you’re on your own, kid–chapter eleven
series masterlist
pairing: Rafe Cameron x female reader
word count: 7.6k
warnings: swearing, vomiting, anxiety/panic attacks, depression, mentions of food/food monitoring, ptsd (nightmares, panic attacks) mentions of rape and sexual assault, mentions of eating disorder/throwing up, cocaine/cocaine addiction, counseling, hospitals, mentions of STDs (please let me know if I missed any!)
a/n: if this chapter seems choppy, it’s because it is. I’m sorry. I have to start speeding stuff up or else we will never get anywhere in this series. also the moral of this chapter is that healing is not linear. also I’m sorry for the long wait for the update, I’ve been too busy being insane. thanks for reading!
PLEASE READ: this story will contain dark topics of eating disorders, vomiting, rape, and sexual assault (not by Rafe). Please proceed with caution and do not read if these are triggering topics to you!! This fic is in no way intended to romanticize any type of sexual abuse or disordered eating.
If you are a victim of rape or sexual assault, please know that you are worthy and your feelings are valid. Please contact the following for resources and professionals who can help you:
US–National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673/https://www.rainn.org
UK– Rape Crisis England and Wales https://rapecrisis.org.uk
AUS– https://www.nasasv.org.au/support-directory
EU–https://www.rcne.com
Memorial Day weekend came and went, and like most of Rafe’s days lately, it was uneventful.
There were no parades or cookouts this year, and when Rafe wasn’t dodging the calls of all his friends, he was watching Gilmore Girls on the couch with you.
Rafe made waffles on Sunday morning, and okay, they came frozen in a cardboard box and made in the toaster, but he made them nonetheless. It was the first thing you had actually requested food-wise, and Rafe was over the moon thrilled.
“I just don’t understand how they can eat out everyday while living in a large house with a car as a single-income household,” Rafe exclaimed. “Even taking into account the inflation differences of twenty years, it still doesn’t add up. Lorelei couldn’t have been making that much working at the inn.”
You peered at him from the other side of the couch, giving him a half-smile. Rafe didn’t really care about the financial inaccuracy of your favorite show, but he knew proclamation would garner him a response.
“I think we’re to assume Luke gives them most of their meals for free,” you answered.
“That still doesn’t account for all the times they order pizza, get snacks at the market, or go to Al’s.”
The smirk you gave caused him to change topics. “And I knew Dean was bad news. I never liked him—not even at the beginning.”
You smirked again, straightening your legs out from under you and heading toward the kitchen.
Rafe jumped up. “What do you need? I’ll get it.”
You shot him a sideways look. “You’re not my servant, Rafe. I’m just getting some water.”
He nodded, hesitantly sitting back down and watching your every move: the way you had to stretch up on your tiptoes to reach the reusable bottle you wanted and the way you flinched slightly at the sound of the ice hitting the side of the cup. It was like Rafe couldn’t take his eyes off you, like if he did, you’d start slipping again, and he would do everything in his power to keep you upright.
Since Monday was a holiday, you got a break from therapy for one day. However, that didn’t mean Rafe was giving you a free pass, he only moved your appointment to Tuesday, insistent that you didn’t fall behind on any progress (or lack there of) you were making.
When Tuesday morning came, you sat in Rafe’s passenger seat listening to Folklore and the Long Pond sessions on the nearly two hour drive.
“Did you know I wrote about The Lakes in an English Lit essay?”
Your question surprised Rafe, but not in the way he was unaware of your Taylor Swift references in your paper on The Awakening. He didn’t expect the question, or for you to speak at all for that matter. Most of your car ride chatter was initiated by him.
“I remember,” he told you. “I also remember you getting into an argument with Mr. Bradshaw over it.”
You let out the closest thing to a chuckle he’d heard in weeks. “Yeah, he said he didn’t understand the connection even though I clearly explained it on the third page. I just think the lazy bastard didn’t read it all the way.”
“I also remember you calling him a misogynist in front of the whole class,” he admused. He saw your smirk out of the corner of his eye.
“He was,” you defended. “He was always harder on the women than he was on the men, because he was all buddy-buddy with most of you since he helped coach.”
Rafe never thought of it in that way, but thinking back, you were right.
“You never saw it, though, because you were one of them,” you continued. “Didn’t you notice how Sean always got As even though he didn’t read a single book all year?”
It was bizarre, especially since the only subject Sean really excelled at was lunch. The only reason he got into the school was because his mother was a board member.
