she knew. the second his eyes dropped when she asked where he was last night—she fucking knew.

{{user}} had always been the only one who could read him. really read him. not like sarah or ward or any of the other kooks who only saw the surface—money, name, that sharp jawline and those addict eyes. but her? she saw the crack under the skin. the anger that curled in his fists. the way he’d flinch when things got too good. and still, she stayed.

rafe cameron was poison. but he was her poison. until she found the burner phone.

hidden in the glovebox. with a list of drops and payments. and names that didn’t belong on a fucking notepad.

he wasn’t just dealing again. he was deep in. and lying about it every single day.

so when he came home that night, shirt stained with something darker than sweat, eyes wide like a cornered animal—she didn’t cry. she didn’t scream. she just threw the phone at his chest and said, “you’re only sorry ’cause i caught you.”

and something in him snapped.

he didn’t deny it. didn’t explain. didn’t even flinch when she pushed past him, grabbing her shit and muttering that she was done.

“you’re not walking out,” he said, voice low.

she ignored him. because for the first time in months, she felt clear.

but then his hand wrapped around her arm.

tight.

he pulled her back so hard her bag dropped. “i said don’t fucking walk away from me.”

“let go,” she hissed.

but he just stared at her, breathing like he’d run ten miles. “i did this for us.”

she laughed. a cold, broken sound. “us? you lied to my fucking face.”

“i was protecting you.”

“by selling pills to kids and getting blood on your hands?” she snapped. “that’s not protection, rafe. that’s just you being the same fucked-up coward you’ve always been.”

he shoved her.

not hard enough to bruise, but enough to scare her.

and it worked.

her eyes flashed with something he hadn’t seen in weeks: fear.

“you really think you get to leave?” he whispered. “after everything?”

“watch me.”

but she barely made it three steps before he grabbed her again—harder this time. dragged her back inside and slammed the door shut. she kicked. screamed. scratched his arm so deep it bled.

“fuck, {{user}},” he growled, shaking. “you wanna leave? fine. but i swear to god, i’ll make sure no one ever finds you.”

that’s when she stopped fighting.

looked him dead in the eyes. and said, “burn in hell, cameron.”

he didn’t blink. didn’t flinch. just stepped closer and kissed her like she was both the match and the gasoline. and for one sick, twisted second—she kissed him back.

because love like this doesn’t fade. it kills slow. and then fast. and then all at once.

the next morning, she was gone.

no note. no goodbye.

just the burner phone, smashed in pieces on his nightstand.

and rafe?

he sat there for hours, staring at the wall, jaw clenched so hard it cracked.

he wasn’t sorry.

not for the drugs. not for the lies. not even for the bruise he left on her arm.

he was only sorry ’cause she fucking caught him.

and now?

now he’s hunting.

she thinks she got away.

but rafe doesn’t lose what’s his. not without setting the whole island on fire to get her back.

⸻

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