Chapter 16 #2
For a second, neither of us moves. It’s ridiculous how much tension sits in that small gap between us, how loaded even an ordinary greeting can be now. Miles watches with deliberate disinterest, like he’s giving us space by pretending he isn’t paying attention.
Then Rafe sets his mug down and crosses the room. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t make it obvious, but the relief in him is unmistakable. He reaches for me like it’s instinct, and I meet him halfway. His arms wrap around me tight—tight enough that I feel it in my ribs.
I close my eyes. My body unclenches. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly it happens, how the simple fact of him holding me makes the whole world feel less hostile.
“You’re here,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’m here,” I whisper back.
When we pull apart, his hands stay on my arms. His gaze searches my face with quiet intensity. “You look tired,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I answer, because that’s what I always say.
Rafe doesn’t let it go. “Ollie.”
I sigh, letting my head tilt back slightly. “I’m just wired. This close to the end of the season. Flying out tomorrow. Practice was… a lot.”
He nods like he understands that kind of wired. The kind that lives in your bloodstream. “Okay,” he says gently. “Wired, not broken.”
“Right.”
His mouth lifts in a faint smile, but his eyes are still worried. “You ate?”
“Yes,” I lie automatically.
He narrows his eyes. “Did you?”
“…kind of,” I admit.
He huffs a soft laugh and presses a brief kiss to my neck. It’s so gentle it nearly undoes me.
Robyn clears her throat from the hallway entrance. I hadn’t noticed her move closer, but of course she did. She looks at Rafe, not me.
“Ortiz,” she says.
Rafe straightens slightly, the shift in his posture subtle but real. “Yeah?”
“Plans to go out tonight?” she asks.
“No,” he replies without hesitation.
Robyn nods once. “Good. I’ll be in the spare room. If you need anything, you text. If you change your mind about leaving, you tell me before you walk out the door.”
“I will,” Rafe says.
She glances at me—quick, assessing, unreadable—then turns and walks away with the quiet authority of someone who doesn’t need to announce herself.
The second she’s gone, Rafe exhales. I realize I’m doing the same.
Miles lifts his pen and points it at us. “God, you two are depressing.”
Rafe flips him off without looking. “Love you too.”
Miles grins. “You staying long, Ollie?”
My chest pulls tight at the question, because it’s never a simple one anymore. “I can’t,” I say honestly. “I’ve got to prep. Early flight.”
He nods, not pushing. He’s been doing that a lot lately—accepting the truth without forcing it into conversation.
Rafe’s gaze flickers to me again, concern sharpening. Then he seems to make a decision. “Come upstairs,” he says quietly.
I blink. “Rafe—”
He reaches for my hand, fingers brushing my knuckles. He doesn’t grab, doesn’t tug; he simply invites. “Please.”
The word does something to me. It always has.
I glance at Miles, who waves a hand lazily. “Go. I’m not your chaperone.”
Rafe doesn’t wait for further permission. He leads me toward the stairs, his hand on my wrist now, not quite pulling but guiding. It’s obvious enough that I know Miles sees it, but he doesn’t comment. He keeps his eyes on his notebook like he’s suddenly deeply invested in whatever he’s writing.
Rafe takes the stairs two at a time. I follow, heart thumping harder with every step.
Upstairs is quieter. Dimmer. Private in a way the rest of the mansion never feels. Rafe’s bedroom is at the end of the hall. He opens the door and ushers me inside like he’s been holding the space ready for me all day.
The room smells like him—clean laundry, faint cologne, the ghost of guitar polish. There are clothes tossed over a chair. A half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. A notebook open on the bed with scribbled lyrics and arrows and cross-outs.
Life, mid-motion.
Rafe closes the door behind us, then locks it. The click is small, but it lands in my chest like a promise. He turns and looks at me—really looks at me—eyes scanning my face as if he’s measuring something underneath my skin.
“You’re not okay,” he says quietly.
My first instinct is to lie again. To smooth it over. To be the version of myself that can handle anything. But it’s him. And my chest aches.
“I’m okay,” I try anyway, softer. “Just… tired.”
Rafe steps closer. “You’re tired like you’re running from something.”
I swallow hard. I can’t tell him that I’ve been running from myself for a month. From panic. From shame. From the creeping dread that this fracture between us isn’t temporary—it’s structural.
“I’m just focused,” I say instead. “It’s an intense couple of weeks. We’re doing well. Really well. If we keep this up—”
“I know,” he murmurs, but his eyes don’t soften. “I’m proud of you.”
