Chapter Text
You wake up wrong.
Not slowly.
Not gently.
Not even all the way at first.
Just, awake.
It hits you all at once. Awareness slamming back into place like something dropped from too high, too fast. No adjustment period. No soft landing. Just your body snapping into consciousness like it forgot to ease you into it.
Your head throbs immediately. Deep. Pulsing. Unforgiving. Like something is knocking from the inside of your skull, trying to get out. Your mouth is dry in that specific, awful way that feels like you forgot to drink water for a week straight, and the light cutting through the blinds.
God.
The light.
It feels aggressive. Personal. Like it chose you specifically to ruin.
You groan, dragging your arm over your face, pressing your forearm hard into your eyes like maybe you can force yourself back under. It doesn’t work. Nothing does.
You lie there for a second, breathing through it. Slow. Careful. Like if you move too fast, something worse might happen.
Something’s wrong. You don’t know what yet, but you can feel it. That quiet, creeping sense that something doesn’t line up.
“…okay,” you mumble. “Okay.”
Last night. There was a shift.
You latch onto that first because it’s easy.
Familiar.
The bar, loud, packed, sticky floors, bad music, worse perfume, tourists who thought volume counted as personality.
You’d been tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes everything feel like it’s happening half a second too late.
And then, there was a guy.
Dark hair.
Tall.
Quiet in a room full of people performing. He hadn’t been trying to get your attention. That’s why you noticed him.
Your stomach flips faintly.
And then memory slips in, warm, bright, loud—
You remember leaning against the bar across from him, one hand braced on the sticky wood, watching him over the rim of someone else’s drink.
“You look miserable.”
His eyes had lifted to yours. Slow. Steady.
“That your opening line?”
“It felt honest.”
He tipped his glass slightly. “You always this rude to strangers?”
“Only the hot ones.”
That had caught him off guard just enough to matter.
Not a full smile. Not yet. Just that small shift at the corner of his mouth that told you he was trying not to laugh and maybe losing.
“Good to know your screening process is thorough,” he’d said.
You’d leaned on the bar. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”
He’d looked at you for one beat too long.
“No,” he’d said. “I was gonna tell you I’ve had worse openings.”
You exhale slowly.
Yeah. That part. You talked to him.
Not just talked.
Flirted.
A lot.
“Where are you from?”
He’d looked up at that, one forearm resting against the bar. “Pittsburgh.”
You huffed a quiet laugh and shook your head, setting the bottle in your hand down. “And you’re still this unimpressed?”
He glanced up at you. “You just met me.”
You stepped closer without really meaning to, your hip brushing the edge of the bar as you tipped your head at him. “Maybe. But I can already tell you’re bad at this.”
His mouth twitched. “At what?”
“Having fun.”
He swirled what was left in his glass once, eyes still on yours. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” you said, leaning in just a little more. “You’re doing Vegas wrong.”
That had gotten a real smile out of him.
Small. Crooked. Better than the first.
“So why are you here?”
He’d hesitated just long enough to make it feel like a choice.
“Traveling.”
“Traveling,” you’d repeated. “Like fun traveling or divorced-man-with-a-duffel-bag traveling?”
That had gotten him.
A laugh. Low. Warm. Quick.
“Neither.”
“Okay, mysterious. So what kind?”
He’d taken a sip, then, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you at all.
“Just taking a break at life. Figured I’d disappear for a while.”
You blinked at him once, then snorted.
“Wow. That’s either mysterious or deeply concerning.”
His mouth tipped slightly. “That what that sounds like?”
“You’re in Vegas alone talking about disappearing,” you said. “Yeah. I have questions.”
“Do you?”
“Several.”
Then you leaned in just a little, grin creeping back in.
“Should I be worried or intrigued?”
Another small pause, just enough to feel intentional.
“Which one are you going with?” he asked.
You held his gaze.
“Definitely intrigued.”
That one still lands.
You smile despite yourself and instantly regret it because your head protests. Still, you remember leaning farther over the bar. Remember the way he looked at you when you stopped feeling like part of the crowd and started feeling like the only interesting thing in the room.
