Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

David Rose had not, in fact, planned to be in his mid-thirties, single, and on television. Or—fine—thirty-eight, which is still technically your mid-thirties if you tilt your head and squint. The point was, he was not old, there was still time, and this whole Married at First Sight thing was supposed to be casual. A way to fill his calendar and, incidentally, give the show the excitement of a celebrity special, because he was so generous like that.

David wasn’t famous exactly. But he was… visible. Known. Stylish enough that Twitter occasionally debated whether he was underappreciated or overrated. But his mother would be at his wedding and bringing a certain star appeal. Moira Rose (soap opera icon, national treasure, owner of approximately seven wigs the public had names for). Though the producers seemed even more excited that Alexis, of semi-successful reality show ‘A Little Bit Alexis’ would be walking him down the aisle.

Speaking of Alexis, David being about to add “televised groom” to his résumé, was all down to her. And a drunken night of brie and Pinot Grigio, but mainly because of his sister insisting that “reality TV weddings are literally so cute and trending right now,”.

What he had not counted on was the sheer invasive detail of the process. Entire afternoons of talking through his dating history with producers, as though a string of exes cheating on him was riveting content rather than a tragic pattern. He’d embroidered the truth a little—left out the fact that every breakup had ended with someone calling him “too much.” No need to hand the editors meme material on a silver platter.

Safe. That was his brief. Someone loyal, sensible, grounded. The kind of person who would stand beside him at a tasteful but extravagant wedding, smile appropriately for the cameras, and then accompany him to a glamorous honeymoon where they would be chic, photogenic, and entirely meme-proof.

And—fine—he may have also admitted, under duress, that he was a total romantic. That he lived for a good rom-com, cried over period dramas, and had strong opinions on every musical with a swoony ballad. If they could find someone who would occasionally hold his hand and not cheat on him? That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

“Oh my God, why did I agree to this?” David was pacing in the hotel room trying to ignore the camera catching his mild meltdown. “Is it too late to sneak out the back? I know I signed a contract but surely a runaway bride episode would be great television.”

Stevie just rolled her eyes and turned to face David from where she had been doing her hair in the mirror.
“Can you just sit down? We both know you’re not running anywhere.”

David stopped in his tracks and looked at her incredulously. “Sit down? In this outfit? Hardly.”

“Well, if you’re thinking that you aren’t going to get married, what does it matter if you crease your skirt?”

“This is Tom Ford. My morals as far as seeing this wedding through may be questionable, but I haven’t completely lost my mind.”

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door and in came Alexis, dressed in a white floor-length gown that no one on the show seemed to think to do something about when she presented it weeks ago.

Alexis swept into the room with the exaggerated grace of someone who had been rehearsing her entrance all morning. She gave David a once-over, beaming.
“David, you look incredible. Like, if Tom Ford had a baby with—” she paused for dramatic effect, “—Harry Styles’ red carpet stylist, and that baby grew up to design your wedding look.”

David lifted a hand, silencing her before she could continue. “I am aware that I look incredible, Alexis. What I am less aware of is why my stomach feels like it’s hosting a Cirque du Soleil audition.”

Stevie raised an eyebrow. “Maybe because you’re about to marry a total stranger on national television?”

“Yes, thank you, Stevie, for the helpful reminder,” David snapped, pacing again. He clutched at the lapels of his jacket, trying to keep his hands busy. “This was supposed to be… casual. Fun. You know—great wardrobe, good lighting, a free honeymoon. Now suddenly I’m expected to… actually have feelings?”

Alexis perched on the edge of the chair, annoyingly serene. “Well, that’s kind of the point of Married at First Sight. Like, the whole first sight thing.”

David shot her a glare. “Yes, but first sight was supposed to mean: Oh, hello, you’re attractive in a neutral, sensible way, let’s hold hands politely for the cameras. Not—” he waved his hands vaguely— “whatever stomach-churning cocktail of emotions this is.”

There was another knock—sharper this time. A production assistant poked their head in. “Two minutes, David. We’re ready for you.”

