Blaze's POV
The clock on the wall has become my enemy.
Every tick feels like an accusation, a reminder that the romantic dinner Asher promised is slipping further into impossibility with each passing minute.
I've already changed into something nice, already made reservations at the Italian place he loves, already convinced myself that tonight would be different.
That was an hour ago.
When the front door finally bursts open, Asher practically falls through it, breathless and wild-eyed with guilt already pouring from him before he's even fully inside.
"I'm so sorry, I know I'm late, I completely lost track of time and I know that's not an excuse but there was this new guy at the rink and he was showing me something on my phone and I didn't realize how long we'd been talking and I'm sorry, I'm really, really—"
"Hey." I hold up a hand, stemming the flood of words. "Breathe. It's okay."
"It's not okay. I promised you tonight would be special, and I'm already screwing it up."
"You're here now." I keep my voice calm, measured, pushing down the disappointment gnawing at my chest.
This was supposed to be our first romantic evening back from our abbreviated honeymoon. The first chance to reclaim some of the intimacy we lost when hockey called him home early.
"Just tell me what happened. Why are you so late?"
Asher drops his gear bag by the door and crosses to me, taking my hands in his. His cheeks are flushed, his curls disheveled, and despite my frustration, I feel the familiar pull of attraction that never quite fades no matter how annoyed I am with him.
"There's a new social media manager for the team," he explains, still slightly out of breath. "Kieran. He introduced himself after practice, and we got to talking about my online presence since coming out."
"Okay. And that took over an hour?"
"He showed me my message requests on Instagram. Blaze, you wouldn't believe how many there are. Thousands of messages I've never even looked at."
Asher's eyes widen with something like wonder, an almost childlike amazement at his own popularity.
"There are so many people writing to me—gay men sharing their coming-out stories, telling me I inspired them, saying they think I'm..." He trails off, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "Well. Saying a lot of things."
"I can imagine." And I can. All too vividly.
"There were women too, heartbroken ones writing these dramatic letters about how devastated they are that I'm 'definitely unavailable' now. I had no idea anyone was paying that much attention to my personal life."
I study his face as he speaks, searching for any hint of awareness about what he's describing.
Any recognition that this Kieran, this confident, openly gay man who apparently spent over an hour alone with my husband, might have had ulterior motives beyond professional interest.
There's nothing. Asher seems genuinely oblivious to the possibility.
"This Kieran sounds... friendly," I say carefully. "Spending that much time showing you your fan mail."
"He's nice. Very comfortable with himself, you know? The kind of gay man who's clearly been out for years and doesn't have any of the baggage I'm still carrying around."
Asher squeezes my hands, his expression earnest. "He made some interesting observations about visibility and what it means to be a symbol for the community. I never really thought about it that way before."
I nod slowly, processing. Asher has just described a man who is attractive, confident, openly gay, and apparently very interested in getting close to my husband.
And my brilliant, oblivious husband noticed none of the warning signs because he spent years hiding and never learned to recognize when someone is flirting with him.
"Well," I manage, keeping my tone light, "I'm glad you're making friends at work. But we have reservations in forty minutes, so maybe shower quickly?"
"Right. Yes. Absolutely." He kisses me quickly before hurrying toward the bathroom. "I'll be fast, I promise. Tonight is about us."
I stand alone in the living room, listening to the water start running, and try to name the uncomfortable feeling coiling in my chest.
It's not jealousy, not exactly. Asher hasn't done anything wrong—he came home, he explained honestly, he's clearly still devoted to me. I have no reason to doubt his fidelity or his love.
But I've been thinking about this exact scenario for months. Ever since we went public, I've watched other openly gay men at events and gatherings. Seen the way their eyes linger on Asher, the way they find excuses to touch his arm or lean into his space.
The attention my husband receives now that he's visible has multiplied exponentially, and he remains almost comically unaware of it.
I've never voiced these observations. Saying them out loud would make me sound possessive, insecure—the jealous husband who doesn't trust his partner. And I do trust Asher, completely. He would never intentionally betray me.
But he might not recognize betrayal creeping up on him until it's too late.
Dinner, when we finally make it to the restaurant, is everything I hoped for on the surface. Asher is attentive and affectionate, his hand reaching for mine across the white tablecloth, his eyes warm with love every time they meet mine.
"Tell me about your day," he says, swirling wine in his glass. "I feel like I've been doing all the talking."
"Not much to tell. Unpacked the rest of our suitcases, did some laundry, looked at coaching certification programs online." I shrug, aware of how domestic and small my life sounds compared to his. "The exciting world of retirement."
"The coaching thing sounds promising. Did you find any good options?"
"A few. We can talk about it later—tonight's supposed to be romantic, remember?"
His smile softens. "It is romantic. I'm having dinner with my incredibly handsome husband, who I somehow convinced to marry me despite my many flaws. That's pretty romantic."
"Your many flaws?" I raise an eyebrow. "Care to list them?"
"Chronically late. Obsessed with hockey. Terrible at reading social cues."
He ticks them off on his fingers. "Also I apparently have thousands of admirers I never knew about, which feels like something I should have mentioned in our wedding vows. Full disclosure and all that."
"I think I can handle the competition."
"There is no competition." His hand tightens on mine, his gaze suddenly serious. "You know that, right? All those messages, all that attention—it doesn't mean anything. You're my husband. You're the only person I want."
"I know." And I do, I believe him completely.
So why can't I shake this unsettling feeling hovering at the edges of my consciousness?
It's not about what Asher has done. It's about what might be coming. The landscape of our relationship is shifting in ways I can sense but can't quite articulate.
My husband is becoming a symbol, a fantasy figure for thousands of strangers, and he'll be navigating that attention with the help of an attractive man who already knows how to make Asher feel special.
The food is excellent, the wine is perfect, Asher's loving attention never wavers.
But the knot in my stomach remains, refusing to dissolve no matter how many times I tell myself there's nothing to worry about.