“I guess I never noticed,” he confessed. “Bradshaw deserved it, though. He is a misogynist.” The assistant coach made one too many pointed comments about some of the hemlines for Rafe’s liking, but what was he to do about it? He was just a kid and afraid of retaliation, like any pushback would prevent him from becoming team captain or quarterback after Josh Cook graduated. Everyone else on the team either took part in his games or feared him more than Rafe.
Not you, though. You didn’t care about retaliation or a bad grade on a paper, not when a blatant injustice was occurring.
That’s what Rafe admired most about you: how you were never afraid of doing the right thing. How you’d look fear right in the eye and tear it to shreds, bravely and beautifully all at the same time. The fire in your eyes may have dulled the last few weeks, but it was always there, and Rafe was determined to see their fiery glow again.
You and Rafe got smoothies on the way home from therapy and spent the rest of the day on the couch watching 90s sitcoms and occasionally writing in your journal. When you ate a small bowl of pasta for dinner, Rafe could’ve cried.
Wednesday’s journey carried on the same way, except listening to Fearless and reminiscing silently about the time Rafe sang a horrible rendition of Love Story outside your bedroom window in the middle of the night.
Rafe didn’t remember much of his actions from that night, but he remembers how he felt clear as day. Junior year was when he first started messing around with harder drugs, trying to find a release from Ward’s constant comparisons to Sarah and considerable responsibility with carrying the Cameron name. Getting drunk and smoking weed only helped for so long.
He knew he wanted to marry you for years then (not much has changed in the two years since that had passed), but obviously in his fuddled state he couldn't contain himself. He remembers thinking if he had to wait a second longer his heart might explode all over your front yard.
Kelce and Topper told him it was stupid, and called him a “simp” and “pussy-whipped”, but he didn’t care. You had to realize then how he felt, since you hadn’t before, and what better way to show it than this? Taylor Swift was romantic, and showing up at your window like Rapunzel in her tower was romantic. Fitzgerald and Austen were romantic, and some of your favorite authors. Fearless was such a monumental album for you growing up (Rafe remembers The Way I Loved You blasting through the speaker of your iPod Touch in grade school) and the two of you were casted as Romeo and Juliet in sophomore year English class. It was perfect—it was fate, and everything had a special meaning only you two would understand.
When you looked down at him with your chin up, perched in your windowsill like he was nothing but a nuisance, he thought his life was over. Maybe that was a tad dramatic for a seventeen year old boy, but it was how he felt. All he ever gave you was his heart and you couldn’t even spare half a look of empathy in return.
Why won’t she love me? He asked your father, rather embarrassingly, as for the next time he shook your fathers hand he squeezed a little too tight, giving the boy a look of disapproval. Rafe didn’t blame him, though—if his daughter, who he’d given everything for, captured the attention of a rambunctious teenage heartbreaker, he wouldn’t trust him either.
Your father had sighed as Rafe pleaded to him with tears in his eyes, like maybe having his blessing would change your opinion on him. Your father was the only man you were ever soft for.
Just give her time, Rafe, he told him. You know how she is. She needs to figure things out on her own. Just give her time.
You emerged from the small office with the same glimmer of hope in your eyes that had been there for the last few days. It was the faintest flicker, so small and inconsistent you might miss it if you didn’t look hard enough, but it was there nonetheless. Rafe wouldn’t trade that flicker for all the riches in the world.
The two of you walked across the street to a cafe Rafe had spotted driving in. You opted to stay outside on the bench while he went in and ordered, keeping an eye on you through the storefront window. He was afraid to take his eyes off you, like if he did something might happen to you again, and now he’d be even more at fault.
He watched you chew on your thumbnail as the barista helped the customer in front of him, keeping your eyes constantly moving to monitor your surroundings.
From this angle he was able to see parts of you he knew existed but hadn’t seen in a while, like the freckle on the side of your neck or the scar on your elbow from when he pushed you off the jungle gym as kids. He smiled at the way you chewed on your nail, much like you did before every debate or student body president speech you gave. You never said outright that you were nervous, but he knew all your tells. The two of you may grow older, but some things never change.
Rafe stepped forward to order, paying no mind to the bell dinging on the front door as he asked for a few almond croissants and iced coffees.
The whoosh of air swirling up next to him, along with the loud sigh made him turn his head. There you were, panting quietly, fingers wiggling, standing as close to him as publicly acceptable.
He moved to the side with you as the barista made your drinks. “Are you okay?” He asked, placing his hands on your shoulders.
You swallowed but didn’t answer, looking down in shame. You said you weren’t ready to see anyone else today, which is why you waited outside. You must not be ready to be away from him yet either.
