Episode XVIII: The Polyamorous Inventor Just Trying to Find a Home

Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, a habitually underestimated entrepreneur tries to make a choice about his unconventional love life: 24, male, pansexual, on the outskirts of a marriage.


DAY ONE

6:35 a.m.: It's unlike me to be awake at this hour. I am quite a sound sleeper by nature, generally to the point of annoyance. A champion sleeper, as my mother used to say, though I think it highly probable she thought I was a champion everything. Life has taught me otherwise, even if I make a rather herculean effort not to let an ounce of humility show.

6:45 a.m.: Today is an important day for me, business-wise. I'm meeting with a professional quidditch player in an attempt to lure him into a sponsorship contract, which is a source of PR I sorely need. I am not as wealthy as I look and the interest rates on my recent business loans from Gringotts are, frankly put, staggering. I need to recoup my investment as soon as possible, hence bullying my way into this particular athlete's path. He's perfect for the role: a local favorite who's globally on the rise. He played for Scotland in the most recent World Cup but didn't win (England did, finally, brava us), which makes him a reasonable candidate for a company like mine, which is obviously no Nimbus or Firebolt. Better still, he knows my… Well. Inconveniently I don't know what to call my partner now, seeing as I'm not sure he's still my partner. I suppose now is as good a time as any to say that my unreasonable waking is due far less to the stress of this business opportunity than it is to the toils of my personal life.

6:57 a.m.: I'll call my lover—one of them—Ash. Seeing as I make brooms for a living, I've spent multiple years of my life testing different types of wood to see how they took to enchantments. Ash takes charms nicely but is rare and expensive, harder and harder to find as lumber supplies become more limited. He and I had a row yesterday about… Well, I'll call her Rosewood, which has a lovely, delicate coloring to the wood. I designed my best selling race broom with her in mind. Rose and Ash are married to each other, but their… proclivities don't match up, shall we say, so until recently (maybe) I was in a relationship with both of them. I'm the glue that keeps them together, which was all well and good for about a year—until the baby. Foolishly or not, that wasn't something any of us had thought to prepare ourselves for in advance.

7:05 a.m.: I get up, restless (trying not to think about how the watch I'm accustomed to wearing on my wrist was a gift from Ash and Rose) and make my way to the Three Broomsticks for breakfast. It's quite early and I can tell the owner would prefer that I not bother her so much at this hour, but I'm going to need something to get me through these thoughts. Coffee, at the very least.

7:18 a.m.: I settle down with a Scottish breakfast and a copy of the paper that I pretend to read while I recall my argument with Ash. It went a little like this: Of course we can't acknowledge you as the baby's parent, how would that look? To which I naturally said: I don't give a damn how it looks, Ash, the baby's as much mine as it is yours. I should point out that this wasn't the first time we'd had the exact same conversation, seeing as Rose is about four months in now, but something about yesterday was especially mean. Ash has a tendency for cruelty—"As far as the rest of the world's concerned, you don't have a place here," he'd said, which to me sounded a lot like I don't care that you've been a necessary part of our marriage for over a year, this is somehow different. "And when the heir to your sad little fortune comes out blue-eyed and blond, what will you do then?" I demanded crossly, possibly childishly. He looked at me like he wanted to punch me in the mouth and I realized for the first time that love truly is not enough. It just isn't.

7:20 a.m.: I would have given anything to say goodbye to Rose before I left for this meeting in Hogsmeade, but I think there's a reason Ash chose to accost me when she was out of the house. He knew that one glance from her would have made me soften, possibly even made me lie. I suppose I should respect him for forcing me to say what I actually meant, but I certainly can't thank him for it. Not when I know there's a fifty-percent chance the baby she's carrying is my son or daughter—not to mention that either way, it's someone I've been longing to meet ever since she told me she was expecting. Rose could hardly even look at me when she told me, as if there was ever really a chance I might not be overjoyed with the news. I was stunned, I'll say that much, but I like to think I hardly paused in my hesitation for long. I took out more loans the very next day, deciding I would grow my little company into something more than just some hobbyist fantasy. Ash is Sacred Twenty-Eight, old money, but hardly a provider by nature. I would be that for them, I thought. I would become something if it killed me.

7:45 a.m.: As I'm thinking again about Ash and Rose and the baby, someone sidles up to where I'm sitting in one of the tavern booths. "You're a bit early," says the quidditch player I came here to meet, a former Gryffindor Keeper who sat for his N.E.W.T.s the same year Ash did. "Wasn't our meeting this afternoon?"

7:47 a.m.: He's dressed for a run and I blink at the sight of him, surprised. I suppose I should have known we'd inevitably be staying at the same place, though I never bothered to ask why he specifically requested we meet in Hogsmeade. "I was just having breakfast," I say, and when he gives me a look indicating that was obvious, I realize belatedly that perhaps he was simply having a laugh when he decided to come over here and greet me. "Why don't we take our meeting outside?" he offers, cocking his head. I think he's testing me, because he's giving me a look like he expects me to refuse.

7:49 a.m.: It occurs to me in some nameless way that he's looking for reasons to dislike me. I understand that. People often are. I toss a couple of galleons onto the table and reach for my wand in my pocket, transfiguring my clothes into something suitable for exercise. "Let's go," I tell him, summoning the specs for the Nymph into my hands as we exit the tavern's front doors. "Try to keep up," I say, handing him the page with the broom's specifications and taking off in the direction of the castle.

7:53 a.m.: I've been told I'm a bit reckless, often quite showy, to which I will not bother with a defense. This particular quality bites me immediately, as I develop a painful stitch in my side that I'm determined to ignore. "Why the Nymph?" asks the athlete, who is surely making a show of looking over the specifications while he comfortably jogs, much in the same way I'm trying not to indicate that the haggis I had for breakfast isn't sitting particularly well. "What's faster than a nymph fleeing subpar sex with a randy god?" I counter. My standard joke, because saying I named it after my married lover is a bit too long a story.

8:04 a.m.: The athlete turns to look at me, resolutely does not smile, and instead rolls up the page with the broom's details and tucks it into the back of his waistband. "Push it," he tells me, and then he speeds up, taking me on a circular path around the lake.

8:13 a.m.: In many ways I hate this. In some ways, though, I'm relieved. I can't think about anything but the cold air in my lungs and the burning in my legs, and therefore thoughts of Ash and Rose can temporarily recede. I'm an athlete myself when I try to be, though I don't often have a reason to try. Meanwhile, his scent wafts towards me on a breeze: oaky and salty with sweat. I wasn't sure I'd be seeing more of him after this meeting—particularly given the way he wanted to put me off—but now I think differently. I'll call him Oak.

8:45 a.m.: We make our way back to Hogsmeade and he stops, wiping sweat from his brow. "I want to see the broom in action," he says. I make no mention of the burning in my quads and abs (this is my longest run in well over a year—contented domesticity makes it so that a run this long feels like rather a waste of time) and tell him we can arrange that. He doesn't move, though, and says in a light Scottish brogue, "Didna think you had it in you." "Nobody ever does," I tell him, adding, "Pitfalls of being an idiot for most of my life." "Are you not an idiot now?" he asks me.

8:50 a.m.: Much of my current life would suggest that I am. After all, until yesterday I thought of Rose as my wife, Ash as my husband, their baby as equally mine. What a stupid daydream I was living. I knew their society, their conceptions of a proper reputation. I knew they had kept me a secret for nearly two years and still, I'd never questioned what might happen next, or whether anything would ever change. I just assumed that eventually it would, and even I know what they say about assumptions.

8:51 a.m.: "I made a bloody brilliant broom," I tell Oak, shoving aside my personal life for the moment. "I spent years of my life testing flight spells, cushioning charms, and suspension enchantments alone. I studied herbology and came back to Hogwarts to sit my N.E.W.T.s so that I could prove I knew each kind of wood blindly, down to the feeling of the grain in my hand. I'll tell you right now that you will feel my craftsmanship like an extension of your own limbs—so yes," I conclude, "I am still an idiot, but what matters is that I'm the idiot who made you the perfect broom. I made a broom worthy of a champion, so the real question is: are you that?"

8:52 a.m.: Oak's lips twist humorlessly. "Well played," he tells me, and glances over the village a moment before saying, "I do know who you are, for what it's worth."

8:53 a.m.: I don't know what to do with this information, so I do nothing. "Meet me tomorrow," I suggest to him. "I'll see about booking the castle's pitch for a flight test." Oak spares a long, scrutinizing glance over each of my features, like he's measuring me or something. I have the sense that for the first time today, he's actually looking at me as if I'm a person. "Yeah," he says. I have the oddest urge in response, like I want to run my fingers over his mouth. I think it's being mirrored, so I clear my throat and nod to him. "Tomorrow, then."

10:15 a.m.: I shower luxuriously, for much too long, and then I fall inadvertently into a doze, dreaming of Rose. I know the woman like the back of my hand; I know her body like I know the precision of taking flight. I know her anxieties and apprehensions. I know how to soothe her, calm her, spoil her. I think of how poorly she's been sleeping as of late and wish I were there to run her bath, filling it with the lemongrass and oak leaves she loves so she can breathe in the soft scent of the earth, easing her nausea. Then I think of Oak and feel Ash's fingers closing around my throat, strangling me. When I jerk awake, I find I've left a sweaty imprint of my shoulders atop the thin sheets. My hair is still wet from the shower.

3:18 p.m.: I spend the rest of the afternoon working on sketches for possible new models. The Nymph is a racing broom, fit for the serious athlete, but there are more ways to enjoy flying. I should probably create something for amateurs and hobbyists as well, seeing as that's about as far as I ever got myself. I never actually made the school team; partly because Oak and I played the same position until he left, and partly because I fucked it up when I did eventually get the chance. There is seemingly no end to the things I wish I could do over.

