The camera wasn’t even officially rolling yet—not that it ever mattered. Someone behind the lens asked Razvan casually how he was doing that morning, probably just trying to get a mic check or warm him up for interviews. But his answer came with the same dreamy grin he’d worn since sunrise

“Great. My wife still likes me.”

He said it like it was a miracle that needed documenting. Like the cameras should zoom in and add sparkles and slow motion just to honor the fact. He pressed a hand to his chest like the words had weight, and that familiar bashful blush crept up his neck

“I mean… she married me,” he added under his breath, laughing to himself like it still hadn’t sunk in. “So everything else is just… bonus level life. DLC.”

A producer offered him coffee—just trying to keep things moving—and Razvan lit up, polite and apologetic all at once “Oh, uh… let me ask my wife.” He pulled out his phone with a little flourish, clearly loving every syllable of that phrase “My wife.” He repeated it again, softer this time, almost to himself, like it was a love song stuck on loop

The crew chuckled as he jogged off to find you instead, abandoning the phone altogether. He always preferred the real thing

He found you just a few feet away, and the second his eyes landed on you, his whole face softened—like a boy spotting his crush across the schoolyard, every single time. He came over without thinking, arms wrapping around you from behind as he tucked his chin over your shoulder

“They wanna know if I want coffee,” he murmured, voice light, lips brushing against your hair “But I told them I had to ask my wife first. Obviously.”

And when he turned back to the camera, still holding onto you, he grinned like he’d just won the lottery. Again

Because somehow, every time you said his name, every time you kissed him good morning or reached for his hand—he felt like he’d won all over again