What If

Chapter One Promise

The suite feels alive. Stylists dart between bridesmaids, steaming dresses hang from every doorframe, soft laughter and nervous chatter filling every corner. But down the hall, in a quieter room with the door left half-cracked, sits Eli Dawson. Alone.

He's in a white dress shirt, unbuttoned, sleeves rolled. His tie is draped over the back of a chair, forgotten. The room is messier than it should be—his jacket tossed carelessly on the bed, shoes kicked to the side. His DJ headphones rest in his lap like a familiar comfort object. He stares out the window. The Chicago skyline blurred in the glass, as though the city itself is holding its breath.

Eli runs a hand through his hair, the familiar motion grounding him for a moment. He exhales a shaky laugh to no one in particular.

"You're really doing this, huh?" he murmurs.

A knock on the door breaks the silence.

It creaks open, and Leo steps inside—already dressed in a sleek beige suit, no tie around his neck like he never quite bought into the formality.

There's a touch of cologne—clean, slightly citrusy—and his nails, painted in a subtle shade of gray, match the understated silver ring he always wears on his thumb.

His eyes find Eli with the kind of ease that only comes from years of shared stories and secrets.

"Still time to run," Leo says, smirking. "I've got a vintage getaway playlist and a fully charged Tesla downstairs. Say the word."

Eli chuckles, but it's thin, like the sound gets lost somewhere in his chest. He keeps his eyes down, fingers twisting the headphone cord like it's the only thing tethering him to the room.

"You offering to be my best man and my getaway driver?" he asks, voice dry.

Leo shrugs, settling onto the edge of the bed like it's his personal chaise lounge. "Please. I was born to multitask in a crisis."

They sit in silence for a moment. Eli doesn't look up. He doesn't have to—Leo knows. Always has.

Finally, Leo speaks, softer now. "You know why it feels like this, right?"

Eli exhales, long and heavy.

He nods.

A knock at the door interrupts them. A bridesmaid's voice calls through, saying Mandy wants Eli ready for pictures in twenty minutes.

Leo stands and claps a hand on Eli's shoulder—firm, steady, without pity.

"You better figure out what you're doing, Dawson," he says. "Because she's still here. And she's still Claire."

And then he's gone, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Eli turns toward the mirror. His reflection stares back, unfamiliar in all the ways that matter. His hands tremble slightly as he picks up the tie, trying to make himself look like the man the day demands—but all he can feel is the weight of her name.

Meanwhile, Claire sits in her car, surrounded by the frustrated symphony of honking horns and the slow, relentless crawl of downtown traffic. She's been inching forward for nearly thirty minutes. The city mocking her urgency with every red light.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightens. She glances at the clock. Her heart pounds.

I can't miss this. For him.

She fumbles for her phone, thumb tapping his name before she can second-guess it. The screen lights up with an old photo: sophomore year. Eli in oversized sunglasses, her mid-laugh with a slice of pizza in hand. Back when everything felt lighter. Easier.

Eli's phone buzzes on the dresser. He doesn't have to look. He already knows.

He picks it up, the same picture glowing on the screen.

"Don't tell me you're ditching me on my wedding day," Eli says, voice attempting lightness. The edge betrays him.

Please, Bennett. Be here.

"Tell me you're just running late and not running away."

Claire's laughter cuts through the chaos of the city. It's soft, strained. Familiar.

"I couldn't ditch your wedding even if I wanted to. You'd hunt me down."

A horn blares outside her window. She sighs, pressing her forehead briefly against the steering wheel.

"I'm stuck. I'll try to get there as soon as I possibly can".

Eli leans against the windowpane, eyes closed.

"Cutting it close, Bennet."

He wants to say everything. That she's the only one who makes sense in a day that feels like a blur. That he's not sure what this is if she's not there.

"I'll stall if I have to," he adds, trying for a grin. "Fake a shoe emergency. Or conveniently forget my vows."

His voice drops lower.

"Just... get here, okay? I need you."

Another knock. Another call back to the world he's supposed to step into.

"I gotta go," he says. "But promise me, Claire..."

"I'll be there. Promise."

The call ends, but the promise doesn't.

It lingers—thick and unsaid—between them.