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nightshadeblooming · 6 days ago

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oh i’m sold. i am ready and seated with popcorn in hand for what happens next. she’s already “kind of” looking forward to seeing him… and daydreaming about his sunlit jawline… i know that cousin and her fiancé will eat that tension up!!

AISLE BE DAMNED

one: this could've been an email

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tuesday, 10:10am

you arrive five minutes before your agreed time and glowing, the sun warming the backs of your legs as you slide into the booth opposite your cousin. she’s already halfway through an iced oat latte and a cinnamon pastry the size of her head.

“oh my goodness, hey gorgeous,” she greets, mouth full, rising to hug you. “that skirt is everything!”

you smile, returning her embrace. “i do it all for you. brunch is sacred.”

the café is airy and tiled in dusty hues, the smell of espresso tangled with vanilla and morning heat. it’s the kind of place that makes you believe in new beginnings, in soft restarts, in easy joy.

after classical so-how’s-life small talk, your cousin leans across the table, eyes bright. “so, i have a proposition for you.”

you sip your chai. “hit me.”

“you plan my wedding.”

you blink. “like… help you plan it?”

“like… plan it. fully.” she shrugs, hopeful. she’s a little anxious, you can tell by the waver in her voice. “start to finish. i trust you. you’re good at this stuff, and you have taste, and good planning skills, and the magic brain. and i’m overwhelmed and incapable of choosing between chairs without crying.”

your first instinct is to laugh. the second is to say yes, of course.

because you love her. because weddings are your favourite genre of event, because planning and decorating are your thing. because she looks like she might dissolve if you don’t.

“i’ll do it,” you agree, instantly, reaching for your phone. “we’ll build you a pinterest board first. there’ll be light installations and garden paths and—”

“okay, yes, love all of that,” she cuts in, voice suddenly small. “but… there’s a catch.”

you pause, suspiciously raising an eyebrow. “what kind of catch?”

she winces and takes a slow sips her drink. her eyes dart to anywhere but your form, refusing to make eye contact.

“i already kind of… have someone helping me.”

your smile begins to wilt. “oh?”

“he’s just a friend of ours, well. more so the fiance’s friend than mine,” she rushes, waving her hands haphazardly. “he offered when we were freaking out last month about things, and i didn’t know if you’d be available, and he’s… helpful. intense. but helpful.”

you narrow your eyes, unsure of the whole ordeal. you just wish you could have done it alone is all! “what’s his name?”

a beat passes, her hesitance unsettles you.

“minho,” she names. “lee minho.”

your stomach drops a little. the name tastes like paper cuts and perfectly aligned spreadsheets.

or is it just the bitter aftertaste of unexpected collaboration?

“he’s really not that bad,” she attempts to comfort quickly, “he’s just… very structured. very type-a kind of guy.”

“you’re saying i have to co-plan this wedding?”

“i’m saying it’ll be amazing. you’re the heart. he’s the brains. together you’ll be unstoppable.”

you stare at her. she stares back with the slightly manic optimism of someone who is very much not going to be part of the actual disaster.

“he can be sweet,” she adds, like a peace offering. “i swear. deep, deep down. you’re amazing, i’m sure you’ll crack through his shell quickly.”

you exhale slowly, reaching for your croissant. “fine. i’m all yours.”

she lights up, and immediately retrieves her phone from her purse to send you his number.

and just like that, the sun over brunch feels a little too bright.

tuesday, 1:53pm

you get home still smelling faintly of syrup and vanilla, the warm rush of brunch already fading into something more sour.

you throw your phone on the couch. it bounces once, screen-down, like even it is ashamed of what comes next.

you take a moment to kick off your shoes and toss your keys to the designated tray. you fill the silence of your home with a slow, theatrical sigh. then: you sit, unlock your phone, and start drafting a message.

polite. breezy. kind of professional, but not stiff. maybe a hint of charm, just enough to make this less painful. you reread it three times. edit an emoji. delete it. press send.

and then you wait.

two minutes later, your phone buzzes. his replies are short. clipped. vaguely insulting. you stare at your screen in disbelief.

who talks to someone new like that? and totally unprovoked?

lee minho, it seems, is all bones and no sugar.

you toss the phone down again and sink deeper into the couch, legs flopped dramatically over the armrest, sighing like a woman in a period film who’s just been informed her betrothed is “adequate.”

