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It was too early for the place to be crowded, but late enough for the edges to start softening, neon just beginning to glow beneath the gold-pink haze pouring through the tinted windows. The Bellwether Lounge & Casino, a strangely classy name for a venue still recovering from last night’s spilled margaritas, was already humming with new arrivals, tourists, and soon-to-be bad decisions.
Raelle had claimed a stool near the edge of the bar, camera hanging from her neck like that's where it lived. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon capturing wide-angle shots of the place for the venue’s promo materials—casino floor, bar lighting, the newly restored mural in the foyer.
She hadn’t meant to linger. But then she'd seen her. Brown hair. A tablet in her hands. Legs crossed at the ankle. Scylla Ramshorn, though Raelle didn’t know that yet, looked like she was busy being important—tapping notes with her stylus, barely looking up as the bartender slid a drink her way.
Raelle brought the camera to her face and clicked the shutter before she could stop herself. Once. Then again.
The girl looked up. Their eyes met.
Scylla blinked, caught mid-sentence, stylus frozen an inch from the screen. Across the room, a blonde with a denim jacket and combat boots, camera still raised, grinned.
Caught.
Raelle glanced down at the photo she’d just taken. And smiled. The kind of smile that started on her lips and tugged something sideways in her chest.
Scylla lowered her stylus and tilted her head. She was already moving before she realized it.
Scylla didn’t usually let people catch her looking. She was good at staying in the margins, watching, collecting, scribbling her way through conversations without ever becoming the story. But something about the girl with the camera had thrown her off.
The blonde had smiled when their eyes met. Not nervously, not apologetically just… like she’d caught a good shot. Like Scylla was worth keeping.
Which was frankly rude.
So Scylla stood, drink in hand, tablet tucked into her slouchy leather bag, and wandered over before she could talk herself out of it. Her boots clicked lightly across the worn floor, the kind of confident, casual approach perfected from years of pretending she wasn’t nervous.
The blonde watched her come. She didn’t look away. Just shifted her camera slightly, thumb still resting on the shutter like she might take another picture at any second.
Scylla slid onto the empty barstool beside her. “You know,” she said, casually lifting her glass, “it’s polite to buy someone a drink before you take their photo.”
The girl didn’t flinch. She turned slightly, camera strap tugging at her neck as she leaned an elbow on the bar. “I’m just doing my job,” she said, as if that excused it. “Take photos of the venue and its clientèle.”
She lifted the camera, clicked the shutter again and smirked.
Then she signaled the bartender with a nod. “I owe you two drinks now.”
Scylla tilted her head. “Counting already?”
“Two photos. Two drinks.”
The bartender appeared. Raelle gestured toward Scylla’s glass. “Whatever she’s drinking,” she told him.
“Cynar spritz,” Scylla said.
Raelle blinked. “What the hell is that?”
Scylla shrugged. “Something bitter. Seemed appropriate.”
Raelle laughed, low and warm, and stuck out her hand. “Raelle. Photographer. From Chicago. And not usually this forward, but Vegas has rules, right?”
Scylla took her hand, fingers warm around Raelle’s, the touch lingering a half-second longer than necessary. “Scylla. Journalist. Seattle. And I fully endorse being forward.”
The bartender slid two fresh drinks across the lacquered surface. Raelle caught hers mid-slide, glass cool against her palm. Scylla lifted her own with a soft hum of thanks and turned slightly on her stool, knees now angled just enough toward Raelle to signal she wasn’t planning to leave.
“So,” Scylla said, resting her elbow on the bar and cradling her glass like a casual prop. “What brings a Chicago photographer to the glittering halls of the Bellwether Lounge?”
Raelle leaned back slightly, letting her camera rest against her ribs. “I’m literally just taking photos of the venue. For promo stuff. Website, brochures, that sort of thing.”
Scylla raised a brow. “Seriously?”
Raelle nodded. “Dead serious. One of my freelance contacts got asked if they knew anyone good with low-light bar interiors, and my name came up. The pay was surprisingly great, and I needed an excuse to leave Chicago for a few days.”
Scylla grinned. “So you ran off to Vegas.”
“Well, yeah. Who turns down a paid trip to take pictures of booze and velvet couches?”
Scylla took a sip of her drink. “Can’t argue with that.”
Raelle looked at her, curious now. “What about you? You walked over here all journalist-confidence, tablet and everything. What are you writing about?”
Scylla tried not to look too pleased at the phrase journalist-confidence, but her smile curved sharper anyway. “Weddings,” she said simply.
Raelle blinked. “What, like… celebrity weddings? Or one of those expos?”
Scylla shook her head. “Vegas weddings. All of them. Elopements, 2 a.m. drive-thrus, themed ceremonies, drunken dares that somehow stick. I’m writing a piece for Overland—it’s a longer-form series they’re doing called ‘Unplanned Lives.’ They want a human-interest deep dive into the people who come to Vegas and leave married.”
Raelle grinned. “That’s incredible.”
“It’s weirdly beautiful,” Scylla admitted. “Chaotic, messy, occasionally tragic. But also, like… people want connection. Even if it’s impulsive or brief or doomed.”
“Or,” Raelle said, tipping her drink toward her in a mock toast, “maybe it’s not.”
Scylla tapped her glass against Raelle’s, eyes sparkling. “Exactly.”
Raelle hesitated, then asked, “So are you interviewing couples?”
“Mostly. Some chapel workers. Officiants. Bartenders who’ve seen more proposals than priests. But yeah, I’m trying to understand why people do it. Why here. Why now.”
Raelle sat back, eyeing her with playful suspicion. “So you’re judging them, basically.”
Scylla laughed. “No. I’m observing them.”
“Same thing.”
“I’m a journalist. It’s my job to get curious.”
“Well,” Raelle said, reaching for her drink, “you ever think maybe to really understand a story like this… you’d have to live it?”
