ameil :3

the breeze shifts right as the music does.

light but steady—cool enough to lift the ends of your dress, to carry the scent of hydrangea and hairspray and whatever perfume the maid of honor is wearing beside you. something floral. familiar. it stings your nose a little.

you adjust your grip on the bouquet, thumb brushing over the silk ribbon as the first chords of the processional begin to swell through the garden. all at once, the hundred or so folding chairs filled with family and friends quiet down. heels stop shifting on flagstone. babies are bounced into silence. someone sniffles in the front row.

you don’t dare look at the groom—he’s already tearing up, you know it—but it doesn’t matter. all eyes are turning now, slowly, toward the back of the aisle.

and then she steps out.

your best friend. radiant. veil tucked just enough behind her ear to show the way her jaw trembles, just a little. bouquet clutched tight in her hands. the kind of expression on her face that only happens when someone’s sure—not just about who they’re marrying, but about themselves.

you feel it hit your chest before you even realize it’s coming. a twist. a bloom. something tight and warm and achey in the best way.

your throat tightens.

you glance down, pretend to adjust the flowers in your grip. blink once. twice.

and it’s not envy, not really. just longing. something soft and distant and close all at once. like a part of you—quiet and tucked away—wants this too. not the dress. not the photos. not the slow-walk-down-the-aisle bit.

just... the being chosen. the look on her face. the way her soon-to-be husband can’t stop staring, like he’s never seen the sun before.

you feel yourself shift slightly in your heels, grounding.

and then—without thinking—you glance out toward the chairs.

second row from the back, near the end of the aisle. schlatt.

he’s not crying. he’s not staring at the bride. he’s looking at you.

seated half-cocked in his chair, tie loosened just a little, hands in his lap. that stupid faint grin he gets when he’s about to say something smart. the breeze ruffles his curls, and for once, he doesn’t fix them.

you blink.

and for a second—just a second—you forget where you are.

because it’s him. your big guy. even if you haven’t said it like that yet. even if it’s still new and weird and sweet in the way ripe fruit is sweet, right before it bruises. you’re not together-together. not officially. not yet. but—

but he showed up.

he got on a plane. wore the tie. charmed your cousins. kept asking if you were drinking water. helped the mother of the bride carry in the flower baskets when the venue forgot them. and now he’s sitting there, watching you like he’d rather be nowhere else in the world.

your throat tightens again. a different kind of ache.

because maybe it’s not just the dress or the vows or the veil catching in the breeze. maybe it’s the idea that this—that—could be real. for you. with someone who makes you laugh when you’re trying not to cry. who calls you sweetheart like it’s the easiest word in his mouth. who watches you, even during the part where everyone’s supposed to be looking at the bride.

you want it.

someone to hold your hand in the quiet moments. someone to mean it when they say, “i’m here.” someone to build a whole future with, from the ground up. mismatched dishes, sunday mornings, shared toothpaste. shared everything.

you glance back down the aisle.

the bride’s at the front now, veil settling as her father kisses her cheek. the groom is already sniffling. the officiant clears his throat.

you blink once more—just to clear the edges of your vision—and shift your bouquet higher in your grip.

focus.

this is her moment.

and god, she looks happy.

the ceremony unfolds around you in soft sound: the rustle of dresses, the shift of feet on stone, and you settle into the silence watching your best friend marry the love of her life…secretly hoping you’ll reach the same point that she has.

✧✧✧

the ceremony ends in a blur of clapping, petals, and one of the groomsmen whispering “nailed it” under his breath as the newlyweds kiss. someone cheers. the officiant smiles. the bride practically floats back down the aisle, and the rest of you fall into step behind her—bouquets up, shoulders back, heart somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

you catch a glimpse of schlatt as you pass.

he’s still in the second-to-last row, standing now, clapping. big, warm smile. loose tie. flushed cheeks. he mouths something at you as you walk past.

you can’t fully make it out, but it looks suspiciously like:

i’d marry you.

you roll your eyes. bite back a grin. 

focus. photos. timeline. champagne later.

you don’t even get a chance to look back.

the second the newlyweds disappear down the aisle, the photographer is on you. coordinating. corralling. posing. a gentle, smiling general directing a very pastel-colored army.

