39. Secret Place #2
He smiles, and for a moment it’s impossible to tell whether the rush in my chest is from the ride or from him.
Rafe walks ahead first, scanning the area, careful and methodical in his movements even when he’s relaxed.
Then, without a word, he crouches down and starts brushing leaves and moss off a smooth boulder near the edge.
He runs his hand over it a few times, then glances back at me.
“For you,” he says simply, straightening.
For a second I can’t move. It’s surreal—he’s surreal.
Obelus, wiping dirt off a rock so I can sit on it, like I might die if a leaf stuck to me.
I lower myself onto the rock slowly, still half-expecting the moment to dissolve.
He sits down beside me, a respectful inch or two of space between us.
For a while, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the water below and the faint wind moving through the trees.
It feels like the kind of stillness you don’t get to have in normal life, like even an electrical current would be too much noise here.
After a long stretch, he says, “When I was a kid, we used to hike. My parents aren’t big talkers, but this was their thing. Just walking. No plan, no goal. Sometimes hours. I think it was their version of peace.”
He pauses, glancing out at the water. “When things got intense, I’d come out here. Remind myself what that felt like. When life was... easy. Simple.”
I study his profile while he talks, the way his voice softens on simple, the faint lines around his eyes that only show up when he’s not performing.
“Breakups,” he continues. “Tour shit, deadlines, creative burnout. It all blurs after a while. This place pulls all that noise out of my head.”
He turns his head then, and his gaze catches mine. “And now... you.”
The words hang between us. I can feel my pulse at the base of my throat, steady and unsteady in the same breath. For once, I don’t deflect with a joke. I just look at him, the man sitting here, not some myth and realize I might be in real trouble.
I don’t know what to do with the warmth in my chest, the one that’s been building since the moment he smiled at me. Part of me wants to look away, to break eye contact before it turns into something I can’t undo. But I don’t.
“I can see why you come here,” I say, finally. “It forces you to be still.”
He gives a small nod, eyes tracing the horizon. “Perceptive.”
Silence folds over us again, comfortable, a little dangerous.
He leans back slightly, palms resting on the rock behind him, one hand just close enough that I can feel its warmth beside mine.
I stare out at the water, the light shifting across its surface, and think about how strange it is that someone like him, someone who’s been seen by millions, can still feel so human sitting here. So reachable.
Without thinking, my pinky drifts across the stone until it brushes his.
A light, testing touch. He doesn’t move, doesn’t startle, just stays very still, like he might scare me off if he moved.
I inch closer. Our fingers find each other slowly, uncertain at first, then sure.
When they finally fit, I feel it like a small exhale through my entire body.
We don’t look. We don’t need to. The silence says enough; the way his thumb presses lightly against mine says the rest. The air feels softer somehow, the world turns small until it’s only the shared pulse in our joined hands.
Here, with him, I stop trying to remember who I’m supposed to be, or what this could mean later.
For now, I just breathe and let the moment hold us.
After a while he shifts slightly, his thumb brushing over the side of my hand. “My mum used to say you can measure love by how long someone’s willing to sit in the quiet with you.”
“Sounds wise.”
He smiles, a little distant. “She is. Stoic as hell, both of them. My dad’s an engineer, always thinking about how things fit together. They’ve been together for forty years. I think they understand each other in the spaces between words.”
“Mine have been together forty-three. I think they could do with more quiet; our house is always so loud.” I joke, but I don’t mean it. I can’t imagine a peaceful family dinner. “The way you described yours, that’s kind of beautiful.”
He shrugs lightly. “It is, except when you’re an only child who wants answers they can’t give. But they taught me how to be still. How to listen. I think that’s why I write the way I do.”
I squeeze his hand a little, feeling that current between us tighten. “For what it’s worth, I think you see things more clearly than most who never stop being loud or moving.”
He glances down at our hands, then back out at the horizon. “Maybe that’s why you’re here,” he says softly. “To remind me how to look again instead of just moving.”
I don’t say anything, because I don’t trust what might come out if I try. The sun drifts lower, turning the water to glass and gold. His thumb keeps tracing lines against my skin, like he’s keeping time with something only he can hear.
When the last of the light begins to fade, he finally stands, brushing off his jeans. “We should probably head back before it gets dark. Or before someone steals my bike, I didn’t exactly hide it well.” He lets out a shy laugh, and my heart aches at the sound. I’m definitely in trouble.
I push myself up too, my legs a little unsteady from sitting so long.
The moment I shift my weight, my foot catches on a root hidden under the leaves.
He’s there instantly, a hand catching my arm before I can stumble.
His grip is firm, his face suddenly close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air between us changes, thickens.
The kind of silence that could turn into anything.
If I leaned in half an inch, I’d know the taste of him again.
He exhales first, the sound brushing against my skin.
Then he releases me, reluctantly, like it takes effort.
“Easy,” he says, the word too gentle to be casual.
“Thanks,” I manage, though it comes out barely above a whisper.
He looks away, clears his throat. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you back before the forest decides to make another grab for you.”
I slide my fingers into his, and we walk back down the trail. The air feels cooler now, the light dimming into a soft blue-gray. When the bike comes into view, he glances over his shoulder.
“Ready for the real surprise?”
“Real surprise?” I echo, trying not to sound breathless.
He grins. “You’ll see.”