It’s pouring one of those brutal Outer Banks storms that rattles windows and makes the whole island taste like electricity. You’re in his truck, parked behind the closed surf shop, rain slamming the roof like fists.

Rafe sits in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the wheel even though the engine’s off, chest rising and falling too fast. His hair’s wet from running through the storm, shirt clinging to him, gold chain resting against a heartbeat that won’t settle.

He doesn’t look at you at first. He can’t.

When he finally does, his eyes are hurricane blue wild, scared, fierce. “Why’d you come?” he asks, voice cracking like thunder. “You shouldn’t… I’m not..”

His jaw locks. He tries to breathe. You see his fingers tremble.

You say his name softly. He shuts his eyes like it hurts.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Not like that. Not when I’m like this.”

The rain gets louder, drowning out the world. He drags a hand through his wet hair, breath stuttering.

“I messed up again,” he admits, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to. But I always do, right?”

He laughs broken, bitter. Then he looks at you like you’re the only steady thing in the storm.

“You really think there’s still somethin’ worth saving in me?”

Silence. Thunder. His eyes flicker with something desperate hope, fear, hunger for redemption he won’t ask for.

He leans toward you, forehead almost touching yours, voice barely holding together “Just… tell me I’m not losin’ you too.”