“bride and bridesmaids, this way. groomsmen, don’t wander. can someone get the veil fluffed again?”

you glance over your shoulder. no time. schlatt’s somewhere in the crowd, maybe standing, maybe already trailing toward the cocktail tent. but you’re being herded—wrangled—into position.

first come the bridal party shots: the whole crew in front of the arbor, bouquets tucked and elbows tight, smiling like it doesn’t hurt to hold that expression for fifteen full seconds at a time. then the bride wants one with all her girls—serious pose, then a laughing one, then one where you all hold her train like she’s floating.

the sun is in your eyes. your heels are sinking into the gravel. someone’s boutonniere fell off and you’re the one who catches it before it hits the ground.

you don’t even realize how long it’s been until your phone buzzes again.

🐐: still alive 🐐: currently fighting off two ants and a drunk groomsman 🐐: u look so pretty it’s making me insane

you can’t answer. you’re already being called back into frame.

you help the bride pin her curls where they’re falling. help her dab her eyes without ruining her lashes. help the flower girl hold still for just one more picture by crouching beside her and offering a piece of butterscotch you found in your purse.

the photographer snaps, snaps again.

then someone asks for a candid. then a goofy one. then the mother of the bride steps in and asks for just one more with the whole family.

you glance toward the reception tent.

schlatt’s there now.

leaning against one of the poles, arms crossed, drink in hand. he’s talking to someone, nodding along, but you know him—you know him—and the way his eyes keep darting toward you? that’s not polite interest. that’s quiet desperation.

you shift your weight. press your lips together.

you’re still smiling in every photo.

but your shoulders ache.

and your fingers twitch like they’re remembering how it felt when he brushed them earlier in the dressing room, when you handed him his tie and he held your wrist for just a second too long.

✧✧✧

it’s supposed to be the easy part.

you’re officially off photo duty. the bridal party was just dismissed with a warm “go enjoy yourselves, mingle a little, we’ll call you back for the entrances.” and for a second—a brief, sparkling, hopeful second—you feel your spine start to unknot. you can see the drinks. you can see the tent. you can see him.

he’s still by the pole.

looser now, one hand tucked in his pocket, curls drying in the heat of the late afternoon. he’s changed into the backup shirt you packed him—light blue, slightly wrinkled from the car, sleeves rolled to the forearm in that way that makes your stomach flip like a bouquet.

he sees you.

he lifts his glass, subtle. gives you that look.

like now?

like can i have you yet?

like is it finally time?

you don’t even realize you’re already moving until you’re halfway across the grass, bouquet swapped for a glass of sparkling cider someone passed you on instinct. the tent is humming—clinking glasses, light music, relatives trying to be charmingly chaotic. you dodge a toddler with cake on his face. smile at a cousin you forgot was invited.

almost there.

almost there.

here.

“hey,” you say, breathless, walking up like you haven’t imagined this moment all day.

“hey yourself.” his eyes drag over you. slow. warm. “you know, they told me there’d be a beautiful maid of honor, but i didn’t think she’d be the one making announcements and carrying cake samples and fixing mic feedback—”

“shut up,” you say, but you’re already grinning.

he sits up straighter. loosens his tie the rest of the way. “how much longer are they gonna keep you hostage, huh? i’ve been making friends with the old people at my table. i think i accidentally got invited to a cruise.”

you snort. “i think we’re about to be released.”

you take a step closer. you’re about to sit in the empty seat beside him—about to lean in, finally touch his hand, maybe finally whisper something you’ve been thinking since the ceremony, something dumb and hopeful like that could be us someday—

but then you hear it.

a voice from across the tent, sharp and shrill:

“the dress—oh my god—the dress.”

everything stops.

you turn.

and there she is—your best friend, the bride, standing just outside the tent flap in her after-party dress.

or what was her after-party dress.

now? it’s folded weirdly under her arms, bunched at one hip, the side zipper caught halfway down, and—oh god—there’s a wine stain crawling down the front in a shameful blotch of red and orange.

her eyes are wide. her face is flushed.

you barely hear schlatt say, “wait, was that supposed to be her outfit-change?” before you’re moving.

