36. The Red Light
The Red Light
Rafe
We smile on cue and say the lines, heated disagreement, creative tension, lessons learned.
All the right words, perfectly hollow. When I lean in and put an arm around him, I feel the moment his shoulders drop, a tiny moment of surrender.
He exhales, leans back into it, and for a heartbeat it almost feels real.
The regret flickers in his gaze, something human beneath all the cruel distance.
Then it’s gone, and we’re back to the script.
Masks on again. When the red light cuts out, no one moves.
Rithy gives a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, mutters something about needing air, and walks out before I can say a word.
Back in the room, I cue up the footage. It’s already everywhere, different angles, slowed down, dissected frame by frame.
The thumbnail alone makes my stomach drop: me mid-swing, Rithy’s head turned, blood pouring from his nose.
The comments are worse, armchair psychologists, old fans mourning the death of “brotherhood,” people betting on when the band will break up.
I close the screen and scrub a hand over my face. Doing the math, she’d be landing about now. I type fast before I can overthink it: Ignore anything you see. I’ll call when you get home. I’m sorry.
Her reply comes a few minutes later. Just landed. That sounds... serious. I just left a few hours ago, how bad can it be? I’ll close my eyes through the terminals. If I get hurt I’ll send you my hospital bill.
It makes me laugh, short and tired but honest. I hope she still sounds like that once she gets an eyeful of my stupidity in high-def and slow motion.
I fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling until the room blurs.
For once, the universe gives me what I ask for.
Sleep comes quickly, mercifully, and I don’t fight it.
When I wake, the light through the curtains is fading fast, the darkness unforgiving. My phone’s a disaster, missed calls from Kasia, the band, Elise, the label, even a few journalists who somehow found my number. It’s a mess. I don’t even think; I just call her.
“Sorry,” I say when she answers, voice still rough from sleep. “I fell asleep.”
“I tried to keep my eyes closed,” she says, tone dry but not cold, “but I had to open them and wow. When I did…”
“Yeah,” I admit, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m… yeah. I’m not normally like that. Plenty of vices, I’ll admit. Violence tends to be lower on the list.”
“It was that bad, then? What he said about me?”
The fact she gets it, that she doesn’t make me spell it out, is relief enough to make me laugh. “Yeah. That bad. Not worth repeating.”
“Well,” she says, her voice softening, “typically I don’t advocate for violence, but… you looked a little attractive. Defending me. Don’t make me regret saying that out loud.” She groans, embarrassed at herself.
That catches me off guard, and I blink; a pulse starts low in my chest, uninvited. Warmth creeps into my voice. “Oh, really? Should I go full macho mode for you? Didn’t know that’s what you’re into.”
“Look, I never said that. I’m already close to retracting my statement.”
We both laugh. It’s ridiculous and perfect. I rake my hand through my hair, over my face, amazed at how she does this, how she takes the worry out of everything and leaves me calm again. The sigh we both let out is deep but shared, the kind that lingers.
“Besides,” she says, “I’ve knocked over a bully or two in my time. Especially when they tried to steal my chocolate. You’re not special.”
“Why is that thought insanely hot?” I ask, smiling into the phone.
“See? It’s not just me.”
We fall quiet for a moment, the silence charged but easy. Then her voice softens again. “Seriously… how are you?”
“In shock, honestly. But hearing your voice? I’m good.”
“That’s very close to a confession of some kind.”
“It’s not close,” I tell her. “It is.”
“You should get some sleep before you get into more trouble.”
“It’s impossible at this point.”
“Don’t test it.”
I marvel to myself, at what she does to me.
I need her to know. My voice slips into that deeper tone, the one I use when I want her to feel what I’m saying, not just hear it.
It’s more of an invitation than sound, rough and wanting.
“They’ve grounded me here. Seventy-two hours before I can come back, time to let the news cycle calm down.
But when I do… can I take you on a proper date? ”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make my heartbeat noticeable. “If it’s a weekend. I don’t function well on school nights.”
“Okay, a date. Saturday, leave it to me. Just send me your address. I’ll pick you up.”
“I’m not sure I can trust a violent man with my address.”
We both burst out laughing, the kind that loosens something in me.
“I’ll text it tomorrow,” she says finally, her voice lighter now. “Goodnight, Rafe. Keep your hands to yourself.”
“You’ve got it. Except for you.” I murmur.
She doesn’t have a chance to react before I hang up, but I know she’s flustered on the other end, and it does something to me.
My grin stays, spreading across my face, and when I sink back into the bed, it’s still there.
Everything she touches in me turns warm, alive.
I don’t feel like a headline or a mistake.
I just feel human. Wanted. Hers, in some wild, dangerous way.
When sleep finally drags me under, it’s with her name still echoing somewhere in the back of my mind.