“I used to think protecting you meant leaving before it got worse,” I continue. “Like if I stepped away first, I could control the damage.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.
“I was wrong,” I admit. “Protection isn’t distance. It’s structure. It’s staying. It’s saying no clearly and letting the system do its job.”
The words settle between us.
He reaches up and cups the side of my neck. “You don’t owe me martyrdom,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“And you don’t owe me sacrifice.”
“I know.”
“What you owe me,” he continues, “is showing up.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I am.”
There’s no drama in it. No swelling music moment. Just truth.
He nods once, like that’s enough.
Later that afternoon, we leave the building to head to practice. The press cluster is slightly thicker than usual. Cameras lift and microphones tilt forward.
“Do you feel threatened?” someone calls.
I don’t stop walking. Rafe’s hand slides into mine automatically.
“Boundaries aren’t hostility,” I say calmly as we pass. “They’re protection.”
Another voice tries to cut in. “Is she dangerous?”
“She violated a court order,” I reply evenly. “That’s being handled.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t moralize. I don’t reduce her to a villain or elevate her to a tragic figure. I state the facts and keep moving.
Inside the SUV, Rafe exhales quietly beside me.
“That was annoyingly composed,” he says.
“I’m good at media.”
“You’re good at everything lately.”
I bump his shoulder lightly. “I am, huh?”
He turns his head and studies me for a second longer than necessary.
“I used to worry that being public would break us,” I say, watching the city blur past the window. “That it would expose every weak seam.”
“And now?”
“Now I think hiding did more damage than exposure ever could.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, just squeezes my hand once.
I think about the woman in the lobby. About the annotations in the margins of my husband’s songs. About the way delusion can twist art into something intimate that never existed.
