“You’re worth every single hard thing,” he continues. “And I don’t want easy if it doesn’t include you.”
I stare at him. Something in my expression must shift—some crack in my armor—because his face softens again. He kisses me slowly, sweetly, all warmth and love.
Then he settles back and pulls me closer. “We’re going to sleep,” he murmurs. “Just for a little while.”
“What about—” I start, but he presses his lips to my forehead.
“Not yet,” he says. “Not right now.”
I know what he means.
Security.
Phones.
Plans.
The fallout.
He’s keeping it at bay for me. For us. Giving me a pocket of peace before we have to face it.
I nod. “Okay,” I whisper.
Rafe hums softly in approval and tightens his hold, and I let my eyes close.
For the first time since yesterday, my body stops bracing for impact.
For the first time since my mother entered my apartment, I feel like I can breathe again.
Rafe is here, and I’m not alone.
And even though I’m terrified of what changes next—of what the world will demand from us now that my parents know, now that the fans have hands and hunger and cameras—there’s something else under the fear.
A quiet strength, because I chose him. Out loud. In front of everyone who ever tried to own me.
And that choice is still mine.
I fall asleep with my hand on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, letting it remind me that the future can be loud and frightening, but I’m not facing it alone.
I wakeup to the sound of my own breathing. For a second, I don’t know where I am, because the last twenty-four hours have made every room feel interchangeable. Hotel suite. Elevator. Car. Our apartment. My brain has been filing everything into one long, blurred crisis.
Then I feel Rafe’s arm around me, solid and familiar, his chest warm against my cheek.
Home.
The curtains are still half drawn. The light in the room has shifted lower, the afternoon sliding toward evening. My body feels heavy in that good way—sleep-weighted, muscles loose instead of clenched.
I lie still, listening.
Rafe’s breathing is even. He’s asleep. His hair’s a mess against the pillow. His mouth is slightly open, his face softened in the way it only is when he’s not performing. Not managing. Not bracing.
I watch him for a moment and feel something swell in my chest that is equal parts love and guilt. He could be anywhere. With anyone. Yet he’s here, in this bed, holding me like I’m something precious.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but the movement is enough. Rafe’s arm tightens reflexively. His eyes blink open, slow and unfocused at first.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
