Updated Nov 23, 2025 • ~9 min read
Thursday morning, I woke to flowers outside my apartment door.
Not roses. Sunflowers—my actual favorite, the ones Jeremy always forgot to get me during our marriage because roses were “easier.”
The card read: I’m remembering the important things now. – J
I brought them inside, trying not to smile like an idiot.
Failing completely.
My phone had three messages.
Good morning, beautiful
I hope you slept better than I did. Kept thinking about that kiss.
Coffee’s waiting at your desk. The Saturday option, since it’s Thursday and you deserve indulgent treats mid-week.
I arrived at Morrison Creative to find the honey lavender latte, still hot, with a fresh pastry.
Hayley whistled low. “Girl, your husband is not playing around.”
“He’s not my—” I stopped. “Technically he is. This is so confusing.”
“Confusing but romantic. Eric’s thrilled, by the way. Our social media engagement is up sixty percent since the gala photos dropped. Clients are asking about ‘the couple behind the Henderson campaign.'”
“We’re not a couple.”
“You’re married and dating. That’s literally a couple.”
I had no response to that.
Jeremy arrived for our ten o’clock meeting looking unfairly refreshed despite claiming he hadn’t slept. Charcoal suit, blue tie that matched his eyes, that smile that made my stomach flip.
“Good morning, Roselyn.”
“Jeremy.”
The meeting was torture. Professional torture, where we discussed campaign metrics and client retention while I couldn’t stop thinking about his lips on mine.
He knew it too. Every time our eyes met, heat flared.
“Roselyn?” Eric’s voice cut through. “Your thoughts on the demographic targeting?”
I scrambled to focus. “Right. Demographics. I think we should expand to millennials, not just Gen Z. The purchasing power—”
“—is in the thirty-five to forty-five range,” Jeremy finished. “I agree. The current targeting is too narrow.”
We locked eyes. He smirked.
Bastard.
After the meeting, he cornered me by my desk.
“Lunch?”
“I have back-to-back calls.”
“Dinner?”
“Jeremy—”
“Rose, I’m not going to apologize for wanting to spend time with you. That’s literally what dating is.”
“We saw each other yesterday!”
“And I’d like to see you today. Tomorrow. Every day.” He leaned against my desk. “But if you need space, I’ll back off. Just say so.”
Did I need space? Probably.
Did I want it? Absolutely not.
“Dinner. But somewhere casual. And we’re splitting the check.”
“Deal. Seven o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”
He left, and I tried to focus on work.
Failed spectacularly.
Julie video-called at lunch. “Spill. Everything.”
I told her about the museum, the dinner, the kiss.
“You kissed him!”
“He kissed me. Technically.”
“You asked him to!”
“In a moment of weakness!”
“Or honesty.” Julie’s expression turned serious. “Rose, are you falling for him again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? It’s different this time. He’s different.”
“Or he’s just better at showing you who you want to see.”
The words stung because they echoed my own fears.
“I have to trust my gut at some point.”
“What’s your gut saying?”
I thought about it. About Jeremy’s grand gestures and quiet moments. About therapy homework and carbonara. About the way he looked at me like I was his whole world.
“That maybe he’s telling the truth. That maybe people can change.”
“Okay. Then I support you. But the second he reverts—”
“I know. I’ll walk away.”
“Will you though? Because last time it took you three years to leave.”
She had a point.
That night, Jeremy took me to a burger place in Wicker Park. Greasy, loud, perfect.
“This is your idea of casual?” I asked.
“You said casual. This is the most casual place I know.” He ordered us both bacon cheeseburgers and fries. “Besides, I thought you’d appreciate something low-key after Wednesday’s production.”
“The museum was nice.”
“But overwhelming?”
“A little.” I sipped my beer. “I’m not used to grand gestures anymore.”
“Get used to them. I’ve got five years of missed anniversaries and birthdays to make up for.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” He stole a fry from my plate. “Tell me something. About work. The Henderson campaign—what’s your favorite part?”
We talked shop for an hour. The campaign, design theory, client management. He asked questions that showed he’d been paying attention, suggested ideas that made me see problems differently.
It reminded me of why I’d fallen for him in the first place. The way he challenged me. Made me sharper.
“I miss this,” I admitted. “Working with someone who gets it. Charlie was supportive, but he didn’t really understand what I did.”
“Did you love him?”
The blunt question caught me off-guard. “What?”
“Charlie. Did you actually love him, or was he just safe?”
I thought about it. Really thought. “I cared about him. Loved him, maybe. But not like—” I stopped.
“Not like what?”
“Not like I loved you.” The admission hung between us. “Past tense.”
“Is it?” His eyes searched mine. “Past tense?”
