Chapter 11
OLLIE
The car door shuts with a soft, expensive thump, and for a second, the world is only the hush of leather seats and my own pulse trying to crawl out of my throat.
Vinny slides behind the wheel again and checks the mirrors with that same expression he wore while pinning a screaming woman’s wrists to her own body. Calm. Contained. Efficient.
Rafe sits beside me in the back, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin space between our knees.
He hasn’t let go of me since the holding room.
Not physically. Not even now, though his hand isn’t on me anymore.
The grip is in his posture. In the angle of his shoulders.
In the way he keeps glancing at me like he’s waiting for something.
For me to snap.
For me to fold.
For me to wake up and remember how terrified I’m supposed to be.
My face still feels sticky where the drink dried, and my shirt collar smells faintly like alcohol and citrus and someone else’s delusion. The memory of the blade flashing in the air keeps replaying—sharp as a camera flash, bright enough to burn.
And then there’s the kiss. The kiss is its own kind of burn. A different kind of weapon. A different kind of risk.
Rafe’s jaw works once, like he’s biting down on words. He looks out the window, then back at me, then away again.
“What?” I ask, because my brain won’t stop filling silence with panic.
He blinks. “Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile and not quite. “I’m… checking.”
“Checking what?”
“If you’re going to start breathing into a paper bag,” he says flatly, and there’s no humor in it. “Because you look like you’re about to.”
I huff a breath that should be a laugh but comes out shaky. “I’m not.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow. “You should be.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I’m not.”
He studies me like that’s the strangest thing I’ve ever said.
Vinny clears his throat. “We’re five out.”
Rafe leans forward slightly. “Any sign of media?”
“Not yet,” Vinny says. “Crowd outside was hungry, but it always is. Venue security is scrubbing phones where they can. Your people are on it.”
“My people,” Rafe repeats under his breath like the phrase tastes wrong. Like he hates that this is normal.
I swallow hard. “My agent’s going to have a stroke.”
Rafe’s gaze snaps to me. “You need to call him.”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight.”
“I know.”
There’s a pause. The words I don’t say sit heavy in my mouth: I got served today. Like it’s something I’m still trying to understand. Like it might be easier to talk about a knife than a signature line.
Vinny turns onto a quiet street lined with high fences and hedges that look professionally trained. The neighborhood feels like privacy bought at a premium. No sidewalks. No streetlights bright enough to invite wandering.
The car slows, then stops at a gate. Vinny punches in a code, and the gate slides open without a sound. We roll forward into a driveway that curves like it doesn’t want you to see the house too quickly.
And then it appears—low, wide, warm light spilling through glass. Modern without being cold. Clean lines softened by trees and some kind of climbing plant that hugs the edge of the structure. There are no neon signs of celebrity, no obnoxious luxury cars lined up like trophies. Just… a home.
My chest aches for reasons I don’t immediately understand.
It’s not jealousy. It’s grief. This is a whole life he built without me.
Vinny parks. He doesn’t linger, just opens the door, then steps back like he’s giving us space but is still ready to kill someone with his bare hands if the air changes wrong.
Rafe gets out first, scanning out of habit, then reaches for me without looking like he’s already decided I don’t get to walk alone. His hand closes around my wrist. The contact is quick and practical, but it hits like intimacy anyway.
I follow him up the steps to the front door. I’m aware of the night air on my face, the quiet, the way the world seems normal out here despite what just happened.
Rafe unlocks the door. His movements are smooth and automatic. Then he pauses. His shoulders shift slightly, like he’s remembering something he’s been pushing down. “You’ve never been here,” he says, and it isn’t a question.
“No,” I admit.
For a second, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that fact. Then he steps aside and lets me walk in first.
The house smells like cedar and clean soap and something faintly sweet—vanilla or maybe the remnants of whatever candle he burns when he’s trying to pretend he’s calm.
The entry opens into a living space that feels lived-in.
A couch that looks like someone actually lies on it.
A throw blanket slung over the arm. A guitar stand in the corner with two guitars resting.
There’s a shelf of records. A stack of sheet music. A bowl on the sideboard filled with keys and random coins and a tiny pack of gum. It’s all so perfectly normal, which is absurd because nothing about tonight is normal.
My eyes catch on a framed photo on the far wall and my heart stutters, but when I get closer, I realize it’s not a photo at all—it’s a print. Abstract. Something moody and blue.
