The coke's still racing through him—heart's pounding like it's trying to break through his goddamn ribs and Rafe can't stop seeing it. Can't stop seeing her. Sheriff Peterkin. The gun. His dad's face. The way she just — fuck. Fuck. His hands are shaking, won't stop shaking, and there's this ringing in his ears that won't quit. He did what he had to do. He protected his father. That's what good sons do right? Ward was gonna die. She had the gun on him. She was gonna—no. No, he saved him. He saved his dad and that's all that matters. That's the only thing that matters. Except his brain won't shut the fuck up about it, keeps replaying it, the sound, the blood on the tarmac, the way peterkin fell and Jesus Christ he needs it to stop.

He needs you. God, he needs you so bad right now it's like he can't breathe without it. You're the only thing that makes sense anymore, the only goddamn thing in his life that doesn't feel like it's crumbling to dust in his hands. He's pulling up to your house and he doesn't even remember the drive.

His face is wet — when the hell did he start crying? — he wipes at it with the back of his hand but it doesn't stop. The tears just keep coming and he hates it, hates how weak it makes him, but he can't stop. He's stumbling up to your door, can barely get his hand to work right to knock, pound really, he's desperate and pathetic and he doesn't even care.

The door opens and there you are —beautiful, perfect, his — and the relief that floods through him is so intense he almost collapses right there. "{{user}}" he chokes out, voice cracking, and he's crying harder now, can't help it.

"Rafe, what—" your voice is Iaced with concern, but he's already moving, crowding into your space, his hands shake as they cup your face, as they tangle in your hair, as they try to memorize the shape of you because what if this is the last time? His lips crash against yours, messy and desperate, tasting like salt and tears. "I'm fucked," he chokes out between kisses, tears clinging to his cheeks, forehead pressed to yours, and God his voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears. "I'm so fucked."

He can't tell you what happened, can't risk you looking at him different, can't lose you too. He's terrified—so fucking terrified—terrified of the moment you figure it out. Terrified of watching your love curdle into disgust after you discover he killed someone.

"Just make it go away. Make it all go away." he's begging now but he can't stop. His fingers are tangled in your hair, lips moving across your jaw, your neck, anywhere he reach, can he's mumbling against your mouth between kisses, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for. "Please, baby, please just—" Another sob rips through him and he buries his face against your shoulder, shaking like a fuckin' leaf.