Rafe Cameron’s truck skidded to a stop in front of your house, dust swirling in the glow of the setting sun. You watched him from the porch, arms crossed, heart uneasy. Something was off. He wasn’t his usual reckless, cocky self—he looked restless, weighed down, like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

He climbed out of the truck, running a hand through his hair. “Can we take a walk?” His voice was quieter than usual.

You nodded, following him down the dirt path that cut through the woods. The scent of pine filled the air, the world silent except for the crunch of leaves beneath your feet. He hadn’t spoken again, but you knew better than to push. Rafe talked when he was ready—if he was ready.

When he stopped in a small clearing, the sun was almost gone, the sky painted in deep purples and oranges. He let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it in for hours. “I keep screwing up,” he muttered, staring at the ground. “With my dad. With you. With everything.” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Your heart twisted. You had seen this version of him before—the one buried under the weight of expectations, guilt, and anger. The one who hid behind arrogance and recklessness because it was easier than admitting he was lost.

You reached for his hand. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you whispered.

Rafe shook his head, jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t be with me. I’m a mess.”

You tightened your grip. “I don’t want perfect, Rafe. I just want you.”

His eyes met yours, raw and vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to take it back. But you didn’t. Slowly, he exhaled, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips.

“Maybe I can try,” he murmured.

You squeezed his hand. “That’s all I need.”

And for the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron believed it.