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“We shouldn’t have come out,” Jake says, dead serious, as he adjusts a throw pillow for the fifth time. “This was a mistake. We should’ve kept the mystery. You know. Died with it.”
Bradley doesn’t even look up from where he’s elbow-deep in a slow cooker, stirring something that smells spicy and cheesy and probably illegal in five states. “Pretty sure that ship sailed when you texted the group chat ‘bring beer and questions.’ ”
Jake makes a distressed sound. “I was trying to be fun. ”
“You printed out laminated team rosters.”
“Someone needs to provide structure!” Jake snaps, clutching the edge of the coffee table like it personally wronged him. “You know how chaotic these people are. Reuben ate three sleeves of Oreos at Nat’s birthday. I’m not letting that happen to our charcuterie. ”
Bradley wipes his hands on a towel and crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around Jake from behind. “Baby. They’re just coming to eat chips, yell at the TV, and see if we’re weird about sharing a bathroom. Which we are, but that’s not the point.”
Jake leans back into the embrace for exactly three seconds before pulling away. “No, you don’t get it. This is the first time any of them have been in our house. Ever. We’ve lived here for years , and somehow we managed to keep them all out. They didn’t even know we lived together, let alone that we’re married. It’s not just a party. It’s a reveal. ”
“What if the cats fight, or they don’t like our sofa, or make fun of our lack of wedding photos? We have a brand to maintain, Bradley.” Jake continues.
Bradley raises an eyebrow. “You mean the real brand where you sit on my lap during movie nights or the brand they’ve known where you pretend to bitch at me and I pretend to let you get away with it?”
Jake freezes. “Don’t tell them that.”
“Sure, babe.”
There’s a beat of silence before Jake whispers, “Do you think Nat’s going to judge our choice of couch throws?”
Bradley doesn’t even flinch. “She already judged your throw pillow arrangement. She texted me a ranking.”
Jake gasps like he’s been stabbed. “Wait, really?!”
“No, idiot.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“But she will judge us, they all will . And we’ll survive.”
Now, they’re both in the dining room, working in tandem to cover the table with food. Some of it’s homemade—Bradley’s queso, a baked buffalo chicken dip, sliders that smell absurdly good. The rest is store-bought, because even Jake knew better than to suggest they make everything from scratch.
Wings—two kinds. Three if you count the bonus teriyaki pack Jake impulsively grabbed at the deli counter. A rainbow of chopped veggies, two types of hummus, three bags of tortilla chips, pretzel bites, a cheese board Jake insisted on making from scratch despite it mostly being Bradley slicing cheddar while Jake arranged salami roses.
They leave room at the end of the table, and a stretch of counter space next to the drinks—just in case the squad actually brings what they said they would. Although with this group, it’s 50/50 whether they show up with a six-pack or a single Tupperware of mystery dip.
Jake steps back, surveys the table with his hands on his hips, and grimaces. “Okay. I may have gone overboard at the grocery store.”
Bradley doesn’t look up from where he’s wiping down the edge of the counter. “You think?”
Jake ignores him. Glances over at the hallway, where Fleetwood is sitting like a gargoyle at the edge of the rug, staring at the door. Pickles is perched on the back of the couch, tail flicking anxiously. Jake bites his lip.
“Do you think the babies’ll be okay?” he asks quietly. “They probably think we don’t have any friends. I mean, they’ve only ever met Mav, Ice, and Caroline.”
Bradley turns to look at him, dry. “Jake. They’re cats.”
Jake frowns. “They’re sensitive. Fleetwood sulks when the mailman’s late. Pickles gets weird when I move the furniture.”
Bradley walks over, plants a kiss to his temple, and mutters, “They’ll be fine. You’re the one I’m worried about.”
Jake beams. “Love you too, Bradshaw.”
Bob’s the first one to show up.
Jake sees his car pull up a full twenty-five minutes early, and by the time the doorbell rings, he’s already sweating. He wipes his palms on his jeans and tries to look casual—even though he’s been pacing for the last two minutes rehearsing how to say “hey, welcome to our home that none of you have ever been inside, sorry for the secrets.”
He opens the door too fast. “Bob! Hey.”
“Hey,” Bob says, cheerful and easy like he hasn’t just stepped directly into a swirling hurricane of Jake’s own making. He’s holding a big Tupperware container and two scored loaves of bread wrapped in foil. It smells amazing.
