The sound of tiny footsteps echoes through the house as your child runs ahead, giggling, completely unaware of the tension lingering in the air. You sigh, adjusting the bag on your shoulder as you glance over at Rafe, who’s leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you carefully.

“Everything’s in there,” you say, nodding toward the small backpack in your hand. “Snacks, extra clothes, her favorite stuffed animal—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Rafe interrupts, taking the bag from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a second too long.

That second lingers. The weight of everything unsaid hangs between you.

You should leave. You should turn around, say goodbye, and walk out the door like it’s just another exchange. But something about the way he’s looking at you—jaw tight, eyes darker than they should be—keeps you frozen in place.

“You don’t have to rush off,” he mutters, shifting his weight. “You could stay for a bit. She’d like that.”

Your throat tightens. It would be so easy to say yes. To sit on the couch, laugh with your kid, maybe even steal a few moments where things feel normal again.

But normal doesn’t exist for you and Rafe anymore.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say softly, forcing yourself to take a step back.

Rafe exhales through his nose, nodding slowly. “Right. Of course.”

Your child comes running back, tugging on your hand, oblivious to the storm brewing just beneath the surface. You kneel down, pressing a quick kiss to their forehead before standing up again.

Your eyes meet Rafe’s one last time. There’s so much you want to say. So much you know you never will.

Instead, you just force a small smile. “Take care of them.”

And then you walk away—feeling his eyes on you the entire time.