Leo looked at the traffic cone, then at the trophy, and finally at the "Just Married" sash draped over Jax’s shoulder.

The sun didn’t just rise; it interrogated Leo’s retinas.

He was sprawled on a floor that smelled faintly of pine cleaner and regret. Around him, the remnants of the night lay like a battlefield: a single silver loafer, a half-eaten burrito, and a literal traffic cone wearing a tuxedo vest. This was the aftermath—the living definition of .

"The wedding is in four hours," Jax whispered, peeling off the goggles. "And I have a receipt in my pocket for... three dozen inflatable flamingos?"