He stood in the dim light of the abandoned house, the smell of smoke clinging to his skin, fingers shaking as he fumbled with his lighter. His mind was a blur of fog, clouded by whatever substance he’d put into his system. But even through the haze, he could see her—standing there, her silhouette carved out against the fading evening sky.

“You’re a fucking mess,” she muttered, arms crossed. “How the hell do you expect me to believe you’re good for anything when you can’t even keep your shit together?”

He smirked, lighting the cigarette. “You think I don’t know that? You think I give a shit?”

She stepped closer, voice quieter now. “I don’t know why I keep coming back for this. It’s exhausting, Rafe.”

He exhaled sharply. “Then leave.”

But she didn’t. She never did.

“Why do you keep pushing me away?” she asked, softer this time, like she was afraid of his answer.

He dragged the cigarette down to the filter, fists clenched, a mix of anger and something deeper churning beneath the surface. “Because you deserve better. I’m not the fucking guy for you.”

She took another step forward, her eyes steady. “That’s bullshit. You’re the only one who thinks that.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know shit about me. I’m a fuck-up. I don’t have anything to give you.”

But she didn’t leave. Not this time.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. Her eyes never left his. “I don’t need you to be perfect,” she said, voice soft but firm. “I just need you to be real.”

He stared at her, feeling a crack in his armor. “And what if I can’t be that for you?” he whispered, the words raw.

“Then I’ll still be here,” she answered. “Because sometimes, the mess is worth it.”

Rafe didn’t know how to respond to that, not with words, anyway. Instead, he reached for her, pulling her into him, the weight of everything he couldn’t say pressing down on his chest. The moment didn’t fix anything, but for once, it felt like it could be enough.