Though on the inside he was beaming, to finally be needed for once, he knew it was a big deal to you, so he didn’t press it.
You seemed to relax now that you were near him, away from the passing cars who all seemed to be eyeing you and the stranger taking out his trash down the alley on the right.
Rafe led you back outside, drinks in hand, with his other one on the small of your back.
“So I was thinking,” he started as you took a few steps down the sidewalk. “We could go sit on the beach on the other side of the lot. It backs up to the offices, so I don’t think anyone will be there.”
You were silent—not saying yes, but also not giving him a flat-out no before the last word even left his lips, much like every other time he’s suggested it.
You thought and thought.
The hands of his watch ticked by, waiting for your answer. “Okay.”
Rafe was right—there wasn’t anyone on the beach behind the series of townhouses and office buildings. If it was private property, he didn’t care. He was Rafe Cameron after all, and he would break a million laws to get you anywhere other than your apartment or his car.
You sat in the sand, picking the almond slices off your pastry and eating them one by one. Rafe sat close to you, your shoulders brushing every so often while neither of you said anything. It reminded him of prom senior year—the way the sand felt beneath his palms, the way your hair flowed in the breeze, sometimes flicking his cheek. He wondered if you remembered that night, too, but he didn’t mention it.
“How about we play a game?” He asked, licking the powdered sugar off his thumb.
You quirked your brow, urging him to go on.
“How about we ask each other questions, and you be honest with me and I’ll be honest with you?”
You gulped. “What kind of questions?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
Your shoulders dropped, probably anticipating his question to dig much deeper into a topic you weren’t ready to talk about.
You told him, then asked him the same.
“Blue,” he said. “Your turn.”
“What’s your favorite song right now?”
“Misery Business.”
You laughed.
“What? You recently reminded me how much of a banger it is.”
“It is,” you agreed. You offered your favorite song without him having to ask.
“What’s your favorite book?”
You had the audacity to look offended when he told you his was East of Eden.
“John Steinbeck literally made two women fight over him,” you chastised.
Rafe rolled his eyes. “You say Steinbeck and Hemingway were misogynists because they often wrote the female characters as the villains. What you don’t see is that these villains are also extremely powerful.”
“Yes, I’m sure while he was writing all he could think about was how powerful this child-abandoning hooker would seem to high school boys seventy years in the future,” you argued through furrowed brows.
“You got me there,” he laughed. “But Cathy holds power over all the men in her life—Adam and her sons— for years. Aron dies trying to distance himself from her and Cal spends his entire life trying to be different from her. If you don’t see that as power over someone, I don’t know what to tell you.”
Rafe doesn’t miss the tick in your jaw. “Cathy commits every sin imaginable, including the ultimate sin of suicide. He doesn’t respect women—you even see that with Curley’s wife in Of Mice and Men. He doesn’t even respect her enough to give her a name.”
Rafe continued to banter with you as you wiggled your toes in the sand, your Birkenstocks long thrown to the side. He didn’t really care enough about Steinbeck or the way he wrote about women, but he did care about getting you to talk so passionately about the only thing he knew how—books.
Your iced coffees were finished off a while ago, the sand stuck up the edge of the cup where condensation collected. Rafe didn’t mind the sand in his shoes or the sun beating down on his skin, turning it red. He was glad you were talking to him, even if it was as asinine as a game of Twenty Questions. Rafe knew most of your answers already, but you gave him a few surprises.
He also liked you knowing the details about himself, like his favorite Disney princess or his dream vacation spot. It felt intimate, like you were seeing a piece of him you'd never seen before. Maybe you didn’t care to know this about him, or you were too shy to ask, but he was glad to share this piece of his heart with you.
The ride back to the island you listened to Lover, your ‘feel good’ album, and Rafe could only presume it was because you were feeling good. He smiled, keeping his hand on the gear shift, wishing that one day it would be your hand holding his while he drove.
“Another question,” he started. “What are you thinking about right now?”
“Um…I’m thinking that, uh, today was nice,” you sputtered out after a long pause, like you had a hard time accepting a good thing.
Rafe beamed at your admittance. “Me too, honey. I had a really great time today.”
When you got home, the two of you sat on the balcony. You journaled while Rafe picked up your copy of East of Eden, stating your discussion inspired him to pick it up again. He had watched too much TV the last few weeks anyways.
His focus was only half on the words on the page, the other half watching you out of the corner of his eye, your tongue peeking out of your lips and eyes creasing when you scribbled out something you wrote.
“You’ve only turned the page three times in the last twenty minutes,” you said knowingly, setting your pen down and looking up at him for a second.
