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Aya’s evening feels like it’s trying to test her patience on purpose.
In the suite, it’s all soft light and half-finished calm, hair tools, pins and makeup scattered everywhere. They’ve just managed working through a sudden but thankfully short power outage, somehow managing to get everyone looking picture-perfect in the nick of time.
Then it happens.
Her dress is… not behaving correctly.
Mao makes a strangled noise that is halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “This isn’t zipping.”
Immediate murmurs across the room.
Aya is standing still in the middle of it all, hands slightly raised like she doesn’t want to make the situation worse by existing. The dress—beautiful, structured, absolutely not supposed to be doing this—stops a few centimetres short of closing, like it’s refusing to participate in today altogether.
“Shit. Okay. Everybody calm down,” Mao says, the complete opposite of calm. “It’s fine. This is fixable.”
Aya lets out a laugh that’s half disbelief, half resignation.
“I think the universe hates me.”
Chizuru appears like a summoned miracle.
No one sees where she comes from, only that she suddenly exists in the room with a kit that looks suspiciously like it was prepared for exactly this kind of disaster.
Mao moves aside like it’s standard procedure.
“Nobody breathe directly on me,” Chizuru says.
A stylist whispers, “She’s done this before.”
Chizuru doesn’t confirm nor deny it. She just stands behind Aya and starts working like she’s negotiating with the fabric rather than fighting it.
Aya stays still, but her eyes shift to the mirror. There’s a flicker there—panic trying to form fully—and then she sees Chizuru’s expression: focused, unbothered, mildly offended by the concept of things not working.
That does it.
Aya laughs.
“Is this—” she breathes out, shaking her head, “is this really how my wedding starts?”
Mao musters a nervous chuckle. “It’s on brand, honestly.”
Chizuru doesn’t look up. “You’re fine. Stop trying to manifest problems. Alright—brace, I’m going to pull. Breathe in and hold.”
“I don’t know if that’ll work. What if—”
“Breathe in.”
Aya tries to obey, still laughing under her breath anyway.
And somehow it works. The dress closes. Not perfect, but held together by determination, skill, and what might be sheer spite from Chizuru.
“There. It’ll be fine, the veil will cover it up.”
“Okay,” Aya says, still smiling, eyes bright with adrenaline and warmth and the sheer absurdity of anything going wrong today out of all days. “Thank you.”
Then another disaster announces itself.
“Sorry ladies, car has a flat tyre.”
Chizuru, without looking away from her final adjustments, says, “Of course it does.”
Mao sprints to her phone to coordinate roadside assistance that absolutely did not exist in the original plan.
An agonising amount of time later, the whole room is moving again—shoes and purses grabbed, veil pinned and adjusted mid-walk.
Aya is being ushered out the door when she catches her reflection one last time.
“Okay,” she mutters, mostly to herself. Then, softer, awed: “I’m actually getting married.”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s get you married quicker,” Chizuru says, pushing her gently forward. “Come on.”
There’s a scramble—doors held open, fabric carefully managed, someone holding the train of Aya’s dress like it’s its own passenger.
Aya is halfway into climbing inside the car when she looks back once.
She’s flushed, out of breath, veil slightly uneven, dress imperfectly fixed, updo holding on for dear life.
And she looks completely, utterly delighted.
“This is chaos.”
“It’s handled,” Mao corrects.
Then, softer, like Aya can’t help it:
“I can’t wait to see her.”
Not too far away, there’s a modern garden estate. Clean architecture, lots of glass, soft landscaping. Everything feels intentional but not overdesigned.
The path curves in gently, stone set into the ground like it’s always been there, edged with low greenery and soft white and blush florals.
The glass of the main building catches the light just enough to blur what’s inside—movement, shadows, the buzz of something life-changing about to happen.
Guests are seated. Music is playing softly. Voices carry, low and overlapping, and every now and then a laugh breaks through, quick and bright before it settles again.
Everything is technically ready.
Except Aya isn’t there yet.
Mitsuki is already standing where she’s supposed to be. Still. Composed in the way she’s trained herself to be for moments that matter. Hands loosely clasped. Shoulders steady. Face neutral enough that no one would guess how loud everything feels inside her head.
She smiles at Kaito who says, “Looks like she’s running a little bit behind.”
“It’s fine,” Mitsuki replies quickly.
Too quickly.
Someone adjusts a light fixture that doesn’t need adjusting. Someone else checks the program for the fourth time like it might change if stared at hard enough.
Mitsuki’s gaze drifts to the entrance again.
Nothing.
She exhales slowly through her nose, then looks down at her hands, still steady, like they belong to someone who is absolutely not losing her mind waiting for the most important person in her life to arrive.
