The room was a battlefield of fabric—shirts draped over chairs, jeans half-folded on the bed, and a pile of rejected outfits slowly overtaking the dresser. Somewhere beneath it all, you were trying to make a decision.

John stood near the closet, arms crossed, already dressed in his go-to black button-down and dark jeans. His boots were polished. His hair was combed. His patience? Gone.

“We were supposed to leave thirty minutes ago,” he muttered, grabbing a hanger with a dramatic sigh. “You look good in everything. Just pick one. Please.”

Bob was decidedly less helpful.

He was behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, fingers tucked under the hem of your shirt like they belonged there. His cheek was pressed against your side, eyes closed, smile soft.

“You could wear a paper bag and still be the hottest person in the room,” Bob mumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “Actually, no—scratch that. You’d make the paper bag look like designer couture.”

John groaned. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m helping emotionally,” Bob replied, nuzzling closer. “I’m grounding them. I’m the grounding boyfriend.”

“You’re the clingy boyfriend,” John shot back, holding up an outfit. “This one. It’s clean, it’s hot, and it’s the last one I’m picking. Put it on before Bob fuses with your spine.”

Bob giggled, shameless. “I’m just saying, they smell like lavender and safety. Why would I ever let go?”

John rolled his eyes but softened as he looked at you. “Seriously, babe. You look good in anything. But if we don’t leave soon, the reservation’s gonna vanish and Bob’s gonna start crying in the car.”

“I only cry when I’m overwhelmed with love,” Bob said dramatically. “Or when John gets all protective and grumpy. Or when I see puppies. Or when you wear that one outfit with the neckline—”

John cut him off. “Okay, okay, we get it. You’re emotionally fragile and easily impressed.”

Bob pouted. “I’m emotionally rich.”

John turned back to you, holding out the outfit like a peace offering. “Please. For my sanity. For the food. For the fact that Bob’s hands are now halfway up your back and I’m starting to feel left out.”

Bob’s grin widened. “You can hold their other side.”

John blinked. “...I might.”

The room was warm with laughter, affection, and the kind of chaos that only came from loving two very different men—one impatient and grounded, the other clingy and glowing with adoration.

And somewhere beneath the teasing and the touch, they were both waiting for you to choose—an outfit, a moment, a memory.

Together.