the phone lit up on the nightstand. rafe cameron.

it was 1:47 a.m., and the world outside was silent, but the vibrating phone broke through the calm. {{user}} stirred, glancing at the screen with bleary eyes. the call rang out after two buzzes, but it didn’t stop there. a text popped up.

rafe: u up? rafe: need to talk to you. rafe: please.

{{user}} sat up, running a hand over her face. of course, it was rafe. it always was—late at night, when the rest of the world had washed its hands of him. he never called during the day. daylight was for the people who loved him at face value, the ones who only saw his sharp smile and effortless charm. at night, though? at night, he unraveled.

the phone buzzed again—another call. with a frustrated sigh, she answered.

“what do you want, rafe?”

static hummed through the line, then his voice cut in, low and slurred. “where are you?”

“in bed,” {{user}} replied, exasperated. “where you should be.”

“come out,” he muttered.

“are you serious right now?”

“i just… i need to see you,” rafe said, softer this time. there was something about the way he said it—broken, almost boyish—that made {{user}}’s chest tighten. it was always like this. he only reached for her when he was falling apart, as if she was the last thing he could cling to.

“rafe, you’re high. go home,” she said flatly, though her voice betrayed a sliver of concern.

silence filled the line before he whispered, “is that what you think of me?”

the familiar pull tugged at their ribs. rafe cameron was a storm—a wrecking force that swept into her life and left damage behind, but somehow, she couldn’t help but care about the broken boy underneath.

and then there was a knock at the window.

{{user}} froze, eyes darting toward the source of the sound. rafe stood outside in the dim light, his hood pulled up and hands shoved in his pockets, like he hadn’t just shattered their peace. he grinned, sheepish and cocky at once, but his red-rimmed eyes gave him away.

“let me in,” he called softly through the glass.