33. Whoever Needs Saving
Whoever Needs Saving
Rafe
The restaurant is all low lights and conversation, the kind of place that pretends not to care how beautiful it is, rough wood tables, open windows facing the bay, the smell of salt and citrus threading through the air.
Music floats from the bar, a lazy jazz rhythm slow enough to let the night breathe.
We spot the others near the back. A long table, half-empty wine bottles, laughter echoing. Ronan waves us over, hair pulled back, already holding two glasses of something pale and fizzing. “You’re late,” he announces. “Which means you buy the next round.”
“Only if you promise to save the most expensive drinks for Kiri's round.” I say, sliding into the seat across from him. Kasia settles beside me, bag tucked neatly under the chair, the picture of composure.
Rithy’s looking more human than he did this morning, but not by much.
The sunglasses are still on, posture loose in that calculated way that means he’s watching everything.
Kiri is halfway through a story about a near-death taxi ride, and the guys from Szklane Serce are laughing like they haven’t been awake for twenty hours straight.
Kasia greets them in Polish, fluent and warm, and the entire table brightens.
It’s instant. Even the waiter pauses for a second, probably wondering who she is.
I watch her while pretending not to. The way her hands move when she speaks.
The way her laugh lands, the way Rithy’s jaw tightens every single time she smiles.
Ronan raises his glass for a toast, switching between three languages, each pronunciation worse than the last. “To good music, good company, and survival,” he declares, and everyone drinks to that.
Kasia takes a sip, catches me looking, and arches an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just… seeing you like this. You fit.”
She smirks. “In a band full of chaos?”
“In any room you walk into.”
She laughs, shaking her head, but the sound is softer now, warmer.
For a while, everything feels easy. Plates arrive, conversation overlaps, the table drifts into that familiar noise of people who’ve lived too long on adrenaline and too little sleep.
Kiri is telling the Berlin pastry story again; Ronan complains about humidity and drum skins; Szklane Serce tease him until he gives up entirely.
Then Rithy speaks.
“So—” he says, voice smooth as glass. “Doctor, did you always plan on saving unruly rockstars, or did you lose a bet?”
The table chuckles, light, unaware of the blade beneath the joke.
Kasia smiles politely. “I save whoever needs saving. The job’s democratic.”
“Admirable,” Rithy replies, leaning back. “You must have your hands full with him, then.”
Ronan makes a sound between a groan and a warning. Kiri kicks him under the table.
Kasia’s tone doesn’t shift. “He’s mostly self-managing.”
“Mostly,” Rithy repeats, swirling his drink. “That’s kind.”
I set my fork down. Slow enough not to start a fight, deliberate enough that the scrape of metal on ceramic gets everyone’s attention. “Rith.”
He glances up, bored. “Just conversation.”
“Then find a better topic.”
The silence that follows hangs like feedback, tense, ringing.
Rithy smirks, lifts his glass. “Sure thing, Hades.”
The name hits like a punch to the throat. Kasia goes still beside me; she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look at me either. Just stares at her plate, jaw tightening. He heard enough to turn something intimate into a weapon.
I grind my teeth until it hurts. My fingers curl around the fork again, tighter than I mean to.
When I glance at her, she’s still focused on some tiny spot of sauce on the table, a perfect dot of nothing.
Then her eyes lift to mine, just for a second.
The apology I send is silent but I know she reads it.
Her nod is small, restrained. It says, not now.
She’s right. There’s nothing I can do without turning the whole night into a headline. But later he’ll know.
Kiri clears his throat loudly. “Okay. Let’s all drink to shutting up before dessert, yeah?”
Laughter trickles back in, tentative at first but enough to break the tension. A few minutes later, Kasia leans toward me, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
“He really doesn’t like me, does he?”
“He doesn’t like anyone he can’t control,” I murmur. “He’s protective, of the band, of the art, of what we are together. I’ve just never seen him act out like this.”
Her mouth twitches, the faintest smile. “Maybe he’s making up for lost time. Every year of not acting out, all at once?”
I huff a laugh. “Seems so.”
The tension eases again, slowly, like a tide rolling out.
What’s left between us is softer, but no less charged, the same current that’s been running through the night.
By the time dessert hits the table, Ronan is half-asleep in his chair, Kiri is lecturing someone about bass tone, and Szklane Serce are plotting a sunrise swim.
The table’s chaos again, but it’s good chaos. The kind that feels earned.
Kasia glances at her watch. “I should go soon,” she says. “Early flight.”
I nod, though something inside me recoils like it’s been struck. “I’ll drive you back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
She studies me, weighing whether she believes me, then nods. “Okay.”
When we stand, I can feel Rithy’s eyes on us, that familiar pressure at the back of my neck, guilt and anger twisted together. But I don’t stop, don’t look back. I’ve spent too much of my life apologizing to people who weaponize it.
Outside, the air smells like rain waiting to happen. The wind off the bay lifts her hair, and for a moment she looks almost unreal, like the last frame of a film I’ll never stop replaying.
“You sure about that flight?” I ask.
She smiles faintly, without meeting my eyes. “I’m sure about leaving before we make another scene in whatever war Haima keeps waging.”
We walk toward the car. Still caught in that fragile truce, one built on exhaustion, apologies, and the thin thread of a promise to hold the line, even though both of us know how easily it could break.
I drop her at the hotel, headlights washing the entrance in soft gold.
She thanks me for the ride, that polite tone that hides everything underneath it.
I tell her normally I’d walk her to her door, British manners that my father drilled into me, but I forgot an errand, something I have to handle before my own flight tomorrow.
She doesn’t question it, she just nods and disappears through the revolving door.
The lie rolls around in my mouth like a coin.
I hate it, but I need it. Because what I’m really doing is looking for something to give her.
Something small enough to fit in her hand but heavy enough to prove I mean it.
It’s just after eight. Miami buzzes around me, storefronts glowing, music leaking from bars, the sky still holding onto the last bruises of sunset. I drive aimlessly for a few blocks, scanning shop signs like a lunatic until I spot one, still open.
The velvet box on the passenger seat looks elegant but loaded, like something that could be mistaken for a proposal. I try to laugh it off, but it sticks in my throat. The idea doesn’t scare me, it just feels absurdly possible.
“Okay, Rafe,” I mutter. “You’re starting to sound insane there, buddy.”
By the time I reach the hotel, it’s nearly ten.
The hallways are hushed, carpet muffling everything but the thud of my pulse.
I pause outside her door and consider knocking, then decide against it.
She’s probably sleeping, something I won’t be able to do.
At least not until I get this in her hands tomorrow morning.
A gift to apologize, to mark the beginning of something.