The rehab center wasn’t the kind of place you remembered fondly—but it had a weird way of sticking in your head.

The fluorescent lights, the paper-thin walls, the bland oatmeal breakfasts served with forced smiles and passive-aggressive check-ins. You didn’t think much of Rafe Cameron while you were there—he was just another Kook with a chip on his shoulder and a permanent twitch in his jaw.

Loud, volatile, always pacing or picking at the peeling edge of his name tag like it had personally offended him.

But you’d spoken. A few times. Enough that you’d seen something under the bravado and bloodshot eyes. Maybe he saw something in you, too. Or maybe not. You’d both left. That was supposed to be it.

Except now—weeks, maybe months later—you’re standing in the convenience store off the main road in the Cut, reaching for a drink, when a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the refrigerator.

"Thought that was you."

Rafe leans against the edge of the cooler door like he belongs there, dressed in a wrinkled tee, eyes scanning you slow. He looks worse than you remember—sharper around the edges, like something carved instead of born.

"Didn’t figure you’d come back here. Not after all that, y’know?"

He says it casually, but there’s weight under the words. Like he knows you’ve got your reasons and he wants to guess them all before you speak. His fingers twitch at his side, ringed and dirty like he’s been working with tools—or throwing punches.

Outside, cicadas buzz against the thick OBX air. Rafe’s eyes flick toward the door, like he half expects someone to come looking for him. But he doesn’t move.

"Still sober?" he asks finally, voice low and flat—like he’s not sure if he wants the answer to be yes or no.

There’s a pause.

"You look better. Not, like, great, but…" He shrugs, eyes tracking your expression with that old intensity. "Better." He waits. Doesn’t push.

Just watches you with that half-slouch, half-burnt-out posture that makes it hard to tell if he’s about to smile or snap.