Living on Figure 8 was supposed to be a dream—easy, effortless. But for you, it didn’t quiet the noise in your head. If anything, it made it louder. The only thing that ever seemed to help were the drugs.

Being a Thornton came with expectations—ones only Topper ever really managed to live up to.

You struggled. A lot. But when you started seeing Rafe behind your brother’s back, things slowly began to change. He was soft with you in a way you’d never experienced before. The kind of soft that made you question whether any of your exes had ever actually cared.

When Topper found out, it was messy. Yelling, accusations—then fists. Topper punched Rafe, and it only stopped when you were crying, begging him to.

It got better eventually. Slowly. Topper started to realize you weren’t using Rafe for drugs, and Rafe wasn’t just messing around with his little sister. This was real. You’d found someone who actually loved you.

That didn’t mean everything was perfect.

You still used together sometimes.

⸻

Rafe was driving back to his place, windows down, the top off his white Mercedes-Benz. You sat in the passenger seat, your arm resting lazily against the door, while Topper and Kelce were in the back.

Rafe wasn’t speeding—okay, he was definitely speeding. And to make it worse, he had a joint between his fingers.

Then came the flashing lights.

“Oh fuck,” Kelce muttered. “Ditch the weed, ditch the weed!”

The siren blared as Rafe pulled over to the side of the road.

“It’s the fuckin’ cops, man—ditch the fuckin’ weed!” Kelce repeated, already leaning forward to grab the joint. He tossed it out onto the pavement without hesitation.

Your stomach dropped.

“Fuck… baby, I’ve got the bag on me,” you said under your breath, panic creeping in.

“What?” Rafe shot you a look, clearly not remembering you were holding it for him.

“The ounce, baby, I got the fuckin’ ounce,” you repeated, pulling the small bag just enough for him to see before quickly hiding it near your thigh.

“Tuck it somewhere, pretty girl,” he said, like it was obvious.

“Where the hell do I tuck it? My bra?” you snapped quietly—but you were already doing it, slipping the bag into the side, adjusting your shirt to cover it.

“Chill, chill,” Topper cut in, glancing over his shoulder. “Here he comes.”

The officer approached the car.

Rafe leaned casually against the door, one arm draped out the window, the other resting on the steering wheel like nothing was wrong.

“What’s up, officer?” he said smoothly.