𐙚 Zb1 as your plus one at a wedding 𐙚
Genre: Fluff, Suggestive MDNI 18+
Warnings: Slightly suggestive (Matthew & Ricky), Brief jealousy (Gunwook) , possessive behavior (Gunwook)
Hanbin
You find Hanbin at the reception, sitting cross-legged on the grass with a flower girl on each side and glitter in his hair.
One of them giggles as she places a tiny crown of fake roses on his head. He accepts it with exaggerated grace, then catches your eye across the lawn like he’s just won an award.
You bite back a smile. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely,” he grins. “These girls said I’m their prince.”
You raise a brow. “You’re my date, though.”
Hanbin stands and bows to the flower girls. “Excuse me, princesses,” he says solemnly. “I must return to my queen.”
When he’s in front of you, he takes your hand like it’s the first time, like it still makes his chest flutter. “You look beautiful,” he says, voice quieter now. “I keep forgetting to breathe when I look at you.”
You give him a look. “Did you practice that in the mirror?”
“Of course not,” he says. Then, “…Maybe once.”
The music shifts into something mid-tempo, and Hanbin immediately tugs you toward the dance floor.
You protest. “I don’t dance to slow songs with a fake prince.”
“I’m a real prince,” he insists, placing your hands on his shoulders. “And you owe me one song.”
You let him sway you, his grip gentle at your waist. Around you, wedding guests spin and laugh, but Hanbin’s eyes don’t leave yours—not for a second.
“You know,” he says suddenly, “this could be us someday.”
You blink. “At someone else’s wedding?”
“No.” He leans in, soft and certain. “At ours.”
The words land somewhere deep inside you, unexpected but not unwelcome.
You don’t say anything—just lean up to kiss him slow and sweet, surrounded by fairy lights and the sound of a love song you don’t remember the name of.
Hanbin kisses you back like he means it. Like he always does.
When you pull away, he grins, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Still think I’m just a fake prince?”
You press your forehead to his.
“No,” you whisper. “You’re mine.”
Jiwoong
You almost forgot how many eyes followed Jiwoong when he stepped into the room beside you. Dressed sharp in his tailored black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled just so, he moved with a calm confidence that made it clear he didn’t care about the stares—or maybe he did and enjoyed every second.
He offered you a glass of champagne with a slight smile. “You said this was a low-key thing.”
You laughed softly. “Small, yes. But no one said low-key was quiet.”
He took a slow sip, eyes scanning the crowd, before resting on you. “They’re all looking at you too.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And?”
He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Maybe I like being the only one who gets to look at you.”
The evening settled into a gentle rhythm. Jiwoong stayed close, never overbearing but undeniably present. Then a man approached you during cocktail hour, smooth with rehearsed charm.
“y/n, right? We went to school together,” he said, offering a polite smile.
You nodded, wary.
“Noticed you came alone,” he added, glancing around. “Where’s your date?”
Before you could answer, a hand rested lightly on your waist—Jiwoong’s. His voice was low, measured. “Right here.”
The man’s smile faltered as Jiwoong’s presence seemed to fill the space. Without turning, Jiwoong gently steered you aside, thumb tracing a slow circle at your hip.
Once away, you glanced up. “That was… firm.”
Jiwoong’s eyes met yours, cool and unreadable. “Just keeping what’s mine.”
You smirked. “Jealous?”
“Not jealous. Protective,” he corrected, voice soft but certain.
His gaze lingered, and you felt the weight of it, a quiet promise without words.
“Planning to keep me close all night?” you teased.
He gave a subtle smile. “Always.”
The music shifted, and guests moved toward the dance floor. Jiwoong’s fingers found yours, entwining gently.
“Later, in the car,” he whispered near your ear. “We’ll have our own dance.”
You smiled against his cheek, heart speeding up. “Looking forward to it.”
Zhang Hao
owns every step, his suit crisp and perfectly tailored, his smile polite but warm enough to disarm anyone who meets his gaze. He nods kindly at a few guests, exchanges quiet hellos, but mostly stays focused on you, the way his eyes flicker with quiet pride as you walk hand in hand.
The ceremony fades behind you both as the reception begins, fairy lights casting a soft glow over the garden. Hao’s laugh is low and genuine when an older auntie tugs him by the arm and insists he join the bouquet toss. “You must catch it for the bride’s sake,” she says with a teasing grin.
Hao plays along, the perfect gentleman, stepping into the circle with surprising ease. You watch as he raises his hands, catching the bouquet with a practiced smile, then bows theatrically to the aunties, earning delighted applause. When he turns back to you, bouquet in hand, there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “Looks like I’m next,” he says softly.
You shake your head, laughing, and slip your fingers through his. “Maybe tonight is your lucky night.”
