The thunder didn’t just crack; it shrieked, like a banshee mid-breakdown. The sky churned with bruised clouds and purple lightning veins, swirling as if ink had been stirred into spoiled milk. Rain lashed in every direction. Sideways, slantwise, even upward like gravity had given up.

Julian stood alone in the middle of it all, soaked to the bone, wearing a ridiculous ruffled tuxedo three sizes too big. A booming laugh echoed from the heavens, deep, echoing, and sinister. Church bells clanged off-key, like drunk cowbells, and in front of him, a white carpet stretched across a swamp that smelled suspiciously like gym socks.

A wedding.

A cursed, doom-filled wedding.

There, gliding across the aisle like a ghost bride in slow motion, was his mother. Her veil flapped in the wind like a terrified chicken, and her eyes were glazed with an unnaturally wide smile. Her bouquet burst into pigeons and one of them pooped on his shoe.

Julian gasped. “No. No. NO.”

Standing at the altar was a man with a cube-shaped head, a jawline sharp enough to slice bread, and the oily smirk of a used chariot salesman. Alexander’s father.

Behind him stood Alexander himself, wearing a crown made of hair gel and a suit made of mirrors. He winked.

Julian backed away. “This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare.Ahhhhhh.”

Alexander’s face suddenly grew. Not metaphorically. Literally. It expanded like a balloon, swallowing the sky. His nose zoomed toward Julian like a torpedo, his grin stretching like warm mozzarella. “You’re my brother now, Jules,” he said in a sing-song voice that echoed across the clouds, warped and syrupy. “Forever and ever and—”

“NOOO!”

Julian woke up with a violent gasp, clutching his sheets like they’d save him from the horror. His heart thundered louder than the dreamstorm. He looked around, disoriented, sweat pouring down his back.

Suddenly his bedroom door burst wide open without warning, as if hurled by a storm and his mother quickly rushed in, her robe streaming behind her like smoke, hair disheveled, eyes wide with alarm.

“Julian! Are you alright?”

Julian pushed himself up on his elbows, wild-eyed. “I had a nightmare. You were—you were in a wedding dress.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“And you were marrying that douchebag’s father. That corporate ghoul. That—ugh!” He flailed his arms, still half in dream-mode, eyes wide and wild. “And then Alexander’s face got huge and he called me brother! His nose tried to attack me, Mom. His nose!”

His mother blinked, her gaze flat. “Julian…”

“It was horrifying! Like something out of a cursed cartoon,” he groaned, collapsing back into the bed, arms flailing dramatically.

She sat at the edge of his bed, her face unreadable for a moment. Then, she shook her head, a small, exasperated smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She couldn't help it. She'd heard it all before. The endless “nightmares” he’d had ever since she'd told him she was getting married. Julian had practically gone into full-blown protest mode, spinning wild theories about how it was all wrong, as if she was about to marry the villain from some over-the-top romance novel. None of his reasons, of course, made any sense. “He's a corporate ghoul!” he'd shouted, as if that was a legitimate red flag.

She bit back a laugh. Really, Julian? She sighed, crossing her arms with a knowing look. “You know, you really ought to get a hobby. Like chess. Or knitting. Something to distract you from all these ‘nightmares’ about weaponized noses.”

Julian shot her a glare, dramatic as ever. “It’s not just a nightmare, Mom. It’s a warning. Alexander’s father is evil! And I’m sure I’m right about this. You saw how he looked the other night at dinner—slicked-back hair, shark smile, like he was about to sell us a pyramid scheme with a side of trauma!"

She raised an eyebrow. “let me guess, that screams corporate ghoul?”

“Yes! He oozes bad vibes! And don’t get me started on Alexander. He calls me 'brother' like we’re some kind of family now. The wedding hasn't even happened yet. The nerve! He acts like he’s better than everyone—Mr. Top-of-the-Class, MVP of every sport, probably cured a disease last week just for extra credit. He’s got that annoyingly perfect smile, like he knows he’s the golden boy. Even his handwriting is flawless, Mom. Who writes in cursive during exams? It’s creepy. He probably jogs in his sleep and wakes up with his hair already styled. I hate how teachers worship him, how he never even tries but still wins everything—and I especially hate how he walks into a room like he owns the air we breathe!"

His mother,calmly watched the explosion unfold with the serenity of a woman who had seen one too many tantrums to flinch.

