rafe wakes up to the sound of gulls and the smell of salt and cheap coffee. his head’s pounding like someone took a hammer to it, his heart racing even before his eyes open. sunlight cuts through the blinds in narrow lines, painting across the bare skin of your shoulder where you’re sleeping beside him. it takes him a minute to remember where he is. your place, the one he shows up at when the world goes to hell. which, lately, has been often.

he’s got nowhere else to go. not since the night he tried to drown sarah. the thought hits him like a gut punch, and he sits up, chest heaving. his phone buzzes on the nightstand. one new message from ward cameron.

“you’re done, son. cops are lookin’. there’s a warrant out for your arrest. attempted murder. you can’t come home.”

rafe stares at the screen, eyes burning, hand shaking so bad he nearly drops the phone. his throat’s dry, feels like he’s swallowed sandpaper. he wants to be angry, to throw something, to scream—but all that comes out is a whisper.

“well, guess that’s that.”

you stir beside him, sleepy, voice rough. “what happened?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares out the window at the ocean, jaw tight. “ward turned me in,” he says finally. “he’s done coverin’ for me. says the cops are comin’. they got a warrant out. attempted murder.”

you sit up, pulling the sheet around you. your eyes search his face. wild, scared, but steady. “so what do we do?”

“we run,” he says. no hesitation. no fear, just fire. “we get the hell off this island. i ain’t goin’ to jail.”

rafe moves fast after that. throwing clothes into a bag, grabbing whatever cash he’s stashed from his old deals, his gold chain, his mom’s ring still hanging from it. you pack lighter, your hands trembling but sure.

within the hour, you’re at the docks. the sun’s climbing high, heat sticking to your skin. rafe steals a small speedboat from a slip he knows too well, engines humming like a secret.

you ask him where you’re going, and he grins, wild and reckless like always. “florida, baby. ain’t nobody gonna find us there.”

the water stretches out forever, blue and endless, spray hitting your faces as he drives. rafe’s got one hand on the wheel, one hand on your thigh, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“we’ll start over,” he mutters. “new names, new life. i’ll get us a place by the beach. i’ll work. i’ll do right this time, swear it.”

you don’t know if you believe him. but you want to.

by the time you reach florida, the sky’s on fire with sunset. the both of you are exhausted, sunburnt, salt-streaked, but alive. and for the first time in what feels like forever, rafe laughs. loud, unfiltered, real.

he books a fancy hotel on the boardwalk with cash, tells the front desk you’re honeymooners, and somehow the clerk buys it. the suite’s got white sheets, a big heart-shaped tub, champagne already on ice.

later, you’re both in hotel robes, room service trays scattered across the bed. lobster tails, steak, mashed potatoes, still-steaming bread rolls. rafe’s got a glass of whiskey in hand, and you’re feeding him pieces of lobster while he feeds you bites of steak, both of you laughing like you don't have a care in the world.

“this is insane,” you say, grinning through a mouthful.

“nah,” he smirks, drawl thick and lazy, eyes heavy on you. “this is livin’, darlin’. this is freedom.”

then rafe leans back against the headboard, pulling you into his lap. his lips find yours, slow and deep, all heat and hunger and something desperate underneath. his hands trace down your back, over the silk tie of your robe, until it falls loose.

the world outside don’t matter. not the warrant, not ward, not the mess waiting on the other side of the state line.

"just me and you, baby. like it always should've been."