After a long pause, she says, “I know you were trying to fix it this morning.”
“I was trying tosmooth it over,” I admit. “So you’d come to the studio. I didn’t putfixing ithigh on the list of possibilities.”
Her mouth curves faintly, somewhere between amusement and ache. “I could tell you were at least trying. More than Haima did.”
“Rithy doesn’tapologize,” I say. “But I do, and I’m sorry.” I pause, because it’s true and because I need her to hear the rest. “I won’t let him do that again, I promise. I won't let him hurt you, not with wordsorweapons.”
She turns her head toward me, sighs. “Do you reallyalwaystalk this way? Like everything’s poetry?"
I grin, eyes on the road. “Here and there. Sometimes I even set it to music.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now, small, reluctant. The tension eases; the edges soften. By the time we reach the restaurant, a low-lit place tucked by the bay where the others said they’d meet, the air between us has changed. It’s no longer brittle, it’s bright again. I park and kill the engine, but neither of us moves. The water reflects across the windshield, turning the car into an aquarium of color. The silence between us grows thick, alive.
I can feel her eyes on me and I turn just enough to meet them. There are a thousand things I want to say, that I’ve never seen her as anything less than that goddess, that I didn’t sleep, that her voice is still caughtsomewhere in my chest, that not touching her feels like fire carving it’s way into myfucking bonesbut all that comes out is:
“Thanks, for accepting the ride, for coming to dinner. You didn’t have to.”
Her voice is soft, but steady. “Well, you asked me to.Nicely.”
She looks at me for another long second, then reaches for the handle. The spell breaks with the click of the door. We walk inside together, side by side, two people caught in the fragile peace between us and whatever comes next.
Chapter 33
Whoever Needs Saving
Rafe
The restaurant is all low lights and conversation, the kind of place that pretends not to care how beautiful it is, rough wood tables, open windows facing the bay, the smell of salt and citrus threading through the air. Music floats from the bar, a lazy jazz rhythm slow enough to let the night breathe.
We spot the others near the back. A long table, half-empty wine bottles, laughter echoing. Ronan waves us over, hair pulled back, already holding two glasses of something pale and fizzing. “You’re late,” he announces. “Which means you buy the next round.”
“Only if you promise to save the most expensive drinks for Kiri's round.” I say, sliding into the seat across from him. Kasia settles beside me, bag tucked neatly under the chair, the picture of composure.
Rithy’s looking more human than he did this morning, but not by much. The sunglasses are still on, posture loose in that calculated way that means he’s watching everything. Kiri is halfway through astory about a near-death taxi ride, and the guys from Szklane Serce are laughing like they haven’t been awake for twenty hours straight.
Kasia greets them in Polish, fluent and warm, and the entire table brightens. It’s instant. Even the waiter pauses for a second, probably wondering who she is. I watch her while pretending not to. The way her hands move when she speaks. The way her laugh lands, the way Rithy’s jaw tightens every single time she smiles.
Ronan raises his glass for a toast, switching between three languages, each pronunciation worse than the last. “To good music, good company, and survival,” he declares, and everyone drinks to that.
Kasia takes a sip, catches me looking, and arches an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just… seeing you like this. You fit.”
She smirks. “In a band full of chaos?”
“In any room you walk into.”
She laughs, shaking her head, but the sound is softer now, warmer. For a while, everything feels easy. Plates arrive, conversation overlaps, the table drifts into that familiar noise of people who’ve lived too long on adrenaline and too little sleep. Kiri is telling the Berlin pastry story again; Ronan complains about humidity and drum skins; Szklane Serce tease him until he gives up entirely.
Then Rithy speaks.
“So—” he says, voice smooth as glass. “Doctor, did youalwaysplan on saving unruly rockstars, or did you lose a bet?”
The table chuckles, light, unaware of the blade beneath the joke.
Kasia smiles politely. “I save whoever needs saving. The job’s democratic.”
“Admirable,” Rithy replies, leaning back. “You must have your handsfullwith him, then.”