“So what, you’re soul-searching your way across America?”
“Something like that.”
“In Vegas?”
He’d tipped his head. “Didn’t say I was good at it.”
And you, God, of course you—
“Oh, honey. If you actually want a soul-searching experience in Vegas, you need a local.”
His eyes had come back to you sharper then. Interested.
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“And where exactly would I find one?”
You’d leaned in just enough to make it obvious.
“You’re looking at one.”
His gaze had dropped, quick but not quick enough. Straight to your mouth, then back up.
“That so?”
“Mhm.”
“And you’d be willing to help me with my ‘soul searching’ sabbatical?”
You’d smiled. Slow. Shameless.
“I’d be honored to be part of your journey.”
That had gotten him. A real grin that time. Not hidden. Not accidental. Warm.
“Very generous of you.”
“I’m community-minded.”
“Are you?”
“Only when I think it’s worth it.”
That had landed. You could see it in the way his expression shifted, subtle, but there. Less detached. More aware.
“And you think this is worth it?”
You’d held his gaze.
“I think you’re bored,” you’d said. “And I think I could fix that.”
He’d let out a quiet laugh, but his eyes hadn’t left yours.
“That sounds like false advertising.”
“Probably,” you’d said. “But I’m fun.”
“I’m getting that.”
“And you’re curious.”
“About what?”
“About whether I’m as fun as I think I am.”
That had hung there. A beat too long. Not awkward. Just charged.
His fingers had tapped once lightly against his glass before he set it down.
“And if I am?”
You’d shrugged, casual, like you hadn’t just tilted the whole conversation.
“Then I’ll show you around.”
“And if you’re not?”
You’d smiled, just a little sharper.
“Then you can go back to your very serious sabbatical and pretend this never happened.”
He’d huffed a laugh, shaking his head once.
“You always this confident?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“And you’re right now?”
You’d leaned in just enough to drop your voice.
“Yeah.”
Another beat. Closer this time. The noise of the bar fading just slightly around the edges.
He’d looked at you like he was deciding something.
“Alright,” he’d said.
Your eyes open. The ceiling is too bright. The room too still. And then the sheets shift against your bare skin.
You freeze.
Slowly, you look down.
Yeah.
Okay.
That explains part of it.
You’re naked.
Completely.
“…great.”
You let your head fall back.
“Fantastic.”
Your brain keeps going anyway. Because of course it does.
You’d smiled at him. Slow. Satisfied.
“Alright?”
“Show me around.”
“Careful,” you’d said. “That’s how bad decisions start.”
He’d picked up his glass and finished it in one go.
“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
You sit up slowly. The room tilts. Hard. Then settles in a way that doesn’t feel reassuring at all.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Think.”
Walking. You remember walking. Warm air. Neon. Crowds. Music spilling into the street. His shoulder brushing yours once, then again and neither of you moving away after.
That part.
It feels important now.
“Do you trust me?”
“I trust you enough to be interested.”
“That’s kind of sexy of you.”
He’d laughed under his breath. “You say that to everyone?”
“Only the handsome, emotionally unavailable ones.”
“And you got all that from one drink?”
“One look.”
His brows had lifted. “Confident.”
“You like that.”
Then, easy, amused, and just drunk enough to be honest:
“Yeah,” he’d said. “Enough to get myself into trouble.”
Your stomach turns over. Not from the hangover. Or not just from that.
Casino.
There was definitely a casino.
Of course there was.
You’d dragged him through one. Probably more than one.
“This one,” you’d announced, slapping a slot machine like it owed you rent.
“This one looks cursed.”
“That’s why it’s lucky.”
“That logic feels unstable.”
“You’re in Vegas with me at…” You’d checked an invisible watch. “…whatever time it is. Stability is over.”
He’d leaned against the machine beside you, close enough that when you turned your head you caught the clean, sharp scent of him under the casino air.
He’d been smiling like he hated that you were funny.
You’d shoved money into the machine.
Lost immediately.
You’d looked up at him in outrage.
“You did that.”
“I did not.”
“You were doubting me with your whole body.”
He’d laughed. “That’s not how gambling works.”
