⊱ 𝒛𝒂𝒓𝒂 ⊰

The air conditioner from their hotel room murmured in the background. They’d been working for hours now, or at least trying to. The track sat paused for a moment now, and the mic was still live. Hongjoong hadn’t said anything about leaving it on. He forgot eventually.

Seonghwa sat back in the bed with his fingers tangled in his own hair, head tipped back against the wall. His phone lay abandoned beside the keyboard, and his eyes were distant, unfocused in that way Hongjoong had come to know too well. The kind of look that meant he was thinking in spirals again, that he’d lost the thread of the song somewhere between his own self-doubt and the compulsion to get it right.

Across the room, Hongjoong leaned against the edge of the table, watching him with his arms closed. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence press down until Seonghwa was frustrated enough to break it himself. It didn’t take long.

“It sounds flat,” he muttered eventually, barely audible. “Everything about it. I’m not hitting the right phrasing, the tone is… off. I sound fake.”

“You don’t,” Hongjoong replied immediately. “You sound like you always do.”

“Exactly.”

Hongjoong’s brow twitched. He pushed off the table and crossed the room slowly. “We stopped recording because you kept making that face. You seem like you hated every second of it.”

Seonghwa dragged a hand down his face and said in a tight voice: “I do.”

“No,” Hongjoong corrected, crouching beside the bed now. “You hate that it’s not perfect.” He tilted his head slightly, studying him. “But that’s not the same as bad.”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, and his lips pressed into a line, like he was trying to swallow whatever he wanted to say. Hongjoong leaned in a little more.

“Say it.”

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked to him. “Say what?”

“Say what’s really bothering you.”

“I already told you—”

“Not the technical shit,” Hongjoong cut in. “You think I didn’t notice? You’ve been spiraling since you saw that comment this morning.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched.

“I’m not mad,” Hongjoong added, his voice softer now. “But don’t lie to me. Not about this.”

After a moment, Seonghwa spoke.

“They said I was trying too hard to be sexy,” he murmured. “That I’m selling some type of fantasy because I don’t have anything else to give.”

Hongjoong didn’t move, but Seonghwa could feel the change in the air. He was containing himself. His fingers curled slowly into fists against his thighs, and his jaw was tight.

“And you believed them.”

“I didn’t want to,” Seonghwa admitted. “But when you already feel like you’re toeing the line between your own art and indulgence… and then people just confirm it for you…it sticks.”

He laughed bitterly. “Maybe I just don’t know the difference anymore. Between being enough and just being… looked at.”

Hongjoong stood. He stepped around, reached over, and tapped the track back to the beginning. The demo for “Skin,” the one Seonghwa had rewritten three times and still wasn’t convinced with.

He didn’t press play yet.

“You’re not pretending,” he said quietly, stepping in close beside him, voice low at Seonghwa’s ear.

Seonghwa closed his eyes. Didn’t speak.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Hongjoong asked, closer now, leaning over him. “You don’t know how you sound when you stop filtering yourself. When you mean it.”

He reached forward and pressed play.

The room was filled with Seonghwa’s voice.

Hide me in secret But baby, only if you want Whatever you want You know you deserve it

“You hear that?” Hongjoong asked, leaning down just enough that his breath brushed Seonghwa’s neck. “That’s the part I didn’t touch.”

He moved slowly, like he had all the time in the world to prove a point. His hand hovered for a moment, like he was asking permission he didn’t quite know how to voice, before he leaned in and pressed a kiss just below Seonghwa’s jaw.

It was careful. Not from hesitation, but from his own effort. Because this part didn’t come easily to Hongjoong. He’d always been better with actions, just not physical contact. But with Seonghwa… he wanted to be better at this. And lately, he'd been trying.

The kisses had started some years ago, and eventually they were more than just kisses. Neither of them had said what it was; it wasn’t quite dating nor just messing around. They danced around it, careful not to define it, as if giving it a name would somehow break it.

Maybe they should talk about it. But then again… maybe this was enough.

Hongjoong kissed him again, this time just beneath his ear, deliberate and slow. He wanted Seonghwa to know that he meant every single second of this. Every brush of lips, every word spoken between them, every glance.

“What if you’re being explicit? It sounds so fucking hot.”

Seonghwa’s hands gripped the edge of the bed with pale knuckles.

“You’re not just performing,” Hongjoong whispered, lips grazing his skin again. “And yeah, it sounds sensual. But that’s not shameful.”

Seonghwa’s breath caught again, sharper this time. His hands left the sheets, found the edge of Hongjoong’s hoodie instead, curling in the fabric like it could hold him steady.

“And you don’t have to tone it down just to be respected,” Hongjoong continued. “You can be beautiful and still be brilliant. Shit, you can turn people on and still be a fucking genius.”

He kissed him again, this time at the edge of his mouth.

“You’re not just a visual,” Hongjoong breathed. “You’re the center of this track. You’re the reason it’s alive.”

Seonghwa let out a breath that shivered apart halfway through. His head dropped forward, his body was tense; Hongjoong knew that praise always got him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said after a while, voice hoarse. “Saying things like that.”

Hongjoong pulled back just enough to look at him. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe you.”

“Good.”

And then he finally kissed him on the lips. More than comforting, Hongjoong was trying to claim. He was done waiting for Seonghwa to stop apologizing for being exactly what he was.

Seonghwa responded with a sound low in his throat, pulling Hongjoong down with him as they twisted together into the sheets. The music kept playing, fading into the background as mouths met again and again, now desperate. Eventually, Seonghwa rolled them over, straddling him, and Hongjoong didn’t fight it. Just looked up at him with his hands splayed on his thighs, his eyes fixed on the eldest.

“You’re a mess,” Seonghwa said, breathless, trying for a smirk but not quite making it.

“And you’re gorgeous,” Hongjoong replied quickly. He didn’t mean to praise Seonghwa actually, it was a fact.

Seonghwa stilled for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Since when do you say things like that?”

“Since I got tired of watching you pretend you don’t need to hear it.”

A flicker of something passed through Seonghwa’s expression. He leaned down slowly, lips brushing against Hongjoong’s, his voice softer now.

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” Hongjoong murmured, already leaning in.

So, he did.

Seonghwa kissed him like he meant it now, his weight a warm press atop Hongjoong’s body. There was no hesitation anymore. His hands roamed without destination, fingers brushing Hongjoong’s cheek, his neck, the curve of his shoulder, his chest.

The music still played faintly from the monitors, forgotten. The mic, red-lit, on top of the keyboard.

Hongjoong let himself sink into it, one hand tracing a slow path up Seonghwa’s spine beneath his shirt, feeling the subtle arch of bone, tense muscle slowly loosening under his touch. He pressed his lips slowly to Seonghwa’s jaw, then along the line of his throat.

The air between them was thick now. Seonghwa’s hips shifted above him, a subtle roll that made Hongjoong exhale sharply through his nose, fingers digging into the fabric of his shorts. He felt a slight tremble in Seonghwa’s thighs.

Their mouths met again, hungrier now. Seonghwa’s lips were parted, his breath uneven, and when Hongjoong licked into his mouth, he felt the way Seonghwa melted into it and gave in. One of his hands slid into Hongjoong’s hair, tugging just enough to draw a quiet groan from deep in his throat. Hongjoong’s fingers slid up beneath the hem of Seonghwa’s shirt again, this time bolder, his palms splayed over warm skin, tracing ribs.

Seonghwa gasped softly when fingernails scraped gently down his sides. His head dropped to the crook of Hongjoong’s neck, lips brushing there, then sucking lightly at the skin as if to anchor himself. Hongjoong tilted his head back to give him space, breath catching when Seonghwa’s teeth grazed just beneath his ear.

There was nothing rushed about it. They kissed like they had nowhere else to be. The room had disappeared around them. Time, too. There was only this.

Hongjoong ran his hands down Seonghwa’s back again, gripping his waist firmly and pulling him closer, until they were flush. He could feel every line of him. His tongue slid over Seonghwa’s lower lip again, coaxing, tasting, and Seonghwa let him in with a quiet whimper that sent heat spiraling low in his stomach.

Seonghwa moved with more confidence now, the rhythm of his body aligning with Hongjoong’s touch. He straddled him fully, hands on either side of his face, and kissed him deeper. His breath came in short gasps between kisses, his lips red and slick and trembling slightly every time they broke apart.

Hongjoong couldn’t stop touching him. His hands traced every inch of skin they could find, each pass purposeful, worshipful. The curve of Seonghwa’s waist, the dip of his lower back, the ridges of his spine; all of it, sacred. He mouthed at his throat again, biting lightly, then soothing the spot with his tongue, feeling the tremor it sent through Seonghwa’s body.

Somewhere, the demo looped again, their unfinished track threading in and out beneath the rustle of fabric, the sound of lips meeting, breath hitching, the occasional low groan that neither of them could contain. If either of them noticed, they didn’t care.

Seonghwa’s fingers ghosted over Hongjoong’s jaw as he kissed him again. His hips still moved, and Hongjoong met him there, hands firm on his hips, guiding him.

Seonghwa moaned softly against his mouth, this time not from pressure but from the overwhelming tenderness of it all. From being seen, held, and wanted in the exact way he’d always been afraid no one would.

Hongjoong swallowed that sound like a vow.

He pulled back just enough to look at him: eyes heavy-lidded, lips kiss-bruised, long black hair falling into his flushed face. Beautiful.

For a while, there was nothing but the slide of lips and tongues, the quiet sounds of their breathing, the way Seonghwa’s body moved against his. At some point, their clothes had ended up forgotten on the floor. Seonghwa shivered when Hongjoong’s fingers brushed over the sensitive skin of his stomach, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he ground down against him deliberately, and Hongjoong’s grip tightened instinctively.

“Shit,” Hongjoong breathed, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against Seonghwa’s. “You’re—”

Seonghwa kissed him again before he could finish, swallowing the rest of his words. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, trading kisses and quiet touches, neither of them willing to pull away. It was only when Seonghwa’s phone buzzed loudly against the nightstand, a reminder for something neither of them cared about right now, that they finally stilled. Seonghwa pulled back just enough to look at him, lips red and eyes hazy. Hongjoong smirked.

“What?”

Seonghwa shook his head, exhaling a quiet laugh. “Nothing.”

Then he leaned in again. Hongjoong’s fingers traced idle patterns against Seonghwa’s bare shoulder, the hotel sheets tangled around their waists. The room smelled like sweat and the faint citrus of Seonghwa’s shampoo.

“It is good,” Hongjoong murmured again, lips brushing the nape of Seonghwa’s neck. “You are good.”

Seonghwa exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting away just slightly, but Hongjoong didn’t let him. He tightened his arm around his waist, pulling him back against his chest.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa warned.

“No,” Hongjoong said, pressing a kiss to the curve of his shoulder. “You don’t get to pretend you didn’t hear me.”

Seonghwa turned his head, just enough to glare at him over his shoulder. His lips were still swollen, his hair a mess from Hongjoong’s hands, and the sight of him like this; flushed and disheveled and his, even if neither of them would say it out loud, made something possessive curl low in Hongjoong’s gut.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Seonghwa muttered.

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened. He rolled them over in one smooth motion, pinning Seonghwa beneath him, hands bracketing his head. Seonghwa’s breath hitched, but he didn’t push him away.

“When,” Hongjoong said slowly, “have I ever lied to you?”

Seonghwa’s throat worked as he swallowed. His hands came up, fingers curling loosely around Hongjoong’s wrists, but he didn’t pull him closer or push him away. Just held on.

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” Hongjoong cut him off, voice low. “Because you won’t fucking listen.”

Seonghwa’s eyes flickered, something vulnerable flashing across his face before he steeled himself again. Then, without breaking eye contact, he slid one hand down Hongjoong’s chest, over his stomach. Hongjoong’s breath stuttered, and Seonghwa smirked.

“Then shut up,” he murmured, “and let me show you how grateful I am.”

Hongjoong opened his mouth to argue, but Seonghwa’s hand curled around him, stroking once, just shy of too tight, and the words died in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hips jerking forward instinctively. Seonghwa’s smirk widened.

He pushed up on his elbows, forcing Hongjoong to sit back on his heels as Seonghwa settled between his thighs. His fingers traced the length of him, slow and teasing, before he leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Hongjoong’s thigh. Hongjoong’s hands fisted in the sheets. Seonghwa’s tongue dragged a hot, wet stripe up his cock, and Hongjoong’s head fell back with a groan.

“That’s—” He choked on the words as Seonghwa took him into his mouth, sinking down in one smooth motion. “—not what I meant.”

Seonghwa hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to Hongjoong’s spine. His hands came up to grip Hongjoong’s hips, holding him in place as he worked him over with his mouth slowly. Hongjoong swore, fingers tangling in Seonghwa’s hair.

“You’re, fuck, you’re impossible.” Seonghwa pulled off just long enough to glance up at him through his lashes, lips slick and swollen.

“Then stop talking,” he said with his voice wrecked, before swallowing him down again.

Hongjoong’s grip tightened. He should argue. Should pull him off and make him listen, should force him to hear the words he’d been trying to say for weeks. But Seonghwa’s tongue curled just right, his throat working around him, and Hongjoong’s thoughts scattered.

Fine. If Seonghwa wanted to shut him up like this, Hongjoong would let him. For now. He’d tell him again later, and again after that. As many times as it took for Seonghwa to believe it.

But for now, Hongjoong tugged sharply on Seonghwa’s hair, pulling him off with a wet pop. Seonghwa’s lips parted in protest, but Hongjoong didn’t give him time to speak. He flipped them over, pressing Seonghwa back into the mattress, kissing him deep and filthy, tasting himself on Seonghwa’s tongue. Seonghwa arched against him, hands scrambling at his back, his shoulders, his hips, anywhere he could reach.

Hongjoong broke the kiss just long enough to growl against his mouth: “You’re good.” Then he swallowed Seonghwa’s answering moan, and didn’t let him argue again.

Hongjoong didn’t pull away after the kiss. Instead, he pressed closer, fingers sliding up Seonghwa’s chest, tracing the line of his collarbone. Seonghwa exhaled sharply, hands still fisted in the sheets.

“We should, ah—”

Hongjoong didn’t let him finish. He kissed him again, deeper this time, swallowing the protest before it could fully form. His hands moved with purpose, sliding down to the dip of Seonghwa’s waist, savoring the way his breath hitched when his fingers brushed over sensitive ribs.

Seonghwa was beautiful like this: flushed, lips parted, his body arching just slightly under Hongjoong’s touch. Hongjoong took his time, letting his palms skate across warm skin, memorizing the way Seonghwa shivered when his thumbs grazed over his nipples.

“Hongjoong—” Seonghwa’s voice was ragged, half a warning, half a plea.

Hongjoong ignored it, shifting his attention lower. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Seonghwa’s boxers, pulling them down in one slow, deliberate motion.

