₊˚.༄ call me clov! (she/her) i am 21, a full time college student, and i've been writing fics/stories for a while now!
₊˚.༄ i used to have another blog i posted fics to during the pandemic but i ran out of inspo and time :( i'm trying to get back into it more for fun and improvement on my skills! pls be nice :')
₊˚.༄ please talk to me! i'd love to have mutuals and hear ideas or just talk about whatever :) i can't promise i'll get to everything!
warnings .ᐟ angst. fluff. s1 rafe. down bad reader (no like srs this girl doesn’t have a single backbone 😭). mentions of drugs. ward being abusive.
summary .ᐟ loosely based off of california by lana del rey
other rafe cameron works ꩜ .ᐟ
you don't ever have to be stronger than you really are
when you're lying in my arms, baby
you and rafe were inseparable growing up, i mean, the boy stuck to your side like glue; wherever you went, he followed.
he was there when your first tooth fell out, there the first time you rode a bike, there for your first heart break and brought you all your favourite snacks the first time you got your period.
there wasn’t a day that went by that you and rafe weren’t talking, even when you’d have a quarrel here and there he’d always make sure to apologise before the evening was over, not daring to go to sleep without having made things right with you.
the two of you couldn’t stand to be away from one another.
you don't ever have to go faster than your fastest pace
or faster than my fastest cars
you weren’t sure when this platonic love for him turned it something more raw and real; suddenly doing your hair up real nice when he’d come around, your cheeks tinting a shade darker when he’d hug you, eyes crinkling at the corners when he’d compliment you.
it felt so stupid to you, the kind of stupid that made you beat your head with a brush when you got too frustrated; spending the entire day with him, only to be giggling by yourself the minute you got home, thinking back on the day with him. why didn’t you just tell him how you felt? the question constantly rung through your mind, nagging at every corner of your brain.
you were never scared to tell him anything, and you never kept anything from him either, so why was this so difficult?!
you’re scared to win, scared to lose
i’ve heard the war was over if you really choose the one in and around you
unfortunately, things had drastically changed since then; you hardly saw rafe now, with partying and girl number 5 of the week the only things on his mind.
you remembered the day you realised you weren’t his top priority anymore; the day you strolled into tannyhill, calling out rafe’s name like you usually did. the house was eerily quiet, the creak of the staircase echoing through the halls as you made your way up to his room.
there you found him sat out on his balcony with topper, kelce and two other girls you hadn’t recognised, empty bottles scattered all over, white powder residue smeared on the table.
your brows furrowed as you watched the scene unfold, rapidly blinking as your eyes focused in on something else; the blonde next to him, using your scrunchie to tie her hair up before going in for another line, the scrunchie rafe had never taken off once since you’d given it to him.
your special goodluck scrunchie as he used to call it.
the pit in your stomach grew, only releasing once you’d snapped out of your trance that rafe had called out your name.
you hate the heat, you got the blues
changing like the weather, oh, that's so like you
the santa ana moves you (two, three, four)
“uh can i talk to you?” you croaked out, suddenly feeling smaller as you stood in the doorway, the lingering stares of his friends and the two girls making you want to crawl in on yourself.
you watched as rafe grit his teeth, sniffing as he ran a hand through his hair before standing up, not before whispering something into the blonde’s ear that made her giggle, your face grimacing in response.
you began walking into his room, rafe followed after you, “what?” he harshly asked, brows furrowing in response to his tone. what the hell was up with him?
“nothin—just, you weren’t answering my texts—and you were supposed to come over remember? thought maybe something happened?” you reminded him, shrugging as you chewed the inside of your cheek to bits and pieces.
“shit right yeah—uh well i’m sort of busy right now, as you can see, so another time then,” he hummed, wiping at his nose before looking over his shoulder.
“okay—did i—did i do something wrong? feels like you’re mad at me?” you awkwardly laughed, nervously fiddling with the necklace around your neck, the necklace he had given you for your sixteenth birthday.
he rolled his eyes at your words, face visibly tensing, but before he could get in you rambled on, something he knew you did when you were nervous or upset.
“look if—if i did something wrong im sorry—just feels like we don’t talk as much as we used to and i get it friends grow apart but just—feels like you’re mad at me and if its cause i did something—“ before you could finish your sentence he cut you off, his laugh bitter as he did so.
“holy shit holy shit—you ever think i just don’t wanna be round you as much? look ive got my own shit going on—and—and you’re just too much sometimes alright?” he spat, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head.
your heart dropped at his words, nausea bubbling in your throat. you just stood there, heart thumping as you replayed his words, the snickering of the two girls from the balcony only making you feel worse.
instead of shouting at him, instead of slapping him, all you uttered was a soft “okay,” quick to turn around and leave, only allowing yourself to cry once you got home, the four walls of your room closing in on you as you replayed the memory over and over again.
he watched as you left, something nagging at him to run after you, that wasn’t him talking, the drugs had his head all fucked up; he’d never talk to you like that, he’d never talk to his girl like that. but he let you go, shaking the mushy feelings free as he rejoined his friends on the balcony.
i mean you should’ve expected it right? friends grew apart all the time, it was a normal part of growing up—but what you didn’t expect was for it to be so soon and for it to hurt this much.
why did it hurt this much?
how could he hurt you this much?
the same boy that let you cry into his shoulder when your first boyfriend broke up with you, the same boy that helped you organise a funeral for your hamster that died when you were six.
how could this be your rafe?
the truth was right in front of you and it was a hard pill to swallow but he wasn’t your rafe anymore.
and in that moment, eyes all puffy as you cried into your pillow you wondered; had he ever been?
it was currently 2am on a saturday morning, the constant buzz from your phone on your night stand rousing you from your sleep.
you squeezed your eyes as you sat up, groggily rubbing at them as you blindly reached for your phone with your unoccupied hand, squinting once your bright screen illuminated your face.
four missed calls from rafe
you scrolled through the notification after notification of missed calls, instinctively about to call him back when his name and contact image flashed across the screen.
without a second thought you answered, pressing your phone to your ear, “rafe?” you softly spoke, bringing your knees to your chest.
the other line was quiet for a moment, safe for the rapid up and down shuffling of rafe’s shoes as he paced barry’s trailer.
he sniffled before speaking up, voice hoarse, “i-i didn’t know who else to call—didn’t wanna call anyone else,” he admitted, swallowing the lump in his throat as he held his phone to his ear, eyes squeezed shut due to the piercing sting in the centre of his forehead, that plus the dull throb from where his father had not too long ago slapped him.
“everything okay?” you hummed out, throwing your covers to the side as you sat up completely, worry etched into your brow.
“got into it with my old man—look i don’t wanna get into it alright? just—fuck—can you come get me—please?” he begged, his voice laced with anger, desperation and most of all hurt.
this was the first time rafe had spoken to you in weeks, and you should’ve been angry, should’ve told him to screw himself, should’ve ended the call and went back to sleep, but that wasn’t who you were; instead you found yourself asking him his location, reassuring him you’d be there as soon as you can.
you were too good to him, you knew that, but right now, as you frantically got dressed, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you made your way out of your condo and into your car, you couldn’t find it in yourself to give a damn.
oh, I'll pick you up
if you come back to america, just hit me up '
cause this is crazy love, I'll catch you on the flip side
if you come back to california, you should just hit me up
the drive from figure 8 to the cut was long, the streets desolate besides for the occasional pogue here and there. you kept your eyes peeled as you followed your gps to the location rafe had sent you, a trailer park coming into view.
you recognised rafe’s dirt bike outside one of them, driving to park your car as near as possible.
your folded your arms to your chest as you got out, eyes scanning the dingy beat up trailer as you walked up to it, lifting your knuckles to tap against the door.
you heard some shuffling on the other side, the door swinging open to reveal rafe and someone you didn’t quite recognise.
“alright country club, your girl’s here,” barry spoke, stepping aside to allow you in. you nodded toward him, your eyes moving to rafe as he sat on the floor against the couch. the sight immediately tugged at your heart strings, seeing him sitting there with his head in his hands, only for his sad, glassy blue eyes to make you feel even worse.
you both hadn’t said a word to one another as you helped him up and out of the trailer, into your car, the soft sounds of the sea waves crashing into the shore serving as background noise as you drove back to figure 8, back to your condo.
you chewed the inside of your cheek as you wordlessly let him lean into you on the way up and into your home, helping him down onto your couch.
you could hear a pin drop with how quiet it was, the soft hum from your freezer growing all the more louder as you watched him from where you’d been standing since you got here.
“do you wanna talk about it?” you finally spoke, finally breaking the eerie silence, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, moving to sit a little ways away from him on the couch.
his leg bounced as he sat, chewing his nail to bits as he thought over your words, thought over your actions. why were you being so sweet to him? after he’d been such a dick to you??
“he uh—he caught me doin coke, and look i know, i know i shouldn’t but it just—shit it make takes the edge off of things, especially with him breathing down my neck—y’know how he is,” he spoke, nodding your head in acknowledgment.
ward’s awful treatment was nothing new to you, there were times when rafe would stay days, if not weeks over at your place because of an argument he’d had with his dad, constantly belittling him and comparing him to sarah. it broke your heart back then and it broke your heart now.
“he started with that sarah bullshit again, about how she was a much better child than i was—how easy it was to raise her, to uhm to love her—about how she’d be a better leader for the company one day, told me everybody i got in my life was too good for me,” he swallowed, scoffing as he wiped at his nose.
“he just—he knows how to get in my head and he just kept pushing and pushing, then he brought you up, told me you were too good for me too, and hell he was right but uh, i finally had enough and yelled back—told him how much of shitty dad he’s been, told him it was his fault i became such a fuck up in the first place, but before i could get my word in—he uh—he hit me,” he finally spoke, the cut on his lip only catching your attention now.
“jesus christ ray,” you sighed, the nickname unconsciously slipping as you moved closer. the nickname only you were allowed to use.
god it’s been so long since he’s heard you call him that, the sound like a breath of fresh air; he realised then that no amount of alcohol, drugs or random women could ever make up for how much he’d missed you.
we'll do whatever you want, travel wherever how far
we'll hit up all the old places we'll have a party, we'll dance 'til dawn
after some time, you wordlessly went upstairs for the first aid kit you kept, always making a note to keep it ready with the amount of fights rafe found himself in.
he sniffled as you got closer, now seated on the coffee table, right in front of him, knees touching his.
“let me see?” you asked softly, chewing the inside of your cheek in concentration as you reached for a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.
rafe tried to act indifferent, i mean things weren’t how they usually were; any other day he’d allow you to clean up any cut or wound he had, he only trusted you to do it; but he could feel the tension in the air, the tension he caused and god he hated himself for it.
dainty fingers reached for his chin, your touch soft and delicate and you used the cotton pad to dab at the cut on his lip, muttering out a barely audible ‘sorry,’ when he winced.
i'll pick up all of your vogues and all of your rolling stones
your favorite liquor off the top shelf
i'll throw a party all night long
you found yourself thoughtlessly stroking his jaw with your thumb, staring a little too long at his lips to be considered normal. you should’ve been angry, you should’ve been pissed, i mean he tossed you aside like the years upon years the two of you had been friends meant nothing? it hurt—the pit in your stomach, the tear streaks on your pillow, all those memories flashed through your mind as you tended to him.
but again, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, not when he stared down at you with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, the faintest tear streaks still evident on his cheeks; he looked like the same boy you remembered becoming best friends with.
for this split second he seemed to be your rafe again, and you’d treasure that with everything in you, even if it hurt you to do so.
before you could abruptly get up, his large hand enveloped yours, gold signet ring cool to touch in contrast to the warmth of his hand.
“i—i fucked up—i shouldn’t have—shit i shouldn’t have talked to you that way and i know, i know it’s not an excuse but i uh—“ he paused, frantically wiping at his eyes with his unoccupied hand, still holding yours with the other.
you were about to tell him it was fine, that you didn’t have to talk about this now, not after everything that had happened with his dad but he shook his head, his tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips.
“nah let me speak—i mean it baby i shouldn’t have, you’re the best thing in my life, the only one that’s only ever been there for me and when shit got tough, i got—got mixed up in all of that bullshit and i pushed you away when i shouldn’t have,” he hiccuped, eyes red, nose stuffy as he chewed the skin on his bottom lip.
you felt yourself tearing up, avoiding his gaze as you tried to maintain composure.
“i-i wanna get better, i hate the man i’ve become cause of this shit,” he paused, throwing a small bag filled with white powder across the coffee table, “i hate it cause i hurt you, and im—im so sorry okay?” he hummed, voice trembling as he brought the back of your hand to his lips, quickly wiping at your eyes as you smiled.
you don't ever have to be stronger than you really are
when you're lying in my arms, and, honey
without thinking, you let go of his hand, all but throwing yourself into his lap as you hugged him, burying your face into his shoulder. he smiled into the top of your head in relief, smothering you in kisses as he held you to him, breathing your sweet, familiar, all too comforting scent in.
“you really hurt me ray, and you’re gonna have to work real hard for my forgiveness okay?” you laughed, pulling away from his chest, smiling up at him.
you don't ever have to act cooler than you think you should
you’re brighter than the brightest stars
he nodded, gently wiping a fallen tear from your cheekbone, “so we uh—we okay sweet girl?” he asked, looking down at you with the most loving gaze, the world around you standing still for that minute.
“yeah, hated not talking to you,” you laughed, running a hand through his hair, your tone becoming sincere once more before speaking up, “he’s wrong you know? your dad; you’re not a fuck up ray, you’re not unloveable okay? i mean look at my sorry ass! if you were really that unloveable i wouldn’t be here,” you shrugged, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, that smile you fell in love with finally gracing his features.
“you shouldn’t listen to him,” you reassured him, smoothing your hands down the sides of his face.
he nodded, moving forward to press kiss after kiss to your face, moving his kisses down your jaw, following the path down your neck till he reached your collarbone, hovering his lips there for a moment before he pulled away, tightening his grip around your waist before pulling you down onto the couch with him, tucking you into his side with another gentle kiss to the top of your head.
How about rafe defending bitchy!pogue!reader when one of his kooks friends talks badly behind her back
brusing knuckles for you - r.c
pairing: bitchy!pogue x rafe
warnings: violence; blood.
Before you, Rafe did this shit every other night.
Kook parties. Boat decks. Someone’s expensive beach house with the same recycled playlist and overpriced liquor that their parents overlooked was gone. Rafe showed up, dapped hands, passed joints, handed off baggies, and stayed just long enough to flex before fucking off somewhere darker.
Since you, since your eyes rolled at his first nasty comment and your mouth bit harder than any line he’d ever fed, Rafe started seeing it all for what it was.
Pathetic. Hollow. Fucked.
He used to laugh with them, now he counted the minutes 'til he could leave. The only reason he even showed up tonight was to sell, get rid of the stash, in and out.
It’s always the same type, over-gelled hair, boat shoes, too much confidence for someone who’s never been punched in the mouth. They buy from Rafe, and like to think that gives them some pass, just because he hasn’t decked them yet.
You aren’t there, and that’s why they feel bold. You cracked him open, ruined him for anyone else — and they hated you for it. So when one of them made the mistake, letting your name slip between his teeth, laced with that sleezy disrespect, Rafe didn’t think.
“She’s got a mouth on her,” one of them says, tossing a beer can toward the fire. “Wouldn’t last two seconds on this side if she didn’t have your dick in her throat.”
The laugh that followed was nervous.
Because everyone saw Rafe, back turned, shoulders stiff, head cocked like he needed confirmation.
Maybe he didn’t hear—wrong.
Rafe turned.
“What the fuck did you say?”
Heads turned, conversations died mid-laugh. He didn’t repeat himself or give the guy a chance to explain.
One second, beer bottle in hand, still listening to whatever bullshit story was being told — the next, Rafe had the guy by the collar, slammed into the side of a teakwood bar, knocking a crystal decanter off with a crash.
He’d been waiting for this exact moment to come loose. His fist connected before anyone could blink. Knuckle to cheekbone. The dude dropped like a stone, knees folding in. He let out a groan and rolled, blood already smearing across his lips, but Rafe didn’t stop.
Rafe straddled him and swung again.
“You think you can talk about her?”
Blood was on his ring before it hit the floor. No one rushed to help, they never did when it was Rafe.
Crack.
He was somewhere deep and dark and loud in his head, where all he could hear was your name said in that tone, like you were something dirty. Like they hadn’t seen you break boys twice their size with a single look.
Another hit.
The guy’s arms came up to shield his face, but it was too late for that. One eye already swelling shut, nose crooked, mouth full of blood and teeth — if they were still intact.
“You think you’re untouchable?” Rafe spat, gripping his collar and slamming his head back into the dirt.
“RAFE!”
That was Topper. Panicked.
But Rafe didn’t stop.
“You talk about her again,” He growled, savage, “You breathe about her again, and I swear to God—”
Another punch, this one landed with a sickening crunch.
“I will drag you behind my fucking boat and watch you drown.”
“Get him off!” Kelce barked. “Now, now—fucking now, man, someone’s calling the cops!”
Topper didn’t wait. He grabbed Rafe from behind, arms around his chest in a full-on chokehold. Kelce dove for his legs, dragging him away from the bloodied guy who was now twitching in the grass, barely conscious.
He thrashed. Snarled. “Let me go!” He kicked and elbowed. “I’m not fucking done!”
“You are, man!” Topper grunted, struggling to hold him. “You're done. You hear me?”
“Someone’s on the phone, bro,” Kelce added, panting. “Sheriff. Fucking Ward’s probably gonna hear about this by morning.”
The name snapped something in Rafe.
He stilled, chest heaving. Blood on his hands, knuckles split to hell. Shirt stained, hair sticking to his forehead; eyes still locked on the guy crumpled in the dirt.
He wasn’t moving much anymore, only groaning.
Topper slowly let him go. Kelce stepped back like Rafe might lunge again, he didn’t.
The others—the ones who’d been watching, pretended not to stare. All their smug little grins were gone now. They looked terrified.
Good.
Rafe spit onto the ground, turned on his heel, and started walking.
“Where the hell are you going?” Topper called.
Rafe didn’t answer.
He pulled his phone out, blood smeared across the screen.
Your Contact: Baby 🖕🏽
He hit cal and when you picked up, he just said: “Come get me.”
Twenty minutes later, you pulled up to the old church parking lot — not bothering to park straight — and spotted him immediately.
Slouched on the curb, head tilted back like he was catching his breath, shirt ripped at the collar.
“You better be dying,” you snapped. “Rafe—”
You slammed your door and jogged over, irritation draining out of you with every step.
There was blood everywhere. His hands, his neck, and speckled down his jaw like paint splatter. Dried across his shirt in big, smeared patches. His knuckles were busted open, raw and red.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, already dropping to your knees in front of him. “Baby?! What the fuck happened?”
Your hands were all over him — under his chin, across his cheeks, brushing back his hair to check for cuts. He didn’t move, only looked down at you with that crooked, stupid grin.
“‘S not mine,” he murmured, lips twitching.
You blinked. “What?”
“The blood. It’s not mine.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Then whose—wait. What did you do?”
Rafe shrugged, as if he hadn’t just called you out of bed covered in someone else’s blood.
“You absolute maniac,” you hissed, still checking him over, hands pressed to his sides, his chest. “I swear to God, if you broke your ribs again—”
“Didn’t,” he muttered. “Promise.”
You grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you.
He looked like he'd crawled out of a bar fight in hell and he was grinning. You ran a hand through your hair, heart pounding now that the adrenaline had caught up.
“Who the fuck did you hit?”
He didn’t answer, only leaned forward until his forehead bumped yours, nose brushing your cheek, breath still fast.
You pulled back, eyes narrowing. “Rafe.”
He sighed, gaze dropping to your mouth. “‘S not important.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He paused, licked the blood off his bottom lip, then looked up at you again.
“I told you not to get into more fights.”
“He talked about you.”
Your spine straightened. “Said what, exactly?”
“Some stupid shit,” Rafe continued. “Didn’t even look nervous when he said it.” He tilted his head, lip curling. “That’s what got me.”
“Rafe…”
“I warned them. You’re the one thing I don’t fuckin’ play about.”
You exhaled hard, knowing you should’ve been madder, screaming at him for being reckless, for catching a case over a bunch of privileged, weak-ass dickheads.
“If the cops show up, if Ward hears about it, if—”
“I don’t care.” he cut in.
You stood, swearing under your breath, pacing for half a second before spinning back to him. “You can’t do shit like this, Rafe."
You met his gaze again.
“I don’t care,” Rafe repeated. “I’m not losin’ sleep over this shit. The way he said it? The tone—”
His voice broke off, jaw working, biting the rest of it back.
You stopped in front of him again. He was already reaching for you, smearing a little blood on your hoodie, when his fingers curled into the fabric at your waist.
“C’mere.”
You sighed — loud, dramatic — pretending you were still mad, moving anyway, sliding into his lap, knees on either side of him, your hands coming up to hold his face.
It was hard to tell if you were furious or flattered.
“Fucking menace,” you whispered, “Aren’t you Country Club?”
“Yeah.” Rafe’s hands gripped your thighs. “Yours, though.”
Your mouths met full of breathy curses, and so fucking stupid—because you could still taste the iron on his lips, feel the dried grit on his skin—but neither of you cared.
Rafe groaned into it, hands sliding under the hem of your jacket, gripping your waist.
“God,” he muttered against your mouth, biting softly at your lower lip. “Missed you.”
You laughed through your nose. “You left two hours ago.”
"I'm aware."
Your fingers ghosted down his chest, his breath hitched when you dragged your nails against his ribs, that sick little part of you finding it incredibly attractive that he nearly pummeled a guy into unconsciousness because of you.
Rafe’s head dropped back against the car behind him, lips parted, lashes low. His chest was rising, and fuck, he loved the way you looked at him like this.
Possessive. Wild, knowing you’d ruin a man the same way he just did.
“You’re such a psycho,” you breathed, pressing kisses along his jaw.
“Mmm,” he hummed, grinning. “Perfect match, then.”
You were dragging your mouth down his throat, licking over a spot that made him jolt when headlights swept across the lot.
You barely had time to lift your head before:
“Are you—oh my fucking God.”
Topper’s voice cracked. Kelce followed a second later, stumbling out of his truck, wishing he hadn’t seen what he just saw.
“Bro!” Kelce pointed, horrified. “You’re still covered in blood, and you’re—what is happening?!”
You blinked, still straddling Rafe, breathless.
“Hi,” you said flatly.
“Hi?” Topper screeched. “You could’ve gotten arrested again, and you’re out here sucking face!”
“I was checking for a concussion, asshat.”
Rafe snorted under you, not planning to let you go.
“You’re fucking insane,” Kelce hissed, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re stained with someone’s blood. Is it still warm? I feel like it’s still warm.”
He looked between the two of you, then the red smeared down Rafe’s clothes.
“None of that’s yours.”
You rolled your eyes, wiping another streak from his jaw with your thumb.
“I’ve been asking him that for fifteen minutes.”
“Guy didn’t touch me. I told you.”
“You bathed in him.”
Rafe smirked up at them, unbothered. “Handled it.”
You shrugged. “He deserved it.”
Topper whipped his head toward you.
“You’re not helping.”
You leaned down again, brushing your nose against Rafe’s.
“Told you you didn’t need to fight over me.”
He snorted, his hands sliding lower on your waist.
“Told you I was gonna do it anyway.”
The two of you were back at it again in seconds—his mouth on yours. He wished he could feel your fingers in his hair again, how you checked him like your life depended on it. At least, he can taste you, all sleepy and sugar-laced from the gum you popped in the car.
