The moon was fucked. Or maybe it was just the way you were looking at it, all kaleidoscope eyes and heavy-lidded lashes, lips parted like you were seeing something holy. Rafe was watching you, but he wasn’t sure if you knew. Wasn’t sure if you even cared.

"What do you want from me?" His voice was low, frayed at the edges, hands flexing against the steering wheel. You were sprawled out in the passenger seat, legs tucked up like you were trying to make yourself smaller. Like you wanted to disappear right in front of him.

You turned your head slow, blinking at him like he’d just said something in another language. Maybe he had. Maybe he’d asked you that a thousand times already, and maybe you never had the answer. Or maybe you did, and he just didn’t wanna hear it.

"I don’t know," you murmured, voice all floaty and soft.

Bullshit.

Rafe huffed a laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it. Just smoke and static. His grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white. "Yeah, you do."

You looked away, back to the moon. His fucking replacement.

Two nights ago, you'd been screaming at him. Voice shrill, hands pushing at his chest, telling him he didn’t even try. That he never listened. Three days before that, you’d looked at him like you wanted to sink your teeth into his throat, like you loved him so much it made you sick. Four weeks ahead? He didn’t know if you’d even be around.

Five months back, he thought about letting you go. About cutting you loose before you swallowed him whole. But you were crazy. And you had this way of pulling him under, hands around his throat, nails digging in just deep enough to make it feel good.

"You're fuckin’ with my head," he muttered, rubbing at his temple.