It started fast.

Too fast.

You and Rafe were never supposed to be a thing. It was late summer, and the break with John B was still fresh. You told yourself you weren’t hurting, but the silence where he used to be was loud. Too loud.

And then there was Rafe. Reckless. Sharp. The wrong choice — which made him feel exactly right.

He found you one night at a party, standing alone with a plastic cup and that far-off look in your eyes. He didn’t ask questions. Just tilted his head and said, “You look like someone who needs to forget something.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked toward him.

And that’s how it started.

The sneaking around. The kisses that tasted like denial. The nights in his truck, fogged windows and burning skin. He was dangerous and raw and nothing like John B — and maybe that’s exactly why you chose him.

But Rafe wasn’t stupid.

He noticed the way your breath would hitch whenever someone mentioned John B’s name. The way your fingers tensed if his truck passed on the road. He noticed how you’d pull away first, how you never asked him to stay the night.

Still, he didn’t say anything.

Until the day he found your old phone — the one you hadn’t used since the breakup. The screen was cracked, half dead, but it lit up when he plugged it in. Curiosity got the better of him.

There were texts.

So many texts.

“I miss you, JB.” “Still think about you.” “Can we talk?”

And then the one that broke him:

“I’m with Rafe. But it’s not serious. You were always it for me.”

He didn’t say anything that night. Just dropped you off at home with a kiss to your forehead, quiet and unreadable.

But the next time you showed up at his house, he didn’t answer the door. You found him in the backyard, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

“You lied to me,” he said without looking at you.

Your heart dropped. “What are you talking about?”

He finally turned. Eyes cold. Jaw tight. “I was your f**king rebound. That’s all I ever was.”

“Rafe—”

“You told him it wasn’t serious.” His voice cracked. “I was just a warm body while you cried over him, huh?”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” you said quickly. “At first, maybe… but then I started—”

“Started what?” he snapped. “Started liking me? Feeling guilty?”

You stepped toward him. “Started falling for you.”

He laughed bitterly. “Too little, too late.”

There was silence. Just the wind moving through the trees, soft and tense.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered.

He looked at you then, really looked — like he was trying to decide whether you were worth forgiving.

“I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice,” he said. “Not even yours.”

And just like that, he walked past you. Into the house. Door slamming shut behind him.

You stood there alone, heart pounding in the quiet — realizing, maybe for the first time, that Rafe Cameron wasn’t just the wrong choice.

He might’ve been the right one all along.