It’s strange, being this close to it. Sure, I get attention, asked for autographs, but I’m small time compared to Steel Saints, who are everywhere. You can’t switch on the radio or a talk show without some mention of them.
When Rafe comes back, he drops into the booth beside me, thigh brushing mine. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say honestly.
He studies me. “You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. I just… haven’t been on this side of quite so much attention before.”
He smiles softly. “You will be.”
The thought sends a ripple of something uneasy through me. But for now, we’re here. Together. Laughing with friends. Making plans about furniture and food and all the small, ordinary things that feel radical because they’re ours.
Outside, the city keeps watching. Inside, despite the noise and the cameras and the rules we still haven’t figured out, I feel something steady take root. This will be hard, but here, inside Rafe’s expanding orbit, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I don’t want to step out of it, even if it means learning how to live in the light.
7
Movingday feels unreal in a way I can’t quite name. I don’t think it’s because it’s chaotic—it isn’t—but I suppose because this whole move was deliberate. We planned it and chose it for ourselves. This isn’t something happeningtome. It’s something I’ve decided, with intention, with eyes open, knowing exactly what it costs.
The apartment has been filling up quietly over the last few days. Deliveries scheduled around practice. Boxes dropped off. Furniture assembled in stages so it doesn’t all arrive at once. A couch that’s brand-new and actually fits the space. A table that doesn’t wobble. Chairs that don’t look like they were salvaged from a college apartment on its last legs.
None of it feels temporary, and all of it’s ours.
Rafe insisted we do it this way. Set things up before we actually move in, so the first night isn’t spent tripping over boxes or arguing about where things go.
“I want it to feel like we’re arriving somewhere,” he said. “Not camping.”
I didn’t argue.
Now we stand in the hallway outside the apartment, the last of our bags at our feet. Rafe’s amp rests against the wall besidethem, scuffed and familiar, like a marker he’s planted without meaning to.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
The door opens smoothly, and we step inside together.
The light hits first. Afternoon sun pours through the windows, warming the space in a way it didn’t during the viewing. The couch sits exactly where we pictured it, angled toward the windows instead of the television. The rug grounds the room. The table catches the light just right, already bearing the faint promise of scratches and spills and history.
For a moment, we just stand here. Then, without really thinking about it, I set my bags down and slip my necklace off.
I slide my ring on. It settles at the base of my finger like it’s always belonged there. Like I’ve been holding something in place until now.
Rafe’s breath catches. “You didn’t even hesitate,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want to,” I answer. “Not here.”
Something soft breaks across his face. He steps closer, slow this time, reverent. “God,” he murmurs. “I love that.”
I laugh under my breath, a little unsteady. “I love you.”
The words land between us, solid and sure.
He cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “I love you too.” Then he kisses me.
There’s no hesitation. No checking the hallway. No pulling back after a second to remind ourselves where we are. The door is closed. The lock clicks softly behind us. The city is outside, moving on without us, and this space—this exact square footage—is ours.
His hands move over me like he’s relearning something familiar, mapping me again just to be sure. I pull him closer, my fingers curling into his jacket, every nerve lit up by the simplefact of it: the ease, the permission, the lack of borrowed time pressing down on us.
