Rafe slung the towel over his shoulder as he walked back into his bedroom, running a hand through his damp hair. He smiled when he heard his phone vibrating from its spot on his dresser, he knew it was you before he picked it up. Sure enough, there was a text from you, saying you’d be there soon followed by a string of kissy face emojis. What were you doing to him? Just seeing your name on his phone made him smile like an idiot, and he actually thought the emoji’s were cute. You were turning him soft.

His gaze lands on the side of his bed that had become yours when you stayed over. He spots the black and white composition book that you were always scribbling in. He’d bugged you so many times about when you were going to show him what you were writing, and you always gave a dismissive answer. He picks it up, going to close it and set it on the bedside table, when his name jumps out at him.

He knew he shouldn’t, but if you were writing about him, he wanted to know what it was. It would most likely be a good ego boost. He sits down on the bed, his eyes scanning the page. Words pop out at him, coldhearted, ruthless, angry, daddy issues, secretive, liar, villain. All the worst things he’s thought about himself, you’ve put to paper. You, who was supposed to be the one that healed him, that made him better. You were supposed to be the one who saw past all the darkness, and saw the real him.

He stares at the paper, still in shock, anger and confusion rising up inside of him. He wants to throw the damn book into the fire and forget he ever saw it. He wants to push it in your face and demand answers. He’s wrestling with what to do when he hears the creak of the bedroom door open, and there you stood.

You smile at him, ready to go hop on his lap and smother him with kisses, when you see his expression and see what he’s holding. Your notebook. Damn it, however could you have been so stupid as to leave that here? The smile falls from your face and you move towards him, trying to explain.

“I know it looks bad. I started it before we got serious, before I really knew you…it was just me using what I knew of you at the time as inspiration”

He looks up at you coldly, and it feels like he’s looking at you like you’re a stranger. You want to curse and cry and beg. Anything to change that look on his face. He throws the book at the wall, and you flinch, his jaw hardens at your reaction.

“So, that’s what I was then? A character for a story? Get your shit and get out.” He stands up, throwing your books and trinkets into a pile on the floor. “We’re done.”