maddie 𐙚

rafe cameron’s gf ⋆ 𝟐𝟎𝓼

[evansbby]

“𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪…”

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.

𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!

“Her.”

Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”

Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.” 

“And?”

“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.

“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.” 

“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??” 

Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him. 

That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.

Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.

“Well, what about that one?” 

Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through. 

Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.

You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.

“Who is she?”

“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.

“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.

“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”

“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”

Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any. 

Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable. 

He licks his lips.

“How long?”

“Huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.

Topper raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”

Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”

They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—

“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and— 

“A week.” 

“Mm?”

“A week to fuck her. With proof.” 

Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it. 

“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”

“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.

“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”

Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.

You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.

He’d have fun ruining you.

***

“You sure do love reading, don’t you?” 

It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.

You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.

“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”

Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”

“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…” 

“You find books more interesting than people?”

“Huh?”

He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”

“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug. 

“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—

“Are you making fun of me?”

You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes. 

“What?”

You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.” 

“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds. 

“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”

Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more. 

“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.

“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”

“I’ll be your friend.” 

He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive. 

You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too. 

“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”

“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.

It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that. 

“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.

“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.

“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means… 

“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.

You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?” 

He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right. 

“You could call it studying.”

You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing. 

“What’s your name, homeschool?” 

You tell him.

He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”

You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it. 

Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could. 

That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.

***

Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.

You’re alone. As usual.

“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.

“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.” 

“What’re you up to today?” 

“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”

He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?

“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect. 

“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”

He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way. 

“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”

“Friends?” You don’t have any.

“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”

Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.” 

Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.

He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.

“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”

Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue. 

“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”

He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…

“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.

“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.

“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”

“Say it. Now.” 

You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.” 

The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this. 

“Huh. Is that so?”

“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”

Rafe nods, “Hmm.”

“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“

“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”

You blink, “What?”

He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”

“It’s not that–”

“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”

He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.

“I asked you a question, homeschool.”

“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”

“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.

“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”

He stops, allows you to catch up.

“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”

“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”

You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”

“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”

*

Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…

 ”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.

“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.

“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”

He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.

Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.

“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.

“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.

“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”

“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”

You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”

He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”

You look aghast, “No! I would never–”

“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”

“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”

“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”

You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.

“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”

“Thank you.”

“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”

He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.

He nods, “You look pretty.”

Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”

He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.

*

On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.

“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.

Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.

“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.

“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”

Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”

He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.

“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”

Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.

“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.

“No?”

“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”

Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.

“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.

You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”

“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.

“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”

The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.

“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.

You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”

You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”

He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.

Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.

“Rafe?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”

That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”

You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”

“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”

“H-Huh?”

“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.

“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.

“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”

It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.

“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”

He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.

“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”

He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.

“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.

“Wow, that was cool!”

“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”

Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.

He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.

“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”

He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”

That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.

He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.

He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…

He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.

*

On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.

“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”

You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.

“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”

Rafe grins, “Yeah?”

“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”

He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.

“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”

You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.

“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”

But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.

“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.

Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”

“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”

He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”

“You sure about that?”

He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”

Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.

All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.

You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.

*

Rafe: Hey.

Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?

He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.

Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.

Rafe: What are you up to?

A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.

Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?

It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.

He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.

“H-Hello?”

“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”

He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?

“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”

A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”

“What like vacuuming and shit?”

“Yes.”

Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.

He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.

“Uh, Rafe?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

A pause.

“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”

“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”

“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.

He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.

“I’d rather speak to you than them.”

 “That’s not true, Rafe.”

“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”

“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”

“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.

“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”

“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”

“You’re funny, Rafe.”

You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.

“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.

“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”

He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.

“A-Are you still there?”

“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–

“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.

“Rafe?”

He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.

“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.

“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”

“Like, uh, at your house?”

“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.

“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”

That just makes him even more determined to be your first.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”

“Rafe…”

He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.

“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”

That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.

“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.

“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”

*

“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”

Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.

“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.

“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.

“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”

Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”

Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”

“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”

“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”

“What?”

Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”

“Well, yeah, but –”

“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”

“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”

Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.

He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”

Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”

Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.

“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”

“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”

That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”               

Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.

He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.

That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.

“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”

“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.

You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”

“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”

He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.

“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.

“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”

“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.

He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.

You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.

“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.

Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.

Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”

Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”

He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”

“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”

He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.

“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.

You blink, “Um, water?”

He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”

“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”

“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”

You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.

“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.

“People have been talking about me to you?”

“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”

He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.

“Do you always drink after school?”

“Huh?”

“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”

“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”

He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.

Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.

“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”

Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”

He shrugs, “A few.”

You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”

“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.

“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”

Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.

“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”

You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”

“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”

He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.

“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.

You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”

“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”

“Hey!”

He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.

You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.

“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”

Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”

You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”

Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”

Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”

He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.

Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”

He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.

“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”

He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.

He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”

Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”

He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.

“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”

Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…

“There. Comfy?”

“Well, I guess, but…”

He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.

He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.

And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.

When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.

“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”

Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”

“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”

Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.

Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.

He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.

And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.

“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”

“Rafe, maybe not too much–”

“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.

“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.

“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”

He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.

Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”

You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”

“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.

It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.

Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.

“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.

“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”

He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–

“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”

He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”

He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”

You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”

Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”

Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.

“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.

It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.

“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”

Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.

“That’s okay,” he says.

You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”

Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.

You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”

Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.

Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”

He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”

“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”

Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.

He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.

“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”

What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.

“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.

Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.

You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.

Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.

Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.

*

Kelce: One day left, loverboy.

Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.

Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.

Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.

He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.

That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.

Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.

How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.

The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.

He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–

His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.

“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”

“I’m sorry I called you, I just… How are you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m fine. You wanna talk?”

“No. I mean, yes. Oh, I… Rafe, I’m sorry. You’re probably busy.”

“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”

“I’m scared.”

You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.

“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”

He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”

“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”

“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”

“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”

They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.

“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”

“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”

He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”

“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”

Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.

“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”

Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.

“Rafe! You came!”

You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.

“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.

At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.

“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”

It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.

“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.

“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.

“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”

“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”

He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.

You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.

Despite everything, his dick hardens.

“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”

He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.

“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”

You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.

He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.

He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.

“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”

“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”

“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.

“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”

You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”

He smirks, “I could distract you.”

“H-How?”

He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.

“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.

“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”

You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.

“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”

“H-Huh–”

“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”

You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”

It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.

He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.

Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.

“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”

He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”

“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”

“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”

Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”

He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”

“Y-You.”

“Yeah. And who’s older?”

“You are.”

“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”

You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.

Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.

He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.

He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.

“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.

“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.

“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”

“Stand up, baby.”

You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.

You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.

“Take your leggings off.”

You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.

You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.

“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”

“Wh-What?”

“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.

“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”

“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”

He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.

“Stand up straight, look at me again.”

You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.

“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.

Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.

And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.

His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.

“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”

You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”

God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.

“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”

“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?

Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.

You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.

“You have an accident, princess?”

You look absolutely aghast, “No!”

Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.

“Oh my God–”

He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”

“What?”

“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”

For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”

“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”

He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”

He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.

“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”

Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.

Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.

“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”

“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”

Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.

“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.

Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.

“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.

“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–

You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.

And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.

“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”

Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.

“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”

“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”

He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.

“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”

You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”

“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”

It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.

He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.

But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.

“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”

Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.

“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.

“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”

He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”

You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”

“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”

Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.

He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.

“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.

You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”

He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.

“Take it out.”

“N-No!”

He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”

“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”

You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”

He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”

As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”

You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”

“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”

You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.

“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”

You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”

“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”

 In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.

“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”

“I am?”

“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.

“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.

Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”

“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.

“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.

“Yeah?”

Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”

God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.

Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.

“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”

‘I don’t know.”

SMACK.

Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”

“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”

“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”

You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”

“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.

You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.

“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”

He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.

“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”

Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.

But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.

“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”

It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.

“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.

“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”

‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”

“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”

Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.

“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”

“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”

“But it hurts!”

“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”

A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”

“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”

“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.

Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”

You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”

“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”

You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”

He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.

“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”

You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.

“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.

“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”

You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.

“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”

“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“

You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.

“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”

All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.

It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.

Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.

“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”

The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”

He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.

That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.

“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”

“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”

“Nooo…”

He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.

“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…

He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…

“Rafe, I… please…”

“Baby…”

His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–

“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”

“Fuck.”

Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.

He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”

“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

“Y-You’re not mad?”

He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.

“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”

“You pr-promise?”

“I promise.”

He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.

You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.

The wind laughs and laughs all night.

*

The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.

Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.

Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.

He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.

Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.

He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.

What the fuck did that mean?

His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.

That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?

Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.

Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.

Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?

“You make me feel safe, daddy.”

Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.

He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.

*

“There he is! The loverboy himself!”

His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.

“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”

“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”

Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”

He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.

He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.

“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.

“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”

“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.

“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.

“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.

Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”

“Then show us. That was the deal.”

He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.

“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.

“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”

Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”

He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.

“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”

He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.

And immediately locks eyes with you.

And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.

“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.

A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.

Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.

And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.

𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)

Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?

Should reader forgive Rafe?

Favourite scene/part?

Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3

[sc3ptre]

the people yearn for more rafe smut

Good talk!

Pairing: detective au!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡Archive for Earth-1104

Summary: Nothing says “we’re not done” like your partner making you orgasm in the precinct while a murder suspect cries on the other side of the glass.

Classification and content warnings: Smut +18 | detectives! Rafe and reade, explicit sexual content, semi-public sex (observation room at active precinct), risk of getting caught, fingering, dominance/power play, possessive!Rafe, dirty talk, forced orgasm, workplace hookup, partners-with-benefits, brief masturbation scene (Rafe), no condoms mentioned in flashbacks, mild breast/nipple play, one very smug Rafe Cameron and bad decisions in uniform-adjacent.

Word count: 3k

Divider by me ;)

You stood in the dimly lit observation room, the air thick with the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint scent of stale coffee from earlier in the shift. Behind the one-way glass, your partner grilled the suspect in the interrogation room, the man's voice crackling over the speakers as he whined about the charges piling up against him. His lawyer, a wiry guy with a cheap suit and a perpetual scowl, kept trying to interject, his objections falling on deaf ears. But you weren't really listening. Your mind was elsewhere, lost in the haze of that reckless hookup with Rafe two nights ago.

It had been raw, urgent sex in the front seat of his unmarked cruiser after a late-night stakeout, bodies slamming together in the confined space with sweat-slicked skin and heavy breaths filling the air before you continued the night at his place. You'd told yourself it was just a way to blow off steam. The job was a relentless grind of endless hours chasing leads, dodging bullets, and clawing your way up the ranks. Who had time for anything real? Rafe was convenient, hot, available and right there when the tension boiled over. At least, that's the story you kept repeating in your head to justify ghosting his texts and bolting from your desk the moment he showed up looking for round two.

But Rafe? He wasn't buying it. From the way his messages had escalated from flirty to frustrated, you could tell he was replaying every thrust and gasp, in his mind far more vividly than you wanted to admit and now, here you were, deep in a daydream of his rough hands pinning you down, his cock driving deep inside you, when the door to the observation room clicked open.

Rafe strode in, his broad shoulders filling the frame, a thick dossier clutched in one hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing the corded muscles of his forearms and his hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times today.

“You can’t be in here. This isn’t your case,” you said, your voice sharper than intended, though it lacked conviction.

He let the dossier slap onto the nearest table with a heavy thud, then turned, his blue eyes locking onto yours with that intense stare that always made your pulse quicken. Without a word, he reached back and twisted the lock on the door, the click echoing in the small space. Then, he flicked the switch to cut the audio feed from the interrogation room. The suspect's moans and the lawyer's protests faded to silence, leaving only the sound of your own breathing and his.

“Yeah, well…I’ll leave when we’re done talking.”

“Can’t it wait?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to ignore the way his presence made the room feel smaller, hotter.

“It could,” he replied, his voice low and edged with frustration, “about 48 hours ago.”

You glanced through the glass at the ongoing interrogation to your pacing partner and suspect slumping in his chair, then back to Rafe. A sigh escaped your lips. “Make it fast.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint musk of his skin. “We had a good time, really good. Both of us were lucid… it was perfect.” His gaze dropped to your mouth, remembering how it had felt wrapped around him in the heat of the moment.

“It was,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The memory flooded back of his hips snapping against yours and the way he'd groaned your name as he filled you up.

“So why are you ignoring me?” He pressed, his tone a mix of hurt and hunger.

Your mouth opened, a denial on the tip of your tongue but nothing came out. You closed it again, heat creeping up your neck.

Rafe moved then, silent and predatory, circling behind you. His breath ghosted over your ear as he murmured, “I can’t stop thinking about it.” His strong hands slid around your waist, fingers splaying over your hips before pulling you back flush against him. You felt the hard line of his erection pressing into the curve of your ass through his pants, insistent and unyielding. “And I know you can’t either.”

“That means… nothing,” you whispered but your body betrayed you, arching slightly into his touch.

“Mhm,” he hummed, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours. His lips brushed the side of your neck, starting with soft, teasing kisses that trailed down to the sensitive spot just below your ear. Each press of his mouth sent electric shivers racing down your spine, your nipples hardening against the fabric of your bra. His right hand ventured lower, fingers deftly working the button of your pants undone with a flick. The zipper rasped down, cool air kissing the exposed skin of your lower belly as his hand dipped inside, brushing over the lace edge of your panties.

“Rafe–” you warned but there was no real heat in it, just a breathy plea laced with anticipation. Your core clenched at the promise of his touch, already growing slick with need.

His fingers delved deeper, slipping past the soaked fabric of your panties to find your swollen clit with unerring precision. He began circling it slowly, the pad of his thumb pressing just right, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. 

"Watch your interrogation and don’t mind me," Rafe murmured against your ear, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you.

You couldn’t hold back the shaky breath of relief that escaped your lips. God, you'd been so frustrated since that night, fingers between your legs night after night, chasing the high only he could give you but coming up empty every time. Your pussy ached for this, already dripping wet with arousal that nearly coated your thighs as you relaxed back into his solid chest. His free hand slid up under your shirt, cupping one of your breasts through your bra, thumb flicking over the hardened, poking nipple. He squeezed gently, rolling the peak between his fingers, making your back arch as fresh heat pooled between your legs.

A soft shoe nudge from him parted your feet, his leg sliding between yours to spread you wider, exposing you more to his touch. Then, without warning, he pushed two thick fingers inside your slick heat, your walls clenching greedily around the intrusion, pulling him deeper. Your lips parted in a silent moan, body melting against him as he curled those digits just so, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Is this the guy you caught snooping around the scene the day of the murder?” he asked casually, as if he weren't knuckle-deep in your soaking pussy, pumping slowly while his other hand kneaded your breast, pinching the nipple harder now.

“W-what?” you gasped, eyes fluttering toward the glass where your partner paced, oblivious.

“Captain told me you made an arrest this morning. He thinks–” He kept explaining, his voice steady and even, fingers fucking in and out of your drenched folds with measured strokes, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your arousal slicked his hand, dripping down his knuckles as he thrust deeper, your clit throbbing under the occasional brush of his palm.

“I know what he thinks. Just…fuck–” Your head lolled onto his shoulder, a quiet moan spilling out as his fingers twisted inside you, his thumb returning to circle your clit. The dual assault had your breasts heaving, nipples straining against his palm as he groped the soft flesh. “Why are you asking me right now?”

“What do you want to talk about? Mmm?” He spoke slowly, drawing out each word while his fingers plunged faster, your pussy gushing around them, the lewd squelch growing louder. “About how good you felt the other night? How beautiful you sounded and looked when I had you on my lap, my cock stretching you wide? Because I’m still thinking about it. Or maybe you want to talk about how you left in the morning like it was some teenage hookup.” His hand on your breast squeezed firmer, tugging your nipple until you whimpered, your core flooding with even more wetness.

You moaned, swallowing back the desperate whines building in your throat. “It was a one-night stand… at least that was my understanding of it.”

“Well, you were wrong. It's actually refreshing telling you that since you always seem to be right.” He grinned against your neck, feeling how you turned to complete putty in his arms, legs trembling and pussy clenching rhythmically around his thrusting fingers, soaking them to the hilt in your juices.

“It was a misunderstanding then,” you whined, hips bucking involuntarily, grinding down onto his hand as his fingers curled again, his other palm still massaging your breast in firm circles.

“Yeah, sure. We’re gonna do things right. You’re gonna stop ignoring me and come over for a beer tonight so I can–”

You squirmed in his hold, your ass pressing back against the hardening bulge of his cock straining his pants, the thick length twitching at the friction. “‘Mmm working late…fucking hell, Rafe.” Your voice broke on a gasp, arousal leaking steadily now, your panties ruined and clinging to your swollen lips.

He nodded, not missing a beat. “Figured. That’s what happens when you ditch your great partner for Procrastination-Patrick.” He motioned lazily toward the glass, where Patrick was leaning in, pressing the suspect harder.

“Oh god,” you moaned, breathing ragged, your free breast aching for his touch as the one he fondled sent sparks straight to your clit. “He’s not…he’s not that bad.”

“Sure he isn’t–” Rafe chuckled darkly, his fingers scissoring inside your sopping heat, stretching you as your walls fluttered wildly.

“Holy…shit, I’m gonna cum,” you panted, the pressure coiling tight, your pussy gushing around him in hot waves.

“Was I clear?” he demanded, fingers quickening their brutal pace, slamming deep while his thumb ground against your clit. His hand on your breast pinched and twisted your nipple, the sharp pleasure pushing you over the edge.

You nodded frantically, knees buckling as the orgasm ripped through you, your pussy spasming hard around his fingers, flooding them with your release. Rafe wrapped his arm tighter around your waist, holding you upright as your body shook, waves of ecstasy crashing until you sagged against him. He didn’t pull out until your soft, plump walls stopped pulsing, milking him greedily one last time.

