27 Dresses
Content: You’ve been a bridesmaid 27 times, never the bride, and somehow that’s become interesting enough for a feature article. But when the journalist friend who was supposed to interview you bails, they send Sae Itoshi.
The knock on your apartment door comes right on time, sharp and polite, but when you swing it open expecting a bespectacled journalist with a clipboard, your mouth actually falls open a little.
Standing there, looking like he just walked off a magazine cover (and you’d know, because he has), is Sae Itoshi.
Yes, that Sae Itoshi. Japan’s most infamous soccer prodigy. Deadpan expression. Perfect hair. Notorious for dodging interviews, not conducting them.
He stares at you like you’re the weird one here.
“Y/n L/n?” he asks, voice smooth but flat.
He holds up a recorder and a crumpled paper. “I'm here for the interview.”
There’s a beat of silence as you process. “The article? About... me being a bridesmaid?”
He nods once. “Didn’t F/n tell you?”
You blink. “They mentioned not being able to make it but I didn’t think they’d send a world-famous soccer player in their place instead.”
He shrugs like it’s not weird at all. “I was free today.”
You step aside to let him in, trying not to gawk. He's wearing a dark hoodie, jeans, and sneakers that probably cost more than your monthly rent. He walks into your apartment like he doesn’t care about the shrine of pastel bridesmaid dresses hanging on your wall, but you catch his eyes flicking over them.
He doesn’t comment. Instead, he plops down on your couch and pulls out his phone.
“Alright,” he says, glancing at the notes app on his screen. “You’ve been a bridesmaid 27 times. Why?”
You raise an eyebrow, sitting opposite him. “Do you mean why haven’t I gotten married, or why do people keep asking me to do it?”
He blinks slowly. “Both?”
You sigh, a little amused despite yourself. “Because I’m nice, and I’m organized. I know how to wrangle a drunk aunt at a rehearsal dinner and sew a ripped hem in five minutes. I’m bridesmaid material, apparently.”
You think about it. “I love parts of it. The dress fittings, the chaos, the dancing, seeing people in love. But yeah, sometimes it stings. Feels like I’m always part of someone else’s fairytale.”
He looks at you for a long moment, unreadable. “You ever thought about saying no?”
You chuckle. “What kind of monster says no to their best friend’s big day?”
Sae tilts his head. “Someone who wants their own big day, maybe.”
You’re stunned for a second, caught off guard by the quiet weight in his voice.
“You always this deep when doing interviews?” you ask, trying to shift the mood.
“I don’t usually do interviews,” he replies simply. “So… no.”
You go through more of the questions, but the recorder stays off most of the time. You talk about weddings, about pressure, about why people don’t see the girl in the bridesmaid dress. And somewhere in the middle of it all.
“F/n wanted me to ask you about the dresses,” Sae sighed, glancing at the neatly organized checklist in his notes app like it personally offended him.
You turned from where you were scrolling on your phone. “Oh my god,” you said, laughing as you got up. “They're making you ask? That’s hilarious.”
Sae looked tired already. “I’m not doing this for fun.”
“Mhm, whatever you say,” you teased, disappearing into your closet.
You slid open the door with a dramatic flair, revealing the rainbow nightmare inside. Tulle. Lace. Ribbons. A suspicious amount of mint green.
His brows twitched ever so slightly. “...Why do you have so many?”
“Because,” you said, already rifling through the hangers, “I am a loyal, dependable friend. And for another reason.”
“What’s the other reason?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.
You turned to look at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That part’s a secret.”
The real reason? You were saving them for all your friends to wear on your wedding day. All twenty-seven of them.
You tossed a rainbow monstrosity onto your bed. “Here we go.”
He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe like this was a hostage situation. “You don’t have to try them on. I can just write ‘Yes, she still owns them’ and lie.”
“You ready?” You called out.
Sae didn’t look up. “No.”
His eyes flicked up. Paused. Brows raised a fraction of a millimeter—an Itoshi Sae equivalent of slack-jawed shock.
“This one’s… very yellow,” you said, spinning awkwardly. “Like a lemon drop. Or a highlighter with confidence issues.”
“You look like a cupcake,” he said, flatly.
You grinned. “A delicious cupcake?”
You turned back to the mirror, posing dramatically. “I wore this to Emi’s wedding. It was a beach wedding and she wanted us to ‘match the sun.’”
“She got divorced after three months, so, you’re not wrong.”
You disappeared behind the curtain again. Sae leaned back in his seat and glanced down at his phone, only to lift it and casually snap a photo before you vanished. You didn’t notice.
The next dress was mint green and satin. You walked out, half-tripping on the hem.
“Okay, I call this one the seafoam regret.”
