Chapter 15 #2
The curtains are half drawn, sunlight muted. The bed is made—because I always make it without thinking—but he pulls the comforter back like it’s an invitation.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I do.
We crawl under the covers still warm from the day, bodies clean, hair damp. Rafe pulls me against him instantly, arm heavy around my shoulders, my head tucked into his chest.
It’s midafternoon. The city is wide awake outside. Inside, everything slows.
My thoughts drift back again—my mother’s voice, my father’s ultimatum, the feeling of being watched like an object rather than loved like a son.
The humiliation burns. The grief is quieter, but deeper.
I whisper into the space between us, “What if I’m not worth this?”
Rafe goes still for half a beat. Then he firmly slides his hand up my back. “Ollie,” he says, voice low and intense, “don’t ever say that.”
“I just—” I swallow. “You could have an easier life.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “But it wouldn’t be mine.”
My chest tightens again.
He tilts my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are fierce. “You are my husband.”
The word steadies me.
“You’re worth every single hard thing,” he continues. “And I don’t want easy if it doesn’t include you.”
I stare at him. Something in my expression must shift—some crack in my armor—because his face softens again. He kisses me slowly, sweetly, all warmth and love.
Then he settles back and pulls me closer. “We’re going to sleep,” he murmurs. “Just for a little while.”
“What about—” I start, but he presses his lips to my forehead.
“Not yet,” he says. “Not right now.”
I know what he means.
Security.
Phones.
Plans.
The fallout.
He’s keeping it at bay for me. For us. Giving me a pocket of peace before we have to face it.
I nod. “Okay,” I whisper.
Rafe hums softly in approval and tightens his hold, and I let my eyes close.
For the first time since yesterday, my body stops bracing for impact.
For the first time since my mother entered my apartment, I feel like I can breathe again.
Rafe is here, and I’m not alone.
And even though I’m terrified of what changes next—of what the world will demand from us now that my parents know, now that the fans have hands and hunger and cameras—there’s something else under the fear.
A quiet strength, because I chose him. Out loud. In front of everyone who ever tried to own me.
And that choice is still mine.
I fall asleep with my hand on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, letting it remind me that the future can be loud and frightening, but I’m not facing it alone.
I wake up to the sound of my own breathing. For a second, I don’t know where I am, because the last twenty-four hours have made every room feel interchangeable. Hotel suite. Elevator. Car. Our apartment. My brain has been filing everything into one long, blurred crisis.
Then I feel Rafe’s arm around me, solid and familiar, his chest warm against my cheek.
Home.
The curtains are still half drawn. The light in the room has shifted lower, the afternoon sliding toward evening. My body feels heavy in that good way—sleep-weighted, muscles loose instead of clenched.
I lie still, listening.
Rafe’s breathing is even. He’s asleep. His hair’s a mess against the pillow. His mouth is slightly open, his face softened in the way it only is when he’s not performing. Not managing. Not bracing.
I watch him for a moment and feel something swell in my chest that is equal parts love and guilt. He could be anywhere. With anyone. Yet he’s here, in this bed, holding me like I’m something precious.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but the movement is enough. Rafe’s arm tightens reflexively. His eyes blink open, slow and unfocused at first.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
He studies my face for a beat, like he’s checking for cracks. Then his hand slides up my back, palm warm. “You okay?”
I take a breath. My throat feels tight, but it’s not panic-tight. It’s emotion-tight. “I think so,” I say honestly. “I feel… less like I’m going to explode.”
Rafe exhales, relief softening his features. “Good.”
I shift upward, resting my chin on his chest so I can look at him properly. “Did you sleep for long?”
“A little,” he says. “I slept because you slept.”
The tenderness in that makes my chest ache. I swallow. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
His brows lift slightly. “Which part?”
I huff a laugh that sounds more broken than amused. “The part where my parents tried to rip you apart in front of me.”
Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice gentle. “That wasn’t you.”
“It was my family.”
“Still not you,” he insists. “And you didn’t let them.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard, refusing to cry. I’m tired of tears sitting just behind my eyes like they own the place. “I didn’t want you in that room,” I admit.
“I know,” he says quietly.
“I wanted to keep you safe from them.”
Rafe’s expression softens. “Baby, I’ve been heckled by drunk men in dive bars. I’ve been told I’m ruining music. I’ve been threatened outside venues just for the color of my skin and my name. I’ve been called every name you can imagine.”
