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Chapter Text

The newness of her post-divorce flat did nothing to help warm the vast emptiness of the master bedroom. It was past midnight, meaning Rebecca Mannion was officially Rebecca Welton once again. She’d been using the name in the nearly 10 months the divorce proceedings had taken, but now it was official.

She sat at the foot of the massive king sleigh bed, the room still an unpainted stark white, with a single night table as the only other bedroom furniture in a flat that was just as sparsely furnished. Surrounded by financial statements, property deeds, and documents all related to her newest possession, and her new weapon in inflicting pain, Association Football Club Richmond, she had won.

She was officially divorced, all legal ties fully severed with her callous ex-husband and she was officially majority owner of the Premier League club.

She took a long sip of cheap wine, because the expensive stuff wasn’t worthy of the heartbreak Rupert Mannion had caused, though the exhaustion from years of emotional turmoil and months of brutal divorce proceedings was a crushing weight. Her ex-husband may have lost the assets, but it still felt as though he had won the war in her head, constant whispered criticisms she was fighting tooth and nail to vanquish with the cheap booze.

“You think you’ve won?” she muttered to the figure of him in her mind as she swirled the wine in her glass. “You think you’ll be able to just watch me fumble it? No, you love that club more than you ever loved me and I’m going to destroy it.”

She tossed a document detailing player contracts to the floor, her plan was simple and ruthless and entirely driven by spite. She was going to bleed the club dry through strategic mismanagement, starting with sacking the misogynist gaffer (even though he kept the team at a mediocre mid-table position every season), and replacing him with a bumbling fool barely capable of completing the task just to ensure the club crumbled into dust.

She took another large gulp and as the red wine burned away the last shreds of her better judgment, her mind supplied her with all the justification she needed. “It’s what he deserves,” she muttered, finally crawling to the head of the bed, intent to let the alcohol lull her to sleep.

The documents blurred, officially too much alcohol, she mused. The coldness, of the wooden headboard as she leaned back into it, seeped into her bones, matching the chill in her heart. She closed her eyes, the bitter triumph and utter despair finally pulling her under.

Chapter Text

She felt herself surfacing toward consciousness and was already pre-emptively dreading the inevitable headache and the nausea that the cheap wine binge was sure to bring.

Yet instead of the pounding skull, her first sensation was a complete and baffling absence of tension in her shoulders. The bitter cold of the flat had been replaced by a deep warmth because she was heavy and nestled into a firm mattress on her right side, and the weight of her body felt anchored rather than restrictive.

The covers barely reached her waist. Though, she could tell she was wearing a top it had been pushed up under her chin to bare her breasts to the open air, definitely not normal, but also not completely unheard of after a night of drinking. But the second sensation was the one that made her believe she was actually still asleep, and having a bizarre dream at that, because it was the delicate, warm pressure of a small round object bumping against her breastbone. It was a soft fuzz she could only compare to downy hairs brushing against her bare chest and when all else failed she placed it as exactly what it was: a tiny, busy head, led by a tiny bow mouth, rooting against her.

Her eyes remained closed, but what followed was her mind registering a series of biological marvels: a tiny, seeking mouth, guided by pure instinct, nudging against her skin until finally finding its target. As warmth surrounded her right nipple, she felt the deep, satisfying gulping rhythm, and the soft snuffling of utter contentment that vibrated through her ribs.

She was nursing a baby, and her body was doing it flawlessly, without any input from her conscious mind.

Rebecca’s eyes snapped open in sheer, silent terror.

She looked down, finding what she could only determine to be a newborn, and he appeared to have achieved a perfect vacuum-like seal around not only her nipple but also the majority of her areola, his face pressed tightly against her skin, she could feel the breaths she was hearing and his primitive efficiency was measured by the cycle of suck-swallow-breathe.

He was small, smaller than she ever remembers Nora being. Fuzzy dark hair covered a perfectly smooth, round head, and she noticed a dusting of even finer down coating the tops of his shell-pink ears. He, she assumed based on what she observed, wore a tiny, blue-footed sleepsuit, and he was working with primitive efficiency. He was on his back, but he clearly hadn’t been in the world long, because his limbs were still curled up tightly. His legs pulled in tight toward his belly, but splayed wide, reminding her of a frog. The fabric of his tiny, blue, footed sleepsuit was bunched around his thighs, and his hands were balled into fists against his chest, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible in this vast, open world.

Rebecca’s hand, without conscious thought from her, instinctively shifted to cup the back of his neck to ensure he wouldn’t be able to disturb his own feast. She felt a sudden, startling internal shift followed by a rush of warmth spreading through her breast all the way down through her ribs. Somehow, she knew this was a surge of milk rising to meet the needs of this ravenous being. It was a sensation so biological, so profound, it made her gasp.

My body knows this. My body is doing this right now.she thought as her mind screamed in the white-hot panic of not recognizing her own flesh.

She tried to slowly take stock of this new body but she was completely overtaken with love and warmth as if this body knew it needed to be calm to be fully capable of finishing its current task even while her consciousness was still shackled to her life of drunken despair and vengeful planning.

As his sucking and gulping began to slow, she found her fingers smoothing over a tiny, perfect ear. She traced the delicate cartilage before drifting down to graze a cheek that was impossibly round and full. She watched, mesmerized, as the soft skin puffed in and out against her fingertip with a steady, hypnotic rhythm. As her hand moved, the morning light caught the glint of a simple diamond band on her ring finger. It was a piece of jewelry she had no memory of buying, yet it sat comfortably on her hand as if it had belonged there for years.

Her touch continued ghosting over long dark eyelashes that fanned out against his skin, lashes that seemed far too long for such a new creature, before dancing their way toward the corner of his mouth. Carefully, with a motion she wasn’t at all familiar with but somehow knew by heart, she inserted the tip of her index finger just inside the velvet seal until she heard a quiet pop. The vacuum released and his mouth instantly fell open. She needed to switch sides.

The simple action of lifting his deceptively heavy, soft weight triggered a fresh wave of shock. A deep, burning ache ignited low in her pelvis, like cold, stretched ligaments recoiling from the exertion. When she engaged her core to prop herself upright, her abdominal muscles felt alien and loose, as though they were only recently stitched together and protesting the very idea of effort. She carefully rotated her body, securing him against her chest for the transition to the left breast, moving with a necessary slowness that spoke of overly stretched muscles and the profound, recent work of giving birth.

When she was fully upright and had somehow managed to situate this mewling babe to finish his meal from her left breast, she paused to question her own sanity. She knew, logically, that she should have recoiled, she should have pushed the baby away and demanded answers. But the moment he latched, the tight, stinging pressure in her left breast began to fade which brought a relief she couldn't ignore. It was a purely pragmatic, she reasoned. Stopping now would result in a screaming newborn and a physical discomfort she didn't know how to manage, but continuing meant silence. It gave her time to assess her surroundings without interruption.

And observe, she did. This room was nothing like the stark, cold box she had fallen asleep in. This room was a sanctuary of soft textures and muted expensive colours with walls painted a calming, deep sage green that seemed to hug the space. Heavy, oatmeal-coloured linen curtains were drawn back to reveal the soft misty grey light of a typical London morning and a plush thick-pile rug cushioned the floor, and across the room, atop a beautiful mahogany dresser, sat a clutter of framed photographs: her and a mustachioed man laughing on a beach, a boy holding a trophy, a toddler covered in paint.

It smelled of lavender, rain, and an utter lack of fear.

Before she could take in more, the bedroom door clicked open and the man from the photograph stepped in carrying two steaming mugs and a smile that seemed to light up the whole room. He was handsome, probably in his mid-forties, if the dusting of grey at his temples was any indication, with warm laugh lines etched around his eyes and a thick dark mustache. He was dressed for comfort in a faded Kansas City BBQ t-shirt and soft flannel joggers. His dark hair was still mussed and limp from the pillow, featuring one errant curl that seemed to have escaped to rest against his forehead.

He was careful with his movements clearly expecting to find either one or both occupants of the bed still asleep. His expression was soft, devoted, when his warm brown eyes met hers.

“Good morning, Mama,” he murmured, setting the mugs down on the thick, custom-made oak bedside table, placing gentle kisses against her temple and the baby’s downy soft hair before kneeling beside the bed. “Liam insisted breakfast be served in bed today. Said he was too tired to walk to the kitchen. Some people’s kids, I tell you what?”

He gave a quiet huff and even though he was speaking softly, she easily picked out his American accent as he asked, “How are you feeling?”

His voice was low, easy, and infused with an unconditional kindness. Something she’d never experienced with Rupert. His large hand, silver wedding band gleaming in the low light of morning, settled just above her knee to squeeze gently. Her mind was braced for the familiar absence of affection, but was met instead with a steady thumb brushing back and forth, warm and reassuring.

It was nearly her undoing, she realized. Her touch-starved self could barely process how steady and simple the contact felt.

“Sore,” she answered honestly and because she was struggling to know what to say, quietly added, “He’s a very…voracious eater,”

He chuckled, a hearty, genuine sound. “That’s my boy. Like my grandpa used to say, ‘If you’re gonna be a bear, be a grizzly!’ Liam is definitely going full grizzly on that early milk supply. Bella was the same way in those first few weeks, get that fierce appetite from their Mama.”

He dropped a kiss against her duvet-covered thigh, a slow, tender gesture, before hefting himself onto the edge of the mattress, careful not to land on her lower leg. The sheer abundance of affection was overwhelming to her mind, but this body soaked it up like a necessity.

"Here," he murmured, reaching over to the nightstand, bypassing his own mug, for the moment, to lift hers to guide it gently toward her free hand while being careful to keep it away from Liam’s still mostly scrunched up body, adding "Liquid courage or just Earl Grey, whichever you need more of right now."

