that’s the real problem. not the drinking, not the nights that blur into mornings, not the fights he starts just to feel something. it’s you.

the way you exist in his head like a cracked neon sign, buzzing and flickering, impossible to ignore. the way he catches himself tracing old outlines of you in places you’ve never been. at the bottom of a glass, in the corner of a crowded room, in the silence between songs.

and it’s worse now, because you’re not just gone. you’re with someone else. marcus.

rafe hates even thinking that fucking name. it sounds clean, too clean, like a boy who holds open doors and calls his mother every sunday.

marcus is the type of guy who probably does the right thing without thinking about it, who doesn’t have to fight against the urge to ruin everything he touches.

and that’s what makes it unbearable; you didn’t run from rafe into something opposite—you didn’t find safety in a poet, or softness in someone fragile, or quiet in someone harmless. you ran into someone who is almost him.

marcus looks like the man rafe pretends to be. broad shouldered, easy smile, that casual confidence that doesn’t reek of desperation. people like him. people trust him. he’s everything rafe could have been if he hadn’t cracked himself open a long time ago and let all the good seep out.

it’s almost insulting. like you went shopping for a new version of him, the kind that comes polished and functional, one that won’t cut your hands open when you try to hold on

rafe tries to picture how you are with him. does your laugh sound different now? softer, easier, without that sharp little edge you always had around rafe, like you were waiting for the floor to drop? do you smile more, or less?

does marcus touch you in public, pull you in close without shame, without fear of what people will say? does he know you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry? does he know you talk in your sleep when you’re too tired?

he probably does. he probably knows everything now.

rafe remembers the first time he saw you with marcus. it wasn’t even supposed to be a big deal—just another night, another crowded place, another drink in his hand.

but then you were there, across the room, your hand on his arm. and marcus, smiling down at you like he’d won something he didn’t even know was a prize.

rafe felt it like a punch, but he didn’t flinch. he never flinches in public. he laughed too loud at something topper said, threw back another shot, pretended it didn’t matter.

but later, when he was alone, he broke a mirror with his fist.

he tells himself it’s not jealousy. he tells himself it’s ‘just pride’, ‘just ego’, just the fact that marcus is walking around with something that used to be his. but deep down he knows that’s a lie.

it’s not about possession. it’s about you.

you were supposed to be the one who stayed. the one who saw through the wreckage, who believed there was something worth saving underneath. you were supposed to be the one who could hold his hand when it shook, who could press your palm against the violence in him and make it quiet.

and for a while, you were.

he remembers nights when the two of you existed like the world had finally stopped spinning. your head on his chest, your fingers in his hair, his heart beating too fast but steadying under your touch.

he remembers you whispering things like “you don’t have to be anything but with me” he remembers thinking that maybe, just maybe, you meant it

but then you left.

not dramatically, not with screaming or doors slamming. not by cheating.

you left like someone quietly closing a window at night, careful not to wake their parents. you left with soft words, with apologies, with one last kiss that wasn’t really a kiss at all.

and now you’re with marcus. and rafe is still here. still drinking. still spinning in circles like a dog chasing its own tail.

he thinks about calling you sometimes. not even to say anything—just to hear your voice. he imagines what you’d sound like if you picked up. would you be surprised? annoyed? would you sigh his name like a curse, like a prayer? would you hang up before he could speak?

sometimes he even dials the number. he knows it by now, he could never forget it. thumb hovering over the call button, pulse pounding in his throat. but he never presses it.

instead he sits in places like this—too loud, too crowded, too dark—and lets the thought of you eat him alive.

because the truth is, he doesn’t want you happy with marcus. he doesn’t want you safe, or steady, or clean. he wants you messy, tangled up in him, drowning in the same poison he drinks every night.

he wants you ruined. like him.

and while rafe was drunk off his ass in the club, drowning himself in neon and noise, you were somewhere quieter.

marcus’ place.

his apartment isn’t much—just a few blocks off the college campus, two bedrooms, a balcony that overlooks a parking lot instead of an ocean—but it’s enough. more than enough, because it feels safe in a way you haven’t known in years. the floors don’t creak under the weight of tension, the air doesn’t feel like it might snap in half at any moment. there are books stacked on the coffee table, dishes in the sink, a plant you’re not sure he remembers to water.

it feels lived in. steady

and marcus himself—he’s steady too. steady in the way he rests a hand on the small of your back when you pass by, steady in the way he laughs at himself, steady in the way he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

he’s broad shouldered, handsome, sharp around the edges in that all american way. when people look at him, they see reliability, potential, a future that doesn’t collapse in on itself.

he’s rafe, but not rafe.

and that’s the truth you don’t like to admit: the only reason you even noticed marcus in the first place was because he reminded you of him.

the resemblance is shallow at first;tall, strong, a presence that fills up a room before he even speaks. the kind of boy people turn their heads after.

the kind of boy you’ve always been drawn to, even when you swore you wouldn’t be. but it wasn’t just the surface.

it was the way he carried himself, that little bit of recklessness in the way he leaned against a wall, the way he let his gaze linger like he wasn’t afraid of being caught

but marcus’s recklessness doesn’t bleed. it doesn’t bite. it doesn’t come home with bruised knuckles and false promises

marcus is everything you wanted rafe to be.

