We linger longer than necessary, neither of us in a hurry to leave. The restaurant stays comfortably full but never crowded. No one gives us a second look. We’re just two guys having dinner, leaning in close to hear each other over the low hum of conversation. It’s almost enough to forget the rest of it.
When we finally stand to go, Rafe reaches for his jacket and hesitates, like he’s about to do something on instinct. His hand twitches toward mine and then stops, fingers curling back into his palm. I feel it anyway.
Outside, the night air is cool and quiet. We walk side by side down the sidewalk, close but careful, our shoulders almost touching. A laugh bubbles up in me, sudden and ridiculous.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. Then, because he knows better, I add, “I just… this feels nice.”
He nods, expression soft. “Yeah. It does.”
Back at my hotel, the door clicks shut behind us and the world recedes like it always does. Shoes get kicked off. Jackets get draped over the back of a chair. The small rituals of being together take over without either of us needing to name them.
After our low-key dinner, we’re stretched out on the couch, the hotel suite dim except for a lamp in the corner. I’ve kicked my shoes off and propped my feet on the small coffee table. Rafe is curled against me, head resting in my lap like he’s finally run out of momentum. His curls are loose and wild, brushing my thigh every time he shifts. There are dark circles under his eyesthat tell me he’s been living on adrenaline and caffeine again, pushing himself harder than he admits.
I card my fingers through his hair slowly, the way I do when I want him to relax without making a big deal of it. He hums, eyes closing, and for a few minutes, everything else goes quiet.
This—this ease, this laughter, this unremarkable happiness—is the part I’m trying to protect. Even if I don’t know how long I can.
“You’re quiet,” I say.
“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Just thinking.”
“That usually means you’re about to drop something on me.”
He cracks one eye open, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “You make it sound so dramatic.”
“It’s you,” I say. “It usually is.”
He sighs, then shifts so he’s lying a little flatter, still anchored to me but alert now. His fingers curl around my wrist, grounding himself. “We got the call today,” he says.
My heart stutters. “What kind of call?”
“The kind we’ve been waiting on,” he answers, voice careful, measured. “The tour’s happening.”
For a second, the words don’t land. Then they do, all at once.
“Rafe.” My hand stills in his hair. “That’s?—”
“I know,” he cuts in softly, watching my face. “It’s good. It’s really good.”
Pride hits me hard and immediate, blooming warm in my chest. “That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
His smile deepens, genuine and a little vulnerable. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say without hesitation. “You’ve earned this. You all have.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day. “Real venues,” he adds. “Not just clubs. Multiple cities. Actual routing. Not ‘drive all night and hope for the best’ energy.”
I laugh quietly. “Look at you. Professional.”
“Terrifying, right?” he says, only half joking.
I nod. “Yeah. A little.”
The wordtourstarts expanding in my head, stretching into dates and distances and empty spaces between. I don’t want to think about that part yet, but it’s already there, pressing at the edges.
“When?” I ask.
