Chapter 16
RAFE
My mother does not believe in subtlety.
“You sleep there,” she says, pointing down the hallway like she’s assigning seats at dinner.
“Mamá—” I start.
She lifts a brow at me. The same one she used when I was seventeen and thought I knew everything. “You are married.”
I open my mouth, close it again, and Ollie makes a strangled sound beside me, somewhere between amusement and panic.
“I just thought,” I try carefully, “maybe separate rooms. Until—”
“Until what?” she cuts in. “You forget you are husbands?”
My father coughs into his fist to hide a smile.
“It is ridiculous,” my mother declares. “You think I will faint because you share a bed? I already survived you in your teenage years.”
“Mamá.”
She waves me off and hands Ollie a spare towel like this is the most normal domestic situation in the world. “Sheets are clean. Windows stick a little. Do not break anything.”
Ollie’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting laughter. “Yes, ma’am.”
She looks deeply satisfied with that response.
My father claps me on the shoulder as we head down the hallway. “You’re five in dog years,” he mutters. “Go to bed.”
“I’m thirty-three,” I correct automatically.
“Dog years,” he repeats.
Ollie laughs softly beside me, and the tension that’s been braided through the entire day loosens a notch.
It’s absurd, really. Yesterday we were dodging paparazzi and processing a knife attack and untangling twelve years of secrets.
Now my mother is assigning us a room like we’re teenagers home for the holidays.
When the door closes behind us, I lean back against it and let out a breath.
Ollie meets my eyes and just… grins. “You’re in trouble,” he murmurs.
“I’m always in trouble.”
“Your mom’s terrifying.”
“She likes you.”
“She hugged me like she meant it.”
That softens something in me immediately. “She did,” I agree.
We move around each other awkwardly for a second, not quite sure what this version of intimacy looks like in someone else’s house. In my parents’ house.
Ollie grabs the bathroom first, saying something about giving me a minute. I nod and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the familiar walls. I’ve slept in this room more than a few times since they moved in.
Never like this.
The giddiness creeps up on me unexpectedly. It’s ridiculous.
Just yesterday we were pressed together under hot water, steam curling around us while eight years of restraint detonated in under an hour.
I close my eyes briefly.
The memory hits hard—his hands gripping my belt, the look in his eyes before he dropped to his knees. The urgency. The hunger. The way my body responded before my brain could catch up.
It was reckless.
It was inevitable.
It was fucking incredible.
But this? This feels different. More dangerous, maybe. Because the shower was heat and gravity and need. This is quiet, domestic. Intimate in a way that requires staying.
The bathroom door clicks open. Ollie steps out, hair damp, wearing soft lounge pants and a T-shirt.
I pause. He always sleeps shirtless. I’ve known that since we were barely twenty-one. “You hate sleeping in a tee,” I say.
He freezes halfway across the room. “It’s fine,” he replies too quickly.
I tilt my head. “Why are you wearing it?”
He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed in a way that’s so unguarded it almost wrecks me. “I didn’t want you to feel… weird.”
“Weird?”
“Your parents’ house,” he clarifies. “Didn’t want to make it awkward.”
The sweetness of that hits harder than the memory of him on his knees. “You think my parents don’t know what married people do?” I ask dryly.
His ears go slightly pink.
I stand and step closer. “Take it off.”
He hesitates.
“Not for me,” I add softly. “For you. You’ll sleep better.”
He studies my face, like he’s checking for pressure. Then he nods once and pulls the shirt over his head.
My eyes drop immediately.
The tattoo.
Ink across his hip, lines I’ve still yet to trace with my mouth and my hands or memorized in the dark. He undoes me without even trying.
And then my brain catches up to what he said earlier tonight. The way he stood in front of my parents and owned everything.
The way he said he loved me without flinching. The way he admitted he left because he was scared—not because he stopped caring. That undid me too.
He climbs into bed on one side, settling against the pillows. I head into the bathroom to wash up, splashing cold water on my face and trying to get my head in order.
When I come back out in just my boxers, he’s watching me.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, facing him. “About earlier,” I say.
He shifts slightly, propping himself up on an elbow. “With your parents?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once.
“You didn’t have to say all that.”
“I wanted to.”
I study him. “Rehab was…,” I start, then stop.
He goes very still. I haven’t talked about it properly. Not with him. Not really.
