Rafe Cameron had always been that guy—the golden boy, the town’s untouchable heartthrob. Girls whispered about him, trailed their hands over his shoulders, laughed too loudly when he spoke. And once, you had felt lucky. Lucky that he chose you. That despite all the flawless, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girls who wanted him, he wanted you.

But over time, you started wondering if you had mistaken being chosen for being settled for.

It was in the way his friends smirked when they saw you together, nudging him. “Never thought I’d see the day Rafe Cameron went for the cute girl-next-door type.” The way his ex twirled blonde strands between her fingers, throwing you looks that screamed you won’t last. And Rafe never corrected them. Just smirked, shrugged, sometimes even laughed.

Then there were the moments that stung.

The party, when his ex draped herself over his arm, pouting, and he just chuckled. “You’re trouble, you know that?” He didn’t pull away. Didn’t move. And for the first time, you felt small.

Or the night you overheard him with Topper, his voice careless. “Yeah, she’s different from the girls I usually go for, but—”*

But what? You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

So, he started pulling away.

At first, it was subtle—longer response times, dodging your hands, turning away from your kisses. But then it got worse. Ignored calls. Missed parties. Meeting you outside his house instead of letting you in.

And you noticed. At first, you brushed it off, rolling your eyes when he sent another not feeling great, maybe tomorrow text. But then tomorrow turned into next week, and next week into nothing at all.

That night, you found him by the docks. Your voice was quieter than usual, burdened with something you didn’t want to name.

"What's wrong, baby?" A pause. "Rafe, what happened?"