Rafe Cameron had always been a storm in your life—loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. The two of you clashed like fire and gasoline, every encounter a spark waiting to explode. You weren’t friends. You weren’t even frenemies. You were enemies. And everyone knew it.

So when he ended up in the hospital—head trauma, induced coma, after a high-speed crash no one could explain—you told yourself you wouldn’t care. You told everyone else the same thing.

But you showed up anyway.

You didn’t tell anyone. You came late at night, when visiting hours were over and the halls were quiet. At first, you stood by the door, arms crossed, daring yourself to leave. But every night, you ended up in the chair next to his bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You talked to him. Not because you believed he could hear you, but because the silence scared you more.

You reminded him of all the times he pissed you off, the things he said that made your blood boil. You replayed every cruel word, every glare, every stupid, arrogant smirk he ever gave you. Then, one night, your voice cracked as you whispered, “You were the only person who ever got to me like that.”

The room stayed silent.

Until his hand moved.

Just a twitch, barely there—but it made your breath catch in your throat. The next night, he moved again. And then, after days of nothing, his eyes fluttered open.

Disoriented. Weak. Confused.

He didn’t look at you right away. He scanned the room. Blinking. Breathing. Slowly remembering.

When he finally turned his head and saw you—curled up in the chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes tired—he stared like he couldn’t figure out if he was dreaming.

Then, voice rough and low, he rasped, “What the hell are you doing here?”

You paused. Stood up. Swallowed hard.

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone,” you said simply.

He blinked, taken off guard. His expression didn’t soften, but it shifted—like something cracked beneath it.

You turned to leave, hand on the doorframe, when you heard him speak again—quieter this time.

“…Did you mean the stuff you said?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t turn around.

You just walked out, leaving the question hanging in the air like smoke.

And for once, Rafe didn’t have the last word.