Lindy nudges me with her elbow. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Just tired.”
She narrows her eyes slightly but lets it go, turning back to her friends as they debate which band member is objectively the hottest.
I sit back in the booth, arm slung along the seat behind Lindy, and watch everything carry on without me. I want him where the world can see him. I want to stand beside him without flinching, without calculating, without swallowing the instinct to reach for him in rooms like this. I want to be proud out loud.
But I’m the one hiding.
And not for the first time, the imbalance feels sharp enough to cut.
After I pay and we pile back into the car, I pull up outside Josie’s aunt’s place, where all three are staying until they head back tomorrow. Josie and Kylie tumble out, and I promise I’ll respond to their texts the next time they’re in town. Lindy, who rode shotgun, calls out to them, letting them know she’ll be inside in a minute.
“You were good tonight,” she says suddenly.
I glance at her. “At basketball or at pretending I’m not weirdly tense all the time?”
She smiles softly. “Both.”
The compliment hits harder than I expect.
She turns toward me, expression thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?” she asks.
The question is simple. The answer isn’t. “Yeah,” I say. “I promise.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then nods. “Okay.” She leans over and hugs me, arms tight around my shoulders. “I’m proud of you,” she says again. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” I assure her.
She gets out of the car, waving as she goes, and I wait until she’s inside before pulling away.
The drive back feels longer without the noise. By the time I reach the hotel, my phone buzzes with a group chat notification—Josie has already posted a photo from the game on her Instagram and shared the link so I can see it. Lindy’s tagged. I’m not. The caption is affectionate:Best night ever.I smile despite myself.
Inside, the suite is quiet. Too quiet. Rafe won’t be back for days. Vegas first, which is where he currently is—doing a pop-up gig on the Strip apparently. Then he has rehearsals before a quick turnaround and the next leg of planning starts. I kick off my shoes and drop my keys, moving through the space on autopilot.
I order a protein shake I’m not really hungry for and sip it standing up at the counter. Halfway through, my phone lights up again. This time, it’s a notification from the Steel Saints socials. A photo of the man I love.
Rafe’s laughing outside a venue in Vegas, lights spilling out behind him, hair damp with sweat, arm slung loosely around someone I don’t recognize. Another guy is close on his other side, head tipped toward Rafe like he’s saying something that made him laugh that way—open, unguarded, incandescent.
The caption is innocuous.
Steel Saints lighting up Vegas tonight.
There are already thousands of likes.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. It’s nothing. I know that. It’s the kind of photo that happens when you’re in a band that’s suddenly everywhere, when your job is to be visible, accessible, desirable in ways that are mostly illusion. The people around him are probably crew, or friends of friends, or industry-adjacent bodies who will drift in and out of his orbit without consequence.
Hell, it’s the same sort of photo posted of me not so long ago.
Still, something sharp twists in my chest. I scroll the#steelsaintsbandfeed.
There are more photos. Different angles. Different people. Rafe always smiling, always luminous, always just close enough to someone else to invite speculation without confirming anything.
My stomach drops. I shouldn’t feel this. He’s allowed to enjoy himself. He’s allowed to have friends and be photographed. And yet, I sit down on the couch, phone heavy in my hand, and try to breathe through it.
This is the deal. I’m the one hiding, the one who chose caution. Chose timing. Chose patience and protection and a thousand other words that mean the same thing when you stripthem bare. Rafe has never asked me to lie for him. I’m the one who asked him to wait.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a text.
