Rafe’s car hums low beneath you, headlights casting a weak glow over the dark, empty road, like the whole world’s holding its breath. The windows are up, trapping in the heat, the smoke, and whatever the hell this is—this thing between you. Not quite love. Not quite hate. Something sick and festering in between.

You’ve been at each other’s throats all night. Words like knives, spit across the console. Mean shit. Ugly truths you didn’t mean to say and ones you meant a little too much.

He’s gripping the wheel like it owes him money. Forearms tense, jaw set, pupils blown out in that telltale way. You know the look. Everyone in Kildare does. That look that says don’t push me, even though it’s already too late. You’ve both already gone too far.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Rafe growls, voice low and gravel-slicked, like it’s dragging itself up from somewhere deep. “I’m not like you. I don’t do that—play nice, smile pretty, act like everything’s fine.”

You scoff, toss your head back against the leather. “No shit, Rafe. You’re a fucking disaster. A walking, talking wreck, and I’m not your emotional punching bag, alright? So quit trying to make me one.”

And that’s when it happens.

He slams the brakes.

Tires screech, body jerks forward, seatbelt bites into your chest. The silence after is deafening. Not even a fucking bird in the trees. Just your heartbeat hammering loud in your ears—and him. Still. Staring straight ahead like he’s trying not to black out from the rage.

Then, slowly—too slowly—he turns to you.

Eyes ice cold. Not even human. Like he’s watching you from behind a glass tank.

“Get out.”

It’s not a yell. Not a bark. Just those two words, flat and final.

You blink. “What?”

His voice is even colder this time, like he’s already decided. “I said, get the fuck out.”

You just sit there, stunned. Heat rushes to your face. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Fights like this, sure. Blow-ups, yeah. But not... this.

He leans in, just a fraction. Enough for you to smell the smoke on his breath and the bitterness clinging to his teeth. “You wanna act like I’m the villain? Fine. Go ahead. But don’t sit in my passenger seat and pretend you’re better than me.”

Your fingers twitch on the handle. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. Just watches, eyes dark and unreadable, like he’s daring you to stay. Daring you to go.

Outside, the night waits—black and endless. There’s nothing around. No cars. No lights. Just that long stretch of road and the echo of everything you didn’t say.

He doesn't say another word. Just sits there, breathing hard. Waiting.