You were always too busy. Too busy for apologies, for second chances, for boys who left nothing but messes behind. And yet, here you were, in Rafe Cameron’s truck, letting him drive you down some winding road in Figure Eight. Your phone buzzed in your lap, your friends wondering why you hadn’t shown up yet. Why you kept letting Rafe pull you back in. “Didn’t think you’d come,” Rafe said, fingers drumming against the wheel, bruised knuckles catching the moonlight. “I shouldn’t have.” His smirk was knowing. “Then why are you here?” You sighed, looking away. “Because you asked.” The truck rolled to a stop near the beach. Rafe turned toward you, voice quieter now. “I know I don’t deserve you.” “You don’t.” “But you’re still here.” You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. His fingers brushed against your knee, burning like they always did. “Tell me how to be enough for you,” he murmured. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “That’s the thing, Rafe. I don’t have time to fix you.” “I’m not asking you to.” He leaned in just slightly, just enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. “You’re a mess,” you whispered. His smirk was gone. “Yeah. But I’m your mess.” You exhaled, already knowing how this night would end. Already knowing you’d be late, that you’d wake up tomorrow still tasting him on your lips. You were too busy for boys like him. And yet here you were.