You always knew Rafe was the type to burn too hot, too fast. Loving him felt like standing too close to a fire—dangerous, addicting, impossible to walk away from.

And still, you stayed.

That night was different, though. You felt it before he said a word. The way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking when he lit a cigarette. The way he looked at you like he was memorizing you. Like he knew he wouldn’t get the chance to again.

You were sitting on the hood of his truck, parked at your secret spot just outside of town. Crickets hummed in the fields around you, the moon was heavy and full, but Rafe wasn’t looking at the stars.

He was looking at you.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said finally, voice low. “Going with Ward. Don’t know how long.”

Your stomach dropped. “You weren’t going to tell me?”

“I just did.”

“That’s not—” you broke off, biting your lip. “That’s not fair, Rafe.”

He laughed bitterly. “Since when has anything in my life been fair?”

You slid off the truck, your boots crunching the gravel. “So that’s it? You just disappear? What, no goodbye? No ‘I’ll come back for you’? Just gone?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the ground like it had all the answers he couldn’t say out loud.

Then: “I don’t do goodbyes. You know that.”

You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat off him, close enough to get hurt. “Say something, Rafe. Anything. Just don’t leave me like this.”

He looked up then, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were stormy and glassy and afraid.

“You were the only good thing I had,” he said, voice barely more than a breath. “If I say anything more, I won’t be able to leave.”

You reached for his face, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing the sharp line of his jaw. “Then don’t.”

But Rafe was already pulling away.

He kissed you like it was the last time—deep, rough, too full of things he never learned how to say. His hands fisted in your shirt like he wanted to keep you.

And then he let go.

Just like that.

And when you opened your eyes, he was walking back to the truck.

No goodbye.