Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The light came in crooked through a slit in the blackout curtains—too bright, too sharp. It cut through the dim hotel room like a blade, glinting off half-drained glasses and discarded sequin trim strewn across the carpet like the aftermath of a parade that had gotten a little too personal. The place reeked faintly of room service fries, melting makeup, and the sour-sweet tang of spilled champagne.

Alfred woke up with cotton mouth and something heavy pressing down on his chest—guilt, maybe. Or his hangover. Or the unfamiliar weight of an arm slung across his bare stomach.

He blinked.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.

There was someone in bed with him.

Someone with tousled dark brown hair, tangled and messy like he’d either slept deeply or fought the pillow all night. His face was half-buried in the crook of Alfred’s shoulder, lips parted slightly in sleep. The sheet had slipped low across his back, revealing the curve of a tanned spine and lean muscle that tightened with each breath.

Alfred didn’t recognize him.

He also didn’t remember much of anything after his shift ended around midnight.

For a long, suspended moment, he lay perfectly still, his heart thudding in his ears like the pulse of a roulette wheel winding down. The hotel room was a wreck. One shoe on the minibar, someone’s jacket on the lampshade, a white tuxedo t-shirt tossed over the flat-screen.

This… wasn’t good.

The stranger stirred. A groggy groan escaped him—gravelly, displeased.

Then he moved.

His arm slipped off Alfred with a muttered curse, and he flopped onto his back with all the energy of someone emerging from six rounds in a prizefight. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and deeply annoyed.

“Ugh… what the hell…”

His accent was thick. Southern European, maybe? Italian, Alfred guessed hazily. He had heavy lashes and a sharp, scowling mouth. Even half-conscious, he looked like he wanted to punch someone in the face.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Uh… morning?”

The stranger squinted at him like he’d just been personally offended by the word.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Alfred winced. “Okay. Not the vibe I was hoping for.”

“I said—who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Alfred. Alfred F. Jones,” he replied quickly, raising both hands in the universal ‘please don’t murder me’ gesture. “I work at the Bellagio. Cards. Blackjack dealer. And I—I don’t usually do this. I swear.”

“You don’t usually wake up in a hotel bed with a stranger and no pants?” the man snapped, already pushing the covers off with one hand and gripping his pounding forehead with the other. “You’ve got a real funny way of being trustworthy, Alfred F. Fucking Jones.”

“I mean, technically I’m still wearing boxers.”

The look Romano gave him could’ve shattered glass.

Alfred tried again, sitting up slowly. “I seriously don’t remember anything. Not after I clocked out. Do you?”

Romano didn’t answer right away. He made a pained noise and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His shirt—black button-down, open all the way—hung off one shoulder, and his jeans were somehow still halfway on, twisted and undone. There was glitter on his neck. A smudge of red across his cheek that might’ve been lipstick—or marinara.

“I was at a friend’s place,” Romano muttered eventually, more to himself than to Alfred. “Some bachelor party bullshit. He dared me to come out. And then—drinks. A cab. A bar with... flaming shots. And then…”

His eyes narrowed. He turned back to Alfred with suspicion. “Did you drug me?”

Alfred’s jaw dropped. “What? No! God—no. Jesus, do I look like the kind of guy who’d drug someone?”

“You look like a guy who hands out tequila and bad decisions.”

“I deal cards, not drugs.”

Romano rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his tangled hair. He didn’t seem particularly comforted.

“Okay, well, we’re clearly both alive,” Alfred said, trying to lighten the mood. “No organs missing. That’s a plus.”

Romano muttered something in Italian under his breath that sounded a lot like ‘I’d rather have lost a kidney.’

Alfred ignored it.

Instead, he scanned the room again. Empty champagne bottle. Two phones charging on the floor near the outlet. A plastic tiara on the nightstand. No obvious signs of a crime scene. And still—no clue what had actually happened.

“You think we…?” Alfred started, trailing off awkwardly.

Romano gave him a withering look. “You think I’d fuck you?”

Alfred raised a brow. “Wow. Rude.”

“I have standards,” Romano snapped, standing unsteadily and stumbling toward the mirror. “And brains.”

Alfred just grumbled under his breath and dragged the sheet more securely around his waist. The room swam slightly. His stomach growled. God, he needed a coffee the size of his head and maybe three hash browns stacked like a shame sandwich.

Romano leaned over the bathroom sink, squinting at his reflection. “What the hell happened to my hair? And is this glitter? What the fuck—”

Alfred reached for his phone, wondering if maybe the camera roll would fill in some blanks.

It didn’t take long.

A grainy video greeted him—shot vertically, of course. The two of them, swaying together under a neon pink heart sign that flickered with the word Forever . Romano was flushed, lips twitching in an amused smirk, while Alfred slurred out something about true love and fettuccine.

In the background, a woman with a feathered boa could be heard saying, “Aww, they’re such a cute couple!”

Alfred dropped the phone like it bit him.

“Okay. Okay, um. Don’t panic,” he muttered.

Romano emerged from the bathroom, towel in hand. “What’s wrong now?”

Alfred didn’t answer. He just looked down.

His hand.

His left hand.

There was a ring on it.

A thin, simple gold band, unmistakably placed.

Romano blinked. “Why are you—?”

He followed Alfred’s gaze. His own expression shifted—brows drawing together, mouth tightening.

Slowly, he raised his own hand.

His breath caught.

There it was. A matching ring.

Silence fell between them like a thunderclap.

Romano’s voice, when it came, was a whisper soaked in disbelief.

“… Madonna. What the hell did we do?”

Chapter Text

Silence swallowed the room whole.

The ring gleamed like a punchline neither of them had asked for. Alfred couldn’t stop staring at it—thin gold band, no frills, no inscription. Just a plain, inescapable truth wrapped around the base of his finger.

He looked up.

Romano was frozen, half-turned in the hazy morning light, eyes locked on his own left hand like it had betrayed him. His mouth opened, closed, then twisted into something sour enough to spoil milk.

“No,” he muttered.

Alfred blinked. “I mean. It’s not that bad—”

“No. No, no, no.” Romano backed away from the bed like it might explode. “This is not happening.”

“Okay, look, we’re both adults—”

“I don’t marry people, bastard!” Romano shouted, voice cracking, chest rising and falling fast. He paced in tight, jerky circles, muttering in rapid-fire Italian between shallow breaths. “This is insane. This is illegal. This is Vegas.”

Alfred winced. “Actually, Vegas is pretty legal about this stuff.”

Romano shot him a glare hot enough to melt glass. “I don’t need a running commentary, Jones!”

“Hey!” Alfred stood, gripping the sheet around his waist like it could defend his dignity. “I’m not exactly throwing a party here either! You think I planned to wake up married to a total stranger who acts like I killed his dog?”

“I hate you, idiota.” Romano snapped.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say to your husband.”

“ Shut up! ”

Romano turned his back, hands shaking as he braced them against the dresser. His hair was a wreck, and hickeys could be seen all along his chest. Glitter still clung to the back of his neck.

He looked like he’d been through a storm and hadn’t quite made it out.

Alfred swallowed. “We… we don’t remember it. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

Romano spun around. “Don’t you dare try to romanticize this.”

“I’m not!” Alfred said, taking a step back. “I’m just saying—maybe there’s more to this than a stupid mistake.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“And you don’t know me!” Alfred shot back. “But that didn’t stop either of us last night, did it?”

Romano’s expression darkened. “You’re lucky I don’t throw something.”

He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and yanked the charger from the wall. His wallet was on the floor—he scooped it up with more force than necessary and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he hesitated, just for a second, looking down at his hand again.

The ring hadn’t disappeared.

“Where are you going?” Alfred asked, quieter now.

Romano didn’t answer.

He turned, stormed across the room, and flung the door open. The hallway light cut in harsh and cold. Alfred stood there, still in the sheet, still bare-chested, feeling like the breath had been knocked out of him.

“Romano.”

Romano stopped. His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched.

Alfred tried again. “Can we at least talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Romano said without looking back. “I’m getting this fixed.”

Then he left.

——

Two hours later, Alfred had managed to shower and throw on the wrinkled remnants of last night’s clothes. His hangover still throbbed behind his eyes, but he was awake enough to dig through his camera roll and suffer.

Photos. Videos. Smiling. Laughing. Arms around each other. Glitter in Romano’s hair and Alfredo sauce on his collar—Alfred didn’t even want to ask. In one video, they were standing in front of a neon chapel sign, Alfred yelling “marriage is a promise and I promise to bring you pasta every Sunday!”

Romano was laughing in it. Genuinely.

Alfred dropped the phone onto the bed, hand over his face. “Christ.”

He picked it back up.

A bit of social media digging turned up more than he’d expected. On one tagged post—blurry and low light—someone had checked them in at Roma’s. It looked like a small Italian restaurant off the Strip, wedged between a pawn shop and a dry cleaner. A review from last week read: If the food doesn’t knock you out, the owner’s attitude will.

The accompanying photo? Romano behind the bar, scowling as he lit a dish on fire.

Alfred stared at it for a long time.

So. His mystery husband wasn’t just some guy at a party. He had a life. A business. A scowl that could sink ships.

And Alfred? He couldn’t leave it like this. Not with that look of betrayal Romano had given him. Not with his own heart thudding in his chest like something unresolved.

He grabbed his wallet and keys, hesitating just once at the door. His thumb brushed against the gold ring still clinging to his finger.

Then he stepped out.

Time to meet the in-laws, or at least survive the cook.

Chapter Text

The kitchen at Roma’s smelled like rosemary, garlic, and salvation.

Romano stood at the stove, one hand on the pan’s handle, the other tilting a ladle of rich tomato sauce with practiced ease. The sauce hissed when it hit the hot surface, steam curling up like incense in a church. He didn’t flinch. He never did. The kitchen was the only place where the world made any goddamn sense.

“Two rigatoni alla norma, one chicken piccata, and the veal’s still resting,” he muttered under his breath. He worked by muscle memory now, movements clipped and efficient. Bread in the oven. Pasta down. Pan deglazed. Focus. Focus.

Out there, the dining room clattered with silverware and soft conversation. Romano didn’t need to look. He knew the size of the lunch rush by the volume of the voices and the creak of the back booth.

Roma’s had been his grandfather’s pride. A quiet, no-frills Italian joint off the Strip—family recipes, paper menus, handwritten specials on a chalkboard out front. His Nonno had worked this kitchen until his hands stopped listening to him and his memory began to falter.

When he passed, he left it all to Romano.

Romano had never been the favorite, not really. Not like him.

“Fratello!” Feliciano sang, bursting into the kitchen with his apron slightly askew and a wine cork stuck in his hair like a forgotten decoration. “Table three wants extra oil for their bread, and I told them you make it special with the chili flakes, and also—”

“No,” Romano said immediately. “Out.”

“But—”

“ Out, Feli!”

Feliciano pouted and leaned against the doorway instead, undeterred. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. Or married.”

The ladle stopped mid-stir.

Romano kept his eyes on the sauce. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Feli went on, far too cheerfully for someone who regularly tripped over his own shoelaces, “there’s this amazing video going around. You and this really tall blond guy at a wedding chapel? Glitter? Champagne? You’re smiling, which is weird, because you never smile—unless you’re drunk or making tiramisu.”

Romano gritted his teeth. “That’s not what happened.”

“Is it not?” Feliciano pulled out his phone. “Because I saved it. Look, here’s you shouting something about ‘true love being as rare as properly made gnocchi,’ and then you try to climb him like a tree.”

Romano spun around. “ Give me that phone. ”

“Nope!” Feli danced backward like a mischievous fairy, phone held high. “You were having fun , Romano! Like actual fun! And now you’re storming around like someone burned your cannoli. You didn’t even change your shirt!”

Romano looked down. His black button-down still smelled like bad decisions and casino floor air. The glitter hadn’t left. He wiped at it uselessly with his sleeve.

“It was a mistake, ” he said flatly.

“You’re married, ” Feliciano sing-songed.

“I’m annulling it.”

Feli sighed dramatically, as if the word itself physically pained him. “But what if it was fate? What if the universe wanted you to get married in a whirlwind of flour, neon lights, and cheap prosecco?”

Romano grabbed a towel and flung it across the room. It missed. “The universe can go fuck itself.”

Feliciano caught the towel and folded it neatly. “He was cute, though.”

Romano froze.

“Tall,” Feli continued, casual now. “Nice shoulders. Looked like he’d say thank you even when someone stepped on his foot. American, I think? Definitely not from around here.”

Romano turned back to the stove. The sauce was nearly done. The garlic had gone soft, the basil wilted just right. He stirred harder than necessary.

“His name is Alfred,” he muttered.

“Ohhh,” Feli said, eyes lighting up. “You asked his name! ”

“He told me.”

“You remember that?”

Romano hated the heat creeping up his neck. “Shut up, Feliciano.”

Feli smiled, stepping back toward the kitchen door. “I’ll shut up when you stop pretending you didn’t like him.”

“I hated him.”

“Your face said otherwise,” he sang. “You’re a terrible liar. Oh—and someone just walked in asking for you. Blue jacket. Blond. Really tall. Wants to talk.”

Romano stiffened.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

He’d left him behind. That was the whole point of leaving—of disappearing before he could say something stupid like maybe we should figure this out. Romano wasn’t that guy. He didn’t do messy feelings and slow burns and sappy explanations over coffee.

He cooked. He ran this restaurant. He survived.

But now Alfred was here.

Romano cursed under his breath, wiped his hands on a clean towel, and took a breath that felt too heavy in his chest.

“Table four,” Feli said with a wink.

Romano growled. “I hate you.”

“You’ve said that for years, but you don’t mean it!”

Romano shoved through the kitchen door, the scent of garlic and red wine trailing behind him like a cloak, and headed for table four.

He was going to kill him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

Chapter Text

Romano spotted him before he even fully cleared the kitchen doorway.

Sitting at table four—legs too long for the cramped booth, jacket sleeves pushed up, hands wrapped awkwardly around the stem of a too-small water glass—was him . Alfred. Hair still slightly messy, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after the shower. Wide blue eyes scanning the restaurant like he was afraid Romano might be waiting behind a potted plant with a meat cleaver.

Coward, Romano thought. Should’ve run when you had the chance.

He crossed the floor with clipped steps, each one louder than it needed to be on the old tile. No fanfare. No wave. No smile. Just a narrowed gaze and a scowl sharp enough to slice pancetta.

Alfred spotted him, straightened, and offered a hesitant smile.

Romano didn’t return it.

“Did you come to gawk,” he said without preamble, “or are you here to get something annulled over breadsticks?”

Alfred blinked. “I—uh. I came to talk.”

“Talk.” Romano crossed his arms, weight shifting to one hip. “That’s rich. We didn’t do much of that last night.”

“You don’t remember last night either,” Alfred said, a little too quickly.

Romano hated that he was right. “Yeah, well, I remember enough to regret it.”

That one landed. Alfred’s smile faltered. He looked down, fiddling with the edge of the laminated menu.

Romano rolled his eyes. “You don’t get to act hurt, Alfred . You got a fun story to take home and a free ring. I got legal paperwork and a permanent headache.”

“I didn’t come for a fight.”

“No?” Romano leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Because that’s usually what people want when they show up uninvited to my restaurant.”

Alfred looked up then. His eyes were still blue, still frustratingly earnest, but a little glassy now. Not watery. Not yet. But close.

Romano paused.

Shit.

It hit him, sharp and sudden, like too much lemon in the sauce. He’d hurt him. Actually hurt him.

And for some reason, that didn’t feel as satisfying as he’d expected.

He straightened, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. “Look. I didn’t mean—I mean, you’re not…”

Alfred just nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

“No, you don’t ,” Romano snapped, but the bite was gone from his voice. He sat across from him before he could talk himself out of it, the cracked vinyl seat hissing under his weight. “It’s just… this place is mine, okay? It’s all I’ve got.”

Alfred blinked.

Romano gestured around the narrow room—walls painted the color of old wine, black-and-white family photos crooked in mismatched frames. “ Roma’s. Named after my grandfather. He built this with his own hands. I’m just trying not to ruin it.”

“You’re not,” Alfred said softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know what it’s like to hold on too tight to something. Especially when you’re scared.”

Romano scoffed. “Don’t shrink-psychologize me, Dr. Phil.”

Alfred’s lips twitched, just barely. “I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing doesn’t have to be awful.”

Romano stared at him.

Alfred shrugged. “Maybe it was a mistake. But you seemed happy. In the videos. So did I. Maybe we could just talk. Just… figure it out.”

Romano hated the hope in his voice. Hated it more because it wasn’t smug. It wasn’t a trick.

It was real.

He drummed his fingers against the table, watching Alfred watch him. That dumb American face. Those too-big hands. That stupid, stupid wedding band.

He let out a long breath through his nose.

“I’ve got thirty minutes before the dinner prep starts,” he said flatly. “That’s all you get.”

Alfred’s eyes brightened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Romano stood, eyes narrowed. “And if you try anything sentimental, I swear to God I’ll feed you something with anchovies and not tell you.”

“I like anchovies.”

“Then I’ll make it vegan.”

Alfred laughed.

Romano looked away before he smiled.

Chapter Text

The kitchen door creaked open behind him as Romano slid the tray of rolled cannelloni into the oven with a practiced flick of his wrist.

He didn’t turn around.

“I didn’t say you could come back here,” he muttered.

“I asked Feliciano.”

“Feliciano would let a raccoon in if it smiled at him.”

Alfred’s voice was tentative but steady. “You said we could talk.”

Romano exhaled through his nose and pointed to the lone stool shoved against the wall near the swinging back door—the “wait here” chair, the one reserved for delivery drivers and health inspectors and Feli when he needed a time-out.

“That’s your spot. Sit there. Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk unless I ask.”

Alfred obediently took the seat, ducking slightly to avoid the low-hanging pot rack overhead. He looked massive in the cramped corner, all limbs and sheepish energy, knees nearly up to his chest as he folded them in tight.

Romano moved through the kitchen like he was dancing with ghosts—grabbing fresh basil from the windowsill, slicing garlic thin as paper, flipping through the prep checklist clipped to the fridge. It was easier to think with a knife in his hand. Easier to breathe with the scent of olive oil and parsley blooming around him like armor.

Alfred watched him.

Romano could feel it.

He tossed a handful of pancetta into a pan and let the sizzle do the talking.

“You cook like it’s a fight,” Alfred said quietly.

Romano didn’t answer. Just stirred.

“But it’s a good one,” Alfred added. “Like you’re trying to win.”

Romano scraped the spoon along the bottom of the pan with extra force. “Shut up.”

Alfred held up his hands. “Just an observation.”

There was a pause, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the quiet hiss of garlic browning in butter.

Romano glanced over, finally.

Alfred sat still, hands in his lap. For once, he wasn’t trying to take up space. Wasn’t flashing that dumb smile or filling the silence with noise.

Romano hated how… not awful it was.

“You know,” Alfred said after a minute, “I didn’t come here to mess with your life.”

“Then congratulations,” Romano snapped, “you failed spectacularly.”

Alfred winced.

Romano sighed, setting the spoon down and wiping his hands on a towel. “I’ve been holding this place together since Nonno died. I don’t have time for surprises. Or distractions. Or big-eyed Americans showing up with rings on and ideas in their heads.”

“I don’t have any ideas,” Alfred said softly. “Not yet, anyway. I just… didn’t want to leave it like that.”

Romano looked at him. Really looked at him.

He still didn’t make sense.

Everything about Alfred was too loud, too big, too open. The kind of guy who probably said yes to bad dares, rescued stray cats, and cried at the Muppets . He didn’t belong here. Not in this kitchen. Not in Romano’s world of scorched saucepans and unpaid invoices and memories that still sat too heavy in the corner chair Nonno used to claim every Sunday morning.

