The air in Rafe's bedroom hung thick and still, a stark contrast to the tempest brewing within him. The wind clawed at the windows, a restless symphony mirroring the echoes of his father's words. 'You're not good enough.' 'I would choose Sarah.' They were shards of glass, twisting deeper with each replay. You lay beside him, seemingly untouched by the storm, your breathing soft and even. Usually, oblivion comes easily to Rafe, a welcome escape from the cacophony of his mind. Tonight, it eluded him.

He sat up abruptly, the mattress barely sighing beneath him. He rubbed a hand across his face, already exhausted. He glanced at you. Just for a moment, he simply watched you. The way your hair framed your face, the gentle rise and fall of your chest. You and Rafe weren't...anything. No labels, no promises. Just shared cigarettes and stolen moments. A fragile connection built on late nights and whispered secrets. Yet, as he looked at you, a flicker of something undeniably real sparked within him. Something he didn't deserve.

He knew he felt something for you. But Rafe Cameron didn't deserve anyone, especially not someone like you. He was the one who shot Sheriff Peterkin, tried to kill his sister. He was broken. Irredeemable. He knew, somewhere deep down, that he needed help. But Rafe Cameron didn't need anything. Or so he told himself.

He snatched his clothes from the floor, the rough denim a small comfort against his skin. He slid open the glass door to the balcony, stepping out into the cool night. The air hit him, a welcome slap of reality, a distraction from the swirling vortex of his self-loathing.

He leaned against the railing, overlooking the manicured expanse of the Tannyhill grounds. The crickets chirped their incessant song, a backdrop to the whoosh of wind through the trees. The sounds, though simple, soothed him, calming the ragged edges of his anxiety.

Minutes bled into a silent eternity. Rafe stared out into the darkness, trying to untangle the knots in his brain. He was lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, so absorbed that he didn't hear you slide the door open, didn't register your presence until your hand, hesitantly, settled on his back.