Chapter 11 #3
Rafe’s gaze returns to mine, searching. And this time, I don’t look away. He stares at me like he’s trying to decide if it’s real.
“It’s February,” I say quietly. “I have… a few months.”
Rafe’s mouth opens, then closes. His gaze flicks away, something shifting under his skin. “Our anniversary is March,” he says, voice almost flat.
I nod, throat dry. “I know.”
That silence is loaded in a way I can’t name.
Rafe drags a hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he mutters again, like the word is both a prayer and a curse.
I set the glass down carefully. “I’m not asking you to take me back tonight,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “Good.”
I huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. I figured.”
He looks at me for a long beat, then says, “Then what are you asking?”
The question is quiet. It scares the hell out of me, as I don’t have a polished answer. I don’t have a plan that guarantees anything.
All I have is honesty.
“I’m asking you,” I say slowly, “for time.”
Rafe’s jaw ticks. “Time?”
“Yes.”
He watches me, eyes dark.
“I’m asking for a chance to show you I’m not going to disappear again,” I continue, voice raw. “I’m asking for a chance to make choices that aren’t cowardice.”
Rafe’s gaze drops to the counter, then back. “And the divorce?” he asks, his voice careful, like he doesn’t want the word to be a weapon, but it already is.
My stomach twists. “I don’t get to tell you what to do,” I say quietly. “If you need it—if you need that freedom, that closure—then… I’ll sign.”
He goes still, and the air changes. His eyes lift to mine. “You’d do that?”
“Yes,” I say, voice scratchy. “Because I’m not here to trap you. I’m here to earn you. And those aren’t the same thing.”
Rafe’s breath leaves him in a slow exhale. He looks… tired, emotionally exhausted, like he’s been holding up the weight of this for years, and tonight it got heavier and lighter at the same time.
“I hate you,” he says suddenly.
My heart drops.
Then he adds, voice cracking just slightly, “For making me still want you.”
The words hit like a punch. I swallow hard, eyes burning. “I know.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because I hate myself for it too.”
His face shifts—anger, pain, something dangerously close to tenderness. He turns away, pressing his palms flat to the counter like he needs something solid.
I stay still. I don’t reach or touch or take. This is the part where old me would try to fix it with a hug, a kiss, a promise. That’s not enough anymore.
Rafe breathes in slowly, then out. When he turns back, his eyes are wet, but his expression is controlled. “You can stay tonight,” he says.
The relief that floods me is so intense my knees threaten to give out. But I don’t move, and I don’t let myself celebrate. “Okay,” I say quietly.
“Guest room,” he adds immediately, like he needs the boundary spoken out loud before emotion tries to rewrite it. “Down the hall. Second door.”
“Okay.”
His jaw flexes once. “This isn’t—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I know what it is.”
He watches me, suspicious.
“It’s a roof,” I say, voice rough. “And it’s… kindness. That’s all.”
Something in his face flickers, like he didn’t expect me to respect the line.
“Okay,” he says, and the word sounds like he’s forcing himself to accept it.
I hesitate. “Do you… want me to call my agent now?”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens. “Yes.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, thumb hovering. I don’t press Call yet. As soon as I do, reality will slam in. Headlines. League. Sponsors. The kind of questions that will crawl into every corner of my life.
But I also know this: If I keep delaying, I’m right back where I started.
I meet Rafe’s eyes. “I’m not going to hide from it,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t respond, but something in his posture eases by a fraction.
I step toward the hallway, then pause and look back. Rafe is still in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring at the floor like it might tell him what to do with the fact that I’m here. “I’m… trying,” I say again, because it feels like the only honest sentence I have left.
Rafe’s gaze lifts to mine. For a second, he looks like he might say something tender. He doesn’t. He just nods once, small and restrained. “Second door on the right.”
I take that nod like it’s oxygen and walk down the hall, every step slow, controlled, like I’m afraid moving too fast will break the fragile thing forming between us.
The guest room is simple. Clean. A made bed with crisp sheets.
A lamp on the bedside table. A small stack of books—music biographies, a novel, something about architecture.
I stand there for a long moment, breathing.
I can hear faint movement from the kitchen.
A cabinet opening, a glass being set down, water running briefly.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I stare at my phone. Eric’s name is right there. One tap and I light the fuse. I think about the kiss—how it felt, how Rafe’s hand clenched my jacket, how he didn’t pull away, how he kissed me back like muscle memory and longing collided.
I think about the knife. The flash of silver. Rafe’s face going white. The way he grabbed me and told me to move, like he couldn’t bear the thought of losing me even after everything.
I think about divorce papers sitting in my bag in my hotel room like a verdict. I press a hand to my chest. My heart is still beating hard, but I’m not spiraling. I’m… steady.
That should terrify me. It should feel like denial. Instead, it feels like, for the first time in a long time, I’m choosing something on purpose.
I lift the phone, thumb hovering over Eric’s contact.
Out in the kitchen, the house is quiet again, and I can picture Rafe standing there alone, just like I am, both of us awake and wrecked and trying not to shatter.
I don’t know what happens tomorrow. I don’t know if he’ll change his mind and tell me to leave. I don’t even know if the world will find out before I’m ready and rip my life open anyway.
But I do know this: I’m here.
I hit Call.