Rafe was notorious for never paying much mind to his girlfriends or hookups—only because he knew they’d be too afraid to say anything. His reputation preceded him: the temper, the money, the way he carried himself like he owned everything and everyone. Most girls didn’t stick around long enough to see the cracks in his polished exterior, but that didn’t bother him.

They were disposable, temporary distractions. When he met you, nothing changed much. You were just his eye candy, another pretty thing to hang off his arm, someone to keep him entertained when the nights got too quiet.

At first, you played along. You knew what you were signing up for—or so you thought. Rafe’s charm was intoxicating, his attention like a spotlight that could make you feel like the only person in the world when he chose to shine it on you. But those moments were fleeting. Most of the time, he was distant, distracted, his phone buzzing with texts he didn’t bother to hide. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t stupid enough to fall for someone like him.

But then there were nights when he’d show up at your door, unannounced, a little unsteady on his feet, his voice low and rough as he called your name. Nights when he’d press you against the wall like you were the only thing keeping him upright, his hands desperate. And you’d just fall straight into his little trap.

But tonight, a minor argument had sparked—lots of shouting, et cetera. Something about how he never gives you attention, how he never calls, that he’s rude over the phone and in person, always with another girl and whatnot.

“Phone works two ways, eh?” Rafe responded to your comment about him never calling. “You can always call me. Why am I getting this responsibility?”