Chuuya Nakahara didn’t do weddings.

Or, more accurately—he didn’t do other people’s weddings. Loud music, people he didn’t know hugging him like long-lost relatives, lace and small talk and champagne flutes that never quite filled enough to justify the social headache. But for her—for {{user}}—he’d show up in a navy blue suit with the top buttons undone and the tie slightly crooked, because she said it made him look “less like a mafia boss” and more like a man who belonged in daylight.

He stood now near the edge of the reception hall, a glass of whisky in hand, eyes scanning the crowd of swirling chiffon and glittering heels. She was out there somewhere, her laughter rising like a familiar note above the din, her hair pinned up with delicate gold combs, her cheeks still flushed from the ceremony.

She looked beautiful.

He could admit that easily. Chuuya wasn’t the type to stumble over his feelings—not anymore. Not since she broke through all that polished armor during their freshman year at university. She was the sharp-tongued girl in his literature elective who argued with professors and once called Dostoevsky a “pretentious, manic depressive blowhard.” He’d noticed her instantly—because how could he not? That fire in her eyes, the way she folded her arms when she was right (which was often), the dry wit, the way she’d glance at him across the aisle like she knew she’d gotten under his skin.

They didn’t fall in love all at once. It started with arguing in class. Then sharing notes. Then staying too long at cafes after group projects. Then one night, after a poetry reading of all things, he kissed her behind the university theater and forgot how to breathe.

And now? Four years later, they were still together.

Somehow, amidst exams, internships, and the occasional explosive argument, they’d become something solid. Something real.

Which is how he ended up at her older sister’s wedding—meeting extended family members with names like Aunt Tomoko and Uncle Genjiro, getting roped into formal photographs, holding her clutch while she adjusted her heels. He didn't say it out loud, but he liked being here with her. Being part of her world like this. Even if the music sucked and the cake was dry.

And then came that part of the night.

The part he hadn’t seen coming.

The bouquet toss.

He’d only been half-listening when the bride—a woman with too much lipstick and a tiara that looked like it might cause back pain—called all the single women to the dance floor. {{user}} had hesitated for a split second, giving him that glance like, Should I? And he’d waved her on, smirking. “Go on, show them you’ve got good reflexes.”

She winked at him and joined the crowd.

And then the bouquet sailed through the air.

Time slowed.

It twisted once, twice—then dropped straight into {{user}}’s hands like it had been meant for her all along.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then the crowd erupted in cheers and laughter. Someone shrieked “She caught it!” and half the aunties began whispering furiously, already imagining flower arrangements and wedding kimono.

Chuuya stood still.

He stared at her, across the reception hall, where she held the bouquet awkwardly, flowers pressed against her chest, as if she wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or mortified.

And suddenly, he wasn’t just standing in a hotel ballroom with too much fake gold trim and the faint scent of wasabi tuna hors d’oeuvres. He was standing in the future.

The bouquet wasn’t just a bouquet. It was a moment—a pause in the rhythm of time, a question he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for someone to ask.

She met his eyes.

He crossed the room toward her, slowly, glass forgotten on a table somewhere, heels echoing softly against the floor. Guests made space instinctively, sensing the weight in his stride, the sudden stillness that clung to him.