My grin hasn’t slipped,a miracle since tonight was absolutely not what I wanted. But apparently my husband knows me better than I know myself and insisted on this party for my birthday like it was a nonnegotiable act of public service.
“You need it,” he’d said. “No excuses. No hiding. No slipping away to watch film or pretend you’re tired.”
I’d tried.
I told him I didn’t want the attention. That I didn’t need anything. That birthdays weren’t a big deal.
He’d smiled like he’d already won. “That’s exactly why you need it.”
Now I’m standing in the middle of Steel Saints’ new house—mansion, technically, because calling this place a house feels like lying to myself—trying to keep my face neutral while Eli shouts over the music that this is the best night of my life.
“It’s your birthday!” he yells again, throwing his hands up like he’s announcing the cure for a rare STD. “You’re legally obligated to have fun!”
“Not legally,” I shout back.
“Spiritually!” he corrects, then points at me with his drink like he’s cracked a code. “You look like you’d rather be doing suicides.”
“I would rather be doing suicides.”
He gasps theatrically. “Disgusting.”
Someone behind me laughs—Marco, I think—and the sound makes my shoulders loosen even more. That’s the thing. I’m actually enjoying this.
I’m having fun.
The living room is packed, and I can tell Rafe has curated this guest list like he’s assembling a damn festival lineup. There are my teammates—only the ones I actually like, the ones who feel safe, the ones who have never made me regret trusting them over the past eighteen or so months. There are their partners, laughing, holding drinks, blending in like this isn’t insane. There are the band guys. There are a couple of friends from college I’ve stayed in touch with. There are a few faces I recognize from red carpets and press photos, people I’ve only ever seen online, now just… leaning against the kitchen island with a beer in hand like they’re normal.
There’s a DJ in the corner who looks like he belongs onstage, headphones around his neck, spinning something that makes the floor pulse under our feet. A banner hangs over the far wall with my name on it in massive letters, because of course it does.
I catch sight of it and groan.
Rafe appears at my side like he’s been summoned by my annoyance. He’s wearing black jeans and a fitted shirt, curls shoved back from his face in a small ponytail-bun thing, eyes bright with satisfaction. He looks rested in a way that still surprises me sometimes, now that the tour is long over and he’s had time to actually sleep. For a while.
He leans in close, mouth brushing my ear. “Don’t glare at the banner.”
“I’m not glaring,” I lie.
“You’re glaring,” he murmurs with amusement. “It says ‘happy birthday.’ It’s not an enemy.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“I did,” he says, completely unapologetic.
I shift my weight, letting my shoulder bump his. “You’re insane.”
He smiles like I just complimented him. “You love me.”
“I do,” I admit in a whisper, and the ease of saying it catches me off guard even after all this time. It’s still a dangerous thing, saying it out loud in a room full of people, even if no one can hear us clearly.
Rafe’s gaze softens for half a second, something private and tender flashing between us. Then he straightens and turns that charm outward again like he’s slipping back into a performance.
“Okay,” he announces, clapping his hands once. “Birthday boy needs a drink.”
“I already have one,” I say, lifting my bottle in mild protest.
“That’s not what I meant,” he replies, eyes glinting. “You need the kind of drink that makes you stop thinking.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
