Clementine 

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚ ˚୨୧

My work:

Squid game

The gas station lights buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. You sat on the curb outside the convenience store, knees pulled to your chest, the concrete cold through your thin dress. The hem had ridden up hours ago but you didn’t care. Your heels were kicked off beside you, one strap broken from when you’d stumbled out of the party. The night air smelled like gasoline, stale beer, and the faint sweetness of your own vanilla perfume clinging desperately to your skin.

You were drunk. The world felt soft and blurry around the edges, but your thoughts stayed painfully sharp. Your best friend’s voice still echoed in your head, the ugly things she’d said, the way her face had twisted when she told you to grow up. You had laughed in her face then, but now the laugh was gone and all that was left was the hollow ache in your chest.

Your phone screen glowed weakly in your lap. Uber still said twelve minutes. You refreshed it again. Still twelve. The little car icon hadn’t moved in forever.

You tipped your head back against the brick wall and closed your eyes. The spinning started immediately so you opened them again. A moth kept throwing itself at the fluorescent light above you, over and over, until it finally fell to the ground twitching. 

Headlights swept across the lot. You didn’t look up at first. Just another stranger stopping for gas or cigarettes or whatever people did at 1:17 a.m.

But the truck stopped right in front of the pumps closest to you. The engine cut off. You felt the shift in the air before you even saw him.

Rafe Cameron stepped out.

He looked the same as always. Tall, broad, expensive hoodie hanging off his shoulders like it cost more than your rent. Hair messy from the wind, eyes already scanning the lot like he owned it. When his gaze landed on you, something flickered across his face. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over to the pump and started filling up his truck, the numbers on the display clicking higher and higher. You could smell the gasoline mixing with his cologne. It felt familiar in the worst way.

After a minute he glanced over at you again. His voice came out low, rough around the edges like he’d been drinking too.

“What are you doing out here, baby?”

You laughed once. Soft. Bitter. The sound scraped your throat.

 “Waiting for my Uber.”

He nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. The pump clicked off. He didn’t move to put the nozzle back. Just stood there looking at you, eyes dragging over your bare legs, your smudged mascara, the way your dress clung to you from the humidity.

“You look fucked up,” he said. Not mean. Just honest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. You pulled your knees closer to your chest. “Rough night.”

He leaned against the truck, arms crossed. The vape in his hand glowed red as he took a slow hit. Smoke curled out between his lips and disappeared into the night.

“Fight with your friend again?”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged. He always knew. Somehow, he always knew when you were like this, when the world felt too heavy, and you wanted someone to make it go away for a little while. Even if that someone was him.

Rafe took another hit. Exhaled slow.

“I can drive you,” he said. Simple. Like it was nothing. “Wherever you’re going. Save the money.”

You shook your head. The movement made the parking lot tilt. 

“It’s fine. Uber’s coming in like… ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” he repeated. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You really wanna sit here alone for ten minutes looking like that?”

You didn’t answer. Your fingers found the hem of your dress and twisted it. The fabric was damp from the ground. You felt exposed. Seen. 

He stepped closer. The glow from the station lights caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on you.

“Come on,” he said softer. “Get in the truck. I’ll take you home. Or wherever. Doesn’t matter.”

You looked up at him. Really looked. He was offering more than a ride. He always did. Bottles of expensive vodka. Little orange pills that made everything fuzzy and sweet. Weed so strong it knocked you out for hours. Things that made you feel special. Wanted. 

Your phone buzzed in your lap. Uber still said twelve minutes.

You bit your lip. Hard.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Rafe’s face didn’t change much, but you saw the small, satisfied shift in his eyes. He opened the passenger door for you. The truck smelled like him; leather, cologne, and weed. You climbed in slowly, careful not to flash him more than you already had. He closed the door behind you like he was sealing something.

When he got in on the driver’s side, the truck felt smaller. He started the engine, and the low rumble vibrated through the seat.

“Where to?” he asked, glancing over at you.

You shrugged. “Anywhere but here.”

He let out a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. His hand squeezed your thigh once, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he was there.

“Anywhere, huh?” he said. “That’s dangerous. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the road, the way the yellow lines disappeared under the truck. Rafe took another slow hit from his vape before he spoke again.

“I got some people at the house,” he continued. Casual. Like it was nothing. “Topper, Kelce, couple girls. Nothing crazy. Just drinking. Smoking. You should come.”

You turned your head slightly. The dashboard lights caught the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed on the road but kept flicking back to you. You knew what hanging out meant with Rafe. Bottles on the counter. Lines cut neatly on the marble. Music loud enough to drown out the thoughts in your head. 

You should have said no. You had work tomorrow. You had told yourself you were done chasing this feeling. But the thought of going home alone, sitting in your quiet room with nothing but your own thoughts and the memory of your best friend’s angry voice… it felt worse than anything.

So you didn’t say no.

Instead, you looked over at him and whispered, “Okay.”

Rafe’s mouth curved into that small, satisfied smirk he got when he knew he had you. His hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb brushing the hem of your dress.

“Yeah?” he said, voice dropping lower. “Good. Because I wasn’t really asking.”

The truck sped up just a little. You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes. The spinning started again, so you opened them. Rafe’s hand stayed on your leg the whole time, heavy and warm, like an anchor. 

After a few minutes, he spoke again, casual, like he was talking about the weather.

“You must have really had a shit night. That friend of yours always acts like she’s better than everybody?”

You nodded once. Your throat felt tight.

 “Yeah. We got into it. She said some stuff.”

Rafe made a low sound in his throat. 

“Fuck her. She doesn’t know shit about you. Not like I do.”

His fingers flexed on your thigh. Not painful. Just enough to make you feel it.

“You know you’re better off without her, right?” he continued. “All those Pogues do is drag you down. Make you think you need to be some sad little victim. You don’t need that. You got me.”

You stayed quiet. The words felt too heavy to argue with right now. Rafe took it as agreement.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze. You kept your eyes on the passing trees, the way the dark blurred into streaks of black and silver. Every so often, Rafe’s hand would drift higher, thumb slipping under the hem of your dress, brushing bare skin. You didn’t stop him. There was something comforting about the way he touched you. 

When you pulled up to the Cameron house, the lights were already on. Music thumped low from inside. Rafe parked in the circular driveway and killed the engine. For a second, he just sat there, looking at you in the dark.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked. Softer this time.

You nodded. Your fingers found the back of your neck again, pulling gently at the strands there. The sting helped. It always did.

“Yeah,” you lied. “I’m good.”

He leaned over and kissed your temple. Slow. Lingering. His lips were warm against your skin.

“Alright. Let’s go inside.”

You followed him up the wide front steps. The door was already unlocked. Topper was sprawled on the big leather couch, laughing at something on his phone. Kelce was pouring drinks at the kitchen island. Two girls you didn’t recognize were sitting on the counter, legs swinging, eyes glassy and bright.

Rafe’s hand stayed on your lower back as he guided you in. 

“Look who I found,” he said, voice loud enough to cut through the music. “She was sitting outside the gas station.”

Topper looked up and grinned. “No shit. Rough night?”

You forced a small smile. “Something like that.”

One of the girls handed you a red cup without asking. The liquid inside was dark and sweet. You took a long sip. It burned going down, but the burn felt good. Familiar. You chased it with another sip, then another. The alcohol mixed with whatever was already in your system and made the edges of the room soften just a little more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The music pulsed low and heavy through the house, bass vibrating up through the floor and into your bones. Everything felt soft and distant now, like you were floating just above your own body. You were on Rafe’s lap on the big leather couch, your dress riding high on your thighs, his arm locked around your waist like a seatbelt. His chest rose and fell against your back, warm and steady. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and erratic from whatever he’d done earlier.

You didn’t remember how you got here exactly. One minute you were standing near the kitchen, the next Rafe had pulled you down onto him without asking, murmuring something about how you looked better close. You were too drunk to argue. The pill from earlier had melted the edges of everything into something warm and blurry. Your head felt heavy. Your thoughts moved slow, like swimming through thick honey.

Rafe’s hand rested high on your thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of your dress every so often. He wasn’t hiding it. Topper glanced over once and smirked but said nothing. One of the girls raised her eyebrows but looked away when Rafe stared at her. He kept feeding you drinks. Every time your cup got low he’d take it from your hand, refill it himself, and press it back to your lips like you were something he owned. “Drink,” he’d say quietly, almost sweet. You did. The liquor burned less each time. Everything burned less.

You were so drunk you barely registered the way his fingers kept moving higher, brushing bare skin. It felt far away. Like it was happening to someone else.

The brunette girl sitting on the arm of the couch tilted her head and looked at you with a lazy, half-drunk smile. “You always look kinda sad, even when you’re smiling. Resting sad girl face or something?”

You laughed it off, the sound weak and floaty. “Yeah… that’s just my face.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt Rafe’s whole body go rigid behind you. His hand stopped moving on your thigh. The air around him changed, like the temperature dropped.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just sat there for a long second, breathing steady against your back. Then he stood up slowly, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. His grip on your arm was firm but not rough. Not yet. He guided you toward the kitchen with a hand on your lower back, smiling at the group like everything was normal.

“Come on, baby,” he said casually. “Let’s get you another drink.”

The others went back to talking, but you could feel their eyes on you. Curious. Watching.

In the kitchen, Rafe pulled you around the island, still in full view of the living room. He kept one hand on your lower back, the other reaching for the small mirror on the counter. A thin white line was already cut neat across it. He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared down at the powder like he was thinking.

“You embarrassed me out there,” he said quietly. His voice was low, controlled, the way it got when he was really angry but didn’t want anyone else to know. “Laughing like that. Looking all sad in front of my friends. Acting like you don’t want to be here.”

You tried to focus on his face, but the room kept tilting. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean-”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to your lips. Gentle. Warning. “You’re gonna fix it. Right now. In front of everyone. Show them you’re happy to be here. Show them you’re here with me.”

He turned you toward the mirror. His hand stayed on the back of your neck, not pushing hard, just holding you there. Firm. Unyielding. You could feel the others watching from the couch. No one said anything. No one stopped him.

“I don’t… I can’t,” you whispered. Your voice sounded far away. “I’m already too fucked up.”

Rafe leaned in close, lips brushing your ear so only you could hear. His breath was hot against your skin.

“You can,” he said softly. “And you will. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna take you upstairs and remind you why you should have. And I won’t be nice about it.”

His fingers flexed on the back of your neck. Not painful. Not yet. Just enough to make you understand.

You leaned down. The burn hit sharp and chemical. Your head snapped back. The room spun harder. Rafe’s hand stayed on your neck the whole time, steady, like he was proud of you. Like he owned you.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s my girl.”

He turned you around slowly, pulling you back against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist again, tight. He kissed the side of your head in front of everyone, soft and sweet, as if nothing had happened.

“Smile,” he whispered against your hair. “Act like you’re happy.”

You forced your lips into a smile. It felt like plastic.

The group went back to talking like nothing had happened. But you could feel their eyes on you. Curious. Pitying. Amused.

Rafe kept you close the rest of the night. Every time you tried to pull away even a little, his fingers dug in harder. His hand stayed under your dress, higher now, touching you openly while he laughed with Topper like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You were so drunk you barely registered it.

But somewhere deep down, under all the haze and numbness, you felt it.

The slow, quiet humiliation.

The way he was marking you.

The way everyone saw it.

And no one did anything to stop it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The music had been turned down low, nothing but a slow bass thumping through the walls now. topper sprawled on the couch scrolling his phone, Kelce mixing one last drink at the island, and the two girls whose names you kept forgetting laughing softly about something on their screens. 

You were still leaning against Rafe near the front door, head heavy, legs unsteady. The silence felt louder than the music had. You looked up at him, voice slurred and tired.

“Can you take me home?” you asked. “Please. I’m really fucked up.”

Rafe nodded right away, an easy smile sliding into place for the others still lingering by the door. “Yeah, of course. Let’s get you home.”

Topper clapped him on the back as he left. “See you later, man. Take care of her.”

Rafe smiled that perfect Kook smile. “Always do.”

The second the door shut and they were gone, the smile disappeared.

His hand tightened on your lower back, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He didn’t move toward the truck. He just stood there in the quiet foyer, breathing through his nose, staring at the closed door like he was trying to decide something.

You shifted on your feet, the room tilting slightly. “… you said you’d take me home.”

He turned to you slowly. His eyes were dark, glassy from everything he’d done tonight. The polite mask was completely gone.

“You embarrassed me,” he said. Voice low. Flat. Dangerous. “In front of my friends. Sitting there looking all depressed like I dragged you there against your will. Laughing at that bitch’s joke like it was funny. Like you didn’t even want to be there with me.”