Once the tremors faded, he withdrew his slick fingers slowly, your pussy clenching at the loss, a final trickle of wetness sliding down your thigh. He brought them to his mouth without hesitation, licking them clean with a satisfied hum, tasting your essence as you struggled to catch your breath, chest heaving.

Then, his arms snaked around you again, deftly buttoning your pants over your still-throbbing core. He stepped in front of you, delivering a light smack to your ass that made you jolt, before capturing your lips in a deep, natural kiss, tongue sweeping in to claim you, tasting faintly of your own arousal.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling back with a smirk, grabbing his dossier and unlocking the door.

You blinked, dazed and still buzzing. “Thank you? That’s it?”

Rafe nodded, swinging the door open. “Yeah…good talk.” He shot you a wink over his shoulder before striding out, leaving you standing there, aroused anew and utterly shocked, your pussy still slick and sensitive against your damp panties.

Only a minute later, Patrick poked his head in, his face flushed with triumph. “We got him, looks like we’re going home early tonight…You okay?” He eyed you curiously, noting your flushed cheeks and ragged breathing, mistaking the post-orgasm glow for devastation.

“Better than ever...Good work,” you managed, forcing a smile as you patted his back on your way out, legs still a little unsteady, the promise of Rafe's beer and more lingering in your mind.

Rafe strode down the dimly lit hallway, clutching the thick dossier against his front like a shield, using it to discreetly hide the insistent throb of his cock pressing against the confines of his pants from the taste of your release on his tongue and the way your body had shuddered against him just minutes ago. 

He needed release now, before he lost his mind replaying the slick heat of your pussy clenching around his fingers, your moans restrained as you came undone in the observation room. 

Spotting the single-stall bathroom at the end of the corridor, he pushed inside, locking the door with a decisive click that echoed his pounding heartbeat, his back pressing against the cool tile wall as he finally freed his aching erection from his zipper.

His cock sprang out heavy and thick, the veined shaft flushed deep red and already leaking precum from the slit at the swollen head, a bead of it glistening under the harsh fluorescent light as he wrapped his large hand around the girth, fingers barely meeting around the base where coarse dark hair framed the root. 

He groaned low in his throat, starting with slow strokes from root to tip, his thumb smearing the slick fluid over the sensitive crown in firm circles that made his hips jerk forward involuntarily, the memory of your soaked folds flooding his mind as he pumped harder, imagining it was your tight pussy gripping him instead of his own fist.

God, that night in his car…it had started so innocently after a long shift, the two of you parked in the shadowed lot somewhere behind the precinct as tension crackled between you like a live wire until you climbed into his lap, your skirt hiking up around your thighs as you ground down against the bulge in his jeans, lips crashing into his in a messy, desperate kiss that tasted of coffee and unspoken frustration from the case and the formal meeting you’d just exited.

He had yanked your panties aside with one hand while unzipping himself with the other, his cock springing free to slap against your dripping entrance before you sank down onto him inch by torturous inch, your walls stretching around his thickness with a wet squelch that had him cursing under his breath, your breasts bouncing in his face as you rode him hard, nipples pebbling under your shirt as he sucked one into his mouth, biting down just enough to make you cry out. 

All while your pussy fluttered wildly around his pounding shaft as you chased your peak, breaths coming in ragged gasps against his ear until you shattered, flooding his lap with your hot cum while he thrust up deep, holding you impaled as your body convulsed in ecstasy.

Rafe's hand sped up now, twisting on the upstroke to mimic the way your cunt had milked him, his balls drawing tight against his body as he recalled dragging you back to his apartment afterward. Barely making it through the door before he had you bent over the kitchen counter, skirt pooled at your ankles and his cock slamming back into your soaked heat from behind as the slap of skin on skin echoed off the walls.

He gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto every brutal thrust while his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you wider to watch his length disappear into your gushing pussy over and over. Moans turned to screams when he reached around to rub your clit in fast circles, feeling you tense and tremble on the edge again, your walls clamping down like a vice as another orgasm ripped through you.

Your juices squirted out around his pistoning cock in messy spurts that soaked his thighs and the floor beneath, the sight and sound pushing him closer to his own brink but he held back, flipping you around to hoist you onto the counter and fuck up into you face-to-face, capturing your parted lips in a filthy kiss as your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back while he drove deeper. Your breasts heaving with each plunge until you came a third time, nails raking down his arms as your pussy spasmed and gushed, finally dragging him over the edge with you.

His strokes grew frantic, fist flying over his slick cock now coated in his own precum that dribbled steadily down the shaft, making each glide obscenely wet and noisy in the confined space, his mind flashing to just moments ago in the observation room. Your body arching into his touch, breasts filling his palm as he pinched and twisted your hard nipple, your pussy so drenched it leaked down his hand while his fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot relentlessly until your knees buckled and you came hard, walls pulsing and flooding him with your release in rhythmic waves that left you trembling and boneless against him. 

The memory of your orgasms, past and present, tipped him over. Rafe's cock swelled impossibly thicker in his grip, veins bulging as he thrust into his fist one last time, a guttural groan tearing from his chest while thick ropes of cum erupted from the tip, splattering hot and sticky across his knuckles and dripping down his fingers in pearly strands, his balls emptying pulse after pulse until he was spent, chest heaving with labored breaths as the aftershocks made his shaft twitch in his loosening hold.

Panting heavily, Rafe leaned against the sink, grabbing a wad of rough paper towels to wipe the mess from his softening cock and hand. The evidence of his release smeared across the white material as he tucked himself away, zipping up with shaky fingers while his mind still buzzed with the echoes of your moans. 

Just as he splashed water on his face to compose himself, his phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from you lighting up the screen.

"Beer offer still stands?" 

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips, warmth spreading through him but as he read it again, he felt a familiar stir low in his gut, his cock twitching back to life against the fresh confines of his pants, already half-hard and eager for round two, preferably with you.

[blissedbunni]

eyes on me ─ r.c.

warnings ૮․ ․ ྀིა : language , mild nsfw ( face slapping , p in v )

rafe cameron liked eye contact.

like the two of you only began dating after you confronted rafe for staring you down at a party. in your defense, his gaze was burning into you like he was staking a claim. 

stomping over and confronting him with a sharp "what do you want?" eyebrows furrowing when he only chuckles and smirks. 

"can't look at a pretty girl anymore," you grimace at his corny attempt at a compliment. 

if you're arguing, rafe's gently grabbing your forearm and pulling you towards him.

"m'talkin to you, don't walk away from me."

"well i don't wanna hear it," you spit angrily, looking anywhere else but him. 

a big hand takes your jaw, tilting it to look him in the eye. "you look at me when i talk to you, alright," and you'd fold every time. 

and during sex, eye contact was a given.

you close your a few moments? turn your head away? not happening.

'cause rafe's lightly slapping your cheek, instantly grabbing your attention. 

"w—what was that for?" you sputter, gasping at the small sting. 

"look at me when i fuck you,"he grits out, hips slamming harder into yours, forcing thick cock deeper into your pulsing heat. 

and when you do, you don't take your eyes off him for the rest of the night because eye contact was key to your relationship.

xo, blissedbunni

[severedlamb]

rafe needs your mouth on him at all times! he didn't act like a stereotypical, needy boyfriend by any means, but he did feel your absence like no other when you weren't all over him.

he revelled in the sloppy kisses you left on his neck, your lips pressing against the stubble that was edging down his chin. the dark marks you left behind, creating a colourful contrast against his tanned skin.

holding his hands firmly against either side of your face and pulling you in for a kiss against your lips, using your surprise as an opportunity to swirl his tongue against your own. rafe would groan into your mouth like a man who was borderline starving, like a man who hadn't ever been fed until this very moment.

rafe loved when his cock was shoved down the back of your throat and he could see your eyes watering as you took all of him. your glossy mouth wrapped around his hard length, the noise of you slurping and gagging sounding like the sweetest symphony.

and in his more vulnerable moments, when he wasn't feeling 100%, you peppered soft pecks all over his grouchy face. rafe always rolled his blue eyes and pretended to despise it ─ but you would see the way his mouth quirked up at the corner as he fought a full blown grin.

[evansbby]

“𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙚, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪…” (𝙨𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠)

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent!reader

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, more warnings to come. 18+ only, mdni.

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.

𝘼/𝙉: This is just a sneak peak of a new Rafe fic I’m working on— I just want to see if anyone would be interested if I was to post it! Do let me know if it’s any good and tag any Rafe blogs you think might enjoy this! (as I suspect I don’t have many Rafe fans following me haha)

“Her.”

Rafe looks over to the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”

Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”

“And?”

“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.

“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”

“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”

Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends gape at him in disbelief like a bunch of gormless losers. He often wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.

That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies’ money. Yeah, they didn’t peak his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.

Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.

“Well, what about that one?”

Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single sorry slut he’d ran through.

Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.

You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.

“Who is she?”

“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.

“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.

“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”

“I heard she was homeschooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”

Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.

Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.

He licks his lips.

“How long?”

“Huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?”

Topper raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”

Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”

They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet he can tell you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—

“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—

“A week.”

“Mm?”

“A week to fuck her. With proof.”

Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.

“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”

“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.

“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”

Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little college freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.

You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss yet. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.

He’d have fun ruining you.

AGAIN, this is just a sneak peak! let me know what you think!! i’m not quite sure if i want to post a rafe fic since my followers/blog are not really rafe centric but i thought i’d give it a try if there’s enough interest!!!

[ririsaltar]

── .✦ Fav meal . . . soft!pleasure!dom!rafe

contains: rafe eating you out like you're his favorite meal :3

warnings: oral (f rec), praise kink (?), overstim if you squint

requested by @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

rafe's right there. broad shoulders between your thighs, hands on your hips tugging you closer to the edge of the bed.

you've always been shy about this. exposed and on edge. but rafe?

he fucking lives for it.

"c'mon. look at me." he murmurs, voice dipped into that low tone that always makes your stomach flip. you nod, biting your lip, dragging your eyes downwards until you were looking at him.

his lips curve into a satisfied smile as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, spreading you wider for him. he can see everything. your pussy already slick and aching, nub pulsing lightly. all from touches and whispers from him.

he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your knee before trailing further up, peppering kisses along your inner thigh.

"so fuckin' pretty." he murmur out softly before his tongue finally flattens against your clit. you gasp, back arching off the bed.

he licks slowly. savoring every lick as if this was the last time he'd do it. spoiler: it's not.

his pace is steady. eyes trained on yours while you squirm and whimper with every drag of his tongue. he takes his own time, tongue circling your swollen nub before dipping lower to lap at your entrance.

rafe eats you out like it's his favorite meal. cock twitching in his sweats, pre-cum darkening the fabric. tongue flicking over your slit in long strokes to your entrance.

he doesn't let up.

not when your hands curl into his hair.

not when you try to squeeze your thighs around his head.

"eyes on me." he mumble out against your slick when he sees you look away. you force your gaze to his, cheeks burning as he rewards you with a firmer suck on your clit, tongue delving inside you to taste deeper.

your legs tighten over his shoulders again, heels pressing into his muscles as the coil in your stomach gets tighter. he's relentless. flicking in broad laps one second and then focused flicks on your nub the next.

then—when he finally decides he's had enough of holding back—he delves in deeper, nose bumping your clit as he thrusts his tongue inside your entrance and you cry out. both hands flying into his hair as you grind down onto his face on instinct. he doesn't bother stopping you.

just keeps going, tongue flicking in that way of his while he works you until your brain goes all hazy and rafe's lapping at you like you're a meal.

as if it wasn't enough, he shakes his head like a fucking dog, tongue licking over your pussy in quick strips while you moan louder, grinding down onto his face.

then it happens, your orgasm crashes. you cry out, proper, back-arching-off-the-bed, pussy clenching around his tongue so tight you were sure his tongue would end up bruised if possible. you'd think he'd let up. nope. he just kept lapping at you, slick and release coating his chin while you rode the aftershocks on his tongue, your fingers still knotted in his hair, thighs squeezing around his head.

finally, he pulls back. thighs still shaking around his head, you slick and spent with that hazy look in your eyes he loves.

"such a good girl." he praises softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your core that makes you whimper.

"keep those legs open, yeah?" he mutters out as he kneels back, enough for you to see his lips and chin covered in your slick just before his tongue darts out again, licking his lips.

"round two in ten." he smirks. you try to glare through your uneven breaths and foggy brain but you don't protest.

not when he's leaning up over you again, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss but you know he's absolutely plotting the next round by the way his bulge presses against your core through his sweats.

it's gonna be a long night.

© ririsaltar

taglist: @raevyng @coastalcowgirlie @bonjourjiminie @kelbrave @skankhvnt42 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @harrrrystylesslut

💌: could not find a pic for the fuck-all life of me. i'm sorry.

[shawtycoreee-deactivated2025112]

★ painal with bully!rafe and shy!reader

warnings: smut, anal, rafe hurting reader briefly, fluffy end word count: 1k

being cornered by rafe was nothing new to you. getting towered by him as he spat insults and threats down at your quivering figure. in order to make it stop, you promised that you'd let him fuck your ass if he brought his abuse to a halt.

rafe had never agree'd on something so fast.

you were lying stomach down on his bed, your plump ass perked in the air just for him. you were bare naked, with only your black knee high socks and ribbons in your hair to decorate your figure; rafe's favorite. he stood behind you, jerking his thick cock with the slick of his saliva as he watched your perfect ass wait obediently for him. you shivered as you felt him shift the bed, a heavy weight resting between your open knees.

"being so fucking good for knowing im gonna absolutely destroy you" he chuckled darkly, leaning over you to whisper in your ear. you flinched as you felt his heavy cock swing into your folds from his shift in position. your head bowed in preparation.

'only one time, cmon y/n you can do this, and he'll never bother you again' you thought to yourself. you leaned your weight back, getting on all fours for the man behind you.

rafe smiled against your cheek, kissing it mockingly before he positioned himself behind you. he grabbed the base of his slippery cock, rubbing the tip on your puckered entrance.

"ohhh fuck me..." rafe snickered before plunging into you slow. you muffled your pained cries into the sheets, biting down on them hard. rafe's eyes lulled back as your warm, wet hole suctioned him. he sworn he felt his soul getting sucked away. it seemed like forever until rafe bottomed out, his balls resting on your folds as he pressed all of his weight into your backside.

holy fucking shit. you were lightheaded and shaking as tears rolled down your cheeks.

"you sure this is worth it?" rafe teased, staying deep in you, stagnant.

you nodded with closed eyes, giving him the green light.

"just fucking hurt me already-" your voice cracked.

★

the room was filled with your pained shrieks and rafes animalistic grunts, paired with the loud rhythmic squeaks of the mattress being broken into. you sobbed as rafe rocked his cock deep into you from behind, your ass getting absolutely destroyed with every thrust. you knew better than to beg him to stop, so you bit your lip hard, staying quiet as you tried to find pleasure in the pain.

"oh- my fucking god, fuck yes!" he grunted loudly, savoring every delicious feeling of your perfect ass.

rafe looked down at the glorious sight; the fatty flesh bouncing back onto him as your puckered hole gripped his cock desperately. you mentally checked out, your body uncontrollably shaking as he corrupted you. rafe wiped his bangs from his face as he brought his leg up, perching it on the bed as the other stayed kneeled. he was oozing with uncontrollable lust, movements sporadic and primitive.

"you like taking it up the ass, you fucking slut? tsk tsk tsk, might have to come back for more after this" he threatened, holding your limp body up with his hands. you were past the point of screaming in pain and resorted to silence, body convulsing in response to his thrusts. you stared off into space as your ears rang, a black tunnel taking over your vision....

★

y/n, y/n?

you heard a sweet voice in the haze of your state. you lifted your head up as you felt kisses travel from your shoulder to your cheek, his body weight laying fully on top of you once again as you laid on your stomach. you didn't know how long you blacked out for, but you could sense a shift from the previous intense energy in the room.

rafe was still nested deep in your ass, but it was gentler somehow, softer. you purred slightly at the feeling of rafe kissing your lips, tongue gliding over your mouth as he rolled his hips into you, slowly and passionately. the sensation of his length burying deep didn't hurt anymore like before... it actually started to become very pleasurable.

"there she is..." rafe coo'ed at your eyes fluttering open, fixating on him and staring blankly like a newborn. he had one arm wrapped around your neck, holding you close, as the other was intertwining your hand on the bed. what happened to him?

"rafe-" you choked out, still looking back at him, face contouring from the new pleasure he was giving you.

"starting to feel good, huh? just let me finish you off, baby" he whispered, grinding himself as deep as he could in you, making your eyes roll back. you perched yourself on your elbows as you kept your eye contact, nodding and biting your lip in complete lust. he was a completely different person than before, encouraging your pleasure in the tenderest manner.

and it was the hottest fucking thing you ever witnessed.

“fuck me… oh my god….” you hiccuped weakly.

he was pounding into you so good. this new pleasure you felt was mind dumbing. you grinded back against his slow, deep thrusts, your body vibrating and glowing against his. rafe noticed your movements, smirking as he moved the hair out of your face.

"you like that?"

"mhmm-" you purred, biting your thumb as you looked up at him.

"want it harder?"

you nodded, teeth brushing against your thumb as you smiled.

rafe's pace sped up as he lifted his hips higher, pounding into your broken-in hole. he chuckled as you squealed in delight, holding the sheets in pleasure rather than pain. your legs began kicking up and down, hitting the mattress as you cried out for rafe like never before. a burst of pleasure flooded your body, hitting you like a wall, and rafe was not too far behind you.

"i-im close, y/n" he winced, holding your lower back in desperation.

you nodded in reply, throwing your ass back against him to meet his thrusts. rafe groaned painfully as he finally released his warm cum inside of you, pinning you down to the mattress with all his strength.

you hiccuped as he collapsed on top of you, his body writhing as he kissed your sensitive flesh, groping and caressing your tired body.

