Topper flew past the finish line, arms raised like he just conquered the world. The crowd erupted.

But you didn’t hear any of it.

Your eyes were locked on the crash halfway down the track—twisted bikes, clouds of dust, and Rafe pulling himself out from the wreckage like a bomb had just gone off. JJ was already on his feet, spitting gravel and curses. But Rafe was slower, blood on his temple, knuckles raw. And something in his eyes—something wild—froze you in place for a second.

Then you moved.

You sprinted across the track, ignoring the shouts, shoving through people until you dropped to your knees beside him.

“Rafe! Jesus—are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “I said I’m fine.” But his voice was sharp, distant. He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring past you, past everything, to where the Pogues were rushing to JJs side.

Rafe pushed off the ground, stumbling to his feet.

“Rafe, stop. Please,” you whispered, grabbing his wrist. But he yanked it from your grasp.

His voice exploded out of him.

“GET USED TO IT!” he screamed.

Heads turned. Silence fell. Even Topper’s victory felt like it evaporated.

JJ turned slowly, his face cut up and dirty and just as musty. And guilty. And angry, so fucking angry.

You grabbed Rafe’s arm. “Don’t do this. Don’t—”

Too late.

JJ was already marching toward him.

“Say that again,” JJ dared, fire in his eyes. “Come on, tough guy. Say it again.”

Rafe stepped forward. “You think I’m scared of you?” he seethed. “I should’ve left you in the fucking dirt.”

You jumped between them, shoving at Rafe’s chest. “Back off! Rafe, stop—please!”

He wasn’t hearing you. His face was red, teeth gritted, spit flying as he shouted over your shoulder. “You think this shit’s over? You think I’m done?! I’m just getting started!” The smile on his face scared you. shook you to your fucking core.

JJ lunged, and for a split second you weren’t fast enough. They collided—shoulders, fists, rage—until you got between them, shoving hard, screaming at both of them to stop.

“HE’S NOT WORTH IT!” you screamed in Rafe’s face, hands on his chest, eyes wide.

But Rafe’s stare didn’t meet yours. It was empty. Distant. Like he wasn’t even there anymore.

And then, quietly, through gritted teeth:

“you’re lucky I let you walk away last. Next time I won’t.”

Your blood ran cold.

“What did you just say?” you breathed.

He blinked like he was waking up, then backed away, brushing past you. “You heard me.”

You watched him walk—no, stalk—toward the edge of the track, shoving past people who moved out of his way like they could feel the rage rolling off of him.

You followed.

—

You found him alone in the back lot behind the trailers, pacing, punching the side of a metal bin until blood dripped from his knuckles.

“Rafe,” you said, voice shaking. “What the hell is going on with you?”

He turned, eyes glassy. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Try me.”

“You don’t get it,” he shouted. “You’re still thinking I’m the guy you grew up with. The one who’d walk you home and tell you everything was gonna be okay. I’m not that guy anymore.”

“I know you’re not,” you said, swallowing hard. “But I still see him. Somewhere under all this.”

He laughed—harsh and humorless. “Yeah? Well, you’re the only one who does. And that makes you either the dumbest person on this island… or the most dangerous.”

You took a step toward him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Rafe’s face went still.

For a moment, the mask slipped. The rage cracked, and behind it was something worse: grief. Guilt. Something heavy enough to drown in.

Then it was gone.

“If I told you,” he said, voice low and trembling, “you’d never look at me the same again.”

“I’m already scared of you,” you whispered. “I’m terrified.”

He stared at you, breathing hard. Then he reached for your face—his bloody fingers hovering like he wanted to touch you but didn’t know if he deserved to.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said.

“You’re losing yourself, Rafe.”

And neither of you said anything after that. Because you both knew it was already happening.