Page 163 of Roulette Rodeo
But for someone like Rafe, who measures his worth in success and control and the ability to fix things? It must have been like swallowing broken glass every day for two years.
I hug him tighter, my hand coming up to stroke his wet hair. I don't say anything—no platitudes about how it wasn't his fault, no assurances that she did love him, no lies to make this easier. I just hold him and let him cry out two years of grief and guilt and the fresh wound of having his worst suspicions confirmed by someone who should have been his brother.
His tears soak through my sweater, mixing with the rainwater until I can't tell them apart. But I can feel the difference in the way his body slowly releases its tension, like a spring that's been wound too tight finally being allowed to uncoil.
When the sobs finally slow, then stop, I still don't let go immediately.
I wait for him to be ready, for that moment when he takes a deep breath that says he's coming back to himself. Only then do I pull back slightly, my hands coming up to wipe the remaining tears from his cheeks with gentle fingers.
His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way I've never seen them. The ice king's armor has melted completely, leaving just Rafe—hurt, human, and heartbreakingly real.
I don't comment on what just happened.
Don't make him talk about it or acknowledge it or explain.
I take his hand—his fingers are freezing—and guide him to one of the corner tables, the one furthest from the windows.
"Sit," I say gently, and he does, folding into the chair like his strings have been cut.
I help him out of his soaked jacket, the leather heavy with rain. It squelches when I hang it over a nearby chair, and I make a mental note to properly dry it before we leave.
"I'll be right back," I tell him, squeezing his shoulder before heading to the back room.
Mrs. Chen keeps supplies here for emergencies—her grandson Tommy sometimes stops by after school, and he's notorious for destroying clothes with his various adventures. I rifle through the storage closet, triumphant when I find what I need:a white t-shirt that looks about the right size, gray sweatpants with a drawstring waist, and miracle of miracles, a pack of unopened boxers.
Thank God Tommy's growth spurt has him almost matching Rafe's build. If it was Shiloh's broader frame, we'd be out of luck.
She was even more thnakful she’d even had the conversation with Mrs. Chen to know she had spare clothes.
I also grab a hair dryer from the bathroom and a comb from the lost-and-found box.
Perfect.
When I return, Rafe hasn't moved. He's staring at the table's surface like it holds answers to questions he's afraid to ask. I set the clothes down in front of him.
"You need to change before you catch hypothermia."
He frowns, looking around with confusion. "Where...?"
"Just change here," I say pragmatically. "I'll turn around if you want, but you need to get out of those wet clothes."
He stands slowly, mechanically, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. I should probably look away, give him privacy, but I don't. Not because I want to ogle—though the man is unfairly attractive even in his current state—but because I don't want him to think I'm ashamed of him, or uncomfortable, or any of the things his brain might conjure up.
I understand now that Rafe gets into his head a lot.
It's not his fault—between his need for control and perfection, and what must have been two years of everyone walking on eggshells around him, he's probably created entire narratives in his mind about what everyone thinks of him.
His shirt drops to the floor with a wet slap. His chest is leaner than Shiloh's, more runner than fighter, but still impressively defined. A few scars mark his skin—nothing like Shiloh's collection, but enough to show this man hasn't lived a soft life despite his expensive tastes.
He picks up the boxers, frowning at them with genuine confusion.
"Are they too big?" I ask, blushing slightly.
"Too small," he mutters, and I realize I've been caught staring at his hands holding the underwear, which makes my blush deepen.
"Well..." I stammer, looking anywhere but at him, "your junk can survive a tight squeeze during the car ride."
The smirk that crosses his face is the first hint of the normal Rafe I've seen since he walked in. He steps out of his soaked pants—and I definitely don't look, definitely don't notice the way his hip bones create those V-lines that disappear into his boxer briefs—and pulls on the dry clothes.
