“You wouldn’t be lying,” he says softly.
“No,” I agree, “but I’d be standing right in front of them, knowing they don’t know that I’m married to their son. Knowing they’d look at me and see a friend, when I’m so much more than that.”
Rafe exhales, slow and thoughtful. “I know.”
The room stays quiet for a moment, the weight of it settling between us.
“I think about it a lot,” I admit. “What it would feel like to be known. To not have to edit myself around the people who love you.”
His hand tightens briefly at my side. “They would love you,” he says without hesitation. “Even like this. Even as just… the version they’re allowed to know.”
That helps. A little.
“I don’t want to mess things up for you,” I say. “With them. With everything else already going on.”
“You wouldn’t,” he insists. “And they’re not coming for answers. They just want time. They want to see the city, see me settled. They know I have people here.”
People.
Plural.
Safe.
I nod slowly. “So, if I meet them…?”
“Then you meet them as my friend,” he finishes. “Who matters. Who’s been in my life a long time.”
“And the rest stays ours,” I say.
“For now,” he agrees.
The wordnowhangs there—temporary, heavy, unavoidable. I lean down and kiss him, slow and careful, pouring everything unsaid into the press of my mouth against his. He kisses me back the same way—steady, grounding, sure.
“We’ll figure it out,” I murmur against his lips.
“We always do,” he says, and I can hear the truth of it in his voice.
Eventually, hunger wins.
Rafe stretches, long and lazy, then groans. “If we don’t get up now, we’re going to miss the almond croissants.”
That’s enough motivation. I laugh and roll onto my side, watching him sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Morning light spills over his back, catching on the familiar lines of muscle—and then something new.
I still. My gaze snags just above his hip, near his ribs. Thin black lines. Clean and subtle.
A new tattoo.
My heart gives a ridiculous, traitorous lurch. “Rafe,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I mean it to.
He glances over his shoulder, already grinning. “What?”
“You—” I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist. “Is that new?”
He turns a little more, clearly enjoying this. “Maybe.”
I stare.
It’s small. Minimalist. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it—just above his hip, tucked where his pants usually hides it. Fine black lines. At first glance, it looks abstract. A simple geometric arc intersected by a single vertical line.
