closed drabble.
“jixer.”
the way she said his name should’ve been a warning—flirty, amused, and dangerously close to disappointed. like a parent catching their toddler with a permanent marker and a very white wall.
he poked his head out from the guest room, goggles on, hair smoking slightly. “yeeees, darling heart?”
“you set the seating chart on fire, babes.”
“in my defense,” he said, waving a glowing circuit board, “it was for science.”
price exhaled slowly through her nose, like someone trying not to laugh during a funeral. “you plugged the centerpieces into the same circuit as the espresso machine.”
“they're ambient-reactive! when the older guests sigh too hard, the peonies sparkle.”
price stepped over a string of fairy lights, heels clicking across the hardwood, and eyed the wreckage: sparks still sizzling, a half-melted seating chart curling on the table, and jixer barefoot with glitter on his chest like he was in a kesha video. “you’re lucky you’re pretty,” she muttered.
he grinned, all mischief and puppyish charm. “you’ve said that before.”
“i’ve meant it every time.” she plucked the chart from the table with two fingers and blew on it like it was a marshmallow. then, before he could say something absurd, she leaned in and gave him a quick, fond kiss on the lips—warm and familiar. “also, heads up—i’m bringing a date tomorrow.”
jixer blinked. “what? to our wedding? who?”
"girl i’ve been sleeping with,” price replied casually, like she was reading off the weather report. “met her at work. sweet, but sharp. you’ll like her.”
“oh my god, i knew it,” jixer gasped, grabbing her shoulders like she’d just told him she won a Nobel Prize. “i have so many questions. is she hot? does she know i’m the platonic decoy husband? does she want glitter? does she like fireworks?”
price narrowed her eyes. “what the hell do fireworks have to do with—”
“because,” he whispered dramatically, lifting one finger into the air, “i rigged my suit. when we do our first dance? confetti blasts out of the lapels.”
she stared.
he beamed. “pink and gold. matches your eyeshadow.”
“you’re out of your mind.”
he pointed at her. “and you signed the wedding license, baby.”
she groaned, rubbing her temples. “i’m getting married in a circus tent to a human glitter bomb.”
he tapped her nose. “correction: a glitter bomb with rhythm. now come on, help me reprint the seating chart before the carnations riot again.”
she shook her head, following after him with the softest of laughs. god help her—he really was hers. at least until the fire marshal showed up.
