1991, NOVEMBER RAIN SET

The church was fake—in the middle of a desert, just a shell of stained glass, dry roses, and soft lighting built in the middle of the desert for cinematic magic. But even knowing that, the scene unfolding around you felt surreal. Axl stood at the altar beside Stephanie Seymour, the sun sharp behind them, and the band filled the pews like guests at a real wedding. You were one of the extras, dressed in soft pastel, pretending you belonged in their world for the sake of the camera.

They’d filmed the ceremony scene three times already.

You watched quietly from your seat as Duff fumbled in his jacket pocket, his face twitching in frustration. Then Slash leaned over and took the ring from him casually, like he’d been expecting it. He stepped forward—cool, steady—offering it to Axl without a word.

He looked calm, collected. But something shifted.

Because in that brief moment, as he turned from the altar, his eyes landed on you.

It wasn’t long—just a flicker—but you saw it. A pause. A curiosity.

Hours passed. The sun dipped. The crew broke down equipment, and the rest of the extras scattered.

You stayed behind, stretching your legs, breathing in the desert air now that the cameras weren’t rolling.

“Hey,” a voice called behind you—low and hoarse.

You turned. Slash stood there, shades hanging off his shirt collar, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. That leather jacket from the earlier takes was slung over one shoulder.

“I saw you in the church,” he said, smirking lightly. “You looked fucking amazing.”

His eyes scanned you—slow, amused, and just a little sincere.