Rafe was supposed to be just another one of them. Just another Kook with a perfect jawline, that lazy grin, and enough charm to make you forget who you were for a second. That’s what you told yourself, again and again — he’s just one of them. Temporary. Replaceable. Harmless.

But you never really believed it, did you?

Because Rafe wasn’t just some guy. He was more. Too much more. Dangerous, consuming, unforgettable. And no matter how many times you tried to stuff him into the category of “just another mistake,” he always bled out of the lines.

You remember the night he climbed into your window like it happened five minutes ago — how his mouth left bruises down your skin, kisses that felt like confessions and punishments all at once. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it just happened. That he only came because Ward had gotten violent again, and he needed something — someone — to quiet the storm inside him.

But that was a lie too, wasn’t it?

It had been a normal night. Quiet. You were sitting outside, waiting for the last bus to take you home, one AirPod in, music humming in the background. Just another night. Just another ride.

But the bus never came.

Instead, he did.

You smelled him before you saw him — the bite of alcohol, the haze of weed, his cologne sharp in the humid night air. It was the kind of scent that buried itself into your pillows, your clothes, your memory. The kind you crave even when it disgusts you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, looking at you with those glassy blue eyes — bloodshot but focused. You met his gaze. And despite everything, your chest tightened.

“What are you doing out here?” he muttered, voice thick with liquor and something darker. “It’s too late for you to be alone.”

You stood, brushing your hands off on your jeans. You wanted to keep distance, wanted to walk away before history could repeat itself. “Guess my bus got cancelled,” you said quickly. “Anyway, goodnight, Rafe.”

You turned. But he was faster. He always was.

His hand caught your arm like a reflex, like muscle memory. Before you could react, he was pulling you, leading you down the side of a building and into the shadows of a narrow alley. The air was suddenly too tight. You didn’t even have time to process it — his hands on your waist, your back against cold brick, his breath against your skin.

“You’re trying to forget me,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear like he had every right to touch you. His voice was low, and the way he looked at you — God, it felt like he was inside your mind. “Aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Because he already knew.

Of course you were trying. Of course you were failing.

Then he pressed closer, every inch of him crowding into your space. His lips brushed against your collarbone, soft and slow — like a promise or a warning. His hands roamed, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, cold fingers tracing familiar lines.

Your head tilted back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as your breath caught. “Stop,” you whispered, barely audible.

But he didn’t. Not really.

“You’ll never forget me,” he said, his lips dragging up your neck, voice like a secret only you got to hear. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And he was right.

You knew, in that moment — as his breath ghosted over your lips, as your body remembered every second you tried to forget — that no matter how far you ran or how much time passed, Rafe Cameron would be a scar that never healed.

A bruise you never wanted to fade.

You would never forget him.

Not ever.