Chapter Text
The room was bathed in that soft, early morning light, but for Chan, the pace was already a countdown. Standing before the mirror, he wrestled with the knot of his tie, his fingers nimble yet slightly rushed.
He ran a hand through his blonde hair, checking that every strand was in place, while his phone screen glowed on the dresser with a notification from Changbin.
With a sigh, he tapped out a quick reply about the slight delay, but his mind was already drifting elsewhere.
A rich, warm, and unmistakable scent of freshly brewed coffee began to wind its way upstairs, acting like an invisible thread pulling him out of the room.
As he stepped into the hallway, the businessman gave way to the family man. Chan had to perform a careful maneuver to avoid stepping on a fire truck strategically abandoned mid-path, smiling to himself when he noticed a plastic dinosaur perched atop a building block.
He went down the stairs silently, his dress shoes muffled by the carpet, and crossed the living room where sunlight hit the rumpled cushions.
When he reached the kitchen door, he stopped. Time seemed to slow down, as if the universe were conspiring to let him admire this living painting.
There was Minho. With his back to the entrance, he moved with a domestic grace that mesmerized Chan.
Steam rose from the coffee maker, framing the silhouette of his husband who, even in sleepwear and with hair slightly mussed from sleep, looked more radiant than any magazine model.
Chan felt that familiar tug in his chest, a blend of gratitude and a passion that, instead of cooling over the years, seemed to gain new layers of depth. He had fallen for an extraordinary man, and in moments like this, the realization hit him all over again: he was the luckiest man in the world.
His gaze, heavy with adoration, began to wander. He followed the line of Minho’s spine to where the sleep shirt ended, finding the view of firm thighs and the perfect contour beneath the short cotton shorts. Desire, always simmering just below the surface when it came to Minho, flared up intensely.
Completely forgetting the clock and Changbin’s messages, Chan approached with the steps of a predator. He closed the gap between them, wrapping his strong arms around Minho’s waist and pressing his chest against his back.
He felt the man’s slight startle, a small jump of surprise that made the younger man's shoulders hitch before he recognized Chan’s touch, scent, and warmth.
Minho relaxed instantly, letting out a soft sigh as he leaned back, yielding his body weight to his husband’s embrace, finally allowing the morning to truly begin.
“You’re late,” Minho’s voice cut through the comfortable silence of the kitchen, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of a spatula stirring eggs in the skillet. “You’ll have to grab something to eat on the way, Chan. I don’t want you passing out in the middle of the studio.”
The tone was one of practical, typically bossy concern, but Chan nuzzled in further, burying his face in the curve of Minho’s neck and leaving a trail of slow, damp kisses right where the skin was most sensitive.
Minho shivered, his shoulders bunching as a sigh escaped his lips. He turned off the stove with a sharp click and turned around in the older man’s arms.
That trademark smirk was there, but his eyes shone with a sweetness he reserved only for the two men in his life. He looped his hands around Chan’s neck, feeling the texture of the tie and the starched collar.
As a producer, Chan usually opted for oversized hoodies and comfortable clothes for long studio hours, but today the suit hugged his broad shoulders in a way that made Minho’s breath hitch.
“You look hot like this,” Minho murmured, his voice softening as he leaned in for quick, lingering pecks on the older man’s lips.
“You think so?” Chan countered with a seductive smile, his hands beginning to roam possessively over Minho’s body.
He slid his palms down his husband’s arched back until his fingers found the curve of his seat beneath the thin fabric of the shorts, squeezing with a latent urgency.
Minho nodded, his eyes darkening slightly in the kitchen light.
“Maybe you should wear this tonight,” he suggested, the promise implicit in those words making Chan’s blood run faster.
“Oh, definitely... tonight,” Chan repeated, his voice dropping an octave. He didn’t wait, sealing his lips over Minho’s in a deeper, hotter kiss, where tongues met with a hunger breakfast could never sate.
“Maybe we shouldn't wait that long...” he whispered against Minho’s mouth, his hand sliding to the nape of the younger man’s neck.
Minho let out a short huff, ready to deliver a sarcastic comeback about Chan’s lack of patience, when a small, excited voice echoed from the hallway.
