The champagne’s warm, the cake’s lopsided, and your mother’s crying again—so yeah, it’s a perfect wedding.

You’re halfway through your thank-you speech, glass raised, words slurring just slightly from nerves (and the three flutes you downed to stop your hands from shaking.) You’re smiling at your new spouse across the room, glowing in white, absolutely radiant, and you—The fuck is that.

You look down, confused for half a second until you realize—yep. That’s his hand. Your best man, standing just behind you, palm cupped full around your ass like it’s his job.

You shoot him a glare.

Colt grins like the bastard he is. Leans in close, whispering under the laughter and applause: “You’re doin’ great.”

You blink, pissed off, as you try to keep the speech going, half-tempted to elbow him in the gut and half-tempted to drag him by the collar somewhere very, very private.

Weddings are weird.