"my girl" he mouthed against your upper back. he rolled you over softly as he kneaded your sore body all night, whispering sweet nothings back to each other in a love drunk state.

you dont know what overcame rafe that night, but by the end, after endless kisses and pleading, he finally convinced you to let him take you out on a date.

for my baby @nemesyaaa <3

[scorpiossslut]

RAFEHUB

“Picked Up & Pounded: Standing Creampie Leaves Her Legs Shaking”

(in which your boyfriend, Rafe, switches things up a bit in bed😛)

The bedroom is dark except for the faint silver glow from the moon coming through the half-open blinds, and the only sound is your breathing; quick and shallow, and his, low and ragged. And the wet slap of skin on skin as he fucks you from behind on the edge of the mattress.

You’re on your knees, ass up, face pressed to the sheets, back arched so perfectly he can see every ridge of your spine, every tremble that runs through you when he hits deep. His hands are locked around your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave marks you’ll feel tomorrow, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust so he buries himself to the hilt, balls slapping wetly against your clit. You’re dripping. Coating him, running down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath your knees, and every time he pulls out almost all the way you whimper like he’s taking something vital away, then moan broken and high when he slams back in, stretching you open again.

“Fuck- Rafe- deeper-”

He gives it to you.

He always gives it to you.

He’s been fucking you for over an hour now-started slow on the couch downstairs when you climbed into his lap after dinner and ground against him until he was hard enough to hurt, then carried you up here and bent you over the dresser, then the bed, then flipped you onto your back so he could watch your face while he railed you until you came so hard you cried. You’ve come four times already. Once on his tongue, twice on his cock, once on his fingers while he kissed you slow and deep, and you’re still begging for more, still pushing back to meet every thrust like you can’t get enough of him inside you.

He loves it.

He loves how you take every inch like you were made for it.

He loves how you look when you’re falling apart-eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, tears clinging to your lashes while you sob his name and beg him not to stop.

He loves how you feel- tight, wet, hot, fluttering around him like you’re trying to pull him in deeper, keep him there forever

He slows his thrusts, grinds deep instead of slamming, rolls his hips so the head of his cock drags against that spot inside you that makes your whole body shake.

You moan- long, low, trembling- push back harder.

“Rafe- please- don’t stop-“

He leans over you, chest to your back, his mouth at your ear.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he rasps. “So wet. So perfect. This pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes- fuck- yes!”

He slides one hand around-finds your clit-rubs slow circles while he keeps grinding deep.

You sob, hips jerking, already close again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Let me feel you squeeze me, baby.”

You shatter, crying his name, walls clamping down so hard he has to grit his teeth to keep from coming right then.

He doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it. Slow, deep, until your tremors ease, until you’re whimpering from overstimulation but still pushing back for more.

Then he pulls out, slow and watches the way your cunt gapes for a second, still fluttering, still dripping with your release and his from earlier.

You whine, soft, needy and reach back, eager to get him back inside.

He grabs your hips, flips you onto your back then spreads your thighs wide.

You look completely wrecked. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy and dark with want, body trembling from how hard he fucked you.

He leans down, kisses you slow, deep, tongue sliding against yours while he lines himself up again.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pull him closer, moan into his mouth when he slides back in.

He fucks you slow, deep, watching your face the whole time.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. “So perfect. And you’re all mine.”

You nod- tears spilling- hips rocking up desperately to meet him.

“Yours! Only yours, Rafe, please- fuck me.”

He picks up speed-harder, faster-until you’re shaking again, clenching, close.

Then he stops.

Pulls out completely.

You whine, desperate, reaching for him.

He grabs your wrists, wraps your arms around his neck.

“Hold tight, baby.” he smirks.

You blink-confused-but obey.

Then he stands, pulls you with him, lifts you like you weigh nothing.

You gasp at the sudden change of position, feeling yourself get wetter already at the sight of your boyfriend ready to fuck you while he’s literally standing, every muscle in his body flexing and shining with sweat that makes your mouth water for a taste.

Your legs tighten around his waist immediately-arms around his neck, mouth finding his in a hungry, desperate kiss.

He holds you there, standing in the middle of the bedroom, cock pressed to your entrance.

“Please- Rafe. Need it. Need your big cock inside me.” you whimper, hips rocking, trying to impale yourself on him.

He doesn’t let you.

Not yet.

He kisses your neck, bites down, sucks hard enough to leave a bruise.

You moan, loud, broken, head falling back.

“Rafe- please-“

With a groan, he shifts, lines up, and thrusts up hard.

You scream- sharp, sweet-nails digging into his shoulders as he buries himself to the hilt.

He holds you there, standing, feet planted wide and thrusting up into you while he holds your weight like it’s nothing, his fingers gripping the fat of your ass roughly and spreading you wide.

You’re shaking- legs trembling around his waist- moaning his name over and over.

“Fuck- Rafe, you’re so strong- fuck-”

He growls, low, feral, then thrusts harder, deeper- each stroke lifting you up then slamming you back down onto his cock.

“You like that?” he rasps against your throat. “Like how strong I am? Like how I can hold you up and fuck you like this? Like I can carry you and rail this tight little cunt at the same time?”

“Yes- God- yes-”

He fucks you harder- faster- until you’re bouncing in his arms, tits pressed to his chest, nipples scraping his skin with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Taking me so deep, shaking- moaning like a little slut. My perfect fucking girl.”

You sob- high, broken- nails raking down his back.

“Rafe! Gonna come- gonna come so hard-“

“Fuck yeah baby, come on, cream on this cock- let me feel it- show me how much you love it.”

You shatter, crying his name, cunt clamping down so hard he almost blacks out.

Your whole body convulses- hips jerking, thighs trembling, wetness gushing around him, dripping down his balls.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps thrusting- hard, deep- holding you up while you shake and sob and come apart in his arms.

“Fuck- baby.”

He comes hard -burying deep- spilling inside you with a groan, hips jerking, filling you until it’s leaking out around his cock.

You whimper, soft, overstimulated, walls still fluttering around him.

He holds you there, standing, breathing hard while kissing you slow, deep, gentle.

You cling to him. Arms around his neck, legs still wrapped tight, face buried in his shoulder.

“I love you,” you whisper, voice trembling, body limp in his arms.

He kisses your temple, soft, reverent.

“I love you too.”

Then he carries you back to the bed, lays you down gently, stays inside you while he settles on top.

You don’t move.

Just breathe.

Just hold each other.

And you know you’re gonna ask for this position again real soon.

[kill3ill]

with friends like these... (18+)

kinks. virginity loss, corruption, unprotected sex

synopsis. he’s known you since you were kids and uses the “we’re going to different places, let’s just do it once” excuse. after all, you owe it to him, don’t you? he’s had your back for so many years…

part of my kinktober series!

deciding to move so far away from the place and people you've known your whole life wasn't easy at all. that was the truth. what was harder to leave behind though, was your best friend.

the two of you had been a pair longer than you could remember. you've watched each other go through every stage of life so far, through every shitty haircut and awkward stage of puberty. he's the one who always waited outside your house when you were running late to give you a ride to wherever you needed to be. the one who held you after a bad day or a horrible breakup.

he's stuck with you through it all.

as you now lie in his bed on your side with your limbs slotted through his, you take in the way his room looks the same as it always does. you want to remember it, as you know you won't be seeing it in a long time. it's like him. an organized mess, easy to navigate if you know it. the smell of clean linens and heady cologne are so familiar that it makes you ache at the thought of leaving it behind. that, and you're so used to the hum of his ceiling fan and the faint whirring noise of the monitor.

"can't believe you're actually doing it," he says quietly, his voice not teasing for once, and that makes it sound so much more real and unnerving. a part of you wishes he'd make a joke at this time to alleviate all the anxieties you're going through. "feels fake. like you'll call me tomorrow and say you changed your mind."

you smile, but it's small. "you'd like that too much."

"yeah," he says, under his breath, eyes flicking down to your mouth before he catches himself. "i would."

the silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, but it is full of all the things you're both too scared to say. you shift impossibly closer and squeeze his body, closing your eyes tightly. if you think hard enough, you're sure you can merge the two of you together. strange and a little needy, perhaps, but you can't control yourself right now. he doesn't move away, moving a big hand to stroke your hair gently.

"you're gonna forget about me," he says thoughtfully.

you hug him tighter and shake your head, hating the fact that he's even considering that right now. how could you forget the most important person in your life? he's practically your soulmate. you couldn't forget about him if you tried. "not true."

"you say that now."

tipping your head up, you meet his gaze full on as his hands continue stroking your hair and body. you try to gauge what's on his mind right now, but you come up blank. you wonder why he feels compelled to say this all to you now, the night before you leave. still, you defend yourself and your relationship with him. "you're my best friend. you think that changes just because I'm not two streets away anymore?"

after a long pause, he murmurs, "still doesn't feel fair."

"what doesn't?"