“You know,” she said, placing her hand gently on his knee, “you sound like a bitter, jealous ex right now.”

“I am not jealous!” he shouted, voice cracking with a level of indignation usually reserved for soap opera finales. “I’m just aware of the facts! And the fact is, Alexander is a smug, perfectly sculpted robot with an annoying laugh and Olympic-level chewing skills! And if he’s like that, then his father must be just as unbearable. Oh what's that saying. The apple doesn't fall too far from it's tree. The bottom line is we’re not family. I don’t care if he’s your ‘beloved fiancé’ or whatever—he’s terrible, and his son is too!”

His mother shook her head, a small smile pulling at her lips despite herself. “Julian, you’re overreacting and making all this up because you don’t like Alexander. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you get to know him better.”

“Nope!” Julian waved his hands, looking determined. “If I don’t like Alexander, then I don’t like his dad either. Simple as that. They're cut from the same evil cloth. Trust me, Mom, there’s something wrong with him.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “You can't judge someone just because you don’t like their kid.”

“Watch me,” Julian muttered under his breath.

She sighed, standing up. “Look, you’re being stubborn, but you have to at least give Tom a chance. He’s not a villain from one of your ridiculous dreams. He is a really good guy.”

Julian flopped back dramatically on the bed, throwing his arm over his forehead. “Fine. But if he tries to recruit me for a corporate evil empire, I’m blaming you.”

His mother rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the fond smile. “You need some rest. We have a big day ahead of us. You know, my wedding?”

Julian let out a long, exaggerated groan. “Right, the wedding... and my impending doom.”

She chuckled softly. “Go to sleep, Julian. You’ll need the energy. And no more nightmares. We don’t need to add ‘sleeping son’ to the list of wedding mishaps.”

The morning sun should have brought peace. Instead, it brought chaos.

The house looked like a bridal hurricane had touched down and never left. Bridesmaids fluttered from room to room, shrieking about missing lip liners and mismatched heels. Someone had spilled orange juice on a veil. Someone else was sobbing over false eyelashes. The scent of hairspray clung to the air like a desperate ex.

In the middle of it all, Julian sat on the couch like a funeral mourner, arms crossed, still in his pajamas and scowling at a freshly steamed tuxedo hanging nearby like it had personally offended him.

His mother stormed in, halfway dressed in her gown, curlers bouncing in her hair, mascara wand in one hand, and a look of fury in the other.

“Julian,” she snapped, “put. On. The tuxedo.”

He recoiled like she’d asked him to lick a public toilet. “Absolutely not. That thing is cursed. It smells like betrayal.”

“It smells like fabric softener, and your future stepfather is footing the bill, so put it on before I sew you into it.”

Julian leapt to his feet. “Mom! You’re selling me out to the enemy. Do you even hear yourself?”

“I’m not selling you. I’m marrying a man I love.”

“To the enemy, Mother!” He gestured wildly like an unhinged Shakespearean actor. “A man who spawned Alexander! Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Julian, I swear on my bouquet, if you don’t put that tux on in the next five minutes, I will march you down the aisle in those duck-printed pajamas and tell everyone it was your fashion choice.”

Julian gasped, scandalized. “You wouldn’t.”

She smiled sweetly. “Try me.”

A bridesmaid passed behind them yelling, “Does anyone know where the emergency eyelash glue is?!”

Julian slumped back onto the couch, defeated. “This is emotional warfare.”

“And you’re losing,” she said, blowing him a kiss before striding out. “Tuxedo. Now.”

Julian sat there for a moment, glowering at the tuxedo as if he could set it on fire with sheer force of will. Eventually, realizing he had no choice, he grabbed it off the hanger and stomped upstairs. If he was going to be paraded around like a show pony at this wedding, he might as well be dramatic about it.

Moments later, he emerged, stiff as a board, shoulders hunched like the tuxedo was actively choking the life out of him. The tie felt like a noose. The polished shoes felt like shackles. He was being forcefully civilized.

The wedding chaos still raged downstairs, but Julian barely noticed because standing near his bedroom door, looking unfairly composed in a crisp suit, was him. The enemy. Alexander.

Julian stopped dead in his tracks. Alexander turned at the same time, their eyes locking like two cowboys about to duel.

Alexander smirked, a lazy, confident smirk that made Julian want to throw a decorative vase at him. “Well, well, well. Look who finally looks like a respectable member of society.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “I hate you.”

