What does a wedding date romance scene look like?
Example of a Wedding Date Romance Scene
Weddings are romance accelerators. The flowers, the vows, the open bar — everything conspires to make two people look at each other differently. A wedding date scene captures the moment when "doing someone a favor" becomes something neither of them planned.
"You're a very good fake date," she said. They were slow dancing because the bride had insisted, and he'd offered his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, and now his palm was on the small of her back and she was trying to remember why she'd told her mother this wasn't real. "I'm not faking anything," he said. "This is genuinely how I dance." "I meant the date part." "I know what you meant." The song was something old — Sinatra, maybe, or someone pretending to be Sinatra. The tent was strung with lights that made everything look like a movie. Her cousin was crying at table six. The groom's father was asleep in a chair. "My aunt thinks you're my boyfriend," she said. "Your aunt asked me my intentions." "What did you tell her?" "That I intend to eat more cake." She laughed. He pulled her slightly closer. Not enough for anyone to notice. Enough for her to feel his heartbeat through his dress shirt. "You look—" He stopped. Started over. "I've seen you in scrubs. In sweatpants. In that terrible Halloween costume from last year. I didn't think you could look different to me. But this dress is—" He shook his head. "I've lost my ability to finish sentences." "It's from a sample sale. Eighty dollars." "It's destroying me." She looked up at him. His jaw was tight. His eyes were doing the thing they did sometimes — going dark and focused in a way that made her forget they were just friends. Just coworkers. Just two people who'd agreed this was a favor. The song ended. Another started. They didn't let go. "We should probably go back to the table," she said. "Probably." "People will talk." "Your aunt is already planning our wedding." "She moves fast." "Must be genetic." She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. Breathed him in. He smelled like borrowed cologne and wedding cake and the particular warmth of someone who had been holding you carefully all night. "This stopped being fake about three hours ago," she murmured into his jacket. His hand tightened on her back. "For me it was never fake. I just needed the invitation."
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