𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, coercion, unhinged inner monologue from rafe continues, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, mentions of smut, MAJORR size kink, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, forced kissing, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe tries to win you back, no matter at what cost.
𝘼/𝙉: It's finally here! Final word count: 19.5k. READ CHAPTER ONE HERE. Enjoy :)
“You have any more, Rafe?”
She sounds so whiny. They all sound so fucking whiney to him. He wishes they’d just shut up. Let him use them and then leave. He’s got two of them in his bed now, and for a while he’d watched listlessly as they’d kissed, played around, snorted coke off each other’s naked bodies like the desperate whores they were. He’d called them as a distraction, but now he didn’t even have the heart. Fucking pathetic.
“Bottom drawer.” He mutters, picking up his phone for the tenth time. One of the girls crawls over him, rummaging around in his drawers and brushing her naked body enticingly against him. He couldn’t give less of a shit though. His thumb hovers over your name saved on his phone, and for the hundredth time since the whole fiasco last week, he considers calling or texting you.
Rafe hadn’t run after you that day, when you’d overheard him talking all types of shit about you to his dumb fucking friends. When he’d lied about fucking you, when he’d proclaimed you were no different from any other Pogue slut who’d spread her legs for him. All with a straight face like some type of robot, and you’d cried and run, leaving your books on the ground behind you.
And he’d wanted to run after you. He hates to admit it, but there was a part of him that wanted to chase after you, gather you in his arms and wipe your tears and tell you you’d heard wrong, that he didn’t mean any of it. That he’d just acted up in front of his friends for some stupid reason or the other. That he was sorry.
But he hadn’t. Because he was Rafe fucking Cameron and he never ran after anyone. Especially not a Pogue.
He had picked up your books, though. Once everyone was done laughing at the whole ridiculous spectacle and moved on, he’d grabbed your discarded books from the floor. A fat textbook and your cute binder with all the flower stickers and shit. Your name spelled out in swirly cursive pink pen on the front. So fucking cute, it made his insides hurt. Why the fuck did you have that effect on him?
“Is that your girlfriend?” One of the girls asks, looking at your name on his phone screen.
“You’re not getting paid to talk,” he growls, pushing her head down to his crotch. And he pretends it’s you, of course he pretends it’s you. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, crying and choking because he’s so big and you’ve never sucked cock before. And he’d coax you gently, stroke your hair back and tap your cheek condescendingly, tell you what a good girl you are for taking him like this. So brave and pretty, his good little girl. And you’d cry and cry, looking up at him with scared, devoted eyes…
He kicks the girls out the moment he’s finished with them. Tucks the cash into their underwear and sends them packing without another word. One of Ward’s friends had a high-end escort service. Rafe never really felt the need to indulge in it before, since he didn’t really have a problem hooking up with girls. But he’d been on edge and wanted a quiet distraction, a quick fix. It had not worked.
Rafe: Hey. I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I think we should talk.
His thumb hovers over the send button. He wonders if he’d be able to sweet-talk you into forgiving him. Because yes, he wants you to forgive him. He wants you to be his in every way possible, and to achieve that, he needs you to like him again. Fuck his friends and the stupid bet.
He sucks in his breath and presses down on send before he can stop himself. Waits one second, two, three, four, five. Heart lurches to his throat when an error message comes up:
Your message is unable to be delivered to the recipient.
White hot anger chokes him like a vice. You had blocked him. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.
Rafe’s always had issues with his anger. He couldn’t control it most times, and as a result he’d explode like a fucking volcano. He’d try to contain it, but the rage always found its way out. And he throws his phone across the room, where it crashes against the wall with a loud smack. How dare you fucking block him? How dare you? Who the motherfuck did you think you were?
Blindly, he searches his drawer for his coke. Hands shaking, he pours it out into a small heap and snorts it straight up, his heart already racing with an all-consuming rage. Fuck you for blocking him. Didn’t you know Rafe owned you? You were his property, and he had to have access to you whenever he wanted, however he wanted… He had to.
He makes a snap decision. Grabs your books and his keys, his actions fuelled by pure rage and drug-induced adrenaline. Stuffs his phone – now with a shattered screen – into his pocket and wipes any white residue from his nose. He was losing control of the situation. And that just wouldn’t do. He had to fix it. Now.
And Rafe wasn’t anything if not proactive.
Unfortunately, he runs into Ward on the way out.
“Rafe. We need to talk.”
“Not now, dad. I’ve got shit to deal with.”
Ward’s got a newspaper in his hands which he’s undoubtedly reading performatively, and he takes a moment before he folds it down on the kitchen island. “Shit to deal with, huh? Like trying to fuck every girl on the island?”
Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not doing this right now.”
“I’ve got business partners, investors coming in and out of here. Doesn’t look great when there’s coked out hookers limping out of my son’s bedroom every other day.”
“Your business buddies all do the same shit, dad–”
“Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what they do. I’m talking about you. I’m trying to push a clean, family-man image here–”
Rafe snorts. Ward ignores him.
“You’re getting too old for this shit, Rafe. You’re graduating soon, then you’ll take over the family business. You need to get your shit together, find a nice girl and settle down.”
Rafe rolls his eyes. He knows what’s expected of him. Knows his father wants him married sooner rather than later. Probably to some spoilt kook princess that he wouldn’t give two fucks about, a marriage built on connections and maximising power for the Cameron business. He figures being married wouldn’t be much different from being single. He’d still sleep around with the Pogue girls like he always did. But his mind’s too occupied by other things to really focus on this redundant conversation with his father.
“Look, dad, I have to be somewhere right now, so…”
“Who was that one girl you had over the other day? In the cute dress?”
Rafe stops short, feeling like he’s been injected with a dark, poisonous, all-consuming dose of sudden, icy-cold jealousy that winds him from the inside out. “What?”
“I was looking over the security footage. You had her on the patio. Cute, innocent looking girl. Now someone like that would be much better for your image, Rafe.”
Rafe’s jaw tenses, his fists clenched to his sides. He doesn’t want to react in front of his father, but it’s hard. The mere mention of you by another man – even if it was just his fucking dad – was making his blood boil. Boil in a way it never had before. He feels like choking someone the fuck out. Nobody was allowed to look at you. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck had you done to him? Now he’s even more determined to fix things with you, have you safely under his wing again so he could protect you from the lecherous gazes of other men.
He leaves without another word.
He takes his motorbike. It’s his preferred method of transport anyways. Quicker, less attention drawn to him than when he’s in one of his big cars. And he deliberately leaves his helmet behind, needing to feel the air whip on his face. Maybe it would snap him out of whatever crazed spell you’d put him under. He feels like ripping his fucking hair out – how dare you fucking block him? He was your only friend.
Rafe’s feeling no less crazy when he finally pulls up to your street. If anything, he’s even more incensed. His girl. His property. And he’d lost you? All because of some stupid shit he’d said to his dumb idiot fucking friend group? Fuck them – it was all their fault for making up that bet. All their fault for badgering him for private pictures of you. Fuck them.
He’s still reeling with rage when he knocks harshly on your front door. Which is why he’s caught off guard when someone opens it immediately.
At first, he thinks it’s you. No, this woman looks older. Not much older, though. It’s your mother.
“Is everything alright? Can I help you?”
He forces himself to calm down, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Switches on the charm, smiles down at the woman who gazes at him with an unreadable expression.
“Hi. I’m Y/N’s friend from school. Is she at home?”
Your mother blinks, doing that thing that he knows people from The Cut do. Takes in his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, his signet ring that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. People like her looked at him often with clear disdain simply because of his family’s wealth and where he came from. It was a good thing Rafe did not care much for what a Pogue thought about him.
He tries again when she doesn’t immediately respond; “I’m very sorry to show up unannounced, ma’am. She left her books on campus and I thought I’d return them.”
Your mother clears her throat, “I’m sorry, she’s not at home right now. But you can give her books to me.”
Rafe hesitates, not wanting to give up your things just yet. “Where is she? When will she be back?”
“Who are you?”
He tells her his name, watching as her eyes widen slightly. That was the usual reaction he got. The Cameron name was well known in Kildare. His dad’s company – soon to be his – was global, but notoriously well known around the Outer Banks.
“Thank you for bringing my daughter’s things back, Mr. Cameron.” There’s an air of formality in her tone as she takes your books.
“That’s okay. When did you say she’d be back?”
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be seeing you.”
It takes him aback, the frank way in which your mother speaks. He feels shock, and then a wave of anger.
“Well, I think that’s up to her, isn’t it?”
Your mother’s jaw twitches, and she steps back slightly, inching the door closed as if shutting him out. He gets the message but does not care.
“Look. My daughter hasn’t been the same for the last few days and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s because she got involved with the likes of you.” She sounds cold, distant, almost resigned. “I don’t know you personally, Mr. Cameron, but I know people like you. And I know my daughter is sweet and unassuming. So please, leave her alone.”
It takes everything in him not to lose it. He knows it’s best not to get into it with your mother of all people, and yet he hates when people assume shit about him. Nobody knew him, least of all some nobody-Pogue from the Cut. He wasn’t like Topper and them, but he couldn’t expect this woman to know that.
He forces a smile, “Just returning her books, ma’am. I’m her only friend.”
“As I said, thank you for bringing her things back.” She sniffs, closing the door till it’s only open a crack, “But please stay away from my daughter. It would be best for you both.”
The door slams in his face.
He has to physically retreat before he kicks your fucking door in. Her fucking audacity. As if she didn’t fully understand who the fuck he was. One meeting and a deal is all it would take for Cameron Development to buy this fucking dump of a street where your house was situated in. He’d like to see her slam her fucking door on his face then.
He does that thing his therapist taught him, breathes in and out but it doesn’t calm him down in the slightest. Instead, he clenches his fists by his side, his blunt nails digging into his palms till he knows he’s drawn blood.
Before he really knows what’s doing, he makes his way to the back of your house where he knows your bedroom window is. But the curtains are drawn. Fuck. Were you actually not at home? Or was your mother lying? He bets she was lying. If only he could get to you–
“What are you doing here?”
Rafe whips around, heart lurching to his fucking throat because it’s you. Standing right there in front of him. And he almost can’t believe it. Out here in this seedy little street on the Cut, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a tank top. Face devoid of any emotion, stripped of any kind of makeup. Lips downturned and pouty, eyes narrowed yet still so big and pretty.
For a moment, you take his breath away.
“Go away, Rafe.”
Promptly, you turn on your heel. Well, you turn in your scuffed white converse, speed walking away from him faster than he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. You’ve got your earphones in, your arms crossed in front of your chest, going as fast as your legs can carry you. Down this dangerous fucking street, dressed like that.
Rafe catches up to you in two strides.
“Wait, I came to talk to you–”
“There’s nothing left to say… LET GO OF ME!”
You scream it so loud, he drops your hand like a hot coal. Taken aback by your fire, but he recovers quickly. Walks around till he’s facing you and blocking your path. Tries to catch your gaze but you look anywhere but at him. Your chest rises and falls, your lips pressed into a thin line as if your emotions are getting the better of you. He’s always seen you as pristine and perfect, but now you’re dishevelled, upset, won’t even look at him. Still so fucking beautiful though.
“I didn’t mean all those things I said, okay?”
You swallow harshly, “I’m not stupid, Rafe.”
“It’s my fuckin’ friends – hey, listen, it was my friends, okay?! They kept goading me about you. I had to say something to get them off my back.”
Finally, you meet his eyes. A look of incredulity on your face.
“You… You told everyone that you slept with me, Rafe! You lied! About everything!”
He sighs impatiently, running his hands through his hair, “I know, fuck, I know I lied, okay? But they kept asking. You need to understand that I only said those things to protect you.”
Silence. You just stare at him. He thinks he sees something break behind your eyes. That same look you’d had on your face when he’d locked eyes with you the last time he’d seen you on the campus courtyard. As if you’re looking at a stranger, and he hates it.
“I had to protect you, okay?” He repeats, trying to ignore how hollow and wooden his words sound, “they all want to sleep with you. I had to tell them I had, so that they knew that they couldn’t–”
You shake your head slowly, “Y-You can’t even accept responsibility for what you did…”
“Fuck, this is me accepting responsibility, don’t you get it?!”
He lowers his voice when you flinch. But he’s so fucking desperate, wants you to understand what he’s trying to say although even he doesn’t understand it. He feels fucking insane right now, and you’re seeing it all unfold first hand. “Look, I didn’t mean any of it. You need to understand that. Hey, hey don’t walk away from me!”
“I feel disgusting, Rafe!” You burst out. And he really sees you then, sees your face crumple up and yet you try to keep this false bravado, chin up, eyes blazing. “I-I trusted you. I did things with you that I… that I’ve never done before. And to think this whole time, it was all just a joke for you. I told you about my dad, and I told you all those things because this whole time I thought you genuinely wanted to be friends, and I trusted you.”
“You can still trust me–”
“No, I can’t! You were lying the whole time.” You swallow again, and through your glasses, he can see the tears welling in your eyes, “I was nothing more than a bet for you. And I… I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let you…”
Your voice breaks, and you wrap your arms around yourself, almost like you’re hiding your body from him. Like you can’t bear the thought of him even looking at you now, can’t bear the thought that you ever let him look at you. Makes him feel like a goddamned monster.
“I wish I’d never called you that night,” you whisper, “I wish I’d never let you see me like that. I wish I could… I wish…”
“You don’t mean that,” he reaches out, doesn’t know why but just wants to hold your arm, but stops himself when you flinch once more. You’re far away, lost in your own broken thoughts, and yet you step back when he tries to touch you. Like you’re scared of him, and it kills him, because you were the only one who wasn’t.
“I feel dirty,” you say, voice thick yet pitiful, “I-I feel like… Like I can’t get myself clean no matter how hard I try.”
It’s Rafe’s turn to swallow, and he’s got a huge lump in his throat, and it makes it harder for him to speak. Like there’s a boulder on top of his heart, weighing it down to the fucking pits of his stomach. Guilt and frustration like flames licking and growing inside him.
“You’re not dirty,” he says softly, wanting, willing you to look at him but you don’t. And he wants you to say something, anything. But you don’t. Like you’re done. And he can’t have that, he fucking can’t. The control is slipping out from under his fingertips, and it’s an all-consuming feeling that he hates.
“I like you,” he tries again, but he’s never been good with his fucking words. His mind’s screaming ten different things for him to say, brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration because he knows no matter what he says, it won’t be the right thing. How could it be? When he’d done what he’d done and there was no way around it? “I never lied about that. It started out as a bet but I always liked you.”
“You don’t speak about someone like that if you like them.” You look defiant and deflated all at once, angry yet upset, those fucking lips of yours downturned in this crestfallen way that hits him straight in the chest. “I hate myself for being so stupid. Trusting you when all this time, you were probably just laughing behind my back, thinking I was beneath you because I’m just a Pogue.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you just understand that I’m telling the goddamned truth?!”
He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. It just happens. It happens a lot with him, and he regrets it instantly when he sees your face morph in fear. Again, you flinch away from him, and he wishes to God you’d stop doing that. Stop being afraid of him because couldn’t you fucking see how insane you made him?
“S-Stay away from me,” you back away towards your house.
“Wait! Shit, I’m sorry, I– hey! Come back! Please, come back!”
You ignore him. Don’t even look back. In fact, you break into a run, as if you can’t stand being near him. And he can tell you’re crying in earnest now, with how your hands reach up and snatch your glasses off your face to blindly wipe away your tears. He calls out again, but his voice is lost in the wind. Fists clench to his sides again, and he hates how helpless he feels. The control he had, it’s dissipated like a cloud of fucking smoke and he hates it.
“Fine! Don’t fuckin’ listen!” He wants to punch something. The frustration of being unable to explain himself is slowly morphing into rage like how it often did. And he doesn’t know what to fucking do, and he’s trying to control his breathing, and he’s itching for a line, anything that’ll make him stop feeling whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “You think I can’t walk away from this shit too? Well, fuck you! I’m done too.”
Your front door slams shut. You don’t even look back once.
***
It’s a whole week before Rafe sees you on campus again. And in those seven days, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. That you didn’t matter. That this was it. Whatever the fuck he’d thought he’d felt for you was clearly not real. And it never had been. He was just a fucking idiot who’d had a lapse in his judgement. Let a stupid Pogue fuck around with his feelings. Never again. Never fucking again.
And yet his heart skips a beat when he sees you. It’s been a whole week of you not showing up to classes, and a part of him had thought you’d transferred out. But there you are, bright and early on a fucking Monday morning. Books and binder clutched to your chest. In a blue top and matching skirt, looking every bit as cute as you always did.
For some reason, he’d half expected you to show up sad and forlorn, in a big hoodie or some other equally unflattering item that chicks wore when they felt depressed. Clearly not.
Rafe himself feels like shit and has all week. He’s got bags under his eyes and stubble he can’t be bothered to shave off. And he hates it, hates how he’s spent the past seven days at home, listlessly staring at his chat with you on his phone. Reading over your old messages again and again. Back when he still had control over what you thought of him. He also keeps staring at the pictures he took of you. He knows he should delete them but he can’t. You were his after all. He had every right to have those pictures on his phone. And you were so fucking hot…
“Look, it’s your little girlfriend,” Kelce snickers, and his entire group turn their heads in your direction. You’re trying your best not to make eye contact, quickening your pace as you speed-walk across the field.
It takes everything in him to keep his cool. “Change the fucking subject, man. If you know what’s best for you.”
They all straighten up, cough, look away. Like fucking clockwork robots responding to their puppet-master. They’d calmed down about the whole debacle, stopped begging for the pictures of you after Rafe had made it clear he wasn’t going to show them. Now, he just wanted to move on. Forget about it all. Pretend like he didn’t know you, just like he did with every other girl he fucked.
It was difficult, though. When you looked so fucking beautiful.
Rafe can’t help but try to meet your gaze, but you don’t look at him even once. And it incenses him. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you, discard and move on like he did with all the other girls he’d been with. And yet…
“Hey man, did you hear what I said? What do you think?”
Rafe blinks, forcibly peeling his eyes away, and trying his best to suppress the wild, innate desire to follow you, keep tabs on you, make sure he knows what you’re doing at all times.
Topper waves his hand in front of his face, “Rafe?”
His eyes narrow in irritation, “What?”
“The party. Saturday night. It’s at this abandoned beach house in the Cut. I’m pretty sure Sarah’s gonna be there, and–”
“No.”
Topper sighs, “I mean, I think you should go, man. There’ll be plenty of other Pogue girls there if you’re looking to hook up.”
The thought of that makes him sick.
“I’m not going to some Pogue-infested crack house on the Cut, Topper.”
“But I think the best way for you to get over her is to find someone else–”
“Get it through your thick fucking skull,” Rafe grabs him by the collar, a sudden rage coursing through his veins and he can’t even pinpoint why, “I’m not trying to get over shit, okay? There’s nothing to get over. Don’t fuckin’ project your shit on me just ‘cause you can’t get over my bitch of a sister.”
“Jesus Christ, alright!” Topper shakes him off, backing away and raising his hands in the air, “You shouldn’t speak about Sarah like that.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Everyone’s staring at him again. Like he’s the crazy one or some shit like that. Fuck them all. His nose twitches, and he wishes he’d brought some coke with him. But the last time he’d been caught on campus with drugs, Ward had to pay a shit ton of money for the faculty to forget it ever happened. Doesn’t help now, when he feels like he’s gonna implode. A part of him wishes he could go to you, because you’d make him feel calm and in control again. But that isn’t an option, and so he tries to control his breathing. He can’t.
Fuck.
Get you back or forget about you. Something had to give.
***
It’s on impulse, really. He doesn’t even remember doing it till it’s done. It’s after he’s spent a good twenty minutes lying on his bed and staring at your pictures on his phone. Fuck, you were so sweet and hot. He still remembers it, waking up next to you on your tiny pink bed, an assorted range of your stuffed animals surrounding you both. You, naked and in his arms. Right where you belonged. Sucking his thumb like you were his baby, and you trusted him with everything.
Before he realises what he’s doing, he orders a Chanel bag. A light pink one with a gold chain. Puts in your address so it can be delivered straight to you. He’d grown up with two sisters and a stepmother obsessed with shopping and designer labels, so he has an idea of what women like. And he’s used to girls from Figure 8, who’s love language was gifts and money. You were different, though, but he still can’t help himself.
He imagines you dripping from head to toe in gifts bought by him. Cute little designer dresses, all in pink or light blue or yellow or some pretty girly colour like that. Fur jackets and dainty, expensive jewellery. And he’d give you an allowance, hell he’d make you save his credit card details on your phone. And he’d pay for you to get your nails done, and your toes too. Pretty, gleaming white polished toes.
He’s jacking off now, picturing it so clearly in his head. He’d move you into his house, and you’d look at him with glowing eyes, so thankful that he’d saved you from the poverty you’d been so used to. And you’d be his little princess, draped in the gifts he’d shower you with. And in return, you’d let him do anything to you. Because you were his. Only ever his.
And he’d push you onto his bed, press your legs up against his chest while he fucked you so good and hard. Came inside you, filled you up till the brim, till his cum was leaking out of you. And even then, he’d push it back inside, stuff you so fucking full of him that you wouldn’t know how to act, and you’d cry and be confused. You’d beg him not to, but he’d do it anyways because he owned you. And if he knocked you up? Fuck, he wouldn’t even care because it would mean you’d be bound to him forever.
He cums at that last thought, the visual of it too fucking hot for him to even fully wrap his head around. High off the fact he’s bought something for you. It gives him a fucking power trip like no other. You were his. Completely and utterly his. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you but fuck it. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy his way back into your life.
It’s only two days later when he’s leaving his car in the campus parking lot that he feels a little tap on his shoulder.
“You can’t do things like this.”
It’s you. Looking all tiny and cute as ever, a fiery look on your face that’s about as intimidating as one of your stuffed animals. Your face that’s half hidden by the big Chanel box you’re carrying in your arms.
“Hello to you too.”
“You… You need to take this back.”
Rafe squints down at you, running a hand through his hair and trying to act nonchalant, “It’s rude to return gifts.”
You look genuinely upset. Distraught, even. It confuses him.
“I don’t want any gifts from you, Rafe. Why can’t you understand that I want nothing to do with you?”
Didn’t he know this would happen? He knew you weren’t materialistic like the girls he was used to. And yet he’d still done it. But at least you were speaking to him again.
“I thought you should have it,” he says. “I was thinking about you.”
“Stop. Don’t.” You swallow harshly, your chest rising up and down as if you have so much you want to say. “Please. Just take this back and leave me alone.”
I CAN’T! He wants to scream, but he knows he can’t risk scaring you away again.
“Take it as an apology,” he says, take a step closer to you except you instantly take a step back, a fearful look in your eye that he hates. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? Let me make it up to you.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, “You lied, and now everyone thinks that we…” You gulp, pressing your lips together and trying to push the box into his arms, “My mom saw the bag. She-She thinks I’m sleeping with you in exchange for gifts.”
Rafe blinks, “Why would she think that?”
You gape at him incredulously, and he can’t help but think how cute and hot you look. All weepy and indignant, acting all upset but all it does is get him hard. The Chanel box is almost as big as you, and it makes you look even tinier. And you’re wearing this little buttercup yellow top trimmed with white lace. So fucking hot. He wants to grab you and push you into the backseat of his car. Lock the doors and have his way with you. Fuck you dumb, fuck that indignance straight out of you, till all you can say is thank you daddy for the pretty purse and the orgasm while you cuddle and cry into his chest.
When he doesn’t take the box back, you huff and drop it at his feet.
“I…I don’t care about expensive gifts, Rafe. And if you think you can just throw money at me and expect things to go back to how they were, then I guess we never really knew each other to begin with.”
Rafe sighs, reaches out to grab your wrist, “Look, wait–”
“D-Don’t touch me!”
There it is again. Don’t touch me. It’s the second time you’ve said that to him, and he watches as you flinch away from him again. Like you’re scared. Of him. And he fucking hates it so much, it’s like he can’t breathe.
“Wait–”
You scurry away without looking back at him even once. When all he can do is look at you. Like you’re a drug and he’s an addict. He can’t rip his gaze away. He feels so out of control of the situation, it makes his palms itch and his head hurt. He feels like throwing up. Like fucking punching someone. He wishes you’d just understand him, and he hates himself for not being able to explain himself to you. He’s so fucking obsessed with you, it’s insane.
How the fuck was he supposed to get over you?
***
His eyes follow you wherever you go. He memorises your schedule, your classes, everything. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. It just kind of happens. It’s like he has this innate need to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re his property after all, so it was only natural.
And Rafe watches you all the time. Whenever he can. He knows it’s unhealthy as shit, this growing obsession he has with you. But he’s been like this as long as he can remember. Hyper focusing on one thing until it consumed him completely. His dad’s approval. Drugs. Alcohol. You.
And you’re putting on a brave front, walking around campus acting like everything between you and him never even happened. But Rafe likes to think he knows you, despite only interacting with you for a week. He knows it’s all an act, and on the inside you’re feeling just as shitty as he is. He watches you smile, nod, hang around the outskirts of some Pogue girl group who barely pays you any attention. And it’s sick of him, but he likes how you don’t have any true friends. All you had was him, and he was hell bent on getting you back no matter what it took.
Which is why he feels this cold, numbing feeling of pure rage when he sees you leaving your last class of the day walking side-by-side next to a boy. Talking to him. Laughing with him.
Rafe’s hands curl into fists.
He doesn’t want you speaking to any other man. Even what looks to be some sorry ass Pogue nerd who’s in your class. No, you were his. You weren’t allowed to even look at another man unless he approved of it. What the fuck could this clown give you that Rafe couldn’t? Nothing. What the fuck.
He waits till you part ways with the boy and make your way out of the building. That’s when he grabs him by the shirt and slams him into a locker, not giving a fuck who sees.
“What the fuck?!” The boy struggles, but it’s extremely easy to overpower him. Rafe’s used to being bigger than most people.
“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. I just want to talk.” Rafe shoots him a wooden ass smile, although it’s taking everything in him not to punch the shit out of this fucking guy. As quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets him go, straightening him up and smoothening his shirt while the boy stares at him like he’s insane. He’s used to that too.
“Why were you speaking to her?” He asks softly, keeping his tone cold and calculated.
“I don’t know what you’re taking about– OUCH!”
Rafe slams him against the metal lockers again before smirking, “Try again.”
The Pogue scrunches his eyes shut for a second before exhaling loudly through his nose. When he speaks, his voice shakes, “She’s in my class, man. We were put together for a project.”
“Mm,” Rafe’s thoughtful for a second, “You know who I am?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Who am I?”
When the kid doesn’t respond immediately, Rafe takes his head and slams it against the hard metal behind him. He cries out in pain, coughing with a stricken look on his face like he’s about to piss himself.
“You’re Rafe, OK?! R-Rafe Cameron! Please don’t hit me again!”
Rafe smiles, patting his cheek, “Relax, Pogue. You know who my friends are?”
“Yes!”
“Then you know you won’t speak to her again. You won’t even look at her again. Or else I’ll personally come after you. And my friends will too.”
“Look, I don’t know what this is about! We were just discussing our project, it’s worth a lot of credits–”
“You’ll do it yourself,” Rafe fixes the boy’s collar slowly, “You’re not going to say another word to her. If you do, I’ll know.”
The boy gulps, “O-Okay.”
Rafe smirks, patting the boy’s cheek again, “Good boy. And you let your pathetic little Pogue friends know too. She’s off limits to all of you. If any of you so much as look at her, I’ll personally break your fuckin’ legs myself. Got it?”
“Yes, I-I understand.”
Rafe lets the boy go before he pisses himself in fear. He knows the threat will be enough, and yet he still feels so fucking angry. Like he can’t believe you’ve found another man to talk to. He was supposed to be your only friend.
He hates this feeling of desperation that’s only heightening within him as the days go by. A pretty girl like you were bound to find someone else unless Rafe took action.
But what the fuck could he do?
***
He’s still stewing over it when he gets home that day. He’d threatened the kid but would it be enough to keep him away from you? Rafe bets that dumb fucking Pogue had requested to be partnered up with you, thought it’d be an easy way to get in your pants. He thinks back to you in all your cute, sexy outfits, flouncing around campus like you were a free piece of ass. Suddenly acutely aware of just how many men probably wanted to fuck you just like he did…
Over his dead fucking body.
In frustration, he whips out his phone and opens to your chat. He was still blocked. A wave of pure rage completely throttles him, and he throws his phone against his bedroom wall. Again. He’s surprised the damn screen doesn’t completely shatter from the impact.
You’re fucking losing it, he thinks to himself.
After snorting a few lines to calm his nerves (it doesn’t work) as well as downing half the bottle of Gray Goose that he’s got stashed under his bed, Rafe decides to pay you another visit.
“Rafe, we need to talk.”
He’s about to leave the house when Ward’s booming voice halts him. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Not now, Dad,” Rafe mumbles, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Yes, now. Come here, son.”
He resists the urge to roll his eyes, entering his father’s study. “Look, Dad. I need to be somewhere.”
“Yes, Rafe. You always need to be somewhere.” Ward is unperturbed as usual, stoic as he sits behind the grand desk of his study, barely even looking up from the papers he’s sifting through. “I don’t care where you’re going. But I need you to be here Sunday. I’ve got someone coming over to talk business.”
His ears perk up, “I get to sit in on a deal?”
“If you want. But he’s bringing his family over for brunch. He’s got a daughter your age whom I’d like for you to meet.”
Rafe loses interest immediately, not giving a fuck about whatever spoilt Kook slut his father was trying to set him up with this time. Instead, his mind wanders back to you again. He wonders what that slimy little dweeb in your class had said to you. Had you been impressed by him? Surely not, he couldn’t offer you what Rafe could. Why the fuck had you been talking to him? Laughing with him? God, he needs to see you now. Set the rules straight: you weren’t allowed to talk to any other man. He doesn’t give a shit if you’re mad at him, you’d still need to follow his rules, and–
“Are you listening to me, Rafe?”
“Mm.”
“I said it’s about time you settled down and got serious about your future. Cameron Development has always been a family-orientated business. There’s a certain image you need to build up and maintain, son.”
Ward drones on and on about “settling down” and “eventually starting a family” and some other bullshit along those lines. Rafe’s too busy thinking about you to listen. What if that stupid Pogue fuck didn’t listen to him? What if he was at your house right now? Using the excuse of “project work” to get close to you? In your bedroom? When the only one who’d been in your bedroom was Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.
“Sure, Dad. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back.”
He leaves, ignoring Ward shouting his name and calling him back. Usually, he’s pretty good with listening to his father but right now he couldn’t be fucked with it. He has bigger priorities to deal with.
And he knows he probably shouldn’t drive after he’s just inhaled half a bag of coke and chased it down with half a bottle of vodka. Which is why he takes his motorbike again, hoping the roads would be empty at this time of night.
He gets to your house in record time. He’s got the route memorised at this point.
He doesn’t bother with the front door. Knows if your mother answers, she’d probably call the cops on him or some shit like that. When really, she should be calling the cops on that dumb fucking pervert Pogue from your class.
He makes a beeline for your bedroom window at the back of the house. Luckily, your curtains aren’t drawn, and he can see inside. Your bed’s all made, pristine pink sheets with the same stupid stuffed animals arranged meticulously on your pillow. The memory of him on top of your naked body while you quivered underneath him is fast fading, which he hates. He can’t believe you still haven’t forgiven him. He’d give anything to have you look at him like that again, look at him with stars in your eyes as if he’s your saviour, your hero, your god.
“Leave me alone, okay?! Stop telling me what to do all the time!”
For a moment, Rafe thinks you’re talking to him. He steps back, allowing the sidewall to conceal him yet still having a perfect view through your window. You’ve got your back to him, dressed in this fucking insane pair of pink pyjama shorts that make your ass pop. You’ve got your hands on your hips, facing out your bedroom door.
“It’s that boy, isn’t it? Didn’t I warn you not to get mixed up with people like him?” Your mother’s voice.
“Why can’t you just trust me, mom? I’ve always done what you’ve asked, but it’s never good enough!”
You look so petulantly pretty, and it’s a side to you he’s never seen before. Sure, he’s seen you angry, hurt, upset. At him. But this is different. You seem… frustrated almost.
“You can’t afford to get distracted by boys who will just hurt you. You need to keep your head down and mind your own business.”
“That’s all I ever do!” You cry, stomping into your room and he gets a flash of your face, indignant and upset. “I just want to be normal, mom! I just want that normal college experience that everyone else talks about! And I want friends, I want freedom–”
“You’re too naïve.” Your mother appears in your doorway looking grim, “I don’t know what that boy did to you, but maybe now you’ll learn your lesson. Most people at that school are not your friends. You need to remember that, and be smart, and–”
“This isn’t about him!” You look helpless, as if you know whatever you’ll say won’t have any type of effect on your mother’s view. Rafe gets it, has that same problem with Ward. “I’m just so sick of being so good all the time. I hate that everyone thinks I’m so naïve, I-I wish I could show them I’m not.”
“You are.” Your mother says impassively. “And you will stay that way. I forbid you from talking to that boy or anyone like him.”
An incredulous pause, and then:
“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
You slam your door shut and throw yourself on your bed, crying your little eyes out into your pillow. And admittedly, it touches him a little bit. How sweet and soft you look, crying like that with such abandon. Thinking no one’s watching you, thinking no one understands you. Well, Rafe does. And ironically enough, he feels like he’s the only one who could comfort you when you’re like this.
And, despite how sick it sounds, a part of him likes how you’ve fought with your mother. If anything, that distance would only make you more likely to fall back into Rafe’s arms. As long as he was patient and bided his time.
Patience, however, has never been his strong suit. But even in his drunk and high current state, he knows that making his presence known to you right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea. You look equal parts upset and angry, if he added himself to that mix you’d definitely bite his head off. He’d find it hot though, but nevertheless…
He leaves, feeling slightly better. He doesn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you now, and you’re not doing project work with that worm from your class. In fact, he’s not on your mind at all, which was reassuring. Or maybe it’s because the fight with your mother meant you’d slowly come back to him.
Maybe.
***
“Hey Rafe, you spoken to your girl lately?” Topper asks him the following day on campus.
Rafe frowns, “Why are you asking me that?”
Topper shrugs, looking oblivious and gormless as usual, “I don’t know, just asking.”
“Well, don’t.” He doesn’t like when other men talk about you, including Topper. Lately, he’s gotten a lot more paranoid about who’s watching you, who wants to fuck you. Which, he guesses, is most likely every male at this college. Makes him even more eager to publicly claim you, make it be known that you weren’t up for grabs. Sure, his friends knew better than to talk to you or look at you, but he wanted everyone to know. And he didn’t have time to go around personally threatening any man who looked at you.
“Look, there she is now.”
Topper cleanly points at you. Rafe slaps the back of his head and shoots him a dirty look.
“Don’t fucking do that.”
You’re standing on the fringes of that one Pogue girl group that you hang around with sometimes, pretending like they’re your friends. The same ones you were standing with the first time he’d ever seen you. And that was weeks ago, and yet your friendship with them hasn’t seemed to progress. They still ignore you, and you still stand there like you know you don’t fit in, but you try your hardest anyways.
“So anyways, it’s gonna be at this abandoned beach house.”
“Yeah, and Brittney, it’s still OK if we all get ready at your place, right?”
Their stupid chatter doesn’t interest him. But then you speak up.