“You don’t know. Maybe I’m spiritually responsive.”
“I believe that.”
You’d narrowed your eyes.
“Was that flirting?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
He’d looked at you for one beat.
“Is it working?”
You’d smiled before you could stop yourself. “Maybe.”
His mouth had tipped at one corner.
“Dangerous answer.”
“For who?”
This time his smile had come quicker.
“Still figuring that out.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and freeze. Something white is on the floor.
Crumpled.
Your eyes narrow. You lean down slowly.
Fabric.
Thin. Cheap. Short.
A dress.
Not yours. Definitely not yours.
And next to it—
a veil.
Small.
Ridiculous.
Plastic-edged.
Your brain goes very, very quiet.
“…no.”
Your gaze drops to your hand. And there it is.
A ring.
Silver band.
Cheap diamond.
Your breath catches.
“No—”
Memory slams back harder this time.
Blackjack table.
You absolutely should not have been at a blackjack table.
The dealer looked exhausted.
You leaned toward him, dropping your voice like this was life or death. “What do I do?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
“You have kind eyes and a trustworthy face.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“It is.”
He leaned in anyway, shoulder brushing yours as he glanced at your cards. Close enough that you felt it, warm, steady, not pulling away.
“Hit.”
You didn’t hesitate.
The card slid across the table.
You leaned in. He did too. Your arms bumped, neither of you moved.
“…wait,” you said.
The dealer flipped.
Busted.
You won.
For half a second, you just stared at the table, then your head snapped toward him, grabbing his arm without thinking.
“You did that.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.”
“That was luck.”
“That was us,” you shot back, still holding onto him.
That got him.
A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand coming up like he was trying to contain it and failing.
You pointed at him, grinning. “Don’t play humble now. You told me to hit.”
“You listened,” he said, still smiling.
“Because I trust you,” you said, a little too easily.
That shifted something. Just slightly.
He looked at you for a beat longer than before.
“Dangerous decision.”
“Worked out.”
You leaned in closer, not letting go of his arm yet, lowering your voice like it mattered.
“You wanna double down?”
His brows lifted. “Already pushing your luck?”
“I’m on a streak.”
“You won one hand.”
“Confidence is important.”
“That’s not what that is.”
You smiled. Slow.
“It is if you’re doing it right.” You tilted your head toward the table, playful, reckless. “Hit me again.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he stayed right where he was.
You played again.
Won again.
This time you didn’t even try to pretend you were calm about it.
“Oh, come on—” you laughed, grabbing his arm again, closer now. “That’s not normal.”
“That’s still luck.”
“No, this is a pattern,” you insisted.
“That’s not how patterns work.”
“That’s because you’re not thinking like a winner.”
He looked at you, amused, a little sharper now. “And you are?”
“I just proved it twice.”
Then you leaned in just enough to blur the line between joking and not.
“That was foreplay.”
That had gotten him.
A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand over his mouth like he was trying to contain it and failing.
You watched him, delighted.
“Oh, you are fun drunk.”
He looked back at you, eyes warm, something a little looser there now.
“You say that like you aren’t.”
“I’m always like this.”
“Then I’m definitely in trouble.”
“You’re still standing here.”
His gaze dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back up.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Don’t think I’m trying that hard to leave.”
And for a second, just one, the noise of the casino felt farther away.
You stand too quickly.
The room tilts. You catch yourself on the nightstand.
“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”
Your eyes go back to the dress. The veil. The ring.
Your heart is moving too fast now. Because your brain is finally catching up.
A gift shop.
No—
a bridal gift shop.
Or some tiny Vegas store built entirely to profit off impulse and intoxication.
You’d been half laughing, half stumbling through one of those tiny Vegas stores where every shelf looked like it had been stocked by somebody going through a public breakdown.
Plastic tiaras. Rhinestone veils. Shot glasses with phrases nobody should say out loud.
You’d turned toward him with a rhinestone tiara on your head.
“Be honest.”
“No.”
“That’s not honesty.”
“That’s self-preservation.”
You’d put it on anyway.
“Now?”
He’d looked at you.
