Adrian
I arrive early because I don’t trust myself to be late.
Matteo’s wedding is the kind of event that pretends it’s about love while actually being about witness—alliances counted, enemies measured, loyalty weighed by who shows up and who doesn’t. The venue is immaculate, pale stone and soft light, a cathedral repurposed into elegance. I brace for chaos anyway. History has taught me that when Serafina is anywhere nearby, order becomes a suggestion.
I tell myself I’m here for propriety. For closure. For the children who will hear about this day and expect me to have behaved like an adult.
I tell myself a lot of things.
Then I see her.
She stands near the back, half-turned toward a stained-glass window, the colors painting her cheekbones like a private benediction. She wears something dark and deliberate, cut to provoke without pleading. Her hair is pinned just enough to suggest restraint, not obedience. She looks like a question the room doesn’t dare answer.
Desire snaps between us instantly.
It’s physical—heat, memory, gravity—but it’s also something more dangerous: recognition. The kind that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that reminds you who you are when you stop pretending.
I stop walking. So does she. Across the aisle, across the years.
I shouldn’t go to her. I do anyway.
“Adrian,” she says when I’m close enough to hear her breathe.
“Serafina.”
Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back up, precise and controlled. “You came.”
“So did you.”
A beat. Then, softer: “We should stay away.”
I murmur it because saying it aloud feels like responsibility.
Neither of us moves.
The ceremony begins. Matteo walks the aisle with the kind of confidence that comes from believing he’s made peace with his past. Lucia follows, calm and luminous, her composure a quiet counterpoint to the murmurs. I watch Serafina watch them, the way her jaw sets, the way she refuses spectacle. Pride and something feral coexist in her posture. It’s beautiful. It’s dangerous.
“Are you all right?” I whisper.
She doesn’t look at me. “I’m composed.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She finally meets my gaze. “I’m alive.”
The vows pass like a tide—promises shaped to fit the room, applause rising on cue. When it’s done, when the kiss seals something I can’t undo, I expect release. I don’t get it.
At the reception, the music is low and intimate, the lights warm enough to blur edges. I keep finding her without trying. She keeps finding me the same way. Every conversation ends with our eyes returning to each other, like magnets pretending coincidence.
“You’re playing with fire,” I tell her when we end up near the terrace, away from the noise.
She smiles faintly. “You always mistake honesty for flame.”
“You’re standing too close.”
“Then step back.”
I don’t.
The night air cools my skin, does nothing for the heat under it. She leans on the balustrade, the city below glittering like temptation. I stand beside her, careful not to touch, acutely aware of every inch I don’t.
“This isn’t wise,” I say.
She laughs quietly. “Neither were we.”
A server passes. We accept drinks we don’t need. Our fingers brush as we do. Electricity flares, contained only by will.
“I meant what I said,” I add. “We should stay away.”
She tilts her head. “Why?”
Because I know where this goes. Because restraint has a shelf life. Because weddings make people reckless with truth.
“Because you’re married to no one now,” I say. “And he is.”
She flinches—just a little. “I’m not here to sabotage.”
“I know,” I say. “You’re here to witness.”
“And you?”
I meet her eyes. “I’m here to survive.”
Music swells behind us. Someone laughs too loudly. The night presses in.
“You smell like memory,” she says suddenly.
I swallow. “You always did that. Say things that undo me.”
“Then step back,” she repeats, softer.
“I can’t,” I admit.
Her breath catches. For a moment, the world narrows to the space between us. No touching. Just want. Just the ache of familiarity refusing to be erased by time or vows or good intentions.
“Adrian,” she says, my name a warning and an invitation both.
“Yes.”
“Don’t make me choose.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
A pause. Then, quietly: “I dreamed of you.”
The confession lands like a blow. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say it was kind,” she replies.
I look away, jaw tight. “This is not the place.”
“Is it ever?” she asks.
We stand there, breathing the same air, refusing the obvious, refusing to pretend it isn’t obvious. Somewhere inside, a line blurs.
“Dance with me,” she says.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Then don’t,” she answers, already moving back toward the floor.
I follow.
The music is slow, deliberate. We take positions opposite each other in the crowd, hands not touching, bodies angled just enough to communicate. We dance without contact, an intimacy more obscene than skin. Our eyes never leave each other.
“People are watching,” I murmur as we drift closer.
“Let them,” she says, echoing herself like a mantra.
Our hands finally meet—just fingers, just a question. The room exhales. We do not pull closer. We do not cross the last inch.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“So are you.”
“This is dangerous.”
“Then be careful,” she says, smiling like she knows I won’t be.
The song ends. Applause breaks the spell. We step apart, too quickly, like we’ve been burned. She smooths her dress. I adjust my jacket. We are civilized again.
“Go,” I say.
She nods. “You too.”
We don’t leave. We just stand there, facing different directions, tethered by something neither of us will name tonight.
As the night wears on, I catch Matteo’s eye across the room. There’s gratitude there. Relief. He believes the past is finally past.
I don’t correct him.
When Serafina finally slips away, I feel the loss like a bruise forming—dull at first, inevitable later. I step outside alone, the night cooler now, the city indifferent.
We should have stayed away.
We didn’t.
And as I breathe in, steadying myself, I know with ruthless clarity that this isn’t over. Not because of betrayal or cruelty, but because some truths refuse to be buried under ceremony.
Desire didn’t ask for permission.
It never has.
And tonight, at a wedding built on vows and witnesses, it reminded me—quietly, insistently—that some endings were never meant to be clean.