Rebecca took the mug, the ceramic warming her cold fingers instantly and brought it to her lips to take a tentative sip that was perfect because it was hot and strong with just a splash of milk and wasn't the bitter lukewarm tea she used to make for herself in the silence of her empty kitchen but rather tasted like comfort.

"Thank you," she whispered as she lowered the mug but held it close to her chest to let the steam warm her face.

Her husband smiled while picking up his own drink, a very milky coffee, by the looks of it, to take a long grateful pull before saying "Don't mention it, service with a smile."

He had just set his own mug back down when a quiet knock sounded. The door eased open to reveal a gangly, earnest boy of maybe ten or eleven who leaned against the doorframe with a book tucked under his arm.

“Morning, Mum,” he said, his voice quite soft. Even though he used the proper British pronunciation, he also carried a noticeably American accent as he asked, “I was going to make some toast, so is it okay if I use the peanut butter, or is that for Bella?”

“Go for it, bud,” the man replied instantly. “The whole jar is fair game. I already started on the pancake batter, but wanted to get ‘Becca her tea while it was hot.”

This man was happily making pancakes and speaking in a silly American accent. This domesticity was so foreign it felt dizzying, and yet, even when she shut her eyes and breathed deep, it was still here when she opened them again.

Rebecca watched the boy nod, the book still clutched under his arm, before he quietly slipped out, and since the name ‘Bella’ had already been mentioned she tried to carry the conversation by asking, "Where is Bella?" and because the question slipped out before she could second-guess it.

She needed to try to find something to anchor herself to something she could identify in this bizarre, new reality.

The man smiled, a soft, indulgent expression. "She’s still asleep. I guess the big debut of the ‘big girl bed’ actually worked. I was betting she’d be crawling in here by midnight, but she didn't make a peep."

He shook his head with no small amount of mirth. "I’ll wake her in a minute. She’s been asking about her baby brother since she got home from her Gran’s yesterday, but I told her you two were already down for the count. You’d think she’d been gone a whole month, not just an evening."

He leaned over and gave Rebecca another kiss, this time lingering slightly on her forehead, but just then, a small, insistent voice called from the hallway with a high-pitched and slightly slurred declaration of "Mama! Bella up!" that seemed to echo down the hallway.

A tiny figure wearing a pink flannel sleepsuit wobbled into the doorway while rubbing sleep from her eyes. She was carrying a well-loved and slightly threadbare stuffed elephant by one ear. With her dark hair in a mess of tangles, she stopped dead when her eyes landed on the man sitting on the bed.

"Daddy!” she exclaimed as she was apparently shocked to find him here and asked “You made pancakes?" with a voice that shifted to a desperate plea.

The man beamed. "Hen’s guarding the batter, short stack! Go give your Mama a gentle cuddle and then we’ll hit the kitchen to cook ‘em up, alright?"

Bella dropped the elephant and launched herself toward the bed. She made a beeline for her father with arms raised to be lifted. The man plopped her directly next to Rebecca’s hip with the ease of someone who’s spent plenty of time hoisting around small children, "Bells, we have to be gentle with Mama and brother, remember?" he warned gently.

She nodded but moved heedless of the nursing baby, managing to wedge herself in next to Rebecca with surprising dexterity. The man’s hand shot out with practiced reflexes to rescue the mug of tea just before her flailing foot could send it flying. He placed it safely back on the nightstand just as the small, warm weight settled against Rebecca like the final piece of this strange, perfect puzzle.

"You 'kay, Mama?" Bella murmured while completely absorbed in pulling at an errant loose thread on Rebecca’s pajama top, adding "My new beds is sooooo big, but yours an' Daddy's is giant."

She hummed gently as she felt her body fill up with a love she had only ever imagined, realizing now that she could never have known how truly all-consuming the reality of it would be.

“I bet, sweets,” she said. She found herself using the hand that was now free to wrap around the squirming toddler to bring her even closer so she could place a gentle kiss against her sleep-tousled hair. She breathed her in and could smell the sweaty sleepiness that all children seem to wake with. It was something she’d noticed often when Nora was of a similar age.

“Did brudder sleeps alllll night?” Her innocent question was punctuated with a poke at his fleece-covered toes which caused the babe to scrunch up more into his mother.

The man chuckled as if to say “if only.”

He glanced at Rebecca as if to commiserate, but she didn’t have memories to rely on, not even of the previous night, so she simply met his gaze with a small smile before glancing down as the baby dropped from her breast, on his own this time.

“Uh oh, looks like breakfast is done for Mr. Liam.”

He held his hands out toward her in a silent request to relieve her of the weight. She shifted slightly to release her hold so that his hands could slide under the baby’s neck and bum to lift him up.

As the warm, heavy bundle left her arms, the loose fabric of her top dropped naturally back down to cover her chest. The movement allowed her to realize with a start that she was also wearing a faded Kansas City t-shirt. Judging by the size, it must have belonged to the man in front of her at some point.

He shifted the baby upright against his own chest to give his back smoothing rubs. His hands dwarfed the infant, and seeing that capability, she felt her insides give a squeeze of interest she wasn’t sure was even possible for a woman who had so recently given birth.

As the rhythmic pat-pat-pat of the man’s hand against Liam’s back filled the quiet room Rebecca let her head fall back against the pillows. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm that contradicted the peaceful domesticity around her.

Okay, she thought, her mind racing to categorize the data like it was one of the scouting reports she’d been scowling over the night before. The baby is Liam. The little girl attached to my side is Bella. And the boy…the man had called him Hen…more than likely that was a nickname for Henry.

She needed to confirm the boy’s name. If this was a hallucination, her mind would supply it, right? But if it was real…well, she couldn’t very well call him "Hey, you." She needed to be subtle, fish a little.

"Do you… do you think Henry is okay on his own in the kitchen?" she asked. The name felt heavy and foreign on her tongue. She held her breath waiting for the confusion, waiting for the man to correct her.

He didn’t even blink. He simply shifted a gurgling Liam to his other shoulder. "Oh, you know Hen. He’s taking his role as ‘Pancake Captain’ very seriously. Though I suspect he’s mostly just eating the chocolate chips before they make it into the batter. He’s barely made it through the jetlag, so I think we can let this one go, huh?"

The relief was so sharp it almost made her dizzy, and she barely managed to give a slight nod to his question. She’d managed to get the information without too much suspicion. She catalogued it in her mental rolodex of new information, along with a new suspicion that he was not a full time occupant of their home. Probably splitting time between here and his mother back in America.

Now she just needed to figure out her husband’s name.

Beside her, Bella wiggled, her knee digging sharply into Rebecca’s thigh. She winced, a sharp, hot line of pain shooting through her lower abdomen and she instinctively guarded her stomach, placing a hand against a roundness that she’d failed to take note of until now and her breath hitched with the jolt.

He noticed instantly.

The easy, morning smile dropped from his face, replaced by a look of concern that felt intimately familiar, though she had no memory of earning it.

"Alright, you two," he announced, his voice dropping into a firm command that still managed to carry a gentle note. "Let’s give Mama a minute. Baby brother put her through the wringer last week and she’s still healing, ‘member?”

He directed the instruction to his daughter, but the gentle reminder seemed intended for Rebecca as well, “we need to let her get up and get dressed without us jumping on her like a pile of puppies."

"But I want cuddles!" Bella protested, burying her face in her mother’s side.

Rebecca felt a different kind of squeeze this time. It wasn't pain, but the fierce ache of a mother’s love. It was a feeling she had been certain she would never experience for herself.

"I know, peanut," he cooed. He stood up, skillfully balancing Liam against his shoulder while reaching out a hand to his daughter. "But Mama needs to use the loo and take a shower, get changed. Why don’t you come help me set the table? I think I saw the whipped cream hiding in the back of the fridge, and it’s going to need a search party."

Bella’s head popped up, eyes wide, "Whippy cream?"

"Go on, darling," Rebecca said, her voice sounding raspy to her own ears. She smoothed Bella’s tangled hair, the gesture coming from that strange, instinctual reservoir she hadn’t known was there, "Go find the whipped cream for Daddy."

Bella scrambled off the bed with chaotic energy, her father barely managing to snag her hand and keep her from face planting on the hard wood floors, hidden beneath a soft rug. She grabbed her stuffed elephant from the floor, but hardly slowed, "I find it!" she yelled, and continued sprinting out the door.

He lingered for a second, looking down at her. He shifted Liam, who let out a wet, milky burp that made the man chuckle softly, but also double-check that his soft Kansas City BBQ shirt wasn’t suddenly sporting a milk stain, before reminding her, "Take your time, Boss. If you want a shower, take a shower. I’ve got the zoo under control."

He leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek that was warm and dry and smelled faintly of the coffee he’d just been drinking, whispering against her skin "Remember you had a baby five days ago so you’re allowed to take it slow," before straightening up to snag his half-empty mug from the nightstand.

Then, he was gone, the door clicked softly shut behind him.

Chapter Text

The silence that rushed back into the room wasn't the cold empty silence of her flat but rather a heavy lived-in silence that vibrated with the energy of the people who had just left it. And yet without their physical presence to anchor her the panic she had been suppressing surged back up her throat.

Rebecca threw the duvet back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The movement pulled sharply at her midsection causing her to gasp, gripping the edge of the mattress. It wasn't just soreness; it was a deep ache. What have I done to myself?

She pushed herself up with legs that wobbled under her own weight and every step towards the en-suite bathroom felt like wading through water until she reached the doorway.

She fumbled for the light switch, dread pooling in her stomach.

She wasn't sure who she was going to find.

The light flickered on, illuminating a bathroom that was just as cluttered and warm as the bedroom. Bath toys lined the edge of the tub, two electric toothbrushes sat neatly in their chargers, and a bottle of witch hazel stood on the counter next to a pile of what she could only assume were postpartum supplies pushed to one far side.