David felt his chest tighten. Two minutes. Two minutes until he saw who they thought was his “perfect match.” Two minutes until—possibly—the rest of his life. He suddenly pictured standing at the altar, cameras rolling, and locking eyes with someone… god forbid… unfortunate. But then, just as quickly, another image took hold: someone smiling at him, someone grounding, someone he might actually want to like him back. His throat went dry.

He pressed a hand to his face. “This is insane. Who does this? Who just—marries a stranger?”

“You do,” Stevie said flatly. “Now move, you’re blocking the mirror.”

David muttered something about how unhelpful everyone was, but his feet carried him toward the door anyway. The hallway was buzzing with producers and cameras, all of them orchestrating this like some grand ballet.

David straightened his jacket, lifted his chin, and stepped forward.

The music swelled, and Alexis looped her arm through David’s with a little squeal of excitement that was wholly inappropriate for the gravity of the situation.

“Okay, David, it’s time,” she whispered, tugging him gently toward the doors.

David’s stomach dropped. “Oh my God. Oh my God. This is happening.” His voice came out higher than he intended, like he was halfway to hyperventilating. He dug in his heels. “Wait, Alexis, I think I’m having a cardiac event.”

She rolled her eyes, patting his hand. “You’re fine. You look amazing. And if you pass out, honestly? That would be iconic television.”

The doors opened.

A collective hush rippled through the room as they began to walk. David felt like every eye was trained on him, counting his steps, cataloguing every twitch of his face. His palms were sweating, his throat tight. He fixed his gaze somewhere vaguely ahead, determined not to trip, determined not to let this moment be immortalized as another meme.

And then the man at the end of the aisle turned.

His heart lurched violently in his chest. Oh my God.

That was his husband.

It was subtle at first — a shift of shoulders, a tilt of his head — but then David saw his face. Really saw him.

The man’s expression wasn’t just polite or performative, not the kind of carefully curated reaction you’d give for the cameras. It was — real. His eyes lit up, warm and unguarded, as if he’d been waiting all day just for this. He looked at David like the room had fallen away, like the cameras, the crew, the audience didn’t exist.

And David Rose, who had signed up for this whole thing under the guise of irony and good lighting, suddenly found himself desperately hoping that this stranger—this impossibly attractive stranger—would look at him and think he was worth it.

David’s breath caught in his chest.

For a split second, the panic quieted. All the spiraling thoughts, the worry about how he looked, about whether he’d chosen the right shoes, about if his foundation would melt under the lights — all of it dimmed under that gaze.

He was… grounded. Solid. Someone who looked like he belonged in the real world instead of David’s fragile, curated one. Someone who looked like he could hold the weight David never admitted he carried.

David’s instinct was to look away, to hide behind a quip or a perfectly timed eye-roll. But he couldn’t. He was caught. And as terrifying as that was, there was a flicker — tiny, stubborn — of something else too.

Hope.

Beside him, Alexis squeezed his arm like she knew. “Told you,” she whispered under her breath, grinning.

David forced his chin higher, as though the tilt of his head could disguise how utterly undone he felt. But inside, he was already reeling, already dangerously close to believing that maybe — just maybe — this wasn’t going to be the disaster he’d braced himself for.

When they reached the end of the aisle, Alexis slipped her arm free with a triumphant little smile, leaving David face-to-face with his husband. His husband.

The man smiled — not a television smile, not a stiff “I’ve just met a stranger and there are cameras on us” smile. It was soft, genuine, steady. The kind of smile that felt like it had been saved just for David.

“Hi,” He said warmly, extending a hand before hesitating, his eyes flicking to David’s. “I’m Patrick. It’s really nice to meet you.”

David blinked. He was acutely aware of every camera angle, every extra second of silence stretching out, but his brain seemed to be buffering. He reached out, shook Patrick’s hand — firm, steady, oh god, his hands were warm — and croaked, “David. Hi. Yes. David.”

Patrick’s smile widened, just a touch, like he found the repetition endearing instead of strange. “David,” he echoed, almost reassuringly. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

And then, so carefully it felt like an offer rather than an expectation, Patrick tilted his head. “Can I… Would you like a hug?” His tone was respectful, polite, but there was something in his eyes that said you look like you might need one.

