I start to move, then stop because my legs suddenly remember they’re attached to a body that has been under attack for the last six hours. I press a hand to the wall for a second. Rafe’s hand lifts like he’s going to touch me, but he stops short, fingers hovering.
“Don’t,” I say automatically.
His hand drops, and the word lands like a slap between us.
I exhale, regret sharp. “Sorry. I—” I try again. “Not… don’t touch me. Just—my head is loud.”
Rafe’s expression shifts, something easing. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. I’m not—” He stops, jaw muscle working. “I’m not trying to freak you out.”
“I know.”
“Because,” he continues, voice flat but eyes intense, “you’re acting like this isn’t the biggest thing that’s happened to either of us in eight years.”
I blink at him. “That’s because,” I say slowly, “I think I’m still in shock.”
Rafe huffs a breath. “Oh, good. That’s comforting.”
I almost laugh. The sound comes out cracked.
He gestures toward the hall. “Go. Clean up.”
With a nod, I head to the bathroom. The mirror catches me immediately—hair slightly messed, eyes too bright, the faint line of dried liquid down my cheekbone, my mouth still swollen from kissing him like I had no sense.
I turn on the tap, splash water on my face, scrub at my skin until it’s pink. Under the sink, there’s a pack of wipes just like he said. I use them, then stare at my reflection again.
I look like me, which feels wrong, because I’m not the same man who walked into that charity event three hours ago thinking I was going to sit quietly at a table and maybe,maybeget five minutes of conversation.
Rafe is in the kitchen when I’ve finished, pulling out glasses. He pours water into one, then sets it on the counter like an offering.
He doesn’t pour anything else. No wine. No whiskey. No celebratory drink, no numbing drink. Just water. It reminds me, again, that his life has lines he won’t cross anymore.
I take the glass, making sure our fingers don’t touch. “Thanks,” I say.
Rafe leans back against the counter, arms folded over his chest. His gaze never leaves my face.
It’s starting to irritate me. Not because it isn’t fair, because it is. He’s watching for the moment I disappear, like he’s been training himself for it.
“Stop looking at me like I’m about to pass out,” I say.
Rafe’s mouth twitches. “Give me a reason not to.”
I take a slow drink of water, buying time. “You want a reason? I’m tired.”
He blinks. “Tired?”
“Yeah,” I say, and the emotion in my chest shifts, something honest and heavy. “I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of running everything through a filter first. I’m tired of walking around with my life in pieces.”
The words hang and feel too big for this kitchen.
Rafe’s eyes stay locked on me. “And you thought kissing me in public was a great way to fix that?”
I swallow hard. It’s not an accusation but a genuine question.
He doesn’t understand what happened inside me when I saw Elliot’s arm around him, when I saw the ease, when my fear turned into something else—something urgent and stupid and alive.
“I didn’t plan it,” I say quietly.
“I figured.”
