You had been curled up in bed, half-asleep when your phone vibrated. Rafe. The name alone sent something sharp through your chest.

“You up?” His voice was rough, quiet.

You sat up. “Where are you?”

A pause. Then— “Your place.”

You barely remembered moving. Just the rush of your heartbeat, fingers trembling as you unlocked the door.

Rafe stood in the dim hallway, shoulders tight, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled. When he met your gaze, it hit like a gut punch.

His eyes—red-rimmed. Hollow.

You had seen him reckless, ruthless, drunk off power and whiskey. But never like this.

Without a word, you stepped aside.

The door clicked shut. Neither of you moved. Then, a sharp breath, hands gripping his hair.

You swallowed. “Rafe—”

“I fucking hate him.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I swear to God, I—” He sucked in a shaky breath, pressing his fist against his mouth like it could keep everything in.

You had never seen him cry.

Your chest ached. Slowly, you reached for him.

And then, just like that, he folded into you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, his face burying itself in the crook of your neck as his body trembled against yours. You barely had time to react before you were holding him, hands threading through his hair, fingers pressing into his back like you could keep him together.

A broken breath. His grip tightened. “He’ll never fucking see me. Not how I want.”

You didn’t have to ask. You already knew.

His dad.

The expectations. The disappointment. The weight of never being enough. You held him tighter. “I see you, Rafe.”

He let out a shuddering breath, his grip tightening, like the words physically did something to him.

It had always been casual, easy, built on convenience rather than anything real. No expectations. No feelings. Just heat, tension, something to fill the void.

But this—this was different.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead pressing against yours, you knew something had shifted. Something irreversible.