I stare at his last message.
I don’t know yet.
And God—he sounds like he’s falling. Like he’s holding on to the edge of something and isn’t sure if his grip is strong enough.
My phone buzzes again.
Rafe: Are you alone?
Me: Yeah.
The phone rings immediately after I send it. I answer on the first buzz, voice rough. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. So quiet it scrapes. His voice has that particular looseness in it—too warm around the edges. Not drunk. Not sloppy. Just… less guarded. Like the lid isn’t screwed on properly.
I can hear muffled noise behind him—voices, movement, something that might be music leaking through walls like a pulse. Maybe he’s backstage. Maybe he’s in a hallway. Maybe he ducked into a stairwell like we’ve done a thousand times, hiding like college students in the rehearsal rooms.
“I didn’t want to do this over text,” he says.
“I’m glad you called,” I tell him, and I mean it with my whole chest.
He exhales, and I can hear the strain in it. Like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. “I keep thinking about it,” he says. “How we missed it. And I hate that I didn’t even notice until I’d already—” He stops and swallows something down. “Never mind. I just hate it.”
“We didn’t miss it because we don’t care,” I say.
“I know.” His voice jumps, sharp with panic. “I know, Ollie. I just—fuck.” He exhales again, harder. “I don’t want this stuff to start slipping.”
The words hit me like a shove, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. I just haven’t said it.
I roll onto my side, clutching the phone to my ear like it’s the only stable thing in the room. “Where are you?”
“Cleveland.” He pauses like the city tastes wrong. “We just got back,” he adds. “Everyone’s still up. I escaped.” A beat follows before he adds softly, “Too much tequila in the green room. We have a show tomorrow. Then Pittsburgh. Then Philly.”
“That routing is criminal,” I say automatically.
He huffs a laugh, and it’s weak but it’s there. “You should see the map. It’s like someone planned it as a joke.”
“And you’re only three weeks in,” I say.
“Please don’t say that,” he groans, and it’s almost normal. Almost him.
“I’m in Phoenix,” I tell him. “We had a game tonight. We fly back to LA tomorrow.”
“Did you play? I’m sorry, I haven’t had the chance to watch the highlights.”
“It’s fine, and yeah, I did. Decent minutes.” I swallow. “I kept thinking I’d text you after.”
“I know,” he says softly. “Me too.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind of silence that only happens between people who already know each other’s guilt.
“I don’t want us to just survive this,” he says finally.
That lands. Because I don’t either. Because surviving is what you do when you’re waiting for something to end. And this isn’t ending. Not if we can help it.
“We’re not,” I say, voice steady even when my chest doesn’t feel steady. “We’re just… tired.”
“I miss loud,” he admits.
