rafe cameron hasn’t ever been the type to admit when he’s struggling. not to ward, not to wheezie, not to topper and kelce. sure as hell not to himself. but it’s been weeks since the last line, and his hands won’t quit shaking. every nerve in his body feels like it’s wired wrong, like he’s burning up from the inside out. he hasn’t slept right in days, can’t eat, can’t think straight.

and yet somehow, you’re still there. you. some pogue waitress from pelican yacht club with the softest damn voice he’s ever heard. you shouldn’t mean a thing’ to him. not with the way he was raised, not with the names people like you and him were supposed to call each other. but the first time he saw you, it was like the noise in his head quieted for a minute. you were carrying a tray of drinks, smiling at some old couple, and he swears time slowed down.

“hey, country club,” you’d teased that first day, when he muttered something smart about pogues not belonging near the docks. your grin had been easy, patient, the kind that got under his skin. “you gonna tip or just stare?”

he laughed, really laughed, for the first time in a long while.

now he’s sitting on the edge of his bed in tannyhill, palms pressed to his eyes, breath coming in short bursts. the shakes come harder at night. his body’s begging for what his mind’s trying to fight off. coke’s always been his escape, his release, his way to not feel the weight of being rafe cameron. but he promised you.

you’re in the kitchen downstairs, humming some song while making tea. said it helps calm him down. he doesn’t understand how someone like you could ever look at him the way you do. you know every bad thing he’s done, every ugly part of him, and somehow you stay.

“rafe,” your voice carries softly down the hall, and he swears he can breathe again.

he drags himself up, shoulders heavy, and walks out. you’re standing barefoot by the counter in one of his old t-shirts, hair messy, eyes full of concern but not pity. never pity.

“you okay?” you ask, hand reaching out for him.

he shakes his head, jaw clenching. “nah, darlin’. i ain’t okay.” his voice cracks on the last word, and that’s all it takes. you step closer, wrap your arms around his waist, and he folds into you like he’s falling.

he don’t cry often. but tonight, he does. quiet at first, then harder, body shaking against yours as weeks of holding it together start to fall apart.

“shh,” you whisper, rubbing slow circles on his back. “you’re doing so good, rafe. you’re fighting it.” “don’t feel like it,” he mutters into your hair. “feels like i’m losin’ my damn mind.”

you tilt his face up, thumb wiping the tears from under his eyes. “you’re getting better. you’re not that guy anymore. you’re trying—that’s what matters.”

he stares at you for a long moment, somethin’ raw in his chest. he’s been to narcotics anonymous meetings, sitting in circles with strangers who talk about pain in ways that make him feel less alone. he’s started therapy, going through the motions even when it feels stupid. he’s showing up at cameron development again, learning the ropes like he should’ve years ago. it’s you who keeps him going.

he starts breathing slower, calmer. his forehead rests against yours, and he whispers, “i don’t deserve you, y’know that?”