You blinked slowly, trying to catch up. The words felt far away. Your head was still spinning from the drinks and the pill. “I wasn’t… that’s just my face. I was tired. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Shut up.” His voice cut through yours, sharp and cold. “You think I didn’t see it? The way you were acting? Like some sad fucking charity case I picked up off the street. You made me look weak.”

You tried to step back, but his hand on your lower back kept you there. Your stomach twisted. The emptiness from earlier ached in a dull, hollow way. You felt sick. Scared. Confused. You didn’t understand why he was so angry. You had done everything he wanted. You had smiled. You had taken the line. You had let him touch you in front of everyone.

“I said I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled, voice thick with alcohol. “That’s just my face. Why the fuck do you care what one person said?”

Rafe’s jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump. His hand slid from your lower back to your arm, gripping hard.

“Because you’re with me,” he said, voice dropping lower. “You’re supposed to act like you’re happy to be with me. Not like some miserable bitch who doesn’t want to be there.”

You tried to pull your arm away but he held tighter. The irritation was starting to burn through the haze. You were drunk. Really drunk. And the more he kept going, the more defensive you felt.

“You’re not my man,” you snapped, words slurring together. “I’m not about to argue with you about this. I said I didn’t mean to. Get out my face, Rafe. I’m calling an Uber.”

You reached for your phone in your bag, fingers clumsy. The room kept tilting. You just wanted to go home. You just wanted this night to be over.

Rafe’s eyes flashed. Something ugly and wounded crossed his face. He snatched the phone from your hand and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a loud crack.

“You’re not calling shit,” he snarled. “You think you can talk to me like that? After I let you come here? After I gave you everything tonight? All that and now you’re acting like you can just leave?”

He grabbed your face hard, fingers digging into your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, furious.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he hissed. “You don’t get to act sad in front of my friends and then act like you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You tried to pull away but he was stronger. “Rafe, stop-”

He slapped you.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the quiet house. Your head snapped to the side. Pain exploded across your cheek. You stumbled back, hand flying up to your face. Tears spilled down your cheeks instantly.

Before you could recover, he grabbed you again, slamming you against the wall. Your back hit hard. The air rushed out of your lungs. He was on you in seconds, body pinning you there, one hand gripping your wrists above your head.

“You made me look weak,” he snarled, face inches from yours. “You made me look like I can’t even keep my own girl happy. Like I’m forcing you to be here.”

He ripped your dress down the front. The fabric tore loudly. Cool air hit your skin. You gasped, trying to twist away, but he was too heavy.

“Rafe, please-”

“Shut up.” He shoved your dress up around your waist, yanking your underwear down roughly. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to pretend like you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He pushed into you hard, no warning, no gentleness. You cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He fucked you rough and angry, hips slamming into yours, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other gripping your jaw so you had to look at him.

“You embarrassed me,” he panted, voice breaking between thrusts. “You always embarrass me. You think you’re better than me? You think you can sit there looking miserable and I won’t do anything about it?”

Tears streamed down your face. The pain mixed with the alcohol and the pill made everything feel distant and too sharp at the same time. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe right. All you could do was take it.

He finished inside you with a low groan, hips stuttering. For a second, he stayed there, breathing hard against your neck. Then he collapsed against you, still inside you, arms wrapping around your body like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You made me do that,” he whispered, voice cracking. Tears wet your shoulder. “You always make me like this. Why do you always make me like this?”

He held you tighter, crying softly into your neck while you stood there shaking, dress torn, body aching, the weight of him crushing you against the wall.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

You just stared at the wall behind him, fingers twitching like they wanted to pull at your hair, while Rafe leaned against you and whispered the same thing over and over.

“You made me do that. You made me.”

And the house stayed quiet.

Like nothing had happened at all.

…………….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Downstairs, your mom’s voice floated up the stairs, soft and uncertain.

“Honey? Rafe said… he said you’re pregnant?”

The words landed in your chest like stones dropping into deep water.

You stayed sitting on the edge of your bed, knees pressed together, one hand drifting behind your head without thinking. Your fingers found the strands at the nape of your neck and pulled. Hard. The sharp sting grounded you for half a second before the panic rushed back in. You twisted the hair tighter between your fingertips, pulling again, feeling the roots give way. It was the only thing that made sense right now.

Your mom’s footsteps came up slowly. Each creak of the old stairs made your stomach twist harder.

She stopped in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame like she needed it to hold herself steady. Her eyes were wide, searching your face, already glistening.

“Is it true?” she asked quietly.

You swallowed. The lump in your throat felt like it had been there for weeks. Your fingers kept working at the back of your head, pulling, tugging, the little pricks of pain the only thing keeping you from floating away completely.

“Yeah,” you whispered. Your voice sounded small. Foreign. “It’s true.”

Your mom stepped inside and sat on the very edge of the bed, close but not touching you. She always did that when things got heavy. Like she wanted to comfort you but didn’t know where to start anymore.

You kept pulling at your hair. The strands came loose between your fingers, soft and warm. You didn’t stop.

“I don’t want it, Mom.”

The sentence hung between you both. Heavy. Ugly.

Your mom’s breath caught. She looked down at her hands, twisting her wedding ring the way she did when she was trying not to cry.

“Oh, honey…” She let the words trail off, then tried again. “You’re sure? How far along are you?”

She looked down from your eyes to your stomach with a worried almost tired expression.

 “I mean, you can't be that far, and things like this… they change you. Rafe seems really excited. He's always so sweet to you…He's already talking about helping. Making sure you and the baby would be taken care of. You wouldn’t have to worry about money or housing or any of that ever again.”

You laughed once. A short, broken sound that scraped your throat raw. Your fingers yanked harder at the back of your head. More strands came free.

“I can’t do this,” you said. Your voice cracked. “I’m not ready. It's not even just about Rafe. There's things I still wanna do. I've only traveled with the Camerons; I don't have a degree yet. I mean, shit, I haven't even had an actual job, yet mom, and now there’s this baby, and I just… I can’t bring a kid into all of this mess. I can’t.”

You didn’t tell her the worst parts. You couldn’t. Even now, some sick, stupid part of you couldn't. After everything, you still remembered the way he cried in your lap earlier, the way he said he loved you like it physically hurt him. You hated him, and you loved him, and the two feelings twisted together so tight you couldn’t breathe.

“But honey, if you keep it, you won't ever need a ‘real job’.”

Your mom reached out and gently touched your knee. Her hand was warm. Familiar. It almost made you cry.

“We’re not going to force you into anything,” she said carefully. “But sweetheart… abortion? That’s forever. And Rafe… he’s a Cameron. You could have a future. Stability. For you and the baby.”

You stood up so fast the room tilted. Your fingers were still buried in the hair at the back of your head, pulling, pulling. The sting had turned into a dull burn, but you couldn’t stop. It felt like the only honest thing left in your body.

“I don’t want that future,” you whispered. Then louder, “I don’t want any of this.”

Your dad appeared in the doorway then, silent, watching. He looked exhausted..

He didn’t yell. He rarely did.

“We’ll support you no matter what,” he said quietly. “But you need to really think about this… that baby changes everything.”

The weight in your stomach twisted again. Sharp. Alive.

You turned toward the window without meaning to. The streetlight outside cast a pale glow over everything. Rafe’s truck was still there. Parked across the street, engine running low, exhaust curling in the cool night air. 

Even from here, you could see the way his shoulders were tense. The way he hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. Waiting. Patient. Like he already knew how this night would end.

Your breath caught.

He looked up. Your eyes met through the glass. For a second, the world narrowed to just him, the boy who used to make your heart race, the boy who pinned you against walls and cried in your lap and told you God gave him this baby.

You turned away fast. The room felt too small. Your fingers yanked harder at the back of your head. A few more strands came loose, caught between your knuckles.

“I can’t breathe,” you muttered.

You pushed past your parents, feet moving before your brain caught up. Down the stairs. Through the living room. Out the back door into the yard. The cold night air hit your face like a slap. You sucked it in desperately, chest heaving, fingers still tangled in your hair.

Rafe’s truck was still there.

Still waiting.

You turned and ran back inside. Up the stairs. Slammed your bedroom door behind you and leaned against it, sliding down until you were sitting on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest.

The silence in your room pressed in so thick it felt like it had weight.

You stayed on the floor for a long minute, back against the door, knees drawn tight to your chest. Your fingers were still tangled in the hair at the back of your head, pulling, twisting, the sharp little pops of pain the only thing keeping your thoughts from spinning completely out. Strands kept coming loose between your knuckles. You didn’t care. It was better than feeling nothing.

Eventually, you forced yourself up. Your legs felt shaky, like they belonged to someone else. You crossed to the mirror above your dresser without really deciding to. The girl looking back at you made your stomach drop.

Your eyes were swollen and red, puffy from the tears you hadn’t let fall all the way. Cheeks flushed and blotchy. Lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Your hair was a mess at the nape, pieces sticking out where you’d yanked too hard. You looked wrecked. Like someone who had already lost.

You stared at her, at you, and felt a wave of something ugly rise in your throat. This was what Rafe saw when he looked at you now. This was what your parents saw. This was what everyone would see if you kept falling apart.

You turned away fast.

Grabbed the oversized black hoodie from the back of your chair and pulled it on. The fabric smelled like your detergent and faint traces of Rafe’s cologne from the last time he’d worn it. You tugged the hood up over your head, cinching it tight. It felt like small, useless armor, but it was something.

Your hands were still shaking when you opened your bedroom door.

Downstairs was quiet. Your parents had retreated to the kitchen. You could hear the low murmur of their voices, but couldn’t make out the words. Good. You didn’t want to explain anything else tonight.

You slipped out the front door.

The night air hit cold and sharp. It stung your swollen eyes and made the skin on your face feel tight. Rafe’s truck was still parked across the street, engine idling low, exhaust curling lazily in the streetlight. You could see the faint red glow of his vape through the cracked driver’s side window. Smoke drifted out in slow, steady clouds.

He was waiting.

You crossed the street with your head down, hood pulled low, arms wrapped around yourself. Your fingers found the strings of your hoodie and twisted them tight. Each step felt heavier than the last.

Rafe looked up the second you got close. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy. He looked exhausted. Wrecked. But when he saw you, something shifted in his face, like relief mixed with that sharp edge he could never quite hide.

He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open.

“Get in,” he said. Voice rough but soft. The same tone he used when he was trying to be careful.

You hesitated for half a second, then climbed in. The seat was warm. The truck smelled like his cologne and weed. You pulled the door shut. The click sounded final.

Rafe watched you for a long moment. The vape glowed again as he took a slow hit, smoke curling out between his lips before he spoke.

“You came out,” he said quietly. Almost surprised. “I thought you were gonna make me sit here all night.”

You kept your eyes on the dashboard. Your fingers were back at the nape of your neck again, pulling gently at the strands under the hood. The sting helped. It kept you from completely dissociating.

“I don’t want my parents involved in this anymore,” you muttered. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “They’re already freaking out.”

Rafe nodded slowly. He took another hit, then set the vape down in the cupholder. His hand moved across the console and rested on your thigh. Heavy. Familiar. You didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry I told them,” he said after a beat. “I was just… scared. I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t answering me, and I thought,” His voice cracked. He looked away for a second, jaw tight. “I thought you were really gonna do it. Get rid of our baby.”

You stayed quiet. Your fingers kept pulling at your hair under the hood. Slow. Methodical. The pain was sharp and clean.

Rafe turned back to you. His eyes were wet again.

“But you’re not, right?” he whispered. “You’re keeping it. You came out here to tell me that. Tell me you’re keeping our kid.”

The words sat heavy on your tongue. You swallowed once. Twice. Then you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m keeping it.”

The words tasted like ash.

Rafe’s whole body sagged with relief. He let out a shaky breath and leaned across the console, wrapping his arms around you so tight it almost hurt. His face buried in the crook of your neck. You felt his shoulders tremble.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your skin. His voice was thick with tears. “Thank you, baby. I knew you’d do the right thing. I knew you wouldn’t do that to me. This is gonna be good. I swear. I’m gonna be better. For you. For the baby. We’re gonna be a family.”

His hand slid down to rest on your stomach again. Gentle this time. Almost reverent.

You sat there stiffly, letting him hold you, letting him cry into your hoodie while your fingers kept working at the back of your head under the fabric. Pulling. Twisting. The sting kept you present. Kept you from screaming.

After a long minute, he pulled back. Wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. His eyes were red but brighter now. Hopeful in that terrifying way only Rafe could manage.

“I’ll come get you in the morning,” he said. “We’ll go see Ward together. Everything’s gonna be okay now. You’ll see.”

