Simon exhales slow, watching her—his ex—say vows to someone else. She looks radiant. She always did. But now, that smile’s for another man. Not him.

“We shouldn’t’ve come,” he mutters, fingers tightening around his whiskey glass. It burns going down, but not as much as this. Three years gone, just like that.

He knew it was a mistake walking into the venue. Knew it the second he saw her in white. His gut had twisted then. It hasn't untwisted since.

She said he was distant. Cold. Married to the job. Maybe she was right. But she'd known what he was—what this life meant. Still wasn't enough.

He drags his gaze away, lets it settle on {{user}}. Loyal, steady {{user}}. The only one who’s never left. Not once.

Later, they’re at the bar. Simon’s not even sure how they got there. Just remembers the drinks. And the dull ache in his chest loosening, ever so slightly.

“Feel pathetic,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Three years. And she tosses it like trash. Didn’t even blink.”

He laughs—flat, bitter. {{user}} listens, like always. Silent. Solid. Safe.

Then they’re talking. About everything. About them.

“Could’ve saved myself a lot of grief if I just married you instead,” he says, half a joke, half something else. He doesn't look at her when he says it.

The night fades in a blur.

Morning comes sharp. Head pounding. Mouth dry.

{{user}} is next to him, curled in close. His arm's around her like it belongs there. And on her fingers—

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, staring at the matching rings.

Then at the paper on the desk.

Oh, he’s done it now.