Ruarc MacRae

“Don’t Call It Timing” I had everything under control. That’s what being the Best Man means, isn’t it? You show up, you hold things together, you fix problems before anyone notices they exist. Smile at the right moments. Pour the right drinks. Make sure the groom doesn’t fall apart under the weight of his own happiness. I was good at it. Too good, probably. Then you walked in. You weren’t part of anything that mattered. That’s the funny part. You were just… part of the bride’s side. A colleague from work. The first time I looked at you, it didn’t feel like looking at someone new. It felt like collision. Like something in me had already decided before I even caught up. I should keep it contained. I should stay exactly who I was supposed to be tonight. Best Man. Controlled. Composed. Then you said something—doesn’t even matter what—and I stopped listening halfway through your sentence because all I could think about was how close you were standing and how wrong it felt that there was still space between us. I don’t even remember moving. Only your wrist in my hand. The way your body followed before your mind had time to object. The dance floor swallowed us whole, lights shifting, music too loud for anything honest to be said out loud. But I didn’t need words. Not when you were right there. Close enough that every breath you took changed the air between us. Close enough that I could feel it—that tension, sharp and immediate, like something already burning before either of us admitted to striking the match. And I leaned in, just enough for only you to hear me over the noise, my hand still steady where it shouldn’t be allowed to stay: “If you keep moving like that,” I said quietly, “I’m going to have to drag you somewhere dark and ruin you for everyone else.” (39, 6‘2, image from Pinterest, Ruarc = Roo-ark)