"this is going to be amazing," you mutter aloud, glaring at the ceiling.

then, lower, like it’s a confession: "i hate him already."

once you send your availability as requested, your phone buzzes again. it’s probably just a rude command, and you are yet to have the energy to read it.

you don’t respond immediately.

you’re too busy imagining all the ways this could go wrong. and, quietly, the strange, unwelcome twinge of curiosity blooming beneath your irritation.

thursday, 10:35am

you give yourself until the morning of the café meeting to spiral.

by the time sunlight spilt through your blinds, you had looked over your mood board six times, printed out a potential invitation design mock-up that absolutely no one asked for, and chosen your outfit with the intensity of a woman dressing for war.

soft but commanding. romantic but sharp. approachable but not easily walked over. there is blush on your cheeks and steel in your spine.

you talk to your reflection while curling your lashes.

“he’s just a guy. a type-a, emotionally constipated, spreadsheet guy. you’ve met worse. you’ve dated worse. you’re not going to let some polished little control freak ruin this for you.”

you nod and hold eye contact with yourself like it’s a trust exercise.

“you are composed. creative. you are unbothered. you are—”

you think of how he spoke to you in his messages. a hand runs itself over your forehead; the next long period of time spent with someone like this? really?

“you are… not... gonna kill him,” you mutter.

you decide you won't allow some man with a rude tone best you. this is your element! and you're doing your cousin a huge favour here.

because you’re nothing if not committed to a challenge.

and this?

this feels like the start of something awful. or brilliant. or both.

thursday, 11:15am

the café you both have arranged to meet in is pretty in a way that tries very hard not to be. pressed flower menus, exposed brick, a feature wall of trailing ivy that begs to be photographed. you pick a two-seater table in the corner—neutral territory—and set your materials out like armour ready to defend whatever attack is to come.

you spot someone enter the cafe, who your intuition told you was the person you're here to meet. he looks all clean lines, silver watch, zero visible humanity. it had to be him. you watch him scan the café like he’s assessing the structural integrity. he’s in a black button-up like he’s coming from a funeral or a business seminar (you're unable to tell). he approaches the service counter and orders something unintelligible from your distance.

once the order is ready, you see his sharp eyes rake over each patron. when he spots you, he approaches and gives a short nod, not a greeting. he sits without adjusting his expression.

you blink. nice to meet you too.

he lifts the cup, sips once, then sets it down. “you remembered to come. good start.”

you press your lips together, fighting the urge to roll your eyes to the back of your skull. does he think of you an idiot?

“like i would forget.”

you open up your planner. minho lays out his laptop. you bring up centrepiece colour palettes; he brings up guest list conflicts and structure. your visions have artful chaos and romance. his have rigid order and rules.

the next twenty minutes are mental gymnastics in practicing patience. you bring up florals— he talks about logistics. you float the idea of a champagne cart— he shuts it down before you finish the sentence. you suggest golden hour lighting— he reminds you sunset is unpredictable in late spring.

he doesn’t interrupt, not exactly— but his silences are so loud they feel like corrections.

and worst of all?

he’s good at what he's doing.

frustratingly, insufferably, disgustingly competent. you watch him reroute an entire potential reception layout because a hypothetical potential florist had an incompatible delivery method in no more than two minutes, and it was elegant. efficient. infuriating.

“you know,” you say eventually, reaching for your drink, “i think we have very different definitions of what a wedding should feel like.”

he doesn’t even look up. “it should feel seamless.”

you snort. “it should feel unforgettable.”

“seamless is unforgettable.”

“you sound like a walking brochure.”

he glances at you then, just briefly. “you sound like a pinterest board with a wifi connection.”

you stare at him, open-mouthed.

“you’re lucky i'm doing this for my cousin,” you mutter.

“and you’re lucky i like being prepared,” he replies, tapping his pen once against his page. “this would be chaos without me.”

