I’ve only been here two months, but my shoulders don’t live up by my ears anymore. While my sleep still isn’t the best, I don’t wake up already clenched like I’m bracing for impact. I still get anxious—my brain hasn’t magically rewired itself because I crossed state lines—but the baseline is different.
Less edge. Less constant vigilance. And I don’t want to think too hard about why.
Because if I start pulling on that thread, I’ll end up right back in the place I’ve been trying not to live in lately. The place where relief turns into guilt. The place where I have to ask myself what it means that I can breathe better here, away from the city where we built our secret life.
I take a sip of coffee, buying time. “It’s a new team,” I say carefully. “People are… friendly.”
Rafe’s expression shifts into something softer. “You deserve that.”
The simple sincerity in his voice lands in my chest like a weight. I don’t have a clean response for it, so I reach for the safer subject. “You want eggs?” I ask.
He laughs under his breath. “Is that a real question or a threat?”
“Both,” I say. “I’m learning domestic skills.”
“You, cooking?” His eyebrows lift. “That’s brave.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I warn, then grab the carton from the fridge.
Rafe moves around me easily, opening cabinets like he’s already memorized my layout. He finds plates. He finds the pan. He finds my dish towels like he’s been here longer than a couple of days. It should make me feel exposed, having him in my space like this, touching things I’ve chosen, seeing how I live when I’m not being watched.
Instead, it makes me feel… anchored.
He pulls out a stool and sits at the island, elbows on the counter, chin in his hands, watching me crack eggs like it’s fascinating. His eyes look a little tired in the bright morning light, but there’s a steady warmth there too. Something that hasn’t changed even when everything else did.
“Tell me about the tour,” I say as I whisk. “Like… for real. Not the version you gave the press.”Or the half-hearted, sporadic conversations we managed via Facetime.I don’t add that.
Rafe makes a face. “The press version is mostly me saying ‘we’re grateful’ and Eli trying not to swear.”
“That sounds accurate.”
He smiles. “Okay. For real… it was insane. It still feels insane. London was loud in a way that made my ribs shake. Like the whole room was one heartbeat.”
I pour the eggs into the pan and watch them set, the smell filling the kitchen. “Was it your favorite?”
Rafe tilts his head. “Not sure yet.”
“You have a favorite,” I press. “You always do.”
He huffs, caught, then glances out the window like he’s searching for the answer on the street. “Maybe… Brisbane,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t the biggest crowd, but it was the most… present. Like they were listening with their whole bodies. Not just screaming. Actually hearing.”
That makes sense. Rafe loves noise, but he loves connection more.
“And you?” he asks, switching the direction smoothly. “Favorite place you’ve played?”
I laugh. “That’s not fair.”
“Why?”
“Because my favorite place is still home,” I admit, and immediately regret the way the word lands between us. Home is complicated now. Home isn’t one place. Home is sometimesa couch in a rented apartment, sometimes a hotel room, sometimes a backstage hallway where we can steal ten minutes like oxygen.
Rafe’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t pounce. He just nods, like he understands the layers without needing to peel them back right now. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Then what’s your favorite away arena?”
I flip the eggs and exhale. “Probably… Boston,” I say. “Crowd’s brutal. They hate you like it’s its own sport. It’s kind of motivating.”
Rafe grins. “That tracks.”
I slide eggs onto plates, add toast, and carry one over to him. He makes a little sound of approval like he’s an old man being served breakfast by his long-suffering spouse, which is ridiculous because he’s my husband and he’s the one who should be better at the domestic thing than me. He’s the one who grew up in a house where food happened whether you were ready or not, where warmth was built into the day.