he’s the softened version, the proof that it was possible all along—someone could look like that, talk like that, be like that, and still…be gentle.

still be kind. still remember to text you back, still keep his promises, still pull you closer instead of pushing you away.

and maybe that’s why you let yourself fall into it. not because you wanted marcus—at least, not at first—but because you wanted the version of rafe that never existed.

you wanted to rewrite the story, to see what it would’ve been like if the boy with the storm in his chest had ever chosen calm instead of chaos.

you wanted to prove to yourself that it wasn’t foolish to believe. marcus made it easy. he didn’t ask about rafe, didn’t dig into the scars you carried like some kind of archaeological dig.

he just opened the door, handed you a drink, smiled at you like you were worth everything. he didn’t try to fix you. he just let you be.

sometimes, when you lie beside him in morning, you try to imagine that it’s enough. you trace the lines of his shoulders, the shape of his jaw, the curve of his smile, and you tell yourself this is what you always wanted. safe. steady. simple.

but sometimes, when the room is too quiet, when marcus is asleep beside you, you catch yourself staring at the ceiling and feeling hollow.

because the truth is that marcus doesn’t set you on fire. he doesn’t drag the air out of your lungs with a single look. he doesn’t make you want to scream and stay and run all at once.

marcus is warm. rafe was wildfire. and you miss the burn more than you should.

but still—you stay. because you remember what it felt like to bleed yourself dry trying to hold onto someone who never held on back

you remember the exhaustion, the humiliation, the breaking. you remember the way rafe made you feel like you were both everything and nothing at the same time.

so you tell yourself marcus is what you need. even if he’s not what you ache for.

now back to rafe…rafe’s not really serving nonchalant playboy kook king tonight. not the version of himself he parades when he wants control, when he wants the room to bend toward him like it always does.

that armor isn’t here;no smirk, no show of easy confidence, no crown tilted careless on his head.

tonight he’s just the sensitive, bitter, jealous ex that’s hurting.

he’s hunched in the booth like the air’s been sucked out of him, glass in hand but no taste left on his tongue. the neon paints him in harsh colors, but he doesn’t wear them well. his eyes are bloodshot, mouth set in that hard line that’s less anger than it is ache

every laugh he hears from across the room grates against him, every pair of bodies pressed together makes his jaw clench. but none of it is really about the people here. it’s about you.

you, at marcus’.

rafe knows it without having to see it. he can picture it too clearly—your shoes kicked off by the door, your legs tucked under you on his couch, your head tipped back in a laugh that comes easier now. marcus beside you, solid, steady, broad shouldered and golden in all the ways rafe never could be.

marcus, who’s like him but not him.

marcus, who’s the softer version, the safer one, the one you only like because he is what you wanted rafe to be.

rafe can’t decide if that thought makes him want to smash the glass in his hand or cry into it. mayb both.

he tips his head back against the wall, lets his eyes slip shut for a second, and feels the burn of liquor and jealousy curl through him like smoke. he hates marcus—hates the way he walks through life without cracking the floor beneath him, hates the way people smile when they say his name, hates that you smile when you say his name

but most of all, he hates himself. because he knows if he’d been better—steadier, softer, anything other than what he is—you never would’ve gone looking for marcus in the first place.

you wouldn’t have needed him.

and that’s the part that stings most, the part that makes his chest feel like it’s splitting open. not that you left. but that you replaced him with the kind of man he could never quite manage to be.

his phone is on the table, face down like it’s mocking him.

he’s been staring at it for the past ten minutes, maybe longer, his hand hovering close like it might bite him if he reaches for it.

it’s stupid, really. he’s rafe cameron. he’s supposed to be above this—supposed to have people waiting on his call, not the other way around

but all that posturing, all that nonchalant playboy king shit, feels paper thin tonight.

because the only name he wants to press is yours.

he can picture it too clearly, the way it’s still saved in his contacts. he never deleted it, even on nights when he told himself he would. he’s scrolled past it a hundred times, heart punching against his ribs every time, like muscle memory won’t let him forget.

what would happen if he called?

he runs through it in his head like a rehearsal, even though he knows reality never plays out the way he imagines. maybe you wouldn’t pick up. maybe it would ring and ring until voicemail caught it, and he’d hear that clipped little tone followed by your voice—the one you recorded months ago, back when you were still his. back when you still answered.

he could live on that alone. just your voice,even if it’s just a voicemail, would be enough to carry him through the night.

but what if you did answer? that’s the thought that keeps him frozen.

because if you answered, then what?

what the fuck would he even say? “hey, it’s me, i’m drunk and miserable and i can’t stop picturing you in someone else’s bed?”

yeah, that’ll go over real well

he knows he shouldn’t. he knows it down to his bones. you’ve moved on, you’ve made it clear, you’re with marcus now. calling you would only make him look pathetic—bitter, jealous, the ex who can’t let go.

but isn’t that exactly what he is?

he drags a hand over his face, palms rough against his skin, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night. the logic is simple: don’t call. move on. let it go.

but nothing about you has ever been simple.

he thinks about how your voice used to sound when you said his name, how it could land like a soft plea or a sharp curse depending on the day.

he thinks about how you’d press your thumb into the space between his brows when he was tense, telling him to stop frowning, stop burning himself alive from the inside out

marcus probably gets that now.

that thought alone nearly kills him.

his fingers twitch toward the phone, then retreat. he picks up his glass instead, drains what’s left, grimaces at the taste, sets it back down with too much force. the bartender glances over, but rafe ignores it.

