He smiles, full and beautiful, and kisses my knuckles like I just gave him a gift. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
I pretend the nausea isn’t clawing at my ribs as Rafe lies back down, pulling me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he’s already celebrating.
“I’m excited,” he says softly.
My throat burns. “Me too,” I lie.
He doesn’t catch it. Or if he does, he lets it go. He kisses my hair and holds me tighter, like he’s trying to store up warmth before I leave.
And I let him.
Because I don’t know how to say I’m terrified. I don’t know how to admit that the idea of meeting his parents makes my skin feel too tight. That being accepted might be even scarier than being rejected, because it will prove there was always another way, and I just wasn’t brave enough to take it.
Rafe nuzzles closer. “We’ll make it good this year,” he murmurs. “No forgetting. No disasters.”
I manage a breathless laugh. “No disasters.”
He smiles against my shoulder. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I echo, even as dread coils in my stomach, sharp and persistent. Even as I already feel the weight of that meeting pressing into the future.
Rafe is excited. He’s hopeful. And I’m smiling in the dark while fear blooms quietly inside my chest, because I don’t know how to do anything else.
Not when the man I love is finally reaching for more. Not when I’m the one who has to decide whether we’re allowed to have it.
17
The arena is packedin that particular way it gets when expectations are high. The crowd knows this one counts. So do the players. So do the cameras.
And my head is not where it should be.
I see him before warm-ups even finish.
Rafe’s in the stands, tucked behind the bench area in seats that aren’t quite courtside but close enough that I can feel him when I look up. He has a cap pulled low and sunglasses on even though we’re indoors, but I would recognize his curls anywhere. He looks tired, but when his gaze catches mine, his mouth curves in a small smile that hits me like a hand to the chest.
He came straight from the airport to the arena. He said he would, and I believed him.
Now he’s here, and my body reacts like it always does when he’s near. My nerves light up. My heartbeat changes rhythm. I feel steadier and more unsteady at the same time.
Because after this game, he’s going to drive to his parents’ house.
And he’s going to tell them he’s married.
To me.
I try to inhale slowly, to remind myself that it’s a good thing. That this is what I agreed to. That he’s excited. That his parents are not like mine.
My chest stays tight anyway.
Marco jogs up beside me as we line up for introductions. He bumps my shoulder lightly, like he’s checking in without asking the question out loud. “You good?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I lie.
His eyes flick to the stands, then back to me. He doesn’t press, but something in his expression sharpens, like he’s storing it away for later.
“All right,” he says quietly. “Stay present.”
I nod.
