Chapter 15
The treadmill’s display reads a number that should be impressive.
It isn’t. It’s just proof that my body is still capable of doing what I ask it to do, even when my mind is a mess.
Proof that I can push. That I can outpace the panic for a few minutes if I keep my breathing steady and my feet moving.
My shirt clings to my back. Sweat runs down my ribs, down my spine, gathering at my waistband. My lungs burn in that familiar, controlled way. It’s not the kind of pain that scares me. It’s the kind I understand.
I’ve been in my apartment building gym for nearly two hours. Not because I need the conditioning, but because I needed somewhere to put everything. Every image. Every word. My mother’s face when I said married. My father’s voice like a verdict.
The ultimatum. The way Lindy had stood in the middle of it like a shield. The way Rafe had been steady at my side, never once making it about himself, even as they tried to turn him into a villain.
And then—worst of all—the quiet moment in the car when Rafe left me. Not because he wanted to, but because there was a fire to put out in his world, and my world had just caught on it too.
Regardless, I’d been left feeling raw. I’ve been trying to outrun that feeling ever since.
I slow the treadmill, forcing my pace down. My calves scream in protest, my legs tight with fatigue, but my chest feels lighter than it did when I arrived. Not good or even fine, but I’m feeling less trapped.
I step off, grabbing a towel, and stand for a moment with my hands on my hips, head bowed, sweat dropping from my chin to the rubber floor. In the mirror, I look like an athlete. I even look like the version of myself everyone expects.
It’s the only place I’m still convincing.
I wipe my face, then grab my phone off the nearby bench. A dozen notifications blink at me like accusations: agent messages, team reminders, a text from Marco that I still haven’t responded to.
One from Rafe sent almost an hour ago.
Rafe: Home soon. You okay?
I stare at it. It’s a normal message, and still my throat tightens.
Me: Just finishing in the gym. I’ll be home soon. I’m okay.
The lie is small enough to be forgiven.
I shove my phone into my pocket and head toward the locker room.
The gym is quiet—midday lull. I pass the dumbbell rack, the stationary bikes, the rowers that always look like punishment. My footsteps echo softly. The building staff smiles politely as I pass. No one looks too long.
No one knows what just happened.
That’s the strange thing. My entire life feels like it’s cracked open, and the world outside is still moving like nothing changed.
In the locker room, I peel my shirt off, twisting it into the towel. My skin is flushed. My muscles feel heavy, worked over, tired in the right way.
I shower fast, not because I’m in a rush, but because the solitude feels too loud. Water hits my scalp and runs over my shoulders, and I stay under it longer than necessary, eyes closed, trying to let the warmth unclench something inside me.
It doesn’t. It helps, though.
When I’m dressed again—fresh shirt, clean sweats—I take the elevator up to our floor.
The ride is smooth, quiet, polished. I keep my hands in my pockets and don’t let myself think about yesterday’s elevator ride.
About Rafe’s weight against my shoulder.
About what it felt like to step into our apartment thinking we were safe.
I get to our door and pause, keys in my hand. For a second, I’m afraid. Not of someone being inside, but of the emptiness. Of walking into silence and realizing he’s still gone and I’m still alone with all of this.
The key turns, the lock clicks, and I step inside.
The relief is so sudden, so violent, it nearly knocks me off my feet. There are Converse by the door. Rafe’s. My breathing turns ragged, and I shut the door behind me, pressing my forehead against it for half a second.
Then I hear movement. Soft footsteps on the hardwood. The faint clink of something in the kitchen. The shuffle of a cabinet. I lift my head.
“Baby?” Rafe calls.
The word does something to me. It opens me up, makes me feel ridiculous and young and desperate all at once.
“I’m here,” I call back, my voice rough.
He appears in the hallway two seconds later, and the sight of him makes my whole body sag.
He’s in joggers and a black T-shirt, hair damp and wild like he showered too. He looks tired. Not tour-tired. Not stage-tired. The kind of tired that comes after a long day spent putting out fires.
His eyes find mine, and he stops. Just… stops. Like he’s taking me in. Like he can see the stress sitting in my posture, in my shoulders, in the way my hands won’t quite relax.
“Ollie,” he says softly.
I don’t answer. I just walk toward him.
