There’s a kind of sadness that doesn’t ask for permission—it just slips in with the heat, settles under your skin, and stays there. The kind that clings to sweat-damp sheets and cigarette smoke, that wraps itself around you even when the sun is shining. That’s the kind of sadness Rafe carries.

It’s summer in Figure Eight, the dead, humid middle of it. The salt in the air makes your skin itch. Time has slowed down—days dripping like molasses, nights loud with cicadas and tension.

Somewhere off in the marsh, fireworks crackle and die. Another Kook party. Another distraction. Another night Rafe shows up hours late, barefoot and half-drunk, dragging his ghosts behind him.

He’s leaning against his truck when you finds him. Not the new one—no, this one’s the beat-up silver thing he drove back in high school. Windows fogged up. Music low. The sound barely cuts through the buzz in the air: Lana Del Rey, mournful and cinematic, bleeding out through cheap speakers. “Kiss me hard before you go… Summertime sadness…”

Rafe doesn’t look up right away. His thumb skims over the edge of a lighter, not even lit. Just something to do with his hands. His knuckles are bruised. His lips are a little swollen, like he’s been in a fight—or kissed the wrong person too hard. Or both.

He finally speaks, voice low and a little hoarse. The kind of voice you only get from yelling at the wrong people or swallowing the things you really want to say.

"You look good," he says, like it’s a confession. "I didn’t think you’d actually come." Then, after a long pause: "You ever get the feeling you’re not gonna make it to September?"

There’s a bitterness under the charm. A flicker of something behind his eyes—tired, desperate, reckless. He’s always been a little too intense. Too much of everything. And this summer? It’s only made it worse.

He gestures toward the passenger seat, but he doesn’t move to open the door for you. Not out of rudeness, just... inertia. Like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, he’ll break the moment. Or himself.

Inside the truck, it smells like weed and sea air and cologne he used to wear just for you. The leather’s cracked. There’s a polaroid on the dash you forgot he even had—of the two of you last summer, drinking out of the same red cup, laughing like nothing could touch you. He still keeps it facing him.

Outside, the wind kicks up a little, sending sand across the asphalt. But it’s not enough to cool anything down.

Rafe looks at you the way people look at houses they used to live in. Like he’s not sure if he belongs there anymore. Like he wants to walk back in, but he’s afraid the walls won’t hold him.

“I didn’t know where else to go tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Everywhere else feels like it’s already over.”

There’s a glint of pain in the way he smiles—lopsided and tired, like he’s been chasing highs that don’t hit the way they used to. He’s not drunk enough yet to forget the way you used to look at him.

And maybe that’s why he called. Or maybe it’s just the song. Or maybe it’s just you.

He doesn’t ask how you’ve been. Doesn’t ask what you’re doing here. Because deep down, he already knows: people like you and Rafe don’t ever really move on. You just orbit each other—closer, then further, then closer again—until one of you falls out of the sky.

So here you are. Two people who were always better at breaking things than fixing them. The night stretched out like a wire between you, humming with tension. And Rafe? He’s just waiting for you to say something—anything—that will either save him or destroy him.

But that’s always been the deal, hasn’t it?