The main lobby of Balai Sudirman, which had earlier bustled with the hustle and bustle of wealthy guests draped in designer suits and heavy designer perfume, had mutated into an emergency makeshift shelter for a handful of unfortunate souls trapped by the storm. The plush red carpet near the edge of the lobby was soaked through by blowing rain from outside, bearing the muddy footprints of ride-hailing drivers and wedding guests who refused to brave the elements.

In a relatively quiet corner of the lobby, right beside a massive pillar flanked by plastic decorative plants, Mira huddled in an utterly unglamorous squat.

Her appearance at that moment officially broke records as the masterpiece of worst visual suffering of the century. Her baby pink gown was soaked clean through in patches, plastered with a Borneo-shaped peanut sauce stain now diluted by a murky cocktail of lemon soap and rainwater. Her Super Saiyan bangs had given up the ghost entirely, drooping limply down her forehead from the soaking they took back at the cloakroom.

And the most pitiful detail of all was her footwear: on her left foot, she wore the tattered remnants of a stiletto heel stub; on her right foot, she was utterly "drowned" inside a pair of size-13 formal men's dress shoes belonging to an anonymous construction foreman.

Mira buried her face entirely within her drawn-up knees, mourning her unbroken chain of misfortune from early dawn down to the dead of night, punctuated by ragged breaths.

"God... if today is meant to be a national-level patience trial to determine whether I qualify for the express VIP lane to heaven or not, please leak the answer key right now," Mira whimpered softly, her voice nearly swallowed whole by the howling gale and violent thunderclaps rattling the building's exterior windows. "I've already dressed up like a circus clown, made my ex crash headfirst onto the stage, fought a gold-chain-wearing mom over a wooden spoon, and now I've devolved into a VIP vagrant wearing mismatched men's shoes in a luxury lobby."

A few lingering wedding guests lounging on the lobby sofas cast horrified, pitying sideways glances at Mira's direction. They hastily averted their eyes, assuming she was a local natural disaster evacuee who had somehow wandered past security.

Right as Mira was deep in prayer lamenting her life choices, the steady, authoritative click of dress-shoe heels tapped sharply against the lobby's marble floor. The footsteps halted directly in front of Mira's squatting form.

Mira slowly raised her head, shaking the wet strands of bangs out of her eyes.

Standing before her with the sleeves of his crisp white shirt neatly rolled up and his suit jacket slung over one shoulder was Aris. He didn't look soaking wet, though his dark hair was charmingly wind-tousled, and in both hands, he carried two bright red plastic bowls radiating plumes of hot, fragrant steam.

Aris looked Mira up and down with an amused smile he was fighting tooth and nail to suppress.

"Well, good evening, Wedding Queen," Aris greeted, his voice pitched at an even, teasing cadence. "Your new look tonight is wonderfully progressive. From Post-Apocalyptic Avant-Garde in the ballroom, you've successfully transformed into Harbor VIP Vagrant Chic right here in the lobby."

Mira let out a dry huff, pulling her knees tighter to her chest. "Ugh, talk about having zero hobbies! Coming over here without an umbrella or a luxury taxi, just standing around mocking someone mourning their past sins," she grumbled, casting a resentful side-eye down at her size-13 right shoe. "Just go away and stop staring! It's humiliating enough that my right foot is currently borrowing a pair of size-13 kicks from an itinerant AC repairman!"

Aris chuckled, his crisp laughter melting the frosty tension hanging in the chilly lobby air. Instead of walking away as ordered, Aris squatted down right beside Mira, setting the two red plastic bowls onto the marble floor between them.

"Here, I brought you a five-star special dinner specifically tailored for a logistics-depleted wedding war hero," Aris said, popping the plastic lid off one of the bowls.

The rich, comforting aroma of hot chicken broth laced with fried shallots, sliced celery, bouncy tendon meatballs, and a dash of sweet soy sauce billowed upward, punching straight through Mira's starved olfactory senses.

Mira's eyes blew wide open. She stared down at the humble street-cart meatball soup with eyes sparkling with genuine tears of pure emotion. "Meatballs... street-cart Malang meatballs?!" Mira shrieked half-hysterically. "How on earth did a meatball cart even materialize inside a five-star luxury venue like this?!"

"When I tried to head out through the side lobby earlier, a pushcart vendor got trapped by the flash flood under the banyan tree across the street. Looked starved, so I flagged him over to the porch through the security guard and bought out two bowls on the spot," Aris explained casually, sliding a white plastic spoon into Mira's hand. "Eat up while it's hot so you regain your strength and don't pass out from malnutrition."

Without a second thought and abandoning every single shred of her remaining pretense, Mira snatched the plastic spoon. She immediately took a ravenous slurp of the scalding broth, entirely unbothered by the fact that her presentation resembled a cartoon character who had just belly-flopped into a drainage ditch.

"Oh, sweet heaven..." Mira mumbled between frantic spoonfuls, her eyes welling up not from sadness, but from the sublime comfort of savory broth in the middle of a stormy midnight. "Aris, I swear you're a literal guardian angel! Yesterday you saved a wooden spoon, tonight you're rescuing my digestive system from premature death."

Aris dug into his own bowl of meatballs, smiling warmly as he watched Mira devour her food with unbridled ferocity. "See? That's why you need to prep properly before crashing an ex's wedding. Next time, maybe skip the torn dresses, concrete updo, and borrowed shoes."

"How was I supposed to know it would turn into a disaster movie?!" Mira protested around a mouthful of meatballs. "Ever since I woke up this morning, the universe has been running a coordinated conspiracy just to haze me!"

Side by side, they sat together on the quiet lobby floor, enjoying their street-cart meatball soup while a massive Jakarta downpour raged outside the glass windows. The awkward chill that had once stood between them melted away into an absurd, unexpected warmth Mira could never have dreamed possible.