I snort. “That’s not a food group.”
He grins and reaches past me anyway, pulling things out with reckless confidence. What we end up with is technically lunch, if you’re generous about definitions. Sandwiches that are mostly bread and effort, cut crookedly and eaten standing at the counter while we argue about whether this counts as christening the kitchen.
“It absolutely does,” Rafe insists. “First meal. Very symbolic.”
“Symbolic of what?” I ask.
“That we will survive,” he says solemnly. “Despite ourselves.” He follows up with a wink, and I roll my eyes.
We carry our plates to the living room. Rafe stretches out on our new couch first, testing the depth, then pats the cushion beside him with a satisfied grin.
“Good purchase,” he declares.
“High praise,” I say, settling in next to him and letting my shoulder bump his. “From a man who once lived with a chair that doubled as a nightstand.”
“That chair was versatile,” he argues. “And misunderstood.”
I laugh and reach for the remote, flicking the television on more out of habit than intent. The screen lights up, cycling through menus and previews, and then freezes on a thumbnail I recognize immediately.
Rafe groans. “Oh no.”
I glance at him. “What?”
He shifts, trying to grab the remote, but I lean just out of reach. “You said you didn’t want to watch this,” he says quickly. “You’re tired. We should watch something dumb.”
“Bullshit,” I reply, already pressing Play. “You love watching yourself.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You do,” I say. “You just pretend you don’t because you’re supposed to be cool about it.”
He glares at me, but it’s half-hearted. “I hate it.”
“You hate it the way I hate reading game recaps about myself,” I counter. “Which is to say, you pretend it doesn’t matter and then reread it twice.”
“Thatis slander,” he says. “And also completely accurate.”
I snort out a laugh and dot a kiss on his lips before refocusing on the screen.
The chat show opens with the usual fanfare—bright lights, an enthusiastic host, applause that rolls through the studio like a wave. The band is announced, and the audience loses its mind.
Rafe sinks lower into the couch, tugging a cushion over his face. “Please turn it off.”
I snicker and peel the cushion away. “Nope. You’re not getting out of this.”
On-screen, he looks unreal. Relaxed. Charismatic in a way that fills the space effortlessly. Eli’s already cracking jokes. Drew sits back, letting the others take the lead. Miles leans forward when he talks, hands animated, eyes bright.
They look like they belong there.
The host asks about their impromptu Vegas Strip gig, about the tour that’s just been announced, about how fast everything is moving. Rafe answers smoothly, balancing charm and sincerity like he’s been doing it forever.
“See?” I say softly. “You’re great.”
He peeks at the screen, then back at me. “You’re biased.”
“True,” I admit. “But the audience isn’t.”
The camera pans across the crowd again, cheers rising, hands clapping. Hundreds of people, all focused on him. Onthem. I feel something twist in my chest—not jealousy, not exactly. Awe, maybe. A quiet recalibration.
