rafe cameron wasn’t someone you just liked. he was someone you survived. he was danger dressed in linen, scars behind a smile, bruised knuckles with soft eyes. and yet, you—{{user}}—kept coming back.

it started at a bonfire. he said your name like a secret, like something he wanted to keep. you should’ve known better when his hand lingered too long on your waist, when his laugh didn’t reach his eyes. but god, he was beautiful. broken things always were.

you told yourself you weren’t falling. that this was just fun. but the way he said “come here” in the dark, the way he kissed you like you were the only thing holding him together—it messed with your head. you weren’t just a girl to him. you were his calm. his storm. his favorite distraction.

but loving rafe meant sleepless nights. it meant waiting for calls that never came. it meant being torn between saving him and saving yourself. he’d hold your face and say “you’re the only one who gets me,” and part of you believed it. maybe that’s why you stayed.

until one night he broke something he couldn’t fix. your heart. he didn’t mean to—he never did. but pain followed him like a shadow, and eventually, it swallowed you too.

you left. you had to. but he still shows up in dreams, smelling like salt and smoke, whispering your name like it still belongs to him. and maybe it does. maybe it always will.

some people are lessons. some are lifelines. rafe cameron was both.

and you were the girl who loved him anyway.

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