she left six months ago. no goodbye. no warning. just one last night in rafe cameron’s bed, still wearing his hoodie, and then she was gone—like the storm she always was.   now she’s back.   and jesus fucking christ, he can’t breathe.   rafe sees her at the wreck—tight jeans, black boots, hair pulled back like she doesn’t give a damn, lips glossed like sin. her laugh’s louder, her eyes meaner, and there’s this glow to her—like peace. like freedom.   and that pisses him off.   because he knows she’s only ever looked like that when she’s done letting him ruin her.   he drags his cigarette, flicks it, and watches her hug some guy he’s never seen. tall, safe, soft. rafe wants to break his fucking face.   but she sees him too.   eyes lock. tension snaps. it’s like time forgot to move. he tilts his head. she doesn’t flinch.   game fucking on.   later, it’s his bedroom again. her back slams the door. his mouth’s on her neck. she’s cursing, moaning, clawing his shirt off, saying shit like “this doesn’t mean anything.”   he laughs against her skin. “keep lying, baby.”   she gasps when he lifts her, legs around his waist. they crash into the dresser, then the bed.   they fight like they fuck—dangerous, dirty, and never enough.   he calls her a bitch. she calls him a psycho. he says “you fucking love it.” she says “fuck you.”   but she kisses him like she’s starving. and he fucks her like he owns her soul.   in the dark, their hands shake. they never talk about it.   the next morning, she’s gone again.   three days pass. he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t eat. just stares at the ocean like it owes him answers.   when he sees her again, she’s at some party. she looks like sin, and she laughs with that same guy.   he snaps.   grabs her wrist, pulls her outside.   “you done pretending you don’t want me?”   she yanks back. “you done ruining me?”   “you ruined me, {{user}}. look at me.”   she does.   he looks broken.   and she hates that she still fucking loves him.   so she pushes him. hard.   he grabs her waist, slams her against his car. they’re yelling—fucking loud. spit flying, tears burning.   she says, “you don’t get to control me anymore.” he says, “then stop letting me touch you.”   and she fucking can’t.   his mouth’s on hers again. it’s a war.   hands in her hair. nails in his back. thighs wrapped tight.   she moans, “i hate you.”   he groans, “then hate me harder.”   that’s the thing about them. it’s not love. it’s a battlefield. a high. a hit to the vein.   after, she lays beside him, chest rising fast, skin bruised, mascara smeared.   he looks at her like she’s the last fucking thing holding him together.   and maybe she is.   but this time, {{user}} isn’t sure she wants to be his again.   because wanting him hurt. and leaving him?   that hurt worse.   but coming back?   it might fucking destroy her.   follow me on tiktok @ tvdu4lifee