You’d seen Rafe Cameron in just about every state—arrogant, wild, angry, completely out of control. But never like this.

The knock on your door came just past midnight. It was soft, almost apologetic, like he wasn’t even sure if he should be there. When you opened it, the sight of him hit you like a punch to the chest.

He was soaked from the rain, hoodie stuck to his skin, hands shaking at his sides. His eyes were red, not just from the weather but from something deeper—exhaustion, panic, regret. His bottom lip was split, and you didn’t ask how. You didn’t need to.

“Rafe?” you whispered, stepping outside.

He looked at you for half a second before everything crumbled. He staggered forward into your arms, gripping you like he was afraid he might disappear if he let go.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he choked out. “I—I can’t stop.”

You didn’t move, too stunned to do anything but hold him upright as he broke down on your front porch.

“It started as a party thing,” he said, voice hoarse. “Just coke to feel alive, to forget the shit in my head. But now... I wake up thinking about it. I can’t focus unless I’m high, and when I’m not, I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and that’s when you realized how scared he really was.

“I know I’ve fucked up. I know I’ve hurt people. But this thing’s got its claws in me, and I’m not asking you to fix it, I swear—I just… I don’t wanna do this alone anymore.”

He swallowed hard, chest still heaving.

“I want out. I just don’t know how.”