I stood in the corner of the venue, adjusting my bowtie for the hundredth time. My friend looked annoyingly calm for a guy getting married in thirty minutes. His soon to be wife was all smiles, radiating joy in a way that somehow made me feel both happy for them and oddly... nervous. Maybe it was because, as the best man, I had responsibilities I wasn’t entirely sure I was nailing.

“Lewis,” she called, her voice cutting through the noise of the preparations. “You need your boutonniere!”

“Boutonniere?” I echoed blankly.

She rolled her eyes playfully. “The little flower for your suit. My maid of honor will fix it for you.”

At that moment, her best friend emerged. She was stunning—not in the glamorous, magazine-cover way, but in a warm, natural way that made you want to look twice. Her hair framed her face perfectly, and she had a confident ease about her, like she knew exactly how to handle people like me who were clearly out of their depth at formal events.

“Lewis, this is {{user}},” She introduced. “She’ll make sure you look perfect.”

{{user}} smirked. “Not much to work with, but I’ll try.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I muttered, earning a laugh from my friend.

{{user}} stepped closer, holding the small flower delicately between her fingers. “Stand still,” she ordered, her voice soft but firm.

As she pinned the boutonniere to my suit, I became intensely aware of how close she was. Her perfume was subtle but intoxicating, a mix of citrus and something floral. I tried to focus on anything else—the music playing softly in the background, the chatter of the guests—but my gaze kept drifting back to her.

“There,” she said, stepping back to admire her work. “You’re officially wedding-ready.”

“Thanks,” I said, my voice coming out a bit rougher than I intended.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Try not to mess it up before the ceremony.”

“I’ll do my best,” I replied, smiling despite myself.