Where the fun stuff happens

You stood on the pavement outside the restaurant and looked at the entrance - the kind of entrance that had a person standing at it, a person in a jacket whose entire job was to hold the door, a door that was heavy, and dark, and framed in something that might have been brass, or might have been something more expensive than brass - and then you looked down at yourself.

You had done your best. Genuinely, sincerely done your best, and you wanted that noted somewhere, even if only internally. The nicest dress you owned was the dress that you had bought for your college graduation and worn twice since, and it was a perfectly good dress, and it fit you well, and the problem was not the dress. The problem was that the dress existed in a world where restaurant entrances did not have their own personnel, and the restaurant in front of you existed in a different world, and those two worlds were, as of tonight, briefly overlapping in a way that made the seams very visible. 

Good shoes - heels, low ones, the only pair you owned that qualified - were already making the balls of your feet aware of their feelings. Your coat was presentable from the outside. You had done your hair for forty-five minutes, and Julia had sent back a string of voice notes telling you to stop it and go, and here you were, and here the restaurant was.

He was out of touch.

The thought arrived plainly. Not unkindly - not as a judgment, just a fact, the clear simple fact of someone who had not had to think about whether a restaurant was within reach for a very long time, possibly ever. He had suggested it the way you might suggest a coffee shop, a known quantity chosen on the basis of quality, and the thought of whether it was the kind of place that might make you feel small had simply not entered the picture. Not from indifference. Just from the particular blindness of never having needed to consider it.

You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and went in.

He was already there, of course - he was always early, you had noted this across twelve Monday evenings, as consistent as his rolled sleeves, and his reading posture, and the way he held a wooden spoon. 

He was standing near the host's desk rather than sitting, because he had arrived and declined to be seated without you, which was correct and very him, and you registered it with a small, complicated warmth alongside the nervousness rather than instead of it.

He was wearing a suit. A very good suit, dark charcoal, with a tie that was deep burgandy, and a pocket square folded with apparent care, and he looked - you processed this with the slight remove of someone trying to see something clearly - extraordinary. 

The suit fit the way expensive things fit when they have been made for a specific person and worn enough times to settle into the shape of them. The dark hair, the mismatched eyes, the correctness of his posture, all of it read differently here than it had in an amber-lit kitchen with flour on the counter and Rowan's voice cutting through the noise of several working stoves at once. 

Here, he looked like what he was - a very successful fifty-year-old man who had arrived early and was waiting. And here, in the nicest dress you owned, you looked like what you were, and the distance between those two things was something you were going to spend the next hour and a half being quietly aware of.

He saw you, and something shifted in his expression - moved through pleased and settled into careful, deliberate, the expression of a man managing himself, which you recognized because you were also managing yourself, and because it was genuinely strange to see him standing here when every memory you had of him involved chopping boards, and saucepans, and twelve Monday nights in the same warm kitchen.

"Hi," you said.

"Hello," he said, and offered you the flowers.

You had not expected the flowers. He was holding them with a slight self-consciousness that suggested he had made a decision some days ago, and was now committed to following through on it regardless of how it felt to stand in the entrance of a restaurant holding a wrapped bouquet while waiting - which was, you thought, simultaneously very formal, and very earnest, and entirely, specifically him. 

They were white and pale pink, ranunculus or something close, simply wrapped, nothing excessive. 

"They're beautiful," you said, and meant it, and took them, and the host appeared and said ‘right this way’, and you followed with the flowers in your arms into the restaurant, already working out that you would be holding them for the rest of the evening because there was simply nowhere to put them.

—-

The restaurant was the kind of place where the menus had no prices on your side.

You discovered this when you opened yours and scanned the left column with the practiced efficiency of someone who always checked prices first, and found that the left column said things like pan-seared halibut with a citrus beurre blanc and slow-braised short rib with truffle pomme purée without any numbers attached. You looked at it for a moment. You looked at Baelor, who was reading his menu with the same focused attention he gave everything and appeared entirely untroubled.

You looked back at your menu.

There was a small, uncertain beat in which you were not entirely sure whether to be offended. 

There was something about the menu-without-prices that felt like a particular kind of assumption - like the restaurant, and by extension Baelor, had decided on your behalf that numbers weren't your concern. You turned this over for a moment, fairly. 

It was the kind of restaurant that still did things this way because it had always done them this way, and Baelor had probably not chosen it because of that detail, had probably not thought about that detail at all. He had chosen it because he knew it, because the food was good, because when you had been on approximately no dates for however long it had been and you were trying to do this correctly, you defaulted to the version of correct you already had a template for. Which was, you suspected, the client dinner version.

The client dinner version. 

You sat with that for a moment - the suit, the menu, the careful correctness of the evening, the way he had been holding himself since you walked in with the slight tension of someone executing a procedure they had memorized and were determined to get right. 

He wasn't being dismissive. He wasn't being condescending. He was being the only version of a first date he had available to him, which was formal, and correct, and out of practice, and that was a different thing entirely.

"The halibut is very good here," he told you, over the top of his menu.

"Is it?" You asked.

"I've been here before. For a client dinner, some years ago." He set his menu down and looked at you with the same attentiveness - the full, direct kind. "I should have asked what you preferred. I defaulted to somewhere I knew, which wasn't -" he stopped. "I apologize, I should have asked your preference."

You looked at him for a moment, at the slight compression around his expression that was his version of discomfort, and you said, "It's a beautiful restaurant. I'm glad to be here." And you meant it - not as performance, just as the honest fact of where things stood. He had made a miscalculation with the restaurant. He had also noticed the miscalculation and said so, without being prompted. That counted.

He nodded once and picked up his menu again, and the waiter came, and you ordered the halibut because he had recommended it and because it seemed safe, and Baelor ordered the short rib, and the waiter disappeared, and you were left with each other, and the white tablecloth, and the quiet, ambient sound of a full restaurant on a Saturday evening.

"How was your week?" You asked him, because it was the conversational equivalent of a fire escape - functional, unglamorous, available in emergencies. 

In the kitchen it would never have been necessary; conversation had always found its own shape, driven by the task at hand, by the natural rhythm of working alongside someone toward something specific. 

Here, there was no task. Just the two of you, and a white tablecloth, and twelve weeks of Monday evenings that had apparently not prepared either of you for Saturday night.

"Busy," he said. "The new client -" a pause. "You don't want to hear about the new client."

"I do," you said, honestly.

He looked at you with a slight skepticism that was almost funny. "It's not interesting."

"You find it interesting."

"I find most things interesting," he said. "I'm not a reliable measure."

"Tell me about the new client," you said.

He told you about the new client. It was - well, it was not inherently interesting in itself, a complex estate dispute with multiple parties and a poorly drafted will being read three different ways by three different sets of lawyers - but the way he talked about it was interesting, the same way it had always been interesting, the way he organized a problem out loud with clean precision. 

You listened, and you asked questions, and he answered them, and for about eight minutes it was almost like the kitchen. The register was right, the ease was almost right, and you could see the shape of the person you knew underneath the suit and the careful posture.

And then the food arrived, and the conversation broke, and when it resumed it had lost the thread again.

The food was extraordinary, and you noted this with genuine appreciation alongside the helplessness of knowing that meals like this existed entirely outside your normal life - the kind you'd had maybe twice, at other people's expense, at occasions that required dressing up. The halibut dissolved. The beurre blanc was exactly what a beurre blanc should be, which you knew now, specifically, because of class, and that small knowledge sat pleasantly in the middle of the rather formal evening.

"The sauce," you noted.

Something shifted in his expression - a small, recognizing warmth, the kind that appeared when something from the kitchen surfaced here. "Yes," he agreed.

"We could make this."

"Something close to it," he said. "The technique would be the same. The fish would be less exceptional."

"Rowan would be proud."

