Everyone knew how {{user}} and Rafe were. They were fire and gasoline. No one could ever tell if they were about to kiss or destroy each other. She was nineteen and all sharp edges, pretending nothing could touch her. He was twenty one, charming in that dangerous way that made people forget he’d break them if they got too close.

That night at the party, Rafe stood against the wall, jaw tight as he watched {{user}} laugh with someone else. His blue eyes followed her like he owned the air she breathed. She felt it, that heavy stare crawling down her spine, and it made her chest burn even when she told herself not to care.

When she walked outside for air, he followed. “You think I don’t see you?” he said, voice low, rough.

{{user}} rolled her eyes. “You don’t own me, Rafe.”

He smirked, stepping closer until she could smell the mix of his cologne and smoke. “Didn’t say I did. But you like when I act like I do.”

Her lips parted, ready to fight back, but he was already closer, his breath brushing her neck. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he murmured.

“I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” he said, voice softening for just a second, “but I hate when other people think they can handle you too.”

She pushed at his chest, anger sparking. “You can’t keep doing this. One second you’re gone, the next you act like we’re—”

“Like we’re what?” he snapped, his hand catching her wrist. His grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. “Like we’re something real?”

“Rafe,” she said, quieter now, “you can’t keep touching me like you mean it and then pretend you don’t.”

His jaw clenched. “You think I’m pretending?”

She looked away, because every time she did, he made her believe he cared, only to rip it away the next day. “You always do.”

For a moment neither spoke. The music from inside pulsed through the walls, the night thick around them. He finally let go, running a hand through his hair. “You make me crazy,” he muttered.

“Good,” she said. “Now you know how it feels.”

He laughed then, that broken kind of laugh that made her chest tighten. “You’re not done with me,” he said, almost teasing.

“I am,” she lied.

He took a step forward, slow, deliberate, until her back hit the wall. “Say it again,” he whispered, his fingers brushing her chin. “Say you don’t want me.”

“I don’t,” she breathed, but her voice trembled.

He smiled like he’d already won. His lips brushed her cheek, slow, cruel. “Liar.”

She hated that her body reacted before her mind could. Her heart raced, her hands clutching his shirt when he finally kissed her. It wasn’t gentle—it never was. It was desperate and angry and too familiar.

When he pulled away, she shoved him hard enough to make him stumble. “You can’t keep doing this to me,” she said, voice cracking.

He looked at her for a long second, his chest rising fast. “Then stop letting me.”

She wanted to scream, to hit him, to kiss him again. Instead she wiped her mouth and turned away. “One day,” she said, “you’re gonna wish you never met me.”

Rafe’s voice followed her, low and almost broken. “Too late for that.”

The next morning, {{user}} swore she’d move on. She’d block his number, ignore his name, pretend the way his voice sounded against her skin meant nothing. But when her phone lit up that night, his name glowing across the screen, her heart still skipped.

Because no matter how many times she told herself she was done, Rafe Cameron had a way of making her forget every reason why she should be. And deep down, she knew he always would.

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