That should make me feel better. Instead, it makes my throat burn.
Rafe lifts his hands and cups my face gently. “Hey,” he says. “Talk to me.”
I stare at him. “I don’t want to ruin tonight.”
“You won’t,” he says. “I’m already ruined. You’re here.”
That gets a laugh out of me, small and involuntary. He smiles faintly like he won something. Then he angles up and kisses me.
It’s gentle and brief at first, like testing the water. Like checking if I’ll flinch. I don’t. I melt into it.
Rafe’s mouth is warm and soft, his lips moving slowly against mine, his hands still on my face like I’m something delicate. I breathe him in, the taste of coffee lingering faintly on his tongue.
When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine. “I missed you,” he whispers.
“I missed you too,” I whisper back.
He slides his hands down to my shoulders, then to my chest, palms flat over my hoodie like he needs to feel my heartbeat. He exhales as if he’s reassured by the rhythm.
“Can we just…?” he murmurs.
I know what he means.
Can we pretend this moment can last forever? Just for an hour, just us, existing as if the world outside doesn’t matter at all.
I swallow and nod, and Rafe’s gaze finds mine with the gravity of a quiet vow.
He angles up again, and the kiss lands with more weight than before—longer, deeper, sure. I feel the warmth of his palms moving beneath my hoodie, mapping constellations of skin with patient reverence. The heat spreads from my chest outward, a map I recognize too well: the map of us.
We move almost instinctively—no hurry, no plan, just two bodies learning the shape of each other again.
Shoes shed, gravity loosening. The hoodie catches on my shoulders and slips away; the world narrows to the soft rasp of fabric, the tremor in my breath, the low murmur of his voice as he asks without words if I’m still present, still his.
The touch starts as a careful feather, a gentle reassurance as his fingers skate over my skin.
He’s not rushing to topple the wall between us; he’s leaning into it, feeling for the trembling line where need becomes something else—a promise, a decision.
My body answers him in swift, honest replies—the relief in my chest, the little shiver that travels up my arms, the pressing of my lips into his cheek as if to seal a private agreement.
We reach the bed, and the world issues a soft surrender—the mattress sighs, the sheets whisper, and our laughter threads through the quiet as if we’re telling a joke only we understand.
He circles over me, the familiar weight of him grounding me, his eyes dark with warmth and intent, not conquest but care.
“You okay?” he asks, and the word feels like a blessing in a language we both know by heart.
“I’m here,” I tell him, voice a little ragged, a little brave. “With you.”
His smile softens. “Good.” And when he kisses me again, it feels like a vow renewed: a decision to stay, to listen, to honor what we’ve built together. The kiss lingers, and I let myself sink into it, not surrender, but choosing—choosing to be present with him, to let this moment be ours.
We fit together with a familiarity that’s both comfort and fire.
Heat threads through my limbs as he sinks into me, braided with the quiet certainty of belonging.
My hands find his hair, the familiar grip that says you’re mine and I’m yours, and I hold on a little longer, not to possess, but to promise I won’t let go.
He pushes harder, with more force, not losing eye contact until my eyes roll back in my head when he presses against my prostate time and time again.
“Fuck, Rafe, right there.” My words are strangled and barely sound like my own, and as he keeps thrusting, on a mission to make me explode, I simply hold on tighter, lost in his care and his ability to make me so completely his.
The room condenses to breath and touch and the soft, steady rhythm of two hearts finding cadence.
He traces a line along the curve of my shoulder, brushes a kiss to the pulse point at my neck, and I feel the room tilt as my balls tighten and sparks flash behind my closed lids.
I murmur his name—the one word that carries every shared morning, every stubborn fight weathered, every whispered apology and every stubborn, unbreakable bond.
I come as soon as his deft fingers grip my cock and tug once. “Fuck!” That’s all it takes for me to spiral. And that’s all it takes for him to sink into me as far as he can go before he’s grunting and releasing, filling me up so completely that I never want to leave this moment.
He rests against me, the world softening around us, a slow pulse of heartbeat against heartbeat. We’re still tangled, the sheets tangled with us, skin warm and unafraid.
Rafe’s hand finds the small of my back as soon as he carefully pulls out and we settle on our sides, facing each other. He begins a slow, contented sweep. “Hi,” he says, as if this is the first time I’ve ever heard those two letters strung together as a gift.