“I know. I’ve been distracted,” he admitted.
“By what?”
“You.”
Redness creeped up your neck and onto your cheeks. You picked up your pen and finished writing down your thought, the only acknowledgment of his words a subtle hum.
Rafe smirked and fixated back on his page, feeling like the cocky boy he was a year ago flirting with you at the lunch table. He urged to reach over a brush the stand of hair falling out of your claw clip behind your ear, to make you blush even further, just like he would in school.
Instead, he asked what you wanted for dinner that night.
You shrugged, not taking your eyes off what you were writing. He knew to take things slowly. You were just starting to get your appetite back, and after weeks of nibbling on toast and vomiting three times a day, you wouldn’t be back to normal overnight. It was taking a toll on you—he could tell from your sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, the bones in neck and shoulders protruding more than before.
“How about we order in?” He offered. “Thai? Indian? Pizza?”
You contemplated for a while before deciding. “Thai’s good.”
An hour later you sat across each other on the couch, Rafe watching you as you slowly ate a piece of broccoli stalk-first out of your pad see ew.
“You feeling okay?” He asked, wanting to make sure your stomach was settled.
You nodded, not taking your eyes off the screen where you watched Boy Meets World.
You twirled a rice noodle on your fork and chewed it slowly, eating each ingredient one at a time. Rafe studied you closely, watching each swallow and movement of the fork.
“Stop watching me,” you barked at him.
He stiffened but obliged, turning back to face the screen.
Thursday was spent on your balcony, enjoying the feeling of the ocean breeze running across your skin and through your hair. Rafe picked up where he left off in East of Eden while you started Tender is the Night.
It was silent in the world surrounding you two, the only sounds coming from a car door slamming in the parking lot or a speedboat passing by on the water.
The two of you sat there for hours, in the silence of turning pages until you spoke suddenly, as if you had been working up the courage until now.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he answered, surprised. “Anything.”
“Why are you here with me this summer?” You looked up at him from under your lashes, your body inadvertently shying away from him though your words held strong.
He was astonished. “Because you called.” That was all he really needed to say. Because you called, and I answered, just like I will always answer.
Yet he continued, laying it all out for you like he always did. “It was so out of character for you to need me for something. I knew something had to be bad if you were that desperate.” Even though you didn’t look at him, he could feel the guilt radiating through the air. “Then I found out and–I don’t know, Y/N. I couldn’t leave you like that, all alone. I couldn’t leave knowing someone hurt you and that you were hurting and do nothing about it.”
He felt the lump in his throat grow bigger and bigger with each word he spoke. He can’t leave you in this shattered state you’re in. It physically hurts him to think about, and he can’t know he stood by doing nothing to take the pain from you.
You looked at him, your eyes apologetic yet unyielding. “No, I mean…why are you here this summer? And not at school…or training camp?”
He sighed. He knew it was coming. He knew he would have to talk about it eventually.
Last summer Rafe spent most of his time at UNC, training with the football team for the upcoming season. This year should’ve been no different, especially since it would be the current quarterback's senior year, and this would’ve been a great time for Rafe to show his skills to earn the position for the next season. But just like everything else in his life, he ruined it.
“I’m sure you know already,” he grumbled while running his hand over his eyes, the irritation in his voice bubbling up from a place of his own self-hatred.
“I don’t,” you admitted, your voice unwavering.
He sighed again. “I was kicked off the team.”
“Why?”
He chuckled slightly at your bluntness.
That’s what he loved about you—the way you didn’t care about sounding polite or meek in your quest to find the truth. You asked the questions most people wouldn’t, the ones they’d be too scared to ask, but you spoke the words with a certainty like you were asking the weather.
“The dean found out about the cocaine,” he started. “I think the coach knew already, but my dad made a big donation for him to keep quiet. The dean found out and kicked me off before he had his chance with him.”
All honesty is what he promised you, and honesty is what you would get.
“I’m sorry,” you said, and it didn’t even sound forced. “I know you’re really passionate about football, and I know you worked hard to get there.”
“It’s my own damn fault,” he shook his head. “I didn’t work hard—I got where I am because of my name, because of my father. I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
“That’s not true,” you argued. “You’re a talented football player. You got to where you are because you earned it.”
Rafe chuckled again. “You never came to any games.”
“I came to a few,” you protested, and oh, how he remembered those nights so clearly. How he’d look up in the stands to find you talking with one of the girls, or silently trying to track where the ball was, or sometimes reading during a timeout. Those were his favorite memories.
