Chapter 3
Wet, perfect heat surrounds my cock. This right here, Rafe’s mouth wrapped around me, is officially the best way to be woken.
“Nngh…” spills from my lips. It’s all I can manage between my sleepy brain and the zip of sensation tightening my balls and hardening my dick.
Rafe’s tight grip replaces his mouth. “Morning, baby.”
I lift my head and peer down at him, taking in his self-satisfied grin and the gleam in his dark eyes. Before I can respond, he licks the head of my cock, then sucks me to the back of his throat.
“Fuck.” The word is wrenched from somewhere deep in my chest as my head slams back against my pillow. A second “Fuck” is tugged from somewhere deeper, likely my balls, when he grabs said balls and gently pinches and massages them.
My breaths turn to pants as Rafe bobs up and down, sucking and swallowing while teasing my sac, and it’s no good—I need to touch, to see.
I angle up and reach down, carding my fingers through his curls. They’re wild and soft and the perfect length for me to grip in the way I know he likes. As soon as the strands are tight between my fingers, Rafe groans. The vibration tightens my balls, drawing them up high.
“Fuck, I’m not going to last. Rafe, baby.” It’s been over ten days since his mouth’s been on me. No way can I handle much more.
He sucks harder, his gaze capturing mine, and he doesn’t need to say a word for me to understand his own need.
I bite down on my bottom lip and thrust into his mouth. His eyes immediately close, taking each plunge with a serenity that is at complete odds with the desperation of my thrusts and the spit slicking my balls.
Rafe moves his hand, and a fresh shiver ripples through me. I love when he gets himself off when he’s going down on me. Knowing he’s so desperate and can’t wait is a hell of a turn-on.
White flashes before my eyes, and my balls tighten even more. It’s the only warning before my toes curl and bliss slams into me, along with my orgasm. “Fuck,” I cry out, struggling to keep my gaze fixed on Rafe as he swallows my cum while ropes keep shooting into his mouth.
His eyes flutter closed, muscles straining before a tremor takes over as he comes.
My limbs shake, skin and cock hypersensitive as I shudder through the last of my release.
I stroke his hair, barely able to keep my eyes open, and when he pulls away from me with puffy lips, my dick gives a final twitch of approval.
How can it not when Rafe looks so spectacularly gorgeous like this.
“Come here,” I urge, dragging him up my body, needing his mouth on mine.
He comes easily, like he was always headed this way, bracing one hand beside my shoulder as he kisses me.
It’s slow. Unrushed. His mouth is warm and familiar, tasting faintly of sleep and me and something that feels like home.
He hums softly when I sigh into him, the sound vibrating straight through my chest.
This kiss isn’t about hunger. It’s about rightness.
Morning light slips in around the edges of the curtains, pale and gentle, turning the room gold. Rafe’s weight settles against me, solid and grounding, and I realize how tense I’d still been—even after everything—until this moment.
Until him.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, eyes still closed, lashes dark against his cheeks. His breathing is slow, matching mine without either of us trying. “Good morning,” he murmurs again, softer this time, like the words are just for us.
I smile, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “That was one hell of a wake-up call.”
He grins, lazy and unapologetic. “I did promise.”
“You did,” I agree. “I appreciate a man who follows through.”
Rafe laughs quietly and collapses against me, cheek pressed to my chest, arm slung loosely over my waist. He fits here like it’s instinct, like his body knows where it belongs even when the rest of the world keeps demanding we be careful.
For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. There’s no rush. No buzzing phone. No alarm dragging us into obligation. Just the quiet hum of the city outside and the steady rise and fall of his breathing against my skin.
It hits me then—sharp and sweet all at once. We have a real day off.
No practice. No studio. No meetings, no travel, no pretending we’re not exhausted by the sheer act of existing separately.
I tilt my head and press a kiss into Rafe’s hair. “So,” I say, “what’s the plan for today?”
He shifts slightly, chin resting on my chest now so he can look up at me. His eyes are still a little glassy with sleep, curls falling into them like he hasn’t bothered to tame them yet. “Nothing,” he says, decisive. “Absolutely nothing.”
I snort. “That’s not a plan.”
