Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Coffee Village always smelled like something burning.

It also had a flavor to it—rich, earthy, and harsh when you let it steep too long. He had learned early that life in the Coffee Village required you to make peace with bitterness. The people were proud and tired. The economy—if it could even be called that—was a cycle of inflation and improvisation. The currency dropped so often in value that pricing had become a game of creative approximation. The government was a revolving door of charismatic failures, held together by ceremony and tradition that no longer meant anything.

Affogato had never truly liked his homeland.

There were fond memories, sure. Sweet roasted air curling from clay ovens, the chime of wind through market stalls, his late mother’s hushed curses as she brewed a bitter blend for breakfast.

But fondness didn’t pay rent or patch up the holes in a future.

And amidst all that, Affogato had grown up knowing two things: one, he was not made for that place. And two, no one was going to come save him from it.

He survived on wit. Charisma. The pretty curve of a smile and words soaked in honey. He learned how to turn a favor into a door and a rumor into an opportunity. Affogato had been many things in the Village. Fragrance peddler, amateur interpreter, a middleman in political gossip for some favors but never still. Never passive. He moved like someone afraid of being caught by life itself. He even taught basic language classes when it paid. But no matter how sharp his tongue or practiced his charm, the ceiling was low and pressing down on his head. His hands were always empty.

Affogato had always believed himself too clever for misery.

It took years to secure the paperwork—a work permit to a foreign country, a place with paved roads and working banks, where corruption wore a tie and called itself “business.” A place where time moved forward instead of the same old drain. And when it came, that slip of paper was more sacred than any passport. It was a lifeline, and he grabbed it with both hands. It felt like he had cheated death.

He remembered holding the envelope, hands trembling slightly, violet-painted eyelids half-lowered in disbelief. It was real. It had the emblem. The seal. The cruel kind of mercy that only bureaucracy could give. It wasn’t freedom, not quite. But it was a movement. And movement as the next best thing next to progress.

As he stood on the sidewalk, he remembered his village. The burning, overused smell. The air of this foreign place did not smell this way and yet the stain of home followed him here even in scent. Maybe that's just how he felt.

Waiting for him, on the sidewalk with a bit of tense in his stance, was Espresso.

Espresso had grown up there—in this place. The city where things worked. Where he lectured in lecture halls and wore cardigans that looked expensive even when they weren’t.

Espresso had left the Village as a child when his parents were offered academic visas—both educators, sharp minds that had no interest in wasting away in a crumbling place. Affogato barely remembered him from childhood: a quiet boy with permanent shadows under his eyes and a heavy book in his lap. When they reconnected, it was through the filtered politeness of family and then the sterile convenience of emails.

Espresso had already made a life in the foreign country, now a university professor with a well off apartment and more intellect than warmth. Still, he offered Affogato a place to stay.

He had offered it and Affogato did not even need to play his charm this time, much to his surprise.

The apartment was cleaner than any space Affogato had ever lived in. Spare, quiet, the kind of place that always smelled faintly of paper and tea. His cousin didn’t say much. He gestured at the guest room, told him to use what he needed, and then retreated into his world of lectures and deadlines. They lived around each other more than with each other.

Affogato didn’t mind. He preferred it that way. He had always been good at occupying space without being truly seen.

Within two weeks, he found a job—secretarial work for a real estate firm in the financial district. It had sounded perfect at the time. Office work, stability, room to climb. He had worn his best shirt, tied back his hair, and walked into the interview with eyes like polished glass. The manager called him “a breath of fresh air.” He walked out with a contract and the naive belief that things might finally, finally be changing.

He was correct, just not in the way he had hoped.

His boss, Mrs. Macchiato was a woman of few words and fewer expressions. Her stilettos clicked like a metronome, and her expectations were both vague and impossible. Affogato’s charm, his silky way of speaking, the confident angle of his hip—it got him exactly nowhere. In fact, it seemed to irritate her. She never said it aloud, but he could feel it in the clipped way she said his name.

She wasn’t overtly cruel. But she was relentless. She watched him. Scrutinized his emails. Corrected his posture when clients were around. She once made him rewrite a memo six times because the wording wasn’t “precise enough.” And every time he made a mistake, no matter how small, she would tilt her head slightly—just slightly—as if to say, I knew you weren’t going to last.

Affogato had been called many things in his life. A liar. A flirt. A snake. But never insufficient.
It cut deeper than he expected.

Months passed. His savings dwindled to nothing. His wardrobe thinned. He still looked put together, but it was a performance with fraying seams.

After four months, his savings were gone, his pride was in tatters, and he was no closer to standing on his own two feet than he’d been when he arrived. Espresso never said a word about it—just poured tea and asked how work was going—but Affogato felt it. The weight of failure. The quiet judgment. Or maybe that was just his own voice echoing.

He couldn’t ask Espresso for help. The man was already housing him, never once complaining, never once bringing up money. But Affogato felt the silence growing. Whether it was in his head or real, the quiet awareness that he wasn’t contributing was getting louder. That he hadn’t found “something better.” He drank tea at the kitchen table and avoided his cousin’s gaze.

He hated it. He hated relying on someone else’s hospitality. He hated needing anything at all.

So, one evening, after a particularly exhausting day where Miss Macchiato had asked him to redo the same filing task three times “for clarity,” Affogato sat at Espresso’s kitchen counter, staring into a cup of cold jasmine tea and feeling very small.

His phone buzzed. A notification from a dating app he’d downloaded weeks ago as a joke, then left to gather digital dust.

He had downloaded the app weeks ago, half as a joke, half as a threat to his own pride. It was one of those… arrangements apps. Where the rich found the beautiful. Where desperation met wealth in a handshake.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t use it. That he was better than that.

He tapped it open. The tagline still made him wince: “Find someone to spoil you.”

He had always turned up his nose at such things. He had standards. He wasn’t some arm candy. He had dignity. Or he used to.

But dignity didn’t pay for toothpaste or train fare.

Scrolling felt like lowering himself. The profiles were as bad as he remembered. Men old enough to be his grandfather, half-naked selfies with greasy lighting, bios that read like job interviews written during a sugar crash.

He poured himself a glass of wine. Just one. Maybe he’d swipe a bit, amuse himself, feel better.

Instead, he got more annoyed. One man sent him four messages in a row before he even replied. Another addressed him as “my chocolate prince.” Affogato very nearly threw his phone across the room.

And then, something caught his eye, a username.
DarkCacao. It was also the name of the nickname, which he tilted his head at, the nicknames he saw so far on other profiles were… something. It was a name with zero flair, no puns, no sugar metaphors. Just a sleek profile: minimalistic, no age listed, only a few pictures that seemed to blur more than they revealed. But the messages? They were…

*Good evening. I hope this message finds you well. Your profile suggests you have both taste and purpose—a rare pairing."

Affogato blinked. He read it twice. No unsolicited pictures. No pet names. Just… manners.

And a tone. One that felt deliberate. Like someone who thought before speaking, and still managed to sound… rich.

He replied.

Their conversations unfolded slowly, deliberately. Unlike everyone else, Dark Cacao didn’t ask invasive questions. He didn’t pry. He asked about Affogato’s favorite wines, his views on ambition, whether he preferred city lights or countryside silence. It evolved to him seeing messages such as “I am on a break. I want to talk to you.” It was somewhat rewarding, in a sense, after having the boss he had.

There was a weight to his words. A sense of age. Not in the bad way—but like he had lived long enough to stop pretending.

Affogato found himself responding in kind. Not out of obligation, but genuine curiosity. If he had to be honest, he felt like he had met a new friend instead.

It went on for a few days until a new message came in,

*"Would you like to meet? I’ll be in the city this weekend. I understand if that’s too soon, but I would very much like to see you in person. A public place, of course. My driver can bring you."

Affogato stared at the message, heart ticking slowly.
He hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t imagined actually going through with it.

But he was tired. Of the job. Of the pity in Espresso’s silence. Of watching his dreams wither in the quiet, respectable death of “getting by.”

And this? This was something.

It could be temporary. It didn’t have to mean anything. Just dinner. Just a step forward.

Just survival, wrapped in silk.

*“Send the address,” he typed.

*”I’m free Friday.”

And with that, Affogato Cookie closed the app and went to plan the most important outfit of his new life.

Not because he wanted to impress.

But because he refused to lose.

He was here to survive. And maybe, if he played it right, he’d do a little better than just survive.

Chapter Text

He had taken his time dressing, naturally. Not out of nervousness—he’d told himself that several times—but because it mattered. Because this was a performance, like everything else in life, and appearances were half the act. His coat flared just enough at the back to offer drama without extravagance. His eyes—those ever-glimmering, too-bright slits—were outlined in violet shadow, diffused carefully to soften the natural intensity of his stare.

Affogato made his way to the curb, the sky above a bruised purple slowly bleeding into the deeper shades of blue. The city had a sharp scent this time of day, rain still lingered in the side of sidewalks, wet concrete, automobile exhaust, the stubborn cling of cold on everything it touched. He exhaled through his nose and watched the puff of mist disappear.

Something drove forward, it was the kind of vehicle that didn’t belong in this neighborhood. The black frame was polished to a mirror shine, with wheels that rolled like thoughts through silk. The driver stepped out: straight-backed, clad in an immaculate brown uniform with silver piping at the cuffs. The only thing missing was a white glove and monocle.
“Affogato?”

He nodded.

The interior was warm and dimly lit. The scent of aged leather and cedar wood embraced him instantly, wrapping around him like a private room. He let out a small, barely audible breath as the door clicked shut.

The car growled to life and pulled away.

He smoothed a wrinkle in his coat sleeve and flexed his fingers against his thigh.

This was a job, like any other. It just required a smile instead of a signature.

Still, he found himself replaying the messages. Short texts. Sparse emojis. That alone had been a relief—after weeks of crawling through dating profiles full of soft threats, patronizing requests, and blunt offers, Dark Cacao’s messages had been like a quiet room after a storm.

His grammar had been impeccable. Not a single abbreviation. No lewd pictures. No painfully transparent attempts to bait him with wealth or promises. In fact, Dark Cacao had barely sold himself at all. He spoke as if expecting Affogato to make up his mind.

How Annoying.

Affogato smiled slightly to himself.

Maybe this wouldn’t be a waste of time.

.
.
.

Inside, the space was warm, intimate. The air hummed with money, quiet power, and the subtle perfume of roasted truffle and saffron. Everything smelled expensive.

Affogato followed the host across the marble floor, his heels barely making a sound. He spotted him before they reached the table.

Dark Cacao.

He stood when Affogato approached, and stood was really the only word that captured it. The man was a monument—broad-shouldered, easily six and a half feet tall, built like someone who could haul logs over each shoulder but also run a military parade. His skin was rich and warm beneath the restaurant’s golden light. His eyes were sharp: tulip purple with a subtle downward wrinkle beneath each one. His hair fell long and loose behind him, mostly black but streaked through with stark white.

His suit beneath was clean-cut, charcoal, the kind that whispered about good tailoring rather than screamed about it. Silver cufflinks, a dark tie, not a hair out of place.

“Affogato,” he said, nodding in greeting. His voice was exactly what Affogato had imagined: deep, low, gruff, the kind of voice that rose when the situation required it. “You’re right on time.”

“I could say the same about you,” Affogato replied, slipping gracefully into the chair opposite.

Menus appeared. The waiter introduced a vintage wine that Dark Cacao had clearly pre-selected, speaking in reverent tones. Affogato nodded along but didn’t pay attention. He was watching the man across from him.

There was stillness to him. Not laziness, not stiffness—just restraint. He held himself like someone used to giving orders in full rooms and hearing no complaints. A kind of deliberate silence that filled the space like stone walls.

He could already tell this man had expectations. Standards. Probably saw himself as principled. The kind of man who believed in rules, schedules, handshakes, and monogamy.

Boring.

But also… useful.

Affogato leaned back against the velvet of the booth, twirling the thin stem of his wine glass lazily between two fingers, watching Dark Cacao over the rim.

“So what do you do?” Affogato asked, tone light, feigning idle curiosity. “For work, I mean.”

Dark Cacao didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he reached for his coffee — a dark, bitter brew that matched the stern cast of his features — and took a slow sip.

When he set the cup down, his fingers stayed resting against the porcelain for a moment longer than necessary, as if measuring the weight of his own words.

When he spoke, his voice was even. Measured. Polished down like river stone.

“I oversee a private security firm,” he said simply.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t fidget.

The way he said it, you’d think he was describing a bakery, or an accounting office.

Affogato quirked a brow, swirling his wine thoughtfully.

“Security,” he echoed, drawing the word out just enough to invite more.

Dark Cacao inclined his head slightly — an acknowledgment, but not quite a full explanation.

“We offer protection and operational support. Risk management. Specialized advisement.”

“Our clients are… varied,” he added, after a pause. “Individuals. Corporations. Occasionally, governments.”

There was something in the way he said occasionally that flicked a little spark of interest in Affogato’s mind.

Not suspicious.

But curious.

Individuals. Corporations. Governments.

That was a pretty wide net.

Most men would have bragged, rattled off some story about bodyguarding celebrities or pulling billionaires out of hotspots — anything to impress.
Dark Cacao didn’t.

Affogato sipped his wine again, giving himself a beat to consider.

“So you protect people too?” He said, head tilted on purpose like a curious child, smiling easy.

“Among other things.”

Affogato hummed low in his throat, as if in agreement, though his mind was already buzzing with interpretations.

Operational support.

Risk management.

Specialized advisement.

It was the kind of language that didn’t say much at all unless you already knew what it meant.

It was clean. Legal. Boring, on the surface.

But underneath — Affogato would bet good money it wasn’t all clean boardrooms and polite meetings. That would be his homework for tonight.

“Then, you're the guy everyone calls when the world is falling apart?”

Dark Cacao didn’t laugh, but there was a weight to his gaze — a quiet, unspoken agreement — as he lifted his own cup in answer.

“Sometimes.” He said.

Only that.

And somehow, the simplicity of it was heavier than any elaborate speech could have been.

Affogato grinned, quick and charming, hiding the sharpness behind his teeth.

Serious men, serious jobs.

Maybe even a little serious danger.

He wasn’t scared — not exactly.

But it made him wonder, just a little, what it would be like to dig beneath that polished answer and see what Dark Cacao didn’t say.

“Mm. Fascinating.” He toyed with the stem of his glass. “You sound like you run a nation.. or is the general to one.”

“Not quite,” Dark Cacao replied. “But I work closely with several.”

Affogato raised an eyebrow. “You always this serious?” He leaned his head into the palm of his hand that was resting on the table by his elbow.

“I am only honest.” He took pride in his reply.

“Perhaps, it just makes me wonder if you ever take your coat off and loosen your tie when nobody’s looking.”

“I don’t wear ties when I don’t expect to be seen.”

Affogato laughed, low and soft, and let his elbow rest on the table. “I see. So I count as an occasion?”

“You chose this meeting as much as I did.”

Sour puss.

Dinner arrived—perfectly plated, delicate portions that cost more than what Affogato made in a week. He tasted the first bite slowly, savoring. Not because he wanted to make a show of it, but because it was genuinely good.

“So,” he said again, between bites, “why the site?”

Dark Cacao chewed, swallowed, dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t prefer small talk. Meeting people through traditional means tends to involve a great deal of it. It was also recommended to me by a coworker of mine.”

“That’s rich coming from someone whose messages were basically parliamentary,” Affogato smirked. “I wasn’t sure if you were courting me or inviting me to a board meeting.”

“I assume you’re not complaining.”

“No. I just like knowing who I’m dealing with.”

“And who do you think you’re dealing with?”

Affogato grinned, placing his index finger and thumb on his chin as if he stopped to think first, “A man who’s used to getting what he wants because he never says more than he needs to.”

Dark Cacao paused. He studied Affogato in silence for a moment, those purple eyes narrowing just slightly.

“And you?”

“Me?” Affogato smiled, wide and insincere. “I’m just looking for a little help until I get back on my feet.”

The silence stretched. Neither blinked.

Then Dark Cacao said, “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Deflecting.”

“And you’re good at staring. It’s a little creepy.”

To his surprise, Dark Cacao actually chuckled—just once, short and low like a cough.

Well, it sounded like a cough actually. Affogato just assumed it was a laugh those old men do.

Affogato smiled to himself, assuming this meant something for the future.

They finished the main course under a thick, almost tangible current of half-competitive silence. The kind of tension Affogato liked. The kind he could work with. It was better than clumsy flattery or creepy staring.

Dark Cacao wasn’t a man you overwhelmed with smiles or fluttered lashes at; that much was clear. He wasn’t moved by performances, or at least not the easy ones. He expected substance.

How exhausting.

But Affogato had grown up dancing around expectations much harsher, much more unreasonable. He could play this game a little longer.

As the plates were cleared, Dark Cacao leaned back slightly in his chair, surveying Affogato like one might examine a rare book whose cover promised danger or disappointment, but whose pages might yet prove valuable.

“You’ve been here, what? A few months?” he asked.

Affogato tapped a nail against his water glass, the faint plink filling the pause before his answer.

“Seven months. Give or take.”

“Long enough to have an impression.”

“Long enough to realize you have to know someone to get anything done around here,” Affogato said smoothly, swirling his water around.

“Mm.” Dark Cacao made a low sound, like a stone shifting underfoot. “So you intend to… bypass that system?”

Affogato smiled sweetly. “I’m merely making friends.”

“And you consider me a friend?”

“Do you want me to consider you only an expensive dinner?” Affogato teased.

For a moment, Dark Cacao said nothing. The air between them thickened, not with anger but consideration, like he was weighing Affogato’s flippancy against some internal scale.

Finally, he said, “Most men I meet through such sites are more direct.”

“Directly desperate?”

“Directly willing.”

Affogato laughed softly. “Well, I’m willing to eat your food, at least.”

That got him a slow, measured blink.

“Good,” Dark Cacao said at last. “I’d prefer not to waste anything tonight.”

It wasn’t an admission of victory. It was a statement of patience.

Affogato finished his wine, placing the glass down with a delicate click.

He’d had his share of men before and after arriving here—some wealthy, some broke, some pretending to be either or both—but none like this. None who made him feel like he was sitting opposite a sealed vault.

He couldn’t tell yet whether Dark Cacao was the kind of man who liked to break things open—or the kind who liked to be broken into.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Affogato had long since learned that pride had no value when survival was on the table. If winning meant playing along, he would play along.

A waiter arrived with the dessert menu.

Dark Cacao waved it away.

“I don’t indulge in sweets,” he said.

“Tragic,” Affogato murmured, scanning the options anyway. “But not surprising.”

“You expected otherwise?”

“You strike me as a man who drinks black coffee for dinner.”

That, to his amazement, got a second low chuckle— or cough? —out of Dark Cacao.

“Sharp tongue,” the older man observed.