Later, the music softens, and guests start drifting onto the dance floor. Hao pulls you gently in, arms settling around your waist with a tenderness that takes your breath away. The world narrows until it’s just the two of you swaying under the fairy lights, their glow like something out of a dream.
“What would you say if this was our wedding?” Hao asks, voice low and sincere, eyes never leaving yours.
Your heart skips, heat pooling in your chest. You search his face for any hint of jest but find only earnest hope. “I’d say yes,” you whisper.
He smiles, fingers brushing your cheek, thumb lingering as if memorizing the softness of your skin. “Good answer,” he murmurs, leaning in slowly until your lips meet in a kiss that’s gentle and sure, lingering just long enough to promise so much more.
The song ends, and though the music changes, neither of you move apart. Hao’s hand slides down your back, pulling you closer as he whispers against your lips, “Let’s finish this night somewhere quieter.”
You nod, heart racing with anticipation. The drive back is quiet but charged—the city lights blurring past the windows, the hum of the engine a steady rhythm beneath the soft glow of the dashboard.
Hao reaches for your hand, entwining fingers with yours in a simple, grounding touch. “I’ve wanted this,” he admits, voice husky, “to be able to say I danced with you like that, like you were the only person in the world.”
You squeeze his hand, leaning into the warmth of his presence. “Me too.”
The car slows, and Hao glances at you, eyes shining in the dim light. “Tomorrow’s a new day,” he says softly, “but tonight… tonight is ours.”
You smile, lips barely brushing his in a whisper of a kiss that holds everything unspoken between you.
And in that moment, under the quiet stars and soft city glow, you know this night is just the beginning.
Matthew
Matthew arrived early, exactly on time if not a minute before, his suit crisp and his smile bright as he shook hands with your family one by one. He had a knack for remembering names—your grandmother, your cousin Jisoo, your uncle Minho—and by the time the ceremony started, he felt like part of the crew. You watched from across the garden as he laughed easily with your dad, even helping him with the speakers when a technical glitch threatened to delay the music. Matthew’s hands moved confidently over wires and knobs, fixing the problem before anyone else had noticed, then brushing off your grateful smile like it was no big deal.
Throughout the night, Matthew was everything you could hope for—polite, attentive, the kind of boyfriend who knew exactly when to hold your hand and when to give you space to breathe. You slipped through the crowd together, his arm casually draped over your shoulder as he introduced you to his own friends who had come along, quietly proud to have you by his side.
Later, away from the noise and glittering lights, you found a quiet corner near the garden’s edge. Matthew’s gaze softened as he settled beside you on a bench, his usual energetic spark replaced by something more thoughtful.
“I know weddings aren’t usually your thing,” you said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “But you’ve been amazing tonight.”
He smiled, fingers entwining with yours. “I like seeing you happy. That’s enough for me.”
You leaned into his side, heart slowing in the comfortable silence. “Do you ever think about forever? What that looks like?”
Matthew’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, steady and sure. “All the time. It’s not scary when I think about it with you.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, overwhelmed by the quiet sincerity in his voice. “Sometimes I get scared. What if it doesn’t last? What if…”
He tightened his grip, cutting you off with a soft chuckle. “Then we hold on tighter. We figure it out together. I’m not going anywhere.”
A gentle breeze swept past, carrying the scent of blooming flowers as Matthew leaned closer, brushing his lips lightly against your temple. The simple touch sent a shiver through you, the promise in it clear.
“I don’t want to rush,” he murmured, voice low and intimate. “But when it feels this right, it’s hard not to imagine all the days ahead.”
You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest as you turned to face him. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb tracing your skin softly, eyes searching yours like he wanted to memorize every detail.
“Let’s take it one step at a time,” you whispered.
He nodded, lips curving into a tender smile. “One step at a time, with you.”
As the music swelled in the distance, the night wrapping around you both like a quiet promise, you knew this moment would stay with you long after the last dance.
Taerae
Taerae stayed close to your side all evening, his quiet presence like a gentle anchor in the lively reception. He wasn’t the loudest or flashiest, but his smile—oh, that smile—had a way of lighting up the whole room. It was soft and genuine, the kind that made people stop and smile back without even realizing it.
From the moment you arrived, guests were drawn to him like moths to a warm glow. Kids giggled as he crouched down to meet their eyes, and even the usually reserved relatives couldn’t help but grin when he cracked a shy joke or offered a simple compliment. You found yourself watching him with a smile, feeling proud to have someone whose happiness spread like wildfire.
During the speeches, Taerae squeezed your hand gently, his eyes never leaving yours. You caught the way he smiled through the heartfelt words, a quiet strength shining beneath his calm exterior.
Later, as the night unfolded under twinkling fairy lights, you found yourself walking hand in hand through the garden. Taerae’s smile never faded; it was a constant comfort, like a silent promise that everything was right in the world.