Jake stares for a beat too long. “You, uh. You made bread?”
Bob nods. “Spinach and artichoke dip too. I thought the sourdough would be good for it—figured chips might break under the weight.”
Jake makes a helpless sort of noise and steps aside to let him in. “You brought—bread and dip? Like, homemade?”
Bradley’s already coming over to help, reaching out to take the Tupperware and one of the loaves. “Jesus, this smells incredible.”
“It’s really no big deal,” Bob says, and it’s said so humbly that Jake wants to scream a little.
“Wait,” Jake says, trailing them into the kitchen. “Like— you made the bread? From scratch? Like with the starter and everything?”
Bob shrugs, like this is a totally normal sentence to hear on Super Bowl Sunday. “Yeah, I’ve been keeping a starter going since last year. Her name’s Ruth.”
Jake stops walking. “You named your sourdough starter?”
“Of course,” Bob says, completely serious.
Bradley chuckles from the counter, already unwrapping the foil. “You’ve unleashed something,” he says under his breath. “He’s been dying for an excuse to talk about fermentation.”
“I just think it’s cool!” Jake says defensively. “Like… you can make bread. With science. And bacteria.”
Bob smiles politely. “I can send you the starter instructions if you want. Ruth has a sister batch I’ve been dividing.”
Jake turns to Bradley, wide-eyed. “I could have a daughter.”
Bradley sighs and puts the bread in a basket. “You already have two babies.”
Bradley finishes arranging the bread and dip and wipes his hands on a dish towel. “You want a drink, Bob?”
“Sure—whatever you’ve got is fine.”
Bradley nods. “We’ve got beer, seltzer, soda, whiskey if you’re feeling brave. I’ll grab something.” Then, with a subtle nudge to Jake’s side, he adds, “Why don’t you show Bob around?”
It’s not a suggestion, exactly. It’s Bradley code for go be a human, I’ll handle the fridge.
Jake clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Okay. Come on—tour time.”
Bob smiles, easygoing as ever, and follows Jake out of the kitchen and toward the living room. Jake gestures vaguely at the space. “So, uh—this is… the room. Where we… sit.”
“I see that,” Bob says kindly.
“TV works. Couch is comfy. That armchair is terrible but we keep it for, like, aesthetic reasons—Bradley says it balances the feng shui.”
Bob hums. “You have feng shui?”
Jake tilts his head. “We have Pinterest. Close enough.”
Bob chuckles, eyes skimming over the bookshelves, the throw blankets, the art on the walls—clearly taking in the space. Jake tries not to feel exposed by the fact that someone outside of their tiny inner circle is inside their home. It’s a weird kind of vulnerability. Like letting someone read your diary, but your diary has throw pillows and framed prints of national parks.
Bob glances down. “So where are the cats?”
Jake lights up. “Oh! They’re around.”
As if summoned, Fleetwood peeks around the corner, spots Bob, and immediately vanishes again like a Victorian ghost. Jake sighs fondly. “That was Fleetwood. She’s shy. She’ll observe you from a distance for the next four hours and possibly never let you touch her.”
“And Pickles?”
Jake grins and glances toward the couch. “That’s my boy.”
Sure enough, Pickles is lounging in the sunbeam by the window, looking like he owns the place. He perks up when Jake calls him over and even rolls a little onto his side.
“He’s younger, more social. Basically fearless. Watch this.”
Jake scoops him up gently, and Pickles doesn’t even blink—just starts purring, the little traitor. He turns him around so Bob can say hello.
“Bob, meet Pickles. He will try to climb your pant leg if you have snacks.”
Bob smiles and scratches under Pickles’s chin. “He’s adorable.”
Bradley appears then, holding a glass. “Beer okay?”
“Perfect,” Bob says, taking it with a grateful nod. “Thanks.”
They settle into an easy little triangle—Bob sipping his drink, Jake still holding Pickles, Bradley leaning one shoulder against the wall like he owns the place. For a second, everything feels oddly… normal.
“So,” Bob says after a sip, “this is a great place. You guys did good.”
Jake flushes a little. “Thanks. We, uh… it’s the first time anyone’s really seen it.”
Bradley’s gaze softens, and he squeezes Jake’s hip gently on his way past. “Well, they’re gonna love it. Just like I love your disaster charcuterie board.”
