It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. You told yourself a hundred times that it was risky, that it couldn’t last forever, that maybe you’d get burned. But you didn’t expect the heat to come from his mouth, sharp and careless, slicing through you like glass.

That morning, you woke up with a restless kind of excitement, the kind you hadn’t felt in days. Work had pulled you away from him, but finally—finally—you had time. You imagined his smile when he saw you, imagined his arms around you, the way he whispered your name against your hair when no one was listening.

The sun was warm on your skin as you made your way down toward the oceanfront, your heart stupidly light. You spotted him instantly—Rafe, standing on the table like the whole world belonged to him, drink dangling from his fingers. His eyes weren’t on the crowd, though; they were fixed on the horizon, where the sky and sea touched like they were made for each other.

Across from him were Ruthie and Topper. Just the sight of them made something in your stomach twist. You hated them for reasons you couldn’t always put into words, reasons you didn’t need to explain to anyone but yourself. Still, you pushed it aside, bit your lip, and stepped forward, smile tugging at your mouth.

You never got the chance to greet him.

“—I mean your girlfriend,” Ruthie’s voice cut the air, sharp and mocking.

Your feet slowed, then stilled.

“{{user}}? What about her?” Rafe’s voice—your Rafe’s voice—rose with mild curiosity.

Ruthie laughed, low and cruel. “She’s pretty pogue, isn’t she?” Her eyes gleamed with something poisonous.

For a second, he didn’t answer. You saw his shoulders stiffen, his jaw tighten, like maybe—just maybe—he was about to defend you. Your chest held onto that hope with a fragile grip.

And then—

“Listen,” he said, brushing it off with a lazy smirk, “just because we hook up doesn’t mean she’s my girlfriend.”

The words slammed into you like a wave, stealing your breath. Hook up. That was all? After the nights he held you, after he told you he loved you—he was the one who asked you to be his. He was the one who swore you were different.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Ruthie kept talking, her words blurring together, but you couldn’t hear her. You couldn’t hear anything but his voice.

Then, like twisting the knife deeper, she pressed: “Wait, has she moved in yet?”

Rafe scoffed. “I’m not living with a pogue. I have standards too, y’know.” He raised his glass and took a slow sip, like he hadn’t just crushed you beneath his heel.

You stood frozen, the sunlight suddenly too bright, the air too thin. A second ago, you had been walking toward him with all the warmth in the world burning in your chest. Now, all that was left was the cold, the weight of a truth you hadn’t asked for—one that left you hollow in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever recover from.

It wasn’t meant to work. Deep down, you knew that. But God, you didn’t think it would hurt this much.