The motorcycle skidded to a stop near the private plane, engine rumbling low.

Rafe barely let it fully shut off before helping you off. His hands stayed on your waist a second longer than necessary.

“You’ll call me,” he muttered.

You gave him a small smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t believe that.

Sirens echoed faintly in the distance.

You squeezed his hand once, then turned and ran toward the plane. The door was already open. You climbed inside without looking back — because if you did, you weren’t sure you’d be able to leave.

Rafe watched until you disappeared into the cabin.

He exhaled sharply.

Then he walked toward the steps.

Sarah Cameron was near the entrance.

“Sarah,” he said firmly.

She paused.

“Take care of Y/N for me. Please.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was serious. Almost desperate.

Sarah hesitated — surprised — then gave a small nod before stepping fully inside the plane.

Rafe stepped back, jaw tight.

Then he saw Pope Heyward climbing in last.

“Hey!” Rafe called.

Pope turned around.

Rafe’s expression hardened instantly. “If something happens to her… I swear.”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Pope held his gaze, understanding the threat and the fear behind it. “She’ll be okay.”

The plane door started to close.

That was Rafe’s sign.

He turned and walked back toward his motorcycle. He couldn’t stay. He was a fugitive. If the cops caught him here, it would ruin everything.

He put his helmet on—

“Rafe, wait!”

His head snapped up.

The plane door was open again.

And there you were.

Wind whipped your hair around your face as you stood at the opening.

“Y/N, what are you doing? The cops are coming—”

You ran down the small steps toward him.

“Rafe, please.”

He rushed to meet you halfway.

Your hands grabbed his jacket.

“I love you.”

The words hit him hard.

His hands slid to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered softly. “I love you too.”

You kissed him — quick but full of everything neither of you could say.

Someone inside the plane shouted that they had to go.

You pulled away reluctantly.

“Be safe,” you whispered.

“You too,” he replied.

You ran back up into the plane. The door shut.

The engines roared.

Rafe stood there, watching as the plane carrying you — and your brother John B Routledge — lifted into the night sky.

Only when it disappeared did he turn back to his bike.

The sirens were closer now.

He started the engine and sped off into the darkness.