“ Rude, ” Jake mutters, but Pickles purrs louder, like he’s offended on Jake’s behalf.
The doorbell rings again just as Pickles decides he’s finished being a prop and leaps out of Jake’s arms to saunter off somewhere more dramatic. Jake hears the telltale sound of snickering before he even reaches the door.
He opens it to find Rueben and Mickey standing side by side, both grinning like they just got away with something.
“ Married married, huh?” Rueben says by way of greeting, eyebrows raised.
“I feel betrayed, ” Mickey adds, dramatically clutching his chest. “You lied to us.”
Jake sighs but steps aside. “Come in, clowns.”
They sweep into the house like they own it—Mickey immediately turning in a slow circle to take it all in while Rueben beelines for the smell of food.
“I’m serious,” Mickey calls over his shoulder. “I need to see the cats immediately. You were all worried last month about them maybe having a cold or feline depression or something, and I never even met them.”
Jake rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You’re the one who said— and I quote —‘I’m not emotionally prepared to get attached to an animal I’ve never met.’”
“I stand by that,” Mickey says solemnly.
Bradley appears from the kitchen, a fresh drink in each hand. “Beer for Rueben, seltzer for Mickey?”
“God, I love it here,” Rueben says, grabbing his drink like it’s the first beverage he’s ever received. “It’s like a hotel but gay and judgmental.”
Jake, feeling oddly lighter now, jerks a thumb toward the couch. “Pickles is around. Fleetwood’s in her crypt somewhere.”
Pickles, as if on cue, trots back into the room with all the pomp of a cat that knows he’s about to get attention. Jake scoops him up again, turning to face Mickey.
“This is Pickles. He’s very social and very into shoes.”
Mickey’s face lights up. “Oh my god, he’s perfect. Hello, sir.”
Pickles gives a little chirp and leans into Mickey’s hand when he scratches behind his ears.
“He’s flirting,” Rueben observes. “He gets it from Jake.”
Jake flips him off affectionately. “You wish you had my charm.”
Bradley sidles up beside him, resting a hand on the small of Jake’s back like it’s second nature. No hiding. No pretending they don’t share a life. No need to let go when someone else walks in the room.
And weirdly, for the first time since this whole Super Bowl Party of Doom was suggested, Jake doesn’t feel like the world is ending.
Just… beginning to unfold a little.
They’re barely a few minutes into chatting when Jake clocks it—no bags, no foil, no Tupperware, no suspiciously warm containers balanced on paper plates.
He squints at Mickey. “You didn’t bring anything.”
Mickey shrugs, completely unbothered. “I brought my sparkling personality. And I told Rueben to handle it this time.”
Rueben blinks, then visibly startles. “Oh shit. I left the mac and cheese in the car!”
He spins on his heel and bolts back toward the front door, nearly tripping over Pickles, who’s already in the process of investigating Rueben’s shoelaces.
Jake sighs, turning back to Mickey. “You let him be in charge of the food?”
“He said he was feeling ‘chef energy,’” Mickey says, settling onto the couch like a man with no regrets. “Who am I to get in the way of a spiritual calling?”
Jake opens his mouth to respond, but the front door opens again before he can.
Rueben’s back—and not alone.
Natasha Trace strides in behind him, a bottle of red wine tucked under one arm and a judgemental expression tucked under the other. She surveys the room like she’s assessing structural integrity, and for a second, Jake instinctively straightens up.
“Hey, Nat,” he says, trying for casual.
She raises a brow. “Nice of you to finally invite us into the secret domestic paradise. It’s very you. The lighting is flattering. The art choices are suspiciously mature.”
Jake blinks. “Thank… you?”
“You’re welcome,” she says, sweeping past him and handing the wine to Bradley, who accepts it with a smile that borders on diplomatic.
“Thanks, Nat. We’ve got some glasses in the kitchen, if you want to—”
“I’ll find them,” she says, already milling about the kitchen.
Rueben, now holding a large foil-covered tray, shrugs as he sets it on the counter. “Found her loitering near my car. Said she didn’t trust me to carry hot food without supervision.”
“She’s not wrong,” Mickey calls from the couch.
Jake watches them all—Bradley uncorking the wine, Bob still sipping beer, Rueben trying to act like he didn’t almost forget the only thing he was asked to bring, and Nat already reorganizing their wine glasses because apparently they were in the wrong cabinet.