Seonghwa’s breath stuttered as the cool air hit his skin, his cock already half-hard, flushed and perfect against his thigh. Hongjoong’s mouth watered. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the inside of Seonghwa’s knee, then higher, along the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, teasing, dragging it out just to hear the way Seonghwa’s breathing fractured.

Hongjoong paused, pressing one last kiss to the crease of Seonghwa's thigh before pulling back. "Wait," he murmured. He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for the small bottle he'd tossed there earlier. The lube was cool against his palm as he slicked his fingers, watching the way Seonghwa's breath hitched at the sound of the cap clicking open.

He didn't rush. Instead, he dragged his clean hand up Seonghwa's thigh, thumb brushing the base of his cock, already flushed and leaking against his stomach.

"Look at you," Hongjoong murmured, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss just below his navel. "So fucking perfect."

Seonghwa whined, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the touch.

Hongjoong smirked but didn't give him what he wanted, not yet. Instead, he let his fingers trail lower, tracing teasing circles around Seonghwa's rim, just enough pressure to make him gasp.

"Hongjoong—"

"Shh," Hongjoong soothed, pressing in with one finger, slow, watching the way Seonghwa's back arched, his mouth falling open on a silent moan. He worked him open carefully, curling his finger just right, relishing the way Seonghwa's thighs trembled around him.

By the time he added a second finger, Seonghwa was a mess beneath him with his chest flushed, lips bitten red, hands fisting the sheets. Hongjoong crooked his fingers again, dragging a broken moan from Seonghwa's throat.

"There! Fuck, there—"

Hongjoong hummed, scissoring his fingers and stretching him, before finally, finally, leaning down to take Seonghwa into his mouth.

He wasn't usually one for blowjobs; the angle was awkward, the taste sometimes too much, but this? The way Seonghwa's breath stuttered, the way his hips jerked, the way his fingers tangled in Hongjoong's hair desperately, this was worth it.

Hongjoong hollowed his cheeks, sucking him down, his own cock aching where it was trapped in his shorts. He could feel the way Seonghwa tightened around his fingers, could hear the way his moans pitched higher, more frantic.

"Close, fuck! I'm close—"

Hongjoong didn't stop. He worked him faster, fingers fucking into him in time with the bobs of his head, until Seonghwa was trembling and his thighs shaking.

Hongjoong could feel his own arousal like a live wire under his skin, his cock straining against the mattress. He reached down with his free hand, his own breath coming in short and uneven bursts.

Seonghwa’s moans were ruining him. The way his voice cracked on Hongjoong’s name, the way his back arched off the bed, the way his fingers tightened in Hongjoong’s hair, it was too much. Hongjoong’s hips jerked, his own orgasm crashing over him unexpectedly, spilling hot and sudden into the sheets as Seonghwa’s thighs clenched around his shoulders.

He pulled off with a gasp, his fingers still working Seonghwa’s cock, stroking him through the aftershocks until Seonghwa came with a choked-off cry, his release streaking across his stomach.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. Hongjoong leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Seonghwa’s hipbone, then his stomach, tasting salt and sweat and him.

Seonghwa huffed a laugh, but his eyes were dark, still hazy with pleasure. He tugged Hongjoong up, kissing him slowly and deeply, his free hand sliding down Hongjoong’s back possessively.

Hongjoong pulled back just enough to murmur, “I should clean us up,” but Seonghwa’s grip tightened.

“More,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Please.”

Hongjoong’s grin was slow and wicked. “Greedy.” But he didn’t hesitate.

He kissed him deep, swallowing Seonghwa’s gasp as his hand slid between them, fingers wrapping around Hongjoong’s cock first, stroking him back to full hardness with practiced ease. Seonghwa arched into the touch, hips jerking up when Hongjoong’s thumb swiped over the head, smearing precome down his length.

“Fuck—” Seonghwa broke the kiss, panting, but Hongjoong chased his mouth, biting at his lower lip as his other hand found Seonghwa’s cock, squeezing just enough to make him whine.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” Hongjoong muttered against his lips, stroking them both in tandem, slow and filthy. “All desperate for me.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, thighs trembling. “Shut up.”

Seonghwa surged up, flipping them so Hongjoong was beneath him, but Hongjoong just laughed breathlessly, his hands already mapping the curve of Seonghwa’s hips. “Yeah, like that. Take what you want.”

Seonghwa kissed him instead, deep and messy, grinding down against him, their cocks sliding together in the slick heat between their bodies. Hongjoong groaned, his fingers digging into Seonghwa’s waist now, but then he paused, an idea flickering in his dark gaze.

“Turn over,” he murmured, nudging Seonghwa onto his stomach.

Seonghwa went willingly, sighing as Hongjoong’s hands smoothed down his spine, lips pressing between his shoulder blades. He heard the rustle of Hongjoong reaching for his bag, the crinkle of a condom wrapper, but Seonghwa reached back blindly, catching his wrist.

“No,” he breathed. “I want to feel you. Just—just you.”

Hongjoong’s exhale was shaky. “Are you sure?”

Seonghwa nodded, pressing his face into the pillow. They hadn’t talked about it, not really, but they hadn’t needed to. The exclusivity between them was an unspoken agreement.

Hongjoong’s fingers traced his rim, slick with lube, teasing before pressing in, one then two, curling just right to make Seonghwa gasp.

 “God, you’re still tight,”Hongjoong muttered, scissoring him open, “Always so fucking perfect—”

Seonghwa shuddered, pushing back against his fingers, but Hongjoong didn’t let him rush. He took his time, stretching him again until Seonghwa was writhing, cock dripping onto the sheets beneath him.

“Joong, please—”

Hongjoong let out a breathless laugh.

“I’ve got you.” Hongjoong lined himself up, pressing in with a slow, relentless push, groaning as Seonghwa’s body yielded to him. “Fuck, fuck—you feel—”

Seonghwa couldn’t answer, too lost in the stretch, the heat, the way Hongjoong filled him so completely. But then Hongjoong’s hands were on his hips, hauling him up, and suddenly, Seonghwa’s back was flush against Hongjoong’s chest, their bodies slotting together.

And then he saw it.

The mirror across the room.

Them.

Seonghwa’s breath caught. He could see everything; the way Hongjoong’s arms wrapped around him possessively, the way his own cock stood hard and leaking against his stomach, the flush spreading down his chest, his throat.

“Look at you,” Hongjoong murmured, lips grazing the shell of his ear. One hand slid up to cup Seonghwa’s jaw, tilting his face toward the mirror. “Look how good you take me.”

Seonghwa whimpered, hips jerking as Hongjoong thrust up into him, the angle deeper like this. His reflection was a mess; his lips were parted, his eyes glassy, and his long hair sticking to his forehead.

“Hongjoong, I—”

“Say it.” Hongjoong’s voice was demanding, fingers tightening on his chin. “Say you’re good.”

Seonghwa shook his head, but Hongjoong snapped his hips up, punching a moan out of him.

“Say it.”

“I—I’m—” Seonghwa choked on the words, but Hongjoong didn’t relent, fucking into him with sharp, measured thrusts, each one dragging a broken sound from his throat.

“Say it, or I’ll stop.”

It was a lie, they both knew it. But Seonghwa cracked anyway.

“I’m good,” he gasped, “I’m good, I’m—fuck—”

Hongjoong groaned, burying his face in Seonghwa’s neck as his rhythm faltered, hips stuttering. “Yeah, you are, god—you’re so fucking good—”

He came with a shudder, spilling deep inside him, teeth sinking into Seonghwa’s shoulder to muffle his groan. Seonghwa whined at the feeling, but Hongjoong’s hand was already between his cock, stroking him fast and filthy, thumb swiping over the head with every upstroke.

“Come on,” Hongjoong panted, mouth hot against his skin, “Let me see you. Let me see how pretty you look when you come.”

Seonghwa’s hips jerked, his orgasm crashing over him so hard his vision whited out, spilling over Hongjoong’s fingers with a sob, his body clamping down around the still-hard cock inside him.

Hongjoong held him through it, murmuring praise against his sweat-damp skin, fingers gentle now as they milked him through the aftershocks.

When Seonghwa finally sagged back against him, boneless and spent, Hongjoong pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Told you,” he murmured, smug but tender. “All you.”

Seonghwa couldn’t argue this time.

They collapsed into each other. Seonghwa’s head rested on Hongjoong’s shoulder, his fingers splayed across his chest, both of them sticky with sweat. The demo still looped faintly in the background.

Hongjoong finally stirred, dragging a hand over his face as he reached for the laptop on the low table beside them. The screen blinked to life, and then he stilled.

The mic was still on.

Recording.

He stared at it for a long moment, mouth parted slightly, blinking once, twice.

“…Seonghwa,” he said slowly, glancing down at him. “You do know we’ve been recording this entire time, right?”

Seonghwa let out a low groan, pressing his forehead into Hongjoong’s bare shoulder.

“You’re joking.”

Hongjoong tilted the screen toward him, showing the steadily growing waveform. “I wish I was.”

For a moment, they just lay there in stunned silence. Then Seonghwa laughed softly, his cheeks still flushed.

“Please tell me you’re going to delete that.”

“I mean…” Hongjoong drawled, quirking a brow. “Do you want me to?”

Seonghwa lifted his head just enough to meet his gaze, skeptical.

“You’re not seriously thinking of keeping it.”

“I might be.”

“You’re insane.”

“But you don’t mind?” Hongjoong asked, quieter now, less teasing, more curious. “If I keep it? Just for… reference?”

Seonghwa hesitated. His face was still pink, but he gave a small shake of his head. “No. I don’t mind.”

Hongjoong smiled. “Good.”

He didn’t listen to it that night. Didn’t even touch it for days. He just labeled the file something innocuous, Layer 17 (ambient), and tucked it into a folder of vocal scraps and texture samples. Left it alone for a while.

It wasn’t until the second week of working on the title track that he stumbled over it again.

He was layering harmonies, adjusting atmospheric reverb, trying to fill the space in some parts of the song with something that didn’t feel flat. Something more sensual. He kept cycling through old recordings, pulling snippets from past sessions, some breaths, half-spoken phrases, until Layer 17 blinked up at him from the list.

Curious, he clicked it.

The sound of low moans, breathy sighs, and the occasional soft whimper muffled between kisses filled his headphones. It was too much, the memory surging back, the skin under his hands, Seonghwa’s mouth hot and open against his lips.

Beneath it all, barely audible: the looping melody of their song.

And then it hit him.

It fits.

He soloed one of Seonghwa’s moans and dragged it into the track. Aligned it in the chorus and tucked it beneath the synth line.

His fingers paused on the keys.

Then, he pressed play.

It sounded good. Too good. He played it again. And again. And then he laughed; half in disbelief, half in pure, possessive satisfaction.

Of course it was Seonghwa.

No one would ever know where it came from. No one would hear it and think Seonghwa made that sound because of me. Only he would know that. Only he had made him tremble like that, fall apart like that.

That knowledge sparked something low in his spine.

They weren’t official or defined. But Seonghwa was his.

The idea alone made his breath catch; how that single and fleeting sound could leave a mark no one else would see, it was a secret between the two.

He sat back with his headphones slipping slightly, his heart beating just a touch faster than it had a moment ago.

Still, he didn’t use it without asking.

He waited until rehearsal ended the next night and pulled Seonghwa aside in the studio, with the door shut, the others trickling out one by one.

“So, uh,” Hongjoong started, trying not to smile. “Remember that recording?”

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes. “Which one?”

Hongjoong clicked a few keys. The audio played briefly, just a snippet, but Seonghwa recognized it instantly. He froze, his spine straightening.

“Hongjoong—”

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Just listen.”

He hit play on the full track, the title track. And in the background, layered just beneath some parts of the song, was that sound. That breath. That moan. The one Hongjoong had coaxed out of Seonghwa himself.

Seonghwa listened in silence. When it ended, he blinked slowly, lips parted.

“…That’s actually good,” he said, surprised.

“I know,” Hongjoong said, smug. “It doesn’t sound like you were…you know.”

Seonghwa flushed again, but this time it was softer.

“It’s not like anyone will know,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward him. “Unless you tell them.”

Hongjoong grinned. “I won’t. Not unless they guess.”

They didn’t. Not at first.

But the first time the finished version played for the whole group, everyone was piled into the control room, their snacks and drinks were forgotten as the final chorus swelled and fell, and there was a moment.

Just one.

A beat of silence as that layered moan slipped through the speakers one last time.

Yeosang tilted his head. San blinked. Jongho glanced at the monitor, confused, before going back to bobbing his head. Mingi didn’t even notice.

But Wooyoung turned slowly in his chair, lips quirking into a smirk so dangerous it could’ve been illegal.

“…Is that what I think it is?”

Hongjoong didn’t even look at him, but Wooyoung burst into laughter, nearly doubling over in his seat.

“You freaks! Oh my God. You layered sex into the fucking title track!”

“It’s not—” Seonghwa started, mortified.

“I knew that breath sounded too familiar,” Wooyoung cackled, wiping at his eyes. “I just didn’t think you’d be bold enough to use it like ten fucking times!”

Seonghwa buried his face in his hands.

Hongjoong, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair, pretending to ignore Wooyoug.

The others didn’t even react much, just side-eyed the two of them with varying degrees of amusement and resignation. It wasn’t exactly a secret anymore, not when they weren’t cautious. Not when San had walked in on them once and pretended he saw nothing, or when Yunho had seen some text messages between the two. The others weren’t blind. And Hongjoong and Seonghwa, for all their composure, weren’t exactly subtle.

Still, no one made him take it out.

Months later, Seonghwa stood at Songzio’s fashion week venue, draped in black tailored fabric, his black hair pushed back and his fingers bare, intentionally so. There was one ring missing. It wasn’t an overlooked detail, but rather left behind.

He moved through the crowd smiling, bowing, and pausing just long enough for the cameras, for the stylists, for the brand reps who whispered compliments about him. He took it all in stride.

After the cameras had moved on and he was finally able to drift toward the velvet rope, he spotted their fans. Their ATINYs. He stepped closer, just enough for a small moment to exist between them.

“Seonghwa-ssi,” one fan said gently, her voice almost lost beneath the buzz. “Your MD ring… you’re not wearing it.”

He glanced at his hand, feigning mild surprise, then let the smallest smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

“I only brought the members with me this time,” he said smoothly.

All of them cheered, then one fan said. “Of course. Family comes first.”

Seonghwa smiled more, looking at his ring. He knew what he was about to say would rattle them, and yes, maybe that was part of it, but not all. He looked at the crowd, then at the ground.

“No,” he said, the smile sharpening. “Kim Hongjoong comes first.”

Their reaction was immediate; eyes blown wide, hands flying to their mouths.

He didn’t linger, just gave a quick smile as he turned away, disappearing past the last wave of lights and into the quiet corridors backstage. He needed a moment to himself.