“don’t call her”

he repeats it like a mantra, like if he says it enough he’ll start to believe it.

don’t call her.

don’t.

but then his mind betrays him, spins out a fantasy: you answering soft, sleepy, your voice catching in that familiar way. “rafe?” like you can’t quite believe it’s him, like a part of you was waiting for this all along.

he swallows hard. his chest aches like he’s been running, like he’s chasing something he’ll never catch.

what would you say to him? would you hang up immediately, or would you stay on the line long enough to hear him out?

would you laugh, cruel and disbelieving, or would you go quiet, that heavy silence that always meant you were listening, even when you wanted to hate him?

he wants to believe you’d listen. that somewhere inside, you’d want to hear him too

but what if marcus is there? what if his name lights up your screen in the middle of your safe little night, and marcus leans over, asks who it is, and you lie? or worse—you tell the truth.

he imagines marcus’s arm around you, his voice in the background, his body curled against yours while rafe’s voice hears through the phone. it makes him sick. he wants to smash the thought out of his skull, but it just digs deeper.

maybe that’s why he wants to call. not just to hear your voice, but to remind you. to plant himself back in your head, even for a second. to remind you that no matter how good marcus is, no matter how much softer or steadier or safer he is, rafe was first. rafe is the reason you still know what it feels like to burn. to be alive

his thumb is already brushing over the screen, flipping the phone over, lighting it up. your name glows at him like it knows the power it holds.

“just one call. one. what’s the worst that could happen?”

he knows the answer to that too.

the worst that could happen is you don’t pick up, and he’s left with nothing but static and silence and the hollow in his chest that even whiskey can’t fill.

the worst that could happen is you do pick up, and you remind him in real time that you’re gone, that you’ve chosen someone else, that marcus is the man rafe couldn’t be.

he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, breathing through his nose, eyes locked on the glow of your name.

don’t call her.

don’t. but god, he wants to.

his thumb hovers over your name, and it’s like the glow of it pulls him backward instead of forward.

that’s the thing about being drunk—it makes time elastic. stretches it, snaps it, blurs the edges until past and present bleed together.

suddenly he’s not in the club anymore. he’s in your car, driving it, window down, music too loud, your voice singing along even louder. your hand drumming on the board. your laugh spilling into the night air like it belonged to him.

“focus, rafe. you’re gonna miss the turn”

you used to say it all the time, grinning, teasing, the kind of patience no one else had for him

now the glass is sweating in his hand, and the steering wheel is gone, and so are you.

he blinks, shakes his head, but the memory doesn’t let go. it shifts, morphs.

your dorm room this time. the little string lights you hung, the thrift store blanket thrown across the bed, the smell of whatever cheap candle you insisted made the room feel like home. you’re curled up on his chest, eyes half shut, whispering something he can’t quite catch now.

maybe “i love you.” maybe “don’t fuck this up.” probably both.

rafe drags a hand over his face, because god, he did fuck it up.

another drink would drown it, but the glass is empty. so he just sits with it, lets the ache gnaw at him.

and then another flash—sharper this time. the last fight.

you standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight over your chest. your eyes glassy but steady. his voice too loud, words sharp enough to cut.

he can’t remember exactly what he said, only that it was cruel. it always was, in the end.

“you don’t even try, rafe. i can’t keep doing this”

he remembers your voice perfectly. remembers the way it cracked, not from weakness, but from weight. from exhaustion

and he remembers how he didn’t stop you when you turned and walked out.

he told himself you’d come back. you always came back. except you didn’t.

now he’s here, drunk and bitter, thumb hovering over your name like it’s a detonator.

his mind keeps skipping like a scratched record. flashes of you pressed against him in a dark hallway, your lipstick smudged against his mouth. flashes of your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, grounding him when he couldn’t breathe.

flashes of you in the morning, barefaced, sleepy eyed, still beautiful enough to knock him sideways.

and then flashes of you with marcus. the ones he made up, because he doesn’t have to see them to know. your head on marcus’s chest the way it used to be on his. marcus’s arm heavy over your waist. marcus kissing your hair, your temple, your smile. marcus steady where rafe was shaking.

the images layer on top of each other until he feels sick. the world tilts, the neon blurs. he presses the heel of his hand into his eye until colors explode behind the lid, but it doesn’t block you out.

he can still hear your voice “you could be better, rafe. if you wanted to, you could”

you meant it when you said it. he knows you did, but he didn’t believe you.

now he’s stuck here, drowned in whiskey and regret, staring at your name like it might save him.

one call. just one.

he imagines your hello. imagines your silence. imagines your anger. imagines you softening, just a little, because it’s him. because it’s always been him.

and then the reel snaps again—the night you left. your hand slipping out of his, slow and deliberate. your eyes not even watery this time, just tired. tired in a way that told him this wasn’t a threat, wasn’t a game, wasn’t another one of your fights. this was final.

