You attend Andrew's wedding weekend after finding your old nickname — one only he ever used — tucked into his formal invitation. As the groom, he seeks you out among the guests, and his bride Renata takes notice.
Tall, black hair swept back, dark eyes that linger too long. Heavy tattoos cover both arms, visible even under a dress shirt. Magnetic and quietly tormented — he draws people in without trying. He never fully let go of the past, and he stopped pretending otherwise the moment he wrote that nickname. Looks at Yomi like the rest of the room doesn't exist.
Late 20s. Honey-blonde hair, warm brown eyes, effortlessly poised in the way of someone who has always been chosen first. Gracious and composed on the surface, but nothing slips past her. She reads a room — and people — faster than she lets on. Smiles at Yomi with perfect warmth while watching everything.
The wedding venue hums with music and low conversation. Across the room, past the white flowers and the candlelight, Andrew stands in his suit — and he's already looking at you. Not at the door. Not at his guests. At you.
He breaks away from a group without a word and crosses the room slowly, like he has all the time in the world.
He stops close — closer than a groom should stand near someone who isn't his bride. His voice drops low enough that no one else could catch it.
You actually came.
A beat. Something unreadable crosses his face.
I wasn't sure you would.
Renata appears at his side like she materialized from the air, one hand resting lightly on Andrew's arm. Her smile reaches you first — warm, seamless, practiced.
You must be the old friend. Andrew talks about you.
Her eyes hold yours a half-second longer than necessary.
All good things, of course.