28

RAFES POV

Rafe didn't care that much.

That's what he told himself, anyway.

Told himself every time he unlocked his phone and stared at her name, sitting there with no little gray "typing" bubble underneath it. Just silence.Again.

Stella 💫Tuesday, 3:17 PM — "i'm slammed, sorry. can we talk later?"

No response since.

He'd called. Twice. No answer.

Not a big deal. People get busy. Families get overprotective. Maybe she was just trying to keep things chill with her mom.

Sure.

But the truth? It didn't sit right. Not with the way she looked at him at that view. Not with the way she left—stumbling over excuses like she couldn't get away from him fast enough.

He hadn't even done anything wrong that night. He just showed up. Talked to her. Tried to make sure she was okay.

Now she was acting like he was a problem.

Like she regretted everything.

By Friday night, he wasn't angry.

He was pissed.

And the coke wasn't helping. Just made it worse—amped him up, got his thoughts spiraling in fast, sharp loops. Barry was laughing about something across the booth, but Rafe wasn't really listening. Couldn't focus. His knee wouldn't stop bouncing.

He pulled out his phone again.

Still nothing.

"Yo," Barry snapped his fingers in front of him. "You even hearing me, man?"

"Yeah," Rafe muttered, slipping the phone back in his hoodie pocket.

"You're twitchy as shit tonight. You alright?"

"I said I'm good."

Barry leaned back, smirking like he knew better. Rafe drained what was left in his glass. It didn't help.

He wasn't looking for her. That's the thing—he wasn't trying to find her in the crowd. But then he saw JJ. Loud as always. Laughing like the whole place was his personal joke.

And then he saw her.

Stella.

Same eyes. Same hair. Same mouth he still remembered tracing with his fingers like a damn idiot the night they kissed in her room.

Sitting right there, between JJ and Olivia, sipping whatever crap JJ handed her like she didn't have a care in the world.

She looked fine. Happy, even. Like none of it had touched her.

And she was supposed to be home. "Slammed." "Busy." "Later."

Later, his ass.

Rafe stared for a few seconds too long before pushing himself up and heading toward the hall. If he stayed out there, he'd do something stupid. Say something worse.

She didn't see him. At least not yet.

He was halfway down the hallway toward the bathroom when he heard her shoes.

She turned the corner and stopped short, eyes going wide when she saw him.

"Stella."

She didn't say anything at first. Her body language shifted like she was already bracing for a fight. Or running. He hated that.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low.

She blinked. "Same thing you are. Getting a drink."

He looked around. "This place isn't for you."

She raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you're my dad."

"I'm just saying—it's not a good look. Not for you."

"You're here."

"That's different."

"How?"

He didn't reply to her. But it came out sharp and ugly anyway. She crossed her arms. "You don't get to act like you know me better than I know myself, Rafe."

"I know enough," he muttered.

Her eyes flicked up to his, and he could tell the second she noticed it—his pupils. The twitch in his jaw. The way his foot wouldn't stay still.

"You're coked out." Stella scoffed.

"No I'm not," he lied without thinking.

She gave him the look. Like she'd already stopped caring. Like he was just proving whatever theory she'd already formed in her head.

"You don't get to preach to me about where I belong while you're off your face and chilling with Barry," she snapped.

Rafe took a breath, but it didn't help. The words he wanted to say were jammed up behind the drugs and the heat in his chest.

But it didn't matter now—she was already turning away.

Already walking back down that hallway like he didn't exist.

Rafe leaned against the wall and exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.

He didn't follow her.

Didn't say anything else.