Eight years.I don’t say it. I don’t have to.
His expression shifts. It’s softer now, steadier.
“Me too,” he says. “Tested before the tour wrapped. All clear.”
Relief hits harder than it should. It shouldn’t surprise me. It doesn’t. But hearing it—knowing we’re not just reckless and hoping for the best—grounds me.
“I don’t want this to be messy,” I admit. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
A slow smile curves his mouth. “You’ve always been like this.”
“Like what?”
“Responsible.” He brushes his thumb along my jaw. “And yeah, definitely negative.”
I huff a breath that might be a laugh. “That’s the only kind of negative I’m interested in.”
He leans closer, forehead brushing mine. “Good. Because I’m not risking you.”
That does something to my chest I’m not prepared for.
And under the heat, under the anticipation coiling in my gut, there’s one clear truth pressing heavily against me: I never thought I’d get this again. And now that I have it, I’m not sure I could survive losing it twice.
That truth sits between us for about half a second.
Rafe sees it. He always does.
Something in his expression shifts—not softer exactly, but sharper. Focused.
“Hey,” he says quietly. His hand comes to my jaw, thumb pressing just under my chin, tipping my face up. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just certain. “You don’t get to decide how this ends before it’s even started.”
My breath catches. “I’m not?—”
“You are.” His mouth twitches faintly. “You always run ten steps ahead.”
“I call it being cautious.”
“I call it being safe.” He kisses me once, firm. “Which I like about you.”
That lands differently now.
Before I can overthink it, he tugs me up and kisses me again. Not slow. Not teasing. Intent. Heat and possession and something almost desperate underneath. I grab his shirt, fist twisting in the fabric, and he makes a low sound in his throat that feels like victory.
“You think too much,” he mutters against my mouth.
“It’s a bad habit.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “I know, but now’s not the time.” He presses a kiss to the underside of my jaw, then glances past me toward the bathroom. A slow grin spreads across his face. “You still haven’t shown me that ridiculously fancy shower you wouldn’t shut up about.”
I blink, my cock punching against my jeans. “You want a tour?”
“I want to see if it lives up to the hype.” His hand slides down my side, fingers hooking into my belt loops. “And I’m thinking we relocate before you short-circuit again.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I wasn’t?—”
“You were,” he says lightly. “Come on.”
He takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom. The glass shower enclosure gleams under the lights—overhead rain head, side jets, more controls than necessary.