The fight got heated up more than it ever should have. You shot words at Rafe that you didn’t really mean, words that scraped at old wounds and sparked something ugly in both of you. And he didn’t back down either—he fired right back, his voice rough and ragged, eyes blazing with something between anger and hurt.

It all felt so stupid now. The way he turned, jaw tight, grabbing his helmet with shaking hands. You remember the sound of his motorcycle tearing down the road, the way your chest tightened with every second he didn’t come back.

And then the call came. Your legs barely carried you to the hospital. Now you sit beside his bed, the beeping of the monitors the only proof he’s still here. His face looks softer in the pale light, bruises scattered across his skin like a cruel reminder of how fast it all went wrong.

Your hand wraps around his, knuckles white from holding too tight, as if you could keep him anchored here just by wanting it enough. Tears roll down your cheeks, hot and endless.

“You can’t leave me, Rafe,” you sob, your voice cracking with guilt and fear. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean it. Please… come back to me.”

The words fall into the quiet room, desperate and trembling. All you can do now is wait, hoping that somewhere inside, he can still hear you.