The morning after hadn't gone exactly to plan. Dessert was farther away than it was for him to be married again.

Roman had studied guilty consciences. He'd gotten a fuckin' PhD in psychology at the age of forty, wrote an article with his—ew—best friend about mental health that they published in the International Journal of Mental Health Systems about how society sucked at helping people in crisis, and he had still consented to everything they had done the night before, even when he couldn't find it in himself to tell her the whole truth.

"Flo," Roman said. Quietly. "I need to tell you something."

Maybe that wasn't the greatest thing to say on day two of wrapping presents together while their girls were out with relatives. It was Troy and Dawn that time. Wanted to take them to the cinema to see... something. Roman was too busy trying to wipe the I had sex with your daughter and by the way we're divorced awkward smile off his face. Troy kept staring at him. Trying to coerce a confession like Roman had bodies buried in his backyard.

"I really don't want to talk about last night."

"Last night shouldn't have happened."

Florence looked at him. "Oh. Right. Um. I guess we were a little drunk."

"No, I mean—" Roman bit his lip. "That was good. Well. Great. Fantastic. Whatever."

"Okay."

"I'mInLoveWithYou." And his heart played Juliet; stabbed with the dagger for true love.

"Pardon?"

"I'm going to throw up." He might've just with his previous sentence.

"That's not what you said."

"Is now." Roman slapped a hand on his mouth, ignored how it shook. Got up from his seat on the floor, and ran to the bathroom. It wasn't from the wine. It was probably from the walk he'd taken that morning where he'd nearly vomited because of his sobbing. (Not in the cry after sex way like an incel, thank you.) (Like a he was so fucking in love it made him ill kind of way.)

"Roman?"

Florence was not following him, she was not following him. God fucking—

Roman puked the second his knees hit the ground. He wanted to ignore the hand rubbing his back. How he could feel the heat coming off Florence, who knelt right beside him.

(The first time Roman had slept in the same bed as her was the first time since he'd moved to the UK that he'd slept through the night.) (New Jersey was warm through September, England was cold as all shit year round.)

"Flo, please." His stomach twisted.

"What can I do?"

"Can you please leave?"

(Florence was warmth wrapped into a human being and Roman clung to her like she was the final ember of a dying campfire and he was on the highest peak of the Alps.) (There was no denying to him—all of eighteen years old—that they were made for each other, heat to melt the cold.)

"I can't—" Roman couldn't catch his breath even to say the words. He put a hand to his chest.

What a beautiful time to have a panic attack.

When he was getting married, Roman had a panic attack too. All fear of the unknown garbage that he should've known better than to give into. In the bathroom, too, after his father told him that he was proud of him and that he looked handsome.

Troy was the one who found him. Hyperventilating on the floor. Roman had called Troy dad for as long as he could remember. Once he'd gotten over the initial terror of meeting him, of course. But that was the first time Troy had called him son and it was actually real. Sure, he'd mentioned it in passing before. For a while, Roman thought Troy had forgotten his name. But hey, son, while he was crying on a bathroom floor before he got married? That meant the world.

"Hey, son," Troy had said, "how's it hanging?"

Roman had answered some sarcastic variation of phenomenal.

Troy had laughed. "You know, when Dawn and I got married, I forgot my vows."

"Is that supposed to help?"

Troy had groaned when he sat down on the floor with him. Laughed off being old. "May have to help me back up when we get you to the altar, son."

"Will do, dad."

"Anyway. Forgot my vows. Thought that nothing would be worse. And you know what?"

"What?"

"Everything was fine."

"Inspiring."

"Kid, everything in the world could feel like it goes wrong today. But the only thing you need to go right? It will. She will. Always." Troy had wrapped an arm around him and given him a side hug.

"I can't breathe."

Troy laughed. "Sounds about right."

"I can't breathe." Saying it that time was different.

"That's not a great way too get me to go away."

Roman shifted away from her. Far enough her hand hesitated to rub his back. Took a couple breaths on his own; too quick to be anything other than . "Please don't touch me."

"It's grounding."

