The late afternoon sun hangs heavy and golden over the Figure Eight Country Club. On the terrace, Kooks in pastel polos and linen dresses murmur over cocktails, the clinking of ice in their glasses a delicate, constant rhythm.
You’re sitting at a table with two of your friends, a half-touched mimosa sweating in front of you.
The memory of the ceiling in the dark at 2 A.M. is still burned onto the back of your eyelids. Another night spent wide awake, the sheets cold on his side of the bed. You’d stared into the blackness, wondering if you were losing who you are in the waiting.
It’s always waiting, with him.
You try to provide a nice bed and welcoming arms to come home to, but time and time and time again, he chooses them. The drugs, the bad news friends, the chaos.
He’s only here every now and then, a ghost with a heartbeat. When’s it gonna end?
“I’m serious this time,” you say, swirling the orange pulp in your glass. “I’m done. He can’t keep doing this.”
Chloe, ever the pragmatist, raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You say that every time. Then he shows up with that stupid, broken look in his eyes and you melt.”
"People say you’re all the kinds of crazy ‘cause you’re crazy for Rafe,” Tessa adds, a little more gently, pushing a stray piece of hair from your face.
They ain’t wrong. But the thought of actually cutting the cord feels like trying to breathe underwater. You just love him too much
And then, as if summoned by the conversation, he appears.
He walks onto the terrace like he owns it. His hair is a mess, and there are dark, smudged circles under his eyes, but he moves with that unearned, infuriating confidence.
His eyes scan the crowd for a second before they land on you, and a slow, tired smile spreads across his face. Your friends fall silent. Chloe lets out a scoff under her breath.
He walking straight to your table. He leans down, his familiar scent washing over you. He presses a firm, lingering kiss to your cheek, his lips warm against your skin.
His voice is a low, raspy whisper, meant only for you “Missed you.”
And just like that, every ounce of anger, every sleepless hour, every curse you screamed into your pillow last night evaporates.
He probably just woke up, still half-high in some place he won’t ever tell you about. But he’s here now. He came for you.
You watch him as he straightens up and walks towards the outdoor bar, his back to you. He orders two drinks without looking at the menu, a whiskey for him and your favorite rosé, just the way you like it.
He’s the devil. And you’re dancing with the devil with your high heels on, unapologetic 'bout it.
‘Cause damn, the lovin’ is so good, even though you know your baby’s no good. He’s a hurricane in a human body, one minute drowning in you, the next drowning in his drugs.
He comes back, handing you the chilled glass. He pulls up a chair, turning it backward and straddling it, his arms resting on the back as he fixes his intense gaze on you.
Your voice is shakier than you’d like “Where were you last night, Rafe?”
He takes a long sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”
“That’s not an answer. I was worried.”
He reaches across the table, his fingers finding yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. It's a simple touch, but it sends a jolt straight through your system.
"Listen to me." He leans in, his voice dropping lower, forcing you to focus entirely on him.
"I do a lot of stupid shit. We both know that. I get lost sometimes." His eyes are deadly serious, a flicker of something raw and desperate in them.
"But I won't commit a crime bigger than givin' you up. You hear me? Never."
And you know he meant it. In his own twisted, broken way, he did. In that moment, the rest of the world fades away. There's only the weight of his hand on yours and the terrifying sincerity in his eyes.
He's so talented in not comin' home. But when he needs a home? You are his only home.