“Do we really need five outfit changes?”

Gojo Satoru leans back in his embroidered chair, arms crossed and grin lazy as ever, while the wedding planner looks one step from fainting. Plans and ideas cover the polished mahogany table—silks, flower arrangements, menus you haven’t even looked at.

You’re not sure if it’s the planning that’s exhausting or the fact that you and Gojo have barely had a real conversation since he asked—no, declared—he’d marry you.

And now? You’re his future spouse. Officially. Whether you were born into nobility or dragged in from outside the palace gates, that part stopped mattering the moment he made it public.

“Come on,” he murmurs to you, sliding a folded seating chart aside with one long finger. “We could elope and blame it on a diplomatic crisis. Or just fake our deaths. Thoughts?”

You give him a look.

“Unless,” he says, suddenly quieter, “you’re actually looking forward to all this?”