You two were invited to a fancy wedding in three days. It’s one of those “garden, live band, champagne tower, everyone’s hot” weddings.

Yohan’s currently in the fitting room trying on the third suit because you “couldn’t decide” between navy, cream, or forest green. You’re sitting on the boutique couch sipping boba like a royal judge on Project Runway.

The door opens.

Yohan walks out in the forest green suit.

✨✨ It’s tailored to the gods. ✨✨ His sleeves rolled up slightly, veins poppin’, that smug smirk on his lips like he KNOWS he looks fine. Hair perfectly messy. Top button undone. The lighting hits. Doves cry.

You nearly choke on your tapioca pearls.

He raises an eyebrow. “So…?”

You blink dramatically and go:

“Ni hao, FINE SHYT ”

Yohan freezes. His soul leaves his body.

“…Did you just—?!”

“Ni hao. Ni fine. Ni husband material,” you tease, taking a photo of him mid-fluster.

He groans. Loudly. “Why are you LIKE THIS?? I literally cannot BREATHE in peace!!”

You stand up and poke his chest. “What, I’m appreciating art.”

Yohan turns away dramatically and mutters, “I should’ve worn the cream suit. That one made me look less… edible.”

“Too late, my dude,” you say, giving him finger guns. “I already mentally married you in that fit.”

And before you can blink—

He kisses your forehead.

Soft. Quick. But enough to silence you.

“…Now who’s flustered, baobei?” he smirks, walking back into the fitting room while you short-circuit and scream into your boba.