Updated Nov 23, 2025 • ~10 min read
Saturday morning, Jeremy showed up with three suitcases and a nervous smile.
“I packed light,” he said.
“That’s light?”
“I have a lot of suits. Professional hazard.”
I helped him carry everything inside. My small one-bedroom suddenly felt smaller with his presence filling it.
“Where should I put my things?” he asked.
“Closet’s half empty. Left side is yours.” I paused. “This is weird, right? Moving in together when we’re technically still married but also kind of dating?”
“This is very weird. Also kind of perfect.” He hung up a suit. “We’re doing everything backwards. Married, divorced, dating, living together. Next we’ll get engaged.”
“Pretty sure you can’t get engaged when you’re already married.”
“Watch me.” His smile was mischievous. “I’ll propose properly this time. Ring, speech, the whole thing.”
“Let’s maybe survive moving in together first?”
“Deal.”
We spent the afternoon organizing. His toiletries in my bathroom, his books on my shelves, his coffee maker replacing my broken one.
“You kept the broken coffee maker?” he asked, incredulous.
“I meant to replace it.”
“For how long?”
“Six months.”
He laughed. “This is why we work. I’m Type A to your creative chaos.”
“My chaos is very organized, thank you.”
“You have three half-empty sketchbooks because you can’t commit to one.”
“That’s creative process!”
“That’s ADHD. But I love it.” He pulled me against him. “I love that you start projects and abandon them. That you have seventeen half-drunk water glasses around the apartment. That you buy fresh flowers every week even though they die in three days.”
“Those aren’t positives.”
“They are to me. Because they’re you. Gloriously, chaotically you.”
By evening, his stuff was integrated into my space. Our space.
I stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at his shirts next to my dresses.
“Second thoughts?” he asked from behind me.
“Constant thoughts. Some second, some third, some four hundredth.” I turned. “But no regrets. Not yet.”
“I’ll take not yet.” He kissed my temple. “Dinner? I’m cooking.”
He made chicken piccata from scratch while I sat at the kitchen counter watching.
“I still can’t believe you learned to cook.”
“I had a lot of lonely nights to fill. Cooking was better than drinking.” He plated the food. “Though there was some drinking too. Therapy helped with that.”
“You really saw a therapist?”
“Two years. Dr. Mitchell. Brilliant woman. Called me on my bullshit constantly.” He poured wine. “She’s the one who suggested I had unresolved issues with you. That until I dealt with them, I’d never move forward.”
“Did you tell her you were planning to crash my wedding?”
“I told her I couldn’t let you marry someone else without trying one last time. She said that was either very romantic or very toxic, and I should figure out which before acting.”
“And which was it?”
“Little of both? But mostly romantic. I hope.” He served pasta. “Eat. Then we’re having movie night. Your pick.”
We watched romcoms and ate ice cream straight from the container. His arm around me, my head on his chest, everything feeling right in a way it hadn’t in years.
“I’m happy,” I said during the credits.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Scared, but happy.”
“I’ll take it.” He kissed the top of my head. “Come to bed?”
The question hung heavy.
“Jeremy—”
“To sleep. Just sleep. We’re taking this slow, remember?”
In bed, the intimacy felt different than the couch. More intentional. More permanent.
He pulled me against him, my back to his chest, his arm around my waist.
“Goodnight, wife.”
“Goodnight, husband.”
I fell asleep to his steady breathing and woke at three a.m. to find him gone.
Panic flared until I heard noise from the living room.
He sat at my desk, laptop open, working.
“You said you were cutting back,” I said from the doorway.
He jumped. “Rose. I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d answer some emails—”
“At three in the morning?”
“Old habits.” He closed the laptop. “I’ll come back to bed.”
“What was so urgent?”
He hesitated. “The Donovan deal. My board’s pushing back on the withdrawal. They want me to reconsider.”
My stomach sank. “And?”
“And I told them no. My decision stands.” He stood. “But they’re not happy. There might be consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?”
“Best case? They accept it and we move on. Worst case? They push for a vote to remove me as CEO.”
“They can do that?”
“I’m majority shareholder, so it’s unlikely. But technically, yes.” He moved toward me. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve handled board drama before.”
“This is my fault.”
“This is me choosing you. There’s a difference.” He cupped my face. “Come back to bed. Please. I promise no more midnight work sessions.”
We returned to bed, but I couldn’t sleep.
His board was rebelling because of me. Because he’d walked away from hundreds of millions to prove a point.
What if he lost the company? What if he resented me?
“I can hear you thinking,” he murmured.
“Sorry.”
“Talk to me.”
“What if this all falls apart? The company, us, everything?”
“Then we’ll rebuild. Together.” He pulled me closer. “Rose, I spent five years building an empire while losing what mattered. If I have to choose, I choose you. Every time.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“That’s love. Messy, complicated, high-stakes love.” He kissed my shoulder. “Sleep. We’ll face whatever comes together.”
Sunday morning brought breakfast in bed—Jeremy’s offering to make up for the middle-of-the-night work session.
“Pancakes? You really are trying to win me over.”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.” I bit into one. “These are good. Suspiciously good.”