Romano grabbed a clean plate and dropped a spoonful of the pancetta and ricotta mix onto a small square of dough. Folded it. Pressed the edges.

“If you’re staying,” he said, not looking up, “you roll pasta. Otherwise, you shut up.”

Alfred blinked. “You want me to help?”

“I want you to shut up. Helping is just the tax.”

A pause.

Then Alfred grinned, slid off the stool, and washed his hands.

Romano groaned under his breath and grabbed another dough sheet.

He was going to regret this.

He was already regretting this.

And yet…

Alfred’s rolled pasta wasn’t terrible.

And for now, Romano didn’t kick him out.

Chapter Text

The last guest left with a to-go box and a satisfied sigh. Romano locked the door behind her, the soft click of the deadbolt echoing louder than it should in the now-quiet restaurant.

The air was warm, scented with wine and garlic and the faint trace of burnt espresso from when Feliciano forgot the moka pot on the back burner—again. Romano flipped the Open sign to Closed , rubbed the back of his neck, and turned to find Alfred still sitting in the same chair at table four, arms crossed over his chest like he was waiting for something.

Romano scowled. “You’re still here?”

Alfred glanced up. “Didn’t tell me to leave.”

“I thought that was implied.”

“You invited me to roll pasta.”

“That was six hours ago.”

“Yeah. And you never said stop.”

Romano muttered something under his breath in Italian and moved to the bar. He poured himself a small glass of red from the bottle he kept hidden behind the coffee grinder—cheap, bitter, and familiar. He didn’t offer Alfred any.

Alfred stood slowly, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. His shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of stomach and a faint line of hipbone. Romano looked away fast, took a long sip of wine, and hated everything.

“I could leave,” Alfred said, but didn’t move.

Romano leaned back against the counter. “Then why haven’t you?”

Alfred tilted his head. “You don’t actually want me to go.”

Romano bristled. “You’re full of yourself.”

“Nope. Just observant.” Alfred smiled—not a grin, not the goofy thing he’d thrown around earlier. This one was smaller. Tired. Honest. “You’re sharp as hell, but you don’t push people out. Not really. You just make it very uncomfortable to stay.”

Romano looked down at his wineglass.

Alfred went on. “You’ve got this whole spiky exterior going, but I saw the way you fed that old couple at table seven. You gave the woman the last of the caponata and told her not to let her husband eat it or he’d steal the blanket again.”

Romano snorted. “She told me that last week. I remembered.”

“Exactly.”

A quiet settled between them, deeper than the earlier silences. No clatter. No fryer. No plates or voices or Feli knocking over water glasses.

Just them.

Romano rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You want an apology?”

“No,” Alfred said. “Just honesty.”

Romano scoffed. “Here’s your honesty: I don’t do this. I don’t do strangers. Or rings. Or waking up next to some idiot with too many teeth and a heart like an open door.”

Alfred blinked, then grinned. “Did you just call me sweet ?”

“I called you annoying ,” Romano snapped. “With boundary issues.”

Alfred laughed—loud, bright, like he couldn’t help himself.

Romano hated how good it sounded in the empty room.

“I’m leaving,” Alfred said, reaching for his jacket. “But not forever.”

Romano raised an eyebrow. “You planning to haunt the place now?”

“Maybe.” Alfred paused at the door. “But you haven’t kicked me out yet. That’s something.”

Romano didn’t answer.

The door clicked shut.

He finished the last of his wine, stared at the stool where Alfred had been sitting, and muttered to no one:

“Stupid American.”

But he didn’t flip the chair upside down like the others.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door jingled at 9:05.

Romano looked up, heart stuttering.

It was a delivery driver with a box of canned tomatoes and a limp excuse for a mustache.

Romano swore under his breath and went back to slicing onions.

The restaurant hadn’t even opened yet. The kitchen was warm and dim and half-prepped—dough rising on the counter, water simmering in the back pot, music playing low from the ancient radio that only got one Italian station when it felt like cooperating.

Feliciano waltzed in ten minutes later with a croissant in his mouth and a single daisy in his hand.

“For the counter,” he said around the pastry, plopping the flower in an old glass jar beside the register. “It’s cheerful.”

“It’s wilting.”

“Like your attitude.”

Romano threw a kitchen towel at him. It bounced off Feli’s head and landed in the flour bin.

“Rude,” Feli sighed, but said nothing else. He hummed as he set up the tables, moving napkins and silverware with the precision of someone who absolutely should have been fired by now but never would be.

The bell above the door jingled at 9:27.

Romano glanced up again.

A tourist with sunglasses and a camera, poking their head in to ask if they were open yet.

He muttered something unintelligible and gestured for Feli to deal with it.

Stop looking, he told himself.

It wasn’t like Alfred had promised anything. He hadn’t said he’d come back.

But Romano had let him stay. Had let him into his kitchen—his kitchen, his sanctuary—and even handed him dough to roll like they were something. Like this was more than a one-night, legally-binding joke.

He chopped too hard. The tip of his knife skidded into the cutting board with a loud thunk .

Feliciano peeked in from the dining room, hands full of napkin rolls. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Romano snapped. “Leave me alone.”

“You’re chopping like someone said your carbonara was mid.”

Romano cursed under his breath, peeled another onion, and told himself he didn’t care.

He didn’t care that the chair Alfred had used yesterday was still in the corner, pulled out slightly, like someone might sit in it again. He didn’t care that the rolling pin was where Alfred left it, flour still dusted across the handle.

And he definitely didn’t care that no one had laughed in the kitchen this morning.

Not that Romano noticed.

The bell above the door jingled again.

He didn’t look this time.

He didn’t.

But his hand slowed on the knife, and his breath caught—just a little.

Footsteps. Familiar ones. Too heavy to be Feli, too casual to be a customer.

And then—

“Hey.”

Romano closed his eyes.

Then opened them and turned.

Alfred stood in the doorway, holding two paper cups and wearing a sheepish expression. His hair was neater, like he’d actually tried this time, and he was wearing the same jacket from before—creased at the elbows, slightly too big, definitely American.

Romano’s voice was sharp before he could stop it. “Did you get lost or just late?”

Alfred grinned. “I brought coffee.”

Romano eyed it warily. “From where?”

“Local place. Across the street. Little window, old lady at the register.”

“...Lucia?”

“Yeah! She gave me a biscotti for free and told me to be good to you or she’d poison my next order.”

Romano raised an eyebrow.

Alfred handed him a cup.

Romano didn’t say thank you.

But he took it.

“Table four?” Alfred asked.

Romano didn’t answer, just turned back to the cutting board.

Alfred didn’t move.

Romano sighed and jerked his chin toward the rolling stool near the back prep counter—the same one he’d told Alfred not to touch yesterday.

“Sit there. You want to hang around, you help. Again.”

Alfred smiled, already heading toward it.

Romano didn’t smile back.

But his shoulders relaxed.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

By three o’clock, Alfred’s arms were sore, his shirt was speckled with flour, and he’d sweat through the back of his jacket twice.

He hadn’t even done anything all that important. Romano hadn’t let him.

Most of the time, Alfred found himself stationed at the far end of the kitchen, exactly where Romano could see him but just out of reach of anything sharp, flammable, or actually culinary. His job, as it had evolved, was to wipe down surfaces that were already clean, roll dough he wasn’t allowed to shape, and stay out of the goddamn way.

Romano never said that part out loud.

He didn’t need to.

Still, Alfred stayed. He fetched ingredients without asking twice. Reached the high shelves that Romano couldn’t. Replaced the blown light in the walk-in cooler without being asked. He took the flack, the glares, the muttered swearing like it was nothing. Honestly, he liked it—liked the rhythm of the place, the realness of it.

And he liked him. Even if he was still trying to figure out why.

Romano ran the kitchen like a general—sharp, precise, commanding. He cooked with his whole body, leaning into the counter like he was daring the pan to ruin his day. And he was good. Like Michelin-starred Italian grandma who might throw a shoe at you good.

Alfred didn’t understand how someone so angry could make food that soft.

By the time the lunch crowd cleared and the buzz quieted to the low hum of prep for dinner, Alfred was still perched on the same rolling stool. Romano hadn’t told him to leave. That was enough.

The kitchen was warm again, not sweltering. Romano moved slower now, looser, like the day had burned off the sharpest edges. He leaned on the counter with one hand and waved Feli off when he came back in asking about cannoli cream.

Then, without saying anything, Romano grabbed a pan.

Alfred perked up. “More prep?”

Romano didn’t look at him. “You eat meat?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

Romano grunted.

Olive oil went into the pan. Garlic next. Then finely chopped onion, a hint of crushed pepper, and the soft hiss of pancetta hitting the heat. The smell was instant—rich, salty, a little sweet. Alfred’s stomach gave a low, traitorous growl.

He watched as Romano worked—grating cheese with practiced ease, stirring without measuring, taste-testing with a fingertip and a frown.

The whole time, he didn’t say a word.

When it was done, Romano didn’t plate it with fanfare. No garnish. No napkin fold. He just slid the bowl across the counter toward Alfred and said, gruff and low:

“Eat it while it’s hot.”

Alfred blinked. “Wait—is this for me?”

“No, it’s for the invisible man I married in a fever dream. Yes, it’s for you.”

Alfred blinked again, then picked up the fork and took a bite.

He’d eaten a lot of pasta in his life—college ramen nights, late-night food trucks, dates that ended with dry penne and worse conversation—but this?

This was real.

Creamy but not heavy. Smoky, rich, with a bite of pepper and something—something he couldn’t name, something that made his throat tight.

Alfred looked up. Romano wasn’t watching him, but he was pretending very hard not to.

“This is amazing,” Alfred said, voice a little quieter than he meant it to be. “Like, crazy good.”

Romano shrugged. “It’s just carbonara.”

“No,” Alfred said. “It’s you. On a plate.”

Romano finally looked at him, a flicker of emotion passing over his face too quick to name. “Don’t get weird.”

“I’m just saying,” Alfred said around another bite. “If you’re trying to win me over, this is definitely the way.”

Romano rolled his eyes and muttered something in Italian that sounded suspiciously like ‘shut up and chew.’

Alfred grinned.

But he finished every bite.

Chapter Text

The next afternoon, Alfred stood outside Roma’s with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a box tucked under his arm, feeling like he was about to propose to someone who already had the ring and regretted it.

The lunch rush was still a half-hour off, the sign in the window flipped to Closed , but Alfred had been around enough now to know Romano was already in the kitchen. Probably slicing something too fast, muttering about idiots and their inability to properly reduce a sauce.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again—three quick raps, then one more for luck.

The door cracked open, and Feliciano’s head appeared, upside-down and cheerful.

“Alfreddooooo! You’re early!”

“Yeah, I brought something. For Romano.”

Feli’s eyes lit up with dangerous delight. “Ooh! A gift!”

Alfred winced. “Kind of?”

Feli stepped aside with a conspiratorial wink. “He’s in the back. Go on before he notices I let you in again.”

Alfred made his way through the dining room, ducking under hanging copper pans and weaving past the prep stations like he belonged. The kitchen was a blur of heat and steam and Romano, sleeves rolled up, apron already streaked with flour and oil.

Romano looked up as Alfred entered, narrowed his eyes, and barked, “What.”

Alfred held up the box. “Peace offering.”

Romano glared. “Unless that’s my basil delivery, I don’t want it.”

“It’s not basil,” Alfred said, setting it down on the prep table.

He unlatched the top and lifted the lid.

Inside was a small, beat-up turntable and a stack of records in bent cardboard sleeves. Some were classics—Sinatra, Patsy Cline—but there were a few surprises too: Sam Cooke, a rare Elvis holiday pressing, a scratched Ella Fitzgerald album that Alfred had always meant to get cleaned.

Romano stared like he’d been handed a live snake.

“What is this?”

Alfred shrugged. “You cook like you’re fighting the world. I thought maybe you needed a better soundtrack.”

Romano blinked slowly.

“I know you’ve got that old radio,” Alfred went on, suddenly sheepish. “But this has, like, soul. I grew up on these. My mom used to play them on Sundays when she’d cook. I figured… maybe it’d be nice. You know. For prep time.”

Romano said nothing.

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have to keep it or anything. I just—I don’t really know how to cook, and I can’t compete with the food thing, but I thought I could… add something. I don’t know.”

The silence was deafening.

Alfred mentally braced for a snarl, a snide comment, or at least a get the hell out .

Instead—

Romano stepped forward, reached into the box, and pulled out one of the records.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the sleeve. Sam Cooke. You Send Me.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t insult it either.

“I don’t have room for it back here,” he muttered, still looking down. “Not on the prep line.”

“I could help set it up,” Alfred offered. “In the front corner by the bar. It’d echo nice off the tile.”

Romano sighed, like it was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “Fine. But if Feli scratches one, I’m blaming you.”

Alfred grinned. “Deal.”

Romano reached for the next record. Sinatra this time. “You really grew up with this stuff?”

“Every Sunday. And Christmas. And Thanksgiving. It’s, like, embedded in my blood.”

Romano nodded slowly, then turned toward the bar. “I’ll show you where the outlet is.”

And just like that—no fight, no fire—he let Alfred in. A little closer than yesterday. A little warmer than before.

Not much.

But enough.

Chapter Text

The first song that played was You Send Me .

Romano didn’t recognize the artist by name, but he knew the sound—warm, crackling, almost intimate in how it filled the corners of the dining room. The record player sat just behind the bar, spinning slowly like it had been born there. Like it belonged.

He hated that it made the place feel… better.

Softer.

Romano cracked two eggs into a bowl, separated the yolks, and stirred with more force than necessary.

“You seem tense,” Feliciano said cheerfully, balancing two plates of tagliatelle in one hand and a bottle of Pellegrino in the other.

“I’ll put you in the dishwasher.”

“You always say that.”

“One day I’ll mean it.”

Romano didn’t look up as Feli hummed the chorus on his way out. Didn’t look at Alfred either—stationed at the end of the line again, sleeves rolled up, helping tie paper napkins around silverware like it was the most important task in the world.

The bastard didn’t even look smug.

Just… content.

Romano hated that even more.

Service picked up as the sun dipped low behind the strip’s blinking skyline. The booths filled with regulars and tourists, the scent of baked parmesan and balsamic vinegar mingled with the music, and Roma’s felt—God help him—alive.

Romano fell into his rhythm. Pan, sauce, toss. Sprinkle. Plate. It grounded him. It always had. And yet every time he turned, Alfred was still there.

Still wiping things. Still rolling silver. Still occasionally glancing up when the right lyric floated in from the bar.

Romano didn’t get it.

He wasn’t charming. He wasn’t kind. He’d called Alfred a mistake more times than he could count. He barely made space for him, shoved him in corners, barked at him like he was a burned risotto.

And yet here he was. A stupid American with stupid shoulders and a voice like honey melting into black coffee.

Romano cursed quietly as he dropped a tomato onto the floor and had to bend down to retrieve it.

When he stood up again, Alfred was gone.

Romano startled, glancing around—only to find him by the front window, kneeling to help an old man with his cane, gently lifting a dropped handkerchief and returning it with a grin.

Romano looked away, heart thudding somewhere in his throat.

You’ve got a ring, his brain reminded him.

He glanced at his hand.

Still there.

Still gold.

Still warm.

He hadn’t taken it off.

And neither had Alfred.

Romano turned back to the stove and grabbed the next pan, hand steady even though his chest wasn’t. He didn’t know what they were. Barely spoke like adults. Still didn’t trust Alfred not to rearrange the spice rack alphabetically just to be helpful.

But tonight, he was here.

And the kitchen was full.

And the song playing now—Sinatra—was slower than Romano liked. But he didn’t change it.

Didn’t shout at Feli when he hummed along.

Didn’t tell Alfred to leave.

He plated the lasagna and whispered, under his breath, almost like a secret:

“Stupid American.”

And handed it to Feli with the tiniest smile.

Chapter Text

The restaurant had emptied slowly that night. The kind of lazy, wine-buzzed crowd that ordered dessert like a confession and stayed long past closing, murmuring to each other in voices softened by pasta and time. Romano liked nights like this. The ones where the dishes were already done, and the only thing left was the smell of basil and old wood and wine-soaked napkins.

Alfred was still there, of course.

Still somehow here, long after last call, folding dish towels like he owned the place. Not that Romano had asked him to help. Or told him to stay. But he hadn’t told him to go either.

Romano dried his hands and leaned against the prep table, arms crossed.

Alfred was humming along to whatever vinyl he’d queued up—something old and American and gently sad, with a trumpet that dipped like it had something to say. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. His hair was damp from where he’d rinsed flour off his face, and his voice was soft under his breath.

Romano watched him longer than he meant to.

The kitchen, for once, was quiet in a way that didn’t press in. The weight of the day had peeled off layer by layer. Even Feliciano had gone home. It was just the two of them now—wrapped in warmth and lamplight and too many things unsaid.

Alfred glanced over. “You’re staring.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

Romano looked away. “Your face is loud. I was bracing for impact.”

Alfred smiled and came to lean beside him. Their elbows bumped. Neither of them moved away.

“You know,” Alfred said, voice low, “if you ever want to talk about it. The ring. All of it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Romano’s eyes flicked toward him. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t even grunt. But he didn’t tell him to shut up, either.

Instead, he muttered, “You smell like garlic bread.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence again.

Not uncomfortable this time. Not full of thorns. Just warm. Steady.

Romano could’ve stayed like that. Could’ve let the night sink slow and quiet into something he didn’t know how to name.

Then—

The bell above the front door jingled.

Romano’s posture snapped like a stretched rubber band.

They were closed. Sign flipped. Lights dimmed.

No one should be coming in.

But the footsteps that followed—light, unhurried, confident—were unmistakable.

“Roma?” came a voice from the darkened dining room, bright and familiar, like it belonged to a memory that hadn’t been invited back. “Are you hiding in the kitchen again?”

Alfred stood straighter beside him. “Someone you know?”

Romano swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

He stepped into the dining room just as the man did the same, like gravity had pulled them together whether they wanted it or not.

There he was.

Antonio Fernández Carriedo.

Still tan. Still maddeningly handsome. Messy brown curls pushed back from his forehead. Dressed in a soft green jacket over a worn t-shirt, like he’d just gotten off a train from somewhere romantic and decided to drop in.

Romano felt his stomach turn.

“ Qué sorpresa, ” Antonio said with a wide, dazzling smile that hadn’t changed a bit. “You look good, Romano. Different. But good.”

Alfred stepped up behind him, cautious.

Antonio’s eyes slid to him, appraising in the way only people who knew you looked at someone new.

“And who’s this?” he asked lightly, grin still in place. “You’ve upgraded.”

Romano’s mouth worked before sound came out. “Antonio.”

Alfred didn’t say anything.

But Romano could feel the shift in him.

The warmth behind him cooled.

Antonio smiled wider. “ Hola, cariño. Thought I’d stop by. I saw the news.”

He glanced down at Romano’s hand.

At the ring.

Romano’s heart beat hard, fast, stupid in his chest.

Alfred was still standing beside him.

But suddenly, everything felt very far away.

Chapter Text

Alfred had always thought of jealousy as a loud thing.

Something that snapped out in shouting matches or spilled drinks, maybe a slammed door or some awkward posturing. He wasn’t really a jealous guy. Or at least, he hadn’t thought he was.

But standing in Roma’s dim dining room, shoulder to shoulder with Romano, while that guy smiled at him like he still had rights—

Yeah. That was new.

Antonio was charming. It oozed off him, warm and effortless. His Spanish accent wrapped every word in a kind of intimacy Alfred couldn’t fake. He looked like he belonged here—like he had always belonged here.