"Rowan would take the credit," he said, with a dryness so entirely him that you laughed - a real one, not the polite kind - and he looked quietly pleased, the way he always looked pleased when he made you laugh, without making anything of it.

But then the laugh settled, and the restaurant reasserted itself around you, and the slight stiffness was still there in the set of his shoulders, still in the careful way he was handling the conversation. You thought about what he had said on the phone when you'd finally spoken, working out the date - it's been some time since I've done this - and what some time meant when translated from his particular register into ordinary language.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looked at you. "Yes."

"When was the last time you went on a date? Before tonight."

The pause was brief but real. He looked at his plate for a moment, then back at you, with the expression he had when he was choosing the true answer over the more correct one. "Before Jena died," he said. "We were together from law school, so the last time I dated anyone was before I was married." A pause. "Which was a while ago."

"How long?" you asked.

He considered it. "She passed nearly eleven years ago, and we were married for… well, for thirteen years before that, and we had dated a while before getting married.” 

You sat with that for a moment. His last first date would have been more than twenty-four years ago. He had put on his best suit, and brought you flowers, and chosen a restaurant he associated with the kind of occasion, and had been sitting across from you all evening trying very hard to do this correctly by the standards of a version of dating that was more than two decades out of practice, and the whole picture of it - the too-formal posture, the careful orchestration of the evening, the menu without prices - rearranged itself in your understanding into something that was not out of touch at all. 

It was just nervousness. 

It was just a man who did not know what he was doing and was covering it with the best tools he had, which were precision, and preparation, and the knowledge of where to find a good halibut.

"Okay," you said, because what else could you say?

He looked at you.

"I was just wondering," you said, mildly, "because you've seemed a little -" you looked for the right word. "Tightly wound."

Something moved across his face that he very quickly composed. "I'm not tightly wound."

"You've been holding your fork like it might combust if you set it down," you said.

He paused. He looked down at his fork. He set it down with a deliberateness that was somehow funnier than the original offense, and you pressed your lips together and looked at the tablecloth.

"I'm a little tightly wound," he admitted.

"It's okay," you told him. "I'm nervous too."

He looked at you with a faint surprise, as though this had genuinely not occurred to him - as though he had been so occupied with the propriety of his own side of the evening that your nervousness had simply not entered the picture. It was both very funny and unexpectedly endearing. 

"You don't seem nervous," he said.

"I'm very good at seeming like I'm not nervous," you smiled. "I learned it somewhere along the line."

The look he gave you was different from the other, careful expressions of the last hour - quicker, unguarded, the kitchen look, and it lasted only a second before the restaurant settled back around you, but it was enough.

You finished dinner. The food was excellent throughout, and the conversation found a better rhythm in the second half - helped by the frank exchange about nerves, by the loosening that always came from naming a thing. It was not the effortless current of the kitchen, not quite, but it was better. More honest. He made a dry remark about the dessert menu. You told him something that had happened at work that made him press his lips together in the way he did when he was trying not to smile. 

It was good, genuinely good, and underneath it you were aware of the thing that was still slightly off - the production-of-a-date quality of the evening, the white tablecloth between you - and you were thinking about how to address it.

The waiter returned, and Baelor asked for the bill with the quiet skill of someone who had been planning to do so for the past several minutes, and when it arrived he positioned it on his side of the table with a naturalness that made very clear the conversation was not going to happen.

"Let me -" you started.

"No," he said.

Just that. Pleasantly, with the finality of a person who had already settled this question internally some time ago and saw no reason to revisit it. You looked at him. He looked back at you with a  mild steadiness, as though he were waiting for the objection to resolve itself.

"It's a very expensive restaurant," you protested.

"I chose it," he said. "So it’s only fair that I pay."

You could have pressed it. You looked at his expression and decided not to, and he signed the receipt without letting you see the total, which you appreciated, and put his card away, and that was that.

You were quiet for a moment, watching him, thinking. The evening had been good in parts and stiff in others, and you were not going to let it end on the stiff parts. Not when you knew - with the certainty of twelve Mondays behind knowing - that the Baelor from the kitchen was in there somewhere underneath the suit and the careful posture, and that what he needed was not a better restaurant or better conversation topics but simply something to do with his hands. A task. A shared, unstudied thing that neither of you was performing. That was what had always worked.

"We should get ice cream," you suggested.

He looked at you.

"There's a place two blocks from here," you said. "I passed it on the way."

He looked around, briefly, at the restaurant - the other tables, the candlelight, the dessert menu sitting unopened between you - and then back at you. "It's December.”

"I know."

"It's quite cold."

"I'm aware of the temperature."

"We're in a restaurant," he said, as though it were mildly absurd.

"A restaurant without ice cream," you replied. "I checked the dessert menu. They have something called a deconstructed opera cake and something called a warm valrhona chocolate fondant."

"Both of which are -"

"Fine," you said. "But I want ice cream."

He looked at you for a long moment, and the corner of his mouth did the thing it did. "Alright.”

—

The cold outside was sharp and immediate, the December kind that made itself known in the first breath and stayed known. You had your coat and your flowers, and he had his coat, and the street was quieter than the restaurant side of things - mostly offices, one late-closing stationery shop, the pavement lit at intervals by the street lamps. 

It was immediately better than the restaurant. Not because the restaurant had been bad - it had been, objectively, excellent in every way a restaurant could be excellent - just because this was unrehearsed. There was no tablecloth. There was no ambient propriety. There was just the cold, and the street, and him walking beside you.

You had noticed this about him over twelve Mondays. He was always more himself when he was moving, occupied with something with an end-goal. The best conversations had happened when there was a task - when the hollandaise needed watching, or the dough needed kneading, or the sauce needed reducing - the talking always easier when neither of you was thinking about the talking. 

Out here with the restaurant was already behind you, and with it the suit's particular weight, the stiffness of the evening began to ease from his shoulders in the way things eased when a person stopped performing a version of themselves.

He walked beside you with a distance that was careful and slightly formal, and you smiled into the cold air ahead of you.

"You're going to tell me it was a perfectly good restaurant with perfectly good dessert," you said.

"It was a perfectly good restaurant with perfectly good dessert," he said.

"And that ice cream in December is -"

"Inadvisable," he said.

"And yet."

"And yet," he agreed, dry and easy, and you felt something in your chest settle - the tight anxious note of the evening beginning to release.

The ice cream shop was small, and warm, and lit with the slightly excessive cheerfulness of a place that had committed fully to an aesthetic of aggressively cozy - string lights, a chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs, the smell of sugar and waffle cone so thick in the air you felt it physically when you pushed through the door. Two other couples, a group of teenagers in the far corner. No white tablecloths.

Baelor looked around the room, eyes flitting around it as he made a rapid assessment. "Welcoming," he decided.

"Very," you said. "What do you want?"

He looked at the chalkboard. Read it with the brief comprehensive attention he gave menus. "Vanilla," he said. "One scoop."

"Just vanilla?"

"Is there a reason it shouldn't be just vanilla?"

"There are forty-three options on that board."

"I know," he was looking up at the board. "Vanilla."

You got two scoops of something involving salted caramel and brownie pieces, which he looked at with the polite neutrality of someone choosing not to comment, and you took the mismatched chairs by the window because that was clearly the right place to sit, and he tasted the vanilla with the focused attention he had brought to everything else both tonight and during classes, and was quiet for a moment.

"That's good," he said, with what sounded like genuine surprise.

"Of course it's good."

"I didn't say I doubted it."

"Your face said you doubted it."

"My face," he said, "is perfectly neutral."

"Your face," you said, "said ‘I am a fifty-year-old man eating vanilla ice cream in December and I have reservations about this’, both literally and figuratively."

