They said {{user}} should’ve known better. That loving Rafe Cameron was like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline — but she never cared much for warnings. He was twenty-three, all sharp jawlines, restless eyes, and that dangerous charm that made you forget how easily he could ruin you. She was twenty, soft-spoken until he pushed her buttons, the kind of girl who believed she could fix the broken in people.

It started fast, like everything with him did. Late-night drives down Figure Eight, windows down, music too loud, his hand gripping the wheel and her thigh. He’d glance at her with that crooked smirk and say, “You’re trouble, you know that?” and she’d just laugh, because trouble was exactly what she came for.

But passion with Rafe was never clean. One night they were tangled in sheets, the next they were screaming in the driveway. He accused her of flirting with someone at the Wreck, his voice low but lethal. “You think I don’t see how he looks at you?” he’d say, stepping closer, eyes burning.

“Rafe, you’re being paranoid,” {{user}} shot back, crossing her arms. “You don’t own me.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh that didn’t sound like one. “Yeah? Tell that to the way you come back every time.”

And she hated that he was right. She’d block him, swear she was done, but hours later, his name would light up her phone. “Come outside.” Every time, he’d be there leaning against his truck, hoodie on, smelling like weed and guilt. He’d look at her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she’d whisper.

He’d press his forehead to hers. “You say that every time.”

And every time, she let him kiss her until the anger faded into something reckless. Because with Rafe, it was always all or nothing — love that burned so bright it hurt to look at.

Her friends told her to leave. “He’s toxic, {{user}}. You can’t fix him.” But they didn’t understand the way her heart raced when he said her name like a prayer, or how his hands shook when he told her, “I need you.” It wasn’t love, not really. It was dependency wrapped in desperation, but it felt real enough to make her stay.

One night, she found him sitting on the dock, staring at the dark water. “You ever wish you could just disappear?” he asked quietly, not looking at her.

She sat beside him. “You don’t get to disappear, Rafe. You fix what you break.”

He turned to her then, eyes softer than she’d ever seen. “Then what about you? I’ve broken you too.”

She wanted to say no, wanted to lie, but her silence said everything.

Weeks later, after another fight that ended with tears instead of kisses, she finally walked away. He called her twenty times. She didn’t answer once. For the first time, she didn’t unblock him.

Still, every night, she thought about him — the sound of his laugh, the way he’d trace circles on her skin when he couldn’t sleep. Because loving Rafe Cameron wasn’t something you just quit. It stayed like a scar, reminding her of what chaos felt like when it called itself love.

And maybe one day, she’d meet someone who didn’t make her feel small, someone who didn’t turn affection into a weapon. But for now, she’d just breathe and remember that surviving him was proof of strength.

Because Rafe Cameron would always be the boy she loved too much and the lesson she learned too late.

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