You and Rafe were friends.

But you did things that weren't exactly friend-like.

He was feeling frustrated? One call and you were under his doorsteps, wearing that one lingerie he liked on you.

He was having a withdrawal from drugs since Barry didn't have anything for him? You were already bent over his desk, his fist tightly holding your hair.

There was a part in Figure Eight? You were his arm candy when he wanted to make other guys jealous, but just friends if some hot girl approached him, trying to flirt her way for a one-night stand.

He could look at other girls, sleep with them and flirt with them. You on the other hand? He forbade you from even as much as looking at another guy. In his mind, you were only his, but he wouldn't say it out loud nor admit it — because that would make him weak. And Rafe Cameron was anything but weak. You knew it was toxic and that Rafe most likely was using you for your body. But you were so attached to him; you loved him so much, that it simply didn't matter as long as he picked you. Not to mention how abso-fucking-lutely good he was in bed. You knew you wouldn't get that anywhere else.

With a sigh, you were putting your clothes back on after yet another call from him. It was simple — he called, you came, you did the deed and then you were back at your place, contemplating your life decisions. However, this time was different. You were tying your shoes when suddenly you heard his voice.

"Where are you runnin' off to, huh?" He hummed, smoking a joint.