David opened his mouth, then closed it again, caught between the instinct to refuse — public affection, cameras, wardrobe creases — and the sudden, unignorable pull toward yes. “Um… yes. Hug. Sure. Hugging.”

Patrick’s arms folded around him in a brief, warm embrace, just enough pressure to be steadying, not so much to be overwhelming. And David, stiff at first, surprised himself by leaning into it for half a second too long.

When they pulled apart, David smoothed the front of his jacket with unnecessary precision, eyes darting anywhere but Patrick’s face. “So. Yes. David,” he said again, because apparently that was the only functioning word left in his vocabulary.

Patrick chuckled softly — not unkindly, but like he understood. Like he’d already decided that this nervous, overarticulating man in front of him was exactly who he’d been hoping to see at the end of the aisle.

And that look — that steady, grounding, impossibly kind look — nearly undid David all over again.

The officiant cleared their throat, the sound carrying through the expectant hush of the room. “Welcome, family, friends, and viewers at home. We are gathered today to witness one of life’s greatest adventures—”

Oh my God, David thought, panic surging all over again. Greatest adventure? Who wrote this copy, a Disney ride operator?

The officiant smiled at both grooms. “Today, two people stand before us to take a leap of faith. They’ve never met, but they’ve trusted the process, trusted us, and trusted that love — real, lasting love — can bloom even here.”

David’s stomach swooped violently. Bloom? Like flowers? Oh no. If there are metaphors about gardening, I’m leaving. I can’t be married into horticulture.

Beside him, Patrick shifted slightly, turning just enough to glance at David. Their eyes met for the second time.

And it happened again.

That impossible quieting. The way Patrick’s look was unflinching, like he wasn’t scared or uncertain, like he knew exactly why he was here. His lips curved into the smallest smile — private, not for the cameras, just for David.

David’s heart gave an undignified thud. Okay. Stop. This is television. He’s just… polite. That’s all. Polite and extremely attractive. With… really annoyingly symmetrical features. And… shoulders. Oh my God, the shoulders.

“David and Patrick,” the officiant continued, “today you’re beginning a journey together. It starts with a simple introduction, and will grow—”

“David,” David blurted suddenly, nerves snapping into sound. “Sorry, um—David. My name. That’s—me. Yes.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the audience. David’s face flamed hot, but Patrick only chuckled under his breath, his voice low and soothing when he leaned slightly closer. “I think they know, David.”

David pressed his lips together, staring resolutely ahead. Fantastic. Already a spectacle. Perfect.

But then Patrick’s hand brushed lightly against his, not grabbing, not forcing, just… there. A quiet point of contact. And somehow, that single touch steadied David more than any pep talk Alexis or Stevie had thrown at him earlier.

The officiant smiled at them both, oblivious to the mini-drama unfolding. “So let us begin.”

And for the first time since this entire nightmare/fairytale started, David thought — maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t entirely doomed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

For the first time since this circus had begun, David realized he was breathing at something close to a human pace.

The ceremony space, now that he allowed himself to look, was… actually stunning. Crisp white drapery softened the walls, candlelight flickered in gleaming glass cylinders, and floral arrangements lined the aisle in what he could only describe as “restrained extravagance.” It wasn’t gaudy, it wasn’t tacky — it was, dare he admit, very him.

Okay, points for the producers. This looks expensive.

His eyes skimmed the room — the glimmering chandeliers, the tasteful but dramatic black-and-white palette. It was as if someone had taken his Pinterest boards (curated years ago, obviously, not that he’d ever admit that) and brought them to life.

Which raised one unsettling question: either Patrick shared his impeccable aesthetic sensibilities, or Patrick was going to walk into the reception and have a full-scale identity crisis when he realised he’d been married into a monochromatic floral fantasy.

Well, David thought, stealing the quickest sideways glance at Patrick, he looks sturdy enough. Maybe he can handle a little art direction.

