rafe cameron doesn’t give a fuck. that’s what he says. over and over and over.

“nah, she can do whatever she wants.” “not my girl.” “i don’t care.”

he says it so casually you’d think he actually believes it. but everyone knows rafe. and when it comes to {{user}}? he’s not casual. he’s fucking crazy.

they were never official. she knew that. he made it clear. they’d hook up, talk shit, fight like hell, then pretend nothing happened. he’d kiss her like she was oxygen, then vanish for a week. call her baby, then say “don’t catch feelings.” gaslight. gatekeep. god complex. that was rafe cameron.

so when she walked into that party with another guy— some clean-cut touron loser in a polo shirt and boat shoes— rafe lost it.

he was already high. maybe drunk. maybe both. but he saw her in that tight little dress, arm linked with someone else’s, laughing—like she didn’t even know he was there— and something in him just fucking snapped.

topper said, “don’t.” kelce said, “not worth it.” and rafe? rafe was already gone.

he followed them out back. hands shaking, lip twitching, mind loud as hell with every time he told her he didn’t care.

she was leaning against the railing, her date way too close. smiling like she was actually having fun. like rafe didn’t exist. and he hated that.

“yo,” he called out. they both turned. “can i talk to you?” {{user}} blinked. “about what?” rafe didn’t answer her. just looked at the guy. “you should leave.” “excuse me?” “i said—get the fuck outta here.”

the guy laughed. mistake #1. “who the fuck are you?” rafe didn’t answer.

he reached into his waistband and pulled out the gun. real slow. real calm. pointed it at the guy’s chest like he was ordering coffee.

“rafe—” she started. “don’t.” “what the fuck are you doing?” he didn’t look at her. he never looked at her when he was about to self-destruct.

“you think i won’t do it?” he asked the guy, voice flat. “yo, are you fucking serious right now?” “dead serious.”

{{user}} stepped between them, chest heaving, eyes wide. “put it down.” “you brought this motherfucker to my party,” rafe said, eyes never leaving the guy. “it’s not your party.” “everything’s mine.”

her hands were shaking when she touched his arm. he didn’t flinch. but he didn’t lower the gun either.

“this isn’t love,” she whispered. “good,” he said, finally looking at her. “because i don’t do love.”

lie. fucking lie. everything he did was because of her. he just couldn’t admit it. not sober. not high. not ever.

after a beat, he finally dropped the gun. the guy ran like hell.

and {{user}} just stood there. heartbroken. furious. knowing deep down rafe would rather go to prison than say “i love you.”

she didn’t cry. didn’t yell. she just walked back inside. left him standing there, hands shaking, full of everything he refused to say.

because that’s the thing about rafe cameron. he’ll say you mean nothing. then pull a gun on your date.

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