He huffs a soft laugh and presses a brief kiss to my neck. It’s so gentle it nearly undoes me.
Robyn clears her throat from the hallway entrance. I hadn’t noticed her move closer, but of course she did. She looks at Rafe, not me.
“Ortiz,” she says.
Rafe straightens slightly, the shift in his posture subtle but real. “Yeah?”
“Plans to go out tonight?” she asks.
“No,” he replies without hesitation.
Robyn nods once. “Good. I’ll be in the spare room. If you need anything, you text. If you change your mind about leaving, you tell me before you walk out the door.”
“I will,” Rafe says.
She glances at me—quick, assessing, unreadable—then turns and walks away with the quiet authority of someone who doesn’t need to announce herself.
The second she’s gone, Rafe exhales. I realize I’m doing the same.
Miles lifts his pen and points it at us. “God, you two are depressing.”
Rafe flips him off without looking. “Love you too.”
Miles grins. “You staying long, Ollie?”
My chest pulls tight at the question, because it’s never a simple one anymore. “I can’t,” I say honestly. “I’ve got to prep. Early flight.”
He nods, not pushing. He’s been doing that a lot lately—accepting the truth without forcing it into conversation.
Rafe’s gaze flickers to me again, concern sharpening. Then he seems to make a decision. “Come upstairs,” he says quietly.
I blink. “Rafe?—”
He reaches for my hand, fingers brushing my knuckles. He doesn’t grab, doesn’t tug; he simply invites. “Please.”
The word does something to me. It always has.
I glance at Miles, who waves a hand lazily. “Go. I’m not your chaperone.”
Rafe doesn’t wait for further permission. He leads me toward the stairs, his hand on my wrist now, not quite pulling but guiding. It’s obvious enough that I know Miles sees it, but he doesn’t comment. He keeps his eyes on his notebook like he’s suddenly deeply invested in whatever he’s writing.
Rafe takes the stairs two at a time. I follow, heart thumping harder with every step.
Upstairs is quieter. Dimmer. Private in a way the rest of the mansion never feels. Rafe’s bedroom is at the end of the hall. He opens the door and ushers me inside like he’s been holding the space ready for me all day.
The room smells like him—clean laundry, faint cologne, the ghost of guitar polish. There are clothes tossed over a chair. A half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. A notebook open on the bed with scribbled lyrics and arrows and cross-outs.
Life, mid-motion.
Rafe closes the door behind us, then locks it. The click is small, but it lands in my chest like a promise. He turns and looks at me—really looks at me—eyes scanning my face as if he’s measuring something underneath my skin.
“You’re not okay,” he says quietly.
My first instinct is to lie again. To smooth it over. To be the version of myself that can handle anything. But it’s him. And my chest aches.
“I’m okay,” I try anyway, softer. “Just… tired.”
Rafe steps closer. “You’re tired like you’re running from something.”