You nodded again. Small. Mechanical.

Rafe leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering. Like a promise.

“I love you,” he murmured. “Even when you scare the shit out of me. I still love you.”

He waited until you got out of the truck. Watched you walk back toward the house. Only when you were inside did he finally pull away, the truck rumbling down the street.

You stood in the doorway for a long time after the taillights disappeared.

Your fingers were still pulling at the back of your head.

The words sat heavy in your chest.

You were alone with it now. The weight. The decision. The words you had just told him.

Your phone sat on the bed like a live wire. You stared at it for a long time before you crawled over and picked it up. Your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped it twice. The screen lit up your swollen face in the dark.

You opened your messages.

Kie’s name was still there, buried under months of unread texts. The last one from her was from last year. 

Kie𖤓˚࿔: heyy im thinking about u

Kie𖤓˚࿔: u should call me

You had never answered.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. The words felt impossible to type, but you forced them out anyway.

                                       Kie𖤓˚࿔

                                    (10:07 pm)

You: hey ik we havent talked in a while

You: ive been rlly weird ik 

You: but i kinda really need ur help

You hit send before you could delete it.

Nothing.

The minutes stretched. You kept refreshing the chat like an idiot. Nothing. No typing bubble. No read receipt. Just silence.

You pulled harder at the back of your head. The pain bloomed fresh. You typed again.

                                       Kie𖤓˚࿔

                                     (10:19 pm)

You: kie pls  

You: this is serious  

You: i fucked up bad

Still nothing.

Your chest started to cave in. The room felt smaller. The lie you told Rafe sat like lead in your stomach. You had bought yourself one night. Maybe. But tomorrow he would come back. Ward would be waiting. Your parents would look at you with those tired, disappointed eyes and talk about “stability” again.

You couldn’t do this alone.

You started blowing her up. Message after message.

                                        Kie𖤓˚࿔

                                      (10:23 pm)

You: kie  

You:  Please answer  

You: im pregnant  

You: with rafes baby  

You: dont want to keep it

The second the last message sent, your phone started ringing.

 Kie𖤓˚࿔  flashed across the screen.

You answered so fast you almost dropped it.

For a second, there was only breathing on the other end. Hers. Yours. Both shaky.

Kie’s voice came through, low and tense.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You swallowed. Your fingers were back at your scalp again, pulling. “I’m pregnant. Rafe’s. And I… I don’t want to keep it. I can’t.”

A long silence. You could hear her moving, probably pacing wherever she was.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You’re actually serious right now?”

“I know,” you whispered. Your voice cracked. “I know I fucked up. I know I stopped talking to you. I know I chose him. But Kie… my friends won’t help me. My mom's talking about how I’d be ‘set for life.’ Rafe waited outside and threatened me… I don’t have anyone else. Please.”

Kie let out a bitter laugh. Not mean, but exhausted.

“I told you. I told you so many times not to fuck with him. He’s poison. And now you’re pregnant, and you want me to help you get rid of it?”

You closed your eyes. Tears slipped down your cheeks. You didn’t bother wiping them.

“I know,” you said again. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. But I’m scared, Kie. He’s talking about lawyers. Ward’s involved. FUCK! I don’t know what to do.”

Another long pause. You could hear her breathing.

“Fuck,” she finally said. “Okay. Okay. I’m not promising anything. But… I’ll help you. You need to get it done fast before he figures it out.”

Relief hit you so hard your knees almost gave out.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you, Kie.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. Her voice was tight. “Be ready at 6 a.m. sharp. John B will drive. We’re taking you to the mainland. Don’t tell anyone. Not your parents. Not Rafe. Especially not Rafe.”

You nodded even though she couldn’t see you. “I won’t. 6 a.m.”

She hesitated. “And cuz… if this goes bad, if he finds out… I can’t promise we’ll be able to get you out again. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you said quietly.

The call ended.

You sat there on the floor, phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the dead line. Your fingers had gone back to your scalp without you realizing. The spot was raw now. Tender. You kept pulling anyway.

For the first time in weeks, a small, fragile sliver of hope flickered in your chest.

Tomorrow at 6 a.m.

You just had to make it through the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sky was still dark when your alarm went off at 5:45.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You had lain in bed staring at the ceiling, fingers twisting in the hair at the back of your head until the spot felt raw and hot, after you had gave up on doom scrolling.  Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Rafe’s face in the truck, the way his shoulders sagged with relief when you lied. The way he kissed your forehead like a promise. 

You got up slowly. Your legs felt heavy. You pulled on the same black hoodie from last night, the one that still smelled faintly like him. You tied your hair back tight so you wouldn’t keep pulling at it. Then you stood at your window for a long minute, staring at the empty street where his truck had been parked hours earlier. The spot looked wrong without him in it. Too quiet.

You slipped downstairs without turning on any lights. Your parents’ bedroom door was closed. You could hear your dad’s low snoring. For a second, you almost went in. Almost told them everything. But you didn’t. You just grabbed your keys and left through the back door like a ghost.

The air outside was cold and damp. It clung to your skin. You pulled the hood up and walked fast down the street, shoulders hunched, breath fogging in front of you. Every shadow made your heart jump. You kept expecting Rafe’s truck to appear around the corner, headlights cutting through the dark.

But it didn’t.

At the end of the block, John B’s van was waiting under a broken streetlight. Kie was already standing outside, arms crossed tight over her chest. When she saw you, she didn’t smile. She just opened the sliding door and stepped back.

You climbed in. The van smelled like salt water and old fast food. John B was in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror like he expected Rafe to appear any second. Kie got in after you and slammed the door shut. The sound made you flinch.

No one spoke for the first few minutes.

John B pulled away slow, headlights off until you were off your street. The van rattled over potholes. You kept your hands in your lap, fingers digging into your palms now instead of your hair. The sting wasn’t enough anymore.

Kie finally broke the silence. Her voice was tight.

“You look like shit.”

You let out a weak laugh that didn’t sound like you. “Yeah. Feel like it too.”

She didn’t laugh back. She just stared out the window, jaw clenched. The tension between you both was thick enough to taste. You had been close once. Sleepovers at her house, you teaching her how to braid her hair, sneaking snacks from the Wreck after closing. Then Rafe happened. And everything changed. Family cookouts became awkward small talk. Texts went unanswered. She had warned you. You hadn’t listened.

Now here you were. Pregnant. Desperate. Asking her for the one thing she had begged you to avoid.

“You really did it, huh?” she said after a while. Not mean. Just tired. “Got knocked up by Rafe Cameron of all people.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. Your voice cracked. “I fucked up.”

Kie let out a long breath. “I told you. So many times. But you kept going back.”

You didn’t defend him. Not right now. Your fingers found the strings of your hoodie and twisted them.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know I did. But I'm saying that, okay? I'm being honest, Im saying I need your help.”

She looked at you then. Really looked. Her eyes were hard, but there was something softer underneath. Worry. Guilt. 

John B cleared his throat from the front. “We’re about forty minutes out. Clinic opens at seven. We’ll get you in quick.”

You nodded. The van felt too small. Every bump in the road made your stomach turn. You kept thinking about Rafe waking up. Checking his phone. Realizing you weren’t answering. The way his face would change.

The rest of the drive was quiet. Kie didn’t say much more. She just sat there, arms crossed, staring out the window like she was carrying her own weight. You wanted to thank her again, but the words felt useless. So you stayed silent. Fingers digging into your palms. Heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clinic was small and nondescript. A plain building tucked between a pharmacy and a laundromat. John B parked in the back. Kie walked you in. Her hand was on your elbow the whole time, gentle but firm. 

The procedure itself was a blur. The nurse was kind. The doctor was professional. You cried the whole time. Silent tears running down your face while you stared at the ceiling tiles. Kie sat in the waiting room. When it was over, and you came out, drained and shaky, she didn’t say anything. She just helped you to the van and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders.

The ride back was even quieter.

You sat in the back seat, curled against the door, staring out at the passing trees. Your stomach felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with the procedure. The weight was gone. But something else had taken its place. A hollowness. A guilt so heavy it made it hard to breathe.

Kie kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror. She didn’t speak. Neither did John B. The silence felt like judgment. Like understanding. Like both at once.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

You looked down.

                                         Rafe

                                      (7:35 am)

Rafe: why is your location off?

Your heart stopped.

You typed fast, fingers clumsy.

You: sorry my phone died last night (7:36 am)

You: just woke up (7:36 am)

You: everything ok? (7:36 am)

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Rafe: ill be at your house in 15 (7:38 am)

Your stomach dropped.

You looked up at John B.

 “How far are we?”

“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “Maybe more with traffic.”

“Fuck,” you whispered. Your voice broke. “Fuck.”

Kie turned in her seat. Her eyes were wide. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s going to my house. He thinks I’m there. He’s coming in fifteen minutes.”

The van went quiet again. Different this time. Heavy with fear.

You leaned your head against the window. The glass was cold against your forehead. Your fingers drifted to the back of your head again, pulling at the already tender strands. The pain bloomed fresh. You welcomed it.

You had done it. You had gotten the abortion.

But Rafe was already coming.

And you had lied to his face last night.

The van kept driving. The road stretched ahead. Forty-five minutes.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe through the panic clawing up your throat.

He was going to find out.

And when he did…

You didn’t want to think about what would happen next.

“What do I do?” you asked. Your voice sounded small. Desperate. “I can’t go back there right now. I can't pull up with you guys. He's gonna be pissed I'm even around you, and he’ll immediately know.”

Kie didn’t answer right away. She just watched you, her expression tight with something between anger and worry. You could feel the years of distance between you both sitting in the space between the seats. She had warned you. Over and over. And you had still chosen Rafe. Still gone back. Still let him pull you under.

John B cleared his throat. “Why don’t we drop you off a couple blocks from your house? You walk the rest of the way. Act normal. Maybe buy yourself some time.”

You shook your head fast. “No. He’ll know. If I show up on foot looking like this he’ll lose it. He’ll start asking questions. He’ll know im lying. He’ll-”

Your voice broke. The van felt too small. Every bump in the road sent fresh nausea rolling through you. The emptiness in your stomach ached in a way that had nothing to do with the procedure. It was deeper than that. Like something had been carved out, and you were only just starting to feel the hole it left behind.

Kie reached back and touched your knee. Her hand was warm. Steady. For a second, it almost felt like old times. Before Rafe. Before everything got ruined.

“Why don’t you just stay with us?” she said quietly. “At the Chateau. At least for today. Maybe tomorrow too. Buy yourself some real time.”

You stared at her. The words landed heavily.

“No,” you said immediately. “No way. Rafe will kill me if he finds out I went there. He already hates all of you. If he thinks I ran to you and lied to him…”

You trailed off. Your fingers kept working at your scalp. Pulling. Twisting. The sting had turned into a dull throb, but you couldn’t stop. It was the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart.

Kie didn’t push right away. She just looked at you for a long moment. Her eyes were tired. Guilty. Like she was carrying her own weight from all the times she had tried to warn you and you hadn’t listened.

“If you go back right now,” she said carefully, “you’re gonna have to look him in the eye and pretend there’s still a baby. You really think you can do that? For how long? A week? Two? Sooner or later, he’s gonna figure it out. At least if you stay with us, we can buy you some time. Figure out next steps. Maybe even… have a little fun for once. Remember what that feels like?”

Fun.

The word felt foreign. Almost ridiculous. You hadn’t had fun in so long. Not the kind that didn’t come with fear or guilt or Rafe’s eyes watching your every move. The idea of sitting at the Chateau with Kie and her friends, even for a few hours, felt dangerous. But it also felt like the first real breath you had taken in months.

You leaned your head against the window. The glass was cold against your forehead. Outside, the trees blurred past. Your phone buzzed again, but you didn’t look. You already knew it was him.

“Okay,” you whispered. Your voice sounded small. Scared. “Just for today. Just until I figure out what to say to him.”

Kie nodded. She squeezed your knee once. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something.

John B glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “You sure about this?”

You weren’t. But you nodded anyway.

The van kept driving. The road stretched ahead. Forty-five minutes became thirty. Then twenty-five.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

You didn’t want to look. But you did.

Rafe: here (7:54 am)

Rafe: wya (7:56 am)

You stared at the message until the letters blurred. The van hit a bump, and your stomach rolled. Not from the procedure. From him. From the lie you had fed him last night, from the lie right now.

Rafe: now your ignoring me (8:00 am)

Rafe: answer rn (8:01 am)

Your thumb hovered over the screen. Kie glanced back at you but didn’t say anything. John B’s hands tightened on the wheel. The silence in the van felt heavier now, like everyone knew what was coming.