Actually looked.
And this time he hadn’t answered right away.
“What?” you’d asked.
He’d leaned one shoulder against the shelf, looking at you in the tiny veil like he was trying not to say exactly what he was thinking.
“You always this committed once you start a bad idea?”
“Only if I look good doing it.”
That small smile again.
“You do.”
You had frozen for half a second.
“Wow. Was that a compliment?”
He tipped his head slightly, watching you. “You always push like this?”
You stepped a little closer, closing the space between you like it was nothing, adjusting the edge of the veil where it sat in your hair, just enough to give yourself a reason to be near him.
“Only when it’s working.”
Your hand dropped, brushing lightly against his where it rested at his side, not quite lingering.
You glanced up at him through the mirror, a small smile pulling at your mouth.
“Is it working?”
His eyes dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back to yours in the reflection.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”
You close your eyes.
Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.
Because this would all be easier if he’d been boring.
Meaner, too.
God forbid the man you accidentally married in Vegas had been easy to dismiss.
Then, the chapel.
Your stomach drops straight through you.
You were standing outside the doors with him, both of you staring at the sign like two people who absolutely should not be here.
White trim. Fake roses. Gold script.
You glanced at it, then at him, already smiling.
“Well?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”
You stepped closer, your hand catching his arm like it belonged there.
“You coming or what?”
His mouth tipped. “You always this convincing?”
You pulled him with you. “Only when I want something.”
That got a look out of him.
A real one this time.
“And you usually get it?”
You stepped in closer instead of answering, your hand sliding down his arm before letting go.
“You tell me.”
His eyes dropped, then came back to yours.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think you do.”
You smiled, then turned and pushed the door open.
That one lands even now. Because that’s the thing: you both could have left.
You didn’t.
You scan the room fast.
Bed. Bathroom. Closet. Chair. Floor.
Nothing.
No him.
No clothes that aren’t yours.
No note.
Then your gaze catches on the small table by the window.
A photo.
Face down.
And next to it, paper.
Your stomach drops so fast it feels like you missed a stair. You don’t move right away. Like if you don’t go near it, it won’t become real.
Then you do.
Slowly.
You pick up the photo first. Turn it over. And there you are.
You.
And him.
Standing in front of a chapel backdrop with fake flowers and soft bad lighting.
You’re laughing.
He’s looking at you instead of the camera.
There’s a small, unwilling smile on his mouth like it escaped without permission.
Dark hair a little wrecked.
Tie crooked.
The both of you looking like exactly the kind of trouble that should come with a legal warning.
Your thumb presses against the edge of the photo.
“…oh my god.”
You set it down and pick up the paper. It’s heavier than it should be.
Official-looking. Real.
Marriage Certificate.
Your name.
Clear.
Undeniable.
And underneath—
Michael Robinavitch.
You stare at it.
Blink once. Then again.
Michael Robinavitch.
The stranger from the bar has a name.
A real one. A whole one. A deeply legal-sounding one.
Michael.
Your husband.
Your grip tightens.
“No,” you whisper.
But there’s no weight behind it. Because it’s right there. And the memories won’t stop.
The officiant asked something about vows. You both said no at the same time. You looked at each other.
Laughed.
The officiant sighed.
Then his name—
Full. Formal. Too serious for the room. You turned toward him, already smiling, already gone.
“That sounds fake.”
You grabbed his arm, laughing, bending into him like you couldn’t hold yourself up.
“Oh my god—”
The room went quiet.
He turned his head toward you slowly, eyes on yours, something sharp tucked behind the amusement.
“You’re being very disrespectful to your future husband.”
That made it worse.
You laughed harder, clutching at him, forehead nearly hitting his shoulder.
“Oh my god—future husband?”
“You’re the one in a veil.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means enough.”
He was laughing now too, closer, leaning into you like he’d stopped pretending to keep any distance at all.
You pointed at him, still breathless.
“There you are.”
His attention locked on you. Didn’t move. Didn’t drift.
“You’re trouble.”
“You like me.”
You stepped in closer as you said it, no space left now, your hand still curled in his sleeve.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Came back up.
