You tell Topper you’re not ready.

It’s the safest truth you have. You say it gently, eyes lowered, hands tugging at the sleeves of the hoodie he gave you. He kisses your forehead and says he’ll wait — “as long as it takes.”

He calls it love.

You want to believe that. You really do. You want to believe that if you stayed where it’s safe and clean and easy, it could be enough. But every time you close your eyes, you feel Rafe’s hands on your thighs. Hear the way he says your name like it’s sacred. Remember how he kissed you like he owned you.

And you let him.

It didn’t start with cheating. It started with small things — sharp things. A look that lingered. A joke that wasn’t meant for Topper. Long silences that felt too charged. You and Rafe had already been close. Too close. That made it easier to explain away. Easier to pretend.

The first kiss happened on the porch while Topper was inside grabbing drinks. The party buzzed behind you, but Rafe looked at you like he’d been waiting for the moment to come. And when it did, he didn’t rush. Just leaned in slow, testing. You didn’t stop him.

You haven’t stopped him since.

Now it’s routine — muscle memory. You lie. You sneak out. You climb into Rafe’s truck like it’s where you belong.

Tonight, you told Topper your mom needed help with something. He believed you. He always does.

Now you’re curled against the passenger door in one of Rafe’s old hoodies, the inside warm and worn. Your heart’s a mess. The silence in the truck is louder than anything.

He drives fast — like he always does when he’s pissed. You don’t ask why. You already know. You saw how he looked when Topper kissed your cheek earlier, his arm tight around your waist.

“You told him no again?” Rafe mutters, eyes locked on the road.

You nod. “Told him I’m not ready.”

He laughs — bitter and cold. “But you’re in my truck every other night letting me do whatever the fuck I want to you.”

You look away. “It’s not the same.”

“No?” His voice sharpens. “You ever tell him you like when I call you mine?”

You swallow hard. Say nothing.

Rafe pulls off the road and cuts the engine. The quiet is thick. He leans back in his seat, jaw tense.

“He posted another picture. Captioned it ‘my girl.’ That shit makes me wanna put my fist through the wall.”

You glance at him. He’s not even looking at you — just staring through the windshield like it’s taking everything in him not to spiral.

“You think I like hiding?” he says. “Watching Topper fucking Thorton play boyfriend while I’ve had you underneath me? Screaming my name like it’s the only one you know?”

You want to say something — anything — but the words don’t come. That last line he says makes you shiver, he always knows how to get you worked up.

“I’m not jealous,” he lies. “I’m furious.”

You can tell. His hands are twitching. He’s trying not to light a cigarette, even though you know he wants to. You know Rafe better than you should.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He finally turns to you. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

Your breath catches. You don’t know how to explain it. You’re confused — but also not. Because whatever this is between you and Rafe, it’s real. Raw. Messy. And alive in a way nothing with Topper ever was.

Rafe leans closer. His fingers brush your jaw, gentle now.

“I’d ruin everything for you,” he says. “Topper, the friend group, all of it. I don’t care. Just say the word.”

Your chest aches. “But I do.”

He tilts your chin until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Then stop lying to yourself.”

And maybe you are. Because part of you does want to be his. Part of you wants the danger, the chaos, the way he looks at you like he’d kill for you.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there, breathing in the quiet. Letting his hand drift slowly up your thigh. Your phone buzzes from deep inside your bag — again, and again.

You don’t check it.

And this time, you don’t even feel guilty.