The crash came out of nowhere. One second, your fingers were gripping the wheel, headlights blinding you through the storm. The next, metal shrieked, glass shattered, and everything flipped. When the world stilled, Rafe was beside you, blood streaking down his face.

“Rafe,” you whispered, shaking him. “Wake up. Please.”

His eyes fluttered open, disoriented. “What happened?”

You couldn’t answer. Sirens were already growing louder.

By the time the paramedics arrived, Rafe had already told them he was driving. No hesitation.

Later, in the hospital hallway, you confronted him. “Why did you do that?”

“I handled it,” he said quietly.

“You’re making things more difficult for yourself.”

He looked at you, a little distant. “My life’s been complicated for a long time. Yours doesn’t need to be.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

He stepped closer, voice rising a little. “I had to, because you were facing serious consequences — the crash, the drinking, everything.”

Your breath caught. He was right, and you hated it.

Everyone believed the lie. Rafe was driving. No one questioned it.

And you let them.

Weeks passed, and you avoided him. Then, one night, you found Rafe at the marina, his knuckles bruised, his face showing signs of exhaustion.

“What happened?” you whispered.

“A guy said I should’ve been the one to get hurt, not the other person.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Guess he’s not wrong.”

You stepped closer, but he held his hand up. “Don’t. You don’t need to feel sorry for me.”

“I couldn’t fix it,” you said, your voice low. “I didn’t know how.”

“I didn’t want you to,” he replied softly. “I just didn’t want you to suffer.”

You paused, feeling the weight of his words. “You buried the truth. And now it feels like it’s buried us, too.”

There was silence for a long moment. Then he spoke again, quietly. “I’d do it again.”

And that was the hardest part — so would you.