5:20 p.m.: When I realize I've started sketching out a child's broom, I feel suddenly nauseated. Time for an early supper, I suppose. I get a response to my request for the pitch from the castle's groundskeeper, but unfortunately the pitch is booked tomorrow for two of the house teams. I scribble a note to Oak: Sunday it is.

5:40 p.m.: I come downstairs to find the company of someone else I recognize. I'll call him Pine—a relatively pliable wood that lends itself readily to carving. Very malleable, easy to work with. He's the current Herbology professor at Hogwarts, which makes sense to me, as he helped me quite a bit when I was back here learning about enchanted woods. I always suspected him of having a bit of a crush on me, though I don't think he was ready to acknowledge it at the time.

5:43 p.m.: "Oh, hi," Pine says when he sees me, looking startled. I slip into the booth across from him, thinking this will undoubtedly be better than eating alone with my thoughts of Ash. "Been a long time," I say, forcing my most painfully obnoxious smile.

5:45 p.m.: Pine obligingly moves his papers from the table and seems pleased to see me. We both order the barkeep's special—steak and kidney pie—and chat over our meal, but because I can't shake myself of Ash (because I hate him and miss him and want him with a burning, sickening desire, like I would gladly choose to kiss him and stab him at the same time), I motion for a full glass of Ogden's. "Are we drinking to something?" asks Pine suspiciously, glancing at my choice of beverage. "No, we're drinking because of something," I say with a heaping of false cheer, winking at him while I take a sip.

6:30 p.m.: Pine goes silent and I realize I've misstepped in quite a significant way. "What is it?" I ask him. "Nothing," he says. "Bollocks," I say. "Nothing." "You're lying." "I'm not." "What is it? Just tell me." "No, it's really nothing." "Fine," I say, before adding, "You look well. Quite well."

6:35 p.m.: I think I may have timed my comment with a wolfish lick of my lips because Pine goes rigidly still. "I'm done with addicts," he comments without elaboration, looking away from me. "Oh," I say. I set my glass down, unsure what to do with it now, because I recognize that I'm drinking precisely as an addict would drink: to absolve myself of something, or alternatively, to drown in it. A need, not a want, and certainly not a casual one either way. Pine hastily mutters, "You don't have t-" "No, I do," I tell him. "I didn't know."

6:45 p.m.: "You're at perfect liberty to do whatever you like," says Pine stiffly. I roll my eyes, throwing down money like I have loads of it to spare (I definitely do not) and dragging him up by the shoulder. "Take me to the greenhouses," I say. "I've already seen enough of shitty taverns to last a lifetime."

8:13 p.m.: For nearly an hour, Pine shows me the experimental strands of healing plants he's growing in addition to the things his students are currently working on. He knows my interest in trees specifically, so he takes me on the winding path through the arboretum he's planted here following the war. "I planted most of it with you in mind," he says. "Me?" I echo, surprised. I don't really think of myself as someone who could have possibly mattered much to him. True, we were in the same house and both in the absurdly named Slug Club as well, but I always assumed he thought of me as just another mouthy prick, like most people. "Well, you're the reason I—" Pine breaks off, turning slightly pink. "You're the reason I finally understood that I liked…" "Arseholes?" I prompt for him. He laughs. "Yeah," he says. "Exactly."

8:25 p.m.: Knowing my instincts were right about Pine awakens something in me. His blond hair falls into his forehead and I think how golden we would look together in bed, how snugly he would fit beside me. He's tall and lean and my opposite in almost all ways, slender and thoughtful where I am carved and loud. I watch the way his fingers stroke the leaves of one of his plants and imagine how much I would crave his tenderness. I doubt he would want to hear this, but he reminds me of Rose. She has such a beauty to her movements, and so does he. Not like Ash, or like Oak, neither of whom seem to show any concept of gentleness. What Pine and Oak do seem to share is a palpable, almost brittle air of sadness. They are men who have clearly seen loss.

8:31 p.m.: I step forward and touch Pine's cheek. "Tell me about him."

9:14 p.m.: Pine and I lie on the grassy knoll between greenhouses while he tells me about the lover he left behind. 'Pine' was definitely the correct name for him, as I can hear his longing in every word. He tells me about the times he cleaned up the man he loved over the sound of desperate apologies; the passionate reassurances that were never quite fulfilled. It was everything, it was beautiful, until the beauty grew harsh and sparse and toxic. Pine tells me about the broken promises, the unanswered letters, the growing suspicions that he wasn't the only one his lover came home to at night. "It was good until it wasn't," murmurs Pine, and I let out a slow, aching breath. "I know what you mean," I say.

9:36 p.m.: Not that Ash was an addict, or that our love is—was—toxic. It wasn't. But Ash is hard to get close to, almost impossible to reach. He's kept pieces of himself from me unabatingly, like he's locked part of himself away in a vault and still refuses to give me the key. I don't think he's ever really trusted me with it, his heart. I think he trusts Rose, but never me. "I think he was afraid of me," I say aloud, without realizing that I haven't said anything else aloud in several minutes. "I think so too," says Pine. "I knew bravery was never his strength," he adds. "I always knew that I'd have to do most of the work, to push him and push him until he eventually followed. I just didn't think he was such a coward to be so afraid of being loved."

9:48 p.m.: From what Pine's told me, I'm not sure he recognizes the extent of his boyfriend's damage, or maybe he doesn't want to, because he clearly has damage of his own. But since I think Ash has a similar problem, I can hardly consider myself an expert on the subject. I turn my head to look at Pine; the faint glow of moonlight illuminates the tattoos on his neck, and the way his eyes are already on me. "I envy you, being so sure all the time," he says. I tell him I'm sure of absolutely nothing. "Sometimes," I murmur, "I think I'm so free with myself because I'm just giving away pieces desperately, hoping that someday someone will actually want them."

9:54 p.m.: Pine looks at me for a long time before lifting his head, and in the moment, I swear I want it. I want whatever comes from this. I want us to wake up together in his bed, to turn to each other and say good morning, to spin this feeling of mutual loneliness into something that lasts. He kisses me and I all but gasp into his mouth with gratitude, letting his hips sink down onto mine. I run my hands over his spine, gripping onto his shoulders while he tugs at my hair, and then his hand slides down to my cock and I exhale, helplessly, "Ash."

10:03 p.m.: Fuck. Pine freezes. I swallow. "Do you want me to keep going?" he asks me, his hand still waiting on what he and I both know is my straining erection. "Jesus, no," I say gruffly, because I just called him by another man's name, for fuck's sake. Maybe part of the problem is that Pine doesn't think he's worthy of better, either. Maybe Pine and his boyfriend or ex-boyfriend or whatever's going on between them need to have a long fucking chat about what it actually means to be wanted. "I'm sorry," I say, sliding out from under him and sitting up to realize that my lips are swollen—that I've been kissing him for a long time, and therefore I've probably been saying yes in all the ways he thought were important. "Fuck," I exhale, "buggering fuck, I'm sorry."

10:15 p.m.: We sit in silence for a long time. "Do you love him?" I say. Pine lets out a bitter laugh. "I thought you said love wasn't enough sometimes." "That doesn't mean it's not important," I tell him, because now I understand something. I am in love with Ash, I'm in love with Rose, and even if it isn't enough, it's still too much. "It's too much," I say, meaning the weight of everything in my chest is not going to allow for a random fuck in the greenhouses when I've already held the entire world in my hands: Ash and Rose and the baby that I know in my heart is part mine, even if it turns out to be wholly Ash's.

10:23 p.m.: Pine doesn't say anything, so I kiss his cheek and rise to my feet, heading back to the tavern alone. I hope he understands, but at the same time I doubt I could make him see it. If I'm the villain in his story for this, then fine.

12:15 a.m.: What did you think would happen? Ash snarls in my thoughts. Did you think this baby would be born and at the christening I'd say 'Mother, Father, this is my lover who fucks both me and my wife and by the way I'm gay? And in case that wasn't confusing enough, my son is actually his son?' What kind of fucking daydream are you living in that you think anyone would ever accept that? And what about the kid, hm? You want to send them off to Hogwarts to let the other little pricks talk about how he's somehow got two fathers? This is my marriage. My house. My son.

12:16 a.m.: So what am I supposed to do then, Ash? Hide forever? Or just disappear?

12:17 a.m.: He didn't even blink. Whatever you can live with.

1:41 a.m.: I'm exhausted and I can't fucking sleep.


DAY TWO

7:15 a.m.: When Oak comes down the stairs I'm already waiting for him. I've been there for close to an hour, in fact. "Thought we said tomorrow?" he muses aloud. "I could use the exercise," I tell him. I could have gone running alone, true, but I'm still hoping to win him over. I want him to like me, because even though securing a sponsorship with him means an expensive marketing campaign, it also means a jump in purchases. He's riding a high off his World Cup success, and I want to be on that ride. I need to be on that ride. "Let's go, then," he says.

8:13 a.m.: We don't speak at all during our run, which starts beside the lake before leading up one of the nearby bluffs. I'm intensely relieved by the silence, largely because I can't speak. I'm sore from yesterday and I push myself too hard, so that by the time we make it back to Hogsmeade I have painful cramps in my hips and quads. "Should have stretched first," says Oak. "I didn't know it was going to be so long," I mutter, trying desperately to massage out the pain while my legs threaten to collapse beneath me. Oak glances around and beckons to me. "Come on," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder and apparating us somewhere else.

8:19 a.m.: I'm ashamed to admit that the pain is so bad I'm a little blurry-eyed. "You need salt," says Oak, pouring something into a bottle and easing me onto what I belatedly realize is a bed. "Drink this," he says, handing me the bottle, and I'm pretty sure it's literal saltwater but I drink it anyway, ignoring the fact that Oak has knelt down in front of me. "You're kind of a dumb bastard, aren't you?" he says with that accent, and if I weren't in so much pain I might laugh. "Absolutely yes," I tell him, and he nods. "Sit still," he says, and reaches out to slowly massage the span of my quads. "Here?" "Yeah, a bit, and here—" "Your hip flexors," he confirms. "Yeah."

