Rafe sits on the dock, his back to you, shoulders hunched as he stares at the water. He hasn’t moved since you got here, hasn’t acknowledged you at all.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel his warmth but not enough to touch. You’ve learned by now—Rafe doesn’t always let people in, even when he wants to.

“You missed my calls,” you say softly.

He sniffs, runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“Where were you?”

A pause. Then, “Nowhere.”

That’s a lie. You both know it. But you don’t push. Not yet.

Instead, you tilt your head toward him. “You ever gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

Rafe exhales sharply. “What’s the point?”

You frown. “The point is, I care.”

He finally looks at you, eyes unreadable. “And what happens when you stop?”

Your chest tightens. He says it like it’s inevitable, like he’s already counting down the days until you leave.

“Rafe—”

“It’s fine.” He forces a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I get it. I’m a lot. People don’t stick around for me.”

You shake your head, reaching for his hand. He flinches, then—slowly—lets you lace your fingers through his.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at your intertwined hands like he’s trying to memorize the feeling before it’s gone.

Then, quietly—“Yeah. But for how long?”

And even though it breaks your heart, you squeeze his hand anyway. Hoping one day, he’ll believe you.