Page 65 of Mending Hearts
“Meaning?” he asks, voice low.
“Meaning I won’t deny what happened,” I say. “I won’t spin it. I won’t say it was a misunderstanding or a moment or a joke or anything that lets people pretend it wasn’t real.”
Rafe studies my face, searching.
“But I’m also not going to reduce twelve years of fear and love and damage into a soundbite,” I finish. “I don’t owe anyone that.”
The words hang. Rafe exhales slowly. “And me?”
The question is quiet. Dangerous.
I meet his eyes. “I won’t make you a secret,” I say immediately. “Not again. Not ever.”
His throat works.
“But I need to do this without lying to myself,” I add. “And without blowing up my team, my season, or my ability to actually follow through on the rest of this.”
“Which is?” he asks.
I swallow. “Retiring. End of this season. I told Eric today. No one else official knows yet.”
That lands harder now—not as avoidance, but as context.
Rafe stares at me, recalibrating. “So you’re saying,” he says slowly, “you’re not hiding—but you’re also not letting the League decide how this ends.”
“Yes,” I say. “Exactly that.”
Silence stretches again, but it’s different this time. Less brittle. Still tense, but grounded.
Rafe looks away, jaw flexing. “I can’t be… a footnote in your story.”
“You’re not,” I say immediately. “You’re the through-line.”
He flinches at that, just slightly.
“I just need you to believe,” I add softly, “that I’m not choosing fear anymore. I’m choosing timing. And honesty.”
Rafe’s gaze returns to mine, searching. And this time, I don’t look away. He stares at me like he’s trying to decide if it’s real.
“It’s February,” I say quietly. “I have… a few months.”
Rafe’s mouth opens, then closes. His gaze flicks away, something shifting under his skin. “Our anniversary is March,” he says, voice almost flat.
I nod, throat dry. “I know.”
That silence is loaded in a way I can’t name.
Rafe drags a hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he mutters again, like the word is both a prayer and a curse.
I set the glass down carefully. “I’m not asking you to take me back tonight,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “Good.”
I huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. I figured.”
He looks at me for a long beat, then says, “Then what are you asking?”
The question is quiet. It scares the hell out of me, as I don’t have a polished answer. I don’t have a plan that guarantees anything.
