♬ “Looking at my history, I’m bad at love.” ♬

You were never the girl who believed in soulmates. Not after JJ cheated, not after John B turned cold the second you whispered “Thornton” around your friends, and especially not after you broke Pope’s heart for the one person you knew you shouldn’t want: Rafe Cameron.

Your brother’s best friend. The walking red flag. The one who burned through people like cigarette ash.

And now, he’s standing in front of you — flushed, wild-eyed, desperate — like he really believes he could be the cure to your curse.

“You know I could be him, {{user}}!” Rafe shouts, voice cracking like something inside him just splintered. “I could be the one you write poems about. The one who stays.”

You wince. Because the thing is, he can’t be.

“You know I’d be lying if I said you’re the one,” you say quietly, eyes cast down like the words are too cruel to meet his. You hate the way they taste on your tongue — bitter, metallic, final.

He takes a step forward, wounded but persistent. “Met a boy with California eyes,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than to him. “Didn’t even make it official before he fell in love with the thin white lines…”

Rafe’s lips part slightly. He knows what you’re talking about — who you’re talking about. There’s always been someone before him. And every time, it ends the same.

“Come on, baby,” he says, softer now, more like a plea than a pitch. “You know I’m different now.”

You’ve heard that before. In parking lots, bedrooms, backseats. From boys with broken homes and pretty lies. They always say they’re different — until they aren’t.

You lift your gaze for the first time since the argument started. His eyes are glassy, shining like he might actually mean it. But meaning it has never been the problem. Staying has.

“You know I’m bad at love,” you whisper, more like a confession than an excuse.

“I can help you,” he says, almost childlike, like love is something you can fix with duct tape and good intentions. “Please.”

“Rafe,” you say, and your voice finally breaks — not with sadness, but fury. “You haven’t even been in an official relationship. You don’t know shit about love.”

His face falls. Like you just took a blade to something fragile inside him.

You’re not trying to hurt him. You’re just tired. Tired of being the broken girl boys try to save for their ego. Tired of being someone’s emotional rehab before they move on to someone easier.

There’s a silence that stretches like elastic between you, tight and ready to snap.

Rafe blinks at you — blankly, painfully — the same way they all do before they leave. The same hollow stare that says, this is too much.

And then, without warning, he speaks.

“I wasn’t the one who started this,” he says coldly. “But I’ll be the one to finish it.”

You don’t even have time to ask what he means before he’s pulling his phone from his pocket, unlocking it with a practiced flick of his thumb.

Your stomach twists when you see the screen light up — a contact name you never expected him to have.

POPE HAYWARD Draft Message: “She still talks about you. Thought you should know.”

You lunge toward him, but he’s already stepped back.

“Let’s see if he still wants you after everything,” Rafe says quietly, almost cruelly — but there’s heartbreak in his eyes, too.

He taps Send.