It was only a matter of time until the press got wind of the fact that Ted and Henry are living with her, but Rebecca is still irritated when photos of Ted and Henry returning to the house from an errand end up in the Daily Mail.

All the tabloids run stories about it, of course, but what really has Rebecca’s blood boiling is the article from Trent Crimm in the Independent. He doesn’t speculate on the nature of their relationship and whether or not they’re sleeping together, that would be too crass for him. No, it’s worse than that.

The partnership between Ms. Welton and Mr. Lasso has always been a fascinating and complicated one. Rebecca Welton has never given a detailed explanation of the thought process that led her to hire an American to manage Richmond, let alone an American who had never coached football—or, if we must, ‘soccer’. At the time, it looked like lunacy; seven years later, Welton’s gamble has paid off in ways that would have been unimaginable at that first, disastrous press conference, and even more disastrous season. A league title, two FA Cups, semi-regular qualifications for the Champions League (which as Arsene Wenger has taught us, is basically a trophy in itself). Richmond is the underdog perennially punching above its weight, maximizing every part of the organization, from transfers to the academy to the medical department, until it reaches its full potential. By every standard, the Welton-Lasso partnership has been an unqualified success.

But now they’re linked together in ways beyond football. Ms. Welton famously flew herself and the entire Richmond squad to Kansas in the middle of the season to attend the funeral of Mr. Lasso’s mother three years ago, and was photographed at Lasso’s side at the gravesite. Mr. Lasso is frequently seen as Ms. Welton’s companion at various charity events. And, most recently, sources have confirmed that Ted Lasso was in Rebecca Welton’s office the day that he had his heart attack, that it was Ms. Welton who called for the ambulance, that she traveled with him to the hospital. One club employee said, “It was absolutely gutting. I was there when the paramedics took him out of the building, they were saying if she hadn’t been there, he would have died for sure.”

There’s more, of course, but it doesn’t matter. Rebecca hates that Trent Crimm still has sources in the club, she hates that he got a window into that awful day, she hates…well, she hates every word of that article, especially because everything in it is true.

“The press coverage has been less awful than I expected,” Keeley says over lunch, glancing up at Rebecca from over her glass of water.

“Mm,” Rebecca says. “Ted’s health means they can’t let themselves be as awful as they’d normally be.”

“Maybe,” Keeley says, non-committal. She nudges her salad with her fork and says, casually, “So…how long will Ted and Henry be staying with you, then?”

Rebecca watches her closely. “I haven’t put an end date on it,” she says slowly. “Ted’s still recovering, Henry’s just settled into his school. They’ll stay as long as they need to.”

“Must be quite a change,” Keeley says, still in that artificially light tone. “Living with your friend and his teenage son.”

Rebecca sits back in her seat and fixes Keeley with a look. “Keeley, what are you trying to get at?”

Keeley pressed her lips together, but Rebecca waits her out, and it takes only a few moments before Keeley breaks, bursting out, “Okay, it’s not that I don’t love what you’re doing for Ted and Henry, I do, it’s just that it’s so much and you keep acting like it’s nothing at all, no big deal—”

“Because it isn’t,” Rebecca says, trying to keep the edge from appearing in her voice. “I have the space, it made it easier for Henry to stay in the country—”

“But it’s still a lot,” Keeley says gently. “It’s a lot to be the primary caretaker for someone recovering from a major heart attack, even if you’re happy to do it, even if you can do it. Rebecca. Talk to me.”

Rebecca swallows, and doesn’t speak, not at first. It’s Keeley’s turn to use patience as a tactic, and it works just as well now that it’s been turned on Rebecca, how fucking awful. “Honestly—I couldn’t stand not having him stay with me,” she admits, her voice low. “He scared the shit out of me with this, Keeley, I have to keep an eye on him, otherwise I’ll go mad with worrying. Well, even more mad,” she corrects herself, with a little laugh. “And he’s so shit at taking care of himself, it’s unbelievable. The man would absolutely be drinking coffee in the morning still if Henry and I weren’t on him all the time about it.”

Keeley makes a sympathetic noise. “You wouldn’t think he would be,” she muses. “Ted always comes off as so…capable and competent, you know? With his neat jumpers and his polo shirts and the baking, I suppose I just always felt like he had it all together, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rebecca says. “Ted’s really good at making it seem like everything’s okay.”

Keeley opens her mouth, visibly checks herself, then says, “Well, I’m glad he’s letting you help him like this. Just…make sure you’re taking care of yourself too, okay?”

“Of course,” Rebecca says, smiling easily.

*

"What do you think about the monarchy?"

Rebecca coughs, accidentally catching the eye of a nearby Beefeater, who’s clearly holding back a smirk. She’s taken Henry out for the day on an excursion to the Tower of London while Ted goes in for another consultation with his doctors, soothing her lingering worry over Ted's health by splurging on a private tour for her and Henry. Henry's had a ball all morning, gawking at the royal jewels, listening solemnly to the guide’s lecture on the princes who disappeared in the tower, and now he’s looking over the tower ravens, where he's apparently been inspired to quiz Rebecca on what it's like to live in a constitutional monarchy.

Since he's still waiting for her answer, Rebecca offers it. "Honestly, I don't think about the monarchy very much at all."

"So you don't mind having them around?" Henry presses, and all right, that eavesdropping Beefeater is definitely smirking now.

Rebecca tilts her head back and forth, considering, "I suppose that's right." She smiles and adds, "Though I'm not going to say much more, given where we're at at the moment."

Henry grins mischievously and turns to the Beefeater who's been listening to their conversation all this time, asking, "Excuse me, sir, what football team do you support?"

The man actually blushes, practically matching the color of his red coat. "AFC Richmond," he admits, glancing at Rebecca. "Lovely to see you here, Ms. Welton."

"See, we're fine," Henry says cheerfully, and Rebecca does not drop her face into her hand, but it's a close-run thing.

She eventually manages to distract Henry from musing on when and if the British monarchy will fall, and as they go to look at the Tower Green, Henry sighs happily and says, "Y'all's history is so weird. It's great. Kansas state history is so boring, it's all Bleeding Kansas and nothing else."

"I'm sorry, Bleeding what?" Rebecca asks, and promptly gets a really rather coherent introduction to the American Civil War and historical figures such as John Brown, and when Henry finally pauses to take a breath, she says slowly, "I won't lie to you, Henry...nothing about that sounds dull to me."

"Huh," Henry says, considering. "Guess it's a matter of perspective."

His good mood propels them through the rest of the tour—Henry has his father's knack for charming strangers, something Rebecca watches with a great deal of amusement—and through to lunch at a nearby cafe, right up until Rebecca gets a quick text from Ted that reads, All good at the doctor's office! with an attached photo of Ted and a bemused Dr. Bhamra giving the camera a thumbs-up.

She shares this with Henry—not adding that she will be pumping both Ted and his doctors for more information later—and Henry looks pleased at first, but then seems to falter, frowning at his sandwich rather than eating it.

