Rafe Cameron’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as the truck bounced over the dirt road, the stolen cross rattling in the back. His heart raced—not just from the adrenaline of pulling off the heist, but the thrill of being so close to the finish line. This was it. Endgame.

His phone buzzed on the seat beside him. He glanced at the screen and saw your name. The moment he answered, your shaky voice spilled through the line, sobs choking your words. “Rafe… I— I can’t breathe. Please, can you blow them off? I really need you right now.”

Rafe let out a frustrated groan, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. “Okay, what bigger things are going on than this, huh? We got the cross! We’re done! Endgame!” His voice cracked, his frustration bleeding through every word. “I’ve got my whole life riding on this—on getting it right.”

The line went silent for a beat, your quiet breaths uneven and shallow. He knew you were hurting. He knew you needed him. But his mind was clouded by the weight of everything he’d done, everything at stake.

“Forget it, Rafe,” you whispered. “I’ll figure it out.”

The click of the call ending echoed in his ears, louder than it should have been. “Shit.” He threw his phone down on the passenger seat and let out a roar of frustration, running a hand through his messy blonde hair.

But it wasn’t anger at you. It was anger at himself.