“Someone’s got to keep the conversation interesting,” Affogato said, leaning forward slightly, letting the low restaurant light catch the violet sheen of his eyelids. “And you don’t strike me as the type to provide entertainment.”

“I don’t.”

“I can tell.”

Their gazes locked again, another beat of unspoken terms passing between them.

Finally, Dark Cacao rose, collecting his coat in one smooth movement.

Affogato stood too, slower, watching him.

“Come,” Dark Cacao said simply.

“Where to?” Affogato asked with a tilt of his head.

“I offered you a ride home. That offer still stands.”

“And if I said I wanted dessert instead?” Affogato teased.

“Then you would find it elsewhere,” Dark Cacao replied without missing a beat.

Affogato laughed again, unable to help himself.

So serious. So rigid. Like he’d been carved from stone and decided it was easier to stay that way.

How fun.

.
.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the streets glistened like spilled oil under the streetlights. This time the personal car of Dark Cacao was their transport, the driver from before no where in sight.

The interior of the car was as pristine as the one before, warm and quiet, the gentle hum of the engine the only sound as they pulled away.

Affogato stretched out a little more luxuriously in his seat this time. He caught the faintest flicker of acknowledgment from the older man—barely a twitch of muscle—but no withdrawal.

Good.

“Tell me something,” Affogato said lightly, watching the streetlights pass by in slow ribbons. “What do you actually want out of this?”

Dark Cacao turned his head slightly, considering him before eyeing the road once more.

“A companion,” he said simply.

“That’s a broad term.”

“I expect loyalty and maturity.”

Affogato almost snorted. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep the smirk from showing too widely.

You want a dog, he said to himself. Affogato twisted in his seat to face him more fully.

“And in return?” he pressed. “What’s in it for me?”

“You will be cared for,” Dark Cacao said.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a negotiation.

It was a fact, delivered with the same weight as if he’d said the sun will rise tomorrow.

“You’re used to making deals like this, aren’t you?” Affogato said softly.

Dark Cacao met his gaze steadily. “I offer what is fair.”

Affogato’s heart ticked faster in his chest—not out of fear, but out of interest.

There was a raw, almost ancient feel to this man. Like he didn’t believe in the modern pretenses everyone else clung to. No flowers. No poems. Just terms. You’re mine; I’ll take care of you; don’t make me regret it.

It was almost… comforting.

In a terrible, transactional sort of way.

He wondered, fleetingly, what it would be like to test those boundaries. To see if he could crack that stone facade. To see what the man underneath would look like if he ever stopped standing so straight.

But that was dangerous thinking.

Affogato had survived too long by knowing which dangers were worth approaching—and which were better admired from afar.

For now.

They pulled up to Espresso’s apartment complex and Affogato unbuckled his seatbelt but lingered, turning back to Dark Cacao.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

He hesitated—then, on impulse, leaned forward just slightly, until their faces were only inches apart.

“You going to ask for a kiss goodnight?” he purred, voice low, teasing.

Dark Cacao didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

“No,” he said quietly. “I expect you to earn those.”

Affogato blinked.

For once, he didn’t have a smart reply ready.

He smiled instead—a real one this time, small and bright—and slipped out of the car, the door closing behind him with a soft thunk.

Inside the building, he waited until he was sure the car was gone before he let out a long, shuddering breath.

He pressed two fingers to his mouth, as if he could feel the echo of the words there.

Earn it, huh?

He laughed softly to himself as he ascended the stairs to Espresso’s apartment.

It seemed this was going to be a lot more fun than he’d thought.

.

The apartment was dark when Affogato slipped inside, the only light coming from the faint, flickering blue of the TV across the living room. Espresso was home, then.

Affogato quietly locked the door behind him, kicking off his boots and padding across the polished wooden floor with the careful grace of a cat. He could hear the soft clink of ceramic—Espresso probably nursing one of his endless mugs of coffee.

Espresso turned towards him, “You're back.” He stood up, stretching himself as if he had been there long, “I can finally go to bed then.”

Oh, was he waiting for him to come back?

Affogato only nodded to him then slipped past the couch without a word, heading straight for the small bedroom he occupied. But before he could fully disappear down the hall, Espresso’s dry voice drifted after him, sharper than the clink of any teacup.

“Home earlier than I expected though,” Espresso said without looking up. “He didn’t buy you dessert?”

Affogato paused mid-step, fighting a smirk.

“He’s not the type,” he said lightly over his shoulder.

“Ah. One of those.”

Espresso muted the TV and finally turned his head, sharp black eyes glinting behind his glasses. He looked exhausted, his hair messier than usual, the sleeves of his button-down rolled to the elbows. There was a pile of grading on the coffee table beside him—essays scrawled with increasingly furious red pen marks.

“You like trouble too much,” Espresso said, taking a long sip from his mug. “You should find a boring man with too much money and too little sense. A man you can wrap around your little finger.”

“Boring men don’t keep me interested,” Affogato said, wandering lazily toward the kitchen instead. “Besides… where’s the fun in easy?” He opened the fridge, eyeing its barren contents with distaste.

Espresso snorted. “You mistake danger for fun. It’s not the same.”

Affogato grabbed the last sad carton of orange juice and drank straight from it, ignoring the disapproving noise Espresso made.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“You always say that,” Espresso said dryly. “Right before everything catches fire.”

“Relax,” Affogato said, flashing a lazy grin. “This time, I’ll be the one holding the lighter.”

Espresso just sighed and turned the TV back on, deciding to stay up a little longer it seemed, muttering something about pyromaniacs and fools under his breath.

Chapter Text

Affogato was going to murder his boss. 

Not literally—he didn’t quite have the constitution for blood, nor the desire to deal with whatever unpleasant bureaucracy followed—but spiritually, metaphorically, and maybe just a little legally in his daydreams. 

The moment he stepped off the tram and onto the slick sidewalk, his spine sagged. His blazer felt suffocating, his shoes pinched, and the city air smelled like burnt sugar and exhaust.

His work was on the third floor, nestled inside a cramped, overly beige office full of too many phone lines and not enough escape routes. A perfectly miserable habitat for a man like him; elegant in form, born of a culture deeply rooted in ceremonial aesthetics, and now stuck answering the shrieking requests of an overworked manager. 

He survived the day by mentally checking out halfway through the afternoon, coasting through reports with half-hearted precision and tuning out his boss’s passive-aggressive slights like they were elevator music. By the time the sun dipped low and gold, he was already dead behind the eyes, riding that stupid bus home. 

Espresso’s apartment wasn’t huge, but it was clean, structured and lived-in. The man probably didn’t need Affogato to scrub the kitchen counters twice a week or wipe down the already-clean bathroom mirror. But it made Affogato feel a little less like a barnacle. A little more like someone who earned his space, however temporarily.

Affogato dropped his bag at the door, loosened his collar, and sighed like a man twice his age.

No one was home.

Espresso was probably still on campus, grading papers or terrorizing freshmen with his dry, academic scorn. Affogato respected it, even if the man was chronically incapable of enjoying a decent cup of tea. 

He took the silence as a gift. A rare, sweet moment of solitude.

Like clockwork, he cleaned.

He always did when he came home, when the guilt curled under his ribs like a persistent shadow. He knew he was lucky to be here. His cousin didn’t have to take him in, didn’t have to offer a roof, a bed or running water. And while Affogato rarely admitted guilt aloud, he paid for his presence in chores and politeness. Scrubbing the stovetop felt like penance. Folding Espresso’s laundry was another unspoken “thank you” no one asked for.

He scrubbed the kitchen sink in silence, listening only to the low hum of a fan in another room. He mopped. He wiped. He straightened things that didn’t need straightening. 

After sweeping, dusting, and reorganizing the fridge with a quiet elegance, he made his way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. The water scalded at first, but he didn’t move. Let it sting. Let it peel the day off.

What are you doing?

The thought came like a knife. Out of nowhere, just — there. It was not like it was the first time, so he did not always understand why it must stab each time. 

When he emerged, towel slung low and hair dripping into the sink, he sat before the mirror. Not to primp, not right away. Just to look. His reflection stared back, damp and thoughtful, eyes clouded by something harder to name.

He didn’t always like sitting still. Stillness meant reflection. And reflection meant remembering.

Steam clung to the walls from his earlier shower, curling at the corners of the mirror like smoke. He leaned in, resting both palms against the sink’s porcelain edge and stared at his reflection.

The boy in the mirror had always been good at getting out. At making do. At twisting situations until they bent enough to let him through. That was what life in the Coffee Village taught you, how to escape while pretending you weren’t running. How to smile when the world forgot you existed. 

His eyes, those slitted cat-like pupils framed by heavy lids and violet eyeshadow, were focused somewhere far away.

He could trace his path backwards: the desperation back in the Coffee Village, the flailing economy, the half-whispered resentments from elders about wasted potential. The job he took just to get the permit. The job he left because the boss pinched too hard when no one was looking. Application after application. The borrowed smile.

He had always been smart. And conniving. That had to count for something.

So why did it still feel like he was always two seconds away from slipping?

The mirror said nothing.

A sharp, artificial ping sliced through the air.

He winced. The phone on the counter buzzed again, louder than it needed to be. He’d forgotten to put it on vibrate after getting home. A stupid mistake. He hated the noise. Hated how it made his chest tighten before he even looked.

Muttering a curse, he grabbed it off the counter, ready to throw it onto the bed.

It was a message. From Dark Cacao.

*Would you like to go on a second date with me? If that would be agreeable with you.” 

Affogato blinked at the screen. Then let out a slow exhale.

The sudden shift from staring into the bleak void of his life to… a date offer was disorienting. Like falling into a lake and finding the water warm.

He reread it, eyes narrowing in amused disbelief.

There it was again, that strange formality.

‘ If that would be agreeable.’  Who even talked like that?

Still, he tapped out a reply quickly.

*Sure.”

He paused. Looked at it. Then added:

*Why not.”

He stared at the extra words then deleted them, implying typing in:

*Of course.”

Because whatever else, he had a job to do.

A mission, if he wanted to get poetic about it.

This had to be worth something — the dinners, the effort, the smiling. If the universe wouldn’t give him a hand, he’d dig his own fingers in and take what he could.

He was about to toss the phone back on the table when a second message arrived.

A second message followed before he could set the phone down.

*What sort of ring would you want, if you were to get married? I was curious.” 

“What the hell?” he muttered to the empty room, dragging a hand down his face. He sat back, curling one leg underneath him as he read the message again.

Not a red flag — not quite.

Just… weird. Weirdly specific.

Was this flirting? Or was he just one of those strange, old-school men who asked personal questions like he was conducting an interview? It was so like him. Asking something weird and loaded like that out of nowhere, as if they were already deep into some romance novel instead of fumbling through stiff small talk and awkward glances.

Affogato set the phone down, rubbing his temples.

He wasn’t going to let this man throw him off. He had a plan. He had to have a plan. If he let himself be thrown by every weird text or proposal of sentiment, he’d never last. He couldn’t afford to get spooked. Not now. He had a mission: survival.

He typed up his reply,

*Something shiny maybe not sure how rings and diamonds work.” 

Affogato wondered to himself if he sounded like the ignorant village protagonists in those stupid television series that attract a prince because they're stupid about basic things. 

Dark Cacao’s reply came in, 

*Noted.”

Affogato stared at the screen for a beat longer, a faint smirk pulling at his lips.

Weirdo.

But at least an interesting one.

And besides,

Dark Cacao wasn’t bad company. Stiff? Yes. Traditional to the point of comedy? Absolutely. But he listened. He didn’t leer. He didn’t pry. There was something weirdly calm about being around someone so serious. Like sitting beside a mountain that didn’t care if you ever reached the summit.

Affogato stood from the chair and went to his room to change, already piecing together what he’d wear for the next meeting. He’d make it worth something. He always did.

.

.

.

The second date arrived three days later.

This time, Dark Cacao picked him up.

Affogato had been expecting a car service or something distant and proper like last time. But no — the man himself showed up at the curb, stepping out of a dark luxury vehicle and walking to open the passenger door himself.

Affogato rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache.

Of course he opens the door. The gallant, scowling warlord.

But he didn’t say anything. Just smiled like a prince and slid in, legs crossed delicately as he buckled the seatbelt.

Dark Cacao closed the door behind him and circled back around.

The car smelled faintly of leather and cedar. Of course it did.

“How was your day?” Dark Cacao had asked as they drove to merge with the traffic. 

Affogato stared out the window. His voice was cool when he responded, “Nothing different than what I said over text,” He didn't take his eyes off the trees that stared back at him, “yours?” 

“Productive,” Dark Cacao said, “no complications.” 

Affogato snorted softly. What a life.

“So mysterious,” Affogato drawled, turning to look out the window. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were part of some conspiracy.”

“You don’t know better.”

Affogato blinked. He turned back toward him sharply, only to find Dark Cacao’s face perfectly unreadable, save for the faintest flicker of humor behind those heavy-lidded eyes.

“You’re joking,” Affogato said flatly.

A pause.

“Am I?”

Affogato stared for a beat. Then snorted, shaking his head.

“Never do that again.”

.

.

When they pulled into the restaurant’s lot, Affogato noticed something different. The sign wasn’t flashy. The building was sleek but quiet. Inside, the lighting was low, every table dressed in soft linens and flickering candles.

And more importantly, nearly every table was a couple.

Oh.

He didn’t say anything, but his brow twitched.

Alright then. So that’s what this is. Definitely moodier. Definitely deliberate.

They were seated quickly, at a private booth near a window.

Conversation moved gently as they ordered, Dark Cacao choosing something heavy and wine-paired; Affogato picking at the menu before settling on whatever was expensive but small enough to finish quickly.

They made small talk as they waited for their food, they spoke of work, the weather… what he thought of the latest architectural changes in the city.

And then, as the first course arrived, Dark Cacao set his utensils down. His posture shifted subtly— not rigid, but attentive.

“Affogato,” he began, voice gruff but not unkind. “I’ve been considering something.”

Affogato arched a brow.

He knew this tone. The, let me be clear, kind of tone.

“That so?”

Dark Cacao nodded once.

“I understand your generation isn’t bound by the same customs as mine. You approach relationships differently. Informally. Casually. But I’ve never done anything halfway.”

He took a slow sip of wine.

“And if I’m to continue seeing you, I’d prefer to do it with full intention. Properly.”

Affogato froze, fork paused halfway to his mouth.

Dark Cacao’s eyes were steady. Serious.

Even the wrinkle under one eye seemed to be bracing itself.

“I want to marry you,” he said, plainly. “If you’ll have me.”

Affogato froze, fork paused halfway to his mouth. The restaurant’s warm candlelight flickered softly across the table, catching the cutlery and the stem of his wine glass, but everything else around him seemed to still.

Dark Cacao hadn’t moved. He sat with his usual posture, firm but not stiff, his hands folded loosely on the table, gaze resting firmly on Affogato with the steady weight of someone who meant what they said. 

For a long, uncomfortable second, he genuinely thought he had misheard him. Or that the man had gone off-script. That this was some elaborate joke built from old-school formality and emotional constipation.

Marriage?

Now?

Now?

He swallowed the bite of food in his mouth—barely chewed—and lifted his wine glass with practiced grace, even though his fingers were suddenly cold.

“That’s… sudden,” he murmured, forcing a light smile. “I didn’t think men like you rushed into things.”

“I’m not rushing,” Dark Cacao replied without hesitation. “I’ve simply made a decision.”

Affogato’s smile twitched. He took a longer sip of wine this time. “I see. And what makes you so sure this decision is the right one?”

“I think a man should be clear about his intentions.” Dark Cacao’s voice was like gravel pressed into velvet—rough but not harsh. “And I think the best way to show commitment is to give it.”

There it was again, that tone. Formal, direct, old-fashioned in a way that made Affogato feel like he was being fitted for a suit of armor. This man… he really was serious.

Affogato tilted his head slightly, as though trying to read him through candlelight and a veil of disbelief. “I’d think someone like you would need more than two dinners and a glass of wine to decide on something like marriage.”

“I’ve needed less for harder decisions.”

There was no pride in it, just his truth, like he was stating the time or the weather. The way he looked at Affogato now, there was no hesitation, no flirtation. It was all weight. It was gravity.

Affogato leaned back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He hadn’t expected this—not so early, not so directly. He’d gone into this with a plan: charm the man, earn his trust, take the support, and maybe, maybe long-term affection if it proved necessary. But this wasn’t just a door opening. This was Dark Cacao dragging him through it by the hand before he could look twice at the hinges.

Affogato’s lips curved slowly, but not into a smile. He was studying him now, the way a gambler sizes up a silent opponent. “You talk like this isn’t a relationship. Like you’re recruiting me.”

“I suppose I’m doing both,” came the simple reply.

For the first time, Affogato couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out, quiet and sharp-edged. “You’re impossible.”

Dark Cacao didn’t smile, but the hard line of his mouth softened just a touch. “You’re still considering it, aren’t you?”

His mind raced. He needed to keep this going. He needed this connection. But marriage? That was a lot earlier than he’d planned to manipulate anyone into it.

Still, he wasn’t going to backpedal now.

He reached for his wine again, mostly to buy time. He needed to think. Fast. He didn’t dislike the man. In fact, Dark Cacao was probably the most straightforward, clean-cut person he’d ever entertained, so straightforward it bordered on alien. But marriage was a leap. It was commitment. It was a contract. It was—

A golden opportunity, whispered the familiar voice in the back of his head. You wanted out. This could be out. Play the game. You’re already in the ring. Win the match.

He set the glass down with quiet precision. “And if I say no?”

“Then I won’t ask again. But I will keep seeing you, if that’s what you want, I can.. do it the way your generation intends. I can try.” 

“You’re serious.”

“I intend to be serious.”

Affogato shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gods, you’re so traditional it’s almost charming. Almost.”

“I know it’s fast for you,” Dark Cacao said, voice softer now, “but I’m not asking for an answer tonight. I just wanted you to know my intentions.”

“It's appreciated,” he replied smoothly. He lifted a bite of his meal and chewed thoughtfully, eyes flicking back to the tall man across the table. “you get points for the effort.

Affogato glanced around the restaurant. Most of the tables were filled with couples. The lighting was deliberate. The soft music in the background sounded like something out of a slow ballroom. He should’ve seen this coming. Everything about the setup reeked of “intentional.” He took another sip of wine, exhaling through his nose as he set it down.

“Well, I’ll give you points for boldness too.”

“I’m not asking for an answer now,” Dark Cacao repeated again, sitting back at last, as though the hardest part had passed. “But I am asking you to think about it.”

“Sure,” Affogato answered, dragging the word out with something between a purr and a sigh. “I’ll think about it." He will.

