65. Absolutely Fine
Absolutely Fine
Rafe
Seattle looks half-asleep when I roll in, grey light leaking through the clouds, everything slick from the night before. I can’t sit still. The driver keeps glancing in the mirror, probably wondering if I’m going to throw up or bolt. Kasia texted that she headed home. That’s my next stop.
The second we pull up outside my place, I toss him some bills, grab my suitcase, and head for the garage.
The motorcycle waits under its cover, dusted from disuse.
I tear the tarp off, shove on my helmet and gloves, and kick it to life.
The sound rips through the street. I don’t feel the cold; adrenaline burns hotter.
The ride to her place blurs, wet asphalt, traffic lights, the city’s heartbeat under my tires. Every red feels personal. Every turn is too slow. When I pull up, her lights are on, blinds half-drawn. I kill the engine, climb the porch steps two at a time, and knock once before the door opens.
She’s pacing. Arms folded tight across her chest, barefoot in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Dark hair loose, wild. Glasses sliding to the end of her nose. A version of her I almost never see, unarmored.
No tears, no collapse. Just that hollow, mechanical rhythm of back and forth, back and forth.
“Kas,” I whisper, stepping in. The scent of soap mixed with the warmth of her skin almost knocks me back, how much I’ve missed it. Missed her. She barely looks at me. Doesn’t reach out.
“Dominik got through surgery,” she says evenly. “He’s stable. They said to let him rest, so I came home. I’m resting.”
Her voice is too calm, the kind that belongs to someone whose body hasn’t caught up to the trauma yet.
“You’re not resting,” I say. “You’re pacing holes in the floor.”
She shrugs and starts to move again. I reach for her, hands firm on her arms, grounding her.
“Stop.”
She freezes. Her eyes meet mine, and what I see there is worse than tears, nothing. Just shock and exhaustion, fragile and broken.
I tilt my head, follow her gaze until she has to look at me, until her eyes finally hold. “I’m here now. You can stop.”
For a second, her lip trembles, but she swallows it back. “If I stop, I’ll feel it.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “So feel it. Let me help.”
The first crack breaks through, a sigh tangled in a sob. Her shoulders drop, breath uneven. I pull her in carefully, afraid she might shatter if I move too fast. Her arms stay at her sides, but her forehead finds my chest, and I hold her like the world depends on it.
She’s trembling, but it’s not the kind that brings tears, it’s the kind that happens when your system is still fighting to stay upright.
I brush a hand through her hair, slow, trying to calm the quake under her skin. “It’s alright,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”
She laughs, a small, broken sound. “Safe,” she repeats, almost to herself. “Tell that to the man that just got out of surgery.”
My chest tightens. “Kas—”
“She went there, Rafe. To my parent’s house. My family was there. A child, a baby.” Her voice is detached, like a report she doesn’t want to give. “She said your songs were for her. That I ruined them. That she used to see veils before I showed up.”
I close my eyes. It’s worse hearing it in her voice.
“She must have been watching us,” she says. “For a while. To find me at the clinic, to know where I live, it wasn’t random. She was there for me, because of you.”
The words land like a blade turned inward. I want to say it isn’t my fault, but the truth feels heavier. It’s my world that touched hers. My shadow reached across the country and found her doorstep.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The phrase feels too small. “If I could take any of it back, I would.”
She lifts her head, eyes red but dry. “You didn’t do this, Rafe. She did. But it’s still your world. I stepped into it, and now—” She swallows hard. “Now Dominik might not wake up. Now my family is terrified, because of choices I made.”
Her voice cracks on his name, and that’s when it happens, the wall inside her breaks. Her knees buckle, and I catch her, both arms around her as the sobs come, silent at first, then shaking through her whole body.
“I tried to stop the bleeding,” she gasps. “I couldn’t. He looked at me like he knew, like he was already—”
“Hey.” I grip her tighter. “No. Don’t do that. He’s alive because of you. You kept him there until help came. Trust me, I saw his face when I showed up at Zosia’s party. He fought to stay with you, I know it.” That earns me a small, broken laugh.
We stand there until her breathing steadies, until the shudders fade into exhaustion. When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are blotched, eyes glassy but focused again. I guide her to the couch, make tea, the way to solve everything when you’re raised in a Korean and British household.
I hand her the mug, sit beside her. We don’t speak. The rain does the talking for us, steady against the windows.
