Rafe was sitting on the porch, slouched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced tightly like he was holding himself together by force. His eyes were fixed on nothing—just the dark stretch of the yard, dimly lit by the porch light and the sliver of moon hanging low in the sky. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, like he’d been sitting there a while.

It was 3 a.m. and he looked wrecked.

No phone. No drink in his hand. No distractions. Just him and the silence. He wasn’t crying, but he didn’t look far from it either. His expression was blank, but in the way that screams louder than any breakdown. The kind of stillness that only comes when you’ve run out of ways to cope.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft on the wood behind him. Familiar.

You.

Rafe’s head turned slightly at the sound, but he didn’t say anything. His gaze flicked to you for the briefest second—eyes bloodshot and tired—before he turned back to the yard like it had something more important to offer. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking just under the skin. He didn’t want to look at you. Or maybe he did. But he couldn’t.