Rafe Cameron wasn’t your savior, but in his own twisted way, he was your sanctuary. He had a darkness in him, a storm that lashed out unpredictably, leaving destruction in its wake. And somehow, you became the eye of it—the calm place he couldn’t destroy but couldn’t stay away from.

He used to call you poison, like you were his undoing. “You’re the kind of girl who ruins a man,” he’d say, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice laced with something equal parts adoration and accusation. “And I can’t get enough of it.”

There were nights he was gentle, stroking your hair like you were his lifeline. But there were other nights, nights when the liquor on his breath stung like acid, and his words cut deeper than any blade could. He’d hurt you, not just with his temper but with his absence, the way he’d disappear for days only to return with blood on his knuckles and apologies that sounded more like excuses.

You hated him for it. But you loved him for it, too.

Because even in his chaos, there were moments. Moments when he’d hold you so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse himself into you. Moments when he’d look at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. Moments when he’d whisper, “You’re the only thing I’ve got, you know that?”

And you’d believe him, because in those moments, you weren’t poison. You were salvation.

But salvation comes at a price, and Rafe’s love was laced with Ultraviolence. It wasn’t just the way he hurt you—it was the way you hurt yourself by staying. By convincing yourself that the man who called you poison was somehow your cure.