There are already photographers outside the gate when we pull out—lenses pointed, bodies leaning forward like they might catch more if they try hard enough. The flash of cameras bounces off the windshield even in daylight.
I keep my eyes forward. Beside me, my driver mutters under his breath, something about vultures. Rafe’s car leaves a few minutes after mine, a different route, a different direction. We’ll meet at the loft.
The drive into the city feels like stepping back into a version of my life I barely recognize. My phone buzzes constantly—textsfrom teammates, old friends, numbers I haven’t saved. Most of them are simple:You good? Proud of you. Call me.
I don’t answer yet. My head is already full.
The building rises into view, all steel and glass and urban ambition. It felt huge when I bought it. Now it feels like a transition space. A midpoint between who I was and who I’m trying to become.
There are no photographers here, thank God, but I keep my face neutral as I step out, head down just enough to avoid giving anyone lurking a shot they’ll love too much.
Inside, the air smells like fresh drywall and sawdust.
My place is looking a lot less like a construction site than when I was last here. The floors are in. The kitchen cabinetry is installed. The big windows frame the city like artwork.
Carol, who flew in this morning, waves from the far end, tape measure around her neck. “You made it!”
I grin. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
She launches into updates immediately, walking me through paint samples, furniture layouts, light fixtures. I fall into the conversation easily, grateful for something tangible.
Rafe arrives ten minutes later. I feel him before I see him. My breath quickens, my shoulders straightening unconsciously. I turn, and there he is in the doorway, sunglasses on, hands in his jacket pockets like he’s bracing himself.
This is my world now. And he’s in it.
“Hey,” I say, unable to stop smiling.
“Hey,” he replies, and his gaze moves slowly around the space. “It’s… nice.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah, definitely.”
Carol gives him a quick hello, then tactfully disappears toward the kitchen area, wanting to talk to Phil before she heads out, leaving us standing in the middle of the open floor.
“This is where the couch goes,” I say, gesturing. “And the dining table there. Bedroom’s through there.”
Rafe listens, really listens, nodding as I talk through choices. He asks questions. Not polite ones—real ones. About storage. Light. Where I’ll work. It shouldn’t feel this intimate. But it does.
Later, we meet Lindy and Phil for lunch at a café down the block. It’s off the beaten track, though Vinny and Seth remain on high alert, ensuring we have privacy. Amelia insists on sitting between us and interrogates Rafe about guitars, which he handles with a seriousness that makes her beam. Watching them together does something complicated to my chest.
After lunch, we walk back to the loft, Vinny and Seth close by, and then Lindy and Phil head off to pick up more supplies, taking Amelia with them.
The door closes, the loft turning quiet, and it’s just me and him. The space feels different now—smaller, charged.
Rafe walks to the window, hands in his pockets, looking out over the city. “You really are building something here.”
“Yeah.”
“For you.”
“And maybe,” I add carefully, “for us.” I know he has his house that’s secluded and on the outskirts of the city, but this could also be ours.
His shoulders tense just slightly. I don’t think it’s rejection or even retreat. It seems like recognition and the weight of the possibility.
I step closer. Not touching, just… near enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the quiet gravity he carries, the way my body remembers him. “I meant what I said,” I tell him quietly. “About not rushing.”
“I know.” His voice is rougher now. Lower. It lands somewhere deep in my chest.
