going in?” my cousin asked, half-laughing, seeing where my eyes had been.

I gave him a sideways smile. “Wish me luck.”

She saw me approaching—of course she did—and smiled just a little. Like she’d already figured out what was about to happen.

“Hi,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d just sprinted through a qualifying lap.

“Hi,” she answered, her voice calm, clear. A little amused.

“Lando,” I said, extending my hand.

“I know,” she said, shaking it gently. “I’m {{user}}.”

“Well, {{user}},” I began, stealing a glance back at her table, “I counted your chairs. And I think I’ve deduced that you might be the only single person at your table.”

She laughed, full and warm. “You counted the chairs?”

“Desperate times.”

{{user}} tilted her head slightly. “And what do you plan to do with that information, detective?”

I smiled. “Thought I’d come over and ask the most cliché question of the night—would you like to dance?”

She looked at the dance floor, then back at me with a playful tilt of her head. “That depends,” she said, “you planning to sweep me off my feet?”

I smirked, stepping just close enough, and held out my hand. “If you let me, I might just surprise you.”