8:23 a.m.: "Lie back," he says, and I do, slowly, while his hands travel perfunctorily up my thighs and toward my hips. The kneading of his hands is painful, but it's a good pain, not like the throbbing I'm experiencing from the overuse of muscle. It's ebbed a little by now, but in place of cramping I'm left with a sharp soreness, like needles. "Breathe," says Oak. I exhale and hate myself for suddenly wanting to cry, because it's been a long fucking time since someone took care of me like this. Even longer since I admitted to myself or to anyone that I want to be taken care of, and that's what's always drawn me to Ash. Because with everyone else I am the aggressor, spoilt and reckless, but with him I am put in my place, and sometimes that feels like being cared for. Even if it only means I'm brought low.

8:31 a.m.: Eventually I can sit up, finishing the rest of the drink Oak handed me, and he sits beside me on what I now realize is his bed. "That was embarrassing," I say, and he turns to look at me. I'm acutely aware this is the first time I've made him laugh, and the sound is beyond reassuring. "Believe me, I've been worse," he says.

8:35 a.m.: I offer to buy him breakfast and he says, "You didn't eat? Of course you didn't." He mutters something under his breath about what an idiot I am before rising to his feet. "I'll shower and meet you downstairs."

8:39 a.m.: The water is searing-hot, perfect for the ache in my muscles, but I don't take my time today. I dress quickly and glance at my reflection, a little surprised to see the face staring back. For as much as I've been in distress over Ash and Rose, it doesn't show. "You arrogant son of a bitch," I tell my reflection. He smiles smugly back, and I wonder for a moment if this is the version of myself I'm presenting to Oak. I think it was the version Pine kissed last night, and I know it's the version most successful at selling brooms. But at the moment, it also feels like a lie I'm too tired to carry off.

8:50 a.m.: Oak is downstairs with tea. "Got you a full Scottish," he says, adding, "Better than a full English because—" "Because it's better," I assure him easily, falling into the seat across from him, and Oak's smile cracks again. "My mum's Scottish," I explain. "Good for you," he says, sipping his tea. I'm a little pleased to have found an opportunity to bring it up, if only because it means he's slightly more likely to sign with me.

9:01 a.m.: The plates arrive and we eat in silence until I see he's got the sporting pages with him. I casually mention something about his rival team, and suddenly there's a fire in his eyes that gives him a distinct look of madness. He gets going and I don't stop him, though needless to say, I'm amused. I know passion when I see it, and clearly quidditch is his dearest love.

9:29 a.m.: I hardly notice time is passing while we discuss the rosters for the upcoming season, though it's difficult not to think about how similar Oak is to Ash in certain ways; similar gestures sometimes. Occasionally I even hear Ash's words in Oak's voice, as if Oak's chosen to put his opinions together in a similar construction. A pulse of craving fills my mouth and I have to stop for a second, taking a sip of tea that's long gone cold. I don't wish Ash were here, exactly, because I know Ash wouldn't have stayed long enough to help me whether he cared about my pain or not. Ash's time is a privilege I'm not always worthy of; he's secretive and reclusive by nature, even with Rose. Oak, on the other hand, is open and earnest and honestly, shameless. He knocks over my cup and mops up the spill without even stopping for breath, the sodden napkins dripping like a monument to his enthusiasm across the beams of the table between us.

11:15 a.m.: We've been there for hours by the time the barkeep gives us a glance to move it along. I pay for our meal, as promised—I can feel what that'll cost me later but so be it, money is easier to make than loyalty—and feel a little brush of disappointment as I realize we have no reason to continue speaking. I'm about to turn and thank him when Oak says, "Want a walk? Better if you do, to prevent soreness tomorrow." "I don't know how long my legs'll hold me," I wryly confess, and Oak laughs again. "You'll live," he says, and motions with his chin for me to follow.

11:28 a.m.: We walk aimlessly a bit. I'm just about to wonder if the conversation well's finally gone a bit dry when Oak unexpectedly says, "I misjudged you." I'm mildly bewildered, so I turn to him with a questioning glance. "About my business, you mean?" "No, I—" He hesitates. "I wanted to hate you," he says, and I stop, because this is clearly not about brooms or quidditch. "What?" I say. "Oh, fuck. Fuck," he exhales, "he didn't tell you, did he?"

11:34 a.m.: Things in my head piece together far too slowly, but eventually things come to me. Rose always said Ash loved someone else. He had an unusually keen interest in Scotland during the World Cup. Oak was there, I remember, watching one of our club games, though that was at least a year ago. "You're him," I realize aloud. "You're the reason he won't let me in."

11:35 a.m.: Oak frowns. "What?"

11:45 a.m.: A rush of things leaves my mouth: "I always knew Ash couldn't love me, not fully, but now I know why. You broke his heart." "He broke mine," Oak corrects me flatly, adding, "He chose you over me." I don't even know how to tell Oak how laughable that sounds to me now. "He chose something, but it wasn't me," I say bitterly, and now I'm positive my expression doesn't belong to the arrogant bastard I saw in the mirror before. "If he wants me at all, it's only at arm's length, under his terms. I don't live with them. At best, I get more nights with them than alone on a good week. Even when—" I break off, suddenly choking. "Even when I told him I thought I was going to lose my flat, he only said he'd help me. Financially," I spit, retroactively angry. "He never wanted me in his life. Not enough. Not badly."

11:54 a.m.: Oak stares at me and I can see the freckles on his face, the marks from long practices in the sun. The way the wind's tousled his hair into his eyes. I can see, too, the way his understanding of me changes while he looks at me. "Ash is without question the most selfish man I've ever met," he says, "and god, I loved him for it."

12:00 p.m.: We realize we've been standing in the middle of a busy path through the village and finally consent to walk toward the lake. Neither of us says anything, but the silence now is contemplative, not empty. "I swear I didn't reach out to you because of him," I suddenly think to say. Oak shakes his head. "No, I see that," he mumbles, and then scrapes a hand through his hair. "Fuck," he growls abruptly to himself, "he really didn't even tell you about me?" "He told me," I say, "just not… conventionally. Not in words. But now that I see you, I know that he did." "That's not really enough for me," says Oak scathingly.

12:04 p.m.: I shake my head. "No, I guess it isn't."

12:08 p.m.: "I had this grand idea that I'd say nothing," Oak muses after a few minutes of silence. "That I'd just chat with you about brooms for a bit and privately see what you were about, but I just…" He trails off, curving a hand around his mouth. "I see it," he says. "What he sees in you. I saw it sooner than I thought I would."

12:10 p.m.: "I'm not without my charms," I tell him, attempting to return us to some sort of conversational equilibrium, but Oak glances at me with a strange look on his face. "Yeah, so, I think I'm going to go," he says. I blink, a little startled, and he clarifies, "See you tomorrow on the pitch?" Part of my chest sinks. It means he's still willing to consider signing with me, true, but he's closing the door on another run tomorrow morning, and I feel a renewed rush of embarrassment at how obvious that refusal is. Of course he doesn't want to do it again, because I can't keep up with him. I've already proven that.

1:34 p.m.: In Oak's absence I have nothing to do—I didn't really think this trip would take so much of my time—so I stay back and quietly destroy myself with thoughts of Ash. I thought I would have heard from him by now. Granted, anything I heard would be cross and something like You're being a child, but it's not like he didn't know where I was going. Maybe he started that argument on purpose, knowing I was pursuing a sponsorship with Oak. Maybe he thought I did it to him out of cruelty. He's a cruel person, so his instincts for retaliation would make that make sense. My mouth goes dry and I want to say something to him, but I'm paralyzed at the thought of it. What am I supposed to say?

1:45 p.m.: Maybe it's best we fought. Ash can have his wife and his baby and be fine without me. Maybe he'd even prefer it that way. I know he and Rose have looked the other way during their affairs before, and maybe that's more stomachable for him. Maybe he'd rather be in a sexless marriage—having meaningless flings with strangers he meets in pubs or on quidditch pitches—than have to actually love both me and Rose.

3:24 p.m.: I sit at the little secretary's desk in my room and try to write to Ash, and when that doesn't work, I try to write to Rose instead. Nothing. Ultimately I think she loves Ash more than she loves me, and if this is what Ash wants, I doubt she'll question it. I think about her swollen feet and her long hair and miss her painfully. Then I scribble a note to Pine: I'm really sorry about yesterday, but I just don't have what you need. If you still want to see me again before I go, care to meet on the pitch tomorrow? Just doing a trial flight for a potential sponsorship deal, but then perhaps we could have lunch. I doubt Oak will extend the appointment any longer than he needs to.

10:14 p.m.: I don't get a response from Pine, so I assume he's still cross with me. I try to read a bit, but nothing works. I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling instead. I'm not religious or anything, but I try to think of something good for Rose and the baby. In my silliest fantasies she names it after me in some way—not my name, exactly, but something that means something to both of us, the same way I named the Nymph.

10:15 p.m.: I guess in my fantasies she's my wife, too. I envy that Ash made vows to her, that she made promises to him; that they're bound together in a real way, with witnesses. I never question that she loves me, but still. I wish I didn't feel like that love was somehow inherently less.


DAY THREE

6:30 a.m.: I'm still not sleeping well, but I'm dozing when I hear a knock at my door. I rise to my feet, confused, and pull it open to find Oak standing in my threshold. "Come on," he says, beckoning again with his chin. "Let's go."

6:31 a.m.: I am very practiced at looking as if I don't give a fuck about much of anything, so I force down my relief and summon a shrug, reaching for a pair of trainers. "Fine," I say, lacing them and gesturing for Oak to lead. "Let's go, then."

7:02 a.m.: I don't say anything while we're running, but I know he's going slower than he wants to. It's an easy run and he ends it early, well before either of us would need to eat or drink to replenish any muscle dehydration. I know he did this for me, but I also know he wouldn't want to be thanked for it. "Good that you're resting up for the flight trial later," I say instead, adding, "Wouldn't want to fly circles around you." He gives me a look like really, motherfucker? I smile, and he rolls his eyes. "You'd better be half as good as you think you are," he says. "Oh, I'm at least twice as good as that," I say.

