Rafe’s gaze sharpens. “Yes.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, thumb hovering. I don’t press Call yet. As soon as I do, reality will slam in. Headlines. League. Sponsors. The kind of questions that will crawl into every corner of my life.
But I also know this: If I keep delaying, I’m right back where I started.
I meet Rafe’s eyes. “I’m not going to hide from it,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t respond, but something in his posture eases by a fraction.
I step toward the hallway, then pause and look back. Rafe is still in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring at the floor like it might tell him what to do with the fact that I’m here. “I’m… trying,” I say again, because it feels like the only honest sentence I have left.
Rafe’s gaze lifts to mine. For a second, he looks like he might say something tender. He doesn’t. He just nods once, small and restrained. “Second door on the right.”
I take that nod like it’s oxygen and walk down the hall, every step slow, controlled, like I’m afraid moving too fast will break the fragile thing forming between us.
The guest room is simple. Clean. A made bed with crisp sheets. A lamp on the bedside table. A small stack of books—music biographies, a novel, something about architecture. I stand there for a long moment, breathing. I can hear faint movement from the kitchen. A cabinet opening, a glass being set down, water running briefly.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I stare at my phone. Eric’s name is right there. One tap and I light the fuse. I think about the kiss—how it felt, how Rafe’s hand clenched my jacket, how he didn’t pull away, how he kissed me back like muscle memory and longing collided.
I think about the knife. The flash of silver. Rafe’s face going white. The way he grabbed me and told me to move, like he couldn’t bear the thought of losing me even after everything.
I think about divorce papers sitting in my bag in my hotel room like a verdict. I press a hand to my chest. My heart is still beating hard, but I’m not spiraling. I’m… steady.
That should terrify me. It should feel like denial. Instead, it feels like, for the first time in a long time, I’m choosing something on purpose.
I lift the phone, thumb hovering over Eric’s contact.
Out in the kitchen, the house is quiet again, and I can picture Rafe standing there alone, just like I am, both of us awake and wrecked and trying not to shatter.
I don’t know what happens tomorrow. I don’t know if he’ll change his mind and tell me to leave. I don’t even know if the world will find out before I’m ready and rip my life open anyway.
But I do know this: I’m here.
I hit Call.
12
RAFE
I barely sleep.I drift. I surface. I stare at the ceiling and replay the night in fragments sharp enough to cut.
Ollie’s mouth on mine. The weight of his hand at my back. The sound his breath made when I kissed him back.
Every time I get close to unconsciousness, my brain drags me up by the collar like it doesn’t trust me alone with my own thoughts. It’s stupid-early in the morning, so early that it’s still dark. I give up pretending and roll onto my side, grab my phone from the nightstand, and check it for the tenth time.
There’s nothing from Ollie. Which is stupid, because he’s in my house. Down the hall. Sleeping—hopefully—after the night we just had.
I scrub a hand over my face.
Trust your heart, a voice whispers.
Another one answers immediately:Your heart has terrible judgment.
The phone vibrates in my hand, and my chest tightens hard enough that for half a second, I think it’s Ollie. It’s not. It’s Rachael.
I answer before it can ring again. “Hey.”