“Robyn,” I reply.
She steps aside. “Come in.”
I do. The door closes behind me with quiet finality.
The house smells faintly of cedar and citrus cleaner. Somewhere deeper in the mansion, I hear the soft thump of bass from a speaker turned low.
Robyn’s eyes track me as I move past her. It’s not threatening. It’s just… constant. She’s a presence you don’t forget about, even when she doesn’t say a word.
“Miles and Rafe are in the kitchen,” she says.
“Thanks.” I round the corner and find them immediately.
Miles is sprawled on one end of the couch that fills a large space off the kitchen that’s more like a party room, long legs stretched out, a notebook open on his lap with a pen balanced between his fingers. He looks up when he sees me and breaks into an easy grin.
“Yo,” he says. “Basketball boy.”
I snort. “That’s not my name.”
“It’s a title,” he counters. “You should be grateful.”
Rafe is standing by the kitchen island, a mug in his hand. He’s barefoot, in sweats and a hoodie, hair loose, his whole posture relaxed. When he sees me, something in his face changes—his expression brightening in a way so immediate it hits me in the chest.
Like he’s been holding his breath until I walked through the door.
“Hey,” he says, voice softer than it needs to be.
“Hey,” I answer.
For a second, neither of us moves. It’s ridiculous how much tension sits in that small gap between us, how loaded even an ordinary greeting can be now. Miles watches with deliberate disinterest, like he’s giving us space by pretending he isn’t paying attention.
Then Rafe sets his mug down and crosses the room. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t make it obvious, but the relief in him is unmistakable. He reaches for me like it’s instinct, and I meet him halfway. His arms wrap around me tight—tight enough that I feel it in my ribs.
I close my eyes. My body unclenches. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly it happens, how the simple fact of him holding me makes the whole world feel less hostile.
“You’re here,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’m here,” I whisper back.
When we pull apart, his hands stay on my arms. His gaze searches my face with quiet intensity. “You look tired,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I answer, because that’s what I always say.
Rafe doesn’t let it go. “Ollie.”
I sigh, letting my head tilt back slightly. “I’m just wired. This close to the end of the season. Flying out tomorrow. Practice was… a lot.”
He nods like he understands that kind of wired. The kind that lives in your bloodstream. “Okay,” he says gently. “Wired, not broken.”
“Right.”
His mouth lifts in a faint smile, but his eyes are still worried. “You ate?”
“Yes,” I lie automatically.
He narrows his eyes. “Did you?”
“…kind of,” I admit.