Chapter Text

The key turned in the lock with a soft click, followed by the muffled groan of the door hinges. Affogato stepped inside the apartment with the careful hush of someone who didn’t want to be overheard, even though Espresso wasn’t home. Not yet. Probably not for another few hours, if the glow of the hallway clock was anything to go by.

He slipped off his coat, draped it over the arm of the couch, and stood there in the quiet for a moment longer than he meant to.

There was still a faint warmth on his skin from the car ride. Still the echo of Dark Cacao’s words in his ears, calm and immovable, as if the man had proposed something as ordinary as dinner plans. Affogato hadn’t said yes. He hadn’t said no, either.

‘I want to marry you.’

The words rang again. Clean. Direct. As if he were offering a weather report.

He clicked his tongue and moved to the kitchen. Even now, after the date, he found himself tidying without thought: shoes straightened by the door, a glass rinsed, a napkin folded. Last minute touches, he told himself. 

When he finally wandered to the bathroom, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. There he was: damp bangs stuck to his brow from the humid air, eyes dulled from exhaustion, he looked exactly like he felt.

Tired. It seemed like another shower would do or he won't ever sleep tonight. 

He flicked on the light, peeled out of his clothes, and stepped into the shower. Hot water beat against his back, running down his spine in slow rivulets. He stood motionless, barely blinking, letting the heat chase away the weight of the evening. It did its best.

When he emerged, toweling off, the mirror was fogged and shapeless, but eventually the mist cleared. And then he was there again—same eyes, same tired mouth. Same everything.

He sat on the small chair near the sink. A cheap little thing Espresso had bought for brushing teeth, really, but Affogato had claimed it as a perch. He dropped the towel over his legs and just… stared.

He wondered again, what was he doing? What the hell was he doing?

He’d left the Coffee Tribe with a single carry-on and a long plan—get to the new country, find work, keep his head down, send money back when he could, and eventually figure out a way to secure permanent residency. He was good at talking. At charming. At making people see what they wanted to see. He knew how to sweeten his tone just enough to make it sound like he belonged.

But nothing here had been easy.

The job was misery. His boss barely looked at him, except to scowl or point at a mistake that didn’t exist. His accent had gotten mocked more than once. He wasn’t respected. He was just… tolerated.

And now?

Now he was sitting in a borrowed bathroom, in a borrowed house, with his skin still warm from a date where a man with the gravitas of a general had asked him to marry him like it was the next move on a chessboard.

Was Dark Cacao just that kind of man? Did he propose like other people offered to buy you coffee? Was this part of some grand plan to lock things in early? Did he think Affogato would swoon? That he’d be grateful?

Affogato wasn’t grateful and certainly not the desperate lost foul Dark Cacao probably made him out to be. 

But he was also… intrigued.

There was something about Dark Cacao. Something that felt solid. Predictable. Almost safe in its strictness. The man had rules, yes, but at least you knew he’d follow them. He said what he meant. He didn’t hover or leer or treat him like a pet.

It was refreshing. If a little annoying.

A buzz.

Affogato blinked. The sound of his phone, chiming from the shelf in the hall. He always left it on silent. But ever since he’d arrived here, ever since he began this game of survival, he’d developed the anxious habit of turning the sound on whenever he was home. Just in case.

He stood, wrapped the towel tighter, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

The message glowed from the screen, from Dark Cacao

*”Thank you for spending time with me again. I meant what I said. You don’t have to answer now. I simply wanted to be clear.” 

A beat passed.

Another message followed.

*”I hope you aren’t upset.”

Affogato stared at the screen for a long moment. Then he typed, slowly.

*”Not upset. Just surprised.”

The reply was almost instant

*”Fair.”

A minute passed. Then Dark Cacao sent another,

*And if you ever do decide what kind of ring you’d want… let me know.”

Affogato threw the towel over his head with a groan and collapsed onto the sofa.

“Lunatic,” he muttered into the fabric.

.

.

.

When opportunity knocks in an ugly suit, iron it.

The sunlight crawled across the kitchen counter like a lazy beast, warm and slow. Affogato squinted at it from the sink, entirely consumed by his own thoughts.

Marriage.

He hadn’t laughed in Dark Cacao’s face. That alone was growth, wasn’t it?

Still, the man had offered something most people only dreamed of, and he’d done it with the casual authority of someone ordering a suit tailored. No drama, no trembling hands, just a plainspoken proposal from a man who probably used the word “honor” without irony. It was almost charming. Almost.

Affogato scrubbed the mug with a final twist and set it aside. The dishes were done. The counters wiped. The floor swept. Most of his chores had been finished before noon because his day job—where his boss hovered like a joyless phantom—had finally given him a rare reprieve. But that didn’t mean the day was free. He still had the evening shift at the café down the block, the second job he worked for extra cash without ever breathing a word to Espresso.

Pride made liars of us all in the end.

As he dried his hands, his eyes drifted to the tiny window over the sink. The city outside was a mottled mess of beige buildings, with balconies that looked like they were held up by hope and rust. He used to dream of escaping. Now he was here and dreaming again—only this time, not of freedom, but of something closer to leverage.

Because a proposal wasn’t just a gesture. Not from a man like Dark Cacao. It was power. It was a promise. It was a tool.

Affogato ran a hand through his damp bangs, sweeping them away from his eyes as he wandered back into the living room. His phone sat on the armrest of the couch, still charging. He eyed it with a curious frown, wondering what kind of contacts Dark Cacao had. What strings came attached to that kind of money. He didn’t know the full scope of the man’s work, just the vague corporate-sounding outline about security contracting and logistics. It sounded both impressive and untraceable.

If he played this right, if he could survive the courtship without giving too much away, he might be able to fast-track his way to permanent residency. Hell, even a new passport, a better job, access to people with power.

He didn’t need to stay married. Not forever. Just long enough.

He paced, aimless, thinking. The apartment was too quiet. Espresso’s books sat in their neat rows, judging him in silence. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was muttering about morals, about honesty. He shut it up with a scoff.

Espresso wouldn’t understand anyway. He was too rigid, too deep in his thesis work and department drama to understand the necessity of maneuvering. Affogato had learned the hard way that good intentions didn’t pay rent. Survival did.

Still, he owed the guy some warning. Maybe. Maybe not.

He heard the familiar metallic rattle of keys and paused. Espresso. Right on time.

The door swung open and in came the man himself, bag slung over his shoulder, hair flattened slightly by the wind. He looked tired, but Espresso always looked tired. It was part of his brand. 

“Hey,” Affogato called casually from the kitchen doorway.

Espresso nodded in greeting and set his bag down with mechanical efficiency. He kicked off his shoes, hung his jacket, and headed straight for the fridge, probably for something cold and bitter. Affogato hovered. Now or never.

“So,” he began, feigning nonchalance as he leaned against the counter, “you’ll never guess what happened last night.”

Espresso didn’t look up. “You didn’t get arrested, did you?”

“Pfft, please. That would involve being caught.” He smirked. “No. Something else. Something.” 

That got Espresso’s attention. His eyes lifted, suspicious behind his smudged lenses. “You went on a second date with that man. The one with the voice like gravel in a blender.”

Affogato snorted. “Dark Cacao. Yes. Him.”

Espresso raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“He asked me to marry him.”

Silence.

Affogato watched the gears turn in his cousin’s brain, watched the man pause halfway through opening a bottle of iced tea and then just… stop.

“He what?”

“Mmhm.” He hummed, reaching for a clean glass. “Right at the table. After appetizers, no less.”

Espresso blinked. “You’re joking.”

“Not even a little.”

“And what did you say?”

Affogato poured the tea. “I didn’t say anything. I’m thinking about it.”

Espresso stared. “Affogato. That’s not a small thing. That’s not–I mean, are you even–”

“In love?” Affogato interrupted, voice breezy. “Oh, please. Let’s not start throwing that word around like confetti. This isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Then why would you even consider it?”

He shrugged. “Because this is real life. And real life is a mess. And sometimes you clean up messes by marrying them.”

The silence between them lingered, thick with concern.

But Affogato wasn’t in the mood to justify himself. Not yet. Not when the pieces hadn’t even been fully laid out.

He still had the evening shift to prepare for, still had to put on the smile, the customer service voice, the second skin he wore for strangers who paid for lattes and never tipped. He rinsed his glass, moved past Espresso, and began changing in the hallway black jeans, half-wrinkled uniform, cologne just strong enough to mask the scent of doubt.

Espresso didn’t follow. He never did when Affogato got like this. And maybe that was the point.

 Maybe that’s why Affogato didn’t feel bad for planning.

.

.

.

The city had dulled to a low hum by the time Affogato returned. The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead as he locked the front door behind him, slipped off his shoes, and padded softly through the apartment. It was past midnight. His second job had run later than usual thanks to a broken espresso machine and a fussy regular. The worst. 

The house was mostly dark save for the gentle glow beneath Espresso’s door. Still up. Probably reading a paper or reformatting a dissertation paragraph for the fifth time this week. Affogato passed the room without a sound and slipped into his own.

He stripped off his uniform with little ceremony, leaving the apron slung over the chair as he rubbed his temples and sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress let out a low sigh under his weight.

He sat there in silence for a long while, still too buzzed from work to sleep but too exhausted to scroll. Thoughts looped. The proposal. The look on Espresso’s face. The quiet, creeping pressure of decisions that stretched beyond what he could see. He stood to reach for his nightshirt when there was a soft knock at the door.

He froze.

“Still awake?” Espresso’s voice, low and hesitant.

Affogato blinked. “Yeah. Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Espresso stepped inside in a worn, oversized t-shirt, holding a mug of chamomile tea. He didn’t say anything at first—just took in the room, the dim lamp light, the figure of his cousin barefoot and bleary-eyed near the bed.

He sat in the small armchair near the window.

“You look like shit,” he said finally.

Affogato huffed a laugh. “Thanks. So do you.”

He turned to the mirror and pulled a comb through his damp bangs, trying to undo the damage of a long shift and a dozen haphazard hand-runs through his hair. Espresso watched him through the reflection.

“This proposal thing,” he said. “You’re really thinking about saying yes.”

Affogato paused.

Then: “Yes.”

“Why?”

He picked up the comb a few more listless strokes before answering.

“Because… it’s a way out. A way through.” Affogato considered his words, measuring how much of the truth he should say to his cousin. 

He decided not to lie, “And well, it's hard to walk in dirt and smile at rude people just to make rent in a country that doesn’t want me, you know?” But not enough for it to be the complete truth. 

Espresso was quiet.

“I know what you’re going to say. That it’s dishonest. That I’m using him. Maybe I am,” Affogato said, lowering the comb. “But it’s not like I have ten doors to choose from. I have this one. And I’d be an idiot not to walk through it.”

Espresso shifted slightly, setting his tea on the windowsill. “I’m not judging you. I just… worry. You don’t know this man. Not really.”

It seemed Espresso was on his side, Affogato pushed his words further.

“I know he’s kind in his own stiff way. I know he’s loaded. I know he listens when I talk and opens doors and doesn’t text me weird things at 2 a.m. unless it’s about ring sizes, apparently.”

Espresso’s mouth quirked.

Affogato didn’t smile. He hoped he looked sympathetic enough. 

“I know that when he looks at me, he doesn’t see someone who’s failed.”

That hung there a moment, heavier than the rest. That was good. 

Espresso stood and walked slowly across the room. He stopped beside him, eyes lingering on his cousin’s tired face in the mirror. “You’re not a failure,” he said, quiet but firm. “You’re surviving. That’s not the same.”

Affogato shrugged, unsure how to hold that kind of sentiment in his hands. 

Espresso reached out and straightened a loose piece of hair, smoothing it behind his ear like he used to when they were younger. The gesture was warm, fleeting, painfully gentle.

“I just don’t want you to regret it.”

“Let me get there first,” Affogato responded, pushing a tingle of joking into his tone. 

Espresso nodded. Then, in an even quieter voice, he added, “Just… if it gets to be too much, you can still walk away, I guess.” Affogato tilted his head, looking at the grown man now, he still acted the part of the child he once knew. Specifically with his attempt at comfort. 

He didn’t know what tomorrow would look like.

But for now, he had a plan.

And that would have to be enough.

.

.

.

Later that night, Affogato’s fingers moved slowly, the light of the small device in his hand reflecting in his eyes. 

*”I'll marry you.” 

And then he sent the message off with a tap of a button. 

Chapter Text

The message had been short. Plain, even.

*“I’ll marry you.”

Sent at 01:04 a.m., after Affogato had dimmed the lamp, curled into the sheets and decided he wasn’t going to spend another night staring at the ceiling thinking about what ifs. The decision was done. Cemented in the text, drifting into the quiet like a final exhale. He’d left his phone screen-down on the nightstand and rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket over his ear and chasing sleep like a man pursued.

And in the morning, there it was–an unread message from Dark Cacao waiting like a ghost on his screen:

*“Understood. Let’s talk today.”

.

.

.

Dark Cacao came to pick him up a little past noon.

Affogato got in, inhaled the faint scent of expensive leather and cologne, and gave the older man a once-over.

Pressed shirt, coat, collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest this was casual for him. Casual, for a man who probably didn’t own a single t-shirt.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” Affogato said, settling into the passenger seat. “I could’ve taken the train.”

Dark Cacao shifted into gear with a soft hum. “I wanted to see you.” The answer was simple, almost boring. But at least he was genuine. 

The park was an upscale thing, well-manicured paths winding through shaded areas of trees with flowerbeds lining every fork in the trail. There were benches, a decorative pond, and a few scattered couples walking hand-in-hand or sitting with coffees between them. Not his usual vibe, but he appreciated the atmosphere. It was quiet. Respectable. A good place for deals and decisions.

They found a shaded bench, just a little away from the rest, and sat side by side.

“I trust you’re not having second thoughts,” Dark Cacao said after a stretch of silence.

Affogato leaned back on the bench. “Second thoughts? Oh no. I’m having third and fourth thoughts, but I figure that’s normal when you’ve just agreed to marry a stranger.”

Dark Cacao didn’t smile, but his eyes glinted with something like amusement.

“I understand this is… sudden. My intentions remain honest.”

“Sure,” Affogato said breezily. “Honest and maybe just a little impulsive, yeah?”

Dark Cacao turned his head. “Perhaps. But I am not a man who wastes time once I make a decision.” The words were so blunt, so exacting, that Affogato almost laughed aloud. Of course he wasn’t. Affogato can't laugh yet, he needs to hold it in. 

What seemed like more words that needed to leave his mouth, it was interrupted. A sound came the inevitable vibration in Dark Cacao’s jacket pocket. He fished out his phone, scanned the message, and exhaled through his nose.

“I have to leave sooner than expected. Business.”

“Right. The… thing. With the stuff.”

Dark Cacao raised an eyebrow at that. “Correct.”

Before Affogato could tease him again, Dark Cacao reached into his coat and pulled out a small, dark wallet. From it, he produced a sleek, matte-black debit card with silver trimming and an unfamiliar logo in one corner.

He held it out to Affogato.

“Take this.”

Affogato stared at it, then at him.

“What.” 

“You’ll need it to begin preparations. Clothing, rings..” The older man trailed off before fanning with his hand, “and whatever else brides need for their wedding day.”

He didn’t move to take it.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

Dark Cacao merely extended it further. “It will be yours for the day and yours for the rest of our lives when we wed. If you have questions about limits, you may message me.”

Affogato finally took the card, holding it like it might disappear between his fingers. It was weighty. Smooth. Cool to the touch. The numbers weren’t even printed, just subtly engraved. He’d never held something that looked this… luxurious before. Even the strip glinted under the sunlight like it was dipped in classism.

“I don’t even know what this is,” he muttered, turning it over in his palm. Of course he knew it was a card. He's not an idiot. But he felt as if he didn't know the material this was made out of because he was too low born for it. 

“It’s an account tied to my personal expenses..?”

Affogato blinked at him.

“Is this how you spoil all your fake fiancés?”

Dark Cacao’s face remained stern. “I have only ever proposed once.”

That shut him up. For about three seconds.

“You really know how to make a boy blush, you know that?”

Dark Cacao ignored that too, returning his phone to his jacket. “I’ll drop you off at the shopping district.”

.

The drive was short, but calm. Affogato played with the card between his fingers the entire time, still unsure if he was dreaming.

It was near the parking entrance when Dark Cacao spoke again.

“You shouldn’t shop alone.”

Affogato raised a brow. “Why? You think someone’s gonna jump me for a shopping bag and a debit card with no name on it?”

“I think people are unpredictable. Better to be cautious.”

Affogato smirked at the window. “God, you’re such a dad.”

“Your safety matters to me.”

That gave him pause.

“…Alright. Okay. Fine.” He pulled out his phone and unlocked it with a sigh. “I’ll call the ever-dependable Espresso. Maybe he can babysit me through this extravagant day.”

He rang once. Twice.

“Hey,” he said when Espresso picked up. “Any chance you’re back yet? The old m- Dark Cacao is sweating bullets thinking I’ll get robbed for a ring pillow.”

Espresso sounded mildly amused on the other end. “I just got back. Was planning to head home after helping Latte.”

“Wanna meet me at the mall? Just to soothe someone’s very traditional heart?”

There was a pause.

“…Sure. Latte’s coming too, actually. She insisted on tagging along once I told her you were having a wedding.” 

Affogato groaned. 

“She’s not too bad.”

“Says the one who complains about her.”

“She’s… helpful in her own way. At least in this field of things, much better company than I for this– besides, she's married. She can give you pointers." 

“She has always sounded like the type to drag me into five stores before I buy a single thing..”

Espresso chuckled. “I'm on my way.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you soon.”

Dark Cacao parked near the escalator entrance and put the car in park.

“You can message me once your cousin arrives.”

Affogato reached for the door handle, still staring at the debit card. “I’ll do that. You go take care of your… world-shaking operations.”

Dark Cacao gave a small nod. “Stay safe.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Affogato stood on the curb for a moment longer, watching the car vanish into traffic. He tucked the card carefully into his jacket pocket and stepped inside the mall, already regretting everything and wondering what Latte’s shopping style even was.

.

The mall was humming with energy, its floors buzzing beneath the rubbery hush of passing shoes and the faint drone of elevator music. It all felt strangely too normal for what was happening today.

Affogato stood by the entrance fountain, arms crossed, still cradling the thick, heavy debit card Dark Cacao had handed him like it might bite if he looked at it the wrong way. It gleamed with a quiet sort of wealth, the way something expensive didn’t need to be flashy to prove its worth. 

“He's right there.” The voice behind him had said, making him turn around immediately. 

Espresso was there, the infamous Latte next to him, straightening his jacket and tapping something on his phone. Latte walked up to him with her usual airy presence, wearing a flowy blouse and jeans, her long, swirly white hair bouncing with each step.

She greeted Affogato first with an easy smile.

“Good to see you again, Affo! Ready for wedding boot camp?”

