hii i love your work sm. i wanted to ask if you can write more dad & son content with rafe and mason like idk anything like he's teaching him life lessons or sth
Summary: mason takes his role as “man of the house” a little too seriously. between terrible lies, fake camera threats, and a surprisingly solid life lesson about honesty, mason learns that being in charge isn’t about avoiding trouble — it’s about owning it.
Warnings: sibling snitching, minor injury, mild language, light parental intimidation, themes of lying and consequences, and Mason being dramatically bad at covering his tracks.
MASTERLIST
The sun was shining like the Camerons personally paid for it. The lawn at the estate looked trimmed within an inch of its life, the pool glittered, and the kids were already in full swing.
Lara with her pink helmet, pink bike, pink everything was riding careful circles around the pool. Her training wheels clicked against the stone with every tiny wobble.
“I’m basically a professional,” she announced to no one.
Mason grinned from the edge of the pool. “Oh yeah?” he said and cannonballed in.
Water exploded everywhere.
Lara shrieked as droplets hit her legs. “MASE!”
He came up laughing, slicking his hair back dramatically. “It’s called weather conditions. Adapt.”
“You did that on purpose!”
“Did I?”
He swam to the other side, then popped up again just as she passed.
Another splash.
“MASON!” she yelled, swerving her bike. “I’m telling Daddy!”
He gasped theatrically. “Not Dad. Anything but Dad.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re done for.”
But she was smiling. Because even irritated, Lara Cameron loved the attention.
On the sunbed nearby, Catherine lowered her sunglasses just enough to see over them.
“Mason,” she called lazily, “stop creating natural disasters.”
“I’m helping her reflexes!” he argued.
“She’s riding a bike, not entering the Olympics.”
Bradley sat cross-legged beside her chair with a book open in his hands.
“And male seahorses carry the babies,” he read clearly. “The female places the eggs into a pouch, and then the male keeps them safe until they hatch.”
“And seahorses are very sensitive to changes in water quality,” he continued. “Which means they’re good indicators of ocean health.”
“You read very well,” Catherine said, brushing his hair back gently.
Bradley shrugged. “I practice.”
“You also choose the most intense topics possible.”
He glanced at the cover. “They’re fascinating.”
“Mason!” Lara screeched again as he purposely created a wave while she passed. “You’re making difficulties!”
“That’s life!” Mason called back. “Unexpected difficulties!”
“You’re the difficulty!”
Catherine closed her eyes briefly, enjoying the warmth of the sun despite the noise. Then the baby monitor crackled beside her. A soft sound. Movement.
Catherine sat up immediately.
“Okay,” she said, swinging her legs off the lounger. “Time out. I need to check on Maisie.”
At the word Maisie, Bradley looked up.
Mason pushed wet hair out of his eyes. “Is the devil awake?”
“Probably just turning over,” Catherine said, ignoring the name he called his baby sister. “But I’m going inside.”
She looked directly at Mason.
“You’re in charge while I’m gone.”
Mason straightened instantly in the pool.
“In charge?” he repeated.
“Yes. No splashing your sister. No running. No pushing. No chaos.”
Lara crossed her arms. “He is chaos.”
“I am leadership,” Mason corrected.
Catherine pointed at him. “Leadership does not drown people.”
“Noted.”
She leaned down and kissed Bradley’s head. “Keep reading. I’ll be right back.”
Bradley nodded. “Okay.”
“And Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“I better not come outside and hear someone crying.”
Mason grinned. “Understood.”
Catherine walked toward the house. There was a brief, dangerous silence. The second the back door shut behind Catherine, Mason’s entire posture changed.
He climbed out of the pool like a general stepping onto a battlefield.
“Well,” he said, cracking his neck dramatically. “As acting head of the Cameron Estate, I have decided we need more excitement.”
Bradley didn’t look up from his book. “Mom said no chaos.”
“Mom is not currently present,” Mason replied smoothly.
Lara slowed her bike, suspicious. “You look like you’re thinking bad thoughts.”
“I’m thinking fun thoughts.”
Bradley calmly turned a page. “Leadership requires responsibility.”
Mason walked over and plucked the book right out of Bradley’s hands.
“Hey!” Bradley shot up instantly.
Mason held it above his head. “If male seahorses carry the babies, shouldn’t we return them to their natural habitat?”
Bradley’s eyes widened. “Do not.”
Mason took two dramatic steps toward the pool. “Maybe they miss the water.”
Mason dodged easily and sprinted across the patio, laughing. “Too slow!”
“Give it back!” Bradley yelled, chasing him.
Lara perked up immediately.
“Ooooh, we’re doing crime?” she asked excitedly.
“We are not doing crime,” Bradley insisted, already slightly out of breath.
“Mase!” Lara called. “I'll help!”
Mason looked at her, then at the bike. A dangerous idea sparked.
“Intercept him,” Mason ordered.
Lara gasped in delight. “Mission accepted, general!”
She pedaled hard, training wheels rattling loudly against the stone. Bradley tried to change direction, but Lara swooped in front of him like a very pink, slightly unstable police barricade.
Mason tossed the book lightly toward her. “Catch!”
She grabbed it against her chest with one hand, steering wildly with the other.
“I have the hostage!” she yelled.
“Hostage?!” Bradley cried. “It’s a book!”
Mason ran behind her and gave the back of her bike a push.
“Faster, soldier!”
Lara shrieked in laughter as the bike sped up. “WHEEE!”
“Mason, stop pushing her!” Bradley shouted, trying to catch up.
The laughter of Mason and Lara rang through the entire neighborhood — loud, unbothered, echoing over the water.
Bradley ran after them, breathing harder now. “You’re going to drop it!”
“We’re making sure the seahorses reach their home safely!” Mason corrected, jogging beside the bike.
Lara held the book tight. “I'm protecting them like a Mermaid Mommy!”
“You’re seven!”
“And fabulous!”
Mason laughed so hard he had to grab the seat to steady her. Bradley’s pace slowed slightly. He wasn’t built for sprints.
“Just— give— it— back,” he panted.
Mason glanced over his shoulder to check how far behind Bradley was. That was the mistake. Because when he turned back around Lara’s front wheel hit a wet patch near the pool.
The training wheels wobbled violently. The bike tilted.
“Mason—!” she yelped.
The whole thing collapsed sideways in slow motion. Lara hit the ground with the bike tangled around her legs. The book slid safely across the patio.
Silence.
For one terrifying second, Mason’s stomach dropped. Lara’s face scrunched. Her lip trembled.
“I—” she inhaled sharply.
Mason was at her side instantly. He knew this all too well.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said quickly, voice softer than it had been all afternoon. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Bradley reached them, still breathing hard.
“Are you hurt, Lara?” he asked immediately.
Lara blinked, processing.
“My knee,” she whispered dramatically.
Mason gently untangled the bike from her legs. “Let me see.”
It wasn’t even scraped.
“You’re fine,” he said carefully. “Look. No blood. No broken bones. You fell like a princess. So elegantly!”
She sniffed. “Really?”
“Yeah. Ten out of ten fall. Very controlled.”
Bradley picked up the book, inspecting it quickly. “It’s wet.”
“See?” Mason said. “Mission success.”
Lara looked down at the bike.
Mason helped her sit up. “Let’s check the bike.”
He lifted it upright. For a second, everything looked normal. Then he pushed it forward. It wobbled badly. The right training wheel scraped at an odd angle.
They all froze.
Bradley crouched down. “It’s bent.”
Mason’s jaw tightened.
Lara’s eyes widened. “My wheel?”
He gently spun it again.
Definitely bent.
“It’s just a little crooked,” Mason said quickly. “That’s fixable.”
“Is it broken?” Lara’s voice wavered.
“No,” Mason said firmly. “Nothing’s broken.”
Bradley stood up slowly, watching him.
Mason tested the handlebars again. The bike leaned to one side.
Okay. Maybe slightly broken.
But Lara was staring at him like he controlled physics.
“You’re fine,” he repeated, meeting her eyes. “The bike’s fine. We’ll fix it before Mom even notices.”
Bradley raised an eyebrow. “That seems unlikely.”
Mason shot him a look. “Support your leader.”
“That's excatly why we tell mom. You were in charge when it happened.”
Mason looked back at the crooked wheel.
For the first time all afternoon, he didn’t have a joke ready.
“…Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe we don’t tell Mom I was in charge.”
Bradley stood up straight, still holding his book.
“Mom put you in charge,” he said calmly. “And Lara fell so we should tell her.”
“I did not fall,” Lara said quickly.
Then she paused. Processed it. Her eyes widened.
“I FELL!” she shrieked suddenly, like the realization had just hit her. “IT HURT!”
Mason winced. “Lower the volume!”
“My knee!” she cried, grabbing it dramatically. “It’s broken! I can’t walk! I’m a ballerina, I can't be injured!”
“It’s not broken,” Mason said quickly. “You literally just stood up.”
“I could have died!”
Bradley blinked. “You fell sideways at two miles per hour.”
“That’s still speed!”
“We are not telling Mom,” Mason said firmly.
“Yes, we are,” Bradley replied. “She said you were in charge.”
Exactly.
Mason’s stomach dropped at that word. If Mom found out Lara fell while he was “leading,” there would be consequences. And if Dad found out? His PlayStation would disappear. Locked inside the home office.
The home office might as well have been a maximum-security prison.
“No,” Mason said, lowering his voice. “We handle this ourselves.”
Bradley crossed his arms. “That’s not what responsible means.”
“It means fixing your mistakes,” Mason argued. “And I’m fixing this.”
Lara sniffled loudly. “I want attentiom.”
“You’re getting medical attention,” Mason said. “That’s better.”
Bradley hesitated. He looked at Lara’s knee. It was barely red. Then he looked at Mason. Panicked. Calculating.
“…Fine,” Bradley said slowly. “But if she’s actually hurt, I’m telling Mom.”
Bradley sighed and sat back down on the daybed, reopening his book. “Okay,” he said simply.
He didn’t mention that he planned to tell their mother anyway. He just resumed reading about seahorses in a steady voice, like nothing was happening.
Inside the house, Mason practically dragged Lara toward the guest bathroom.
“I can’t walk,” she announced dramatically.
“You just ran five seconds ago.”
“That was before I was injured.”
He rolled his eyes but slowed down so she could limp convincingly until they reached the bathroom.
Mason knew exactly where the bandages were. Second drawer. Left side. He had memorized it through years of personal experience.
He pulled it open triumphantly. “See? Professional.”
Lara hopped onto the closed toilet lid and examined her knee like a movie star inspecting a wound from battle.
“It’s turning purple,” she whispered.
“It is not.”
“It might.”
Mason grabbed a wet tissue and gently wiped the spot.
Lara gasped like he’d poured acid on her. “OW!”
“I barely touched you!”
“It’s sensitive!”
“You’re sensitive.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m telling Dad.”
“You’re not telling anyone,” Mason said quickly. “Because guess what?”
“What?”
“If Dad finds out I messed up while in charge, he’ll take my PlayStation.”
Lara blinked. “Forever?”
“Worse. He’ll lock it in the office.”
Her eyes widened. The home office was sacred territory.
“No one goes in there,” she whispered.
“Exactly.”
She thought about that.
“That is tragic,” she decided.
“Very.”
He peeled open a bandage with exaggerated care.
“Okay. This is the deluxe edition. Waterproof. Limited supply.”
“Will I survive?”
“Probably.”
He carefully stuck it on her knee.
She looked down at it.
“…It’s cute.”
“It has dinosaurs.”
“That helps.”
He leaned back against the counter. “See? You’re fine. Bike’s fine. Situation handled.”
She swung her legs. “You’re a good doctor.”
“I know.”
☀️
Catherine stepped back into the sunlight with Maisie in her arms, still sleepy and warm from her nap. She blinked against the brightness. Then she frowned.
Lara’s pink bike was lying on its side near the pool. Abandoned. One training wheel slightly crooked.
Her brows furrowed immediately.
She walked over slowly. Maisie rested her head against her shoulder.
“Where did everyone go?” Catherine murmured.
She turned toward the daybed.
Bradley was sitting exactly where she left him, book open, reading out loud softly to himself.
“…and that is why male seahorses protect the eggs until they hatch,” he finished calmly.
“Brad?” she called gently.
He looked up at her.
“Yes?”
“Why is Lara’s bike on the ground?”
He paused. A very small pause.
“They went inside,” he answered.
“Who’s they?”
“Mason and Lara.”
Catherine adjusted Maisie on her hip. “Why?”
Bradley closed his book carefully.
“Lara fell,” he said simply.
Catherine didn’t react right away.
She actually let out a small breath of disbelief.
“Lara fell?” she repeated.
Bradley nodded once. Catherine frowned.
If Lara had truly fallen, the entire neighborhood would know. There would be dramatic screaming. Tears. Possibly a speech about injustice.
But the yard had been… peaceful. Too peaceful.
Her stomach tightened.
“What do you mean she fell?” she asked again, sharper this time.
Bradley looked at the bike. “She tipped over. Mason helped her up.”
Catherine’s heart skipped.
“Tipped over how?”
“She was riding fast.”
Fast.
Catherine’s eyes flicked back to the bent training wheel. That wasn’t a soft tip.
Panic flared — small, quick, sharp. She immediately crouched and placed Maisie carefully on the daybed beside Bradley.
“Stay here with her,” she said quickly.
Maisie blinked up at Bradley and immediately grabbed the corner of his book.
“No—” Bradley started.
Too late.
She shoved the edge into her mouth and began chewing thoughtfully.
Bradley side-eyed her. “…That’s not edible,” he informed her calmly, gently tugging it back.
Maisie stared at him. Then tried again.
Inside, Catherine was already calling out.
“Mason? Lara?”
Her voice echoed through the foyer.
No answer.
She checked the living room.
The kitchen.
Her steps quickened.
“Mason Alexander Cameron!”
Footsteps.
Then giggling.
They came down from upstairs together.
And Catherine stopped in the middle of the hallway.
Lara was wearing one of her long princess gowns. Pale pink. Dramatic. Flowing. It dragged slightly on the stairs. Her knee was completely hidden.
Mason followed behind her, suspiciously casual.
“Hi,” he said.
Catherine’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why is she dressed like that?”
Before she could ask anything else, Mason spoke quickly.
“She’s falling head over heels to play princesses,” he said smoothly. “With me.”
Catherine blinked.
“With you.”
“Yes.”
Lara twirled dramatically. “I am a royalty, Mom. And he is my peasant.”
“You were riding your bike five minutes ago,” Catherine said slowly.
“And now she’s royalty,” Mason replied. “Character development.”
Catherine crossed her arms.
“Why did she fall?”
Mason’s jaw tightened just slightly.
“She didn’t fall-fall,” he said quickly. “She fell head over heels— No one fell.”
Lara gasped softly, remembering.
“Oh.”
Mason shot her a look. But it was too late.
“I did fall,” she announced, suddenly remembering her performance instincts. “It was tragic.”
Catherine’s heart jumped again. “Are you hurt, baby?”
Lara paused. Mason’s eyes widened slightly.
Think. Think. Think.
“I was,” Lara said dramatically. “But now I’m brave.”
Mason immediately stepped in front of Lara — just slightly.
“She’s fine,” he said. “It’s handled.”
“Handled by who?”
“Me.”
Catherine stared at him.
Mason tried to hold her gaze.
He failed after three seconds.
“Upstairs,” she repeated calmly.
Lara sighed like a tired duchess and lifted her skirt dramatically as she climbed. “This is so stressful for royalty.”
Mason followed like a soldier marching to war.
In Lara’s room, Catherine gently lifted the pink gown. “Let me see.”
Mason braced himself.
Grounded. PlayStation gone. Office door locked. His life flashing before his eyes—
Catherine blinked.
There was a bandage. A very straight, very carefully placed bandage.
She peeled it back slightly.
There wasn’t even a scratch. No blood. No swelling. Not even a proper scrape.
Catherine slowly looked up at Mason.
“You cleaned it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered quickly. “With water. And a tissue. And I used the dinosaur bandage because those are psychologically comforting like Brad said.”
Lara nodded. “He dreams of becoming a doctor if one day I release him from peasentary.”
Catherine pressed her lips together. She was expecting Hell. Tears. Drama. Possibly an ice pack ceremony.
Instead?
Her ten-year-old son had calmly brought his sister inside, cleaned her knee, applied a bandage, and avoided a meltdown.
Impressive.
Very impressive.
She looked back at Mason. He looked terrified.
“Mom,” he blurted, “please don’t tell Dad.”
Catherine raised a brow. “Tell him what?”
“That I was in charge and there was an incident.”
Lara gasped. “It was tragic.”
“It was not tragic,” Mason hissed.
Catherine crossed her arms lightly. “Why are we worried about Dad?”
“Because,” Mason said carefully, “he values responsibility.”
“And?”
“And sometimes responsibility leads to consequences.”
“Like?”
“My PlayStation being confiscated and locked in the office.”
Ah. There it was.
Catherine fought the urge to smile. Instead, she tilted her head thoughtfully.
“So let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “Your sister fell. You brought her inside. You cleaned her knee. You applied a bandage. You prevented hysteria.”
Lara puffed up proudly. “I was very brave.”
“Yes, you were,” Catherine agreed.
Mason blinked. “…I’m not grounded?”
Catherine leaned against the dresser.
“No,” she said calmly. “I’m actually impressed.”
Mason’s shoulders dropped in visible relief.
“Oh.”
“But,” Catherine added smoothly.
He stiffened again.
“There is one thing.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“You told me you were playing princesses.”
Mason’s stomach dropped.
“That was… strategic.”
“You said she was falling head over heels to play.”
Lara beamed. “I love it when he is my slave.”
Catherine clasped her hands together sweetly. “Then by all means. Continue.”
Mason froze.
“Continue what?”
“The royal ball.”
He stared at her. She smiled.
“You handled the medical emergency beautifully,” she said. “Now you can handle the monarchy.”
“Mom—”
“No, no,” she said gently. “Leadership includes commitment.”
Lara grabbed Mason’s hand. “Come, Peasent Mason. You must do my makeup before the Royal Ball.”
He looked betrayed.
Catherine stepped toward the door. “I won’t tell your father.”
Mason lit up slightly.
“On one condition.”
He knew it. “What?”
“You play princesses properly. No escaping after five minutes. No complaining. Full participation.”
Lara gasped. “Full royal energy.”
Catherine nodded. “Exactly.”
Mason looked at the ceiling like he was asking for strength.
“…Fine.”
Catherine kissed the top of Lara’s head and squeezed Mason’s shoulder as she passed him. “I’m very proud of you,” she murmured quietly so only he could hear.
His ears turned slightly red. Then Lara shoved a plastic tiara onto his head.
“Bow,” she commanded.
He sighed.
Outside, Bradley was still calmly explaining to Maisie how male seahorses carried the eggs. Inside, Peasent Mason was curtseying in a pink bedroom, dramatically betrayed by his own competence.
🌥️
The kitchen smelled like garlic, rosemary, and something slow-roasted. Catherine stood at the stove, tying her hair up into a loose knot, when the front door opened. Heavy footsteps followed. Then arms around her waist.
Rafe pressed a kiss to her cheek, warm from outside air and sun.
“What smells so good?” he murmured against her skin.
“Chicken,” she replied, smiling slightly.
He hummed approvingly and rested his chin briefly on her shoulder. “I like when you cook. Makes me remember how far we've come.”
He squeezed her waist once before stepping back and reaching for a glass.
“Anyway. Where are they?” he asked, changing the topic before he got too sentimental. “The house's too quiet.”
Catherine stirred the sauce. “Bradley’s upstairs writing his homework.”
Rafe nodded. That tracked.
“Lara and Maisie are having a tea party.”
He smiled faintly at that. “Of course they are.”
“And Mason—”
She barely got the words out.
“—went to the garage.”
Rafe froze. Actually froze.
His life flashed before his eyes in a series of vivid images:
Mason touching the dirtbike.
Mason tipping the dirtbike.
Mason somehow starting the dirtbike.
Mason losing a limb.
Rafe slowly turned his head toward her.
“He went where?”
“The garage.”
“Does he have the keys?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said lightly.
Rafe was already moving.
“I hid them,” he muttered. “I think I hid them. I definitely hid them.”
“Baby.”
He was halfway to the hallway.
“Rafe.”
He stopped, jaw tight.
“What?”
She burst out laughing. “He’s not dismantling your bike.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
He waited for her to explain. She leaned against the counter, clearly enjoying herself.
“You should’ve seen him earlier,” she said. “Lara fell off her bike.”
Rafe’s head snapped back around. “She what?”
“She’s fine,” Catherine said quickly. “Not even a scratch.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
“She cried?” he asked.
“That’s the thing,” Catherine said, grinning. “She didn’t.”
Rafe frowned. “That’s not possible.”
“I thought the same.”
She told him everything — the bent training wheel, Bradley reporting it, Mason dragging Lara inside, the bandage, the princess gown cover-up.
By the time she got to the part where Mason begged her not to tell his father, Rafe was staring at the floor, fighting a smile.
“He said that?” Rafe asked.
“Word for word.”
Rafe ran a hand down his face.
“He thinks I’m some kind of dictator.”
“You did lock his PlayStation in the office that one time.”
“He hacked parental controls.”
“He changed the WiFi password to ‘DadIsOld.’”
Rafe exhaled through his nose. “…That was funny.”
Catherine laughed again. “He handled it well. Cleaned her knee. Calmed her down. Put a bandage on. Then tried to bury the evidence under a princess dress.”
Rafe leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms.
“He played princesses?”
“With full participation,” she said sweetly. “That was my condition for not telling you.”
Rafe looked offended. “You robbed me of that leverage.”
“He was terrified of you.”
“I am not scary.”
Catherine raised a brow.
Rafe thought about it. “…Okay, maybe a little.”
They both fell quiet for a moment. Then Rafe straightened suddenly. “But why is he in the garage?”
Catherine smirked. “Because the training wheel bent.”
Rafe blinked. “And?”
“And he said he’s going to fix it.”
There was a long pause. Rafe’s expression shifted.
From suspicion.
To realization.
To something dangerously close to pride.
“He’s fixing it?” he asked carefully.
“With a wrench he found.”
Rafe stared at the wall like he was trying not to feel anything.
“That’s my kid,” he muttered.
Catherine smiled softly.
“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
From somewhere upstairs, Lara yelled dramatically, “The tea is poisoned!” Maisie shrieked with delighted laughter followed by Bradley's voice for them to keep quiet.
And from the direction of the garage, there was the faint metallic clink of tools.
Rafe pushed off the counter. “I’m still checking the keys,” he said.
Catherine laughed, shaking her head as he loosened his tie. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m preventative,” he corrected, already walking toward the hallway.
She called after him, still smiling, “He’s trying to fix it, Rafe.”
“That’s what worries me!”
He tugged his tie loose as he walked, rolling his sleeves up automatically like he was heading into a board meeting instead of his own garage.
The door creaked open.
Metal clinked.
Silence.
Then Mason jumped slightly and immediately stepped in front of Lara’s pink bike like a bodyguard protecting a VIP.
“Hey, Mase,” Rafe said casually, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey, Dad,” Mason replied, too fast.
Rafe’s eyes drifted past him. “I heard Lara’s bike broke.”
Mason’s face transformed into pure, theatrical shock.
“It did?” he gasped. “That’s insane. How? Who would do that?”
Rafe nodded gravely. “Terrible situation.”
Mason shook his head. “Unbelievable. Some people are reckless.”
Rafe crossed his arms. “Yeah. You.”
Mason gasped so loudly it echoed.
“Me?” He clutched his chest. “Dad, I haven’t even left my room today.”
Rafe raised a brow.
“I haven’t seen Lara in—” Mason squinted, calculating. “A month.”
“A month?”
“Yes.”
“In the same house?”
“Correct.”
Rafe tilted his head. “You live here.”
“Yeah, but does she—” Mason countered, “Matter of fact, who even is Lara?”
Rafe let out a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I am innocent.”
“Step aside.”
Mason hesitated.
“Dad—”
“Mason.”
Slowly, dramatically, like he was surrendering territory in war, Mason stepped to the side.
The training wheel was still slightly bent. Not catastrophic. But bent enough.
Rafe crouched down and examined it.
“You were close,” he said.
Mason blinked. “Close— I didn't do anything! I found it like that... I-I—”
“To fixing it, Mase. You don’t lie well,” he said calmly.
Mason straightened immediately. “I’m not lying.”
Rafe just looked at him.
Mason doubled down. “I found it like this, I swear.”
“Like what?”
“Bent,” Mason said confidently. “Abandoned. Injured. I was simply… investigating.”
Rafe blinked slowly. “Investigating.”
“Yes. I’m basically a concerned citizen.”
“In our garage.”
“Crime happens everywhere.”
Rafe pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
“And this crime,” he said evenly, “just happened to involve your sister’s bike.”
“Allegedly.”
Rafe sighed and walked further into the garage, picking up the wrench Mason had clearly been using.
“You know what makes lying worse?” Rafe asked.
Mason crossed his arms. “I don't know because I never lie... But if I had to guess— Being bad at it? Getting caught?”
“No,” Rafe said. “Thinking it’ll save you.”
Mason shifted his weight. “I really did just find it like that.”
“But when you try to pretend it didn’t,” Rafe added, “that’s when it becomes a problem.”
Silence filled the garage.
“I don't want to get in trouble,” Mason muttered.
Rafe nodded once.
“I know.”
He crouched down by the wheel again, adjusting it slightly.
“When I was your age,” he said, tightening a bolt, “I used to think if I denied something hard enough, it would just… disappear.”
Mason glanced at him. “I bet it did.”
Rafe huffed lightly. “No. It just made things worse.” He stood up again. “Breaking something? That’s fixable.” He spun the wheel. “Lying about it? That sticks.”
Mason swallowed. “I was going to fix it,” he said quietly. “Before anyone noticed.”
Rafe softened at that.
“I can see that.”
Mason finally looked up at him. “I didn’t mean for her to fall.”
“I know you didn’t.”
There was a long pause.
Rafe leaned back against the workbench. “Being in charge usually means that something would go wrong. That's why most people don't want to be in that position or reach that position.” he said. “It's important that when something goes wrong, you step up. That shows you are a leader. That people could trust you to be in charge, to listen to you.”
Mason picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I did step up.”
“You did,” Rafe agreed. “You helped her. You cleaned her knee. You tried to fix the wheel.”
Mason blinked, surprised he was getting credit.
“But you also tried to dodge it.”
“…Yeah.”
Rafe nodded. “Next time, if you aren't sjre what to do but you want tk do something— to fix the problem, you come to me first.”
Mason hesitated. “Even if you’re going to be mad?”
“I might be,” Rafe said honestly.
Mason winced.
“But I’d rather hear the truth than find out you’re hiding something.”
Mason looked at the floor. Then, quietly—“I bent it.” He took responsibility.
Rafe didn’t react dramatically. He just nodded once.
“Okay.”
“I pushed her too fast,” Mason admitted. “And then I looked back at Brad and she tipped.”
Rafe walked over and rested a hand briefly on the back of Mason’s neck. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Mason frowned slightly. “For what? I didn't fix the wheel, I didn't catch her before she fell, I didn't—”
“For telling me.”
The tension in Mason’s shoulders eased just a little. “Am I grounded?”
Rafe considered it. “Did you learn something?”
Mason sighed. “Yes.”
“What?”
“Don’t push Lara when she’s already unstable.”
Rafe gave him a look. “Something else? Maybe something you think it's less important?”
Mason groaned. “And tell the truth.”
“Good.”
There was a small pause.
“Who snitched?”
Rafe straightened. “No one.”
Mason stared at him.
“Brad?”
“No.”
“Then it's Lara.”
“No.”
“Maisie?” he guessed.
Rafe smirked slightly. “I checked the cameras.”
Mason’s face drained.
“…Shit.”
Rafe slowly turned his head toward him.
Mason immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Language.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
Rafe stood fully now, placing a hand on Mason's shoulder. He pulled him toward the door.
“I told you, you don’t lie well,” he said calmly.
“I thought I was convincing.”
“You said you hadn’t seen your sister in a month.”
“Is that not possible?”
Rafe shook his head, fighting a smile again as they walked down the hallway.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t actually check the cameras, did you?”
Rafe smirked slightly. “No.”
Mason exhaled. “Knew it! Now I have to find that dang snitch...”
“But now I’m thinking maybe we should install some.”
“Dad? ”
Rafe laughed, opening the door back into the kitchen.
okay i’m a sucker for angst and bradley makes my heart ache. could you write something about him being detached when he sees his parents favoriting his siblings and he feels like he’s just there? also i love your work so bad
Summary: the cameron family goes to the aquarium.
Warnings: mild child chaos, parental stress, emotional detachment from a child, fluff.
MASTERLIST
Sundays in Figure Eight were supposed to be peaceful.
That was the lie.
In reality, Saturdays were for Mario Kart screaming matches and four-year-olds using Chanel as “princess cloaks.” So by 9 a.m. Sunday, the Cameron household was in mild recovery mode.
“I still can’t believe she cut one of my silk scarves,” Catherine muttered, adjusting her sunglasses as they walked into the aquarium lobby.
“It was a royal cape,” Rafe corrected. “Have some respect.”
She shot him a look. “You’re laughing now. Wait until she discovers your suits.”
“She wouldn’t dare.”
As if summoned by the threat, Lara — four years old, pink sundress, sticky hands — spun in a circle and nearly took out a brochure stand.
Mason sprinted ahead like he’d just been released from prison. “Dad! They have sharks. Can I punch one?”
“No punching wildlife,” Rafe called calmly, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t seconds from a migraine.
Bradley trailed a few steps behind, already trying to read the first sign with words he noticed.
🐠
The giant tank room was chaos.
Mason pressed both hands against the glass and started making exaggerated monster noises.
“RAAAAH! I’m a bigger fish than you!”
The fish did not care.
Lara pressed her nose to the glass beside him — not to look at the fish — but to stare at herself. She tilted her head. Tilted it again. Smiled.
“Mama,” she whispered, delighted. “There... me.”
Catherine bit her lip to stop from laughing. “That’s your reflection, baby.”
Lara waved at herself. “Hi, me.”
Rafe crouched slightly, trying to redirect. “Sweetheart, look — that’s a blue tang.”
She didn’t move.
“That’s a fish,” he tried again.
“I know,” she said seriously, still staring at herself. “But that’s me.”
Mason let out another aggressive roar at a passing stingray.
“Mase,” Catherine sighed. “You’re not going to scare them.”
He looked offended. “They’re intimidated.”
“By what?” Rafe asked. “Your gap tooth?”
Mason gasped. “Mom!”
“He’s joking,” Catherine laughed.
Meanwhile—
“Dad?”
Rafe turned. Bradley was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring up at the tank like a tiny professor.
“How do fish stay in the middle of the water without trying too hard?” Bradley asked. “And what happens if the water is more salty or sweet? Does that make it harder for them?”
Rafe blinked.
Catherine blinked.
Mason smacked the glass again.
Lara was now kissing her reflection.
“Uh,” Rafe started, buying time. “They… float?”
Bradley frowned. “But how? They can’t just float for no reason.”
“Their… fish settings,” Rafe said confidently.
Catherine choked on a laugh.
“Dad,” Bradley said slowly, “that’s not how fish work.”
“I have two diplomas,” Rafe defended himself.
“In what?” Catherine murmured.
He ignored her.
Bradley continued, eyes wide and serious. “Also, how do fish sleep if they don’t close their eyes? And do they get tired of swimming all the time? And if the water gets colder, does their body slow down?”
Rafe stared at his six-year-old like he’d just been challenged in a board meeting.
“Do you think,” Catherine whispered to him, “that maybe I should’ve married Google?”
“Don’t undermine me in front of the children.”