“It is if you commit to it,” he counters. “We could order food. Stay in bed too long. Maybe venture out if we feel the walls closing in.”
The word venture makes something tighten in me.
Rafe notices immediately. He always does. “We don’t have to,” he says gently. “I know.”
“I know,” I echo, but I’m already thinking about it. About the weight of being seen. About how even something as simple as coffee turns into calculation—who might recognize me, who might recognize him, what assumptions get made, what questions follow.
“I just….” I trail off, fingers tracing idle patterns along his spine. “I’m hyperaware lately. Of everything.”
He nods, expression thoughtful rather than offended. “Me too.” There’s a pause; then he adds, quietly, “It won’t get easier, you know.”
I swallow. “I know.”
“Not if things keep going the way they are,” he continues. “For me. For you.”
I stare up at the ceiling for a beat, then back down at him. “You saying that like it’s a bad thing?”
“No,” he says. “Just… different.”
Different. That’s the word.
“I keep thinking about how small these moments are,” I admit. “How… borrowed.”
Rafe props himself up on one elbow, studying me with a seriousness that cuts through the sleepiness. “They’re not borrowed,” he says. “They’re ours. That doesn’t disappear just because the rest of the world gets louder.”
I nod, but the truth still sits heavy. “Someday,” I say quietly, “we won’t be able to do this. Slip out for breakfast. Walk down the street without a plan. Be anonymous together.”
He considers that, then leans in and kisses me again—soft, reassuring. “Then someday,” he says against my mouth, “we’ll find new ways.”
I smile despite myself. “You make it sound easy.”
“It won’t be,” he admits. “But we’ve never picked the easy version.”
That’s painfully true.
I pull him closer, tucking him under my chin, and for a moment, we just lie here, letting the morning stretch around us. The room smells like sex and sleep and something uniquely us.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Hypothetically.”
“Dangerous word,” he murmurs.
“If we did go out,” I continue, “where would you want to go?”
He thinks for a second. “There’s that place near the park. The one with the terrible coffee but incredible pastries.”
I groan. “The almond croissants.”
“See?” He grins. “Worth the risk.”
I sigh, dramatic. “You’re going to be the death of my anonymity.”
He laughs and presses a kiss to my chest. “You were never anonymous, Ollie.”
I close my eyes, absorbing that. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe this—us, here, now—isn’t something I need to protect by shrinking. Maybe it’s something I protect by choosing it, again and again, even when it means recalibrating what normal looks like.
Rafe settles more fully against me, already drifting again now that the conversation’s eased. His hand curls into my side, possessive but gentle. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, half asleep. “One quiet day at a time.”
I kiss his temple and hold him there, finally letting myself relax into the truth of it.
He shifts against me, the movement slow and unhurried. His fingers trace absent-minded circles on my side, warm and familiar. “So, I talked to my folks yesterday.”
I tilt my head so I can look at him properly. He’s watching me, eyes clear but careful, like he’s testing the ground before stepping forward.
“Yeah?” I say.
He nods. “They want to come out next month. Spend a few days. See the city. See… me.”
The last word carries more than it should. My chest pulls tight in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting too much.
“That’s great,” I say immediately, because it is. His parents sound incredible—supportive, warm, the kind of people who raised a son who loves fiercely and without apology. “They’ve been wanting to visit for a while, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “They keep pretending it’s about the weather, but I know better.”
I smile, then feel it falter as the rest of the thought catches up. “And they don’t… know,” I say carefully. “About us.”
Rafe’s expression softens. It’s not guarded or alarmed, just honest. “They know we’re friends who catch up with each other,” he says. “They know we met in college. That we stayed friends.”
Friends. The word lands gently and painfully all at once.
“They don’t know everything,” he reminds me quietly.
A pulse of something sharp and complicated moves through me—want, guilt, anxiety, all tangled together. I want to meet them so badly it almost aches. I want to sit across from the people who love him without conditions.
But I also know what it means to be the man they don’t know exists in the way that matters.
“They sound amazing,” I say, voice low. “And that makes it harder, not easier.”
Rafe studies me, thumb tracing slow arcs along my ribs.
