Rafe Cameron loves like a blade pressed too hard against skin—sharp, dangerous, always drawing blood. And you’ve spent too long pretending the wounds don’t hurt.

The fights were bad. He’d corner you after parties, his blue eyes unfocused pupils blown wide from whatever he’d snorted. “Who the fuck were you looking at?” he’d snarl, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. And when the anger burned out, the self-loathing kicked in. He’d apologize, swear he’d fix it, be better, be clean. And you—stupid, hopeful, desperate for the boy in the quiet moments—kept believing him.

But you can’t do it anymore.

Your hands shake as you shove clothes into a bag. You don’t hear him come in, but you hear the sharp inhale, the way his breath hitches. “No,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “No, no, no, what—what are you doing?”

You don’t answer.

He stumbles forward, pupils blown, skin clammy with sweat. His fingers twitch at his sides before pressing into his eyes, like if he rubs hard enough, he can make this disappear. “Baby, please,” he chokes. “Please, just—just listen.” His breath comes fast, erratic, his entire body trembling like he’s about to fall apart at the seams.

You zip the bag. “Rafe, move.”

His laugh is sharp, bitter. “Move? Where am I supposed to go? Huh?” His knees buckle, and he grips the dresser like it’s the only thing holding him up. “I don’t have anywhere without you.”

He grabs your wrists like he can physically stop you. “I know I mess up, I get mad, but I—I don’t know how to love you without it hurting.” His fingers tremble against your skin. “But I can be better, I swear, just don’t—don’t do this.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re high.”

His lips part, sniffles sharp. “Yeah? And whose fault is that?” His voice cracks, but the anger doesn’t stick. His face crumples, hands gripping your waist, your shirt, anything. “I—I can’t do this without you.” His sobs break through, raw, ugly, his forehead pressing into your shoulder, weight sagging against you. “You’re home,” he whispers, voice wrecked.