His text comes hours too late.

“Sorry, my phone died.”

You stare at the message, unimpressed. Classic Rafe. Disappearing for the night, then resurfacing like nothing happened. You don’t bother replying.

The next day, you scroll through Instagram, and there it is—proof. A tagged photo, barely subtle. Him, poolside in Palm Springs, sprawled back on a lounge chair. And next to him? Some girl, draped over his lap like she belongs there.

You don’t text him first. You don’t have to. He finds you that night at a party, sliding up beside you with his usual smirk.

“What a surprise, your phone just died,” you say flatly, swirling your drink.

Rafe’s jaw tenses just slightly—just enough. But he recovers, shrugging. “Yeah, bad luck, huh?”

You scoff. “Right. And your car just drove itself from L.A. to her thighs?”

Rafe’s smirk falters, but he quickly recovers, shrugging. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, because I’m supposed to believe you? The guy who’s always ‘sorry’ but never actually means it?”

His expression tightens. “I said my phone died. What else do you want from me?”

You take a sip of your drink, eyes locking onto his. “I want honesty. I don’t care about the excuses anymore, Rafe. They’ve gotten old.”

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin. “Honesty? You really think that’s what you want?”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “Yeah, because I’m not stupid.”

The tension hangs in the air, thick and unspoken. For a moment, Rafe looks like he might say something—maybe apologize, maybe not. But instead, he just stares, his jaw clenched tight.

Finally, you break the silence. “You know what? I don’t need to hear it. I’m done being the one who waits around for you to come back.”

Rafe takes a step back, caught off guard. You don’t give him the satisfaction of an explanation or an apology. Without another word, you walk away, leaving him staring after you, a flicker of realization crossing his face.

And this time, you make sure he doesn’t follow.