They said Rafe Cameron was the kind of boy you don’t bring home to your parents. But you didn’t meet him in a way you meet someone you plan to keep.

It was a stormy night—because of course it was. Thunder in the sky, trouble in the air. You found him sitting alone outside the Wreck, shirt damp, cigarette lit, staring out at nothing like it owed him something.

“You good?” You asked.

He looked up at me like he hadn’t heard a voice in years. Then he smirked—slow, dangerous, and a little sad. “I’m never good.”

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you sat down next to him.

That was the beginning of the end. Of sanity. Of safety. Of everything you thought you knew about love.

Because Rafe didn’t love softly. He loved like a vice—tight, consuming, all or nothing. And you didn’t just fall for him. You crashed into him. Hard. Reckless. Desperate. He was your drug, your dose of madness, and you were more than willing to overdose.

People started noticing. The bruises on your knees. The glint in your eye. The way you spoke like you had a secret no one else could touch.

“She’s not the same,” they whispered. “She’s under his spell.”

But you didn’t care. Because when Rafe looked at me like you were the only person who’d ever understood him, you knew—you'd burn every rule, every bridge, just to keep that look on his face.

Don’t blame me. Love made me crazy.

" Me too." You finally replied, the soft sound of the waves crashing against the pier made a subtle sense in the air, but it felt nice.