“Because I don’t want to lie to them,” I continue. “And I don’t want to be… half a truth either.”
“You wouldn’t be lying,” he says softly.
“No,” I agree, “but I’d be standing right in front of them, knowing they don’t know that I’m married to their son. Knowing they’d look at me and see a friend, when I’m so much more than that.”
Rafe exhales, slow and thoughtful. “I know.”
The room stays quiet for a moment, the weight of it settling between us.
“I think about it a lot,” I admit. “What it would feel like to be known. To not have to edit myself around the people who love you.”
His hand tightens briefly at my side. “They would love you,” he says without hesitation. “Even like this. Even as just… the version they’re allowed to know.”
That helps. A little.
“I don’t want to mess things up for you,” I say. “With them. With everything else already going on.”
“You wouldn’t,” he insists. “And they’re not coming for answers. They just want time. They want to see the city, see me settled. They know I have people here.”
People.
Plural.
Safe.
I nod slowly. “So, if I meet them…?”
“Then you meet them as my friend,” he finishes. “Who matters. Who’s been in my life a long time.”
“And the rest stays ours,” I say.
“For now,” he agrees.
The word now hangs there—temporary, heavy, unavoidable. I lean down and kiss him, slow and careful, pouring everything unsaid into the press of my mouth against his. He kisses me back the same way—steady, grounding, sure.
“We’ll figure it out,” I murmur against his lips.
“We always do,” he says, and I can hear the truth of it in his voice.
Eventually, hunger wins.
Rafe stretches, long and lazy, then groans. “If we don’t get up now, we’re going to miss the almond croissants.”
That’s enough motivation. I laugh and roll onto my side, watching him sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Morning light spills over his back, catching on the familiar lines of muscle—and then something new.
I still. My gaze snags just above his hip, near his ribs. Thin black lines. Clean and subtle.
A new tattoo.
My heart gives a ridiculous, traitorous lurch. “Rafe,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I mean it to.
He glances over his shoulder, already grinning. “What?”
“You—” I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist. “Is that new?”
He turns a little more, clearly enjoying this. “Maybe.”
I stare.
It’s small. Minimalist. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it—just above his hip, tucked where his pants usually hides it. Fine black lines. At first glance, it looks abstract. A simple geometric arc intersected by a single vertical line.
Then it clicks.
It’s a half-court.
Not literal. Not obvious. Just the curve of the line, the quiet suggestion of the key. And running straight through it, like an axis, like a spine—my old jersey number. The one I wore in college. The one that mattered before anything was monetized or turned into a brand.
My breath leaves me in a rush. “Rafe,” I whisper, like saying his name might steady me. “You didn’t.”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing miserably. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s… my court,” I say, stunned. “From college.”
He nods, eyes suddenly fixed on the floor. “It was important to you. Where you lived. Where everything started.”
While he doesn’t mean literally, my chest fills so fast it hurts. He came to watch so many games after that first moment we made eye contact in a light-filled corridor.
I reach out without thinking, fingers hovering just above the ink, reverent. I don’t touch at first—like it might vanish if I do. “It kind of is a big deal.”
He exhales, the cockiness slipping completely now. “I was tired of carrying you only in my head.”
That does it. I lean forward and press my forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing him in, trying not to drown in the weight of it.
In the permanence. In the way he found a way to claim me without saying my name, without outing us, without asking permission from a future that keeps making us wait.
“You’re killing me,” I murmur.
He laughs softly and reaches back, lacing our fingers together, squeezing once like he needs to feel me there too. “You love it.”
“I love you,” I correct.
He stills at that—just for a second. Then he squeezes my hand again, grounding, certain. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I know.”
We finish getting dressed in companionable silence. He pulls on a T-shirt, fabric brushing over the ink, hiding it from the world again. I grab my jacket, tuck my wallet into my pocket, feel the familiar press of the ring against my chest.
The day waits for us on the other side of the door—complicated and loud and uncertain. But for now, there are almond croissants. And us. And the quiet knowledge that even when the future keeps pulling us apart, we’re still finding ways to mark each other—subtle, lasting, and entirely ours.