Scylla raised a brow, her expression shifting from amused to intrigued in a heartbeat. “Is that a challenge, Chicago?”
Raelle smirked. “Just saying. You want the full story? Maybe you need to go all in.”
They were a few drinks in now—nothing wild, just enough to take the edge off, to make everything warmer around the edges. Raelle was half-tucked sideways on her stool, elbow on the bar, camera resting against her chest.
Scylla was mid-story—something about a couple she’d interviewed earlier that day, dressed as Elvis and Marie Antoinette—when Raelle suddenly straightened.
“Hang on,” Raelle murmured, already moving.
She lifted her camera without another word and turned slightly in her seat. One quick click. Then another.
Scylla paused, watching her through narrowed eyes.
Raelle lowered the camera and blinked at the screen. A satisfied little sound slipped out of her throat—almost a hum. “Sorry,” she said, turning the camera toward Scylla. “I couldn’t help it. The light through the window was too good to let go.”
Scylla leaned in. The photo on the tiny screen was… beautiful.
It wasn’t just the light—it was the way it refracted off a row of glasses behind the bar, how it caught the shimmer of someone’s sequined dress as they twirled near a slot machine, how it framed the dusty neon glow like it had been planned that way. But it hadn’t. Raelle had just seen it. Had caught it in half a second.
Scylla didn’t say anything right away.
Raelle watched her. Then smirked. “You can write me a piece for this photo,” she said casually, turning the camera a little more toward her. “Go on, Seattle journalist. What would you say about it?”
Scylla met her eyes.
And for a second, Raelle saw the flicker—something quiet and real and unguarded.
Then Scylla looked back at the photo.
“I’d say…” She cleared her throat, lifted her glass and thought for a beat. “This is what it looks like right before something changes. When no one knows it yet, but the air already does.”
Raelle blinked.
Scylla glanced at her sideways. “Too much?”
Raelle shook her head, slow and stunned. “No. That’s actually perfect.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Scylla grinned, soft and smug. “Told you I’m good with words.”
Raelle laughed and turned her camera off. “And I’m good with light.”
“You’re more than good with it,” Scylla said before she could help herself.
Raelle glanced over, curious. “You falling for me already?”
Scylla raised a brow. “Would it ruin the story if I was?”
Raelle smirked. “Might make it better.”
Scylla cleared her throat, clearly trying to pretend Raelle’s last comment hadn’t hit her square in the ribs.
“So,” she said, swirling the last of her spritz in her glass. “What’s the weirdest job you’ve ever done?”
Raelle raised an eyebrow. “You first.”
“Nope,” Scylla said, gesturing between them with two fingers and a smirk. “This is a you tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine situation. Journalism rules.”
Raelle snorted. “That’s not a thing.”
“Absolutely is. I’m making it one.”
Raelle leaned back, considering. Her hand toyed idly with the strap of her camera like it helped her think.
“Okay,” she said, voice half-muffled behind her glass as she took another sip. “Weirdest job I’ve ever done was… an underwater engagement shoot.”
Scylla blinked. “Wait. Like… in a pool?”
Raelle nodded solemnly. “Technically a resort lagoon. They were into scuba diving and wanted to be ‘captured in their element.’ I spent three hours in goggles while they made out like merpeople.”
Scylla laughed, full and bright and sudden. “Did you have to wear, like, flippers?”
“Worse. A snorkel and a weighted belt. I looked like a drowned raccoon by the end of it.”
Scylla wiped under her eye. “Please tell me the photos were worth it.”
Raelle grinned. “Honestly? Some of the best shots I’ve ever taken. But I did get water in my ear that didn’t drain for four days.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s freelance life, baby.”
Scylla shook her head, clearly delighted. “Alright. My turn.”
Raelle leaned in slightly, elbows on the bar. “Hit me.”
Scylla’s eyes flicked upward like she was scanning through her mental filing cabinet. Then she landed on one.
“Okay. Weirdest job I ever took was ghostwriting a breakup letter for a guy who wanted to leave his girlfriend, but—and I quote—didn’t know how to sound sad enough without sounding mean.”
Raelle let out a sharp laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I got paid three hundred dollars and a bottle of tequila for that letter.”
“Was it good?”
Scylla raised her glass like a toast. “She sent him a thank-you text. Said it was the kindest breakup she’d ever experienced.”
Raelle was now half-curled around her drink, laughing into her hand.
Scylla grinned at her, triumphant. “You’re welcome, world.”
Raelle looked at her like she was trying not to smile too wide. “Seattle, I gotta be honest, you’re better than I expected.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t. I haven’t seen your karaoke skills yet.”
“Give it time,” Scylla said with mock-seriousness. “It’s Vegas. We’ve got at least six more hours until we make a terrible decision.”
Raelle sipped her drink and grinned. “Only six?”
Their drinks had shifted from “casual early evening” to “this is turning into something,” and Raelle was leaning comfortably on the bar now, her chin propped on her hand. The golden light had faded into neon spill from overhead signs, flickering soft blues and pinks across the polished glass.
“So,” Scylla asked, tilting her glass and watching the ice swirl, “are you actually from Chicago?”
Raelle nodded. “Yeah. Born and raised.”
She shifted her weight, one boot tucked around the leg of her stool, shoulder brushing Scylla’s just slightly now whenever either of them moved.
“Though the amount of time I actually spend there is shockingly little,” Raelle added. “Life of a freelance photographer—you gotta go where the work is.”
Scylla smiled. “I get that.”
Raelle tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “What about you? Seattle, right?”
Scylla nodded. “Technically, yeah. Still have an apartment there. But I’m never home for long. Always chasing the next story. Last month I was in New Orleans for two weeks writing about haunted hotels.”
Raelle perked up. “Any ghosts?”
“Just three angry brides and one bellhop with an accordion.”
Raelle laughed and reached for her camera. She lifted it again almost on instinct, angling slightly toward the far end of the bar.
Click.