A pause. And then he laughed - not the small, quiet exhale that was his usual concession to amusement, a real laugh, brief and genuine, the laugh of someone who had been caught and was not unhappy about it. The sound of it in the warm, bright little ice cream shop after the careful orchestrated evening was so unexpectedly good that you felt it from your chest to your fingertips.

"To be fair," he said, composing himself, "the reservations were about the temperature, not the ice cream."

"And now?"

"The temperature remains inadvisable," he said. "The ice cream is very good."

"High praise."

"I'm selective with my compliments," he said. "Not stingy."

You ate. The teenagers in the corner were loud and cheerful about something on someone's phone. The couple nearest the door were sharing a sundae with the practiced ease of years. The string lights threw a warm, uneven light over everything, and the cold outside the window was visible as a darkness and a faint mist where the warm air from the shop met December.

"Tell me something," you said. "Something you haven't told me."

He considered it with the seriousness he gave most things, and you watched the slight movement of thought cross his face - the brief assessment, the selection. "I've been thinking about getting a dog.”

You looked at him.

"Matarys has been advocating for it for years," he explained. "When the boys were young, I always said no - impractical, hours too long, nobody home. And then they left, and the logic became that it was even more impractical." He turned the small cup in his hands. "But I made soup last Sunday, ate it alone in the kitchen, and thought about it."

"What changed?" You asked.

"The kitchen is different now," he said. "Since October." Simply, without emphasis, in the way he said things that were just true. "I'm in it more. It feels like a different room."

You sat with that for a moment and chose not to read into it too much. "What kind of dog?"

"Something medium-sized. Something that can keep pace when I run."

"Do you know anything about dogs?"

"Less than I knew about cooking in October," he said. "Which was very little."

"So your plan is to read several books and proceed methodically."

"That is generally my plan," he agreed.

"Has it worked out for you?"

He looked at you. The look had the quality of the one from the kitchen - unguarded, the kind that didn't bother composing itself first. "It has," he said. "On balance, fairly well recently."

"Does the dog have a name?" You prodded. "In your head."

He looked briefly surprised, as though this was a step he had not yet arrived at, and then the slight tell of someone disclosing something earlier than intended. "Arthur.”

"Arthur," you repeated.

"It's a good name."

"It is," you agreed. "For a very dignified medium-sized dog who runs."

"Exactly," he said, with a dry completeness. He had committed to this bit and was not backing down from it, and you laughed, and he looked at you the way he looked at you when he had made you laugh, which was quietly and without making any fuss of it, and the rest of the evening opened up from there.

You talked about nothing in particular and everything in general - the dog, Rowan, whether twelve weeks was enough to actually learn to cook or whether you were both just competent beginners with a certificate. Baelor maintained that Rowan would have strong opinions about the restaurant's halibut preparation. You maintained she would simply be pleased that someone was cooking. Neither of you was entirely wrong, and the argument was easy, and warm, and entirely without the stiffness of the restaurant, and at some point during it you became aware that this - the ice cream shop, the string lights, the cold outside the window, the easy back and forth of it - was the date you had actually wanted.

"You're different here," you said, eventually.

"Different from what?"

"From the restaurant." You turned your now empty cup in your hands. "At the restaurant you seemed like you were following a procedure."

He was quiet for a moment. "I wasn't sure what the right register was," he admitted, with a straightness. "I wanted to get it right. So I defaulted to what I knew, which was -"

"The client dinner version," you said.

He looked at you. "Yes," he agreed. "That's about right.”

"The right register," you began, "is just the one from the kitchen. That's the only one I wanted."

He was quiet for a moment, receiving this. "I wasn't sure it would be appropriate," he said. "For a first date."

"Why not?"

"Because in the kitchen we were - partners," he said. "Working toward something. I wasn't certain that translated, or whether you'd come tonight expecting something else entirely."

"It translates," you said.

He nodded, once, slowly. "Good," he said - which was, from him, as close to relief as the register allowed, and it was enough.

"Was that so hard?" You asked.

"Moderately," he said. "Yes."

You laughed, and he smiled - the real one, the one that changed his face briefly and completely - and you stayed in the ice cream shop until your cups were both empty and there was no particular reason to stay longer, and even then neither of you moved immediately. There was something about the evening, the way it had settled into itself in the second half, that neither of you seemed quite ready to close.

Eventually you got up, and the cold outside was a shock after the warmth of the shop, and you both pulled your coats closer and stood on the pavement for a moment while your eyes adjusted to the dark and your lungs adjusted to the temperature.

"The car's back this way," he told you.

"Ah," you said. "I came from the station."

You walked. The street was quiet in the way of Saturday nights that had passed their peak - a few other people here and there, a bar further down with music coming faintly through its walls, but mostly just the cold, and the lamps, and the pavement. Your shoes had made their feelings about the evening known since the restaurant, and you were walking with a slightly careful gait now, and at some point, without announcing it, he slowed his pace to match yours, which you noticed and said nothing about.

You still had the flowers. They had survived the restaurant and the ice cream shop and were still more or less intact, which felt like its own small achievement.

"Thank you for the flowers," you said, because you had said it when he gave them to you and meant it, and you still meant it now, differently - with the full weight of the evening behind it rather than just the surprise of the gesture.

He looked over at you. "You've been carrying them all night."

"I know. I don't mind."

"I didn't think about the logistics of -" he paused, with the slight compression of someone acknowledging a gap in their planning.

"It's fine," you nearly giggled. "They're ranunculus. They're hardy."

"You know what they are."

"I took a botany elective in my second year," you said. "Largely useless, but occasionally applicable."

He was quiet for a moment, an amused look on his face. The street lamp above you cast its yellow ring of light, and the cold was dry and still, and the walk back to his car was, you realized, one of the better parts of the evening - unhurried, unrehearsed, nobody performing anything.

"I had a good time," you said. "Tonight. The second half of it."

"The ice cream," he said.

"And before that. The restaurant improved."

"It had a low point," he said, plainly.

"You recovered," you said. "The deposition exhibit line was a low point."

"You asked me about that," he defended, and then thought for a moment. "I take your point."

"You set your fork down very deliberately afterward."

"I was recalibrating," he said.

"Is that what that was?"

"That is what that was," he said, and there was something in the way he said it - unbothered, not defending himself, just stating the case - that was so precisely the kitchen Baelor that you smiled at the pavement ahead of you and did not try to hide it.

His car was where he had left it, in a side street off the main road, and he unlocked it and looked at you before he opened the passenger side door to let you in. "I'll drive you," he said. Not as an offer exactly - more as a statement of what was going to happen, delivered in the same register as the temperature remains inadvisable and that is generally my plan, a settled thing that had already been decided.

"You don't have to," you said, though in truth the idea of the metro in December with an armful of ranunculus had limited appeal.

"I know," he said. "I'd like to."

You got in.

His car was warm, and quiet, and clean in the way his things seemed like they would be - the kind of car that had been maintained rather than just owned. He drove the way he did everything else, without rushing, with full attention, and you gave him the address and watched his face in the ambient light of the dashboard as the navigation resolved. 

He said nothing. The streets became narrower, the shops smaller, the general quality of the neighborhood shifting in the way it shifted when you crossed the invisible line between the parts of the city that were expensive and the parts that were not. He drove. He said nothing, and you were grateful for it, and you looked out the window at the streets you knew and thought that you were not ashamed of where you lived, not exactly, just aware of the metaphorical distance between where you were and where he came from, which had always been there and was simply more visible tonight.

He found parking without difficulty, which was more than you ever accomplished, and you were already getting out by the time he came around, which he registered and said nothing about.

The building was what it was. A converted Victorian terrace, imperfectly divided, your studio at the top of a narrow staircase with a window that leaked cold air around the frame in winter and a kitchen the size of a generous wardrobe. 

