I don’t argue. That’s the worst part. I just stare at him, devastation hollowing me out from the inside. “I love you,” I say instead, the words breaking free because I don’t know what else to say.
Rafe’s face crumples. “I love you too. But,” he adds quietly, “maybe for now… I move back to the house. With the guys. Just until we figure this out. Until we understand the security situation.”
My throat burns. “How will we see each other?”
He shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t know yet.”
We barely see each other now. This feels impossible.
“We’ll find a way,” he insists. “We always do.”
I nod numbly.
We go to bed like people who have run out of strength to keep fighting. We cling to each other under the covers, limbs tangled,his face buried in my chest like he’s memorizing the feel of me. I hold him too tight, afraid that if I loosen my grip even a little, he’ll disappear.
Eventually, his breathing evens out and sleep takes him. It never comes for me.
I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the man I love breathe, knowing that something fundamental between us has cracked.
Not shattered.
Not yet.
But fractured deeply enough that it will never look the same again. And I don’t know how to fix it.
16
The ball leavesmy hands cleanly. It’s a perfect arc with no hesitation and no wasted movement. Swish even.
I don’t smile. I don’t celebrate. I don’t even look at the hoop once the shot lands. I’m already moving, already resetting, already demanding the next rep from my body like it owes me something.
Again.
The gym smells like sweat and rubber and that faint metallic tang that never quite goes away. My shirt is soaked through, clinging to my spine, my chest, my ribs. My legs burn in a way that’s almost comforting now. Pain I understand. Pain I can direct.
“Marshall,” Coach calls. “Take five.”
I ignore him.
Again.
The ball hits my palms harder this time. My hands sting. I welcome it.
“Ollie,” Marco says sharply from the sideline. “Jesus. Take the break.”
I finally stop, but only because I hear the edge in his voice. I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, breathing hard. Sweatdrips off my nose and splashes onto the hardwood. My heart is pounding, but it’s steady and controlled. Exactly where I want it.
I straighten slowly.
Marco’s watching me with that look he’s had more often lately—half concern, half frustration. He’s toweling off, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes too sharp for this to be casual.
“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.
Dan snorts from a few feet away. “You say that every time someone points out you’re not fine.”
I glance at him. “You’re one to talk.”
