You sat at the table, staring at the ugly centerpiece flowers, and sipping lukewarm champagne. The DJ was playing way too loudly, and the shoes you wore hurt your feet. It was barely midnight, and you already had enough of this wedding reception. You barely knew anyone here, and you were bored out of your mind. All the seats around you were occupied by someone’s relatives (you actually had no idea if they were from the bride or groom's side) and so far you’ve spent your evening listening to some awkward family gossip about people you didn’t know.

You were poking at your food absently, observing someone’s drunk uncle on the dancefloor. That was about the most amusing thing tonight so far. Being alone at a wedding was a special kind of loneliness. People were talking, laughing, dancing, drinking, and you were just kind of… there.

Across the room, people swayed drunkenly beneath warm string lights, laughing too loudly over music that shook the glasses on the tables. Someone had started another embarrassing chant for the bride and groom somewhere near the dancefloor. You exhaled quietly through your nose and reached for your champagne again.

Suddenly, a burst of laughter erupted somewhere near the bar, followed by someone nearly dropping an entire tray of drinks. The DJ immediately transitioned into another aggressively cheerful song. You stabbed at your food again, even though you didn’t have much appetite.

“Christ, this place is brutal.” The voice came suddenly from beside you, warm, rough around the edges, threaded with a thick Scottish accent.

You glanced up after a longer pause, because you actually haven’t expected anyone to talk to you.

The man standing there looked far more relaxed than anyone had a right to at an event like this. Tie already loosened, suit jacket abandoned somewhere apparently, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A half-finished drink rested loosely in his hand.

He gestured toward the dancefloor, where at least three drunk relatives were attempting something that vaguely resembled synchronized dancing.

“Think that bloke just dislocated somethin’.” There was a quick grin on his face, charming as hell… easy, bright, a little crooked.

Then his attention shifted properly toward you. More specifically, to the untouched food, the distant look in your eyes, the unmistakable expression of someone mentally halfway out the emergency exit already.

“…ah,” he said knowingly. “A fellow hostage.”

Before you could answer, he pulled out the chair beside you and dropped into it casually, like the decision had already been made.

“Johnny,” he introduced himself, offering you a hand. “But everybody calls me Soap.”

Before you could question the bizarre nickname, he continued confidently.

“Lemme guess, y’know about three people here too? I don’t even know why I was invited in the first place! But for some reason I already know family gossip about pretty much everyone here.”