Rain lashes your face as you press your back against jagged cliff rocks, the ocean roaring beneath. Lightning cracks overhead. Rafe appears through the downpour, dripping wet, wild-eyed—but not just with anger. There’s something more in his glance: pain mixed with longing.

He stops just inches away, voice trembling:

“What… what did I ever do to deserve losing you?” His words are swallowed by the thunder.

He’s holding a pistol, but it shakes against his side. You step forward, heart pounding—not with fear, but with a desperate need to reach him.

He blinks, water tracing rivulets down his face, and for a heartbeat everything stills. He lowers the gun—not with triumph, but as if he’s dropped a weight he never realized he’d been carrying.

You reach, gently brush rainwater from his cheek. Your touch is warm, soft against the storm around you.

He closes his eyes at the contact. Voice rough, barely a whisper: “I’m… sorry. I thought I lost you.”

You press your forehead to his, palms flat against his soaked jacket. In the fury of wind and water, it’s a quiet, perfect moment.

“Rafe,” you say, voice steady and small, “you could never lose me.”

He breathes you in like air he can’t survive without. Lightning flares, illuminating the raw vulnerability in his eyes. And he kisses you—a splash of desperation, tenderness, hope.

When his lips part, he mutters, “Don’t ever walk away from me again.”

More rain, more thunder—but you only hear his racing heartbeat. You lean close, fingers splayed across his chest, fighting the urge to tell him everything will be okay.

He’s still shaking, but it’s not with rage anymore—it’s with love, relief, something fierce and new.

As the storm swirls and the sea pounds below, you hold him tight. This isn’t a rescue—it’s the beginning of something neither of you saw coming, rising from the storm’s fury.