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“I’m obsessed with you,” I call back as loudly, indulging him without hesitation.

His grin widens.

On either side of me, Sierra and Thalia chuckle softly, and a second later, the guys erupt into exaggerated clapping and whistles.

“Oh my God,” I mumble under my breath, heat creeping into my cheeks.

Somewhere between us, one of the cameramen catches the entire interaction, filming every second of it.

We’re in his parents’ backyard, where the wedding reception has been going on for hours. Right after the ceremony, all of us piled into black SUVs and drove straight here while the staff put the final details in place.

Lights are wrapped around the trees overhead, casting a soft golden glow across the garden. Music pulses through the warm air, and voices, laughter, and the clicking of glasses blend into a constant, celebratory hum around us.

Everything feels elegant without being stiff.

Beautiful without trying too hard.

I’m sure it took an insane amount of effort to organize all of this without the press finding out beforehand, and every single one of us knew it was only a matter of time before photos and videos started circulating online.

Apparently, that time has already come.

Now, close to midnight, all of us have retreated to the quieter side of the yard—me, Zayn, the guys, Sierra, and Thalia—watching the internet collectively lose its mind over the video from earlier.

Because, of course, my husband posted it himself.

And tagged me.

That came after he changed my name on my social media accounts to Selene Thomas.

I didn’t even know he had my phone.

“What caption did you use?” Sierra asks, leaning closer to Zayn’s phone.

He smirks without an ounce of shame, tilting the screen toward all of us.

I want her obsessed.

Then, underneath:

Because I am consumed.

Thalia presses a hand dramatically to her chest. “That is disgustingly hot.”

“It’s also insane,” Liam says with a laugh.

“Same thing when it comes to him,” Colt mutters, clearly amused.

Zayn only lifts his whiskey to his lips, entirely unbothered by the playful judgment.

My phone hasn’t stopped vibrating since he posted it. Notifications keep flooding the screen faster than I can read them—mentions, tags, messages, articles already being written.

Zayn’s phone looks no better.

We escaped back here because all of us needed a moment to breathe after hours of dancing, singing, greeting guests, taking pictures, and pretending we weren’t slowly dying from exhaustion.

The parents stayed happily closer to the party, keeping everyone else entertained.

Oh, I’ve spent most of the night secretly monitoring Zayn. Every sudden movement makes me tense on instinct. Whenever he reaches for something too quickly, my eyes immediately snap to his hand.