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Merry Kissmas in the Cotswolds

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female reader

Storyline: As maid of honour, you have one mission: give your best friend the perfect snowy Cotswolds Christmas wedding. Unfortunately, the groom’s best man is Pedro Pascal—chronically late, annoyingly charming, and the movie star who once called you “wound so tight it’s stressful.” Between a disastrous rehearsal, an impromptu rescue mission in the snow, and one almost-kiss, you’re determined not to fall for him… right up until a quiet Sunday morning and a piece of mistletoe change the script.

Genre: Christmas one-shot · Enemies-to-lovers · Winter wedding in the Cotswolds · Slow burn · some banter · some (very soft) angst · fluffy ending

Word count: roughly 17 k (I don't really know what happened ... I blame the Christmas spirit)

Note: Hello my lovelies, I hope you all had a great week so far and are feeling festive! Without much ado, I give you this little (ahem) Christmas one shot and wish all of you a Merry Christmas - stay safe and healthy and happy! As always, please let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

Merry Kissmas in the Cotswolds

Snow doesn’t fall so much as hover. It hangs in the air in thin, drifting veils as the taxi winds through the village, softening stone and slate and hedges into something out of a painting. The Cotswolds look exactly like the photos Holly spammed you with over the last months: honey-colored cottages leaning into narrow lanes, chimneys exhaling threads of smoke, warm rectangles of light in small-paned windows. Fairy lights loop around pub signs, wreaths hang on front doors like little crowns.

You ought to be taking it in, soaking up the romance of it all.

Instead, your thumb keeps flicking the side of your phone, waking the screen just long enough to check the time, then letting it go dark again.

You’re not late. You know you’re not late. You were on the platform ten minutes early for the train, found the taxi queue in under thirty seconds, meeting the Inn`s driver who was scheduled to pick you up. Still, your brain mutters in quiet little lists:

Holly – here since yesterday. Groom – arrives tomorrow. Rehearsal – Friday. Wedding – three days.

You shift your garment bag carefully so it doesn’t crease, the satin inside suddenly feeling far too precious for your chilly fingers.

“For a winter wedding,” the driver remarks as you pass a small green with a crooked tree at its center, now dusted with white. “she couldn’t have ordered it better, could she?”

You smile faintly at his eyes in the mirror. “She’s been dreaming about it since we were twenty. If it rained frogs at this point, I think she’d still call it perfect.”

He chuckles and turns up a short gravel drive. The tyres crunch. A few more snowflakes drift down like the universe trying out confetti in advance.

The inn comes into view. It’s larger than you expected: a low, rambling building of pale stone with a steep roof and leaded windows. Warm light spills from downstairs, turning the snow on the sills to gold. A dark-green wreath hangs on the front door, fat with pinecones and berries, tied with a red bow that looks like someone fussed with it until it sat just right.

You feel something inside you give a tiny, reluctant sigh of relief.

The driver stops. “Here we are.” You pay, add a tip that would make your more sensible self raise an eyebrow, and climb out into the cold. The air bites the inside of your nose; your breath curls out in a small cloud. You haul your suitcase from the boot, loop the garment bag over your arm, tuck your tablet case tight against your side.

For a heartbeat you just stand there, looking at the door. If this were someone else’s life, you think, you’d be arriving with nothing more to worry about than whether your dress fits and if your mascara will smudge when you cry at the vows.

Instead, you have a folder full of timings in your bag and the quiet certainty that if anything goes wrong, you’ll be the one people look at first.

You straighten your shoulders. “Okay,” you murmur to no one, and push the door open.

Heat and the smell of woodsmoke wash over you.

The entrance hall feels like stepping into the inside of a story. A big stone fireplace roars on one wall, flames licking around thick logs, casting a warm glow over a cluster of worn but inviting armchairs. Garlands of spruce and eucalyptus run along the staircase banister, threaded with fairy lights. In the far corner, a huge Christmas tree stands half-dressed, baubles in open boxes at its feet, a step ladder leaning nearby. Somewhere, a speaker is playing carols quietly enough that the crackle of the fire still wins.

A woman in a thick navy jumper looks up from the reception desk, her hands resting on an open ledger. Before she can say anything, the air is split by a delighted squeal.

“YOU’RE HERE!”

Holly.

You barely manage to drop the handle of your suitcase before she slams into you, all white hotel robe, messy hair and cold toes poking out of slippers. You wrap an arm around her automatically, your other hand still clamped around the garment bag.

“Careful,” you laugh into her shoulder. “You’re going to crease your own bride.”

She leans back enough to look at you, eyes wide and wet at the corners. The ring on her finger flashes as she clutches your arms.

“I can actually breathe now that you’re here,” she says, half teasing, half deadly serious.

The words land somewhere soft inside your ribs.

“You were breathing before,” you point out, gently. “You sent me seventeen messages this morning alone.”

She makes an indignant noise. “Emergency messages. I’m allowed to panic, I’m getting married.”

“You’re allowed to panic,” you agree. “You are not allowed to schedule a breakdown every two hours, though. That’s my job to deal with.”

Holly laughs, tipping her head back. “Bossy,” she tells the ceiling. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you admit, and for a moment you just hold onto each other, the noise from the fire and the faint carol wrapping around you.

Eventually she sniffles and wipes under one eye with the heel of her hand. “Sorry,” she mutters. “Mrs Evans already threatened me with industrial-strength concealer if I cry too much before Saturday.”

“The horror,” you say. “Save the tears for the ceremony. We have a pact.”

“We have several pacts,” she says fondly. “You’re in charge of all of them.”

She turns toward the desk, dragging you with her by the wrist. “Mrs Evans, this is y/n. My maid of honor, my moral support, my—”

“Long-suffering friend,” you cut in, because the last thing you need is Holly listing your virtues in front of a stranger. “Hi.”

The woman behind the desk—late fifties, maybe, with kind eyes and a practical bob—smiles warmly. “Lovely to meet you at last,” she says. “We’ve had so many emails from you I feel like I know you already.”

You wince a little. “Occupational hazard. I’m prone to clarifying things.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Mrs Evans replies. “Makes it much easier on our side.” She nods toward the key board. “You’re in Room Five. We’ve put you near Holly so she only has one flight of stairs to climb when she inevitably needs you.”

“I resent how accurate that is,” Holly mutters, then leans over the counter. “Is everything okay? No disasters?”

“None we can’t handle,” Mrs Evans says calmly. “The cake will be here Friday morning, the florist rang to confirm tomorrow’s delivery, and the heating in the church is working, which is half the battle in December.”

You feel your shoulders drop about half a centimeter. “That’s very good to hear.”

“We’ll go through the details properly later if you like,” Mrs Evans offers. “For now, you’ve had a long journey. Go see your room, unpack. Pretend you’re not responsible for a small army of emotional people.”

“Too late,” you say wryly. “But I can unpack.”

Holly squeezes your hand. “I’ll let you settle,” she says. “Come find me after? I want to show you the room they’ve given us, it’s obscene. There’s a roll-top bath. I might marry the bath instead.”

“That’s fair,” you say. “He’s used to sharing you.”

She beams, squeezes you one last time, and scurries off toward the staircase, robe swishing.

You take your key from Mrs Evans, trade a quick look with her that says thank you for being calm, then haul your suitcase up the stairs.

The garlands brush your sleeve as you climb. They smell sharply of pine; you register, without meaning to, that whoever wound them took time to tuck in dried orange slices and small red bows at regular intervals. Someone else here cares about details — it’s a comforting thought.

At the top of the stairs, you glance back into the hall. From this angle, the whole place looks like the establishing shot of Holly’s dream: the fire, the half-dressed tree, the old stone and warm lamps. For a second, you picture her in her dress coming down these stairs, and a small, ridiculous lump forms in your throat.

Room Five’s door sticks for half a second before opening with a soft shudder. The room is simple: a broad bed with a white duvet and a tartan throw folded at the end. Sloped ceiling with dark beams. A narrow wardrobe, a small bedside table with a lamp, a little writing desk under the window. The curtains are a faded floral, pulled back to show a low-paned view of the world outside.

You wheel your suitcase in and shut the door with your foot, the sudden quiet pressing in around you. No carols now, just the faintest suggestion of the fire downstairs, a murmur of voices somewhere further along the corridor.

You cross to the window and rest your fingertips lightly on the cold glass.

Outside, the back of the inn gives way to a small garden edged by low stone walls, all of it covered in a thin layer of snow. Beyond that, fields stretch off into a pale distance, hedgerows etched in dark lines. To the left, framed neatly between two roofs, you can just see the village church spire, pointing up into the cloud-heavy sky.

You inhale slowly.

She’s going to stand there, you think. At that altar. And this will be the view from her room the night before, and this will be the way she tells the story later. “We got married in this little village in the Cotswolds, there was snow, and…”

You want that story to be clean in her memory. Warm, without asterisks.

That’s really all this is about: not control for its own sake, just wanting things to be kind to the people you love.

You turn back to the room before your mind can wander down the familiar path of and if something goes wrong, it’s because you didn’t try hard enough.

You hang your garment bag carefully on the wardrobe door, smoothing the fabric once, then again. Your smaller bag goes on the chair. You set your tablet and your folder on the desk and line them up without thinking, corners neat.

For a moment, you just stand there. It would be so easy to lie down on the bed, boots and all, and close your eyes, let the journey shake itself out of your bones. You could just stare at the ceiling and listen to the fire crackling below.

You sit instead at the little desk, pull the notebook toward you and flip it open to a blank page. The pen feels comfortable between your fingers, familiar, like a promise that as long as there are lists, things can’t fall entirely apart.

You write at the top, in your neat, slightly fussy handwriting:

Cotswolds – Wednesday

Then:

– Check church (heating / candles / aisle length) – Confirm florist delivery (Thursday) – Confirm cake delivery (Friday morning) – Speak to photographer re: light + timing – Walk route to church with drivers – Ask Holly’s mum about family arrivals – Quick word with groom (no heavy drinking Friday) – Ask Holly about best man arrival time

Your pen pauses on that last line. You lean back in the chair, notebook open in front of you, the room quiet except for the faint creak of old beams and the distant murmur from downstairs. You stare at the words best man for a second, the ink drying into the loop of the “b”.

