Rafe had his arm lazily draped over your shoulder, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin.

The TV played some random movie neither of you were watching, the sound barely registering over the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. His house was quiet, dimly lit — safe.

Or at least, it felt that way.

Until it wasn’t.

The sound of a door slamming open sent your heart jumping to your throat. Within seconds, red and blue lights flooded through the windows, flashing violently against the walls. Shouts echoed through the house — deep, commanding voices yelling Rafe’s name.

Your body went rigid. Rafe tensed beside you, his grip tightened — breathing sharp and quick like he was already calculating his next move.

“Rafe Cameron!” A voice boomed from outside. “We have a warrant for your arrest! Step out with your hands up!”

Your stomach dropped.

This wasn’t happening.

This couldn’t be happening.

Rafe stood abruptly, jaw clenched so tightly you swore you heard his teeth grind together. “Don’t move.” he murmured, his voice deadly calm despite the chaos unfolding around you.

The door slammed open before you could even process what was happening. Police officers poured into the room, guns raised, their eyes locked right on him.

“Rafe Cameron, you are under arrest for the murder of Sheriff Peterkin. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Your breath hitched. The words hit like a slap to the face, like ice water poured down your spine.

They were taking him.

Your Rafe.

Rafe turned to you, his blue eyes burning with something raw, something desperate. “Don’t say anything.” he warned, his voice low, just for you.

But before you could even respond, before you could even think, they grabbed him. Forced him to the ground. Slapped cold, silver handcuffs onto the wrists that had held you so gently just minutes ago.

And all you could do was watch.