It starts with your phone buzzing on your nightstand at 2:14 AM.

You roll over, groggy, squinting against the light of the screen.

RAFE CAMERON:

wher r u Another buzz. Then another.

RAFE CAMERON:

u shld b here i miss ur face nd ur mouth You blink, half-asleep, heart thudding against your ribs.

You hadn't even planned on going out tonight — too tired, too busy — and you sure as hell hadn’t expected Rafe to remember you weren’t there. Let alone drunk text you about it.

The texts keep coming, messy and fast:

RAFE CAMERON:

sry 4 being an asshole i do tht ur still prtty even when u look at me like u wanna kill me You laugh quietly, dragging your blanket tighter around you.

Another buzz.

RAFE CAMERON:

come get me?? pls i wanna see u You hesitate.

Because sober Rafe is complicated. Distant, hot-and-cold, wrapped up in whatever mess he’s always dragging behind him.

But drunk Rafe? He’s simple. He just wants you.

You sigh and grab your keys.

When you pull up to the party, it’s chaos — music blasting, people shouting, lights flashing.

You find Rafe slouched on the front steps, head tipped back against the railing, looking like he’s seconds away from either passing out or fighting someone.

His face lights up when he sees you.

"There’s my girl," he slurs, pushing himself to his feet.

You catch him before he can stumble, tucking yourself under his arm.

"You’re a mess," you mutter, but your heart's soft anyway.

He grins, dopey and beautiful.

"Missed you," he mumbles into your hair.

You help him into your car, buckle him in like he’s a child, and he keeps grabbing at your hand the whole drive back.

"I mean it," he says seriously at one point, voice thick with emotion. "I’m better when you’re there. You make it... easier. You make me easier."

You glance at him — flushed cheeks, sleepy eyes, hair falling into his forehead — and something in your chest cracks wide open.

You squeeze his hand.

"I’m here," you say quietly.

And you are.

Maybe you always will be — even when he’s drunk.