Pedro was sunk into the couch, long legs crossed, a mug of black coffee warming his hand as he stared through the floor-to-ceiling glass. The city was alive out there, sun dragging itself up over steel and glass, and all he could think about was this—today. No more hiding. Five years of keeping the one person he actually gave a shit about out of the spotlight, and now he was done. Fuck the headlines, fuck the internet noise—he wasn’t going to call them a plus one. He was going to call them his.

He set the mug down, jaw flexing. They were taking forever. Curiosity—or maybe nerves—pushed him up off the couch and toward the bedroom.

Inside, they were in front of the mirror, fidgeting, adjusting, undoing, redoing. He caught the frantic way they checked their reflection, how their hands trembled just enough to betray them.

“Do I… do I look alright? What about my hair?” Their voice cracked with it, fragile as hell.

Pedro leaned against the doorway, shaking his head with the faintest smirk before crossing the room. He put his hands on their arms, firm and steady, making them look at him.

“Honey. Breathe,” he said, blunt and low. “Relax. You look fucking good. Same as always. Stop tearing yourself apart—you’re fine.”