“Yeah.”
Simple.
Not a joke anymore.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.
“Too late.”
“For what?”
You leaned in just enough that your voices didn’t have to carry.
“Anything else.”
That did it.
His hand found your waist, firm, like he wasn’t guessing anymore.
Then the kiss.
Quick at first, crooked, both of you still laughing into it, breath uneven, mouths not quite lining up because neither of you slowed down enough to make it neat.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, still close, still holding onto him.
“How was it, husband?”
His hand stayed where it was.
Thumb shifting once.
“Rushed.”
You laughed, softer now.
“Oh, you want another?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Just looked at you.
“Yeah.”
That was all it took.
You kissed him again, this time slower, still smiling when you leaned in, until you weren’t.
The room is suddenly too quiet.
You look up again.
Nothing.
No note.
No shoes.
No jacket.
No Michael.
Just the evidence.
And somehow that’s worse.
You walk back to the bed slowly, certificate still in your hand. Each step feels heavier than it should. Like something shifted while you weren’t paying attention. Like you crossed a line somewhere between last call and sunrise and woke up legally tied to a man whose laugh is still stuck in the back of your head.
You sit down.
The sheets are still warm in places.
Your stomach twists.
You don’t think about that. Not even a little. Because that leads to other thoughts. And you are not emotionally equipped for that right now. More memory anyway. Because your brain is not on your side.
There had been room service fries.
Something salty between you on the bed while you sat cross-legged in that tiny white dress, still wearing the veil because taking it off had somehow become part of the bit.
You leaned forward, reaching across without asking, fingers sliding into his space to steal a fry from his side.
His hand shifted just slightly under yours.
“You have your own.”
You didn’t move back.
“These are husband fries.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, slower this time. “That supposed to mean something?”
You smiled, small. “It already does.”
You ate it, still watching him.
Then you reached again, slower now. Your fingers brushing him this time. Not accidental. Not quick.
His hand didn’t move away.
“Careful,” he said, voice lower than it had been a second ago.
“Why?”
Your thumb grazed the edge of his knuckle as you took another fry.
“Because you’re starting to sound like you mean it.”
You leaned in just a little, close enough that your knees brushed his under the table.
“Maybe I do.”
That changed something.
Subtle.
But there.
His gaze dropped, your mouth, your hand, the way you were still in his space, then came back up slower than before.
“You married me,” you added, softer now.
His jaw shifted once.
“That’s what happened.”
You tilted your head, studying him like you were figuring something out in real time.
“Then I get to take what I want.”
His hand turned slightly under yours. Not pulling away. Not quite holding on.
“You’ve been doing that all night.”
“Yeah,” you said, just as quiet.
Your fingers lingered this time when you reached across again.
Didn’t pretend it was about the fries anymore.
“Still here.”
His thumb moved, barely, against your hand.
“Yeah.”
That one landed different.
Closer.
Heavier.
And for a second neither of you smiled.
That’s the part that gets you.
Not the chapel.
Not the kiss.
Not even the certificate.
That.
That tiny little pause in the middle of all the chaos where, for one second, it had almost stopped being a joke.
You exhale slowly.
This would be so much easier if the whole thing had been stupid in a simple way. Instead, it had been stupid and fun and weirdly good.
Which, frankly, feels rude.
You look down at the certificate again.
Michael Robinavitch.
You don’t know him. Not really. But you know how he laughs. You know the way he looks at you when you say something ridiculous. You know he flirted back like it was somehow your fault he was enjoying himself. You know he stayed.
All night.
And now—
he’s gone.
“…well.”
You fall back onto the bed, arm over your eyes.
“Well fuck.”
The room, unhelpfully, remains silent. You lie there for another second.
Then another.
Then, because apparently the universe has decided humiliation is a full-service experience, your stomach gives a long, ugly roll.
You slap a hand over your mouth and sit bolt upright.
“Oh, no.”
You scramble out of bed, half blinded by light and panic, grab the sheet because modesty apparently matters again now for some reason, and lurch toward the bathroom.
Cool tile under your feet.
Too-bright mirror.