“Okay, okay,” Topper barked, throwing his hands in the air. “We get it. You’re in love and sick in the head. Can we please go before the cops show up?"
You sighed dramatically and turned your head to look at them, still perched in Rafe’s lap like the most unbothered girlfriend on earth.
“Is the guy dead?”
“No,” Topper said, clearly trying not to scream. “But the cops are looking. Someone called it in.”
You tensed slightly. Rafe didn’t.
“Ward?”
Topper nodded grimly.
“Yeah. He’s gonna lose it, dude. You think he’s gonna clean up another mess like this?”
Rafe sighed. “He will.”
You gave him a look, reading the bitterness behind that smugness, that wasn’t confidence, only detachment.
The kind of fuck-it-all attitude only rich boys who hate their fathers get to wear.
You ran your fingers over his split knuckles.
“You need to get this cleaned before it scars.”
Rafe caught your hand and brought it to his mouth, lips brushing your pulse. “You like my scars.”
You sighed and reluctantly pulled back from your boyfriend, who looked about two seconds from dragging you into the backseat.
“You driving?” you asked him.
Rafe, very seriously, pointed to his bloody hands.
“Probably shouldn’t touch the steering wheel.”
Kelce muttered, “No shit, Hannibal.”
You sighed and dragging your sleeve across Rafe’s jaw to wipe another streak of blood away. You rolled your eyes and stood up, tugging him by the hoodie sleeve.
“Let’s go, Country Club."
Rafe followed, all long limbs and smug grins, draping his arm around your shoulder like he hadn't just left a kid with a shattered face and a probable concussion.
Topper groaned as he unlocked his car.
“This is why I drink.”
You opened your own car door, pausing long enough to toss over your shoulder.
“Don’t be mad he didn’t crawl in your lap.”
Rafe snorted so hard he nearly tripped.
God, he fucking loved you.
Your hair swung over your shoulder as you slid into the driver’s seat, he loved you looked over your shoulder with that shit eating smirk and no apology. His shit didn’t faze you, you knew exactly who he was — mess, mood swings and all — and still handed him the aux cord, choosing him every time.
He took the passenger’s seat and you reached across to buckle him in because his fingers were too busted up to do it himself.
It should’ve felt embarrassing.
It didn’t.
You were the only one he let do this shit. Baby him. Touch him like he wasn’t a walking red flag. Call him out and call him yours in the same breath.
He didn’t realize how fucked he was over you until moments like this.
It wasn’t the jealousy that scared him — he welcomed that.
Rafe enjoyed knowing he’d bleed for you, that someone breathing your name wrong made something feral snap inside him. When you cleaned him up and cursed at him under your breath like you’d rather die than admit you were worried sick.
You made him feel safe, even from himself.
He cracked an eye open and turned to look at you, the dashboard lights casting a glow across your face, that annoyed little pout you always wore when you were pretending not to be scared for him.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice scratchy.
You didn’t glance over.
“If you ask for road head right now, I swear to God.”
Rafe chuckled.
“No..." He leaned over and kissed your shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”
You flicked your turn signal. “You act like I had a choice.”
You finally looked at him and in that second — in the corner of your eye, in the curve of your frown softening — he felt it. That wrecked, awful, beautiful love that kept him coming undone over and over.
Rafe Cameron wasn’t sure he believed in God. But if he did, she was driving a beat-up Jeep and threatening to beat his ass.
note: OMGGG! FINAL PARTTT!!! thank you all so much for reading, reblogging, liking, and commenting on all previous parts of unsaid – the love is overwhelming! ✧( ु•⌄• )◞◟( •⌄• ू )✧ this was a labor of love so i hope you enjoy! lowkey don't love the ending but whatever hahahaha. please talk to me and let me know what else you wanna see!! sending you all a big smooch ᵔદᵔ
pairing: bsf!rafe x bsf!y/n
summary: rafe's struggling and y/n finally works up the nerve to confront her feelings.
warnings: this is 18+. alcohol and drug use mentioned.
Midsummers.
The most boring event of the summer, filled with old rich guys and their younger wives and the most annoyingly privileged kooks your age, all coming together to network and celebrate the summer with extravagant outfits. A party that you would usually make the best of by ditching your parents and going off with all your friends to sneak drinks and shit on all the people who take it seriously.
But this year, it was different. You had texted Rafe, called him, and even shown up at his house, only to be turned away by Rose, Ward, Sarah, and even Wheezie, telling you that Rafe either wasn’t home or he was busy. It had been almost two weeks since he came to your house in the middle of the night, leaving you with more questions than answers.
You regretted putting so much distance between the two of you and ignoring Rafe because now it was being thrown back in your face. It hurt to not see or talk to him while you were the one texting back with excuses, but it hurt even worse when you were on the other end of the stick. He was flat-out acting like you didn’t exist.
You knew that you should’ve just sucked it up and acted like everything was normal because now it was all falling apart, and it was your fault. You were the one that hurt him. All he did was give it back, which you should’ve expected.
After he left, you had laid awake for hours, going through everything that had happened since the party. Did he actually remember what he said? He asked why you were avoiding him, and if he remembered, then surely he would have some idea of why you had pulled away from him, right? You went in circles, going back through everything that happened under the assumption that he either did or didn’t remember his confession at Kelce’s party, and nothing made sense either way.
Sure, Rafe was avoidant of most things, but anytime you did anything to piss him off or hurt him, he would always be sure to make you aware of exactly what you did. But now, he wasn’t even speaking to you anymore, and the weight on your chest felt heavier every day.
Now, you’re looking at yourself in the mirror. All done up with a green silk floor-length gown that's been catching at your heels every time you try to walk around your room. The flower crown on your head is heavy, and the necklace Rafe got you for your 16th birthday sits right above the neckline of your dress.
“Honey!”
“We’ve gotta go!”
You look towards the door at the sound of your parent’s voices and take a deep breath, grabbing your bag that you had stuffed with shooters and a couple of joints. You toss it over your shoulder and grip the railing as you walk down the stairs to meet your parents.
The drive to the Island Club was filled with lectures about being polite, not causing trouble, and honoring your family’s name. As soon as you step out of the car and into the building, you’re met with the sight of the familiar floral decorations the club did for Midsummers. Waiters scramble around, bringing drinks and hors d’oeurves to the patrons, dressed up in garish suits and dresses like they owned the place.
You follow your parents through the party, greeting the people they want you to meet, smiling, and nodding until your neck feels sore. Your eyes dart over the room, and you spot Kelce talking to a couple of other friends outside. You excuse yourself from your parents, and they reluctantly let you go. You hurry through the halls, slipping by waiters and kooks, holding your dress up, attempting not to fall.
You go outside onto the wraparound porch, where a band plays some beachy music on the green. People are dancing and ordering drinks, and you look around again, losing your view of Kelce when you finally make your way through the doors. You spot him again and sigh in relief, wobbling towards him on your heels.
“Hey.” You smile weakly, dropping your grip on your dress.
He turns at the sound of your voice and grins. “Yo, when’d you get here?' He asks, pulling you into a side hug that you return.
“Like an hour ago, I had to make my rounds.” You sigh.
Kelce nods, knowing exactly how it feels. “You finally escaped?”
“Barely,” You mumble and pull your purse in front of you, rummaging through the contents. “I brought shooters.”
He laughs and pats you on the back. “Fuck, yeah. Here, I’ll block you.”
He stands in front of you, his back turned as you hide by the wall, pulling a Fireball shooter out of your purse and downing it in seconds. As you swallow, you wince and put the cap back on, stuffing the empty bottle back in your purse.
“Okay.” You say, and you hear applause as Kelce steps to the side.
You see Ward first, walking outside with Rose wrapped around him, waving at everyone. He was being coronated as ‘Guardian of Knights of the Rhododendron’ tonight; how could you forget? You watch as the Camerons make their way down the porch steps, greeting everyone, and your eyes immediately find Rafe.
He’s wearing a light blue suit tailored to perfection and topped off with a bowtie. His hair is slicked back, and you swallow the remnants of the shot you just took as you watch him follow his father around. He looks great to anyone else, but you can see the dark circles around his eyes as he shakes hands with the people around him. Did you cause that? The lack of sleep that was so evident on his face, the weariness he seemed to mask as he made small talk?
“Have you talked to him?”
You’re snapped back into reality as Kelce speaks, and you shake your head.
“Uh, no. Have you?” You try to ask casually.
He shakes his head, frowning. “Barely, he’s been MIA the past few weeks.”
You grimace at his words and sigh, running a sweaty hand over your dress. “He hasn’t talked to me at all.” You admit.
You honestly couldn’t bother to care anymore about Kelce knowing about your feelings for Rafe. After the day at the country club, you knew he knew.
“Really?” His eyes widen as he tilts his head. “Why?”
You scoff. “Fuck if I know.”
Your eyes find Rafe again, and he’s still mingling. God, he looks exhausted. A wave of guilt washes over you as you watch him. He told you he needed you, and you just avoided him like what he said didn’t matter. You feel uncomfortable in your own skin as your mind races. How could you have let it get this far? Your own fears held you back from confronting him, and now the two of you hadn’t spoken in weeks, all because you couldn’t just suck it up? You suddenly feel sick, and your hands grip your purse strap.
“I need to…use the bathroom.” You manage to get out, and Kelce’s face morphs into confusion as you rush away, back inside the club and towards the stairs. You climb over the velvet rope, blocking off the stairs to deter people from wandering and hurry down into the women’s locker room. As expected, it was empty, and you shut the stall door as you sit on the toilet seat cover, your head in your hands.
It all seems so stupid now to have been avoiding him, ignoring him because of what he said. You were scared that you couldn’t be enough for him, couldn't be what he needs, but all of that was washed away as your true fears came to fruition.
He didn’t want to talk to you anymore; he didn’t want to be your friend anymore, be in your life anymore. This was real. It wasn’t your anxiety making things up, telling you that you weren’t good enough for him. It was actually happening, and you didn’t do anything to stop it.
You should’ve just asked him what he meant. Taken the jump and see where you landed. You should’ve run after him that night he left your house, demanded answers, and given your own. You should’ve just been honest.
“Fuck.” You mumble as you tear off some toilet paper and blow your nose.
You toss it into the trash, open your purse, and take another shot. Partially for luck and partially for strength. You just needed to talk to him.
You put the empty bottle back in your purse as you wince and walk out of the stall. You stare at yourself in the mirror, flushed cheeks and a tear-streaked face staring back at you as you wash your hands. You take some paper towels and clean yourself up.
“You’ve got this.” You say to yourself and make your way back up the stairs, climbing over the velvet rope and heading back outside. As you make your way through the crowd dancing, looking for him, you bump into someone.
“Sorry-” You start, and as you look up, you meet his eyes.
You do not have this.
Rafe looks down at you as the two of you stand still, everyone moving around you.
He takes a step back, and you can’t bring yourself to move.
His heart races as he realizes you were the one that bumped into him. No amount of alcohol could’ve prepared him for this, and the couple of shots he snuck in earlier before his family left for Midsummers did nothing. He felt dead sober as he locked eyes with you.
He takes another step back, not ready to face whatever would come when you spoke. That’s why he had been avoiding you for so long. What was he going to say? How could he even explain himself?
“Rafe.” You breathe out.
His jaw clenches as you speak, and his heart drops to his stomach at the sound of your voice. He feels like crying as he looks you over. He missed you over the past two weeks more than he ever thought it was possible to miss another person. He was so scared of how deep his feelings went for you that seeing you right now? It was terrifying.
Suddenly, Topper is grabbing his shoulder and turning Rafe to face him. “Dude, your Dad is trying to find you.” He says lowly.
Rafe’s chest bubbles in both relief that he doesn’t have to face you and anxiety about being around his father.
“Thanks, man.” He claps Topper on the shoulder and doesn’t spare you another look back as he makes his way to the porch where Ward is. Like he didn’t even see you.
Your mouth opens slightly as he just…walks away, and your heart feels heavier than it ever has before. You’re putting your hand on your chest as Topper turns to face you.
“Hey, oh—woah, are you okay?” He asks, stepping closer.
You look up at him and nod. “Mhm.” You keep nodding like your lungs aren’t folding in on themselves.
He places a hand on your arm. “You don’t…you don’t look okay.” Topper’s brows furrow in concern.
“I’m fine.” You mutter, shrugging his hand off you and pushing past him and out of the crowd. The sun was almost below the horizon as you walked as fast as you could in your heels towards the nearby garden, looking for the bench you would typically smoke on during past Midsummers.
It’s surrounded by hedges and bushes of flowers, and you stumble as you sit down, setting your purse next to you. You struggle to pull off your heels in your haze, but you’re desperate for some kind of relief. Anything to make you feel some semblance of normal. It doesn’t help. You bring your knees up to your chest as you close your eyes, attempting to calm down.
———
Rafe is at his father’s side, getting introduced as a future employee of Cameron Development to some of the other top real-estate moguls in the area. He laughs when he needs to and tries to pay attention, but his eyes drift to where he last saw you.
He can’t spot you in the crowd anymore, and he’s forced to focus on the men in front of him.
“I’m hopin’ Rafe here is going to be my successor when I feel like retiring.” Ward grins, clapping his son on his shoulder, shaking him a bit.
Rafe forces a smile and nods. “If he ever retires.” He tries to make it a joke, and the other men laugh lightly, but as Ward squeezes his shoulder, he knows he made a mistake.
“Step it up.” Ward hisses into his ear, and Rafe straightens out his back. His chest squeezes at the feeling of inadequacy that rushes through him. If he can’t be good enough for his own father, his family, how could he ever be good enough for you?
Then he remembers he’s not. He’s not good enough for you, and he never will be. That’s why you avoided him; that’s why he, in turn, is avoiding you. He’s unfixable, incurable. A person made up of mismatched puzzle pieces stuck together with scotch tape. And the one person who made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could finally put the pieces together wants nothing to do with him.
He feels numb as he continues to chat with the businessmen and his father, eventually being dismissed after what feels like hours. He heads to the bathroom and rinses his face, looking at himself in the mirror. He knew the last few weeks of not speaking to you took a toll on him, but in the harsh lighting of the Island Club bathroom, he was able to see just how much damage it had done. His dark circles are prominent, and his eyes droop in exhaustion.
He shakes his head. He needs to pull it together, be a man, and fix his shit. He pats his face with a paper towel and heads back outside. He tried to find you again, just so he knows where not to go, but he still doesn’t see you, and while his heart aches, he feels the tiniest bit of relief.
———
You’ve been on the bench for an hour.
You know this because the sun typically sets around 8, and as you look at your phone through your blurry vision, it’s a little after 9. Midsummer’s is still going, although the noise has lessened. Your parents had texted you, telling you they were heading home, not bothering to call.
You sigh and look up at the stars in the sky, wiping your face of the tears you had shed earlier during your nervous breakdown. You feel like shit. Pure and utter shit. Like someone had just stepped on you and then decided that wasn’t good enough, so they kicked you as well.
Your body is aching from the tension it’s held over the past hour and, honestly, the past few weeks ever since Kelce’s first party. The party. The one that changed everything.
You sniffle and rub your ankle, raw from wearing your heels all night. You wish you just felt physical pain. You think it would be easier than the emotional pain you’ve been dealing with. Easier than thinking about Rafe.
You’ve been trying to pinpoint the exact moment things went from bad to worse, and you’re pretty sure it’s when he came to your house, and you refused to tell him the truth about why you’ve been so distant with him.
You sigh and stand, your heels dangling in one hand and your other holding your purse. You make your way through the garden, heading towards the beach. Your bare feet dig into the sand, and you look back towards the Island Club.
The crowd on the green has dispersed, and the band is no longer playing. There are only a few figures on the porch, and you assume that every other attendee is inside, still making rounds and talking aimlessly about things that aren’t important.
You turn back towards the ocean, which looks navy blue in the moonlight, and keep heading further down the beach. You sit down by a sand dune and look at the water for a while. You need to talk to Rafe. Even if it takes begging for him to listen, you just need to be honest.
You dig in your purse for the joints you had packed earlier, but then you hear it.
His laugh is so distinct you would be able to find him in a crowd, and you look up to your left to see Rafe, Kelce, and Topper walking on the beach a ways away. Topper's chugging some sort of alcohol straight out of the bottle as they walk along the shore. Their voices travel to you, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. You keep your eyes on them as you grab your purse and heels and stand, walking towards them.
You’re determined to talk to Rafe, and while your heart races out of nervousness and anxiety, you know this is what you have to do.
“Rafe!” You call as you get closer, and you see all three boys turn towards you. As their faces come into view, Topper looks clueless, Kelce grins a bit, and Rafe’s expression is unreadable. You jog up the rest of the way, now right in front of him.
He looks down at the ground, and you frown.
“Can we talk?” You ask, your heart beating out of your chest.
He doesn’t respond. Just looks back up at you, his expression almost pained.
“Please?” You say, your voice desperate.
The last thing he wants to do is talk to you. In all honesty, he would rather just drink until he forgot you existed, but the crack in your voice and the way you’re fidgeting with your heels in your hands makes him lose all restraint.
“Okay.” He mumbles and walks past you, away from Topper and Kelce, and further down the shore. You turn and follow him, leaving Kelce and Topper behind.
He hears your footsteps behind him, but he keeps walking until he’s sure the two of you are far enough away for anyone to hear.
When he stops, you do as well, and he sighs before turning to face you.
“What?” He asks, his voice clipped.
He watches you frown, and for a moment, he thinks he should’ve been more gentle. But he needs to stay mad at you because he’s afraid of what he might say if he doesn't.
“How-how have you been?” You say softly, and his heart clenches at the tone of your voice.
“Fine.” He responds shortly.
Rafe watches as you take a deep breath, almost like you’re preparing for something, and suddenly he’s nervous. He watches you wearily as you set your things down in the sand before standing back up to look at him.
“Listen, I know you’re upset with me, okay? And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being weird, and I’m sorry for being distant.”
His breath catches at your words. He didn’t expect you to come and apologize; if anything, he thought you would chew him out for ignoring you or just straight up tell him that you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.
He swallows, the air feeling heavy.
“Okay.” He manages to say.
He knows you want to hear more from him based on how you cross your arms and look at him like that. Like you’re disappointed. But he can’t bring himself to say more.
You sigh and run a hand over your face, and it’s then that he notices how your eyes are red and swollen, and the makeup you had on earlier has been washed away by tear streaks. He shifts on his feet, knowing that it was probably him who made you cry. All he ever does is ruin things.
You lick your lips and urge yourself to keep talking. “At the party, um, Kelce’s party, you told me that-that you neededme-that you always need me, and—do you remember that?” You interrupt yourself, needing to know.
Rafe’s heart stopped when you mentioned the party, but he’s able to nod his head once. A silent confirmation of what he wished he couldn’t remember.
You swallow at his action and your mind races. Now that you knew for a fact he remembered, suddenly everything was painted in a different light.
“I just…I didn’t—fuck,” You laugh humorlessly, unable to get the words out. “I was afraid that I couldn’t be that for you. I couldn’t be what you need.”
Rafe’s lips twitch into a slight frown at your words before he schools his face back into something neutral. “Why?” He asks gruffly.
You close your eyes for a moment, trying to gather yourself, but as you look back at him, everything comes tumbling out. “B-because I haven’t even been honest with you, for-for the past couple months—I’m in love with you, Rafe, and I couldn’t even tell you, and I just thought, how can I be there for you when I can’t even be fully honest with you or myself…”
The rest of what you're saying falls on deaf ears when Rafe hears those five words. I’m in love with you. His heart is pounding, and it feels hard to breathe as he watches your lips move, but he can’t hear a thing.
You’re in love with him? What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Tell you he felt the same way? He did, of course he did, but he couldn’t be what you needed. He was too messed up, an emotional wreck. There was no way you could possibly love him.
But…what if you did?
It’s then he realizes you’ve stopped talking, and you’re staring at him now, waiting for something, anything.
“Y-you’re in love with me?” He chokes out.
You nod. “Yeah. I-I’m in love with you, Rafe. I love you.” Your voice is shaky but resolute.
"That's not—no, you don't." Rafe shakes his head, stepping back.
Your heart tightens at his words.
"I do." You mumble.
He lets out a humorless laugh and runs his hand through his hair. "No-no, you can't, alright?"
"What?" You frown, your anxiety now being replaced by confusion.
"You can't." He says, and he looks like he doesn't want to keep talking, but he continues. "I'm not, I'm not that guy."
You shake your head. You knew about his insecurities and his troubles, and maybe this was what you were also afraid of. Not that he doesn't love you back, but that he feels like he doesn't deserve to be loved.
Your eyes well up with tears as you look at him, and he looks just as close to crying as you are.
"That's not true, Rafe," You say quietly. "I love you. I'm serious."
He falters for a moment. It makes sense; why you avoided him. But he needs the reassurance.
His face twists as he runs his hands through his hair again. "No, you just-you just wanted to fix me, and when you realized that I'm a lost cause, you stopped trying-"
You cut him off before he can even finish what he's saying.
"W-what the fuck?" You frown, your voice getting louder. "No. Absolutely not. You're not some-some case that I'm trying to solve or fix, Rafe. You're my best friend. I avoided you because I didn't know how to deal with my feelings, I—why would you even think that?"
It's then that you feel hot tears running down your cheeks. That's what he thought? This whole time, he thought you were just playing with him like some kind of toy you could put back together?
He swallows at your words, and while his mind is running a million miles a minute, processing it all and still trying to convince him he's not good enough for you, seeing you so upset just breaks him.
His bottom lip trembles as he looks at you, and it’s then that he realizes you’re not bullshitting him, you're being honest, and everything that held him back before doesn’t matter anymore.
Before he or you know what’s happening, he’s taking a step towards you and grabbing your face, pulling you in for a bruising kiss.
Your eyes widen in shock before you allow yourself to melt into it. Melt into him.
He pulls away after a few seconds, both of you breathless and equally surprised by his actions.
“I l-" He cuts himself off and shakes his head like it'll help get his words out. "I love you too—I’m in love with you too.” He says, his hands still on your cheeks.
“Yeah?” You manage to ask.
“Yeah.” He nods, a small smile working its way on his face.
You smile, too, and look up at him. “So we’re good?” You ask.
He nods vehemently and leans forward, pecking your lips once more.
“We’re good.” He murmurs, the tip of his nose brushing against yours.
And as his thumb brushes against your cheek, wiping away your tears, you wish you told him how you felt ages ago, but you push the thought away. It doesn’t matter anymore.
hi y'all! sorry i've been MIA for the past week or so (haha how long has it been since i've updated….???) i've been drowning in work, but i will have the FINAL (ahhh) part to unsaid by the end of this week guaranteed! thank you all so much for all the love on this little series of mine!!! (*๓´╰╯`๓) if you have any ideas for what i hsould write next lmk—okie ttyl love u allllllll (ฅ́˘ฅ̀)
note: hello again! thank you all so much for reading and reblogging and liking part one and two of unsaid – i'm so grateful for all the support! ˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵ i think we've got one more part left to gooo! lmk if you wanna be on the taglist and talk to me! let me know what other stories you might like to see!! hope you enjoyyy, luv u all :))
pairing: bsf!rafe x bsf!y/n
summary: rafe is noticing the distance and y/n can't explain herself
warnings: this is 18+. alcohol and drug use mentioned, anxiety attack.
Something was wrong.
Usually, you’d jump at the opportunity to hang out with Rafe, but recently, it’s been different. He’s tried to shrug it off. However, it's been two days after the country club, and you’ve continued to decline every offer of his to hang out.