“Traffic?” Aoi offers gently.
“Maybe,” Mitsuki says.
Narita hums. “You know what they say about LA.”
Mitsuki nods. “Yeah.”
Pause.
Then, quieter:
“Or a dramatic entrance. She does like those.”
The band shares a laugh, relieved to be given permission to find this funny instead of terrifying.
Then the doors open.
It’s subtle. Movement at the entrance. A shift in light.
Then Aya steps into the frame.
Mitsuki doesn’t remember deciding to hold her breath.
It just happens.
The music changes—soft, deliberate, beautiful.
The room stops. Heads turn. Conversations die mid-sentence. Chairs stop shifting. Even the air feels like it gets heavier, like it’s waiting too.
And then Aya starts walking.
For Mitsuki, it’s like the world has stopped. She forgets, briefly, that there are other people in the room. She barely registers the noise of collective awe, the faint movement of people in her periphery.
There’s just the sound of footsteps. Soft. Measured. Too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
Just Aya, as breathtaking as she’s always been.
Mitsuki’s chest squeezes slightly without permission.
Everything else blurs at the edges—the guests, the music, the space between each step. Even time feels slightly misaligned, like it’s not moving at the same speed anymore.
Aya glances up once, and something in her face shifts—not into performance, not into ceremony—but into something unguarded for half a second. A small, familiar softness that doesn’t belong in a room full of people watching.
Then she smiles.
Not the polished version for magazines.
The one reserved just for Mitsuki.
The very same one from that night: 2am in the kitchen, cereal and toast, Aya completely undone and beautiful and hers.
Mitsuki feels her eyes do something inconvenient. She blinks stubbornly.
Aya is close enough now that Mitsuki can see everything properly. The way she’s trying very hard to stay composed and failing. Aya’s shoulders are drawn back, perfectly calm on the exterior, but her eyes are bright in that unmistakable way that says she is actively trying not to burst into giggles. Which, knowing her, she absolutely is.
Mitsuki realises something with uncomfortable clarity:
This is the longest she has ever had to wait for a single person in her life.
And she would do it again without hesitation.
Aya slows slightly at the last step.
Just a fraction. Like she’s making a decision.
Then she looks up.
Mitsuki’s brain does something unhelpful immediately.
“Hey, pretty.”
The room dissolves into chuckles.
The smile Aya is suppressing finally breaks through. Mitsuki barely resists the urge to kiss it right off.
“Hi,” Aya says, simple, like she didn’t just walk through chaos to get here.
Chizuru helpfully takes the bouquet off her hands.
“You look beautiful,” Mitsuki breathes, awed.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Aya whispers back, eyes twinkling.
The officiant speaks, but it drifts in and out of focus. Not because it isn’t important, but because both of them are clearly only half-processing language right now. Hands clasped, smiling at each other like they’re the only ones in the room.
Then, eventually, he clears his throat quietly.
Aya and Mitsuki quickly look away from each other, startled gazes trained on him.
“Oh my god, these two,” Narita groans. There’s a ripple of laughter from the crowd.
“Oh,” Mitsuki starts dazedly, “do we get to kiss now?”
More laughter, louder this time.
“Soon, don’t you worry,” the officiant chuckles a little.
His voice steadies the room again after a brief moment of comedy. “Today you’re pledging yourselves to a lifetime of loving and caring for one another, thus I am required to ask each of you a question.”
Aya and Mitsuki turn slightly toward him, but their eyes still keep drifting back to each other like it’s the only place they can properly focus.
“Mitsuki,” the officiant begins, “do you come here freely and with the intention to marry Aya, to share your life with her, to stand beside her in partnership and commitment?”
Mitsuki doesn’t hesitate.
“I do.”
It’s simple. Certain. Aya’s mouth twitches faintly at the speed of it, like she expected at least a second of dramatic pause.
The officiant turns to Aya.
“Aya, do you come here freely and with the intention to marry Mitsuki, to share your life with her, to stand beside her in partnership and commitment?”
“I do,” Aya says. And because she can’t help herself, adds softly, “Very much so.”
“Then you may say your vows.”
Mitsuki goes first. She doesn’t look down. She just looks at Aya like she’s trying to keep this version of her memory forever.
“Aya,” she begins, and Aya’s expression softens immediately, like her name from Mitsuki’s mouth is its own language. “I can’t believe this is happening again—I swear I had a nice speech planned, but you look so unbelievable right now, I can’t remember any of it.”
Aya lets out a quiet laugh through her nose, eyes twinkling in amusement.