“You know,” you said softly, “being around you makes everyone happier. It’s like your smile is contagious.”
He blushed just a little, eyes flicking away for a moment before settling on you again. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s true. People just naturally want to be near you.”
Taerae shrugged, but the warmth in his gaze said he believed you. “Maybe that’s because you’re with me.”
You laughed, leaning into his side. “You’re not wrong.”
The music shifted to a slower song, and without saying a word, Taerae pulled you close. His arms wrapped around you like a shield, steady and reassuring.
In the quiet space between the notes, you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The moment felt simple but profound—two people wrapped up in each other’s calm amidst the night’s excitement.
“You make me feel safe,” you whispered.
Taerae kissed the top of your head. “And you make me smile like never before.”
You looked up, catching the glow of the fairy lights in his eyes. His smile was brighter than ever, and for once, words weren’t necessary. You knew you both felt it—the kind of happiness that doesn’t need to be explained, just shared.
As the song ended, you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, letting the world around you fade away.
Ricky
You don’t even make it out of the car before Ricky is fixing your dress for you like it’s award season. “We look too good to be on time,” he says with a wink, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair before offering you his hand. His suit matches your outfit perfectly—down to the exact shade of your accessories—and you know he planned it that way on purpose.
Inside, people turn. Heads tilt. Someone actually gasps. And Ricky? He eats it up, chin lifted slightly as if you’re arriving at the Met Gala instead of someone’s garden wedding. “Eyes on the bride, people,” he calls lightly, smirking as he guides you through the tables like the whole day was planned around you two.
Every toast he gives is a moment. He taps his glass before standing, lets the silence stretch dramatically, and says something just sentimental enough to make people “aww,” but finishes with a sly glance your way and a casual, “—and to my favorite plus-one for being the prettiest person here.”
At cocktail hour, someone makes the mistake of asking if you two are “just friends.” Ricky’s jaw ticks before he smiles wide, too wide, like he’s suppressing a scream. He doesn’t even respond—just sets his champagne down, slides an arm around your waist, and whispers in your ear, “Can you believe that? They think I’d come all dressed up for someone I wasn’t in love with.”
You nearly choke on your drink. “Ricky.”
He shrugs, totally unbothered, but you can feel the heat in his gaze when he looks at you. “What? I’m just being honest.”
As the sun sets and the lights flicker on overhead, casting the dance floor in gold, Ricky steals you away to the edge of the crowd. “You look like a movie,” he says lowly, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Like something people pause just to stare at.”
And when someone calls out to you, “Hey—didn’t know you two were together!” Ricky doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I know. It’s hard to believe someone this perfect is mine,” he says loud enough for half the wedding to hear, hand still curled at your waist. “But she is. Girlfriend privilege.”
He doesn’t even glance around for reactions. He’s too busy watching your expression soften under the fairy lights, like that was the only moment he cared about landing.
Gyuvin
It starts with Gyuvin doing a split on the dance floor thirty minutes into the reception.
You’re still mid-bite into a canapé when he yells, “Y/N, watch this!”—and then boom, right into a crowd-cheering, camera-flashing split like he’s on stage instead of your cousin’s wedding. People are clapping. The DJ is laughing. You’re just trying not to choke on your food.
He bounces back up like nothing happened, wild grin on his face as he practically skips over to you. “You’re next,” he says, grabbing your hand before you can even protest. “We’re starting a conga line.”
“No, we’re not,” you argue, and somehow end up leading the conga line anyway, everyone snaking behind you as Gyuvin chants, “Let’s go, let’s go!” like he’s the MC of the whole night.
He keeps the energy high for hours—dancing with your aunties, trying to convince your uncle to teach him how to moonwalk, nearly taking out a centerpiece trying to “floss” with too much enthusiasm. You lose track of him during the cake cutting, only to find him back at your table with two frosting-covered forks and a guilty smile.
“Don’t ask questions,” he says, already smearing a little icing on your cheek before you can move away.
“You’re the worst,” you groan, wiping at it—but he’s quicker. He leans in and kisses it off, dramatic and loud, right in front of everyone. Someone whistles. Someone claps. You bury your face in your hands.
But as the night winds down and the guests start to leave, the loud Gyuvin softens. He tugs you outside, past the lights and the music, shoes in one hand, phone in the other. He plays a song you love—low, soft—and pulls you into a slow sway on the dewy grass.
No crowd. No noise. Just the two of you and the muffled music.
“You had fun?” he asks quietly, like he’s not the reason half the guests were grinning all night.
You nod, arms draped around his neck. “You were a menace.”
“A loveable menace,” he corrects, pulling you in a little closer.
He’s warmer like this. Calmer. No jokes, no stunts—just Gyuvin, holding you like you’re the only person left in the world. The twinkle lights from the patio glow faintly behind him, and you realize he hasn’t stopped smiling once tonight.
