That finally shuts him up.
Rafe glances at me then, something soft flickering through the afterglow in his eyes. It’s brief. Almost private. The kind of look that shouldn’t survive this much noise and light—but somehow does.
Mine.
Even here. Even now.
The rest of the crew begins to move toward the stage exit, ushering the band through the final obligations—photos, quick hellos, a few sponsor handshakes. The meet-and-greet crowd has been contained to a roped-off area. Still, it’s a lot.
Rafe turns toward me. He steps close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. Close enough that his heat moves through my shirt. “You okay?” he murmurs. His pupils are still wide, his grin too sharp.
When I get close enough to answer, I smell it—sweet and brutal. He’s already had more than one. “Yeah,” I lie, because he looks happy. “Proud,” I add, and mean it.
His mouth curves, quick and dangerous. “Good.” Then, softer—just for me—he adds, “I’m going to get you alone.”
My body reacts instantly, heat pooling low, like his words are fingers tracing my spine. I keep my face neutral. I have to. But my voice slips a little when I answer. “I’ll hold you to that.”
His gaze flickers down—just a fraction—like he’s reading the effect of his words on my body. Then he steps away because we don’t get to have everything right now.
The meet-and-greet is torture in small pieces.
I stand off to the side, arms folded, watching strangers press into Rafe’s space. Watching them touch him with their eyes. Listening to them say his name like it belongs to them. Watching him smile like it doesn’t cost him anything to give them those seconds.
I can tell it does, though. I can see it in the subtle tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders shift when someone lingers too long. The way he keeps his voice warm even when fatigue is starting to weigh him down.
And still, he performs, because this is what he’s becoming now.
A name.
Athingpeople want.
When it’s finally done, the band is ushered out a back exit, away from the crowd. Security moves in a tight cluster. Crew members lead them toward the vans.
I walk with them, pass still visible, hands shoved into my pockets to stop myself from reaching for him.
Outside, the night air hits my face like a slap—cooler, fresher, sharp enough to reset my lungs. The venue is still roaring behind us, fans lingering near the main entrance, hoping for another glimpse.
Rafe climbs into the van first. Eli after him. Drew and Miles follow. I’m last, and as soon as the door slides shut, the world becomes quieter. Rafe looks at me across the small space. Notlike a rock star now but like my husband. He reaches out, fingers brushing mine once, hidden in the angle of bodies and seats.
It’s tiny, but it’s everything.
The ride to the hotel is short, and somehow it feels like the longest part of the night. Everyone’s talking over one another, energy spilling out in bursts.
Eli is recounting some moment from the crowd when a guy in the front row passed out. Drew is laughing about a broken string mid-song. Miles is already thinking ahead to edits and audio, muttering about mixing levels.
Rafe leans back in his seat, eyes closed, smile lingering like an aftertaste. Every now and then he cracks one eye open and looks at me.
I sit still, hands clenched, body aching with the need to touch him properly.
When we finally arrive, there’s still more to get through—hotel lobby, a couple of people recognizing the band, photos requested politely, security doing their job. We move through it like a practiced dance. Rafe plays his role, and I play mine.
But the second we step into the elevator—the guys telling us to go ahead—the second the doors slide shut and the cameras are gone and the world is on the other side of metal and glass, Rafe turns to me like gravity has shifted.
His hands find my waist, my hands find his neck, and he kisses me hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not polite. It’s the kind of kiss that saysfinally.
I grip him tighter, pressing him back against the elevator wall, not caring about the mirrored panels or the possibility of someone joining us on the next floor. The hunger in the kiss is too sharp to be managed.