“goodbye, rafe.”

he can’t remember if he said anything back. maybe he didn’t. maybe he just let the door close and sat there in the wreckage.

here he is now, wreckage still. phone in hand. thumb trembling. heart hammering so hard he swears the whole room can hear it.

don’t call her. don’t.

but drunk minds don’t listen to reason. they only listen to longing. and his longing is screaming your name.

don’t call her.

the voice in his head is sharp, clipped, cold. the voice that sounds like topper, like ward, like reason. “don’t do it. you’ll look pathetic. you’ll sound pathetic. she doesn’t want to hear from you. she’s with him now. she chose him”

he nods, almost agrees but….

but then another voice, softer, meaner because it’s his own “but what if she does want to hear from you? what if she’s lying there in his bed wishing it was you instead? what if she still thinks about you the way you think about her?”

he shakes his head, runs a hand down his face, tries to ground himself in the sweat slick wood of the table. it doesn’t work.

“don’t call her. you’ll ruin whatever scraps of dignity you have left”

“call her. she’s yours. she’s always been yours. marcus is just a placeholder”

his chest aches. his throat tightens. he stares at your name like it’s bait and he’s the dumb animal too hungry to resist.

“don’t call her. you’ll hear his voice in the background. you’ll hear her hesitate. you’ll hear her lie to him while she’s on the line with you. do you really want that?”

but then the ache claws up his throat, the desperate, drunken logic that always wins in the end: “but what if she picks up and it’s just her? what if she says your name soft? what if she misses you too? what if she’s waiting?”

he laughs, because he knows how insane it sounds. waiting? you’re not waiting for him. you’re not checking your phone at midnight hoping his name lights up your screen. you’re not stuck in a booth with an empty glass and too much poison in your blood.

you’re with marcus. steady, golden marcus. the man rafe could’ve been if he hadn’t set himself on fire years ago and kept walking into the flames.

he grits his teeth “don’t call her. she’s safe now. don’t drag her back into your mess”

but the thought cuts deeper than anything else—safe. as if that’s all you wanted.

as if safe could ever be enough for you, for the girl who once looked him in the eyes after he’d broken something precious and said “i don’t care if it kills me, i just want you”

you weren’t built for safe.

he seizes on that, twists it. if you weren’t built for safe, then you weren’t built for marcus. which means you’re still his. right?

right.

but the other voice hisses back “if she was still yours, she’d be here. not there. not with him”

his pulse hammers, his thumb trembling against the glass.

he thinks about what he’d even say, if you answered.

“hey. i miss you” too soft. pathetic.

“he’s not better than me” too bitter, too obvious.

“you’ll never love him the way you loved me” too desperate.

“please come back” too much.

the words tangle in his throat before they’re even spoken. he doesn’t know which version of himself would slip out—the apology, the accusation, the plea. probably all of them at once, a drunken mess spilling through the receiver.

he imagines you listening, breathing quietly, not saying anything until he runs out of words. he imagines you hanging up without a goodbye. he imagines you crying. he imagines you laughing

he imagines every possible ending, and none of them save him.

‘don’t call her. you’ll just hurt more’

but the longing howls back: “but what if, just once, she answers and doesn’t hang up? what if she remembers? what if she lets you in?”

he presses his fist against his mouth, eyes burning, head heavy.

he’s not the fuckboy tonight. not untouchable, not in control. he’s just a boy staring at a name on a screen, arguing with the voices in his head

and the voices are winning.

“fuck it, just one more time” his thumb drops before he can stop it. like muscle memory, like instinct, like falling.

the line lights up, your name glowing in his hand, and suddenly he feels sick. not the drunk kind of sick, not the whiskey burn in his gut—worse. the kind of sick that comes from wanting something you’re not supposed to have.

it rings. each chime feels like a nail being driven deeper into his chest.

he pictures you at marcus’, phone buzzing on the nightstand while you laugh at something stupid he said. you probably won’t even look at it. maybe marcus will glance at the screen, see rafe’s name, and smirk like he’s already won.

the ringing keeps going.

rafe drags a hand over his face, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache. he should hang up. he should end it before it goes to voicemail, before he humiliates himself even more.

but he doesn’t, he lets it ring, hoping against hope, hating himself with every second that ticks by.

and then—voicemail.

your voice. not live, not real, just the old recording. still, it hits him like a blade to the ribs.

he doesn’t leave a message. he hangs up. his hands are shaking now, his chest burning. it wasn’t enough. not even close.

before he can think, he’s pressing the button again.

ring. ring. ring.

he leans forward, elbows braced on the table, phone pressed tight in his grip like maybe if he holds hard enough, you’ll feel it on the other end.

but it goes to voicemail again.

he exhales, rough and shaky, almost laughs. bitter, broken.

two calls. pathetic.

but it’s not enough so he hits it again.

third time.

ring. ring.

his heart is pounding in his throat, head spinning, every nerve in his body strung tight. he tells himself if you don’t answer this time, he’ll stop. he’ll take the loss. he’ll drink until the night swallows him whole and he forgets your name for at least a few hours.

ring.

ring.

the silence between chimes is torture. he can hear his own blood rushing in his ears, hear the way his breath shudders out of him.

and then—“…rafe?” your voice. small, cautious, half asleep maybe.

everything in him stutters.

fuck. you actually picked up.

his whole body jerks like someone’s just poured ice water down his spine.

for a second he thinks he’s hallucinating. he has to be. there’s no way that’s your voice, real and alive and on the other end of the line.

