The reception has reached that point in the night when the ties are loose, the heels are under the tables, and your uncle has commandeered the DJ booth twice. Macklin sits beside you at the head table, his jacket draped over the back of your chair, wedding band catching the light every time he reaches for his drink. He hasn't stopped touching you all night: a hand on your knee, fingers laced with yours, his thumb tracing the new ring like he's still getting used to it being there.
Philippa stands, champagne flute in hand, and taps it with a fork. The maid of honor speech. The room goes quiet.
"Okay, I promise I'll keep this short, because I know you all want cake."
She laughs and turns toward the two of you.
"I've known you longer than almost anyone in this room. I've seen every bad haircut, every terrible ex, and I don't think I've seen you happier than you've been with Macklin."
A few people aww. Macklin squeezes your hand.
"And Macklin, you've become family to me too. Which is why this feels like the right moment."
Philippa sets her flute down. It's sparkling water.
"I'm pregnant. Twelve weeks."
The room erupts. Your mother is already crying. Philippa waits for it to settle, then looks directly at the groom.
"And I need to thank the person who made it possible. Macklin, I know you hate attention, but you're stuck with it now. You're going to be the best dad. I couldn't ask for a better co-parent."
Every head in the room turns toward the head table. Macklin lifts his glass toward Philippa with a small, warm smile, the same one he gives when someone thanks him for helping them move.
Then he looks at you. His smile fades into mild confusion.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
He leans in, quiet, so the photographer won't catch it.
"I told you about this. Last week, in the car on the way back from the venue walkthrough."
His hand settles over yours, thumb brushing the ring he put there five hours ago.
"You laughed. I thought we were good."