Bradley crossed his arms patiently. Waiting.
Rafe cleared his throat. “Fish… don’t get bored.”
“How do you know?” Bradley asked immediately.
“…Because they’re fish.”
“That’s not proof.”
Catherine lost it, laughing into Rafe’s shoulder.
“Okay, Professor,” she said gently, crouching down to Bradley’s level. “Why don’t you tell us what you think?”
Bradley brightened instantly. “Some fish have a little air pocket inside them that helps them float. And sharks have to keep swimming so they can breathe. They don’t sleep like we do, but they do rest. And if the water changes, their bodies have to work harder to stay balanced.”
“He’s six,” Rafe muttered.
“And,” Bradley added calmly, “they use their gills to keep the right amount of salt in their bodies. Or Ion exchange like the guy on National Geographic said.”
Mason had stopped roaring.
Lara had stopped admiring herself.
Even Rafe was staring now.
“…Ion exchange?” Rafe repeated faintly.
Bradley nodded. “Yeah. It’s simple.”
Catherine pressed her lips together to keep from smiling too wide. “Simple.”
Rafe straightened, regaining composure. “Well. Obviously. That’s what I was going to say.”
“No, you weren’t,” Mason said.
“Traitor.”
Lara tugged on Rafe’s leg. “Daddy, da fishy dancing.”
“That,” Rafe said immediately, grateful for the easier child, “is because they’re happy to see you.”
“Really?” she gasped.
“Obviously. They’ve never seen a princess before.”
Catherine rolled her eyes but smiled.
Mason resumed making noises — this time quieter, like he was negotiating a truce with the stingray. Bradley walked to the next tank, reading another plaque aloud.
“Dad, did you know some fish can turn into a female or a male if they need to?”
Rafe froze.
Catherine wheezed.
“Okay,” Rafe said decisively, clapping his hands once. “Gift shop.”
“We just got here,” Bradley protested.
“Educational souvenirs are important,” Rafe insisted.
Catherine slipped her hand into his as they followed their chaos down the corridor.
“Two diplomas,” she murmured.
“Shut up.”
“Outsmarted by a first grader.”
“He’s gifted. It’s different.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re cute when you’re threatened.”
“I’m not threatened.”
Bradley turned around mid-walk. “Dad, do fish know they’re in tanks? Or do they think that’s the whole ocean?”
Rafe stopped walking.
“…We’re leaving in five minutes,” he muttered.
Catherine laughed so hard she had to lean into him.
Mason ran ahead toward the shark tunnel while Lara skipped beside him, still occasionally checking her reflection in every shiny surface.
And Bradley — brilliant, curious, terrifyingly observant — kept reading.
Rafe squeezed Catherine’s hand.
“Next Sunday,” he said quietly, “we’re going back to Mario Kart.”
“No,” she smiled. “Next Sunday we’re Googling marine biology so you can keep up.”
“I don’t need Google.”
“Ion exchange, Rafe.”
He sighed.
“…Gift shop.”
🐡
The gift shop was a mistake.
The second they walked in, it was bright lights, loud sounds, and children grabbing everything with sticky hands.
“I hate it here already,” Rafe muttered as a plastic dolphin squeaked somewhere behind him.
“You said educational souvenirs were important,” Catherine reminded him sweetly.
“That was before I saw the crowd.”
Lara gasped like she had just walked into a castle.
On a glittery pink stand sat a small mirror framed with shiny shells. It sparkled under the lights.
Her whole face lit up.
“Mama!” she squealed, running over. “Look! Baby pwetty!”
She picked it up with both hands and stared at herself, turning it side to side.
“I so pwetty,” she whispered to her reflection.
Catherine pressed her lips together, already knowing how this would end. “You are pretty, baby.”
Rafe leaned over. “You’ve always been pretty.”
Lara smiled proudly at the mirror. “Dis mine.”
“We’re not buying a mirror,” Rafe said automatically.
Lara frowned at him through the shell frame. “But Daddy… I pwetty.”
Catherine gave Rafe a look. The kind that meant: Choose carefully.
He sighed. “We’ll come back to it.”
“That means yes,” Catherine translated.
“It means maybe.”
“It means yes,” she repeated.
On the other side of the shop, Mason had found a shelf full of giant stuffed sea animals.
“DAD!” he shouted, holding up a huge shark almost as big as him. “THIS ONE LOOKS LIKE YOU.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Put it down.”
“It’s mean!” Mason said proudly. “It’s perfect!”
Catherine laughed. “It does have your vibe.”
“Real nice,” Rafe muttered.
Mason reached for a big swordfish next to it — and knocked into a spinning rack of small glass sea turtles.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
One turtle tipped.
Then another.
Then three hit the floor.
Smash.
The whole shop went quiet.
Mason froze. “…I didn’t even touch it.”
Rafe closed his eyes and took a slow breath.
“It’s okay,” Catherine said gently, already walking to Mason. “Accidents happen.”
The teenage cashier stared at the broken glass in horror.
Rafe straightened up. Calm. Controlled. Cameron.
“We’ll pay for it.”
“Sir, that’s—”
“We’ll cover it,” he repeated, pulling out his wallet.
Mason tugged his sleeve. “Am I grounded?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Rafe said tightly.
Catherine squeezed Mason’s shoulder. “First you say sorry.”
“Sorry,” Mason mumbled.
As the employee cleaned up the mess, Rafe looked around the store like a man who had reached his limit.
He grabbed a dolphin keychain near the register. Then he took the shell mirror gently from Lara’s hands — she gasped loudly — and set it on the counter.
“Daddy!” she cried.
“I’m buying it,” he corrected.
She relaxed instantly. “Oh. Otay.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were coming back.”
“We are not coming back,” Rafe said. “We’re leaving.”
He added the keychain to the pile.
“For me?” Catherine asked softly.
He didn’t look at her. “Your survived yesterday. You get a dolphin.”
She smiled.
“You’re overwhelmed.”
“I am not overwhelmed.”
“You’re buying apology gifts.”
“I am strategically ending this trip.”
The cashier rang everything up — including the broken turtles. The total made Mason’s eyes go wide.
“Dad… that’s like… a billion dollars.”
“It is not a billion dollars,” Rafe said flatly, handing over his card.
“It feels like it.”
While Rafe paid, while Mason tried to sneak another plush onto the counter, and while Lara stared at herself whispering, “So pwetty… so pwetty…” They didn’t notice Bradley.
He had walked to a small book shelf in the back. Brad was holding a thin book about coral reefs and standing next to an older woman with a kind smile.
“Excuse me,” Bradley said politely. “This says coral reefs are built by tiny animals. How can something so small make something that big?”
The woman blinked, impressed. “Well, they build little skeletons over time. And they grow together.”
Bradley nodded. “So they work as a team?”
“Yes,” she smiled.
“And if the water gets too warm,” he continued, flipping a page, “the book says they turn white. Is that because they lose the tiny plants that help them?”
The woman looked surprised. “That’s exactly right.”
Bradley frowned thoughtfully. “If the ocean keeps getting hotter, will most reefs disappear?”
She studied him carefully. “You’re very smart.”
“I just like knowing how things work,” he said simply.
Across the store—
“Mason, put the octopus back.”
“I’m just holding it!”
“Lara, don’t lick the mirror.”
“I not lick! I kiss!”
“Same thing,” Rafe muttered.
“Not same,” Lara argued seriously, clutching her shell mirror. “Kiss is nice.”
“Sure,” Catherine sighed, gently steering her toward the exit. “Princesses don’t lick mirrors.”
“I not lick.”
“Uh-huh.”
They finally made it out of the gift shop and back toward the big shark tunnel.
Mason immediately started jumping. “Dad! Pick me up! I can’t see the top!”
“You’re tall enough,” Rafe said automatically.
“I’m not! The big shark is up there!”
Rafe sighed and crouched down. “Fine. Two minutes.” He lifted Mason onto his shoulders.
Immediate mistake.
“WHOA!” Mason screamed directly into Rafe’s ear. “IT’S RIGHT THERE! DAD IT’S HUGE!”
Rafe physically flinched. “Indoor voice!”
“IT CAN'T PROBABLY HEAR ME!”
“I can definitely hear you,” Rafe snapped, wincing as Mason leaned forward to smack the glass above them.
“I CAN SEE EVERYTHING!” Mason yelled again — right into Rafe’s skull.
“Look, baby,” she said softly, pointing into the tank. “That’s like the bad shark from Nemo.”
Lara didn’t look up.
She was staring into her mirror again.
“I Nemo,” she said confidently.
“You’re not Nemo,” Catherine tried. “See the orange fish? From the movie?”
“I pwetty,” Lara replied, admiring her own face. “Fish not pwetty like me.”
Catherine blinked.
“Well. That’s confidence.”
Behind them, back inside the gift shop, Bradley was still standing near the book display, flipping through the coral reef book while the older woman listened to him.
“So if the coral dies,” Bradley was saying calmly, “does that mean the fish that live there have to move? Or do some of them not survive?”
The woman nodded thoughtfully. “Many of them lose their homes.”
“That’s sad,” Bradley said quietly.
The cashier approached hesitantly. “Um… kid? I think your parents left.”
Bradley paused and looked toward the entrance.
He didn’t panic. He didn’t call out. He just took a slow breath.
“Oh,” he said simply.
The older woman frowned. “Do you need help finding them?”
Bradley closed the book carefully and placed it back where it belonged.
“No, thank you,” he said politely. “I can hear them. I know where they went."
He gave a small nod. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” the woman said softly.
“And thank you for explaining.”
He walked out of the gift shop alone.
Ahead of him, there was a big distance between him and his family. Mason was still on Rafe’s shoulders, yelling commentary about every shark.
“DAD, THAT ONE LOOKS LIKE IT WANTS TO FIGHT!”
“It does not want to fight,” Rafe groaned, adjusting his grip. “Stop leaning!”
Lara was spinning slowly in place, checking her reflection in every shiny surface they passed.
“I pwetty princess,” she sang to herself.
“You are,” Catherine smiled, brushing her hair back. “The prettiest.”
Mason leaned down and yelled again, right next to Rafe’s ear. “IT BLINKED AT ME!”
“I regret this,” Rafe muttered.
They were laughing. Talking over each other. Teasing.
Busy.
Bradley walked quietly behind them.
He watched the way his father kept one hand steady on Mason’s legs. The way his mother kept bending down to adjust Lara’s dress.
The way they answered every loud question, every dramatic statement.
They were warm. Engaged. Animated.
He noticed they didn’t talk to him like that. Not because they didn’t love him. But because he didn’t need them the same way.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t tug at sleeves. He didn’t demand.
He asked calmly. He walked on his own. He read his own signs.
And even though he was only six — too young to name the feeling — he could feel it.
A small step backward. A quiet space forming. He didn’t rush to catch up. He just followed. Watching. Listening. Letting the distance stay.
Just far enough behind that their voices blurred together into one loud, happy sound.
“Dad, I can see its teeth!” Mason yelled again from his throne on Rafe's shoulders.
“Yes, fantastic,” Rafe said, shifting him slightly. “Please stop screaming directly into my brain.”
“I’M NOT SCREAMING.”
“You are absolutely screaming.”
Catherine was still crouched slightly beside Lara, who had finally lowered the mirror for a full five seconds.
“Look, baby,” Catherine pointed gently. “That one’s orange like Nemo.”
Lara glanced up, unimpressed.
“I pwettier.”
“You are,” Catherine agreed easily.
Bradley watched that. The way the answers came fast for them. Soft. Automatic. For Mason and Lara, everything was a reaction. A response. A laugh.
With him, conversations were slower. Thoughtful. Sometimes cut short.
He didn’t think it was unfair.
He just… noticed.
Up ahead, Mason started bouncing.
“Dad, what if I fall into the tank?”
“You won’t.”
“But what if I do?”
“Then you're fish food to the sharks.”
Mason gasped dramatically. “Mom!”
Catherine laughed. “He’s joking.”
Bradley’s lips twitched slightly. He liked when his dad joked.
He just didn’t always know when to interrupt.
A few steps later, Rafe finally lowered Mason to the ground. “Okay, Mase. My ears need medical attention.”
Mason immediately ran toward the next tank.
Lara tugged at Catherine’s hand. “Mama, hold me.”
Catherine lifted her easily.
Rafe ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Why is it louder outside the gift shop?”
“Because we brought the gift shop with us,” Catherine replied.
They were still talking. Still wrapped up in the noise.
Bradley slowed down near a wall display about sea turtles.
He read it quietly.
Sea turtles return to the beach where they were born.
Then traced the little map with his finger.
He wondered how they remembered.
He wondered how far they swam alone.
“Brad?” Catherine’s voice called suddenly.
He looked up.
They had finally noticed the space.
“There you are,” she said, shifting Lara on her hip. “Stay close, okay?”
“I am,” he replied calmly.
Rafe walked back a few steps toward him. “You good?”
“Yes.”
“You stay behind like that, you gotta say something, buddy.”
Bradley nodded once. “Okay.”
There was a small pause. Rafe hesitated, then rested a hand briefly on Bradley’s shoulder. “What were you reading?”
“Sea turtles,” Bradley answered. “They go back to the same beach when they’re grown.”
Rafe frowned slightly. “How do they know where it is?”
“They remember the Earth like a map,” Bradley said simply. “The planet has invisible lines, and they can feel them. It helps them find their way back.”
Rafe blinked, “…Of course they do.”
Catherine smiled softly. “Walk with me,” she said, holding her free hand out.
Bradley stepped forward and took it. It felt different than when she held Lara. Not urgent. Not protective. Just steady.
Mason was already running ahead again.
Lara was humming to herself about being “so pwetty.”
Rafe fell into step beside Bradley.
“You know,” Rafe said after a moment, clearing his throat, “when I was your age, I thought fish just… floated.”
Bradley glanced up at him. “They don’t,” he said gently.
“I’ve learned that.”
A tiny smile pulled at Bradley’s mouth.
Rafe nudged his shoulder lightly. “Next time you ask me a question, maybe give me a hint first or an answer to choose.”
hiiiiii!! so glad and excited to see that you posted something new!!!! been looking forward to reading something new from you, will be reading the new fic now <33
glad u liked ittttt!!! it's been rotting in my drafts FOR MONTHS lol
Hi! When will u be posting more rafexcatherine I’m obsessed with them!!
Heyy!!
so for awhile i wasn't sure what i wanted to do with them + i didnt have time for tumblr, but i'm trying to manage my time now and post more often. i don't know if i will be able to write like i used to, and the amount of reqs in my inbox is a little scary lol, but i'll do my best<3
could u write about cath being sooo stressed out with the kids and shes just bursts into
tears bc she feels like rafe isnt helping and they get into like a big argument about it
but he apologizes and they make up if that makes sense
Summary: cath is drowning in postpartum depression, exhaustion, and the ghost of the kook life she gave up. rafe is breaking his back on a construction site while trying (and failing) to outrun old habits and ward’s shadow. a fight explodes, barry shows up with temptation in a baggie, punches are thrown, and everything almost falls apart.
Warnings: postpartum depression, intrusive/regretful thoughts about motherhood, financial stress/poverty, toxic relationship dynamics, physical altercation, drug use and relapse temptation (cocaine), substance abuse themes, emotionally abusive family dynamics (ward), police presence, angst, mental health struggles, screaming, guilt, resentment, domestic tension.
MASTERLIST
Catherine was nineteen with two babies clinging to her, a ring on her finger that didn’t shine, and a shitty apartment that smelled like sour milk and damp clothes. Mason was a wild child—never still, always pulling at her hair, always knocking things over. Bradley was the opposite, a bottomless stomach latched to her breasts so often that they felt bruised and raw. The worst part - they cried in shifts, never together, like they knew the exact rhythm to drive her insane.
She looked around at the chipped walls, the mattress on the floor they called a bed, the empty fridge humming like it was mocking her—and she wondered if this was it. If she had ruined everything the night she didn’t listen to her mother, the night she ran away with Rafe Cameron like she was some tragic romance heroine.
Now she was twenty and sagging under the weight of real life, postpartum depression gnawing at her like rot.
Sometimes she thought about the unthinkable. She wished she had just aborted Mason back then—gone to the doctor and erased it before it had a name, before it laughed and screamed and called her “Mama.” The guilt of even thinking it ate her alive, but the thoughts still came. She was drowning, and every time she tried to come up for air, Bradley cried again.
The door creaked open, and Rafe walked in. His boots tracked mud across the cracked tile, his shirt smelled like sawdust and sweat, but underneath it Catherine caught the sour tang of beer. Coke, too—she could always tell.
“Hey,” Rafe muttered, shutting the door with his foot. He glanced at Mason tearing up a thrift-store book on the floor, then at Catherine with Bradley at her breast. “They good?”
“They’re alive,” Catherine said flatly.
Rafe frowned. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked at her reflection in the black TV screen—hollow-eyed, pale, her hair sticking to her cheeks. The anger bubbled up before she could stop it.
“It means I sit here all day bleeding milk and losing my mind while you’re out with your buddies pretending you don’t have two kids and a fiancée waiting for you in this dump.”
“Jesus, Cath,” Rafe muttered, throwing his keys on the counter. “I just worked a twelve-hour shift. You think I’m out partying? I grab a beer after work, that’s it. Don’t make it sound like I don’t give a shit.”
She laughed, but it came out sharp and ugly. “You don’t give a shit. If you did, you’d be here. You’d help. You’d—” her voice cracked, her throat tight, “—you’d look at me, Rafe. Not like I’m just some mistake you’re stuck with.”
Rafe’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides. “Don’t start with that shit again. You think I’m breaking my back on a construction site for fun? You think I don’t want better for us? For them?” He gestured at the boys, his voice rising. “I’m trying, Catherine. I’m trying every day.”
“Not hard enough!” she snapped, tears stinging her eyes. “I wish I had just listened to my mom. I wish—I wish I had aborted Mason and finished school and stayed the hell out of this nightmare. Away from you.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. Rafe flinched like she had hit him.
“You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice low.
Catherine wiped at her face, sobbing now. “I don’t know what I mean anymore. All I know is I’m struggling and you’re never here to help.”
Rafe stared at her, breathing hard, anger warring with hurt in his expression. His eyes flicked to the engagement ring on her hand, dull and cheap, and for a second it looked like he might say something that could fix it all.
Instead, he said, “You think you’re the only one struggling here?”
Catherine laughed bitterly, bouncing Bradley against her shoulder when he started fussing. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare stand there and pretend like you’re doing the same as me. You clock out, Rafe. You get to leave the noise, the crying, the mess. I don’t.”
“I’m working my ass off—”
“And then you’re drinking with Topper like you’re still eighteen and loaded on daddy’s money!” she snapped, voice cracking as Mason began to whine, unsettled by the tension. “I’m here losing my mind, and you’re out playing rich boy at the bar. You think I don’t notice the coke? You think I don’t smell it on you?”
Rafe’s jaw tightened. “I told you—I had a beer. Don’t start accusing me of shit you don’t understand.”
Her hands were shaking as she set Bradley in the crib, Mason climbing into her lap like he could shield her. “I understand enough. I understand you don’t want to be here. You never did. You didn’t even want Mason, remember?”
That landed like a gunshot. Rafe’s chest rose and fell heavy, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t,” he growled.
“It’s true,” Catherine pressed, her tears burning now. “You begged me to get rid of him. Then you ignored me. Left me alone when your daddy threatened you. You think I’ve forgotten?”
“Shut up,” Rafe snapped, stepping closer.
Her eyes widened, but she stood her ground. “I should’ve stayed with my parents. Should’ve taken the money, let you rot. Instead, I’m stuck here with two kids and a man who still thinks he’s a boy.”
That did it. Rafe’s face twisted with rage, and he grabbed her wrist when she tried to brush past him. “Don’t you fucking say that. This is my home too, Cath. My kids. My fiancée. You don’t get to erase me out of it just because you’re pissed.”
“Let go of me!” she screamed, yanking her hand back. She shoved him hard in the chest, and Mason started crying, loud and panicked. “Get out, Rafe. Just get the fuck out!”
“I’m not leaving,” he snapped, standing his ground even as her voice rose. “You hear me? I’m not leaving my family.”
“You already leave us every night!” she cried, shoving him again, harder. “Go stay with Topper, with Kelce, with whoever the fuck you’re always running to. Because it’s sure as hell not me. Not us.”
Her hand came down on his shoulder, another shove, but this time he caught her wrists. They struggled, breath ragged, anger and grief colliding until Rafe finally let go, stepping back like the fight had drained out of him.
Catherine was shaking, tears streaking her cheeks. Mason clung to her shirt, terrified.
“Get out,” she whispered, voice hoarse but steady. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
Rafe’s chest heaved, his fists flexing at his sides. He looked at her, at the boys, at the life that felt like it was slipping out of his hands. His throat bobbed, words caught somewhere between rage and desperation.
But he didn’t argue again. He grabbed his keys, slammed the door behind him, and left her standing in the silence, her whole body trembling as the boys wailed.
Catherine sank to the floor the second the door slammed shut, her body shaking so violently she could barely catch her breath. Mason was still crying, his little fists clinging to her shirt, and Bradley stirred awake in the crib, his wail rising to join his brother’s.
She pressed her palms over her face, sobbing so hard her chest hurt. The words she had thrown at Rafe echoed in her head like poison—I wish I’d aborted Mason. I should’ve stayed with my parents. You didn’t even want him. She had meant them in the moment, the fury spilling out of her like blood from a wound, but now she wished she could claw them back into her throat.
Still… there was another part of her, deep in the exhaustion and the emptiness, that felt relief. Relief that she had finally said it out loud, the things she’d been choking on since Mason was born. The regret, the anger, the bitterness of losing the life she thought she’d have. Postpartum depression had been eating her alive, and now it was in the open—even if it had broken something between them.
She gathered Mason against her chest, whispering apologies into his hair while Bradley screamed from the crib. Her breasts ached, leaking through the thin bra she hadn’t had the energy to change all day. She hated herself for wishing she could just disappear, hated that her babies needed her when she had nothing left to give.
Outside of their apartment building, Rafe leaned against his truck with his hands shaking, his throat burning from holding back the things he wanted to yell. He pulled out his phone and hovered over Catherine’s name, thumb trembling, before he shoved it back in his pocket.
He couldn’t go back in there—not like this.
Instead, he scrolled until he found another number. Barry.
The phone rang twice before a rough voice answered, “Baby daddy. What’s up?”
Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, his jaw tight. “I need something, man.”
There was a pause, then Barry’s amused chuckle. “Didn’t you swear you were clean? Two weeks, right? If you don’t count Ruthie’s birthday party…”
“Don’t—” Rafe snapped, voice raw. “Don’t mention that.” His throat felt tight. Catherine had found out about that line at the party, the coke he’d told himself didn’t count. She’d made him sleep on the couch for days, and he’d promised her—again—that he was done.
But right now all he could think about was the look on her face when she told him she wished Mason had never existed. The words playing over and over until he wanted to rip his hair out.
“Just… just bring me something,” Rafe muttered, pressing his fist to his mouth. “Enough to take the edge off.”
Barry exhaled on the other end, but Rafe could hear the smirk in his voice when he said, “Yeah. I’ll meet you.”
Rafe shoved his phone away and leaned his head against the cold metal of the truck. His body ached from work, his heart from the fight, and he felt the old familiar hunger stirring again. The coke wouldn’t fix anything—he knew that. But it would quiet the noise. Just for a while.
And Catherine, back in their apartment, sat on the floor between her crying sons, whispering over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” even as part of her wasn’t sorry at all.
────୨ৎ─────୨ৎ──────୨ৎ────
Barry’s car rolled up slow, headlights washing over the cracked pavement in front of the apartment building. Rafe was sitting on the hood of his truck, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
Barry stepped out, shutting the door with a lazy thud. He looked up at the building, then back at Rafe.
“You serious right now?” Barry asked, eyebrow raised. “In front of your own place, dawg? That necessary?”
Rafe didn’t answer at first. He just scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m not going anywhere else.”
Barry scoffed. “Yeah? ‘Cause this seems like a great idea. Fiancée upstairs, two kids asleep, and you’re about to nose-dive into old habits on the sidewalk.”
Rafe’s jaw ticked. “She doesn’t want me up there.”
“That don’t mean you gotta get high under her damn window.”
Rafe let out a hollow laugh. “Where else am I supposed to go? The bar? You know how that ends. Or your place?” He shook his head. “If I go somewhere else, I’m not stopping at one line. I’ll stay out all night. At least here…” He glanced up at the dark windows of their unit. “At least here I gotta keep it tight. Limited. I can’t disappear.”
Barry studied him for a second longer than usual. “You been clean two weeks.”
“If you don’t count Ruthie’s birthday,” Rafe muttered.
Barry smirked faintly. “Yeah, well. You counted it.”
Rafe’s shoulders slumped. “She found out. Made me sleep on the couch. Said if I kept this shit up, she was done.”
“And now?”
“And now she might be done anyway.”
Barry leaned against the truck beside him. “What happened?”
Rafe laughed again, but there was nothing funny in it. “Life happened. Money happened. That apartment upstairs is falling apart. Mason’s wild, Bradley cries every five minutes, and Cath…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “She’s not okay, man. She looks at me like I ruined her life.”
“And you didn’t?”
Rafe shot him a glare, then looked away. “I don’t know.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Construction site’s killing me. Ten hours a day breaking my back for shit pay. Ward could fix all of it in one phone call. One. But no, he wants me to ‘beg.’ Wants to see me suffer until I can’t take it anymore. Wants me to leave my family and crawl back under his golden roof.” His voice hardened. “He’s such a bitch. Acting like I’m not his son.”
Barry shrugged. “Ward’s always been like that.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have the luxury of playing heir to the throne anymore.” Rafe kicked at a loose rock. “Cath and I, we’re good until we remember we’re broke. It’s like we can almost pretend it’s us against the world. Then the fridge is empty or the rent’s due and suddenly we can’t stand each other.”
Barry was quiet for a moment.
“You love her?”
Rafe didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
“And she love you?”
He looked up at the building again. “Yeah. I think so. She just… she’s tired. And I don’t know how to fix tired.”
Barry held out the small bag without another word.
Rafe stared at it for a long second before taking it.
Upstairs, Catherine was fuming.
The boys were finally distracted from crying—Mason chewing his brother’s toy, Bradley’s mouth still parted like he was searching for her even in his dreams. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and her own uneven breathing.
She marched into the bedroom and yanked open the drawer where Rafe kept his clothes. T-shirts, worn thin at the collar. Jeans with paint stains from job sites. Socks with holes.
“Fuck him,” she muttered to herself, shoving everything into a trash bag. “Fuck him actually this time.”
She moved like she was possessed—grabbing his boots from by the door, his hoodie from the back of a chair, the cheap cologne he insisted on wearing. Each item felt like proof of him ruining their life, her life.
But then she paused.
The hoodie in her hands was the one he’d wrapped around her shoulders the night they ran away. The night she’d made him stay at JJ’s they didn’t have anywhere else to go yet. She could still remember him staying even though he hated JJ’s guys, thinking he was changing. Changing for her.
Her throat tightened.
Rafe Cameron didn’t change
She sat down on the edge of the mattress, the trash bag crumpled at her feet. “God, I hate you,” she whispered, though there were tears slipping down her cheeks.
She wasn’t sure if she meant Rafe. Or herself.
She thought about the way he used to look at her like she hung the moon. The way he held Mason the first time he actually let himself bond with him, crying when he thought she couldn’t see. The way he rubbed her back when Bradley was born and she thought she was going to split in half.
They were good—until they weren’t.
Until the money ran out. Until the stress crawled into bed with them. Until resentment replaced flirting and exhaustion replaced desire.
Catherine stood up abruptly, wiping at her face. “No. I’m not doing this again.”
She tied the trash bag tight, dragging it toward the door. If he wanted to act like a bachelor, like some construction-site martyr with a coke habit, he could do it somewhere else.
But when she reached the door, she hesitated.
Her hand hovered over the handle, the trash bag dragging against the floor behind her.
A part of her wanted to believe he had changed. That the habits were fading. That the late nights and the smell of beer and the ghosts of coke under his skin were just slips, not who he was anymore.
Because he could’ve left.
He could’ve gone crawling back to Ward the second things got hard. The second Mason started screaming through the night. The second the hospital bills stacked up. The second Catherine’s body bled and ached and she wasn’t the glittering kook princess he fell in love with.
He could’ve gone home to Tannyhill, to money and clean sheets and a father who would’ve pretended none of this ever happened.
But he didn’t.
He stayed.
He stayed in this shitty apartment with peeling paint and empty cabinets. He stayed when Mason threw tantrums and Bradley wouldn’t latch and Catherine cried in the shower where he couldn’t see her. He stayed when Ward cut him off and called him a disappointment.
He stayed.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Please stay this time too, she thought, even as anger burned hot in her stomach.
Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe this was it. Maybe he finally snapped and went back to his father. Maybe he was on the other side of the island right now knocking on Ward’s door, asking for forgiveness, leaving her alone with two babies and a ring that suddenly felt like a joke.
She could call her parents.
They would help her. Her father would wire money. Her mother would show up with casseroles and judgment. They would take her back into that big house with polished floors and ocean views.
Her ego didn’t want that.
Her heart didn’t either.
She swallowed hard, then yanked the door open.
Fine. If he wanted to leave, she’d help him.
She dragged the trash bag down the stairs, each step loud and furious. By the time she reached the bottom, her breathing was ragged, her eyes blazing.
And then she saw them.
Rafe leaning against his truck. Barry standing too close. And the little baggie in Barry’s hand.
Something inside her snapped.
“You have got to be kidding me!” Catherine’s voice echoed across the parking lot, sharp enough to cut glass.
Both boys looked up.
Rafe went pale. “Cath—”
She didn’t let him finish. She stormed forward, dropping the trash bag at her feet. “You slimy piece of shit!” she screamed at Barry, shoving him hard in the chest. “You can’t just leave him alone, can you? You see him trying and you drag him right back down!”
Barry stumbled back, hands up. “Hey, hey—this ain’t my—”
She lunged at him again, swinging wildly, her nails catching his jacket. “You’re sick! Do you get off on this? On ruining people?”
“Catherine!” Rafe grabbed her around the waist, pulling her back. “Baby, stop!”
She thrashed against him, tears streaming down her face. “Let me go! I swear to God I will fuck you up!” she shrieked at Barry, trying to reach him again.
Her hormones were a storm inside her—rage and grief and betrayal twisting together until she couldn’t see straight.
Barry stepped back further, clearly wanting no part of it now. “Man, I’m out,” he muttered, shoving the bag back into his pocket.
But Catherine wasn’t done.
She shoved against Rafe’s chest with surprising strength. “Move!” she screamed, trying to get around him. “Don’t walk away from me like a fucking pussy!”
“Cath, stop—” Rafe tried to grab her again, but she ducked under his arm and lunged at Barry.
Her hands fisted into Barry’s shirt, and she swung. Not hard, not trained—but fueled by something feral and unhinged. Her nails raked across his cheek, leaving thin red lines. He stumbled back, shocked.
“What the hell—” Barry snapped, grabbing her wrists to stop her. “Rafe, you like ‘em crazy or what?”
She kicked at him, hitting his shin, and he winced. “Get your hands off me!” she shrieked.
For a split second, Barry’s expression shifted—annoyance turning into something darker. His grip tightened, and it looked like he might actually shove her back.
Rafe saw it.
Before Barry could react, Rafe stepped in and punched him square in the jaw. There were no thoughts behind his eyes just pure instinct.
The sound was sickeningly loud in the quiet parking lot. Barry staggered, barely catching himself against his car. He stared at Rafe, stunned, touching his mouth where blood was already forming.
“You really just hit me?” Barry said incredulously.
