Chapter 10 #2
We will always make it work. Even if we have to carve the time out with our bare hands. Even if we have to choose each other over and over until it becomes the only religion we’ve ever known.
The song ends, and the applause is wild.
Rafe steps back, chest heaving, eyes bright like he’s barely holding himself together. The band gathers around him briefly, Eli pounding him on the back, Drew grinning like he knows that song just killed half the audience, Miles nodding approvingly.
Then they launch into their last track—fast, brutal, electric—and the crowd explodes again.
When it’s over, the venue feels like it might lift off its foundation from the force of the cheering. Rafe and the guys run backstage, vibrating, soaked in sweat, adrenaline still firing. The crew swarms around them. People shout congratulations. Someone hands Eli a beer like it’s a ritual.
Rafe’s bandmates hug him first, sweaty and loud, laughing and breathless. I’m grateful for it, because it gives me permission. I step forward into the chaos, and Rafe turns like he sensed me. Like even in this noise, he knows exactly where I am.
He pulls me into his arms. The hug is brief. A fraction too short. Not enough. Never enough. But his mouth brushes my ear as he holds me. “Mine,” he murmurs.
My whole body answers the claim like it’s a vow. “Always,” I breathe back.
And then he lets me go, because that’s what we do. We take what we can. We hide the rest. We survive on stolen seconds. But the way he looks at me as he steps away—eyes burning, promise written all over his face—tells me the rest is coming.
Soon.
The backstage area is a different kind of loud.
The show’s over, but the energy hasn’t drained.
If anything, it’s more chaotic now—less controlled.
Crew members dart around with clipboards and cables.
Someone yells for a towel, then yells again.
The air smells like sweat, smoke, spilled beer, and something metallic from the lights.
It’s messy and human and alive in a way the stage isn’t allowed to be.
Rafe is still vibrating like the electricity hasn’t left his skin.
His curls are damp and wild. Eyeliner smudged like he’s been kissed by the night itself. His chest rises and falls too quickly, breaths sharp, eyes still bright with that post-performance high that never fails to make him look like he could set fire to the world if he wanted.
People keep reaching for him.
Hands on his shoulders. Hugs that linger a second too long. Words thrown at him like offerings.
“You killed it, man.”
“That new song—holy shit.”
“Rafe, the crowd was losing their minds.”
And Rafe takes it all, grinning, nodding, throwing gratitude back like it costs him nothing. He takes a drink between congratulations—small, quick, like he needs it more than he enjoys it.
And when he swallows, his shoulders drop like something unclenches inside him. He’s always been good at that part. Generous. Present.
I’ve never been jealous of the crowd, but backstage is harder. Here, they’re close enough to touch him, and I have to stand here smiling like I’m just another guy in his orbit. It’s a strange kind of torture, made bearable only by the fact that he keeps looking for me.
Not obviously. Not in a way that anyone could clock.
But he does it. Again and again. Like he’s checking that I’m still here. Like the show wasn’t real until he sees me holding steady in the shadows.
The guys pull him back into their orbit—sweaty, buzzing, still half-lit from the crowd.
Eli presses a cold bottle into Rafe’s hand like it’s ceremonial.
Drew claps him on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
Miles leans in to say something I can’t hear, but whatever it is makes Rafe bark out a laugh, loud and unguarded, the kind that only comes when the pressure’s finally off.
They’re glowing. All of them.
Eli’s grin shifts toward me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “So?” he asks, voice pitched over the noise backstage. “What did you think?”
I don’t hesitate. “You killed it.”
Drew nods approvingly. “Told you.”
Rafe snorts. “You always say that.”
“Because you always do,” I reply.
Eli laughs. “He’s been vibrating since sound check.”
“That’s a lie,” Rafe says, but there’s no heat in it.
Miles raises an eyebrow. “You paced a hole into the concrete.”
“I was warming up,” Rafe argues.
“For four hours,” Drew deadpans.
Eli grins wider. “He nearly lost it earlier because the dressing room mirror was ‘emotionally hostile.’”
“It was,” Rafe insists. “I looked like a haunted Victorian child.”
“You looked like yourself,” I say, without thinking. “Just louder.”
That finally shuts him up.
Rafe glances at me then, something soft flickering through the afterglow in his eyes. It’s brief. Almost private. The kind of look that shouldn’t survive this much noise and light—but somehow does.
