The door clicks shut behind us, and I swear the sound feels final.
Without thinking—without weighing optics or consequences—I reach out and take Rafe’s hand. I shouldn’t add fuel to the fire, but I don’t care. His fingers curl around mine instantly, firm and grounding. The contact steadies me in a way nothing else could. I feel braver with him here, even as every instinct screams that this is going to hurt.
My father turns from the window slowly. “Oliver,” he says, like he’s greeting a disappointing acquaintance rather than his son.
“Dad,” I reply evenly.
My mother’s gaze never leaves Rafe. Not even for a second. “So,” she says coolly, “you decided to bring him.”
Rafe shifts slightly, but I squeeze his hand before he can speak.
“Yes,” I say, “I did.”
My father exhales through his nose, a sound heavy with disapproval. “This whole thing is foolish.”
There it is. No preamble. No concern dressed up as care. Straight to judgment.
“You’ve made a rash decision,” he continues. “One that will have long-term consequences.”
“I’m aware,” I say.
My mother finally looks at me then, eyes cool and assessing. “Then you should be aware that this marriage—” She pauses deliberately, as if the word itself offends her. “—is a mistake.”
Notyou’re gay. Notthis is a phase. Butmarriage. That’s what they’re stuck on. I have no idea if I should be relieved by that or not.
“How long has this been going on?” she asks sharply. “This… situation.”
I hesitate. Just for a second. Rafe feels it immediately. His thumb presses lightly against my knuckle, a quiet reminder that I don’t have to protect him by lying.
“Almost three years,” I say.
My mother’s brows knit. “Three years?”
“Yes.”
She stares at me. “You met at college?”
“Yes,” I say.
My father steps forward a fraction. “And how long have you been married?”
The room feels smaller. I swallow. “We got married two years ago. In March.”
The words sit there, solid and irreversible.
My mother’s face drains of color. “Two years,” she repeats faintly.
My father’s jaw tightens. “You’re telling us you’ve been married for two years.”
“Yes.” Irritation scurries over my skin.
“And you didn’t think to tell us,” my mother says, voice brittle, “at any point?”
“I didn’t,” I say quietly. “Because I knew exactly how this would go.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “You lied to us.”
“I protected myself,” I reply.
