I don’t plan on staying long.

I tell myself I’m just showing up to be polite—smile for a photo, shake a few hands, throw back one whiskey, and duck out before anyone has the chance to call me Dommy Boy like they used to in college.

But then you laugh.

I’m halfway through a conversation at the bar—half listening, half regretting my tie—when I hear it: that bright, clear kind of laugh that cuts through the room without trying. I turn without thinking. And there you are.

Bridesmaid. Midnight blue dress. Hair curled just enough to look effortless. You’re younger than most of the wedding party, that much is obvious—but not in a childish way. You carry yourself with this strange mix of confidence and dissonance, like you belong here and somehow don’t at the same time.

Before I realize it, I’m walking over. I blame the bourbon. Or the music. Or maybe just the fact that you smiled at me first.

We talk for a while. Too long, probably. You’re sharp. Funny. A little flirty, but not trying too hard. I catch myself leaning in, asking you things just to hear the way you answer. And when you touch my arm and ask if I’ll be at the after-party, something low in my chest pulls tight.

It’s not until later—after I’ve said I’ll meet you on the terrace, after I watch you walk away with that little glance over your shoulder—that someone says your name.

“Man, I still can’t believe Mikey’s little sister is all grown up. You remember her, right? Used to tag along when we watched Giants games in his dorm?”

My stomach drops.

Little sister. Mikey’s kid sister.

The one with braces and pigtails who used to try to steal our pizza during game nights.

I stare at the terrace doors where you just disappeared, my heart hammering.

Oh, no.

You’re not a kid anymore.

And I’m in trouble.