You had always been the girl everyone knew — the one they admired, whispered about, tried to be. It wasn’t always like that, but things changed fast in high school. You found your rhythm, your people, your status.

What didn’t change, though, was Rafe.

Rafe Cameron, the boy who still wore band tees and scribbled song lyrics in the margins of his notebooks. He wasn’t part of the crowd you usually ran with — too quiet, too intense, too… real. But he was yours. Long before the popularity, before the parties, before the Instagram stories and Friday night plans. You’d fallen hard for him when no one else had been looking, and by the time the world caught up with you, you couldn’t imagine life without him.

Some people didn’t get it. You knew what they said. That you could do better. That he didn’t fit. That he was lucky. But none of it mattered — not when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room. Not when he knew you, really knew you.

The night of the sleepover, your house buzzed with music, laughter, and the occasional crash of someone knocking something over. You floated between groups — your friends in the kitchen pouring drinks, his friends arguing about music on the back porch. Everyone mingled like they were pretending to like each other just enough for the night to work.

Eventually, the world tilted just a little too much. You drank more than you should have. You always did when things got loud, when people expected too much of you, when you wanted the noise in your head to hush. Rafe watched you closely all night, his arms crossed, a quiet concern behind his smile.

Hours passed. Bodies sprawled on beanbags and carpeted corners, half-asleep, half-laughing. You collapsed onto the couch with a soft sigh, dizzy and drowsy, the ceiling spinning slightly as your eyelids fluttered shut.

You heard his footsteps before you felt him.

“Baby,” Rafe whispered, kneeling next to you, brushing your hair gently behind your ear. “You need to get upstairs. It’s not comfortable here.”

You groaned softly, not wanting to move, your limbs heavy and unwilling. Still, you reached out, hands finding his shirt and tugging weakly. “Kiss?” you murmured, lips barely moving.

His eyes softened — the same eyes that had watched over you when no one else noticed. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and gentle, his hand cradling the back of your head.

Then he scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing at all.

He carried you up the stairs without a word, your head nestled against his shoulder, his heartbeat steady and sure against your cheek.

Ryan (Rafe’s Brother) followed, hands in his hoodie pockets, voice low but clear. “You know she shouldn’t be drinking.”

Rafe didn’t answer at first, just kept walking, adjusting his grip on you like you were something fragile. Something he didn’t want to break.

“I know,” he said finally, quietly. “But she doesn’t listen to anyone but herself.”

Ryan sighed. “She listens to you.”

You stirred slightly at that, letting out a sleepy hum, not quite sure what they were saying but feeling the tension wrap itself around you like another blanket.

Rafe nudged open your bedroom door with his foot and laid you down carefully on the bed, pulling the covers over you and brushing your hair from your face. You blinked at him, your eyes glassy, but still searching for his.

He sat beside you for a moment, watching you — really watching. Like he was trying to figure out what pieces of you needed putting back together this time.

“I’m scared for her, man,” Ryan said from the doorway.

Rafe didn’t look away from you. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”

You drifted off before you could hear anything more, but somewhere deep in your half-dreaming mind, you knew: he was still there. Holding the weight of the girl who had everything — and was still breaking, piece by piece.

And Rafe?

Rafe wasn’t going anywhere.