“I don’t know what tense it is. Present progressive? Future conditional?” I laughed, but it sounded hollow. “I’m terrible at grammar.”
“You’re terrible at admitting what you feel.”
“So are you!”
“No, I’m actually very good at it now. Therapy helped.” He reached across the table, took my hand. “I love you, Rose. Present tense. Ongoing action. No conditions.”
My breath caught. “Jeremy—”
“You don’t have to say it back. I’m just being honest, like we agreed.” His thumb traced circles on my palm. “But you should know—every day I spend with you, I fall a little harder. And I’m not fighting it anymore.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Yeah. It is. But it’s also freeing. Loving you is the only thing I’ve ever been absolutely certain about.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “What if we screw this up again?”
“Then we screw it up. But at least we’ll know we tried.” He squeezed my hand. “I’d rather fail trying than succeed at settling for less than this.”
We finished dinner in comfortable silence. The drive home felt different—heavier with possibility.
At my door, he kissed me goodnight. Soft, sweet, restrained.
“Come upstairs,” I said.
He froze. “Rose—”
“I’m not ready for sex. But I’m tired of you leaving. Come upstairs. We can watch a movie or talk or just exist in the same space.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I want to anyway.”
Inside my apartment, the domesticity felt surreal. Jeremy on my couch, wine in hand, scanning my movie collection.
“You still have our wedding video,” he said, pulling out the DVD.
“I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”
“Want to watch it?”
“Are you serious?”
“Why not? Let’s see if we were as young and stupid as we remember.”
We were.
God, we were babies. Twenty-three and twenty-five, convinced love was enough.
On screen, past-Jeremy fumbled the vows. Past-Rose laughed, helped him recover. They danced, kissed, looked at each other like nothing else existed.
“We were happy,” I said quietly.
“We were. For a while.” Present-Jeremy paused the video on our first kiss as husband and wife. “I want that again. That certainty. That joy.”
“What if we can’t get it back?”
“Then we build something new. Something better because we’ve learned from our mistakes.”
I curled into his side. He wrapped an arm around me, and we watched our younger selves celebrate a marriage that would fall apart three years later.
“Do you regret marrying me?” he asked.
“Sometimes. When it hurt the most, yes.”
“And now?”
“Now I think we just did it wrong. Right people, wrong time, wrong execution.”
“So if I asked you again—in the future, after these six months—would you say yes?”
The question was hypothetical but felt like a promise.
“Ask me in 172 days.”
He laughed. “Specific.”
“You’re counting. I’m allowed to count too.”
We fell asleep on the couch, tangled together, the wedding video looping on screen.
I woke at two a.m. to find him carrying me to bed.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Go back to sleep.”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving. Just putting you somewhere more comfortable than the couch.”
He set me down gently, pulled the covers over me.
“Stay,” I mumbled, half-asleep.
“Rose—”
“Please. Just… stay.”
He hesitated. Then he kicked off his shoes and slid into bed beside me. Over the covers, fully clothed, maintaining distance.
But he was there.
I fell back asleep with his arm around me and my head on his chest.
When I woke in the morning, he was gone.
Panic flared until I smelled coffee.
In my kitchen, Jeremy stood making breakfast. Eggs, toast, fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“Morning,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind. I raided your fridge.”
“You stayed.”
“You asked me to.” He plated scrambled eggs. “And this morning I get to make you breakfast. Worth any amount of uncomfortable couch sleeping.”
“You slept in the bed.”
“I slept on top of the covers while you drooled on my shirt. Semantics.”
I flushed. “I do not drool.”
“You absolutely do. It’s adorable.” He handed me coffee. “Eat. Then I’ll drive you to work.”
“Jeremy, I can drive myself—”
“I know you can. But why would you when I’m already here and going to the same place?”
We ate breakfast together. Easy. Domestic. Terrifyingly right.
At Morrison Creative, we arrived together.
Hayley’s eyes went wide. “Did you two just—”
“No!” I said quickly. “We watched a movie and fell asleep. That’s all.”
“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”
Jeremy just smiled. “Morning, Hayley. Love the earrings. Very professional.”
He walked away, leaving me to deal with the knowing looks and whispered speculation.
This was my life now. Dating my husband. Office gossip. Feelings I couldn’t quite name but also couldn’t deny.
My phone buzzed.
Thank you for last night. Waking up with you was the best morning I’ve had in five years.
We didn’t do anything
Exactly. And it was perfect. That’s how I know this is different. I don’t just want you physically. I want the quiet mornings and movie nights and falling asleep together. I want all of it.
You’re making this very hard
Good. You’re worth working hard for.
I stared at my phone, at this man who was systematically dismantling every wall I’d built.
And I realized with terrifying clarity: I was falling for him again.
Maybe I’d never actually stopped.
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