You didn’t actually expect anything to come of the tweet.

It was 1:17 a.m., you were three glasses of wine deep, and your group chat had just exploded with confirmation: yes, your ex was bringing her to the wedding.

The her in question was tall, tan, stunning, and — most offensive of all — effortlessly charming. You, meanwhile, were still debating whether to wear the dress that made your arms look weird.

Your panic spiraled. You imagined sitting at Table 9, stabbing a piece of dry chicken while your ex slow-danced five feet away.

So, naturally, you did what any emotionally unstable, mildly tipsy person would do: you took to Twitter.

“If Sebastian Stan doesn’t show up to this wedding and pretend to be my incredibly devoted boyfriend, I’m going to die of secondhand embarrassment and regret. Please, @imsebastianstan. Save me.”

You snorted, hit post, and went to bed with a bag of chips and zero expectations.

The next morning, your phone was vibrating violently against your nightstand.

Hundreds of retweets. Thousands of likes. People tagging Sebastian. Making memes. Offering to officiate the wedding.

And there — sitting in your DMs, bold and unmistakably blue-checked — was a message that made your heart stop.

Sebastian Stan: “What time should I pick you up?”

You stared at the screen.

Was this a joke? A fan account? A fever dream?

Another message followed.

“I’m serious. Let’s give them a night to remember.”