“Appa! I’m done putting my heroes in the box!” Jeongin appeared at the kitchen door, hair messy and his dinosaur pajamas slightly lopsided.
The sound of their son's voice was like a bucket of cold water on the erotic tension. With quick reflexes, Minho pushed against Chan’s chest to create distance, though an amused smile still danced on his face.
“Oh, that’s great, honey! Come here,” Minho said, casting a playful, victorious glance at Chan, who stood there in the middle of the kitchen, sighing with interrupted longing as he watched his husband crouch down to receive the little hurricane.
Chan watched the scene, his heart overflowing in a different way now. Jeongin, the boy they had adopted at just a year old and who now filled every corner of that house with light and noise, was the center of their world.
Seeing Minho hold the boy in his arms, fixing his pajamas with quick yet tender gestures, made Chan feel like the luckiest man in the universe, again.
A night alone would be wonderful, but this morning chaos – the smell of coffee and the sound of toys being put away – was what truly defined the perfect life he had built.
“Okay, let’s eat and get washed up, I still have to drop you off at school,” Minho decreed, his voice taking on that tone of affectionate authority as he used his fingers to tame a few stray locks of Jeongin’s hair.
The little one nodded promptly, but his eyes brightened with renewed intensity when they caught sight of Chan’s tall figure.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Jeongin exclaimed, stretching out his chubby arms in a silent plea to be picked up. Chan, unable to resist any request from his son, leaned down and lifted him effortlessly, feeling the comforting weight of the boy against his chest.
“Good morning, my love!” Chan said, giving Jeongin a loud kiss on the cheek and rubbing his nose against the boy’s, an "eskimo kiss" that always drew giggles.
“Daddy, can I take my green dragon to class today? Please!” Jeongin asked with those puppy-dog eyes he knew disarmed Chan in seconds.
Chan, however, didn’t answer immediately. He flicked his gaze to Minho, a silent code passing between them.
Minho gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head, but it was enough. Their partnership in raising Jeongin was one of the pillars of their relationship; they were a united front.
“Not today, little man,” Chan replied gently but firmly, starting to tickle Jeongin’s tummy, which turned the boy’s protest into peals of laughter. “Big toys stay home to protect the castle, remember? At school, you need space for your books.”
He carefully tucked the boy into his chair at the dining table, leaning down to his level for a moment to ensure the message was understood.
“That’s right. Eat your eggs now, young man,” Minho added, sliding the plate of steaming food in front of Jeongin. “The dragon will be here when you get back.”
Chan stood up, straightening his jacket. He tried to steal one more kiss from his husband, leaning in with a playful pout, but Minho dodged him nimbly, pointing at Chan’s wristwatch.
“Late, Channie. Too busy being charming and forgetting that Changbin will kill you if you miss the start of the meeting.”
The reality check hit Chan as he looked at his phone again. He planted a hurried, smacking kiss on the top of Jeongin’s head and another, quicker than he’d like, on Minho’s lips as he began to dash through the living room, grabbing his coat.
“Don’t forget Jeongin gets out early today!” Minho shouted from the kitchen, his voice cutting through the sound of the rush. “It’s your turn to pick him up. I’ll be a bit later than planned at work, but don’t worry, I won’t be late getting home.”
Chan nodded frantically, but his hands were fumbling through pockets and over furniture surfaces in desperation.
“Keys... where did I shove the keys?” he muttered, practically spinning in circles.
The frantic search only stopped when Minho appeared in the hallway, holding the ring of keys he had rescued from under a magazine on the coffee table. He dropped them into Chan’s hand with a little "what would you do without me?" smirk.
“And I’m taking Jeongin to Lix and Changbin’s house,” Minho reminded him.
Chan took the keys, looking at his husband with a mix of shock and adoration. “How do you do it? You’re incredible.”
Minho just shrugged, that sarcastic, charming smile returning to his face as he leaned against the doorframe. “Someone has to keep this family on the tracks. Now go!”
With one last wave and a light heart, Chan finally headed out, the sound of the car engine signaling that the countdown to their night alone had officially begun.
