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Twin Scars — Rafe Cameron

pairings — bsf!rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary — the thing about loving rafe cameron is that you learn to expect disappointment the way you expect the sun to set: predictable, inevitable, yet somehow still surprising when darkness comes.

word count — 23.1k

warnings — angst, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to [??], unrequited love (kind of), pining, very toxic friendship dynamics, medical emergency (brain aneurysm), emotional manipulation, codependency, self-destructive behavior, drug use, intoxication, mention of DUI, hospitalization of parent, details about blood, ward cameron’s d- parenting, mentions of drug dealing, the “i love you but i won’t be with you” trope, right person wrong time (?), self-sabotage, minor jj x reader, hickey mention, jealous!rafe, mentions of absent mother, a lot of blurred boundaries in friendship, a very intimate sad kiss

warnings — i have no idea if this warrants a part two or not yet please let me know what you guys think !! also not very proofread, i switched writing this between my laptop + phone so formatting may be weird in some places. this was my first time writing friends to lovers so i’m terrified of how this came out 😭😭

based on this request from @starboyev thank you so much for requesting i had so much fun writing this and i hope you enjoyed it!!

The first time you’d seen a boy cry was when you were eleven. Rafe Cameron had gone over his handlebars doing something stupid, racing you down the beach path on bikes that were too big for both of you, hitting a patch of loose sand at the worst possible angle. The sound of it was terrible; metal scraping against pavement, his sharp, loud intake of breath, then nothing for a second that felt like an eternity before you heard him make a noise you’d never heard him make before.

You’d crashed your own bike trying to stop, skinned your palms on the concrete, but you barely felt it. By the time you scrambled over to him, he was sitting up, and that was when you saw it; his collarbone area was scraped raw, bleeding through his torn shirt, his hands and knees matching. It was his face that made your stomach drop, the tears streaming down his cheeks, and he wasn’t trying to hide them.

“Fuck,” he gasped out, which you’d never heard him say before, not in front of you. “Shit, that—”

“Let me see.” You crouched next to him, reaching for his arm, but he yanked it back quickly.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t touch it.”

You pulled your hands back, left them hovering uselessly in the air between you. There was blood—not a lot, but enough—and the way he was holding himself, all tight and small, made him look younger than twelve. He looked breakable.

“Should I get someone?” You were already looking around, but the path was empty. Just the two of you and the ocean and the bikes lying twisted in the sand.

“No.” He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, mixing blood with tears as he smeared it across his cheek without seeming to notice. “No. Just—give me a minute.”

So you sat down next to him on the pavement, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, and waited. You could hear him trying to breathe through it, these shallow gasps that kept hitching. Your own palms were stinging, little pinpricks of pain where the skin had torn, but it felt wrong to mention it when he was sitting there looking like something inside him had cracked open.

“My dad,” he said finally, voice rough and quiet, and for a moment you thought he meant he wanted you to call for his dad. “He’s gonna—he’s already so pissed at me about the math test, and now this—”

He didn't finish, but you understood. You'd been around the Camerons enough to know that Ward's disappointment was something Rafe carried like a weight, something that made him try too hard at everything and still never feel like it was enough.

“We don’t have to tell him it was a race,” you offered hesitantly. “We could tell him a dog ran or something. That we were trying to avoid it.”

Rafe looked at you, eyes red and wet, and something in his expression shifted to one close to a smile. “A dog?”

“A small one. Really scared.”

“That’s a terrible lie.”

“Do you have a better one?”

He was quiet for a moment, still breathing hard but the tears had stopped flowing. “Yeah, okay. A dog.”

You helped him up eventually, both of you limping back toward the main road where you could call someone. Your mom had come to get you—Rafe said to call her instead of his dad, and you knew why—and she’d taken both of you to urgent care without making a big deal of it. The doctor had cleaned Rafe’s cuts and said he was lucky, nothing broken, just really badly scraped. You’d sat in the next chair over while they worked on him, watching how his jaw stayed tight and how his hands gripped the edge of the exam table.

He hadn’t cried again. He didn’t cry when the doctor stitched him up, or when your mom was driving you both there. But when she dropped him off at Tannyhill and his dad opened the door with that look on his face—the one that said he was going to give Rafe a lecture—Rafe had glanced back at you through the car window just once. You nodded, like you were sealing some kind of unknown pact.

The next summer, you'd been racing the same bikes down the same path—because neither of you had learned anything apparently—and you'd been the one to wipe out. Same patch of sand, same stupid speed. You'd hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of your lungs, and when you'd finally managed to sit up, Rafe was already there, crouched next to you with his hands hovering near your shoulders.

“You good?” His voice had the same edge to it as it did before he went back home, or asked if his dad had mentioned anything about him when he was talking to yours.

You’d looked down at your knee—torn up, bleeding, a long scrape that went from kneecap to shin—and felt your eyes start to burn. “I think so.”

“Let me see.”

You let him. He’d examined your knee with the focus you’d noticed on him when he tried to learn how to fix a boat’s motor when that wasn’t a necessary skill, or trying to solve impossible math problems, fingers gentle around the edges of the wound. “‘S not that bad,” he said, and you both knew that was a lie, but you appreciated it anyway. “Just scraped.”

“Does it look cool at least?” You’d meant it as a joke, trying to keep your voice steady, but it came out wobbly.

“Really cool.” He’d sat back on his heels, and that’s when you noticed he was almost smiling. “We match now.”

You'd looked at his knee, at the scar from last summer that had faded to a pale line against his tan skin, and then at your own fresh wound in roughly the same spot. Something about that had made you want to cry more than the actual pain.

“Don’t.” Rafe had said it quietly, and when you looked up, his expression had gone soft in a way that made you want to memorize it forever. “Come on. You didn’t cry when you broke your wrist in third grade. You’re not gonna cry over this thing.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

You didn't have an answer for that. Maybe it wasn't different. Maybe you just hadn't had an audience before, someone who'd remember if you fell apart.

He'd helped you up, let you lean on him as you hobbled to the nearest bench. And then he'd sat with you for two hours, missing the dinner his dad had probably already started, just keeping you company while you waited for your mom to finish her showing and come get you. He'd told you stupid stories about Topper doing something idiotic at the club, about Sarah getting into a fight about going out, about nothing and everything, until the pain had dulled to something manageable and you could almost forget about the blood drying on your leg.

Your mom had asked what happened when she finally showed up, and Rafe had jumped in before you could speak. “A really small dog ran out. She tried to avoid it.”

She'd given him a look that said she didn't believe it for a second, but she'd let it slide. In the car on the way home, she'd glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “That boy’s a good friend to you.”

You nodded, biting down a smile, as you watched Tannyhill disappear behind you through the back window.

The scars had healed the same, both of you with twin marks on your left knees, pale, shiny, and permanent.

Sometimes, years later, you’d catch yourself running your thumb over yours without really thinking—sitting during dinner or lying in bed or standing in line—and you’d wonder if he ever did the same thing. If he ever thought about that summer, about the fact that you’d crashed in the same spot like you were following some script neither of you had read. Like even your accidents were connected.

By the time you were fourteen, Rafe’s bedroom had become more familiar to you than your own. You knew which floorboards creaked (the one by his desk, the one near the bathroom) because he never wanted to ask to get them fixed, which drawers stuck (top left on his dresser), where he kept things he didn’t want people to find (shoebox in his closet, under the jackets). You knew that he slept on his stomach with one arm under the pillow, that he kept his room cold enough to see your breath when the temperatures started to drop, that the paperweight you’d given him for his sixteenth birthday stayed on his desk even though he’d laughed when he first opened it.

“What the fuck is this?” he’d said, turning the glass sphere over in his hands. There was a sailboat suspended inside, frozen mid-voyage.

“It’s stupid.” You'd immediately regretted the choice, watching his face for signs of mockery. You should’ve just given him an envelope of cash or a check like the others did. “I just—you liked sailing before… you know. Thought maybe—”

“Nah, it’s—” He’d cut himself off, jaw working like he was chewing on gum. “It’s cool. Thanks.”

He'd set it on his desk, right next to his phone where he'd see it constantly, and you'd tried not to read into that.

But you noticed everything about Rafe Cameron, had been noticing for years now. The way his mood could shift like weather, sunny to storming in the space of a phone call from Ward. All of the tells he didn't know he had, jaw clenching when he was angry, hand through his hair when he was anxious, tongue pressed to his cheek when he was biting back something mean. You'd learned to read him the way other people read books, and somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a necessity.

It was a Tuesday when his mom left. You'd heard about it before you saw him. People talked at school, and—obviously—you were the first person after Rafe people started questioning for the details.

You'd gone to Tannyhill after school, not bothering to text first because you knew he wouldn't answer. Rose had opened the door, still new enough to the family that she looked uncomfortable in the space, uncertain of her role. “He doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“Okay.” You’d shifted your backpack on your shoulder, made no move to leave.

You saw something shift in Rose’s expression, like she was only just noticing her soon-to-be-stepson’s mannerisms were like yours, the stubbornness was only Exhibit A. Her expression softened. “You can go around back. The window. Ward doesn’t want him to have visitors right now.”

The trellis to Rafe's window had become a familiar route by then. You'd climbed it enough times that you knew which parts would hold your weight, which sections to avoid. His window had been unlocked. It was always unlocked, like he was perpetually waiting for you to need the way in.

His room had been dark, curtains drawn even though it was barely four in the afternoon. He'd been in bed, still in the clothes he'd probably slept in, facing the wall. For a second you'd thought maybe he was asleep, but then his shoulders had moved in a way that told you he was breathing too deliberately for sleep.

You'd kicked off your shoes, set your bag down quietly, and climbed into bed next to him. The mattress had dipped under your weight, and he'd gone still.

“You can go,” he’d said, his voice coming out too rough.

“I know.” You'd settled on top of the covers while he was underneath, leaving that thin barrier between you.

“I’m serious. I don’t want—I can’t talk about anything right now.”

“Okay.”

“So you can—” He'd rolled over then, finally looking at you, and his face had been wrecked. Eyes swollen, skin blotchy, expression raw in a way that made you feel like you were seeing something you shouldn't. “Why are you here?”

You shrugged stiffly. “Does it matter?” You weren’t sure if he could hear the hesitance in your voice, because you were still afraid of pushing too hard too quickly.

He'd stared at you for a long moment, and you'd watched something move across his face. Then he'd shifted closer, rolling so his face was pressed against your shoulder, his arm coming around your waist like he was holding on to keep from drowning.

You'd stayed like that for hours. Long enough that the light outside had faded, long enough that you'd heard Ward come home and yell something up the stairs that Rafe had ignored, long enough that your mom had called twice and you'd texted back that you were at Tannyhill and staying for dinner, even though you had no intention of eating.

He hadn't cried. Hadn't talked about his mom or Ward or how he was feeling. He'd just breathed against your shoulder, held on too tight, and let you be there. And when you'd finally had to leave—your mom threatening to come get you herself if you didn't come home—he'd walked you to the window.

“Thanks,” he’d said quietly, you almost didn’t hear it.

“For what?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know.” He’d almost smiled, then. “Does it matter?”

After that, it became the thing you did. When things got bad—and they got bad often with Rafe—you showed up. Sometimes he called, sometimes you just knew, some internal alarm that went off when he needed you. You'd climb through his window or meet him at the dock or find him at whatever party he was using to avoid going home, and you'd just be there. Present. Steady. The thing he could count on when everything else was falling apart.

People noticed, obviously. By the time you were fifteen, the questions had started.

“So are you two together or…?” The girl was asking in your math class, someone you barely knew but felt entitled to answer anyway.

“We’re friends,” you said, and tried to ignore the way it felt insufficient. “Best friends—?” It came out like a question, and you were testing the term on your tongue the same time you were labelling it all as that.

“Right. But you’re, like, always together. And he’s really weird for you. Didn’t he punch that guy last month for talking shit about you?”

“That wasn’t—” You'd stopped, because it had been about you, actually. Some guy from the mainland had made a comment about your body at a party, and Rafe had broken his nose before you'd even processed what was said. “We’re just friends.”

The girl had given you a look that said she didn't believe you, and you'd ended the conversation by walking away. Her words had stayed with you, burrowed under your skin like a splinter. Because the thing was, you didn't know what you and Rafe were anymore. The lines had been blurring for a while now, smudging at the edges until you couldn't tell where friendship ended and something else began.

There were moments that felt like more. His hand on your lower back guiding you through crowds. The way he'd tuck your hair behind your ear when you were trying to study and it kept falling in your face. How he always knew your coffee order, your schedule, your tells. He could read your mood as easily as you read his. The night you'd fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up in his bed, tucked under his covers with him on the floor beside you because he didn't want you to wake up alone in an empty house.

