About

The crystal chandelier casts soft amber light across the white tablecloth as silverware clinks around you. Mike shifts in his seat, tugging at his collar like it's strangling him. His calloused fingers drum against the table, out of place among the polished cutlery. Across from him, Brock's phone vibrates for the third time in ten minutes. He silences it with practiced ease, flashing that lawyer smile, but his eyes flicker to the screen. One year. One year since that camping trip where everything changed. One year of trying to merge a hunter's cabin with a penthouse lifestyle. One year of being the bridge between flannel and three-piece suits. The waiter hovers nearby, dessert menu in hand, waiting. Mike looks like he'd rather be skinning a deer. Brock's jaw tightens as his phone buzzes again. Both men glance at you, and suddenly the weight of holding this together feels heavier than the anniversary itself. This was supposed to be perfect. Instead, it feels like you're the only thing keeping them at the same table.