Sure, I play in front of packed arenas now. I hear my name sometimes when I check in. I’m becoming recognizable in ways that still feel abstract, like something happening a step removed from me. But this—this is different. Rafe isn’t just good at what he does. He’s magnetic. He commands attention in a way that doesn’t ask permission.
He notices my quiet and nudges me with his knee. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… watching.”
He smiles faintly and turns his attention back to the screen, one arm draped along the back of the couch behind me. I lean into his side without thinking, fitting there like it’s always been this way. My ring presses cool against his hip when I shift, and I feel the weight of it in a new way—not heavy, just real.
The interview rolls on. They talk about songwriting, about influences, about how it feels to suddenly be everywhere. Rafe jokes about impostor syndrome, about still being surprised when people know the words.
The audience laughs, but I catch the truth beneath it. The way his shoulders tense just slightly when he talks about expectations. The careful humility. The awareness that this thing could tip at any moment.
“You always say that,” I murmur.
He glances down at me. “Say what?”
“That you’re surprised.”
He shrugs. “I am.”
I tilt my head, studying his profile. “You shouldn’t be.”
He smiles, soft and a little shy. “Coming from you, that means something.”
The show ends to another round of applause, the screen cutting to credits. I let it play out, not ready to break the momentjust yet. The room feels full in a way it didn’t an hour ago, like it’s already absorbing us.
Rafe exhales slowly. “Okay. You were right. That wasn’t terrible.”
“High praise,” I echo.
He laughs and presses a kiss into my hair, brief and unguarded. “Thank you for making me watch myself.”
“Anytime,” I say. “I’ll add it to my list of services.”
We sit together for a while after, not talking much. The afternoon light shifts across the room, catching on the table, the rug, the corners of the space that are already starting to feel lived-in. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, distant enough to ignore.
Eventually, Rafe moves. “So. Thanksgiving.”
I glance at him. “What about it?”
“Do you know your schedule yet?”
“Kind of,” I say. “We’ve got practice that week. And a game. It’s… not ideal.”
He nods, thoughtful. “So you’re not going to see your parents.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I say. “I told them I couldn’t make it. Used practice and the game as an excuse.” Guilt flickers through me, familiar and sharp. “They weren’t thrilled.”
Rafe studies my face. “Do you want to go?”
I hesitate, fingers worrying the edge of the cushion. “I feel like I should.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want to,” I admit. “Not this year.”Or any year if I can’t be with Rafe.
He’s quiet for a moment, then says carefully, “I wasn’t planning to go home either.”
