The Moroccan sun beat down like it had something to prove, the heat sticking to your skin like wet cloth. The medina was suffocating with sound and color: merchants yelling prices, spices piled in pyramids, bright fabrics waving overhead, goats bleating somewhere close. Too many people pressed into the narrow street, bodies pushing against yours until you could barely breathe.

You twisted through the crowd with the others trailing behind, trying to keep everyone together in the chaos. But then Sarah staggered. You turned, just in time to see her lean against the clay wall, one hand braced on her swollen stomach. Her lips were pale, her lashes trembling as though the weight of her own body was too much.

“Sarah—” you started, but she shook her head weakly.

“I’m fine. Just… dizzy. Haven’t eaten since yesterday.” Her voice was a threadbare whisper.

You exchanged a glance with Rafe before speaking. “Stay here. Don’t move. We’ll grab something and come right back.”

It was the sensible thing. But sensible didn’t mean safe.

That was how you ended up walking shoulder to shoulder with him, the crowd swallowing up the others behind you. Rafe’s presence felt heavier than the heat, heavier than the noise.

Once, it had been different.

There was a time when you’d known him better than anyone else — back before everything unraveled. You remembered sneaking into his car on humid nights, the smell of cigarettes and sea salt tangled in the air. You remembered him laughing, soft and unguarded, and you remembered the night his lips found yours. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did, and you thought, maybe foolishly, that he could be good for you. That you could be good for him.

Then the spiral came. Drugs, paranoia, rage. The boy who once kissed you turned into the man who pointed a gun at you and pulled the trigger. The scar on your stomach never let you forget.

Now, in the sweltering alleys of Morocco, he walked beside you like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t almost died by his hand.

“You’re tensed as hell, y’know,” he said suddenly, glancing over with that infuriating half-smile that used to make your chest twist.

You scoffed, keeping your eyes ahead. “With good reason.”

His sigh was sharp, heavy, his shoulders lifting then falling like the weight of the world was chained to them. “I’m not like that anymore, {{user}}. I’m an adult now. Wards gone, I’m gonna marry Sofia. I’m not the psycho who shot everyone in his way anymore.”

The name—Sofia—landed like a stone in your stomach. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because it made his words sound real. Like he had a future that didn’t involve chaos or blood. Like he’d chosen someone else to believe in him.

You wanted to laugh in his face, to remind him of the scar he left behind. But the problem was, part of you wanted to believe him. Part of you still remembered the boy who once pressed his lips against yours and didn’t taste like madness.

Your jaw tightened as you pushed through the alley, brushing past a man selling dates, the smell of honey and dust clinging to the air. Rafe followed close, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze flicking over every face like he was hunting and restless all at once.