Rafe Cameron is your part-time lover, full-time problem, and still somehow your best friend.

People don’t really get it. Honestly, sometimes you don’t either.

He’s loud. He does dumb stuff. He picks fights with his dad and disappears for hours and comes back smelling like smoke and ocean salt. He wears sunglasses at night. He says reckless things. He kisses you mid-sentence.

And still— You don’t see what anyone could see in anyone else but him.

⸻

One night, he kissed you on the brain. Literally.

You were sitting on the hood of his car, parked too close to the train tracks, the kind of place you weren’t supposed to be. He was sitting behind you, arms looped lazily around your waist, and the rumble of the train shook everything. It roared by, fast and loud, but he leaned forward and pressed a kiss right to your temple.

You’d never said “I love you.” Not then.

But that kiss felt a lot like it.

He called you starry-eyed later, when your head leaned back on his shoulder and your smile was all teeth and tired.

⸻

You had this running joke. You’d both say: “We sure are cute for two ugly people.”

It started one morning when your hair was a mess and he had a black eye and neither of you cared. You’d never been the glossy, perfect couple, and Rafe definitely wasn’t “Instagram boyfriend” material. But when he looked at you? It was like nothing else mattered.

No filters. Just real. Just you and him.

⸻

And yeah, you fought sometimes. Both of you had shiny, happy fits of rage.

He’d slam doors. You’d throw his lighter across the room. He’d raise his voice. You’d cry. Someone would need time.

But you always came back.

Because the pebbles forgave you. The trees forgave you. So why would you forgive each other?

⸻

He lived in his car for a while after a fight with Ward. Didn’t tell anyone.

but you knew. You found him curled up in the backseat, his rumpled guitar wedged between laundry and half a pack of Pop-Tarts. You slid into the front seat with your MP3 player and earbuds and handed him one.

Neither of you said anything.

You just listened. That was his niche. And yours, too.

⸻

There was a night where he whispered “Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B A start” into your neck after you beat him in Mortal Kombat. You couldn’t stop laughing. He said it was his way of admitting you were smarter than him. “Just ‘cause we cheat,” he said, grinning, “doesn’t mean we’re not smart.”

You told him he was an idiot. He kissed you anyway.

⸻

He always tried to keep it real. Even when that meant being kind of brutal. He didn’t pretend to be a hero or lie about who he was. But when he touched you, when he looked at you, when he leaned into you like the world was too much—he was soft.

And one night, when you cried over something small—something you tried to laugh off but couldn’t—he cupped your face in both hands and said:

“I’m in love with how you feel, my sweet angel.”

Your breath caught.

You’d always felt like your feelings were too much for people. Too intense. But he saw it like it was the best part of you. Like loving deeply wasn’t a flaw—it was a strength.

⸻

You wanted more quiet. He wanted more chaos. You wanted safety. He wanted adrenaline.

Still—when he looked at you? He didn’t see anyone else.

⸻

One time he told you he was your biggest fan. He’d had too much to drink and was dancing in your room to music you didn’t even like. He grabbed your hands and spun you around and said, “You’re like, I don’t know—like… my thing.”

“Your thing?” you teased.

“My everything,” he corrected, slurring it.

You laughed so hard you cried.

⸻

You squinched your face once, mid-argument, and did a stupid little dance to defuse the tension. It worked. He cracked up. Said you looked like you were shaking something out of your pants.

“Shut up,” you told him.

But he kissed you anyway.

⸻

No one else gets it. the versions of each other that only you know.

And yeah, maybe it’s not perfect. Maybe you’re messy. But you don’t see what anyone can see In anyone else but him. And he doesn’t see anyone else but you