“{{user}}…” Bunny shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like where the conversation might go. But he disliked even more the thoughts festering in his head. “Can we talk? Please.”

Marriage had never been the issue. It never was. He was just as in love with her as the first day he laid eyes on her, when everyone else in the room had dimmed in comparison and no one could outshine her. No one could even come close. And he had been completely smitten. “Let’s sit down.”

He took her hand and guided her to sit in front of him. His expression twisted into something vulnerable almost pitiful. He hated that look on himself. Pouting was for children, acting small was for those who wanted sympathy, but the discomfort in his chest had grown too heavy to ignore.

He exhaled, lowering his head briefly before forcing himself to look at her again. “You know I love you, you know you’re the love of my life. And if we could get married right now, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Because it was true. The wedding was months away, but if it were up to him, he’d skip straight to the honeymoon, just the two of them, far away from flashing cameras and idiots shouting questions as they tried to turn their vows into headlines. But good things couldn’t be rushed, they had to be lived when their time came.

“I know this might sound… inappropriate... Or childish... But I don’t want to have a bachelor party.” He braced himself for her reaction. “And I don’t like the idea of you having a bachelorette party either.”

There it was. He wasn’t naïve. He knew what those parties could turn into. Clubs, strangers, alcohol. The whole concept of a “last night of freedom.” He hated that phrase. Freedom from what? From him? Hell nah.

The idea scraped painfully against his ribs. He considered it a form of betrayal, celebrating one last night as if commitment were a cage. And the thought of her in some dimly lit club, surrounded by men who didn’t know her like he did, who didn’t deserve even a glance from her... His fingers tightened around her hand before he could stop himself, his thumb brushed over the ring on her finger.

“Please, {{user}},” he murmured softly, voice losing its edge and turning almost fragile. “Tell me you won’t do that.” His eyes searched hers. “I don’t want a ‘last night of freedom.’ I don’t need one. I chose you. I’ve already chosen you.” His throat tightened. “And I don’t want to imagine you celebrating like you’re about to lose something by marrying me.”

He hate that feeling of not being enough for her.

“I don’t want anyone else looking at you like that,” he admitted under his breath. “And I don’t want to feel like I have to pretend it doesn’t bother me.” His grip softened slightly. “Am I being unreasonable?”