Page 95 of Mending Hearts
“You ready?” he asks.
No.
“Yes,” I say anyway.
He nods like he understands both answers.
Vinny drives. The man is an immovable force, an anchor with a security license and a stare that makes grown men forget how to speak.
Rafe stays quiet in the back seat beside me. He looks out the window, jaw set. My hands are damp. My heart won’t slow. Halfway there, I turn my palm upward between us, a silent question I’m not brave enough to speak.
Rafe’s gaze flicks down and softens. He threads his fingers through mine immediately. It’s such a simple thing, so ordinary. It hits me so hard I almost can’t breathe.
There’s no hesitation. No careful glance around. No calculation. Just yes.
Vinny clears his throat in the front, a sound that’s probably meant to be neutral and lands like approval anyway.
The street is quiet. A clean suburb, small estate feel—neat lawns, identical mailboxes, houses set back with the kind of privacy you can’t buy in LA no matter how much money you throw at it.
When Vinny pulls into the driveway, I force my lungs to work. Rafe doesn’t let go of my hand.
This house is not the house I visited years ago. Back then, it was smaller. A place that smelled like home and food and worncomfort. It sat like it had always been there. It made me feel like an intruder even while his mother smiled like she already knew my name.
This place is newer. Modern and bigger. It’s not ostentatious. It’s still modest in the way that matters—lived-in, practical, chosen for safety and peace, not for flexing.
Rafe squeezes my hand once. “Okay?” he murmurs.
I swallow. “Okay.”
Vinny gets out first, scanning automatically. There are no paps, no lurking people with phones or cameras. I relax my shoulders.
I step out beside Rafe, and the cold February air bites immediately—sharp, clean, bracing. My breath fogs. My palms are sweating anyway.
Rafe starts toward the front door like he owns the world and this is just another stop. He’s good at that. He’s built an entire career out of it.
The closer we get, the more my stomach twists. I glance at him, then back at the door, then look at our joined hands again like I’m making sure I’m still allowed to hold on. “Can I—” I start.
Rafe turns, brows lifting slightly.
I clear my throat. “Can we… keep holding hands?”
His expression changes so quickly it almost hurts. Something soft cracks through the tension, bright and quiet. “Yeah,” he says immediately. “Of course.”
He laces our fingers tighter, like he wants to be the one holdingmeup now.
We don’t knock. Rafe pushes the door open and calls out, voice loud and affectionate all at once. “Mamá, Papá—why is the door unlocked?”
There’s movement inside. A laugh. Rafe steps fully into the foyer, tugging me with him, and the house smells like warmth and something citrusy—clean and bright.
His voice continues, playful but scolding. “Seriously. You can’t keep doing that. I’ve told you?—”
“Rafael!” a voice calls from deeper inside, and then his mother appears in the kitchen doorway.
She’s smaller than I remember but somehow fills the space like light. Her hair is pulled back, cheeks flushed from cooking. She’s wearing a sweater and apron like it’s the most normal day in the world.
Her eyes land on our hands. She goes still for half a heartbeat. Then she smiles. I can’t see any caution in the act. It’s not forced. My chest squeezes. She just looks happy.
“My son,” she says warmly, in Spanish, and crosses the room fast. She cups Rafe’s face in both hands and kisses his forehead, talking to him in a quick stream of words I only half catch—mijoandlocoand something that sounds like she’s scolding him for worrying her.
