A voice murmurs in the hallway, and we break apart instantly.
Rafe grins, breathless. “That was close.”
“Too close,” I agree, heart racing.
We put space between us just as Angela returns, none the wiser. She finishes her pitch, answers my questions about lease terms and deposits. I nod, focused, the decision already made in my bones.
When we step back into the elevator, the doors slide shut with a soft finality. Rafe’s hand brushes mine once. Just once. It feels like a promise. And as we descend, I know this place is going to change everything. Sure, it will make things easier, but it will also make us braver.
The elevator doors open, and we step out into the afternoon like nothing has changed. Sunlight hits the sidewalk hard, bouncing off glass and concrete, the city loud in its usual, unremarkable way. For a moment, it’s just us—two guys walking side by side, hands in our pockets, shoulders angled slightly toward each other without touching.
“So,” Rafe says, easy, like we aren’t both still buzzing from the near miss upstairs, “if this place works out, what’s our first move?”
“Furniture,” I answer. “Immediately. I refuse to live like a college student with a mattress on the floor.”
He laughs. “Bold stance.”
“I’m serious. I want a couch. A real one.”
“Something you can sink into after games,” he says. “Something that doesn’t feel temporary.”
The word lands softly but deliberately. “Exactly,” I say. “And a table. I want a table that doesn’t wobble.”
“Ambitious,” he says. “We should celebrate.”
“We should not celebrate by buying anything today,” I counter. “I need to pretend I’m responsible.”
He grins. “Fine. We can celebrate with food.”
“Always your solution.”
“It’s a good solution.”
We’re halfway down the block when I hear it. The click. Then another. It’s subtle at first, almost lost in the city noise, but my body reacts before my brain does. My shoulders tense. My stride falters.
Rafe feels it instantly. “Hey,” he says under his breath, calm and grounding. “Don’t panic.”
I glance up and see them—two photographers across the street, lenses already trained on us. One raises a hand, calling Rafe’s name like they’re old friends.
My heart slams hard enough that I taste it. I stop walking, but Rafe doesn’t. He keeps moving, hand coming up to rest briefly at my elbow—not gripping, not pulling. Just enough pressure to remind me where I am.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “They’re here for me.”
That helps. A little.
The cameras follow as we walk, shutters clicking steadily now. I keep my face neutral, gaze forward, every instinct screaming at me to disappear. Rafe lifts a hand in a casual wave, offering them nothing but acknowledgment.
“Rafe!” one of them calls. “Big night in Vegas!”
Rafe smiles, practiced but genuine. “It was fun.”
“Anyone special celebrating your success with you?” another voice asks.
Rafe doesn’t slow down. “Always.”
It’s vague enough to mean nothing and everything, and the photographers eat it up.
I swallow hard, keeping pace.
