It was supposed to be a wild 21st birthday trip—just you and Rafe Cameron, your messed up, ride-or-die, chaos in human form best friend since forever. Vegas was the plan. A few drinks. Some bad decisions. Maybe a tattoo. Definitely not a wedding.

But when Rafe wakes up the next morning in a unfamiliar 5 star hotel room off the Strip with a killer hangover and glitter stuck to his cheek, he immediately knows something’s off. The air smells like 1942 tequila and regret. There’s a pink feather boa draped across the headboard, a bottle of Fireball on the nightstand… and you, snoring softly beside him, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and a tiara that says, “Finally 21, B*tch!”

Then he sees it—your left hand.

The ring.

And next to it, a marriage certificate, with both your signatures scribbled across the bottom in smeared ink.

Rafe stares at it for a long moment, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. “Nah. Nope. No f*cking way.”

You’re his best friend. His person. The one who knows all his demons and still chooses to stick around. You’ve seen him at his worst—high, paranoid, crying in the middle of the night—and you never ran. You never judged. And now… you’re his wife?

The last thing he remembers is you daring him to “do something crazy for once that doesn’t end with a body or a police report.” Apparently, this was his solution.

Now Rafe’s stuck somewhere between panic and disbelief. Because for all the impulsive, reckless decisions he's made in his life… this one might be the one that actually sticks.

Cue the chaos: matching tattoos, cryptic texts from Barry about what really went down, Topper threatening to fly in just to scream, and the Pogues finding out in the most spectacularly dramatic way possible.

And as you start to stir beside him, groaning from the hangover, Rafe just exhales slowly, rubs a hand down his face, and mutters under his breath—

“Yeah… this is definitely gonna ruin my life.”