it can’t be, because he’s imagined it too many times before—late nights, drunk and desperate, whispering your name into a dead line. it always ends the same: silence.

but now…now it’s you. soft. uncertain. and god, so painfully real.

his brain blanks. every thought he rehearsed, every line he spun in his head, every bitter, jealous, broken thing he wanted to spit—it all scatters like birds.

you answered.

fuck. you actually answered.

his breath catches. he presses a hand to his mouth, like he can hold it all in, keep from breaking apart completely. his chest feels like it might cave in, like the air’s been sucked out of the room.

this isn’t how it was supposed to go. you weren’t supposed to pick up.

you were supposed to let it ring, let him hit voicemail again, let him sit in the safety of his own self pity. he could’ve lived with that. he could’ve told himself it was fate, that you didn’t want him, that it was done.

but now? now you’re here. on the line. waiting.

he doesn’t even realize he hasn’t spoken yet. he’s stuck in the shock, drowning in it, his mind spiraling with too many voices at once.

“say something. don’t say anything, hang up, salvage your pride.

but it’s her, it’s really her…don’t ruin it, don’t beg, don’t let her hear how wrecked you are—just fucking speak before she hangs up”

and then your voice again, softer this time. tentative“…hello?”

that one word guts him.

you sound cautious, like you don’t know which version of him you’re about to get. like you’re bracing yourself—for anger, for tears, for silence. all three

rafe closes his eyes, swallows hard, feels the liquor rise sharp in his throat. he knows he should say something simple. something sane.

but all he can think is: you picked up.

rafe swallows, mouth dry, tongue clumsy. he opens his mouth, closes it, tries again

“hi—” his voice cracks. he clears his throat, drags a hand down his face. “hey. uh. hey.”

smooth. real smooth.

he squeezes his eyes shut, presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like maybe he can drag the right words out of himself.

“rafe?” you ask again, softer this time, and fuck—he could fall apart just hearing you say his name. like it still belongs in your mouth, like it still means something

“yeah, it’s me.” his laugh is sharp, bitter, self deprecating. “who else would be calling you this late, right?”

silence. the kind that chews at his nerves, makes him feel like he’s already lost

you sigh, almost hesitant “what’s wrong?”

two little words, and suddenly it’s like the floor gives out under him. because you’re not angry. you’re not cold. you sound… worried. and that hurts more than anything else

he shakes his head, though you can’t see it. his chest is tight, words clawing at his throat, spilling before he can stop them.

“i just—fuck, i don’t even know why i called,” he mutters, though that’s a lie. he knows exactly why. “i was just sitting here thinking about you and… i couldn’t—i couldn’t not.”

he laughs again, but it’s hollow. “stupid, huh? marcus probably hates me already and now i’m giving him more reasons.”

he hears you shift on the other end, maybe sitting up, maybe sneaking out of bed so marcus won’t overhear. the thought sends a twist of satisfaction through his gut, ugly and selfish

“rafe…” your voice is careful, like you’re handling glass.

he cuts you off before you can say more. he can’t bear it—the pity, the rejection

“look, i’m sorry, okay? i’m sorry for—fuck, for everything. for the way i treated you, for the way i fucked it all up. i know i don’t deserve to call you. i know i don’t deserve you.”

his throat burns. his hand tightens on the phone until his knuckles ache “but god, i can’t stand thinking about him. about you with him. marcus. he’s not—he’s not me.”

the words tumble out faster, messier, like a dam breaking

“he’s good, i get it. he’s nice, he’s steady, he’s probably everything i should’ve been. but he’s not me. he can’t be me. and maybe you think that’s a good thing, maybe you think you needed someone safer, cleaner, but—”

his breath catches, jagged, “but he doesn’t know you like i do. he doesn’t know how you bite your lip when you’re trying not to laugh or cry. he doesn’t know how you always have to sleep on the left side. he doesn’t know the way you look when you’re angry—like you’re ready to burn the world down but you’d still let me hold the match.”

he presses his fist to his mouth, eyes burning “he doesn’t know you, not really. not the way i do.”

the silence on your end stretches. he can hear faint static, maybe your breath, maybe nothing at all. it gnaws at him, makes him reckless

“you could do better, you know.” his voice breaks “you could do better than him. better than me, even. but fuck, i wish—” he cuts himself off, drags a hand through his hair “i wish better still meant me.”

his laugh is choked, humorless “i sound pathetic, don’t i? drunk and pathetic. classic rafe.”

you finally breathe out his name, soft “rafe…”

and it’s enough to undo him

“i just—i miss you,” he admits, the words torn out of him. “i miss you so much it hurts every time i see you with him. and i know i shouldn’t say that, i know i shouldn’t be calling you, i know i lost that right—but i can’t stop thinking maybe… maybe you miss me too. even just a little.”

his voice cracks again. “do you?”

the question hangs there, fragile.

he imagines you biting your lip, eyes closed, torn between telling the truth and saying what’s safe. he imagines marcus asleep in the next room, oblivious.

he imagines you lying in bed, phone pressed to your ear, his name lighting up your screen in the dark.

his heart pounds. his breath shudders

“just… tell me i’m wrong,” he whispers. “tell me you don’t think about me. tell me you don’t wish it was me sometimes. i’ll hang up. i’ll stop.”

but he doesn’t really believe he will. because deep down, he knows—this isn’t the last time. it never is.