And that bothered Alfred in a way he hadn’t expected.

“So,” Antonio said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the bar like it was a habit, “how long’s it been now? Since Nonno’s funeral?”

Romano’s voice was sharper than before. “A while.”

“Too long,” Antonio said, and there was something in his tone that made Alfred’s spine straighten. “You stopped answering my messages.”

Romano didn’t respond.

Alfred cleared his throat. “We were just about to close up.”

“Right. Well,” Antonio said with a smile that was all teeth, “thank you for keeping Roma company. He can be a bit of a porcupine, no?”

Alfred bristled. “He’s not a porcupine.”

Romano sighed under his breath. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Antonio said breezily. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I never thought I’d see the day. You hated Americans, Roma. Said they were loud and messy and always added too much cheese.”

“I still say that.”

Alfred crossed his arms. “I’m standing right here, man.”

Antonio’s grin didn’t waver. “And very well-fed, too. Looks like Roma’s been cooking for you.”

Alfred’s mouth opened.

Romano, to his credit, stepped in. “That’s enough.”

Antonio raised both hands. “Of course. Just catching up. No harm done.”

But Alfred saw the glint in his eyes. Saw the way his gaze lingered on Romano—on the hand with the ring—like it still meant something to him , too.

And that?

That was enough.

Alfred took a slow breath, stepped forward, and set his hand gently but deliberately on the small of Romano’s back.

Romano stiffened—but didn’t pull away.

Alfred looked Antonio in the eye.

“I’m Alfred Jones,” he said evenly. “Romano’s husband. ”

The words landed heavy.

Antonio blinked. “So it’s true?”

Alfred’s gaze remained steady.

For a beat, no one moved.

Then Antonio smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Romano gave a humorless snort. Alfred’s fingers stayed where they were.

Antonio’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at it, and slid it back in with a sigh. “I should let you close up. I’ll be in town a few more days, Roma. Maybe we catch up properly, si? ”

Romano didn’t answer.

Antonio turned and let himself out, the bell above the door jingling softly in his wake.

The silence he left behind was louder than his smile.

Alfred slowly withdrew his hand.

Romano was staring at the floor, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Was that…?”

“Antonio,” Romano said flatly. “He used to—”

“I figured.”

Romano looked up. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Alfred shrugged. “But I wanted to.”

Romano didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then, just as Alfred started to turn away—

“...Thanks.”

Soft. Quiet. But real.

Alfred smiled, small and satisfied.

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

Romano had diced half an onion before he realized he’d already diced one just like it five minutes ago.

He looked down at the cutting board. Two perfect piles. Uniform, neat, redundant.

“Stupido,” he muttered, brushing one into a container and slamming the lid shut louder than necessary.

The kitchen was empty. Feli was late—probably off somewhere picking flowers or trying to matchmake someone at the farmer’s market. Alfred hadn’t shown up yet either, though he’d left last night with that same slow grin Romano was starting to memorize.

Romano hadn’t slept much.

He’d lain awake in his too-small bed, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the scene over and over: the bell on the door, the voice he hadn’t heard in years, the way Antonio had smiled like nothing had changed.

And Alfred.

Alfred stepping forward. Setting his hand on Romano’s back. Speaking like he meant it.

“I’m Alfred Jones. Romano’s husband.”

Romano had felt it in his chest—like something cracking open that he hadn’t even realized was closed. He’d expected embarrassment. Maybe horror. He’d thought he’d want to push him off and hiss something sharp in return.

But he hadn’t moved.

Not even an inch.

He could still feel the warmth of Alfred’s hand. Still hear the way he’d said husband like it was a truth and not an accident.

Romano stirred the tomato sauce too hard and splashed it onto the stove. He swore and wiped it up, scowling.

It was stupid.

They weren’t real. Not really . Some drunken Vegas slip-up and a paper marriage certificate that hadn’t even made it to court yet. And yet—

He liked how it sounded.

Not just the word, but the way Alfred said it. Steady. Certain. Like it meant protection. Like it meant mine .

Romano didn’t do mine .

He didn’t have people. Not anymore. Not since his grandfather died. Not since Antonio left for Spain with a promise to write that turned into two years of silence and then a sudden text about a wedding he wasn’t invited to.

Antonio was good at making people feel like they mattered—right until he forgot you existed.

Alfred was different.

Too big, too loud, too American—but he was here. Every day now. Showed up without being asked and stayed even when Romano snapped at him. Helped clean, rolled dough, stacked chairs. Ate every bite Romano put in front of him like it meant something.

And now—now he was calling himself husband .

Romano turned the burner off and leaned back against the counter, wiping his hands on a towel that already smelled like onions and rosemary. He looked toward the back door, half-expecting to hear Alfred’s boots clomp through it any second.

He wasn’t sure what he’d say when he did.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

But he knew one thing:

He didn’t hate hearing it.

He didn’t hate being claimed.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to let go of that ring after all.

Chapter Text

Romano didn’t mean to notice the time.

He wasn’t waiting .

But when the old wall clock over the espresso machine ticked past 9:15 and Alfred hadn’t come through the back door with that ridiculous grin and two paper cups, Romano felt the shift like a stone dropped in his gut.

He stirred the sauce a little harder. Checked the oven timer twice in five minutes. Burned the edges of the focaccia because he didn’t rotate the tray fast enough.

He’s probably just late, he told himself. Not everyone revolves around your schedule, idiot.

But Alfred had come every morning since the night he brought the record player. Always at 8:45. Always with that same look in his eyes like he was showing up for something, not just by chance.

And Romano—well. He hadn’t kicked him out yet, had he?

He was considering texting him.

He wasn’t going to. But he considered it.

Then the bell above the front door jingled.

Romano’s shoulders loosened. He wiped his hands and stepped out of the kitchen, brushing the flour off his apron.

But it wasn’t Alfred.

It was Antonio.

Again.

Romano’s jaw tensed automatically. “We’re closed.”

Antonio smiled like the word didn’t apply to him. “You say that, but the door was open.”

“I forgot to flip the sign.”

“Or maybe you forgot you missed me.”

Romano didn’t dignify that with a response. He walked behind the bar and started organizing the espresso cups, each click sharper than it needed to be.

Antonio leaned on the counter, casual. Too comfortable. “Where’s your husband? Thought he’d be around. Doesn’t seem like the type to leave you unsupervised.”

Romano’s eyes snapped up. “He works nights. At a casino.”

Antonio tilted his head. “So he plays games professionally. Figures.”

Romano’s grip on the saucer tightened. “He’s a card dealer.”

“Mmm.” Antonio picked up a biscotti from the jar without asking. Bit into it. “Sounds unstable.”

“He pays his bills,” Romano said flatly.

“So do most slot machines. Doesn’t mean I trust them.”

Romano said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to.

Antonio’s tone shifted—just a little. Just enough. “It’s just strange, is all. I saw those photos and thought, Roma? Married? You always said you’d never let anyone that close.”

Romano’s stomach twisted.

Antonio stepped around the bar like he still had a right to. Like nothing had changed.

Romano turned quickly. “Don’t.”

Antonio stopped, smile slipping just a little. “You’re serious.”

“You don’t get to walk in here like that anymore. You left. Remember?”

Antonio was quiet for a beat.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly. “I was just scared. And when I looked back… it felt too late.”

Romano laughed, low and bitter. “You never looked back, idiota . You replaced me. With someone who took pretty pictures and used the word ‘darling’ like punctuation.”

Antonio winced. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what wasn’t fair was you waiting until I found out from your sister’s wedding photos on Facebook.”

Antonio sighed. “I thought maybe... maybe there was still something here.”

Romano didn’t answer.

Because the worst part was—Antonio wasn’t wrong. There had been something. Something warm and messy and real, once upon a time.

But that time had passed.

And now—

Now someone else had called him husband.

And meant it.

The bell above the back door jangled.

Romano’s heart jumped before he even turned.

There he was. Alfred. Hair a little messy, hoodie too loose, two coffees in his hands and dark circles under his eyes.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, voice low, tired, real. “Late shift ran long.”

He caught sight of Antonio.

Stopped.

Romano saw it happen—his expression shutter, his grip tighten slightly on the cups.

“Hey,” Alfred said carefully. “Didn’t realize we had company.”

Antonio smiled. “We were just reminiscing.”

Alfred handed Romano his coffee, gaze still steady on Antonio. “Well, now we’re not.”

Romano took the cup. Their fingers brushed.

Antonio chuckled. “Touchy.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Protective.”

Romano looked at him then—really looked.

Alfred wasn’t puffed up. Wasn’t posturing. He was just there —tired, quiet, and still making space for Romano even when the past stood in his kitchen like it still had a seat at the table.

Romano turned back to Antonio.

“You should go.”

Antonio’s eyes flicked between them. “You’re serious about this?”

Romano didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

Antonio lingered a second too long, then nodded slowly and headed for the door. No flare, no apology. Just the jingle of the bell as it shut behind him.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was solid.

Alfred leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. “So.”

Romano sipped his own, gaze fixed ahead. “You’re late.”

“Sorry. Overslept.” Alfred glanced at him sidelong. “But I came back.”

Romano didn’t say anything.

But after a moment, he reached for the biscotti jar, broke one in half, and offered it out.

Alfred took it.

And they stood there, quiet, side by side—like maybe, just maybe, they were starting to figure out what this thing between them actually was.

Chapter Text

Alfred lingered.

He leaned against the prep counter long after his coffee was finished, spinning the empty cup slowly between his hands. The kitchen smelled like rising dough and roasted garlic, and Romano was fussing with a tray of stuffed shells like they’d personally offended him.

“I could stay a little,” Alfred said casually, like it didn’t matter. “You know. Help with prep.”

Romano didn’t look up. “You’ll just get in the way.”

Alfred smirked. “I’m very skilled at standing in one place and looking pretty.”

“You’re barely pulling off the second part.”

Alfred laughed, soft. “C’mon. Just a few more minutes.”

Romano glanced at the clock. “You work tonight.”

“Yeah,” Alfred admitted, finally setting the cup down. “I know.”

Late shift. Again. The casino never slept, and neither did the customers. He’d be shuffling decks and fake-laughing at bad tips until well past three. Which meant he’d miss the dinner rush here. Miss the smell of Romano’s sauce simmering low and the way the kitchen filled with music from the turntable when no one was paying attention.

He didn’t want to go.

Not yet.

Romano must’ve caught the look on his face, because he went quiet.

Then, without turning around, he said—too sharp, too casual—“Fine. After I close, I’ll come find you.”

Alfred blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

Romano shrugged. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

“No, no, I’m not,” Alfred said quickly, straightening with a grin spreading across his face. “I just—yeah. That’d be great.”

Romano’s ears were slightly red.

“I’m off by ten,” Alfred added. “Breakroom’s dead after that. I could bring you chips from the employee lounge. You know. If you’re into stale vending machine cuisine.”

Romano scoffed. “I’m not a raccoon.”

“I mean, depends on the day.”

Romano turned around just long enough to glare at him.

Alfred held up his hands, laughing. “Okay, okay. No chips. But seriously—you’ll come?”

Romano rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Alfred’s grin softened into something smaller. Warmer. “Okay.”

He grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door and shrugged it on, feeling something settle in his chest he hadn’t realized was wound up. As he reached for the handle, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Romano looked up.

Alfred held his gaze. “Thanks.”

Romano scowled, but there was no heat behind it. “You’re the one who should be thanking me. I’m the one who has to smell like fryer oil for this.”

Alfred smiled and stepped out into the morning sun, heart stupidly light.

He was going to see his husband tonight.

And maybe, just maybe, it was starting to feel real.

Chapter Text

Romano hated casinos.

He hated the smell—stale air and cheap perfume clinging to old carpet. He hated the noise—bells and laughter and piped-in music pitched just high enough to give him a headache. He hated the blinking lights, the fake charm, the empty glitter of it all.

But mostly, he hated that Alfred looked so good in it.

He spotted him almost instantly—standing at a blackjack table near the center of the floor, sleeves rolled up, vest snug around his chest, cards moving between his fingers like water. His grin flashed in the low neon glow, easy and golden, and the entire table was eating it up.

Romano stayed back, half-shadowed near a velvet column, watching.

He hadn’t expected Alfred to be so... magnetic . Confident. He was always a little clumsy in the kitchen, always wide-eyed around Romano like he wasn’t sure what would set him off next. But here? He owned the floor. Smiling, teasing, smooth without being smug.

Every player at the table leaned in when he spoke. Every laugh was a little too loud. Every eye kept sliding to his hands.

Romano folded his arms.

One of the women—a girl in a sparkly red dress, too much makeup and not enough subtlety—giggled when Alfred handed her her chips. She brushed her fingers against his.

Alfred just smiled, already turning to the next player.

Professional.

Oblivious.

Romano gritted his teeth.

Another woman leaned over the table, cleavage front and center, tossing her hair like she was in a shampoo commercial. “You come with the jackpot, handsome?”

Alfred blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re cute. I’d let you ruin my credit score.”

“Oh.” He gave her the polite, confused laugh of a man who’d just been hit by a line he didn’t understand. “Uh, thanks. Dealer stands on seventeen.”

Romano almost choked.

He’s seriously that blind.

He stayed where he was, jaw tight, arms crossed so hard they ached.

Someone should’ve told those women. Alfred might be soft around the edges, but he wasn’t available.

He was married.

To Romano.

Even if it was accidental. Even if it was stupid. Even if no one else knew it.

Romano did.

And the longer he watched Alfred’s easy grin and effortless charm, the more something inside him twisted—not just jealousy, but something deeper. A strange ache, warm and sharp at the same time.

Because yeah, maybe this wasn’t his scene.

But maybe Alfred was.

And Romano didn’t want to share that.

When Alfred finally stepped off the floor—laughing at something a coworker said, already loosening his vest—Romano pushed away from the column and intercepted him near the hallway that led to the staff break room.

Alfred blinked, surprised. “Hey! You actually came.”

“I said I would,” Romano said, maybe a little too sharply.

Alfred tilted his head. “You okay?”

Romano looked at him—really looked. The flushed cheeks, the way his hair curled from the heat, the grin that hadn’t quite faded even after hours on his feet.

“You’re good at this,” he muttered.

Alfred blinked again. “What, dealing?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Oh.” Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Thanks. You, uh... you didn’t have to wait out there. I could’ve grabbed you after.”

Romano rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want to be seen next to a blackjack table like some washed-up tourist.”

Alfred laughed. “That bad?”

Romano didn’t answer.

He just reached out, grabbed a loose thread at Alfred’s cuff, and picked it off.

Alfred stilled.

Romano looked up at him.

“You smell like cigarette money and cheap drinks.”

“I’ll take that as romantic,” Alfred murmured.

Romano didn’t smile.

But he did tug lightly on Alfred’s sleeve, pulling him toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “I brought food.”

Alfred’s eyes lit up. “You brought food?”

“Only because I knew you’d forget to eat.”

“And that,” Alfred said, grin softening as he followed, “is definitely romantic.”

Romano didn’t argue.

But he also didn’t deny it.

Chapter Text

The employee break room was the color of canned peas and heartbreak. Romano wrinkled his nose as he stepped inside, dodging a crooked vending machine and a bulletin board full of outdated HR posters and a lonely “Lost Phone Charger” notice taped with fury.

“This place is disgusting,” he muttered.

Alfred grinned, kicking the door shut behind them. “Isn’t it romantic?”

Romano gave him a flat look.

But Alfred just flopped into a cracked vinyl chair, legs splayed, shoulders loose with the kind of exhaustion only someone who’d just spent six hours fending off drunken gamblers could manage.

Romano set the foil-wrapped parcel on the table.

Alfred leaned forward immediately. “Is that—?”

“Lasagna,” Romano said shortly. “Hot. And I brought a real fork. You’re not eating this with plastic.”

Alfred clutched his chest like he’d just been proposed to. “You brought me real cutlery? Be still, my heart.”

“Eat.”

Alfred didn’t need to be told twice.

Romano watched as he opened the foil and took the first bite—watched the way his shoulders slumped in relief, the small, involuntary sound he made when the flavor hit.

“God,” Alfred said around a mouthful. “This is criminally good. You sure you don’t love me?”

Romano nearly choked on air.

Alfred blinked at him, fork still raised. “Kidding. I mean—unless you wanna talk about it. But I was mostly kidding.”

Romano rolled his eyes and sat across from him, pulling out a second fork. “Shut up and give me a bite.”

Alfred handed over the plate without hesitation.

They ate in easy silence for a while. Just the hum of the vending machine and the creak of old chairs and the occasional clink of fork against plate.

Romano wasn’t used to this. To quiet that wasn’t suffocating. To being with someone who didn’t expect anything from him—who just was , who made space like it was easy.

When the food was gone and they were both leaning back in their chairs, full and half-asleep, Alfred spoke again. Soft this time.

“You really came. I didn’t think you would.”

Romano looked at him. “You keep saying that like I’m not a man of my word.”

“You’re also the man who called me a mistake four times in one afternoon.”

Romano winced.

Alfred smiled gently. “But you also made me dinner. And you showed up. And you didn’t deck your ex when he started running his mouth, which was pretty noble, honestly.”

Romano didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he glanced down at his hand. At the band of gold still sitting there, simple and heavy and absurdly real.

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” he admitted.

Alfred looked over, eyes soft.

“You’re not.”

Romano nodded once.

They didn’t need to say it. Not tonight.

Not what they were. Not what they weren’t. Not what this might become.

For now, it was enough to sit in a room that smelled like burnt coffee and floor wax, sharing the last bite of lasagna and feeling something like peace.

Alfred reached across the table and laced their fingers together without a word.

Romano didn’t pull away.

Not even a little.

Chapter Text

Romano wasn’t a morning person.

He wasn’t a people person either, especially not before coffee, and especially not when those people snored like freight trains and drooled a little onto his second-best pillow.

But when he woke to the weight of a warm arm draped across his stomach and the sound of steady breathing beside him, he didn’t shove it off.

Not even after five minutes.

Or ten.

Alfred was still dead asleep, one leg thrown over Romano’s like he’d lost a war to the blanket sometime around four in the morning. His hair was a mess, sticking up like a dandelion caught in a wind tunnel, and there was a line of dried drool at the corner of his mouth.

Romano sighed quietly.

Then shifted just enough to reach for his phone on the nightstand. 9:43. Too late to make dough, too early for prep, and Feliciano had promised to cover the kitchen until noon.

He could’ve gotten up.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he lay still, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily overhead, feeling the heat of Alfred’s body beside him and listening to the soft sound of sleep that filled the room.

It wasn’t romantic. Not exactly.

It was messy and real and still wrapped in too many unknowns—but for the first time in a long time, Romano didn’t feel like he had to run from it.

When Alfred finally stirred, it was with a long, full-body stretch and a groggy yawn that cracked his jaw.

“Mmnh,” he mumbled. “This isn’t my bed.”

Romano rolled his eyes. “Brilliant deduction.”

Alfred cracked one eye open, then smiled—slow and warm and dopey. “Oh. Morning.”

Romano looked away, suddenly very interested in the texture of his ceiling paint. “You drooled on my pillow.”

“I always drool when I sleep next to someone cute.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Alfred laughed, soft and genuine. “And you let me stay.”

Romano kicked the blanket off. “I had no choice. You fell asleep before I finished brushing my teeth.”

“You’re welcome for gracing your home with my snoring presence.”

Romano muttered something under his breath and sat up, stretching. Alfred made no move to follow, just watched him with eyes still half-lidded.

“Do you do this a lot?” Alfred asked quietly. “Let people stay?”

Romano paused at the edge of the bed.

Then, without looking back, said, “No.”

