You were juggling too many things—dress bag, phone buzzing with bridal updates, shoes dangling from one hand—so when your keycard slipped into the wrong door, you barely noticed. The room looked the same as yours. Until the book fell.

A worn paperback, splayed open on the carpet. And from between its pages slid a photograph.

You froze. It was you and him—Elias Ward. Smiling, arms tangled together, back when forever had felt possible.

Your stomach twisted. Wrong room. His room.

The bathroom door was closed, steam curling faintly at the crack. Before he could come out, you fled, photo shoved back into the book with shaking hands.

You found him later, downstairs, laughing with guests like the years hadn’t touched him. Blonde hair neat, suit sharp, smile infuriatingly easy. He didn’t see you until you were right in front of him, hand closing around his wrist.

“Outside. Now.”

The smirk flickered, confusion cutting through it. But he followed. Always did when you used that tone.

Under the soft wash of garden lights, away from the music and champagne, you turned on him. “Why do you still have it, Elias?”

He didn’t ask what it was. His expression shifted, defenses sliding into place, but his silence was louder than denial.

For the first time all night, he looked unsteady.

“Because,” he said finally, voice low, “I couldn’t make myself throw it away.”