7:08 a.m.: He glances at me. "Someone really ought to put you in your place," he says.

7:10 a.m.: It's something Ash would say, but Ash would have been a dick about it. He would have said it impassively, in a way that meant he couldn't be bothered to do it himself. But something about the way Oak says it makes me think that the reason he came knocking on my door this morning is because he has a very good idea what exactly should be done with me. For half a second, yesterday morning rearranges itself into what it could have been: his hands working my hips, traveling lower. Traveling elsewhere. In split frames I see myself groaning, writhing, mumbling obscenities to the top of his head, and I know he sees them, too. But then I remember who he is—I remember Ash and Rose and the baby—and I clear my throat, attempting to close the door on any further considerations.

7:15 a.m.: "See you at half-past eleven?" I say, which is when I booked the pitch. He agrees, and we part ways.

8:00 a.m.: This time I find myself with my hand on my cock while I linger in the shower, steam clinging to my wet skin. Oak is a strong wood, easy to work with, because it doesn't give like some materials. Oak the man is rather like that, and I think my instincts were correct to think of him that way. My thoughts while I pump perfunctorily at my erection are a mix of Rose's breasts, Ash's mouth, Oak's chest. Gradually, though, I think purely of Oak. The way he looks when he's running; the sculpted form of him. The lines of his arms, his torso, his stomach. That teardrop crease along the muscle of his thighs. A little glimpse of Ash bending Oak over the edge of his bed is replaced with an image of myself, but not as Oak—as Ash. I imagine running my palms over Oak's back and come with a spluttering exhale, my breathing suddenly ragged.

11:15 a.m.: Ultimately I doze off and wake up startled, knowing I have ten minutes to make it to the pitch five minutes early. I check my watch and head out, only mildly panicked.

11:30 a.m.: Well, that didn't quite work as planned. "You're early," I say when I realize Oak is waiting for me on the pitch (with our former Head of House, for whatever unknowable reason). "You're late," he tells me, and for the first time, I look at my watch and see not Ash, not Rose, but the fact that it's nearly ten minutes slow. Leave it to a set of secretly polyamorous purebloods to not check the enchantment on the priceless heirloom they've given me.

I no longer have a watch, and so have no idea how much time passes after I make some polite noises in the Headmistress's direction, challenging Oak to some drills. All I can think is how good Oak looks up here, clearly in his element while wearing what I realize belatedly is not his usual sweat-stained t-shirt, but a collared shirt, partially unbuttoned. I am, of course, suitably dressed for a business meeting as well, wearing trousers I've had tailored to fit the more athletic parts of me; my hamstrings and such.

If I'm being honest, I shouldn't be so pleased to see Oak's eyes wander. A flip has switched between us; as something of a recreational libertine, I'd be remiss not to call a spade a spade. Nothing will come of it, but still. I'm enjoying the time spent in the air with him for as long as I can have it.

It's funny not to be taking stock of the minutes as they pass, but it's an easy thing to forget that we've surely been up here for ages. I run agility drills with Oak before challenging him to a Wronski Feint, half to showcase the dexterity of the Nymph and half because careening toward the ground delights me. Oak and I both lose our voices, rasping out peals of laughter when we land, and Oak is shameless again, off and running about my allegedly shitty offensive tactics when I reach over without thinking, plucking a leaf from his hair. My hand brushes his cheek and he summons a sharp inhale, startling us both. "Sorry," he says. "What for?" I ask. He and I are still panting from our dive; I imagine I'm as red-faced and disarmed as he is. Instead of answering, though, he looks up, and I turn over my shoulder to follow his gaze.

Oh. Pine was here, but now he's leaving.

"Do you know him?" asks Oak, gesturing with his chin again. He seems to do this often, and for whatever reason it's starting to affect me. It's making me think of his mouth, his jaw. "We're friends," I say, and toss him his broom again. "Another go?"

4:04 p.m.: I'm well and truly shocked when I see the time—the real time, thanks to a bit of the charms proficiency I mastered around the time I decided I wanted to design brooms—as it means we've been in the air for ages. It explains why I'm so exhausted, and when Oak suggests we head back to the Three Broomsticks to get a pint, I don't argue. "So will you sign?" I ask him. "Tell you in a bit," he says. "Still have to catch my breath."

4:23 p.m.: Nothing tastes quite as good as an English pale ale at the end of a rigorous workout. Oak and I sprawl out with our legs outstretched and interwoven beneath the table: his right leg, my left leg, then his left and my right, all laid out in sequence. "Tell me about you," he says. "My brooms, you mean?" I ask, "because those are what I plan to sell you on." "I've seen what I needed to see of them," he says. "Now I'm asking about you."

5:56 p.m.: Before I know it I've told Oak about my four older sisters, my elderly mother and father who live with my second sister now in Wales. I've told him about how I broke my arm the first time I went flying and how neither my mum nor my sisters allowed me to get back on a broom for nearly a year. I tell him what it was like doing another year at Hogwarts because I didn't sit for the right N.E.W.T.s the first time and needed to try again, to start over. I tell him about my reckless loans, the countless investors who passed on lending to me because I had a 'questionable background'—how I had little to no references from anyone who mattered. Nobody believed me, I explained to him. "I was so accustomed to being adored at home that I never bothered to wonder whether people adored me outside of it," I say, and Oak gives a little grunt of humor. "Little prince syndrome," he says.

6:13 p.m.: My heart aches with thoughts of Rose, who says similar things about me all the time. "You would love her," I tell Oak, because it's true, even though he flinches to hear it. "She didn't steal him, you know. And you don't know how hard she worked to earn his love." "Well, we have that in common at least. Wish I could have warned her that you can't actually make Ash love you," Oak mutters, draining his glass and motioning for another. "Little prick does as he likes." "Don't I know it," I murmur, and in a blink, I'm melancholy again.

7:04 p.m.: I'm afraid to ask, but eventually Oak tells me. He tells me about the schoolboy taunts with Ash that turned into sex, the sex that turned into need, the need that turned into love. "I'm angry at him, but angrier at me," says Oak coldly. "I thought I'd have sorted it all out by now, moved on, found someone else. But it's like I let it fester instead, all my feelings of being left behind by him. Like the pain is all I have left, so I can't let it go. I don't even want to try."

7:34 p.m.: Amid the dinner rush I have the sudden urge to take his hand in mine, but I don't. "He's holding onto you, too," I tell Oak. "You didn't even know about me before yesterday," he scoffs in reply, raising his glass to his lips. "I didn't, but I should have," I say. "I should have," I say again, because if I had ever bothered to know the man I claimed to love, then surely I should have asked him sooner.

7:37 p.m.: It's all a bit much, so I'm relieved when Oak suddenly makes a mention of how late it's getting and how terrible he smells, though I disagree. He smells like oak and salt, and if I sit here smelling him any longer I may lose the diminishing restraint that's keeping me on this side of the booth. But since I can't tell if my curiosity about him begins with Ash or ends there, I don't want to push it any further than I already have. "Look, let me think it over and get back to you about the contract by the end of the week," says Oak, rising to his feet. I nod, standing to take his hand. "I look forward to hearing from you," I say. We shake on it, and then he leaves.

8:45 p.m.: It occurs to me while I'm alone in my room that I may not speak to Oak again. If he sends an owl saying no thank you, then that's it. It hits me that I've wasted an opportunity to tell him something—what that something is, I've no idea—and suddenly, I can't let it go.

8:58 p.m.: Luckily there's only a few rooms in this tavern, and after knocking on five separate doors I find his room at the opposite end of the corridor from mine. He opens it, shirtless, and I stop, suddenly at a loss for whatever it was I wanted to say. Something like thank you for being honest with me, because not too many people consider me worth being honest with? But instead I just stare at the outline of his torso and he says, "I have one brother. Older. Taught me to fly."

8:59 p.m.: "Shit," I say, realizing I didn't ask about his family when he was asking questions about mine. "And your parents?"

9:00 p.m.: He steps to the side, waving me into the room. "My mum passed a year or so before the war," he says when I enter, closing the door behind me. "My dad and I've had nothing to say to each other for at least five years, and I never go home." "I'm not even sure what it would feel like to have one," I say, which is far more honest than I planned on being. "My youngest sister is still nearly eight years older than I am," I add. "Explains a lot about you," Oak says. "You think so?" "Yeah, I fuckin' do."

9:18 p.m.: He pours us both a glass of something but neither of us touches it. "It's lonely being on the road all the time," he says. "I thought I was good at loneliness, but it turns out I'm not." "I'm definitely not good at loneliness," I tell him. "I have a boyfriend and a girlfriend just to prevent it." "How's that working out for you?" he asks me. "Four months ago I would have said great," I say.

9:45 p.m.: He asks me why four months and I tell him. He freezes for a second, then scratches idly at the unshaven hairs on his cheek. "I thought it was going to kill me to hear that," he says. "What, that Ash is having a baby?" I ask, and Oak nods. "Just feels so final," he says. "I mean, I knew Ash was gone from me, he's made that plenty clear—but it's one thing knowing it and another thing to really know it, isn't it?"

9:48 p.m.: I think about saying that baby is just as much mine as it is his but instead I say, "Does Ash ever actually say goodbye?" "No," says Oak, shaking his head. "He just makes you say it for him."

10:38 p.m.: I'm tired and somewhat entitled as a person, so eventually I get up from where I've been sitting in the superfluous accent chair and lie down on Oak's bed. "I haven't been sleeping well," I say, and Oak pauses for a moment, then finally takes a sip from his glass, rising to join me on the bed. He lies on his back, closing his eyes, and says, "Neither have I."

