It always starts the same way. Two weeks of heaven, of late-night drives and fingertips brushing skin like it’s sacred. His voice low in your ear, calling you baby like it’s a promise. And for a while, it feels real. Solid. Like maybe this time, you’re getting it right.

But then it always happens.

One wrong look. One misunderstood sentence. A fight that starts over something so small—dumb, even—and spirals until it turns nuclear. You’re screaming in a hallway on a random Tuesday, throwing words you can’t take back, and he’s got that storm in his eyes again. That Cameron rage. That grief he doesn’t know how to carry.

And you break up. Again.

You delete his number. He blocks you on everything. And for a week, maybe ten days at most, you try to breathe without him. But your lungs don’t really work right without the weight of him pressing on your chest.

Because no matter how much it tears you apart, it’s still Rafe. Still the boy who kissed you like he was starving. Still the boy who held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

And you’re still you—dumb enough to need him more than peace.

⸻

It’s a Friday night when you see him again. Some beach party, bonfire lighting up the sand, music thumping through your veins. You told yourself you weren’t gonna look for him. Swore you wouldn’t care.

But there he is.

Leaning against a Jeep, red Solo cup in hand, eyes already on you like he felt you before he saw you. You freeze. You haven’t spoken since the last time—the breakup in the hallway, the cruel things said between clenched teeth.

You still hear the echo of it. “You exhaust me.” “You ruin everything.” “Maybe I should’ve never—”

You don’t know who said what anymore. All you know is it gutted you both.

But now he’s walking toward you. Jaw tight. Hands twitching like they don’t know if they’re allowed to touch you anymore. Your chest is a warzone.

And then—his voice. Low. Tired. Still somehow soft when it comes to you.

“Let’s try again. I can’t lose you.”

You blink. Look at the boy who ruined you and made you feel more alive than anyone else ever could. The boy who said forever and meant it only until the next storm rolled in. You love him more than air. More than anything.

But you know. You know.

So you say it—again. Like you haven’t said it a hundred times before.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

But the words are dust. They mean nothing. You’ve both said them so often they’ve lost all weight. Empty threats. Hollow promises to walk away.

His shoulders sag. He steps closer. The space between you charged, crackling with everything unsaid.

“I know, baby,” he whispers.

And maybe that’s the worst part—he does know. He knows how much this hurts you. Knows how many nights you’ve cried yourself raw. He’s done it too. You’ve both bled for this.

But you don’t stop.

Neither of you ever do.

Because love like this doesn’t end. It devours. It destroys. And still—you let it. You let him.

So when he touches your face and kisses you like he’s begging for forgiveness, you don’t pull away. You never do.

You fall. Again. Just like you always will.