You’ve used the same lame excuse of being tired too many times to be a coincidence. You were so tired that you needed to go home and nap after the beach? After the country club? No, something was very wrong.
Rafe knows why you’re being so distant. He’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. Well, he actually might be, considering he was dumb enough to spill his guts out to you the night of Kelce’s party. He remembers it all crystal clear. Being by your side most of the night, playing pong, how that guy had tried to play a game with you and Rafe really didn’t want you to, so he wrapped his arm around your torso, thinking that maybe it would deter you from saying yes. You didn’t accept that guy’s offer, thank god, and stuck with Rafe instead.
He remembers drinking too much, an attempt to escape the whirling thoughts in his brain every time he thought of you, or his family. He remembers losing you at some point, getting tangled up in a conversation with Topper about Sarah, and he remembers needing to leave, not wanting to hear about his sister anymore. He remembers walking out to the porch and sitting on the swing, looking out at the well-kept street and thinking of what his mind tended to default to when nothing distracted him. You.
He just couldn’t stop thinking about you, and he hates it. He hates how you infiltrate every blank space in his head, taking over any rational thoughts he may have regarding your relationship as best friends and instead shifting them into a weird amalgamation of friendly appreciation and something else.
Something he didn’t want to name, talk about, or acknowledge.
But he did talk about it. And the part that makes him hate himself even more is that he talked about it to you. Told you some of the deepest feelings he’s held for you. Nothing too specific, but it was enough. Telling you that he needed you, that he could breathe when you were around—that was enough. Enough to send his mind spiraling into something he couldn’t control unless he completely avoided it, like most of his issues.
So, he didn’t bring it up. What was he supposed to say? That he didn’t mean it? Because that wasn’t true. He did mean it. You were his saving grace, and you didn’t even know it until that night. He’s thankful he didn’t say anything else, because the way you reacted almost killed him. How you turned it into some sort of joke, then obviously felt bad and told him you needed him too. It was clear that you didn’t need him. If you did, you wouldn’t be avoiding him.
No one needs him. At best, he’s volatile, violent at times, and avoidant. At worst, he’s a fucking trainwreck.
He’s honestly shocked he hasn’t pushed you away like everyone else until now. Sure, he has other friends, but he’s made it so no one could ever see him for what he truly is. A disaster waiting to happen. But you? You’ve stayed.
Through his stubbornness, his breakdowns, his anxiety, you’ve stayed. He knew it was only a matter of time before he scared you away like he knew he would. You were just too good to be true.
You pushed him without even using words to admit things he didn’t want to admit to himself, to open up about the pressures and borderline abuse from his father, or the fears he had about what his future may hold.
Now, though, you were pulling away, and he didn’t know how to stop it. Kelce’s party was supposed to be a fun night where he forgot all of his problems and got to hold you a little too close through the guise of being drunk. Instead, he bared himself to you.
I always need you.
He almost threw up when he said that. And then he just kept going, deciding to tell you that you’re the only person he can breathe around. The way you smiled, like he hadn’t just laid himself out for you, just about killed him. The half-joke you made about never leaving, and when you held his hand to tell him you felt the same? He knew it was just an attempt to cushion the blow, to not hurt his feelings.
He knew what this all meant. The thing he knew was true, no matter how much he tried to avoid it. He wasn’t someone that anyone needed. He wasn’t someone anyone could love. He was just some weird little pet project of yours to try and fix, and when you realized he had become dependent on you and that you couldn’t fix him, you were done.
The thoughts he had spent so long trying to avoid, trying to push down, came surging towards him, and he couldn’t avoid them any longer. He loved you more than he should, and you would never feel the same way.
———
Kelce’s throwing another party, and Rafe decided to go against his better judgment. Now, he’s stuck talking to Ruthie again about some stupid shit her parents did.
“She almost took away my phone too!” Ruthie laughs, placing her arm on Rafe’s bicep.
He curls his lip and shrugs off her hand. “I gotta go…get another drink.” He grumbles, backing up.
“Oh, I’ll come with you.” She offers, and he freezes.
“No, it’s—I’ll catch you later.”
Before she can say anything else or follow him, he’s walking away, his heart beating through his chest. He makes his way through the living room and through the front door, dropping his beer bottle on the grass as he hurries away from the house and onto the street.
The world around him starts spinning, and he finds himself crouching behind a tree a few houses down, his hands running through his hair.
He hates the way she touched him, like she wanted him. He felt sick. The only girl he wanted to touch him was you, and you weren’t there. He texted you about the party hours ago, and you didn’t answer. He knew you saw it, you never missed a text, but tonight you hadn’t responded.
He takes a shaky breath, trying to calm his racing heart and shaking hands. His chest is tight as he closes his eyes. He hadn’t even finished the one beer he grabbed at the party. He was too sober. He wishes he hadn’t left the bag of coke under his mattress at home, needing something to help the anxiety coursing through his veins. It wouldn’t calm him down, but it would distract him.
But he didn’t have it. He braces himself as he sits on the grass and brings his knees to his chest. He didn’t even like Ruthie; he never did. She was annoying and an attention seeker, but she briefly took his mind off you. He could listen to her talk about whatever the fuck, and imagine how easy it would be if he liked anyone else but you. But when she touched him? Something snapped.
It made him feel guilty, like he was doing something wrong, even if all she did was touch his arm for less than five seconds. He takes another shaky breath and places his hand on his chest. He rubs his kuckles over his ribs like it woud help. It doesn’t.
He hears your voice in the back of his head telling him to just breathe, name the things he could see, hear, touch, smell, taste, but it doesn’t help. He can’t breathe.
———
A loud knock on your front door almost makes you jump out of bed. Your heart races as you look at the time. It’s nearly midnight. For the first time, you’re suddenly not thankful your parents are out of town.
Whoever’s at your door knocks again, and it’s aggressive. You stand out of your bed with shaky legs and grab the closest thing you can find for protection, a water glass on your bedside table, and you clench it in your hand as you make your way down the stairs slowly.
Your mind races through all the worst possibilities. Someone trying to rob you, kill you, it all whirls in your anxiety-ridden mind as you approach the front door.
They knock again, three times, and it shakes the door. You hold your breath as you look through the peephole, and all the terrifying possibilities your mind has run through are now something you would rather face instead of what’s on the other side of the door.
You loosen your grip on the glass and set it by the entryway table, swallowing as you unlock the door and open it.
You meet his red-rimmed eyes as Rafe stands before you, jaw clenching.
“Rafe?” you mumble, eyes wide in confusion. He was supposed to be at Kelce’s party, but instead, he’s standing outside your door, and he looks like he’s been…crying.
He just looks at you for a second. He can tell you don’t want to see him, and his chest clenches again, and the anxiety he had managed to calm down enough to walk over to your house was now rushing back.
He tries to take a deep breath, but it catches halfway on the inhale. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Your eyes dart over him, the clenched fists by his side in an attempt to disguise his shaking hands, the way his throat bobs as he closes his mouth again, how his chest can barely rise.
You swallow and open the door wider, grabbing his forearm and pulling him inside. You drop his arm and shut and lock the door behind you two as you stand in the entryway and look up at him.
He’s having an anxiety attack. You’ve seen it a few times, usually when he’s done too much coke, or had an argument with his dad, and you assume it’s the prior.
“How much did you take?” You ask.
His brows furrow as you guide him to sit on the couch and turn on a lamp as you sit next to him. He tries to speak, to tell you that he’s sober, but he can’t. He just shakes his head and relaxes his hands, bringing them to his head. You watch them tremble as he grips his hair in an attempt to hold onto something, anything.
You purse your lips, grab his hands, and place them on your sternum. His breath hitches as the feeling and his eyes flutter closed for a moment.
“You need to breathe. Follow me, okay? In,” You take a deep breath in, and he opens his eyes, his gaze locking you in place. You manage to get back on track despite him staring you down. “And out.”
He wishes he was surprised by how easily you were able to calm him down, but he wasn’t. He knows it’s because his confession wasn’t a metaphor. He could literally breathe with you around. He pulls his sweaty hands out of your grasp and presses his palms to his face, sighing.
You pull your hands into your lap, confusion, concern, and a weird ache flowing through you.
“What happened?’ You ask softly, knowing that he would shut down if you were too pushy.
He laughs humorlessly, and your confusion grows. He pulls his hands off his face and looks at you. "What happened?" He repeats, mocking. “Really?”
You open your mouth to instinctively retort, but you bite your tongue. “I—yeah.”
How were you supposed to know why he had freaked out? You weren’t at the party, you had barely even spoken to him the past week, why—
“Oh.” You whisper.
As realization washes over you, he shakes his head, scoffing. “Why have you been avoiding me?” He asks, his question to seemingly deter from your own, but an answer in itself.
You shake your head. “I haven’t been—”
He cuts you off. “Yes, you have, don’t play dumb.” His words are harsh, matching the anger you feel coursing off of him.
“I’m not playing anything,” You frown. “I’ve been tired and busy, Rafe. I can’t drop everything to hang out with you.”
Your voice is gentle, but it’s almost worse than if you had yelled at him. He brings his hand up to his chest for a moment. He wonders if that’s it. If you’re just done with him now.
“Okay.” He hangs his head, and your face twists. He didn’t even try to argue back, which made you even more concerned.
You go to speak, but he’s already walking towards the door.
“What—” You scramble off the couch to follow him. You turn on the hall light as you walk towards him. “Hey, wait, you can’t just come here like that and not explain anything.”
His hand on the door handle tightens for a moment, and when he turns around, you’re floored. He’s crying. It’s silent, but tears are streaming down his cheeks, and he’s opening the door before you can even process what you’ve just seen.
“Hey, Rafe!” You gather yourself just enough to start moving again, calling after him. “Rafe!”
He pauses on your porch, and you see his back straighten out. “It’s fine. I’ll—I'll see you later.” His voice is broken, and he doesn’t bother turning around again. He takes another step, but you’re faster.
“No,” You frown, and grab his wrist. “Hey—look at me.”
He sniffles and turns around, pulling his hand back.
“What—what’s wrong?” You’re on the verge of tears now. You’ve never seen Rafe this sad before, and it’s freaking you out. “Talk to me.”
“You!” He says loudly, then steps back and lowers his voice. “You’re what’s wrong with me. You’ve been avoiding me for days, and you—you won’t even be honest and tell me why." He’s desperate for you to bring up that night at the party, to just tell him that there’s no fixing him. At least then he’d have a solid answer.
You run a hand over your neck as you swallow. “What do you want me to say?” Your voice is weak. Now is the time. Now is the time to tell him how you’ve been feeling, to let it all out. But you can’t.
He looks at you, then his gaze drops to the porch. He shakes his head. “Nevermind.” He mumbles.
He turns away from you and hurries down your porch steps as you call after him. “Hey! Hey!” You yell, running down the stairs and onto your driveway. He’s already across the street and practically speedwalking away from you, ignoring your calls, his head down and hands in his pockets.
You wrap your arms around yourself as you watch him disappear into the night.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: When Drew begins pulling away, you’re left questioning everything—especially when rumors swirl about him and a co-star. But one emotional night brings the truth to light, and with it, a chance to heal together.
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
It started with unread texts.
At first, you didn’t think anything of it. People get busy. People get distracted. Especially when they’re actors on the brink of something big. You’d text him in the mornings—simple things like “Hope you slept okay” or “Wanna grab dinner after set?”—and by the time the sun went down, maybe he’d shoot back a tired thumbs-up emoji. Sometimes not even that.
It stung, but you brushed it off.
The thing about love is that it makes you good at making excuses. Too good.
You and Drew had been dating for a little over a year. It wasn’t always like this—God, no. He used to call you on the way home from set, just to hear your voice. You used to fall asleep on FaceTime when you were in different cities. He used to make you laugh so hard your stomach hurt.
But now, the silence between texts stretched longer, like slow, heavy breathing. He started replying in fragments. “Busy.” “Can’t tonight.” “Rain check?”
And you kept telling yourself it was fine. That he was tired. That he was just overwhelmed. That he loved you—he just didn’t have the energy to show it all the time.
But then the date nights stopped.
You had this little tradition—every Thursday night was yours. No matter how chaotic the week was, Thursday meant takeout and wine and the two of you cuddled under a throw blanket watching the worst movies you could find. And that was your anchor. That was your constant.
Until suddenly, it wasn’t.
The first Thursday he bailed, he said something had come up on set. The second, he said he was sick. The third, he didn’t say anything at all. Just didn’t show.
You waited until 11:47 p.m. before finally blowing out the candle you’d lit for ambiance and packing away the pad thai that had gone cold. You didn’t even bother texting him. What was the point?
What made it worse—what twisted the knife—was opening Instagram.
There he was. Smiling in the sunlight next to Odessa. The caption wasn’t anything special—just a “grateful for days like this ☀️” kind of thing—but the comments were wild.
“omg are they dating??”
“i KNEW there was something between them”
“sorry to this girl but drew and odessa >>>>”
Your hands went cold as you scrolled, the blood rushing in your ears.
You didn’t want to be that girl. You didn’t want to spiral. But how were you supposed to feel when the man you loved hadn’t touched you in days and yet looked so warm and alive in someone else’s frame?
You turned your phone off and buried it under your pillow.
It got harder to talk to him.
Every time you tried—every time you even so much as hinted at how distant he felt—he’d change the subject or wave it off.
“I’m just tired,” he said one night, brushing a kiss against your hair. “Don’t make this into something it’s not.”
But it already was something. You were starting to feel like a ghost in your own relationship—like some vague obligation he kept around out of habit.
And you hated yourself for not knowing how to fix it.
It all came to a head on a Friday night.
You’d made a stupid little plan—nothing fancy, just a movie you knew he liked, popcorn, candles. A cozy night. One last try. You didn’t text him about it, didn’t announce it, just hoped he’d walk in and feel the care behind it and remember you. Really remember you.
But he came home, dropped his keys on the counter, barely looked at you.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m going out. Probably late.”
You blinked from the couch, remote still in hand. “You just got home.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stood slowly. “Drew…”
He didn’t meet your eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“Out with a few friends. I need a night to breathe.”
And that was it. That was the moment something inside you cracked—quiet and clean, like the shatter of fine china.
You didn’t yell. You didn’t scream. You just… felt it all hit you at once.
“Do you even want to be with me anymore?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He froze. “What?”
“I’m not trying to pick a fight, I’m just—” You paused, swallowing the ache in your throat. “I need to know. Because I feel like I’ve been holding on by my fingertips, and every day, you pull a little further away.”
His brows furrowed. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” You laughed bitterly. “You barely talk to me. You leave me on read. You cancel every plan we make. And then I see you with her and it’s like…” Your voice wobbled. “It’s like you’re happier with her.”
Drew stared at you like you’d slapped him. “Wait. Are you talking about Odessa?”
“You’re all over her page, Drew. And the comments…” You shook your head. “They think you’re together. And honestly, sometimes I wonder if they’re right.”
He stepped forward, his expression stricken. “Hey, hey—no. No. That’s not what this is.”
Tears burned your eyes, but you didn’t look away.
“Then what is this?” you asked. “Because I feel like I’m begging for scraps of your attention. And I hate that I’ve gotten so used to being invisible to you.”
You didn’t realize you were crying until he reached out and cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing under your eye.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “God, I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.”
You sniffled. “How could you not?”
He closed his eyes like he couldn’t bear the weight of your words.
“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered.
You stared. “From what?”
“From this,” he said, gesturing between you. “From me. I’ve been in this weird headspace… overworked, burnt out, insecure, all of it. I started feeling like I was dragging you into my mess. Like I wasn’t good enough for you anymore.”
You shook your head, tears falling freely now. “So instead of talking to me, you just shut me out?”
“I didn’t know how to talk about it,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“You already did,” you said, the words stinging even as they left your mouth. “But I would’ve understood if you’d just told me.”
His face crumpled as he pulled you into his arms, holding you like he hadn’t in weeks—tightly, desperately, like he finally realized you might slip through his fingers.
“I’ve been such an idiot,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’ve treated you like an afterthought.”
You buried your face in his chest, your hands clutching at his shirt. “I missed you so much, Drew.”
“I missed you too,” he breathed. “I never stopped loving you. I just… forgot how to show it.”
You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, the silence between you soft for the first time in what felt like forever.
When you finally pulled back, your voice was quieter. “You need to mean it. If we do this again… I need you to fight for me. Not leave me guessing.”
He nodded, eyes shining. “I will. I swear to you. No more half-versions of me. You deserve everything.”
You let out a shaky laugh, brushing your thumb across his jaw. “You’ve got a lot to make up for.”
“I know,” he said. “And I’ll spend every day doing it.”
That night, he didn’t go out. He turned off his phone, ordered your favorite takeout, and curled up on the couch beside you like the man you fell in love with.
You held hands under the blanket as the movie played, and somewhere between scenes, he kissed your forehead and whispered, “I’m home now.”
And just like that, you felt him choosing you all over again.
★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.
reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.
both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.
★ author's note.ᐟ i might be posting another chapter in a few days hehe,,, i've been thinking about making a post about the kind of outfits this reader wears, lmk if you'd be interested!!
YOU'VE GOT MAIL!
you looked down at the conversation you'd had with MalachiConstant last night, a small smile on your face as you read the messages between the two of you.
MalachiConstant: that was such a long drive
MalachiConstant: i'm ready to crash
YOU: whaaat? no late night conversation with your favorite internet grandma?
MalachiConstant: as if. i'd stay up for a week for you, grandma.
YOU: now now. you're making my cheeks all warm.
MalachiConstant: i wish i could see that.
your feet dangled in the water and music played in your earphones, the sky still grey, shades of orange slowly starting to paint it. you hummed softly, kicking your feet in the water and making it splash, the diary you'd just finished writing an entry into in your lap.
"takes to the sky like a bird in flight..." you sung softly along to the song, swaying your head back and forth, closing your eyes and enjoying the feeling of the early morning breeze on your face.
only your reverie was cut short by someone grabbing you by the shoulders, making you jump and yelp out as you scrambled to take your earphones off. you looked to the side, seeing the boy you'd talked to at the party you'd attended, his eyes wide with panic, making you furrow your brows in confusion, not noticing your diary was starting to slide down your bare legs and into the water.
"shit!" you heard him exclaim, the boy diving forward, holding his arm out at your knees, which finally got you to notice that your diary was nearly in the water, making you scramble to try and grab it.
a loud splash! echoed around you.
your sudden movements had caused the boy to lose his balance, your eyes widening in shock when you noticed the boy had fallen into the water.
he emerged from under the water, the boy joining his cap and your diary amongst the things now floating on the surface. he looked to you, the two of you bursting into laughter at the exact same time.
after he'd clambered out of the water, the two of you made your way towards the main cabin, the boy having to remind you that his name was 'rafe' and not 'random frat boy'. but when you'd tried to remind him of your name, he'd stopped you before you could get the first syllable out, with a cocky 'i remember.'
the two of you were sitting at the kitchen table, a towel wrapped around rafe who now resembled a wet rat, and you pushed a cup of tea towards him, "i don't drink tea, so." he said, feigning arrogance, making you roll your eyes, "you might get sick." "i never get sick. i'm the god of health." "hmm. and let me guess, you're also the god of... humility?" "absolutely right i am." the boy gave you an exaggerated wink, making you chuckle under your breath.
you watched as he wrapped his red hands around the mug, "you're hands... you've gotta be freezing." you mumbled, and without even thinking, you brought your hands to cover his. but when you looked up at him and noticed that his eyes had widened from the sudden contact, you quickly withdrew them, clearing your throat, "sorry."
"no, uh, it's cool." rafe cleared his throat in the same way you had, as if trying to get rid of the remnants of the awkward moment, "can i, uh, ask you something?"
"sure." you said more eagerly than you should've, hoping that the change of topic would take the tension you felt rising, and the boy cleared his throat once again. "can you tell me about your friend?" he started snapping his fingers, "the, uh, the one..." "viv?" "no, no, the other one who drove with-" "oh, emilia!" you interrupted him, and he nodded, rafe's cheeks slightly red as he scratched the back of his neck. "yeah, her..."
"she's amazing. like, one of the most talented people i know. i swear, she's gonna be, like, an olympic gymnast one day. or a professional bassist. she's funny, but she's not hugely social. she prefers when it's just the four of us." you smiled softly, rafe's lips pursing in thought, "does she, uh, have any pets?" he asked hesitantly, "oh, yeah!" you smiled, "she has a cat. i'm not sure what her cat's name is, but he's adorable."
when rafe answered with nothing but a simple hum, you narrowed your eyes and smiled at him teasingly, "do you think she's cute?"
"do i think she's cute?" rafe snorted, "what is this, middle school?"
"hey!"
"and to answer your question... she feels familiar. but at the same time not." "rafe, you might be the weirdest guy i've met." the boy snorted, "right back atcha."
"well, i should get going. i don't wanna be here when normal people wake up. i'm not a people person." you stood up, the boy letting out a hum "what makes me not normal?" rafe asked.
"i dunno. guess it's that i don't mind your company." you smiled softly, "see you, rafe."
that evening, you, vivian and emilia were in the cottage you three were sharing for your stay, vivian and emilia both getting ready while you were on your phone, vivian still working on her makeup while emilia was trying on clothes, the girl only having a pair of fishnets and a leather skirt on as she looked through her bag as you stared at the private messages between you and MalachiConstant.
YOU: you there? sent at 10am
YOU: i miss talking to you. sent at 1pm
YOU: i'm booooreeeed :( sent at 4pm
YOU: sorry if i'm bothering you :) sent at 6pm
YOU: sry i'll stop now!!! sent now
you couldn't help the small frown that made your lips twitch down. you didn't know why you felt this way. you knew he had a life and you knew he'd be busy. he didn't owe you anything. he wasn't your boyfriend, or anything.
but for some reason, it felt like someone had plunged a knife into your chest.
your attention was pulled by emilia's question, "viv, do you have anything that goes with this skirt? i got cranberry juice on the shirt i was gonna wear." the girl asked, making vivian shake her head, "not unless you're going for the whole pastel goth vibe. i didn't bring anything black." "fuck..." emilia mumbled.
"why are you so fussy?" you asked with furrowed brows, making emilia groan, throwing her head back, "this one guy told me that he wants to get to know me. and if i wanna get over you-know-who, i should... try." emilia's admission made vivian squeal, "what guy?" she asked, her eyes wide with excitement, "the guy who drove with us." "rafe?" you questioned, "yeah, him."
"hm." you chuckled softly, "i might actually have something that goes with that. if you're not terribly against band t-shirts." "at this point, i'll take anything that doesn't look like it was puked on by an unicorn. no offense viv." emilia said, the pink-haired girl sticking her tongue out in response. you dug through your own bag, throwing her one of your fleetwood mac shirts. emilia took a look at the shirt, cocking her head to the side, "i'm more of a hole girl..." she mumbled, before turning to you, "you mind if i DIY it a bit?"
"knock yourself out. but you pay for it." "you know i'm good for it." she winked back at you, and what used to be your band t-shirt ended up becoming a tank-top, the sleeves showing most of her bra.
when you went outside to join everyone else, the three of you stuck together for the first few hours, but as the hours went by... first vivian was gone, going off to spend time with topper. and although emilia stayed for another thirty minutes, eventually, he went off to find rafe. and you were left alone.
tipsy, and so unaware of your surroundings that someone could've snuck up to you that you'd react to it after five seconds, you looked for your friends. you knew they were busy, but a part of you also hoped that they'd somehow telepathically know how much you wanted to be there for them.
but vivian was still making out with topper, his hand slowly going up her sk— ew. then when you looked for emilia, you saw her where you'd expected to see her. talking to rafe. and although you didn't want to admit it… a part of you wished that for once someone would've wanted you. you didn't even know what caused it. maybe the fact that he didn't feel like a stranger, that you didn't nearly faint from anxiety when you talked to rafe. but of course he'd choose her. of course he'd choose anyone but you.
pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader
rating mature 18+
summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.
