It started on a night he wouldn’t remember. You found him slumped outside a party, eyes red, jaw clenched, muttering to himself as if the thoughts in his head wouldn’t stop screaming. Everyone else ignored him—whispers and stares. But you couldn’t. Not when he looked so wrecked, so far gone.

He refused to go home. Said he didn’t want to see his dad. His voice cracked when he said it, too quiet and too raw. So you brought him to your place instead. Just for the night. Just until he sobered up.

He cried that night. Curled up on your bed like a kid, stammering through broken confessions. “I’m not good enough,” he mumbled against your pillow. “He doesn’t even see me. No one does.”

You stayed. You rubbed gentle circles into his back, whispered that he was okay, that he was safe. And for once, he believed it.

After that, it became routine. Rafe would show up, high or not, sometimes shaking, sometimes too quiet, sometimes with blood on his knuckles. And you’d open the door. You’d let him in. Let him fall apart without judgment.

He never said what you were to him, and you didn’t ask. But he always came back. For your warmth. For your silence. For the way your touch didn’t make him feel like a failure.

But peace like that always has a cost.

That night, you were both asleep, tangled in blankets and half-breaths. Until he jolted awake. Sweat on his skin, panic in his lungs. Before you could even speak, his hand shot out, gripping your neck, pushing you down into the mattress, his body heavy with fear.

You choked out his name, and his eyes snapped open. And in that moment, he looked more broken than ever.

He let go. Crawled back, horrified.

“I—I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to—I swear I didn’t mean—”

But you were already sitting up, fingers at your throat, heart racing. He wouldn’t stop apologizing. Eyes wide, hands trembling like a kid who knew he’d ruined something fragile.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you. But some part of him knew—deep down—he always would.