10:39 p.m.: His proximity is slightly maddening. I can't help thinking he'd know exactly where to touch me, the same way Ash does but different. They're both something like four years older than I am, but Oak has passion, he's dauntless. He'd touch me without hesitating for a single moment to look me in the eye.

11:18 p.m.: Gradually we turn to face each other on the bed, his head close to mine. I feel like I've just spent the day with my new best mate and yet now I'm in bed with someone completely different. I want to know his secrets, the things that make his knees weak and his toes curl. I want to know the sounds he makes when I'm taking him between my lips. I want to know whether he likes things fast and hard or slow and deep, whether he snores or grinds his teeth at night. I want to know everything about this man and write it all down in volumes for me to peruse at my leisure. I want him leatherbound for me, unearthed.

12:39 a.m.: "Am I really going to stay up all night talking to you?" Oak asks me, or asks himself aloud, and for the first time in three days I'm not wondering what Ash is thinking. I'm not asking myself why Rose hasn't written. Let them all believe I'm a shitbag of the highest order if that's what they want to think of me. Am I really so wrong to think I deserve slightly better than the little they choose to give?

12:45 a.m.: "I want to stay up all night with you," I say back to Oak, and it bleeds from my lips to his when he lowers his chin, his nose within reach of mine. I watch him breathing. I watch him watch me. This is different than it was with Pine the other night. This isn't desperation. It's meditation, centering myself more with each synchronized breath.

1:01 a.m.: But he doesn't come closer and neither do I. We lie facing each other in silence, his eyes silently tracing the features of my face while my gaze mirrors his. Eventually I think I'm going to kiss him, I can't stand it anymore, I have to taste him—but then I think of Rose, and the way she sleeps curled on her side like some newborn fawn, and suddenly I can't breathe anymore, uncertain. I haven't been in anyone's bed but hers and Ash's for well over a year, and I don't know who I am without Rose in my arms, or without Ash's arm slung across my hip. Part of me knows I could give Oak what he wants, whatever he wants, and I know it would be good. Possibly even excellent. I've stared at his torso, privately rehearsing exactly how I would start: I'd drag my tongue along his abdomen and take him in my mouth without warning, just to hear him gasp. I think he's waiting for me to give him permission, or to ask for it myself, but I can't bring myself to decide between him or Ash, between tired love or inelegant longing. I'm frozen in the dichotomy of my own wants, the discord of my many desperations.

1:17 a.m.: As if he senses my growing panic, Oak pulls me closer, tucking my head below his chin and cradling me against his chest. "You're making this impossible for me," he says in my ear. "Am I?" I say to the hollow of his throat, though I know perfectly well that I am. I'm taller than he is, but folded together like this we're perfect. "I thought we were going to talk all night?" he says, and I think his eyes are closed, his fingers stroking a line down the back of my neck. "We definitely are," I say.

1:25 a.m.: But within minutes I'm asleep in his arms.


DAY FOUR

3:45 a.m.: I wake up to find that I'm cold, so I shift to get under the duvet. Oak, nudged awake by my movement, does the same. We fall asleep again separately, warmed this time by the blankets.

5:15 a.m.: When I stir again I find Oak lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. "It's better we didn't fuck," he says, turning to look at me.

5:17 p.m.: "I think I'd let you do whatever you wanted to me," Oak murmurs, half-laughing to himself. I sit up slightly, leaning casually onto the heel of my hand. "Is that what you thought I was doing when I showed up last night?" I ask, amused. "Part of me hoped it was," he says.

5:32 a.m.: He gets up, revealing that he removed his shirt and trousers at some point in the night, and disappears into the bathroom in his underwear. He returns disheveled and sleepy-eyed, messy-haired and perfect. He conjures two cups of coffee and sets one beside me where I remain in bed. He rifles a hand through his hair, taking a sip while staring out the small tavern window, and then he glances down at me with a frown. "What?" he says, bemused.

5:40 a.m.: I'm out of bed and on my feet before I realize I'm doing any of it, but when I drag Oak's mouth to mine he gives me a low, prophetic groan of expectancy that vibrates in my chest. He swears quietly under his breath, tugging at my trousers, but I shove his hand away, taking hold of his jaw with one hand and turning his head to run my lips along his neck. He shudders and I kiss him again roughly, sweeping my tongue along his and pushing his hand away from me a second time, shaking my head. "No," I say to his mouth, shoving him backwards and falling to my knees in the same moment I shove his pants down, his cock springing free above the waistband.

5:45 a.m.: He's smooth and hard and taking him fully in my mouth is an effort, my swallow against his tip leaving him choking on another string of expletives. He tightens his fingers in my hair, tugging my head away, so I reach up to take hold of his wrist with one hand, stilling him. "Don't," I say when I release him from my mouth, "I'm doing this." I look up to find his gaze desperate and his lips parted, a hazy retort forming between them. "But I want to touch you," he says, his voice hoarse and lost. "Later," I say, and take him in my mouth again, releasing his wrist to let him slide his fingers through my errant curls.

5:52 a.m.: I have him backed against the nightstand, struggling to stay upright, while he tells me he's close, so close, Jesusalmightygod he's coming he'scomingohgodhe'scoming until he spills into my mouth and I wait, hands penitently framing his hips while he convulses between my lips. He wrestles me onto my feet and then backwards onto the bed like a man who's been starving, tearing my trousers down below my arse and kicking his own pants aside from where I left them to wade around his ankles.

5:58 a.m.: His lips meet mine and he's touching me, brushing my cock with only the tips of his fingers. He strokes me gingerly until I think even a single full pulse of his hand will have me spilling onto the sheets, but then he yanks me until I'm on my stomach, propping up my hips. He puts his mouth on me and I shudder out something like fuckfuckfuck but we're interrupted when someone knocks. "Sorry sir," comes the voice of an elf on the other side, "it's urgent."

6:04 a.m.: Oak doesn't even cover himself when he goes to the door, plucking an owl with my name on it and tossing it to me before smacking my arse for me to lift my hips again. I have every intention to ignore the owl and focus on the sensation of Oak's mouth, but before I can, the letter's opened itself to let Ash's voice spill out of it: "Rose is asking for you. Something wrong with the baby. Meet us at St Mungo's." A pause. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

6:06 a.m.: Oak and I freeze, both familiar enough with Ash that the last sentence didn't need to be said. Still, Ash isn't the first thing going through my mind; Rose is. Half a second's delay is enough for me to scramble to my feet, picking up my trousers. "I have t-" "Yeah, go, go," says Oak, staring at the letter. I sprint out of the room and don't even bother going back to my own before I take the tavern Floo to St Mungo's.

6:35 a.m.: It takes me a bit to find them, but when I finally locate the correct wing—I had guessed emergency, but she must have been sent straight to the usual area where her maternity healer is—I spot Rose lying on a hospital bed through the window and hurry to enter the room. "Wait," calls a frantic attendant behind me, pausing me before I can pull open the door, "it's family only. Are you the father? Family?" I stare at her for a second. "No," I eventually manage to say, the word alone ripping the breath from my lungs, "but—" "Wait right here, then," she tells me, gesturing to a chair outside the hospital room. "Visiting hours start at eight."

6:37 a.m.: "I'm not waiting over an hour to see her," I tell the attendant, marching forward to the door, and she shakes her head, guiding me back. "Sir, as I said—" "I understand what you said," I tell her angrily, "but she asked for me—" "The hospital was not informed of any guest requests, so if you could just wait until visiting hours—" "I am not just a visitor!" I shout at her, rapidly losing my temper. She gives me a hardened glance and says coldly, "Then what are you, sir?"

6:39 a.m.: Just then Ash opens the door, slipping outside. "Oh, you're here," he says without fully looking at me. He looks tired, and if I didn't want to murder the woman currently trying to do her job, I would reach for him in relief. "They won't let me in," I say, "it's family only."

6:41 a.m.: My voice sounds flatter than I intended, but Ash nods. "Fine. Rose is okay, it's a false alarm. Why don't you just meet us at the house," he tells me, as I stare at him, dumbfounded. "They're just finishing some routine exams and then we'll be dismissed," he clarifies, as if that's what my confusion is about. "But I still want to see her," I say, which seems fairly fucking obvious. Guilt is killing me—I should have told her I was going to be away for a few days. I'm normally well within reach, and what was I doing instead? Getting my arse licked while she was scared and alone? She was with Ash, fine, but we both know he's not the sympathetic one. I should be sleeping on the floor beside her bed every night like a fucking dog, not skulking around with quidditch players in Scotland.

6:42 a.m.: "She's fine," Ash repeats mechanically, turning to go back to the room, but I grab his arm. "You have to tell them to let me in," I hiss quietly, and he looks down at my hand before flicking his gaze back to mine; tacit admonishing for touching him where people can see. "Can he come in?" he asks the attendant, who's still guarding the door as if I might actually try to curse my way in. "Begging your pardon, sir, but no," says the attendant, "it's St Mungo's policy."

6:45 a.m.: To my complete and numbing disbelief, Ash nods. "Go," he says to me, shaking me off like excess weight. Then he slips into the room and shuts the door securely behind him.

7:00 a.m.: I stare at the door in silence, unsure whether I'd rather punch something or blast open the door. Instead I do nothing, and after a few more minutes I grudgingly turn and do as Ash said, making my way into their lavish manor house.

8:15 a.m.: I'm pacing in front of the fireplace when Ash and Rose finally surface from the Floo. "Oh, thank god," says Rose, looking pale and exhausted but more beautiful than any woman who's ever lived. I rush to take her in my arms and she melts into my chest, relieved. "I'm so sorry to cut your holiday short—" "I wasn't on holiday," I say, glaring at Ash over her shoulder. "I was in Scotland for a meeting. Potential sponsorship deal." "Oh, well I was just being silly, anyway," she says apologetically, leaning away to rest one hand on her stomach. "Little lamb was just a bit riotous in there, I guess."

