She knew better than to love Rafe Cameron.

But here she was, back in his truck, cigarette between her fingers, letting the smoke curl through the air as he drummed his hands against the steering wheel, jittery from the coke he’d just snorted. His jaw was tight, his lips parted just enough to let out sharp, uneven breaths. She could see the remnants of white powder dusting his nostrils, but she didn’t say shit. What was the point? He’d do whatever the fuck he wanted, and she’d let him—because that’s just how it was.

“You’re too fucking quiet,” he muttered, tapping the wheel aggressively. His eyes flicked to her, blue and stormy, pupils blown. “What, you pissed at me?”

She exhaled slowly, head tilting against the seat. “I don’t know, Rafe. Maybe I’m just fucking tired.”

“Tired of what?” His voice was sharp, challenging. “Me?”

She turned to face him, taking in the sharp cut of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. She’d seen him like this before—wound tight, seconds away from exploding. It was a dangerous game, pushing him when he was like this, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Maybe,” she said, just to see what he’d do.

Rafe barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s fucking rich. You’re tired of me?” He gripped the steering wheel like he wanted to break it. “That’s funny. Real fucking funny.”

She rolled her eyes, tossing the cigarette out the window. “Jesus, Rafe. Chill the fuck out.”

“No,” he snapped, shifting in his seat. “You think I don’t fucking see it? The way you look at me sometimes? Like I’m some fucking problem you need to fix.”

She sighed. “I never said that.”

“But you fucking think it.”

Rafe scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “You know what your problem is? You act like you don’t give a shit, but you do. You fucking do.” He turned to face her, eyes burning. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

She swallowed hard, staring at him, heart hammering. Because he was right.

But she was.

Because she loved him. Even when she fucking hated him.