I was seventeen when I first saw Rafe Cameron. Leaning against his truck at a beach party, cigarette behind his ear, his jaw sharp and eyes magnetic. “You’ve got quiet eyes,” he said, voice low, like he could see through me. “Like you’re too soft for this place.”

I wasn’t soft. But I wanted to be seen the way he saw me — something special, untouchable, his.

Soon, he became a shadow in my life, showing up when I was alone, his touch lingering like a question I couldn’t answer. He picked me up after school, took me on drives with music blaring, his hand always on me — my thigh, my wrist, my hair. “The world’s ugly, baby,” he’d say, “I’m just looking out for you.”

He bought me things — pieces of him: red lipstick, his old flannel. “You’re mine now,” he whispered one night, pressing his mouth to my ear. “I take care of what’s mine.”

At first, I thought it was love — dangerous, messy love. The kind that fills you to the brim and makes everything else fade. But love isn’t supposed to make you smaller.

He told me how to dress, who to talk to, who to avoid. “You’re too good for them,” he’d say. “They won’t understand you like I do.” Slowly, I became someone I didn’t recognize. Someone who existed only in relation to him.

He called it protection. He said it was love.

But slowly, I started to feel smaller. I started seeing myself through his eyes — fragile, needing his touch to exist. I let him shape me into someone I wasn’t sure I knew anymore.

By nineteen, I wasn’t the same girl who’d shown up at that party. I was quieter, smaller. My reflection didn’t belong to me anymore. It belonged to him, to the way he saw me, to the way I let him see me.

But I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to. Part of me craved the safety of his love, even if it was controlling. Even when it felt suffocating.

One night, as we drove down a dark road, music humming in the background, Rafe turned to me. His face, usually carefree, was serious, like something weighed heavy. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice low, almost hoarse.

His words froze the air between us, raw and vulnerable. “You won’t,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I was lying to him or to myself.

The next morning, I woke up to find his shirt next to me on the bed, the smell of him lingering. I reached out to touch it, half-smiling, remembering his touch, his presence, his eyes. The weight of his love made me feel seen, even when I didn’t understand the price.

He was there. I was still his. The feeling was comforting, but also made me wonder if I was becoming something I hadn’t intended.

And then, sometimes, I’d ask myself: Was I just a reflection of what he wanted me to be? Or was I someone of my own?

Every time that question appeared, his voice was there, reminding me, “You’re mine now. I take care of what’s mine.”

It wasn’t control. It was love — as messy and complicated as it was.

We weren’t perfect. Our love wasn’t smooth. But it was real. I didn’t want to walk away. Because I didn’t know how to exist without him. I was his, and he was mine — tangled together, bound by something neither of us fully understood, but neither of us wanted to let go of.

Sometimes, I’d catch glimpses of the girl I used to be — the one who wore what she wanted, spoke freely, without caring how it might affect anyone else. But those moments were fleeting.

For now, I was his. And he was mine.

Because I was made of glass — easy to see through, easy to break. And Rafe knew that. But for now, at least, he wasn’t letting me fall apart. He held me together, in his own way. Even if that meant I wasn’t whole yet, he was there — and that was enough.