57. Twenty-Four Hours
Twenty-Four Hours
Prague blurs by in soundcheck and rain. Rafe calls between rehearsals, voice rough from the night before, and I tease him for pretending chamomile tea fixes everything.
He sends me a photo of the crowd, lights like a galaxy, his caption only: Still yours.
I stare at it longer than I mean to, pretending it’s just admiration for the symmetry.
Vienna feels like a breath. I’m between patients when his message comes through, a blurry shot of him and Ronan at a street café, espresso cups and half-smiles.
His hair is in a ponytail, loose tendrils framing his face.
Told them you’d hate my hair like this. I don’t.
I tell him so, and he replies with a heart I pretend doesn't make me smile like an idiot.
In Budapest the calls stretch longer, until dawn leaks through my blinds.
We talk about everything and nothing, bad hotel art, his half-finished lyrics, my patients, his fear that everything feels too good.
I tell him to stop asking for trouble. He tells me I sound like joy made manifest and I laugh when he calls himself pretentious.
Milan is loud, glittering, alive. Between interviews, he sends me a photo of a red leather jacket he almost buys. Thought of you. The color of passion. I send him a mirror selfie in scrubs, hair falling loose from a bun, and he replies, You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.
Zurich feels like silence done right. His voice was steady that night, no static, no exhaustion, just warmth. He hums part of a new song he swears isn’t finished, I hear us threaded through it.
Brussels passes in rhythm. Short calls, steady texts. Landed. Miss you all the time. I reply, You’re going to be busy performing soon. He sends back, Doesn’t change that you're not here.
By Amsterdam, the exhaustion softens into something tender. He sends me a photo of the canals at dusk, his reflection faint in a wine glass. I’m halfway through typing that it looks like a painting when the phone rings. As soon as I hear his voice, the hours disappear.
The rhythm between us is settling into something that feels natural, like breathing. Not constant but enough. The distance isn’t smaller, it just hurts a little less.
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” Rafe’s voice is rough, caught somewhere between pleading and grinning. “I’m going out of my mind here, Kasia. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop dreaming about you. I swear I see you in every goddamn crowd. We’ve got a show in London and we’re there till Monday. Come, please.”
“That’s insane.”
“Then come, be insane with me.”
“Rafe.” I laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh that already sounds like surrender. “I can’t just fly to London.”
“You can,” he says, soft but relentless. “Get the red-eye Friday. You’ll land Saturday morning, spend the day, go back Sunday. Twenty-four hours. I’ll take anything. Just—” he exhales, low and desperate, “just get on the flight.”
“That’s literally crazy. I’ll be jet-lagged to hell.”
“I’ll pay for a spa day when you get back,” he blurts. “I’ll book the best hotel so you’ll feel like you’re on a cloud. We don’t even have to leave it. Just sleep next to me. That’s all I want.”
“Rafe—”
My phone buzzes. A new email slides down my screen. I open it, blink, then freeze.
“Did you just—”
“Flight’s booked,” he says, trying, and failing, not to sound proud. “Seattle to London, Friday night. You’ll land Saturday at noon, back by Sunday.”
“You actually did it. This is first class! Rafe!”
“Use it or don’t,” he says. “But the fact it’s there, it’ll keep me breathing. The hope that maybe you’ll get on it.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “This is absolutely ridiculous. I should be furious.”
“But you’re not.”
A pause. Then, softer: “No. I’m not.”
“You’ll come?”
“I’ll come.”
The sound he makes is halfway between a laugh and a prayer. “Oh, thank fuck. Because I think my heart would’ve stopped if you said no.”
“You’re mad as a hatter.”
“And you,” he says, voice dropping to that dark register that always gets me, “are the only thing that makes the underworld bearable.”
The airport feels like another universe, sterile light, the chaotic bustle of arrivals, the aroma of jet fuel mixed with coffee.
I’m running on no sleep and too much adrenaline.
My heart’s somewhere in my throat as I clear customs, drag my bag through the sliding doors, and scan the crowd. Then I see him.
He’s impossible to miss, even dressed down.
Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver glinting at his wrists and throat.
His hair’s half-tied, a few dark strands falling loose around his face.