But her attention was riveted to the flash she’d glimpsed, and she gripped the cold marble of the counter, and directly above the sink, she forced herself to look again. The woman staring back was her, but…not.

The sharp, severe angles of her face, usually accentuated by contouring and stress, were softer, a little puffy, probably lingering pregnancy weight. Not an ounce of makeup meant that she could easily see the lines around her eyes that hadn't been there yesterday or…ten years ago?

She was never without make-up when Rupert was present, but this Rebecca had just had a full family moment, including kisses from her husband, without a hint of concealer to be found.

Her hair was a mess, wild curls from sleep creating a bright, platinum halo. A few shades lighter than she wore it now, or well…her recollection of now.

But it was her body that held her attention. Her breasts, having been full since she was barely fourteen, now seemed heavy and swollen, straining against the fabric of the t-shirt she wore. The cotton clung to a stomach that was still rounded and soft, holding the ghost of the pregnancy she had apparently just completed.

She lifted the hem of the soft gray shirt with trembling fingers. Stretch marks, silvered from puberty, were now joined by angry, violet striations that she knew instinctively were fresh. This wasn't just a body that had aged; it was a body that had worked. It had carried not one, but two babies in the last few years, just five days ago apparently, and the evidence was mapped across her skin in a way that felt both terrifying and undeniable.

There, just above her bikini line, was a fresh, angry red incision. It was a violent interruption on skin she had spent a lifetime trying to keep flawless for a man who barely looked at it. A cold, sinking stone of disappointment settled in her gut.

She remembered visiting Sassy years ago, when she was heavily pregnant with Nora. Flo had sat on the sofa, rubbing her swollen belly with a fierce determination, adamant that she wouldn't be having a c-section. She had ranted about how women were built for this, that she wanted to feel the work of bringing her daughter into the world. At the time, it had sounded empowering to Rebecca. But now? Seeing the scar seemingly etched into her own flesh, it just sounded like an indictment.

She traced the line, waiting for the tears, feeling a crushing weight of shame. They came as just a film over her eyes, a pool that rested just near the corner of her eye but didn’t crest and spill down her cheek.

It was a confusing, discordant feeling. This body didn't feel shameful; it felt tired, yes, but also strong, settling into the recovery with a biological confidence. It had a husband who hadn’t even mentioned much about the baby’s birth beyond a reminder to take it easy.

But her mind? Her mind was still trapped in the cold, white flat of post-divorce bitterness. Her mind was still listening to Rupert’s whispers and Sassy’s declarations. The voices she was sure would offer nothing but criticisms for decisions that could have very well been medically necessary.

I couldn't even do this right, she thought, the familiar poison of self-loathing seeping in to fill the gaps in her memory. To the woman who fell asleep last night, this scar wasn't a sign that she had safely brought her son into the world. It was just another flaw. Another crack in the porcelain.

This scar, this pain, was the one thing that had her fully convinced this wasn't a dream. Because dreams didn't come with scar tissue and the visceral, burning sensation of healing muscle. Dreams didn't come with the lingering memory of a baby's weight still in her arms. Dreams didn’t come with diametrically opposed feelings running through her nervous system.

Dreams were unmoored, slippery things. They were a montage of soft lighting and skipped transitions where she glided from room to room without the indignity of gravity. A dream wouldn't demand this kind of maintenance. It wouldn't ask her to balance on cold tile or manage the dull, throbbing ache of a body knitting itself back together. Dreams offered the destination without the journey. This? This was all journey. Every agonizing, beautiful, heavy second of it.

She stared into her own eyes in the mirror, searching the ethereal green for the Rebecca Welton who wanted to burn Richmond to the ground. She couldn't find her.

Instead, she saw a woman who looked exhausted, in pain, and utterly, terrifyingly complete.

"Who are you?" she whispered to the reflection.

The reflection didn't answer, but from downstairs, a roar of laughter, a man's booming baritone and Henry’s high-pitched giggle, drifted up through the floorboards.

Her fingers trembled as they brushed past the toothbrushes and the witch hazel, landing on a small, amber prescription bottle sitting further back. It was a standard post-operative painkiller, but it wasn't the drug name that made the breath catch in her throat. It was the label.

Co-codamol 30/500mg Take 2 tablets every 4 to 6 hours for pain.
Patient: Rebecca Lasso
Date: 12 OCT 2025

Rebecca gripped the counter, the plastic bottle biting into her palm. Lasso.

She hadn’t just gone back to being Rebecca Welton. She hadn’t just erased Rupert’s name. She had taken his name. Whoever this mustache-wearing American was, she had taken his name.

And the date. 2025.

So, she had lost five years. Five years of her life were simply… gone. The last thing she remembered was the cold, bitter night in 2020, plotting the destruction of AFC Richmond. Now, she was standing in a warm, cluttered bathroom in 2025, married to a man she didn’t know, with a C-section scar and three children.

The panic flared again, hot and sharp, but she forced it down. If she screamed now, if she ran out demanding answers, she might lose this. And looking at the soft towels and the "World’s Best Mum" mug on the shelf, she realized with a terrifying clarity that she didn't want to lose this.

She needed to play this role until she could sort out the lines.

She quickly washed her face, the cool water doing little to calm the flush in her cheeks.

She pulled on the handle of the glass shower door, half-expecting the temperature controls to be a puzzle, but her hand moved automatically to the perfect setting. Muscle memory, it seemed, was the only reliable narrator she had left, except…it wasn’t, she now noticed.

This was her post-divorce flat, she spotted the familiar walk-in wardrobe just past the toilet room, but the tub? The tub was a deep soaker that she had fallen in love with as a broken-hearted woman wandering London looking for a new home, nearly a year ago.

And so she gave herself a firm nod, this was a small comfort, something she didn’t have to fumble her way through. She knew this layout, could easily navigate these halls, having lived here for several months already. One piece of this puzzle she didn’t feel lost or confused by.

She’d had enough of looking at herself through the mirror, so she kept her back turned as she pulled her shirt overhead, tossing it in the hamper near the gorgeous soaker tub. She then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her soft jersey joggers, the kind she wouldn't have been caught dead wearing, and pushed them down.

Beneath them, she was wearing bizarre mesh knickers, clearly chosen for function over form to sit just below her incision. As she stepped out of them, she didn't bother peeling the heavy maternity pad away from the gusset. The mesh was disposable, a temporary, medical-grade solution that wasn't meant to survive more than a few hours.

She bundled the entire garment up in her hands, the weight of the massive, utilitarian slab of cotton feeling heavy and foreign. It was far removed from the discreet, ultra-thin sanitary towels or tampons she was used to.

It felt like a nappy. Seeing it there, thick and sodden, bunched up in her manicured hand, was a stark, unglamorous receipt for the transaction her body had just completed.

It was messy. It was biological. And it was undeniably real.
She discarded the wadded bundle in the bin, feeling a strange mix of revulsion and respect, before stepping into the shower stall.

Stepping under the spray, the water was hot, bordering on scalding, and as it hit her shoulders, a groan of pure, unadulterated relief slipped past her lips. It washed away the cold sweat of panic and the lingering phantom scent of cheap Pinot Grigio.

She reached for a bottle of body wash on the shelf. It wasn't the expensive, unscented, clinical brand she had used for years. This bottle was round, a soft pink, and while still inexplicably expensive, it smelled of vanilla and oatmeal.

I smell like a biscuit, she thought, squeezing a dollop onto a flannel. ...or like the sugary air of Gran’s kitchen.

She lathered her body with a terrified gentleness, grateful to still find the toned arms, shoulders, and back she’d worked on for years.

But as her hands moved lower, her body became foreign to her own fingers. She ghosted the flannel over her breasts, which were heavy and tender, swaying with a weight she wasn't used to. Then her hands slid down to her waist, it still narrowed slightly, but not nearly the figure she’d been working so hard at for the last almost decade.

Her hips came next. They had always been generous, a feature she had once wielded to command attention in her youth only to later hide them under layers of wool when her husband’s comments became too cutting. Now, however, they felt structural. They were wider, which initially felt… unfair. But she realized the very architecture of her pelvis had shifted outward to make room for the life she had carried, permanently altering her silhouette from a statue into a sanctuary.

When she reached her midsection, her hand hovered again. She didn't scrub, knowing a fresh scar needed gentleness and care. She touched the skin of her stomach, shocking herself again to find a yielding softness. It was no longer the taut slightly curved plane she had starved and crunched into submission, never achieving the flat plane she desired. But now? Now it was soft. It felt empty.
She let the soapy water cascade over the angry red line of the incision, the sting of the heat serving as a sharp, grounding reminder that she was alive; that this body she was currently inhabiting was still healing.

She stood there for a long time, eyes closed, letting the steam fill her lungs, trying to drown out the noise in her head. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that the water could wash away the last years of bitterness she remembered. That she could watch the Rebecca who wanted to destroy Richmond swirl down the drain with the suds so that she could soak up everything this warm, impossible delusion had to offer.

When she finally turned the water off, the silence in the bathroom felt different. It wasn't empty anymore; it was expectant.

She stepped out onto the plush bathmat and reached for a towel, thick and fluffy, warmed by a heated rail.
She patted herself dry with careful, deliberate movements, treating this new body with a kindness she had never afforded herself before.

It was a delicate, frustrating choreography. She had to dry her upper body quickly before the chill set in, but she had to be agonizingly slow around her midsection. And then there was the lower half. The bleeding hadn't stopped, a stark reminder that this body had just carried a baby.

She stood there, clutching the towel, looking at the pile of supplies on the counter: the disposable mesh underwear, the massive maternity pads, the gauze. It felt like a mountain she had to climb. She felt ungainly. Leaking. Broken.

She was trying to balance on one leg to step into the mesh underwear without bending her waist too sharply when a soft knock on the doorframe made her wobble.