8:20 a.m.: I drop to my knees to kiss her stomach, breathing in the smell of her perfume while I greet the baby I'm not allowed to have. "You'd better be sweeter to your mum," I say, trying to ignore the sensation burning in my throat, "She's just trying to sleep." Rose laughs, and I rise to my feet, telling her I've made breakfast. "Oh, but you're a disaster in the kitchen, you little prince," she sighs fondly. "I hope it's edible."

8:34 a.m.: I get Rose settled with some (moderately edible) toast and eggs and slip out to find Ash, who's still standing in the living room. "Why is she acting like nothing's changed?" I demand, and he turns to look at me, arching a brow. "Has something changed?" he asks neutrally. I curl a fist, practically incandescent with rage. "You're fucking unbelievable," I snarl at him. "You told me—" "I told you there wasn't a place for you in this marriage, but how is that any different from before? It's what we've always known," Ash says, shrugging. "If you chose to leave this time, that's on you."

8:41 a.m.: "What's going on?" asks Rose, materializing in the threshold behind us. I turn to look at her, caught between my need to punish Ash and my total awe of her. Her hair is so long and thick and lovely; it cascades below her breasts like some Grecian goddess, falling nearly to her belly. The evidence of pregnancy is unmistakable now, and as it has all morning, my adoration of her wars with my fury with Ash.

8:42 a.m.: "It's nothing," lies Ash, turning away from me.

8:43 a.m.: For a moment, I hate him. I hate him so much I want to kill him. No, not that. I hate him so much that I want him to fuck me while knowing—and surely he does know—that I would rather kill him. "Actually," I say to Rose, "Ash was just saying how much he missed me." "Oh?" prompts Rose, lips curling up slightly. "Yes," I say, "but of course I told him I missed you more."

8:45 a.m.: I cross the room to her and take her face between my hands, kissing her soundly. Rose makes a breathy, feminine sound of yearning when I trace her breasts through the silk of her robe, and then again when I reach between her legs with my free hand, cupping it between her thighs. She looks over my shoulder, tilting her head for Ash's reaction. By the rules of our usual intercourse, Ash is now obligated to partake.

8:53 a.m.: I feel Ash behind me, his chest settling against my shoulders, and I release Rose for a moment, turning to face him. Rose's fingertips trace the back of my neck and I stare at Ash, telling him wordlessly that either he will beg for me or I will tell her what he's done. "Well?" I say in my most princely voice, making a show of unzipping my trousers for him. Ash locks eyes with me for a full breath, and then he lowers himself stiffly to his knees.

8:56 a.m.: Ash is far from gentle with me, but I have at least partially what I wanted. He and I both know that nothing is resolved, nor will we resolve it right now. After a moment spent angrily fucking his mouth, I nudge him aside and return to Rose, tugging her into my arms to apparate us into her bedroom. I slide the robe from her body and ease her onto the bed, parting her thighs and bending to fit my lips between them. Ash can apparate himself.

9:03 a.m.: By the time Ash enters the room, I've already made Rose come once. She loves cunnilingus and I savor the taste of her with enthusiasm, glad to compensate for my absence with some well-practiced ministrations of my mouth. Ash eases himself behind her, settling her in his lap and sliding his fingers along her clit while I sit up to kiss her, parting her lips with my tongue. "What do you want?" I ask her, and she moans into my mouth—my favorite. There was a time when she was too shy to make demands in bed, but that's long gone. I lick her wanton desperation from my lips when she says, "Put me on my side and fuck me slowly." "My pleasure," I say, motioning for Ash to move aside.

9:05 a.m.: He's not uninvolved when we do this. He usually strokes her clit or kisses her neck while I thrust into her from behind, though his eyes are almost always on me. I am a necessary piece for them; a middleman of sorts. Ash can't come without me, so I cradle Rose in my arms and think this baby is mine, mine, mine.

9:25 a.m.: Rose comes twice before I finish with a groan, and then I hold her until she dozes off. She's breathing deeply, fast asleep, before I finally look up at Ash, who brushes Rose's hair gently from her face. "What would you have told her if I never came back?" I murmur to him. "The truth," he says. "That you left."

9:30 a.m.: I think again of what Oak said to me—Ash doesn't say goodbye, he makes you say it for him—and slowly disentangle myself from Rose, suddenly desperate to leave the room. I gather my clothes and stalk out with every intention to leave without a word, but Ash chases after me, grabbing me by the shoulder. "What are you playing at?" he demands.

9:35 a.m.: I round on him, fuming. "You sad motherfucker," I say. "You pitiful little shit. You're just a coward, do you know that?" I'm breathing hard and so is he. "How could you possibly think that I don't?" he asks me.

9:41 a.m.: The kiss that follows from Ash is a slap in the face and I shove him away. "Don't you fucking touch me," I tell him between gritted teeth. He holds a hand to his mouth in disbelief, like I bit him or stung him. Hazily, I realize it's the first time I've ever told him no.

9:42 a.m.: "I'm sorry," he calls out while I head for the Floo. "Yeah, well, fuck off," I say without turning, because Oak is maybe still at the Three Broomsticks and I'd much rather be with him at the moment. "I'm bloody sorry, what do you want from me?" Ash says again while I ignore him, reaching for the Floo powder, but he knocks my hand away and shoves me beside the hearth, pinning my wrist beside my head. "I'm sorry," he grits through his teeth. "Then let me go," I snarl in his face. "I'm sorry," he repeats, "I'm so sorry." I don't say anything this time, and his grip on me slackens. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he says, and slides down until his forehead rests against my chest. "I'm sorry," he mumbles into my skin, collapsing until he's kneeling at my feet. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—" I yank his head up, furious, and his dark eyes meet mine. "Show me how sorry you are," I say in a vitriolic whisper. He fumbles with my trousers, tugging me hard to the ground.

9:50 a.m.: Ash sucks me off with abandon, his fingers pulsing between my legs, stroking. He pulls open his own trousers with shaking fingers and I conjure the lubrication spell myself, because I doubt he could manage to do it. For me this is cold and angry, devoid of affection. He positions himself against me and hesitates, and I say, "Say it again." He looks up, momentarily lost, and I stare at him: "Say it again. Now."

9:53 a.m.: "I'm sorry," he says while he thrusts into me, rhythmic like the beads of sweat that fall from his temples. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" "Say you love me," I growl at him while I stroke myself, and now I'm just punishing him. Turns out I am retaliatory after all. "I love you," Ash says obligingly, altering his pattern to fit new words. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

9:55 a.m.: It dissolves into incomprehensible babbling until I come, and then he comes. He collapses against me, both of us slick with sweat. "Don't go," he whispers in my ear. "Don't let me," I tell him.

9:59 a.m.: He says nothing. "Make me one promise," I say. "Make one compromise, Ash. Promise me one fucking thing that I've asked for." Ask me to move in, I think silently. Tell me I'll get to be a father. Tell me that I'm part of this, that I'm a necessary piece of your world. Tell me you can't live without me, that you would never let me leave. That you couldn't possibly learn to live without me, even if I were gone.

10:01 a.m.: "I love you," says Ash again, but even he must hear how fucking paltry that sounds.

10:02 a.m.: "That's not enough," I say, and shove him away, stumbling through the Floo to my flat.

10:15 a.m.: I take a minute to calm down. To get dressed. To eat something and shower. I write a note to Rose, telling her I had to leave to finish my meeting but I'll be back to see her tonight. Then I head back to Hogsmeade because I have to, because my prototype broom is there, but also because I want to. Because against all odds, I know that I would hate myself far less if I'd spent the morning with Oak instead of Ash.

12:20 p.m.: By the time I return, Oak is gone. I ask around but nobody's seen him. Something in me aches, but I'm the consummate professional. With or without Oak's sponsorship, I have a company with brooms to sell. I visit a few nearby retailers and make the most of my afternoon.

9:13 p.m.: Ash is conspicuously absent when I return to his house to see Rose. She's in bed reading and I curl around her, following the text over her shoulder until she puts the book down with a sigh. "I know something's going on," she says, twisting around to face me, "I'm not stupid." "True, you're even cleverer than you are beautiful," I assure her with a smirk, leaning in for a kiss, which she returns in a doting but distracted sort of way. "I can't do this without you," she tells me, dragging my hand to her belly and setting it there, firmly. "This," she tells me, "just isn't a family without you."

9:25 p.m.: I rest my forehead against hers, exhaling. Stalling. "You and Ash are a family," I remind her. "I'm just—" "You're family," she repeats. "You're ours, and we're yours. Ash will come around in time." I say nothing and she strokes my cheek, pulling me closer. "I need you," she says, and this time, the kiss she gives me is deep and slow. "Promise me you'll be here," she whispers.

9:30 p.m.: I wish I weren't so hard, but unfortunately being needed is kind of my kink. She places a hand on my cock and eases me closer, positioning me between her legs. "I want you all the time now," she says in my ear with a little gurgle of a laugh, and I shudder, helpless to resist while she drags my hand to the slit of her cunt. I slide out of my trousers, letting her lift my shirt above my head, and I do my best to make uninhibited, unpretentious love to her. I kiss every inch of her skin I can reach until she comes easily, loudly, twisting her fingers into my hair and moaning my name.

10:15 p.m.: When she falls asleep in my arms I feel another pulse of pain, though I don't know exactly why. Maybe it's because I know I'll give up everything, what little I have and all that might await me in the future, for the meagerness of what she and Ash are willing to offer me. Maybe because I am watching the door close on Oak—on Pine, or on anyone I might have loved who could have loved me unreservedly back—because I will do anything Rose asks of me. Because, at the end of the day, I will do anything to stay with Ash, to fall asleep in Rose's arms. Because I know I have signed myself up for a lifetime of longing and still, even that is somehow preferable to the pain of losing them both.


DAY FIVE

7:13 a.m.: I wake up to find I'm in the middle of the bed, Rose curled up at my back and Ash outstretched on his side, facing me. It's strange to see how well some men age, because Ash is doing it flawlessly. The older he gets the sharper his cheekbones seem, the less harsh his brow looks. The more he looks like the kind of man you imagine as a brooding hero when you're young, long before you realize that man probably has intimacy issues.

