33

The faint hum of The Office filled the kitchen, the kind of comfort noise Stella had gotten used to when the house was too quiet. The TV flickered from the living room—Michael Scott was in the middle of another painfully awkward speech—and the sound of running water mixed with the laugh track.

It was late, later than she meant to still be up, but washing dishes gave her something to do. Something mindless. Her hands moved automatically—scrub, rinse, set aside—as her thoughts drifted.

Sarah's words from earlier kept looping through her head, no matter how many times she tried to push them away. I saw Rafe. With this girl.

She'd nodded, smiled even, pretending she was fine. Pretending she could take it. But it had been gnawing at her ever since.

So she focused on the plates, the soap bubbles, the familiar hum of the dishwasher starting up. Anything but him.

A knock sounded at the door.

She froze, a plate still in her hand.

It was nearly 10:30. Her parents were out for the weekend, and Christopher was still at school. The knock came again, firmer this time.

Her stomach tightened, but she quickly shook it off, drying her hands on a towel. She peeked through the window by the front door—and her breath caught.

Rafe.

He was standing on the porch, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking a mix of tired and restless. His hair was messy, a little damp, like he'd just showered or maybe driven here straight from the docks. The porch light hit the edge of his jaw, highlighting that sharp, familiar profile.

She hesitated, just for a second, before unlocking the door.

When she opened it, he glanced up at her, eyes scanning her face like he was searching for something. "You weren't answering," he said, his tone low, almost defensive.

Stella blinked. "It's late."

"Yeah, I noticed." His brow furrowed, but his voice softened. "I got worried. You're alone here, right?"

That small flicker of protectiveness in his tone did something to her—annoyed her, mostly. Because it shouldn't have made her feel anything.

"I'm fine, Rafe." She stepped back, letting him in. "You didn't have to drive over."

"Didn't feel like sleeping." He brushed past her, the scent of cologne and ocean air following him. "And you weren't answering."

She wanted to roll her eyes. Wanted to tell him he didn't have the right to sound that concerned. But she just closed the door and went back to the kitchen. "My phone's charging."

He didn't say anything for a second, just leaned against the doorway watching her as she turned back to the sink.

The water still ran, warm against her hands, as she picked up where she'd left off. The bubbles had faded, leaving the surface of the water still and faintly cloudy.

Behind her, she heard the stool scrape against the tile—the one tucked under the counter. Rafe sat down, close enough that she could feel his presence at her back.

"You always do dishes this late?" he asked.

"It's either this or scroll through TikTok until two a.m.," she said lightly.

He gave a short laugh. "Right. Real productive."

"Extremely."

She could feel his eyes on her as she rinsed another glass, set it on the rack, and reached for a towel. Her chest felt tight, but she forced her voice to stay even. "So. What are you doing here, really?"

"I told you. You weren't answering."

"Uh-huh." She glanced over her shoulder briefly. "You do that for everyone who doesn't text you back?"

He smirked faintly. "Depends on the girl."

Her jaw twitched. She turned back to the sink before he could see the flicker in her expression. The girl at the country club. The one Sarah had mentioned. The one she didn't dare bring up now.

"Well, I'm alive," she said dryly. "No need for a welfare check."

"Couldn't take the chance," he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice.

She sighed quietly, shaking her head. He always did this—showed up unannounced, said the right things in the wrong moments, made it impossible to stay mad even when she wanted to.

"Want a drink?" he asked suddenly, already sliding off the stool.

"I'm kind of busy—"

But he was already at her fridge, pulling it open like he'd done it a hundred times before. The familiarity of it—how easily he fit here—made something twist in her chest.

He grabbed two beers, twisted one open, then the other, setting one beside her before hopping back onto the stool. "You're welcome."

She dried her hands, eyeing the bottle for a moment before taking it. "Thanks."

He tilted his toward hers in a silent cheers. She clinked the top lightly, took a sip, then leaned against the counter, towel still in her other hand.

"So," he said, watching her. "How was your day?"

She forced a shrug, keeping her tone casual. "Good. Hung out with Sarah."

He nodded slowly, studying her face. "Yeah? You guys still inseparable, huh?"

"Pretty much." She gave him a faint smile, drying off the last plate. "She's been my person lately."

He leaned back slightly, taking a swig. "Good. You need someone to keep you out of trouble."

Stella raised an eyebrow, tossing the towel over the sink edge. "That's funny coming from you."

He smirked. "Hey, I'm not that bad."

"You're not that good either."

That made him laugh, a quiet, genuine sound that reached his eyes for once. She hated that she liked the sound of it.