The silence between them was gentle. Full of understanding that didn’t need to be spoken.

Romano stood and wandered into the kitchen barefoot, rubbing a hand through his hair. He flicked the switch on the coffee maker, the familiar rattle and hum grounding him like it always did. He knew this part. This rhythm.

And yet—he reached for two mugs instead of one.

Behind him, he heard Alfred shuffling in, hoodie halfway on, blinking against the light like some oversized, sleepy barn cat.

“You make breakfast too, or just coffee?”

“This isn’t a hotel.”

“Rude.”

Romano poured the coffee, black, and slid one mug across the counter. Alfred caught it without comment and took a sip.

Then smiled.

Romano blinked. “What?”

“You remembered how I take it.”

Romano shrugged. “You’ve only been drinking it that way for a week. I’m not an idiot.”

“Nope,” Alfred said, grinning wider. “Just my husband.”

Romano flushed. Scowled. Turned back to the stove like it didn’t matter.

But he was already cracking eggs.

And humming.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

Alfred didn’t leave after breakfast.

Romano told him he should. Twice.

And both times, Alfred grinned, sipped his coffee, and made a sound like “Mmm, nah.”

So he stayed.

He cleaned the skillet without being asked. He fed Mozzarella—the stray cat that sometimes camped out on the fire escape—the rest of the pancetta. He straightened the stack of takeout menus on the counter. Badly.

Romano didn’t yell at him.

Didn’t shove him toward the door.

In fact, when he slipped on his boots and reached for his keys, Alfred was right behind him, hoodie half-zipped and hair still damp from a very lazy shower. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The walk to Roma’s was quiet. Not awkward. Just... comfortable.

Romano unlocked the front door with Alfred standing close behind him. Close enough to feel. Close enough to get used to.

He almost asked him if he wanted to open up the shutters. Almost.

Instead, he just flipped the lights and muttered, “Start the coffee.”

Alfred obeyed with a salute and far too much enthusiasm.

It wasn’t until the second pot was brewing and the soft clatter of prep had started—Feli dancing in a half hour late, humming and pretending he hadn’t forgotten his apron again—that Romano realized something strange.

It felt normal.

Having Alfred here.

In his space. At his elbow. Reaching for plates before Romano had to ask.

No one stared anymore. Not even Feli. Not after yesterday. Not after Alfred rolled out dough for half an hour and fixed the wonky wheel on the pastry cart. Not after he started singing along with the record player under his breath like he’d always been here.

Romano watched him wipe down a prep board with careful, easy movements. A curl of hair fell in front of his eyes. He huffed and tried to blow it away without touching it.

Romano’s hand twitched with the instinct to fix it.

He didn’t.

But he wanted to.

Later that morning, during the lull between prep and the first reservation, Romano found himself at the counter, flipping through inventory. He was barely listening when Alfred sidled up and leaned against the espresso machine like he belonged there.

“You ever think about what it would’ve been like,” Alfred said quietly, “if we met a different way?”

Romano looked up.

“If we hadn’t been drunk and stupid,” Alfred went on. “If it hadn’t started with glitter and Elvis impersonators.”

Romano tilted his head. “You regretting it?”

“No,” Alfred said immediately. “Not even a little.”

Romano’s chest tightened.

“I just think it’s funny,” Alfred said. “You, me. Married. Playing house.”

“This isn’t house. ” Romano grumbled. “It’s a business. And you’re not even on payroll.”

“I’d work for food,” Alfred offered. “Minimum wage and one lasagna per shift.”

Romano rolled his eyes—but he was smiling.

Just faintly.

Just enough.

And then—

“Roma!”

Feliciano burst through the swinging door, waving a paper in the air like it was on fire.

Romano turned. “What?”

“Someone left this at the front.” Feli skidded to a halt and handed it over. “Said it was important.”

Romano took the envelope. Opened it.

Inside, official stationery.

Clark County Clerk of Court .

He stared at it.

Alfred peeked over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he said.

Romano didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

The letter sat heavy in his hand.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even dramatic.

Just a form.

A reminder.

That their accident was still real.

That something had to be done about it—eventually.

Romano folded the paper in half.

Set it on the counter.

And said nothing at all.

Because for now, the morning was still soft.

And Alfred was still here.

And that?

That was enough.

Chapter Text

The letter sat on the counter all afternoon.

Romano tried to ignore it. He kept shuffling it under receipts, behind the spice rack, beneath the laminated daily specials menu. But no matter where he stuffed it, it found him. His eyes would drift to it mid-prep. His hand would brush against the edge when reaching for the salt.

By the time the dinner rush started, it had moved again—this time to the far corner of the kitchen, just beside the extra oil tins.

Romano didn’t remember putting it there.

But Alfred noticed.

He’d noticed everything, of course. He hadn’t said anything, not when Feli handed the letter over or when Romano paled slightly reading it. Not when he folded it too carefully or kept shifting it out of view like it was contagious.

But now, as the last plate went out and the kitchen settled into the hush of late-night cleanup, Alfred leaned beside him at the sink and finally asked:

“You wanna talk about it?”

Romano didn’t look at him. “About what?”

“You know what.”

Romano scrubbed harder at the pan in his hands. “No point.”

“Feels like there is.”

Romano exhaled through his nose. The pan clattered into the drying rack.

He turned, braced both palms on the counter behind him, and stared across the kitchen at the envelope. Crisp. Untouched. Loud in its silence.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, voice low. “That it’s real? We already knew that.”

Alfred leaned against the prep counter across from him, arms folded. “That we’re gonna have to make a decision about it.”

Romano snorted. “We? You really think I’m letting you fill out paperwork unsupervised?”

“Okay,” Alfred said, grinning despite himself. “ We .”

They stood like that for a moment. Not quite facing off—just orbiting something unsaid.

Romano looked away first. “They want a response.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what to tell them.”

Alfred hesitated. “Do you want out?”

Romano’s head jerked up.

Alfred raised a hand. “I’m not asking because I do. I just—thought I should give you the chance to say it first.”

Romano stared at him, heart slow and stupid in his chest.

“You want to stay married?” he asked, voice sharper than he meant.

Alfred shrugged. “We don’t have to figure it all out today. But... yeah. I don’t hate it.”

Romano blinked.

Alfred smiled, soft. “I like waking up next to you. I like making coffee in your kitchen. I like watching you try not to smile when I compliment your food.”

Romano’s throat was dry.

Alfred’s smile faded just a little, but not the warmth in his eyes. “But I’ll follow your lead. If you want to annul it, we’ll sign the papers. No hard feelings.”

Romano stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

Alfred’s brows lifted.

Romano reached out and tugged lightly on the collar of his hoodie, pulling him close enough that their chests brushed. He didn’t kiss him.

But he didn’t let go, either.

“I’m not signing anything,” Romano said, voice low. “Yet.”

Alfred nodded once. “Okay.”

Romano looked up. “But don’t get smug about it.”

Alfred leaned in slightly, the curve of his grin infuriating. “Too late.”

Romano shoved at his shoulder.

Alfred just laughed, leaning back and bracing his hands on the counter behind him.

“I’ll leave the envelope,” Alfred said. “But maybe tomorrow... we talk about it. For real.”

Romano nodded, eyes flicking to the corner where it sat.

Tomorrow.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they were still married.

And for now, Romano was okay with that.

Chapter Text

The room was mostly dark, lit only by the dim glow of the streetlamp through the slats of the blinds. Romano’s apartment always smelled faintly like garlic and old books, a scent Alfred had grown to associate with safety, though he’d never admit that out loud.

He lay on his side, head propped on one hand, watching Romano breathe.

Not in a creepy way.

In an I can’t believe this is real kind of way.

Romano had fallen asleep quickly, face smushed into his pillow, one arm thrown over his head like he was hiding from the world. He made these tiny sounds in his sleep—quiet exhales, almost sighs—and every now and then, his brow twitched like he was dreaming of something frustrating.

Probably him .

Alfred smiled to himself.

The letter was still on the kitchen counter.

Unopened. Unanswered. Undecided.

But Romano hadn’t told him to go. Hadn’t made some excuse to sleep on the couch or pretend this was a mistake. In fact, he'd tugged Alfred in by the wrist after they closed up shop, grumbling something about just stay, idiot , and then passed him a too-soft t-shirt and a clean towel like it was routine.

Like Alfred belonged.

He shifted slightly under the blanket, careful not to move too much. Romano might be asleep, but Alfred knew how light he could sleep—especially when something was bothering him. And if Alfred had to guess, the envelope was probably chewing a hole in the back of his brain.

Do you want out?

Alfred had meant the question. Meant the offer.

But when Romano stepped forward and said I’m not signing anything, something in Alfred had lit up.

Warm. Steady. Hopeful.

He hadn't meant to fall for him.

Hell, the first three days had been a mix of panic, paperwork research, and trying not to get stabbed with a wooden spoon. Romano had been all knives and curse words and disbelieving glares. Alfred had never met anyone so defensive over how one folded a napkin.

But there was a softness there.

One that only showed up in food, in silence, in the way Romano always handed him his coffee before he even asked.

It was that softness he wanted more of.

Alfred reached over and gently, gently , brushed a strand of hair from Romano’s forehead. Romano stirred but didn’t wake. His lips parted just a little in protest, his hand curling under the pillow.

Alfred's chest ached.

He wanted to say something. I like you. I think this could be real. I think I’d stay even if the ring came off.

But Romano wasn’t ready.

And Alfred could wait.

He’d been dealt worse hands before.

He lay back down, careful to stay close but not cling. Just enough space to breathe.

Tomorrow, they’d talk.

Tonight, he’d stay.

Chapter Text

Romano woke slowly.

The kind of slow where the light hit his eyelids in soft pulses, and the weight of the blanket felt too good to move. He shifted once, then froze.

There was someone in his bed.

Still.

Warm breath against the back of his neck. A heavy arm slung lazily across his waist. A knee— his knee—wedged between Romano’s like it had a right to be there.

And snoring.

God, the snoring.

Romano cracked one eye open and scowled at the far wall.

Alfred.

Of course.

He should’ve been gone. Should’ve left for work. Should’ve stolen a mug of coffee and slunk off into the morning without a word like any decent mistake would.

But no. He was still here.

Still clinging to Romano like he was the world’s grumpiest body pillow.

Romano shifted.

Alfred groaned sleepily and held on tighter.

Romano lay still, heart beating too loud in his chest.

It wasn’t bad.

It should’ve been. He didn’t like people in his space. In his bed. In his life without knocking.

But Alfred had stopped knocking days ago.

And Romano hadn’t changed the locks.

He stared at the window for a long minute, watching the curtains shift in the breeze. The apartment smelled like old sheets, citrus shampoo, and faintly— faintly —like spaghetti sauce, still lingering in Alfred’s hair from yesterday.

Stupid.

So stupid.

And yet—

He liked it.

Liked waking up warm. Liked knowing someone else was there. Liked the slow, heavy feel of it. Safe. Settled.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too loud.

Just stayed where he was, eyes open, Alfred’s chest against his back, heartbeat a slow rhythm he could feel through the fabric of his t-shirt.

Eventually, Alfred stirred.

“Mmh.”

Romano didn’t turn.

Alfred yawned. “What time is it?”

“Too early.”

“Feels late.”

Romano rolled his eyes. “You’re such a baby.”

“Your bed’s comfy.”

Romano snorted. “No it’s not.”

“I slept great.”

“Then you’re broken.”

Alfred shifted again, arm slipping tighter around him. “I like this.”

Romano’s throat tightened.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because Alfred stayed.

Because the letter was still on the counter.

And because, somehow, the thought of waking up next to him tomorrow didn’t feel so strange anymore.

Chapter Text

Romano made breakfast.

He didn’t mean to. It just… happened.

He was halfway through whisking eggs before he realized he’d started a second pan for bacon. The bread was already in the toaster, the moka pot bubbling on the stove. And when Alfred shuffled in barefoot, hair sticking up in seven directions, still blinking blearily at the morning light—Romano didn’t bark at him to get out.

He just wordlessly handed him a cup of coffee.

Alfred took it with both hands, like it was sacred.

“You’re not yelling,” he mumbled.

Romano flipped the eggs. “Don’t push your luck.”

Alfred leaned against the counter beside him, mug pressed to his lips, still wearing that soft, rumpled t-shirt Romano had loaned him two nights ago.

It looked better on him.

The kitchen was small—barely enough room to move without bumping into each other. Romano didn’t mind. Not right now. The air smelled like garlic and butter, and the heat from the stove mixed with the quiet hiss of bacon and the occasional clink of silverware.

Alfred didn’t talk much. He just stood there, sipping his coffee, occasionally sneaking glances like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Romano felt it too.

That weird stillness.

That domestic something.

He plated the food and shoved a dish toward Alfred, who blinked and then grinned like he’d just been handed a gift.

“You spoil me,” he said.

Romano scoffed. “You call eggs and toast ‘spoiling,’ you’ve got low standards.”

“It’s not the food.” Alfred sat down at the tiny table tucked against the wall. “It’s the gesture. You know. Like you care.”

Romano rolled his eyes and joined him. “I’m Italian. We show affection through calories.”

Alfred took a bite of toast. “Then I’m feeling very loved right now.”

“Disgusting.”

Alfred smiled. “You like it.”

Romano didn’t respond.

But he didn’t deny it either.

They ate in companionable silence, the radio playing low from the windowsill—some local station with a mix of old crooners and scratchy jazz. Alfred ate like he hadn’t seen food in days. Romano pretended not to watch him the whole time.

When the plates were mostly empty and the coffee was cold, Alfred leaned back in his chair and said, too casually, “You ever think about... keeping it?”

Romano raised an eyebrow. “Keeping what?”

Alfred tapped the ring on his finger.

Romano looked at it.

Shiny. Simple. Still there.

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t take it off, either.

Alfred didn’t push. Just stood up, gathered their dishes, and started washing them like it was his kitchen, like this was his morning, like he’d done it a hundred times.

And Romano?

Romano let him.

Chapter Text

Romano was chopping basil when the knock came.

Three quick taps—light, chirpy, impatient.

He didn’t move.

Alfred glanced up from where he was drying dishes. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” Romano muttered. “Which means I already know who it is.”

He wiped his hands, stalked toward the door, and flung it open.

“ Ciao, fratello! ” Feliciano beamed, arms already open like he expected a hug.

Romano didn’t give him one.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer my texts,” Feli said, stepping inside anyway. “So I thought I’d come see if you were dead or finally in love!”

Romano groaned. “God help me.”

Feli waltzed into the kitchen like he owned it, already peeking at the stove. “Ooh, you’re cooking! And there are two plates out! Did Alfred stay over again?”

Romano shot Alfred a death glare.

Alfred raised both hands. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“I saw the breakfast photo,” Feliciano said cheerfully. “ He posted it to his story.”

Romano turned slowly. “You what?”

Alfred blinked. “It was a really good shot of your eggs.”

“I hate you.”

Feli plopped into a chair. “So! How’s married life?”

Romano grabbed the pan and dumped the pasta into a bowl a little more violently than necessary. “Temporary.”

“Mm-hmm,” Feli hummed. “With matching rings. And cohabitation. And a very romantic-looking lasagna in the oven.”

“It’s just food.”

“It’s love!” Feli sang.

“It’s calories. ”

Alfred tried not to laugh.

Romano dumped salad into a bowl and tossed it halfheartedly. “You staying for dinner or just here to interrogate me?”

“Can’t it be both?”

They sat down. Feli chattered through most of the meal, going on about new specials at the restaurant, a customer who tipped him in foreign coins, and a couple who got engaged over tiramisu. Alfred listened, smiling faintly, nodding along. Romano mostly ate in silence, grateful for the distraction.

Until dessert.

Then Feliciano leaned forward, eyes too wide. “So? Have you talked about it?”

Romano paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “About what.”

“The marriage.”

Romano set the fork down.

Alfred cleared his throat. “We’re talking about it.”

“That means yes,” Feliciano said with far too much glee. “You like him.”

Romano didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t need to.

Feliciano just smiled, leaning back with a content sigh. “I’ll plan the vow renewal.”

Romano threw a napkin at him.

Chapter Text

The envelope was still where he’d left it.

Right on the counter. Right beside the salt jar and a crooked mug Alfred had insisted on keeping because it said Kiss the Cook in faded pink letters.

Romano stared at it for a long time.

He’d been up for twenty minutes already, pacing the kitchen in sweats and bare feet, waiting for Alfred to wake up. Waiting for himself to stop second-guessing. Waiting for something to click in his head and make the decision for him.

It didn’t.

But the coffee was strong, the apartment was quiet, and when Alfred finally shuffled in—shirtless, yawning, curls crushed from the pillow—Romano didn’t look away.

“Morning,” Alfred mumbled, voice still gravel-rough.

Romano nodded once. “Sit down.”

Alfred blinked. “Okay. No toast first?”

“No toast. Just—sit.”

He obeyed, flopping into the nearest chair and folding his arms on the table. “You look like you’re about to fire me.”

Romano slid the envelope across the table.

Alfred straightened a little.

“Oh.”

Romano didn’t sit yet. He braced his hands on the counter, fingers curled tight against the edge.

“I don’t know what you want,” he said carefully. “I don’t even know what I want. But we can’t just ignore it forever.”

Alfred nodded. “I know.”

“You said you’d follow my lead.”

“Still true.”

Romano’s jaw clenched. “Even if I screw it up?”

Alfred’s voice was soft. “Especially then.”

Romano looked away. “You make this hard.”

“I make this easier.”

That made Romano pause.

He turned, finally sitting across from him, elbows on the table, arms crossed like armor.

“You don’t act like a mistake,” he said. Quiet.

Alfred leaned forward. “You don’t feel like one.”

Romano stared at the envelope between them. Official. Boring. Paper and ink and a way out.

He reached for it.

Alfred tensed.

But instead of opening it, Romano pushed it aside.

And reached for Alfred’s hand.

“I’m not signing it.”

Alfred’s breath hitched. Just a little.

Romano gripped his fingers tighter. “Not right now. Maybe not ever. I don’t know. But I’m not throwing this away until I know for sure it’s not something worth keeping.”

Alfred’s voice was rough. “You really think it is?”

Romano looked up.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

That was all it took.

Alfred smiled, wide and stunned like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Romano rolled his eyes. “You’re such a sap.”

“You’re such a softie.”

“Shut up.”

Alfred stood, rounded the table, and leaned down to kiss the top of Romano’s head. “Not a chance, husband. ”

Romano didn’t even shove him away.

Chapter Text

Romano didn’t say it was a date.

He didn’t light candles. He didn’t pull out the nice plates. He didn’t tell Alfred to wear anything special. But he did mop the floor. He did set the table. And he did spend a full hour making something slow —something that simmered.

Alfred walked in just after eight, hair windblown, tie half-undone, the sleeves of his work shirt already rolled up. He looked tired.

He looked happy.

“Smells amazing,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “What’d I do to deserve this?”

Romano didn’t answer.

He was too busy spooning the sauce—his grandfather’s recipe, the one he didn’t pull out unless he was in a mood —onto two perfectly plated servings of baked eggplant.

Alfred stepped into the kitchen and froze.

Romano didn’t turn.

He felt the silence like a held breath.

“You made this for me?”

Romano finally looked over his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was hungry.”

Alfred’s smile curved slow. “You really are a romantic”

Romano handed him a fork. “Shut up and eat.”

They sat at the little table by the window. The breeze came through the screen, warm with late spring air. The record player was on in the background, something low and wordless.

They didn’t talk much while they ate.

Romano didn’t need to.

He just watched Alfred take that first bite—eyes fluttering shut like it was divine intervention—then saw him look up, soft and stunned.