“All I know is that…” Mitsuki takes a breath, “before I met you, I used to think I was totally fine being off-beat from the rest of the world. I thought life was just the way I liked it. Predictable. Quiet. Easy.”
“Then you happened,” she adds, almost dryly. “And nothing has been quiet since.”
Amidst the guests’ laughter, Mitsuki doesn’t look away from Aya.
“But now, somehow, life has never been better.”
Aya’s smile widens, eyes a little shiny now.
“I owe you so, so much,” Mitsuki holds her gaze. “I wish I could promise you perfect, but I can’t. But I promise I’ll stay. Now. And after today. And after everything that comes next. Even when it’s difficult, even when it’s loud, even when it makes no sense to anyone else but us.”
Aya lets out a small, shaky giggle, because of course Mitsuki would frame forever like it’s a decision she can actively maintain.
“Nice save,” she says lightly, earning a few laughs.
Then it’s her turn.
She takes a breath. It catches slightly at the start, like she wasn’t expecting her own emotions to be this close to the surface.
“Okay,” she says, softly, and the whole room feels like it’s leaning in. “I had a very different version of all this in my head—but then today happened.”
A few people laugh gently.
Aya giggles, because she can’t not. “I mean… the power went out at my suite. My dress refused to cooperate. And believe it or not, the car also refused to behave and popped a flat tyre.”
More laughter. Mitsuki looks faintly amused despite herself.
“But it’s okay,” Aya continues, “because despite everything, I still ended up right where I wanted to be.”
Mitsuki’s mouth twitches up slightly.
“It feels right that it isn’t perfect,” Aya says, a smile in her voice. “That would obviously be very weird for us.”
A few people in the room laugh—Narita the loudest of all.
“Mitsuki.” Aya takes a breath like she’s about to start something serious—then immediately derails herself, just slightly. “There’s… a lot I could say. Which is actually kind of amazing, because we already talk so much. Like, an unreasonable amount.”
A soft ripple of laughter moves through the room.
“And somehow,” she continues, glancing at Mitsuki with a small, almost disbelieving smile, “I still haven’t run out of things to say to you. Or things I want to say to you. Unfortunately you’re just going to have to put up with that for the rest of your life.”
Mitsuki smiles, lovestruck and helpless.
“You’re the one I default to,” Aya explains. “Like, whenever something happens, good or bad or completely ridiculous—you’re the first place my brain goes. You’re the one I want to tell everything to. Even things that don’t matter.”
A small breath.
“And I didn’t realise how rare that was,” she admits. “To have someone who doesn’t just hear me, but… gets the way my brain actually works.”
Her voice drops a little.
“You make everything feel less complicated. Not because things are less complicated, but because I don’t have to figure them out alone anymore. Thank you for always being there for me.”
She pauses, just for a second.
“It’s the least I could do, but I’m going to keep showing up for you too. Even when things go wrong. Especially when things go wrong. Which—judging by today—feels statistically likely.”
A ripple of laughter again.
“But I’m here,” Aya softens. “With you.”
She smiles again, because she can’t help it.
“And I really like that it’s you.”
There’s pure sincerity in her words—simple, but weighted.
“I like that you’re the person I talk to all day and still want to talk to at the end of it. I like that I don’t get tired of you. I like that even when you probably should be tired of me, you’re not.” Aya flicks her eyes up at Mitsuki, teasing now. “Well, you better not be.”
A few quiet laughs.
“You’re my person. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a ‘you complete me’ way.” Aya shakes her head slightly. “In a real way. In a… steady, everyday, ‘nothing is happening but it’s still really fun’ kind of way.”
She takes a breath.
“I didn’t know that was something I’d have. Or something I’d be this sure about, but I am.”
A small pause.
Then, softer: “I’m really, really sure it’s you.”
Mitsuki doesn’t move, but she looks like she’s holding onto that last sentence very carefully.
The officiant has just asked for the rings. There’s a small, expectant pause—the wait before everything is meant to go smoothly.
It doesn’t. Because Aya’s brothers are in charge of them. And that was, in hindsight, an optimistic decision.
At first, nothing happens.
The officiant glances politely to the side where they’re supposed to appear. Mitsuki follows the movement. Aya already looks like she knows something’s about to go wrong.
A beat.
Then a not-so-quiet commotion from somewhere in the front row.
Heads turn.
Amu is patting his pockets, brows furrowed in slight panic. A grinning Aki is triumphantly holding the ring box.
Upside down.
Aya closes her eyes briefly.
“Of course,” she mutters under her breath.
Mitsuki’s composure cracks just slightly, eyes lit up in amusement.
“Do we… have them?” the officiant asks carefully.