When she finished the dishes, she hopped up onto the counter beside him, legs swinging lightly. The cool marble pressed against her palms.

The TV from the living room drifted faintly into the kitchen—Michael was saying something about "declaring bankruptcy."

Rafe glanced toward it. "You're watching The Office again?"

"Comfort show," she said simply. "Background noise."

He nodded. "You've seen it, what, like ten times?"

"Twelve," she corrected with a small grin. "Don't judge me."

"I'd never." He took another sip, looking at her over the rim of the bottle. "You just seem like someone who'd watch something deep and sad instead."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Those shows where everyone whispers and stares out of windows dramatically."

She laughed softly. "Wow. You mean good TV?"

He smirked. "If you say so."

They fell into an easy quiet for a moment. The kind that felt... weirdly natural. Like muscle memory.

Stella sipped her beer, trying not to think about the way his knee brushed hers lightly when he shifted. Trying not to notice how his hands looked against the bottle—strong, restless, like they didn't know how to stay still.

"You been okay?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah. Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. You just seemed... off lately."

Her heart jumped, but she forced a small smile. "You mean because I didn't text you for a few hours?"

He looked at her, a hint of something serious beneath his smirk. "You usually do."

"Guess I got busy."

"With Sarah," he said, like it was something he needed to remind himself.

"Yeah. With Sarah."

He nodded slowly, glancing down at his bottle. The air felt thicker now—quiet, but not comfortable like before.

She took another sip, eyes flicking to the flickering TV light from the next room. She didn't know why she suddenly felt the urge to say something honest, but she swallowed it down. Now wasn't the time.

"You overthink everything," Rafe said softly after a moment.

She looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"You do. I can tell when you start doing it. You get that look."

She raised a brow. "What look?"

"That one." He nodded toward her face, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "The one where you pretend you're fine but you're, like, ten miles away in your head."

Her stomach twisted. "You think you know me that well?"

"I know enough," he said, voice quiet.

She looked away, trying not to let the warmth of his gaze undo her.

He set his beer down, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "You know, you could've just told me if I did something wrong."

Her heart skipped. For a second, she thought he did know—that somehow Sarah had told him, or someone else had. But his expression was too calm, too oblivious.

She forced out a soft laugh. "You didn't do anything wrong, Rafe."

He studied her, like he didn't believe her—but didn't want to push.

"Good," he said finally, leaning back again.

She smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Wouldn't want you losing sleep."

He grinned. "I lose sleep over plenty. You're not on that list."

That stung a little, even though she told herself it shouldn't.

"Good," she said quietly, finishing her beer and setting it beside his.

He watched her for a moment longer before sliding off the stool. "You're different tonight."

She shrugged, hopping off the counter to gather the bottles. "Maybe I'm just tired."

"Maybe," he said.

She walked them to the trash, back turned to him. Her reflection caught faintly in the window above the sink—tired eyes, soft lighting, a girl pretending she didn't care.

When she turned back around, Rafe was watching her again, hands in his pockets, that unreadable look in his eyes.

"I'm glad you're okay," he said quietly.

"I told you I was."

He nodded, taking a slow step back toward the door. "Yeah. Guess I just needed to see for myself."

"Classic Rafe move," she said with a faint smile.

He grinned, though it was softer now. "Yeah. I'll text you tomorrow."

She nodded. "Goodnight."

"Night, Stell."

But Rafe didn't move toward the door at all after saying this.

He stood there for a few seconds, watching her fidget with the towel in her hands, the TV light flickering over her face. Then he spoke, voice low but certain.

"You eaten?"

Stella blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"It's late," he said, nodding toward the clock on the microwave. "You eat dinner?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "I had something earlier."

He didn't buy it. "What, like a granola bar?"

She let out a small sigh. "Rafe—"

He was already pulling his phone out of his pocket. "You like that Thai place, right? The one by the bridge?"

"Rafe, seriously, it's fine—"

He looked up at her, eyebrows raised. "You're not stopping me."

She exhaled through her nose, watching as he scrolled through his contacts, thumb already moving. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Yup," he said easily, pressing call.

He stepped out onto the porch while he ordered, his voice low and casual through the screen door. Stella leaned against the counter, shaking her head. There was no point in arguing when he got like this—decided, stubborn, and weirdly sweet about it.

When he came back inside, he was grinning slightly. "They'll be here in thirty."

"You actually ordered it?"

"Pad Thai for you," he said, hopping back onto the stool. "And I got spring rolls because you always steal mine."

Stella looked at him, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "You're ridiculous."

"Hungry, too," he said with a shrug. "You can thank me later."

She rolled her eyes but felt that little warmth in her chest anyway. He had this way of making it impossible to stay cold toward him, even when she wanted to.

