Rafe was a wreck when he showed up at your door that day. Not that it was new. He’d always been the kind of guy to wear his chaos like a second skin, carrying it with him everywhere he went. But this? This was different. The second you saw him—red-rimmed eyes, hands shaking like he couldn’t hold it together for one more second—you knew something was wrong.

You hadn’t seen him like this since you were kids. Not since the nights he’d sneak into your room after another fight with Ward, quiet tears soaking your pillow as you let him stay until he could fall asleep. He wasn’t that kid anymore, though. Hadn’t been for a long time. This was a man who’d made mistake after mistake, stacking them on top of each other until they’d become a mountain he couldn’t climb.

When he knocked, you barely had time to get the door open before he stumbled through it, like he was just barely holding himself up. His eyes darted around the room, like he couldn’t find his bearings, and the moment he saw you, his expression cracked. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, shaking. Like he was looking for some kind of anchor, some place to hold onto.

“Rafe…” you murmured, voice soft, though the alarm was already buzzing in your chest. “What happened?”

He didn’t respond right away. Just swallowed hard, eyes flickering like he was trying to find the words. It was clear he wasn’t okay, but you didn’t know why.

"I fucked up," he choked out, his voice barely audible, like he couldn’t even say the words loud enough for himself to believe them. But you heard them. And the way his eyes flicked to the ground, like he couldn’t bring himself to look you in the face, told you everything you needed to know. This wasn’t some dumb fuck-up like the ones he’d been making his whole life. This was big.