You were lying next to him, tangled in sheets that still carried the heat of the moment. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, but his silence said more than his heartbeat ever could.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t an easy man. He wasn’t soft or simple. And he never let anyone in—until you.

It started slow, like it always does. Late nights turned into mornings. His restless mind found comfort in your presence, your touch, your voice. You made him laugh without trying, something he hadn’t done in so long, he forgot how effortless it could feel. But that terrified him. The closer he got to you, the further away his past seemed to drift—and for someone like Rafe, the past was what shaped him. The pain. The rage. The losses. Letting go of all that?

“I don’t know what this is,” he mumbled one night, voice hoarse as he stared up at the ceiling. “But when you’re close… it feels good. Like everything else just—” He paused, eyes flicking toward you. “Disappears.”

You wanted to reach for him, pull him into your arms and tell him it was okay to feel scared. That love doesn’t always come dressed in red flags and heartbreak. But you knew Rafe wasn’t built like that. He was a walking contradiction—bold but broken, reckless but afraid.

“You want more from me,” he whispered later, fingertips grazing your waist as if you’d vanish if he held too tight. “I know you do. But I don’t know if I can give it.”

You didn’t answer right away. You let the silence stretch. Then you leaned in, brushed your lips along the curve of his shoulder and whispered, “Then let me teach you.”

That night, under dim lights and heavy breaths, you made him feel—really feel. For once, he wasn’t haunted. He wasn’t high. He wasn’t fighting ghosts or chasing shadows. He was just exploring. Your body. His own heart. The way it beat harder when he looked at you. The way your fingers brushed through his hair and made him believe that maybe—just maybe—he could learn how to love again.

Even if it scared him. Even if it hurt. You were worth the risk.