oak!

Not written in bright colours or decorated with little hearts the way other women might’ve done. Just plain black text: Wedding Dress Appointment - 11:00. And somehow, that made it worse, because every time you looked at it, your stomach twisted with the same quiet dread.

You tried not to think too hard about it in the weeks leading up to the appointment. Whenever wedding planning came up, you focused on practical things instead, flowers, seating charts. catering, things you could do alone without it hurting. But dress shopping was different.

Dress shopping was supposed to be full of women crowding around, mothers clasping their chests when their daughters stepped out of the fitting room, best friends, sisters taking blurry photos…

Every bridal advertisement reminded you of it, every video online, every conversation made you feel hollow. Because you had no one to bring, no mother, well not really, she existed, technically, but years of emotional distance had left your relationship brittle and formal, calls on birthdays and some holiday texts. No sisters, no close girlfriends, no cool aunt. Just you.

You’d spent most of your life pretending that didn’t bother you. Pretending you preferred being independent. Pretending it didn’t sting when coworkers talked about girls’ nights or when people casually said things like “I told my best friend everything.”

You didn’t have stories like that, you never really learned how to keep people long enough to become permanent. You learned early not to lean too hard on people, because eventually, they left. So when the morning of the appointment finally arrived, you woke up feeling sick.

John noticed immediately, of course he did, the man noticed when you slept badly, when your smile looked even slightly forced.

You stood in the kitchen pretending to drink your tea while staring blankly out the window. John sat at the table across from you, coffee in hand, eyes quietly fixed on your face over the rim of his mug.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

“Right,” he said slowly, clearly unconvinced.

The silence stretched. You hated that silence, hated how it made emotions bubble up too close to the surface. So you busied yourself gathering your things. Handbag, coat, phone. Anything to avoid looking at him too long.

John watched you move around the flat with growing concern.

“You nervous about today?” he asked carefully.

Your fingers tightened around your bag strap. “A little.”

“That’s normal.”

You nodded, but your throat was already burning. Because it wasn’t normal nerves, not really, it wasn’t about the dress.

It was about walking into a bridal boutique completely alone while every other woman there would probably be surrounded by people who loved them openly and easily.

The thought made humiliation crawl hot beneath your skin.

You reached for the front door, then stopped. Your hand stayed frozen on the handle as your chest suddenly tightened so sharply it hurt.

You couldn’t do it. God, you couldn’t do it.

The image hit you all at once: standing in front of mirrors alone while strangers asked where your mum was, smiling politely when they asked who you brought with you. Pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending it didn’t hurt.

Your breathing turned uneven, the bag slipped from your shoulder onto the floor with a dull thud. Behind you, John’s chair scraped back immediately.

“Love?”

You covered your face before he could see you cry. Which was pointless, really, because John had probably memorised every version of your sadness by now.

“I can’t do it,” you whispered.

His footsteps approached slowly.

“What happened?”

You shook your head hard. “Nothing, it’s stupid—”

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry.”

That only made your eyes sting more. John came to stand in front of you, his expression softening instantly when he saw your face properly.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

You hated how broken your voice sounded. “I just... I don’t want to go alone.”

The words came out childishly small, humiliatingly vulnerable, you stared at the floor immediately after saying them, unable to look at him, because who admitted something like that? Who got to adulthood without having anyone to call for something as important as wedding dress shopping? The shame of it sat heavy in your chest.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” you rushed out quickly. “I just thought maybe I could do it by myself but now I—” Your voice cracked. “Everyone else has someone, John.”

Silence, not a cold silence nor angry silence, just quiet. Then suddenly his hands were on your arms, warm and grounding.

“Hey.”

You finally looked up. John’s face looked almost heartbroken, which only made you feel worse.

“Don’t you dare sound ashamed of that.”

Your lip trembled. “It’s pathetic.”

“No.” His voice was firm now. Certain. “What’s pathetic is that no one’s ever shown up for you the way they should’ve.”

That hit harder than you expected. John never pitied you, never treated you like damaged glass, but sometimes he said things so plainly that they cracked straight through your defenses.

You looked away quickly before you started crying harder.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weird,” you admitted quietly. “Asking my fiancé to come wedding dress shopping because I don’t have anyone else.”

John stared at you for a long moment. Then suddenly barked out the softest, most disbelieving little laugh.

“Weird?”

He stepped closer.

“Sweetheart, you really think I’d let you do something like that alone?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“I just…” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”

John reached up and cupped your face immediately, thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“There is nowhere on this earth I’m more obligated to be than beside you.”

And that did it, the tears spilled over instantly.