“It was brutal,” I say finally. “Not just the detox. That part sucked. But the… sitting with yourself part. The realizing how much you were running from.”
He draws his lips together in a firm line.
“I was broken,” I admit quietly. “And I didn’t know who I was without the noise. Or the alcohol. Or the version of me that could pretend everything was fine.”
Ollie’s eyes shine.
“I felt like I lost everything,” I continue. “You. The band felt different. The future felt…” I exhale. “Empty.”
“I should’ve been there,” he says immediately.
“You left,” I say, not accusing. Just stating fact.
His face crumples slightly anyway. “I left because I thought I was making it worse,” he says. “I saw what it was doing to you. The hiding. The pressure. You were drinking more. We were fighting more.” He swallows. “I was terrified that I was the thing pushing you over.”
I shake my head slowly. “You weren’t.”
“I was part of it.”
“We both were,” I counter.
Silence settles between us, but it isn’t hostile. There’s honesty in the quiet space between us.
“I didn’t know how anything could change,” he says quietly. “Not until I came out. Not until I stopped pretending. I thought… if I walked away, maybe you’d be free.”
I stare at him. “You don’t get to free me from loving you,” I say softly.
His breath catches.
“And you don’t get to decide what I deserve without asking me.”
“I know,” he whispers. He looks wrecked in a way that’s raw. “I hated myself for not being braver,” he admits. “For not standing next to you when it mattered.”
“You came back,” I say.
He holds my gaze. “I’m not leaving again.”
The conviction in his voice makes my chest ache.
We talk for a long time.
About rehab. About the loneliness of it. About the first AA meeting I almost walked out of. About the shame of admitting I couldn’t control it anymore.
He listens. Really listens.
He’s not defensive when I say things that I know might hurt. He doesn’t interrupt. The whole time, he simply absorbs more story.
“I didn’t know how bad it was,” he says finally.
“I didn’t let you.”
“You were drowning.”
“So were you.”
That lands.
He nods slowly. “We were two scared kids with too much spotlight,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“And no one ahead of us.”
“Yeah.”
The air shifts, no longer feeling heavy. It’s fresh and cleared… like something long festering finally got oxygen.
He reaches for my hand again, threading our fingers together. “We still have stuff to figure out,” he says quietly.
“I know. But I’m not angry the way I was.”
Relief moves through him visibly. “I’m not scared the way I was either,” he admits.
That one hits me deeper than anything else. I stand and slide under the covers beside him, keeping to my side of the bed.
Slow.
We said slow.
The mattress dips slightly with my weight. He turns his head toward me. Fuck, he’s beautiful like this. Soft. Open. Hair messy from the shower. Skin warm under lamplight.
My body notices immediately. My cock stirs against the fabric of my boxers like it has its own opinions about the pace of things. I exhale a little brokenly and stare at the ceiling for a second, willing myself to be an adult.
Slow, I remind myself.
But as he watches me—eyes steady, lips parted—I can’t ignore the truth.
I love him.
I want him.
And finally, the wanting doesn’t feel like it’s going to destroy us.
I lean into him, making my intentions clear. His nostrils flare, and our lips touch.
It’s not tentative. It’s immediate.
I groan at the first flick of his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric, my body reacting before my brain can catch up. Heat floods low and fast, my cock punching hard against fabric.
“Fuck,” I breathe against his mouth, then loop my arms around him, dragging his bigger body flush to mine.
He answers like he’s been waiting.
He fists his hands in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss without apology. The other slides down my spine and grips my hip, pulling me tighter.
There’s no space left between us.
When I grind against him, he groans—low, wrecked—and the sound goes straight through me. I feel him hard against my thigh, undeniable, urgent.
“Rafe,” he says like it’s both a warning and a prayer.
“Yeah,” I answer, and then I kiss him harder.
We move fast after that.
Not reckless.
Certain.
Clothes get tugged, pushed, dragged down with impatient hands. Fabric catches around our feet and we both curse under our breath, laughing for half a second before diving back in like we can’t stand another inch of distance.
My boxers hit the floor first. His sleep pants follow. Then skin meets skin and the contact is blinding.
God, I’ve missed this. The weight of him. The heat. The way his body fits against mine like it was built for it.
I slide my hands down his back, over muscle I know by memory, over the tattoo that still undoes me every time I see it. My mouth finds his neck, bites lightly, and he inhales sharply, hips pressing forward.
Our cocks bump and slide, our precum offering some slick.