⌖ Ryerye ⌖

You’d finally worked up the courage to ask him at the end of the week—half convinced he’d smile politely and make some excuse, because why would he want to spend a whole day sweating in costume and wandering a crowded fair?

Right.

Wrong.

He wakes you up before the sun even thinks about rising.

At first it’s just the creak of the bedroom door, the soft shuffle of feet, the whisper of fabric. Then—far too close to your face—Johnny’s voice, bright and barely contained.

“Up, love. We’ve got a quest today.”

You blink, squinting into the dim. The room is still blue-black with early morning, the kind of quiet where the world feels paused. And then your eyes adjust and you see him properly.

He is dressed head-to-toe in Scottish finery like he stepped out of a storybook—tartan kilt sitting perfect at his hips, sporran hanging neat at the front, tall socks pulled up with flashes, and a tweed jacket that looks almost too handsome for your tiny apartment. Even his hair looks like he did something with it, which should honestly be illegal at this hour.

He’s beaming. Full grin, proud as anything, like he’s been waiting his whole life to show you this.

You barely have time to check the clock before he’s at your bed, arms full of clothing. Dresses. Belts. A skirt—no, two skirts. A bodice or corset-looking thing. A sash. He starts laying them out like he’s presenting treasure, then promptly shoves a matching color palette into your hands.

“I planned it,” he says, eyes sparkling. “We’re coordinating.”

You can’t help it—you laugh, the sound rough with sleep, but warm. He looks pleased with himself in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes, running your fingers through your hair and making it even worse. When you finally look back at him, his expression softens—like the excitement caught up with the fact that you’re still half asleep. He pauses, guilt flickering for just a second.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something gentler. He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s trying to soothe you back into comfort. “I forgot you’re a light sleeper.”

And then, before you can even tease him for it, he’s gone—bounding out of the room with a quiet, “I’ll get your coffee,” as if that fixes everything.

You drag yourself toward the bathroom, blinking against the brighter light. The mirror greets you with a sleepy, disheveled version of yourself—rumpled shirt, puffy eyes, hair doing whatever it wants. You start brushing it out with slow, heavy strokes, still trying to wake your brain up.

A few minutes later Johnny appears in the doorway again, warm mug in hand. The smell hits you first—rich, bitter, familiar. Heaven.

He leans against the frame like he could stand there forever, just watching. His eyes don’t roam the room—just you, like you’re the most interesting thing in it.

He’s always thought you were breathtaking. But you like this—soft, sleepy, real—does something worse to him. Something tender. Something that makes him quiet.

He sets the mug down carefully on the counter, then slides in behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, solid and warm, and he nuzzles into the side of your neck like he belongs there. You feel his breath, his quiet hum of contentment.

“You still smell like me,” he murmurs, almost smug about it.

“And you still need hobbies,” you mumble back, but you’re smiling.

He laughs against your skin and sways with you—slow, lazy, side to side—watching the two of you in the mirror like it’s a picture he wants to keep.

Eventually—because he can’t just stand there forever—he tries to help you get ready.

Keyword: tries.

He insists on doing your hair. You sit, letting him gather it up with careful hands, fingers clumsy but earnest. He braids it with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. The result is… loose. A little lopsided. Strands escape immediately, framing your face like they’re making a break for it.

He steps back, evaluates his work with serious intensity, then shrugs like it was his plan all along.

“Charm,” he declares.

You snort, turning your head to look at him. “Charm,” you repeat, because he says it so confidently that you almost believe him.

“There,” he says, pleased. “Perfect.”

Then comes the outfit.

It starts simple enough—a base layer, the dress. You’re still waking up as you step into it, tugging fabric into place while Johnny hands you things like a very enthusiastic squire. Then a skirt. Then another skirt. He keeps producing layers like he’s got a hidden stash somewhere.

Belts follow—one around your waist, another slung lower, then one more because apparently you’re collecting them now. The weight builds with every piece, warm and heavy, the kind of costume that makes you feel transformed and mildly indestructible.

It’s a lot. It’s always a lot.

But you’ve been to renfaires before. You know the drill: layers, heat, crowds, walking until your feet protest. You can handle it.

Especially when you turn and Johnny looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

That toothy grin returns—bright, proud, utterly delighted—like he did this not just to dress up, but to share something with you. To match you. To make the day feel like an adventure the second you step out the door.

And honestly?

If being wrapped in fabric and belts upon belts earns you that smile—if it earns you him looking at you like you’re the best part of the story—

Yeah.