Chapter 22
Rafe is barefoot on my hardwood floor, wearing one of my sweatshirts like it’s his.
The sleeves hang long over his hands. His hair’s ruffled from sleep.
He’s got that post-tour look I’ve come to recognize: The body is home, but the nervous system is still backstage, braced for noise.
He’s making coffee like it’s a ritual, but his eyes keep flicking to the window, to the street beyond, like he’s counting variables without meaning to.
I’m at the island scrolling through my phone, laughing quietly at a string of messages I shouldn’t find as entertaining as I do.
Troy: Hey, LA, you alive?
Dom: Tell me you saw the clip of you blocking that guy into a different zip code.
Troy: Also, do you have a better coffee place than the one I took us to? That coffee tasted like regret.
I type back without thinking, thumbs moving fast.
Me: You mean the one you drank anyway?
Me: 9 is criminal.
Me: And yes, you’re never allowed to pick coffee again.
Rafe sets down two mugs, one in front of me and one by his side of the island, then leans back against the counter and watches me with that soft, thoughtful look he gets when he’s not performing for anyone.
I feel it before he speaks—the weight of attention that isn’t pressure exactly, but still makes my chest tighten.
“What?” I ask, because if I don’t, I’ll overthink it.
He smiles, slow and tired. “You’re… lighter.”
I blink. “Am I?”
Rafe nods once, like he’s confirming something for himself. “Your phone’s been blowing up since you woke up. You’ve laughed, like, five times.”
“That’s because they’re idiots,” I say, but the words come out warmer than my usual. I glance at my screen again and snort at Troy’s latest message.
Troy: If you don’t show up at 9, I’m telling Coach you hate teamwork and puppies.
“I’m going to start charging them for emotional labor,” I mutter.
Rafe hums. “See? That. That right there.”
I set my phone down and wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. I want to roll my eyes, make a joke, brush it off the way I’ve spent most of my life brushing off anything that might be too revealing. But the thing is… he’s not wrong.
I’ve only been here two months, but my shoulders don’t live up by my ears anymore.
While my sleep still isn’t the best, I don’t wake up already clenched like I’m bracing for impact.
I still get anxious—my brain hasn’t magically rewired itself because I crossed state lines—but the baseline is different.
Less edge. Less constant vigilance. And I don’t want to think too hard about why.
Because if I start pulling on that thread, I’ll end up right back in the place I’ve been trying not to live in lately. The place where relief turns into guilt. The place where I have to ask myself what it means that I can breathe better here, away from the city where we built our secret life.
I take a sip of coffee, buying time. “It’s a new team,” I say carefully. “People are… friendly.”
Rafe’s expression shifts into something softer. “You deserve that.”
The simple sincerity in his voice lands in my chest like a weight. I don’t have a clean response for it, so I reach for the safer subject. “You want eggs?” I ask.
He laughs under his breath. “Is that a real question or a threat?”
“Both,” I say. “I’m learning domestic skills.”
“You, cooking?” His eyebrows lift. “That’s brave.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I warn, then grab the carton from the fridge.
Rafe moves around me easily, opening cabinets like he’s already memorized my layout.
He finds plates. He finds the pan. He finds my dish towels like he’s been here longer than a couple of days.
It should make me feel exposed, having him in my space like this, touching things I’ve chosen, seeing how I live when I’m not being watched.
Instead, it makes me feel… anchored.
He pulls out a stool and sits at the island, elbows on the counter, chin in his hands, watching me crack eggs like it’s fascinating. His eyes look a little tired in the bright morning light, but there’s a steady warmth there too. Something that hasn’t changed even when everything else did.
“Tell me about the tour,” I say as I whisk. “Like… for real. Not the version you gave the press.” Or the half-hearted, sporadic conversations we managed via Facetime. I don’t add that.
Rafe makes a face. “The press version is mostly me saying ‘we’re grateful’ and Eli trying not to swear.”
“That sounds accurate.”
He smiles. “Okay. For real… it was insane. It still feels insane. London was loud in a way that made my ribs shake. Like the whole room was one heartbeat.”
I pour the eggs into the pan and watch them set, the smell filling the kitchen. “Was it your favorite?”
Rafe tilts his head. “Not sure yet.”
“You have a favorite,” I press. “You always do.”
He huffs, caught, then glances out the window like he’s searching for the answer on the street. “Maybe… Brisbane,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t the biggest crowd, but it was the most… present. Like they were listening with their whole bodies. Not just screaming. Actually hearing.”