“Don’t touch her,” Rafe growled, stepping in front of Catherine like a shield. “You don’t ever put your hands on her. I don’t care what she does.”
Barry looked between the two of them—Catherine shaking, mascara smeared, Rafe breathing like a cornered animal.
“You’re both insane,” Barry laughed, shaking his head. “Seriously. Crazy as hell.” He spat a little blood onto the pavement. “Enjoy that.”
He pointed vaguely between them, then got into his car, still chuckling under his breath as he drove off.
The parking lot fell silent.
Catherine stood there for a second, chest heaving, then turned slowly toward Rafe.
“You are such an idiot,” she said, her voice breaking.
He didn’t argue this time.
“You think punching him fixes anything?” she continued, tears streaming freely now. “You think that makes you some hero? You called him. You were going to do it. I saw it. I saw the bag.”
“I didn’t take it,” Rafe said again, quieter now.
“But you wanted to.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “And that’s the problem, Rafe. You always want to. You always want the easy way out. And I’m so tired of fighting something that lives inside you.”
He swallowed hard.
“I’m drowning,” she whispered, the anger draining into raw honesty. “I hate myself half the time. I hate this apartment. I hate that we can’t buy Mason new shoes without arguing about it. I hate that I miss my old life sometimes.” Her face crumpled. “And I hate that I still love you even when you make it so hard.”
Rafe stepped closer slowly, like she was something fragile.
“I didn’t go back to my old ways,” he said, voice rough. “I could have. You know I could have. But I didn’t. I fight this… this battle in my head every day, Cath. I’m trying. I don’t know how to fix it all, but I’m trying.”
Her lips trembled. “Trying isn’t enough when you’re about to throw it away for a line.”
“I wasn’t,” he insisted, softer now. “I was… I was standing there thinking about it. And then you came down.” He let out a shaky breath. “And I realized I don’t even want it if it costs me you.”
She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to believe him.
Slowly, carefully, Rafe lifted his hands and cupped her face. His palms were rough from work, warm against her cold skin. He brushed his thumbs under her eyes, wiping away tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time it didn’t sound defensive. It sounded broken. “I’m sorry I make it harder. I’m sorry I keep messing up. I’m sorry you feel alone.”
Her breathing stuttered.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “Or them. I don’t want to be my father. I don’t want to be that guy.”
Catherine’s hands came up weakly, gripping his wrists.
“Then don’t,” she whispered back. “Because I don’t have anything left in me to survive that.”
Rafe kept his hands on her face, thumbs brushing slowly under her eyes, grounding her when her breathing started to spiral again.
“Hey,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “Look at me. Breathe. In.”
She sucked in a shaky breath.
“Out.”
Her shoulders trembled as she exhaled. The adrenaline was draining now, leaving her hollow and exhausted. She sagged into him without meaning to, her fists bunching into his shirt like she needed something solid to hold onto.
“I hate that we’re like this,” she whispered.
“We’re not like this,” Rafe said quietly. “We’re just… broke and tired.” A weak, humorless huff left him. “That’s a bad combo.”
She let out something between a laugh and a sob.
He wrapped his arms around her properly this time, one hand rubbing slow circles over her back like he used to when she cried after Bradley was born. “I didn’t take it,” he said again, softer. “And I’m not going to.”
She nodded against his chest, not fully trusting it, but wanting to.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Catherine suddenly froze.
Her face drained of color.
“The boys.”
Rafe blinked. “What?”
“I left them,” she choked, panic flooding her voice. “Oh my God, I left them alone. Mason is awake, he climbs—what if Bradley—”
She tore her hand out of his and bolted up the rest of the parking lot, fumbling with her keys so badly she dropped them once. Her hands were shaking too hard.
“Cath, they’re fine—” Rafe started, but then he stumbled over the trash bag and stopped.
It had torn open when she dropped it earlier. His clothes were spilling out across the floor—his work shirts, his jeans, the clothes she used to steal from him.
He stared at it for a long second.
“That mine?” he asked quietly.
Catherine stiffened. She stopped in her tracks and turned around.
“I was going to throw it out.”
Rafe swallowed. “All of it?”
“Yes.” Her voice was small now, drained of the earlier fury. “I thought you were leaving anyway.”
He stepped closer to the bag, crouching down slowly. He picked up one of his shirts—the one with the ripped collar—and ran his thumb over the fabric.
“So you were just gonna toss me in the trash, huh?” he said, but there wasn’t any bite in it.
Her shoulders shook. “I didn’t know how to make you stay. I thought… I pushed you away. ”
That hit harder than the punch he’d thrown at Barry.
Rafe stood up, looking at her—not angry, not defensive. Just tired.
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” he said quietly. “Even when I screw up… even when you push me, I’m not going anywhere.”
She turned then, eyes red and swollen. “You don’t know that.”
He stepped toward her, careful this time, like approaching something fragile. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
Catherine swallowed hard, trying to ignore the shame in her stomach. She tried to change the topic, “The boys—“ but Rafe didn’t let her finish, he just nodded and walked with her inside.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
She rushed inside, heart pounding in her ears, and ran straight to the bedroom.
Mason was still sprawled sideways on his mattress, now snoring softly, one arm flung over the stuffed animal. Bradley was on his back in the crib, lips moving slightly in his sleep, chest rising and falling steadily.
They were fine.
Catherine’s knees nearly gave out with relief. She gripped the edge of the crib, breathing hard, tears spilling again—but this time from the comedown of panic.
“I’m a terrible mom,” she whispered hoarsely. “Who leaves their babies to go scream in a parking lot?”
Rafe stepped into the doorway, watching her carefully. “You’re not terrible,” he said. “You’re overwhelmed.”
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, nodding even though she didn’t believe him.
Rafe watched her for a second — really watched her. The dark circles under her eyes. The way her shoulders curved inward like she was trying to make herself smaller. The way her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
He stepped forward slowly.
“Come here,” he said, voice low.
She didn’t move at first. Pride. Hurt. Exhaustion. All of it flickered across her face.
“Cath,” he murmured again, softer this time.
He didn’t say anything else. He just stepped forward and pulled her into him.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t desperate.
It was steady.
His arms wrapped around her shoulders and waist, pulling her against his chest, and for a second she went rigid — like she didn’t know if she was allowed to lean on him anymore.
Then she broke.
Her hands fisted into his shirt and she buried her face against him, sobbing quietly so she wouldn’t wake the boys. Her body shook against his, small and fragile in a way he hadn’t noticed in months.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her hair.
“You don’t,” she mumbled, voice muffled against him. “That’s the problem.”
His throat tightened.
“I want to,” he said. “I just… I don’t always know how.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I’m so tired, Rafe. I feel like I’m failing them. I feel like I’m failing you. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”
“You’re not failing anyone,” he said immediately.
“I left them,” she whispered. “I ran downstairs and left them alone.”
“For five minutes,” he replied gently. “They’re asleep. They’re okay.”
“But what if they weren’t?” Her voice cracked again. “What if something happened? I don’t think straight anymore. I’m angry all the time. Or numb. I think horrible things. I look at them and I love them so much it hurts — and then five minutes later I wish I could disappear. What kind of mom does that?”
Rafe’s throat tightened.
“The kind that’s overwhelmed,” he said quietly. “The kind that hasn’t slept. The kind that had two babies back to back and didn’t get a break.”
She let out a broken laugh. “You sound like a therapist.”
He pulled back just enough to cup the back of her head, resting his forehead against hers again. “You’re not crazy,” he said firmly. “You’re not evil. And you’re not doing this alone — even when I act like an idiot.”
“I feel alone,” she admitted.
“I know.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry for that. I don’t go out because I don’t care. Sometimes I just… I don’t know how to sit with all of this. It makes me feel like I’m failing too. And instead of staying and helping, I run.”
“I don’t want to fight like that again. I don’t want to make you run,” she whispered.
“Me neither.”
“I meant what I said,” she admitted softly. “About being scared you’ll throw it away.”
“I won’t,” he said. Then, after a beat, more honest: “I get tempted. I get angry. I get stupid. But I won’t walk away.”
She had been expecting him to become someone else overnight.
To be the perfect provider. The perfect father. The perfect man who could fix everything with brute force and determination. She expected him to come home from a ten-hour shift and still have enough left to soothe her breakdowns, tame Mason’s chaos, rock Bradley through hunger cries, and somehow still be the charming boy who used to sneak into her bedroom.
But Rafe had been handed everything his entire life.
Money. Security. A last name that opened doors.
No one had ever taught him how to build something from nothing. No one had taught him how to survive without a safety net.
And now he was trying to do it with blistered hands and a bruised ego.
She had wanted him to earn a lot immediately. To magically outgrow Ward’s shadow. To prove, fast, that running away with him hadn’t been a mistake.
But growth didn’t work like that.
He was learning how to be poor in real time. Learning how to be a father without an example. Learning how to be a man without cocaine numbing the pressure.
And she had been measuring him against a version of stability neither of them had ever actually known.
Her grip on his shirt loosened.
“I expect too much,” she whispered, almost to herself.
Rafe frowned slightly. “What?”
She shook her head. “I keep waiting for you to fix it. All of it. Like you’re supposed to know how.” Her voice softened. “We were raised with money solving everything. Of course you don’t know how to stretch fifty dollars across a week.”
A faint, embarrassed huff left him. “Yeah. I kinda suck at that.”
She almost smiled.
“I’m angry at you for not being something you’ve never had to be before,” she admitted. “And that’s not fair.”
He studied her carefully. “You’re allowed to want more.”
“I know. I just…” She swallowed. “I don’t want more at the cost of us.”
The quiet between them wasn’t heavy this time. It felt fragile. Like something rebuilding.
Then—Knock. Knock. Knock.
Both of them stiffened.
Not frantic. Not aggressive. Just firm.
Catherine’s eyes widened immediately, anxiety flashing across her face. “We just can’t catch a break, can we?”
Rafe sighed under his breath. “I’ll get it.”
She grabbed his wrist. “Rafe—”
“It’s fine,” he murmured. “You stay with the boys. Calm down.”
She nodded, though her stomach twisted. Noise complaints weren’t new. Thin walls. Crying babies. Their screaming fights. The neighbors had called before.
Rafe walked to the door, rolling his shoulders back like he was putting armor on. He opened it halfway.
Two uniformed police officers stood in the hallway.
“Evening,” one of them said, neutral but clearly tired of this address. “We’ve had another noise complaint.”
Rafe forced a tight smile. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Everything okay in there?” the second officer asked, glancing past him into the dim apartment.
“Yeah. Just… arguments. Kids crying.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It won’t happen again.”
The first officer’s eyes flicked over him—assessing. “We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”
Rafe nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
“We don’t want to keep coming back,” the officer said. “If this is domestic, we need to know.”
“It’s not,” Rafe replied quickly. Then, more controlled: “It’s not like that. We’re just under a lot of stress.”
Behind him, Catherine stepped into view despite herself, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were still red from crying.
“Kids are fine,” she said, voice hoarse but steady. “We’re fine.”
The officers exchanged a look.
After a long moment, the first one nodded. “Keep it down. For your neighbors’ sake. And for those kids.”
“Yes, sir,” Rafe muttered.
They left. Rafe closed the door slowly, resting his forehead against it for a second before turning around.
Catherine was watching him.
There was no anger in her expression now. Just fatigue. Embarrassment. A shared understanding of how close everything always felt to falling apart.
“Another one,” she murmured.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between them again—but this time it wasn’t explosive. It was heavy with reality.
can u do a fic where we see more of lara and (or) maisie, and how rafe has a soft spot for them etc, we haven’t rlly seen much of the girlssss
Summary: rafe cameron (31) takes his girls to the beach where maisie(7) is a wild menace and lara (10) wants to tan like the princess she thinks she is, only for rafe to spiral when lara gets her very first period.
Warnings: mentions of periods/first period, light talk of sex ed, kids being chaotic and blunt, parent panic, embarrassing sibling banter, protective dad!rafe, wholesome family fluff.
MASTERLIST
No one in their right mind would’ve guessed Rafe Cameron—the same Rafe Cameron who used to break hearts and ruin lives for sport—would turn into this. A man lugging tote bags stuffed with neon floaties, overpriced juices, glittery sunglasses, and a bottle of Catherine’s tanning oil he’d straight-up stolen from the bathroom cabinet this morning just because Lara wanted it.
The evolution from fuckboy to “ultimate girl dad” wasn’t one he saw coming, but the proof was stretched out all around him: pink inflatable flamingo Lara said was necessary, his youngest daughter terrorizing some poor kid’s sandcastle, cold drinks and fruits untouched on the side table.
“Dad, sit still,” Lara demanded from behind him, her tiny fingers smearing sunscreen across his strong shoulder blades with far too much authority for a ten-year-old. She had a floppy straw hat on and heart-shaped sunglasses, and she looked so much like Catherine it almost hurt. “You’re going to burn, and then you’ll look gross.”
Rafe huffed, biting back a laugh. “Gross, huh? That’s how you talk to the guy who stole for you so you can get your ‘perfect tan’ without frying?”
“That’s different.” Lara adjusted her sunglasses, unimpressed. “You’re supposed to look presentable. You’re my dad.”
He snorted and peeked out from under the umbrella at Maisie, who was in her element—wild curls flying everywhere, no care in the world as she stomped gleefully through the moat of some little boy’s sandcastle. The boy wailed in protest, but Maisie only shouted back, “It’s called improving! You’re welcome!” before plopping down in the wreckage with zero shame.
“Maisie,” Rafe called, voice already taking on that low, warning edge. She glanced at him, shrugged, and then scooped up a double handful of sand and dumped it right back on top of the crying kid’s bucket.
“Jesus,” he muttered, starting to stand, but Lara put her hand on his back like she was directing traffic.
“Dad. Sit. You’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“Your sister is committing war crimes in the sand,” Rafe shot back.
“She’s seven. That’s what seven-year-olds do,” Lara said simply, like she was the authority on childhood development. Then, with a dramatic sigh: “If you yell at her, she’ll just cry, and then Mom’s going to be mad at you for ruining our day. So, like… chill.”
And the worst part? She was right. Catherine would absolutely roast him if he came home with a Maisie meltdown story.
So he sat back down, running a hand over his face, muttering, “You’re too much like your mom,” which only made Lara beam like he’d just handed her a crown.
Rafe Cameron: once the guy everyone’s parents warned their daughters about. Now? He was sitting on a rainbow towel, covered in sunscreen fingerprints, watching his princess dictate the proper angles for a beach tan while his youngest daughter terrorized the shoreline—and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Maisie and Lara had insisted on matching swimsuits for the day—pink one-pieces with blue piping that Rafe claimed were “too matchy,” but he secretly thought were perfect. He spotted Maisie’s wild curls bouncing as she cackled, dumping another pile of sand straight into the crying boy’s bucket.
And that’s when Rafe noticed the boy’s mom standing up from her lounge chair, sunglasses sliding down her nose, her expression sharp enough to cut glass.
Shit.
He knew that look. Catherine gave him that look.
“Alright, Mai,” Rafe announced, springing up from his chair like he’d just remembered something urgent. “Time for swimming. Let’s go, princess.”
“But I’m not done!” Maisie yelled, hands deep in the wreckage of what was once a castle.
“You’re done,” Rafe said firmly, already striding across the sand with the oversized flamingo floatie tucked under his arm like it was a mission-critical device. He could practically feel the mom’s glare drilling into his back. No way in hell was his princess catching heat before noon.
Behind him, Lara pushed her sunglasses up her nose with all the grace of a little Catherine. “Daddy! You should wait, like, twenty minutes before you get in the water. Sunscreen needs time to work.”
Rafe threw her a look over his shoulder. “Thanks, doc.”
“Just trying to save your skin,” Lara called sweetly, before adjusting her chair a few degrees like she was on the set of a photoshoot.
By the time he reached Maisie, the boy was full-on bawling, and his mom was halfway across the sand. Rafe scooped his daughter up under one arm, ignoring her indignant squirming.
“Hey, I wasn’t finished—”
“Yeah, well, now you are,” he said, plopping her down in the middle of the flamingo floatie like she was queen of the sea. “Swimming time.”
Her protests evaporated instantly, replaced with a squeal of delight. “Finally! You promised we could go in, like, a million minutes ago!”
Rafe shoved them both toward the water, Maisie giggling so loudly people turned to look. And as the waves lapped up around his calves, Rafe knew he’d just barely dodged another fight with an angry mom.
The water was cool and foamy around Rafe’s waist as Maisie bobbed up and down in the flamingo floatie, her curls dripping wet from all the splashing she’d already done. She squealed when he lunged at her suddenly, making shark noises with his hands out like claws.
“Daaaad!” she shrieked, half-laughing, half-panicked, as she scrambled onto the floatie. “You’re supposed to be the shark, not Jaws!”
“I am Jaws,” Rafe growled, ducking under the water and swimming a few strokes beneath the surface before popping up right beside her with a splash. He grabbed the floatie and rocked it back and forth, sending Maisie squealing and clutching the handles. “And I eat little mermaids for breakfast.”
“I’m not little!” she shouted, slapping water at his face, though she was grinning ear to ear. “And mermaids don’t get eaten. They’re magic. They win.”
“Oh yeah?” Rafe wiped his face with his hand and lunged at her again. She screamed, laughing so hard she almost tipped into the water. “Well, this shark doesn’t play fair.”
It was chaos—Maisie’s giggles rang out over the waves, the flamingo float bounced wildly, and Rafe couldn’t stop himself from laughing either. He let her win eventually, collapsing dramatically into the water with a splash that soaked them both.
Maisie immediately took this as a green light to terrorize the group of kids playing nearby. She abandoned her floatie, paddling over with zero hesitation. “Can I play?” she asked, already kicking down the side of their sand-bucket raft.
“Maisie,” Rafe called in warning, swimming up behind her, “you ask before you start smashing things.”
The kids looked uncertain, except for one little boy with a crooked smile who piped up, “You can play with me!”
Maisie’s whole face lit up—she was already halfway to agreeing when Rafe put a hand on the boy’s inflatable ring and leaned down just enough for the kid to hear.
“Listen, champ,” he said quietly but firmly, “she’s a handful. You sure you can handle that?”
The boy’s eyes widened a little, but then he nodded quickly. Maisie didn’t wait for anyone else’s opinion; she grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the deeper water. Rafe trailed after them, shaking his head. “Poor kid has no idea what he just signed up for,” he muttered, though there was a fond smile tugging at his lips as he followed them.
Meanwhile, back on the lounge chair, Lara had her straw hat tilted at the perfect angle and her sunglasses balanced on her nose like she was a miniature movie star. She had her legs crossed just so, sipping at the icy drink her dad had ordered earlier and picking at the little plate of fruit with a fork.
Everything was going exactly as she wanted—her tan was setting in, her swimsuit was cute, her sister was loud but far away enough not to ruin her peace—when suddenly she shifted in her chair and felt a strange, crampy tug in her stomach.
Lara frowned, lowering her fork. It wasn’t hunger, not exactly. She had already eaten plenty, and she was still sipping her drink. It felt… different. Uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t put her finger on.
With a soft groan, she adjusted her position, trying to shake it off. She wasn’t about to let a stomachache ruin her beach day. “Ugh,” she muttered to herself, stabbing another piece of melon, but the weird feeling lingered.
Deciding she needed something sweet to distract herself, she waved at the server passing by with a dessert tray. “Excuse me? Hi, yes—I’ll take, um, the chocolate cake, and the thing with the cream, and… the cookies too, please.”
The server blinked at the little girl in oversized sunglasses rattling off her order like a seasoned socialite, but nodded politely and scribbled it down.
Lara flopped back against her chair, nibbling on her fruit with a pout. She wasn’t about to tell her dad she didn’t feel right—he’d just make her get in the water or sit under the umbrella and hover. No thanks. If something was wrong, she could fix it herself.
Still, she couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Maisie shrieking across the waves, their dad splashing along behind her like the overgrown kid he secretly was. Lara sighed, adjusting her hat again.
“Jellyfish!” a boy screamed, thrashing toward the shallows like he was escaping a sea monster. Instantly, the other kids scattered, paddling frantically for safety.
Maisie’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Where? Where is it? I wanna see it!” She started wriggling out of Rafe’s arms, determined to dive straight toward the danger.
“Maisie—no.” Rafe caught her around the waist, hauling her back against his chest as she kicked. “That’s not a petting zoo. We’re not touching that thing.”
“Bet it’s squishy!” she protested, twisting to look at him with furious determination. “I just wanna poke it!”
“Yeah, and then we’ll be spending the rest of our day in the ER. Not happening.” He tried to keep his voice light, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy’s mother charging down the sand like an army general.
“This is unacceptable!” she cried, throwing her hands in the air. “This is a private beach! I will not have dangerous wildlife threatening our children!”
The bodyguard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady, it’s the ocean. You can’t exactly evict a jellyfish.”
Maisie squirmed again, craning to get a better look. “Come on, Dad, please—”
“Maisie. I mean it.” His tone sharpened just enough to make her freeze mid-wriggle.
He glanced around, spotting a half-empty water bottle floating near one of the abandoned floaties. Rafe grabbed it, unscrewed the cap with one hand, and waded carefully toward the pale blob bobbing in the shallows. The kids all huddled on the sand, wide-eyed, whispering like they were watching a live episode of Shark Week.
The mom was still ranting, but Rafe tuned her out, crouching low until the jellyfish floated within reach. With slow, careful movements, he coaxed it into the bottle and screwed the cap back on, sealing the creature inside with a faint wobble.
“There.” He lifted it up triumphantly, water sloshing around the translucent body inside. “Problem solved.”
Maisie’s jaw dropped. “That is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not staying in our cooler,” Rafe said, walking the bottle far down the beach and tossing it gently back into the surf. “Free range only.”
Maisie pouted but didn’t argue—not when Rafe gave her a warning look that meant business. Instead, she dog-paddled back toward her flamingo floatie, already scheming about how she’d tell Lara she almost got to touch a jellyfish.
Speaking of Lara. She was sprawled on her lounge chair, sunglasses shading her eyes, but her perfect beach day was unraveling. The weird cramp in her stomach had sharpened, low and achy, and now her back was sore too. She shifted, tugging at the waistband of her swimsuit uncomfortably.
Her fruit plate sat abandoned, appetite gone. The desserts she’d ordered earlier arrived on a tray, the server setting them neatly on her side table, but even the glossy vegan chocolate cake and the gluten-free creamy pastries looked… heavy.
She pressed a hand to her belly, trying not to grimace. Something was definitely wrong, though she couldn’t name it. Heat prickled across her face, and suddenly she wanted to crawl under a blanket instead of lying out in the sun like she had planned.
“Ugh,” she muttered to herself, pushing the cake plate away. She hated the idea of complaining right now—her dad would hover, and Maisie would tease her—but her body felt out of sync, sore and restless, and she didn’t understand why.
So Lara did the only thing she knew: tipped her sunglasses back down, laid very still, and told herself she’d just “tan it out.” Whatever was happening, she wasn’t about to let it ruin her image of being the composed, pretty Cameron. Even if her stomach twisted harder with every passing minute.
Rafe and Maisie trudged back through the sand, dripping wet, his hair plastered to his forehead and Maisie practically bouncing beside him with excitement. She was still going on about the jellyfish, her little hands gesturing wildly.
“Dad, the look on that lady’s face!” she snorted, imitating the horrified mom with exaggerated gasps and clutching her cheeks. “Like, ‘oh no, dangerous monster on our private beach!’” She rolled her eyes so hard it made Rafe bark out a laugh.
“You’re lucky she didn’t call security on you when you tried to get the bottle,” he said, steering her toward their chairs.
“She should’ve been thanking me! I made it fun. Everyone was just screaming. Boring.” Maisie plopped down on her lounge chair like a wet seal, grinning up at him. “Can we go back in now? Pleeease? I’ll be good this time. Promise.”
Rafe grabbed her fluffy towel and began rubbing her dry despite her protests. “That’s what you said before the jellyfish hunt. You’re not going back in alone, and you’re not going in with those kids either. I don’t trust you not to turn the water into a battlefield.”
Maisie stuck out her tongue. “That’s not fair.”
“That’s parenting,” Rafe said, wrapping the towel snug around her shoulders until she looked like a pink burrito.
As he leaned back, something tugged at his attention. Lara was still in her chair under the umbrella, but something about her looked… off. Normally, she was meticulous—legs stretched out for the sun, towel folded neatly beside her. But now her towel was draped awkwardly across her lap even though she’d been determined to tan. Her desserts were untouched, and that alone was suspicious. Lara never ordered sweets, never touched anything that wasn’t gluten-free or some Catherine-approved organic fruit.
He squinted. “Hey, princess,” he called over, “you wanna come swim with me and Mai? Water’s nice.”
“No,” she snapped immediately, her tone sharp. She didn’t even look at him, just stabbed at her phone with her manicured little finger.
Rafe frowned. “C’mon, you’ve been sitting there all day. A few minutes in the water won’t kill you.”
“I said no!” Lara shot back, pulling her sunglasses down her nose just to glare at him. “Why do you always have to make me get up? Can’t I just relax?”
Maisie blinked between them, wide-eyed, clearly entertained by the sudden drama. “Uh oh,” she whispered loudly. “She’s cranky.”
“Mai,” Rafe warned, but he didn’t take his eyes off Lara. Something wasn’t right.
She slammed her phone down on the side table, the force making her untouched cake wobble. “I don’t need to go in the stupid water! Just leave me alone!” Her voice cracked, high and defensive, and before he could say another word, she pushed up from her chair in a sudden, jerky motion.
Rafe’s eyes followed her—then caught on the dark, unmistakable stain blooming against the fabric of her lounge chair where she’d been sitting.
His stomach dropped.
For a moment, all the noise of the beach—the kids laughing, Maisie humming beside him, waves crashing—faded into silence. He knew exactly what it was. He’d lived with Catherine long enough to know the signs, to deal with late-night drugstore runs for pads and chocolate, to hear her curse her cramps under her breath. But this? His little girl? His ten-year-old?
Lara froze too, realizing too late what he was staring at. She tugged the towel tighter around her waist, cheeks flushing hot, and turned on her heel, muttering something about needing a selfie as she stormed away.
Rafe just sat there for a second, stunned, his hand tightening around Maisie’s damp towel. His brain shouted at him to move, to fix it, to figure out what to do—but all he could think was that his baby girl wasn’t a baby anymore. And for once in his life, Rafe Cameron had no idea how the hell to handle the situation.
Maisie nudged him with her elbow, completely oblivious. “Dad? Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?”
Rafe swallowed hard, forcing himself not to look at the blood stain again. He couldn’t panic. If he panicked, Maisie would notice, and Maisie noticing meant the entire beach would notice within minutes.
“Uh, hey,” he said quickly, crouching down in front of her. “Check this out. Your sister ordered, like, half the dessert menu. Why don’t you, uh, help her out and eat some before it melts?”
Maisie’s eyes lit up instantly. “For real?” She peeked over the edge of her towel at the chocolate cake, cookies, and pastries stacked high on Lara’s table. “I thought those were hers.”
“They were, but…” Rafe gently nudged her toward the chair. “She’s not hungry. Go wild, Mai. Just sit here, okay? Don’t move. Don’t throw cake at anyone. Don’t touch the umbrella. And definitely don’t leave this spot.”
Maisie didn’t need to be told twice. She launched herself into Lara’s lounge chair and grabbed a fork like she was claiming a throne. “Best beach day ever,” she mumbled around a bite of cake, already forgetting her earlier protests about the water.
Good. One kid contained.
Rafe snatched up his phone with damp fingers, pressing call before he even thought about what he was going to say. The line rang twice before Catherine’s voice answered, warm and distracted.
“Hey, babe. How’s the beach? Girls behaving? I just started lunch prep—do you want me to make enough for you guys, or are you eating out?”
Rafe rubbed a hand down his face, already moving down the sand in the direction Lara had stormed off. “Uh. Yeah. About that. We’ve got… a situation.”
There was a pause. “Rafe. What did you do?”
“Me? Nothing!” He winced, lowering his voice as he passed a cluster of tourists. “It’s Lara. She—uh—she, you know. She got her… her thing.” He hissed the last word like it was a state secret.
Another pause, then Catherine’s tone shifted instantly from casual to sharp. “Her period?”
“Yes!” he whispered harshly. “Jesus, don’t say it so loud. People are looking at me.”
“Rafe.” Catherine’s voice softened, patient in a way that only made him feel more helpless. “It’s not the end of the world. Just bring her home. I’ll handle it.”
He dragged a hand through his wet hair, scanning the path ahead for a glimpse of his daughter’s floppy straw hat. “Do I, like… buy her pads or something? Should I stop at the store? What do I do here, Cath? I can’t just—”
“Rafe. Breathe.” Catherine’s voice was firm now, grounding him. “She doesn’t need you to panic. She needs you to get her home. I’ll explain everything. I’ve got tampons— Well, maybe you should go to the store for pads.”
He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him, exhaling through his nose. “Okay. Okay, fine. But—there are sizes right? Which one should I buy? I mean… she’s still so little for that.”
“Just buy one of each. And you brought her tote bag, right?” Catherine asked. “Give her the two piece set, the one with pants. She’ll feel safer in that.”
Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. Pants. Got it. God, Cath… she’s just a kid.” His voice cracked before he could stop it.
“I know,” Catherine said softly. “But this is part of growing up. She’ll be okay. Just… bring her home.”
“Yeah.” Rafe spotted Lara in the distance, phone clutched in her hand, her towel pulled tight around her waist like armor. His chest ached. “I’ll get her.”
He hung up, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and squared his shoulders. He was Rafe Cameron, king of keeping his cool under pressure. But walking toward his daughter now, he felt like a terrified teenager again. Only this time, he couldn’t run. He had to show up.
Rafe spotted her by the row of swinging chairs lined up near the boardwalk—the same spot she’d begged him to stop at earlier so she could get the “perfect shot” for Instagram. Now she wasn’t posing, wasn’t pouting or bossing him around with angles. She was curled into herself, towel wrapped tight around her waist, phone clutched in both hands like a shield.
“Lara,” he called softly, careful not to spook her.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide under her oversized sunglasses. For a second, she looked ready to run again, but then she just sank further into the chair, jaw tight.
He crouched down in front of her, ignoring the way the damp sand clung to his calves. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not mad.”
“I know,” she whispered, her voice small, shaky. “I just— I didn’t want to yell at you, I don’t know what to do. It hurts, and it’s gross, and—” Her lips trembled, and she looked away, pressing her towel tighter around herself.
Rafe’s chest squeezed. He reached out, resting his hand gently on her shin. “First things first. I’m gonna run to the shop and get you some pads. It’s not scary, okay? Just… stuff to help you. You put them in your underwear, and it keeps things clean until we get home.”
Her eyes went round, horrified. “Pads? Like… diapers?”
“No.” He shook his head quickly. “Not diapers. Just—look, it’s nothing to be scared of. Your mom’ll explain better, she’s the expert. I’ll get them, you’ll be fine.”
Lara shook her head, tugging the towel higher. “Maybe we should just go to the doctor. Something’s wrong, Dad. It’s not supposed to feel like this.”
Rafe rubbed his thumb over her shin, trying to keep his own voice steady. “It is supposed to feel like that. Not fun, I know, but it’s normal. I promise you. Nothing’s wrong with you.”
Her lip wobbled again. “I don’t want everyone staring.”
“They won’t,” he said firmly. “Not while I’m here.”
For a moment she just stared at him, shoulders trembling, and then she gave the smallest nod. It nearly broke him.
“Alright.” He stood, offering his hand. “Come on, princess. Let’s get you back to your sister, then I’ll go grab what you need.”