He pulled out his phone, thumbs gliding over the screen, tapping into the familiar thread where only one name sat pinned at the top. Someone had captured that exact moment, and it was viral after a few minutes.

He sent it without a caption.

A minute.

Then his phone vibrated with a reply:

[Hongjoong] You're insufferable.

Seonghwa smirked.

They hadn’t given it a name, yet, but it had been going on for a while now. Still, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the quiet part underneath it all. That invisible thread between them. The grounding sense that even with the world watching, Seonghwa belonged somewhere. Not to a schedule, or a brand, but to someone.

To Hongjoong.

It wasn’t just the ring. It was everything he didn’t need to wear when the truth was already stitched under his skin.

And maybe no one else could see it. Maybe it would always be hidden. But he knew, and Hongjoong knew.

That he was his, and that Hongjoong was his too.

Hongjoong had started to notice it about a month ago.

Seonghwa had always been a little sentimental, even if he didn’t always want to admit it. He liked to watch romance movies and listen to love songs on repeat, which was normal for him. But lately, it felt… different.

The first time Hongjoong realized something was off was when they were curled up on the couch after a long, exhausting schedule. Hongjoong usually lets Seonghwa pick what to watch since he knows he’d probably fall asleep halfway through anyway. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was just that his body gave out before the movie ever did. He’d drift off against Seonghwa’s shoulder, comforted by the steady rhythm of his breathing.

That night was no different, except that when he woke up near the end of the film, there was a wedding scene playing. The couple was exchanging vows, with the girl crying and everything; it was the kind of scene that made all the girls sigh. Hongjoong, still groggy, was never much for romance movies.

But then he felt Seonghwa shift, so he turned his head and noticed that Seonghwa’s eyes were glassy, shimmering like he was about to cry. As soon as he noticed Hongjoong was awake, he smiled, as if nothing had happened.

“You’re up,” he murmured and pressed a kiss to Hongjoong’s forehead. Hongjoong studied his face for a moment, but Seonghwa’s attention was back to the movie.

The second incident occurred a few days later, when they were walking through a busy commercial district after a shoot, slipping away from the rest of the members for a brief moment. Hongjoong had wanted to check out a new clothing store that had just opened, and Seonghwa tagged along.

They chatted with the managers as they walked, wearing their masks and caps to blend into the crowd. But when they reached a boutique on the corner, Hongjoong felt the subtle tug as Seonghwa slowed beside him.

It was a bridal shop; the window was lined with beautiful and elegant gowns. Seonghwa’s gaze stayed there for a few seconds until Hongjoong squeezed his hand gently, reminding him to keep moving.

“You’ll make people wonder if you keep staring,” he murmured, looking around.

Seonghwa was slightly startled, then looked at Hongjoong before he let out a soft laugh.

“Sorry,” he whispered, though the tone in his voice said he wasn’t all that sorry. He glanced again at the window before turning back to Hongjoong. “They’re just beautiful.”

Hongjoong looked at him for a moment and only managed a quiet hum in response, tugging Seonghwa forward, who followed him easily. But the look in his eyes, his quiet longing, haunted Hongjoong for days.

And finally, what really gave it away, the moment Hongjoong couldn’t ignore the signs anymore, was when he gifted the members the team rings.

He had worked for weeks designing them, wanting to give the members something to show his appreciation. When he handed them out, he was proud, nervous, and excited to see their reactions. The others reacted just as he hoped, with surprise, laughing, and thanking Hongjoong. They slid the bands onto their fingers immediately, showing them off to one another.

But Seonghwa’s reaction was a bit different.

He held the ring in his hand a little longer, his expression unreadable at first. There was surprise, yes, and affection too, but beneath it was something deeper. Something too vulnerable, as though the simple silver band carried a meaning heavier than anyone else realized. He turned it over carefully, slipped it onto his finger, and then couldn’t seem to stop staring at it.

Later, they were alone, sprawled across Seonghwa’s bed. Hongjoong lay on his back, scrolling through his phone, while Seonghwa rested beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, Hongjoong noticed Seonghwa raising his hand, holding it toward the light, still admiring the ring.

“Do you like it that much?” Hongjoong asked, trying to keep his voice casual, though there was a trace of nervousness beneath it.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa nodded, with his eyes still fixed on the silver band. Then, after a pause, he lowered his hand and glanced at Hongjoong. “Can I ask you something?”

Hongjoong locked his phone and turned his head. “What?”

“Ignore me if it’s weird, but… what do you think about marriage?” Seonghwa’s tone was hesitant.

Hongjoong was caught off guard. “Marriage? Why?” he asked.

Seonghwa looked at him for a moment, then let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“It’s nothing. One of my friends got married recently, and it made me think about it for a second. Don’t mind me,” he waved it off and smiled at Hongjoong to reassure him.

Hongjoong blinked in confusion, then opened his mouth, but all that came out was a quiet, “Oh.”

Seonghwa chuckled under his breath, leaning closer and kissing Hongjoong gently.

“Thank you for the ring,” he whispered against his lips.

And in that moment, Hongjoong understood.

The signs now were undeniable.

The realization should have made him feel a little excited, but instead, it left him anxious.

They had been together, officially, for four years now. He remembered clearly the night Seonghwa had confessed that he’d been drawn to Hongjoong from the very first moment they met. Hongjoong had been surprised. Back then, he thought Seonghwa seemed a little cold, distant even. Still, he couldn’t deny how strikingly handsome he was; it was the kind of beauty that caught your eye, whether you wanted it to or not.

Eventually, things between them began to shift. Being roommates made it hard not to grow attached, especially with the intimacy of sharing a space together. But between the endless pressure Hongjoong carried as leader, the constant demand for perfection, to stand out, the packed schedules, events, and practices, there was barely any time to process what they were feeling.

It got to a point where, one night after too much drinking, one thing led to another. What started as a kiss escalated quickly, until they crossed a line neither of them had talked about before. By morning, no one mentioned it. They went about their day pretending nothing had happened, though Hongjoong avoided Seonghwa as much as he could.

It wasn’t until Seonghwa, being the brave one, cornered Hongjoong one evening and asked outright what was happening between them. He had his reasons even before hooking up, obviously. Both of them enjoyed a little fanservice now and then, especially since it seemed to make their fans happy. But even for Hongjoong, who had always been careful about drawing lines, it had started to blur. Especially when mixed with feelings he had been burying for years.

So they decided to give it a name, to call it a ‘relationship’ and see where it would go. And honestly, not much changed. They were still the same, just added a few more kisses, touches, and, on the nights they weren’t too tired, sex. Even the other members asked what the hell they had been before, since they already looked like a couple.

Their story was messy; it always had been, and the thought of marriage only tangled things further. Not because Hongjoong didn’t want it; if he was being honest, the idea had lived quietly in him for years. He dreamed of the permanence and the vow that said Seonghwa was his in ways the world couldn’t question. But realistically? Marriage was impossible for them.

All the members valued their fans deeply, and while there was no strict dating ban, they all understood what a dating scandal could do. Add to that the fact that they weren’t just any couple: they were both men, both idols, both members of the same group, and the risk multiplied. Hongjoong didn’t fear the fans’ reactions so much as the industry’s: the backlash from the media, the judgment from the public, the way it could endanger everything they’d worked for. Hongjoong didn’t care much for their opinions, but if any of it hurt the members, and especially Seonghwa, then it wasn’t a risk he could take.

And then there was the simple truth: in South Korea, marriage between two men wasn’t even legal.

What unsettled him most wasn’t just the impossibility, but the fear it bred inside him. The part of him that whispered in the night, when he couldn’t stop overthinking: What if Seonghwa gets tired? What if he wanted more than what Hongjoong could give? What if he left in search of someone who could offer him the wedding, the family, the future he seemed to dream about?

The idea of Seonghwa marrying a woman and starting a conventional life gnawed at him more than he cared to admit. Rationally, he knew better. Seonghwa had always dated men; he’d even introduced Hongjoong, reluctantly, to a few exes long ago, and each meeting was enough to twist Hongjoong’s stomach with jealousy he hadn’t understood at the time.

Still, he was a bit insecure. In the rare moments when Hongjoong voiced his fears before,  Seonghwa had reassured him. Seonghwa always knew how to steady him and quiet his thoughts. Hongjoong trusted him, he always had, and yet…

With a heavy sigh, Hongjoong dropped his forehead onto the desk in his studio. His notebook lay open in front of him, and his computer was playing a demo he was trying to work on, but his thoughts kept circling, refusing to give him peace.

Marriage…

Just as Hongjoong was lost in thought, the door slid open.

“Hyung, have you seen Mingi?” Yunho said as he stepped inside, but when Hongjoong looked up, he froze mid-step and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Hongjoong said, trying not to worry Yunho, but he didn’t look convinced.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because earlier, when I saw Seonghwa hyung, he seemed kind of… off. I don’t know.”

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed, and he sat up a little straighter, tucking his hands into his lap. “Distant? What do you mean? Is he… not okay?”

Yunho exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I just… did you two fight or something?”

Hongjoong shook his head, letting out a quiet sigh.

“No, it’s not that,” Hongjoong replied. “It’s just… there’s something that’s been stressing me out lately, and…” He trailed off, unsure.

Yunho waited, but when Hongjoong didn’t continue, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Hongjoong hesitated. Usually, the only person he confided in was Seonghwa. He could tell him everything, and Seonghwa would always reassure him and calm him down. But this time, Seonghwa couldn’t help since he was a big part of the stress itself.

He swallowed, staring down at his hands. Yunho took a small step closer, and that gentle movement was all it took for Hongjoong to finally make a decision.

“…I guess I should tell you,” he said softly. “It’s been weighing on me for a while, and I need your perspective.”

He began to speak, carefully at first, and then with more honesty as he continued. He told Yunho everything, and he listened quietly, nodding constantly, letting Hongjoong speak uninterrupted. When he finally finished, Yunho leaned back slightly.

“…That’s it?” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” Hongjoong replied, and it came out a bit defensive.

Yunho chuckled, shaking his head softly. “Sorry, hyung. But honestly… seeing you two like I did, genuinely, I thought you’d had a big fight. I was starting to get worried.”

Hongjoong let out a tired laugh, shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just me overthinking, I guess.”

Yunho exhaled, leaning against the doorframe, his tone more serious now. “Look… this is something you need to talk to Seonghwa hyung about. I mean, not necessarily right this minute, but… this is something important,” he looked directly at Hongjoong. “You don’t seem to hate the idea of marriage, but you need to decide if it’s something you really want, and see if Seonghwa hyung is serious about it.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly, and seriously considered it when Yunho left. He glanced at the calendar on the wall, seeing the upcoming dates for tour preparations and schedules. A sigh escaped him. He wasn’t ready to deal with this fully just yet. The thought would have to wait.

Honestly, after the North America leg of the tour, the stress of the final months of the year, and the pressure of starting a new one, it was easy to forget about everything else. When Hongjoong and Seonghwa had time, they simply collapsed into bed together, slept, and then got up to continue with their routines. That was normal when they were busy; nothing unusual, nothing to worry about.

Until the Europe tour.

In Italy, after their concert, Hongjoong saw his chance. They had a little more time before they had to leave for Fashion Week in France, and he decided to use it. He planned a small surprise trip so they could spend some time together. They said goodbye to the other members, who were heading off to the next stop in Switzerland, while Hongjoong and Seonghwa stayed behind.

Their managers didn’t mind and even suggested they film some of their time in Milan for a vlog before giving them the night off. Hongjoong didn’t care much about the cameras; he actually liked recording content, and besides, he really enjoyed being around the managers too. Seonghwa did as well.

They spent the morning wandering, having breakfast, and buying train tickets. The hours slipped away between filming, talking, and improvising their way through the day. By the time the sun began to set, the managers told them they had the night free, as long as they were back early to catch their ride to France in the morning.

They agreed easily, choosing to stroll through Milan’s streets before heading back. At Hongjoong’s suggestion, they went to a restaurant they’d been to once before, tucked into a corner table, and ordered some light dinner with a bottle of wine to share.

“It still feels surreal,” Seonghwa said after the waitress brought the wine, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Everything we did last year. Sometimes I wonder if it really happened at all.”

Hongjoong watched him with a small smile. “Yeah, I can’t believe it either,” he said, looking at the window, watching the city. “I hope this year will be kinder to us.”

Seonghwa smiled softly and raised his glass. “To us. To our members.”

They clinked glasses lightly.

After a moment, Hongjoong let his chin rest on his hand, watching the way Seonghwa’s expression turned thoughtful under the soft lights. The words slipped out before he could think.

“I’m really happy I get to start another year with our members… and with you.”

Seonghwa stilled the glass halfway to his lips, and then set it down carefully. He studied Hongjoong across the table and smiled. “You’re sentimental tonight.”

“It’s the wine,” Hongjoong replied, swirling his own glass, but he couldn’t hold his smile.

Seonghwa laughed. “I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

Hongjoong chuckled softly, a little embarrassed, and turned his gaze toward the window. But Seonghwa leaned forward with his eyes fixed on him, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, his hand brushing against Hongjoong’s cheek. “I like it when you’re like this.”

The wine made everything worse. Hongjoong dropped his gaze to the rim of his glass, trying to hide how quickly his heart was racing, though his ears burned red. Even after all this time Seonghwa still made him nervous.

“You’re the one being sentimental,” he muttered, his tone shy.

Seonghwa laughed softly, fondly, and Hongjoong found himself staring at him with admiration. He wanted to kiss him so badly, but they were still in public. So instead, he slipped his hand into Seonghwa’s under the table and changed the subject.

The meal stretched late into the evening, and when they finally left the restaurant, the air outside was cool, and the streets glowed with warm light that made everything feel a little more intimate. They walked side by side, close enough that their hands brushed with every step.

And then, by sheer coincidence, they passed by a jewelry store.

The window was lined with elegant displays of rings and necklaces. Seonghwa slowed when something caught his eye. A pair of rings. They weren’t exactly like the ones Hongjoong had designed for the group, but there was something about them that reminded him. He leaned closer to the glass, raised the hand where he had his ring, and smiled.

“It’s almost like we’re married, you know?” Seonghwa said while comparing them.

Hongjoong froze. It had been a while since Seonghwa had mentioned marriage, and now all those thoughts came rushing back. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was just the moment, but before he could think, the words tumbled out.

“Would you marry me?”

Seonghwa’s head whipped around in surprise, his eyes wide. “W-what?”

“I mean, sorry.” Hongjoong’s face flushed instantly, and he stumbled over his words. “That came out weird. It’s just… a few months ago, you seemed so interested in marriage.”

Seonghwa’s gaze softened as he turned back to the display. For a moment, he was quiet.

“I dreamed about it for a while,” he said softly, almost sad. “I’ve always liked the idea of marriage. I know it’s impossible for us, but still… I let myself imagine it, just for a moment.”

That tugged at something in Hongjoong’s chest. He wanted to give Seonghwa everything he wanted, and it hurt knowing this felt so far out of reach.

