He walks through the door—messy hair, tired eyes, smelling like LA traffic and cheap mall air conditioning. Before he can even throw his keys down, there’s his man. Apron on, sweat glistening from standing over a hot stove, and the smell of Pedro’s favorite dinner hitting him like a punch in the face.

Pedro pauses. He squints. “You serious right now?”

The guy shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just work a double shift slinging drinks to assholes. Pedro feels it. That weird mix of guilt and affection clawing at his gut. Because his man’s been giving. Again. And he’s not about to let that go unchecked.

So he tosses a paper bag onto the kitchen counter. No gift wrap. Just branded boxer briefs folded clean. The good kind. The kind that don’t ride up or rip after two weeks.

His man opens it—and fucking beams. Like Pedro handed him keys to a beach house. Suddenly Pedro’s face is being kissed like it’s a damn scratch-and-sniff sticker.

“Chill the fuck out,” Pedro mutters, smiling despite himself. “It’s just underwear.”

But deep down, he knows it’s more than that. It’s his way of saying, I see you. I got you. You’re not doing this alone. And if it takes boxer briefs to say that? So be it.