Time folds into itself as you lie in Rafe’s bed, slipping in and out of a tired daze, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat.
When he shifts and exhales a sharp wince, you don’t know how many minutes have passed, but you’re sure it’s time to leave, to give him all the space he can get in his bed.
“I should go,” you whisper, sitting up slowly.
He’s in a trance, his shoulder aching, exhaustion seeped into his bones.
Your warmth is gone.
He sees your figure in the dark.
You leave as quietly as possible.
════════
The next day, Rafe walks out through the campus gym doors after meeting with his coach and physical therapist. Turns out the tear isn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been, but as expected, there’s no chance in hell he can play for a while. He’s out of tournament.
He’s lost. It’s like he forgot his own name. Hockey is the constant in his life, or it was, and it’s messing with his head that he won’t be spending hours training or practicing or playing anymore. Instead, he’ll either be in physio or resting, and the closest he can get to the ice is on the bench.
His coach had said that at least it happened at the end of the season, that he’s only a sophomore with so much ahead of him, but all Rafe can feel is disappointment ripping through him.
His phone buzzes with a text from you.
I hope you’re ok. Guessing you can’t make it today?
Right. It’s Thursday. He’s supposed to meet you for tutoring in an hour.
If he never hurt himself last night, if today was a normal day, he’d be in class right now, his morning workout done, his body buzzing with the hot anticipation that he feels every time he’s about to see you.
But today’s far from normal. You said nothing after he kissed you last night. He’s an idiot for making a move on a girl who’d told him so many times that she doesn’t want a boyfriend.
But you’re the one who curled up next to him, who cried over his pain as if it were your own, who told him you care about him.
It’s insane what you do to him. He never runs in circles like this, never dwells on what a girl might be thinking, because he doesn’t have to. In any other situation, he’d cut to the chase and tell you that he wants you.
But the embarrassment from what happened last night still stings. He wouldn’t survive it, hearing you say you don’t see him like that, that you’re not looking for a relationship. When he’s so sure it’d end in an awkward rejection, what’s the point?
After everything that happened in the last 24 hours, it’s a loss he wouldn’t be able to cope with.
════════
You’re writing in your agenda as you wait in the study room, your pen smoothly gliding over paper. Your phone is sitting beside your notebook, and you unlock it to reread Rafe’s text from half an hour ago.
I can make it.
You’re tense about seeing him after last night.
You don’t know what to do. There’s no misinterpreting it. He kissed your forehead and there’s no way he would do that if he didn’t feel something deeper than friendship for you.
Still, it’s sad how hard it is to believe that a guy sees you like that, all because of the mark that Beck left on you. Rafe had once called you clueless about this stuff, and he was right.
The memory of how he’d snapped at you in the car that night serves as a reminder of how cold he can be, and how you’re not entirely confident you could handle loving someone like that.
You’re carrying too much baggage. So is he. You’d thought Rafe came into your life at the perfect time, but if anything, the timing couldn’t be worse.
You’re still working through your heartbreak and you don’t know if you can be with someone when you need to work on yourself. Especially when that someone distances himself from you whenever you ask the wrong question.
You’re scared. If you gave Rafe your heart, truly, all the way, there’s no telling if it’d be in good hands.
His broad figure appears in the doorway, his expression guarded.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you say. You motion to your own arm, immediately noticing that he’s not wearing the sling you saw him in last night. “You don’t need the…?”
“It’s not that bad,” Rafe murmurs, nudging the door shut with his good elbow.
“I thought you tore it,” you say, your voice laced with concern. He sits down with his elbow bent, his injured arm tight against his body.
“I’m not going to need surgery or anything,” he repeats what he discussed earlier at the gym. “Few months of physio and meds and I’ll be good.”
“And rest, right?” you say. “You forgot to mention rest.”
“What do you know?” he says with a small smirk.
You mirror his smile, glad that although something so awkward is weighing over both of you, you can share a lighthearted moment.
“A lot,” you reply. You hold up your pen. “Do I need to give you another reminder tattoo?”
He scoffs, but he’s not sure he could tell you no if he tried, especially if the offer includes you touching him.
To your surprise, he lays his forearm on the desk. You chuckle, leaning forward, gently writing rest! on the inside of his wrist, right where you’d written your study room number on him all those nights ago.
“I think I have a future in this,” you say, admiring your work. He gazes at you as you tilt your head and blow cool air over the wet ink. “How are you?”
“Good,” he answers, in a melancholy daze. “You?”
“I’m good,” you reply. You meet his eyes again. “So, only a few months until you’re better? What’s the healing process going to be like?”
“The physio gave me a whole list of crap I gotta do,” he answers with a sigh.
“Do you have it with you?”
He hands you the sheet of paper jammed at the side of his backpack. You read over the instructions, tips on managing pain, on the importance of nutrition and rest, on avoiding rigorous activities.
You skim over one of the bullet-points in the middle. Sleep on your back with the injured arm supported.
“They even tell you how to sleep?” you try to joke. “So, you shouldn’t have someone else on top of you. Lesson learned.”
What happened last night is out in the open now, the atmosphere strained with tension. Your eyes are still on the page. He can see you’re uncomfortable and he respects that you’re addressing it.
“I shouldn’t have…” He grimaces, embarrassed all over again. He has no choice but to brush the kiss off, to lie his way out of this. “I was on a lot of painkillers last night.”
He wants you to look disappointed so badly that it makes him ache, because then he’d take his words back and call bullshit on himself. But when you glance up at him, the look on your face is one of relief.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, looking back down at the paper. You’re alleviated of your anxiety. He either didn’t mean the kiss, or he doesn’t want it to turn into something, and it’s better this way. Safer. “How often do you have to do therapy?”
Rafe tells himself he can deal with the hurt later, that now’s not the time to lose it, even though he’s on the edge. He pulls his laptop out of his bag, finding it so much harder now that he can’t use both arms.
“Twice a week,” he answers, his words stiff.
“And exercises you have to do on your own,” you murmur sympathetically, reading over the page. “This is a lot. I bet you can get accommodations for school. Deadline extensions at the very least.”
You put the paper down, smoothing out the wrinkles, trying to make sense of why your heart is racing right now. Rafe throws you for such a loop that you don’t even know how it’s possible to be both eased and troubled by him shrugging off what happened last night.
“I’m really sorry you can’t play anymore,” you tell him.
“Nothing I can do about it now.”
His scowl is hard as he logs in onto his computer, typing with one hand.
“I’m not just saying this,” you tell him. “The team wouldn’t have made it so far without you.”
He doesn’t need the reminder of what he’s lost, the agony of how much work he put in just to spend the rest of the school year behind the boards.
“Those guys will be fine,” he says with a sardonic chuckle.
It hurts you to see him so sure of it.
“No way,” you reply. “They’ll miss you.”
His throat is raw and he wishes he could just disappear right now, because he’s seconds away from breaking down. His eyes burn and he swallows it down, forcing everything he’s feeling away.
“Let’s not do this, okay?” he says sharply, his gaze still off you.
And with that, Rafe proves your point. That it’s not just you who might be emotionally unavailable, but him, too. Even after what you’d done last night, even after you’ve shared so much with him, you’re kept at an arm’s length, good enough to kiss, but not good enough to be honest with.
“Did you finish the book?” you ask.
“No,” he states, stoic and disinterested.
You’d normally call him out for his bad attitude, but after what he’s gone through, you’d just feel guilty for it.
You compel yourself to just be his tutor right now – not his friend, not the girl he pretended to date – but his tutor, tasked with one job and one job only.
Rafe finally lets his eyes land where they want to be most, on you, when you ask if you can take his laptop to start working on the next assignment.
But you won’t look at him back. He can tell that you don’t want to.
════════
The moment Rafe gets to his dorm room after your tutoring session, he feels like he’s stalling with nothing left to drive him. His thoughts are tangled together, his body aches, and he has no idea what to do next.
He sits on the edge of his bed. He should probably look over those recovery instructions again, email his profs and teaching assistants about accommodations, do some school work to keep himself busy, but it’s like he’s frozen.
He looks down at the floor, his vision going blurry. The only person, if anyone, he could talk to about this right now is you.
But he can’t even do that. Especially not when you’re mad at him. He snapped, and then you were distant and talked only about his schoolwork for the rest of your hour together.
He feels like shit for how he treated you. He didn’t expect to do it, but you can be so stubborn, forcing him to talk about shit that he can’t talk about.
He lies in bed, still in painful disbelief of how quickly things can change, and how he has no control over any of them.
════════
It’s nearing six p.m. when Rafe wakes up. He checks his messages, hoping you texted him like he always does when he picks up his phone. But of course, there’s nothing from you.
He reads over the team’s group chat texts that he didn’t get to answering. After a few messages asking Rafe how he is after Coach told everyone he’s out for the season, some of the guys texted about a party tonight.
Being surrounded by noise and getting a break from reality sounds like just what he needs. And because he misses you and has no willpower when it comes to you, he texts you: Down to go to a party tonight?
You reply minutes later: Look at your tattoo.
He smirks to himself, glancing down at the word you’d written on his skin, and texts you again: I’ll just be standing there. That counts as rest.
You’re walking through campus to grab dinner, staring at your phone as you weave through crowds, your stomach in a knot.
It’s been that way since Rafe left the study room earlier today. You hate that you’re back in this headspace, overanalyzing, wondering what a man really feels about you.
You did it for years with Beck, going back and forth between being sure he liked you and feeling sad that he didn’t.
It shouldn’t be this complicated. You have fun with Rafe. He gets you, and you think you get him. He’s flawed, but so are you, and that doesn’t mean things can’t work out.
But it feels impossible. You’re not sure you can give each other what you both need. And you’re still hurting from the way he’d brushed you off today yet again, refusing to let you in.
With an aching heart, you text back: Sorry, I can’t tonight.
════════
Rafe’s limbs are heavy and hot as he leans against a wall, surrounded by his closest friends on the team. He’s letting them do the talking, too in his head to even think about having any real fun.
He wishes you were here.
He heads towards the kitchen to grab a drink. He spots a familiar face. And it’s the last thing he needs.
“Hey,” Emma says, leaning over the counter as she fills up a cup. “Where’s your little girlfriend? Not hanging onto you like usual?”
It’s the first words she’s spoken to him since their breakup. That night feels like a lifetime ago.
“What the fuck are you doing talking to me?” he mutters.
Her eyebrow raises in that infuriating way that tells him she’s enjoying getting a rise out of him.
“Warning you,” she laughs. “She’s kind of twisted. I don’t know if a normal person would hear all about your red flags and then like, cling onto you.”
“What’d you say to her?” he asks, his jaw tensing.
“She didn’t tell you?”
“We don’t talk about you.”
Rafe hates that it’s a lie, that he wasted so much of his limited time with you talking about someone else.
“I just told her the truth,” she says.
His nostrils flare as he glares down at her, at a loss for how he ever thought he saw any good in her. After he’s gotten to know you, after he’s seen what it’s like when someone treats him like he’s not a burden, he could never want someone like Emma again.
“I’m sure it’s nothing she hasn’t seen for herself by now,” she says when he doesn’t respond. “Obviously, she heard what an asshole you are. That must be her type. Or it could’ve been the part I said about how pathetic you were, crying to get back together. Maybe she wants to fix you.”
So, that was your first impression of him. That’s what you’ve kept from him.
Rafe heads back to his friends without saying another word. There was a time he was dying for Emma to talk to him. Now, he can’t waste another second around her.
He got what he wanted. She’s jealous. And that guy he saw her with before isn’t around.
He won.
But the victory is hollow.
════════
“It’s not pretty,” Isaac tells you, one foot outside the locker room, “but I got everybody to write something.”
“Thank you,” you say, taking the card. You look around the hall again, as if Rafe will catch you, even though you know he wouldn’t be in this part of the arena right before the semi-final game.
“I did say I owe you,” he replies.
“He’s watching from the bench?” you ask.
“Yeah,” Isaac answers, wincing. “How is he?”
“Fine, I guess,” you reply with a sad shrug. “He won’t really talk about it.”
You haven’t heard from Rafe since last night after you texted him back. But based on how Isaac’s acting, you can tell he hasn’t told anyone about your breakup, saving you from having to come up with any explanations.
“The guy’s a vault,” Isaac half-chuckles.
You nod, glancing down at the card, opening it up to see messy, scribbled messages from the guys on the hockey team written across the inside.
You’d bought the blank card at an on-campus convenience store after asking Isaac if the team did anything to commemorate Rafe after his forced departure. When he told you everyone was too preoccupied with the tournament, you took it upon yourself to do something.
You’re not upset with Rafe anymore. Not after you’ve taken time to reflect that he doesn’t have to tell you anything he doesn’t want to, no matter how much you wish he would. Not when you recall how heartbroken he was when he insinuated that his teammates won’t miss him.
“It’s nice of you to do this for him,” Isaac offers.
“Thanks. I think he needs to hear that people care about him.” You take a step back. “Good luck tonight.”
════════
It’s difficult for you to even imagine watching the semi-finals. You tell Lyla you’re too swamped with studying to attend.
The truth is that you know sitting in those stands will just make you feel the lack of Rafe, the wrongness of him not being on the ice, the gap in your chest that he left.
It’ll break your heart to see him on the bench, instead of in the game where he belongs.
You stop by his dorm room to slide the card under his door. And then, you go home to distract yourself with schoolwork, hoping that with enough time, you can finally feel like yourself again.
════════
You send the text a few minutes after you check to see that the team won, left with one more game to potentially win the championship.
Can you come over?
Nerves stitch your stomach when you receive his response that he’ll be there in twenty minutes.
Eventually, there are soft raps on your door, and when you open it, Beck looks exactly how you expected him to. Confused.
“I’m going to talk,” you tell him, “and I want you to listen and be honest with me, got it?”
He nods, brows furrowed as you step aside. He walks into your room, leaning against your desk as you sit on your bed.
You take a deep breath, nervous but already relieved that years of pressure will be off your shoulders after you say this.
“You know what you did to me,” you say, “and I don’t want you to pretend like you don’t. You strung me along. For years. You knew I liked you, didn’t you?”
Beck glances to the side, adjusting in his haphazard seat.
“It's not like I…” he mumbles.
“What?”
“I liked you, too,” he says, looking like it pains him to admit it. “I – I do like you. Still.”
It’s not what you expected.
“Since when?” you say in a huff of disbelief.
“It’s been a long time,” he answers.
You can only scoff. He sighs, clearly uncomfortable.
“You’re my sister’s best friend,” he says quietly. “Can you imagine how weird it would be if it didn’t work out?”
It’s a sudden, overwhelming realization, hitting you like an ice cold wave. The only reason he never acted on his feelings was because he was afraid of a mere possibility. Maybe it wouldn’t end well, so he saw no reason to even try.
“That’s why?” you say. “Why not just tell me?”
“Because of this,” he says tensely, motioning between you.
“Because of an awkward conversation?” you say. “How is that any better than what happened after your final? You stopped talking to me after that.”
“I thought… with time, we’d go back to how it was,” he mumbles. “And that maybe, we’d both just lose feelings. But then you started dating Rafe and… I can’t handle seeing it. You shouldn’t be with him.”
You hate how he said Rafe’s name, as if it was a swear word. It’s the only thing you can focus on. Not that he just told you what you’ve been wanting to hear for years. Just that he speaks about Rafe like he’s bad.
And Rafe isn’t bad. He can be difficult and short-tempered, but he can also be warm. Passionate. Funny. Caring.
And you love him.
Damn it. You love him.
“I don’t need you worrying about who I’m dating, okay?” you say sharply. “Maybe if you were a friend, sure, but you’re barely even that anymore.”
“Why are you talking like this?”
Beck seems jarred by your contempt. You’re surprised yourself. You always thought you’d sugarcoat your words with him, that you’d care about his feelings too much to ever be brutally transparent.
But this is necessary. And you realize you couldn’t have gotten here without Rafe.
“Because I deserve honesty,” you say. You let out a shaky sigh. “I know you didn’t want to have a hard conversation, but avoiding it led to this. An even harder one. You weren’t wrong to worry that we would never work out. We wouldn’t. I just want things to be civil from now on. Like you said, Lyla’s my best friend.”
Beck shakes his head slightly. It almost looks like he had some semblance of hope that this conversation would go another direction.
“You know he’ll just hurt you, right?” he says. “I saw him fighting with his old girlfriend all the time. He’s a jerk.”
“You don’t know him,” you mutter. “And you’re in no place to call him that. Not after how you treated me. You expected I’d always be on the sidelines, waiting for you, and then got mad when I started seeing someone else. It isn’t fair.”
Beck shakes his head in frustration and walks to the door, but stops himself before he turns the doorknob.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his back still to you. “You’re right. Let’s… be civil.”
It’s a glimpse into why you once liked him so much. He has a soft heart, desperate to run from conflict. But conflict is inevitable. And you can’t be with someone who doesn’t see that.
“Okay,” you say to his back.
The door shuts behind Beck with a hard thud, closing a chapter you’re glad to see end.
════════
You eventually text Rafe: Are you going out with the team? I’m free. Just saying.
Now more than ever, you miss him. It feels silly to distance yourself, to do exactly what Beck did with you and stay away from someone just because there’s a chance that it’ll end badly.
Every part of you longs for him, for the feeling you get when you’re around him, and you can only hope he wants to see you tonight, too.
He responds that he’s on his way to pick you up.
════════
Rafe pulls up to your building, unable to stop his mind from stumbling down memory lane. He idled here for the first time so long ago, with only revenge on his mind, waiting for a ridiculously cheerful and talkative girl to sit in his passenger seat.
When you open the car door and flaunt your bright smile as you climb in, it’s like his heart found its way back to him, like you hold onto it when you aren’t together and parade it around when you are.
“Was it you?” he asks.
“Was what me?” you say.
“The card.”
You grin, glad he got a chance to go back to his room before coming to pick you up. You don’t need the recognition. You’re just glad he seems happy about it.
You notice both of his hands on the steering wheel, recalling how he could only type with one a few days ago.
“Nice,” you say, buckling your seatbelt. “Your pain meds must be working. That’s great. I have to tell you something. I finally talked to Beck. I kind of… told him off, I guess. And… you can say you told me so. You were right. He did like me. Or actually, he does. It was a lot to take in.”
Rafe grimaces, hating to hear that the guy you once said you loved told you he wants you, too. He drives out onto the road, his body tense.
“I told him that it’ll never happen,” you continue. “And he was bitter. And he’s convinced things are going to end badly with you and me. I wonder how we should tell people we’re broken up. Do we just… mention it if they ask? I haven’t told anyone. You haven’t either, right?”
You finally look over at him, gazing at his profile.
Rafe is relieved that you really are done with Beck, that you’re acting like yourself, that you’re in his car again, rambling, filling his life with a light he never had before.
He’d rather not talk about your fake breakup. And definitely not about Beck. He doesn’t have it in him to waste any time with you focusing on someone who hurt you.
“Just admit it,” he murmurs.
“Admit what?”
“The card,” he mutters playfully.
You sigh, realizing he won’t let you get away with not taking credit for it.
“Did Isaac tell you?” you ask.
“Nobody told me.”
“If you want to call me corny, just do it,” you laugh. “Never stopped you before.”
Rafe smiles sadly. Admittedly, it felt good to read the messages from the guys, seeing that they really will miss him. But he doesn’t deserve you doing that for him after the way he lost his cool on you.
“I thought you were pissed at me,” he says.
“I was, a little,” you confess.
“Sorry I snapped,” Rafe says regretfully. “If you were mad, then why’d you do it?”
His voice is soft, just like it was when he’d asked you why you came to his room the night he injured himself.
“That’s why,” you say. “You always seem so surprised that people care about you. I just wanted to give you proof that they do.”
You interlace your fingers together, glancing out the window.
“And it’s okay. I’m not mad anymore,” you say. “I think at some point, I started to take it personally when you don’t want to talk to me. Sorry. I don’t mean to force you. I’ll stop.”
Rafe taps his thumb on the steering wheel. For once, he doesn’t want you to stop.
“It’s because it’s new for me,” he mumbles, giving in.
“What?”
“Someone caring as much as you do is new for me,” he replies. “That’s why I seem surprised. It throws me off.”
Your lips part, but the words won’t form. You’re in shock that he’s opening up, especially when you didn’t ask him to, when you just told him you’ll stop pushing.
“And I’m not used to getting asked so many questions,” Rafe says. “You never stop.”
“I am kind of relentless,” you say, crinkling your nose and smiling. “You make me curious, though.”
“I can tell,” he mumbles, earning a chuckle from you. “We’re good now, yeah?”
You’re touched that he worries this much about you being upset with him. Some time in the last few months, throughout your tutoring sessions and the events you attended as a fake couple and all the moments in between, he really did start caring about you.
It’s nice, because you feel the same way about him. How deep those feelings go remains unspoken, and you’re not sure you can face them yet.
“We’re good,” you reply. “I can’t stay mad at you. You’re too charming. In like, a really grumpy, always mad at everything type of way.”
“Wow,” Rafe huffs, pretending to be offended while flashing the smile you always get hypnotized by.
“Was that rude?” you quip. “You’re rubbing off on me.”
His smile widens, certain now that if he only has you like this, as a friend, it’s so much better than not having you at all.
════════
“How’d that presentation go?” Rafe mumbles in your ear.
You’re standing on the bar’s back patio with the team and the rest of the usual social circle, surrounded by music and chatter floating through the warm late spring air.
You’re right next to him, but not touching in any way, because there’s no reason to fake affection anymore. But knowing this doesn’t make it any easier to stay away from him.
“For my group project?” you clarify. “Picture me and three guys in front of a full lecture hall. They’re taking turns reading off of Wikipedia and I’m trying to pretend that I’m not losing my mind.”
Rafe chuckles, enamored.
“I got a good individual grade, though,” you say. “Wait. Did you ever check what you got on your midterm?”
“No.”
“Please do,” you say, bringing your clasped hands to your chin.
He sucks his teeth, a little nervous as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He feels your cheek against his good shoulder as you lean in to look.
“An A,” you say proudly, leaning against him, your hand curled around his bicep. You did it without thinking, the closeness feeling more natural than anything you’ve felt before, a hard contrast to how hesitant you’d once been to touch him.
“Thought we broke up,” he murmurs, glancing down at your hand on his arm. It’s his way of testing why you’re touching him like this, aching to hear you say you’re doing it because you want to.
You look up through your lashes, eyes trained on his, silence sweeping over you. You have to feel it, too. He’s sure of it.
“Right,” you reply with a chuckle, hoping to smile your way out of the split in your chest. “Yeah. We are.”
You let go, crossing your arms as you awkwardly look away. You should have known your instincts were wrong, that Rafe is just another guy leading you on, confusing you, whether it be on purpose or not.
He can’t take what it feels like when you pull away like that. He once thought he could handle not acting on his feelings for you, but he can’t. He needs to know what’s so wrong with him, if Emma’s words poisoned you before he even had a chance with you.
“Is it because of what she said?” he says, squaring his shoulders to face you, to try to separate both of you from the rest of the group.
