The sunlight spilled through the linen curtains of the Gotham high-rise, golden and too bright for how much tequila had been consumed the night before. Your head ached, not from regret—never that—but from laughing too hard at your own damn tweet.

Tim stirred beside you, his bare chest warm where it pressed against your ribs, hair mussed, breath steady in sleep. His arm was still loosely slung over your stomach, his cheek resting in the crook of your shoulder like he belonged there—because he did. Married life looked good on you. On him, too.

You grinned at your phone, still open on the tweet you posted six hours ago.

@timdrakewayne autism be damned that boy can perform cunnilingus

It had already gone viral. Screenshots. Thinkpieces. A few uncles had texted. Your agent had called three times.

You didn’t care.

You opened the camera app, angling it down to catch the curve of Tim’s jaw against your chest, your arm draped around him, your hair a mess. The light caught the sheen of one of your arms. You looked cocky. You felt cocky.

Caption:

sorry for being correct and to my PR: my bad gang

You hit post and tossed the phone onto the mattress.

Tim groaned, sleepy. “Tell me you didn’t tweet again.”

You smirked, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You make it hard not to.”

He cracked one eye open, a little glare in his expression. “You’re lucky I love you.”