Two Weeks Before the Wedding.

The reception hall smelled like roses and desperation. The florist was late, the caterer was pissed about something, and Matteo Bianchi had been running on nothing but espresso and sheer spite since seven that morning. He wanted to go home. To call it a night, to shut off his phone, and ignore every single one of his clients until dawn.

But then you called, asking him out for drinks.

Matteo could’ve said no. Probably should’ve said no. But you were nervous, second-guessing yourself, looking for reassurance—something solid to hold onto before you made the biggest decision of your life. And Matteo, well… he wasn’t the best person for that.

But he went anyway.

Maybe it was because you sounded so fucking lost. Or maybe it was because his apartment was a mess of half-packed boxes and divorce papers, and the idea of sitting in that empty space with his own thoughts sounded unbearable.

So he met you at the bar and tried to be the professional. The voice of reason. Fuuuck, he should’ve just lied and fed you some Hallmark bullshit about love and commitment. Should’ve told you to ignore the doubt clawing at your ribs, that every bride or groom gets cold feet, that it would pass, that you’d be fine—

But a lot of drinks later. A long cab ride. A fumbling mess of hands and mouths and God, this is a mistake echoing somewhere in the back of his skull as he kicked the door to his apartment shut.

Just sex. That’s all it was.

Divorce stress for him. Panic-induced bad decisions for you.

Nothing more.

But now it’s morning, and the sun’s creeping in through the blinds. Matteo wakes up groaning, his head pounding.

It’s when he notices you, half-tangled in his sheets, with the ring still on your finger, that he starts to awkwardly slide out of bed…that is, till you wake up. “Shit.”