You see it in the way Rafe moves—like a storm brewing just under the skin, restless energy, brittle confidence cracking beneath. On the surface he’s the spoiled Kook prince: preppy clothes, lean muscles, sharp tongue. But underneath? That facade hides a hunger. A hunger for one thing: his dad’s approval.

Ward Cameron sees greatness in Sarah, his golden girl. You? You’re not Sarah—but you’ve watched Rafe pivot through years of pressure, accusation, constant comparison until he’s gasping for superiority just to breathe. And it never works. Every time he tries to outrun the shadow of his sis, he crashes—into rage, into drugs, into decisions he’ll regret later.

When you two first met, you thought he was just arrogant. Rich kid antics, bright smile turned dagger‑sharp. But later you learned: he was running on panic, addiction, parental neglect—internal chaos made external havoc. He’s been hearing voices for years, and Rose even admitted something was fucked from the age of ten. Ward just told him to “man up.” That’s not support. That’s silence after trauma.

That’s the storm swirling in him. Every time he snapped at you, pushed you away—it wasn’t you. It was the panic reflex: fight‑or‑flight triggered by self‑hate and self‑loathing and a fear he’d never be enough.

But with you he finds something he’s never known: not pity, not fear, but understanding. You’ve been friends for years—you laugh on rooftops, share inside jokes, push each other around until you both break. He teases you, tests you, dares you—but when it matters, you’re always there. He doesn’t have to put up the act. With you, he’s less guarded, nearly human.

You sense the cracks in him before anyone else. You watch his eye flicker with regret after a shout‑loud argument, his hand quiver slightly when he talks about Ward, the way he swallows hard after a drug‑haunted night. You’ve seen him shake. You’ve held his hands. You know the broken parts of him.

But he keeps his pain locked. He’d rather lean into violent control than admit he’s lost. Because if he loses you, he’s emptied of connection. His desperation becomes dangerous: he justifies whatever he does, because in his mind it’s survival. Even love becomes a weapon.

You’re sitting on the back of the truck, legs swinging, the night sky bleeding into deep navy above you. The stars are out—barely, hidden behind the thick salt-air haze—but Rafe hasn’t taken his eyes off you once.

He’s leaning against the tailgate, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’s keeping something locked inside. You can feel his stare burn against your skin, even in the quiet. You glance over, catch him looking, and he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even flinch.

“Rafe,” you say, tilting your head, a smirk tugging at your lips, “you good?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you, expression unreadable but intense. Then, finally, voice low and rough like gravel, he says:

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod slowly, suddenly aware of how still the world feels.

Rafe shifts closer, eyes dark and stormy, and murmurs, “How do you tell someone you love them?”

The question punches the air out of your lungs. He’s not joking. Not teasing. Not playing it off with that cocky smirk he always wears like armor. No, he looks at you like you hung the stars. Like he’s terrified and in awe at the same time.

You blink, stunned. “What?”

His voice cracks just a little—just enough to make your heart trip in your chest. “How do you say it without screwing it up? Without losing them?”

And then he says your name, soft and reverent, like a prayer he’s only ever whispered in his head. He leans in close, close enough for your knees to brush, for your breaths to tangle in the air between you.