The suit, once pristine, now featured a jacket tossed carelessly into the backseat, with the sleeves of the white shirt rolled up to the elbows.
The meeting with the label’s new artists had drained his energy – debates over contracts and inflated egos were the parts of the job Chan liked least. All he wanted was the silence of home, or rather, the specific kind of noise his family made.
The drive to the school was a blur of anxiety, but the world stood still when the gates opened. Amidst the crowd of colorful uniforms, a small figure with a dinosaur backpack shot out like a rocket.
“Daddy!” Jeongin’s shout was the best sound of Chan’s day. The boy threw himself into his arms with such force that Chan had to take a step back to keep his balance, laughing into his son’s hair. All the exhaustion evaporated right then and there.
Back home, bath time was a full-scale naval battle. The master bath was covered in bubbles, with little boats and action figures floating between Chan’s legs and Jeongin’s splashes.
“Captain Innie, the ship is sinking!” Chan exclaimed, making waves with his hands and receiving a toothy grin in response.
Once clean and changed – Chan now wearing only comfortable sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt – they sat down for lunch. While Jeongin wrestled with a piece of broccoli, Chan allowed himself to just watch.
He remembered when they first brought him home: that one-year-old baby who barely made a sound, looking at the corners of the house with wide, frightened eyes. Seeing the boy now, gesturing with his fork and talking about art class, was the greatest success of Chan’s career.
“Daddy, did you see the drawing I made?” Jeongin asked, his mouth slightly smeared with sauce. “The teacher said I used very 'vivid' colors.”
“I saw it, sweetheart. It’s on the fridge door, the place of honor,” Chan smiled, reaching out to wipe the corner of his son’s mouth with his thumb. “You drew our house, didn't you?”
“Yes! We had to draw our family, so I drew me, you, and Appa Minho.”
Chan felt his chest tighten with pure emotion. “Ah, I see. Why did you paint my hair black?”
“You look handsome with black, Daddy. You look like a little chick now,” Jeongin explained with the unfiltered sincerity of a six-year-old.
Chan let out a loud laugh. Kids and their lack of a social filter.
After lunch, they tackled homework, which required a lot of patience from Chan to explain simple addition while Jeongin preferred drawing kittens in the margins of his notebook. Finally, hide-and-seek gave way to afternoon fatigue.
They settled onto the large living room sofa. Chan turned on a cartoon about sea animals, and Jeongin snuggled under his father’s arm, his head resting on Chan’s chest.
“Daddy...” Jeongin’s voice came muffled, already half-asleep. “Where’s Appa Minho? He’s taking too long.”
Chan sighed, stroking the soft strands of his son’s hair, feeling the same absence. “He’ll be here soon, little man. He just needs to finish something important at work.”
“I wish he was here on the sofa too,” the boy murmured, closing his eyes.
“Me too, Innie. Me too,” Chan whispered, resting his chin on the top of his son’s head.
He thought about how funny it was that he and Jeongin, despite not sharing the same blood, were identical in that emotional dependency.
If there was one absolute truth in that house, it was that neither of them functioned properly without the anchor that was Minho.
Chan looked at the clock on the wall, counting the minutes until he heard the sound of the key in the lock. The longing for Minho was the need to have his other half back so the world would make sense again.
The afternoon silence was suddenly broken by a soft click and a quick flash that pierced through Chan’s eyelids. He blinked slowly, his vision still a bit blurry from the nap, until Minho’s familiar silhouette materialized in front of him.
His husband held his phone with a victorious smile, admiring the photo he’d just taken of Chan and Jeongin passed out on the sofa.
“Hey, love...” Chan murmured, his voice husky and heavy with sleep, reaching an arm out for Minho’s waist.
“Hey,” Minho replied sweetly, leaning down to seal his lips against Chan’s. He cupped the older man’s face for a second, his cool fingers stroking skin warm from sleep. “I’m going to take a shower and try for a quick nap upstairs.”
Chan nodded, but before Minho could pull away, he tugged him back by the nape of his neck, sealing a longer kiss, a silent “welcome home” that said everything that needed to be said.
“I love you,” Chan said, watching Minho smile against his lips.