"Easy, there," his voice came from the doorway, low and steady. "No acrobatics allowed on the wet tile, Boss."

Rebecca froze, clutching the massive towel to her breasts as the mesh knickers fell to the ground, "I—"
"I know," he said, stepping into the room. He didn't look away. "Doc said you might need a spotter for the first week. Gravity is a bit of a bully right now."

He walked over, his presence filling the steamy room with a calm capability. He bent to grab the mesh garment from the floor and set them on the counter next to a fresh, thick pad.

"Let's get the architecture right first," he said gently. He picked up a clean, dry piece of medical gauze.
"Incision dry?"

"I... I think so," Rebecca stammered. "I was afraid to rub it."

"Smart," he nodded. "Pat, don't rub. That’s the rule."

He knelt down on the bathmat. Rebecca flinched, her instinct to hide kicking in hard.

"Please," she whispered, shame heating her face. "It’s... there’s blood and it’s messy. You shouldn't be down there."

Rupert wouldn’t have stepped foot in a bathroom while she was getting ready, much less while she was bleeding or ill. He would have hired a nurse and gone to stay at a hotel until she was 'presentable' again.
He looked up, his hands resting gently on her hips, well away from the scar. His eyes were serious, devoid of any disgust.

"Rebecca," he said firmly. "You just built a human being. A little bit of mess comes with the territory. I’m not going anywhere."

He gently lifted the edge of her shield, used the gauze to dab the area around the incision with a feather-light touch, ensuring no moisture was trapped in the fold of skin.

"Looking good," he murmured. "Healing up nice."

Then, he reached for the mesh knickers, lining them with the massive pad with a practiced ease. "Alright," he said, holding them open for her. "Step in and I'll do the bending so you don't have to."

Rebecca hesitated, tears pricking her eyes. This was the most unromantic, unglamorous moment of her life. She was bleeding, scarred, and swollen and yet he was treating her like the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

She stepped in, one foot, then the other. He was careful as he pulled the waistband up, maneuvering it gently over her hips and ensuring the soft mesh sat away from the incision, secure but not tight. He stood then, letting the towel drop back to shield her from him once again.

"There," he said, stepping back to look at her. "Secure and dry."

"I feel ridiculous," Rebecca admitted, her voice thick. "Like a toddler in a nappy."

He smiled, sympathetic to her plight, reaching out to tuck a damp curl behind her ear. "You look like a warrior, recoverin’ from battle, which, b-t-dubs, is exactly what you are."

He kissed her forehead, a lingering, grounding pressure.

"Now," he whispered. "I’d love to stay and praise my gorgeous wife some more, but I left the troops alone downstairs with a stack of pancakes and if either of us wants some I'd better go now.”

Rebecca watched him turn, but then he quickly turned back, "We good?" he asked.

"Yes," Rebecca hummed, one single tear managing to spill out, "We're good."

He reached out to wipe the tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Good. Now, I’ve got pancakes holding for you in the warming drawer, and I think I heard a rumor about some bacon."

He kissed her forehead with a lingering pressure that sealed the moment before turning back to the door once again. "Come down when you're ready, Mama. No rush."

Rebecca watched him go, the bathroom door clicking shut. She touched her cheek where his thumb had been. She touched the waistband of the mesh underwear, feeling the strange security of it.

She wasn't used to this. She wasn't used to a love that knelt on the bathroom floor.

Taking a deep breath, she caught her reflection once again. Her hair was damp and curling wildly around her face. She looked raw. She looked vulnerable. She was also unmistakably cared for.

Turning toward the vast walk-in wardrobe, she took a steadying breath.

In her memory, this space was a shrine to power. It was filled with sharp blazers, pencil skirts that demanded perfect posture, and heels that could puncture a lung. It was the armory where Rebecca Welton prepared for war.

She stepped inside, tightening the towel around her chest. The space was still impressive, vast and well-lit, but the layout had changed.

The front rails, once dominated by structured McQueen and fierce Dolce & Gabbana, had been pushed to the wings and in their place, accessible at eye level and waist height, was a collection of textiles that looked more like a cloud formation than a wardrobe.

Cashmere. Cotton. Jersey.

She reached out, running a hand over a row of soft, oversized jumpers in muted creams, greys, and deep navies. They looked expensive, so she apparently hadn't lost her taste, but they were undeniably comfortable.

She began to rifle through the drawers of a chest sat against the opposite wall, looking for something to cover the mesh underwear and the reality of her recovery. She found a stack of high-waisted leggings that looked impossibly small, but the label promised "Ultra-Soft Postpartum Support."

Support, she thought wryly. God knows I need that.

Getting dressed was a slow, humbling process. She had to sit on the velvet ottoman in the center of the room to pull the leggings up, careful not to engage her abdominal muscles. She shimmied them over her hips, relieved when the fabric stretched forgivingly over the mesh underwear without digging into her incision.

Next, she found a nursing cami, a clever piece of engineering with clips at the shoulders. As she pulled it on, she caught sight of the collection of shoes on the back wall. There were plenty of stilettos on the top shelves, clearly out of rotation in recent times. Below that though, there were shelves upon shelves of Nikes, more colours than she even knew existed, honestly. She didn’t imagine herself to be a woman who had given up on her beloved stilettos that easily.

Then she recognized that they probably weren’t hers at all, or at least not all of them. The man occupying half this space clearly enjoyed shoes as much as she did. She could now easily pick out how many of the soft jumpers were not hers, clearly cut for a man’s broader frame. His. And then she saw an entire waist-high row on the final wall featuring khakis in every shade imaginable. Okay, so he didn’t wear suits to work, that was interesting.

On the floor, arranged in a neat row, were trainers and fluffy slippers; these were clearly the regulars. She stepped into the slippers, the soft fur inside felt warm and welcoming to her sore feet.

Finally, she reached for the grey housecoat hanging on a hook near the door. It was plush and long, a final layer of protection against the world outside. She slipped her arms into it, tying the belt loosely.

She felt softer. Rounder. Less sharp edges, more padding.

She sat down at the vanity table then, the velvet stool soft beneath her. Yesterday, this station was where a fighting mask was applied. It was a ritual, one that took time, of foundation, contour, and setting powder designed to create an impenetrable surface that no criticism could stick to.

Today, she had about three minutes before gravity or a crying baby demanded her attention.

She looked at the array of products. The heavy, full-coverage foundations were pushed to the back. In the front row, accessible and well-used, were tubes of tinted moisturizer and vitamin C serum. Some products she easily recognized, others she assumed she’d added to her routine over the last five years.

She pumped a dollop of moisturizer onto her fingers. It smelled of cucumber and felt cool against her flushed skin. She massaged it in, watching as the slight redness from the shower faded into a healthy, dewy glow.

Next, she observed the dark circles, purple bruises of exhaustion sat like heavy bags under her eyes. She dabbed a tiny bit of concealer on with her ring finger, blending it out until she looked less like a walking corpse and more like a woman who had perhaps slept four hours instead of two.

She swept on a single coat of mascara. No eyeliner, no sharp wings to cut a man with, just a dark framing of her open, bright green eyes.

Her hair was drying quickly, curling into the wild, blonde halo she usually beat into submission with a hair dryer and a ceramic straightener. She reached for the straightener, her hand hovering over the power button. But instead she thought of the time, thought of the heat. She thought of the man, who had brushed a curl behind her ear as if it were a precious thing.

She moved her hand to trace over the products for her hair, grabbing a bottle of hair oil she recognized, ran it through the ends to tame the frizz, and twisted the front sections back, securing them with a small clip. It was imperfect. It was soft.

She swiped a layer of rose-tinted balm over her lips and sat back.

The woman in the mirror wasn't the intimidating owner of AFC Richmond. She wasn't the heartbroken divorcee. She was softer, rounder, and tired. But she looked real.

"Right," she whispered to herself, smoothing the lapels of her housecoat. "Let's go find some pancakes."

Chapter Text

Passing through the bedroom, she noticed the empty teacup she’d left on the nightstand was gone. He must have swiped it when he came up to check on her, a silent, invisible act of care that made her chest ache with a sudden, confusing gratitude.

As she stepped into the hallway, the muted hum she’d heard from the bathroom resolved into distinct, chaotic life. There was the clatter of ceramic, the hiss of a pan, and Henry’s voice shouting something about "structural integrity."

At the top of the stairs, a white baby gate stood open against the wall, a silent invitation he’d clearly left for her. She gripped the banister, looking down.

In her memory, stairs were just architecture, a means to an end she would have descended in four-inch stilettos without a second thought, ready to command the room below. Today, however, they looked like a mountain.

She placed a protective hand over the supportive waistband of her leggings, shielding the tender incision, and took the first step. It was slow, humble work. One foot, then the other. But with every step, the scent of vanilla batter and rich coffee grew stronger, pulling her down into the warmth of the kitchen like a tide.

The staircase, blocked by another baby gate at the bottom, opened up into a kitchen that was clearly the beating heart of this home. It was a far cry from the sleek, sterile surfaces she was used to. This room was alive. Sunlight, dim as it was on an October morning in London, streamed through large windows, illuminating a massive wooden table covered in children’s artwork and cups of various sizes, some without lids, most with.

The man was standing by the stove, still in his t-shirt and plaid flannel joggers, flipping pancakes with a rhythmic grace. Henry was perched on a stool at the wide marble island fiercely whipping a bowl of cream, while Bella was on the floor, seemingly organizing a tea party for her stuffed elephant using plastic measuring cups.

"Alright, Captain," he said, adding a pancake onto a growing stack. "Status report on the whipped cream?"

"Structural integrity is holding, Coach," Henry replied, not looking up from his whisking. His American accent was stronger when he spoke to his father. "But I think it needs more sugar. You know Mum likes the sweet stuff."

