She thinks she can wedge herself into our narrative. She thinks she can take fragments of art and spin them into something intimate and believable. She doesn’t understand the difference between a song and a life.
And she definitely doesn’t understand this: I’m not hers or anyone’s but Ollie’s.
23
OLLIE
The room isquiet in that particular way only early morning can manage—soft, suspended, like the world hasn’t quite decided to start yet. Pale light slips through the narrow gap in the hotel curtains, washing everything in muted gold. For a moment, I just lie here, breathing.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up to the fact that this is real.
That the warm weight pressed along my side isn’t a memory or a half-asleep fantasy. That the arm thrown over my waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep, belongs to my husband.
Twelve years.
The number lands in my chest and settles there, deep and steady. Twelve years ago today, we did the most reckless, impossible, terrifying, beautiful thing either of us had ever done. We stood in a chapel in Vegas with shaky hands and too much hope and said yes.
I don’t believe in wishing.
I don’t waste time wondering what would have happened if I’d been braver. If I’d handled the pressure differently. If I hadn’t walked away.
That path only leads to regret, and I’ve spent enough years drowning in that.
Instead, I focus on this.
On the man in my arms. On the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. On the way his hair sticks up at the back like he fought a war in his dreams. On the fact that I get to wake up beside him at all.
We lost the game last night.
The Colorado Crows played hard, and so did we. It was close, brutal if I’m honest, and left my bones aching and my brain frazzled long after the final buzzer. But even in the locker room, even under the sting of loss, something inside me stayed steady.
And when we got back to the hotel, we crawled into bed, and Rafe snuggled so close to me. Sure, his mouth on my cock helped me settle and was arguably the highlight of my night after a loss, but my peace remained because of him. Us. This.
The sun inches higher, and the light shifts. I trace slow circles along his back, careful not to wake him, though I know he’ll feel it eventually. He always does.
He makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a grumble, and his grip tightens.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
I smile, because he sounds wrecked and soft and nothing like the man who can command a stadium with a single note.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
He blinks one eye open, then the other, squinting at me like he needs to confirm I’m real. It’s a look I’ve seen more than once lately—wonder threaded with disbelief.
“Why are you awake?” he asks.
“Habit,” I say. “Also you drool.”
He scowls faintly. “Lies.”
“Absolute truth. Very rock star. Very glamorous.”
He snorts and shifts closer, dragging his leg over mine. The movement presses us together more fully, and I don’t miss the way his breath hitches when he realizes exactly how awake I am.
“Happy anniversary,” I say softly.
For a second, he just stares at me. Then something in his face opens. His expression goes unguarded in a way that still destroys me, even after all this time.
