Rafe never talked about his mother. Not really. But you could see it in the way he chased things—chaos, danger, and women who carried a certain kind of weight in their presence. Older. More grounded. The kind of women who reminded him of something he lost too soon.

And then there was you. Four years older, not much in the grand scheme of things, but to Rafe? It was enough to make you untouchable. Or at least, it should have been.

But Rafe never did what he was supposed to.

Now, you’re tangled in his sheets again, skin still burning from the heat of him. The room is quiet except for the distant sound of waves outside and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing beside you. His hand rests on your stomach, fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin, like he needs to remind himself you’re still here.

“You like women who remind you of her, don’t you?” you say, breaking the silence. It’s not the first time you’ve asked.

He stiffens, fingers stilling against your skin. He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s searching for something in your face, something he isn’t sure he’s allowed to find.

“You think I’m that predictable?” he mutters, but his voice lacks its usual bite.

“I think you’re lost.”

Silence stretches between you. Then, so quietly you almost don’t hear it—“Not when I’m with you.”

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you aren’t his mother. You aren’t here to fix what’s broken. But as Rafe’s fingers ghost over your wrist, as his breath hitches in the space between you, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t want you to be.

Maybe he just wants you.

But wanting isn’t enough. And you both know this won’t last.

So, when he pulls you back in, pressing his lips to your skin like he’s trying to keep you there, you let him. One more time. Because this is what you do—crash into each other, over and over, like neither of you knows how to stop.