Sunburnt knees and wind-tangled hair. Late nights in the hammock behind John B’s chateau, your voice blending into JJ’s laughter, Kiara’s sarcastic comebacks, Pope’s calm reason. Your world had sand in its teeth and salt in its veins, and you loved it because it was yours.
And then you met Rafe Cameron.
No you knew him before. Everyone did. Rich boy. Golden boy. Violent boy. Sarah’s older brother with rage behind his eyes and a temper that didn’t need provocation.
You knew what he was.
You just didn’t think he’d ever want you.
But when he did, he wanted all of you.
And now? You don’t belong to yourself anymore.
You’d be lying if you said you friends did care—cause they did more then anything.
You got text after text…
They were mad, and they had every right to be.
John B: you alive or nah? We just want to know you’re safe.
Pope: guess being a pogue is that shitty huh? Once a pogue always a pogue no matter what fancy fucking car ur in.
JJ: seriously tho. what did we do? was it me? if it was me just fuckin say it.
Kiara: cmon pls call us, atleast let us know ur ok 🩷?
JJ: don’t bother anymore if you wanna be his little toy, wtv. we tried.
You read every word, and each one felt like a blade twisting between your ribs.
You wanted to scream: I miss you. I’m not okay. Please come get me.
But Rafe was asleep in the next room. And your phone had his fingerprint now.
You sat on the bathroom floor that night in his house marble floors cold beneath your thighs, his sweatshirt swallowing you whole. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely recognizing the girl blinking back.
She looked tired. Older. Expensive. Hollow.
There was a bruise just under your jawline — not dark, not dramatic. Just a quiet echo of where he gripped you too tightly earlier when you said you wanted to go home for the weekend. He’d pulled you against the wall and kissed you like punishment.
“You don’t need them,” he whispered against your lips. “You have me.”
And that’s how he says it, every time: You have me. Like it’s a gift. A promise. A threat.
He didn’t always hurt you.
Sometimes, he was tender. Obsessively so.
He brushed your hair with callused fingers while you sat between his legs on the floor. Bought you books he never let you read. Dressed you in white silk just to tear it off. Told you he wanted to make you better. Wanted to “fix the Pogue in you.”
You let him.
Because he’d helped your mom with her bills. Put gas in your car when it died. Bought your medication when your insurance lapsed. He made sure you needed him.
Its your own fault really, your are the one that flirted with him on the beach that one day the minute he gave you attention.
Then you ended up at dinner and a few dates later wearing expensive jewelry he bought while telling him you were completely a virgin even though we all know you and JJ fucked sophomore year on some random looks bed at a party.
And now you were nothing but a mouse trapped in an impossible cage to escape.
| JJ (1:30am) : Pls, we just wanna know you’re doing well. I mean at least turn on your read receipts so ik ur alive.
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