“I keep replaying it,” she says. “The sound it made when the knife hit him. The way he looked at me. You know the worst part? I kept thinking, if it were you lying there, I don’t think I’d have known what to do, other than cry. I didn’t do much better for him, either.”
Something breaks loose in my chest, but before I can speak, her phone lights up on the table. Mama. She hesitates, then answers.
“Tak, Mamo. Rafe is here, he’s looking after me. They sent me home until Dominik's awake.”
Her mother’s voice is muffled, urgent, Polish flowing fast and low. I can’t make out the words, but I know that tone, the one that makes a daughter revert to being a child again.
“Mhm,” she says softly. “Dobrze… okay. I understand.”
When the call ends, she just sits there.
I want to ask, but the answer’s already written on her face, nothing good.
I reach for her hand, but she beats me to it, turning toward me instead.
Her fingers trace my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
Her touch is cool from the mug, faintly smelling of tea and rain.
“Kasia—”
She shakes her head. “Don’t.” Her thumb grazes my lip. “Just hold me.”
So I do. She leans in first, kisses me slow, searching. A confirmation that we’re still here, still real. Her breath shudders as she exhales against my mouth. I slide my arms around her, pull her close until she’s folded into me, her head against my shoulder, her hand resting over my heart.
We stay like that while the rain keeps falling, her body softening into mine, her breathing syncing with the rhythm of it. Tonight, holding her is the only thing that matters, and I hold her until finally, she sleeps.
The rain’s eased by the time I open my eyes, but the sky’s still heavy with it. Kasia’s still in my arms, and for a moment I let myself believe we’ve outrun it all, the blood, the noise, the chaos.
“You’re awake,” I whisper.
She nods, doesn’t lift her head. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“Yeah.” I tighten my arm around her. “Me neither.”
For a while, neither of us moves. The clock ticks faintly from the kitchen. Somewhere outside, a car door slams, a bird scolds. The kind of normal sounds that feel foreign now.
Then she says, “My parents called again. Late. You slept through it.”
I feel her tense in my arms before she even finishes. “They’re scared, Rafe.”
I pull back enough to look at her. “I get it. That’s understandable, but they arrested her, right?”
“Yes, but they’re worried about all of it,” she says. “Of who you are, what happened, what could still happen.”
Her wary hazel eyes meet mine, tired, red-rimmed, devastatingly clear.
“They think I’m next,” she says. “That this woman won’t be the last. That the world you live in is too big and dangerous to ever really be part of.
Your security team can’t even protect you all of the time, letters get by.
People get past barricades… they can't protect all of us all of the time, they said.”
My mouth goes dry. “Kasia—”
She cups my face in both hands, her thumbs warm against my cheeks. “I can’t do this to them.”
Her eyes stay on mine, and I know what’s coming before she says it.
“Dominik’s in a hospital bed because of me. I can’t—” Her voice cracks, then steadies. “I can’t risk that happening again. To anyone I love. To you, either. It could have been you protecting me instead of Dominik. Or Tata. Or Piotr.”
I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak. “You’re not the reason—”
“I am,” she says softly. “Because I said yes. Because I stayed. Because I keep wanting something the universe keeps trying to tell me I can’t have. That you aren’t part of my world.”
She swallows hard, fingers sliding from my jaw to my neck. “I want you more than anything, and that’s exactly why I can’t.”
There’s no anger in her voice, just heartbreak, pure and unvarnished. I can feel her trying to stay strong even as her breath shakes against my skin. I cover her hands with mine, desperate to keep them there a little longer.
“We can figure this out. We’ll make it safe. I can make it safe, I promise. Please, Kasia—don’t do this. I love you.”
But she’s already shaking her head. “I love you too… I’m sorry. Any version of this where I stay with you, my parents want no part of it. They’re worried for the grandchildren, too. What if it's a gun next time? I can’t lose my family. This is my fault.”
She leans in and kisses me, soft, then desperate and I cling to her like my life depends on it, because it does. Because every part of me is breaking, and she’s the only thing holding me together.
When she pulls away, the warmth leaves with her.
The weight of her hand, the tremor in her voice, the echo of that last kiss, it all lingers in the air long after she stands.
She doesn’t go far. Just to the kitchen.
I hear the kettle click on, the soft shuffle of her bare feet on tile. Every sound she makes feels final.