You had made it as nice as you could, the way you made everything as nice as you could with what you had, and you were not ashamed of it - not exactly. You were just aware of it, the way you were always aware of the other things that marked the distance between where you were and where he came from. The restaurant had made that distance very visible, and standing on this street, in this neighborhood, with him beside you, it was visible again in a different way. 

He looked at nothing in particular. Said nothing. He simply walked beside you toward the door, and if the neighborhood registered in any notable way in his internal accounting, his face gave absolutely no indication of it.

He walked you to the front door of the building, and you stopped on the small step under the shallow overhang, and the cold was close, and the street lamp behind him put his face in a half-shadow, and you stood there with your flowers.

He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, and neither of you said anything for a moment. The evening sat between you - the restaurant, and the ice cream shop, and the car, and the walk, and twelve Mondays before all of it, the whole accumulation of how you had arrived at this doorstep on this particular night - and it was very quiet, just the cold, and the lamplight, and the dark beyond it.

You looked at him.

He was looking back at you with an expression that was not any of the restaurant expressions, not the careful, restrained versions from the white tablecloth, not the unguarded ice cream shop version either. Something newer. Something with fewer edges. The direct, fully present quality was there - it was always there, it was one of the most consistent things about him, the thing that had been doing something to your chest since approximately week three and had not stopped - but underneath it was something that was not managed at all, something that had not decided yet what it was going to do with itself.

He was very still.

You were aware of his breathing in the cold air - visible, very slightly, each exhale a faint cloud in the lamplight - and the way it had slowed to something careful. You were aware of your own, which had done something similar, a quieting, a particular attentiveness, the body's involuntary response to proximity and something it recognized even when you were still deciding what to call it.

The street was very still. The cold was very still.

He had not moved. He was looking at you with an expression that held everything it had been holding for twelve weeks and was not, you thought, going to do anything about it on his own. 

That was simply not how he was built - he had told you as much, without saying so directly, in all the ways he had held himself back over the Mondays, in the careful control over every look that had lasted a beat too long, in the word alright said from somewhere that had finally stopped arguing rather than anything so active as a decision. 

He would stand here in the cold until the heat death of the universe before he reached for something he was not sure he was allowed to reach for.

That was all right. You had always known it would come to you.

You looked at him for a long moment, one beat, two, the length of a decision being made from somewhere past the arguing stage, somewhere simple and clear on the other side of all the weighing of it.

Then you leaned up, and kissed him.

It was deliberate - not sudden, not accidental, the product of a long pause, and a clear choice, and the knowledge of exactly what you were doing. His mouth was warm against the cold, and he was very still for just a moment, the stillness of someone receiving something unexpected and carefully not fumbling it, and then his hand came up from his coat pocket and rested at your jaw - just rested there, light and certain, the way he did things - and he kissed you back.

It was not a long kiss. It was not a complicated one. It was the kind of kiss that was a beginning rather than an arrival - careful, and real, and honest in the way he was honest about things, without embellishment, without anything unnecessary.

You stepped back.

He looked at you, his hand coming down from your face slowly, and his expression was the one you had no name for yet, something you had not seen before tonight, quieter than anything from the twelve weeks and very still.

"Goodnight," you said.

"Goodnight," he said. His voice was very precisely even.

You went inside. The door closed behind you, and you stood in the entry for a moment in the warm and the quiet, with the ranunculus in your arms, and you were smiling, and the cold outside was very cold, and you did not mind it at all.

---

a/n: i posted this from my phone, so if there are mistakes... no there aren't

‘Grandma?’ she called.

‘I’m in bed, sweetheart!’ Gisele replied. ‘Come through.’

Lily entered the room. As soon as her grandma set eyes on her, her face fell. ‘Ohhh mon petit Fleur..’ she whispered. She reached out for her granddaughter. ‘Come here.’

Lily sniffled and climbed onto the bed, careful not to disturb her grandma too much as she looked so delicate. She gently laid her head on her chest and inhaled Gisele's scent of jasmine perfume and instantly felt her mind quieten.

‘What’s happened?’ Gisele asked quietly.

Lily sniffed. ‘Mommy shouted at me because I was brushing Lone Star and talking to Drake.’

She felt Gisele stiffen but she didn't question it.

‘And she said I shouldn't speak to strangers,’ Lily continued. ‘Because strangers are bad but Drake was nice.’

Gisele cleared her throat and cuddled Lily deeper. ‘It’s just you and your mommy,’ she said softly. ‘She wants you to be safe and since you don't know Drake, he is a stranger to you. Yes, he can be a nice man but that doesn't mean you should speak to him unless your mommy or I are there.’

Lily bit her lip. ‘That’s unfair on him and Lone Star.’

Gisele chuckled despite herself. ‘Lily, are you just mad because you want the horse?’

Lily turned and pouted. ‘No!’ she protested.

Gisele smiled and pressed a kiss on Lily's head. ‘You don't speak to someone you don't know unless you have your mommy or me there, okay? That's not just a rule for you, that's a rule for all children.’

Lily sighed. She knew she couldn't protest against that if the rule applied to all children.

She was a child who obeyed rules and liked everything to be just right. She rarely strayed from the safe path.

Lily also felt things deeply and that often meant she didn't want to upset anyone. She especially didn't want to upset Camille because Camille was her entire world.

She didn't want to upset her mommy, ever.

If that meant no more Lone Star or talking to Drake, then she wouldn't go near them again.

*******************

That evening, Drake was back in his local bar, where he tended to spend most evenings.

Yes, he had work at the ranch in the early mornings but Drake had since admitted to himself that he was basically a high functioning alcoholic and he could deal with a sore head and dry mouth if it meant he could drink whisky and forget about all this shit for a while.

This shit being meeting his daughter for the first time today and Camille's anger about it.

Fuck.

Drake downed his whisky and gestured to Leo, the bartender and friend, for another.

‘You alright man?’ Leo asked, frowning as he began to pour Drake another. ‘You’re quieter than usual.’

Drake smirked. ‘I’m fine, Leo.’

Leo raised his eyebrows and passed Drake the glass. He studied him for a moment, his green eyes roaming Drake's face.

‘So I heard Camille is back,’ he said bluntly. ‘And a mini Camille too.’

Drake gripped the glass. ‘Leo. Shut up.’

Leo proceeded to dry the wet glasses, not once taking his eyes off Drake. He didn't understand him. Sure, Leo was not a family man, he was allergic to commitment. If a woman he slept with had gotten pregnant with his baby, he would have run a mile.

But Drake wasn't like Leo. Drake, although a bit of a loner and hardly a womaniser, was the kind of guy who looked like he would want a relationship and a kid. The women he had dated in the past had always been long term.

Plus she was Camille Montespan. She was in Leo’s spank bank.

He loved her name. Fucking sexy and French.

Anyway, who in their right mind would reject Camille Montespan? She was the town sweetheart. Always friendly, always up for a laugh, drop dead gorgeous.

Pretty much every guy in Applewood had had a crush on her at some point, Leo included.

You sleep with girls. You marry women like Camille Montespan.

If Camille had slept with him and had his baby, Leo would gone against all of his instincts and settled down with her. Because you don't give up the chance to be with a woman like her. Even Leo knew that.

So why the fuck did Drake fuck it up?

He didn't know what had happened five years ago with Drake and Camille. Drake never spoke about it. Had it been a drunken fling? A secret romance?

All Leo knew was that Camille and his daughter were Drake's sore spots. You could insult him about anything and he would shrug it off, acting like he didn't care. But if you mentioned Camille and his daughter, Drake would turn defensive.

Before Leo could respond to Drake, the door opened and in walked Maxwell Beaumont.

‘Hey Leo!’ he greeted him as if Leo was the best thing in the world at that moment.

Leo smiled. ‘Hey Max. What can I get you?’

