Rafe was torn.

There were only two places his heart could rest—and both of them were on fire.

On one side, there was Sofia. Sweet, steady, always smiling. Her short black wavy hair framed a face that never judged him, not even when he spiraled. Her eyes, warm and honey-colored, reminded him of something safe. Something good. She loved him the way a girl is supposed to love a boy—softly, patiently, without demands. And he loved her. He did. At least, he was supposed to.

But on the other side—there was you.

And if Sofia was soft rain, you were the goddamn storm. You weren’t supposed to be in his world. A pogue, loudmouthed and reckless, always calling him out, always getting in the way. The two of you hated each other. Truly. Viscerally. You reminded him of everything wrong with himself—and he made sure you knew it.

But then… why did he listen to you?

When Sofia told him to calm down, he scoffed and spiraled deeper. When you told him to shut up, he did. Every time.

It was infuriating. Confusing. Dangerous.

And maybe that was why he found himself driving past the beach that afternoon, ignoring the sight of Sofia tanning peacefully in the sun like some angelic afterthought—while you were working the bar a few yards down, wiping tables in cut-offs and a faded tank, hands quick and jaw clenched in that way he’d memorized.

He didn’t plan to stop. But his hands turned the wheel anyway.

The door slammed behind him harder than it needed to. You looked up. Instantly, your expression shifted—from exhaustion to disgust.

“Seriously?” you muttered, already reaching under the counter to grab a glass. “What do you want, Rafe? We’re out of tequila. Go cry about it.”

He smirked, slow and dangerous, as he sat down at the bar. “I didn’t come for tequila.”

“Oh great,” you said, turning your back to him. “You came to make my day worse for free.”

“Not yet. But give me a minute.”

Still, you poured him water. You always did. No one else would. Not even your coworkers. But something about him made you hesitate—because you knew if you pushed too hard, he might break. Or you might. You weren’t sure anymore.

The bar stayed quiet for a long moment. Just the hum of the fan, the clink of ice, your shallow breathing.

“I saw Sofia,” you said finally, not looking at him.

He tensed.

“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know you’re here talking to your favorite pogue.”

“You’re not my favorite,” he muttered.

“Bullshit,” you snapped, slamming the glass down in front of him. “You don’t even look at her the way you look at me.”

That stopped him cold. He stared at you, hard. You could feel the shift—the atmosphere thickening, like summer air before a lightning strike.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. But it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.

You leaned in across the counter, voice low. “Then why are you here, Rafe?”

He didn’t answer.

You knew the way he looked at you. You’d seen it too many times not to. That slow-burn gaze, flickering with something he couldn’t name. Maybe love. Maybe hate. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

His knuckles were white against the glass now. “You piss me off,” he whispered.

“You make me sick,” you fired back.

And yet neither of you moved.

Not away.

Not forward.

Just stuck.

Outside, someone laughed. The moment cracked, and Rafe stood abruptly. The glass tipped over—spilled water dripping off the counter like sweat.

He didn’t apologize. Just looked at you like you were the one who pulled the pin on the grenade sitting between you both.

He turned to leave.

But just before the door shut behind him, he paused. And without looking back, he said—quiet, almost like he hated himself for it:

“You make it hard to breathe.”

Then he was gone.

And you stood there, shaking, staring at the doorway like it owed you answers.

What the hell was happening?

How had this become your life?

And why—why—did the one person you were supposed to hate the most… feel like the only one who ever saw you?

Or worse—

Why did part of you wish he’d stayed?