34. The Start
The Start
Rafe
Isplash water on my face, cold enough to shock the ache behind my eyes.
The circles are gone. The hair behaves, more or less.
When she sees me, I want her to remember me as something solid.
I shrug into my leather jacket, the kind that creaks at the seams, over a loose black shirt, leaving a few buttons open, the silver chain catching just where the collarbone dips.
Black jeans, combat boots. The mirror catches something honest this time.
Something Kasia might actually believe in.
It’s ridiculous, this effort, for what amounts to a goodbye.
I’ve done hundreds of them. Hotel rooms, airport gates.
Tour buses rolling out before dawn. I’ve always been fine with it.
There’s a rhythm to leaving: a kind of relief in the constant motion.
But this one feels wrong, weighted. Like I’m peeling off a layer of my skin and pretending it doesn’t hurt.
By the time I’m in the hallway, my hands are shaking, not from nerves exactly, but from everything that’s knotted under the surface.
Her door is easy to spot, cracked slightly open, ready to head out.
I knock softly, once, twice. From inside, the sound of leaving.
Zippers, the thud of a suitcase being flung open.
The faint flip of fabric, like wings folding against the body of an angel.
Normally it’s a sound I like, transit, the end of something, the beginning of something else.
But now it makes the ache bloom wider, darker, in my chest. I push the door open by a fraction and then I see her.
Hair still damp from a shower, loose gray sweater falling off one shoulder, minimal makeup, glasses on, just her.
Somehow she's even more breathtaking like this, unarmored.
“Rafe?” she says, surprised. “I was just about to leave.”
“Glad I caught you, then.”
She smiles, small, tired. “You’re up early.”
“I wanted to make sure I said goodbye properly.”
Her eyes soften for a fraction of a second, and it’s enough to make my throat tighten.
“Well, mission accomplished.”
“Mind if I come in? It’ll only take a minute, I won’t keep you.” I step inside and close the door behind me, she doesn't protest just blinks at me, surprised and curious. I swallow hard, nerves acting up, throat dry. This is stupid. It’s just a gift, just a goodbye. No big deal.
“I—uh, got you this,” I say, holding out the box like it might bite. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”
She hesitates, curious now. When she opens it, the morning light catches the pomegranate charm and it comes alive, red enamel glowing, gold flecks sparking like embers. She laughs, soft and surprised, turning it between her fingers so the light scatters across the walls.
“It’s… beautiful. You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” I say. “To make up for what happened. For what he said at dinner. Something that’s just ours.”
I can see it in the way her smile falters, that the gift made an impact.
“You know this isn’t a casual present,” she says shyly. “This is what binds her to him, in the myth. Forever.”
“I know.” I swallow dust. “I’m not asking you to bind yourself to me. Just… think about seeing me again. In Seattle. Let me hope a little longer that all this chaos didn’t scare you off for good.” I drag a hand through my hair, step closer. “If it’s too much, I can take it ba—”
She looks down at the charm, thumb brushing the gold stem, and nods once. “No. I—, it’s—”
I lift my brows, waiting. “It’s?”
“It’s perfect,” she says, voice rough, emotions she’s trying to hide surfacing.
Relief pours through me, like sunlight through glass. That call I felt wasn’t madness, it was real. Mine. Maybe. If I don’t fuck this up.
“So…you’ll see me again, yeah?”
She studies the charm again, then me, hesitant but unable to hide the spark in her eyes. “Okay.” It’s barely a word, but it hits like a chord struck clean and true. I could live inside that sound.
“Okay. Right. Guess it’s time for you to head off.”
I step back toward the door, fighting every instinct that tells me to reach for her, to do the impulsive, selfish thing.
But before I can head out she catches my hand.
I turn, she’s closer now, her eyes are softened but sure.
One hand rests on my shoulder, and then, before I can breathe, she leans in and presses her lips to my cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
We linger there in the narrow doorway and for a moment it feels like it could turn into something else entirely if we let it.
But she grabs her jacket instead, breaking the spell.
I take her suitcase handle before she can, an old habit of being the gentleman, drilled into me relentlessly by my father.
“I’ve got it.”
She gives me a look, one that says she’s not used to anyone doing that for her but she lets me.
Inside the elevator, the walls are mirrors on every side, trapping us in reflections we can’t avoid.
We both lean back against the rail, eyes glancing upward like we’re watching someone else’s scene unfold.
I catch her reflection watching me, just briefly.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and the air catches fire again, so I try to diffuse it.
“Well,” I say, nodding toward our mirrored selves, “we make a decent album cover.”
She laughs. “Maybe the deluxe edition.”
“Limited release,” I add, and she shakes her head, smiling for real now.
The elevator heads down, each floor passing with a muted vibration that feels like it’s counting out heartbeats. When the doors open, she steps out first, her perfume catching in the air, clean skin, heat. I follow, feeling that invisible thread still stretched between us.
The lobby is wide and bright, but somehow unkind, because she’s leaving and I can’t stop it.
The sound of luggage wheels and distant conversation grows louder.
The bustle of people moving on with their lives grates against my skin, I don’t want motion, I want stillness, with her.
The scent of coffee, bacon and the strong colognes and perfumes of early checkouts feels like it clings to me, a layer of it coating my clothes and hair.
I feel all of it pressing down on me, oppressive, and panic claws at my throat.
She heads toward the doors, sunlight already spilling through the glass.
I should let her go. Say something easy, a simple goodbye.
But something in me refuses to let this moment pass.