And then there was the New Year’s Eve thing.

You’d both been sixteen, drunk on champagne and tequila someone’s older sister bought, counting down with everyone else at the houseparty. All around you people had been grabbing their girlfriends, their boyfriends, their crushes. And Rafe had turned to you at “three,” his eyes a little unfocused, his hand coming up to your face, and for one breathless, drunk, fuzzy moment, you’d been absolutely certain Rafe Cameron was going to kiss you.

Your heart had stopped. The world had narrowed to just his face, his hand on your cheek, the way he was looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he couldn't quite work out, especially not in three seconds.

Then he'd shifted at the last possible second, pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth—not quite your cheek, not quite your lips, somewhere in the dangerous in-between—and lingered there long enough that you felt his breath, his eyelashes against your skin, the barely-there brush of his bottom lip against yours.

When he'd pulled back, his eyes had been searching yours for something, but you'd been too shocked to know what your face was showing him.

“Happy New Year,” he’d said, and there was something in his voice that made you think he was almost scared.

“Yeah,” you’d managed. “You too.”

Neither of you had mentioned it after. Not the next day when you'd both been hungover and eating breakfast at the diner, not the week after, not ever. It had just become another thing in the box of moments you didn't examine too closely, couldn't afford to think about for too long.

By seventeen, you'd started to understand what you were doing to yourself. Started to see the pattern clearly: you rearranged your life around Rafe Cameron's needs, and he let you, and neither of you acknowledged what that meant.

You’d had boyfriends, who were brief and doomed attempts at normal that had ended all the same way. Matt, at seventeen, who’d been nice and steady and had lasted four months before sitting you down at the club to break up with you.

“I like you,” he’d said, and he seemed genuinely regretful about it. “I really do. But you’re not really here. Even when you’re with me, there’s just—someone else.”

He didn’t have to say who or how, and that should’ve been the first sign to you about how people really saw you in conjunction to Rafe. “That’s not—”

“Your phone goes off and you check it immediately to see if it’s Rafe. You’ve canceled on me three times in two months because he needed something. Last week at the party, you spent the entire night with him because he got too high instead of talking to me.” Matt had given you this sad, knowing look as he shook his head. “I’m not competing with Rafe-fucking-Cameron. I can’t do that.”

Most of the time, you’d blame yourself when a relationship didn’t work out. Some—if not most—guys weren’t that easily willing to be with a girl who put another guy’s needs so high up on her priority. But most of the time, it was also that Rafe made it practically impossible for you to hold down a relationship. He never did it on purpose, or maybe he did but never admitted it. But there was always something. Always a crisis that needed you, a night he couldn't handle alone, a moment where you were his only option and he knew exactly how to make you feel it.

The pattern was so consistent you could have set your watch by it: you'd start seeing someone, things would be going well, and then Rafe would implode. Sometimes spectacularly (a fight with Ward that left him bloody-knuckled and hollow-eyed on your doorstep at 2 AM). Sometimes quietly (a text that just said can't sleep or you around? that you both knew meant I need you and I'm not okay and please don't make me say it out loud).

And you’d go. Every single time, you’d go.

Rafe, meanwhile, cycled through girls like he was trying to prove something. Never the same one twice, never anyone who lasted long enough to matter. But between all of that, there was a girl he’d met at a party in Chapel Hill. Sienna. She was quieter, smarter, studying environmental science or something equally serious. Rafe had been into her. He’d brought her to Kildare for the summer, took her to all the places he usually only took you. You'd watched it happen with this growing sense of dread, like watching a car accident in slow motion.

Sienna had tried with you. She really tried. She invited you to things, complimented your clothes, and talked to you with what seemed like genuine interest. She made it difficult to not like her by being relentlessly nice.

“I’m glad Rafe has you,” she’d said once, the three of you sitting on the beach after a boat day. Rafe had gone to get more drinks, left you alone together in that awkward way that meant he hadn't thought about whether you two would have anything to say to each other. “He talks about you all the time.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. You’ve known each other forever, right?” She'd drawn her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. “That must be nice. Someone who knows you that well.”

“Yeah,” you’d said. “It’s nice.”

Rafe’s bedroom always smelled like him, like cologne that cost more than most people’s car payment, the cotton-clean scent of laundry detergent, and underneath it all, smoke and salt air and this musk of his skin you’d know anywhere. You’d probably recognize it blind and half-dead. You’d spent enough time in his room to have it memorized: his king-sized bed with its navy sheets that he never made, the desk covered in shit he never threw away (old receipts, a broken watch, three different half-empty cologne bottles, that paperweight you'd given him for his sixteenth birthday that he'd laughed at and then kept). The window that overlooked the dock where you'd spent a thousand nights sitting with your legs dangling over the water, passing a cigarette back and forth even though you didn't really smoke.

You were lying on that bed now, on your stomach with your chin propped on your folded arms, watching him pace. He’d been pacing for the past ten minutes, phone pressed to his ear, and you’d learned too early not to interrupt him when he got like this. Wound up. Those moments of Rafe Cameron agitation that could flip into anger or anxiety or sometimes both at once; his moods had become like a riptide you’d gotten good at reading.

“I don’t give a fuck what he said,” Rafe was saying on the phone, hand gesturing sharply even though whoever he was talking to couldn’t see him. Barry, probably. It was usually Barry these days. “The deal was three grand for the full load. He doesn’t get to re-negotiate after the fact just because—no. No, you listen to me—”

You let your gaze drift to the window. It was late afternoon, that golden-hour light slanting through the glass and making everything look softer than it was. From here you could see a corner of the pool, hear the faint sound of Rose's voice from somewhere downstairs, probably talking to the caterers about whatever party Ward was throwing this weekend. Thursday. It was Thursday, which meant you'd come over after your shift at the country club, still wearing the white polo and khaki shorts that made up your uniform, your hair pulled back in a ponytail that had started giving you a headache an hour ago.

You should take it down. You should probably go home, actually. But Rafe had texted you can you come over and you'd texted back when? and he'd just sent now, so here you were.

“Yeah, well tell him to go fuck himself then.” Rafe’s voice cut through your thoughts. “I’ll find another buyer. I don’t need his—yeah. Yeah, I know. Just—fuck. Fine. I’ll talk to him.” He hung up without saying goodbye, a habit that used to surprise you and now didn’t even register.

He stood there for a second, staring at his phone, jaw working. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand had curled into a fist. Counting down in your head—three, two, one—before he pivoted and threw his phone onto the bed. It bounced once, landed next to your hip. You didn't flinch.

“Fucking people,” he muttered, running his both hands through his hair. It was getting longer. He needed a cut but he kept putting it off, and you kind of liked it long anyway, long enough that it fell across his forehead when he wasn’t paying attention. “Every single person in this place is trying to screw me over.”

“What’d Barry want?” Your voice came out muffled against your arms.

“Money. What else?” He finally stopped pacing, dropped onto the bed next to you hard enough that you bounced slightly. The mattress dipped under his weight. “This guy I’ve been trying to get money from is trying to short him on the last pickup. Says the quality wasn’t what he expected, wants to pay half. Half! After he already moved the shit.”

You made a noncommittal sound. You'd learned that too—when to engage with his rants about deals and money and all the shit he got into with Barry, and when to just let him talk himself out. This felt like a let-him-talk situation.

“I should’ve fuckin’ known,” he continued, rolling onto his back beside you. He was close enough that you could feel the heat wavering off his body and smell his cologne. “Barry said the guy was solid but obviously he wasn’t, because nobody’s actually solid except—” He stopped, and you felt rather than saw him turn his head toward you. “You listening?”

“Mmhm.” You shifted your chin on your arms, met his eyes. They were very blue. You'd known that for fifteen years and it still did something to you, every single time. “Guy’s trying to screw you over on payment. Barry’s pissed. You’re handling it.”

Something in his expression softened, just slightly. “Yeah.”

“Want me to come with?” The offer was automatic. You'd done it before, gone with Rafe when he had to handle something, stood there looking pretty and unbothered while he did whatever he had to do. Your presence somehow made people take him more seriously, or maybe just made him feel more in control. You'd never been totally sure which.

“Nah,” he said, still looking at you, and there was something discerning in his gaze. “Probably gonna get ugly. Don’t want you there for that.”

“Since when do you care about me seeing things get ugly?”

“Since always.” He said it like it was obvious, like you were supposed to know that. His hand came up and you thought for a second he was going to touch you—your face, your hair, something—but instead he just tucked his arm behind his head. “You’re too good for all that shit anyway.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that you'd been watching him get into shit for years, that you'd cleaned blood off his knuckles more times than you could count, that there wasn't much you hadn't seen. But the way he'd said it—too good—made something in your chest constrict.

He didn't mean it the way you wanted him to.

He never did.

“Your mom still doing that charity thing on Saturday?” he asked, abrupt change that you followed because you always did.

“The gala? Yeah.”

“You going?”

“Have to. She’s making me help set up.” You wrinkled your nose. “Four hours of arranging flowers and decorating silent auction tables.”

“Sounds fucking awful.”

“It is,” you said, rolling onto your side to face him properly. He was still on his back, staring at the ceiling, and you let yourself look at him. You looked at the sharp line of his jaw, the way his t-shirt had ridden up slightly, showing a strip of tan skin above his shorts. There was a thin scar across his collarbone where he’d wiped out on his bike when you were twelve. “You could come. Make it less awful.”

“Yeah?” He turned his head to meet your eyes again. “What’s in it for me?”

“My eternal gratitude”

He snorted. “Got that already.”

It was a joke. Probably a joke. But something about the casual way he said it—like your devotion to him was a given, like of course you'd always be there—made you look away.

“You should come anyway,” you said, focusing on the loose thread in his comforter instead of his face. “Your dad’s gonna be there. Ward loves those things.”

You noticed him tense, shoulders stiffening. “Yeah, well, he loves anything that makes him look good.”

There was an edge in his voice that meant you were getting into dangerous territory. Rafe and Ward. Ward and Rafe. The central wound that everything else bled from.

“He asked about you last week,” you said carefully. “At the club.”

“What’d you say?”

“That you were fine.”

“‘M not.”

“I know, but I wasn’t gonna tell him that.” You picked at the thread. “Said you were busy with work. He seemed to buy it.”

Rafe went quiet for a moment, and the only thing you could hear his soft inhales and exhales. “You don’t have to cover for me with him.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. If he asks, you can just—”

“Rafe,” you said, eyes meeting his again. “I’m always gonna cover for you. You know that.”

Something flickered across his face. You couldn't name it or catch it before it was gone, replaced by that familiar cocky half-smile that meant he was deflecting.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

His phone buzzed between the two of you. He picked up and frowned at the screen. “Fuck.”

“Hm?”

“Topper’s having a small thing tonight.” He was already typing a response. “You wanna go?”

You should say no. “Sure.”

He glanced up from his phone, grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. What time?”

“Like nine? Gonna be the usual people. Topper, Kelce, some of the girls.” He was still typing. “Probably will get messy. Top said he got shit from his cousin.”

Messy meant drugs. Drugs meant Rafe would get high, maybe too high, and you’d end up being the one to make sure he got home okay. To make sure he didn’t do anything stupid or life-altering; to make sure he kept breathing. “Okay.”

He finished texting, then tossed his phone to the side. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“So you keep telling me.”

“I mean it.” He shifted, turning to his side to face you properly. He was close now. You could count his eyelashes if you wanted to, and you could see the faint stubble growing along his jaw that meant he hadn’t shaved today. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You’d heard it before—some versions of it—but it never got easier. Nothing could make you stop hoping for things you knew better than to hope for. “Probably crash and burn.”

“Probably.” His smile dimmed, and he was just looking at you now. “You’re too good to me.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

“Yeah.” His voice had gone soft, and he was pushing his face into the pillow now, like he wanted to bury himself there. “But it doesn’t have to be you.”

“I know.” You swallowed harshly.

Rafe looked at you for another moment, one eye opened while the other rested against the pillow, and then he was rolling away, sitting up, the moment—if it had been a moment—broken.

“I’m starving,” he announced, standing. “You eat yet?”

“No.”

“Come on. Rose probably had the caterers make extra. We can grab some before they pack it up.” He held out his hand and you took it, let him pull you to your feet. His hand was warm, calloused at the base of his fingers from—well, you weren’t sure. Lifting, maybe. Gripping his motorcycle handles. Fighting.

He held onto your hand for a moment longer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to look at him. Then, he let go and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You should take your hair down.” He nodded toward your head, like you didn’t know where it was. “That ponytail looks like it hurts.”

“It does.”

“Then take it down.”

