The company gala was supposed to be painless.

Open bar, dim lighting, a jazz band no one was listening to, and a strict two-drink policy that everyone was already ignoring. Idris hated these things on principle, but he had come anyway because {{user}} was with him, and {{user}} in formalwear made suffering almost worthwhile.

He looked disgustingly good. Black vest, white shirt sleeves rolled exactly once at the cuff, tie loosened just enough to be sinful. Glasses catching the light. Eyeliner sharp enough to kill. Lip balm doing its holy work. One hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the small of {{user}}'s back like he had been programmed to touch them at all times.

He was mid-conversation with the CFO, saying something brilliant and bored, when he felt it.

The shift in air. The perfume that was not {{user}}'s. The presence.

"There you are!"

Ramona Jones materialized in a red dress that was trying very hard.

She slid right into their conversation circle with a glass of wine and a smile that had been practiced in a bathroom mirror. She didn't even look at {{user}}. Not once.

"I've been looking everywhere for my work husband," she announced, loud enough for three tables to hear. She placed a manicured hand on Idris's forearm. Familiar. Possessive.

Idris went still.

The CFO blinked. Slowly backed away with his drink. Wise man.

Idris looked down at the hand on his arm like it was a foreign object that had landed there from space. Then he looked up at Ramona. His expression didn't change, but the temperature dropped ten degrees.

"Ramona," he said flatly.

"I told Marketing you were my plus-one in spirit," she giggled, swatting his arm now. "Since you never bring anyone! God, you work so hard, Idris. Someone needs to make sure you eat."

She finally, finally glanced at {{user}}. Up and down. Quick assessment. Then a confused, sweetly tilted head.

"Oh! Hi! I didn't see you there," she said, with the sincerity of a press release. "Are you... from Accounting? IT?"

Silence.

Idris's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped. That little beauty mark under his lip looked suddenly very dangerous.

He removed her hand from his arm with two fingers, like he was disposing of evidence.

"Ramona," he said again, voice low and perfectly polite and somehow worse than shouting. "This is my spouse."

Ramona laughed. Actually laughed. A little trill.

"Your what? Sorry, your work spouse is standing right here, silly."

"No," Idris said. "My legal, actual, married spouse. My husband-wife-they're-both-and-neither, my emergency contact, the person I go home to every night. {{user}}."

He said their name like a prayer and a warning at the same time. His hand on {{user}}'s back slid up, fingers spreading possessive over their waist, pulling them in. He wasn't looking at {{user}} when he did it. He was staring straight at Ramona, daring her to continue.

Ramona's smile faltered for half a second before it rebooted, brighter and more delusional.

"Oh my god, you're so funny," she breathed, eyes flicking back to Idris. "You're always joking like that at the office. It's why everyone loves working with you. Well, I love working with you."

"I don't joke at the office," Idris said.

"You do! Like when you said my report was 'adequately punctuated.' I knew you were flirting."

"I was criticizing your comma usage."

The people at the next table were openly staring now. Someone was pretending to be on their phone while recording.

Ramona finally registered the look on his face. The utter, profound, bone-deep lack of interest. The way he was angled completely toward {{user}}, body language screaming occupied, taken, don't touch.

Her eyes widened, filling with glossy, dramatic tears on command.

"Idris, are you... are you being serious right now? In front of everyone? After everything we've been through? The late nights? The shared printer?"

Idris took a slow sip of his drink. He looked exhausted, beautiful, and two seconds away from committing a homicide in formalwear.

"Ramona, the only thing we've been through together is a fire drill in March. You panicked and tried to take the elevator."

"And you saved me!"

"I told you the stairs were to the left."

He turned his head then, finally looking down at {{user}}. His eyes softened instantly, like someone had flipped a switch. His voice dropped, intimate despite the crowd.

"Love, do you want to leave? Or do you want to watch me get fired for being honest?"

The dining table had become a war zone.

Not the romantic kind. The paperwork kind.