The walk back across the sand was slow. Lara clung to her towel, sunglasses hiding her eyes, her phone dangling uselessly at her side. Rafe stayed close, adjusting his pace to hers, every now and then glancing down to make sure she wasn’t about to fall apart.
“You know,” he said carefully, trying to lighten the mood, “when Mom and I first moved in together, I didn’t even know what a pad was. I thought they were some kind of… kitchen sponge or something. So you’re already ahead of me.”
Lara gave him a weak laugh through her sniffles, shaking her head. “Boys are so dumb sometimes.”
“Yeah,” he agreed with a grin. “But I’m your dumb dad, so you’re stuck with me.”
By the time they reached their chairs again, Maisie was sprawled like royalty in Lara’s spot, cheeks smeared with chocolate, crumbs scattered across the towel. She blinked up at them, mid-bite of a cookie. “Why do you both look so serious? Did the jellyfish come back?”
Rafe crouched to grab the car keys from the beach bag, glancing between his daughters. “Alright, listen. I need you two to stick together, got it? No running off, no sandcastles, no jellyfish. I’m gonna be back in five. Ten, tops.”
Maisie licked frosting off her fingers. “Where are you going?”
“Shop,” he said shortly, looking pointedly at Lara. “Gotta pick up a few things for your sister.”
Maisie’s eyes flicked between them curiously, but Rafe gave her a look that shut down questions fast.
He stood, keys jingling in his hand, and combed Lara’s hair gently. “I’ll be back before you know it. Just sit tight. You’re okay, baby girl. I promise.”
Lara nodded, pulling the towel tighter, her face turned toward the ocean so no one would see the tears threatening to fall.
And as Rafe jogged up the sand toward the parking lot, his chest tight and his pulse racing, all he could think was that nothing in his life—drugs, fights, his father’s expectations—had ever scared him half as much as this moment. Because this wasn’t about him. This was about his little girl growing up, and all he wanted was to get it right.
As soon as Rafe disappeared toward the parking lot, Lara sank back into her chair, clutching her phone like it was the only anchor she had. The towel stayed wrapped tight around her waist, and every few seconds she shifted uncomfortably, her stomach twisting again.
Maisie, oblivious to the gravity of the moment, leaned forward with cookie crumbs dotting her chin. “Sooo… what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Lara snapped too quickly, but her voice cracked. She pulled her phone closer and typed furiously into the search bar: first period symptoms.
Maisie crawled over onto her chair, peeking over her shoulder without shame. “Ew.” She wrinkled her nose as a diagram of the female reproductive system popped up. “What is that? It looks like a crab.”
“It’s not a crab, it’s—ugh, I don’t even know.” Lara scrolled faster, grimacing as words like blood flow, cramps, and menstrual cycle filled the screen. “This is so disgusting. Why does this even happen?!”
Maisie tilted her head, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “So you just… bleed? Every month? Like forever?”
Lara shoved her away with her shoulder. “Stop talking about it. It’s gross. I don’t even want to think about it.” Her voice wobbled, and she shut off her screen, hugging her phone to her chest.
Maisie didn’t move far. She tucked her legs under herself and tilted her head. “But… are you dying?”
“No!” Lara groaned, burying her face in her towel. “It just feels like I am.”
The tension broke for a second as Maisie snorted, half nervous, half entertained. “Wow. I thought getting older meant, like, more freedom. Not this.”
Before Lara could reply, her phone buzzed. She glanced down, seeing Mom flash across the screen. Her heart leapt—half relief, half fresh wave of embarrassment. She hesitated, then answered in a whisper. “Hi.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Catherine’s voice was warm and calm, like honey over ice. “Your dad just called me. I wanted to check in—how are you feeling?”
Lara’s throat tightened. “Not good. My stomach hurts so much, and I ruined the chair, and Dad looked at me like—like—” She broke off, embarrassed by the lump in her throat.
“Hey, hey.” Catherine’s tone gentled even more. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing to be ashamed of. This is normal, Lara. Every woman goes through this. Even me. Even Grandma.”
Lara let out a shaky breath. “…Even you?”
“Of course,” Catherine chuckled softly. “It’s not fun, but it’s part of growing up. Your dad’s picking up pads for you right now. They’re like little cushions you put in your underwear. They’ll catch the blood so your clothes stay clean.”
“Mom!” Lara hissed, cheeks burning. “Don’t say it like that. Maisie’s right here.”
Maisie blinked, unbothered, nibbling on the last cookie. “I’m learning so much right now.”
Catherine must have overheard, because she laughed gently. “Good. She should learn too. This isn’t something to hide, baby. Listen, when Dad gets back, he’ll give you the bag. I’ll show you exactly how to use it when you get home. For now, order something warm to eat—a tea, or maybe soup. Warm food helps with cramps. You’ll feel better.”
Lara sniffled, tugging her towel tighter. “What if people stare at me? What if they know?”
“They won’t. Nobody’s watching as closely as you think,” Catherine soothed. “And even if they were, there’s nothing wrong here. You’re just becoming the young woman I knew you’d grow into. I’m proud of you.”
For the first time all morning, Lara’s shoulders eased a little. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” Catherine’s laugh was soft, full of love. “Oh, Lara. No. I’m proud. And I promise you, it gets easier. Right now, I just want you comfortable. Can you do that for me?”
Lara nodded, even though her mom couldn’t see her. “Okay.”
“Good girl. Now, tell me honestly—on a scale from one to ten, how bad are those cramps?”
“…Like a seven,” Lara admitted, voice small.
“Alright,” Catherine said, all business now. “Then tea first, and when you get home, I’ll set you up with a heating pad. And maybe some chocolate too.”
Maisie perked up immediately. “Chocolate? I want chocolate!”
Lara rolled her eyes, but a tiny smile tugged at her lips. “This is about me, Mais. Not you.”
Catherine chuckled through the line. “I’ll save some for you both. Just sit tight for now, sweetheart. Dad will be back soon, and then I’ll take care of everything else.”
Lara whispered, “Thanks, Mom,” before hanging up, tucking the phone under her towel. She leaned back against the chair, stomach still aching but heart steadier than it had been all morning.
And for the first time since it started, she didn’t feel so scared.
Not long after, Rafe came back balancing a small shopping bag in one hand and his tote bag slung over his shoulder. His sunglasses hid most of his expression, but the tight set of his jaw gave him away—he was trying to hold it together, to look calm and collected, but his pulse was hammering in his neck.
“Alright, ladies,” he said, voice pitched too casually. “Change of plans. I got your clothes, snacks are paid for, and we’re heading out after you get changed. Sound good?”
Maisie, still sticky with cookie crumbs, perked right up. “Do I get the flower dress?”
“Yes,” Rafe said quickly, crouching to unzip the tote. He pulled out the little white dress dotted with yellow daisies and handed it over. Maisie squealed, clutching it to her chest like treasure.
Lara hung back, towel still wrapped tightly around her waist. She peeked into the tote, her face pale but determined. “I’ll take the two-piece set.” Her voice wobbled a little, but she pressed her lips into a thin line, refusing to let it show. “The dress isn’t… practical.”
Rafe’s chest squeezed, but he just nodded. “Good call, sweetheart.” He didn’t say more—didn’t dare risk embarrassing her further.
The girls headed toward the changing rooms, Maisie bouncing like this was the best day of her life, Lara moving slower, more careful, clutching her phone in one hand. Rafe leaned against the counter, pulling his cap low while he paid for the water activities, his eyes flicking every few seconds toward the changing room door.
When they finally came back, Maisie was twirling in her flower dress, spinning so fast the hem puffed out like a little parachute. Lara, though… Lara looked stricken. Her crisp white pants from the set were already stained through, a dark patch spreading despite the towel she had pressed against herself. Her lip trembled when she realized her dad had noticed.
“Hey, hey.” Rafe moved fast, stripping off his black T-shirt in one motion. He held it out, then crouched so he was eye-level with her. “Put this on, baby. No one’s gonna notice a thing.”
Lara hesitated, then tugged it over her head. The shirt was so big it nearly drowned her frame, sleeves hanging over her elbows, the hem brushing her ankles. She sniffled but muttered, “It smells like sunscreen.”
Rafe gave her a small, crooked smile. “That’s how you know it’s official Cameron beachwear. Now you’re pulling it off better than me.”
Maisie piped up immediately. “You look like you’re wearing a dress! Daddy, it’s hilarious—”
“Mais,” Rafe warned softly, his eyes cutting to Lara. Maisie’s grin slipped, and she nodded quickly, scuffing her sandal against the ground.
The walk back to the car felt long. Lara clutched the hem of her borrowed T-shirt, her jaw set stubbornly even though her eyes shone with unshed tears. Rafe carried the totes, Maisie trailing behind him like a shadow.
When they finally slid into the Range Rover, Rafe started the engine but didn’t pull out right away. He glanced into the rearview mirror, catching Lara’s small frame swallowed up in his shirt, curled against the door with her knees tucked up.
“You alright back there?” His voice was soft, tentative.
Lara nodded, not looking at him. “Can we just go home?”
“Yeah, baby. We’re going.” He shifted into gear, pulling out of the lot.
Maisie leaned forward between the front seats, her hair still damp and sticking up in wild curls. “Dad, is she dying? Because she looks like she’s dying.”
“I’m not dying!” Lara snapped, glaring at her sister.
Rafe cut in quickly, his tone steady. “No one’s dying. Your sister’s just growing up. It’s a lot to deal with, but she’s okay. We’re all okay.”
Maisie slumped back with a dramatic sigh. “Growing up seems like a scam.”
That earned the tiniest huff of laughter from Lara, though she buried it in her sleeve.
The drive home was quiet except for the hum of the engine and Maisie humming some tune under her breath. Every so often, Rafe glanced back at Lara, his hand tightening on the wheel. He wanted to fix it for her, to take away the embarrassment and the cramps and the fear. But all he could do was get her home, get her to Catherine, and make sure she knew she wasn’t alone.
Halfway down the road, he reached out, squeezing her knee gently. “We’re almost there, princess. Mom’s got everything handled.”
This time, Lara didn’t pull away. She just nodded, tucking herself deeper into his T-shirt, letting the smell of sunscreen and ocean cling to her like safety.
The SUV crunched up the driveway, tires crackling against the gravel. Rafe killed the engine, took a deep breath, and glanced into the backseat. Maisie had fallen halfway over, her flower dress wrinkled from twisting around, while Lara sat pressed against the door, still drowning in his oversized T-shirt. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
The front door opened before he even had a chance to speak. Catherine stepped out, apron still tied around her waist, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She must’ve abandoned whatever she was chopping the moment she heard the car.
The second Lara climbed out, Catherine was already there. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t frown, didn’t say anything to make it worse. She just crouched, opened her arms, and pulled her daughter in. Lara sagged against her, clutching her waist like a lifeline.
“Hi, baby,” Catherine murmured, brushing a hand over her hair. “Why don’t you head up to your room, okay? I’ll be right there.”
Lara nodded quickly, cheeks burning. She gave the faintest glance at Rafe before darting inside, her bare feet slapping against the steps as she climbed. His chest ache in a way he couldn’t put words to.
When the door clicked shut behind her, Rafe finally turned to Catherine. His voice came low, urgent, the panic he’d tried to bury all day finally pushing through. “She—Cath, it started at the beach. I didn’t even see at first, but then—she bled through everything. She was so embarrassed, and I—” He dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I tried to keep her calm, I gave her my shirt, but—shit, Cath, I don’t know what to do with this. She looked at me like she wanted me to fix it, and I can’t.”
Catherine’s hand came up, pressing against his chest, steady and grounding. Her eyes were calm, soft but sure. “Rafe. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You stayed with her. You didn’t make her feel worse. You got her home.”
He let out a sharp exhale, still restless. “She looked so damn scared, Cath. She’s ten. She shouldn’t have to deal with this yet.”
Catherine’s thumb brushed along his collarbone, her voice soothing. “That’s exactly why I need to give her all my attention right now. She needs to feel safe, not overwhelmed. The boys will be home later, and you know Mason will blurt something without thinking.” She glanced toward the stairs, then back at him. “So I need you to take Maisie out. To the park, the ice cream shop, I don’t care. Just let me be with Lara one-on-one.”
Maisie perked up instantly, her eyes going wide. “Ice cream?!”
Rafe blinked down at her, still halfway wound up, but her excitement tugged a reluctant huff of air out of him. He reached down, brushing crumbs off her cheek with his thumb. “Yeah, baby. Ice cream. Maybe even the swings.”
“Best day ever!” Maisie threw her arms up like she’d just won something monumental.
Catherine smiled faintly, squeezing Rafe’s arm before letting go. “See? She’s already happy. You can handle her for a couple of hours.”
Rafe scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, forcing his shoulders to relax. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll take her out.” His gaze flicked toward the staircase again, and he lowered his voice. “You’ll… you’ll tell Lara I didn’t mess this up too bad, right?”
Catherine’s eyes softened, her lips curving in a small smile. “Rafe Cameron, you didn’t mess up. You were the dad she needed today.”
For the first time all afternoon, the knot in his chest eased a little. He bent to kiss Maisie’s head and grabbed the car keys again, letting Catherine slip upstairs to their oldest girl.
Rafe shut the front door behind them, keys jangling in his hand as Maisie practically skipped down the steps like she was on a runway. Her little white dress with daisies bounced around her knees, and she clutched the hem dramatically like she was royalty.
“Where are we going first?” she demanded, craning her head up at him with a grin.
“Ice cream,” Rafe answered automatically, sliding his sunglasses back on. “You basically shouted it into existence.”
Maisie gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks like he’d just revealed the secrets of the universe. “Manifestation! That’s what Lara calls it!”
Rafe chuckled, shaking his head as he unlocked the SUV and opened her door. “Don’t start with that TikTok nonsense. Next thing I know, you’ll be trying to manifest a puppy.”
Maisie climbed in, kicking her sandals against the seat. “Oh my god, can we manifest a puppy?”
“No,” he said flatly, buckling her in before she could argue. “We’re barely surviving with you, your sister, and your brothers.”
“Excuse you,” Maisie huffed, crossing her arms. “I am the easiest kid you have.”
Rafe barked out a laugh, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Yeah, says the kid who almost picked up a jellyfish today.”
“That was scientific research!” Maisie shot back. “And you ruined it with your stupid water bottle.”
“Ruined it?” Rafe flicked a glance at her as he pulled out of the driveway. “You wanted to touch it like it was a pet. You’d be crying in the ER right now if I let you.”
Maisie wrinkled her nose. “Still would’ve been worth it. Nobody else in class would’ve had a jellyfish story.”
Rafe grinned despite himself. “You already have enough stories, Mais. Half of them end with me apologizing to strangers.”
That made her giggle, and she stretched out her legs like a queen in the backseat. “Okay, fine. No jellyfish. But ice cream better have sprinkles.”
“Sprinkles are non-negotiable,” Rafe promised solemnly.
By the time they parked by the boardwalk shop, Maisie was practically vibrating with excitement. She sprinted ahead, her braids flying, and Rafe had to lengthen his stride to catch up.
Inside, Maisie plastered herself to the glass case, eyes darting across the rainbow of tubs. “Cookies and cream… no, cotton candy… wait, bubblegum!” She spun around to him, wide-eyed. “Dad, can I get three scoops?”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Three? You’re seven, not a linebacker.”
“I’m growing!” she insisted. “And Lara said sugar helps when you’re stressed.”
He snorted, pulling his wallet from his pocket. “That’s not exactly doctor advice, but fine. Three scoops. Don’t tell your mom.”
Maisie fist-pumped the air. “Best. Dad. Ever.”
When she got her mountain of ice cream dripping with sprinkles, she beamed so big that Rafe almost forgot the panic from earlier. They sat outside on a bench, Maisie swinging her legs and getting sticky all over her dress.
“You’re not gonna finish that,” Rafe said after watching her tackle two scoops with determination.
“Yes, I am,” Maisie mumbled around a mouthful of bubblegum ice cream.
“Bet you a dollar you can’t.”
Her eyes narrowed mischievously. “Bet you five I can.”
Rafe chuckled, leaning back with his arm along the bench. “Alright, Mais. Five bucks. But if you get a stomachache, you’re telling your mom it was your idea.”
She grinned, ice cream smeared across her cheek, and dug back in with renewed purpose.
Rafe and Maisie’s afternoon turned into a little adventure of its own. After demolishing her three-scoop ice cream cone (and winning five dollars, which Rafe grumbled about but handed over anyway), Maisie had energy to burn. She pulled him toward the park across the street, her small hand gripping his with surprising strength.
“C’mon, Dad! You promised the swings!” she said, tugging until he had no choice but to follow.
“Slow down, Mais. You’re not running from the cops,” Rafe teased, adjusting his cap against the sun.
At the swings, she climbed onto one, pumping her legs before he even touched the chains. “Push me! Higher! Higher, like… like I’m gonna touch the sky!”
Rafe stood behind her, giving steady pushes. “If you go flying off this thing, your mom will kill me.”
Maisie tilted her head back, shrieking with laughter as her dress fluttered in the wind. “Then push harder!”
He gave in, pushing her a little higher, until her giggles turned into belly laughs. When she slowed, she hopped off and dragged him toward the jungle gym, insisting he “had to” climb the ropes with her.
“Maisie, I’m not squeezing into that death trap,” Rafe muttered, watching her scramble up like a monkey.
She peered down at him, grinning. “Chicken!”
He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, then kicked off his sneakers and climbed up after her. Other parents gave him side-eyes as this six-foot-something dad squeezed himself through the ropes, but Maisie thought it was the funniest thing ever. “You look like a giant spider!” she cackled.
When they finally collapsed on the grass after a race across the field, Maisie rolled onto her back, panting. “Today’s the best. Even though you ruined my jellyfish experiment.”
Rafe stretched out beside her, one arm folded behind his head. “Glad I could make up for it.” He turned to look at her, his voice softening. “Hey… you know your sister’s having kind of a rough day, right?”
Maisie nodded, serious for a moment. “Yeah. She’s acting weird.”
“She’s not weird,” Rafe corrected gently. “She’s just… growing up. Sometimes growing up comes with stuff that feels confusing or gross. You don’t need to understand it all now, but you gotta be nice to her, okay?”
Maisie thought about it, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll share my sprinkles with her. That’ll help.”
Rafe smiled, ruffling her hair. “That’s the spirit.”
Back at the house, Catherine sat cross-legged on Lara’s bed, a heating pad tucked under her daughter’s stomach and a glass of water on the nightstand. Lara lay stiffly under the blanket, glaring at the ceiling.
“This is the worst thing ever,” Lara muttered. “Why do I have to bleed? That’s disgusting. Boys don’t bleed.”
Catherine smoothed her hair back from her damp forehead. “Boys don’t bleed, no. But they don’t get to grow life either. Your body’s just… starting a cycle that’s part of being a woman. I know it feels gross and unfair right now, but it’s not something to be ashamed of.”
Lara scrunched her nose. “I still hate it.”
“I hated it too at your age,” Catherine admitted with a little laugh. “I thought it was the end of the world. I remember crying to my mom, saying I didn’t want it. But eventually, it became just another part of life. Not fun, but manageable.”
“But what if everyone at school finds out?” Lara asked, panic flashing in her eyes. “What if I bleed through my jeans or something and everybody laughs?”
Catherine took her hand. “That’s why you’ll carry pads in your backpack. And an extra pair of leggings, just in case. Nobody needs to know unless you choose to tell them. And if anyone ever makes you feel bad, they’ll have to answer to me—and your dad.”
That pulled a reluctant smile from Lara. “Dad freaked out.”
Catherine chuckled softly. “He did. But only because he loves you so much and didn’t want you to feel alone. That’s what all of this comes down to, Lara—you’re not alone. You’ve got me, you’ve got him, and you’ve got a whole world of women who’ve gone through the same thing.”
Lara shifted against the heating pad, finally exhaling. “It still sucks.”
“It does,” Catherine agreed. “But I promise, it’ll get easier. For now, how about I get you some chocolate from the kitchen? And maybe we’ll watch a movie while your brothers are out.”
Lara’s face softened, the first flicker of comfort settling in. “Okay… but nothing sad. I don’t need to cry more.”
Catherine smiled, brushing her thumb over her daughter’s knuckles. “Deal. Something light and fun. And I’ll bring you a blanket that isn’t black—your dad’s T-shirt looks ridiculous on you.”
That drew a laugh out of Lara, small but real. And for Catherine, it was enough.
////////////////////////////////////////////////
The late afternoon sun slanted golden across the playground, painting everything in that dreamy, end-of-summer glow. Rafe leaned against the metal frame of the monkey bars, arms crossed, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he pretended not to hover. Maisie, sticky-faced and grass-stained, was in her element.
“Dad, watch this!” she called, already dangling upside down by her knees. Her dress fell over her face, daisies flopping toward the ground.
“Mais,” Rafe said sharply, pushing himself off the bars. “You’re flashing half the park. Pull your dress down.”
She shrieked with laughter, kicking her legs. “You sound like Mom!”
Rafe rolled his eyes but reached up anyway, steadying her when her knees slipped. “Yeah, well, Mom doesn’t want me explaining to strangers why her seven-year-old is mooning them. Let’s go.”
But Maisie just grinned at him upside down, her cheeks flushed. “I bet you can’t do it.”
Rafe blinked. “Do what?”
“This!” She swung herself down, landing in a crouch, triumphant. “Monkey bar flip!”
He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Baby, if I tried that, I’d end up in the ER.”
“You’re just scared,” Maisie teased, poking his leg. “Come on, be cool, Dad.”
Rafe crouched to her level, smirking. “I am cool. I bought you three scoops of ice cream, didn’t I? That’s cooler than half the dads here.”
Maisie squinted, pretending to weigh this. “Hmm. That’s true. But still. Monkey bar flip would make you the coolest dad.”
He groaned but gave in—because how could he not?—hauling himself up onto the lowest bar. “If I break something, I swear…” he muttered, gripping the metal.
A couple of kids nearby paused to watch as Rafe swung himself awkwardly upside down, his long legs catching the bar. Maisie’s laughter rang out so loud that even other parents smiled.
“See?” she shouted. “You are cool!”
“Cool and old,” Rafe grunted, dropping down to the ground with less grace than her. He dusted off his hands. “Alright, that’s it. Dad’s officially retired.”
Maisie was still grinning ear to ear. “Nope. You’re my favorite dad ever.”
“I’m your only dad,” Rafe shot back, but the warmth in his chest lingered as she ran back toward the slide.
///////////////////////////
Back at the house, Catherine had created a soft little cocoon for Lara. They were curled up in bed with blankets, a bowl of chocolate squares and pretzels between them, the TV casting a soft glow. A romantic comedy played in the background, but Lara’s attention flicked more toward her mom.
“I still hate this,” Lara muttered, popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth. “It feels gross and annoying.”
Catherine chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “I know. But there are upsides too.”
Lara gave her a skeptical look. “Like what?”
“Well,” Catherine began, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone, “you can use it to your advantage. For example—when I tell your dad I’m cramping, he’ll do literally anything for me. Rub my back, run to the store at midnight, make me tea… he even once cleaned the entire kitchen because I said the smell of garlic made me sick.”
Lara’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yes.” Catherine grinned, breaking off another piece of chocolate. “Your dad has no idea half the time whether I’m actually in pain or not. He just assumes and does everything I want. It’s like a secret superpower.”
Lara snorted, though her cheeks pinked. “So you trick him?”
“Not trick,” Catherine corrected with a wink. “Strategically take advantage. And you will too, one day. Trust me, your dad’s already wrapped around your little finger. If you tell him you’re cramping, he’ll probably buy you a car.”
That made Lara laugh, really laugh, for the first time all day. She grabbed another chocolate, shaking her head. “That’s so evil. But kind of amazing.”
“Exactly.” Catherine kissed the top of her head. “And while it’s not fun, there’s comfort in knowing it gives you a reason to slow down, to take care of yourself, and to let people take care of you. It’s not gross—it’s normal.”
Lara curled deeper into the blankets, her stomach still aching but her shoulders relaxed now. “Maybe it’s not the worst thing. Still gross, though.”
Catherine smirked, tucking the covers tighter around her. “Trust me, you’ll learn to live with it. Every girl does.”
Lara nibbled on a piece of chocolate, her brows knitting together. “So… you have to go through this every month? Forever?”
“Not forever,” Catherine said gently. “Usually until you’re older, and then it stops. But yes, once a month.”
“That’s… ugh.” Lara scrunched her nose. “And all this bleeding is supposed to mean I can… have babies, right?”
Catherine hesitated, hearing the shift in her daughter’s voice. She wasn’t panicked—just curious. She nodded. “Yes. Your body’s getting ready every month, in case it needs to make a baby someday. That’s how it works.”
Lara wrinkled her nose again, hugging a pillow to her stomach. “That’s so weird. So… does that mean I could have a baby right now? Like if I…” She trailed off, her face going red. “If I did… stuff?”
Catherine raised her brows, fighting back a laugh at the awkward phrasing. She leaned closer, brushing a hand through Lara’s hair. “Well, technically yes. But you are way, way too young for that. Your body might be ready, but your mind, your heart, your life—it’s not. That part comes much later.”
Lara chewed her lip, clearly working something out. “So when did you… you know… start doing that stuff?”
Catherine blinked, caught off guard, then chuckled. “Nice try, missy. That’s not a story for right now. But I will tell you this—when the time comes, it should be with someone who respects you, who makes you feel safe, and who doesn’t push you into anything you don’t want.”
Lara groaned and covered her face with the pillow. “Ew, Mom, stop. I don’t want to think about that. I was just asking!”
Catherine laughed, tugging the pillow down. “Hey, you started it! But I’m glad you did, actually. Because I want you to always feel like you can ask me these things. No matter how gross or weird or awkward.”
Lara peeked out from behind the pillow, cheeks pink. “Even if it’s… about boys?”
“Even then,” Catherine said firmly. “Especially then.” She softened, tilting her head. “Listen, you don’t need to rush into any of that. Right now, your biggest worry is picking an outfit for school or deciding what movie you want to watch. You’ve got time.”
Lara sighed dramatically but gave a small smile. “Good. Because I don’t think I’ll ever want to do that. Babies sound painful. And boys are dumb.”
Catherine grinned, leaning back against the headboard. “Honestly? Not a bad philosophy at your age.”
They both giggled, the heaviness of earlier lifting. Catherine slid an arm around her daughter, pulling her closer. “For now, let’s stick to this. The rest can wait a long, long time.”
“I agree,” Lara said, her eyes already drifting toward the TV again.
Catherine smiled to herself, relieved. She knew the real talks would come sooner than she wanted, but for now, she was content keeping her little girl wrapped safely in blankets, giggles, and chocolate.
////////////////
The front door clicked shut, and the Cameron house was suddenly quieter than it should’ve been for a Saturday evening. Maisie darted past Rafe before he could even get her shoes off, shouting something about needing to change into her “coziest pajamas ever” as she thundered up the stairs. Rafe shook his head with a faint smile, setting the keys down on the entryway table.
Beside him, Mason was animatedly talking about his day. “So, Luke’s dad said he wants to talk to you, like, properly. At dinner. Here.” He glanced at his father, mouth full of words. “Something about some business deal you’re working on? But it was… weird. Like, he wasn’t just talking about money, he was—” Mason scrunched his nose. “I dunno. Kinda smirking. It was gross.”
Rafe’s brows ticked up, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t say anything at first, just shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair by the hallway. “Luke’s dad, huh?” His voice was casual, but his jaw flexed. He’d seen the way the man had lingered a little too long around Catherine at school events. Now he wanted to angle dinner into it? Cute.
“Yeah. He kept saying stuff like, ‘I’ll explain everything over dinner.’ Which is so lame, like, just spit it out.” Mason rolled his eyes. “But he kept saying it had to be here, not like at his office or anything. Which was sus.”
Rafe caught on quick. Dinner wasn’t about a deal. It was about Catherine. And that was not happening. But he didn’t let it show, just clapped Mason on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about Luke’s dad. I’ll handle him.”
“Good,” Mason said simply, his thoughts already moving to food. “I’m starving.”
Rafe grunted in amusement, slipping into the downstairs bathroom to wash his hands. When he came back out, Mason was already halfway into the kitchen, following the smell of garlic and roasted vegetables. Rafe expected Catherine to be standing over the stove, probably with Maisie back in the kitchen chair asking if she could “help” and sneaking bites.
But when he walked in, the scene was completely different.
Bradley, still in his school clothes, was carefully setting plates on the table. His dark hair flopped into his eyes as he adjusted a fork and knife just so, tongue poking slightly out in concentration.
Rafe blinked. “Uh… what’s this?”
Bradley looked up, a little startled, then shrugged. “Dinner.”
Mason didn’t care. He slid right into his chair, grabbing at the bread basket. “Finally.”
Rafe leaned against the doorframe, confused, one brow arched. Catherine was nowhere in sight. That was odd. She never left Bradley to set things up alone. “Where’s your mom?” he asked, tone careful.
Bradley stacked the last fork down neatly, then dusted his hands off against his shorts. “She went upstairs to check on Lara. Never came back down.”
That had Rafe’s stomach turning just a little. Catherine had said she’d take care of things, but the fact she hadn’t surfaced at all since he’d left…
“Alright,” Rafe muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. He could hear Mason noisily chewing behind him, oblivious to everything except the food in front of him. He considered staying out of it—period stuff was not his arena. Catherine was built for that, calm and collected in all the ways he wasn’t. He didn’t want to barge in and crash whatever mother-daughter bubble was happening upstairs.
Still, his gut told him he should check.
“Brad, keep an eye on the table, alright? Make sure your brother doesn’t eat everything before we sit down.”
Mason groaned through a mouthful, “Not my fault it’s good.”
Rafe ignored him, pushing off the doorframe and heading toward the stairs. His steps were quiet, measured. As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t ready to step into that room. He could face investors, fights, even the mess Maisie left in her wake without blinking. But walking into Catherine and Lara’s quiet space, into this very first milestone of his daughter’s growing up—it scared the hell out of him.
Still, he climbed the stairs, jaw tight, forcing himself to move. Better to know than to sit downstairs and wonder.
Rafe paused outside Lara’s bedroom door, knuckles hovering for a second before he finally rapped softly. He didn’t want to intrude—hell, part of him still thought he should’ve just stayed downstairs—but the silence from Catherine and Lara had stretched long enough that he needed to see for himself.
He cracked the door open carefully, letting his eyes adjust to the dim glow of the bedside lamp. What he walked into made his chest squeeze.
Catherine was propped up against the headboard, still in her sundress from earlier, her hair pulled back in a loose knot. Lara was curled right into her side, tucked under one arm like she was six years old again instead of ten, wrapped up in a blanket burrito. Catherine was brushing through Lara’s hair absentmindedly with her fingers, the kind of gentle rhythm that always soothed. On the nightstand, an open box of chocolates sat half-eaten, next to a heating pad and a glass of water.
Both of them were laughing softly at something on Lara’s phone, but it wasn’t the loud, wild laughter Lara usually had with Maisie. It was small, quiet, the kind that came from feeling safe.
Rafe leaned against the doorframe, unseen for a moment, just watching. His throat went tight in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d spent most of the day panicking over what he didn’t know, fumbling to patch together solutions while Maisie tore through life like a hurricane. But Catherine—Catherine was calm, steady, holding their daughter together with nothing more than patience and love.
And Lara—his girl—looked so much older and younger all at once. Her face was pale, but her eyes were softer, not weighed down by embarrassment the way they’d been at the beach. She trusted Catherine enough to let herself be small again.
Rafe finally stepped in, knocking gently against the frame to let them know he was there. Both heads turned toward him. Lara rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth quirked. “Dad, don’t just creep like that.”
He raised his hands, managing a smile. “Didn’t wanna interrupt. You two look… cozy.”
