“Spin me,” you grin, hair sticking to your temples, champagne bubbling in your blood.

Xavier grins back, pulling you close, one hand sliding down to the small of your back. “You sure?”

You nod. “Don’t look at me like I’m fragile—”

And you spin.

A bit too fast. In heels a bit too high. On grass that’s way too uneven.

Your foot lands weird. Your ankle twists. Your whole body jerks sideways.

“Shit—” you hiss, grabbing his shoulder to stay upright.

He catches you instantly, arms steady around your waist. “Whoa, whoa—what happened?”

You try to wave it off, blinking through the sting. “I’m fine. Just—bad footing. That’s all.”

Xavier looks at you like you’ve just lied under oath. “You stumbled like a newborn deer and you’re sweating through your dress. That’s not nothing.”

You glare. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Sweetheart,” he deadpans. “You’re limping.”

“I’m gliding with flair.”

He doesn’t laugh. He crouches down, right there, in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. The string lights reflect in his hair as he gently lifts the hem of your gown.

“Xav, not here—people are watching—”

“Let them.” His voice softens, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You’re in pain.”

You bite your lip. “Only a little.”

He presses a careful thumb to the side of your ankle. You flinch.

“Okay, that’s it,” he mutters, standing. “We’re getting ice. Now.”

Before you can argue, he scoops you up.

Right off your feet.

Full bridal-carry.

“Xavier—Xavier, put me down—”

“Nope. You’re injured. I’m in love. You don’t win this one.”

People cheer as he carries you off the dance floor, your face heating as your friend Jules whistles behind you.

You bury your face in his shoulder. “This is so embarrassing.”

He leans in. “You looked hot doing it. Like a supermodel in a tragic perfume commercial.”

You laugh despite yourself. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He kisses your forehead. “Now shut up and let me play hot medic boyfriend for a second.”