Chapter 11 #2
My face burns. “I don’t get to be,” I say immediately, because it’s true and because it’s the only defense I have.
Rafe’s eyes sharpen. “No. You don’t.”
The words hurt more than they should, even though I deserve them.
“But you were anyway,” he adds, softer, like he hates that he can’t stop caring.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
Rafe drags a hand down his face. “Jesus.”
“I didn’t plan it,” I repeat, because if he doesn’t believe anything else, I need him to believe that. “I wasn’t thinking about cameras or headlines or—”
“Or the fact that you’ve spent your whole life, your career, hiding,” he cuts in.
I flinch.
Rafe’s jaw clenches like he regrets the sharpness immediately, but he doesn’t take it back. How can he when it’s still true?
I set the water down carefully, like if I move too fast I’ll break the moment. “I know,” I say quietly. “And I know it was reckless. And I know it was unfair to you, because you didn’t ask for—”
“Don’t,” Rafe says, voice low.
I blink.
He pushes off the counter, taking a step closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can feel his warmth. “Don’t turn that into an apology,” he says. “Not like that.”
“What do you mean?”
His gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, then back to my eyes. “You kissed me,” he says, like he’s naming something sacred. “And I kissed you back.”
My heart stutters violently.
Rafe’s throat works. “I’m not going to stand here and pretend it didn’t matter.”
I can’t breathe.
He looks away, the motion abrupt, like he just exposed a nerve. “But it also doesn’t—” He pauses, fists clenching. “It doesn’t erase anything.”
“I know,” I whisper.
Rafe’s eyes come back to mine, hard. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say, and I mean it. “I do.”
Because that’s the point. I’m not here expecting the kiss to be a reset button. I’m here because I got served divorce papers and realized I might lose him forever, and because I deserve that, and because I can’t let the last thing between us be silence.
Rafe’s voice shifts. “The attack.”
The abrupt pivot makes my stomach drop. “What about it?”
“You almost got hurt.” His words come out rough.
I blink, stunned by the heat in his tone. “I didn’t.”
“I saw it,” he says, jaw tight. “I saw her aiming at you. I—” His voice cracks, just slightly. “I thought—” He stops and swallows hard. The silence that follows is thick.
I step closer without thinking. Not touching, just… nearer. “Rafe.”
His eyes flick up, dark and raw.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m here.”
Something in his face shifts—relief, anger, fear, all tangled.
“You have to call your agent,” he says abruptly, like he needs something practical to hold on to before emotion eats him alive.
“I will.”
“Tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And your team—”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, because I need him to know I can. “I promise.”
Rafe’s gaze narrows, searching my face like he’s looking for cracks.
“I got served today,” I say, because if I don’t say it now, it will rot in my mouth until it comes out wrong later.
Rafe goes still, the words landing like a weight dropping.
His eyes blink once. Twice. “Today,” he repeats, voice flat.
“Yeah.”
His jaw clenches. “Before the event.”
“Yes.”
“And you—” He stops, like the sentence has too many endings. “You got on a plane.”
“I did.”
Rafe’s nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, then away again, like he doesn’t know where to put the energy building under his skin.
“Did you come here because of that?” he asks. His voice is controlled, which scares me more than shouting.
I swallow. “Yes,” I admit. “And no.”
Rafe’s gaze snaps to mine. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” I say, forcing the words out steady. “The papers were the push. The proof that you weren’t waiting for me anymore. But I’ve been—”I pause, my throat closing. “I’ve been trying for months.”
His eyes narrow. “Trying how?”
“More therapy. The charity. Planning retirement. Planning San Francisco.” I laugh once, bitter. “Planning a future I wasn’t sure I was allowed to want.”
Rafe’s brows shoot up at “San Francisco,” and his face tightens at the last part. “I didn’t file to punish you,” he says finally.
I nod. “I know.”
He blinks, thrown off. “You know?”
“Yes,” I repeat. “I know you. Or I did. And I know you would never do that to hurt me.”
The words hang between us: Even though I hurt you.
Rafe exhales slowly. “It took me four months.”
My pulse leaps. “To file?”
He nods once. “To actually click Submit. To sign my name. To—” His mouth twists. “To decide I wasn’t going to die waiting.”
The honesty hits like a fist. I flinch, not because I’m offended—because I deserve it. It’s also the truth.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and it’s not a polite apology. It’s grief. It’s regret. It’s eight years of silence turning into sound.
Rafe’s eyes harden. “Don’t.”
I blink. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say you’re sorry like it fixes it,” he says, voice low. “It doesn’t.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
He drags in a breath through his nose, slow, measured. “The papers are real.”
