Rafe was miserable. Really, just downright pitiful.

It was a funny thing, because anyone else looking in would see the big, bad Kook Prince. They’d see the way he strutted into the party like he owned it, broad shoulders squared, throwing back shots with his brothers like he wasn’t crumbling inside. They’d see the smirks, the coked-out confidence, the way he had a beer in one hand and some girl clinging to the other, fawning over him like he was the second coming.

But you knew better.

You saw how his fingers twitched when he wasn’t holding something—a drink, a blunt, your wrist. How his eyes flickered to the door every few seconds, debating an escape. How he laughed too hard at unfunny jokes, talked too much, too fast, got mean when people stopped paying attention.

And you knew it was all for show.

Because by the end of the night, Rafe always ended up here—slumped in your passenger seat, head lolling, bravado drained.

"I hate them," he muttered, voice hoarse from the screaming match he’d had with Topper not even twenty minutes ago. He was sniffling, rubbing his nose like a kid, but you weren’t about to call him out on it.

"Who?" you asked, playing dumb.

He scoffed, throwing an arm over his face. "Everyone. All of them. They don’t—they don’t even like me, you know? Not really. They just—fuck, man. I don’t know."

You did. But you let him talk.

His foot tapped against the floor, his knee bouncing. Then, all of a sudden, he was turning to you, shifting in his seat, eyes all big and glassy. "You like me though, right?" his voice cracked, and he winced at the sound of it.

His bottom lip jutted out. You had to bite back a smirk.

"’Course I do, Rafe," you said, voice softer now.

He made a quiet noise, something close to a whimper, and ducked his head. The tips of his ears burned red.

"Say it," he mumbled, picking at the skin of his thumb. "Need you to say it."