you sit there with the phone pressed to your ear, staring at the ceiling in the dark, marcus’ slow, even breaths behind you like a reminder you don’t want.

rafe’s voice bleeds through the line, ragged and unsteady, cracking open old places you’ve tried so hard to stitch shut.

you hate how it still pulls at you.

how even now, after everything he did—after all the bruises he left on your heart, after the apologies that came too late, after the nights he vanished and the mornings he came back smelling like smoke and whiskey—you still feel that little ache when he says he misses you

you don’t want to miss him. but god, sometimes you do.

you close your eyes, press your free hand against your forehead like you can hold the thoughts in place. marcus is steady. marcus is safe. marcus makes you laugh without making you cry first. you like him because he’s what you wanted rafe to be.

but rafe’s voice still slips under your skin like nothing else can “…do you?” he asks, the words raw, almost broken. “do you miss me?”

you bite your lip hard enough to sting. the honest answer sits heavy on your tongue, but you know if you let it out—even in a whisper—it’ll unravel you both

“rafe,” you say softly, careful. “you need to go home. get some sleep.”

there’s a pause. you can hear his breathing, uneven, shaky “that’s not an answer,” he mutters, bitter.

you squeeze your eyes shut “it’s the only one i can give you.”

he exhales, rough, like it hurts.

your throat feels tight. you wish you could be cruel, cold, something that would make him hang up and never call again. but you can’t. you’ve never been able to with him

“look,” you murmur, keeping your voice low, glancing back at marcus just to be sure he’s still asleep, “i’m not going to tell anyone about this. not marcus, not anybody. it’s just between us, okay?”

the line is quiet for a second, and you picture him with his head in his hands, fighting whatever storm is tearing through him

“why?” he asks finally, voice slurred but sharp underneath. “why wouldn’t you tell him? if he’s so perfect, if he’s so much better than me, shouldn’t you run straight to him with this? show him what a mess i still am?”

your chest twists. “because i’m not trying to hurt you,” you whisper. “and i don’t want to hurt him, either.”

you can hear him breathing again, softer now, like maybe the fight’s draining out of him.

“go home, rafe,” you say again, steady this time. “please. just… go home and sleep.”

you don’t add for me, but it hangs there anyway, unspoken, heavy in the dark

“go home, rafe.”

your voice is soft, pleading, the kind that’s meant to soothe. it only makes something in him snap

“stop saying that,” he mutters, low and jagged, like broken glass. “stop acting like you get to send me away. like you don’t still think about me when he’s got his arm around you. like you’re not lying there wishing it was me.”

you exhale, steady but shaky underneath. “rafe…”

he barrels over you, words tumbling out too fast, too heavy, each one scraping his throat raw

“you don’t get it. i can’t stand it. i see you with him and it’s like—like someone’s got their hands around my throat. he looks at you like you’re the whole fucking world, but he doesn’t know you. he doesn’t know the nights you used to cry into my chest, doesn’t know the way you get quiet when you’re scared, doesn’t know how you hate thunderstorms but you’ll sit through every one if i hold your hand.”

his breath hitches. his knuckles are white where he grips the phone “he doesn’t get to have that. he doesn’t get to have you.”

you close your eyes, lean your head back against the wall. “rafe, you lost the right to say that. you lost it a long time ago”

the words lance through him, sharp and true. he flinches, but the whiskey in his blood makes him reckless, makes him push harder even when it hurts

“i know,” he bites out. “i know i ruined it. i know i broke you, and i hate myself for it every fucking day. but you’re still mine. you’ll always be mine, no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise. i can feel it. i can hear it in your voice right now.”

his voice drops, hoarse, dangerous. “tell me you don’t still think about me. tell me you don’t still want me. lie to me. i dare you”

you press your hand against your mouth, because the truth is riiight there on the tip of your tongue, and it terrifies you

“rafe,” you whisper, shaking your head. “you can’t do this to me. you can’t call me like this in the middle of the night and say things like that.”

“why not?” his laugh is bitter, broken. “because marcus wouldn’t like it? because he’d finally see that i’ll always be the shadow in your bed, no matter how hard you try to scrub me out? he’s a placeholder, that’s all he is. he’s not me. he’ll never be me.”

your chest aches, tears stinging at the back of your eyes. “stop. please.”

but he doesn’t. he can’t.

“you love him?” rafe asks suddenly, sharp and slurred all at once. “look me in the eye—no, fuck, say it into this phone and mean it. tell me you love him.”

silence. just the thud of your pulse in your ears.

rafe’s breath catches on the other end, jagged, uneven

“you can’t, can you?” he whispers. “because part of you still loves me. no matter how much you hate it. no matter how much you wish you didn’t.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. and that silence is enough to keep him talking, spilling everything he shouldn’t

“god, i’m such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice breaking. “but at least i’m your mess. i’d rather be broken with you than whole without you. marcus can have your smile, your hand, the polite little pieces of you you’re willing to give him—but he’ll never touch the parts of you that were mine. he can’t. they’re locked up in me. i’ve got the key, and i’m never giving it up.”

he drags a shaking breath, chest heaving. “i don’t care if it ruins me. i’d rather burn down everything than watch him keep you warm.”

your heart is in your throat. you want to scream at him, to tell him he’s wrong, that you’ve moved on, that he doesn’t get to claim you anymore. but the words stick, because part of you still aches for him.

