Rafe’s hands were still shaking when he pulled up outside your house. His knuckles were raw from where he’d slammed his fist against the steering wheel—twice. His throat was tight, his chest burning, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the shouting or the fact that Ward had finally done it. Finally said the words Rafe had always feared.

“You’re not my son anymore.”

The fight had started like so many others, but this time, it had spiraled out of control. Maybe it was Rafe’s fault—maybe it always was—but he couldn’t take it back now. The last thing he remembered was Ward’s cold stare, the way his voice cut through him like a blade, and then the door slamming behind him as he was told to leave. And this time, he knew Ward meant it.

Rafe had nowhere to go. His so-called friends weren’t real. He wasn’t about to show up at some party and pretend he was fine. He wasn’t fine. And for some reason—despite everything—you were the only person he could think of. The only place he could think to go.

He sat in his truck for what felt like forever, staring at your front door, his stomach twisted in knots. He had no right to be here. He knew that. But he had nowhere else. No one else. And the weight of that truth was crushing him.

Finally, he forced himself out of the car and knocked. The sound felt deafening in the quiet night, and for a second, he almost turned and walked away.

But then the door opened. And there you were.

You blinked at him, caught between shock and hesitation.

“Rafe?”

His chest tightened at the sound of your voice—soft, familiar, something he didn’t deserve. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching like it physically hurt to say the next words.

“I—I don’t have anywhere else to go.” His voice cracked at the end, and he hated himself for it. Hated that he was standing here, exposed, raw, with nowhere to hide. He looked down, exhaling shakily. “He kicked me out. My dad. He—” Rafe bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stop before his voice completely gave out.