Chapter 19
The house looks smaller than I expected.
Not in a bad way. Just… contained. Grounded.
A single-story place set back from the street with a neat front yard, a tree whose branches have been trimmed carefully over the years, and a porch that’s been repainted recently—enough that it still smells faintly of fresh varnish.
The lawn is green but imperfect, patches a little thinner than others, like someone cares but doesn’t obsess.
There’s a faded welcome mat by the door.
Rafe’s parents’ car is parked in the driveway. It’s at least ten years old, maybe more, the kind of car that’s been maintained instead of replaced. No shine. No statement. Just practical, reliable, still here.
My breath falters. I feel like an intruder. My eye throbs dully, a reminder of everything I’ve fucked up in the last twenty-four hours. I’m exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix. Bruised. Raw. Late.
Too late? Only time will tell.
Marco kills the engine and looks at me. He doesn’t say anything right away, just studies my face like he’s taking inventory, making sure I’m still upright. “You don’t have to do this,” he says finally.
I shake my head immediately. “I do.”
“You sure?”
“No,” I admit. “But he deserves it.”
Marco nods once, satisfied. “Okay then. Let’s go meet the in-laws.”
That earns a weak huff of a laugh from me, but my stomach is churning too hard for humor to land properly. We get out of the car together. I pause on the sidewalk, staring at the house again, trying to breathe.
This is where Rafe grew up. Where he learned how to be himself before the world ever got its hands on him. Where he became the man I married. The thought nearly drops me to my knees.
I drag in a slow breath, the way I do before free throws when the crowd gets too loud. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Control what you can control.
Marco nudges my shoulder. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re doing the right thing.”
“I hope so.”
We walk up the path together. The porch creaks slightly under our weight. I lift my hand to knock, then hesitate. This is it. No more delay. No more avoidance. No more letting Rafe be the one who steps forward alone.
I knock. The sound feels absurdly loud in the quiet neighborhood. One knock, then another, firm but not aggressive. My heart slams against my ribs as we wait.
Footsteps. Voices inside.
Rafe opens the door mid-conversation, head turned over his shoulder as he says something in Spanish.
He’s wearing jeans and a soft, worn T-shirt I recognize—the one he stole from me when we were in college and never gave back.
His hair is a mess, curls loose, like he ran his hands through it too many times.
Like he’d been up early, pacing, trying to scrub last night off his skin.
I take him in all at once, and my chest cracks open.
He looks tired. On edge. Real.
Then he turns around fully. For a second, he just stares at me. There’s a faint tightness around his eyes, the kind you get after too little sleep and too much something else. When he swallows, his throat works a little like it hurts.
His face goes blank with shock, eyes widening like his brain can’t quite make sense of what he’s seeing. “What—” he starts, then stops. “How?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat closes. The apology, the explanation, the thousand things I need to say all tangle together and refuse to cooperate.
Marco steps forward smoothly, saving me. “We were just passing by,” he says with a grin, like this is all perfectly normal.
Rafe snorts despite himself, disbelief flickering across his face. “Bullshit.”
Before any of us can say anything else, a woman’s voice calls from inside, warm and curious, speaking Spanish. “?Rafael? ?Quién es?”
Rafe’s body stiffens. He glances at me, something sharp and uncertain passing through his eyes. Then he swallows and answers her. “Son… mis amigos,” he says.
Friends. The word lands like a punch to my gut. Friends. Just friends.
I know why he said it. I do. It’s easier. Safer. It keeps everything contained, controlled. But it still hurts. It still feels like another quiet reminder of the way my fear keeps forcing him into smaller boxes.
Marco recovers first, because of course he does. He steps forward, offering his hand like he belongs here. “Hola,” he says, his accent clumsy but enthusiastic. “Soy Marco. Mucho gusto.”
Rafe’s mom appears in the doorway then, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s smaller than I expected, with kind eyes and a face that looks like it smiles often. Her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping around her temples.
She takes Marco’s hand, smiling immediately. “Mucho gusto,” she replies, then looks at me.
“And you must be Oliver,” she says, switching easily to English. Her smile widens. “Rafe’s college friend. You play basketball.”
I blink, more than aware she’s seen a photograph of me. “Yes. Hi. I—” I shake myself and extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She takes my hand warmly, squeezing once. “Please. Come in. We were just about to sit down for lunch.”
