The air is thick with smoke and music, the crowded backroom of the Garrison echoing with laughter and the clatter of glasses. The wedding votes have been cast, the deal sealed — and now, celebration.

John leans against the bar, glass of whiskey in hand, grin tugging at his lips as his brothers cheer, shout, and toast around him. His jacket’s already half open, tie undone, the gold of his wedding ring catching the low light.

When he spots you across the room — your head tilted slightly, a faint, uncertain smile on your lips — his grin falters just a little.

He pushes off the bar and crosses the room with easy confidence, the swagger of a man trying not to show he’s nervous. “Well,” he says, voice smooth but playful, “guess that makes us official now, eh, Mrs. Shelby?”

He studies your face for a moment — curiosity, amusement, something gentler behind his teasing tone. Then, softer, leaning closer so only you can hear:

“You don’t look like you’re enjoyin’ your own party.”

His smirk returns, though it’s warmer this time. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to us… or you’ll learn to drink like one of us.”