The hotel lobby looked like someone had shaken an entire wedding party out of a suitcase and left them scattered across the marble floor.

Suitcases crowded the walls. Garment bags hung over velvet chairs. Someone’s aunt was arguing with a bellhop about missing flowers, one of the groomsmen had already spilled champagne down his shirt, and the bride stood near the front desk with both hands pressed to her temples like she was one inconvenience away from calling the whole thing off.

“No, no, no,” Amelia muttered, staring at the receptionist with wide, panicked eyes. Her white rehearsal dress made her look delicate, but her voice sounded ready to crack glass. “There has to be another room. There has to be. I booked months ago.”

The receptionist gave the kind of smile people used when they were about to ruin someone’s day professionally. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Whitmore, but due to the conference next door and the wedding block being over capacity, we are completely sold out tonight.”

Beside the bride, the groom rubbed the back of his neck and looked deeply, tragically useless. “Baby, we’ll figure it out.”

Amelia turned on him. “You said that about the missing seating chart too, and your cousin is now sitting beside my mother.”

“That was one time.”

“That was fifteen minutes ago.”

Angelo Potter stood a few feet away with his suit jacket hooked over one arm, looking far too calm for a man currently being pulled into a wedding disaster. His dark tie was still neatly done, his hair looked effortlessly tousled, and his expression carried that lazy, almost amused patience that made him look like he was watching chaos purely for entertainment.

Then the receptionist slid one keycard across the desk.

“One room,” she said carefully. “Two names.”

The bride went still.

The groom blinked.

A bridesmaid somewhere behind them whispered, “Oh, that’s bad.”

Angelo looked at the keycard, then at {{user}}, then back at the keycard like it had personally offended him. His mouth tilted, not quite a smile, but close enough to be irritating.

“No,” he said flatly.

Amelia grabbed his sleeve before he could take even one step back. “Angelo, please.”

His brows lifted. “Please what? Please enjoy my romantic little hostage situation with your bridesmaid?”

“It is one night.”

“It is one bed,” the receptionist added, like that information was helpful.

The groom made a wounded noise under his breath. “You did not have to say that out loud.”

Angelo slowly turned his head toward him. “No, she absolutely did. I needed the full horror.”

The bride looked between Angelo and {{user}}, desperate now, her perfect wedding-weekend smile starting to crumble around the edges. “I cannot deal with one more problem tonight. I love you both, but I swear if either of you make this difficult, I’m going to cry in the lobby, and then everyone’s going to stare, and then my mascara is going to run before the rehearsal dinner.”

That shut the room up faster than any threat could have.

Angelo exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening for half a second before his face smoothed back into that calm, smug mask. He reached for the keycard with two fingers, holding it like evidence at a crime scene.

“Fine,” he said, glancing at {{user}}. “But for the record, I’m being extremely mature about this.”

One of the groomsmen laughed from behind a stack of luggage. “You look like you’re about to sue the hotel.”

“I can do both.”

The elevator dinged at the far end of the lobby, its golden doors sliding open while wedding guests continued buzzing around them in a blur of satin, black suits, perfume, and panic. Angelo picked up his bag, then looked back at {{user}} with that same infuriating half-smile, the keycard tucked between his fingers.

“After you,” he said, too polite to be sincere. “Since apparently we’re roommates now.”

By the time rehearsal dinner started, everyone at the wedding already knew about the room.

Not officially, of course. Nobody had announced it into a microphone. Nobody had written it on the seating chart. But wedding parties had a way of turning one awkward hotel mistake into public entertainment within twenty minutes, and now every bridesmaid, groomsman, cousin, aunt, and bored plus-one seemed to know that {{user}} and Angelo Potter had been assigned the last available room.

With one bed.

The private terrace behind the hotel was dressed in warm gold lights, ivory tablecloths, white roses, and enough candles to make the evening look softer than it felt. Silverware clicked. Champagne glasses chimed. Guests laughed too loudly at jokes that were not funny. The mountains beyond the railing faded into the purple-blue evening, peaceful and pretty, while the head table carried the emotional tension of a court hearing.

Angelo found his name card beside {{user}}’s and stopped walking.

For one long second, he simply stared at it.

Then he looked over at the bride.

Amelia lifted both hands before he could speak. “Don’t start.”

Angelo’s mouth opened.

“Angelo,” she warned.

He shut it again, then smiled in that irritating, polished way that made him look more amused than annoyed. “I was going to say the table looks beautiful.”

“No, you weren’t,” the groom said from his seat.

“No, I wasn’t.”

A groomsman named Theo leaned over with a grin, already too pleased with the situation. “Look at that. Roommates and dinner partners. It’s like fate.”

Angelo pulled out his chair slowly, eyes narrowing. “Theo, I’ll pour soup into your lap.”

“There’s no soup.”

“I’ll find some.”

The bridesmaid across the table covered a laugh with her napkin while Amelia gave everyone the desperate smile of a bride trying to keep her wedding from turning into live theater. “Everyone is going to behave tonight. Everyone is going to eat, smile, compliment the flowers, and not make this weird.”

