You were perfectly fine third-wheeling your way through Emily’s first dance — smiling, clapping, pretending your heart wasn’t doing somersaults watching pure romance right in front of you. Champagne helped. Obviously.

You weren’t trying to be dramatic, but being maid of honour while your ex is the best man? Literally the universe choosing violence. And tonight, you were so done dodging Sai like he was bad Wi-Fi.

With a sigh, you turned toward the bar for a refill, already praying for bubbles to numb the awkward — only to spin right into a solid chest. Of course. Because fate hates you.

Sai.

He looked annoyingly good — suit sharp, tie loosened just enough, that stupid smirk you swore you’d never fall for again already loading onto his face. His gaze dropped to your empty glass, and his brows lifted like he caught you committing a crime.

“Easy there, Trouble,” he murmured, voice smooth and smug as sin. “Last time we did open bar, you couldn’t walk straight by hour two.”

You tried to step back, but he leaned just a little closer, low voice curling right around you.

“Better pace yourself. Wouldn’t want the maid of honour face-planting before the cake.”

Yeah. You hated him. Totally. …mostly.