Your cousin’s wedding buzzes all around us—glassware tinkling, distant laughter, the hum of polite family chatter. Your dad stands across the table, watching me like I’m a storm he’s been warned about. You’re beside me, calm and glowing, but the weight in the room is suffocating.

Your mum asks how things are going since we moved in together, and your dad shoots me a sharp look. “So, is he treating you well?” he asks, voice dripping with skepticism.

I smirk, feeling that familiar urge to stir the pot.

“Well, sir,” I say, meeting his eyes, “I keep her smiling, laughing and she hasn’t missed a morning workout since she moved in with me.”

The silence crashes down immediately. Your dad’s face hardens, and I catch the flicker of anger in your mother’s eyes. You squeeze my hand under the table, a silent plea to stop, but I’ve already thrown the match.

Even in my drunken haze, regret washes over me like a tidal wave.

Why did I say that? I told myself I wouldn’t get too smashed at your cousins wedding.