You said you were done.

For real this time. Not just the performative, “don’t call me again” kind of done you whispered in tears last month. This time, you meant it. You said it without crying. You didn’t let him touch you when he showed up at your place reeking of the dock and desperation. You closed the door.

You held the line.

For three weeks.

And then?

2:17 a.m. Your phone lights up like muscle memory.

“you up?”

Your stomach drops. Your fingers freeze.

It’s him.

And maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. This is what he does. Pushes. Pulls. Vanishes. Comes back. Toxic like saltwater in a wound—burning and cleansing simultaneously.

You know what people say about him. You’ve heard it from the start. “He’s dangerous.” “He’s a walking breakdown in a pretty package.” “He’s gonna drag you down with him.”

They weren’t wrong.

But they didn’t know him like you do.

They didn’t know how he held you that night on the dock, arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. They didn’t see the way he looked at you—like he’d kill for you, die for you, or both. They didn’t hear him whisper “I don’t know how to love, but I fucking love you,” like a confession. Like a curse.

Because no—he never lied to you. Never cheated. Never made you question if you were the only one. Rafe never played you like that.

He just broke you in other ways.

He made you feel insane for asking where he went. He raised his voice too fast, then got quiet in a way that made you feel small. He’d disappear when he was spiraling, then call you at midnight saying “I didn’t want you to see me like that.” He’d say “You deserve better” and then kiss you like he hoped you’d never realize he meant it.

He was loyal. And toxic. And yours.

And that’s what made it so hard to walk away.

Because when it was good?

It was heaven.

The way he’d pull you onto his lap like you were his whole religion. The way he’d grip the back of your neck when he kissed you, forehead to forehead, breathless. The way he’d say “no one knows me like you do” with glassy eyes and salt-licked skin. The way he’d come to you after getting into a fight. Like he knew the only person that cared about him was you.

You didn’t want to be the girl who needed saving. But you liked being the one he fell apart with. You liked being the only thing that made him soft.

Until the softness turned sharp. Until his mood swung sideways and his silence felt like punishment. Until loving him felt like holding your breath for too long.

Still, you let him back in. Every time.

Because when Rafe is in front of you— when his voice is low and broken and he’s calling you baby in that rasp that never gets old—

Your spine forgets how to hold you up.

He’s not safe. He never was.

But he’s yours.

And now he’s texting again. After everything. After the storm you barely survived.

Your heart is thundering in your ears. You don’t move. You don’t type.

You just stare.

And even though your brain is screaming don’t, every other part of you already knows—

You’re going to open the door. Again.