You weren’t supposed to be there that night.

Rafe thought you were at Wheezie’s house, helping her with school stuff. You hadn’t planned to come by — but you left your jacket in his truck, and it was getting cold.

When you walked into Tannyhill, it was quiet. Too quiet. The lights were off downstairs, but you knew where the key was. You knew your way through the hallways by heart — had spent enough nights curled up in his bed to map the place in your sleep.

You heard the creak of his bedroom door before you even made it to the stairs.

And then — the voice.

A girl’s laugh.

Not yours.

Your heart dropped so hard you had to stop walking.

You waited.

You hoped.

But then you heard his voice — low, smug, too familiar.

A moan that didn’t belong to you.

You opened the door.

And time split in two.

There he was — shirtless, flushed, tangled with someone else in the sheets you helped him pick out last month. Her eyes went wide. She scrambled. He froze.

“Babe—”

“Don’t,” you said. You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry. You just stood there, hands shaking, the weight of disbelief heavier than rage.

He moved toward you, like it meant something now. “It wasn’t what it looked like—”

“It looked exactly like what it was.”

You didn’t wait for excuses. You turned to leave, heart hammering, throat tight, every memory suddenly poisoned.

But his voice caught you at the top of the stairs.

“I’m sorry.”

You turned slowly. Your voice cracked. “Not sorry you did it. Just sorry you got caught.”

He didn’t chase you.

And maybe that hurt the most.

Because you’d given him everything — your trust, your time, your heart — and all it took was one careless night to shatter it.

But walking away?

That was you choosing yourself.

And for the first time in a long time…

That had to be enough.

It had been three weeks since that night.

You were finally starting to breathe again.

And then he showed up.

You heard the knock before you saw him — slow, heavy, like he didn’t want to be there but had to be. When you opened the door, there he was.

Rafe.

Same messy hair. Same tired eyes.

Same ache you thought you were over.

You didn’t say anything.

He looked down, then back at you. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“That’s not my problem anymore,” you said flatly.

“I know. I just…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t come to make excuses.”

“Good. Because I’m not interested in any.”

The silence sat heavy between you.

He looked up, and for the first time, he didn’t look angry or proud or arrogant. He looked wrecked.

“I messed up,” he said. “I knew it the second you walked in. I knew what I lost before you even slammed the door.”

Your arms were crossed. You wanted to stay cold. Distant. But your chest hurt.

“I trusted you, Rafe. I defended you to everyone. I stayed when it got ugly. And you chose her?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t about her. It was about… me. I was spiraling. I didn’t think I deserved to be loved the way you loved me.”

“So you sabotaged it,” you said, bitter. “Classic.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

You paused. “And now you want what — forgiveness?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I want to say I’m sorry. Even if you don’t believe me. Even if you never want to see me again.”

You stared at him.

Part of you wanted to cry. Part of you wanted to yell. But mostly… you were tired.

“I loved you, Rafe. And you broke something in me.”

His voice cracked. “You broke something in me too when you walked away. But you were right to.”

He stepped back. Hands raised. “I’ll go.”

He turned, took a step — and then stopped.

“If you ever feel like talking… I’ll be around. I’m not expecting anything. I just miss you.”

And with that, he walked away.

And this time, you didn’t chase him.

But your hand lingered on the doorknob a long time after it closed — because letting go of someone you love doesn’t mean it stops hurting.

It just means you’re choosing yourself.

Even when it breaks your heart.