“That’s very captain of you,” he says.
“Shut up.”
He smiles faintly and leans over to press a kiss to my shoulder before climbing out of bed.
By the time we’re dressed and in the kitchen, the previous night’s tension has settled into something more structured. Vinny arrives midmorning. He’s carrying a folder this time instead of a box.
“Security footage confirms visual ID,” he says as he lays the folder on the counter. “She entered at 17:42. Spoke to the concierge briefly. Left the package. Departed on foot.”
“Was she agitated?” I ask.
“No. Calm. Polite.”
That tracks.
“She’s framing this as romantic grievance in interviews,” Rafe says, leaning back against the counter. “Like she’s been wronged.”
Vinny nods. “Legal is filing for expanded no-contact parameters. Physical, digital, third-party references. We’re also pushing for a mental health evaluation as part of enforcement.”
“Good,” I say.
Vinny’s eyes flick to me briefly. “You want additional security posted at practice?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t question it, just makes a note.
Rafe studies me quietly through the exchange, like he’s cataloging the fact that I’m not deflecting or avoiding. I’m not even pretending it will go away if we ignore it. I did that once years ago, and I’ll never do it again.
“Press has picked up on the package,” Vinny adds. “Small leak. Nothing explosive.”
I nod once. “If they ask?”
Rafe glances at me. “Boundaries,” he says simply. “No theatrics or speculation. She violated a court order. That’s the story.”
Vinny inclines his head. “Understood.”
After he leaves, the apartment feels strangely lighter.
Rafe steps into my space, close enough that I feel the heat of him before he touches me. “You’re different,” he says.
“From when?”
“From eight years ago.”
I huff quietly. “I hope so.”
“No,” he says, more serious now. “I mean it. You’re not bracing.”
I think about that, and he’s right.
When the knife happened at the gala, my body reacted before my brain did. I moved. I positioned. I protected. But afterward, the old instincts crept in—the urge to contain, to deflect, to make it smaller than it felt.
Last night, when the box sat on our counter with silver ink bleeding across glass, I didn’t feel the urge to disappear. Instead, I felt the urge to draw a line.
“I don’t need to run,” I say finally.
His expression softens.