He’s never been like this; his friends have seen it—the way he softens around you, the way his sharp edges dull just enough when you’re near.

Rafe knows it was never supposed to mean anything. Just late nights, tangled sheets, fleeting warmth between whispered names and bitten-back moans. Friends with benefits.

But then he started wanting more.

“Hey…” his voice is low, barely a murmur, his lips ghosting over your temple. His arm is heavy around your waist, fingers tracing slow, aimless shapes along your bare back. Sunlight filters through the window, turning the room gold, turning you gold. His legs tangle with yours, keeping you pressed against him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“Talk to me.”

Because a moment ago, he asked you to be his. And now, you’re silent.

Your throat tightens. You want to answer, to say yes, to sink into the warmth of his touch and forget the weight pressing against your ribs.

But then you hear them. The voices.

“He’s violent.” “Unstable.” “Rafe Cameron doesn’t know how to love without breaking something.”

You wonder if that something could be you.

He feels the hesitation in your body before you even say a word, and when you finally meet his eyes, there’s something raw in them. Something pleading. He isn’t the boy people whisper about right now—he’s just Rafe, looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing.

“You don’t have to be scared of me.” It’s quiet, rough. Like it physically hurts him to say. His forehead rests against yours, his fingers tightening against your skin. “I swear to God, I wouldn’t—” He exhales shakily. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

And the worst part? You believe him.

Because you have seen the pieces of him no one else has. The way he softens in the quiet. The way he touches you like you’re something precious. The way he looks at you like maybe—just maybe—you could be the thing that finally saves him.

But love shouldn’t feel like a risk.

Right?