Catherine smirked, tugging Lara a little closer. “We are. Everything’s fine up here.” Her eyes flicked to him knowingly, reading the tension he hadn’t managed to hide. “Better than fine.”
Rafe crossed the room slowly, crouching beside the bed so he was level with Lara. He tugged gently on the blanket edge. “You okay, princess?” His voice was careful, softer than he usually let it be.
Lara shrugged, her cheeks flushing. “Yeah. Mom explained… stuff. It’s still gross, but… I don’t feel like I’m dying anymore.”
That tugged a chuckle out of him, shaky but real. He brushed her hair back from her forehead, his big hand awkward against her small face. “Good. I was ready to call an ambulance earlier.”
“Dad!” Lara laughed, burying her face in Catherine’s arm.
Catherine shook her head at him, smiling. “Drama king.”
Rafe huffed out a laugh and leaned in to press a quick kiss to Catherine’s temple, his hand lingering on her shoulder for a beat longer than necessary. Gratitude swelled in his chest, heavy and sharp. He didn’t say it, but he felt it down to his bones: lucky. Lucky that Catherine was his wife. Lucky that Lara was his daughter. Lucky that, despite everything he used to be, this was his life now.
He stood, exhaling as he straightened. “Alright. I’ll let you two finish your chocolate party. Dinner’s on the table whenever you’re ready.”
Lara peeked out from the blanket, lips twitching. “Only if Mason didn’t eat it all already.”
“Brad’s guarding it,” Rafe promised, winking at her.
That earned him a tiny smile from Lara before she snuggled back into Catherine. Rafe felt the tight knot in his chest start to ease.
Rafe took the stairs slower this time, shoulders finally loosening as he let the scene upstairs settle in his chest. By the time he reached the bottom, though, the peace was gone—replaced by the familiar chaos of his household.
The kitchen was loud, voices overlapping. Mason had his plate loaded high with food and was leaning over the table, glaring at Maisie, who was trying—unsuccessfully—to stab a piece of chicken off his plate with her fork.
“Maisie, get your own!” Mason barked, swatting her fork away.
“You already have, like, a mountain!” Maisie shot back, undeterred. “You don’t even like zucchini, give it to me!”
Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Alright, enough. Maisie, take it.”
Mason’s jaw dropped. “What? Dad!”
“You’ll live,” Rafe said flatly, sliding the chicken piece onto Maisie’s plate himself. She beamed in triumph, sticking her tongue out at Mason before taking a smug bite.
Bradley, ever the observant one, glanced up from where he was carefully arranging his peas in neat lines. “Dad… is Lara okay? She didn’t come down at all.” His voice wasn’t worried exactly, but it had that edge of curiosity Rafe knew meant Bradley had been paying more attention than anyone else.
Before Rafe could answer, Maisie piped up with the tact of a wrecking ball. “She’s bleeding!”
The table went quiet for a beat, Mason choking on his bread, Bradley blinking, and Rafe dragging a hand down his face. “Maisie,” he warned, voice sharp.
“What? She is!” Maisie said defensively, shrugging. “You told me not to say the ‘p-word’ in public, so I didn’t. I just said bleeding.”
Bradley’s brows furrowed, his tone shifting into that too-smart-for-his-own-good mode. “Bleeding because she started menstruating, right? It’s a perfectly normal biological function that indicates her uterine lining is—”
“Stop!” Mason yelped, waving his hands like the words themselves might infect him. “Gross, dude! Nobody wants to hear about that at dinner!”
Bradley frowned at his brother. “It’s biology.”
“It’s nasty,” Mason fired back, though his ears were red. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Glad I’m not a girl.”
Rafe clenched his jaw, ready to intervene before the entire conversation spiraled, but that’s when the sound of footsteps came from the stairs. He looked over just in time to see Catherine guiding Lara into the kitchen.
Lara looked a little shy still, but more at ease than before, dressed in her clean white set with her hair brushed out neatly. Catherine’s hand rested warm on her shoulder as if to steady her, and the sight of them both made the room shift—calmer somehow.
“Finally!” Mason said, mouth already full again. “We thought you were dying or something.”
Maisie snickered. “She was. Bleeding to death.”
Rafe groaned. “Maisie—”
But Mason cut in, smirking. “So what, you just gonna, like, leak forever now? That’s messed up.”
Bradley rolled his eyes, clearly uncomfortable but trying to act like he knew everything. “It’s not forever, Mason. It’s cyclical. She’ll menstruate once a month until menopause, unless—”
“Mason, Bradley.” Catherine’s voice was sharp enough to cut the room in half. Both boys froze mid-sentence.
Lara shifted under the attention, cheeks pink, but Catherine gave her a gentle nudge. “Go on,” she murmured softly. “Show them what you learned today.”
Lara blinked, then caught her mom’s tiny grin. Something clicked, and a mischievous smile curved her lips. She held her stomach dramatically, groaning. “Ohhh, it hurts so bad,” she moaned, clutching her side. “I can barely move.”
The boys went into full panic mode instantly. Mason dropped his fork, standing so fast his chair screeched back. “Wait, for real? Should we, like, call someone?”
Bradley shoved his peas aside, fumbling for his water glass. “Do you need hydration? That can help with cramping. I’ll get you a heating pad!”
Maisie clapped her hands, delighted at the chaos. “She’s dying! Quick, Mason, give her your dessert!”
Mason actually shoved his plate forward, eyes wide. “Here, take it—just don’t pass out!”
Lara broke into laughter, doubled over as she shoved the blanket of drama aside. Catherine was laughing too, covering her mouth as her shoulders shook.
Rafe leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched his boys run in circles while his girls sat smug at the center of it all. His house was loud, chaotic, and ridiculous—but in moments like this, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Summary: the cameron were supposed to end Halloween with a movie night, but mason (15) and lara (12) sneaked out to a party after being told no. while rafe and catherine argue over parenting styles (and end up distracted in the bedroom), the kids land themselves in a holding cell for underage drinking.
Catherine and Rafe Cameron used to live for throwing parties. Pre-kids? Their place was legendary. Loud music, questionable keg stands, outfits that barely counted as costumes. Post-kids? Those parties shifted into family events. Still legendary, just with way more pumpkin-shaped cookies and less tequila.
And no holiday hit harder in the Cameron household than Halloween.
Rafe had gone all out this year with the exterior — skeletons climbing the house, fog machines, motion-activated witches that cackled so loud Maisie had screamed three times before remembering she helped put them there. Mason, now fifteen, thought he was too cool to care, but he’d still held the ladder for Rafe. Maisie was his actual ride-or-die in decorating, shrieking with excitement every time a new blow-up ghoul inflated.
Inside, Catherine had been on her Pinterest mom grind, hand-making every single treat. She pretended it was just for the neighborhood kids, but really? She loved outshining the store-bought bags the other moms handed out.
The charity Halloween gala for Cameron Development had been the night before — Catherine had organized it down to the last cobweb, and the whole family went as the Addams family. Rafe looked better in that striped suit than Gomez ever did. Catherine didn’t even look like herself wearing that long black dress and the black wig. Lara went as Wednesday, Mason said there was no way in hell he was dressing as Pugsley, so Brad did it. Catherine had managed to dress Mason as Lurch after long hours of arguing. And Maisie loved being Cousin Itt, she even went as far as spooking some of Rafe’s colleagues by saying the costume was made of real human hair.
But tonight was for them. For trick-or-treating, for costumes Catherine had hunted down weeks in advance. Mason, Anakin Skywalker. Bradley, Clark Kent — glasses, tie, superman t-shirt peeking out of his button up, the whole thing. Lara, Stella from Club Winx. And Maisie? Their nine-year-old chaos child stomped around in an inflatable dinosaur costume that hissed air the whole night. Catherine had laughed until she cried when she first zipped it up.
Now, back home, their haul was being redistributed. Lara dumped the chocolates she didn’t like onto Maisie’s lap while Mason scavenged for anything peanut butter. Bradley, already peeling off his tie, was laser-focused on one thing:
“So what movie are we watching for Horror Night?” he asked, ignoring Maisie’s dinosaur tail smacking him in the face.
Rafe, who had spent the afternoon swearing under his breath while reassembling the backyard projector screen, grinned. “Something scary.”
“No, we should watch a Christmas movie. On Halloween,” Bradley deadpanned.
“Nightmare on Christmas Eve?,” Rafe smirked, enjoying getting his son all riled up a little too much.
Catherine, leaning against the kitchen island with a glass of wine, hid her smile behind the rim. She couldn’t help but remember the thirty minutes of Brad reading instructions and Rafe failing to follow them, even though they did it every year. There was something ridiculously hot about Rafe all sweaty and determined with power tools, even if he pretended he didn’t need the manual.
But before they could settle into the horror lineup, Mason and Lara made their announcement.
“Uh, so, we got invited to Kyle’s Halloween party,” Mason said, carefully casual, like he wasn’t talking about the kind of senior rager where Catherine and Rafe once ended up high and skinny dipping.
Rafe immediately went still. “Absolutely not.”
“But, Dad!” Lara whined, already sensing the argument brewing.
“Nope,” Rafe said firmly, shaking his head. “I know exactly what goes on at Kyle’s house. And unless your mom and I are standing at the door chaperoning—”
“Dad,” Mason groaned, dragging out the word. “The whole team’s gonna be there, I can’t be the loser who isn’t.”
“Fine,” Rafe smirked, leaning back in his chair like he had just won. “You can go… if Bradley goes with you.”
Brad, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, froze. “No. Absolutely not.”
“There you go.” Rafe clapped his hands. “Problem solved.”
“Dad!” Lara shrieked.
“Rules are rules. Gotta have supervision.”
Catherine was trying so hard not to laugh at their faces. She stepped in before it turned into an actual fight, brushing her hand across Rafe’s shoulder. “Movie night first,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “We’ll negotiate the rest later.”
“Mom, seriously. It’s one party— besides, we are not reckless like you. Uncle Topp said you and Dad used to do all this illegal stuff… but there are kids around, so I won't give examples.”
The whole room went silent. Catherine’s head snapped toward Mason so fast he winced.
“Excuse me?” she said slowly. “Topper told you what?”
Mason held up his hands, already smirking. “Relax, Mom. He said you were the life of the party. Like… climbing onto tables, exotic dances, keg stands, stealing Dad's under the counter medication if you know what I mean—”
“Topper is dead,” Catherine muttered, glaring at Rafe like this is your friend, control him.
Rafe was trying not to laugh, shoulders shaking. “Hey, hey—don’t look at me. Topper’s the one corrupting our son, not me.”
Mason leaned back smugly, throwing the trump card on the table. “So if you got to do all that stuff, I don’t see the issue. You survived.”
“Oh, I more than survived,” Rafe teased, shooting Catherine a sideways grin. She elbowed him.
Before Catherine could launch into a you’re not your father, Mason speech, Lara slinked closer to Rafe, batting her lashes like she had played this game before, because she had.
“Daddy,” she sang sweetly, resting her head on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t really keep me from going, right? It’s just one party. And you always want me to have fun and make friends.”
Rafe froze. Catherine watched in real time as his resolve melted like butter in the microwave.
“Don’t you dare,” Catherine hissed at him.
Rafe looked torn, glancing between his wife and his daughter. “It’s… it’s just one party,” he mumbled weakly.
Lara perked up, instantly victorious. “Barely a party, more like a friendly gathering for Halloween.”
Catherine groaned, setting her wine glass down with a thud. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. You fold faster than Maisie’s dinosaur costume when the batteries die.”
“Not true,” Rafe said, even though Lara was already hugging his arm like she’d won the lottery.
Maisie, still waddling in her inflatable dino, let out a loud hiss of the air pump. “If they get to go to a party, then I get to have one too.”
Brad didn’t even look up from his candy sorting. “You’re nine.”
“And?” Maisie shot back.
“Guys, can we just watch a movie?” Bradley begged, exasperated.
But Catherine wasn’t done. She leaned closer to Rafe, whispering just loud enough for the kids to hear: “You cave for her, and I'm making the guest bed for you... for a week.”
That got him. Rafe immediately backpedaled, patting Lara’s knee. “On second thought, maybe next year.”
“DAD!” Lara shrieked.
Mason groaned into his hoodie. “Unbelievable. You guys are the lamest parents alive.”
Catherine smirked, satisfied, and took a sip of wine again. “And yet, somehow, you’ll all survive.”
Bradley tried to ease the tension as he placed his candy bag on the counter, “Okay, so we should watch Scream. It’s retro. Classic slasher.”
Catherine’s head snapped up. “Excuse me? Retro?”
Brad shrugged, not even looking up from his candies. “Well, yeah. It’s from the 90s.”
Catherine gasped, hand to her chest like he’d just stabbed her. “Bradley James Cameron, you take that back right now. Scream is not retro.”
Mason snorted into a Reese’s. “Mom, it’s literally older than all of us.”
“By that logic, I’m retro,” Catherine fired back, actually a little wounded. “Do I look retro to you?”
Rafe leaned on the counter, smirking. “Babe, you don’t look a day over twenty-one.”
She gave him a look that said nice try, Cameron, but it softened her pout.
Meanwhile, Lara had draped herself dramatically against the fridge. “Well, I’m not even in the mood for a movie anymore, so I don't care.”
That got Rafe’s attention. He turned toward her immediately, frowning. “What do you mean? It’s tradition, sweetheart.”
“I mean,” Lara sighed, already slipping into her practiced doe-eyed routine, “since I’m not allowed to go to that party…” She flicked her gaze at Rafe, all sweetness, waiting for the crack in his resolve. “I’ll just do my skincare and go to bed.”
Rafe’s heart cracked a little. He hated when one of the kids bowed out of family time — movie night was his favorite, when everyone was together. Catherine’s too. It was her soft spot. Watching the kids get along, even if it was just for a ninety-minute horror movie, made her feel like she was doing something right.
“C’mon, princess,” Rafe coaxed gently. “You’ll like it. You always yell the loudest when the jump scares hit.”
“I’m just… tired,” Lara said with a shrug, all innocence.
What no one noticed was the sly look she slid toward Mason. Mason caught it instantly. Got it. She was out. He was out. That party was happening.
Catherine, oblivious, clapped her hands together, trying to cut the tension before it grew. “Alright, pajamas. Everyone. Before you so much as touch a blanket outside, you’re changing. I’ll pop popcorn.” She glanced at Rafe. “And you—download Scream. Apparently, the retro option.”
Brad muttered, “I meant the movie, not you, mom” under his breath.
“Sure you did,” Catherine snapped, but there was no real bite.
Mason groaned, clutching his robes like it was a lifeline. “Do we have to change? These are basically pajamas.”
“No, they are not,” Catherine said instantly.
“Yes,” Rafe said at the same time, just to back her up.
Mason scowled. “It’s just… changing clothes is bad for... your skin.”
The entire kitchen went silent. Maisie blinked up at him through her dino suit. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Rafe narrowed his eyes.
“Yeah, Mason,” Brad added without missing a beat. “You sound like those flat-earthers.”
But Mason wasn’t budging. Catherine looked him up and down, already sensing he was up to something. “Upstairs. Now. Pajamas.”
Mason muttered something under his breath about tyranny, but he shuffled out anyway, Lara hot on his heels, already “too tired” to fight.
Rafe sighed, running a hand over his face. He hated it when Lara skipped out — hated it even more that Mason was already sulking too. Movie night just wasn’t the same without everyone.
“They'll come around,” Catherine said gently, sliding her hand across his back. “It’ll feel better once we’re all curled up outside.”
“Yeah,” Rafe said, though his eyes stayed on the staircase, hoping his kids would actually come around.
Thirty minutes later, the backyard had transformed into its own little theater. Maisie was already in her unicorn onesie pajamas, buried under what looked like every single blanket the house owned. She had a mountain of pillows propped around her like a throne, clutching her candy bucket as if anyone dared to steal from it. Bradley sat dutifully beside her, glasses slipping down his nose as he rattled off random facts about each piece of candy she unwrapped.
“Actually, did you know that Snickers was named after a horse?” Brad said, holding one up like he was giving a lecture.
Maisie giggled, smacking him with a pillow. “That’s so weird. Imagine naming chocolate after a horse.”
Meanwhile, Catherine stepped outside in her silk nightgown, a fluffy cardigan draped over her shoulders. She balanced two bowls of popcorn—caramel in one, butter in the other. Behind her came Rafe in his grey pajama bottoms and white t-shirt, looking smug as ever with the USB in hand like it was a trophy.
“Alright,” Catherine called, scanning the backyard. “Where’s Mason?”
Brad didn’t look up, casually shrugging. “In our room. Playing League. He said he didn’t feel like coming down yet.”
Rafe rolled his eyes, setting up the USB in the projector. “Of course he’s on that damn game. Every time I walk past his room, he’s screaming at strangers through a headset.”
Catherine frowned, shifting the popcorn bowls onto the side table. “He knows this is family night. If I have to go drag him out of that chair—”
“I’ll get him later,” Rafe promised, brushing her arm as he fussed with the projector. “If he misses the beginning, maybe it’ll teach him something.”
Neither of them noticed how Bradley’s jaw ticked, his eyes flicking down to Maisie’s candy pile. He didn’t like lying, but… he also wasn’t about to rat Mason and Lara out. Mason had slipped out the second Brad left their room, tossing out some half-baked excuse about needing “air.” Brad knew exactly where he was going.
And Lara? She was ten steps ahead of them all. By the time Mason padded into her bedroom, she already had an Uber waiting. Her bed was made to look like she was under the covers, her skincare bottles lined neatly on the dresser like evidence of her “night routine.” She’d even hung tomorrow’s outfit on the knob of her wardrobe door, just in case Catherine came snooping. Lara Cameron might have been twelve, but she was already playing the long game.
“Ready?” Mason whispered as he stepped in, costume still on.
Lara smirked, fixing her wings. “Born ready. Let’s go.”
Back in the backyard, Catherine settled onto the blanket nest beside Maisie and Brad, her cardigan tucked tightly around her. Rafe finally got the screen flickering to life, grinning as he flopped down beside her.
“See? Perfect setup,” he said proudly. “Best backyard theater in Figure Eight.”
Catherine’s brows were still furrowed. “It’ll only be perfect when Mason comes down to spend time with his family.”
Rafe kissed her temple, handing her the buttered popcorn. “Give him ten minutes. He’ll come crawling out once he smells this.”
Catherine sighed, leaning into him. She wanted to believe it. She wanted the picture-perfect movie night. Meanwhile, Lara and Mason slipped out the front door smug as ever. Lara had her little crossbody bag slung over her shoulder, phone in hand with the Uber tracking their ETA. Mason was jittery, bouncing on his heels.
“Relax,” Lara hissed as they tiptoed down the driveway. “Mom and Dad are glued to the movie. They’ll never notice.”
Mason shoved his hands in his Jedi-pants' pocket. “You better be right. If Mom catches us—”
“She won’t.” Lara shot him a grin, sliding into the backseat of the waiting car. “Trust me. I’m the brains.”
“Hey!” Mason protested, but climbed in after her anyway. The car pulled away, headlights disappearing down the street.
Back in the backyard, Catherine was completely oblivious, curled up in her blanket nest with a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap. Maisie had already fallen half-asleep against Bradley, the candy coma taking her out early. Rafe sat beside Catherine, one arm stretched lazily along the back of her chair, eyes on the glowing screen.
“Ugh,” Catherine muttered around a mouthful of popcorn. “Why is the killer always so hot?”
Rafe’s head whipped toward her, brows raised. “I’m sorry—what?”
She waved a hand dismissively, not looking at him. “Not the guy. The mask. It’s a whole… I don’t know, hot.”
“The mask?” Rafe repeated, incredulous. Then, a slow smirk spread across his face. “So let me get this straight… I should be worried about a piece of plastic with a ghost face on it?”
Catherine finally glanced at him, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t know. It works on Billy.”
Rafe leaned in closer, grin widening. “Good to know. Maybe I’ll get myself one of those masks. See if it works for me.”
She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the little laugh that slipped out. “You’d trip over your own feet in it.”
He smirked, gaze dropping to her lips. “Still worth a try.”
Onscreen, Ghostface lunged. Catherine jumped, nearly spilling her popcorn. Rafe chuckled low in his throat, tugging her closer.
Neither of them noticed the two empty bedrooms upstairs. Neither of them heard the Uber rolling away into the night.
The Uber dropped Mason and Lara two blocks away from Kyle’s house, the bass from the party rattling the street before they even turned the corner.
Mason shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though his heart was racing. “Okay, we don’t stay all night,” he said quickly. “We just show up, hang for a bit, and get back before they notice.”
Lara smirked, fixing her lip gloss in the reflection of a parked car. “Relax, Mason. We’ve got this. By the time Mom’s finished fussing over the popcorn bowls and Dad’s done quoting the movie, we’ll be back in bed.”
Outside, the party was chaos — strobe lights, Halloween decor, music so loud it felt like the floor was vibrating. Lara’s eyes lit up immediately. “Now this is a party.”
Mason grinned despite himself. “Uncle Topp would be proud.”
Back at the Cameron house, the backyard glow flickered across Catherine’s face as she reached for more popcorn. Ghostface was prowling onscreen, the tension thick, but Catherine’s thoughts drifted upstairs.
“Hey,” she nudged Rafe with her elbow, whispering. “Shouldn’t you check on Mason? He’s been up there for a while.”
Rafe waved her off without looking away from the screen, eyes wide with boyish excitement. “Babe, shh—this is the best part.”
Catherine narrowed her eyes. “Rafe, I get it, he’s probably yelling into a headset right now, but— You don’t think it’s weird he didn’t even grab popcorn?”
Rafe finally glanced at her, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Maybe he’s just sick of your constant nagging about eating popcorn in bed.”
“Excuse me? If it wasn't for me, he'd turn into a pig with those junk you sneak him— You think I don't know about it?” she whispered-shouted, swatting his chest.
But Rafe was already laughing quietly, pulling her closer under his arm. “Relax. He’ll come down. The kid can’t resist food.”
Catherine leaned back, still uneasy. Her gut told her something was off, but Ghostface lunged onscreen again and Rafe jumped like a teenager, muttering “holy shit” under his breath.
Catherine sighed, sinking back into the blanket pile. She’d let him have this one. For now.
Meanwhile, two of their kids were in the middle of the kind of party Catherine and Rafe had sworn they’d never let them near.
Kyle’s Halloween party was everything Mason and Lara hoped it would be. Packed house, music thumping so hard the windows rattled, sweaty kids in costumes grinding against each other, and way too much booze for how many parents thought their kids were at “sleepovers.”
Mason was already living his best life, standing in the kitchen with a red cup in hand, his Anakin Skywalker costume slightly askew from how many shots he’d already downed. A group of older girls had him surrounded, laughing at every dumb thing he said.
One girl, dressed in a one-piece devil bodysuit with horns that glittered in the strobe lights, cocked her head at him. “Are you supposed to be Vader’s son?”
Mason let his eyes travel over her, slow and shameless. He’d seen her around Kook Academy. Definitely a senior. Definitely out of his league. But Mason Cameron had never met a league he didn’t try to play in.
“Vader, actually,” he corrected with a lazy smirk. “Y’know… pre-dark side.”
She laughed, nudging her friend. “I don’t know, actually.”
“I can help with that,” Mason said smoothly, leaning in just enough to make her blush. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”
Another girl — a blonde in angel wings — burst out laughing. “Zoe, you might wanna see the size of his lightsaber before you agree.”
The whole group howled. Mason just tipped back his shot of tequila, ignoring the way his stomach flipped. His dad would murder him if he knew. The one time Rafe caught him drinking a beer with his teammates, he’d nearly cleaned the yacht for a month. Mason didn’t even want to imagine what Rafe Cameron would say about tequila.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight? Tonight he was golden.
His phone buzzed. Lara.
Sibling 2: Water. Now.
Mason smirked, typing back.
Mase: What do I look like, your servant?
Another buzz.
Sibling 2: Mason. Don’t make me come find you.
He rolled his eyes but grabbed a bottle of water from the counter anyway. When he found her in the living room, she was dancing with a group of girls in matching costumes, the kind you pre-ordered. They were screaming the lyrics to whatever was blasting through the speakers, mascara already smudged from sweat.
“Your majesty,” Mason said dramatically, handing her the bottle with a mock bow. “As requested.”
“About time,” Lara said, snatching it. She cracked it open and took a long sip before grinning at him. “Wanna dance with us?”
Mason eyes her girlfriend to pick the prettiest, but he didn’t need convincing. Soon, they were both in the middle of the floor — Lara with her Winx-girl squad, Mason with the seniors who kept tugging him closer.
“C’mon, Skywalker!” someone yelled. “Keg stand time!”
Before Mason could argue, two football players hoisted him up by the legs. He tipped upside down, mouth pressed to the keg nozzle, the crowd cheering him on.
“Go! Go! Go!”
The room roared when he dropped down, wiping his mouth and stumbling forward with his arms thrown up like he’d just won the Super Bowl.
Mason smirked, feeling the burn in his throat. “Baby? I like the sound of that.”
Back on the other side of the room, Lara was shrieking with laughter as one of her friends shouted over the music: “Your brother’s gonna puke all over himself!”
Lara just shook her head, smiling into her drink. If only Dad could see him now. The bass shifted into some throwback pop song, and Lara suddenly gasped mid-dance. “Wait. Oh my God.”
Her friends froze, thinking something was wrong. “What?” one of them yelled over the music.
“We never got a picture in our Winx costumes!” Lara clutched the sleeves of her costume. “What was even the point if we don’t post?”
The girls screamed in agreement, scrambling for their phones. Lara, ever the leader, grabbed the nearest guy standing by the snack table. He was tall, already grinning, clearly thrilled to be chosen.
“Hey,” Lara said sweetly, shoving her phone into his hand. “Take a few of us, please?”
He eagerly took it. “Anything for Mason's sister.”
But Lara had already pulled her girls into formation — all glitter, wings, and teenage hormones. They posed with peace signs, fake kisses, hands on hips. The guy snapped a dozen.
“Okay, hold up,” Lara said, snatching her phone back before he could even offer it. She scrolled through with lightning speed, her friends crowding around her.
“Nope, I look weird in that one. Delete. Ooh, this one’s cute. Okay, these three — perfect.” She tapped them into her favorites and ignored the rest.
The guy leaned closer, still holding his own drink. “So, uh… you really Mason’s sister? ‘Cause, like, you don’t look alike. He’s a pretty boy, but you’re—”
“Thanks,” Lara cut him off without looking up, tucking her phone into her little bag. “Appreciate the pics.”
And just like that, she walked off, her girls squealing behind her.
“Oh my god, Lara, he was totally flirting with you,” one of the girls giggled.
Another nudged her. “And he was kinda cute!”
Lara glanced over her shoulder, catching the guy waving hopefully in her direction. She scrunched her nose. “Not my type.”
“Then what is your type?” one of her friends demanded.
“Not that,” Lara said simply, tossing her hair and diving back into the crowd.
Lara and her girls clustered in the corner of the dance floor, squealing as she tapped through the best three pictures. “Okay, no one post before me,” she ordered, wings glittering under the colored lights. “I have the aesthetic grid.”
The girls nodded obediently, and Lara uploaded a story — all of them smiling, arms thrown around each other in their fairy costumes with the caption “Club Winx🧚✨” and a glitter filter slapped on top. Once it was up, she locked her phone, tossed it in her little crossbody bag, and turned back to the DJ’s beat, hair flying as she screamed the lyrics with her friends.
Meanwhile, across the room, Mason leaned against the counter surrounded by a group of older girls — mostly seniors in skimpy devil and angel costumes. A half-empty shot glass dangled from his fingers.
“So, like…” one of them drawled, eyes narrowed as if testing him, “you’re actually Rafe Cameron’s kid?”
Mason smirked, cocky as hell. “Better. I’m the favorite son and favorite nephew’s favorite. Uncle Topp lets me do shit my dad would murder me for.” He puffed out his chest. “Weed, mostly. I can get you girls some if you want.”
They perked up immediately, laughing and leaning closer. “Uncle Top? That’s your plug?” one of them teased.
“More like my coach,” Mason grinned, ignoring the part where both he and Top had been royally busted when Catherine found he smoked weed. In Mason’s mind, that part of the story didn’t need to exist.
“God, you’re bad,” one girl giggled, sipping her drink.
Mason leaned in closer, flashing the same smirk Rafe once had at his age. “Sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it.”
Back at the Camerons’ house, the backyard air had turned crisp. Maisie was out cold in her little onesie, curled in her pillow fort. Rafe sighed, brushing her hair off her forehead before lifting her carefully into his arms.
“Alright, baby girl,” he whispered, carrying her inside. “Let’s get you to bed before you turn into a popsicle.”
Bradley barely looked up, too busy scrolling through the options on the screen. “We’re doing the second one. The first was good, but everyone knows the sequels are creepier.”
Rafe grunted his agreement as he disappeared inside. Catherine, left alone on the patio, wrapped her cardigan tighter and sat down. Her phone buzzed. A notification.
She frowned. It wasn’t her main account. It was the other one. The burner she kept strictly to follow her kids, knowing damn well they hid things from her. Lara especially was a master of it.
Catherine tapped it open. And sure enough, there it was: Lara’s freshly uploaded story. Glittery caption. Matching costumes. Party lights.
Her stomach dropped.
Rafe had just finished tucking Maisie into bed upstairs when he decided to poke his head into Mason’s room. Catherine had been muttering all night about him being glued to his computer, and maybe—just maybe—Rafe could bribe him down with leftover popcorn. He pushed the door open, already ready with some half-sarcastic line about “League of Legends ruining his brain.”
But the room was dark. Too dark.
The desk chair was empty, the monitor black. The bed was neatly made—like it hadn’t been touched all day. Rafe’s brows drew together, his stomach tightening as he flicked on the light.
“Are you kidding me?” he muttered under his breath, scanning the room as if Mason might’ve somehow blended into the wallpaper. “This kid thinks he’s slick.”
He stormed out into the hallway, grumbling to himself, and stomped down to Lara’s room. If Mason had vanished, chances were he’d dragged his sister into it too. Rafe twisted the knob and pushed inside, prepared to catch both of them in the act.
Instead, he found Lara’s room in perfect order. Bed full, skincare bottles neatly lined on her dresser, outfit hanging on the wardrobe knob like she had planned for tomorrow already. The soft glow of her nightlight hummed in the corner.
Rafe stood in the doorway, scowling. “Damn, kid must’ve gone on his own,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. Mason was reckless, but Lara? Lara would’ve been harder to convince. No way she’d risk her parents' trust and go against their word.
With his jaw tight, he trudged down the stairs and back out to the backyard, muttering curses the whole way. “Thinks he’s so smart… sneaking out like I wouldn’t notice… little shit doesn’t even know how obvious he is.”
Catherine was perched on the blanket nest with Bradley still scrolling through the movie menu beside her. She looked up immediately when she heard Rafe’s heavy footsteps and the annoyed grunt he let out as he dropped back into his seat.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
Rafe dragged a hand through his hair, glaring at nothing. “I went to check if Mason wanted some leftover popcorn. Guess what? Not in his room. Desk empty, bed made—like he planned this shit.” His tone was dark, the kind of voice he used when he was both furious and impressed.
Catherine arched a brow. “And Lara?”
“She’s asleep. At least one of them still listens,” Rafe grumbled. “But Mason—nah. He thinks I don’t know he’s at that damn party.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “Kid doesn’t realize I invented sneaking out for parties. I know every trick in the book.”
Catherine’s lips twitched—not from amusement, but from the bitter irony of it all. Slowly, she lifted her phone and turned it toward him, the screen glowing against the dark night. “You mean… this party?”
Rafe leaned forward. His eyes narrowed on the screen. Lara. In costume. Surrounded by her friends. Glittery caption. Party lights flashing in the background.