“I didn’t think you watched enough of the game in between reading breaks to notice,” he joked, nudging you with his elbow.
“I noticed,” you replied coyly, and Rafe could’ve sworn he saw you bat an eyelash or two
He felt frozen in this moment—stuck between wanting to take to his knees in front of your chair and grab your face and kiss you, and slap himself silly for thinking you’d ever doubted him.
When he didn’t speak again, too busy gawking at you like an angel fallen from heaven, you continued: “So what now?”
“What do you mean, ‘what now’?”
“What are you going to do now? With your life?”
He laughed again at your blatant phrasing. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll keep going to school in the fall and read or watch Gilmore Girls reruns in my free time,” he nudged his elbow at you.
You smirked at his subtle jab at you. “But what about–are you…are you still doing it?”
“No. I’m trying to be better.” And he was, for you, and that cost him dearly.
Your mouth quirked. “That’s good, I guess.” He chuckled. “That’s hard to overcome.”
He reckoned that's as close to a compliment as he’d get from you, but he accepted it nonetheless. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
Friday carried on the same as Wednesday: therapy in the morning, Taylor Swift on the car ride, coffee from the cafe, walking along the beach until the early afternoon.
Since you spent more time on the mainland, the line for the ferry back was particularly long. Rafe didn’t mind, though, as driving with you was becoming his favorite part of the day.
He saw you smile out of the corner of his eye as he absentmindedly sung under his breath.
“Put the money in a bag and I stole the keys, that was the last time you ever saw me.”
“What?” He asked innocently, the cheeky glint in his eyes giving him away.
“Nothing,” you answered coyly.
“I thought we said all honesty?”
“I never agreed to that, I just played along.”
“Okay then, tell me what you’re thinking now,” he countered. “I’m thinking that I love your smile.”
Your eyes went wide for a split second. “I was thinking about how I used to think you were Rep-coded.”
“Used to?” He astonished. “What do you think now?”
“I should’ve realized all along that you’re a Lover boy.”
When the two of you returned home, Rafe sat on the balcony with you while you wrote in your journal. He kept reading, only stopping to make dinner. You only ate a bit, but he figured you just weren’t very hungry.
You kept writing furiously into the night, well after the sun had set and you relied on the porch light to see where you were writing.
Rafe gave up reading about an hour ago, watching the sunset across the marina and cars drive by. He had no desire to scroll through social media much these days, not when everything he needed was right in front of him.
“Do you want to watch a movie or something? It’s the weekend, so we can stay up late,” he wiggled his eyebrows playfully as if you were kids with no bedtime but was met with your blank stare.
“I think I’m just going to go to bed.” Without room for reply, you turned and slid the sliding door open, disappearing into your room for the rest of the night.
Rafe was up early on Saturday morning, his body’s internal alarm growing used to your therapy schedule. You awoke a little while later, coming out to get some water without so much as a ‘good morning’ and then retreating to your room where you stayed for hours.
As the clock struck noon, he went to check on you. He called your name and knocked softly on your bedroom door, not wanting to interrupt if your body was just catching up on much needed sleep. He peeked his head in when he didn’t get a reply and saw you awake, bundled up in your comforter and sobbing quietly.
Rafe crouched down to where you were laying in your bed. He stared into your sullen eyes, rubbed raw with red veins streaking your scleras.
“What’s wrong?” He asked worriedly.
You shook your head.
“Bad day?” He asked simply, almost like he knew, and you nodded like a sleepy toddler when asked if you were ready for bed.
Rafe’s heart broke when you sniffled from taking a sharp inhale.
“What can I do?” He asked helplessly while stroking a piece of hair out from where it had fallen into your mouth.
You shook your head, finally replying through sobs, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Sweetheart, nothing’s wrong with you,” he said softly.
“Yes there is,” you whined, your voice barely audible. “I felt– I thought I was getting better.”
Rafe slumped his shoulders at your defeat. “Y/N, it’s normal.” He stroked your hair again. “There will be good days and bad days, and that’s okay. No one expects you to be instantaneously… healed.”
“I do.”
Rafe was taken aback. “What do you mean?” He asked with furrowed brows.
“I expected more out of myself,” you replied. “I didn’t expect to feel like this, especially for so long.”
“You shouldn’t ’expect’ yourself to feel any kind of way,” Rafe said almost angrily. “Nothing like this should’ve ever happened to you, and don’t for a second think anything different. You feel however you want to feel.” He brushed another hair away, pausing when his fingers reached the shell of your ear. “You have astronomically high expectations for yourself, and I know letting go of control isn’t easy for you.”