“What’s happening at the abandoned beach house?” You ask politely, like you’ve rehearsed the line a million times in your head to make sure it comes out right. Tinged with nervousness, afraid they might ignore you as if you hadn’t even spoken.
There’s silence for a beat or two, and Rafe doesn’t miss how some of the girls smirk and exchange looks before one of them answers.
“It’s a party. We would’ve told you but… well, we know you probably wouldn’t be allowed to go.”
“Oh.” Hurt clouds your features for a moment before you force a smile, “I-I’d be allowed to go.”
One of the girls raises an eyebrow, “Really? You? Have you ever even been to a party before?”
They all burst into giggles. You join in too, despite the fact they’re all laughing at you and he bets you know it.
“I have.” You say, sticking your chin up so cutely. And Rafe knows you’re lying through your teeth, and wonders why you feel the need to impress these stupid Pogue sluts who were clearly being mean to you because they were jealous. Couldn’t you see that?
“Okay, well, then you should come too,” one of the girls says, her lips quirking up into a smirk, “Although I doubt Rafe Cameron’s gonna be there, if that’s why you want to go.”
Your face morphs in disgust, “I…I… No, I don’t care about him. I should’ve listened to you guys, you were all right about him.”
Stupid Pogue whores, spreading lies about him to you as per usual.
“Well, we warned you.” One of the girls says, looking like she’s about to burst into a fit of laughter, “But I guess you got a bit overexcited, and thought he was giving you attention because he actually cared about you.”
“Which he doesn’t,” another one chimes in, “I mean, let’s make that clear.”
You giggle nervously, but he can tell you’re hurt.
“Yeah, I mean no offence to you, you’re just so sweet and innocent,” one girl pats you on the shoulder condescendingly, “He probably went for you because he knew you’d be an easy target.”
“No offence,” another one emphasises, although the smirks they all exchange say otherwise. “But yeah, you should totally come to the party on Saturday. We’ll take care of you.”
It’s when they’ve all dispersed and you’re on your own, that he corners you before he can stop himself.
“You shouldn’t go to that party.”
You stare up at him in disbelief, “Get away from me, Rafe.”
“It’s not the type of place for someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” you echo, a cloud of hurt crossing your features for a split second before you cover it up with a brave attempt at a glare, “Y-You don’t know me.”
“I do. And those girls are not your friends.”
“Stop.”
“I’m just trying to help you.”
“They didn’t lie to me and pretend to be my friend,” you hug your books close to your chest like they’re a fucking shield against him or something, “that was you.”
You say it so quietly, in such a resigned way that it kills him. And then you turn and leave, and again you don’t even look back once. And he can’t take his eyes off of you.
He doesn’t waste time in texting Topper after that.
Rafe: Send me the location of that party.
***
Rafe fucking hates the Cut. Disgusting place filled to the brim with disgusting people. For the life of him, he doesn’t understand how Sarah had chosen this life over Figure 8. The beach house – if it could even be called that – is all rotting wood and peeling floorboards. And yet the Pogues here were acting like it was some kind of VIP beach club and the party of the century. Fucking losers.
Topper is all smiles, though. Scanning the crowd for Sarah and her little Pogue group. Rafe’s already surveyed the whole sorry property for you, but you weren’t here. And a part of him is relieved, because maybe you’d taken his advice after all. He’d give it another fifteen minutes before leaving.
“You think Sarah decided not to come or something?” Topper asks, plopping down on the couch next to Rafe and handing him a beer.
“Do I look like I know what goes on in her head?”
“Jesus, man. It was just a question.”
“You both need to get a grip,” Kelce leans forward, a scantily clad girl already in his lap and a drink in his hand, “There’s too much fresh meat here for you to still be hung up on anyone else.”
“I’m not hung up on shit,” Rafe seethes.
“Prove it, bro.”
“Shut up before I knock you the fuck out.” He’s not in the fucking mood for this bullshit. The girls here all looked like typical Pogue sluts. Of course, you wouldn’t be here. Either you’d come to your senses, or he’d gotten through to you, or hell, your mother probably didn’t give you permission.
The music is loud and pulsating, making the creaking floorboards vibrate. This beach house might have been considered luxurious once upon a time – by 1960s standards probably – but now it lies in complete desolate disrepair. With way too many sweaty bodies filled to the brim inside. Rafe can’t believe he made the mistake of coming here.
He’s getting up to get the fuck out of here, and that’s when he spots you at the entrance.
And he almost doesn’t recognise you. Yet at the same time, it’s like his heart does because it does this weird fluttery shit the moment he sees you. Walking through the door with that Pogue girl group, except you stand out from them in so many ways, and he knows he’s not the only man in the room who notices.
You’ve got some smoky black shit on your eyes. That’s the first thing he sees, because you’ve never done that kind of makeup before, and you’re not wearing your glasses either. It looks… different. Still so fucking hot, though. Like black eyeshadow smeared over your eyes in the sluttiest way, and your cheeks tinted this sexy, flushed pink with glitter. Lips glossy and berry-coloured, lined with something darker – something else you’ve never done before.
And your dress. It makes him clench his beer so hard he’s surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. It’s the sluttiest thing he’s ever fucking seen, and it’s almost like the sluttiness of it is amplified because you’re the one who’s wearing it. And he’d never pictured you dressing like this, he didn’t think you could or ever would. In his head, you were the perfect picture of innocence in your cute pastels and flowery prints.
But this. It’s like you’ve taken a dress from your mother’s closet and cut it as short as you possibly could, and he can tell that’s what you’ve most likely done, because the bottom looks slightly frayed, like it’s been cut last second with a pair of kitchen scissors. Barely reaches the bottom of your ass, and it makes him want to audibly growl. Make his way over to you and tug it the fuck down, and then drag you out of here for daring to look so slutty.
You look like you’re cosplaying as a goddamned whore.
But it’s still you. And he can’t tear his eyes away. Like you’re so fucking compelling, so different from any other girl in here. Like there’s a spotlight on you and just you, and you look so deliciously uncomfortable. Like you know you don’t belong here, like you know this dress and that makeup just isn’t you, and yet you smile and try and act confident. But he knows you. He knows you better than anyone here.
“Who the fuck is that?” Some guy Rafe doesn’t know whistles loudly, “Never seen her before.”
And suddenly, it’s all around him. The whole fucking room buzzing as if they all see you like how he sees you. Like every man in here has his eyes on you and solely you. Like you’re some type of fresh meat, a beautiful girl who looks innocent enough to manipulate into hooking up with, despite what you’re wearing.
He’d beat the shit out of anyone who tried.
For a moment, he just watches. Watches as you follow your little girlfriends into the kitchen. To the counter where all the booze is. He notes how your eyes widen, how you take a deep breath before smiling and accepting a drink some fucker offers you. And Rafe’s hands are shaking with rage.Half of him wants to cause a scene right the fuck now, let everyone know who the fuck it is you belong to.
But he knows it would be best if he kept his cool. Figured out what to do in a calm and calculated manner.
“Sarah’s still not here,” Topper’s whining snaps him out of his rageful thoughts.
Kelce groans, “Man, stop talking about Sarah for just two seconds. There’s so many other options here, you know how easy these Pogue sluts are.” He snickers, “Rafe definitely knows.”
“Shut up.” Rafe says warningly, his eyes still locked on you.
“Bro, just get on top of another one to get over the first one. They’re all the same anyways–”
“Shut the fuck up, there’s nothing for me to get over.” He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell his friends that.
Kelce shrugs, “If you say so.”
He knew so. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from making his way over to you, pushing past the crowd and not missing how he’s definitely not the only one staring at you right now.
“That’s some dress.”
He comes up behind you, and you jump despite him making a conscious effort not to touch you. Your eyes widen, but he thinks he detects a brief flicker of relief, as if you’re happy to see a familiar face.
“R-Rafe, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I came with my friends.” You gesture loosely, but it’s clear as day your little girl group has already dispersed without a trace, all but throwing you to the wolves. “Uh, I think they went to the bathroom or something.”
Rafe snorts, but the look on your face pulls at something inside of him, makes him want to just grab your hand and take you back home and keep you happy in a way he knows only he could. If you’d let him. But then it’s like he can’t stop himself:
“Well, homeschool, I barely recognised you in this little outfit. Maybe your friends don’t either.”
You blink up at him with black-rimmed eyes, and he sees a flash of hurt glimmer within them. And he wishes he hadn’t said it, sees how you shrink in within yourself, step back and cross your arms over your chest protectively. Tug your dress down except it’s so short it didn’t even matter.
“Homeschool,” you repeat softly “I used to think you called me that as like a cute nickname. Now I know you were just making fun of me.”
“I’m not. I wasn’t. Look, I–”
“Please, just leave me alone.” You try to push past him.
“I’m surprised you were allowed out of the house in that. You’re a walking target here with a dress that short,” He moves to block your path.
“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself!”
“Yeah? How’re you gonna do that when you can’t even see? With all that black shit smeared all over your eyes?”
He wants to kick when he sees the hurt on your face. It’s like he’s so used to being the asshole version of himself that everyone knew him as, like it’s so easy to slip that mask back on now that things aren’t going his way. Fuck, why couldn’t you just give in and stop fighting him?
“I can take care of myself.” You repeat, although your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers.
“You can’t do shit dressed like that,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Look, trust me, this party sucks. Just let me take you home.”
You push past him without another word, and it fucking angers him so bad he wants to punch the goddamned wall. Instead, he watches you with dark eyes as you weave through the crowd. How naïve of you to think you could take care of yourself. When every single man in here was staring at you like you were some hot fucking commodity. Well, he was officially done trying to help you out.
“What’re you doing here, Rafe? Thought this was beneath your country club ass.”
Rafe watches you join back up with your girl group before forcibly turning away, “Barry. Tell me you got some shit on you right now.”
“Is that how you say hello to all your friends?” Barry grins, “You look like shit by the way.”
“You obviously do have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“You sound like an addict, country club.”
Rafe rolls his eyes, looking beyond Barry’s shoulder at you sipping on another drink. Who’d given you this one? How many had you had? Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to keep tabs on you all night? He felt like he had to, and it’s putting him on edge.
“Who’re you lookin’ at?”
“None of your business,” Rafe snaps, “Just…Please, if you have anything on you.” He wants to snatch the drink from your hand, scold you for accepting drinks from anyone that wasn’t him. Instead, he watches helplessly as you sip it, scrunching up your nose all cutely because he bets it tastes awful. Like cheap liquor and dollar store soda.
“She’s cute,” Barry says.
“Shut up.”
“Her brothers would kick her ass if they knew she was here.”
That catches his attention, “You know her?”
“I know her brothers.” Barry snickers, patting him on the shoulder, “You might be a little out of your depth with this one, country club.”
Rafe doubts it. Pogues did not intimidate him in the slightest, and he doubts your brothers would be any different. Hell, they could be military-trained mercenaries and it wouldn’t stop him from making you his.
“I wasn’t out of my depth when I fucked her.” It comes out before he can stop himself. He just needs Barry to know. Hell, he needs everyone here to know. Even though it’s technically a lie, but he may as well have fucked you with how close he got.
Barry whistles lowly, “And yet here she is, clearly unclaimed.”
Rafe clenches his fists, eyes trained on you once more. He’d looked away for barely a minute and now you’re surrounded by men. Like a bunch of sorry ass losers vying for your attention, and it’s like you don’t even know how to react to it. You keep looking down, opening your phone, sipping your drink, pulling at your dress. Smiling awkwardly. Reaching up to adjust your glasses before realising you’re not wearing them. Fuck, you were so cute. So different from all the other girls and so fucking cute.
“Hey country club, do all the girls you fuck act like they don’t know you?”
“Don’t fuck around with me, man. I’m not in the mood.”
He runs a hand through his hair, watching like a hawk as you tug your dress down again. God, the way it hugged your ass was insane. You look so fucking hot, and despite the less than stellar interaction he’s just had with you, he still can’t help but think of fucking you. In that slutty fucking dress, but he’d push it up to your waist, rip your panties off and pocket them before jackhammering his cock inside you with such force just so you’d know never to wear something like that in public again. Maybe he’d drag you to his car, maybe one of the rooms upstairs. Or maybe right here in front of everyone while you cried because you were shy but he wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d be showing you who you belong to.
Maybe that’s what you wanted, maybe that’s why you’d dressed like this.
Barry pulls out a baggie, “You wanna push this to your preppy crowd?”
Rafe snatches it up quickly, “Sure, whatever.”
Just then, he sees you being cornered by some idiot who’s talking all animatedly with you, pushing you away from your friends, clearly trying to get you alone. Rafe sees red, pushing Barry aside and making a beeline for you.
“Hands off, asshole.” He seethes, physically putting himself between you and the guy.
The guy raises an eyebrow, “What are you, her bodyguard?”
“Meet me outside and I’ll show you exactly who the fuck I am.” Rafe grabs the guy’s shoulder when he tries to leave, “No, no, where you going, pussy? Come outside with me.”
“Rafe, stop! You’re acting insane.”
Your voice cuts through all the other noise, and the guy takes that moment to scurry away into the crowd like a little rat.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ pussy ass bitch.” Rafe barks out a hollow laugh before turning back to you. “Are you okay?”
“Why did you do that, Rafe?!.”
He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? He had his hands all over you.”
“No, he didn’t! And even if he did, I could’ve handled it.”
Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Were you deliberately being obtuse just to make him out to be the bad guy again?
“Just stick with your girlfriends. You shouldn’t be talking to these kinds of men anyways.”
You look up at him indignantly with engorged pupils, clearly already half tipsy when you’d barely had a drink or two, “Stop it. Please. You’re not my dad!”
That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed, he wants to shoot back spitefully. Instead, he rolls his eyes, “I’m the only one here looking out for you.”
“And I’m telling you; I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself so just leave me alone, okay?”
“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Rafe hears himself say, gesturing loosely at your body, “This… This shit isn’t you.”
Again, hurt flashes across your face.
“You don’t know me, Rafe. You never did and you never will.”
You push past him and rejoin your girlfriends and whatever group of men they’re talking to. Making him look like a gormless fucking chump when he’s the one who was trying to save you. Well, fuck you too then.
That’s how he finds himself back with his friends, at a table snorting up line after line like it’s his fucking job. It’s a distraction really, from all the conflicting thoughts swimming around in his head. Fuck you, protect you, forget about you. You, you, you. He needs this escape. He needs to stop thinking completely.
“Some for me?” a girl sinks down on his lap, her cleavage right in his face. He feels numb to everything, barely even registers her. But nods anyways, pours out a neat line for her. She’s all over him after that, but it’s like a blur to him. The music, lights, this girl’s lips on his, his friends cheering him on. He bets this slut would let him fuck her right here on this couch in front of everyone. And what was stopping him?
She’s pressing kisses down his neck, her hands up his shirt when he opens his eyes almost on intuition. Looks straight across the room and locks gaze with you. The shock is frozen on your face for just a moment or two, before you quickly look away.
The mask was truly off now. You knew who he really was.
Forcibly, you turn away from him. And he wants to look away too, just fuck this girl to forget all about you. But then he sees you bump straight into the chest of someone else. Some stupid fucking punk ass Pogue, different from the other one. More intimidating, larger too. He grins at you, his hand pressing down on your lower back. And it plays like slow motion in front of Rafe’s eyes, and he feels like someone’s put his heart through a fucking shredder.
He pushes the girl off him, gets to his feet. The guy’s talking to you now, talking to you like he knows you. Rafe’s hands shake; he balls them into fists. Shoves his way through the crowd of bodies, keeping his eyes glued on you. The drugs in his system have made him a bit sluggish, but he can still make out the two of you, how the guy’s got you cornered against the wall now. He sees you laugh nervously, and the punk tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.
That’s when Rafe sees him start moving you. Towards the stairs. And he sees your face twist in fear; sees you swallow and try to act brave. Sees you looking around for your friends but they’ve ditched you again. The guy’s gripping you tightly by the arm, no doubt sweet talking as he pulls you up the stairs. Rafe sees your chest rise and fall rapidly; sees you try and talk your way out of it. But he also knows how men think, knows how much stronger they are, and the guy keeps pushing you up the stairs.
Rafe feels like he’s a million miles away. By the time he gets to the stairs, the two of you are long gone. There’s this tightness in his chest, and it won’t go away. He pushes people out of the way, takes the stairs two at a time. Gets to the first-floor landing and grabs some fucker by the shirt.
“Where’d they go? The girl in the black dress and the guy?”
“What the hell!? I don’t know!”
He throws the guy aside, stumbles into the first door that opens. Empty. Then the second. Not them. Fuck.
He finds you behind the fourth or fifth door he throws open. And it’s almost like an out of body experience. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such visceral rage before. The guy’s got you up against the wall, trying to kiss you. His hands all over you. Your tiny fists trying to push him off, and for a split-second Rafe feels like his chest is about to explode.
He doesn’t think before he throws him off you.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Get out.”
The guy snorts, “How about you get out? We were in the middle of something.”
Rafe’s not in the mood to fuck around. He looks at you, sees you sniffle, readjust your dress. Your face is usually expressive, but he can’t read it now. And usually, beating up on Pogues like this guy is an amusing pastime for him, maybe even a hobby. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with it, a certain rush of adrenaline. But one look at you, and he knows now isn’t the time for that.
“Get out. I won’t ask you again.”
The guy – all tattoos and burly chest – chuckles, tries to grab you again, “I ain’t leaving bro. Hell, you can stay too if you wanna watch.”
That’s when Rafe pulls his gun out.
You gasp. The guy stops short. Holds his hands up.
“Hey, c’mon man, it’s never that serious–”
“You don’t want me to ask again.” Rafe points the barrel straight at him. The coke’s coursing through his veins, pumping through his blood. He’s never entered the Cut without his gun, and in the state he’s in right now, he’d risk getting thrown in fucking jail because he can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t shoot this fucking pervert right now.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” The fucking pussy leaves quickly after that. Once he’s gone, Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. He feels completely calm in the moment. Eerily so, but he knows it’s that certain type of calm that only comes before a storm.
He locks eyes with you, and there’s a moment of absolute silence. All he can hear is your shallow breathing, short and rapid. Glistening eyes looking up at him in what he could only describe as fear. Or reverence. He can’t tell, and it bothers him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s trying so hard to keep his voice level, but it almost shakes with anger. Anger at the situation, at what he’s just seen. Anger at that punk that he knows, he knows, he’s gonna take out on you.
You swallow, “I…I…”
“You realise what the fuck would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here?” He takes one step towards you, for once not giving a fuck when you flinch. “I know you’re innocent but you can’t be that fucking stupid.”
Hurt flashes across your face, “I could’ve taken care of myself–”
“You wouldn’t have been able to do shit.”
You shake your head, “Yes, I could! I can handle myself just fine, and my friends knew I was up here, they saw me, so they would’ve come–”
He stares, incredulous as it dawns on him just how naïve you actually were, “they’re not your fucking friends.”
“Neither are you!”
“I saved you.”
Your face crumples up like a piece of paper, your chest rising up and down. Like you’re trying your hardest not to burst into tears, “I’m not some naïve little girl who needs saving, Rafe.”
“Yeah? Is that what you were trying to prove tonight?”
“No! I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just… I just…” your lower lip quivers, and yet you still will yourself not to cry, “I’m just… I’m not naïve, okay? I’m not some stupid little girl that men just... take advantage of.”
He runs his hand through his hair, “Do you even realise what you’re saying? He was going to take advantage of you.”
“I wouldn’t have let him!” Your eyes are wet with tears, and it’s smudging the black makeup, making it smear and run and you look so hauntingly beautiful like this, “Not how I let you.”
And there it was. It all came back down to Rafe. He was always the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, even yours. Even after he’d saved you. He was evil, through and through – isn’t that what he always knew deep down? Isn’t that what his father saw when he looked at him? And his stepmother? And Sarah? Even now, you look scared like a little fucking mouse. Scared of him, and not the fucker who’d just tried to force himself on you. It was always Rafe who was the villain in everyone’s story, no matter how hard he tried to protect them.
“I stopped.” Rafe steps closer, knowing you’ve got the wall behind you and nowhere to run, “I stopped when you asked me to. He wouldn’t have.”
“You lied about everything.”
He remains silent, not wanting to rehash this shit with you right now. Instead, he closes the gap between you both, pressing you against the wall. You push against his chest, but it’s ineffectual. He needs to touch you, lay claim on you. It’s like an innate, animalistic desire to mark his territory after that fucker’s had his hands all over you.
“G-Get away from me.”
“No.”
“Rafe. Don’t.”
You’d already made up your mind that he was the bad guy, no matter what he said or did. And it would be so easy to be the villain you clearly thought he was.
Gently, he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You gulp, half-heartedly attempt to bat his hand away when it lands on your hip.
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
“I could’ve gotten away–”
“Nobody else is allowed to touch you.” He says it quietly, but he knows you’ve heard him.
Your eyes widen, “R-Rafe–”
“Only me.”
His lips press against yours in a kiss so possessive, it almost knocks you off your feet. But he’s got you, holding you steady and pressing you against the wall with all his weight. And he’s dreamed of this moment, dreamed of kissing you again. And your lips are so soft, so perfect, exactly how he remembered. Yet all he can think of is making you forget that other man had ever even touched you. His tongue is in your mouth, claiming you like he’s swallowing you whole from the inside out. And he’s so much bigger than you, so much stronger that he doesn’t even notice or register if you’re trying to push him off. It’s ineffectual, irrelevant. He needs this. Needs you to know you’re his.
“Stop!” You finally manage to push him off you, and your lips already looked bruise from his kiss. Bruised and so fucking pretty. Another mark of him on you.
He’s staring at your lips when you slap him hard across the face.
Immediately, your face crumbles, like you’re horrified at what you’ve done.
“I-I’m sorry, I’m… I’m–”
You burst into tears. Like waterfalls flowing down your cheeks. You reach up to blindly wipe at your face, smearing your black eyeliner all over your eyes. And he just watches you, the sting of your ineffectual little slap already fading. Watches how you sob, how your whole body shakes. Watches as your wild eyes look somewhere beyond him. At the mirror in the corner side of the bedroom. Watches you stare at your reflection like you’re looking at a stranger.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper like it’s a confession, but more to yourself than to him. “I-I don’t know who I am, I don’t… I don’t…”
In that moment, he sees something broken inside you. Something he’d never seen before. Maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s only here now. Maybe he was the one who’d broke you. The thought makes him sick to his fucking stomach.
Rafe hoists you up, slings you over his shoulder without another word. You pound against his back.
“No, no, let me go! Let me go!”
He ignores your cries. All he knows is that he needs to get you out of here. You didn’t belong in a place like this. You were too soft, too sweet to be corrupted. He had to save you again, even if he was the villain in your eyes.
He carries you out the bedroom, past the landing, down the stairs. Everyone stares; he doesn’t give a fuck. He weaves through the crowd of writhing bodies, the pulsating music drowning out your cries. One of his hands firmly holding your dress down over your ass while you wiggled and squirm against him.
He only puts you down when he’s got you outside in the back where his car’s parked. It’s a hot summer night, sticky and humid. The stars look huge, almost like they’re weighing down on his shoulders. And reflecting in your eyes, making them shine with indignance and that fierceness he’s only recently learnt you possess.
“Get in the car.”
Incredulously, you shake your head, “I’m going back to my friends.”
“Don’t fuck with me right now. Get in the car.”
You try to storm past him, but he’s already so much quicker than you. The copious amounts of coke he’s snorted tonight paired with the pure adrenaline and determination of wanting to get you out of here makes you no match for him. You, in your heels which you weren’t used to walking in, and that tiny, tight fucking dress. Fuck, he needed you out of here. Now.
Your lips press into a thin line, and your eyes look so big as you stare up at him pleadingly, “I can’t, Rafe. Please. I can’t go with you.”
His face softens, “I’m gonna take you home.”
“I don’t trust you.”
His jaw tenses. I FUCKING SAVED YOU! He wants to scream. Instead, his features grow stoic, the mask slipping back on.
“I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You’re not going back in there. You should’ve never gone to a party like this to begin with.”
“I can handle myself–”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, don’t start with that again. You can’t handle shit, okay? I handled shit back there. God knows what would’ve happened to you if it weren’t for me.” He grabs your wrist, ignoring your sharp intake of breath and yanking you back towards his car. He opens the door, tries to push you inside.
It’s when you’re fighting against him that he realises how drunk you are. God knew how many cheap drinks you’d been given tonight, and you’d been polite enough to accept all of them. Probably thought drinking them would help you fit in better, socialise easier. And now your movements are sluggish, slow, erratic.
He easily throws you into the backseat of his car, child locking the doors so you don’t escape.
He half expects you to launch yourself at him the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. But surprisingly, you’ve gone quiet. Gathered yourself in the corner at the back, hugging your legs with your face buried between your knees as you sobbed to yourself.
And there are so many things he wants to say, now that he’s finally got you alone. But it’s like there’s something lodged in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to even speak. He’s angry, concerned, buzzing from everything that’s just happened. Silence ensues, with just the gentle hum of the car as he drives into the night.
He pulls up to the now familiar dirt road that is your street and unlocks the doors. Waits a handful of seconds, surprised you don’t immediately jump out of his car. Instead, he watches silently through the rearview mirror as you rummage drunkenly through your little purse.
“I, uh, I don’t have my keys.”
“What?”
“I must’ve dropped them at the party… your voice trails off before you clear your throat, “It’s okay, I’ll just–”
“Your mom can’t let you in?” Although Rafe bets your mother would have a fucking heart attack if she saw you being dropped off in his car.
You swallow, “She’s not at home. She’s… working.”
For the whole night? This was the second time your mother was away from home for the entire night. He wonders what exactly she does for work.
You sit up and open the door, jumping out of the car and immediately teetering in your heels. You were still very drunk, and it shows. Rafe sighs, getting out too.
“You got a spare key under the doormat or something?”
You hold on to the side of his car to regain your balance, blinking rapidly. Your pupils are so dilated, he can see his own reflection in them. And in that moment, it’s like all the frustration and anger he’s feeling at you for how stupid and naïve you’d been tonight, it’s it all dissipates because of how cute and lovely you look in the moonlight. Drunk and fumbling and innocent and away from that party.
“I… I think I’ll just camp out on the porch. The sun should rise soon…”
Rafe stares at you as if you’re deluded. It was only a little past midnight; the sun wasn’t going to rise for a while. And even if it was, there was no way he was leaving you out here in the open on this seedy little street on the Cut.
“Get back in the car.”
Of course, you choose now to be stubborn again, “N-No! I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah? I know the kind of people that crawl around out here at night. Get in the car.”
You stick your chin out, “Stop trying to help me, Rafe! I’ve lived here all my life, I know what I’m doing–”
He hauls you back into the car. It isn’t too hard, considering how much smaller you are than him. Weaker. Drunk, too. You try to fight against him again, but not too much. Like you know making a scene right now wouldn’t be the best thing to do.
“Where are we going?” You ask timidly once he’s revved the car back up and driven off your street.
“My house.”
You don’t say anything and for once, he’s glad.
*
Tannyhill looms big and shadowy in the moonlight. Rafe watches you gape drunkenly, probably drinking in how big it is just like you had the first time he’d brought you here. You’d remained quiet for most of the drive here, just staring sorrowfully down at your shoes. Once or twice, he’d caught your eye through the rearview mirror, but you’d looked away every time.
“Wait.” He orders before getting out of the car. He opens the door for you and hoists you up into his arms. He means to put you down on your feet, but decides to just carry you. And by some miracle, you let him. And he can’t make sense of this hot and cold behaviour, how all night you’ve been switching between two different characters. Loud, outspoken, angry, not letting him touch you, to then soft, docile, weepy and innocent.
“I’m scared,” you confess quietly, your pupils dark, glassy and shining in the moonlight. You’re just laying limply in his arms now, as he carries you down the cobblestone driveway of Tannyhill.
“You’re just drunk.”
“No I…” You twist your face to look up at him, and he feels it, so he meets your gaze, “I’m scared of you, Rafe.”
It hits him like a bullet, but he ignores it. Buries it down, deep down in the recesses of his mind where he buried all the other shit. Like his dad not loving him, like the memories of his mother. Buried deep down and abandoned, because he couldn’t deal with that shit. He can’t. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. He had saved you.
He doesn’t say anything, expects you to fall back into whatever drunk stupor you’ve been drifting in and out of.
“I didn’t know you had a gun.”
Hadn’t he known you were going to bring that up? He’s surprised it’s taken this long, but he can still remember the frozen shock and fear on your face when you’d seen him point his gun at that guy.
“You don’t know a lot of things.”
He waits for you to bring up the other things you’d seen him do tonight. All the drugs, or maybe the girl he’d been kissing in front of you. In fact, he half hopes you bring up the second part because it would show that you’d cared, that it had affected you.
But you don’t say anything else, just stare off into the distance. And yet you’re still allowing him to carry you, you’re not trying to get away from him despite being scared. He doesn’t want to cling to that, but a part of him does.
He’s somehow able to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the front doors, all while holding you steady with one arm. You’re just so small, and slot perfectly into him, like you were made for him. He’s glad it’s gone well past midnight; means he doesn’t have to deal with his family and their questions. Not that they’d even bother questioning him – they no longer cared enough to.
It’s when he’s carrying you up the marble staircase that you start struggling against him again.
“Not your bedroom–”
“Where the fuck else do you want me to take you? The couch?” Rose would damn near have a heart attack if she woke up to you sleeping on her precious antique furniture imported straight from Paris or wherever the fuck. Not that Rafe cared, but he’d rather have you in his room.
You keep protesting softly, but he takes you to his bedroom anyways. Closes the door and locks it. Places you gently on his bed. And he’s dreamt of this moment for a while, and would’ve savoured it had it been under different circumstances. But he feels a weird mix of leftover anger and a sort of bittersweet sadness. You didn’t want to be here at all. Like any feelings you may have developed for him in that one week had so easily been switched off, and yet he couldn’t switch anything off no matter how hard he tried.
“You should, uh, get some sleep,” he says, quickly turning away lest you think he’s trying to get into bed with you. Rummages through his closet, tosses you one of his shirts, “Here.”
“I’m okay, thank you.” You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of his king-sized bed. You look even smaller than usual, and you’re doing that thing again – hugging your arms protectively around yourself as if he’s some fucking predator who’s kidnapped you, instead of the guy who’d just saved you from sexual assault.
“Just put it on.”
“I’m fine in this.”
Rafe sighs, pacing the room for a second to get his thoughts straight. Then he makes a beeline for you, kneels down in front of you before thinking. Reaches out to touch your legs before he sees you flinch and pulls back.
“Look, I’m not gonna try anything, okay? I know I lied and manipulated you before, but I’m not doing that right now.”
You stare at him for a long few seconds before swallowing, “I can’t tell when someone’s lying.”
He nods, “I remember. And I told you I’d be straight up with you.”
“But you weren’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know, but I’m not doing that shit anymore now, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you so just put it on.”
Your dress looks uncomfortably tight now, the straps digging into your shoulders and the bottom riding up. Again, you tug it down, and bite your lip before sighing, accepting the soft shirt.
“O-Okay. But you need to turn around and close your eyes.”
He huffs, but he does it. Stares at the wall for a good ten seconds. Then fifteen. Twenty. Huffs again. “You done?”
He turns back around when you don’t respond, only to find you struggling with the zipper. The dress is so goddamned tight, it may as well have been painted on. And you’re drunk, can barely locate the zip to begin with, and it’s pathetic how you keep tugging at it. And so fucking cute.
“Stand still,” he orders gently, and by the grace of whatever the fuck, you obey for once. Breathing shallow as he comes up behind you, and then your breath hitches with a cute little squeak when he places a hand on your hip to steady you. Easily undoes your zipper, and he likes how he’s the one who’s done it. He likes taking care of you, wants to help you out of it and put his shirt on you himself.
But all too quickly, you pull away, holding the dress taut against your body. He rolls his eyes and turns around again, listens to you shuffle around as you change.
When he turns back the second time, his heart almost leaps up into his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so pretty, so precious, so innocent. His shirt is huge on you; makes you look so small and cute. Eyes so big as they blink up at him, and you look so vulnerable. Like you were done playing the part of a whore for the night and you were yourself again.
He finds himself swallowing hard, “You look…”
“Don’t.” You cover yourself with your arms again. Words can’t explain how much he hates when you do that.
He clears his throat, eyes trailing down your bare legs. Somehow, you’ve managed to change out of your dress without even taking your shoes off. And now you’re standing there teetering in your heels, looking at him with those big eyes of yours.
“Sit.” He orders you again, gently pushing you down to the edge of his bed. Again, he kneels in front of you. His hand on your smooth calf, stroking down before he can stop himself. You squeak again, but this time you don’t stop him. He doesn’t know why sometimes you let him touch you, and other times you don’t. But he’s not one to question it.
Your heels have ribbons that criss-cross around your calves, and he works to untie them. Deliberately slowly. And it’s getting him so hard, despite everything, to be the one taking care of you like this. How you’d huffed and puffed and gone to this party, pretended to be an attention-seeking little slut, all for you to end up in his bedroom anyways.
“You really had to wear these?” He murmurs, although he’s secretly glad you wore such complicated shoes because you’re letting him help you take them off.
“I… I thought I looked pretty in them.”
He feels a growl emanate from somewhere in his throat, remembering all the men who’d been staring at you so brazenly tonight, “You do. That’s the problem.”
Silence. And then:
“Why do you care?” It comes out like a genuine question, rather than a spiteful remark, “I…I saw you kissing that other girl tonight.”
“That was nothing.”
“I see.”
He wants you to ask him more, maybe show that you’re jealous, that you wished he’d been kissing you instead. But you don’t.
“She came onto me,” he feels the need to explain, “and she didn’t mean anything to me.”
You nod, “Okay.”
It irritates him, how you’re not at all fazed. When every time he’d seen a man approach you at the party, he’d wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. As for the guy who’d taken you upstairs? He deserved to be shot. Point blank. Maybe the only reason Rafe hadn’t done it was because he didn’t want to traumatise you.
And yet… you don’t seem to care at all. Or maybe you’re too drunk to care. You look so fucking adorable, sitting on his bed in his shirt, letting him undo your heels for you like a good little girl.
“I didn’t mean anything to you either.” You say it so softly, he almost misses it.
Rafe flinches, “That’s not true.”
“But you said it. You said I was just another Pogue who spread her legs for you.”
“Yeah? Well, I say a lot of shit I don’t mean.” He slips your heel off, and he can’t help but stroke your dainty, bare foot before moving on to your other shoe.
“That’s what I’ve realised,” you stare somewhere beyond his shoulder, “Everyone keeps saying things they don’t mean. And I keep believing them.”
He glances up at you, “Who are you talking about?”
“My friends. They said they wanted to be friends with me, but they… they haven’t even asked if I’m okay.”
He almost snorts out loud, but stops himself just in time.
“And it’s not just them, or you, it’s everyone. Even this guy I was supposed to do my project with. I thought we were getting along fine, but now he won’t even look at me. He asked to join someone else’s group, so now I have to do it alone.” Your voice breaks, “I don’t even know what I did to make him hate me…”
Rafe clears his throat and looks away for a second, “You can’t count on everyone, baby.” The pet name just slips out naturally, but you don’t even notice.
“I know. I wish college came with a manual, because I keep messing up and trusting the wrong people.”
