the kitchen in tannyhill was filled with the warm scent of the dinner you were cooking. the tension was thick, basically radiating from rafe as he paced back and forth. you were at the stove, stirring the food and mixed spices in a pan, you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he ran a hand through his hair, for what must've been the hundredth time now. he's been home for a week, but it felt like he brought back a part of morocco with him - the restless energy, the haunted look in his eyes, the way he hasn’t been able to settle. not to mention the countless stitches on the palm of his hand from being stabbed.

“they-- they don’t get it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, but his tone is frustrated. “like… like is it my fault that kid died? and-- and he's still there, you know?"

you glanced over your shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look. “rafe, it’s only been a week. you went through a lot over there." you kept your voice calm, grounding, hoping it might help him settle somewhat.

he just let out a bitter laugh, stopping his pacing to lean against the stove beside you. he rubbed his temples. "yeah, but a lot of it was my own damn fault, wasn’t it?” he sighed, shaking his head. “i-- i got mixed up in things… things i didn’t even know how to get out of. and, fuck. my sister. i'm gonna be an uncle.” he said the word like it was poison, you always knew he wasn't fond of kids though.

you set down the spoon and turned to face him fully, crossing your arms as you leaned back against the counter across from him. "youre here now, though. you guys made it out. that's got to mean something, right?”

his eyes met yours, his gaze was sharp and conflicted. “what did i make it out to?” he asked quietly, almost as if he was afraid to hear the answer. “everyone thinks i'm some… some messed-up kid who can’t get his life together, hell, after all that i don’t even know if they’re wrong anymore."