He’s at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring something that smells like garlic and citrus and comfort. Eric and Rachael are seated at the table, laptops open, the kind of quiet, contained energy in the room that comes from professionals who’ve seen every kind of disaster and know exactly how to survive them.
Ollie’s hand is still in mine. I don’t let go.
No one comments on it.
They do, however, look up in unison, their expressions shifting from businesslike to something warmer. Knowing. Not intrusive, but present. There’s relief there. And maybe a little vindication. They’ve been in the trenches with us for years, even if they didn’t know the full truth.
Miles glances over his shoulder. “You’re back. Good. Dinner in five. Or ten. Or whenever I stop pretending I know what I’m doing.”
Ollie huffs a quiet laugh beside me, the sound low and surprised, like he’s still adjusting to the fact that laughter is allowed today.
Rachael closes her laptop. “All right. Let’s finish this.”
The conversation that follows is practical.
Relationship logistics. Public perception. Privacy boundaries. What we say. What we don’t.
It’s strange hearing our lives discussed in this way, like a strategic rollout, but it’s also reassuring. Structure, containment, and a path forward is usually not my MO. Today it actually makes sense and fits.
I’m not sure who’s more surprised, me or Rachael, when I agree to everything without argument or sass.
Rachael and Eric don’t lecture. They don’t scold. They don’t question why we didn’t tell them. That part alone feels like grace.
The plan becomes clear.
We’re married. That fact exists now whether we like it or not.
We’re rebuilding. That part stays private.
We won’t lie. We won’t overshare.
We’ll be photographed. There will be speculation. We’ll let it exist without feeding it.
We won’t give interviews about our relationship.
We will protect sobriety, mental health, and the remainder of Ollie’s season.
We will deal with fallout as it comes.
By the time the discussion ends, the air in the room feels lighter. Not because the situation is better, but because it’s contained.
Miles finally sets food on the table like he’s performing a miracle. “Eat,” he orders.
We do.
Dinner is loud in the best way. Miles tells a story about nearly setting fire to a hotel kitchen in Tokyo. Rachael counters withone about negotiating a press embargo at three in the morning while Eli slept through the crisis. Eric is dry, sharp, unexpectedly funny. Ollie relaxes by degrees, shoulders lowering, his body leaning into mine without even seeming to notice.
The tension of the past forty-eight hours doesn’t disappear. But it loosens.
Afterward, Eric and Rachael leave to take calls, stepping onto the balcony with headsets and clipped professionalism. Miles clears dishes with efficient competence that makes clear this is not, in fact, his first time doing this.
Ollie and I drift to the couch.
The quiet that settles between us is different from the earlier tension. It’s a lot softer.
I lean back, stretching, and reach for the guitar case I brought without really thinking. It’s muscle memory and always provides instant comfort.
Ollie watches me.
