“Yeah.”
“You’ve only been to a couple of my away games.”
“Guess it’s time for a couple more. At least.”
He huffs a breath, overwhelmed. “Rafe….”
I brush my thumb over his hip absently. “We’ll look at your schedule. Figure it out properly. I’m not winging it.”
He nods slowly. “And if it gets messy?” he asks.
“It’s already messy,” I point out. “We survived that.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to wait until the season’s over,” he adds quietly. “If you wanted to, I’d understand.”
I hate that idea instantly. Waiting until the season ends? Standing on the sidelines of his life while he finishes this chapter alone?
“No,” I say, sharper than I intend. I soften my tone. “I don’t want that.”
He searches my face.
“I don’t want to be the thing you come back to when it’s convenient,” I explain. “I want to be part of it.”
His throat works. “That’s a lot of spotlight and hanging around waiting for me,” he warns.
“I’ve lived in worse.”
That earns a faint smile. He runs his hand through his hair, thinking. “We’ll need to talk to your team about schedules. Security. What we say. What we don’t.”
“I know.”
“And you still have stuff to do in California.”
“I’ll handle it.”
He nods slowly.
The gratitude in his eyes is almost too much.
“You don’t have to save me from my own season,” he says finally.
“I’m not saving you,” I reply. “I’m showing up.”
That lands.
He goes quiet for a second, just looking at me. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay.”
The weight of it settles between us.
We’re not pretending this will be easy. We’re not ignoring logistics or headlines or the fact that my name is currently trending alongside his. But we’re not deferring it either.
He presses his forehead to mine again, softer this time. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For letting me in.”