He blinked at her. “Is that what this is?”

She looped her arm with his without waiting for permission. “Absolutely. Espresso said you needed some help figuring out where to start. I told him he looked like he was going to explode from staying out in public longer than an hour, so he’s just tagging along under protest.”

Espresso was already eyeing a nearby bench like it was a lifeboat.

Affogato could only snicker at the sight, “Then be good little chaperones and tell me which of these fabrics doesn’t make me look poor.”

.

The wedding dress boutique was smaller than he expected, nestled between a luxury candle store and a bridal jewelry chain. The lights inside were warm, flattering. The mannequins in the display window were draped in lace and silk, tall and statuesque.

Latte waved to the store attendant like they were old friends and before he could blink, she had whispered something to her and turned to Affogato with a devilish grin.

“You’re trying on dresses.”

His brows shot up. “Am I?”

She didn’t blink. “Yes. It helps. You don’t have to pick anything today, but it’ll give you a sense of silhouette and fabric. Most people don’t even know what suits them until they see it on their bodies.”

He had no counterargument. No valid protest, anyway. He could always say no, but she was already handing off her purse and escorting him toward the back dressing room with the ease of a woman who knew exactly how this worked.

It was only once he stood alone in the dressing room, peeling off his own clothes and staring at the absurd delicacy of the gown on the hanger, that he found himself having the peace to start spiraling. 

What was he doing?

Not even the wedding, just… this. All of it. 

This strange world of shopping for lace and tulle, deciding if he wanted something beaded or backless. What was expected? Did Dark Cacao even care?

His reflection blinked at him in the mirror. Damp sable lashes, violet eyeshadow still faint from the morning’s quick routine. Hair in its usual flourished shape. He looked… like someone pretending very hard.

He sat down on the padded bench and stared.

He hadn’t planned anything. Not the proposal. Not the mall. Not the wedding. He was playing it all by ear and pretending like he wasn’t scrambling. He always made it look like he had a plan, even when he was drowning.

Affogato had been to weddings. Signed witness papers. Wore a half-decent suit and made himself useful at the snack table. That was the extent of his experience. He was never this involved.

He was never meant to be.

This whole thing was happening so fast it hadn’t even occurred to him to Google anything. Was it always like this? Did people marry like this? Was he making a mistake? Are you supposed to start with the dress?

He couldn't find it in him to reach for the dress to even start putting it on. 

A knock rattled his thoughts.

“Affogato?” Latte’s voice called gently. “We’ve got a few more styles out here– just in case. You okay in there?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah–yeah. I’m fine. Just adjusting the fit.” He's not in his bedroom, this can wait for his dramatic evening baths. 

When he stepped out in the first gown, an A-line satin piece with off-shoulder sleeve, Latte clapped softly. “Oh, that’s a silhouette,” she said, eyes shining. “You’ve got the height for something dramatic, you know.”

He rolled his eyes lightly but smiled despite himself. “I know that already.”

A soft chuckle passed between them. The store clerk beamed nearby, already holding two more styles.

They cycled through a few more, and the surreal feeling slowly dulled, replaced by the numb fog of fabric and ribbon. It was Latte who finally sat him down on the little sofa near the mirror with a bottle of water and a calm, unreadable look.

“So…” she began, quiet. “Do you like him?”

He didn’t flinch, but he did pause. The way she asked it wasn’t accusatory. Just… curious. Kind. A little too kind.

“I mean, yeah,” he said after a pause, reaching for the cap of the water bottle. “He’s… good. I think. He’s serious, like, very serious. But he’s respectful. Doesn’t say anything weird. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a pet. You know.”

She nodded, watching him carefully.

Affogato went on, careful with his words. “I wouldn’t say no to someone like that. Not if they’re sincere. Even if it’s fast. Even if it’s strange. He wants to do things properly, which… I don’t mind. It’s rare.”

Latte tilted her head. “You sure? I mean, marriage is a big step.”

He sipped the water, letting a smile ghost over his lips.

“I think I’ve lived in chaos long enough to recognize when someone is serious. And I could use a little of that.” Then, more quietly, “I think I’d rather be respected than adored.”

That made Latte pause.

She didn’t push further, just patted his shoulder. “Well… whatever the reason, I’ll help however I can.”

He nodded, eyes drifting to the mirror again. The reflection looked a little less strange now.

As they packed up the trial gowns and walked back out to meet Espresso, still glued to his phone outside with the energy of a caged animal. 

Latte had taken the lead again, walking with purposeful strides that contrasted the relaxed sway of her long curls.

Affogato jogged a bit to catch up. “So… is that it?”

Latte snorted. “Oh no, sweet cake. That was just your warm-up. We’ve got a few other things to look at. You don’t have a wedding theme yet, right?”

“Well, this is a bit last minute.”

She spun neatly on her heel and pointed at the escalators. “Come on, upstairs is a home goods store—perfect place to start thinking about your registry. People like to gift newlyweds things for the house, so you can pick some practical stuff now and not get stuck with four punch bowls and an oil painting of a chicken.”

Affogato grimaced. “People give paintings of poultry?”

“You’d be shocked,” Latte said, pressing the escalator button. “Almond and I got a sculpture shaped like a screaming egg.”

Espresso, to no one in particular, muttered, “And people say academia is hell.”

.

They rode the escalator up. Latte immediately led them into a chic-looking homeware store, full of aesthetic tableware, diffusers, and displays arranged like someone’s fantasy apartment.

“This,” she said dramatically, “is where the fun begins.”

Affogato blinked at a ceramic plate set that cost more than a month of his rent.

“I can ask people for that?”

“You’re not asking. You’re giving them options,” she corrected. “Besides, you don’t have to add everything. Think about what you’d actually use. Cookware? Sheets? Maybe a vacuum that doesn’t scream when it runs?”

He trailed her through the aisles, occasionally poking things while Espresso hung back near a candle rack, arms crossed and half-scowling.

Affogato held up a set of crystal glasses. “You think I should get these?”

Latte tilted her head. “You plan on throwing dinner parties?”

“…Not unless I marry into royalty.”

She laughed. “Okay, skip the glasses. Let’s find a blender or something.”

Affogato stopped to think about his soon to be husband, considering his line of work.. What kind of friends does he have? Can he really ask for a blender? Affogato has never felt this out of the loop before. If only Cacao hadn't ran off. 

The rest of the time was a gentle blend of practicality and aesthetic exploration. Latte helped him think through the basics: kitchen tools, bedding, maybe a coffee machine if they didn’t already have one. Thankfully for him, she snapped pictures of styles Affogato liked and made him a running list in her notes app. Affogato doesn't recall there being a registry at the previous weddings he attended, so he appreciated the gesture anyway. 

After that, she shepherded them into a boutique that carried wedding accessories—shoes, veils, gloves, even cufflink options. Affogato didn’t know how long he stood staring at a row of white and cream shoes, wondering if anyone would care what he wore on his feet.

Latte peeked over his shoulder. “I wore flat heels with crystals. You can’t tell in the photos, but I never once tripped.”

“You think I should get some too?”

“Well, do you want height or comfort?”

Affogato exhaled. “I want to look like I knew what I was doing when I said yes.”

Latte smiled at him, gentle this time, no teasing. “You already do. That’s what counts.”

The last stop was a small jewelry kiosk surrounded by display cases of rings, each one nestled like it was made of starlight and tax debt. Affogato leaned in to look at one that gleamed gold with an opal centerpiece, oddly drawn to it despite the loudness of it. He thought of Dark Cacao, the old hunk should have at least been here for this one. 

He tapped the case glass. “Do you think I’d look ridiculous wearing something this flashy?”

Latte shrugged. “If you wear it like you mean it, it won’t matter.”

Behind them, Espresso cleared his throat pointedly. “Are we done soon? Some of us aren’t fueled by the spirit of romance.” Not that you can tell him not everyone is fueled by the spirit of discovery and research though. 

Latte glanced at him. “We’re getting there, Espresso. You’re being very brave.”

Affogato tried not to laugh.

Eventually, Latte guided them to a little café on the first floor where they all sat down for a breather. Affogato had taken the initiative to be the one to buy them the drinks, Latte sipped a caramel latte while Espresso opted for a plain black coffee, no cream, no milk. Affogato toyed with a cold bottle of water, absently stirring it in circles.

He stared into the bottle for a long while.

“Dark Cacao,” Latte clarified. “I know I asked about it earlier but.. is this one of those… fast things that just happens and you figure out the rest later?”

She wasn’t being accusing, just like before. Her tone was genuinely curious, again–concerned even. But still, there was a pause in Affogato’s chest. Something tightened under his ribs.

He took a second. Composed the answer like a speech.

“I think he’s got good character,” he said. “He’s respectable. Takes things seriously. Old-fashioned, maybe but not in a bad way. He’s been kind. Steady.” He shook the bottle so the water spun. “I wouldn’t agree to marry just anyone, you know? I wouldn’t let it get this far if I didn’t think there was something solid underneath it.” Affogato continued, “I think he’s good,” he said quietly. “Reliable. He doesn’t play games. And he’s trying. I can tell he’s trying to do something serious with this, not just… own me or something.” He hoped this satisfied her enough to never ask him again. 

“I don’t want to sound desperate,” he admitted, finally meeting her gaze. “And I don’t want to sound naive either. It’s fast. But I’ve done stupid things for worse reasons. This isn’t stupid. Just sudden.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Latte hummed, like she was pleased with the answer. “Good,” she said. “He seems like a good guy, even if he’s kind of intimidating. Serious people need people like you. You bring out the color.”

He looked away again. “Besides, if it all blows up, at least I gained some nice stuff from it.”

That made her laugh again, warm and honest.

The shopping continued after that– fewer stops, more focused. The vibe had shifted. He wasn’t just pretending now. He was planning. Preparing. It was still strange, still overwhelming, but for the first time that day, Affogato didn’t feel like he was winging it.

He felt like he was actually building something.

.

The apartment was still and dim by the time they returned. Espresso had said his goodbyes as soon as they got to the parking lot, murmuring something about going straight to his room to read or work on his “chemistry soap opera,” as Latte called it. She helped Affogato carry the bags inside, setting them gently near the dining table before stretching her arms behind her head with a satisfied sigh.

“Well, I’d say we got a good look at your options,” she said, eyes scanning the clutter of small boxes and brochures spread out over the table. “You’ve got a style forming, even if you haven’t realized it.”

Affogato looked over the collection—some silver-trimmed napkins he liked, swatches of dove grey and soft plum, sample fonts for invitation cards. A glossy booklet with dress silhouettes circled in red ink. That wasn't the end of it but it was the kind of things he never imagined he’d willingly spend a full day sorting through. And yet here it was– chaos, maybe, but an intentional chaos. His.

He slumped down onto one of the chairs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“This is more work than I thought it would be,” he admitted.

“Good.” Latte smiled, placing her hands on her hips. “That’s how you know you’re not being obnoxious about it. Nobody knows what they’re doing their first time around nor what to expect. You’ve already done better than half the couples I’ve seen.”

He was, in fact, very obnoxious about it. 

He didn’t answer right away, just nodded, scanning the options again. “I think I like… the lilac with silver. For the color.”

“Ooh, classic but soft,” Latte mused. “Good choice. I’ll help you narrow it down. I’ve got time.” She winked. “Almond’s out of town for the week in a case and I’m off classes starting tomorrow to Friday. You need a wedding planning assistant, I’m your girl.”

Affogato offered her a small, half-amused smile. “You sure? You’ll be my maid of honor at this rate.”

“I better be,” she said, already pulling out her phone to make a list. “Now go shower, eat something if you haven’t, and I’ll start organizing this pile into ‘yes,’ ‘maybe,’ and ‘please gods no.’ We’ll make sense of it all.”

She really was relentless. But he was grateful for it.

Once Latte had settled into her task, humming something under her breath as she sorted invitation designs from napkin samples, Affogato drifted back into his room. He peeled off his shoes and let himself fall backward onto the mattress with a deep exhale.

The buzz of his phone lit up the dark ceiling with faint white light.

Dark Cacao [9:03 PM].

*Did the mall treat you well? Was Espresso helpful?”

Affogato rolled his head to the side and typed a response. 

*It wasn’t bad. Latte helped more than Espresso though. He sat on a bench and nearly wilted. I think he would’ve rather been set on fire.” 

The reply came in little less than a minute, as if the man had been waiting.

*I’m glad you weren’t alone. What did you end up liking? I trust your taste.”

Affogato stared at the screen for a few moments. Something about that trust comment felt… sincere. Not blind or sugary, just firm, like he actually meant it.

He sat up, still in the dark, and sent a photo of the sorted items Latte had neatly laid out on the table. He sent it over.

*Thinking soft lilac and silver. Long dress. No glitter. No lace ruffles. Simple but nice.”

His response came again, 

*Perfect. It suits you. Elegant and subtle.”

A pause, then another ping.

*I can help with the venue.”

*When you’re ready, let me know what kind of setting you’d prefer. Indoors or out? Formal or something quieter?”

Affogato blinked at the screen. He hadn’t even begun thinking about that. Not really.

He typed.

*I’ll… let you know. Still figuring things out.”

Like always, the older man responded with all the support in the world,

*Take your time. We have time.”

The phrase lingered on the screen. It didn’t sound rushed or forceful. Just… patient.

Affogato stared at it for a long second before locking his phone and laying back down, folding an arm behind his head.

So far, he’d survived a spontaneous engagement, a mall-wide wedding scavenger hunt, and more decisions about color schemes than he ever thought he’d have to make in a lifetime. 

He wasn’t exactly sure what tomorrow would bring, but for tonight?

He had color swatches, a little help and someone odd, old, and maybe a little too composed waiting to build something with him.

That had to count for something.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely risen when Affogato’s eyes fluttered open. For a second, he didn’t move. Just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, wondering if he had dreamed everything. The proposal. The dress hunt. The invitations were sent out in a frenzy of half-decision. The man whose name blinked on his phone more and more each day with updates, check-ins, and oddly sweet remarks for someone so… uptight. Caveman-like. 

No, it wasn’t a dream. Today was his wedding.

He exhaled, long and slow, and pushed himself upright. Latte had taken over the living room overnight—her travel makeup bag was splayed open across the coffee table like a battlefield, and somewhere in the chaos sat the wedding binder she had created in a fit of inspiration three days ago. She had declared herself his maid of honor sometime between the dress fittings and dessert tastings. Espresso hadn’t fought it—he never really did when she got like that. Now he was stuck as the reluctant bridesmaid.

Speak of the devil, Espresso was already dressed when Affogato padded out of the bathroom later that morning, hair still damp and towel wrapped tightly around his waist. His older cousin, prim in his pressed suit and adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror, barely gave him a glance.

“You’re late,” he said simply.

Affogato blinked. “It’s eight.”

“Exactly.”

Latte popped into the hallway behind him, her white-and-brown hair twisted into elegant curls, one hand already holding a steaming cup of coffee she’d brewed at some ungodly hour.

“Don’t bully the bride,” she scolded Espresso with a wink before shoving the mug into Affogato’s hands. “Drink this. We have three hours until you’re supposed to be at the venue. I’ve already mapped out the timeline. Makeup in thirty. Hair in an hour. Dress fitting in ninety. I’ve got someone coming over with the final accessories to match your theme. Espresso–”

“I’m aware,” the man muttered, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

Affogato looked down at the mug in his hand, then back up at Latte. “Did you even sleep?”

“Power nap. Ten minutes. I’m glowing.” She beamed, entirely unconvincingly. “Now drink. I’ll start steaming the dress.”

He sipped obediently, letting the bitter warmth ground him. Cacao had texted him three times that morning—nothing excessive. A simple “Good morning. I hope you slept well.” Then an hour later: “The venue’s crew is reporting everything is on schedule.” Then most recently: “Nervous?”

Affogato hadn’t responded yet. He would. Eventually. Once he felt a little more like himself. There was the convent lie of being a bride on your wedding day. 

He dressed slowly, but Latte was never far, zipping around him like a caffeine-fueled fairy godmother. She pinned, adjusted, and tugged at fabric with a terrifying focus that left him with no room to second-guess himself. Only when he looked in the mirror did the weight of it all begin to settle in.

“I look… good,” he admitted softly.

Latte came to stand beside him in the mirror, tilting her head with a fond little smile. “You look like someone who’s about to give a serious man a heart attack.”

Affogato smirked but only slightly. “He deserves a little shock.”

Espresso passed behind them with an annoyed sigh. “You could show up in a paper bag and he’d still marry you.”

Latte gave him a high-pitched, scandalized gasp. “Espresso! You can’t say that!”

“He’s not wrong,” Affogato muttered under his breath.

Espresso only rolled his eyes and walked off. Latte caught Affogato’s gaze in the mirror again and squeezed his hand.

“You’re alright?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. It wouldn’t be the last. He’d come to understand that behind all her scatterbrained warmth, Latte was someone who really cared about the people around her. She didn’t take love lightly.

He nodded slowly. “I’m… sure enough. He’s kind. Stable. A little terrifying but… not in a bad way. I don’t think I’ll regret it. It's not like I can anymore anyway.” He cracked a joke at the end. 

Latte seemed to accept that. Maybe because it wasn’t a love confession. It wasn’t a lie either. It was just real. Just Affogato being as honest as he could allow himself to be without sounding desperate or foolish.

“Alright,” she said, her eyes glimmering. “Let’s get you married.”

. 

.

The dress was simple—elegant in the way a blank page was waiting for the artist to beautify it, waiting for someone to craft something unforgettable on it. It clung to him in all the right places, the soft ivory catching the morning light as he stood still before the full-length mirror in his room. But simple was never the final stage. Latte had turned the dress into something else entirely. With the help of jewelry and other accessories, it's amazing how different something can look. 

And his hair… that was an entire operation. Latte had somehow managed to assist him with doing into an intricate updo—his hair swept into a low bun braided with white ribbon, small accent gems pinned in like constellations. A silver hairpiece arched across the back of his head like a crown forged out of frost. Looking at himself now, Affogato barely recognized the man beneath all the softness and shimmer.

“Don’t say it,” he muttered.

Latte, crouched nearby fastening the last clasp on his shoes, blinked up with a grin. “Say what?”

“I look like I fell out of the sky.”

“Well,” she said, standing up and dusting off her hands, “you do.”

Espresso passed behind them with a tablet in his hand, fully dressed and stiff as ever, eyes fixed on whatever document he had pulled up: guest lists, seating charts, who knew.

“Are you seriously checking the fire codes again?” Latte snapped.

“I’m ensuring the venue didn’t forget the allergy notices. The dessert table includes three types of nuts.”

“Almond’s already triple-checked it,” she waved him off. “Speaking of—” she pulled out her phone, stepping aside and dialing quickly, her brow furrowing. “Almond? Hey. You’re on the way, right? Don’t make me show up at your house in my heels.”

