It’s late. The reception hall smells faintly of champagne, roses, and the sweat of a hundred dancing guests. The newlyweds have just driven off in their ribbon-covered getaway car, the last of the bridal party is tipsy and giggling in the corner, and you’re… cleaning up candle wax from the tablecloths because no one else thought to do it.

You don’t notice him at first — the tall guy leaning casually against the nearest wall, tie loosened, dress shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s been watching you for the last fifteen minutes with the faintest trace of a smirk, like he’s enjoying a private joke.

“You know,” he finally says, voice warm with amusement, “most people who come to weddings actually… enjoy themselves.”

You straighten and glance over, caught off guard. “Someone has to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

“Yeah, but usually that someone’s being paid for it,” he says, pushing off the wall and walking closer. There’s an easy confidence in his stride — the kind of man who knows exactly how much space he takes up. “Let me guess. Maid of honor?”

“Bridesmaid,” you correct.

“Hmm.” He scans the room with a practiced eye, then looks back at you. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say this isn’t your first time in the uniform.”

You bristle slightly. “What makes you say that?”

Jason’s grin is almost infuriating. “Because you move like someone who’s done this more than a dozen times — you’re running on instinct. You’ve got the cake schedule memorized, you already know which relatives can’t be seated next to each other, and you just saved the flower girl from a frosting-induced sugar crash.” He tilts his head, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve. “How many is it? Fifteen? Twenty?”

You stay silent.

His smile deepens, sharp with curiosity. “It’s more, isn’t it?”

You cross your arms. “Why do you care?”

“Because,” he says simply, “I write about this stuff. Weddings. And you…” He gestures at you like you’re the most obvious headline in the room. “…You’re the most interesting thing here tonight.”

You shake your head. “Not happening. I’m not a story.”

Jason steps closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Sweetheart, you’re the story. And I’m going to get it.”

The worst part? You almost believe him.