The first thing out of your mouth isn’t hello.

“You’re using again.”

Rafe freezes mid-step, jaw tightening like he’s biting back a retort. Then, that smirk—cold, sharp. “Nice to see you too.”

“I’m serious,” you snap. “Your pupils, the shaking—don’t play dumb with me.”

He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Maybe I am. What’s it to you? You left, remember? Not exactly your problem anymore.”

“Not my problem?” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You think I don’t see you out here with her—acting like you’re fine, like she’s gonna fix you? I hope she does, Rafe. God, I hope she does. Because I couldn’t.”

His eyes flash, anger bubbling up. “Yeah? Maybe she won’t try to ‘fix’ me every five minutes. Maybe she’ll just… let me be.”

“Let you be?” you spit back. “Let you rot, you mean.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he fires back. “You loved me when I was at my worst. Don’t pretend you didn’t. You were sick for it. For me. You breathed that shit in like air.” You hesitate, because he’s not wrong—and he knows it.

“You were wrong for what you did to me,” you say, voice low but shaking. “But yeah. I was sick for kinda liking it. That’s the difference, Rafe—I hate myself for it. You? You don’t hate yourself enough to stop.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone before you can name it. He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of whatever he’s been smoking