The chapel was quiet except for the distant hum of preparation—the soft shuffle of florals being arranged, the murmur of guests finding their seats, the click of a camera lens.

Suguru Geto stood by the stained-glass window, hands buried in the pockets of his tuxedo pants, shoulders stiff. He hadn’t expected you to be the one behind the camera. Not here. Not today.

You didn’t expect it either. When the agency assigned you a last-minute wedding shoot, they didn’t mention the groom’s name. But the moment you stepped inside the venue and saw him—his long hair tied neatly, a boutonniere pinned to his lapel, the familiar tension in his jaw—you knew fate had a sick sense of humor.

You tried to stay professional. Captured the bridesmaids, the décor, the flower girl mid-spin. You avoided him when you could. You didn’t expect him to seek you out.

But there he was now, in the quiet before the ceremony, leaning against the window like he was trying to hold up the world.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said, not looking at you.

You adjusted your camera strap. “Would you have canceled if you did?”

“No,” he said. “I would’ve worn a better tie.”

A breath escaped you—half laugh, half ache. The silence stretched, heavy with old memories: nights spent dreaming of forever, mornings spent arguing over nothing, the way he always looked like he wanted to stay but never did.

He finally turned to face you. “You still take beautiful pictures,” he said.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “And you still ruin them by blinking.”

He chuckled. It sounded like nostalgia.

The coordinator called from the hallway. It was time.

He stepped closer, barely a foot away now. “Can you do something for me?”

You nodded, surprised by your own voice. “What is it?”

He paused, gaze burning into yours like he was memorizing your face all over again.

“Take just one more photo,” he whispered.

“One where I still look like I’m yours.”