You reached up and pulled the elastic free. Your hair fell around your shoulders and Rafe watched, tracked the movement, and you tried not to think about what it meant that he noticed these things. That he paid attention to when you were uncomfortable, when you were tired, when you needed something, but only the small things. The things that didn't cost him anything.

“Better?” you asked.

He turned and headed for the door, expected you to follow. You did. You always did.

The hospital waiting room smelled like industrial cleaner and something organic the cleaner couldn’t mask. You’d been staring at the same scuff mark on the linoleum for the past twenty minutes, a black streak shaped like a comma, and you’d counted the ceiling tiles twice. Forty-seven, or forty-eight if you counted the one that was partially hidden by the fluorescent light fixture that kept flickering every thirty seconds like a heartbeat with arrhythmia.

Your coffee had gone cold an hour ago but you kept lifting the paper cup to your lips anyway, more for something to do with your hands than because you wanted it. It tasted like burnt dirt. Like the bottom of an ashtray. You drank it anyway because your mouth needed something to do besides form the words that kept cycling through your head. Please don't let her die. Please don't let her die. Please.

Your mom was still in surgery. Brain-bleed. Subarachnoid damage, the doctor had said, like the technical term would make it all less terrifying. Fucking Latin couldn’t sanitize the image of your mother collapsed on the kitchen floor. You’d found her by the island where she’d been chopping vegetables for dinner she’d never finish making. The knife was still in her hand. There was blood—not a lot, but enough—and her eyes had been half-open, staring at nothing, and for one horrible second, the one that would haunt you for the rest of your life, you’d thought she was already gone.

The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and paramedic’s hands moving over your mother’s body with such scientific efficiency and his voice asking you questions you couldn’t process, let alone answer. Your dad was in Charlotte for a development deal, and he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Your older brother was in California and had already booked the first flight back, but he wouldn’t be in until noon. So it was just you in this waiting room with its outdated magazines (the most recent one was April, something about royal baby names) and its mounted television playing CNN on mute, closed captions running across the bottom of the screen like a ticker tape of the world’s suffering.

You’d called Rafe three hours ago.

Your phone said it was 11:47 now. You knew it was three hours because you’d called him at 8:52; you also knew the exact minute because you’d looked at the call log approximately seven hundred times since then. When he’d answered, you’d barely been able to get the words out around the panic closing your throat, but you’d managed these: hospital, mom, surgery, so, bad, come, please. And he’d said—you could still hear his voice, the way it had shifted from whatever he’d been doing (there had been noises in the background, music, people) to something more focused and immediate—“Fuck. Okay. I’m coming right now. I’m coming.”

Present tense. I’m coming. Not I’ll come or I’ll be there soon, but I’m coming, like he was already in motion and on his way to you.

He wasn’t there.

Your phone said you also had six missed calls from Kiara and a text from twenty minutes ago that just said “where are you??? are you okay???” Kie had probably driven by your house, seen your car gone, put together that something was wrong. She was good at noticing things, reading between the lines, seeing what people were trying to hide. It was what made her a good friend and also what made her the only person in your life who'd ever said out loud what everyone else was too polite to mention: that your friendship with Rafe Cameron wasn't actually a friendship at all, but something more fucked up and unnameable that was slowly hollowing you out from the inside

You should call her back. You should tell her where you were.

But if you called Kie, she would come, and if she came, she’d ask where Rafe was, and you didn’t have an answer to that question that wouldn’t make you feel like you were being flayed open by so many things all at once.

The TV above your head was showing footage of a hurricane forming off the coast of Florida. The closed captions said it was expected to strengthen to a Category 3. You watched the satellite image of the storm system, the way it spiraled in on itself.

A nurse walked by—not your mom's nurse, a different one—and she gave you a smile that was probably meant to be comforting but just looked like pity. You'd been here long enough that the staff had started to recognize you. The girl in the waiting room who was alone. The girl whose phone kept lighting up with calls she wasn't answering. The girl who'd gone to the bathroom an hour ago and cried so hard she'd thrown up, then splashed water on her face and come back out here to wait some more.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

It was Kie: i’m coming to the hospital. sarah told me. don’t try to stop me.

Sarah. Of course. You’d forgot that Sarah started dating John B not too long ago, and Sarah probably knew you were here because news traveled fast on Figure Eight. Ward most likely heard from your dad, who told Rose, who told Sarah, who told Kie.

you don’t have to come.

She responded immediately: fuck that. i’ll be there in 10.

You set your phone face-down on the chair next to you and closed your eyes. The fluorescent lights were still visible through your eyelids, turning the darkness behind them red-orange like the inside of a body. You thought about Rafe’s words again—I'm coming—and felt something twist in your chest that was too complicated to name. You were too tired for anger. It was something heavier, something that sat on your sternum like a weight.

This wasn't the first time Rafe had said he was coming and then didn't show. But it was the first time it mattered like this. The first time the thing you needed him for wasn't about him at all.

You'd been there for everything. Every fight with Ward that ended with Rafe's knuckles bloody from punching something (usually a wall, sometimes Topper, once the side of his truck hard enough that he'd broken two fingers). Every arrest, every party where he'd gotten too fucked up and needed someone to make sure he kept breathing, every 3 AM phone call that was just him on the other end of the line, silent, and you saying “I'm here, Rafe, I'm here”until his breathing evened out. You'd been there when his mom left with packed her bags and drove away. You'd been sixteen and he'd shown up at your window at two in the morning, eyes wild, and you'd let him climb into your bed and hold onto you like you were the only solid thing in a world that was dissolving.

You’d lied to your parents for him. You’d lied to the cops for him. You’d canceled plans, rearranged your life, and set yourself on fire to keep him warm.

And tonight, when your mom was in surgery and you'd needed him—actually needed him, not just wanted him or missed him or wished he was there, but needed him with the kind of desperation that felt like drowning—he'd said he was coming. And he hadn't come.

Your phone lit up again. It wasn’t Kie this time.

Rafe: I’m sorry

You stared at the text. Two words. No explanation. No excuse, either. Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Appeared again, disappeared again. You waited, watching the screen because looking down the hall to where you weren’t allowed to visit your mom yet was too much, and finally felt something in your chest that had been pulled out for three hours finally start to fray.

Rafe: Is your mom ok

You sucked in a sharp inhale of breath and typed, without thinking, where are you?

He started typing immediately.

Rafe: Something came up

Rafe: I’m handling it

Rafe: I’ll be there soon

Something came up. You read the words three times, four times, and each time they made less sense. You didn’t respond to that and set your phone down and went back to staring at the scuff mark on the floor.

The automatic doors at the entrance whooshed open and you looked up on instinct, knowing she’d get here before she actually did.

She was wearing the same clothes from earlier—cutoff shorts and a tank top, her curly hair pulled back in a bandana, which meant she'd come straight from wherever she'd been. Probably the Chateau. You'd been invited a few times, but it always felt weird, like you were crossing some invisible line. Kook girls didn't hang out in the Cut, not really. Even if Kie was technically a Kook too, she'd never felt like one. Not the way you did.

She spotted you and crossed the waiting room in quick strides, dropped into the chair next to you without asking. “Hey,” she said. “How is she?”

“Still in surgery.” Your voice came out hoarse. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d said anything or had water. “They said it might be a few hours.”

Kie nodded. “Have you eaten?”

You shoot your head dumbly, barely processing the question.

“Okay, I’m gonna find a vending machine or something. You have to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry, Kie.”

“Don’t care,” she said, then paused, looking down at you. Her eyes moved to your phone, still face-up on the chair where you’d left it, and forgotten to lock it. She looked at Rafe’s texts on the screen, and you watched her read them, her jaw tighten, and something flashed across her face that might’ve been anger or pity. You hated the latter.

“He’s not here,” she said.

You didn’t answer.

“He’s not here,” she repeated, tilting her head back to the phone, vaguely gesturing to the text.

“Something came up,” you heard yourself say, and you hated how automatic it was, how quickly you jumped to defend him even now. “He's handling it. He'll be here soon.”

“And you’re still—” She stopped herself and shook her head. “Never mind. I’m gonna get you food. Be right back.”

She walked away before you could respond, and you were left alone again with the fluorescent lights and the CNN coverage of the hurricane and the scuff mark on the floor that looked like a comma, like a pause in the middle of a sentence that would never finish.

Your phone buzzed.

Rafe: Hey please don’t be mad

Rafe: I’m fixing something and I’ll be there

Rafe: Promise

You stared at the word ‘promise’ until it stopped looking like a word at all and the letters began to float around your vision. You blinked.

You turned your phone face-down this time and closed your eyes and tried not to think about the fact of anything. Tried not to think about how your mother was going through surgery for something very terrifying, that none of your family was able to be here, that that that.

Kiara came back with a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water. She sat down next to you and opened the pretzels and held them out, and you took one even though the idea of eating made your stomach turn. You chewed mechanically, tasting nothing, and Kie didn't say anything. She just sat there, solid and present, and you thought about how she'd dropped everything to be here. How she hadn't asked questions or made excuses or said she'd come soon. She'd just come.

Your phone buzzed again. You didn't look at it.

“You don’t have to answer him,” Kie said quietly.

“I know.”

“Especially not tonight. You don’t owe him anything.”

You wanted to argue and explain that she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand that Rafe was as complicated as they come, that he had his reasons, that he was dealing with shit nobody could imagine. You wanted to defend him the way you’d been defending him for years, to everyone who looked at you with the same expression Kie was wearing now, like you were someone breaking and too stupid to see your own demise.

But you were so tired.

So instead, you just said, “Okay.”

Kie’s hand found yours, palm closing over the fist you hadn’t even realized you’d balled, and squeezed. You uncurled your fingers and squeezed her back.

And you sat there in the horrible fluorescent lighting of the waiting room, eating pretzels you couldn't taste, while somewhere in the hospital your mother was on an operating table and somewhere in Kildare County Rafe Cameron was handling something that was more important than you.

The doors opened again at 1:33 AM and this time it was the surgeon, still in his scrubs, pulling down his mask. You stood up so quickly you knocked over the bottle of water. Kie grabbed it before it could spill everywhere. You were already crossing the room, your heart in your throat, reading the doctor’s face for signs of the future, whether you still had a mother or whether the world had rearranged itself into something unimaginable.

“She’s stable,” he said, and the relief hit you so hard you thought your legs might give out. “The surgery went well. We were able to repair the aneurysm. The next twenty-four hours are critical, but she’s a fighter.”

You heard yourself saying thank you, heard yourself asking questions about recovery and risks and when you could see her, heard the doctor's answers like they were coming from underwater. Kie's arm was around your shoulders, holding you upright, and you realized distantly that you were crying—had been crying—and couldn't remember when you'd started.

“You can see her in about an hour,” he was saying. “She’s in recovery now. She’ll be groggy, probably won’t remember much, but you can sit with her.”

You turned to Kie and she pulled you into a hug, and you let yourself fall apart for exactly thirty seconds before you pulled yourself back together. Your mom was okay. Your mom was going to be okay. Everything else could wait. Except.

Except your phone was buzzing in your pocket, and you pulled it out, and there were seven new texts from Rafe, all sent in the last ten minutes:

Rafe: Fuck I’m so sorry

Rafe: I got caught up with some shit

Rafe: Barry needed help and something went sideways

Rafe: I’m leaving now

Rafe: I’m on my way

Rafe: Please answer me

You looked at the timestamp on the first message. 1:19 AM. Almost five hours after you'd called him. Almost five hours after he'd said he was coming. And something inside you—something that had been pulled tight for so long you'd forgotten it was there—finally snapped. It just broke, like a bone fracturing under pressure it was never meant to bear.

You typed: she’s okay. surgery went well.

He responded immediately.

Rafe: Thank fuck. I was so worried.

Rafe: I’ll be there in 15

You stared at that message. I was so worried. Not worried enough to come. Not worried enough to choose you over whatever Barry had needed, over whatever shit had gone sideways. Just worried in the abstract, the way you might be worried about a stranger, a theoretical person you didn't actually have to do anything for.

Kie was watching you. You could feel her looking, could feel her trying to figure out what to say.

Your fingers moved across the screen: don't.

He responded in seconds.

Rafe: What

Rafe: Don’t what

You took a breath. Then another.

don’t come. i don’t want you here.

Rafe: What are you talking about

Rafe: I’m coming

Rafe: Already omw

You looked up at Kie with a frown on your face, and she peeked over to look at the texts.

i needed you here hours ago

not now

Rafe: Come on

Rafe: It’s not like I didn’t wanna be with u

You laughed, actually laughed, and Kie pulled you by the shoulders so you could rest your head on hers.

then where were you?

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. You waited, watching the screen, and felt Kie's hand on your arm squeezing.

