41. Dial It In
Dial It In
Rafe
Ilose track of time.
We just stay there, kissing, pressing, touching, until our world consists of nothing but pulse and skin and the sound of her heartbeat against mine. There’s no edge to it, just the kind of wanting that feels endless because we don’t let it tip over.
When we finally stop, it’s like breaking the surface after hours underwater. My chest aches, my hands are still on her skin, and every inhale feels like stardust. I’m light-headed, drunk on nothing but her.
She’s lying against me now, back pressed to my chest, my arm wrapped around her.
Our hands keep finding each other, fingers sliding together and apart again, brushing, tracing, testing.
It’s stupid how electric it feels every time, like we’re weaving something we don’t want to name, because naming it might break it.
For a long while, we just breathe. The rain on the roof keeps time for us.
“This feels... surreal,” she whispers.
“It does.” I keep my voice low, my thumb brushing over her wrist. “We're acting like it's our first kiss, teenagers staying up all night making out.” That gets a laugh.
“If we were teenagers,” she murmurs, “this would be the part where we swear, we’re not tired.”
I smile into her hair. “Do you need a nap? Because I'm wide awake.”
She tilts her head back just enough to look at me, eyelids heavy, mouth curved. “You’re such a liar,” she says, teasing.
I press my lips to her temple. “Maybe I just don’t want to stop.”
Her hand finds mine again, her thumb tracing lines against my palm.
I could stay like this forever. Her body against me, the rain, the small sound of her breathing.
Every part of me feels unspooled in the best way.
Like the noise in my head has finally gone still.
The world outside keeps moving, but here, it’s just us.
The almost. The promise of what comes next, waiting patiently beneath the sound of the rain.
The rain softens to a mist. Her breathing has evened out, but I can feel she’s awake, her fingers still tracing the faint rhythm on my arm, like a metronome she doesn’t know she’s keeping.
I almost let it fade there, let the night have us.
But the words start pressing at the edges of my mouth, restless, asking to be known.
“I should probably admit,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I’m not good at this.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t tense. Just waits. That’s what gets me, the way she waits, thinks, like silence is her native language.
“Not good at what? Sleeping? I know.” She makes a joke of it, the way she always does, diffusing my nerves before I even know I have them. I huff a laugh.
“This.” I gesture vaguely—whatever we are, whatever this is between us.
“Ask my ex how much I fucked that up. She could explain it better than me, use a few choice words, I’m sure.
” I try to make it sound lighter than it feels, but the knot in my chest tightens.
She looks up, eyes kind, the spark of a laugh and that breaks me more than pity ever could.
Everything in me wants to stop, to take it back, erase what’s already out.
But then I look at her, and I can’t keep it in.
“Emily,” I sigh her name, the way it feels inside, the weight of it still there haunting me.
“We met in Paris. She was studying art, came to a show with a friend. She didn’t even know who we were.
” I laugh softly, remembering how unimpressed she was.
“Maybe that’s what drew me to her. We were nobodies then, first tiny European tour, ten people in the room but we thought we were kings. ”
Heavier now: “Neither of us thought it’d be more than a fling.
But then, we kept talking. I’d fly back to Paris whenever I could.
She’d visit. When she graduated, we got a place here together.
Then everything took off. I thought I had everything I wanted.
But the truth is… I didn’t know what to do with it. ”
She tilts her head, eyes luminous in the dark.
“I broke us,” I admit. “Not the cliché shit like doing lines of cocaine off hookers or throwing guitars around hotel rooms. I wasn’t a saint, either.
” I shake my head, let the regrets hold me a moment.
“I flirted, crossed lines, tried a few recreational substances, but in the end, it was the work that killed it. I got wrapped up in the praise, in the applause. Myself, really. I think being wanted, admired, is better in some ways, than being loved.”
“Why?” she asks softly.
“The real parts get ugly. The stuff that gets you rejected in the end. I’ve spent most of my life pressing those messy parts into songs.
Maybe so I can pretend I don’t carry them, like it doesn’t matter?
” I almost ask it like it’s something I’ve never considered until just now, never managed to put into words.
She’s still for a long moment. Her fingers find my jaw, just a brush. “Does anyone ever buy that? That you’re just some mysterious musician and not actually just as fucked up as the rest of us?”
“See? This—this is the problem.” I laugh under my breath, barely there. “You see everything. I don’t even know how. You look at me like you already know it all. Still debating whether that’s the most beautiful or the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced.”
She shifts, meeting my eyes. “You’re terrified of me? Or that you’ll mess it up?”
“Haven’t I already? Just look at what’s happened, the fucking nightmare with Rithy, when all I wanted was to spend time with you. My life feels like impossible chaos sometimes. I’m shocked you’re here right now.”
Her hand slides into mine, fingers fitting like they were made for each other. “You haven’t messed anything up,” she says. “At least, not yet.”
That yet hangs in the air, not a threat, not doubt, just the truth between us. She’s too smart for illusions. That’s what I like. That’s what will ruin me. Maybe I should be afraid of her, instead.
“I don’t want to make you another casualty of whatever this life does to people,” I say. “Every time I get close to something good, the chaos, all the noise, finds a way in. And you…” I shake my head. “You deserve better than my static.”
She studies me for a moment, her thumb gliding over my knuckles. “Static is necessary,” she says finally. “It’s all the frequencies at once, right? Maybe you just need someone to stay until you can dial it in. Not try to silence it.”
For a second, I forget to breathe. Then she rests her head back on my chest, like the conversation never even broke the rhythm.
Outside, the rain starts again. My hand stays on her back, tracing slow circles I don’t even realize I’m making.
I know I should sleep, but I can’t. I just watch the ceiling fade from shadow to the faintest blue of morning and think—please, not this time.
Don’t let me ruin this. Not her.