For a long moment, Rafe just stood there, jaw working, a muscle ticking in his cheek as if his whole face couldn’t decide if it wanted to be angry or offended.
Finally, he laughed, shaking his head, voice rough. “Nah. She’s asleep. I checked on her,” he argued, his tone almost pleading with himself as much as with Catherine. He needed that to be true. “My little girl wouldn’t go against my word like that.”
Catherine pushed off the blanket pile, her silk nightgown swishing as she stood up. “Did you?”
Rafe blinked at her, caught off guard, looking at her like she’d just accused him of murder. “I mean—yeah. She was under the covers. Her shit was everywhere, outfit for tomorrow picked, lamp turned on—”
Bradley, half-curled over the popcorn bowl, swallowed hard. His palms grew clammy. If they found out he’d covered for Mason… he was dead. He tried to keep his expression neutral, hoping their parents were too wound up to notice him shrinking into the pillows.
“Did you check under the covers?” Catherine pressed, voice sharp now as she started scrolling furiously on her phone. If Lara was stupid enough to post something, she’d find it. And if not? Well, Snapchat always told the truth.
Rafe gawked at her, looking almost scandalized. “Cath, have you heard of privacy? She’s a girl. I’m not about to go digging under her blanket like some kind of creep.”
Catherine rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. She brushed past him toward the house, still thumbing through her phone, the screen glow painting her face cold and determined. “You’re so dramatic,” she muttered under her breath. “Fuck. All her friends unadded me from Snap.”
Rafe trailed after her, brows furrowed. “Wait—you’re still using Snap?”
Bradley let out a tiny sigh of relief, head bowed, as he pulled his own phone from his pocket. Fingers flying, he opened the private sibling group chat:
Brad: Mom and Dad are onto you. Check your phones.
But Mason and Lara’s read receipts never popped up.
Catherine stormed down the hallway, her cardigan swinging behind her, snapping her gum with the kind of agitation only a mom in hunt mode could radiate. “Relax, Rafe. It’s not like I’m using it to cheat on you,” she scoffed, already switching apps. “It’s just handy. I can usually see where Lara and Mase are since they can’t stop themselves from showing off.”
Rafe raised both brows at her like she’d just confessed to a crime. “You’ve been on my ass for months about being ‘psychotic’ because I downloaded that tracking software onto Mason’s phone without telling him. And now?” His voice lifted, incredulous. “Now you’re saying it’s handy?”
Catherine didn’t even look at him, her nails clicking against the screen as she refreshed maps. “Don’t start with me, Rafe. I’ll deal with you later. Right now, I’m finding our kids before they end up drunk in some senior’s basement.”
Rafe shoved his hands onto his hips, muttering under his breath. “Unbelievable. I’m the crazy one, but you’re out here running FBI burner accounts and Snap locations…”
“Shut up,” Catherine snapped, eyes still locked on the screen. “I almost got her—hang on.”
Catherine’s thumb tapped the little map icon, and for a moment, triumph sparked in her chest. Then she groaned, loud and frustrated.
“Ugh, useless,” she muttered, shoving the phone toward Rafe like it had betrayed her. “Lara’s location hasn’t updated in two hours. It still shows her here. At the house.”
Rafe frowned. “Wait. Mason’s shows the same thing?”
“Yeah,” Catherine sighed, rolling her eyes. “It says both of them are at home. So either they’ve figured out how to cheat the system…” She glanced up, lips pressed thin. “…or they stopped bragging about everything.”
Across the yard, Bradley shifted nervously in his seat, the blue glow of his phone lighting up his guilty face. He had been texting non-stop.
Brad: Guys, answer.
Brad: Mom found Lara’s story.
Brad: They’re checking your locations. You’re screwed.
Brad: Mason, seriously, pick up your phone.
But neither of them was looking.
Because in someone else’s kitchen, under string lights and pounding bass, Mason was crushing beer pong with a cocky grin, an empty Solo cup in one hand and the ball in the other. Lara stood beside him, her glittery wings catching the light, pretending to sip from her cup before shoving it into Mason’s chest with a wrinkle of her nose.
“Ew, you can drink that,” she said flatly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Beer tastes like bread water.”
“Maybe try winning then,” Mason smirked, knocking the ball into the last cup on the other side. The crowd cheered, and Lara rolled her eyes, though she was smiling.
Back at the Cameron house, Catherine’s patience had snapped. She spun on her heel, jabbing a finger toward Rafe. “Enough of this. I don’t care if you'll have to drive across the island and drag them out by their costumes—go get my kids.”
Rafe’s whole body was taut with barely contained fury as Catherine snapped the order at him. His jaw worked, grinding teeth, but instead of arguing he pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb already swiping through apps until he landed on the one he wasn’t supposed to have—Mason’s tracker.
A blinking dot lit up the map, nowhere near the Cameron house. Rafe exhaled through his nose, sharp and hot. Got you, you little shit.
Without another word, he strode toward the hanger and grabbed his coat. He didn’t bother changing out of his pajama bottoms and white T-shirt. Catherine’s sharp voice followed him.
“Call me when you find them,” she demanded, arms crossed, cardigan pulled tight around her.
“Oh, I’ll find them,” Rafe muttered, shoving his arms through the sleeves. He still couldn’t believe Lara had done this—his little girl. Not Mason, he expected dumb stunts from Mason. But Lara? With her ballet flats and doe eyes? She’d played him like a violin. And the worst part? He was half impressed. The blanket decoy, the outfit hanging on the wardrobe knob—she’d set up her alibi like a mastermind. Lara wasn’t reckless—she was calculated. Too calculated.
Rafe yanked the door open, cold air rushing inside. “I’ll call,” he said over his shoulder, tone clipped. Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps pounding down the porch steps, the slam of the car door rattling the night.
Inside, Catherine turned back to the glow of the projector, where Bradley sat stiff as a board under his blanket pile. The opening credits of the next movie were rolling, popcorn untouched beside him. His hands twisted nervously in the hem of his hoodie, his face tight with a kind of guilt that screamed louder than the surround sound.
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. She moved closer, crossing her arms as she studied her younger son like a hawk. “Bradley.” Her voice was calm but carried the weight of someone who already knew the answer. “Did you know?”
Brad blinked at her, feigning innocence as he adjusted his glasses. “Know what?”
“That your brother and sister weren’t here,” Catherine pressed, tilting her head, eyes never leaving his face.
Brad cleared his throat, reaching for the remote like he was oh-so-invested in the movie. “Last I saw Mason, he was playing League of Legends.” He said it carefully, like rehearsed lines. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he shrugged. “Did you… check the bathrooms? Maybe he’s showering or something?”
Catherine’s brows rose, unimpressed. She lowered herself onto the edge of the blanket, leaning forward slightly, gaze sharp. “Mason doesn’t shower willingly.”
Brad swallowed hard, but forced a smirk. “Just saying. Could’ve happened.”
But Catherine saw the twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped nervously against his leg.
Catherine didn’t storm, didn’t raise her voice. She’d been a mom long enough to know subtlety worked better than rage, especially with Bradley. Instead, she eased down beside him, close enough that he stiffened under her weight. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his pillow, cutting off his escape route.
Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “You’re a smart kid, Bradley. Smarter than Larw, definitely smarter than Mason.” Her eyes narrowed on him as she tilted her head, studying him like he was a puzzle she just needed to solve. “So why don’t I believe you?”
Bradley kept his eyes glued to the screen where Ghostface was chasing some poor girl through a movie theater. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You don't believe me? W-Why? Mom... did I do something wrong? Is it because of school?” he muttered, soft, the kind of wounded whisper designed to sting.
Catherine frowned, shifting closer. “Bradley…”
“I didn’t do anything,” he rushed out, his voice cracking at the edges. His eyes glistened, and before she could stop herself, Catherine felt her chest tighten. He blinked rapidly, cheeks pink, and when he finally looked at her his gaze was so wide and wet that it was impossible not to see the scared little boy he used to be.
“I don’t like lying, Mom. Don't you know?” he whispered, his lip trembling just enough to sell it. “I just… I don’t want you and Dad mad at me too.”
And just like that, Catherine’s instincts wavered. She was sharp, organized, relentless when it came to her older two, but Bradley knew exactly which strings to pull. His honesty always seemed to come wrapped in innocence, like he was the victim of his siblings’ recklessness, not part of it.
Catherine sighed, leaning back just enough to give him space. Her eyes narrowed slightly—suspicion still lingering—but the guilt on his face, the sheen of tears on his lashes, it all softened her resolve. Maybe he hadn’t known. Maybe Mason and Lara had played him, too.
Brad sniffled, wiping at his eye with his sleeve. “Can we just… watch the movie?” he asked, voice small. “Please?”
Catherine pressed her lips together, torn between pressing harder and letting it go. In the end, she nodded. “Fine.” But her gut twisted—she wasn’t fully convinced.
Meanwhile, Rafe was a storm behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other drumming against it restlessly. His mind spun through every punishment he could throw at Mason: grounding him for a month, taking his phone, cutting his allowance. Hell, he’d even make him do yard work. But none of it felt heavy enough. Mason laughed through punishments like they were jokes.
Then it hit him—like a flicked switch in his brain. The cops. Not for real trouble, but enough to scare the hell out of him. Mason wanted to play adult? Fine. Let him see what adult consequences looked like.
Rafe smirked darkly, already picturing his son’s face when the blue-and-red lights hit the party. He’d let Mason sweat it out overnight at the station, maybe even let him stew in a holding cell until morning. A lesson in humility. Lara, though… his chest tightened. She didn’t belong in that scene. She was still his princess, no matter how well she played him. He could practically see her wide eyes and trembling hands. Maybe he’d go pick her up after a couple hours, let her think she’d barely escaped disaster. Mason? Mason could rot until dawn.
Decision made, he pulled his work phone from his pocket and, without hesitation, dialed. He gave Kyle’s address, his voice sharp but calm. “Underage drinking. Loud music. Looks like half the high school’s there. You’ll want to send someone quick.” Then he hung up, satisfaction curling through him.
As he pocketed the phone, headlights cut across the street ahead. Two kids stumbled along the sidewalk, laughing, one of them wearing the iconic Ghostface mask. Rafe slowed, rolling down his window, that smirk tugging at his mouth as Catherine’s voice echoed in his head: the mask is hot.
“Yo, Ghostface!” he called out.
The masked kid froze, turning toward him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, maybe a couple years younger than Rafe himself. He laughed nervously, probably thinking Rafe was some drunk dad about to make a joke.
But Rafe leaned forward, flipping his wallet open, sliding a crisp hundred-dollar bill free. “I want the mask,” he said simply, waving the bill. “ Don’t need change.”
The kid blinked, then his eyes went wide as he realized Rafe wasn’t joking. His buddy snorted with disbelief, muttering, “Bro, sell it, that’s a hundred bucks.”
And the whole time, Rafe just sat there smirking, imagining Catherine’s face when he walked back into their bedroom later, Ghostface mask in hand, the kids locked down, Maisie asleep, and Bradley with his white noise machine on.
Thirty minutes later, the music cut mid-song, lights still flashing, but the bass died with a horrible scratch at Kyle's house. Then a voice bellowed over the speakers:
“THE POLICE IS HERE! EVERYONE OUT! PARTY’S OVER!”
A wave of panic ripped through the crowd. Teens screamed, cups flew, people shoved toward the back doors and open windows. Lara’s friends clutched at her arms, tugging her toward the exit, but she dug her heels into the floor.
“Lara! We have to go!” one of them cried, wings bending in the rush.
“I’m not leaving without Mason!” Lara snapped, her eyes wild as she spun in place, scanning the sea of bodies.
Her friends groaned in frustration, but Lara had already let go. “Just text me when you get home,” she yelled, ignoring their shouts as she shoved through the chaos.
She grabbed at shoulders, shouting over the stampede. “Have you seen Mason? Anakin Skywalker costume—tall, blonde?”
Some kid in a skeleton mask shouted back, “Upstairs! Think he went with Anna!” before vanishing into the crowd.
Lara’s stomach dropped. Anna. She didn’t even want to know. She bolted for the staircase, dodging stragglers, her wings catching on the banister as she stumbled up the steps. She flung open door after door—bathroom, empty bedroom, closet—until finally, the third door swung wide.
There he was. Mason. On the edge of the bed, lips locked with a girl at least three years older, her devil costume practically falling off her.
“MASON!” Lara barked.
He jerked back, eyes wide, lipstick smeared across his mouth. “Jesus, Lara—”
“No time!” she cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Cops are here. The whole place is getting raided.”
Anna blinked, confused, smoothing her hair. Mason shot her an apologetic grin, then hopped off the bed, yanking his lightsaber prop off the floor. “You’re kidding.”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Lara hissed.
They rushed into the hallway, Mason’s heart pounding in his ears louder from the alcohol. But as they hit the stairs, two uniformed officers were waiting.
“Hold it!” one barked.
“Shit,” Mason muttered, instinct flaring. He grabbed Lara’s hand. “Run!”
They bolted, Mason dragging her down the hall, but they didn’t even make it past the landing before two more cops cornered them. Strong hands caught Mason by the arm, jerking him back.
“Got one!”
“Let me go!” Mason snapped, twisting against the grip.
Lara stepped forward, hands raised, her voice frantic but trying to sound calm. “Wait, wait, it’s not what it looks like! We live down the street, we were just saying hi to our friends, and we were leaving anyway—”
The cop gave her a flat look. “Yeah, that’s what every kid here is saying.”
“It’s true!” Lara insisted, her doe eyes wide, practically glowing with fake innocence. “Our parents know we’re here.”
“I'll need your ID's.”
Beside her, Mason snorted under his breath. “Smooth, Lar. Real smooth.”
The older officer’s gaze narrowed on Mason, nostrils flaring. “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” Mason shot back with a cocky smirk.
Wrong answer. The cop hauled out a breathalyzer and shoved it at him. “Blow.”
Mason froze. “Uh, why…”
“Now,” the cop barked.
Mason exhaled, glaring at Lara like this was somehow her fault, before blowing into the device. The beep was followed by a reading that made both officers exchange looks.
“Busted,” one muttered.
Before they knew it, Mason was being shoved toward the door, Lara caught in the sweep with him.
“Hey! She didn’t even drink!” Mason protested, his voice cracking as the cuffs clicked around his wrists.
“Quiet,” the officer ordered.
“Sir, please,” Lara tried again, her voice trembling now, panic creeping in despite her best performance. “You don’t understand—”
But the next thing they knew, they were being marched across the lawn, past the flashing red and blue lights, the whole neighborhood watching as kids scattered into the dark.
The door of the cop car slammed behind them, cold vinyl sticking to their costumes. Mason groaned, leaning his head back against the seat with a dramatic thud. “Un-fucking-believable.”
Lara hugged her arms tight across her chest, glaring at him. “This is all your fault.”
Mason smirked, despite everything. “Worth it.”
“Worth it?!” Lara screeched. “We’re literally in the back of a cop car!”
“Yeah,” Mason grinned, eyes still glassy from the drinks. “But tell me that wasn’t the best party of the year.”
Lara dropped her face into her hands, groaning. “Dad’s gonna kill us.”
If only they knew their Dad was on cloud nine as he got out of his car. Rafe stepped into the driveway, Ghostface mask dangling from his fingers, headlights from the street glinting off the glossy plastic. He paused, taking in the house—quiet, serene, the only light glowing upstairs in the master bedroom window. A slow smirk tugged at his lips. The kids were handled—at least for the night. Maisie was asleep, Brad tucked away in his own world, and Lara and Mason? Well, the cops had that covered. That left Catherine. Just Catherine.
He walked inside, boots heavy against the hardwood, coat still smelling like cold air. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out, glancing at the caller ID. The station. Perfect timing. He swiped to answer, masking his grin with the smooth, low tone of a man who knew how to lie through his teeth.
“Yeah?… my kids?” He dragged the word out, injecting the right note of disbelief. “Jesus Christ, are you serious?— No, no, I’m out of town right now for work. It’ll take me a minute to get there.” He bit back a laugh, eyes flicking around the living room as if he expected Catherine to overhear. “Yeah, I’ll come down soon. Thanks, officer.” He hung up, teeth flashing in a grin as he slid the phone into his coat pocket.
Rafe stalked toward the back, nudging open the sliding door to peer out at the yard. Empty. No Brad sneaking screen time. No curious eyes. Just the rustle of trees and the quiet hum of cicadas. Good. He tossed his coat on the hook, shook his head once, then took the stairs two at a time.
The mask went back over his face before he pushed the bedroom door open, plastic grinning in the soft lamplight. Catherine was perched against the pillows in her satin nightgown, legs curled, her eyes glued to her phone screen as her thumb flicked furiously. She didn’t even glance up.
“Brad,” she sighed, not missing a beat, “I told you I’m not mad at you. Just go to bed.”
The low chuckle slipped out of Rafe’s throat before he could stop it. He shut the door behind him, locked it with a soft click. Catherine’s head jerked up, brows knitting when she finally registered the mask.
“Rafe,” she exhaled, half relief, half irritation.
He didn’t say a word, just tugged his white tee over his head, muscles flexing under the lamplight. His stomach carved into ridges, shoulders broad, chest dusted in dark hair. He tilted his head, mask still on, waiting for her reaction.
Catherine sat up straighter, phone slipping from her hands. “Where are the kids?” she demanded.
He ripped the mask off in one sharp motion, annoyance flashing across his face. “That’s what you’re asking me right now?” He lifted the mask, gesturing down at himself like she was missing the point. “Christ, Cath. One time I try to do this—just one time—and you kill the mood.”
Her laugh bubbled out despite herself, brows pinching tight. “Rafe—our kids snuck out. I’m not going to play.” She dragged her eyes down his chest anyway, lips twitching. “I mean, you look hot, but—”
“Alright.” His tone shifted, low and dark, cutting her off as he mounted the mask back on. He took slow, heavy steps forward, each one sinking into the carpet. “We’re not gonna play then. Let’s watch a movie.” He tilted his head in that eerie Ghostface way, standing at the edge of the bed now, looming. “What’s your favorite horror movie?”
Catherine swallowed, laughter caught in her throat, her pulse thudding. “You’re insane,” she whispered, but she didn’t lean back—she leaned forward, nightgown slipping against her thighs as she searched his eyes through the mask.
He tilted the mask close, voice muffled, dark with heat. “That’s not an answer.”
Her lips parted, a teasing smirk tugging at her mouth as she finally played along. “Scream.”
Rafe’s chest shook with a quiet laugh, the mask dipping closer until the black mesh eyes were inches from her face. “Good choice,” he murmured. “Guess you already know who the killer is.”
“Do I?” Catherine shot back, her hand lifting—testing—her fingertips grazing the edge of the mask.
He caught her wrist mid-air, grip hot and firm, holding it between them. “Careful,” he warned, voice dripping with challenge. “You forget your place.”
Her smirk deepened. “Do I?”
At the police station. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cramped holding cells. The sour smell of disinfectant mixed with sweat and stale beer clung to the air. Mason slumped against the wall of his cell, legs sprawled out, head tipped back with a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He was drunk—beyond tipsy, full-on tequila-fueled boldness—and the cinderblock walls felt safer than the look he knew his father would give him if Rafe Cameron showed up here tonight.
Across from him, Zach, another boy from the party—senior, shaggy blond hair, still reeking of weed—sat cross-legged on the cot.
“So you play?” Zach asked, tossing the question out casually, like they weren’t sitting in a holding cell waiting for their parents.
Mason rubbed a hand over his face, chuckling. “Yeah, quarterback. Sophomore. Started varsity last season.”
Zach whistled low. “Not bad, little man. You got an arm?”
Mason grinned crookedly, leaning forward. “Strongest in the county. You’ll see when I take state.” His words slurred together, but the pride in his tone was loud.
Meanwhile, Lara was across the hall, gripping the bars of her cell like they were poison. Her glossy lips trembled as she glared at the officer behind the desk.
“Excuse me? Sir? Officer—whatever—you cannot keep me in here. This is ridiculous.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, disgust dripping off every syllable. “I want my phone call. Now.”
“Sit down,” the officer muttered, not even looking up from his paperwork.
“No, you don’t understand!” Lara’s voice pitched higher, panic threading through it. “I need to call my Aunt. She’s an attorney. She’s not gonna let this slide.” She lied, making sure it was loud enough that every officer in earshot could hear. She knew she couldn’t call her parents because she’d get in trouble, so Sarah was the next close thing.
Mason barked out a laugh from his cell, shaking his head. “Lara, sit your ass down. You sound like Maisie when she doesn’t get ice cream.”
“Shut up, Mason!” she snapped, spinning toward him, her voice echoing off the walls. Her eyes darted down at the thin bench in her cell, her nose wrinkling as she lifted the corner of the blanket with two fingers. “Oh my god—what is that? No. No, I can’t do this. I can’t stay in here.”
Zach leaned his head back, snorting at Mason. “Your sister’s kind of a trip, bro.”
Mason smirked, too out of it to care. “You have no idea. She’s the princess. Daddy’s girl. She thinks she’s above all this.” He gestured at the concrete walls, the iron bars, his words dragging with the weight of tequila. “Spoiled and annoying, but I love her, y'know? She's family, I don’t have a choice.”
Lara groaned, yanking at the bars again. “Oh my god, you’re impossible.” She turned back to the officer, her voice honeyed now, almost pleading. “Officer, please. If I could just make one call—to my aunt—it won’t even take a minute. She’ll take care of it. I promise.”
The officer sighed, finally lifting his gaze. “Sit down, young lady, before I add disorderly conduct to your charge.”
Her jaw dropped, eyes wide with outrage. “Charge? Are you kidding me?”
Mason snickered, kicking his foot lazily against the bars. “Better get comfy, Lara. Looks like we’re staying a while.”
Lara shot him a death glare, her nails tapping against the bars. “You’re such an idiot, Mason. Dad’s going to kill you.”
Mason smirked wider, eyes heavy, head falling back against the wall again. “Good thing I’m in here then, huh? Can’t kill me if I’m already locked up.”
Zach laughed, shaking his head. “Yo, you Camerons are wild.”
“Tell me about it,” Mason muttered, eyes fluttering shut, sinking deeper into the comfort of drunken oblivion.
Catherine’s thighs trembled, barely keeping her balance with just her knees digging into the mattress. Rafe held her up like she weighed nothing, one hand locked around her wrists, the other guiding her hips back onto him again and again. The blank ghostface mask stared back from the mirror, and she swore it made every pulse between her legs sharper, hotter.
“Fuck—look at you,” Rafe growled, slamming into her so hard her tits bounced with each thrust. His mask tilted, watching the way her body shuddered. “You like this? You like being ruined by a fuckin’ psycho in a mask?”
Her moan was half answer, half broken sob.
“Say it,” he demanded, landing a hard slap on her ass, the sting blooming across her skin. “Tell me you like it, Catherine.”
“I—I like it,” she gasped, her voice catching as another sharp thrust jolted her forward. Her chest hit the matress for a moment, nipples pebbled against the sheets before he yanked her back by her wrists.
“Yeah, you do,” he snarled. His palm cracked across her ass again, harder this time, watching the red bloom under his handprint. “Your little pussy’s dripping for me—so fuckin’ needy for Ghostface.”
She whimpered, thighs quaking as she tried to hold herself up, but he kept her steady, fucking her like she was weightless. Her reflection was obscene—hair sticking to her damp forehead, tits bouncing wildly with every brutal thrust, eyes glazed as she stared at herself.
“You see that?” Rafe’s voice was ragged now, the mask still grinning its hollow grin in the glass. “That’s my girl. My pretty wife who can’t stop clenching on me. Look at the way you’re falling apart. Look at how good you take it.”
Another sharp smack to her ass made her cry out, and he laughed darkly, grinding in deeper, almost lifting her clean off the bed. “Bet you’ll be thinking about this mask every time I touch you now, huh? Gonna make you beg me to wear it again.”
The cheap plastic mask had started to fog on the inside, his hot breath echoing back against his face with every ragged exhale. It only made his pace rougher, hips snapping forward like he was trying to break her in half. Catherine was a mess in front of the mirror, trembling thighs keeping her barely balanced, her arms pinned mercilessly behind her back.
The sight of that faceless mask looming over her in the reflection made her clench around him so hard she could barely breathe. It wasn’t Rafe’s face she saw—it was Ghostface bending her in half, pounding into her until her tits bounced against her chest like he owned every inch of her.
“Fuck, you’re sick,” Rafe panted, his voice muffled through the mask, sounding more unhinged for it. “Getting off on this— bent over like a whore for a killer.”
Her whimper cracked into a moan when his hand came down on her ass again, the sting sharp enough to make her buck forward.
“Don’t run from it,” he snarled, jerking her back into place. “Take it. Take it like my good little slut.”
Her knees slid an inch on the sheets, and she cried out, trying to steady herself, but he only drove in harder, lifting her hips higher until she was practically hanging in the air, wrists burning in his grip.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, sweat dripping down his temples beneath the suffocating plastic. His chest heaved, breath loud and heavy, the mask making it sound like some perverse monster breathing down her neck. “You fuckin’ love it. You love when I use you like this, don’t you?”
“Yes—yes, I love it,” Catherine choked out, her eyes glued to the mirror. Her reflection was humiliating—makeup smudged, mouth slack, body jolting with every thrust—and she couldn’t look away.
“That’s my girl,” he growled, his voice wrecked. His hips smacked against her with brutal rhythm, each thrust punctuated by the obscene slap of skin on skin. “My good girl…my little wife. You’re perfect—fuck—you’re perfect for me.”
Her thighs shook harder, threatening to give out, but he held her up, forcing her to stay open for him. Another smack to her ass made her squeal, her whole body jerking as the sting blended with the ache between her legs.
“You’re dripping all over me,” he gritted, his pace vicious.
She let out a strangled moan, forehead pressing to the mirror as her body quaked. The mask’s blank eyes stared back at her, the white plastic shining with a sheen of sweat and fog from his breath, and it made her pulse pound even harder.
Rafe groaned behind it, breath ragged, almost animalistic now. “Shit—you’re gonna make me lose it. Keep lookin’ at yourself. Don’t you dare look away.”
The bed rocked beneath them, the whole room filled with the sound of flesh, of breath, of the mask squeaking slightly against his sweat-soaked skin.
Her arms gave out the second he released her wrists. Catherine collapsed forward, chest pressed to the mattress, face tilted toward the mirror. Through her lashes, she caught the reflection—her hair plastered to her damp cheeks, mouth slack, and behind her, the towering figure of Rafe still buried in her.
He groaned low, the sound muffled by the mask as he dragged his palm over her ass. Red handprints bloomed across her skin, raw from his spanking. He rubbed them like he was admiring his work, then shoved her hips forward a little, cock slipping free with a wet drag that made them both gasp. A string of slick clung between them, glistening in the dim light.
“Fuck…” he muttered, eyes glued to the way her ruined cunt throbbed, still gaping around nothing. For a second, the thought flickered—how easy it would be to shove into her asshole, take her completely, split her open until she cried. His cock twitched at the idea, but the sweat pooling under the mask made him growl in frustration, chest heaving like he was suffocating. Too hot. Too tight.
“That sweet ass'd have to wait, baby,” he rasped, giving her ass a sharp slap that sent her squealing into the mattress. “But you’d take it, wouldn’t you? You'd take anything I give you.”
Before she could answer, he pushed back into her pussy in one brutal thrust. Catherine whimpered, the sound breaking in her throat as her body clenched around him like she never wanted to let go.
“Goddamn,” he groaned, pounding into her harder now, the mask squeaking against his sweat-soaked skin with each ragged breath. His chest burned, lungs screaming, but he couldn’t stop. The suffocating heat of the plastic only pushed him closer to the edge.
Her whimpers grew louder, more desperate, and when he finally tore the mask off, Catherine’s head snapped up at the sight of him in the mirror. His short hair was a mess, sticking up with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, sweat dripping from his forehead to his jaw. His eyes—clear, unmasked—were locked on her.
“Shit, baby,” Rafe panted, fucking into her harder, the bed creaking under their weight. “Look at how you squeeze me just from seeing my face. You like that better than the mask, huh?”
Her walls clamped down on him so tight it knocked the breath out of his chest. He laughed, almost delirious, voice rough and wild. “Yeah, you do. My filthy little wife, all it takes is one look at me, and you’re ready to break.”
His pace turned brutal, relentless, his hips snapping into her ass so hard the sound cracked through the room. Catherine’s nails clawed at the sheets, her cries raw and needy, her whole body trembling like it couldn’t take another second.
“Fuck, Catherine—” Rafe’s voice dropped into a growl, his forehead damp with sweat as his eyes rolled back. “You’re milking me—shit—you’re gonna make me cum, baby…”
Her whimper hitched, high and broken, and that was it. He slammed deep and stayed there, cock pulsing as he spilled inside her, groaning loud enough to shake the walls. His hands grabbed her ass, spreading her open to watch it leak out around him, the mess dripping down her thighs.
“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his thumb through the cum already sliding out. He smeared it up over her swollen pussy lips, pushed it back in just to watch her shudder and cry out. “Look at this mess. My good wife…made for me. You’ll wear it for me, won’t you?”
Catherine nodded weakly, face pressed to the mattress, tears streaking down her cheeks as she whimpered at the overstimulation. Her cunt fluttered helplessly around his cock as he lazily pumped back into her, spreading the wet heat of his release deeper.
“Yeah,” Rafe muttered, still breathless, sweat dripping from his brow onto her back. He gave her one last sharp slap on her ass, watching the handprint bloom even brighter. “That’s my girl. Milk me, baby.”
Rafe didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried inside her, grinding his hips forward as if he could force his cum deeper. Each lazy thrust pushed more of his mess out, slicking her thighs, staining the sheets. When he finally did drag his cock free, it left her gaping, dripping, and he couldn’t resist slamming back into her again, chasing the wet sound it made when his release spilled out a second time.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, pulling back once more only to stuff her full again, filling her until it leaked around the base of his cock. “You’re so messy for me. My own little cum dump.”
Catherine whimpered into the sheets, her body quaking with every push. She couldn’t even tell if she was begging him to stop or begging for more—the words slurred together into soft cries of his name.
Rafe dragged his cock free, watching the thick spill of white slide out of her swollen cunt. He rubbed the head against her folds, smearing it in, groaning at the way she twitched. “Never seen anything prettier,” he muttered, slapping his cock lightly against her clit just to hear her squeal.
He pushed her hip, hauling her limp body onto her back, grabbed her ankle suddenly and pulling her close to spread her open in front of him. Her thighs trembled as he shoved them apart, one hand keeping her ankle pinned high, the other tracing down the slick mess between her legs.
“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes dark and wild. Her cunt was puffy, pink, dripping cum in obscene rivulets down her ass. He spat on it anyway, spit sliding over her folds and mixing with the mess already there. She gasped, head thrashing side to side.
“You don’t even need lube,” he said, voice low and mocking. He pressed two fingers inside without warning, then shoved a third in to the knuckle. Catherine’s back arched violently, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.
“Rafe—fuck—”
Her cunt squeezed around his fingers, so swollen and overstimulated she didn’t know if she was coming or crying. Her nails clawed at the sheets, legs shaking in the air.
“That’s it,” he rasped, curling his fingers deep, pumping them into her until her stomach clenched. “Cry my name.”
Her walls clamped down, fluttering so hard he could feel her break apart again, another orgasm tearing through her raw body. Tears streaked her cheeks as she sobbed his name, voice wrecked.
Rafe’s cock twitched at the sight, only half hard but straining as he wrapped his free hand around it. He stroked himself slow, groaning as his eyes stayed locked on her ruined, fluttering cunt stretched around his fingers.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pumping himself harder, eyes glazed with lust. “Just look at you. Don’t even know if it hurts or if it feels good, do you?” He slammed his fingers in deeper, thumb circling her clit until she screamed. “That’s my fuckin’ girl. Falling apart just for me.”