“You can trust me.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He takes his chance, sits up on the bed next to you and grabs your hand, and hurriedly keeps talking, “I know I fucked up but I saved you tonight. That should count for something.”
Your lower lip trembles as you look at your tiny hand in his much larger one, and yet you don’t pull away.
“Y-You confuse me so much, Rafe.”
He could say the same thing about you. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do words and all that shit. He’s never been good at it and he’d just mess things up even more than he already has. He knows what he is good at. And he knows he shouldn’t do it. And yet...
Rafe presses his lips against yours. Softly. Cautiously. Yet with determination. You don’t respond, and it’s like he wants you to so bad. He can’t stand it. His hand goes up to cup your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek. He thinks he feels you sigh, or he could just be imagining it.
“Stop,” you beg against his lips, but you don’t push him away.
“Just let me,”
“Rafe, no–”
“Please.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. And he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he promised you he wouldn’t try anything tonight and he’s going back on his fucking word but he doesn’t care. He needs this. Needs this more than you know. More than he himself knows. Because kissing you feels like he’s been parched his whole life and you’re the only thing that can quench his goddamned thirst. He can’t let you go. He doesn’t know why but he just can’t.
He pulls you into his lap, and you squeak into his mouth, your little hands grabbing on to his shoulders and it feels so familiar. He increases the pace of the kiss, slowly slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you taste so fucking sweet. He’s missed this so much, despite how he’s only kissed you a handful of times before this but you fit so perfectly on him. Like you were made for him and him only. And he deserves this. He’d saved you.
“I can’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I can’t let you take advantage of me again.”
“I’m not,” he says between desperate kisses, “I promise you I’m not.”
“You-You’ll tell all your friends. And you’ll laugh like how you did before.”
He kisses down your jaw, your neck, your skin so sweet, “I won’t, baby.”
“You’re just using me. Y-You’ve probably made another bet.”
Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he tell you that all he can ever think about anymore is you? That it makes him sick, the fact that he’d hurt you? That he’d do anything to take that stupid bet back, to get you to look at him how you used to. What the fuck was stopping him from saying it?
But he can’t, so he just keeps kissing you, and hopes you’ll accept it. Hopes you’ll get him, which was wishful thinking, because nobody got him. His hands curl into your hair, pressing you closer to him, and it feels visceral, it feels desperate. And yet, it almost feels unreal, like he’s kissing you on borrowed time, and it would be over soon and he wouldn’t get his fill.
Sure enough, you pull away, “Why are you doing this, Rafe?”
“Because I want to.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “And I think you do too.”
You press your lips together, words coming out hushed and shaky, “No one would respect me if I went back to you, knowing how much you lied and everything you said about me.”
“Fuck what everyone else thinks.”
You slip off his lap, “I wouldn’t respect myself.”
He wills himself to say something, anything to reassure you. But nothing comes out. It’s like his mind is frozen, betraying him once again because he’s shitty with words and can’t think of the right thing to say. And it’s getting too much for him… Too emotional, too vulnerable. He can’t.
“You’re thinking about this too much,” he says finally, and his bedroom’s dark except for the dull lamplight, and you look so fucking pretty that he’s in awe.
You sniffle, “M-My mom said I’m not allowed to see you.”
He exhales, “And yet here you are.”
“Here I am,” you echo weakly. “She doesn’t even know I was at the party tonight. I snuck out.”
He’d figured as much, “She’s kept you in a cage for long enough, don’t you think?”
You shrug, but he can tell you’re mulling over what he’s said.
Rafe pulls you back into his lap, “I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t care what anyone says.” He pauses, the words I like you, I want you to be my girlfriend on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t be vulnerable like that, he just can’t, “You’re mine. And you need to understand that.”
“I don’t wanna be yours. I want to be my own person.”
“Shhh,” he kisses you again, “Remember how I said I’d take care of you? It’s because you’re someone who needs taking care of. Your mom’s coddled you all your life, so you have no idea how the real world works. That’s why you need someone like me.”
You swallow, looking up at him with those shining, imploring eyes. You’re so sweet and naive, you don’t even realise how much, “I want to figure out how to take care of myself.”
“But you can’t. You keep trusting the wrong people and getting yourself hurt.” The irony of his statement isn’t lost on him, but he hopes the alcohol in your system will make you ignore it.
“That’s what my mom says.”
“Forget about your mother. Let me take care of you. I’ll make all the tough decisions, you won’t even have to think about it.”
Rafe lays you down on his bed, right in the centre where he knows you won’t scurry away. He hovers on top of you, much like how he did in your tiny bedroom weeks ago. But this time, you’re in his territory. And he has complete control. And maybe, just maybe, you’re drunk enough to trust him again.
He grabs your hand, pressing his much bigger palm against yours, “Look how little you are. You really think you could’ve protected yourself tonight without me?”
You blink up at him with big, dark, sad eyes. Bite your lip like you’re unsure but he thinks it’s so sexy.
“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes your hand, his thumb grazing his initials on your palm over and over again, “You’re so small and cute, and completely out of your depth. You need me.”
“N-No…”
“Yes.” He kisses the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands knotting into your hair. You whimper, but you lie there and let him do it. It’s because you want him too. He knows it. And he allows himself to imagine it again. You under his wing, quietly allowing him to make all your decisions for you. Chanel bag on your arm, a dozen more in your closet. All gifts from him, to let everyone know who exactly was taking care of you.
And there’d be no more parties, especially not in the Cut. He wouldn’t allow you to attend them because you were simply too naïve and sweet. He’d take you to drinks at the country club, or maybe to a game of golf. You’d sit pretty in his lap, like a cute little ornament. His little girlfriend that he’d rescued from poverty, his little doll, that he’d dote on and dress up. All his.
“I don’t want that, Rafe. Please stop.”
YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT! He wants to scream. Sure, he’d wronged you but you were too fucking naïve to understand how he was your best bet right now. That he would take care of you, and no one would ever fuck with you again when you were under his wing, because he’d kill them.
“Just kiss me back,” he whispers against your lips, his hands itching to slip under his shirt you’re wearing. He kisses you again, hoping you sense his urgency, sense how badly he wants you.
“Please stop, I can’t let you, I can’t…”
Rafe huffs in frustration, a few choice words on the tip of his tongue. Stop being such a tease, or you owe me for tonight, or you wouldn’t have agreed to come to my house if you didn’t want this.
But he realises you’re the only girl in the world he doesn’t want to say those things to. He can’t say them, can’t bring himself to utter a single spiteful word despite the fact had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second.
He’s about to pull away when:
“R-Rafe? I… I think I’m gonna…”
He draws back at your abrupt shift in tone. The room’s dark, but he can see you’ve suddenly gone a shade of green. Your chest heaves underneath him, your eyes widening. Realisation dawns on him in a millisecond and he scrambles off you. Pulls you upright, debating whether to point out the bathroom to you. That’s when your whole upper body lurches, your hand going to cover your mouth. Without another thought, he picks you up and carries you into his bathroom himself.
He barely gets you to the toilet in time before you start throwing up. Hunched over the toilet bowl, barely holding your hair back. Letting it all out. And he just stands there and watches, never having been in such a situation before.
“I’m sorry,” you sob drunkenly between heaves, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, this is so rude of me.”
Despite everything that had happened tonight, despite how mad you were at him, here you were apologising to him. It makes him feel it again, that weird feeling in his chest. It comes in waves so strong he’s almost knocked off his feet. Instead, he crouches down behind you, gently holds your hair back.
And it feels so alien, because Rafe hasn’t done this for anyone ever. He wasn’t some pussy ass bitch who went soft on the girls he dated. But this… you… it was different.
“It’s alright,” he hears himself say softly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. And it almost feels like he’s no longer himself, like he’s someone else. Affection had always felt unnatural to him, like he was putting on an act any time he tried to show it. And so he never did. It was easier to just to have everyone be scared of him.
But this right here, sitting on the gleaming floor of his bathroom with you, it felt… it just felt like something. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, except he likes the feeling. And you look so sweet, so vulnerable. He feels almost a sense of pride, because he’s the one taking care of you right now.
You keep apologising. Even once you’re done throwing up, and he helps you to your feet. Takes you to the sink, lets you clean yourself up. Hell, a part of him wants to sit you down on the marble countertop and clean you up himself. But it seems too… intimate. And Rafe doesn’t really know how to be like that.
“I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup once he places you back down on his bed. You make a move to get back up, “Just let me go clean it up, I can’t bear that I left your bathroom in such a state–”
“No, don’t.” Rafe gently pushes you back down, and you’re so little and cute and tipsy that you fall right back on your butt, “The maid will clean it tomorrow.”
You blink as if you don’t understand, “But it’s my mess.”
Rafe rubs his temple, “It’s her job. Now get back into bed.” He goes over to his mini-fridge, thanking his lucky stars there’s a bottle of water in there amongst all the beer and other bullshit. “Here.”
Obediently, you gulp the water down like a good girl before carefully setting the bottle on his bedside table. Your makeup’s almost all washed off now, face scrubbed clean and you look so innocent it makes his head hurt. Like there’s so much he wants to say to you but he can’t figure out how to get you to understand him.
He sighs, “You should get some sleep.”
“Where’re you gonna–?”
He nods at his leather armchair on the other end of the room. You look over and swallow.
“Oh, uh, I could sleep on the chair. It’s not right that you have to–”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. It’s your bed…”
Drunkenly, you try to get to your feet again. It’s amusing, and he gently pushes you back down a second time before grabbing the duvet cover and throwing it over you.
“Go to sleep,” he repeats, ignoring how his heart thrums and that feeling manifests again. That weird, bubbling feeling under the surface of his chest that seemed to appear every time you did something cute or enamouring or sweet. “I’ll drop you home in the morning.”
You’re too inebriated to argue any further, which he’s thankful for. His thoughts feel all jumbled up, like he can’t understand for the life of him how this is the second time he’s had you alone in a bedroom and he hasn’t fucked you. But now, he settles down on his armchair and watches you slowly make yourself comfortable on his sheets. Shuffle around a bit before tucking the covers till your chin.
It doesn’t take you long to knock out. And he just keeps watching you, how sweet you look, how perfectly you fit into his room, his house, his life. And he hates how he can’t completely read you – can’t tell how you feel because you didn’t want him to touch you and yet you’re sleeping on his bed, and not anyone else’s. How you kept saying you wanted to take care of yourself and yet you’d let him take you home tonight, let him change you and tuck you in. Take care of you.
Rafe decides you have no idea what you want. You’re too naïve. Which means it’s his job to teach you. Teach you that you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let you go.
He tries to sleep after that. He really does. But the armchair is fucking uncomfortable, and it’s his room. And he’d saved you tonight.
It doesn’t take him long to get back into bed next to you. Gently, he pulls the covers back over you both, his heart skipping a beat when you immediately cuddle into him. It only further affirms that you wanted this — you just don’t know it yet. He runs his hands up and down your body, from your waist, to your ribcage, to your arms. You mumble, shuffle around sleepily, and somehow end up with your head on his chest.
He kisses the top of your forehead, before allowing himself to fall asleep too.
***
It’s all too soon that he’s woken up to loud, incessant knocking. Rafe swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes and immediately checking his phone. Fuck. It was past noon. The sunlight streams in through the large windows, landing perfectly across your face. It scrunches cutely as the knocking continues, but you’re still asleep.
So fuckin’ pretty, he thinks as he gazes at you, all serene and adorable and still very much in his arms. Slowly, he detangles himself from you, sits on the edge of his bed. His phone’s filled up with texts he’d ignored from the night before.
Topper: Bro, are you okay? People are saying you tried to shoot someone.
Topper: Everyone saw you leaving with the homeschool girl.
Barry: You pull a gun on a guy??? You can’t fucking do that shit.
Barry: You don’t know how dangerous these people can be.
Barry: ??? You’re fucked.
If pulling guns on Pogues meant he was fucked, then Rafe would’ve been fucked a long time ago. But most Pogues were stupid and inept, and so he was not worried. In fact, he fucking dares that punk from yesterday to show his face now. Rafe would murder him for real, and he wouldn’t even need a fucking gun.
The knocking increases, growing louder and more rapid. Rafe swears again, glancing back at you. You shuffle and turn on your side, lips all pouty as you cuddle into his pillow.
He makes his way over to the door, unlocking it only to see Ward staring back at him in disbelief.
“Don’t tell me you’re just waking up now.”
Rafe yawns, but straightens up at the same time, “I was out late.”
Ward blinks, does that think where he exhales loudly through his nose. He does that whenever he feels disappointed, which was all the time whenever Rafe was around him.
“Everyone’s waiting downstairs for you, Rafe.”
Rafe blinks before it dawns on him. The brunch. The business meeting. The random girl he was being set up with.
“Shit, that’s today?”
A beat of silence. Ward looks like he’s about to choke him out, “Well, son, you’ve proven again how you can’t fucking be trusted. With anything.”
Rafe rubs his forehead before running a hand through his hair and looking back at you. He can’t be fucked with this shit right now, not with his headache and the fact you’re in his bed and all this yelling would wake you up.
“I’m sorry.”
“You get your ass down there in five fucking minutes, you hear me?”
Rafe doesn’t think he has it in him, to sit through some fuck ass brunch right now. He glances back at you again. This time, Ward sees and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got another hooker in there. Jesus Christ, Rafe. It’s like me talking about this family’s image means nothing to you, the way you bring these hookers into my house in fucking droves.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“No?” Ward looks fucking livid, Rafe wonders how he has the energy to be like this so early in the day, “You think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“Does it go over your fucking head every time I tell you it’s time for you to stop this bullshit and settle down? People are watching us, Rafe. Potential investors, business partners. They see all this shit, okay? And yet you insist on going around and–”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“What?”
Rafe coughs, again looking back at you to make sure you’re still sleeping, “Uh, she’s my girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend? Since when?”
Rafe doesn’t quite know why he’s just thrown this lie out in his father’s face. Maybe because in his mind, it’s not really even a lie. You weren’t just some random girl, you were his girl – even if you didn’t realise it just yet. Or maybe he’s lied because he wants his father to just take him seriously for once.
“Since a while now.” He clears his throat, “She was out late last night and I went to pick her up.”
“How come I’ve never seen her before?”
“It’s serious so I was trying to keep it under wraps,” lying has always come easily to Rafe, and so he speaks smoothly, quickly gaining traction, “And you’ve seen her. On the security footage. She’s the one I had on the patio.”
Ward nods thoughtfully, “The one in that dress? The cute one?”
A strong wave of irritation courses through Rafe’s body, he takes a few quick, deep breaths to keep it at bay, “Yes.”
There’s another long pause as Ward takes it all in. At one point, he looks beyond Rafe’s shoulder and into the bedroom as if to get a glimpse of you. Rafe’s quick to subtly shut the door and step outside of it. Fuck if anyone else saw you right now.
“Fine. You can skip the brunch. We have a business meeting afterwards though. Join us for that, if you can clean yourself up in time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Rafe? I expect a formal introduction with her. If she’s to be a part of this family then you can’t keep her a secret for too long.”
“Okay.”
Rafe breathes a sigh of relief when his father leaves, and he returns to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.
You’re still lying there, in the middle of his king-sized bed with sunlight dappled all over your face. Completely asleep and so serenely sweet. It makes his heart lurch, but he swallows that feeling quickly.
Your phone’s glowing dimly beside you. He doesn’t hesitate at all, whipping it up to see who exactly was texting you. It’s your mother. Multiple messages. He can’t see what they say without unlocking your phone first, but he can guess she probably wouldn’t be too happy with you right now. In a sick way, the idea of that makes him glad.
And Rafe just sits there on his bed, watching you sleep. Strokes your cheek with his thumb, watches as you lean into his touch. That’s when he consolidates it in his head. After last night, you were his. Completely. And now everyone would know. His family. His friends. Your mother. The whole of fucking Kildare would know you belonged to him. You’d know too. And you’d accept it. He’d make sure of it.
Even if that meant turning you against your mother completely.
A/N: Okay. There we go. Rafe's lie counter is through the roof lmfao - how many times did this man lie throughout this chapter???
Anyways, please PLEASE let me know what you thought of this chapter. Any opinions/predictions/thoughts/ANYTHING. Feedback means the world to me. I'll be honest, I am very very nervous about posting this chapter bc I don't know what people will think of it. Like genuinely. And it's a bit scary. I really did try my best to get this out for you guys as quickly as I possibly could write it. Your feedback would mean the world - so please, if you read this and like it, do also consider dropping a comment or reblog or sending me an ask on what you think!
Also, some questions! You don't have to answer, these are just for fun!
Do YOU think reader could've protected herself at the party if Rafe hadn't been there?
What exactly does Rafe feel for reader after this chapter?
What do you think Ward will think of reader?
Do you think reader will go along with Rafe's plans or keep fighting against him?
ANYWAYS. that's it. i'll try to sleep now. please please let me know what you think. thank you so much for your patience and ily <3
I know this sounds kinda harsh, but honestly, we can tell when someone who's writing smut hasn't had any real experience. Is that just me or??? There's just, like, so much that makes no sense, or the positions they're describing are actually impossible lol.
Summary: After a party leaves Rafe spiraling with jealousy, a quiet argument in the kitchen turns sharp and deeply personal. As accusations give way to hurt and vulnerability, both of them are forced to confront the fear, possessiveness, and messy feelings simmering underneath their relationship.
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The argument started quietly.
That was always the worst kind with Rafe.
Not the screaming kind. Not the kind that started with slammed doors or raised voices and ended with shattered glass and silence that lasted for hours. No, this was worse. This was that terrible, dangerous stillness he got when he was trying to hold himself together, when all that anger was sitting just beneath his skin and I could practically feel it in the air between us.
He stood across from me in the kitchen at Tannyhill, one hand braced against the marble counter, jaw tight enough to make the muscle there jump. His eyes were locked on me, cold and sharp and impossible to read, and the whole room felt too quiet because of it.
“You ignored my calls.”
His voice was low. Controlled. That almost made it worse.
I crossed my arms tighter over my chest, more to steady myself than anything else. “I was out.”
“With who?”
It came too fast. Too sharp. Like he already had himself worked up and that one question had been sitting on his tongue the second I walked in.
I let out a dry little laugh, but it sounded thinner than I wanted it to. “Seriously?”
Rafe leaned back against the counter, dragging his tongue against the inside of his cheek like he was trying very hard not to lose it. I knew that look. Knew the way his shoulders got when he was fighting for control, the way his fingers flexed like he needed something to break.
“I asked you a question.”
“And I’m not answering it like you’re my father.”
The second it left my mouth, I wanted it back.
His eyes snapped to mine instantly.
Wrong thing to say.
The air changed so fast it made my stomach tighten.
Rafe went still in that way he did when something hit a nerve. Not relaxed stillness. Not calm. The opposite. Like every part of him had gone rigid at once.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
I swallowed, but I lifted my chin anyway. “Do what?”
“Act like I’m crazy for caring where you are.”
His voice was still even, but I knew him well enough to hear what was underneath it. The warning. The anger. The hurt, though he’d rather die than say that part out loud.
I shook my head. “You don’t care, Rafe. You control.”
His jaw flexed hard.
For a second he just stared at me, blue eyes cold and unreadable in that way that always made it impossible to tell what he was going to do next. And that was the thing about Rafe. Even when he wasn’t yelling, even when he was barely moving, there was still something volatile about him. Something that made every second feel like standing too close to a live wire.
Then he let out a laugh under his breath. Short. Humorless.
“That’s what you think this is?”
“You showed up to the party angry before I’d even said hello to you.”
“Because some guy had his hands all over you.”
“He was hugging me.”
“He was touching you.”
I blinked at him. “You hear yourself, right?”
Rafe pushed off the counter so suddenly it made me tense, pacing once across the kitchen before dragging a hand through his hair. Agitated. Restless. Like he couldn’t stand still with all that anger still moving under his skin.
“That guy wants you.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m serious.” He turned to look at me again, eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t see that? The way he was looking at you?”
“So am I,” I snapped. “You don’t get to act insane every time another person speaks to me.”
His whole expression darkened at once.
“Insane?”
There it was.
The line crossed.
I watched his shoulders go tight as he looked away for a second, nostrils flaring slightly, like he was trying to get hold of himself before he said something worse. But Rafe was terrible at stopping once he got angry. He could feel himself going too far and still keep going anyway, like some part of him would rather burn everything down than be the only one standing in the fire.
“You know what?” he muttered, voice rougher now. “Forget it.”
“No, don’t do that.” I took a step forward before I could stop myself. “Don’t shut down now because you don’t like what I said.”
He laughed again, sharper this time, and looked back at me like he couldn’t believe I was even saying that. “You think this is me shutting down?”
“I think you’re trying to turn this into my fault.”
Rafe stepped closer.
Just one step, but it was enough.
Enough that I could feel the anger coming off him in waves, enough that my breath caught in my throat even though his voice stayed low.
“I’m trying to understand why my girlfriend acts like I’m unreasonable for not wanting guys all over her.”
The word girlfriend should’ve sounded soft. Possessive, maybe. Instead it sounded like something clenched between his teeth.
“And I’m trying to understand why you think you own me.”
Silence.
Heavy. Immediate.
The second the words left my mouth, I saw it hit him.
Not anger first. Not even close.
Hurt.
Real hurt, quick and clean across his face before he could hide it. And somehow that felt worse.
Rafe looked down for a second, jaw clenched so tightly I thought he might crack a tooth, then looked back at me.
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it.”
His eyes stayed locked on mine for a long, awful second. I could see him trying to decide whether to get angrier or just walk away. With Rafe, it could go either way. It always could.
Then quieter this time, rough around the edges in a way that almost sounded like honesty, he said, “You know why this gets to me.”
I swallowed.
Because I did know.
That was the worst part.
Underneath all the anger and the possessiveness and the constant need to have his hands around everything so nothing slipped away, there was always that other thing with Rafe. The insecurity he buried under all of it. The fear that people left. The fear that if they saw too much, if they got too close, they’d realize he was too messed up, too angry, too much, and they’d walk.
He never said it like that. He’d never let himself.
Instead, he got angry. Instead, he held too tight. Instead, he looked at me like wanting me and fearing losing me had twisted together inside him until he couldn’t separate one from the other.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” I said finally, softer now.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not all the way. Rafe never softened all the way. But the anger cracked enough for me to see the exhaustion underneath it, the strain of holding himself together, the frustration of not knowing how to say what he actually meant without making it ugly first.
He looked away before I could study him too long, rubbing a hand over his face and muttering, almost to himself, “You make me crazy.”
I let out a slow breath. “Rafe...”
“No, I know how it sounds.” His laugh came out tired now, quieter, stripped of all that sharpness from before. “I know.”
And just like that, the fight started draining out of him almost as quickly as it had arrived.
That happened sometimes too.
Rafe felt everything too hard, too fast. Like every emotion hit him at full speed, all at once, and by the time it was over there was nothing left in him but the wreckage of it. Watching him calm down always felt like watching a storm pass. Sudden. Messy. Never fully gone, just moving somewhere deeper.
When he looked back at me again, he seemed younger somehow. Less sharp around the edges. Less like the version of himself he tried so hard to be.
“I just...” He stopped, already frustrated with himself, his mouth tightening. He hated explaining himself. Hated needing to. “I don’t like people looking at you like that.”
There was something almost childish in the way he said it, but not in a sweet way. In a raw way. In a way that made it obvious this was bigger to him than some random guy at a party.
I softened a little despite myself. “You can’t start a war every time someone flirts with me.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “I can if I want.”
“Rafe.”
That finally pulled a small smirk from him, brief and crooked and familiar enough that some of the tightness in my chest loosened.
“There she is,” he murmured.
I rolled my eyes, but the tension in the room finally started to break when he stepped forward again, slower this time, like he was making sure I’d let him. His hands settled carefully at my waist.
Not controlling now. Not demanding. Just holding on.
His grip was warm and solid, and for a second neither of us said anything. I could feel the last of his anger still lingering in the tightness of his fingers, in the way his shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed, but there was something else there too. Something quieter.
Need.
Rafe looked at me for a long moment, his thumbs brushing once against my sides. “I’m serious,” he said, voice low again, but different now. Less sharp. “I don’t like it.”
I searched his face. “Because you don’t trust me?”
His expression changed immediately, like that was the one thing he didn’t want me to think.
“No.” He said it fast, firm. “It’s not you.”
I held his gaze. “Then what is it?”
He hesitated. That alone told me enough.
Rafe’s eyes flicked away from mine, out toward the windows, toward anywhere that wasn’t me. His jaw worked once before he said, quieter now, “I know how guys are.”
I almost said, Because you are one. I almost said, Because you look at people like that too. But I didn’t. Because I knew this wasn’t really about that. Not completely.
Instead I said, “I chose to come home with you.”
His eyes came back to mine.
There it was again, that tiny fracture in him he always tried to hide. The one that only showed when he was stripped down past the anger, past the arrogance, past all that Cameron pride.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
But he didn’t sound like he believed it enough.
My hands came up before I could think too much about it, resting lightly against his chest. His heart was still beating too fast beneath my palms.
“You don’t have to fight everybody,” I told him.
A quiet huff of laughter left him. “Maybe I do.”
“You don’t.”
He looked down at me, eyes a little clearer now, though there was still that restless edge behind them that probably never really went away. “You make that real hard.”
I shook my head, half annoyed, half amused. “That is not my problem.”
His mouth twitched again, but then his face turned serious. His grip on my waist tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make me notice.
“It is when I’m standing there watching some asshole think he has a shot with you.”
I sighed. “Rafe...”
“No, I’m just saying.” He leaned in a little, forehead almost touching mine now. “You don’t see it because you don’t think like that.”
“And you do?”
His look said obviously.
That almost made me laugh.
Of course he did. Of course Rafe looked at the world and saw threat before anything else. Competition. Possession. Loss. Like everything good in his life came with the certainty that someone, sooner or later, was going to try to take it.
“I’m not something to win,” I said quietly.
His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second before lifting again. “I know that.”
“Do you?”
That made him go still.
Then he nodded once, slower this time. “Yeah.” His voice dropped lower. Rougher. More honest. “I just forget sometimes.”
That answer hit harder than I expected. Because it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t angry. It was just true.
I studied him for a second, this impossible, damaged, infuriating boy standing in his family’s perfect kitchen looking at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered. And maybe that was part of the problem too. Rafe never did anything halfway. Not anger. Not wanting. Not fear.
Not me.
So I exhaled and let some of my own frustration go with it. “You scared me a little.”
The words landed instantly.
His whole face changed.
Not dramatic. Not obvious. But enough. Enough that I saw the regret settle in.
Rafe’s hands loosened at my waist, like his first instinct was to let go completely. “I wasn’t gonna do anything.”
“I know.”
He searched my face like he wasn’t fully convinced I meant that.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a second, and the apology sounded awkward on him, like it didn’t come naturally, like it had to force its way out. “I just... I got pissed.”
I gave him a look. “I noticed.”
That earned the faintest breath of a laugh.
Then his gaze dropped again, and quieter this time he said, “I don’t want you thinking I’m...” He stopped, jaw tightening.
“Crazy?” I offered carefully.
His eyes lifted back to mine. “Yeah.”
I held his stare for a second, then shook my head. “I think you’re a lot of things.”
A real smile almost happened then, small and reluctant. “That bad, huh?”
“Some days.”
He let out another soft breath, and this time when he pulled me a little closer, it felt gentler. Not like he was trying to keep me in place. More like he was grounding himself.
“I’m working on it,” he muttered.
I raised my brows. “Are you?”
His smirk came back, faint but there. “No,” he admitted. “Not really.”
I laughed before I could help it, and that seemed to break whatever was left of the tension for good.
Rafe looked almost pleased with himself for managing it, his thumbs tracing absent little movements against my waist. He tilted his head, studying me in that intense way of his, but now there was warmth in it too.
“You still mad at me?” he asked.
“A little.”
“That’s fair.”
“Good.”
He hummed softly, then dipped his head just enough that his forehead brushed mine. “Still not sorry for wanting to punch that guy, though.”
I closed my eyes for a second. “You are impossible.”
“And you like me anyway.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Unfortunately.”
That crooked grin showed up again, more real this time.
“There she is,” he said once more, quieter now.
And with his hands warm at my waist and the last of the storm fading from his face, I let myself lean into him just a little.
Not because he’d won. Not because he was right. But because for one rare, fragile second, he wasn’t trying to control the moment.
Request: hii 😭 could you maybe write a soft theodore nott?? like meaybe reader can’t sleep and ends up wandering around hogwarts she finds theo in the astronomy tower or the library or something. i just NEED his whole quiet/intimidating act dropping when he’s alone with her.
Warnings: none, established relationship, slight insomnia, soft romance
Summary: Unable to sleep, you wander up to the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night and find Theodore Nott already there. What starts as quiet teasing turns into soft comfort, shared warmth, and a side of Theo that no one else gets to see.
The kind of silence that made every footstep sound too loud as I wandered through the corridors with my cardigan wrapped tightly around me, my arms folded across my chest. I'd tried sleeping for nearly two hours before giving up completely. My roommates were all asleep behind their drawn curtains, and the longer I stared at the ceiling, the worse everything in my head seemed to get.
So now I was here.
Barely awake, wandering Hogwarts at some ridiculous hour of the night.
I climbed the last few steps to the Astronomy Tower slowly and pushed open the heavy door with a soft creak.
Then I stopped.
Theo was already there.
He stood near the railing with his back partly turned to me, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his dark hair messy from the wind. Moonlight caught the sharp edges of his face as he glanced up from the book in his hands.
For a second, his expression didn't change.
Guarded.
That cold distance Theodore Nott wore around everyone else without even trying.
Then he realised it was me.
And he softened instantly.
It was subtle. Someone else probably wouldn't have noticed. But I did.
His shoulders loosened first.
Then his eyes.
“Oh,” Theo said quietly as he shut the book in one hand. “It's you.”
I leaned against the doorway and looked at him. “You sound disappointed,” I said.
A faint smile pulled at Theo's mouth. “Hardly,” he said.
I stepped fully into the tower and let the door fall shut behind me. “You always sound like that,” I said softly. “Like being awake at this hour is a personal inconvenience.”
Theo slipped the book under one arm and watched me. “Maybe it is,” he said.
I smiled a little. “And yet you're still here.”
Theo tilted his head. “So are you,” he said.
The wind swept through the tower hard enough to make me shiver, and Theo noticed immediately.
His expression changed.
“You're freezing,” Theo said as he took a step closer.
I shook my head even as another shiver ran through me. “I'm fine,” I said.
Theo glanced at my hands where I was clutching my cardigan. “You're shivering,” he said.
I lifted my chin stubbornly. “I said I'm fine,” I said.
Theo gave me a look that made it clear he didn't believe a word coming out of my mouth. Then he moved closer and started tugging his Slytherin jumper over his head before I could stop him.
“Theo,” I said quietly, reaching for his wrist. “Don't.”
He pulled the jumper free and held it out to me. “Take it,” Theo said.
I stared at him. “You'll get cold,” I said.
Theo pressed the jumper into my hands. “I don't care,” he said.
I looked between him and the jumper. “You're impossible,” I muttered.
Theo's voice stayed calm, but there was something firm underneath it that made arguing feel useless. “And you're cold,” he said. “Put it on.”
I exhaled through my nose, then pulled the jumper over my head.
It smelled exactly like him, clean parchment and cedarwood and something colder that I could never quite describe.
Theo watched me push the sleeves over my hands.
“Better?” Theo asked.
I looked up at him. “A little,” I admitted.
Theo nodded once like that was all he needed to hear. “Good,” he said.
I tried not to smile. “You like being right far too much,” I said.
Theo's mouth curved faintly. “Only when it's obvious,” he said.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Theo studied my face more carefully.
“Couldn't sleep?” Theo asked.
I shook my head and moved a little closer to the railing. “My brain wouldn't shut up,” I said.
Theo followed beside me, quiet as ever. “What about?” he asked.
I let out a small laugh and looked out over the dark grounds below. “Everything,” I said. “Nothing useful. Just everything all at once.”
Theo rested his forearms against the stone railing. “That sounds irritating,” he said.
I turned to look at him. “That's all you've got?” I asked.
Theo glanced at me, his eyes unreadable for half a second. Then he stepped closer until he was standing right in front of me, his hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers.
“You want comforting words?” Theo asked softly.
I looked up at him and shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe a few,” I said.
Theo tilted his head and studied my face in that quiet way he always did, like he noticed everything without needing any of it explained.
At last, he spoke.
“You'll survive,” Theo said.
I stared at him. “That's your version of comfort?” I asked.
Theo didn't look remotely sorry. “It's honest,” he said.
I laughed quietly despite myself and shook my head. “You're unbelievable,” I said.
Theo's expression softened at the sound of my laugh. “You still came up here,” he said.
I folded my arms loosely over his jumper. “Maybe I was hoping you'd be nicer in the middle of the night,” I said.
Theo's eyes flicked over my face. “That was your first mistake,” he said.
I smiled properly then. “So you've got more?” I asked. “Go on. Try again.”
Theo looked away for a second, as if considering it, then looked back at me. “You'll feel worse if you don't sleep,” he said.
I groaned softly. “Theo,” I said.
He almost smiled. “You asked,” he said.
I laughed again, and this time something warmer moved through his expression.
Without thinking, Theo lifted a hand and brushed his fingers gently beneath my eyes.
“You look tired,” Theo said.
I kept still under his touch. “You're very romantic tonight,” I said softly.
Theo's hand lingered against my face for a second too long. “I have my moments,” he said.
I looked at him carefully. “Do you?” I asked.
Theo dropped his hand at last, but his gaze didn't leave mine. “Rarely,” he said.
For someone who acted so detached around everyone else, Theo was always strangely careful with me. He touched me softly, like he was trying not to be rough without meaning to.
I moved to stand beside him near the railing and looked back out at the grounds.
Theo stepped in close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The silence with Theo never felt awkward.
Just quiet in a way that felt easy.
Then I felt his hand brush against mine.
Not accidental.
His fingers slipped slowly between mine, warm against the cold, and he leaned lightly against my shoulder.
I looked down at our hands and smiled to myself.
“You know,” I murmured, “everyone thinks you're intimidating,” I said.
Theo sounded amused when he answered. “Everyone's right,” he said.
I turned my head towards him. “Are they?” I asked.
Theo glanced at me. “Obviously,” he said.
I lifted our joined hands slightly between us. “You're literally holding my hand under the stars,” I said. “You're not helping your case.”
Theo's mouth twitched. “I think I'll survive the loss,” he said.
I smiled and leaned a little more into his shoulder. “You're ruining your reputation a bit,” I said.
That earned me a proper smile.
Small. Sleepy. Real.
“Good thing you're the only one here to see it,” Theo said softly.
I looked at him for a second, then squeezed his hand. “I'll try not to tell anyone,” I said.
Theo looked back out over the grounds, still smiling faintly. “I'd appreciate that,” he said.
The wind moved around us again, colder than before, but I didn't mind it nearly as much.
Not with Theo standing there beside me.
Not with his hand in mine.
After a moment, I glanced up at him. “So what were you reading?” I asked.
Theo looked down at the book tucked beneath his arm. “Something dull,” he said.
I smiled. “You say that like you weren't completely absorbed in it five minutes ago,” I said.
Theo gave me a sideways look. “I was awake,” he said. “I had to do something.”
I hummed softly. “And here I thought you came up here to brood dramatically,” I said.