It’s not as if you’ve been trying not to think about him. You’ve simply been redirecting your attention. Away from a certain dinner in London. Away from candlelight and the way he’d made everyone at the table laugh. Away from the sentence that had lodged under your skin and refused to move.

Outside, a snowflake slides down the glass in a slow, melting trail.

You let your gaze unfocus, let the present soften at the edges, and, before you can talk yourself out of it, you follow your mind back to that night in London.

A few weeks earlier at a London restaurant…

Holly had wanted “somewhere cosy” for the first proper planning meet, so you’d ended up in a little wine bar in Soho: brick walls, tiny tables, fairy lights, candle in a cloudy glass between you.

It’s you, Holly, Sam, and Holly`s bridesmaid Jess, all squeezed around a corner table when he arrives.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, breathless, tugging his scarf off as the waiter threads a chair in for him. “London traffic is a nightmare. Hi. Pedro.”

You know who he is, of course. Everybody knows who he is. You just hadn’t expected him to look quite this real. His hair is longer than in some of the press photos you’ve seen, dark curls mussed from the cold, that streak of grey at his temple catching the candlelight. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper in person, the kind that come from laughing a lot. He’s in a dark sweater and a jacket that fits a little too well to be entirely casual.

You take his offered hand, which is warm, firm and a little calloused. “Maid of honor. Spreadsheet department.”

He grins at that, a quick flicker, and then he’s turning to Sam, clapping him on the shoulder, pulling him into an awkward half-hug over the table.

“Look at you,” he says. “Actually doing it.”

“We’re not eloping last minute in Vegas,” Sam says. “So you have to give a speech and pretend you approve.”

“For the record,” Holly adds, “he’s best man because they’ve known each other since they were idiots with terrible hair, not because he’s famous.”

They laugh. You do, too. It’s easy, he seems easy — warm, funny, relaxed in that way people get when they’re used to being watched and liked.

You like him, you realizes. Or at least, your first instinct is that you could.

While they swap stories and Jess heckles them, you do your quiet work along the edges: checking dates on your phone, nudging Holly toward decisions, making sure Sam actually answers when you ask about flights and not just “yeah, sometime that week.”

“So,” Sam says at one point, turning to you, “what do you need us to actually do?”

“Just don’t book flights that land on the day you’re meant to be at the altar,” you say. “And answer your emails. The rest I can wrangle.”

“She says ‘just’ like that isn’t a minor miracle,” Holly tells Pedro.

He glances at you then, his head tipped slightly. “You’re really doing all this on top of your actual job?”

You shrug. “Holly once fed me for a week when my student loan got delayed. This is loving payback.”

“Romantic,” Jess mutters.

You’re midway through clarifying arrival days when your phone buzzes on the table. The florist.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for it. “I need to take this—two minutes.”

Holly waves you off. “Tell them I would die for their peonies.”

You slip your coat on as you walk toward the little entrance area, thumb swiping to answer.

“Hi, yes, I just wanted to confirm the delivery window for the Saturday, given the drive out of London…”

You talk timings, vans, winter roads, candles versus real flames. It settles you, the way practical things always do. When you hang up, the plan in your head feels a little clearer.

You turn back toward the main room, coat over your arm, pausing right before the corner where your table is tucked away.

“…honestly, I don’t know how she keeps it all in her head,” Sam is saying, fond. “She’s basically running the entire thing.”

You know you should announce yourself. Step back in, scrape your chair, say something about the florist being saints. Instead, some small, treacherous part of you hesitates.

“She loves it,” Holly says. “She was born with a planner in her hand.”

Jess snorts. Then Pedro, voice low and amused, easy with wine and old friends: “She is great, seriously. But she’s wound so tight I get stressed just looking at her. It’s a wedding, not a live broadcast. If she doesn’t loosen up, she’s going to make herself and everyone around her miserable.”

They laugh. Not meanly. Not behind-your-back cackling. It sounds affectionate, and teasing. It still hits like a slap.

You stand there, coat over your arm, heat creeping up your neck. You hear the words separate and then all together: wound so tight, just looking at her, make everyone miserable.

You know you can be intense. You know you plan more than most people think is reasonable. You’ve made your peace, mostly, with being the one who cares too much.

Apparently not, some small, mean part of you thinks. Apparently you’re also exhausting.

And of course he would say that. The man who floats in, tells stories about wrap parties and missed flights, and everyone loves him for it. The best friend for the speeches, not the spreadsheets. The Hollywood star who has people to handle the boring parts.

Must be nice, you think, a little numb, to treat this like it’s “not that deep” when someone else has already done the deep part for you.

You smooth your face before you move. It’s automatic, the way you tuck things away. Then you step around the corner and back into the pool of candlelight.

“The florist’s confirmed,” you say, sliding back into your chair. Your voice sounds almost normal in your own ears. “No flower emergencies on the horizon.”

Holly clasps her hands in relief. “See? Actual angel.” Sam squeezes your shoulder.

Pedro looks up and smiles at you, open and easy. He has obviously no idea you heard him. “All good?” he asks.

His eyes are warm. The grey streak in his hair catches the candlelight. He looks annoyingly good, and that only makes the little twist in your chest sharper.

“Yep,” you say, reaching for your water. Your tone is cool enough that you hear the difference yourself. “As long as no one disappears the day before the wedding or changes flights without telling me, we’re fine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, with a hand to his heart and his expression mock-solemn.

You give him the smallest, politest smile you can manage and look back down at your notes.

The rest of the evening is still full of laughter and shared dessert and stories you’ll remember. But the picture in your head has shifted: where there was just warmth and charm, there’s now an extra line, written in neat, quiet ink:

He thinks you’re too much. He thinks you’re the problem if anyone feels stressed. He has no idea what it costs to make something look easy.

You tuck that away somewhere you hope you’ll forget about. Spoiler: you don’t.

Friday feels like it starts at six in the morning and never really picks a time to stop.

By three o’clock, you’ve already checked three different train statuses for various aunts and cousins and reassured Holly twice that yes, the florist is coming tomorrow and no, you haven’t secretly cancelled the flowers. You talked Sam out of going to the pub “for one quick pint” with his cousins before the rehearsal. You also explained the phrase “smart casual” to two bewildered American relatives who think that means jeans and a sports team hoodie.

The lobby of the inn is a slow-moving chaos of people and luggage and cold air. The fire is going full blast, logs popping and crackling, casting warm light over the stone and wood. Guests drift in and out, stamping snow off their boots, shrugging out of coats, exclaiming over the tree, the garlands, and also the fact that it’s actually snowing. Suitcases gather in neat-ish lines along the wall. Someone’s child is sitting cross-legged by the hearth, fascinated by the flames.

You stand near the reception desk, with your tablet in hand. You’ve checked the time so often the motion has become muscle memory.

3:18 p.m. Rehearsal at the church is booked for 3:30.

He was supposed to land around noon.

Plenty of time, you’d told yourself last week, even after the London flashback had soured your mental image of him. Planes can be delayed, of course, but surely the great Pedro Pascal can manage to arrive in the same country as the wedding before the rehearsal.

If he misses it… You see the whole line-up collapsing in your head like dominoes. You see Holly’s face, all nerves and trust. You see yourself staying up late tonight re-working everything.

You inhale slowly, then force yourself not to look at the watch again.

Holly and Sam are by the fire, talking to one of his cousins. Holly catches your eye over the cousin’s shoulder, brows lifted in a silent question.

You give her the smallest of nods. We’re fine. For now.

Suddenly, the door blows open with a gust of icy air. Cold slices briefly through the warmth of the lobby, tugging at the garlands and making the candles on the mantle flutter. Snowflakes swirl in, carried on the rush.

He fills the doorway like it’s a frame. Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark wool coat, collar turned up against the wind. His dark brown curls, mussed from the weather, are quickly pushed back with a hand that’s still half in a glove. Those streaks of grey at his temples and through his hair are more obvious now than in the dim restaurant candlelight; they should make him look older, but somehow they just make him look more him.

There’s scruff along his jaw, the kind that says “I meant to shave yesterday and then life happened,” and his nose and cheeks are pink from the cold. A weekend bag hangs from one hand, its strap cutting into the coat, and a carry-on-sized suitcase bumps along behind him.

He looks around, squinting for a moment as his eyes adjust from outside to in. Then he sees them.

“Holly!” he says, the word breaking into a grin.

Holly makes a sound that’s somewhere between a squeal and a sob and launches herself across the rug. Sam is only half a step behind her.

“You made it!” Holly gasps, throwing her arms around his neck.

He drops the bag without even looking at it, catching her easily, lifting her a couple of inches off the ground with the force of her impact. “’Course I did,” he says into her hair. “What, you think I’d let you marry this guy without supervision?”

Sam laughs, wrapping both of them in a lopsided hug.

The three of them sway there for a second, a tangle of coats and arms and years of history. Other guests glance over, some doing little double-takes as recognition catches up with them, but no one interrupts.

You stand a bit off to the side, tablet held against your chest, watching.

It would be easier if he didn’t look like that. Rumpled and windswept and undeniably, obnoxiously handsome. It would be easier if he walked in with dark glasses and entitlement, something you could reasonably dislike.

Instead he looks tired and happy and like he’s genuinely just relieved to be here.

“How was your flight?” Sam asks when they finally disentangle. “Was it a nightmare?”

“Of course,” Pedro says, bending to grab his bag again. “Delayed at takeoff, lost my luggage for twenty minutes at Heathrow, then nearly got taken out by a rogue suitcase on the Piccadilly line.” He shakes his head, sending a few lingering snowflakes flying from his hair. “Your country has it out for me.”

“It’s not my country,” Sam protests. “Ask her.” He jerks his chin toward Holly.

Holly laughs and reaches for you with her free hand. “Look who finally showed up,” she says, snaring Pedro by the sleeve and tugging him toward you. “Try to be nice, okay? She’s basically the reason we’re not getting married in a Tesco car park.”

Pedro lets himself be tugged, the wheels of his suitcase rattling on the floorboards. Up close, he still smells like cold air and airport and something warm underneath that you decide, uncharitably, not to think about.

“Pedro, you remember our maid of honour,” Sam says, resting a hand briefly at the small of Holly’s back. “AKA wedding general and crisis manager.”

