Chapter 6 #2
I glance at Rafe. He gives a subtle nod, like he’s filing that away.
The elevator ride up is smooth and quiet. No mirrors to stare into, which honestly always make me feel uncomfortable, and there’s no awkward small talk. The doors open directly into a short, carpeted hallway, and Angela unlocks the apartment with a flourish that feels ceremonial.
The space opens up in front of us.
Light pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretching out below in clean lines and muted color.
The living area is open without feeling exposed, the kind of layout that invites you to exist in it rather than tiptoe around it.
The kitchen is modern and functional, all clean surfaces and storage that makes sense.
“This is—” Rafe starts, then stops himself, glancing at Angela. “—nice.”
I bite back a smile.
She walks us through the space, pointing out features and finishes, her voice fading in and out as my attention shifts. I picture furniture without meaning to. A couch that isn’t borrowed. A table that gets scratched and dented over time. Evidence of living.
The bedroom is large enough that I don’t feel boxed in. The closet is generous. The bathroom is clean and bright and blessedly private.
“One bedroom,” Angela says. “But it’s been popular with people who want a primary residence rather than something transitional.”
That word hits me square in the chest.
Primary.
“This unit becomes available in two weeks,” she continues. “You’d need to move quickly, but it sounds like the timing might work in your favor.”
Two weeks. I glance at Rafe again. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes are bright. He’s already here in his head. I can see it.
Angela checks her phone. “If you don’t mind, I need to take a quick call from another client. Feel free to take a look around. I’ll be just outside.” She steps out, the door clicking shut behind her.
The silence that follows is charged.
Rafe exhales first. “Okay.”
I laugh quietly, nerves buzzing under my skin. “Okay what?”
“Okay,” he repeats, turning slowly in a circle. “This is… really perfect.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s close to the arena. About twenty minutes. A little farther for you to get to the studio, but—”
“I don’t care,” he cuts in, then softens. “I mean, I care, but not enough for it to matter.”
Something warm spreads through my chest. “We’d need furniture,” I say, suddenly practical. “I don’t have anything that belongs to me.”
“That feels like a solvable problem,” he says lightly.
I step closer without thinking, lowering my voice. “I can see us here.”
The words echo something he said earlier, and the look he gives me is open and unguarded.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
The distance between us shrinks. I know we shouldn’t. I know exactly how thin the walls are, how close the door is, how easily everything we’re trying to build could unravel with one careless moment. But he’s right here, familiar and steady.
I kiss him.
It’s instinctive and brief, lips brushing, then lingering just enough to remind me how much I’ve missed this version of us—unrushed, unhidden. His hands find my waist, grounding, like he’s holding on to something solid.
A voice murmurs in the hallway, and we break apart instantly.
Rafe grins, breathless. “That was close.”
“Too close,” I agree, heart racing.
We put space between us just as Angela returns, none the wiser. She finishes her pitch, answers my questions about lease terms and deposits. I nod, focused, the decision already made in my bones.
When we step back into the elevator, the doors slide shut with a soft finality. Rafe’s hand brushes mine once. Just once. It feels like a promise. And as we descend, I know this place is going to change everything. Sure, it will make things easier, but it will also make us braver.
The elevator doors open, and we step out into the afternoon like nothing has changed.
Sunlight hits the sidewalk hard, bouncing off glass and concrete, the city loud in its usual, unremarkable way.
For a moment, it’s just us—two guys walking side by side, hands in our pockets, shoulders angled slightly toward each other without touching.
“So,” Rafe says, easy, like we aren’t both still buzzing from the near miss upstairs, “if this place works out, what’s our first move?”
“Furniture,” I answer. “Immediately. I refuse to live like a college student with a mattress on the floor.”
He laughs. “Bold stance.”
“I’m serious. I want a couch. A real one.”
“Something you can sink into after games,” he says. “Something that doesn’t feel temporary.”
The word lands softly but deliberately. “Exactly,” I say. “And a table. I want a table that doesn’t wobble.”
“Ambitious,” he says. “We should celebrate.”
“We should not celebrate by buying anything today,” I counter. “I need to pretend I’m responsible.”
He grins. “Fine. We can celebrate with food.”
“Always your solution.”
“It’s a good solution.”
We’re halfway down the block when I hear it. The click. Then another. It’s subtle at first, almost lost in the city noise, but my body reacts before my brain does. My shoulders tense. My stride falters.
