The knife.
Shit.
I hope he told her. I hope she didn’t have to find out from headlines or grainy footage. It feels surreal how little space it’s taken up in my head—the cold splash of liquid across my face, the flash of silver, the scream. In that moment at the gala, my heart had nearly stopped.
And yet since then, it’s like my brain filed it somewhere high and out of reach. Deferred. Postponed. Something to deal with later.
Right now, my whole world is Rafe and the fragile, impossible hope of us.
His shoulders drop, tension easing in the way it only ever seems to around his mom.
Then she turns to me. Her eyes soften, and she hugs me like she means it. It’s not a polite pat. Not a careful celebrity-distance gesture. It’s a full, tight, mother hug.
It calms me for a second. Tells me, unequivocally, that I’m safe here.
I tower over her, awkward for half a moment, and then something in me just… gives. I wrap my arms around her gently and feel emotion clogging my throat. There’s magic in her hold. I don’t know how else to describe it. Like the warmth goes straight through the walls I’ve spent my whole life building.
It makes me think of my grandma. She gave the best hugs. The kind that smelled like flour and perfume and unconditional love. The kind that made my heart feel less hollow.
I miss her so sharply it nearly knocks me over.
I wish she hadn’t died so young. I wish she could see me now—standing in a home where love is offered without conditions.
Rafe’s mother pulls back and looks up at me, hands still on my arms. “Oliver,” she says, like she’s been expecting me. “Bienvenido. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I manage, voice rough. “It’s… it’s good to see you again.”
Her eyes flick toward my face, no doubt taking in the tension around my eyes. Her brow furrows with concern, but she doesn’t pry. Instead, she pats my arm again and turns her attention back to Rafe, still speaking Spanish, still fussing.
His father appears a second later just as Rafe reaches for me, wiping his hands on a towel.
He’s taller than his wife, broad-shouldered, face lined with quiet strength. His eyes land on our joined hands. He pauses, then steps forward and offers me his hand.
Firm grip. Solid. Respectful.
“Oliver,” he says. His English is strong, accented. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, sir.”
He pulls me into a brief, strong hug that surprises me. It’s fast, masculine, warm in the way dads sometimes are when they don’t want to get emotional in front of anyone. Then he claps Rafe’s shoulder and mutters something in Spanish that makes Rafe roll his eyes affectionately.
Vinny stays near the door, a silent presence, giving us our moment while still scanning like it’s his religion.
Rafe’s mom finally notices him properly and smiles. “Vinny,” she says, like she knows him too.
Vinny nods politely. “Ma’am.”
She gestures at him like he’s part of the family. “You eat?”
Vinny’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. “Maybe later.” He clears his throat, professional again. “I’ll be outside. If you want to go anywhere, call me and give me thirty minutes’ notice.”
Rafe’s dad nods. “Gracias.”
Vinny leaves. The door shuts behind him. And suddenly, it’s just… us.
Rafe leads us into a sitting room off the kitchen. It’s warm and bright, furniture comfortable without being fancy. Family photos are on the walls—Rosa as a kid, Rafe in braces, Rafe holding a guitar too big for him, Rafe looking like he belonged even before the world told him he did.
His mom has snacks out already. A spread on the coffee table like she’s been preparing for this since sunrise.