You expect his easy, public smile. You get something softer, if only for a second. “How could I forget?” he says.

He looks at you and for a heartbeat it’s like the restaurant again. His gaze flicking over your face, taking in whatever’s changed since then. Your hair is done properly now instead of scraped back after work. The neat sweater dress, the tights, the boots. The lanyard with the church contact number tucked just into view. You feel absurdly aware of all of it.

“Hi,” he adds with an easy half-grin, looking at the tablet in your hands. “You look even more prepared than last time.”

There’s no obvious malice in it, just a little tease. Appreciation, even, one could argue…But the flashback to “she’s going to make herself and everyone around her miserable” hits you like a too-cold draft.

You curve your mouth into something that could pass for amused if you don’t look too closely.

“Someone has to be,” you say, smooth and a touch too precise, “if we want to stay on schedule.”

His smile falters by a fraction. Not enough that anyone else would notice, but enough that, annoyingly, you do. A beat of silence drops between you, tiny and dense.

You glance at your watch deliberately. 3:20.

“We need to leave for the church in ten minutes,” you announce, turning slightly so you address the group more than him. “Coats, shoes, rings, whoever’s part of the rehearsal—meet back here at half past, please. The vicar was very clear about not wanting to compete with the next event.”

“What’s the next event?” Jess calls from the stairs, already halfway down.

“Christingle,” Mrs Evans answers from the desk. “Lots of small children with lots of citrus. It's best not to mix them with grown adults in formalwear.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the gathered guests. You let it wash over you, tuck the tablet under your arm, and take a small step back, already mentally calculating how many minutes of wiggle room you have if you herd them fast enough.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Pedro watching you, expression unreadable. You look away before you can start interpreting it.

The church smells like cold stone and old wood and beeswax.

Your breath fogs faintly in front of you as you push the heavy door open, shoulder braced against it. The air inside is only marginally warmer than outside; the kind that makes your nose sting and your fingers ache if you stand still too long.

It’s beautiful, though: narrow stained-glass windows bleed soft winter light onto the stone floor. Evergreen wreaths hang at regular intervals along the walls, red ribbons drooping slightly. Someone’s lit a scattering of candles along the front rail; their flames shiver each time the door opens.

“All right,” says a voice, dry as old paper. “Let’s see if we can get you married without anyone tripping over the Nativity scene, shall we?”

The vicar—Reverend Clarke, as you’ve learned from your emails—is small and wiry in a slightly rumpled cassock, hair sticking up at the crown like he’s been running his hands through it all day. His expression hovers somewhere between bemused and indulgent, as if nothing that happens in his church can truly shock him anymore.

“There it is,” Jess murmurs under her breath. “Peak British.”

You herd everyone in: Holly and Sam, flushed from the cold and still beaming; Jess and the other bridesmaids in big coats over their dresses; the groomsmen stamping their shoes, hands shoved in pockets; Pedro, collar of his coat turned up, a faint pink still on his nose.

“Right,” you say, clapping your gloved hands together once, partly for warmth, partly to get their attention. “This is just a walk-through, so nobody panic. We’re establishing order of service, entrance timing, where you stand, when you sit, and who’s holding what.”

“See?” Holly whispers to Sam, loud enough that you definitely hear. “Born with a clipboard.”

“Born with competence,” you correct without missing a beat. “Okay. Let’s line up.”

You arrange them like chess pieces.

Bridesmaids on one side, groomsmen on the other, in the order you’ve so carefully plotted out on your seating chart so that nobody’s ex standing next to them and no one has to walk with a stranger they secretly despise. Holly and her father at the back, Sam and Pedro at the front.

You explain as you go, crisp and clear: “When the music starts, we wait for four bars, then the first pair goes. Slow, not like you’re late for a train. One, two, three, step. Smile. Look forward. Don’t look like you’re being marched to your death.”

They laugh. You don’t mean to, but you smile too. It helps, kind of.

Pedro is beside Sam at the altar end, hands shoved into his coat pockets, watching you with his head tipped. There’s something like reluctant respect there, you think.

“We’ll run the processional first,” Reverend Clarke says. “Then the vows, then the rings. If anyone has an overwhelming desire to object, please keep it to yourselves until after the big day, I’ve had quite enough drama for one Advent season.”

More laughter. He smiles, small and pleased with himself.

You step back, tablet in hand, and nod to the imaginary organist. “Okay. Walk.”

They move. Not perfectly, but not disastrously either. One bridesmaid starts too fast, a groomsman forgets which side to offer his arm, someone trips slightly on a loose flagstone. You correct, redirect and nudge where necessary.

Pedro is trying. You can see that, objectively. He listens when Reverend Clarke explains where to stand and when to hand over the rings. He doesn’t pull focus deliberately, but he’s restless in that way he seems built for—foot shifting, shoulders rolling, attention pinging between you, the vicar, the stained glass.

As you go over timing at the front—“wait until they’re halfway down the aisle before you turn,” “don’t block the photographer’s line of sight”—he leans toward Sam and mutters something that makes Sam snort into his sleeve.

The little burst of laughter breaks over the group just as you’re saying “…and then we pause for a beat before the music swells for Holly.”

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, straightening.

You bite down on the urge to say if you have a comment, you can share it with the class. You take a breath instead. “Let’s just run that last bit again.”

You start them over. This time, as you gesture Jess and her partner into place, Pedro abandons his designated spot entirely to pull Sam into a theatrical hug in the middle of the aisle.

“Just in case you run,” he says, voice carrying. “I want you to know I tried.”

The bridesmaids crack up. Jess whistles. Holly covers her face with her hands.

You stand there with your tablet and your carefully plotted positions and feel something hot and sharp climb up the back of your neck.

It’s stupid, you know. It’s a rehearsal. People joke. It’s not a military operation. But all day, you’ve been holding pieces together—times and arrivals and nervous relatives and Holly’s hands as they shook when she talked about walking up this very aisle—and he’s treating it like improv theatre.

And the worst part is, everyone loves it: the vicar smiles, the groomsmen cheer. Someone even wolf-whistles.

It makes our jaw tighten. The memory of his voice in London—wound so tight I get stressed just looking at her… she’ll make everyone around her miserable—sits just under your skin like a splinter.

You hear yourself speak before you’ve quite decided to.

“Pedro,” you say, sharper than you mean to, “can you please just stay where I put you for one second?”

The words crack in the air like a dropped plate. The laughter cuts off. The hush that follows is small but absolute.

Pedro’s arms are still around Sam when he looks over, his eyebrows rising slowly. For a heartbeat, his expression is just surprise—pure did you really just say that?—before it shutters down into something cooler.

He then slowly releases Sam, straightens, and throws his hands up in an exaggerated surrender. “Sorry, General,” he says, a smile pinned on that almost hides how irritated he suddenly looks. “I’ll stand exactly where you say.”

The title hits like another little slap, because part of you hears the admiration in it, the way everyone else seems to; and part of you hears the caricature: uptight, bossy, the killjoy who can’t take a joke.

A few people chuckle awkwardly, until Reverend Clarke clears his throat.

“Ah,” he says, wry. “Every wedding needs one of each, I find. A general and a jester. Keeps us from complete chaos, or complete mutiny.”

The group laughs again, more genuinely, and the tension thins enough that everyone can breathe.

You force your shoulders to loosen. “Again, from the top,” you say, eyes on your tablet rather than on Pedro. “Let’s just get everyone to the right places once cleanly, and then we can all go thaw out.”

You run them through again. This time, Pedro stays put. He doesn’t crack any more jokes.

He doesn’t look at you, either.

At the end, when Reverend Clarke dismisses everyone with a comment about tea and biscuits and prayers for decent weather, people start to drift back down the aisle in loose knots.

Holly falls into step beside you, looping her arm through yours as you walk toward the door.

“Hey,” she murmurs, giving your arm a small squeeze. “He really does mean well, you know.”

“I know,” you say automatically.

You do know, in the abstract. You saw his face when he hugged Sam. You heard the way he talked about “actually doing it” in London, like he’d never quite believed his friend would get here. You’re not blind.

You also know that every time he cracks a joke at exactly the wrong moment and everyone laughs, you can feel your grip on things loosen by half an inch. And you’re the one who’ll be blamed if something slips.

Holly nudges your shoulder gently. “And for the record,” she adds, quieter, “I don’t think you’re a general. I think you’re the person who makes sure I don’t have a meltdown because the vicar forgot the right reading. You’re allowed to be a little bossy in return.”

The knot in your chest eases a fraction at that. “Only a little?” you ask, dry.

“Tiny bit,” she says. “I still want people to like you.”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself.

But as you step out into the cold and watch Pedro ahead of you, shoulders hunched, hands jammed deep in his coat pockets as he talks to Sam, the prickle under your skin doesn’t entirely go away.

The inn’s dining room looks like every good Christmas story you’ve ever read decided to gather itself into one room.

By the time you come down, the sky outside the small-paned windows is already inky black. Snow swirls past the glass now and then, catching in the glow of the fairy lights that frame the panes. Inside, the long wooden table is laid out with mismatched plates, candles in little glass jars, and Christmas crackers lined up like cheerful landmines at each place.

You smooth your hands down the front of your dress before you walk in.

You’d debated what to wear longer than you care to admit. In the end, you chose the deep green one, with a soft fabric that skims your waist and falls just above your knees, with sleeves that are long enough to be warm but sheer enough at the wrists to feel a little bit pretty. You added a thin gold necklace and small sparkly earrings at the last second, more out of a stubborn feeling that you’re allowed to be a person and not just a project manager for one night.

Jess wolf-whistles when she sees you. “Look at you, Christmas elf,” she says. “Ten out of ten.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” you mutter, though the little jolt of pleasure is real.

Holly, already seated in the middle with Sam, claps her hands. “My two favourite people in one room,” she announces as you approach. “Sit. Eat. And pretend you’re not mentally reorganising my seating chart.”

“I only reorganised it twice,” you say, sliding into your chair at one end.

It’s a good spot. You can see most of the table from here, the way the light pools around faces, the way everyone’s shoulders are a little looser now that the rehearsal is done.

Pedro sits somewhere down the table on the opposite side, between one of Sam’s cousins and Jess. He’s changed into a dark shirt and jacket, his curls slightly tamed but still doing their own thing. From this distance you can see the way the candlelight picks out the grey in his hair, the faint shadow of tiredness still under his eyes.

