The rooftop and the rain stayed with me even after I went home.

It clung to my skin like something stubborn and soft, something I didn’t know how to shake. The way Rafe’s fingers had brushed mine, so casual, so careful — it kept replaying in my head like a stuck song.

The way he looked at me.

Like I was real.

Like I was someone.

And worse — the words he said, wrapping around my ribs in a way that almost hurt:

When you're with me you breathe different.

I kept hearing it. I didn’t even know what it meant, not really, but it was something good, and good things weren’t supposed to stay with me. They weren’t meant for me.

I carried it like a secret all the way home.

But reality never waited long to claw it away.

The moment I pushed open the front door, I winced — the hinges groaned too loud, a sharp sound in the stale, heavy air of the house. I smelled beer before I heard him.

“You’re late.”

His voice, thick and mean, rolled out of the kitchen like smoke.

My stomach twisted.

I kept my head down. “I had to stay after—”

“For what?” His footsteps were heavy now, slamming toward me. “Drawing your little pictures? Sucking up to teachers? Think you’re too good for this house now, huh?”

I didn’t even see the hit coming.

I just felt it — the crack across my cheek, the sting that burned through my jaw, the sharp, metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

I staggered, caught myself on the wall.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

He stood over me for a moment longer, chest heaving, then turned and stumbled back into the kitchen. Another beer cracked open. Another night like every other.

My mother stayed silent, staring at the muted television like she couldn't even see me.

Like I wasn’t there.

I waited until his back was turned before I dragged myself up the stairs, one hand pressed to my mouth. My eye was already swelling. I locked my bedroom door. Shoved the dresser in front of it, just in case.

I pulled out his hoodie from my bag. It smelled like him. Like rafe. And then I collapsed onto the bed and pulled the hoodie over my head like a child. I snuggle into his hoodie. Like that could keep me safe.

In the dark, when it was safe to let my breath tremble, his name left my lips. His smell lingered around me.

Rafe.

Over and over, like a prayer.

Like a wish I was afraid to make too loud.

Maybe — just maybe — someone could love a broken thing like me.

Maybe.

The next morning, school felt like walking barefoot across broken glass.

I kept my hair falling in my face to hide the swelling around my eye. My lip burned every time I swallowed. I kept my head down, backpack slung low, trying to be invisible — the way I’d survived this long.

No one asked.

No one looked.

I was good at being wallpaper.

Until I got to my locker.

And saw Tyler Jameson leaning against it like he was doing me a favor by existing.

“Well, look who finally dragged himself in,” he sneered, voice loud enough for the hallway to hear. “Rough night, freak?”

I froze.

Gripped my backpack straps tight enough that my fingers went numb.

He laughed — this awful, nasal sound — and stepped closer, grabbing the strap of my bag, tugging at it like he could yank me right out of my skin.

“Hey, I’m talking to you—”

And then—

“Back off.”

The words sliced through the air like a blade.

I looked up.

And there he was.

Rafe.

Walking toward us with that dangerous, don’t-fuck-with-me kind of calm. His eyes were ice. His fists were already clenched.

Tyler smirked. “Excuse me? You got a death wish, Torres?”

“No,” Rafe said, voice low and flat. “But you might.”

The hallway went still, like everyone was holding their breath.

Rafe stepped between us, not shoving — just standing there, daring Tyler to try.

Daring him.

When Tyler’s hand twitched — probably thinking about it — Rafe slapped it off my backpack so hard that the crack echoed.

“Touch him again,” Rafe said, deadly quiet, “and I’ll make sure you’re the one explaining bruises to the teachers. Got it?”

Tyler stared at him. Wavered.

And then, finally, he laughed it off, hands up like he was the bigger person. “Whatever. You two deserve each other. Freaks”

He stalked off down the hall, shoving through a group of sophomores who scrambled to get out of his way.

Rafe turned to me. His face changed the second Tyler was gone — all the hardness melted out of it, replaced by something I didn’t know how to name.

Something close to worry.

“You okay?” he asked, voice so soft it hurt more than the bruises.

I nodded, too fast.

“Liar,” he said, but it wasn’t mean. It was almost...fond. Like he didn’t blame me for lying.

He looked around. “Come on. Let’s ditch. You need air.”

I hesitated.

If he took me home — if he saw —

No. I couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled. “Really.”

“You’re not,” he said. “But that’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

Something cracked inside me then.

Without waiting, he reached for my hand. His fingers curled around mine — firm, grounding — and I let him lead me out the back door of the school, into the wide, gray morning.

We ended up under the old trees by the football field. Far enough away that no one could find us if they bothered looking.

The grass was still wet from yesterday’s rain. The sky hung low, heavy with unspoken things.

Rafe sat down in the damp grass and tugged his hoodie off, tossing it at me like it wasn’t a big deal. “Put it on. You’re shaking.”

I hesitated. I already have his hoodie with me at home. I can't keep another one. That's not grateful—

His voice interrupted my chaotic mind. “Keep it. The one I gave you yesterday? Keep that one too”

“Are you…sure? I mean-”

“Just keep it”

My lips tugged between my teeth. The hoodie was warm. Smelled like smoke and rain and him.

I pulled it over my head, swallowing down the lump rising in my throat.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared at me like he was trying to see through the hoodie, through the skin.

Then, finally, quietly, he asked,

"You got hurt again?"

Not who did this to you.

Not what happened.

Just... you got hurt again?

Like he already knew better than to expect an answer.

I felt my whole body lock up.

Panic punched through my chest, sudden and brutal.

My fingers fumbled at the hem of my hoodie, twisting the fabric tight enough that my knuckles ached.

I couldn't lie. Not convincingly. But I couldn't tell the truth either.

Telling the truth would tear everything open — would paint it too real.

"I... It's nothing," I muttered, voice too small, too obvious. "I just... tripped. Yesterday. At home."

Even to me, it sounded pathetic. Lies.

Rafe didn’t call me out.

He didn’t push.

He just stared, long and heavy, like he was trying to will the words out of me.

I hated it.

Hated that he saw me — really saw me — when everyone else looked right through.

Hated, too, that some desperate part of me wanted to be seen.

"I hate seeing you like this," Rafe muttered, almost too low for me to hear. His hands curled into fists against his jeans. Not at me — never at me — but at something bigger, something he couldn’t punch.

"I’m fine," I whispered. I hated how fragile the words sounded. Like a paper shield.

He didn’t believe me. I could see it.

But he let it slide — let me keep my paper walls for now.

We didn’t talk. We just sat there.

The trees whispered overhead. The wet earth smelled like spring, like endings and beginnings all at once.