A version of yourself that looks exactly like somebody who got drunk, married a handsome stranger, and woke up alone in a hotel room with legal documentation.
You glare at your reflection. Your hair is a crime scene. Your mascara is somewhere below your eyes now. There’s glitter on one shoulder. You don’t remember wearing glitter.
That feels insulting.
You lean over the sink and breathe through the nausea until it passes just enough to leave you shaky instead of actively dying.
Then you straighten, slowly, and look at yourself again. At the ring. At the sheet you’re clutching around yourself like that’s the thing preserving your dignity.
“You’re an idiot,” you tell the mirror.
Mirror-you looks unconcerned. You rub a hand over your face. Then, because self-pity is apparently not stronger than curiosity, you go back out into the room.
The dress is still there. The veil too.
And now that you’re looking at them with slightly more functioning eyesight, the whole thing is somehow worse.
The dress is cheap in a very specific Vegas way. Not ugly exactly. Just aggressively committed to the bit. Short hem. Thin straps. White fabric with just enough shimmer to look bridal under bad lighting and suspicious under natural light.
You crouch carefully, very carefully, and pick it up between two fingers like it might accuse you. There’s a price tag still attached. You stare at it. Then bark out one shocked laugh.
“You bought the clearance dress?”
You don’t know who you’re asking. Michael is not here to defend himself. The room remains unsupportive. The veil is even worse. Tiny comb. Rhinestone trim. One sad little layer of tulle.
You hold it up.
It looks like something a bachelorette party would dare the least stable friend to wear on Fremont Street.
You did wear it. You wore it while getting legally married.
“Unbelievable.”
You let it drop back to the floor and straighten with the dress still in hand. There’s a chair by the window with your regular clothes draped over the back of it. At least one of you had the sense, or Michael had the sense, to put them somewhere that wasn’t the hallway.
Your shoes are under the chair. One upright. One on its side. Your purse is on the desk. You immediately cross to it and check.
Phone.
Wallet.
Keys.
Cards.
Everything seems to be there. No mysterious missing money. No evidence that you were robbed by your husband, which feels like the kind of standard you shouldn’t be relieved about and yet.
You unlock your phone. Battery at twelve percent. The screen is a graveyard of unread texts.
One from your coworker asking if you got home okay.
One from another asking if you can take her Saturday shift, which at this point feels emotionally offensive.
A blurry selfie of you and two girls from the bar at the start of the night, all eyeliner and bad intentions.
No messages from an unknown number.
No “had fun last night.”
No “sorry I vanished.”
No “by the way we’re legally married.”
Nothing.
You check your recent photos.
There are too many.
Of course there are.
The first few are normal.
Bottles lined up behind the bar.
A shot of somebody’s ridiculous birthday sash.
Then it devolves.
Fast.
A picture of a slot machine.
A close-up of your own face, smiling too wide.
A blurry shot of Michael from across what looks like a blackjack table, his head slightly turned, expression unimpressed, one eyebrow halfway up like he’d caught you taking it.
You stare at that one longer than you mean to.
Even blurred, he looks like himself. Quiet. Sharp. Mildly exasperated by everything around him.
There’s another one.
The Elvis.
You and Michael on either side of him, both looking deeply unconvinced in very different ways. You’re beaming. Michael looks like he’s accepted that resistance has failed him spiritually.
You laugh despite yourself.
Then there’s the gift shop.
A picture of Michael holding the BRIDE tiara with exactly two fingers, looking assumed.
Then—
the chapel sign.
Then—
oh no.
A selfie of you in the veil and him in the background, slightly out of focus, jacket off, tie crooked, caught mid-look in your direction.
Your stomach flips. Because even there, even in a half-blurred phone photo, it’s obvious.
He’d been in it.
Not just physically there.
In it.
With you.
And that makes everything worse.
And then the final one. The photo of the certificate after it had been signed.
Apparently you documented that too.
“Jesus Christ.”
You drop the phone onto the bed and sit down beside it.
The mattress dips.
The ring catches the light again.
You twist it once around your finger.
Cheap. A little loose. Cold.
Still there.
