With her, it was easy.

“Good morning, honey,” she said as he came downstairs for breakfast, bleary-eyed and unshaven.

(and if he sometimes wished she was the sort of woman who would stay in bed all morning with him, he told himself that Stevie hated getting crumbs on the comforter anyway)

“Do you want me to bring you some lunch at midday?” she asked when he said he was going down to his studio.

(and if he sometimes wished she was a woman he could trade musical thoughts and ideas with, he told himself that arguments with Stevie about work were always horrible experiences)

“I miss you so much,” she said as he told her about what he’d spent his day doing in Washington, DC.

(and if he sometimes wished she was the woman who wasn’t so many miles away and was merely a few rooms down from him, he told himself that Stevie was too independent to ever miss him)

“I love you,” she said after they had sex. Once a week when he wasn’t touring. Usually on Fridays.

(and if he sometimes wished it was Stevie writhing beneath him, touching him, screaming his name, he told himself that that was over now, dammit. So over)

Stevie had never been easy. Nothing about that relationship had been, and nothing about it was.

“Lindsey,” she exclaimed, her door opening to him and her soft smile proving more enticing than the most blatant come-on from his wife. “Come in. It’s so good to see you.” It was good to see her too. He told her so with his kiss.

With her, it felt right.