The moment you come home and Rafe isn’t there, you know exactly where he went.

Your eyes catch the note on the kitchen counter.

I’m out jogging with Topper!! See you later, love you baby.

Rafe’s barely readable handwriting makes you scoff as you shake your head. Jogging. Yeah, right. He’s probably with Topper—but running? Not a fucking chance.

He promised you. Swore he wouldn’t go back. And yet he does—over and over again—without even bothering to keep his word anymore.

Irritation boiling over, you snatch your car keys off the counter and storm back outside. The drive to Barry’s house is short.

And there it is—Topper’s car parked out front.

You slam your door so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t fall off and march toward the porch. You don’t even need to go inside.

All three of them are sitting there—Rafe, Topper, and Barry—like it’s just another lazy afternoon. Rolled-up dollar bills litter the table, along with multiple baggies filled with white powder. Some of it is already lined up neatly.

Your chest tightens.

You storm up the steps. “Having fun jogging?” you snap, glaring at Rafe, your voice sharp and rising.

He looks up slowly, pupils blown, expression lazy in that way you’ve learned to hate—because it tells you everything before he even speaks. He leans back in his chair, lips curling into a careless smirk.

“Relax, baby,” he drawls. “It’s not a big deal.”

Topper barely even looks at you. He bends down and finishes a line, sniffing sharply before wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

That’s it.

You step forward and swipe your arm across the table in one furious motion. Dollar bills fly. Baggies scatter. Perfect white lines smear and spill onto the porch floor.

Barry jumps to his feet instantly. “What the fuck?” he shouts. “Do you know how expensive that shit is? You pay for that, woman.”

Rafe stands too, a little unsteady, hands raised. “Chill, dude,” he says quickly. “I’ll get you the money.”

You turn on him, eyes blazing. “We’re going home.”

“Babe, come on—”

“No.” You cut him off. “We are going home. Now.”

For once, he doesn’t fight you. He follows you down the steps, quiet, obedient—like a well-trained fucking puppy.

The drive home is silent. You stare straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel, refusing to look at him. Rafe shifts beside you, clearly uncomfortable, opening his mouth a few times before thinking better of it.

When you finally get home, the tension snaps the moment the door closes.

“You fucking promised me,” you snap, spinning around to face him. “You promised me this time. You looked me in the eyes, Rafe. I trusted you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “I said I was sorry—”

“That doesn’t mean shit anymore,” you cut in. “You say sorry every time, and then you do it again.”

“You’re acting like I murdered someone,” he fires back. “It was just a little bit—”

“A little bit?” You laugh bitterly. “You were high on Barry’s porch with coke all over the table. Don’t minimize it.”

He scoffs. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

That one hurts.

“Oh, I’m dramatic?” Your eyes burn, but your voice stays sharp. “I’m dramatic because I don’t want you destroying yourself?”

“I didn’t ask you to be my babysitter,” he snaps.

The words hit like a slap.

“Well, someone has to be,” you shout. “Because you clearly can’t take care of yourself.”

“You don’t get to control me,” he yells, stepping closer.

“I’m not trying to control you!” you scream back. “I’m trying to keep you alive!”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You really think you’re some kind of hero here?”

Tears spill now, unstoppable. “I think I’m the idiot who keeps believing you. I think I’m the idiot who stays.”

He turns away, fists clenched, breathing heavy. “Maybe you’d be happier if I wasn’t around.”

Your chest tightens. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Why not?” he snaps. “Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

“You don’t get to twist this,” you say, voice breaking. “I love you. That’s the problem.”