“And I’m saying,” he continues, “that I need to take a breath. So do you.”
My shoulders tense, chest aching. “A breath,” I echo stupidly, like repeating it will make it less terrifying.
“I’ll see you in a couple of days,” Rafe says quietly. “That’s all.”
My heart is pounding too hard. My lungs feel too small. Every fear I’ve tried to outrun for two years slams into me all at once.
I hear my own voice before I can stop it. The words tear out of me, naked and terrified. “So, you’re not leaving me?”
The question hangs in the air like a confession. I’ve never asked it before. I’ve never dared. Because saying it makes it possible. Makes it real.
Rafe’s face shifts. Pain, yes. But also something softer, something unbearably tender, like the question breaks his heart too. “No,” he says firmly. “I’m not leaving you.”
My knees go weak with relief, with grief, with exhaustion.
“Just go back to LA,” he repeats, gentler now. “We’ll reset. We’ll breathe. And I’ll see you soon.”
I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this in the space of a porch and a quiet street and a waiting car.
Rafe doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t touch me again. He just looks at me for one long moment, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me in daylight, bruised and terrified and still his. Then he turns, opens the front door, and steps inside.
He looks back at me once, his parting words soft as he whispers, “Happy anniversary,” before closing the door behind him with a soft, final click that echoes through my ribs like a slammed door.
I stand there staring at it, frozen, my chest aching, my throat burning, my wedding ring heavy against my chest like it weighs more than metal.
Marco calls my name from the car. I don’t answer right away, because for a second, I can’t move. For a second, all I can do is stare at the door and realize that Rafe disappearing behind it hurts in a way I didn’t know was possible.
20
August arrives without ceremony.There are no fireworks or dramatic shifts in the air. Just a date on the calendar that turns over while we’re both pretending not to look directly at it.
Rafe is packing at the mansion. I’m packing for camp even though it’s weeks away, because if I don’t keep moving, my head fills with things I can’t fix. Two parallel motions that should feel connected and somehow don’t. I fold practice gear into my duffel with mechanical precision, rolling shirts instead of folding them because it saves space and keeps me busy. Every so often my phone lights up with a text from him—Did you take the black hoodie?orI found your charger—mundane logistics standing in for things we’re not saying.
When I get to the mansion, his suitcase is already by the door. It’s a stupid detail, but it hits harder than anything else. The case is scuffed, well-loved, stickers peeled off and replaced over the years as cities blur together. It looks ready. Like it knows what’s coming.
Rafe is standing in the bedroom, folding shirts with more care than usual. He’s calm in that way that usually means he’s holding something down. He reaches for his glass that’s never far out of reach without looking and takes a quick swallow—toofast for savoring, too practiced to be a decision. His curls have long since been chopped—a detail that took my breath away when it happened without him telling me a couple of months ago. His face is bare, eyes tired but focused.
“Hey,” he says when he sees me.
“Hey.”
We kiss, but it’s careful. Not tentative exactly—just… aware. Like we’re both subconsciously avoiding pressure points. His hands rest on my hips, mine on his shoulders, and neither of us pulls the other closer than necessary.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Good,” I say automatically. Then I add, “Busy.”
He nods. “Same.”
We stand together for a second too long, the space between us humming with everything unresolved. Finally, he exhales and leans his forehead against mine.
“This first month will fly,” he says, voice light, hopeful. “It always does. Then before you know it, the tour will be over, and I’ll be back in LA.”
I want to believe him, but six months on a world tour doesn’t scream that time will fly when I’m the one left behind. I open my mouth to agree, but nothing comes out. Instead, I nod. A small, noncommittal movement that I hope reads as agreement and not what it actually is: fear.
He notices anyway. Rafe always notices. His expression softens. “Hey. We’ll be okay.”
I swallow. “Yeah.” But the word doesn’t feel solid in my mouth.
