As soon as we turn the corner, Rafe pulls his phone out, already dialing. “I’m calling the guys,” he says. “We’ll get a drink. Public place. Nothing weird.”
“Rafe—”
“They’re going to follow us anyway,” he says gently. “Might as well give them something boring. Plus, we’re raising our ‘friendship’ profile, right?”
Right. I did ask him for that.
I exhale shakily. “Okay.”
We duck into a bar not far from the studio district. Rafe steps inside first, shoulders relaxing almost immediately as the noise shifts from street chaos to background hum. The photographers linger outside, snapping a few last shots through the window, then peel off once it’s clear nothing dramatic is happening.
I sag slightly against the bar.
“You good?” Rafe asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… that was fast.”
He nods. “Welcome to my world.”
A few minutes later, the band arrives like a storm.
Eli comes in first, tall and broad, already grinning like he’s mid-story. Drew follows, quieter but observant, guitar case slung over his shoulder out of habit. Miles brings up the rear, scanning the room like he’s clocking acoustics even in a bar.
“There he is,” Eli announces, clapping Rafe on the back. “Mr. Popular.”
Rafe laughs. “You say that like I’m eating this shit up.”
“That’s your brand,” Drew says dryly before he turns to me and hugs me fast and hard. “Where the fuck have you been hiding?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, stepping away. “Practice and games are no joke. Good to see you guys.”
Eli pats my back. “Man, we caught the game last week. You’re killing it.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, meaning it, as Miles gives me a smile and an up nod.
We grab a booth near the back. Beers appear quickly. I focus on the condensation on my glass, grounding myself in something solid.
“So,” Miles says, leaning back. “Apartment hunting, huh?”
Rafe shoots him a look. “You don’t know that.”
Miles smirks. “You literally texted the group chat.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “It’s fine. I—” I swallow hard, remembering I can be real with these guys. “—weneed a place.”
“Good,” Drew says. “You guys deserve a real home base.”
Something about the way he says it—simple, sincere—eases the tightness in my chest.
Conversation flows easily after that. Games bleed into shows, schedules overlap in strange ways, and for a while, it feels like we’re all just people navigating momentum together. I forget about the cameras outside. I forget about optics.
Until someone at the bar asks for a photo with Rafe and the guys.
Then another.
Then another.
They handle it effortlessly, standing, smiling, never lingering too long. I stay seated, nursing my drink, watching the way attention bends toward Rafe, the front man, like gravity.
