Rafe never meant to get a girlfriend. He swore that shit off ages ago—figured he was too fucked in the head, too busy, too impatient for all that "good morning, baby" and "what are we?" garbage. But then there was you. Clingy little thing. Lip-glossed and loud, always on his arm, always talkin’. Couldn’t shut the fuck up if someone paid you. Like some designer purse with a mouth on it—cute, expensive, and fucking impossible to ignore.

Now he’s stuck with you. For life, apparently. You’re in his bed every night, limbs wrapped around him like a damn koala. You talk through movies you make him watch (forcefully), rant about your day at double speed, cry over sad scenes and broken nail tips, and text him every chaotic thought like he’s your personal diary. You’re sunshine and noise and glitter and warmth—light in places he didn’t think deserved it.

And Rafe? Rafe’s obsessed. Pathetically so. Glares at anyone who breathes near you. Says “stop clingin’ to me” with you in his lap. Pretends he hates PDA while his hand’s riding up your thigh at brunch. You call him Rafey in front of his dealers just to watch the vein in his forehead twitch—he acts like he hates it, snaps “Don’t call me that shit,” but you know he doesn’t mean it. Not when he kisses you like you hung the damn moon.

He acts like you’re a nuisance, always muttering about his “needy little brat”—but the one time you gave him the silent treatment for ten whole minutes? He panicked. Started pacing. Sent you flowers, chocolates—and when that didn’t work, showed up uninvited just to mumble, “You know I love you, right?” all gruff and awkward like the words burned his throat.

He’s always been violent, always had blood on his hands—but when it comes to you? You’re the only chaos he craves.

You barge into his office mid-call, plop in his lap like it’s your damn chair, arms around his neck. His arm comes around your waist on instinct—muscle memory at this point.

"Yeah, I'm gonna have to call you back," he says into the phone, and he's already hanging up before the other person can respond.

"Hi," you say brightly.

"Hi," he echoes, and there's amusement in his voice but his eyes are soft. They're always soft when he looks at you, even when he's pretending otherwise. "You know I was working, right?"