“Love you too, Wolfie.”
While Minho went upstairs, Chan used the time to wake up his body. He began picking up the building blocks and toy cars scattered across the rug, tidying the afternoon’s chaos.
Shortly after, Jeongin woke up with his hair even messier, and the two shared a simple afternoon snack of fruit and toast, whispering through low giggles so as not to wake the “appa who’s resting.”
Chan was finishing the dishes, the sound of running water filling the kitchen while Jeongin was in the bathroom, when he heard soft footsteps on the stairs.
Minho appeared at the kitchen door wearing casual clothes – a baggy hoodie that gave him an adorably domestic look – his eyes still slightly puffy from sleep. Chan dried his hands and immediately poured a steaming cup of coffee, handing it to his husband.
“How was your day at the clinic?” Chan asked, leaning against the counter as he watched Minho take the first sip, the steam from the coffee framing his face.
“Tiring. Some clients seem to forget that animals have schedules too,” Minho huffed lightly, but soon relaxed his shoulders. “But it all went well. And here? Did you survive your bachelor afternoon?”
“Between naval battles and math homework, we’re still in one piece,” Chan laughed, leaning in to steal a bite of the biscuit Minho had grabbed.
At that moment, Jeongin came running in, practically climbing up Minho’s legs. “Appa Minho! You’re awake!” The boy hugged his father’s waist tightly. “I talked to Grandma today! She said Berry misses me!”
Minho leaned down, picking the boy up with ease. “Really, Innie? Grandma called from Australia? What else did she say?”
“She said she’s going to make that chocolate cake I like when we go there!”
“Speaking of which, I got the email today. Everything’s set with the tickets for next month. We’re finally taking this little hurricane to see his grandparents.” Chan took the opening, feeling his son’s excitement infect the kitchen.
“They’re crazy about you, Innie,” Minho said, bopping the end of his son’s nose. “Sometimes I think they only invite us so they can see you.”
“It’s true. I’ve officially lost my spot as the favorite son." Chan made a dramatic pout, crossing his arms over his chest.
"My mom doesn’t even ask how I am anymore, she only wants to know if Jeongin has learned new English words and if Minho is eating well. I’m just the driver now.”
Minho let out a laugh, setting Jeongin down and stepping closer to Chan. He pressed a playful, quick peck to his husband’s lips, whispering far too close: “Don’t be jealous, Channie. You’re still number one in my ranking. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“What about me?!” Jeongin interrupted, tugging at the hems of both their shirts, wanting in on the moment.
The two laughed together, and Chan reached down to scoop the boy up as well, sandwiching him between himself and Minho in a group hug. “You? You’re way more than number one, little man. You own the whole ranking!”
Moments like this, wrapped in simplicity and genuine love, were Chan’s fuel. It was why he worked so hard, to ensure that this sanctuary of peace never changed.
“Alright, young man,” Minho said, pulling away from the hug and giving Jeongin a playful pat on the back.
“Go to your room and start laying out on the bed what you want to take to Uncle Binnie and Lix’s house. We’ll pack your backpack together so you don't forget anything important.”
As Jeongin ran upstairs yelling that he had to bring the green dragon, Chan’s gaze met Minho’s. The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted subtly.
Chan leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. There was a look of triumph on his face, a glint in his eyes he couldn’t hide.
“So... finally. Tonight,” Chan murmured, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with husky anticipation.
“Ah, yes... tonight,” Minho repeated, approaching with that feline gait that always disarmed his husband.
Everything seemed to have converged for this moment. Fate had been generous:
a school renovation that let Jeongin out early, an unexpected gap in Chan’s recording schedule, and Minho’s shortened shift. Even Felix and Changbin seemed to be in sync, eager to spoil their nephew at their new place.
The end of the year had been a whirlwind of deadlines and exhaustion, turning time alone into a luxury they could barely afford.
Until today.
Minho slid his hands up Chan’s chest until they wrapped around his neck, his nimble fingers beginning a slow massage at the blonde’s nape, giving the short hairs there a light tug.
Chan let out a sigh of surrender, his hands finding their natural path to Minho’s firm waist, pulling him closer until there was no air left between them.