And yeah, it’s chaos.
But it’s their chaos now.
Five minutes before kickoff, Jake’s just about to start mocking the concept of punctuality when the doorbell rings again.
He opens it to find Javy standing there with a bakery box in one hand and a sheepish grin in the other.
“I brought cookies,” he says.
Jake squints. “Store-bought?”
“They have sprinkles.”
Jake sighs and waves him in.
By the time they make it back to the kitchen, everyone’s clustered around the food table, plates in hand, picking at dips and wings like they’ve been starved. Nat’s already judged the buffalo-chicken dip. Mickey’s on his third slider. Rueben is dangerously close to eating the good cheese without crackers.
And Bob? Bob’s cutting his sourdough like a man on a mission.
The pregame show is winding down on the TV, commentary fading into hype packages and stadium shots, and people start drifting toward the living room. It’s a tight fit, but the couch and armchairs take a couple, and the rest grab cushions or sit cross-legged on the floor. Plates balance on knees. Drinks wedge into coastered corners.
Jake watches it all happen—his home, filled with noise and people and warmth.
His friends.
He lingers a second longer than he means to, then walks over and intends to slide down to sit cross-legged on the floor, directly in front of where Bradley’s already settled into the couch.
He doesn’t even get a chance to adjust before strong arms hook under his shoulders and pull him backwards into a warm, firm chest.
“Bradley—” Jake hisses, flailing slightly as his plate wobbles.
But Bradley just tucks him close and presses a kiss to the side of his head, completely unfazed.
Jake freezes.
He can feel everyone watching.
“Oh my god, ” Mickey says through a mouthful of chips. “Did you see that?”
“Adorable,” Rueben declares.
Nat sips her wine, smug. “I knew you guys were cuddly.”
Jake groans, flushing scarlet. “Can we not do this right now? The game’s about to start.”
Bradley smirks above him, all lazy and satisfied. “You were gonna sit on the floor. I improvised.”
“I was trying to be lowkey. ”
“You’re married to me. That ship sailed.”
Bob nods solemnly from his cushion. “Honestly, this feels right.”
Jake glares around the room as everyone chuckles, but he doesn’t move. Mostly because Bradley’s arms are still wrapped around him, and if he’s being honest with himself, it’s kind of perfect.
Embarrassing. But perfect.
The game’s well into the second quarter. Jake’s still planted on his lap, body warm and easy now, curled like he belongs there—which, okay, he does, but it’s still a little surreal having him on him like this, in front of all their friends. The room’s a mess of plates and half-drunk cans and arguments about calls no one’s emotionally invested in, since none of them actually care about either team. They just want drama and snacks.
Bradley’s content. Almost relaxed.
Then the doorbell rings.
Everyone quiets for a half-second and glances around.
They weren’t expecting anyone else.
Jake starts to move like he’s going to get it, but Bradley taps his hip. “I got it.”
Jake lifts his head. “You sure?”
Bradley kisses him once, quick and soft. “Yeah. Keep Rueben from eating the dip straight with a spoon.”
He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and heads toward the door with a creeping sense of unease. When he opens it, that unease solidifies into horror.
Maverick is standing there with a grin like he knew this would cause problems.
Ice is next to him, holding a bottle of whiskey and giving him a smile that somehow manages to be both gentle and judgmental.
“Hey, Baby Goose,” Mav says, stepping around Bradley to enter the house. Ice moves forward to hug him.
Bradley hugs back automatically. “Hi, son,” Ice murmurs, like this is a normal surprise pop-in.
“Hey… guys,” Bradley says cautiously, pulling back. “Why are you here?”
Mav breezes right past him into the house, already toeing off his sneakers. “You invited us. Been talking about this in the Daggers group chat for like two weeks.”
Bradley makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. “You never respond to anything in that chat.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t read it,” Mav calls over his shoulder.
Bradley stares at the ceiling for a moment like maybe divine intervention will teleport him away.
It doesn’t.
He turns around and walks back toward the living room with Ice, who sets the whiskey down neatly on the kitchen counter and gives him a small pat on the shoulder before following Mav.
The room is frozen.
Nat’s wine glass is paused mid-air. Rueben’s mouth is open. Javy is squinting like he’s hallucinating. Mickey is mouthing no fucking way at Bob, who looks like he’s about to salute on instinct.
Jake, meanwhile, lights up like a damn sunrise.