‘Ooohh.. a pina colada please.’

‘Coming right up, good sir!’ Leo said. Maxwell always ordered a fancy cocktail and it was always interesting to see what he would order his time.

Drake sipped his whisky and cast a glance over at Maxwell who was studiously scrolling through his phone and making a point not to speak to Drake.

‘How are ya doing, Max?’ Drake finally said, breaking the horrible silence.

‘Fine,’ Maxwell replied, his voice montone.

Leo eyed the two of them as he shook the cocktail shaker, wishing Drake would just stop trying.

Ever since Camille left town, Maxwell swore never to talk to Drake again. He was Camille’s best friend and incredibly loyal to her. If you hurt Camille, you hurt Maxwell.

He was like sunshine personified with everyone except Drake. Even though Drake understood, it didn't mean that he liked it.

‘So I saw Camille and Lily today -’

‘Don’t even say their names,’ Maxwell interrupted, his voice like ice. ‘Don’t you dare.’

Drake's jaw set. He picked up his glass of whisky and downed it before gesturing to Leo for another.

However, Leo was staring at Maxwell with his mouth open, cocktail shaker gripped tightly in his hands. He knew Maxwell hated Drake but Jesus Christ, he was quick to the punch.

‘Sorry..’ Drake muttered, taking a sip of his drink.

‘No, you don't say sorry to me,’ Maxwell said, his voice starting to rise, ‘you say sorry to Camille. But you won't because you really don't give a shit about her.’

Drake exhaled. ‘Leo, can I have another drink?’

Leo coughed and picked up the whisky bottle, pouring him another. He then served Maxwell his Pina colada, hoping the two of them wouldn't fight right here at his bar.

Drake downed the whisky.

‘Yup, get drunk like you always do…’ Maxwell muttered, his lips brushing the straw in his glass. ‘Classic Walker.’

Drake was up on his feet in an instant. ‘Right man, you got something to say? Fucking say it.’

‘Woah, calm down!’ Leo panicked. ‘You’re going to upset my other patrons…’

‘Who, Bill at the back? Drake hissed. ‘He doesn't give a shit.’

Maxwell sipped his Pina colada, cool as a cucumber. He looked away from Drake , not bothering to give him any eye contact. Drake stared at the side of his face.

‘You know it's none of your business what happened between me and Camille right?’ he asked, keeping his voice neutral. Unfortunately , his voice was slurring now thanks to the whisky he had downed.

‘I know you're her fucking guard dog who needs any excuse to jump but you don't know the ins and outs of this. You weren't there.’

Maxwell turned to look at Drake. His eyes were narrowed. ‘Excuse me?’ he whispered.

‘So guys, you watch the Texans game on Sunday?’ Leo asked, his voice high. ‘Great game -’

‘I get she's your friend and you are sticking by her but you don't know the full story so you can't exactly make your mind up about me,’ Drake continued. ‘You’re judging me without actually talking to me about it.’

Drake had a secret. Despite acting like he didn't give a shit about anything, he hated it when people judged him. All he wanted was to be accepted but people rarely did.

Maxwell rose so he stood over Drake, which wasn't hard as Drake was sitting on the bar stool. The tables would turn if Drake stood up because he had a clear five inches over Maxwell.

So he stood up.

Maxwell stared up at him, his eyes flashing. ‘I was there to pick up the pieces after you took her heart and ripped it into two,’ he said quietly, his tone dangerous. ‘I was there to listen to her as she told me how cruel you were, how you said it had been a drunken mistake, that it should never have happened. She was broken up, Drake. She felt like shit, like nothing-’

‘I didn't mean to make her feel like that!’ Drake burst out. ‘I didn't word it correctly-’

‘She told you that she was pregnant with your baby and you told her you didn't want anything to do with her!’

‘It wasn't meant to come out like that!’

‘Guys, please, can we stop?’ Leo interrupted, desperate for peace.

‘She always stuck up for you!’ Maxwell shouted, pushing Drake in the chest. Drake stumbled back, catching himself on the bar. ‘When everyone in school took the piss out of you, called you names, ignored you, she was there to defend you! She thought you were a good guy!’

‘I am a good guy!’ Drake shouted back. ‘I made a crappy decision but I am a good-’

‘No, you're a selfish asshole,’ Maxwell cut in. ‘You could have stood by her. You didn't have to say you'd step up and be a dad but for fucks sake, you could have at least paid her child support!’

There was a horrible, thick silence.

Leo looked between the two of them and exhaled. ‘Guys. Get out of my bar.’

Drake swallowed. ‘I.. I offered to pay her child support and she said she didn't want anything from me.’

Maxwell stared at him. ‘You should have ignored her and done it anyway. But instead you wiped your hands clean of them. Happy to stay in Texas working on that ranch and drinking yourself stupid at night. That's what you chose, Drake.’

Drake shook his head and raised his hands. ‘I can't take this anymore -’

‘Good,’ Leo interrupted, his voice sharp. ‘Both of you are done. Get out. I won't ask again.’

Drake grabbed his denim jacket and pushed some dollars at Leo. ‘Sorry Leo.’

Leo nodded mutely and took the cash. ‘Sober up, Drake. And you, Maxwell,’ he eyed Maxwell who was downing the last of his pina colada. ‘Don’t talk shit about something you don't know about.’

‘But I do!’ Maxwell protested.

Leo pointed at Drake who was now leaving the bar with his shoulders heavy and head low.

Victoria hadn’t even started her shift before she was in the deep end of action. However, she knew she couldn’t leave the experienced doctor hanging. So she did as much as she could.

And she got no thanks for it.

Victoria may not be that experienced but she certainly wasn’t stupid. She knew the basics and it would take time.

So to be berated before she had even fully begun her shift was unnecessary.

Victoria knew the expectations of a doctor, the sacrifices and hard work, it took a lot to become the best and it was work Victoria was willing to put in.

She knew she would be praised and criticised along the way. And she would took it on the chin. All of the comments would make her a better doctor. Getting feedback from Ethan Ramsey was something she should listen to and reflect on. He wants the best for his staff. He wants them to succeed.

Victoria turned away from the window, a small smile on her face.

Tomorrow would be a new day. A day where she could show her new colleagues just what she was made of.

Victoria dumped her bag on the floor with a loud sigh, she kicked her shoes off and collapsed onto her bed.

Her first day on the diagnostics team was over. And it was intense to say the least.

Working alongside some of the country’s greatest doctors was an honour but Victoria couldn’t help but feel a little out of place. They had years of experience compared to her. Victoria wondered if her opinion really mattered.

So when she was asked to attend a meal with the Governor of Massachusetts, Victoria knew she has clearly made a good impression. And her job was to keep the Governor happy. The youngest person at the table had the most important job of the night.

And according to everyone, she had passed with flying colours.

Victoria pulled out her phone and googled the Governor. She was a highly professional woman, someone who always dressed sharp and didn’t take fools lightly. Victoria guessed that she was a hard woman to impress. Yet funnily enough, she was able to do just that with her own son.

And the reward was an eight course meal at one of the fanciest restaurants in Boston. But somehow, that wasn’t the highlight of the evening. The minimal contact she had with Ethan was enough to make her heart flutter.

Strict boundaries were set between them. Whatever happened in the past had to stay there. They couldn’t go back to what they had before. And for Victoria, it hurt.

But that was the past and she was determined to put it behind her and focus on the future. She had earned one of the most hotly anticipated spots on a team admired by doctors all across America.

She was ready to prove her place.

Victoria laid in bed as she heard the shower running in the en-suite, smiling to herself as she made out the faint line of Ethan in the reflection of the mirror. But she had even more reason to smile today. Her first full day as leader of the diagnostics team. It was pretty surreal.

She would never have guessed that she would be running this team. But with Ethan having taken over as Chief of Medicine, he decided that the leadership should be passed over to Victoria.