Just like that, we’re inside.
The house smells like food and warmth—something simmering on the stove, spices layered and familiar even though they aren’t mine.
The walls are filled with photos. Rafe as a kid.
Rafe as a teenager. Rafe with braces, Rafe in a band T-shirt that’s too big for him, Rafe grinning with his arm slung around his younger sister.
My chest aches.
Marco leans into it effortlessly. He chats with Rafe’s mom in a mix of English and enthusiastic, broken Spanish, making her laugh within seconds. He compliments the food. Asks questions. Makes himself useful.
I hover uselessly, hands shoved in my pockets, painfully aware of how out of place I feel.
Rafe barely looks at me as he gestures toward the hallway. “Mamá, we’ll be right in. I just—need a minute.”
She nods, distracted by Marco’s charm. “Claro.”
The moment we’re alone, the air shifts. Rafe turns to me fully, eyes scanning my face, lingering on my bruised eye. His jaw tightens. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Ollie.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I look like shit.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He hesitates. “You’re here. How?”
“Marco.” My voice is weak. “Apparently he has contacts.”
Rafe huffs a breath that’s half amusement, half disbelief. “Of course he does.” Then his gaze sharpens. “And you’re here…?” He lets the question hang, heavy.
I swallow hard. “I wanted to meet them. Your parents. See where you grew up.” My voice wobbles. “I should have agreed yesterday. I’m sorry.”
Rafe studies me for a long moment, something guarded in his expression.
“You didn’t tell them,” I say softly. “About us.”
He shakes his head. “No. I thought—” He sighs. “I thought that was best. After everything.”
“Because of me.” My guilt spills out. “Because I keep letting you down.”
Rafe winces but doesn’t deny it. “I’m not sure if you’ve seen the bullshit from last night.”
“I did,” I say quickly. “And I know it’s not true.”
He looks at me sharply. “You do?”
“I know you,” I clarify. “I know you didn’t.”
Something eases in his shoulders at that. Relief flickers across his face before he can hide it. “Thank you.”
“I fucked up,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. I love you so damn much.”
Rafe steps forward then, closing the distance.
He cups my face gently, careful around the bruise, thumbs warm against my skin.
His hands are steady, but not perfectly.
There’s a tiny tremor under his thumbs that he smooths away by pressing harder, like control is a choice he’s making moment by moment.
The contact nearly undoes me. I sag into him, forehead dropping to his shoulder as the weight of everything crashes down.
“I love you,” he says softly. “We’ll figure this out.”
I nod against him, even though I’m not sure how.
From the kitchen, a man’s voice calls out in Spanish, deeper, commanding, but not unkind.
“Rafael. La comida está lista.”
Rafe pulls back slightly, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “Come on,” he says. “You need to meet my papá.”
My heart slams against my ribs again, but I straighten, forcing myself upright. For him.
I follow Rafe toward the kitchen, Marco already laughing with his mom, and step forward into the next moment of whatever this is becoming.
The kitchen is brighter than the rest of the house, sunlight slanting in through a window over the sink and catching on the worn edges of the table like it’s trying to turn ordinary into something golden.
The chairs don’t match perfectly. One has a nick out of the backrest. The placemats look handmade.
There’s a small bowl of limes in the center of the table, and a stack of paper napkins in a holder that has probably been there since Rafe was a kid.
It is so normal it makes my chest pull tight.
Rafe’s mother sets down a platter of food with the kind of casual confidence that says she’s done this a thousand times.
His father follows with a basket of tortillas wrapped in a towel.
They move around each other in a practiced dance, gentle and familiar, passing plates and utensils with soft words in Spanish that make the room feel even warmer.
I sit like a statue.
Marco, meanwhile, looks like he’s been invited into a friend’s home for the first time and decided he’s going to make sure everyone leaves happy. He scoots his chair in, rubs his hands together, and grins at Rafe’s mother like she’s already his favorite person. “Smells incredible,” he says.
She beams. “Eat, eat. You boys must be hungry.”
Rafe sits beside me, close enough that our knees almost touch under the table. He’s not looking at me much. His gaze keeps flicking between his parents and the food, like he’s trying to act normal while his entire nervous system is humming.
I want to grab his hand under the table, but I don’t. I don’t know what’s safe here.