You typed fast, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

You: sorry u know i just woke up (8:04 am)

 You: still at home (8:04 am)

You: Just saw this (8:04 am)

The three dots appeared almost immediately. They disappeared. Came back. Your fingers dug harder into the back of your head. More strands came loose. You could feel the tender spot throbbing now, but you kept pulling anyway.

Rafe: come outside. (8:05 am)

Your breath caught. You looked up at John B. “He’s at my house.”

Kie turned fully in her seat. “Block him. Delete him. Now.”

You shook your head. Your hands were shaking too badly to type properly. 

“If I block him, he’ll lose it. He’ll go inside. He’ll talk to my parents. He’ll know something’s wrong.”

Another message popped up.

Rafe: btw turn your lo back on (8:06 am)

You swallowed hard. The taste of panic was metallic on your tongue. You typed again, lying through your teeth even though every word felt like it was choking you.

You: location glitching. (8:07 am)

 You: im getting ready. (8:07 am)

You: ill be out in a sec (8:07 am)

The reply came faster this time.

Rafe: come out or im coming in (8:08 am)

Rafe: im not playing with you y/n (8:08 am)

Your chest tightened so hard you couldn’t breathe right. You could picture him perfectly. Sitting in his truck in your driveway, eyes red, jaw locked, one hand gripping the wheel while the other hovered over his phone. Waiting. Always waiting. Like he had all the time in the world because he knew you would eventually break.

Kie’s voice cut through the panic. “What did he say?”

“He’s at my house,” you whispered. “He said he’s coming in if I don’t come out.”

John B cursed under his breath. The van sped up just a little. Not enough. Never enough.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again. Then again.

Rafe: baby please (8:10 am)

Rafe: i waited all night (8:10 am)

Rafe: i thought we were good (8:10 am)

Rafe: why are you doing this to me?(8:11 am)

Rafe: turn your location on right now. im not playing. (8:11 am)

Rafe: im coming in. (8:16 am)

The message sat there. Simple. Final.

You could see it so clearly. Rafe walking up to your front door. Knocking. Your mom answering with that tired, worried. Him smiling that polite Kook smile while his eyes stayed dead. Asking where you were. Asking why you weren’t answering.

And when they told him you weren’t home…

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead against the seat in front of you. Your breathing was too fast. Too shallow. The sting at the back of your head wasn’t enough anymore. Nothing was enough.

Kie’s hand stayed on your arm. But even she couldn’t fix this.

The van kept driving toward the Chateau.

And somewhere behind you, Rafe was stepping inside your house.

Looking for you.

Realizing you had lied.

The panic clawed up your throat and stayed there.

Because you knew what came next.

And there was nowhere left to run.

………….

An: I'm sorry for not writing him in so long, but fair warning, this is SUPER DARK, definitely the darkest thing I've written, so be warned. It's a wild ride. Also, comment and reblog, and lmk what you think!! Your feedback keeps writers motivated!!

…………………………

The apartment feels suffocating. The single bulb overhead flickers every few minutes like it’s tired too. You’re sitting on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed, staring at the small silver chip in your palm: 274 days. Almost nine months. The number used to feel solid, like armor. Tonight it feels thin.

The front door slams open. Su-bong stumbles in, purple hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, cross necklace swinging against his chest. He’s breathing hard, eyes glassy and too bright. Bad night at the club again. You can tell by the way his jaw works, the way he kicks his sneakers off without looking where they land.

“Fuckin’ joke,” he mutters, voice rough. “Whole crowd lookin’ at me like I was some fuckin’ washed-up sellout. Like I’m not the one who had them all screaming last year.”

You don’t answer right away. You slip the chip into your pocket and stand up slowly.

“You want water? Or… something to eat?”

He laughs once, short and mean.

“Nah. I want you.”

He’s across the room before you can move. Hands on your hips, backing you toward the bathroom. The doorframe digs into your shoulder blade. He smells like sweat, cheap cologne, and that sharp metallic tang that always clings to him after he’s been at it. His mouth crashes into yours, teeth clacking, tongue pushing in like he’s claiming territory. You kiss back because it’s easier than fighting the first wave. Because part of you still lights up when he wants you this hard.

He breaks away just long enough to flip the bathroom light on. The fluorescent buzzes to life, harsh and unforgiving. The mirror above the sink is speckled with old toothpaste and something darker. He spins you so you’re facing it, your back to his chest. One arm bands around your waist, the other hand already shoving under your shirt, rough palm dragging over your stomach.

“Look,” he says, voice low against your ear. “Look at yourself.”

You do. Your eyes are wide, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. His purple strands fall forward, brushing your temple. He’s watching your reflection like he’s studying something he owns.

“See how pretty you are when you’re not tryna be so fuckin’ perfect?” His fingers dig into your hip, hard enough to bruise tomorrow. “All clean and shiny. Makes me wanna ruin it.”

Your breath hitches. “Su-bong…”

“Shh.” He nips your earlobe, then soothes it with his tongue. “Don’t talk. Just watch.”

He yanks your leggings down in one rough pull, not even to your knees, just enough. His belt clinks, zipper rasps. You feel him hot and heavy against you, then he’s pushing in, no warning, no slowness. You gasp, hands flying to brace on the sink. The porcelain is cold under your palms.

He groans against your neck, hips snapping forward.

“Fuck, still so tight.”

The rhythm is brutal from the start. Every thrust shoves you forward, makes the mirror rattle against the wall. His free hand slides up to wrap around your throat. The cross on his necklace swings, cold metal tapping your collarbone with every movement.

“You used to love this,” he pants. “Used to beg me to fuck you all the time. Remember?”

Your eyes sting. You remember. You remember the nights when the world was soft and bright, and nothing hurt. You remember how safe it felt to disappear into him.

“Stop,” you whisper.

He laughs, breath hot on your skin.

“Nah. You don’t mean that.” His hand tightens just enough to make your pulse jump under his fingers. “Look at your face. Look how much you still want it.”

In the mirror, your eyes are glassy now, mouth open, cheeks wet. You hate how wrecked you look. You hate how part of you likes it.

He slows suddenly, grinding deep, rolling his hips in that way that makes your knees shake. His mouth finds your ear again.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Almost a whole year. Must feel real proud.”

His voice drops lower, mocking.

“But you miss it, don’t you? The burn. The way everything just… quiets.”

You shake your head, but it’s weak.

“Liar.” He thrusts hard once, making you cry out. “I can feel it. You’re clenching around me like you’re scared I’ll stop.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away. You just watch them track through the mascara you put on earlier, when you still believed tonight might be gentle.

He speeds up again, chasing his own edge now. His grip on your throat tightens, thumb pressing under your jaw. “Say it.”

You don’t.

“Say you miss it.”

You shake your head again.

He growls, slams in deep and holds there, grinding slow circles. “Say it or I pull out. And we both know you hate that shit.”

Your voice cracks. “I… miss it.”

He groans like the words are better than any drug.

Then he’s moving again, fast and punishing, until he comes with a choked curse, spilling inside you. He stays buried, panting against your neck, one hand still loosely around your throat like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

After a minute, he pulls out and steps back. You feel the wet slide down your thigh, the ache already blooming between your legs. He zips up as if nothing happened, leans in to press a soft kiss to your temple.

“You’re still my favorite high,” he murmurs. “Even clean.”

He walks out, leaving the bathroom door open.

You stay there, hands braced on the sink, staring at the girl in the mirror. Mascara-streaked, lips bitten, eyes hollow. The silver chip in your pocket feels heavier than ever.

You whisper to your reflection, barely audible.

“I’m okay.”

But the words sound small. And the girl looking back doesn’t quite believe them.

You wipe your face with shaking hands, pull up your leggings, and turn off the light.

The apartment is dark again. Su-bong’s already in the living room, phone in hand, scrolling like the last ten minutes never happened.

You stand in the doorway for a second, watching him.

Then you walk over and sit beside him on the couch.

Because where else would you go?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The community center smells like old coffee and lemon cleaner, the kind that never quite covers the faint must from the basement. Folding chairs are still in a loose circle, a few stragglers lingering by the snack table picking at the last of the stale donuts. 

You’re standing near the door, jacket zipped halfway, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. The meeting was good tonight. Someone shared about hitting rock bottom and crawling back, voice cracking but steady, and it landed right in your chest. Reminded you why you keep showing up. Your sponsor, Ji-eun, pulls you into a quick side hug before she heads out.

“You sounded strong up there tonight,” she says, squeezing your arm. “Keep that fire, okay? Text me if the weekend gets heavy.”

You nod, smiling small but real. “Okay. I will. Thanks for always listening.”

She waves it off. “That’s what we do. See you Wednesday?”

“Definitely.”

A couple of others say bye as they file past, Min-ho with his quiet nod, Soo-jin, who always slips you an extra pamphlet like it’s contraband. You linger a minute longer, breathing it in: the low chatter, the rustle of paper, the absence of chaos. For the first time in a long stretch, the hope doesn’t feel fake. It feels possible. Like maybe you really are different now.

You push through the glass doors into the cool night air. Seoul wind cuts sharp, but it feels clean. Streetlights buzz orange over the parking lot. You spot the familiar black sedan idling near the curb, exhaust curling lazily in the cold. Su-bong’s behind the wheel, window cracked, purple hair lit weird under the sodium glow.

Your stomach does that familiar flip. 

You walk over and open the passenger door. Warmth spills out, thick with the smell of weed and cigarettes. The radio’s on low, some old trap beat thumping bass you feel in your teeth.

“Hey,” you say, sliding in, buckling up quick like it’ll anchor you.

He doesn’t look over right away. Just flicks his cigarette out the window, ash scattering. “Took you long enough.”

You swallow. “Meeting ran a little over. Good one though.”

He snorts, puts the car in drive. Tires crunch gravel as he pulls out too fast. The lot lights streak past.

“‘Good one,’” he echoes, voice flat. “What, they all clap for you? Tell you you’re so strong now? Yah, look at you, all clean and happy. Must feel real nice, huh? Acting like you’re better than this shit.”

You keep your eyes on the dashboard. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it is.” He reaches into the center console, pulls out a small baggie, and tosses it onto your lap as casually as a pack of gum. White powder shifts inside. “Brought you a present. Figured you’d want a little celebration after all that hard work.”

Your hand freezes. Anxiety rises deep from your stomach to your chest. You don’t pick it up.

“Su-bong. I’m not-”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re reformed.” He laughs, short and bitter. “Look at you. Sitting there all shiny and hopeful. Must be nice, huh? Pretending you’re better than this. Better than me.”

The car swerves a little as he glances over, eyes red-rimmed, pupils blown. He’s high. Not buzzed. Fucking high. The kind where everything’s funny until it isn’t.

“I’m not pretending anything,” you say quietly. “I’m just trying.”

“Trying.” He drags the word out. “That’s cute. You think trying fixes shit? You think sitting in a basement with a bunch of losers talking about your feelings makes you fixed?” His hand slams the wheel once, hard. Horn blares for a split second. “You used to be fun. We used to disappear together. Now you’re out here acting like I’m the problem.”

You stare at the baggie in your lap. It’s warm from being in his pocket.

 “You are the problem sometimes.”

He goes quiet for a block. Then laughs again, meaner. 

“Fuck you mean, sometimes? I’m the only one who gets it. Those people in there? They don’t know you. They don’t know how you used to light up, how you’d laugh when the world went soft. They just want you to be another success story so they feel better about their own pathetic lives.”

Your throat tightens. The hope from five minutes ago feels distant, like it belonged to someone else.

“Pull over,” you say.

“Nah.” He accelerates through a yellow, tires squealing a little. “We going home. You gonna sit there and stop pretending you’re someone else.”

You close your eyes for a second. The bass from the speakers vibrates through the seat. The smell of him, sweat, smoke, and his fucking cigarette, fills the car like fog.

When you open them again, the city lights blur past. Your fingers curl around the baggie without thinking. Not to use. Just to hold something solid.

He notices. Smirks. “See? Told you. Deep down, you miss it.”

You don’t answer.

The light turns red ahead. He stops, finally. Leans over, grabs your chin rough, turns your face to his.

“Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are dark, pupils eating the dark brown. “You can play pretend all you want in that room. But in here? With me? I know who you are. And you still want this.”

He lets go. The light changes. He hits the gas.

You stare straight ahead, the baggie heavy in your palm, the hope from the meeting crushed flat under the weight of his voice.

The car keeps moving into the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The knock on the door is loud and impatient. Three sharp bangs that make the cheap wood rattle in its frame.

Su-bong is already pacing the living room like a caged animal, purple hair messy, eyes wild from whatever he took earlier. The apartment is a mess, empty soju bottles on the table, clothes thrown over the couch, the faint smell of old smoke clinging to everything.

