it happened fast. flashing lights. yelling. blood on someone’s shirt. maybe his. maybe hers. she can’t even remember. all she knows is—when the cops showed up, she lied.

“it was me.”

just like that. no hesitation. no plan. just instinct. she said it like it was truth, like it didn’t make her stomach twist or her eyes sting. and rafe?

he was already walking away.

untouched. unnoticed. untouchable.

and she stood there, frozen, wondering if he’d turn around. if he’d say something. if he’d stop her.

he didn’t.

so now she’s here. handcuffed. booked. processed. sitting in court like it’s just another tuesday.

and he’s nowhere.

not in the hallway. not in the back row. not texting. not calling. just gone.

he doesn’t even know what she gave up.

she thought he would come clean. she thought maybe, just maybe, that underneath the attitude and the violence and the coke-fueled chaos, rafe cameron cared.

but the courtroom’s cold. and so is he.

she replays that night in her head over and over. the way he looked at her. the way her voice cracked when she said she did it. the way the cuffs felt tighter than she thought they’d be.

she told herself it would be worth it.

that he’d see. that he’d show up. that he’d thank her.

but days pass. weeks. no calls. no visits.

only silence.

and still, she doesn’t tell the truth.

because telling the truth means dragging him down. and no matter how cruel he is—how careless—she still can’t bring herself to hurt him.

and maybe that’s the sickest part.

she loves him.

fuck.

she loves him.

even now. even when her name’s on the court docket and her lawyer’s whispering about plea deals. even when her mom’s crying and her friends are gone and her whole fucking life is unraveling.

he’s the only one she’s thinking about.

she wonders if he’s partying. if he even knows.

she wonders if he’d care.

rafe cameron doesn’t owe her anything. she knew that. but deep down, some cracked little part of her thought he’d come running.

instead, she gets a cold seat. a public defender. and silence.

she’s not a saint. she’s not innocent. but she didn’t do this.

she just took it.

for him.

because when you love someone like rafe, you don’t expect flowers. you expect fire.

and sometimes? you walk straight into it.

⸻

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