“Is what because of-”
“Emma told me what she said to you,” he interrupts.
You gaze up at him, wide-eyed.
“You talked to her?” you ask. Imagining it wrings your heart out, jealousy pooling through you.
He nods, his jaw tight, looking at you like you’re the one who needs to explain something here. Your forehead crinkles, your face falling with disappointment.
“I thought you didn’t care what she thinks,” you say.
“I don’t.”
You look down, as if you can find the answer somewhere on the ground. Your heart is racing, your mind spinning.
“Are you okay?” you hear.
Rafe looks over his shoulder to see that Beck has walked over, staring at you.
“I’m fine,” you answer.
“I told you this would happen,” Beck says to you.
Rafe meets your eyes again to see that they’re glossed over with tears.
“Fuck off,” he mutters to Beck.
“I’m just looking out for her,” Beck says.
“I look out for her,” Rafe says angrily. His raised voice earns a few side-eyes, the conversations around you silencing.
“Do you?” Beck asks.
Rafe breathes a humorless chuckle, rage coursing through him as he turns around, his back to you, his fists clenched.
“Don’t,” you say. “You’ll get hurt.”
There’s a hole in Rafe’s chest when he hears the concern in your voice for Beck. But when he turns around, you’re gazing up at him instead.
“You’re already in enough pain,” you say to him, your eyes drifting over his aching shoulder. He stares at you in awe, again, like he’s in shock that you worry about him. “Let’s talk out front.”
You don’t wait for him to agree. You storm back into the bar, darting through the throngs of people, pushing the heavy entrance door.
Your shoes pad over the concrete, your breaths unstable as you pass by the small crowds outside the bar.
You round the corner, finding a quiet pocket of privacy in the dark parking lot, next to the wall. You turn to see Rafe right behind you, facing you, his chest heaving.
“What’d she tell you that she said to me, exactly?” you ask, crossing your arms.
Rafe is in disbelief that he led himself back to doing this, talking about his past relationship with you again, letting it bleed into whatever it is that he has with you.
“That I’m a pathetic asshole,” he begrudgingly answers, his features shadowed in the darkness. “That I – I cried.”
“Her words don’t mean anything,” you tell him.
“She’s right, though, isn’t she?” he asks. “You agree. Just be honest with me. Tell me all of it. No more bullshit.”
Tears continue to sting your eyes, afraid you’re going to hurt him, but too worn down to fight.
“She said you were moody and mean,” you relent, “and yes, that you called her crying when you wanted to get back together. And you know what? The only person I thought was an asshole was her. She’s the pathetic one, okay?”
Rafe searches your face, his features hard, in pain.
“She was horrible to you,” you say. “You deserve someone better.”
What’s left of his composure burns away. He drops his head, his breaths barely escaping his mouth. He’d do anything to be what you want. Who you need.
“Why can’t it be you?” he asks through a ragged exhale.
You still, your heart pounding in your ears. A tear escapes past your bottom lashes, a result of one of the most overwhelming days of your life.
“What?” you whisper. You brush the wetness off of your skin, silently begging him to look at you again.
“What is it about me that’s so wrong?” he rasps, his voice starting to strain, putting sound to the question that he’s asked himself his whole life.
Rafe finds it in him to meet your gaze, all too acquainted with the sinking feeling of begging someone to love him.
Your eyes sweep over his face, your lips parted in silent shock.
He’s tipping over the edge, in slow, splitting agony, waiting to hear the words he knows you’ll say so he can finally let the hope that’s still somehow living in him die.
“What are you...” you say quietly, needing to hear it, to be sure. “What are you saying? You want me?”
Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose, sending a frustrated, pained exhale towards the starry sky, your name laced in a groan.
“Yes,” he says clearly, staring at you again, frustrated and afraid. “So bad that it fucking hurts.”
You’re able to feel every inch of your body, yet you’re numb all over. It’s an overwhelming, euphoric rush, looking up at the man you’ve given your heart to and knowing for sure that he’s given you his.
You blink as you step a little closer, taking in every inch of him, his messy hair, his handsome face, unable to believe that there was a time you didn’t see the warmth behind his eyes.
You can’t find the words, and for once, you stop trying to. Instead, you follow your impulse and take one more step, your body brushing against his, tipping your chin up.
Rafe swallows hard, his veins tight and hot as your gaze flutters down to his lips.
“You said you wanted it to be real,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice.
A smile tugs on your lips. In a moment like this, he’s considering what you’d told him about how you wanted your first kiss to be real, showing you how much he listens to the things you say, how much he cares about your comfort.
“It will be,” you say softly.
After wanting you so badly for so long, Rafe can’t be still for another second. He brings his hands up to cradle your face, ignoring the pinch of pain in his shoulder. His heart thumps as he leans closer and gently leads you towards him.
His lips press against yours and every piece of you melts away. You were wrong when you thought his kiss would either be rough or gentle. It’s both, the pressure perfect, the urgency just as present as the tenderness.
He kisses you deeper, his lips hot and soft. When he smiles beneath the kiss, you smile, too, hooking your arms around him, hands splayed over his firm back, because you can’t possibly have him any closer.
He gently guides you backwards, pressing you against the cool brick wall, your face still in his hands, holding you as if you could slip away.
Rafe is warm against you, shifting to kiss the corner of your lips, your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck. His breath is warm on your skin as you try to catch yours, squeezing him.
He’s never been so sure that he’s where he’s supposed to be. It’s like you’re grounding him with how tight you’re holding him, ensuring him that he’s wanted.
He shifts to kiss your lips again, panting. He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, never having felt so lucky before.
But he’s unsure of how to even navigate this when you’ve told him you don’t want a relationship.
“‘I’ll wait,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Until you’re ready.”
“Ready?” you ask.
“To date,” he says.
You smile up at him, your lips still warm from his. You know you both have work to do on yourselves, but you’re confident you can do it together.
“We already dated, didn’t we?” you tease. “I’m ready. If it’s you.”
He sighs a breath of relief, kissing you once more.
════════
You haven’t done much since you made it to Rafe’s dorm room.
You’ve been lying in bed together with your heads on his pillow, his desk lamp blanketing the room in a soft light, facing each other and talking.
“We didn’t tell anyone we were leaving,” you realize, even though you left the bar about half an hour ago.
The way your eyes widen in worry is so adorable to him that he can’t help but kiss you, and he loves that he doesn’t have to hold himself back from doing it anymore.
“Should we go back? Say sorry to everyone?” he murmurs, a smirk on his face.
“Don’t mock me,” you laugh.
“But it’s so easy.”
You scowl at him, although you’re hardly able to stifle your smile.
“Don’t be mad,” he chuckles, planting a kiss on your lips again. Your cheeks burn, still reeling from how intoxicating it is getting touched and kissed by him now that you know it’s real.
“Right, that’s your job,” you joke, nuzzling in, your forehead against his chest.
A pinch of shame digs into him, his hand running up and down the curve of your spine.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, all the happiness from his voice gone.
You shift back to look at him again.
“I was kidding,” you say, your voice thick with worry.
“Nah, it’s true,” Rafe says.
You bite your lip, studying him.
“Is there a reason?” you ask.
“I just… I’ve always been like this,” he admits. “Sometimes, I can’t feel anything but pissed off.”
“It’s an easy emotion to feel.” You gently trace shapes over his chest, your finger skimming over soft cotton. “They say anger is hurt’s bodyguard.”
“You read that somewhere, huh?”
“You know me so well.”
Rafe’s smile is sad. He had no reason to hold back, not anymore.
“Nobody’s ever tried to understand me like you do,” he admits, “and it was shitty of me to get mad at you for trying.”
“Being mad is comfortable for you,” you empathize. “I get it.”
He takes in a slow, deep breath, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.
“I grew up around a lot of fighting,” he tells you. “It was a relief when my parents split up.”
Rafe’s stomach twists with discomfort, the memories rushing back, the pain of being at that damn birthday party and seeing such a happy family still cutting into him. Seeing a proud father. Seeing a mother who stays.
And he can’t believe he’s saying it out loud, and that he wants to, and that you didn’t even have to ask.
“But then my mom… stopped trying to be a mom,” he continues. “And I was left with my dad and my sisters and it was like to him, they could do no wrong and I was nothing but a fuck-up.”
You look into his eyes, unable to believe that he holds such a deep, painful wound. Earlier tonight, he asked you what was wrong with him. You can see now that he must have been asking himself that since he was a child.
“I was always trying to make him happy and it never stuck,” he tells you. “Then I started playing hockey and… I could let out how mad I was. And people liked me for it. I finally had a place to go and – and I hate not having it anymore.”
The puzzle pieces click together. Your instincts were right when you’d assumed he was much more sensitive than he let on, hiding behind anger when all he’s ever wanted was love.
Knowing he was in a relationship where he was pressured to hide those types of things makes the pang in your heart even sharper.
“It’s temporary,” you remind him. “You’ll get back out there. But there’s so much more to you than what a good player you are.”
“You think I’m good?” he says. “You didn’t write anything in the card.”
You breathe a chuckle, gently gripping his wrist, the ink you’d etched washed away now.
“I prefer to write on you,” you tease, then gaze up at him again with sincere adoration. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. Thank you for telling me. There’s nothing wrong with you, okay?”
He stares at you in concern, as if he’s afraid you’ll take it back.
But you don’t. You just brush a kiss against his hand, squeezing his fingers with yours.
And this is so much better than the doses of temporary happiness he used to find to fill the gaps. After feeling empty for so long, this is real, complete wholeness.
════════
“Last book on the syllabus,” you say happily, already seated like usual. “We made it.”
Rafe smirks at you as he shuts the door behind him. It’s been almost a week since the night at the bar, and he’s only falling deeper for you, missing you even more when you’re not around.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually tutoring me today,” he answers.
“What’d you expect?”
He drops his backpack on his seat and stands behind you, leaning over to wrap his arms around you.
“Somethin’ more like this,” he murmurs, his lips against the side of your neck.
You smile, squeezing his forearms as you breathe in the crisp aroma of his cologne, remembering when you’d noticed how good it smelled at the first party you went to together.
“You think you can get away with this?” you say, although you feel weak all over. “Did you read the book?”
He kisses the side of your neck, sending a warm tingle through you.
“Rafe,” you sigh. “We have work to do.”
“Oh, shit,” he chuckles. “Your serious voice. I’m scared.”
“You should be,” you laugh. “How was physio?”
“Fine,” he replies, giving you one last kiss before he heads to his seat. Then, he remembers he doesn’t have to lie to you, that you’re the one person in his life that would never give him shit for telling the truth. “Brutal, actually. How are you?”
“Not ready for finals,” you reply.
“You’re already thinking about finals,” he scoffs as he unpacks his things.
“Of course I am.”
You can’t believe that the exam season is just three weeks away and that in two days, the hockey season will be finished and that before you know it, your freshman year will be over.
Rafe pulls out a paper bag from his backpack and places it in front of you, the logo stamped on it familiar.
“Did you..?” you say with a smile. He must have driven to the cafe you’d once met him at right after class, the one you said had the best treats. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Just take it,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you sing-song, putting the bag in your lap, sneakily opening it. “Food’s not allowed in here, but this is worth it.”
“Nobody’s going to care,” he teases. “And the door’s closed.”
“Did you miss the windows?” you reply with a laugh. You take a bite and then reach for your copy of East of Eden that you’d lent him and fan through the pages.
“There’s some beautiful prose in this one, isn’t there?” you say.
“Sure,” he says, staring at you with an enamored glint in his eyes.
“You’re just saying that,” you chuckle.
“When do I just say things?” Rafe challenges.
You shrug in agreement.
“So, the discussion question is about the changes of perspectives between both families and how it…”
You trail off as you notice a circle around a paragraph in blue pen, standing out from the yellow highlight and pencil you’d previously etched throughout the book.
“Did you mark something in my book?” you joke. “Who gave you permission?”
“Permission?” he asks amusedly. “God, why do love rules so much?”
He watches as your eyes skim over the page. He only marked one thing in the book and he’s aware of exactly what you’re reading.
You tilt your head, your smile fading, your heart weightless as you read.
A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And I was not afraid any more.
“Why did you circle this?” you ask.
“Why do you think?”
Another smile ghosts over your lips as you look down at the passage again, brows furrowing.
“What?” Rafe says, afraid you’re actually annoyed he marked your book.
“I guess I…” You clear your throat. “I used to read stuff like this and imagined someone thinking it about me, but never thought it would actually…”
You meet his eyes, your voice faded into silence as you exhale. He’s never seen you like this before. Uncertain. Afraid to speak.
You spent so long wanting to be loved just like he has, and while he spiralled into anger, you fell into insecurity, convincing yourself that someone would never care about you the way he does, questioning every sign.
Rafe sits up, reaching forward. You put the book down and take his hand. He gazes at you, feeling so damn fortunate that he walked into this room all those weeks ago, and even more fortunate that you see something in him.
He’ll have to prove to you that he sees something in you, too. He knows there’s work for him to do here. It’s work he wants to do.
“It’s true,” he says, glancing down at the book. “You changed everything for me, you know that?”
You breathe a soft, appreciative laugh, offering a small nod.
“Like your grades?” you joke.
He bites his bottom lip, smirking as he leans closer. You meet him halfway, sharing a soft, slow kiss, your eyelashes overlapping.
“Everything,” he repeats, inches away from your lips. “Thank you.”
You’re dazed, lost, and finally, a little less afraid.
════════
“Get as many as you want,” Rafe says, putting his car in park.
You stare ahead at the shop he just pulled up to, your mouth agape.
This morning, you’d asked him if he had to sit on the bench for the final game of the season this afternoon, or if he could sit in the stands with you. He’d told you he’d rather not watch it at all and that he had something else in mind, refusing to elaborate.
Your eyes travel over the sign hanging above the small bookstore, boasting its collection of old and rare books.
He pulls out his key, then chuckles when he sees that you’re frozen, staring ahead in awe.
“Really?” you say.
“No, I just wanted to show you the front of the store,” he mumbles. “Yeah, really.”
You laugh, excitedly getting out of the car. It’s a surprise, seeing just how much he likes to give you things to show he cares. He might not be great with words all the time, but his actions show you what you need to know.
Rafe follows you as you browse the shelves, picking up books, taking some with you and leaving others behind. He doesn’t understand how this could make you so happy that your smile hasn’t left your face, but he’d do it for hours for you.
He starts to take the books out of your hands, holding them for you as you search, but you don’t let him carry them for long, worried about his injury acting up.
He’s glad this is how he’s spending the afternoon. His coach and his friends on the team were cool with it when he told them he wasn’t going to attend the last game of the season.
It’s too hard to watch from the bench, wishing he could be on the other side of the glass. He’d rather be where he feels best: with you.
At one point, you’re reaching for a book on the top shelf, on the tips of your toes, and the sight warms his heart so much that he takes out his phone and snaps a photo.
“A little help?” you giggle, your voice strained. You look over your shoulder to see him smirking with his phone directed at you.
Rafe pockets his phone and steps forward to face you, his chest brushing against yours as he grips the book you’re trying to reach.
Your gazes stay locked as he hands you the book, looking down at you with a pure smile.
“Can we do this all the time?” you ask.
“You like it?” he says. “Bet there’s lots of places like this between us.”
A look of apprehension flashes across your face. You’re weeks away from the end of the school year, when you’ll both be moving back to your hometowns for the summer, three hours apart from each other.
“Do you mean it?” you ask.
You’re uncertain, needing to hear that he wants to keep this going over the summer, and after, that he’ll keep making an effort to see you.
“Three hours is nothing,” Rafe says.
You beam. You don’t need any more words, entirely comforted.
════════
“You made the right call not coming today,” Isaac says as you and Rafe enter the common room an hour later, the team dispersed across the small space. “That was embarrassing.”
“Shit,” Rafe replies, their hands clapped in greeting. “Was it that bad, man?”
“Never got my ass handed to me like that before,” Isaac says, a few of the other hockey players nodding in agreement. “Meanwhile, you’re on some cute little date.”
You share a smile. It’s clear he’s seen the photo of you that Rafe posted.
“It was cute,” you laugh. “Sorry about the loss.”
“Crappy way to end our season,” Isaac tells you. “But there’s always next year. Rafe’ll be back throwing punches.”
Rafe catches your frown.
“Thanks for the help with my essay, by the way,” Isaac tells you. “Got an A.”
“Great,” you say sweetly. “No problem.”
“You think Lyla’s coming?” Isaac asks. You nod, having texted with your best friend on your way here.
“She is,” you say.
Isaac grins when he looks up at the door. You turn to see Lyla come in. He steps away, eager to greet her.
You smile to yourself. After everything you’ve heard from Lyla, you’re pretty sure they’re only a few days away from becoming official.
“What was that look?” Rafe asks quietly.
“What?”
“When he said something about throwing punches, you looked mad.”
You adore it about him, how much he picks up on, but at the same time, it hurts to remember that the reason he knows how to do it is a result of his lonely childhood.
“I’m protective of you,” you say. “I know you’re healing well, but I don’t like the thought of you getting hurt. Is that so crazy?”
Rafe smirks, stepping forward, putting his hands on your hips, gazing at you with half-lidded eyes and a wide grin.
“What?” you whine with a soft laugh.
“It’s cute that you’re worrying about me, baby,” he answers, revelling in the feeling of touching you in public because he wants to, not because he’s supposed to be making someone jealous.
“You think I’m cute?”
His grip tightens, holding you like he always does, like you’re too good to be real, like someone might take you away.
“All the time,” Rafe murmurs, earning a gentle nudge from you. “Gonna miss you when you get too busy for me during finals.”
“You know I’m going to want to read all those books you got me, right?” you say. “I need you to keep me in line and study with me. Make sure I’m not getting distracted.”
“I thought you said I distract you.”
You chuckle, still in awe of how affectionate he is, of how much he loves to touch and kiss you whenever you’re close. He absolutely does distract you, and you love it.
“I mean, yeah, but everyone needs study breaks,” you say with a shrug. “And I don’t like it when you’re not around.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me, neither.”
Rafe takes a second to just stare at you. It’s impossible to get enough of you. He never really looked forward to life in general, but since you made him yours, he looks forward to everything.
You press your cheek against his chest in a hug, listening to his heartbeat. And you love the feeling of knowing, with absolute certainty, that part of it beats for you.
(the end)
epilogue >
author’s note this was such a fun series to write!! thank you to everyone who supported the story. the epilogue is pure fluff and smut, so for the readers who don’t like spice, def skip it!! ily all!!
summary: pretending to be rafe’s girlfriend to save his image, keep his dad off his back and improve his reputation? easy. keeping it fake and casual? much harder than you thought. [REQUESTED!]
contents: best friends to lovers, fake dating, fluff, hint of angst. | SMUT: unprotected sex (don’t do that irl), oral (fem receiving), fingering.
wc: 8k. [i got excited i’m sorry]
my masterlist! | requests are open
Tannyhill estate sat heavy under the weight of humidity, the sun spilling through the tall windows. Rafe stood just inside the study, jaw tight, one foot tapping silently against the patterned rug. He didn’t sit, even though Ward had gestured to the chair across from him. That particular power play didn’t work anymore—not since Rafe realized how little his father’s invitations actually meant.
Ward sipped casually from a lowball glass, his posture was the same as always, straight-backed, shoulders squared. His voice was syrupy sweet, too warm, that sticky-sweet brand of fake kindness Rafe could spot from a mile away.
“Oldest friend of mine’s getting married this weekend,” His father said. “Tommy Wexler. You remember him, don’t you? Used to bring you those little wooden boats when you were a kid.”
Rafe’s mouth twitched. “Think I crashed one of ‘em into the dock.”
Ward smiled like Rafe’s confession was the most precious thing he’d ever heard, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Yeah, well, Tommy always said you had spirit.”
There was a brief pause, and then Ward slid in the real reason Rafe had been summoned, carefully wrapped in the guise of a casual comment.
“It’s going to be a big event,” Ward continued, setting his drink down with a soft clink. “High-profile. Press, old money, people I haven’t seen in decades. I told Tommy you’d be there, of course.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Gee, thanks for asking first.”
Ward ignored him, as always. “And I told him you’d be bringing someone.”
“Sorry, what?”
“A date, Rafe,” Ward said slowly, like the concept might be foreign to him. “A plus one. A girlfriend. Are you familiar with the concept? Someone who can sit beside you, smile at the right people, keep you looking… grounded.”
Rafe crossed his arms. “You mean someone to babysit me.”
“I mean someone to keep you from snorting coke in front of a senator after your third bourbon.”
There it was. The real Ward. The version that came out when he was worried about his perfect image getting smudged by the mess of a son he could never quite figure out how to parent.
“I’m not gonna ruin your friend’s wedding,” Rafe muttered, already annoyed.
“Wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve ruined.” Ward leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the warmth of his tone gone. “Look, I don’t have time to clean up another one of your messes, Rafe. The whole island’s been talking about you lately. Bar fights, late nights, whatever the hell happened with the police last month—”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Rafe snapped.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ward’s voice cut through the air like glass. “Perception is everything. Right now, you look unstable.”
He stood, smoothing down his blazer with practiced precision, adjusting his cufflinks like the conversation bored him.
“You want to keep having access to this family name? To the money? Hell, anything? Then you show up with a woman on your arm who makes you look like a man who’s grown the hell up.”
Rafe scoffed under his breath. “And who the hell am I supposed to ask?”
“You’ve got friends, don’t you? Or at least people who tolerate you.” Ward smirked, leaning back like he was already done with the conversation. Then, as an afterthought, he shrugged and added, “Though considering your track record, I’m guessing trouble’s the only thing that sticks around.”
There it was—the jab. Rafe had known it was coming, felt it circling like a vulture. But even so, it landed like a gut punch. He didn’t flinch, though. Didn’t give Ward the satisfaction.
Instead, he turned toward the door, teeth clenched, his mind already racing. There was only one person he could ask. The only one who’d been there through everything, who wouldn’t laugh in his face or make a scene.
And yeah, you might make him beg a little. But maybe—just maybe—you’d say yes.
Rafe didn’t say another word as he walked out, slamming the study door with just a bit more force than necessary.
The knock on your door came sharp and sudden—three quick raps like he was trying to convince himself not to bolt the second after. You barely glanced up from your phone. Only one person knocked like that.
You padded to the door, opened it, and, yep, called it.
Rafe stood there, looking like he’d either just committed a crime or was about to. Eyes darting, jaw tight, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.
You leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. “Well, this can’t be good.”
“I need a favor,” he said, tone low.
You crossed your arms, lips already curving. “No shit. You only show up like this when you need something. What is it this time—bail money or an alibi?”
Rafe let out a breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Cute.”
“I try,” you said sweetly. “Now spit it out.”
He shifted on his feet like the words were physically painful to say. Rafe was always composed around you, cocky, teasing, that irritating brand of charm that only worked because he knew how much it made people weak in the knees. But right now? He looked… thrown. Like he couldn’t decide if he should pace or run.
“There’s this wedding,” he finally said.
“Is that your way of proposing to me?”
He gave you a flat look. “Will you shut up and let me finish?”
You laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “By all means, come in and ruin my peaceful afternoon.”
He brushed past you, familiar in the way only someone who’s known you for years could be. Didn’t even wait for permission before flopping onto your couch like it belonged to him. Which, to be fair, it practically did—he’d spent enough late nights here, crashing after parties, fights, or those weird existential spirals he only ever let you witness.
You settled into the armchair across from him. “So? Wedding?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. My dad’s oldest friend is getting married this weekend. Big event. Press, old money. Some villa upstate.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Sounds fancy. What’s it got to do with me?”