Scylla turned toward the flash. “Okay, what was that one?”
Raelle glanced at the screen, lips twitching. “The way the lights hit that row of empty glasses,” she said. “It was just… too clean. Too perfect not to catch.”
Scylla watched her closely—how her fingers curled around the lens, how her smile was less showy this time. Softer. Thoughtful.
“That camera,” Scylla said. “You’re ridiculously good with it.”
Raelle glanced down at the Nikon slung around her neck like a limb. “She’s my low light moody bitch.”
Scylla blinked.
Raelle didn’t even hesitate. “She gets weird about sunsets, but she loves neon. Moody as hell. Needs coaxing sometimes, but when she’s on, she’s on.”
Scylla was absolutely not prepared for this.
“I—okay. That’s… stupidly hot,” she said before she could stop herself.
Raelle looked at her sideways, clearly enjoying herself. “What, you don’t talk to your laptop like it’s sentient?”
“I do, but I don’t name it or flirt with it.”
“Well, maybe that’s why your breakup letter gigs pay in tequila.”
Scylla narrowed her eyes. “You’re dangerous.”
“I’m a photographer,” Raelle said, clicking the camera once more—this time at Scylla. “I see things.”
That… didn’t help. Scylla could feel the heat rising behind her collarbone.
Raelle didn’t move to show her the photo this time. She just grinned and lowered the camera, letting it rest warm and steady against her chest again.
“So,” Raelle said casually, “what’s your plan, Seattle? Keep interviewing drunk Elvises until you find your Pulitzer?”
Scylla smiled. “Only if I get to interview you next.”
Raelle didn’t blink. “You better hurry. The night’s still young, and I hear there’s karaoke somewhere in this place.”
Scylla raised a brow. “You trying to distract me from asking about your love life?”
“No,” Raelle said. “Just trying to distract you.”
That did it. Scylla laughed again—less polished this time, her hand briefly brushing Raelle’s resting on the bar as she reached for her drink.
The lights inside the lounge had shifted again, dimmer now, more intimate. The room was filling with the kind of background noise that blurred time—slot machines chiming faintly, laughter echoing from the back corner, someone singing a half-hearted ballad two rooms over.
Raelle had pushed her empty glass aside and was now lazily spinning her camera on the bar top, fingers tapping in rhythm.
Scylla was watching her—not in a way that demanded anything, just… watching. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of her in this moment.
“What would you be doing,” Raelle asked suddenly, her voice soft but steady, “if you weren’t doing this?”
Scylla blinked. “Writing?”
Raelle nodded. “Yeah. If journalism disappeared tomorrow. If the stories dried up. What’s left?”
Scylla looked down at her drink, swirled it once. “No one’s asked me that in a long time,” she said.
Raelle didn’t fill the silence. She just waited.
Scylla shrugged eventually. “I don’t know. I used to think I’d teach. College level, maybe. Lit or something. But then I started writing to pay for school and…” She glanced at Raelle. “I got hooked on hearing people tell the truth when they think no one’s listening.”
Raelle smiled. “That’s kind of beautiful.”
Scylla laughed once, quiet. “It’s exhausting, is what it is.”
“Yeah, well. Same could be said for chasing light in weird places for rent money.”
They shared a look. The kind that stretched. The kind that didn’t need anything else said.
Scylla turned the question. “What about you?”
Raelle hesitated.
“If photography vanished tomorrow?” Scylla prompted.
Raelle stared ahead for a moment. “I’d probably disappear too.”
Scylla turned toward her fully now, legs crossed toward Raelle, her drink forgotten.
“Seriously?”
Raelle gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I’ve never been good at the whole… life thing. The normal stuff. The jobs with cubicles and PTO and someone checking your hours. But behind the lens, I feel like I know who I am.”
Scylla watched her for a long beat. “Who are you, then?”
Raelle smiled, small and quiet. “Someone who notices the way your drink matches the color of that neon sign. Who wonders if you picked it on purpose.”
Scylla looked at her drink. Then at the sign. Then at Raelle.
“I didn’t,” she said. “But now I’m going to pretend I did.”
Raelle let out a laugh. The kind that pulled her shoulders up. The kind that chased off the last of the quiet moment. Then she sat up straight, like the idea hit her fully formed. “Okay,” she said, slapping the bar once. “We’ve earned it.”
Scylla blinked. “Earned what?”
“A little chaos.”
Raelle stood, grabbed her camera strap like it was a weapon, and slung it back around her neck.
“I want lights. I want noise. I want karaoke,” she said, eyes bright and wild. “Come on, Seattle. We’ve got bad decisions to make.”
Scylla stood too, finishing her drink in one go.
“Oh, I’m so ready.”
As they stepped away from the bar, side by side, Raelle looked over at her, the barest smirk tugging at her lips. “Just try not to fall in love with me on stage, okay?”
Scylla’s laugh followed them out into the casino floor. “No promises, Chicago.”
The Bellwether’s casino wasn’t massive, but it had everything: low ceilings, sticky carpets, and enough neon to make the air hum. The place reeked of hope and vodka, and Raelle was thriving.
She was tugging Scylla along by the wrist now, weaving through the crowd like she had a mission—except she didn’t. Not really. She just wanted to move.
They passed a row of slot machines, chrome and obnoxiously bright.
Raelle stopped. Turned.
“Wait,” she said, pointing. “That one. The pink one.”
Scylla blinked. “You’re just picking based on color?”
“It’s called Lucky Ducky Deluxe, Scylla. You think I’m walking past that?”
Without waiting for approval, Raelle dropped a crumpled twenty into the slot, spun the reel, and grinned like a five-year-old on Christmas morning.
Scylla stood beside her, arms crossed, watching with that amused look she wore when she was pretending to judge but secretly having the time of her life.
The machine spun. Then it flashed. Loud, obnoxious music exploded out of it, and the screen erupted with confetti animations and quacking ducks in top hats.
“Wait, did I—?”
