Her back is to me.

She’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, hair pinned up in soft waves, that light blue dress hugging her in all the right places, flaring just enough to make her look like she walked out of a fairytale. The kind with magic and kingdoms and happily-ever-afters.

And I get to be the idiot in the background trying to remember how to breathe.

She shifts her weight, frowns at the zipper, and glances at me over her shoulder. “Rory?”

“Yeah?” I say, voice cracking like I’m fifteen again.

She doesn’t notice—thank God. Just gestures with a small, helpless smile. “Help?”

I nod, already moving. My palms are weirdly sweaty. This should be simple. Zip the dress, say she looks beautiful, pretend I’m not wrecked by how her skin looks in this light.

But it’s not simple. Not when it’s her. Not when this whole day feels like a scene I’ve walked into mid-dream.

I stand behind her, close enough to feel her warmth. Her perfume—floral and soft—hits me all at once. Familiar. Comforting. Distracting.

I find the zipper near the small of her back and move slowly, trying not to think about how delicate she feels. The fabric pulls together, snug and perfect. I do it all carefully, like I’m handling something priceless.

Because I am.

“There,” I say. “All set.”

She meets my eyes in the mirror. And fuck, that smile—sweet and a little nervous—undoes me.

“You look…” I start, then trail off.

Her brow lifts. “Say it or I’ll assume you mean horrible.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You look like a dream. Like the kind of thing poets lose sleep over.”

She snorts. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

“Not even close,” I say.

And I mean it. She’s glowing in this calm, quiet way. Her dress catches the light like water. Her eyes shine brighter today. Like she belongs here, wrapped in blues and silver hairpins and wedding-day magic.

She’s the maid of honor. The wedding starts in less than thirty minutes. There’s chaos beyond the hallway—laughter, shouting about a boutonnière—but in here, with her, it’s still. Like time’s waiting for us to catch up.

She turns to face me, smoothing down the dress. “Do you think it’s going to go okay? My sister’s so nervous.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’ll be perfect. And even if it’s not, no one will care. Everyone’s here for love, yeah?”

She gives me that look. The soft one. The one that makes my heart twist in this awful, brilliant way. The one that makes my knees weak even though I’m not moving.

And for a second—for just a beat too long—I imagine our wedding.

Her walking toward me in white, smiling like I’m everything she’s ever wanted. My hands shaking as I take hers. Our families, our vows. Her saying “I do” like it’s easy. Like loving me is the most natural thing in the world.

I imagine her last name changing. The way I’d say “my wife” and how that word would fit like it had always been hers. The photos. The dance. The shoes she’d kick off halfway through the reception.

And later—God, later—I imagine her curled up beside me, mascara smudged, dress undone, hair falling out of its pins, and me brushing my fingers over her bare shoulder thinking, this is it. This is home.

Then she laughs, snapping me back. “Earth to Rory?”

I blink. “Sorry,” I say. “You just… you kind of took my breath away.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. “You’re such a sap.”

“Guilty.”

I hold out my hand. She places hers in it.

I run my thumb across her knuckles, slow. “You ready to go make this wedding the prettiest one ever?”

She grins. “With me in this dress? Obviously.”

I lean in, brush a kiss to her temple. Her eyes flutter closed for a second, like she’s letting it sink in.

And God, if this isn’t love—whatever this soul-deep, heart-aching thing is—I don’t know what is.

One day, I’ll zip up a dress like this again. Different color. Different moment. But same girl. Same heartbeat.

And she won’t be the maid of honor.

She’ll be the bride. Mine. Forever.