"Henry?" Rebecca prods gently, setting down her salad fork. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah," Henry says immediately, but undercuts it by adding, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Rebecca agrees, mentally preparing herself for yet another quiz on her feelings about the royal family, or why the UK is one country and four countries all at the same time.

But Henry's question has nothing to do with the system of British government at all. It's far more complicated than that. "Do you think my dad's doing okay?" Henry asks, his face a little shadowed.

Startled, Rebecca sits back a little in her chair. "Of course I do," she says slowly, wondering where this is coming from. "The doctors are all agreeing that your dad's recovering really well," she says gently. "The diet and the medication are working, his rehab is going well—"

Henry shakes his head. "I don't mean like that," he explains. "I mean...do you think he seems different to you? Quieter?"

Rebecca takes a moment, a thread of worry coiling through her stomach. The truth is that she has noticed that Ted's been...well, more somber lately. Not depressed, at least she doesn't think so, but yes, quieter, more mellow, less gregarious and excitable. She'd chalked it up to the lingering effects of the heart attack, to the fact that he's been forced to move at a slower pace now that he's on leave from the club, but—

"Perhaps a little," she hedges. "Are you worried about your dad?"

Henry gives her an impatient look. "I'm always worried about my dad," he says, then scowls down at his half-eaten sandwich. "I don't know. People can get depressed after having a heart attack, and I...I just wondered if that was what was happening with him."

Rebecca takes a moment before responding. "Maybe. Have you considered asking him how he's doing?"

Henry looks at her as if she's gone mad. "No, he'll just tell me he's fine and there's nothing to worry about. But everything I've read says that there is, especially when..." Henry's voice drops, and he mumbles, "Especially when you've got a family history of...stuff."

Oh, Christ. Squashing down her growing sense of panic and dismay—even if Rebecca doesn't feel remotely equipped to having this conversation, she’s here now, and the least she can do for Henry is answer his questions as honestly as she can. Even if everything British in her is howling in protest. "Is that what's got you worried, then? Thinking about your dad and your grandfather?"

The anxious, wide-eyed look that Henry gives her is absolutely heartbreaking, particularly because it's so familiar. He nods a little, even as he says quickly, "I know it's not the same thing. Dad's not, like, a Vietnam vet the way Grandpa was, and people can get help for stuff now. But."

He stops there, clearly at a loss for words. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Rebecca reaches out and carefully touches his arm, smiling at him gently when he looks back up at her. "It's okay, Henry. If you need to...to talk about this, or ask me questions, it's all right."

When Henry's shoulders slump in relief, Rebecca knows she's said the right thing. "Thanks," he mumbles. "It's hard asking my parents about this. They talked to me about it before, when that book was coming out—" Rebecca silently curses Trent Crimm for the millionth time, "—because they didn't want me to find out on my own, but..."

"But you didn't feel comfortable asking a lot of questions?" Rebecca prods gently.

Henry looks at her with a bleak expression, and says flatly, "If you'd seen the look on my dad's face that day, you wouldn't have asked any questions either." He scrubs at his face, fretful. "I tried asking my mom some more, when my dad wasn't around, but she didn't...she didn't know a lot, because it happened before she met Dad. So I asked Great-Uncle Bobby, and he said—" Henry's voice catches, but he continues bravely, "He said that nobody saw it coming. When my grandpa...did what he did. Nobody knew he was going to do that, they didn't know how bad...how bad he was. Nobody had any idea at all."

"And you..." Rebecca has to pause to take a breath, but pushes on. "And you're afraid that your dad will—"

"No!" Henry bursts out, looking horrified. "No, I—I know my dad wouldn't do that to me. I just...I worry that he's covering stuff up, sometimes. Smiling or whatever even when he's feeling sad, just so people don't worry about him."

Oh hell. It feels absurd to wish that Henry was a little less smarter, a little less observant, but God, she almost does wish that.

Rebecca has no idea what to tell Henry. Platitudes won't work, he's too clever for that. And she can't put him off with excuses, he deserves better than that. He trusts her enough to ask her about it, and so the only thing Rebecca can offer in return is the truth.

"Sometimes I worry the same thing," Rebecca admits, her heart speeding up as Henry looks at her with curiosity. "Your dad is...he’s so good at making people happy, and I worry that...that he's not taking the same care with making himself happy."

"So how do you handle it?" Henry asks. "Worrying about him, I mean."

Rebecca laughs a little. "Well, I handled it by insisting he move into my house so I could make sure he was taking care of himself," she says wryly, and Henry laughs. "But...I could also try talking to him about my concerns too." She pauses, then asks delicately, "Is that something you think you could do? Talk to your dad about worrying about him, and why you're worried?"

Henry sits with that for a moment, then slowly shakes his head, looking ashamed. "I can't," he admits in a small voice, looking up at her through his eyelashes. "He...I can't..."

Rebecca doesn't make him continue. "Do you want me to talk to him about it?"

Henry glances up at her, pauses, then nods slowly.

"Okay," Rebecca says, giving Henry her most reassuring smile. "Then I will." The overwhelming relief on Henry's face is wonderful to see, even as Rebecca is silently worrying over just how on earth she's going to broach this with Ted.

*

But broach it with Ted she does, that evening after dinner, and for her reward Rebecca gets to witness the sight of Ted Lasso burying his face in his hands, completely at a loss for words.

“Ted?” Rebecca says at last, sinking down next to him on the edge of the bed, letting her hand rest on his knee. “Ted, darling, please talk to me.”

Ted finally lifts his hands from his face to look at her, and his eyes are wet. "I knew he was worried about me," he admits, his voice low and raw. "I knew...but I thought it was just because of the heart attack, I didn't—"

"It is because of the heart attack," Rebecca tells him. "It's just that Henry’s a smart young man who knows how to look things up, and he knows that depression is a common response to surviving a heart attack. It's not..." she falters, not knowing how to say, your son isn't judging you, he's just scared.

"It's not that he's terrified I'm gonna end up like my dad?" Ted asks, staring down at his knees, his voice hitching.

"Ted," Rebecca says softly, reaching out for him, her hand resting on his knee as she leans into his side. "Henry just wants to know that you're okay." She breathes quietly, letting the warmth of Ted's body against hers sink in, and then asks the question she has to ask. "Are you okay?"

Ted is quiet for a long moment. "Dr. Bhamra wants me to see a therapist," he says quietly. "He's been, uh, pretty insistent about it, actually. Well, as insistent as any of you Brits ever get about anything."

Rebecca swallows. "That might be a good idea," she says. "Do you want to see a therapist?”

"Heck no," Ted responds immediately, and the emphatic response has Rebecca letting out an inappropriate little giggle, some of the tension breaking as he does. "I absolutely do not. But..."

He trails off, and Rebecca finishes it for him, pulling away just far enough to look at his face, which she can read so easily by now. "But just because you don't want to do something, that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it." She thinks that sentence over, adding, "I feel like there were too many negatives in that sentence."

"Nah, I followed you just fine," Ted assures her, smiling crookedly.