Mine.
Even here. Even now.
The rest of the crew begins to move toward the stage exit, ushering the band through the final obligations—photos, quick hellos, a few sponsor handshakes. The meet-and-greet crowd has been contained to a roped-off area. Still, it’s a lot.
Rafe turns toward me. He steps close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. Close enough that his heat moves through my shirt. “You okay?” he murmurs. His pupils are still wide, his grin too sharp.
When I get close enough to answer, I smell it—sweet and brutal. He’s already had more than one. “Yeah,” I lie, because he looks happy. “Proud,” I add, and mean it.
His mouth curves, quick and dangerous. “Good.” Then, softer—just for me—he adds, “I’m going to get you alone.”
My body reacts instantly, heat pooling low, like his words are fingers tracing my spine. I keep my face neutral. I have to. But my voice slips a little when I answer. “I’ll hold you to that.”
His gaze flickers down—just a fraction—like he’s reading the effect of his words on my body. Then he steps away because we don’t get to have everything right now.
The meet-and-greet is torture in small pieces.
I stand off to the side, arms folded, watching strangers press into Rafe’s space. Watching them touch him with their eyes. Listening to them say his name like it belongs to them. Watching him smile like it doesn’t cost him anything to give them those seconds.
I can tell it does, though. I can see it in the subtle tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders shift when someone lingers too long. The way he keeps his voice warm even when fatigue is starting to weigh him down.
And still, he performs, because this is what he’s becoming now.
A name.
A thing people want.
When it’s finally done, the band is ushered out a back exit, away from the crowd. Security moves in a tight cluster. Crew members lead them toward the vans.
I walk with them, pass still visible, hands shoved into my pockets to stop myself from reaching for him.
Outside, the night air hits my face like a slap—cooler, fresher, sharp enough to reset my lungs. The venue is still roaring behind us, fans lingering near the main entrance, hoping for another glimpse.
Rafe climbs into the van first. Eli after him.
Drew and Miles follow. I’m last, and as soon as the door slides shut, the world becomes quieter.
Rafe looks at me across the small space.
Not like a rock star now but like my husband.
He reaches out, fingers brushing mine once, hidden in the angle of bodies and seats.
It’s tiny, but it’s everything.
The ride to the hotel is short, and somehow it feels like the longest part of the night. Everyone’s talking over one another, energy spilling out in bursts.
Eli is recounting some moment from the crowd when a guy in the front row passed out. Drew is laughing about a broken string mid-song. Miles is already thinking ahead to edits and audio, muttering about mixing levels.
Rafe leans back in his seat, eyes closed, smile lingering like an aftertaste. Every now and then he cracks one eye open and looks at me.
I sit still, hands clenched, body aching with the need to touch him properly.
When we finally arrive, there’s still more to get through—hotel lobby, a couple of people recognizing the band, photos requested politely, security doing their job. We move through it like a practiced dance. Rafe plays his role, and I play mine.
But the second we step into the elevator—the guys telling us to go ahead—the second the doors slide shut and the cameras are gone and the world is on the other side of metal and glass, Rafe turns to me like gravity has shifted.
His hands find my waist, my hands find his neck, and he kisses me hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not polite. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally.
I grip him tighter, pressing him back against the elevator wall, not caring about the mirrored panels or the possibility of someone joining us on the next floor. The hunger in the kiss is too sharp to be managed.
Rafe pulls back just enough to breathe. “I’m sweating,” he murmurs.
“I don’t care,” I say.
He smiles—slow, wicked. “You’re wearing your ring.”
“Yeah,” I answer, voice rough. I slipped it on when we were in the car, wanting to feel brave and give him this before we reached this moment. “So are you.”
He glances down at his own hand like he forgot it was there, then looks back up at me. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers.
A warmth blooms in my chest that hurts. “You already said that,” I manage.
“I want to say it again,” he replies. “I want to say it a hundred times.”
The elevator dings, and we separate like we’ve practiced this, stepping apart with a speed that would almost be funny if I wasn’t still burning. The doors open, and we walk down the hallway like two men who are simply sharing a floor.
Rafe unlocks his hotel room. The second we’re inside and the door clicks shut, he turns, and I don’t even think. I shove him back against the door and kiss him again, harder this time, because there’s no one here to stop me.