𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 | 𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧

０２４．

Ren knew he was going to leave. But knowing didn't make it hurt any less.

She heard him go. Heard the way his steps stilled, just for a second, in the doorway. Heard that last muttered "I love you" before he disappeared. She hadn't tried to stop him.

She'd known what his decision was the second he looked at his father. She'd always known what his decision was, even before she invited him to stay, even before she knew his real name. She'd allowed him in, and she'd known it would hurt, and she did it anyways.

So she didn't try to stop him.

There was a part of her, a big part, that wished she had. That wished that their relationship had been normal, that they'd exchanged phone numbers or social media, that there was a way for her to talk to him and beg him to come back to her. But Ren was prideful, and Rafe had chosen his family, and that was that.

But rolling over when she no longer could deny the rising sun and feeling the chill on the other side of the bed – on his side of the bed – triggered a pain heavy enough that she thought she'd be crushed by it.

She hadn't told him she loved him back. She'd wanted to, she'd meant to, but she hadn't.

She was glad she hadn't had the chance. It was easier that way.

Except, as she sat up and ran her hands through her hair, Ren realized that there wasn't anything about this that was easy. It was gut-wrenching. Even the thought of getting out of bed, of climbing into the shower and letting too-hot water wash him off of her for good, felt wrong. She felt off-kilter and unbalanced and out of place. She felt like sleeping the day away.

So she fell back against the pillows and tugged the blankets over her head and finally let herself cry until sleep pulled her under once more.

_____________________________________________________________________________

She woke again to gentle knocking on her door.

The sun had long since set, and she could hear the vibration of club music and constant chatter from the clubgoers rising through her floorboards. Someone was here to check on her, to inquire as to why she hadn't been at work hours ago. But there was a part of her who hoped against hope that it was him, prepared with a speech about how he never should have left, about how he loved her.

It was that stupid, useless hope that got her out of bed. That had her wiping frantically at her tear-stained face in hopes of hiding the evidence of her grief and padding across her apartment and flinging open the door with wide eyes.

Cain stared back, brows knit together in concern as he took in the state of her.

"What happened? Are you okay?" He demanded before she could even open her mouth to explain.

But before she could conjure up a response that would make sense, that would end the questions, Ren began to cry.

She covered her face with her palms, a sense of embarrassment washing over her as she allowed a now-silenced Cain to guide her gently back a step so that he could come inside, shut the door. He gathered her against his chest, wrapping arms around her shoulders as she sobbed into his shirt.

"I– your dad sent me to check on you. Should I tell him– do you want to– fuck, Ren, what happened?"

Cain's confusion was warranted. Ren didn't cry, didn't lock herself away and sleep the day away because a boy had hurt her feelings. When she and Cain got into fights as teenagers, she made him regret it. When her father would yell at her until he lost his voice, she'd prove him wrong. She was never the kind of person who cried on the first shoulder that showed up. Not for anything. Not for anyone.