You didn’t mean to ruin him. But you did.

He wasn’t supposed to fall for you. He wasn’t supposed to become this. The version of him who waits by the door when you say you’re “just going out,” even though he knows it means you’re slipping out of his life again. The version who doesn’t sleep unless he’s sure you’re still coming back.

And you always did. Eventually.

The thing is—you never promised him anything. You made that clear from the start. You liked the way he looked at you, like you were a goddamn religion. Like his survival depended on how long you stayed in the room. That kind of attention is addicting. You never told him to fall on his knees, beg you not to leave—but he did it anyway. Like a dog, trembling and beautiful in his desperation.

And you watched him do it. Over and over again.

Rafe would press his forehead to your thighs like he was praying, mumbling things that didn’t make sense. “Don’t go,” and “I’ll be better,” and “I can’t breathe when you’re not here.” You’d sigh, tilt his chin up, and look him in the eye like you were about to kiss him—then walk away. Sometimes you came back. Sometimes you didn’t. But no matter how many times you tore him down, he was still waiting.

He knew it wasn’t love. Not really. Love doesn’t rot you from the inside out.

It felt like moths were inside him instead of butterflies—eating holes through everything that used to make him feel whole. His mind was chaos, spiraling thoughts, clenched fists, broken mirrors. And you—you were the only thing that ever made it quiet for a second.

So, he stayed. Obsessive. Confused. Pathetic.

He knew you didn’t need him. You wore your indifference like perfume. But he needed you like lungs need air, like a wound needs salt. He needed the sting. Even if it was killing him.

And the truth?

You liked watching him fall apart. It made you feel powerful. And he let you. Every time.