7:14 a.m.: His eyes are closed, but I know what he looks like when he's sleeping. "I know you're awake," I tell him, quietly enough to not wake Rose. His eyes open and he looks at me for a long time, then gestures over his shoulder, climbing out of bed and beckoning me out of the room.

7:20 a.m.: I pull on my shirt, not bothering to button it while Ash and I walk silently into the kitchen. "I know how important your company is to you," he says. I say nothing. "I'd like to help," he tells me, and then goes on to say that he arranged a few meetings last night on my behalf. He talks for quite a while as I wave my wand and yawn, setting about the charms for a proper Americano. "Some of my former teammates may be interested in a possible sponsorship deal. I'm happy to arrange meetings if you'd like, in the event the other one doesn't work out. As for the loans you're stupidly not telling me about, I think I can do some persuading at Gringotts to lower the interest rates," he says. "I'm not exactly unconnected."

7:31 a.m.: When the coffee's done, I sit down at the breakfast table and register the silence. It seems Ash has finally run out of things to say, so now it's my turn to speak. If I choose to.

7:32 a.m.: I can see on his face that he's bracing himself for something, waiting for some inevitable drop, and I realize that maybe he thinks he's done more than simply send a few owls on my behalf. In business I've learned that perspective is everything, and compromise means both parties suffer a little. What he's offering may not be enough to heal the wound of the future I'm giving up, but it's still more than Ash is accustomed to giving at all.

7:33 a.m.: "Thank you," I say, and from where we're sitting at diagonal corners of the breakfast table, I hook my ankle around his chair and pull him close to me. He looks away, eternally overwhelmed by any small show of affection, but I lean forward to rest my forehead against the line of his shoulder. A deep inhale of his smell is enough to steady me, even in the moments before he leans his cheek stiffly against my head. We sit there for several minutes without moving until gradually I feel his posture give way, relaxing into the acknowledgement that whatever exists between us hasn't irreparably broken.

7:38 a.m.: For what it's worth, I still hate him. I also still love him. Let it be a lesson that these sensations are not as different from one another as one might hope.

7:40 a.m.: "Oh good, you've made up," says Rose, pausing barefoot in the door frame and smiling at us like the benevolent goddess she is. "Just in time for breakfast."

4:38 p.m.: I spend the rest of the day in a domestic haze, helping Rose to set up the nursery while Ash flits in and out responding to owls. (She wants "life" in the room, which means I spend quite a lot of the day figuring out where to put hanging ferns while also suspending little twinkly lights from the ceiling.) I can't say my enmity towards Ash doesn't diminish incrementally throughout the day, because it does, without question. Being around him when he's like this—brushing my lower back each time he passes, kissing the back of my neck while I'm frowning at a still-crooked tapestry—makes it difficult to remember that he's actually the bane of my existence.

4:48 p.m.: "Don't you think you've worked hard enough for today?" Rose whispers in my ear, creeping up behind me while I'm checking the bassinet (a word I never thought I'd use, much less a thing I'd make) for any sharp edges. I turn, catching her lips with mine, and Ash closes the door behind him. "Make him work a bit more before you cut him loose," Ash suggests to Rose drily, unsmiling in the way that means he's entirely content.

4:50 p.m.: This is how all our fights end: me on the floor with Rose straddling my jaw, my legs hooked around the muscle of Ash's arms, Ash kissing Rose's lips while he thrusts into me. Not in this exact position, of course, but thematically this is a predictable part of our cycle. I'd be lying if I said Oak didn't cross my mind once or twice or several times today, including during sex with Ash and Rose, but I don't necessarily feel sadness or loss when I think of him. Something tells me Oak will be in my life somehow, even if it's a matter of contracts and currency, and that pleases me.

5:30 p.m.: Sometimes you meet someone who makes your world change shape, broadening it or brightening it, and Oak is that for me in some way, I can feel it. It's no wonder to me anymore how Ash's world must have gone a little dim the day Oak left him.

7:35 p.m.: Rose makes one of her gourmet suppers and scolds me, as always, when I dive straight for the serving dish. Despite her frequent protestations, I think she's secretly delighted with my appetite. As much as I know that her value far exceeds her talent in the kitchen, acknowledging it is still some small way to make her feel as extraordinary as I find her. When I'm with her I always eat until my stomach bursts, and intestinal discomfort aside, it's never too much work to make her feel needed. A small price to pay, in the end, to see her smile.

8:49 p.m.: I head back to the nursery to finish my little carving project. Later, out of the corner of my eye, I watch Rose and Ash have a moment together. They're just murmuring to each other about something, but these are the parts of our polyamorous cycle I struggle with the most. These are the times when I'm intensely aware that optically speaking—from an outside perspective—I'll spend the rest of my life a bachelor while the two of them are allowed to grow old together. Most of the time it's easy for me to remind myself that my truth is different from what the world sees. Sometimes, though, it isn't.

9:15 p.m.: "Come to bed," Ash says, crouching down beside me. Rose is already asleep, I think, or reading upstairs. I was enjoying the silence, but Ash settles himself beside me, looking over the shelf I decided to make on a whim. "I took care of the loans," he says, telling me the interest rates have been re-negotiated.

9:17 p.m.: What he's really saying is I took care of you, and I turn to look at him. "Is it enough?" he asks me.

9:18 p.m.: He doesn't mean is it enough to ease my financial burden. (It isn't.)

9:20 p.m.: I slide one hand around the back of Ash's head, pulling him close to me until there's nothing but a sliver of hesitation between our lips. "Don't push me away," I tell him.

9:21 p.m.: He kisses me, and I kiss him, and when he offers me his hand this time, I come to bed without argument.


DAY SIX

9:45 a.m.: This morning Ash is out of bed first, and Rose and I make a mess in the kitchen (my doing, not hers.) By the time Ash comes back to a beautifully plated salmon benedict, he throws a stack of paperwork down on the table and plucks me up from my chair by the shoulders, half-crushing me in something that's meant to be a hug. "Found you an investor," he says, looking smug as he reaches for a big bite of toast.

10:01 a.m.: Ash goes off for a bit about some relative with money that he's evidently scammed into contributing financially to my company. Obviously I'm pleased, though a large part of me wishes I had managed it myself. "Oh, that's fantastic!" says Rose. She doesn't know the first thing about brooms—frankly, Ash's distant pureblood cousin probably doesn't, either—but it would be rather stupid of me not to see it as an achievement nonetheless. I tell Ash I'm so pleased, though after breakfast I make my excuses to leave, saying something about having to see to my correspondence at home.

11:12 a.m.: A little wave of existential nausea floods me again when I walk into my flat, which at this point might as well not be lived in. The living room now consists of piles of books on magical dendrology and levitation, wood samples, copies of signed contracts, discarded prototypes, and the occasional cup of unfinished tea or half-eaten fruit that's just on the edge of rotten. It's mostly a shelf for the parts of my life that don't intersect with Ash and Rose—which, I suppose, is why I also think of Oak the moment I enter.

11:30 a.m.: I wasn't actually going to work on any "correspondence," seeing as I am not actually a Victorian woman recovering by the seaside, but pondering Oak's reaction to my flat lends me a rare moment of humor. It's strange, isn't it, how he seems to be the one thing that doesn't make me unreasonably sad? I keep thinking that I ought to be—that I should regret the opportunity missed and therefore suffer it—but the further I get from my weekend with him, the more I can only recall my sense of ease. Remembering the look he gives when he disagrees with me (which is often) makes me laugh a little to myself in the silence of my living room.

11:35 a.m.: Look, you and I both know this is the right partnership for you, I write to him, abandoning any effort at impersonal professionalism. Just give in already. The future's bright for us, mate.

3:03 p.m.: I start working on a new broom—unsure what I'll call it, but I start with a fresh batch of oak—and get lost in the process of semi-complicated spellwork until an owl taps at my window. I frown at the sight of the Hogwarts seal but hurry to open it, scanning the page. Then, because the message contained seems so fucking unlikely, I read it again. And then a third time.

3:15 p.m.: I know a good broom when I see one, and these are matters I do not take lightly. I'm onto my fifth or sixth read before I fully register that the school Headmistress has contacted one of the hotshots of the World Cup on my behalf—specifically, the female chaser I thought was far too famous to ever consider a contract with me. There's been a complication with Nimbus and the contract has been unexpectedly breached. Needless to say, she's in a bit of a bind. Following my recommendation, she would like the latest model of The Nymph for every member of the Harpies. May I presume this is something you can complete on a rush order? As you know, the professional season will be upon us shortly and the Harpies will be producing their promotional material within the coming weeks.

3:37 p.m.: Fuck. Holy bloody almighty fuck. A contract with the entire Holyhead Harpies team is… It's beyond anything I could have anticipated. This particular chaser, already quite famous for her work in equality for female athletes, is widely beloved, not to mention a reigning World Cup champion. This will absolutely ignite my annual sales.

3:41 p.m.: I burst into Ash and Rose's house and Rose looks up from something she's writing, obviously startled by me. It occurs to me that I might look positively unhinged. "What is it?" she asks, and I practically shout at her in reply, waving the letter around until she rises to her feet and snatches it from my hand. "Can't believe I didn't even think of asking her for you!" she exclaims, scanning the letter, and then she looks up. "Surely a contract like this requires some sort of special edition broom, doesn't it?" she suggests. I tell her it's a definite possibility and she smiles at me. "Well, congratulations—even if I can't fathom what woman could possibly enjoy flying," she wryly demurs, and I stop, contemplating this remark for a moment. "Why not?" I ask her, mostly because I've never thought to press her about her opposition to quidditch before. "Oh, it's just so uncomfortable," she says with a shrug. "Hips and such, you know."