There is a wildly irresponsible part of your brain that wants to laugh. The larger, more functioning part wants to scream into a pillow. You settle for putting your face in your hands.
Think.
Okay.
Okay.
What do you know?
You know his name is Michael Robinavitch. You know he was real. You know you liked him. Not in a profound, life-altering way. You’re not insane.
But you liked him.
You liked talking to him. You liked dragging reactions out of him. You liked the way he flirted back like he wasn’t planning to and then suddenly very much was. You liked the way his face changed when he laughed. You liked the way he looked at you when he stopped pretending this was just entertainment.
You know he left.
That part sits the heaviest.
Not because he owed you forever. But he sure as hell owed you something.
A note.
A number.
A five-second conversation before disappearing into the Nevada morning like some kind of emotionally constipated magician.
Something.
Because this?
This was bullshit.
You got drunk and married each other.
That feels like the kind of thing that should come with at least the bare minimum of follow-through.
Instead, he just—
left.
No explanation. No number. No scribbled note on hotel stationery. No hey, ‘last night was insane, call me when you’re less hungover.’
Nothing.
Just gone.
And no, actually, that was rude as hell.
You stare at the marriage certificate in your hand, then at the empty room again like he might somehow reappear just so you can be mad at him properly.
Because what the fuck was that?
You don’t get to marry someone in Vegas and then vanish before they wake up like this was some kind of weird tax scam.
And that shifts it. Just slightly. From hilarious disaster to something that doesn’t sit right. Something sharper around the edges. Because now it’s not just ridiculous. Now it’s embarrassing.
Now it’s you waking up naked in a hotel room with a ring on your finger and a legal document in your hand while your husband, your actual husband, God help you, is nowhere to be found.
You don’t like the way that thought lands.
You shove it away immediately.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You are not going to spiral about the emotional cowardice of a man you accidentally married before you’ve had water, aspirin, and maybe divine intervention.
You grab the complimentary hotel pen from the desk. Then the hotel notepad. Then stare at both of them.
“What am I doing.”
Still, you write it down anyway.
Michael Robinavitch.
The letters look strange in your handwriting. Too formal. Too real. Too much like something that exists outside this room.
You stare at the name. Try to hear it the way the officiant said it. Try to hear your own laugh right after.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing about this looks better written down.
You set the pen aside and flop back onto the bed, one arm thrown over your face.
The room is still too bright.
Your head still hurts.
You’re still naked under a hotel sheet with a clearance bridal dress on the floor, a marriage certificate on the bed, and no idea where your husband went after apparently deciding basic decency was optional.
The absurdity of it finally crests.
A laugh slips out.
Small at first.
Then another.
It hurts, God, it hurts, but it’s there anyway, because what else are you supposed to do?
You got blackout-adjacent and married a man with the name of a tax attorney and the face of a very tired sin.
In Vegas.
After a shift.
Because apparently your survival instincts took the night off and left your dignity unsupervised.
You laugh again, then groan and press your palms into your eyes.
“This is so bad.”
It is.
It really, really is.
And yet, underneath the pounding headache and the anger and the rising logistical nightmare, there’s still that faint leftover spark of the night itself.
The joy of it.
The stupidity of it.
The reckless, bright, completely unhinged freedom of deciding, for a few hours, that consequences were for other people.
You don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
Probably worse.
Definitely worse.
You roll your head toward the window without moving your arm.
Too much light.
Too much day.
Eventually, you’re going to have to get up. Eventually, you’re going to have to shower, get dressed, and figure out what the hell you just did to your life. Eventually, you’re going to have to decide whether this is a funny story, a legal emergency, or the opening act of a full-blown personal crisis.
But not yet.
For one more second, you just lie there in it.
The ring on your finger.
His name on the paper beside you.
His laugh still caught somewhere in the back of your head.
And the last thing you said to him, maybe, dragging itself up through the haze with humiliating clarity:
“Don’t ditch me, husband.”
You go still.
Then very slowly lower your arm from your face and stare at the ceiling.
“…oh, you asshole.”
And then, because really there is nothing else left to say:
“Fuck me.”