You and Rafe Cameron had been inseparable since you were sixteen—before the parties, before the anger, before everything got loud and messy. Back then it was just late-night drives, stupid jokes, and the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty. He used to walk a step ahead of you, always glancing back, like the world might take you if he didn’t keep watch.

Then seventeen came. And something in him cracked open.

At first it was just parties—too many, too often. Then came the drinking, the fights, the girls whose names he never remembered. You stayed. You always stayed. Even when his eyes started to look different, like he wasn’t fully there. Even when he snapped too quickly, laughed too hard, pushed too far.

Tonight was just another party. Loud music vibrating through the walls, bodies pressed together, the air thick with sweat and something chemical. You found him in the kitchen, leaning over the counter, head low. You didn’t even realize what he was doing until he straightened up, wiping his nose with the back of his hand like it was nothing.

That was it.

You pushed through people, grabbed his wrist—hard.

“Outside. Now.”

He barely resisted, just stumbled after you with that lazy, careless smirk that made your chest tighten. You didn’t stop until the noise dulled behind you, the backyard lit only by dim string lights and the distant echo of bass.

You let go of him like he burned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Your voice came out sharper than you expected, already shaking.

He laughed. Actually laughed. “What’s wrong with me? You dragged me out here like I—”

“Oh my god, don’t do that,” you snapped, stepping closer. “Don’t act like I didn’t just see you.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Not a big deal? Rafe, you’re—” You stopped yourself, pressing your hands to your forehead for a second before looking back at him. “You’re ruining yourself. And you don’t even care.”

His expression shifted—just for a second. Something darker slipping through. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” you echoed, stepping closer. “I’ve been watching you destroy yourself for a year and a half. Fighting, drinking, screwing anything that moves—”

“Watch it.”

“No, you watch it!” you shot back, pointing at his chest. “You think this makes you something? You think this makes you a man? You look pathetic.”

That did it.

His jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist this time, fingers digging in.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” he said, low, dangerous.

For a second—just a second—you hesitated. Because you’d seen this before. That look. That edge.

But you didn’t pull away.

“Or what?” you challenged, your voice shaking but steady enough. “You gonna hit me too, Rafe? Add that to the list?”

Something in him snapped.

His grip tightened, yanking you closer than necessary. “You don’t know anything about me,” he spat. “You think you do, but you don’t know what it’s like—”

You stared at him, breath catching. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t ask you to stay,” he spits.

The words hit harder than anything else.

Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating.

Then you nod, slow, like something inside you finally clicks into place.