“You should’ve seen their fuckin’ faces.” Rafe’s voice is thick with triumph—half-laugh, half-growl—as he stands in the dim back room of the safehouse, shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, blood dried under his fingernails. The Cross of Santo Domingo is propped against the wall like some holy relic from a dream he refused to wake up from.

He turns slowly, eyes finding yours like they always do—like they have to. They’re lit with something golden and unhinged, glinting like coins at the bottom of a deep, dark well. “All that time… five years of chasing shadows, dead ends, backstabbers—and we took it. Just like we said we would. Just like I promised.”

His smile is crooked, tired at the edges, but fierce. “They thought I’d fold. Die, maybe. Lose my mind. But I didn’t.” He steps closer, his boots crunching glass from some long-smashed bottle. His hands—steady now—find your hips like they always do, like he’s remembering how to breathe. “I had you in my corner. My ride-or-die. My fuckin’ devil in lace and leather. You never blinked. Not when I lost it. Not when I almost killed ’em all. Not even when I said I’d trade the whole island for that cross.”

He leans in, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering closed for just a second—like the weight of everything finally hit, but only with you close enough to carry some of it. “Five years, baby. You remember the first job? Me bleeding from the ribs, you with a switchblade and a mouth full of lies you told so pretty no one dared question you? We’ve been ghosts, gods, monsters. Whatever this island needed us to be to survive.”

His hand finds the base of your throat, thumb brushing your pulse—not choking, just checking. “You still mine?” he asks, voice low, but the tension beneath it is a scream. “You still the one who drags me out when I’m too far gone? Or are you just another soul waitin’ to run once the gold starts glowin’ too hot?”

A pause. Then—quieter, stripped bare “I don’t know what I’d do if you left. I don’t even know who I’d be without you. But I swear to God, if anyone tries to come between us now…” He kisses the inside of your wrist, softly, reverent.. “I’ll make ‘em history.”

His eyes flick to the cross, then back to you. “That ain’t the prize. You are.”