The first time Rafe left, you thought it would be the last. He walked away without looking back, leaving nothing behind but silence and unanswered questions. You told yourself you’d move on. That you had to.

But then he came back.

And like always, you let him.

You saw him before he saw you, leaning against his truck outside the docks, the glow of a cigarette between his fingers. Same sharp jawline, same lazy smirk when he finally noticed you.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, like it was a joke, like he hadn’t shattered you.

You wanted to say no. Wanted to turn around and walk away. But you didn’t. Because that was the thing about Rafe—he never let you heal.

That night, he pulled you in again. Fingers ghosting over your skin, lips brushing against your ear, whispering things that made you forget why you hated him. You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that maybe this time would be different. That maybe he meant it.

But deep down, you knew how this ended.

Because Rafe never stayed.

Days later, he was gone again, like always, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in his place. And just like before, you were left bleeding, knowing that the second he came back, you’d let him do it all over again.