John sighed softly the second you broke, pulling you against him without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, securely, one hand cradling the back of your head like he could physically shield you from every lonely thing you’d ever felt.

“You’ve got me,” he murmured into your hair. “You understand? You’re not doing any of this alone anymore.”

You clutched the front of his shirt hard enough to wrinkle it.

“I don’t know why this hurts so much,” you whispered brokenly.

“I do.”

His voice was unbearably gentle.

“Everyone deserves someone in moments like this. Including you, honey”

You cried harder at that, and John just held you through it. No embarrassment. No rushing you to calm down.

Eventually, after your breathing steadied a little, he leaned back enough to look at you properly again.

“So,” he said carefully, “tell me the rules.”

You blinked wetly. “What?”

“For the dress thing.” His mouth twitched faintly. “I know I’m apparently not supposed to see it. So what’s the protocol here?”

A startled laugh escaped you despite yourself.

John looked deeply pleased by that tiny sound.

“There she is,” he murmured softly.

You wiped at your face. “You’d really come with me?”

“Darling,” he said gently, “I would sit through twelve hours of wedding dresses if it meant you weren't alone.”

Simon liked that steakhouse downtown, with the heavy chairs and food that was great but not exactly your thing. You’d been there enough times that the hostess greeted you with, “The usual table?” and you always smiled and nodded, even though you secretly dreamed of sushi or a bowl of spicy noodles instead of another plate of roast and potatoes.

At home, it was the same. His favourites were yours, by default. You made shepherd’s pie, his mum’s curry recipe, roast chicken that made him hum low in approval. You never even realised how your cravings always came second. However, Simon noticed.

He noticed everything, really. He had a lieutenant eye for patterns, and you were a pattern he’d memorised long ago.

Like how you always handed him the shower first when you were both half-dead after a long day, even though your eyes were already drooping, or how you’d stay awake through his nightmares, gentle hand on his back until his breathing evened out. He saw how, when you caught a cold, you refused to slow down. Mug of tea in one hand, cleaning the kitchen with the other, insisting you were “just fine”.

And every time you smiled, he saw the fatigue, and it twisted something deep in his chest. Until one Saturday, Simon decided he’d had enough. You padded into the kitchen, hair messy, already reaching for a pan. “I’ll make your breakfast,” you said. “Do you want—”

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, brow arched. “You’re not making breakfast today.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope. Sit.” He pointed at a chair like it was an order.

You frowned, half-laughing. “Simon, come on—”

“Sit.” A nod toward the chair, not raised nor harsh, just firm. “I’ve got it, love.”

You sat, mostly because arguing with Simon Riley before coffee was a battle no sane person chose.

“What are you making?”

“Breakfast.”

“That doesn’t answer—”

“Pancakes.”

You frowned. “You don’t even like pancakes.”

“Didn’t say I did.” A glance over his shoulder, brief. “You do.”

That stopped you.

“How d’you—”

“You’re my girlfriend” he muttered, like it was obvious.

You tried to hide your grin behind your mug, watching him move around the kitchen with his usual quiet precision. He plated up the pancakes, adding chocolate chips and set the plate in front of you like he was presenting a mission briefing.

“Eat,” he said.

You took a bite, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. “These are actually good.”

He gave a smug little shrug. “I can follow a recipe. Shocking, I know.”

The next week, it was dinner. You’d opened your mouth to suggest steakhouse night again, but Simon cut you off before you could.

“We’re not going there tonight.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t like it.”

“I do like it!” you protested.

“You put up with it” he said flatly, He grabbed your coat, held it out. “There’s a Korean place you keep mentioning. We’re going there.”

You stared at him. “Simon—”

“Four times,” he added, like he’d been keeping count. “Then you drop it.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. He just leaned in, pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, “I see you, love.”

After that, things changed a little. Simon wasn’t for grand gestures, but he started sneaking your favourites into the routine you’d built around him. When you’d try to get up to make tea, he’d already have one waiting. If you stayed up late waiting for him after a nightmare, he’d spend the next night coaxing you to bed early. He never called you out for it, never shamed you for the way you gave until you had nothing left. He just showed you what it felt like to be loved back.

One evening you came home worn down, head heavy, nose blocked, ready to drop. The house was quiet. For a second you thought he wasn’t in. But there he was he, leaning in the bathroom doorway, your towel over his shoulder.

“Bath’s running” he said.

You blinked. “For me?”

A faint huff, almost amused. “Didn’t run it for myself.”

You laughed weakly. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah” Softer this time. He stepped in, hand brushing over your hair, brief but grounding. “I did” He dipped his head, pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering just a second. “You look after everything,” he said, low. “Let me handle you, we’re a team. You don’t run yourself into the ground.”

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