“rafe,” you say finally, your voice breaking, “please. just… stop. go home. sleep this off. tomorrow you’ll regret it, and i can’t—i can’t survive you regretting me again”

his breath shudders out, uneven. for a moment you think he might hang up.

but then, low and almost childlike, he whispers, “don’t hang up yet. just… let me hear you breathe. please.”

you can hear him breathing, the faint hum of bass still leaking through wherever he is, the muffled echo of voices around him. and in the quiet, you almost hear your own pulse, hammering too hard in your chest

“…okay,” you whisper, so soft you’re not sure he even caught it

but he does. his breath hitches, like that single word is the rope he’s been dangling for, the one thing keeping him from slipping under

and then nothing. just you and him, suspended in the dark, both pretending you’re not falling apart.

your mind spirals—marcus asleep just a few steps away, the man you’ve been trying so hard to build something real with. the man who’s steady, who’s good, who’s safe.

and yet you’re standing here, clutching the phone like it’s lifeline and poison all at once.

finally, you say “i’m in the kitchen now. he can’t hear us.”

the words leave your lips and immediately coil around your throat, suffocating. but you can’t take them back.

rafe goes quiet on the other end, stunned. his drunken mind stalls, flashes. ‘she’s in the kitchen. not her kitchen. not some neutral place. his kitchen. his house. marcus’ house’

not the same counters rafe used to lift you onto, not the same table where he once had you laughing and gasping with his hand between your thighs.

a hot wave of jealousy smashes through his chest

“you’re at his place?” he mutters, voice hoarse, disbelieving. “you sleep in his bed now?”

the accusation is heavy, but beneath it is hurt, raw and bare

“rafe…” you whisper, pressing your forehead into your palm. “please don’t—”

but he cuts you off, his voice low, sharp, cracking. “does he do it like me? does he touch you like i did?”

your stomach drops “rafe—”

“answer me,” he snaps, though it wavers, slurred with whiskey “when he puts his hands on you, when he kisses you, does it feel like me? does it even come close?”

you grip the counter so hard your knuckles ache. the memory of rafe’s hands is still etched into your skin, every brush, every bruise, every desperate pull. it clings like smoke, no matter how many showers you take, no matter how soft marcus’ touch is.

“stop,” you murmur, but your voice shakes.

he hears it. he knows that tremor better than anyone. and it fuels him.

“he doesn’t, does he?” rafe’s tone drops to something darker, almost pleading. “he doesn’t fuck you like i did. doesn’t make you fall apart just by looking at you. tell me the truth. when he’s inside you, do you close your eyes and see me?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, breath trembling. images flood you—rafe pinning you to his sheets, rafe’s breath hot against your ear, rafe saying your name like it was the only thing he knew how to

and now him, drunk and broken, tearing your heart open over the phone “rafe,” you whisper, broken.

“fuck,” he breathes, and you can hear the ragged desperation in him, the way he’s clinging to every shred of you. “i can’t stand it, baby. i can’t stand knowing he’s the one who gets to lay beside you now. that you wear his shirt to bed, that you smile at him in the morning. that you let him touch what used to be mine.”

your throat closes. you hate how much it hurts. you hate how much of it is true

“rafe, please,” you choke out. “you’re making this worse.”

“worse?” he laughs, bitter and jagged. “i’m already worse. i’m already wrecked. don’t you get it? you were the only good thing i ever had, and i let you go. and now he gets to keep you warm while i’m out here in the fucking cold.”

his voice breaks on the last word.

you press a shaking hand to your lips, tears burning your eyes

and when you don’t answer, when you can’t, he whispers it again but lower, gutted “does he do it like me?”

you know he’s waiting—waiting for you to confess something you can’t, something you shouldn’t

“rafe,” you whisper, the crack in your voice giving you away. “if you don’t stop, i’ll hang up.”

the words slice through him. clean, sharp, terrifying. his whole chest seizes. in one instant, the anger, the bitterness, the drunk recklessness—all of it falls away, leaving only panic.

“no—no, wait,” he blurts, fast, desperate. “don’t—don’t hang up. i’m sorry. fuck, i’m sorry.”

you breathe hard, your grip on the phone tightening. you’ve never heard him sound like this. not even in your worst fights

“i didn’t mean—i just—” his words tangle, his voice cracking. “please, don’t go quiet on me. i can’t take it. you don’t know what it’s like, hearing your voice after so long—it’s the only thing that feels real right now. please.”

your chest aches. you press your palm against the countertop to keep stead “rafe…”

“i’ll shut up, i swear,” he stammers. “i won’t say another word about him, about you, about us. just—just don’t hang up. don’t leave me here with my head.”

he drags in a breath that sounds like it hurts. “i’m sorry i said that shit. i’m drunk, i’m stupid, i’m jealous, but i didn’t call to hurt you. i swear i didn’t. i just—i didn’t know what else to do. i couldn’t stop thinking about you. i tried, but i can’t. i don’t know how”

his voice breaks entirely now, cracking into something you’ve never let yourself imagine. never knew rafe cameron could sound so…small. fragile. like the boy under all the bravado has been stripped bare.