“In different circumstances, would you?” he asked, his voice smaller than before. Then, a little more insecurely: “With me?”

Seonghwa turned to look at him again, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Why are you putting so much emphasis on the ‘with me’?”

Hongjoong shrugged nervously, letting out a small laugh as he rubbed at his neck. “I don’t know. Just wondering.”

Seonghwa studied him for a long moment, then smiled and reached for his hand.

“Hongjoong, you are the only one,” he said quietly. “You’ll always be the only one. If I could choose, I’d spend this life and every other with you.” His thumb brushed over Hongjoong’s knuckles, then searched for his eyes and smiled.

“Of course I would marry you,” He finished, looking directly at Hongjoong.

Hongjoong felt the words settle deep in his chest, so raw and so full of certainty that they left him momentarily breathless. He felt his face burn, so he looked away, searching for anything to distract himself.

And when Hongjoong finally looked back, his eyes caught again on the jewelry store. His heart hammered in his chest, and he didn’t know where the courage came from, maybe from the wine, but the words tumbled out anyway.

“What would you think if, right now, I told you we should go in and buy rings?”

Seonghwa was startled. “What?”

“We should buy rings,” Hongjoong repeated, his voice steadier this time. “For you and me. If we can’t have anything more, at least… at least we’d have something that symbolizes our love… or whatever.”

Seonghwa glanced back at the display, then at Hongjoong again with wide eyes. The sight of Hongjoong’s face all red made him burst into laughter until Hongjoong nudged him in protest. Seonghwa’s eyes were still shining when he reached for Hongjoong’s arm, his touch gentle.

“Let’s go, then,” he murmured, tugging him toward the door, and Hongjoong’s heart nearly burst from the simple, devastating sweetness of it.

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped inside the jewelry store.  The light was warm, golden, reflecting off glass cases lined with rings that sparkled. It seemed luxurious. Hongjoong swallowed, suddenly feeling really nervous but determined, so he walked up to the counter.

“Good evening,” he said. “Could you show us some engagement rings?” he asked carefully, in his best English.

The young woman behind the counter smiled and nodded, laying out a selection on a velvet tray. Seonghwa got close, watching them attentively as Hongjoong asked question after question, about sizes, about designs, about durability, and some recommendations.

They tried on a few, but some were too plain, others too heavy. Honestly, the men's options weren't that great. But then Hongjoong spotted it: a band of white gold, sleek and elegant, with a small star set in the center of a single diamond. He didn't know how to describe it, but it was just too Seonghwa. The card read: 18ct White Gold Single Star Diamond Set Wedding Ring. 6mm Wide. Something about it caught his breath.

“Do you like this one?” Hongjoong asked Seonghwa in Korean.

He turned the ring between his fingers, and analyzed it for a moment, then smiled at Hongjoong.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Hongjoong made a mental note that later, when he had time, he’d design something more unique, something only Seonghwa could have. But for now, this felt perfect.

When the rings were chosen and fitted, Hongjoong hesitated before asking, “Um… could we engrave them inside now?” He glanced apologetically at the clerk. “We have to leave tomorrow morning.”

The woman glanced at the clock, biting her lip. “Normally, it takes longer. But…” She looked at the two of them, and gave them a soft smile. “We can make an exception. What do you want to engrave?”

Hongjoong’s heart leapt. “Just our initials.”

She nodded and gave them a paper to write them. They watched as the rings disappeared briefly, only to return with the faintest etching inside: KJH & PSH. Seonghwa held the small box carefully, like it was fragile.

After thanking the clerk profusely, they left the shop and wandered through the streets of Milan, feeling a bit awkward, the night air cool against their cheeks. Hongjoong was admiring the view, when he noticed the cathedral in the distance, and he had an idea.

“Come,” Hongjoong said suddenly, tugging Seonghwa’s arm, and together they walked toward it.

They found a quieter spot around the back, where only a few passersby drifted through. They were lucky it was a Tuesday since there were less tourists. 

After settling in silence, they opened the small box. Seonghwa was the first to move, he grabbed the ring with his initials and slid the ring onto Hongjoong’s finger. Then Hongjoong did the same with the other ring, his throat tightening as the cool metal met Seonghwa’s skin.

For a moment, they just stood there, looking down at their hands, then back at each other. Hongjoong saw Seonghwa’s eyes glistening, and it broke him in the gentlest way.

“I’ll design you something better later,” Hongjoong said to ease the tension a bit.

Seonghwa shook his head, and Hongjoong noticed some tears on the corner of his eye. “I love this one.”

Something inside Hongjoong ached with the need to close the space between them. He glanced around. When he confirmed they were alone, he reached up, cupped Seonghwa’s cheek, and guided him down just enough to press his lips to his.

Seonghwa laughed softly against his mouth when their glasses got in their way, so they took them off and kissed again. But when they pulled apart, some tears spilled down Seonghwa's cheeks.

“No, no, don’t cry,” Hongjoong whispered, feeling panic and affection colliding as he brushed Seonghwa’s face with his trembling fingers.

“I can’t help it,” he said, shaking his head. “I just… I’m so thankful, Hongjoong. For you. For the way you always take care of me, even when you don’t realize you’re doing it. For the way you see me. You have no idea how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Hongjoong’s eyes burned instantly, and he felt his throat closing. “Stop, now you’re making me cry.”

Seonghwa laughed again, and pulled Hongjoong into a tight embrace, and stayed like that. Two men pressed close under the shadow of the cathedral, both wiping at their faces and laughing, Hongjoong thought about how ridiculous they must look to anyone passing by, but didn't care.

When they finally stopped crying, they walked back toward the hotel. Their hands brushed until Seonghwa laced their fingers together, and admired their rings. 

The moment they stepped into the apartment, Seonghwa closed the door behind them and captured Hongjoong’s lips in a kiss. They spent the whole day with stolen glances, light touches, and the urge to kiss that had now built up too much to hold back any longer.

Hongjoong’s hands found Seonghwa’s waist, pulling him closer as they kissed, soft at first, then with more urgency, trying to make up for all the moments they had restrained themselves. Gently, he guided Seonghwa toward the bed, slipping off their jackets as they walked.

Halfway there, Hongjoong nearly tripped over the pair of shoes he had left on the floor that morning. They stumbled together and laughed into the kiss, then Hongjoong steadied them both, his hands firm on Seonghwa’s hips, and rested his forehead against the taller man’s as they stopped laughing. 

After a moment, Hongjoong guided Seonghwa the final few steps to the bed, letting him sink back into the soft duvet. He followed him down, bracing himself on his arms above him, and simply looked.

The moonlight from the window spilled over Seonghwa, carving his elegant form from the shadows. His silver hair making his honey skin stand out. Hongjoong’s heart swelled as he felt a wave of overwhelming affection that stole his breath. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek, then to the corner of his mouth, feeling Seonghwa’s smile.

He began his descent. His hands found the hem of Seonghwa’s shirt, and as he pushed it up, Seonghwa arched his back to help, the fabric slipping away to reveal the smooth plane of his chest. Hongjoong’s lips followed the path his hands had made. He pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, then his tongue darted out to taste his skin before he moved to a nipple, circling it slowly, while his fingers gave attention to the other, earning a soft moan from Seonghwa.

He continued his worship, mapping the defined muscles of Seonghwa’s stomach with his lips and the tip of his nose, inhaling his clean, familiar scent. God, he drives me crazy, Hongjoong thought. He was obsessed with Seonghwa's abs.

Then a hand gently cupped his jaw, stopping him. Seonghwa drew him back up, and captured his lips in a deep kiss.

“Take your shirt off,” Seonghwa said when they parted, tugging at his shirt.

Hongjoong complied, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. But before he could reclaim Seonghwa’s lips, he rolled them over, reversing their positions. Hongjoong looked up and he saw Seonghwa smirking as he settled his weight over Hongjoong’s hips.

His hands went to Hongjoong’s pants, making quick work of the button and zipper. He tugged them down, just enough to free him. Hongjoong was already half-hard, feeling the anticipation coiling in his stomach. Seonghwa bent his head, and Hongjoong gasped as he felt the hot, wet press of Seonghwa’s tongue through the thin cotton of his boxers, tracing his length.

“Seonghwa,” he breathed, his hips giving an involuntary jerk.

Seonghwa just smiled, and began to palm him slowly over the fabric, teasing him. He scattered kisses along Hongjoong’s inner thighs, making him shudder. It was maddening.

“Stop teasing me,” Hongjoong pleaded, his voice strained as he threw an arm over his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation and the intensity of Seonghwa’s focus.

He felt the bed dip as Seonghwa moved over him, and wrapped his fingers gently around his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. 

Seonghwa leaned close, and murmured to Hongjoong's ear, “Don’t hide, baby.”

The pet name sent an immediate, electric jolt through Hongjoong. Ever since Seonghwa had developed an obsession with the song ‘Angel Baby,’ he had started to call Hongjoong like that in private, and it never failed to make his heart clench.

Seonghwa kept hold of Hongjoong’s hand, his thumb stroking over the silver ring on his finger. He brought Hongjoong’s knuckles to his lips and pressed a soft kiss there, his eyes locked with Hongjoong’s. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that Hongjoong held his breath.

Then, Seonghwa guided Hongjoong’s index and middle fingers to his own mouth. He didn't stop the eye contact as he first licked them slowly, then took them into the warm, wet heat of his mouth, sucking gently.

“Fuck,” Hongjoong choked out, his mind short-circuiting. He really knew how to undo Hongjoong completely.

Seonghwa continued, his tongue swirling until Hongjoong was squirming, his cock fully hard now. He could take no more.

“Baby,” Hongjoong managed to use the same nickname, but his voice was rough. “Bring the lube. It’s in my bag, front pocket.”

Seonghwa gave his fingers one last, slow suck before releasing them with a soft pop, and there was a satisfied smile on his lips. He leaned in, kissed Hongjoong, and whispered, “Okay.”

Without another word, he slipped off the bed to retrieve it, the moonlight tracing the elegant lines of his back as he moved, leaving Hongjoong breathless.

He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and when Seonghwa returned with the small bottle in his hand, Hongjoong reached for him. His hands found Seonghwa's waist, pulling him close, and he gently rested his head against Seonghwa's stomach, to avoid his gaze when he couldn't stop his words.

"I love you," Hongjoong whispered into the quiet room.

Seonghwa stilled for a moment, surprised. Hongjoong rarely said it aloud. Seonghwa smiled softly as he straightened up, his hand coming up to brush gently Hongjoong's disheveled hair.

"I love you too," Seonghwa murmured making Hongjoong smile in relief before he pulled away. He shifted, pushing his pants the rest of the way down his legs and kicking them off, then settled back against the mattress, guiding Seonghwa to straddle his thighs.

Seonghwa leaned in, capturing Hongjoong's mouth in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. It was a slow, exploring kiss, his tongue tracing Hongjoong's lips before slipping inside, the rhythm lazy and intoxicating. As they kissed, Hongjoong felt some pressure against his thigh. It was a subtle, rocking friction, and that’s when he realized that Seonghwa was rubbing himself against his leg.

Hongjoong broke the kiss with a soft, startled sound, his eyes flying open to look at Seonghwa in surprise.

"Why did you stop?" Seonghwa asked, his voice filled with need.

"Keep going," Hongjoong ordered in a rough voice. "Do that again."

Seonghwa looked confused for a second before his eyes drifted down to where their bodies were connected, and a faint blush colored his cheeks.

"Oh, that," he said, a little flustered, and resumed the movement, this time slower, more conscious. The deliberate, sensual roll of his hips made Hongjoong's breath catch. While he was looking, he realized that it must feel a bit uncomfortable.

"Wait," he said, grabbing the lube from where Seonghwa had dropped it beside them. He poured a generous amount into his palm, warming it for a moment before his slick hand circled Seonghwa's length, making Seonghwa hiss at the contact.

"Hongjoong—" he said as he grabbed Hongjoong’s shoulders to support himself, while biting his lips.  

"Just keep going," Hongjoong replied, his gaze dark and intense. He loved watching Seonghwa like this.

Seonghwa, as always, didn't question him. He simply obeyed, his movements becoming smoother, more fluid as he rocked into Hongjoong's tigh. When his eyes met Hongjoong's stare, he laughed softly, feeling a bit self-conscious.

"It's a little embarrassing," he admitted, his cheeks flushed.

"No," Hongjoong replied while brushing some of the hair off his face. "It's so fucking hot, baby."

Embarassed, Seonghwa leaned down to kiss him again, a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he continued to move. Hongjoong's free hand, the one without the ring, found the bottle again. He coated his fingers, and while Seonghwa was lost in the rhythm of their kiss and his own pleasure, Hongjoong's slick fingers found their way down, circling Seonghwa's rim, and applied some pressure.

Seonghwa gasped into his mouth, a sharp, loud moan escaping before he could stop it. He immediately clapped a hand over his own lips after he realized they were still at the hotel. The walls looked thin.

Hongjoong only smirked, "Don't stop," he commanded softly.

The new contact made Seonghwa shudder, his movements becoming more erratic. When he rocked back, the tip of Hongjoong's finger slipped inside, making them both gasp. Hongjoong didn't hesitate; he worked the finger in deeper, then added a second, scissoring and stretching him open. Seonghwa bit down on his own lip, hard, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out, but the ragged pace of his breathing told Hongjoong everything he needed to know.

So, Hongjoong searched inside him until he brushed over that specific bundle of nerves. Seonghwa cried out, and buried his face in the crook of Hongjoong's neck, his teeth sinking into the skin of his shoulder to muffle another loud moan.

Hongjoong continued the relentless, gentle pressure, crooking his fingers just so. Then he added a third, stretching him more and that was all it took. Seonghwa came apart against him with a broken sob, spilling over Hongjoong's stomach and his own. Hongjoong held him through it, his fingers moving slowly inside him until the last of the aftershocks had passed, leaving Seonghwa boneless and trembling against him.

Hongjoong carefully withdrew his fingers, drawing a whimper from Seonghwa. He then gently maneuvered the man, laying him back against the pillows. Hongjoong covered his body with his own, capturing his mouth in a series of deep kisses, swallowing his shaky breaths until he felt Seonghwa's heart begin to steady under his palm. Seonghwa broke the kiss, pressing a soft peck to Hongjoong's cheek.

"Continue," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Hongjoong nodded and leaned in for one more kiss before reaching for the lube bottle again. He poured a fresh pool into his own palm, slicking himself with a few strokes. He settled between Seonghwa's parted thighs, the head of his cock against him. He teased for a moment, just a gentle, persistent pressure, watching Seonghwa’s frustrated expression.

"Hongjoong," Seonghwa called, his hips involuntarily arching. "Move."

Hongjoong smiled, then pushed in, slowly, burying himself until he was fully sheathed. He paused, letting them both adjust, his forehead dropping to Seonghwa's as he fought for control. When Seonghwa patted his back, he started to move.

