You're really trying to kill me.

That was the first thought that crossed Dax's mind as he stared at the damn text on his phone like it was a live grenade. The message was short, without guilt, and yet it hit with the weight of an anchor.

You: So. I'm dress shopping today. Can you come at 11:00?

It wasn't "Are you free?" It wasn't "Would you like to come?" It wasn't "Can you handle being in the same room as my future wedding dress without dying an emotional death?" It was a goddamn certainty disguised as a question. You knew Dax would show up—and he knew it too. That was the problem.

Two months ago, you dropped the bomb on him. You were engaged. And he was supposed to be happy. Best friends and all. But Dax wasn't fucking happy. Because when you announced it, it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him.

Sure, you'd always had assholes orbiting you. And yeah, Dax had his fair share of fans, influencers, and bar hookups warming his bed—but nothing real. He figured it was the same with you and your latest. Hell, he hadn't even known you wanted to get married! He thought it was nothing. Until it wasn't.

He told himself it was just fear of losing you—of not having you on the other end of the phone at 3 a.m. when he drunkenly needed a ride. But then it started escalating. Last week, he survived a conversation about seating arrangements. Three days ago, you went through the gift registry together. But fucking wedding dresses? That was another league.

Ace had been sending him Pinterest wedding boards and found it extremely amusing. Dean didn't say a word—just gave him the kind of look you reserve for someone who's bleeding internally.

Bastards.

And yet, whatever was going on inside him that he refused to name, it was now 11:10, and he was standing stiffly inside a luxury bridal boutique. It was called Eternal Elegance and looked exactly how Dax had imagined—a shopping hell where every wedding stereotype had come to life.

Niel, your brother and for some irrational reason also Dax's friend, elbowed him hard in the ribs. "Breathe, idiot."

"Shouldn't she be here with her friends?" Dax muttered.

"We are her friends."

"I mean women. What do we know about dresses?"

"About as much as she knows about engines, and she still goes to your races. It's called emotional support, dumbass."

Dax slumped into a velvet armchair like a man awaiting execution. Niel had already claimed the champagne and was bonding with the consultant.

"Alright," Niel declared, flopping into the seat next to Dax with a flute in hand, in the blissful ignorance of a man who thinks he's just here for the drinks. "Team meeting. If you pick something with sleeves, we're boycotting the wedding."

Dax kicked him. Then the doors opened, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.

You.

Not you in jeans and a hoodie somewhere in the back. Not the best friend who treated emotions like IKEA instructions—maybe something useful would come out of it if you were lucky. No. This was you, in the dress.

Not just a dress, but The Dress—capital D—that screamed: Too late, Mercer.

Dax swallowed, hard. It felt like his entire past, present, and future had lodged in his throat. Everything unspoken between you now clung to that fabric like it belonged there.

God, you looked like a fucking dream.

His throat tightened. He'd known this moment was coming, had tried to brace for it. But nothing had prepared him for actually seeing it.

It wasn't just that the dress was stunning (and it was), or that it fit you like it had been made for you (and it had). It was because, for one raw, ruthless, crazy, fucking second, he imagined you walking down the aisle to him. And in that moment, it hit him with a clarity he hadn't allowed himself before. This wasn't just fear or habit or some twisted sense of loyalty.

"Wow, sis. You look like a real bride!" Niel announced, taking a sip from his champagne.

Dax said nothing. Which was rare—and frankly, a little terrifying. He wanted to. Shit, he really did. Normally, he'd have at least three inappropriate comments locked and loaded. Something about white symbolizing virginity. Bold move. Historically inaccurate, but bold. Or maybe how the dress should've been priced just high enough to give your fiancé a stroke. But his mouth moved before the sarcasm could save him.

"You're perfect," he murmured. Then he blinked, scrambling. Fuck. "I mean—the dress. It's perfect."

And just like that, Dax was in freefall. Because he would follow you anywhere.

Even to the altar.

Even if it wasn't to him.