His hand reaches back blindly, finding my wrist like it knows the path. “Jesus,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “You’re real.”
“I’m real,” I whisper.
He rolls halfway, eyes barely opening. His gaze lands on me and goes soft in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“You weren’t due back yet,” I murmur.
He blinks slowly. “Surprise.”
I huff a laugh that turns into something almost broken. I press my forehead to his. “Ten days,” I say, like it’s an accusation.
His mouth curves, lazy and fond. “I know.”
I kiss him. It’s not frantic. Not desperate. It’s sweet and slow. The kind of kiss you give someone you’ve missed so much it’s become part of your blood.
Rafe kisses back with that same sleepy devotion, hands sliding over my shoulders, my back, pulling me closer like his body knows what it needs even if his brain is still catching up. When we break apart, he exhales against my mouth and mumbles, completely serious, “I promise to suck you off in the morning when I’m awake.”
Quiet laughter escapes me, my heart filling with the love I have for this man.
Rafe’s eyes slit open just enough to see my expression. “What?” he says, affronted. “That’s romance.”
“It is,” I say, still chuckling. “It’s poetry.”
“Damn right it is.” He nuzzles closer, voice dropping. “You win?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I played.”
His face sharpens even through the sleep. “Youplayedplayed?”
“Yeah.”
Rafe’s hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing gently. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, and the words hit like they always do—right between my ribs. “I wanted to be there.”
“I know,” I say. “I know you did.”
He sighs, eyes closing again, but his fingers keep moving—small, grounding touches, like he’s making sure I’m really here. “You smell like club,” he murmurs, nose wrinkling.
“I had to go,” I admit.
“Hmm.” He makes a sound like he’s filing that away for later. “Did you get hit on?”
My body goes still again.
Rafe’s eyes open a fraction. Not jealous. Not angry. Just… curious. Careful.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
His thumb pauses.
I touch his face. “I didn’t—” I start, then stop, because I hate that I feel like I have to explain.
Rafe seems to read it anyway. He exhales and kisses my chin. “I know,” he murmurs. “I trust you. I hate that you have to live in that.”
I close my eyes. The ring on my finger is heavier for a beat.
His voice is softer now, more awake. “Band stuff went… well,” he says, like he’s trying to give me something bright. “We met with someone. Not a full tour yet—don’t freak out.” His mouth twitches. “But it’s moving.”
My heart lifts immediately. “Rafe?—”