Rafe: I told you. Barry had a problem. These guys from Charlseton tried to fuck him over and I had to help

Rafe: It was important

Rafe: I couldn’t just leave

You read it twice, and you could feel Kie suck in a sharp breath beside you.

more important than this?

Rafe: That’s not fair

You pressed your lips into a straight line at that. The phrase he always used, the one that meant he wasn’t going to admit he was wrong, and wasn’t going to apologize in any way that meant anything.

go home

Rafe: No I said I’m coming and we’re going to talk

Rafe: You’re upset but you’re not thinking straight

Rafe: Just give me 15 min

You looked up at Kie. She was still watching you, her expression careful, like she was afraid if she said the wrong thing you'd shatter.

"He's coming," you said. Your voice sounded strange.

“Do you want him to?”

It was such a simple question, and the answer you realized was no. You didn't want him here. You didn't want to see his face, didn't want to hear his excuses, didn't want to feel the way you always felt around him lately—like you were shrinking, like you were making yourself smaller and smaller to fit into whatever space he was willing to give you.

Your mom was okay. That was what mattered. Your mom was alive and you were going to see her in an hour and Rafe had nothing to do with any of it.

“No,” you said. “I don’t.”

Kie nodded slowly. “Then tell him.”

You waved your phone loosely, knowing she was reading. “He’s not listening.”

“Then don’t be here when he shows up.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You can see your mom in an hour. So let’s go outside. Get some air. When he gets here, he can sit in an empty waiting room and wonder why that is.”

It was petty. It was probably childish. It was definitely going to make Rafe angry.

You stood up.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay."

You didn't text him again. You just walked out of the waiting room with Kiara, through the automatic doors and into the parking lot where the air was warm and thick with humidity and you could finally breathe.

Your phone started ringing almost immediately. You looked at the screen. Rafe, with the photo you'd set years ago, him laughing at something you'd said, his eyes crinkled at the corners, looking at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

You declined the call.

It rang again. You declined again.

When it rang the third time, Kie said, “Do you want me to answer it?”

“No.” You turned the ringer off and shoved the phone in your pocket. “Let him be.”

You sat down on the curb outside the ER entrance and Kie sat next to you, and for a while neither of you said anything. There was just the sound of cars on the distant highway, the humid buzz of crickets, the occasional wail of an ambulance siren somewhere in the night.

“How many times has he done this?” Kie asked finally.

You knew what she meant. How many times had he promised and not delivered. How many times had he said he was coming and then didn't show. How many times had you needed him and he'd chosen something else.

“I don't know,” you said. And then, more honestly, you added, “A lot.”

“And you always forgive him.”

It wasn’t a question, but you answered it anyway. “Yup.”

“Why?”

You'd never really let yourself think about it before. Why you forgave him, why you kept forgiving him, why you accepted the scraps he offered and called it enough.

"Because he’s my friend," you said. The words came out quiet, almost inaudible. “He’s always been my friend and I don’t know how to stop.” And that was probably the most honest thing you could give Kiara then. No defence; no embellishments about Rafe’s character people would never believe; no ignoring.

She went quiet for a moment. “You sure?

“What?” Your voice came out slightly high, furrowing your brows as you turned to look at her. “Yeah.”

“Is that it? Just friends?”

“Yes.” You swallowed hard. “We're just friends. That's all we've ever been.”

“Bullshit.” But there was no bite to it, only some form of inflection she hoped would get to you. “Friends don't act like you two act. Friends don't—” She stopped herself, shook her head. “He knows. He has to know. And he uses it.”

You wanted to argue and defend him, to explain that it wasn't like that, that Rafe cared about you, that your friendship meant something. But sitting there in the parking lot at two in the morning, your phone in your pocket with calls you weren't going to answer, your mom alive upstairs, you couldn't find the words. Because maybe Kie was right. Maybe he did know you’d do anything for him.

You finally pulled your phone out of the pocket to look at the screen. Eleven missed calls; four new voicemails; fifteen texts, and the previews on your screen read:

Rafe: Where are you

Rafe: I’m at the hospital you’re not there

Rafe: This isn’t funny

Rafe: Answer your fucking phone

Rafe: Are you seriously doing this right now?

You didn't read the rest.

"I should go back in," you said. "They'll be ready for me soon."

Kie stood up, offered you her hand. You took it and let her pull you to your feet.

“You know you don't have to do this tonight, right?” she said. “Whatever you're thinking about doing. With Rafe. You don't have to deal with it now. Not when you're—” She gestured vaguely at you, and you knew what she meant. Not when you were exhausted and traumatized and running on nothing but adrenaline and hospital coffee.

“I know.”

But the thing was, you did have to deal with it. Because you could feel it, that thing that had snapped inside you. It wasn't going to un-snap. It wasn't something you could ignore or push down or pretend hadn't happened. Something had fundamentally changed tonight. You just weren't sure yet what you were going to do about it.

You saw your mom at 2:47 in the morning. She was pale and groggy and had a bandage wrapped around her head like some sort of messed up halo, but she was alive and she remembered you, and when you took her hand she squeezed back, and you cried so much the nurse had to bring you tissues.

“Hey, baby,” your mom whispered, her voice scratchy from the breathing tube they’d removed. “Don’t cry. I’m okay.”

“I know,” you managed to say. “I know. I was scared.”

“I’m tough.” She smiled, and you could see how much effort that cost her by the way her fingertips stilled. “Takes more than that to get rid of me.”

You laughed through your tears and held her hand and told her about the surgery, about what the doctor had said, about how Dad was flying back first thing in the morning and your brother would be here by noon. Kie was waiting outside the room, giving you privacy, and when you came out thirty minutes later—your mom had fallen asleep mid-convo, which the nurse said was normal—she was on her phone texting someone. She looked up when she saw you.

“How is she?”

“Good. Really good, considering.” You felt lighter than you had in hours, like someone had removed a weight from your chest you hadn’t realized was completely suffocating you. “She’s going to be okay.”

Kie smiled, showing some of her teeth as she pulled you in for a tight hug. “I’m glad.” When she pulled away, she added, quieter, “Rafe’s in the waiting room.”

Your stomach dropped. “Really?”

“I think he hasn’t left. Been here for the past hour. I saw him, but didn’t say anything.” She paused, like she was considering her next words. “He looked pretty wrecked, for what it’s worth.”

You closed your eyes. You could picture him exactly, probably wearing the same clothes from earlier, hair a mess and sticking up in different directions, that look on his face he got when things weren't going his way with his pupils blown wide. Lost and angry and desperate all at once.

Part of you wanted to go to him to smooth things over, to accept his his half-assed apology, to slip back into the familiar pattern of forgiving him because it was easier than this. But you were so tired. Tired of easy. Tired of being the one who always bent, always understood, always made it okay.

“I’ll talk to him,” you said.

Kie looked only slightly worried, as if she’d been expecting this. “You sure? You don’t have to.”

“I know. I need to, though.” You didn't know what you were going to say, didn't have a plan, didn't have anything except this strange hollow feeling in your chest where something used to be.

You walked down the hallway toward the waiting room, your footsteps echoing on the linoleum, and tried to prepare yourself for what came next. But your mind was blank, just white noise and exhaustion and that weird calm that came after something inside you broke.

He was exactly where Kie said he'd be, slouched in one of the plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked up when he heard you coming and the expression on his face was so relieved it physically hurt to look at.

“Finally,” he said, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “Fuck, I’ve been trying to call you for—where the fuck were you?”

And just like that, the relief curdled into something else. Not where were you, are you okay, how’s everything, just where the fuck were you, like you were the one who'd done something wrong and needed to explain yourself.

“Outside,” you said, and the words came out flat. You watched something flicker across his face. Confusion, maybe. Or the first hint of understanding that this wasn't going to go the way he expected.

“I’ve been sitting here for an hour. I thought—” He ran a hand through his hair, and you could see he was agitated, that jittery energy he got when he was coming down or stressed or both. There were dark circles under his eyes and his pupils were dilated and you knew without asking he was high. Not a lot, but enough. “Kiara saw me but she wouldn’t tell me where you are.”

“I know.”

“So, what? You’re just ignoring me now? After I drove all the way here—”

“After five hours, Rafe.”

Your words stopped him. He blinked at you like he couldn't quite process what you'd said, like the words didn't make sense in that order.

“I told you,” he started, and you could already hear the excuse he’d said over text forming in his mouth now. You knew it because this conversation had gone the exact same way a hundred times before. “I had to—”

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I don’t care what you had to do.” Your voice still sounded too calm, too flat, and some distant part of you wondered if you were in shock or something. If this weird detachment was your brain’s way of protecting you from feeling too much all at once. “I needed you here, and you weren’t here. That’s all that matters.”

“That’s not—” He stepped closer, and you didn’t step back. His face went from confusion to something that might’ve been hurt if you believed he was capable of being hurt by you. “Come on. Don’t be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Cold. You’re being cold,” he said immediately, and you wondered if he’d been gearing up to say that, waiting for you to push out the question just so he could say the words to you.

You almost laughed. “I’m being cold?”

“Yes,” he said, voice rising as both of his palms went to lay flat behind his head. “I’m trying to apologize and you won’t even—”

“This isn’t apologizing,” you said, the words sharper, cutting through whatever he was going to say. “You’re making excuses. That’s the difference.”

He stared at you, and you could see him trying to recalibrate, trying to figure out what was happening. This wasn't how it usually went. Usually you were sad or angry or some combination of both, but you always felt something. Always gave him something to work with, something to push against or soothe or talk his way around. This calmness, the solidity was completely new.

“What should I say?” he asked finally.

“I want you to say you chose fucking Barry over me.” Read: You chose your drug dealer over your apparent best friend.

“It wasn’t—It’s not like that, okay? It’s not about choosing. These guys were serious, they had—if I hadn’t been there, Barry could’ve gotten hurt. Maybe killed. Was I just supposed to—”

“Yes.” The word came out quiet but final, and you watched him flinch like you’d slapped him. “You were supposed to just leave. You were supposed to come here. To me. That’s what people do when someone they care about needs them.”

“I do care about you—!”

“Then where were you, Rafe?” Your voice finally cracked, and you hated it, loathed yourself for giving him that. “So much fucking happened tonight. I thought she was already gone. And I—I called you here ‘cause you’re supposed to be my person, and you said you were coming and I believed you because I always do, and you didn’t come. You weren’t there.”

“I’m here now—”

“It’s too late.” The words hung between the two of you, and a part of you wondered if you were pushing things too far, biting off what you can’t chew. His expression shifted to something closer to panic. “You being here now doesn’t change you weren’t here when I needed you.”

He looked like you’d punched him, brows furrowing as his eyes narrowed, shaking his head. “So, what, you’re just done with me? One time I fuck up and you’re done?”

“It’s—it’s not one night,” you said as something hard lodged in your throat. You felt so tired suddenly, exhausted down to your bones in a way that had nothing to do with your lack of sleep. “It’s all the time. Every time I need you, you’ve had something more important. Every time I’ve made excuses for you, covered for you, changed my entire life to fit yours—I’m not giving up on you, Rafe. I’m just… I’m done.”

“Done.” Rafe echoed, and it wasn’t a question. It was like he was tasting the word on his tongue. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I don’t know yet.” And that was the truth. You didn’t know what came next, what this meant for your friendship, for fifteen years of history. You were sure if you took it all back right now, nothing would change. But that was the problem. Nothing would change. And you knew you couldn’t keep doing this. “I just—I think I need space.”

“Space,” he said. Then, he added, louder, “Space. Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

A nurse walking by gave you both a pointed look. You lowered your voice even though a part of you wanted to scream back at him. “Don’t make a scene.”

“I’m not making a—you know what? Fine. You want space. Take all the fucking space you want.” He said the last few words slower, and he was getting worked up now, that familiar edge creeping into his voice. The thing that turned mean when he felt cornered and trapped. “But don’t expect me to sit around waiting for you to decide you’re done punishing me.”

“Punishing you?” You stared at him, and something in your chest that had been numb started to burn. “You think this is about punishing you?”

“What else would it be? You're pissed that I wasn't here so you're making me suffer—”

“My mom almost died tonight!” The words came out too loud and you didn't care anymore, didn't care about the nurse or the scene or any of it. “This has nothing to do with you! For once in your life, Rafe, could you consider that not everything is about you?”

He flinched like you'd hit him, actually stumbled back a step. You saw the muscle in his jaw jump slightly. “That’s—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, feeling the fight drain out of you as quick as it came. “You did.”

You turned to walk away and his hand shot out, caught your wrist. Not hard, not painful, just desperate. You looked down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—the same hand that had held yours a thousand times, that had pulled you up when you fell, that had touched you in all those casual ways that made people look twice—and felt nothing.

