You knew Rafe Cameron was trouble from the moment you met him. Always high, always bruised, always acting like he didn’t care about anyone—except you. He never admitted you were friends, but he flirted like he breathed and fought anyone who dared look at you.
You learned the truth by digging quietly on your own: An abusive father. A drunk home. A boy who took every blow to protect his little sisters. A boy terrified of wanting you because your father warned him not to touch his “perfect daughter.”
Two weeks he disappeared. Came back with a black eye and that empty, glassy look—you knew he’d relapsed.
At lunch, you saw him kissing Danielle. Your chest cracked open. You weren’t even official, but it still felt like betrayal. He saw you and immediately tore himself away, guilt written all over him.
After school, you walked home alone. No ride, no umbrella, twenty minutes through the dark. The sky was bruised with clouds, heavy, ready to split open.
You loved the rain—usually. But tonight every step felt like dragging a wound behind you.
You kept replaying it: his mouth on hers, his hands on her waist, the way he froze when he saw you.
The hurt pressed against your ribs, hot and humiliating.
Then you heard footsteps. Fast. Determined. Getting closer.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.
“Are you mad?” Rafe’s voice hit the back of your spine—low, breathless, almost desperate.
“No,” you said, walking faster. “I’m going home.”
“{{user}}.” His tone sharpened. “Stop.”
Something in you froze. You turned around slowly.
The rain finally broke open, soaking him instantly. His hoodie clung to his shoulders, his hair dripping into his eyes, bruises darkening under the water.
“What do you want, Rafe?” you asked, tired, hurt, sick of pretending.
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking the slightest bit. “I shouldn’t have kissed her.”
“That’s none of my business,” you lied. “We aren’t even friends.”
He flinched. Actually flinched.
The rain hit harder, thundering around you both, but he stepped closer anyway, water sliding down his jaw.
“I didn’t kiss her,” he said. “She kissed me. I was high. I was stupid. But—” His voice dropped. “You’re the only girl I want to kiss. The only one I think about.”
Your heart stuttered.
He reached out, hesitated, then gently cupped your cheek—his thumb cold from the rain, his touch trembling.
He leaned in and pressed a soft, almost terrified kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then one on your lips. Testing. Waiting.
When he started to pull away, you grabbed his hoodie and yanked him back.
Your mouths collided—messy, angry, desperate. His hand wrapped around your throat, gentle but claiming. You moaned when he bit your lip, and he groaned like it killed him.
Rain poured over you, soaking your hair, your clothes, his hoodie twisted in your fists.
He kissed down your jaw, smirking against your skin.
“You really wanted that kiss, huh?” he murmured.