“You won,” Scylla said, stunned.
Raelle stared. “I won?!”
“Like, actual money.”
The machine beeped again and printed out a slip. Raelle grabbed it and stared at the number, her jaw falling open. “That’s… over seven hundred dollars.”
Scylla covered her mouth with both hands, laughter bubbling out of her. “You just—what the hell? You really are dangerous.”
Raelle turned to her, eyes bright. “We’re rich, Seattle.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“We’re Vegas rich,” Raelle said, waving the ticket. “Which means we’ve got money for a night we’ll regret forever, or remember for the rest of our lives.”
Scylla raised her brows. “I’m honestly not sure which of those is more terrifying.”
“Don’t worry,” Raelle said, slinging an arm over Scylla’s shoulders, “I’m planning on the second one.”
Scylla was still laughing when Raelle steered them toward the prize counter, clutching the slip like it was a golden ticket. The overhead lights flickered as they passed under them, the casino noise blurring into something fizzy and electric.
The cashier barely blinked at the ticket, counting out crisp bills like it was just another Tuesday in the land of poor decisions. Raelle gathered them up with both hands, wide-eyed at the thickness of the stack.
“Seven hundred,” she said, mostly to herself. “What the hell are we supposed to do with seven hundred dollars?”
Before Scylla could reply, Raelle turned, peeled off half the cash, and shoved it into her hands.
Scylla looked down at it like it might bite her. “Wait—what? No. I didn’t do anything.”
“You were the lucky charm,” Raelle said, smirking as she tucked the rest into the back pocket of her jeans.
“But—”
“You think I’d have hit that without you here manifesting vibes and journalistic sass from behind me?”
Scylla stared at her, lips parted, caught between arguing and—something else.
Raelle shot her a wink. “You’re definitely the charm.”
Then she grabbed her hand again, warm, steady and fearless, then tugged her away from the prize counter. “Come on, journalist,” she said. “Let’s go get shots. And maybe you’ll find someone interesting to interview.”
Scylla let herself be pulled, the money still clutched awkwardly in her hand. “I already did,” she muttered under her breath.
Raelle didn’t hear her over the ding of a jackpot nearby, but even if she had—she probably would’ve just smiled wider.
The karaoke bar was packed. Lights bouncing. People screaming lyrics into battered mics. A bachelorette party hooting at the front. Someone’s dad trying to sing Prince. Everything was loud, garish, perfect.
Raelle slammed their cash down at the bar and shouted over the noise, “Two shots and two of your cheapest wedding-themed cocktails!”
Scylla turned to her. “Is that a real category?”
“In Vegas? Everything’s a category.”
The drinks arrived. They knocked them back. Raelle’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glittering. Scylla’s laugh was starting to crack at the edges, something breathless underneath it.
Then Raelle grabbed her hand.
“What—where are we going—”
“To the stage.”
“No—Raelle—”
“Come on, Seattle. You said you endorse being forward!”
“I didn’t mean publicly! You’re not even drunk enough to pretend this is a good idea!”
Raelle just smiled, tugging her along until they were up front, stage lights warm and blinding. The mic squealed once. The screen flickered. The music started.
Scylla froze. “Oh my god.”
Raelle grinned and leaned into the mic.
“It’s a beautiful night, we’re looking for something dumb to do… hey baby… I think I wanna marry you.”
Scylla stared at her, stunned.
Raelle winked and pointed a finger at her. The crowd hollered.
Scylla covered her face with one hand and laughed—hard. When Raelle started swaying toward her, she gave up and took the second mic.
They sang. Loud, off-key, laughing so hard they could barely breathe. Raelle danced like a drunk idiot. Scylla followed her lead, letting herself go, for once.
By the time they hit the chorus, they were basically shouting it into each other’s faces:
“Who cares, baby? I think I wanna marry you—”
And the thing was—somewhere in the middle of all that noise and color and light—Scylla realized: she wasn’t pretending.
They stumbled off the stage breathless, laughter still catching in their throats. Raelle’s arm was slung loosely around Scylla’s waist, her camera bouncing against her ribs. The crowd behind them was still clapping, half in support and half in disbelief. Scylla couldn’t tell if her face was red from tequila or from belting Bruno Mars in public.
Maybe both.
Scylla pulled her toward the bar, her hand still wrapped loosely around Raelle’s fingers. “I can’t believe you made me do that,” she said, breath still uneven as she flagged down the bartender. “You tricked me.”
“What, you’ve never done karaoke with a near stranger before?” Raelle asked, leaning her elbow on the bar like she owned the place.
Scylla gave her a look. “I’ve never done karaoke at all.”
Raelle blinked, then grinned. “Well, maybe you were just waiting for the right person to do it with.”
Scylla opened her mouth—possibly to protest, possibly to flirt—but before she could respond, two people stumbled past behind them. Glitter in their hair. Smudged lipstick. Matching rings.
Raelle turned, clocked them instantly, and reached out.
“Hey!” she called, grabbing one of them gently by the arm. “Did you guys just get married?”
“Hell yeah,” the guy said, beaming as his partner looped an arm around his neck.
Raelle spun back to Scylla with a wide, smug grin. “You’re up, journalist. Found you a new couple to interview.”
Scylla blinked. “Raelle—”
Raelle ignored her, already offering a hand to the couple. “Hi, I’m a photographer, and this is my journalist partner. We’re doing a piece on couples who come to Vegas and leave married.”
She pulled her camera forward and let it rest confidently in her hands. “If you’re up for it,” she added, “Scylla here will ask you some questions, and I’ll take your picture. You might end up in a magazine—or a very well-respected online news source.”
Scylla opened her mouth again, but the couple was already nodding, delighted.
“Totally down,” the bride-to-be-slash-newlywed said, eyes sparkling. “Do we have to pose?”
Raelle turned to Scylla. “Well, journalist?”
Scylla just stared at her for a beat.
