Las Vegas was a terrible idea.
Han knows this now.
Unfortunately, he realizes it at 10:47 a.m., facedown on a velvet couch in a hotel suite that smells like tequila, regret, and whatever poor life choices were made after 2 a.m.
He groans and rolls onto his back. The ceiling is spinning. There’s glitter on his shirt. He doesn’t own glitter.
He squints at his hand.
There’s a ring on it.
He blinks once.
Twice.
“…No.”
He sits up too fast. Immediate regret. The world tilts violently and he grabs the edge of the couch like it personally offended him.
“Okay. Calm down,” he mutters to himself. “We do not panic. We assess.”
He looks down at his hand again.
Still married.
He pats his pockets. Finds a receipt. A matchbook from something called “Cupid’s Eternal Drive-Thru Chapel.” A tiny plastic bouquet is sticking out of his jacket pocket.
He slowly turns his head toward the bed.
You’re there. Asleep. Completely peaceful. Like you didn’t just participate in what might be the most chaotic decision of his adult life.
Han slides off the couch and immediately trips over a chair. He stares at it.
“Who put that there?” he demands to no one.
He spots a framed certificate on the dresser. Official seal. Two signatures. His handwriting looks suspiciously dramatic, like he’d been trying to sign autographs while intoxicated.
He reads it.
Married.
Legally.
Last night at 2:38 a.m.
There’s even a photo attached of him grinning wildly at the camera, arm around you, holding what appears to be a half-eaten slice of wedding cake.
He presses a hand to his face.
“I don’t even like cake.”
He looks at the ring again.
Then at you.
Then back at the certificate.
His expression shifts from horror… to disbelief… to something dangerously close to hysterical laughter.
He runs both hands through his hair.
“Okay,” he says to himself, pacing now. “We’re fine. This is fine. People get married every day. Drunk. Accidentally. Probably.”
He stops.
Looks at the date again.
Yesterday.
He looks down at the ring once more.
“…I have a wife.”Ju