“Hmm... and do you have something planned, Christopher?” Minho teased, his voice breathing against Chan’s lips, a crooked smile playing on his face.
“Surprise,” Chan replied, his eyes fixed on Minho’s mouth before finally claiming it.
The kiss began as a spoiler for the night: hot, deep, and hungry. In that kitchen bathed in the warm afternoon sun, their world narrowed down to the touch and taste of one another.
Minho pressed himself against Chan, fingers burying into the blonde hair with urgency, while a small, sharp, surrendered moan escaped his throat as Chan’s hands gripped his waist with possessive strength.
Minho was Chan’s weakness, his ruin, and his redemption. The way he fit into his arms, the sound of his breathing hitching... it was enough to make the producer forget every trace of professionalism or patience.
“Appa! I can’t find my astronaut pajamas!” Jeongin’s shout echoed from the top of the stairs, cutting through the erotic tension like a cold blade.
Chan didn’t want to let go. He tried to pull Minho in for one more kiss, ignoring the call, but Minho let out a nasal laugh and, with a firm push against Chan’s chest, broke the contact.
“Okay, honey! Appa’s coming to help!” Minho shouted back, his voice instantly snapping back to a paternal tone, though his face was still flushed and his lips swollen.
He looked at Chan, who was now sporting a childish pout of frustration and "puppy ears," like a wolf whose hunt had been interrupted. Minho held his face with both hands, affectionately squishing Chan’s cheeks.
“We’ll pick this up tonight, wolfie,” Minho promised, planting one last smacking kiss on his lips before pulling away.
Chan stood there in the kitchen, watching Minho’s silhouette disappear up the stairs. He let out a long sigh, trying to steady his heartbeat, as an involuntary smile spread across his face.
The wait would be torturous, but he knew the prize would be worth every second of the agony.
The trip to Felix and Changbin’s house was short, but in Minho’s mind, the distance seemed to shrink with every plan they made for the future – the wish to have their best friends living next door after the wedding was a dream he and Chan shared often.
As he parked, Minho took a deep breath, feeling a mix of relief and that inevitable pang of "pre-emptive homesickness" that every parent knows. He turned in his seat, catching Jeongin’s bright eyes in the rearview mirror.
"Okay, sweetheart, we’re here." Minho smiled, reaching back to squeeze the little one’s knee. "Ready for a night of chaos with your uncles?"
Jeongin didn’t even need words; his toothy grin and the desperate struggle to unbuckle his seatbelt said it all.
Before they even reached the entrance, the door flew open to reveal a radiant Felix, wearing an apron boasting artistic flour stains and what looked like colored sprinkles.
"Uncle Lix!" Jeongin didn’t wait for his father, he let go of Minho’s hand and shot toward the blonde like a little lightning bolt.
Felix crouched, expecting the impact, wrapping the boy in a crushing hug.
"Innie! I missed you so much, my love!" He hoisted the boy into the air, covering his face in loud kisses, making Jeongin squirm with pure laughter.
Minho watched the scene with a silly smile as he walked up to them, the astronaut backpack slung over his shoulder. "Hey, Lix. I see production has already started."
"Come on in, hyung! I was just finishing a batch of special cupcakes for our guest of honor," Felix said, leading the way into the living room.
Inside, the chaos was sweet. Changbin emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming tray, a streak of frosting on his cheek.
"Don’t mind the mess, Minho hyung. The kitchen turned into a war zone, but the results are worth it," he said, setting the tray on the counter before approaching the little one.
"And how’s my favorite nephew?" he asked, ruffling Jeongin’s freshly combed hair.
"Uncle Bin, I’m your only nephew!" Jeongin laughed, trying in vain to fix his hair while eyeing the cupcakes hungrily.
Minho felt his chest warm. The gratitude he felt for those two was immeasurable; seeing how they cared for Jeongin gave him the certainty that, in the future, they would be phenomenal parents.
"Well, I guess that’s my cue," Minho said with a dramatic sigh, dropping the backpack on the sofa. "Everything he needs is in here. Call me if anything happens, or call Chan. The allergy medicine is—"
"—In the right pocket," Felix interrupted with a knowing smile, as he handed Jeongin over to Changbin's arms. The two were already making silent plans to raid the cupcakes before dinner. "Relax, hyung."
