You’ve had a crush on Rafe for what feels like forever. It started small — just a spark, a glance, the way his laugh echoed down the hallway of the house when you’d be curled up on the couch waiting for Sarah. But over the years, that spark kept catching. It didn’t fade. It built into something bigger, something more complicated.

The problem is: he’s four years older than you. Always has been, always will be.

When you turned fifteen, it felt like a big deal. Like the world was cracking open a little, like maybe something would shift. Maybe he’d look at you, finally see you — not just Sarah’s little friend who always showed up in pastel skirts and hair ribbons and said “thank you” after dinner even when no one else did.

But Rafe? Rafe was nineteen, and lived like the world owed him something and he was running out of patience waiting to get it. He didn’t look at you. Not really. Not the way you looked at him.

You knew everything about him. Favorite beer. Worst fight he got in (you heard it through the walls — the shattering glass, the shouting). The way his hands shook sometimes when he thought no one was looking. He barely knew your name.

Still, you were always there. At the Camerons’ house, sitting cross-legged on Sarah’s bed, chewing gum while she picked out outfits. Sometimes Rafe would walk past the door and call out, “You two still playing dress up?”

He always said it like a joke. Like it didn’t matter.

One night, you were in the kitchen late — water, something dumb — and he was there too. Leaning against the counter, half lit by moonlight, rolling something between his fingers that you didn’t want to recognize.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Angel?” he said, voice rough.

You rolled your eyes. “Shouldn’t you be sober?”

That caught him off guard. For a second, he grinned, a slow, dangerous sort of grin. Then he looked at your hair — the ribbon tied in a neat little bow — and said, “You really do play the part, huh?”

“I don’t play anything,” you said quietly.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just looked at you, eyes tired, maybe a little curious. You couldn’t tell. You never could with Rafe. He was a storm under skin.

But you felt it — the air shift. Just a little. Like he noticed you, for the first time.

He flicked his cigarette into the sink, didn’t even light it.

“Go to bed, sweetheart,” he said, turning away.

And you did. But you didn’t sleep.