“Oh my god, ” he says, already scrambling to his feet. “You came!”
Bradley watches, horrified, as Jake practically beams at Ice.
“Of course we did,” Ice says calmly, clearly pleased. “Wouldn’t miss your first real hosting gig.”
Jake actually blushes. “We made sliders! And Bob brought bread! And there’s a cheese board—”
“I saw,” Ice says, smiling more now, eyes soft. “You did a great job.”
Bradley wants to melt into the floor.
Jake glances at him over his shoulder, so smug. “See? He gets it.”
Mav, now holding a wing and already halfway onto the couch, adds, “Hope we’re not crashing. We figured, you know, open invite.”
“Sure,” Bradley mutters. “Open. Great.”
Javy leans in toward Nat and whispers, “I figured Ice liked Seresin. Didn’t know he liked him more than Bradley. ”
“Bold of you to assume he doesn’t,” Nat whispers back.
Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders why he didn’t just lie about their address.
Bradley watches, somewhere between mortified and deeply entertained, as Jake practically sprints to the kitchen to get Ice a drink.
“I’ll get the wine! Nat brought a good bottle! Do you like reds? Of course you do, hang on—”
Ice, unbothered by Jake’s flurry, drifts toward the windowsill where Pickles is sunbathing like a little loaf of judgment.
He bends slightly, scoops Pickles up with practiced ease, and coos, “Hi, baby. Look at you, soaking up the sun. Grandbaby number two. You’re such a good boy.”
From across the room, Mickey mutters, stunned, “ I’m watching the USINDOPACOM cuddle a cat. ”
Bradley doesn’t even have the energy to respond. Just watches in dumbstruck awe as Ice carries Pickles over to the couch where Jake had just vacated a spot next to Javy.
Ice gestures slightly, cat still nestled in his arms. “Is this seat taken?”
Javy nearly swallows his tongue. “No, sir.”
Ice’s expression softens, just a little. “Tom is fine.”
Bradley chokes on his own laugh, and Nat quietly sips her wine like she’s witnessing a religious event.
Ice sits, elegant as ever, settling Pickles in his lap like the cat was born to be doted on by navy royalty.
Jake returns a moment later with a glass of red, eyes bright with the kind of pride usually reserved for promotions or pie crusts that come out perfectly golden. He hands the glass over carefully.
“I decanted it,” he says, like that’ll earn him extra points.
Ice smiles. “Thank you, son.”
Bradley watches as Maverick appears again, now holding a paper plate piled with sliders, wings, and a stack of pretzel bites like he’s preparing for hibernation. He flops down right on the floor at Ice’s feet, leaning back against the couch without ceremony.
Bradley surveys the scene—his husband standing there like Ice just gave him a gold star, Mav already stealing a sip from Ice’s wine, Pickles purring in his grandfather’s lap, and every single Dagger either gawking or pretending not to gawk.
He exhales slowly, then claps his hands once. “Well. I guess this is how it’s gonna be.”
He looks around for space and finds a patch of rug near the coffee table.
As he lowers himself down, he gestures vaguely at the couch. “Everyone, you all know Mav. This is his husband, Tom. Aka the Iceman. And all of our boss’s boss’s boss. They both pretty much raised me. So. Welcome to the extended family.”
Bob nods like someone just confirmed a theory he’d been quietly working on for months.
Rueben whispers, “This is the weirdest Super Bowl of my life.”
Javy still hasn’t unclenched.
And Jake? Jake sinks down next to Bradley with a grin that says this is the best day of my life.
Bradley sighs. “At least you’re not freaking out anymore.”
Somewhere barely into the fourth quarter—after a solid touchdown, a botched field goal—Ice and Mav start gathering their things.
They do it without fanfare. No speeches. Just a quiet shift in energy as Ice sets his empty wine glass in the sink and Mav wipes wing sauce off his fingers with a paper napkin.
Bradley catches the change immediately. So does Jake, who looks up from the floor, a little startled.
Ice steps over first. He gives Bradley a firm hug—quiet and grounding like always—and then pulls Jake in too. Jake melts into it, soft and wordless, and Ice murmurs something low and warm into his ear that Bradley doesn’t quite catch, but Jake nods like he’s just been handed a medal.
Mav waves to the group with a cheerful, “Thanks for feeding us,” like they haven’t completely disrupted the structural hierarchy of the room for the past hour.
