Rhys is visibly sweating now.
“Benji,” he says again. “Other ring.”
Benji opens the bucket again like it’s the Ark of the Covenant.
Destiny plucks the ring from it and slides it on with manicured vengeance. “With this ring,” she says, “I vow: ‘til death, divorce, or demonic summoning do us part.”
There is silence.
And then Venus yells “Slay!” from the snack table.
Rhys exhales through his nose. “You may kiss your, uh. Poultry-anointed spouse.”
And they do.
And I, bridesmaid, goblin, gremlin, emotional support stalker, make full, aggressive chicken noises during the kiss.
Loud. Proud. Cluck cluck motherfucker.
Someone throws corn instead of rice. It’s fucking majestic.
And then Destiny pulls back, glowing with sweat and vape and divine feral glee. She raises her arms like a pagan Beyoncé and screams, “bouquet time, bitches.”
The guests scatter like rats and prophets, forming a loose semicircle of chaos and cracked acrylic nails. A few of the jail wives form a protective wedge. Venus casually floats three inches off the ground. Benji holds up a chair like a shield. Rhys mutters something Latin under his breath and takes cover behind Jett, who hisses like a feral cat.
Destiny doesn’t toss the bouquet. She spins once. Twice. Cackles. Then she hurls it like a Molotov cocktail. It explodes mid-air in a glittery poof. Butterflies. Feathers. Possibly ghosts. The chicken mascot catches fire. Everyone screams.
And somehow, through sheer spite and divine alignment, it lands square in my arms.
Still smoking.
Destiny looks me dead in the eye and grins like she just birthed fate from her third eye.
“You’re next,” she says, and I swear to God the bouquet growls.
The air sparkles with vape smoke and divine spite.
And then Benji, Rhys, and Jett drop.
Not metaphorically.
They drop to one knee, like synchronized horny swans in heat. A holy trinity of chaos, lust, and terrible decision-making.
Benji drops first, like the six-foot-something human Labrador he is, knees thudding to the ground with a force that rattles the catering table. His curls are wild, eyes wilder, and he’s holding up a heart-shaped diamond the size of my trauma.
“Marry me,” he gasps like he forgot to breathe until just now. “Please. You’re everything. I’ll worship the ground you walk on. I’ll build you a house made of emotional safety and orgasms. Delilah. I am begging you. Let me love you forever.”
My brain bluescreens.
He’s so big. So sincere. So fucking serious. Like he doesn’t even see the flaming chicken mascot behind me or the blood-smeared wedding crasher passed out in the punch bowl. The only thing that matters in this moment is me. His girl. His whole world.
And I am not okay.
My uterus tries to crawl up into my lungs and start dry-humping my ribcage. My knees buckle. My pussy monologues. My heart hiccups, slaps me across the face, and starts packing a bag to move in with him permanently.
This man wants to build me a house. Of orgasms and emotional safety. Who the fuck says that? Who the fuck means that?
Benji. My hot, aggressively sweet, dick-sorcery forest creature of a man.