It was only when Florence looked at him like she was going to cry that he realized he was. He quickly grabbed a square of toilet paper and wiped his cheeks. Wiped the corners of his mouth, too. Dropped it in the bowl. Ignored his quivering lip.

"I need you to—"

"I'm not leaving you when you're like this."

"Why is it so hard to leave me now, when you've already done it before?" Roman snapped. "Get out, Flo."

Florence swallowed hard. "What did you say in the living room?"

"God, Florence, you know what I said."

"I need you to say it again."

"Why?" Roman asked. "Fuckin'—fuckin' torture myself some more?"

"Did you say you loved me?"

"Course I fucking do, Flo. Jesus Christ." Roman slapped at tears on his cheeks with a shaking hand. "Why the hell else would I have agreed to attending this... bullshit?"

"How—" Florence sat back on her heels. "How long have you known?"

"I've loved you since the day I laid eyes on you. Just because it got easy for you to say different doesn't mean it changed for me." Roman felt his shoulders deflate a little. What it felt like to finally say the words to her and not his therapist.

"Rome—"

Roman shakily pushed himself off the ground. "I need to go. I—fuck—I'm sorry."

"Roman. Can we talk about this like adults?"

"Like adults?" Roman asked. "You don't just want to serve me some papers and call it a night?"

Florence grabbed his wrist and spun him around. "You signed them."

Roman pressed his palms to his temples. Let the hot tears fall because if he held them back any longer, he was bound to drown. His lip wobbled. "I did it for you."

"For me?" How dare she genuinely look confused. How dare she.

"Why the hell else would I sign those?" Roman asked. "I meant my vows."

"I did too."

"Clearly."

"Roman, please."

"Why—" Roman's voice broke. He pressed his lips together. Looked her in the eye. Fought the urge to regurgitate more of his dinner. He practically whimpered. "Why?"

"I don't think you know what it's like being married to you."

Roman's eyebrows knit together. "What's it like?"

"You're perfect. Always. You have to be perfect. It's like you can't exist if something isn't exactly the way you need it to be."

"That's not a reason to divorce someone."

"It is when you'll never live up to their god damn expectations of you, Roman." There it was. Florence was crying too. And he felt like he'd swallowed hot lava. "That perfection you expect from your life is something you projected on everyone. It's not healthy and it's not easy to maintain. I get scared if there's a dish out of place, or a towel isn't the same shade as another one."

"Why didn't you talk to me about it?" Roman asked. "You always quit things—"

"Sometimes you need to quit!"

"I never needed to quit you."

Florence's face fell.

"Never."

"I—"

"I need to go." If he didn't, he'd stay forever.

Florence nodded. "I'm sorry."

"You know, it almost felt real. Normal. Like how we were always supposed to be."

"Roman..."

"Do..." Roman swallowed hard. Made fists to try and get rid of the last of his shaking. "Do you still want me for brunch tomorrow?"

Florence sniffled. Wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't expect you—"

Roman held his hand up before she could say something he didn't need to hear. "Do you need me?"

Florence's lip trembled. She managed a nod.

Against his better judgement, Roman nodded. "I'll be there."

"Thanks—Thank you." Florence wiped under her eyes.

"I'll get my stuff... some other time, Flo."

Again, she nodded. Like the words were caught in her throat.

"And for the record?" Roman leaned in a little. Voice lower. "Nobody hates me more than myself. And even I know I deserved better than that."

Roman dialled a phone number without really thinking, and without breaking his stride walking out of Florence's townhouse. He couldn't even bear to look backwards for fear of false hope that she'd follow him like he would her. Hadn't even taken his car keys with him. And so, he walked. Luckily, he'd at least slid an old pair of Vans on.

"Yes?" On the first ring.

"Hey, um." Roman swallowed hard. Dug his free hand into a pocket. He should've grabbed a jacket on his way out. Dumbass. Footsteps fell heavy on the snow, crunching. "Are you and Mav busy? I—I know you said you had plans today."

