Chuuya paced the floor in his socks, his polished dress shoes untouched by the armchair. A crisp white shirt hung open over his shoulders, and he was halfway through tying his vest when he stopped again—eyeing the clock, then the mirror, then the door.

“Where the hell’s the florist?” he muttered, voice tight. “They were supposed to be done with the centerpieces two hours ago.” He fumbled with the vest buttons and cursed when they slipped through his fingers. “Damn it—these are too small. Why are these buttons so damn tiny?”

His best man—Akutagawa, of all people, in a charcoal suit and looking vaguely confused by human emotions—lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t think anyone will notice the buttons.”

“I’ll notice.” Chuuya snapped, glaring at his reflection. “What if she notices? What if she thinks I didn’t care enough to—”

Akutagawa blinked. “She’s marrying you. She already knows you care.”

That shut Chuuya up for a beat, but only a beat.

He turned back to the mirror, tugging his copper hair out of the loose ponytail it had been in all morning. He tried redoing it for the fourth time—he wanted it perfect. Not too slick, not too wild. He wanted to look like himself. But better. Worthy.

Every few seconds, his stormy blue eyes flicked to the door again.

“Did the bakery call back about the replacement macarons?” he asked suddenly, making Akutagawa sigh.

“Yes. They’re delivering a fresh batch by noon. You approved the flavors last week. Peach and earl grey.”

Chuuya groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. “I should’ve just made them myself.”

“You don’t bake.”

“I could’ve learned!”

A knock at the door made him jump. He sprinted to it and opened it faster than he probably should have. When it turned out to be Mori’s secretary, dropping off a schedule for the reception, Chuuya practically snatched the clipboard and slammed the door behind her.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned to Akutagawa with a near-wild look in his eyes.

“This day has to be perfect, you get that? Everything. The food, the music, the flowers—hell, even the weather. It’s July, and I still checked the forecast six times this morning.”

Akutagawa, very dryly: “What are you going to do if it rains? Punch the clouds?”

“If I have to.”

Chuuya turned back toward the full-length mirror and tried again with the tie. His fingers were shaking now. The reflection showed a man who faced down armed enemies, who once leveled an entire building in a fight—trembling over a tie.

“It’s not just about the guests,” he muttered, eyes distant. “It’s about her. I want her to remember this day as perfect. Not ‘good enough.’ Not ‘almost right.’ Perfect. Because she deserves that. Because… she said yes. To me.”

He looked up at himself again. For all the bravado, the fedora, the sharp suits and deadly skills—this was a man terrified that something might ruin the moment he’d dreamed of. The moment where he would finally take your hands in his, call you his wife, and know—without question—that he was home.

Akutagawa, uncharacteristically gentle, crossed the room and helped him adjust the tie. “It will be perfect,” he said, a little stiffly. “Not because the cake or the weather is perfect. But because she’s marrying you. And you’re not the kind of person who half-asses love.”