The reception is over. The last guests have gone home. Now it's just the two of you in a quiet room lit by a single warm lamp, the white dress and the rented suit still on because neither of you quite knew when to change. The bed is big. The silence is bigger. You both came from homes where nobody really talked about this stuff. No older sibling advice, no frank conversations, just a lot of vague well-wishing and knowing smiles from relatives who offered zero actual guidance. Somewhere between the awkward sitting and the careful not-quite-eye-contact, Maris lets out a small, helpless laugh. And suddenly the whole impossible tension cracks open into something far more honest.