You could see Emma Nelson before you heard her—Degrassi’s defiant firebrand, pop-punk idealist turned protest veteran, stepping off the charter bus onto the sweltering Vegas tarmac with her usual brand of chaotic grace. Her hair was stuck to her neck in sweaty strands, but her eyes—those wild, storm-green eyes—still flashed with restless purpose, like even now she was trying to organize a march against capitalism in the city of sin.

“This is so not Degrassi,” she muttered, adjusting the crooked fedora she clearly bought at a thrift shop for irony’s sake.

“Yeah,” you replied, too tired to pretend it wasn’t surreal. “But here we are.”

Inside, the others scattered like moths to the nearest neon. Manny was already making friends with a bartender. Liberty whined about her heels. Emma found a cracked fountain in front of the Flamingo, perched beside it like a broken gargoyle. The water glowed pink and green and threw shadows on her cheekbones. She looked up at the massive billboard of Elvis impersonators and wedding chapels, her jaw tightening.

“I’m scared,” she said suddenly, voice soft.

You blinked. Emma Nelson didn’t do scared. Not publicly.

“I’ve spent years telling people who to be. Boycotting cafeterias. Starting riots over bottled water. But I’m just... tired now.” She looked down at her fingers, trembling slightly. “Tonight I let you buy me a drink. Then another. Then I stopped counting.”

You tried to take the cup from her. She laughed and finished it herself, wincing.

“I’m not the girl I was. I’m not even sure I know what I believe anymore.”

So you followed her into the casino. Through the dizziness of too much noise and too little sleep. She played roulette by pointing blindly. Then blackjack. Then she pulled you close, breath warm with tequila.

“Let’s get married,” she whispered, lips grazing your ear. “Right now. You and me. Las Vegas. Messy and stupid and ours.”

You laughed. She didn’t.

“I’m serious,” she said, eyes too wide, glassy. “Let’s do something ridiculous. Let’s do something permanent for once in our messed-up lives.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve walked her back to the hotel and put her to bed with water and Advil. But she was grinning at you like you were the last good thing left in her broken universe. And you still loved her. God help you.

She produced a wedding license from her purse—half-smeared with lipstick and protest stickers. You don’t remember signing it. Or the vows. Just the blinding lights. Elvis with a plastic guitar. Her lipstick on your cheek. Someone crying. Someone cheering.

Then blackout.

Now… the morning.

You wake up on a scratchy hotel mattress in a room that smells like gin and cinnamon gum. The overhead fan spins lazily. Emma lies sprawled across your chest, arm flung over you, wedding ring gleaming in the Strip’s flickering neon through the blinds.

Your mouth is dry. Your head is a war drum.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Manny.

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Emma in a cheap white dress, holding a fake bouquet, grinning ear to ear. An Elvis impersonator flashing thumbs-up. The banner above them reads JUST MARRIED!!!

You sit up too fast. Emma groans beside you, hand to her temple.

“What the hell happened?” she croaks.

You turn to her slowly. “Emma… we got married.”

She blinks. Stares at the ring. Stares at you. And then?

“Oh my God.”

Her voice is a whisper. A scream. And a laugh.

All at once.