“Got them,” Aki announces boastfully. Amu immediately stops patting his pockets and scowls, betrayed. Their parents look completely mortified.
Aki opens the box.
Nothing falls out.
Because Amu, after a split second of horror, has clamped his hand over it.
“Why are you holding it upside down?!” he hisses.
“How was I supposed to know?! It looks the same from both sides!” Aki shoots back.
A soft wave of laughter starts moving through the guests.
Aya presses her lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile. Mitsuki looks down for a second, clearly suppressing something that wants to be a full laugh, then looks back up like she’s reassembling her composure piece by piece.
“Whatever, bro,” Amu says, resetting, turning the box the right way up like this is a completely normal procedure.
They step forward.
Aki trips slightly on absolutely nothing.
Recovers.
Keeps going like it didn’t happen.
By the time the twins reach the front, the room is fully on their side.
Aki hands the box over with exaggerated care now, like he’s transporting something of national importance.
“Don’t worry sis, it’s all under control,” he says conspiratorially under his breath.
Aya looks at him.
“You almost dropped our rings,” she says flatly.
“But we didn’t,” he replies immediately. “We saved them from being dropped.”
Amu nods, backing him up. “Heroic, honestly.”
Mitsuki lets out a quiet, uncontrollable laugh at that—small, but real.
Aya shakes her head, but she’s smiling now, the tension completely broken in the best way.
“You look pretty, by the way,” Amu adds.
Aki nods enthusiastically. “Really pretty.”
“Thank you guys,” Aya says, softer.
The boys retreat, satisfied with themselves.
The officiant clears his throat gently, but he’s smiling too now.
The ceremony slips right back into place—just slightly warmer, slightly lighter, like that moment has grounded everything again.
Aya glances at Mitsuki as she takes the ring.
“Still want to go through with this?” she murmurs, teasing.
Mitsuki doesn’t even hesitate. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Aya laughs under her breath.
The room settles again after the brief chaos—softer now, warmer, like everyone has collectively accepted this ceremony was never going to be completely serious.
And then, the officiant speaks again.
Both turn toward each other, closer still, hands instinctively finding that small space between them like it belongs there.
The officiant’s voice lowers, more intimate now.
“As you place these rings on each other’s hands, let these words be your promise. Spoken not just today, but carried forward in everything you build together.”
Mitsuki takes Aya’s hand first.
There’s a faint shift in her composure again, something quieter, more exposed. Her fingers are steady, but careful, bearing the weight of the moment.
As she slides the ring onto Aya’s finger, the officiant begins:
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
Mitsuki’s gaze doesn’t leave Aya.
“With my body, I thee worship.”
Aya’s breath catches slightly.
“With my heart, I thee cherish.”
Mitsuki’s thumb brushes faintly against Aya’s hand as the ring settles on the base of her finger, like she’s putting something sacred into place.
“With all that I am, I give unto you.”
There’s a flicker in Mitsuki’s expression—something unguarded breaking through for a second.
“With all that I have, I share with you.”
Aya looks at her like she’s trying to burn every frame of the moment into her brain.
“From this day until forever done.”
The ring is in place.
But Mitsuki doesn’t let go immediately.
There’s a beat—just long enough to feel intentional—before she releases her hand.
Then Aya takes hers.
Aya’s hands are a little less steady, but she doesn’t hide it. If anything, she leans into it—like the emotion is part of the promise.
As she slides the ring on, the officiant repeats:
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
Aya lets out the faintest smile. The words feel both ancient and somehow very them at the same time.
“With my body, I thee worship.”
She glances up briefly, eyes bright, almost teasing—but it softens immediately into something deeper.
“With my heart, I thee cherish.”
Her voice doesn’t speak the words, but her eyes do.
“With all that I am, I give unto you.”
The ring moves slowly over Mitsuki’s finger, like Aya is savouring every second of this moment.
“With all that I have, I share with you.”
Aya’s thumb brushes over the ring once it’s in place, mirroring Mitsuki without even realising.
“From this day until forever done.”
The words settle into the space around them.
Not heavy.
Just… final in the best way.
Aya doesn’t pull her hand back right away either.
They stay like that for a second, hands held, rings newly placed, the smallest distance between them filled completely.
The officiant lets the moment settle, just for a heartbeat longer, fully understanding something important has happened here.
Then:
“By the authority vested in me, I hereby pronounce you lovebirds wife and wife.”
Aya’s smile breaks wider instantly. Mitsuki exhales, finally letting go of a breath she didn’t realise she’s been holding.
Smiling, the officiant glances between them, then adds, just slightly more pointed:
“Mitsuki, you may now finally kiss the bride.”
A quiet ripple moves through the crowd—warm, affectionate, a little amused.
