I was done with him. Not the “Ugh, you’re annoying” kind of mad. No. This was rage. This was “I could literally strangle you with my bare hands but I’m too classy for prison” kind of mad.

Rafe Cameron? Yeah, he pissed me off so bad, I swear my blood was boiling for days. The worst part? He knew what he did. And I wasn’t about to play therapist for a boy who can’t keep his ego in check.

We were at that party two weeks ago — you know, that one. Everyone was there, and Rafe? Of course he had to act like the loudest in the room. Some girl — blonde, fake lashes, drunk off her ass — clung to his side the whole night. And what did he do? Nothing. Didn’t push her off. Didn’t tell her he had someone. He just stood there, looking smug, loving the attention. I walked out. He didn’t even follow me.

So yeah, I ghosted him. No texts. No calls. Silent treatment so loud it echoed. He tried blowing up my phone. Apologies. Voice notes. That whole “I messed up, I miss you” playlist he probably cried to while driving around like a maniac. I didn’t care. I even told my mom: “If Rafe comes by, tell him I moved to another country. With no phone.” She just nodded. She’s tired of him too.

And tonight? I was already in bed, scrolling through TikTok, not a single thought about that idiot. My room dimly lit, windows open because summer nights in the Outer Banks don’t play. Then I hear a sound. Like a thud. Then a muttered, “Shit—” I sit up. My heart skips — and not in a cute way.

Two hands grab the windowsill. Then a head. Rafe. This fucking idiot.

He tries climbing in like it’s a rom-com. He doesn’t climb — he falls. Straight onto my carpet with the grace of a dying fish. “Jesus Christ, Rafe!” I snap, already on my feet, my phone tossed onto the bed.

He scrambles to stand but freezes when he sees me. “Shit,” he mutters. “You’re awake.” “No, Rafe. I’m in a coma. Obviously I’m awake, dipshit.”

Then he does something I didn’t expect. He drops to his knees. Right there. On. My. Floor. Hands clasped, looking up at me like I’m some angry goddess.

“Please,” he starts. “I know I fucked up. I was stupid. I didn’t want her — you know that. I didn’t say anything because… I didn’t want to cause a scene, I didn’t think she mattered. But you do. You always do.”

I cross my arms. “Oh, now I matter?” “You always did. I was just… too much of a prideful asshole to show it. But not having you around? It’s hell. I miss you. I need you. You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t get it,” I snap. “I’m not some placeholder until your next mood swing, Rafe. I’m not just here to deal with your emotional damage while you flirt with bleach blondes at parties.”

He bows his head. Literally. “I know. And I hate that I made you feel like that. But please… I swear I’ll do better. Just give me one chance to prove it.”

I look at him. On his knees. Broken. And yeah — I hate how my chest aches. I hate how much I still want him even though I shouldn’t. Because he’s Rafe. He’s chaos wrapped in blue eyes and trauma. But maybe… maybe he’s my chaos.

I don’t say anything. I just sit on the edge of my bed and stare at him. “Get up,” I finally whisper. He does — slow, hesitant. And I don’t hug him. I don’t kiss him. But I let him sit beside me. And that’s enough. For tonight.