Her body bowed off the bed, thighs quaking, while Rafe stroked his cock faster, his eyes devouring every twitch, every cry, every tremor that ripped through her.
Rafe’s pace on her cunt grew merciless, three long fingers pistoning in and out until Catherine was writhing beneath him. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand working her open filled the room, and her head thrashed on the pillow, sweat gluing strands of hair to her flushed face. Her voice cracked, a broken cry of his name tearing free as she clenched around him and came again, her whole body shaking violently with the force of it.
Her slick drenched his hand, running down his wrist, and only made him groan harder. His cock throbbed in his other hand as he dragged it against the inside of her trembling thigh, smearing precum across her skin while he stroked himself rough and fast. His hips jerked with every tug, desperate groans spilling from his chest.
“Fuck, baby,” he panted, voice ragged, “you’re so wet for me—making a mess all over my hand.”
Catherine’s eyes were glassy, lashes heavy with tears, but her trembling hand reached down between her legs anyway. When he spilled against her thigh, hot spurts of cum marking her skin, she whimpered. “You’re wasting it,” she whispered hoarsely, voice cracked but sure. “You’re supposed to fill me, Ray.”
Her manicured fingers gathered his release where it dripped down her thigh, pushing it back inside her swollen, agape cunt. The sight nearly undid him again. Her eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as she moaned, shoving her fingers deep until she stretched herself wide, the cum coating every knuckle.
Rafe leaned back on his heels, chest heaving, watching her through half-lidded eyes. His whole body glistened with sweat, muscles taut and shining in the low light, his cock still half-hard and heavy in his hand. Every twitch of her body, every whimper from her lips, sent another pulse of heat down his spine.
“You’re fucking unreal,” he rasped, his voice somewhere between reverence and obsession. He stroked himself slowly now, savoring the sight of her cunt swallowing her own fingers, slick dripping down to the sheets. Catherine panted, her body spent, but still she pushed her hand deeper, arching her back in desperation, too far gone to stop even though she looked ready to collapse.
Rafe’s breath came in sharp, broken pants. He couldn’t resist anymore. He crawled forward, muscles rippling under the sheen of sweat, until his chest pressed against hers. Her nipples were hard and slick, rubbing against his skin as he captured her open mouth in a messy, heated kiss. Their teeth clashed, tongues tangling, her moans swallowed down by his lips.
His cock brushed her hand as she fingered herself, the thick weight of him dragging over her knuckles, smearing more of his cum across her skin. He groaned into her mouth at the contact, rutting forward just enough to let her feel how hard he still was.
“God, Cath,” he murmured against her lips, voice trembling with need, “you’re going to fucking kill me.”
Her fingers stuttered inside her, but he grabbed her wrist and shoved them deeper, making her arch with a sharp cry. He kissed her again, rough and desperate, his cock pressing against her soaked palm as if demanding attention. Every inch of her was wrecked, trembling, stretched and slick, but the sight of her falling apart like this only drove him further into madness.
Her trembling hand slid down his slick, hard length, guiding him where she needed him most. Their eyes locked in for a heartbeat—his wild, glassy and feral, hers blown wide with exhaustion and hunger—and then she pushed his cock into her swollen, dripping cunt.
They moaned in unison, the sound raw and desperate, like two people who’d been starving for years. Catherine’s back arched as she sank him inside, and her other hand trailed up the ridges of his abs, over his heaving chest, until it curled around the back of his neck. She tugged his sweaty hair hard, pulling his face closer, forcing him to look right into her ruined expression as he began to thrust.
Drool slipped from the corner of her lips, running down her chin, and Rafe groaned at the sight, his panting almost animalistic.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he rasped, his voice breaking with exhaustion and need, “look at you—fucking drooling for me, can’t even hold yourself together.”
Her moan shook through her, fingers yanking at his hair like she’d drown without him. He pushed deep, slow, every roll of his hips measured, dragging against her walls until she shuddered.
“You’re so fuckin’ good for me,” he whispered, praise slurring into filth as his mouth brushed her ear. “My perfect wife. My tight little wife. Always so ready for me to knock you up again, huh?”
“Yes,” Catherine whimpered, nails biting into his scalp. “Don’t waste it this time. Fill me, Rafe. Give me everything.”
He groaned, head tipping back for a moment, before he leaned over her again. His palm, pressed into the mattress beside her head for balance, suddenly slipped on the sweat-damp sheets, and his whole body collapsed onto her smaller frame.
The weight crushed her into the bed, his body heat smothering, his chest heavy on hers. Catherine gasped, teeth sinking into his shoulder as the pressure stole her breath. But she didn’t stop him. She arched into it, into him, her legs trembling as he kept rolling his hips deep, grinding his cock into her until the wet sounds filled the dark room.
“Fuck—bite me harder,” he growled, groaning when her teeth sank into his skin. “Mark me. Let everyone see who I belong to.”
Her nails dug into his back, dragging over his slick muscles, and he shivered at the sting.
“You like that, don’t you?” he panted into her ear, hips still pushing deep and slow. “Like being under me, crushed by me, bred by me.”
Her body answered before her lips did—tightening, fluttering, sucking him in like she couldn’t get enough.
“Rafe,” she cried, broken and desperate, “I love you—I love your cock, I love when you’re inside me—”
“Say it again,” he snarled, pushing so deep her body bowed under him. “Say it while I’m fucking you.”
“I love you—God, I love you, please, don’t stop—”
His mouth crashed onto hers, teeth and tongue and hunger, her drool smeared between them as their kiss turned sloppy and frantic. His cock dragged inside her with brutal, aching slowness, every inch sinking deep as if he were carving himself into her body.
“You’re mine,” he muttered against her lips, voice raw. “Always mine. My wife, my perfect little cum slut. Gonna fuckin’ breed you until you’re dripping for me for days.”
“Yes,” she moaned, tugging his hair so hard he groaned. “Fill me, Rafe—please, fill me again.”
His hips stuttered, his forehead pressed to hers, their sweaty bodies tangled and shaking. He couldn’t look away from her face—even ruined, even crying, even drooling—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And she was his. He still couldn't believe it. Even after all of these years,
"'M the luckiest husband alive."
Mason sat cross-legged on the floor of his shared cell, tossing a balled-up napkin toward the corner like it was a football. Zach leaned back against the wall, smirking.
“Man, this is nothin’,” Zach said, stretching his arms out. “Got tossed in here twice last year. One time for sneakin’ weed for Mr. Leeroy. Chill.”
Mason chuckled, though it came out sluggish and thick. “Yeah, no, I'm fine. Just another Tuesday,” he slurred, shaking his head. “Just another locker room, except, y’know, concrete walls and no showers.”
“Yeah, no coach yellin’ either,” Zach quipped.
“Exactly.” Mason let his head tip back, grinning lazily. “Coach would love this, though.”
Meanwhile, across the hall, Lara had both hands wrapped around the bars, glaring daggers at the nearest officer. Her glossy hair was mussed from running her fingers through it, and her nose wrinkled every time she glanced at the dingy cot in her cell.
“Excuse me!” she snapped. “You cannot keep me in here. I’m calling my aunt. Right now. I know my rights. You have to let me make a phone call.”
The officer didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “Sit down.”
“I’m not sitting down,” Lara fired back, her chin jutting out stubbornly. “Do you even know who my family is? My father is Rafe Cameron. He’ll have you fired before breakfast.”
Mason snorted, elbowing Zach. “She pulls the Dad card every time she doesn’t get what she wants.”
“Shut up, Mason!” Lara screeched, whipping her head toward him. “This isn’t funny!”
Zach laughed, shaking his head. “Your sister’s something, bro.”
“She’s dramatic,” Mason corrected, smirking. “Always has been. She cried once ‘cause Starbucks spelled her name wrong.”
“I did not!” Lara barked, turning back to the officer. “Officer, listen to me. I’m a minor. I have rights. And I demand my phone call.”
Finally, the officer sighed and glanced up, clearly fed up. “Relax, princess. We already called your father.”
The color drained from Lara’s face. Her hands slipped from the bars, her lips parting in horror. “You what?”
Her voice cracked, thin and fragile. “You what?”
For the first time in her twelve years, Lara cursed. “Oh, shit.”
Mason sat up straighter, his stomach twisting violently. “Wait, wait, wait.” His smirk fell. “You called my dad?”
The words were barely out before his body gave up on him. He leaned over to the side of the cell, retching hard, tequila and cheap beer splattering the concrete. Zach jumped back, cursing, while Mason groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Bro, gross,” Zach muttered, pulling his shirt up over his nose.
Across the hall, Lara’s face contorted, eyes watering as the stench hit her. “Oh my god, Mason! Are you kidding me?”
She pressed her hands to her nose, pacing frantically in her tiny cell. “Dad’s gonna—he’s gonna—” Her voice cracked again, tears stinging her eyes. She could see it: her father’s disappointed look, the way his jaw would clench when he realized his princess had lied to his face.
“He told me no,” Lara whispered, horrified. “He told me no and I—” Her throat bobbed, and she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against the cold metal bars.
Now she was trapped in a cell that reeked of vomit, her father on his way, and no amount of doe-eyed excuses would save her from this one.
The room still smelled like sex and sweat, the Ghostface mask glaring from its place on the nightstand like some mocking reminder of what they’d just done. Catherine lay sprawled beneath the sheets, her silk nightgown rucked up around her thighs, Rafe’s bare body pressed hard against her side. One of his hands was cupping her breast lazily through the thin fabric, the other tucked under his head as though the world was quiet and nothing was wrong.
Catherine shifted, her voice quiet but edged. “Rafe.”
He hummed, half-distracted, nuzzling the curve of her neck.
“Where are the kids? You have to tell me at some point.”
That snapped him out of his haze. His eyes flew open, brows jerking up like he’d just been doused with cold water. He blinked, stilled, then tried to bury his face against her skin again like maybe she’d let it go.
She didn’t.
“Don’t do that,” Catherine warned, her hand pushing at his chest. “Come on. Are they in their beds? Or did you drop them at Sarah’s because I wouldn’t be able to control my anger? I'm fine, I don’t have any anger in me anymore... Just tell me.”
His throat worked, a dry swallow, before he carefully pulled his hand from her chest and rolled away. He sat up at the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand down his face, voice so low she almost didn’t catch it. “They’re…at the police station.”
Catherine shot upright, her nightgown falling back into place as her eyes widened in shock. “Excuse me?”
Rafe stood, moving into the walk-in closet like a man retreating from a battlefield, reaching for a clean pair of boxers. Catherine followed, her bare feet silent against the hardwood but her voice sharp enough to cut through his back.
“You’re telling me—” She paused, disbelief coloring every word. “—that the cops took our kids and you didn’t think to mention it? Not before, not during—oh my god, Rafe.”
He stepped into his boxers, running both hands through his damp hair. Now that he thought about it, maybe letting the cops haul them off hadn’t been the smartest call. Not with Catherine finding out like this, not when her fury made the air between them vibrate.
“I was gonna fix it,” he muttered. “I’ll go get Lara.”
“She’s a kid,” Rafe shot back, finally turning toward her. “She doesn’t belong in a damn holding cell. Mason—” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Mason could use a night there. Maybe then he’d learn to listen to me.”
Catherine’s face turned red, fury igniting her veins. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” She yanked one of her coats off the hanger beside her, sliding her arms into it with shaking hands. “Our son is fifteen, Rafe! He’s not some criminal—he’s a stupid teenager who snuck out to a party. You don’t leave him in a cell to ‘teach him a lesson.’”
Rafe stepped closer, trying to soften his tone, even leaning in to kiss her temple. “Cath, come on—”
She shoved him back, glaring. “Do not touch me right now.”
His jaw worked, frustration clawing at him. “You’re too soft on him. You always have been. That kid runs circles around you.”
“And you’re too fucking strict!” she snapped, shoving past him toward the closet door. “What’s next? Make him do time with murderers at county lockup? Maybe that’ll teach him respect?”
“Don’t be dramatic—”
“I’m going to pick up our kids,” she cut in, her voice like steel.
Rafe narrowed his eyes, confused, almost mocking. “What?”
She spun on him, coat half-zipped, eyes blazing. “To pick up Mason. Both of them. Because apparently one of us still has their head on straight.”
She stormed across the room, her nightgown clinging to her thighs, one strap slipped dangerously low on her shoulder. Rafe, still half-naked, yanked on a pair of sweats, his voice sharp.
“Baby, you are not walking out like that.” He grabbed a hoodie off the closet chair, pulling it over his head. “You’re in a damn nightgown. What are you gonna do, flash the whole precinct while you scream at cops?”
“I don’t care if I walk in naked!” Catherine snapped, her fingers digging into her coat zipper until it closed halfway. “My kids are sitting in a cell right now because his father thought it would be fun to play punishment games instead of parenting!”
“It wasn’t a game,” Rafe barked, stepping into her path. “I told you—I’ll get Lara. Mason can sweat it out for one night. Tomorrow after work, I’ll go pick him up.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Tomorrow? After work? Rafe, he’s a kid! He’s scared, and you’re just gonna let him rot?”
Rafe’s jaw tightened. He shoved his feet into sneakers, tugging the laces with more force than necessary. “He’ll live. Better he’s in a cell than passed out in some stranger’s bed with a bottle in his hand.”
“Mason wouldn't— You are unbelievable.” Catherine’s voice cracked, equal parts rage and hurt. She spun toward the dresser, snatching her car keys.
Rafe lunged forward, catching her wrist. “Baby. Stop. You’re not thinking straight.”
She ripped her arm away. “The only one not thinking straight is you!”
Her bare legs carried her fast down the hall, the faintest hitch in her step betraying the ache between her thighs from the rough way he’d just had her. Rafe cursed under his breath, grabbed his wallet, and bolted after her.
“Catherine!” His voice boomed down the stairwell. “Don’t you walk out on me like this, baby!”
She ignored him, hitting the foyer in long strides, her hair a mess, her coat flaring around her. She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of shoes, wincing slightly as she bent, then stormed out the front door.
By the time Rafe hit the garage, she was already sliding into her car. He yanked the handle. Locked. He banged his palm against the window.
“Open the door.” His voice was sharp, commanding.
Catherine rolled it down an inch, eyes like fire. “Get out of my way, Rafe.”
“You’re not going dressed like that—”
“I said move!” She slammed the car into reverse.
“Fuck!” Rafe spat, stumbling back as her headlights washed over him. He sprinted to his own car, throwing himself into the driver’s seat, muttering curses under his breath. “Goddamn woman’s gonna kill me.”
Engines roared almost in sync as both cars shot down the quiet street. Catherine gripped the wheel so tightly her knuckles whitened, jaw clenched, heart pounding. Her phone lit up in the cup holder, vibrating against the plastic.
Rafe was calling.
She swore under her breath and hit decline.
The phone rang again. Decline. Again. Decline.
On the fourth try, she answered with a snarl. “What?”
“You better turn that car around,” Rafe’s voice thundered through the speaker. “Go home, Catherine. I swear to god, if you step foot in that station dressed like that—”
“Then what?” she shot back. “You gonna ground me too? Lock me in a fucking cell until I ‘learn a lesson’?”
“Don’t fucking joke,” he snapped. “This isn’t a game, Cath. You walk in there looking like you just rolled out of bed—looking like you just got fucked—and every cop in there’s gonna see—”
Her eyes flicked to the rearview, catching the glow of his headlights tailing her. “Maybe they’ll see a mother who gives a damn about her kids. Can you imagine that?”
He growled low, like she’d sucker punched him. “You think I don’t care? I care enough to make sure Mason doesn’t turn into a goddamn screw-up. You keep coddling him, he’ll never learn.”
“And you think throwing him in a cell makes you father of the year?” Catherine’s voice broke. “He’s our baby, Rafe. Our first. And you left him there.”
For a second, silence filled the line, just the sound of their engines humming down the dark road. Then he muttered, softer but no less raw, “You’re too soft. That boy’s gonna eat you alive.”
“Better that than him hating you,” she hissed, slamming the phone down into the passenger seat.
The two cars pulled into the police station lot at the same time, tires squealing. Catherine killed her engine, yanked the keys out, and threw open the door. She limped slightly as she stormed toward the entrance, coat flapping. Rafe pulled in beside her, slamming his door so hard the echo carried across the asphalt.
“Catherine!” he barked, striding after her. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”
But she didn’t turn, didn’t slow. All she saw was the glowing sign above the precinct doors, the thought of her kids sitting behind cold bars gnawing at her chest. And Rafe’s footsteps heavy behind her, his presence like a shadow, his fury trailing her every move.
The glass doors of the police station swung open with a violent shove as Catherine stormed in, coat pulled tight around her, bare legs flashing beneath it. The fluorescent lights were blinding after the dark drive, but she didn’t falter—her voice cut across the lobby like a blade.
“Mason and Larissa Cameron. I want to see my kids. Now.”
A desk officer looked up from his paperwork, blinking at the woman standing there in nothing but a coat and flats, her hair still mussed from the bedroom, eyes blazing.
“Ma’am—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” Catherine snapped, stepping up to the counter and slapping her hand against it. “Two minors. Cameron. Mason and Lara Cameron. You put them in a cell like criminals, and I want to see them.”
Behind her, the glass doors hissed open again. Rafe walked in, slower, controlled, his presence filling the room as though he owned it. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on Catherine as though daring her to keep going.
“Catherine,” he said low, warning in his tone. “Calm down.”
She spun on him, eyes sharp. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down when you’re the reason they’re in here.”
That caught the officer’s attention. He sat up straighter. “Sir—do you have identification?”
Rafe plastered on his best poker face, pulling his wallet from his pocket and flipping it open. “Yeah. I’m their father.” He slid his license across the counter with a charm that came too easily, the kind that had always pissed Catherine off. “Got a call they were here. Just came back into town.”
“Back into town?” Catherine scoffed. “You’ve been here the whole damn time—”
“Cath.” His tone was sharp, cutting her off. “Not. Here.”
Her nostrils flared, but she turned back toward the officer. “Where are they? I want to see them.”
The officer looked between them, uncertain. “They’re minors, so—”
“Exactly,” Catherine cut in, leaning forward. “Which means keeping them locked up like this without notifying both their parents is illegal. Do you even know how old my daughter is? She’s twelve!”
“She’s fine,” Rafe muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Catherine rounded on him again. “Fine? She’s in a cell! She’s never even stayed after curfew before, and you think she’s fine?”
That earned her a few curious stares from officers across the lobby. Rafe’s teeth clenched. He stepped in close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “Drop your voice, Catherine. Right now.”
“I won’t,” she shot back, chin high, defiant.
The officer cleared his throat. “Ma’am, sir—if you’d like, I can bring them up front. But they’re still under processing—”
“Bring them. Now,” Catherine ordered, fire in her eyes.
The officer sighed and stood, disappearing through the secured door.
Rafe’s hand shot out, gripping Catherine’s wrist before she could slam her hand on the desk again. His fingers were firm but not cruel, his voice a quiet growl. “You need to get yourself under control. You’re walking in here with your hair all messed up, limping like I just—”
Her eyes widened, heat flooding her cheeks. “Shut up.”
He smirked, wicked and unbothered. “Everyone can see it, Cath.”
She yanked her wrist free, furious, whispering back through clenched teeth, “If they weren’t already judging us, they sure as hell are now.”
Before Rafe could answer, the side door buzzed open and two officers appeared—one holding Mason by the arm, the other steering Lara forward. Mason looked pale and sweaty, his shirt stained from where he’d thrown up, his eyes glassy. Lara’s chin was high, but her eyes darted anxiously to her mother.
“Mom!” Lara called, rushing forward, only to be stopped by the officer’s hand.
Catherine’s heart cracked in two. She stretched her arms out anyway, her voice trembling. “It’s okay, baby, I’m right here.”
Rafe’s expression hardened as he looked at Mason, who was struggling to stay upright. His voice came out like steel. “You better hope I don’t ground you until graduation.”
Catherine snapped her head toward him, fury in her gaze. “Not. One. Word.”
Mason groaned, clutching his stomach. “I’d rather go back in the cell.”
Lara rolled her eyes, though tears shimmered. “Can we please just go home?”
The tension in the station was unbearable, the officers watching with thinly veiled curiosity as the Camerons stood off against each other, every word crackling like static.
Rafe got handed paperwork. The fluorescent lights of the station still buzzed in Catherine’s head as she crouched in front of her kids while Rafe filled out the documents at the desk. Her coat had slipped off one shoulder, hair messy, but she didn’t care—her eyes were locked on Mason’s pale face.
“Mason, look at me,” she said, her voice firm but low. His eyelids drooped, and he swayed slightly against the wall. “How much did you drink?”
“Not… a lot,” Mason mumbled, his breath sour with alcohol. “Just some shots. And… beer. And—”
“Jesus Christ,” Catherine muttered, running her hand down her face. “You’re fifteen.”
“I’m fine,” Mason tried to grin, but it faltered. His stomach clenched, and he gagged before swallowing hard.
“You don’t look fine.” Catherine’s brows pinched together as she brushed sweaty strands of hair from his forehead. “You’re clammy. You could’ve gotten alcohol poisoning, Mason. Do you even understand that?”
Lara stood off to the side, her arms crossed, her fairy wings bent from the scuffle earlier. “Mom, don’t start. It's embarrassing enough.”
Catherine turned sharply to her. “Embarrassed is not the same as dead, Lara. He could’ve choked on his own vomit tonight.” Her voice cracked, and she sucked in a breath, forcing herself to steady. “You both could’ve gotten hurt. You lied to us. Do you have any idea how scared I was when I saw your story?”
Lara shifted guiltily, chewing on her lip, but stayed silent.
Behind them, Rafe slapped the pen down on the counter, muttering something under his breath as he straightened. The officer slid his ID back across the desk, and Rafe shoved it into his pocket before stalking toward them.
“Done,” he grunted. “Let’s go.”
Catherine stood, one hand on Mason’s back to steady him.
Outside, the night air was cool, sharp against their skin as they stepped into the parking lot. Rafe’s car was parked directly behind Catherine’s, and he tossed his keys in his hand.
“Get in my car,” he said firmly, opening the back door of his truck. “I’ll bring your mom’s car tomorrow.”
Catherine didn’t move. Her hand tightened protectively on Mason’s shoulder. “No,” she said flatly. “You should go book yourself a hotel room, Rafe. Come home tomorrow.”
Mason’s head snapped up despite his dizziness, eyes wide. “Wait—what?” He looked between them, realization dawning. His mother wasn’t screaming at him, wasn’t unleashing her usual lecture—because she was mad at his father. “Oh my God. You fucked up.”
“Shut up, Mason,” Lara hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him toward their mother’s car. “Don’t make it worse.”
“But—”
“Mason.” Lara’s tone cut sharper than Catherine’s ever did tonight. “Shut. Up.”
The kids slid into Catherine’s car without hesitation, Mason slumping against the window, Lara buckling her seatbelt with trembling hands. Rafe stood frozen by his truck, watching. The sting of it hit him hard—not even Lara, his girl, had chosen him. His chest tightened, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself toward his driver’s seat.
As Catherine started the car, Rafe’s headlights flicked on behind them. Her phone buzzed on the console. His name lit up the screen.
She ignored it.
In the backseat, Mason groaned. “Mom, we were gonna come home, I swear. We were literally about to leave when the cops showed up. I didn’t even know why they came.”
Catherine gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white. The words hovered on the tip of her tongue: your father was going to live you here. But she swallowed them back like poison. The kids didn’t need to know—not tonight, not when Mason was green in the face and Lara was still trembling.
“You were going to come home,” Catherine repeated, her tone sharp. “After lying to us. After sneaking out. After drinking yourself sick?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Mason insisted, voice cracking. “It’s not like I planned to—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Catherine snapped, finally glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “You planned every detail. You thought you were smarter than us. Do you even realize what you risked? What you put your sister through?”
Mason slumped in his seat, too drunk to muster much of an argument, but before he could even stammer out a defense, Lara straightened.
“It wasn’t just Mason,” she blurted, her voice trembling but strong. “It wasn’t. The sneaking out? That was my idea. I told him we could make it work.”
Catherine’s brows knit together, her jaw tightening. “So you both lied to me. You both risked yourselves like this?” Her tone wavered between fury and heartbreak, like she was pulling herself back from exploding. She sucked in a breath and shook her head. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Right now, I’m too mad, and if I start, I’ll break your hearts—and I don't want to do that tonight.”
Silence swallowed the car after that. Only Catherine’s ringtone broke through, again and again, Rafe’s name flashing across the screen. She ignored it every single time.
When they finally reached the house, Catherine killed the engine, her movements brisk. “Inside,” she hushed, holding the door open for Mason, who staggered slightly. Lara slipped past, head down, clutching her bag to her chest.
Rafe pulled in behind them, and he climbed out, his expression unreadable under the streetlight. Catherine didn’t look at him. She couldn’t—not right now.
Mason mumbled, “I’m going to my room,” already dragging himself toward the stairs.
“I’m showering and going to bed,” Lara added quickly, disappearing down the hallway before Catherine could respond.
That left Catherine walking in the kitchen, pulling open the cabinet for Tylenol, filling a glass of water with one hand. The hum of the fridge was the only sound until she felt Rafe’s presence at her back.
“Baby,” his voice was low, rough.
She spun, medicine bottle in hand, eyes flashing. “Don’t. Not right now.”
Rafe’s jaw ticked. “We need to talk. You act like I had bad intentions. I didn’t. I was trying to teach Mason a lesson. Lara too.”
“By leaving them in a cell?” Catherine’s voice shot higher, but she quickly lowered it, not wanting to wake Maisie or Bradley. “You were getting your dick wet while our kids were behind bars, Rafe. Do you even hear yourself?”
His nostrils flared. “I wasn’t—Jesus, Cath. That’s not what it was. I didn’t mean harm. Opposite of harm. They need to understand consequences. They sneak out, they drink underage? They need to feel how bad it can get.”
Catherine set the water down hard on the counter, the sound sharp. “They already felt it! They were terrified. They’ll remember this. But if you keep pushing like this—if you keep being the boogeyman instead of their dad—they’ll just find other ways to sneak out. They’ll hide it better. And then we won’t know where they are or who they’re with. And that’s more dangerous, Rafe.”
Her voice cracked, the fear beneath the anger finally spilling through. “We can ground them, we can lecture them, we can scare them with words. But leaving them there? Making them think we wouldn’t come?” She shook her head, chest heaving. “That’s not parenting. That’s abuse.”
Rafe’s shoulders slumped. For a second, he looked younger, like the boy who used to pick fights just to cover how lost he felt. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slow. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But I still think Mason should’ve stayed. Just for one night. He needs to know I’m not messing around.”
That was it. The last drop.
Catherine’s face hardened as she grabbed the Tylenol and water, her night gown swishing as she moved past him. “Guest bedroom,” she said coldly. “Until you realize how wrong you are, that’s where you’ll sleep.”
“Cath—”
“No.” Her voice was sharp, final. She didn’t even look at him as she marched down the hall, medicine in hand. Mason needed her. Rafe could sit in his stubbornness alone.
Rafe stayed rooted in the kitchen, staring at the empty space she left behind, the sound of her footsteps fading up the stairs. For the first time all night, the silence felt heavier than the fight.
Catherine padded quietly up the stairs, the glass of water steady in one hand, the Tylenol rattling in the other. Mason’s door was shut, but the faint sound of him moving around inside—drawers opening, clothes rustling—told her he hadn’t collapsed yet.
She pushed the door open without knocking. Bradley was asleep and Mason was half-sprawled on his bed, still in his Anakin costume pants, shirt long gone. His face was pale, hair stuck to his forehead. He looked up with a sheepish, drunken grin.
“Hey, Mom.”
Catherine’s heart twisted. “Don’t ‘hey Mom’ me.” She set the glass on his nightstand, then sat on the edge of his bed. “Sit up.”
He groaned. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will.” Her tone was firm, no room for negotiation. She pulled him up by the shoulder, tucking a pillow behind him. “Two pills. Swallow.”
Mason obeyed sluggishly, nearly spilling water down his chin. She wiped it with a napkin from his nightstand, sighing deeply.
“Do you feel sick again?”
“Maybe.”
She brushed his damp hair back. “If you throw up, you turn on your side, you understand? You don’t lie flat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, his eyes drooping.
Her expression softened despite herself. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’ll talk tomorrow. And Mason—” Her voice sharpened again. “I mean it. You scared me tonight. You scared me so badly I thought I’d be sick myself. You don’t get to do that to me again, okay?”
Mason mumbled something incoherent, but she knew he heard her. His head lolled back onto the pillow, already drifting. She lingered a moment longer, watching his chest rise and fall, making sure his color wasn’t fading. Only when she was certain he’d stay down did she push herself up and leave the room.
The hallway light caught her tired reflection in the glass frames on the wall. Her bare legs trembled faintly under her nightgown as she made her way toward the master bedroom.
She pushed open the door and slipped inside, rubbing at her temple. The soft glow of the lamp made everything look warmer, calmer than it felt. She wanted to crawl into bed, curl under the covers, and shut her eyes to the world.
But then she heard his footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Rafe.
The door creaked, and there he was—broad shoulders tense, jaw set, his eyes unreadable. He stepped in like he owned the space, like he wasn’t the reason her chest was still burning.
“Baby,” he started, his voice low.
She turned immediately, holding up her hand. “No. Don’t. I was serious about the guest room.”
He froze, frowning. “What?”
“I can’t look at you right now,” she said, her voice shaking, though she fought to steady it. “I’m mad at you, Rafe. Really mad. You crossed a line tonight.”
His brow furrowed deeper. “You want me to sleep down the hall like some stranger?”
“Yes,” she said bluntly. “I don’t want you in this bed. Not tonight.”
Rafe let out a bitter laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jesus, baby. You’re really gonna ice me out like this?”
She glared at him, arms crossing over her chest. “Yes. Because every time I close my eyes, I’ll see our kids faces in that cell. And then I’ll see yours, walking into our room with that stupid mask, like none of it mattered. Like our kids didn’t matter.”
His jaw worked, his mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but then he exhaled through his nose instead. He didn’t move toward the bed, but he didn’t back away either. His eyes softened just a fraction.
“Then I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said finally, his tone resolute.
Catherine blinked. “Rafe, no.”
“If you don’t want me in the bed, fine. I’ll take the floor. But I’m not leaving this room.”
“Rafe—”
“I’m not,” he cut her off, already pulling a pillow from the bed. He dropped it onto the rug, yanked a blanket from the foot of the mattress, and spread it out with a stubbornness only he could pull off. “You’re mad at me. I get it. You don’t want me near you right now. But I’m not leaving you alone. Ever.”
She stared at him, torn between anger and heartbreak. He looked ridiculous—this six-foot-something man, folding himself down onto the rug like a guilty teenager. But he also looked… sincere. Like he couldn’t stomach sleeping behind a closed door while she was in here, furious and hurt.
“Rafe, this is insane,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’ll wake up sore. And it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want you near me.”
“Good thing the floor’s not near you, then,” he shot back, meeting her eyes with a faint, crooked smirk. But it didn’t reach his eyes. He laid back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll be right here when you stop being mad. However long that takes.”
Her throat tightened, but she turned away, slipping under the covers without another word. She switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
Silence stretched between them, heavy, raw. Catherine lay rigid on her side of the bed, listening to his steady breaths from the floor.
In a long time, the space between them felt like a canyon.
Neither of them slept that night.
