#ohhhh....................................

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he reveres each roll, each plump curve as a sign of wealth and prosperity. he’s not materialistic, nor is he one to care for societies opinions in the slightest, but he’s also not blind to the way people stare, and the way that they talk. if nothing else, he’s prideful - and that pride filters down to his wife, for is she not an extension of him? irrevocably his in the same way the fresh buds blooming in the garden are, etched in his image like the gilded halls of his temple. belonging to him as innately as each of his muscled limbs do.

he hears the servants chatter; look how well fed the kings darling pet is, how cared for and doted on she must be. their eyes follow you as you walk, delicate and barefooted, draped in the finest silks and jewels. freshly bathed and painted in a healthy flush, with your skin oiled and glowing as you lounge and eat freshly picked fruits from the garden. you eat with fervour, with pleasure, letting the sweet juice coat your fingers, slip in glistening dribbles down your chin and past the dip of your throat until he prowls across the garden and licks you clean, one great hand planted firmly over the swell of your belly.

"Oh! Kyle, grab whatever you want, I wasn't sure your preference!" You smile when he freezes in the doorway of the dining room. The table is full of food, and it sides and main courses alike. Ghost is already sat, rumbling happily to himself while he butters some rolls.

And that's the thing about all the food that kyle can't quite wrap his head around. It's all...unhealthy.

Or. Maybe not unhealthy? But certainly not anything kyle would have had growing up in his childhood home. Rolls slathered in butter, pasta with a thick creamy sauce, cuts of ham glazed in honey. You smile tightly at the way he seems frozen in indecision, and gently offer "if it's not okay, I can make you a salad. But...simon always tells me you stare at his lunch. I figured..."

That's enough to have gaz snapping out of hid stupor, realizing his mouth is watering.

He pushes down his mothers voice talking about carbs and fats and addictive sugars, loading up a plate with a bit of everything. He misses the smile you and simon share.

The first bite has gaz practically moaning before he catches himself, embarrassed at such a reaction.

You just chuckle, leaning over the table to serve yourself "simon is the same way. Don't forget to leave room for dessert, though!"

Gaz genuinely does cry at that. The casual mention of dessert, the easy acceptance of food between you and ghost. It feels impossible to imagine he lived years eating almonds and fruits and avoiding "bad sweets" like they'd kill him.

You and simon pretend not to notice, and you make sure to note down the dishes he seems to favor for next time.

That night, gaz experiences his first proper food coma on your couch, passed out and unsuspecting when he sat down not five minutes ago. While you and simon clean up, you whisper "I see why you like him, si. He's cute."

"Mhm." Ghost nods, bent over the sink and scrubbing dishes "think we bring it up after a few more dinners?"

"Tempted to just skip the dating and buy a ring now," you joke, catching the soft smile of your husband "yeah, I think a few more. Need to figure out what his favorite dish is so I can make it for the announcement, yeah?"