tannyhill thrums with the chaotic energy of a kook party, the golden glow of string lights casting fractured reflections across the pool’s surface. the humid air is thick with the smell of salt, spilled liquor, and smoke. somewhere in the crowd, sarah has disappeared—probably with topper, leaving you to navigate this sea of restless, privileged chaos alone.

that’s when you see him. rafe.

he stumbles through the crowd, his movements clumsy and aimless, like he’s trying to outrun something invisible. his shoulders are tense, his jaw tight, but his steps waver. the drink in his hand sloshes dangerously close to the rim, and the way his glassy eyes struggle to focus tells you he’s deep into it. you can already smell the alcohol on him, like a strong odor, which tells you he’s been drinking for a while. it’s not unusual for rafe; you’ve known him long enough to know that this is how he forgets he is ward’s son.

sarah had told you earlier about the argument—how ward exploded when rafe spent the boat generator money on a motorbike. now it’s clear: this is his retaliation. or maybe his escape. maybe both.

he sways slightly as he reaches you, his gaze unfocused. “what’re you doin’ here?” he slurs, his voice thick, the words dragging together like they’re too heavy to hold up.