"Negative, Ghost Rider," he chuckled. "We stick to the recipe. If you make it too sweet, she'll remember she's supposed to be the sensible one and stop eating. We gotta hit that biscuit-level sweet spot where she forgets to be responsible.”

Rebecca froze at the bottom of the stairs, her hand clutching the banister. He knows. He knew exactly how to dismantle her defenses. Damn.

He turned then, sensing her presence before seeing her, and his face lit up with that same blinding, unreserved smile from earlier in the morning.

"And speaking of the inspector!" He announced, gesturing with the spatula, "Look who’s here! Henry, present arms!"

Henry stopped whisking and gave a crisp, flour-covered salute to say "Morning, Mum!" which was followed by an echoing “Mama!” rising from where Bella was still on the floor.

"Good morning," Rebecca managed, her voice shaky, walking into the room, feeling like an intruder in her own life.

She made her way toward the island, unsure where to stand, but her husband abandoned the stove immediately. He crossed the distance in two long strides, his hand coming up to gently steady her elbow, guiding her toward the most comfortable-looking chair at the head of the table.

"Easy does it," he murmured, pulling the chair out. "How’s the chassis holding up? You need a pillow? I can grab the one from the den."

"I'm fine, really," Rebecca said, sitting down cautiously. The movement pulled at her stitches, but the pain was grounding. "Just… stiff."

"Stiff is better than stuck," he said, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head before returning to the stove, "Coffee is in the pot, and the tea is brewing. Earl Grey, hot."

He winked at her. Rebecca stared at him, he knew exactly what she wanted. He knew she sometimes preferred coffee, knew her tea preference, knew her physical pain levels.

"Bella!" he called out, "We got a landing at the table. Do you have the necessary supplies?"

Bella scrambled up from the floor clutching a sticky-looking jar of peanut butter and ran over to Rebecca, slamming the jar onto the table with a thud.

"Peanut butter for Mama!" she declared proudly.

"Thank you, darling," Rebecca said, instinctively reaching for a spoon.

"Good choice, Bells," he grinned, "Protein for the win." He swooped down to scoop the toddler off the floor and deposited her into a wooden high chair pushed right up to the corner of the table next to Rebecca. "Assume your battle station, little one."

"And for the pièce de résistance," Henry pronounced, with a fairly decent French accent, as he finally set down the whisk. The man shook his head muttering about the British influence, and she shook it away with only mild curiosity.

The man slid a plate of pancakes in front of Rebecca. She unscrewed the lid of the jar and the moment the seal broke the smell of roasted peanuts hit her like a wave.
It was strange because in her old life she wouldn't have touched the stuff, but apparently this body had spent the last nine months eating it by the spoonful because her mouth watered instantly, overriding thirty years of dietary discipline. She took a generous spoonful and spread the thick paste over the hot cakes, watching it melt into the golden batter.

"Incoming," the man warned softly. He reached over to scoop a perfect cloud-like dollop of the freshly whipped cream right on top of the melting peanut butter before dropping a slightly more generous spoonful onto Bella’s plate.

"Whippy cream!" she squealed, clapping her sticky hands together in delight before she immediately attacked the white fluff with her fingers.

Rebecca watched the cream melt into the peanut butter before taking a bite that made her hum with involuntary pleasure. The sugar and fat hit her bloodstream like a drug, waking up parts of her brain that had been dormant for as long as she could remember.

As she chewed, her husband placed a steaming mug of Earl Grey next to her plate, perfect and hot, just the way he’d done for her earlier. For a few minutes the kitchen settled into a comfortable rhythm of cutlery against china and the satisfied hum of eating, broken only by Henry’s animated play-by-play of a goal he’d scored in practice earlier that week.

Her husband didn't sit, though. Instead he leaned against the counter with his own mug, sipping his coffee and watching the three of them demolish the breakfast he’d made with a look of quiet, exhausted satisfaction.

Rebecca found herself eating with a hunger she hadn't anticipated, scraping the combination of peanut butter and cream onto her fork, and every time she glanced up she found his eyes on her, warm and steady, as if her simply eating pancakes was the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen.

"More juice, please!" Bella announced, holding up her cup which was now smeared with sticky peanut butter.

"Coming right up, short stack," he said, pushing off the counter to refill her cup before she could drop it.

He hovered there for a moment watching Bella, who had managed to get whipped cream not just in her mouth but into her eyebrows, and reached for the pack of wipes on the counter.

Before he could even pull one free, a crackle of static cut through the kitchen noise, followed by a sharp, demanding wail from the baby monitor sitting on the windowsill.

"Right on cue," he sighed, checking the microwave clock which read 8:45. "Mr. Liam realized he wasn't the center of attention for exactly forty minutes."

He set his mug down and gave Rebecca a reassuring nod when she started to rise. "Sit. Finish. You’re refueling. I got him."

He disappeared into the hallway and moments later the crying stopped to be replaced by the low rumble of his voice drifting down the stairs, followed by the soft slide of a drawer and the rustle of a changing mat.

Rebecca took another bite, listening to the efficient sounds of him parenting from a floor away.

When he returned a few minutes later he wasn't carrying the baby in his arms. Instead, Liam was sound asleep and strapped securely to his chest in a complex-looking fabric sling wrap.

"Crisis averted," he whispered with a grin, patting the small lump against his chest. "Dry diaper and a change of scenery was all the man wanted."

He moved back into the kitchen and turned his attention once again to Bella, who had used his absence to make a further mess with the whipped cream and peanut butter combo.

"Alright, let's de-sticky this situation before you manage to fuse with the furniture," he chuckled, reaching for the pack of wipes.

He moved carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping baby and scooped Bella out of the high chair, hoisting her onto the cool marble of the island counter to execute a precision cleanup on her face with the wet wipe.

It was only then, as he wiped a protesting Bella while simultaneously rocking his hips to keep the baby settled, that Rebecca noticed the lone plate sitting near the stove.

It held a single, lonely pancake that was undoubtedly cold by now. It was a stark testament to his priorities. While he had ensured hers were kept perfect in the warming drawer, he hadn’t taken a single moment to ensure his own breakfast survived the morning chaos.

Rebecca pushed her chair back, the scrape of chair legs against the tile loud enough to make him pause his scrubbing.

"You okay, Boss?" he asked, his hand hovering near Bella’s sticky cheek, "You need something? I can grab it."

"I'm fine," Rebecca waved him off, and for the first time that morning, she actually meant it. She ignored the slight pull in her abdomen and walked past him, not toward the hallway or the bathroom, but toward the stove. She picked up the lonely plate with its cold pancake.

"Rebecca?" he asked, his voice laced with a confused concern. "Hon, that’s cold. Let me make you a fresh—"

"Not for me," she interrupted softly.

She picked up the fork resting on the side of the plate and cut a generous wedge of the pancake. It was definitely cold, lacking the fluffy steam of the ones she had just devoured, but she didn't care.

She turned and walked the few steps to the island where he was trapped between a sleeping infant and a sticky toddler. He watched her approach, his eyes widening slightly as he realized her intent.

She stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the unique combination of baby powder, coffee, and him.

"You forgot someone," she whispered, holding the fork up to his mouth.

He didn't blink, and he certainly didn't pull away. Instead, a spark of pure mirth danced in his eyes. He knew this dance. He might have been the one holding everything together this morning, and probably several before this as well, but he was clearly used to a partnership where the care went both ways.

He leaned forward over the marble counter, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a familiar, boyish charm. He didn't argue. He didn't tell her to sit down. He simply opened his mouth and let her feed him, accepting the offering with a confident ease that made her knees weak.

He chewed slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he were turning the cold, rubbery pancake into a Michelin-star meal just to flirt with her.

"Needs more peanut butter," he mumbled around the food, the glint in his eyes brightening.

"Don't push your luck, Lasso," she teased, a sudden, sharp thrill racing down her spine. The name slipped out easily, feeling electric on her tongue.

It was a heady sensation. She was flirting with a man she was beginning to understand this woman knew inside out, but for her, right now, it was the first time. It was entirely foreign territory. Flirtation in her past had always been a transaction or a battle of wits, sharp edges disguised as banter. This wasn't a game to be won. It was just a moment. It was warm, uncomplicated, and completely intoxicating.

He swallowed and leaned forward, careful of the baby, to press a quick, grateful kiss to her cheek. "Thanks, Darlin’. I was about to start gnawing on the spatula."
In the world she remembered, the word was Darling. It was crisp, enunciated, and usually came with a stiff upper lip and a distinct lack of warmth. But darlin'? The way this man said it, with that soft, rolling drawl? It sounded like a warm blanket. It demanded nothing. It was just…easy.

"Ew!" Bella shrieked, having apparently been liberated from the worst of the sticky mess, pulling Rebecca from her thoughts. "Daddy eat spat-u-la!"

"Only if Mama doesn't feed me," he teased, scooping the toddler back up into the air and then down to land on her feet. As Bella gathered the energy of a small tornado and exited the room, he turned his full attention back to Rebecca. He swallowed the last swig of coffee in his mug and reached out to rest a hand on her waist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against the soft fabric of her dressing gown.

"You're supposed to be resting," he reminded her, though there was no heat in it, only affection.

"I'm tired of resting," Rebecca admitted, leaning into his touch just a fraction, "I want to help. I want to be…here."

"You are here," he said firmly, and if only he could know just how reassuring that sentiment was, "And you’re doing great, but don't think this gets you out of changing a diaper later. I’m just banking credits now."

Rebecca laughed, a genuine, throaty sound that surprised her. "I wouldn't dream of it. Although, if I’m doing the work, it’s a nappy."

"Potato, po-tah-to," he grinned, accepting the correction with a shrug. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, "Well, we can debate the Queen's English later. Right now, I gotta get this circus on the road."

He stepped back from the island and raised his voice. "Henry! Cleats and shin guards! We launch in ten!"

