Rafe was your sister’s first heartbreak—the boy she still cried about late at night when she thought no one could hear. The one she still loved, even after everything he put her through.

She never really got over him. Maybe she never would.

Which made it worse.

You weren’t supposed to love each other. But you did. Quietly. Recklessly.

It was one of those nights again. He called, voice low and tired. “Can you come over? I just… need you.”

You always went. Of course you did.

At the Cameron mansion, you found him on the roof, cigarette between his lips, staring into nothing. You climbed up without a word and sat next to him, close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

No talking. No looking. Just silence and tension.

But eventually, his head turned. Yours followed instinctively. The love in his eyes—the kind you tried to ignore—was reflected in yours.

“I should hate you,” you said, barely a whisper. “For breaking my sister’s heart.”

“I should hate you,” he murmured, “because you’re breaking mine.” He paused. “But trust me, I got nothing for you other than love.”

His breath hitched. So did yours. And then his lips met yours—rough, desperate, inevitable.

And the kiss bled into more—the kind of more that ended in tangled sheets, hushed gasps, and whispered apologies that neither of you meant.

It was wrong. So wrong.

But God, it felt so damn right.