You tried to be as quiet as possible, sneaking out of his bed for the fourth time this week, careful not to wake him. How did you fall for it again?

Another 3AM call. His voice scratchy, definitely high, slurring something like, "You home?" And like clockwork, you’d answered, "No... I’ll come to you."

That was the routine now. He called, you came. No questions asked. You threw away sleep, plans, self-respect—just to hear him say your name. You were stupid for him. Pathetic, even. But you didn’t care. Not when it came to Rafe Cameron.

He held your heart like it was nothing—a clenched fist wrapped around something fragile. You kept hoping he’d hold it gently. You knew better. And still, you came back.

It wasn’t love. Not to him. Just late nights and bodies tangled in sheets, and maybe a text the next day. Maybe. You weren’t even his girlfriend. That’s what made it worse. You didn’t even have a title to hold onto, but your heart beat louder than your common sense ever could.

You reached for your jeans on the floor, the shame burning in your chest. But just as you stood, you heard his voice—sleepy, hoarse, cruelly sweet.

"Baby? You leaving already?"

And there it was again—the softness in his voice that ruined you every time.