They said he did it. That he blew her head off without hesitation. That he was the psycho. The murderer.

He didn’t take it well. He swore he didn’t do it, desperation dripping from every word, every plea. But no one listened. No one believed him.

Except you. You were his. And he was yours. For a long time now. You told him you believed him, over and over, holding his face in your hands until he almost believed it himself.

It was a normal day. Sunlight spilling over tangled sheets, the soft hum of the ceiling fan above. Rafe turned to you, voice still rough from sleep. “Where are those pictures you took last summer?”

You barely looked up. “In the drawer in my room,” you told him.

He found the USB stick, small and harmless in his palm. Plugged it into his laptop, expecting beach sunsets, messy hair, your laugh caught on camera.

But the screen flickered to life, and his breath caught.

You. Standing in front of the girl they said he’d killed. She was tied to a chair, her eyes wild, her mouth gagged. And then—

The loud boom. He flinched.

Smoke drifted across the frame. You stepped forward, close enough that your face filled the screen. You stuck your tongue out, the smallest, wickedest smirk pulling at your lips. “For you,” you said, your voice echoing from the speakers.

Wrong USB.

He stared at the screen, blood pounding in his ears, his heart collapsing into something dark and heavy.

And then—

He felt your breath on his neck. Warm. Too close. His body locked in place, ice flooding his veins.

“You weren’t supposed to see that now,” you whispered, so soft, so sweet.

Your words curled around his spine like a noose. And somewhere, deep inside, he realized:

They were right.

Just not about who.