You’re in the kitchenette washing dishes when the knocking starts. Your hands freeze under the running water.

“Open the fucking door!” a man shouts from the hallway. “We know you’re in there, Choi Su-bong. You think you can hide forever?”

Su-bong freezes for half a second, then explodes.

“God, these motherfuckers!” He grabs the nearest thing, an empty glass, and hurls it at the wall. It shatters loudly, pieces scattering across the floor. “I told them next week! Next fucking week!”

He yanks the door open anyway. Two men in cheap suits stand there, faces hard. One of them starts talking fast about the debt, the interest, and the deadline. Su-bong cuts them off, voice rising.

“Shut the fuck up! You think I don’t know? I’m Thanos, man. I’ll get your money. Just give me time!”

The argument gets louder. Threats fly. One of the collectors shoves a paper at him. Su-bong slaps it away. The door slams shut hard enough to shake the walls.

Then he turns on the apartment like it personally betrayed him.

He sweeps the table clean. Bottles crash. The ashtray flies. He kicks the coffee table over, wood cracking. You back up against the counter, heart hammering.

“Su-bong, stop-”

“Stop?” He whirls on you, chest heaving. “You always telling me to stop. Stop this, stop that. Look at you, standing there so fucking clean. Like you’re better than me now.”

His eyes are bloodshot, pupils huge. He’s breathing hard through his nose.

“You think I don’t see it? The way you come back from those meetings all shiny and hopeful. Like you’re fixed, and I’m still the trash. Judging me every time you look at me.”

“I’m not judging you,” you say, voice shaking. “I’m trying to help-”

“Help?” He laughs, ugly and sharp. “You help by looking down on me? By staying clean while I’m drowning? You used to be right here with me, baby. Now you act like you’re some saint.”

He storms closer. You try to move, but he’s fast. His hand shoots out, grabs your wrist hard enough to hurt, and yanks you forward. Your foot slips on a piece of broken glass. You go down hard, landing on the floor among the shards. Pain flares in your palm as something cuts you.

Su-bong is on you in a second. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, his knee shoving your legs apart. Glass crunches under his jeans.

“You’re no better than me,” he growls, face inches from yours. “You hear me? No fucking better.”

You try to twist away. “Su-bong, please! there’s glass-”

He doesn’t listen. His free hand yanks at your clothes, ripping your shirt open with one violent tug. Buttons scatter. He shoves your pants down roughly, not even all the way, just enough. The cold floor presses into your back, tiny shards biting into your skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, shirt torn open, pants around one ankle, blood and glass on your skin. Something inside you finally snaps.

You push yourself up slowly. Glass cuts your knee. You don’t care. You pull your clothes back together as best you can, grab your jacket and bag from the chair, and head for the door.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he calls after you, voice tired now.

You don’t answer. You just leave, slamming the door behind you.

The hallway is cold. Your legs feel shaky. You make it down the stairs and out into the night air before the tears really start.

You end up at your NA friend Hye-jin’s place in Mapo. She doesn’t ask too many questions when she sees your face. Just lets you in, gives you clean clothes, and the couch.

You call Ji-eun every morning. She talks you through the shame, the anger, the craving that’s louder than ever. You journal until your hand cramps, writing the same things over and over: I am not what he says. I am trying. I deserve better.

But at night, when the apartment is quiet and Hye-jin is asleep, the bond pulls hard.

You miss the chaos. The way he looked at you like you were the only real thing in his world. The way his hands felt, even when they hurt. The twisted feeling of being seen, even if it was only the worst parts of you.

You lie there in the dark, tracing the fresh bruises on your wrists, and feel the emptiness like a hole in your chest.

You know you should stay away.

But part of you already wonders how long it will take before you go back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain hasn't let up. It's the kind of Seoul winter downpour that soaks through everything in minutes, turning sidewalks into shallow rivers and neon reflections into smeared watercolor on the asphalt.

You're chilling inside Hye-jin's one-room apartment in Mapo, the air is thick with the smell of instant ramyeon she made earlier, and the faint lavender from the diffuser she keeps running to "keep the energy clean." You've been on the couch for four nights now, wrapped in her oversized hoodie, staring at the same spot on the wall where the paint is peeling a little. The bruises on your wrists have darkened to ugly plum, the cuts on your palm scabbed over but still tender when you flex your fingers.

A knock comes, three quick raps, then silence, then three more. Almost polite.

Hye-jin pauses her drama on the laptop. She glances at you. You nod once, small.

She strides to the door in socks, cracks it open with the chain still latched.

Through the gap, you hear his voice, low and rough like he's been chain-smoking. 

"y/n... is she in there? Please. I just need to talk to her."

Hye-jin doesn't move. 

"She's resting. Go home, Su-bong."

There's a rustle, like he's shifting his weight.

 "I know I fucked up. Bad. Real bad. I haven't slept. Haven't eaten. Just... let me see her face. Five minutes. I brought coffee. The one from that Hongdae spot she likes. It's getting cold out here."

You can picture him: purple hair dripping, cross necklace wet against his hoodie, eyes red from whatever he's on or from crying or both. A couple of neighbors peek out their doors down the hall, someone whispers, "Isn't that Thanos?" low enough that it carries.

Hye-jin sighs. Turns to you. "Your choice."

You stand up slowly. The floor creaks under your feet. 

"Fine…Let him in."

She unhooks the chain. Su-bong steps inside, water pooling at his sneakers. He looks wrecked: hoodie soaked, hair plastered, holding two tall iced Americanos like they're a peace offering. His eyes find you immediately and soften in that desperate way he gets when he thinks he's losing something.

He doesn't rush forward. Just stands there dripping on the entry mat.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he says, voice cracking on the last word. "Those pieces of shit showed up, everything went to shit, and I... I lost it on you. The one person who actually gives a damn about me. I hate myself for what I did. Look at you." His gaze drops to your wrists, the visible bruises peeking from the hoodie sleeves. He winces like it hurts him physically.

 "I did that. I can't even look at myself."

Tears slip down his face. He wipes them fast with his sleeve, embarrassed.

 "I need you, baby. I can't function without you. I'll change. I'll delete the numbers, stop the parties, go to those meetings with you. Whatever it takes. Thanos is nothing if you're not there. Please. Come home."

Hye-jin stays in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. She's seen the bruises. She doesn't buy the tears.

You feel the pull anyway. The same one that dragged you back every time before. 

"We can talk outside."

He nods quickly, relief flooding his face. 

"Yeah. Okay. Thank you."

You grab your jacket. Hye-jin grabs your arm gently before you go.

"Text me in an hour. Or I'm calling."

You nod. Step out into the hallway with him.

The stairwell smells like wet concrete and old kimchi jjigae from someone's dinner. A girl on the landing does a double-take, whispers to her friend,

"That's Thanos, right? From Rap Battlegrounds?" He ignores it, but you see his shoulders tense for a second, like he's used to the stares but hates them tonight.

Outside, the rain is heavier. He leads you to the black Sudan parked crooked at the curb, hazards blinking. You slide into the passenger seat. He cranks the heat, hands shaking as he sets the coffees in the holders.

For a minute, he just sits, staring at the dashboard. Rain drums the roof like gunfire.

Then he reaches over, pulls you across the console into his lap. His mouth finds yours, desperate, tasting like salt and cigarettes. His hands slide under the hoodie, gripping your waist, thumbs pressing into the bruises like he's claiming them again.

"I missed you," he mutters against your lips. "Fuck, I couldn't breathe."

You kiss him back because stopping would mean thinking. Clothes come off in the cramped space, hoodie shoved up, sweats pushed down. He shifts the seat back and lays you across it. The leather is cold against your skin.

He pushes in slowly at first, then hard, possessively. His mouth moves to your neck, sucking marks that will last days. Fingers dig into your hips, holding you exactly where he wants.

"We're the same," he pants, voice rough in your ear. "Meant to go down together. No one else understands. Just us."

The windows fog completely. Rain blurs the lights outside. He comes fast, groaning low, body shuddering against yours.

He stays inside you for a minute, breathing hard. Then he reaches into the glove box and pulls out the small baggie. Same clear plastic, white powder shifting.

"Just one," he says softly, almost coaxing. "To calm everything down. You've been hurting so much because of me. Let me fix it a little."

Your heart races. The high from the sex mixes with the shame from the fight, the nights crying alone, the self-doubt he burned into you that first time. Your hand trembles when you take the baggie.

You do the line off the back of your hand. The burn races up your nose, then floods warm and familiar. The noise in your head quiets. Shame hits right after, sharp and hot.

Su-bong laughs quiet, relieved. He pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping tight around you.

"See? Feels right again." He kisses your temple. "We're good now. We're us."

You cry silently into his neck. Tears soak his hoodie. You don't pull away.

The rain keeps falling, washing the city clean while you sit there in the fogged-up car, high and broken and back where you started.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The apartment hasn’t changed much since you came back. Same cracked ceiling, same faint smell of burnt foil and old smoke baked into the walls. The only difference is how quiet it gets now. Not peaceful quiet. Dead quiet.

One line became two. Two became whenever the comedown hit. Mornings start with him already handing you a pill, eyes half-lidded, offering it without asking. You take it because refusing means talking, and talking means feeling everything you’re trying not to feel.

Meetings stop after the second week. Your phone lights up with Ji-eun’s name every single day. First, it’s gentle.

Ji-eun (NA): Hey, missed you at group. Everything alright? Text when you can.

Then shorter

Ji-eun (NA): Worried about you. Call me. Please.

Then just

Ji-eun (NA): ???

You read them in the bathroom with the fan on, so he doesn’t hear the screen unlock. You type “I’m okay” three times and delete it every time. The words feel fake even in your head. 

Eventually, you turn notifications off. The silence feels better than lying.

Your voice shrinks in every way. When he snaps about the rent being late, you don’t snap back. You murmur “sorry” and go make instant coffee. When he pulls you onto the couch mid-argument, you don’t push away. You let him. During sex, the words that used to come out sharp, “slow down,” “that hurts,” turn into soft, broken sounds. Whimpers pressed against his neck or the pillow. He notices. He likes it. He tells you so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days stretch thin. Time doesn’t move forward so much as loop: wake up tangled in sheets that smell like him, make instant coffee while he’s still passed out on the couch, scroll your phone until the screen burns your eyes, wait for him to stir so the apartment doesn’t feel so empty.

You start buying his fixes. Not big amounts. Just enough to keep the edge off when he gets twitchy. You hit the same discreet spot in Itaewon you used to know too well, hand over cash from the emergency stash you swore you’d never touch again. The dealer recognizes you. Doesn’t say much, just nods like you never left.

When he crashes hard after a binge, you’re the one who holds the trash can while he pukes, wipes his mouth with a damp towel, pulls the blanket over him when his teeth chatter. You sit on the floor beside the couch, back against the wall, watching his chest rise and fall until you’re sure he won’t choke. Sometimes you fall asleep there, neck stiff, phone dead in your lap.

Sex becomes the only language left. Not rough every time. Sometimes slow, almost gentle, when he’s coming down and needy. He pulls you close, buries his face in your neck, and moves inside you like he’s trying to disappear. You let him. It’s the only moment the world feels small enough to handle. After, he falls asleep fast, arm heavy across your waist. You stare at the ceiling, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the hollow ache settle deeper in your chest.

Ji-eun’s texts have slowed to every few days. The last one came three nights ago.

Ji-eun (NA): I’m not going to stop checking in, but I need you to know I’m here when you’re ready. No judgment. Just worried. Please let me know you’re alive.

You read it in the dark while he snores beside you. Your thumb hovers. Then you lock the screen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One day, he disappears for almost twenty-four hours. No text, no call. You pace the apartment, clean the same counter three times, and check your phone every five minutes. When he finally stumbles in at 4 a.m., eyes bloodshot, hoodie zipped to his chin, he smells like cheap perfume and someone else’s cologne.

He collapses on the couch without a word. You bring him water. He takes it, drinks half, then sets the glass down hard.

You sit on the coffee table in front of him, knees touching his.

“Where were you?”

He rubs his face. “Out. Needed air.”

“With who?”

He laughs once, tired and mean. “Does it matter?”

You swallow. “Yeah. It does, I love you and I was scared.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and something cold flickers in his eyes.

“Love?” he says, voice flat. “Healing? All that shit you used to talk about? Bullshit. Just like crypto. People pump it up, tell you it’s gonna change everything, then it crashes, and you’re left holding nothing. Thats why you’re fucked up again.”

Your stomach drops.

