You weren’t his. Not in the way that counted. But Rafe didn’t let that matter.

He’d watch you walk into a room like you owned every breath in it. Didn’t matter how crowded it was, didn’t matter how loud the music was thumping or who was whispering what — his eyes always found you. Like instinct. Like addiction.

And God, that’s what you were to him. Not in the romantic way people sing about, but in the way someone grabs at something sharp just to feel it again. You were the only person who could look him in the eye and make him feel like a man and a boy at the same time.

You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t his anything. But you were everything he wasn’t supposed to want.

And he wanted you anyway.

⸻

You laid next to him once, that night he couldn’t stop shaking from whatever was still in his system. He didn’t ask you to stay, but you did. You didn’t say anything when he whispered things he’d never admit sober.

He remembered every word. Especially the silence that came after.

Because that’s how you two worked — not with declarations, but with eye contact that lasted too long. With rules no one else would understand.

He told you not to see that guy again. The one who made you laugh too easy. You nodded. You didn’t argue. You didn’t have to.

You told him not to use. Not tonight. Not while you were around. He clenched his jaw and nodded like it hurt. Because it did hurt. You could always get him to listen. Even when it killed him.

You weren’t a saint. He knew that. But you were the only person who ever made him try.

⸻

He liked watching you sleep. It was the only time he ever believed you were real — that this thing between you was real. Because when you were awake, you were smart. Quick with words. Good at pretending this didn’t mean more than it did.

But asleep? You looked soft. You looked his.

And he hated himself for liking that.

⸻

The truth? He’d never be able to love you right. Not the way you deserved.

And the sick part was — he didn’t even want to try. Not really. Because to love you meant giving up the parts of himself that made him him. The fire, the chaos, the spiraling edge that made people cross the street when they saw him coming.

You didn’t want to save him. You just wanted him to stop.

And he hated that, too.

⸻

Still, he’d light a cigarette with shaking hands the moment you walked out the door, pretending it didn’t matter that you were gone. Pretending you weren’t the only thing holding him together some days.

Because if he said it out loud — if he told you how he really felt — it would be over.

And what you had? That fragile, aching almost-love? It was the closest thing to happiness either of you were ever going to get.

So no, you weren’t a couple. You never would be.

But you were his. And he was yours.

In all the wrong ways. And maybe, just maybe — that was enough.