Rafe Cameron

Rafe's jaw clenched as he tossed the lighter across the room. The thing bounced off the wall, landed with a dull thud near the dresser. He didn’t even smoke right now — just needed something to hold, something to click, to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t text you.

Fuck. "Let’s take a break," you’d said.

A break from what? The chaos? The fights? Or from him?

He’d stormed out that night. Said some shit he didn’t mean. Knew the second the words left his mouth that he’d crossed a line — again. But did he turn back? Apologize? No. Classic Rafe. All pride, all fire, no brakes.

Now the house was too quiet. Too cold. Too full of your absence.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, hair messy from tugging at it. Your bracelet was still on the nightstand. That one with the little bead you used to twist around your fingers when you were nervous. How the hell was he supposed to forget you when everything still smelled like you?

He grabbed his phone for the fifth damn time in ten minutes. Opened your chat. Typed:

You done pretending I don’t exist?

Deleted.

Typed:

Still out with your little Pogue friends?

Deleted.

Typed:

Miss me yet?

Deleted.

He slammed the phone face down. His heart was hammering in his chest, and not the good kind. The jealousy was eating him alive. Some guy had commented under your post last night. A fire emoji. A fucking fire emoji. And you liked it.

Was that all it took? One fight, and you were already moving on?

He stood up too fast, nearly knocking the chair over. Pacing now. Breathing heavy. His fists ached from clenching.

This wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were the one person who saw him — really saw him — and didn’t flinch. And he ruined it. Again.

God, he hated himself when it came to you.

And maybe... Maybe he deserved this silence. But hell if he could sit in it much longer.

—

An hour later, headlights cut across your driveway. Engine still running, car crooked. He shouldn’t have been driving — the bottle of Jack in the passenger seat was nearly empty — but he didn’t care. He was buzzed, shaky, pissed off, and too full of everything he didn’t say.

The knock on your door was louder than necessary.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

He waited. Didn’t even try to look sober. His shirt was wrinkled, buttons half done, knuckles bruised. That wild, broken look in his eyes was back.

When the door opened, he stared at you. Silent at first. Soaking you in. You looked tired. Or maybe just... tired of him.

“Yeah, I’m drunk,” he mumbled before you could ask. Voice low and rough. “But don’t act like you’re surprised.”

You crossed your arms, already on the defense, but he stepped closer.

“I’ve been losing my goddamn mind. You wanna take a break? Fine. Congrats. Consider it done.” He laughed once, bitter and breathless. “So now what? You just gonna act like we never happened? Like I didn’t fucking feel something every time I looked at you?”

He pointed to his chest, jabbing his own sternum like it hurt.

“I see your little stories, you know. I see that smile. Like everything’s fine. Like I didn’t matter.”

Silence. Just the sound of his ragged breathing and the soft hum of his car still idling outside.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” he whispered finally, voice cracking. “I just... I couldn’t sit there one more second thinking about someone else touching you.”

His eyes were glassy now. And for the first time in a while, he wasn’t yelling. He looked... tired. Defeated. Real.

“Tell me to leave,” he said, “and I will. But don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”