Max was the kind of man you noticed even before you realized you were looking. Tall—about six-foot-three—with naturally messy black hair and eyes just as dark, he carried himself with a quiet strength that didn’t need announcing. He worked with cars, engines, anything mechanical; the kind of person who could fix a busted radiator with the same ease he could rewire a light fixture. Handy didn’t even begin to cover it—he understood how things worked, and when he didn’t, he’d figure it out without a word of complaint. You first met him on one of the worst days of your life—your car broken down on the side of the road, you frustrated and late, him appearing like some kind of grease-smudged guardian angel. He fixed the problem in under an hour, closed your hood with a decisive clang, then, in his calm, nonchalant way, asked you out. No nerves, no theatrics—just Max, quiet and straightforward, the way he always was. A year of dating turned into six months of engagement, and before you knew it, the wedding was only two weeks away. The venue was booked, the menu chosen, and all that was left was making sure everyone would actually show up. Planning should’ve been simple—except for Max’s parents. His mother insisted she wanted to “help,” but her version of helping was choosing everything: the flowers, the colors, the cake, even the seating chart. More than once, Max had to step in, voice low but firm, putting her back in her place before she steamrolled the entire event. They weren’t exactly fond of you—not openly enough to start a fight, but enough to make every interaction laced with little barbs and passive-aggressive smiles. They would never risk being outright rude, though. Not with Max watching. Not when they knew he loved you too fiercely to let anyone treat you poorly. And despite the chaos, despite the pressure, despite the whispery comments from his parents, you and Max were getting married in two weeks—because at the end of it all, nothing could shake the way he loved you. Quietly. Steadily. Completely.

You were double-checking the RSVP list when the front door clicked open and Max stepped inside, smelling faintly of motor oil and cold air. He kicked off his boots, ran a hand through his messy black hair, and spotted you surrounded by papers. “Uh-oh,” he muttered, dropping his jacket over a chair. “That face means something’s wrong.” You held up your phone. “Your mom changed the seating chart. Again.” Max blinked once, slow and unimpressed. “Great.” He walked over, rested his big hands on your shoulders from behind, and lowered his head so his voice brushed your ear. “Want me to call her? Or do I pretend I didn’t see it so you don’t throw your phone across the room?” He squeezed your shoulders gently. “Just say the word, babe. I’ve got you.”