Once you get past the part where he’s a rock god with a smirk that could melt glass and a face so symmetrical it feels personally offensive, he’s actually kind of chill.
He cooks. Like,actually cooks.The house is weirdly tidy—though, more likely, that’s thanks to Margot being an absolute whiz.
And he never—not once—makes me feel self-conscious when I wander into the kitchen in mismatched pajamas or an oatmeal face mask.
Which is honestly a miracle, considering I once bumped into him wearing nothing but a bath mat.
Still, I think the best part is… I don’t have to try.
I don’t have to flirt. I don’t have to pretend to be sexier or cooler or less weird than I am. I can just… be.
Because he’s gay.
So yeah. He’s safe.
Totally, completely safe.
And maybe that’s why I’ve gotten comfortable enough to wander around the house in skimpy shorts or oversized, worn-out T-shirts.
Although… sometimes he looks at me funny.
Like looking at me physicallyhurts. Or like he’s trying to solve a math problem with no solution.
It always happens during the small things—when I’m dancing around the kitchen with a toothbrush in my mouth, or sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by construction paper, prepping crafts for the kids.
It’s not a mean look. Just… intense. And fleeting.
But whatever. I don’t overthink it.
Most of the time, he looks completely normal. Like he’s trying not to laugh. Like he’s rolling his eyes and secretly enjoying every second of trying to figure me out. He puts up with me.
We’ve fallen into a comfortable rhythm.
In the morning, I tiptoe through the house on my way to work while Ash is still asleep. I try not to imagine him sprawled shirtless across his absurdly large bed, one arm thrown over his eyes.
I head to the kindergarten, where my day is chaos and glitter and sticky hugs.
And then I come home.
Ash is usually in the kitchen or on the couch when I get in. Sometimes he’s cooking—barefoot, sleeves pushed up, humming softly while chopping garlic like a rock god who moonlights as a husband in a domestic daydream.
Other times, we eat whatever Margot’s prepped, leaning against the counter, talking about nothing. Or everything.
He always asks about my day. Sometimes I tell him more than I mean to.
After dinner, I usually curl up on the couch with a book—romance, of course—and Ash teases me. Endlessly.
“Is this the one where the guy with the jawline saves her from a snowstorm and confesses his love in a canoe?”
“Do they cry during sex again? Is that a thing in this one too?”
But even when he’s teasing, he stays close. He’ll stretch out beside me, strumming something low on his guitar while I read, the sound threading through the pages like a heartbeat. And some nights he drifts to the piano, picking out the same gentle melody until it feels like home.
He doesn’t ask to join me. He just does.
Eventually, he disappears into his studio—his private world of soundproof walls and midnight chords.
Sometimes I will catch a melody drifting into the halls. A lyric repeated. Rewritten. Fragments of something beautiful.
