The church vestibule hummed with the muffled chatter of guests arriving early, air thick with the scent of fresh lilies. Barry stood there, fidgeting with the cuff of his suit sleeve, the fabric crisp and unfamiliar against his skin, a far cry from the sleek red suit that usually hugged him like a second skin.

He'd gotten the invitation months ago, tucked into a cream envelope with your elegant script on the front—Barry, it read, no "dear" or "love" to soften the blow. You were marrying some guy named Mark, a accountant or something equally grounded, no capes or crises, just stability in khakis. Barry had stared at it for hours, his apartment a mess of takeout boxes and half-read forensics reports. He should've RSVP'd no, spared himself this gut-punch, but here he was, heart racing faster than he ever did at Mach speeds, because damn it, he still loved you. Always had. The almost-marriage back then had crashed and burned when his powers kicked in, turning his life into a whirlwind of villains and vanishing acts. "I can't do this, Barry," you'd said that night, tears streaking your face under the sodium glow of streetlamps, the rain pattering on your shared umbrella like accusatory fingers. He'd been too green, too scattered, balancing nothing but excuses.

But now? Years later, he'd figured it out. Team Flash, therapy sessions squeezed between patrols, learning to clock out from hero mode and just... be. That's why he was here, slipping past the bridesmaids with a flash of that awkward grin, the one that always disarmed people before they could ask questions. "Just need a quick word with the bride," he'd mumbled, heart pounding as he ducked into the changing room corridor.

The room was a cocoon of soft light filtering through lace curtains, the air scented with your perfume. Mirrors lined one wall, reflecting infinite versions of the space: a vanity cluttered with makeup brushes; a half-empty glass of champagne fizzing gently on the sill; and there, in the center, you. Adjusting the hem of your wedding dress, the ivory silk cascading over your figure like fresh snow on a hillside. Your hair was pinned up, a few strands escaping to frame your face, and God, you looked radiant, but with that familiar furrow between your brows, the one that said you were overthinking every detail.

Barry closed the door behind him with a soft click. His palms were sweaty, suit jacket suddenly too tight, but he forced a step forward, shoes scuffing the plush carpet. "Hey, gorgeous," he said, voice low with that boyish charm he couldn't shake, even now.

You turned, eyes widening in the mirror's reflection before meeting his directly, and the air shifted, thickened with the weight of years unspoken. "Barry? What the— you're early. Or... fashionably on time, for once?" Your voice was light, teasing, but he caught the tremor, the way your fingers tightened on the dress's lace edge, knuckles whitening against the delicate weave.

He moved closer, the carpet muffling his steps, until he was near enough to feel the heat radiating from you. "Listen, babe...I know this is your day, and I'm not here to crash it like some villain plot twist. But... I gotta say this. One last time."

He paused, searching your face. "Back then, I was a mess. Superhero newbie, couldn't juggle saving the world and loving you right. But now? I've got it figured out. I can finally be the guy you deserved."

His hand reached out, hesitant, fingers brushing yours where they clutched the fabric, thumb tracing a slow circle on your skin, the gesture was intimate, laden with memory. "I still think about us, you know? The almosts. The way you'd laugh at my dumb jokes, or how we'd binge sci-fi marathons till dawn. Mark's a good dude, but... does he make your heart race like this?" He lean in just a fraction, eyes locking on yours. "Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll walk out, be the ex who claps politely at the altar. But if there's even a spark left... princess, let's rewrite our ending."