You tell yourself it’s none of your concern whether he looks good. But your stomach doesn’t listen.

At first, you’re still in checklist mode. It’s hard to let go of the internal rhythm.

Is everyone here? Did the gluten-free meal arrive? Has anyone looked at the floor plan and decided to move chairs?

You keep one eye on the door and one on the serving staff, ready to intercept small disasters before they grow teeth.

But then bread appears. Wine is poured. The noise level rises in that pleasant way that means people have found their groove.

The American relatives bicker fondly about football teams. Holly’s mum tells a story about her own wedding; Sam’s dad pretends to be offended he wasn’t invited, then admits he would have been hungover anyway. Someone pulls a cracker too early and ends up wearing a paper crown for the rest of the meal.

You take a sip of wine, feel it warm your chest. The knot between your shoulder blades loosens a fraction.

Jess, emboldened by her second glass, stands and clinks her spoon on her glass. “All right,” she says. “Trivia. If we’re doing the whole soppy weekend, we’re doing it properly.”

There are groans and cheers in equal measure.

She produces a stack of cards like a magician. “Who said ‘I love you’ first?” she reads. “Holly or Sam?”

“That’s cheating, I told you,” Holly protests, laughing.

You nail the factual questions every time: Anniversary dates, the exact day they moved in together, the time they realised the long-distance thing wasn’t going to work unless someone gave up their flat.

Then another one, “How did Sam know Holly was it?” Jess reads.

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it, suddenly shy. Pedro leans back, smiling. “He called me at three in the morning to complain about jet lag,” he says. “And proceeded to talk about her for forty minutes straight without realising he’d stopped talking about himself after minute three.”

The table laughs. Sam throws a napkin at him and Holly wipes her eyes.

You notice the way Pedro senses the emotional beats of the story, and plays them just right. It’s annoying. And also, if you’re honest, a little impressive.

At some point between mains and dessert, you forget to count plates or watch the door. You laugh at something Jess says, head tipped back, the earrings you put on catching the light.

You don’t notice Pedro watching you. There is just the prickle on the back of your neck, once, twice, like being caught in a patch of sunlight.

He doesn’t stare. He’s not that oblivious. But his eyes snag on you a few more times than he would have expected, and each time he looks away a heartbeat later than he should.

The next morning hits like someone’s shaken the snow globe and turned the volume up.

There’s laughter in the corridors, doors banging, the thud of feet on stairs. Somewhere down the hall a hairdryer roars; somebody’s playing a Christmas playlist off a tinny phone speaker. The smell of coffee, shampoo, and florist’s greenery all tangle together.

You’ve been awake since seven.

By eight-thirty you’ve escorted the hair and makeup team to the bridal suite, found an extension lead for their curling tongs, and negotiated the playlist so it’s something Holly can sing along to without smudging her eyeliner.

By nine, the florist’s van has arrived. You direct armfuls of winter roses and eucalyptus through the lobby like an air-traffic controller, sending bouquets to the bridal suite, garlands to the banister, centerpieces to the dining room.

By nine-thirty, you’re in Sam’s room with water and painkillers.

He sits on the edge of the bed in boxers and a t-shirt, hair sticking up, face the colour of old paper. “I think I died in the night,” he croaks.

“You’re not dead,” you say briskly, filling a glass at the tiny sink. “You’re hungover.”

“Semantics.”

You hand him the pills and the glass. “You did this to yourself.”

“Pedro did this to me,” he corrects, swallowing obediently. “He’s like, ‘one last drink, for courage.’ Idiot.”

“Which one of you?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says mournfully.

You can’t help a small huff of a laugh. Then you make him eat two bites of toast before you leave, because you are, apparently, everyone’s stern aunt and personal medic today.

By eleven, Holly is in the chair with her hair half-pinned, bridesmaids are taking turns in the makeup seat, and your own dress hangs untouched in your room. You’re still in leggings and a sweatshirt, bare-faced except for the concealer you slapped on under your eyes.

Pre-ceremony photos with the guys at twelve. Cars to the church at one. Ceremony at two.

It’s all fine. On paper, it’s fine.

As long as nobody is late.

You finally shove yourself into your own burgundy dress at eleven-thirty, fingers fumbling a little on the zipper. You tug on tights, step into heels, twist your hair into some approximation of the style the hairdresser suggested, do a five-minute version of your makeup in the small bathroom mirror. When you’re done, you look like a person who’s going to be in photos rather than the person taking them.

It feels… strange.

By 11:45 you’re in the upstairs hallway outside the bridal suite, dress smoothed down with slightly shaking hands, mentally ticking through the list.

Bridesmaids? Here. Half dressed, half shrieking about their eyelashes. Photographer? Ready in the garden, wants fifteen minutes with the groom and groomsmen before they leave. Holly? Currently being buttoned into her dress, you can hear her excited, panicked laughter through the door. Groom? Suited, mostly upright, functioning at 80%.

Best man?

You glance at your watch.

11:46.

Your heartbeat does an irritated thump.

He’s not officially late. Not really. It would be easy, so easy, to say he’ll be here and mean it, to trust that when he said he’d show up, he would.

But there’s yesterday, still prickling under your skin. The church. The joke that landed wrong. The way everyone laughed, and you sounded like the only person who didn’t get it.

There’s London, too. She’s wound so tight I get stressed just looking at her… she’s going to make everyone around her miserable.

You roll your shoulders back, as if you can shake the words off like water.

Mrs Evans appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. “Photographer’s asking if we’re still on for those shots in the garden,” she calls. “Light’s good right now.”

“We’re on,” you say. “I just need—”

The front door downstairs bangs open.

Cold air rushes in, bringing with it the murmur of voices and a flurry of snow.

“You’re fine!” Pedro’s voice, carried up the stairwell. “We’re not late. I’m here, see? Very responsible. Extremely adult.”

You move to the top of the stairs without thinking.

He’s in the hallway below, shrugging out of his coat. Dark suit, white shirt, tie draped loose around his neck like it lost the will to live somewhere between his room and here. His hair is slightly damp around the edges, as if he showered in a hurry and didn’t bother to dry it properly; curls stand up rebelliously. He’s tucking his phone into his pocket with one hand, his other hand wrapped around a takeaway coffee cup.

He looks unfairly good. Rumpled and sharp at the same time.

Sam, already in his full suit and tie, emerges from a side door. “You’re cutting it close, man,” he says, but he’s smiling, relief obvious.

“It’s eleven-forty-eight,” Pedro protests, glancing up at the clock. “Photos are at twelve, right? I’m early. Ish.” He grins. “Besides, you’re the one who needed a therapist until two a.m., remember?”

Sam groans. “Don’t say therapist, I’ll start crying again.”

They laugh. It’s easy between them; years of shorthand, of crisis jokes.

You come down the stairs, hand on the banister, each step sharpening your focus.

“You were supposed to be ready at quarter to,” you say as you reach them.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices neatly through their banter.

Pedro looks up, coffee halfway to his mouth. Up close, there are faint shadows under his eyes, like last night really did go long.

“I am ready,” he says, gesturing at himself. “Suit, tie—well, almost—” he flicks the end of it “—no visible stains. That’s ready.”

“Ready downstairs,” you correct, heat already starting to gather under your skin. “We needed you ready fifteen minutes ago so the photographer could start. She’s been waiting in the garden because—” you can hear yourself tipping into lecture and can’t quite stop it— “light changes, and she has a schedule, and—”

“And I’m here now,” he says. “Nobody’s missed the ceremony, nobody’s on fire. It’s fine.”

Something in you snaps.

“Of course it’s fine for you,” you say, before your better self can get a word in. The words come fast, sharp. “Of course you’re five minutes late and it’s still fine. The schedule only applies to people who aren’t famous, right?”

His expression changes like someone’s thrown cold water on him.

“Wow,” he says. “Okay.”

Behind him, one of the groomsmen goes very still, eyes cutting between you like he’s watching a tennis match he did not buy tickets for.

You feel the sting of your own words even as you say them; some rational part of your brain is waving a tiny red flag, but the rest of you is on a roll.

“You float in ‘just in time’ for everything,” you go on, lower now but no softer, “because everyone else has been running around for the last hour making sure you can show up and crack jokes and be the easy one. Flights, trains, taxis, photographers waiting outside in the cold—someone else has already handled it before you even walk through the door.”

His jaw clenches. Colour rises in his cheeks, hot and high.

“You don’t know anything about what I handle,” he says, and his voice has lost that easy edge. “You think learning a speech and being there for my friend is just ‘floating in’? You think all I’m doing is… what? Being charming for the photos?”

“If the shoe fits,” you say.

Even as it leaves your mouth, you flinch internally. You hear how petty it sounds, how unfair. You wish, too late, that you could grab the sentence and stuff it back down your throat.

He laughs once, disbelieving. “You know what I was doing when you were asleep last night?” he asks, low. “I was sitting on the floor of Sam’s room while he tried to convince himself that calling the whole thing off was the noble thing to do.”

Sam winces. “Dude—”

“No,” Pedro says without looking at him. His eyes are on you, dark, wounded, and angry. “She wants to talk about who shows up and who does the work? Fine. I was there when he was shaking so hard he could barely hold a glass. I was the one saying ‘you love her, you’re scared, that’s normal, don’t blow up both your lives because your brain is being a dick.’” He jabs a thumb at his chest. “Me. Not because it was on a spreadsheet. Not because anyone asked me. Because I give a shit.”

Your throat tightens. The hallway feels suddenly smaller, and there is tihs treacherous burning sensation behind your eyes which you try to ignore.

He doesn’t stop. “I didn’t accuse you of not caring because you weren’t there,” he says. “I didn’t say you were off somewhere being a selfish… whatever you think I am. I figured you needed sleep so you didn’t collapse today. But sure. I’m just the spoiled Hollywood guy who thinks rules don’t apply. Must be nice to have me as such a neat little villain in your head, huh?”

Each word hits like a flick, sharp and stinging. You open your mouth, but nothing coherent comes out. Because the worst part is: he’s not entirely wrong. About Sam. And about the neat villain.

The groomsman who’s been loitering edges toward the door with the slow, careful movements of a man avoiding a live wire.

