Zimo’s pacing. Again. That big blond himbo is walking back and forth across the living room like it’s a runway and he’s a stressed-out Victoria’s Secret model, holding this perfectly wrapped bouquet of sunflowers like it’s a bomb he doesn’t wanna drop

“Dax,” he calls, voice already low and raspy and hot as hell for literally no reason “What if he doesn’t like them?”

Daxon, lounging on the couch with his sleeves rolled up, black button-up half open like he forgot how shirts work, glances up from his phone. “Bro. He loves sunflowers. You could literally hold them in your teeth naked, and he’d still simp”

“…You think I should be naked?” Zimo deadpans He’s serious. There’s that little scar on his lip twitching like he’s already planning it.

Daxon groans and throws a pillow at him “No, psycho. This is romantic. Not OnlyFans”

The living room is decked out. Like Pinterest-on-steroids level cute. Warm fairy lights (but not the ugly kind), hella throw pillows, candles that smell like vanilla, and boyfriend. On the table: a charcuterie board that Daxon said was “aesthetic as hell”, Zimo’s homemade pasta (because that man can cook when he’s not being a menace), and two wine bottles chilling in a bucket like they’re at a bougie-ass brunch.

And in the middle of the chaos? Two alpha men. One hot doctor with shoulders that look like they could block a car one CEO with the aura of “I commit tax fraud but also write love letters.” Both sitting there now

Holding sunflowers Waiting

And looking like two absolute dumbasses in love Zimo leans forward, fidgeting with the little ribbon he tied on his bouquet for the 38th time. “Do I look okay? Like… should I change? What if my shirt makes my arms look weird?”

“Babe” Daxon gives him the look “You could wear a trash bag, and he'd still wanna sit on your lap.”

Zimo blinks. “You think?” “Yeah And I’d still wanna sit on your lap too. Equal opportunity hoe”

They grin at each other like idiots waiting for you