Affogato turned from the mirror, smoothing the skirt down, running his hands along the seams as if trying to calm himself through touch. He’d pulled it off. All of it. Somehow. And now everyone was showing up. Espresso was on task. Latte was glowing with her planner energy. Almond was wrangling their daughter Walnut. Guests were probably already being seated.

It was happening. All of it.

Latte hung up and turned back to him with a satisfied smile. “They’re ten minutes out. She’s wearing that little flower crown we got her. She’s so excited she’s been vibrating since yesterday.”

Affogato smiled faintly, imagining the tiny girl skipping down the aisle with flower petals flying. Isn't that a sight? 

He walked over to the window, clutching his bouquet loosely, watching as a sleek black car pulled up to the venue entrance across the way. He couldn’t see the person stepping out, but he knew the figure. Broad, regal posture, long dark hair swept back, and that composed stillness he always had. Dark Cacao had arrived.

Latte joined him at the window and nudged him gently. “Still sure?”

Affogato took a slow breath. His heart beat against his ribs like it was trying to fight its way out. “Sure enough,” he said again. “It’s too late to back out now.”

“You say that like you haven’t been smiling every time he texts you.”

“I smile at anyone who says something nice to me.”

“Right.” 

Behind them, Espresso cleared his throat. “Final check. Dress? Secured. Bouquet? Check. Makeup? No signs of smudging. Ceremony seatings have been filled, catering has been set up, officiant is present. Time to go.”

Latte clapped her hands. “You heard the bridesmaid!”

Espresso looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Affogato adjusted one last pin in his hair, turned from the mirror, and lifted his head with that soft pride he always kept in reserve, something between showmanship and quiet dignity. He took Latte’s hand and gave her a genuine squeeze.

“Let’s go make it official.”

.

The doors were not open yet. 

Affogato stood perfectly still before them, bouquet gripped in one hand like a weapon and Espresso’s hand in the other like a lifeline. The entrance was grand—double doors carved with aged patterns, now slightly cracked open to let in soft notes of music from beyond. Light streamed through in golden lines, catching dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. Somewhere past those doors, people were standing. Sitting. Waiting.

Somewhere past those doors, he was supposed to get married.

He looked flawless. Every pin and jewel was in place, every fold of the altered gown cascading just so around his legs. The soft embellishments having turned the simple canvas dress into something that shimmered like it had been dipped in starlight. His skin had a polished glow, and the careful plum tint on his lips gave his expression a softness that might fool anyone into thinking he was calm.

But inside, he was spiraling.

He could hear the voices behind the doors. The music had changed to something quieter–measured, slow. The kind of music that marked a moment. People were turning in their seats. The flower girl had already gone ahead, scattering little white petals down the aisle. Walnut. She was probably twirling the basket on her wrist with too much excitement and not enough control. He hoped she remembered not to sprint.

“Affogato.”

Espresso’s voice snapped him back. They were standing alone now. Latte had already gone to join the groomsman at the altar as maid of honor, leaving Espresso to escort the bride down the aisle–Only Latte seemed to be aware of this part in the plans, of course. 

He turned his head just slightly, enough to see Espresso properly. His expression was unreadable as always, but his grip on Affogato’s hand was steady, firm–not too tight, just enough to say I’ve got you. In his own.. Espresso way of course. 

“You don’t have to grip the bouquet that hard. You’ll crush the stems.”

Affogato exhaled through his nose. “I could run.” He felt a vomit of worry at his throat ready to spill. 

“You could,” Espresso allowed.

“I could trip.”

“You might.”

“I could say the wrong name or forget the vows or vomit all over my shoes. I could die in a dramatic collapse at the altar. That would be poetic, wouldn’t it?” He said it like a joke, all so as not to sound like he was truly worried. It was not him to open up his problems to those around him but he just couldn't deny his insides the relief of throwing up right now. 

Espresso turned slightly to face him. “You’re not going to do any of those things.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, simple and dry. “Because if you even look like you’re about to collapse, Latte will be at your side to keep you standing even if she has to dig her nails into your waist. You won’t die dramatically, I'll hit you in the face with your own bouquet.” 

Affogato snorted. It slipped out before he could stop it. Espresso let it hang for a moment, a tiny crack in the tension.

Then his cousin did something surprising–he adjusted the sleeve of Affogato’s gown, almost like brushing dust off it, and murmured, “You’re going to be fine. You always are.”

Affogato stared at the double doors again.

“…You know, when Latte said you were the only available family I had to walk me down the aisle,” he muttered, “I expected you to refuse.”

“I did.” Espresso replied, deadpan. Affogato snorted once more. Espresso narrowed his gaze, “I was outnumbered.” 

The music shifted again. Espresso’s hand tightened slightly.

“That’s your cue.”

The doors began to open.

Affogato held his breath. All at once, light poured into the space before them. Gasps floated from the attendance as he stepped forward–carefully, one heel before the other. The petals Walnut had tossed were scattered like confetti stars, dotting the aisle in soft white. At the far end of the aisle stood Dark Cacao, statuesque in his ceremonial suit, hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed ahead.

He didn’t smile. But his gaze said everything. There was a quiet reverence in it, like he was watching the sun rise for the first time. Like this was something sacred.

And Affogato kept walking. One foot in front of the other. The soft rustle of fabric trailing behind him. Espresso let go of his hand halfway down the aisle, giving him a light nudge before taking his place to the side.

Affogato didn’t falter. He stepped up. He met those tulip eyes across the altar. He stood where he was meant to stand, his heart was beating loud enough to echo in his ears. 

Goodness, why does the aisle seem longer than it did five minutes ago.

Affogato’s heart was thundering like hooves in his ears, each step closer to the altar a battle between poise and panic. The soft fabric of his gown shifted with each motion, every bejeweled detail catching the light. The trail shimmered like a mirror lake behind him, and then all of a sudden all he could think was:

Is this kind of dress too slutty for a man his age…?

It was too late now but now his mind has found a new point to abuse. He hoped Dark Cacao didn’t find it too much. Or maybe worse–not enough. Was it too dramatic? Too desperate?

Am I trying too hard?

And then Cacao’s hand reached out towards him. The older man had taken a step forward from the altar, offering one large, steady hand to help him up the last short steps. Affogato took it, letting the strength in Cacao’s grip steady the nerves that wouldn’t stop buzzing in his chest.

And Cacao said, low and simply: “You look good.”

Affogato blinked. That was it? Just—you look good?

There was no poetic metaphor, no romantic praise, no breathless awe. Just those three words, said like they were obvious. Unshakable. True.

Affogato’s stomach did a slow, odd roll–not panic this time. Something different. Something warmer. He glanced away quickly, hiding the smallest curl of a smile.

Behind Cacao, his best man leaned in slightly, giving the groom’s shoulder a quick nudge. “Your bride spent hours on that dress,” he whispered with a teasing grin. “Try to say it like you mean it, old man.”

The man was sweet-faced, with gentle-firm features that softened everything about him, even with his masculine build. Hair like sunlight, eyes mismatched–one blue, one golden like honey. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a painting in a glass window of a Saint. He looked old enough to drink but not the age Affogato would expect Cacao to have as his best man. 

Dark Cacao didn’t respond to the jab, only gave a small, embarrassed huff through his nose. Affogato thought he saw a slight twitch of a smile before the older man turned back to face the priest.

And the priest, sensing the pause had passed, began to speak.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

Affogato barely heard the opening words.

His eyes were locked on Cacao. The man’s expression was unreadable again, carved from stone and focus. But his hand hadn’t let go. He still held Affogato lightly, fingers warm and calloused and present.

It helped. Goodness, it helped.

And when the time came for their vows, Affogato found his voice steadier than he expected.

“I stand before you today with clarity. Not because I have all the answers–but because I know what I’m choosing.”

He pauses briefly, the weight of the moment settling between them. The ring was slipped into his hand by Espresso. 

“I choose you—not out of chance or convenience but because I’ve seen the kind of man you are.” A quiet breath. No nerves, just conviction. “I can’t promise perfection. But I can promise to stand beside you, not only in peace, but through uncertainty. To share my thoughts, even when it’s hard. To offer support, even when I don’t know the right words. And to make this union something we both carry with intention.”

He meets Cacao’s gaze steadily.

“Today, I don’t vow to become someone new. I vow to bring you all that I am—wholeheartedly, truthfully, and with the willingness to grow. With you.”

He told Latte this was too corny for his taste and it felt worse leaving his mouth but at least it was over. He placed the ring on Cacao’s finger, the size was just right. Cacao hadn't looked away from him once.

When it was his turn, he didn’t need a deep breath to begin. His voice was low, calm, and steady—like stone warmed in the sun.

“I have always believed in duty,” he said. “In honoring one’s word. In protecting what is placed under one’s care.”

He paused for just a second, watching Affogato more than the audience.

“But I’ve come to learn that not everything worth protecting looks how I thought it would. And not every bond is forged through years or shared tradition. Some are unexpected.” A hint of something flickered in his expression. Humor, maybe. Or affection. 

“You walked into my life uninvited. And now I can’t imagine it without you. You reminded me why not everything needs to be weighed before it’s held close.” He offered his other hand, both now cupping Affogato’s delicately.

“So I vow this: To share what I have. My strength. My patience. And to meet your effort with mine. To be someone you can trust, someone you can rest beside without fear or worry about tomorrow.”

He bowed his head slightly, voice softening just a touch. One hand removed itself from Affogato and collected the ring from his groomsman.  

“And if you should ever falter, I will remain. Not only out of duty. But because I choose you. Every day.”

Cacao held his hand closer and slipped the ring onto his finger, ever so gently sliding it down. 

The priest’s voice echoed through the quiet hall. “By the vows spoken, and the bond now sealed, I pronounce you married. May your union be steadfast and long.”

A beat passed–then, “You may kiss.”

Dark Cacao turned toward Affogato with a composed steadiness, the edges of his lips just twitching upward. Affogato, who had barely breathed for the past five minutes, felt the weight lift slightly–just enough to lean forward.

The kiss was short, firm and almost formal, like the closing of a deal made in a private study, just like him but Affogato felt it like the bell strike of a beginning.

The crowd clapped, a swelling burst of warmth and noise that felt far more human than the stillness that came before. Walnut, having been the flower girl and residing next to Espresso and Latte close to him, clapped enthusiastically with both hands and feet, her flower crown slipping sideways in the process. 

As the applause softened into murmurs and music swelled for the recessional, Dark Cacao led Affogato down the aisle with a strong hand. Espresso disappeared into the crowd with a quiet nod. Affogato could see Almond and Latte talking with Walnut beaming between them as he was led by Cacao to where the afterparty was already pulling everyone toward the next room. The hall was illuminated in hues of icy blue and violet, bouncing light off crystal chandeliers and polished marble.

Affogato barely had time to marvel at the lavish setup before he was gently but firmly steered by Dark Cacao toward one of the tables near the center of the room. It looked no different than the others—white linen, fine glassware, a simple floral centerpiece—but the people seated there?

The woman to the left had a head of golden hair so radiant it practically defied physics under the chandeliers. Her skin was a rich baked hue, and her eyes were the same brilliant gold, outlined with elegant white and sharp green markings beneath. She was laughing about something, shoulders relaxed, but everything about her screamed untouchable. Her headdress—three gold triangles—glinted like a crown, and Affogato didn’t need anyone to tell him that she was someone used to being worshipped.

Beside her sat the man with long blond hair, light and sleek, framing a face that was deceptively gentle, the one who had stood with Cacao at the wedding ceremony. His mismatched eyes were soft, kind as before and yet there was something about the way he held his glass, as if he’d been in this exact chair at hundreds of important tables and still found the people more interesting than the power. His attire, now that Affogato could look at it closer, was so intricate it must have been stitched by monks.

Across from them was a wide, powerful-looking woman with arms that looked like they could snap a man in half–though she was currently using them to raise a goblet and wave down a passing waiter. Her hair, pink and tied in thick loops with decorative leaves, bounced as she laughed loud enough to make nearby tables turn and grin. She had an effortless warmth to her, like a beloved aunt who could outdrink your whole family.

And lastly, a slender woman with the most delicate posture Affogato had ever seen. Her braid was long and white, draped like ribbon over her shoulder, and her dark fuchsia eyes shimmered beneath pale lashes. She looked like she’d just wandered in from a garden and hadn’t noticed she was in a ballroom. There was grace in her stillness, a softness in the way her fingers curled over her teacup.

Affogato’s stomach sank. These people were clearly someone. All of them. Sitting together. Relaxed. Laughing. Why were they here? More importantly—why was he being taken to their table?

Dark Cacao stopped beside an open chair and pulled it out for him. “Come,” he said simply.

Affogato sat, trying to hold his back straight as he made sure to lower himself into the seat like a gentleman instead of someone who’d just walked into the lion’s den.

Dark Cacao remained standing, placing a hand on Affogato’s shoulder with a sort of quiet finality. Then he gestured to the table, his voice as calm as always.

“Queen Golden Cheese of the Golden Cheese Empire.”

Affogato nearly choked on his own spit. Queen? He looked again at the golden woman—who smiled and gave him a gentle little wave with painted fingers, as if she’d just been introduced at a lunch party and not a royal summit. He could only wave back. 

“King Pure Vanilla of the Vanilla Kingdom.”

King?! The soft-spoken, polite man beside her smiled warmly and gave a small nod. He looked like he should be at home brewing tea to get through a college essay. King?

 “Queen Mother Hollyberry of the Hollyberry Dynasty.”

Affogato was nearly trembling. Queen. Mother. As in… Hollyberry barked a laugh and raised her glass again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart! I’m mostly retired! Mostly!”

“And Miss White Lily of House-.”

“Just White Lily is fine.” She interjected, giving him a faint, almost apologetic smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

Affogato nodded, possibly bowed slightly, possibly just seized up entirely. It was hard to tell what his body was doing anymore.

He smiled as graciously as he could manage. “…It’s truly an honor.”

Dark Cacao just casually sat him at a table with three monarchs and possibly some rich girl from those rich family ceo-inherited business tv shows like it’s Sunday brunch. Affogato picked up a napkin to unfold it, mostly just so his hands would stop shaking. He is literally surrounded. This is a royal ambush.

And yet… the way they were looking at him, speaking to him, smiling at him, it wasn’t haughty or smug. It felt like he’d just sat down at a table of old friends who’d been saving him a seat. Well, technically they were saving Dark Cacao the seat, he just so happened to be the bride so by extension him as well. There was no reason for people like them to be this welcoming. That was probably it, yes.

Still, when Cacao quietly seated himself beside him, his presence heavy and grounding like an anchor in a storm, Affogato found himself breathing again.

But that warm welcome? That nagging little flutter in his chest? He’d deal with that later. For now, he smiled. “So… how long have you all known Cacao?” he asked, like he belonged there.

And to his surprise, they actually answered quite enthusiastically. 

“I first met him,” Pure Vanilla said with a quiet smile, “when I was crowned. I was… I was maybeee nine years old at the time.”

Affogato blinked. Maybe Nine?

“He stood like a statue the entire ceremony,” the Vanilla King went on, chuckling. “Towering over everyone—even the guards—and I remember thinking he looked like someone pulled straight out of an old tale. A knight from the myths.”

“Oh, he was a knight back then,” Hollyberry chimed in, slapping her goblet down with a grin. “In the military, his troops and mine teamed up during that mess near that Vale in the war. Remember that, Cacao?”

Dark Cacao gave a slow nod. “Your battalion saved ours from something we failed to see. I remember the colors of your banners first–then you, tearing through the enemy line like a beast with too much wine.”

“That’s how I always did make friends,” she laughed.

Affogato looked between them, trying to act like he wasn’t absolutely glitching. 

Wait—military? He was in the military? Of course he was… but that’s how they know him? Since then?!

“I was at the coronation as well,” White Lily added softly, setting down her cup. “My parents said it had been a while since a crown was placed on a child’s head in Vanilla kingdom history. He stood so still, young as he was, we weren't that far apart in age so I felt maybe half as nervous as he did. And I remember when he reached for your hand when you stepped forward, Dark Cacao. That stayed in my memory.”

Pure Vanilla’s smile turned almost embarrassed. “He made me feel steady. I didn’t know half the names being called out but I knew his presence meant I was safe.”

Affogato kept smiling. That glass in his hand? He might as well have been holding it in his teeth. Dark Cacao was at the coronation as a guest of honor?... Wait—he’s known Pure Vanilla since he was a child? Then he was a guest of honor because?–

“I attended the coronation too,” Golden Cheese said suddenly, leaning forward on one elbow. “Against my advisors’ wishes, of course. They wanted me to send a proxy, like most royals did. But I was newly crowned myself. I thought it was important to be there in person.”

“And?” Pure Vanilla asked, glancing at her. His tone was like a teenage girl asking her boyfriend what he thought of her outfit with batting eyelashes. 

Golden Cheese shrugged with a sly grin. “And it was worth it. I met all of you. Besides, I wanted to see the boy-king with my own eyes. I ended up spending more time with this one here.” She nodded toward Dark Cacao. “He seemed like he was watching everyone, even the shadows. I think he was sizing us all up back then.”

Cacao didn’t deny it. “I was there to represent the security services I’d begun forming. It was not a time to relax. I was there to honor a lost comrade as well.”

Security services? Affogato thought, almost numb. He was already planning—planning to protect him—before he even ruled. And he made those services himself? After war? The conversation danced around him, and Affogato kept up with practiced grace but inwardly his thoughts were spiraling.

Affogato had already begun to piece the story together as best as he could. He seemed to have fought side by side with a royal like Hollyberry? From the sound of things there were other royals involved.. or he was simply invited by Hollyberry to attend… can you just invite someone to something like a coronation though? Who was this comrade to make him attend a whole coronation?

Golden Cheese, as if sensing his reverie, turned her golden gaze on him.

“And what about you?” she asked. “How did you meet him?”

Affogato straightened, caught but not unprepared. His voice slid from his throat like ribbon. “Ah… not at a coronation, I’m afraid.” 

That earned a ripple of laughter but it wasn’t mocking—it was amused, warm. Even Pure Vanilla smiled gently. Hollyberry knocked back more wine.

“Well,” White Lily said, watching him thoughtfully, “sometimes quiet meetings grow into lasting bonds. You never know which moment is the start of a book.”

Affogato smiled, careful. Poised. But deep inside, beneath every polished inch of him, his heart was hammering.

Because for the first time in a hot while, he wasn’t sure whether he was being welcomed in…or slowly, elegantly, measured by people Dark Cacao had fought beside, protected, and grown with.

.

Dark Cacao excused himself with a murmured word and a hand briefly resting on Affogato’s shoulder before vanishing into the quieter hall behind them. Affogato straightened a little too quickly. The absence of his towering presence left the table feeling both lighter… and far more exposed.

