I stare at it. It’s a normal message, and still my throat tightens.
Me: Just finishing in the gym. I’ll be home soon. I’m okay.
The lie is small enough to be forgiven.
I shove my phone into my pocket and head toward the locker room.
The gym is quiet—midday lull. I pass the dumbbell rack, the stationary bikes, the rowers that always look like punishment. My footsteps echo softly. The building staff smiles politely as I pass. No one looks too long.
No one knows what just happened.
That’s the strange thing. My entire life feels like it’s cracked open, and the world outside is still moving like nothing changed.
In the locker room, I peel my shirt off, twisting it into the towel. My skin is flushed. My muscles feel heavy, worked over, tired in the right way.
I shower fast, not because I’m in a rush, but because the solitude feels too loud. Water hits my scalp and runs over my shoulders, and I stay under it longer than necessary, eyes closed, trying to let the warmth unclench something inside me.
It doesn’t. It helps, though.
When I’m dressed again—fresh shirt, clean sweats—I take the elevator up to our floor. The ride is smooth, quiet, polished. I keep my hands in my pockets and don’t let myself think about yesterday’s elevator ride. About Rafe’s weight against my shoulder. About what it felt like to step into our apartment thinking we were safe.
I get to our door and pause, keys in my hand. For a second, I’m afraid. Not of someone being inside, but of the emptiness. Of walking into silence and realizing he’s still gone and I’m still alone with all of this.
The key turns, the lock clicks, and I step inside.
The relief is so sudden, so violent, it nearly knocks me off my feet. There are Converse by the door. Rafe’s. My breathing turns ragged, and I shut the door behind me, pressing my forehead against it for half a second.
Then I hear movement. Soft footsteps on the hardwood. The faint clink of something in the kitchen. The shuffle of a cabinet. I lift my head.
“Baby?” Rafe calls.
The word does something to me. It opens me up, makes me feel ridiculous and young and desperate all at once.
“I’m here,” I call back, my voice rough.
He appears in the hallway two seconds later, and the sight of him makes my whole body sag.
He’s in joggers and a black T-shirt, hair damp and wild like he showered too. He looks tired. Not tour-tired. Not stage-tired. The kind of tired that comes after a long day spent putting out fires.
His eyes find mine, and he stops. Just… stops. Like he’s taking me in. Like he can see the stress sitting in my posture, in my shoulders, in the way my hands won’t quite relax.
“Ollie,” he says softly.
I don’t answer. I just walk toward him.
Rafe puts down his glass, the ice cubes tinkling, and meets me halfway. When his arms wrap around me, I finally breathe properly for the first time since leaving that hotel. He holds me tight. No performative looseness. No carefulness. Full contact, like he’s trying to convince my nervous system that I’m safe.
I bury my face in his neck. He smells like our soap and something faintly citrusy.
Home.
“I’m sorry,” I say into his skin, because the words have been stuck in my throat for hours, and they keep looking for a way out.
“For what?” he murmurs immediately, tightening his hold.
“For being—” I swallow, voice cracking. “For being a mess.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands sliding up to cup my face. “You’re allowed,” he says. “You’re allowed to be a mess.”