“sorry,” you toss over your shoulder.

he blinks. “wait—now? again?”

“she’s gonna cry—hold on—just five minutes—”

“you said that an hour ago!”

but you’re already across the lawn.

already tugging your friend toward the side entrance of the venue.

already gathering tulle in your arms and saying things like “it’s fine, it’s just fermented grapes, you’re stunning, they won’t even notice,” as her lipstick smears and someone screams for a tide stick.

your phone buzzes in your palm.

🐐: babe. 🐐: babe pls 🐐: this has to be some sort of bad karma

you send back a single emoji: 😭

🐐: i’ll wait. but if the cruise people offer me free drinks i might be blackout drunk by the time you’re back.

you shove your phone into your dress pocket and sigh.

back on duty.

✧✧✧

the door to the suite clicks shut with a breathless thud—muting the buzz of cocktail hour, the flutter of hands and heels and champagne flutes. in here, it’s just you. and isla. and the dress.

it’s crumpled around her knees now—half-zipped, lipstick smudged near the strap, the blush-toned satin bunched like a collapsed souffle. she's pacing in nothing but shapewear and panic, whisper-chanting a loop of “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god” as she tries—and fails—not to cry.

the zipper has separated completely down one side. there’s a dark splash of red wine just beneath the waist, seeping into the folds like a cruel little joke. and above it all, isla—your isla—is standing there, tearful and furious and glowing anyway. her curls are pinned half-up with baby’s breath, a few strands falling loose from the humidity. her cheeks are flushed. her nails are shaking.

you drop your shoes first. then your clutch. you kneel down, fingers already moving, and say, “okay. breathe. i’m fixing it.”

isla freezes. “what?”

“you heard me. take it off. i’ve got thread. i’ve got tide pens. i’ve got nerves of steel. come on.”

she blinks. you lift a brow. she lifts the dress over her head.

there’s a small vanity in the corner of the room—warm lights casting a golden hue over everything. you drape the dress across the arm of a velvet chair and flip it inside out like a surgeon prepping an incision. your fingers glide along the seam, eyes scanning the stitch line.

“the zipper didn’t break, just pulled loose. i’ll let the seam out a half inch, maybe less. give it breathing room, then tack it back down. the stain’s gonna need a little chemistry, but i’ve got just enough of the good stuff.”

you fish out your clutch. dump it unceremoniously.

scissors. needle. thread pre-wound on a cardboard square. mini stain remover. a folded cloth. a spare safety pin. two bobby pins. one rogue breath mint.

“jesus,” isla whispers. “you are mary poppins.”

“i’m your maid of honor,” you say, “which is basically the same thing, but hotter.”

that earns you a soggy laugh.

you work quickly—knees pressed into the carpet, fingers steady even as the world ticks louder on the other side of the door. the zipper goes first: seam pulled open, thread looped and tightened with invisible care. then the lining, tacked back by hand, one nearly-invisible stitch at a time. you work in silence, teeth clenched slightly, heart racing like it’s your dress on the line.

the stain is next.

warm water. the tiniest dab of detergent.

you press, not rub. blot with the cloth. angle the dress toward the vanity light. repeat. slowly, the deep red fades into something nearly imperceptible—just a memory now, clinging to a shadow fold that no one will notice. you hit it with cool air from the travel hairdryer—low, slow. then a sweep of fabric spray. then steam.

twenty-three minutes from disaster to rebirth. like a phoenix.

isla’s eyes are glassy as you hold the dress back out to her. she slips it over her head, and you guide the zipper up slowly, palm flat to her back as you smooth it shut.

you both face the mirror.

the dress is perfect. she’s perfect.

her eyes meet yours in the reflection. “y/n...you've just saved my life.”

you grin, breathless. “pff, i'm no doctor, and you didn't need saving. just a little stitching.”

she turns to you. throws her arms around your shoulders with a champagne-scented oof, careful not to smudge her new lipstick. you hold her tight. you can feel her vibrating from nerves and relief and love.

