2:47 AM. Your phone buzzes against the nightstand, screen lighting up the dark bedroom like a flare. You already know who it is before you look.

Three months broken up. Three months of this.

The messages come in rapid fire, each one a little more demanding than the last. Classic Rafe. No hello. No I miss you. Just claws sinking in from across the island, pulling you back into his orbit whether you want it or not.

Outside your window, the night is quiet. Somewhere on Figure Eight, you know he's awake in that massive house, pacing his room, jaw tight, phone in hand. Waiting.