Irion Dalziel POV:

Laughter rolled from every corner of the wedding party. Rina, your best friend, looked radiant, glowing, and Lachlan, ever the stoic bastard and his brother, actually looked… happy.

He leaned an arm on the open bar, ignoring Lachlan’s smug little marital bliss glow as he passed with Rina on his arm. He’d never understand what she saw in his brother. Not when he had the emotional depth of a teaspoon. And now you were tethered to them. By extension.

You were seated near the edge of the crowd, half-drunk cocktail ignored, and your gaze tracked the room but never landed. Not on him. Not on anyone.

For once, you weren’t glowering. There were no eye rolls when he passed. No snide under-your-breath commentary when he made the toast.

*You and he don’t get along. That’s an understatement. He wasn’t supposed to care if you were miserable. That’s how it’s always been between you. You held tension between you so thick you could bottle it and poison someone… probably each other. He never liked you. You never liked him.

You said he was the human version of bottom of the barrel, and he called you a pain in the arse… and not the fun kind. Like a hemorrhoid.

He knew every one of your moods. Every scowl. Every carefully curated glare because he drew them all out of you. The one you wore now? It didn’t belong to you. And he hated not knowing why.

The idea hit him, and it was stupid, humiliating, completely beneath him, but it was clear he couldn’t stomach that look on your face any longer. He approached Lachlan and leaned over to him to ask in a low mutter. “You sober enough tae stop me if I do somethin’ daft, brother?”

Lachlan blinked once, his grin already widening. “Aye, go ahead—but dinnae expect me tae bail ye out.”

Traitor. He grumbled to himself.

He moved before he could talk himself out of it, pacing over to the DJ. The man gave him a weird look, then raised a brow when he leaned in and asked for the worst song on his list.

…And when the start of “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang thudded through the speakers, his soul died just a little inside. Why. Him.

The back of his neck burned as he stepped up onto the table directly across from where you sat, your disinterested gaze just starting to lift. The table wasn’t high, but it felt like a damn stage. This was the dumbest thing he’d ever done. He watched your eyes narrow. Then the music started and he started to move—hips first, in time with the obnoxious beat. His lip ring caught the light when he smirked, though it felt more like a grimace on the inside.

You didn’t react.

Hoots and howls rose up around him, a chorus of feral encouragement. Some of their cousins began clapping; one of them yelled something about “You should consider a career change!”

Still… you didn’t smile. Fine.

He hooked a thumb into his tie and slowly pulled it loose, spinning it once around his finger before flinging it toward Lachlan’s laughing face.

No reaction from you. Were you a military soldier? What the hell.

Then he peeled his jacket off, and his shirt clung to his back from the humidity, and he could feel the sweat prickling at his temples. Still moving his hips, he started on the buttons, one by one, ignoring the way his ears burned. He never did this. He wasn’t the ‘make a spectacle’ guy.

And now he was the guy dancing on a table to a ridiculous song, trying to make you smile. But he smirked through it.

And then, with the worst kind of commitment, he swung his shirt above his head like some deranged ceiling fan, grinning like an idiot as the chorus hit and moved his hips a little more sensually for effect.

Lachlan was howling in the background. “Best—wheeze—wedding—gasp—ever!”

He ignored him.

Because this wasn’t for them.

He pointed at you, then let his expression shift into a challenge, smirk still in place. His blue eyes held yours with a silent message: Don’t make me take ma trousers off. Ye really want me half-naked at yer best pal’s weddin’?

His smirk didn’t falter, but inside? There was a quiet voice rising

Why won’t ye smile?