Andy is stressed planning their wedding. Rhysand is worried.

*

There's just so much to do.

Rhysand didn't think, that even with the help of their team of wedding planners, that his fiancé would still have to be stressed over all the decisions they haven't made, the little, minuscule details he didn't know they'd have to think about for a wedding.

Like, for example: the colors of the tablecloths, the chair covers, the centerpieces, the napkin holder designs—aren't these things the wedding planners should be handling? Isn't that what Rhysand and Andrea are paying them for?

Truthfully, Rhysand would marry Andrea under the rain, in their home, at a courthouse. He'd marry her anywhere, any time, he's ready to do it now—without all of these.

But it's not what she deserves. The reason why he was so insistent on bringing their wedding here, to Kalim, is because he wanted to give her everything she's ever dreamed of for a wedding. Because she's been dreaming of marrying him even before they started dating, and Rhysand wants to give her fuckin' everything—because he can, now. He can and he will.

But he flinches when a loud sound pulls him out of his work, and he turns his head to see his fiancé throwing her phone on the desk. She cards her fingers through her hair harshly and puts her face in between her elbows.

Oh, shit. Rhysand carefully closes his laptop and puts his away. "Sunshine," he calls cautiously, biting his lip. "What's wrong?"

They're still on the plane. It's only been an hour of their flight and they need another to reach Kalim, and Andrea has been on and off the phone since yesterday with their wedding planners.

It's not doing her any good. She mutters sullenly, "Nothing."

It's not nothing. At their cake-tasting appointment, Andrea doesn't like anything. She puts down her fork, a dissatisfied expression on her face. "It's too sweet."

Rhysand blinks and puts down his own fork, glancing at their wedding planners and baker, who purses her lips. "I think it's fine." He's the one without a sweet tooth.

"No," Andrea says firmly, furrowing her eyebrows. She reaches over Rhysand and snatches a napkin. "Everything is too sweet. Plus, I said no nuts, why is there pistachio nut here? My dad is allergic to nuts."

The baker blinks, flustered, as she moves around to take the plate.

To Rhysand, Andrea asks, "Did we agree on four-tier or three-tier? I can't remember."

Rhysand's pulse picks up. He can't remember, shit. "Uh, I think we agreed on—"

"Four," Olga, one of their wedding planners chime in with a smile, book in hand.

Rhysand will thank her for saving his ass later.

"Should they be different flavors?" Andrea asks her quickly, drawing her eyebrows together, leg bouncing. "What if they don't like that it's different flavors for everything? What if we have guests who are lactose intolerant? I don't like the dark chocolate, by the way, it's too bitter—"

Rhysand takes her hand slowly. "Sunshine," he whispers. "It's just a cake."

It was the wrong thing to say.

His fiancé yanks her arm away and glares at him. "It's our wedding cake, Rhysand."

He didn't—shit, he didn't mean it like that. He purses his lips and smiles tightly at their team. "Please give us a second."

They scurry away immediately.

Andrea turns to him, bottom lip shaking.

Rhysand takes a deep breath and scoots forward, taking her hands in his. "Sunshine. What's wrong? You've been so on edge lately."

She swallows the lump in her throat and squeezes his fingers with force. "It's not supposed to be this stressful, is it?" Andrea whispers, biting her lip. "Is it so wrong I want it to be perfect?"

Last week, she cried because she couldn't find three days that would fit all of her friends' schedules. Sabina and Adrian would be free, but MJ and Jenner weren't. Jenner and Adrian were present on these days, and MJ only on the last two days, and Sabina wasn't free at all.

Rhysand sent a damn calendly in their group chat and demanded: you fuckers better fill out your three days here by tonight or else none of u are coming to our wedding u wanna make andrea fuckin sad is that it

That one had been filled out by the same night.

And then a few days ago, Andrea had been stress-eating because of some RSVPs, and then days before this trip, there was a mishap with her bridesmaids' dresses that she got pulled out of work for it.

Rhysand has a say in everything. Of course he does, he's not letting his fiancé do all the work—it's not just her getting married. On his side of things, he'd been coordinating with the wedding planners, the flower arrangements, the live band for the reception, the accommodations and flight tickets for their guests. But he's not pressured—not in the way Andrea is.

He smiles at her and shakes his head, stroking her fingers with his thumbs. "No, baby, of course not."

"The damn cake shouldn't even matter," she mutters, looking away, flushed red. "It's cake. And like the tablecloth colors and the chair covers—none of it matters because the perfect wedding is where I get to marry you, no matter how many tiers our cake has."

She's so fucking endearing it hurts his heart. Rhysand sighs and pulls her head to his shoulder, hugging her tight. "Don't feel guilty for wanting our wedding to be what you want, sunshine," he murmurs in her hair. "If you want perfect, we're doing it perfect."

When he didn't have anything, it took so little to make Andrea happy—she was happy with a single two-dollar flower from him or a cheap necklace or gummy bears—and it still does. Spending time with him, cuddling with him, watching her favorite movies with him. Dancing with him in the kitchen. Rhysand knows that just by being with him, Andrea is happy.

But now, Rhysand has access to so much more—money and name and success and accomplished career. He can afford all this—this grand wedding, his planned honeymoon for them, cars, a mansion, expensive clothing brands and watches and jewelry—and he wants her to know that she can have her dream wedding—the cake that she wants, the tablecloths, the centerpieces, the chandelier. She can have all those and so much more, because at the end of the day, Rhysand knows that without his money, Andrea would still marry him with plastic rings.

He doesn't doubt it. Not anymore. He's always going to make Andrea happier than an expensive wedding they spend months slaving during the planning—but since she wants a perfect wedding, then he's not going to argue.

In fact, he'll be insistent on it.

She hugs him back tightly and mutters, "Are you sure I'm not overdoing it?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Baby, you've had a Pinterest board for your dream wedding since you were in high school. Fucking go all out."

Her laugh is his favorite sound. Andrea turns her head and kisses him sweetly. "I'm sorry I've been snappy," she mumbles, caressing his face.

"Ah, that's another thing." He tucks her hair behind her ear and says, "I don't want you to be overwhelmed or panicked or too stressed it makes you have breakdowns. Planning this should make you happy. So, don't get mad: but please trust our team. We don't have to do everything, we can leave the minuscule tasks up to them. Just oversee and approve and handle what you want to handle."

Andrea bites her lip and stares at him. "You think I've been putting them out of jobs?"

Rhysand scrunches his nose. "Kind of."

She laughs breathlessly. And then she nods. "Okay."

"Okay." He brings her hand to his lips and kisses the inside of her wrist. "I think we can just choose on the flavor and then we can go. I'll run a bath for you at the hotel."