“He told me I have to bring someone.”
You blinked. “Okay. So bring someone. Though I’m not sure any of my friends would—”
He looked at you like you were missing the point. “Someone who makes me look… put together. Grounded. Normal.”
Your eyes widened just slightly, a beat of silence passing before your mouth twitched. “Wait—wait, are you asking me to be your plus one? Like a fake girlfriend?”
Rafe sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Oh, like what?” you teased. “Like it’s the beginning of every bad romcom ever?”
“I knew this was gonna be a mistake.” He groaned, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.
You grinned, legs folding underneath you. “No, no, I’m loving this. Rafe Cameron, asking me to play pretend at some bougie wedding because daddy’s embarrassed of his little boy? I should frame this memory.”
“Will you just—” He sat up again, tone almost pleading. “Can you just… be serious for like two seconds?”
That gave you pause. You didn’t hear that tone from him often, not unless things were actually weighing on him. And sure enough, behind the irritated front, you could see it. He was stressed. Probably more than he wanted to admit. Probably more than he even knew.
You softened a little. “Okay. But what’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
You hummed, pretending to think it over. “Hmm… maybe that surfboard you stole from Kelce and never gave back?”
“You don’t even surf.”
“Yeah, but it would look great on my wall.”
He rolled his eyes, but then something shifted in his expression, like he just remembered something.
“I’ll get you the internship.”
You hesitated. “What?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice lower now. “That program you’ve been trying to get into. The one with the research grant and travel stipend? My dad’s one of the donors. He could put in a word—hell, he could handpick the participants if he wanted.”
You stared at him, caught off guard. That wasn’t just a throwaway favor. That was… something you actually wanted. Something you’d worked for, scraped together applications for, lined up references for. And here he was, offering it like it was candy.
“Wow,” you said slowly. “You’re really desperate, huh?”
Rafe gave you a look. “So? Do we have a deal?”
You leaned back, still teasing because, well, that’s who you were with him. “Guess I better practice pretending, baby.”
His groan was immediate and theatrical, like your voice physically pained him. “Don’t ever say it like that again.”
“Oh, come on,” you said, grinning. “You’re gonna have to get used to it if I’m supposed to play your loving, devoted girlfriend. Should I start now? ‘Rafe, sweetheart, do you want another mimosa?’”
He tossed a throw pillow at your head. You ducked it easily, still laughing. And even though you hadn’t said it outright, the answer was already clear.
You were in.
And maybe Rafe didn’t realize it yet, but so was he.
(***)
The villa looked like it had been pulled straight from a luxury magazine—a coastal estate perched high on a cliff, all sweeping balconies and ivory columns, framed by swaying palms and that golden kind of light that made everything look cinematic. Staff in crisp uniforms were already swarming the circular driveway, unloading trunks, offering drinks, speaking in that overly polite tone reserved for guests who wore expensive cologne and carried family names like legacies.
You stepped out of the car behind Rafe, eyes sweeping across the manicured grounds.
“Okay,” you murmured, tugging your overnight bag higher on your shoulder. “So when you said fancy wedding, you weren’t kidding.”
Rafe snorted under his breath. “Yeah, well. Tommy Wexler’s been kissing my dad’s ass since the ‘90s. Place screams midlife crisis money.”
“Midlife crisis money buys some damn nice tile,” you muttered, eyeing the sprawling entrance and towering French doors. “You think the bathroom has a gold toilet?”
Rafe cracked a grin, grabbing your suitcase from you before you could protest. “We can check. I call dibs on trying it first.”
Inside, the villa was even more ridiculous. Polished stone floors, oil paintings of people who probably never smiled in their entire lives, chandeliers that looked like they’d cost more than your car. You tried not to gawk. Tried.
The concierge handed Rafe a keycard with a tight smile. “Mr. Cameron. Your suite is at the end of the east corridor. Room 310.”
“Suite,” you echoed, once you were in the elevator. “Look at you, all grown up and fancy.”
You walked down the quiet hallway together, heels tapping, bags dragging, and Rafe fumbled with the keycard before finally getting the door open. You stepped inside—and paused.
“Rafe.”
“Hm?”
“There’s one bed.”
He tossed his bag onto the end of it and walked right past you like he hadn’t just ruined your peace of mind. “Yeah. So?”
Your head snapped toward him. “One bed.”
He flopped down, arms behind his head, totally unbothered. “You scared you’ll fall in love if we cuddle?”
You grabbed a pillow and threw it at his face. “You’re insufferable.”
He caught it one-handed, smirking. “And yet, here you are. Sharing a bed with me for a whole weekend. Weird, hm?”
“Ward did this on purpose,” you muttered, dropping your bag near the armchair. “This is, like, rich dad psychological warfare.”
“Oh, definitely,” Rafe said, already kicking off his shoes. “He probably thinks you’ll tame me. Or I’ll marry you. Either way, he wins.”
You glanced at the bed again, then gave him a dry look. “No funny business, Cameron.”
He raised a hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.”
”Details? It undermines its value.”
”Does it?”
You rolled your eyes, heading into the bathroom to start getting ready. “I’m warning you, in case you start spooning me in your sleep. I bite.”
From the other room, you heard him laugh. “Kinda hot.”
“Rafe.”
By the time you finished your makeup and zipped up your dress, the sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting a hazy gold glow through the sheer curtains. You stepped out of the bathroom, smoothing down the fabric and adjusting your earrings.
Rafe had been half-asleep on the bed, but the second you walked out, he froze.
His eyes tracked you from head to toe, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t say anything for a second too long.
“What?” you asked, self-conscious all of a sudden.
He sat up, propping his elbows on his knees. “Damn.”
“What?”
Rafe tilted his head, a smug little grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t know you could clean up like that.”
You folded your arms. “I always clean up like this. You just only see me in sweatpants.”
“Exactly,” he said, like he’d won something. “This is new. And distracting, like goddamn.”
“Distracting?” you echoed, dry.
He stood, walking over and reaching out like he might fix the way your strap was sitting. Or maybe just to make you nervous. “Yeah. Gonna be hard to fake a relationship when I’m this close to catching feelings.”
You gave him a look. “Rafe.”
“What? I’m joking.” But he wasn’t. Not entirely. There was something else in his eyes—something quieter, a little unsure, like even he wasn’t sure how much of that had been a joke.
You cleared your throat. “You ready?”
He straightened his blazer, stepped back, and looked at you again—this time more serious. “Yeah. Just… try not to catch too many eyes tonight, alright?”
You raised a brow. “Jealous already?”
He smirked, holding the door open for you. “Let’s just say if anyone tries to flirt with you, I’m legally required to commit at least one felony.”
You brushed past him with a grin. “God, this is gonna be fun.”
And neither of you said it out loud—but in that tiny space between sarcasm and eye contact, something new had started to stir.
Something that felt a lot less fake than either of you were ready to admit.
It was a blur of champagne flutes, strings of fairy lights, and a breeze off the ocean that made everything feel just a little too perfect. You weren’t sure who designed the wedding, but it was the kind of scene Pinterest addicts would kill for: flower arches that looked like they belonged in a perfume ad, candlelit pathways, people who smelled expensive and smiled like they knew they were being watched.
Rafe fit into it too well. Charcoal suit, tailored within an inch of its life. Hair perfectly messy, like he didn’t care even though you knew damn well he spent fifteen minutes in the mirror while you did your makeup. He looked like trouble dressed up in a bowtie, effortlessly in a way that made you forget you were supposed to be faking it.
“Relax,” he murmured, low and close, his hand resting at the small of your back as you walked into the reception. “You’re clenching like someone just insulted your shoes.”
“Someone did insult my shoes last week. It was you.”
“And I stand by it,” he whispered, smirking. “But tonight, I’m your very devoted, very charming boyfriend. So you can forgive me later, babe.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “If you keep calling me babe like that, I might actually slap you.”
“Careful,” he said, his fingers pressing slightly against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric. “I might like that.”
You turned your head to hide the smile that was definitely not part of the act.
The night went on, a blur of soft jazz and silverware clinking against china. Rafe was all confidence, casually pulling your chair out, his hand never straying far from your body. When you leaned in to say something, he leaned closer. When you laughed, he looked at you like you hung the damn stars.
It was dangerous. Worse, it was convincing.
You saw the way people looked at the two of you, sneaky little smiles, nods, elbow nudges between old friends and family members who thought they were in on some secret. At one point, someone’s mother actually said, “You two are just darling together,” like you’d already sent out save-the-dates.
You weren’t sure when it started. Maybe when he brushed a loose hair behind your ear during dinner, fingertips skimming your cheek. Or when he whispered some offhand joke into the shell of your ear during the best man’s speech, and you had to grip his thigh under the table to stop yourself from laughing out loud.
But somewhere in the middle of pretending, it stopped feeling like an act.
You’d known Rafe your whole life—shared secrets and sarcasm and stupid, reckless nights that never made it into anyone’s stories. But this… this was different. This was Rafe being soft without trying. Protective without the bite. The kind of intimacy that came from knowing someone, not just wanting them.
You were standing beside Rafe near the bar, nursing your drink and lowkey glowing from the avalanche of compliments. Apparently, the two of you made a great-looking couple. Who knew? Your cheeks were warm, maybe from the wine, definitely from the way Rafe kept brushing his thumb along your lower back whenever someone glanced your way. Like a warning. Like a claim.
Then Tommy Wexler stumbled over, tie askew and champagne in hand, smiling like the reception was just an extension of his legacy. He looked like someone who drank expensive bourbon and told stories that started with “Back in my day…”—the kind of man who probably gave Rafe his first cigar and his first hangover.
“Rafe, my boy!” he boomed, clapping him on the shoulder. “And look at you,” he said, turning to you with a grin so charming it should’ve come with a disclaimer. “Even prettier than Ward said.”
You blinked, caught off guard, and laughed politely. “Thank you. And congrats, Tommy. Everything’s gorgeous.”
“Seriously,” Rafe added, casual as ever. “Didn’t think you had a romantic bone in your body.”
Tommy let out a laugh that probably echoed through the marble halls. “Takes one to know one, huh?”
His gaze flicked between you both—how close you stood, how Rafe’s hand didn’t move from your waist, fingers resting like he’d always had the right. Something in his expression softened.
“About damn time,” he said, with the kind of fondness that made your stomach twist. “Always figured you two would end up together. Hell, thought I’d have to play matchmaker myself.”
You laughed. Sort of. It came out late and a little too breathy. Rafe’s grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. And for a second, you wondered if he even realized it.
Tommy raised his glass. “To getting it right.”
You clinked glasses, smiled on autopilot, and watched him disappear into the crowd. But the moment stuck like humidity—thick and lingering, settling into the space between you.
Neither of you said anything. Neither of you moved.
Rafe’s hand was still on you. Firm. Present. Steady. And when you finally glanced up at him, his eyes were already on you.
(***)
The reception had shifted into its second wind, the music slower now, warmer. Couples swayed under the fairy lights, heels kicked off, bowties loosened. Somewhere between the champagne and midnight, the whole villa felt like it had exhaled.
You’d been standing near the edge of the terrace, enjoying a brief moment of quiet, drink in hand, hair falling in soft waves down your back. And that’s when he showed up.
Liam fucking Carlisle. He was tall, charming in that polished Ivy League way, with a smile that had probably made half the bridal party blush earlier. You recognized him vaguely—a Kook adjacent, the kind who only summered here now and then but always made sure people remembered him when he did.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Liam said with a smooth grin, leaning in just enough to be noticed. “But I’m glad I did. You look… wow.”
You smiled politely. “Thanks. It’s been a while.”
“Too long, honestly. You’ve always been hard to miss, but tonight? Damn.”
You felt your cheeks warm, though you were more amused than flattered. His flirtation was shameless, charming in the way expensive cologne is. You humored him with a laugh, letting him talk, sipping your drink. He wasn’t being creepy, just bold.
Across the courtyard, Rafe saw everything.
He hadn’t meant to stare. Had told himself to be cool, to let the act ride out and not let anything slip. But then he saw that guy—all white teeth and tailored confidence—leaning in like he knew you.
Rafe’s jaw clenched. His grip on the whiskey glass tightened until the ice inside cracked.
He watched you laugh. Just a quick, polite laugh, but it undid him. Because Rafe knew that laugh. Knew the real one, the one that came out when you were with him, at 2 a.m., tangled in nostalgia and sarcasm. And now this guy was getting it?
Nope. He was already moving.
Crossing the terrace with that walk—shoulders tense, jaw set, the kind of energy that made people instinctively step out of the way. The candlelight flickered in his eyes, sharp and unreadable.
You caught the shift in the air right before Rafe appeared at your side. Without hesitation, he stepped between you and Liam, smooth as hell. His arm slipped around your waist like it belonged there, possessive, protective, like he was marking territory.
“There you are,” Rafe said, low and even, eyes never leaving Liam’s. “Was wondering where you wandered off to, babe.”
The way he said babe wasn’t playful this time. It was a warning.
Liam blinked, clearly clocking the shift. “Rafe. Didn’t realize you two were—”
“We are,” Rafe said before he could finish, smile all teeth. “Thanks for keeping her company, though.”
His tone was polite, but there was no mistaking the edge under it. Like he was daring Liam to test it.
Liam raised his hands in surrender. “No problem, man. Just catching up.”
“Mmhmm,” Rafe said. “You’ve caught up. Now beat it.”
Liam gave a stiff chuckle and backed off with a half-hearted, “Nice seeing you,” before disappearing into the crowd.
The moment Liam backed off, the air between you and Rafe was thick with something unspoken. The polite noise of the reception faded as you stared at him, your mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. Rafe’s hand still rested possessively on your waist, his touch solid, sure.
“What was that?” you asked, your voice low, tight with confusion. Your heart was beating a little too fast, and you weren’t sure if it was from what had just happened or from something else, something else you weren’t ready to face just yet.
Rafe didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on you, his jaw set in that stubborn, trademark way, like he wasn’t about to back down. His thumb stroked the curve of your waist absently, but the gesture felt too intimate in the moment. Like a reminder of just how close he was.
“That guy was trying to make a move,” Rafe said casually, as if that explained everything.
You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “So?”
“So, I couldn’t just let it slide. We’re supposed to be dating, right? Can’t just have some guy coming in and hitting on my girlfriend, can I?” He gave a half-shrug, a cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
You blinked, not sure whether to be annoyed or just plain confused. “That’s not part of the act, Rafe.”
“I know it’s not part of the act. But we’re pretending to be a couple, right? So, of course, any boyfriend worth his salt is gonna step in when he notices his girlfriend getting hit on. It’s no big deal.”
The way he said it, all casual and dismissive, didn’t quite match the fire burning in his gaze. The way he was still standing way too close, the way his fingers tightened just slightly around your waist.
“Are you jealous, Rafe?” You couldn’t help yourself.
The question hung in the air between you, but Rafe didn’t flinch. His eyes flickered for just a moment—long enough to catch his breath—but then he was back to his usual cocky self.
“Jealous? Nah. I’m just looking out for you. That guy?” He waved a hand dismissively, his tone shifting, suddenly colder. “Bad news. I’ve heard things. Guy’s got a rep, you know? Likes to go after girls in relationships, fucks with their heads. Can’t be trusted.”
You narrowed your eyes, trying to make sense of the way his jaw tightened, the way he was almost… defensive. “Really? You’re pulling rumors out of thin air now?”
“What do you want me to say?” he shot back, his voice dropping just enough to show how serious he was about this, even if he was still playing it off. “Guy’s trouble. You deserve better than him.”
You looked up at him, trying to figure out whether he was serious or just trying to play the whole thing off like it was no big deal. You almost asked more—almost pushed him for the truth, for that raw honesty he had a habit of keeping buried—but something in his expression stopped you. Maybe it was the heat in his gaze, or maybe it was the way he was holding you, like he wasn’t going to let you go.
And that was when it hit you—harder than the whiskey in your hand.
Nothing about this felt fake anymore. The line between what was real and what was pretend became more blurred than ever.
(***)
The silence was a war in itself.
Your heels clicked sharply against the tile. Rafe walked beside you, jaw tight, gaze straight ahead like he was trying not to feel. The tension had stretched thin during the reception, but now? Now it was choking the air.
He unlocked the door with a sharp flick of his wrist, stepping aside so you could enter first. You didn’t thank him. Didn’t even look at him. The second the door shut behind you, it felt like the whole room exhaled—except neither of you did.
You crossed your arms, pacing once near the foot of the bed—the one bed you’d barely acknowledged earlier, and finally spun on your heel to face him.
“You wanna explain what that was back there?” you asked, voice low but tight with heat. “Or are we still playing pretend?”
Rafe dragged a hand through his hair, frustration clear in the sharp scoff under his breath. “I already told you. He was a dick. I was protecting you.”
“Right. Protecting me from a guy telling me I looked nice?” You let out a bitter laugh. “God, you can’t even say it. You can’t admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you’re jealous.”
Rafe let out a humorless laugh, scoffing as though he couldn’t believe you were even asking. “This again?”
“Yes, again!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Because you don’t get to act like that and then brush it off like it was all part of the plan. You looked like you were two seconds away from punching him, Rafe.”
He didn’t answer. His chest was rising and falling faster now, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“And if we’re just pretending—if this is all one big performance for your dad or whoever the hell—then what the fuck are we doing?” you asked, quieter now, but your voice wavered, betrayed by the weight of everything you’d been holding back. “Because it doesn’t feel pretend anymore.”
Silence.
Rafe’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He turned away, walked to the far end of the room like putting distance between you would help, but it didn’t.
“What the fuck do you want me to say?” he asked, voice rising with frustration, breath coming faster. “Huh?”
“The fucking truth!”
He spun back around, his voice rough and raw, like the words were being ripped from him. “I’m fucking in love with you, alright? Is that what you want to hear?”
The words hit like a punch to the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs.
Rafe’s chest heaved, and for a moment, he looked almost… defeated. Like saying it had taken the last of his resolve.
“Then why are we pretending?” you asked softly, voice cracking just enough to betray everything you’d kept hidden.
His eyes met yours, heavy with things unsaid.
“I don’t know,” he said, voice low, thick with frustration. “Because I was scared, okay? Because if I told you how I felt and you didn’t feel the same way, I’d lose you. And I can’t—I can’t lose you.”
Your breath caught in your throat, and for a second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Rafe stepped closer, slow but sure, like he was done holding back. Done pretending.
“I’ve been in love with you for years,” he said, his voice lower now, raw, broken open. “I’ve watched you date other people, laugh with other guys, and I’ve just stood there—like a fucking idiot—because I didn’t think I had the right. And now we’re here, playing this fucked-up version of what I’ve wanted for so long, and I can’t do it anymore. Not when I have to watch someone else touch you. Not when I finally get to hold you, and I know it’s still not real.”
Your heart slammed in your chest. The rush of blood, the pounding in your ears, the warmth rushing to your face, it was all too much.
You took a step forward, slow, tentative. “You think I haven’t felt it too?” you whispered, voice trembling now. “You think this hasn’t been driving me crazy? It has, Rafe. Every time you touch me, every time you look at me like that—I don’t know what’s real anymore either. I feel the same, why do you think I’m so worked up about this?”
Rafe’s breathing hitched, and for the first time, you saw his control crack. His hand reached up, brushing your arm gently, like he couldn’t believe he had the right to.
“But if we do this,” you said, barely above a whisper now, your voice fragile with the weight of it all, “it changes everything.”
His gaze was searching yours, hand sliding to cradle your jaw as if this was the only thing that made sense anymore.
“Good,” he said, his voice thick with certainty. “I want it to.”
In a second, his lips were on yours and you didn’t even get time to process it before you started to kiss him back, the kiss was deep, desperate, hungry. Years of longing accumulated, it felt as if the suite’s temperature had increased.
His mouth devoured yours, a hungry edge to every slant and slide of his lips, as if he were trying to consume every piece of you. Years of pent-up want poured out, unrestrained, his tongue tangling with yours in a dance of possession. His hands roamed your body with a frantic edge, fingers digging into the curve of your hips, sliding up the arch of your spine, desperate to map every inch of you. They found your hair, tangling in the strands, tugging your head back with a gentle but firm pull that exposed the tender column of your neck. His lips followed, hot and relentless, grazing the sensitive skin with a scrape of teeth that sent a shiver racing through you.
He guided you backward, his body pressing into yours, a wall of heat and muscle. Your legs hit the edge of the bed, and with a fluid, practiced motion, he eased you down onto the plush mattress, the silk sheets cool against your fevered skin. His body hovered over yours, a predatory grace in the way he held himself, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light of the room. His eyes—those piercing blue eyes—burned with a hunger so fierce it bordered on worship, the pupils blown wide with need. He broke the kiss just long enough to lean in, his breath hot against your swollen lips as he rasped, “I need you. Right now. Tonight. Every fucking way I can have you. Please, baby, let me have you.”
His words hit you like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a pulse of molten heat that pooled low in your belly. Your core throbbed, your panties already clinging to your skin, soaked through with the evidence of your desire. You shifted against the sheets, trying to get comfortable, your voice trembling with want. “Oh-okay, okay.”
His hands, eager and trembling with barely contained restraint, reached for the zipper of the dress you’d chosen so carefully for him, the one you’d worn as his plus-one at the wedding. His fingers hooked the metal tab, dragging it down with agonizing slowness, the soft rasp of the zipper loud in the charged silence. The fabric parted, slithering off your shoulders like liquid, pooling around your waist in a cascade of silk and chiffon. He paused, his gaze raking over you, drinking in the sight of your bare skin, the soft swell of your breasts, the curve of your collarbone. His eyes darkened, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he took you in, like you were a masterpiece he’d waited years to unveil.
With a quick tug, he pulled the dress the rest of the way off, leaving you in nothing but a lacy bra and panties that were already embarrassingly drenched. His own clothes followed in a blur of motion—tie yanked free, shirt buttons popping as he tore it open, slacks shoved down with impatient hands. The fabric hit the floor in a careless heap, and he stood before you, gloriously bare, his cock hard and straining, the tip already glistening with precum.
He returned to you, his blue eyes black with want, his hands mapping your body with a reverence that bordered on obsession. His palms cupped your breasts through the thin lace of your bra, thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His fingers slid lower, teasing the damp fabric of your panties, a low growl escaping him as he felt how wet you were. “Fuck,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath hot against your neck. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
His lips found your neck again, kissing and sucking with a fervor that left faint, tingling marks in their wake. His hands moved to your bra, deftly unhooking it with a practiced flick, and the fabric fell away, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze. He froze for a heartbeat, his eyes locked on your nipples, stiff and begging for his touch. Then, with a low groan, he leaned in, his hands cupping the soft weight of your breasts, thumbs circling the sensitive peaks before his mouth descended. He drew one nipple between his lips, sucking hard, his tongue flicking and swirling in a way that made you arch off the bed, a moan spilling from your lips. The wet heat of his mouth, the sharp graze of his teeth, sent pleasure spiraling through you, your core clenching with need. He released the nipple with a slick pop, his voice a low purr against your skin. “So perfect, baby. So fucking good, just for me.”
He lavished the same attention on your other breast, his mouth relentless, kissing, sucking, biting, licking—everything he’d fantasized about since that first summer he saw you in a bikini, your curves barely contained by the fabric. He was lost in it, worshipping every inch of your soft, feminine flesh, his tongue tracing patterns that left you trembling. When he finally pulled back, his chest heaved, his lips swollen and red, his blue eyes blazing with a need so primal it stole your breath.
