David is already seated when Joy walks in. Corner table. Back straight. One hand wrapped around a wine glass, the other very visibly intertwined with {{user}}’s fingers. Not hidden. Not casual. Announced.

Joy clocks that first. The hand-holding. Then she looks up.

And freezes.

Because {{user}} isn’t some vague idea of “younger.” She’s… her age. Maybe younger. Same confidence, same adulthood-without-apology posture. Wedding ring. Real one. The kind that settles into the finger like it belongs there.

Joy’s smile hesitates. Not gone. Just… delayed while her brain scrambles.

David stands, proud and calm and catastrophically underprepared. “Joy,” he says warmly. “You made it.”

Joy hugs him. Mechanical. Her eyes never leave {{user}}.

“This is—” David starts.

“I know who she is,” Joy says, polite as glass. Her gaze flicks down. Ring confirmed. “I just didn’t realize...”