My heartbeat kicks hard and uneven. “Why me?”
The answer hangs in the air:
Because you’re his husband.
Because he listens to you.
Because he’ll look at you and remember who he is when he isn’t trying to outrun himself.
Miles answers anyway, voice rough. “Because you’re the only one he’ll hear.”
Drew adds quietly, “And because he’s going to ask for you.”
I swallow hard and stare at the countertop. “I can’t,” I say before I can stop myself.
Silence drops into the kitchen, and Eli sits up straighter. Miles’s jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but Rachael holds up a hand before he can.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Tell me why.”
The words pile in my throat. The truth is too big. The truth is too humiliating.
Because I’m furious and terrified. Because I’m not sure I can look at him without seeing her hand on him and his eyes unfocused and his mouth slack, not there, not present?—
Because last night didn’t just scare me. It broke something in me.
But I can’t say that. Not out loud. Not in this kitchen.
So instead, I force my voice steady. “Because I’m not the one who should be persuading him to do something he’ll hate.”
Miles scoffs. “He doesn’t hate you.”
My mouth twists. “Not yet.”
That lands like a slap.
Miles goes still. Drew’s eyes flick to me sharply. Eli’s brows draw together. Rachael studies my face for a beat longer than is comfortable, like she can see all the things I’m trying not to say.
Then she nods once. “He’s not in trouble,” she says quietly. “He’s not being punished. He’s being helped.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to explain that the help is only half of it. The other half is me. And I don’t know how to fix that without tearing us apart.
Rachael closes her laptop softly. “Go talk to him, Ollie,” she says. “We’ll handle everything else.”
My legs feel heavy when I stand. My body doesn’t want to move. It wants to stay right here where I can pretend this is logistics instead of heartbreak. But my feet carry me anyway, up the stairs, down the hallway, toward Rafe’s bedroom.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. I pause outside his door. Breathe in. Breathe out. Then I push it open without knocking.
The room is dim, curtains drawn tight. It smells like Rafe—cologne and sweat and sheets that have held him too many times. It’s the scent of stale alcohol that makes my nose twitch and straightens my spine. He’s sprawled on the bed like he dropped there and didn’t bother to land carefully. Shirt off. Hair a mess. A clean bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against dark curls.
I step in with a bottle of water and painkillers in my hand like I’m walking into a fragile peace negotiation.
Rafe shifts at the sound of the door. His eyes blink open slowly, unfocused. He squints, then winces. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse. Then his gaze catches properly on me.
His expression changes. Confusion first, then something softer followed quickly by pain. “Thought I imagined you,” he says.
The words twist in my chest. “I’m here,” I manage.
Rafe swallows. He pushes himself up slightly, then freezes and makes a low sound in the back of his throat. He looks nauseated. “Why’re you here?” he asks, voice sharper now, like he’s trying to regain control. Like he can’t handle softness.