Tears burn behind your eyes but don’t fall. You think about the nights you stayed up talking him through panic attacks, the times you covered his half of the rent with money from odd jobs, the mornings you dragged him to the shower when he couldn’t stand, the way you held him when he cried about his mom, about the scam, about how he was never going to make it back. All the pieces of yourself you poured into him, thinking if you gave enough, he’d finally believe it was real.

Now it’s just… hollow. Like handing water to someone who pours it on the ground.

You stand up slowly. Walk to the kitchen. Pour yourself a glass of water you don’t drink. Set it down untouched.

When you come back, he’s already scrolling again, cigarette dangling from his lips.

You sit on the floor in front of the couch, back against his legs. He doesn’t move his feet. Just lets you stay there.

Love? Bullshit. Like crypto.

You gave everything.

And he never believed it was worth anything.

Your phone buzzes once more on the table. Ji-eun again. You don’t look.

The apartment is dead quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional drag from his cigarette. The smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, mixing with the faint stink of perfume clinging to his hoodie. You’re still sitting on the floor, back against his legs, staring at the wall like it owes you answers.

Something snaps.

You stand up slowly, knees cracking from sitting so long. He doesn’t look up from his phone right away. Just takes another drag.

You turn to face him. Voice comes out low at first, shaking.

“You know what? Fuck this.”

He finally glances up, eyebrow raised, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“What?”

You take a step closer. Hands ball into fists at your sides.

“I said fuck this! Are you deaf? I gave you everything.” The words come out rough, louder than you meant. “My fucking sobriety. My money. My time. Every piece of me I had left after I clawed my way out of that hole the first time. I stayed up nights holding your head while you puked, paid your half of this shithole apartment your broke ass barely contributes to, listened to you cry about your mom and the scam I told your dumb ass not to invest in and how the world fucked you over. I believed in you when no one else did. I WASTED EVERYTHING ON YOU! And you sit there and tell me love is bullshit? Like crypto?”

He snorts, pulls the cigarette out, and exhales smoke through his nose.

“Yeah, calm down. You’re acting like I forced you.”

“Calm down?” Your voice cracks higher. “You come home at 4 a.m. smelling like another bitch’s perfume, and collapse on the couch like nothing happened, and then have the nerve to tell me love is a scam? After everything I pour into you?”

He sits up straighter now, eyes narrowing. “Watch how you talk to me.”

“No.” You shake your head, tears hot but not falling yet. “You don’t get to tell me how to talk. You don’t get to dismiss what I gave like it was nothing. You think I wanted to relapse? You think I wanted to throw away almost a year clean? I did it because you made me feel like shit for trying to be better. You made me feel like the only way to keep you was to sink back down with you.”

He stands up fast. Towering. Cigarette forgotten in the ashtray. 

“So now it’s my fault? You chose to do that line in the car. You chose to come back here. Don’t put that on me.”

“You pushed.” Your voice shakes but doesn’t break. “You kept offering. You kept saying we’re the same. Su-bong, you literally threw a baggie in my lap right after my meeting! You were so fucking bitter I was trying, and now that you dragged me right back down your still fucking bitter.”

He steps closer, voice dropping low and dangerous. 

“You talking to me like that? After I let you back in? After everything?”

“Let me back in?” You laugh, bitter and short. “Please be so real with yourself. You needed someone to buy your fixes, clean up your puke, fuck you when you felt empty. And you let me back in? Tell me why I need you? What have you done for me?!”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah, shut the fuck up.”

“No.” You don’t back up. “I’m done shutting up. I’m done pretending this is anything but you using me.”

He grabs your wrist firmly. 

“You think you can talk to me like some stranger? After all the shit we been through?”

You yank your arm free hard enough that your elbow knocks the coffee table. The glass of water tips, spills across the floor in a slow, dark puddle. Neither of you moves to clean it.

He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising fast, eyes dark and glassy from whatever he’s on. High enough that his reactions are half a second slow, pupils blown wide.

You stare at him for a beat. Then your gaze drops to the phone still in his hand, screen lit up with notifications.

“Let me see your phone.”

He laughs once, short and ugly.

“Nah. Fuck that.”

“Give it to me.”

He pockets it quickly and shoves his hands in his hoodie.

“You tripping. Go sit down.”

You step closer instead. Close enough to smell the perfume again, sweet, cheap, floral. It makes your stomach turn.

“I said give it.”

He tilts his head, smirking like this is funny.

 “Or what? You gonna cry about it?”

Your hand shoots out fast. He’s slower tonight, high, tired, whatever. You grab his wrist, twist, and yank the phone free before he can react. He lunges, but you’re already moving, darting toward the bathroom.

“Yah! Give me my shit back!”

You slam the door, lock it with shaking fingers. The bolt clicks loudly in the quiet apartment.

He bangs on the door immediately. Hard. Once, twice, three times. The wood rattles in the frame.

“Open the fucking door!”

You back up until your legs hit the tub. Slide down to sit on the cold tile, back against the wall. The phone is warm in your palm. Screen still unlocked, he never let you see him type his password.

You swipe open messages first.

Names you don’t know. Girls. A lot of them.

 Minji: miss u tonight oppa<3 (2:47 a.m) 

 with a selfie in low light, lips pursed.

His reply: come thru then (2:50 a.m) 

Another thread, 

Soyeon: photos of her in lingerie,

his response is a voice note you don’t play.

Just see the timestamp: 3:12 a.m, right around when he said he was “getting air.”

DMs from randoms on Instagram linked to his Kakao. Compliments. Thirst traps. His replies short, flirty, and always end with “send more.”

You scroll faster. Heart hammering so loud you barely hear him banging again.

“Open the door! I’m not playing!”

A photo in his camera roll from tonight. Him in some dark club bathroom, arm around a girl with long black hair and red lipstick. Her hand on his chest. Timestamp 1:58 a.m.

You feel sick. Not surprised, sick. Just the kind of sick that settles deep and stays.

More banging. The door shakes. “Bitch! You think you can just take my shit? Open up!”

You don’t answer. Keep scrolling. Old messages to his crew. “she on some clean shit again, annoying as fuck” sent a month ago.

Then, “my girl relapsed lol back to normal thank god”

Laughter emojis from Nam-gyu and the others.

You drop the phone in your lap. Hands shaking so bad you can’t hold it steady.

The banging stops for a second. Then his voice through the door, lower, meaner.

“You see what you wanted? Happy now?”

You don’t move. Just sit there on the tile, staring at the screen until it dims.

He bangs again, softer this time. Almost tired.

“Come on. Open up. We can talk.”

You press your forehead to your knees. Tears come hot and quiet. Not sobs. Just leaking out.

He keeps talking through the door.

“I was fucked up. It didn’t mean anything. You know how I get. Come out. Please.”

The banging has slowed to lazy thuds by the time you finally stand up. Your legs feel numb from the tile, pins and needles shooting up your calves. The phone is still in your lap like dead weight. You pick it up, screen dark now, and stare at your reflection in the black glass, eyes swollen, cheeks streaked, mouth twisted like you bit into something rotten.

You unlock the door slowly. The bolt clicks.

He’s still sitting there on the floor, back against the opposite wall, knees up, cigarette gone to ash on the carpet. He looks up fast when the door opens, eyes red and hopeful for half a second before he sees your face.

You don’t say anything. Just step out.

He starts to stand. “Baby-”

You hurl the phone.

It hits him square in the face, hard, corner-first, right above his eyebrow. The phone bounces off, skitters across the floor, screen spiderwebbed now.

He reels back, hand flying to his face. “What the fuck!”

You scream. The sound rips out of you like something caged, finally breaking free.

“You disgusting piece of shit!”

He scrambles, blood already trickling from the cut above his eye. “Bitch! You crazy?!”

“You think you can just fuck around and come home to the apartment you haven't paid rent for in three months?!” Your voice is shredded, shaking so hard the words slur together. “You laugh about me relapsing in your group chat like it’s a joke? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!? Like actually?! You called me annoying for trying to stay clean? You pathetic, broke-ass, lying WHORE!”

He wipes blood from his eye, smearing it across his cheek. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Those girls mean nothing-”

“Shut the fuck up!” You shove him hard in the chest. He stumbles back into the wall. “I bet they don't when I'm the one paying for everything! When I'm the one you come home and beat the shit out of! No one means anything to you! Not me, not those girls, not your shitty ass mom you always complain about!”

He pushes off the wall, voice rising. “So what? You gonna act like you’re perfect now? You fuckin’ relapsed! You’re right back here with me!”

“Because of you!” You shove him again, harder. He hits the wall with a thud. “You made sure of it! You kept pushing that shit in my face until I broke! And the second I did, you laughed about it with your boys like it was a win!”

He grabs your wrists this time, trying to hold you still. 

“Stop! Just stop!”

You twist free easily; hes to high to hold you firmly.

 “Get out.”

“What?”

“Get. The fuck. Out.”

He laughs, incredulous, blood dripping down his temple. 

“This is my place too.”

“No, it isn’t.” Your voice drops low, shaking with rage. “You barely pay for shit. You barely show up sober. You barely give a fuck about anything except getting high and getting your dick wet. So get your shit and get out. Now.”

He stares at you, chest heaving. For a second, it looks like he might hit back. His hand twitches. But he doesn’t. Maybe because he’s still high, maybe because he sees something in your eyes he’s never seen before.

He wipes his face again, blood smearing. 

“You’re really doing this?”

“Yeah.” You step back, arms crossed tight over your chest like armor. “I’m really doing this.”

He looks around the apartment like he’s seeing it for the first time, the spilled water, the ashtray overflowing, the faint smell of sex and smoke and regret. Then he looks at you.

“Fine.” His voice is flat now. “Fuck it.”

He grabs his jacket from the couch and stuffs his phone in his pocket without looking at the cracked screen. Picks up his sneakers, doesn’t even put them on. Just holds them in one hand.

At the door, he pauses. Turns back.

“You’ll be back,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

He opens the door. Steps out into the hallway. The fluorescent light out there makes his purple hair look dull.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

You stand there in the middle of the living room, breathing hard, chest burning. The apartment is silent except for the fridge humming and the distant sound of rain starting again outside.

You walk to the door. Lock it. Chain it. Press your forehead against the wood for a second.

Then you slide down to the floor right there in the entryway.

Tears come again, but they’re different this time. Not quiet. Not defeated.

They’re angry. Relieved. Exhausted.

You sit there until your legs go numb, until the shaking stops.

Then you stand up.

Walk to the kitchen.

Pour a glass of water.

Drink it slow.

Your phone buzzes on the floor where you dropped it earlier.

Ji-eun.

You pick it up.

This time, you answer.

..........

The house was quiet in that heavy way it got after everyone left. Rafe had made sure the door was locked behind the last person out. You'd felt it, the shift in him all night. The way his eyes tracked you from the corner of the room, jaw locked, fingers drumming restless on his knee while you talked to friends. He hadn't said much then. Just drank. Watched. Waited.

Now the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both. The lock turned slow, deliberate. The lamp on his dresser cast a dim yellow glow, catching the sweat on his neck, the flush creeping up from his collar.

Whiskey breath mixed with the faint chemical bite of coke still lingering on him. His shirt hung open at the top buttons, sleeves shoved up, arms tense like coiled wire.

He didn't speak right away. Just stood there, back to the door, staring at you like he was deciding something. You stayed near the bed, arms loose at your sides but ready, heart already picking up speed. The carpet felt rough under your bare feet, the air thick and stale.

"You had fun tonight," he said finally. Voice low, slurred just enough to show the liquor had settled deep. No question in it. Statement. Accusation.

"I talked to people. That's what parties are for."

He pushed off the door. Slow steps toward you. "Yeah. You talked. Laughed. Let that Pogue asshole get right up in your space. Smiled at him like he was funny. Like I wasn't standing ten feet away."

Your throat tightened.

"It was nothing. He made a joke. I laughed. End of story."

Rafe stopped close. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the sharp edge of his anger under the booze. 

"Nothing," he repeated. Soft. Almost thoughtful. Then his hand came up, slow, like he had all the time in the world, and wrapped around your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Fingers warm, thumb resting over your pulse. You felt it jump under his touch.

"You think I'm stupid?" he murmured. Eyes locked on yours. Pupils blown wide. "You think I don't see how you light up for them? How you pull away from me the second someone else is around?"

"Rafe." Your voice came out small. You hated it. "You're drunk. Let go."

His thumb pressed in a little. Just enough to make breathing feel deliberate. "Nah. We're talking now. You wanted to act like everything's fine all night? We're talking about why it's not."

You tried to step back. His other hand shot to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise tomorrow. He pulled you forward instead. Chest to chest, his heartbeat thudding fast against yours.