She considered it an honour to be leading the team. And she was going to do her best to make sure it excelled like it had under the last leader.

The door to the en-suite opened and Ethan stepped out, towel round his waist and hair dishevelled. “Are you okay?” He smiled.

“Never better.” Victoria smiled back. “I was just thinking about today.”

“Oh yeah.” Ethan said. “What were you thinking about?” He pulled out the hairdryer.

“Just how surreal it is leading this team. All I’ve ever wanted is to do the best for our patients. Now I have a chance to do even greater things. There’s a lot riding on it.”

Ethan turned off the hairdryer. “I understand how you feel. I felt the same when I took over. You suddenly don’t feel ready. But then I remember why I took the offer in the first place. Those before me trusted me. And if they had faith in me then I had faith in myself.” Ethan climbed into bed.

“That’s a good way of looking at it. I just don’t want to let anyone down.” Victoria replied.

Ethan wrapped his arms around Victoria. “You could never let anyone down. You are an exceptionally talented doctor. You’re ready for this moment.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her head.

“I just feel like I don’t have a lot of experience.” Victoria sighed.

“You’ve had more than you realise. The cases you diagnosed were like no other and as strange as it may sound, the events with the Senator helped us discover a cure that we didn’t have before. You’ve contributed so much that your are worthy of this position. I would never have offered it to you if I didn’t think that you were ready.” Ethan smiled.

Victoria smiled up at him. “It means a lot to hear you say that. I just hope I do you proud.”

“You will Victoria.” Ethan pressed a kiss to her lips.

To have Ethan’s support meant the world to Victoria. If he had faith in her then she should have faith in herself too.

She was ready for this new challenge. And she would make everyone proud.

And she became one of the most respected diagnosticians in the country 😉

The condo was quiet. Entirely too quiet for them getting ready for a Saturday night out, but it wasn’t just any night, and Celia knew Ethan was miffed. Putting the final touches on her makeup, she bit her cheek to stop herself from laughing at his pouting. She knew he wasn’t happy, but the huffing and grumbling under his breath as he changed his tie for the fifth time was a bit... dramatic... to say the least.

Clearing her throat to get his attention, she was disappointed when the scowl remained on his face. Even the incredibly low-cut black silk dress she picked for the evening wasn’t cheering him up.

“Do you need some help picking out a tie? I can help.”

“I am capable of picking out a tie,” he stated flatly. “But... thank you.”

“You do seem to be struggling,” she teased as he collapsed into an easy chair with a sigh.

“Is it too late to say we have a fatal condition that will miraculously disappear in the next 24 hours.”

“Interesting...” Celia sang as she playfully sat on his lap. “Because it wasn’t all that long ago when I did have a mystery illness, and we weren’t sure I had another 24 hours left.  But, thanks to Tobias, I’m here... sitting on your lap... in this incredibly hot dress that you have not had the decency to acknowledge!”

His stony façade crumbled as his eyes traced her body, happily landing on her decolletage, just inches from the pleasant grin tugging at his lips.

“You make an excellent point,” he surrendered, his hands roaming over her curves. “But it was a team effort. We can hardly credit Tobias with saving you.”

“Oh? Would you like to redo the night and exclude him... just to see how things turn out?”

Ethan’s silence was all the answer she needed, and she rose to her feet with a triumphant grin.

“That’s all the more reason for us to stay in... I’m sure Tobias, of all people, would understand that I’d rather do... other things...”

“Nice try,” she laughed. “But we’re meeting Casey and Tobias at Menton in thirty minutes, like it or not.”

“Well, you know my answer to that.”

“Ethan. Casey is a good friend, and it’s ridiculous to think we can’t have dinner with our boyfriends, especially when they were once best friends themselves.”

“Were being the operative word.”

“Is asking you to be polite for one evening too much?”

“It’s not,” he sighed.  “You’re right.”

“I know I am,” she simpered. “You know when most people say ‘my better half,’ it’s just a term of endearment, but in our case, I very much am your better half. The sooner you accept that, the better.”

Ethan barked out a laugh. “Then we’re in luck. Because I’ve already accepted it.  Now let’s go, but we’re not staying a minute past 9:30... agreed?”

“Agreed. Just be a good boy, Ethan, and I’ll reward you later.”

“In that case, we don’t stay a minute past 9:00.”

In a townhome across town...

A manicured hand crept out from the billowy covers and blindly reached at the nightstand in search of her blaring phone. Casey’s attention was very much on other things, but they had ignored the first three alarms; they couldn’t do it again.

Undeterred, Tobias remained in place, placing a trail of hot kisses from her belly up toward her chin, stopping to linger on some of his favorite spotsalong the way.

“Tobias,” she giggled, attempting to wiggle out from under him. “Tobias! We have to go. Our reservation is in 30 minutes, and we’re still naked.”

With a heaving breath, he collapsed on her in defeat. “I happen to like us naked.  Can we please just cancel? I’m telling you, Ramsey won’t give a damn if we do.”

“Agreed,” she said, turning on the light. “In fact, you’d probably make his night. But I’d be disappointed, and so would Celia. So I ask you, do you want to disappoint two beautiful women but make Ethan’s dreams come true?”

He rolled over with a grumble. “When you put it that way...”

“Tobias, Celia is one of my best friends. It’s not like we’ll ask for it often, but once in a while, you and Ethan will need to put up with each other.”  

“Why?”

Casey flipped around, her coquettish gaze saying more than words could express.

“Because I’m asking you to.”

“Fine,” he smirked. “But outside of this apartment, no one is to know how goddamned whipped you have me. OK?”

“Yeah,” she cackled. “Too late for that, Carrick. Why don’t you go pick out what heels I’ll wear tonight?  This way, you have something nice to focus on during the meal?”

“Yeah,” his eyes lit up. “Can I pick out the undies, too?”

“Undies?” she winked.  “You were expecting me to wear undies?”

“Never mind,” he replied gleefully. “But stop talking like that, or we will be staying home!”

“Go get dressed, Dr. Carrick. I’ve given you your appetizer, and if you behave at dinner, I assure you desert will be spectacular.”

Tobias shook his head as he reached the bedroom door, turning back to Casey with a smile.  

“You know, sometimes I still can’t believe I’ve met you.”

“Yeah, yeah...” she teased. “You can thank your lucky stars when the sunsets. Now go get dressed!”

Forty Five minutes later...

Ethan was tapping his foot in annoyance as Celia perused the menu.  Tobias and Casey were already fifteen minutes late, and Ethan was inquiring how long they had to give them before they left when the guilty parties appeared.  Holding hands as they moved through the crowd, the smiles on their faces left little question about what Tobias was whispering in her ear. Ethan rolled his eyes just as Celia glanced in his direction.

“Ethan!” she scolded.  

“I don’t know what she sees in him.  Maybe we should introduce her to my friend Arutur. We’d be saving her a lifetime of grief.”

“Arthur?” Celia grimaced. “The guy in the opera box next to yours?”

“Yes.”

“The one who forages and organizes his cupboards for fun?”

“Yes. He’s a grown-up.”

“He’s a bore! And even if Casey wasn’t happy with Tobias, you need to stick with your day job because you do not have a future in matchmaking.”

Tobias stuck close to Casey as they neared the table.

“God, he looks as miserable as ever,” he groaned.

“Tobias, Ethan’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, he is. Look at him. I think his face would crack if he attempted a sincere smile.”

“Tobias, weren’t you besties at one point? How bad can he be?”

“That was a long time ago. He was a lot more fun back then.”

“Maybe he just needs you to help bring that fun side out again.”

“I’m sure that’s the last thing he wants.”

“I didn’t say want; I said need. Now, just be your jovial self.  And if dinner becomes difficult, just focus on dessert, OK?”