“you think i bring chaos?”

he smiles. not sweetly. “i think you bring… flair.”

“you said that like it’s a disease.”

“i didn’t not mean it like that.”

after an hour that feels like five, you gather your things, already mentally rewriting everything he wrote down on his snobby little laptop.

“venue walkthrough’s next week,” he informs, “i’ll send over my availability.”

“don’t strain yourself.”

he raises an eyebrow. “i won’t.”

you offer him a perfect smile, all sugar and spite. he gives you nothing in return. just walks off, black coffee still in hand, like you were a task on a to-do list he couldn’t wait to tick off.

you watch him disappear around the corner, teeth clenched.

“this,” you say aloud to no one, pulling your phone out from your pocket, “is going to be so fun.”

once minho got in the car, he tossed his laptop onto the passenger seat, shut the door with a soft click, and sat there for a moment. hands still, eyes on the dashboard. the sunlight hit hard across the steering wheel. his jaw felt tight.

he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and opened messages. no notifications. he scrolled anyway. checked the time. turned on the engine.

a soft mechanical hum filled the space. he let it settle. then, finally, thumb hovering, he opened his chat.

he ran a hand through his hair.

he was here to help plan a wedding. not… deal with whatever that was.

he locked his phone and pulled out of the carpark.

he didn’t think about it again.

not really.

the next thursday, 8:55am

the forest opens slowly, like a held breath. sunlight drips through tall trees in long gold ribbons, dappling the moss-covered stone steps that lead toward the main clearing. the world smells like rain-soaked bark and white roses in bloom, the silence broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the occasional birdcall echoing somewhere deep above.

it is—if you’re being honest with yourself—stupidly beautiful.

the kind of place where people whisper even when they do not have to. the kind of place that looks like it came with its own filter. the kind of place that makes you believe in soft promises and forever.

you exhale through your nose and murmur, “okay. not bad.”

“just ‘not bad?’”

you don’t have to turn around. you’d recognise that voice anywhere now— clipped, smooth, with the exact tone of a man who does not believe in whimsy.

minho appears beside you, dressed like someone who doesn’t trust nature to behave itself. black again. always black. he holds a rolled-up blueprint under one arm and a coffee in his other hand, which feels offensive somehow.

you don’t dignify his sass with a response.

instead, you both drift toward the heart of the venue— the open-air clearing where the ceremony will take place. it’s framed by a white pergola, wrapped in fresh wisteria, with vintage chairs laid out in perfect rows that slope gently toward the altar.

“she's going to cry when she sees this,” you say, softer now.

“she’ll cry regardless,” minho says. “but yes. it’s nice.”

you glance at him.

he doesn’t look moved, exactly— but his eyes are locked on the treetops, the subtle shift of branches moving above the altar. for a second, he’s very still.

you look away before you can start projecting a personality onto him.

the venue coordinator joins you, clipboard in hand and smile too big for this quiet forest. she runs through the ceremony outline and power supply details, marking off lighting placements and “wet weather backup” logistics while you both follow, mostly silent.

except for minho. minho is never silent when he has an opinion.

“these cables will have to be repositioned,” he mutters, crouching to inspect the outer edge of the aisle. “if the musicians set up here, they’ll be blocking the view from the fourth row. not to mention the audio balance—”

“oh my god,” you sigh, crouching beside him. “can you give it five minutes before you start rearranging the trees?”

he doesn’t look at you. just gestures to the uneven slope of the ground. “do you want the bride to trip walking down the aisle? is that what your ideal “vibe” is?”

you lean in, dangerously close. “the vibe is a nice wedding. not a safety seminar.”

he glances sideways at you.

you glance back.

you’re close enough to feel his shoulder shift when he breathes. the forest is very quiet.

you both look away.

the coordinator leaves you to “walk the space” and finalise creative decisions. which, of course, means arguing.

“i still think the florals should be elevated,” you think aloud, gesturing toward the seating rows. “just on low plinths. it frames the aisle better in photos.”

“or it blocks the view for half the guests.”

“not if it’s arranged correctly.”

“which you think you’ll do personally?”