“you ready?” you ask.

she nods. “with you next to me? always.”

you tuck one last bobby pin into her curls. re-apply her gloss in a quick sweep. smooth the hem. tug your own dress back into place, now slightly wrinkled from kneeling, but that’s not the story anyone will care about.

you both hold hands, putting your heads together and just breathe in.

this is always how you've handled things together. holding tightly onto everything that brings you happiness and peace, including each other.

one, two, three.

you separate from each other, blink back tears. she offers you a warm smile before pulling you back towards the party and music.

you head toward the exit.

✧✧✧

the cheers swell as isla enters—late, glowing, triumphant.

her husband-to-be is already crying. not discreetly. he’s straight-up dabbing at his eyes with a folded cocktail napkin like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

you laugh softly from just inside the tent, heart thudding from the last-minute rush. your palms still smell faintly like hairspray and wine.

but isla’s smile—lit-up and feral and overwhelmed in the best way—makes all of it worth it.

you hang back just enough to watch them reach the center of the tent, the crowd parting as they go. the music kicks in—some retro pop track reworked into orchestral strings—and suddenly they’re spinning, coordinated and silly, like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this three-minute burst of joy.

the bridal party hollers. phones come out. the dj fades them into a full remix and isla points at you.

you blink.

oh.

oh, it’s that kind of routine.

she jerks her head. you barely hear her over the music: “you promised!”

and yeah—you did promise, didn’t you? back when she was just tipsy enough to choreograph a wedding dance and just persuasive enough to make you agree to join in.

and then it happens fast:

you and the groom enter from opposite sides, dramatically snatching isla’s hands like a tug-of-war. she gasps like she’s in a soap opera, lets her body flop between you as you each mime fighting for her love.

you: mock-wounded. clutching your heart. but isla… we were supposed to run away together!

the groom: hands to his chest, staggering backward like you shot him. she’s mine! i’ve got the paperwork now!

the crowd is loving it.

isla breaks free of you both, spinning with over-the-top flair before grinning wildly and beckoning you closer.

“come on!” she shouts over the beat, and grabs your hands.

together, you sway into a side-to-side move—something she taught you in her kitchen during the rehearsal dinner prep, when you both had wine and no shame. then she shoves you toward the groom. you two do a clumsy little “fight” dance, each flinging a hand over isla’s shoulder like two friends in a sitcom brawling over who gets custody of the golden retriever.

and then—on the beat drop—she spins you away from both of them.

you stumble back, laughing, heart racing.

right into someone’s arms.

two big, warm hands catch your waist.

“hey,” schlatt murmurs—grinning like an idiot. “need a partner?”

he spins you, your dress twirling like a flower blooming, he dips you down, before pulling you away from the spotlight of the newlyweds. the crowd cheers, understanding the story of how you've found yourself someone new to run away with.

you glance behind you—isla throws a wink and shoots finger guns.

“she planned that?” you say breathlessly.

“she might’ve warned me,” he says.

you don’t think. you just let him pull you in—his hand firm at your waist, the other still holding yours from the spin. the music slows, something warm and low and easy to follow, and he shifts just enough to give you space to settle.

his hoodie’s gone now—left at the table, probably—but he’s still in his dress shirt. the collar's a little rumpled, and his sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, just like always. his palm is warm against the curve of your back. the pad of his thumb brushes your hip through the fabric of your dress. his chest rises and falls in time with yours.

you don’t mean to look at his mouth. you do it anyway.

