Chapter 7
Moving day feels unreal in a way I can’t quite name.
I don’t think it’s because it’s chaotic—it isn’t—but I suppose because this whole move was deliberate.
We planned it and chose it for ourselves.
This isn’t something happening to me. It’s something I’ve decided, with intention, with eyes open, knowing exactly what it costs.
The apartment has been filling up quietly over the last few days.
Deliveries scheduled around practice. Boxes dropped off.
Furniture assembled in stages so it doesn’t all arrive at once.
A couch that’s brand-new and actually fits the space.
A table that doesn’t wobble. Chairs that don’t look like they were salvaged from a college apartment on its last legs.
None of it feels temporary, and all of it’s ours.
Rafe insisted we do it this way. Set things up before we actually move in, so the first night isn’t spent tripping over boxes or arguing about where things go.
“I want it to feel like we’re arriving somewhere,” he said. “Not camping.”
I didn’t argue.
Now we stand in the hallway outside the apartment, the last of our bags at our feet. Rafe’s amp rests against the wall beside them, scuffed and familiar, like a marker he’s planted without meaning to.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
The door opens smoothly, and we step inside together.
The light hits first. Afternoon sun pours through the windows, warming the space in a way it didn’t during the viewing.
The couch sits exactly where we pictured it, angled toward the windows instead of the television.
The rug grounds the room. The table catches the light just right, already bearing the faint promise of scratches and spills and history.
For a moment, we just stand here. Then, without really thinking about it, I set my bags down and slip my necklace off.
I slide my ring on. It settles at the base of my finger like it’s always belonged there. Like I’ve been holding something in place until now.
Rafe’s breath catches. “You didn’t even hesitate,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want to,” I answer. “Not here.”
Something soft breaks across his face. He steps closer, slow this time, reverent. “God,” he murmurs. “I love that.”
I laugh under my breath, a little unsteady. “I love you.”
The words land between us, solid and sure.
He cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “I love you too.” Then he kisses me.
There’s no hesitation. No checking the hallway. No pulling back after a second to remind ourselves where we are. The door is closed. The lock clicks softly behind us. The city is outside, moving on without us, and this space—this exact square footage—is ours.
His hands move over me like he’s relearning something familiar, mapping me again just to be sure. I pull him closer, my fingers curling into his jacket, every nerve lit up by the simple fact of it: the ease, the permission, the lack of borrowed time pressing down on us.
“I missed you,” he says against my mouth.
“I know,” I reply. “I missed this.”
We don’t make it far.
The bedroom door swings shut behind us, barely acknowledged.
The bed is already made, crisp and inviting, sheets pulled tight in a way that won’t last long.
Shoes get kicked off somewhere along the way.
Jackets land where they land. We stumble against the mattress with breathless laughter that fades into something heavier, deeper.
Rafe braces himself over me, forehead pressed to mine.
“This is ours,” he says again, like he needs to hear it out loud.
“Yeah.” I grin. “It is.”
The urgency comes from more than want. It’s relief. It’s recognition. It’s months of restraint and carefulness unraveling all at once. We move together, Rafe buried deep inside me, like we’ve been counting down to this moment without admitting it.
His name slips out of me without thought. Mine follows from his mouth like a confession.
“Tell me you’re here,” he says softly.
“I’m here,” I answer immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
When the moment finally slows, it doesn’t stop so much as soften. The intensity turns heavy, like the aftershock of something seismic. Rafe rests his forehead against mine again, exhaling hard, eyes dark and shining.
“Does this mean our first place together’s been officially christened?” he murmurs.
I smile, stupid and content, the kind of smile I never bother hiding with him. “It sure does.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, lingering like he’s memorizing the moment. Then he collapses beside me, pulling me close until I’m half draped over his chest. My ring catches the light when I shift, and I notice the way his gaze flicks to it.
We lie this way for a while, steadying our pounding hearts, the afternoon light inching its way across the walls.
“This,” he says eventually, voice quiet and sure, “was worth the wait.”
I nod, fingers tracing idle lines along his ribs, grounding us both. “Yeah.”