That makes sense. Rafe loves noise, but he loves connection more.
“And you?” he asks, switching the direction smoothly. “Favorite place you’ve played?”
I laugh. “That’s not fair.”
“Why?”
“Because my favorite place is still home,” I admit, and immediately regret the way the word lands between us.
Home is complicated now. Home isn’t one place.
Home is sometimes a couch in a rented apartment, sometimes a hotel room, sometimes a backstage hallway where we can steal ten minutes like oxygen.
Rafe’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t pounce. He just nods, like he understands the layers without needing to peel them back right now. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Then what’s your favorite away arena?”
I flip the eggs and exhale. “Probably… Boston,” I say. “Crowd’s brutal. They hate you like it’s its own sport. It’s kind of motivating.”
Rafe grins. “That tracks.”
I slide eggs onto plates, add toast, and carry one over to him.
He makes a little sound of approval like he’s an old man being served breakfast by his long-suffering spouse, which is ridiculous because he’s my husband and he’s the one who should be better at the domestic thing than me.
He’s the one who grew up in a house where food happened whether you were ready or not, where warmth was built into the day.
I sit across from him, and we eat for a few minutes in easy quiet. It’s not silent because something is wrong but because nothing is.
My phone vibrates again. I ignore it at first, determined to be present, but then it keeps going—buzz, buzz, buzz—until I can’t pretend it’s not happening.
Rafe’s mouth quirks. “They really are obsessed with you.”
I glance down. It’s the Eagles group chat again.
Dom: Someone tell LA he’s obligated to come to the charity event next week because I refuse to be the only one dressed like a functioning adult.
Troy: He won’t come. He’s going to pretend he’s busy being humble.
Zeke: I vote we show up at his house and drag him.
I snort. “They’re planning an abduction.”
“Sounds like team bonding,” Rafe says dryly.
“I don’t want to bond.”
“You’re bonding right now,” he points out, and he isn’t wrong. The fact that I’m even in the group chat, the fact that they’re texting me like I’m part of the furniture already, is… new.
Rafe’s eyes linger on my phone for a beat longer than necessary, and I see the thought behind it. It’s not jealousy, exactly. He doesn’t do jealousy the way most people do. It’s more like… relief mixed with longing.
He wants me happy.
He wants me held.
He wants me to have a life that isn’t only him, because he knows what it costs when my whole world narrows to one person. He knows what it does to both of us.
But I also think there’s a part of him that’s watching me find my footing here and wondering, quietly, if I needed to leave LA to become this version of myself.
And that’s not a question either of us is ready to say out loud over eggs and toast.
The moment stretches. Then his phone rings.
Rafe’s body reacts before his mind does. His shoulders lift slightly, his gaze flicking to the screen, and I can tell from the way he exhales that he’d been enjoying the quiet too. Enjoying the illusion of normal.
He checks the caller ID and his expression shifts into immediate alert. “Rachael,” he says.
I blink. “Your agent?”
He nods, already reaching for it. “She knows I’m away,” he says apologetically. “I asked not to be disturbed unless it’s important.”
“Take it,” I tell him. “If she’s calling, it’s probably not to chat about the weather.”
Rafe gives me a grateful look and answers. “Hey.”
His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp.
I can’t hear Rachael’s voice clearly at first—just a faint sound through the speaker, muffled by distance—but then there’s a burst of noise on the other end. Loud hollers. A chorus of voices overlapping. The kind of chaos that can only be the band.
Rafe’s eyebrows lift. He looks at me like, you hearing this?
Then, without hesitation, he taps the screen and puts the call on speaker.
It’s a small thing, but it hits me anyway. The instinctive trust. The refusal to compartmentalize me.
“—shut up,” Rachael’s voice cuts through, crisp and exasperated, and then another yell crashes right over her.
“We miss you, boo!” Eli’s voice is unmistakable, loud even through a phone speaker.
“Eli,” Rachael snaps. “Stop shouting.”
“I’m not shouting,” Eli yells immediately, proving her point.
Drew says, suddenly closer to the mic, like he’s leaned in, “How’s Minnesota? Is it cold enough to kill a man?”
“Cold enough to make you a eunuch,” Rafe answers, his eyes flicking to me with a big grin.
Rachael clears her throat loudly. “Okay, children, I have news.”
Eli makes a dramatic choking sound. “She said ‘children.’ We’re being scolded.”
“Eli,” Rachael warns.
“Sorry,” he says immediately, then adds, “not sorry.”