“i would if you’d let me within three feet of your spreadsheet.”

he exhales sharply— an almost laugh, except not nice.

“you’re not the first aesthetic genius i’ve worked with,” he quips, turning toward the altar.

“and you’re not the first control freak i’ve had to try to tolerate,” you shoot back.

the silence that follows is… heavier than it should be.

you step up beside him under the pergola, where sunlight pours like honey between the beams, spilling across your feet. minho glances at the lattice above.

“the light’s good here,” he murmurs, half to himself. “the bride’s dress will glow.”

you blink— it’s the first time you’ve heard him say anything that sounds like a feeling.

“see?” you say, a little too smug. “you can do romance.”

he turns to you, expression unreadable. “i never said i couldn’t. just that i prefer function over fantasy.”

“they’re not mutually exclusive,” you say, chin lifted, “not everything has to be entirely cold and practical.”

“and not everything has to be entirely whimsical and unrealistic.”

you face him fully. he’s standing closer than necessary. the air shifts, just slightly.

“i’m trying to make something beautiful,” you say.

he looks at you for a second too long.

“…so am i,” he replies quietly.

you both look away at the same time.

the final stop is the reception hall.

arched windows, soft chandeliers, walls the colour of antique lace. the breeze curls through the open doorways, catching stray petals off the tables left half-decorated for today’s walkthrough. the room smells like lemon cake and eucalyptus.

you walk in first. he follows.

“twenty tables,” he says, eyes scanning. “we’ll need to rotate two of them if we want to avoid congestion.”

“i already accounted for that,” you reply, pulling a mock layout from your folder.

he blinks at it. tilts his head.

“…this is good.”

you turn slowly, dramatically. “did you just compliment me?”

“don’t let it go to your head.”

“you just admitted i was right.”

“i said it was good. not perfect.”

“that's a compliment, coming from you.”

he exhales again. quieter this time.

you can’t help it— you smile. just a little.

you part ways in the gravel parking area with nothing more than a glance. the wind ruffles your papers. minho’s already opening his car door.

“i’ll send an updated schedule tonight,” he calls.

“make sure it includes time for feelings,” you call back.

he doesn’t reply. but you think—maybe—you hear the ghost of a laugh before the door shuts behind him.

you stare at the trees overhead. the branches sway like they know something you don’t.

you have no idea how this is going to work.

but, god help you, you are kind of looking forward to the next disaster.

kind of.

thursday, 7:32pm

later that night, your apartment is a mess of ribbon samples and open notebooks, your laptop glowing faintly beneath a half-eaten box of macarons. you sit cross-legged on the couch, phone in one hand, scribbling notes with the other, still high on adrenaline and candle-scented air.

you should be exhausted.

instead, your brain is running like it’s on stage, spotlight bright, full of centrepieces and dance floor placements and the exact shade of ivory the linens need to be.

you keep thinking about that moment beneath the pergola—how the sun lit the edges of his jaw. how he spoke softly like he meant it.

it’s infuriating.

you shake your head. type something aggressive in your planning document in attempt to alleviate some tension.

note to self: stop thinking about lee minho.

as if the man of the hour is listening to your thoughts, your phone buzzes.

you can almost hear the smugness through the screen.

across the city, minho sits in his dark kitchen, screen tilted back, a faint hum of lo-fi playing into the quiet. his notes are neatly filed, tasks ticked off. he stares at the seating chart for a second longer than necessary.

then opens your shared drive to scroll through the moodboard. he takes a moment to pause on a photo of candles in various antique candelabras, immersed in the decor, the light flickering like hushed giggles.

he tilts his head, feeling the corners of his lips curl slightly.

"hm."

and that’s all.

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here’s chapter one !!! ty for reading :)

stay tuned for chapter two and beyond <3

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aisle be damned taglist: @skzbyemmy @starlostjisung @hanjisrockstar @bahngarang @dostoevskydidion @mal-lunar-28 @kissesmellow21 @bestboileeknow @professionalcaratdeobi @madebybec @nightshadeblooming @roseanne-yoon @kuroosluthoe @skyearby @wormi

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#skz fics 💥#so excited for the upcoming chapters!

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