The engine hummed beneath you, the scent of gasoline and cigarettes clinging to the air. Your fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles white, breath uneven. The streetlights above cast fleeting shadows across your face, but you barely recognized yourself in the rearview mirror—bloodshot eyes, smudged mascara, a hollow expression that hadn’t always been there.

You used to be good. You used to have control.

Straight A’s, a shit ton of extracurriculars, headed for the Ivy League, a family that trusted you—believed in you. Now? Now, you were gripping the wheel of a stolen car, hands shaking, mind reeling.

Rafe hadn’t made you do this. You had.

He was reckless, intoxicating, a fire that burned everything in its path. And you had stepped willingly into the flames.

Look at yourself now. Do I look like him?

The lies, the danger, the nights spent hiding bruised knuckles and tear-streaked cheeks. The paranoia, the secrets, the desperate need to keep up with him—to keep him. You had crossed lines you once swore you never would. You picked up on his mannerisms, his gestures, his words, his unhinged tendencies.

And now you were just like him.

Everyone noticed, too. Your friends told you that you’ve changed. Your family threatened to cut you off.

Your stomach twisted at the thought, a lump forming in your throat. You swallowed it down, forcing your breath to steady.

Am I really like him?

The passenger door swung open suddenly, the rush of cold air hitting your skin before Rafe slid in beside you.

His pupils were blown, the scent of alcohol and adrenaline thick on him as he leaned back, completely at ease. Like this wasn’t a life-altering moment. Like this was just another night. He took a hit of his joint, before offering it to you.

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, voice low and lazy. “You’re shaking.”