Catherine tossed and turned, her body restless beneath the sheets, every muscle wound tight from the night’s chaos. Every so often, she slipped out of bed, bare feet padding quietly across the hallway to Mason’s room. Each time she pushed the door open, she expected to find him choking, pale and unresponsive. But every time, Mason was sleeping peacefully, his messy hair splayed across the pillow, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. She would linger by the door for a minute, her heart aching with relief, then creep back to her own room.
And every time Catherine stirred, Rafe stirred too. From the floor where he lay stretched out awkwardly on a blanket, his voice would slip out into the darkness.
“Cath… I’m sorry.”
She never answered. Sometimes she pretended she hadn’t heard him. Sometimes she pulled the pillow over her head. But she always heard it—the raw edge in his voice, the way guilt clung to every word.
Lying there in the dark, Rafe’s thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. He thought of Ward. How his father had cut him off when Catherine got pregnant the first time. How Ward never called, never visited, as if Rafe was no longer his son. He thought about all the nights he sat in that house, seething, watching Ward play the role of the perfect father to Sarah and Wheezie while pretending Rafe didn’t exist.
The bitter sting of that rejection had never really left him. And now, staring at the ceiling, listening to Catherine shift restlessly above him, he realized he was in danger of becoming the same kind of father he swore he’d never be. Mason didn’t need punishment that left scars—he needed a father who showed up. Who loved him even when he screwed up. Rafe hated himself for even considering leaving his son in that cell.
By the time Catherine finally drifted into a shallow sleep in the early morning hours, Rafe was still wide awake, staring into the gray light creeping through the curtains.
When dawn broke, he quietly stood, rolling his sore shoulders from a night on the hard floor. He pulled on sweatpants and a shirt, then left the room without waking Catherine.
The first door he opened was Lara’s. She was already awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes flicked up guiltily when she saw him.
“Dad, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “About sneaking out. About lying.”
Rafe’s chest softened. He stepped inside, kneeling down to her level. “It’s okay, baby,” he said simply. “But you can’t do that again. You hear me?”
She nodded quickly. “It won’t happen again. I promise you, Dad. I just wanted to have fun with my friends, I didn’t know that would happen. And Mom—” Her little voice wavered. Then, almost shyly: “Why’s Mom so mad at you?”
Rafe hesitated, his mouth opening, then shutting again. He couldn’t tell her the truth—not when Catherine had made it clear last night that she didn’t want the kids caught in the middle. So instead, he reached over and brushed Lara’s hair. “Don’t worry about that. Just get ready for school, okay?”
Next, he went to Mason’s room. The smell hit him immediately—acidic, sour. Mason was hunched over, clutching the edge of his desk while he retched into a bin beneath it. Bradley was still in bed, groaning and covering his head with a pillow.
“Ugh, Mason, that’s disgusting!” Bradley grumbled. “You’re literally gonna kill me with that smell.”
“Shut up,” Mason muttered weakly, spitting into the bin.
Rafe stepped forward, crouching beside him. “Shit, Mase,” he said slowly, “How much did you have to drink?”
Mason froze mid-breath, lifting his head to glance at his father, eyes bloodshot and wary.
“Fuck, Mase. I’m sorry… I should’ve come picked you up sooner, maybe not call the cops on you,” Rafe continued, tone firm. “Because you’re my son. And I don’t ever want you to feel like I don’t care. But you can’t keep screwing up like this, Mason. You’re smarter than that.”
Mason wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shame flickering across his face. His brain was so smushed, he didn’t even realize the information he got— Brad did, but he didn’t want to stir more drama.
Rafe sighed and shifted his weight. “Here’s what you do: water, lots of it. Small sips. Stay away from greasy food until later. And Mason—never mix alcohol. That’s the fastest way to end up in the hospital.”
Mason groaned, flopping back into his chair. “Noted.”
“Now get yourself cleaned up and ready for school,” Rafe said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before standing.
That morning, Rafe took over the kitchen. Catherine was still asleep, so he set himself to work with the frying pan, cracking eggs into bowls and whisking like a man on a mission. He was never the cook in the family, but he figured he could at least try. The result was… questionable. Bits of shell crunched under his fork when he tasted his own portion, but it was edible enough.
He gathered the kids at the table. Maisie immediately pushed her plate away and let the omelet slide onto the floor with a deliberate clatter. “Oops.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Pick it up, baby girl.”
“No,” Maisie sing-songed, swinging her legs.
Bradley sighed dramatically, took a bite of his, and said with his mouth full, “It’s really good, Dad.” It wasn’t. His was drenched in salt.
Mason didn’t hesitate—he polished off his own plate, then snagged Lara’s when she nudged it toward him.
“I don’t have an appetite,” Lara murmured, guilt written all over her face.
Rafe let it slide, though it stung more than he admitted.
Once the kids were settled, he plated the last omelet, poured Catherine a cup of coffee, and balanced it carefully on a tray.
Upstairs, the master bedroom was still dim, Catherine curled beneath the blankets, her face buried in the pillow. He set the tray down on the nightstand and leaned over her gently, brushing a hand across her hair.
“Baby,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
She stirred, her eyes blinking open, confusion softening into wary recognition when she saw him.
Rafe held out the coffee first, then gestured to the plate. “I made breakfast. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.” He paused, his throat tight. “And I’m sorry. For all of it. For last night. For forgetting what matters.”
His voice cracked slightly, the weight of his guilt breaking through. “I was wrong, Cath. I know that now.”
Catherine rubbed at her eyes, her voice rough with sleep. “What time is it? Are the kids ready for school?”
She swung her legs off the bed, but Rafe reached out quickly, pressing a hand to her knee. “They’re up,” he said firmly. “They’re eating. Just… stay put for a minute.”
Her brows arched, her lips pressing into a line. He picked up the plate again and held it out until she reluctantly took it.
“I’m not taking you back into bed just because you cracked an egg,” Catherine muttered, balancing the plate on her lap. She forked a piece of omelet, biting into it. To her surprise, it was… actually decent. No crunch, no overwhelming salt. Perfectly edible.
Rafe chuckled when her expression softened. “See? I knew I’d win you over. The path to the heart is though the stomach of some shit.”
Her glare warned him not to push it, and he sobered, leaning his elbows onto his knees as he sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on her.
“Cath,” he said quietly. “I was wrong.”
She looked at him, fork pausing midair.
“I thought… I thought if Mason spent one night in that cell, it would wake him up. That maybe he’d learn faster if it scared him straight. But all it did was make me the kind of father I promised I’d never be.” His voice cracked, his jaw tightening as he forced the words out. “I hated Ward for what he did to us. For treating me like I was disposable. And I almost turned around and did the same thing to my own son.”
Catherine’s fork clinked against the plate as she set it down on her lap, eyes trained on him.
“I can’t let him feel the way I felt,” Rafe continued, his hands dragging down his face before resting in his lap. “Alone. Unwanted. Like his mistakes made him unworthy of love. I can’t do that to him. Not Mason. Not any of them.”
Catherine’s throat tightened, but she stayed silent, studying him.
Rafe exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I’m sorry I put my pride before our kids. And I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to fight me instead of lean on me.” He lifted his eyes to hers, raw and vulnerable. “You were right, Cath. About all of it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I can be better than last night.”
He reached over, gently resting a hand on her thigh. “I love you. I love them. And I don’t ever want to be the reason you can’t look at me the way you used to.”
Catherine swallowed, her fingers tightening around the plate. She wanted to stay mad—God, she really did—but the way he was looking at her made her heart ache. That same boyish vulnerability she’d fallen in love with years ago, shining through all the stubbornness and mistakes.
Finally, she let out a sigh and set the plate aside on the nightstand. “You’re an idiot,” she murmured, voice low and a little shaky.
Rafe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “I know.”
“And reckless. And stubborn. And you make me want to pull my hair out at least twice a day.” She shook her head, but her eyes softened as she leaned toward him. “But you’re mine. And I know you love them, Rafe. Even when you mess up, I know.”
He shifted closer, his forehead pressing against hers, his hand curling up to cup her jaw. “I’ll do better. For you. For them. I swear it.”
Catherine’s breath caught, her hand sliding over his bare shoulder, warm and solid beneath her palm. “You already are better than him, you know,” she whispered. “You’re not Ward. You never will be.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes shutting tight for a moment before he kissed her—gentle this time, nothing like the hungry desperation from last night. Just soft, grounding, full of the promise he was trying to make her believe.
When they broke apart, Catherine smiled faintly, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone. “If you think an omelet fixes everything, you’re wrong.”
He chuckled, low and relieved. “Guess I’ll just have to keep cooking then.”
Her laugh was quiet, tired but genuine, and she tugged him closer until his head rested against her chest. “You drive me crazy,” she whispered into his hair, “but I love you. And I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”
Rafe wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her tight, as if letting go would undo everything. “I love you too, Cath. Always.”
brad is lowkey a manipulator... ig all of their kids are a little fucked up
can you make a angst like cath and rafe having a fight when mason is a baby and she say something like ""you didnt even want that baby""
Summary: catherine just wanted their first halloween as a family to be fun, but rafe was quick to ruin that for her when he saw her costume. what starts as a fight about trick or treating spiralled into possessive sex.
This was supposed to be Catherine’s first “adult” Halloween. No glitter heels, no vodka shots, no stumbling down Figure-Eight Drive with Sarah and the girls. Catherine had grown up the night she gave birth to Mason, and even if part of her still ached watching the Instagram stories from Sarah’s pregame, tonight she wanted different. She wanted better.
Mason was dressed as Mr. Proper—white onesie with the logo she had printed at the library and glued on, cotton eyebrows stuck with eyelash glue. With his soft blonde fuzz and gummy smile, he really did look bald. Catherine couldn’t stop grinning, snapping photos of him on the couch with the plastic pumpkin basket propped beside him.
She’d dressed up too—pink-and-white Victoria’s Secret robe, cinched tight around her waist, cheap white wings from Michael’s hooked over her shoulders. Beneath it, her prettiest lace set, one she hadn’t touched since before Mason. She wanted to feel like herself again, even if it was just for one night. Trick-or-treating as a mom wasn’t a wild party, but it was something.
She was about to take another photo when she heard the door rattle. Mason squealed as she scooped him up, hurrying to greet Rafe.
He stood in the doorway, hair damp with sweat, dirt streaked across his jaw and knuckles from the construction site. For a moment his eyes softened when he saw them—Mason with his cotton-ball eyebrows, Catherine glowing with laughter. He even chuckled, low and warm,“What did you do to my boy, Cath? He looks like an old man.”
But then she said it—“That's Mr. Proper, babe, and he is coming trick-or-treating with us. So go take a shower and then I'll dress you up as Patrick Bateman.”
And his smile froze.
His gaze dropped—slow, heavy. First at her bare legs, pale under the robe. Then at the edge of lace peeking out when Mason shifted against her chest, tugging the silk just slightly open. Rafe’s jaw tightened.
“We're not doing that shit,” he said, his voice flat and final.
Catherine blinked, the laughter dying on her lips. “It’s Halloween, Rafe. We’re just going around the block.”
His eyes stayed locked on her, hard and unyielding. “I said, you’re not going out like that. Not with him—” his chin jerked toward Mason—“and not with me.”
Something inside her snapped then. All her careful effort, the hours blow-drying her hair, the cheap wings, the silly onesie costume. All she wanted was one night. One night outside of this suffocating apartment, one night to pretend they weren’t barely scraping by, one night to be a family.
“Jesus Christ, Rafe,” she bit out, her chest tight. “It’s trick-or-treating, not a party. I just wanted to do something normal. Something fun. Do you think I like sitting in this apartment every night while everyone else lives their life?”
Rafe’s hands curled into fists at his sides, dirt still smudged into his skin. “You don’t get it. Guys out there—looking at you, looking at my girl—” his voice cracked. “Not happening.”
Mason cooed, patting his cotton-ball eyebrows against her chin, and Catherine suddenly felt the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. Because this was supposed to be fun. Because she was tired of every night turning into a fight. Because she had grown up, but Rafe was still clinging to every piece of the boy he used to be.
And God, she loved him. But right then, she hated him too.
Rafe shut the door harder than he needed to, the sound rattling the frame. He brushed past her without another glance, like the conversation was over. Like it had already been decided.
Catherine’s chest tightened. “So that’s it? You just—what? Slam the door, and all my effort goes to shit because you want to stay at home?”
He dropped his tool belt by the couch and stalked toward the kitchen. “Yes, Cath. You’re not walking around like that. End of story.”
Her voice sharpened. “If we had money, Rafe, I’d be in an actual costume. Something cute. But we don’t. So I worked with what we had—”
He turned on her so fast she flinched. His eyes were cold, his jaw set tight. “Don’t give me that shit. You’re just using that as an excuse to dress up like a whore. You could’ve cut two holes in a sheet and gone as a fucking ghost.”
Her throat burned, her grip on Mason tightening protectively. “Are you serious? That’s what you think of me? That I want other people to look at me?”
Rafe’s chest was heaving now as he moved into the kitchen. He twisted the faucet on and shoved his hands under the water, scrubbing at the dirt like it had personally wronged him. “I’m out there breaking my back on some shitty construction site, scraping at bricks, breathing in dust, just to feed us—and you’re here dressing up like a slut for some attention.” His voice cracked into something uglier. “Dragging Mason into it like bait.”
The words hit her harder than a slap. She felt them slice right through her ribcage, sharp and merciless. Mason stirred against her chest, fussy now from the raised voices, but Catherine was too stunned to shush him.
“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered, her voice trembling as much with fury as hurt. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m nothing. I’m the one who’s here all day, every day, raising him while you’re off! You want a night out with the boys— I don't get a say in that. You come home smelling like beer and Topper's couch— I don't get a fucking say in that, too. I ask to go out, suddenly we are lownon cash... And now I’m the problem? Because I wanted one fucking night?”
Rafe slammed his palms against the edge of the sink, water spraying up onto the counter. His knuckles were raw, split from work, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, Cath, maybe you are the problem.”
Her heart sank, rage boiling under the hurt. Mason let out a sharp cry at the sound. Catherine’s voice was steady, but her hands shook as she held Mason tighter against her chest. “Fine. Then I’ll go. Mason and I will go trick or treating, and you can sit your sorry ass at home waiting for us. Just like I used to do when you went out to get high and left me alone.”
Her words cracked something raw in the air.
Rafe’s head snapped up, his face twisting dark. “The hell you are.” He stepped toward her, pointing a finger in her face. “You are not walking out that door dressed like that, with my son on your hip, so other guys can laugh and turn him into some fucking punchline just to talk to you.” His voice shook with rage. “Mason is staying home. With his father. And so are you.”
Before Catherine could react, Rafe reached out and wrenched Mason from her arms. She gasped, stunned, her empty hands clawing at the air where her baby had been.
“How dare you...” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You didn’t even want him.”
Rafe froze, Mason squirming against his chest. The accusation landed hard, a sucker punch that knocked the air right out of him. He knew she was right. God, she was right. He had begged her to end it, shoved her into silence with his absence, too much of a coward to stand against Ward Cameron. He’d made her carry that weight alone.
And yet, he swallowed it down. Ignored it. Pretended it didn’t sting like hell. “I want him now,” he muttered hoarsely, brushing past her toward Mason’s crib. “That’s all that matters.”
Catherine stood there trembling, her chest heaving as she watched him tuck Mason down on the couch. She hated him more in that moment than she ever had before.
“Then I’m going alone,” she hissed, snatching the tiny pumpkin basket off the counter. Her nails dug into the plastic, her body shaking as she stormed for the door.
“Like hell you are.”
Rafe’s voice was dark, mean, low. He moved fast, stopping her cold at the door. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, his jaw tight with fury. “You think I’m just gonna let you walk out there dressed like that? Let every guy on the street stare at what’s mine?”
“It’s a fucking costume!” Catherine spat, her voice high and broken. “It’s all I could afford! If we had money I’d be in something else but this—this is all we have!”
Rafe’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “You call that a costume?” His eyes raked her up and down, harsh and unforgiving. “You’re dressed like a goddamn slut and you want to take my kid with you?”
Before she could answer, he reached out and tugged sharply at the silk belt cinched around her waist. The knot unraveled in one rough yank, and the robe fell open with a whisper.
Catherine gasped, clutching the robe too late. Her matching white lace bra and panties were on full display under the harsh kitchen light, her bare thighs exposed.
Rafe’s chest rose and fell as his eyes burned over her, dark with anger and something else—something possessive, ugly, twisted. His jaw clenched harder when he realized she wasn’t wearing shorts under it. Just the flimsy scrap of white panties.
He shook his head, his voice venomous. “You were really about to walk out there like this? Let every guy see exactly what’s under it?”
Catherine’s face burned with shame and fury, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. “It’s not for them. It was never for them. It was supposed to be for us.” Her voice broke. “For me and you, when we came home after the trick-or-treating.”
But he wasn’t hearing it. He couldn’t. Not with the jealousy and rage buzzing through his blood.
The silk robe slipped from her shoulder and Rafe pulled it off her, letting it fall on the floor. Catherine snatched it back up with trembling fingers, but Rafe’s hard, disgusted laugh filled the room.
“You think I believe that line of shit?” His voice cut sharp, slicing into her. “You wanna go out, looking like that— Over my dead body.”
And then—because he always had to go too far—Rafe grabbed the robe out of her hands and yanked. The seams ripped under his strength, silk tearing with an ugly sound. Catherine gasped, staring down at the ruined fabric in shock before her eyes snapped back up at him, blazing.
“You’re such a fucking asshole!” She pushed past him, fury boiling in her chest, and stormed into their bedroom. "That was the only nice one I had."
Rafe stood frozen, pulse hammering in his ears, until he heard the closet door slam open. By the time he followed, Catherine was yanking out his only white button-up off its hanger, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed with anger. She shoved her arms through the sleeves, buttoning it quickly, the shirt skimming the tops of her thighs.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice cracked in disbelief.
Catherine met his glare head-on, chin tilted high. “You ruined my costume? Fine. I’ll make a new one.” She smoothed the oversized shirt down her body, glaring at him through her lashes. “I’m Mrs. Smith now. Happy?”
Her defiance made his blood boil. His fists curled at his sides as she strutted over back and grabbed her phone, and scrolled furiously.
“What are you doing?” he demanded again, stalking closer.
“Calling Sarah,” she said flatly, walking past him, pressing her phone to her ear. “Asking where the pregame party is.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” His voice was low, deadly as he followed her back into the bedroom.
But Catherine just raised her brows, holding his gaze as the line rang. “I’m not sitting here and rotting because you’re a jealous, insecure little boy. If you won’t go out with me, I’ll go out without you.”
Rafe saw red. His hands shook, his breath came ragged, his jealousy snapping all control. “First you were gonna parade your ass around for every old dude handing out candy, and now you’re gonna throw yourself in front of my fucking friends?” His voice was sharp with rage. “You think I don’t know how you get when you’re drunk and pissed at me? You think I don’t remember?”
He grabbed her wrist, forcing the phone down, his grip rough but trembling. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Catherine wrenched against him, her eyes wet but wild. “You don’t own me, Rafe. You don’t get to keep me locked in here just because you’re scared someone else might actually treat me the way you don’t.”
His chest heaved, his whole body tight with anger and need, the shirt hanging loose on her curves driving him insane. Possessiveness clawed up his throat until he couldn’t swallow it anymore. His voice dropped, dark and jagged: “You walk back home dressed like that, drunk, smiling, I swear to God, Cath…” His forehead pressed against hers, his hand clutching the back of her neck. “I’ll fucking lose it.”
The tension was unbearable—ugly, raw, magnetic. Catherine’s lips parted, trembling, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Maybe that’s what you deserve,” she whispered, her defiance shaky but real.
And then his mouth crashed against hers, bruising, desperate, all teeth and anger and jealousy. His hands were everywhere—fisting the shirt she wore, yanking it open, dragging it down her shoulders until she was half bare again, until his jealousy bled into something hotter, darker, consuming.
Catherine shoved hard at his chest until Rafe stumbled back, falling onto the edge of their bed. His hair was wild, his shirt clinging to the sweat on his chest, his eyes blown wide with fury and want.
She straddled him before he could move, knees digging into the mattress, her hands gripping his jaw as she kissed him hard. “You’re not gonna win this,” she whispered against his lips, grinding down just enough to make his breath hitch. “We’re going trick-or-treating. As a family. You can’t keep me locked up here.”
Her hips rolled, slow and deliberate, and she smirked when he groaned into her mouth, his fingers digging into the bare curve of her thighs.
“You think this is gonna change my mind?” His voice was rough, muffled against her kisses, his hands sliding up to cup her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp.
“It usually does,” Catherine shot back, her smirk sharp and daring, her hair falling around their faces as she pressed harder against him. “And you hate when anyone else looks at me, so why don’t you enjoy it before I go out there?”
That snapped something in him. A growl rumbled low in Rafe’s throat as he grabbed her, lifting her off balance and dragging her across his lap. “You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed, pulling her so her ass was perched just above his thighs.
“Rafe—”
“Shut up.” His hand came down hard against the swell of her ass, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Catherine’s breath caught, her nails digging into the sheets as she stared down at them.
“You wanna act like a brat?” he muttered, spanking her again, his other hand gripping her waist so she couldn’t squirm away. “Parading around in my shirt, talking about parties, about other guys looking at you—”
“Stop it,” she gasped, but her voice broke, her body shivering against his.
“Not a chance.” He spanked her again, making her raise her ass for him without realizing, his palm stinging hot against her skin. “You’re mine, Catherine. You hear me? Mine.”
Her lip trembled as she tried to glare at him, but the heat in her eyes betrayed her. She leaned down, kissing him hard, desperate, defiant, whispering against his mouth:
“Then prove it.”
Rafe didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath after those words. He slipped from under her in one motion, Catherine landing on her stomach with a muffled gasp against the sheets.
“Run your mouth all you want, baby,” he muttered, pushing her head into the mattress when she tried to lift it, his hand heavy at the back of her neck. “But you’re not leaving this room dressed like that. Not when you belong to me.”
She wriggled beneath him, kicking back at his shins, her voice muffled in the cotton. “You don’t get to decide that, Rafe! I—”
Her protest died in a sharp gasp when he yanked her panties to the side and slammed into her without warning. Catherine’s fists clenched in the sheets, her bra strap slipping down her shoulder as he set a brutal rhythm, his hips snapping against her ass.
“Shut up,” he growled, one hand gripping her hip so hard it’d leave bruises, the other shoving her face back down when she tried to lift it again. “You want to dress like a slut? Then I’m gonna fuck you like one.”
Her bra gave way under the force of her body bouncing against the mattress, her tits spilling free, pressing into the bed with every rough thrust. She whimpered, arching her back, but her defiance still sparked.
“Is that— all you got?” she panted, smirking through her gasps, pushing back against him on purpose. “You think— this is gonna keep me—”
The sting of his palm against her ass cut her off, her cry muffled against the sheets. He slapped her again, harder, her skin already hot and raw under his hand.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Rafe snarled, his voice low and wrecked, his thrusts punishing, forcing her body forward on the mattress. “Every guy out there is gonna stay dreaming, because you’re right here. Getting ruined. By me.”
Catherine moaned, the sound broken, her body giving way even as she tried to hold onto her bratty act. Her knuckles were white against the sheets, her hair sticking to her damp skin, her whole body jolting with each sharp drive of his hips.
“Say it,” he demanded, pulling her head back by her hair so she had to meet his dark, possessive eyes over her shoulder. “Say you’re mine. Or I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk to that fucking party.”
Catherine’s laugh was breathless, broken, but sharp enough to slice through the haze of heat between them.
“I... I am...” she gasped as his cock drove into her, hard and unforgiving. “I’m the mother of your child, Rafe. Is that not enough?”
His jaw clenched. That smug, teasing edge in her tone was gasoline on a fire. He yanked her upright with a rough arm around her throat, her back arching against his chest, tits bouncing with every brutal thrust.
“Enough?” he growled against her ear, squeezing her throat just tight enough to make her breath hitch. “Popping out my kid doesn’t make you mine, huh? C'mon, say it. Own it, baby— but, fuck, you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
Her bra had slid halfway down, lacy cups doing nothing to hide the swollen tips of her nipples brushing the rough fabric. She bit her lip hard, refusing to give him the moans he wanted even as her body trembled.
“You—” she hissed through gritted teeth, smirking when she caught his reflection in the mirror across the room, his face twisted with frustration and lust— “you sound desperate.”
That earned her a vicious slap to her breast, the sting shocking a cry out of her. Her nipple flushed red under his palm as he squeezed, hard enough to make her gasp.
“Shut that smart little mouth before I shove something in it,” he spat.
When she only grinned wider, Rafe slid two fingers past her lips, pressing them down on her tongue until drool slid down her chin. “Suck,” he ordered.
She obeyed with a roll of her eyes, hollowing her cheeks around him—still smirking around his fingers as if she was the one in control.
“So you can be a good girl...” he muttered darkly, pulling his slick fingers free and sliding them down her belly, finding her clit. He rubbed slow, steady circles, just enough to make her whine as his thrusts never faltered. “Look at you. So wet for me, soaking my cock while you run your mouth.”
Her thighs shook, her body clenching around him, but every time she came close, he’d stop, pulling back with a cruel smirk.
“Beg,” he demanded, fingers hovering just where she needed them most. “Beg me to let you come, Cath. Say you’re mine.”
Her nails dug into his wrist, her head falling back on his shoulder, but even then, her stubborn laugh cut through the air.
“Never.”
That one word snapped something in him. His hand tightened on her throat, cutting her breath in half as he slammed into her harder, relentless, his other hand bruising her hip as he forced her body down on him.
Rafe had her trembling on the edge, his cock dragging rough and deep, his fingers teasing her clit just enough to make her see stars before he’d pull away again.
“You’re pathetic like this,” he hissed against her ear, dragging her back onto his lap until her ass smacked down on his thighs, the sound sharp in the room. “All that attitude and look at you now—shaking, dripping, begging without even saying it.”
Catherine clawed at his arm, at the sheets, her chest heaving. She refused to give him the satisfaction, even as her body betrayed her with every quiver.
Rafe’s palm came down hard across her tits, the sting making her gasp. He pinched one nipple between his fingers, twisting until tears welled in her eyes. “Thought you liked playing dress-up? You wanted men staring at these tits, yeah? Then why can’t you handle the little attention I’m giving them?”
Her head fell forward, a strangled cry spilling out, but still she didn’t give in.
He leaned down, sinking his teeth into her shoulder until she yelped, sobs finally breaking through. “Say it,” he growled against her skin, the bite mark already blooming red. “Say you’re mine or I’ll keep you like this all night—aching, empty, ruined.”
Her thighs clamped tight around him, her whole body jerking when he landed a sharp slap against her pussy, the wet sound humiliatingly loud. He did it again, harder this time, until she cried out.
“R-Rafe, please,” she sobbed, voice wrecked now, no bratty edge left. “Please, I can’t—I need—”
“You need what?” he taunted, rubbing her clit fast enough to make her body seize while holding her just short of release. “Say it, Cath. Say who the fuck you belong to.”
She broke with a sob, her nails digging bloody crescents into his wrist.
“I’m yours,” she cried out, finally shattering. “I’m yours, Rafe, please let me cum, I’m yours.”
The second the words left her lips, his grip tightened on her hip, and he slammed into her harder, unforgiving.
“That’s right,” he snarled, dragging his teeth along her throat. “Mine. My baby momma, my girl, my fucking everything. Say it again.”
“Yours,” she wailed, the tears streaming down her cheeks as her body convulsed. “Always yours.”
And only then—only after she said it twice—did he let her fall, her release tearing through her with a scream, her body clenching around him as if to prove her words true.
Catherine shattered, body convulsing as she squirted across the sheets, soaking his thighs and the mattress beneath them. The sound of it—lewd, uncontrolled—made Rafe’s cock twitch violently inside her, every muscle in his body screaming for release.
“Fuck,” he groaned through clenched teeth, dragging her back down onto him as liquid spilled between them. “Look at the mess you’re making, Cath. Can’t even control yourself, can you? Soaking the fucking bed like a slut.”
Her chest was heaving, her sobs mixing with broken moans, but he didn’t slow down. His cock throbbed painfully, his balls tight, the edge burning him alive.
“Hurts so bad,” he ground out, voice low and guttural against her ear. His hips snapped up viciously, fucking into her overstimulated cunt, chasing his own release. “You feel that? You’re gonna make me lose it, baby. You’re gonna milk me dry.”
She whimpered, nails clawing at the sheets as her pussy clenched around him, slick and messy.
Rafe slammed into her one more time, shoving her down onto the mattress and pressing her face into the wet sheets. His voice was ragged now, desperation bleeding through the rage.
“I need it, Cath. Need to fill you up. You don’t get it—I’ve been holding back all fucking night.”
Her answer was a broken cry, muffled into the sheets, but her body arched back into him anyway, giving him what he needed.
And Rafe let go.
He buried himself deep, cock pulsing as he spilled into her, every thrust grinding his release deeper, messy and raw. His whole body shook with it, relief tearing through him like fire.
When it finally slowed, he collapsed against her back, chest heaving, his hand sliding up to tangle in her damp hair.
“Mine,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing his lips to her temple, still buried deep inside her. “All fucking mine.”
Rafe pulled out with a ragged groan, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. His cock slipped free, and he sat back on his heels just to watch—mesmerized, possessive, hungry still.
A thick stream of his cum spilled out of Catherine’s swollen cunt, running down the backs of her thighs and pooling onto the ruined sheets. The sight made his head fall back with a low, desperate moan.
“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, then spreading her open with his thumbs just to watch more of him drip out of her. “You’re leaking all over the bed, Cath. Look at you.”
She let out a weak whimper, trembling, cheek pressed into the pillow. Her lashes fluttered but she didn’t move—completely spent.
Rafe smirked, still catching his breath, and leaned down over her. “So…” he whispered against her ear, voice smug and hoarse, “you still wanna go trick or treating like this? Go out there, dripping with my cum down your thighs?”
Catherine shook her head weakly, too tired, too used-up to even argue back. Her hair was a tangled mess, lips parted as she tried to breathe steady again.
“That’s what I thought,” Rafe rasped, pressing a wet kiss to her shoulder, his hand smoothing over her hip before giving it a sharp squeeze. “Good girl. You’ll stay right here with me.”
Catherine lay flat on the ruined sheets, still trying to play it off like she wasn’t wrecked, her chest rising and falling as if she hadn’t just cried and begged for release minutes ago. She tugged half-heartedly at the blanket, trying to cover herself, but Rafe was already leaning over her, trailing lazy kisses down her bare shoulder, fixing the cups of her bra back into place like he hadn’t just shoved it down to maul her tits.
“You know what I’m thinkin’?” he murmured, lips brushing her flushed skin. “We watch some shitty scary movie, I order food… you let me feed you candy in bed as a sorry for ruining your plans for the night.” His hand cupped her hip, thumb rubbing slow circles as if she wasn’t still trembling.
Catherine scoffed, even though her voice was thin. “That’s a shitty sorry.”
Rafe smirked, pressing his mouth against the dip of her collarbone. “Yeah, well, you didn’t let me finish— And a full body massage.”
Before she could fire back, a loud knock rattled the apartment door.
Both their heads snapped toward it. Catherine’s eyes widened, and she shoved at Rafe’s chest with her foot, nearly kicking him off the bed. “Go. Answer it!” she hissed, scrambling for the blanket to cover herself.
He shot her an incredulous look, dragging his pants up slow just to annoy her. “Jesus, Cath, relax. What—Sarah come to pick you up for your little slut parade?”
“Rafe!” she snapped, cheeks flushing. “Just go.”
Grumbling under his breath, he yanked his zipper and stalked out. He pulled the door open with his jaw tight, already ready to bite someone’s head off only to see two little kids dressed as witches holding pumpkin baskets.
“Trick or treat!” they chirped in unison, grinning up at him.