David hadn’t even considered seeking his parents out when he walked in, which he regrets now, but he knew his dad would be crying. Not Moira though, his mother is no stranger to television cameras, David could imagine her sat perfectly poised beside her husband, polite smile, ready to step in at any moment -she’d gotten ordained just in case; she told him at least six times.

“David and Patrick,” The officiant’s voice drew his attention back. “You’ve chosen to share personal vows today.”

David’s stomach lurched, chosen isn’t really how he recalls the email. Please prepare personalised vows that speak to your priorities in marriage; have fun with it. He had words prepared, of course — carefully edited, charming-but-not-too-vulnerable words — but the knowledge that Patrick was about to speak first had his nerves buzzing all over again.

Patrick looked at him then, really looked, and suddenly the whole room went still.

“I, um—” Patrick cleared his throat, then gave the officiant a small nod before turning fully toward David. “So… I thought I’d do this a little differently.”

David blinked. Differently? Differently how? Oh my god, is he about to juggle?

“I’ve always known one day I’d be stood here, next to someone I planned to spend the rest of my life with.” He started, but then Patrick reached for the small microphone someone handed him and David half thought a choir would appear like at Kiera Knightley’s wedding in Love Actually.

“But, I never knew what that would look like, and even if I had, this probably isn’t what I’d have imagined.” And Patrick began to sing. “Because this, it’s a sweet, sweet fantasy baby,”

David’s mouth fell open and somewhere behind him is a yelp, it could be Alexis, Stevie or even his dad, all likely suspects.

“When I close my eyes, you come… You come and you take me. It's so deep in my daydreams.”

David felt his throat tighten. Oh. Oh, wow. Of course. One passing comment about saying I love you at a Mariah Carey concert and the producers have ensured this beautiful man seals his fate with a song cover.

But then Patrick hit a note — clear, aching, utterly perfect — and David’s carefully rehearsed inner monologue faltered.

“But it's just a sweet, sweet fantasy baby.”
Patrick’s voice wrapped around the words of his vows, every line carrying warmth and sincerity, like he’d plucked them straight from his chest and set them to music.

David’s chest ached, in a way he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Because beneath the cameras and the spectacle and the ridiculousness of the situation, Patrick’s song didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like a promise.

A promise meant for him.

David swallowed hard, blinking rapidly before the inevitable close-up camera caught any suspicious moisture in his eyes. He forced his expression into something neutral, but his insides were a mess.

Okay. This is bad. Because now, in addition to being attractive and symmetrical, he sings. And I am… oh no. I am in actual danger.

The last note lingered in the air, soft and sure, and then Patrick lowered the microphone, smiling shyly at David as if he hadn’t just rewritten the entire atmosphere of the room with his voice.

And David, who had spent weeks convincing himself this would be casual, manageable, meme-worthy at best, realized he might already be in far deeper than he’d planned.

The room erupted in polite applause when Patrick finished, but David barely heard it. His ears were still ringing from that last note, his chest still thrumming like he’d been caught in some emotional ambush.

Okay. That happened. My stranger-husband just serenaded me on national television. Casual. Totally normal. Sure.

The officiant turned toward him expectantly. “David, your vows.”

David felt his throat tighten. He shuffled the small card in his hands — the vows he had prepared, meticulously worded, safe. Except now, after that? His pre-written lines about loyalty and tasteful companionship felt like a grocery list.

He glanced at Patrick, who was watching him with that maddeningly patient expression, the one that looked like whatever you say will be enough.

David took a breath. “Okay, so… first of all,” he began, his voice a touch higher than normal, “I’d just like to thank you for… singing your vows, because now anything I say will inevitably sound like the world’s most underwhelming Yelp review in comparison.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the guests. David for the first time turned around and found his parent’s eyes. Dad sure enough had tear tracks on his face, matching Alexis and Stevie’s own watery eyes, they knew all too well what Patrick’s vows would have meant to him. He pressed on, hands fidgeting with the card.

