You’re sitting on his bed like you still belong there, even though neither of you say it anymore. Rafe’s pacing, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying not to explode.

“You can’t just show up,” he snaps, then immediately softer, “—I mean… you can. You just shouldn’t.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You texted me.”

“Yeah, well, that was stupid,” he mutters. Then, louder, frustrated, “You make me stupid.”

That’s Rafe. Always swinging between anger and honesty.

You stand, step closer. “We’re not together anymore, Rafe.”

He laughs — bitter, short. “You think I don’t know that?” His eyes flick down to your face, searching. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

There’s a beat. The tension is thick, familiar.

“You still sleep on my side of the bed,” you say quietly.

Rafe freezes. Then exhales, defeated. “Only ‘cause it smells like you. Don’t make it a thing.”

You’re close enough now that you can feel the heat rolling off him. He doesn’t touch you, but his hands flex like he wants to.

“You were bad for me,” you say.

“I know,” he admits instantly. “But I was never fake with you.”

That’s what keeps you here. Not love — not anymore — but the truth between you. Messy. Raw. Still close enough to hurt.

He looks at you, jaw tight. “You’re still mine,” he says, then corrects himself, voice lower. “Not like that. Just… don’t disappear on me.”

You nod. “I won’t.”

Rafe steps back first. He always does — like if he doesn’t, he might pull you back in and ruin everything.

“Good,” he says, softer. “’Cause I don’t think I could handle losing you twice.”