"Can I wear my new boots?" Henry shouted from the hallway, where he’d followed after his sister, his footsteps already thundering on the stairs.
"You bet, but don't forget the shin guards because safety first!"

He turned back to Rebecca and glanced at all the dirty plates on the table. "I gotta run upstairs and throw on some clothes," he murmured, looking down at his flannel joggers, “I’ll get the dishes when we get back."

"Leave them," she said softly, "I'll... I'll get them." She wanted to do something. She wanted to contribute to this home, even in a small way. "You go get dressed. I’ll take Liam."

He looked at her hand which now rested against his arm, then up at her face. He smiled, not the big goofy grin he’d been wearing during their brief flirtation, but a soft intimate one that made her chest ache. "You sure, Boss? You're supposed to be resting."

"I'm sure," she said. She searched for a name to tag onto the end of the sentence. Darling? Honey? They felt like costumes she wasn't ready to wear. She knew his last name was Lasso from the pill bottle. But in this kitchen, in this intimacy? She realized with a sudden, cold flush that she still didn’t know his first name. Henry called him Dad. Bella called him Daddy.

She couldn't exactly call her husband Lasso once again.

"Go...Coach," she finished lamely, hoping he didn't pick up on her hesitation.

He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he smiled wider. He studied her face for a second longer, searching for any sign that she was putting on a brave front, but eventually he nodded and reached for the ends of the wrap-sling on his chest.

"Alright then, but if I come home and find you scrubbing floors I’m calling the Doc," he carefully unwrapped the sleeping infant, supporting his head with tenderness that made her throat tight and transferred the warm heavy weight of him into Rebecca’s arms. The transition was seamless, a passing of the baton from one parent to the other.

"There you go," he whispered, adjusting the sleep-suit, so it didn’t stretch awkwardly against Liam’s arms. "He’s fueled up and powered down so that should give you a solid couple of hours of peace."

He kissed her cheek quickly, "I'll be back in five. Gotta look the part." He paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking back for the toddler who’d wandered back to the kitchen once Henry left, now eyeing the giant bowl of whipped cream. "Bells! Inspection time! Let's go!"

Bella shrieked and ran to him, and he scooped her up in one fluid motion, disappearing up the stairs with a giggling toddler tucked under his arm like a rugby ball.
Ten minutes later the hallway was a swirl of activity. Her husband had returned wearing a Richmond tracksuit and a visor, clearly her influence, with Bella trailing in his wake clutching her shoes.

"Bells, you coming to be my assistant manager?" the man asked as he knelt to shove her feet into sparkly trainers. Clearly the plan was for her to go with the boys, giving Rebecca a fairly calm morning, but the toddler needed the appearance of a choice.

"I hold the whistle?" Bella asked, eyeing the silver whistle around his neck.

"Whistles are for head coaches," he compromised, swiftly zipping her into a pink puffer coat that made her look like a marshmallow. "But Assistant Managers hold the hydration." He turned to grab three bottles from the fridge, a small pink one with her name boldly printed on the side, a larger green one with Henry printed on it, and lastly a generic red one for himself. He handed both the pink and red ones to the toddler, holding onto the green one for when Henry returned.

Then Henry came thundering back down, boots clacking on the hardwood floor, a sound she would have murdered someone for in her old life, but now just sounded like energy. He was fully kitted out in his own miniature version of Richmond gear. Making her wonder if Richmond now had some form of a youth program.
"Ready, Dad! We’re gonna crush 'em!" Henry shouted, doing a little hop.

"That’s the spirit!" the man beamed. He high-fived his son, and then, as if it were a choreographed routine they had done a thousand times, they both broke into a ridiculous, syncopated shoulder-shimmy dance, ending with a synchronized clap and a point at the ceiling.

"Wooo!" they yelled in unison. Bella chiming in, with a slight delay, but clearly trying to keep up.

Rebecca watched them, a laugh bubbling up from her throat. It was silly. It was unrefined. It was pure, unadulterated joy.

She stared at him, the way his eyes crinkled, the way his body moved with such loose, happy freedom. She took a mental snapshot of it, trying to burn the image of that dancing, happy man into her retinas. Remember this, she told herself. Whatever happens when you close your eyes, remember this moment.
He stopped, catching her watching him, and winked.

"Alright, load up the wagon," the man commanded, herding the two older children toward the door.

He paused at the threshold to look back at Rebecca standing in the sunlit kitchen with their newborn in her arms, and he walked back to her, ignoring Henry’s groan of "Daaaaad, we’re gonna be late," to frame her face with his hands.

"Call if you need anything," he said, his eyes serious now. "Keeley is on speed dial and I’ve got my phone on loud. If he starts giving you a hard time…or if you just feel... off, you call me."

Keeley? Rebecca’s mind snagged on the name. Keeley Jones? The model? It seemed an odd choice for an emergency contact, she barely knew the woman in 2020 aside from her being Jamie Tartt’s girlfriend, but she nodded anyway.

"I will," she promised, leaning into his touch.

"Love you, Boss," he whispered, pressing a final kiss to her lips that tasted of coffee and maple syrup.

He pulled back and turned toward the door. "See ya later, alligator," he called out.

"In a while, crocodile!" Henry responded automatically, dragging his dad toward the door.

And then with a flurry of zipped coats and a slamming door, and a muffled admonishment from their father, they were gone.

The silence that descended on the house was instant and absolute. It wasn't the lonely silence of her old life, though. It was a heavy, peaceful pause.

Rebecca looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms.

"Well, Liam," she whispered into the quiet room. "It looks like it's just you and me."

Chapter Text

Okay, Rebecca breathed, the adrenaline of the performance finally crashing. They’re gone. I survived.

She stood in the center of the kitchen, swaying slightly to keep the sleeping baby settled. The rich scent of roasted peanuts and maple syrup still lingered in the air, a sensory ghost of the chaos that had just ended.

Lasso.

She tested the name in her mind. So she knew his last name. She knew he was American. She knew he kissed her like she was the only woman in the world and that he made pancakes that tasted like childhood.

But she still didn't know his first name.

She moved toward the island, shifting Liam carefully to one arm. Her eyes landed on her phone, sitting plugged into a charger near the fruit bowl. He must have brought it down for her. Another silent thoughtful kindness.

She reached out, her fingers hovering over the device.

She could just Google it. She was a public figure. The British tabloids had spent the last decade documenting her life, first as a society ornament and then, more brutally, as the "Ice Queen" of a messy, public divorce. A simple search of "Rebecca Welton husband" would solve her mystery in half a second.< /p>

Just one peek, she told herself. Just to be sure.

But she hesitated. There was something deeply, profoundly humiliating about having to ask a search engine who the father of her children was. It felt like a betrayal of the intimacy they had just shared over a single cold pancake.

But before she could wake the screen, the front door banged open.

Rebecca flinched, the noise shattering the peace. Her hand abandoned the phone instantly, flying back to support Liam. She shifted him from his perch against her forearm to a more secure embrace, one hand coming up to cup the back of his neck while the other pressed his small, warm body tight against her breast.

Had they forgotten something?

But the footsteps hammering against the hardwood weren't the cushioned squeak of trainers or the thundering of children. They were the sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of high heels moving with purpose.

"Knock, knock! I know you’re in there! I just passed your lot on the drive! I waited the promised five days, but I am claiming auntie privileges immediately!" A woman’s voice echoed down the hallway. It was bright, loud, and unmistakably Essex.

A moment later, a whirlwind of colour burst into the kitchen.

Rebecca blinked, her brain struggling to catch up. She recognized the woman instantly. It was Keeley Jones. The almost-famous page 3 model. The one currently, or well previously?, dating Jamie Tartt, that absolute child of a striker she was paying millions of pounds a year.

But this Keeley looked different.

She wasn't wearing the revealing outfits Rebecca remembered from the tabloids, though the tailoring certainly didn't hide her incredible body. She was wearing a suit that was immaculately fitted, giving her an undeniable air of the business world, but the vibrant, chaotic pattern was distinctly Keeley. Her signature mane of blonde curls was loose and voluminous, bouncing with every step she took. She was carrying a designer purse that probably cost more than a small car.

Rebecca stood rooted to the spot, her grip on Liam tightening instinctively. Her brain struggled to reconcile the two images: the woman she knew from trashy headlines was currently radiating the kind of confident, expensive energy that could disarm a boardroom in seconds.

"There she is!" Keeley squealed, dropping the bag to the floor and rushing toward Rebecca, though she slowed down as she got close to the baby. "The woman of the hour!"

Before Rebecca could recoil, Keeley leaned in, careful not to squash the newborn, enveloping Rebecca in a cloud of jasmine and sandalwood.

"Keeley?" Rebecca gasped, her body stiffening. Why is Jamie Tartt’s girlfriend hugging me?

Keeley pulled back, her hands finding a gentle purchase on Rebecca’s upper arms, squeezing lightly. Her eyes scanned Rebecca’s face with a laser-like intensity that felt less like a stranger and more like...family.

"Look at you," Keeley beamed, though her voice softened instantly as she took in Rebecca's expression. "You look exhausted, babe. But the glow? The glow is real. How are you feeling? And don't give me the polite answer. How are the stitches?"

Rebecca didn't answer immediately, still clutching the baby high against her chest like a shield.

Keeley didn't seem to mind the barrier. Instead, she rose up on her tiptoes, peering over Rebecca’s protective arm to catch a glimpse of the sleeping infant buried against her chest.

"And look at him," Keeley cooed softly. "Fast asleep while his mum does all the worrying. Typical man."

She paused, her eyes flicking from Liam’s peaceful face to the impressive cushioning he had claimed for himself.

A mischievous grin spread across her face, "Although, I can't really blame him," she added, giving a little nod of respect, "If I was face-planted in those magnificent tits, I wouldn't have a care in the world either."