“This is the best thing you’ve ever made.”

Romano sipped his wine. “It’s average.”

“Average- for Michelin star chefs.”

“You keep eating like that, I’m gonna start charging you rent.”

Alfred grinned. “I’d pay.”

Romano blinked. “What?”

Alfred tilted his head. “Rent. To live here. With you. If you wanted.”

Romano’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

Alfred didn’t backpedal. Didn’t smile like it was a joke. Just looked at him—quiet, open.

Romano set his fork down.

“I didn’t say you could stay forever.”

“You haven’t kicked me out yet.”

Romano leaned back in his chair.

The food was half-eaten. The wine bottle already half-empty. The envelope from the courthouse had vanished from the counter.

And for the first time since waking up in that godforsaken hotel room, Romano didn’t feel like something was out of place.

Alfred was here.

And he didn’t want him to leave.

So he said, softly—grudgingly—like it cost him nothing and everything:

“Then stay for dinner again tomorrow.”

Alfred smiled. “Yeah?”

Romano nodded. “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

It started with a toothbrush.

Romano noticed it two mornings later—blue, cheap, crooked in his cup next to his own. He stood staring at it for a full minute, foam on his tongue, the hum of the bathroom fan droning overhead.

He didn’t touch it.

Didn’t move it.

Didn’t throw it out.

By the end of the week, Alfred’s hoodie was draped over the back of the kitchen chair like it belonged there. His socks had made it into Romano’s laundry basket. His shampoo had migrated into the shower caddy—too strong, too citrusy, definitely not his, but Romano didn’t toss it.

He didn’t comment either.

Not when Alfred took over the left side of the closet. Not when his phone charger ended up plugged in beside Romano’s bed. Not even when Alfred came home after a late shift, dropped his keys into the dish by the door, and said "I'm gonna shower first, okay?" like it was just what he did now.

Like this was home.

Romano should’ve said something.

Should’ve drawn a line. Made it clear that this was temporary. That it had started as an accident and still had an end date, someday. That people didn’t just move in without being asked.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he rearranged the kitchen cabinet so Alfred’s stupid peanut butter had a place.

He picked up a second bottle of conditioner at the store, muttering to himself the whole time.

He found himself pouring two cups of coffee out of habit.

And when he caught Alfred humming off-key in the kitchen while washing dishes in his pajamas—Romano’s old shirt slung loose on his shoulders, sleeves rolled up—he just watched.

Just listened.

And felt something shift.

Something stupid.

Something real.

That night, Romano came out of the bathroom to find Alfred curled sideways on the couch, his own hoodie stretched tight across his chest, flipping lazily through channels like he’d always been there.

“Hey,” Alfred said, without looking away from the screen. “You wanna move the record player closer to the kitchen? I think it skips on the counter.”

Romano crossed his arms. “You're reorganizing my apartment now?”

Alfred finally glanced up. “Just making it more efficient.”

Romano stared at him.

And then said, “You left your towel on the floor again.”

“Oops,” Alfred said, grinning. “Roommate problems?”

“Keep calling yourself that and I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

“But you won’t.”

Romano didn’t respond.

Instead, he walked over, dropped onto the couch beside him, and let their knees brush.

“Put something good on,” he muttered. “Not whatever crap you were watching.”

Alfred handed him the remote, leaning into the cushions like he’d done it a thousand times before.

And maybe—

Maybe he would.

Maybe he'd keep doing this.

Romano didn’t tell him to go.

And Alfred didn’t ask to stay.

But they both knew.

He already had.

Chapter Text

Romano hadn’t realized how noisy Alfred was until he was gone.

Not gone-gone. Just late shift. But the apartment felt different without him. Too still. Too clean. No music humming from the record player, no uneven thumps of socks across the kitchen tile, no muttering from the bathroom as he fought with the faulty faucet Romano still hadn’t fixed.

Just quiet.

Romano stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at a pot of pasta that was only half finished. He didn’t know why he’d started cooking for two again. Stupid habit.

He muttered under his breath and turned the burner off.

The silence echoed.

He grabbed his phone, checked it, frowned. No new messages. Nothing since heading in now.

Romano scrolled up through the thread anyway. Saw the other messages from earlier in the week. One-word check-ins. Pictures of crooked desserts. A blurry selfie of Alfred holding up two bottles of wine, captioned: red or white, husband’s choice.

Romano locked the phone and set it down too hard on the counter.

He wasn’t lonely.

He just—

He liked it better when Alfred was here.

He liked the chatter. The mess. The way he always acted like the apartment was theirs even when Romano hadn’t said a damn thing.

He missed the smell of his shampoo in the hallway and the way his laughter made the windows feel wider somehow.

Romano grumbled, grabbed a dishrag, and started wiping the counter even though it didn’t need it.

He paused when he reached the mug rack.

There were three now.

His. Alfred’s. And the ugly souvenir one Alfred brought home from a gas station— VIVA LAS VEGAS in faded pink glitter.

Romano stared at it.

Then reached up and moved it forward.

To the front of the row.

Stupid.

Small.

But something.

The door creaked an hour later.

Romano didn’t look up, but he didn’t need to.

Alfred’s voice floated in, soft and tired. “Smells amazing in here.”

Romano kept wiping. “You’re late.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Sorry.”

Romano heard him toe off his boots, hang up his hoodie, shuffle toward the kitchen.

Then Alfred was there.

Warm. Real. Still grinning a little even though he looked half-dead.

Romano turned slowly.

“Didn’t burn anything,” he said gruffly. “But the pasta’s cold.”

Alfred stepped closer. “That’s okay.”

Romano didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because he could feel it now—the way the place filled up around him again, the way it felt right with Alfred in it.

And even though he said nothing, even though his mouth stayed stubborn and flat—he reached for a second plate.

Without being asked.

Chapter Text

The sheets were still warm from the dryer.

Romano didn’t plan it that way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But Alfred had been gone all day, and the bed had been a mess, and maybe—maybe he’d wanted it to feel a little like an invitation.

Alfred came out of the shower with a towel slung around his neck, curls still dripping onto his collarbone. The hallway light caught the faint bruises under his eyes from a long shift, the pink flush still blooming across his shoulders.

Romano watched from where he sat on the bed, one knee tucked under him.

Alfred caught his eye.

Paused.

“You okay?”

Romano didn’t answer. He just reached out—slow, deliberate—and hooked his fingers into the edge of Alfred’s shirt. Tugged.

Alfred blinked.

“Come to bed,” Romano said. Quiet. Firm.

Alfred didn’t need to be told twice.

He crossed the room in two steps, dropped the towel somewhere on the floor, and slipped beneath the covers like it was habit. He didn’t ask what this was. Didn’t joke. Didn’t smile too wide.

He just came home.

Romano turned off the lamp.

The darkness settled between them—soft, not sharp. The kind that felt safe, not hidden.

When Alfred reached out under the covers, Romano didn’t flinch. He let their hands meet, let their fingers tangle. Let the quiet stretch long enough for a kiss to find its way across the space between them.

It started soft.

Familiar.

Like something they’d done a dozen times already.

But then Romano leaned in.

And didn’t stop.

The sheets shifted. The mattress creaked. And Alfred’s breath hitched in the dark.

Romano pressed closer, mouth trailing the edge of his jaw, his neck, the soft place where his shoulder met his collarbone. Alfred whispered his name—just once, just breathless—and it echoed louder than it should have.

Romano pulled him close.

Not rough. Not out of need.

Just to feel him there.

They moved slow. Unrushed. Like they had all night. Like neither of them wanted to be anywhere else.

And when it was over—when the heat had faded to breath and heartbeat and the kind of stillness that only comes when two people have nothing left to prove—Romano let his head rest on Alfred’s chest.

“Don’t read into it,” he muttered.

Alfred’s fingers slid through his hair, soft. “Not unless you want me to.”

Romano didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away.

Not even a little.

Chapter Text

The sky was still dark when Romano woke.

Not fully black, but that soft, deep navy that comes just before morning—when the world holds its breath, waiting for the light. The curtains shifted slightly with the breeze from the cracked window. A bird chirped once, then went quiet again.

He didn’t know what time it was.

Didn’t care.

The room was cool, the sheets tangled, and Alfred was still asleep beside him—sprawled like he owned the entire bed, arm flung over Romano’s waist, mouth parted slightly, exhaling warm breath against his shoulder.

Romano didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

He just lay there, eyes open, heart stupidly slow in his chest. Listening.

To the quiet. To Alfred’s breathing. To the faint rustle of the city outside.

He’d never liked sharing his space.

But now, the absence of sound that wasn’t this —this rhythm, this heat, this stupid snore half-lodged in Alfred’s throat—felt wrong.

Romano glanced down at their hands.

Alfred’s was splayed against his stomach, fingers curled. Romano’s hand drifted toward his own without thinking.

The ring caught in the light.

Still there.

Still his.

He traced the edge of Alfred’s knuckle with the tip of his thumb. Barely a touch. Barely a breath. Alfred shifted in his sleep but didn’t wake. Just curled a little closer.

Romano exhaled slowly.

He could’ve said it.

Now. Here. While the world was silent and no one else could hear it.

He could’ve whispered it against Alfred’s skin. Could’ve mouthed the words along the hollow of his throat. Could’ve let it fall, soft and careless:

I think I love you.

He didn’t.

But the words sat behind his teeth, full and warm, and maybe that was enough for now.

Alfred stirred again, mumbling something unintelligible, his arm tightening.

Romano let his eyes drift shut.

And smiled. Just a little.

Because morning was coming.

And Alfred was still here.

And Romano— God help him —wanted him to stay.

Chapter Text

Romano woke for the second time to the smell of toast.

It took a moment to register—why the kitchen was full of light, why his sheets were warm but empty. The apartment was already humming with motion, soft and familiar, like it had decided to live without him for a few minutes.

He blinked against the sunlight, shoved the covers off, and padded out barefoot.

Alfred stood at the stove.

Not doing anything complicated—just flipping slices of toast in a skillet with too much butter and humming something off-key under his breath. His hair was damp, curled at the edges from a quick shower, and he was still shirtless beneath one of Romano’s old button-downs, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar askew.

The air smelled like cinnamon and coffee and something so stupidly domestic it made Romano’s chest clench.

Alfred didn’t turn when Romano came in. Just said, like he did this every morning, “Don’t get excited, it’s just toast.”

Romano crossed his arms. “You’re using the good pan.”

“I’ll wash it after. Promise.”

“You better.”

Alfred looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Morning, sunshine.”

Romano scowled. “It’s noon.”

“Then good afternoon, husband .”

Romano made a strangled sound and reached for the coffee instead of dignifying that with a response.

Two mugs were already set out. The one with VIVA LAS VEGAS in faded pink glitter. The other with a chip in the rim—Romano’s favorite, the one he never let anyone else touch.

But Alfred had poured the coffee already.

Into the chipped one.

Romano stared at it for a second too long.

Alfred didn’t notice. He was focused on the toast now, setting it on a plate, dusting it with powdered sugar like he was presenting it to a judge on a baking show.

He turned and handed it over. “It’s not your sauce, but it’s made with love.”

Romano raised an eyebrow. “You used half a stick of butter.”

“And all of my heart.”

Romano rolled his eyes—but sat down anyway.

Alfred joined him at the table a moment later, sliding into the chair across from him, already reaching for his own fork.

They ate in comfortable quiet. The kind Romano was finally learning to appreciate.

Not awkward. Not tense.

Just quiet —the kind that meant something was settled.

Romano watched Alfred through the steam rising from their coffee mugs.

The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The little scrape of his fork against the plate. The way his legs brushed Romano’s under the table, casual, steady, not going anywhere.

He thought about the letter on the counter.

Still unopened.

Still unspoken.

They hadn’t talked about it again.

Not properly.

But this— this —wasn’t something you kept in limbo.

Romano set his fork down. “We should tell Feliciano.”

Alfred blinked. “Tell him what?”

“That we’re not ending it.”

Alfred stared at him for a beat too long. “You sure?”

Romano picked up his coffee, sipped it. “I let you touch my pan and drink from my cup. That’s practically a vow renewal.”

Alfred laughed, loud and bright and far too pleased with himself.

Romano didn’t tell him to shut up.

Didn’t glare.

Just drank his coffee, let their knees knock together again under the table, and felt something uncoil in his chest.

He’d spent so long expecting things to end.

Expecting the good to break.

But Alfred was still here.

And Romano?

He was holding on.

With both hands.

Chapter Text

Alfred had never been good at playing slow.

He liked the rush. The risk. The feel of a deck between his fingers and the possibility of everything changing with one card. That was how he moved through most of his life—quick hands, fast talk, all in or not at all.

But this morning was slow.

And he liked it more than he should’ve.

Romano sat across from him, shirt still rumpled, hair sticking up in every direction, glaring at his toast like it had offended him. But he was here. Still here. Coffee cooling beside him. Fork tapping lightly against the plate like background noise.

He hadn’t kicked Alfred out.

Hadn’t told him this was over.

Hadn’t said the ring needed to come off.

Instead, he’d said, We should tell Feliciano.

That they weren’t ending it.

And Alfred had felt something inside him loosen, unravel—like a breath he’d been holding since that hotel room, finally exhaled.

He hadn’t been sure. Not really. Not with Romano, who hid every good feeling like it was some national secret. But he’d stayed anyway. Let himself hope. Let himself want.

Now he was here. In a tiny apartment that smelled like espresso and lemon cleaner. In a wrinkled shirt that wasn’t his. Drinking coffee from a chipped mug with his knees brushing his husband’s under the table.

His husband.

It still sounded ridiculous in his head.

But it also sounded right.

Romano looked up then, like he could hear the thoughts buzzing.

“What.”

Alfred smiled. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Fine,” he said, tapping his fork lightly against his plate. “I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Do you think we’d have done this sober?”

Romano narrowed his eyes. “The toast?”

“The marriage, smartass.”

Romano didn’t answer right away.

He chewed slowly. Swallowed. Set his fork down and wiped his mouth like they were at a formal dinner.

Then: “Probably not.”

Alfred blinked.

Romano met his gaze. “But that doesn’t mean I regret it.”

Alfred felt it, low in his chest. Like the way his name sounded in Romano’s voice. Like the weight of his hand on Alfred’s lower back when he thought no one was looking.

Slow.

But solid.

Something to hold.

Alfred reached across the table and tugged gently on Romano’s sleeve. Not demanding. Not dramatic.

Just a touch.

“Okay,” he said, voice softer than usual. “Then let’s not fold.”

Romano raised an eyebrow. “What, are we playing poker now?”

Alfred smiled. “Thought we always were.”

Romano snorted—but he didn’t pull away.

And Alfred knew, then, that this wasn’t just luck.

It was choice.

His.

Romano’s.

Theirs.

And he was all in.

Chapter Text

Alfred had never really cooked much of anything more complicated than boxed mac and cheese.

But for Romano, he was willing to risk it all—including Romano’s judgment, which would be swift and merciless if he so much as burned the garlic.

So he watched the tutorials. Googled “how not to overcook pasta.” Bought actual ingredients instead of frozen garbage. And when Romano texted that he’d be at the restaurant late for prep, Alfred decided it was now or never.

He cleaned the apartment.

He lit a candle. Just one. Not romantic. (Okay, a little romantic. But not too much.)

He even set out two real plates—the kind Romano usually barked at him for using on “casual nights”—and laid out silverware like a grown-up.

The sauce simmered.

The pasta boiled.

The bread got slightly too brown, but he pretended it was intentional.

And then he waited.

Romano came home tired. Hair mussed, smelling like flour and basil and the heat of the kitchen. His keys clinked into the bowl by the door. His shoulders rolled with the ache of a long shift.

He paused in the doorway.

Alfred stood by the table, trying not to fidget. “Surprise?”

Romano blinked.

Looked at the table. The food. The candle.

The wine bottle sweating lightly on the counter.

Then at Alfred.

“What did you do.”

Alfred held up both hands. “No fire. No broken dishes. And I only called your brother once to ask if you liked pecorino.”

Romano stepped forward slowly, sniffed the air. “It’s... edible?”

Alfred huffed. “ Rude. ”

Romano reached for a fork and took a bite.

And blinked.

Alfred held his breath.

Romano chewed. Swallowed. Then looked up and said, voice flat:

“It’s actually good.”

Alfred sagged into the nearest chair. “Jesus. I was ready for a funeral.”

Romano didn’t sit yet.

Instead, he rounded the table, stopping at Alfred’s side.

Alfred looked up. “What?”

Romano studied him for a long, quiet moment.

Then—without saying anything—he leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. Or sharp. Or teasing.

It was careful.

Intentional.

Alfred blinked when it ended.

Romano stepped back. “You made dinner.”

Alfred nodded. “Yeah.”

“You don’t make dinner.”

Alfred shrugged. “Trying something new.”

Romano looked at the candle. The table. The nervous set of Alfred’s shoulders.

Then, softer: “For me?”

Alfred nodded again. “Always.”

Romano sat.

And smiled.

Just once.

And Alfred knew—knew with certainty —that the long game was worth it.

Because Romano was already choosing him.

Again and again.

Even without the words.

Chapter Text

Romano couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t the usual reasons.

The room wasn’t too hot. There weren’t any sirens. Alfred wasn’t snoring like a chainsaw (yet). The sheets were clean, the pillows soft, the wine still buzzing faintly in his blood.

No, it wasn’t that.

It was the way his chest felt too tight.

Like there was something lodged beneath his ribs, pressing up against his sternum every time he looked toward the man passed out beside him.

Alfred was curled under the blanket, one arm folded under his head, the other stretched toward Romano’s side of the bed, even in sleep. His mouth was slack. His hair was a mess. He looked so stupid.

And so goddamn loved.

Romano lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell this had happened.

He’d made jokes about it at first.

Vegas. Rings. Marriage. Accident.

But this wasn’t an accident anymore.

Not when Alfred came home every night.

Not when Romano cooked two servings without thinking.

Not when he looked across the kitchen and saw someone he actually wanted to see there again the next day.

Romano turned onto his side, facing him.

The ring on Alfred’s finger caught a sliver of light from the streetlamp outside.

He remembered that first morning—the panic, the shouting, the slam of the door when he’d walked out and left Alfred behind in the hotel like a ghost.

And now?

Now he’d kissed him in the middle of the kitchen for making pasta.

He wanted to kick himself.

And also maybe— maybe —never let him go.

Romano shifted closer. Reached for Alfred’s outstretched hand under the blanket. Let their fingers link loosely, thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles.

He could say it.

Now. Here. While Alfred was asleep and the world wasn’t listening.

He could whisper it like a confession.

I want you to stay.

I want this to be real.

I love you.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

Instead, he held his hand.

Stayed close.

And promised himself—quietly, fiercely, under his breath—

That if this was love...

He wasn’t letting it go.

Chapter Text

Romano woke first.

Not by much. Just a few minutes. The light was still dim, filtering soft and gray through the curtains. Outside, the street hadn’t woken up yet—no clatter of bikes, no arguments from the bakery down the block, no distant horns.

It was quiet.

And warm.

Alfred was pressed up against his back, one arm slung lazily over Romano’s waist like it belonged there. Which—it kind of did now, didn’t it?

Romano didn’t move.

He stared at the far wall, blinking slowly, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of Alfred’s breathing.

Last night still clung to him—heavy and strange in the best way. Dinner. The candle. That soft kiss, barely a whisper against his lips before they ate. And the way Alfred had looked at him like—

Like it wasn’t a mistake.

Like it never had been.

Romano shifted slightly, just enough to glance down at Alfred’s hand resting on his stomach.

The ring glinted.

He still wore it. Every day. Never fidgeted with it. Never took it off.

Romano hadn’t, either.