His hands slid down your ribcage, fingertips grazing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, before settling on the waistband of your soaked panties. “Now, baby,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, thick with lust, “I need these off. I need to taste you.”
You hesitated, your voice soft, almost shy. “Are you sure?” You wanted it—God, you wanted his mouth on you, his tongue buried in your pussy—but you could see the painful strain of his cock, the way it twitched with every beat of his heart, and you worried he was pushing himself too far.
His eyes locked onto yours, burning with a desire so raw it was almost tangible. “Fuck yes, I’m sure,” he growled, his voice strained, like he was holding himself together by a thread. In one swift motion, he hooked his fingers into your panties and yanked them down, the delicate lace tearing under the force. He tossed the ruined fabric aside, his gaze dropping to your bare, glistening pussy. The sight of you—swollen, slick, dripping for him—drew a ragged curse from his lips. “Christ, look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe and hunger. “So fucking wet for me already.”
He lowered himself between your thighs, his broad shoulders spreading you open, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin. His tongue darted out, licking a slow, indulgent line from your entrance to your clit, savoring the taste of you. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your core, and then he dove in, his tongue plunging deep, lapping at your folds with a hunger that bordered on feral. “Fuck me, you’re delicious,” he murmured, the words muffled against your skin.
Your moans were unstoppable, loud and wanton, as he devoured you, his lips closing around your clit and sucking with just the right pressure to make you writhe. He ate you out like a man starved, his tongue swirling, flicking, probing, every movement deliberate and precise. He’d wanted this for years, and it showed in the way he worshipped your pussy, relishing every drop of your arousal. One hand slid up your body, pinching and teasing your nipples, while the other gripped your inner thigh, keeping you spread wide for him. You squirmed, overwhelmed, your hips bucking against his face as the pleasure built, but he only pulled you closer, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass to anchor you to his mouth.
He could feel you getting close, the way your thighs trembled, the way your breaths came in sharp, desperate gasps. He doubled down, his tongue plunging deeper, his lips sucking harder, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles. Your body tensed, your back arching off the bed, and then you shattered, a cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. Your walls clenched, your pussy pulsing as waves of pleasure ripped through you, and he lapped at you greedily, drinking in every bit of your release.
When your tremors finally subsided, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, his blue eyes dark with need as he looked up at you. His hand wrapped around his cock, pumping slowly to ease the ache, his voice rough as he asked, “You sure you want this, baby? Because if you say yes, I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve.”
You were still catching your breath, your body humming with aftershocks, but you nodded, your voice soft but certain. “Yes. Yes, I want it.”
The moment the words left your lips, something in him snapped. He positioned himself between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging your slick entrance. His eyes locked onto yours, searching for any trace of doubt, but all he found was want—pure, unfiltered need. He bit his lower lip, a silent vow, and then he pressed forward, sinking into you inch by agonizing inch. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering around him as he filled you, and he groaned, low and guttural, his hands gripping your hips to keep himself steady. “Fuck, baby, you feel incredible.”
He bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, and paused, letting you adjust to the fullness of him. His cock twitched inside you, hot and heavy, and you clenched around him, already oversensitive from your earlier orgasm. “Ready for me to move?” he asked, his voice strained, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of holding back.
You nodded, a soft whimper escaping you, and that was all he needed. With a low grunt, he started to move, his hips rocking in a deep, sensual rhythm that had you gasping. Each thrust was deliberate, the glide of his cock through your tight, wet heat driving him closer to the edge. His hands roamed, fingers digging into your hips, your thighs, your ass, as he fucked you with a mix of reverence and desperation. The headboard slammed against the wall, the sound mixing with the lewd slap of skin on skin, the creak of the mattress, your breathless moans.
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, his tongue plunging deep, mimicking the rhythm of his thrusts. He tasted of you, of sweat and desire, and it sent another wave of heat through you. “Fu-fuck yes, right there,” you gasped when he shifted, hitting that perfect spot inside you, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core.
Rafe groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin as he nipped at your neck. “Yes, baby, just like that,” he panted, his voice rough with need. “You were made for me, weren’t you? Fuck yes, you’re mine.” He hooked one of your legs higher, draping it over his shoulder, the new angle letting him sink even deeper. The stretch was exquisite, bordering on too much, but you craved it, your nails raking down his back as you urged him on.
His thrusts grew more urgent, his hips snapping against yours with a frantic edge. The room was a symphony of sex: your moans, his grunts, the wet, rhythmic slap of his cock driving into you. To make sure you came again, he reached down, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles. The added stimulation was too much, your body already primed from your first orgasm, and you felt the pressure building again, fast and unstoppable.
“Rafe—fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, your walls clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
“That’s it, baby, come for me,” he growled, his thumb pressing harder, his thrusts relentless. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, your body shaking, your pussy pulsing around his cock as you cried out, lost in the intensity. The sight of you falling apart, the feel of you milking him, pushed him over the edge. With a guttural curse, he buried himself deep, his cock throbbing as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapsed onto you, his weight grounding you as you both fought to catch your breath. His cock softened inside you, his cum dripping out in a warm, sticky mess. He rolled to his side, pulling you close, his arm wrapping around you possessively. “That was… fuck,” he panted, still reeling, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never—fuck, it’s never been like that.”
He tilted your chin up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before. “I know,” you murmured, sleepy and sated, your body heavy against his. “It was insane. So good.”
Rafe’s arms tightened around you, his nose brushing the crook of your neck as he inhaled your scent, now mixed with the musk of sex. His heart still pounded, but there was a new steadiness to it, a quiet certainty. This wasn’t just lust, not just a release of years of tension. It was something more—something he wanted to hold onto, to build on. He wanted you, all of you, and he’d spend every day proving it if you’d let him.
For now, though, he was content to bask in the afterglow, to hold you close and savor the knowledge that you are his.
(***)
The Morning After
The light poured in slowly, golden, and soft. It crept across the villa’s hardwood floors and spilled over the tangled sheets, bathing the bed in warmth. One long curtain had slipped from its tie, fluttering gently with the breeze drifting through the cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out. The rest of the world, for now, was quiet.
Rafe didn’t move.
He lay still, propped on one elbow, the sheet slung low on his hips, sunlight dappled across his bare chest. His other hand rested lightly on your waist, fingertips tracing slow, absent circles against your skin like he was trying to memorize you.
You were still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, lashes soft against your cheeks, lips parted in the kind of sleep only people who felt safe ever got. He hadn’t meant to watch you like this. He really hadn’t. But something about you, lying beside him, real and his—it felt like a goddamn dream.
His gaze trailed down the line of your back, over the curve of your spine, the sheet barely hanging onto your hips. And yeah, sure, he could be a cocky bastard on most days—but this? This left him stunned.
He reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers slow, almost reverent. You stirred. Your brow scrunched slightly as your body shifted closer, instinctively chasing his warmth. Your leg slung over his, your arm draped across his stomach.
“Creep,” you mumbled into his chest, voice still thick with sleep. “You’re staring.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your temple. “Can you blame me?”
You cracked one eye open, catching him with a sleepy half-smile. “You’re just buttering me up so I’ll let you make me coffee later.”
“Coffee?” he scoffed, smirking. “I just gave you the best sex of your life, and I’m making you coffee?”
You smacked his chest with the back of your hand, laughing. “You’re such an ass.”
But before you could pull your hand back, he caught it—his fingers curling around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles. The smirk faded, just slightly, replaced by something softer. Something a little scared.
“Hey,” he said quietly, and you felt the shift in him instantly. “This wasn’t just a one-time thing, right? Last night… that was real to you?”
You met his eyes—blue and unguarded, the kind of vulnerable Rafe rarely showed. He didn’t ask for reassurance. He didn’t admit fear. But here he was, tangled in sheets and honesty, waiting.
You leaned in and kissed him—slow, certain—your hand resting over his heart.
“It was real,” you whispered. “It’s always been real.”
He exhaled—long, shaky—like he’d been holding that breath for years. Then he pulled you close, burying his face in your neck. Not like a guy who’d just gotten laid—like a man who’d finally come home.
By the time the two of you stepped out of the villa, the sun had climbed higher, casting sharp shadows across the stone path. You were freshly showered, hair damp and curling at the ends. Rafe’s shirt hung loose on you, sleeves rolled, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. His hand was laced with yours, warm and steady.
You didn’t let go.
No more pretending. No more polished lines. Just you and Rafe, real, raw, unfiltered.
In the courtyard, laughter echoed from the breakfast table. The Kooks were half-drunk on mimosas, sunglasses crooked, music already playing from someone’s speaker.
And then there was Ward.
He stood off to the side, arms crossed, coffee mug in hand. His eyes scanned the two of you—specifically your joined hands. The way Rafe stood just a little closer than necessary, like distance was something he wasn’t willing to risk again.
You felt Rafe tense beside you, barely.
Ward didn’t say a word. Just raised one eyebrow, his gaze locking with Rafe’s a beat too long. Then he gave a single nod. Quiet. Reserved. His version of approval. Maybe even emotional growth. Rafe didn’t say anything either. But his grip on your hand tightened, and you swore you felt his thumb trace slow, steady circles against your skin.
Then he leaned in—lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low enough that only you could hear.
“I’m all in.”
And somehow, you knew he meant it. Every messy, complicated, beautiful part of it. For once, nothing was fake. And everything was ahead of you.
✮⋆˙ young rafe & his feelings for his childhood best friend.
cherie's note — rafe is such a complex character, sometimes i like to think of what could have happened for him to be such an emotionally reckless person. i hope someone enjoys this, lowk me just being a nerd. ˙ᵕ˙
as a kid, rafe doesn't really understand what he's feeling, you know? growing up with an emotionally unavailable father will do that to you, paving the way to a life full of resentment and bottling feelings. he liked you before he had even been educated about crushes. he just knows that he always wants you around, that he's protective over you like no other, and that something feels... different ... when you're together. too young to understand the concept of crushes, he feels a possessiveness he can't explain when other kids show interest in you. if anyone even so much as glances at you for too long, rafe gets a little prickly, but doesn't voice it. probably brushes it off with a snarky comment or by joking around, but the truth is, it bugs him more than he lets on.
he's fucking heartbroken when your family moves — it shatters rafe in ways he can't fully understand. the final day you hang out, he acts like it doesn't bother him. he masks the sting with jokes and teasing, but deep down, he's devastated. he hides it, though, obviously. he doesn't want to show weakness. after you leave though, he throws himself into distractions, struggling to cope with the concept of not having her around — this is when his reckless behavior, and holding in his feelings really surge. he never fully recovers from the void you left.
as a teenager, the years go on — rafe grows distant and cold, he builds walls around himself, but in the quiet moments, he remembers his childhood best friend — you. it's a bittersweet kind of memory, the kind of memory that stays in the back of his mind, poking at him when he's feeling particularly vulnerable. even as he gets older, he's never truly let go.
if he's being honest with himself, he seems to seek you out in every girl he meets, but no one compares to the memory of you.
and when you finally return to the island? grown into your body perfectly, and now a young woman? rafe's world is flipped upside down. his first instinct is disbelief — the girl he remembers is now a woman. he can't stop staring, and it's almost like seeing her for the first time all over again. his feelings from back then come rushing back, but now they're more intense — he knows what he's feeling now. he can't help but feel self-conscious about the fact that you've changed so much and he hasn't.
despite the fact that rafe has built a tough exterior over the years, when he sees you again, that instinct to protect comes rushing back, stronger than ever. he's not the same sweet, naive boy he once was, but he still wants to keep you safe — and now, he has no idea how to navigate those feelings in the context of their adulthood.
rafe doesn't know how to handle the feelings that resurface — hitting him with a force way harder than he had anticipated. he's older now, but still the same kid in a lot of ways. his usual sarcastic remarks and defensive behaviour come into play, but there's an underlying tension in the way he acts around you. he tries to downplay it, but it's obvious to anyone watching that the spark between the both of you is undeniable.
𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Comfort sex, emotional vulnerability, first time together, slow and intense sex, deep emotional intimacy, crying during sex, aftercare
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After a brutal fight with Ward, Rafe shows up at your place wrecked and bleeding—mentally and physically—and finally lets go in the only place he’s ever felt safe: your arms, your bed, and this time… your body.
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚
˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚
You’d never seen him like this.
Not Rafe. Not your Rafe.
There’d been a lot of versions of him over the years—the golden boy, the reckless rich kid, the self-destructive mess. You’d seen him blackout drunk, high out of his mind, angry enough to shatter mirrors with his fists. You’d stayed up with him on your couch after breakups, patched up his bloody knuckles, dragged him to bed after parties where he drank too much and smiled too little.
But tonight?
Tonight he didn’t say anything when he stumbled through your door. He just stood there, soaked in sweat and tears, a bruise blooming over his cheekbone and his eyes red-rimmed like he’d been crying for hours.
You were off the couch in seconds, reaching for him. “Rafe—what the hell—what happened?”
He didn’t speak. He just grabbed you.
Fists full of your shirt, arms wrapping around you so tight it almost hurt, burying his face in your neck like if he let go, he’d fall apart.
“He said I’m nothing,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse. “Said I ruin everything I touch. He said if I’d died instead of Sarah, he wouldn’t have cried.”
Ward.
You didn’t even have to ask.
Rafe’s whole body was trembling against yours. You felt the fight still thrumming under his skin—rage and pain and shame all tangled up, looking for a way out.
You kissed his temple, slid your hands up his back. “You know that’s not true.”
“I don’t know anything anymore,” he rasped. “Except… I didn’t know where else to go.”
You pulled him down into bed with you—no questions, no second thoughts.
He clung to you like it physically hurt to be apart, shaking as you pulled his shirt off, as he pressed his lips to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. The kisses weren’t sexual at first. They were desperate. Needy. Bruised.
“I don’t want to be alone,” he whispered. “I feel like I’m falling apart. But when I’m with you…”
His lips hovered over yours. His voice broke.
“You make it stop hurting.”
It happened slowly.
Not like the quick, hot sex you both used to have with other people. This wasn’t about lust or release. It was about connection. About need. About something buried for years finally clawing its way out.
He kissed you like it meant something.
And for once, it did.
Your clothes came off piece by piece. There were no jokes. No awkward laughter. Just quiet, shaky breath and soft hands that lingered too long. You’d seen him half-naked a hundred times, but this was different. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, like he was watching something sacred unfold.
When he pushed inside you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t rough.
It was slow. Deep. Intimate.
He let out a sound like a sob the moment he bottomed out, head dropping to your shoulder, arms trembling as he held himself above you.
“I don’t deserve this,” he choked.
“Yes, you do,” you whispered, cupping his face. “You do with me.”
And that undid him.
Rafe moved in you like he needed it to survive. Not just the friction—but the closeness. His thrusts were deep and slow, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes glassy as he looked down at you like you were the only good thing left in the world.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer—like you could tuck all his broken pieces back together from the inside.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice raw. “You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel safe.”
You felt your heart crack right open.
You kissed him through it. Through the emotion. Through the shaking. Through the moment he started to cry—real, helpless tears—as he kept moving inside you, burying himself in the one place he knew he wouldn’t be judged.
You held his face in your hands and told him everything he needed to hear. That he wasn’t broken. That he wasn’t alone. That he was allowed to be soft with you. That he was allowed to be loved.
And when you came—together—it wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t pornographic.
It was quiet.
It was him shaking above you, whispering “thank you” into your neck as he spilled inside you. It was you stroking his hair, pulling the blankets up, wrapping yourself around him like armor.
After, he didn’t let go.
Even after you both stopped moving. Even after the tears dried.
His voice was barely a breath against your skin. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I wasn’t born to be hated.”
You kissed his forehead.
“Then stay with me,” you whispered. “Let me keep showing you how wrong he is.”
He didn’t answer.
But his arms tightened.
And he stayed.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚
I don’t even remember getting in the car.
All I know is my hands were shaking too hard to steer straight, and I drove to the only f**king place that’s ever felt like something close to peace—your place.
You didn’t ask questions when I showed up, bleeding and bruised. You didn’t need to.
You always know.
My throat burned, chest tight like I’d swallowed broken glass. Ward’s voice was still ringing in my head, loud and cruel and sharp. “You’re a f**king failure. You should’ve died instead of Sarah. At least she had potential.”
I don’t even know if I yelled back. I think I just left before I snapped in half.
Now I’m standing in your room, and you’re pulling me into your arms like you want me there. Like I’m not poison. Like I’m not everything he said I was.
Your hands are on my face. I realize I’m crying when you wipe a tear off my cheek with your thumb.
“Rafe,” you whisper, soft like silk, “you’re okay now. You’re with me.”
That’s when I break.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just broken.
I bury my face in your neck and breathe you in like oxygen. My arms wrap around you so tight you probably can’t breathe, but I need you close. I need you. I don’t know how else to survive this night.
You lead me to bed. You undress me like it means something, like you’re not just helping me out of my shirt—you’re peeling off all the shame I’ve been drowning in.
You kiss me, and I swear I almost lose it.
I’ve kissed a lot of people. Too many, if I’m being honest. But this? This kiss hurts. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes me feel everything I’ve been numbing for years. You kiss me like you know what I’m afraid of. Like you’ve been waiting. Like you see all of me—and you still want to stay.
I look at you, stripped bare in front of me, and I can’t believe I’ve never touched you like this before. Not once. Not in all those years of sleeping in your bed, laughing in your car, watching your face when you thought I wasn’t.
And now I have you. Like this.
You let me push inside you slow. Careful. You gasp, and I almost stop.
But you pull me closer, and I swear I could f**king cry again.
You feel so good—warm, tight, real. You wrap around me like you want me to be here. Like I’m not some violent wreck you’re babysitting. Like I’m yours.
My hips move on instinct, slow and deep. Every thrust feels like an apology I don’t know how to say.
“I don’t deserve this,” I whisper against your lips.
You grab my face, eyes locked on mine. “You do with me.”
That sentence… it breaks me open from the inside.
I start moving faster, still gentle, still deep—but there’s desperation now. I need this. I need you. Not just the sex. Not just your body.
I need the way you look at me like I’m not a lost cause.
I cry. I f**king cry.
And you kiss my tears.
You moan my name like it’s a lifeline, your legs tightening around me, your nails in my back as you come—soft and shaking and real. I follow right after, face buried in your shoulder, whispering your name like a prayer.
After, you don’t push me away. You wrap yourself around me like armor. You hold me like I’m worth holding.
“I’m not him,” I murmur. “I’m not my dad. I don’t want to be.”
You stroke my hair. “You never were.”
I’ve had a lot of sex in my life. Fast. Dirty. Pointless.
But this?
This was the first time it meant something.
And I never want anything else again.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚
Do we need more soft Rafe bc this is fucking adorable?
pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader
rating mature 18+
summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.
tags college au. fake dating. grumpy athlete/sunshine tutor. reader is bubbly, talkative, and passionate about literature. very slowburn. he falls first. alcohol use. suggestive moments, but no smut.
power play (noun)
an offensive tactic in a team sport; a deliberate attempt to manipulate someone.
════════
You hoped it wouldn’t feel the way it used to, but as you sit in the stands behind the home bench next to Lyla, it’s all the same.
You’re watching Beck zip across the ice with a painfully familiar sense of longing hammering into your chest. Falling for him always felt inevitable; you just didn’t expect that he wouldn’t be there to catch you.
When you and Lyla became friends in the ninth grade, you quickly grew close to her family, spending more time at their house than your own, tagging along to watch her twin brother’s hockey games.
The more you got to know Beck, the more you fell under his spell, charmed by his warmth, by every part of him that made him the most captivating person you’d ever met.
He stole your heart. Considering the way he treated you, you were sure you’d stolen his, too.
You spent most of last semester helping him with a class, even though you were in the same overwhelming throws of being a college freshman. Every study session in his dorm room drifted by with an undercurrent of certainty that he felt something, too.
It crushed you to realize that it’d all been in your head. A few weeks ago, you’d met him after his final exam, which he said he knew he nailed thanks to you.
You thought he was finally going to make the move that felt like it’d been hanging over you for years. But all he did was pull you into a side-hug and say, “You’re more of a friend to me than my own sister.”
Thinking about it still makes you cringe. You hate how weak you feel ruminating over this, trying to get over someone you were never even with.
It’s a Wednesday night two weeks into the spring semester, and you’re at the first home game you’ve been to in a while. Although you’ve always loved the loud, buzzing atmosphere of a hockey game, you’ve been staying far away from the campus arena and the man who hurt you.
You haven’t spoken to Beck. And he hasn’t reached out. What he did was an indirect rejection, his way of saying, It’s obvious that you like me and I need you to know once and for all that I don’t like you back.
Since then, every time your best friend has asked you to come to games or parties, you’ve told her you’ve been too busy, using your new position in a tutoring program as your excuse.
You prefer a distraction from Beck, and helping other students with a subject you’re passionate about has done the job.
But you can’t blow Lyla off forever, so now, you’re sitting with her in the stands among a small crowd of spectators.
The championship season begins in a month. Every seat will be full then. But you wish more people were around now. You welcome any noise to drown out your thoughts.
Everyone else cheers when Beck smashes the puck against the back of the net, securing the team’s first goal. You find it hard to join the celebration. Even though you’ve always thought of him as kind, you wonder if he could tell how much you liked him. If he consciously led you on.
For years, you’d watched him date other girls, hoping he’d finally realize you were the right one for him all along. You daydreamed far too much about him, imagining that he’d become your first boyfriend and take you on your first date and give you your first kiss.
The alarm blares to signal the end of the second period, pulling you out the haze you’ve fallen into a thousand times since that day in front of his exam room.
“You want to get some snacks?” Lyla asks.
“Sure,” you reply, doing your best impression of a girl with nothing weighing on her.
Once you walk up to the end of one of the arena’s concession stand lines, Lyla recognizes the people standing in front of you, greeting both girls with smiles and hugs.
Through introductions, you learn that Emma and Gabby are friends Lyla made at a party last semester. After some small talk as the line shuffles forward, Lyla points back to the rink.
“The seats next to us are empty if you want to sit with us,” she offers.
Emma and Gabby happily join you as you settle back in your seats soon after. You gaze ahead at the empty rink as they chat, the 3-1 score glaring above the ice in red neon numbers.
“No way the coach isn’t chewing them out right now,” Lyla says with a shake of her head.
“Why do you know on the team again?” Emma asks.
“My brother, Beck,” Lyla says. “You?”
Emma’s mouth twists into a tense smile.
“My ex,” she says, her voice lowering. “I wish he didn’t play, because I actually really love coming to these games.”
“Bad breakup?” you surmise.
“Brutal,” Gabby chimes in. You can tell by her expression that she’d supported her friend through the fallout.
“I just don’t want him to see me here and think it means something,” Emma sighs. “If he thinks that I want to get back together, it’ll be a disaster. We broke up a month ago and he’s still bothering me.”
You hardly know this girl, and you know her ex even less, but your reflex is to feel bad for him. You’re well acquainted with the pain that comes with caring about somebody who doesn’t want you.
“Oh, yeah,” Lyla remembers. “Rafe, right?”
Emma nods.
“Yikes.”
“Yeah,” Emma laughs.
The three girls share a knowing look, something unsaid passing through them.
You don’t know much about Rafe. On the rink, he’s a strong, aggressive defenseman, a sophomore who spends more time in the penalty box than any other player. You’ve seen him at a couple of parties, too, but never exchanged any words.
You don't understand the girls’ tense reactions to the mention of his name.
“What am I missing?” you half-whisper.
“You’d be missing nothing if you actually came to the parties I invite you to,” Lyla teases.
