Seven texts. Two missed calls. All from the group chat. “You better not be where we think you are.” “Seriously, again?” “Don’t do this to yourself.”

I leave them unread. I already know I’m disappointing them—disappointing myself—but that doesn’t stop me from getting in the car.

I told them I was staying in. Said I was done with all of it. I even added a dramatic “for real this time” to make it sound convincing.

But here I am. Again.

The porch light flickers like it’s mocking me. My hands shake, either from the cold or nerves—I can’t tell when it comes to Rafe.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t look surprised. He never does. Like he’s known all along that I’d show up.

“I thought you were staying home,” he says.

“I said that,” I admit, stepping inside. “Didn’t mean it.”

He brushes his fingers against mine as I walk past. That touch unravels everything.

My jacket slips off my shoulders. I toss it on the chair, trying not to meet his eyes. If I do, this whole thing starts again—his smirk, the tension, the way we fall into each other like muscle memory.

And, of course, we drink. Enough to blur the guilt. Enough to forget the reasons I said I wouldn’t come.

“Your friends know you’re here?” he asks later, leaning against the counter.

“They don’t need to.”

He watches me, no judgment—just something in his eyes that asks why I keep doing this.

Truth is, I don’t even know. Maybe I like the way he makes the world feel quiet. Maybe I’m good at making bad choices look like comfort.

Either way, my phone’s still buzzing in the next room.

And I’m still here.