“Okay,” he murmurs. “For tonight, though?”
“For tonight,” I echo.
We take a few moments to clean up and immediately get back into bed. Rafe settles fully into my arms again with a quiet sigh, his body relaxing like he’s letting himself believe in safety for a few hours. I pull the blanket up over us and press my lips to his hair.
He smells like home and something sharp underneath it that might be exhaustion. But he’s here. He’s warm against me, and for tonight, that’s enough.
When sleep finally starts dragging him under, I keep my eyes open a little longer, staring into the dim room.
This is love.
This is home.
This doesn’t fix anything.
But for tonight, I have him. And I choose that.
22
Rafe is barefooton my hardwood floor, wearing one of my sweatshirts like it’s his. The sleeves hang long over his hands. His hair’s ruffled from sleep. He’s got that post-tour look I’ve come to recognize: The body is home, but the nervous system is still backstage, braced for noise. He’s making coffee like it’s a ritual, but his eyes keep flicking to the window, to the street beyond, like he’s counting variables without meaning to.
I’m at the island scrolling through my phone, laughing quietly at a string of messages I shouldn’t find as entertaining as I do.
Troy: Hey, LA, you alive?
Troy: We’re doing optional shooting tomorrow at 9. Which means it’s not optional.
Dom: Tell me you saw the clip of you blocking that guy into a different zip code.
Troy: Also, do you have a better coffee place than the one I took us to? That coffee tasted like regret.
I type back without thinking, thumbs moving fast.
Me: You mean the one you drank anyway?
Me: 9 is criminal.
Me: And yes, you’re never allowed to pick coffee again.
Rafe sets down two mugs, one in front of me and one by his side of the island, then leans back against the counter and watches me with that soft, thoughtful look he gets when he’s not performing for anyone. I feel it before he speaks—the weight of attention that isn’t pressure exactly, but still makes my chest tighten.
“What?” I ask, because if I don’t, I’ll overthink it.
He smiles, slow and tired. “You’re… lighter.”
I blink. “Am I?”
Rafe nods once, like he’s confirming something for himself. “Your phone’s been blowing up since you woke up. You’ve laughed, like, five times.”
“That’s because they’re idiots,” I say, but the words come out warmer than my usual. I glance at my screen again and snort at Troy’s latest message.
Troy: If you don’t show up at 9, I’m telling Coach you hate teamwork and puppies.
“I’m going to start charging them for emotional labor,” I mutter.
Rafe hums. “See? That. That right there.”
I set my phone down and wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. I want to roll my eyes, make a joke, brush it off the way I’ve spent most of my life brushing offanything that might be too revealing. But the thing is… he’s not wrong.