Alexander placed a hand over his chest. “That hurts, Julian. Really. And here I thought we were bonding.”

Julian scoffed. “Over what? Mutual suffering? Your father ruining my life?”

Alexander tilted his head in mock consideration. “That, and the fact that we’re both trapped in this ridiculous circus of a wedding.”

Julian refused to acknowledge the slight twinge of agreement in his chest. Instead, he crossed his arms. “Don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten your sins.”

“My sins?” Alexander looked positively delighted. “Do elaborate.”

Julian took a deep breath, as if preparing for a great monologue. “You are an insufferable, overly-groomed mannequin with a laugh that haunts my nightmares and a chewing technique so aggressive, I’m convinced you could bite through steel!”

Alexander blinked once. Then, to Julian’s utter horror, he started laughing. Not just any laugh, a full-bodied, genuinely amused, downright attractive laugh.

Julian’s eye twitched. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know,” Alexander said, grinning. “It’s just—I wasn’t expecting you to be so… passionate about me.”

Julian scowled. “I don’t like your tone.”

“And I don’t think you actually dislike me as much as you pretend to,” Alexander mused, stroking his chin like he was some wise philosopher unraveling the universe’s greatest mysteries. “You talk about me quite a lot.”

Julian shot to his feet. “I—excuse me?! That is slander! I would never—”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alexander said, inspecting his cufflinks with an irritating air of nonchalance. “From what I hear, you bring me up in nearly every conversation. Some might call that… fixation.”

Julian gasped, utterly scandalized. “Take that back!”

“Just an observation.”

Julian whirled toward the exit, pointing an accusing finger as he stormed off. “This is not over.”

Alexander, still far too amused, called after him, “Looking forward to the next chat, darling.”

Julian nearly tripped over a stray bouquet.

This wedding was a nightmare.

The church was a vision, holy and blinding in its splendor. Rows of pews lined with fresh white lilies and ivy, the air thick with the sweet scent of roses and incense. Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows in a kaleidoscope of color, painting the marble floors with shades of gold and crimson. Every seat was filled with expectant faces, all turned toward the altar where the ceremony had just concluded.

Julian sat rigid in the front pew, jaw clenched so tight he could hear the grind of his own molars. He looked every inch the part of dutiful son in his tailored tuxedo, but his fingers gripped the edges of the seat like he was ready to bolt. On the altar, his mother stood beside Tom, her face lit with joy that felt almost blasphemous in this sacred place. Tom looked equally radiant, clasping her hands in his with a reverence Julian found both touching and deeply suspicious.

It was not the wedding that offended Julian. He had accepted long ago that his mother deserved happiness. It was the man she chose. Tom was too calm, too composed. The kind of man who ironed his socks and probably had a will prepared by age twenty-five. And worse, Tom came with baggage. Six feet of smug, sculpted, designer-clad baggage named Alexander.

Julian could feel him now, sitting just behind him. He could practically hear the smirk on Alexander's face. That infuriating, perfect face. Julian resisted the urge to turn and glare. He had promised his mother he would behave. He had also promised not to get drunk before the reception, not to call Alexander the Antichrist, and not to fake an allergic reaction to escape.

The priest’s voice echoed through the church as he declared them husband and wife. Applause followed. Julian clapped half-heartedly, his hands barely making a sound.

The newlyweds turned to face the crowd, beaming. Tom’s hand settled on his mother’s waist with the casual intimacy of a man completely at home in his new role. Julian’s stomach churned.

And then it was time. The procession began down the aisle. His mother and Tom led the way, followed by bridesmaids, groomsmen, flower girls, and various relatives Julian had only met once but were now apparently family. Julian stood stiffly when it was his turn, feeling Alexander’s presence beside him like static electricity.

"Try not to look like you're going to murder someone," Alexander whispered without looking at him.

Julian didn't respond. He walked forward, eyes straight ahead, pulse pounding. The church doors opened, spilling sunlight into the sacred gloom. Outside, the bells rang in celebration.

The reception hall was a transformation. Where the church was solemn and reverent, the hall was alive with decadence. White linens covered the tables like snowfall. Crystal chandeliers glittered above like stars brought down to earth. Candles flickered in tall vases, their flames dancing in time with the soft music of a string quartet playing in the corner. Every surface was draped in flowers, pale pinks and creams and bursts of green. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

Julian hated it.