"You always do this," he said. Voice dropping lower. Rougher. "Act like I'm the crazy one. Like I imagine shit. But I don't. I see it. Every time."

His grip on your throat tightened fraction by fraction. Air got thinner. Your hands came up instinctively, pushing at his wrist. He didn't budge.

"Stop," you rasped.

He tilted his head. Studied your face like he was memorizing the fear there. 

"You know what happens when you push me like this. You've known for a while."

The words hung heavy. He wasn't yelling. Wasn't frantic. Just calm. Cold. Like this was inevitable. Like you'd walked into it on your own.

You shoved harder at his chest. He let go of your throat only to grab both your wrists instead. Twisted them behind your back in one rough motion. Pain flared sharp up your arms. You gasped. He used the momentum to force you back until your legs hit the bed. You fell onto it, him following, knee between your thighs, pinning you down.

He loomed over you. Breathing steady now. Controlled. His free hand came back to your face, cupping your cheek almost gently. Thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

"You think you can leave?" he whispered. Not mocking. Not angry. Just stating fact. "You think you walk out that door and this ends?"

His weight pressed heavier. You felt every inch of him, solid, unmovable. The hand on your wrists tightened until your fingers went numb.

"You don't get to decide that," he continued. Voice soft. Almost tender. "Its not just your choice."

Tears burned hot in your eyes. You blinked them back. "You're hurting me."

"I know." Simple. No apology. Just acknowledgment. Like it was part of the conversation.

He leaned down. Lips brushing your ear. "And you'll still be here in the morning. Won't you?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't. The room spun slowly, fear, pain, the sick twist of knowing he was right about the pattern. The bruises he'd left before. The apologies that came too late. The way you'd always gone back.

His mouth moved to your neck. Not kissing. Just breathing there. Hot. Possessive. "Say it."

You shook your head. Small. Defiant.

His hand slid from your cheek to your hair. Gripped hard. Yanked your head back until your throat arched. "Say you'll be here."

The words stuck in your chest. You swallowed against the ache. "Fuck you."

He laughed once, low, quiet. Lacking humor. "Yeah. But you're still here."

He released your wrists suddenly. Rolled off you. Stood up. Backed toward the door like nothing had happened. "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

You stayed curled on the bed. Breathing shallow. Wrists throbbing. Throat raw. Face wet from the tears you hadn't let fall until he turned away.

He didn't look back. Just flipped the lamp off. Darkness swallowed the room.

You waited until his breathing evened out on the couch across the room. He never slept in the bed after nights like this, like he needed distance to cool off. 

Then you moved.

Quiet. Careful. Slipped off the bed. Grabbed your shoes. Keys. Didn't bother with anything else.

The front door opened without a sound. Cold night air hit your face. You didn't run. Just walked fast to your car. Started it. Pulled out slowly so the engine wouldn't wake him.

Drove home in the dark. Locked every door behind you. Went to your room. Sat on the floor against the wall. Felt the bruises forming on your wrists, the ache in your throat, the hollow pit in your stomach.

Three days.

You stayed inside. Curtains closed. Phone off. Ignored the rumble of his truck outside, once, twice, then nothing.

On the third day, when the marks had turned deep purple and the fear had hardened into something colder, you turned your phone on.

Typed: We're done.

Sent.

Turned it off.

The silence after felt different this time. Sharp. Final.

You didn't cry. Just sat there. Breathing. Waiting for the fallout you knew was coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beach house was already alive when you arrived. It felt warm and forgiving after weeks of hiding in your room. Music drifted out the open doors, vibrating up through the deck planks. The air carried bonfire smoke, spilled tequila, and the faint coconut of someone's sunscreen even though it was dark.

You walked in through the side gate like you always did. Sophia and Avery had texts you earlier.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 GROUPCHAT 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

(6:30 pm)

Sophᥫ᭡: girl pls come out ;(

Sophᥫ᭡: just us girls seriously we need u here!!!

Averyʚɞ: mias margaritas r actually insane tn… come save me

Mia spotted you first. She waved you over with both hands, red cup already in one. "There she is! Finally." Her smile was bright, genuine enough that the knot in your chest loosened a fraction. She pressed the cup into your hand without asking. The glass was cold and slick with condensation. You took a sip…tart lime, too much tequila, the burn sliding smooth down your throat.

"Sit, sit," Sophia said, patting the wicker chair next to her. "We’ve been dying without you."

You sat. The chair creaked under you. The fire pit crackled a few feet away, heat licking at your shins. Avery leaned in on your other side, shoulder bumping yours.

 "You look good. Like, really good. We missed your face."

Conversation flowed easily at first. Safe. School gossip. Someone’s new internship. A story about Topper wiping out on his board last weekend that had everyone laughing. You laughed too. The margarita helped. You finished the first one faster than you meant to. Mia was right there with the pitcher, topping you off before you could protest. 

"Lightweight rules don’t apply tonight," she teased.

The second drink went down smoother. The third even easier. Your limbs felt loose, the edges of the night blurring just enough that the ache in your wrists, the faint ghosts of bruises, was easier to ignore. You let yourself lean back. Let the fire warm your face. Let the laughter wrap around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you were cold without.

You didn’t hear the truck pull up. Didn’t notice the shift in the air until Topper’s voice cut through the chatter. "Yo, look who decided to grace us."

Your head turned slowly. The alcohol made everything lag half a second.

Rafe stepped onto the deck from the side stairs. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched against the breeze. Hair messy from the wind. He looked worse than you remembered, sunken under the eyes, skin pale in the fairy light. But when his gaze found you across the fire, it sharpened. Locked. Held.

Your stomach flipped. The cup in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.

You started to stand.

Sophia’s hand landed lightly on your wrist. Not grabbing. Just resting there. "Hey. Stay."

Mia leaned in close. Voice soft, almost conspiratorial. "He’s not here to start shit. He’s been quiet all week. Like, really quiet. Just… give it a minute?"

Avery nodded on your other side. "We all miss how things used to be. One night. That’s it."

You looked around the circle. Faces lit orange by the fire. Eyes on you,concerned, hopeful, a little pleading. No one was forcing you. No one was blocking the gate. But the weight of their quiet expectation pressed in anyway. Saying no now would mean explaining why. Would mean ripping the fragile normalcy they’d all been clinging to.

You sat back down.

Rafe didn’t come straight over. He drifted instead. Slow. Casual. Grabbed a beer from the cooler near Topper. Cracked it open. Taking a long pull. Then another. He laughed at something Kelce said, low, forced, but enough to make the group relax a notch.

You kept your eyes on the fire. Flames snapping. Sparks drifting up into the dark. The tequila hummed warm in your veins, dulling the sharp edge of panic. Your head felt fuzzy. Pleasant fuzzy. The kind that made bad decisions feel distant.

He moved closer eventually. Sat on the low bench across the pit from you. Knees spread. Elbows on his thighs. Beer bottle dangling between his fingers. He didn’t look at you right away. Just stared into the flames like everyone else. But you felt it, the pull of his attention. Steady. Unavoidable.

After a while, it had been long enough that another round of drinks had been passed, and he spoke. Voice low. Rough around the edges from the alcohol or the week or both.

"You’re here."

Two words. Simple. No accusation. No demand. Just observation.

You swallowed. The margarita now tastes worse on your tongue. "Yeah."

He nodded once. Slow. Took another drink from his beer. "Good."

The group kept talking around you both. Laughing. Teasing. Pretending the tension wasn’t there. But it was. Thick. Electric. Every time someone shifted, every time the fire popped, you felt his eyes flick to you. Quick. Careful. Like he was afraid that if he stared too long, you’d bolt.

Mia leaned over again. Whispered so only you could hear. "See? He’s chill. Just stay a little longer. For old times’ sake."

You nodded. Small. Automatic.

The fourth margarita appeared in your hand somehow. You didn’t remember asking for it. But you drank anyway. Let the burn chase away the last of the clarity.

Rafe finally stood. Walked around the pit. Slow steps. Stopped a few feet from your chair. Hands still in his pockets. Head tilted just enough that the firelight caught the sharp line of his cheekbone.

"Can we talk?" he asked. Quiet. Almost careful. "Just for a second. Down by the water."

You looked up at him. The world tilted soft from the drinks. His face looked different in the low light, less angry, more… lost. The same face you’d seen in the dark of his room weeks ago, right before everything went wrong.

Sophia touched your shoulder lightly. "Go. We’re right here if you need us."

Avery smiled slightly. "Five minutes. Then come back and make fun of Topper with us."

You stood. Legs wobbly but holding. The sand was cool under your feet as you followed him down the steps, away from the fire, away from the lights. Waves rolled in steady. White foam hissing against the shore.

He stopped near the waterline. Turned. Didn’t crowd you. Just stood there. Waiting.

"I fucked up," he said. Voice rough. Low. "Bad. I know it."

You crossed your arms. The wind tugged at your hair. Salt stung your lips. "Yeah. You did."

He looked down at the sand. Kicked at a shell. "I’ve been trying to fix it. Therapy. Cutting back. All of it. Doesn’t make it right. Just… means I’m trying."

Silence stretched. Waves filled it.

"I don’t expect you to believe me," he continued. "But I’m sorry. For real."

You searched his face. The tequila made it hard to read him. Or maybe it made it easier. He looked wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw tight like he was holding something back.

You didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Letting the words settle.

He stepped closer. Slow. Careful. "Can I…?" He opened his arms a little. Not grabbing. Just offering.

The drinks had softened everything. The fear. The anger. The memory of his hand on your throat. It all felt farther away. Muted.

You stepped into him.

His arms closed around you. Tight. Familiar. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other low on your back. He smelled like smoke and salt and him. His heartbeat thudded fast against your cheek.

"I missed you," he whispered. Barely audible over the waves.

You didn’t hug back. But you didn’t pull away.

Behind you, up on the deck, the group watched. Faces glowing in the firelight. Smiling soft. Relieved.

You stayed like that longer than you planned.

When you finally stepped back, his hands slid to your arms. Lingered a second. Then dropped.

"Stay?" he asked. Quiet. No demand. Just a question.

You glanced back at the house. Sophia raised her cup. Mia gave a small nod. Avery mouthed please.

The net was soft. Warm. Almost comfortable.

You nodded once.

Walked back with him.

Sat down again.

Took the next drink when it was handed to you.

Let the night keep pulling you under.

Slow.

Subtle.

Inevitable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three weeks later, your period was late.

You bought the test at the small pharmacy on the Cut because no one there would recognize you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The cashier didn’t look at your face. You sat in your car in the parking lot with the plastic bag in your lap, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your teeth. 

The two pink lines stared back at you from the bathroom counter like they had been waiting there all along.

You had taken the test twice. Same brand. Same result. The first time you sat on the closed toilet lid for twenty minutes, knees drawn up, staring at the stick until the plastic felt warm from your grip. The second time you did it in the shower, water running cold, hoping the steam would blur the lines or wash them away. It didn’t.

Your period was nine days late now. You had never been this late. Not once.

The night at the beach house came back in fragments. Not clean memories. Just flashes. The margaritas tasting stronger than they should have. Mia’s hand on your arm, refilling your cup again. Rafe’s arms around you by the water, the group watching from the deck like it was some kind of movie moment. Then the guest bedroom. His mouth on your neck. His hands sliding under your shirt. You remembered saying “wait” once, maybe twice, the word slurring into the music thumping through the floor. You remembered his weight pressing you into the mattress. After that the edges went soft and dark. You woke up the next morning in his bed upstairs, sheets tangled, head pounding, no clear memory of how you got there or what happened between the guest room and waking up.

You had asked him once, days later, casual, testing the water.

“Do you remember… that night? Like, after we talked on the beach?”

He had looked at you with those tired eyes, thumb brushing your cheek. “Yeah. You were drunk. We both were. You wanted it. We both did.”

You had nodded because pushing felt dangerous. Because the alternative meant admitting you didn’t remember consenting. Or not consenting. The lines were too blurry to touch.

Now the lines weren’t blurry anymore.

You drove to his house that afternoon because the nausea had started and you couldn’t keep pretending it was stress or bad takeout. Your hands shook on the wheel the whole way. The Cameron driveway felt longer than usual. The house loomed white and quiet under the late sun.

Rafe answered the door shirtless, hair damp like he had just showered. He smiled when he saw you, small and hopeful, the way he had been smiling lately. Careful. Like he was afraid the wrong expression would make you bolt.

“Hey. You okay? You look…”

You didn’t let him finish. You stepped inside, closed the door behind you, and held up the test. The plastic trembled in your fingers.

His eyes dropped to it. Then back to your face. Everything in him went still.

“Is that…”

You nodded once.

