Chapter 17 #2
“Just make sure,” she added quietly, “that you’re choosing this, not just surviving it.”
I nodded, because for once I was lost for words.
As I rang her up, I felt Raphael’s steady presence across the room.
I was still irritated that he thought I needed supervision.
And I was still very much aware that my heart did a strange, inconvenient flip every time he looked at me like I was something worth guarding.
Balancing independence and being cared for was going to take practice.
By the time my shift ended, my knee was reminding me that sitting still and “not overdoing it” were two very different things.
Raphael had, true to his word, not interfered. He hadn’t hovered at the counter or intimidated customers. He had simply existed in the corner with a cup of black coffee, occasionally glancing up when I shifted too quickly or reached too far.
Soon, the door opened, and James had returned. “You’re a lifesaver, Belle. Thank you for covering.” Raphael was already on his feet.
“I told you I was fine,” I said as he moved toward me.
I leaned on the counter long enough to grab my crutches, then let him hold the door as we stepped back outside.
The afternoon sun was warmer now, the pavement shimmering slightly.
My energy felt thinner than it had that morning, stretched from the shift and the emotional math of simply existing in two worlds at once.
“We need to stop by the post office,” I said as he opened the passenger door for me.
“For what?”
“My check should be in my box.”
He paused slightly at that.
“He doesn’t use direct deposit?”
“No. It’s so dumb. We have been begging him, but I think it's a weird control thing.”
“I see. He’s not only an idiot but also incompetent."
He didn’t comment further, but I could feel the question hovering.
As we drove, I watched storefronts blur past and tried not to calculate how many days were left before the next invoice was due.
The fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead as we entered. Raphael walked beside me but did not touch me this time. I was grateful for that. I needed to feel like I could make it across a linoleum floor without assistance.
My PO Box was near the back wall. I slid the small brass key in and turned it.
Empty.
I stared at the hollow metal interior as if my check might materialize out of spite.
“It’s not there,” I said quietly.
“Was it expected today?”
“Yes.”
I closed the box carefully and leaned back against the wall, dialing Tripp’s number before I could talk myself out of it.
He answered on the third ring.
“Hey, Belle,” he said, too casually. “How’s the knee?”
“It’s fine,” I replied evenly. “I stopped by my box, but my check isn’t there.”
There was a pause.
“Oh. Right.”
I could almost hear the careful cruelty curl through his voice.
“I haven’t mailed it yet,” he continued. “Accounting’s been weird about sending payments to P.O. boxes.”
I stiffened. “They’ve never had a problem before.”
“Yeah, well, corporate’s tightening things up. You’ll have to come by and pick it up.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“I’m on crutches.”
“It’s just a quick stop,” he replied. “If you are able to work, surely you can manage, right? It would be a shame if you were unable to do your job for Mr Renault. If you get fired again, I may be the only client who would accept you into their house.”
The way he said it made my skin prickle.
“I’ll come by,” I said after a moment.
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
The call ended. I lowered the phone slowly.
“He will not mail it,” Raphael said quietly.
“No.”
“He wants you to retrieve it.”
“Yes.”
I didn’t look at him, but I could feel the shift in him again—the tightening, the need to fix it.
With Tripp, it was about control. It always was.
And suddenly the empty metal box felt like more than just missing mail.
It felt like leverage. The drive home was quieter than usual.
The missing check had settled somewhere under my ribs, a small stone I couldn’t dislodge.
I kept replaying Tripp’s tone in my head.
I was used to his control, but this had more of an edge than usual.
If he mentioned being his personal maid again, I was going to have to find a new job.
Raphael didn’t comment further after the post office. He didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t offer to solve it. He just drove.
When we reached the house, he moved with that same efficient attentiveness that had become routine over the last few days. He held the doors, and his pace matched mine without making it obvious he was matching it.
Inside, the house felt cooler, calmer.
“You sit,” he said gently, guiding me toward the couch.
He helped me lower carefully, adjusting the pillows without asking. Then he elevated my leg and checked my brace. Before I knew it, he was back with an ice pack in hand and a glass of water.
“You are hovering again,” I murmured.
“Yes.”
I didn’t fight it this time.
The shift at the coffee shop had taken more out of me than I’d admitted. And the call with Tripp . . . that had scraped somewhere deeper.
Raphael moved around the room quietly, dimming lights, adjusting the blinds so the late sun didn’t hit my eyes. He settled on the couch beside me, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat from his body.
It was distracting in an intoxicating way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
He smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, clean and solid.
“You are thinking,” he said.
“I always am.”
“About the check.”
“Among other things.”
He didn’t press.
That was becoming his most dangerous quality. The way he let silence stretch without forcing it to break. I reached into my purse, mostly out of habit, and my fingers brushed the small tin I kept there.
I hesitated.
Then I pulled it out.
He glanced at it.
“What is that?”
“A coping mechanism,” I said lightly, opening it.
Inside were a few small gummies. Nothing wild, just enough to soften the edges of a day.
He studied them with mild curiosity.
“You partake?” I said.
“In this?”
“Yes.”
“On occasion.”
“An occasion like taking care of a grown-ass woman after a barista shift?” I asked with a shrug.
He considered that for a beat. Then held out his hand.
I blinked. “You’re serious.”
He merely nodded.
“You don’t strike me as a gummy guy.”
“I am adaptable.”
I laughed softly and handed him one.
“Half,” I warned.
“Who’s bossy now?” he asked with a smirk. And holy shit, I loved that smirk.
We chewed in companionable silence. I turned on a movie, something funny and familiar, low stakes and warm. It was the kind you don’t have to follow closely.
At first, nothing changed. Then, gradually, the tension in my shoulders loosened. The stone under my ribs softened. The edges of the day blurred slightly.
I sank further into the couch.
Raphael shifted closer at some point. Not dramatically, just enough that our arms brushed. The contact sent a slow warmth through me that had nothing to do with the gummy.
“You are warmer than usual,” he murmured.
I laughed quietly, the sound softer than it had been earlier.
The movie played on, dialogue drifting in and out of focus as my thoughts slowed.
My head tipped toward him almost without permission. He didn’t move away. He didn’t stiffen. He adjusted. His arm slid behind me, not pulling, just supporting. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
“This is dangerous,” I murmured.
“How so?”
“I’m supposed to be maintaining clear emotional boundaries.”
“You married me.”
“On paper.”
“You fell asleep on my shoulder last night.”
“That was fatigue.”
“And this.”
I tilted my face up slightly to look at him.
“This is . . . unclear.”
His thumb brushed lightly along my upper arm.
“You are safe,” he said quietly.
The words threaded through the haze and landed somewhere deeper than they should have.
I closed my eyes as the movie continued.
The world narrowed to warmth and quiet and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The shift at the coffee shop, the missing check, the confusion about where this marriage ended and something real began—all of it dulled under the gentle float of the gummy and the solid presence beside me.
His fingers traced idle, absent patterns against my sleeve, and I curled a little closer without meaning to. I was in trouble because I didn’t just feel protected. I felt wanted.
And that was far more intoxicating than anything in my purse.