I don't know exactly what I'm doing until I'm doing it.
“Wait.”
She stops, turns back, eyes questioning.
I glance around. Too many people, so much movement. I don’t want this moment, our moment, to be witnessed, diluted by strangers checking out and the concierge calling cabs.
“Come here,” I murmur, stepping closer. My voice sounds nothing like I intended. Something commanding and rough emerges, circling that edge of desire.
She studies me for a heartbeat, then follows. I take her hand, just enough pressure to guide her. We move past the breakfast bar, down a side hallway lined with vending machines and “Out of Order” elevator signs. The buzz of an old ice machine fills the silence, cold air brushing our skin.
She glances around, amused. “Rafe, what are you—”
Before she can finish, I step in close enough to feel her breath.
My hands find her waist, tentative, waiting for her to stop me but she doesn’t.
Instead, she tilts toward me, an invitation.
I bring a hand up to her jaw, fingertips tracing her cheekbone.
My thumb drifts to the corner of her mouth, so soft and beautiful.
I lean in, pressing my lips just barely to the skin of her cheek.
A brush, a question. It could stop there and maybe it should.
But she turns her head and decides for us both, our mouths finally meeting.
At first, it’s gentle, almost hesitant. Then the tension breaks, as it deepens, grows, becomes something alive and necessary.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers gripping the fabric, pulling me closer until her body is flush against mine.
My palms find the small of her back, then higher, tracing the lines of her spine like lyrics I’m writing in real time.
When her hand slips beneath the hem of my shirt, her fingertips graze my stomach, and I let go of anything I was holding back.
A sound I can’t stop escapes me, a partial groan but full surrender.
I stumble backward into the ice machine. It rattles, metal and heartbeat colliding. Neither of us stops. All I can register is the warmth between our mouths, the heat between our bodies, the unrelenting ache of being exactly here, pressed against each other.
Then voices. A couple rounds the corner, chatting, laughing and we freeze. Her fingers hover against her lips. My hands stay where they are, frozen mid-caress on her ribs. We stare at each other, both breathing like we never thought we’d taste oxygen again in favor of our lips uniting.
The elevator dings, footsteps fade. The silence that follows is deafening. She’s still so close I can feel the tremor in her chest. My thumb moves instinctively, stroking her side. It’s not about touch anymore, it’s about holding on to the moment before it slips away.
When I finally find my voice, it’s graveled, pulled from somewhere deep. “I wanted to leave you with something,” I whisper. “To remind you… this is only the start for me.”
Her eyes shine, equal parts tenderness and something that looks like pain.
Then she leans in, closes the distance, and kisses me once more.
So gentle it almost reignites everything all over again.
When she steps back, the air feels colder.
She smooths her hair, straightens her sweater, the practiced grace of someone who can walk out of a storm without showing the wreckage.
I’m still trying to breathe when she reaches for her bag.
“I said, I’ve got it,” I say, my voice hoarse, grabbing the handle before she can.
She looks at me, just looks and smiles that knowing, devastating smile.
We walk together toward the bright doors.
Outside, the sunlight is blinding, the city awake and mercilessly ordinary.
But my lips still taste like her, my skin still burns where she touched me, and my heart…
my heart feels like it’s been set to a new key.
One I don’t know how to play yet, one only she can teach me.
Her taxi idles at the curb, the trunk already open, engine humming impatiently.
I load her suitcase myself, lifting it in with more care than it probably warrants.
She moves beside me, adjusting the strap of her carry-on, the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times, but never from here, never with me.
When I close the trunk, the driver looks at his watch and sighs, the universal signal of a man already tired of his day before it’s started.
I ignore it, open the passenger door for her.
She hesitates for a second before sliding in, the morning light catching the loose strands of her hair and the curve of her neck.
She settles in with that composed calm of hers, but I can see the flicker of nerves under it. Or maybe it’s just mine reflected back.
The driver makes another pointed noise, so I pull a small fold of bills from my pocket and hand it over the roof. “For your patience,” I say. He takes it, still looking like he wants to lecture me on traffic.
She shakes her head, smiling faintly. “You can’t pay the flight to leave later. I still have to go.”
“I could try,” I say, with a cocky smile, letting a bit of that usual confidence I have when she's not in front of me, slip back into place.
She tilts her head. “Getting arrogant already, aren’t you?”
“Only when it works,” I say.
That makes her laugh, and it’s the sound I’ll play on repeat later when the silence of the plane feels unbearable.
Then a subtle pull I can’t ignore. I lean in and our mouths meet again, brief but certain.
It’s a kiss that feels like punctuation, an end and a beginning.
When I pull back, she’s smiling, a blush painted across her nose and cheeks.
“I’ll see you in Seattle,” she says, voice steady but her eyes give her away. “You have a picture to show me, something about an obscene poet, remember?”
The words land like a hit straight to the chest. Whatever confidence I’d clawed back disappears. Something real to hold onto. I grin, dazed, unable to hide it. I step back, tapping the hood twice, my makeshift goodbye. The door closes, the glass between us turning her into reflection and light.
The taxi pulls away, merging into the slow churn of morning traffic.
I watch until the yellow fades around the corner, until I can’t see her anymore.
Only then do I breathe. My fingers find my lips, tracing the echo of her kiss, the taste of salt and coffee still there.
Every nerve feels rewired, every thought louder.
I glance up at the empty stretch of road, at the city waking around me, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel lost between shows or cities or versions of myself.
Now there’s a plan, a promise. Soon.