The Pogues were off to find treasure, using Sarah’s family plane, but Ward made Rafe come too. Things went south when the plane suddenly changed course.

The cabin was freezing, the small heater barely holding back the November chill. After the crash, everyone had paired up for the night, leaving you and Rafe to share the smallest room. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint sound of the wind howling outside.

Rafe sat on the edge of the bed, his back to you, staring out the frosty window. He hadn’t said more than a few clipped words since the crash, and now, he was acting like you weren’t even there.

You sighed, setting your coat down. “So, we’re just not gonna talk? Pretend this isn’t awkward?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look at you. “What’s there to talk about?” His voice was cold, distant—so different from the Rafe you used to know.

You bit your lip, the memories creeping in. The stolen kisses by the beach when you were sixteen, the way he’d make you laugh like no one else could, the nights when he’d hold you close and promise the world. But then came the drugs, the erratic outbursts, and the night you learned about Sheriff Peterkin. That’s when it all fell apart. You broke up with him because you had no other choice—because you couldn’t love someone who kept destroying himself.

“You’re really gonna act like we don’t have history?” you pressed, your voice softer now.

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second. There was something raw behind the cold exterior, something he was trying to bury. “History doesn’t matter, does it? You made that pretty clear when you walked out.”

You flinched at the bitterness in his tone, but before you could respond, he turned back to the window. His shoulders were tense, his walls firmly in place, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that underneath it all, he was just as trapped in the past as you were.