Rafe puts down his glass, the ice cubes tinkling, and meets me halfway.
When his arms wrap around me, I finally breathe properly for the first time since leaving that hotel.
He holds me tight. No performative looseness.
No carefulness. Full contact, like he’s trying to convince my nervous system that I’m safe.
I bury my face in his neck. He smells like our soap and something faintly citrusy.
Home.
“I’m sorry,” I say into his skin, because the words have been stuck in my throat for hours, and they keep looking for a way out.
“For what?” he murmurs immediately, tightening his hold.
“For being—” I swallow, voice cracking. “For being a mess.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands sliding up to cup my face. “You’re allowed,” he says. “You’re allowed to be a mess.”
The tenderness in his eyes is almost too much. My lower lip trembles before I can stop it.
Rafe kisses me. The touch is soft and solid. A kiss that says I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. It steadies me more than the gym ever could.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against mine. “You worked out,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I needed to… burn it out.”
He nods like he understands without explanation. “Did it help?”
“A little.”
He smiles faintly. “Good. I was going to drag you into bed anyway.”
I let out a weak laugh. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “We’ve earned it.”
Something loosens in me at that. The idea of rest and surrender. Of not having to be strong for five more minutes. I nod slowly.
Rafe’s hands slide down to my wrists, his thumbs tracing the pulse points there like he’s grounding himself too. “You want to shower?” he asks.
I blink. “I already did.”
“I meant,” he says, and the look he gives me is warm and careful, “with me.”
My chest aches in a different way. I nod again. “Okay.”
He leads me down the hall, fingers laced with mine now. This isn’t the hand-holding we can’t do in public. This is the hand-holding that feels like a secret indulgence.
In the bathroom, he flicks the light on, then starts the shower. Steam builds quickly. The room warms and the mirror fogs at the edges. For a moment, I watch him, taking in the quiet competence of his movements. The way he rolls his shoulders like he’s carrying tension there too.
He glances back at me. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just… glad you’re here.”
Rafe’s expression softens, and he crosses the space to me again, cupping the back of my neck. “I’m always coming back,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”
I nod, throat thickening as we undress slowly.
He steps into the shower first, then reaches his hand out to me. I take it and step in after him.
The hot water hits my shoulders, my chest, sliding down my back. I close my eyes, letting the heat work through muscle tension and stress. Rafe stands behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back when he breathes.
He slides his hands up my arms. They rest lightly at my biceps, holding me, supporting me in a way that has my muscles relaxing and me breathing easier. I let myself lean back into him, the weight of him steadying.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m not,” I lie automatically.
He hums, amused but gentle. “You are.”
I exhale. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
Rafe kisses my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
I swallow hard. “I hate that they saw you like that. That they were so awful.”
His hands tighten, then loosen. “They didn’t see me,” he says softly. “They saw what they wanted to see.”
“Still,” I whisper. “I hate it.”
He turns me slightly so I’m facing him, our bodies pressed close under the water. “Ollie. Look at me.” His tone is serious now.
I do.
“I chose you,” he says, voice firm. “I keep choosing you. Don’t you dare apologize for loving me.”
My breath catches, and I nod. “Okay,” I whisper.
He smiles then, softer, warmth returning. “Good.” He reaches for the shampoo, pours it into his hands, and lathers it. He starts washing my hair like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s such a simple act that it nearly breaks me.
His fingers massage my scalp gently, careful of pulling. Water runs down my face. I close my eyes, letting myself be cared for.
I’m always the one who pushes through. Always the one who performs, trains, survives. It feels foreign to let someone do this.
It feels like love.
When he rinses my hair and smooths conditioner through it, I let my forehead fall against his shoulder. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
He kisses my temple. “Where else would I be?”
We trade places and I wash him, too, hands sliding over his shoulders, following his ink to his chest. He leans into the touch with quiet relief, eyes closing for a moment like he’s letting the day go.
I rinse the soap off him carefully, tracing my hands down his arms as if I’m reassuring myself he’s still here. That he’s real.
When we finally turn the water off, the bathroom feels too cold. We dry off in silence, towels rough against skin. Rafe takes my damp towel off me. I catch his fingers for a second longer than necessary.
We pad into the bedroom together.