“Alright,Threnos,” I tease. “It’s not a drum kit. You’re not supposed to attack it.”
He laughs. “You underestimate mynatural aggressiontoward carbohydrates.”
I shake my head and press my hand over his to guide the motion. The contact steals my breath. The smallest thing, our fingers aligning, hits harder than any kiss could. When the pierogi are lined up in uneven rows, he leans against the counter, watching me wipe my hands.
“You could still come out to L.A., after rehearsals I'd beall yours,” he says, casually.
I freeze mid-motion. “Rafe.”
“I mean it.” He shrugs, trying for lightness and missing. “We don’t have much time before Europe. Two months feels like forever right now. Come for the weekend,come for me.” The way he says it, I doubt he just meansthe visit.
I laugh it off, that nervous little exhale I give when my heart doesn’t know which way togo.
“I’ll take care of everything,” he says. “Flights. Hotel. You show up, I’ll do the rest. Pack light. You won't need much for what I have planned.” I raise an eyebrow and he holds eye contact, biting the corner of his lip, deviant thoughts forming behind those dark, beautiful eyes.
There’s a moment of silence. Something heated and dangerous passes between us.
“Okay,” I say, finally. His grin could break through light and sound.
“Perfect.” The world feels lighter suddenly, almost cruel in how easy happiness can feel when you know it’s borrowed time.
The pierogi boil, steam fogging the window above the sink. He starts talking about chemistry instead, like a mad scientist with something to prove. I watch him, amused and a little in awe at the way he can makeanythingsound fascinating.
“It’s like a science class,” he says, watching the dough rise and sink. “You mix the right elements, heat them just enough, and everything changes.”
“Since when are you a chemist?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Always liked how things react. The way elements form and connect.” He tosses a pinch of salt into the water, watching it vanish. “Sodium self-destructs, did you know that?”
I laugh and lean in closer, teasing. “Are you sure there isn’t some hidden degree in chemistry orGreek mythology hanging around?”
He scoffs. “I wish.Thatmight have actually made my parents proud.” His brow lifts, sarcasm attempting to hide the honesty. “No, just a man with too much time on tour and a mind that won’tshut the fuck up.”
I laugh again, and his eyes drift to my necklace, red and gold, the small pomegranate charm. I twist it between my fingertips, watching him.
“Aqua regia,” he says, softer now, “did you know it’s the most effective way to dissolve gold?”
“I thought this was supposed to be a romantic dinner, not a science lecture,” I tease.
“It is,” he says. “Something the stars themselves conspired to keep buried…undoneby the right mixture. That’s what you are to me.”
The words hang there, hot and fragile. I don’t answer, just breathe in, slowly. It feels like a confession, something I want to reach for but don’t dare, not yet. So I let the silence stand, pretending the hiss of the pot is all we can hear.
Chapter 51
Love, Spoken
L.A. doesn’t offer anonymity; it offers camouflage. Everyone’s a celebrity here; fame just buzzes in the background, another kind of traffic noise. Still, Rafe’s careful: cap low, sunglasses even at night, sleeves rolled like he’s trying to pass for ordinary. He says it’s not about hiding, it’s about protecting me. I believe him, but I can see how it eats at him, the way the world won’t let himjust belonganywhere. It’s only getting worse as the band gains momentum. First the cover that went viral, then the punch, now another tour leg and a new album on the horizon.
We walk through Koreatown, neon dripping color onto wet pavement. The air smells like sesame oil and ginger. He finds a place tucked between a noodle shop and a bakery, wood-paneled, soft light, music low enough to make the silence between us louder.
I can feel the heat of his gaze between sentences. The dress had seemed harmless when I packed it, green silk, low-cut, short, but nothing scandalous. Under this light, though, it highlights everywhere it clings. Then his hand drifts under the table, then slips beneath the hem of my dress, and my breath falters. His thumb brushes the edge of my thigh, heat seeping through the thin fabric of my tights.
I lift my glass, pretending to take a sip, but it’s a poor disguise. His final touch, a slow sweep of his fingertips, finds bare skin beneath the nylon, and I know he’s realized I’m not wearing anything underneath.It wasn’t planned, just practical, a last-minute choice when I noticed how the dress showed every seam, but watching his reaction? I might have to make it a habit. My mouth can’t hide the teasing grin when our eyes meet.
The rest of the night is full of unspoken tension, every glance turning into touch. He tries to focus on his plate, even goes so far as tocut a piece of sushibefore realizing the sacrilege, then abandons it like nothing happened. I nudge his foot under the table and catch the smallest shake of his head, his mouth curving into a helpless smile. Finally, he motions that it’s time to go. But before we head out, he leans in, shoulder brushing mine, his voice low enough to burn.
“You’re trying to give me a heart attack so I don’t go to Europe, is that the plan?”