“Wait,” he said. “Please. Just—give me a second, okay? Let me think.”

You stopped in your tracks but didn’t turn to face him fully. You could feel him behind you, taking in the moment to let the panic roll off him in waves, and you could feel the exact moment he realized he wasn’t only losing an argument, but also losing you as a whole, and didn’t know how to stop it. His palm tightened around your wrist slightly.

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out rough, cracked at the edges. “I'm really fucking sorry. I should've been here. I should've dropped everything and come, you're right. I fucked up. I always fuck up.” He paused, and you could hear him breathing, could hear the desperation in it. “But I can't lose you. Okay? I can't. You're all I have.”

There it was. The thing he always said, something to remind you that yes, you were all he had. Like it was friendship and love instead of suffocating. Like it wasn’t the clearest way for him to pretend he chose you when it really just meant he needed you to keep choosing him.

“That’s the problem,” you said softly, slowly moving your wrist out of his grasp. His hand protested for a moment, before his grip loosened, and you could see his mouth part at your words. “I’m tired of being your safety net.”

“You’re not—”

“I am.” You pulled your wrist free, finally turned to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, wild, and for a second he looked exactly like he had at fourteen when his mom left and he'd climbed through your window at 2 AM. But you weren't fourteen anymore. And you were so tired of being the person who caught him every time he fell. “You call me when you’re not okay. I’m the one you need when everything else goes to shit. But you never choose me when things are okay. I’m never the person you put first.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. You could see him trying to find an argument, a defense, trying to find the words that would make this okay, and coming up empty. Because he probably knew it was all true and, for the first time, it was laid out in front of him.

“I gotta get bac to Kie,” you said. “You should go home.”

“Can I—” He swallowed hard, and you watched his throat work, watched him struggle with something. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

You wanted to say no and set a boundary to protect yourself, to start this process of untangling your life from his. But you knew all of this—the fifteen years and the millions of things in-between—couldn’t be undone overnight.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “Maybe give me a few days.”

Rafe’s lips pressed together into a small frown as he looked to the other side, and you could see the glistening of fresh tears in his eyes. “A few days?” he said, panic creeping into his voice, like this was something impossible. “I can’t do that. I gotta—I gotta know you’re okay. Need to know we’re okay.”

“We’re not okay.” You felt something drop in your chest even though the words came out of your mouth, but they were true. “We haven’t been for a while.”

“I’m fucked up,” he said, and it came out desperate, like an explanation, like that made it better. “You know how fucked up Ward is. You know how fucked up it all is You know—” His voice cracked completely, and one single tear fell down his cheeks. “Please don’t do this.”

You looked at him. At the boy you'd known for fifteen years, the one who'd shared his toys with you when you were five and showed you his bruises when you were fourteen and held your hand through every hard thing in your life except, apparently, this one. The boy who took and took and took and genuinely didn't seem to understand why that wasn't enough. He hadn’t been the boy from before for a while.

“You did this. By making me feel like I’m crazy for expecting you to choose me over drugs and over Barry and everything else.”

His expression crumpled. “I don't know how to do this,” he said, and his voice had gone small, young. “How to be what you need. I don't know how to—” He made a frustrated gesture with his hands. “I'm not good at this. At caring about people the right way. You know that.”

“I know,” you said, and you meant it. You did know. You knew about Ward's cruelty, about the impossible standards, about the way Rafe had been taught that love was something you earned and never quite achieved. “But you can’t use that as an excuse forever. At some point, you have to try—

“I am trying.”

“No.” The word came out gentle, which almost made it sound worse. “Stop taking what you need from me and giving back just enough to keep me around. I let you because I thought—” You stopped. What had you thought? That one day, he’d wake up and see you differently? That if you were patient enough, understanding enough, and always there, he’d finally do the same for you?

You didn't even know what choosing you would look like. You weren't in love with him. You weren't. This wasn't about wanting him to be your boyfriend or whatever Kie seemed to think. This was about wanting him to be your friend. Your real friend. The kind who showed up.

“I just want you to care about me as much as I care about you,” you said finally. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He looked at you with a deep frown settling into his features like you’d asked for something impossible. “I do care—”

“Then show it.” You held his gaze, and you watched him cower under it now. “Just… prove it. By actually showing up. By being the person you keep saying you want to be.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Both of you looked at it like it was a snake. He didn't move to answer it, but he didn't silence it either. It buzzed again. A third time.

You both knew who it was.

“You should get that,” you said quietly.

Rafe tugged his bottom lip underneath his teeth. “It’s just Barry—”

“I know who it is.” You took a step back. “And you’re gonna answer it eventually. So just answer it now.”

“I’m not—” But his hand was already moving toward his pocket, that automatic response he couldn’t help. He caught himself halfway, stopped, but it was too late. You’d already seen it; his instinct, his reflex.

“Go,” you said. “Go do what he needs.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Stop saying that.” You felt something shift in your chest, that broken thing settling into a new shape. Something harder. Something that might actually hold. “You don't get to decide what's fair anymore. You don't get to take everything and give nothing and then act surprised when I finally stop accepting it.”

His phone buzzed again. The sound was loud in the quiet hallway, aggressive, demanding, impossible to ignore.

“Answer it.”

“No.”

“Rafe, answer your fucking phone.”

“Not until you tell me we’re okay.” He was looking at you with those blue eyes that had gotten him out of trouble his entire life, that made people—made you—want to forgive him before he even apologized. “Not until you tell me we’re not—” He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say leaving me out loud, like saying it would make it real.

“We’re not.”

You watched his face drop more, if that was even possible. He sucked in a sharp breath, and you knew he felt like the whole world was crashing down on him at once and it wasn’t fair.

You turned to walk away and this time when he called your name—broken, desperate, pleading—you didn't stop. You walked back to where Kie was waiting, back to where your mom was sleeping, back to the parts of your life that existed separate from Rafe Cameron and his needs and his chaos.

Behind you, you heard his phone ring again. Heard him finally answer it.

The Chateau smelled like saltwater and old wood and cheap beer JJ insisted was “perfectly fine” even though it tasted like metal. You were sitting on the porch steps with your back against the railing, legs out in front of you, watching the bonfire Pope had built earlier flicker and spit sparks into the humid night air. The ocean was close enough that you could hear it beyond the music playing from someone's phone, something with a lot of bass that you didn't recognize but that JJ kept nodding along to like it was speaking directly to him and him only.

Kie had picked you up that afternoon. Hadn't asked if you wanted to go anywhere, just showed up at your house around two with that look on her face that meant arguing was pointless. You'd slept for maybe three hours, woken up to seventeen new texts from Rafe that you hadn't opened, and when Kie knocked on your door you'd almost cried with relief at having somewhere to go that wasn't the hospital or your too-quiet house or anywhere Rafe might find you.

The Pogues had been exactly what you needed without knowing you needed it. No one asked about your mom beyond “how is she?” and accepting “she’s okay” as a complete answer. No one mentioned Rafe even though you pretty sure Kie had given them some kind of briefing before you arrived. They just folded you into their group like you’d always been there; JJ handed you a beer, Pope made space on the steps, Cleo offered you a bag of chips she’d been holding, all while they waited for the person whose house this was to finally show up.

John B and Sarah showed up an hour later, and Sarah’s appearance created a brief moment of tension in your chest because you knew Sarah meant Rafe, and probably had questions you didn’t want to answer. But Sarah had just given you a long look and a tight hug and told you that she was glad you were okay and left it at that. She settled under John B’s arm on the couch inside where you could see them through the open door.

You'd been nursing the same beer for an hour, the glass warm in your hand and probably flat by now. The sun had set maybe thirty minutes ago, that perfect summer twilight where everything looked softer, hazy, like you were seeing the world through a filter. JJ was attempting to teach Cleo some kind of card game that seemed to have rules he was making up as he went. Pope was trying to fix something on John B's boat with a flashlight and a lot of muttered cursing. Kie sat next to you on the steps, close enough that your shoulders touched, not saying anything but present in that way she was good at.

“So, what’s the over-and-under on how long before JJ gets punched?” Pope called from the dock, not looking up from whatever he was doing to the boat’s motor.

“He’s already cheating,” Cleo said, throwing a card at JJ’s head. “I can tell.”

“That’s not cheating—”

“That’s cheating.”

John B’s laugh came from inside. “JJ, you literally always change the rules.”

“I’ve got creative liberty,” JJ protested, but he was grinning, already shuffling the cards again. “Come on. One more time. I’ll play fair.”

“You’ve never played fair your entire life,” Kie said, rolling her eyes.

You took a sip of your warm beer and tried to focus on the moment, the casual back-and-forth, the easy way they all moved around each other, the safety of people who weren't asking you for anything. It should have felt good. It did feel good, in a way. But there was this disconnect, like you were watching it happen from behind glass.

“Okay, but seriously though,” JJ said, giving up on the card game and stretching out on the porch with his head near your feet. “Pope, how long on the boat? I’m trying to plan my week and I gotta know if we’re gonna be seaworthy or if I need to make other plans.”

“Define seaworthy,” Pope said.

“Not sinking.”

“Then maybe by Thursday.”

“Maybe?”

“I’m working with duct tape here, dude.”

Sarah appeared in the doorway. John B was behind her with his arms around her waist. “We’re gonna make a food run. Anyone want anything besides the usual?”

“Usual’s fine,” Kie said.

“Get those chips I like,” Cleo said.

“They don’t have those anymore,” John B said. “They stopped carrying them—like, two months ago. Where have you been?”

“Tragedy,” JJ said, shaking his head.

You smiled despite yourself. This was good. This was normal. This was what life looked like when it wasn't centered around someone's crisis.

"What about you?" Sarah asked, looking at you. "You want anything specific?"

"I'm good. Thanks."

She nodded, squeezed John B's arms where they crossed over her stomach, and they headed out. You watched them go, the easy affection, the comfortable way they existed together. Everything about this place made you want to compare how bleak it all felt for you on a daily basis for—god, who even knows how long anymore?

“They’re gonna be gone for like an hour if Sarah’s driving,” JJ said, still sprawled. “She drives like someone’s grandma.”

“She doesn’t want to die,” Pope said.

“Same thing.”

The beer was making everything softer around the edges, that pleasant buzz where the world felt less sharp. You'd switched to your second one maybe thirty minutes ago, sipping it slowly while the conversation flowed around you. Kie had gotten up to help Pope with something on the boat, Cleo, who'd wandered inside to find the bathroom. leaving you and JJ on the porch.

“You doing okay?” JJ asked, tilting his head back to look at you upside down. “Like, actually?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically, then reconsidered. JJ had always had a way of asking questions that made people want to answer honestly, and you weren’t even that close to him. “I don’t know. I’m tired.”

“Hospital-tired or life-tired?”

“Both?”

He nodded like he knew exactly what you meant. “Your mom’s gonna be good, though? Like the doctors said that for real?”

You briefly wondered where his mom was. JJ’s family life wasn’t broadcast information, at least to you. That made sense given that the most time you spent was with people who didn’t want to associate with him in the slightest. “Yeah. She’s tough.”

“Must get it from you.”

You looked down at him, at his sun-bleached hair and the easy grin. “I’m not that tough.”

“Nah, you are. You’re here.” He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows. “Hey, you want another beer? I’m getting another beer.”

“I’m still working on this one.”

“Work faster. I’ll get another one anyway.”

He disappeared inside, and you heard him rummaging around in what passed for John B's kitchen, the sound of bottles clinking and JJ cursing about something. The music had shifted to something slower, something you actually recognized—an old song your mom liked, which made your chest tighten briefly before you shoved the feeling down.

Your phone was in your pocket, silent and heavy. Two days. Two full days since Rafe had stopped texting, three days after you’d talked to him at the hospital. Radio silence. Which was what you'd asked for, technically. Space. Time to think. But the absence felt louder than all his desperate texts combined.

JJ reappeared with two beers, handing you one even though you weren't done with your current one. “Pope’s being weird about the boat. I think he messed something up and doesn’t know how to tell John B. I don’t know, I stopped listening.”

“When did you start listening?”

He grinned, then took a long drink. “Yo, Sarah seemed weird earlier today. Running around all over the place. You know what that’s about?”

You swallowed. You could only guess. “No idea.”

“Probably family drama. There’s always drama in that family,” he said it casually, and you felt something constrict in your chest.

“Mmhm.”

“I don’t know how she deals with it all. I mean, all of them—” JJ shook his head. “Ward was an ass to John B and is probably the biggest piece of shit on this island. Rafe’s a lost cause. At least Sarah got out when she did. Well, not out-out, but you know what I mean.”

