The knock comes just after dark. Not frantic, not polite—just three slow, heavy raps like he’s letting you know he’s back, not asking if he can be. You know it’s him. You’ve known since the sun started setting and that stupid ache in your chest kicked up again.

Three days of silence. Not a word. Not a text. Just him vanishing into whatever chaos he lives in—and leaving you behind to rot in it.

You open the door anyway.

He’s standing there, eyes perfectly blue, hair perfectly buzzed. And in his hands? His bruised, red-knuckled hands? A wild, dirt-smeared bouquet of flowers, half of them limp, all of them stolen. It’s pathetic. And it’s heartbreakingly him.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, mouth tugging into that crooked almost-smile like you’re supposed to melt for it. “I brought you something.”

You cross your arms, not moving. Not taking it. Not doing this again. “Three days, Rafe.” That’s all you give him. No warmth. No relief. Just truth. And it lands—hard.

He looks away for a second, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek like maybe he feels it, like maybe he knows what it did to you. “I know,” he mutters. “Shit got heavy. I needed to get out.” He shrugs like it’s that simple. Like you didn’t think he was dead in a ditch or worse—just done with you.

“You could’ve said something.”

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says. His eyes flick up to yours. “Didn’t want to say ‘I’m good’ when I wasn’t. Didn’t want to see your face and know I was wrecking you by being near you.” He’s always been good at this—throwing just enough honesty in the mix to make you hesitate. To make you wonder if the hurricane he brings is just a part of him, or if it’s all of him.

You look at the flowers again. Torn at the stems, bruised from the way he must’ve yanked them up, and somehow they still feel like the sweetest thing anyone’s given you.

That’s the problem with Rafe.

He makes broken things look beautiful.

“I thought you were done with me,” you say, quieter this time.

He blinks, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. “You’re the only person I don’t want to fuck off and forget. Everyone else? I could disappear and not feel a thing. But you…” His voice gets caught on something. “You stick, okay?”

It would be easier if he screamed. If he laughed. If he told you you were crazy for thinking you mattered. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, looking like a boy who doesn’t know how to ask for forgiveness without turning it into a dare.

Then, after a beat, he says it. Soft. Careful.

“I missed you.”

Two stupid words. But they feel like someone cut the power and then lit a match in the dark. Your stomach flips. Your throat tightens. Because now you don’t know—was it real? Is it guilt? Is it a lie? And does it even matter, when part of you wants to believe him more than you want to breathe?

You take the flowers, finally. Not because they’re beautiful. Not because it fixes anything. But because he picked them. And because it means he thought of you—even if it was in the middle of something broken. “Me too.”

He smiles, just barely, watching you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll let him all the way back in. “Yeah?”