𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓 ― rafe cameron

εξήνταένα ; 61

song of the chapter:
PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY ; lana del rey

Rafe hadn't slept. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, stayed locked on the door of Margarita's room. Every now and then, he'd glance down at his hands, still faintly stained with the memory of her blood, and it sent a sickening shiver through him. He couldn't shake the image of her—the pale skin, the bones poking through, the empty eyes staring at nothing.

It had been hours since he found her, cradling her fragile body in his arms as she trembled uncontrollably. He'd managed to patch her up, stopping the fresh wounds from bleeding out further, but he couldn't heal the deeper scars, the ones that drove her to this place.

Now, as she slept fitfully in her bed, he sat in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, trying to make sense of everything. How did they end up here? How did the girl he once knew—the girl who loved the sun, the warmth, the laughter—turn into someone who could barely hold herself together?

Rafe rubbed his eyes, exhaustion threatening to pull him under, but he refused to sleep. He couldn't—not while she was like this. His mind raced, flipping between moments from the past few months, searching for clues, for signs he had missed. He thought he was keeping her safe, thought their love was enough. But it wasn't.

A soft whimper pulled his attention back to her, and he was at her bedside in an instant. Margarita stirred beneath the sheets, her face contorted in a mix of pain and confusion, even in sleep. Rafe gently brushed her hair away from her forehead, his touch light as he whispered, "I'm here. It's okay. I'm here."

She calmed slightly at the sound of his voice, but the haunting look in her eyes from earlier still echoed in his mind. He couldn't just stand by and let this consume her. He knew it was bigger than him, bigger than both of them, but he had to try.

The next morning came slowly, the dim light creeping through the curtains. Margarita hadn't woken yet, and Rafe hadn't left her side. He listened to the soft rhythm of her breathing, his mind already working through what he needed to do. He couldn't pretend this would just go away. She needed help—real help.

He stood up, stretching his stiff limbs, and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts. There was one name he hesitated on. Sarah.

Rafe knew his sister had her own complicated feelings about Margarita, but she had always been there when things got serious. If anyone could help him figure out what to do next, it was Sarah. He stared at her name for a moment longer before taking a deep breath and pressing call.

The phone rang twice before she picked up, her voice groggy from sleep. "Rafe? What time is it?"

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. "Sarah... I need your help."

There was a long pause on the other end, and then her tone shifted, instantly alert. "What's wrong?"

"It's Margarita. She... she's not okay."

Another silence, this one heavier. He could almost hear Sarah piecing it together, her mind jumping to the worst-case scenarios. "I'll be there soon," she finally said, her voice soft but determined.

Rafe hung up, feeling a sliver of relief. He wasn't alone in this. Not anymore.

An hour later, Sarah arrived, her eyes wide with concern as she stepped into the room. She took one look at Rafe—disheveled, exhausted, and broken—and pulled him into a tight hug. "We'll figure this out," she murmured, though her voice shook with uncertainty.

Rafe nodded, but as he glanced over at Margarita's still form, he wondered if figuring it out would be enough. Could they really pull her back from the edge she'd been standing on for so long? Could he?