The words hit you wrong, made your stomach turn over. You took a drink of your warm beer to buy yourself a second. “Rafe’s not—” you started, then stopped. What were you going to say? That he wasn't a lost cause? That there was good in him if you looked hard enough? You'd been telling yourself that for years and you still weren't sure you believed it anymore.

JJ took in a sharp breath as he turned to face you with something that looked like guilt on his face. “Sorry. I know you guys were like, friends or whatever. That’s probably not nice to hear.”

“Were?” you squeaked out, and it was almost embarrassing how openly the past tense affected you.

“Are?” JJ furrowed his brows and shrugged, thankfully not catching onto your turmoil. “Kie said you needed a break from that side of the island. Guessing that includes him.”

“It’s complicated.”

He shrugged, then took another sip as he leaned back to rest his palms against the ground. “Don’t know. To each their own, I guess. I just remember how fucked up he was growing up, and how he treated us all.”

You wanted to defend him and explain that Rafe wasn’t just all anger and entitlement. There was context to him, and underneath all that there was something you’d always thought was worth saving.

“He’s not all bad.” Your voice came out small.

JJ just shrugged again. “If you say so. But like, you don't have to defend him just because you have history. Sometimes people are just assholes, you know? No deeper meaning required.”

Was that true? Was Rafe just an asshole? Was there no good in him that people could see? Did it matter? The distinction felt important, and you needed to figure out why. But something in your chest constricted at hearing—not for the first time—how people really thought about Rafe, how they spoke about him behind his back. And there was nothing you could do to defend him to people he had actively chosen to hurt, even if you were one of them.

“Anyway,” JJ said, reading something in your expression and pivoting. “Fuck all that. You’re here now. With people who aren’t assholes. Well—” He grinned. “I’m kind of an ass, but in a good way.”

You let out a small laugh. “Is that all we’re calling it?”

He bumped his shoulder against yours, friendly and warm and uncomplicated in a way that made something in your chest ease. “Hey, Kie vouches for you. You’re basically gonna be stuck to us now.”

The sound of Pope and Kie's voices drifted from the dock, something about needing a different wrench. Cleo had settled on the couch inside, scrolling through her phone. The bonfire crackled and popped, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky.

This was nice. This was easy. No one here needed you to fix them or save them or be anything other than just be here.

The night wore on like that, with easy conversation and comfortable silences and the kind of belonging that didn't require you to prove anything. Pope eventually gave up on the boat and joined everyone on the porch. Cleo told a story about her first week in the OBX that had everyone in stitches. John B and Sarah disappeared inside for a while, came back looking rumpled and pleased with themselves.

But there was also this weird hollowness, because you'd spent two days waiting for Rafe to text and he hadn't, and the one time your phone buzzed it was your dad, and you were sitting here with people who called Rafe a lost cause like it was obvious, like it was a foregone conclusion, and maybe they were right.

And you and JJ ended up alone on the porch again, the space between you smaller than it had been hours ago.

"This is nice," you said, and meant it.

"Yeah?" He looked pleased. "Good. You needed nice, I think."

"Probably."

"Definitely." He shifted slightly closer, and you were aware suddenly of how close you were, of the warmth of him next to you, of the way he was looking at you with something soft and careful in his expression.

"JJ—"

"I'm not trying anything," he said quickly. "Promise. Just—you have really nice eyes. Has anyone told you that?"

You laughed, caught off guard. "That's terrible."

"I know. I panicked." But he was grinning, and you were grinning back, and something shifted in the air between you.

Just a possibility, maybe.

"You're drunk," you said.

"So are you."

"Fair point."

"And for the record," he added, "I think Rafe’s an idiot."

Your stomach flipped slightly at the mention of his name. "Why?"

"Because if I had someone like you—" He stopped, shook his head. "Never mind. Not my business."

But he'd said enough. And you were drunk enough that it felt good, having someone say you were worth something. Worth showing up for. Worth not being an idiot about.

Even if that someone was JJ Maybank who you'd known for approximately eight hours.

"He's not—" you started, but you didn't know how to finish that sentence anymore.

JJ just looked at you, something knowing in his expression. "Yeah. He is."

And then—maybe because you were drunk, maybe because you were tired of thinking about Rafe, maybe because JJ was looking at you like you were something worth seeing—you leaned in. It wasn't planned or premeditated. It came from an impulse that your body followed before your brain could catch up.

JJ met you halfway, his hand coming up to your jaw, and then you were kissing him.

It was nice. It felt soft. He tasted like beer and salt and his lips were warm and careful like he was afraid you'd break. It should have felt good and exciting or thrilling or like something that mattered.

But you felt not nothing-nothing. But not what you were supposed to feel when you kissed someone. Your body was there but your mind was somewhere else, somewhere a mile away, somewhere in a hospital hallway two days ago watching Rafe's expression crumple when you told him to leave.

JJ's hand was on your waist now, gentle, and you were kissing him back on autopilot, going through the motions because that's what you were supposed to do when someone kissed you like this.

But all you could think was that this wasn’t right. This wasn’t him.

And that thought—that immediate, undeniable truth—made you pull back so fast you almost knocked your head against the railing.

"I'm sorry," you said immediately, and you could hear how unsteady your voice was. "I'm sorry, I can't—I can't do this."

JJ was already backing up, hands raised, expression concerned but not upset. "Hey, no, you're good. It's okay."

"I shouldn't have—"

"Seriously, it's fine." He ran a hand through his hair, gave you a small smile. "Bad timing. I get it."

"It's not you—"

"I know." And the way he said it, you believed he actually did know. "You've got shit to work through. That's cool. We're good."

You felt like crying suddenly, for no reason you could name. JJ was being so nice about it, so understanding, and you didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve any of this.

"I'm gonna—" You gestured vaguely toward the house. "I think I need to sleep."

"Yeah, of course. Kie's probably crashed in John B's room. You can take the couch or—there's blankets and stuff. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks."

You stood on unsteady legs, and JJ stood too.

"For what it's worth," he said, and his voice was gentle, "I don't think you're as over him as you want to be."

You couldn't argue with that. Didn't have the energy to try.

"Yeah," you said. "Probably not."

Inside, the house was quieter. Kie was already asleep in John B's room like JJ had predicted. You could hear John B and Sarah in the other room, their voices low and intimate. Cleo and Pope had disappeared somewhere. It was just you and the couch and the sound of the ocean through the open windows.

You curled up under a blanket that smelled like saltwater and sun and tried to quiet your mind. But all you could think about was Rafe. The way he'd looked at you in the hospital. The desperation in his texts. The silence for the past two days that felt like a chasm you didn't know how to cross.

You'd kissed someone and felt nothing. Because the only person you wanted to kiss was the one person you couldn't have. The one person who would destroy you if you let him get close enough.

You woke up to a hand on your shoulder, gentle but insistent, pulling you out of a dream you couldn’t remember. The room was dark except for the blue glow of someone's phone, and it took you a second to remember where you were. John B's couch, the scratchy blanket tangled around your legs. Your mouth tasted like stale beer and your head had that hollow ache that meant you'd be hungover in a few hours.

“Hey,” you heard Sarah say, voice quiet and careful. “Sorry to wake you.”

You blinked up at her, disoriented. She was backlit by the kitchen light, hair messy like she'd been woken up too, wearing one of John B's shirts that came down to her knees.

You hummed slightly. “What’s up?”

She sat down on the edge of the couch, and even in the dim light you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands twisted together. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Your stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came from conversations that started like this at three in the morning. “What happened?”

Sarah took a breath, like she was steeling herself. “My dad called me. About 30 minutes ago.”

The mention of Ward made you sit up fully, the blanket falling away. Your brain was still foggy with sleep and alcohol but suddenly very alert.

“Rafe got picked up,” Sarah continued, and her voice was so neutral it only made it all seem worse. “DUI, I think? He was drunk, probably really high, too. And ran a red. Cop pulled him over and he failed a breathalyzer. They took him to the station.”

Your heart was pounding now, that familiar spike of adrenaline that came with Rafe emergencies. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. No one else was involved, thank god. But he’s—” Sarah paused, mouth twisting like she was scared to say anything. “Ward won’t pick him up. He bailed him out and got him released, but he won’t pick him up.”

“What?”

Sarah’s jaw was tight. “He asked—well, he asked if I could ask you. Said he tried your number, but it went straight to voicemail.”

Fuck, it’d probably died sometime during the night. You began sitting up, wiping the sleep from your eyes.

Sarah was tracking your movements carefully. “You don’t have to go.”

She was right. This was the opposite of space. This was exactly what you didn’t want to happen. “You don’t have to,” she repeated. “Ward’s his father. This isn’t your responsibility. It’s never been your responsibility.”

You were already reaching for your shoes. “I know that,” you said, because you did. You knew you were undoing whatever boundary you'd tried to set and that the second you showed up at that station, Rafe would take it as proof that you'd come back, that you'd always come back, that he could keep doing this because you'd always be there to catch him. But you put on your shoes anyway because Rafe was probably not okay.

Sarah sighed, but there was no surprise in her expression. “You really don’t have to.” You understood she was trying to communicate something bigger, but you couldn’t acknowledge that.

“I can’t just leave him there,” you said quietly.

“Why not? Ward did.”

You didn't have an answer for that. Or you did, and it was exactly that. Because Ward did.

“I’ll drive you,” Sarah offered when you didn’t respond.

“It’s okay. I’ve got my car parked outside.”

Sarah looked like she wanted to argue, but then she just sighed and stood up. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

“And for the record—” She paused in the doorway. “I think you’re making a mistake, but I also get it.”

He looked terrible and somehow still good in that way that didn't make any sense. His hair was a mess, sticking up in the back like he'd been running his hands through it. His shirt was wrinkled and had some kind of stain on the collar. His eyes were bloodshot and his pupils were blown wide enough that even in the harsh fluorescent lighting you could tell he was still high. But he was smiling when he saw you, this loose, easy grin that made your heart do something painful in your chest.

“There she is,” he said, and his voice was too loud, too cheerful, slurring slightly at the edges. “My favorite person. Knew you'd come.”

Something about the certainty in his voice made you want to scream.

He crossed the room in a few unsteady steps and before you could move back or say anything, he was pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you, face pressing into your hair. He smelled like whiskey and cigarettes and sweat and he had a jitter to his body that was definitely from coke.

“Missed you,” he mumbled against your neck, and his weight was heavy, like he was using you to stay upright. “Five days. Worst five days of my life. You can’t do that to me again, okay?”

You stood there frozen, hyperaware of Officer Peters watching from behind the desk, of how this must look, of the way your body was responding to Rafe's proximity after five days of nothing. Your hands came up automatically, settling on his back, and you hated yourself for it.

“Rafe,” you said quietly. “We gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” But he didn’t let go, only shifted his arm so it was slung around your shoulders, tucking you against his side like he’d done a million times before. Like absolutely nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t walked away from him. “Thanks for coming. Really. I know you're pissed at me but I knew—I knew you wouldn't actually leave me here.”

The words hit you wrong, but there was nothing you could unpack with Rafe when he was in this state right now.

“Let’s just get you home.”

“Home,” he said, trailing the word out with a chuckle punctuating it. “Can’t go to Tannyhill. Ward made that pretty clear.” He tightened your grip against his side. “Where am I going?”

You had no answer for that.

Peters cleared his throat loudly. “You kids need to clear out. I’ve got paperwork.”

Between the two of you—mostly you, with Rafe leaning heavily on your shoulder—you managed to get him out to the parking lot. The night air hit him and he stumbled slightly, laughed, caught himself against you.

“I’m so fucked up,” he announced, like this was news. “Did they tell you that? That why you showed up?”

“Something like that.”

He stopped walking suddenly, forcing you to stop too, and turned to look at you with unfocused eyes. His hand came up to your face, fingers brushing your cheekbone, and the touch was so familiar it made your chest ache.

“You didn’t respond,” he said, the sentence slurring together. “For five days. I thought—” He stopped, then swallowed hard as his finger brushed against your cheek again. “Thought maybe you were done. Like actually.”

“Rafe—”

“But you’re here now.” His thumb traced along your jaw now, and he was looking at you like you were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning. “So that means—we’re gonna be okay, right?”

You should say no. Should establish a boundary, should make it clear that showing up at three in the morning didn't mean everything was forgiven, didn't mean you were going back to how things were. But his eyes were so hopeful and desperate and lost, and you were so tired of fighting.

“Let’s just get you to the car,” you said, because that was not an answer at all.