I tense.
He notices immediately and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt,” he adds quickly. “I’m saying you don’t have to protect me by pushing me away.”
I close my eyes for a second. “Okay,” I whisper.
He rubs my back in slow circles, and for a while, we just breathe together, letting the silence do what it can. Eventually, my stomach growls loudly enough that Rafe’s mouth twitches.
“Hungry?” he asks, amused.
“Yeah,” I admit, “I’m starving.”
He smiles faintly. “You want food, or do you want to keep pretending the world isn’t outside this door?”
“Both,” I say.
“That’s fair.”
He shifts, pulling himself upright slowly, then reaches for my hand beneath the covers. The contact steadies me again. It’s ridiculous how much that simple thing does. Like my nervous system is a dog that only calms down when it feels a familiar palm.
We get up together, moving slowly through the apartment like we’re still half asleep. Rafe pulls on sweatpants and an old band T-shirt. I throw on shorts and a hoodie. Neither of us bothers with anything else.
The kitchen is clean, because I’m compulsive like that, and Rafe immediately heads for the fridge. He opens it, stares inside, then makes a thoughtful noise.
“We have eggs,” he says.
“And optimism,” I reply automatically.
He grins. “Exactly.”
We make food with the bare minimum of effort. Scrambled eggs that are slightly overcooked. Toast. Fruit that looks like it’s been sitting too long. Coffee for him, water for me.
We eat at the counter, side by side, our shoulders brushing, our knees bumping when one of us shifts.
It’s so normal it’s almost painful. I watch his hands as he eats—long fingers, a few calluses from guitar strings.
His ring sits on his right hand today, the way he wears it when he’s trying to be careful.
Mine is on my left, because I can’t take it off in here.
I can’t go back to pretending it isn’t part of me.
Rafe catches me staring and arches a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, voice rough. “Just… you.”
He softens, reaches over, and brushes his knuckles against my cheek. “I’m right here.”
“I know,” I whisper.
We finish eating. We clean up together without discussing it. Rafe rinses plates. I wipe the counter. The domestic rhythm settles something in me again, like it’s proof that we can still have small, good things.
Then his phone buzzes. The sound is sharp in the quiet apartment.
He glances at it, and I see the shift in his posture immediately.
The way his shoulders tense, the way his mouth tightens.
The bubble of safety we made in this apartment thins.
Rafe’s gaze flicks once—too quick—to the kitchen, like he’s mentally reaching for something before he says the next part out loud.
I swallow hard. “Is it…?”
He sets the phone down face up on the counter but doesn’t answer right away. He takes a breath first, long and controlled, then meets my eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s about security.”
The word drops into the room like a stone. My mind flashes back to the café—the hands, the grabbing, the fear in his eyes.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Rafe reaches for my hand, pulling it into his.
“Before I tell you,” he says carefully, “I need you to hear something.”
I tense. “What?”
He squeezes my fingers. “None of this is your fault.”
My throat closes.
“Rafe—”
“I mean it,” he insists, voice firmer. “Not the fans. Not your parents. Not the fact that we’re being noticed more. None of it.”
I stare at him, heart pounding slow and heavy. “It feels like it is.”
He exhales. “I know.”
He pauses, then adds softly, “And I also know you’re scared.”
I swallow, because he’s right. I’m scared of my parents cutting me out of their lives. Scared of the League. Scared of headlines. Scared of a security detail bringing new eyes into our private life. Scared that this is the beginning of the end of us living the way we have.
And worst of all, I’m scared that Rafe is going to wake up one day and realize he deserves better than a husband who keeps him hidden.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
His gaze softens instantly. “Okay. Then we do this together.”
He guides me gently toward the couch, like he wants me grounded for this. We sit, knees touching. He drapes his arm over the back of the couch behind me, close but not trapping.
He takes another breath. “Miles called Rachael,” he says, “and she called the label. They’re already moving.”
I nod. “That fast?”
Rafe’s mouth twists. “That’s what happens when they realize liability is real.”
My stomach turns. “So what… what does that mean?”
“It means we’re getting security when we’re out,” he says. “Especially when the band is together. Especially when we’re doing anything public.”
My mouth goes dry. “And for me?” I ask.
Rafe’s eyes flicker with understanding. “This is the part I wanted to talk to you about.”
I brace.