“Yes.”
“And you got them, and you still came here,” he says again, like he’s trying to really understand what I want… what I expect.
“Yes.”
“Are you here to ask me to stop?”
The question is quiet. It knocks the air out of me anyway. Because part of me wants to. Part of me wants to beg. Wants to grab his hands and say please, please don’t do this. Please don’t end it. Please let me fix it.
But another part of me—the part that has been learning in therapy what accountability actually looks like—knows I don’t get to ask for that.
Not yet. Not after everything.
I shake my head slowly. “No.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens, surprised.
“I—” I stop, searching for words that don’t sound like manipulation. “I understand why you did it. And I’m not going to pretend you’re wrong for needing to move on. You waited long enough.”
Rafe’s throat bobs. “Then why are you here?”
Because I love you.
Because I can’t breathe without you.
Because you’re my husband and I never stopped being yours.
Because I’m selfish.
Because I’m desperate.
Because I’m finally brave enough to admit it.
All of those things are true, and none of them are enough.
“I’m here,” I say carefully, “because I want to earn the right to be in your life again.”
Rafe’s expression shifts slightly, something like pain flickering through. “You don’t get to earn it with a grand gesture,” he says.
“I know.”
“And you don’t get to earn it with one kiss,” he adds, sharper.
“I know.”
His jaw clenches. “Then what are you offering me?”
My heart stumbles. “The truth.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow. “The truth?”
“Yes,” I say, and the word feels like a vow. “Not a performance. Not a promise I can’t keep. Just… the truth.”
He stares at me for a long time. The kitchen hums with quiet—the refrigerator, the faint sound of water settling in the glass, the city distant beyond the walls.
Finally, Rafe speaks, voice rough. “I can’t blindly accept you back.”
“I wouldn’t respect you if you did,” I say, and it’s honest.
His mouth twitches, almost a smile, then disappears. “You’re still… fucking good at saying the right thing.”
I flinch. “I’m not trying to—”
“I know,” he cuts in, softer. “I’m just—” He looks away again, jaw tight. “I’m trying to understand how you can stand here after kissing me in front of a room full of people and still act like you’re not terrified.”
I let out a breath. “I am terrified.”
Rafe’s attention snaps back to me.
“I’m just… not running,” I add. “Or hiding.”
He stares.
I swallow. “That’s new for me.”
Something in his face shifts—recognition, maybe. Like he sees the change even if he doesn’t trust it yet.
I pick up the water again, more for something to do with my hands than thirst. “I’m not na?ve,” I say quietly. “I know what I did tonight doesn’t stay in that room.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens.
“There were phones,” I continue. “There are always phones. And people talk. Especially people with something to gain from being first.”
His jaw hardens.
“So I’m not pretending this can be contained,” I say. “It can’t.” Taut silence hums between us. “But I’m also not going to stand in front of a microphone tomorrow and suddenly give the world a perfectly labeled version of myself,” I add carefully. “Not because I’m ashamed. And not because of you.”
Rafe’s expression is hard now, guarded.
“I’m saying it because I’ve spent my entire career letting other people decide the narrative for me,” I continue, voice steady even as my chest constricts. “And I’m done lying—but I’m also done performing.”
“Meaning?” he asks, voice low.
“Meaning I won’t deny what happened,” I say. “I won’t spin it. I won’t say it was a misunderstanding or a moment or a joke or anything that lets people pretend it wasn’t real.”
Rafe studies my face, searching.
“But I’m also not going to reduce twelve years of fear and love and damage into a soundbite,” I finish. “I don’t owe anyone that.”
The words hang. Rafe exhales slowly. “And me?”
The question is quiet. Dangerous.
I meet his eyes. “I won’t make you a secret,” I say immediately. “Not again. Not ever.”
His throat works.
“But I need to do this without lying to myself,” I add. “And without blowing up my team, my season, or my ability to actually follow through on the rest of this.”
“Which is?” he asks.
I swallow. “Retiring. End of this season. I told Eric today. No one else official knows yet.”
That lands harder now—not as avoidance, but as context.
Rafe stares at me, recalibrating. “So you’re saying,” he says slowly, “you’re not hiding—but you’re also not letting the League decide how this ends.”
“Yes,” I say. “Exactly that.”
Silence stretches again, but it’s different this time. Less brittle. Still tense, but grounded.
Rafe looks away, jaw flexing. “I can’t be… a footnote in your story.”
“You’re not,” I say immediately. “You’re the through-line.”
He flinches at that, just slightly.
“I just need you to believe,” I add softly, “that I’m not choosing fear anymore. I’m choosing timing. And honesty.”