I hold him like he might vanish. Like if I loosen my arms, six months will stretch back between us and swallow him whole.
Rafe shifts slightly and tilts his head up to look at me. His gaze is softer now, less guarded. There’s a quiet vulnerability in it that makes my chest ache. He lifts his hand and traces my face with careful fingers. His touch pauses at the edge of my cheekbones, lighter than air.
I know he sees the signs there—of how hard I’ve been working, how I’m not sleeping as well as I need to.
“How bad?” he murmurs.
I swallow. “It’s fine.”
He gives me a look that says he knows my definition offineis useless. His finger drifts along the cut near my brow like he’s checking for damage.
“You’ve been stressed,” he says quietly.
It isn’t a question.
I exhale slowly. “Yeah.”
Rafe’s eyes search mine. “Is it… this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at the room, the house, the city. “Or is it?—”
Us.
He doesn’t say it, but it sits there anyway.
I tighten my arm around him. “It’s everything,” I admit.
Rafe’s mouth presses into a thin line before he exhales and settles his head back onto my chest like he’s choosing peace over interrogation. “I’m here for a week,” he says after a moment.
My stomach twists immediately. Relief and fear, tangled. “I know.”
“I want it to be good,” he says softly. The honesty in it is almost worse than anger would be. “Not… perfect. Just… good.”
I close my eyes. “Me too.”
Silence stretches. It’s comfortable at first until it shifts as reality always finds us.
Rafe lifts his head again slightly. “What’s your schedule?” he asks, careful.
There it is. The practical stuff. The unavoidable stuff.
I swallow hard. “We’ve got two days off,” I say. “Then practice. Then games. But I can—” I hesitate. “I can make time.”
His gaze flickers, like he’s trying not to ask for promises. Like he’s trying not to sound like he’s begging. “I can work around you,” he says. “I don’t have anything planned. I just… wanted to be here.”
My breath goes soft. “I want you here too.”
Another pause follows as Rafe’s fingers trail absentmindedly over my sternum. “And after the week?” he asks, voice too light.
I freeze. Not because I don’t have an answer. Because I do. Because the answer is the same one that’s been slowly poisoning us since August. Since the trade in December. Since everything became harder.
After the week, he goes back to LA.
After the week, I stay here.
After the week, we return to screens and time zones and missed calls and voice notes that sound like transactions.
I force myself to breathe. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, because that’s what I always say.
Rafe’s eyes stay on mine a moment longer. He doesn’t argue, though. He just nods like he’s absorbing the truth behind my words. After a beat, he shifts closer again, pressing a slow kiss to my chest, right over my heart. The gesture is tender enough to make my throat burn.
