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It’s been five years to the day they met when they wake up and decide to just fucking do it.
The sun is bright, streaming in through the gauzy, red curtains of their bedroom, when Vanessa rolls over onto his side, kisses Brooke’s eyelids until he wakes up, props himself up on his elbow and says, “Today?”
So Brooke blinks the sleep out of his eyes, kisses him lazily, and nods. “Today sounds good.”
They don’t even stop for brunch first (neither one of them could eat right now, anyway, butterflies swirling around in their bellies because this is finally happening).
They’re both wearing white when they say they do and they will and they promise. And when the officiant tells them they can kiss to make it official, it’s no different than any of the thousand kisses they’ve exchanged over the years, but there’s something in the exchange that sparks between them, something in being husbands that sends shockwaves through both their spines.
“Five years and you ain’t sick of me yet?” Vanessa says later, wrapped in sheets and Brooke and the smell of sex.
“I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface,” Brooke admits, trailing his fingers over Vanjie’s waist. “‘I love you. I am who I am because of you. You are every reason, every hope, and every dream I’ve ever had. I will always be yours.’” And he kisses him, long and deep.
Vanessa sighs. “Bitch, you know I get soft when you quote The Notebook.”
“Mmm. That’s why I married you.”