Rafe doesn’t speak. Sure, this is something we’ve tentatively talked about, but I’m serious about us living together. For that to happen, we need to be firm friends. And this is me finally pulling my head out of my ass and stepping up.
I owe it to Rafe. I owe it to us.
I keep talking before I lose momentum. “Not public. Not us walking down the street holding hands. I’m not asking for that. I’m saying I want it to make sense that you’re around. That you come to things sometimes. That you’re seen with me enough that it doesn’t raise questions.”
There’s a beat of silence that presses against my ear.
“You want to beef up the friendship,” he says, dry.
I huff a soft laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t want you feeling like you have to sneak into my life,” I admit. “I don’t want you always coming in through the back door. And if people know we’re friends—real friends, not just a name—I think it takes pressure off us.”
It’s logic, but it’s also desperation wrapped in strategy.
Rafe is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you need.”
I close my eyes, relief and guilt colliding in my chest. “And,” I add, because I have to say it, “I want you to move your things in. Not just stay here when we’re both around, you living out of your suitcase.”
In the silence, all I hear is my thundering heart.
“Unofficially,” I rush to clarify. “Not your name on anything. No mail sent there.” I wince even as I say it, knowing I sound like a prick. “Not—” I exhale. “But I want you there when you’re in town. I want it to feel like you have a home with me.”
The words feel dangerous. Too earnest. Too exposing.
Rafe’s voice is soft when he answers. “Whenever we’re both in town, all I want is to be with you.”
The simplicity of it makes my throat tighten.
“You’re okay with that?” I ask.
“I’m okay with anything that gets me more time with you,” he says. After a beat, he adds, “I’m not okay with you thinking you have to earn the right to want that.”
I stare at the concrete floor, blinking hard. “I don’t know how to stop doing that.”
“I know,” he says gently. “We’ll figure it out.”
We’ve been saying that a lot lately. The difference is that tonight, for the first time in a while, it feels like a plan instead of a prayer.
“Send me the listings,” he says. “I want to see what you’re looking at.”
I smile, small and real. “You’re going to judge my taste.”
“Absolutely,” he replies, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “It’s my job as your totally normal former college friend.”
I laugh, and the sound surprises me with how much it loosens. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll text you.”
When the call ends, I remain standing, phone still warm in my hand, and let myself imagine it. A place that’s ours. A place where he exists. A place where the lie feels lighter, even if it doesn’t disappear.
Then I straighten and make my way to the bedroom. Because tomorrow I have practice, and next week there’s another game, and my life keeps moving forward whether I’m ready or not.
I spotRafe across the street of the apartment building we’re about to view, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, sunglasses on, hair tucked under a cap like he’s trying not to be himself too loudly. He looks relaxed in a way that tells me he’s not rushing off to rehearsal afterward, not counting minutes the way we sometimes have to.
When he sees me, his mouth curves into a smile that’s small but unmistakably real. “Hey,” he says when I reach him.
“Hey,” I answer, and the simple exchange steadies something inside me.
