tis the damn season

"We must know, how did it end?"

We stayed like that for a while—silent, wrapped in the sound of the ocean and the distant hum of the wind. Rafe's arm slid around my shoulders, tentative at first, as if he feared I might pull away. But I didn't. I let myself lean into the warmth of him, the weight of his presence both grounding and overwhelming.

I didn't know if it was the pier, the memories, or the quiet sincerity in his voice earlier, but for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. Not in the way that meant everything would be perfect, but in the way that meant I didn't have to carry all my doubts alone.

"Do you ever think about those nights?" Rafe asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

I lifted my head to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, were softer now, reflecting the moonlight.

"All the time," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "Those were the best and worst nights of my life."

"Rafe," I said softly, trying to catch his attention. He hadn't even acknowledged me when I walked in. "What's going on?"

He finally stopped, turning to face me. His jaw was clenched, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool breeze coming through the window. His eyes—those piercing blue eyes that once made me feel safe—looked hollow, distant.

"Nothing," he snapped, brushing past me to the dresser. His hands fumbled through the cluttered top, knocking over a bottle of cologne.

I frowned, stepping closer. "It's not nothing. You've been like this for weeks—distracted, short-tempered. And now you won't even look at me." I reached out to touch his arm, but he flinched, pulling away.

"Don't start," he muttered, his voice low but filled with tension.

My heart sank. "Start what? Asking you what's wrong? Caring about you?" My voice cracked, but I pressed on. "Rafe, I'm worried about you. You're not yourself."

He laughed, but it was a bitter, hollow sound. "Maybe this is me, Jules. Maybe you just don't like what you're seeing."

My chest tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Before he could answer, my eyes caught something—just a flash of movement, the edge of a small plastic bag slipping from his pocket as he turned.

I froze.

"Rafe... what is that?" My voice was barely above a whisper.

His eyes darted down, realizing what I had seen. For a moment, he didn't move. Then, with a sigh, he bent down and scooped the bag off the floor, shoving it back into his pocket.

"It's nothing," he said, his voice steady but too calm. Too practiced.

I felt my world tilt. "Don't lie to me," I said, my voice trembling. "Is that—are you using?"

He didn't answer.

"Oh my God." I took a step back, my hand flying to her mouth. "You are."

"Jules, it's not like that," he said quickly, taking a step toward me. "I've got it under control. It's just... something to take the edge off."

"The edge off?" I repeated, my voice rising. "Rafe, this isn't some casual thing. This is—this is drugs. Cocaine. Do you even hear yourself?"

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. "You don't get it. You don't know what it's like to be me—to carry all this pressure, this... expectation." His voice cracked, but he kept going. "I'm supposed to be perfect. For my dad. For the business. For you."