They’ll clear rooms. Switch schedules. Pretend they’re busy so Rafe and I can have an hour alone. They never complain. Never make it awkward. Which somehow makes it worse.
I hate feeling like a burden in the one place that’s supposed to be Rafe’s sanctuary. I hate knowing that the only thing that could fix this—the fear, the constant negotiation—is me.
And I can’t. Not yet.
I shower quickly at the facility, letting the water pound against my shoulders until my muscles loosen just enough that I don’t feel like I might shatter if someone looks at me wrong. I dress in clean clothes, hoodie pulled low, cap on out of habit even though I don’t need it.
By the time I pull out of the parking lot, the sky is already turning orange and gold. LA traffic crawls like it always does, indifferent to my internal chaos.
I drive toward the hills. Toward the house. The guys now call it The Amp.
Because everything is louder there. Bigger. Turned up. It started as a joke—Rafe’s amp leaning against the wall in the first place they rented together, the heart of the band’s sound—and somehow stuck when success outpaced intention.
The Amp isn’t subtle. It’s gated, sprawling, perched in a way that makes the city feel distant and unreal. On paper—and now in real life—Rafe officially lives here. In practice, it’s a rotating orbit of bandmates, crew, friends, and security.
Security.
That word still makes my stomach flip.
It’s not as intense as it could be. Not yet. There’s no wall of men in black suits or constant surveillance cameras tracking every step. But there’s structure now.
A driver who’s also their day-to-day security guy lives in the pool house. His name’s Seth. Mid-thirties. Calm. Observant. Always knows exactly where his phone is. He’s the kind of presence that fades into the background until you realize how much he’s paying attention.
Robyn and Vinny rotate personal detail for Rafe depending on schedules and perceived risk. Robyn is… formidable. The kind of woman who could end a confrontation with a look alone. Vinny is easier, warmer, but no less sharp. He remembers names, patterns, and faces.
The rest of the band has access to a team if they’re going out. Not bodyguards trailing them into bars, but people on standby. Plans in place.
It’s enough to make things safer. It’s also enough to make everything feel staged.
I pull up to the gates and slow. Security cameras track the car. I know the drill now. I lower my window.
Seth’s voice comes through the speaker. “Evening, Ollie.”
“Hey.”
“Go ahead and pull in. Robyn’s at the house.”
The gates slide open smoothly. I drive through, the gravel crunching beneath my tires, and feel that familiar mix of relief and dread settle in my chest.
I’m here, and everything is still complicated.
As the gates close behind me, cutting off the city beyond, I can’t shake the thought that this—this careful choreography, this half-life we’re living—isn’t sustainable. Something has to give.
I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to be the one who gives it.
The driveway curves past manicured hedges and uplighting that makes the property look unreal, like a set piece built for someone else’s life. The Amp is quiet tonight, at least by its standards. No music bleeding through open doors. No laughter rolling out into the yard. No cluster of bodies around the pool.
That should make it feel calmer. Instead, it makes everything sharper.
When I park, I sit for a second with my hands resting on the steering wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cools. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. I tell myself I’m here. I made it. I’m safe.
Then I get out of the car.
The front entrance is bright, clean, expensive. The kind of foyer that feels like it should come with a warning sign:Do not bring messy feelings inside.
The door opens before I can knock. Robyn stands there. She’s dressed in dark jeans and a fitted long-sleeve top, hair pulled back tightly, her posture radiating competence. Her gaze flicks over me once—quick and clinical, like she’s checking for weapons and injuries at the same time.
“Marshall,” she says.
