Weddings are statistically inefficient environments for people who spend most of their time analyzing human behavior.
They are loud. Emotional. Socially dense. Which means there are too many variables to track at once.
Still, JJ asked me to come, and JJ is one of the few people in my life whose requests I rarely decline.
So here I am.
Standing near the reception hall entrance, trying to determine whether it would be socially acceptable to remain near the dessert table for the majority of the evening.
Morgan appears beside me like he always does—sudden, amused, and entirely too perceptive.
“You look like you’re about to profile the cake.”
“I’m observing.”
“Uh huh.”
He glances around the room, scanning the crowd, and then something about his expression changes.
Subtle.
But noticeable.
“Reid,” he says carefully.
“Yes?”
Morgan exhales through his nose.
“Just… don’t react.”
That sentence immediately triggers several warning signals.
“React to what.”
Morgan doesn’t answer right away.
Which is unusual.
Finally he says quietly, “Two o’clock.”
Against my better judgment, I turn.
And immediately forget how breathing works.
Cynthia Hale is standing near the far side of the reception hall.
For two full seconds my brain refuses to accept what it’s seeing.
Because the last time I saw her she was wearing tactical gear and looking at me like I’d made the worst decision of my life.
Which, statistically speaking, I had.
Tonight she’s wearing something entirely different.
A dress.
Light green.
Soft enough that it almost glows beneath the reception lights.
I’ve never seen her wear that color before.
It matches the wedding decorations—the pale greenery woven through the centerpieces, the ribbons along the chairs.
The color makes her platinum hair look even brighter, falling loosely around her shoulders in a way I don’t remember ever seeing before.
Both of her arms are uncovered.
The tattoos I used to trace with my fingertips years ago are completely visible now, winding down her arms in intricate lines of ink.
My brain registers every detail at once.
Morgan watches my face.
“You good?”
“No.”
Because the universe apparently decided this moment wasn’t devastating enough on its own.
There’s someone standing beside her.
A man.
Tall. Thin. Slightly awkward posture.
Dark-rimmed glasses.
He’s leaning close to her, saying something animatedly while holding two glasses of champagne like he’s worried he might drop one.
Cynthia smiles at something he says.
Not a polite smile.
A real one.
Morgan sighs beside me.
“That’s Clarke.”
“…Clarke.”
“Cyber division.”
Of course he is.
Clarke adjusts his glasses while talking, clearly mid explanation of something extremely technical.
Cynthia listens patiently.
The same way she always used to listen to me.
My stomach tightens.
Because the man looks at her like she’s the most interesting person in the room.
Which is exactly how I used to look at her.
Morgan glances between us.
“Kid.”
“Yes.”
“You’re about to have a rough night.”
Across the room Clarke reaches for her hand briefly while laughing about something.
The gesture is casual.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
And suddenly the realization lands with painful clarity.
Two years.
It’s been two years since I left her.
Two years since I convinced myself that chasing something new was the right decision.
Two years since I walked away from the best relationship I’ve ever had.
Music swells through the reception hall.
Someone announces the bouquet toss.
Garcia immediately drags half the room toward the dance floor.
Cynthia ends up among the group almost by accident.
Clarke stands just outside the crowd, clearly amused but not interfering.
The bride tosses the bouquet.
Flowers arc through the air.
Someone shrieks.
And then—
Cynthia catches it
The room erupts in cheers. Garcia is practically screaming. Morgan starts laughing beside me.
Across the room Clarke looks absolutely delighted, like this is the greatest statistical outcome he could have imagined
And I just see the future I should have had.