Rafe Cameron had never been soft.

Not with his friends, not with his enemies, not even with himself. He was sharp edges and reckless decisions, all bruised knuckles and clipped words, the kind of person people didn’t cross unless they had a death wish.

But then there was you.

You—who sat cross-legged on his bed, flipping through a book like the world wasn’t crumbling around him. You—who traced the veins on his arm absentmindedly while he ranted about things he’d never admit scared him. You—who kissed him slow, deliberate, like you weren’t afraid of the hurricane that lived inside him.

He came home late that night, exhausted, still buzzing from whatever mess he had just pulled himself out of. His head was pounding, jaw tight, body thrumming with leftover adrenaline.

And then he saw you—curled up in his hoodie, waiting for him.

You blinked up at him, sleepily, like you hadn’t just spent an hour worrying if he was okay. “Hey,” you murmured, voice soft.

Something inside him unclenched.

Rafe exhaled, running a hand down his face before making his way toward you. He didn’t say anything as he collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“You good?” you asked, fingers slipping into his hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp.

He just nodded against your skin, his grip tightening. “Just needed you.”

You didn’t press, didn’t ask for more than he could give. You just held him, whispering quiet reassurances, letting him melt into you like he wasn’t Rafe Cameron—the boy with the short temper and the sharp tongue—but just yours.

And maybe that was the thing.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t soft.

But for you? He always would be.