“I’ve been focusing on nothing but. Remember, we’re out of here by 9:00.”

After quick greetings, Ethan summonsed the waiter over to place their drink orders.

“How difficult was it to get him here,” Celia whispered to Casey.

“On a scale of 1-10.  I’d say a 9.  What about you?”

“At least a 15.  But, we’re here,” Celia smiled. 

Tobias and the women agreed on a bottle of wine to share, and then Ethan placed an order for Macallan 18, Sherry Cask.   

“Damn,” Tobias chuckled. “Still drinking that?

“Never stopped.”

“Wait, you drank that during med school?” Celia marveled. “That’s an awfully hefty price tag for a struggling med school student.”

“Some things are worth sacrificing for, dear.”

“So I’ve heard,” Celia winked. “Did you share that bill with him back then, Tobias?”

“Me? Oh, hell no! I drank nothing but cheap stuff back then.”

“Really?” Casey gasped. “But you had a champagne budget.”

“He didn’t want everyone to know that,” Ethan stepped in.

“Nope,” Tobias agreed.  “So I just took the risk of drinking nothing but Boone’s Berry Creek.”

“Did that protect your secret?” Celia asked.

“Unfortunately not.  The Carrick name was just too known at Hopkins, so... I gave up.”

“I’m sure your liver was thankful,” Casey smiled as a look of almost sympathy crossed Ethan’s face.

“Back then, we were both trying to pretend we were something we weren’t. We both had something to prove, even if they were different things.”

“Yeah, and we both failed miserably,” Tobias half smiled.  

“But at least you became friends,” Casey said.  “That’s something.”

“It was,” Ethan replied, taking a sip of his newly arrived drink. “Until we weren’t.”  

“It was a... complicated time,” Tobias offered, as an uncomfortable atmosphere settled on their table.

Celia and Casey kept chatting to keep the mood light, but even they began to wonder if 9:00 might be pushing it. Relief washed over them as the first course arrived, but Tobias’s eyes went wide.  

“Ethan, don’t look up, but is that Richard Barder?”

“Richard Barder?” Ethan blurted as his head circled the room.  “Where?”

“I said don’t look up!” Tobias admonished.

“Now, how the hell am I supposed to know if it’s him if I don’t look up!”

Suppressing smiles, Celia and Casey’s eyes met across the table.

“I think it’s him,” Ethan stated.

“Oh, that’s him,” Tobias agreed. “Goddamn, I haven’t seen him since his wedding.”

Ethan snorted in amusement.  “Which one?” he scoffed.

“The second, I believe. How many is he up to now?”  

“To the best of my knowledge, he’s on spouse number four.”  

“Jesus,” Tobias laughed. “I guess if, at first, you don’t succeed....”

“Amazing,” Celia declared. “Someone in your Hopkins class getting married? I thought that was forbidden?”

“Apparently, Richard is making up for all of those from their class who refuse,” Casey laughed.

“Trust me. You two wouldn’t want to marry either of us if we were Richard,” Tobias insisted.

“Well, it seems like four other people would disagree with that,” Celia teased.

“In fairness, three of those four probably no longer agree with that statement,” Casey surmised.

“There’s a lid for every pot out there,” Ethan shrugged. “But as bright as you two are, you’d never agree to marry the likes of Richard.”

“Aww, Ethan,” Casey grinned. “Are you saying I’m smart for picking Tobias?”

“I said no such thing!” He snapped. “I would deny it in a court of law.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “With three witnesses? Good luck with that!”

Tobias hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation at the table, instead focusing on Richard holding court at the bar.  “You know, enough avoiding him. Let’s go say hello.  Can’t hurt to get the scoop on what happened with marriage three and four.”

“I’m not interested in idle gossip.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Tobias shot back. “I’m going to go say hi, and when I come back, don’t you dare ask me what he said because I won’t tell you.”

Ethan sat perfectly still, but it was clear to see an internal battle waging inside.  As Tobias stood up, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Fine! I’ll go.”

“I knew you would,” Tobias smirked.

“Will you two be OK?” Ethan asked.

“Yes,” Celia mocked. “Somehow, we’ll manage to survive without the two of yo.  Go ahead and get your gossip, my dear.”

The two women sipped their wine as they watched the men walk to the bar, animatedly chatting as if they hadn’t spent the last decade avoiding each other.

“So,” Celia simpered.  “What time did Tobias tell you that you had to be out of here?”

“Nine.  And you?”

“Nine,” Celia laughed. “God, they are two sides of the same coin, aren’t they?”

“Twenty dollars says we’ll be heading home much later than nine.  In fact, we’ll probably be the ones begging to go.”

“Didn’t you hear Ethan?” Celia joked. “We’re smart. Why would I take that bet?”

“They’re too predictable,” Casey laughed.

“Yeah, but they’re cute.”

“Hey!” Casey said, playfully shoving her friend’s shoulder.  “Eyes off of my boyfriend.”

“Pfft!” Celia waved.  “Feel free to look at mine.  Just look, of course.”

Hours later...

Casey’s head was nuzzled on Tobias’s shoulder.  “Tobias,” she yawned. “I really think we should head home.”

“I agree,” Celia nodded. “It’s way past my bedtime.

“It’s not even midnight,” Ethan scowled.

“I know, but we have that... thing... to do in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Ethan questioned. 

“Ethan,” Casey rolled her eyes. “Morning is in like fifteen minutes.  She wants to do you in the morning.  Can’t you take the hint?”

“I’m sure you have things to do, too,” Celia winked.

“Yes,” Tobias grinned. “Me.  I’m things.  She has to do me.”

Ethan ran a hand down the front of hi face.  “You two are a match made in heaven.”

“I don’t know If heaven will take credit for this,” Celia laughed.

“I suppose we should get going,” Tobias agreed.

“Yes,” Ethan nodded.  “But we should do this again sometime soon.”

“You know, Casey & I have tickets for the Sox game next Tuesday.  Luxury box! You’re both welcome to join us.”

“Count us in!” Ethan insisted.

The two men gabbed non-stop as they waited for their taxis. 

“We knew this would happen,” Casey whispered.

“Sure did.  You know what this means, don’t you?”

“That eventually we’re going to be telling them we’d rather spend the night alone with them?”

“Absolutely,” Casey grinned.  “They’re just too predictable.”

~~

Thanks for reading!

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Easter Morning:

“Honey!” Tobias shouted as Casey stepped our of the shower. She instinctively rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, dear….” She replied sweetly.

“Where is my tie? I’ve been looking all over, and it’s nowhere to be found.”

Casey entered the bedroom, still dripping wet, wrapped only in a plush towel. She didn’t say a word; the look on her face said it all. With three steps to the right, she opened the top drawer of Tobias’s dresser and, viola... his pink tie.

“You're still planning on wearing this one, right?” She teased. “Because where is it? Oh, look, exactly where I told you it was… in your tie drawer.”

Tobias bit his lower lip, amusement and embarrassment evident in his grin.

“You know you are so incredibly sexy,” he growled as his arms wrapped around her waist. “What do you say I tell Ma to take the girls to Church, and you and I stay home to do very… unholy things.”

“Tobias,” she giggled, pushing him away. “Stop trying to distract me. It won’t work.”

“The hell it won't,” he hummed.

“Mmmm, you’re right,” she acquiesced, “but it’s Easter… and we’re spending it with our girls, so let me get dressed.”

“If you must,” he grumbled. “I want to go check on the girls anyway. They’ve been quiet for over fifteen minutes, so I’m all but waiting for the fire alarm to go off.”

“Where are your bunny ears?” Brooke squeaked.

“Who, me?” Tobias asked with a raised brow. 

“No, Daddy!” Brooke giggled. “Sammy’s!”