What followed was a rhythm that was both hot and profoundly intimate. It wasn't frantic but deep, a perfect synchronization of their bodies. Hongjoong's hand, the one bearing his ring, was braced on the pillow beside Seonghwa's head. He looked at the glint of metal against the pale sheets, then back at Seonghwa's blissful face. Overwhelmed by a wave of tenderness, he laced their fingers together, pressing their joined hands into the mattress.

Seonghwa's eyes drifted down to their linked hands, and a beautiful and dazed smile spread across his lips just as he moaned softly. The sight and the feel of it were almost too much for Hongjoong. He could feel his own climax coiling tight in his gut.

"I'm close," he warned, and moved a hand to stroke Seonghwa in time with his thrusts, wanting to bring him over the edge too.

As Hongjoong's movements became more urgent, he started to pull out, but Seonghwa's reaction was immediate. His legs, which were wrapped around Hongjoong's waist, locked tightly, holding him in place.

"Inside," he pleaded insistently. "Please, ah, come inside."

The raw desire in Seonghwa's voice shattered the last of Hongjoong's control. With a guttural groan, he spilled deep inside him, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release. He hid his face in the damp skin of Seonghwa's neck, his hips making tiny, involuntary jerks as he rode out the last waves of his pleasure. But his hand never stopped moving on Seonghwa, stroking him faster, and it only took a few more seconds for Seonghwa to come, his body arching off the bed before collapsing back, spent and trembling.

They lay like that for a long while, simply trying to remember how to breathe. The air was filled with the scent of sex and their mingled sweat.

Finally, Hongjoong softened and carefully slipped out, eliciting a soft whine from both of them. He brushed the hair back from Seonghwa's forehead.

"Let's take a shower," he said.

Seonghwa made a noise of complaint, too comfortable and boneless to move, but then he shifted and felt the stickiness of the bed, so he sighed.

"Help me up," he said as he lifted his weak arm towards Hongjoong.

Hongjoong smiled and pulled him up, supporting most of his weight as they made their way to the bathroom and showered.

After the shower, they returned to the bedroom, and settled back onto the bed after getting rid of the duvet. Seonghwa curled around Hongjoong, his chest against his back. The rhythm of their breathing synced, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

Then Seonghwa reached for Hongjoong’s hand, intertwining their fingers again, and admired the silver rings glinting in the soft light. They stayed like that, just looking until Seonghwa spoke.

“What would you think if we had a ceremony?” he suggested, insecure.

Hongjoong turned slightly and looked at him. “A ceremony?”

Seonghwa nodded. “Yeah, just a private ceremony. We only invite our friends and those close to us. We could do it outside Korea to make it safer.”

Hongjoong stayed quiet for a moment, thinking about it. Seonghwa squeezed his hand gently.

“If you aren’t sure, we don’t have to,” he reassured Hongjoong. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just thought it could be nice. Not that we need a ceremony or rings to show our love, but…” He glanced down at their fingers, and his voice softened. “I think it would be beautiful.”

Hongjoong followed his gaze to the silver bands. The idea wasn’t bad at all, far from it. In fact, he liked it.

“Let’s do it,” he murmured after a few seconds. “We have time to plan it.”

Seonghwa’s face lit up instantly, his eyes shining with a brightness that made Hongjoong’s chest tighten. Overwhelmed, Seonghwa hid his face against Hongjoong’s chest, letting out a quiet, almost inaudible “Thanks.”

I’m the one that’s grateful to have you in my life, Hongjoong thought, as he tightened his arms around him, holding him close and letting the quiet happiness wash over them. 

They decided to keep their ceremony a secret, at least until they had more details. Sometimes they wore their rings; other times they didn’t. Hongjoong especially only wore his on special occasions; partly because he was terrified of losing it, and partly because it felt too intimate to wear in public all the time.

One evening, after filming an episode, all the members went out for dinner together. It had been a while since they’d done something so simple like going to a restaurant together without filming it. Hongjoong was listening to Jongho talking about a place he visited recently when something caught his attention.

“Wait,” he heard Wooyoung say, grabbing Seonghwa’s hand before he could reach for his drink. “Is this your birthday MD ring?”

Hongjoong froze where he sat across from them, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.

Seonghwa looked down at their joined hands, then laughed softly. “No, it’s not,” he said, pulling his hand back gently and turning toward San, who was talking with him before.

Hongjoong exhaled in relief, then continued listening to Jongho. They went on for a few minutes in peace before there was a sharp gasp from Wooyoung’s side of the table, followed by a strangled sound that made everyone stop talking.

“WHAT?!”

The entire restaurant went silent for a second, and even the staff glanced over. Wooyoung was staring at Seonghwa in surprise, with his mouth hanging open. Then he turned toward Hongjoong and pointed dramatically.

“Y-you…”

“Don’t point at me,” Hongjoong said quickly, already on edge.

But Wooyoung wasn’t listening. He held something up in his hand: the ring.

“When did you even slip it off?!” Seonghwa hissed, trying to grab it back.

“Their initials are carved in it!” Wooyoung said, showing the ring to the other members, who leaned forward.

There they were, clear as day, carved neatly on the inside: KJH & PSH.

Yunho examined the ring, then he seemed to remember something and looked at Hongjoong with wide eyes.

“Wait… is this just a normal ring or…?” he asked.

The panic in Hongjoong’s eyes must have said everything, because suddenly the whole table gasped in unison.

“Shut up!” Jongho whispered. “There are people around!”

Nobody said anything for a few seconds, but every member was staring between Hongjoong and Seonghwa, waiting for one of them to speak.

Seonghwa sighed and turned to Hongjoong, his eyes quietly asking if they should just tell them. Hongjoong exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He glanced around the restaurant and noticed that their managers were already alert, scanning for cameras or some curious onlookers. When one of them gave a subtle nod to indicate that it was safe, he sighed again and pulled out his phone.

He scrolled for a moment, then found the picture he’d taken the day after they bought the rings, where Seonghwa’s hand was resting in his, and both rings glowed under the light. He showed it to the others, covering part of his face with his free hand as if that could somehow shield him from the attention.

The photo was beautiful, and seeing it now made his chest warm, but being this exposed so suddenly, when he hadn’t even been ready, felt like too much. The others gasped as the phone made its way around the table, each of them reacting with varying degrees of disbelief and delight.

“And you weren’t even planning to tell us?” Wooyoung said in a whisper that still somehow everyone heard, his tone halfway between offended and shocked.

“It’s not like that,” Seonghwa said quickly. “We were going to tell you, just when we were ready.” He put extra emphasis on the last word.

All of them muttered an “oh” in perfect unison, looking a little sheepish.

“Sorry,” Wooyoung replied after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s fine,” Hongjoong sighed. “At least now we don’t have to plan another dinner just to tell you.”

“But is it like a wedd—” Mingi started before Yeosang immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.

“They’ll tell us in private,” Yeosang said quickly, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard.

The rest of the dinner felt awkward. Everyone clearly wanted to ask more, but none of them dared while they were still in public. When the waiter came back a few minutes later, Yunho ordered a bottle of wine, and by the time it arrived, the tension had softened.

“To… whatever this is,” Yunho said, raising his glass while laughing. “To our hyungs.”

They all echoed the toast, also laughing as their glasses clinked together.

Hongjoong felt his face burn with embarrassment and ducked his head, but in front of him, Seonghwa was smiling so widely his eyes nearly disappeared. And, in that moment, he realized that if Seonghwa could be this happy forever, nothing else mattered.

Later that night, they all decided to head to Seonghwa and San’s dorm to keep talking. Lately, it had become their usual meeting spot, especially for Hongjoong, who seemed to find any excuse to drop by whenever he could.

They gathered in the small living room; the others sat down on the couch, with Seonghwa and Hongjoong standing at the front. Hongjoong felt like when he was in trouble with his parents for a moment. He sighed, rubbing at his ear before speaking.

“So,” he began carefully, “we’re not getting married.”

Wooyoung booed, and Hongjoong shot him a look.

“We can’t,” Seonghwa added, smiling faintly. “Not officially, anyway.”

“But,” Hongjoong continued, “we were thinking about a small ceremony, in private. Just for our close ones, and maybe abroad.”

“And…?” San asked.

“That’s all we have for now. We’ll tell you the details later,” Hongjoong replied.

The members looked at each other before Yunho congratulated them, and they all followed, hugging them, teasing them, demanding details. Eventually, they pulled the couple down to sit on the couch, peppering them with questions about when, where, and how long they’d been planning it, all the way until midnight.

San was the first to yawn and mutter that he was too sleepy, which made everyone laugh. They all left after that, but Hongjoong decided to spend the night again. As Seonghwa fell asleep beside him, Hongjoong thought about how they would need their own place soon.

Planning the ceremony was harder than they thought. Their schedules were impossibly packed. And, even after more than seven years in the industry, both of them still struggled to draw the line between work and personal life. They slipped into their idol routines too easily, always rehearsing, recording, or traveling.

After hours of frustration scrolling through venues and endless emails, they decided to take a break and put on a movie. If finding places in their own country was already too complicated, looking abroad, where they didn’t even know the right contacts, felt impossible.

Hongjoong was lying against Seonghwa’s shoulder, absentmindedly watching videos of wedding locations on his phone while Seonghwa did yet another Star Wars rewatch while eating a cake San bought for him.

“Baby,” Seonghwa called, and Hongjoong hummed in response. “Do you remember the lake we went to in Italy?”

Hongjoong frowned a little, thinking, then smiled as the name came to him. “Lake Como.”

Seonghwa nodded, glancing back at the TV. “Look, it’s the same one!”

Hongjoong looked up from his phone, blinking in surprise when he saw the scene on screen. If he remembered correctly, it was Padmé and Anakin’s wedding; he remembered their names from too many rewatches with Seonghwa. The scenery was breathtaking, but Hongjoong couldn’t believe it was the same lake.

“Wait, that’s Lake Como?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said with a small laugh. “I was going to ask if we could go that day, remember? But I think it was closed.”

Hongjoong hummed and continued looking for venues, he was getting a bit frustrated since he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for.

A few minutes later, Seonghwa spoke again. “Do you like it?”

“What?” Hongjoong looked back at him. “Lake Como?”

Seonghwa nodded.

“Yeah,” Hongjoong replied. “Why?”

Seonghwa only shrugged, looking back at the screen. “Just wondering.”

Hongjoong smiled faintly and returned his attention to his phone. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that the realization hit him. Of course, that’s why Seonghwa was asking.

He turned abruptly. “Wait,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You want to have the ceremony at Lake Como, don’t you?”

Seonghwa froze, caught off guard, then laughed. “It took you long enough.”

“You could’ve just said so,” Hongjoong groaned.

“I wanted to be sure you liked it too,” Seonghwa replied, still smiling. “I didn’t want to decide for both of us.”

Hongjoong shook his head. “Anywhere you choose is fine with me.”

That made Seonghwa’s smile soften, and he kissed Hongjoong’s forehead before turning back to the movie.

Hongjoong was now determined to start looking up more about Lake Como, while Seonghwa peeked over his shoulder occasionally. When they came across videos of weddings held at Villa del Balbianello, which Hongjoong discovered was the same location as the movie, they both agreed that it was perfect. They exchanged a look, and without needing to say it out loud, they knew that would be the place.

The problem was that, between rehearsals, recordings, and flights, the idea of planning a ceremony started to feel more like a distant dream.

Seonghwa and Hongjoong tried to keep up with the logistics at first, but eventually they realized it wasn’t sustainable. They barely had time to rest, let alone plan something as detailed as a ‘wedding’ ceremony abroad. So, feeling a bit guilty, Hongjoong decided to ask for help.

He and Seonghwa brought it up to the manager they trusted most, and at first, Hongjoong felt awkward explaining what they needed, fumbling with his words, but the manager only smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

He was surprisingly calm about the whole thing and promised to reach out to some international contacts and handle the initial communication, so they could focus on their activities.

But something that made Hongjoong even more nervous than the ceremony itself was the thought of telling their parents. They had decided to rent and invite them to a restaurant to share the news. Their families wouldn’t suspect, since they often went out together, and it felt like the perfect moment to finally tell them.

They were getting ready in Seonghwa’s room, fixing their suits in front of the mirror. Then Seonghwa turned, brushing a few strands of Hongjoong’s orange hair into place before cupping his cheeks gently.

“Don’t be nervous, baby,” he said softly while his thumb traced Hongjoong’s jaw.

Hongjoong looked up at him, his cheeks already warming. He covered Seonghwa’s hands with his own and sighed.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “It’s just… I know our parents have always been supportive, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s dumb, but I’m still scared.”

Seonghwa smiled in that same way that always managed to steady him and took Hongjoong’s hand, pressing it against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath his palm.

“It’s okay, I’m nervous too,” he leaned forward just enough for their foreheads to touch. “But everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Then, he kissed him, and Hongjoong felt his heartbeat start to settle.

They left the apartment soon after, saying goodbye to San, who hugged them both tightly and wished them good luck.

Hongjoong drove them to the restaurant, but the traffic was heavier than usual, the slow movement of cars only making him more nervous. He had to admit, the reason he was this tense wasn’t just because of the news, it was because he’d been preparing a speech for days. He memorized every word, rehearsed, and rewrote it in his head a hundred times.

The ride was quiet, and normally, the silence between them was comfortable, but this time it felt different. Hongjoong kept his focus on the road, reciting his speech in his mind while Seonghwa watched the city lights flash across the window, his expression calm, though Hongjoong could tell he was nervous too.

They arrived earlier than expected and, after confirming that everything was ready, they were led to the private room they’d reserved. It was warm and softly lit, tucked away from the main area. They sat side by side, and Hongjoong could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Seonghwa’s family arrived first; his mother, father, and brother all smiled brightly as they hugged the two of them. Not long after, Hongjoong’s parents and brother appeared and immediately started chatting. Their families had known each other for a while now, and ever since they started dating, their mothers had become almost inseparable. After ordering, Hongjoong’s mother leaned toward Seonghwa with a fond smile.

“You’ve been well, right, Seonghwa-ssi? You look so handsome tonight.”

Seonghwa chuckled softly. “I’ve been doing fine, thank you.”

“You’ve been glowing lately,” she teased, glancing between them. “I hope my son’s treating you well.”

“Mom…” Hongjoong groaned, his ears turning bright red as Seonghwa laughed quietly beside him.

Dinner went smoothly, at least on the surface. Hongjoong tried to join in on the conversation, but the knot in his stomach wouldn’t loosen. His leg bounced restlessly beneath the table until Seonghwa rested a hand on his thigh, rubbing gentle circles until he finally stilled.

It wasn’t until they ordered dessert that Seonghwa turned toward him with a small nod. That was the moment. Hongjoong exhaled deeply and nodded back, his palms slightly damp as he intertwined his fingers with Seonghwa’s.

