“We’re performing,” Miles corrects, like saying it out loud might make it more real.
Rafe finally finds his voice. “April fifth,” he repeats, slow.
“Yes,” Rachael says, softer now, like she’s giving him space to feel it. “Congratulations, Rafe. Congratulations, all of you.”
There’s another burst of shouting on the other end.
Rafe’s gaze stays locked on mine, like he needs to anchor himself in something familiar while the world expands again. His eyes are glossy with it, though he’s trying to play it cool.
“You deserve it,” I mouth, and I’m grateful I’m not speaking aloud as my voice would likely crack.
He swallows hard and bobs his head.
Rachael cuts back in, all business again. “Okay. I’m letting you go. Enjoy your time off. And please, for the love of God, do not post anything stupid about this until we do the official announcement.”
Eli makes a wounded sound. “Why do you hate joy?”
“Because joy gets you sued,” Rachael replies instantly.
Then the call ends.
The kitchen is suddenly too quiet again. Rafe is still holding his phone like he expects her to call back and say,Just kidding.
I watch his face change in real time—the shock dissolving into a grin he can’t hold back, the kind that breaks wide across his mouth and makes him look younger. Like the kid from asmall house with working parents who used to dream about this stuff and pretend it didn’t matter.
“LUMINA,” he says, breathless.
I push back from the island and stand, unable to help myself. I cross to him and wrap my arms around him hard, pulling him into my chest the same way I did at the door when he first arrived.
Rafe makes a sound that’s half laugh, half exhale. He clings to me, forehead pressing to my shoulder. “Holy shit,” he murmurs.
“Holy shit,” I echo.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes bright and a little wild. “Song of the Year,” he says again, like he can’t make it fit in his mouth.
“You’re going to be insufferable about this,” I tell him.
Rafe laughs, real and unguarded. “Abso-fucking-lutely I am.” He leans in and kisses me—quick, instinctive, full of joy.
Then he winces. It’s small, subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But I feel it because I’m too attuned to his body, to the micro-flinches that mean something is wrong.
My hands tighten on his arms. “Hey,” I say quietly. “What?—”
“It’s nothing,” he says too fast, and I know immediately that it isn’t nothing. His smile wobbles for half a second before he steadies it again, forcing brightness back into place.
He doesn’t want to stain the moment. I understand that impulse. I live it.
“We should celebrate,” he says, rallying, voice determined.
My chest warms. “Yeah?”
Rafe’s eyes dart toward the window, toward the street, and I see him calculate. Even here, even now, he isn’t fully free of the mental math.
Then he shakes his head once, decisive. “Just here,” he says. “The two of us.”
The words should feel safe. They do, but they really fucking don’t. Because “just here” is starting to feel like the only place we’re allowed to exist as real.
I push the thought down and smile anyway. “Okay,” I say. “We can do that.”
