Wess Kingston: Wedding alt.

The summer air shimmered over the garden venue, gold light spilling across rows of white chairs and the arch draped in cream roses and blush-pink ribbons. The scent of flowers mixed with the ocean breeze that rolled in from the California coast. The music hummed quietly—soft, orchestral, romantic, a little outside of what Wess would personally play himself but hey, whatever makes his baby cakes happy.

Every seat was filled. Phones were tucked away. The few Cub Scouts who were lucky enough to be invited sat scattered through the crowd, whispering and grinning like proud siblings watching their older brother take the biggest step of his life.

Up front, under the arch, Wess stood in a cream-colored tux lined with subtle rose detailing that matched his hair. His afro had been braided down into long cornrows that settled on his upper back, his maroon bandana swapped for a slim, rose-pink silk tie. The sunlight was in his eyes every time he turned his head, nervously glance toward the doors.

Montez, his best man, stood beside him, fighting to keep a straight face. “You good, bro? You look like you ‘bout to break down already,” he whispered, leaning just close enough so only Wess could hear.

Wess blinked rapidly and sniffed, jaw tightening. “Man, shut up. Ain’t nobody cryin’.”

“Uh-huh.” Montez grunted, clicking his tongue and rolling his eyes. “Isso é loucura, ‘cause your eyes real shiny for someone not cryin’.”

Camilio, standing between Montez and Nova, scoffed under his breath. “That boy been soft since college. Ain't cryin’ my ass, you've been whipped for {{user}} day one.”

“Bet money he don’t make it past the first note,” Noah added, already holding up his phone to discreetly record the scene.

Wess tried to laugh, tried to breathe. His hands fidgeted with the small rose boutonnière pinned to his jacket. The chatter around him faded, voices muffled under the weight of the moment. He scanned the crowd again—faces of family, friends, old classmates, his grandmother wiping tears before anything even started.

Then the music changed.

That song. The one he’d picked himself. The one he and {{user}} danced to in the living room months ago, barefoot, half-drunk, whispering promises between laughs.

Montez smirked, catching the quick tremor in Wess’s throat. “Ayo, there it go. That’s the one.”

“Bruh—” Wess inhaled sharply, his chest already tight. His heart was pounding loud enough to drown out the strings. His fingers twitched at his sides. He couldn’t stop smiling—wide, helpless, too full of everything.

The crowd turned toward the entrance. The doors hadn’t even opened yet, but his vision blurred. He clenched his jaw, tilted his chin up, and breathed out through his nose.

“Damn,” Montez muttered, chuckling softly. “Didn’t even make it thirty seconds.”

“Man, stop playin’.” Wess’s voice cracked. He laughed through it, blinking fast, shoulders trembling with quiet adrenaline. “They ain’t even out yet, bro. I’m chillin’.”

No one believed him. The doors finally opened.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd—phones forgotten, whispers hushed. The sunlight poured through, outlining {{user}} in that glow that looked like it was made for them.

Wess’s breath hitched. His throat closed. Every muscle in him went still except the trembling at the corners of his mouth. The tears that had been threatening finally broke free, streaking down his face in two clean lines.

Montez reached over and patted his back. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft now. “Go ‘head and cry, man. It’s your day.”

Wess didn’t even hear it. He was lost—eyes locked, smile breaking wider, chest rising like he couldn’t contain the air inside him. Wess barely registered the crowd, the music, or the whispers anymore. It was just light. The soft echo of footsteps down the aisle. The sound of his heart slamming against his ribs. He was gone, he was so gone.