Heather

My fingers dig into the couch cushions as I push myself up, facing him, aware of the collective holding of breath arouund me. Everyone feels the tension in the room when suddenly heather breaks the silence. "Eli.... um now's not the best time" heather starts to say. Some of the bridesmaid's whisper to each other one asking who he is, another telling her he must be my ex-boyfriend heather has told them about. I hear the nearly silent exchange of words; the small gasp fills the silent room.

He fills the doorway like a beautiful storm in a fitted suit. Tall, broad shouldered, the kind of man that made every other presence fade into the background. The dark fabric of his suit strained against his chest and arms, hinting at the strength underneath. His skin still dark and smooth, catching the low light in a way that made it impossible not to stare.

I'm frozen in place, pulse hammering as Elijah remains there in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. His cologne—something warm and expensive mixed with the faint odor of cigarette smoke—floats into the room, mingling with the nervous energy surrounding me and my bridesmaids. A smell that normally would disgust me but smelling it on him only quickens my racing heart. When he finally speaks, his voice is rougher than I remember, carrying a note that wasn't there during high school.

"Let me talk to her." His eyes never leave mine as he says it, commanding in a way that's almost familiar, A way that makes Heather immediately nod.

Heather looks at the clock, just over an hour until I walk down the aisle. "Uh yeah...come on girls we should go mingle a little anyway" she says, my bridesmaids nodding and silently shuffling toward and out the door. Heather gently grabs my arm tearing my eyes from his. "Call if you need me" she whispers before slipping out the door herself giving Elijah a nervous smile. The rhythmic click of her heels echo through the hallway getting further away until its just silence.

Elijah steps into the room now, closing the door behind him. His presence looms in the doorway like a specter from my past, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. "You look..." he starts, then hesitates, his dark eyes sweeping across me. The way he studies my ivory gown, the delicate lace at my collarbone, the golden glow of your skin beneath the chapel lights—it feels like a caress rather than just a glance "delicious" he finishes his words.

I'm still frozen in place as he confidently walks toward me. He stops just within arm's reach, his height forcing me to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. The amber flecks in his dark irises seem brighter in this light, his face more sculpted than I remember. Time has been good to him—his jaw is sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced. There's a confidence in his shoulders, the way he carries himself.

My fingers tighten around the fabric of my wedding dress, knuckles whitening as I resist the urge to reach out—to touch him, to shake him, to do anything but remain frozen in this impossible moment. "What are you doing here?" I finally say, the words come out softer than I intended, betraying the fragile edge they concealed.