“Guys,” he says weakly, “light’s going. Photographer’s ready when you are…”

You drag in a breath, force your face into something neutral. You feel sick, a little. Hot and cold at once. You can hear Holly’s laughter faint through the closed door upstairs, and the sound brings you back like a slap.

This is her day.

You look away from Pedro first. “Photographer’s been waiting ten minutes already,” you say. Your voice is steady in that horrible way it gets when you’re barely holding it together. “You should go. Both of you.”

Sam, who has been staring at the floor like it might provide answers, clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Let’s, uh… let’s go do that.”

He claps Pedro on the shoulder, a little too hard, and steers him toward the back door. Pedro goes, but not before glancing back at you. There’s still anger there, but over it now is something like disappointment. Or maybe that’s just your guilt talking.

You stand in the emptying hallway, fingers digging into the smooth fabric of your dress, pulse hammering against your ribs. You hear your own words again in your head—the schedule only applies to people who aren’t famous; must be nice; if the shoe fits—and your stomach curls.

That was harsh, you think. Ugh. That was too much.

You’ve been braced for him to prove you right, and when he gave you something sharp, you grabbed it with both hands.

The door swings closed behind the men, letting in one last gust of cold air before it shuts. You swallow, straighten your shoulders, and turn back toward the stairs. There’s no time to fall apart. Not today.

Upstairs, Holly cracks the door open a few inches when you knock. “Is it time?” she asks, eyes huge, hair half-up, half-still in rollers.

“It’s time for you to finish getting ready,” you say, mustering a smile that almost reaches your eyes. “Sam’s outside charming the camera. Everything’s fine.”

She beams, not seeing the fissure you can feel running down your middle. “Knew you’d have it under control,” she says.

You step into the room and close the door gently behind you. If your heart is still thudding in your chest and your hands shake a little when you pick up her veil, well. You tell yourself it’s just the adrenaline. Not the argument still crackling in the back of your mind like static.

The call about the flowers comes just when you think, briefly, that the day might actually be under control.

Holly is in her dress now, standing in front of the mirror while the last button is fastened. Her hair is up, veil still waiting on the bed. The bridesmaids are half dressed, half crying, mascara wands hovering. Downstairs, you can hear the clink of plates and the murmur of guests arriving for a pre-ceremony drink.

You’re by the window with your tablet and a glass of water you keep forgetting to drink when there’s a knock at the door.

Mrs Evans slips in, cheeks pink from the cold, her usual calm a little tighter around the edges. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says. “We have a slight hiccup.”

Your stomach drops. “What kind of hiccup?”

“The florist’s van,” she says. “They’ve slid into a ditch just outside the next town. No one’s hurt,” she adds quickly. “Flowers are intact. But they’re stuck waiting for a tow. They rang to say if someone could get to them, they can hand over what’s salvageable.”

For a second, the room tilts.

In your head, you see it all—the bouquets in their careful boxes, the arrangements for the altar, the garlands for the pew ends, the centerpieces for the tables. The whole visual spine of the wedding, sitting on a lane somewhere, stranded.

Behind you, Holly lets out a small, strangled noise. “My flowers?”

“They’re fine,” Mrs Evans repeats. “They just need…ahem…collecting.”

You’re already putting your glass down. “I’ll go,” you say. “If I leave now, drive straight there and straight back, we can still dress the church and the hall and keep the cars leaving on time.”

“You don’t have to—” Holly starts.

“I do,” you say. Your brain is already doing the maths. “We have, what, an hour and a half before you absolutely have to be in the car. If I’m back in forty-five minutes with at least the bouquets and aisle flowers, we can—”

“I’ll drive you.”

The voice comes from the doorway. You turn.

Pedro stands there, suit on properly now, tie actually done, hair still a bit rebellious but tamed. There’s a faint line between his brows, the one you’ve started to recognise as his problem-solving face.

Your spine stiffens instinctively. After the hallway grenade earlier, you’ve been orbiting around each other carefully.

“That’s not necessary,” you say, trying to sound convincing. “I’ll just—”

“Roads are icy,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “I’ll get the car, you get whatever you need. Two minutes.”

“I can drive,” you insist. Control is the last solid thing you feel like you have. “It’s my mess to fix.”

“It’s not your mess, it’s a van in a ditch,” he says firmly. “And it’s not just your wedding. It’s theirs.” He nods toward Holly and Sam. “I’m not letting you go slide around country lanes alone in heels because you have a martyr complex.”

“I’m not—”

“Please,” he says gently, and there’s no mockery in his tone, just quiet insistence. “Let me do something that isn’t making things worse.”

You stop. The room is full of eyes: Holly’s, wide and anxious; Jess’, speculative; Mrs Evans’, quietly hopeful.

You swallow. “Fine,” you say, eventuall. “We’ll go. You can drive. But… I’m navigating.”

He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of taking that away from you.”

Five minutes later, you’re in the passenger seat of a small rental car. The heater is on full blast. The windows fog at the edges, the wipers squeak intermittently over the faint dust of snow. Grey sky presses low over the hedgerows on either side of the narrow lane; the tarmac shines in places where patches of ice lurk.

You clutch your phone with the florist’s dropped pin glowing on the screen.

For the first few minutes, it’s quiet. The radio is on low, some station playing gentle Christmas songs, all bells and breathy singers. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears.

You’re very aware of him. The way his hands sit on the wheel: steady, relaxed but not careless. The set of his jaw, the muscle ticking there now and then. The argument from earlier hums between you like static.

He’s the first to break. “Can I ask you something?” he says, eyes on the road.

You keep your gaze trained on the hedgerows slipping by. “Do I have a choice?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m asking anyway.”

You exhale. “Fine. Ask.”

He wets his lips, fingers flexing once on the wheel. “Why do you hate me so much?”

You blink, thrown by the bluntness. “I don’t hate you,” you say, too quickly.

“It sure feels like you do,” he says, voice calm but not casual. “From the second I walked into the inn yesterday it was like… I don’t know. Like I’d already failed a test I didn’t know I was taking. And this morning…” He trails off, shakes his head. “That wasn’t just ‘you’re annoying.’ That was personal.”

You stare at the fogging glass, at the faint ghost of your own reflection. Your fingers find the edge of your seatbelt and worry it. “Forget it,” you say. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” he replies, a little exasperated. “Because I’m trying here. Maybe badly, but I am. And I feel like I’m getting graded against something I can’t see.” He glances at you briefly, then back at the lane. “So if I did something specific, I’d rather know than keep running into it blind.”

Silence hums between you for a beat. You could lie. You could say it’s just his lateness, his joking, his… everything. You could push this down and pretend it’s all about the last forty-eight hours.

But you’re tired, and it’s sitting there anyway, like a stone in your shoe.

“You really want to know?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says, simply.

You swallow. Your throat feels too tight. “I heard you in London,” you say. “At the restaurant. When I went to take that call from the florist.”

You can feel his attention sharpen, even as his eyes stay on the road. “What did you hear?”

You stare at your hands in your lap and force the words out. “‘She’s great, seriously, but she’s wound so tight I get stressed just looking at her. It’s a wedding, not a live broadcast. If she doesn’t loosen up, she’s going to make herself—and everyone around her—miserable.’”

The silence is loud. For a moment, the only sounds are the engine, the squeak of the wipers, the faint carol about peace on earth.

“Shit,” he says quietly, after a moment. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“I noticed,” you say, trying for dry, but landing somewhere closer to brittle.

He exhales through his nose, cheeks puffing slightly. “I’m not going to pretend that’s not exactly what I said. I remember it. I also remember being an ass about it.”

You keep your eyes on the hedges. “It was pretty clear what you thought.”

“What I thought,” he says carefully, “was that I’d never seen anyone carry that much in their head at once and not crumble. And it made me uncomfortable. So I turned that discomfort into a joke about you, because that’s my very evolved coping mechanism.”

“That’s not really better,” you point out, but the edge has dulled a little.

“I know,” he says gently. “I’m explaining, not excusing.”

He adjusts his grip on the wheel, fingers tightening once before relaxing.

“I was an ass,” he continues “I was… overwhelmed, honestly. You had this whole thing in your head already. The trains, the cars, the vendors—and I felt like I’d shown up to the exam without a pencil. Making jokes is how I cope when I’m out of my depth.”

“That doesn’t make it any less ‘wound so tight she’s making everyone miserable’,” you point out, but there’s less bite in it now.

“I know,” he says. “I meant… you care so much it scares me. Because I’m not used to people holding that much on their own and not dropping it. It made me feel…” He trails off, searching for the word. “Useless. Like the decoration. So I said something shitty to make myself feel less like the useless one. It was about my ego, not your worth.”

You stare at your reflection in the side window. “You made me feel ridiculous,” you admit. “Like I was this uptight cosplayer taking the whole thing too seriously while the adults laughed behind my back.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Truly. That’s not how I see you.”

“How do you see me?” The question is out before you can stop it.

He huffs out a little laugh. “Like you’ve already clocked every possible disaster and are quietly building bridges over them while the rest of us are admiring the view. It’s intimidating as hell.”

You blink. “I’m not trying to intimidate anyone,” you say.

The lane curves. He slows the car, taking the bend carefully. The hedges whip closer, then fall away again.

“I don’t hate you,” you say, almost more to yourself than to him. “I just built this version of you in my head. Spoiled, late, doesn’t respect the work. And then you kept almost fitting it.”

He winces. “Yeah…And then I very helpfully proved your point this morning by walking straight into your worst version of me.”

“Something like that,” you say quietly.

He’s silent for a moment. The car in front of you turns into a farmhouse.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and there’s no performance in it. “For London. For this morning. For making you feel like caring is something to be mocked. You’re the reason this doesn’t look like a disaster.”

Something low in your chest eases a fraction. The florist’s van appears around the next bend, hazard lights blinking, half on, half off the narrow lane. The front wheel is in a shallow ditch; two people stand beside it, bundled in coats and beanies, looking cold and frustrated.

“There,” you say, pointing. “That’s them.”

When you step out, the cold slaps your face, sharp and bracing. The verge is a churned-up mess of slush and mud; your heels sink immediately.

“Fantastic,” you mutter, lifting your skirt just enough to keep it out of the worst of it.

