I hover uselessly, hands shoved in my pockets, painfully aware of how out of place I feel.
Rafe barely looks at me as he gestures toward the hallway. “Mamá, we’ll be right in. I just—need a minute.”
She nods, distracted by Marco’s charm. “Claro.”
The moment we’re alone, the air shifts. Rafe turns to me fully, eyes scanning my face, lingering on my bruised eye. His jaw tightens. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Ollie.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I look like shit.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He hesitates. “You’re here. How?”
“Marco.” My voice is weak. “Apparently he has contacts.”
Rafe huffs a breath that’s half amusement, half disbelief. “Of course he does.” Then his gaze sharpens. “And you’re here…?” He lets the question hang, heavy.
I swallow hard. “I wanted to meet them. Your parents. See where you grew up.” My voice wobbles. “I should have agreed yesterday. I’m sorry.”
Rafe studies me for a long moment, something guarded in his expression.
“You didn’t tell them,” I say softly. “About us.”
He shakes his head. “No. I thought—” He sighs. “I thought that was best. After everything.”
“Because of me.” My guilt spills out. “Because I keep letting you down.”
Rafe winces but doesn’t deny it. “I’m not sure if you’ve seen the bullshit from last night.”
“I did,” I say quickly. “And I know it’s not true.”
He looks at me sharply. “You do?”
“I know you,” I clarify. “I know you didn’t.”
Something eases in his shoulders at that. Relief flickers across his face before he can hide it. “Thank you.”
“I fucked up,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. I love you so damn much.”
Rafe steps forward then, closing the distance. He cups my face gently, careful around the bruise, thumbs warm against my skin. His hands are steady, but not perfectly. There’s a tiny tremor under his thumbs that he smooths away by pressing harder, like control is a choice he’s making moment by moment. The contact nearly undoes me. I sag into him, forehead dropping to his shoulder as the weight of everything crashes down.
“I love you,” he says softly. “We’ll figure this out.”
I nod against him, even though I’m not sure how.
From the kitchen, a man’s voice calls out in Spanish, deeper, commanding, but not unkind.
“Rafael.La comida está lista.”
Rafe pulls back slightly, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “Come on,” he says. “You need to meet my papá.”
My heart slams against my ribs again, but I straighten, forcing myself upright. For him.
I follow Rafe toward the kitchen, Marco already laughing with his mom, and step forward into the next moment of whatever this is becoming.
The kitchen is brighter than the rest of the house, sunlight slanting in through a window over the sink and catching on the worn edges of the table like it’s trying to turn ordinary into something golden. The chairs don’t match perfectly. One has a nick out of the backrest. The placemats look handmade. There’s a small bowl of limes in the center of the table, and a stack of paper napkins in a holder that has probably been there since Rafe was a kid.
It is so normal it makes my chest pull tight.
Rafe’s mother sets down a platter of food with the kind of casual confidence that says she’s done this a thousand times. His father follows with a basket of tortillas wrapped in a towel. They move around each other in a practiced dance, gentle and familiar, passing plates and utensils with soft words in Spanish that make the room feel even warmer.