“i don’t usually dance,” you murmur, just to fill the space.

his smile tugs higher on one side. “you say that right after being featured in a choreographed wedding dance, and people…AKA me…will not believe you.”

you breathe out a laugh—quiet, almost like a sigh—and tuck your hand just behind his shoulder. you feel the muscle there move beneath your palm, steady and strong.

around you, people start moving. couples grouping up. a few of the groomsmen still trying to impress each other with exaggerated flourishes. isla and her husband melt into the crowd, his hand cradling the small of her back, her head tilted to whisper something in his ear.

it smells like grass and champagne and sweat and hairspray. someone must’ve cracked open one of the fire pits just outside the tent—there’s the faintest curl of smoke on the breeze.

schlatt sways you in slow, easy motions. no big moves. no jokes. just… dancing.

“how’s isla? and her dress?” he asks after a while. his voice is quieter now, closer.

you nod. “safe. clean. crisis averted.”

“didn’t doubt you for a second.”

his fingers shift slightly, a little higher on your back. you’re very aware of them. you tilt your head up and catch him watching you—not staring, just looking, like he’s making sure you’re really here.

“i missed you today,” he says softly.

“i…i missed you too.”

it’s not dramatic, not whispered into a kiss. just spoken, small and honest, between the spaces where your hands fit and your hearts settle.

he exhales, slow. you feel it more than hear it—how his chest shifts, how his grip adjusts slightly like he wants to hold you closer without rushing you.

then he murmurs, “can i ask you something?”

you glance up. “yeah?”

he hesitates. not out of fear, just… careful with it. like he’s holding the words the same way he’s holding you—tight enough to be sure, gentle enough to still give you room.

“are we doing this for real?” he asks. “like… you and me?”

your heart flips a little. maybe a lot.

you look at him—really look at him. the way his curls are a little flat on one side from where he probably leaned on his hand while waiting for you earlier. the line of his jaw. the quiet crease between his brows, like he’s bracing for something.

“yeah,” you say. it’s easy. “yeah, i want to.”

he breathes in like he didn’t know how much he needed to hear that.

“okay,” he says, voice a little lighter now. a little steadier. “okay, good.”

you don’t get another word out before he pulls you in tighter—his arm fully wrapping around your back, his hand curling around your side. your chest is against his now, your head tucked neatly beneath his chin. he presses a kiss to your temple, then another just behind your ear.

“i’m not letting go of you,” he says into your hair. “not for the rest of the night. not even if the carpool crowd starts leaving without us.”

you laugh, breath caught somewhere between flustered and full.

“bold of you to assume i’d go without you,” you mumble.

he leans back just enough to look at you again—and he’s smiling, all teeth and dimples and that crooked thing he does when he’s too happy to hide it.

“you look good,” he says. “i mean, you always look good. but tonight? you look like someone i don’t ever wanna stop showing off.”

you duck your head, blushing, but he just tips your chin back up with two fingers.

“don’t hide from me now,” he says. “you’re mine, aren’t you? officially?”

you nod.

“then lemme act like it.”

he kisses you—nothing over-the-top, just a warm, certain press of his mouth to yours, like he means it. like he’s making good on a promise.

when he pulls back, his hand stays at your waist. his thumb traces a little path along your ribs. his other arm stays locked around your lower back, keeping you anchored to him as the song fades and another begins—this one a little faster, more upbeat.

people around you start to shift and laugh, splitting off into smaller groups. you try to move, to head toward isla or the champagne table or literally anywhere else, but his grip doesn’t budge.

“where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

you raise an eyebrow. “you said you wanted to dance, didn’t you?”

“i do,” he says. “with you. only if it’s with you.”

and then—god help you—he picks you up. just enough to make you squeak from the brief spin he does, your feet leaving the floor for barely a second before he sets you back down.

“schlatt!”

“what? i said i couldn’t let you go.” his grin is shameless.

you press your face to his shoulder, laughing against the soft linen of his shirt. he holds you tighter.

for the rest of the night—through every slow song, every blurry group photo, every toast and cake slice and farewell hug—he’s right there.

his hand on your back.

his lips at your temple.

his thumb tracing circles where no one else can see.

he doesn’t look away from you once.

