they weren’t a couple. not officially. not even close, if you asked rafe.

he said it with a half-smirk one night when topper asked—“nah, she’s just fun.” but topper saw the way his jaw clenched when {{user}} got up to dance with that random guy at the kegger. saw how his knuckles went white around the red solo cup. saw how rafe couldn’t even finish his drink after that.

“just fun” doesn’t make a man blackout and swing. but that’s what he did. three days later. at the gas station. he saw her ex—some asshole who used to cheat on her, run her through hell, leave her crying in bathrooms while pretending everything was fine in public. and rafe didn’t even think. just walked up, said nothing, and fucking snapped.

broke the guy’s nose. cracked two ribs. slammed his head against the pavement until topper had to drag him off. and all rafe said afterward was: “don’t ever fucking touch her again.”

but ask him how he feels about {{user}}? “it’s not serious.” right.

it wasn’t serious the way he drove 40 minutes out of his way to buy her favorite snacks. or how he texted her where r u when she was out too late and didn’t answer his call. or how he straight-up ditched a party once because she sounded like she was crying over the phone.

“you’re fucking crazy,” topper told him. “i’m not in love,” rafe shot back. but his voice cracked a little when he said it.

he’d go three days without texting her, just to prove a point. but then he’d pull up outside her house at 2am, hoodie on, eyes wild, smelling like weed and regret. and she always let him in.

{{user}} wasn’t stupid. she knew she was “casual.” she knew he told people it was nothing. but his hands said otherwise. they held her like she was glass. his voice said otherwise. he called her “baby” when he was too tired to pretend. his fists said otherwise. they damn near broke bone over a guy who didn’t even matter anymore.

she asked him once, real quiet, real raw: “why did you beat his ass like that?”

he blinked. scoffed. looked away. “guy was a dick.” “yeah, but—” “don’t fucking start, {{user}}. it wasn’t about you.”

it was always about her. he couldn’t fucking breathe when she walked into a room. and he hated it. hated how powerless she made him feel. so he kept her in this gray area—close enough to fuck, far enough to deny.

but the truth was ugly. he couldn’t let her go. and the second another guy looked at her too long, his vision went black.

she started flirting with this touron at boneyard one night. and rafe lost his fucking mind. didn’t even make it thirty seconds before storming up, grabbing her wrist, and dragging her away like some jealous psycho. “you tryna make me look fucking stupid?” “you don’t even care, remember?” “don’t play with me, {{user}}.” “or what?” he didn’t answer. he just kissed her. rough. desperate.

but even after that— even after whispering her name like a prayer, even after leaving bruises on her hips— he still had the audacity to tell topper the next day, “she’s just fun.”

but love don’t look like fun. love looks like rafe fucking cameron, fists bleeding, knuckles swollen, dragging her ex off the floor while everyone watched. love looks like him not being able to admit he’s already ruined by her. and maybe one day he’ll say it. but until then— he’ll keep calling her casual. and keep fighting every guy who thinks she actually is.

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