Rafe had been pacing the halls of Tannyhill ever since he got back from the airstrip. His usually neat, slicked hair was messy from all the times he'd ran his hand through it, muttering quietly to himself.

He was just helping his dad.

His hands had been washed a dozen times, yet everytime he looks down at them, all he can see is the gun. The blood. Sheriff Peterkin's body, quivering on the ground. He had shot her. But it was all to protect his dad. She was going to shoot him.

Right?

No amount of drugs or alcohol would make his head quiet, so, against his father's advice, Rafe grabbed the car keys, storming out of the house into the cold evening.

His hands restlessly tapped against the steering wheel, foot pressing on the gas pedal, going atleast 20 over the speed limit. The ring on his finger glinted in the moonlight, making his lips purse.

"Just helping my dad." He murmured, one fist slamming on the top of the steering wheel, "She...she woulda shot him, she would've. I had to protect him. I saved him. Me."

Sloppily parking into your driveway, Rafe stumbled out of the car, hand running through his hair over and over again, fist coming down on your front door, more times than necessary. He was just lucky your parents weren't home.

When you opened the door, he crumbled. Watching your half-asleep gaze look at him, he shook his head, stepping inside.

"I fucked up. Really bad, baby. Like, fully, fucked for life." He ranted, pacing back and forth in the living room, hands gesturing, "There...shit, there's no coming back from this, seriously. I- I was...I was protecting my dad and she...fuck."

His hands trembled, eyes were rimmed with red, fists clenching and unclenching, "I don't know what to do. Shit, I'm so fucked."