I look down the hallway, half-expecting Croix to be there to bust us again, but it isn't him. Instead of a teammate’s scowl, I’m met with a sudden rush of artificial light and the mechanical buzz of a professional lens.
“Hey lovebirds!” She chirps.
Chelsea Raymond, the lead producer fromSightUnseen,is at the door, looking all of five months pregnant.
“Surprise!” she sings, a camera crew spilling out behind her like a coordinated strike team. “We heard the Captain had a bit of a tumble at the park and the internet is losing its mind over the piggyback footage. We simplyhadto do a pop-up visit.”
Luca groans, leaning his head back against the sofa. “Chelsea, now isn't a great time.”
“It’s the best time, darling! Reality TV isn’t always red carpets and meetups. Sometimes it’s back rubs and domestic bliss,” she says, signaling the cameraman to frame us in. She turns to me, her eyes sharp. “Aspen, you’ve been a ghost to find on the web. The fans are dying for more of you and all we can find online about you is an old Black Planet account. Do you have any idea how much buzz your episode is getting? Why don’t you have a current social media account, girl?”
I stiffen, crossing my arms over my chest. “Because I have a job that requires privacy and a soul that requires peace. You will never find me posting my life for strangers. Not now, not ever.”
Chelsea pouts, but she’s savvy enough to pivot instantly. “Ugh! I hate that! But...what if Luca posts? Itwouldactually be pretty cute to have the husband sharing glimpses of his wife, don’t you think?”
I look at Luca. He’s watching me, braced for the rejection, while I’m silently waiting for him to jump in and save me. But it appears I’m the only one in the room who isn't wearing a mask of wedded bliss.
I let out a defeated sigh. “If it keeps the vultures away from my mobile clinic, fine. Luca can post whatever he wants for the duration of the show. Just...keep my patients out of the background.”
“Yay!” Chelsea squeals, as she signals the cameras to roll.
“Sweetie,” Luca calls out, his voice dropping into that smooth, domestic rumble. “Remember that ice pack you were going to get for me?”
“Right! Of course.”
I turn to Chelsea, hesitant. “I was going to go change into something more comfortable and then get him an ice pack. Do you want to cut the cameras while I prep everything?”
She just laughs, waving me off. “Pretend I’m not even here. I’ll jump in when I see something I like or have a question.”
I drop the act of the defiant wife and slip into the role I know best—The good wife. Between my mother and my upbringing in the church, I was taught everything there is to know about being one. I just never had a reason to put it into practice.
Because I was also raised to never give “husband benefits” to a man who hadn't earned the title, and I’ve watched plenty of men walk away because I refused to use those skills as an audition for their harem. But with Luca, it’s different. This “wife thing” feels surprisingly natural. Especially with how he watches me.
I move with a quiet, efficient grace that has nothing to do with the red light on the camera. After prepping the ice pack, I head back into the living room and get to work.
I guide Luca’s leg onto a stack of pillows, adjusting the height until the swelling is properly elevated. I retrieve his meds, checking the dosage twice before handing them over with a glass of water.
From the corner of my eye, I see Chelsea lean in to whisper to him. “Is she always like this? This attentive?”
Luca nods, his gaze heavy on me, but I don’t look up. “She is,” he says softly.
But this moment feels different. Even to me. Something about the way the day unfolded—the way Croix looked at us as if the world were finally righting itself—has forced my heart to stop and see this situation for what it truly is. While I am always this thorough with my patients, the care I’m giving my husband in this moment is stripped of professional distance. It feels like the closing of one chapter with the quiet, certain beginning of something entirely new.
I test the temperature of the ice pack against my own skin before nestling it over the wrap, tucked precisely where I know the pain is hardest on him. It isn’t just nursing. I’m taking careof my man. It’s the quiet intimacy of the way I tuck a stray hair behind my ear while asking if the pressure is okay. It’s the way my hand remains anchored to his shin a second longer than necessary, held there by a sentiment I’m finally tired of fighting.
Chelsea watches from behind the monitor, her usual bubbly persona softening into something like genuine intrigue. “That,” she whispers, mostly to herself. “That is exactly what the audience wants to see.”
My eyes snap to her, pulled abruptly from the moment. “What?”
“The way you look at him,” she beams, gesturing vaguely at the air between us. “And the way he looks like he wants to eat you alive. It’s magnetic.”
Neither of us denies the observation. Instead, we pivot, sitting beside one another and answering her remaining questions with the speed of two people rushing toward a finish line.
“And married life?” Chelsea asks, oblivious to the sudden shift in the room. “Is it what you both expected? During your interview in Vegas, you both mentioned this was your first marriage. Any surprises so far?”
Luca’s lips quirk into a smile. “I had to grow on her, certainly. But I think my wife likes me more than she lets on.”
I shake my head and laugh. “And he doesn’t snore as loudly as he let on,” I lie. Because the man sounds like a diesel engine when he sleeps.
