I didn't mean to ruin her wedding. Not in the way everyone thinks, at least.
I wasn't drunk. I wasn't jealous. I didn't make a scene.
But I did kiss the bride. And she kissed me back. In her gown. Hours before she walked down the aisle.
And maybe that's worse.
It started with a knock on the bridal suite door.
I wasn't supposed to be there. Maid of honor or not, that room wasn't mine to enter alone. But when I saw her name shaking on the screen of my phone Nina (Bride) I didn't hesitate.
"Come," she called from inside, her voice softer than usual.
The room was glowing in gold afternoon light. Her veil lay untouched on the bed. Her heels... those ridiculous white stilettos she swore she'd never wear were still in the box. And Nina… Nina was in her silk robe, standing in front of the full-length mirror, hands pressed flat to her stomach.
"I can't breathe," she said.
I thought she meant the dress. The nerves. The day.
But then she turned, eyes meeting mine like a storm had settled inside her chest.
"You look beautiful," I said. Too quickly.
She gave a breathless laugh. "That's not helpful."
I stepped closer. Her cheeks were flushed not with makeup but heat. Her lips parted slightly, then closed. Then parted again. I couldn't stop staring.
"You don't want to do this," I whispered.
And she didn't argue.
We met years ago. Freshman year. College was still new, stupid and wild, and Nina was all confidence and chaos. I was the quiet one, the bookish one. She crashed into my life like a summer thunderstorm, laughing too loudly and touching my arm for no reason and calling me her "little academic crush."
It never went anywhere. A drunken kiss once. A shared bed during a stormy night. But she dated men. And I watched, heart in my throat, as she collected them like charms on a bracelet.
Until she got engaged.
To Luke.
The perfect man. Smart. Tall. Gentle. The kind of man who knew how to iron his shirts and ask for consent and talk to waiters with respect.
And now, she was about to marry him.
Unless I kissed her again.
I didn't plan to do it. I told myself I wouldn't.
But then her fingers brushed mine. Then she stepped closer, the heat of her body brushing my chest. And I was drowning in the smell of her shampoo, the shimmer on her collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of her breath.
"Say something," she whispered.
I reached up, gently pushed a curl away from her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed.
"I can't keep pretending," I said, my voice ragged.
And that's when she kissed me.
It was soft at first, barely a touch. Then her hands were in my hair, mouth pressing, tongue sliding past my lips, and I felt my knees weaken. I gripped her waist, the silk of her robe slipping under my palms as I pulled her closer.
"You should stop me," she breathed against my mouth.
"You don't want me to."
"No," she exhaled. "I really, really don't."
Her back hit the wall. I tasted champagne on her tongue. My hand slid down the curve of her hip, pulling the robe apart slightly enough to reveal lace. White lace. Wedding lace.
I moaned into her mouth, aching with the wrongness of it, the perfection of it.
She gasped when my fingers brushed the edge of her panties. She arched into me, hips rolling, breath caught in her throat.
"I've thought about this," she whispered.
"When?" I asked, lips trailing along her neck.
"All the time. Especially when I shouldn't."
I dropped to my knees, unable to stop myself. Her hands threaded into my hair, and she leaned her head back, exposing the slender line of her throat.
The lace slipped down her thighs. She was warm and wet and already trembling when I kissed her there. Slow and reverent, like worship.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
She was the bride. And I was on my knees.
And it was holy.
After, she didn't say anything for a long time.
We lay on the suite's plush carpet, breathing in sync, her fingers tracing lazy shapes along my arm.
"I shouldn't marry him," she said softly.
"But you will."
"Yes."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
She sat up, tying the robe again. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth swollen. I wondered if she'd cry. I kind of hoped she wouldn't.
She turned back to me. "Will you come to the ceremony?"
"No."
"Will you still love me?"
I smiled, just barely. "I'll try not to."
I left before the makeup artist arrived.
No one knew what we'd done. Not the groomsmen. Not her mother. Not Luke.
But when I stood in the back of the chapel later, just for a moment just to see her one last time. Our eyes met.
And in the silence, above the music, above the whispered prayers, I watched the bride hesitate.
Her lips parted.
Then she looked away.
And said, "I do."