Blaze's POV
The honeymoon unfolds like a dream I never dared to imagine.
We chose a picturesque European city for our getaway—cobblestone streets winding between ancient buildings, outdoor cafés spilling onto sun-drenched plazas, the kind of romantic backdrop that seems specifically designed for newlyweds.
Every morning we wake tangled together in crisp hotel sheets, no alarms demanding attention, no schedules pulling us apart.
"We should probably see some actual sights today," Asher murmurs on our fourth morning, though he makes no move to leave the bed. His fingers trace lazy patterns across my chest, wedding ring catching the light filtering through gauze curtains.
"We saw sights yesterday."
"We saw the inside of three restaurants and this hotel room. I'm not sure that counts as cultural exploration."
I roll him onto his back, settling over him with a grin. "I'm exploring plenty of culture right here."
We make love with the unhurried passion of people who have nowhere else to be, savoring every touch and whispered endearment.
The freedom of it still catches me off guard sometimes—knowing that when we eventually venture outside, I can hold his hand without checking for cameras. Kiss him without fear of exposure.
Wear my wedding ring proudly instead of hiding it in my pocket. After years of secrecy, the openness feels intoxicating.
We do eventually leave the hotel, wandering through the historic district with our fingers intertwined. Asher pauses to photograph architecture while I watch him with helpless adoration, still marveling that this brilliant, grumpy, beautiful man chose me.
That he's my husband now, legally and permanently.
"You're staring again," he observes without lowering his camera.
"What can I do? My husband is very photogenic."
The word makes him smile every time, a softness breaking through his usual intensity. "Your husband is also hungry. There's supposed to be an amazing café around here somewhere."
We consult the map on his phone, debating the best route, and I'm so focused on the screen that I don't hear the moped approaching until it's almost too late.
The engine roars past us, close enough that I feel the rush of displaced air. Then something cold and wet explodes across my chest and face—liquid splashing everywhere, soaking through my shirt, dripping into my eyes.
"Faggots!" The word tears through the air like a weapon, hurled with venomous hatred as the rider speeds away.
For a moment, I can't process what just happened. I stand frozen on the sidewalk, sticky liquid running down my face, the slur echoing in my ears. Beside me, Asher is similarly drenched, his white shirt now stained with what appears to be coffee or cola.
"What the fuck," he breathes, voice hollow with shock. "Did that really just—"
"Yeah." The word comes out flat, distant. "Yeah, it did."
Around us, other tourists have stopped to stare. Some look sympathetic; others wear the uncomfortable expression of people who wish they hadn't witnessed anything. No one approaches. No one asks if we're okay.
Asher wipes liquid from his eyes with a shaking hand. "We should... there must be police, or someone we can report this to."
"Yes. Okay. Let's find a station."
The next several hours become a blur of bureaucratic frustration. The police officers are sympathetic enough, their English decent, their manner professional. But they make it clear from the start that catching the perpetrator is unlikely.
"The moped, it had no visible plates," one officer explains, filling out forms with practiced efficiency. "And you did not see the rider's face clearly, yes? This makes identification very difficult."
"So that's it?" Asher's voice carries an edge of frustration. "Someone assaults us, screams slurs at us, and nothing happens?"
"We will file the report. We will investigate as much as possible." The officer's tone suggests he's had this conversation before. "But I must be honest with you—these incidents, they are often... how do you say... dead ends."
We answer the same questions multiple times, for multiple officials. Describe the attack, describe the moped, describe the slur. Each repetition feels like reliving the moment, the hatred in that stranger's voice echoing fresh with every retelling.
By the time we return to the hotel, the romantic afternoon we'd planned has been completely derailed. No museum. No candlelit restaurant. Just the lingering sting of prejudice and the exhaustion of fighting systems that weren't designed to protect us.
Asher sits on the edge of the bed, still wearing the stained shirt, his gaze fixed on some middle distance I can't see. The confidence that usually radiates from him has dimmed, replaced by something vulnerable and shaken.
"Hey." I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders touch. "Talk to me."
"I thought I was past this. I thought coming out meant I'd already faced the worst of it."
His voice is quiet, almost fragile.
"But that guy on the moped—he didn't know anything about me. Didn't know my name or my career or what I've accomplished. He just saw two men holding hands and decided we deserved to be humiliated."
"He's a coward. A hateful coward who attacks strangers and runs away."
"I know that. Logically, I know that."
Asher finally meets my eyes, and the pain in his expression makes my chest ache.
"But for a second there, standing on that sidewalk with strangers staring at us, I felt... ashamed. Like maybe we should have been more careful, more discreet."
"No." I take his face in my hands, forcing him to hold my gaze. "Absolutely not. We did nothing wrong, Asher. Nothing. Our love is beautiful and worth celebrating, and one ignorant asshole on a moped doesn't get to make us feel otherwise."
"What if it happens again? What if every time we go out in public, we're just waiting for the next attack?"
"Then we face it together. The same way we've faced everything else."
I stroke my thumbs across his cheekbones, wiping away the residue of dried liquid that the police station's bathroom sink didn't quite remove.
"That guy wanted us to feel small, wanted us to regret being visible. I refuse to give him that power."
Asher is quiet for a long moment, processing. I watch the emotions move across his face—the hurt, the anger, and gradually, something stronger rising beneath them.
Resilience. The same stubborn determination that carried him through years of hiding and the terror of coming out.
"You're right," he says finally, his voice firmer now. "I don't regret anything. Not coming out, not our relationship, not our wedding. That coward doesn't get to make me regret the best decisions I've ever made."
"That's my husband." I press a kiss to his forehead. "The bravest man I know."
"I don't feel very brave right now."
"Bravery isn't about feeling fearless. It's about being afraid and refusing to let the fear win." I pull him closer, guiding us both to lie back against the pillows. "We don't have to go anywhere else today. We can just stay here, together."
He curls into my side, head resting on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around him like I can physically shield him from the world's cruelty. We don't make love—this isn't about passion.
It's about presence. About holding each other through the aftermath of something ugly and reaffirming that our happiness can't be stolen by strangers who hate what they don't understand.
"I love you," Asher whispers against my neck. "Even when the world is terrible, I'm so grateful I get to face it with you."
"Always," I promise, pressing my lips to his hair. "No matter what. Always."
The afternoon light shifts into evening gold, and we remain exactly where we are—two men who have survived worse than today, holding each other in the quiet certainty that love, in the end, is stronger than hate.