And then—somewhere in the haze of lights, laughter, and the press of Raelle’s energy beside her—she smiled. Big, real, and slightly stunned by her own happiness.
“Okay,” she said, pulling out her tablet. “Tell me everything.”
Scylla steadied her tablet against the edge of the bar, stylus in hand, posture slightly hunched like she was trying not to lose her balance or the moment. The couple Raelle had roped in were already giggling, arms around each other, rings glinting under the flickering lights.
“Okay,” Scylla said, her tone soft but practiced. “Can I ask—why Vegas?”
The woman shrugged, still smiling. “We were already here for a show. He joked about it after two drinks, and I said, ‘why the hell not?’”
“How long have you known each other?”
“Three months,” the guy said proudly. “Met on a hiking trip.”
Raelle made a low impressed sound behind Scylla’s shoulder.
“And why get married now?” Scylla asked, stylus hovering.
The woman looked at her husband—newly minted, slightly unsteady—and said, “Because it felt good. Because we laughed at the same joke in the hotel lobby. Because he didn’t run when I told him I’ve been divorced twice.”
The guy squeezed her waist. “She called me her third time lucky.”
Scylla wrote that down.
Raelle took their photo while they kissed, her camera shutter clicking softly against the chaos around them. She caught them mid-laugh, slightly blurred, wildly happy.
When the couple wandered off—maybe toward more champagne, maybe toward forever—Scylla watched them go, something unreadable flickering across her face.
Raelle turned, lifting her camera strap over her head and letting it drop gently against her chest.
“So,” she said, not quite teasing. “Why do you think people do it?”
Scylla blinked, caught off-guard. “I guess…” She shifted her grip on the tablet. “I don’t know. That’s why I took this assignment. Because I wanted to find out.”
She looked at Raelle. “What about you? Why do you think they do it?”
Raelle didn’t even pause. “Because why not.”
Scylla frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Raelle gestured with one hand, loose and open. “Why not? Life is short. Who knows what’s coming for you tomorrow? So maybe people take a leap. Maybe it won’t work out, and the next day you’re full of regret, Googling annulments and figuring out how to undo a marriage with someone you barely know…”
She looked down, then back up at Scylla. “But maybe—just maybe—you might actually find something worth it.”
Scylla was quiet for a moment, eyes searching hers. “That’s kind of beautiful, Raelle.”
Raelle tapped the edge of Scylla’s tablet with one finger. “Write it down. I want full credit.”
Scylla laughed, stylus already scribbling. “You’re getting a footnote and maybe a drink named after you.”
Raelle smirked. “As long as it’s got tequila and questionable choices, I’m in.”
The bar had thinned out slightly. The karaoke host was deep into his second wind, crooning something vaguely Sinatra in the background. Glasses clinked, neon buzzed, and the tequila had begun doing that thing tequila does—making everything warmer, slower, and a little less tethered to common sense.
Raelle was half-folded over the bar, her head tilted toward Scylla, cheeks flushed from laughing. Scylla sat beside her, hair a little mussed, her tablet long forgotten in her bag, her eyes fixed entirely on the girl who kept making her forget the point of tonight.
They were both holding full glasses of something sweet and ridiculous, that neither of them could remember ordering.
“Okay,” Raelle said, steadying herself upright with one hand on the counter. “Important question. Think carefully.”
Scylla blinked, mock-serious. “I’m ready.”
Raelle narrowed her eyes at her. “How do you feel about Froot Loops?”
Scylla made a face so immediate and dramatic it sent Raelle into another fit of laughter.
“Hate them,” Scylla declared. “Absolutely not. That lemony-sawdust sugar ring is an insult to breakfast. Give me Lucky Charms any day.”
Raelle nodded, slowly and approvingly, as if this were a final exam. “Very good answer. If you’d said nice things about Froot Loops, I probably would’ve just walked out of here.”
Scylla laughed—bright and unguarded—and reached out without thinking, letting her hand fall over Raelle’s where it rested on the bar.
She didn’t pull away.
Neither of them did.
Scylla looked down at their hands, then up at Raelle, her thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. “You’re dangerous,” she said softly.
Raelle tilted her head, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing. “So I’ve been told.”
And then Scylla said it. Quiet. Not teasing. “Has it always been this easy for you? Talking to people?”
Raelle blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at their hands, then back at Scylla. “No,” she said honestly. “Not like this.”
Scylla didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, thumb still resting warm against her skin.
They were silent for a moment, the kind of silence that settled rather than stretched.
Then Raelle spoke again, voice low, like she didn’t want the night to hear her too clearly. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Scylla’s eyes didn’t move. “Probably.”
Raelle leaned in, her breath warm with tequila and laughter. “Let’s go do something stupid.”
Scylla smiled. “God, yes. Let’s.”
The Vegas night hit them like a promise—warm desert air, the buzz of neon bleeding into everything, and that giddy, untethered feeling that only happens when you're a little drunk and a little in love with the universe.
Raelle had Scylla’s hand in hers, tugging her down the sidewalk as if there was a map tattooed in her blood. They didn’t know where they were going, but that didn’t seem to matter.
“I swear to god if we get kidnapped by Elvis I won’t even be mad,” Scylla said breathlessly between laughs, boots clicking unevenly on the pavement.
“Oh no,” Raelle shot back over her shoulder, “we’re way past Elvis. We’re heading straight for glitter and questionable vows.”
They rounded a corner and there it was—The House of Ever After—a little chapel tucked between a pawn shop and a taco stand, bathed in hot pink neon and fairy lights. It looked like someone had designed it in a fever dream and never sobered up.
Scylla stopped walking.
Raelle didn’t. “Come on, Seattle,” she said, laughing as she pulled her forward. “We’ve got money to blow and lives to live.”
Scylla was still laughing when they stumbled through the door.