“You have an accent,” Pure Vanilla said with genuine warmth, tilting his head slightly. “It’s lovely. Melodic.”

Affogato froze for a breath. Melodic? His accent had been the subject of ridicule before, not charm. Did he not cover it as well as usual today? He tightened his fingers under the tablecloth, forcing his posture to remain graceful.

“I’m from a Coffee Village,” he said evenly. “A small one. I moved here later in life for work opportunities.” There. Vague. Respectable. Not a lie but not the full mess of it either.

Pure Vanilla nodded without missing a beat, his eyes soft. “Ah. That makes sense. I’ve only heard fragments of that dialect before. I always thought it had a rhythmic quality.”

“He means,” White Lily added lightly, stirring her glass, “that he’s been dying to ask ever since you opened your mouth, but he knows he’ll never get a clear answer out of Cacao, so now that you’re alone, he’s pouncing.” Her smile was almost contagious.

“I am not,” Pure Vanilla said with a laugh that cracked some of the tension. “I just, well–he doesn’t talk about you much. Not out of secrecy. He simply doesn’t share often.”

Golden Cheese leaned her chin into her palm. “He really doesn’t. He’s got the emotional transparency of a helmet.”

That drew a chorus of chuckles around the table. Even Affogato smiled, the edges of his nerves softening.

White Lily’s gaze was gentle but keen. “What drew you here? Was it always ambition? Or something else?”

“Don’t worry,” Hollyberry said, taking a sip of her drink, “they're not here to judge you, lass. They're just curious about the one who managed to tame him.”

Affogato took a breath, careful with each word. “I suppose it was ambition first. Then… curiosity.” It's not like he was lying.

Pure Vanilla’s eyes lit with quiet delight. “Curiosity. That’s a lovely thing to live for.”

Lovely, he said. Like he meant it. Not once did he wrinkle his nose at Affogato’s answer or prod further about how exactly he survived. Affogato met his gaze and saw no pity, only genuine interest. It made his chest twist.

“Oh!” Hollyberry started, “where’s your beloved one, ‘nilla?” Hollyberry asked suddenly, turning back to Pure Vanilla. “He did not come?”

Pure Vanilla smiled, a soft, fond curve of his lips. “Home, resting. He just gave birth to our second one just last month, after all. Still on bed rest.”

“I hope the little one is relishing in the golden tiaras I sent her for her birth celebrations.” Golden Cheese raised her goblet in toast. It bought a chuckle out of Pure Vanilla. 

“Now, I would bring our daughter,” Pure Vanilla continued, “but honestly, not without her mama. That little girl–” he laughed gently, “–she doesn’t care for nannies. Or rules. And my love is much better at keeping her from climbing balconies or giving the guards heart attacks.”

“She’s a hurricane,” Hollyberry grinned. “My granddaughter could rival her you know-”

"No one wants to see that!" White Lily interceded, a look of genuine worry in her face.

They all laughed and Affogato found himself leaning in, adding a word here, a comment there, nothing that gave too much away but enough to thread himself between the tapestry of their conversation. Their rhythm was practiced, decades-deep. But they didn’t shut him out. If anything, they opened more space for him to enter. It was strange. 

Just as he began to relax into that space, a tall shadow returned.

Dark Cacao.

Without a word, he moved to Affogato’s chair and held out a hand.

It didn’t need saying. The music from the center of the ballroom had shifted—lush strings and a slow tempo like melting honey.

“May I?” Dark Cacao asked, voice low enough to feel private.

Affogato nodded and slipped his hand into his husband’s. It was only when he stood that he noticed how warm his cheeks had become.

They stepped onto the floor, and the space cleared like parted clouds. Dozens of guests watched from the sides—but Affogato saw none of them. Only the man in front of him, solid and calm, waiting as if time had slowed for this alone.

Dark Cacao placed one hand carefully at his waist, the other holding his fingers with a steadiness that nearly undid him.

In the corner of his eye, he swore he saw Espresso being talked to by a larger man with blonde locks and a smug smirk while said man did most of the talking, the confidence of the man was as obvious as Espresso’s hesitation and awkwardness next to him. 

“I hope they didn’t interrogate you too badly,” he murmured as they began to move.

“They were…” Affogato paused, caught in the sway of the music, of his husband’s steps guiding him gently but firmly. “They were warm. And curious.”

“They always are. You did well.”

“You were watching?”

“I didn’t have to. I.. know you. Somewhat.”

The words made his spine warm. Affogato didn’t reply—he only followed the lead, twirling once under Dark Cacao’s hand when prompted, and landing with his hand on the man’s shoulder, breath slightly caught.

He considered asking about his story, his life, how he came to know such powerful people and treated them like your joe across the street–but maybe not today, not tonight. 

A few more steps. The music pulsed around them. Affogato’s breath caught.

“Do you feel alright here?” Dark Cacao asked suddenly.

Affogato blinked. “What?”

“This. Us. Them. The room full of eyes.”

He didn’t answer right away. But slowly, his hand tightened on Cacao’s. Their foreheads nearly touched as they stepped closer together in the slow swirl of the final strings.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Just… trying not to drown in it.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re so sure?”

“I’m holding you,” Cacao stated. “You won't drown.”

The song ended, and the applause came like a wave crashing into their silence. Affogato barely heard it. He stood there, caught in the stillness of Dark Cacao’s hold, the world tilting gently back into motion around them.

And for a moment–just one, brief, and breathless—he chose to believe the man wasn't lying. 

.

The guests had long begun to drift away, the glow of the chandeliers dimming in soft reverence as the evening drew to a close. Laughter faded into tired murmurs, flowers wilted gently on satin-clothed tables and the night air carried the smell of wax, wine and worn-out joy.

Down the long steps of the grand hall, two figures emerged side by side.

Dark Cacao moved with the deliberate grace of a man used to weight—ceremonial, personal, ancient. Affogato, in contrast, walked just a little faster, his head slightly bowed as if he truly tired of the eyes around him after all the hours of dancing, toasting, and smiling.

The waiting car purred lowly beside the curb. A fair breeze stirred as Affogato’s coat shifted slightly, and Dark Cacao placed a hand at the small of his back–not for the eyes of others now but a silent reassurance just for him.

From far off, across the courtyard, up past the lower wall that bordered the garden hedges and the parking shadows, someone watched.

His breath steamed faintly in the cold but he didn’t move. One hand rested on the steering wheel of a plain black car, the engine off. The windows were cracked open slightly, letting in the faint strains of music still seeping from the ballroom.

Red eyes tracked the couple’s every step. Not hateful. Not envious. Just still. Watching. Remembering.

He didn’t have any expression on his face when the shorter man paused to say something or when Dark Cacao seemed to actually smile slightly, his face half-lit by the car’s headlights. He watched as they ducked slightly to enter the vehicle after his new spouse, the door closing behind them with a muted finality.

The car pulled away from where it waited a moment later, slow and smooth, taillights bleeding red across the stone driveway.

The watcher sat there until the vehicle had long gone out of sight.

Then, slowly, he turned the key.

His own engine came alive with a low growl. He backed out from the shadows, tires crunching lightly over gravel, the sound barely more than a breath.

No one stopped him. No one saw.

The car vanished into the streets, quickly swallowed by the evening sky as he faded into the distance. 

Chapter Text

Affogato stood in the privacy of his new bedroom—his bedroom now—half-dressed and caught between comfort and hesitation. He stared down at the folded silk pajama top in his hands, then lifted it to his nose, smelling the faint scent of lavender and new linens. There was no tag on it, no brand. Of course. Everything here was likely tailored by the best, probably by someone’s grandmother who only worked with gold needles and sacred thread.

He glanced around. The walls were tall and trimmed with dark wood accents. The furniture was elegant but simple, no gaudy excesses, just wealth. 

Affogato’s heart pulsed against his ribs. Not with excitement, not with fear. Something else. He wasn’t quite sure what to name it. Something that clung to the bottom of his stomach like grit in unwashed coffee.

It was the wedding night. That was supposed to mean something, wasn’t it?

But his thoughts… they wandered. Not toward Cacao but back. Far back.

He thought of home. His mother–distant, frail, always tired from something. Affogato never really went home often in his later years as a teenager, preferring the home of his grandmother. Not because he didn’t want to help her. It’s just that every time he did, she made him feel like a child and then punished him for not acting like an adult before time.

“You’re never around,” she used to say.

“Oh,” he’d reply.

“I don’t have money to fix the fridge.”

“Hm.” 

That wasn’t intended to be cold. What else could he say? What did she want him to say? He wasn’t made of answers even if he wished he was. 

Before that, there was his grandmother–who smelled like syrup and milk, who raised him while his mother was off chasing something or someone, or simply forgetting she had a son. Affogato had tried not to resent her but he did and he hated himself for it.

But worse than that—worse than all the blurred days, the empty cupboards and fridge, the long walks home—was that one particular memory. One that sat in the darkest corner of his chest like mold.

*He was sixteen. A lanky, nervous boy trying to find where to fit in. Most of his friends had older partners. Adults. Lovers who picked them up outside school in cars, gave them lunch money, dropped them off a few blocks from home with little gifts tucked into their pockets. He thought it was normal.

Then one day, it happened to him too.

He wasn’t even sure when it started. A friend’s friend. Someone’s older cousin. A man who was “nice” in all the right ways. He smiled too long. He asked too many questions. He said things like, “You’re smart. You don’t seem like the other kids.” And Affogato—stupid, pathetic, young Affogato—believed it. He didn’t say no when the man started sending him home with snacks. Or when he offered rides. 

The first time the man touched him was in the car when he first offered their relationship to be beyond friends. It was just a touch then. 

The last time was in a bedroom with a broken lock and a whisper of, “This is fair, isn’t it? After all I’ve done for you?” It was more than a touch.

Affogato didn't say anything about it afterwards. He just left. He distanced himself from those friends. He stopped walking the same route home. But he never told anyone. Not even himself. Because what was there to tell? He took gifts. He gave back. That made it a transaction. He can't complain about how it went down, he was being naive and he learnt from it.  

So he told himself: It didn’t matter that it felt wrong. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t enjoyed it after the man said he would. This was just how the world worked.*

Which is why, standing here now, in this mansion-sized bedroom with silk bedding and designer curtains, Affogato couldn’t help but wonder…

Was this the same thing again? A richer man. A prettier bed. A better transaction.

He slipped the pajama top on and looked at himself in the mirror. The fabric clung slightly to his waist, loose around the arms. He adjusted the hem nervously. Was it too loose? Did his hips look strange? What if Cacao didn’t like what he saw? What if that was why he hadn’t shown up yet?

He heard a gentle knock on the door.

Finally.

Dark Cacao entered, his broad form framed by the warm light spilling into the hall behind him. He looked tired. Paler under the eyes, the exhaustion of hosting a wedding clinging to him like a second coat. In his hands was a dark blue box, neat and tied with a ribbon.

“I wanted to give you this,” he said simply.

Affogato took it, sitting down slowly on the edge of the bed as he undid the ribbon. Inside was a carved ivory comb, engraved with floral patterns along the handle. It was antique, delicate but strong. A piece from Cacao’s family, maybe? It felt precious.

“I… thank you,” he murmured, unsure if he should hug him or just hold it. “This is… really thoughtful.”

Dark Cacao nodded, a small pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad. I wanted you to have it.” Maybe it was a heirloom of sorts, judging from how he said that. 

Before Affogato could ask more about it, Cacao casually—too casually—stood back up. “And you like this bedroom, yes?”

Affogato blinked. “Yes, it’s very nice.”

“Good. Then I’ll leave you to rest. Good night.”

“Wait, what?” Affogato stood too fast, panic bubbling in his throat. “Where are you going?”

“To bed.”

“The bed is right here.”

Dark Cacao turned, blinking slowly. “I prepared this room for you. Your bedroom. I was going back to mine.”

Affogato stared at him like he’d just spoken in riddles. “You’re not… sleeping here?”

Cacao tilted his head slightly, “Would you like me to?”

Affogato didn’t respond. Just nodded once.

Wordlessly, Dark Cacao walked back over, lifting the blanket and settling into the other side of the bed. Affogato, tense beside him, expected something—maybe a kiss, a touch, even a suggestion. But none came. 

Instead, he heard the low, steady rhythm of breathing. A yawn. A pause. Then the unmistakable sound of snoring.

Affogato sat there in stunned silence.

He turned his head slowly. Dark Cacao was asleep that fast.

Out. Like a stone. A large, battle-hardened man who had just collapsed into unconsciousness beside him with the peace of someone who didn’t feel the need to guard his back.

Affogato furrowed his brows. He looked down at his own chest, at the neckline of his sleepwear. Then at his legs. Did he not look good in this? Was he too thin? Was his body not tempting? Was he not appealing at all?

Was that why Cacao didn’t even try?

Affogato laid down slowly, trying to keep from fidgeting as he stared at the ceiling. His thoughts circled like moths in a jar, unable to sleep, heart aching with something unnameable–shame, confusion, insecurity, maybe all of it.

And underneath it all, that terrible, familiar thought echoed again:

Everything is transactional. You're just not paying tonight.

Affogato turned his head slightly to look at the man beside him, his stern brow now soft in sleep, his mouth parted slightly, his chest rising in slow, steady movements. He had fallen asleep like the world couldn’t touch him. Like Affogato posed no threat. Like this wasn’t supposed to be a wedding night full of expectations.

Affogato turned back to stare at the ceiling again.

Fine. Let it be just a transaction.

But part of him—some tiny, deep, painful part—felt the sting of being untouched. And he hated it. 

.

.

Affogato’s body betrayed him again. It always did.

Despite the enormous bed, the silk sheets and the warmth radiating from Dark Cacao’s broad form just inches away, his eyes snapped open in the dark. Not from a nightmare, not from sound, just awake. Like usual, some part of him had decided that was enough sleep for the night and didn’t even bother to ask permission.

He turned slowly, staring at the ceiling again. The shadows had shifted. It had to be close to 4 a.m., maybe earlier. He hadn’t checked the time. He didn’t have to. This was normal.

Affogato shut his eyes again and tried to trick himself into sleep. He adjusted the sheets, curled and uncurled his toes, tried counting the ridges in the molding along the ceiling. Nothing worked. Why did he even try? This happened all the time. His brain was on now, buzzing with low-grade static, thoughts rolling in one after the other like a factory line.

I shouldn’t have worn those pajamas. They make me look like a joke. He probably thought I looked like a child playing dress-up.

No kiss. No touch. 

Did I say something wrong yesterday? I didn’t talk too much, did I? I always talk too much.

Maybe he saw my dress as too slutty and thinks I'm carefree now.. 

He started for a while now and it won't stop. He's not in the mood for his phone right now but if this continues he might. 

I did my best not to eat much at the wedding but maybe I overdid it and made myself look more like a pig if anything.. 

Or.. Not gonna lie… maybe he thought I spent too much on everything and is upset now.. Maybe he thinks I'm after money what if he genuinely liked m-

He heard the faint rustling beside him. A groan. A quiet yawn. Then movement–the steady rhythm of a large man rising from bed with all the care of someone trying not to disturb a stray cat. The sound of heavy footsteps retreating toward the door. A soft click.

Gone.

Affogato peeked one eye open, then both. He lay perfectly still for a few seconds, debating whether to pretend he was still sleeping when Cacao came back… if he came back.

He didn’t.

Affogato stared at the door in the faint light. He could try to go back to sleep, but odds were it wouldn’t stick. Even if he did, he’d just wake up again in a few minutes and feel worse for it. 

After another long few minutes of internal debate and imagined conversations that would never happen, he finally sighed and pushed the covers off.

The house was eerily quiet. The floor beneath his bare feet was cool, and the air carried the faint scent of coffee–ghosts of it from previous mornings, maybe. He followed the distant shuffle of movement, subtle and purposeful, like someone who didn’t want to wake the house.

It led him downstairs, past closed doors and empty sitting rooms, toward the kitchen. As he got closer, he noticed something strange.

No lights.

Only the faint glow from a cloudy window above the sink lit the space.

And there, bathed in that soft blue-gray hue, stood Dark Cacao. Shirtless, pajama pants sitting perfectly around his waist, hair slightly mussed. He looked… normal. Too normal. Certainly not like the figurehead of a strong company. Not like a man who had walked into war rooms and negotiations with senators.

No. Right now, he looked like a tired, grumpy man staring blankly at a container of butter croissants like he didn’t understand how they got there. 

He eventually reached for one and took a bite with the deadpan efficiency of someone chewing through obligations. The whole scene was surreal.

Affogato couldn’t help it. He smirked, walked a little closer and flipped on the kitchen lights with a dramatic flick.

“Really?” he said, letting warmth creep into his voice like honey over toast. “You come down here, half-awake, foraging in the dark like some kind of cryptid… and you don’t even ask me to cook for you?”

Dark Cacao flinched—actually flinched—at the light. The croissant nearly dropped from his hand, caught only by a quick, automatic reflex. His eyes narrowed on Affogato, confused for a split second.

Then, just as quickly, his face reset. Calm. Controlled. Slightly annoyed, slightly sleepy. All classic Cacao. “You were asleep. I leave for work early. You don’t need to wake up on my account.”

Affogato rolled his eyes, drifting toward the fridge and pulling it open like he lived there. “Oh, nonsense. What kind of husband would I be if I let you eat sad, stale croissants in the dark like some kind of hermit king?” He rummaged inside with practiced ease, noting what was available. “You forget, darling–I told you I’m good with a stove. Remember that time I sent you pictures of the curried shrimp I made? That wasn’t filtered. That was art.”

Dark Cacao blinked slowly. “It was three pictures of the same plate from different angles.”

“Exactly,” Affogato said with a flourish, pulling out eggs and some leftover vegetables. This might be the best he can do for now until he goes grocery shopping. The state of that fridge was concerning. “Presentation and confidence.”

He set ingredients on the counter and turned slightly toward him. “So. What time are you supposed to be out the door? I’ll make something that fits.”

There was a pause–brief but real. Cacao looked genuinely thrown. Not by the question but by the offer itself. Like he hadn’t expected Affogato to actually make himself part of the morning. Like he’d expected him to stay upstairs in satin sheets and mind his own business.

“…I leave in about forty minutes.”

“Perfect,” Affogato said, already turning toward the stove. “Plenty of time for something not wrapped in cellophane.”

As he cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked with expert rhythm, he snuck a glance over his shoulder. Cacao had taken another bite of his croissant but was watching him now, expression unreadable.

Affogato smiled to himself. Just a little. He wasn’t sure what this marriage was supposed to be. He didn’t really know marriage is supposed to or what it meant generally if he was more honest to himself. But if he was going to live in this house, in this stranger’s life, then he might as well start planting his roots. Even if he wasn’t asked to.

Even if he wasn’t touched.

