A punch to your gut, a shove to your shoulders ― yet you still opened your door to a drenched Rafe Cameron, caught in the rain and sporting angry tears..., allowing him solitude at your home that he more times than enough commented as filthy...

He didn't like your small trailer house, didn't like that you worked a part-time job. He hated how your clothes looked worn and didn't fit your body, hated how your phone wasn't always charged because sometimes you couldn't even cover the electricity bill. Rafe disliked that you were from the cut, and that you were a boy... / and that he liked you. That you seemed to be the only person on this god-damn planet that forgave him... literally any of his wrong doings.

Sometimes you even wondered if the boy even liked anything about you... 'If you were a girl' was a reoccurring sentence in your complicated relationship. Yet, you held him tight when he wept about his father, about the pressure, about being sorry that he called you the 'F' word in front of his friends again. Sorry that he kicked you so hard you'd stumbled... But, he's tender when his thumb brushes against your ribs, over the bruise that had the same outline as his fist...

"Wasn't in the right state of mind..." he murmured, "should've kicked less hard." And maybe, that was his problem... that 'not at all' didn't come to his mind. Only 'less hard'. You were an idiot for settling for his half-assed affection. But you just really liked him...