“Please understand that I’m trying my hardest.”

His voice is low, almost a whisper, but the desperation behind it is deafening. You stare at him, at the mess of a man standing in front of you—the bloodshot eyes, the bruised knuckles, the weight of his demons pressing against his shoulders.

"Trying isn't enough, Rafe." Your voice shakes, but you hold your ground. "You say this every time. And every time, it gets worse."

He exhales sharply, pacing, running a hand through his hair like he's trying to stop himself from breaking apart.

"You don't get it," he mutters, jaw clenched. "I'm doing this for us. For you."

You almost laugh—almost. But there's nothing funny about this. The chaos, the fear, the nights spent wondering if he'd come back in one piece. If you'd come back in one piece.

"My head’s a mess, but I’m trying regardless."

That's what he wants you to believe. That he's a storm trying to calm itself, rather than one that's about to pull you under.

"I love you, Rafe," you admit, your voice barely audible. "But love isn’t supposed to feel like drowning."

His hands are on you in an instant—cupping your face, gripping your waist, pulling you close like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

"I need you." His breath is warm against your skin. "You're the only thing keeping me together."

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the feeling of him. The fire, the danger, the way his lips brush yours like a silent plea.

You want to believe him.

You want to believe that love can be enough.

But then he whispers, “Just stay. One more time.”

And you know this isn’t the end.

Not yet