Rafe makes a sound that I feel more than hear, and it tips me over the edge with him. Everything tightens. Everything breaks open. For a moment, there’s nothing except the rush of it—burning, overwhelming, unmistakably ours.
After, he slumps into me like gravity finally claims him.
When the intensity finally ebbs, it doesn’t leave emptiness behind. It leaves warmth. It leaves that heavy, satisfied quiet that only exists when two people who’ve been stretched thin finally get to fold into each other again.
Rafe collapses beside me, dragging me close until I’m half sprawled across his chest. His skin is still hot. His heartbeat is steady under my ear.
For a while, we just breathe. Then he shifts slightly and reaches toward the bedside table.
I lift my head. “What are you doing?”
“Wait,” he says. He pulls something out of the drawer and holds it up like it’s sacred. A small, folded piece of paper.
I blink. “What is that?”
Rafe looks suddenly shy, which is ridiculous on him. “Open it.”
I sit up slowly and take it. The paper unfolds into something simple: a torn-out page from a hotel notepad. On it, in his handwriting, is a list.
Not a setlist but a list of moments.
1. Your laugh in the kitchen.
2. The first time you wore your ring in our apartment.
3. Your hands on my face when you told me you were proud.
4. When you said “always” like it was a promise you meant.
5. Tonight.
At the bottom, he’s written:
One year. A thousand stolen pieces. Still you.
Emotion climbs into my throat so fast it feels like I might choke. “Rafe,” I manage.
“I didn’t have anything else,” he says quickly. “I’m in a hotel. I couldn’t exactly buy you a gift.”
“This is better,” I whisper.
He looks at me carefully. “Yeah?”
I nod, eyes burning. “It’s perfect.”
He smiles softly, before reaching up to wipe at the corner of my eye with his thumb. “You’re not allowed to cry on our anniversary.”
“I’m not crying,” I lie badly. “And it’s not technically our anniversary anymore.”
He laughs, quiet and warm. “Sure. And maybe we start celebrating twice if the second date means you come apart so fucking beautifully.”
Heat floods my cheeks. This man and his pretty words will always have the power to undo me. I fold the paper carefully and set it back on the bedside table like it’s something fragile. Like it deserves protection.
Then I crawl back into him. Once I’m in his arms, Rafe holds me so tightly, it’s almost painful, like he’s trying to lock this moment into his bones.
I sigh contently. The distance doesn’t feel like this defining thing. It’s there. It always will be. But right now, in this room, with the music still ringing faintly in my ears and the taste of him still on my lips, love feels louder.
11