"that I only get one more night with you."

it feels as though he has something on his mind that he's not telling you, which isn't a good sign. back when you were kids, the two of you had sworn to never hide anything from each other. good or bad, secrets had to be divulged so the two of you could work it out together.

he lets out a long sigh, cupping your cheek with his warm palm to keep your head facing him. his eyes stay on you as he speaks again. "you know," he starts slowly, his voice softer than usual, "i've always kind of… looked out for you."

you frown a little, not sure where this is going. "yeah, i know."

"no, i mean…" he pauses, runs a hand through his hair, and laughs under his breath. "i mean really looked out for you. since we were kids."

you press your cheek into his bicep, blinking up at him. "mhm..."

he exhales slowly. "i just keep thinking about how many times i've seen you cry... or get hurt... or make a mistake, and every time, i just- i don't know. i've just had your back, always. i'm your protector."

he shifts a little closer without meaning to, his voice getting more quiet. "like when you got into that accident and cut your leg. remember that? you were bleeding down your knee and crying so much, but i carried you all the way back to your house even though you were fussing the whole time."

you snort at the memory, embarrassed by your theatrics from years ago, but he doesn't join in on your laughter. his gaze remains steady on yours. "and every time some guy treated you like shit," he continues, "i waited until you were somewhere safe and away from him... and i taught him a lesson." you open your mouth to say something, but he keeps talking, he's afraid if he stops, he won't have the courage to start up again. and this is his last chance to lay it bare on you.

"i used to think I was just being a good friend," he says quietly. "you know, the protective one. the one who makes sure you get home safe, carries your bag when you're tired and keeps an extra hoodie for you because you always forget yours. but lately, i keep wondering if that's all it was. if I just..." he breaks off, shakes his head. "i don't know. maybe I'm just talking nonsense."

your heart starts beating faster without warning. "no, keep going. please." you whisper. "what are you trying to say?"

"just that..." he pauses, looking down at you. you figure what he's about to say must be very serious, because he sits up fully, then tugs you up so you're straddling him and looking into his eyes. "i want to make sure you don't go out into the world and give yourself up to some guy who might want you for the wrong reason. and then i won't be there to stop you or tell you he's a dick. i want to make sure your first time is special and safe. with someone you love."

you gasp when he sits you upright, your knees on either side of his hips and your crotch placed right on his. he holds the dip of your waist in his big hands, gripping you firmly so you stay in the position he put you in. your chest pressed to his, your lower halves squished together...

"you love me, don't you?"

"of course i do." you breathe out, not knowing why you're so winded all of a sudden. he bites his lower lip and groans, tugging you in closer. "say it properly."

"i love you. a-a lot."

he hums, pressing his lips to your cheek, then slowly moving them down to your jaw to trail his kisses up to your ear. "you'll let me have it then, won't you? your first time with the man you love," he says directly in your ear, one hand moving down to cup your ass through your thin pj bottoms, while the other slips sneakily under your shirt to rest against your tummy. you don't answer, soft sighs leaving you at the pleasurable sensations of his hands and mouth on you.

of course it would be okay for him to have it. why wouldn't it be? he's your best friend. no one in the whole world is closer to you than him. and he's shown how much he loves you back all the years he's been protecting you, taking care of you, reassuring you when you felt sad or unworthy. and you'd been each others firsts in other regards as well. he'd been the first to take you on a date, sleep over in your bed, and kiss you. he'd taught you how when you were younger and curious.

the both of you were laughing under the covers of your bed even though you'd told your parents he was going to sleep on the floor. he'd asked so sweetly, "have you been kissed yet, sweetheart?" when you'd kept giggling and told him no, he'd tugged you in his arms and promised he'd teach you how, and gosh, he did.

it had been sloppy at first - your noses kept bumping and the way your tongue rolled over his was sloppy, but he was patient and sweet with you, coaxing your lips to mold perfectly against his and to go at a slow, even pace until you melted into it.

it hadn't been a one time occurrence either.

after that night, you both pretended it hadn't meant anything more than teaching you. it was easier than admitting how he'd looked at your mouth every time you smiled after, or how your stomach twisted whenever he drew you to him for more "practice".

now, as his lips moved to yours and he began to kiss you slowly and gently, you couldn't find it in yourself to say anything but; "mmm... mhm, y-you can have it..."

mtch... the way his lips continued moving against yours had your brain melting. his tongue had slipped past the barrier now and had started to roll over yours, and you could feel him lift your top up to your shoulders to expose your chest. he's going so slow. taking his time to get you ready and focus on your pleasure, while giving you a chance to back out.

"you taste so good," he praises, pulling back just enough to lick his lips and catch more of your taste on his tongue, while sliding your shirt up over your head. his comes off right after. moaning into your mouth, he tilts his head to catch your tongue at a better angle, rolling it over yours noisily. "ahh- you always taste so good."

you feel heat pooling low in your body at his ministrations. the kisses are so slow and syrupy that it feels like he's devouring you with that big tongue of his deep in your mouth. his lips are closed around yours firmly, meaning you couldn't break away if you wanted. anticipation for more causes you to act without thinking, and you find yourself nudging your hips back and forth. your clothed hole rubs against the thickening bulge in his pants, catching against the fabric and creating delicious friction.

your tongues move together in tandem as your hips buck against one another. "ah- can't take much more baby," he warns, grabbing on your hips and pulling back slightly. both your gazes flick momentarily to the saliva stringing between your separated mouths. "gonna make your first time so special."

—

"mngh-! slow down, please!"

the pitiful pleading coming from your parted, swollen lips are the best you can muster as your best friend holds your thighs apart, pushing his fingers in and out of you traitorously slow. when he said he was going to make you feel special, you hadn't expected him to be fixated on your pleasure for over an hour. one hand keeps you still, while he slides two of fingers in to the knuckle. his mouth, on the other hand, is busy with your tasting you, his tongue laving over your pussy and swirling circles against the puffy folds.

"but i mmh... -can't..." he says with a mouthful of you, eyes hooded and dark. "gotta make sure you're ready for me."

his voice sends vibrations up your core, making you shiver and buck your hips closer to his face involuntarily. he grins, delving his tongue between your slick folds once more, savoring the sweet juices leaking out of you. as his fingers curl inside you, his tongue laps at you greedily.

your breathy moans fall on deaf ears as he continues fucking his fingers into you while now rubbing and shaking his tongue over your pussy. he has your arousal dribbles down his chin, and he's making the filthiest noises possible - half from the squelching of your pussy and half from his groans. "you taste so good - gosh. why've you been hiding this pretty pussy from me?"

you whimper pathetically, your voice hoarse from the involuntary cries of rapture that have been spilling from your lips for the past hour.

"asked you a question." he chastises, punishing you by slowing his fingers in you, making sure you feel every press of his fingertips against your soft walls, and the scrape of his knuckles against them.

when he twists his fingers inside you and shoves them back in at full force, you're forced to answer through a cry, unable to endure much more of this. "fuck! i'm sorry, i don't know!" you say, followed by a loud cry of his name.

each thrust of his hand forces a shudder of pleasure through your trembling body, your back arching off the bed as you writhe beneath his touch. "we should've done this before, hm? way sooner." his grip tightens on your thighs as he works a third finger into your slick channel. your thoughts are hazing with the intensity of it all.

"there now, just relax," he murmurs, placing a lingering kiss on your aching, swollen clit. " ''m not stopping 'til i've had my fill of this pussy."

he plunges his tongue deep into your dripping folds, fucking your weeping hole with the hot, thick tongue. his fingers curl and beckon, stroking along your clenching walls, stirring your insides and forcing your arousal to gush forth.

he drinks it down as if it were the finest ambrosia, his mouth lapping and suckling greedily as he works you towards your impending climax.

your body grinds against him, seeking more of the blissful torment that only he can provide. he persists, slipping his tongue into your weeping hole alongside his fingers, feeling your walls fluttering around him, gripping and squeezing as they anticipate his thick cock stretching them even further.

"y'close, aren't you?" he asks, circling his tongue inside of you before popping it out so he can finger you hard and fast. "lemme have it then. cum for me."

he sees your body seizing up, your muscles locking as your orgasm crashes over you in waves. you scream and throw your head back. your pussy clamps around his fingers, rippling and milking the digits as if trying to pull them deeper. he works you through your orgasm relentlessly, pumping his fingers to make your juices gush out to coat his hand and drip down onto the bed.

slipping his fingers free, he brings them up to his mouth and licks them clean before kneeling on the bed, his rigid cock jutting out and slapping up against his stomach. its so swollen from how long he'd been holding back from cumming, as toying with you had nearly brought him to the edge. his cock leaks shiny rivulets of precum down his shaft, wetting his heavy balls.

"i can't wait anymore," he says desperately, gripping your hips and yanking you towards him, pulling you into position to take his aching cock inside.

he wraps one hand around the base, stroking it languidly as he notches the broad tip against your hole. the warmth radiating from your core envelops the head of his cock as he teases you with the promise of being filled beyond capacity. he takes his time, rubbing himself up and down your slit, coating himself in your mess.

whining at the stimulation, your eyes widen as you feel his tip slide between your folds. "you're okay baby," he murmurs. " 'm gonna go real slow f'you, m'kay?"