"Come on," he said after a beat, nodding toward the living room. "Let's not just stand here. We'll wait."

She hesitated for half a second before giving in. "Fine."

They moved into the living room, The Office still playing on the TV. The glow from the screen was the only light now, casting faint blue and gold across the room. Stella tucked herself onto one end of the couch, legs folded beneath her, while Rafe dropped down beside her—close enough that their shoulders brushed.

"Comfort show, huh?" he said, glancing at the screen.

She smirked. "Told you."

He leaned back, stretching his arm casually along the back of the couch. It was a small gesture, one she'd seen him do a hundred times—but tonight, she felt every inch of the space between them shrink.

They sat in quiet for a while, watching Michael Scott make another fool of himself. It should've been funny, but all Stella could think about was how aware she was of him sitting there. The faint smell of his cologne. The soft sound of his breathing. The warmth radiating off him.

"See," he said eventually, nodding at the TV. "He's loyal. Dumb as hell, but loyal."

Stella smiled faintly. "You'd like that."

"Yeah? You think I'm loyal?"

She gave him a side glance. "I think you want to be."

He chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in it. "That's fair."

The silence stretched again. He shifted slightly, his arm brushing her shoulders, then—like it was nothing—he let it settle there.

It wasn't exactly cuddling, not yet. But it was close enough.

She didn't move away. She didn't want to.

The episode ended, and the next one started automatically. They didn't talk much, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Every so often, she'd take a sip of her beer or lean just slightly into him, and he'd tighten his arm, almost protectively.

When she finally spoke, it was quiet—so quiet it almost got lost under the sound of the TV.

"So..." she began, her voice casual. "You were at the country club this week?"

Rafe froze for just half a second. It was subtle—most people wouldn't notice. But Stella did. She always noticed with him.

He blinked, turning his head slightly toward her. "Uh, yeah. My dad had some dinner thing. Why?"

She shrugged, eyes still on the TV. "Just heard you were there."

He leaned back, a small smirk forming like he was trying to play it cool. "Damn. Word travels fast, huh?"

She shrugs, playing it off. "I guess. Sarah mentioned you've been golfing again too."

Rafe chuckles, the sound low but a little forced. "Yeah, well, nothing else to do around here, right?"

"Guess not." She keeps her eyes on the TV, but her pulse quickens.

He looked at her for a moment longer, but she didn't meet his eyes.

The air had changed—just enough to make it noticeable.

Rafe scratched the back of his neck, trying to seem relaxed. "Yeah, no. I was just there for a bit. Saw some people. Nothing special."

"Right," Stella said softly.

"Why?" he asked, his tone a little more cautious now. "What'd you hear?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, shaking her head. "Just... Sarah mentioned it."

He nodded, a flicker of tension easing from his shoulders. "Yeah, well. That's probably all there is to say about that."

"Probably," she echoed.

They fell quiet again, the TV filling the space between them.

Stella's chest ached—not because she wanted to confront him, but because she couldn't. She didn't want to scare him off. Didn't want to ruin this strange, fragile version of them that existed when things were easy.

After a moment, Rafe shifted closer. His hand brushed against her arm, warm and steady, then rested there lightly. "You good?"

She looked at him, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

He studied her face for a second longer, then nodded. "You've been doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"Pretending you're fine."

Her lips parted, but she didn't have an answer for that.

Before she could say anything, there was a knock at the door.

"Food," he said quickly, jumping up like he'd been waiting for a reason to move.

He paid the delivery guy, thanked him, and came back in with the bag. The smell of warm noodles and fried spring rolls filled the room, instantly making her stomach grumble.

He set the food on the coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the floor and handing her a box. "Told you you'd thank me later."

She shook her head but smiled. "You're such a pain."

"But you're eating," he said, grinning.

She laughed quietly, taking the chopsticks he handed her. "Yeah, yeah."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the TV still playing. Rafe made a few comments between bites—about how he didn't get how she liked tofu, about how this sauce was "fire"—and Stella found herself smiling more than she meant to.

It was almost easy to forget the conversation from earlier. Almost.

When they finished, Rafe leaned back against the couch again, sipping what was left of his beer. "You know," he said lazily, "you should answer your phone more. Save me the trip."

She raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you didn't want to come."

He gave her that look—the one that made her pulse stutter. "Didn't say that."

Their eyes held for a moment, the space between them charged but quiet.

He reached out then, his fingers brushing her wrist before curling gently around it. "You always look like you're waiting for something bad to happen," he murmured. "You ever notice that?"

Her breath caught. "Maybe I am."

