“You almost got hurt.” His words come out rough.
I blink, stunned by the heat in his tone. “I didn’t.”
“I saw it,” he says, jaw tight. “I saw her aiming at you. I—” His voice cracks, just slightly. “I thought—” He stops and swallows hard. The silence that follows is thick.
I step closer without thinking. Not touching, just… nearer. “Rafe.”
His eyes flick up, dark and raw.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m here.”
Something in his face shifts—relief, anger, fear, all tangled.
“You have to call your agent,” he says abruptly, like he needs something practical to hold on to before emotion eats him alive.
“I will.”
“Tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And your team?—”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, because I need him to know I can. “I promise.”
Rafe’s gaze narrows, searching my face like he’s looking for cracks.
“I got served today,” I say, because if I don’t say it now, it will rot in my mouth until it comes out wrong later.
Rafe goes still, the words landing like a weight dropping.
His eyes blink once. Twice. “Today,” he repeats, voice flat.
“Yeah.”
His jaw clenches. “Before the event.”
“Yes.”
“And you—” He stops, like the sentence has too many endings. “You got on a plane.”
“I did.”
Rafe’s nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, then away again, like he doesn’t know where to put the energy building under his skin.
“Did you come here because of that?” he asks. His voice is controlled, which scares me more than shouting.
I swallow. “Yes,” I admit. “And no.”
Rafe’s gaze snaps to mine. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” I say, forcing the words out steady. “The papers were the push. The proof that you weren’t waiting for me anymore. But I’ve been—”I pause, my throat closing. “I’ve been trying for months.”
His eyes narrow. “Trying how?”
“More therapy. The charity. Planning retirement. Planning San Francisco.” I laugh once, bitter. “Planning a future I wasn’t sure I was allowed to want.”
Rafe’s brows shoot up at “San Francisco,” and his face tightens at the last part. “I didn’t file to punish you,” he says finally.