Rebecca couldn't find the breath to laugh. She stood rigid, trapped in the surrealism of the moment, and she saw the exact instant the joke died on Keeley’s lips. She didn't pull away, but her gaze sharpened, scanning Rebecca’s face with a sudden, unnerving intensity. Playfulness vanished, replaced by an intuition that made Rebecca feel entirely exposed.

"Babe?" Keeley asked, her voice dropping the performative cheer. "You okay? You’ve gone all quiet."

She tilted her head, studying Rebecca’s wide, unblinking eyes, and gave a small, tentative laugh, trying to tease the tension away.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost...or Rupert."

The name snapped Rebecca to attention.

At that exact moment, as if sensing the tension in his mother’s body, Liam shifted. He let out a small, creaky sigh that quickly escalated into a definitive, rooting squirm against her chest.

"Oh, bless him," Keeley cooed, reaching out to stroke the baby's cheek with a manicured finger. "I think the customer is waking up. Do you want the pillow?

"Yes, please," Rebecca breathed, grateful for some sort of lifeline.

"Come on then," Keeley said, her voice dropping to a gentle command. She pivoted to lead the way, stooping to scoop up the purse she'd abandoned on the floor. "Let's get you off your feet."

Rebecca allowed herself to be shepherded out of the bright kitchen and into the adjoining room. It was a cozy space, softer than the kitchen, with a plush velvet sectional that looked like it could swallow a person whole.

Keeley darted ahead to grab the C-shaped nursing pillow from an armchair, fluffing it up before patting the sofa cushion next to her.

"Park it," Keeley ordered playfully.

She waited until Rebecca had lowered herself gingerly onto the cushions, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at her stomach, before tucking the pillow around Rebecca’s waist with the efficiency of someone who had done this a dozen times before.

"Comfy?" Keeley asked, hovering.

"Yes," Rebecca nodded. She shifted Liam, and once again, her body took over. Her hands seemed to know exactly what to do, positioning him for a rugby ball hold and guiding him to latch. As the baby settled into a rhythmic nursing pattern, Rebecca felt her shoulders drop about three inches.

Keeley sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, kicking off her heels before tucking her legs up under the vibrant, patterned fabric of her suit. She watched Rebecca with a soft, affectionate smile that made Rebecca want to ask so many questions.

There was an easy intimacy to her look. Not pity. No hidden agenda. Just warmth. It stood in such stark contrast to the cold, isolated world Rebecca remembered that it made her throat tight. She felt like a fraud, basking in affection she hadn't earned, stealing a smile meant for a woman she didn't remember being.

"You're such a pro now," Keeley observed quietly, interrupting her silent musings. "I remember with Bella, you were constantly stressing about the latch, terrified you wouldn't be able to keep up with the demand. You used to analyze every feed, but now look at you. Handled like a Boss."

"I don't feel like a Boss," Rebecca admitted, staring at the top of Liam’s head, her index finger tracing his delicate ear. "I feel... lost."

"Well, you’re entitled to it," Keeley said, leaning forward to grab her purse from where she'd placed it on the coffee table, "You just grew a human, and you’re dealing with the Lasso energy levels on zero sleep."

Rummaging through her bag, she continued, "Speaking of which," she paused to pull out a bottle of water and crack it open, "Henry looks massive in that kit, doesn't he? And I swear Bella grows an inch every time I blink."

She took a sip of water and then added casually, "And Ted? He looked proper fit in that tracksuit, didn't he? Even if he is panicking more than Henry. You’d think he was managing the FA Cup final, not an Under-10s match."

Ted.

The name hit Rebecca with the force of a physical blow.

Ted.

"Ted," Rebecca repeated, testing the word on her tongue.

"Yeah, Ted," Keeley looked at her with a confused frown. "You know, your husband? The father of your children? The man who worships the ground you walk on? Why are you saying his name like it’s a riddle you just solved?"

"Keeley," Rebecca started, her voice trembling. She didn't know the rules here. She didn't know why this woman was in her house. But looking at Keeley’s open, worried face, she realized she couldn't fake it anymore. She needed help, someone she could trust. And she wanted answers.

Keeley’s playful demeanor vanished. She sat forward, her eyes wide, sensing the shift in the air. "What is it?" she asked, her voice dropping. "You’ve gone all pale again."

"The..." Rebecca struggled, the concept feeling alien in her mouth, "The husband."

"Yeah...Ted," Keeley said, searching her face, trying to find the trigger, "Did he do something? Did he leave the toilet seat up again? Because I will fight him."

Ted.

The name landed in the space between them like a heavy stone.

Ted Lasso.

It sounded familiar, but only vaguely. A name on a list she had glanced at? A blip on the sports news? She didn't know. To her, he was just the warm, mustachioed stranger who had shared her bed, treated her with a gentle devotion, and made her pancakes.

"Ted," Rebecca repeated, the name tasting strange on her tongue.

She looked at Keeley, feeling the prick of tears she refused to let fall.

"Keeley, I need you to listen to me very carefully," she whispered. "I woke up this morning... and I don't know who he is."

She took a breath, forcing herself to look the other woman in the eye.

"I don't know who you are. And I don't know how I got here."

Chapter Text

The silence in the den was heavy, insulated by the plush velvet and the rows of framed photos staring down at them.

Keeley didn't speak. She just sat there on the sofa, her legs still tucked under her, waiting for the punchline. But when Rebecca didn't smile, didn't blink, the playfulness slowly drained from Keeley’s face, replaced by a quiet, sharp alarm.

"I mean, I know who you are," Rebecca explained hurriedly, the silence becoming too much to bear. She felt a desperate need to clarify, to prove she wasn't completely insane. "I know you're Keeley Jones. I know you're...famous. I just don't know why you're in my house. I don't know why you're looking at me like I'm your best friend."

Keeley didn't pull away. Instead, she uncurled her legs and scooted across the cushions until she was close enough to touch. She reached up, placing both hands gently on Rebecca’s cheeks, framing her face with a steady, grounding warmth.

"Okay," Keeley said. Her voice was steady, though her thumbs were trembling slightly against Rebecca’s skin. "Okay. This is... this is a lot. This is very Freaky Friday meets Inception. But without the spinning top."

"I think I’ve lost my mind," Rebecca breathed, leaning instinctively into the touch despite herself.

"No," Keeley said fiercely. "You haven't. You're here. You're solid." She pinched Rebecca’s cheek gently. "Feel that? Real."

"But I don't know anything!" Rebecca’s voice cracked, the confession spilling out, "I don't know why I’m…happy! I wanted to destroy the club, Keeley. I wanted to burn it all down to the ground.”

Keeley sat back on her heels, taking a deep breath. She didn't look horrified by the confession. Instead, a strange sort of calm settled over her features. The chaotic energy evaporated, replaced by a sharp, steely determination that surprised Rebecca. It wasn't the look of a tabloid star; it was the look of a woman who knew exactly how to fix a disaster.

"We are going to figure this out," Keeley declared, her voice firm. "I am going to give you the crash course. The uncensored, five-year highlight reel of The Life of Rebecca Lasso. But first..."

She pointed a manicured finger at the baby.

As if sensing the shift in momentum, Liam chose that moment to detach with a soft, wet pop. His head lolled back heavily into Rebecca's waiting palm, his eyes rolling back in a milk-drunk stupor, a tiny bead of white trickling from the corner of his rosebud mouth.

"Look at him, completely wasted," Keeley grinned. "Hand him over. You need to focus, and that boy needs a burp and a change."

Rebecca hesitated for a fraction of a second, a primal, protective instinct flaring up, she’d barely known this brand new human being for three hours and she was already wary of handing him over to someone other than her husband. But her exhaustion won out and she carefully transferred the warm, heavy weight of her son into Keeley’s waiting arms.

Keeley took him confidently, her palm immediately finding the back of his neck to support his head. She studied him for a quiet moment, a soft smile touching her lips as she took in the reality of him.

"I’ve been dying to meet you for seven months," she whispered. "You were worth the wait, little man."

She shifted him up to her shoulder with practiced ease, leaning back into the sofa cushion. Her hand began a rhythmic, confident patting against the baby's back, the sound soft and muffled in the quiet room. She just sat there for a moment, letting the baby settle against her, her expression softening into pure contentment. "He feels different than Bella did. He’s so...dense. A proper little Lasso brick."

"Keeley," Rebecca interrupted, brushing over Keeley’s adoration, tucking herself back in, and then fully turning toward the younger woman, her posture rigid, "I need you to tell me everything. Start with the basics."
"Right. Basics," Keeley said. She kept the rhythm going on Liam’s back with one hand, causing Rebecca’s hands to twitch instinctively before she realized he was stable, while she reached down with the other to fish her iPad out of her purse.

Settling back against the cushions, she balanced it on her knee and tapped the screen awake, her face lighting up with the terrifying competence of a woman who treats internet stalking as a competitive sport.

"I was born for this. Where do we start? The wedding? The babies? The time he accidentally shaved weird and then had to grow the mustache back?"

"No," Rebecca said, shaking her head. She gestured helplessly toward the hallway where the man had exited earlier. "Start with him."

She took a breath, trying to anchor herself.

"Who is he, Keeley? I know his name is Ted Lasso. I know he’s...lovely. But what does he do?"

Keeley froze mid-pat. She looked up from the iPad, staring at Rebecca with genuine confusion.

"What do you mean, 'what does he do'?"

"I mean for a job," Rebecca said, feeling the hysteria bubbling up again. "He left here in a full Richmond tracksuit. He said Henry had a match. Is he... is he a P.E. teacher? Does he volunteer for Henry’s Sunday league? I assume I didn't marry a man who works in finance. He’s too…happy."

Keeley stared at her. Her mouth opened, then closed. Then, a look of dawn-breaking realization crossed her face.

