51. Love, Spoken #2
When I wake, it’s to the sound of the steady rhythm of his breathing behind me.
Rafe’s arm is heavy across my waist, his body curved around mine, skin warm against the sheets.
For a few seconds, I let myself stay there, eyes closed, counting the rise and fall of his chest, the faint heartbeat pressed to my back.
It feels like the world’s been reduced to the silence of this room, the space between his inhale and mine.
Then his phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Reality slides in like a draft through the window. We’re already behind.
He groans when I shift, half awake, pulling me tighter. “No,” he mumbles, voice rough. “Five more minutes.”
“Rafe,” I say softly, turning to face him. “It’s not five minutes anymore.”
The words sink in. He sighs, kisses my forehead, and drags himself out of bed.
I watch him disappear toward the shower while I start gathering my things, the jacket slung over the chair, my charger tangled in his cords, my makeup bag hiding under a shirt he discarded.
The sound of water hits, steady and hot.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror, hair a mess, wearing nothing but his old t-shirt and let out a half laugh before going to brush my teeth.
When he steps out, steam follows him like a halo, except there’s nothing angelic about him.
Droplets trace over his shoulders, down the lines of muscle that tighten when he runs a towel through his hair.
The veins in his forearms catch the light.
Tattoos shift as he moves. The dark trail of wet hair along his shoulder leads up to the place where his throat still looks bitten by the night before.
I tell myself to look away. I absolutely do not.
He catches me immediately. Through the mirror, our eyes meet.
His mouth tilts into a grin that’s full of amusement and knowing.
I mumble around my toothbrush, “You should focus on what you’re doing, not the mirror.”
He laughs, low and hoarse from sleep. “I’ve developed a sixth sense for someone watching me,” he says, stepping closer. “Though in this case, I wouldn’t need it. You were staring. Hard.”
I try to glare but it’s hard to look threatening with a toothbrush hanging from my mouth. Before I can retaliate, he leans down and plants a shower-wet kiss on my temple.
“Ack, so wet.” I say through a mouthful of toothpaste, but I’m grinning.
He just laughs, running to the bedroom to air-dry his hair with a towel, already calling over his shoulder about flight times and lost socks.
By the time we’re dressed and half packed, the morning’s already getting away from us.
Rafe looks irritatingly good for someone who barely slept, hair still damp, tattoos barely hidden beneath a white T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders.
He displays that easy confidence in his stance, like he’s trying to disguise the exhaustion underneath. He grins at me, eyes a little wistful.
“They say the gods mark us by what we can’t look away from,” he says, shaking his head, giving me a once-over. “I haven’t been able to look away from you for months. I’ll be thinking about you every day. Marked. Yours.”
He says it like it's nothing, but it feels like everything. My chest feels tight. “Yeah, sure,” I say, pretending to fuss with my bag zipper. “You’ll be surrounded by guitars and chaos in under twelve hours. We'll see how marked you are.”
He laughs, the sound that always grips my heart, and slides his jacket over his shoulders. Phone in one hand, cup of terrible hotel coffee in the other. He looks so normal, unguarded and something about it hits me right in the gut. Because this is the part where it all starts to slip away again.
We’re halfway to the door when I say it. “Wait.”
He stops instantly, eyes questioning. “What’s wrong?”
“Just—wait.” The words come out smaller than I intend.
My heart’s pounding too fast, the thud of it in my ears.
I can already see it, the airport, the noise, the crowd, the possibility that I’ll lose my nerve or that he won’t hear me over everything else.
I don’t want that. I want to say it now, in this quiet, in this light, in a room that still smells like us.
I walk toward him, take the coffee from one hand and his phone from the other. He looks confused, eyebrows raised. “Kasia, we have to go,” he says lightly. “Unless you’re about to talk me into another round—”
I put my hand over his mouth. It’s ridiculous and desperate, but it’s the only way to stop myself from losing my courage.
His eyes meet mine, bright, a little amused, but soft.
The Obelus the world knows is there, those eyes that shine above the veil, but so is the man beneath it.
The one who hums under his breath when he’s nervous.
The one who stayed up with me when I couldn’t sleep, the boy in the scarf signing his name on a burnt CD.
My chest pounds because I can see him and it feels too big to keep in anymore.
My hand drops. “I love you, Rafe.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. The silence that follows is enormous. I can hear the kick of the air conditioner, a distant elevator, my pulse in my ears. He just stares, lips parting like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come.
“I didn’t want you to leave without hearing it,” I add quickly, voice shaking now. “Maybe it’s early. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But it wouldn’t leave me alone, and I just—”
His face doesn’t change. He looks… stunned.
Like I’ve knocked the wind out of him. My stomach drops, a sick, slow realization.
Of course he’s not saying it back. What did I think would happen?
That he’d just echo it like some fairytale, that the rockstar who’s had the world on its knees would throw that word around after a few months?
He’s careful. Private. He implies things, hints at them, but never says them outright. I should’ve known better.
The heat floods my face. My heart scrambles to hide behind logic. I start gathering my things, pretending it doesn’t matter, pretending I didn’t just fracture something between us.
“You know what, never mind,” I mumble, forcing a brittle laugh. “That was silly. I’m just emotional. Forget it. Let’s just go.”
“Kasia, hey—” He reaches out for me, trying to stop me, but I can’t let him. If I stay, I’ll cry, and I refuse to let that be the memory he leaves with.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, not looking at him. “Forget I said anything.”
The door clicks behind me before I realize I’ve even moved. My chest feels hollow and tight all at once. I can hear him calling my name down the hallway, that same tone he uses on stage when he’s trying to pull an audience in. I keep walking.
The elevator button won’t light fast enough. My fingers shake as I jab at it again and again, like speed will somehow undo what I just did. My eyes sting. God, how ridiculous. A doctor. An entire adult woman. Standing in a hallway crying over a man she’s been seeing for a few months.
I hadn’t even told Dominik I loved him outright, just that I was falling.
And that was someone I’d known all my life.
The elevator dings and my throat burns. When the doors open, I step in.
He’s already halfway down the hall, phone in hand, trying to catch up.
For a second, our eyes lock. He looks like he wants to say something, but the doors start to close. I don’t stop them. I can’t.
When they shut between us, I finally let myself fall apart.