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The heavy velvet drapes of the San Antonio hotel suite do nothing to stifle the ringing in Victor Melling’s ears. It is a persistent, high-pitched resonance, born entirely from the acoustic horror of Gracie Hart attempting to play "New York, New York" on a row of mismatched water glasses.
Strung out, deeply panicked, and nursing a headache that throbs right behind his impeccably groomed eyebrows, Victor paces the length of the Persian rug. He feels entirely, fundamentally unequipped to fix this disaster tonight. There are limits to his genius. He can correct a slouch, he can camouflage a square jaw with contour, and he can certainly teach a woman how to walk without looking like she is actively trying to break through the floorboards. But he cannot inject grace into a soul that actively rejects it.
"Tomorrow, that terrifying, clumsy woman will be standing on a national stage with absolutely nothing to do but convert oxygen into carbon dioxide," Victor groans out, feeling the impending doom of his own professional reputation collapsing around him.
"Listen to me, you old cupcake," Eric Matthews begins, taking a step forward. The FBI agent’s jaw is set, his broader-than-necessary shoulders squared in a display of classic, unrefined masculine posturing. He is trying to threaten him, using that low, gravelly law-enforcement cadence that Victor usually finds utterly tedious.
Victor stops dead in his tracks. His spine stiffens into a steel rod, and his chin tilts upward at a lethal angle. "How dare you, you cupcake?" he fires back instantly, his voice dripping with aristocratic venom.
He is more than ready for a fight. If this swaggering Neanderthal thinks Victor is going to take the blame for the fact that his girlfriend possesses the delicate finesse of a runaway freight train, he has another thing coming. The volley doesn't get far, though. Before Eric can bark out another syllable of federal authority, Gracie interrupts with a loud, snorting groan, entirely oblivious to the conversational etiquette being shattered around her.
Victor doesn't even look back at her. He simply raises a manicured hand, points a single, authoritative finger at Eric, and delivers his final ultimatum: "Deal with her."
Unable to take the suffocating stress for another second, Victor realizes he needs an escape velocity that only a first-class ticket can provide. He uses every ounce of his considerable influence, pulling three separate favors with airline executives to book a last-minute flight out of San Antonio. By midnight, he is watching the lights of Texas fade into the clouds, desperately seeking the one person who can restore his equilibrium.
---
The air in New York City is crisper, biting at his cheeks as the cab drops him off outside the familiar, towering facade of the Fifth Avenue apartment building. The city feels alive in that comforting, predictable way that San Antonio simply cannot replicate. Victor turns his key in the lock of the penthouse, pushing the heavy oak door open. The familiar scent of expensive cedar wood, high-end paper stock, and a faint hint of lemongrass immediately washes over him, instantly lowering his blood pressure by a few crucial points.
"Honey, I'm home for a night!" Victor calls out, his voice carrying through the elegant, high-ceilinged foyer.
"Thank God!"
Richard Kneeland runs up to greet him, practically gliding across the polished hardwood floors. His silk button-down is slightly unbuttoned, his dark hair artfully disheveled in that way that always reminds Victor exactly why he married a man thirty-one years his junior. Richard throws his arms around Victor’s neck, squeezing tightly, only to suddenly pull back as the words register.
"A night?" Richard asks, his expressive eyebrows knitting together as he studies Victor's exhausted face. "You mean it's not over?"
Victor lets out a long, theatrical sigh, allowing his shoulders to sag just a fraction as he hands his trench coat to his husband. "Not as such. That woman is a disaster. A walking, breathing cataclysm in a swimsuit."
Richard snorts, a genuinely amused, wicked little sound that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. He steers Victor toward the living room, where a half-eaten container of takeout sits on the glass coffee table.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you aren't the only one dealing with a public relations nightmare." Richard sinks onto the plush sofa, looking up at Victor with a wry smile. "You remember Jenna Rink?"
Victor pauses, midway through loosening his silk tie. He considers the name, letting his mind drift through the social registers and media circles of Manhattan. "The cutthroat editor who bitches around and cheats on her Adonis?" he asks, his tone dripping with casual disdain. "The one from your *Poise* magazine?"