And for the first time since everything started accelerating faster than I could process, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for the next thing. I feel like I’ve arrived.
I stay tucked against him until the sun moves enough that it feels like time has passed instead of paused. Eventually hunger wins, the way it always does. Rafe groans when I move, but he lets me go, rolling onto his back and scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Worth it,” he mutters.
“Always,” I say, knowing he means ignoring the few unpacked boxes still littering the apartment. Sliding out of bed, I stretch, then tug on a pair of sweatpants. I pause long enough to catch my ring on the light again, a reflex now, checking that it’s there. It is. Steady. Unapologetic.
Rafe watches me with a small, private smile. “I love it when you wear your ring.”
“Me too,” I say simply, my gaze catching his wedding band that’s nestled among the five other rings he wears on both hands.
That seems to be enough. He nods, sits up, and reaches for his own clothes.
There’s something domestic about the way we move through the kitchen together afterward, bumping hips, opening cabinets we stocked together, discovering we somehow bought three kinds of mustard and nothing resembling a complete meal.
“We should’ve planned this better,” I say, staring into the fridge.
Rafe peers over my shoulder. “We have cheese.”
“And?”
“And optimism.”
I snort. “That’s not a food group.”
He grins and reaches past me anyway, pulling things out with reckless confidence.
What we end up with is technically lunch, if you’re generous about definitions.
Sandwiches that are mostly bread and effort, cut crookedly and eaten standing at the counter while we argue about whether this counts as christening the kitchen.
“It absolutely does,” Rafe insists. “First meal. Very symbolic.”
“Symbolic of what?” I ask.
“That we will survive,” he says solemnly. “Despite ourselves.” He follows up with a wink, and I roll my eyes.
We carry our plates to the living room. Rafe stretches out on our new couch first, testing the depth, then pats the cushion beside him with a satisfied grin.
“Good purchase,” he declares.
“High praise,” I say, settling in next to him and letting my shoulder bump his. “From a man who once lived with a chair that doubled as a nightstand.”
“That chair was versatile,” he argues. “And misunderstood.”
I laugh and reach for the remote, flicking the television on more out of habit than intent. The screen lights up, cycling through menus and previews, and then freezes on a thumbnail I recognize immediately.
Rafe groans. “Oh no.”
I glance at him. “What?”
He shifts, trying to grab the remote, but I lean just out of reach. “You said you didn’t want to watch this,” he says quickly. “You’re tired. We should watch something dumb.”
“Bullshit,” I reply, already pressing Play. “You love watching yourself.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You do,” I say. “You just pretend you don’t because you’re supposed to be cool about it.”
He glares at me, but it’s half-hearted. “I hate it.”
“You hate it the way I hate reading game recaps about myself,” I counter. “Which is to say, you pretend it doesn’t matter and then reread it twice.”
“That is slander,” he says. “And also completely accurate.”
I snort out a laugh and dot a kiss on his lips before refocusing on the screen.
The chat show opens with the usual fanfare—bright lights, an enthusiastic host, applause that rolls through the studio like a wave. The band is announced, and the audience loses its mind.
Rafe sinks lower into the couch, tugging a cushion over his face. “Please turn it off.”
I snicker and peel the cushion away. “Nope. You’re not getting out of this.”
On-screen, he looks unreal. Relaxed. Charismatic in a way that fills the space effortlessly. Eli’s already cracking jokes. Drew sits back, letting the others take the lead. Miles leans forward when he talks, hands animated, eyes bright.
They look like they belong there.
The host asks about their impromptu Vegas Strip gig, about the tour that’s just been announced, about how fast everything is moving. Rafe answers smoothly, balancing charm and sincerity like he’s been doing it forever.
“See?” I say softly. “You’re great.”
He peeks at the screen, then back at me. “You’re biased.”
“True,” I admit. “But the audience isn’t.”
The camera pans across the crowd again, cheers rising, hands clapping. Hundreds of people, all focused on him. On them. I feel something twist in my chest—not jealousy, not exactly. Awe, maybe. A quiet recalibration.
Sure, I play in front of packed arenas now.
