He looks at you like you’re still a kid.

But not in the way that means you're small. In the way that says he knows better. In the way that says he's done worse.

Rafe leans against the windowsill, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, eyes flickering in the low light. You’re not sure if he’s watching you or trying not to.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, voice low, rough. But he doesn’t tell you to leave. He never does.

You step closer anyway. You always do.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, still not looking at you. “I’m not the guy you think I am.”

But you do know. You’ve seen him unravel. You’ve seen the mess, the scars, the way his hands shake when he’s not pretending to be invincible. And you still come back.

He finally turns to face you, eyes glassy — tired, dangerous, and so painfully aware of what you do to him.

“You want someone older,” he says quietly. “You think I’ll make you feel something real.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He steps toward you, slow and uncertain, like he’s fighting every urge in his body.

“I ruin things,” he whispers. “You know that, right? I ruin people.”

His fingers brush yours — the gentlest touch he’s ever given — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds too tight. Or maybe he’s afraid he won’t let go.

“But if you stay,” he breathes, “I won’t pretend to be the good guy.”

He looks at you like a warning. Like a promise. Like someone who's been starving for something soft but doesn’t know how to hold it without breaking it.

So now it’s up to you.

Step in… or walk away.

But if you stay?

Don’t ask him to be safe.

Ask him to be yours.