"k-kay..."

he begins to push forward, his cock slowly sinking inside of you inch by throbbing inch. he doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt, his heavy balls resting against your ass, and kissing your womb. you keen and squirm, your back arching helplessly as your body struggles to take the sheer size of him.

he lets out another shaky groan and tips his head back at the feeling of your walls squeezing him like you're trying to pull him even deeper than the hilt he's already bottomed out at.

"oh hell…" the words spill out of him in a hoarse, wrecked groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a second because the reality of finally being inside you almost knocks him out. "you're… fuck, you're so tight. pussy's hugging my cock."

you make a broken, high-pitched sound, fingers scrambling for something. he threads his hands through yours and pins them above your head, grounding you with his weight over you and the warmth of his body. his hips stay absolutely still, cock buried so deep inside it feels like he's in your guts. you can feel him throbbing inside you, impatience vibrating through his body even as he forces himself to stay still for you to adjust.

"look at me," he whispers, brushing his nose across your cheek. "lemme see those eyes. wanna see you while you take your first cock."

you blink up at him, watery and overwhelmed, and his expression shifts entirely. his mouth falls open just a little, like he's seeing something he's wanted his entire life finally in front of him.

"yeah," he breathes, "that's it. that's my girl."

you shudder under him, the praise shooting straight down your spine, making your pussy clench around him again. he feels it, every tiny squeeze, and it coaxes a deep, guttural sound out of his chest. his hips twitch forward without permission.

"d-don't-" you gasp, nails digging into his forearm. "you're… you're so big…"

"i know, baby. i know. just keep breathing, yeah?"

you try. you really do. but every inhale is shaky as your walls stretch and pulse around him. it's too much and not enough all at once. the fullness, the heat, the impossible pressure of him sitting so deep inside. he shifts slightly forward, flared tip nudging your womb, and your mouth falls open on a soft sob.

he freezes instantly. "was that good or too much?"

"g-good," you squeak, your thighs trembling around him.

his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. "yeah? felt good when i moved?"

you nod frantically, squeezing at his hands tightly to stop yourself from crying at the stretch. and then he pulls out just enough to feel the drag of your tight, slick walls clinging to him; before pushing back in so slowly.

"there she is…" he groans, thrusting just a little deeper, savoring the way your pussy flutters helplessly around him. "my perfect girl takes me so well."

his hips grind against yours, each movement deliberate, slow enough that you can feel every ridge and vein of him sliding inside you. your walls clench around him instinctively, a wet, pulsing squeeze that makes his teeth grit with need. he leans down, brushing his lips against your shoulder, then trailing hot, wet kisses down your collarbone as his cock bottoms out.

"you feel so perfect," he groans, his hands squeezing yours to keep you anchored while he rocks slowly in and out, teasing the tip against your womb.

he leans down, capturing your lips in another sloppy, desperate kiss while he thrusts into you slow and deep.

"'m all in your guts, sweetheart." he leans forward so his cock nudges even deeper inside you. "feel me filling you…' gonna make you cum so many times." he keeps going, slow, deliberate, causing your walls to clamp hard and milk his cock, and he knows immediately by the way your body locks up that you're seconds from shattering completely.

"cum for me, baby," he rasps, thrusting deep once, letting you ride the edge as your body convulses. "let go… let me hear it…"

your orgasm rips through you, your back arching as waves of pure pleasure crash over you. he groans loudly, letting you ride the tremors of your body as he watches you writhe under him.

the second your walls clamp tight around him, slick and squeezing him deeper on purpose, he chokes on a breath, fingers squeezing yours. "ah- my god, i can't hold much longer if you keep doing that-" he warns, now driving into you like an animal.

his hips snap forward, fucking into you with sharp, needy thrusts that make your body jolt up the bed with each one. he's panting against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and frantic. he gasps, thrusting harder, deeper. then he moves one hand under your knee to push your leg up, opening you wider. the new angle makes you cry out loud. he moans when he hears it, hips stuttering before slamming forward again.

"that's it, that's my girl. mngh- i can't slow down, i can't..." his voice is frantic, breath hitching. "been holding back all night, and now you're- ngh-gripping me like you wanna make me cum inside you-"

"yes," your whine. "y-yeah, i want it, please-!"

he loses it the second you say it, and slams one last time into you, so deep his hips tremble against yours, and he breaks. his cock throbs violently inside you, pulsing hard as hot, thick ropes spill deep in your cunt and coat your walls.

he cums so hard his body shakes above you, face pressed to yours as he pumps every last drop into you with shallow, rough thrusts that drag his sensitive cock through the slick warmth he just filled.

see more in my main masterlist

keep this fic alive by reblogging it and commenting if you loved it

[chleem]

"wanna play firetruck?"

the loud noise of the party downstairs has long been forgotten since entering his room with him- just the two of you. his smell engulfs you- being surrounded by everything that is his, in the soft glow of his bedroom lights.

you sit on the edge of his bed, hands resting stiffly beside you while your eyes wander around the room just to give yourself something to do. posters, cables, a controller on the floor- anything except looking directly at him.

but his question drags your attention back anyway.

he’s watching you from his gaming chair, legs spread comfortably as he leans back, the chair tilted just slightly. a soft smile sits on his face, almost harmless, but his eyes betray him; focused, waiting, aware of how bold he’s being right now.

“what’s that?” you ask, your heart is thumping so loudly you’re convinced he can hear it.

you feel ridiculous; you’ve talked to him a hundred times before but right now every word feels clumsy on your tongue. the alcohol leaves a warm buzz in your head, yet instead of making you relaxed it only makes you slower, while he seems perfectly steady.

him and that stupid smirk, that ridiculously handsome smug-

“you really don’t know?” he says, tilting his head a little. the chair rolls an inch closer with a soft sound against the floor, and the tiny movement somehow feels huge.

your shoulders stiffen automatically.

you shake your head.

his smile pulls a little wider, but it’s softer now, less playful and more careful, like he’s watching your reaction before he decides how far to go.

“it’s a game,” he says, voice lower than before, "sit on my lap first. i'll show you."

you blink, clearly hesitating, but his lap looks soooo inviting.

he even taps the fabric that clings onto his inner thigh, urging you to take the initiative.

and you do- your feet move before your brain catches up, and you carefully settle onto his lap. your hands rest on his shoulders, shy to give him your entire weight.

“i won’t bite,” he whispers in your ear, his voice barely more than a ghost against your skin, and it sends butterflies tumbling through your stomach. your body argues back; your core knows he will do more than just bite.

your pulse quickens as his hand finds your thigh, gentle but insistent, nudging your legs just slightly apart. you feel yourself melting under the coaxing warmth of his touch, the unspoken permission for him to touch you, for you to make him your seat.

slowly, carefully, you get comfortable, letting yourself sink a little into him. your back against his chest, ass against his bulge, head resting in the nape of his neck perfectly.

your gaze drops to the ring on his finger, from the hand on your thigh.

somehow, he's slipped his other hand on your other thigh, and only then do you realize he's fully prying your legs open for him. the reason, you're about to find out.

"nice ring," you compliment, letting your fingertip trace over the material.

"yeah."

his voice is even deeper when it's breathing near you; you can feel your heart beating in your throat. you don't want to move; afraid to feel more of the bulge underneath you.

"i'll touch you- green light to keep going. red to stop."

oh.

oh.

so that's what he means by firetruck.

from where your head rests, it gives you a perfect look at his expression. you bring a finger up to his neck- tracing upwards, trailing his adam's apple, to his jaw- and to that smile of his,

"answer me baby. do you understand the rules?"

"...like a firetruck?" your breath hitches as he shifts underneath you, purposely to adjust the way your ass molds into his semi hard-on.

he lets out a low chuckle, his lips brushing your ear. “that’s it… exactly.”

he lets his fingers drum against your thighs; rested at the starting line.

"green light," you then whisper, like the starting gun at a track meet; before giggling softly. you avert your eyes to where his touch is.

you watch as his fingers move slowly upwards, burning your skin, inching closer to where your skirt hikes up.

it's when his thumb dissapears under your skirt, just barely ghosting your panties,

"red light," you breathe out, hand shooting up to grab his wrist, forcing him to stop.

he freezes for a moment- and then presses a kiss to your cheek.

“baby…” he then laughs, low and teasing, the vibration running straight through you, “firetrucks don’t stop.”

your chest tightens, feeling a pool of wetness gather around your core as the words slip out his mouth.

he laughs again as he sees the realization dawn on you.

"want me to put the fire out?" he asks, taking your hand and intertwining your fingers together. he kisses your jaw, awaiting your answer.

alright… go on, save me, then…

you look up at him with doe eyes as his fingers trace the outline of your wet underwear, your pussy ghosting over his touch- your way of letting him know the light is green again.

"use your words, baby," he coos- then pinches your folds over the underwear, your back arching against him, your fingers tightening around his.

"yes," you practically whine, feeling warmth rose to your cheeks.