The fabric of his sweatpants is soft beneath her fingers, and Rebecca has an absurdly urgent desire to cup his face in her hand, feel the stubble of his cheek against her palm. She flexes her free hand into a fist, and smiles, even as she pats his knee and pulls her hand away. "There you go, then. If this is something you need to do, then you should.”

*

Unsurprisingly, once Ted makes up his mind to go to therapy, he makes it happen at lightning-quick speed, taking the referral from Dr. Bhamra and scheduling his first appointment for the end of the week.

"Why does Dr. Fieldstone's name sound familiar?" Rebecca asks one evening as they're making dinner together?"

"She's that sports psychologist Higgins brought in for the team, back when we were in the Championship," Ted says, ruthlessly chopping carrots for the shepherd's pie they'll be having tonight.

"Oh, yes," Rebecca says, remembering. "Isn't she fluent in like, seven languages? I remember I found her to be a terrifyingly competent woman. Which is good, I suppose, at least you'll be dealing with the best."

"Mm." Ted's focus is on the cutting board. "She remembered me when I called. Said she was glad for the chance for us to finally work together."

"That sounds...loaded," Rebecca says.

Ted huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, I thought so too. But they do say she's the best, and Dr. Bhamra'll have my hide if I try and worm out now, so." He gives Rebecca a sidelong glance, before asking, "Did you ever do it? Therapy, I mean."

"No," Rebecca said, checking her intital response, which would have been a forceful and immediate fuck no. "It always seemed like you were paying someone to tell you what was wrong with you, and if there's one thing I can say, it's that I know exactly what's wrong with me."

Of course Ted, because he is irrepressibly wonderful, looks up at that and says with sincerity, "There ain't nothing wrong with you, Rebecca."

There's standing closely together at the kitchen island, and Ted's warm brown eyes are looking directly into hers, that wayward lock of hair falling over his forehead as it always does. Rebecca smiles, and pushes away her instinctive response to having Ted this close, having him look right at her as he says yet another kind, casually wonderful thing.

God knows she's had enough practice at it by now.

Instead, Rebecca smiles and says lightly, "That's sweet, Ted. Astoundingly incorrect, but sweet all the same." Before he can protest further, Rebecca changes the subject, quickly saying next, "Now, since Henry's been shut up in his room doing homework, I think we can convince him that dinner tonight will be nothing but blood sausage and stargazy pie, what do you think?"

"Bold of you to assume a teenage boy wouldn't be thrilled to have a dinner that disgusting," Ted replies, grinning back at her. "You're on."

*

“Your tits look fantastic in that,” Keeley says with a reverential air.

Rebecca chuckles, even as she plucks at the neckline. “You’ve said that about every dress I’ve tried on.”

“Well, I guess your tits look fantastic no matter what you wear,” Keeley says, lounging on the ottoman in Rebecca’s admittedly giant walk-in closet. “I do like this one best, though.”

“Mm,” Rebecca says thoughtfully, stroking the skirt and feeling the gold sequins ripple beneat her palm. “You don’t think it’s too flashy? This is a charity event, and I’m not even running it. Perhaps the black Jenny Packham dress—”

“Oh, but it’s so plain,” Keeley whines. “What about the turquoise Christian Siriano instead?”

“Hmm, maybe,” Rebecca concedes.

There’s a muffled shout from the bedroom, and then Sassy’s poking her head into the closet, saying, “Stinky, has your bathroom been robbed? I was poking about, trying to figure out which wildly expensive skincare product has your face glowing like that, but the whole place seems to have been cleared out.”

“Ah.” Rebecca honestly should have seen this coming from the moment Sassy came into town for their girls’ weekend, but she hadn’t thought about it at all. Or rather, she hadn’t wanted to think about it, knowing full well that Sassy almost certainly had Opinions about Ted and Henry moving in with her, and that was without even knowing—

“That’s because I’m keeping all my toiletries elsewhere,” Rebecca says, in a futile attempt at staying vague.

“Why would you keep them elsewhere, it’s your bathroom,” Keeley wonders out loud.

Sassy, meanwhile, has already leapt onto the right track, as she asks slowly, “Stinky, is the reason your things aren’t in your room perhaps because you have moved into another bedroom in this gigantic house?

Rebecca hesitates for a second too long, and Keeley gasps, dramatically playing a hand to her chest. “Rebecca! Are you shagging Ted?”

“No!” Rebecca says, then has to correct herself. “I mean, we’re sleeping together, but not like that—we’re just sharing a bed. Platonically.”

Sassy’s jaw drops, and Keeley actually looks like she’s going to fall off the ottoman. In the mirror’s reflection, Rebecca can see them staring at her in disbelief, before turning to stare at each other, having an entire conversation in just one look, and for no reason, Rebecca can feel herself becoming…unsettled.

Suddenly needing more air and space, Rebecca hikes up her skirt and moves to the door, saying as she slips past Sassy, “It’s not a thing, I don’t need either one of you turning it into one—”

“Oh, it’s definitely a thing,” Keeley says, as she and Sassy follow her into the bedroom like two inquisitive ducklings, if one of the ducklings was wearing Moschino. “You’re sleeping with Ted, how is it not a thing?”

“It’s for health reasons!”

Sassy looks incredulous. “His health requires you cuddling up to him each night? Well, hell, give me the name of his GP, because I’d like a chance to cuddle with that bloke from Outlander on the regular—”

Rebecca hisses in frustration, dramatically flouncing onto the edge of her bed. “Florence—”

“Rebecca,” Sassy intones, in exactly the same commanding voice that Rebecca’s just tried to use on her. “Look, you can’t drop a bomb like that on us and act like we’re the weird ones for wanting clarification! Now, exactly why are you and Ted the Marlboro Man sharing a bed if you’re not actually shagging?”

Put like that, Rebecca has no other option but to explain about Ted’s fears the first night out of hospital, and the habit they’ve developed ever since.

Both Sassy and Keeley do soften, but when Rebecca winds it up with, “So you see, it’s all perfectly reasonable,” Sassy’s eyebrows fly right back up her forehead.

Keeley leans back on her heels and lets out a long and doubtful, “Well…”

“Oh Lord, now what?” Rebecca grumbles.

Sassy fixes Rebecca with a steady look. “What’s going on with you and Ted? I don’t just mean with the bed-sharing—although we are absolutely coming back to that—I mean as a collective whole. What’s happening there?”

For absolutely no reason, Rebecca’s face goes hot. “Nothing,” she insists, but the way her voice is wavering admittedly makes it sound less than believable.

Sassy’s steady gaze doesn’t flicker by even a millimeter, and this right here is the danger of having a trained psychologist for a friend, because when it counts, Sassy’s got the tenacity of a bulldog and the poker face of a seasoned gambler. “Let’s just recount what’s been happening the last month and a half. In the wake of Ted’s health crisis, you move not only him into your home to stay with you, you also move his twelve year-old son clear across the Atlantic to also live with you, indefinitely. You go to practically all of Ted’s doctor appointments and you sit in on his physical therapy sessions—”

“Not all of them,” Rebecca mutters, even as she feels herself going hot all over, realizing what this actually looks like, and not just to the fuckers at the Daily Mail who have never seen a slimy innuendo they wouldn’t publish. “And Ted has his PT here in the house, I’d have to work to avoid them, it’s just easier to hang around.”