Rafe feels it instantly. “Hey,” he says under his breath, calm and grounding. “Don’t panic.”
I glance up and see them—two photographers across the street, lenses already trained on us. One raises a hand, calling Rafe’s name like they’re old friends.
My heart slams hard enough that I taste it. I stop walking, but Rafe doesn’t. He keeps moving, hand coming up to rest briefly at my elbow—not gripping, not pulling. Just enough pressure to remind me where I am.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “They’re here for me.”
That helps. A little.
The cameras follow as we walk, shutters clicking steadily now. I keep my face neutral, gaze forward, every instinct screaming at me to disappear. Rafe lifts a hand in a casual wave, offering them nothing but acknowledgment.
“Rafe!” one of them calls. “Big night in Vegas!”
Rafe smiles, practiced but genuine. “It was fun.”
“Anyone special celebrating your success with you?” another voice asks.
Rafe doesn’t slow down. “Always.”
It’s vague enough to mean nothing and everything, and the photographers eat it up.
I swallow hard, keeping pace.
As soon as we turn the corner, Rafe pulls his phone out, already dialing. “I’m calling the guys,” he says. “We’ll get a drink. Public place. Nothing weird.”
“Rafe—”
“They’re going to follow us anyway,” he says gently. “Might as well give them something boring. Plus, we’re raising our ‘friendship’ profile, right?”
Right. I did ask him for that.
I exhale shakily. “Okay.”
We duck into a bar not far from the studio district.
Rafe steps inside first, shoulders relaxing almost immediately as the noise shifts from street chaos to background hum.
The photographers linger outside, snapping a few last shots through the window, then peel off once it’s clear nothing dramatic is happening.
I sag slightly against the bar.
“You good?” Rafe asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… that was fast.”
He nods. “Welcome to my world.”
A few minutes later, the band arrives like a storm.
Eli comes in first, tall and broad, already grinning like he’s mid-story. Drew follows, quieter but observant, guitar case slung over his shoulder out of habit. Miles brings up the rear, scanning the room like he’s clocking acoustics even in a bar.
“There he is,” Eli announces, clapping Rafe on the back. “Mr. Popular.”
Rafe laughs. “You say that like I’m eating this shit up.”
“That’s your brand,” Drew says dryly before he turns to me and hugs me fast and hard. “Where the fuck have you been hiding?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, stepping away. “Practice and games are no joke. Good to see you guys.”
Eli pats my back. “Man, we caught the game last week. You’re killing it.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, meaning it, as Miles gives me a smile and an up nod.
We grab a booth near the back. Beers appear quickly. I focus on the condensation on my glass, grounding myself in something solid.
“So,” Miles says, leaning back. “Apartment hunting, huh?”
Rafe shoots him a look. “You don’t know that.”
Miles smirks. “You literally texted the group chat.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “It’s fine. I—” I swallow hard, remembering I can be real with these guys. “—we need a place.”
“Good,” Drew says. “You guys deserve a real home base.”
Something about the way he says it—simple, sincere—eases the tightness in my chest.
Conversation flows easily after that. Games bleed into shows, schedules overlap in strange ways, and for a while, it feels like we’re all just people navigating momentum together. I forget about the cameras outside. I forget about optics.
Until someone at the bar asks for a photo with Rafe and the guys.
Then another.
Then another.
They handle it effortlessly, standing, smiling, never lingering too long. I stay seated, nursing my drink, watching the way attention bends toward Rafe, the front man, like gravity.
It’s strange, being this close to it. Sure, I get attention, asked for autographs, but I’m small time compared to Steel Saints, who are everywhere. You can’t switch on the radio or a talk show without some mention of them.
When Rafe comes back, he drops into the booth beside me, thigh brushing mine. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say honestly.
He studies me. “You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. I just… haven’t been on this side of quite so much attention before.”
He smiles softly. “You will be.”
The thought sends a ripple of something uneasy through me. But for now, we’re here. Together. Laughing with friends. Making plans about furniture and food and all the small, ordinary things that feel radical because they’re ours.
Outside, the city keeps watching. Inside, despite the noise and the cameras and the rules we still haven’t figured out, I feel something steady take root.
This will be hard, but here, inside Rafe’s expanding orbit, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I don’t want to step out of it, even if it means learning how to live in the light.