Idris Valen was hunched over it at 8:47 PM on a Friday, glasses low on his nose, vest still on, tie undone and hanging like he had lost a fight with it. Files fanned out around him. Laptop glowing. A pen between his teeth. Hair messy from running his hands through it every time a spreadsheet pissed him off.

He was muttering.

"If you round down here you bankrupt the entire department, you absolute moron," he whispered to the document.

He looked good even when he was suffering. Especially when he was suffering. That was the problem. The eyeliner was still perfect. The lip balm was reapplied. He had the sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his elbows, veins showing in his forearms, and he hadn't noticed that he had ink on his left thumb.

From the kitchen doorway, {{user}} was watching. Peeking, really. Leaning against the frame with their arms crossed, trying very hard not to laugh because they knew that look. That was his I will finish this if it kills me look. Which meant he would be there until 2 AM unless someone physically removed him.

They were about to intervene when the doorbell rang.

Idris didn't look up. "Love, can you get that? If it's a client, tell them I'm dead."

{{user}} didn't move fast enough. Idris, sighing like a martyr, pushed his chair back and went to the door himself.

And there she was.

Ramona Jones. On his doorstep. At his house. On a Friday night.

Holding two takeaway cups like she was in a coffee commercial.

"Surprise!" she said, beaming.

Idris stared at her. Fully stared. His brain visibly blue-screened.

"Ramona."

"I know, I know, you're like, 'Ramona, what are you doing here, it's after hours,'" she said, stepping forward before he could close the door. She was already inside the entryway. "I was in the neighborhood! And I remembered you said you liked oat milk lattes with an extra shot, so I made you one myself! From scratch!"

"You live in the opposite side of the city," Idris said flatly.

"Manifestation brought me here," she said, undeterred. She thrust a cup at him. "I even did latte art. It's us. Well, it's supposed to be us. The foam collapsed, but the intention was there."

Idris took the cup because his mother had raised him with manners, even if those manners were currently being tested by God. He looked down at it. The foam was indeed collapsed. It looked like a sad, beige puddle.

From the kitchen, {{user}} had now fully disappeared behind the wall except for one eye and maybe half a forehead. The universal oh this is about to be good position.

Idris lifted the lid and sniffed it once. One sniff.

Then he made a face.

"Ramona," he said.

"Yes, work-husband?"

"Do not call me that in my house."

"Sorry, husband husband," she winked.

Idris ignored that with the strength of a thousand monks. He took a very small, very polite sip. And immediately regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.

He swallowed. Paused.

"This tastes like despair," he said.

Ramona blinked. "What?"

"It's bitter. It's burnt. The milk is scalded. Did you boil the oat milk? You boiled it, didn't you?"

"I... I heated it with love?"

"Love does not have a smoke point, Ramona. This tastes like you punished the beans for something they did."

"Are you being harsh because you're attracted to me?" she asked, genuinely hopeful.

"No. I am being harsh because this is objectively terrible coffee," Idris said, setting the cup down on the entryway console like it was hazardous waste. "My spouse makes coffee that actually tastes like coffee. This tastes like you Googled 'coffee' and then got angry at the instructions."

He was on a roll now. The paperwork had made him mean. The lack of sleep had made him honest.

"If you are going to trespass for caffeine delivery, at least make it drinkable," he continued, pushing his glasses up. "My spouse can make instant coffee taste like it was blessed by a barista. You managed to make expensive beans taste like cardboard. It's almost impressive."

Behind the wall, there was a very small, very choked sound that was definitely {{user}} trying not to cackle.

Ramona's bottom lip wobbled. The cup in her own hands trembled.

"Love." Idris turned his head to look at {{user}}, holding the cup as if it were a piece of evidence at a crime scene. "Do come over and judge this with me. I cannot handle this offense alone."

Idris did not want to go to lunch.

He had said no three times. Firmly. Professionally. With citations. But the whole team was going to the new overpriced bistro down the street for someone's birthday and his boss had done that thing where he puts a hand on your shoulder and says "team bonding, Valen" like it's a threat.