He would make this space his. One breakfast at a time.

.

By the time Dark Cacao disappeared upstairs—presumably to shower and armor himself in whatever dull grays he wore to some office—Affogato was already neck-deep in the refrigerator then deep freezer, scavenging.

He wasn’t tired. That ship had sailed at 1 a.m. and now he was stuck riding the high seas of wakefulness, fidgety and overthinking with no hope of going back to bed.

So… why not do something useful?

Not like he had a job. Not a real one anyway. No meetings. No company. Just him and the gilded cage of this marriage and the luxury prison of this giant, echoing house. Oh, the horror. 

His fingers grazed over what he could find as he thought of what could be edible from these, they looked like they hadn't been touched for a good while but not enough for spoiling. Not exactly high-end but workable. He really needed to go grocery shopping. But alas, he was able to throw together a little lunch, wrap it neatly, play pretend.

He blinked at the bread in his hands.

Am I really doing this?

There was an ache behind his eyes, the kind that came not from exhaustion but from existential whiplash.

He used to coordinate—and steal—charity fundraisers in a rooftop bar and now he was making packed lunches at dawn. This is domestication. Like a feral cat put in a dollhouse.

His grandmother’s voice rang in his head. Cheerful. Triumphant.

“See? I told you if you got married, you’d calm down. You’d make a man happy one day!”

Ugh.

He slammed a slice of cheese onto the cutting board a little harder than necessary. “Yeah, yeah, he’s thrilled, I’m sure,” he muttered.

Still, his hands worked efficiently. He remembered seeing some cutesy show where a smiling housewife packed bento boxes for her husband in the morning—cutting vegetables into little stars and writing notes with hearts. Gross. He was not doing that.

But… maybe a container of that nice dressing in the fridge, something that wouldn’t embarrass him to hand over. A bottle of water—there wasn't any juice in the fridge anyway, disgusting—Simple. Maybe some fruit to soften the edges of it.

Ten minutes later, he had something reasonably assembled. Tied the top of the lunch bag shut with a neat little fold. It didn’t look too romantic, thankfully. Just… considerate. He sat down at the kitchen island and stared at it.

This was weird.

He felt weird.

Was this how it started? First it’s a lunch bag, then he’s ironing shirts and sobbing over soap operas while he waits at home in pearls?

He rested his cheek on his palm, tapping a finger against his temple.

This man is twice my age and built like an entire ruin from a bygone century. I don’t even know his favorite color and I’m making him lunch. What am I doing? Who am I?

Footsteps interrupted his spiraling.

Cacao came down the stairs dressed in a sleek grey button-down, charcoal slacks, the faint smell of cologne trailing after him. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone used to being looked at–composed, steady, already halfway into his work mindset.

He looked… annoyingly handsome, actually. Aged like an expensive scotch. Ew. 

Affogato stood up quickly, suddenly self-conscious. The lunch bag felt heavier in his hand now. Stupid. He had no plan for this part.

Was he supposed to say something? Make a little joke? Offer it up like a butler? Was there a correct tone to give your new stranger-husband a sandwich at 5 in the morning? 

He walked up, cleared his throat lightly.

“Uh, here,” he said, offering the bag with an almost casual shrug. “You know, for lunch. In case you don't like what your team feeds you that much—or whatever your people eat in that building.” He did try to adjust his tone so he didn't sound annoyed but he couldn't entertain the idea of treating this man like they had 4 children together and a hamster with a cat and two dogs. At least, not this early.

Cacao stares at first. His eyes dropped to the bag. His brows rose just slightly. There was that same quiet surprise as earlier, not dramatic but undeniable. His hand reached out to take it, slower this time.

“I wasn’t expecting…” he started, then paused, recalibrated. “Thank you.”

Affogato nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets like he was suddenly trying to hide them. “Get used to it,” he muttered, glancing off to the side. “I'll have to go shopping today so your next lunch looks better.” The bag too, the containers too, maybe he was too triggered by things that don't immediately fit his vision or aesthetic.

Cacao didn’t smile, exactly. But something softened around his eyes.

And just like that, he turned to leave—lunch bag in hand, shoulders squared, moving back into that role Affogato had only seen from afar: that commanding, calm pillar of a man.

Affogato watched him go, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“…This is going to get weird,” he said to the empty kitchen. 

But he didn't hate it. 

.

It started small.

A mental note about the rug. That was the first sign. Affogato stared down at the hallway runner with its bleak pattern—a hatch of greys and dullness like someone’s depression had been woven into it. It didn’t match the walls. It didn’t match the floor. It didn’t match anything, except maybe the ambiance of a security firm’s waiting room.

That could go.

Something with color, maybe. Nothing too loud. A warmer base–amber, maybe or a rich brown to complement all the dark wood in the walls. Something that wouldn’t make the old man choke on his coffee when he came home and noticed. He could keep it “within the theme,” whatever that meant but tweak it here and there. A soft rebellion. A domestic takeover so gradual it could be passed off as coincidence.

He moved into the living room, arms crossed over his chest as he slowly turned on the spot.

The couches were stiff. Practical. Black leather with no throw pillows. Not even one. Who lived like that?

Cacao, he answered himself. A man who probably only sat on that couch to put on his shoes and frown at the news.

Affogato mentally cataloged the crime scene.

A lamp with personality. Plants in the corners, real ones and not those plastic ones that looked like stage props for a corporate lobby. A few paintings or something vintage on the walls to break the blankness. Even a proper curtain. This place had blinds. Blinds. The audacity.

He rubbed his forehead. Gosh, what am I doing?

He’d been married less than 24 hours and he was mentally flipping this house like a bored interior designer. If he got any deeper into this he was going to start mood-boarding. Maybe even lighting scented candles in each room.

He wandered again, deeper into the house. Each room had a purpose but no soul. A library with clean, untouched shelves. A formal dining room with an oversized table that had never hosted laughter. It felt like walking through a show home. The skeleton of a life, waiting to be dressed in skin.

Eventually, he made his way down a narrower hall–dimmer, quieter. The carpets were plusher here, the air stiller. The doors were all closed but one of them stood out. It wasn’t grand but it felt different. The knob was brass, but slightly worn. He reached out instinctively and tried it—

Click.

Locked.

It didn’t rattle like it had been locked recently. It had that stubborn stillness, like the wood had grown around it over time. Like it hadn’t been opened in years.

He frowned, leaned closer but didn’t try again. His instincts told him not to pry, not yet. He could be curious later, when he had a little more leverage. A little more time tucked under his belt as someone meant to be here.

For now, he turned away, casually brushing it off.

The house was still sprawling. He hadn’t even seen the basement yet, and who knew how many unused rooms lurked behind those closed doors. But he’d learned enough for one morning: this place wasn’t built to be lived in. It was built to be endured. Like a fortress disguised as a home.

Which meant it was up to him to soften it. Bit by bit. With candles, color and maybe a throw pillow or two if he was feeling bold. There was so much more to do. 

He smirked to himself. Who would’ve thought? Affogato—the fake-it-‘til-you-make-it schemer from the Coffee Village—was now brainstorming rug styles and plant placements. Married. To a man twice his age. With a locked door in the west wing and ate store bought butter croissants in the dark before day.  

Life was weird.

Chapter Text

He had only gotten halfway through the hallway when it hit him again: there was barely any food in this house.

The kitchen had been something of a disappointment. A few sad jars. A loaf of bread that was threatening to mold. An entire counter dedicated to military-grade protein bars that looked like something he’d use as a weapon before calling it a meal. Apparently, Dark Cacao didn’t eat much at home—if he ever even ate here at all. Affogato had suspected it the moment he opened the fridge. 

He leaned back against the counter now, flipping the wedding debit card between his fingers. It was still in his pocket from the wedding shopping days ago. Still active, presumably. Still glinting in the sunlight coming through the kitchen window like a golden ticket to freedom.

In this case, groceries.

The thought of running errands with someone else’s money felt nostalgic. Like being 17 again and using an older man’s wallet as your way into a nicer restaurant or new shoes. This time it was for spinach and possibly house plants. Marriage was a strange game.

He grabbed his phone, flicked it open, and typed out a quick message to Dark Cacao, 

Affogato: Going out for groceries. Kitchen’s bare. Don’t worry, not doing anything scandalous.

He stared at it a moment before deleting it. Too familiar. Too bratty. Might give the old man a heart attack. He replaced it with:

Affogato: Heading out to buy food. Will update if I need anything.

The message sat for a moment before a ping arrived back.

Cacao: can send a driver if you want company or convenience. Just let me know.

Of course. The old man was being considerate. Like always. Affogato rolled his eyes a little to himself—half-exasperated, half-amused. He typed back,

Affogato: I’ll walk. It's very close by. Haven’t been outside enough anyway. Might do some other shopping while I’m out.

A reply came, curt and polite as always: 

Cacao: The driver option is still there if you change your mind.

And with that, Affogato pocketed the card, his phone, and slung a soft jacket over his shoulders. He took a long, purposeful breath in front of the door, adjusting his cuffs. Time to play housewife.

.

The walk to the shopping center wasn’t long. It was one of those quiet, upper-scale neighborhoods where the roads were always a little too clean, the air always a little too sweet. The sidewalks glistened like someone polished them twice a week, and the birdsong had that suspiciously cinematic quality that made Affogato wonder if it was pre-recorded.

He slipped through boutique-lined streets and glass-walled cafés, eyes idly scanning for a decent place to buy produce. He’d mapped out his grocery list in his head on the way here—nothing extravagant, just basic ingredients to at least fake competence in front of a man who’d likely eaten military rations most of his life.

The first store he ducked into was far more elegant than he was used to. The floors were a polished grey stone, the aisles wide and glowing with soft white lighting. It smelled faintly of lemongrass and ozone.

He strolled in with the kind of confidence he had no right to have. Affogato could pretend he belonged anywhere. That was part of the charm. Even if he stood out here in this rich-people market with his braided hair and catlike stare and that forced, ethereal edge that always made people second-guess whether he was a guest or a minor deity.

He grabbed a basket and began.

Fruits first, he examined the glistening peaches and cherries like they’d been grown in a simulation. Strawberries that looked too symmetrical to be real. He grabbed a few small cartons, reminding himself this wasn’t just for him anymore. This was for the house. His… husband.

Eh.. anyway,

He kept moving, grabbing things beyond the list. Several vegetables. Sourdough bread. Three types of mushrooms just because they were on sale and the shape of one reminded him of an old lady he didn’t like. He paused by the spice aisle, overwhelmed by the scent of everything at once. Paprika. Thyme. Garlic so finely powdered it barely had substance. He loaded his basket with more than he needed.

The moment felt oddly surreal. There was no one watching him. No boss breathing down his neck. No one to scold him for touching everything with curious fingers. Just him and this sterile, too-clean environment and a grocery list that grew with every passing moment.

He passed the frozen foods, stared long and hard at the microwave dinners, then turned away as if insulted by his own consideration. He could already hear his grandmother's voice now, he was married now. He had a kitchen. He was going to cook. 

At the checkout, he tapped the wedding debit card to the reader like he was defusing a bomb. The total had come out to a number that might’ve made his heart skip a beat any other time, but now? Now it was covered. He wasn’t sure what was more horrifying—that he had access to this much wealth now or that he was getting comfortable with the amount that just popped up. 

He blamed Latte. She started it when they were shopping for the wedding anyway. 

.

Bags in hand, he wandered into a nearby home goods store. Just to browse. Just looking for inspiration. 

There were picture frames, art that was too safe, throw blankets with textures like clouds. He wandered, touching fabric, lifting towels, critiquing wood grains. Already his mind was redecorating Dark Cacao’s fortress of a home once again. The long halls. The aggressive stone. The absence of color or softness.

He wasn’t trying to... feminize it, per se. He just wanted it to feel lived in. Not like a bunker nor like a war relic. Yes, that. 

He lingered longer than he needed to. Touched fabric napkins. Looked at overpriced pots and pans. Pictured himself arranging them in Cacao’s sparse kitchen and scoffing at the poor organization. He is his husband now. He could complain about dumb things like drawer dividers and knife sets.

Eventually, with his arms fuller than expected, he checked out again, ignoring the look the cashier gave him as she scanned about 8 different candles among his findings. He gave her a short, charming smile and made no effort to explain himself. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket just as he stepped out into the heat again, the sun bearing down now with the heavy confidence of early afternoon.

Cacao: I assume you’re still shopping. Given the heat and the fact that you’re likely carrying bags, I’d prefer to send a car for you. Where are you? 

Affogato stared at the message, blinking once. Then again, his arms were, indeed, aching with the weight of a better domestic life. His clothes clung a little tighter than they had earlier, even the back of his neck felt damp from the walk. 

And now here was Cacao. At work. Probably surrounded by massive screens, silent assistants and enough surveillance power to locate a stray bird in a war zone—but still pausing to think, ‘Hm. My new husband is shopping in the sun. Unacceptable.’

Affogato scoffed under his breath at the thought but couldn’t hide the faint twitch of a smile.

He tapped out a response with one elbow propped awkwardly against the store window, his bags swaying at his sides.

Affogato: I’m fine, I’m not made of sugar. Just leaving a store now. Got carried away. Literally. 

He hesitated, then added, more reasonably:

Affogato: I’m near Chiffon Butter, the home goods place near the café with the pretentious little croissants. If you must play chauffeur from a distance, send them there.

Another ping came a moment later.

Cacao: Driver en route. Ten minutes. Stay where you are. And do not downplay the heat again.

He rolled his eyes, amused despite himself. Married for not even a complete day and already being nagged like a house cat who got outside. Still, the thought of a car was more appealing than dragging his candles and groceries back on foot.

He found a shaded bench nearby and sank onto it with a quiet sigh, setting his bags down around his feet. The breeze moved through his hair, warm but lazy and he tilted his head back to rest against the bench rail, watching the clouds drift above glossy rooftops.

He eyed his reflection again in the store window next to him—his tired arms, his bags filled with the inspiration he went into the store for. Was this his life now?

He looked down at the bags between his feet—the corner of the cat-shaped spoon barely hidden and staring right back at him. He sighed and shook his head.

“Domesticity looks good on you,” he muttered dryly, imagining the face Espresso would make if he saw him now.

And still, somehow, he didn’t hate it.

The car glided to a stop in front of the bench with a quiet purr. It reminded Affogato of those cars used to discreetly transport dignitaries and maybe one or two morally ambiguous politicians. The driver stepped out in uniform—yes, uniform—and opened the door like Affogato was someone truly important. 

He stood there for a moment, blinking at the polished black vehicle, before collecting his bags, murmuring a sarcastic, “This must be the royal chariot.” 

The ride was smooth. It gave him too much time to think again. He glanced at the card still in his wallet and smirked faintly. Heavens forbid the new husband breaks a sweat getting candles and cheese.

.

The door clicked shut behind him as he finally stepped back into the house.

A sigh left him almost immediately. The silence in here was deeper than outside, cool and still like the inside of a jewelry box no one dared open too fast. He set the bags down by the door and kicked off his shoes, letting his gaze wander up the high ceilings and soft shadowed corners of the house.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Everything echoed just enough to remind him of how alone he was in it again. Affogato rubbed the back of his neck, sweeping his gaze toward the kitchen and sighing.

Well, he wasn’t about to sit still.

He carried the bags to the kitchen counter, unloading his haul one by one—setting the candles aside like sacred artifacts, arranging the fruit and spices like a display case. Each act of putting things away turned into a light little performance, something to keep the hum in his brain distracted.

He lingered on the silk pillowcases his impulse told him to pick up at the last minute, though.

“…These are going to wrinkle if I don’t iron them, aren’t they?” he sighed. He placed them delicately in a side drawer near the bedroom anyway.

By the time he was done organizing, the sun had shifted again and the light streaming through the windows cast golden streaks across the marbled floors. He caught himself biting the inside of his cheek, the thoughts resurfacing themselves again. 

Waking up to make meals, folding silk pillowcases, adjusting candle positions? His grandmother would have wept tears of joy to see it, probably with a hand on her chest about how her little darling finally became the husband she always wanted him to be. 

Affogato, darling, find yourself a strong man who pays the bills and let you make the house lovely.

Affogato, don’t be stubborn, being spoiled isn’t a curse.

Affogato, no one wants a man who doesn’t know where to place his roses.

And look at him now. Shopping for produce and reimagining color schemes. Affogato smirked to himself, rubbing a little shine off a fruit bowl.

“Turns out Grandma was onto something.”

Eventually, he made his way to the living room—one of the many—and flopped onto the couch, eyes roaming the ceiling.

Affogato. Newlywed. Unemployed. Owner of more than eight overpriced scented candles. What a strange little life this was shaping up to be.

His eyes drifted lazily around the living room again… until they landed on the cluster of unopened wedding gifts arranged neatly near the far wall.

Wrapped boxes gleamed under the evening sun, some in soft gold foil, others in heavy crepe paper with neatly tied bows—no names on them from where he was sitting but judging by how over-the-top some of them were, maybe he could guess which of those royal dinner guests had sent what. The sheer number of them was a little offensive. 

Still, they gleamed invitingly. Glittering, waiting. He narrowed his eyes at the pile, chin resting in his palm.

A part of him wanted to walk over right now and tear one open like a child on their birthday. He wanted to know what those well-groomed, smile-too-easy royal guests thought a bride like him deserved. He wanted to rip the mystery apart and see if any of the kindness shown at the wedding would reflect in the contents.

But…

“No,” he muttered aloud, huffing as he stood up.

It was stupid. But even in this oversized house with far too many doors and not enough noise, some part of him whispered wait. Just a little. Wait for the man to come home. Use this, create a moment.

There weren’t that many moments between them yet. Not enough to fill a teacup, really. But maybe… just maybe, something as stupidly sentimental as opening wedding presents together could build some kind of rhythm. Make the man look at him differently. Maybe even make him want to look at him differently later tonight.

Affogato ran his fingers through his hair, walking toward the kitchen with a little extra sway in his hips.

“If the old man’s not gonna initiate anything, I guess I’ll do it myself.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. He wasn’t above a bit of strategy.

. 

What would a husband cook to get his older husband to look at him like a man and not a particularly lively centerpiece?

Something warm. Not too heavy. A touch of spice, something familiar but not basic. He wanted it to feel like effort. Wanted Cacao to see the effort and think—no, realize—that he wasn’t just some decorative wife dropped into his life for ceremony’s sake.

He started pulling ingredients out one by one.

Garlic. Onions. A rich vegetable stock. He’d picked up lamb earlier on a whim—just a few cuts—and he already had the seasoning to go with it. He rummaged for cookware, thankful someone in this house had enough sense to stock up on more than one frying pan.

The sound of sizzling soon filled the room, and the smell of cumin and coriander joined it. He adjusted the temperature as he hummed softly to himself, letting the rhythm of chopping, stirring, flipping, and plating smooth over the edges of his thoughts.

