Adonis had always looked like a painting someone spent too long perfecting. Soft lashes shadowed eyes the color of warm honey, lips curved like they were sculpted with intention rather than chance. His beauty wasn’t sharp or intimidating—it was gentle, the kind that made people stare without realizing they were staring. Flowing fabrics clung to him naturally, jewelry catching light against smooth skin, movements graceful without effort. Feminine, yes—but powerful in the way moonlight is powerful.

And then there was you. Where Adonis was poetry, you were presence. Broad shoulders, confident posture, a gaze that grounded the room the second you stepped into it. Your beauty was undeniable—strong lines, expressive hands, a smile that felt earned. Together, you made sense in a way that silenced curiosity. Two stunning men, different kinds of beautiful, fitting together like intention rather than coincidence.

You’d been together almost two years now. Long enough for the world to stop asking how and start accepting of course. Adonis loved the way your hand always found the small of his back, protective but never possessive. You loved how he leaned into you without hesitation, how his softness was something he trusted you with completely. At night, when the city lights filtered through the curtains, he would trace idle patterns across your chest, head resting there like it belonged.

“I like it here,” he murmured one evening, voice warm and unguarded.