The knock on her door came late, when the air was still and the crickets had finally settled into their rhythm. {{user}} already knew who it was before she even moved. Only one person knocked like that, sharp but hesitant, like he was daring her to open and praying she would not at the same time.
She opened the door anyway, because she always did.
Rafe stood there, tall and dangerous, blonde hair falling over his forehead, eyes clouded with the same storm they always carried. He smelled faintly of smoke and ocean salt, and when his gaze landed on her, she felt it all over again. The history. The ache. The disaster of him.
“You should not be here,” she whispered, fingers tight on the doorframe.
“I know,” he said, voice low. He shoved his hands into his pockets like he could hide the fact that they were shaking. “But I could not stay away.”
Her chest tightened. “Sofia?” she asked, daring him to say her name.
His jaw flexed, and for a moment he almost looked guilty. Almost. “She is not you.”
The words felt like a match to gasoline. {{user}} wanted to slam the door in his face. She wanted to pull him inside. She hated how much power he still had just by standing there.
“Then why are you with her?” she asked bitterly.
His laugh was humorless, sharp, cutting through the quiet night. “Because she does not hurt me like you do.”
That was the problem, though. Sofia did not consume him the way {{user}} did. She was calm water. {{user}} was fire. And he had always been addicted to burning.
He leaned closer, eyes locked on hers, voice dropping. “Do you ever think about it? Us?”
“Every day,” she admitted before she could stop herself.
Something inside him broke at her honesty. His hand lifted like he was going to touch her cheek, but he stopped short. He should not. He knew he should not. Yet the space between them vibrated with everything left unsaid.
“Rafe,” she breathed, half warning, half plea.
“Just tell me to go,” he said. His tone was raw, almost begging. “Tell me you do not want me anymore and I swear I will not come back.”
She froze. She could not say it. Not when his eyes were blue fire and his voice cracked like he was confessing more than he wanted to.
Silence hung heavy. Finally, she whispered, “You are the devil I know.”
He closed his eyes like the words were both curse and prayer. Then his mouth was on hers before either of them could think, crushing, desperate, angry. She shoved him back, but only after she kissed him harder, giving in to the same poison she had sworn to leave behind.
“You are with her,” she said, pushing against his chest.
“I do not care,” he growled, hands gripping her waist. “You are mine.”
The words cut deep. She hated how much she wanted to believe them, how her body betrayed her by leaning into his touch. Their love had always been like this, messy and destructive, built on moments that felt like forever and broken by choices that ripped them apart.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath came ragged. “One day you are going to stop opening this door,” he said softly.
“Maybe,” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “But not tonight.”
And with that, she let him inside again, knowing it was a mistake, knowing it would cost her everything, and still choosing him anyway. Because sometimes the devil you know is harder to walk away from than the heaven you do not.
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