Theo actually let out a quiet laugh. “Maybe I did,” he said.
I grinned at that. “That sounds more like you,” I said.
Theo turned his head slightly towards me, his expression gentler now than when I'd first walked in. “You should try sleeping again later,” he said.
I sighed. “Probably,” I said.
Theo gave my hand a small squeeze. “If your brain won't shut up,” he said, “come find me first.”
I looked at him, caught off guard by how softly he said it. “You mean that?” I asked.
Theo met my eyes. “Yes,” he said simply.
Something in my chest tightened in the nicest way.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
Theo nodded once and looked back out at the night. “Okay,” he said.
I loved part 4; it perfectly captures both of their anguish. I was thinking about what would happen if Kelce and Top told him, as a rumor, that JJ left the party with Reader. "He's probably screaming at Maybank right now," "She's got a nice ass, but she ruins it when she talks," "I hope Maybank takes that nuisance away from her." And that's when Rafe finally snapped.
Ahh I’ve only just seen this… I wrote part 5 a few weeks back so next parts already out… I’m so sorry my lovely
By the time I make it to my room, the silence feels too loud.
Not peaceful silence. Not the kind that settles around you gently at the end of a long night and lets your body unclench.
This kind presses.
It follows me in from the hallway, sits heavy at the edge of my bed, watches while I kick my shoes off with numb, clumsy movements and peel myself out of my party clothes like they belong to somebody else. My top lands in a heap on the floor. My jeans follow. I stand there in the middle of my room for a second in the weak spill of moonlight coming through the blinds, my skin still sticky from the heat, my hair smelling like smoke and salt and the Cameron house.
I hate that even now, after all of it, the thought of him is still stitched into everything.
I tug open my drawer and grab the first oversized hoodie I see.
His.
Of course it is.
Dark blue, soft from being washed too many times, sleeves long enough to swallow my hands. The second I pull it over my head, his cologne rises with the fabric, faint now but still there if I breathe deep enough. Something in my chest twists so hard I have to sit down before my knees decide for me.
I drop onto the edge of the bed and stare at my phone where I tossed it on the comforter.
The screen is black.
For one second, I tell myself not to check it.
For one second, I try to hold onto the version of myself that walked out of Tannyhill and didn't look back again.
Then the phone lights up on its own.
Rafe.
My whole body reacts before my brain does. Stomach dropping. Pulse jumping. Breath catching so abruptly it almost hurts.
I don't touch it right away.
I just stare.
You left.
Of all the things he could've said, that's what lands first.
Not Are you okay. Not I'm sorry. Not Can we talk.
Just that.
You left.
Like I did something wrong.
Like I was supposed to stay.
I laugh once under my breath, and there's no humor in it. Just disbelief and hurt and something so tired it almost feels numb.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
I could answer.
I know exactly how this usually goes. I answer, even if I'm still mad. He calls, voice low and rough and annoyed in that way of his that somehow still sounds like he cares. He says my name once, maybe twice, and everything starts sliding backward. I let him explain. I let him tell me it looked worse than it was. I let him say baby in that quiet, coaxing voice like it softens the damage. I tell myself at least he reached out. At least he came back.
And then somehow, by the end of it, I'm the one apologizing for making it a thing.
I hate how easy it is to picture.
Another buzz.
Where are you?
I press my lips together.
The room feels smaller with every vibration. My desk. My lamp. The pile of clothes on the floor. The old posters on the wall. Everything familiar, everything mine, and somehow his presence still crowds it just through a screen.
I toss the phone away from me like it burned me.
It lands face-up beside my pillow.
Buzz.
Answer me.
That does it.
Anger flashes sharp and clean for the first time all night.
Answer me.
Like he's entitled to one.
Like he didn't stand there under those lights and watch me walk away.
Like he gets to ignore me in public and then demand me in private.
I grab the phone again so fast my fingers slip.
For one wild second, I almost type exactly that.
I almost send something ugly and true and impossible to take back.
Instead I lock the screen and throw it face down on the bed.
My hands are shaking.
I stand and start pacing because sitting still feels impossible. Three steps to the window. Turn. Three steps back to the door. My room isn't big enough for this kind of energy, for this much adrenaline with nowhere to go.
I yank my hair out of its clip and twist it up into a messier bun just to have something to do. My throat feels tight. My chest feels worse.
The phone buzzes again.
This time, when I pick it up, it's not him.
JJ.
The sight of his name nearly undoes me all over again for an entirely different reason.
Made it inside alive?
I stare at the message until my vision blurs around the edges.
It's so simple. So JJ. Softened with a joke because he knows better than to come at me too hard when I'm already hanging by a thread.
No demands. No edge. No trying to drag me into a fight I haven't agreed to have.
Just checking.
Just making sure I got inside.
The contrast hits like a bruise.
Before I can overthink it, I type back.
Yeah. thank you for tonight
The little typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Anytime. drink water. don't cry over losers with bad personalities and worse hair
A wet laugh escapes me.
I wipe under my eye with the heel of my hand.
his hair is actually annoyingly good
I freeze the second I send it.
Too revealing. Too much.
But JJ just replies:
Tragic. hate that for me. still sounds like a loser
I smile in spite of myself, then press the phone to my chest for a second and close my eyes.
God.
Why does kindness feel so much harder to hold than chaos?
Before I can sit in that too long, the screen lights up again.
Rafe.
Not a text this time.
A call.
My heart lurches.
His name fills the screen, bright against the dark. For a second I just stare while it rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
I don't answer.
It stops.
The silence that follows is worse somehow. Charged. Expectant.
My phone starts ringing again almost immediately.
I close my eyes.
"Don't," I whisper to nobody.
It keeps ringing.
I let it.
Voicemail.
Another text.
Can we talk?
There it is.
The softer one.
The one that would've gotten me ten times out of ten last week. Maybe even yesterday.
I sit back down on the bed, phone in both hands now, and stare at those three little words until they start to lose shape.
Can we talk?
Maybe he means it. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he just can't stand being ignored.
That's the problem with him. Even when he's genuine, it's tangled up in ten other things. Pride. Anger. Possession. Panic. Control.
I don't know how to separate what he feels from what he can't stand losing.
The phone rings again.
I let it ring out.
And again.
By the fourth missed call, my stomach is in knots so tight I feel sick.
I can picture him too easily.
Pacing. One hand in his hair. Jaw locked. Looking at his phone like the screen personally betrayed him. Drinking too much. Making everything mean more than it should because he doesn't know how to do anything halfway.
I know him.
That's part of what's so dangerous.
I know the difference between Rafe annoyed and Rafe unraveling.
This is unraveling.
And still, for once, I don't run to meet him there.
I don't answer.
I don't call back.
I don't type out some soft, stupid thing like I'm home, calm down.
I just sit there in his hoodie with my hair half falling out of a bun, staring at the phone and letting him feel the absence of me.
It shouldn't matter this much.
It does.
The next text comes after a longer stretch of silence.
Please.
That one hurts.
Because he doesn't say please often. Not to me. Not to anybody.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
Then another.
Are you with him?
And just like that, the sympathy curdles.
Of course.
Of course that's where his brain went first.
Not did I hurt you so badly you're done with me. Not are you crying. Not do you need me.
Are you with him?
Jealousy dressed up as concern.
I toss the phone onto the bed again and stand so abruptly my knees hit the mattress.
"Unbelievable," I mutter into the empty room.
I go to the window, shove the curtain aside with two fingers, and stare out at the dark street like that'll help. My reflection stares back in the glass. Messy bun. Bare legs. His hoodie swallowing me whole.
I look exactly like the kind of girl who'd still open the door for him.
That realization makes me step back.
The phone buzzes again behind me.
Then rings.
Then stops.
Then starts all over.
My nerves are strung so tight by the time the headlights cut across my wall that at first I think I'm imagining them.
A pale sweep of light moves across my room, crawling over the posters, the mirror, the edge of my dresser.
I freeze.
The engine outside cuts off.
Every hair on my arms lifts.
No.
No way.
My heart starts slamming so hard I can hear it.
I move to the window before I've even decided to, careful and quick, fingers pulling the curtain back just enough to look.
A truck.
Dark. Familiar.
And there he is.
Rafe slams the driver's door shut harder than he means to and immediately starts pacing beside the hood like the motion is the only thing keeping him from punching through something. He's in a dark hoodie and jeans, hair a mess like he's been dragging his hands through it for the last twenty minutes, shoulders tight with a kind of furious energy I can recognize from a mile away.
Even from up here, I can see he doesn't look calm.
He looks held together by force.
My phone lights up in my hand.
Come outside.
I stare down at him.
Then at the message.
Then back down at him again.
He's looking up at my window now, jaw set, chest rising too fast.
Like he already knows I'm there.
I should ignore him.
I know I should.
I should back away from the window, put my phone on silent, crawl into bed, and let him stand out there until his own pride drags him back into the truck.
Instead I stay exactly where I am.
Another message.
I know you're awake.
I almost laugh.
Of course he does.
He knows me too.
Another call starts.
I decline it this time.
His head jerks slightly, looking down at his phone. Then back up at the house.
He starts pacing again.
I watch him for a full minute, maybe two, and the whole time my chest keeps pulling in opposite directions.
Anger. Relief. Dread. Want. Every stupid, useless feeling all at once.
He came.
That's the worst part.
He came.
He broke the rules he built, the careful distance, the secrecy, the later, and drove here anyway because not hearing from me for one night was enough to crack him open.
The thought should satisfy me more than it does.
It mostly just makes me tired.
My phone buzzes again.
Please come outside.
I close my eyes.
When I open them, he's standing still now, one hand braced on the roof of the truck, head tipped down like he's trying to get a grip.
I don't even remember deciding by the time I'm opening my bedroom door.
The house is quiet as I creep down the hall and ease the front door open inch by inch so it doesn't creak. Humid air rushes in immediately, wrapping around my bare legs. The porch light is off. Good.
I step outside and close the door softly behind me.
Rafe hears it anyway.
His head snaps up.
For a second neither of us moves.
The whole street is quiet. Crickets in the grass. Wind through the trees. The distant hush of water somewhere past the houses. His truck ticks softly as the engine cools.
Then he starts toward me.
Fast enough that my pulse jumps, but not so fast that it feels like a threat. Just urgency. Barely controlled. He stops at the bottom of the porch steps and looks up at me, breathing hard through his nose like he ran here instead of drove.
Up close, he looks worse.
Tired around the eyes. Mouth tight. Hair falling into his forehead. There's a kind of agitation coming off him that makes the air feel charged.
His gaze drops over me once, quick and sharp.
My bare legs. The oversized hoodie. The messy bun.
Recognition flickers in his face when he realizes what hoodie it is.
Something in his expression twists.
"So you are home," he says.
And there it is.
Not hello. Not sorry. Not thank God.
My own anger rises to meet his on instinct.
"Obviously."
His jaw tightens. "I've been calling you."
"I know."
"Then why the hell weren't you answering?"
I stare at him.
He hears it the second the words are out there. The edge in them. The accusation. The pure Rafe of it all.
His eyes shut for half a second. He drags a hand over his mouth and starts over, voice lower now, more controlled by force than by ease.
"I just..." He exhales. "You vanished."
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "I left a party, Rafe. I didn't vanish."
"You left with him."
There it is.
The real reason he's here.
I fold my arms tighter over my chest, the sleeves of his hoodie bunching over my hands. "Is that what this is about?"
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
He takes one step closer to the porch. "Act like you don't know what I'm talking about."
"No, I know exactly what you're talking about," I say quietly. "I just want to hear you say it."
His jaw flexes.
We stare at each other across the few feet between us, and even now, even here, I can feel the pull of him. The awful familiarity. The way every version of this always starts with heat and hurt and ends with him touching me like that fixes anything.
Not tonight.
His voice drops lower. "Why'd you leave with Maybank?"
I almost laugh again, except this time it would sound too close to crying.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, seriously."
"Because he offered to take me home."
"You could've waited."
That hits me so hard I actually go still.
Behind my ribs, something goes white-hot.
"Waited," I repeat.
He looks up at me, eyes bright and hard in the dark. "Yeah."
I shake my head slowly, almost in disbelief. "That is actually insane."
"What's insane is watching him put his hands on you all night."
"Oh, my God."
I laugh, and this time it comes out sharp. Hurt enough to cut. "No, you know what's insane? You standing there with another girl attached to your arm acting like JJ is the problem."
His expression darkens immediately. "It wasn't like that."
"Wasn't it?"
"No."
"Could've fooled me."
He flinches so slightly I almost miss it.
Good.
For once, let something land.
He scrubs a hand through his hair, already agitated again. "You know what that was."
"Then why did it look exactly like what you've spent weeks promising me it wasn't?"
"Because she was there," he snaps. "What do you want me to do about that?"
"Not make me feel crazy for reacting to it?" My voice rises before I can stop it, and I force it back down. The neighborhood is asleep. The whole world feels too quiet for this kind of fight. "Not stand there and look at me like I'm being difficult for not loving the whole public humiliation part?"
He takes another step closer. "Humiliation?"
"Yeah, Rafe. Humiliation. That's actually the word for it."
"I wasn't humiliating you."
"No?" I laugh again, quieter this time, more wrecked than angry. "You really wanna argue that?"
His mouth opens, then shuts.
For a second he just looks at me, chest rising fast, like his anger got out in front of his actual thoughts and now he has to catch up.
But that's Rafe. By the time the truth gets to the surface, it's already cut through three layers of temper and ego first.
"I didn't like seeing him with you," he says finally.
It's not an apology.
It's barely even connected to what I said.
I stare at him. "You don't get to be jealous."
His eyes flash. "Don't tell me what I get to feel."
"I'm telling you what you don't get to do. You don't get to ask me to stay hidden and then act like JJ committed some crime by being nice to me in public."
That one lands.
I can see it in the way his whole body tenses.
"Nice to you?" he repeats, almost scoffing. "He was all over you."
"He was making sure I was okay."
"Yeah?" Rafe takes another step, close enough now that I can see the pulse jumping in his neck. "And why exactly did you need that?"
I blink at him.
Then something cold settles under all the heat.
"You really wanna ask me that right now?"
His mouth flattens.
For one dangerous second, I think he's going to say something cruel just because he can feel himself losing ground. That's the thing with him. When Rafe feels cornered, he reaches for the sharpest thing in the room and hopes it cuts before it cuts him.
"You think I was just supposed to stand there and watch him all over you?" he says instead, voice low and rough.
The hurt in me hardens.
"You already did."
Silence.
Not total silence. The crickets are still going. Wind still moves through the trees. A car passes somewhere streets over.
But between us, it goes dead still.
Rafe's face changes.
Not much.
Just enough.
Enough for me to see that one got through all the armor.
He looks away first, jaw working, hand closing into a fist at his side and then forcing itself open again.
When he looks back at me, his voice is lower. Rougher. Less angry in the obvious way, which somehow makes it feel more dangerous.
"I came here, didn't I?"
I stare at him.
"That's not the point."
"No, it is the point." He points vaguely between us, frustrated enough that the words start running together. "You think I don't care? You think I drove over here in the middle of the night for no reason?"
"I think you came here because I didn't answer and that freaked you out."
His expression flashes. There and gone.
Too fast for him to hide it properly.
Bullseye.
"Yeah," he says, and his voice drops with it. "It did."
That shouldn't shake me.
It does.
Because it's honest.
Because it sounds like him, stripped back too far and said before he could stop it.
He looks down for a second, then back up at me, eyes harder now only because they're trying not to be anything else.
"You left with him," he says. "You wouldn't answer. What the hell was I supposed to think?"
I shake my head. "I don't know, Rafe. Maybe that I was hurt? Maybe that I didn't wanna hear you explain why I should be okay with looking stupid for you again?"
"You didn't look stupid."
"Stop saying that."
"Because it's true."
"No, because it's easier for you than admitting what it actually is."
He goes quiet.
I can feel my heartbeat everywhere now. In my throat. My wrists. The backs of my knees.
"I'm tired," I say, and my voice comes out smaller than I want. I hate that. I hate how vulnerable it sounds. "I'm tired of this. Of being something you only want when nobody's around. Of being good enough in your room and in your truck and in the dark, but never in daylight."
His face tightens.
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
A laugh breaks out of me, and this one is just sad. "Exactly."
"No." He shakes his head once, frustrated. "Don't do that. Don't act like I don't..."
He cuts himself off so hard his jaw clicks shut.
I look at him and feel my own chest cave a little because I know exactly what almost came out, and I know he hates that I know.
"You don't what?" I ask quietly.
He takes the porch steps in two strides before I can react.
Suddenly he's right there, close enough that all I can smell is night air and his cologne and the sharp edge of whatever he drank earlier. Not drunk, exactly. Just wound too tight. His hand comes up like he's going to touch my arm, then stops halfway there.
"Don't," he says, and now his voice sounds raw. "Don't stand there and act like this doesn't matter to me."
I tip my chin up because if I don't, I'll fold. "Then stop making me feel like it only matters when it's convenient for you."
His fingers finally land on my elbow, light at first. Almost careful.
"It's not convenient," he says. "Jesus Christ, that's the whole problem."
I stare at him.
He laughs once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "You think I like this?"
"I think you like having me without having to own any of it."
That one hits hard.
He lets go of my arm like the contact suddenly became too much, then steps back half a pace and drags both hands through his hair.
"That's not fair."
"Neither is this."
"You know I can't make this public right now."
There it is.
Finally.
I look at him for a long second. "Why?"
He glances toward the street, toward the dark houses, anywhere but at me for a second. "Because I can't."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I have."
"Rafe."
He swears under his breath and looks back at me, frustration bleeding off him in waves. "Because everything turns into something around here, alright? Because people talk. Because once people know something, they use it. They ruin it."
"So I have to be hidden to protect you?"
"That's not what I said."
"No, it's just what you mean."
His nostrils flare. "I hate hiding you."
The words hit so hard I almost don't process them.
He sees that and keeps going, like once the crack opens he can't seem to stop himself.
"I do," he says, voice lower now, less angry than stripped raw. "I hate it. You think I like watching you walk into a room and having to act like I don't... like there's nothing there? You think that's easy for me?"
I swallow hard. "Then why keep doing it?"
He looks wrecked for a second. Truly wrecked. Not polished, not defensive, not cocky. Just tired and cornered and too exposed in a way I know he can't stand.
"Because this is the only good thing I've got," he says quietly. "And I don't know how to do this without wrecking it."
My breath catches.
He laughs once after, short and humorless, like he already hates that he said it.
"There," he mutters. "Happy now?"
"No," I whisper.
Because that's the problem, isn't it?
I believe him.
I believe that he means it.
I believe that some broken, buried part of him is telling the truth right now.
And it still isn't enough.
"Seeing you with him made me lose it," he says before I can answer, like he's already too far in to stop. His eyes lock on mine. "I couldn't breathe watching you leave with him."
There's no performance in it now. No bite. No swagger.
Just the ugly truth.
My chest twists painfully.
"Rafe..."
"No, you wanna know? Fine. I hated it. I hated him touching you. I hated him making you laugh. I hated you getting in that truck like you were done with me." His voice drops lower. "I can't do that."
I close my eyes for a second because hearing what I've wanted to hear for so long at the exact moment it hurts most feels almost cruel.
When I open them again, he's still looking at me like he's waiting for this to save him.
It doesn't.
"I don't know what to do with that," I say softly. "Because you still can't give me what I actually want."
His face hardens on instinct. Defense, coming back online. "I'm trying."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yeah. I do." My voice shakes, but I keep going. "And maybe that's what makes it worse. Because I know you care. I know this is real to you in whatever way you can handle. But I'm still the one who has to swallow all of it in public and pretend it doesn't hurt."
He looks at me for a long second, breathing hard.
Then his hand lifts again, slower this time, and cups the side of my face.
The touch is warm. Familiar. Ruinous.
My eyes close on reflex.
Of course they do.
"Baby," he says, and the word sounds broken now instead of soothing. "Don't do this."
I lean into his hand for one weak, awful second before I remember myself and step back.
His hand falls away.
"No." My voice steadies a little. "You don't get to ask me to stay hidden and then act jealous when somebody else treats me better."
That one lands exactly the way I need it to.
He goes still.
I keep going before I lose the nerve.
"You don't get to stand there with another girl, let me feel like shit, and then show up outside my house because suddenly you can't stand the idea of me being with someone else. That's not fair. It's not enough anymore."
His jaw clenches. "So what, that's it?"
"I don't know." The truth of that hurts too. "But I know I can't keep doing this exactly like this. I can't keep being your secret when it only works for you."
He takes a breath like he's about to argue, then stops.
For the first time all night, he looks scared.
Not angry. Not annoyed. Not defensive.
Scared.
The sight of it almost undoes me.
"What are you saying?" he asks.
I wrap my arms around myself harder inside his hoodie. "I'm saying something has to change."
"I told you I can't make it public right now."
"Then maybe you don't get to keep all of me until you can."
That one hits like a physical blow.
He actually blinks.
"You don't mean that."
I wish that were true.
"I do."
He steps forward fast enough that I flinch before I can hide it, and the second he sees it he stops dead, horror and anger flashing across his face at once.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," he says immediately.
"I know."
And I do.
That's not what this is.
Which almost makes it sadder.
He reaches for me again, slower this time, and catches my wrist when I start to turn toward the door. Not hard. Not trapping. Just enough to stop me for one second.
His hand is warm. Shaking, maybe. Or maybe that's me.
"Don't do this," he says, and his voice is low and ragged and more honest than anything else he's said tonight. "Not with him. Not to me."
My throat tightens so suddenly I can't speak.
For one terrible second, I almost stay.
Almost let him pull me back into the same orbit because he finally bled enough truth for me to mistake it for change.
But wanting isn't changing.
Showing up panicked in the middle of the night isn't changing.
Loving me in every way except the one that costs him something isn't changing.
I gently pull my wrist free.
He lets me.
That might be the saddest part.
He lets me.
"Goodnight, Rafe," I whisper.
His face closes around that. Not fully, but enough.
"Don't," he says again, softer now. "Just... don't go inside like this."
I look at him.
At the boy I love, which feels humiliating to admit even inside my own head right now. At the anger still simmering under his skin. At the fear he came all this way trying to outrun. At the vulnerability he'll probably hate himself for showing me tomorrow.
I look at him and ache.
Then I turn around.
"Y/N."
His voice follows me across the porch.
I keep walking.
"Y/N, wait."
My hand closes around the doorknob.
Every part of me knows if I turn around now, it's over. Not over between us. Over for me. Over for the boundary I just dragged out of myself bleeding.
So I don't.
I open the door and step inside.
"Y/N."
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
I lean against it, breathing hard, eyes burning, hand still locked around the knob like I need the reminder that there is wood between us now. A barrier. A line.
Outside, I hear nothing for a second.
Then his footsteps on the porch.
Then nothing again.
I don't move.
I don't go back.
For the first time, when he said my name, I didn't turn around.
I stay on the edge of the dock longer than I need to.
Not because I want to. Not because I think sitting here any longer is going to magically make the tight, ugly feeling in my chest disappear. Mostly because getting up feels like admitting something I don't want to say out loud.
That the night was exactly what I was afraid it would be.
That coming here didn't make me feel stronger or less pathetic or more over it. If anything, it somehow made everything worse. Sharper. Harder to pretend around.
The water below us shifts black and glassy under the dock lights, rippling gold every time the music from the yard pulses hard enough to shake the boards beneath us. Somewhere behind us, somebody screams with laughter, followed by the unmistakable splash of someone being shoved into the water. A second later, there’s more yelling. More drunk cheering. The whole party keeps moving, loud and careless and alive, like nothing important is happening at all.
Like my whole chest didn't just get cracked open in the middle of Rafe Cameron's dock.
JJ sits beside me with his legs hanging over the edge, shoulder warm against mine every now and then when one of us shifts. He hasn't pushed. Not really. He made a couple jokes, nudged me with his elbow, offered up a running commentary on everybody at the party who looked like they were one bad decision away from concussing themselves, and then when I didn't say much, he let the silence settle.
Not awkward silence, either.
Just... there.
Soft enough that I can breathe inside it.
I stare out at the water and curl both hands tighter around my cup, even though it’s empty now except for ice melted down into a sad little puddle. The plastic crackles under my grip.
"You keep squeezin' that thing like it owes you money," JJ says beside me.
I glance over at him.
His hair is damp from the humidity and sticking up in weird directions. His shirt is wrinkled, half untucked, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm that might be dirt or grease or barbecue sauce. With JJ, it’s honestly impossible to tell. He catches me looking and lifts his brows.
"You wanna talk about it," he asks, "or you wanna just kill the cup?"
My mouth twitches, but only barely. "Maybe both."
"Fair."
He reaches over, plucks the cup out of my hand before I can protest, and sets it down behind us on the dock. "There. I saved it. I'm basically a hero."
"You're ridiculous."
"Yeah." He grins at the water. "But in an essential way."
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. It's small and frayed around the edges, but it still counts. JJ seems to decide that counts as a win, too, because he leans back on his palms and lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
"Thank God," he says. "I was gettin' worried I'd lost the audience."
"You assume you had one."
"I always have one. Usually me."
That one gets me a little more. Enough that I shake my head and look back out over the water before he can see how close I am to crying again for no good reason. Or for too many reasons. I don't even know anymore.
The truth is, if JJ weren't sitting next to me right now, I probably would've left half an hour ago. Or maybe I would've stayed and made things worse. Gone looking for Rafe. Let him pull me aside somewhere dark and quiet and talk to me in that low voice of his until I started confusing being wanted with being chosen again.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I swallow and fix my eyes on a line of reflected light trembling across the water.
"You okay?" JJ asks after a beat.
It's quiet this time. No joke wrapped around it.
I exhale through my nose. "Do you ever get tired of asking me that when you already know I'm lying?"
He tilts his head like he's genuinely considering it. "Nah. Kinda one of my many charms, actually. Persistence. Deep emotional intuition. Great hair."
I snort. "Your hair looks insane."
"Exactly. Natural gift."
He lets another few seconds pass, then nudges my shoulder with his. "You wanna bail?"
The question hits me so fast and so cleanly that I turn to look at him.
Maybe because I wasn't expecting him to ask again. Maybe because some stupid part of me thought if I sat here long enough, I could make myself power through the rest of the night and prove something to myself. Or prove something to Rafe, which is worse.
JJ's expression is easy, but his eyes aren't. He's watching me carefully in that way he does when the joke drops out and the real him shows through underneath. He isn't pushing. He's offering.
A way out.
The answer is already in my mouth before I can second-guess it.
"Yeah," I say.
It comes out too quick. Too honest.
JJ doesn't call attention to that, but I see him notice. His brows lift just a little, then he nods once like that settles it.
"Okay," he says simply. "Then we go."
Something in my chest tightens and loosens at the same time.
That easy.
No making me explain it. No telling me to stay a little longer. No trying to talk me into being fun, being chill, being cool. Just okay. Then we go.
I look down at my hands and realize they're trembling a little. I tuck them under my thighs for a second, annoyed at myself.
"You don't have to leave because of me," I say, hating how automatic it sounds. Like I'm obligated to make myself less inconvenient even now.
JJ makes a face. "Please. This party peaked twenty minutes ago when that finance bro fell off the retaining wall and tried to blame the moon."
I blink at him. "What?"
"You didn't see that?" He turns toward me, scandalized. "Unbelievable. That was premium entertainment. Guy eats absolute dirt, stands up all offended, points at the sky like it's a conspiracy."
Despite myself, I laugh, and that seems to please him enough that he keeps going.
"Also," he adds, dropping his voice like he's letting me in on classified information, "Topper's been wearing loafers with no socks all night, which tells me everything I need to know about the moral decay of this island."
"You're wearing flip-flops to a party at a mansion."
"Yeah, because I'm a man of the people."
He hops down off the dock first and turns, holding a hand up toward me in an exaggerated gentleman gesture. "C'mon. Let's get outta rich-people Disneyland."
I look at his hand for a second before I take it.
His fingers close around mine, warm and rough, and he steadies me when I step down. I didn't even realize how long I'd been sitting curled in on myself until I stand and my legs protest, stiff from tension more than anything else.
The second I'm upright, the whole party seems louder.
Music pounding through the dock boards. Voices carrying from the lawn. Laughter, sharp and drunken. Somewhere closer to the house, glass breaks and someone cheers like it's part of the entertainment. The night air is heavy and damp against my skin, saturated with salt and smoke and liquor and something sweetly artificial from the cheap mixers sweating on every surface.
For a second, I feel unsteady. Like all the noise is pressing in too fast.
JJ notices, of course.
"Hey." His hand stays loose around my wrist for just a second longer. "You good?"
No.
"Yeah," I say anyway.
He gives me a look that says he knows exactly what that answer is worth, but he doesn't argue. He just drops his hand and jerks his chin toward the path back to the yard. "Alright. Stick with me. If anybody annoying tries to stop us, I'll fake a family emergency."
"Whose family?"
"Dealer's choice. Yours seems less complicated."
I huff a laugh and start walking beside him.
The dock feels narrower on the way back.
Maybe because now I know exactly where he is.
I don't mean to look.
I really don't.
I tell myself I won't. I tell myself I'll keep my eyes on the warped gray boards under my feet, on JJ's shoulder beside me, on literally anything else. That I am not going to do this to myself one more time tonight. I am not going to go searching for his face in a crowd of people who get to stand next to him out in the open.
But like an idiot, I look anyway.
It happens by accident, or close enough to count.
We reach the middle stretch of the dock where the lights thin out a little, and the music from the house shifts songs, the bass momentarily dipping before the next one kicks in. Someone moves in front of me and I glance up to avoid walking into them, and then my eyes slide past their shoulder and land on him.
Rafe's already looking.
He's standing farther up near the thicker part of the crowd, drink hanging loose from one hand, the other braced on the dock railing behind him. Topper's at his side saying something I can't hear, Kelce a step off to the left, and that girl is still there too, close enough to brush his arm every few seconds like she has every right.
But none of them are what I notice first.
It's his face.
The second our eyes meet, the rest of the party drops out around the edges.
He's watching me like he has been for a while. Not surprised that I'm there, not just happening to glance over. Watching. His expression is hard to read from this distance, but I know him enough to fill in the blanks. The set of his shoulders. The tightness in his jaw. The way his hand flexes once around the cup.
He sees me leaving with JJ.
And for one awful second, something in me waits.
It's instinct at this point. Reflex. Some pathetic part of me leaning toward him even now, even after tonight, even after the look on his face when I asked him what I was and he had nothing.
He could still come over.
He could still move.
He could hand Topper his drink, brush off whatever that girl is saying, and cross the dock in five long strides like none of this matters more than getting to me.
I know exactly what it would look like if he decided to.
That dangerous, restless energy gathering in him first. The sharp turn of his body. The way people make space when Rafe Cameron starts moving with purpose.
For half a heartbeat, I think he might.
Then Topper says something and claps a hand against his shoulder.
The girl leans in closer, her fingers curling around his forearm like she’s trying to pull his attention back where she thinks it belongs.
Kelce laughs at something, loud and oblivious.
And Rafe doesn't move.
He just stands there.
Watching.
Hesitating.
It shouldn't hurt more than everything else tonight, but somehow it does.
If he'd ignored me completely, maybe I could've called him an asshole and been done with it. Maybe I could've taken that and turned it into anger, something useful, something clean.
But this?
This visible split second where I can see him wanting to come over and not doing it?
That lands deeper.
Because it tells me exactly what I need to know.
It's not that he doesn't feel it.
It's that feeling it still isn't enough.
My chest goes tight so suddenly I almost miss a step.
"Whoa." JJ's hand lands lightly at the small of my back, steadying me. "Easy."
"I'm fine," I say too fast.
He follows my line of sight before I can stop him.
I feel the exact moment he clocks it.
Not the whole story. Not even close. But enough to understand that whatever just passed between me and Rafe wasn't nothing.
JJ goes very still for a beat.
When I glance at him, his expression has changed. The easy grin is gone. His eyes cut from me to Rafe and back again, sharper now, putting pieces together he doesn't have names for yet.
"Huh," he says softly.
My stomach drops. "What?"
He looks at me for half a second too long, then shrugs with a little too much casualness. "Nothin'."
It's such a transparent lie that under any other circumstances, I might've laughed.
Instead I tear my gaze away from Rafe and fix it dead ahead.
The boards creak under our steps as we keep moving. I can still feel him behind me. Not touching, obviously, not calling my name, not stopping me. But there. Like a line pulled tight between my spine and the center of my chest.
I hate that I know, without looking again, that he's still staring.
I hate even more that some part of me wants him to.
We step off the dock and onto the grass, where the noise of the party swells around us again in full force. The backyard is even more packed than it was earlier, people clustered in noisy circles around coolers and patio chairs, bodies moving to the music under strings of warm lights that make everything look softer and prettier than it really is.
A girl I vaguely recognize brushes past me, sloshing her drink and mumbling a sloppy apology. Two guys near the firepit are arguing about whether somebody can backflip off the seawall. Someone else is laughing hard enough they can barely stand.
It all feels wildly far away from me.
JJ slows his pace just enough that our shoulders keep brushing.
"You sure you don't want me to steal you a funnel cake or somethin' first?" he asks. "I'm pretty sure rich people have weirdly good snacks."
"They don't have funnel cake."
"Then what are we even doing here?"
"Leaving, hopefully."
"That's the spirit."
He keeps his tone light, but I can tell he's watching me out of the corner of his eye now. Not in a suffocating way. More like he's trying to decide whether to say what he's thinking.
I pray he doesn't.
Not because I don't trust JJ. I do.
That's kind of the problem.
If he asks me the wrong question right now, I might crack wide open.
We weave between knots of people toward the side path leading back to where the cars are lined up. My skin prickles the whole way. Every time someone laughs too loudly behind me, my body tenses like it's a voice I know. Like it's him finally coming after me.
He never does.
That realization settles heavier with every step.
By the time we reach the edge of the yard, I don't know if I'm more relieved or more humiliated.
Maybe both.
The music dulls a little once we're past the worst of the crowd, swallowed now by distance and the hedges lining the narrow path. Gravel crunches under our shoes. The air feels cooler here, though that might just be because I can finally breathe without a hundred people watching each other watch each other.
JJ shoves his hands into his pockets and glances sideways at me.
"So," he says, in the voice of somebody approaching a skittish animal, "that was... weird."
I nearly laugh from the sheer understatement of it. "You could say that."
He kicks a pebble off the path. "You wanna elaborate on weird, or are we keepin' it sexy and mysterious?"
"JJ."
"What?" He looks over at me, innocent in a way that would be more convincing if I didn't know him. "I'm just askin'. Casual-like. Super normal."
I shake my head and wrap my arms tighter around myself. The night air has started sticking cold against the sweat at the back of my neck.
"I don't know what to say," I admit.
That seems to matter to him more than if I'd brushed him off completely. He looks ahead for a second, jaw shifting, then bumps my shoulder gently with his.
"You don't gotta say anything right now," he says. "I just needed to know if that was my imagination or if Captain Kook over there was lookin' at you like he wanted to set me on fire."
The laugh that escapes me is startled and thin. "That's a terrible nickname."
"No, it isn't. It's accurate and timely."
"Please never say timely again. It doesn't suit you."
"Wow. Alright. Hurtful." He presses a hand to his chest. "I'm out here supporting you through what is clearly some hot, mysterious rich-people drama, and this is the thanks I get?"
