Chapter 15 #3
“They suggested…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “They suggested I have someone on personal detail, not just band security. Someone assigned to me.”
My skin prickles. That’s… closer. More constant. More invasive. I force myself to stay calm. “Okay.”
“And,” he continues gently, “because we live together so much, because we’re here a lot, because the building staff already knows our patterns—”
I hold my breath.
“—they’re going to ask about coverage here,” he finishes.
There it is. The thing I didn’t want to name.
I stare at him. “Here?”
Rafe nods once. “Not inside. They can’t just… plant someone in our apartment. But they’ll want a plan for entrances and exits. They’ll want to coordinate with the building. They’ll want to know who comes and goes.”
My breath catches.
More eyes.
More records.
More risk.
I feel like I’m back in the hotel suite, my parents’ gaze pinning me down, only this time it’s not about shame. It’s about logistics, and those are almost worse because they’re real.
“Does this mean—” I start, then stop.
Rafe tilts his head. “Does this mean what?”
“That we can’t—” I swallow. “That we can’t keep doing what we’ve been doing.”
His face softens, but there’s pain there too. “We can,” he says slowly. “But it’s going to look different.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding. “How?”
Rafe’s thumb strokes over my knuckles. “It means we have to be smarter. It means we have to accept that more people will know pieces of our life, even if they don’t know the whole truth.”
My stomach twists again. “So, we’re just… trusting strangers?”
“We already have,” he says gently. “The doorman. The building staff. The housekeeper. We’ve already done it. We just haven’t called it what it is.”
I flinch, because he’s right. We’ve been living on borrowed luck, and now that luck is running out. “What did you tell them?” I ask quietly.
His eyes hold mine. “I told them I have someone I live with.”
My pulse spikes. “Rafe—”
“I didn’t say husband,” he explains quickly. “I didn’t reveal anything that puts you at risk. I just told them I’m not living alone and that they need to be careful about how they handle my personal details.”
My shoulders sag slightly. “And?” I ask.
“They want a meeting,” he says. “With me. With the guys. With Rachael. And… they asked if I want you involved.”
The room tilts.
Involved.
It sounds like a word that should be empowering, like inclusion. It also sounds like an invitation to danger. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Rafe watches me carefully. “You don’t have to,” he says immediately. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”
“No,” I interrupt, the word sharp, almost desperate. “No, I… I should.” The firmness in my voice doesn’t match what’s happening inside me.
His expression doesn’t soften the way I expect it to. It tightens instead. Fear flickers across his face.
“Ollie,” he says slowly, cautiously, like he’s approaching something volatile. “Talk to me.”
“I can do it,” I insist. “The meeting. Being involved. I should be.”
His eyes search mine. “You don’t look okay.”
“I am,” I say too quickly. “I just—”
My chest seizes.
Not tight. Not uncomfortable.
Locked.
It’s like my lungs suddenly forget how to expand all the way, like the air stops halfway in and just… stays there. My heartbeat stutters, then slams hard against my ribs, fast and wrong and completely out of my control.
I suck in a breath, but it doesn’t help. “Oh God,” I whisper.
Rafe is on his feet instantly, kneeling in front of me, his hands warm and solid on my knees. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
I try.
My vision feels tunneled, the edges darkening, the room suddenly too bright and too far away all at once. My fingers tingle, then go numb. My stomach flips violently, nausea rolling through me like a wave.
“I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I can’t—”
“You’re breathing,” Rafe says, calm but urgent. “You’re breathing even if it doesn’t feel like it. In through your nose. Slow.”
I try.
The breath catches halfway again.
My chest burns.
“I’m not ashamed,” I gasp, words tumbling out in a rush. “I don’t hate myself. I’m not—this isn’t that. I just—I can’t be public. I can’t. Not in my sport. Not yet. I can’t walk into an arena knowing everyone knows who I love. I can’t—”
My hands shake violently now.
Rafe’s face pales. “Ollie,” he says, voice strained. “You’re panicking.”
“I know,” I choke out. “I know, I know—”
“Okay,” he says firmly. “Okay. That’s all right. You’re safe. You’re here with me.”
I press my palms into my thighs, grounding myself in pressure, the way my childhood therapist taught me years ago. It barely helps.
My thoughts spiral, overlapping and vicious. Security means eyes. Eyes mean patterns. Patterns mean questions. Questions mean exposure.
Exposure means headlines.
Headlines mean locker rooms.
Locker rooms mean silence turning sharp.
My throat closes.
Rafe cups my face, forcing my focus. “Have you had a panic attack before?”
The question cuts through the fog just enough. “Yes,” I manage. “As a kid and in high school.”
“When was the last time?”