"Oh my god," she breathed, "You really don't remember. You think he’s just…a dad."

"Is he not?"

"Babe," Keeley said. She tossed the iPad onto the cushion beside her and scooted over until she was nearly in Rebecca's lap. The way she wiggled into the space felt eerily similar to how Bella had burrowed into the bed that morning.

She still held Liam firmly to her shoulder with one arm but grabbed Rebecca’s hand with the other.

"He’s not a P.E. teacher. He’s the manager."

"The manager of what?"

"Of the club," Keeley said slowly, squeezing her hand. "Of AFC Richmond."

Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

"I'm sorry," Rebecca whispered, her voice barely audible. "Did you say... Richmond?"

"Yup."

"I hired…him?" Rebecca pointed at the door, her voice rising in pitch. "I hired that man? That cheerful, pancake-flipping American, to manage a Premier League football club?"

"Yes," Keeley nodded.

"But..." Rebecca gripped the edge of the sofa cushion with her free hand. The pieces of her 2020 plan slammed into place with terrifying clarity. "But he’s... he’s clearly not a football manager. I’m pretty sure I heard him call the kitchen 'the end zone' earlier. Based on the sheer number in the walk-in upstairs, he clearly wears trainers to work."

She looked at Keeley, horror dawning.

"I hired him to destroy it, didn't I?"

The silence in the den was deafening. Keeley didn't flinch. She just looked at Rebecca with sad, knowing eyes as she continued to rub Liam’s back.

"Yeah," Keeley said softly. "You did. You wanted to burn Rupert’s club to the ground. So you hired a viral video—an American college coach who was famous for dancing with his players.”

She paused, tilting her head.

"I mean, he did win a championship. But he had never coached a match of proper football in his life."

"Oh god," Rebecca gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. "I’m a monster. I married the man I set up to fail."

"Hey," Keeley said sharply.

Before Rebecca could spiral further, Liam let out a wet, emphatic gurp that sounded surprisingly loud for such a tiny person.

Keeley barked out a laugh, wiping a smudge of spit-up from the baby’s mouth with her thumb. She scanned the sofa, grabbed the muslin cloth that had been left draped over the armrest, and wiped her hand.

“'Better out than in,' right? That's your dad's motto. Though he usually means feelings, not milk."

She slid the iPad off her lap onto the cushion beside her to make room. Then, she lowered Liam from her shoulder, laying him gently along the length of her thighs so his head rested on her knees, facing up at her. She rested a protective hand on his chest and then looked Rebecca dead in the eye.

"Listen to me. You didn't marry the victim, Rebecca. You married the hero.” She paused, tilting her head slightly as she corrected herself, "I mean, okay, we did get relegated. So technically, your plan worked. The team went down." Rebecca flinched, but Keeley pressed on, “But he didn’t let the club die. He turned us into a family, and we got promoted the very next season. More importantly he saved you. And the best part? He did it with biscuits”

"Biscuits?" Rebecca blinked, the whiplash of information making her slightly dizzy. "I was seduced by... biscuits?"

"Lesson One," Keeley said, grabbing her iPad again. She swiped the screen with a flourish and turned it to face Rebecca.

"I took this about three months in. I don't think you even knew I was in the room."

Rebecca leaned in, squinting at the image.

It was a candid shot, bathed in the natural light of the owner's office. Rebecca recognized the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pitch, but the heavy mahogany furniture she associated with Rupert was gone, replaced by a sleek, cream-colored sofa.

And sitting on that sofa were two people who looked like they belonged together.

Ted was sitting on the edge of the cushion, gesturing wildly with one hand, clearly in the middle of a story. And Rebecca...

Rebecca felt a lump form in her throat. The woman in the photo was laughing. Not the polite, practiced society chuckle she had perfected over years of galas, but a real, head-thrown-back, unguarded laugh. She was holding a half-eaten shortbread biscuit in one hand, and a battered pink bakery box was balanced precariously on the cushion between them.

"Every morning," Keeley said softly. "He showed up at your door with that little pink box. He didn't care that you were trying to ice him out. He just kept coming back. 'Biscuits with the Boss.'"

Rebecca frowned, staring at the half-eaten treat in the photo. "I don't eat biscuits, Keeley. I haven't touched refined carbs since 2018."

Keeley snorted. "Yeah, we both know that’s bullshit, babe."

She swiped the screen to close the photo. "But that is the vibe you were going for. You were full-on Ice Queen. You tried to freeze him out, ignore him, intimidate him. But there he was every morning, waltzing in with a little pink box of shortbread that he baked himself."

"He... baked them?"

"From scratch," Keeley confirmed. "You didn't know, of course. You thought he bought them at some fancy bakery. You were obsessed with them. You literally sent Higgins on a manhunt to find the shop."

Rebecca’s mind flashed back to the shower. The steam rising around her. The bottle of body wash she had reached for without thinking.

Vanilla and oatmeal.

The realization hit her hard. The scent she had instinctively chosen, the scent that made her feel safe... it wasn't just a random preference. It was a sense memory. It was the smell of him coming into her office every morning to save her from her own bitterness.

"I smell like them," Rebecca murmured, touching her own arm. "The soap upstairs. It smells like biscuits."

Rebecca stared at the photo on the screen—the laughter, the biscuits, the undeniable warmth between them. It was a window into a life she desperately wanted to understand.

"So," she started, trying to piece the logic together. "I tried to destroy him. But he baked me biscuits. And he won?"

"You both won," Keeley corrected gently. "You stopped fighting him and started working with him. You're a team now, Rebecca. The unstoppable force and the immovable object...just with a lot more making out."

"And he’s still the manager?” she questioned, “and I'm still the owner?"

"And the wife," Keeley winked. "You're the power couple of the century, babe. The tabloids are obsessed with you two. They call you the Posh and Becks of Richmond. Although Ted insists he has better legs than David."

Rebecca let out a shaky breath, the weight of the secret she had kept hidden all morning pressing down on her chest, "I have to tell him," she whispered.

She looked up at Keeley, panic tightening her throat.

"Keeley, I have to tell him. I can't... I can't let him come home to a wife who doesn't know he runs the damn club. I can't let him walk through that door thinking I'm the woman who loves him when I'm still the woman who tried to fire him."

"You will," Keeley promised. She stood up then, hoisting Liam back up onto her shoulder. "But first, I need to change this little man because he is definitely soggy.”

She walked over to the changing table set up in the corner of the room, laying Liam down and grabbing a nappy with practiced ease. It was so clear to Rebecca that Keeley was a regular at taking care of the Lasso babies, even if this was apparently her first time meeting little Liam.

 

"Honestly, you should count your blessings you woke up today and not two weeks ago," she chatted on, unpopping the onesie. "Otherwise, you’d be waddling up and down the touchline right now, freezing your tits off. And trust me, it gets loud. Roy takes the Under-10s very seriously."

"Roy?" Rebecca asked, her brain stalling on the name.

"Yeah," Keeley said, lifting Liam’s legs by the ankles. "Phoebe is on the team with Henry, so naturally Roy appointed himself the defensive coach. I think he called the referee a 'spineless worm' last week. The parents were horrified, but the kids think he's a god."

"Roy..." Rebecca blinked, the image of the scowling, hirsute captain flashing in her mind. "Roy Kent?"

"The one and only," Keeley grinned over her shoulder, smoothing down the tabs on the fresh nappy. "My husband. Can you believe it? The angry, hairy man finally settled down."
She pulled Liam’s onesie back down and began snapping it shut with efficiency

"We got married last year. It was a whole thing. He cried. I cried. Jamie Tartt cried, though mostly because he wasn't the center of attention."

Rebecca blinked. Roy Kent. The perpetually angry Chelsea legend. And Keeley Jones. The sun and the storm cloud.

"Actually," Rebecca said slowly, a genuine smile touching her lips, "That... makes a terrifying amount of sense."

"Right?" Keeley laughed, giving the baby’s tummy a final, playful tickle. "He grunts, I talk. It's a perfect balance."

She scooped the fresh, happy baby up and placed him gently into Rebecca’s arms.

"Listen to me, Rebecca," Keeley said, her voice serious again. "You survived Rupert. You survived the divorce. You survived the press. You will survive this. You just need to trust the man you married. Because trust me, he is the best man I know. Well... second best. Roy has better eyebrows."

Keeley checked her watch, her expression shifted instantly. The easy-going warmth vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused slightly annoyed look that surprised Rebecca.

"And on that note, I actually have to run. I have a crisis at the office."

"The office?" Rebecca asked. "On a Sunday?"

"PR never sleeps, babe," Keeley sighed. "And neither does my CFO, Barbara. We have a massive pitch tomorrow, and she is currently threatening to murder the printer."

She grinned proudly. "It's my company. KJPR. I'm a CEO now."

She reached out, squeezing Rebecca's arm gently.

"You gave me my first proper job at the club. And when my funding got pulled a few years ago? You wrote the check to save the company. You're not just my best friend, Rebecca. You're my angel investor."

She grabbed her purse, hitching it over her shoulder.

"Which is why I have to go stop Barbara before she throws the hardware out the window. I can't let your investment burn down because the cyan cartridge is empty."

She gathered her scattered belongings with practiced chaos, throwing the iPad into her purse. She kissed Rebecca on the cheek—a loud, smacking sound—and then leaned down to kiss Liam’s forehead.

"Be good for your mum," she whispered to the baby, before straightening up to look at Rebecca one last time. “She really needs that right now,” she winked at Rebecca.

"I’ll text you later. And Rebecca? Don't panic. Just eat a biscuit."

"Bye, babes!"

With a final wave and a cloud of that expensive floral perfume, she was gone. The front door clicked shut, leaving Rebecca alone in the quiet house with the baby, the truth, and a mouth watering for biscuits.