“The thing is, I… didn’t really know what I was supposed to say here. Because, let’s be honest, this is insane. I’m standing in front of a stranger, with cameras pointed at me, about to make promises people usually spend years working up to. And if I think too hard about it, I’ll probably… run screaming into the tasteful floral arrangements.”

He risked another glance at Patrick, who was smiling at him now, not mocking, just… kind. Encouraging.

David exhaled sharply. His voice softened. “But I guess… what I can promise is that I’ll try. I’ll try to show up, even when it’s scary. I’ll try to be honest, even when it’s easier to hide behind sarcasm. And I’ll… try to believe that maybe this isn’t completely insane. That maybe, somehow, it could actually work.”

He swallowed hard, lowering his card. “So, yes. That’s… me. David. Again.”

The audience chuckled, but David hardly noticed. His cheeks were hot, his pulse racing, but when Patrick’s eyes met his — steady, warm, utterly unshaken — he didn’t feel like running.

The officiant smiled warmly, giving the room a beat to settle after David’s vows. “Thank you, both. What you’ve shared here today is the beginning of something we hope will grow into a strong and lasting partnership.”

David tried not to wince at the word grow. He still wasn’t sold on the horticultural metaphors.

“And now,” the officiant continued, turning slightly toward Patrick, “Patrick, do you take David to be your husband, to walk beside him in this journey, to honor him, and to care for him in times of joy and hardship?”

Patrick didn’t hesitate. His voice was steady, sure. “I do.”

David’s stomach flipped.

The officiant’s gaze shifted to him. “And David, do you take Patrick to be your husband, to walk beside him in this journey, to honor him, and to care for him in times of joy and hardship?”

David swallowed hard, pulse hammering, then nodded. “I… do.” The words came out softer than he meant, almost reverent, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if the sound was his or someone else’s.

The officiant beamed. “Then, by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you married. You may—if you wish—seal this union with a kiss.”

The room broke into applause. David felt every eye, every lens, trained on him. His breath caught. Oh my God. Oh my actual God. Cameras. Lighting. Cheekbones. Is this how I die?

But then Patrick leaned in, gentle and calm, his expression almost conspiratorial, like he knew exactly what David was spiraling about. His hand brushed David’s arm lightly — steadying — before he pressed the softest kiss to his cheek.

David froze, caught somewhere between relief and a sharp, unexpected ache of disappointment. Because of course Patrick was a gentleman, no man who would sing his vows would be anything less, but a real kiss might have prevented whatever spiral he could feel threatening to begin.

The officiant gestured for them to face the guests, and before David could overthink it, Patrick’s hand slipped into his. Firm, steady, warm. David glanced down at their joined hands, briefly considering whether his palms were clammy, and then back up at Patrick’s calm, grounded smile.

Suddenly they were walking. Walking back up the aisle as husbands. David’s heart thudded at the word. Husbands. No pressure at all.

He kept his gaze fixed on the door ahead, trying not to stare down the lens of the camera too much, but then a cluster of people caught his attention—Patrick’s parents, he guessed, from how the very emotional couple reached for Patrick as they passed. They were already crying, unabashedly emotional in a way that made David’s chest tighten. Patrick’s dad squeezed his son’s shoulder and David looked at his own family, more reserved in their emotional displays but looking no less proud.

David lifted their joined hands triumphantly in their direction, Alexis clapping especially enthusiastically for them but sending the whole crowd into fresh cheers and applause. David felt his cheeks flush, mortified but also—annoyingly—struck by the wave of affection that rolled through the room. He tried to lower them again but Patrick held their hands aloft; no turning back now.

When they reached the end of the aisle, a producer appeared like a stage manager, directing them toward separate corridors. “Interviews,” she mouthed, already ushering Patrick one way and David the other. Keeping the adrenaline high was clearly a tactic to ensure entertaining television but David really wished he could step outside with Patrick for five minutes.

Patrick slowed, seemingly just as reluctant to let go. He leaned close, lowering his voice so only David could hear. “You did great.”

David, whose vocabulary had apparently shrunk to about three words, managed only: “So did you.” His hand tingled as Patrick’s slipped free, the absence immediate, a little too sharp.

