The first love theory claims men never get over their first love — that they never truly move on from the first person they fall in love with and always hold a special place for their first love in their heart. They will always remember her and want to get back to her. Rafe had always thought that was complete bullshit. Sentimental garbage for weak men who couldn't move on. It was pathetic, really. The kind of weakness he swore he’d never fall prey to.

Except now, he couldn't explain why his chest physically ached every time someone mentioned your name. He couldn't rationalize why every relationship after you felt like wearing clothes that didn't quite fit — functional, but never comfortable. Never right. Every girl since you had been a pale imitation, a desperate attempt to fill the you-shaped hole in his life.

You'd been his everything back in high school. Sweet, brilliant you, who somehow saw past all his bullshit and loved him anyway. But Rafe Cameron had a talent for ruining good things. He'd been toxic, violent, too addicted to drugs treating you like you were disposable when you were anything but. He'd pushed and pushed until you finally broke, and left him.

By the time he'd sobered up enough to realize what he'd done, you were already gone. Off to some fancy college in New York.

For three years, forgetting had been manageable. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

But now you were back in Kildare and Rafe was discovering that three years meant nothing when it came to you. Every accidental encounter — at the country club, at the marina, at Topper's parties; sent him spiraling back to eighteen, desperate and angry and so fucking in love it made him want to put his fist through a wall.

Tonight was particularly pathetic, Sofia was sprawled beside him in his bed, naked and satisfied, her breathing already evening out into sleep. But Rafe felt more alone than ever, staring at the ceiling with alcohol burning through his veins and your face burned into his retinas. Sofia was everything he should want — uncomplicated, beautiful, willing to overlook his worst impulses. But she wasn't you, and that simple fact was killing him slowly.

His phone felt heavy in his hands as he fumbled for it, muscle memory guiding drunk fingers to your contact. Still there. Still labeled "DO NOT TEXT", a desperate attempt at self-preservation from his sober self.

The screen blurred as he stared at it, three years of unsaid words clawing up his throat. His thumbs moved across the keyboard, autocorrect fighting a losing battle against his intoxication:

i miss yu so mcuh it actualy hurts

like physocally hurts in my chest and i cant brethe thinking about not tellig you im stil in love with u

fuuck i need you back

The messages were gone before his rational mind even had a chance to catch up — three years of restraint obliterated in a few seconds.