Chapter 12
The late-morning sun is bright. It hits the windshield in clean, unapologetic bands as we roll through streets that still look half asleep, Los Angeles stretching lazily into another day like it has all the time in the world.
I sit in the back seat of Miles’s SUV, shoulder to shoulder with Rafe, and it takes me a full minute to remember that yesterday wasn’t a dream.
The party. The noise. The banner. The cake. The way Rafe looked at me across the room like the rest of the world didn’t matter, like it could burn and he’d still be watching me with that quiet heat.
And then after. The way the mansion finally emptied out. The way we stumbled upstairs, laughing and drunk on more than alcohol. The way Rafe’s hands had been everywhere, greedy and grateful, like he was trying to make up for every mile we’d been forced to swallow.
This morning, we didn’t rush.
We slept in properly. The kind of sleep that feels like recovery. Rafe had been sprawled beside me, limbs tangled with mine, warm and solid and home. He’d woken up slowly, mouth finding my shoulder, my jaw, my throat, kissing like he had nowhere else to be.
Because for once, he didn’t. Neither did I.
The tour is long over now. The tour that swallowed them whole and spat them out shinier and more famous and permanently altered.
They’re home for a while. Not forever—nothing is forever in our world—but long enough to breathe before they finalize their plans for a world tour next year.
Just as they’ll be due to fly out to London, I’ll be starting my third season with the Monarchs, all being well.
Long enough to pretend we can live like normal people.
Which is how we end up in this SUV as a group, driving out to some breakfast place Eli swears is “life-changing,” tucked away in a neighborhood far from tourist traps and paparazzi routes.
“Trust me,” Eli had said, throwing an arm around Drew’s shoulders like they were a couple of frat boys on spring break. “It’s off the beaten track. No one goes there.”
Miles had raised an eyebrow. “No one except you.”
“That’s why it’s safe,” Eli insisted.
Now we’re pulling up outside the place, and I have to admit, it looks… harmless.
It’s small, beige, definitely the kind of café you’d miss if you blinked. There’s a chalkboard sign out front advertising homemade pastries and “the best eggs in LA,” which feels like a claim no one should make without legal counsel.
Rafe is wearing a hat pulled low and sunglasses even though it’s technically cloudy. His curls still manage to escape around the edges, stubborn as always. I’m in a hoodie and sweats, looking like every other tall athlete trying to disappear.
The guys pile out of the car first—Eli immediately loud, Drew scanning the area like he’s learned caution the hard way, Miles with the keys already in his hand like he plans for exits. Rafe and I follow more slowly, our shoulders brushing as we walk.
It’s stupidly domestic. It’s also rare enough that I can feel myself trying to hoard it.
Inside, it smells like coffee and warm bread and butter. The air is cozy. There’s low music playing from speakers that are too old to sound good. A few people sit scattered at tables, mostly older couples and one person in the corner on a laptop.
No one screams. No one points. No one even looks up for more than a second. Relief loosens something tight in my chest.
We slide into a booth near the back. Eli immediately reaches for the menu, already acting like he’s starving.
“We should do this more,” Drew says, sounding surprised.
Eli snorts. “Speak for yourself. I hate mornings.”
“You love mornings,” Miles counters without looking up. “You just hate yourself.”
“That’s true,” Eli concedes. “But it’s different.”
Rafe’s knee bumps mine under the table. His hand stays in his lap, but his thigh presses into mine, a silent reminder that he’s here. That he’s real. That we’ve got two uninterrupted days and nights planned before I’m back on the road and he’s back in studios and meetings.
The waitress comes over. She’s bright-eyed, barely twenty, chewing gum like she’s doing it out of spite.
She takes our orders without hesitation and doesn’t react at all when Rafe speaks.
She doesn’t flinch or widen her eyes. She doesn’t do the thing people do now—recognition followed by excitement they try to pretend isn’t excitement.
She just nods and scribbles.
“Nice,” Eli says when she leaves. “Normal.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Miles mutters.
We talk while we wait. Not about anything heavy, just stupid stuff. Eli complains about a hangover that isn’t real. Drew mocks him.
Rafe bumps his shoulder into mine. “If Eli says the word hangover one more time, I’m ordering him a Bloody Mary the size of his head.”
“It’s 10:00 a.m.,” I murmur.
“Exactly,” Rafe says, deadpan. “That’s the point.” His grin is easy, but I catch the way he rubs at his temple for half a second before he smooths the expression away.
