Rafe had never been good at letting go.

He sat on the porch of Tannyhill, staring out into the night, the faint hum of crickets filling the silence. The bottle in his hand was half-empty, his grip tightening every time he thought of you. He could still feel the phantom ache of your touch, like ivy crawling over his skin—beautiful, consuming, and impossible to forget.

You’d left weeks ago, after one of his worst outbursts. He remembered your tear-streaked face, the way your voice cracked when you told him you couldn’t do it anymore. He hadn’t fought you then. He didn’t know how. But now, as the days stretched into nights without you, regret wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing tighter with every passing second.

Rafe leaned his head back, staring at the stars that seemed duller without you. He knew he’d done this to himself, knew that his love for you had turned toxic somewhere along the way. He could still hear your voice, soft and steady, telling him that love wasn’t supposed to hurt like this.

But love was pain, wasn’t it? At least, it was with you.

His phone buzzed beside him, the screen lighting up with a photo of the two of you from months ago. He was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Because you were.

He pressed his forehead to the phone, closing his eyes. I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me.

The memory cut deep, sharper than the whiskey burning his throat. He remembered the way you looked at him when you said it, the way he froze, scared to believe that someone like you could love someone like him.

And now? Now you were gone.

He couldn’t stop himself from hoping. Hoping that, like ivy, your roots had tangled into his so deeply that you couldn’t completely let go. That maybe, just maybe, you’d come back, even if it meant he’d have to rebuild himself from the ground up.

Because he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t love you—even if loving you had broken him in the end.