Chapter 41 Last Summer Light
Chapter 41 Last Summer Light
POV: Valeria Cruz
The house is finally quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that feels empty.
The kind that feels earned.
Like the day wore itself out and left the rest of us alone.
The twins are asleep.
I know because I checked on them twice.
Maybe three times.
Mateo is sprawled across the bed like gravity has never once applied to him. Sofia is curled up on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, looking younger when she sleeps than she ever does during the day.
Safe.
That word still catches in my chest.
Safe.
Not borrowed.
Not temporary.
Real.
I close their door softly and turn into the hallway, only to find Rafe leaning against the wall across from it, arms folded, watching me like he already knew I’d check on them again.
“You do know they’re not going anywhere in the six minutes since you last looked, right?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes.
“You counted?”
He shrugs.
“I pay attention.”
That shouldn’t make my heart do what it does.
But it does.
It always does.
I walk toward him slowly, still barefoot, one of his old T-shirts hanging off me and brushing mid-thigh with every step. I didn’t mean to keep wearing his clothes this often. It just… happened.
Like a lot of things with him.
Easy.
Natural.
Dangerous in the quietest way.
“I just wanted to make sure they were okay,” I say.
He pushes off the wall.
“They are.”
“I know.”
He stops in front of me.
Close.
Not touching.
Just standing there like he always does when he knows I need space but doesn’t want me to feel alone in it.
“You okay?” he asks.
That question again.
Always the same.
Always him.
I should be used to it by now.
I’m not.
Because no one ever asked me that before and actually waited for the truth.
I look down the hall toward the darkened living room.
“I think so.”
His head tilts slightly.
“That sounds fake.”
I huff a laugh.
“It’s not fake.”
“It’s not convincing either.”
I look back up at him.
He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, hair still a little damp from his shower, shoulders relaxed in a way I only ever see at home. Not on the field. Not when people are watching. Just here.
Just with me.
“Today felt… big,” I admit.
“Yeah.”
“And weird.”
“Also yeah.”
“And good.”
That makes the corner of his mouth lift.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The real answer.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s right.
Today did feel good.
So good, actually, that some part of me keeps waiting for it to be followed by something bad. Something sharp. Something that reminds me I’m not allowed to keep things that feel this easy.
Maybe that’s what healing is.
Not suddenly feeling fine.
Just not knowing what to do with peace when it shows up.
“You want to go outside?” he asks.
I nod before I even think about it.
He leads the way through the quiet house and out the back door. The air is warm, but not heavy. The pool lights are still on, turning the water blue-white in the dark. The lounge chairs are where everyone left them earlier. A towel is still half hanging off one. One of Nico’s empty soda cans sits crooked on the patio table because of course it does.
The whole backyard looks like proof.
Proof that people were here.
Proof that joy happened.
Proof that we’re allowed to have it.
Rafe drops down onto one of the lounge chairs and stretches his legs out. I sit sideways on the one next to him, tucking my legs under me.
For a minute, neither of us says anything.
The quiet between us isn’t empty.
It never is.
“You know,” I say eventually, “a few months ago, if someone told me this would be my life, I would’ve laughed in their face.”
He turns his head to look at me.
“Only laughed?”
“I might’ve called them insane too.”
“That sounds more like you.”
I smile.
The soft kind this time.
Not the one I use when I’m deflecting.
The real kind.
I rest my chin against my knee and look out at the water.
“It’s weird,” I say.
“What is?”
“How much can change so fast.”
He’s quiet for a second.
“Yeah.”
I keep going before I lose the nerve.
“I spent so long just trying to get through one day at a time. Not think too far ahead. Not want too much. Not expect anything.” I swallow. “And now suddenly everyone’s talking about college and majors and move-in dates and legal paperwork and future plans like I’m supposed to know how to do all that.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
He never does when I’m being honest in that way that feels like my ribs are open.
“I’m happy,” I say. “I really am. I just…” I shake my head. “I don’t know how to be happy without waiting for something to go wrong.”
That one stays in the air.
Heavy.
True.
He looks at me for a long moment before speaking.
“I think that makes sense.”
I laugh under my breath.
“See? You do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make the ugly parts sound reasonable.”
That gets a small smile out of him.
“They are reasonable.”
“I hate that you’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“At making me talk.”
He leans back deeper into the chair.
“You were going to anyway.”
“Cocky.”
“Correct.”
I throw the end of the towel at him. He catches it with one hand without even looking.
Show-off.
The silence comes back, softer now.
I let myself breathe in it.
Then I ask the thing I’ve been trying not to ask.
“Are you scared?”
He doesn’t pretend not to know what I mean.