“We have something to tell you,” Seonghwa began, his voice a little shaky. Every face turned toward them, and Hongjoong could feel him stiffen, so he squeezed his hand before clearing his throat.

“I’ve been trying to find the right words for this,” Hongjoong said softly. “And honestly, I don’t think there’s a perfect way. So I’ll just say it the way it feels right.”

He hesitated, glancing down before smiling faintly.

“I, uh… I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for weeks. I wrote it down once, deleted it, rewrote it again, then thought it sounded too dramatic which, I guess, is very me.”

A few quiet laughs broke the tension, and that gave him the courage to look up again. Seonghwa looked a little confused, so he reassured him with a soft smile.

“I know this might sound sudden, but it’s not. It’s something we’ve felt for a long time. We’re planning to hold a ceremony for ourselves.”

Everyone looked shocked, so he took a slow breath, his voice steadying.

“When I met Seonghwa, I didn’t know how much he’d change me. I was scared to start this path… honestly, I still am sometimes. I know I’ve made mistakes, that I might’ve hurt him or the members with my actions. But through everything, he’s been there. Always.”

He glanced at his parents and saw the tears already forming in his mother’s eyes.

“Sometimes he doesn’t even need to say a word, just one look, and I know everything’s going to be okay. You don’t get that kind of person often, or that kind of love.” His voice cracked slightly, and he looked directly at Seonghwa’s eye before saying, “He’s like… he’s really my soulmate.”

Seonghwa seemed confused, surprised, and on the verge of tears at the same time. So Hongjoong started to rub small circles on his hand before continuing.

“I know we choose a difficult path in life. I know people talk, and I know sometimes things aren’t fair. That’s why what we’re planning will be private, just a small ceremony abroad with no cameras, just us, and the people who love us.”

He paused to catch his breath, his voice trembling but more convinced now.

“I’m not asking for permission, because love doesn’t really need it. But I am asking for your blessing. I want to start this next part of my life with him, knowing that both our families are behind us. That you’ll still see us as your sons, and accept us.”

He smiled nervously, blinking back tears.

“I can’t promise we’ll have a perfect life. I can’t promise we won’t fight or mess up or struggle with the weight of what we do. But I can promise I’ll love him through all of it. I’ll take care of him when the world feels heavy. I’ll make sure he never forgets how incredible he is, not just the idol Seonghwa, but Park Seonghwa. The one who acts childish sometimes, who worries too much, who works himself too hard for the things he loves. That’s the man I fell in love with. That’s the man I want to grow old with.”

He turned to Seonghwa, who was now crying, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“You make me want to be a better person. You make everything worth it.”

Then, looking back at everyone, he exhaled shakily.

“I know it might sound crazy, but even if all we can have is this, it’s still enough for me. Because I’d rather have one quiet forever with him than a lifetime of anything else.”

The room fell completely silent. For a few seconds, the only sound was the soft clink of a glass being set down and Seonghwa’s thumb brushing over Hongjoong’s hand. Then Hongjoong let out a shaky breath, trying not to cry.

“So… that’s what I wanted to say,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “That I love him. That I really, really do. And even if we can’t have a real wedding, we still want to treat our ceremony like one.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Seonghwa’s mother let out a quiet sob.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she whispered, covering her mouth with trembling fingers. Seonghwa’s father reached over to hold her hand.

Seonghwa turned to him and whispered, “You didn’t tell me you were going to say all that.”

Hongjoong laughed softly, wiping his cheek. “If I told you, I wouldn’t have been able to get through it.”

The sight of both their families crying was too much. Even his father and brother were tearing up, something he’d never seen before. Seonghwa’s mother reached across the table and took both their hands in hers.

“You don’t need our blessing,” she said gently. “Because you already have it. From the first moment I saw how you looked at each other, I knew.” Her voice broke. “Just promise me you’ll take care of each other. That’s all any of us could want.”

Hongjoong nodded quickly, unable to speak, so Seonghwa squeezed his hand and whispered, “We will.”

“And Seonghwa-ssi,” Hongjoong’s mother said, smiling through her tears. “Thank you for loving my son and taking care of him. We feel at peace knowing there’s someone out there who loves him as much as we do.”

That was it. Hongjoong broke completely, tears spilling freely down his face as Seonghwa reached over to wipe them away. The pressure from all week seemed to ease right there.

“Hey,” Seonghwa murmured with a shaky smile, “you did so good.”

When Hongjoong finally looked up again, both families were smiling through their own tears, and he felt relieved. Suddenly, the waiter opened the door to bring in the dessert, but froze mid-step at the sight of everyone crying. Seonghwa’s older brother laughed, wiping his eyes.

“Let’s get a bottle to celebrate,” he said, and the waiter relaxed, nodding quickly.

The rest of the night unfolded softly. Their parents began exchanging ideas for the ceremony, while they celebrated with wine. And through it all, Seonghwa never once let go of Hongjoong’s hand.

A few days later, the manager called them with news: he had found an Italian wedding planner who specialized in queer weddings, and she had experience in planning private ceremonies for couples like them. She was a woman their age; she seemed kind, soft-spoken, and immediately made them feel comfortable.

Because of the time difference, their meetings had to happen whenever both sides were awake, which sometimes were in the middle of the night after a concert, and other times, it was in the early morning before a flight. Seonghwa was sitting beside Hongjoong with his hair still messy, both of them trying not to yawn while discussing the floral arrangements and lighting options. But despite how exhausting it could be, those calls became something they quietly looked forward to.

The reservation at Villa del Balbianello had already been confirmed for March 25th, 2026. The venue only allowed private rentals on days it was closed to the public, which meant their ceremony would have to be on a weekday. It wasn’t ideal, but they didn’t care. It was enough that they had a date. They had exactly ten months to prepare and clear their schedule.

After every show, when they were packing up or traveling to the next city, Hongjoong would open his sketchbook. He had visited several stores in different countries while touring, wandering through the aisles of designer suits, touching fabrics, and taking mental notes. But none of them felt right. None of them felt like them.

So one night, in their hotel room in Japan, he told Seonghwa, “I think I want to design our suits myself.”

Seonghwa looked up from his phone, surprised.

“Are you sure about it?” he asked. “You’re designing the rings too.”

Hongjoong smiled. “You’d wear something I made, right?”

“Of course,” Seonghwa said immediately, with a big smile. “I’d be honored to.”

From that point on, Hongjoong started sketching more seriously. In every city, he’d find inspiration and start building the designs. Seonghwa had told him that he preferred a white suit, while Hongjoong preferred a black one, and it was easy from there.

The rings, however, were a bit harder to design. He and Seonghwa discussed ideas constantly, but nothing seemed to appeal to both of them. They even ended up asking for suggestions in the group chat with the members, who immediately started brainstorming. Mingi sent a reel full of wedding ring ideas, but they wanted something more original, yet subtle enough that it wouldn’t be obvious it was a wedding ring.

Then Wooyoung suggested, “Seonghwa-hyung likes stars, right, so why not design some constellation rings?”

They paused at that, considering it. After looking through a few references, they liked the idea. It wasn’t too obvious, and they could always say that they were like friendship rings, but still carry a piece of each other.

After consulting with an expert to guide him through the details, Hongjoong started sketching them. When he finally showed the finished design to Seonghwa, the older man was in awe. The rings would be crafted in silver, one engraved with Scorpio’s constellation and the other with Aries’, their names inscribed beneath. It was simple, but deeply intimate.

Seonghwa, meanwhile, handled the more practical side. He coordinated with their planner about flowers, lighting, and decor, making sure the theme stayed simple. They both agreed that they didn’t want the ceremony to feel like a spectacle. Whenever they had breaks, they’d sit together and scroll through venue photos or color palettes, discussing them quietly.

And slowly, as the months went by, what once felt like a faraway dream started to take shape.

The villa was quiet that morning, making Hongjoong’s heart race faster than anything ever had. Outside, the air smelled faintly of spring rain and lavender, and through the open windows came the hum of staff preparing for the evening. The stylists unpacked garment bags, the coordinators moved around, and somewhere down the hall, he could see Yeosang and Wooyoung looking at the lake.

It felt like a calm day, but of course, no one was calm. Hongjoong sat on the couch, fixing the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t even supposed to get dressed yet; the ceremony was still hours away, but he couldn’t sit still. Every few minutes, he’d glance toward the window, expecting to see Seonghwa outside, walking across the garden.

He wanted to see him so badly.

But Seonghwa had insisted earlier that morning that it would be special only until the ceremony. Hongjoong had pouted for a good five minutes before giving in when Seonghwa had just laughed and kissed his cheek.

Hongjoong was almost ready when he heard a soft knock on the door. He turned, and before he could open it, his parents and brother stepped in. His mom immediately pulled him into a tight hug, and his dad followed right after, both of them squeezing him so hard that he was sure he saw stars for a moment.

“Oh, god,” his mom said, her voice already trembling a little. “You look so handsome.”

His father nodded with a small smile. “Since we arrived yesterday, we’ve been walking around the area. You couldn’t have found a place more beautiful than this.”

“It really is beautiful,” Hongjoong nodded while smiling, glancing toward the window where the sunlight spilled through, painting the walls gold. His brother patted him on the back, then hugged him too.

His mom looked at him for a long moment, starting to brush his hair and help him with the final touches while his father and brother took in the view from the window. After a moment of silence, she spoke again.

“To be honest, when you told me you’d become an idol, I realized that maybe I wouldn’t see my son get married soon. And when you told me you were gay, well… I lost all hope.” They laughed at that. “I just hoped that you could find someone who loved you as much as we do. We know you tend to isolate yourself, and asking for help is even more difficult for you, so I prayed every day that you could find someone who could support you, and make you happy. I’m glad my prayers were heard.”

Hongjoong suddenly felt the lump in his throat rise before he could stop it, and he could feel a few tears spilling before he could even try to hide them. His mom laughed gently and wiped his face before hugging him again.

“Okay, okay,” she whispered, comforting him softly. “I’ll give you a minute… Oh, sounds like your members are here.”

Hongjoong heard their voices outside, then a knock on the door. His mom looked at him, and he nodded, so his brother went to open the door, surprising his friends. They all peeked in, greeting them politely. His family hugged Hongjoong one last time, then headed out, but his mom smiled at them before saying, “Take care of him for me, okay?”

They all nodded and chorused a cheerful “Of course!” before stepping inside. But as soon as they saw Hongjoong’s tear-stained face, they started laughing.

“Hyung, already crying?” Wooyoung teased, walking over.

“Shut up,” Hongjoong said while covering his face, waving them off.

That only made them laugh harder, and soon enough, he was pulled into a group hug that Hongjoong couldn’t pretend to hate. When he finally looked up, he noticed all of them dressed in matching black suits, each tailored with a bit of their individual flair.

“You all look good,” Hongjoong said, brushing his eyes quickly.

“So do you,” Yeosang replied. “Seriously, you designed this?”

Hongjoong nodded, smoothing his jacket with pride. His blonde hair was a contrast to his all black suit. He designed it with flared pants and a structured blazer with subtle detailing, made from the best fabric he could find. He wanted something simple for today, yet something that felt very him.

They all complimented it, making him a bit shy.

“We saw Seonghwa hyung before, by the way,” Mingi said after a while, making Hongjoong turn to him quickly.

“You did? How is he?” he asked.

“He’s been ready for a while now,” Yunho answered, laughing. “He’s with his mom right now, but he looked calm. Like... really calm.”

Hongjoong was a bit caught off guard. If he was being honest, he was one second away from throwing up from anxiety. He wondered if Seonghwa was just in that same mode he got into before performing, where he prepared himself with so much anticipation that he looked perfectly composed.

They chatted for a bit longer, and Hongjoong honestly appreciated it. Spending time with his members seemed to ease the tension he felt. But it wasn’t until one of the coordinators knocked to let them know it was almost time that Hongjoong took one last deep breath, fixed his jacket, and followed them out.

Downstairs, the small team of staff they trusted was putting together the final touches; arranging the flowers, adjusting the lights, and making sure the chairs aligned perfectly. There were barely ten people, but they were people they trusted completely.

As Hongjoong stepped closer to the venue, he caught sight of the view. The lake shimmering beneath the late afternoon sun, the soft breeze carrying the scent of fresh water and flowers. He stopped for a moment, just taking it in.

Even though he and Seonghwa had visited a month earlier to check everything, seeing it now decorated with tables, floral arrangements, and all, felt unreal. The beautiful arches of the ancient loggia framed the scene perfectly, their stone covered in soft cascades of white and blush flowers that intertwined with ivy. It was more beautiful than he remembered, and somehow, knowing that Seonghwa was just beyond that aisle, waiting for him, made it feel like the most perfect place in the world.

The ceremony officially started at six p.m. The staff were doing the last arrangements, while the hum of string instruments echoed through the garden. Hongjoong had spent the past hour greeting guests with the members by his side, but he honestly didn’t know if he was fully conscious. He just smiled and bowed automatically, feeling like he was in a dream. His parents stood near the entrance, greeting everyone as well, and every time Hongjoong looked at them, his mother’s eyes shone with so much affection that it made his chest tighten.

Seonghwa’s family arrived not long after, and Hongjoong’s heart softened at the sight of Seonghwa’s mother hugging him tightly, congratulating him. Then both his mother and father took his hands.

“Take care of each other,” she said, her eyes teary. “And thank you for making my Seonghwa so happy.”

Hongjoong could only nod, suddenly unable to speak.

Everything was set minutes later. The lake reflected the golden sky, and the venue looked like something out of a dream: the chairs lined in two rows on the grass, petals scattered along the aisle, and between the trees hung strings of warm lights shaped like flowers. A soft melody played from the violins and piano, drifting through the evening air. Despite the serenity of it all, Hongjoong’s heart was racing.

He hadn’t wanted a traditional ceremony at first since he thought they didn’t need all of that. But one night, Seonghwa had confessed that he’d always dreamed of walking down an aisle. He said he knew it might sound silly, especially coming from a man, but he didn’t know why the idea of walking arm in arm with his mother had always seemed so beautiful to him. So, of course, Hongjoong made it happen.

Now, standing at the altar while waiting, he could barely breathe. The officiant smiled kindly at him, and his family and friends filled the front rows, chatting quietly. When he made eye contact with his members, they tried, and failed, to hold back their laughter at seeing Hongjoong this nervous. He had to bite his tongue to keep from shutting them off.

Suddenly, the music began, startling them.

The soft melody of Across the Stars, from the Star Wars soundtrack, rose through while everyone turned toward the aisle. Hongjoong felt his chest constrict when he saw Seonghwa appear at the end of it, arm in arm with his mother.

To be honest, he had spent far less time on his own suit than he had on Seonghwa’s. Hongjoong had spent weeks thinking about what Seonghwa could wear, because he believed it had to be something new and unique, something no one else could pull off. He finally came up with a white tailored suit with an extended coat that draped behind him almost like a cape. The bow at his neck was made of ivory silk, and their initials were embroidered on the cuffs, just like on Hongjoong’s own suit. His long black hair was styled perfectly, with a few strands framing his face.

