The house was quiet, but she felt him before she heard him.

The soft creak of the door. Wet footsteps on the floorboards. It was 2:13 a.m.—she knew because she always woke up when he came.

Rafe.

He stood in her bedroom doorway like a ghost. His white shirt clung to his skin, soaked from the storm outside, hair falling over his eyes. Something in him looked smaller than usual, like the night had taken something he couldn’t get back.

She sat up slowly. “Rafe?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her with eyes that didn’t burn with his usual chaos. They shimmered.

“Come here,” she said softly, patting the edge of the bed.

He walked toward her like he was sleepwalking, then dropped down, sitting beside her with a heaviness that didn’t belong to someone his age. When he finally looked at her, his bottom lip trembled.

And then—without a word—he cried.

It wasn’t loud. No sobs, no shaking shoulders. Just silent tears that slid down his face as he stared at the floor, jaw clenched like he was still trying to fight it. Like crying made him weak, and being here, with her, made it worse and better all at once.

She didn’t say anything. She just moved behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, pulling him into her. He let her. He leaned back against her like a boy who never learned how to ask for comfort.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he murmured, voice cracking.

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I broke something tonight,” he whispered.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder. “No, Rafe. You just finally let something break through.”

He turned then, twisting to face her. His hands cradled her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheeks like he was trying to memorize her softness. His eyes were bloodshot, but not hard. Not tonight.

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“But I do,” she whispered. “I want all of it. Even this. Especially this.”

Rafe leaned in slowly, pressing his forehead to hers. More tears fell, warm between them. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

“I always thought I was better alone,” he breathed.

“You’re not.”

“I know that now.”

She cupped his face, kissed his tear-streaked cheek, and held him like no one else ever had—without conditions, without fear. Just love. Quiet, like the song that played faintly from her speaker: I’m pretty when I cry.

But tonight, he was.

And she loved him even more for it.