Patrick gave him one last smile before disappearing into the throng of cameras and crew. David watched him go, pulse still unsteady, the phantom warmth of his hand refusing to fade. His earlier sentiment of ‘not entirely doomed’ was right, but he was mildly fucked.

Chapter Text

David was barely seated before someone clipped a mic to his lapel and shoved a bottle of water into his hand. The “interview room” was another room in the hotel but still set dressed to look like the wedding he just left. His wedding. He’s married. David looked down at his wedding band, which he didn’t even remember reciting he’d be so distracted.

“Okay, David,” one of the producers prompted cheerfully from behind the camera. “How are you feeling?”

David gave a quick laugh that sounded more like a squeak. “Oh, you know. Totally fine. Just… married a stranger on television. No big deal. Normal Tuesday.” He gestured vaguely with his water bottle, praying his eyeliner wasn’t smudged from nervous blinking.

The producer grinned. “And what did you think when you first saw Patrick?”

David rolled his eyes automatically, but it was mostly to buy himself time. “Well, I may have blacked out a little. He turned around and—” He waved his hand in front of his face. “There was… a lot happening. Dimples. Very pleasing bone structure. I think I muttered my name about six times like a malfunctioning Roomba. So, first impression: attractive. Extremely attractive. Possibly illegal.”

“Did the nerves get better as the ceremony went on?”

“Better?” David scoffed. “No. Just… louder in a different key. Although, when he sang…” His voice caught, unwillingly. He pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. “That was… a moment. A very unfair, very cinematic moment.”

He crossed his arms, defensive. “So obviously I had to follow that with my… heartfelt rambling, which will no doubt be turned into a meme within twenty-four hours. Which, maybe I remind you was my biggest fear but—” He faltered, surprising even himself. “He looked at me like… it didn’t matter. Like he was glad it was me. Which is… not nothing.”

The producer let the silence stretch, waiting for him to say more. But David snapped his water bottle closed with finality. “Anyway. We’ll see how long before he realizes he’s married an actual nightmare.”

He leaned back in his chair, hoping the camera didn’t catch how hot his face felt.

The producer shuffled some notes and leaned in, her voice bright in that way people get when they’re about to ask for something ridiculous. “Okay, David, last thing. Can you give us something for the trailer? A line we can use to tease the episode, get people excited to see your wedding?”

David blinked. “What, like… a tagline?”

“Exactly.”

He snorted. “Right, because I’m famously good at spontaneous, camera-ready soundbites. That’s why I’m here. For my natural charisma.” He waved vaguely at the ceiling, hoping sarcasm would make them drop it.

But the producer just smiled patiently. “Just something short. Something that sums up how you’re feeling right now.”

David opened his mouth, closed it again. His brain helpfully offered up: hungry, clammy, slightly deranged. Probably not what they were going for. He fiddled with the cap of his water bottle, stalling.

“Okay, fine,” he said finally, staring down the camera with his best deadpan. “I came here to marry a stranger and… against all odds, I might actually want him to like me.”

There was a pause. The producer grinned. “Perfect.”

David immediately regretted everything. “No, no. That was sarcasm. Or irony. Or—whatever doesn’t make me sound like a desperate contestant on a dating show.”

Too late. The camera light blinked off, and someone unclipped his mic with the efficiency of a stagehand.

David slumped back in his chair, burying his face in his hands. “God. They’re going to put that on Instagram with sparkly text, aren’t they?”

No one bothered to deny it.

—

They whisked David straight from the interview room, down a hallway buzzing with producers and trailing wires, into a quieter wing of the venue where the photographer was waiting. Patrick was already there, standing in the middle of a marble terrace framed by climbing ivy and roses, looking both breathtakingly handsome and… hopelessly out of his depth.

David slowed, watching him for a beat. With the crowd gone, the bravado seemed to have drained out of Patrick; he shifted his weight, hands awkwardly at his sides, offering the photographer a polite, uncertain smile that screamed accountant headshot more than wedding day glamor.

