Written Through These Amber Eyes

The reception hall was dressed in soft golds and late autumn whites. Candles flickered from every table, and the scent of eucalyptus floated above the clinking glasses and slow jazz.

Zeke stood near the dance floor, smile stiff beneath the weight of polished promises. His tuxedo fit perfectly, tailored to the life he was supposed to live.

Eliza looked radiant, the kind of beautiful that came from knowing someone loved you, from believing it without question. She danced with her father, then her sister, then pulled Zeke into a slow waltz that felt like sleepwalking.

“You okay?” she asked, forehead pressed against his.

“Yes,” Zeke whispered.

Across the room, someone new had just walked in.

Scottie.

He wasn’t wearing anything formal, just a black turtleneck and a long coat. Hair slightly wind-tousled. He looked like he had stepped out of a different season entirely or maybe a different story.

Zeke froze mid-step.

Scottie’s eyes met his across the dance floor. They were not sharp nor accusing; they were steady. The kind of gaze you couldn’t run from because it didn’t chase you. It just stood there and asked you to be honest.

And for a second, the entire room faded.

Zeke barely registered the friend at the far table. Devin, probably the only one who ever caught on. Devin, who had once cornered him at a bar in July and asked, “You ever gonna tell her what you keep running toward every summer?”

Apparently, Devid had answered that question himself.

The plus-one invitation had been addressed without a name. Scottie knew, though, and now he was here.

Not to stop the wedding, not to beg for honesty. To see the truth.