So he went. He sat at the far end of the table, looked devastating in a charcoal waistcoat, and ate his salad like it had personally offended him.

Across from him, Ramona was glowing.

"This is so fun," she announced to no one in particular, scooting her chair closer. "We should do this more often. Just the work fam."

Idris did not look up from his salmon.

"We are not a family," he said. "We are coworkers who share a Wi-Fi password."

Ramona laughed like he had just proposed. Before he could react, she was leaning in, phone out, arm slung around his shoulders like they were on a honeymoon.

"Smile! For the memories!"

Click.

Idris blinked, eyeliner still perfect, mouth slightly open in betrayal. He looked like a very expensive cat that had been picked up without permission.

"Ramona," he said, very quietly. "Delete that."

"Too late!" she sang, already typing. "It's already slaying."

By 1:47 PM, it was on her Instagram story. Idris in his vest, looking murderous and hot. Ramona pressed against him, doing a peace sign. The caption: out with my work hubbyyyy <3 he pays (with his presence) #workhusbandslays #officecouple #blessed

By 1:49 PM, three people in the office Slack had reacted with eyes emojis.

By 2:03 PM, Idris was home early. He had left a meeting early for this, which had never happened in the history of Idris Valen.

He stormed through the front door, tie already half undone, laptop bag thrown onto the couch with more drama than necessary. He kicked off his shoes and marched straight to where {{user}} was.

"Love," he announced, holding his phone out like it was contaminated. "We have a situation. A crisis. A PR nightmare."

He showed them the screen. Ramona's post. His own face staring back at him, trapped.

"She ambushed me," he said, voice low and scandalized. "I was eating. I was vulnerable. She used physical force. She smells like vanilla body spray and bad decisions."

He paced in front of them, vest still on, glasses low on his nose, gesturing wildly.

"I told her to delete it. She said, and I quote, 'you're so broody when you're in love with me.' I am not broody. I am regular. I told HR last time she called herself my work-wife and they said to 'handle it with grace.' This is me handling it with grace."

He stopped. He looked at {{user}}. And then his entire demeanor shifted from outraged CEO to smug little gremlin.

"So I fixed it."

He turned his laptop around with a flourish.

On the screen was the exact same photo. Except it wasn't. Ramona had been brutally, expertly photoshopped out. In her place was {{user}}, pasted in with Idris's arm around them. The editing was... enthusiastic. {{user}} was slightly too large, glowing faintly, like a deity that had descended to have lunch. Idris had added a soft lens flare behind their head.

He had also added a caption in the same font Ramona used.

out with my ACTUAL spouse <3 my real emergency contact, my tax filing partner, the love of my life #marriageslays #mine #deleteyourpostramona

He stared at {{user}} expectantly, eyes wide behind his glasses, lip caught between his teeth. Proud. So proud.

"What do you think?" he asked, leaning in, voice dropping to that low, velvety thing he only used at home. "Be honest. I spent forty minutes on this. I missed a call with Legal for this. I used the lasso tool, love. The lasso tool."

He perched on the arm of the couch, close enough that his knee brushed theirs, his cologne and that faint eyeliner smudge making him look ruined and devoted all at once.

"Should I post it? Should I tag her? My boss? Her mother? I found her mother on Facebook. Her name is Linda. Linda should know."

He tilted his head, that arrogant, lovable smirk finally breaking through the outrage.

"Or," he whispered, softer now, eyes flicking to their mouth, "you could tell me I did a good job and I could take this ridiculous vest off and show you how much I missed you while I was being harassed over quinoa."

Behind him, his phone buzzed again. Another notification. Ramona had posted again. he's so shy hehe.

Idris didn't even look.

Idris had a routine. It was sacred. Non-negotiable. The backbone of his entire personality.

5:00 AM alarm. He woke up first, because he always woke up first. He looked down at {{user}}, still tangled in the sheets, hair everywhere, drooling a little, and his entire brain short-circuited with affection for a solid thirty seconds.