Minho knew it was silly to worry, Jeongin had been staying over for years and there was no one more trustworthy in the world.
But parental instinct was a motor that never turned off. Felix, noticing Minho’s hesitant look, stepped closer and touched his shoulder.
"So... a night alone after all this time, huh?" The blonde gave him a knowing smirk, arching an eyebrow.
Minho felt his face heat up slightly, realizing he couldn't hide the expectation. He shrugged, trying to keep his cool. "Yeah... it’s been a while. Anyway, I’ll see you guys tomorrow."
"How about Sunday?" Felix suggested, holding the door open for his friend. "If Innie doesn't mind, he can stay for two nights. You can pick him up Sunday afternoon."
Minho stopped in the doorway, his heart skipping a beat. "Felix, are you sure? You guys finally got a break too, I don’t want to mess up your rest."
"Minho, we truly love having him," Felix assured him. "Besides, we aren't parents..."
"YET!" Changbin’s voice echoed from the back, making them both laugh out loud.
"See?" Felix continued. "We have plenty of time, especially compared to the chaos of your lives. Go enjoy your husband."
Minho smiled, feeling a wave of luck for having built this support network, this chosen family.
"Okay... I accept." He waved one last time at his son, who already had chocolate smeared on his face and was waving back frantically. "Bye, love! Behave!"
As he closed the door and walked toward the car, the silence of the street felt different. An entire weekend. Just him and Chan.
The smile he’d been trying to hold back finally broke free, open and anxious, as he started the engine to head back to the man waiting for him at home.
The house, once filled with childish laughter and the sound of cartoons, now had a different texture: it was dense, expectant, and charged with an electricity that Minho felt tingling in his fingertips.
As he pulled into the garage, he glanced at the passenger seat. Resting there was an exuberant bouquet of Chan’s favorite flowers, their petals seemingly glowing under the dim light of the dashboard.
Alongside, a discreet bag from a jewelry store holding something Minho had been planning to give him for weeks.
His phone vibrated on the console. It was a message from Chan: "Go straight upstairs to get ready. Don't look at the kitchen. I'll wait for you in thirty minutes."
Minho let out a soft huff of a laugh, biting his lower lip. He knew that tone; it was "Director" Chan, the man who loved orchestrating perfect moments.
Respecting the mystery, Minho entered the house almost on tiptoe, leaving the grocery bags by the door and heading upstairs with his heart beating a little faster than usual.
Upon entering their bedroom, he paused for a moment. Laid out on the neatly pressed duvet, Chan had left an impeccable set of formal clothes – a dark silk shirt and tailored trousers that Minho knew hugged his body exactly the way his husband liked.
Beside the clothes, a small textured card displayed Chan’s firm, elegant handwriting:
"To the man who is my north. Today, the outside world doesn't exist. Meet me at the stairs when you’re ready to be reminded of just how completely addicted to you I still am. I love you, Christopher."
Minho felt his face flush. Even after eight years, Chan managed to be an incurable romantic, turning routine into something cinematic. He hurried; the shower was quick but careful, letting the hot water wash away the last of the day's exhaustion.
As he put on the shirt, he felt the cool silk against his skin, a contrast to the heat rising in his chest. He fixed his hair, checking his reflection in the mirror and feeling that spark of adolescent anxiety.
Picking up the bouquet and the jewelry bag, he stepped out of the room. When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw him.
Chan was standing on the first step, illuminated by a soft light coming from the dining room.
He wore the same suit from that morning, but his tie had been discarded, and the top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing the curve of his neck and the skin Minho knew so well.
He had one hand in his trouser pocket and the other resting on the banister, his eyes shining, making Minho’s legs waver for a microsecond.
The descent down the stairs seemed to happen in slow motion. Chan couldn't look away, the way the silk of the shirt embraced Minho’s shoulders and how the light softened his features took his breath away, exactly like the first time they met.
“You look ridiculous with that romance-movie pose, Christopher,” Minho broke the silence, his voice laced with his habitual sarcasm, though the watery shimmer in his eyes betrayed him completely.
