You used to be his sweet little girl. The one who laughed too loud, who made everything feel lighter. The one who could pull him out of his darkest moments without even realizing it. But now, he can feel it—you’re slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

Rafe watches you from across the room, his hands shaking slightly. Maybe from withdrawal. Maybe from fear. Fear that he’s losing you. Fear that no matter how tight he holds on, you’re still going to fade away.

“You don’t look at me the same,” he mutters.

Your eyes flick up, hesitation flashing across your face. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t laugh as much.” His voice is quieter now. “You don’t let me hold you like before.”

You exhale sharply, crossing your arms. Because he’s right. You don’t.

Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s his father. Or maybe it’s the way he loves you—possessive, desperate, like he’s terrified you’ll leave but doesn’t know how to make you stay.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he pleads.

Silence.

His heart sinks.

“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, stepping closer, voice shaking.

You hesitate before your fingers brush against his—soft, hesitant, unsure. His fingers twitch before he grips yours, holding on like you’re the only thing keeping him together.

And maybe you are.