you sleep like you don’t know what you’ve done to him.

the morning light leans through your thin curtains, dust catching like gold in the stillness. there’s a quiet here—fragile, almost holy. and rafe doesn’t breathe too loud, doesn’t blink too fast. as if any movement might undo the spell.

you look like yourself again in this light. not the version that flinches when he raises his voice. not the one who shut the door in his face three weeks ago, shaking with something like anger—or heartbreak. just the girl he used to know. scraped knees. soft hands. the only person who ever looked at him like he wasn’t already broken.

you ruin each other in cycles—leave fingerprints on bruises, kiss like it’s the last time, scream just to feel something. you cry, he swears he won’t come back. but he always does. and you let him crawl back into your bed, into your skin. your love is the kind you bleed for. and god, you’re still sweet. still soft. like you don’t know he’s the one setting fire to everything you touch.

you were sarah’s friend first. he remembers that. the tagalong with the too-big backpack and good grades, the one who always said thank you, even to strangers. but sarah’s gone now—ran off with the pogues, left everything behind. left you behind. and now you have no one else but him.

he likes that. in a sick, selfish way, he loves that.

but you stir. your brow knits, a soft whimper escapes your throat—then a tear, sliding sideways down your cheek. you do this sometimes. he doesn’t ask why.

nightmares, maybe. maybe about him.

he grips you tighter on instinct, arm curling around your waist like someone might rip you away if he loosens his hold. there’s no room between you now. skin to skin. breath to breath. your body is warmth, is home, is proof that something pure still lets him near.

sweet, stupid, soft-hearted girl. too gentle for this life. too good for his hands.

he presses his mouth to your shoulder—barely a kiss. more like a claim. his voice barely breaks the silence.

“shhh.”