I look down, but not before he catches the way my expression crumples for half a second at the phrase mysterious rich-people drama.
Because that's exactly what it feels like when you strip it down to the ugliest version.
Not some secret, intense, impossible thing.
Just drama.
Just me, tangled up in someone who keeps making me feel chosen right up until other people are around.
JJ's voice softens immediately. "Hey."
I blink hard. "I'm fine."
"Yeah," he says gently. "You're really sellin' that tonight."
A breath catches in my throat and turns into a laugh that almost hurts. I rub at my face, annoyed when my fingertips come away damp.
"God. Sorry."
"For what?" He sounds genuinely offended on my behalf. "Having a face?"
"This. Being... whatever this is."
He stops walking.
I make it two more steps before I realize and turn back. He's standing in the middle of the path under a spill of weak yellow light from one of the yard lamps, brows drawn together, mouth set in a way that's more serious than I've seen on him all night.
"Don't do that," he says.
"Do what?"
"Talk like you're a problem."
The words catch me off guard so badly that I just stare at him.
JJ shrugs one shoulder like he didn't just land a hit straight to the center of my chest. "I'm serious. Whatever happened back there, that's not on you. And if it is on you, then you clearly pulled off some insane psychological warfare move and honestly, respect."
I let out a wet little laugh in spite of myself. "I hate you."
"No, you don't. I’m delightful."
He starts walking again, slower this time, making sure I fall into step beside him before he continues.
"Look," he says, not looking directly at me now, probably because he knows it'll make it easier for me to hear, "I don't know what's goin' on. Not really. I'm not gonna pretend I do. But if somebody in there made you feel like crap, they're an idiot. End of story."
My throat tightens.
I focus on the path ahead, on the dark shape of his truck at the far end of the line of cars, on anything except the warmth burning behind my eyes.
"You're very dramatic tonight," I manage.
"Tonight?" he says, offended. "Please. This is a lifelong commitment to the bit."
A small smile tugs at my mouth.
There he is.
That easy pivot he always has, like he knows exactly how long to let sincerity sit before it gets too sharp to hold.
The thing about JJ is that people see the jokes first.
The restlessness. The stupid comments. The total lack of self-preservation. The way he barrels through life like if he moves fast enough, nothing can catch him.
But then there are moments like this, where you can feel how carefully he pays attention without making it obvious. How quickly he adjusts when somebody's hurting. How instinctively he reaches for humor not because he doesn't get seriousness, but because sometimes it's the gentlest thing he has to offer.
It makes my chest ache in a completely different way.
We get close enough to the cars that the music behind us becomes more background than body-blow. JJ fishes his keys from his pocket and spins them once around his finger.
"Alright," he says, nodding toward the truck. "Extraction vehicle awaits. Very exclusive. Terrible suspension. Smells faintly like bait and bad ideas."
"Sounds luxurious."
"It is if you hate yourself a little."
I should feel better than I do, standing here on the verge of leaving. There should be relief in it. Maybe there is. But underneath it, pulsing stubborn and raw, is the question I keep refusing to kill.
What if I wait one more minute?
What if he comes now?
The thought disgusts me.
Still, it lives.
JJ unlocks the passenger side with a loud click and then pauses with his hand on the door handle. He looks back at me, really looks, and I get the awful feeling he's reading way too much off my face.
Maybe because there probably isn't much effort left in me to hide it.
"You wanna go?" he asks again.
Not teasing. Not leading.
Just asking.
Behind us, the party surges into another chorus, somebody shouting along off-key. I can feel the whole night at my back. The lights. The dock. Him.
And before I can stop myself, I turn around.
It's not a dramatic move. Not some cinematic spin with tears in my eyes and a hand over my heart. It's quieter than that. Smaller. More embarrassing.
Just one last look.
From here, the dock is farther away, softened by distance and haze and the blur of warm lights reflected off the water. People move across it in fragments. Laughing silhouettes. Flashing cups. Bare legs, tanned shoulders, heads tipped together.
It takes me less than a second to find him.
He hasn't left.
Rafe stands near the same spot, though the group around him has shifted. Topper's still there. Kelce too. The girl is at his side again, close enough that her hand rests on his arm while she says something to him, smiling like she has no idea she's standing in the wreckage of somebody else's night.
Rafe isn't looking at her.
He's looking at me.
Even from here, I can see the tension in him. The stillness that means he isn't calm at all. His shoulders are squared. His face is unreadable from this distance, but I know that posture. I know what he looks like when he's holding himself back so hard it almost turns into its own kind of violence.
And still he doesn't move.
Doesn't call.
Doesn't come.
Just watches me leave.
Something sharp breaks loose in my chest then. Not loudly. Not all at once. More like a final thread snapping after being pulled too tight for too long.
Because that's the answer, isn't it?
Not the feelings. Not the looks. Not the private promises whispered in dark rooms where nobody else can hear.
This.
This is the answer.
He sees me. He knows I'm leaving. He has every chance.
And he stays exactly where he is.
JJ's voice comes gentle at my side. "Hey."
I don't look at him.
"Yeah?"
"If you're waitin' for a sign," he says carefully, "I think maybe you've got it."
That one lands so clean it takes the air right out of me.
I close my eyes for half a second.
When I open them again, Rafe is still there. Still watching. Still not moving.
The girl says something else to him and this time he answers her without looking away from me.
I don't know why that hurts worse than if he'd turned his back.
Maybe because hesitation means choice.
And he just made his.
I swallow hard enough it burns.
This time, I didn't stay long enough to see if he'd come find me.
I left first.
I turn around before my face can give anything away.
JJ doesn't say I told you so. He doesn't say anything at all for a second, which somehow makes it easier to breathe. He just opens the truck door wider and waits.
I climb in, grateful for the darkness inside, for the familiar smell of old fries and salt and sun-baked fabric, for the fact that once the door shuts, the party noise dulls to something distant and muffled.
JJ rounds the hood and slides into the driver's seat. He doesn't start the engine right away.
For a few seconds, we just sit there.
My hands are in my lap. My pulse is still too fast. I can feel the sting behind my eyes again, the dangerous kind that warns me I'm one wrong word away from falling apart in somebody else's truck.
JJ rests his hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at the line of cars ahead of us.
Then, in a voice so casual it almost undoes me, he says, "You want me to key his car before we go, or are we takin' the high road?"
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It comes tangled with something shaky, but it's real.
I turn toward him, incredulous. "JJ."
He shrugs. "I'm just offering options. Support can look like a lot of different things."
I shake my head, pressing my lips together like that'll keep the tears where they are.
He glances over and catches it anyway, of course he does. His expression softens, but he doesn't stare. Doesn't make it a thing.
"Alright," he says quietly. "High road it is. For now."
Something in my chest aches so hard at that stupid, gentle for now that I have to look away.
Outside, the music keeps going. The lights from Tannyhill glow across the windshield in blurred gold. Somewhere back there, on that dock, Rafe is still standing under those lights with the wrong girl at his side and every chance in the world sitting useless in his hands.
JJ starts the truck.
The engine coughs, rattles, and finally catches.
As he throws it into reverse, I keep my eyes fixed forward.
I don't look back again.
----
JJ backs the truck out slow, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked loose at the top while the engine rattles beneath us like it might give up halfway down the driveway out of principle.
Normally he drives like the road personally insulted him first. Fast, careless, one hand hanging out the window, taking turns like he's trying to outrun his own body. Tonight he doesn't.
He eases us down the Cameron driveway at a crawl, headlights washing over hedges, parked cars, the stone wall at the edge of the property. The music from the party still pounds behind us, bass carrying through the humid night even with the windows rolled up halfway. It gets quieter with every yard we put between us and the house.
I don't realize I've been holding my breath until we hit the road and the lights from Tannyhill start shrinking in the side mirror.
Then I let it out all at once.
JJ glances at me, but only for a second. He doesn't say anything about it. He just reaches over and turns the music down until it's barely there, some old song humming low through blown speakers.
The roads are mostly empty this late. Just a few scattered headlights in the distance, houses tucked back in the dark, marsh grass bending in the wind where the road opens up near the water. The air coming through the cracked windows is thick and warm and salty, sticky against my skin.
I lean my head back against the seat and stare out through the windshield.
We made it off the property.
That should feel bigger than it does.
It should feel clean, like a door shutting.
Instead it feels like I'm still there somehow. Still on that dock, still caught in that suspended second where Rafe saw me leaving and stayed exactly where he was.
My chest tightens all over again.
JJ taps the steering wheel twice, eyes on the road. "Alright," he says finally. "Important question."
I hum without looking over.
"If we stop somewhere, are we talking fries, gas station candy, or full psychological breakdown Slurpee? Because that one feels time-sensitive."
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. It's tired, but real.
"Is that a real category?"
"Absolutely. Blue raspberry if you're sad. Cherry if you're angry. Coke if you're trying to seem mysterious about it."
"And what if I'm all three?"
He nods like he's been waiting for that. "Suicide mix. Respect."
I shake my head, looking down at my hands in my lap. "That's disgusting."
"Yeah, but so is half the emotional damage on this island, and we keep recycling that too."
That one gets another breath of a laugh out of me, and I can feel him clock it the same way he did on the dock. Not pushing. Just checking what still works.
Outside, the road curves and the truck's headlights skim over live oaks and mailboxes and the backs of parked boats. I press my fingertips into my knees, trying to ground myself in small things. The cracked vinyl seat. The smell of gasoline and ocean and whatever leftover food JJ forgot under the seat three days ago. The sound of the tires humming against the road.
Anything but the replay in my head.
Rafe's face when our eyes met.
The way he didn't move.
The way some traitorous part of me still wanted him to.
"You wanna do distraction," JJ asks after a minute, "or honesty?"
I turn to look at him then.
His profile is lit up in flashes by the dash and passing streetlights. Hair a mess, jaw a little tense, hands loose on the wheel even though I know he's paying way more attention than he looks like he is.
"What?"
He shrugs. "Options. I can keep talking complete nonsense until you either laugh or threaten to throw yourself out of the truck. Or I can say the thing we're both pretending not to say and risk making this aggressively emotional."
Despite everything, my mouth twitches. "Aggressively emotional?"
"Yeah." He glances at me, quick and crooked. "Like if feelings got in a bar fight."
"That's not a real phrase."
"It is now. I just coined it."
I look back out the window. A beat passes.
"Maybe start with nonsense," I say quietly.
"Excellent choice. Strong leadership." He clears his throat, straightening theatrically. "So, first of all, Topper absolutely peaked in high school and everybody's just politely ignoring it."
I snort.
"Second," he continues, holding up two fingers, "if rich people insist on having giant parties on docks, there should be a waiver. Maybe a lifeguard. Definitely a sign that says no boat shoes after dark."
"Boat shoes after dark?"
"It's unnatural."
"You wore flip-flops."
"Yeah, because I'm honest about who I am."
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
He sees it and keeps going. "Third, and this one's big, I think Kelce might actually be two little guys in a collared shirt."
That gets me properly. I laugh, cover my mouth with my hand, then laugh again because once it starts it feels ridiculous and a little out of control and I can't help it.
JJ grins, pleased with himself. "Thank you. Finally. I've been saying that for years."
"No, you haven't."
"No, but I should've."
The laugh fades as quickly as it came, leaving behind that sore, hollow feeling in my chest. The kind that almost hurts worse after you've smiled because it reminds you how hard it was to get there.
JJ senses it immediately. Of course he does.
He lets the silence sit for a minute, lets the song on the radio change into another one, softer this time. Something old and scratchy and weirdly sad.
Then he says, careful but not too careful, "So. Captain Kook."
I go still.
Not visibly, I hope. But enough that I feel it happen inside me.
"JJ."
"I'm not doing a thing," he says quickly. "I'm just saying. That dude looked at me like he was deciding where to bury the body."
"That's dramatic."
"You're literally talking to me. Everything I do is dramatic."
I look down, tracing a crack in the dashboard with my eyes. "Maybe he just hates you."
"A lot of people hate me. Usually I know why, though."
He says it lightly, but something in me winces anyway.
Because that's JJ. He'll throw the truth into a joke so fast most people don't notice he said anything real at all.
He drums his thumb once against the wheel. "Look, I don't need details. Seriously. I just..."
He exhales through his nose and starts again.
"I know that look, okay?"
I turn toward him a little. "What look?"
He keeps his eyes on the road. "The one where somebody's got you all twisted up and you don't wanna say their name because then it becomes real."
My heart trips over itself.
For one dangerous second, I almost tell him.
It's right there, rising up fast and hot and desperate.
Rafe.
I can feel the shape of it in my mouth. The relief of it, maybe. Or maybe the ruin of it. I don't even know. I just know that if I say his name out loud in this truck, in the middle of this quiet road with JJ beside me and the night stretched open around us, something changes. Something becomes harder to take back.
I swallow.
My fingers curl tighter in my lap.
"It's not..." I start, then stop.
JJ doesn't look over. Doesn't rush to fill the silence.
That somehow makes it worse.
"It's complicated," I finish, and the second the words leave me, I hate them.
Complicated. Such a pathetic little word for something that's been eating holes in me.
JJ makes a face. "That's never a good sign."
"No."
"'Complicated' is what people say right before they make the worst decision of their lives or get a tattoo in a garage."
A small laugh escapes me. "You would know."
"Exactly. I'm experienced in both categories."
I fold one leg under me a little, turning toward the window again. The black water flashes between the trees as we pass an opening in the road. Moonlight on the marsh. A dock in the distance. Somebody's porch light glowing yellow through the dark.
Everything out here feels so quiet compared to where we just were.
It makes the inside of me feel louder.
JJ lowers his voice a little. "You don't have to tell me who it is."
My throat tightens.
He gives a short shrug like he's trying to make it sound casual, but I can hear the sincerity under it. "But he's an idiot."
I close my eyes.
Because there it is. Simple as that.
No big speech. No polished advice. Just blunt, immediate certainty.
He doesn't even know the half of it and he's still on my side.
Something hot pricks behind my eyes.
"You don't know that," I say, but it comes out thin.
"I absolutely know that."
"JJ."
"No, listen. If somebody gets you lookin' like this, they're an idiot. That part's easy."
I let my head rest against the cool glass of the window. "You make everything sound so simple."
"Not simple," he says. "Just obvious from the outside. Whole different thing."
That one settles somewhere deep.
Obvious from the outside.
I wonder what we would look like to other people if they knew. If anybody could line up the facts and see the shape of it without all the private moments blurring the edges. A boy who touches me like I matter when no one's looking. A boy who looks right through me when it counts.
A boy who says baby like it means something and then leaves me standing under string lights with another girl on his arm.
My eyes sting harder.
I blink fast and turn my face toward the dark so JJ won't see it. Stupid, because of course he notices anyway. He notices everything. He just has the decency not to call it out unless he has to.
"Hey," he says softly.
I shake my head once. "I'm okay."
"You're really committed to that lie."
A shaky breath slips out of me, almost a laugh. "It's all I've got right now."
That makes him glance over.
Just once. Quick. Long enough for me to see something shift in his face.
Not pity. Thank God.
Something gentler than that.
"Alright," he says. "Then we can work with that."
He reaches forward and fiddles with the radio until the volume nudges up a little, just enough to fill the silence without swallowing it. Then he drives another minute without saying anything, letting me breathe through the ache rising in my throat.
The road opens wider as we pass the marina. A line of boats rocks softly in the dark, white hulls ghostly under dock lights. Somewhere farther off, a dog barks. JJ drives slower than usual, slower than I've maybe ever seen him drive, one hand loose on the wheel as if the whole night has to be handled carefully or it'll crack the rest of the way open.
"Can I say something?" he asks finally.
"You usually don't wait for permission."
"True," he admits. "Growth."
That earns the tiniest smile out of me.
He nods once like he accepts that as his invitation. "Whoever this guy is... if he wants you, he should act like it."
My entire body goes still.
The truck keeps moving. The radio hums low. Outside, marsh grass bends under moonlight.
Inside me, everything pulls tight.
JJ keeps talking, probably because if he stopped now I'd either deny everything or cry, and he's smart enough to know that.
"I don't mean in, like, a weird caveman way," he says. "I mean if somebody's into you, they shouldn't make you guess all the time. They shouldn't make you feel like some secret shameful thing they've gotta hide in a closet. That's insane."
I laugh once at the closet line, but it breaks in the middle and comes out sounding wrong.
He notices. Again.
"You know what I mean," he says, quieter. "They should be proud. That's it. Proud to be seen with you. Proud to have you around. Proud enough to show you off a little."
I stare straight ahead.
My throat burns.
He keeps one hand on the wheel and points vaguely with the other, searching for words and not quite landing on elegant ones, which somehow makes it worse in the best way.
"Like, I don't know. He should want everybody to know. Should be actin' like, 'Yeah, that's her,' you know? Not makin' you feel like you gotta disappear every time somebody walks in the room."
I press my lips together hard.
Too late.
He goes on, voice rough with conviction now, awkward and earnest and so completely unlike the polished little reassurances Rafe gives me in private that I almost can't stand it.
"Honestly? He should be showin' you off like a princess."
That one hits so hard it feels physical.
I turn my face fully toward the window because if I don't, I'm going to break in half right there in the passenger seat.
Show you off like a princess.
Rafe would never say that.
Rafe would laugh at that phrase first, low and mean and amused, then drag me into his lap later and call me princess like a secret joke between us. Like something to be murmured against my skin when nobody else can hear it.
Not something meant for daylight.
Not something meant for roads and windows down and people knowing.
JJ says it like it's obvious. Like that's the bare minimum. Like being cherished out loud shouldn't be some impossible fantasy I only get to borrow in the dark.
My chest caves in around the truth of it.
I make a small sound before I can stop it.
Not quite a sob. Worse, somehow. Quieter. The kind of broken little inhale that gives everything away.
JJ's hand tightens on the steering wheel.
"Aw, hell," he mutters, immediately reaching down between the seats. "I got napkins. Probably. Maybe. Hold on."
He almost misses a turn because he's digging around one-handed, and despite the tears pressing behind my eyes, a startled laugh catches in my throat.
"JJ. Watch the road."
"I am watching the road. I'm multitasking emotionally."
He finally finds a crumpled stack of gas station napkins and thrusts them at me without fanfare. I take them, laughing wetly now, and that only makes my eyes burn more.
"These smell like gasoline," I say.
"Yeah, well, luxury transport costs extra."
I dab under my eyes carefully, trying not to fully lose it. Humiliating, crying in JJ Maybank's truck because he accidentally said exactly the thing I've been dying to hear from somebody who won't say it.
He doesn't stare. Doesn't tell me not to cry. Doesn't panic, exactly.
He just clears his throat and says, a little awkwardly, "For the record, if a guy's too stupid to show you off properly, that is a him problem. Not a you problem."
I swallow hard. "You don't even know what happened."
"Don't need a full report to know bad behavior when I see it." He shrugs. "I've been around men. Tragic group."
That gets another shaky laugh out of me.
He smiles a little at the road like he's relieved to hear it. "See? There she is."
I wipe under my eyes again, then bunch the napkin in my fist. "I'm sorry."
His head turns so fast I feel it before I see it. "For what?"
"I don't know. Being like this. Ruining your night."
"Okay, first of all, rude. My night wasn't that good to begin with." He flicks me a glance. "Second, don't start that. You didn't ruin anything."
I look down at the wrinkled napkin in my hand. "I just feel stupid."
He goes quiet for a second.
Not empty quiet. Thinking quiet.
Then he says, more serious than before, "Nah."
I let out a tiny humorless laugh. "Compelling argument."
"Thank you." He shifts in his seat. "No, but really. Stupid is me trying to jump Barry's dirt bike over a ditch when I was thirteen and landing in actual sewage. This isn't that."
Despite myself, I look over. "Actual sewage?"
"Whole thing. Horrific." He grimaces at the memory. "Point is, this isn't stupid."
I stare at him.
He shrugs again, but this time it's smaller. Less performative.
"It's hope," he says. "That's different."
The words knock something loose in me all over again.
Hope.
Such a soft word for something that can make you bleed this much.
I look away fast, jaw tightening.
He notices that too, because of course he does, but he leaves it alone. He doesn't reach over. Doesn't make it heavier by turning it into some big moment. He just lets the truck fill with low music and salt air and the sound of the tires on the road.
A few minutes pass before I realize we're almost to my side of the island.
The roads are quieter here. Smaller houses. Porch lights left on. Bikes tipped over in yards. Wind chimes somewhere in the dark. Everything feels more real than Tannyhill did. Less staged. Less polished. Easier to breathe inside.
JJ drums his fingers once against the wheel. "You wanna know my professional opinion?"
"You have one?"
"I have many. Most are bad, but this one's solid."
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and lean my head back again. "Fine."
"My professional opinion is that whoever he is, he doesn't get to have it both ways."
I go still again.
JJ keeps his tone matter-of-fact, like he's talking about tide charts or boat parts instead of the thing that's been hollowing me out from the inside.
"He doesn't get to keep you hidden and then act weird if somebody else treats you nice. That's psychotic."
My breath catches.
Because that's it.
That is it.
The whole ugly shape of the thing, reduced down into one sentence so plain it almost makes me angry.
Rafe doesn't get to keep me tucked away in private and then look at JJ like he's the problem for standing next to me in public.
He doesn't get to have both.
The fact that JJ can see that without even knowing the story makes my chest ache in a way I don't know what to do with.
"You're kinda intense for somebody driving fifteen under the speed limit," I say softly.
He grins, relieved maybe that I answered at all. "I'm versatile."
Then, quieter, he adds, "I'm serious, though."
I nod, because I don't trust my voice.
My house is coming up in a few minutes. I can feel it already, that strange mix of relief and dread that comes with a drive ending too soon. Because being alone means no more JJ filling the silence before it eats me alive. No more easy jokes. No more one-sided honesty that somehow still feels safer than most conversations I've had in weeks.
I hate that part of me doesn't want the truck to stop.
JJ turns onto my street and the headlights sweep across familiar yards and sleeping houses. He slows even more, if that's possible.
"You good to go inside by yourself?" he asks.
The question is careful, but not patronizing.
"Yeah," I say.
He doesn't look convinced, which is fair.
"I mean it," I add. "I'll just shower and sleep and be dramatic in private."
"Cool," he says. "Love that journey for you."
I smile.
He pulls up outside my house and leaves the truck idling. For a second neither of us moves.
The porch light is on. Everything inside looks dark and quiet.
Safe, technically.
I gather the crumpled napkins in my lap and make myself look over at him.
"Thanks," I say.
He shrugs, eyes on the windshield. "Yeah."
"No, seriously. For... all of it."
At that, he finally glances at me.
His expression does that thing it sometimes does when sincerity catches him off guard, like he doesn't quite know where to put it on his face.
"You don't gotta thank me for driving you home," he says.
"I know."
"Or for being charming and emotionally available."
I let out a quiet laugh. "That's not how I'd phrase it."
"That's because you fear honesty."
I smile, then look down at my hand on the door handle.
For a second I think that's where it ends.
Then JJ clears his throat.
"Hey."
I look back.
He leans one elbow against the wheel, expression lopsided but serious underneath it. "I meant what I said."
My chest tightens. "Which part?"
"All of it." He tips his head toward me. "You deserve somebody who's proud, alright? Somebody who acts like he's lucky to have you. Not just when it's convenient. Not just in private. All the time."
There it is again.
That awful, simple truth.
I feel it like a bruise.
JJ's mouth twitches like he's aware he's wandered too close to a real feeling and is trying not to make it weird. "And if he can't do that, then screw him. Metaphorically. Obviously. Don't actually. That's the opposite of what I'm saying."
A helpless laugh breaks out of me, wetter this time, and I shake my head.
"You're such an idiot."
"Yeah," he says softly. "But I'm right."
I don't answer.
Because he is.
And because hearing it from him hurts in a way hearing it from anyone else wouldn't. Not because I want JJ to be the one saying it. But because he says it like it's easy. Like love shouldn't come with humiliation built into it. Like care shouldn't feel like something you have to earn in the dark.
I open the door before I can start crying again.
Warm night air rushes in. Crickets. Distant water. The steady rattle of the truck engine.
I step out, then lean back in before closing the door. "Text me when you get home?"
He lifts a brow. "Wow. Look at you, getting clingy."
"JJ."
"Yeah, yeah. I will." His expression softens. "You too. Let me know you got inside."
"Okay."
I shut the door and step back onto the gravel. He waits until I'm on the porch before he shifts the truck into gear.
I can feel his headlights on my back as I unlock the door.
For one second, hand on the knob, I think about turning around and asking him to stay. Not come in. Not sit with me all night. Just stay long enough that the quiet doesn't hit so fast.
I don't.
Instead I go inside.
The house is dark. Still. Familiar in that way that only makes me feel lonelier right now.
I lock the door behind me and stand there in the entryway with my shoes still on, listening to JJ's truck idle outside for another second before finally pulling away.
The sound fades down the street.
And just like that, I'm alone with everything again.
But not quite in the same way I was before.
Because now JJ's words are here too, settling into all the places I'd been trying not to look too closely.
He should be proud.
He should want everybody to know.
He should act like he's lucky to have you.
I close my eyes.
Rafe's face flashes behind them immediately. Tense on the dock. Angry. Watching. Staying where he was.
Then JJ's voice again, rough and certain and painfully simple.
He doesn't get to have it both ways.
My throat tightens all over again.
Because that's the part I can't unknow now.
Not after tonight.
Not after sitting in a truck that smelled like gasoline and old fries while somebody who owed me nothing treated my hurt like it mattered.
I make it to my room, shut the door quietly behind me, and lean back against it in the dark.
The silence presses in.
On instinct, my hand goes to my phone.
I don't even know what I'm expecting. A message. Nothing. Everything.
The screen lights up in my palm.
And for one stupid, aching second, before I even really look, I already know which name I want to see.
That might be the worst part of all.
----
Rafe Cameron Pov
I see her leave.
That's the first thing that matters.
Not the music, not Topper talking in my ear about some boat and some guy's brother and whatever the hell else he's been saying for the last five minutes. Not Kelce laughing too loud at something that wasn't funny. Not the drink in my hand. Not the girl next to me who keeps touching my arm like that means something.
Just her.
She's walking away from the dock with Maybank at her side, and I know I should look away. I know it. I should drag my eyes somewhere else, say something back to Topper, act normal for ten damn seconds.
I don't.
I just stand there and watch her go.
The whole yard's loud as hell. Music rattling the deck boards, girls shrieking by the water, somebody already wasted enough to fall into the pool chair stack and take out half the setup. My house glows gold behind all of it, big and polished and fake-looking in that way it always does when people are over. Like if you back up far enough, it all turns into a postcard. Rich island night. Drinks on the dock. String lights. Cameron money.
Bullshit.
All of it.
Because right in the middle of all that polished, expensive crap, she's leaving with him.
And I'm standing here doing nothing.
Topper claps a hand against my shoulder and laughs at whatever he just said, and I swear to God I almost shrug him off hard enough to start a fight.
I don't, but it's close.
"You even listening to me?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, too quick.
It's automatic. Flat. Not even close to convincing.
Kelce snorts into his drink. "No, he wasn't."
I take a swallow of mine instead of answering. Something dark and cold burns down my throat. Whiskey, maybe. Doesn't matter. It could be gasoline and I probably wouldn't care.
Across the yard, I catch the last flash of her hair under the lights before she disappears past the hedges with JJ.
My grip tightens on the cup.
Topper follows my eyeline for half a second, then looks back at me. "You good, man?"
"I'm fine."
Again, too fast.
Everybody's getting real interested in whether I'm good tonight.
The girl at my side leans in, says something close to my ear that I don't catch. I smell her perfume first. Sweet and expensive and wrong. Her hand slides down my arm, nails grazing skin.
"What?" I snap before I can stop myself.
She blinks at me, thrown. "I just asked if you wanted another drink."
"I have one."
The words come out sharper than they need to. Her mouth tightens a little.
"Okay. Sorry."
Topper gives me a look.
I look away from all of them and out toward the road past the yard, even though I can't see anything from here now. Just dark hedges, the end of the driveway, the vague glow of headlights long gone.
JJ's truck is gone.
She's gone.
And that should piss me off in one clear, easy direction. Maybank with his hands all over her, Maybank making her laugh, Maybank looking at her like he had any right.
It does piss me off.
But that's not the worst part.
The worst part is her face right before she got in the truck.
She looked back.
At me.
And I stayed where I was.
I can still see the exact second something in her shut off.
That's the part I can't stop replaying.
Not JJ's hand at her back. Not the way he opened the door for her, all smug and easy. Not even the fact that she left with him while I stood here like an idiot with Topper and Kelce and some girl hanging off my arm.
No.
It's the look on her face.
She waited.
And I let her.
Then I did nothing.
The music changes, some louder song with too much bass and people start yelling like it's the greatest thing they've ever heard. Someone shoves past me hard enough to slosh my drink over my fingers.
"Watch it," I bite out.
The guy throws his hands up. "My bad, man."
My bad.
Everything tonight feels like that.
A bunch of almosts and not quites and things that wouldn't be a problem if everybody would just stop looking at me like they expect something.
I drain the rest of the drink and set the empty cup down too hard on the railing. It buckles, tips, falls through the gap into the water below.
"Jesus," Kelce mutters, laughing a little. "Okay."
"What?"
"Nothin', dude. You're just... wound up."
I look at him. Really look at him. He shuts up immediately.
Good.
Topper steps in before it goes anywhere. "Yo. Relax."
I bark out a laugh that isn't one. "I am relaxed."
"Sure."
The girl beside me shifts like she's reconsidering being here at all. Smart.
I drag a hand through my hair and look back toward the yard. There are people everywhere. A couple girls dancing near the speakers. Some guy from Figure Eight trying way too hard to start a chant. Sarah's not around, thank God. Ward's inside somewhere, probably pretending not to care that half the island's drinking on his property again.
Everything's moving. Loud. Bright.
And I feel like I'm standing dead center in it with my skin on inside out.
Topper leans his hip against the railing beside me. "What's your problem?"
I laugh under my breath and shake my head. "I don't have a problem."
"Okay, well, that's obviously bullshit."
"Drop it, Top."
He doesn't.
Of course he doesn't.
"Is this about that dude from earlier?" he asks. "Maybank say somethin' to you?"
My jaw tightens so fast it hurts.
Kelce perks up immediately like a dog hearing the word fight. "Maybank? What'd he do?"
"Nothing," I say.
Topper studies me for a second, too long. He's not stupid, no matter how much he acts like it. He notices things when he wants to.
"Then why are you acting like you wanna kill somebody?"
I shouldn't answer.
I know that.
Instead I shrug, all sharp edges and no control. "Maybe I do."
Kelce lets out a short laugh like that's funny.
It isn't.
The girl touches my arm again, lighter this time. Careful. "Rafe, seriously, do you want me to get you some water or something?"
I yank my arm away before I can think better of it.
"Can you stop doing that?"
Silence.
Not from the party. That's still roaring all around us. But in this little pocket right here, it drops.
Her face flushes. Topper looks at me like I've officially become a pain in his ass.
"Okay," she says, taking a step back. "Wow."
I rub a hand over my mouth.
I should say something. Sorry, maybe. Anything.
I don't.
Because if I open my mouth right now, I don't trust what's gonna come out.
Topper watches her stalk off toward the house, then turns back to me slowly. "Dude."
"What?"
"What is wrong with you?"
I laugh again, quieter this time, and look out at the water.
What isn't.
The answer's so big I can't even get near it.
Because this isn't just jealousy. If it was just jealousy, I could deal with that. Easy. Anger I understand. Possessive, ugly, mean, whatever. That I know what to do with. I can shove it down, drink over it, punch something, go for a drive, pick a fight. There's a shape to anger.
This feels worse.
This feels like losing control of something I never had the right to ask for in the first place.
She left.
Not just the party.
She left me there.
And somewhere under all the rage clawing around in my chest is the sick realization that maybe she meant it. Maybe tonight finally cut deep enough. Maybe she looked at me standing there with that girl hanging off me and Topper at my shoulder and all my bullshit lined up in a neat row, and maybe she got tired.
I could handle her being mad.
I couldn't handle her being finished.
"Rafe."
Topper's voice pulls me back. "What?"
"I said, you wanna go inside?"
"No."
"Then at least stop glaring at the driveway like it's gonna apologize to you."
Kelce laughs again, but it dies fast when I look at him.
Topper lowers his voice. "If this is about some girl, just say that."
My whole body goes tight.
Too fast. Too obvious.
Topper sees it immediately.
"Jesus Christ," he says under his breath, half disbelieving. "It is."
"No, it isn't."
"Rafe."
"I said no."
The words crack out harder than I mean them to.
Topper's brows go up. "Alright. Calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down."
Kelce lifts both hands. "Okay, man. Nobody's telling you anything."
I shove off the railing so abruptly the boards kick under my feet. For one second I think about walking. Just leaving them there and heading straight for my truck, or the road, or nowhere. Somewhere I don't have to keep pretending this night hasn't gotten under my skin.
But that would look like exactly what it is.
So I stop.
I drag another cup off the tray a guy's carrying past and pour half a bottle of something into it before he can even protest.
"Whoa, easy," he says.
I look at him.
He shuts up and keeps moving.
Topper stares at the cup in my hand. "That your plan?"
"Do you have a better one?"
"Yeah," he says. "Not acting insane in front of half the island."
I take a long swallow.
It burns all the way down, harsher than the first one. Good. Let it.
Maybe if I drink enough it'll dull the image of her standing by Maybank's truck looking back at me like she was giving me one last shot.
Maybe it'll shut off the way my chest tightened when I saw JJ's hand at her waist.
Maybe it'll stop me from thinking about how easy he looked with her. Open. Uncomplicated. Right there in front of everybody.
I hate him for that.
I hate him for touching her.
I hate him more for making her laugh.
But what I really hate, the thing sitting underneath all the obvious reasons, is that Maybank gets to be public without even trying.
He gets to stand next to her in the light.
And me?
I get shadows. Closed doors. Half-finished sentences. Quick kisses when nobody's home. Her looking at me like she's asking for one thing I keep failing to give.
The second thought hits, I shut it down so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
No.
I'm not doing that.
I'm not standing on my own dock getting sentimental because a girl got in another guy's truck.
Topper's still watching me.
"Say something," he says.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "About what?"
"About why you're acting like Maybank personally shot your dog."
Kelce snorts.
I smile without humor. "Maybe I just can't stand him."
"You've always hated him. This is different."
"No, it isn't."
"Yeah," Topper says, "it is."
I look away before he sees too much.
He always thinks he knows more than he does. Usually he's wrong.
Tonight, maybe not.
The girl comes back eventually, because of course she does. Different drink in hand now, expression careful, like she's approaching a stray dog that already bit her once.
"Hey," she says. "You wanna maybe go down by the beach? It's getting crowded up here."
I stare at her for a second.
Pretty. Easy. Convenient. Any other night, maybe.
Tonight her voice feels like static.
"No."
She blinks. "Okay."
Then, because apparently I'm determined to make this as ugly as possible, I add, "Go hang out with somebody else."
Topper closes his eyes briefly. "Jesus, man."
Her face hardens. "You know what? Fine."
She turns and heads toward the house in a stiff little storm of hair and perfume. Good.
I don't want her near me.
I don't want any of them near me.
I want to go back about twenty minutes and do the one thing I didn't do.
Move.
Just move.
