And then after. The way the mansion finally emptied out. The way we stumbled upstairs, laughing and drunk on more than alcohol. The way Rafe’s hands had been everywhere, greedy and grateful, like he was trying to make up for every mile we’d been forced to swallow.
This morning, we didn’t rush.
We slept in properly. The kind of sleep that feels like recovery. Rafe had been sprawled beside me, limbs tangled with mine, warm and solid and home. He’d woken up slowly, mouth finding my shoulder, my jaw, my throat, kissing like he had nowhere else to be.
Because for once, he didn’t. Neither did I.
The tour is long over now. The tour that swallowed them whole and spat them out shinier and more famous and permanently altered. They’re home for a while. Not forever—nothing is forever in our world—but long enough to breathe before they finalize their plans for a world tour next year. Just as they’ll be due to fly out to London, I’ll be starting my third season with the Monarchs, all being well.
Long enough to pretend we can live like normal people.
Which is how we end up in this SUV as a group, driving out to some breakfast place Eli swears is “life-changing,” tucked away in a neighborhood far from tourist traps and paparazzi routes.
“Trust me,” Eli had said, throwing an arm around Drew’s shoulders like they were a couple of frat boys on spring break. “It’s off the beaten track. No one goes there.”
Miles had raised an eyebrow. “No one except you.”
“That’s why it’s safe,” Eli insisted.
Now we’re pulling up outside the place, and I have to admit, it looks… harmless.
It’s small, beige, definitely the kind of café you’d miss if you blinked. There’s a chalkboard sign out front advertising homemade pastries and “the best eggs in LA,” which feels like a claim no one should make without legal counsel.
Rafe is wearing a hat pulled low and sunglasses even though it’s technically cloudy. His curls still manage to escape around the edges, stubborn as always. I’m in a hoodie and sweats, looking like every other tall athlete trying to disappear.
The guys pile out of the car first—Eli immediately loud, Drew scanning the area like he’s learned caution the hard way, Miles with the keys already in his hand like he plans for exits. Rafe and I follow more slowly, our shoulders brushing as we walk.
It’s stupidly domestic. It’s also rare enough that I can feel myself trying to hoard it.
Inside, it smells like coffee and warm bread and butter. The air is cozy. There’s low music playing from speakers that are too old to sound good. A few people sit scattered at tables, mostly older couples and one person in the corner on a laptop.
No one screams. No one points. No one even looks up for more than a second. Relief loosens something tight in my chest.
We slide into a booth near the back. Eli immediately reaches for the menu, already acting like he’s starving.
“We should do this more,” Drew says, sounding surprised.
Eli snorts. “Speak for yourself. I hate mornings.”
“You love mornings,” Miles counters without looking up. “You just hate yourself.”
“That’s true,” Eli concedes. “But it’s different.”
Rafe’s knee bumps mine under the table. His hand stays in his lap, but his thigh presses into mine, a silent reminder that he’s here. That he’s real. That we’ve got two uninterrupted days and nights planned before I’m back on the road and he’s back in studios and meetings.
The waitress comes over. She’s bright-eyed, barely twenty, chewing gum like she’s doing it out of spite. She takes our orders without hesitation and doesn’t react at all when Rafe speaks. She doesn’t flinch or widen her eyes. She doesn’t do the thing people do now—recognition followed by excitement they try to pretend isn’t excitement.
She just nods and scribbles.
“Nice,” Eli says when she leaves. “Normal.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Miles mutters.
We talk while we wait. Not about anything heavy, just stupid stuff. Eli complains about a hangover that isn’t real. Drew mocks him.
Rafe bumps his shoulder into mine. “If Eli says the wordhangoverone more time, I’m ordering him a Bloody Mary the size of his head.”
“It’s 10:00 a.m.,” I murmur.
