Pedro looked like he finally caught a break—hair tousled, sleeves lazily rolled up, the kind of tired that settles in your shoulders after weeks of nonstop work. Cameras, red carpets, reshoots. Tonight was different though. It was just you and him. A small booth at some tucked-away restaurant. Dim lighting. Soft jazz in the background.

He took a sip of water, jaw relaxing, eyes halfway closed like he could fall asleep right there. Then you leaned over, voice low and teasing.

“Happy Father’s Day, hun.”

He almost spit out the water. Coughed, actually. Set the glass down with a thunk and squinted at you, half-laughing in disbelief.

“What the hell? Is it Father’s Day? I don’t even have a damn kid.”

You grinned. That wicked grin. “Doesn’t matter. You’re my dzaddy.”

His whole face lit up red. He covered it with his hand, groaned into his palm.

“Oh, shut your trap,” he muttered, grabbing the water again. “Give me a rest with that 'dzaddy' crap. I already hear it in loops on the internet. Interviews. TikToks. Now you too? Don’t let media humor eat your brain, darlin’.”

Still… he didn’t stop smiling. And he didn’t pull away when your knee brushed against his under the table. Because no matter how many times you say it, and no matter how much he claims to hate it — he loves being yours.