everybody told her not to fuck with rafe cameron. and maybe she should’ve listened.

but the first time she saw him—blood drying on his knuckles, nose busted from a fight he claimed he “won by default”—he smiled at her like he already owned her. and she let him.

it wasn’t like those pogue stories. this wasn’t a summer fling or a barefoot beach kiss. this was fucked up from the beginning. bruises instead of flowers. whiskey instead of dinner. “you scared?” he asked her once. “no.” liar.

she met him at a party she wasn’t even supposed to be at—kooks with too much money and not enough guilt. she wore her best dress. he wore a black eye and a mouth full of trouble. they shouldn’t have looked good together. but chaos has a way of matching energy. {{user}} didn’t mean to kiss him. she meant to leave. meant to run. but he looked at her like she was the last honest thing in a world he was trying to burn down.

and he said shit like, “i won’t hurt you.” but hurt was the only thing he knew how to keep alive.

it started with late-night drives. his hand on her thigh. her head against the window, music too loud, sirens always somewhere in the background. he liked to show her the ocean and ask, “if we drowned right now, would they even fucking care?” she didn’t have an answer.

he didn’t care about survival. rafe just needed someone to choose him—ugly parts and all. and god, {{user}} chose. even when she shouldn’t have. even when he came home with blood on his shirt. even when she helped him bury things—truths, weapons, feelings. even when she stopped recognizing her own damn reflection.

he dragged her into everything. lied to the cops with his arm around her shoulder. crashed her car and said, “you’ll cover for me, right, baby?” and she fucking did. every time. because when it was just them? when the world shut the hell up? he looked at her like she wasn’t just enough—she was his.

but she wasn’t bulletproof. and love doesn’t mean survival. not with someone like rafe cameron. he’d kiss her like she was his last breath, then leave bruises on the walls when he got too mad at himself to speak. he never hit her. not once. but his love still hurt.

and people talked. her friends stopped calling. her mom cried once and said, “i raised you better.” but what the fuck did “better” mean in a world where love didn’t feel real unless it was a little dangerous?

“he’s a bad guy,” they said. maybe. but he never let go of her hand in public. he memorized her coffee order. he bought her a necklace with his name on it and said, “so you remember who you belong to.” and even though it scared the hell out of her—she wore it. every fucking day.

eventually, it stopped being about right or wrong. it was about him or nothing. and she didn’t want nothing. so she stayed.

until one night he didn’t come back. and she heard the rumors. that someone finally got to rafe first. that blood on his name meant death this time.

she sat in the kitchen with his hoodie on, hands shaking, wondering how the hell she got here. and when he finally walked through the door—limping, pale, shirt ripped—she didn’t scream. she just stood up. wrapped her arms around him. and whispered, “i thought you were fucking dead.” he kissed her neck and mumbled, “you’d be next if i was.”

love, loyalty, survival. you can’t have all three.

and when you ride for someone like rafe cameron, you die first.

but at least he’d bury her himself.

⸻

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