You and Rafe dated for almost five years. You were his entire life, and he’d had a ring already bought for you, because he knew you were the girl he would marry. He would follow you to the end of the earth. Then you fought for a couple weeks. It was brutal, but he couldn’t help it.

Why were you fighting? Because you wouldn’t move in with him, get a place together. He knew you loved him, so he didn’t understand why you refused so intently on committing to him.

One night things got rough, you slapped him, and in a stupid, stupid moment of uncontrolled anger he slapped you back. Obviously Rafe was strong, so much stronger than you. Your hit barely left a mark. His bruised your entire cheek and made you cry.

He cried too. He begged you to forgive him, hell he got on knees. But you stormed out. A couple days passed and he thought you might get over it. He thought your anger would subside and you guys would talk, or at least you’d end up in his bed. But that didn’t happen. You didn’t answer the phone, you didn’t answer messages on text, in your dms, anywhere. He even went to your house and your parents wouldn’t even speak to him.

It’s been six months since then. Recently he’d missed you so much. The alcohol and girls and drugs he’d been using to cope with your absence had stopped working, and now he was left with a shell of the man he once was. A shell that slept with the stuffed animal you’d given him on valentines day that smelled like you every night. That was how desperate he got.

So he hired a private investigator, and guess what, he went and found you. You’d moved off the island, to the main land, to Charleston, with your grandmother. The second he got that message he started his journey to your home.

Now he was knocking on the door of your grandmother’s home, waiting for someone to answer, his stomach in a million knots.