He’d told himself it was because he hadn’t figured out how to file the paperwork. Because it was easier than explaining the tan line on his finger. Because taking it off would be admitting something too big to swallow.

But now—

He ran his thumb over the band.

And didn’t let go.

Alfred stirred behind him, groaning softly as he blinked awake. “Mmmnh. What time is it?”

“Too early.”

“Then why’re you awake?”

Romano didn’t answer.

Alfred nestled closer, burying his face into Romano’s shoulder, voice still thick with sleep. “You thinking again?”

“Shut up.”

“Am I wrong?”

Romano sighed. “You always talk this much when you first open your eyes?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Romano stared at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

Alfred yawned, then mumbled against his skin, “Want me to make coffee?”

Romano hesitated.

Then said, quietly, “No. Stay.”

Alfred stilled.

Romano could feel it—how suddenly he wasn’t breathing quite as easy. How he was waiting.

Romano swallowed.

And finally, after too many days of dancing around it, after too many unspoken things passed between them like cards never turned face up, he said—

“This isn’t nothing.”

Alfred shifted. Slowly. His arm pulled tighter.

“What?” he asked, soft.

Romano turned then, just enough to face him. Their legs tangled under the covers. Their faces inches apart.

“This thing,” Romano said. “You. Me. It’s not nothing.”

Alfred’s eyes searched his face.

“I know,” he said.

Romano’s fingers tightened around his. “I’m not good at this. I’ve screwed up better things than this before.”

“I haven’t,” Alfred said. “Because I’ve never had anything better than this.”

Romano felt it like a punch.

He looked down. At the hand still curled in his. At the warmth pressed against his side.

Then he leaned forward and kissed him.

Not quick. Not flippant.

Not like the first few times—defensive, instinctual, a way to shut him up.

This one was deliberate.

Romano’s hand slid to Alfred’s jaw, fingers curling against the soft stubble he hadn’t shaved. He kissed him slowly. Like an answer. Like a beginning.

When they parted, Alfred was quiet.

Romano didn’t let him speak yet.

“I don’t know what this is,” he murmured. “But I want it. Okay? I want you. ”

Alfred was quiet for a beat too long.

Then he smiled. Small. Real. Like something inside him had stopped bracing for disappointment.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Romano lay back down, pulling Alfred with him.

They stayed like that.

No labels.

No speeches.

Just a shared silence that didn’t need to prove anything.

And Romano, for the first time, didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to fall apart.

Because maybe, just maybe—

They were already building something that would last.

Chapter Text

The sink was full of steam and soap and too many dishes for a place that only fed two people.

Romano hated messes.

Or—he used to.

Now, with sleeves rolled up, one hand in suds and the other lazily rinsing a skillet, he didn’t mind it so much. Not with Alfred leaning against the counter beside him, eating a piece of toast like it was an appetizer to a feast.

“I could help, you know,” Alfred said around a mouthful.

Romano glanced sideways at him. “Could you?”

“I’m excellent at drying.”

“You’d miss half the water spots.”

Alfred grinned, toast hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette. “You’re starting to sound like a husband.”

“I’m starting to sound like someone who doesn’t want to redo the same damn dish twice.”

Alfred finished his toast and picked up a dishtowel anyway, starting to dry a plate with exaggerated care. “Tell me I’m doing it wrong. I dare you.”

Romano didn’t take the bait.

Didn’t even look at him. But he didn’t hide the corner of his mouth quirking up either.

They moved around each other like they’d been doing it for years.

Romano passed him utensils. Alfred stacked them into a towel. They brushed elbows, hips, shoulders. Romano didn’t snap. Alfred didn’t flinch. The apartment was filled with the quiet clatter of silverware and the soft background hum of the radio, playing something old and scratchy from the windowsill speaker.

When the last dish was set aside, Romano wiped his hands and leaned back against the counter. Alfred was watching him.

Not expectant. Not smug.

Just... watching.

Romano looked away.

“Errands?” Alfred asked, casual.

Romano shrugged. “Need olive oil. More basil. We’re out of decent pasta.”

Alfred tilted his head. “We?”

Romano opened a cabinet and made a pointed sound. “You’ve been eating enough for two.”

“You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“Liar.”

Romano shut the cabinet with more force than necessary. “Let’s go.”

They walked side by side, past neighbors who had started nodding at them both, past the bakery with the lopsided lemon tart in the window, down to the open-air market where the vendor Romano liked had already put aside a bushel of tomatoes “for the good-looking one.”

They took their time.

Talked about nothing. Bantered over cheese. Alfred bought a bag of lemon drops and passed one to Romano without asking. Romano took it. Didn’t say thank you.

Back at the apartment, Alfred tossed his keys into the bowl like they were his keys. Romano noticed, and didn’t say a word.

They shelved groceries together, putting things where they didn’t always belong. Romano made small annoyed sounds when Alfred rearranged the spice cabinet. Alfred kissed the back of his neck in apology.

Romano pretended to be annoyed for a few more minutes, but the warmth didn’t leave his ears.

By afternoon, Alfred had taken over half the couch, arms spread, socks mismatched. Romano sat on the floor, back to the couch, sipping wine straight from the bottle.

“You know,” Alfred said eventually, “this feels kinda like real life.”

Romano raised an eyebrow. “What did it feel like before?”

Alfred shrugged. “A story that stays on the strip. The whole, ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’, you know?”

Romano huffed out a laugh.

Not a big one. Not loud. But real.

Alfred reached down and rested a hand on Romano’s shoulder.

Romano didn’t look up.

But he leaned into the touch.

And when the sun dipped lower in the sky and the room softened around them, he knew—without needing to say it—that somehow, impossibly, Alfred had already carved himself into this life.

And Romano?

Romano had let him.

Chapter Text

Romano was asleep on top of him.

Dead asleep, by the feel of it. Breath slow and even. One arm curled between them, the other draped across Alfred’s chest. His whole body was heavy with the kind of comfort Alfred hadn’t realized Romano was capable of.

He hadn’t said anything before dozing off—no warning, no grumble, no “don’t get used to this.”

He’d just... gone still.

And Alfred hadn’t moved.

Not when his leg settled between Alfred’s thighs. Not when his cheek pressed against Alfred’s shoulder. Not even when the credits rolled and The Godfather ended in a long, quiet swell of strings.

The apartment had dimmed with the last of the light. The air was warm and still.

Then the door opened.

Soft. Barely a click.

Alfred didn’t react at first—just blinked, slow, his hand still tracing lazy circles on Romano’s back.

But then he saw movement in his periphery. A silhouette in the doorway. The edge of a bag. A bottle. A tuft of familiar brown curls.

Feliciano.

Alfred stilled.

The younger man stepped just inside, wide-eyed, cradling two bottles of wine and what looked like a bakery box against his chest. His mouth was halfway to a greeting—but it never made it out.

Because he saw them.

Saw Romano —fast asleep, one leg slotted between Alfred’s, his fingers twisted into the fabric of Alfred’s shirt.

And saw Alfred —not trying to explain, not untangling himself, just... there. One arm wrapped around the man in his lap. Holding him like it was something he'd always done.

Feliciano’s eyes widened.

And then—

He smiled.

Not his usual playful grin.

Something softer. Something that felt earned.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t wave.

Didn’t take a photo for Instagram, which—under any other circumstances—would’ve been his first instinct.

He simply backed out of the apartment.

Slow.

Silent.

The door clicked shut again.

Alfred let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Romano shifted slightly in his sleep, brow twitching faintly, but didn’t wake.

Alfred looked down at him.

At the way he fit there.

At the ring on his hand.

And he thought, maybe for the first time without panic:

We’re really doing this.

Chapter Text

Romano woke to the sound of the front door opening.

It was subtle—just the soft click of a key in the lock, followed by the quiet scrape of hinges as someone stepped inside.

He blinked blearily, still warm, still half-draped over Alfred. Alfred, who hadn’t moved, just hummed low in his chest and tucked his chin down slightly to keep Romano tucked in.

Then came the voice.

“ Fratellooooo! I brought pastries and a little something for your eyes to look at while I talk about your wedding! ”

Romano bolted upright. “ No. ”

Too late.

Feliciano stood just inside the living room, arms full of croissants, coffee, and what appeared to be a manila folder stuffed with pastel color swatches. He looked delighted. Radiant, even. Like the smug bastard knew exactly what he was walking in on.

Alfred blinked slowly, still lying there, blinking up at Romano from where he’d just been cradling him like a body pillow. “Wait—what time is it?”

“It’s time to discuss seating arrangements! ” Feliciano beamed. “I figured you'd both be awake by now, but this is even better! ”

Romano was on his feet in a heartbeat, pulling the blanket with him. “How do you keep doing this?!”

Feliciano shrugged as he strolled in. “I have a key! I’m family! You never let anyone else have the spare, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean you can use it whenever you want. ”

Feliciano set the pastries on the kitchen counter and fished out a folder. “Well, I could’ve knocked. But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you asleep on Alfred’s chest like a little sleepy pasta roll.”

Alfred gave him a thumbs-up from the couch, still horizontal. “It was cute.”

Romano turned to him like he’d been personally betrayed. “You’re not helping.”

“I could lie and say it wasn’t nice?”

“You could,” Feliciano chimed in, “but it’d be wrong. I saw the look on your face, Alfred. It was the kind of look that says ‘I want to keep this forever.’ ”

Alfred flushed slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Romano stared between them like he was watching a train derail in slow motion. “We are not having a wedding.”

Feliciano ignored him completely. “Anyway, I thought soft green and silver might complement the season. We don’t want to go too formal, of course. But something elegant—”

“I’m going to jump out the window.”

“I’ll bring cushions!”

Romano groaned, grabbing one of the coffees off the tray. He took a long sip, closed his eyes, and muttered, “Alfred. Stop him.”

But Alfred just smiled. Sleep-tousled, warm, still sitting there like he’d already imagined the damn thing and hadn’t hated what he saw.

“I mean,” he said slowly, “maybe we don’t have to go full wedding…”

Romano stared at him.

And something in his chest—stupid, tender, traitorous—fluttered.

“ Ugh. ”

Feliciano smiled wider.

Because he knew.

And Romano didn’t even bother kicking him out.

Chapter Text

The apartment was still buzzing from Feliciano’s whirlwind visit.

He’d left twenty minutes ago, trailing pastry crumbs and hopeful sighs behind him. The folder full of linen samples was tucked beneath the couch—Romano had threatened to burn it, but hadn’t followed through.

Now the silence felt louder than it should have.

Romano was moving around the kitchen with his usual sharp efficiency, sleeves pushed up, hair still a little messy from sleep. He grumbled under his breath as he sorted through the fridge, muttering about “wedding madness” and “idiot brothers with too much time and no boundaries.”

But he hadn’t kicked Alfred out.

He hadn’t said no to coffee together.

He hadn’t said no to staying.

Alfred leaned against the doorframe, hands around his mug, and watched him.

There were a thousand things he could’ve said.

We don’t have to get married again.

You looked comfortable last night.

Do you want this too?

But he didn’t ask.

Didn’t press.

Because the truth had already been there—in the weight of Romano on his chest, in the soft, unconscious way he curled into him like it meant something. In the quiet panic he hadn’t shown when Feliciano burst through the door, only the kind you feel when you’re caught wanting something you’re not ready to name.

And now, with the morning sun pouring in over the kitchen table and Romano swearing at the milk carton, Alfred knew.

He wanted this.

Not just the closeness.

Not just the touches and the food and the sleepy mornings.

He wanted Romano.

The version that swore too much. Who cooked like it was war and glared like it was armor. Who didn’t trust easily, but let Alfred stay anyway. Who wore that stupid ring without ever mentioning it, like maybe he’d forgotten it was there—or maybe he hadn’t.

Alfred shifted his weight, gripping the mug tighter.

He’d gone all in on plenty of things in his life. Some reckless. Some brilliant. Some stupid.

But this?

This was different.

Romano didn’t feel like a bet.

He felt like home.

Romano turned then, catching him watching, and narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Alfred smiled softly. “Nothing.”

Romano didn’t believe him. He squinted, pointing a spoon. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that means you’re about to do something idiotic and heartfelt.”

Alfred laughed, set down his coffee, and walked into the kitchen.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a speech.

Just stepped in close and reached for Romano’s hand.

Their fingers laced together naturally.

Romano looked at their hands, then up at him. “What’re you doing?”

Alfred leaned in, kissed his cheek, and said, quiet and certain, “Just making sure you’re still real.”

Romano didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

He let their hands stay linked, turning back to the stove like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And Alfred, for the first time, felt like maybe this wasn’t a temporary win.

Maybe it was everything .

Chapter Text

Romano could still feel it.

Alfred’s hand, warm and stupidly big, curled around his like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like they did this all the time.

Like it meant something.

He hadn’t said anything dramatic. Hadn’t looked at Romano with wide, pleading eyes or done something obnoxiously American like drop to one knee.

He’d just… taken his hand.

Kissed his cheek.

Said, “Just making sure you’re still real.”

And hadn’t let go.

Romano stirred the pot on the stove with a little too much force, the spoon clattering against the edge.

Alfred didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Just stood there, still close enough that Romano could feel the heat of him at his back.

The apartment smelled like coffee and lemon and clean laundry. Somewhere in the background, the old radio crackled with some Sinatra tune Feliciano had set to repeat in a moment of “romantic ambiance.”

It should’ve been irritating.

It was irritating.

But not enough to make Romano leave the room.

Not enough to pull his hand away.

Alfred hadn’t said a word since. Just stood there, holding onto him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like Romano wasn’t quietly unraveling from the inside out.

Romano exhaled through his nose and tried not to think about the fact that his thumb was moving. Brushing slow over the inside of Alfred’s wrist. Back and forth. Soft. Familiar.

When had he started doing that?

When had it stopped feeling weird?

When had it started feeling like something he might miss?

“You’re thinking too loud again,” Alfred said quietly behind him.

Romano scowled. “Shut up.”

“I can hear it from here.”

“Then back up.”

Alfred didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward and rested his chin on Romano’s shoulder, their hands still joined between them. “You ever think maybe it’s okay to like this?”

Romano didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because the truth was, he did like it.

More than liked it.

He liked the quiet.

He liked the way Alfred looked at him—like he was worth something. Not just as a cook, or a name, or a leftover from a family that never quite made it. But as a person. As a choice.

He liked the way Alfred said “we” without stumbling.

He liked the way Alfred still wore the ring.

He liked the way Alfred didn’t push, didn’t ask, didn’t need him to be anything but what he was.

Romano closed his eyes for a second, just one. Just enough to let it in.

Then he whispered, low, almost too quiet to hear: “I don’t want to lose it.”

Alfred’s hand tightened.

“You won’t.”

Romano turned the stove off.

Dinner could wait.

He turned to Alfred slowly, hand still in his, not bothering to pull away. “If you ask me anything serious right now,” he warned, “I will kill you.”

Alfred grinned. “That’s fair.”

Romano paused.

Then, grudgingly: “But if you ever did, I’d probably say yes.”

Alfred’s grin softened.

It turned into something quieter. Something real.

Romano rolled his eyes and shoved him lightly with his shoulder. “God, you’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” Romano said, barely audible.

“Yeah, I do.”

Chapter Text

The kitchen was quiet after Alfred left that evening. The restaurant had remained closed for the day while the walls were repainted, giving the two time in the evening to have a normal dinner together.

Romano cleaned up like usual. Wiped down the counters. Dried the pans. Put away the leftovers that were probably only going to be eaten by Alfred anyway.

Then he stood there, alone in the dim light, towel over his shoulder, staring at the two mismatched mugs still sitting on the table.

One was his.

One was Alfred’s.

They’d both been left half-full.

Romano grabbed his phone.

You off at eleven?

A minute later, Alfred replied:

If I don’t kill a guy trying to double down on six, yeah.

Romano smirked. Meet me downtown. You pick the spot.

——

It was just past eleven thirty when they met up.

The air was warm, heavy with the smell of the city—the faint bite of gasoline, faint sweetness from a nearby bakery closing up late, and the salt of sweat that clung to everything after a long day.

Romano found Alfred waiting outside a low-lit bar wedged between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor. The kind of place that looked like it hadn’t changed since the 80s. Alfred raised a hand when he saw him, his smile tired but real.

“You made it.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You hate going out.”

“I hate people. There’s a difference.”

Alfred chuckled, opened the door, and led them inside.

It wasn’t crowded. Just a few regulars hunched over beers and one woman playing something mournful on the jukebox. The lights were dim. The booths were scarred with names and initials and love that had probably lasted less than a night.

They slid into one near the back. Alfred ordered a whiskey soda. Romano just asked for something bitter.

It was quiet.

No pressure.

No declarations.

Just space. And warmth. And a man who looked at him like he was lucky to be here.

Romano sipped his drink and studied Alfred under the amber light.

“You ever come here before?” he asked.

Alfred nodded. “Couple times. After shifts. The bartender’s cool. Doesn’t card me even when I forget my wallet.”

Romano raised a brow. “You would forget your wallet.”

“I got distracted.”

Romano didn’t ask by what. He already knew.

They talked.

Not about anything important.

Just... talked.

Movies. Casino stories. What Romano’s grandfather used to do on slow nights at the restaurant. How Feliciano once tripped and spilled red wine all over a wedding dress display at a boutique in Henderson.

It wasn’t what Romano expected.

It was better.

Somewhere between the second drink and the third time Alfred rested his chin in his hand to look at him—really look at him—Romano realized he hadn’t checked his phone once.

He didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Alfred tapped the rim of his glass. “You know... this is kind of our first date.”

Romano rolled his eyes. “Our first date was in a casino, and you were dressed like a game show host.”

“That was our accidental wedding. Not a date.”

Romano huffed. “Fine. Then this is our first date after the paperwork. ”

Alfred grinned. “You like it?”

Romano looked around.

Low light. Easy silence. Warm buzz in his chest that had nothing to do with the drink.

He looked back at Alfred.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I do.”

Chapter Text

The air outside was still warm, thick with summer and neon, the sidewalk sweating under their feet.

Romano didn’t complain about the heat.

Didn’t say much at all, actually.

He just walked beside Alfred, hands in his pockets, the leftover warmth from the bar still curled around his ribs. His head buzzed—more from the way Alfred had looked at him across the table than from the drinks.

They didn’t talk much on the way back.

Not in the way that mattered.

But Alfred stayed close.

Their shoulders bumped once, twice. Romano didn’t step away.

The strip lights flickered in the distance, but here, downtown, things were quieter. Only the echo of traffic. A few people laughing across the street. The glow of the corner market still lit like a beacon.

Romano stopped beside an old lamppost near the edge of a parking lot. The glow from the bulb overhead buzzed faintly, washing them both in soft yellow.

Alfred stopped too.

Romano looked up at him, mouth dry, every muscle in his body quietly braced like he wasn’t sure what would happen next.

But Alfred didn’t rush.

He didn’t lunge.

He just smiled, gentle and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

Romano’s heart thumped once.

Then again.

“You don’t have to,” Alfred said quietly, eyes searching his.

Romano’s hands curled in his pockets. “I know.”

They stood like that for a second too long.

Then Romano took one small step closer.

His hands came free.

He reached up, cupped Alfred’s face with both palms—rough and sure and uncharacteristically steady—and pulled him in.

The kiss wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t uncertain.

It was everything else.

Warm. Real. Intentional.

Not an accident. Not some drunken Vegas joke or a favor done out of politeness. It was a choice. And Romano made it with his whole body—tilting up, standing firm, giving in without pretending he wasn’t.

Alfred let out a breath into it, like something inside him finally exhaled.

His hands settled at Romano’s waist, thumbs tracing slow arcs along the edge of his belt.