Inside, it smelled faintly of roses and champagne mistakes. There was a little glass counter near the entrance, and behind it stood a woman in her sixties with bedazzled glasses and a clipboard. She looked like she’d seen it all and still rooted for love every time.
Raelle marched right up to the counter. “Hi. We’d like to get married, please.”
The woman barely blinked. “Do you have rings or do you need to pick some?”
Raelle turned to Scylla. “You hear that? We get to pick them.”
The lady gestured to a spinning rack of rings. It looked like a cross between a gumball machine and a treasure chest—plastic diamonds, engraved bands, and a few surprisingly decent gold-plated options that definitely cost too much and felt just right.
Raelle spun the rack with flair and pointed at a pair of matching silver bands with a faint shimmer. “These.”
Scylla looked over her shoulder, one arm still looped lazily around Raelle’s. “Seriously?”
“We’ve got $653 in Vegas money left,” Raelle said solemnly. “We definitely need rings if we’re doing this. Come on, you can write about it in your article.”
She turned, holding one up to the light. “Tell your readers how you got caught up in the glitter of it all. Interview yourself.”
Scylla held out her hand with a grin. “I’m in. Size me.”
Raelle slid the ring onto her finger like she’d done it a thousand times before.
It fit.
They both stared at it for a second, like the universe had just nodded.
Scylla laughed softly and slipped it back off, handing it over to Raelle. “Okay,” she said, reaching for the other ring. “My turn.”
She took Raelle’s hand, warm and steady, and carefully slid the second band onto her finger. It went on smoothly, resting just right at the base.
Raelle looked down at it, then up at Scylla. “Well… that feels dangerous.”
Scylla smirked and tugged it free before either of them could overthink it. “You’re not getting all the good lines in the article,” she said, slipping the ring into her pocket. “I’m writing you in as deeply complicit.”
Raelle laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners, and held out her hand.
The woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow. “You two ready?”
Raelle looked at Scylla.
Scylla looked at Raelle.
Both of them were still holding hands.
“No idea,” Raelle said.
“But we’re doing it anyway,” Scylla added.
And they both burst out laughing as the woman waved them toward the altar.
They were halfway down the aisle—if you could call it that—when Scylla suddenly tugged Raelle’s hand, pulling her to a stop just short of the altar.
“Okay—wait. Wait, wait,” she said, blinking like she was trying to catch up to her own heartbeat. “Why are we doing this again?”
Raelle turned to her, not letting go.
The pink neon from the window haloed around her blonde hair, making her look just a little too cinematic, just a little too dangerous to be real.
She didn’t answer right away. Just smiled. “That’s easy,” she said. “First of all—you’re a journalist. You came here to write about why people get married in Vegas. Why strangers decide to tie the knot. So what better way to experience the story than… living it?”
Scylla laughed, breathless. “That’s a terrible reason.”
“It’s an excellent reason.”
Scylla tilted her head. “Okay. So that’s my excuse. What’s yours?”
Raelle hesitated, just for a second.
Then she smiled—a crooked, slanted little thing that sent Scylla’s heart skidding across the sparkly floor. “Because,” Raelle said softly, “I think you might be the best person I’ve ever met.”
Scylla froze.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel it all—how warm Raelle’s hand was in hers, how her chest felt too full, how the whole night had unraveled her defenses stitch by stitch.
“I’ve never done anything like this,” Scylla said, quieter now. “Not just the getting married part. I’ve never really… just let go before.”
Raelle’s thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles. “Then let go,” she said gently. “And just live.”
Scylla didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
They stood there, eyes locked, laughter still clinging to the edges of their mouths, and then—
“Wait,” Scylla said again, holding up one hand. “Are you even gay?”
Raelle let out a startled laugh. “I’m so gay it’s almost irresponsible.”
Scylla grinned. “Are you already thinking about whether we might consummate this marriage?"
“I mean…” Raelle tilted her head, mock thoughtful. “You’re hot, I’m hot, we’ve got rings and are about to make a legally binding promise to make questionable life choices together.”
“Sounds like a yes.”
Raelle then pointed a finger at her. “Are you gay?”
“Bisexual,” Scylla said with a shrug, lips quirking up.
Raelle nodded. “Close enough.”
Then she grabbed her hand again and started walking. “Come on, wife,” she said, pulling her toward the glittery altar.
Scylla followed, laughing too hard to breathe.
The chapel was everything it shouldn’t be and therefore absolutely perfect—glittered aisle runner, faux stained glass windows glowing with LED light, and a disco ball rotating slowly above an altar draped in tulle. A string of battery-powered fairy lights blinked unevenly behind them, like even the decor was a little tipsy.
Their officiant was a woman named Sapphire, wearing head-to-toe rhinestones and a tiara that was definitely not standard issue. She’d asked if they wanted the "standard vows" or the "Elvis package."
They’d gone with standard. Just barely.
Scylla was still gripping Raelle’s hand like she might float away if she let go. Her heart was thundering, tequila singing in her blood, but the moment didn’t feel like a joke anymore. Not really. Not with Raelle standing there in front of her, eyes bright and steady, like she was exactly where she belonged.
Sapphire cleared her throat, her voice a husky mix of cigarette smoke and destiny. “Alright, lovers. You’ve made it through the wild ride of Vegas and landed here, in the chapel of glitter and fate. You got rings, you got each other, and you got maybe one sober thought between you, so let’s make it count.”
Scylla let out a laugh. Raelle squeezed her hand.
Sapphire gestured for them to face each other. Raelle turned, one hand still tangled with Scylla’s, the other slipping into her pocket to pull out the ring she'd picked earlier.
Sapphire gave her the nod. “If you have vows, now’s the time.”
Raelle tilted her head slightly, studying Scylla like she was lining up a shot through her lens.