He let you lead him toward your car, still using you for balance, and you tried not to think about how easy it was to fall back into this pattern. How natural it felt to be the person holding him up. You got him to the passenger side and he leaned against the door while you unlocked it. You opened the door and he folded himself into the seat with less grace than usual, all loose limbs and uncoordinated movements. You had to lean across to grab the seatbelt, and when you did, his hand came up to rest on your waist, thumb pressing on your hipbone through your joggers.

“You smell good,” he hummed, and you could feel his breath against your neck. “Missed that.”

You clicked the seatbelt into place and pulled back, but his hand lingered for a second longer than necessary before falling away. You shut the door harder than you meant to and walked around to the driver's side, using those few seconds to try to collect yourself. To remind yourself that this didn't mean anything. That Rafe touchy and drunk and high was just Rafe without his usual filters.

The interior of your car still smelled faintly like the vanilla air freshener you'd bought last month, mixed now with the salt air that clung to everything on the island. You turned the key and the engine hummed to life, and Rafe immediately reached for the temperature controls, turning the AC down like he always did because you always kept it too cold for him.

“So, where am I taking you?” you asked, backing out of the space. The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, just a few scattered cars belonging to the night shift officers.

“Dunno.” He'd slouched down in the seat, head tipped back against the headrest, eyes half-closed. “Not home.”

You turned onto the main road, heading toward Figure Eight without really thinking about it. “You could’ve killed someone driving like this.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point—”

“I know what the point is.” He shifted in his seat, turned his body toward you. “You lecturing me, now? Is that what we’re doing?”

“I’m not lecturing you.” Your jaw tightened slightly.

“Sounds like you are.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, kept your eyes on the road. The streets were empty at this hour, just the occasional porch light and the glow from the few businesses that stayed open late. “I’m just saying you’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself. Or anyone else.”

“Yeah, well.” He went quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe he'd passed out, but then his hand was on your thigh, just above your knee, thumb rubbing small circles against your jeans. “‘M lucky you came.”

The touch sent electricity up your spine, made it hard to focus on the road. This was normal for Rafe; he'd always been tactile with you, especially when he was like this or in those moments where his walls came down. But five days of radio silence had made you forget what it felt like, the casual intimacy of his hands on you like he had every right to touch you whenever he wanted.

“Sarah called me,” you said tightly, because focusing on your words forced you to focus on everything else. “She thought I—”

“She thought you should bail me out instead.” He laughed, bitter. “Course she did. She always knows to call you when I fuck up. Knows if she calls you, you’ll come running. Saves her the trouble.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t. Don’t make it sound like—” You stopped, because you didn't know how to finish that sentence without revealing too much.

His hand squeezed your thigh. “Like what?” he asked, and you could hear the genuine question in his voice.

You didn't answer, just focused on the road, on the familiar route through Figure Eight that you'd driven a thousand times. The houses got bigger the further in you went, until you were passing estates with gates and circular driveways and grounds that could fit your entire house three times over.

Rafe was quiet for a moment, his thumb still moving against your leg, and then he shifted closer. The seatbelt caught but he just leaned into it, pressing against the restraint so he could get nearer to you. His other hand came up to play with a strand of your hair that had fallen forward over your shoulder.

“I really did miss you,” he said, and though his words were slurred and pulled together, his voice had gone soft. “Like, actually—It was, fuck, so weird not talking to you.”

You swallowed hard. “Well, here I am.”

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, and his fingers moved from your hair to the back of your neck, playing with the baby hairs there. “I know.”

You were passing the country club now, its lights still on for the late-night diners and the bar that stayed open until two. You'd been there just this afternoon, wearing your stupid uniform and serving drinks to people just to prove to your parents you weren’t a total mess. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“We should talk,” you said. “About the hospital. About everything.”

“Not now.” His hand slid from the back of your neck to your shoulder, then down your arm, fingers trailing along your skin. “Too fucked up to talk. Can we just—can we not do the heavy shit right now?”

You wanted to say no. You should’ve insisted that you needed to talk about this, about what had happened, about where you went from here. But he was already so unsteady, so clearly at the edge of something, and you'd never been good at pushing him when he was like this. “Fine,” you said.

He nodded. “Tomorrow,” he said, and you knew it wasn’t true, but you accepted it anyway.

You turned onto a side street, muscle memory taking you toward your house without conscious decision. You didn’t want to, but you hadn’t become heartless enough to let Rafe be homeless for the night. You could manage one more night. Your parents would be asleep, and you could sneak him up to your room like you'd done a hundred times before.

“Where were you tonight?” he asked suddenly, his words bleeding together at the edges.

“With Kie and everyone.”

His hand tightened on your leg. “And who?”

“Does it matter?”

“Mmhm.” His fingers pressed into your thigh, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to make his point clear. “Matters.”

You could feel him watching you, could sense the shift in his energy even through the haze of whatever he'd taken. “Sarah, Cleo, and the others.”

“Who others?” The question came out lazy, uninterested, but you knew better.

“John B. Pope.” You paused. “JJ.”

You felt more than saw him tense beside you, his hand going still on your leg. “Huh.” He shifted in his seat, and his hand moved from your thigh to fiddle with the radio dial even though he didn't turn it on. “Since when do you hang around Maybank?”

“Since Kie invited me.” You kept your eyes on the road, the streets too familiar. “I’ve been spending time with them lately.”

“Yeah? That fun for you?”

“It’s good.”

You thought maybe he'd let it drop, but then his hand was back on your leg, fingers drumming against your jeans in that restless way that meant his brain was working through something.

“They’re nice to you?”

“Yeah, Rafe. They’re nice to me.”

“Good. That’s—yeah. Good.” But he didn't sound like he thought it was good. He sounded like he was chewing on glass.

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of his fingers tapping against your leg. You were almost to your street when he shifted again, this time angling his body more toward you.

“Your hair’s different,” he said suddenly. His hand left your thigh and came up to touch the ends of your hair where it fell over your shoulder. “You cut it?”

“No. Same as always.”

“Looks different.” His fingers caught a strand, twirling it around absently. “Pretty.”

The compliment caught you off guard. Rafe didn't usually do that. He wasn't the type to notice things like that, or if he did, he didn't say them out loud. You blamed the coke, the alcohol, the weird vulnerability that came with being this fucked up.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He made a soft sound of acknowledgment, still playing with your hair, and you tried to focus on driving and not on the way his touch made your skin feel too warm. You were turning onto your street when he gathered your hair in his hand and moved it over your other shoulder, away from him, like he was trying to see your face better in the dark car.

That's when you felt him go completely still.

His hand was frozen at the base of your neck, and you knew—with a sinking, horrible certainty—exactly what he was looking at.

“What’s that?” His voice had changed entirely, going flat.

“It’s nothing—”

“Not nothing.” His hand dropped from your neck, fell back to his lap, and when you risked a glance at him, his jaw was tight. “Who’s giving you fuckin’ hickies now?”

You didn't say anything. Couldn't, really. Your hands tightened on the steering wheel and you kept your eyes forward, counting down the houses until yours.

“Who?”

“Rafe—”

“Who?”

You pulled into your driveway, put the car in park, killed the engine. The sudden silence felt too loud. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah.” He was staring straight ahead now, not looking at you, and you watched his hands curl into fists on his thighs. “It matters.”

“It was just—it was stupid. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Who was it?”

You closed your eyes briefly, then opened them. “JJ.”

For a long moment, Rafe didn’t say a word. Just sat there with his fists clenched and his jaw working and his eyes fixed on some point beyond the windshield. You could see the muscle in his cheek jumping, could see him trying to process through the haze. Then he let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You let a fuckin’ Pogue put his mouth on you?”

“It was—it was nothing. We were drunk and it was stupid and I stopped it before—”

He let your words hang, turning to face you with an eyebrow raised, wanting you to continue. “Before what? Before he fucked you?”

“No—fuck, Rafe—”

“Did he, then? You let him fuck you?”

“No.” The word came out immediately, and you shook your head. “Let’s just go inside—”

“You get pissed at me, tell me to give you space, and first thing you do is let Maybank—”

“Stop.” Your voice came out harder than you meant it to. “Just stop. Either come inside, or stay in the car, for all I care.”

He stared at you, and you watched something in his face shutter. The anger bled away, and he nodded. “Yeah. Don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”

You both got out of the car. Rafe was unsteady on his feet, and you watched him catch himself against your car door before straightening up with visible effort. You led him to the side entrance, the one that didn't creak, the one you'd been using since high school when you needed to sneak him in without waking your parents. The house was dark, silent except for the hum of the AC and the distant sound of your dad snoring from their bedroom on the other side of the house.

Up the stairs, careful to skip the third one that groaned under weight. Down the hallway, past Owen's old room that he didn't use anymore since he'd gotten his own place. Into your room, where you closed the door with a soft click that seemed too loud in the quiet.

Rafe stood in the middle of your room, swaying slightly, looking lost in a way that made your chest hurt. He'd been here a thousand times. He knew where you kept the extra pillows, which drawer had the clothes he'd left over the years, how the window stuck when you tried to open it. But he was standing there like he didn't know what to do with himself, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tight.

“You want water?” you asked quietly. “Or I can make you something to eat—”

“I’m good.”

The silence stretched. You grabbed a hair tie from your nightstand and pulled your hair up into a loose ponytail, just to have something to do with your hands. When you turned back, Rafe was watching you with an expression you couldn't read.

“You should try to sleep,” you said. “You’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

When he didn’t respond, you turned away, grabbed an old t-shirt from your drawer. “I’m gonna change. Just—make yourself comfortable.”

You went to the bathroom, changed quickly into shorts and the soft t-shirt that was worn thin from too many washes. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, tried not to look at yourself too long in the mirror because you could see the hickey even clearer under the bathroom lights. You mentally cursed yourself for not thinking this all through. It was all proof that you’d tried to move on but couldn’t.

When you came back, Rafe had taken off his shoes and was sitting on the edge of your bed, head in his hands. He looked up when you entered, and his eyes tracked over you in your sleep clothes with something unreadable in his expression.

“You can take the bed.” Your voice shook slightly, because the statement seemed so foreign in your mouth with him.

“Don’t be stupid.” His voice was rough. “Bed’s big enough.”

You turned off the overhead light, left the small lamp on your nightstand on because Rafe didn't like complete darkness when he was coming down. The room filled with soft, warm light that made everything look gentler than it was.

You climbed into bed, staying close to your edge. Rafe lay down on his side of the bed, on top of the covers while you were under them, that thin barrier of fabric between you. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling, and you could see his jaw working.

“Rafe,” you said quietly. “Are you—”

“Just—let’s just sleep.” And he sounded so fucking tired.

You rolled onto your side, facing away from him, and closed your eyes. You tried to focus on breathing, on the familiar sounds of your room, on anything other than the fact that Rafe Cameron was in your bed and further away than he'd ever been.

You heard him shift, heard the rustle of fabric, the creak of your mattress, and then felt the covers move as he slid under them. You felt the dip of the bed as he moved closer.

His hand found your waist first. Tentative and careful, like he was asking permission without words. When you didn't pull away, his palm pressed flat against your stomach through your shirt, and he shifted closer still.

“Can I—” His voice was hoarse. He really should’ve had water. “Is this okay?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and his hand settled on your waist. Palm flat against your stomach through your shirt, fingers splayed wide. He shifted closer, and you felt his chest press against your back, the full length of him aligning with you. His legs tangled with yours, one of his knees sliding between your thighs, and his face found the space between your shoulder blades.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your back. “Missed this.”

His arm wrapped properly around your waist now, pulling you back against him until there was no space left between you. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, could feel every breath he took.

“Five days,” he said. “Felt like so long.”

You didn't know what to say to that. Your throat was too tight, your chest too full of things you couldn't name.

His hand moved from your stomach to find yours, fingers threading through yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch. He held on, brought your joined hands up to rest against your chest.

“You’re my best friend,” he said quietly. “My person. The only one who gives a shit about me.”

Your eyes burned.

“Don't know what I'd do without you,” he continued, and you could feel his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “Probably be dead in a ditch somewhere. Or in jail. You're the only thing that keeps me—” He stopped, seemed to struggle for words. “You keep me human, you know? When everything else is shit, when I'm so fucked up I can't see straight, you're still there. Still putting up with my bullshit.”

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

“I know you said it’s not true,” he said. “But you matter to me more than anyone. You know that?”

The words were making something crack open in your chest. Because he meant them, you could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he was holding you. But he meant them as friends. As best friends. As the person who was always there but never quite enough.

“Rafe?” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you’d wanted it to.

“Yeah?”

You turned in his arms then, needed to see his face. He let you turn, his arms loosening just enough to allow the movement, and then you were face to face with him in the dim lamplight. His eyes were clearer than they'd been all night, more focused, and he was looking at you with this expression that made your heart hurt. Soft and open, so vulnerable in a way Rafe never was with anyone else.

