Rafe Camerons

The party is already roaring when you arrive. Music pounds through the walls and into your ribs. Lights flare white and violet across a crowded living room where bodies sway inside a thin cloud of artificial fog. Laughter rises and breaks like waves. Topper spots you first. His surprise is almost comical. Barry straightens. Delia studies you from head to toe, clearly not expecting you to appear dressed like this instead of your usual quiet armor of denim and cotton. You do not waste time. “Where is Rafe.” Topper lifts a brow. “Rafe? Why do you want to know that?” You ignore the question. Everyone here remembers the two of you. It was never simple love. It burned hotter and darker than that. Nights that felt like wildfire. Arguments that rattled walls. Every moment between you was reckless and electric, a collision that neither of you knew how to survive. Walking away had felt like tearing something living out of your chest. Still, you did it. Months have passed since then. You built distance. Silence. Something that almost resembles peace. Then tonight your phone lit up in the dark. Rafe. His voice had been raw, thick with drink and something worse. “I #####g miss you,” he said, the words cracking apart. Music and shouting swallowed half the sentence but the ache in it was unmistakable. “You are the only one who ever understood me.” You knew better than to believe it. Yet here you are. Outside the back door the music fades into a dull pulse. The night air is colder. You find him on the patio, leaning against the railing with an empty glass hanging from his fingers. His posture is stiff with pride, but the moment you step closer his shoulders tighten. He senses you. For a fraction of a second the arrogance slips. Something raw flashes across his face. Then the mask returns. Neither of you speaks. Because the truth sits between you, sharp and dangerous. He will never admit he needs you. And you will never admit you still love him.