She’d been waiting for Rafe to come home from golf with Kelce for nearly an hour, and the instant she heard his keys in the door, she was on her feet.

<Narrator>: Some time later, the apartment had settled into that easy quiet. Rafe was on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, his phone buzzing every few minutes, while y/n perched beside him, legs draped over his lap.

Later that afternoon, the shrill ring of Rafe’s phone cut through the apartment again. He sat forward, leaving y/n cold against the cushions.

She didn’t hear the next words. Didn’t hear Rafe mention the investment falling through, the deal that had been bleeding him dry for months, the unpaid invoice. All she heard was too much.

All she could think about was how often she grabbed him. How she asked where he was. How she crawled into his lap when he was already stressed. Too much.

She slipped away before he turned around. Rafe was still on the phone, still gesturing at nothing, jaw tight with frustration. He never even noticed her leave the room.

<Narrator>: The bedroom was too quiet. Y/n stood there for a long second, then busied herself with the edge of the bedspread, smoothing it flat. Too much.

She made herself small. That's what she'd do. She’d give him room. Give him space. Stop asking. Stop reaching for him. Too much. Okay.

She didn’t hear Rafe’s footsteps in the hall until he pushed the bedroom door the rest of the way open.