You and Rafe had been attached at the hip since birth.

That is— until you got a boyfriend.

And he sucked.

Controlling. Possessive. Uncompromising. The full toxic starter pack. But you were too wrapped up in the honeymoon phase to see it for what it was.

And worst of all?

He hated Rafe.

Wouldn’t let you see him. Wouldn’t let you go to his parties. Couldn’t even stand hearing his name.

The only time you ever saw your best friend was during the weekly conjoined family dinners with the Camerons—awkward, tense, and never long enough.

Naturally, the two of you drifted. Slowly. Quietly. Even though you both promised you never would.

Six months in, the cracks started to show. Nights that once ended in whispered confessions turned into shouting matches. Everything became a fight. Everything became his.

And after eight long months, it finally ended.

A breakup that felt less like heartbreak and more like being released from solitary confinement. Fresh out the slammer.

And you knew exactly who your first call would be.

Except—you didn’t even call.

You ran.

Out of your house, down the street, barefoot on cracked pavement, heart pounding. Straight to Tannyhill, just around the corner.

And there he was—getting off his bike like he hadn’t just spent months locked out of your life. Like no time had passed at all.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran straight into his arms, jumped, and he caught you without a second thought.

Like he always did.

And in that moment—wrapped around Rafe Cameron, like your lungs could finally breathe again— you were home.

“m’sorry,” you murmured, the words muffled against his chest.

He held you tighter, face buried in your hair.

“It’s okay, mama,” he whispered. “You’re here now.”