"You don't have to," he said softly.

It was a simple thing to say, but the way he said it—the sincerity underneath—made her chest tighten.

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to think that maybe, for once, he meant it.

"Rafe," she whispered, unsure what she even meant to say.

He didn't answer. He just shifted closer, his arm sliding around her shoulders again, pulling her gently against him.

The tension didn't disappear—it never did—but for a while, it dulled.

They sat like that, half-watching the TV, half-listening to the quiet. His hand rested against her arm, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against her skin. Every time she looked up, his gaze was somewhere far away—like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Eventually, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He didn't move.

"You're gonna fall asleep," he murmured after a while.

"I'm not."

"You always say that."

She smiled faintly. "And?"

He chuckled softly. "And then you do."

Her eyelids felt heavy, the mix of warmth and exhaustion finally catching up to her.

"Rafe," she repeated quietly, eyes still closed.

"Hmm?"

"Who was she?"

He stiffened, just barely.

Her voice stayed calm. "The girl at the club."

He didn't answer right away. The pause stretched long enough that she opened her eyes.

He was staring straight ahead, jaw tight. "Just someone I knew. It wasn't what it looked like."

She watched him carefully. "I didn't say what it looked like."

Rafe lets out a small laugh — the kind that isn't really a laugh at all. "You didn't say it," he repeats, his jaw flexing as he looks over at her. "But you meant it."

Stella blinks, her expression calm even though her pulse picks up. "I didn't mean anything," she says, keeping her voice soft, even.

"Yeah, right," he mutters, leaning back into the couch. "You and Sarah probably had a good laugh about it, huh?"

Her brow furrows. "What are you talking about?"

He turns to her then, his eyes sharp and defensive. "You think I don't know how you look at me when people say my name? Like I'm some kind of mess you're trying not to admit you care about."

"Rafe," she says quietly, but he cuts her off with a small shake of his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I didn't do anything wrong," he says. "I went golfing with friends, that's all."

"I didn't say you did," she replies, and for the first time her calm slips — just slightly.

He laughs again, but it's hollow this time. "You don't have to. You say enough with the way you look at me."

She exhales, staring down at her hands. The beer bottle sweats in her palm. "You're reading into something that's not there," she says quietly.

"Am I?" he asks, voice low now, leaning in closer. "Because it feels like you've been mad all night but don't wanna admit it."

Her eyes flick toward him — steady, unflinching. "I'm not mad, Rafe. I just..." she pauses, swallowing. "Remind myself you're not mine. That's all."

That hits him — she can tell by the way he freezes, his confidence faltering for just a heartbeat. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he's trying to shake her words off.

"I never said I was," he mutters.

"No," she says softly. "You didn't have to."

He goes quiet. The sound of The Office fills the air again — Jim saying something sarcastic to Dwight — but it feels distant. Rafe's gaze stays fixed on her, sharp and restless.

Finally, he speaks again, voice lower this time. "You know what your problem is?"

She looks at him. "What?"

"You keep expecting me to be that guy. The one who does all the right things. Says the right things." His lips curl faintly, but there's no humor behind it. "But I'm not him, Stella. I'm not the boyfriend kind of guy."

Something in her chest tightens, but she doesn't flinch. "Yeah," she says softly. "I figured that out."

He watches her for a long second, almost like he's daring her to push back. "Then why do you keep letting me come around?" he asks.

She shrugs, eyes lowering. "Because I like you," she admits. "Even when I shouldn't."

That makes him still again — eyes softening, tension flickering.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice quieter when he says, "I didn't ask you to."

"I know," she says, her tone calm but her words sharp. "And I didn't ask for this, either."

The silence stretches — the kind that hums between two people who both mean more to each other than they'll admit.

Finally, she looks over at him again, her voice steady. "But for what it's worth... I'm not a hookup kind of girl."

That makes him look at her — really look at her. His chest rises and falls once before he says, barely above a whisper, "I never thought you were."

She holds his gaze, trying to read him, but his expression shifts too fast — like he's building his walls back up. He takes another sip of his beer, leaning back into the couch.

"Then what are we doing?" she asks after a moment.

Rafe hesitates, his jaw working as he tries to form an answer. But when he finally speaks, it's quiet, almost defeated.

"I don't know," he says. "But I'm here, aren't I?"

She stares at him, the weight of his words sitting heavy between them. She doesn't respond — just nods slowly and looks back toward the TV.

He shifts closer after a beat, his arm brushing against hers. Neither of them moves away.

The Office plays on, laughter filling the space again, but neither of them hears it this time. It's just the two of them — sitting too close, saying too little, both pretending they don't already know how deep they're in.