“About Coral Bay?”
“About us.”
That changes his face.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Enough for me to know it matters.
He looks out at the pool, then back at me.
“Yeah,” he says.
The honesty of it sits heavier than reassurance would have.
I blink.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Not because he said yes.
Because he didn’t lie.
He sits up a little, forearms resting on his knees now.
“I’m not scared of us ending,” he says. “I’m scared of not doing it right.”
That catches me off guard.
“What does that mean?”
He exhales once through his nose, thinking.
“It means I know what this is.” He glances at me. “And I know it’s not small.”
My heartbeat changes.
Slower and harder at the same time.
“It means you matter too much for me to screw this up by pretending distance won’t be weird or schedules won’t get hard or life won’t get busy.” He pauses. “I’m not scared because I think this is fragile. I’m scared because I know it’s real.”
I stare at him.
Just stare.
Because that—
that right there—
that is better than every perfect speech a boy could give a girl.
Not some ridiculous promise that nothing would ever be hard.
The truth.
That it would be hard.
And he would stay anyway.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I admit quietly.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
But I do.
I need to.
So I stand up from the chair and cross the small space between us. He watches me the whole way, eyes lifting with mine, not moving, not reaching first.
I stop in front of him.
Then I sit sideways in his lap like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Maybe it is now.
His hands settle automatically at my waist, firm and warm and steady.
And God.
I love that.
I love how natural he feels.
I love how safe he feels.
I loop my arms around his neck and look at him properly.
“You want the truth?” I ask.
He nods once.
“I’m terrified.”
The word surprises both of us a little.
Because I don’t usually say things like that out loud.
Not this clearly.
Not this plainly.
His thumbs move lightly against my waist.
“Of what?”
I swallow.
“Of wanting this as much as I do.”
He doesn’t look away.
Doesn’t joke.
Doesn’t soften it.
He just holds my gaze and lets me say it.
“Of loving what this feels like,” I continue. “Of getting used to you being there. Of the twins getting used to all of this. Of school starting and life changing and one day waking up and realizing…” I stop.
“Realizing what?”
“That it was only easy because we were close.”
He goes still.
Not angry.
Not distant.
Just focused.
Like every part of him locked onto that one fear.
Then he shakes his head.
“No.”
The word is immediate.
Certain.
I blink.
“No?”
“No.”
His hands tighten slightly at my waist, enough for me to feel the seriousness in him.
“It’s easy because it’s you.”
That should be illegal.
Actually illegal.
Because what am I supposed to do with that?
I stare at him for a second too long.
Then I kiss him.
Because I don’t have a better answer.
Because words suddenly feel too small again.
Because he keeps saying things that make my chest feel too full for language.
He catches the kiss instantly, one hand sliding up my back, the other staying at my waist as if he’s reminding himself not to move too fast.
That’s the thing with him.
Even now.
Even with everything between us not being small anymore.
He still treats me like I get to choose every second of it.
His mouth is warm and slow and sure, and I melt into it before I can stop myself. I feel him smile once, just barely, when I shift closer.
I break the kiss only enough to breathe.
His forehead rests against mine.
“See?” he murmurs.
“See what?”
“You do know what to say.”
I laugh softly.
Barely.
“You’re annoying.”
“You like me.”
“I do,” I whisper.
The words leave before I can polish them or hide them or soften them into something safer.
I do.
His gaze changes.
Deepens.
And for one second, I think he’s going to say it too.
Instead he just looks at me like he already has.
Like it’s in every decision he’s made since the day he noticed me.
Like it’s in the way he stayed.
The way he listens.
The way he never lets me carry everything alone anymore.
He kisses my forehead once.
Soft.
Almost reverent.
Then leans back enough to look at me clearly.
“One day at a time,” he says.
I smile.
“That’s your big advice?”
“That’s how we got here.”
I hate when he’s right.
Mostly because he usually is.
“One day at a time,” I repeat.
His hand moves up my back in a slow line that settles everything in me.
“One day at a time,” he agrees.
Inside, something thuds lightly in the house.
Probably Mateo falling out of bed.
Or Sofia kicking a wall in her sleep.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Rafe notices.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I just…”
He waits.
I look around at the quiet pool, the lights, the dark windows, the house behind us.
Our house for now.
Our life for now.
And somehow that makes the next words easier.
“I’m really happy.”
He smiles then.
Not big.
Not showy.
Just real.
“Good.”
I lean into him again, resting my head against his shoulder.
We stay like that for a long time.
Not talking.
Not rushing the night toward anything bigger.
Just holding it.
Just letting it be enough.
And for the first time in my life, enough doesn’t feel like settling.
It feels like peace.