Sassy and Keeley don’t reply to this, they just keep staring at her.

Rebecca realizes that she’s twisting the ring on her index finger round and round, an obvious tell. “It’s not that big a deal,” she tries next. “Ted needed the help, and he needed to have his son with him. I have the space and the time—”

“And you’re in love with him,” Keeley says, then puts a hand over her mouth as Sassy and Rebecca both stare at her. “Sorry!” she says, voice muffled by her fingers. “I know we were supposed to be guiding her into figuring it out herself, but I couldn’t help it!”

Rebecca’s heart actually feels like it’s seizing in her chest for one horrible moment, but she barely manages to laugh it off, scoffing, “Oh God, when did you come to that insane conclusion?”

Keeley, affronted, plants her hands on her hips and retorts, “When you moved him into your house, also you go all cow-eyed every time you look at Ted.”

Her entire face turning red now, all Rebecca can do is insist stubbornly, “I do not!”

“If this turns into an endless round of ‘do not, do too’, I will run screaming for the hills,” Sassy warns them both.

Setting her teeth, Rebecca gathers together the tattered remains of her patience and dignity and says, her voice sharp. “Look. I’m telling you it doesn’t matter, all right? It doesn’t matter that the Daily Mail can’t stop implying that Ted and I have been secretly shagging for seven years, it doesn’t matter that the paparazzi have started staking out my front door again, or that I had to get an American custody lawyer on retainer just in case—”

“Sorry, you did what?” Keeley interjects, but Rebecca barrels on over her.

“It doesn’t matter how it looks or what I’m feeling about him, what matters is that Ted is here where he can be safe and be properly looked after!” Rebecca winds up, defiant.

Sassy pauses, then asks delicately, “So…what are you feeling about him?”

Rebecca stares at her two best friends in the world, and despite herself—

—despite everything she’s pushed down and ignored for weeks and months—

—the words bubble up to the surface anyway.

“Well, of course I’m in love with him,” Rebecca finds herself saying, impatient and matter of fact and like an utter lunatic, “But it doesn’t matter—what am I going to do, find a moment between his physical therapy and doctor’s appointments to say, ‘By the way, I’m in love with you, now how’s your blood pressure looking today?’”

The words finally out of her mouth, Rebecca finally comes to a halt, breathless and bristling still—and then she looks at Sassy and Keeley’s shellshocked faces, and the magnitude of what she’s just said, what she’s just admitted, finally sinks in. “Oh fuck,” Rebecca says, and buries her face in her hands so she doesn’t have to look at anyone, or see them looking at her.

There is a beat of perfect silence, in which Rebecca can hear nothing but the sound of the central air running, and the sound of her own too-quick breathing.

“Babes,” Keeley says, slow and tentative, the mattress sinking down as she carefully sits next to Rebecca, “Babes, are you…are you okay?”

“Obviously not,” Rebecca says, the sound muffled by her hands, which she’s refusing to lift away from her face. “Have you not heard what I’ve been saying for the last five minutes? I’ve gone mad.”

“Only a little mad,” Sassy says comfortingly as she sits down on Rebecca’s other side, rubbing Rebecca’s bare shoulders. “Speaking as a professional, perfectly sane people are dull as ditchwater. And if there’s anything you’re not, Stinky, it’s dull.”

Rebecca breathes in and out, leaning against Keeley’s side and letting the warmth of Sassy’s hand sink into her skin, before she finally pulls her hands away from her face, half-laughing as she asks, “How the hell did I even get here.”

“It’s Ted,” Keeley says, as though that explains everything, and really—it does.

They’re quiet for a moment longer, then Sassy says, though not with any real heat to it, “I cannot believe you thought we wouldn’t notice. You moved the man’s son clear across the Atlantic to make him happy.”

“In my defense,” Rebecca says, still somehow unable to stop herself, “Henry moved himself across the Atlantic, I just moved him into my house.”

Keeley bursts out laughing at this, a hand clapped over her mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, giggling. “It’s just—how is this your life?”

Despite herself, Rebecca finds herself chuckling too. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

And because Keeley is a very good friend, within twenty minutes Rebecca is out of the gold sequin dress and sitting on her couch with an excellent French 75 cocktail in her hand as she recounts for a patient Sassy and Keeley all the times that Ted’s unwittingly driven her mad with a combination of longing and lust.

It’s a long list.

“God, you have got it bad, babes,” Keeley says, after Rebecca’s just finished describing what it’s like to watch Ted bake for her in the kitchen, and how at one point when he’d rolled up his sleeves, she was overcome with the urge to bite his forearm.

“I do,” Rebecca admits. “I love everything about the man. Even the stuff I hate, like his insistence on listening to Phil Collins as he gets ready in the morning—even that I love, because it’s him doing it! It’s appalling.”

“You could tell him, you know,” Sassy says, deliberately casual, but Rebecca shakes her head. The thought of looking Ted in the face and opening her mouth to say—absolutely not. A pit opens up in her stomach at just the thought of it.

Sassy must read this on her face, as her expression firms a little and she points out next, “You told us and the world didn’t end.”

Rebecca snorts, knocking back the rest of her drink. “I didn’t tell you anything, you came here and dragged it out of me.” She pauses, and then admits, only a little grudging, “And thank you.”

Keeley brightens at this, and immediately burrows in for a hug. “You can talk to us, you know,” she murmurs into Rebecca’s jumper, her Gucci perfume wafting into the air. “I’ve been worrying over you for ages, but I didn’t know whether to push—”

“So she called me and I decided that we absolutely had to push,” Sassy finishes, still sipping at her drink. “And yet again I was proven to be one hundred percent right.” She raises an eyebrow at Rebecca, who can hear the rest of what Sassy’s not saying, which is and I’m right when I say that you should tell Ted.

But Rebecca has had more than enough emotional disclosures for one evening—or even one lifetime—and so she hauls herself up to her feet and says, “Right, I’m in need of another drink, who’s with me?”

And because Keeley and Sassy are better friends than she deserves, they don’t press her further on telling Ted, and when Ted comes home later with Henry, they all smile brightly and tipsily at the Lasso men without giving any sort of hint to anything at all.

Rebecca holds her tongue, even as Ted, being the sweetheart he is, immediately whips together a quick meal to, as he says, “soak up all the booze y’all have been drinking, good God, how many empty bottles of champagne and booze do we have here?” But in the back of her mind, as she’s watching him move in her kitchen the way she’s watched him a thousand times by now, Rebecca thinks, in a constant refrain, of course I love him, of course, of course.

It doesn’t change anything. Ted needs her help, and Rebecca needs to help him; she’s not jeopardizing anything, especially not now. And yet—of course. Of course she loves him.

