You never believed in soft love. Not the kind that lingers like sunlight or slips under your skin without hurting. Love, to you, was always a bruise. A scream behind a closed door. A car ride where silence pressed harder than fists ever could.

You learned to flinch at the word “forever.” Learned that promises were weapons when they came from the wrong mouth.

And Rafe Cameron… Rafe was supposed to be the exception. The safe place.

Boy best friend. That’s what you called him.

You said it in front of strangers, like it didn’t taste like a lie. Like you didn’t wear his hoodie to bed. Like he hadn’t seen you cry at your worst and kissed your temple like a prayer.

You told him everything—except the things that mattered. You never told him your hands shook when you missed his texts too long. Never told him that when he smiled at other girls, your chest burned like it knew it was being replaced.

You didn’t need to tell him, really. Because Rafe knew. He always knew.

He knew when to pull you closer at parties, when your fake laugh got too tight around the edges. He knew how you liked your coffee, how you hated your birthday, how your father never called unless he needed something. He knew your breaking points—every last one of them—and stood guard over them like they were sacred.

But he never touched you. Not the way you wanted. Not the way he could.

He’d clench his fists when you talked about other boys. Smile with teeth when he asked how it went. “Did he treat you right?” And when you said no, his voice would drop low, thick with something between fury and heartbreak. “Tell me where he is.”

You laughed every time. You thought it was a joke. But Rafe wasn’t joking.

Because here’s the truth—he’s always wanted you. He wants you in every quiet moment, in every late-night phone call, in every time you fall asleep on his shoulder like it means nothing.

You’re everything to him. And he’s nothing to you but safety. But even safety has a breaking point.

Tonight is no different. You’re at his house, curled up on the couch in his t-shirt, pretending the world isn’t on fire. You joke about dating again. You mention someone new.

And Rafe just… watches you.

His jaw tightens. His knuckles go white around the glass he’s holding. And when you glance at him, there’s something dark in his eyes—something sharp.

“You really think he’s gonna love you the way I do?”

The words land too heavy in the air. You blink. Your breath catches. Because he’s never said it out loud before.

And now that he has, the silence is deafening.

You want to ask what he means. You want to tell him you’re scared. You want to say you’re tired of love that hurts, of wanting things that ruin you.

But all you do is whisper, “Rafe…”

And he just shakes his head, voice low, ragged.

“It’s always been you. Always. I just didn’t think you’d ever see me.”

And maybe you did. Maybe you saw him the whole time. You were just too afraid to admit it.

Because loving Rafe Cameron was never the problem. The problem was surviving it.