The day had been normal. Boring, even. You were halfway home, mind already drifting to dinner, maybe to Rafe, maybe to silence. Then—sirens. Blue flickers cut through the street ahead. You barely blinked. Just another night in this town.

But your heart sank the moment you turned the corner.

Your house. Your home. Drenched in blue light.

Cop cars lining the driveway. Officers scattered across the yard like chess pieces. Radios hissing. Lights flashing against your windows—windows he should’ve been watching from.

Your stomach dropped.

“What have you done, Rafe?”

You didn’t even shut off the engine before throwing your door open. You ran. Fast. Unthinking. But strong arms stopped you halfway.

“Ma’am, you can’t go any further!”

“Let me through! Rafe!”

Then— You saw him.

Dragged down the porch steps. Wrists cuffed tight. Shoulders slumped. And his hands—bloodied. Bruised knuckles. The kind of bruises that don’t happen by accident.

And then his eyes met yours.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say your name. He just looked.

And in that single look was everything: regret, apology, resignation. He wasn’t sorry he got caught. He was sorry you had to see him like this.

Whatever he did—he did it knowing this was the end.

And all you could do was stand there, shaking, screaming inside, caught between love and heartbreak.

You wanted to run to him. But all you could do was whisper, brokenly, “What have you done?”