“I’m not wearing bunny ears,” Samantha explained. “I’m too mature now.”

“You’re not mature!” Brooke countered, then tugged at her father's sleeve so he would crouch down and she could whisper. “Daddy, what does mature mean?”

“It means Sammy is growing up, baby. So, she’s graduated from bunny ears to a bunny barrette. From what I understand, this is a natural progression, and you’ll get the bunny barrette one day too.”

Brooke flung around with her hands on her hips and a dramatic flair.  

“Is that why you got a jacket like Mommy’s? You think you're grown up?”

“Be quiet!” Sammy shot back.

“Sammy, Brooke… be nice! Why can’t you girls be more like Kayla.”

“Daddy… she can’t talk yet….” Samantha answered sarcastically.

“Oh! So that’s why she’s my favorite!”

“Daddy!” Brooke laughed, tickling his legs. “I’m your favorite!”

“No, I’m your favorite,” Samantha laughed, getting in on the tickling.

“You’re all my favorites!” he insisted as he corralled them. “Now, no more playing until after church. We can’t mess up our pretty outfits before pictures. Grammie would kill us.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to deal with that,” Sammy agreed.

“Fine,” Brooke surrendered. “But I still think you should wear bunny ears!”

“Well, I’m not. And neither are you if you don’t get them fast.”

Tobias & Brooke turned around to find Kayla gleefully crawling across the floor to grab the bunny ears, and they were just about in her mouth when Tobias swooped in for the save.

“Kayla baby, those don’t taste good. Trust me.”

“Have you tried eating them?” Samantha winked.

Tobias looked at his daughter sternly, then bopped her in the nose. “What I do with my time after you go to sleep is none of your business, young lady.”

“Is everything all right down here?” Casey asked as she walked down the stairs.

“Whoa!” Tobias with a slow whistle. “Much better now. You look… wow.”

“Daddy,” Sammy scolded. “Gross!”

“Hey,” Casey laughed. “There is nothing wrong with your Daddy thinking I look pretty.”

“That’s right!” Tobias enthused.

Brooke tugged at Casey’s leg. “I think you look pretty, too. Mommy.”

“Well, thank you, sweetheart. And you look beautiful, all of you do.”

“OK, now let’s all look beautiful in the car. Because I may be in my mid-forties….”

“Late forties…” Casey playfully added.

“… MID-forties, but I still don’t want to hear my mom complain.”

“Daddy,” Brooke said, grabbing his hand.

“When I’m in my mid-forties, I won’t be afraid of you.”

“Of course, you won’t,” he chuckled. “You’re not even afraid of me now.”

“Mmmm,” Casey beamed, closing her eyes to commit the moment to memory. “I’m so glad we’re early, and I’m glad there weren’t any parking spots close by. It’s a perfect day to stroll through the park.”

“It really is,” Tobias agreed, then he went silent. Clutching his wife’s hand tighter, he swallowed hard to hold back tears.

His mind flashed back to a much darker time; it was hard to believe it was less than a year ago. At Casey’s bedside, begging whatever greater power would listen to save her. Telling his oldest girls that their baby sister was coming home, but Mommy wasn’t… not yet, then lying and assuring them she would, when he had no way of knowing if that was true. He had never been a man that needed reminders of how blessed he was, but he appreciated every moment a thousand times more now.

“Hey,” Casey whispered, squeezing his hand. A look passed between them that didn’t require any words. “It’s OK,” she smiled. “I’m right here.”

His lips curled upward as he gazed lovingly into her eyes. “I love you,” he mouthed, and Casey did the same. Then with one loud click, the quiet moment was over.

“Uncle Jordan!” the older girls shrieked, running into their uncle’s waiting arms.

“Hey, easy… watch the camera!” He laughed as they tackled him.

“And watch his suit!” Tobias ordered.

“You really are still afraid of Mom, aren’t you?” Jordan laughed as he gave his big brother a hug.

“Like you’re not!”

“Well, I’m going to be on her good side when I show her the amazing candid picture I just took of you. The perfect Easter morning.”

“Every morning is perfect as long as I’m with my girls,” Tobias grinned.

“Amen to that,” Jordan smiled, wrapping his arm around Casey.

“And when you say ‘your girls,’ surely, that includes me,” an eloquent voice stated from behind.

“Grammie!!!!” The girls screeched, rushing over to shower her with hugs and kisses.

“Oh, hello! Hello, my little angels!” Vivian beamed.

Jordan tapped his brother on the shoulder, “She was never like that with us.”

“That’s because you weren’t this cute!” Vivian shot back before lovingly greeting her sons and Casey. “Kayla! Grammie’s baby girl!” She gushed, all but ripping her from Tobias’s arms. Fortunately, Kayla was all too happy to go.

“Mom, I got a great picture of them for you!”

“I’m sure you did, son. The camera loves these beautiful ladies.”

“And me, Ma,” Tobias inserted. “It loves me, too.”

Vivian smirked as she straightened her son's lapel with her free hand. “I suppose I made a couple handsome boys myself,” she agreed.

“Wow! No wise-ass reply,” Tobias exclaimed. “It’s an Easter miracle.”

Vivian turned to Casey, “I don’t know how you put up with him."

“Aww, but you're so glad I do!" Casey grinned. “You know how much I love him.”

“I do,” Vivian grinned. “And that's all I ever wanted for him. Now,” she said, fixing her gaze on Jordan. “when do you think you'll follow in your brother's footsteps."

“Oh, would you look at that,” Jordan sighed. “The church bell is ringing! Have to get inside.”

“Talk about saved by the bell,” Tobias simpered as the family entered the chapel.

Easter Night:

Casey was exhausted, already unwinding under the covers when Tobias got out of the shower. He sat at the foot of the bed and lovingly gazed at her as she mindlessly scrolled through her phone.

“Whatcha looking at?” he asked from the foot of the bed.

“Just checking out everyone’s Easter pictures.”

“Jordan really got a great shot of us!”

“He sure did,” Casey sang.  “I am already asked him to have a portrait made so we can hang it over the mantle.”

“Beat me to it,” he chuckled.  “So, what’s the Insta feedback on our epic family photo? I'm sure everyone is green with envy."

“I don't know about that," she shrugged, "but our photo is getting rave reviews! Well, except for...."

“Except!?” Tobias exclaimed.  “Who dared to say anything negative?”

“Not negative,” she laughed.  “But some of your old Boston friends are still flummoxed that the Tobias Carrick is a bonafide family man!”

“Really,” he shook his head. “We’ve been together over a decade.  They need to get with the program. What are the morons saying?”

“Let’s see, Terrance said, ‘Tobias was always happiest surrounded by women, but I still remember when the photo would have looked a little different.”

“Do I need to log on?” He sighed.

“No,” Casey laughed, "it’s all good-natured… besides, your mother is already handling him.”

“Good!”

“But he has a point…” she yawned as she pulled Tobias next to her.  “Your life sure did change.  Any regrets, Dr. Carrick?”

Casey scrunched her nose with disapproval when he didn’t answer right away. He looked away as if deep in thought.

"Well?" she asked.

"Honestly, I do have one regret."

“Oh really? And what’s that?”

“That I didn’t meet you sooner.”

Casey playfully kissed his cheek.

“You just want post-Easter nookie.”

“Post meaning tomorrow,” he laughed.  “While you’re unbelievably cute when you’re tired. You need to get some rest.”

“Mmm,” she said, already dozing off, “will you hold me?”

Tobias pulled her closer, then tucked the comforter around them, placing a kiss on her forehead before holding her close.

"As if that was ever in question."

_____

Yep, guys, they went to sleep without having sex. It's an Easter miracle! 🤣🤣

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Set in the not so distant future, Victoria is much better at this point and doesn’t have morning sickness but nobody knows she’s pregnant, yet 😉