*

Given how little Rebecca wanted to go to this charity event to start with, she’s actually having a fairly decent time.

Alistair’s presence at her side is a major help; he’d promptly volunteered to escort her given that her usual escort, Ted, would be at home in his sweatpants, helping Henry with his homework and working his way through Anna Karenina, of all things. (Ted was the only person Rebecca knew who read that novel and was enjoying all the bits about farming.) Rebecca had promptly taken Alistair up on his offer, thinking that his usual brashness would help to ward off the other guests Rebecca didn’t want to speak to (Bex, Rupert, the toxic combination of Bex and Rupert) and Alistair was an amusing companion on the night, bitching loudly about the themed cocktails and Christian Paisley-Wolfe’s new hairpiece. Alistair actually asked the man, to his face, what animal he’d killed and skinned to get their fur on his head, and Rebecca had immediately fallen into a massive coughing fit.

“That was so inappropriate,” she’d hissed at him once she’d dragged him away, and Alistair had just given her an impish grin.

“But it was satisfying though, wasn’t it?”

Between wrangling Alistair and saying hello to the people here that she did like, Rebecca was actually quite content—even if there was a part of her that wanted to be back home on the couch, wearing sweatpants instead of shapewear, listening to Ted’s musings about classic Russian literature and pretending like she remembers enough maths to help Henry with his homework.

But then they arrive at their assigned table, and everything goes to shit.

Rebecca had had someone make a discreet request—well, a discreet demand—and she’d been assured that Rupert and Bex would not be at her table, but as she approaches the table on Alistair’s arm, who else is there at the table but Rupert, tanned and urbane in his black tux, with Bex at his side in a slinky black sequin gown. It might be Rebecca’s imagination, but Bex doesn’t look quite as serenely pleased with herself as she usually does.

“Rebecca, darling,” Rupert says, his smug smile only growing wider, and Rebecca sighs internally. He looks especially “refreshed” tonight, likely having made a trip to that Brazilian plastic surgeon that keeps Tom Cruise looking eternally thirty-five.

“Hello, Rupert, Bex,” she replies coolly.

Alistair is scowling at them both, and under the guise of pulling out her chair for her, he murmurs into her ear, “Is the fucker supposed to be at our table tonight?”

Rebecca keeps her face as serene as possible, even when murmuring, “Not at all.”

“Right,” Alistair mutters darkly, but unfortunately he doesn’t keep his voice as low as Rebecca has, so Rupert says, genially, “What’s that, Alistair?”

“Nothing, Rupert, just confirming you’re up to your usual bullshit,” Alistair says as he sits down. He’s staring right into Rupert’s face as he says it, and Rebecca can see the exact moment when Rupert decides not to press further.

It’s a momentary show of restraint, and Rebecca knows from bitter experience it won’t last.

The dread of it has her stomach churning in that familiar way, even as she smiles and greets Dakshesh and his wife Priya. And of course her instincts are proven right when Rupert says idly, champagne glass in hand, “Bad luck in that match against Spurs this weekend.”

Rebecca breathes through her nose and says crisply, “Yes, it was unfortunate, but the team will bounce back.”

“Bounce back from a 5-1 drubbing?” Rupert prods, with a put-on air of bemusement.

“Well, it’s important to have the memories of goldfish, as Ted always says,” Bex offers up, in a surprising attempt to deflect Rupert’s barbs. Rebecca has no idea what she means by it, and it puts her back up even more, because the last thing she wants when dealing with these two is more surprises.

Dakshesh raises his glass, because if there’s anything that everyone at this table (with the exception of Rupert) can agree on, it’s an unwavering faith in the wisdom of Ted Lasso. “Hear, hear.”

“Yes, but dear old Ted’s not in charge these days, is he?” Rupert ponders. “No, it’s Roy’s who’s managing the team at the moment.”

Alistair is eyeing Rupert with disdain. “Yes, Roy Kent’s the caretaker manager. Any other basic facts you’d like to recite, or can we get on with enjoying our dinner?”

Rupert shrugs expansively, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gives away that Alistair’s open contempt is getting to him. “Well, I’m just wondering with the team currently stuck in the bottom half of the league table, whether or not it’s time to consider that poor Roy might be in over his head.”

“We’re in eleventh place, hardly anywhere near the relegation zone,” Rebecca says, hating that she’s responding to Rupert’s barbs but unable to keep silent. “And I have every faith in Roy.”

Rupert’s smile only grows wider, showing teeth. “Well, you’d know all about relegation, wouldn’t you, Rebecca? First owner in the history of Richmond to have the team relegated on his—sorry, her watch.”

“She’s also the first Richmond owner to win the league title on her watch,” Alistair says heatedly, sitting up in his seat.

“No, it’s all right,” Rebecca murmurs, putting a hand on his arm.

“Just an observation, Alistair,” Rupert says, putting on an air of innocence as he sprawls in his seat. Next to him, Bex is doing her best impression of a mannequin, face blank and still. This is the Bex Rebecca knows well; the pretty girl who somehow doesn’t see Rupert’s awful behavior—or perhaps just doesn’t care.

(Rebecca hadn’t ever managed that particular blankness when she’d been forced to sit next to Rupert at his worst behavior when they were still married, something in her face or her body language always would give her away in the end. Which would only make things worse with Rupert later on, of course.)

Alistair snorts. “An observation, he says. Well, I observed that Richmond won fuck and all when you were in charge, so why you think your opinion holds any real value is beyond me.”

An ugly expression flickers across Rupert’s face, and Alistair must see it as well as Rebecca can, because she can feel him tensing next to her—

But then Dakshesh says hastily, “Rebecca, how is Ted doing, by the way?”

“Yes, how is Ted?” Rupert asks, a sudden gleam appearing in his eye.

Fucking hell. Rebecca knows, she just knows what’s coming. Rupert reads the Daily Mail, he knows that Ted’s living with her, and he’s going to say something awful about it, that’s as guaranteed as Pep Guardiola lamenting the grueling fixture schedule every year. And judging from the wary looks everyone at the table is giving Rupert, they all know what’s coming as well.

But knowing where the trap is doesn’t mean you can avoid stepping into it. “He’s doing well,” Rebecca says, keeping the smile on her face. “The doctors are all very encouraged by his recovery.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Priya says, with real warmth to her voice, but she’s cut off by Rupert drawling, “I’m sure all that…hands-on nursing from Rebecca’s doing the trick."

Even though she knew it was coming, Rebecca’s cheeks still go hot. Priya looks visibly exasperated, Dakshesh is staring at his plate, and Bex is frozen in her seat.

Rebecca opens her mouth, but then Alistair says in a low growl, “The fuck did you just say to her?”

The room doesn’t actually go quiet, but it feels like it should. God. “Alistair,” Rebecca begins, but it’s no good, Alistair’s got the bit between his teeth now and can’t be deterred.

