you didn't plan to catch the bouquet. in fact, you had a strategy: stand at the edge, knees locked, arms glued to your sides, eyes on the exit. but fate, like the bride's throw, is chaotic.

taesan — who you met literally three hours ago and who already knew your go-to drink and your hatred for cilantro — stood behind you, smirking like he had a secret. he probably did. he was that kind of guy. groom’s friend. annoying. charming. tall.

"you ready?" he whispered as the bride turned, flowers raised like a missile launcher. "absolutely not," you muttered, shifting one inch farther from the center.

then it happened. time slowed. the bouquet arced through the air with terrifying grace. it wasn’t coming toward you—perfect. you leaned back, relieved.

until someone bumped you. taesan. taesan bumped you. he bumped you on purpose.

you stumbled forward. your arms, traitors, shot up. and somehow—miraculously, tragically — the bouquet landed in your hands like it had always belonged there.

the crowd screamed. your face flushed. taesan grinned, unapologetic.

“traitor,” you hissed.

“just helping fate along,” he said, offering a hand, like he hadn’t just launched you into potential-marriage-limbo.

later, as you sat beside him, bouquet on the table, you laughed. hard.

“you owe me a drink,” you said.

he leaned in, smirk still intact. “only if it’s our wedding toast.”