Breaking up with the boy who saw you—really saw you—was never something you had written down. Not in journals, not in drafts of half-lived dreams. Not even whispered in late-night talks with yourself when the world felt too heavy and your chest too small to hold all the ache.

But there it was. One sentence. Clean and cruel. It gutted you in silence.

He crashed through your ribs like a wave. Flipped your heart over. Squeezed it until it bruised. Stabbed it with that knife of indifference. And then—just to be sure—spat on the wound like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.

Now you’re lying there. In the quiet that never feels quiet enough. On your back, staring at the ceiling like maybe if you watch it long enough, it’ll crack open and swallow you whole.

Moonlight seeps through the window, gentle and ghostly. Like it pities you. Like it’s the only thing that hasn’t left.

Then, the rain. First, just soft little taps against the glass—like it’s knocking, asking if it can come in. You don’t answer. You never do.

But when the wind shifts and the drops get louder, heavier—like grief pounding fists on your window—you know what’s coming.

Thunder. God, how you hate it. How it crawls up your spine and makes your bones forget how to be solid.

You pull the blanket tighter. Eyes shut. Counting. Waiting.

Meanwhile, across town— Rafe’s sitting at his desk, pretending to study. Pretending to be someone he’s not anymore. Or maybe someone he could’ve been—if you hadn’t walked away.

He never used to do homework. Not before you made him try. Not before you curled your legs into his lap and read over his shoulder and bribed him with kisses and candy and laughter.

Now, the textbook sits untouched. His eyes locked on the storm outside. Each raindrop against the glass sounds like your name.

He remembers. God, he remembers too well.

How thunder always made you small. How you’d crawl into his chest like you wanted to live there. How you’d squeeze your eyes shut and count, like if you could just get to ten fast enough, the world would stop shaking.

The lightning flashes once. Silent. The second time, it growls. By the fifth, it screams.

And something snaps in him.

Screw it.

He’s already outside before he finishes the thought. Rain soaking through his hoodie, dripping off his lashes. He doesn’t care.

Your window—the one he helped you paint that summer, the one he knows the trick to open from outside—It gives in to him, like always.

And there you are. A shape under blankets. Still. Fragile. Familiar. Just like he imagined. Just like he feared.

He climbs in. Doesn’t say a word. Crosses the floor to you, rain trailing behind him like regret.

You don’t move, but he knows you’re awake. Knows the way your body tenses when the thunder rolls. Knows that you’re somewhere between sleep and sobbing.

So he lays beside you. Pulls you into him like you still belong there. Like maybe if he holds you hard enough, the rest of the damage will come undone.

You don’t fight it. Don’t flinch. Just melt. Like your bones remember what it’s like to be held by someone who knows all your shadows.

His fingers thread into your hair. Soft. Slow. Repeating.

Your breaths fall in sync. Your fists unclench. Your eyes stay closed, but not from fear now. From safety.

He broke you, yes. Maybe beyond repair.

But when the thunder comes? When the world gets too loud? Rafe is always there.

He may have ruined your heart. But he will never let it be afraid.

Not of storms. Not of people. Not of anything.

And when someone sneers at you in the hallway? He bleeds their lip for it.

When your parents scream? He screams louder.

Because love, for Rafe, was never soft. But for you—it always was. Even now. Especially now.