You were seventeen. Rafe was twenty-three.

Too young for him. Too dangerous. But still—you stayed. Always.

You were there when his temper flared, when the weight of his world got too heavy. You were the calm after his storm, the only one he let see him fall apart. You held him, and he let you.

You loved him. He knew.

But he wouldn’t be yours. Wouldn’t touch you like that. Not yet. “If I give in now,” he told you once, “I’d lose everything. Especially you.”

So he waited. And you did too—even when it hurt.

That day, the house was quiet. You let yourself in and curled up in his bed, wrapped in one of his hoodies, exhaustion pulling you under.

When Rafe came home from the gym and found you there, he froze. You looked so small, so soft—so his.

He should’ve walked away. But instead, he laid beside you, pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your waist like it was instinct.

That’s when it hit him. Fully, finally.

He loved you. Deeply. Desperately.

You stirred, turned to face him, your fingers brushing his cheek. And he closed his eyes, pressing soft, aching kisses along your skin—your temple, your cheek, your jaw.

“It’s not time yet,” he whispered. “But one day, I’ll love you the way I want to.”

It wasn’t fair.

you should be able to love, without judgement.

But for now, you stayed there—wrapped in something too real to be wrong, waiting for the world to finally catch up.