I focus on Miles as he tells a story about a producer who insisted on adding a tambourine to a track and ruined an entire day of studio work. Rafe laughs in that quiet way he has when he’s genuinely relaxed, shoulders easing, posture less guarded.
And I sit here absorbing it, letting myself be part of the circle.
Marco texts me from somewhere across town.
Marco: You hanging in there?
I smile and type back under the table.
Me: Barely. The guys insisted on forced socialization.
Marco: Happy birthday again. Tell him I approve.
I snort softly, even as my pulse jumps that Marco indicated him and not them.
Rafe glances at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, warmth spreading. “Just… this is good.”
His expression softens instantly, like he knows exactly what I mean. He leans slightly closer, voice low. “Yeah. It is.”
Our food arrives. Plates crowded with eggs and toast and fruit and pancakes the size of Drew’s head. Coffee is poured. Silverware clinks. We start eating.
For ten minutes, it’s perfect. That’s how quickly everything changes now.
It starts with the door opening.
A group of girls steps in, chattering loudly. They look young—freshman age, maybe. Athletic shorts and big hoodies. Hair pulled into messy ponytails. One of them has a phone already in her hand like it’s an extension of her arm.
They freeze the second they see the booth.
They whisper, and their faces change, and a pulse of unease runs down my spine.
Rafe’s body goes still beside me, the way it always does when he senses it too.
Miles’s hand lowers slowly to the table, fingers curling around his coffee cup like he’s grounding himself.
Eli mutters, “Oh no.”
Drew’s jaw tightens.
The girls don’t sit down. They don’t order. They just stare.
Then one of them squeals, high and sharp, and the sound slices through the café like a knife. “Oh my God, it’s them!”
Everyone looks up, and the room shifts. Rafe’s shoulders tense. He leans closer to the table, trying to make himself smaller without it being obvious. His hat brim dips lower. Sunglasses stay on.
It doesn’t matter. The girls surge forward like a wave.
“Rafe!” one of them shrieks.
“I love you!” another yells.
Phones appear like weapons.
“Can we get a picture?”
“Please, oh my God, please!”
“Steel Saints saved my life!”
They’re talking over one another, crowding the booth so fast it becomes claustrophobic. Their excitement is messy and frantic, not mean, but intense enough to be dangerous.
The waitress looks startled. The older couples stare. Someone laughs nervously.
Rafe lifts a hand. “Hey,” he says, trying to sound calm. “Hey, guys—”
They push closer. One of them reaches for him. Her fingers grab his forearm, and something inside me snaps.
Not violently. Not irrationally.
Protectively.
I’m on my feet before I even realize it. The booth feels suddenly too small. Too vulnerable. Rafe is boxed in. Miles is already moving, sliding out, and Drew stands as well, but I’m the biggest body in the room.
And in this moment, my size isn’t a liability. It’s a wall.
“Back up,” I say, voice low but carrying.
It cuts through their noise enough that a few of them blink. Surprise flashes across their faces as they register me, my height, the fact that I’m not smiling.
One girl pouts. “We just want a picture!”
“Not right now,” I say. “You’re crowding him.”
“I’m not hurting him,” the one holding his arm protests. Her grip tightens.
Rafe’s eyes flick to me behind his sunglasses, and I see the fear there. Small, contained, but real.
That’s it.
I step forward into the space between them and the booth, blocking the view of him completely. My body fills the gap. There’s no room to argue physically.
“Let go,” I say, quieter now, sharper.
She hesitates.
Miles speaks up from beside me, voice firm. “Let go of him. Now.”
Something in his tone—trained, cold—makes her flinch. Her hand drops away.
The girls protest immediately, their excitement curdling into frustration. “This is unfair!”
“We came all the way here after seeing a post on Insta!”
“He can take one photo!”
Drew leans in. “Not like this.”
Eli, for once, isn’t joking. He’s tense and pale, eyes darting like he’s calculating how bad this could get.
The café feels too small now. Too exposed. The doorway is a funnel. More people are pulling out phones.
I keep my voice steady. “You need to move back. You’re scaring him.”
That last part does it.
They hesitate, confused, and in that second, Miles makes a sharp gesture. “Now,” he says to us.
We move.
It’s fast, controlled. We’ve all done versions of this before, just never like this—never in daylight, never over pancakes. Miles leads. Drew clears space. Eli grabs his coffee like it matters. Rafe stays close behind Miles, shoulders hunched, trying to keep his face hidden.
I take the back position, my body angled outward.
Bodyguard.
The thought is surreal.