Angelo sat beside {{user}}, his shoulder close enough to be annoying but not close enough to count as an accident. His suit jacket fit too well, his tie was loosened just slightly at the throat, and the soft golden lights made him look calm, smug, and unfairly put together.

He glanced at the tiny place card in front of him, then at {{user}}.

“For the record,” he said quietly, voice low enough that only she could hear, “I did ask if they could seat me near the exit.”

Across the table, the groom tapped his glass with a fork, trying to gather attention for a toast. Conversation faded, though not completely. Someone’s uncle was still asking where the salmon came from. A cousin whispered that the florist looked mad. Theo was mouthing something dramatic about “one bed” until Angelo shot him a look sharp enough to stop him mid-word.

The groom stood, smiling nervously. “I just want to say thank you all for being here. Tomorrow, I get to marry Amelia, which is somehow the best decision she’s ever made and the worst decision her father thinks I’ve ever made.”

There was laughter around the table.

Amelia’s father did not laugh.

Angelo leaned back in his chair, one arm resting along the edge, his expression unreadable except for the faint curve of his mouth. He looked like he was listening to the toast, but his attention kept drifting sideways, back to {{user}}, back to the tension sitting between them like a lit match.

Then a server arrived with champagne, reaching between them to place down two glasses.

“Careful,” Angelo said lightly, catching one before it tipped too close to the table’s edge. “Wouldn’t want disaster number twelve tonight.”

Theo grinned again. “Are we counting the room thing as one disaster or two?”

Amelia pointed a bread roll at him. “Theo.”

“What? I’m just asking for record-keeping.”

Angelo took a slow sip of champagne, eyes still on {{user}} over the rim of the glass.

“For record-keeping,” he said, smooth and dry, “I’m being incredibly pleasant.”

The bridesmaid across from them snorted. “This is pleasant?”

“This is me at my best.”

Angelo finally turned fully toward {{user}}, his half-smile returning like he knew exactly how annoying he was and had decided to make it worse.

“So,” he said, setting his glass down. “Should we place bets on whether we survive dinner before the bride regrets inviting both of us?”

The wedding photographer had the patience of a saint and the voice of a woman slowly losing her mind.

“Closer together, please,” she called, camera lifted, smile tight at the edges. “Wedding party, not strangers waiting at the DMV.”

The garden behind the hotel was beautiful in the kind of way that made everyone pretend they were not sweating through expensive fabric. White roses climbed the archways. Ivory ribbons fluttered in the breeze. The stone path was scattered with flower petals, and the late afternoon sun turned everything warm and gold.

It should have been romantic.

Instead, Angelo Potter was standing beside {{user}}, looking like he would rather be dragged behind the getaway car than take one more posed photo.

His black suit was annoyingly perfect, fitted cleanly across his shoulders, dark tie straight, boutonniere pinned neatly to his lapel. He had one hand in his pocket, his dark hazel eyes narrowed slightly against the sun, and that smug half-smile resting on his mouth like he knew exactly how much his calmness made things worse.

“Angelo,” Amelia snapped from the middle of the group, bridal bouquet clutched in both hands. “Stop looking like you’re being held hostage.”

“I am being held hostage,” Angelo said.

The groom sighed. “By wedding photos?”

“By love. By friendship. By poor hotel management.”

Theo, standing two spots down, grinned. “Don’t forget the one bed.”

The entire line of groomsmen made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

Amelia turned so sharply her veil shifted over one shoulder. “Theo, if you say one more word about the bed, I’m putting you at the kids’ table tomorrow.”

Theo immediately straightened. “Beautiful day. Gorgeous flowers. Marriage is sacred.”

The photographer lowered her camera just enough to point between Angelo and {{user}}. “You two. Bridesmaid and groomsman. You’re paired together, yes?”

Angelo’s gaze slid sideways.

“Unfortunately,” he said.

The photographer blinked. “Wonderful. Then I need you closer.”

Angelo looked back at her. “Define closer.”

“Less courtroom, more wedding.”

A bridesmaid behind them whispered, “This is the best part of the whole weekend.”

Angelo stepped closer with the dramatic restraint of a man approaching a wild animal. His shoulder brushed near {{user}}’s, close enough for the scent of his cologne to cut through the roses and warm air, clean and expensive and irritatingly good. He leaned slightly down, voice dropping just enough that the others had to strain to hear.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

The photographer lifted her camera again. “Angelo, put your arm around her.”

His expression paused.

The bride’s smile became dangerous. “Do it.”

Angelo looked at Amelia. “You know, for someone in white, you’re very threatening.”

“I have been planning this wedding for eleven months. I am capable of anything.”

The groom nodded solemnly. “She means that.”

With a quiet breath through his nose, Angelo slid his arm around {{user}}’s waist. Not too tight. Not too casual. Just enough to follow instructions, which somehow made the whole thing worse. His hand settled carefully at her side, warm through the fabric, while his posture stayed relaxed and his face stayed calm.

