When I walked into the living room, Sean’s black suit jacket and tie were draped over the arm of the sofa. He came out of the kitchen with a bottle of water, smoothly undoing the top two buttons of his dress shirt. Such an easy, casual motion—on him, it looked unfairly good, good enough that I couldn’t help wanting to stare a little longer.

Back when my whole world was Maverick, people said Sean and Maverick were evenly matched. I’d scoffed. In my eyes, Maverick was ...