But to anyone who knows the truth, it’s a flare fired into the sky.
Rafe almost chokes. His fork clatters against his plate. His eyes go wide, darting from Marco to me like his brain is sprinting to catch up. He knows that Marco knows. I watch the exact moment it clicks into place for him. The way his expression shutters. The way he pulls the warmth down like a curtain.
Not relief.
Not gratitude.
Control.
His gaze locks onto mine, sharp and warning, and for the millionth time, my stomach drops.
Fuck.
Have I fucked up again?
Marco, blissfully unaware of the bomb he just tossed, keeps talking, laughing lightly, trying to keep the moment easy. But Rafe isn’t laughing. He’s barely breathing.
His mother starts clearing plates, still smiling, still warm, still unaware she just asked me a question that almost broke me in half.
Marco steps in smoothly, standing. “This was amazing,” he says, all charm. “Seriously. Best lunch I’ve had in… maybe ever.”
Rafe’s mom laughs. “You are sweet.”
Marco gestures toward the front door. “We should probably head out soon, though. Let you get on with your day. And we’ve got to… uh… make sure this guy”—he taps my shoulder lightly—“gets back on time before his coach murders him.”
Rafe’s father chuckles. “Coach is worse than a mother,” he says with mock seriousness.
“Exactly,” Marco agrees.
He turns to Rafe’s mom. “Can we help clean up?”
“No,” she says immediately. “Go. Go. Safe travel.”
Marco nods, then looks at Rafe, his expression shifting into something more deliberate. “Rafe,” he says lightly, “walk us out? I want to see the legendary childhood driveway that produced a rock star.”
Rafe’s mom rolls her eyes fondly. “Legendary,” she repeats.
Rafe’s face stays closed as he stands. “Yeah,” he says, voice neutral. “Sure.” He doesn’t look at me as he moves toward the door.
Marco nudges me with his elbow. “Come on,” he says.
I stand on legs that feel too heavy and say goodbye. As we head for the front door, my pulse pounds in my ears, and I know exactly what Marco is doing. He’s getting us out and giving Rafe and me space.
He’s creating an exit without raising questions. He’s saving me again.
And Rafe is walking ahead of us, shoulders tight, expression unreadable, and I have no idea what I’m about to face once Marco is gone.
We step outside into the daylight, the porch creaking beneath our feet again. Rafe doesn’t turn around. Not yet. But I can feel it—the conversation waiting like a storm on the other side of this moment.
And I’m terrified I’ve made everything worse.
Outside, the air feels too clean.
The light is too bright, the street too quiet, like the world is deliberately calm to mock the chaos inside my chest. There’s no one on the sidewalk. No neighbor watering their lawn. No dog barking in the distance. Even the wind seems to hold back. The kind of suburban stillness that makes every sound feel amplified—my own breathing, the scrape of my shoes against the porch boards, the pulse in my bruised eye.
Marco keeps moving, because he’s smart enough to know exactly what’s coming. He offers a quick, pointed look that saysI’ve got you, then heads down the steps toward the driveway. “I’ll… start the car,” he says casually, like we’re not standing on the edge of something sharp.
“Yeah,” I manage.