Cross the damn dock. Grab her hand. Tell Topper to screw off, let everybody look, let them think whatever they want for one second longer than I usually can stand, and stop her before she got in that truck.
The thought is so immediate, so violent in its clarity, that I actually set the cup down before I crush it.
Topper notices that too.
"Alright," he says slowly. "Seriously now. What the hell is goin' on?"
"Nothing."
"Rafe."
"What do you want me to say?"
He throws a hand out toward me. "Maybe the truth?"
I laugh in his face.
Not because it's funny.
Because the truth would tear this whole night open.
The truth is I've been sneaking around like a damn teenager because every time she looks at me like I'm worth something, I forget how to act right.
The truth is I told her to be cool tonight because I couldn't deal with the risk of people seeing what was already slipping through the cracks.
The truth is I watched her dance with Maybank and felt something so ugly rip through me I thought I might actually black out for a second.
The truth is I was gonna go after her.
I just didn't do it fast enough.
And now she's gone.
"Nothing," I say again, quieter this time.
Topper studies me, jaw tight. "You're full of shit."
"Yeah?" I mutter. "Get in line."
For a second that shuts him up.
The music blares on. Somebody jumps off the end of the dock. Water splashes. A whole group of girls starts screaming and laughing like this is the best night of their lives.
I feel sick.
I grab my phone out of my pocket and unlock it without thinking.
Nothing.
No text.
Of course not. Why the hell would there be one?
I stare at the screen anyway, thumb hovering, then lock it again.
Kelce catches the motion. "You waiting on somebody?"
"No."
"You're so bad at lying tonight," Topper says.
I look at him and all the irritation that's been pacing inside me since she left spikes sharp enough to cut.
"You wanna keep doing this?" I ask quietly.
Topper straightens. He knows that tone. "Doing what?"
"Whatever the hell this is."
Kelce takes one smart step backward.
Topper exhales through his nose. "I'm trying to help you, man."
"Didn't ask you to."
"Right. Because you never ask anybody for anything, do you?"
That lands harder than he means it to, and I hate him for it immediately.
I look away from him, out toward the dark road again. Empty.
She's not coming back.
That's the thing my brain keeps refusing and then circling back to like it can wear the truth down by repetition.
She's not coming back tonight. Not to this dock. Not because I text. Not because I call. Not because I stand here staring at the place Maybank's truck disappeared like I'm gonna drag it back with my mind.
And if she's sitting in that truck right now with her face turned to the window and him talking low, making her laugh through the hurt of it, then that's on me.
Nobody else.
Me.
I press my tongue hard against the inside of my cheek.
Topper says something else. I don't hear it.
I keep seeing JJ's hand at her waist.
Not even for long. Just a second. Steadying her.
But that's all it takes. My brain takes that one second and stretches it mean on purpose.
JJ touching her.
JJ getting her out of there.
JJ being the one she left with.
My stomach twists so hard it feels like a hit.
"I gotta piss," Kelce announces to nobody, then disappears toward the house like the coward he is.
Good.
Topper stays.
Of course he does.
He leans on the railing beside me again, quieter now. Less confrontational. "Did Maybank do something?"
I don't answer.
"Rafe."
"No."
"Then why do you look like you wanna put his head through a wall?"
Because he got to walk her out.
Because she smiled at something he said.
Because she got in his truck instead of waiting for me.
Because for one second, standing out there under the lights, she looked more at peace next to him than she has looked with me all night.
I take a breath, slow and useless.
"You ever just get sick of somebody's face?" I say.
Topper laughs once under his breath. "Yeah. Yours, right now."
Normally that would've gotten something out of me. A smirk, maybe. A shove. Tonight I barely register it.
He sees that too. Great.
"Dude," he says, more serious now. "If this is some girl thing, don't do anything stupid."
I look at him.
He must hear it the second he says it, how pointless that sounds coming from him to me, because his mouth flattens.
"Alright," he corrects. "Don't do anything stupider."
I bark out a laugh despite myself. Short. Mean. Real enough to count.
"There he is," Topper mutters.
But I'm not really there.
Not all the way.
Part of me is still out by the road.
Part of me is in that last look she gave me.
Part of me is already three steps ahead, reaching for my phone again even though I know I should wait. Cool off. Let it breathe. Don't make it worse.
I am not built for that.
I look down at the screen in my hand and unlock it one more time.
Still nothing.
Something hot flashes through me so fast it leaves my ears ringing.
Fine.
If she's done answering with her eyes, I'll make her answer another way.
I open our messages.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
You left.
Too accusing.
Where are you?
Too obvious.
Answer me.
Too much.
Every version of it sounds wrong and I hate that, too.
Because I don't know how to say what this actually is.
I don't know how to text, I couldn't breathe watching you walk away with him.
I don't know how to say I was angry because I was scared and then I got angrier because I stayed put and you saw me do it.
So instead I lock the phone again so hard my thumb slips.
Topper watches the whole thing out of the corner of his eye.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That's what I thought."
I don't even ask what he means.
I know.
The worst part is, under all the anger, under all the jealousy and humiliation and possessive crap clawing around in my chest, there's something smaller and uglier.
Fear.
Real fear.
Because if she was just mad, I can fix mad.
I've fixed mad before. One look, one touch, one apology in the right tone and she melts just enough to let me back in.
But done?
Done is different.
Done leaves.
Done doesn't wait.
Done gets in Maybank's truck and doesn't look back again.
I stare out into the dark where the road disappears past the hedges and feel it settle, cold and sick, right under my ribs.
Tonight might've been the first time she stopped waiting for me.
And if that's true, I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with it.
I just know I can't stand here much longer pretending I'm not about to go after her.
Warnings: jealousy/possessiveness, public confrontation, unwanted touching, humiliation, and emotional distress.
Summary: Before Mattheo’s Quidditch match, a soft, intimate morning turns tense when his possessive streak shows over not wearing his jersey. In the stands, playful banter with Pansy is interrupted by an unwanted advance from another student, causing Mattheo to react publicly and harshly. His accusation leaves Y/N humiliated and hurt, and she walks away before the match is even over.
A/n: I saw something similar to this YEARS ago and I genuinely can’t find the author. If anyone knows please let me know so I can give some credit..
Morning light spilled through the tall windows of Mattheo’s dorm, turning everything soft and gold. It caught on the green and silver curtains, the pile of clothes dumped across the floor, and the polished handle of his broom leaning against the wall. The room smelled like his cologne and old parchment, mixed with the sugary scent of the breakfast pastries we’d nicked before sneaking out of the Great Hall early.
I stood in front of the mirror beside his dresser, carefully tying a green bow into my hair. I tilted my head from side to side, checking it sat properly.
It was perfect.
Not too obvious, but obvious enough.
Subtle enough that no one could take the piss too much, but still clear enough that everyone at the match would know exactly who I was supporting.
Slytherin.
And Mattheo.
Behind me, I heard the rustle of sheets and the creak of the bed as Mattheo moved around the room, already halfway dressed for the match. When I glanced at him through the mirror, he was standing at the end of his bed in his uniform trousers and a tight dark shirt, rolling his shoulders before stretching his arms above his head.
The fabric pulled across his back and arms as he moved, all lean muscle and effortless confidence. He was probably just warming up before Quidditch, but with Mattheo, it always felt intentional. Like he knew exactly what he looked like and enjoyed seeing if I’d get distracted by it.
Which, annoyingly, I did.
Which, honestly, was probably part of the plan.
His eyes caught mine in the mirror, and a small smirk pulled at his mouth. "You keep staring at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking you don't want me to leave for the pitch."
I let out a quiet laugh as I adjusted the ribbon one last time. "Maybe I don't," I admitted.
That made him grin properly, the kind that started slow before taking over his whole face, and for a second he stopped moving completely. He just looked at me.
Not casually either.
It was that look. The one that always made my chest feel weirdly tight and too warm at the same time. Like there wasn’t anywhere else in the world he wanted to be. Like out of everything he could’ve been looking at, I was still his favourite.
Then his gaze dropped to my outfit, and his smile faded into this dramatic look of offense. "You're seriously not wearing my jersey?"
I smiled to myself, already knowing that was coming. "No," I said simply.
He groaned, dragged a hand over his face, then dropped onto the edge of the bed. "You've gotta be joking."
I turned to look at him properly, trying not to laugh at how genuinely betrayed he looked. "Mattheo."
"I gave you my jersey," he reminded me.
"I know you did," I said.
His stare sharpened a little. "And you're still not wearing it."
I reached for my jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it over my shoulders carefully. "Because I wanna show Pansy my new jacket," I explained.
For a second he just stared at me. Then he leaned back slightly, brows lifting. "So your jacket wins over me?"
"It's not winning over you," I said, laughing now. "I just haven't worn it yet, and I told her I'd show her."
He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on the green bow, the jacket, then lifting back to my face. His expression softened for a second, like he couldn't help admiring me anyway, but there was still that possessive little glint in his eyes. "I still think you should wear my jersey."
I walked closer, stopping between his knees where he sat on the bed. "Why?" I asked.
His hands found my waist instantly, like they belonged there, like they always would. He looked up at me with the smallest pout. "Because I like when people know you're mine."
The words sent warmth all through me, hot and fluttery and impossible to ignore. "Mattheo," I said softly, even though I was smiling.
He only looked at me more intently, his voice lower now. "What? I do."
His thumbs brushed over the sides of my waist through the jacket, slow and absentminded, but his eyes stayed fixed on mine. "Everyone's gonna be looking at you today," he murmured. "You could at least wear my name on your back."
I melted a little at that. He said things like that so casually sometimes, like he didn't even realize how badly they affected me. I touched the front of his shirt, smoothing a wrinkle that didn't need smoothing. "I'm literally wearing Slytherin green for you."
He gave a tiny shake of his head. "Not the same."
I smiled and reminded him, "I put a bow in my hair for you."
His eyes flicked up to it, and something soft passed over his face. He reached up, brushing his fingers gently over the ribbon like he couldn't help it. "You did?"
I nodded. "For Slytherin and for you."
That quieted him for a moment. His expression changed completely, all the teasing and fake offense fading into something warmer, something deeper. He looked at me like I'd handed him something precious. "You're cute," he murmured.
I smiled. "You were complaining two seconds ago."
"I can complain and still think you're the prettiest girl at Hogwarts," he said.
"That sounds biased," I teased.
His mouth curved. "It is biased. I don't care."
I laughed softly, and he used the moment to tug me a little closer until my legs brushed his. My hands settled on his shoulders automatically, and I could feel the solid warmth of him beneath my palms.
"You know," I said, "if I'd worn the jersey, Pansy would've complained that I'm predictable."
"Pansy can deal with it," he replied.
"She wants to see the jacket," I insisted.
His grip on my waist stayed warm and steady. "I want you in my jersey."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you jealous of a jacket?"
He tilted his head, pretending to think about it. "Maybe."
That made me laugh again, the sound filling the room in a way that made his whole expression soften. He loved when I laughed. I knew he did. I could always tell by the way he looked at me after, like he'd managed to pull something bright and private out of me just for him.
"You're ridiculous," I told him.
His answer came easy and confident. "And you love me."
The answer came so naturally it didn't even make me pause. "I do," I said.
For a second, everything in the room seemed to still.
His eyes searched my face, and even though we'd said it before, there was always something about the quiet way it landed between us that made my heart race all over again. Like it was new every time. Like he still couldn't believe I meant it, even when I always did.
His hands tightened on my waist just slightly. Softer this time, he said, "Say it again."
I smiled down at him, brushing my fingers into his hair where it curled messily at the front. "I love you."
The look he gave me then nearly undid me completely. It was so open, so full, so unguarded that I forgot how to breathe for a second. "Yeah?" he whispered.
"Yeah," I answered.
He leaned forward until his forehead rested against my stomach for just a second, like he needed the closeness, like he needed a moment to hold the words somewhere inside him. Then he looked back up, his expression softer than before. "I love you more," he said.
I laughed quietly. "That's not how it works."
"It does for me," he insisted.
I smiled and shook my head. "You don't get to decide that."
"I do, actually." He stood then, all at once, and the sudden movement made me catch my breath. He was so close now that I had to tilt my head back to keep looking at him. One of his hands slid to the small of my back, drawing me against him with an ease that made my pulse skip. "Because you're mine," he said, his voice low and teasing, but with just enough seriousness under it to make me blush.
I looked up at him, trying and failing to keep my expression steady. "Possessive today, are we?"
"Today's a match day," he said simply, like that explained everything. "I'm allowed."
I laughed, but it came out softer than I meant it to.
His gaze dropped to my lips, then lifted back to my eyes. "Tell me one more time you won't wear the jersey."
"I'm not wearing the jersey," I whispered.
He sighed dramatically, but his mouth curved. "Cruel."
I smiled and counted it off for him. "I'm wearing the bow."
"Mm," he hummed.
"And the jacket," I went on.
"Unfortunately," he muttered.
"And I'm still cheering for you," I finished.
That made him smile for real. "You better be loud about it too."
"I always am," I promised.
"Good." His fingers traced lightly over the edge of my jacket collar. "Want everyone hearing your voice when I score."
The confidence in the way he said it made me grin. "When you score?"
"Not if," he corrected.
I laughed under my breath. "Cocky."
"Only because I know you'll be watching me," he said.
I shook my head, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. "You are impossible."
His grin turned lazy. "And you still left breakfast early with me."
"Maybe because I like you," I teased.
He leaned in a little, his nose brushing mine. "Like me?"
"Maybe love you a little too," I whispered.
His brows lifted. "A little?"
I laughed under my breath, but before I could say anything else, he kissed me.
It was soft at first, warm and slow, the kind of kiss that felt like a secret even in daylight. My hands slid up to his chest, bunching slightly in his shirt as I kissed him back, and he let out the faintest hum against my lips like he'd been waiting for it all morning.
Then his hand at my back pressed me just a little closer.
Not enough to rush me. Never that.
Just enough to say stay here.
Just enough to say mine.
I melted into him instantly, my other hand slipping into his hair as his lips moved against mine more deeply now, still sweet, still careful, but with that familiar possessive edge that always made my stomach flip. He kissed me like he adored me, like he was proud of me, like he couldn't quite believe he got to have this.
When we pulled apart, it wasn't by much. His forehead rested against mine, and both of us were smiling in that quiet, helpless way people did when they were far too gone for each other.
"You're gonna ruin my lip gloss," I murmured.
"Wear less," he said at once.
I pulled back just enough to give him a look. "That's your solution?"
"Yeah." He kissed me once more, quick and sweet this time. "Or kiss me more so it doesn't matter."
I laughed, and he smiled at the sound like it was his favorite reward.
"You know," I said, tracing the collar of his shirt with my fingers, "for someone so desperate for me to wear his jersey, you're being very distracting."
"Good," he said. "Maybe you'll stay and miss the match."
I smiled despite myself. "That makes no sense."
"It does if you stay here with me for another ten minutes," he replied.
I tipped my head back to look at him properly. "You have to go be all impressive and athletic now, remember?"
He groaned softly, dropping his head to my shoulder for a second. "I'd rather stay here with you."
That alone would have made my heart burst, but then he lifted his head and looked at me with that same unbearably sincere expression again. "I mean it," he said quietly. "Best part of my morning was getting you to myself before everyone else did."
The words wrapped around me so tightly that I had no defense left at all. I touched his cheek gently, brushing my thumb beneath his eye. "You have me all the time," I whispered.
"I know," he said. "Still doesn't feel like enough sometimes."
I didn't think I'd ever loved him more than I did in that moment.
So I kissed him again.
This time, I started it.
I rose onto my toes and kissed him before he could say anything else that might’ve completely ruined me.
The second my lips touched his, he smiled against my mouth, soft and immediate, like he’d been waiting for me to do that all morning. His hands found my waist almost instantly, pulling me closer without even thinking about it. One stayed steady at my side while the other slid up my back, warm and certain.
Mattheo always held me like that. Never rough, never careless. Just sure of me. Like once he had me close, he didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.
I melted into him as the kiss deepened, slow at first, warm and lingering in a way that made everything else around us disappear. My fingers curled into the front of his shirt as he pulled me closer, until there wasn’t any space left between us at all.
And somehow, even then, it still didn’t feel close enough.
The kiss turned softer after that, quieter. The kind that felt dangerous only because of how much it meant. Every time he kissed me, it felt like he was trying not to say something out loud. Like he was holding back feelings too big for either of us to joke away.
When we finally pulled apart, it was only enough to breathe.
His hand was still resting at my waist, thumb brushing once against my side before he looked down at me with the most unfairly smug smile I’d ever seen.
Like he knew exactly what that kiss had done to me.
Then he brushed his nose against mine, still holding me close, and murmured, "There. Now you definitely smell like me too."
I rolled my eyes, even though I was blushing. "That was your plan?"
"Part of it," he admitted.
I huffed a laugh. "You're insane."
His grin only widened. "And you're still in love with me."
"Unfortunately," I said.
"Liar," he replied.
I smoothed down the front of his shirt, then fixed his collar properly because if I didn't, he'd absolutely walk out looking unfairly handsome and slightly disheveled on purpose.
"Fine," I said. "I won't wear the jersey."
"Tragic," he muttered.
"But I'll be in the stands wearing your colors, your favorite bow, and this very important jacket Pansy needs to see," I told him.
He considered that, then reached up and gently adjusted the ribbon himself, his fingertips lingering near my hair. "All right," he said at last. "But sit where I can see you."
I smiled at him fondly. "Mattheo."
"I'm serious," he said.
"I always sit where you can see me," I reminded him.
His expression softened again, affectionate and a little smug. "I know."
Then he leaned down and kissed me one last time.
Soft. Certain. The kind of kiss that felt more like a promise than anything else.
His hand stayed at my waist while he held me there for those few extra seconds, and I could feel everything he wasn’t saying out loud in the way he touched me. Mattheo had never been good at talking about feelings, but sometimes he looked at me like he didn’t need to.
When he pulled back, his hand stayed at my waist. "Good," he murmured. "Now everybody can look at you all they want. They still get to know you're coming back to me after the match."
I felt my whole face warm, but I smiled anyway as I reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt one last time. "Win for me," I whispered.
His eyes never left mine when he answered, "Always do."
-----
Pansy and I were wedged into the Slytherin stands high above the pitch, the wind tugging at our hair and scarves as the noise of the crowd rose around us in waves.
Below, the match was already rough.
Brooms cut through the air at impossible speeds, green and silver flashing across the pitch while Madam Hooch’s whistle kept shrieking every few minutes over some foul or near miss. The whole stadium felt alive, full of shouting, stomping, and chanting, but up here in the stand towers, tucked slightly back from the loudest part of the crowd, it felt like our own little corner of chaos.
Pansy leaned against the rail beside me, her dark hair somehow still perfectly in place despite the wind, and kept her eyes fixed on the pitch. Draco streaked past one of the hoops below, and she smiled in that smug little way she got whenever he did literally anything.
"God," Pansy muttered as she watched him. "He looks fit when he’s angry."
I snorted. "That’s deeply concerning."
Pansy did not look remotely ashamed. "It’s true. Actually, he looks even better when he’s angry."
I laughed and glanced down toward the players again, just in time to spot Mattheo swerving hard around a Chaser. His dark uniform was tight across his shoulders, and he looked fast, sharp, and unfairly good at everything.
Annoyingly, Pansy noticed exactly where my eyes landed.
Pansy’s lips curled into a grin. "You cannot even pretend to judge me when you’re dating that."
I tried to keep my expression neutral and failed. "I’m not judging."
Pansy gave me a look. "No, you’re just staring."
I lifted a shoulder. "I am watching the match."
Pansy laughed softly. "You are watching your boyfriend."
I glanced at her and said, "Same difference."
That made Pansy laugh harder.
"Oh, please," Pansy said, looking back down at the pitch. "If Draco looked like that and wasn’t useful, maybe I’d be normal about it. Unfortunately for everyone, he’s talented in more ways than one."
I nearly choked. "Pansy."
She only shrugged, still looking smug. "What? We’re both thinking it."
I looked at her in disbelief. "I was actually thinking about Quidditch."
Pansy finally turned to face me. "You are dating Mattheo Riddle, and you expect me to believe you’ve ever had a pure thought in your life?"
I laughed despite myself. "You’re insufferable."
Pansy smiled sweetly. "And yet I’m not incorrect."
I looked back out over the pitch, trying and failing to hide my smile. "You’re one to talk. Every time Draco flies past, you look like you need a chaperone."
Pansy pressed a hand to her chest. "That is unbelievably rude. Slightly fair, but still rude."
I gave her a pointed look. "You just implied he’s talented in bed while standing in a school tower."
Pansy grinned. "I implied nothing. I said exactly what I meant."
I groaned. "Oh my God."
Pansy looked delighted with herself. "What? At least I’m honest. You go all quiet and stare into the middle distance like Mattheo hasn’t ruined you for every other man."
My jaw dropped. "You need to be exorcised."
Pansy laughed so hard she had to grab the railing. "That is not a denial, by the way."
Heat rushed to my face. "I hate you."
Pansy shook her head. "No, you don’t. You just hate that I’m right."
I folded my arms and looked down at the pitch again. "Fine. Draco’s fit. Happy?"
Pansy looked very pleased. "Very. And, for the record, his tongue..."
I cut her off immediately. "Absolutely not. Finish that sentence, and I’m throwing you off this tower myself."
Pansy gasped in mock offence. "I was going to say his tongue gets him out of trouble."
I turned and stared at her.
Pansy smiled sweetly and added, "Among other things."
I made a strangled noise and turned back to the match. "You are vile."
Pansy nudged my arm. “And you’re blushing again",
“I’m cold,” I said way too fast.
Pansy lifted an eyebrow. “It’s May.”
I stared straight ahead. “There’s wind.”
“The memories, more like.”
I let out a horrified laugh and shoved her shoulder while she practically folded in on herself laughing beside me. My face only got hotter, which obviously made everything worse.
For a moment, we stood there in easy silence, the sounds of the game swelling beneath us, until Pansy turned and looked me over properly.
Her eyes narrowed. "Wait," Pansy said.
I smiled at once. "You noticed."
Pansy caught the sleeve of my jacket and tugged me slightly closer so she could inspect it. "This is the new one?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
It was dark green with silver detailing along the edges, fitted properly at the waist, and far nicer than anything practical enough for a Quidditch match had any right to be. I had been waiting for the perfect excuse to wear it, and there was no chance I was missing Pansy’s reaction.
She ran her fingers over the front and gave me an approving look. "All right," Pansy said. "This is gorgeous."
"I told you," I said.
Pansy’s mouth twitched. "It’s very you," she said. Then her expression turned knowing. "Mattheo sulked about it, didn’t he?"
I looked back at the pitch. "He wanted me in his jersey," I admitted.
"Of course he did," Pansy said at once.
I let out a quiet breath. "He acted like I had personally betrayed him."
Pansy laughed, low and knowing. "Draco does the same thing," she said. "They’re all insane."
I smiled despite myself.
Then Pansy leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice into the kind of tone that meant she was about to say something foul.
"Still," Pansy said, "if I were sleeping with Mattheo Riddle, I suppose I would let him be possessive too."
I choked on my own breath and turned to stare at her. "Pansy," I said sharply.
She blinked at me with wide, innocent eyes. "What?" Pansy asked.
Heat crawled into my face. "You’re disgusting," I muttered.
Pansy lifted one brow. "And?"
I shot her a look. "And loud."
Her grin only widened. "I’m also right," Pansy said.
I should have ignored her.
Instead, I made the mistake of laughing.
That was all the encouragement Pansy needed.
She turned to me with a glint in her eye and asked, "So? Is he actually any good, or does he just rely on brooding and a sharp jawline to get away with everything?"
I gave her a warning look. "Pansy."
"Oh, please," Pansy said, waving one hand dismissively. "You know everything about me and Draco."
I let out a quiet laugh and looked back towards the pitch. "That is entirely against my will."
Pansy tilted her head, dark eyes full of amusement. "And yet you never stop listening," she pointed out.
"Maybe because you never stop talking," I said, trying to keep the smile out of my voice and failing.
"Mm. Fair enough," Pansy said. She folded her arms across her chest, then turned to look at me properly. "Well?"
I hesitated.
It only lasted a second, but it was enough.
Pansy's eyes widened with theatrical delight. "Oh my God," she said.
I lowered my voice at once. "Stop that."
Pansy leaned a little closer, as if she were about to uncover state secrets instead of gossiping in the stands. "He is good," she said, looking far too pleased with herself.
I glanced at her, horrified. "You are unbearable."
"That good?" Pansy pressed.
I pressed my lips together and said nothing. Heat climbed steadily into my cheeks, which only made her expression turn downright wicked.
"Merlin," Pansy breathed. "I knew it."
I dragged a hand over my face for a moment. "You are impossible," I muttered.
Pansy let out a delighted laugh. "Draco's very good too, for the record," she said.
I looked at her flatly. "I did not ask."
"No," Pansy replied, completely unbothered, "but as girls, we share."
I frowned at her. "That is not a rule."
"It is for us," Pansy said at once.
I let out a quiet groan, but she was already continuing.
"He's annoyingly smug about it as well," Pansy went on. "Like he knows exactly what he's doing. Which, unfortunately, he does."
I kept my eyes fixed on the match, trying very hard not to laugh and even harder not to picture Draco Malfoy at all. That became nearly impossible when Pansy kept speaking in that maddeningly thoughtful tone of hers.
"And Theo," she began, narrowing her eyes as though she were making a serious academic observation, "definitely seems like he'd be..."
I turned to her immediately. "Pansy."
She blinked at me with exaggerated innocence. "What? I'm making observations."
"You're making problems," I told her.
That only made her grin.
"Fine," Pansy said. "Back to your boyfriend. Is he sweet after, or is he still completely insufferable?"
My face warmed all over again.
That, apparently, was answer enough.
Pansy put one hand dramatically to her chest. "Oh, that's somehow worse," she said.
I laughed despite myself and shook my head. "Can you focus on the match for five seconds?"
Pansy gave me a pointed look. "Can you? Because you've gone pink."
I folded my arms and stared firmly ahead, which only made Pansy look more pleased with herself.
Before I could answer, someone stepped up beside us.
"Well," a male voice said lightly, "now I'm curious."
Pansy and I both turned.
A boy I vaguely recognised from Ravenclaw was standing there with a self-satisfied smile, one hand tucked into his pocket like he thought he was effortlessly charming. He was tall, with blond-brown hair, broad shoulders, and the sort of smug expression that was irritating on sight.
When I only blinked at him, he said, "Crispin Vale. In case you were wondering."
Pansy didn't even hesitate. "I wasn't," she said flatly.
Crispin ignored her completely and looked at me instead. His gaze dipped briefly to my jacket before he smiled again. "Nice jacket," he said.
"Thanks," I said shortly, already turning back towards the pitch.
That should've been the end of it.
It wasn't.
"So," Crispin went on, leaning against the rail beside me like he'd been invited, "are you here with anyone, or can I steal you after the match?"
I didn't even look at him. "No," I said.
Crispin gave a quiet laugh. "No, you're here with someone, or no, I can't steal you?"
Pansy snorted beside me.
I kept my eyes fixed on the game below. "Take whichever answer hurts your feelings more," I told him.
He laughed like I was flirting back.
I wasn't.
Below us, the game had shifted again. Blaise cut sharply across the pitch, Draco was shouting something I couldn't quite make out over the roar of the crowd, and Mattheo was flying harder now, faster and rougher, already on edge from the way he kept throwing himself into every play.
Crispin still hadn't left.
He rested one forearm on the rail and said, "I could take you to Hogsmeade next weekend. Somewhere nicer than this, yeah?"
I said nothing.
When I didn't respond, he tried again. "Or just a walk by the lake," Crispin said. "You look like you'd be worth the trouble."
I exhaled slowly through my nose and deliberately ignored him.
Beside me, Pansy had gone very still in that dangerous way she did right before she became cruel.
But before either of us could say anything, I looked forward again, and my stomach dropped.
Mattheo was staring straight at the stands.
Straight at me.
No. Not just me.
At us.
Even from that distance, I could see the way his jaw had locked tight. His whole expression had gone dark, sharp with irritation, the kind that never stayed contained for long. One of the other players shouted something at him as a Quaffle flew past, but he barely reacted. His attention had narrowed completely, fixed on the tower, on me, on the boy standing far too close at my side.
A second later, Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked through the air.
"Riddle!" she shouted from somewhere below. "Play fair or you're off!"
Mattheo gave a visible scoff and shook his head once, like he couldn't quite believe he was the one being warned. But his eyes came right back to us.
To me.
To Crispin.
To the space between us that clearly wasn't wide enough for his liking.
Crispin followed my line of sight and let out a quiet laugh. "Merlin," he said, sounding amused. "What a dick."
I turned sharply, finally ready to tell him exactly where he could go, but before I got the words out, he slid his arm around my shoulders.
I froze.
It happened so quickly that for a second I couldn't even react. My whole body went stiff beneath his touch.
Pansy did not hesitate.
"Get the fuck off her," Pansy snapped.
Then a loud crack split through the air.
The sound was so sudden and violent that the entire crowd seemed to gasp at once. A bludger had ricocheted off one of the hoops with a sickening snap before slamming down towards the lower part of the pitch.
My heart jumped into my throat.
And then Mattheo was there.
He flew up to the stands so fast it barely looked controlled. His broom jerked to a hard stop beside the tower, close enough that the sudden rush of air whipped at my hair and jacket. His eyes were blazing now, burning with something far worse than simple annoyance.
"Don't touch my girl!" Mattheo shouted.
His voice cut through everything.
The noise of the crowd. The wind tearing through the stands. Even the frantic pounding of my own heart.
For one horrible second, it felt like every head around us turned.
Crispin yanked his arm away from me at once, both hands lifting slightly as if that might save him, but Mattheo was still glaring at him like he might actually come off the broom and drag him down by the throat.
Someone shouted from below, "Theo!"
A second later, Theo came flying up too. He stopped a little behind Mattheo with a deeply unimpressed expression, his broom hovering steadily where Mattheo's practically shook with tension.
"Mate", Theo said sharply, "calm the fuck down."
Mattheo didn't take his eyes off us.
Off me.
Off the place where Crispin had touched me, like he could still see it.
His face had gone hard in that cold, furious way that was somehow worse than shouting. It was not just anger. It was possession. Raw, immediate, and ugly in how plainly it showed itself.
His stare flicked over me once, fast and possessive, as if checking that I was still there, still his, before landing back on Crispin with open hatred.
The way he looked at me made it painfully clear what he was thinking.
That I was his.
That no one else should have been close enough to forget it.
That he had seen another boy touch me, and he was furious with the entire world for allowing it.
His face was hard, furious in that cold way that was somehow worse than shouting. When he finally spoke to me, his voice carried easily across the tower even though it had dropped lower now, rougher, edged with something mean enough to make my stomach twist.
"I told you," Mattheo snapped at me. "This is why I told you to wear my fuckin' jersey."
The words hit harder than I expected.
For a second, I just stared at him.
Pansy went rigid beside me. "Mattheo," she said sharply, warning thick in her voice.
He barely seemed to hear her.
Mattheo kept looking at me like this was somehow my fault. Like I had done something wrong just by standing there. Just by existing somewhere another boy could look at me, speak to me, touch me, and make Mattheo feel like he had been challenged.
Heat rushed into my face, but it was not embarrassment this time. It was something much worse.
Hurt.
Humiliation.
Anger, sharp and trembling beneath my skin.
"I ignored him," I said. My voice came out quieter than I wanted, unsteady in a way that only made me hate this more.
Mattheo's jaw flexed. He looked at me for one long, brutal second before he said, "Didn't look like enough."
That did it.
I actually flinched.
It was small. Barely there.
But it was enough.
Theo noticed.
Pansy definitely noticed.
And for the first time, something in Mattheo's expression shifted. It was only for a second, a flicker beneath the anger, as though he had heard himself too late and realised what he had done.
I did not want to see it.
I did not want whatever explanation came after.
I did not want his jealousy dressed up as protection.
I did not want everyone staring.
Most of all, I did not want to stand there while he made me feel small in front of half the bloody school.
So I stepped back from the railing.
"Fine," I said quietly.
My throat hurt.
I hated that my eyes were already burning.
"Y/n," Pansy said at once, her voice softer now.
I shook my head before she could say anything else.
Mattheo said my name too, but I was already turning away.
I did not look at him again.
I just pushed past the students crowding the tower steps and started down, my vision blurring for one awful second as the noise of the stadium crashed around me. A moment later, I heard Pansy following close behind.
The roar of the match swallowed whatever anyone shouted after that.
I kept walking anyway.
Fast.
Blinking hard.
One hand wrapped tightly around the front of my stupid jacket, gripping the fabric so hard it creased beneath my fingers.
Pansy caught up to me halfway down the stairs, breathless and furious on my behalf. "Don't you dare stop," she said.
I let out one horrible, shaky laugh and scrubbed angrily under my eye before anything could actually fall.
"I'm not going back up there," I whispered.
"Good," Pansy said immediately. Her voice was sharp again now, full of anger that did not belong to me alone. "Because if he wants to act like a jealous psycho in front of everyone, he can explain himself later."
Summary: After the celebration pulls everyone else into the warmth of the night, she finds Matteo alone in the corridor, and a small misunderstanding turns into something far more painful. What starts as jealousy quickly unravels into sharp words, exposed feelings, and the kind of messy love that hurts just as much as it comforts.
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────
The Great Hall looked unreal.
It didn’t even feel like Hogwarts anymore. It felt like stepping into the inside of a snow globe someone had shaken too hard, all silver and white and gold, all soft light and glitter and magic that made your chest tighten before the night had even properly begun.
Silver icicles dripped from the enchanted ceiling like glass, catching candlelight every time they turned. Frost curled delicately over the stone walls in shimmering patterns, as if winter itself had pressed its hands against the castle and left something beautiful behind. Hundreds of floating candles glowed overhead, their reflections dancing in the polished floor beneath everyone’s feet, and somewhere between the soft music and the hum of conversation, everything blurred into something dreamlike.
People were laughing. Dancing. Spinning under floating stars.
Champagne glasses flashed in elegant hands. Dresses glittered as girls passed in groups, their heels clicking against the floor. Jewellery caught the light. Boys stood straighter in pressed suits, pretending they weren’t nervous. It was all so bright, so alive, so beautiful.
But the only thing Enzo noticed when I walked in was me.
Or more specifically, the dress.
Green.
I saw the exact second it happened.
He’d been in the middle of talking to Theo near one of the long side tables, looking half amused about something, one hand wrapped around a drink, his tie already slightly loose in that way that made him look unfairly good without trying. Then I stepped into the room, and his sentence died in the middle.
Just stopped.
His eyes found me across the Great Hall and stayed there.
It wasn’t subtle. Not even a little.
Slowly, Theo noticed Enzo had completely checked out of the conversation and turned to see what had stolen his attention. I watched the moment realization crossed his face, followed by the tiniest grin before he muttered something to Enzo that I couldn’t hear and disappeared into the crowd.
Enzo didn’t even react.
He just kept looking at me.
And God, the way he looked at me made heat rise all the way up my neck.
His expression wasn’t cocky or teasing for once. It was quieter than that. Almost stunned. Like he’d forgotten where he was for a second. Like the noise around him had gone dim.
Green.