He took the stick from you gently, like it might break. Stared at the lines. His breathing changed. Shallow. Fast. Then his face cracked open in a way you had never seen before. Not anger. Not smugness. Something raw and bright and terrifyingly real.

“Holy fuck.” His voice broke on the last word. He looked up at you, eyes wet, shining. “We’re… we’re having a baby?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed tight.

He pulled you into him suddenly, arms wrapping around you so hard it hurt a little. His face buried in your hair. You felt his chest shudder against yours. He was crying. Quiet, ragged breaths. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and broken.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is us fixing everything. You and me and… fuck, a kid. Our kid.”

You stood there frozen. His heartbeat hammered against your cheek. Too fast. Too loud. You felt the nausea roll again, sharp and sour.

“Rafe. I don’t… I don’t remember us having sex without… a condom. That night. I don’t remember any of it clearly.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your arms, thumbs stroking slow circles like he was trying to soothe you.

“You were drunk. We both were. But you wanted me. You pulled me down there. You said my name like…” He swallowed. “Like you needed me. We didn’t use one because… shit, I don’t know. It happened fast. You were on top at one point. You didn’t stop me.”

The words landed heavy. You searched his face for a lie. Couldn’t find one. But the memory still wouldn’t come clear. Just heat. Pressure. His voice in your ear. Your own hands on his back. Had you pulled him down? Had you said his name?

“I said wait,” you whispered.

His expression flickered. Pain. Guilt. Something darker underneath.

“I know. I heard you. But then you kissed me again. You wrapped your legs around me. I thought… I thought that meant yes. I’m so fucking sorry if I got it wrong. I swear to God I thought you wanted it.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing shaky.

“I would never hurt you like that on purpose. You know that. Right?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He took your hand. Led you to the couch. Sat you down. Knelt in front of you like he was praying.

“This baby… It’s not an accident. It’s us. It’s proof we’re supposed to be together. After everything I put you through, after I almost lost you… This is how we make it right. Ward’s gonna be so fucking proud. The girls are gonna lose their minds. They already love you. They’ll love this.”

He reached for your stomach. Hesitant. Palm flat against the flat plane. His hand shook.

“Our kid won’t grow up like I did. No yelling. No bullshit. Just… us. Safe. Together.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. Silent. You didn’t wipe them away.

He saw them. Misread them, maybe. Or didn’t care.

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But we can do this. I’ll take care of everything. Doctor’s appointments. Money. All of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words stuck.

“What if I don’t want…”

He froze. Hand still on your stomach.

“Don’t say that.” His voice cracked again. Not angry. Pleading. “Please don’t say that. Not yet. Just… think about it. Think about how good this could be. How much better I’ll be. For you. For them.”

He leaned in. Kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I fucked it all up. This… this is our second chance.”

You sat there. Numb. 

He stood up. Pulled out his phone. Already texting.

“I’m telling Ward. And our friends. They need to know. They’ll be so happy for us.”

You watched him type. Watched the messages send. Watched the little dots appear almost immediately.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t look.

You just sat there.

Staring at the spot on the floor where his knees had been.

Feeling the weight of something you couldn’t name settle deep in your chest.

Something final.

Something you hadn’t chosen.

But something you were already carrying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You met them at Sophia’s house because it felt safer than anywhere public. The living room smelled like vanilla candles and fresh coffee. Sunlight cut through the big windows and landed in sharp rectangles on the white couch. Mia had brought muffins. Avery kept refilling your water like that would fix anything.

They were smiling when you sat down. Real smiles. The kind that made your stomach twist worse.

“So,” Mia started, tucking her legs under her, “how are you feeling? Like, actually feeling? The group chat is already losing it over baby names.”

You stared at the muffin on your plate. The blueberries looked too bright. Your throat felt tight.

“I’m not keeping it.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

For a second, nobody moved. Sophia’s hand froze halfway to her coffee cup. Avery blinked slowly, like she was trying to replay what you just said.

“What?” Mia laughed, nervous. “Come on. You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head. Your hands were shaking, so you pressed them between your knees. “I’m not ready. None of this… none of it feels right. Rafe and I are still so messed up…And now there’s a baby? I can’t bring a kid into this. I feel so guilty even thinking about it, and I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

Sophia leaned forward. Her voice was soft, careful, the way people talk to someone on the edge. “Babe, I get that you’re overwhelmed. Pregnancy hormones are crazy. But this is a good thing. Rafe’s been trying so hard. He’s different now.”

“He’s not different,” you said. Your voice cracked. “He’s the same. And I’m not ready to be someone’s mom. I can barely take care of myself when he’s… when things get bad.”

Avery reached over and touched your arm. “We’re all here for you. We’ll help. The whole group will. This baby could be what finally makes him stable.”

You pulled your arm away. The touch felt too heavy.

“You don’t get it.” Your heart was pounding now. The vanilla candle suddenly smelled sickeningly sweet. “I don’t even remember that night clearly. I was so drunk. I said wait. And now I’m pregnant, and everyone’s acting like it’s this beautiful second chance. It’s not. It’s a trap. I feel trapped.”

Mia’s face changed. The soft concern hardened into something sharper. “Okay, that’s not fair. Rafe told us what happened. You were into it. You went to the guest room with him. You can’t rewrite it now just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not rewriting shit!” Your voice rose. You hated how loud it sounded in the bright, pretty room. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m terrified of raising a kid with him. He’s literally a drug addict!”

The word exploded out of you.

The silence after was worse than the shouting.

Sophia’s eyes went wide. Avery looked away, cheeks flushed. Mia stared at you like you had slapped her.

“Jesus,” Mia whispered. “You really just said that?”

You were breathing hard. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 “It’s true. He does coke all the time. He gets paranoid. And now you all want me to bring a baby into it? What kind of mother would that make me?”

Sophia’s voice was quiet but edged. 

“He’s been clean for weeks. He’s going to therapy. Ward even said he’s proud of him. You’re acting like he’s so fucked up when he’s trying to be better for you. For the baby.”

“He’s not fucking clean,” you snapped. “He just hides it better when you’re watching.”

Avery stood up suddenly. 

“This is fucked up. We all saw how broken he was when you left. He was crying to us. And now you’re pregnant, and you want to… what? Get rid of it? After everything we did to get you two back together?”

The words hit like ice water.

You looked at each of them. The people who had lied about Rafe not being at the party. The ones who kept pushing drinks on you that night. The ones who told you this was fate.

Guilt and rage and fear tangled so tight in your chest you couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t do this,” you said, quieter now. Voice raw. “I can’t bring a child into this. I’m not ready. And I don’t think I ever will be with him.”

Mia shook her head. Tears in her eyes. “You’re being selfish. That baby is innocent. And Rafe… he’s going to be devastated. You have no idea what this will do to him.”

The room felt too small. The sunlight too bright. The vanilla candle cloying.

You stood up on shaky legs.

“I need to go.”

None of them tried to stop you.

But as you walked to the door, you heard Sophia’s phone buzz. Once. Twice. Then three more times in quick succession.

You didn’t have to ask who it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your phone started exploding the second you left Sophia’s house.

It vibrated nonstop in your pocket the whole drive home. You didn’t look. You already knew. By the time you pulled into your driveway, the screen was flooded with missed calls from Rafe, Mia, and Avery. Text after text.

Rafe: answer ur fucking phone (4:56 pm)

Rafe: you told them you want to kill my kid???

Rafe: after everything ur really doing this to me???

You turned it off and went inside.

The knocking started softly at first. Polite. Almost hesitant. Your mom answered, voice muffled through the door.

“Rafe? Honey, what’s going on?”

You heard the low rumble of his voice, calm, measured. “Can I talk to her? Please. It’s important.”

There was a pause. Your dad appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, watching. Your mom stepped aside. Rafe walked in slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes were red, his hair damp with sweat, but his face was composed. Polite smile for your parents. The perfect Kook boy.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N. Sorry to show up like this. I just… need a minute with her. If that’s okay.”

Your dad glanced at you. You stood frozen in the living room doorway, arms wrapped tight around yourself. He nodded once. “Upstairs. Door open.”

Rafe gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

He followed you up the stairs without touching you. The hallway light buzzed overhead. Your bedroom door creaked when you pushed it open. He stepped inside after you. Closed it most of the way, not all the way, respecting the “open” rule, but enough that voices wouldn’t carry downstairs clearly.

The second he faced you, the mask slipped.

He turned. Locked eyes with you. The polite smile vanished.

“You told them,” he said. Voice low. Controlled. Barely above a whisper. “You told our friends you want to get rid of my kid. And you called me a fucking drug addict.”

You backed up until your calves hit the edge of your bed. “Rafe-”

“Shh.” He held up a hand. Not aggressive. Just firm. “Keep your voice down. Your parents are right downstairs. We’re not doing this loud.”

He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. You could smell the faint chemical edge on him, coke, fresh. His eyes were glassy but focused. Calculating.

“You have no idea what you just did,” he continued, still quiet. “The girls are blowing up my phone. Telling me you’re scared. Telling me you’re not ready. Telling me you think I’m gonna be a shit dad because I’m… what? A drug addict?”

He laughed once. Soft. Bitter. No humor.

“I’m trying. Every day. For you. For this.” His hand moved toward your stomach, not touching, just hovering. “And you go behind my back and tell them you want to kill it? That’s cold. That’s really fucking cold.”

You swallowed. “I said I’m not ready. I didn’t say I was-”

“You said it.” His voice dropped even lower. Almost a hiss. “You said the words. And now they’re all texting me like I’m the problem. Like, I forced this on you. Like I’m the one who’s dangerous.”

He took another step. Close enough, you felt the heat coming off him.

“I didn’t force anything,” he whispered. “That night? You wanted me. You pulled me into that room. You kissed me back. You wrapped your legs around me. Don’t try to spin it now just because you’re scared.”

His hand finally touched you, palm flat against your stomach. Gentle. Possessive.

“This is ours,” he said. “God gave us this. You think He makes mistakes? You think He’d put a baby in you if it wasn’t meant to be?”

You tried to step back. He didn’t let you. His other hand came up to the side of your neck. Fingers curling lightly into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Keeping you there.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “Not like that. Not with our kid inside you. But you need to understand something.”

His thumb brushed your jaw. Slow. Almost tender.

“If you try to take this away from me… if you go to a clinic, if you make an appointment behind my back… I will lose it. Completely. And I won’t be quiet about it. I’ll tell everyone. Your parents. Ward. The whole fucking island. I’ll tell them you’re unstable. That you’re trying to kill my baby because you hate me. That you’re the one who’s dangerous.”

His eyes searched yours. Wet. Pleading. But the grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.

“And Ward?” He leaned in. Breath hot against your ear. “Ward already knows. I told him the second your friends did. He’s furious. Not at me. At you. He said we’re handling this the right way. He’s already talking to lawyers. Prenatal custody stuff. Visitation. Support. He can make your life hell without ever raising his voice.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again.

“But I don’t want that,” he whispered. “I want us. I want our family. I want to be good. For you. For the baby.”

His hand slid down to cup your cheek. Thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was there.

“So here’s what’s happening,” he said. Still quiet. Still calm. “Tomorrow you’re coming to the house. Ward wants to talk. He’s already got the guest house ready. Full doctor coverage. Money for whatever you need. But you’re staying there. With me. Until the baby comes. After that… we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You opened your mouth.

He pressed his thumb over your lips. Gentle. Shushing.

“Don’t say no yet,” he murmured. “Think about it. Think about what happens if you fight this. Think about your parents downstairs. They already let me in. They already know about the baby. They’re not gonna let you do something stupid.”

He leaned in. Forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you hate me. Even when you want to hurt me. I still love you. And I’m gonna love this kid so much it scares me.”

His hand stayed on your stomach. Warm. Heavy.

“But if you try to take it away… I won’t survive it. And I won’t let you walk away clean.”

He stepped back slowly. Dropped his hands.

“I’ll be outside in the truck,” he said. Voice back to normal volume. Polite again. “Whenever you’re ready to talk. No rush.”

He turned. Opened the door wider. Walked downstairs as if nothing had happened.

You heard him thank your parents again. Heard the front door close softly.

You sat on the edge of your bed. Breathing shallow. Scalp stinging. Stomach churning.

Downstairs, your mom called up quietly.

“Honey? Rafe said… he said you’re pregnant?”

The silence stretched.

You didn’t answer.

Your phone buzzed once.

Rafe: I meant what I said. I’ll wait. (5:31 pm)

Then another.

Ward: We’ll see you tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late.

The screen went dark.

You stared at it.

The house felt smaller than ever.

And the weight in your stomach, the one you hadn’t chosen, felt heavier than Rafe’s hand ever could.

…….