“I know the fucker who cheated on his wife with dozens of women before finally getting caught with his cock out by every newspaper in the country wouldn’t dare speak about this woman’s relationships, romantic or otherwise,” Alistair thunders, leaning in over the table to emphasize his point. “Particularly when he’s already humiliated himself twice over by losing his club in the divorce and then marrying a girl young enough to be his granddaughter!”

A faint noise escapes Rebecca’s throat, and she can feel the weight of people’s gazes turning to their table, the sudden quiet that comes when the people around you want to better hear whatever argument’s happening.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Rupert begins, a flush rising to his cheeks, but Alistair barrels right over him.

“Who’s implying anything?” Alistair asks with a snort. “I’m just stating facts here. You like facts, don’t you, Rupe? Well, here’s some more for you. Everyone knows. They know why you married an infant with the same name as your ex-wife, why you bought her shares in the club you can’t own anymore, why you show up year after year at events like these—hell, we all know why you’re sitting at this very table tonight. It’s the pathetic lashing out from a man desperate to get any response from the woman who was always too good for him, and who’s made Richmond the success that he never could.” Alistair gives Rupert a mean smile, leaning in as he delivers the final blow. “And you’re counting on the rest of us being too polite to say anything about it. Except if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s polite.”

There is a beat of perfect silence. And then Priya, of all people, lifts up her chin and her glass, and echoes her husband’s toast from just a few minutes before. “Hear, hear.”

“Excuse me?” Rupert snaps at her, while Alistair openly chuckles, delighted with the chaos he’s wrought.

“Darling,” Dakshesh murmurs in his wife’s ear, but she just lifts an eyebrow and says, unrepentant, “What? Alistair is right, it’s perfectly obvious what Rupert’s been doing.” She looks Rebecca’s ex-husband over and her lip curls in disdain—and Rebecca remembers two important facts: one, that Priya is the same age as her, and two, that she and Dakshesh have been married for almost thirty years. “And he’s right—it is pathetic.”

Dakshesh opens his mouth, pauses, and then nods his head as if to concede that his wife—and by extension, Alistair—are right.

Holy fuck.

Rupert’s smile gains that particularly fixed quality it gets when he knows he’s lost the upper hand, and desperately needs to leave before it becomes obvious to everyone else. “Well, since my presence here is so unwanted, I think we’ll head someplace more welcoming. Bex, darling.”

Bex is still sitting stiffly in her chair, not responding immediately to the summons from Rupert. For one moment, Rebecca actually finds herself wondering if Bex will actually have the nerve to stay seated and follow Rupert’s lead. But, after a long pause, she does get up and take Rupert’s arm, giving them all a tight smile as she murmurs, “Excuse us.”

“Shan’t,” Alistair says crisply, irrepressible as ever.

Rebecca is almost certain she sees both Bex and Rupert twitch at that, and she definitely sees Rupert glaring at Alistair for a moment—but Alistair is meeting Rupert’s gaze calmly, and it’s already clear which of them is going to back down first, and everyone knows it.

So as Rupert and Bex retreat as gracefully as possible, Rebecca finds herself thankful she’s already sitting down, because she’s not sure her legs would support her if she were standing up. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she murmurs blankly to Alistair, who is now tucking into his beef medallions as if he hasn’t just upended the entire evening.

“Don’t look at me like that, it was long-overdue,” Alistair huffs. “What was I going to tell Ted when he asked me how the night went? That I let that fucker have a go at you all evening without doing anything about it? Please.”

“I do feel bad for Bex,” Dakshesh murmurs, and Priya gives him an unimpressed look. “I do! Every year, Rupert comes in and makes a public spectacle…”

Priya huffs at this. “I don’t feel sorry for her. The girl knew exactly what she was in for, marrying that man. I would feel sorrier for her if she didn’t seem like such an eager participant in all of Rupert’s…” Her lip curls as she waves a hand around, obviously at a loss to describe it.

“Bullshit?” Alistair offers, and Priya laughs.

“Yes, Alistair, thank you.” She turns to Rebecca with a sympathetic look. “I’ve always wanted to say—I don’t know how you keep your composure while still having to deal with them.”

“Well, Ted’s usually around at these events,” Rebecca says. It all feels surreal still—Rupert’s humiliation, watching people—not her people, not Higgins and Keeley and Ted and Roy—but casual acquaintances, the kind of people her father would have laughingly called “our sort”, actually acknowledging to her face, publicly, what Rupert was like. What he did. “He’s good at…deflecting Rupert’s attentions. Or making me just care less about them.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, Rebecca wants to drag them back, thinking she’s revealed too much. But no one seems surprised at what she’s admitted, instead everyone is nodding in agreement, and Dakshesh says, his sudden amusement making him look remarkably boyish, “That darts game at the Crown and Anchor has become the stuff of legend.”

More out of surprise than anything else, Rebecca bursts into laughter. “Yes, exactly. And—” she pauses, realizing the words are true even as she says them out loud, “And I think, after all this time…the real victory comes from not being the woman who has to go home with Rupert tonight.”

She meets Priya’s gaze as she says it, and Priya smiles softly at her, with an understanding Rebecca would have never expected before tonight.

“Now that,” she says, lifting her glass, “—is truly worth toasting to.”

And, still feeling like this moment is a dream, too good to be real, Rebecca lifts her glass of champagne and delicately clinks it against Priya’s.

Of course, the evening doesn’t end there. It can’t. Rebecca still has to sit through the dinner and the auction, and more to the point, she has to sit through the gazes and the murmurings of everyone around them, everyone who either bore witness to what happened or who’s heard about it breathlessly from someone who did.

It should feel satisfying—it does feel satisfying—but it’s also going to be a headache for the club’s publicists to handle come morning. There are journalists here, for fuck’s sake, and the Sun and the Daily Mail will absolutely have articles up before the night’s done.

The evening gains a surreal edge before long—the radical candor at her dinner table contrasted with the rest of the event—as Rebecca starts to circulate around the room, it’s clear that everyone there is determined not to talk to her face about what they all saw, even as they’re gossiping with each other about it all as soon as Rebecca’s back is turned.

And they are gossiping—by the time the auction has gotten underway, Rebecca’s already received multiple texts from Sassy, who’s already heard from a mutual acquaintance about what’s happened, and she puts it: if Alistair’s on the hunt for wife number four, you let him know I am more than willing.

You’d either kill each other or take over the world in a week, and either possibility is terrifying, Rebecca texts back.

But Sassy’s not here tonight, she’s back home in Brighton, and Keeley’s at that conference in Prague, and whatever truth-telling that’s happened here, Alistair’s the one with the monopoly on it, and Rebecca’s just moving through the awkward aftermath.

After being caught in a truly ghastly conversation with Gemma Wexley-Wyndam about safaris and why fox hunting is somehow good for the environment, Rebecca escapes to the nearest restroom, desperate for some quiet without the constant weight of everyone’s eyes on her.

So of course it ends up being the exact same restroom that Bex Mannion has also sought sanctuary in.

“Fuck,” Rebecca says without thinking as she catches Bex’s eye in the mirror.