You shot him a look, but he continued. “Of course I don’t want you to keep hurting, and I’d do anything to see you smile again, but you shouldn’t blame yourself for how you’re feeling.”
Though his tone was harsh, his anger wasn’t directed towards you. He wished you weren’t so head-strong on keeping your emotions hidden so you could try to get back to normal. “The doctor said it was normal for you to have tough days. That doesn’t mean you’re not getting better.”
You nodded slowly, your tears staining your pillowcase.
“Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” He asked hopefully, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone.
“I just feel really…heavy,” you admitted. “Like something is sitting on my chest.”
He nodded in understanding. “I wish I could take the weight from you and carry it myself.”
You shouldn’t have to feel like this, but you do, so telling you so isn’t helpful. Rafe just has to watch you suffer as a bystander, feeling his own weight of helplessness sitting on his chest.
You shook your head. “You’ve already done too much for me, Rafe.”
“Nonsense,” he argued. “I will do anything that I can for you. I always have and I always will.”
You stayed silent, taking slow, deep breaths while your tears slowed to a stop. Rafe sat at your side, stroking your hair, your face—really any skin he could to soothe you. He admitted it felt so natural there, him at your side, like he was always meant to be there.
“Do you want to go for a drive?” He offered after a while of your blank stare. “Maybe being outside will make you feel a bit better. We can even get ice cream on the way home.”
You nodded hesitantly, your teeth gnawing into your bottom lip.
He pulled you up from your position on your bed, keeping ahold of your hand while he led you to the foyer and helped you slide your feet into sandals.
“Can we…not drive around Figure Eight,” you asked hesitantly once you sat down in the car.
“Of course,” he assured you. “I was thinking we’d drive near the marshes, on the north side of the island.”
You agreed and set out, keeping the windows up at your request until you were driving down country roads.
You picked Ultraviolence as the album of choice, biting your cheek as your gaze stayed fixed out the window.
Rafe drove you through many backroads, some he was familiar with from his days driving to Barry’s trailer and others new to him. They all looked the same, though: overgrown weeds crawling up the edge of the road, low hanging tree branches blocking most of the afternoon sun—and the fact that there was no trace of civilization anywhere.
Rafe felt the breeze through his fingertips, hanging lazily out the window, and wondered if it gave you the same feeling too. The feeling of the wind washing over your skin or through the wisps of your hair, brushing away the heaviness you feel. He’s felt it all too many times—the expectations of his father, the looks of disappointment when the sheriff called in the middle of the night letting him know his only son was arrested. The disgust on Ward’s face as he threw a stack of bills at Barry’s feet, realizing his own son was now just a pawn in this disgusting filth’s game. Your father’s hardening stare as he overheard a tasteless comment made at his daughter’s expense. The twinkling blue eyes of his mother, one of his last memories of her—it was all too much sometimes, and on those days he would drive to Barry’s trailer with the windows down. Though the cocaine numbed the ache in his chest, the warm sun and cool breeze gave him a sense of impending calm, if only temporary.
Rafe couldn’t know what you’re going through as you had yet to let him into your head in any way. He didn’t know what it was like to be assaulted, violated—humiliated and left for dead. He didn’t have the courage to stand up to a superior or call the last person on earth you’d ever want to see out of desperation. He didn’t know what it was like to be the golden child, always making your father proud or even stone-hearted mother crack a smile when her daughter was named valedictorian.
But he did know the feeling of heaviness, how debilitating it can be. He wished he could feel it for you, to take your heart and only give you the good parts of his.
All honesty.
So he told you—he told you about the trips to Barry’s trailer, the fights with Pogue’s at the Boneyard senior year, the nights spent in a jail cell.
All honesty.
He told you how he could never compete with Sarah, how Ward Cameron’s son was just a useless fuck-up in his eyes. All the times Ward bailed him out, the time he stole money out of his safe (it was too easy—the combination was always Sarah’s birthday, never his).
All honesty.
Rafe didn’t know if you were processing his words or even listening—not until you pulled back into the lot of your apartment complex. You reached your hand over to his and gave it the faintest squeeze.
All he could do was lay his heart out on the table—every ugly piece of him he wanted to keep hidden, every mistake, every regret he’s ever had. Now he can only wait and hope you could do the same.
The following week was spent the same: therapy every other day, iced coffee from the cafe, Gilmore Girls and Steinbeck books and What are you thinking about right now? Sitting on the ferry, takeout for dinner, writing in your journal, so many nights spent on your couch Rafe was forgetting what his own bed felt like—this was his life now.
