Chapter 2
RAFE
If you’d asked me ten years ago what success would feel like, I would’ve said loud. Like amps cranked too high. Like sweat and screaming and the moment right before you step out and the crowd turns into one living, breathing organism hungry for you.
I was right. I just didn’t realize loud could also be… exhausting.
International tour number four is officially done, and I’m running on fumes, caffeine, and the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t even feel good anymore. It feels like my nervous system forgot how to come down. Like my body is stuck in “go” even when I’m standing still.
Which is why I’m on Miles’s couch at one in the afternoon, wearing my favorite jeans that have seen some shit, drinking a lukewarm coffee I should have drunk about ten minutes ago, and trying to convince myself this is what downtime looks like now.
I’m thirty-three.
Thirty-three, and I’m pretty sure I’ve become a boring old man.
I know, I know. Only thirty-three. Still “young,” still “hot,” still “in your prime.” I’ve heard it from journalists and PR people and random fans who think saying it to my face counts as flirting.
But I swear, at some point in the last three years, I crossed over into the kind of tired you can’t cure with one long nap and a slice of pizza.
The kind of tired that lives in your bones.
Miles’s place is clean in that minimalist way that always makes me feel like I’m leaving fingerprints just by existing.
The man has a beige couch that I know cost more than my first car.
A coffee table that looks like it belongs in an art gallery.
There’s not a single visible cable, which is honestly the most suspicious part.
He’s in the kitchen, moving around with the calm competence of a guy who’s done this exact routine a thousand times: host, band dad, pretending not to be the most responsible one here.
“You want something real?” he calls. “I can make food.”
“I don’t deserve food,” I answer.
He laughs. “That’s the tour talking.”
“Okay, but what if I’m right?” I say, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to offer me absolution.
Miles appears in the doorway with two mugs. He hands me one. It smells like tea, which is rude.
“It’s ginger,” he says, reading my face. “For your stomach.”
“I hate that you care about me,” I mutter.
“You love it,” he says and sits in the armchair opposite the couch, stretching his long legs out. He looks annoyingly refreshed for someone who just did the same schedule I did—late nights, flights, interviews, sound checks, stage, repeat.
I don’t trust it.
Maybe he’s a robot. Maybe he feeds off our exhaustion.
I glance down at my hands. The ring is there, like it always is. Not on my left. On my right. A band forged from a guitar string. The stupidest, most precious thing I own.
My thumb rubs against it automatically, muscle memory. It should embarrass me. It doesn’t. Not anymore. If anything, it makes something in my chest ache with the kind of softness that hurts.
Miles’s gaze drops to my hand anyway. He doesn’t comment—he never does—but his mouth tilts like he’s thinking something. As if he’s thinking: Still.
Yeah.
Still.
He clears his throat and looks toward the hallway. “The others should be here soon.”
“Great,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
Miles’s eyebrows lift. “You love press.”
“I used to love press,” I correct. “Now press is just people asking me what it felt like to write that one song and then watching me to see if I flinch.”
He doesn’t argue, because he knows I’m right.
Steel Saints are still going strong. Stronger if you ask the label. Stronger if you ask our manager. Stronger if you ask the numbers that keep showing up in spreadsheets and making people’s eyes go hungry.
We’re established now. Not a band people discover like a secret. We’re a band people expect things from. And it’s flattering, sure. It’s everything I used to want. But it also means there’s no such thing as quiet unless I fight for it with both hands.
Which is why my favorite place in the world isn’t LA anymore. It’s San Francisco.
My spot there is tucked away enough that I can still pretend I’m invisible if I keep a hat on and don’t talk too much. Less industry. Less constant who are you, who are you with, what’s next.
The fog feels like permission to disappear.
I’m heading up there just before Halloween—once the last round of obligations is done. I can already taste it: the isolation, the quiet, the way time slows down when no one’s demanding anything from you except maybe a barista who doesn’t recognize your face.
For now, though, I’m here, as we have an interview.
Tour wrap-up. “Casual.” “Fun.” “Great exposure.” All the usual phrases that mean Smile until your cheeks hurt and pretend your soul isn’t made of lint and static.
Miles takes a sip of his tea. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m in a season,” I say. “A season of wanting to stay inside forever.”
“You say that,” he replies, deadpan, “and then you get itchy after three days.”
“That was before,” I argue. “Before I understood the joys of being unbothered.”
Miles looks at me like I’m full of shit, which I am.
