You hadn’t seen Rafe Cameron in years. Not since that summer. The one where the fireflies danced through thick Carolina heat like they were carrying secrets. The one where he held your face like it was the only good thing he’d ever touched. The one where the truth gutted you wide open.

You were seventeen. Naïve. Soft. Too in love to notice the shadows behind his smile— Or the way Topper laughed a little too loud when you weren’t around.

“It was a dare, bro. Rafe’s a fucking legend. Did you see how into her he pretended to be?”

“Yeah man, she totally bought it. He even took her virginity. Wild.”

You didn’t sleep that night. You had been a dare to him. After years of being best friends.

You walked home barefoot. Mascara bleeding down your cheeks. His sweatshirt still drowning your frame like a joke the universe never bothered to finish. The zipper scraped against your collarbone the whole way. You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t answer his calls. Didn’t open his messages. Didn’t let him explain.

Because what could he possibly say that would unshatter you?

Now you’re twenty. Sitting stiffly at a family dinner. Elbows brushing awkwardly against Sarah Cameron on one side and your mom on the other. You haven’t looked up. Not once. Not toward him.

But you feel him.

Before the glance. Before the breath. Before the moment.

That familiar static behind your ribs. The aching thud of something once buried clawing its way back like it never really left.

How can we go back to being friends?

You lift your gaze—and there he is. Older. Broader. Still the same storm in human form. Still Rafe.

And damn it all, he still has that look in his eyes. The one from the first night he kissed you like prayer. The one from the night he touched you like you were something fragile. The one from the night he whispered, “I’ve never done this before… not like this.”

When we just shared a bed.

You swallow hard. That old, burning knot in your throat twisting tighter.

He’s sitting there—fork in hand, drink to lips—like he didn’t once swear he loved the way your name sounded gasped.

How can you look at me and pretend…

Like he doesn’t remember your laugh in the backseat of his truck. Like he doesn’t remember the way you begged him not to leave that night. Like he doesn’t remember you.

How can you sit here—two feet away from the boy who once turned your body into a map he memorized—and pretend you’re just old acquaintances?

You excuse yourself. Push back the chair. Don’t make a scene. The quiet slice of your heels against the wood is louder than any goodbye.

You step outside. The night air stings like salt in a wound you never stitched properly. But it keeps you upright. Keeps you from unraveling on the front porch like some tragic poem.

I’m someone you’ve never met…

And maybe that’s easier for him.

Because if he looked close enough, He’d see you’re still bleeding in places he swore he’d never touch.

Then—footsteps. Then—him.

“Wait,” Rafe says, breathless. “Please, don’t leave. Not again.”