Affogato didn’t just want to make dinner. He wanted it to taste like intention. Like, I live here now.

Like I know how to take care of myself, and I could maybe learn to take care of you too.

And, maybe most of all—

He shook himself.

Stop it, he thought bitterly, setting the first batch of roasted vegetables to the side. This isn’t a love story. You’re playing house, remember? Get what you need. Don’t fall in.

But despite everything—despite the bitterness—he found himself adding a garnish anyway. A curl of orange zest. A sprig of parsley.

He even folded a cloth napkin beside the plate like they did in cooking shows.

And when the food was done, the table set, the lights in the kitchen dimmed slightly with only the ambient sconces casting a warm glow, Affogato stared at the quiet little scene he’d created… and realized something else.

He was nervous.

Genuinely, absurdly, high-school-crush nervous.

“This is so embarrassing,” he whispered to himself.

He sat down at the table, resting his chin on one hand, fork twirling gently in the other and stared at the empty seat across from him.

He imagined Cacao’s tired face. Imagined the quiet grunt he might let out when he realized Affogato had plated dinner and lit a candle for absolutely no practical reason. Imagined him sitting there, eating in that strangely quiet way he had, not saying much but not needing to.

Affogato smiled to himself.

Just one night.

Just one soft night where things didn’t have to be complicated. If he played his cards right, he’d get more than a seat at the table. 

He’d get a place beside him. Even if he had to carve it himself.

.

The sound of the front door unlocking echoed gently through the wide, silent house. Affogato snapped his head up from where he was fussing with a corner of the tablecloth—again. He had smoothed it out at least three times now. But now he just sat up straighter, blinking once, chest tightening slightly.

Okay. Show time.

He didn’t rush to the door, just stood tall as he heard the heavy footfalls of boots across the tiled foyer. The footsteps were measured, steady—he always walked like someone who expected a trap to spring from under the rug. Old habits, Affogato figured. Maybe they’d never left.

Cacao stepped into view, loosening the collar of his dark shirt with one hand as he rounded the hall. The low amber light hit him from the side, highlighting the tired set of his jaw and the faint lines beneath his eyes. His hair looked slightly ruffled, not disheveled, just lived-in. His posture was as straight as ever.

Affogato took a breath, forced his smile on–soft, inviting.

“You’re back,” he said lightly, walking forward to meet him. “Busy day?”

Cacao grunted low in his throat in acknowledgment, tugging his coat off his shoulders. “Mm. Long.”

Affogato stepped close, hands brushing against his arm as he reached to take the coat for him. Cacao hesitated a moment, then let him.

“Well,” Affogato continued, folding it neatly over the entryway hook, “I made dinner. Thought it might be nice, since… you know.” He tilted his head, letting the implication of we just got married hang in the air between them.

Cacao blinked at him, something unreadable passing behind his eyes, then nodded slowly. “You didn’t need to.”

“I wanted to,” Affogato said simply, turning toward the dining room again. “But before you eat, maybe wash up first? I’ll keep everything warm.”

He said it with the softness of a practiced wife but without the syrup. Just warm enough to pass as effortless.

Cacao gave another quiet nod, and Affogato pointed him in the direction of the guest washroom with a slight flick of the wrist. Once the older man disappeared down the hall, Affogato turned sharply back into the dining room.

And immediately launched into mental panic.

The plate is too centered. That’s too obvious.

He adjusted it an inch to the left.

Should I have made more than one dish? Is this too try-hard? Too empty?

He reached to dim the lights a touch more.

The candle is crooked, I swear it’s crooked, does that look desperate or romantic?

He shifted the candle holder, then grimaced.

This feels stupid. I feel stupid.

He pressed a hand to his face and exhaled hard into his palm. Then stood up straight again. Deep breath.

You’re doing this to get him to trust you. This is strategy. Not desperation. Strategy.

Even if his stomach twisted in knots and his skin felt like it didn’t fit right. Even if he was starting to realize how much more complicated this was than just cozying up to a rich old man for comfort and gain. Something in the quiet of the house tonight had shifted.

He checked the time. Checked the plates again. Sat down. Stood up.

And just as he was about to mess with the garnish for the fourth time, Dark Cacao’s footsteps returned. He looked freshly washed, his hair slightly damp, sleeves rolled up, his expression quieter now. Calmer.

“You didn’t have to go through the trouble,” he said as he reached the table, his voice softer than before.

Affogato offered a small smile, hands clasped neatly in front of him.

“It’s really not trouble,” he replied, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. “Just sit. Eat. Tell me how much better I am than your last chef.”

It got the smallest twitch of a smile from the man. Barely there, but there.

Cacao pulled the chair back and sat down.

And the dinner—whatever it was about to become—officially began.

The clink of cutlery was the first and only sound between them for a while.

Affogato sat upright, every movement of his fork and knife calculated, just enough to seem elegant without being showy. Dark Cacao, on the other hand, ate plainly—efficient and slow, like a soldier still on his first real meal of the week. His eyes, darkened under the soft amber chandelier light, flicked occasionally across the table—not at Affogato, not quite. But nearby, in that deliberate way a man looks when he doesn’t want you to know he’s looking at all.

Affogato let the quiet stretch on a little longer before breaking it.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said, spearing a bite of the roasted meat onto his fork. “So I made what I figured was safe. Nothing too fancy. I didn’t want to poison you by accident.”

That earned him a low hum. Not quite a laugh, not quite a grunt.

“I’ve survived worse,” Cacao said after a moment, setting his utensils down briefly and dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “This is better than most meals I’ve had this year.”

Affogato blinked at that, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Mm.”

“Well, thank you,” he said, smiling a little, unsure if that was a compliment or a cry for help. “That’s either very flattering… or very concerning.” He muttered the last part. 

Affogato’s fingers idly tapped against his water glass. Say something real. Say something useful. His brain was already doing laps. He’d prepped the meal, prepped the table, prepped the lighting—but now that it was just the two of them in the aftermath of that quiet wedding, it felt like he was playing the part of someone he didn’t fully recognize.

He finally tried again.

“So… what’s your schedule usually like?” he asked lightly, swirling his drink. “I get the feeling you’re not the kind of guy who’s around much.”

Cacao nodded once. “I try to be home by nightfall. But some weeks… it’s late. Or not at all.”

Affogato’s lashes flicked. “Sounds lonely.”

“I’ve been alone here for a long time.”

That made the younger man blink. He hadn’t expected something so blunt.

“…And now you’re not,” Affogato said, measuring his voice carefully, “Are you?”

Cacao’s eyes dropped to his plate again. “No. Not anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick and warm like tea just pulled off the stove. Affogato shifted in his seat slightly, testing the air again.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said quietly.

Cacao looked up, gaze steady.

“I thought you’d be harder to talk to,” Affogato clarified. “I don’t know, harsher.”

That earned the slightest downturn of the man’s lips. Not quite disapproval, not quite surprise.

“I’ve been told I make people nervous.”

“You do,” Affogato answered, smiling with the faintest flicker of teasing.

“You don't sound nervous at all,” Cacao replied, voice even. 

Affogato didn’t flinch. But inside, something stilled. He swallowed once, shifting his tone. “I speak to everyone like this,” he said with a small shrug. “It keeps people guessing.”

Cacao tilted his head. “And what are you guessing about me?”

That he’s either incredibly kind or terribly dangerous under a mask. That he either knows exactly what Affogato was doing—or is falling into it blindly. That he might have just married him out of stubborn tradition or something deeper and Affogato was terrified to find out which.

But what he said instead was, “Guessing if I can make you laugh.”

Dark Cacao blinked once, then twice. Then exhaled—through his nose, the faintest exhale of amusement. His broad shoulders eased back into the chair a little.

“I.. do not laugh.” The way he said it made Affogato stifle a laugh, as if it was an ancient technique not easily achieved by mortals like him. 

“I’m up for the challenge,” Affogato replied, chin tilting up. 

Cacao shook his head lightly, the smallest ghost of a smile curving his mouth.

“I’m still adjusting to having someone else here,” he admitted. “I’ve been used to silence.”

Affogato’s fingers brushed the stem of his glass, his voice softer now. “You’ll get used to me.”

The older man didn’t answer for a moment, eyes unreadable but softer. And then he nodded, returning to his plate.

Affogato breathed in. Progress.

The last of the dinner was eaten in relative peace.

Affogato leaned back in his chair, idly resting his fork against his now-clean plate, chin in his hand as he watched Cacao with that mild, unreadable expression he wore when he was observing something for use later.

“Dinner was better than I expected,” Cacao said at last, wiping his mouth with the edge of a napkin and placing it back onto his plate with perfect composure. “Thank you.”

Affogato’s brow twitched. “Better than expected? That almost sounds insulting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Mmm. You’re lucky I’m gracious,” Affogato said, smiling thinly. “Could’ve dumped your plate over your head for that one.”

“I’d accept it,” the older man replied in his usual gravel, standing from his seat.

Affogato followed suit with a sweep of motion, graceful and polished. “If you’re still grateful, there’s something else you can do for me.”

That made Dark Cacao pause mid-turn, eyeing him as he straightened his back fully. “What is it?”

“I have a mountain of unopened wedding gifts that are going to rot from neglect if someone doesn’t start slicing ribbons soon,” Affogato said, circling around the table with a casual elegance that didn’t match how deliberate his words were. “I thought maybe we could open a few. Together.”

Dark Cacao looked at him for a long moment. His body language didn’t shift. His expression didn’t betray any reaction. But Affogato could tell he was weighing the value of rest against the gravity of you’re married now, this is what people do.

He sighed quietly, not in frustration, but more like someone already accepting the weight of something inevitable.

“Alright,” he said. “A few.”

Affogato didn’t hide his smugness, “I knew you’d say yes,” he murmured, walking toward the grand sitting room where the packages had been relocated earlier in the day—neatly stacked and ribboned, like a soft mountain of glittering promise and manufactured sentiment.

Cacao followed behind, his steps slow and steady. When they arrived, he didn’t immediately sit—he stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the stack of colorful paper and shining bows like a man facing down an enemy line.

Affogato, noticing, dropped gracefully onto the nearest velvet-cushioned seat and gestured toward the pile.

“Don’t look so frightened,” he teased. “It’s not a warzone. No one packed explosives. Probably.”

Cacao arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Affogato took control quickly, slicing ribbons with practiced ease, muttering observations under his breath as he peeled back decorative paper like he was peeling fruit. Most of the gifts were elegant but impersonal, crystal, rare bottles of wine, embroidered napkin sets and–

“Oh look,” Affogato muttered, holding up a silver knife. “Because what I needed most after this wedding was the means to cut another cake.”

Cacao sat back slowly on the couch opposite him, legs spread comfortably, eyes scanning the slow progression of opened gifts but clearly growing weary.

It wasn’t just physical exhaustion—though that was present too, in the slight droop of his shoulders and the faint shadows under his eyes—it was the kind of weariness that came from being pulled into a tradition you never really wanted to engage with in the first place.

Affogato, however, knew how to navigate this. He knew how to keep something alive with a bit of flare.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, drawing out the sound, “here’s a name I recognize.”

He turned the card toward Cacao. “Golden Cheese. She left a note. Something about a hand-stitched wedding tapestry from her royal weavers.”

He pulled the packaging open to reveal a meticulously made hanging, thick with golden thread work and intricate embroidery. His brows arched.

“Well,” he admitted, genuinely impressed, “that’s not terrible.”

“She doesn’t do anything halfway,” Cacao said, voice mild. “She once mailed a diplomatic letter inside a diamond box.”

Affogato gave a low whistle. “Rich people are funny.”

Cacao gave a very small exhale that might have been a laugh if Affogato didn’t know better.

After a few more gifts and a long silence between them, Cacao finally leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes—not sleeping but hovering close to it.

Affogato watched him from the floor where he’d settled among torn ribbons and open boxes, a strange heat flickering in his chest. Not affection, not yet. But something that felt like interest. That dangerous slow-curling thing that said: this man is not what you expected.

He looked down at the next box in his hands, and then slowly set it aside.

“Alright,” he said softly, rising to his feet, “you’re off the hook.”

Cacao opened one eye, glancing toward him. “That’s it?”

“For tonight. I’ll ration them like wine. Or bribes,” he added with a smirk.

Cacao’s mouth turned faintly upward, almost reflexively, as he stood and stretched the stiffness from his spine. “You handled it well.”

Affogato blinked. “What, gift-opening?”

“No. All of it.”

Affogato felt his heartbeat hitch for half a second, then shrugged.

“I’m very good at handling things,” he said, voice smooth and teasing. “It’s why people either love me or hate me.”

Cacao gave a small nod, like he understood something deeper behind that. Then he turned and began heading toward the hallway, murmuring something about getting ready for bed.

Affogato watched him go.

He had pulled it off—tonight, at least. Smooth smiles, gentle laughs, a well-timed gesture here and there. Even got a nod of approval from the old man himself. And yet… it all felt like setting pieces into place on a board whose rules he was still learning.

He’d expected to feel more powerful about it all. Clever, more smug, even. But instead, something small and uncertain coiled in his stomach. He couldn't tell if Cacao had taken the bait or not. In the past he got wandering hands, suggestive remarks, even a brush of fingertips across the dinner table from other men. 

What he got from Cacao was that tired gratitude and that look, that calm, unreadable look.

Affogato didn’t like when things were  unreadable. 

Affogato sighed through his nose, raking a hand through his hair before heading off down the corridor, back toward the bedroom.

The hall was dimly lit, his bare feet making soft sounds against the cold floor. The house was quiet now—settled. It had that lull most large homes got in the late hours, when even the walls seemed to sigh with rest.

He was halfway down the corridor when he saw Dark Cacao up ahead.

The older man had already changed into a comfortable robe, the collar slightly open at his throat, one hand tucked in the pocket as he made his way down the hallway—not toward their room.

Affogato paused.

“…You’re not going to bed?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Cacao turned at the sound, still mid-step. “I am.”

Affogato furrowed his brow, eyeing the direction Cacao was walking. It didn’t match where they’d slept the night before. He took a few more steps forward, arms loose at his sides, his face relaxing into something smoother—open but subtle.

“You’re going to your room.”

The younger man walked closer, hands slipping behind his back now as he stopped just a few feet from him, looking up through thick lashes and trying his best to not overdo it.

“You can sleep in our room again. If you’d like,” he said, voice dipped in something warm, casual. “You didn’t seem too miserable about it last night.”

Cacao blinked slowly.

Affogato gave a gentle shrug, his tone playful. “Besides, it’s weird sleeping in a big bed by myself.”

There was a quiet beat. Affogato waited, not pushing too hard, letting the words sit in the air.

Cacao looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable as always… then nodded.

“If you’re sure.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t,” Affogato replied smoothly, already turning back toward the bedroom.

Cacao followed. No questions. No assumptions.

Affogato let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding once the man fell into step behind him.

It wasn’t exactly the win he wanted—but it was something. He’d take it.

.

Affogato padded softly into the shared bedroom, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at Dark Cacao, who was loosening the cuffs of his robe in silence. The older man was quiet, predictable in his motions, as if his bones remembered a time when stillness was earned, not given freely.

Affogato didn’t say anything. He just offered a nod, a fleeting half-smile, and slipped into the adjacent bathroom, clicking the door quietly shut behind him.

He exhaled as he leaned against the sink, letting the cool marble press against his back. The room was softly lit, pale gold light making the clean tiles glow warmly. The mirror stared back at him, and for a moment, he simply looked at himself.

Hair still mostly perfect, even after the many hours of movement. He reached up, adjusting a loose strand, then reached for his toothbrush, brushing with unnecessary force as his thoughts began to spiral.

Okay. So. Maybe now’s the time?

They were alone again. It was their second night as a married couple. A perfect window to build some kind of… intimacy. Affogato didn’t need it to be a grand seduction. Just something. Anything. A little reminder to himself —and to Cacao— that this was a marriage, not a business transaction sealed with silk and catering.

He rinsed his mouth, patted his face with a towel and pulled open the cabinet below the sink. Sleepwear. He hadn’t given it much thought when packing, but now, staring at the few options he’d brought with him—and the set Latte had insisted he take for “occasions”—he suddenly felt as if he were picking armor.

In the end, he went for something in between. Something soft, something flattering but not desperate, loose but neat. He wanted to look effortlessly kissable without trying.

Which, of course, he was. But still.

He turned once before the mirror, inspecting the lines of fabric across his hips. Is this too much? Too little? Do I look like I’m trying too hard?

His reflection offered no answers. Just raised eyebrows and a faint flush.

He shook himself, smoothed his hair down once more, and stepped out.

The bedroom was dim, bathed in the cool glow of the wall sconce beside the bed. The temperature had dropped slightly, the air crisp and silent.

And then,

Snoring.

Not delicate, not polite. A steady, low, earthy rumble. Not quite thunderous but there was no mistaking it.

Affogato blinked, mouth parting slightly as he stared at the figure sprawled across his side of the bed.

Dark Cacao had apparently made himself right at home. He hadn’t even bothered to pull the blanket fully over himself. One leg was still tucked out, robe slumped slightly, a strong arm folded under his head, his chest rising and falling in a slow, unbothered rhythm.

He was completely, genuinely asleep. Just like that.

Affogato stood in the doorway for a solid minute, his carefully picked pajamas suddenly feeling ridiculous. Are you kidding me?

He walked forward slowly, arms dropping to his sides in a mild sort of disbelief. “Did he pass out the second I left the room?” he muttered under his breath, squinting at the man’s completely unconscious face.

There wasn’t even a hint of tension in him. The furrowed brow was smooth, jaw unclenched. Cacao looked—well—peaceful. Heavy. Like a tree that had weathered a storm and decided this bed was soft enough to finally collapse onto.

Affogato hovered, staring down at him like a man robbed.

He let out a small huff through his nose, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. “You’re so annoying,” he whispered at the sleeping man. “You’re lucky you’re rich. And tall. And… I guess, okay looking when you’re not scowling.”

Cacao snored softly in response.

Affogato lowered himself beside him, eyes still fixed on the older man’s face. This is seriously my life now. I got married to a man who can be asleep in five minutes flat like it’s nothing. Not even a warning? Not a ‘goodnight, darling’? Not even a ‘nice pajamas’ for effort?

He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, drawing the blanket over himself, careful not to wake the other man. His head sank back into the pillow and he closed his eyes.

And still—despite the defeat, the overthinking, the lack of intimacy—there was something strangely calming about the quiet.

Affogato opened his eyes, tilted his head toward the man beside him. Watched the rise and fall of his chest again. The lines of his face. The way he seemed to trust the world enough to sleep that deeply beside someone like him.

“…You better not hog the blankets,” he muttered under his breath.

Cacao turned slightly in his sleep.