Phil grinned. “Yeah!”
“You guys have the same favorite restaurant,” Greg said, kissing Phil on the forehead.
“Isn’t it your favorite, too?” Phil asked, frowning.
“I like your dad’s cooking best,” Greg said. Then he leaned in, kissing Dale on the lips.
They were out in public, seated in the front row. The parents behind them probably saw. For a moment, Dale froze, trying not to look behind. Despite Greg kissing in the parking lot, and despite their bonding being eleven years ago, this particular fear still took a while to banish.
But he breathed out, allowing himself to sink back into the moment. Greg loved him, loved their son, and that was all that mattered. So he kissed back, and Greg smiled against his lips.
“Yuck,” Phil said. “I’m never kissing anyone.”
“Maybe you will someday,” Dale said after, when Greg slipped an arm around his waist.
“Maybe not,” Phil said, wrinkling his nose.
They left their seats when the ceremony drew to a close. The sky was a deep velvety blue above them, the evening breeze cool on their skin. With Phil between them, Greg and Dale headed for their car, and Phil hopped into the backseat.
Business at El Asado was in full swing by the time they arrived. Waiters in jaunty hats navigated the crowded tables, and the savory aroma of stewed pork filled the air.
While they waited for a seat, Dale whispered to Phil, “What were you worried about? You had a frowny face before the ceremony.”
Phil squirmed, eyeing Dale, then Greg. “It’s not a good thing to talk about.”
Dale winced. Was it bullies? Did something unfair happen? “If you tell us, we’ll talk to the teachers about it. Mrs. Mulberry will listen, I’m sure.”
“I’ll tell Dad,” Phil said, leaning toward Greg. “I think that’ll be better.”
“Okay.” Dale smoothed his hand over Phil’s messy brown hair, smiling at him. “I’ll wait.”
Greg glanced at Dale, then leaned down, so Phil could whisper in his ear. He was attracting attention in his Super Alpha outfit—the children in the restaurant peered over their seats at him, and some of the adults looked over, too, their gazes turning sentimental. Dale watched them, his hand on Phil’s shoulder.
While Phil whispered, Greg nodded, concentrating on his son’s voice. It was sweet of him. Eleven years ago, he’d been twenty-two, and not even out of school. He hadn’t had plans for his life; not even for a child. But he had come to accept the baby, caring for Phil, and Dale couldn’t be any happier with his alpha.
Greg’s eyes darted up at Dale. Then he scowled, glancing at their son. “Yeah, well. If they say that again, go ahead and punch them. You have my permission.”
“Greg,” Dale said, staring at him. That was... not what Greg usually told Phil.
His husband straightened. Phil looked worriedly between them.
“That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,” Dale said, really so Phil would relax. Either way, if it was something important, Greg would share the news with him later.
Greg glanced at Phil, chewing his lip. Then he shrugged. “C’mon, the waiter’s waving at us.”
Greg stepped close to Dale, linking their fingers together. They followed Phil and the waiter to the table, and for the rest of the night, Greg sat close to Dale, tucking Dale’s hair behind his ear, squeezing his fingers, pressing kisses to his shoulder.
“You’re so sappy, Dad,” Phil said, looking at Greg.
“I don’t see why I can’t,” Greg said, taking Dale’s hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the bonding scar on his wrist. The one he’d left eleven years ago. “You and your dad are my most important people in the world. That won’t ever change.”
Phil grinned, and Dale leaned into his alpha, relaxing in their little bubble.
It was only much later, when they’d gotten home and Dale had tucked Phil into bed, that Dale had some time to himself.
He padded to the bedroom, still with its salt lamps in the corners and the paper cranes hanging from the ceiling. Over the last decade, they’d made some new additions—the bookcase by the desk, some picture frames on the wall, and a larger closet for both their clothes.
When Dale opened the door, he found Greg stretched out in their bed, paging through one of his older comics—Super Alpha at Sea. He’d pushed his mask up over his forehead, messing up his bangs, and lamplight gleamed on the silky spandex of his outfit.
For the first time today, Dale finally had his bondmate to himself. He took the time to admire his alpha—the slope of his shoulders, the muscle cording his arms. Greg’s hands cradled the comic, gentle like how he’d held their newborn baby so many years ago.
Greg met Dale’s eyes, his lips pulling up in a smirk. “Should I have taken this off?”
“No,” Dale said, closing the door behind himself. “I appreciate the private viewing.”
The suit stretched smoothly over Greg’s chest, down his abs, wrapping around his thick thighs. They’d stayed up late into the night, Dale unpicking and re-sewing the spandex, so the suit would fit just right on his husband. Whoever made the superhero costumes had made it look so easy; it was amazing that Greg had put up with his needles for so many nights, all for Phil’s sake.
“Had enough?” Greg asked when Dale climbed into bed, snuggling up into him.
“For now.” Dale slipped his arm into Greg’s. This close, Greg’s warmth soaked into his skin, a comforting presence that Dale was always thankful for. “What did Phil talk to you about? Earlier in the restaurant.”
“Oh, that.” Greg’s smile faded. “It’s not something you need to know.”
Dale frowned. “It had to be something big, if you’re explicitly allowing him to punch people. He’s eleven, Greg. He doesn’t need to get into trouble at school.”
“Some things are worth getting into trouble for.”
Greg stared intently at him, his expression brooking no argument. Dale had a sinking feeling that Greg meant him. Eleven years ago, they’d gotten into plenty of