“Wait,” Pedro says. He rounds the bonnet, shrugs out of his jacket, and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest. “You’re going to freeze.”

“I’m fine,” you start.

“Humour me,” he says. “I need at least one gentleman point today.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. You pull the jacket tighter around you, breathing in cold fabric and the faint, warm smell of him clinging to it.

The florist—a woman in her forties with wind-reddened cheeks—looks close to tears when you reach her. “I am so, so sorry,” she says. “We hit a slick patch coming round the bend. We really thought we’d make it on time—”

“It’s okay,” you say automatically. “We’re just glad you’re all right. We can work around everything else.”

As it turns out, “work around” means physically carrying as many boxes of flowers as will fit into the rental.

You and Pedro end up knee-deep in slush, hauling cardboard crates of bouquets and garlands across the narrow strip between van and car. The florist passes them down to you, apologising every second breath; you reassure her every third.

At one point, your foot skids on a hidden patch of ice. You yelp, arms pinwheeling, box tipping.

Pedro’s hand closes around your elbow, steadying you. His other hand saves the box from tilting fully into the mud.

“Got you,” he says, breath puffing white in the air between you.

Your heart is thudding; you can’t tell how much of it is from the almost-fall and how much is from the warmth of his fingers through the fabric. For a moment you’re stupidly close: his hand warm through the fabric of your dress, his jacket around your shoulders, both of you laughing a little breathlessly at how cartoonish the almost-fall was.

“Maybe I should have stayed in the inn and colour-coded something,” you say, cheeks stinging from the cold and the near miss.

“Nah,” he says, his brown eyes looking down into yours. “Then I’d miss seeing you swear at English weather. This is the real show.”

You snort, but there’s no sting in it now.

By the time you’ve loaded every salvageable box into the hatchback, your toes are numb and there are damp spots up the backs of your tights from where slush splashed. Pedro has mud on one trouser leg and a smear of green on his cuff where a rogue bit of foliage attacked him.

You slam the hatch shut and lean against it for a second, catching your breath.

“Thank you,” you say, looking at him properly.

He shrugs, but his eyes meet yours. “That’s the bare minimum.”

It makes you smile. Maybe a little too fondly for someone you’ve technically been feuding with for forty-eight hours.

On the way back, the car feels warmer. Some of that is the heater battling your damp clothes, some of it is something else. The boxes of flowers fill the back, scenting the whole interior with green and rose and something faintly spicy. The radio plays another Christmas song.

You sit, Pedro’s jacket still around your shoulders, hands finally still in your lap.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says after a while, eyes on the road, “I don’t think you’re making everyone miserable.”

You glance over.

“I think you’re trying so hard to keep everyone from being miserable you forget you’re allowed to enjoy any of this,” he continues carefully. “Which, yeah, can be stressful to watch. But the answer to that isn’t me telling you to ‘chill’ like a frat boy. The answer is me…” he gestures between you “…actually doing my part so you feel safe enough to put something down.”

You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t know how to put things down,” you say, quietly. “Not easily.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ve noticed.”

He flicks a quick look at you. “Maybe we can meet in the middle?” he offers. “You loosen your death grip on the schedule a tiny bit, and I stop acting like the schedule is a cute suggestion.”

You huff out a laugh. “You mean you show up when you said you would.”

“That too,” he says with a smile. “And maybe I ask where I can help before I assume you want to do everything yourself.”

You pick at a loose thread on your skirt. “I might still snap, sometimes,” you warn. “When I’m tired. Or scared it’s all going to fall apart.”

“I might still say something stupid when my ego panics,” he counters. “But I’ll try to be less of a dick about it.”

The corner of your mouth lifts. “We’re really selling ourselves here.”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “Incredible package deal.”

You laugh then, properly. The sound surprises you with how light it feels.

The village comes into view ahead: the church spire, the cluster of stone roofs, the inn tucked in among them. As he turns back onto the lane that leads up to it, you realize your shoulders aren’t hovering quite so close to your ears. Your heart’s still beating fast, but it’s more adrenaline and less dread.

The air between you is not fixed, not suddenly perfect. There are still jagged edges. You can feel them. But there’s something else now too. A tentative new shape to how you look at each other.

He pulls the car to a stop outside the inn. People are visible through the windows now, moving around in good clothes, glasses in hand. Time has not stopped to wait for you.

“We did good,” he says, nodding back at the boxes.

“We did necessary,” you correct. Then, after a heartbeat, “We did… good.”

He smiles, faint but there. “Truce?” he asks, holding out his hand.

You hesitate only a second before taking it. His palm is warm, a little rough. The shake is brief, but it feels like signing something invisible.

“Truce,” you say.

Then you both climb out of the car and start unloading flowers, side by side, into the soft, swirling snow.

The church looks like something out of a painting. Snow clings to the low stone wall around the churchyard, gathers in the hollows of ancient gravestones. The big wooden door is propped half open, a wreath of evergreens and berries hanging in the centre, dusted with fine white.

Inside, breath clouds faintly in the air. Candles flicker in glass holders along the aisle, their flames shivering with each new arrival. Evergreen garlands, hastily but lovingly finished with the rescued flowers, wind between the pew ends, the deep green broken by soft whites and a scatter of red berries. Up front, on either side of the altar, the arrangements you carried through slush and mud sit in tall stands, lifting winter roses and eucalyptus toward the stained glass.

Organ pipes gleam in the dim light. Somewhere off to the left, a string trio tunes quietly—violin, viola, cello—drawing slow, careful notes from their instruments.

You stand near the back for a moment, just inside the door, and let yourself look. Not for gaps or mistakes. Not for the one candle that’s slightly shorter than the others. Just at it.

You did this, a quiet voice in your head reminds you. Not alone, not single-handedly, but your emails, your phone calls, your lists are in every wreath and bow and tiny tea light.

And the fact that they’re actually here, not sitting in a van in a ditch, has his fingerprints on it too.

“Looks good,” someone murmurs at your shoulder.

You turn. Pedro is there in his dark suit, tie finally sitting right, coat off now. The jacket fits him well; the white shirt at his throat is open by half a button more than strictly necessary, but somehow it works. His curls are as tamed as they’re ever going to be, swept back from his forehead, the silver at his temples catching candlelight.

He’s looking down the aisle, not at you. But there’s a softness in his face you didn’t see yesterday. A kind of wonder. You follow his gaze.

“It does,” you say quietly. “We pulled it back from the brink.”

That earns you a sideways glance and the ghost of a grin. “Teamwork,” he says. “Who knew.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. “Don’t let it go to your head. You carried, like, three boxes.”

“Four,” he says. “Pretty sure it was four.”

Your mouth twitches. Before you can retort, Mrs Evans materialises beside you with a brisk little nod. “Positions, please,” she says. “Guests are nearly all in. We’re just waiting on the bride.”

Right.

You smooth your hands down your burgundy dress, suddenly aware of the way it fits you. The soft fabric skims your waist, falls in a clean line to just above your knees. The neckline is modest, but your necklace catches the light there; your earrings flash when you move. Your hair is up the way the stylist suggested, a few loose strands framing your face, your makeup soft but definitely there.

“Ready?” Pedro asks.

You nod. “You’ve got the rings?”

He taps his breast pocket with one hand. “Right here.”

You watch him do it, irrationally relieved. Somehow the way he pat-checks that pocket is more reassuring than seeing your own lists.

Reverend Clarke fusses gently at the front, straightening a lectern that doesn’t need straightening. The string players shift into position, bows poised.

You move into yours. Bridesmaids to the back of the aisle. Groomsmen at the front, to the side. Pedro beside Sam, slightly behind, exactly where you’d placed him yesterday with crisp instructions and simmering resentment. Now, he stands there without fidgeting. Hands clasped loosely in front of him, shoulders squared, eyes on his friend.

As you walk past him on your way to the back, your shoulders brush. Just a whisper of contact, fabric against fabric. It sends a small, treacherous jolt through you.

At the back, in the little stone porch, Holly waits with her father. She’s breathtaking.

The dress is exactly what you’d imagined when she’d waved screenshots at you over video calls, laughing and crying at the same time: Long lace sleeves, fitted bodice, skirt that flares just enough to be romantic without swallowing her. The lace is delicate, patterns of leaves and flowers tracing her arms. Her veil falls in a soft sweep from a small hairpiece that glints when she moves, with tiny crystals catching the light like frost.

Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright and suspiciously wet. The bouquet you nearly watched go to ruin on a country lane sits perfectly in her hands: winter whites, deep greens, a hint of red berries and dark ribbon trailing.

“You look like you stepped out of a snow globe,” you tell her, voice thick.

“Is that good?” she whispers.

“It’s perfect,” you say. And you mean it with your whole chest.

The music shifts, soft notes blooming into the first bars of the processional. You take your place at the head of the bridesmaids, heart pounding, and give the smallest nod to Reverend Clarke. He nods back, then turns to signal the organist and strings.

The doors open fully.

Candles flare in the eddy of air. Heads turn. Guests stand.

You walk. One, two, three, step. The garlands brush your skirt as you pass. The candles flicker, their glow warming the stone. You can feel eyes on you: the guests, Jess behind you, someone sniffing into a tissue already. But the gaze that pricks the back of your neck is familiar now.

You keep your focus ahead, but your peripheral vision is traitorous. Pedro stands at the front, beside Sam. As you reach the midway point of the aisle, he turns, just a fraction, so he can see you approach.

His eyes track you. And your pulse does a complicated, inconvenient thing.

You reach the front and take your position opposite him, on the bridesmaids’ side. When you steal a glance across the aisle, he’s already looking away, eyes on the door as the music swells for Holly.

The church seems to hold its breath.

Then she appears, her arm looped through her father’s. The collective inhale is almost audible. Even Reverend Clarke looks momentarily moved before snapping his expression back into professional fondness.

You watch her start down the aisle and, for a second, emotion rises so swiftly in you it’s like being knocked over. You blink hard.

At the front, Pedro leans in slightly toward Sam as Holly approaches. You can’t hear what he says, but you see Sam’s shoulders relax, a tiny, strained smile tugging at his mouth.

Holly reaches the front. Her father kisses her cheek, voice wobbling as he hands her over. Sam looks like someone handed him the actual sun.

