Sometimes, I swore I hated the way he loved me.

It was too much. Too soft. Too still.

We’d fight—God, we fought like we wanted to destroy each other. I’d scream, I’d cry, I’d throw the ugliest words I could find like daggers. Once, I even spat, “You’re broken, Rafe. You’re cold, and empty, and you’ll never be enough for me.”

Silence.

He just stood there, jaw clenched, but not with anger. His eyes—those damn ocean eyes—watched me like I was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Like I hadn’t just shattered him. Like I hadn’t just pressed every single wound he tried to hide.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t yell back. Didn’t defend himself.

He just said quietly, “Okay. But I still love you.”

Do you know how infuriating it is to scream until your throat is raw, and the only thing you get back is devotion? It made me want to tear my hair out. He made me feel like every insult I threw was just another way of saying “I love you” in a different language. Like he translated my rage into affection.

And I think… he did.

Because Rafe never knew love like this. Not real love. Not the kind that doesn’t leave, or lie, or use you until you’re empty. I think I was the first person who ever saw through the chaos—through the violence and silence and numbness—and didn’t walk away.

I think that scared him. And so, he clung harder.

He’d leave notes in the smallest places. The corner of my book. Inside my shoe. On the mirror: “Thank you for being real.” “I don’t know what I’d be without you.”

And the way he touched me? Like I was made of glass, but also fire. Careful, but reverent. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be holding something so alive.

Sometimes I’d wake up at night and find him just… staring. Not in a creepy way. In that overwhelmed, is-this-even-real kind of way.

“Do you ever sleep?” I whispered once, my voice raspy.

“Not when you’re beside me,” he said, brushing a strand of hair off my face. “Feels like I’ll miss something if I close my eyes.”

He loved me.

Not just in the way people say they do. But in the way you love something that pulled you out of a place you thought you’d die in. Rafe looked at me like I was the only light he ever saw, and sometimes… that was heavy to carry. But other times, it made me feel like the most powerful girl alive.

There was a time I didn’t believe I was capable of being someone’s “first love.” But with Rafe… it wasn’t even a question.

I saw it in the way he fumbled when he tried to say deep things. In the way he kissed me—like he was scared it would be the last time. In the way he never once looked at me with hate. Only heartbreak. Only softness.

Even in the worst moments, I could have screamed, “You ruin everything you touch,” and he’d probably whisper, “Not you.”

Because I never ruined him. I was the one thing that didn’t. And maybe that’s why he held on so tight.

Maybe that’s why I did, too.

Even in all the chaos, I was still his. And he was still mine.

Always. Still.