You’re tucked into Rafe’s side, his arm draped loosely around your waist, his fingers resting low on your hip like they belong there. He smells like his usual cologne — sharp, expensive — mixed with beer and sweat from the heat. The condensation from his cup drips onto your thigh, but you don’t move. He likes it when you stay still.

The screen in front of you lights up the whole park — an old Tarantino flick projected onto a white tarp. Families are spread out on blankets, kids curled into lawn chairs. It’s supposed to be one of those clean, calm summer nights the town puts on to make itself feel wholesome.

You barely hear the movie. You’re more focused on the popcorn in your lap — the bag he bought you earlier — and the way his thumb strokes slow circles against your ribs. Earlier, there’d been something with the Pogues. Rafe had waved it off, said it was “just a misunderstanding.” You didn’t ask. You’ve learned not to.

You don’t notice when the Pogues stand up. JJ, Pope, John B — all moving toward the back of the screen like they’re just heading to the bathroom. But Rafe sees them. You feel it in the way his body tenses slightly beside you. His hand goes still.

He leans into you, breath brushing your neck. “I’ll be back,” he murmurs, voice soft — almost sweet. He presses a kiss to your temple like a promise, then sets his cup down in the grass. His arm slides away. You don’t stop him.

He walks off, cutting through the crowd without urgency. You stay where you are, now sitting with Topper’s girl and whoever Kelce brought. They’re distracted. Talking about someone’s car. You half-listen. He’s been gone a while now, slipped behind the screen. You can’t see him, and from your spot, it’s easy to forget he’s even left.

The movie plays on, and you think you hear the soundtrack blending with distant noises—shouts, footsteps, the odd crash. But you convince yourself it’s just part of the film, the soundtrack bleeding into the night.

You shift, your fingers tightening on the popcorn in your lap, eyes locked on the screen. Then, out of nowhere, a flicker of orange catches your eye at the edge of the tarp.

Smoke curls upward, and the sharp smell of burning plastic cuts through the night air. People around you start shouting, standing, moving. You stay rooted in place, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the growing flames. Rafe suddenly appears beside you, his breath ragged and quick. Without a word, he grabs your hand and pulls you up.

“Go to the truck,” he commands, voice low but urgent.

You don’t hesitate. You let him lead you away from the fire, the noise, the chaos