“please, just stay with me a little longer. i’ll behave. i promise.”

your throat tightens. it’s dangerous, this moment—the vulnerability, the way he sounds like he’s on his knees, the way it tugs at the part of you that still aches for him

and god, that part is still there, no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury it

“rafe,” you say softly, like you’re testing the weight of his name. “you can’t keep doing this.”

“i know,” he whispers, broken. “i know i can’t. but i don’t know how to stop.”

“please,” he murmurs again, so low it barely catches through the phone. “just… do me one last favor.”

your stomach twists. you press your fingers into the countertop, grounding yourself, because even drunk, even broken, he still knows how to thread his way under your skin

“fuck…” you whisper, already wary, already knowing. “what favor?”

there’s a pause. you can hear him breathing on the other end, ragged, like he’s working up the courage.

and then, softly, almost like he’s ashamed to even say it—“please see me. one last time. for closure.”

the word hangs there between you, too heavy, too sharp. closure. you hate how it echoes, how it tempts.

your eyes squeeze shut, breath catching. because you know what “closure” with rafe means. it’s never clean, never simple. it’s messy and bleeding and hands that won’t let go even when they should. it’s never just goodbye—it’s just another wound, maybe another desperate fuck

“rafe…” you try again, but your voice breaks.

“i need it,” he whispers, desperate now. “please. i can’t keep walking around with this weight, with you haunting me every night. i see you everywhere. i hear you in my head. i just—i just need to see you, one last time, and then i’ll let go. i’ll let you go.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. because part of you wants to believe him, part of you aches for that promise of release. but another part knows—knows that with rafe cameron, there is no such thing as “one last time.”

he senses your hesitation, hears the silence like a blade against his throat

“please,” he says again, more broken now, almost childlike. “just one last time. i swear, i swear i won’t ask for more. i just need to look at you. to know you’re real. to say goodbye the right way.”

your chest aches. your heart is beating too fast, too loud, like marcus might hear it even from the other room.

“you’re drunk, rafe,” you whisper, trying to sound steadier than you feel. “stop this.”

there’s a beat of quiet. then a low, bitter laugh, raw around the edges.

“yeah,” he says. “i’m drunk. i’ve been drunk since the day you left me.”

your throat burns. “rafe—”

“no, listen,” he cuts in, rushing, terrified you’ll hang up before he’s finished. “i don’t care that i’m drunk. i don’t care if i sound pathetic. you don’t understand what it’s like—lying awake at night knowing you’re in someone else’s bed. knowing someone else gets to hold you, touch you, breathe the same air as you. i can’t take it.”

you close your eyes, nails digging into your palm. “that’s not fair.”

“i know it’s not,” he says instantly, brokenly. “i know. but i don’t care. i can’t pretend to be fair about you. i don’t have it in me”

the weight of his words presses down until you feel like you might collapse under it.

“rafe,” you try again, softer now, almost pleading. “you have to go home. sleep this off. this isn’t—this isn’t good for either of us.”

but he barrels past you, voice cracking. “then don’t come in my house. you don’t have to come inside. you can drive—you can come here, or…or i’ll meet you wherever you want. in front of your house, in the middle of the fucking street, i don’t care. i’ll stand there and take it if your dad beats me bloody. i’ll take anything, as long as i can just see you.”

your heart slams hard in your chest, uneven, traitorous. the way he says it—reckless, raw, like there’s no bottom he won’t drop to—it shakes something inside you.

you grip the counter so tight your knuckles ache “fuck…” you whisper, but it comes out wrong—too soft, too close to giving in.

he hears it. you know he hears it.

your hand is shaking around the phone, nails pressing crescents into your skin, as if pain alone can anchor you. you know you should hang up. you know you should draw a line so sharp it cuts him clean out of your life.

but your mouth betrays you, so…“one last time…” you whisper, so quiet you almost hope he won’t catch it.

the silence that follows is devastating. for a second you think maybe the call dropped, maybe he’s too far gone to even hear you.

“what?” his voice is unsteady, thrashed raw, like those three words knocked the air out of him.

you close your eyes, guilt hot in your throat. “don’t-don’t make me repeat it.”

a sound breaks out of him, half a laugh, half a sob. you’ve never heard anything like it “fuck… you don’t know what that does to me. you can’t just—you can’t say that unless you mean it.”

“i don’t,” you snap, too fast, too defensive. “i mean—i do, but not how you think. not—”

your breath hitches. “i just want this to end. i want it to be over, rafe. and if seeing you one last time… if that’s what it takes for you to finally let me go, then fine. one last time.”

he’s quiet, but you can hear the way he’s breathing, fast and shallow like he’s just surfaced from underwater

“you don’t get it,” he finally whispers. “there’s no such thing as one last time with you.”

your stomach twists painfully. “then maybe this time we make it real.”

he laughs again, hollow, bitter. “you really think i could look at you—touch you—and then just walk away?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. “rafe—”

“say it again,” he interrupts, pleading now. “say it’s one last time. just… let me hear it.”

your chest caves in. because you know once you say it, once you give it voice again, there’s no going back.

and yet, with your heart in your throat, you whisper anyway “one last time.”

and so you start to think… even now.

he still calls you, even now.

and you still answer, even now.

you still agree to seeing him… even now.

to be continued…?

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note hiii nonnie i hope you liked this???i put my whole pussy into this 😭😭

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