“Happy anniversary,” he echoes.
I lean in and kiss him.
It’s gentle and unhurried. His mouth is warm, still soft with sleep. He slides his hand up to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair like he needs the anchor.
When we pull back, he stays close. Close enough that our noses brush.
“Twelve years,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“We were insane.”
“We still are,” I say.
His lips twitch. “Speak for yourself. I’m a model of maturity now.”
I raise a brow. “You picked a fight with a cereal brand on Threads last week.”
“They deserved it.”
“They did not deserve a ten-part thread.”
“They absolutely did.”
I huff a quiet laugh, and the sound feels lighter than anything I’ve known in years.
Then he shifts again, and this time there’s no missing it.
Rafe’s gaze drops between us, and the slow, wicked smile that spreads across his face is familiar enough to make heat coil low in my stomach.
“Well,” he says, voice roughening. “This is… festive.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re the one who woke up like this.”
“You’re the one grinding against me in your sleep.”
“Self-defense.”
“Sure.”
He nudges me with his hip, deliberately this time, and I inhale sharply despite myself.
“That shoulder okay?” he asks, tone changing just enough to show he means it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sore, but manageable.”
“Good,” he murmurs. Then, softer, he adds, “I hate not being able to fix that.”
“You do plenty,” I tell him.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a moment where everything goes quiet again. The world outside the hotel room stays distant. No press. No cameras. No noise. Just us.