He sat at the head table, staring at his plate as though it were a personal insult. The tuxedo itched at his neck. The collar was too tight. The whole evening was too tight. Across the table, Alexander lounged with infuriating grace, sipping wine and looking as though he had just stepped off the pages of an exclusive magazine. He had his legs crossed, his posture impeccable. He was everything Julian was not, and he seemed to delight in reminding him of it.

Julian sipped his water dramatically. He refused to drink tonight. Not because he didn’t want to, but because if he did, he might end up giving a speech that would become legend for all the wrong reasons.

Then came the emcee.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man called cheerfully from the stage, tapping a spoon against his glass. “It’s time for a few words from the family. Let’s begin with the bride’s son, Julian!”

The crowd clapped politely. Julian froze. His eyes went wide.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yes,” his mother said sweetly, her eyes cutting sideways toward him with that unmistakable look, "Move. Now."

Julian stood like a man being marched to the gallows, each step heavier than the last. The applause continued, oblivious and expectant, as if they hadn’t just witnessed him lose an argument with his tie ten minutes ago. When he reached the microphone, he gripped the stand like it might keep him upright, teetering between dignity and disaster, every inch of him broadcasting the quiet panic of someone about to dive off an emotional cliff.

He looked out at the crowd, at his mother’s teary eyes, at Tom’s infuriatingly calm face, at Alexander, the human embodiment of a punchable magazine cover, and he sighed.

“I wasn’t supposed to be here,” he said. “Not really. Emotionally, I mean. Physically I was bribed, blackmailed, and maybe lightly threatened. But spiritually? I was curled up in bed, watching reruns and pretending this wedding was happening in a different universe.”

Laughter. Good. That bought him five seconds of courage.

“When my mom told me she was getting remarried, I thought, ‘Great. She deserves that.’ And then she said the name. Tom. And I said, ‘You mean Alexander’s dad, right? My high school nemesis? That Tom?’”

He turned toward Tom, who gave a helpless shrug. That made it worse.

“I thought maybe she was joking, or cursed, or lost in some elaborate revenge fantasy. Because how else do you explain the man responsible for him”—he pointed at Alexander—“becoming my stepfather?”

The laughter came easy now, but the weight in his chest hadn’t budged.

“But really, it wasn’t just about the name, or the suits, or the fact that Tom still says ‘sport’ like it’s 1954. It was what it meant. It meant there was no going back. It meant she was moving on. That we had to move on.”

Julian swallowed hard.

“I spent a lot of time pretending I wasn’t scared. That I didn’t feel like I was being erased. That there wasn’t this quiet, ugly part of me whispering, ‘He’s here to replace you.’ And if I’m honest, if I strip back the sarcasm and the jokes, I was terrified.”

The room fell still.

“But then I watched. I watched him hold her hand. I watched him carry her bad days without making them about himself. I watched him sit through my breakdowns, my tantrums, my death glares across dinner. And he didn’t flinch. Not once.”

He looked at Tom again, this time without resentment. Just truth.

“You weren’t trying to replace anyone. You were just showing up. Every day. Every laugh. Every quiet moment. And somewhere in the chaos, I realized you weren’t stealing something. You were building something. With her. With us.”

He raised his glass. “So here’s to that. To unexpected beginnings. To men who love softly and don’t back down. And to my mother, for loving again, fiercely, unapologetically, even when her son is a walking fire hazard.”

He gave a crooked smile. “To Tom. For not being what I feared, but being something better.”

The crowd rose with him, glasses raised, eyes glistening.

Julian sat down, lighter than before, or at least pretending to be.

Alexander leaned in, grinning. “You almost made me cry.”

Julian didn’t look at him. “Good. Maybe you’ll finally feel something other than smug.”

Alexander’s smile didn’t falter. “You really should get that jealousy checked. It’s aging you.”

Julian turned to him slowly. “And you really should get a soul. But I hear those are hard to come by when you’re born in a mirror.”

Across the table, his mother exhaled and whispered with a smile, “I love you, Julian.”

Julian looked at her, just for a moment. His smile was faint, pained, like it cost him something to wear it but he gave it to her anyway. Then he looked away.

He sipped his water and stared at the glass like it had wronged him. Deep down, nothing felt lighter. He’d said the words, played the part, and kept himself together for her. He could’ve ruined the wedding, but he didn’t.

He still thought Tom was trying to take his place.

And Alexander? He was still the worst.

Especially now that he was smirking like the villain in a movie Julian wasn’t done starring in.