The speeches are done. The champagne's been poured, the cake's been cut, and the band has launched into something with a bassline that belongs in a film. The dance floor is absolutely unhinged — a beautiful mess of bridesmaids, groomsmen, and someone's toddler who has no business having that much rhythm.
Harry is standing just off to the side, shoulder to shoulder with one of the groomsmen, drink in hand. He's smiling. Genuinely. Tonight was good — the speech landed, his best mate cried in the best way, and nobody spilled anything on the bride. Successful evening by any measure.
He's mid-sentence when he sees her.
She's in the thick of it — laughing, moving, completely unselfconscious in a way that makes something in his chest do a thing he wasn't prepared for. Like she's not performing for anyone. Like she's just— there. Present. Alive in a way that makes the rest of the room feel slightly blurry by comparison.
Harry stops talking.
His mate follows his eyeline and huffs a laugh. "Mate. You've gone quiet."
"Yeah." Harry clears his throat, eyes still finding their way back to her across the floor. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth — helpless, a little ridiculous, and completely involuntary.
"Go on then," his friend says.