“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“You moved.”
“That’s how mornings work.”
He opens one eye, squinting at me. “Is it?”
“Yeah.”
He studies my face for a second longer than necessary, and I know he’s checking for something. Tension. Residual anger. The kind of quiet spiral that used to sit behind my ribs and wait for a trigger.
“What?” I ask.
“You feeling okay?” His voice is rough with sleep but steady.
“I am.”
He searches my expression like he doesn’t entirely trust that answer.
“I’m not minimizing it,” I add quietly. “I’m just… not rattled.”
His brow smooths slightly at that.
“Good,” he says. Then, softer, “Me either.”
We lie here a moment longer, the space between us filled with the ordinary sounds of the building waking up. Pipes shifting. A door closing somewhere down the hall. A distant elevator hum.
The normalcy of it is almost defiant.
Eventually, he pushes himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Vinny texted at six,” he says, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “Police logged the violation formally. They’re reviewing footage.”
“Of her in the lobby?”
“Yeah.”
I sit up, too, back against the headboard. “Is she still in town?”
“Looks like it.”
That lands heavier than I expect, though not in a way that knocks the wind out of me.
“Restraining order violation carries weight,” I say.
“It does.”
Rafe glances at me again, gauging my tone. “We can escalate. Building access restrictions. Expanded perimeter. Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want.
For years, I defaulted to minimizing what I wanted in order to protect what I thought he needed.
“I want her to get help,” I say finally. “And I want her nowhere near you.”
He exhales slowly. “That’s reasonable.”
“I’m not interested in punishing someone who’s unwell,” I continue. “But I’m not tolerating proximity either.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, something like approval flickering there.