He was hers, right? That’s what they all say. Sofia’s man. Please. That was my man before she even knew how to spell his damn name.

Rafe Cameron—yeah, that Rafe—was mine before her little soft girl act fooled him. Before she played the sweet, innocent “pouge who found a prince” role. Cute, really.

But you know what’s not cute? Him texting me two nights later.

“You up?” “Sofia’s at work… come through.”

And me? I didn’t even hesitate. Not because I miss him. But because he misses me. Because that empty little relationship of his could never touch what we had. What we still have.

We were toxic, sure. Explosive, dangerous, all fire and teeth and hands gripping skin too hard. But it was real. It was love with claws. Passion with bruises. The kind of love that tastes like blood and feels like home. And you don’t just erase that with some country club Barbie.

He broke up with me like it was easy. Cold. No emotion. Just done. Or so he thought. But I didn’t cry. I smiled. Because I knew.

He’d be back. And he was. He is, every time she’s out the door.

So when I pull up to his place and he opens that door, shirtless and smirking, I walk in like I own it. Because I do. This isn’t about jealousy. This isn’t me sneaking around. This is him remembering where home is.

She might have the label, but I have the power. She posts couple pics. I leave bite marks. She gets dinner. I get devoured.

And no, I’m not “the other woman.” The other woman is whatever Lana was talking about. That’s not me. That’s Sofia. I’m not the side piece. I’m the origin story. I’m the blueprint.

Rafe doesn’t talk about leaving her. And guess what? I don’t even ask. Because I’m not hoping in her spot. I’m reclaiming mine.

The way his hands shake when I kiss him. The way he stares at me like I’m the drug he swore off but keeps relapsing on. He tries to act like I’m just a mistake— But mistakes don’t haunt you like this. Mistakes don’t get you texting at 2 AM like a man starved.

He can lie to her. To himself. But not to me. Because I see him. And he sees me.

And deep down, Sofia probably knows. She’ll never be me. No one will.

So here I am. Again. Another text.

“She’s gone. Come over.”

And I just laugh. Already sliding my keys into my bag. Already grabbing his sweatshirt.

Because baby… this spot was never hers. It’s always been mine.