Mitsuki’s composure cracks completely this time, enough for a smile to break through, big and genuine.
Aya lets out a soft laugh.
“Finally?” she echoes, just loud enough for Mitsuki to hear.
“Been waiting all day,” Mitsuki murmurs back.
And then there’s no more delay.
Mitsuki closes the space between them—one hand coming up instinctively, steadying at Aya’s jaw, the other settling at her waist like she needs to be sure this is real. Aya leans in before she’s even fully guided.
The kiss isn’t rushed.
It’s not performative either.
It’s certain, grounding, enough to say this is real, this is happening, you’re here.
A soft sound escapes Aya—half-laugh, half-surprise—as Mitsuki leans into it just a fraction more than planned.
The room bursts into cheers, applause, too many people definitely whistling too loudly, Aya’s brothers fake-gagging—but it’s all background noise to both of them.
Mitsuki pulls back just slightly, not far. There’s a brief moment where they both just look at each other, like they’ve forgotten there’s anything else they’re supposed to do.
Aya smiles.
“Hi, wife,” she says quietly.
Mitsuki huffs a soft laugh under her breath, still close.
“Hi.”
And then, because she can’t help it, she leans in again.
The cheers swell around them—louder now, fuller, no one holding back anymore. Yelling, applause, someone whistling like this is a concert instead of a ceremony. The kind of noise that fills the whole space and doesn’t ask permission.
For a second, they don’t move.
They’re still too close, still slightly caught in the moment they just stepped into.
Then the officiant gestures gently.
Time to go.
Mitsuki glances at Aya.
“Ready?” she asks quietly.
Aya exhales a small laugh.
“No,” she says. “You?”
“Not particularly.”
Aya grins. “Great. Let’s do it.”
They turn together.
And the second they do, the room somehow gets louder.
Aya instinctively reaches for Mitsuki’s hand.
Mitsuki takes it without hesitation.
And then they start walking.
Back down the aisle. Hand in hand. Newly married.
Guests are on their feet now, clapping as they pass—congratulating them, some cheering their names, a blur of voices and hands and someone definitely crying harder than necessary (Joe).
“You look incredible!”
“That was beautiful!”
“I’m crying, this is your fault—”
Everything feels loud, bright, real.
They make it halfway down the aisle, though not without Aya leaning slightly into Mitsuki just because she can. She’s smiling at everyone, but keeps glancing sideways at Mitsuki like she’s checking she’s still there.
Mitsuki, for her part, is handling it with surprising ease—nodding, thanking people, staying composed.
Narita shouts, “Kiss again!”
Aya doesn’t even hesitate. She stops, turns, grabs Mitsuki lightly by the front of her jacket, and kisses her again. Quick, easy, like it’s second nature.
Cheers spike even louder.
Mitsuki pulls back just enough to look at her, expression caught somewhere between surprised and amused by how easily that happened.
The closer they get to the end, the less structured it feels.
Behind them, the space dissolves into movement—guests talking, laughing, already replaying moments out loud.
In front of them, everything opens up.
People start shifting, breaking formation slightly, already moving toward the other building where the reception is clearly happening. Some head straight to their tables. There’s a very visible line already forming at the bar like it’s the main event.
Aya watches them for a second.
“Wow. They didn’t even pretend to wait for us.”
Mitsuki follows her gaze. “They’re efficient, I guess.”
“Are we… hosting this,” Aya asks slowly, “or just attending it?”
“…unclear.”
Chizuru’s voice cuts in from a few steps away:
“We need you both for photos!”
Behind her are their families, Mao, Narita, and the band.
Aya immediately leans closer to Mitsuki.
“Run?” she whispers.
Mitsuki considers it for a second too long.
“Tempting.”
Before they can act on it, they’re gently intercepted, turned, positioned.
“Just a few quick ones,” the photographer promises.
It is never a few.
Once they’re free, Aya exhales, then glances at Mitsuki again, smile creeping back in despite everything.
“We’re married,” she breathes, like she’s testing how it sounds.
Mitsuki looks at her steadily. Eyes bright. Slightly breathless.
“Yes,” she says.
Simple. Certain.
And then, because the universe hasn’t finished with her yet, Aki comes out of nowhere and trips over the train of Aya’s dress.
“Sorry, sis!” he calls over his shoulder, already up and running off to chase after Amu.
Aya closes her eyes. Mitsuki finally lets herself laugh, properly this time.
Chizuru reappears like she never left, eyes the dirty footprint on the dress, then shrugs. “We’ll fix it in post.”
She hands each of them a drink they didn’t ask for.
And the chaos rolls forward with them, like it was always going to.