✧✧✧

you’re tucked into schlatt’s side, shoes off, legs folded beneath you on one of the lounge chairs near the back of the tent. a crumpled napkin rests beside a paper plate of half-eaten cake, and his hand has barely left your back all night.

then—through the haze of fairy lights and leftover music—isla spots you.

she breaks away from the last of the photo swarm with a shout of your name and a clumsy flail of her arm, her heels dangling from two fingers like a prize. her curls are starting to fall in soft spirals, cheeks flushed and glowing. her afterparty dress still has the faintest shadow where the wine hit earlier, but she looks so happy you doubt anyone even remembers.

trailing behind her—still unbuttoned, still love-struck—is her new husband.

nathan.

 he’s got a lazy sort of charm about him, tie loose in his pocket, champagne flute in one hand, and the other naturally finding the small of isla’s back like it’s second nature. he’s been quietly orbiting her all night—doting without hovering. it’s disgustingly sweet.

“there she is!” isla beams, stumbling slightly as she drops to her knees beside you, immediately wrapping you in a frosting-scented hug. “my hero. my maid of honor. my fixer of broken zippers and defender of dance floors!”

you laugh, hugging her back. “hi. you’re married now.”

she makes a delighted squeal and shakes your shoulders. “i am! isn’t that so gross?”

nathan settles down beside her, looping an arm around her waist with a fond sigh. “it’s disgusting how happy i am.”

“you’re disgusting in general,” isla says sweetly, then kisses him mid-laugh before turning back to you. “and you—you didn’t tell me your guy was this hot.”

your eyebrows lift. “you literally met him in a hotel lobby. we were in anime girl t-shirts.”

“yeah, but i didn’t know he’d look like that in a suit.” she gestures wildly at schlatt.

schlatt lifts his hand in a lazy half-wave, smirking. “thank you. i’ve been informed i clean up okay.”

“you clean up nice for a nerd,” isla says, grinning at him. “but you made her smile today, so i'll forgive you for your anime-girl first impression.”

“you planned half the ways i made her smile,” he points out.

nathan chuckles, raising his glass. “it’s true. she’s been in puppet master mode for weeks.”

“months.” isla corrects, tossing a piece of her hair over her shoulder. “and don’t act like you weren’t part of it, mr. ‘should i ask him to sit near the aisle for better eye contact?’”

“that was strategy,” nathan says proudly.

you groan. schlatt snorts. “wait—you two were in on this together?”

“of course,” isla says, reaching over to pat your leg. “you’re both disasters. someone had to make sure you got at least one decent dance in, and we both wanted in on something not as stressful as planning our wedding.”

schlatt shifts, his fingers brushing your knee beneath the blanket. “our part of the choreo, and having you back in my arms finally, was the best part of my night.”

you glance up at him—he means it. you can tell. you feel it in the way his thumb presses lightly into the soft part of your thigh, anchoring. you lean into him just a little more.

isla, sensing a moment, softens.

she rests her head on nathan’s shoulder and says, “you looked happy up there.”

you nod. “i was. i am.”

then she grins again, chaotic once more. “good. because now you have absolutely no excuse not to come on our honeymoon cruise.”

schlatt chokes on air. “i’m sorry—what?”

nathan’s nodding. “already booked the cabin.”

“she’s not kidding,” you whisper.

“oh my god.” schlatt drops his head back against the lounge cushion. “were those drunk cruise people also a part of your scheming? am i being hazed into marriage?”

“yes to both,” isla says, already rising and dusting off her knees. “and also, it's about time.”

nathan helps her up, then reaches out to shake schlatt’s hand with surprising sincerity. “you’re a good guy,” he says. “thanks for looking out for her today.”

schlatt grips his hand. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you catch isla’s smile at that. she tugs you up too—kisses your cheek, whispers i love you, best girl, and lets her husband steal her away again.

when you sit back down, schlatt immediately tugs you close again.

“okay,” he mutters, “but real talk.”

“hmm?”

“you think there’s still cake left?”

you grin. “only if you carry me to it.”

he grins wider. “deal.”

and with that—his hand in yours, the hum of music curling into night air, and the warmth of everyone you love swirling around you—you get up. you get cake. you get one more dance.

 and he never lets go of your hand.