It was over.

You told yourself that a hundred times. Maybe more. Rafe and you had burned fast and hard — the kind of love that leaves marks, bruises that didn’t always come from kisses. His anger, his temper, the way his moods changed like coastal winds — it had drained you. You had to walk away before he broke more than just your heart.

And then came Topper.

Gentler. Safer. Predictable in a way that felt like peace after Rafe’s storm. You didn’t mean to fall for his friend — but maybe it was easier to heal in familiar arms. Maybe part of you hoped it would get back at Rafe. Maybe you just wanted to feel wanted without the fear.

Weeks passed. You laughed again. Smiled without second-guessing. Topper wasn’t fireworks, but he was warmth — a steady flame.

Then one night, you opened your drawer looking for a hoodie. Instead, your fingers found cotton — worn out, cologne-faded. Rafe’s shirt. The blue one he always wore after surfing, the one you used to steal and sleep in when he stayed over. You brought it to your face without thinking. It still smelled like him. That scent that used to mean home.

And suddenly, everything crashed back. The way he’d hold you too tight when he thought he was losing you. The late-night drives with music too loud and his hand tangled in yours. The apologies. The chaos. The love.

Your chest ached.

Topper was waiting downstairs. A good guy. The right choice.

But standing there, holding that damn shirt, you whispered to yourself something you didn’t want to admit out loud:

“Maybe I’m not over him.”

And the worst part? You weren’t sure you ever would be.