There was soft scrambling slightly away from the phone. He was almost certain a hand had covered the speaker, only slight murmurs could be heard; like whispers of wind. "Where are you? I'll come get you."

"You don't have—"

"Are you okay?"

"I—" Roman sniffled. Wiped his eyes.

"I'm on my way."

*

Everleigh waited outside a coffee shop near Florence's. Leaned on the car, eyes scanning for him. Blue hair tucked into a beanie from MARS' Radio Galaxy tour. She nearly slipped and fell when she made a beeline toward him the moment she spotted him. Roman caught her arm before she did. In exchange, she held a proper winter jacket out to him. Probably Maverick's, and a little tight in the shoulders, but he pulled it on with no complaint. Instantly a little warmer, and he didn't even need Florence.

"What the hell happened?"

Roman wordlessly hugged Everleigh and held on like she was his final lifeline. Frankly, she might've been.

"Okay." Everleigh's arms were slower, but the fact they'd even made their way around his shoulders was more than he could usually say. It made him realize his shoulders were shaking from crying.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" Roman asked. Through more tears. "I know it's awkward, inconvenient—"

"I wasn't driving you home so you could be alone, Roman. Don't be stupid." Everleigh hugged him a little tighter. "Obviously you're staying with us."

"Thank you."

"Dewmaster's in the back if you need to stare at something less jaded than you."

"Ha ha."

"What can I do?"

Roman let go of her. Crossed his arms. "Shut up."

Everleigh opened the door for him, probably glad she'd attached Dewey's leash to the headrest in the back. A loud jingle came from the tags on his collar as he jolted toward the front seat. "I like your jams."

Roman looked down. A Christmas present he'd gotten from the girls the year before: his pyjama pants were patterned with dogs skiing and snowboarding. "Fuck."

"Kingston's wearing a sweater that says check out my balls with ornaments on it, so..." Everleigh shrugged. "If that makes you feel better."

"Why?"

"'Cause he's easy to laugh at—"

"I meant why do you own that—"

"Stevie sent it to me. A number of years ago."

"I should've expected that."

"Will you get in the car, please? I'm not your bloody doorman and you're not the fuckin' king."

"Hey, you're the one who turned down a damehood."

"I didn't turn it down."

"Telling them that you only wanted Harry to present it to you is turning it down."

Everleigh almost looked proud of herself. "I think it said exactly what I needed it to."

"The royal family probably has a bounty out on you. Dead or alive."

"It's so fucking cold outside, will you get in the car?"

"You literally live in Ontario—"

"Want me to leave you here?"

Roman got in the car. Scratched behind Dewey's ears while Everleigh walked to the other side and got in her seat. For someone who had likely seen her fair share of car accident victims in the ER, especially during winter, Everleigh drove a little faster than he thought she would've.

"Did you eat?"

Those were words he never thought he'd hear come out of Everleigh's mouth.

"I was going to..."

"Come on now," Everleigh said, barely taking her eyes off the road. "Don't make the recovering bulimic tell you you need to eat. That's tacky."

"Everleigh—" Roman's eyes widened.

"Relax. You're okay."

He knew Everleigh was a phenomenal nurse, because he almost believed it.

"Check the middle console," she said. "Kingston put peanut butter cups in there."

"Why?"

"If I tried to figure out why he does half the things he does, I'd end up in a psych ward instead of occasionally working in one."

Roman opened the centre console. And, indeed, there were peanut butter cups in there.

He opened the package, stuffed one in his mouth. "Your husband's a weirdo."

"Well, he'd be boring as all hell if he was normal." Everleigh smiled.

*

Roman could hear Purple Rain from the driveway. That didn't stop him from getting distracted by the snowman built on their front lawn, likely from the day before, with a hat from Maverick's Resurgence tour and a Windsor racing scarf that Roman had picked up at one of Brendon's races that Roman had attended with Stevie.

"Oh. Warning. He's taking a shower."

"It's, like, noon."

"I really hate to tell you this, but your phone call interrupted—"

Roman made a face. "Stop."

"Probably needed to finish."

"I'm going to sleep in St. James' Park in the snow and hope it gives me hypothermia."