Because months ago, on one of those late evenings where we’d been sitting far too close in the common room pretending not to notice it, he’d glanced at me in this absent, thoughtful way and said, almost under his breath, Green’s my favourite on you.
I hadn’t forgotten it.
Clearly, neither had he.
I tried to keep my smile under control as I made my way across the room, weaving between groups of students and avoiding the edge of someone’s robes before I finally stopped in front of him.
He still hadn’t looked away.
I tilted my head. “You’re staring.”
He blinked like he’d only just come back to himself. “Can you blame me?”
I laughed softly, trying and failing to act unaffected. “Bit dramatic.”
“A bit?” he repeated, offended. “I’m trying to have a genuine moment with you.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
“I disagree.” His eyes dropped over my dress again, slower this time, and his mouth curved. “Actually, I think I’m doing very well.”
My cheeks warmed instantly. “Enzo.”
“What?” he asked, completely unrepentant. “You look...” He exhaled a little, shaking his head once. “You look ridiculously pretty.”
Something in my chest softened in the most dangerous way.
I looked down for half a second, suddenly shy under his attention, then glanced back up. “You look nice too.”
His hand flew to his chest in mock offense. “Nice?”
I smiled. “Yes. Nice.”
“That’s cruel, actually.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Debatable.”
I laughed again, and that seemed to snap him fully back into himself. His grin returned, bright and familiar, and before I could say anything else he reached for my hand and tugged me closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His fingers slid between mine with no hesitation, warm and sure.
And for the first hour, everything felt easy.
Not perfect, maybe. Nothing with us was ever perfect.
But close enough that I could pretend.
We danced until my feet ached and the straps of my shoes started rubbing at my heels. We laughed through one horrible slow song after another, and when Enzo muttered, “If this gets any more tragic, I’m throwing myself into the Black Lake,” I had to press my lips together to stop myself from laughing loud enough to draw attention.
“You’re impossible,” I told him.
“And yet you’re still here.”
“Questioning that choice constantly.”
He smirked and spun me anyway.
Later, when the tempo changed and people crowded closer to the center of the dance floor, he leaned near my ear and said, “Come with me if you want to survive this.”
“That was deeply embarrassing.”
“You loved it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
He stole two drinks from a table that definitely didn’t belong to us, handed one to me with the kind of confidence only Enzo could manage, and led me toward the edge of the Hall.
“You’re a thief,” I said.
He took a sip and shrugged. “Only when necessary.”
“You didn’t even ask.”
“And ruin the mystery?”
I should’ve rolled my eyes, but I was smiling too hard.
At one point, he grabbed my hand when another lively song started and dragged me right back into the crowd before I could protest. He spun me too fast, his laugh already breaking loose when I stumbled toward him, and the two of us nearly crashed straight into a group of Ravenclaws.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, laughing so hard I could barely stand.
One of the Ravenclaw girls glared. “Watch it.”
Enzo, still laughing, let go of me long enough to make an overly formal bow. “A thousand apologies. Terrible choreography. Entirely my fault.”
“Obviously,” I said, breathless.
He looked back at me, eyes bright, and for a second everything else disappeared.
That was the worst part.
How real it felt.
How easy he made it feel when he wanted to.
Like maybe this could actually be normal.
Like maybe I could have this without always waiting for the crack in it. Without bracing for the part where something sharp slipped through. Without wondering how long we had until the mood shifted and I said the wrong thing or he shut down or one of us bled all over something that had been good five minutes earlier.
For a little while, I let myself believe it.
I let myself believe that loving him didn’t always have to feel like standing too close to the edge of something dangerous and pretending I wasn’t scared of falling.
Later, when the room had grown warmer from too many bodies and too much music and too much noise, Enzo brushed his thumb against my wrist and said, “Stay here. I’m getting us another drink.”
“You mean stealing us another drink.”
He gave me a look. “Don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
He leaned in slightly. “Say, Enzo, you’re incredibly brave and handsome.”
I laughed. “Go away.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
He squeezed my hand once before letting go, then disappeared into the crowd.
The second he was gone, I felt the shift.
Not in the room.
In myself.
Like I’d only realized how anchored I’d been because suddenly I wasn’t.
I drifted toward the side of the Hall, more to get a little air than anything else, stopping near one of the long tables where a group of Slytherin boys stood talking too loudly over their drinks. I didn’t pay much attention at first. Their voices blended with everything else, just background noise under the music.
Then one of them said my name.
My body stilled before my mind did.
“Still can’t believe she’s with Enzo,” one of them said with a laugh, like the whole thing was a joke he couldn’t quite get over.
Another boy snorted into his drink. “Give it time. He’ll ruin that girl eventually.”
A few of them chuckled.
Quietly, casually.
Like that was just obvious.
Like it was normal.
Like I was stupid for not already knowing it.
My stomach twisted.
I told myself not to react. Told myself boys said stupid things all the time. Told myself it didn’t matter, that none of them knew anything about us, that I shouldn’t let it get under my skin.
But then I heard footsteps behind me, and before I even turned, I knew Enzo had come back.
I could feel it.
One of the boys looked up and noticed him standing there with the drinks in his hands.
A grin spread across his face. “You know I’m right.”
Everything in me went tight.
This was the moment.
The easy answer. The obvious one.
The one where Enzo rolled his eyes and told them to shut up. The one where he said they didn’t know what they were talking about. The one where he made it into a joke and pulled me into his side and proved, in one careless sentence, that whatever was between us mattered enough for him to defend it.
Instead, he just looked down at the drinks for a second.
Not long.
Just long enough.
Then he said, quiet enough that it somehow hurt more, “Probably.”
The cold that settled in my chest felt immediate and heavy.
It spread so fast I almost forgot how to breathe.
He looked up then, maybe finally noticing my face, maybe realizing too late that I’d heard every word.
Something in his expression changed.
“Wait,” he started.
But I was already stepping back.
“I need some air,” I said, and even to my own ears my voice sounded strange. Too flat. Too careful.
He moved after me. “That’s not what I meant.”
I didn’t trust myself to answer.
If I opened my mouth right then, I was scared I’d either cry or say something ugly enough to make the whole room turn and stare.
So I walked away.
The rest of the night didn’t fall apart all at once.
That would’ve been easier.
Easier if we’d fought right there. Easier if he’d said something awful and I’d snapped back and the damage had been clean, visible, impossible to ignore.
Instead, it unraveled in small, miserable pieces.
He found me again a few minutes later, quieter now, trying to act like he could still fix it.
“Here,” he said softly, offering me one of the drinks.
I took it because not taking it would’ve made a scene.
“Thanks.”
One word.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
The next song started. He looked at me like he wanted to ask me to dance, but he hesitated for half a second too long, and I used that second to look away.
I stopped reaching for his hand first.
He kept glancing at me throughout conversations, trying to catch my eye, trying to read whatever I wasn’t saying.
Every time he smiled, it looked a little more forced when I didn’t fully smile back.
The silence between us stretched in strange places.
In the pause after a joke that should’ve landed.
In the seconds before he asked, “You alright?”
In the breath I took before lying and saying, “Fine.”
Even dancing felt wrong after that.
His hand on my waist wasn’t comforting anymore. It just made me think of what he’d said. What he hadn’t said. What he believed.
Probably.
Probably, he’ll ruin that girl.
And maybe the part that hurt the most was that he hadn’t sounded smug.
He hadn’t said it to be cruel.
He’d said it like it was true.
Like it was something he already knew about himself.
By the time we left the Great Hall, snow was falling thick and steady outside.
The cold hit the second the doors opened, sharp enough to sting my lungs. White covered the stone paths and softened the edges of the courtyard, gathering in the corners of steps and clinging to the dark hedges. The castle behind us glowed gold through frosted windows, all warmth and light, while outside everything was quiet except for the muffled crunch of our footsteps.
We walked side by side, but not close enough to touch.
Snow caught in my hair and melted against my bare shoulders. I wrapped my arms around myself, though I couldn’t tell how much of the shivering was from the cold and how much was from everything sitting ugly and heavy inside me.
Enzo lasted maybe half the courtyard before he broke.
“You’ve barely spoken to me for the last hour.”
His voice wasn’t sharp at first. Just tired.
I kept walking. “Maybe I got tired.”
“Tired of what?”
There was something in the way he asked it that made me stop.
I turned to face him, snow drifting between us in slow white flakes.
“Tired of hearing people talk about you like you’re some disaster waiting to happen.”
His whole expression changed instantly.
His jaw tightened. His shoulders drew stiff. “Who said something to you?”
I let out a breath that fogged in the freezing air. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It clearly does.”
“No, what clearly matters is that they said it right in front of you and you agreed.”
His eyes flashed. “They were joking.”
I gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “That’s supposed to make it better?”
“You know what they’re like.”
“Yes, Enzo, I do. I heard them.”
He took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I was standing there insulting you.”
I stared at him. “You didn’t say they were wrong.”
For one second, maybe two, he just looked at me.
Snow clung to his dark hair and the shoulders of his suit. His breath came out slow through his nose, visible in the cold. He looked frustrated already, but there was something uneasy underneath it, something restless and raw.
“That’s what this is about?” he said finally.
I actually blinked at him.
“That’s what this is about?” I repeated, disbelief rising so fast it almost choked me. “You literally agreed with them.”
“No,” he snapped, voice sharper now. “I just didn’t lie to you.”
That landed like a slap.
The air left my lungs.
For a second, I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there in the snow staring at him while something cracked quietly in my chest.
He seemed to realize it immediately, because the anger in his face shifted, not disappearing but twisting into something more complicated.
But it was too late.
“Why would you even say that?” I asked, and I hated how small my voice sounded.
He dragged a hand through his hair, already visibly losing his grip on whatever calm he’d been trying to hold onto. “Because I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth would’ve been a good start.”
“That was the truth.”
I looked away for a second, because if I kept looking at him I thought I might cry, and I absolutely was not going to cry in front of him in the middle of a freezing courtyard.
“Great,” I said quietly. “Thanks for that, then.”
“Don’t,” he said.
I looked back at him. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that thing where you shut me out and act like I’m the only one making this difficult.”
I laughed then, but there was no humour in it. “Are you serious?”
He was breathing harder now, his control slipping in visible pieces. “I’m trying to be honest with you.”
“No, you’re being careless.”
His mouth tightened. “Same difference.”
“It’s really not.”
The wind swept through the courtyard hard enough to make me flinch. My fingers were numb. My face was cold. None of it compared to the ache building under my ribs.
“I heard them talk about me like I was some naive idiot who’s just waiting for you to wreck her,” I said, my voice shaking now despite how badly I wanted it not to. “And then you stood there and basically told me they weren’t wrong. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”
Enzo’s expression flickered.
For the first time, he looked less angry than cornered.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked away.
That hurt almost as much as the answer itself.
I shook my head. “Right.”
“Stop,” he said, more urgently this time.
“You stop.” My voice rose before I could help it. “You don’t get to say things like that and then act annoyed because I’m upset.”
“I’m not annoyed because you’re upset.”
“You look furious.”
“I’m furious because I can’t say anything without it coming out wrong.”
“Then maybe think before you say it.”
His eyes met mine then, dark and sharp and suddenly full of something much more dangerous than anger.
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
The words echoed across the empty courtyard.
I froze.
He took another step toward me, voice lower now but no less intense.
“Do you think I don’t hear what people say about me?”
I didn’t answer.
He gave a humourless laugh and looked away, jaw clenched so tightly I could see the tension in it. “You think that was the first time?”
Snow kept falling, gathering on his lashes, melting against his skin.
When he looked back at me, there was something stripped bare in his expression that made my stomach twist.
“I know exactly what they think of me.”
His voice was quieter now.
Too quiet.
“And the worst part is they’re not completely wrong.”
I swallowed hard. “Enzo...”
But he was past stopping.
“Because I don’t know how to do this properly, alright?” he said suddenly, and the force of it cut through the cold air like shattered glass. “I don’t know how to be what you want. I don’t know how to be calm all the time or careful all the time or normal all the time. I don’t know how to love someone without ruining it a little.”
Silence crashed down between us.
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
His chest rose and fell unevenly, breath clouding in the air. He looked angry saying it, but underneath the anger was something worse.
Fear.
Not fear of me.
Fear of himself.
Fear that this was all he was ever going to be.
And God, that was the part that almost undid me.
Because I knew he meant it.
He believed every word.
He wasn’t trying to manipulate me. Wasn’t trying to win. Wasn’t trying to make me feel guilty.
He was standing there in the snow, beautiful and miserable and defensive and completely exposed, telling me the ugliest truth he knew about himself.
And I hated that I understood it.
I hated that some part of me wanted to cross the distance between us and hold his face and tell him that wasn’t true, even while another part of me was still bleeding from what he’d said.
My throat tightened.
“That’s exactly the problem,” I whispered.
The second the words left my mouth, I wanted them back.
I saw them hit him.
It was small. So small someone else might not have noticed it.
But I did.
The way his face went still.
The way something in his eyes shut behind the anger.
The way his mouth parted slightly and then closed again, like he had a hundred things he could say and none of them would help.
And the awful thing was, I hadn’t said it to be cruel.
I’d said it because it was true.
Because loving him felt like trying to hold onto something beautiful while it burned through my hands.
Because every good moment with him came with this quiet dread, this terrible little voice asking how long it would last before he pulled away or lashed out or said something that left bruises where no one could see them.
Because I was tired.
Tired of making excuses for pain just because it came wrapped in tenderness half the time.
Tired of pretending intensity meant the same thing as safety.
Tired of loving someone who looked at me like I was precious one minute and then spoke like losing me was inevitable the next.
For once, Enzo had nothing sarcastic to say.
No clever comment.
No bitter laugh.
No smirk sharp enough to hide behind.
He just stood there in the snow looking at me like I’d finally said the one thing he could never argue with.
And maybe that was because some part of him had already been thinking it too.
The courtyard felt even colder after that.
Neither of us moved.
I could hear distant music still spilling faintly from the castle, muffled by thick stone walls and winter air. Somewhere far off, someone shouted and laughed. The sound felt like it belonged to another universe.
Not this one.
Not us.
I looked at him and saw too much all at once.
The boy who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.
The boy who noticed the colour of my dress from across a crowded room.
The boy who held my hand like he meant it.
The boy who could make me feel adored and devastated in the same night.
And standing there in the snow, I didn’t know what to do with that.
I didn’t know how to keep loving someone who seemed so certain he’d destroy every good thing placed in his hands.
He looked away first.
That somehow hurt more.
I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, suddenly aware of how cold I was, how tired I was, how badly I wanted this night to have gone differently.
Neither of us spoke again.
Because what was left to say?
Sorry wouldn’t have fixed it.
I love you wouldn’t have fixed it either.
Some things break long before the moment you actually hear them crack.
And deep down, in the quiet horrible space where honesty lives, we both knew it.
Sometimes loving someone isn’t enough to save them from themselves.
And sometimes, no matter how badly you want it to be, love isn’t enough to save you either.
Like the whole night before had happened to someone else. Someone I’d watched from far away instead of actually lived through with my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.
But my body remembered.
My shoulders were still tight. My stomach still dropped every time I thought about the car, the speed, the way his voice had gone cold and sharp and then weirdly soft when he realized I was actually leaving.
I hadn’t answered any of his texts.
Hadn’t even opened them.
I just stared at my phone every time it lit up, then turned it facedown again like that was somehow gonna make the knot in my chest loosen.
It didn’t.
By the time I found Sarah, I was running on basically no sleep and way too much adrenaline.
She took one look at me, paused with her coffee halfway to her mouth, and frowned. “What happened?”
I gave a weak shrug and looked off to the side like maybe that would make me less obvious. “Nothing.”
Sarah lowered her coffee and narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, don’t do that. Do not give me the fake ‘I’m fine’ shrug. I know that shrug.” She pointed at me with the cup. “That shrug is terrible.”
Even with everything, I let out the tiniest laugh. I rubbed my palm against my jeans and looked back at her. “We need to talk.”
Her whole expression changed. She set her drink down right away and straightened up. “Okay. Right now?”
I nodded once.
Sarah didn’t even hesitate. She jerked her head toward the quieter side of the room. “Come on.”
We ended up tucked into a corner away from everyone else, and the second she looked at me again, really looked at me, the whole thing came rushing back.
I crossed my arms over myself, mostly without thinking, and stared down at the floor. “Rafe lost it last night.”
Sarah’s face tightened instantly. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “What do you mean, lost it?”
I picked at the sleeve of my hoodie and kept my eyes on my hands. “He got mad after the bonfire.”
Sarah tilted her head, already looking unimpressed. “Mad why?”
I swallowed and gave this humorless little shrug. “Because I was talking to some guy.”
Sarah blinked slowly, then let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh my God. Of course.”
I laughed once, but there was nothing funny about it. “Yeah. Of course.”
Sarah shifted her weight and lifted her brows. “Like talking talking?” she asked. Then she waved a hand. “Or literally just existing near another male?”
I looked up just enough to meet her eyes for a second. “Pretty much the second one.”
Sarah muttered, “Insane,” under her breath, then shook her head. “Actually insane.”
Her jaw was already set, like she knew exactly where this was going and hated it before I even got the rest out.
I took a breath that didn’t help and pressed my arms tighter across my stomach. “We got in the car and he just...” I stopped for a second and swallowed hard. “He started driving like an idiot. Like actually scaring me on purpose.”
Sarah went still.
The kind of still that always meant she was trying really hard not to react too fast.
She lowered her voice and looked at me carefully. “On purpose?”
I let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one and nodded, staring past her shoulder. “Yeah. On purpose.”
Sarah lifted a hand between us and shook her head like she needed me to pause for a second. “Wait. No. I need you to say that again because I wanna make sure I’m hearing this right.” She stared at me, her voice going flat. “He was angry, and then he started driving reckless while you were in the car?”
I nodded again.
Sarah just looked at me for a second, totally stunned. “Are you kidding me?”
I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck and looked down. “I wish I was.”
She dragged a hand down her face and stepped back. “Y/N, that is not just him being moody.” She dropped her hand and looked at me hard. “That is psycho behavior.”
I stayed quiet.
Sarah caught my expression immediately. She pointed at me, almost offended. “No. Don’t make that face.”
I blinked and frowned. “What face?”
She gave me a look. “That face where you’re already halfway to defending him.”
I straightened a little and shook my head. “I’m not defending him.”
Sarah let out a dry laugh and crossed her arms tighter. “You were literally about to.”
I frowned at her. “I was not.”
“You absolutely were,” Sarah shot back, not missing a beat.
I looked away and picked at my thumbnail. “I was just gonna say he didn’t...”
Sarah cut in right away, holding both hands out in disbelief. “He didn’t what?” she demanded. “He didn’t mean it? He didn’t think? He was upset? He was having a moment?”
I didn’t answer.
Sarah threw both hands up. “There it is,” she said. “Exactly that.”
I hated how predictable it sounded, mostly because she was right.
I swallowed and said quietly, “I told him to slow down.” I glanced up at her, then back down. “And he just kept going.”
Sarah’s expression changed again, the anger turning into something colder. She leaned forward a little. “You told him to slow down?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
She stared at me. “And he kept going?”
“Yes.”
Sarah looked away for half a second like she was physically stopping herself from losing it. Then she looked back at me. “Oh, absolutely not.”
I told her in pieces.
Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
Just little bits. The way he’d been angry before we even left. The way the car picked up speed when I told him to slow down. The way he kept twisting the fight until somehow I was the one supposed to feel bad for him.
Sarah didn’t interrupt much.
She just listened with her arms folded and her eyes getting harder with every sentence.
When I finally stopped, Sarah looked at me for one long second and said flatly, “I hate him.”
I looked up, tired more than anything. “You don’t hate him.”
Sarah gave a tiny shrug and lifted one shoulder. “Okay, fine. At this exact moment?” She held my gaze. “I hate him a lot.”
That almost made me smile.
She noticed and pointed at me. “Like, genuinely, what is wrong with him?” she asked, sounding completely disgusted. “You flirt with a guy, or don’t even flirt, apparently, just breathe near one, and his reaction is to turn into some Fast and Furious villain?”
I let out a small breath and nodded. “I know.”
Sarah pushed off the wall and started pacing a little. “No, because that’s crazy,” she said, looking back at me. “That’s actually crazy.”
I pressed my lips together. “I know.”
She stopped pacing and looked at me dead-on. “That’s not jealousy. That’s control.”
I flinched a little at the word.
Sarah noticed right away. Her voice softened, but only a little. “I’m serious.”
I nodded slowly. “I know you are.”
Sarah exhaled through her nose and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “And then what?” she asked. “How did it stop?”
I looked down at the floor and heard my own voice go quieter. “And then I got out.” I rubbed my arm and swallowed. “At a stop sign. I just got out and walked.”
Sarah blinked at me, stunned. “You what?”
I gave her a tired look. “I got out.”
Sarah stared at me. “Of the car.”
I nodded once. “Yes, Sarah.”
She lifted both brows. “In the middle of the night.”
“Yes.”
She just looked at me for a second, then pushed a hand into her hair. “You walked home?”
I gave a small shrug and looked away. “Some of it.”
Sarah’s mouth actually fell open. “Y/N.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I called for a ride eventually.”
Sarah repeated it like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Eventually?” She stepped closer. “What does eventually mean?”
I sighed and rubbed at my forehead. “I don’t know. After a while.”
Sarah stared at me. “A while?”
I looked at her, exhausted. “Sarah.”
She shook her head, not letting it go. “No, because what is a while? Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour?” She searched my face. “Were you alone?”
I answered quietly. “Yes.”
Her eyes widened immediately. “Oh my God.”
I crossed my arms again and looked away. “I’m fine.”
Sarah pointed at me again, sharp and immediate. “You are not allowed to ‘I’m fine’ me right now.”
I let out a breath and said it again, quieter this time. “I am fine.” Even to me, the words sounded weak.
Sarah rubbed a hand over her face and muttered, “I swear to God.”
Then she straightened and held her hand out toward me. “Phone.”
I frowned at her. “What?”
She wiggled her fingers impatiently. “Let me see if he texted you.”
I hesitated. “I already told you he did.”
“I know,” Sarah said. “I wanna see if he went with the classic lineup.”
I blinked. “What classic lineup?”
Sarah started counting on her fingers, her expression going dry and disgusted. “One, ‘Where are you.’ Two, ‘Answer me.’ Three, ‘I’m sorry, but you made me mad.’” She lifted another finger. “Four, ‘You’re overreacting.’” Then she lifted her whole hand. “Five, random sad boy message at two in the morning.”
I stared at her.
Sarah stared right back. “How close am I?”
I made a face and huffed out a breath. “Annoyingly close.”
Sarah dropped her hand and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Men are literally so embarrassing.”
That got a real laugh out of me, small and shaky but real.
Sarah’s expression softened right away. She pointed at me gently. “There she is.”
There was a second of silence after that.
Then she looked back at me, really looked at me.
Her voice dropped when she asked, “Are you okay?”
And that hit harder than I expected.
Because I didn’t really know.
I was okay in the technical sense. Nothing had happened, not really, not in the way people usually meant it.
But something had happened too.
Something that felt harder to explain.
I looked down, picking at the edge of my sleeve, and admitted, “I don’t know.”
Sarah’s expression softened.
She stepped closer and said quietly, “Okay.” After a second, she added, “Then you don’t have to know yet.”
I looked at her.
She leaned in a little, her eyes steady on mine. “But what he did was not okay,” she said. “And I need you to hear me when I say that.”
I swallowed and nodded.
Sarah kept her voice calm, but firm. “He can’t do that to you.”
I looked away. “I know.”
She shook her head. “No, I mean it.” She waited until I looked at her again. “He can’t scare you because he’s mad. He can’t act like that and then expect you to just get over it because he says sorry, or because he had a bad night, or whatever excuse he comes up with.”
I pressed my lips together.
The worst part was that I already knew what his apology would sound like.
A little defensive.
A little wounded.
Just enough guilt to make me question if I was being unfair.
Sarah knew it too.
She gave me a knowing look. “He’s gonna try to talk his way around it.”
I let out a tired laugh. “Obviously.”
Sarah folded her arms again. “He’s gonna act all soft and tragic.”
I snorted and tipped my head back against the wall. “With the whole tortured stare.”
Sarah pointed at me right away. “Yes. Exactly.” She dropped her voice in mock imitation. “‘You know I’d never hurt you.’”
I groaned and covered my face for a second. “Stop. That’s literally what he’s gonna do.”
Sarah dropped her hand. “I know. Because boys like that all use the same script.” She lifted a brow. “They just change the outfit.”
I laughed again, this time a little more for real.
Sarah let me have the laugh, then her tone went serious again. “And you can’t let him confuse you,” she said. “You can be sad. You can love him. You can miss him. Whatever.” She pressed a hand to her chest, then pointed at me. “But do not let him make you feel crazy for being upset about this.”
I dropped my hands and looked at her. “I came to you, didn’t I?”
That got the smallest smile out of her.
Sarah nodded once. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You did.”
Then she reached over and squeezed my hand.
“And for the record,” Sarah added, her mouth tightening again, “if he tries to pull something when I’m around, I will actually ruin his day.”
I snorted and glanced at her. “How?”
Sarah gave a thoughtful hum and tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t know. Public humiliation. Creative insults. A very targeted drink spill.” She shrugged. “I’ll decide in the moment.”
I shook my head, smiling anyway. “You’re insane.”
Sarah put a hand to her chest like she was offended. “I’m loyal,” she corrected.
I smiled despite myself.
Still, she didn’t look relieved.
If anything, she looked like she was already bracing for the next part.
Which, unfortunately, came sooner than either of us wanted.
Later that afternoon, the country club was all bright sun, trimmed grass, and people pretending their lives were perfect.
Everything looked polished.
Neat.
Controlled.
Which felt almost insulting, considering how messy everything in my head still was.
----
Out on the golf course, Rafe was doing what Rafe did best.
Acting like nothing got to him.
He stood with a club in one hand and his sunglasses shoved up in his hair, all loose posture and bored expression, like he wasn’t two seconds away from snapping at literally anything.
Kelce was talking shit about something pointless, as usual, and Topper was half listening, half lining up his shot like he was on the PGA tour and not three bad swings away from launching his club into a lake.
Rafe took his shot hard enough to make it sound personal.
The ball flew down the fairway.
Kelce let out a laugh. “Jesus Christ. You trying to kill it or fuck it?”
Topper snorted, not even looking up. “He’s in one of his weird little moods again.”
Rafe rolled his eyes and grabbed another ball. “Shut up.”
Topper finally looked over at him and smirked. “You’re the one swinging like the ball called your girl a whore.”
Kelce leaned on his club, grinning. “Speaking of. You and Y/N fight or what?”
That made Rafe go still for half a second.
Tiny pause.
Barely there.
But it was there.
Topper caught it immediately and gave this smug little nod. “Ah. There it is.”
Rafe set his jaw and looked down the course instead of at either of them. “Mind your business.”
Kelce’s grin got wider. “So yes.”
Rafe adjusted his grip on the club. “It’s not a thing.”
Topper and Kelce exchanged a look.
That alone said enough.
Kelce gave a shrug. “If she’s not answering you, that’s usually a thing.”
Rafe’s mouth tightened. “She’s being dramatic.”
Topper looked over at him, brows lifting. “That sounds like you definitely did something.”
Rafe let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Why do you both automatically assume it was me?”
Topper gave him a look. “Because you’re you.”
Kelce laughed. “Seriously, man. Look at your face right now.”
Rafe dropped a ball near his feet and teed it up harder than necessary. “Nothing happened. She got pissed, made a whole thing out of it, got out of the car.”
Topper straightened. “She got out of the car?”
Rafe instantly got defensive. “At a stop sign. Relax. I wasn’t gonna hit her with the damn car.”
Kelce’s grin faded a little. “Okay, but why was she getting out?”
Rafe didn’t answer.
He just stared down at the ball like it had personally offended him.
Topper narrowed his eyes. “Rafe.”
Rafe took the shot.
It sliced badly into the rough.
Kelce winced. “That was disgusting.”
“Yeah,” Topper muttered, watching the ball disappear. “Not just the shot either.”
Rafe glared at both of them. “Can we not do this?”
Kelce lifted both hands. “Do what?”
“Act like I committed a felony because she got mad.”
Topper adjusted his grip on his club and gave him a flat look. “No one said that.”
Kelce looked between them, then back at Rafe. “What’d you even do?”
Rafe scoffed. “Nothing.”
Topper laughed under his breath. “That means it was bad.”
“It wasn’t bad,” Rafe snapped.
Kelce tilted his head. “Then why’s she ignoring you?”
Rafe opened his mouth, then shut it again.
That was answer enough.
Topper pointed at him with his club. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Kelce started walking toward his own ball, still talking. “What, you got jealous? Said something stupid? Started a fight over nothing?”
Rafe followed a few steps behind, jaw tight. “She was talking to some guy.”
Topper let out a laugh. “Oh my God. That’s what this is about?”
Kelce looked back over his shoulder. “No way.”
Rafe’s voice went flat. “I said what I said.”
Topper shook his head. “So she talked to a guy, and you lost your mind?”
“I didn’t lose my mind.”
Kelce barked out a laugh. “You absolutely lost your mind.”
Rafe stared him down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kelce spread his hands. “I know enough. She flirted with some dude, you got pissy, now she won’t answer you. Pretty simple.”
Topper bent to line up his next shot. “That’s embarrassing, by the way.”
Rafe scoffed. “Oh, like either of you would be fine with your girl all over some guy in front of you.”
Topper looked up. “Talking to someone isn’t being all over them.”
Kelce smirked. “Depends how hot the guy was.”
Topper snorted. “Shut up.”
Kelce took his shot too fast and immediately cursed when it hooked left. “Fuck. That was still better than yours.”
“It literally wasn’t,” Topper said.
“It looked better.”
“That’s not how golf works, dumbass.”
Kelce ignored him and looked back at Rafe. “So what, she’s ghosting you now?”
Rafe looked away. “She hasn’t answered.”
Topper whistled low. “That bad, huh?”
Kelce gave him a nasty little grin. “Just fuck her back into her place.”
Rafe’s head snapped toward him. “Shut the fuck up.”
For the first time, Kelce looked a little surprised.
Topper glanced between them and let out a quiet, “Well.”
Kelce lifted his brows. “What?”
Rafe stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “I said shut the fuck up.”
Kelce held up a hand, half amused, half backing off. “Jesus. Fine.”
Topper looked at Rafe for a second longer, like that reaction had told him more than anything else had.
Then, because he was still Topper, he broke the tension with, “You’re both acting insane. Also, Kelce, if you say something that stupid again, I’m hitting you with my club.”
Kelce grinned. “You say that like it’s not foreplay.”
Topper looked disgusted. “Nobody wants to fuck you, man.”
Kelce put a hand to his chest. “That’s not what your mom said.”
Topper took a step toward him. “I’m gonna kill you.”
Kelce laughed and backed up. “See? Emotional. Must be that time of the month.”
“God, you suck,” Topper said, trying not to laugh.
Rafe shook his head and grabbed another ball, but he wasn’t really in it. He looked pissed now in a way that wasn’t for show anymore.
Kelce noticed too, even if he didn’t say it.
Topper did.
He set his club down and looked at Rafe. “What actually happened?”
Rafe didn’t answer right away.
He stared out across the course, squinting into the sun.
Then he shrugged, but it looked forced. “She was being annoying. I told her to stop acting like a brat. She kept going. I got sick of it.”
Topper’s face changed a little. “And?”
Rafe’s jaw flexed. “And nothing.”
Kelce gave him a look. “That’s bullshit.”
Rafe snapped another ball onto the tee. “I drove. She freaked out. End of story.”
Topper went quiet for a second. “You scared her?”
Rafe looked at him. “I didn’t do anything.”
Topper didn’t look convinced.
Neither did Kelce.
But Kelce, being Kelce, only lasted about three seconds before ruining the moment.
He looked down at the bunker, then at Topper. “Bet you twenty bucks you chunk this into the sand like a virgin trying to take a bra off.”
Topper looked offended. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does. There’s panic, confusion, no technique.”
Topper laughed despite himself. “You’re such a loser.”
Kelce grinned. “And yet I’m still right.”
Topper took the shot.
The ball clipped the edge and dropped straight into the bunker.
Kelce doubled over laughing. “Holy shit. Exactly like a virgin trying to take a bra off.”
“Shut up,” Topper said, laughing now too.
Even Rafe snorted at that, barely.
For a second, it almost felt normal again.
Kelce was still laughing when he straightened up and pointed at the sand. “That ball got less action than you do.”
Topper flipped him off. “Eat shit.”
Kelce grinned. “Take me to dinner first.”
Topper groaned. “Why are you like this?”
“Natural talent.”
Teenage boy stupidity moved on fast, and within minutes they were right back in it.
Talking shit.
Arguing over whose shot counted.
Making stupid jokes that got worse every time one of them laughed.
Calling each other idiots.
Pretending nothing serious existed as long as they stayed loud enough.
----
At the club bar, the air was cooler, shaded from the heat outside.
Sarah sat across from me with a drink she’d barely touched, watching me over the rim of the glass like she was trying not to push too hard.
I appreciated that.
Because if she pushed, I’d probably crack.
“I just don’t get why they always act like being jealous is romantic,” I said, tracing the condensation on my glass with my fingertip. “Like if a guy acts insane enough, it means he cares more.”
Sarah made a face and set her drink down. “Because this place is allergic to emotional maturity.”
I let out a quiet laugh.
She leaned back in her chair and glanced around the room. “Seriously. Half the people here need therapy, a reality check, and like... a court-ordered personality transplant.”
That got a real smile out of me, even if it didn’t last.
“Maybe two transplants,” I muttered.
Sarah pointed at me. “Exactly. See? You get it.”
I shook my head and looked down at my drink again. “It’s just so pathetic. Like, congratulations, you scared me. What a flex.”
Sarah’s expression hardened. “Yeah. Real prince charming behavior.”
I opened my mouth to say something else, but Sarah’s eyes shifted past me.
Her whole face changed in that tiny, immediate way that told me exactly what I was about to see before I even turned around.
Rafe.
Kelce and Topper were with him, still carrying that sunburned, careless energy from the course, but the second my eyes met Rafe’s, it all dropped out.
The room didn’t actually go quiet.
It just felt like it did.
Kelce looked between us once and suddenly got very interested in the bottles behind the bar. Topper, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable.
Rafe stared at me for half a second too long.
There was no anger on his face this time.
Just tension.
And something almost uncertain, which looked so wrong on him it threw me more than I wanted it to.
Sarah sat up straighter beside me.
Of course she did.
Rafe stepped closer, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t leaving. He shoved one hand into his pocket and looked at me like he was trying to keep himself under control. “Can we talk?”
I looked back at my drink. “No.”
It came out flat.
Simple.
No room to twist it into something else.
Rafe stayed where he was anyway, like he thought if he just stood there long enough I’d eventually cave. “Y/N.”
I still didn’t look at him. “I said no.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Can you not do this here?”
That made me look up.
A sharp little laugh almost came out, but I swallowed it.
“Do what here?” I asked. “Refuse to help you act like last night didn’t happen?”
Rafe’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
Sarah stayed quiet, but I could feel her listening to every word.
Rafe glanced at her for half a second, then looked back at me. “I just wanna talk to you. Alone.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
His mouth twitched, frustrated. “Seriously?”
I gave him a blank look. “Seriously.”
Kelce shifted awkwardly behind him. Topper looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow all of us.