The fabric shimmered under the sunlight, catching every small movement, and the scene felt so surreal that Hongjoong was sure he had died right then and there, because he was staring at an angel. Unreal. Like someone had pulled him out of one of his dreams.

When Seonghwa reached the middle of the aisle, their eyes met. Hongjoong’s breath caught, and a tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He felt frustrated at how easily he was crying today, but there was nothing he could do. Seonghwa laughed quietly before his mother gave his hand a final squeeze and let him go, then he stepped closer, reaching up to brush Hongjoong’s cheek and wipe the tear away with his thumb.

“You’re going to ruin your makeup,” he said softly. It was the first thing he’d said to him all day, and Hongjoong didn’t know whether to laugh or cry again.

“You look beautiful,” Hongjoong whispered, unable to look away; first at his suit, then at his face, which made Seonghwa’s smile bigger.

“And you look really good,” he replied.

The officiant cleared his throat gently, beginning the ceremony. The sound of the lake, the faint rustle of leaves, the soft music, and the low hum of the guests faded somewhere in the background when Seonghwa looked at him. It wasn’t until they were asked to exchange vows that Hongjoong truly came back to himself. He was handed the microphone, and with slightly trembling hands, he exhaled.

He glanced at Seonghwa, only for a second, before looking away, his gaze darting to the flowers, the guests, the water, anywhere else. He thought it was funny that even after all this time, he still couldn’t look Seonghwa in the eyes for too long. There was just something about his gaze that felt like too much all at once.

“When I think about our past,” he started, “I think it’s funny how everyone used to assume we were more than friends. And, of course, we were, but it wasn’t just romantic. It was something I can’t describe exactly, but it was different.”

He paused for a moment.

“There were times when I felt like I was too much, or not enough. Times when I let the pressure eat away at me until I forgot who I was. But when I’m with you, I never have to fix or shrink myself. I just get to be me, Kim Hongjoong. And I think that’s the rarest thing anyone can give another person.”

He smiled a little, shaking his head.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? We used to deny everything and pretend we weren’t as close as people said. But the truth is… we’ve always been each other’s safe place. Even before we started our relationship.”

He let out a soft laugh when he saw his mom already crying.

“You’ve seen every version of me, the ones I’m proud of and the ones I’d rather forget, and somehow, you’ve stayed. You’ve never tried to change me, only to remind me of who I already am. And if I ever start to forget again, I know you’ll be there to remind me.”

When he finally met Seonghwa’s eyes again, his chest tightened at the sight of him crying. The words slipped before he could think of them.

“I love you,” he said simply. “And I’ll keep on loving you, in private or in public, in the chaos or peace, in all the ways that make sense, and even in the ones that don’t. You’re my home. You always have been.”

Seonghwa smiled at him with his eyes glossy, and Hongjoong grabbed his hand before saying, “Thank you for being on my side.”  

Seonghwa wiped the corners of his eyes before Hongjoong handed him the microphone. He laughed after calming himself.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to follow that,” he said with a shaky voice, making everyone laugh. He exhaled, preparing himself, his expression softening.

“I’ll start from the beginning; from the moment I realized I was in love with you.”

He paused, looking at him.

“As most of you know, Hongjoong joined the company before me. When I came in, I was terrified, afraid that I wouldn’t be good enough, and maybe I wouldn’t make it. The principal told me there was another trainee my age, someone who worked harder than anyone else. And honestly,” he chuckled, “that scared me even more. I thought, great, I already have competition.”

A few people laughed, and Seonghwa shook his head while smiling.

“But then I met this boy… and for some reason, every feeling of competition disappeared. Instead, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I didn’t want to beat him; I just wanted him to be proud of me. Somehow, that mattered more than anything at that moment.”

He exhaled, and Hongjoong truly seemed mesmerized by him.

“One night, after an especially long practice, I was exhausted. I remember looking at myself in the mirror, drenched in sweat, thinking I couldn’t do it anymore. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder, a small pat, and heard, ‘You did good, Seonghwa hyung.’”

“When I turned around and realized it was Hongjoong, I think my brain just stopped working. Because hearing it from him… it was so strange. Can you believe that?” he said, glancing at Hongjoong with a grin. “That’s all it took for me to fall for him!”

Everyone laughed, Hongjoong included, though he shook his head.

“I spent the whole week thinking about it,” Seonghwa went on, his voice gentler now. “Wondering why one small phrase could lift me up like that. And then one night, I saw you in your studio, working late like always… and I just thought, oh.”

His voice was, impossibly, softer.

“I’m in love with him.”

Everything was silent for a moment.

“But of course, I thought it was impossible. We were in the same group, both idols; it wasn’t supposed to happen. So, I ignored it. And when everyone teased us, calling us the mom and dad of the group, or saying we looked like a couple, I just laughed. It felt like a good joke, I didn’t believe that someone like you could look at me the same way.”

He smiled at the memory, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“Until one night… after we’d both been too drunk, you kissed me. I thought it was a mistake. I even wondered if you’d confused me for someone else.”

That earned a few laughs, and Hongjoong covered his face, embarrassed.

“And the next day you ignored me,” Seonghwa said, pointing lightly at him as the crowd laughed harder. “So I spent the whole day overthinking it. But then we actually talked, and I realized you felt the same way... I still can’t describe what that moment was like. To know that the person who had inspired me, frustrated me, comforted me, also loved me back.”

His tone softened completely then, his voice trembling just slightly.

“Maybe it’s fate, or maybe we just kept finding our way back to each other until it started to feel inevitable. If there’s such a thing as other lives, I hope we find each other in every single one. And if it takes time, then… please wait for me. Because no matter how long it takes, I promise, I’ll always make it worth the wait.”

He stopped for a second, visibly swallowing the emotion building in his throat.

“And if there’s ever a day when you can’t find your light, you can always turn to me.”

He smiled through his tears and reached out to take Hongjoong’s hand, caressing it.

“Because I hope that you know that the light you see in me is the one you put there.”

By then, both of them were crying. The officiant smiled, giving them a moment.

“With these words, may your love continue to be your home,” he said.

When they exchanged rings, their hands trembled. The silver bands glinted softly in the light. They looked at the engraved constellations and couldn’t help but smile. It looked beautiful on Seonghwa’s hand, like it had always belonged there.

“You may kiss,” the officiant said after a moment.

Seonghwa leaned down, his palm finding Hongjoong’s cheek, and Hongjoong’s hand instinctively moved to his waist. Their lips met in a soft, unhurried kiss while the guests clapped. Behind them, the lake shimmered under the golden sky, making it all seem dreamlike.

For a moment, Hongjoong thought that this must be what forever feels like.

After the ceremony, the guests were guided indoors for dinner. The reception hall was softly lit, decorated with candles glowing atop round tables draped in ivory linen. Plates of filet mignon, roasted vegetables, and truffle risotto were being served, along with glasses of champagne and white wine.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa sat for a moment at their table, and it felt a little strange being apart from everyone, but soon the guests began to approach them one by one to offer congratulations. Hongjoong kept an arm around Seonghwa’s waist as they moved around the salon, exchanging hugs, smiles, and thanking the guests for coming.

When they reached the table where the members sat, they were immediately met with a chorus of cheers.

“Those vows were insane,” San said first. “Like, what do you mean by ‘I’ll always make it worth the wait’? Are you trying to make us all cry?”

Wooyoung wiped an imaginary tear. “I was holding it together until that part,” he said. “Then I looked at Yunho, and he was already gone.”

“I wasn’t crying!” Yunho protested.

“Bro, you were sobbing,” Mingi replied.  

“You’re all so dramatic,” Hongjoong shook his head, and everyone looked at him.

“Look who’s talking,” Yeosang replied, making them laugh.

They stayed at their table for a while, talking and joking, remembering some of their past stories. After a while, Seonghwa excused himself to the restroom, and when he returned a minute later, a familiar melody started playing through the speakers, which Hongjoong immediately recognized; it was Angel Baby. He looked around in surprise before realizing Seonghwa was standing in front of him with his hand extended.

“Dance with me?” he asked.

Normally, Hongjoong would’ve refused right away, especially with everyone watching. In his defense, Seonghwa always asked just to tease him. And they hadn’t planned any kind of ‘wedding dance’, but after considering it for a moment, he nodded, surprising the older man.

As soon as he stood, the members started cheering and clapping, and Seonghwa took his hand, pulling him toward the center of the room. They began to move together, with Seonghwa guiding him gently.

Up close, Hongjoong couldn’t stop admiring how beautiful he looked; the warm lights caught the shimmer of Seonghwa’s makeup, making his sharp features stand out more.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” Hongjoong asked quietly, and Seonghwa only smiled, not even pretending to deny it, his eyes glinting mischievously.

“I just wanna live in this moment forever,” he began to hum the song, then he sang it dramatically just to get a reaction from Hongjoong. He obviously was a bit drunk. “’Cause I’m afraid that livin’ couldn’t get any better.”

Hongjoong groaned and buried his face against Seonghwa’s shoulder, trying to muffle his laughter.

“Started givin’ up on the word forever, until you gave up heaven so we could be together,” he continued.

“Stop,” Hongjoong muttered, his voice muffled against Seonghwa’s suit. He was sure his face was completely red now, but Seonghwa only laughed softly. The teasing faded when he started singing the chorus.

“You’re my angel, angel baby.”

They swayed slowly, completely in sync, the world around them fading for a moment. When the song ended, the guests burst into applause, and both of them laughed, embarrassed, as they returned to their table.

Later, when the energy finally began to die down, some of the guests started heading to the nearby villa they’d rented for everyone. Staff, friends, and family said their goodbyes, promising to meet again for breakfast the next morning.

Seonghwa had been talking with his brother when he found Hongjoong again, standing quietly near the edge of the terrace.

“Everyone’s heading out,” he said, sliding his hand into Hongjoong’s. “Should we go too?”

“Let’s stay for a bit,” Hongjoong replied.

They walked down the narrow path toward the dock, where the water lapped gently against the wooden boards. Seonghwa stopped near the end, turning toward the lake with a nostalgic sigh.

“It’s weird standing here again,” he said. “It feels like we went in circles just to end up back at this exact place.”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong murmured. “It doesn’t feel like much has changed in a year.”

Seonghwa glanced over his shoulder at him.

“So… are you finally going to do the Titanic pose with me?”

“We’re not even on a boat,” Hongjoong groaned.

“Doesn’t matter,” Seonghwa said, spreading his arms dramatically. “C’mon, Jack.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes but stepped forward anyway, sliding his arms around Seonghwa from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbled.

“And you love it,” Seonghwa replied.

Well, he did. God, he did. He felt it in the way Seonghwa’s laughter vibrated against his chest, in the quiet sigh that escaped when Seonghwa leaned back into him. The world seemed suspended. Moonlight danced on the water, the warmth of Seonghwa against the cool night air, and everything slowed down. He looked out over the same lake they had visited a year ago, and marveled at how he still couldn’t believe they were here now. Even without a full ceremony, with just a few witnesses, Hongjoong felt as if something had truly shifted today.

“I love you,” he whispered after a moment.

Seonghwa stayed quiet for a long minute. The wind brushed gently across their faces, carrying the faint sound of water lapping against the dock.

“I’m so happy, Hongjoongie,” he said softly. “I didn’t think I could ever have something like this. You don’t know how grateful I am to have you in my life, and I would be so happy to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He surprised Hongjoong, leaving with in shock for a moment, then he felt his throat tightening.

“You didn’t say I love you back,” he said when he didn’t find any other words, keeping his voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall.

Seonghwa laughed and turned in his arms, his hands finding Hongjoong’s face. He smiled, that same infuriatingly soft, grounding smile that always undid him.

“I love you,” he said. “More than anything in my life.”

Then he kissed him, slow and deep, letting the world fade around them. Hongjoong’s hands rested lightly on Seonghwa’s waist, while Seonghwa’s fingers tangled gently in his hair. The lake shimmered behind them, reflecting the soft silver of the moonlight, and their silhouettes merged into one against its glow. For a long moment, nothing existed except them.

When they were back at the villa, Hongjoong was sure he would fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, his social battery utterly drained. After they returned, he showered on autopilot and emerged from the bathroom in a robe, towel-drying his hair, expecting to find Seonghwa already in bed, probably asleep.

Instead, the sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs and banished all thoughts of sleep.

Seonghwa was on the bed, but he was not dressed for sleep. He was draped in white lace, a bridal-inspired body suit that clung to his every curve, sheer and delicate. A matching, translucent robe was tied loosely around his waist, doing little to hide the intricate patterns beneath. And on his thigh, the final, devastating touch: a white lace garter, stark against his honey-toned skin, which seemed to glow in the warm light of the bedroom.

Hongjoong stood frozen, the towel forgotten in his hand. His mind went blank.

"Hongjoong?" Seonghwa's voice was small, uncertain. "Do you like it?"

He loved it. Hongjoong had never seen Seonghwa in lingerie, not even conceptualized it. But in that moment, he swore he would take him to every boutique in the city and buy him every silk, lace, and satin piece they could find, just to see him like this over and over again. He managed a jerky nod.

A relieved laugh bubbled from Seonghwa’s lips. He rose from the bed, the sheer robe flowing around him, and closed the distance between them. He cupped Hongjoong’s face gently.

"Then what are you waiting for?" he whispered, his breath ghosting over Hongjoong's lips before he closed the final inch to kiss him.

It was nothing like the soft kiss by the lake. Hongjoong’s hands came up to grip Seonghwa’s waist, his fingers digging into the lace. He groaned at the sensation; the contrast of the delicate, textured lace against Seonghwa’s warm, solid body. He broke the kiss, panting, just to look at him.

"God, you're...," Hongjoong breathed out, his eyes dark with want. He walked Seonghwa back until his shoulders met the wall, his mouth finding the column of his throat. He started with soft, open-mouthed kisses, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his lips. Then, slowly, he escalated, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, determined to leave his mark.

"Now everyone will know," Hongjoong murmured against his skin. "They'll see you and know you're mine. Just like I'm yours."

"Yours," Seonghwa gasped, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. "Always yours."

Driven by a possessive need, Hongjoong sank to his knees. He looked up, meeting Seonghwa’s heavy-lidded gaze as he gently lifted his leg, placing Seonghwa’s foot on his own bent knee. His hands slid up the toned calf, his thumbs stroking the skin until he reached the delicate lace of the garter. He leaned in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Seonghwa’s thigh, just above the band.

Then, he took the top edge of the garter between his teeth.

"Mine," he growled, the word vibrating against Seonghwa’s skin as he slowly pulled it down his thigh with his teeth. Once it was past his knee, he used his hands to slide it the rest of the way off, tossing it aside before kissing the newly exposed strip of skin.