“I don’t have anything prepared,” she said, soft but sure, “because nothing about tonight was planned. But if I had to say something…”
She glanced down at their hands, then back up. Her smile softened. “You’re smart. And sharp. And funny in a way that sneaks up on you. And I know this is wild, and it’s fast, and we’re probably going to wake up tomorrow thinking ‘what the hell did we do.’ But right now?” Her thumb brushed gently across Scylla’s knuckles. “Right now, you make everything in my head go quiet.”
Scylla forgot to breathe.
Raelle smiled, just a little. “And maybe I needed that more than I realized.”
Sapphire let out a soft, “Damn,” under her breath.
Raelle held up the ring. “So… wanna be reckless with me for a little longer?”
Scylla blinked hard. Once. Twice. Her eyes burned in a way she hadn’t expected. Then she laughed—quiet, disbelieving—and nodded.
“I’ve spent my whole life writing about other people living,” she said, voice catching just slightly. “Maybe I just needed someone like you to show me how to do it myself.”
She took the other ring from her pocket and slid it onto Raelle’s finger.
Sapphire fanned herself with a folded ceremony card. “Okay, this might be my favorite one this week.”
She straightened her tiara. “By the questionable powers vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you married as hell.”
“Married as hell,” Raelle repeated under her breath, beaming.
“You may now kiss your wife.”
They both paused.
Scylla whispered, “So… we’re really doing this?”
Raelle grinned. “We did it.”
And then—without overthinking it—she leaned in.
The kiss wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was slow, warm, and slightly giddy. A first kiss tangled in laughter and glitter and promise. The disco ball spun. Somewhere in the background, a karaoke cover of Total Eclipse of the Heart started playing.
And Scylla kissed her wife again.
Because honestly?
What else could she do?
They tumbled out of the chapel like a storm of laughter and bad decisions, arms looped around each other’s shoulders, rings glinting under the buzzing pink neon of The House of Ever After. The door clicked shut behind them with a cheerful chime, and for the first time all night, the world around them felt… quiet. Soft.
Scylla clutched the folded marriage certificate in one hand, her bag sliding halfway off her shoulder. Raelle had her camera tucked under one arm and the other wrapped securely around her brand new wife’s waist.
They were married.
They were married.
Raelle stopped walking abruptly and turned her head toward the smell of frying oil and grilled corn tortillas. “Oh my god, tacos,” she whispered, reverent.
Scylla blinked, still catching up. “Wait, we just got married—”
“And now,” Raelle said, tugging her firmly toward the little taco stand next door, “we feast.”
The stand was barely a shack—two string lights, a handwritten menu, and a guy named Marco who looked entirely unsurprised to see two slightly drunk women in rings and formal confusion show up after midnight demanding food.
Raelle stepped confidently up to the counter like she’d done this a hundred times before. “I want al pastor with extra onion, one lengua, and two carne asada—crispy edges only, please.”
She turned back to Scylla, eyes sparkling. “What do you eat taco-wise?”
Scylla blinked at her. “This feels like a lot of pressure.”
Raelle pointed at her, deadly serious. “Think about this. Because I’m gonna remember your taco order for the rest of our lives.”
Scylla stared at her for a second, then let out a breathless laugh. “Okay. Uh—shrimp, if they’ve got it. With lime. And no onions.”
Raelle nodded solemnly and turned back to the counter. “Shrimp taco, extra lime, no onions. And one more carne asada. She’s gonna try to steal mine, I can feel it.”
Scylla bumped her shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
Raelle leaned against the counter, watching the cook move behind the grill. “Nope. I’m married. There’s a difference.”
Scylla looked at her. Really looked.
Wind lifting the edges of her hair. That camera strap still around her neck. Glitter on her cheekbone. And a ring—their ring—glinting faintly under the taco stand’s cheap light.
“I can’t believe we did this,” she said softly.
Raelle turned, smile fading into something gentler. “Yeah,” she said. “Me neither.”
But she wasn’t letting go. Not for anything.
They sat on the curb like it was the most normal night in the world—two drunk wives in denim, covered in glitter, wedding rings catching the soft glow of a flickering streetlamp, taco wrappers rustling in the breeze.
Raelle’s legs were stretched out, boots planted on the sidewalk. Scylla had her ankles crossed. Their shoulders pressed together like gravity had opinions.
“Here,” Raelle said, holding out a half-eaten carne asada. “Try this. It’s crispy. It’s perfect. It’s sacred.”
Scylla took the bite like it was a vow, eyes closing dramatically. “Oh my god. Okay. Yeah. You win.”
Raelle grinned, victorious, and stole a shrimp from Scylla’s plate without hesitation.
They passed tacos back and forth for a while, occasionally making noises of approval and happiness like it was a Michelin-starred curb. Neither of them wanted the night to end. Between bites, they talked. Questions drifting out between laughter.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Scylla asked, licking lime juice off her thumb.
“Bee stings. And celery.”
“Celery?” Scylla repeated, scandalized.
Raelle shrugged. “It’s a stupid vegetable. I stand by it.”
Scylla laughed so hard she nearly dropped her taco.
Raelle tilted her head, watched her for a moment, then asked softly, “Do you like whales?”
Scylla blinked. “Whales?”
Raelle nodded. “Like… the big ones. Out in the ocean. Would you want to go whale watching?”
Scylla’s face shifted, surprised but not confused. “Yeah. I would.”
Raelle took a mental photo. “Trip idea logged. You can write about the whales. I’ll take pictures of them.”
“That sounds dangerously close to a plan.”
“Don’t ruin it,” Raelle said, grinning as she wiped her fingers on a napkin.
Then, almost without thinking, she pulled her camera off her shoulder, flicked it on, and snapped a quick photo of Scylla in profile. Hair windblown, laughing, taco halfway to her mouth, ring glittering faintly on her hand.
Scylla blinked at the shutter sound. “Did you just—?”
“I’m documenting my wife,” Raelle said seriously. “For posterity.”
Scylla rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Don’t worry,” Raelle said, scanning the sidewalk. “I'm about to be included.”
She spotted a group of tourists walking past and hopped up. “Hey! Would one of you mind taking a picture of us?”
