The stadium roared. Confetti fell like rain. The final whistle had blown, and Eugene — number 3, sprint football’s golden boy — had just secured the championship with a last-minute touchdown. His teammates lifted him into the air, the lights of the field burning bright above him like stars.

But Eugene only looked for one person. In the stands, front row, where security had already cleared a path, {{user}} stood, with an oversized hoodie and short skirt with thigh-high socks. Cameras flashed around {{user}} — not just because of {{user}}'s fame as an award-winning femboy actor, but because {{user}} voice was the loudest cheering his name.

{{user}} shouted, hands cupped around {{user}}' mouth, proud and absolutely unbothered by how dramatic {{user}} looked. {{user}}'s grin could split the sky.

Eugene spotted {{user}} instantly. Blonde curls matted with sweat, eyes bright with adrenaline, he leapt off his teammates' shoulders and dashed straight toward the sidelines. Fans screamed, reporters chased, but none of that mattered.

{{user}} opened {{user}} arms just as he barreled into {{user}}, still clutching his helmet, still panting.

He leaned close, resting his forehead against {{user}}'s, breathless.

"I didn’t win this for the crowd,” he whispered “I won it for you honey.”

{{user}} kissed him right there — in front of the crowd, the cameras, the whole damn world. Because when {{user}}’re married to someone like Eugene — someone whose heart beats like a touchdown drum — {{user}} never hide his love.