“Exactly,” Rafe says, deadpan. “That’s the point.” His grin is easy, but I catch the way he rubs at his temple for half a second before he smooths the expression away.
I focus on Miles as he tells a story about a producer who insisted on adding a tambourine to a track and ruined an entire day of studio work. Rafe laughs in that quiet way he has when he’s genuinely relaxed, shoulders easing, posture less guarded.
And I sit here absorbing it, letting myself be part of the circle.
Marco texts me from somewhere across town.
Marco: You hanging in there?
I smile and type back under the table.
Me: Barely. The guys insisted on forced socialization.
Marco: Happy birthday again. Tell him I approve.
I snort softly, even as my pulse jumps that Marco indicatedhimand notthem.
Rafe glances at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, warmth spreading. “Just… this is good.”
His expression softens instantly, like he knows exactly what I mean. He leans slightly closer, voice low. “Yeah. It is.”
Our food arrives. Plates crowded with eggs and toast and fruit and pancakes the size of Drew’s head. Coffee is poured. Silverware clinks. We start eating.
For ten minutes, it’s perfect. That’s how quickly everything changes now.
It starts with the door opening.
A group of girls steps in, chattering loudly. They look young—freshman age, maybe. Athletic shorts and big hoodies. Hair pulled into messy ponytails. One of them has a phone already in her hand like it’s an extension of her arm.
They freeze the second they see the booth. They whisper, and their faces change, and a pulse of unease runs down my spine. Rafe’s body goes still beside me, the way it always does when he senses it too. Miles’s hand lowers slowly to the table, fingers curling around his coffee cup like he’s grounding himself.
Eli mutters, “Oh no.”
Drew’s jaw tightens.
The girls don’t sit down. They don’t order. They just stare.
Then one of them squeals, high and sharp, and the sound slices through the café like a knife. “Oh my God, it’s them!”
Everyone looks up, and the room shifts. Rafe’s shoulders tense. He leans closer to the table, trying to make himself smaller without it being obvious. His hat brim dips lower. Sunglasses stay on.
It doesn’t matter. The girls surge forward like a wave.
“Rafe!” one of them shrieks.
“I love you!” another yells.
Phones appear like weapons.
“Can we get a picture?”
“Please, oh my God, please!”
“Steel Saints saved my life!”
They’re talking over one another, crowding the booth so fast it becomes claustrophobic. Their excitement is messy and frantic, not mean, but intense enough to be dangerous.
