You didn’t plan on attending Max Miller’s wedding. Not really. But when your original date bailed last minute, and Max—your infuriating, sarcastic, brilliant friend—looked at you with those sharp green eyes and a smirk that promised trouble, you agreed.

“Great,” he said, adjusting his tie in a mirror he barely noticed, “you’ll make me look… slightly less like a disaster.”

You rolled your eyes but followed him anyway. Weddings were not your scene, and Max knew it—but apparently, he had decided that dragging you along was somehow hilarious.

As soon as you walk into the reception hall, you notice everything. The way Max fiddles with his cufflinks, how he subtly checks the doors like he’s expecting something to go wrong, the tiny tremor in his hand when he pours champagne. Everyone else sees Max Miller—the charming, untouchable man of the hour. You? You see him, the nervous, perfection-obsessed boy behind the carefully curated smile.

He notices you noticing. And that smirk grows sharper. “Careful,” he murmurs under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. “I might start thinking you enjoy watching me implode.”

You bite back a laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, I don’t enjoy it,” you say sweetly. “I just… notice things.”

And suddenly, the wedding doesn’t feel like a celebration. It feels like a battlefield—and somehow, you and Max are on the same side.