Rafe rubbed at his jaw and lowered his voice. “You’re really gonna do this right now?”
I stared at him. “You mean in public? Where people can see you being the problem?”
His eyes flashed. “Jesus Christ.”
“No, go ahead,” I said. “What exactly is it you want from me?”
Rafe laughed once under his breath, but it wasn’t amused. “I want you to stop acting like I’m some psycho because we had a fight.”
Sarah let out the tiniest scoff beside me.
I turned fully toward him then. “A fight?”
Rafe spread his hands a little, already defensive. “Yeah, a fight.”
“You were driving like a maniac because you were pissed at me.”
His expression hardened. “I was not driving like a maniac.”
I stared at him. “See, that right there? That’s exactly why I’m not doing this with you.”
Rafe leaned in a little, voice low. “I wasn’t gonna do anything to you.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is?” he snapped, and there he was.
Not the polished version.
The real one.
The one who always sounded most like himself when he was angry and trying not to be.
I stood up before I even realized I was doing it.
“What is the point?” I repeated. “The point is that I told you I was scared and you kept going.”
Rafe’s face changed, just slightly. “You always do this.”
I blinked at him. “Do what?”
“You take it way too far.” He ran a hand through his hair, already unraveling. “You act like everything is some huge thing when it’s not.”
Topper looked down at the floor.
Kelce rubbed the back of his neck.
Good.
Let them hear it.
Let it sit there.
I laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh, okay. So I’m dramatic now?”
Rafe lowered his voice like that made him sound more reasonable. “I’m saying you know how to push people.”
Sarah sat forward immediately. “Okay, no.”
Rafe looked at her, irritated. “Stay out of it.”
Sarah’s brows shot up. “You walked over here.”
“Sarah,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off him.
She leaned back, but only barely.
Rafe looked at me again. “I’m trying to fix this.”
I shook my head. “No, you’re trying to shut it down before people hear about it.”
His whole posture shifted at that.
Not much.
Just enough.
Because it was true, and he knew it.
“That’s not what this is,” he said.
“Then what is it?”
He didn’t answer right away.
His mouth opened, then shut again.
And honestly, that was answer enough.
I folded my arms. “Exactly.”
Rafe looked away for a second, then back at me. “You really wanna do this in front of them?”
I let out a short laugh. “You keep saying that like I’m the one who brought this to the bar.”
He stepped closer. “Can you stop talking to me like I’m the enemy?”
I looked at him for a second, and that almost hurt more than the rest of it.
“Then stop acting like one.”
That landed.
I saw it in the way his expression flickered.
For a second, he actually looked hit.
Then it was gone, covered back up in irritation and pride.
“You’re seriously just gonna keep shutting me out?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Until you grow up.”
Kelce looked away. Topper went very still.
Rafe gave this short, disbelieving laugh and dragged a hand over his mouth. “Grow up?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me. “You think that’s what this is?”
“I think you don’t get to scare me because you’re mad, then come find me the next day and act like I’m being difficult for not wanting to talk.”
His jaw tightened again. “Scare you?”
I cut him off before he could start.
“Yes. Scare me.”
The words sat there between us.
Heavy.
Ugly.
True.
Rafe looked at me like he wanted to argue with it, like his first instinct was still to push back hard enough to make the whole thing disappear.
But he couldn’t.
Not with Topper and Kelce standing there.
Not with Sarah right next to me.
Not with me looking right at him.
“You were driving like a maniac because you were pissed at me,” I said. “Then when I told you I was scared, you called me dramatic. So no, Rafe, I’m not doing this thing where you come over here and try to smooth it out because people are watching and you don’t like how this looks.”
His face changed again.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
Because that part was true too.
Rafe looked down for a second, then back at me. “You think that’s all I care about?”
I held his stare. “Right now? Yeah.”
He laughed once, harsh and offended. “You know what, fine.” He nodded like he was talking himself into staying calm. “Fine. Be mad. But don’t stand there and act like I was trying to hurt you.”
I went still. “I don’t actually care what you were trying to do.”
That shut him up.
I could see the exact second it landed.
“Because you still did it,” I said quietly.
Silence.
Even Sarah looked a little surprised at that one.
Rafe’s face went still.
Not cold.
Not angry.
Just hit.
I picked up my bag from the chair beside me.
“You need to grow up,” I said. “Seriously. You can’t keep losing it every time you feel out of control and then expect everyone else to clean up the mess you made.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself, wanted to pull me back into the conversation on his terms.
For once, I didn’t let him.
“You wanna talk?” I said. “Figure out how to be someone I actually feel safe with first.”
Sarah stood up beside me and grabbed her bag too. “Come on,” she said.
I didn’t take my eyes off Rafe.
“I mean it,” I said. “Grow up.”
Then I turned and walked away with Sarah next to me, leaving him standing there with Kelce and Topper in the middle of all that polished country club perfection, like maybe for once there wasn’t an easy joke or a smooth enough line to get him out of what he’d done.
Behind me, no one called my name.
And somehow that felt even heavier than if he had.
Warnings: toxic dynamics, possessiveness, jealousy, argument, violence, hurtful words
Summary: After hearing that Mattheo hexed another student for speaking badly about her, Y/N waits for him at the Astronomy Tower, furious that he keeps using violence in her name. What starts as an argument quickly turns raw and personal, with Mattheo accusing her of being ashamed of him and Y/N admitting she’s terrified of what his love and anger are turning him into. Beneath the jealousy, possessiveness, and cruel words they don’t fully mean, the truth still remains the same: they love each other too much to walk away. Under the stars, after nearly tearing each other apart, they find their way back to each other.
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I was already angry by the time I reached the Astronomy Tower.
Not the kind of anger that burned hot and vanished fast. This was worse. This sat under my skin and stayed there, sharp and ugly, feeding on every step I took up the stone staircase. My chest felt tight, my hands cold despite how hard I was gripping the railing, and with every second that passed, I only got more certain that if Mattheo looked at me and tried to justify what he’d done, I might actually scream.
The tower was almost empty at this hour.
The last of the evening had fallen away, leaving the castle wrapped in that strange hush that only came at night. The sky above was black velvet, endless and deep, scattered with stars so bright they looked close enough to touch. Wind curled across the open tower, cold and biting, slipping through my sleeves and lifting strands of my hair across my face. Usually I loved it up here. Usually it felt like stepping outside the world, like nothing ugly could reach this high.
Tonight it felt exposed.
Tonight it felt like a battlefield.
He wasn’t there yet.
Of course he wasn’t.
I folded my arms over my chest and paced the width of the tower, fury making me restless. My footsteps echoed against the stone. I tried not to think about what I’d heard, because every time I did, I saw it too clearly.
Another student. Another fight. Another hex.
Because someone had said something about me.
I should’ve been used to it by now. That was the worst part. I wasn’t even shocked. Just tired. Tired and furious and so deeply, horribly afraid of the person he was becoming that I could hardly stand it.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Heavy. Familiar.
I stopped pacing immediately, every muscle in my body going rigid.
Mattheo appeared a second later, one hand brushing the stone archway as he stepped onto the tower. His tie was loose, his dark hair wind-tossed like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times, and there was still something volatile clinging to him, something unsettled and dangerous. His expression shifted the moment he saw me.
For half a second, just half a second, there was relief in his eyes.
Then he saw my face.
His jaw tightened.
"You’re here," he said.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Brilliant observation."
He stared at me for a beat, already reading the storm in my voice. "Who told you?"
That made my anger sharpen so fast it nearly took my breath.
"That’s your first question?"
His eyes narrowed. "Who told you?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Why? So you can hex them too?"
His expression darkened at once. "Don’t start."
I actually laughed then, full of disbelief. "Don’t start? Mattheo, are you insane? You attacked someone again."
"He deserved it."
"That’s not the point."
"It is the point." He stepped farther into the tower, his voice already rising. "If he kept his mouth shut, nothing would’ve happened."
"So now you get to decide who gets hurt based on whether they annoy you?"
"He didn’t annoy me." Mattheo’s eyes flashed. "He was talking about you."
"I know he was talking about me," I snapped. "That doesn’t mean you get to curse every person who says something cruel."
"Why not?"
For a second I just stared at him.
The wind rushed between us, cold and loud in the silence that followed. He looked completely serious. Completely certain.
"Because you are not everyone’s executioner," I said, my voice lower now, trembling at the edges. "Because not every problem is solved by pain. Because I am so tired of hearing what you’ve done and wondering when it’s going to be too much, when someone’s finally going to retaliate, when you’re finally going to cross a line you can’t come back from."
His face changed at that.
Not softer. Worse.
It went blank in that dangerous way it did when something hit him exactly where it hurt.
"So that’s what this is," he said quietly.
I frowned. "What?"
"You’re embarrassed."
I blinked at him. "What?"
He gave a bitter laugh, looking away for a second before dragging a hand over his mouth. "You’re standing there acting horrified because I defended you, but what you really mean is that I make you look bad."
"That is not what I said."
"You didn’t have to say it." His voice hardened again. "I can hear it anyway."
I stared at him, stunned by how quickly he’d twisted it. "Mattheo, this is not about appearances."
"Then what is it about?"
"It’s about you losing yourself every time someone says my name the wrong way."
"Losing myself?" he repeated, almost laughing. "I know exactly who I am."
"That’s what scares me."
The words came out before I could stop them.
The moment they did, I wished I could drag them back into my mouth.
Mattheo went still.
Not the kind of stillness that meant calm. The kind that came just before something shattered.
His eyes locked on mine, dark and unreadable.
"I scare you," he said.
I swallowed. "Mattheo."
"No, go on." His voice was cold now, cold enough to freeze the air between us. "Say it properly. Since we’re being honest."
"I didn’t mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Because I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t know how to make him understand that the thing frightening me wasn’t him, not really, but what rage did to him. What love did to him. How quickly his devotion turned feral. How every time someone hurt me, he answered like the world had personally declared war.
And maybe some horrible part of me did understand it.
Maybe that was what made it so unbearable.
He took my silence as an answer.
I could see the hurt settle into him, deeper than anger, deeper than pride. It flickered across his face before he buried it, but not before I saw it.
"Right," he said.
"Don’t do that."
"Do what?"
"Shut down and act like I’m the villain because I don’t want you hurting people for me."
He looked back at me sharply. "For you? You think I do this as some sort of favor?"
"Then why do you do it?"
His laugh this time was low and disbelieving, and it made my stomach knot.
"Because I can’t stand it," he said. "Because I can’t stand hearing people speak about you like they know you. Like they get to reduce you to whatever pathetic rumor they’ve come up with that week. Because every time someone looks at you too long or says your name with that tone, I want to break something."
My breath caught.
He was breathing hard now, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made it impossible to look anywhere else.
"You think I enjoy this?" he continued. "You think I like feeling like I’m two seconds away from ripping apart anyone who thinks they can touch what’s mine?"
The words slammed into me.
What’s mine.
Heat and anger and something far more dangerous twisted together in my chest.
"I’m not yours," I said, even though my voice came out weaker than I wanted.
His expression changed instantly. Not softer, exactly. More wounded.
"That’s not what I meant."
"It sounded exactly like what you meant."
"You know me better than that."
"Do I?"
He flinched.
It was small, barely visible, but I saw it.
And for one awful second I hated myself.
But I was too upset, too raw, too deep in it now to stop.
"Sometimes I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore," I whispered. "Sometimes I look at you and all I can think is that one day you’re going to go too far, and I won’t be able to pull you back."
He stared at me like I’d struck him.
Then his face hardened all over again.
"Pull me back," he repeated. "Is that what you think this is? You saving me from myself?"
"That’s not what I said."
"No, it’s worse. You stand there looking at me like I’m something to manage. Something to be afraid of. Something to apologize for when people ask what the hell is wrong with me."
"I have never apologized for you."
"You don’t have to. You just look at me like you want to."
"That’s not fair."
"Fair?" He took a step closer, and the force of him filled the space instantly. "You want to talk to me about fair? I hear the things they say about you. I see the way they look at you. I watch boys think they can hover around you long enough and you’ll eventually smile at them, and I’m supposed to be calm about it? I’m supposed to stand there and do nothing while people pick you apart?"
I stared at him, pulse hammering.
There it was.
Not just anger. Not just protectiveness.
Jealousy. Possessiveness. That ugly, desperate ache in him that only ever seemed to show itself when it came to me.
"This wasn’t about some boy looking at me," I said.
"Isn’t it always?" he snapped.
"No."
"Funny, because every time someone gets too close to you, suddenly I’m the problem."
I took a sharp breath. "You are not listening to me."
"And you’re not listening to me either." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Do you have any idea what it does to me when people talk about you? When they act like they know what you want, who you’ll choose, who you should be with?"
He was close enough now that I could see the strain in his face. The anger, yes, but underneath it something worse. Something cracked open and bleeding.
"They don’t get to have an opinion on you," he said. "They don’t get to touch you with their eyes and their mouths and their filthy little guesses."
"Mattheo."
"No, because you act like I’m mad for it, but I see them. I see all of them. I see the way they wait for you to laugh, the way they lean toward you, the way they think if they’re patient enough they’ll get some part of you I don’t have."
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
"And you think that gives you the right to curse people?"
"I think it gives me the right to make them regret it."
"You cannot keep doing this."
"Why? Because it makes me look monstrous?"
"Because it is monstrous!"
The second the words left my mouth, the entire tower seemed to fall silent.
Even the wind felt quieter.
Mattheo stepped back like I’d physically shoved him.
I saw it happen in real time.
The fury in his face vanished, replaced by something blank and terrible. Something so hurt that it didn’t even know how to defend itself.
My stomach dropped.
"Mattheo," I said, my voice breaking. "I didn’t mean that."
He looked at me for a long moment.
When he spoke, his voice was eerily calm.
"Didn’t you?"
"No. I was angry."
"So was I."
I had no answer to that.
He turned away from me then, walking to the far edge of the tower. He braced both hands on the stone ledge and looked out at the grounds below, his shoulders rigid. The distance between us felt immediate and unbearable.
I didn’t move.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The stars hung above us in brutal, perfect silence.
I could hear my own breathing. The rustle of my robes in the wind. Somewhere far below, faint voices carried from the courtyard, distant enough to feel like they belonged to another life entirely.
I looked at him across the tower and felt sick with it.
Because I knew him.
I knew the tension in his shoulders meant he was holding himself together by force. I knew the stillness in him wasn’t indifference, it was damage. I knew he was replaying every word I’d said, cutting himself open on each one. And worse, I knew he thought I meant them.
Maybe part of me had.
That was the part I hated.
I wrapped my arms around myself tighter and stared at the floor for a second before forcing myself to look at him again.
"He didn’t deserve that," I said quietly.
Mattheo didn’t turn around. "You think I care about him?"
"No. I think you care too much about me."
That made him go still in a different way.
I took a breath.
"That’s the problem," I whispered. "You care so much that you stop thinking. You hear someone say something cruel and you go for blood before you even stop to ask if I need you to."
"I don’t need permission to protect you."
"I’m not asking for protection like that."
He laughed once, bitter and low, still facing away. "Right. Because heaven forbid anyone think you’re with someone like me."
My eyes stung.
"That is not fair," I said again, and this time the words came out shakier. "You know that isn’t what this is."
"Do I?"
The echo of my own earlier words hit me like a curse.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, he still hadn’t moved.
I hated the distance. I hated that he was standing so far away, like if he came any closer one of us would say something even worse. I hated that in a single conversation we had managed to drag every hidden fear into the open and leave them there between us.
And beneath all of it, beneath the anger and the pride and the fear, there was love. Terrible, constant, inescapable love.
It was in everything.
In the way he’d come when I asked him to.
In the way I’d waited.
In the way every insult about me felt like a blade in his hands.
In the way every bruise on his soul somehow ended up bruising mine too.
I swallowed hard.
"I’m not ashamed of you," I said into the quiet.
No response.
I took a few steps forward. Slowly, carefully, as if approaching something wounded enough to bite.
"Mattheo."
His fingers tightened against the stone ledge.
"Look at me."
"I’d rather not."
The words should’ve made me angry again. Instead they just hurt.
"Please."
For a long second, I thought he wouldn’t.
Then he turned.
His face nearly undid me.
He wasn’t crying. Mattheo almost never cried. But his eyes were bright with restrained fury and hurt, his mouth pulled tight like he was holding back far more than he’d ever let me see. He looked beautiful and ruined and so heartbreakingly young that my anger faltered completely.
"I’m not ashamed of you," I repeated, softer now. "I’m not."
He held my gaze without speaking.
I stepped closer.
"I’m angry because I love you," I said. "And because I know what happens when you let that anger make your choices for you. I know you think you’re protecting me, but sometimes it feels like you’re destroying yourself in front of me and expecting me to call it devotion."
Something in his expression shifted.
Just slightly.
I kept going before I lost my nerve.
"And yes, sometimes I get scared. Not of you. Never of you." My voice trembled. "But of what this place, this world, all this hatred keeps turning you into. Of how quickly you decide that pain is the only language anyone understands. Of how easy it is for you to hurt someone when you’re angry, and how impossible it is for me to pretend that doesn’t matter."
His throat moved as he swallowed.
I was standing close enough now to see the wind tugging at the ends of his hair, close enough to feel the heat of him in the cold night air.
"You don’t get it," he said finally, and the anger in his voice was gone. What replaced it was quieter, rougher, almost exhausted. "I hear them talk about you and it feels like something in me snaps. I know you can handle yourself. I know you don’t need saving. But that doesn’t stop it."
"I know."
"No, you don’t." He gave a small shake of his head, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder before returning to mine. "You don’t know what it’s like to want someone so badly it turns ugly. To love them so much that every person around them feels like a threat."
I stared at him.
My heart ached.
"Mattheo."
"I hate it," he admitted, almost in a whisper. "I hate the way I get when it comes to you. I hate how one stupid comment can make me see red. I hate how jealous I am all the time. Every time someone makes you laugh, every time some idiot stands too close, every time I think maybe one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m too much, I feel like I’m losing my mind."
The raw honesty of it stole the breath from my lungs.
He looked away for a moment, ashamed now, and somehow that was worse than the anger.
"And then you looked at me tonight like you regretted me," he said.
"I don’t."
"It felt like you did."
I moved without thinking.
I crossed the last bit of space between us and took his face in both my hands.
He went still instantly.
His breath caught. So did mine.
"Listen to me," I said, forcing him to hold my gaze. "I do not regret you. I could never regret you. You make me furious, you make me insane, you terrify me when you act like you’re invincible, but I do not regret you. Not for a second."
Something broke in his expression.
His hands came to my waist almost reflexively, firm and warm, like even hurt and angry he couldn’t stop himself from touching me when I was this close. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to say there you are, there you are, there you are.
"Then don’t look at me like that," he murmured.
I blinked. "Like what?"
"Like I’m already gone."
That hurt so much I almost kissed him just to make it stop.
Instead I let my thumbs brush over his cheeks and said, "Then don’t give me reasons to think I might lose you."
His eyes searched mine.
The night stretched around us, wind sighing through the tower, stars glittering cold and distant overhead.
"I don’t know how to be calm about you," he admitted.
I laughed weakly, tears burning behind my eyes. "I’ve noticed."
The corner of his mouth twitched, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"I mean it," he said. "When it comes to you, something is wrong with me."
"Something is wrong with both of us," I whispered.
That got the smallest real smile out of him.
It wrecked me.
I let out a shaky breath. "You cannot keep hexing people every time they say something awful about me."
His hands slid slightly at my waist. "What if they deserve it?"
"Mattheo."
"Fine," he muttered, though it was not remotely convincing.
I narrowed my eyes. "I’m serious."
"So am I." His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then lifted again. "But I’ll try."
From anyone else, it would’ve sounded meaningless.
From him, it sounded like blood and effort and a promise dragged out of somewhere deep.
"Try harder," I said.
"Bossy."
"Violent."
"Only for you."
I sighed, but I couldn’t stop the tiny smile that pulled at my lips.
His expression softened at the sight of it, like he’d been starving for it. Then his forehead dropped gently against mine, his eyes falling shut.
For a moment neither of us moved.
I could feel his breathing, still slightly uneven. Feel the tension that hadn’t fully left him. Feel the way he held me like letting go was not an option he was willing to consider.
"I hated hearing you say you were scared," he said quietly.
"I hated saying it."
"Were you telling the truth?"
I hesitated.
He must have felt it, because his hands tightened again.
"About what you’re becoming sometimes," I said softly, choosing each word carefully, "yes. But not because I think you’re a monster. Because I think you’re hurt. Because I think you love too hard and fight too hard and sometimes you don’t know where to put all of it."
He was quiet.
"You always see too much," he murmured.
"Someone has to."
His head lifted. His eyes were dark again, but not with anger this time. With that aching intensity that always made me feel like the only person in the world.
"And you still love me anyway?"
I let out the softest laugh, disbelieving he even had to ask. "Idiot. That’s the problem. I love you enough to stay and argue with you on top of a freezing tower when I should’ve gone to bed an hour ago."
That made him smile properly.
Small, but real.
It changed his whole face.
"You do love me," he said, and there was something boyish in it now, something almost unbearably tender beneath all the ruin.
"Unfortunately."
"Say it properly."
I rolled my eyes. "You’re impossible."
"Say it."
Even now, even after all of it, there was that possessive note in his voice. Less cruel than before. More vulnerable. Like he needed to hear it and hated needing anything.
So I gave in.
"I love you," I said softly.
His eyes closed for one brief second, like the words hit him somewhere deep.
When he opened them again, he looked wrecked by me.
"Say it again."
I smiled despite myself. "You’re obscene."
"And jealous, violent, deeply damaged. We’ve covered that. Say it again."
I laughed then, the sound unsteady but real, and something in the tower finally eased.
"I love you," I repeated.
This time he kissed me.
Like he’d been holding it back for too long.
It wasn’t gentle at first. It was relief and apology and leftover anger with nowhere else to go. One of his hands slid from my waist to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, holding me carefully but possessively, like he needed me closer even when there was no space left between us. I kissed him back just as hard, because I was still angry too, still hurt, still in love with him in that awful way that never let me keep my distance for long.
The cold wind cut around us, but his body was warm, solid, familiar.
When he finally pulled back, both of us breathing unevenly, he kept his forehead against mine and said, very quietly, "I did hate that boy, by the way."
I let out a tired laugh. "Which one?"
"The one from today."
"Because he insulted me?"
Mattheo’s mouth brushed the corner of mine. "That too."
I drew back just enough to look at him. "Mattheo."
He looked almost unapologetic. "He was looking at you."
"People look at me all the time."
"I know," he said darkly.
I shook my head, half exasperated, half helplessly fond. "You are unbelievable."
"And yet," he murmured, eyes dropping to my lips again, "you’re still here."
I should’ve had a better answer than that.
Instead I touched his face and whispered, "Yeah. I’m still here."
Something vulnerable flickered across his features.
He kissed me once, softer this time.
Then he pulled me into him properly, arms wrapping around me until I was tucked against his chest, my cheek pressed to the front of his shirt, his chin resting lightly on my head. The embrace felt less like victory and more like surrender. Like after all the sharp words and wounded pride, this was the truest thing left.
I slid my arms around his waist and held him back just as tightly.
Above us, the stars kept moving.
Slowly. Quietly. Indifferently.
The whole world carried on while we stood there in the middle of our mess, holding each other like we were trying to make up for every terrible thing we’d said.
"I’m sorry," I mumbled into his chest.
He was silent for a moment.
"Me too," he said at last.
I pulled back just enough to look up at him. "You are apologizing? Mark the calendar."
"Don’t make me take it back."
"Tempting."
His thumb brushed under my eye, and only then did I realize there’d been tears there.
His face tightened. "Did I make you cry?"
"A little."
"I’ll kill myself."
I gave him a flat look. "That is not how apologies work."
He huffed a laugh, but his eyes stayed soft, full of remorse and affection and that same endless intensity I didn’t know what to do with except love.
"Come here," he murmured.
I was already there, but I let him pull me closer anyway.
We stayed like that for a long time.
No more shouting. No more accusations. Just the quiet scrape of his fingers against my back, the steady rise and fall of his chest under my cheek, the night air all around us. The silence wasn’t angry now. It was tired. Tender. Full of everything we hadn’t managed to say right.
And maybe that was us.
Not easy. Not gentle. Not simple.
Just two people loving each other so much it turned catastrophic around the edges.
Two people saying the wrong things when it mattered most and still finding their way back.
Eventually I tilted my head up and asked, "Did you hurt him badly?"
Mattheo looked down at me.
"No," he said.
I raised a brow.
He sighed. "Not permanently."
"Mattheo."
"I said I’d try harder, not become a saint overnight."
I groaned and pressed my face back into his chest while he laughed softly above me.
Then his hand slid into my hair, gentle now, soothing, and he kissed the top of my head.
"I do mean it," he said. "I’ll try. For you."
I closed my eyes.
"For yourself too," I murmured.
He didn’t answer right away.
When he finally did, his voice was so quiet I almost missed it.
"I’m better when you’re with me."
My throat tightened.
I held him a little closer.
"Then stay better," I whispered.
His arms tightened around me in answer.
And under the shifting stars, in the cold on top of the tower where we’d nearly torn each other to pieces, we stood tangled together and loved each other in the only way we knew how.
Summary: After the match, the celebration carries on without him. When she finds Matteo alone in the corridor, a small misunderstanding turns into something sharper, exposing the jealousy, hurt, and messy kind of love neither of them knows how to handle.
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The Slytherin common room was loud enough to shake the walls.
People were everywhere, shouting over each other about the match, green banners draped over the sofas, bottles of Butterbeer being passed round like they'd just won the Quidditch Cup itself instead of scraping through by pure luck. Music echoed through the dungeon, heavy and uneven beneath the noise of too many voices, and someone had nearly fallen into the fireplace trying to stand on a table, their friends laughing too hard to help. The whole room felt overheated and restless, full of that wild, careless energy that came after a win no one was entirely sure had been deserved.
But Mattheo wasn't there.
I noticed that before I even meant to. My eyes skimmed over the room once, then again, catching familiar faces, green ties, raised bottles, but not his. It shouldn't have mattered. He had every right to disappear after the way he'd played. Still, his absence pulled at me instantly, sharp and impossible to ignore.
I found him in the empty corridor outside the boys' dormitories, sitting on the windowsill at the far end with his tie hanging loose round his neck and a bruise darkening along his jaw. The corridor was quiet in a way the common room wasn't, the cold stone swallowing the music until it was little more than a dull pulse in the distance. Pale light from the window cut across his face, catching the mess of his hair and the tense line of his shoulders. He looked like he'd been sitting there for a while, alone with whatever mood had settled over him.
The second he looked up and saw me, his expression hardened.
"Come to laugh at me too?" he asked, his voice flat as he leaned one shoulder back against the stone and looked at me like he'd already decided what my answer would be.
I stopped short, my steps faltering against the cold floor. "What?"
He let out a short, humourless laugh and turned his head towards the dark window again, jaw flexing. "You seemed busy enough doing it during the match."
"Mattheo." I stared at him, thrown by the bitterness in his voice, and took a cautious step closer. "What are you on about?"
He dragged his gaze back to mine, eyes cold and flat in a way that made something in my chest tighten. "The stands. You and that boy."
Realisation hit instantly.
"The boy in the stands?" I repeated, blinking at him as disbelief crept into my voice. "Are you serious?"
His jaw shifted, the muscle ticking. "You couldn't take your eyes off him."
"Oh my God."
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, mostly because it sounded so ridiculous out loud, because for one brief second I thought he couldn't possibly mean it the way it sounded. But the second the sound left me, I regretted it. His whole face tightened.
"Don't," he snapped, the words sharp enough to cut through the corridor.
I lifted a hand slightly, more out of instinct than thought. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because that's insane."
His mouth twisted, not quite a smile and nowhere near amused, and he pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Funny," he said, voice low and edged. "You didn't seem to think it was insane when he had all your attention."
"Mattheo, he was telling me that Nott nearly fell off his broom during practice," I said, trying and failing to keep my tone patient.
He looked at me like the explanation only made it worse. "And that was funny enough to flirt with him for an entire match?"
I blinked at him, staring. "Flirt?"
"Yes, flirt." He pushed himself off the windowsill in one sharp movement and landed on his feet, the suddenness of it making me straighten. He took a step forward, restless energy rolling off him in waves. "Don't act like you don't know what that looked like."
I opened my hands at my sides, incredulous. "I was standing there talking."
"You were smiling at him," he shot back immediately, like he'd been holding the words in for too long.
"Because he was speaking to me."
"Right." He said it with a bitter little nod, like he didn't believe a word coming out of my mouth.
I stared at him in disbelief. "You played terribly because I laughed at someone's joke?"
He stepped closer, all sharp movements and simmering anger, his hands flexing once at his sides before he forced them still. "You distracted me."
I gave a short, disbelieving shake of my head. "No, you distracted yourself."
His eyes flashed at that, dark and immediate. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"No, I didn't." My voice sharpened before I could stop it, frustration flaring hot in my chest. I folded my arms tightly, like it might stop me saying more than I meant to. "Not everything I do is about getting a reaction out of you."
His stare turned cutting. "You looked at him every time I looked up."
"Because he was standing next to me," I said, stressing every word like maybe that would finally make it sink in.
He gave a tight shrug that was almost mocking. "You could've walked away."
I let out a breath of disbelief and looked at him like I didn't recognise what I was hearing. "So now I need permission to speak to people?"
His brow furrowed, but he didn't back down. "That's not what I said."
"It's exactly what you meant," I said, my voice going colder.
The corridor seemed even quieter after that, the distant noise from the party muffled behind the stone walls. He looked furious, but underneath it there was something more frayed than that, something raw and ugly and embarrassingly honest. It only made me more frustrated.
And that was it.
Something in me snapped.
"Not everything is about you, Mattheo," I said, the words coming out harder than I meant them to.
They echoed against the stone and hung between us.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then he scoffed quietly and shook his head, dragging a hand over his mouth like I'd just confirmed something he'd already decided to believe. "You always do this."
I frowned, anger and confusion colliding in my chest. "Do what?"
He looked at me properly then, eyes bright with something harsher than anger. "Act innocent after making me lose my mind."
My jaw dropped. "I'm not responsible for your jealousy."
"You knew it'd get to me," he said, his voice lower now, rougher round the edges.
I took a step closer without meaning to, too angry to stop myself. "And you let it ruin your whole match anyway."
His expression darkened. There was heat in it, but there was hurt too, buried so deep he probably hated that I could see it. "You think this is funny?"
"No." I looked at him, really looked at him, at the bruise on his jaw, the anger he wore like armour, the way every argument between us somehow circled back to the same mess. My voice dropped, quieter but somehow more cutting. "I think you're exhausting."
The second the words left my mouth, his face changed.
Not angry.
Worse.
Hurt.
For one second he just looked at me, and all that anger seemed to fall back enough for something more exposed to show through.
Then he said, quieter, like the word itself had caught somewhere on the way out, "Exhausting?"
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, but I didn't take it back. "Yes."
Something shuttered behind his eyes.
But instead of saying anything else, he crossed the distance between us and kissed me.
Hard and sudden, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw while the other tightened on my waist, pulling me flush against him like he couldn't stand even an inch of space between us. The impact of it stole my breath for a second. His mouth moved against mine with a bruising kind of urgency, demanding and unrelenting, like he was trying to pour every unsaid thing into the kiss before I could shut him out.
The kiss turned deeper almost instantly, heated and possessive, his grip firm as he tilted my face the way he wanted and kissed me like letting me go wasn't an option. It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was desperate, overwhelming, and achingly familiar, the kind of kiss that usually made my thoughts blur and my anger unravel. He kissed me like he was trying to fix it, or erase it, or maybe just keep me there for one second longer before everything between us cracked open completely.
Usually, I'd have melted into him instantly. Usually, kissing Mattheo fixed everything for at least a little while. Usually, I let it. Usually, I wanted to.
But this time, it didn't.
This time all I could feel was the argument still burning under my skin, the sting of everything he'd thrown at me, the way he always reached for me like this instead of saying what he actually meant.
I pulled away.
Actually pulled away.
For a second, he chased it on instinct, leaning in again like he couldn't quite believe I was slipping out of his grasp, his fingers tightening at my waist before he caught himself. The movement was small, barely there, but I felt it. Then his hands loosened almost immediately, surprise flickering across his face, followed by something almost like regret.
The corridor fell silent.
I could still feel my heartbeat in my throat as I stepped back from him, shaking my head slightly. My lips still tingled from the force of the kiss, but the ache in my chest felt heavier.
"See?" I said quietly, wrapping my arms round myself as if that could steady me. "That's the problem."
Mattheo frowned, still looking at me like he hadn't caught up to the moment yet. "What is?" he asked, his voice quieter now, the anger in it dulled into confusion.
I let out a shaky breath and met his eyes. "You think kissing me fixes everything."
His chest rose and fell once. He looked away for half a second before glancing back at me. "It usually does."
I gave a small, disbelieving laugh, the sound thinner than I meant it to be, and rubbed a hand over my mouth. "Do you hear yourself?"
He looked almost frustrated now, but there was something raw under it, something uncertain that didn't show itself often. "I don't know what else you want me to do."
"Talk to me," I said, softer this time, because under all the anger that was all I'd wanted from the beginning.
His brows pulled together. "I am talking to you."
"No." I shook my head and looked at him steadily, even though my chest ached. "You're accusing me, getting angry, and then kissing me until I forget why we were fighting in the first place."
His gaze dropped for a second, then came back to mine, heavy with something I couldn't quite name. "Maybe I don't want you walking away angry."
"Maybe I don't want to keep doing this."
The honesty in that answer nearly broke my heart. Because I did love him. That was the worst part. I loved him enough that every fight felt like it scraped something raw inside me, enough that even now part of me wanted to take it back, step forward, let him kiss me again, and pretend none of this was happening.
I swallowed hard and forced the words out anyway. "Love isn't supposed to feel like walking through a war zone all the time."
That hit him.
I saw it happen.
His entire expression faltered for just a second, like the words had landed somewhere deeper than he wanted them to. The fight went out of his face in a way that made him look suddenly younger, less angry, more lost.
He looked at me like he wanted to say something, like there were a hundred things caught behind his teeth, but nothing came out. His throat moved once, and then again, and still he said nothing.
"Say something," I whispered, barely louder than the distant thud of music bleeding through the walls.
His voice was quiet when he finally answered, his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder because he couldn't seem to hold my gaze anymore. "I wouldn't know where to start."
Neither did I.
So neither of us said anything after that.
Because what was left to say?
I looked at him one last time before turning away, leaving the noise of the party somewhere far behind me. The music got louder again as I moved, the sound of people laughing and shouting bleeding back into the edges of everything, but it felt distant somehow, like it belonged to a different world entirely.
Wait because I actually think an Outer Banks x Gossip Girl AU would work so well if it was done properly.
Like imagine all the OBX characters in the Upper East Side world instead of the Outer Banks. Private schools, penthouses, galas, old money families, scandals constantly being exposed by Gossip Girl, secret relationships, paparazzi, society expectations, all of it. The class divide from OBX would still exist, it would just be Manhattan old money vs everyone outside of it.
I’d set it back during Kiara’s kook year too, before everything fully fell apart between her and the rich crowd, because the dynamics would be so much messier that way. She’d still be close with Sarah, going to parties, caught between both worlds before eventually drifting toward the others.
