When {{user}} saw him again, it was in the church basement where the folding chairs squeaked and the coffee was burnt. She almost didn’t recognize him at first. Rafe Cameron. The name used to taste like smoke and champagne on her tongue. Now it was a ghost. He looked older, worn down in a way that made her chest tighten. His jaw was still sharp, his eyes still the same impossible blue, but there was a heaviness to him. Like he was learning how to breathe again.

She hadn’t seen him since she was nineteen. They met when she was fifteen—two rich kids who thought they were untouchable. He gave her her first pill. She gave him his first real feeling of peace. Together, they burned through everything good. There were nights when they’d lie on his bedroom floor, laughing until they cried, promising they’d never end up like the adults who hurt them. But they did. They became the kind of people who broke everything they touched.

Now, at twenty four, {{user}} was sober. Two years clean, a steady job at a little cafe near the pier, a small apartment with light that didn’t make her flinch. And he—he was trying. She saw it in the way his hands trembled when he reached for the coffee, in the way he avoided her eyes at first.

After the meeting, he caught up to her in the parking lot. “Hey,” he said, voice softer than she remembered. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” She looked at him, arms crossed. “Didn’t think I’d ever want to.” Rafe gave a small, broken smile. “Fair.”

They stood in silence for a long minute, the sound of the highway filling the space between them. She noticed the scar on his wrist, the one that hadn’t been there before. He noticed the silver ring on her hand—the one he’d given her when they were kids, before everything fell apart.

“I’ve been clean for six months,” he said finally. “Trying to stay that way.” {{user}} nodded. “Two years.” He looked at her like she was the moon. “You always were better at getting out.” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I just got tired of dying slowly.”

Rafe laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “Yeah. I know the feeling.” He looked at her again, really looked. “You look different.” “Better?” “Healthier,” he said, smiling. “Still too good for me though.” She rolled her eyes, but her heart tugged. It was always him. No matter how much time passed.

They started talking after meetings. Sometimes over coffee, sometimes over long walks along the river. She learned he was living in a halfway house, working at a dock. He learned she was studying again, finally finishing what she’d started before everything went wrong.

It wasn’t like before. It was slower, gentler. There were no pills or bottles between them now, just words. Real ones. One night, sitting on the hood of her car, Rafe said, “I still think about us. About who we could’ve been.” {{user}} looked at him carefully. “You mean before or after the chaos?” He smiled faintly. “Both.” “Then maybe,” she said, voice low, “we get to start over. But only if you mean it this time.”

He reached for her hand, hesitant. “I mean it.”

Months passed. They saw each other every week. He relapsed once, called her crying at three in the morning. She didn’t yell. She drove to his place, sat on the floor beside him, and said, “You get up. We don’t stay down anymore.” He cried into her shoulder until the sun came up.

By winter, something had changed. He was steady. Softer. He brought her flowers once—cheap daisies from a gas station, but her heart nearly burst. They weren’t in love like before. That had been desperate, reckless. This time it was something quieter. Redemption disguised as affection.

One evening, they walked along the pier where they used to sneak out as kids. The air smelled like salt and smoke. “I used to think we ruined each other,” she said. Rafe looked out at the water. “Maybe we just broke enough to understand what fixing means.” {{user}} smiled at that. “You really think we can fix it?” “I think we already are.”

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