I hear my name sometimes when I check in.
I’m becoming recognizable in ways that still feel abstract, like something happening a step removed from me.
But this—this is different. Rafe isn’t just good at what he does.
He’s magnetic. He commands attention in a way that doesn’t ask permission.
He notices my quiet and nudges me with his knee. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… watching.”
He smiles faintly and turns his attention back to the screen, one arm draped along the back of the couch behind me.
I lean into his side without thinking, fitting there like it’s always been this way.
My ring presses cool against his hip when I shift, and I feel the weight of it in a new way—not heavy, just real.
The interview rolls on. They talk about songwriting, about influences, about how it feels to suddenly be everywhere. Rafe jokes about impostor syndrome, about still being surprised when people know the words.
The audience laughs, but I catch the truth beneath it. The way his shoulders tense just slightly when he talks about expectations. The careful humility. The awareness that this thing could tip at any moment.
“You always say that,” I murmur.
He glances down at me. “Say what?”
“That you’re surprised.”
He shrugs. “I am.”
I tilt my head, studying his profile. “You shouldn’t be.”
He smiles, soft and a little shy. “Coming from you, that means something.”
The show ends to another round of applause, the screen cutting to credits. I let it play out, not ready to break the moment just yet. The room feels full in a way it didn’t an hour ago, like it’s already absorbing us.
Rafe exhales slowly. “Okay. You were right. That wasn’t terrible.”
“High praise,” I echo.
He laughs and presses a kiss into my hair, brief and unguarded. “Thank you for making me watch myself.”
“Anytime,” I say. “I’ll add it to my list of services.”
We sit together for a while after, not talking much. The afternoon light shifts across the room, catching on the table, the rug, the corners of the space that are already starting to feel lived-in. The city hums faintly beyond the windows, distant enough to ignore.
Eventually, Rafe moves. “So. Thanksgiving.”
I glance at him. “What about it?”
“Do you know your schedule yet?”
“Kind of,” I say. “We’ve got practice that week. And a game. It’s… not ideal.”
He nods, thoughtful. “So you’re not going to see your parents.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I say. “I told them I couldn’t make it. Used practice and the game as an excuse.” Guilt flickers through me, familiar and sharp. “They weren’t thrilled.”
Rafe studies my face. “Do you want to go?”
I hesitate, fingers worrying the edge of the cushion. “I feel like I should.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want to,” I admit. “Not this year.” Or any year if I can’t be with Rafe.
He’s quiet for a moment, then says carefully, “I wasn’t planning to go home either.”
I look at him. “You weren’t?”
He shakes his head. “I want to stay. With you.”
Something warm and frightening blooms in my chest. The kind of feeling that makes you aware of how much you have to lose.
“This would be our first real Thanksgiving,” he continues. “Not borrowed time. Not squeezed in around other people’s plans. Just us.”
I think about my parents’ house, about expectations and questions and the version of myself I become there. I think about this apartment, about the couch we’re sinking into, about the way it feels to have him here without counting the hours.
“You should see them,” I say, even though I don’t want him to leave. “You haven’t been home in a while.” I don’t mention the visit that happened and I wasn’t around to see them.
“I know,” he says gently. “But I want this more.”
I swallow. “I can’t cook.”
He smiles. “Neither can I.”
“We’ll probably poison ourselves.”
“It’ll be worth it,” he says without hesitation.
I laugh, the sound easing something tight in my chest, and lean back into him. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” I repeat. “We’ll stay.”
He grins and pulls me closer, arm tightening around my shoulders like he’s staking a claim he has no intention of relinquishing. “We’ll make a disaster of it.”
“We will absolutely make a disaster of it,” I agree. “But it’ll be ours.”
The thought settles between us, warm and heavy. Another choice made. Another line crossed quietly.
I know what this costs. I feel it every time I think about my parents, about the lies by omission, about the future pressing closer with each decision we make.
I know the world doesn’t bend just because we want it to, and that every small act of choosing each other carries a price we don’t always see right away.
But right now, on this couch, in our apartment, with him warm and real at my side, the cost feels worth paying.