Jake walks them to the door. They slip out into the night, coats draped over their arms.
Bradley glances around the room in the silence that follows.
He can tell the Daggers are all trying not to stand and salute. Nat has her hands in her lap and a wine glass clutched in her fingers like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the civilian world. Bob’s posture is so rigid he might as well be back in formation. Even Rueben, who’s made a career out of pretending he doesn’t care about rank, has gone quiet.
Bradley clears his throat. “You can breathe now. They’re gone.”
Javy exhales loudly. “That was terrifying. And kind of incredible.”
Mickey just shakes his head. “The Iceman held a cat. ”
The game rolls on. Chips crunch. Drinks are topped off. No one really cares who wins anymore.
It’s just… naval aviators watching football. Throwing popcorn. Yelling at missed tackles. Someone makes a late-game joke about requesting air support for the offensive line, and the whole room loses it.
Eventually, the game ends. The snacks dwindle. The warmth lingers.
People start to trickle out one by one, buzzing with comfort and alcohol and the surprising ease of a night that probably should’ve been weird but wasn’t. Jake hugs everyone, because of course he does, and Bradley walks people out to their Ubers with a quiet “thanks for coming” and “text us when you get home.”
Then it’s just the two of them.
The silence is heavier than before but not unwelcome. The kind of silence that feels earned.
They start cleaning without needing to say much. Plates stacked, glasses rinsed, counters wiped down.
Jake bumps his hip into Bradley’s at the sink. “We survived.”
Bradley hands him a sponge. “Barely. You see Bob try to salute Ice with his eyes ?”
Jake snorts. “I thought Javy was gonna faint when Mav asked him to pass the ranch.”
They fall into step, like always.
Dishes. Drying rack. Crumbs swept into Jake’s hand and brushed into the trash. Bradley starts loading the dishwasher while Jake finishes off the last cookie from Javy’s box like it’s a reward.
Bradley glances over, fond. “So. Thoughts?”
Jake leans against the counter, chewing. “Honestly?”
Bradley nods.
Jake smiles, soft and real. “I think we threw a damn good party.”
Bradley tilts his head. “I think we let your cat sit on a four-star admiral and no one died.”
Jake grins. “Pickles has excellent taste.”
Bradley rolls his eyes and nudges his husband with his hip. “You did good.”
Jake leans in close, voice warm against Bradley’s ear. “We did.”
Bradley kisses him once, quiet and tired and happy. Then pulls back and says, “Next year, someone else’s hosting.”
Jake smirks. “Agreed. But admit it—you kind of liked showing off.”
Bradley shrugs. “Maybe.”
And they keep cleaning.
Together.
The last of the dishes are done. The house is quiet, finally, the kind of quiet that settles into your bones. Most of the lights are off except for the soft glow above the stove. Somewhere nearby, Fleetwood prowls in search of crumbs, and Pickles is already curled up on the back of the couch like he’s claimed it for the night.
Bradley turns to find Jake still at the counter, fingers lightly drumming against the edge, towel forgotten on his shoulder. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—contentment, maybe. Or the tail end of nerves.
Bradley walks over and stops in front of him, close enough that their knees brush.
Jake looks up. His voice is quieter than before. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Jake swallows. “Thanks for tonight.”
Bradley tilts his head, a little confused. “You planned it.”
“I know.” Jake’s eyes drop to the counter, then back to Bradley’s. “But I was scared. Letting everyone in. Letting them see this part of us. I kept thinking it’d feel like… giving something up. But it didn’t. It felt—good.”
Bradley waits, lets him get there.
Jake exhales. “You’ve been patient with me. Through all of it. I know I drag my feet when it comes to letting people see things too close. But tonight, it was easy. Because you made it easy.”
Bradley reaches out, cups Jake’s cheek gently. His thumb traces the edge of his jaw, slow and warm.
“You don’t owe anyone anything, Jake,” he says. “But I’m glad you let them in. I’m really proud of you.”
Jake leans into the touch. “I love you,” he whispers, voice soft and sure.
Bradley doesn’t hesitate. “I love you.”
Then he kisses him—slow and deep, an anchor and a promise all at once. Jake melts into it, arms curling around his waist, forehead resting against Bradley’s when they finally part.
They don’t need to say anything else.
They just turn off the light and head to bed, fingers laced, two cats trailing behind like shadows.