Sunlight, warm and golden, streamed into Kim Siwoo’s bedroom, painting stripes across the tangled sheets and the two figures nestled within. Siwoo woke slowly, the first conscious sensation being the solid, warm weight of an arm draped possessively over his waist, and the familiar, comforting scent of spiced amber that now clung to his own skin and sheets.

He blinked his eyes open. Jeon Minho was still asleep, his face relaxed and younger-looking in slumber, the usual stern lines smoothed away. Siwoo’s heart swelled with a tenderness so profound it felt like an ache. He carefully shifted, not wanting to wake him, and reached for his phone on the nightstand.

It was blowing up. Dozens of notifications from news apps, countless messages from Park Jaeho, Han Seokjin, and Jung Haneul, all variations of “OH MY GOD” and “DETAILS. NOW.”

He opened a news article. The headline was bold: “A New Dynasty: Jeon and Kim Forge a Celestial Partnership and Romance.”
There was the iconic photo of Minho fastening the necklace, his expression one of raw devotion. Another of their kiss. And then, a smaller, sweeter one he hadn’t seen before: Junho, sitting on Jung Haneul’s lap, clapping his hands with a huge grin as he watched them on the stage monitor. The caption read: “The CEO’s young son appears to approve of the new union.”

A soft kiss was pressed to his bare shoulder.
“Reading the reviews?” Minho’s voice was a sleep-roughened murmur against his skin.

Siwoo set the phone down and rolled over to face him. “They’re calling us a dynasty.”

Minho’s eyes, still heavy with sleep, crinkled at the corners. “Good.” He leaned in and captured Siwoo’s lips in a slow, languid good-morning kiss that tasted of promise and shared secrets. “It’s what we are.”

The moment was shattered by the pitter-patter of small feet and the creak of the bedroom door. A small head, hair sticking up in every direction, peeked in.

“Appa? Mama?” Junho’s voice was small and unsure. “Is this our home now?”

The question hung in the air, simple and profound. Minho and Siwoo looked at each other. This was the first real test of their new reality.

Minho was the one to answer. He sat up, holding the sheet over his waist, and opened his arm. “Come here, buddy.”

Junho scrambled onto the large bed, crawling into the space between them. He looked around the unfamiliar room, then up at Siwoo. “Is it?”

Siwoo’s heart melted. He pulled the little boy closer, hugging him. “You are always welcome in my home, my angel. Whenever you want, this is your home too.”

Junho seemed to consider this, then nodded, satisfied. He snuggled down between them, his small body a warm, grounding presence. “I’m hungry.”

Minho laughed, a rich, happy sound that filled the room. He looked at Siwoo over Junho’s head, his eyes shining with so much love it was almost dizzying. “I guess that’s our cue.”

An hour later, the scene in Siwoo’s modern kitchen was one of domestic chaos. Minho, dressed in a pair of Siwoo’s sweatpants that were slightly too short, was attempting to make pancakes while Junho “helped” by enthusiastically stirring the batter, splattering it everywhere. Siwoo sat at the counter, sipping coffee, watching them with a fond smile, the yellow diamond glittering at his throat.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Han Seokjin.

Worldwide-Handsome:
So. The three of you are playing house. I expect a full family brunch debrief at my place. No excuses.

Siwoo showed the phone to Minho, who was trying to salvage a pancake that was burning.

Minho grinned. “Tell him we’ll be there.”
He looked at the messy kitchen, at his son covered in batter, at the beautiful Omega who was now officially his, and felt a peace he hadn’t known was possible.

The storm of the gala was over.

This—the messy, joyful, ordinary morning after—was the real victory.

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