♬ in the end, it’s him and i ♬

“He’s out his head, I’m out my mind.” “It’s her and I against the world.”

Ride or die? People throw that phrase around like it’s casual—like it’s trendy. A caption for their cute little situationships. But with you and Rafe? It’s not just talk. It’s tattooed beneath your skin, stitched into your bones. It’s not romantic. It’s violent. It’s messy. It’s beautiful in the most terrifying way.

You’d take a bullet for him without blinking. He’d take a blade to the gut and still ask, “Did he touch you?” It’s not a love people understand—it’s the kind that keeps you up at night. The kind people write about in crime documentaries, the kind that ends in fire and sirens.

You’re not a couple. You’re a legend. The Kook King and Queen. You’ve got a reputation soaked in rumors, blood, and lipstick stains. But you don’t care. You never cared. Because everyone else is playing pretend. You two? You burn the whole house down and dance in the ashes.

You fight like animals. You make up like addicts chasing a high. You scream until your voices are gone, then you whisper “I love you” through clenched teeth and shaking hands. Because even when it hurts—especially when it hurts—he’s still yours. And you? You’ve always been his.

He’s reckless. He’s dangerous. He’s cruel when pushed. And you? You’re the only one he softens for—and even that softness has teeth.

“If I ever cheated, she’d cut my dick off.” That’s what he said to your friends once. Half-smiling. Half-serious. They laughed. You didn’t. Because it wasn’t a joke. It was a promise.

And he knows it.

Because there is no version of this where you forgive betrayal. There is no second chance. There’s you and him, or nothing. No gray area. No plan B. Just obsession dressed up like romance.

When he’s gone, people treat you like a ticking time bomb. They know better than to touch you. Like his ghost is right behind you, knife in hand, daring them to breathe too close.

And if someone does?

You look them dead in the eyes and whisper, “You really wanna play with fire?”

They never do.

Because you belong to him. And he belongs to you. Not in the sweet, star-crossed way. In the carved-into-your-ribs, marked-by-madness way. You’re not soulmates. You’re co-conspirators. Criminals. Lovers. Addicts. Each other’s worst decision—and only cure.