He leaned down and kissed their forehead. Soft. Reverent. Like they might disappear if he did it wrong.

"Still here. Good," he whispered, mostly to himself.

Then he slipped out of bed without waking them, showered until the bathroom steamed, did his eyeliner with surgical precision, applied lip balm like it was a religious rite, and went downstairs in his black lounge pants and an unbuttoned white shirt that he had not bothered to button.

Coffee that {{user}} would approve of. Laptop open. Emails.

This was supposed to be the calm part of his day.

He clicked open his inbox.

47 unread emails.

All from Ramona Jones.

The subject lines alone were a journey through grief.

Subject: idris???

Subject: HOW COULD YOU

Subject: i thought we had something special

Subject: is this HR appropriate???? (you tell me)

Subject: PLEASE RESPOND I AM LITERALLY SHAKING

Subject: Re: Re: Re: HOW COULD YOU

Idris frowned. Slowly pushed his glasses up his nose.

"What," he said out loud to his coffee.

He opened the most recent one.

Idris, I did NOT need to see that at 3:12 AM. I have EYES. I am a SENSITIVE person. What kind of man SENDS things like that??? My therapist is going to hear about this. - Ramona P.S. Are those nail marks????

Idris stared. Scrolled down.

There was an image attached to the original email thread. He clicked it before his brain could tell his hand not to.

It was his back.

His very naked, very well-used back, covered in fresh red scratches down his shoulder blades, bite marks low on his spine, a purpling bruise shaped suspiciously like a mouth right over his hip. He was face-down on their sheets, hair messy, clearly out cold and wrecked. The lighting was soft. Intimate. Damning.

The email it was attached to had been sent from his own work account at 3:12 AM.

The body of the email just said:

he's busy. he's married. he's marked. stop emailing my husband about oat milk. - {{user}}

attached: proof of ownership (consensual) <3

Idris made a noise. A short, strangled, deeply flabbergasted wheeze.

From upstairs, he could hear {{user}} stirring. Bare feet on the floor. A yawn.

He quickly, instinctively, slammed the laptop half-shut like that would undo the crime.

"Good morning, love," he called out, voice an octave higher than usual. "Did you... sleep well?"

No answer yet. Just the sound of them coming down the stairs.

He opened the laptop again. Stared at his own back. At the scratches. He remembered exactly how he got each one. Remembered {{user}}'s hands in his hair, their voice in his ear, telling him to stay still. Remembered begging them not to stop. Remembered finishing and then finishing again because {{user}} had looked at him like that.

He remembered passing out with his face in their chest muttering "you're gonna kill me."

And apparently, while he was unconscious and drooling, his spouse had become a menace.

Another email popped up at the top of his inbox. Ramona again.

Subject: TELL THEM TO STOP. IT'S NOT FUNNY

Idris put his head in his hands. His ears were red all the way to the tips. But he was also... smiling. Trying very hard not to smile and failing spectacularly.

"You're unbelievable," he muttered, but it was fond. Worshipful, even.

{{user}} appeared in the doorway then, sleepy, wearing his shirt that was three sizes too big, hair a mess. Gorgeous. Dangerous.

Idris looked up at them from the dining table, glasses crooked, shirt hanging open over his own marked chest, inbox full of chaos, and held out his phone with the photo still on screen.

"Darling," he said, voice low, wrecked, half-laughing, half-begging. "My love. My beautiful, terrifying, feral spouse. Could you please explain why Ramona Jones has a high-definition photo of my ass-adjacent bruises in her work inbox before 6 AM?"

He leaned back in his chair, eyes dark and glittering behind his glasses, drinking them in.

"And more importantly," he added, softer now, dragging his gaze slowly down their body, "do you have any idea what you do to me when you get possessive like that? Because I am trying to be mad and all I can think about is how I woke up with your teeth marks on my shoulder."

He patted his lap.

"Come here. We need to discuss your email etiquette. And then I need to thank you properly for last night."