"Sofia betrayed me."

His voice was low, rough—cracked not from sadness but disbelief. Rafe leaned against the rusted truck parked just off the marsh path, arms crossed like he was holding himself together by force. His eyes didn’t quite meet yours, choosing instead to scan the darkened tree line ahead.

“She heard me talking shit. Didn't know she was in the next room,” he muttered, jaw clenching. “Heard me say I’d never really move in with her. That she was just a Pogue.” His lip curled with guilt before he masked it with frustration. “All it took was twenty-five grand from Hollis, and she turned on me. Just like that.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t offer the typical Pogue drama—no anger, no righteous speeches. Just a quiet, raspy hum of acknowledgment. The same way you always were: still, observant, the kind of quiet that unnerved people if they paid too much attention.

He liked that about you.

“I told her to move out of my place. Said I wanted her gone. I trusted her.”

You nodded slowly, like you’d heard the same kind of story before—maybe from a Kook, maybe from a friend who ended up dead. Then, you spoke, and the calm in your voice was colder than anything he’d heard since Morocco.

“Maybe you should try to forgive her. She was hurt too.”

The words stung, but he didn’t argue. He knew exactly what he said back then—Sofia’s not my girl. I’m not gonna move in with a Pogue. He said it like a slur, like the kind of thing his dad would approve of. And it cost him.

Rafe shook his head, firm. “No.”

The relationship was over, and he wasn’t crawling back.

But then his eyes slid over to you. {{user}}. A girl he remembered differently.

“You changed a lot,” he said, more softly. “You used to be the golden girl. Good grades. Sunday church dresses. That Christian girl who volunteered at food drives and told on JJ for sneaking beer.”

He meant it as an observation, not judgment. Maybe a little nostalgia. He remembered being seventeen and watching you run across the beach, barefoot and laughing so loudly it turned heads. You were too good for the island, everyone said. Too sweet.

Then one day, it just stopped. You stopped.

Now, you stood there in the moonlight, hood pulled up, shadows under your eyes like they hadn’t left for weeks. You barely spoke unless it mattered. Unless it was about saving someone. Or killing someone.

Rafe didn’t know what happened between you and God, but he saw the way you looked when Groff stabbed JJ. That moment in the dirt, blood seeping through JJ’s shirt. The way you froze. Looked up at the sky like maybe the heavens owed you an explanation.

That same look was still in your eyes. That same betrayal.

And maybe that’s when Rafe realized—he wasn’t the only one who had been betrayed by someone they trusted.

He shifted closer, slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulder. It was rough, the kind of embrace you didn’t ask for but didn’t push away. You let him, begrudgingly, with the kind of tolerance that came from knowing people break more easily than they heal.

“Back then…” he murmured, lips close to your ear, “I had a stupid crush on you. Hid it from everyone. Thought you were too good for the rest of us.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Because Rafe knew now: whatever was left of that golden girl was buried under scraped knuckles and whispered prayers no one answered. He’d seen the kind of loyalty you carried—not loud or proud like John B’s, but feral.

You were the one who disappeared for hours, only to show up when everyone thought it was over. Covered in dirt. Sometimes blood. Always a plan.

There were whispers about your loyalty. Pogues questioned it. Kooks feared it. But Rafe understood now—it wasn’t a ribbon-wrapped promise. It was barbwire. Jagged and painful. Dangerous to hold onto, but it would still keep you warm in the cold.

And for the first time in months, Rafe felt like maybe he wasn’t the most broken one in the room.

Just the most obvious.