“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. Go.”
“Text me when you land,” he adds automatically.
I smile. “You mean when you land.” He’s got a flight before I do.
A huff of laughter. “Right. Habit.”
“I love you,” I say, and it comes out easy. There’s no weight on it this time. Just truth.
“I love you too,” he answers, steady and sure.
The line clicks dead. I lie here staring at the ceiling, phone still pressed to my ear like it might ring again if I don’t move. It doesn’t. Slowly, I lower my hand and set the phone on the pillow beside me. The room is exactly the same as it was before—same beige walls, same rattling air conditioner, same blinking red numbers on the clock.
3:02 a.m.
But it feels… different, lighter, almost like someone cracked a window somewhere and fresh air finally found its way in. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling fan, watching it spin lazily, trying to convince my body to settle.
It doesn’t. My heart is still racing, but not from panic now. No, instead, anticipation thrums through my veins from the image of him waiting side stage, eyes locked on me like I belong there too. From the idea of one night that doesn’t belong to anyone else—no crowd, no schedule, no pretending.
Just us.
The thought makes my chest tighten again, but this time it’s sharp with something closer to fear. Because now there’s something to lose. Because now there’s something to count down to.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, pacing the length of the room once, twice. My footsteps sound too loud on the carpet. I stop by the window and pull the curtain back a few inches. Phoenix glows below—streetlights, headlights, life continuing without any regard for my internal crisis. I press my forehead to the glass, letting the cool seep in.
One night,I think. One night isn’t a lot. But it’s enough. It has to be.
I exhale slowly and let the curtain fall back into place. Grab my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. I open my calendar and scroll forward.
There it is. Denver. I add a note beneath it before I can talk myself out of it:Anniversary. The word looks strange there, heavy and real, and a week too late. I lock the phone and set it down again, more carefully this time. Then I lie back on the bed and close my eyes.
Sleep, thankfully, feels possible. And as I drift, the last thing I think is how terrifying it is—how fragile and bright—to want something this badly again. To want him.
10
Rafe live onstage,a crowd far more vocal than I’ve ever experienced before, is a sight to behold. I’ve played in arenas with thousands of cheering fans. I’ve heard my name chanted, seen posters held up in the stands, felt the collective inhale of a crowd right before a buzzer-beater. I know what noise is.
This is different. This is worship.
The venue throbs with it—sound and heat and bodies pressed close together, every inch of air vibrating with anticipation. The lights are so bright, they bleach the stage into something mythic, and still he stands out. Still Rafe manages to make the space feel like it was built around him.
He’s magic as he works the audience. I swear this damn husband of mine seduces them into submission, making each person who stares up at him like he’s some kind of rock god feel privileged to see him like this.
And I get it. I seriously do.
Steel Saints are tearing the stage apart. Eli’s drums hit like a heartbeat with teeth. Drew’s rhythm guitar is relentless, driving the songs forward with brutal precision. Miles moves like he’s part of the instrument, coaxing sound out of his strings thatfeels like it’s crawling up my spine. And Rafe—Rafe is the storm they’ve all learned how to ride.
I stand in the side-stage shadows where no one in the audience can see me, tucked behind equipment cases and crew. My pass hangs against my chest, lanyard tight at the back of my neck. I’m trying to look casual, like I belong here as a friend of the band.
Like I’m not the man he belongs to.
The music slams through the building and into my bones. Every bass note rattles my ribs. Sweat and alcohol and perfume mix into something thick and sweet in the air, a scent that clings to skin and clothes and makes the whole venue feel alive. It isn’t just fans either—this whole place smells like a party no one ever lets end. Like everybody needs something in their hand to make the noise feel manageable.
Rafe leans into the mic, voice rough and beautiful. The crowd screams like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for him to speak.
And maybe they have.
Six months ago, Steel Saints were popular. Rising. Buzzing. Now, they’re something else. They’re a phenomenon people talk about the way you talk about weather. Like you can’t stop it. Like you just have to brace for it and hope you survive.