I shift on the couch, stretching my legs out. My phone is face down on the cushion beside me, and it’s been blessedly quiet for at least ten minutes. No texts. No notifications. No reminders. No demands.
A miracle.
Miles’s expression softens a fraction. “You okay?”
I could lie. That’s what I’m good at. That’s what I’ve done for years—onstage, in interviews, in songs that are too honest and still somehow not honest enough. But Miles is one of my oldest friends. One of the people who was there when we were nobodies with busted gear and too much ambition.
So I say the truth. “I’m tired,” I admit. “And it was the best tour we’ve done. It really was. Crowds were insane. The new songs hit the way we wanted. Even the Europe run didn’t feel like we were sprinting uphill the whole time.”
Miles nods slowly. “But?”
“But I just want… nothing,” I say, then laugh once because it sounds pathetic out loud. “I want to wake up and not be needed.”
“That’s fair,” he says.
I swallow, fingers tightening around the mug. “And I’m happy for Drew and Eli,” I add, because it’s the other thing lodged in my chest today. “I am. I swear.”
Miles’s gaze sharpens. “You’re about to say something dumb.”
“I’m not saying dumb,” I protest. “I’m saying real.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m happy for them,” I repeat, more firmly. “I love that they found their people. That they get to go home to someone who knows them. That they get to be… chosen. Publicly. Without hiding.”
Miles doesn’t blink. He just waits.
I huff a breath. “But sometimes it’s hard to sit at dinner and watch them do the normal married shit,” I admit. “Like passing a plate and touching each other’s wrists and making vacation plans like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”
A beat.
“It makes you miss—” Miles starts.
“Don’t,” I cut in, sharp. Too fast. Too defensive. The word snaps out of my mouth before I can soften it.
Miles’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes do. Understanding, sympathy, maybe even frustration that he can’t fix it.
I roll the mug between my palms, eyes on the steam. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” he says, but it isn’t. Not really. Because the thought still makes me wince.
The only other single guy in the band is Miles. The one who isn’t bringing a spouse to events. The one who can still flirt without it feeling like betrayal.
The idea of calling myself single makes something in my chest twist.
I’m not. I’m just… alone.
The doorbell rings, saving me.
Miles stands and heads for the door. “Speak of the devils.”
I hear voices a second later—Drew’s booming laugh first, then Eli’s softer tone under it, then Seth and Vinny, who by some miracle have stuck with us after all these years, arguing about something that sounds aggressively unimportant. The familiar sound of my family, my chaos, my band.
They file in like they own the place, which they kind of do.
Drew is still Drew—big personality, bigger smile, wedding band gleaming like he wants the world to know he’s locked down. He kisses Miles’s cheek on the way in like it’s nothing and then points at me.
“There he is,” he says. “Our international superstar. How’s your soul?”
“Dead,” I answer.
Eli snorts, leaning in to bump my shoulder with his. His wedding ring is simple, not flashy. But it sits like it belongs there. Like it was always meant to.
“Dramatic,” Eli says.
“Accurate,” I reply.
Vinny flops into the chair beside the couch like gravity has personally betrayed him. “I swear to God,” he says, “if one more person asks me what it’s like working with the legendary Steel Saints, I’m going to fake my own death.”
Seth grins. “You should. Then maybe you won’t have to carry the gear.”
Vinny flips him off.
I should feel lighter. I do, a little. The familiar banter helps. The inside jokes. The fact that these guys know me beyond the stage persona.
Drew drops into the armchair Miles vacated and props his boots on the coffee table like he’s trying to ruin Miles’s pristine aesthetic on purpose. “Okay,” he says. “Tour’s done. We survived. Nobody got arrested.”
“Yet,” Seth says.
Drew points at him. “Don’t ruin my narrative.”
Eli looks at me, eyes narrowing slightly. “You good, Rafe?”
I lift my mug. “Hydrated and resentful.”
Eli laughs, but his gaze stays steady. For all his loudness, he’s always been the one who sees too much.
“I’m fine,” I add, because I don’t want to do this right now. Not with all of them. Not before an interview. Not before we have to smile for cameras and pretend everything is perfect.
“Cool,” Eli says, accepting it for now. He glances around. “So, what’s the plan? We go, we do the thing, we play the song, we leave?”
“Basically,” Miles says, returning to the room. “Seth and Vinny are driving us.”
Vinny groans. “I hate that this is my life.”
Seth claps him on the shoulder. “You love it.”
“No,” Vinny says flatly. “I tolerate it.”