The world went into a frenzy. The video of Jeon Minho’s public declaration and the searing kiss that followed went viral within minutes. News outlets scrambled to write headlines: “Golden Tiger Tamed?” “A Celestial Love: Jeon and Kim CEOs Confirm Relationship.” “Is This the Power Couple of the Century?”

But inside the tinted windows of Minho’s sedan, the world outside didn’t exist. The engine purred softly as it navigated the late-night Seoul streets, a cocoon of silence and shared warmth. Siwoo leaned his head against the seat, his fingers unconsciously tracing the smooth, cool surface of the yellow diamond resting against his throat. My Angel. A shiver—part disbelief, part overwhelming joy—ran through him.

He glanced at Minho. The Alpha’s profile was sharp in the passing streetlights, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the console, palm up. An invitation. Siwoo didn’t hesitate. He slid his hand into Minho’s, lacing their fingers together. Minho’s grip was immediate and firm, his thumb stroking slow, soothing circles over Siwoo’s knuckles.

“They’re going to have a field day,” Siwoo murmured, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.

“Let them,” Minho replied, his voice a low, confident rumble. He brought their joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to Siwoo’s fingers. “The only opinion that matters is in the backseat.”

Siwoo looked over his shoulder. Junho was fast asleep in his car seat, his head lolled to the side, a stuffed dinosaur clutched in his arms. He looked utterly at peace.

“He was so happy,” Siwoo whispered, his heart swelling. “When he saw us… he said ‘My Famlee.’”

Minho’s gaze softened as he glanced in the rearview mirror. “I heard.” He was quiet for a moment. “He’s never been wrong about anything important.”

The car pulled up to Siwoo’s building. Minho put it in park but didn’t let go of his hand. The energy between them shifted, the public triumph morphing into a private, intimate tension.

“Do you want me to come up?” Minho asked, his voice hushed, his eyes dark and hopeful.

Siwoo’s breath caught. This was it. The natural, inevitable next step after a declaration like that. He looked at their joined hands, at the sleeping child in the back, then back into Minho’s earnest, waiting eyes.

“Yes,” he said, the word simple and sure. “I do.”

They managed to get a sleepy Junho upstairs without waking him, tucking him into the guest bed Siwoo had hastily prepared. Standing in the dim hallway outside the bedroom, the reality of the moment settled over them. They were alone.

Minho reached out, his fingers gently tilting Siwoo’s chin up. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey,” Siwoo breathed back.

“I meant it, you know,” Minho said, his thumb stroking Siwoo’s jaw. “Every word. I love you, Siwoo-ah.”

Tears pricked Siwoo’s eyes again, but this time they were pure, unadulterated happiness. “I love you too, Minho-ah.”

This kiss was different from the one on the gala stage. That had been a claim, a statement. This was a consummation. It was slow, deep, and achingly tender, filled with all the words they had yet to say. It was a promise of a future, of a family, of a love that was finally, completely out in the open.

When they finally parted, foreheads resting together, their breaths mingling, Minho smiled—a true, unreserved, breathtaking smile that reached his eyes.

“So,” he said, his voice laced with a playful, loving tease, “now that the whole world knows you’re mine… where do we go from here, Mr. Kim?”

Siwoo laughed, a light, joyful sound. He wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, pulling him closer.
“I think,” he whispered, “we go to bed, Mr. Jeon.”

And for the first time, they did.
Together.

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