You can count on one hand how many parties you’ve been to since you started college. But it works for you. A party every few weeks is enough.
“I come when I can,” you reply, nudging her playfully. “Fill me in.”
“He’s a trainwreck,” Emma explains to you. “He has a million red flags that I ignored because I thought he was hot. Literally all we ever did was fight.”
“Yeah,” Lyla huffs, raising her brows. She looks at you. “Maybe it’s actually a good thing you don’t come to every party.”
You consider their words. They must have had a penchant for making a scene, shamelessly arguing in front of a crowd.
“I couldn’t take how mean and moody he was anymore. I dumped him and he won’t let it go.” Emma breathes a laugh. “It’s pathetic. He even called me crying the other night.”
Again, a confusing pang of sympathy for him hits you. It has to be your own heartbreak influencing you. You can’t imagine you’d normally feel bad for a guy described as having a million red flags.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
“I’m over it,” Emma says carelessly.
“He’s not,” Gabby murmurs.
The players storm out on the rink again moments later, blades slicing the ice. They’re all so fast and powerful, and knowing that Rafe, the most forceful one of the group, is going through a version of the pain you are is oddly comforting.
A couple of minutes in, he gets thrown into the penalty box for charging an opponent. He skates to the opposite side of the rink, Cameron stitched across the black polyester of his jersey.
He stares at the floor as he waits out his penalty, tense, still. You think that if someone who looks so big and strong can hurt just like you, maybe you’re not as weak as you think.
════════
Rafe swings open the library entrance door with a scowl, irritated as hell that he has to be here. It’s annoying that the athletic department gives this much of a shit about players’ grades. Rafe knows he’s one of the best on the hockey team. He wishes that were enough.
Freshman year was fine, but he barely made it through last semester. He just failed his first assignment in a half-term literature course that was supposed to be an easy A.
Coach wasn’t pleased, saying it could screw up his GPA and deem him ineligible to play. Rafe tried to convince him that he’d do better on the next one, but Coach set him up with a tutor, unwilling to hear him out.
He’s already hardwired into a constant state of anger. Life has always been a storm, and now more than ever, there's no refuge in sight.
He's dealing with a coach who has no hope in him, on top of a painful breakup, on top of a shitty loss last night, on top of the fact that now he’s being forced to talk to a stranger about some boring book.
He can’t catch a break.
He looks at the email on his phone again. Study Room 205. He eventually finds the open door and taps his knuckles on it to get your attention.
You lock eyes with the person you’ve been waiting on for the last ten minutes. You had no idea who was coming up to meet you – just that the athletic department set it up.
But you know him. Or of him, at least.
A second ago, you were thinking about how you’ll have to ask whoever you’re meeting to be on time for future sessions. Now, your mind is consumed by the harsh words you heard about him last night.
“Hi,” you say politely. “Are you here for Lit Arts?”
He nods tersely in confirmation, stepping in. He drops his bag onto one of the empty chairs surrounding the square desk in the middle of the small room. You introduce yourself and when he sits down diagonally opposite to you, he murmurs, “Rafe.”
Discomfort swirls in your stomach. You’d heard something so personal about him at the rink, gazed at him in the penalty box from a distance, feeling like he’s a kindred spirit, and now you have to pretend like none of it happened.
“You’re on the hockey team, right?” you ask.
He realizes he’s seen you before. He can’t figure out where.
“Yeah.”
“I was at the game last night. Tough loss.”
Rafe doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically. You clear your throat, figuring it’s best to skip the small talk.
“I took this class last semester. I know exactly how the prof grades, so you’re lucky to have me in your corner.”
Rafe is many things right now. Lucky isn’t one of them.
“Do you have your laptop?” you ask.
He unzips his bag and pulls out his computer.
“You can go to the course portal,” you tell him. He lets out an exhale as he navigates to the webpage. You lean closer to make sure that the class is currently on the book you brought with you.
You pull out your copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, page edges littered with different colored sticky tabs.
“Did you get a chance to start the book?” you ask.
He shakes his head. He’s not hiding that he really doesn’t want to be here. Nonetheless, you’re determined to crack him.
“Do you have a copy of it?”
“No.”
You nod slowly, picking up that he planned to coast through the class, not even bothering to buy and read any of the books.
“Do you like reading?” you ask.
“Nah,” he says with a grimace, as if he’s offended you’d assume that.
“You might like some of the books on the syllabus. This class is a lot of fun.”
“Fun,” he echoes with a stare that makes him look like he wants to bolt out of the door he just came through.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you reply with a smile. “Your idea of fun is skating around and getting slammed into walls. I should be the one judging you.”
He gazes at you like you’re from another planet, blue eyes hard on you. It’s nothing short of amusing.
You pull his laptop closer, hovering the cursor over the ‘My Grades’ tab, and ask, “Do you mind if I check how you did on your last assignment?”
“I bombed it,” he says.
As you gaze at the screen, Rafe clues in on where he’s seen you before. With one of the team’s freshmen.
Varsity athletes who live on campus are lumped together in the same dormitory block, and he’s seen you hanging around with Beck, going in and out of his room.
He wouldn’t consider Beck a friend. He’s a teammate and at best, an acquaintance. The guy’s a kiss-ass to Coach, and does everything by the book, skipping most parties and never drinking.
It makes complete sense that a rule-follower like Beck would date a good girl like you. Who the fuck calls a class fun?
You click to see his failing grade percentage for the first assignment of the semester in bolded red.
“Did you get any feedback on where you went wrong?” you ask. You know he’s going to shake his head before he does it. He doesn’t seem to care at all. “You have a whole semester to get your grade up. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not,” he replies stiffly.
“Well… maybe you should worry a little bit,” you say lightheartedly. “I know your coach is serious about grades.”
Rafe figures you must have heard that from your boyfriend. Maybe Beck took this class, too. It’s popular among busy student athletes because it’s supposed to be an easy way to fulfill a humanities credit.
He could just convince Beck to give him copies of his assignments. He’d have to change stuff around, but at least he’d get out of tutoring.
“Did you help Beck with this class?” he asks.
You’re taken aback by the sudden reminder of him, brows knitting together, a shift in your breezy demeanor.
“You’re his girl, right?” he says, as if it’s obvious.
“No. We’re– we’re friends.” You chew on your bottom lip. Tutoring is supposed to be a distraction from Beck, not the topic of conversation. But your curiosity burns in you and there’s no chance of putting it out. “Did he talk about me or something?”
“No,” he says, a bit too harshly for your liking. “I just figured ‘cause you’re with him all the time.”
“Right,” you say. All the time. Like a lost puppy, no doubt. Embarrassment pricks at your skin. “I helped him with another class. We’re friends.”
Rafe cracks his first smirk since he walked into this stuffy little room. You said friends twice, both times with uncertainty.
“You sure?” he chides.
“What?” you say stiffly. “Yes. I am.”
You crack open the book.
“So, A Portrait is about a man named Stephen who navigates the idea of identity,” you say quickly, trying to shake off your nerves. “We should look at the discussion question.”
You shut the book abruptly, then turn your attention to the laptop.
“You need to write a 1,500-word reflection for each book,” you ramble. “You’ll do better if you find a personal connection to the text. Maybe we start there.”
Rafe watches the nervous way your eyes dart around the screen as you scroll. His joke threw you into a tense, awkward panic that he has no interest in being around.
“You can relax,” he says. “I don’t care if you like him.”
You don’t look at him. You thought you were relaxed.
“Well, I don’t.”
You scroll to the question, one word in particular striking you.
What role does Emma play in Stephen’s growth and how he defines himself?
Of course. As if you needed another reason for this to be even more awkward.
Seeing Rafe’s ex’s name makes what she’d told you about him echo through your head again. Despite his teasing, the sympathy you felt for him comes back tenfold.
You know things about him that you shouldn’t. You feel a responsibility to balance the scales, but the air is too tense, the unfamiliarity too uncomfortable.
“Did you take a look at the question?” you ask.
He shakes his head, still slouched back. At this point, his apathy is starting to get to you.
“Listen, I can tell you don’t want to be here, but could you please try to meet me in the middle?” you say.
Rafe’s lips pull into a firm line, but he relents and leans closer to look at the screen. His body goes cold when he sees her name. He’d rather not be reminded of the girl who broke his heart right now.
“Emma is Stephen’s love interest,” you begin, trying to act like you don’t know a thing about his past relationship. “He sees her as something she’s not.”
You leaf through the book, finding a note you’d written in the margin.
“She represents idealization,” you read. You look up at him again. “Stephen sees by the end that she’s just a normal person, not this perfect girl he thought she was for so many years.”
You open a blank document on his laptop.
“We can write up some notes to start us off,” you say. “This prof grades high when you relate to the text. He likes the sentimental stuff, so until you read the book, that’s what we’ll have to work on.”
You chew on your lip again, unsure if you should bring up what you heard in the stands. It feels unethical either way.
“It doesn’t have to be a person,” you say. “It could be a place or an experience. Have you ever thought something was great and then realized it wasn’t?”
Rafe’s stomach is in a knot. The thought of being tutored and having his hand held through a class was bad enough. Now he has to get into his feelings with you?
“I don’t know,” he says.
You look at the blinking cursor, your head cocked in thought.
“Maybe relating it to a person would be easier, then?” you ask.
Nothing can make this easier. Rafe rakes his hair back, gazing down at your hands stalled over his keyboard.
“I get that this is awkward,” you say. “But it doesn’t have to be anything super personal. You could even make something up if you want.”
He only purses his lips, eyes fixed on your hands, as if he hopes you’ll give in and just do his work for him.
You take a deep breath and interlace your fingers on the desk. You figure that if you’re a little vulnerable, he might be, too.
He’s unknowingly feeling the same pain you are and saying the truth out loud to someone who gets it might even be a relief. There’s a risk of it getting back to Beck, but something tells you Rafe’s not much of a gossiper anyway.
“To be honest, yes, I like Beck. I thought he felt the same, but he doesn’t. Between you and me, sometimes I think he took me for granted and led me on. I idealized a friendship and it ended up hurting me. If this were my assignment, I’d relate to the book with that.”
Rafe is thrown off by your sudden honesty. It’s actually refreshing, considering all the bullshit he’s been dealing with lately.
He looks at you wordlessly.
“It’s just an example,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I did well in this class because I found pieces of myself in every book. All you need to do is read the material, find something you can relate to, write a decent report, and you’ll get a good grade. Well, that and prepare for the midterm and the final.”
“This class was supposed to be easy,” he finally says under his breath.
“Can you let me know when you’re going to be done complaining?” you ask playfully, looking up at the clock. “It’s been five minutes and you’re still going.”
Rafe huffs an almost-laugh. He adjusts his posture again, pulling at the collar of his hoodie.
“You really don’t have to be specific,” you reassure him. You tap your fingers over the keyboard again, just light enough to not press any buttons. “If you can relate the character of Emma to someone, you don’t have to say their name.”
Your eyes stay glued to the screen, your shoulders stiff as you wait. You’re acting weird again. The way you said Emma’s name looked like it pained you.
And it dawns on him.
“Should’ve known she’d talk shit,” he realizes. “What’d she tell you?”
“What?” you say, meeting his gaze.
“What did Emma say about me?” Rafe drawls, his deep voice reverberating through you.
Your lips part, but words refuse to form. For a guy that doesn’t like to read, he’s very good at doing it to you.
Rafe leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. You can now see what makes him so intimidating on the ice. Every edge of his face is sharp now, apathy replaced with intensity.
“Nothing,” you reply. “It’s not my business.”
How did he not clue in before? If you run in the hockey team’s social circle, of course you heard about their breakup.
Emma never cared to keep things private. And you’re so willing to share your own personal stuff because you know more about him than you’re letting on. Because you pity him.
“Come on,” he scoffs, frustrated.
“I met her at the rink last night. She just mentioned you used to date.”
He shrugs impatiently, a silent request that you keep talking. You sigh.
“She said she likes coming to games, but it’s hard to because her ex is on the team.” You grimace. There’s no way you’d actually tell him all of it, all of the insults she muttered. “It’s not worth repeating, but… basically, she told me she broke things off and you won’t move on.”
Rafe nods, lips twisting. The way she’s been ignoring his texts and his calls to try to fix things stung enough. Talking to strangers to embarrass him hurts on an entirely different level.
He didn’t know Emma could be this cruel. This is mortifying. He’s done trying to make things work with her. No matter how hard the loneliness is hitting him.
You slide the book across the desk towards him, desperate to move past the tension.
“You can start reading,” you say. “And you don’t have to buy any of the books. I’ll just lend you mine. I’ll get some notes down for you to work from and you can do the personal connection part on your own.”
You start to type and immediately wonder if he’ll drop the class. You’ve never had that happen with someone you tutored before, but you wouldn’t blame him.
It must feel crappy to hear from a girl you don’t even know that your ex is saying bad things about you. A girl that you have to see every Thursday afternoon for the next three months.
Rafe cracks open the book in the middle to fan through the pages, a weight sitting on his chest. The pages are worn, words underlined, notes scribbled in the margins.
“You put this through the washing machine or something?” he murmurs.
“I’ve read it a few times,” you say simply. You keep typing.
Emma said he’d called her crying. It’s hard to imagine the man sitting next to you crying. It’s weird knowing something about someone that they wouldn't want you to know.
Rafe’s already bored with the first sentence. It’s long and confusing and completely uninteresting. His eyes drift up, absorbing the way your face softly creases in concentration as you type.
Now that you’re not talking at a thousand words a second, he can actually take you in.
You’re the type of girl he’d approach at a party. There’s no doubt about that. But once you’d start yapping about reading like you just did, about finding pieces of yourself in a book, he’d find a way out of the conversation.
Playing hockey at the college level is demanding; he likes the other things in his life to be fun and easy. Keeping up with a girl like you and pretending he’s interested in whatever you’re rambling about would be neither.
As he studies you, he doesn’t get why Beck friendzoned you. You’re pretty. And you’re the same type of person as Beck: straight-edge and so cheerful it’s annoying.
Rafe is typically one to outright say what he’s thinking, but he has the restraint to keep the idea he just had to himself. He needs to sleep on it. He’s done some crazy shit since Emma broke his heart and he’d rather not add to the tally.
You notice him looking at you in your peripheral vision.
“You’re not thinking of dropping the class, are you?” you ask.
“No,” he says. His eyes stay on you for another beat, then find the words on the page again.
════════
You thought Rafe came to your first session in a bad mood. Compared to how you feel right now, he was peachy.
Lyla called you on your way to the library and mentioned in passing that her brother asked about you last night. She said Beck seemed like he missed you, all sympathetic when he asked, is she doing okay?
She’s oblivious to the real reason he brought it up. And it’s irritating. Because he doesn’t even ask you himself. Because he’s right. He knows that his passive rejection left a wound.
“You’re on time,” you say in surprise when Rafe saunters into the study room.
“You talk a lot,” he mumbles. “I’m not interested in a lecture after you told me not to be late.”
Despite your bad mood, you crack an amused smile. You’d ended last week’s session telling him that tardiness was not only disrespectful to you, but to his own academic success. He rolled his eyes, but he clearly listened.
Rafe settles in the same chair as last time, holding your copy of the book he was supposed to read.
“Did you read it?”
“Mostly.”
“What’d you think?” you say with hope.
“Boring.”
“Fair,” you say. You gesture for his laptop. “Let’s see how far you got on the report.”
Your brows drop in disappointment when you see how much he added to the file. It’s a bunch of pasted summaries and disorganized thoughts, taking up only half the page.
You eventually reach the end of your hour-long session and have him read over the assignment one last time before submitting it. You check the syllabus to confirm what the next book is, then shut his computer.
“Try to have more for us to work with next time,” you tell him. “And you should have the next book totally read by then, too, okay?”
You hand him your copy of Pride and Prejudice and push your seat back, ignoring his frustrated sigh.
“You talk to Beck lately?” he asks after a beat.
“What?” you say, face screwing up. You’re reminded all over again of what Lyla said. “No. Why?”
“You’re still pissed at him,” he says. He’s confident, coming to the conclusion himself instead of waiting for you to admit it.
“Why are you talking about this? We had a perfectly nice hour together,” you try to joke.
Rafe finally gives a voice to what’s been swirling in his mind since last week. He’s used to being mad, to feeling spiteful, but the way his ex broke his heart has never made him want revenge more. He wants to hurt her as badly as she hurt him. He wants to make her regret leaving him.
“We should get back at them,” he says.
“I’m sorry?” you say, your chin dipping as you stare at him.
“Hear me out,” he tells you. “We’re going to keep seeing Beck and Emma around, right? We could make it look like we’re better off without them. Make them jealous.”
You squint, waiting for the details. Rafe draws in a sharp inhale.
“She said I’m not over her, right? And you said he took you for granted. If they think we moved on, I bet at least one of ‘em will realize they fucked up.”
You consider it. Admittedly, making Beck think you’re perfectly fine – no, thriving – after his rejection is enticing.
“Okay, how do we get back at them exactly?” you ask.
Rafe scratches the back of his neck. It’s the first time he seems kind of nervous to you.
“We pretend we’re together,” he says.
“You and…” You look over your shoulder, because he must be talking to somebody else who snuck into the room at some point. “You and me? Together together?”
“I know. It wouldn’t ever happen.”
You can’t even be offended. He’s right. He’s a skilled hockey player and undeniably good-looking, but that’s where the compliments end.
Two afternoons of working together and making small talk have shown you that you have nothing in common. And frankly, while you do laugh off his bad attitude, it gets on your nerves.
A relationship would never work, let alone even begin.
“But they don’t know that,” he continues. “All they’ll see is that someone they lost is happy without them.”
Your mind starts racing. The years of pining over Beck, the pain of his rejection, the frustration over him asking his sister how you’re holding up. They’ve all left cracks in your heart.
The more Rafe thinks about rubbing his happiness into Emma’s face, even if it’s bullshit, the more he hopes you’ll be on board. But you’re not saying a word.
“If you’re not in, fine,” he sighs, pushing his chair back to start to leave. He should have figured you’d be too uptight to do it. “I’m just saying I bet you wouldn’t hate making Beck sweat.”
He stands up, but you hear yourself say, “Wait.”
Then you hold out your hand.
Rafe breathes an amused chuckle, flashing the first sincere smile you’ve seen on his face, when he realizes what you’re doing.
Your hand slips into his, touching for the first time to seal the deal and shake on it.
“This is insane,” you say. “Count me in.”
next >
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perhaps a flashback type thing where rafe sees a guy flirting with reader at a party and doesn’t understand why he’s so angry about it
he runs in all “knight in shining armor” (in his mind) and tells the guy to leave reader alone and reader is pissed because it’s (one of) the first time a guy has shown interest in her
and rafe doesn’t even know how to explain why he was upset or the strange feeling he got when the guy backed off because he “didn’t realize she was his girlfriend” (even though she’s not)
in my head they’re in their mid teens but you could totally change that depending on what you feel most comfortable writing
hopefully this was the write amount of detail, can’t wait to see what you come up with <3
thank u for joining my little blurb exercise!
BLURBFEST I | RC
join my blurbfest <3 | WORD COUNT: 0.9k
If Rafe can have one wish right now, he’d wish to have not brought you to this party.
It’s the beginning of the year. Classes begin soon, and Kooks like to celebrate their accomplishments by hosting a big extravaganza. Normally, you aren’t one for attendance, but this year is “different,” in your own words. This year, you wanted to branch out.
Rafe wants to put you back in.
Let’s be clear: he loves that you’re growing more confident. Truth be told, you have suffered through extreme cycles of low self-esteem and high expectations. But now, you’re finally flourishing. Finally finding your seat at the table. He should be proud—he is proud.
He just doesn’t like it when there are new people in the room.
Because all eyes are on you. Guys who would’ve normally never spared two glances in your direction are suddenly trying to steal your attention, complimenting you, spewing some sleazy pickup line that has Rafe rolling his eyes. But it works for you. Because it’s your first time.
Rafe crushes the red solo cup in his hand as you chat with a random stranger from across the room. For the past five minutes. He’s been counting down the seconds for you to bid your awkward goodbye, crawl back into his arms, and ask to leave—but you don’t.
In fact, you’re smiling.
Rafe’s seething.
He doesn’t understand the burning hole in his chest as he punishes himself and continues to watch. Many girls in the room are trying to grab Rafe’s attention, but none seem to get it. Only you—his childhood best friend, the one he swore to protect.
You’re smiling, but Rafe is almost certain it’s fake. An awkward antic of yours where you try to be as polite as possible, while counting down the seconds for him to swoop in and save you. The only reason Rafe hasn’t is because you haven’t given him the signal.
Until you glance.
In his direction.
Having had enough, Rafe tosses the cup to the side and approaches you, slinging a comfortable arm around your shoulders. Stiffening, you hadn’t expected his arrival, nor did Adam—the stranger you were talking to—as his voice fades away from the conversation you were delightfully having.
“I think that’s enough, don’t you think?” Rafe declares, but it isn’t a question. It’s a declaration. His tone darkens with a threatening edge—an edge you only catch very few glimpses of growing up.
“Rafe,” you hiss, but he ignores it.
“We were just talking,” Adam stammers, glancing between you and Rafe. You attempt to offer him an apologetic smile, but he doesn’t seem to take it.
“And now you’re leaving,” Rafe declares, using his other hand to gesture a dismissive wave. Your throat tightens with something akin to fury—how dare he?
“I don’t want any trouble,” Adam says with both hands up, in surrender, and that infuriates you further. What happened to asking the girl in the equation? “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend.”
“I’m not—“
“Better hurry or I’ll change my mind,” Rafe glares, and without another word, Adam scurries away without so much as a farewell.
Satisfaction rumbles in Rafe’s chest—being your knight-in-shining-armor after all—but when he turns to face you, there’s anything but gratitude. In fact, if he reads you as well as he believes he can, there may be even resentment.
You shove him off. His arm slings back to his side. “What are you doing?”
He feels dumbstruck. “I’m saving you,”
“Saving me?” You huff with disbelief, “From what?”
“That… guy.” He feels like he stepped into a parallel universe. “You gave me a look.”
“I just looked at you.”
“Which is the look!”
You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you mumble under your breath, crossing your arms. “I was talking to him. We were chatting. I was having fun.”
Something burns in Rafe’s throat, something he isn’t familiar with. While it’s true that you don’t have many interactions with guys, he never realizes how much he enjoyed your sole undivided attention. Now, giving off to strangers like Adam who don’t deserve a lick of it stirs something ugly within.
Rafe is almost certain it’s more than friendly.
You’re looking away, elsewhere, with your arms crossed in that menacing manner that always has Rafe folding to your every whim. You may be small, shorter than him—truly, everyone is—but something about that position is terrifying. He’ll do anything to rectify it.
“I’ll get him back,” Rafe concedes, but the words feel cheap on his tongue. Disgusting, almost. “If that’s what you want.”
“I don’t,” you say, remaining faraway, “Not when any guy I talk to ends up being afraid of my best friend.”
“It’s good insurance.”
“It’s pathetic,”
Rafe has nothing to say, but you don’t look to be in the mood to add to it. Finally, turning back, like a dog rejoiced at receiving any bit of attention, you say with a calm sigh. “Can you just take me home? I’m not feeling this party anymore.”
“Yes,” Rafe says swiftly, gladly taking that offer. He doesn’t want to be in a room with guys who see you as their next treat, either. “My house? We can throw some popcorn in the microwave and turn on that movie you like?”
Smiling, reserved just for him, you nod. “I’ll like that.”
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