“What?” His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “You good?”

You looked at him, at the face you'd known for fifteen years, the boy who'd cried on the dock when his dad forgot him, who'd broken his collarbone and let you sit with him through it, who'd shown up at your window at fourteen when you called and didn’t want to be alone. The boy who'd become this man you were looking at now, all sharp edges and desperate eyes and so much need he didn't know what to do with it.

And you realized, with a clarity that felt like drowning, that you'd been in love with him for so long you didn't remember when it started. That somewhere between childhood and now, friendship had turned into something else entirely, and you'd been pretending not to notice because acknowledging it meant risking everything.

But lying here in his arms, listening to him call you his best friend, his person, his everything—while meaning something completely different than what you needed him to mean—you couldn't pretend anymore.

“I love you,” you said.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, soft and tired. “Love you too. You know that.”

“No.” You shook your head slightly against the pillow, holding his gaze to communicate what you couldn’t use words to.

You watched the confusion flicker across his face, watched him try to process what you were saying through the haze. His hand stilled on your face.

“I—yeah. I love you too—”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words hung between you, and you watched his expression change. Watched confusion shift to understanding, watched understanding shift to something that looked like panic.

His hand dropped from your face. His whole body went rigid against yours.

“What?” The word came out harsh. “What are you—?”

“I can't—I can't keep doing this. Can't keep pretending I'm okay with being your best friend when I want—when I need—”

“Stop.” He pulled back, and the loss of his warmth felt like losing something vital. “Stop. You can’t—you don’t mean that—”

“I do.”

“No.” He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, and you could see him starting to spiral. “No, you’re just—you’re confused, or tired, or—”

“I’m not confused.” You sat up too, pulling your knees to your chest. “I know exactly what I’m saying.” You weren’t sure where this confidence was coming from; maybe you were confident that this, all of this limbo, the back-and-forth, the constant disruption of peace, would come to an end tonight.

He stared at you, and you watched the devastation cross his face. “You can’t love me like that.”

“Why?” This time, your voice croaked, as you looked at him.

“Because I—” He stopped and shook his head. “Because I fuck up everything. You deserve someone who’s got their shit together, a guy who can actually—” His voice cracked. “I can’t give you what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need.”

“Yeah, I do.” He turned to look at you straight-on, eyes wild. “You need someone who’s stable. Someone who—everything you fucking asked me to be that day. And I can’t be that guy.”

“I’m not asking you to be another person—”

“Yes, you are!” He stood up, started pacing your small room like a caged animal. “You’re asking me to be someone who can be in a relationship, who can be your boyfriend, who can be—I’m not. I don’t know how to be that.”

You watched him pace, watched him unravel, and felt something hard settle in your chest.

“So what?” you said quietly. “I'm just supposed to keep being your best friend? Keep showing up whenever you need me while you—what? While you sleep with other people? While you get jealous when I try to move on but won't do anything about it yourself?”

He stopped pacing and turned to look at you. “That’s not fair.”

“I have spent ten years being whatever you needed me to be. I've dropped everything when you called. I've held you together through every crisis. I've canceled dates, pushed away guys who actually wanted to be with me, rearranged my entire fucking life around you. And for what? That’s not fair.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “Would it really be so hard?” you asked quietly, and Rafe looked up at the ceiling like the answer would be there.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’d be fucking impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because—” He turned to face you, and his hands were shaking. “Because I'd ruin it. I'd ruin you—" He stopped, ran both hands through his hair. “If you won’t protect yourself from me, I’m going to protect you from me.”

“That's not your choice to make,” you said, and your voice was steadier than you felt. “You don't get to decide what's good for me.”

“Someone has to!” His voice rose. He gestured at the bed, the space between the two of you. “You said it yourself, I give you nothing back.”

"Then give me something back!" You stood up too, faced him across your small room. "Stop taking and actually give me what I need for once!"

"I don't know how!"

"Then figure it out!" Your voice was rising now, too. "Figure it out, Rafe, because I can't keep doing this! I can't keep being the person you need while you refuse to be what I need!"

"What you need is someone better than me—"

"I don't want someone better!" The words came out raw, torn from somewhere deep. "I want you! I've always wanted you! But I can't—I can't keep waiting for you to want me back."

He stared at you, breathing hard, and you watched about fifteen different emotions flicker across his face. Pain, fear, desperation, something that might have been longing.

"I do want you," he said quietly. "I do. I just—"

"Just what?"

"I'm scared." His voice broke on the word. "I'm so fucking scared of losing you that I can't—I can't risk it. If we try this and I fuck it up, you'll leave. You'll finally see what everyone else sees and you'll leave and I can't—" He stopped, seemed to choke on the words. "I can't survive losing you."

"You're losing me anyway," you said, and watched him flinch. "By doing nothing, by refusing to try, you're losing me anyway. So what's the difference?"

"The difference is maybe you won't hate me." He took a step toward you. "Maybe if I don't try, if I let you go find someone who deserves you, you'll remember me as—as someone who cared about you. Not someone who destroyed you."

"You're destroying me right now." Your eyes were burning, tears threatening to spill. "By saying no. By walking away. You're destroying me." You shook your head. “Don't stand there and tell me you care about me when you won't actually do anything about it."

The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear your own heartbeat, could hear Rafe's uneven breathing, could hear the house settling around you.

"So what are you saying?" he asked finally. "You're saying it's all or nothing? I either—what? Be your boyfriend or lose you completely?"

The word boyfriend sounded wrong in his mouth, too simple for what you were actually asking for.

"I'm saying I need you to choose," you said. "Actually choose me. Or let me go so I can find someone who will."

"Let you go." He said it like he was testing the words, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "You want me to just—what? Watch you be with someone else? Watch you move on?"

You let out a chuckle, because why had you ever thought this could go any differently. “I want you to let me happy,” you said, lowering your voice. “Even if it isn’t with you.”

He crossed the space between you suddenly, hands coming up to grip your arms. Then, his hands moved from your arms to your face, cupping it almost desperately, as his thumbs brushed your cheekbones, and you realized he was crying too. You both stayed silent for a moment, his thumb brushing away your tears as they kept falling.

His forehead came down to press against yours, and you felt his breath shudder out.

“I’m gonna fuck this up,” he whispered. “I’m gonna dissapoint you.” He made this sound—broken and desperate and something close to a sob. His hands tightened on your face, and when he pulled back to look at you, his expression was devastated. “I want to say yes.”

Your heart lurched. "Then say it."

He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see the war happening behind his eyes. Fear and want and need all tangled up together.

"I can't," he finally said, and the words felt like a physical blow. "I can't do this to you. Can't risk ruining the best thing in my life just because I'm too selfish to let you go."

You felt something inside you crack completely. "So that's it? You're saying no?"

"I'm saying—" He stopped, and his hands were still on your face, still holding you like you were something precious even as he broke your heart. "I'm saying you deserve better than what I can give you. And I care about you too much to pretend otherwise."

"That's bullshit," you said, and your voice came out flat. "You're just scared."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'm fucking terrified."

"So you're choosing fear over me."

"I'm choosing to not destroy you." His thumbs brushed your cheeks one more time, so gentle it made you want to scream. "Even if it kills me."

You pulled away from his hands, took a step back, and wrapped your arms around yourself. "You need to leave."

"Please don't—" He reached for you and you moved back again.

"I can't do this." Your voice was shaking. "I can't stand here and listen to you tell me you care about me while refusing to actually do anything about it. So you need to go. Please.”

"Can we just—can we talk about this? Figure something out?"

"There's nothing to figure out, Rafe. You made your choice." Then, you added, because your chest was feeling like it was caving in on itself. “Please.”

He stood there staring at you, and you watched him realize you meant it. Watched him understand that this was really happening, that you were really done.

"I love you," he said desperately. "You know that, right? I love you so fucking much—"

"Just not enough to try," you finished for him. "I know. Now get out."

"Please—"

He crossed the space between two strides, and before you could process it, his hands came up to frame your face and he kissed you like this was the last thing he’d ever do and he needed to make it count. The impact of him—all of him—knocked the breath out of your lungs. Fifteen years of knowing him, all the years of wanting, all of it was compressed into the press of his mouth against yours.

You froze for half a second, shock rendering you immobile, and then your hands fisted in his shirt and you pulled him closer with a desperation that matched your own.

His lips were chapped and warm and you could taste the salt of both your tears, could taste the whiskey still lingering from earlier, and could taste something that was just fundamentally him, familiar from knowing him and foreign from how you experienced it all at once. Your mouth opened under his and he made this sound, low and broken, like something inside him had finally snapped. His tongue swept against yours and your knees went weak, and if he hadn't been holding you up you would have fallen.

One of his hands slid from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the strands and gripping tight, possessive and anchoring. His other hand moved to your waist, pulling your body flush against his, and you felt the stature of him pressed against you from chest to hip. You felt his heartbeat hammering against your own. You felt the slight tremor in his hands that meant he was barely holding himself together.

You had kissed people before. Had kissed boys who wanted you, who tried to make it good, who did all the right things with their mouths and hands. But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like your entire body was waking up after years of sleep. Every nerve ending was firing at once.

He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, deepening the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. The sound seemed to undo something in him because suddenly he was kissing you harder, more desperately, like he was trying to crawl inside you, fuse your bodies together so you couldn't leave.

Your back hit the wall—you hadn't even realized he was walking you backward—and the solid surface behind you made everything more intense. You were trapped between the wall and Rafe's body, surrounded by him completely, and it should have felt claustrophobic but it didn’t.

His mouth left yours and you almost protested, but then his lips were on your jaw, your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that made you gasp and arch into him. His teeth grazed your skin and you felt it everywhere, felt it in your fingers and your toes and low in your stomach where something hot and desperate was building.

“Rafe,” you breathed, and your voice sounded all wrecked and broken.

He made a sound against your neck that might have been your name or a curse. His hand on your waist slid under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against your bare skin, and the contact made you both shudder. His hand was warm and calloused and when his thumb brushed against your ribs you felt goosebumps break out across your entire body.

He kissed back up your neck, along your jaw, found your mouth again and kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. Like he was trying to brand this moment into his brain so he'd never forget. Your hands moved from his shirt to his face, cradling his jaw, and you felt the stubble there rough against your palms. His jaw was working, the tension in it, the way he was holding himself back from something.

When he finally pulled back, just inches, you were both breathing hard. His forehead pressed against yours and you could feel his breath coming in harsh pants against your swollen lips. His eyes were closed, face twisted in something that looked like pain.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, I—"

You waited for him to finish. Waited for him to say something, anything, that would make this make sense. That would tell you what this meant, where you went from here, whether this changed anything.

His eyes opened and he looked at you, and what you saw there made your chest ache. Want and fear and love and grief all tangled up together, and underneath it all, resignation.

"I can't," he whispered, and you felt the words like a knife between your ribs. His hand tightened in your hair, like he couldn't quite bring himself to let go yet. "I can't do this. Can't be with you. Even though I—even though I want—" He stopped, seemed to choke on the words.

You stared at him, at this boy who had just kissed you like you were his everything, who was still holding you against the wall with his body pressed to yours, who was looking at you like you were the sun and it was killing him.

“Then why’d you kiss me?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“Because I’m being selfish,” he said and his voice broke. “I wanted to know what it felt like. Just once. Before I—" He stopped, closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that wasn't fair to you.”

You felt your hand cover your mouth as you tried to hold something back. “No. It wasn’t,” you agreed.

His thumb came up to brush them away, the gesture so tender it made you want to sob. “I'm gonna let you go now,” he said quietly. “I'm gonna step back and walk out that door. And you're gonna let me. Okay?”

When had the tables turned? Wasn’t it you who was trying to get him to leave? Nothing felt right, nothing was the way it was supposed to be. “Rafe—”

He pulled back slowly, his hands sliding from your face and your waist, and the loss of his touch felt catastrophic. You watched him take one step back. Two. Watched him put distance between your bodies even though every line of him looked like it was taking physical effort.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice was steady even though his hands were shaking. “I love you too much to let myself have this.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab him and kiss him again and make him see that he was wrong, that you could make this work, that loving each other was enough.

But you could see it in his eyes, the certainty, the resignation, the bone-deep belief that he would destroy anything good in his life.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

“Okay.” He nodded, took another step back. “Okay.”

He turned toward the door, and you watched him walk away from you. You looked at the way his shoulders tight with tension, watched his hands clench into fists at his sides, watched him leave.

You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, pulled your knees to your chest, and let yourself shatter completely.

Because now you knew, you knew exactly what it felt like to kiss Rafe Cameron, to be wanted by him, to have him look at you like you were everything. And you'd never get to have it again.

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