There are no pictures or family portraits. No band shots or captured memories smiling back. It’s like the past is a thing he keeps in drawers instead of on walls.
Rafe closes the door behind us. The sound is final and heavy.
Vinny lingers in the doorway for one more beat. “You need me to stick around tonight?” he asks.
Rafe shakes his head. “No, I’m good. I’ll set the alarm, and I won’t be going anywhere.”
Vinny’s gaze flicks to me. It’s not hostile. It’s… assessing. Protective of Rafe. Protective of the boundary he’s been holding for years. “Okay. Call if you need me.” Then he steps out, the door shutting again, and we’re alone.
Actually alone.
Rafe turns to me slowly, like he’s afraid sudden movement might spook me. “You okay?” he asks.
There it is. Again. I swallow. My heart is still sprinting, my skin still buzzing, my mind still ricocheting between kiss, knife, cameras, and divorce papers.
And somehow I’m still upright.
“Yeah,” I say, and then I add, because honesty is apparently my new religion tonight, “No. But… I’m here.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow. His gaze flicks over my face again, catching on the dried streak on my cheek. “You’ve got something,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m wearing someone else’s breakdown.”
He steps closer, then hesitates like he’s not sure he’s allowed. “Bathroom’s that way,” he says, pointing down a hallway. “There are wipes under the sink. And… you can use anything. Towels. Whatever.”
“Okay.”
I start to move, then stop because my legs suddenly remember they’re attached to a body that has been under attack for the last six hours. I press a hand to the wall for a second. Rafe’s hand lifts like he’s going to touch me, but he stops short, fingers hovering.
“Don’t,” I say automatically.
His hand drops, and the word lands like a slap between us.
I exhale, regret sharp. “Sorry. I—” I try again. “Not… don’t touch me. Just—my head is loud.”
Rafe’s expression shifts, something easing. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. I’m not—” He stops, jaw muscle working. “I’m not trying to freak you out.”
“I know.”
“Because,” he continues, voice flat but eyes intense, “you’re acting like this isn’t the biggest thing that’s happened to either of us in eight years.”
I blink at him. “That’s because,” I say slowly, “I think I’m still in shock.”
Rafe huffs a breath. “Oh, good. That’s comforting.”
I almost laugh. The sound comes out cracked.
He gestures toward the hall. “Go. Clean up.”
With a nod, I head to the bathroom. The mirror catches me immediately—hair slightly messed, eyes too bright, the faint line of dried liquid down my cheekbone, my mouth still swollen from kissing him like I had no sense.
I turn on the tap, splash water on my face, scrub at my skin until it’s pink. Under the sink, there’s a pack of wipes just like he said. I use them, then stare at my reflection again.
I look like me, which feels wrong, because I’m not the same man who walked into that charity event three hours ago thinking I was going to sit quietly at a table and maybe, maybe get five minutes of conversation.
Rafe is in the kitchen when I’ve finished, pulling out glasses. He pours water into one, then sets it on the counter like an offering.
He doesn’t pour anything else. No wine. No whiskey. No celebratory drink, no numbing drink. Just water. It reminds me, again, that his life has lines he won’t cross anymore.
I take the glass, making sure our fingers don’t touch. “Thanks,” I say.
Rafe leans back against the counter, arms folded over his chest. His gaze never leaves my face.
It’s starting to irritate me. Not because it isn’t fair, because it is. He’s watching for the moment I disappear, like he’s been training himself for it.
“Stop looking at me like I’m about to pass out,” I say.
Rafe’s mouth twitches. “Give me a reason not to.”
I take a slow drink of water, buying time. “You want a reason? I’m tired.”
He blinks. “Tired?”
“Yeah,” I say, and the emotion in my chest shifts, something honest and heavy. “I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of running everything through a filter first. I’m tired of walking around with my life in pieces.”
The words hang and feel too big for this kitchen.
Rafe’s eyes stay locked on me. “And you thought kissing me in public was a great way to fix that?”
I swallow hard. It’s not an accusation but a genuine question.
He doesn’t understand what happened inside me when I saw Elliot’s arm around him, when I saw the ease, when my fear turned into something else—something urgent and stupid and alive.
“I didn’t plan it,” I say quietly.
“I figured.”
“I—” I stop, searching for the right words. “I saw him touch you. And I… snapped.”
Rafe’s brow furrows. “Elliot.”
“Yes.”
A slow exhale leaves him. “You’re jealous.”