He finished the steps and held out the bouquet. “Here. To match the cheesy scenery you set up.”
Chan laughed, a vibrant sound that echoed through the room. He accepted the flowers, feeling the sweet scent fill the space, but he noticed when Minho left a small, discreet bag on the side table.
“Flowers? For me?” Chan arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise as he placed the bouquet next to Minho’s bag. “I think the tables have turned, Minho. But don’t worry, I accept the bribe.”
He leaned in, sealing his lips against Minho’s in a tender kiss, before taking his hand and guiding him toward the kitchen.
“Follow me,” Chan whispered.
When Minho reached the kitchen, the sarcasm died in his throat. The kitchen, usually the stage for the morning rush of cereal and backpacks, had been transformed.
The lighting was low, coming only from strategically placed candles that made shadows dance on the walls. Red rose petals were scattered across the table, which was set with their best china, and a second bouquet rested on the chair where Minho usually sat.
“Chan... this is...” Minho hesitated, his voice failing for a second. He looked at his husband. “You really don’t know how to play fair, do you?”
“Nothing less than you deserve, my love,” Chan replied, pulling him in for a longer kiss.
They sat down, and Minho looked over the dishes. It wasn't a Michelin-starred menu, but something much more valuable: the same pasta and the wine they had shared in Chan’s tiny student apartment years ago, when they decided they would try to be a family.
“You...” Minho commented, feeling a lump in his throat. “Channie, you didn't have to go this far.”
“Yes, I did,” Chan affirmed, holding Minho’s hand over the table and squeezing it firmly. “Sometimes, in the rush of being a parent, a producer, and an adult, we forget to celebrate 'us.' I wanted you to know that if I had to choose between all the success in the world and that reheated pasta in that tiny studio with you, I’d choose you every single time.”
Minho looked away, blinking rapidly to brush back the tears threatening to fall.
“Stop that, you’re going to make me smudge my concealer,” he joked, changing the subject as they began to eat.
The conversation flowed. They talked about plans to expand the clinic, Chan’s new productions, and how the silence of the house was simultaneously relaxing and strange without Jeongin.
They were different – Chan was the explosive sun and Minho the observant moon – but they fit together at every edge.
Their relationship wasn't a flawless fairy tal, it was a daily labor of patience and devotion, and they wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
When they finished, domestic pragmatism took over. Both got up to clear the dishes, moving in sync that only years of living together allow.
“Yeah, we’re definitely getting old,” Chan laughed, drying his hands on a dish towel as he put away the last glass. “Eight years ago, we would’ve left everything where it was and gone straight to the bedroom. Now I can only think about what a mess this would be tomorrow morning.”
The laughter died away, replaced by a silence heavy with meaning. Minho leaned against the counter, feeling Chan’s warmth approach.
The older man wrapped his arms around Minho’s waist, pulling him close, his face tilting for the kiss that seemed inevitable.
But with a mischievous smile, Minho placed a hand on Chan’s chest and gently pushed him back.
“Hey! What was that for?” Chan asked, the frustration clear and almost cute on his face.
“One thing is missing,” Minho said, stepping out of the embrace and heading toward the living room. He returned and stood before a confused Chan, taking his hand. “You did a lot of talking today, now it’s my turn.”
Minho took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on Chan’s.
“I love you for your patience, for your music, and for the way you look at me. I love you even more for giving me the chance to be a father. Watching you with Jeongin makes me realize I chose the right man to share my life with. You are my foundation, Christopher.”
He handed him the bag, inside was a black velvet box. When Chan opened it, he found a solid silver bracelet with a small compass charm. On the back of the compass were engraved the coordinates of their home, and just below, the initials: C.M.J.
“So you never forget the way back home,” Minho whispered.
Chan didn’t wait any longer. He lunged forward, taking Minho’s lips with a burning urgency.
“I love you so much it actually hurts,” Chan murmured against his mouth, pulling back only a millimeter.
“I love you more, wolfie,” Minho replied, before wrapping his arms around Chan’s neck and pulling him into an even deeper kiss.