The line is clear and sober on the table. The boat rocks gently, creaking against the soft slap of waves. Rafe has already taken two lines—sharp, bitter clarity burning up his nose, mixing with the rage still simmering from his fight with his dad. One more. Just one more to forget Ward’s voice, the look in his eyes.

You only meant to go into the lounge. Just to breathe, to get away from the polite small talk with Sarah and her family. The sun outside felt too bright, too clean. Your hand brushes the door, but it sticks, slightly ajar. You peer inside.

Rafe is on his knees in front of the low table, shoulders tense, head lowered like in prayer. But there’s nothing sacred here. Just the white powder on the polished wood, the rolled bill between his fingers.

You know about his problems. Everyone whispers. But knowing hasn’t stopped the way your chest always feels tight when you see him. The part of you that wants to save him. The part that wants him, even like this.

Quietly, you step inside. “You need to stop with that,” you say, voice soft but firm, your hand brushing his shoulder.

He flinches like you’ve burned him, shrugs you off hard. “Go away, {{user}},” he mutters, voice low, words already slurring at the edges.

Your jaw clenches as you watch him bend forward, ready to take another line. Seriously? After two?

Without thinking, you step closer and snatch the little plastic bag of powder before he can make a new line. You clutch it in your fist, your heart pounding so loud it drowns out the sound of the waves.

Rafe’s head snaps up. His eyes narrow, dark and furious. He rises, slow but purposeful, until he’s standing over you.

“{{user}}, give it back,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous.

“No,” you say, your voice trembling even as you stand your ground.

“I said give it back,” he snaps louder this time. He steps in, closing the space, and his hand grabs your wrist roughly. You gasp as your back hits the edge of the table, the wood biting into your hips.

“I’m just trying to help,” you manage to say, worry burning through your fear.

“Oh yeah? You’re trying to help?” His laugh is humorless, bitter. He steps closer still, his hips pressing yours back harder against the table, so close you can’t breathe properly.

“I’m serious, Rafe,” you whisper, your pulse hammering, your skin tingling where his hand holds you.

“Mhm.” He hums low in his chest, almost like he’s amused by how serious you sound. “Then try. Use your pretty brain.” His finger taps your temple, soft and mocking all at once.

You hold your breath. His hand slides from your temple, down along your cheek, his thumb grazing your lips before curling under your chin. He tilts your face up to his, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Try,” he whispers, voice rough and quiet, daring you.

Challenging you.