Romano didn’t stop.

Didn’t shy away.

His mouth softened against Alfred’s. Opened. Asked for more.

They kissed like the city wasn’t there. Like the street was quiet. Like this was the part of the story that meant something.

When they finally pulled apart, Alfred rested his forehead against Romano’s.

“Still real?” he murmured.

Romano let his eyes fall closed. His hands were still on Alfred’s jaw.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Too real.”

They stayed like that for a moment longer.

Then Alfred brushed his lips against Romano’s again—just once, just lightly—and smiled.

“Come home with me?”

Romano didn’t hesitate.

“I already am.”

Chapter Text

Romano woke when the sun was already high in the sky.

Alfred’s arm was still draped across Romano’s bare back, warm and heavy, breath fanning slow against the nape of his neck. The sheet tangled around their legs felt like an afterthought—just enough to pretend they’d planned to sleep instead of—

Well.

Romano didn’t blush.

But he remembered.

The way Alfred had touched him like he was learning a language. The way Romano had let him. The way he hadn’t wanted it to stop.

He stretched slowly, muscles sore in a way that was not unpleasant.

The apartment was brighter than his—more windows, less clutter. The bedroom still had a faint scent of cologne and cheap dryer sheets, but it was lived-in. Soft around the edges.

Romano rolled out of bed carefully, found one of Alfred’s shirts on the floor, and shrugged it on. It was too big. It smelled like him. A pair of his sweatpants too.

He padded barefoot through the apartment and reached the front door just as someone knocked.

A sharp, decisive tap-tap-tap.

Romano narrowed his eyes.

Most people didn’t knock in Alfred’s life. They just showed up.

He cracked the door open.

And immediately regretted it.

Two men stood there.

One was blond, about Alfred’s height, glasses perched neatly on his nose, and an armful of a suitcase and takeout containers. His expression was mild—pleasant even—but his eyes sharpened when he saw Romano in nothing but an oversized shirt and a sleep-rough scowl.

The other man…

The other man had an expression like he’d bitten into something sour and refused to spit it out.

Sharp-featured. Brow arched. Arms crossed. Very British.

Romano stared.

The quiet one blinked. “Hi. Uh. I’m Matthew.”

Romano didn’t answer.

The British one cleared his throat. “Is Alfred here?”

Romano looked at them for a moment longer, then called over his shoulder:

“Al, your entire family is at the door.”

Alfred groaned from the bedroom. “Tell ‘em I died.”

Matthew chuckled. “We’ll wait.”

Romano stepped back with a grumble and left the door open just wide enough.

Alfred appeared a minute later, hair a disaster, shirt half-buttoned, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He paused when he saw the pair in the doorway.

“Oh. Crap.”

“Nice to see you too,” Matthew said, stepping inside. “I just got back this morning. Delayed flight out of Montréal.”

Alfred blinked. “That’s why you’ve been off the grid?”

“I wasn’t off the grid, I was just in a different time zone and didn’t want to deal with Francis spamming me wedding memes.”

Alfred froze. “Francis what ?”

The British one—Arthur, by the sound of it—scoffed. “Yes, well, some of us only just found out, thank you very much, despite being your oldest friend and having had the extreme misfortune of helping you move last year.”

Alfred winced. “Arthur—”

“You got married, Alfred. To a stranger.”

Romano bristled. “I’m right here.”

Arthur didn’t flinch. “And now I’m here , which I shouldn’t have to be, because if I’d been informed properly , I might have prevented this nonsense before it escalated into—”

“Whatever this is?” Romano snapped.

Arthur raised a brow. “Exactly.”

Alfred stepped between them, hands raised. “Okay, okay, let’s not fight.”

Matthew was already at the kitchen counter, unloading food. “I didn’t bring enough for four.”

“I’m not staying,” Arthur huffed.

“Yes, you are,” Matthew said calmly. “And you’re going to behave. ”

Arthur glared at him. “He’s been hiding this. ”

“I think he just didn’t want to explain it over text,” Matthew replied. “And judging by the ring, it’s not just nonsense.”

Arthur’s eyes darted to Alfred’s hand. Then Romano’s.

He stiffened.

And said nothing.

Romano crossed his arms. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Arthur studied him a moment longer. Then turned to Alfred.

“Are you happy?”

Alfred blinked.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

Arthur’s mouth twitched. Like he wanted to argue. Like he’d already started composing a speech in his head.

But instead he sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “Fine. But I’m still blaming Francis.”

Chapter Text

Romano had never liked crowded kitchens.

He preferred a clean space, sharp knives, and not having to sidestep people just to reach the sink. But somehow, Alfred’s tiny apartment kitchen was full of bodies and elbows and noise—and he didn’t hate it.

Matthew had unpacked the takeout. Arthur had stayed, despite his dramatic insistence that he wouldn't. Alfred kept trying to make everyone coffee, but the machine sputtered pitifully every time he pressed the button.

Romano ended up doing it himself.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped in, took over, and nudged Alfred aside with a look that meant you’ve been living like this?

Alfred grinned sheepishly and went to set the table.

They all found seats around the small breakfast bar—Matthew at the end with a newspaper folded under one arm, Alfred beside him, and Arthur across from Romano, still holding his coffee like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to drink.

Romano raised an eyebrow. “It’s fine. I made it.”

“I wasn’t implying it wasn’t,” Arthur muttered into the cup.

“You were thinking it.”

“It’s early.”

“It’s nearly noon,” Matthew added helpfully, chewing on a piece of toast.

Romano snorted. “Thank God at least one of you knows how to function.”

Alfred reached under the table and gave Romano’s knee a brief, secret squeeze.

Romano didn’t look at him.

But he didn’t pull away either.

The food wasn’t anything fancy—scrambled eggs, toast, the takeout bag Matthew had brought with some kind of weirdly good breakfast sandwich Romano begrudgingly finished in three bites.

And somehow, conversation just… happened.

Arthur asked about the restaurant. Romano told him, clipped but polite, and tried not to look like he cared when Arthur actually looked impressed. Matthew talked about his business trip. Alfred offered a story about a tourist who tried to tip him in poker chips. There were a few laughs. A few eye rolls.

No tension.

No arguments.

Just people talking.

Romano couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten in a group like this. Not rushed. Not staring at a counter while trying to balance invoices in his head.

And when he looked around—at Alfred mid-bite, at Matthew already reaching for a second cup of coffee, at Arthur with crumbs on his sleeve and a contemplative look on his face—it felt weirdly…

Nice.

Warm.

Real.

Alfred caught him looking and smiled.

Romano looked away.

“You know,” Arthur said, wiping his mouth, “Francis said this was going to be a disaster.”

Alfred only laughed. “We’re doing better than expected, huh?”

Arthur sniffed. “It’s not the worst impulsive decision you’ve ever made.”

“Is that approval?” Alfred grinned.

Arthur sipped his coffee. “It’s a miracle. Don’t push it.”

Matthew chuckled. “You two are ridiculous.”

Romano glanced at Alfred again. Caught that same quiet, content look in his eyes. Like he’d won something without realizing he was in the game.

And maybe… so had Romano.

Because this?

This wasn’t the aftermath of a mistake.

This was a life.

And somehow, without planning for it, Romano had ended up right in the center of it.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet again.

It always surprised Romano how fast the silence returned once everyone left. The echo of chairs scraping back. The last clink of dishes in the sink. The soft click of the door behind Arthur, who hadn’t said goodbye so much as grumbled it.

Now, Romano sat curled at one end of the couch, legs tucked under him, Alfred’s hoodie on and half-zipped. The sleeves hung past his hands.

Alfred stood barefoot in the kitchen, back to him, humming something under his breath as he rinsed out mugs.

Romano watched him.

And for the first time that day—maybe that week—he let himself just watch.

The slope of Alfred’s shoulders. The way his hair dried in uneven waves. The fact that he always cleaned with too much soap. That the counter was still wet and Romano would have to wipe it again later.

He didn’t mind.

Not anymore.

“You know,” Alfred said, not turning around, “we’ve been married for almost a month.”

Romano blinked. “What?”

Alfred turned then, grinning. “Yeah. Like… twenty-seven days, right?”

Romano narrowed his eyes. “You’re counting?”

“I’m not weird about it,” Alfred said, walking over with two fresh mugs and flopping down next to him. “I just—noticed. Feels longer.”

Romano took the mug wordlessly.

Then, after a beat: “It feels faster.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Romano shrugged. “Feels like we just met. And also like… we didn’t.”

He didn’t say it often—not in words—but something about the quiet way Alfred looked at him in that moment made Romano feel like maybe he didn’t have to.

They sipped in silence for a while. The only sound was the ticking of the cheap wall clock and the distant hum of a neighbor’s TV through the thin walls.

Romano didn’t mind the silence.

Not when it was like this.

Not when Alfred shifted closer and their thighs brushed and neither of them moved away.

“I liked today,” Alfred said quietly.

Romano snorted. “You liked watching the Brit verbally snipe me?”

“I liked you sitting next to me,” Alfred corrected.

Romano didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

He reached out, slowly, and tugged on the sleeve of Alfred’s hoodie until Alfred leaned just close enough for their shoulders to bump again.

“Wasn’t so bad,” Romano murmured.

Alfred smiled, wide and soft. “Best month I’ve ever had.”

Romano rolled his eyes—but his foot nudged Alfred’s under the coffee table.

He didn’t deny it.

Chapter Text

Romano hated the way the kitchen always felt like it was sweating before he was.

The air hung heavy with steam and the scent of garlic and oil—clinging to his shirt, to the walls, to the back of his neck like a hand that never let go. The lunch rush had come and gone in a blur of ticket paper and plates, Feliciano bouncing between tables with too much charm and too little focus.

And Alfred?

Alfred was still there.

Wearing an apron over his jeans. Sleeves rolled up. Helping.

He hadn’t been asked to help—not really. He’d just shown up, grinned, and started wiping down tables before Romano could tell him to go home.

Now he stood behind the counter, refilling salt shakers, singing under his breath, and popping a breadstick into his mouth like he owned the place.

Romano leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You do know this isn’t a job, right?”

Alfred looked up. “What, I don’t get paid?”

“You don’t even clock in. ”

“Guess I’m doing it for love, then.”

Romano tried to scowl.

It didn’t stick.

Alfred gave him a wink and went back to wiping menus.

It was stupid, the way he moved like he belonged. Like the scuffed tile and old counter stools and finicky espresso machine didn’t faze him at all. Like he fit there, somehow—bright where Romano was sharp, warm where Romano was wired tight.

Romano had spent months trying to keep the place afloat.

Now Alfred was here, without asking, learning how to fold napkins the right way and arguing with Feliciano about where to store the basil.

And it wasn’t annoying.

It was... easy.

And Romano didn’t know what to do with that.

“You’ve got a shift tonight?” he asked, not looking at him.

“Yeah.” Alfred shoved the basket of clean silverware into the drawer with a clatter. “Ten to two.”

Romano grimaced. “Brutal.”

“Eh.” Alfred shrugged. “Don’t mind it. I like working when it’s quiet. Drunk tourists tip better.”

Romano snorted. “Because they think you’re hot.”

Alfred leaned on the counter across from him, grin wide. “You jealous, marito mio ?”

Romano threw a dish towel at his face.

Alfred caught it, still smiling. “I can make a new nametag for the casino, you know. Something like Romano’s Husband—Please Tip Accordingly. ”

“Or Help, I Made a Huge Mistake. ”

“Too long,” Alfred said thoughtfully. “Needs to fit on a button.”

Romano shook his head, lips twitching despite himself.

They finished cleaning up the front together. Alfred swept while Romano reorganized the register. Feliciano stuck his head in from the back to ask something about wine pairings and got distracted halfway through his own sentence. As usual.

It was a normal day.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Because Alfred wasn’t just visiting anymore.

He was part of it.

Folding napkins. Filling salt. Carrying plates to the dishwasher like he belonged there.

Romano hadn’t said anything about it out loud.

But he knew.

He was starting to like it.

And when Alfred finally grabbed his bag and leaned across the counter to press a kiss to his cheek—quick, thoughtless, real—Romano didn’t swat him away.

Didn’t tell him to stop.

Just muttered, “See you later.”

Alfred grinned. “Save me a plate.”

And then he was gone.

Romano stood in the kitchen for a long moment, towel in hand, staring at the door.

It was stupid.

And soft.

And dangerously close to nice.

He kept working anyway.

Chapter Text

The casino was buzzing.

It always was.

Light that never dimmed. Carpets patterned to hide spills and bad decisions. The low roar of conversation and the constant clink of chips being pushed across felt.

Alfred knew it all too well.

He dealt the same cards. Flashed the same grin. Called out the same lines with the kind of smooth charm people came to expect from Vegas dealers.

But tonight?

His rhythm was a little off.

He kept thinking about Romano.

The way his hand brushed Alfred’s arm while reaching for the register. The way he rolled his eyes when Feliciano said something stupid and sweet. The way the restaurant always smelled like garlic and basil and home .

He’d kissed Alfred on the cheek.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was something they did now.

It had been almost a month. He’d woken up next to a stranger with a ring on his finger—and somehow, that stranger now knew how he took his coffee and which stupid joke made him laugh so hard he snorted.

Alfred shuffled another deck, cut it, reset the table.

“Take five,” his shift manager said as he passed. “New dealer rotating in.”

Alfred nodded, slipped off the stool, and headed toward the break room with a practiced stretch of his shoulders. His phone was already in his hand by the time he pushed through the door and sat on the cracked vinyl bench near the vending machine.

He hesitated for half a second.

Then typed.

How’s the restaurant holding up without your best unpaid employee?

He watched the dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Romano: I moved all the salt shakers just to mess with you.

Alfred grinned.

You’re evil.

Romano: You’re soft.

Romano: Also I saved you dinner.

Alfred leaned back, still smiling, the noise of the floor muffled behind the breakroom door.

You’re the best thing I’ve accidentally married.

There was a pause.

Then:

Romano: Shut up.

Romano: But also. You too.

Alfred let the phone rest on his knee for a moment, warmth rising in his chest.

He could go back to the floor in a minute.

He could deal the cards. Flash the smile. Keep playing the game.

But it wasn’t the same as it had been before.

Because now, he had someone to text between hands.

Someone waiting up for him with leftovers in foil and a towel over one shoulder like he hadn’t been looking at the door all night.

And that?

That beat a full house.

Chapter Text

Alfred let the door close softly behind him.

He didn’t flip on the lights.

Didn’t need to.

Romano’s apartment had settled into a kind of rhythm lately—quiet, warm, lived-in. There was a shoe by the door Alfred had tripped over twice before, and the faint smell of tomato and spice still lingered in the air like a memory that refused to fade.

He stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket, letting the darkness wrap around him.

The clock on the stove blinked 2:57 a.m.

And there he was.

Romano.

Curled up on the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely around the plastic container of food he’d promised to save. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. One leg was half off the edge of the cushion. He looked like he’d meant to stay up—but hadn’t made it.

Alfred stood there for a second, just watching.

The key Romano had given him sat comfortably in his jacket pocket. No ceremony. No speech. Just a muttered, “Don’t lose it,” and a flash of annoyance when Alfred had grinned too hard.

And now?

Now it opened the door to this.

To him.

Alfred knelt beside the couch, careful not to wake him. He reached out and gently pulled the container from Romano’s arms, setting it aside on the coffee table.

Romano stirred.

Mumbled something in Italian.

Didn’t open his eyes.

Alfred hesitated.

Then—very carefully—he slipped one arm beneath Romano’s knees and the other behind his back.

Romano let out a soft, grumpy sound as he was lifted, his head lolling against Alfred’s shoulder. “What’re you—”

“Shhh.” Alfred whispered, smiling. “I got you.”

Romano didn’t argue.

Didn’t tell him to put him down.

He just sighed against Alfred’s neck and let it happen.

The bedroom was dark, sheets rumpled from where Romano had clearly never made it in. Alfred nudged the door open with his foot and carried him inside like it was second nature.

He set him down gently. Pulled the blanket up. Let his fingers linger at Romano’s temple for a second too long.

Then he went to turn away.

“Al.”

He paused.

Romano reached out, curled his fingers into Alfred’s shirt like a hook behind the ribs.

“Stay,” he murmured.

Alfred didn’t need to be told twice.

After a changing and freshening up a bit, he slid into bed beside him, the mattress dipping gently. Romano shifted immediately—fitting himself against Alfred’s chest, sighing like the last puzzle piece had just fallen into place.

And for a while, they didn’t say anything at all.

The city outside didn’t sleep.

But inside the apartment, wrapped in the soft breath of someone choosing him again and again—Alfred finally did.

Chapter Text

Alfred woke to the smell of eggs.

And garlic.

And coffee that didn’t taste like burnt regret.

He stretched with a low groan, one arm sliding across the empty side of the bed, fingertips grazing nothing but still-warm sheets. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint clatter of dishes and the low murmur of a radio coming from the kitchen.

He blinked against the sunlight and smiled.

This was starting to feel dangerously routine.

He shuffled out of bed in nothing but his boxers and one of Romano’s soft undershirts—claimed during laundry day and never returned—and followed the smell of breakfast into the kitchen.

Romano stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing old sweatpants and the apron that said Kiss the Cook and Pray You Survive. He didn’t turn around when Alfred entered—just said, “If you’re gonna hover, make yourself useful and grab plates.”

Alfred did.

They settled in at the tiny kitchen table a few minutes later, plates piled with eggs, toast, and something sautéed that Alfred couldn’t name but already loved.

Romano ate in silence for a while, sipping his coffee and glancing occasionally toward the window like he was preparing himself for the rest of the day. His hair was a mess. There was flour on his arm. He looked like someone who didn’t realize how easy he was to stay in love with.

Alfred shoved a forkful of eggs in his mouth to keep from saying anything too soon.

It was Romano who broke the silence.

“You should move in.”

Alfred nearly choked.

Romano didn’t look up from his plate. “You’re here half the week anyway. It’d save money. You leave your crap everywhere.”

Alfred swallowed. “Uh. Okay.”

Romano’s brow twitched. “That’s it?”

“You want more?”

“I thought you’d argue.”

Alfred grinned. “Why would I argue about something I want?”

Romano finally looked at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s practical. Don’t make it weird.”

Alfred leaned his chin on his hand. “I’m just wondering how much rent I owe.”

Romano grumbled into his toast. “We’ll work it out.”

“You know this makes it, like, official ?”

Romano stared at him flatly. “We’re married.”

“Still.”

Romano stabbed at his eggs. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Alfred’s smile widened. “You like me?”

Romano didn’t answer. But his ears were pink.

And Alfred didn’t need to press the point.

Not when Romano was already clearing space in the closet.

Not when his coffee mug sat beside Alfred’s every morning like it was supposed to be there.

Not when he’d just handed over a whole new kind of permanence between bites of eggs and toast.

Chapter Text

It had been a week.

Exactly seven days since Romano had looked up from his coffee and muttered, “You should move in.”

No grand speech. No proposal.

Just a grumble. A shrug. And Alfred, half-awake with crumbs on his shirt, had said “Okay,” like it was the easiest decision in the world.

Because it was.

He’d already been there.

His toothbrush. His jacket. His socks—most of which still ended up balled under the bed despite Romano’s threats. But now it was official. And the weirdest part?

It didn’t feel weird.

It felt like waking up to coffee already brewing. Like brushing past someone in the kitchen without needing to say anything. Like stealing the corner of the blanket on the couch and pretending not to notice when Romano scooted closer.

Tonight was no different.

Dinner was over. The dishes were done. And Romano had dropped the curtain samples in Alfred’s lap before sinking into the other end of the couch with a sigh like the whole day had worn him down to his bones.