There’s a new tattoo peeking from his forearm—the one he’d sent me a photo of but in person it’s richer, deeper, alive under his skin.
He looks like every dream I’ve had since the night he left.
For a second, we just stare. The noise, the crowd, everything else blurs and then I’m moving.
I don’t even notice that I’m running until I see him running too.
Any second not touching feels wasted. When we collide, it’s breathless.
His hands find my hips, pulling me in like he can’t quite believe I’m solid.
I press my palms to his forearms, feel the flex beneath my fingers, the warmth of him, real and right here.
“Hi,” I manage, though it comes out somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
He looks at me like I’m a hallucination, like I might vanish if he blinks. His thumb traces along my jaw. “You’re real,” he whispers. “You actually came.”
I nod, unable to stop smiling. “You booked the flight, Ashton.”
He laughs, low, shaky, relief spilling out of him. “I had to make sure the universe couldn’t say no.”
I reach up, touch the silver chain at his throat, let my thumb brush the pulse there. “Looks like it didn’t.”
He leans in, forehead to mine, and exhales like it’s the first time he’s done that in weeks. The terminal moves around us, unimportant, the rest of the world too far away to matter.
“Twenty-four hours,” he murmurs, voice rough against my ear.
“Twenty-four hours,” I echo.
And in that moment, it feels like forever.
London feels like it’s waking up after the rain. The streets shine, the air carries the scent of roasted nuts and exhaust on the breeze, and everything feels in sync with that busy city rhythm. Rafe keeps his hand in mine, thumb tracing along my skin like he’s reminding himself I’m still here.
We start in Covent Garden, wandering past street performers and flower stalls.
He stops at a small chippy tucked between a bookstore and a souvenir shop.
“This place,” he says, pointing with that half-smile that always gives him away.
“Been coming here since the first tour. Best chips in London, no contest.”
I watch him order, easy, familiar, an accent beginning to lilt here somehow. “Don’t people notice you?” I ask as we lean against the brick wall, sharing a paper cone of chips too hot to touch.
“Not much,” he says, mouth full. “England’s never been that taken by the band. We can walk around here, like Berlin. But—” he pauses, glancing down the street, “I’ve been clocking a few more looks this trip. Must be the momentum. The curse of virality.”
I smirk. “The price of being internationally worshiped.”
He snorts. “You weren’t the one they edited into a thousand slow-motion clips caught in a kiss or a punch.”
I elbow him. “Some of those are pretty impressive.”
He grins, reaching for another chip. “I guess creativity comes in all forms.”
From there we wander toward Chinatown, passing under red lanterns and the sweet smell of sesame buns.
The glow of neon paints his jawline, catches the silver chain at his throat.
He tells me about the venues they’ve played, the cities that blurred by.
Every story is threaded with humor, with the kind of life he only ever has on tour.
I listen, greedy for all of it. Later, he steers us toward Camden.
“The World’s End” he says, opening the door for me.
“You’re in for a treat. It’s grimy and perfect.
” The scent of beer, wood smoke, and nostalgia fills the air.
He orders a pint and scans the specials board, then with absolute conviction exclaims, “Ah!
Brilliant, they do Toad in the Hole. You've got to try it.”
I raise a brow. “That can’t possibly be what it sounds like.”
Once we're seated, his arm lazily draped over me, tucked into a cozy leather-padded booth, he continues between sips. “It's sausages baked into Yorkshire pudding. Childhood comfort, my Dad used to make it when he was homesick. The name’s just England being odd, as usual.”
“Well,” I say, eyeing the menu. “You can have your baked sausage-bread thing. I’m getting steak and ale pie. That at least sounds like food.”
“Tsk,” he teases, “you're not even trying to blend in. You could at least attempt to try what us locals eat.”
“Us locals? You’re only half Brit and you've never lived here,” I shoot back. He laughs, leaning in, mock-serious.
“Which means I'm still the authority over you,” he says, smirking. “International heritage, relatable appeal and all that, it carries weight.”
“This isn't some PR campaign, it's dinner.”
“It's a campaign to make you try decent pub grub. I'll use all the weapons at my disposal.”
Despite his best efforts, I hold my ground and order my pie instead, but even in his defeat the smile never leaves his face.
