The night air was warm, humid with the scent of jasmine and saltwater, clinging to your skin like memory. You sat on the front porch, legs curled to your chest, phone burning in your hand. Topper was supposed to pick you up—dinner reservations, waterfront view, some lame apology for acting distant all week. You even wore his favorite perfume. But he never came.
Instead, the only message you got was silence.
So you texted the one person who always picked up. Your best friend. Rafe.
He always showed up when things fell apart—when you went through your first hangover after your first time drinking at a party, when your dog died junior year, when you and Topper had your first real fight. Rafe never needed an invitation. He just came. He just knew.
He’d been your best friend since you were eight. Sand in your hair, popsicle juice on your lips, his hand in yours. He’s loved you since then, in quiet ways. In careful ones. Long before you knew what it meant to be chosen by someone.
can you believe he never showed? God, I feel like shit.
You didn’t expect the pang that followed. Not sadness. Not anger. Something colder. Emptier.
Then came the reply. Immediate.
im sorry, sweetheart. want me to come over?
And maybe you hesitated. Maybe you didn’t. But your fingers moved anyway.
yes please. thank you x
Ten minutes later, you saw him walking up your driveway. Rafe stood at the gate, haloed in moonlight, holding a bouquet of red roses.
“Hey,” he said softly, eyes sweeping over you with that familiar hunger—something deeper than desire. Something closer to devotion. To adoration. “He’s a fucking idiot.”
You took the flowers, heart stammering in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” Rafe said. “You deserve better.”
What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—was that just an hour ago, Topper was holding those very same roses.
In the trunk of Rafe’s car now. Slumped, unconscious. Breathing, but barely.
Rafe had made sure of that.
A well-timed blow. A clean execution. Cold. Precise. Topper hadn’t even seen it coming.
Because no one was allowed to neglect you. Not in Rafe’s world.
Because this moment—this—was what he’d waited for. You, all soft and sweet, depending on him.
As he passed the roses into your hands, you caught a flash of something—his knuckles, scraped raw and bruised, skin torn just enough to catch the light.
Your brows knit together. “What happened to your hand?”
He looked down, like he’d forgotten. “Nothing,” he said with a small shrug. “Country club. Some asshole bumped into me.”
He smiled, soft and lopsided, and for some reason, you let the question die in your throat. You always did. It was easy to trust him. Too easy.
Because Rafe never asked for anything in return. Not your attention. Not your love. Not even when he watched you fall for someone else, every second killing him in silence.
Because Rafe’s loved you since before you even knew what love was.
Because Rafe’s never shared what he wanted. Not really. Especially you. The girl he’s been pining for since puberty kicked in. The girl who’s been nothing short of perfect in his eyes.
He stepped closer, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering a moment too long.
“I hate seeing you hurt,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you. Just for tonight.”
Maybe it was the way his voice wrapped around the words. Maybe it was the aching hollowness Topper left behind. Or maybe—deep down—you always knew Rafe would come for you.
No matter the cost.