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Bex says, her tone darker than Rebecca’s ever heard it before. As Rebecca moves past the first reaction of surprised dismay, she notices the flush to Bex’s cheeks that no Charlotte Tilbury palette would have created, and how glassy her eyes look.

Ah. Fuck.

Steeling herself, Rebecca clears her throat. There’s nothing more she wants to do than to flee and avoid this, but knowing what Ted and Keeley would both do in this situation, she elects (and not for the first time) to behave as the person she knows they would want her to be. “Are you all right?”

Bex chuckles. “As if you care. You think I’m nothing but an ‘eager participant’ in Rupert’s schemes, isn’t that right?” At Rebecca’s startled expression, Bex smirks bitterly as she turns around to look Rebecca dead in the eye, lifting up her phone. “Plenty of people heard you, and they are all very eager to report on what was said.”

“Then you should know I’m not the one who said it,” Rebecca says coolly.

“But you think it’s true?” Bex presses, looking at her with an oddly sharp expression.

“I think that you don’t give a shit about what Rupert tries to do to me,” Rebecca replies. “And no, I don’t mean that in a positive sense.”

Bex is quiet for a moment, then she lifts her chin. “Were you ever successful in talking him out of something he wanted to do?”

Rebecca blinks. After a beat, she concedes, “No, I wasn’t.”

“There you go then,” Bex says, with an irritable shift of her shoulders as she turns back to the mirror. “As if my entire life revolves around making you miserable. As if I actually wanted tonight to turn into—” She cuts herself off, and the fleeting expression of deep unhappiness is a jolt to Rebecca’s system.

Rebecca has no idea why she even asks the question; she knows the answer, and yet she still asks, “It was Rupert’s idea to crash the table tonight, wasn’t it?”

Bex snorts. “Of course it was. I tried to talk him out of it, I told him how bad it would look, that it wouldn’t impress any of the other owners, but after the press found out about Ted staying at your place, he wouldn’t listen.” An alarmed look appears on her face, and Bex whirls around to say, “And I had nothing to do with tipping off the photographers either, I don’t want you telling Ted that—”

“I never thought you did,” Rebecca replies, startled. “He and Henry have been staying at my house for ages now, it was only a matter of time before the press twigged onto it.” Bex’s shoulders slump in obvious relief, and Rebecca’s astonishment only grows. “Do you…actually care what Ted thinks of you?”

Bex gets a very defensive look on her face. “As if you wouldn’t care what the nicest man in the world thinks of you!”

“Fair enough,” Rebecca concedes, because really, it’s not as if she has any room to talk, she has gone to truly absurd lengths to keep from ever being on the receiving end of a disappointed look from Ted Lasso. “Look…tonight will blow over. Nothing ever sticks to Rupert for long, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Bex mumbles, looking away, arms folded protectively across her stomach. “And he’ll be a nightmare to deal with until it does, anyway.”

Almost without meaning to, Rebecca asks a question she’s been turning over in her head for years now, ever since Bex started taking an active interest in the club. “Why did you marry him?” As Bex looks at her with wide eyes, Rebecca elaborates, “It’s just…a girl like you, you had—you have options. I know Rupert’s Rupert, but even so…”

To her surprise, Bex doesn’t seem to take offense, but grows pensive. “I thought…I thought he was a good bargain,” she admits at last, her voice quiet. “He was still handsome for his age, charming, wealthy—and I didn’t have the drive to keep trying to make it as an influencer, that shit is exhausting. It looks so easy, but you’re having to constantly mine your entire existence for content and I just…I was so tired of hustling for a career I didn’t even like. And I had so much debt from my student loans, my parents weren’t in a position to help, and I just…I wanted an easier life.” Instead of looking relieved at admitting that, Bex looks…well, she looks lost.

Rebecca’s not sure she likes feeling sympathetic towards Bex. And yet… “What about now?” Rebecca asks, trying to keep her voice gentle. “Is it still a good bargain?”

“I have my daughter,” Bex replies. “And the club, it…” Her mouth firms and she lifts up her chin again, saying, “I know you think I’m an obnoxious bitch who loves to challenge your every decision. But it’s not about that, the club’s the only place where…”

“It’s the one place where you have control,” Rebecca says.

Bex looks startled for a moment, before nodding emphatically. “Yeah. Everything else always has to come second to Rupert, everything else is connected to Rupert, but…not Richmond, weirdly enough.”

No, Rupert has nothing to do with Richmond anymore.

“This still doesn’t mean you’re getting your way with the stadium naming rights,” Rebecca says after a moment, wanting to move back to steadier ground.

Bex actually laughs. “Didn’t think it would.” She gives Rebecca a sly look, and says, “You’ve never admitted that I’m right before, so I don’t see why you’d start now.”

Rebecca finds that her answering chuckle doesn’t have to be forced at all. “Keep thinking that if it makes you happy.” She turns back towards the door, because there’s no reason to keep this encounter going any longer—even if it’s been far less painful than she would have expected. “Have a good evening, Bex.”

“You too,” Bex says, her voice sounding thoughtful, as Rebecca exits.

*

Of course Ted’s waiting for her when she gets home. He’s lying on the couch in his Kansas Sporting City sweatshirt and loose sweatpants, his feet bare and his copy of Anna Karenina in his lap, with his reading glasses perched on his nose.

There were actual male models in exquisitely tailored Tom Ford suits at tonight’s party, and he’s still somehow the best thing Rebecca’s seen all night.

Ted gives her a soft, fond smile. “Hey there, stranger.”

Rebecca sighs heavily and tosses her clutch in the direction of the nearest armchair. “Make some room, I need to collapse before my feet mutiny for good.”

Ted, obliging soul that he is, immediately does just that, and Rebecca collapses into the opposite corner of the couch. She’s absolutely dying to get out of her dress and Spanx and these cursed heels, but she’s also too fucking tired to move.

Ted’s watching her with a knowing glance. “How bad are your feet feeling, scale of 1 to 10?”

Rebecca grumbles. “Seven. No, eight. It would have been less, except I stayed even later than I planned to just to make it clear to everyone that I was perfectly unbothered by what happened tonight. God, keeping appearances up is exhausting.”

“Oh, did something happen tonight?” Ted asks innocently. Too innocently.

Rebecca rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t try and tell me that you didn’t get half a million texts from half the guests there giving you the exact breakdown of everything that happened with Alistair and Rupert tonight.”

Ted shrugs a little. “They did, but it didn’t matter. Journalist from the Mirror was live-tweeting the whole thing.”

“I’m making Alistair send our whole PR team gift baskets,” Rebecca grumbles, reaching down to pick at the tiny little buckle holding the straps of her heels together, and making an unhappy noise when it refuses to give way.

“Oh here, let me,” Ted says, and he’s bending over to work the straps free with his nimble fingers, the touch of his hands on the delicate bones of her ankles making Rebecca go very still. She’s never thought of her feet as being particularly sensitive, but having Ted kneeling down to…and his hands are so warm…

She makes a tiny noise in the back of her throat, and Ted looks up, hair falling over his eyes as he gazes up at her. “Feet still hurting?”

