Ryan and Mya. SCENE.
The kids were finally out. The house had gone still—just the occasional creak of settling wood and the low murmur of the ocean in the distance. A soft country record played on the patio speaker, spinning something intimate and stripped down, the kind of song that clung to the night air.

Ryan stepped out onto the patio with a fresh drink in hand, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still slightly damp. The lines of his face softened under the glow of the string lights overhead. He looked every bit the off-duty movie star—relaxed, grounded, barefoot.

He settled into the chair beside her with a quiet sigh, stretching his legs and letting his gaze drift toward her. Mya looked completely at ease. Or maybe she wanted to look that way. Her long legs were curled under her, glass in hand, wearing one of his old flight school sweatshirts and no makeup. She looked better than she did on any red carpet—and he’d seen her on plenty.

Ryan lifted his glass toward her, a small toast with a wry smile—low effort but sincere.

His eyes flicked toward the speaker. It was one of her songs playing. One of the older ones, a little raw, a little too close to the bone. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched, amused. Curious.

He leaned back and let the quiet roll for a beat. The night was warm, familiar. The kind of night that made things feel simpler than they actually were.

Eventually, he turned to her, expression unreadable but thoughtful. His voice was soft when he spoke—low, even, almost like he didn’t want to wake the peace that had finally settled.

No pressure. No heat. Just Ryan, stripped back from the movie star sheen, Top Gun pilot past, or all the questions they’d tried to ignore lately.

Just her husband.

And maybe… her friend.