"He's... probably done." Everleigh was already unlocking the door. "It's fine. Can't hear anything over the music anyway. There's a reason we had to soundproof the bathroom and it wasn't because of jerking off—"

"You couldn't hear that from outside?"

"He probably opened a window." Everleigh stepped out of the way of the open door and waved Roman inside, he tugged Dewey's leash to come with him.

"Why would he open a window in thirty degree weather?" Roman might've lived in London most of his life but that didn't mean he fucking understood Celsius, okay?

"There's a reason I have to sleep with a heated blanket until July."

"Cold-blooded."

"I would argue, as a medical professional, that medical professionals cannot explain how he regulates body temperature." Everleigh leaned down to take Dewey's leash off him as Roman kicked his shoes off. "Please, make yourself at home. Help yourself to something in the fridge. I'm going to let him know we're here so he doesn't murder us in cold blood."

"Ha."

"You think I'm kidding but he nearly took my damn head off with a lamp when I worked overtime at the lab and all I wanted to do was go to bed—" Everleigh pulled off her shoes and quickly started to go upstairs, dropping her jacket and beanie as she ascended. It didn't go unnoticed she was wearing her favourite there's some Ho's in this house shirt. "If I don't get there before the end of the guitar solo, we're goners."

"Then why are you still here?"

Everleigh wrinkled her nose at him. "I hope Dewey bites you while I'm up there."

"The old man has, like, no teeth, Leigh."

"How dare you."

"The guitar solo's almost over."

"Shit." Everleigh took the stairs two at a time.

Roman clicked his tongue and Dewey followed him into the living room. Everleigh and Maverick's house was quaint, but it worked for them. They didn't need something massive when they only visited London for holidays; most of it was pretty minimalist in design, but was still undeniably lived in. There were photos on the wall of them, their friends, their families. Roman was sure if he looked hard enough, they probably hadn't had the time to remove the photos of his and Florence's wedding from the wall. He didn't blame them for that.

In their Windsor home, Everleigh's four degrees and her Nobel certificate hung on a wall, framed beautifully. For one of her birthdays Maverick had her Syme Medal, Lasker Award, and every single one of her publications framed as well, they hung near the degrees. The bedroom on that floor had been converted into a record room for Maverick; equipped with a stunning vinyl player, floor to ceiling shelves that took up an entire wall and were filled to the brim with music, and the wall opposite had shelves that displayed Maverick's awards, in order of when he'd received them, which probably drove Everleigh up the wall. Pun unintended.

In short, even in the London home, every single room had little touches of Everleigh and Maverick and their life together.

A scream from upstairs broke Roman out of his trance as he avoided memory lane like the plague.

"Jesus, dude—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"I can't hear you and I don't have my glasses on, Everleigh—"

Evidently, the guitar solo had ended.

By the time Maverick and Everleigh had come downstairs, Roman had found a wedding photo. Maverick quickly took it off the wall.

"Sorry, man," he said, tucking it into a bin with what was noticeably a few other picture frames. "I thought I grabbed them all."

"Thanks for trying," Roman said. Dewey leaned into one of his ankles, made himself comfortable. "Do... do you have any of your wedding photos? I'd love to see them."

"Do we—" Maverick looked like he'd shit himself. It was funnier with ornaments hanging off his ugly Christmas sweater.

"He knows," Everleigh said. Making quick work of scooping Dewey up in her arms and walking over to the couch.

"Oh, thank God." Before anything else, Maverick dug into his pocket and pulled out the black ring he'd been wearing the day before. Slid it onto his ring finger. "Sorry. My wife didn't tell me."

"You got a new tattoo. I was distracted."

"I'll accept it on the grounds I wasn't actually upset, I just wanted to say my wife."

"Oh my God, what's that?" Everleigh leaned over on the couch, a hand on Dewey to keep him from falling.

"What?"

"Oh, it's just—" Everleigh reached over the couch, middle finger extended toward Maverick.

Maverick snorted, tilted his head. "Wedding photos are this way if you actually want to see them."

