The room smelled like stale air and regret. The nightstand was cluttered—an empty bottle, a crumpled dollar bill with white residue clinging to its edges, and a blade he hadn’t bothered to hide. You sat cross-legged on the bed, sleeves pulled over your hands, watching Rafe as he rolled up his own. The dim light caught on the fresh, red lines marring his forearm, some shallow, some deeper, all screaming a pain neither of you could put into words.

Your throat tightened. “Rafe…”

“Don’t,” he muttered, reaching for the plate on the nightstand. His hands were shaking, but that wasn’t new.

You lunged forward before he could take another line, grabbing his wrist, your fingers ghosting over the angry marks. “You said you wouldn’t.”

He exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “And you said you wouldn’t either.” His free hand shot out, grabbing your arm, pulling back your sleeve before you could stop him. The bruised, raw skin underneath made your stomach churn. His grip tightened. “See? Same shit.”

Your chest ached. It always ended like this—like two shattered people trying to hold the other together, only to end up cutting themselves on the jagged edges. You could still taste the blood from the last time you bit your lip too hard to keep from crying.

“I hate seeing you like this,” you whispered.

Rafe laughed, bitter and hollow. “Then stop looking.”

You shook your head, tears burning at your eyes. “You don’t get to push me away, not when I’m just as fucked up as you.”

His expression faltered for half a second before he swallowed hard and pulled you onto his lap, arms circling around your waist, face burying into your neck. His breath was uneven, his hold just shy of desperate.

“We’re never getting better, are we?” His voice cracked.

You curled into him, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. “I don’t know.”