They said yes, of course—because who could say no to a rugged blonde wearing a new ring and the most beautiful woman in Vegas at her side?
Raelle dropped back down to the curb, She nudged closer to Scylla and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in. “Okay, smile. Or look like a woman who just made a wildly questionable life choice.”
Scylla didn’t move. She looked at Raelle instead, her smile small and soft and completely real.
“Same thing,” she whispered.
The flash went off.
Raelle didn’t stop smiling.
The walk back was a blur—Vegas lights blinking past in streaks of gold and blue, wedding rings catching under streetlamps, their hands never once letting go.
Raelle was technically the one leading, but neither of them had much of a plan beyond don’t stop touching. She was staying at the Bellwether Lounge while shooting the venue all week, and it made the most sense to go there. She hadn’t expected to be dragging her wife through the lobby an hour after getting married, but life was full of surprises tonight.
They made it as far as the elevator before Scylla kissed her again. Soft at first—hesitant, maybe even testing—but then Raelle kissed her back like she meant it.
By the time they reached the fourth floor, they were both breathless and laughing, barely holding it together as they staggered down the hallway, shoulders bumping, Scylla’s fingers tangled in Raelle’s jacket like a lifeline.
Raelle fumbled with the keycard outside Room 417. Scylla was pressed to her back, arms slung loosely around her waist. “You’re so bad at this.”
“I’m drunk, married, and very distracted,” Raelle said, swiping the card again. “Give me a break.”
The light blinked green. Raelle turned the handle, and they both half-fell into the room, stumbling over the threshold like a pair of wayward fireworks.
They didn’t even bother turning on the light.
The door clicked shut behind them, the soft thunk of the lock catching as Raelle let out a laugh that turned into a sigh.
Then Scylla kissed her again. And this one… this one was slower. More deliberate.
Raelle dropped her camera without looking. Her hands found Scylla’s face, thumbs brushing her jaw as they pressed together in the dark, rings cool against flushed skin.
They pulled apart, barely.
Scylla’s forehead rested against Raelle’s. “I like you,” she whispered, like it was the most dangerous confession of the night.
Raelle smiled, wrecked and raw and so completely in it. “I really like you too,” she whispered back.
They were still in their shoes, still glitter-dusted, but neither of them moved to change it.
Eventually, Raelle tugged Scylla with her toward the bed like she couldn’t bear to stop touching her. They collapsed sideways across the comforter, still dressed, limbs tangled, laughter soft against the sheets.
They lay there in the dark, close and quiet and stunned by how easy it all felt.
“I still don’t know your middle name, or when your birthday is,” Scylla said into the silence.
Raelle laughed softly. “You can find out in the morning.”
“You’re assuming I’ll be here in the morning.”
Raelle turned her head slightly, just enough to find Scylla’s again. The kiss was slow, unhurried, like they weren’t chasing anything anymore. Like they’d already decided. “You better be,” she murmured against her lips.
Scylla smiled into the kiss. “Okay.”
Raelle’s hand slid up, fingers threading into Scylla’s hair as she kissed her again, deeper now. Scylla shifted closer without thinking, knees bumping, bodies fitting together like they’d practiced this in another life. Someone laughed softly when boots were kicked off and forgotten somewhere near the door.
The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the quiet certainty of it.
Later, much later, they were tangled together beneath the covers, limbs heavy and hearts full, the night finally slowing around them.
Vegas glitter still clung to the edges of things.
But this part?
This felt real.
---
Scylla’s editor didn’t look up when she stepped into his office.
“Did you get anything usable?” he asked, already scrolling through emails. “Vegas can be a lot of noise and very little substance.”
Scylla leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, tablet tucked under her arm, wedding ring catching the fluorescent light like it was pleased with itself. “You should read it first,” she said lightly.
That made him pause. He looked up then, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “That bad, huh?”
She smiled. Not smug. Not coy. Just… calm. Like someone who had done something deeply unhinged and come out the other side very happy about it. “I’ll be halfway home by the time you finish,” she added, already turning.
“Wait,” he said, tapping at his keyboard. “Before you go. Do I need to source stock photos for this, or—”
Scylla stopped. She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes bright with something dangerously close to joy. “Open the file,” she said. “I already included photos.”
Her editor frowned and clicked. Scrolled. Stilled. “These are…” He leaned closer to the screen. “These are really good. Who shot these?”
“A photographer I met while I was there.”
He nodded absently. “Freelancer?”
“Yes.”
“Do we need to pay them usage fees?”
Scylla adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, utterly casual. “No.”
He blinked. Looked back at her. “Why not?”
She shrugged, lips twitching. “She said I could use them.”
There was a beat. Then another.
“Who is she?” he asked slowly.
Scylla smiled wider. “My wife.”
Silence.
Her editor stared at her.
“…Your what?”
“You really should read the article,” Scylla said again, already stepping back into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind her just as he let out a strangled, “You got married?”
Scylla didn’t answer. She was already pulling out her phone, thumb hovering over a contact saved simply as:
Raelle 📷
A second later, it buzzed.
Raelle: Did you survive telling your editor or do I need to fake my own death and change careers again?
Scylla laughed out loud in the middle of the newsroom, earning a few curious looks she absolutely did not care about.
Scylla: He’s still in shock. I think he’ll be on page three by about now.
Raelle: That’s the karaoke section, isn’t it.
Scylla: With photographic evidence.
Raelle: I stand by my performance.
Scylla typed as she walked toward the elevators, sunlight spilling in through the windows, the whole world feeling suspiciously soft for a Tuesday.
Scylla: So. Chicago this weekend?
Her phone buzzed again, almost immediately.
Raelle: Already clearing wall space for framed bad decisions.
Also I make pancakes. Consider this your warning.
Scylla smiled at the doors as they slid open.
What happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay there.
Sometimes, it becomes your favorite story to tell.