The ceremony begins. Reverend Clarke launches into his welcome with that dry humour you’ve come to appreciate. “We are gathered here,” he says, “in this slightly chilly building, thanks to an ancient heating system that does its best, to witness something rather warm.”

Titters around the pews.

He keeps it up: Little asides about marriage being “two people agreeing to argue about the correct way to load a dishwasher for the rest of their lives,” about the village gossips having “waited patiently for more content.” It’s funny without undercutting the sincerity. And very British.

When the vows come, everything narrows down. Holly’s voice trembles on the first word. Sam’s does too, and he clears his throat, blinking fast.

You feel in your dress pocket for the tissue you stashed there on a hunch. At the first shaky inhale, you move without thinking, step sideways, stretch across the small gap between your line and theirs, the thin white square pinched between your fingers.

Pedro sees it and reaches out automatically to take it, his hand brushing yours for the briefest second. Warm skin. Callused fingertips. Electricity like a tiny, shocked inhale under your skin.

He passes the tissue to Sam with a murmured, “Here, man,” but his eyes flick back to you.

You look back at Holly before your face can give anything away.

“I take you…” Holly says, and you hear all the years in it. The late-night calls, the shared flats, the terrible exes, the exam results, the job changes. The giddy phone call when she first said, I think this might actually be it.

Sam’s voice cracks halfway through his vows. He laughs wetly, glances at Reverend Clarke in apology.

“Quite all right,” the reverend says. “If nobody cries at my weddings I worry I’ve done something wrong.”

The congregation laughs gently. You feel your own throat tighten.

When the rings come, Pedro passes the small gold bands to Reverend Clarke at the exact moment he’s supposed to. You see the way Holly’s shoulders drop a fraction in relief when there’s no hiccup, no awkward pause.

He glances at you right after, almost like he’s checking whether you’ve noticed.

You have. You give him the smallest nod. His lips curve. The breath he lets out is visible in the cold air.

You watch the rest of the ceremony in a kind of suspended glow. The blessing. The pronouncement. The kiss, brief and soft and utterly them. The applause swelling up like a wave.

Holly and Sam turn to face everyone as husband and wife. Her grin is radiant; his looks stunned with happiness. You clap until your palms sting.

As the music swells again and the newly married couple start back down the aisle, you fall into place behind them with the rest of the bridal party, petals already being readied by small children in frilly dresses.

As you pass Pedro, your shoulders graze again. His hand comes up, almost without thought, hovering for a second at the small of your back as the crowd presses in with congratulations, then falls away before it can actually settle. Something warm and dangerous settles low in your chest.

You look away before your face can betray how much you suddenly like the idea of him being exactly where he’s supposed to be.

The reception hall has that particular glow that only happens after dark. The fairy lights you insisted on are strung in loose swags across the beams, casting soft halos over everything. Candles burn low in glass holders on the long tables, puddles of wax slowly spreading. The flowers you dragged out of the ditch are everywhere: clustered in jars, spilling from low vases, softening the edges of old wood and stone.

People are pleasantly loud. The hum of conversation rises and falls. Laughter, the clink of cutlery against plates, the occasional chair scraping back as someone gets up for another drink. Outside the windows, night presses in, occasionally broken by a swirl of snow catching the light.

Dinner is done. Plates have been cleared, crumbs brushed away. Someone has already built a small tower of empty wine bottles at the far end of the room.

You’re running on equal parts adrenaline and relief. Your heels are off under the table, toes curling gratefully against the cool floor. You’ve finally allowed yourself to sit for more than thirty seconds; your dress has wrinkled a little across your lap, and you can feel the slow ache in your shoulders from hours of carrying tension you’re just now beginning to put down.

Up at the top table, Holly leans into Sam, shoulders loose, eyes bright. Every now and then she looks over at you and just beams. You can’t quite look directly at it without feeling like you might cry.

“Best wedding planner slash maid of honour ever,” Jess murmurs into your ear as she slides back into the seat beside you with a fresh glass of wine. “They should build a statue in your honour. With a clipboard.”

“Absolutely not,” you say. “If anyone chisels me in stone, I want a cocktail, not a clipboard.”

“Compromise,” she says. “You, on a plinth, holding a cocktail and a clipboard.”

Before you can reply, there’s a polite clink of metal on glass. The room hushes in waves.

Pedro stands up at the top table, champagne flute in hand. His tie is loosened now, the top button of his shirt undone. His curls have surrendered to the humidity and the hours; they stand up in soft disarray. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks: wine, warmth, the day.

“If I could just have your attention for a minute before we all disgrace ourselves on the dance floor,” he says, and the little ripple of laughter that passes through the room is easy, expectant. People like him. You knew that already. You feel it now.

He glances down at his notes, then sets them aside without really looking. Of course.

You watch, arms folded loosely on the table, chin resting on your wrist.

He starts with a joke about how long he’s known Sam, about terrible haircuts and worse decisions. He paints a picture of two idiots at university stumbling through their twenties, one of them somehow ending up the kind of man who cries during adverts and proposes in a way that made Pedro “sound like a proud parent and a disappointed older brother at the same time.”

People laugh. They also soften. You can see shoulders dropping, the fond smiles, the little sniffles from parents.

He talks about Holly like she walked into Sam’s life and turned the lights up. About how he knew it was serious when Sam stopped complaining about jet lag and started complaining about long-distance instead. About the first time he met her and thought, ah, so this is the person who finally knows where he left his keys.

You laugh, you can’t help it. He glances up then, scanning the room. For a second, his eyes find yours.

“So,” he goes on, “here’s to the two of you.” He turns back to Holly and Sam. “To Holly, who somehow makes a room warmer just by walking into it, and to Sam, who finally realised he was allowed to ask for the good thing and not just joke about wanting it. May you always have enough plans to feel safe, and enough improvisation to keep it interesting.”

He raises his glass. “To Holly and Sam.”

The chorus comes back strong: “To Holly and Sam!”

Glasses clink. Music swells up again as he sits, the band in the corner sliding into something upbeat to shake off the sentiment.

When you risk another glance at the top table, Pedro is listening to something Sam’s dad is saying in his ear. He feels you looking and lifts his glass slightly in your direction, just for a second. You tip yours back, answering without actually raising it.

Hours blur. Speeches give way to dessert, dessert gives way to the first dance: Holly and Sam swaying in a bubble of fairy lights and soft music while everyone watches and pretends not to cry. The first dance gives way to the second, third, fourth; people spill onto the floor in varying degrees of coordination.

You, finally, are allowed to stop moving. You sink into your chair near the edge of the room, slip your heels off under the table, and curl one ankle over the other. Your feet throb in that oddly satisfying way. Your dress is a little creased now, your hair not quite as immaculate as it was at the church. You feel wrung out, but in a good way.

The music shifts from high-energy singalong to something slower. A familiar, slightly cheesy tune given just enough sincerity by the band that it tips back into beautiful.

You let your eyes close for a second, the candlelight flickering warm behind your lids.

Someone clears his throat behind you. You open your eyes again.

Pedro stands beside your chair, tie loosened, top buttons undone, hair an end-of-the-night riot. His jacket’s off; his sleeves are rolled up, forearms bare and tanned, a few dark hairs catching the fairy lights. Up close, his eyes look darker. Softer.

“One dance, General?” he asks.

You give him a look. “Are you sure that’s wise? I might make you stay exactly on the beat.”

“I’ll risk it,” he says. “I feel like we can handle a little coordination after today.”

You mean to say no. You mean to point at your bare feet, your aching calves. Instead, you hold his gaze for a long second, then sigh. “Fine,” you say. “But if you step on me, I’m putting it in the post-wedding feedback form.”

“Deal,” he says with a grin, and holds out his hand.

You slip your fingers into his. His palm is warm, a little rough. He pulls you to your feet with an ease that makes your body remember other moments. His hand on your elbow by the ditch, the almost-touch at your back in the aisle.

When you step onto the edge of the dance floor he settles one hand at your waist, light and tentative at first, then a little more sure when you don’t flinch. Your free hand rests on his shoulder; the fabric of his shirt is soft under your fingers, the heat of him bleeding through.

You sway. It’s not a proper dance, no practiced steps. Just that slow, instinctive shifting of weight, the small arc of two people finding the same rhythm.

For a while, neither of you says anything. It’s surprisingly easy to just move like this. The fairy lights overhead blur into streaks when you catch them in the corner of your eye.

“Your speech was good,” you say eventually, because the silence is starting to feel too loaded.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You sound surprised.”

He shifts his hand at your waist, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric. Heat flickers low in your stomach. Your fingers, of their own accord, slide slightly higher on his shoulder, brushing against the side of his neck. His skin is warm there, the faint rasp of stubble along his jaw grazing your knuckles as you move.

“You were good today,” you tell him. “Really good. With Sam. With the flowers. With… everything.”

“Careful,” he says. “You’re going to ruin your thesis about me being a spoiled celebrity.”

“My thesis has undergone revisions,” you say.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yeah?”

“Turns out,” you say, “you’re actually good at making people relax. And not as selfish as I thought.”

“High praise,” he says, but there’s a quiet warmth underneath.

Your chest nearly touches his with each gentle sway. You can feel his breath against your cheek when he exhales. You look up at him then. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his mouth curves, a little uncertain despite everything. The grey in his hair, the softness of him now that the speeches and photos are over. Not the actor, not the best man, not the jester.

Just Pedro. Tired and warm and looking at you like he’s seeing something he wasn’t expecting but doesn’t entirely hate.

Your gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to his mouth. His hand tightens at your waist. Just a fraction.

You could move away. But instead, your fingers slide up from his shoulder to the side of his neck, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his jaw. The rasp of stubble there sends a tiny spark straight down your spine.

He leans in, almost imperceptibly. Your foreheads don’t quite touch, but the space between them is small enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne under everything else: something clean, warm and a little smoky.

Your breaths mingle. His eyes flick down to your mouth again. Yours do the same. For a suspended, breathless moment, you’re both right there, hovering at the edge of it.

One more inch.

Half-

“Okay!” someone yells right beside you. “Sparklers outside! Come on, before the snow turns everything into a hazard!”

You jolt apart.

Jess stands two steps away, flushed with wine and enthusiasm, arms full of unlit sparklers. Behind her, someone else is waving a box of matches like a distress flare.

