He studies my face for a beat, like he’s checking for cracks. Then his hand slides up my back, palm warm. “You okay?”
I take a breath. My throat feels tight, but it’s not panic-tight. It’s emotion-tight. “I think so,” I say honestly. “I feel… less like I’m going to explode.”
Rafe exhales, relief softening his features. “Good.”
I shift upward, resting my chin on his chest so I can look at him properly. “Did you sleep for long?”
“A little,” he says. “I slept because you slept.”
The tenderness in that makes my chest ache. I swallow. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
His brows lift slightly. “Which part?”
I huff a laugh that sounds more broken than amused. “The part where my parents tried to rip you apart in front of me.”
Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice gentle. “That wasn’t you.”
“It was my family.”
“Still not you,” he insists. “And you didn’tletthem.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard, refusing to cry. I’m tired of tears sitting just behind my eyes like they own the place. “I didn’t want you in that room,” I admit.
“I know,” he says quietly.
“I wanted to keep you safe from them.”
Rafe’s expression softens. “Baby, I’ve been heckled by drunk men in dive bars. I’ve been told I’m ruining music. I’ve been threatened outside venues just for the color of my skin and my name. I’ve been called every name you can imagine.”
I tense.
He notices immediately and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt,” he adds quickly. “I’m saying you don’t have to protect me by pushing me away.”
I close my eyes for a second. “Okay,” I whisper.
He rubs my back in slow circles, and for a while, we just breathe together, letting the silence do what it can. Eventually, my stomach growls loudly enough that Rafe’s mouth twitches.
“Hungry?” he asks, amused.
“Yeah,” I admit, “I’m starving.”
He smiles faintly. “You want food, or do you want to keep pretending the world isn’t outside this door?”
“Both,” I say.
“That’s fair.”
He shifts, pulling himself upright slowly, then reaches for my hand beneath the covers. The contact steadies me again. It’s ridiculous how much that simple thing does. Like my nervous system is a dog that only calms down when it feels a familiar palm.
We get up together, moving slowly through the apartment like we’re still half asleep. Rafe pulls on sweatpants and an old band T-shirt. I throw on shorts and a hoodie. Neither of us bothers with anything else.
The kitchen is clean, because I’m compulsive like that, and Rafe immediately heads for the fridge. He opens it, stares inside, then makes a thoughtful noise.
“We have eggs,” he says.
“And optimism,” I reply automatically.
He grins. “Exactly.”
