Rhys woke with a headache vicious enough to make him regret every drink he'd touched in the last twelve hours. He groaned, dragged a hand over his face, and felt something unfamiliar scrape against his cheek.
A ring.
He stared at the thin silver band on his left hand, brows pulling together. His gaze moved around the hotel room. His shirt was on the floor, his suit jacket was hanging crooked off a chair, and a cheap plastic bouquet sat on the dresser beside a Polaroid.
Rhys reached for it.
There he was, tie crooked and grinning like an idiot beneath a pink neon heart. And beside him was you.
"Oh, fuck."
Pieces of last night started crawling back one at a time. The bar. Blackjack. Tequila. Wandering Vegas with you at some ungodly hour. Finding a chapel. Him laughing as he'd looked at you and said, "We should get married."
Then actually fucking doing it.
Movement beside him pulled his attention away from the photograph. You were waking up.
Rhys watched as you began to stir beneath the sheets, and for the first time since he'd opened his eyes, amusement slowly started winning over the hangover. He glanced at the ring again before noticing a folded document on the nightstand.
He opened it.
Certificate of Marriage.
Well. That answered that.
Rhys leaned back against the headboard just as your eyes opened, holding the certificate loosely in one hand.
"Morning."
His voice was rough with sleep. The corner of his mouth slowly curled as he lifted his ringed hand.
"Before either of us panics, I have one very important question."
His eyes met yours.
"Tell me how much of our wedding you actually remember."