“Um. Yes.” Rebecca shivers as Ted’s thumb absently rubs against the jutting bones of her ankle.

“Well, let’s fix that, then,” Ted says cheerfully, and despite her belated protests (not that she protests very hard) within just a few moments, Ted’s got her feet in his lap, working out the aches with his strong hands, and Rebecca is melting into the couch.

Sighing with pleasure, Rebecca finds herself murmuring, “I should’ve stayed home tonight. I would have had such a better time with you.”

Ted tilts his head. “It didn’t feel satisfying, watching Rupert get what was coming to him?”

Rebecca opens her mouth to protest, then reconsiders. “Honestly, I think I was too shocked to really take it in. I just…I don’t know, you weren’t there, so I was preparing to tolerate Rupert’s nonsense as best I could. I had no idea Alistair would take your apparent mandate to look after me quite so literally.” Ted opens his mouth, and Rebecca lifts her finger. “Ah, ah, don’t try and tell me that you didn’t ask Alistair to try and protect me from Rupert.”

“Might’ve had a word with him,” Ted admits. He bobs his head from side to side as he concedes next, “Although when I said, ‘keep an eye out for Rupert and don’t let him get to Rebecca’, I was not expecting ol’ Alistair to go on and practically shiv the man right there at the table.”

“You really should have, he’s done far worse in public,” Rebecca says. “Have you heard the story with him and his second wife, and the guacamole that was allegedly laced with poison?”

“I have, the man’s lived a life more exciting than Erica Kane on All My Children,” Ted says. “But enough on that, I wanna hear how you’re holding up.”

The answer is surprisingly well, though a lot of it has to do with being on this couch, with Ted solicitously rubbing at her aching feet until Rebecca could just melt into the couch cushions.

She feels so cozy, in fact, that in this moment Rebecca can hardly bring herself to care about Rupert, and says as much. “It’s an odd feeling, though, feeling sympathy for Bex,” Rebecca eventually admits. “The entire time at that table, I just kept looking at her and thinking, thank God that isn’t me anymore.”

Ted smiled a little, his hand still curled around her ankle. “Weird, isn’t it, when the people we can’t stand reveal themselves to be human?”

Rebecca huffed. “Next you’ll tell me I’m going to start feeling pity for Rupert.”

“Hell no, I certainly will not,” Ted says, with such emphasis that Rebecca giggles in reply. “Still though. It’s funny how that works.”

Rebecca considers him, and asks, “Speaking from recent experience, are we?”

Ted pauses, then tilts his head to the side. “Yeah, you could say that. Got a call from Nate, couple days ago.”

Rebecca blinks. Then she blinks some more. “Well.” After a moment to collect her thoughts, she says, “I hope it included a groveling apology on his part.”

Ted crooks an eyebrow at her. “Is there an apology he could make that would be groveling enough for you?”

“Probably not,” Rebecca admits. Even if it has been years, and Richmond has gone on to win nearly every trophy they can win in British football under her and Ted’s stewardship—and even if Rebecca has evolved enough to feel sympathy for Bex Mannion, she still knows her limits, and forgiving someone who hurt Ted is definitely past them. (Not to mention being unable to get past her own chagrin at having misjudged Nate Shelley so badly.)

Still. Ted doesn’t have that horribly bruised look to him that he would get whenever the subject of Nate came up, so Rebecca cautiously asks, “So…how did it go then?”

Ted dimples. “Proud of you for getting that out without immediately threatening to rain destruction down on Nate’s head if it went badly. That’s real growth, Becca.”

“Oh, hush,” Rebecca says in exasperation, poking at him with her big toe. “I am capable of restraint when I want to be. It’s just that most times I don’t want to bother.”

Once Ted’s finished chuckling at that, he says, “It went…it went okay. Better than I thought it would. Just complicated, you know?”

Rebecca does know, and Ted does seem to be at peace, but she still has to check. “So no destruction needed then?”

Ted grins. “The city can stay standing, King Kong.”

“Please. If I was going to become a city-destroying monster, I’d obviously be Godzilla.”

They keep talking from there, the conversation meandering along from Rebecca’s night to the usual rhythm of their lives. Ted is growing to appreciate tofu (but only when it’s prepared correctly) and Rebecca’s addicted to the latest Agatha Christie adaptation from the BBC. Henry’s got an upcoming parent-teacher conference, and Rebecca already has her schedule cleared, they just need to work out the timing so that Michelle can call in from the States.

And in the middle of this lovely, perfectly ordinary chat, there is a moment where Rebecca looks at the healthy color to Ted’s cheeks and the relaxed line of his shoulders, and she’s filled with both relief and a premature sense of loss, already anticipating the day when Ted will no longer need her, and he and Henry will leave…

But that day’s not here, not yet. So Rebecca sits back in her finery and soaks up all of it, Ted’s presence, his warm hands on her bare feet, storing it up for the day when she won’t have him anymore.

Dimly, she hears footsteps coming down the stairs, and then the footsteps pause—and then Henry’s coming into the living room, exasperated, knuckling the sleep from his eyes as he says, “Dad, you know you’re supposed to be getting rest, you can’t stay up all night and read—oh. Hi, Rebecca.”

“Hi, Henry,” Rebecca says, smiling. She’s seen Henry lecture his father dozens of times and yet it’s still amusing, mostly because it’s so effective.

“Don’t worry, bud, I’ll be up to bed soon, I just wanted to hear from Rebecca how the event went,” Ted promises. “Don’t tell me you came down just to check on me—“

“No, I wanted some water and saw that the lights were on,” Henry says, but in a distracted way—he’s looking at where Ted still has Rebecca’s feet resting in his lap, Rebecca realizes.

Flushing, Rebecca is torn between immediately pulling away—this is Ted’s son, what must he be thinking—versus staying absolutely still so that she can’t call further attention to it.

She ends up choosing inaction, holding herself very still as Ted cheerfully promises his son that he will not be pulling an all-nighter just to read a hundred year-old novel, whose plotline and ending have been widely known for just as long.

“All right,” Henry says at last, though he still has a thoughtful look on his face as he watches them, as though he’s working something out. “Night, Dad, Rebecca.”

As he trudges off and hopefully out of earshot, Rebecca whispers, “Was that weird?”

“Weird how?” Ted asks, bending down to pick her heels up off the floor. From that angle, she can’t quite see his face.

“Henry walking in and—no, never mind,” Rebecca says quickly, because if Ted hasn’t noticed anything odd about their situation, damned if Rebecca’s going to point it out for him now. “We should probably call it a night before Henry has to come back down here and confiscate your book.”

Ted laughs as he gets to his feet, Rebecca’s heels dangling from one hand. “Well, we can’t have that, I still need to see how Levin and Kitty’s marriage turns out.”

He holds out his free hand to Rebecca, a silent offer and (like every time with this man) Rebecca smiles at him and takes it, rising to her feet and following where he goes.