I check my phone, the habit of a doctor who can stumble upon another responsibility or desperate request every time I look at it.
My nerves never fully settle, I'm always wondering if something urgent has come in that I'm ignoring, even all the way in London.
When I glance up, his eyes are already on me, dark, unguarded, a little wild.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, thumb against my pulse as he pulls me in for a kiss.
His lips barely brush mine, the faintest touch from him sparking an overwhelming desire inside me.
It makes me want more. I forget where we are until the waitress sets our plates down with a pointed throat clear.
We break apart, laughing, both red-faced. He confiscates a fry across my plate, I steal a bite of his Yorkshire pudding, and every touch feels like it’s lighting a fuse. His fingers find mine under the table, tracing along my wrist until my breath catches.
“Maybe we should calm down,” I say, voice barely steady.
He leans in, still grinning. “Never.”
I laugh, shaking my head, and for a moment it feels like the city itself is holding its breath, long enough to let us just exist.
The walk to the pub is short, but the city feels different now, softer somehow, like it’s conspiring with them.
The smell of wet pavement and cigarette smoke fills my lungs, the kind of night that feels haunted by leftover rain.
Rafe’s arm is around my shoulders, lazy and sure, his thumb brushing absently at my collarbone as we turn the corner.
“Are you sure you're good? Meeting up with the guys?” he asks, tone casual but careful.
“Of course,” I say. “It’ll be nice to get to know Rithy without all the tension.”
He snorts. “Can’t promise no tension. It’s still Rithy.”
I laugh. “Then I’ll bring my professional voice.”
“Let the games begin,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.
The pub’s small and lived-in, ale and old laughter seep from the walls.
A buzz of chatter fills the room, and in the back booth, the rest of The Riven Altar is already half a pint ahead.
Kiri gives a wave, Ronan raises his glass, and Rithy, of course, doesn’t look up right away, too busy flipping through something on his phone.
Rafe squeezes my hand before we approach. “Remember,” he murmurs, “they’re mostly harmless.”
“Mostly?”
He grins. “Depends how many pints in they are.”
When we reach the table, Ronan stands first, ever the gentleman. “Kasia,” he says warmly, accent rolling. “Good to see you again. Thought you turned into a myth, listening to this one.” He tilts his chin towards Rafe.
“Depends who’s telling the story,” I reply, shaking his hand.
Kiri gives a smile, sliding over to make space. “Ignore him, he’s in an eccentric phase.”
Rithy looks up then, lean, tired and undeniably beautiful in that restless way that doesn’t ever settle.
“So the good doctor lives,” he says, a slight smirk curving his mouth.
“I do,” I say lightly. “I promise I don’t bite.”
“Excellent,” he says, taking a long drink. “At least one of us has to be civilized.”
Rafe kicks him lightly under the table. “Behave.”
“I am behaving, Rafferty” Rithy says, feigning innocence. “Just stating the obvious.”
The banter slides easily after that, music, cities, travel horror stories. Ronan’s already on his second pint, telling me about Freja who fell asleep mid-soundcheck in Madrid. Kiri corrects every detail under his breath, which only makes it funnier.
Rithy stays half-detached but attentive, occasionally flicking his gaze my way with that tentative curiosity that feels more like study than judgment.
I can tell he’s trying, in his own way. When I make a joke about Rafe’s early-morning texts sounding like caffeine withdrawals disguised as coherence, Rithy actually laughs, a low, surprised sound that makes Rafe glance at him, then at me, like See? Progress.
After the second round, Rafe slides closer, thigh pressed against mine, arm warm at the back of my neck as he wraps it around me. The rest of the world blurs. His breath touches my ear as he leans in, “They like you.”
“I can tell,” I whisper back. “I like them too. They’re terrifying and entertaining.”
He laughs softly. “They’re family, isn’t that how most families are?”
The warmth in his voice makes my chest ache a little.
Ronan’s calling for another round, Kiri’s already fishing for his wallet, Rithy’s leaning back with a smirk that almost looks like approval and Rafe’s hand trails up and down along my back, a soothing motion, settling me to the core.
Every time he tries to stop he begins again, like he can’t stop.
The pub bustles around us, alive, and for a little while, everything feels easy.