Though Rafe would never complain (because you were getting better—you didn’t vomit after every meal, the nightmares weren’t every night), he couldn’t help but feel a sense of looming despair. After all, it was nearly Father’s Day, and school would be starting back up in less than two months. Was that enough time for you?
Rafe didn’t know how to expect you to jump right back into your courses after a month of barely leaving the house, but he knew better than to question you on it.
That Sunday had been one month since that text he received on the golf course. One month of the two of you in your own little world—your father was too busy working on a case for Kristen’s grandfather, a notable business owner on the mainland, and Ward didn’t bother to reach out to his son any more than the occasional text about your wellbeing. All texts from his friends were ignored.
That Tuesday you had a follow-up appointment with Dr Hartman to check on your recovery and make sure you didn’t test positive for any late-onset STDs.
The day before was one of the roughest. Although you didn’t outright say so, Rafe could tell through your actions—you barely ate anything for breakfast, your twiddling fingers on the ferry ride over to the mainland, the swollen corner of your bottom lip where you had been chewing endlessly on it.
“Hey,” he spoke for the first time on the ride back to the island. You didn’t feel up to your usual beach-walk, and he didn’t push it. “It’s all going to be okay.” He reached his hand over ever so slowly, placing it on top of your own that were picking the skin around your cuticles.
He almost feared it was the wrong move—too much physical contact and not enough warning—until you moved out from under it, holding his hand in both of yours.
You played with his fingers, your knee bouncing out under you. You traced the veins in his hand like lines on a map before flipping his hand over to trace the creases in his palm.
“I’m scared,” you squeaked.
“I know you are.”
“What if something is wrong with me?”
“Then we’ll figure it out. Together,” he promised.
“My life will be over.”
“It won’t be. I promise you, it will all be okay in the end. It’s okay to be nervous, but don’t let it paralyze you.”
You turned to him, tracing your finger around each of his. “Why are you here with me?”
“Because you called,” he reminded you. “And I will always answer.”
You shook your head, pinching the skin above his knuckle. “I didn’t expect you to give up your entire summer for me.”
“I didn’t give anything up,” he argued. “Why do you assume I’m not satisfied with my life right now?”
“A guy like you needs to go out.” You shook your head again. “You need to see other people besides me, to go somewhere besides my shrink’s office.”
“All I’ve ever needed is you. I wish you would see that.”
The afternoon consisted of many panic attacks—Rafe reminding you to breathe in, hold it for five seconds, exhale through your mouth—heaving into the toilet bowl, and gently crying.
“Deep breath for me,” Rafe instructed as he rubbed your back with one hand, holding your hair in the other. You slumped over the toilet with Rafe behind you, having been reminded of the promise you made to let him in after the night he found you out cold on the bathroom floor.
“Just go away,” you grumbled, never thinking you’d miss the luxury of vomiting in peace.
“Can’t,” he clicked his tongue, wringing out the washcloth he ran under the tap before placing it on your burning skin. “Not after I found you passed out. It’s okay if you feel sick, but you have to let me help you.”
You pressed your cheek to the cool porcelain of the seat. “My chest hurts.”
He rubbed your back some more, maneuvering you to sit upward until your chest pressed against your bent knees.
“You’re safe here, I promise. It’s just you and me here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he assured. “Just keep taking nice deep breaths for me, honey.”
You complied, and when the breathing didn’t work and the heaving started again, he was there, grabbing a claw clip from the counter and twisting your hair into it. He was there, pressing the washcloth to your flushed forehead and reminding you he wasn’t leaving.
“Do you want to go sit on the balcony?” He asked quietly, the last hour spent curled over yourself on the bathroom floor.
You didn’t answer, just slumped back into his chest. It was all too easy, the way you two fit together. Even when you felt defeated, Rafe held you up like he was meant to all along.
“We can order some dinner,” he offered, his lips grazing your temple when your head rolled back on his shoulder. The closeness at which he held you would have you believe your skin wasn’t covered in sweat and tears (and probably vomit). “Anything you want.”
“Can’t eat,” you croaked.
“That’s okay. Can we at least go outside, get you some fresh air?”
You nodded weakly and he pulled you up, supporting and nearly dragging you by the arm around your waist.
He set you down in the chair, your eyes heavy with exhaustion as you pulled your feet up and curled into a ball.
Rafe scooted his own chair closer, pushing the table out of the way.
“What can I do?” He offered.
You shook your head slowly, as if a realization just came over you. “Nothing.”
You stayed in that chair, staring blankly for hours.
In the dead of night, long after the TV was turned off and bedroom doors closed, Rafe heard a blood-curdling scream.
