“You’re not,” I say.
He sets the water down too hard. “I’m just having a good time.”
I almost laugh. It’s that absurd. Instead, I keep my voice gentle, because if I push too hard, he’ll run. “You’re spiraling,” I say. “And you’re doing it where everyone can see.”
His eyes flash. “So now you’re worried about optics?”
“No,” I snap, and the sharpness surprises even me. I rein it in quickly. “I’m worried about you.”
Rafe looks at me for a long moment. And for the first time since I entered the room, he looks scared. Not angry. Notdefensive. Scared. Like he’s been hoping someone would stop him. And now that someone finally is, he doesn’t know whether to fight or fall.
I take a careful breath. “We talked to Rachael.”
Rafe’s face hardens instantly. “No.”
“We did,” I say. “And we organized something.”
His eyes narrow. “Rehab?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck off.”
I expected it. I did, but it still knocks the air from my lungs.
“Rafe—”
“No,” he says harshly. “No. I’m not doing that. I’m not—Jesus Christ, Ollie?—”
I step closer, voice dropping. “Are you reaching for a bottle the second you get out of bed?”
His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes flick away. The pause answers me, which makes my stomach drop. “Sometimes,” he admits finally, barely audible.
My heart lurches violently.Thatis not a party problem. It’s not a rough month or a bad night. That is something else. Something deeper. Something hungrier.
I blink hard. “Okay,” I say, forcing steadiness. “Then you need to go. Just… think of it like a retreat. You rest. You reset. You breathe.”
Rafe’s eyes look glassy. “I don’t need?—”
“Yes, you do,” I say softly. “You do.”
His throat bobs. He nods once. Small and reluctant. Defeated. “Fine,” he whispers.
Relief hits me so hard I almost collapse, but it lasts about two seconds. We’re at the part I’ve been trying not to touch since last night. The part that has been waiting for me like a cliff edge.
I swallow, ensuring I sound calm. “Rafe.”
He looks at me warily.
I step closer, careful. “I love you,” I say quietly. “I always will.”
Rafe’s expression softens instinctively at the words, like his body still remembers how to lean into love.
Then I keep going. “But I’m hurting you.”
His brow furrows. “Ollie?—”
“I am,” I insist. “I’ve put you in this situation. I’ve asked you to carry my fear. I’ve asked you to edit your life around me. I’ve asked you to be strong enough for both of us.”