7:01 p.m.: I leave without explanation (Rose seems to understand I've had an epiphany and blows a kiss in my wake) and spend the rest of the night modifying the prototype of my latest model of the Nymph. I update the suspension charms, re-designing it this time as if Rose were not only the inspiration for its optics, but also the broom's intended rider (if, that is, she had any proclivity to dive headlong into the ground, or to maintain her balance while throwing a Bludger Backbeat).

9:45 p.m.: By the time I've finished, I send the new broom to the Headmistress along with a letter. I've taken the liberty of amending your order on behalf of the Harpies. Enclosed is a prototype of my newest race broom, the Goddess. I trust you'll see the advantages of upgrading your selection upon receipt.

11:01 p.m.: I wasn't expecting an answer this late, but there's no way I can sleep now: This is a very fine broom. Consider the order amended. There's also a postscript that makes me chuckle to myself: Your note was pure cheek, by the way. I can't say I ever imagined that would serve you well, but clearly I stand corrected.

3:45 a.m.: There's still no answer from Oak, but I can hardly feel defeated. The only downside here is that seven custom brooms is a lot of work—though, if I don't sleep at all tonight because of it, that wouldn't matter at all. If there's a lesson to take away from any of this, it's that sometimes you have to put a lot out there before anything comes back.

5:14 a.m.: Maybe the things I've been working on for years are finally coming together. And for the first time in a long time, I can allow myself to believe that things might actually keep getting better, even if I can't currently see how.


DAY SEVEN

8:47 a.m.: I haven't slept at all by the time my Floo roars to life. "One second," I say without looking up, because the casting for suspension is tricky. I've got to hold the enchantment long enough to let it weave with the preexisting levitation charm, which requires a bit of sweat.

8:53 a.m.: When the incantation finally settles, I look up to find that Oak has seated himself on my sofa. I suppress any indication of my surprise, summoning a rag to clean the stain from my hands and walking over to find him glancing over the model I finalized last night. "Beautiful," he says, running the tips of his fingers over the carving I took the liberty of adding: the image of a faceless goddess staring directly into the sun while lightning strikes in her wake. "It's not for you," I tell him, cleaning off my hands with careful deliberation, "though I'm happy to customize your model as well, if you've finally made a decision."

8:57 a.m.: Oak looks up at me, and I'm struck by how happy I am to see him—no, I'm struck by how uncomplicated it is to feel even the slightest bit happier because he's here. Funny how easily that still comes, despite everything.

8:58 a.m.: "I'm not sure you're going to like my decision," Oak tells me. I shake my head. "If it's a no, prepare yourself to change your mind. You came here to refuse me at your own risk," I tell him. "I think you'll find I can be very persuasive."

9:00 a.m.: "It's a no," says Oak quietly, setting down the broom that's almost certainly going to make my fortune. "Well, that's all well and good for now," I assure him, disappointed but undeterred, "but if you'll at least stay for tea, I c-"

9:02 a.m.: He stands up and kisses me before I'm ready, the rag in my hand falling to the floor like the wave of a white flag. I should hope I don't need to explain the sensation of being kissed well, because it's not something that can be readily put into words. It's nothing that can be practiced—though god knows I've had my share of rehearsals—and nothing that can be mimicked or easily described. All I can tell you is that I knew he was kissing me like he had saved parts of himself for this exact moment, for this very kiss, and I was taking them all from him greedily, collecting them with the promise of safekeeping.

9:05 a.m.: Inevitably with a kiss like this you start to give things back. He wrestles me backwards, pausing me once I'm stumbling onto the arm of my sofa. "Ethically it's questionable," he says, "for me to accept a monetary sponsorship with you when what I actually want is everything." "Everything?" I echo hoarsely. "Everything," he says.

9:08 a.m.: He brushes the sun-lightened hair from his eyes and I say the only two things that matter: "But Rose. And Ash." "Have them," he says without hesitation, "and have me, too. I don't doubt you have enough of it." "Enough of what?" I ask him numbly, and his eyes drop to my mouth, rising slowly to meet my gaze again. "I think you know," he says.

9:10 a.m.: I can hardly think where to start. "Is this about Ash?" I ask him, wondering if being close to me is the same as being close to him. Oak shakes his head. "I wrote to Ash this morning," he says, adding, "I didn't think it was something I should keep from him."

9:13 a.m.: "But I'm about to have a baby—you do realize that, right?" "If you've got room for another person, then so do I." "But you barely know me." He shrugs. "I know enough."

9:15 a.m.: "You and I, we're the brave ones," Oak tells me when I falter. "We're not like them. We can give and give and give without fearing we'll lose pieces of ourselves—and I think you know, deep down," he reminds me solemnly, "that you should have someone who wants to make a home with you. Not just someone who lets you in the door. Not just someone who makes room for you, whatever little of it they can spare. What you're missing," he finishes, "is someone brave enough to love you with the volume set on high."

9:18 a.m.: I'm silent for a long time. If this were Ash, he'd have stepped back by now. He'd have taken my silence as an insult. "Are you saying you don't feel it?" Oak asks me.

9:19 a.m.: God, imagine if I didn't. Imagine if I could have had the time with him that I did and somehow walked away feeling nothing. I envy whatever man exists who could do that. "I feel it," I manage to tell him, and Oak reaches for me again, pulling my lips back to his.

9:20 a.m.: At precisely that moment my Floo lights up, and Oak and I turn our heads to find Ash stepping out of it. There's a letter in his hand, obviously Oak's, and he's pale and disheveled. "I need to talk to you," Ash says. He glances at Oak momentarily but returns his attention to me. "Please, before you make any decisions, just let me talk to you."

9:22 a.m.: Oak steps aside—I hadn't realized what a compromising position we were in, but I was half-seated on the arm of my sofa while his hips leaned against mine—but because it's not as if Ash and I could conceivably have this conversation more privately in the same room, I just say what I'm thinking aloud. "If this is about Oak—" "It's about you," Ash interrupts, and tells me for the first time unprompted, "Don't go."

9:25 a.m.: They're not speaking to each other. They're not even looking at each other, but I can feel the way that nothing is over between them. They're so deeply embedded in each other that nothing, not nature, not distance, not me, can ever really separate them. The whole room's shifted somehow now that they're both in it, and even though they're both ostensibly here for me, I can feel the way it could never truly be that simple.

9:26 a.m.: But then I think that maybe simple is an easy word for ordinary, and there are other things to be.

9:27 a.m.: "I'm not going," I tell Ash, "but I want him in my life." There's a chance that this could be another unsatisfying compromise, though I hope it isn't. "And you wouldn't have to just be mine," I say over Ash's shoulder, looking pointedly at Oak.

9:29 a.m.: I can tell from the look Oak gives me that he isn't ready to forgive Ash. Not yet. "I only want you," he tells me flatly. Ash gives a nearly imperceptible swallow but says nothing. "And I don't need to keep you on a leash, either," Oak continues. "Whatever you want to share with me is plenty." "I feel the same," says Ash, still not looking at Oak. "And I'm sure I don't need to tell you that all Rose wants is for you to be happy."

9:31 a.m.: On the surface, this is clearly too good to be true. A person can't have his cake and eat it too—and yet here's Oak, offering me cake while Ash is telling me to eat it.

9:32 a.m.: For a moment, I allow myself to wander down this road: me with Oak, the two of us making a home together while Ash and Rose live their intersecting lives, me as the child's doting godfather and constant overnight visitor. It's certainly closer to having everything than the alternative, I'll admit. The idea of being alone in Ash and Rose's orbit was enough to crush me, but the prospect of having a future with Oak at my side makes it suddenly possible to breathe.

9:36 a.m.: Still, I know a thing or two about love. I know that sometimes you have to give a lot of it before any of it comes back. I know that if you're not careful, if your heart is unmended, then you can love badly or selfishly or cruelly, and I know that if love harms you badly enough, you stop being able to give and become excessively fearful of taking.

9:37 a.m.: I also know that I'm standing in a room with two people I either love or might love, and that they love each other, and that despite what the world might have to say about the necessity of convention, the constancy of that love does not have to take anything away from me.

11:50 p.m.: I take Oak's hand and spend the day making love to him on the sheets of his London hotel room. Or I take his hand and pull him through the Floo to meet Rose, where of course they get on swimmingly, because how could they not? Or I tell Oak I'll see him later that evening and spend the day finishing the nursery with Ash. Or I tell them both to go home and I finish the order for the broom company that is its own labor of love, gentlemen callers not included. After a week, Ash and Oak grow reacquainted with each other, learning once again how to let the other in. Or they have a row and kiss passionately, which leads to sex, which I begrudge them not at all because I'm already in bed asleep with Rose. Or Ash and Oak can't speak to each other yet, not really, but Ash looks at Oak and doesn't see fear and Oak looks at Ash and doesn't see betrayal and that, the softening of a glance, is enough to mean that something better is coming, and they can allow themselves to believe that the parts of them that have been broken before are finally starting to heal. Or maybe something else. Maybe in five or so months we'll all simply crowd around a bassinet and start to understand that maybe it does take a village, after all.

11:52 p.m.: Do you see how it doesn't matter? How love is love; how it can never be lost or destroyed, only shared or changed to suit its patrons? The penance for my arrogant, wasteful youth has been this: a slow, sometimes deeply painful acceptance of what it really means to coexist.

11:55 p.m.: Home is not a place you find, but one you make. And perhaps it's a bit anticlimactic, but I think for the first time this week, I'd like to keep a bit of something I've made for myself without sharing. Even if it's something that might have caused a previous version of myself distress—like, say, the outcome of a story I couldn't have possibly begun to fathom from where I previously stood—some things are only mine.

11:58 p.m.: So, for your benefit and mine, suffice it to say this: I'm happy and in love.

11:59 p.m.: Whatever happens next, I'm choosing to let myself believe that the love I give will give back to me in time, and in the end, that's the only end worth telling.


a/n: FYI, the sequel to The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal will likely begin posting a week from today. Thanks as ever for reading!