"I actually do."

"I need to warn you we didn't hire a photographer," Maverick said, leading Roman into another room. "We just gave Stevie and Bash a disposable camera and hoped for the best."

Maverick handed him a photo album that was matte black, didn't at all scream that inside were photos to a wedding they didn't admit to.

There was no denying Stevie was the best at anything she did. Photography was no exception.

There were a few photos of Everleigh and Maverick at what looked like a Melbourne city hall; both of them were definitely in sweatpants for the special occasion. But, for the most part, the photos were of Stevie and Brendon in various states of crying. One of the photos was Brendon's palm in the way of the lens, followed by too many photos of Stevie in the middle of what looked like a mental breakdown if one didn't know it was a wedding.

"There are barely any of you two," Roman said.

"Bash's side profile looks good, though."

"Yeah, it does."

"Stevie was also, like, seven months pregnant. She could've taken pictures of the ceiling and I wouldn't have argued with her."

Roman flipped the page. "You... Is that—"

"Beer pong? Yeah."

"Why did Brendon and Everleigh sign this page?"

"For when they become professional beer pongers."

"Pongers?"

"Pongers."

"Did they win by that much?"

"I don't remember."

"That's a yes."

"Maybe."

"What about—" Roman flipped the page. "Oh, Stevie signed this one."

"She ditched me after a couple rounds."

"I take it you're—"

"Shit at beer pong?"

"I was going to use the words not great."

"Stevie told me I play better drunk. And I wasn't drinking because she wasn't."

"Allyship at it's finest."

"Thank you. But..." Maverick turned the page.

Roman's eyebrows raised. "Oh, you tried to play catch-up—"

"Unfortunately."

The final page had two photos that were definitely not taken by anyone from the Kealoha-Ellis household. It was clearly a brown hotel room, taken from bed. The one on the top was Everleigh, nose wrinkled, but undeniably smiling. Her bangs were a little disheveled. A bag of flaming hot Cheetos was in her hand, which she was eating with a set of chopsticks. In the photo of Maverick on the bottom, he had his shirt off, a small tattoo of a crescent moon on his shoulder. A guitar was in his hands. An undeniable smile on his face. Those were better than any wedding photo Florence and Roman had paid too much for.

"I'm happy for you two."

"If you two don't stop wanking each other off in there, I'm going to watch Anna by myself."

Roman held the photo album out. Maverick took it and placed it back on the bookshelf it had been on.

"Sorry."

"Honestly, I barely even notice it any more," Roman said with a small laugh. "That's just how she is. You're the one who married her."

"And I'd do it again."

"Oy!"

Maverick and Roman looked at each other and laughed.

"We better go."

As Roman was about to leave, Maverick caught his arm. "If there's anything else we can do..."

"Thank you. I'm good."

"Well. Offer's there."

"You don't have to worry about me, Mav. It's okay."

"Worry about you all the time, man. Even before we knew about the..."

"Maverick."

He stopped. Gave Roman the floor.

"I'll figure it out."

Maverick gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Stay here as long as you need."

Heading back to the living room, Everleigh had covered their entire coffee table in various chips—sorry, crisps—dips, ice cream, toppings for said ice cream, and there was a spot for the fruit tray that was currently sat on Everleigh's lap. Dewey was playing with a stuffed goose that squeaked every four seconds.

"Grape, please," Maverick said.

Everleigh turned on the couch, tossing a grape across the room. Maverick caught it easily in his mouth, grinned.

"Thank you."

"I can see why she beat you at beer pong."

"World fuckin' champ," Everleigh said. "Professional beer ponger."

Maverick and Roman looked at each other. In the same awful British accents, said, "Ponger."

"Will you two sit the fuck down? Crikey. This jingle's pissing me off."

It took about ten minutes for Maverick to start singing along to the musical. Another ten for Everleigh to throw a grape at him that hit him in the cheek. It was about four minutes after that that the movie was turned off and Maverick, purely to be an annoyance, took out the karaoke machine.

"Oh, God, no." Everleigh rushed to the kitchen. "Roman, drink?"