He kissed and nipped his way up Seonghwa’s inner thigh until his face was level with the lace panties of the bodysuit. The delicate fabric was strained, already damp with the evidence of Seonghwa’s arousal.

"Fuck," Hongjoong cursed softly, his breath hot against him. "Look at you. You're so perfect like this." He nuzzled the covered length, feeling it twitch under his attention. He began to palm Seonghwa through the lace, and when he felt him grow half-hard, then fully so, Hongjoong hooked his fingers into the waistband. He looked up, holding Seonghwa’s heated gaze as he pulled the panties down, freeing his erection. It stood flushed and heavy before him, a contrast to the white lace still framing his hips.

Hongjoong wasn't always the biggest fan of giving blowjobs, but the sight of Seonghwa coming completely undone just for him was a potent aphrodisiac. It was all the motivation he needed.

He started with a slow, flat lick from base to tip, savoring the taste and the sharp intake of breath from above. Then he took the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the slit, collecting the bitter-salt precome. He worked his way down, taking more of him, his hand stroking what his mouth couldn't yet reach. He set a relentless, deep rhythm, while his other hand gripped Seonghwa’s hip to steady him. The sounds were obscene; wet, sucking noises and Seonghwa’s broken moans and pleas.

"Hongjoong, I'm… ah, close," Seonghwa choked out, his fingers tangling in Hongjoong's damp hair.

Hongjoong pulled off with a wet pop and wrapped his hand around the base of Seonghwa’s cock, stroking him fast and firm.

"Come for me, baby," he commanded, his voice rough. He stuck out his tongue, keeping his eyes locked on Seonghwa’s. "Mark me. Let me taste it."

That was all it took. With a cry, Seonghwa came, stripes of white painting Hongjoong's tongue and chin. Hongjoong swallowed what he could before using his hand to milk him through the last waves of his climax.

He stayed on his knees for a moment, catching his breath, looking up at the utterly wrecked and beautiful man above him. The white lace was rumpled, his skin was flushed, and his eyes were unfocused. Hongjoong smiled, a slow, possessive, and deeply satisfied smile.

Then he rose from his knees, his own legs slightly unsteady, and fetched some tissues from the nearby nightstand. He first tenderly cleaned Seonghwa before wiping his own chin and mouth. They both caught their breath until Seonghwa spoke.

"Did you… really like the lingerie?" he asked. "When I ordered it online, I looked at so many options, but I felt so insecure about trying something like this."

Hongjoong's heart swelled. He cupped Seonghwa's cheek, his thumb stroking the flushed skin.

"I love it," he reassured him. "You look so fucking good."

He suddenly had an idea as he glanced at the large, full-body mirror in the room.

"Here, let me show you."

He guided a pliant Seonghwa by the waist, positioning him directly in front of the mirror.

"Look," Hongjoong said. "Look at yourself. You have no idea what you do to me."

His hands slid from Seonghwa's waist up his torso, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive nipples through the delicate lace. Seonghwa’s head fell back against Hongjoong's shoulder with a sharp gasp, a low moan escaping his lips. He turned his head, capturing Hongjoong's mouth in a deep, desperate kiss.

After a few moments of Hongjoong playing with his nipples, teasing them through the fabric as they kissed, Hongjoong broke away to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses down Seonghwa's neck, nipping at the juncture of his shoulder.

"Baby, please," Seonghwa begged, his voice strained. "Just fuck me. I can't take any more."

Hongjoong smiled against his skin, licking his earlobe. "Where's the lube?"

Seonghwa bent forward, his black hair cascading down as he braced one hand on the cool surface of the mirror and used the other to push the robe completely out of the way. Hongjoong took a step back to take in the view and groaned at the sight of Seonghwa presenting himself so perfectly.

"I'm ready," Seonghwa panted, glancing over his shoulder. "Just like this." He revealed the base of a plug nestled between his cheeks.

"Fuck, Seonghwa," Hongjoong growled, his composure snapping. "You make me so fucking crazy." He gripped the base of the plug and began to work it slowly in and out.

"Did you just put this in?" he asked.

Seonghwa could only nod, his knuckles white where he pressed against the mirror. Hongjoong continued the torturous movement, pulling the plug almost all the way out before pushing it back in, until Seonghwa was writhing and pleading.

"Please, just put it in, please."

Hongjoong chuckled darkly and finally pulled the plug out, the silicone glistening.

"You sure?" he asked, aligning himself.

"Yes!" Seonghwa nodded desperately.

Hongjoong gave himself a few slick strokes and pressed the head of his cock against Seonghwa's entrance. He pushed in just the tip and immediately groaned at the incredible, tight heat.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he breathed, giving Seonghwa a moment to adjust. "Breathe for me, baby."

As Seonghwa exhaled shakily, Hongjoong pushed in further, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed. They both moaned at the overwhelming sensation. He stayed still for a moment, letting Seonghwa get used to the feeling before he began to move with slow, deep thrusts.

Seonghwa placed both hands on the mirror as Hongjoong's pace began to quicken, the rhythm building from a steady beat to a frantic, pounding pace. Hongjoong admired the view, the way Seonghwa's back arched beautifully under the delicate lace straps. He had always been obsessed with Seonghwa's back, and seeing it framed by the lingerie was driving him wild.

He took hold of Seonghwa's chin, forcing his gaze up to their reflection.

"Look at yourself," he commanded. "Don't you look beautiful like this? Being fucked from behind, dressed in this pretty lace?"

"Oh, fuck," Seonghwa moaned, his eyes fluttering shut.

Hongjoong applied a little pressure to his chin. "I asked you a question."

"Yes," Seonghwa gasped, forcing his eyes open to meet Hongjoong's intense gaze in the mirror. "I like it… I like seeing myself get fucked by you like this."

"Good boy," Hongjoong smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek before resuming his thrusts. As Seonghwa's moans grew louder, Hongjoong guided three of his fingers to his mouth. Though they were in one of the villa's most remote rooms, he didn't want to risk a thing. Seonghwa understood immediately, sucking the digits eagerly, coating them with saliva.

They continued like that until Hongjoong felt his own climax coiling tight in his gut. He reached around, taking Seonghwa's leaking cock in his hand and stroking him in time with his thrusts. It didn't take long; Seonghwa came with a broken cry, his release streaking the mirror in front of them. The sight of Seonghwa's utterly ruined expression in the reflection was all it took to push Hongjoong over the edge, and he followed with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside him.

They stayed like that for a while, recovering, their heavy breaths slowly returning to normal. Hongjoong carefully pulled out and turned Seonghwa around to kiss him softly. But Seonghwa, with a surprising burst of energy, guided him backward onto the bed, climbing atop him to continue their kiss there.

That night, they lost count of how many times they came together, pausing only to drink water or share lazy kisses before continuing.

The next morning, waking up tangled in each other with the excitement of being ‘officially’ together, they did it again, so consumed by each other that they completely forgot about the breakfast they had organized for their guests.

They were both deeply embarrassed later, saying that they overslept, as if no one would notice Seonghwa's high-collared shirt on a sunny Italian morning or the obvious dark circles under their eyes.

When they sat down, Hongjoong reached for Seonghwa’s hand beneath the table, intertwining their fingers gently. His thumb brushed over the silver bands on their hands; the promise rings they had exchanged a year ago, now joined by the new ones from the ceremony. The sight made something warm swell in his chest.

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

He never said anything once getting into bed. As soon as you were also ready for bed, he’d pull you directly into him. He’d lay his head and the full of his weight down on top of you. His arms would snake tight around your waist while his ear would press into your chest and then he’d just drift off to sleep, just like that. If you’d try to sleep on his chest or want to spoon, he wouldn’t sleep. He’d stay awake until you eventually would roll over and allow him to lay on top of you.

And it wasn’t a bad thing or unusual that he wanted to cuddle. You two would cuddle like any other normal couple— with his arm draped over your shoulders and your head laying on his chest during a movie. Or the rare occasion where he’d want to lay his head in your lap and let you play with his hair when you both had the day off.

And you really weren’t sure how you could bring it up to him without sounding weird about it. What lover complains about their partner and his sleeping habit? All because he wanted to sleep with his head on your chest? You were going to complain about that? Not that it was really a complaint, you just wanted to know why. Why every night, before he fell asleep, did he demand to sleep in the same position— with his head on your chest.

Had something happen to upset him recently? Had a patrol gone bad and he didn’t say anything about it? Was he just struggling to sleep? It’s not like he stayed in the same position all night long either, you both woke up in different positions by morning light.

You just…wanted the truth is all. And you finally had gathered the nerve to ask him about it one night.

The two of you had just finished a movie. You had cuddled the entire time; his hand on your thigh with your legs sprawled out across his own. His thumb had brushed the easiest circles into your skin, as if he silently reassured you to ask him of his newfound routine.

When the movie finished, Joel had yawned and patted your knee before heading to take a quick shower. And with nothing left for you to do as well, you just head to bed. Turning on a light to read a book as you wait for your lover to join you. Butterflies dance inside your stomach at the thought of having to ask Joel about his recent sleeping habit. You hated to pry and again, it wasn’t a horrible habit just…strange. It just felt like he was keeping something from you and you really didn’t enjoy that feeling.

So when Joel finally enters your shared room, hair still damp, dressed in his usual pj’s, he kisses you briefly before flipping the covers open. His hands gently tug at your waist to pull you down closer to him, before he settles in like he does every other night. Head on your chest and arms snug around your waist.

You sigh, shifting a little to get more comfortable yourself. You toss your book onto the nightstand beside you before turning off the bedside light. You smooth your hands down his back and take a deep breath; wondering if maybe Joel could hear how hard your heart was beating as you gather the nerve to speak.

“Joel?” You quietly ask, drawing circles across the wide of his back. A teeny, tiny, small part of you silently hopes he has already fallen asleep.

“Mhm?” Joel sighs softly, giving you a nice squeeze. His fingers mirror the circles you make against his back gently into your lower back.

You swallow hard, chewing on your bottom lip. “This is gonna sound strange, and please don’t take it like it’s a bad thing but,” You start, pretending to flick at imaginary fuzz on the back of his dark shirt. “Why…have you been wanting to sleep like this?”

Joel doesn’t say anything right away. And his silence unnerves you just a little. You think, for a split second, you’ve upset him. And you try to backtrack, to pretend like you never said anything about it at all but Joel squeezes you just a little tighter— keeping you from speaking.

“I just…like to hear your heartbeat.” Joel mutters under his breath, keeping his head settled on your chest. Keeping his gaze tipped down so you can’t fully see his vulnerable gaze.

“That all?” You ask, just as quiet. Continuing to run your fingers along his spine.

Another beat of silence stretches out between you two.

In the darkness, and with the way he’s lying, you can’t read his face. And you can’t really tell if maybe he’s just fallen asleep or if he’s just dodging the conversation.

“Joel?” You ask after several rough heartbeats.

Joel shifts ever so slightly at his name being called. So he was dodging the question.

“Joel.” You say, firmer this time.

“I’ve been having…nightmares again.” Joel finally admits. He presses his face tighter into your chest, ear planted firm over your heartbeat. “Your heartbeat helps.”

Of course. You should’ve known. When you had first met Joel, even before you became a couple, he had been plagued with nightmares. From his life before the cordyceps outbreak, to things he had done to survive the outbreak, to even things that happened before moving to Jackson. All things that he didn’t really want to speak about. And you never pushed him to do so. No matter how many sleepless night he had or the screaming you’d wake up to— you never forced him to do anything he didn’t want to.

But after a year or so of your relationship, his nightmares had slowly began to vanish. He slept easier, next to you, as time went by so of course you should’ve known it was the nightmares haunting him once more.

“Want to talk about it hun?” You ask, smoothing your fingers into the thick of his back— a reassuring gesture. You never pried or pushed him to talk about anything he didn’t want to, but at least the offer would be on the table for him to take.

Silence briefly greets you again. And you wait patiently for him to either say yes, no, or to have his snores answer for him instead.

“Just…nightmares about you. About losin’ ya.” Joel mumbles, taking a deep breath as he gives you another squeeze. “I keep seein’ ya, and we’re out on patrol. And at some point we get separated and then I just can’t catch up to ya...” Joel admits in a sour tone. Like he’s tasting blood and cooper on his tongue with every word.

You stay entirely silent as he speaks. Letting him work through the nightmare he has been experiencing for more than a month. Your fingers continue to brush along his broad back.

“And then I’m forced to watch as some damned Infected just…” Joel spits, trailing off— skipping the more…gruesome details about the dream. Doesn’t stop him from biting down on his bottom lip as he retells the plot of his nightmare. “If I fall asleep to your heartbeat, it means you're safe and here with me. And the nightmares don’t come.”

You nod your head, listening close to the words he speaks, while brushing your fingers against the back of his neck. Now, you couldn’t blame him for the routine. And felt even worse asking him about it. And while you had your fair share of bad dreams, they were never as aggressive as his were. And it broke your heart. But a small part of you was almost…glad that he found comfort in the sound of your heart to the point that it helped him sleep.

“Christ, I sound ridiculous don’t I?” Joel breaks the silence once again. He laughs just a little but you know better; it was just a front to hide his emotions.

“Hey,” you mumble, brushing your fingers through the curls on top of his head, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. “It’s not ridiculous. Thank you for telling me.” You add, smiling down at him.

Joel sighs at your words, leaning into the hand that caresses him. He tilts his head up just a little, glancing across your face. He stares for a few heartbeats, as if he’s trying really hard to remember every inch of your face; from the curve of your jaw to the dip of your lips, to the softness in your eyes when you look at him.

“I don’t know what I’d do…” Joel mumbles, so soft you can just barely hear him. “If I lost you.”

Your lips tilt into a somber smile as your hand brushes hair behind his ear. Your thumb trails down the edge of his jaw. You move delicately along his skin, reassuring him in every way possible that you knew how to. “Good thing you’ll never lose me. Sorry to say old man, you’re stuck with me.”

Joel laughs— a deep rumble from within his chest— this time very real and easy like. His entire body relaxes at your words and he returns to his previous position, eyes falling close as he hugs around you. “Wouldn’t want nobody else.” Joel yawns, taking a deep breath as sleep edges at his senses.

“Well I sure as hell hope you don’t.” You tease, laughing quietly along with him. You move to relax your arms across the broad of his back once more, hugging him back just as tightly. “I’d be kinda pissed if you did.”

“Wouldn’t want that now would we,” Joel playfully mutters. The sound of your heartbeat a soothing melody inside his head, quickly luring him into the depths of sleep. “You’re scary when yer’mad.”

If you weren’t about to fall asleep yourself, you might’ve given him a little love tap at his comment but you decide against it. Instead, you let the silence stretch between the two of you, taking it as time to finally relax. Where sleep quickly embraces you now that your anxiety about the situation has been resolved.

And from now on, you were more than happy to sleep like this.

@ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐙𝐄𝐕𝐑𝐑𝐀 | 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖/𝐎 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