You were everything the Kooks envied—a polished, perfect princess draped over Rafe Cameron’s arm. His favorite girl, his only girl. The one he kept close in public and even closer in private. You always looked good on him, in his lap, pressed to his side, a sweet smile playing on your lips while he whispered things only meant for you.

Today was supposed to be the same.

Topper’s place was packed like usual—liquor flowing, music thumping, the rich boys laughing loud and obnoxious. You’d taken your usual place in Rafe’s lap, arms looped loosely around his neck, sipping from your drink and occasionally pecking his cheek. It was routine by now. Familiar.

But then, he said it.

“Damn, you feel a little heavier today, princess,” Rafe chuckled, his voice loud enough for the others to hear.

It hit you like a slap. You blinked, stunned, but kept your face still. Topper laughed. Kelce let out a dramatic “oof,” and Rafe just grinned, clearly thinking he was being funny. His hand stayed on your thigh, but the warmth it usually brought felt like ice now.

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t even flinch. You just stayed there, quiet, until it was time to leave.

Back at Tannyhill, the silence was suffocating. You walked straight into his room, peeled off your outfit, and threw on one of his old t-shirts. Climbing into his bed felt like second nature, but tonight it felt cold. Wrong. You curled toward the wall, back facing him, your heart a little too heavy for your chest.

Rafe came in minutes later, laughing softly to himself, probably replaying the night’s highlights. He stripped down to his boxers and crawled into bed behind you, instantly wrapping his arm around your waist like he always did.

You didn’t lean into him. You didn’t respond at all.

He frowned. “Hey,” he murmured against your neck, his voice rough and low. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said flatly, eyes locked on the wall in front of you.

But he knew. Of course he did.

He shifted closer, his lips brushing against your shoulder. “Was it the thing I said? Back at Topper’s?” he asked carefully.

You didn’t answer.

He let out a quiet sigh, pulling your body tighter to his, hand spreading across your stomach as he buried his face in your hair.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, the edge of guilt softening his voice. “I was just being stupid. You know I don’t think that, right? You’re so… fuck—you’re perfect.”

You still didn’t say anything. But he wasn’t done.

“I can’t stand it when you won’t talk to me, baby,” he murmured, kissing a slow path behind your ear. “I need you to touch me. To look at me. I’m sorry, alright? Whatever you need me to say—I’ll say it.”

His voice cracked a little, sincerity bleeding through the usual cocky tone.

“I love you,” he whispered like a confession. “I’m sorry.”

You felt the weight of him behind you—his yearning, his desperation to be let back in. And even though your heart still ached, part of you wanted to turn around. To kiss him. To let him undo the damage with soft hands and sorry words.

But not yet.

He had to mean it. He had to feel it.