He sprang up, bare feet scampering across the hardwood floors to you.
You screamed like in a horror movie, awaking him from the deepest part of his sleep. His heart pounded, like his mind hadn’t quite caught up yet to the chill in his bones.
He flung your bedroom door open to see you trashing, never seeing someone move so quickly. Your hands beat against the headboard and the sheets, knuckles banging into the hard surfaces so hard he thought they would break.
“No, no—stop,” you screamed, hair knotted and unruly from your tossing.
“Y/N, wake up, Y/N,” he commanded, rushing to your side and gripping your wrists tightly. Even with his arms in the best shape of his life, it was nearly impossible. He could only imagine how hard you fought.
“Y/N, wake up,” he repeated. “It’s a dream, it’s not real. Wake up.”
You tried to beat away the figures in your dream, circumvented only by Rafe’s strong hands.
Rafe got louder, insisting you wake, louder and louder until his shouts were louder and deeper than your own.
“Y/N, wake up!”
Your eyes flew open and tried to pry his hands off you, but he held strong, not letting go until he was sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself.
“Y/N, it’s okay. Just breathe.”
You looked around the room, lost. A wild animal, trapped in its enclosure.
“It was just a dream,” he told you. “You’re safe here. We’re in your apartment—it’s just you and me here, and I won’t let anything happen.”
You rubbed at your chest, groaning.
Rafe got closer to feel it too, to check your heart rate, when he faltered. “Can I touch you?”
You nodded, pulling his hand into your chest. Your heart was soaring, and Rafe could practically hear it pounding.
“Just try to relax for me, okay? Deep breath.”
He breathed with you, letting you hold his hand in both of yours against your chest, playing with his fingers like you had earlier.
Your lip trembled as your breathing slowed, inching closer to him with every breath. Inhale, scoot, exhale. Inhale, scoot, exhale.
When your legs brushed his, close enough to where it was practically thrown over his lap, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his lap.
“Is this okay?” He confirmed, his words muffled by your hair.
You nodded, nuzzling your face further into his neck.
He could feel your heartbeat against his, yours slowing down or his speeding up until it became just one.
He held you there, his warm arms holding you tight and murmuring to you reassurances: how you were safe, alone, and the promise that Rafe would never let anyone hurt you again. He held you there until the tips of the sun’s rays peeked over the horizon, lighting up your room so Rafe didn’t just have to know you were asleep by the soft snores leaving your mouth, he could see your closed eyelids and peaceful look on your face. While you slept you always reminded him of how you looked as a kid—sweet, innocent, soft. You looked like an angel, complete with the halo of the morning glow around your face. If someone didn’t know better, they’d probably think you a meek, timid little girl with a mellow voice and shadowy presence.
But when you opened your eyes anyone could see it: the resilience, the strength. Rafe knew it was there, just like it had been since you were toddlers with the mischievous glint in your eye.
Rafe sat next to you and watched as you slept, staying until he could be sure you would wake once again.
Your knee bounced anxiously as you sat in the plastic chair to Rafe’s left. You were sitting outside the room you were to meet the doctor in, who stated she was running about ten minutes behind with another patient. Rafe felt he could slap her for making you wait a second longer.
“It’s going to be okay,” he told you, his mantra for the last few days. Like he has any clue to how your appointment today would end.
Whoever did this to you—Rafe still had no idea who the multiple who’s could be— already stripped you of your dignity, your freedom. He can’t even imagine if they gave you a disease in return.
He watched as you chewed on your bottom lip and picked at the skin around your nails.
He offered you his hand silently, elbow sitting comfortably in the crease between the two armrests.
You took it in your own, fingers circling the plane of the gold signet ring on his forefinger.
“I know it’s unlikely, and worrying won’t do anything to prevent it,” you spoke candidly. “But I’m still nervous.”
“That’s natural,” he replied, reveling in the way you twisted his ring around and around. “No matter what happens, you can face it.”
You nodded, pulling the ring up to the first knuckle and dropping it again. You were about to speak when Dr Hartman walked up, apologizing under Rafe’s hard glare for her delay. She gestured for you to follow her in the exam room, standing and dropping Rafe’s precious hand from your grasp.
“I’ll wait here,” he said, but it was more a question.
You nodded, taking a sharp breath and following her inside.
Rafe was relieved to hear you were recovering physically as well as could be, treating you to ice cream and a drive around the island on the way home.
When you got your test results back days later and you were clean, Rafe hugged you, and you hugged him right back, squeezing him so tight as he poured his life into you.
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