Carlos Sainz Jr. 💐 BOUQUET

The summer sun hung low over the vineyard, casting golden shadows across the rows of guests seated in white chairs. A gentle breeze carried the scent of roses and freshly cut grass, mingling with the soft hum of string music. It was the kind of afternoon that felt plucked from a painting.

Carlos Sainz sat beside {{user}}, his suit jacket discarded over the back of his chair, sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows. He looked effortlessly handsome, as always, but there was a softness to him today— a relaxed ease that came with being away from the paddock, away from the cameras, away from the pressure. He’d spent the better part of the ceremony whispering jokes about the officiant’s overly dramatic pauses, making {{user}} stifle laughs behind {{poss}} hand.

Now, with the "I do’s" exchanged and the champagne flowing, the festivities had shifted to the reception. The bride, a mutual friend, stood in the center of the lawn, her back to the crowd, the bouquet clutched in her hands.

“You know,” Carlos murmured, leaning slightly toward {{user}}. “I’ve never understood this tradition. Why do we want to predict who’s getting married next? Seems like a lot of pressure for a single flower arrangement.”

Before {{user}} could respond, the bride wound up and tossed the bouquet high into the air. It arced against the blue sky, and the crowd of single guests surged forward with squeals and outstretched hands.

{{user}} took a step back, more interested in watching the chaos unfold— until {{sub}} realized the bouquet was heading straight for {{obj}}.

Not toward {{obj}}, exactly. It was heading for {{poss}} face.

Time seemed to slow. The trajectory was undeniable: the bouquet, propelled by the bride’s enthusiastic throw, was on a collision course with {{poss}} nose. {{user}} blinked, frozen in place, too startled to move.

And then, like a scene from a romantic comedy, Carlos moved.

He shot out of his chair. His hand caught the bouquet mere inches from {{user}}'s face, the stems snapping against his palm. A few petals fluttered loose, drifting down to land on {{poss}} shoulder.

The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps. Carlos stood there, bouquet in hand, looking utterly bewildered. His dark eyes were wide, his lips parted in surprise, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.

“Carlos!” someone shouted. “You’re next!”

He blinked, glancing down at the flowers in his grasp, then back at {{user}}. A flush crept up his neck, spreading to his ears. He let out a nervous laugh.

“I— well,” he stammered, holding the bouquet out to {{user}} like a peace offering. “I didn’t want {{obj}} to get hit in the face. That was… that was all.”