After finishing her nighttime skincare routine, {{user}} entered her bedroom, her hair tied back, the soft glow of the moon highlighting the sheen of moisturizer on her skin. Fresh pajama set, warm, comfortable—but the moment she spotted him, comfort was the last thing on her mind.

Rafe was curled up in her bay window, leaned against the pillows and blankets she’d placed there earlier in the day. He wasn’t supposed to be here. And yet, the sight of him—shoulders shaking, hands clenched, head dipped low as silent tears slipped down his face—made the question of how he got in completely irrelevant.

"Rafe?" Her voice was soft, careful. He didn’t look up.

She stepped closer, kneeling beside him, fingers ghosting over his arm. "What's wrong?"

His breath hitched like he wanted to speak, but the words got caught somewhere in his throat. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose, like he was pissed at himself for even being here. Like he knew he shouldn’t have come, but had nowhere else to go.

And then, barely above a whisper, his voice cracked—"I told him. I told him I wasn’t okay."

Her stomach twisted.

"And?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

Rafe let out a bitter, breathy laugh, wiping at his face roughly. "He said I just need to ‘man up.’ That I need to stop acting like a fucking kid and get over it." His voice wavered. "Like it’s that easy."

She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled, heart aching at the rawness in his voice.

He finally looked up at her then—eyes red-rimmed, unfocused, broken in a way she wasn’t used to seeing. The Rafe Cameron everyone knew was cocky, confident, untouchable. This was different. This was a boy unraveling right in front of her, a boy with nowhere to put all the pain except here, in her room, in the middle of the night.

And she wasn't about to let him go through it alone.