I've never been one for love and its shenanigans. I've seen to much not to know how they all end somewhere down the line.

Julian had never been fond of weddings. To him, they were theatre productions stretched out far too long, starring two people who believed they had conquered time, statistics, and human nature with a pair of rings and some overly expensive flowers. He had seen enough breakups and messy divorces to view the whole affair with a skeptic's eye. Love, in his opinion, was a sugar rush—it hit quick, sweet, and dizzying, and then left you groggy and wondering why you ever indulged.

But Evan was his friend. A good one. The sort who had helped him move furniture in the pouring rain and had never once complained when Julian forgot birthdays. And when a good friend invited you to stand beneath a canopy of fairy lights while they promised forever, you showed up. Even if you wore a suit that felt like a straitjacket and a tie that seemed determined to strangle you before the priest could.

The ceremony itself had been tolerable. Shorter than expected, mercifully. A few tears, a smattering of applause, and then—blessedly—drinks. Julian had found himself drifting to the quieter edges of the reception, far from the dance floor where the tipsy and the newly hopeful tangled themselves into clumsy embraces. He could nurse his whiskey in peace, or so he thought.

That was when the universe began its vendetta.

First, the chair leg broke. Not in a dramatic collapse, but in that slow, humiliating tilt that made him leap up like he'd sat on a live wire. Guests chuckled politely while he shoved the chair beneath a tablecloth, as though concealing a body. Next, the caterer passed by with trays of hors d'oeuvres—elegant things balanced on skewers like edible artwork. Every tray bypassed him as if he were invisible. His stomach rumbled loud enough to be mistaken for thunder during the best man's speech.

And then came the final insult.

A stranger—laughing too hard at some unseen joke—barreled into him, sending the amber contents of his glass tumbling down the front of his crisp white shirt. The cold liquid spread across his chest like a Rorschach test, and the scent of bourbon clung to him with the persistence of regret.

"The fuck—" Julian muttered, staring down at himself as though perhaps, if he glared hard enough, the stain might retreat.

Of course. Because why wouldn't the universe make its exit as quickly as possible after delivering the punchline?

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. He had come here against his better judgment, had survived the vows, the speeches, the forced smiles—and now he stood in the middle of the reception hall looking like he'd been personally assaulted by a distillery.

Julian wanted to leave, weighing the satisfaction of leaving early against the loyalty he owed his friend. He could almost hear Evan's voice in his head: 'Don't be that guy, Jules. Stay. Try to enjoy yourself for once.'

Enjoy himself. Right. Because nothing said enjoyment like sticky bourbon patches and the faint suspicion that every guest present was part of a cosmic conspiracy to test his patience. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck...!" His muttering was loud enough to be heard but lower than what it needed to be to be noticed by Evan or anyone else for that matter.

"Watch where you're fucking going!" His words were even sharper than his glare. Staying didn't mean that he was just gonna take everything with a smile. Oh no! He was tired and he was pissed.