“Senior year,” I whisper. “Recruitment. Pressure. Everyone watching.”
His thumb strokes my cheek. “Since then?”
I shake my head faintly. “No. I worked hard. I learned how to control it. I learned how to—” My breath hitches again. “—how to not lose control.”
“You didn’t fail,” he says immediately. “This is a lot.”
My body doesn’t believe him. My heart is still racing like it’s trying to escape my chest.
“I’m going to get you some tea,” Rafe says gently. “Chamomile. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
The thought of being alone makes my stomach drop.
“Rafe—”
“I’m right here,” he promises. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He leaves the room.
The second he’s gone, the silence swells. My thoughts turn on me immediately.
You’re doing this to him. You’re making his life smaller. You’re dangerous to love.
I fold forward, elbows on my knees, hands gripping my hair. I force my breathing into counts again. In for four. Hold for two. Out for six.
It barely works.
I want to say yes to the security. I need to. I know it’s about keeping him safe. About acknowledging reality instead of hiding from it.
But the cost feels unbearable.
I hear the cabinet open. Glass taps softly against glass. Then the kettle, the mug. When he comes back, he smells faintly like something sharper under the chamomile—like he took a sip for himself before he could come steady me.
Rafe’s eyes lock on mine, his concern deepening instantly. His gaze flicks over me, taking in my posture, my breathing, the way I’m rocking slightly without realizing it. “Hey,” he says softly, kneeling again. “Drink this.”
I take the mug with shaking hands. The warmth helps a little. The smell is grounding.
He watches me like he’s afraid to blink. “I don’t like this,” he admits quietly.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately.
“No,” he says. “I don’t like that you’re hurting.” He sits back, jaw tight, eyes distant for a moment like he’s making a calculation I can’t see. Then he exhales sharply. “Okay,” he says. “I’ve made a decision.”
My stomach drops. “Rafe—”
“I’m not doing individual security,” he says firmly.
The words hit like a slap. “What?” I sit up straighter despite myself. “No. That’s not—”
“I won’t do it,” he repeats. “Not if this is what it does to you.”
Guilt crashes into me so hard it steals my breath. “That’s not the solution,” I say, horrified. “You can’t—this isn’t about me being comfortable. This is about safety.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not putting you through this.”
My chest tightens again, but this time it’s grief, not panic. “I don’t get to decide that for you,” I say hoarsely. “You don’t get to protect me by risking yourself.”
Silence stretches, and a terrible thought flashes through my mind, uninvited and vicious.
If we didn’t live together, he’d be safe.
The idea makes me feel sick. I bury it immediately, ashamed of even thinking it.
Rafe stands abruptly, pacing now. “We’re at an impasse.”
“No,” I say, “we’re not. We just—”
“You can’t live with security here,” he says, voice sharp now. “And I can’t keep pretending this isn’t escalating.”
“I didn’t say I can’t,” I argue. “I said I’m scared.”
“And I’m scared too,” he snaps. “Do you think watching you spiral like that didn’t scare the shit out of me?”
The argument ignites fast, hot and raw.
“I’m trying,” I say desperately. “I’m trying to adjust.”
“And I’m trying not to feel like loving me is destroying you,” he fires back.
That lands.
Hard.
The room goes very still.
Rafe drags a hand through his hair, breathing ragged. “I can’t keep doing this,” he says quietly.
My heart lurches. “Doing what?”
“Living in a space where your fear and my safety are at odds,” he says. “Where every step forward feels like it might break you.”
My voice trembles. “So, what are you saying?”
He stops pacing, looks at me, and finally says the thing neither of us has been willing to put words to. “I’ll move out.”
The world tilts. My chest caves inward, a new kind of panic flooding me, colder and sharper than before.
I can’t breathe.
I don’t argue. That’s the worst part. I just stare at him, devastation hollowing me out from the inside. “I love you,” I say instead, the words breaking free because I don’t know what else to say.
Rafe’s face crumples. “I love you too. But,” he adds quietly, “maybe for now… I move back to the house. With the guys. Just until we figure this out. Until we understand the security situation.”
My throat burns. “How will we see each other?”
He shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t know yet.”
We barely see each other now. This feels impossible.
“We’ll find a way,” he insists. “We always do.”
I nod numbly.
We go to bed like people who have run out of strength to keep fighting. We cling to each other under the covers, limbs tangled, his face buried in my chest like he’s memorizing the feel of me. I hold him too tight, afraid that if I loosen my grip even a little, he’ll disappear.
Eventually, his breathing evens out and sleep takes him. It never comes for me.
I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the man I love breathe, knowing that something fundamental between us has cracked.
Not shattered.
Not yet.
But fractured deeply enough that it will never look the same again. And I don’t know how to fix it.