{{user}} told herself it was the storm. The cold. The need to get out of her own head. But none of that was true. The truth was darker: she wanted to see if he’d still look at her like he did the last time. Like he was ready to ruin her all over again.

She hadn’t even planned to knock. Her hand moved before she thought. And by the time the door opened, it was already too late.

Rafe stood there in the doorway, eyes unreadable, one hand braced on the frame like he might slam it shut again. He didn’t say anything. Not a word. He just looked at her — the way he always did after a fight. Like he was still mad. Like he didn’t regret any of it. Like he was daring her to say the wrong thing.

{{user}} didn’t flinch, but her fingers curled at her sides. The last time they spoke, he told her to go to hell. She told him to stay there. And still, here she was — dripping wet, standing in front of him like none of it mattered.

Because it didn’t. Not enough.

His gaze flicked down once — to the hem of her dress, the rain dripping from her collarbone — then back to her eyes. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t move. But something changed. She felt it. That shift in the air between them, thick and electric and impossible to step away from.

She took a breath, quiet but sharp. “Say something,” she said.

It came out lower than she meant it to. Almost a whisper. But it cut through the silence like a knife.

Rafe blinked once. Then stepped aside without speaking.

And {{user}} walked in, soaked and silent — not because she forgave him, not because she was over it — but because some part of her wanted to lose again.

And he was the only one who knew how to do it right.