Chapter 12 #3
The elevator hum is steady and indifferent, like it doesn’t care that my heart is still trying to climb out of my ribs.
Rafe leans into me like he can’t help it, head tipping toward my shoulder, curls brushing my jaw.
I wrap my arm around him without thinking, pulling him close, palm spread wide over his back.
He’s warm through his shirt, solid and here.
And as the elevator rises, carrying us back toward our quiet, hidden life, I realize something I do not want to admit yet: We’re running out of ways to stay invisible.
And still, he’s coming home with me anyway.
The doors slide open on our floor, and we move fast—not because we’re in danger now, not because anyone is watching, but because the adrenaline hasn’t drained, and Rafe is looking at me like he’s still shaking off the café and the crowd and the hands that touched him.
The hallway is quiet, all plush carpet and soft lighting. The kind of calm that feels fake after chaos.
We reach our door, and I’m halfway through unlocking it when he surges in. His mouth catches mine like he’s been waiting all morning for permission.
I make a sound that’s half laugh, half surrender as my back hits the door, keys biting into my palm. I should pull away. I should focus. I should use my brain for the ten seconds it takes to get the lock open.
But he kisses me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
His lips are urgent, demanding, like the fear wants to turn into something else—something that belongs only to us.
My hand shakes as I try to angle the key into the lock, and I swear Rafe senses the struggle because he kisses harder, like he’s offended by the concept of me giving my attention to anything other than him.
“Rafe,” I breathe, and it’s not a warning. It’s a plea.
He doesn’t stop. He presses closer, mouth still latched onto mine, a low sound vibrating in his throat that makes my entire body tighten. He grips my hoodie, pulling me into him as if he could climb inside my skin and stay there.
I fumble again.
The key scrapes uselessly. I should pull away. It would be quicker. But I can’t.
The taste of him—coffee and adrenaline and something faintly sweet from breakfast—fills my mouth. His lips are soft but relentless. I chase him when he shifts, refusing to lose contact even for a second.
My fingers finally find the right angle, and the lock clicks. Triumph floods through me so fast it’s almost ridiculous. Like I just hit a game-winner instead of opening my own damn front door.
I twist the handle, pushing it open with my shoulder, and we stumble inside together, still kissing.
The apartment is dimmer than the hallway, quiet, familiar. The scent of our detergent. The faint trace of Rafe’s cologne clinging to the air like he never really leaves.
He pulls away only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, curls springing up messier as he does, muscles flexing with the movement. Then he’s back on me instantly, mouth claiming mine again like he didn’t get enough of me last night. Like he never will.
I shut the door behind us blindly, still kissing, still moving, keys clattering somewhere to the floor. Then I grab him with both hands, my hold firm.
I lift him with a grunt, because he’s lighter than me and because I can’t not. Because he fits against me like he was built for this. Because he makes himself boneless and trusting in my arms like he knows I have him.
Rafe wraps his legs around my waist with no hesitation, hands sliding into my hair. His mouth is hot against mine, his skin warm, his breath shaking.
Fuck. He’s beautiful. Perfect.
My husband. Mine in every way that matters.
I take two steps into the living room and then—
“Holy shit.”
The words hit the air like a gunshot. I freeze so hard my muscles lock. My heart doesn’t stutter. It stops.
That’s Lindy’s voice.
Every atom in my body goes ice-cold at once, panic detonating so fast my vision sharpens. For a split second, I can’t even breathe. Rafe pulls back slightly, confused, his eyes wide and searching my face.
I stare at him, mind racing, mouth dry.
Lindy? Here? Now?
I’m panicking—but not too much. Because it’s Lindy.
Lindy is amazing and safe. She’s the family member in my life who’s always looked at me like I’m hers, no matter what. The one who would shove the whole world off a cliff if it meant protecting me.
She’ll keep a secret because she loves me. I can manage this. I can—
Rafe wriggles, sensing my sudden tension, and I let him down because I have to. He lands silently, shirtless, hair wild and loose from his bun, lips swollen, looking at me like he’s trying to translate my expression in real time.
He mouths, “Who?”
I angle my head, finally letting myself look. Lindy is standing by the kitchen island.
Her eyes are huge. Her hands are half raised like she walked in mid-sentence and forgot how to finish it. She looks stunned but not horrified, which should have been my first clue that my sister already knows more than she should.
And then my gaze shifts, and the floor drops out from under me.
Because it’s not just Lindy.
Mom is standing beside her.
My mother, in my apartment, in a pressed blouse and lipstick like she came here expecting to be offered coffee. Her cheeks are bright red, the color creeping up her neck in blotchy waves. Her mouth is tight, pinched like she’s swallowed something acidic and it’s burning all the way down.
Her eyes—sharp and unblinking—are fixed on Rafe.
Then on me.
Then back to Rafe again.
He goes utterly still at my side, like he’s just been turned into stone. His hand slides closer to mine, instinctive. Protective. Not letting go.
And I—
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
I can only stare at my mother’s face and feel the world cracking open in real time. Because there is no version of this where she doesn’t understand what she just saw. There’s no version of this where I can explain it away. And there’s definitely no version of this where the lie survives.
Fuck it all to hell.