He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t heartless. But he carried something inside him — a storm, a wound, maybe both — and when he tried to love, it came out in ways that left you bleeding.

Rafe never touched you gently. Even when his hands were soft, his love was sharp. It wasn’t the kind of pain you could see. It lived under your skin — in the way your stomach dropped when his moods shifted, in the silence that came after his outbursts, in the apologies that felt more like guilt than change.

He was broken, and he never pretended to be anything else.

People like to call boys like him monsters, but you know better. Monsters don’t cry at 3 a.m. when they think you’re asleep. Monsters don’t shake when they hold you, afraid they’ll break what they love. Monsters don’t beg you to stay, even when they know they’re the ones causing the damage.

He wasn’t a monster. He was a boy who was never taught how to love without violence. And you were the girl who thought love could fix him.

You believed your softness could soften him. That love could be enough. But some people bleed without meaning to. And some people love like it’s a war.

With him, it was always both.

You stayed, because sometimes loving him felt like the only thing that made sense. Even when it hurt.

He wasn’t your villain. But he couldn’t always be your hero, either. Just a broken man, loving with broken hands.

One night, in the quiet between storms, he looked at you with something raw and fragile.

“I don’t know how to love you right,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. You reached for his hand and said, “I don’t need perfect love. I just need you — even if it’s messy.”

He’s not a monster. He’s just a boy who needs to be understood.