You and Rafe were the kind of lovers that stories warned about—too passionate, too raw, too destined to destroy everything in their wake. You were never meant to be together. Not in the eyes of your families, not in the world you came from and especially not in his. And yet, you were drawn to each other like gravity itself had rewritten its laws just to pull you close.

The danger didn’t stop you. The threats, the disapproving glares, the whispered warnings behind closed doors—they only made you cling tighter. You believed, maybe foolishly, that love was enough. That your parents would eventually come around. That one day, they’d see what you saw in each other.

But they never did.

And after months of ignoring their ultimatums, of sneaking out and pretending that the consequences weren’t real, reality crashed down. His parents didn’t just ground him. They didn’t just yell or threaten. They exiled him. Packed him up, tore him from you, and sent him away—across an ocean, to another life in another country. Not because he had done something wrong. But because he had fallen for you. Because to them, love with a Pogue like you was a stain on their perfect image.

When he found out, he didn’t stay to argue. He didn’t wait. He stormed out of his house, fury and heartbreak pounding in his chest, jumped on his bike and drove—straight to you.

You heard the sound of the engine before you saw him. That familiar, rumbling roar that had once made your heart flutter now split it in two. You ran out the front door, past your parents who shouted after you, trying to hold you back, as they always did. But this time, you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Nothing else mattered.

He barely had time to brake before he leapt off the bike, letting it crash to the ground as if it meant nothing—because right now, it didn’t. You ran into each other’s arms like two halves of a soul finally colliding after being forced apart. You held him like you were trying to memorize the way he felt, the way his chest rose and fell, the scent of salt and leather clinging to his skin.

He cupped your face with shaking hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that were already falling in hot, silent streaks. His own eyes were red and glassy, rimmed with unshed pain.

“Forgive me, {{user}}…” he whispered, voice cracking like dry leaves underfoot. Then he kissed you, soft and slow, a kiss that tasted of salt and heartbreak, hovering like he wanted to freeze the moment in time. His lips trembled against yours, fragile and desperate.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed like it hurt too much to look at you.

“I’ll be watching you,” he breathed.

Then, more softly still, as though the words were made of glass: “Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every single day, every word you say, every game you play—I’ll be watching you…”

He kissed your forehead, a final brand pressed to your skin, and then he stepped back—too fast, too sudden. Like if he stayed even a second longer, he’d never leave.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t. Because if he did, he would’ve turned around, thrown it all away, and stayed. For you.

The bike engine sputtered back to life. It faded with every passing second, growing more distant until it was gone completely.

So was he. Maybe forever.

But in your heart, you already knew:

You would wait. Forever.