"Please."

"Rum and eggnog?"

"Hold the eggnog."

"You're diabetic, you need to watch it."

"Kill me."

"Come on," Maverick said, already walking back to the room he'd dragged the machine out of. "It's fun."

"I don't sing."

"I know that's a lie, because I found these while I was hiding wedding photos."

Oh.

Oh, no.

Not the—

Maverick dropped the feather-rimmed bright red cowboy hat onto Roman's head without a second thought. He had a similar one that was white. They'd gotten them at a dollar store in Ontario one July they'd been there, on sale after Canada Day.

"Leigh?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I get at least three?"

"You got it."

*

"Oh I would do anything for love / But I won't do that / No, I won't do that!"

Roman had been opposed to the song. Until he downed his... whatever number rum and eggnog and decided that karaoke was free therapy. It was a number of hours before that he'd been against it, all he was excited about was the fact he was still upright at that point. They had eaten at some point, there were only crumbs of snacks left on the table and plates emptied of the pad Thai that Everleigh had made during Roman and Maverick's stunning rendition of Brutal.

It was unwritten that Maverick was going to sing Lorraine Crosby's part. Roman was drunk enough that he didn't even care how shit he sounded compared to him. Though, it was annoying how good he sounded as drunk as Roman was. Then again, a number of Roman's favourite singers performed while smashed, so why shouldn't Kingston Maverick in the comfort of his own home?

"Will you cater to every fantasy I've got? Will ya hose me down with holy water – If I get too hot? Will you take me to places I'll never know?"

"I can do that! I can do that!"

That, in particular, was the verse that made Everleigh look like she was contemplating taking the car keys and driving herself off a bridge. She'd already finished the fruit tray. And a few too many glasses of rum and eggnog. Nothing could balm the pain of listening to Roman and Maverick duet Meatloaf in cowboy hats that were actively littering feathers all over her living room.

"I'm..." Everleigh let out a small hiccup. "I'm going to go to bed!"

"It's 9:30—" Roman said, interrupting his song as he stared down at his phone. Had they really been singing and drinking for that long? He pocketed it when he noticed the missed calls from Florence.

"And we have brunch tomorrow."

"Oh, fuck—" Maverick said. Straight into his echoing microphone. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Everleigh scooped the dog up in her arms. "Good night. Don't stay up too late. Pa'll kill us. And don't be too loud or I'll kill you."

"Yes, mom," Roman said. (Mom, mom, mom.)

"Can I have a kiss good night?" (Night, night, night.)

Everleigh rolled her eyes. "Needy."

Nevertheless, she walked over and gave him a quick kiss. Stuck the dog in his face, who licked his cheek.

Maverick turned to grab his phone so he could pick the next song as Meatloaf was starting to slow down. Everleigh took the opportunity to stick her finger right up his ass. He yelped, lurched forward like he'd been shot, and promptly slapped his hand where she'd just removed her finger.

Maverick spun on his heel. "Do not." (Not, not, not—)

Everleigh snorted. "Night, babes."

"Good night."

"Night, Roman."

"Night."

All they managed to do once Everleigh walked away was turn up the music and sing their hearts out to the entirety of Midnights and Radio Galaxy while taking videos and, unfortunately, sending them to their friends who lived all over the world and were, definitely, woken up by their obnoxiousness.

Everleigh texted them many times in variations of shut the fuck up and Maverick laughed it off every time.

"She has a bottle of wine in the nightstand she thinks I don't know about," Maverick said. "She's not actually trying to sleep."

"Are you—"

Maverick turned his phone to Roman. Where Everleigh was, absolutely, trying to text pictures to Stevie but accidentally sending them to him instead. Don't tell Kingston but I am drunk. Love you miss you. Mele Kalikimaka <3 with a photo of her kissing a bottle of rosé.

Roman laughed and selected the next song.

He considered it progress that he didn't even cry to You're On Your Own, Kid. 

            And, if Everleigh asked, no, they did not almost knock the Christmas tree over during Mr. Brightside. The ornaments fell off themselves.