“Perfect timing,” the photographer chirped when David appeared. “We’ll start with some portraits of the two of you together. Just stand side by side—”

Patrick shuffled obligingly, but David winced. “Okay, no. That’s—” He gestured vaguely. “That’s giving prom photo, not magazine spread.”

The photographer hesitated, caught between amusement and relief. “Well, if you’ve got ideas…”

“Oh, I have ideas,” David said smoothly, slipping into familiar terrain. He moved closer to Patrick, reaching out to adjust the angle of his arm, then the set of his shoulders. Patrick went stock-still, clearly unsure where to put himself, but didn’t pull away. “Relax,” David murmured, nudging him into position. “Think less… ‘driver’s license photo,’ more… ‘leading man.’”

Patrick gave a short laugh, nerves edging the sound. “I don’t think I’ve ever been a leading man in my life.”

“Well, today’s a first for both of us,” David quipped. He tugged lightly at Patrick’s chin, tilting it just so, then stepped back to survey his handiwork. “Better. Much better. Just trust me—I know how to take a good photo.”

The camera clicked in rapid succession. They were pulled closer, David’s hand brushing Patrick’s sleeve, then his waist, guiding the pose without even thinking. For the first time all day, the nerves quieted; here, at least, he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Alright,” the photographer said after a few minutes, practically beaming. “Take a look at this one.” He turned the camera toward them.

David leaned in first, then felt Patrick crowd close behind him. On the screen, the two of them looked… well. Glamorous. David, poised and sharp, and Patrick, unexpectedly magnetic—his expression softer, steadier, almost smoldering under David’s hand.

Patrick blinked. “That’s… me?”

David glanced sideways, catching the disbelief in his voice. “Yes, it’s you,” he said, amused. Then, with just enough drama to make Patrick flush: “Like James Bond. But with better hair.”

Patrick stared at the screen, then at David, as though trying to reconcile both versions of himself. His lips curved, shy but genuine. “I don’t usually look like that in pictures.”

David smirked, feeling that little bolt of confidence warm his chest. “That’s because you haven’t had me in them before.”

The camera flashed again, catching the exact moment Patrick’s blush deepened.

The photographer flicked through a few more shots, clearly delighted. “Okay, these are gorgeous. Now let’s loosen it up a little—smiles, movement, something fun.”

David arched an eyebrow. “Fun? While being silently judged by a small army of lenses? Delightful.”

Patrick chuckled under his breath, and David caught it—low, warm, genuine. For reasons he didn’t care to examine, his stomach flipped.

“Here’s a trick,” the photographer said. “David, whisper something to Patrick. Doesn’t matter what. Just something that’ll make him react naturally.”

David turned, lips dangerously close to Patrick’s ear. He considered something biting, something sharp—his usual defense—but the way Patrick’s eyes softened when they met his stopped him cold. Instead, he murmured, “You have no idea how good you look right now, do you?”

Patrick’s breath caught, visible in the way his shoulders hitched. He gave a startled laugh, the sound bubbling up before he could stop it. The camera clicked furiously.

“There it is!” the photographer cheered. “That’s the shot.”

David pulled back slightly, smug. “See? I told you. You need me.”

Patrick shook his head, still laughing breathily, but his gaze lingered—curious, a little awed.

“Alright, let’s try something softer,” the photographer said, clearly emboldened. “Hold hands, face each other. Just relax.”

David slid his hand into Patrick’s, surprised again by how solid it felt. The world shrank for a moment—the clicking camera, the rustle of assistants, even the producer hovering just out of frame—all blurred into background noise.

Patrick’s thumb brushed against his palm, tentative but deliberate. David glanced down at their joined hands, then up at Patrick’s face. He looked nervous again, but not in the same way as before; this was quieter, like he was afraid to hope too much. David could feel himself leaning into Patrick, chasing the promised kiss of earlier-

“Beautiful,” The photographer lowered the camera slightly, giving them a beat. “Just stay like that.”

David didn’t move. For the first time all day, he didn’t feel the need to pose.

The shutter clicked once more, and David had the fleeting, dizzy thought that this—this unguarded second—was the photo he wanted to see.