“YouTube videos. Hours of practice.” He sat beside me. “I wanted to be able to make you breakfast properly. Like I should have during our marriage.”
“You were barely awake during our marriage. Mornings were not your thing.”
“I’ve changed. Now I’m up at six, run four miles, meditate for twenty minutes.”
I stared. “Who are you and what did you do with my husband?”
“Turns out losing you was a good wake-up call. Literally.” He stole a piece of pancake. “I became the person I should have been all along. Someone who takes care of himself so he can take care of you.”
“That’s annoyingly healthy.”
“I know. I’m unbearable now. All green smoothies and emotional processing.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
We spent Sunday being disgustingly domestic. Farmer’s market. Grocery shopping. Cooking dinner together.
In the produce section, he grabbed my hand. “Look at us. Being normal. Buying vegetables like regular married people.”
“We’re not regular married people. We’re weird married people who divorced but didn’t and are now living together.”
“Semantics.”
At checkout, the cashier smiled at us. “You two are adorable. How long have you been married?”
“Five years,” Jeremy said.
“Seven years,” I said at the same time.
The cashier looked confused.
“It’s complicated,” we said in unison.
Walking to the car, Jeremy laughed. “We can’t even agree on our anniversary.”
“I count from the wedding. You apparently count from when we started dating.”
“I count from when I knew I wanted to marry you. Which was our third date.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s romantic.”
At home, we cooked together. He chopped vegetables while I handled the sauce, working in easy sync.
“I like this,” he said. “The quiet moments. Just existing together.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
After dinner, we ended up on the balcony with wine, watching the city lights.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” I said.
“That’s a dangerous game.”
“I know. Play anyway.”
He thought about it. “After you left, I slept on the couch for six months. Couldn’t bear sleeping in our bed alone.”
My throat tightened. “Jeremy—”
“Eventually I moved. Got a new place, new furniture. Tried to erase the memories. But every bed felt wrong. Too big, too empty, too not-you.” He met my eyes. “Last night was the first time in five years I slept through the night. Because you were there.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “My turn?”
“Please.”
“I kept your t-shirt. The Northwestern one you left at my place. I wore it when I was sad. Convinced myself it was just comfortable, not that I missed you.”
“Past tense?”
“I still have it. Bottom drawer, right side.” I smiled through tears. “Sometimes I still wear it.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever told me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My ego is enormous now.” He pulled me into his lap. “Tell me we’re going to make it. Even if you’re lying.”
“We’re going to make it.”
“Promise?”
“I can’t promise that. But I can promise I’ll try. Really try, not half-assed like before.”
“I’ll take it.” He kissed me. Soft, sweet, full of promise.
We stayed on the balcony until the wine was gone and the city quieted.
“Bed?” he asked.
“Bed.”
Monday morning, I woke to an empty bed again. But this time, I found Jeremy in the kitchen making coffee, not working.
“Morning,” he said. “I made your favorite. The Saturday indulgent option.”
“It’s Monday.”
“Every day can be Saturday if you’re creative.” He handed me the honey lavender latte. “I’m driving you to work. Non-negotiable.”
“So bossy.”
“So in love.” He kissed my nose. “Get dressed. We leave in twenty.”
At Morrison Creative, we arrived together. Again. The office gossip had reached critical mass.
Hayley cornered me immediately. “Okay, what’s the status? Dating? Back together? What?”
“He moved in.”
Her eyes went wide. “Like, moved in moved in?”
“Like, his toothbrush is in my bathroom and his clothes are in my closet.”
“Holy shit. Rose!”
“I know. It’s crazy.”
“It’s romantic! The office is going to lose their minds.” She paused. “Eric’s going to be thrilled. The publicity value alone—”
“Please don’t turn my relationship into a marketing campaign.”
“Too late. I’m already drafting Instagram captions.”
Jeremy appeared beside me. “Morning, Hayley. Love the energy.”
“Morning, Mr. Patterson. Congrats on the cohabitation.”
“Thank you. It’s a dream come true.” He looked at me. “Lunch?”
“Jeremy—”
“It’s lunch. You have to eat. Say yes.”
“Fine. Yes.”
He grinned and walked away.
“You’re so gone for him,” Hayley said.
“I know.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Both. Definitely both.”
The day passed in a blur of work and stolen glances. Jeremy in meetings, me at my desk, both of us hyper-aware of each other.
At lunch, he took me to a deli around the corner.
“So. Day one of cohabitation. How am I doing?”
“Pretty good. No major disasters yet.”
“Yet. I like your optimism.” He bit into his sandwich. “Board meeting tonight. Should be interesting.”
“Because of Donovan?”
“Among other things. But don’t worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”
“Jeremy—”
“Rose, I need you to trust me on this. The company drama is mine to manage. You focus on your work, I’ll focus on mine, and we’ll come home to each other at the end of the day. Deal?”
“That feels like we’re keeping things separate again.”
“Not separate. Bounded. You were right before—work consumed our marriage. I won’t let that happen again. So yes, I’ll handle company stuff. But when I come home, I’m all yours.”
It made sense. Sounded healthy, even.
So why did it feel like the beginning of old patterns?
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