Richard laughs, a rich, melodic sound that fills the room. "Yes, well, lately she's been completely disheveled. She's currently redesigning the entire magazine with unedited women, no airbrushing, and a total, catastrophic lack of professional boundaries."
Victor hums, stepping closer to the couch. He leans down, catching Richard’s chin between his fingers, and pecks his lips with a brief, affectionate kiss. "Well, is she delivering the pages?"
Richard sighs, the sound vibrating against Victor’s lips before the older man pulls back. "She's delivering something. I hooked her up with a brilliant architect to help with the redesign layout, and instead of a professional pitch, she gave me *Thriller* at the Poise promotional party."
"Thriller?" Victor repeats, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Like..."
Victor raises his hands, curling his fingers into claws and tilting his head sideways in a flawless, spontaneous imitation of the iconic Michael Jackson music video. Richard nods, laughing incredulously at the sight of his highly sophisticated husband doing choreography in the middle of their living room.
"Exactly like that! The architect just laughed at Jenna's house—whatever it was supposed to be. And then, right there in the middle of the party, she and that photographer boy of hers led the entire crowd in the *Thriller* dance."
Victor steps closer, reaching out with practiced elegance to fix the slightly crooked collar of Richard’s shirt, smoothing down the fabric with a gentle, lingering touch. "And did you dance?"
Richard laughs fondly, a soft, boyish expression breaking across his face. Before Victor can finish adjusting his clothes, Richard slips out of his grasp with practiced agility. He snatches his sleek new digital camera off the side table, lifts it to his eye, and clicks the shutter to take a candid photo of Victor looking mildly indignant.
"Of course I did," Richard says, checking the small LCD screen with a smirk. "A good editor always knows how to blend in with the madness."
The older man smiles, the warmth of the apartment finally seeping into his bones. But then, a sudden thought occurs to him, and his eyes narrow slightly with playful suspicion. "Wait, architect? You didn't reach out to your ex-lover boy, did you?"
Richard’s smirk turns slightly sheepish. He sets the camera down, leaning back against the cushions. "I... might have..." he admits, dragging out the syllables. He quickly shifts the focus, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Victor's waist, pulling him down toward the couch. "Why was your day so terrible that you had to fly all the way across the country just to see little old me?"
Victor allows himself to be pulled down, sinking into the deep cushions right beside his husband. "That won't always work, darling," he murmurs, though there is no real heat behind the scolding. "But I desperately need to get this off my chest before my brain short-circuits."
For the next hour, Victor unloads the entire, grueling saga. He explains the sheer, Herculean trials of turning a brutish, snarky FBI agent who chews with her mouth open into a believable pageant queen. He describes the horrific wardrobe fittings, the weaponized hairspray, and the absolute refusal of Gracie Hart to cooperate with basic human physics. Richard listens intently, his eyes sparkling with absolute delight. Every few minutes, he provides short, snarky answers and wicked commentary that completely warm Victor's soul, validating every ounce of his frustration.
"She sounds like an absolute menace," Richard declares, reaching over to open a fresh container of Thai food. "Here, share this with me. You look like you haven't eaten anything that didn't come out of a Texas vending machine."
Victor doesn't protest as Richard feeds him a forkful of noodles. The tension of the past forty-eight hours begins to melt away entirely. The two men cuddle close on the sofa, their limbs tangled together in a comfortable, familiar symmetry. Victor leans in, initiating a series of languid, deep kisses that taste faintly of peanut sauce and expensive wine.
"Happy birthday, by the way," Victor murmurs against Richard's lips, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. "I'm so sorry I missed the actual day two nights ago because of this ridiculous job."
"You called me," Richard reminds him, his fingers tracing the line of Victor's jawline, his eyes dark with an unmistakable, teasing heat. "That counts for something. But this..." He pulls Victor closer, his smile growing distinctly wicked. "...this definitely leads to more flirtation. And I expect a full reimbursement tonight."
Victor chuckles softly, leaning his forehead against Richard's. "Oh, there will be a very thorough exchange of services tonight, Mr. Kneeland. I promise you that."