Rafe’s hand finds the small of my back as soon as he carefully pulls out and we settle on our sides, facing each other. He begins a slow, contented sweep. “Hi,” he says, as if this is the first time I’ve ever heard those two letters strung together as a gift.
I laugh softly, the sound catching in my chest, and answer with a kiss to his temple. “Hi,” I repeat, and we drift into the quiet together, sure of what we mean to each other now and always.
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “You feel better?”
“A little,” I admit.
“Good.”
We lie quietly for a while, the room dim and peaceful, the mansion outside this locked door feeling far away.
Then reality creeps in. I shift, reluctant, and Rafe’s hand tightens reflexively on my waist.
“I really can’t stay,” I say softly.
He goes still. Usually when we have this conversation, all it takes are sweet kisses and me coming my brains out to change my mind.
“I want to. You know I do,” I add quickly, before the hurt can settle. “I just… I have to prep. Flight’s early. My bag’s not even packed.”
He exhales slowly, eyes closing for a second like he’s absorbing the disappointment. “Okay,” he says, voice careful. “Okay.”
I swallow. “I’m sorry.”
Rafe shakes his head, opening his eyes again. “Don’t.”
He props himself up on one elbow. His gaze moves over my face, lingering like he’s memorizing me again. “At least we remembered before you leave,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What?”
Rafe’s mouth curves into a grin. “Our anniversary.”
My heart tugs painfully. “Jesus,” I mutter, half laughing. “Yeah. We remembered.”
“For once,” he teases. “Ahead of time.”
“Growth,” I deadpan.
Rafe laughs quietly. “We’re so mature.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through me anyway. “Two years in thirteen days.”
“Two years,” he echoes softly, like he’s tasting it.
The weight of that hits me harder now than it did in the hotel suite. Two years of stolen time. Two years of improvising. Two years of choosing each other in margins.
Rafe traces a line down my chest with his fingertip. “We should do something.”
“We will,” I say quickly. “We’re close this year.”
His eyes brighten. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
My stomach tightens.
“I checked your schedule,” he says, casual, as if it’s nothing. “You should be playing in Arizona.”
My pulse spikes.
Arizona. Close to where he grew up. Close enough to drive. Close enough that family becomes more than a vague future concept.