Alfred looked at the pile. “So, uh… you want to pick one?”

Romano didn’t answer right away.

Just muttered, “You’re the one who’s been whining about sunlight.”

“I didn’t whine.”

“You squinted. ”

Alfred held up a pale green swatch, soft and warm and somewhere between “olive” and “won’t make Romano’s eyes bleed.”

“This one’s nice.”

Romano glanced at it, then shrugged. “Tolerable.”

“That’s as close to approval as I’m gonna get, huh?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Alfred chuckled and set the swatch aside, slipping down a little further into the couch cushions. Romano’s bare feet were tucked under him now, toes peeking out from the hem of his sweatpants. The TV played something neither of them were really watching.

They fell into silence again.

Not heavy.

Not tense.

Just full.

The kind that meant this is real.

Romano shifted closer after a while, legs brushing Alfred’s. He didn’t say anything about it—just reached over, plucked the green swatch from the pile, and tossed it onto the coffee table.

“That one.”

Alfred looked over. “Yeah?”

Romano shrugged. “You said it was peaceful.”

“You like peaceful now?”

Romano didn’t answer.

But his hand found Alfred’s under the blanket. Fingers lacing slowly.

Deliberate.

Certain.

Alfred squeezed back and whispered, “I like being here.”

Romano leaned his head against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. “You won’t when the rent is due.”

He only smiled, and leaned in to steal a kiss.

Chapter Text

Alfred woke to the sound of Romano talking to himself in the kitchen.

It wasn’t angry talking—no shouting, no swearing in rapid-fire Italian—but that low, half-muttered string of words he used when he thought no one was listening. Like the eggs were personally challenging his authority. Like the coffee filter had insulted his lineage.

Alfred smiled and rolled over in bed, blinking at the ceiling.

He could get up.

Or he could stay where it was still warm, and let the smell of garlic and rosemary drift in like it always did when Romano cooked anything more complicated than toast.

The apartment didn’t look any different.

No moving boxes. No dramatic redecoration. His suitcase had disappeared a long time ago—probably stuffed in the back of Romano’s closet under protest.

Somehow, even with nothing big changing, everything felt a little more solid.

More settled.

He finally pulled himself out of bed, padded barefoot into the kitchen in one of Romano’s old shirts and the sweatpants he now considered joint property.

Romano glanced up from the pan. “Took you long enough.”

“You started without me.”

“I wasn’t going to wait for you to emerge from the dead.”

Alfred stole a piece of toast off the counter and leaned against the fridge, watching him work. “You made breakfast.”

Romano huffed. “You live here now. You pull your weight.”

“I do! I hung up that towel yesterday.”

“That was my towel.”

“I did it with love.”

Romano rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue when Alfred came up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist, and rested his chin on his shoulder.

They stood there like that for a minute.

Just… stood.

Romano kept stirring the eggs. Alfred didn’t let go.

“I like this,” Alfred said quietly.

Romano didn’t say anything at first.

Then—soft, like he wasn’t quite ready to admit it: “It’s not awful.”

Alfred grinned. “That’s basically a love confession.”

“You want me to take it back?”

“Nope.”

He squeezed Romano tighter, just once, and then let go to start pouring the coffee.

Their mugs were already set out.

Side by side.

Not new.

Just normal.

And Alfred realized, as he added cream to both, that he didn’t miss his old apartment. Didn’t miss waking up alone. Didn’t miss anything that came before this.

Romano slid a plate toward him. “Eat.”

“Yes, chef.”

“Don’t push it.”

Chapter Text

Romano already hated everything about this.

The curtain rod was crooked. The hardware instructions were written in some cursed dialect of IKEA nonsense. Alfred had insisted on using a level app on his phone that clearly wasn’t working right.

“I’m telling you,” Alfred said, perched on the second step of the wobbly stepladder, phone in one hand and the curtain rod in the other, “the bubble’s centered. That means it’s level.”

“That means your app is broken,” Romano snapped from below, arms crossed, brow twitching. “It’s slanting like it’s drunk.”

“It’s fine. ”

“It’s going to fall off in the middle of the night and kill me.”

Alfred leaned slightly, trying to screw the bracket into place. The ladder creaked under his weight.

“ Get down. ”

“I almost got it—”

“ Alfred— ”

There was a tiny snap as the plastic screw anchor cracked mid-turn. The curtain rod sagged half a degree to the left. Alfred looked down sheepishly.

Romano pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I will cook for you until you’re eighty,” he muttered. “I will wash your stupid shirts. I will let you keep your dumb cereal in my cabinets. But if you die falling off this ladder because you wouldn’t listen to me, I’m not coming to the funeral.”

Alfred grinned. “You just admitted we’re growing old together.”

“I admitted you’re exhausting.”

“Which is why you need curtains to block the light and help you sleep.”

Romano took the phone out of Alfred’s hand. “ I will install the curtains. You will stand on the floor and hold things like a well-behaved assistant.”

Alfred stepped down, mock salute in place. “Yes, Chef.”

“ Don’t start. ”

They worked in relative peace for the next ten minutes—Romano on the ladder, Alfred passing him brackets, screws, and coffee when needed. The green fabric (Feliciano’s peaceful olive selection) hung soft and clean, already making the apartment feel warmer. Less temporary.

Romano hated how much he liked it.

Once everything was in place, Romano climbed down and stood back beside Alfred. They both looked up at the finished product.

“Well?” Alfred asked.

Romano stared at it.

At the rod that wasn’t crooked. At the fabric that glowed faintly in the sun. At the man beside him who was still barefoot in the living room like he belonged there.

“…It’s fine.”

Alfred bumped their shoulders together. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love me. ”

Romano didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Because when Alfred reached down and took his hand, Romano laced their fingers together without missing a beat.

And didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

The restaurant was warm.

Not just from the ovens or the mid-afternoon sun slanting through the blinds—but in the feeling of it. The kind that wrapped around your shoulders like an old sweater, worn soft from years of use.

Romano had been there since morning. Cleaning. Ordering. Prepping sauces from scratch because the pre-made ones Feliciano liked to sneak in were a crime against their grandfather’s memory.

And Alfred?

Alfred had been there too.

Not because he had to be.

He had a shift later that night at the casino, the usual late crowd. But instead of sleeping in or lounging around their newly-curtained apartment, he’d come along. Rolled up his sleeves. Wiped down tables. Tried (and failed) to dice onions with anything resembling technique.

Romano had mocked him for it.

Called him a disaster. Threatened to revoke knife privileges.

But when Alfred laughed and bumped shoulders with him on the way to the back fridge, Romano didn’t push him away.

Didn’t want to.

They worked side by side all day—Romano in his groove, Alfred orbiting around it like he’d always been meant to.

And then five o’clock came.

Alfred had to leave.

He kissed Romano behind the kitchen door, quick and easy, like it was routine now. Like they did that.

“Don’t wait up,” he said with a smile, shouldering his bag. “But if you do, I wouldn’t say no to leftovers.”

Romano scoffed. “If you’re lucky.”

And then he was gone.

The bell above the front door jingled. The street swallowed him up.

Romano stood behind the counter, wiping his hands on a towel he’d already used too many times, and stared at the spot where Alfred had just been.

The restaurant didn’t change.

The tables were still clean. The stovetop still bubbled. Feliciano still flitted in and out of the kitchen humming some nonsense song.

But something about the place felt… off.

Not wrong.

Just quieter.

Romano finished the prep. Helped close the lunch register. Told Feliciano to go home early and take the damned basil with him before it wilted in the cooler again.

And when the place finally emptied out, Romano stood at the edge of the kitchen in the half-light of the closing shift and realized:

He missed him.

Already.

Romano muttered something under his breath and turned off the overhead lights.

He’d never needed anyone in the restaurant before.

He’d built it on sweat and old family recipes and too many nights burning his hands on saucepans. He’d done it alone. He’d wanted it that way.

But now?

Now he wanted to look over his shoulder and see Alfred elbow-deep in the dish bin. Wanted to hear him singing off-key in the back room. Wanted to roll his eyes and feel that tug in his chest when Alfred leaned in just a little too close for no reason at all.

Romano locked the front door and stood in the empty silence of the place that had always been his.

It still was.

But something was missing.

And for once, he knew exactly what it was.

Chapter Text

Romano didn’t wait up.

Of course he didn’t.

He just… didn’t feel like going to bed yet.

The living room lights were still on. Not all of them—just the lamp in the corner, casting a low amber glow across the couch where Romano sat, legs stretched out, an old dish towel in his lap he wasn’t even pretending to fold anymore.

The clock on the wall blinked 2:06 a.m.

The TV murmured quietly. Something mindless. Something with bad editing and worse acting.

Romano stared past it.

He’d made dinner hours ago—packed away some of it into a tupperware container in the fridge, like an afterthought. Like it hadn’t been made specifically for one person. Like he didn’t always make too much just in case.

He didn’t check the time again.

Didn’t pace.

Didn’t look toward the door every time the hallway creaked.

He just sat there.

Until the lock clicked.

And then—without thinking—he was standing.

Alfred stepped inside with his shoulders loose. He looked tired. Not miserable. Just worn in that late-shift way—hair a little flattened, collar askew, that dumb badge still clipped to his shirt.

Romano didn’t say anything at first.

He just took him in.

Alfred blinked at him. “You’re up.”

Romano shrugged. “Didn’t feel like sleeping.”

Alfred smiled softly. “You made pasta?”

“It was dinner. You missed it.”

“Sorry—ran long. Some guy tried to convince me he invented blackjack.”

Romano rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “You hungry?”

Alfred stepped out of his shoes and into the light, and without answering, crossed the room and tugged Romano in by the waist.

Romano let him.

He smelled like casino smoke and peppermint gum and the faintest trace of rosemary.

“You waited up,” Alfred murmured.

Romano scowled. “Coincidence.”

“Sure.”

Romano didn’t answer, but his hands curled into Alfred’s shirt and didn’t let go.

Alfred leaned down, pressed his forehead to Romano’s. “I missed you.”

Romano didn’t say it back.

Didn’t have to.

He just kissed him—slow and quiet and home.

And when Alfred pulled away, grinning like he’d won a prize, Romano muttered, “Eat your damn pasta before I throw it out.”

But he didn’t pull away when Alfred kissed him again.

Didn’t say anything when Alfred went straight to the stove, reheated everything with the kind of lazy confidence that said I live here, and took the first bite with a hum of appreciation.

Romano leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

He didn’t wait up.

But he was glad he did.

Chapter Text

The apartment had become much more of a home, and with it they had settled into a comfortable routine.

A peace though that couldn’t last when overeager brothers were around. But they were happy to host.

They didn’t need to talk about it.

They didn’t plan.

They just moved.

Alfred flipped the pancakes—Romano timed the eggs. Alfred poured coffee—Romano passed him the mugs. Alfred reached for the butter—Romano was already handing it to him.

It wasn’t a performance.

It wasn’t perfect, either—Romano still grumbled about Alfred using the wrong burner, and Alfred still snuck a bite of toast before the table was set.

But it worked.

They worked.

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” Feliciano asked for the third time, hovering just beyond the kitchen counter.

Romano didn’t look up. “You help like a cat helps someone wrap a present.”

Feliciano pouted.

Matthew chuckled behind him, already halfway through setting out plates. “You’ve got to admit, this is kind of impressive.”

Alfred grinned and wiped his hands on a towel. “I think we’ve finally achieved domestic godhood.”

Romano shot him a glare. “You put the forks on the wrong side.”

Alfred winked. “No such thing when the food’s good.”

The table filled quickly—plated frittata, fresh bread, pancetta crisped just enough. Feliciano made a delighted sound that bordered on theatrical. Matthew raised his eyebrows in approval. The apartment, still small and slightly chaotic, buzzed with something light and warm.

There was no awkwardness.

No stumbling.

Just four chairs and good food and enough shared glances that even Feliciano eventually stopped talking long enough to eat.

Romano moved like he always did in his own kitchen—quick, exact, all elbows and sharp corners—but Alfred was never in the way. He just fit in the empty spaces.

Like they were made for it.

At one point, Matthew leaned over, quiet so only Alfred could hear. “You seem good.”

Alfred blinked. “Yeah?”

Matthew nodded. “Settled. Not bored. Just... good.”

Alfred looked across the kitchen.

Romano stood at the stove, back turned, muttering about the coffee not being strong enough, sleeves pushed up, hair still slightly damp from the morning shower. He looked like himself. Sharp. Unimpressed. Brilliant.

Alfred smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

And later—when the table was cleared, the coffee low, and Feliciano was cheerfully digging through swatches again, already plotting curtains for the next season—Alfred reached for Romano’s hand beneath the counter and gave it a small, grounding squeeze.

Romano didn’t look at him.

Just laced their fingers together and kept talking to Matthew like it was nothing.

But Alfred felt the warmth of it all the same.

They weren’t pretending to be a functioning couple.

They just were.

And it was starting to show.

Chapter Text

The restaurant glowed in the evening light.

The dinner crowd had thinned—just a few regulars finishing wine at the corner table, someone humming softly along with the old radio behind the bar. Romano wiped his hands on a towel and leaned back against the counter, surveying the room with a practiced eye.

And there, right where he always wanted him, was Alfred.

He was behind the front counter, drying wine glasses and stacking them with a care he definitely didn’t use at home. He wore one of Romano’s spare aprons, the knot at the back crooked, his hair curling at the temples from steam and heat and a day too long spent in the kitchen.

He didn’t need to be here.

He could’ve had the night off. Could’ve stayed in, watched TV, raided the fridge, fallen asleep on the couch with a half-eaten cookie in his hand like he sometimes did.

But instead?

He’d showed up just after lunch rush, kissed Romano behind the pantry door, and said, “Put me to work.”

Now, hours later, he was still here—elbow to elbow with Feliciano during prep, passing Romano ingredients without being asked, talking to customers like he’d been born for it.

Romano watched him laugh at something Feliciano said, towel slung over his shoulder, and felt something twist deep in his chest.

Not nerves.

Not tension.

Something heavier.

Something certain.

I want this always.

The thought came sharp and sure.

Not just Alfred in his bed or in his kitchen—but here. In the restaurant. In the rhythm Romano had carved out of chaos and sweat and stubbornness. In the one place he’d never made room for anyone before.

Until now.

Until Alfred.

Romano crossed the kitchen, slow, deliberate.

Alfred looked up just as he stepped around the counter. “Hey. We’re down to two clean forks, by the way. Either we need to do dishes or start serving everyone with chopsticks.”

Romano didn’t answer right away.

He looked at him—really looked. The apron. The smile. The way Alfred fit into this place like he’d been written into its bones.

Then he said, quietly, without ceremony:

“You should be part of this.”

Alfred blinked. “What?”

“This place.” Romano’s voice was rough, almost embarrassed. “You’re my husband. You should be part of it.”

Alfred stared.

Romano shifted, folding his arms. “Don’t make a big thing out of it.”

“I’m not. ” Alfred’s grin bloomed, slow and stunned. “I just didn’t think you—”

Romano stepped closer, voice low. “I want you here.”

Alfred’s face softened.

He reached out, took Romano’s wrist gently, fingers curling against the inside.

“I am here.”

Romano looked down at their hands.

Then up at the restaurant.

And thought—not for the first time, but maybe the first time out loud — this is ours.

Chapter Text

The restaurant was still.

It always felt a little sacred after closing—light pooled low and golden across the tables, chairs stacked upside down, air warm with the lingering scent of garlic, lemon, and something sweeter Alfred had coaxed out of Romano’s spice rack just after lunch.

Romano wiped down the last counter and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, breathing in the quiet.

Behind him, Alfred was humming off-key, refilling sugar jars at the front bar.

Romano leaned his weight against the edge of the counter and watched him.

Alfred wasn’t graceful in the kitchen. Not really. He still didn’t dice onions right. He danced a little when he thought no one was looking. But his sleeves were rolled up, his hands were sure, and the smile on his face looked more at home here than anywhere else Romano had ever seen it.

Romano didn’t realize he’d spoken until the words were already in the air.

“You should stay.”

Alfred looked up. “What?”

“Here,” Romano said, suddenly aware of how his heart had started thudding behind his ribs. “Full time. No more late shifts. No more casino crap.”

Alfred blinked.

Romano pushed off the counter, voice lower now. “I mean it. I want this place to be yours too. Not just mine.”

Alfred stepped around the corner slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You’re asking me to work here?”

Romano nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

Alfred’s eyes softened. “Why now?”

Romano looked away for half a second, then back. “Because every time you leave, I notice. And when you’re here, the place feels right. Like it’s not just something I’m trying to hold together by myself anymore.”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Romano kept going, voice rough around the edges. “I kept this place going to survive. But now I want to share it. With you. Every day. Not just when you’re off.”

Alfred was already closing the distance.

He reached for Romano’s wrist, then shifted to lace their fingers together instead.

“You’re sure?”

Romano’s gaze didn’t waver. “I want you with me. Here. Always.”

Alfred let out a slow, stunned laugh. “You’re really offering me a job.”

Romano’s lips twitched. “Technically it’s unpaid until I can get the books in order.”

“I’ll take it.”

Romano stepped in, close enough to press their foreheads together.

“You better not screw up the espresso machine.”

“No promises.”

They stood like that for a moment—hands joined, hearts thudding in sync, the restaurant finally theirs in every way that mattered.

And for once, Romano wasn’t thinking about survival.

He was thinking about a future he wanted.

And Alfred was already part of it.

Chapter Text

Alfred woke to the sound of Romano boiling water.

Not the kettle—that old thing had whistled itself into early retirement. No, this was a saucepan, low flame, and the faint click of a spoon stirring sugar into espresso just the way Romano liked it: bitter, strong, and slightly dramatic.

He didn’t open his eyes at first.

Just listened.

Listened to the clatter of a mug set down too hard. The scrape of a chair. The low murmur of Romano muttering at the toaster like it had committed a crime.

And Alfred smiled.

This was how mornings should start.

He stretched, rolled out of bed, and wandered barefoot into the kitchen, where Romano stood with his back to him, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the shower. He was plating toast next to scrambled eggs, muttering under his breath about salt and Feliciano’s obsession with bright fruit preserves.

Alfred leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re spoiling me.”

Romano didn’t turn around. “You’re working today. I need you functional.”

Alfred grinned. “So this is performance-enhancing breakfast?”

Romano finally looked over his shoulder. “If you burn anything today, I’ll take it back.”

“You can’t un -feed me.”

“Watch me.”

Alfred stepped forward and slid his arms around Romano’s waist, nuzzling into the curve of his neck before the other could swat him away. “You always this sweet to new hires?”

Romano scoffed. “You’re on probation.”

“I’m the husband.”

“You’re also the guy who once poured creamer into the pasta water because the labels were the same color.”

“That happened one time. ”

Romano turned, still half in Alfred’s arms, and shoved a fork into his hand. “Sit. Eat. Then you can scrub the sauce pans.”

Alfred grinned and kissed the edge of his jaw. “Can’t wait.”

They sat together at the small kitchen table, feet brushing beneath it, the sunlight just beginning to creep across the floor. The food was simple—eggs, toast, thick slices of tomato still warm from the pan—but it tasted better than anything Alfred had made in his own apartment. Better than any post-shift takeout. Better than casino buffet breakfasts at three a.m.

This wasn’t luxury.

It was theirs.

And for the first time in a long time, Alfred felt something settle in his chest that wasn’t restlessness or wondering what came next.

This was next.

Romano reached for his coffee, eyes flicking over the top of the mug toward Alfred like he was already thinking about the day ahead.

Alfred caught his gaze and held it.

“Ready?” Romano asked.

Alfred smiled.

“More than ever.”