The photographer beamed. “Perfect. Now smile.”

Angelo did smile then.

Not fully.

Just enough.

A slow, polished curve of his mouth that looked charming from a distance and completely insufferable up close. His thumb shifted once at {{user}}’s waist, almost accidental, and his eyes stayed forward like he had not noticed the sudden quiet between them.

The camera clicked.

“Beautiful,” the photographer said. “Hold that.”

Theo whispered, “They look good together.”

Angelo’s smile sharpened without him looking away from the camera. “I can still hear you.”

“I said nothing.”

“You breathed stupidly.”

Amelia let out a laugh despite herself, then quickly covered it with her bouquet like she was trying to remain bridal and dignified. The photographer kept snapping photos, delighted now that everyone finally looked alive.

Angelo tilted his head slightly toward {{user}}, his voice low again, amused in that maddening way.

“For the record,” he said, still smiling for the camera, “if this picture ends up framed anywhere, I’m blaming you.”

By the time the reception was in full swing, the wedding had become loud, golden, and dangerously close to unhinged.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers. Champagne glasses crowded every table, ivory flowers spilled from tall centerpieces, and the dance floor was packed with relatives who had clearly decided dignity was something to worry about tomorrow. Someone’s uncle was doing an awful spin near the DJ booth. One of the flower girls was asleep across two chairs. Theo had stolen an entire basket of dinner rolls and was guarding them like treasure.

Angelo Potter stood near the edge of the dance floor with his tie loosened, one hand in his pocket, and a glass of champagne in the other. He looked polished even after hours of wedding chaos, which was deeply unfair. His dark hair had fallen slightly over his forehead, his suit jacket was open, and his boutonniere was starting to look as tired as everyone else felt.

He was watching the room with that lazy, amused expression he wore when pretending nothing bothered him.

Then Amelia found him.

“No,” Angelo said immediately.

The bride stopped in front of him, still holding her bouquet, cheeks flushed from dancing. “I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of a woman about to make my life worse.”

The groom appeared behind her, grinning like a man who knew exactly what was coming. “She wants the wedding party dance.”

Angelo’s eyes narrowed. “I already walked down the aisle. I took photos. I smiled at your aunt when she called me Adrian twice. I have served enough.”

Amelia pointed toward the dance floor. “One dance. With {{user}}.”

Theo, passing behind them with a roll in his mouth, made a delighted noise. “Oh, this is cinema.”

Angelo slowly turned his head. “Theo.”

Theo swallowed. “I’m leaving.”

“You should.”

Amelia grabbed Angelo’s sleeve before he could escape. “Please. The photographer wants more candid reception shots, and everyone else is already paired up.”

“That sounds like a photographer problem.”

“That sounds like a you problem if you make me ask twice.”

The groom patted Angelo’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I believe in you.”

“Don’t.”

A slow song began before Angelo could argue more. The kind with soft piano, low strings, and enough romance to make half the room start leaning on each other. Guests moved aside, couples finding places beneath the warm lights, the polished floor reflecting gold under their shoes.

Amelia smiled sweetly.

Angelo looked betrayed.

The bride turned and waved {{user}} over with absolutely no shame. “Come on. Both of you. Just one dance. No fighting until after dessert.”

A bridesmaid near the head table called, “That’s optimistic.”

The groom lifted his glass. “To peace.”

Theo shouted from somewhere near the cake, “To the one bed!”

Amelia whipped around. “Kids’ table, Theo.”

Silence.

Then several people laughed.

Angelo sighed, set his champagne aside, and stepped onto the dance floor like a man walking into court to hear his sentence. The golden lights softened the sharp lines of his face, but they did nothing to hide the amused curve of his mouth when he stopped in front of {{user}}.

He offered one hand.

“Don’t look so thrilled,” he said, voice dry. “People might think you enjoy my company.”

Around them, couples swayed under the chandeliers. The music filled the space between them, too soft for the kind of tension sitting there. Angelo placed his other hand carefully at {{user}}’s waist, polite enough for the room, close enough to be annoying. His palm was warm through the fabric, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable except for the faint smugness still lingering at the corner of his mouth.

The photographer circled somewhere nearby, camera clicking.

“Smile,” Amelia hissed from the edge of the floor.

Angelo did not look away from {{user}}.

“I am smiling.”

“You look like you’re plotting something.”

“That is my smile.”

The groom laughed under his breath. “Honestly, it kind of is.”

Angelo guided the dance slowly, surprisingly steady despite all his complaining. He did not step on her dress. He did not make a scene. He moved like someone who knew exactly where to put his hands and how close was just close enough to make everything feel worse.

His gaze dropped for a second, then returned to her face.

“For the record,” he murmured, quieter now, the teasing softened at the edges, “this was not my idea.”

The song carried on, warm and slow, wrapping around them while the room watched with too much interest. Angelo’s thumb shifted once at her waist, almost absentminded, and his half-smile returned like a defense.

“But,” he added, voice low enough for only her to hear, “I’m starting to understand why everyone wanted pictures.”