Page 66 of Mending Hearts
All I have is honesty.
“I’m asking you,” I say slowly, “for time.”
Rafe’s jaw ticks. “Time?”
“Yes.”
He watches me, eyes dark.
“I’m asking for a chance to show you I’m not going to disappear again,” I continue, voice raw. “I’m asking for a chance to make choices that aren’t cowardice.”
Rafe’s gaze drops to the counter, then back. “And the divorce?” he asks, his voice careful, like he doesn’t want the word to be a weapon, but it already is.
My stomach twists. “I don’t get to tell you what to do,” I say quietly. “If you need it—if you need that freedom, that closure—then… I’ll sign.”
He goes still, and the air changes. His eyes lift to mine. “You’d do that?”
“Yes,” I say, voice scratchy. “Because I’m not here to trap you. I’m here to earn you. And those aren’t the same thing.”
Rafe’s breath leaves him in a slow exhale. He looks… tired, emotionally exhausted, like he’s been holding up the weight of this for years, and tonight it got heavier and lighter at the same time.
“I hate you,” he says suddenly.
My heart drops.
Then he adds, voice cracking just slightly, “For making me still want you.”
The words hit like a punch. I swallow hard, eyes burning. “I know.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because I hate myself for it too.”
His face shifts—anger, pain, something dangerously close to tenderness. He turns away, pressing his palms flat to the counter like he needs something solid.
I stay still. I don’t reach or touch or take. This is the part where old me would try to fix it with a hug, a kiss, a promise. That’s not enough anymore.
Rafe breathes in slowly, then out. When he turns back, his eyes are wet, but his expression is controlled. “You can stay tonight,” he says.
The relief that floods me is so intense my knees threaten to give out. But I don’t move, and I don’t let myself celebrate. “Okay,” I say quietly.
“Guest room,” he adds immediately, like he needs the boundary spoken out loud before emotion tries to rewrite it. “Down the hall. Second door.”
“Okay.”
His jaw flexes once. “This isn’t?—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I know what it is.”
He watches me, suspicious.
“It’s a roof,” I say, voice rough. “And it’s… kindness. That’s all.”
Something in his face flickers, like he didn’t expect me to respect the line.
“Okay,” he says, and the word sounds like he’s forcing himself to accept it.
I hesitate. “Do you… want me to call my agent now?”
