You loved him once. A long, wild, ruinous kind of love—one that bruised and bloomed inside you like violets under the skin. Rafe Cameron. That name still lived like an echo in your bones, no matter how many years tried to scrub it clean.

Back then, you were both fire and gasoline, burning too fast for anyone to call it safe. Rafe was the kind of boy your mother warned you about—reckless, disheveled, always teetering between brilliance and collapse. But his chaos called to something feral inside you. You loved him for his ruin. You loved him despite it.

Then he did something you wouldn’t just forget.

He cheated. Not once—twice. Careless, quiet betrayals tucked into nights you thought he was yours. Behind your back, with girls who smiled too easily and never looked you in the eye. And the worst part? He never told you. You had to find out yourself—slowly, painfully, like peeling skin from bone.

And when you did… he didn’t apologize. He didn’t fight.

He just left.

He walked away when he realized you knew, eyes cold, expression unreadable—as if you were the one who broke something sacred. Like you were the villain in a story he wrote with his own dirty hands.

⸻

Now here you were.

Three years later.

Walking along the shore with someone else’s hand in yours. The sea was licking at your ankles, the horizon smeared with a dusky gold. Your other hand clutched a red rose—its petals velvety, stupidly perfect. Nate had given it to you. Nate, who loved responsibly, who never raised his voice, who memorized your coffee order and sent good morning texts with the sunrise.

He was everything Rafe never could be.

But as the sand whispered beneath your steps, your mind strayed again—like it always did. Back to him. To nights under broken stars. To the cigarette smoke on his collar. To the laugh he only gave you when he forgot the world hated him.

You didn’t see him.

Not at first.

But you felt him.

That old shadow slid into your spine. A strange chill in the air despite the sun. A familiar heaviness that curled around your ribs. It was like gravity remembered him. Like the Earth leaned differently when he was near.

You and Nate walked past the beach café, its string lights flickering like little moons. And there he was.

Sitting like he’d been carved into the moment. Talking to someone you didn’t know, a glass in hand. His face older now—sharper, more defined. The boy you loved was now in a crisp shirt and Rolex. The kind of man people pretended wasn’t born from ash.

Your eyes met.

No smile. No frown. Just ice. Still. Ancient.

And then his gaze dropped—to the rose. And even from across the terrace, you swore you heard the scoff.

Nate turned to you. “I’m gonna grab a drink. You want anything?”

You shook your head, your voice caught somewhere in the tide. He walked ahead.

And you followed. Silent. Careful. Not looking. Pretending not to feel the weight of those ocean-blue eyes following your every move.

Then suddenly—he was there.

Right in front of you.

Tall. Lean. Impossibly familiar. As if time had never passed, only paused.

His eyes flicked down to the rose again. He scoffed, lips curling like a secret.

“Roses? Seriously?” His voice was deeper now, quieter, more dangerous in its calm. “That idiot doesn’t even know your favorite flowers?”

You crossed your arms, fighting the sting in your chest. “Oh? And you do?”

His gaze didn’t falter. Not for a second.

“Orchid. Blue orchid.”

The words landed heavy. He said them like a vow. Like a memory he’d never dared forget.

You looked away. “Well,” you murmured, “maybe I changed my mind.”

But he looked at you like that killed him.

And then—he walked off.

Like always.

Like it was the one thing he ever knew how to do.

You stood there, watching the sea roll against the shore, a red rose clenched in your fist.

Of course you let him go.

Again.