Sae sighed. Lifted his phone. Another picture. You paused mid-spin.
“Wait—are you taking pictures of me?”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “I’m documenting. F/n said to take pictures.”
You laughed, a bright, unfiltered sound that actually made him look up from his screen. You sounded so… beautiful?
“Okay, you’re gonna love the next one,” you said, disappearing again.
Sae didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on the curtain longer this time.
You emerged in a fire-engine red mermaid dress with tulle flaring at your calves and rhinestones on the straps. You struck a pose with jazz hands.
“I was a bridesmaid and a flamenco dancer in this one.”
Sae’s lips twitched. Twitched.
“That’s not how flamenco works,” he said, voice drier than the Sahara.
“And how would you know that, Mr. Itoshi?” You raised a brow.
“Probably because I lived in Spain for my entire adolescence?”
“Oh. Right.” You coughed awkwardly, feeling embarrassed, your face an obvious shade of pink.
He raised his phone. Snap.
“Blackmail material,” he said.
“I’m honored,” you said, dramatically bowing.
By the time you're in dress number fourteen—a strapless emerald number with an asymmetrical ruffle you’re still convinced looks like a lettuce leaf—Sae’s leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, watching you with a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“You know,” he says, “I thought this would be boring.”
You raise an eyebrow, placing your hands dramatically on your hips. “You thought I’d be boring, or the whole ‘bridesmaid of the year’ thing?”
“Both,” he admits. “But it’s not. You’re not.”
You blink. Sae Itoshi, not exactly known for compliments, just complimented you. You try to hide how your stomach flips.
“Well, I am wearing lettuce,” you say, grinning. “Hard not to be riveting in produce-inspired fashion.”
He huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “No. I mean... you’re funny. And weirdly good at this.”
He gestures vaguely. “Weddings. People. The whole making-it-look-easy thing.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “You know, you're kind of nice when you’re not brooding.”
“But now you’re brooding with charm.”
He rolls his eyes, but his ears go a little pink. You file that away for later.
As you slip behind the screen to change again, you hear him sigh—not in annoyance, but something softer. Like he’s trying to figure something out.
And Sae, who usually only thinks in strategies and goalposts, suddenly finds his mind replaying the way you twirled in the lavender dress, laughing without worrying if anyone was watching.
He’s not sure when it happened, but something’s shifting. He came here as a favor to his friend for a filler article. Now, watching you emerge in yet another ridiculous dress and flash him that bright, unbothered smile, he realizes he doesn’t want it to end.
Dress after dress, you kept emerging, each one more ridiculous than the last, and he kept taking pictures, deadpan expressions hiding how amused he really was. Until the last one.
The final dress was a simple, elegant, dusty pink gown. No frills, no glitter. You stepped out quietly, smoothing the fabric.
“This one was for my sister’s wedding,” you said, softer. “The only one that didn’t make me feel like a party city costume.”
Sae stared at you. Not a word. Just… looked.
You shifted awkwardly under his gaze. “What? Is there something on my face?”
“No,” he said. Click. Another photo.
You blinked. “You’re gonna run out of storage.”
He didn’t respond. Just tucked his phone away and stood.
And then, very casually, he said, “You look good in that one.”
You weren’t expecting much of a reaction, but the look on his face makes your breath catch. He’s staring at you.No, looking at you, like he’s never seen anything quite like it before.
Your breath hitches. You don’t know why, but the way he says it like it’s just an undeniable fact makes your heart do something strange.
Sae stands up, walking toward you slowly. He doesn’t sit back down on the couch. Instead, he steps closer, and closer still, until there’s barely any space between you.
Sae’s gaze flicks to your lips, just for a heartbeat, and then back to your eyes. His hand, almost instinctively, moves toward your cheek, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear in the gentlest of gestures. It’s a gesture so simple, yet so intimate, that it takes you off guard. You breathe in sharply, barely aware of the way your body leans into his touch. His thumb gently traces your cheek, as though memorizing the feel of you.
“Do you have any more dresses, or is this the last one?” He murmurs.
“This is the last one. Dress twenty-seven”
Sae nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken words, and your heart is racing in your chest. There's a warmth radiating from him, something comfortable, yet electrifying. He pauses for a moment, his thumb still grazing the soft skin of your cheek, his eyes searching yours as if considering something deeply.
"Well," he says softly, his voice a little quieter now, almost unsure. "I should probably get going... but if you ever feel like dressing up again... or, you know, just hanging out sometime, let me know."
The words hang in the air, and it's only when he steps back and turns toward the door that you feel your breath catch in your throat.
You stand frozen for a moment after he leaves, still feeling the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin. It’s only when you finally breathe again that it hits you. Oh my god. He just asked you out, didn’t he?