“Photographer wants everyone out in the garden,” she says. “Tunnel of fire, or whatever. Romaaaaantic.”

You and Pedro stand there for a beat in the wake of her departure, the air between you charged and thin.

You look at him. He looks at you.

“Great timing…Saved by pyrotechnics,” he says dryly.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Duty calls.”

As you turn to reach for your shoes under the table, his hand brushes the small of your back. Not quite a guide, not quite an accident. You slide your feet back into your heels, straighten, and let him fall into step beside you as you head toward the garden, the sound of laughter and clattering chairs rising around you.

Outside, the night waits. Cold, bright with fairy lights and the soon-to-be chaos of drunk people wielding fire.

The almost-kiss hangs between you like a spark that hasn’t quite landed yet. You pretend not to think about when, or if, it will.

By Sunday morning, the wedding has softened around the edges.

The breakfast room is full, but the energy has shifted. Gone is the sharp, bright buzz of anticipation; in its place is something gentler. People shuffle in wearing sweaters and yesterday’s hair, paper crowns askew, faces creased with sleep and wine.

Suitcases start to collect along the wall—little islands of departure. Coffee and tea steam from mismatched mugs. Croissants shed flakes onto plates. Someone is quietly insisting that no, they absolutely did not snore.

You move through it all in a kind of slow-motion haze.

Holly and Sam are tucked into a corner table, sharing a plate and looking like they’ve stepped out of an advert for “mutually exhausted happiness.” Holly’s hair is in a loose knot, no veil, just a simple clip. Sam wears a hoodie over his dress shirt like a man who has accepted defeat.

You bring them fresh juice because you can’t stop yourself.

“You don’t have to do that anymore,” Holly says, eyes suspiciously shiny as she takes the glass. “Wedding’s over. You’re off duty.”

“Don’t ruin this for me,” you say. “I’ve built my whole personality around being useful.”

She huffs a laugh and tugs you down for a hug. Up close, you can smell her shampoo and the faint, lingering trace of her bouquet.

“You gave me my dream wedding,” she whispers into your shoulder. “I love you. Now please go rest before you start organising the sugar packets.”

You feel your throat tighten. “I make no promises,” you manage.

Sam leans over to kiss your cheek. “She’s right,” he says. “You smashed it. Ten out of ten, would emotionally depend on again.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat, make a vague flapping gesture that could mean you’re welcome or stop or I will cry on the cereal.

And yet, when they finally rise—coats on, bags packed—you’re the one double-checking their departure times, confirming the car is booked, reminding Sam he has their passports, reminding Holly she has her phone charger.

Bit by bit, the room empties. Aunties wrap you in perfumed hugs. Cousins clap you on the shoulder. People press crumpled napkins with email addresses into your hands. There’s a chorus of:

“Text when you get home.” “Send photos.” “Merry Christmas!”

…and then they’re shouldering bags, disappearing out of the door in noisy little clusters.

The sound fades in layers. Then, slowly, nothing but the rattle of a distant trolley and the murmur of Mrs Evans speaking to someone at reception.

You linger. There are last little details to tether down: leftover wine to account for, a couple of extra rooms to confirm, your own bill to settle. You find yourself at the small reception desk with Mrs Evans, going over printouts and nodding along.

“Everything’s in order,” she assures you. “The bar tab is settled, the extra heaters have been paid for, and the church has already rung to say thank you for leaving it tidier than you found it. They’re terribly impressed.”

You exhale. “Good,” you say. “I’d hate to be blacklisted from a Cotswolds parish.”

She smiles, handing you a folded receipt. “You’ve been a dream to work with,” she says. “Truly. I wish all wedding parties came with someone like you.”

Heat creeps up your neck in a way no amount of wine or weddings has managed all weekend.

“I—thank you,” you say, a little wrong-footed. You’re used to being relied on, less used to being praised for it.

You tuck your card back into your wallet, slip the receipt carefully into your bag, and pick up your coat from the back of the chair.

When you turn toward the hall, the inn feels different. The noise has gone. No more crowd bobbing in and out of doorways, no more suitcases trundling, no more laughter echoing off the beams. Just the distant clink of someone stacking glasses in the bar and the faint crackle of the fire in the sitting room.

The quiet after a storm. You step into the front hall—

—and stop.

He’s there.

Pedro is leaning near the front door, one shoulder against the wall, weekend bag at his feet. His scarf is looped once around his neck; his coat is open over a soft-looking jumper, less formal than yesterday, just him. Pale winter light from the window pools around him, catching on the curve of his jaw, the streaks of grey in his hair.

“Hey, General,” he says softly, his lips slightly curved.

You walk toward him, coat still folded over your arm. Your suitcase stands waiting by the wall where you left it, suddenly looking smaller.

“Thought you’d left already,” you say.

“Got tied up,” he replies. “Very strict commanding officer wouldn’t let me go without a proper goodbye.”

You feel your mouth curve despite yourself. “Sounds harsh.”

“She is,” he says. “Terrifying, really.”

Your smile tips a little shy at the edges. It’s ridiculous, given everything you’ve been through together in forty-eight hours, that this moment feels more exposing than standing beside him in front of a hundred people.

As you come to a stop in front of him, he glances up, past your face, to something over your head. You follow his gaze.

Above you, on the low beam near the door, a small bunch of mistletoe hangs. You hadn’t noticed it before; it must have blended into the general Christmas chaos in your mind. Now, with the hall empty, it’s impossible to miss: green leaves, pale berries, tied with a red ribbon.

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Huh,” he says. “Look at that.”

You roll your eyes lightly, fighting the prickle of nerves under your skin. “It’s an American tradition,” you finally say. “Doesn’t apply to me.”

“Pretty sure the British claim it too,” he counters.

“I’m neither,” you point out, a little defiant. “So technically, I think I’m exempt.”

He pushes off the wall, steps in just enough that you feel the warmth of him in the cool air.

“Good thing it applies to me, then,” he murmurs.

Your heart stumbles as his hand lifts, slow and unmistakable. He tucks a loose strand of hair back behind your ear, fingertips grazing the curve of it, then lingering lightly against your cheekbone.

Up close like this, you can see the way his lashes cast shadows in the thin light. His eyes search yours.

He bends his head. Slow enough that you feel every inch of the approach, slow enough that you could change your mind at any point.

You don’t.

The first brush of his mouth against yours is soft. A question in the shape of a kiss.

For half a second you just feel it. The warmth of his lips. The faint rasp of stubble near the corner of your mouth. The way his hand shifts, thumb resting at the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might startle and vanish.

Then you lean in, answering with your lips on his. The kiss deepens by degrees, his thumb strokes along your jaw, slow, and your fingers—when did they move?—are curled in the wool of his coat, anchoring yourself.

The hall is quiet but for the faint tick of an old clock and the creak of a floorboard somewhere settling. No glasses clinking, no phones, no commentary. Just you and him and the absurd, lovely fact that you survived each other long enough to get here.

When you part, it’s by mutual, but reluctant agreement. Your foreheads hover close, breath mingling in the cold air between you.

“So,” you say after a moment, attempting lightness and landing in something softer. “That’s one way to say thank you.”

“That was not a thank-you kiss,” he says quietly. His eyes are still on your mouth. “That was a starting point.”

Your stomach does an unhelpful little flip. He straightens a fraction, though his hand stays at your jaw, thumb resting just under your ear.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” he asks.

You blink. “What, in general?”

“In particular,” he says, smiling down at you. “Specifically you. Tiny tyrant of schedules.”

You huff out a laugh. “Family on the twenty-fourth,” you say. “Standard chaos. After that… nothing set in stone.”

“Dangerous,” he murmurs. “Unscheduled time.”

“Terrifying, actually,” you deadpan. “I might survive it.”

He shifts his bag with his free hand, suddenly, almost endearingly, a little unsure of himself. “Would you let me into the schedule?” he asks. “Dinner in London? Or I can come to you. Whatever’s easier. I’ll even try to be on time.”

You feel the answer in your chest before your brain has finished cataloguing all the what-ifs.

“Text me,” you say. “We’ll put something in the calendar.”

His smile is quick and bright, and something warm curls tight under your ribs at the sight of it. “Best thing I’ve heard all weekend,” he says.

You both pull your phones out.

It’s oddly intimate, this small, practical exchange. His thumb brushes yours once as you swap, typing numbers into each other’s contacts. You catch a glimpse of his entry for you: your name, and then “(General)” in brackets.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” you ask with a huff.

“Not a chance,” he says firmly. “It’s part of the charm.”

You roll your eyes, but your face is hot in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment now.

He picks up your suitcase handle without asking, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and nudges the door open with his shoulder.

Outside, snowflakes drift lazily down, not the full swirling curtain from earlier in the week, but enough to dust the stone and soften the edges of the village. The cottages opposite are dusted white, chimneys trailing thin smoke. The inn behind you spills warm yellow light onto the step.

“Merry Christmas, General,” he says.

“Merry Christmas, Pascal,” you answer, the name coming out softer than you intended.

He leans in and kisses you again. Briefer this time, but certain.

The crunch of tyres on snow breaks you apart. A car turns into the inn’s small gravel drive, the taxi sign glowing on its roof.

He carries your suitcase to the boot before you can reach for it, sets it in with practiced ease, then moves to open your door, fingers brushing the handle like this is something he’s done a hundred times and would like to do a hundred more.

“Don’t forget to call,” you say, half in the doorway, half out, trying for casual and not quite getting there.

He meets your eyes over the top of the door. “I’ll put a reminder in,” he says, mouth tilting. “I’ll be there.”

The certainty in his voice slides under your ribs. You believe him before you have time to talk yourself out of it.

As the car pulls away, you twist in your seat to look back.

Pedro stands in front of the inn, hands in his coat pockets now, snow catching in his curls. He lifts one hand in a small wave, mouth curved in that almost-shy smile you’re starting to like too much.

Through the glass, just beyond him, you can see the mistletoe hanging over the doorway. A tiny, ridiculous witness.

The village slides past in a wash of stone and snow and twinkling lights. It looks like a snow globe you’ve been living in: a little self-contained universe where you were allowed to be both the planner and the person, the general and the girl standing under the mistletoe.

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