This kiss isn’t about hunger. It’s about rightness.
Morning light slips in around the edges of the curtains, pale and gentle, turning the room gold. Rafe’s weight settles against me, solid and grounding, and I realize how tense I’d still been—even after everything—until this moment.
Until him.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, eyes still closed, lashes dark against his cheeks. His breathing is slow, matching mine without either of us trying. “Good morning,” he murmurs again, softer this time, like the words are just for us.
I smile, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “That was one hell of a wake-up call.”
He grins, lazy and unapologetic. “I did promise.”
“You did,” I agree. “I appreciate a man who follows through.”
Rafe laughs quietly and collapses against me, cheek pressed to my chest, arm slung loosely over my waist. He fits here like it’s instinct, like his body knows where it belongs even when the rest of the world keeps demanding we be careful.
For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. There’s no rush. No buzzing phone. No alarm dragging us into obligation. Just the quiet hum of the city outside and the steady rise and fall of his breathing against my skin.
It hits me then—sharp and sweet all at once. We have a real day off.
No practice. No studio. No meetings, no travel, no pretending we’re not exhausted by the sheer act of existing separately.
I tilt my head and press a kiss into Rafe’s hair. “So,” I say, “what’s the plan for today?”
He shifts slightly, chin resting on my chest now so he can look up at me. His eyes are still a little glassy with sleep, curls falling into them like he hasn’t bothered to tame them yet. “Nothing,” he says, decisive. “Absolutely nothing.”
I snort. “That’s not a plan.”
“It is if you commit to it,” he counters. “We could order food. Stay in bed too long. Maybe venture out if we feel the walls closing in.”
The wordventuremakes something tighten in me.
Rafe notices immediately. He always does. “We don’t have to,” he says gently. “I know.”
“I know,” I echo, but I’m already thinking about it. About the weight of being seen. About how even something as simple as coffee turns into calculation—who might recognize me, who might recognize him, what assumptions get made, what questions follow.
“I just….” I trail off, fingers tracing idle patterns along his spine. “I’m hyperaware lately. Of everything.”
He nods, expression thoughtful rather than offended. “Me too.” There’s a pause; then he adds, quietly, “It won’t get easier, you know.”
I swallow. “I know.”
“Not if things keep going the way they are,” he continues. “For me. For you.”
I stare up at the ceiling for a beat, then back down at him. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing?”
“No,” he says. “Just… different.”
Different. That’s the word.
“I keep thinking about how small these moments are,” I admit. “How… borrowed.”
Rafe props himself up on one elbow, studying me with a seriousness that cuts through the sleepiness. “They’re notborrowed,” he says. “They’re ours. That doesn’t disappear just because the rest of the world gets louder.”
I nod, but the truth still sits heavy. “Someday,” I say quietly, “we won’t be able to do this. Slip out for breakfast. Walk down the street without a plan. Be anonymous together.”
He considers that, then leans in and kisses me again—soft, reassuring. “Then someday,” he says against my mouth, “we’ll find new ways.”
I smile despite myself. “You make it sound easy.”
