We make food with the bare minimum of effort. Scrambled eggs that are slightly overcooked. Toast. Fruit that looks like it’s been sitting too long. Coffee for him, water for me.
We eat at the counter, side by side, our shoulders brushing, our knees bumping when one of us shifts. It’s so normal it’s almost painful. I watch his hands as he eats—long fingers, a few calluses from guitar strings. His ring sits on his right hand today, the way he wears it when he’s trying to be careful. Mine is on my left, because I can’t take it off in here. I can’t go back to pretending it isn’t part of me.
Rafe catches me staring and arches a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, voice rough. “Just… you.”
He softens, reaches over, and brushes his knuckles against my cheek. “I’m right here.”
“I know,” I whisper.
We finish eating. We clean up together without discussing it. Rafe rinses plates. I wipe the counter. The domestic rhythm settles something in me again, like it’s proof that we can still have small, good things.
Then his phone buzzes. The sound is sharp in the quiet apartment.
He glances at it, and I see the shift in his posture immediately. The way his shoulders tense, the way his mouth tightens. The bubble of safety we made in this apartment thins. Rafe’s gaze flicks once—too quick—to the kitchen, like he’s mentally reaching for something before he says the next part out loud.
I swallow hard. “Is it…?”
He sets the phone down face up on the counter but doesn’t answer right away. He takes a breath first, long and controlled, then meets my eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s about security.”
The word drops into the room like a stone. My mind flashes back to the café—the hands, the grabbing, the fear in his eyes.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Rafe reaches for my hand, pulling it into his.
“Before I tell you,” he says carefully, “I need you to hear something.”
I tense. “What?”
He squeezes my fingers. “None of this is your fault.”
My throat closes.
“Rafe—”
“I mean it,” he insists, voice firmer. “Not the fans. Not your parents. Not the fact that we’re being noticed more. None of it.”
I stare at him, heart pounding slow and heavy. “It feels like it is.”
He exhales. “I know.”
He pauses, then adds softly, “And I also know you’re scared.”
I swallow, because he’s right. I’m scared of my parents cutting me out of their lives. Scared of the League. Scared of headlines. Scared of a security detail bringing new eyes into our private life. Scared that this is the beginning of the end of us living the way we have.
And worst of all, I’m scared that Rafe is going to wake up one day and realize he deserves better than a husband who keeps him hidden.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
His gaze softens instantly. “Okay. Then we do this together.”
He guides me gently toward the couch, like he wants me grounded for this. We sit, knees touching. He drapes his arm over the back of the couch behind me, close but not trapping.
He takes another breath. “Miles called Rachael,” he says, “and she called the label. They’re already moving.”
I nod. “That fast?”
