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“Anywhere with a bookshop,” Jason answered without hesitation. “And coffee.” He tapped Mateo’s knee with his shoe. “You?”

They imagined together—houses, gardens, lazy Sunday markets. They talked like people building a map from fragments: one had a garden that grew tomatoes the size of fists; the other could never resist buying too many books. They made promises that were both grand and pedestrian: to water plants faithfully, to learn to make the perfect flat white, to call each other at noon when one of them had a bad meeting. They promised, with the soft fury of newlyweds, to be stubborn for each other and never expect the other to be perfect. just married gays

Mateo rolled his eyes and rested his head on Jason’s shoulder. They had met three years earlier at a literacy drive—Mateo handing out books in a sunlit school gym, Jason arguing with a copy machine that refused to cooperate. They’d argued about fonts, then about coffee, then about whether Sunday mornings were for hiking or for staying in bed until noon. Their arguments had always ended in cooking experiments and the kind of laughter that sat too long at the table. They talked like people building a map from

“We could run away right now,” Mateo murmured, half-joking, half mean. Mateo rolled his eyes and rested his head

Jason’s mouth curved. “And miss cake? Never.”

“Where would you go, if you could pick any place?” Mateo asked.