“I liked seeing your family happy,” he says. “You happy.”
And there it is—that softness he tries to bury under all the jokes and noise. You kiss him before you can help it, laughing against his lips when he dips you like you’re in a movie.
“Okay, that was smooth,” you admit.
“Told you,” he grins, “lovable menace.”
Gunwook
You feel it the second your ex walks in.
Gunwook had been relaxed all night, joking with your cousins, twirling you once during cocktail hour just to see you smile. But now—now his hand tightens around yours like instinct, his body shifting slightly in front of yours as if to shield you.
You glance up at him. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, but his voice is tight. His eyes don’t leave your ex as they walk over, wearing that familiar, too-smooth smile.
The greeting is awkward. A hug you don’t really want. Gunwook’s hand stays glued to your lower back the entire time, fingers pressing just a little harder when your ex starts asking, “So, how’ve you been? You look amazing.”
“She’s been great,” Gunwook answers before you can. “And she still looks amazing—because I take good care of her.”
Your cheeks burn. You try to steer the conversation away, but Gunwook’s jaw stays locked, his arm never leaving you. Even after your ex finally walks off, he doesn’t let go. Just pulls you in tighter, pressing a kiss to your temple that lingers.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” you murmur.
“I know,” he admits. “But I wanted to.”
You exhale a soft laugh and reach for his hand, brushing your thumb along his knuckles. “You jealous?”
He meets your gaze, expression unreadable for a moment. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I am.”
He says it like it’s not a flaw. Just fact. And somehow, that makes it feel even softer.
Later, once the music’s louder and people are too tipsy to notice, he pulls you onto the balcony. The air is cooler out here, the lights from the reception glowing behind you, but Gunwook’s hand is still warm in yours.
“Sorry if I made things weird,” he says, nudging your side. “I just… saw them talking to you and thought about how easy it would’ve been to never meet you. To never have this.”
“You have it,” you say. “You have me.”
He looks at you like he’s memorizing it. Then he grins, loosening his tie and pulling you in. “Come here.”
He sways you gently, no music except the faint echo of the reception inside and the quiet shuffle of your shoes on the concrete. His arms wrap around your waist. Yours around his neck.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says quietly, like it’s just for you.
You press your face into his shoulder, smiling into the fabric of his shirt. “Even when I hug my ex?”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. “Especially then. You always come back to me.”
You tilt your head back to meet his eyes, your voice soft. “I never left.”
He doesn’t answer—just pulls you close again, closer, like he’s never letting go. And tonight, you believe him.
Yujin
You don’t even make it through the entrance before Yujin almost takes someone out with his elbow.
It’s a blur, really—a quick pivot to avoid a passing waiter, a dramatic stumble, and a breathless “Oh! Sorry, sorry!” as he tries to catch a falling gift bag and somehow knocks over a centerpiece instead.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then laughter. Lots of it.
Even your aunt, who’s usually the least forgiving about disruptions, clutches her stomach as she giggles, waving Yujin off when he apologizes again with a frantic bow. And just like that, he’s made his impression—not the one he meant to, but the kind everyone will still be smiling about hours later.
You slip your hand into his. “Iconic first five seconds, honestly.”
His ears flush, lips twitching as he tries to look mortified. “That was not how I pictured this going.”
“Yeah, but now my grandma knows your name. You’re basically a legend.”
Yujin groans, but he’s smiling too—soft and sheepish, the kind of grin that curls slowly and lights up his whole face.
The night goes on, and so does he. He bumps into the same waiter twice, trips over a child’s toy at dinner, and gets cake on his sleeve while trying to help serve. At one point, he nearly slips trying to do a spin move on the dance floor and ends up grabbing the arm of your cousin’s boyfriend for balance.
It should be a disaster.
But it’s not.
It’s charming. It’s him. That bright, unfiltered sweetness—how he laughs at himself first, how he’s quick to say sorry but even quicker to smile. How he helps clean up what he knocks over without needing to be asked. How the younger kids cling to his legs like they’ve known him forever.
And when your grandma tells him she hopes you marry someone with a “gentle heart like yours,” he turns so red he actually chokes on his ginger ale.
You nudge him with your knee under the table. “See? Told you they’d love you.”
He looks at you like you just hung the moon. “They love you more.”
You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s your show.”
Later, when the sky’s gone navy and the lights are warm and low, Yujin takes your hand again and pulls you in for a slow dance. He’s not graceful—he steps on your foot once, apologizes, and laughs so hard his head falls against your shoulder. But he never stops smiling. And neither do you.
Because this is him. Clumsy. Kind. A little chaotic. But so easy to adore.
And as the night winds down, you realize everyone was right.
He really is unforgettable.