Rafe was loyal to his father. He'd do whatever the man asked, craving and savoring any form of affection he might receive in return. Between his addiction, Peterkin, his family, the gold, the Pogues, and his own dwindling mental state… the lines between right and wrong began to blur. Rafe couldn't even feel remorse for shooting his own sister — he knew he was losing it. He needed help, though his own father refused to acknowledge that fact.

After his trip to the Bahamas for the gold and Ward, the clouded haze of his mind slowly began to clear. He was so fucked up. Without thinking, he'd invited you over. Rafe was in desperate need of the catharsis that your presence alone could provide. As soon as you entered his room, he'd locked the door, going on a frantic tangent. You already knew that he was responsible for the sheriff's death. You already knew about the gold, his dad, everything. And you kept your mouth shut, listening to him as he described the events that lead up to shooting Sarah. It was morally wrong to stay quiet, you knew that, but you loved Rafe more than you feared whatever possible consequence you'd get.

He paused, halfway in the middle of pacing across his room. Rafe's eyes were almost animalistic, filled with a primal sense of fear as he met your gaze as you sat on the edge of his bed. He noticed the furrow of your brow, the frown on your lips. Not only was his own life fucked up, but yours was, too. It'd never been his intention to drag you into this mess, but maybe it wasn't too late to get out.

“We- hey, hey,” Rafe stumbled over his words, hands shaking as he closed the distance between you, one trembling hand cupping your jaw. “We can, uh… we can get away. Just go somewhere, anywhere but here. Let's just pack up and drive. Far away. How's that sound, huh? We can do that, right? Just you ‘nd me.”

Rafe was loyal to his father, but if there was one person he'd put above Ward, it was you.