"see, not so hard, hmmm."

he pushes your panties to the side, stroking over your slit, your arousal giving him easy access as he slips not one, but two fingers inside at once. a moan slips past your lips as your head throws back onto his shoulders, your other hand shooting up, tangled in his hair.

you tug softly at the strands of his hair as his fingers reach deep till the knuckle, earning a grunt from him, your hooded eyes catching his smirk.

"following...the hottest source..."

he mumbles against your ear, fingers starting to thrust in a steady, increasingly fast pace. he laughs at his own funny description of this 'fire' scene, and how you roll your hips into him with every move of his fingers.

his hand leaves your intertwined one to hold you steady by your waist; as he adds a third finger at how wet you've gotten; fully stretched and eating up his digits.

"feels...so good," you whimper, eyes fluttering to keep open. your skin feels hot, sticky, and your fingers can barely untangle through his hair. the knot is growing in your stomach with each blissful stuffing of his fingers, and with every huffed out response of yours, louder moans when he's found your sweet spot, he curls his fingers inward, pushing against your shivering walls.

he kisses along your jaw, tongue darting out to add to the sensation, "that's it- putting out the fire, baby. here, mmh?"

you giggle dumbly and breathlessly at his words, but they're gone once he goes back to your discovered sweet spots, moaning his name out instead.

and you're too busy chasing your own high on his fingers to realize the pre-cum that soaks through his boxers.

his other hand moves up your body- like it's a map and he's the explorer. first stop; your tits that he gives each a squeeze. second stop; the base of your neck that he momentarily steals the air from you. lastly, your face- which he cups in place, angling your lips in alignment to his.

and with a few more strokes, the way your body arches into his, the heat building inside of you-

he kisses you. it's messy, passionate, yet collected so you focus on the task ahead; cumming on his fingers.

he laughs against your lips; something you don't understand yet does something to you- you're trembling against him as the knot goes undone, moaning into his as a response.

he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting the two of you.

when his fingers slip out, you watch as he pops them into his mouth, tasting you.

"ahh," he tells you after he's done- and you obey, eating yourself on whatever's still left on his fingers, "good girl- smart girl."

you're still gasping for air, trying to regain your senses, and he just studies your features, hand on your jaw, the other back to tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"don't play this game with anyone else, alright?" he whispers in your ear, biting it.

you giggle at his words, your hand going to his bicep, holding onto it, "okay."

"...say it again."

"...i won't."

"...that's better."

----

ngl i thought of fratjo while writing this

...but could apply to everyone else too! hehe

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ bsf!rafe has you wrapped around his finger, willing to do anything for him.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. fingering, use of word 'daddy', slight power dynamic (clothed vs. naked), sex without established relationship, slight begging.

cherie's note — based on this video (p!link)

“that feel good, sweetheart?” rafe’s voice laced with anticipation and lust, fingers expertly working a steady rhythm within your soaked cunt. the usually gentle voice of your best friend’s voice was gone, black pupils blown wide at the sight of you — completely naked, legs spread for him, with a manicured hand covering your mouth to stifle the pathetic whimpers that escaped your swollen lips. his fingers glistened in the dim light each time he slid them inside of you, the slick sound audible in the quiet room.

his adrenaline was sky rocketing — completely clothed and in control, watching the way you writhed under his touch. you were a mess, undone by his fingers alone. your body reacted perfectly, as if it had been rehearsed, every moment guided by him. eyes screwed shut, your trembling fingers sought his, soothingly rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves in an attempt to ease the burning desire within your warm cunt.

“see? all y’needed was daddy’s fingers ‘side ya, huh?” he murmured, the muscles in his wrist becoming mush with each thrust of his hand, but he didn’t care. he wouldn’t stop until you were convulsing and crying out, creaming around his long digits. “jesus, so needy. i haven’t even dicked you down.”

his laugh was cruel, mocking almost - fueled by the rush of power he felt seeing your fucked-out state sprawled in his room, tangled in his blankets, on his bed. your body was a mess, trembling and pliant, just as he'd imagined so many times before. god, he'd thought about this relentlessly, lewd images flooding his mind late at night, every time he wrapped his hand around his cock. the way you'd arch for him, the way your walls would squeeze around him, the broken sounds you'd make — it had all lived rent-free in his head for weeks, and now, here you were, even better than his most depraved fantasies.

that familiar tension coiled low in your stomach, threatening to snap at his words. this was so wrong — rafe cameron was your best friend. rumors of the two of you dating had left you both uneasy, the thought alone enough to make your stomach churn. but this wasn’t the first time his fingers had been buried inside you, coaxing pleasure from your body. friends didn’t do this.

“fuck,” you choked out, your voice shaky and uneven as the pleasure coursing through your body made it almost impossible to speak. the words caught in your throat, coming out in stutters, a clear sign of how completely you were falling apart. “i’m gonna cum, rafe.”

the sound of you mewling out for him desperately was enough for him to feel his cock twitch within his jeans. “say please, baby.”

the words caught in your throat finally spilled out, a blabbering mess as your mind becomes fuzzier by the second, “please! please rafe, please let me cum. need to cum on your fingers so badly, please let me cum!”

with that stupid smirk plastered across his face, he chuckled as your eagerness. his fingers curled and quickened inside of you, and your body shuddered violently as your orgasm washed over you. the pillow pressed to your face, doused in his cologne, did little to muffle the pathetic whines spilling from your lips. you came on his fingers, legs trembling as waves of pleasure rippled through you. shaky hands found your clit again, rubbing gently in an effort to soothe the overwhelming sensation.

rafe grinned, cocky and triumphant, as he withdrew his fingers from your aching pussy, bringing them up to your plump lips. you opened your mouth invitingly, the sight alone summoning a groan from his throat, “you did s’good for me, cutie. looked s’pretty with my fingers inside ya.”

his fingertips are cold against your flushed face, his lips finding yours — he could taste you off your own tongue, the taste of your sweet arousal only fuelling the ache straining against his pants. your face burned, a flustered red blush spreading across your cheeks as you buried your face back into his pillow. the sensation of his fingers sliding inside of you again had your eyes rolling back, your vulnerability on full display.

“don’t do that shit,” he ordered, snatching the soft plush pillow away from your body. a pout formed on your lips, looking up at your best friend. rolling his deep blue eyes, he speaks again, “wanna see your face this time when i make you cum.”

friends didn’t do this. but you knew you would let it happen again — all he had to do was ask.

[lemonsdietcoke]

We’re Not Over. ~ R.C

Summary: You should have just broke up, but Rafe would never let that happen.

Warning: DV, NONCON/DUBCON, PHYSICAL ABUSE, toxic relationship, emotional abuse, physical violence, Alcohol, addiction, pregnancy, mention or abortion, drug use (from rafe). if any of this triggers you or is in your thing, scroll away. This is fiction. 

An: heyyy yall lmk if u want a part 2 and like, comment reblog for more! Hearing what u think keeps me motived to write more fics!!

MINORS DNI

The house was quiet in that heavy way it got after everyone left. Rafe had made sure the door was locked behind the last person out. You'd felt it, the shift in him all night. The way his eyes tracked you from the corner of the room, jaw locked, fingers drumming restless on his knee while you talked to friends. He hadn't said much then. Just drank. Watched. Waited.

Now the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both. The lock turned slow, deliberate. The lamp on his dresser cast a dim yellow glow, catching the sweat on his neck, the flush creeping up from his collar.

Whiskey breath mixed with the faint chemical bite of coke still lingering on him. His shirt hung open at the top buttons, sleeves shoved up, arms tense like coiled wire.

He didn't speak right away. Just stood there, back to the door, staring at you like he was deciding something. You stayed near the bed, arms loose at your sides but ready, heart already picking up speed. The carpet felt rough under your bare feet, the air thick and stale.

"You had fun tonight," he said finally. Voice low, slurred just enough to show the liquor had settled deep. No question in it. Statement. Accusation.

"I talked to people. That's what parties are for."

He pushed off the door. Slow steps toward you. "Yeah. You talked. Laughed. Let that Pogue asshole get right up in your space. Smiled at him like he was funny. Like I wasn't standing ten feet away."

Your throat tightened.

"It was nothing. He made a joke. I laughed. End of story."

Rafe stopped close. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the sharp edge of his anger under the booze. 

"Nothing," he repeated. Soft. Almost thoughtful. Then his hand came up, slow, like he had all the time in the world, and wrapped around your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Fingers warm, thumb resting over your pulse. You felt it jump under his touch.

"You think I'm stupid?" he murmured. Eyes locked on yours. Pupils blown wide. "You think I don't see how you light up for them? How you pull away from me the second someone else is around?"

"Rafe." Your voice came out small. You hated it. "You're drunk. Let go."

His thumb pressed in a little. Just enough to make breathing feel deliberate. "Nah. We're talking now. You wanted to act like everything's fine all night? We're talking about why it's not."

You tried to step back. His other hand shot to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise tomorrow. He pulled you forward instead. Chest to chest, his heartbeat thudding fast against yours.

"You always do this," he said. Voice dropping lower. Rougher. "Act like I'm the crazy one. Like I imagine shit. But I don't. I see it. Every time."

His grip on your throat tightened fraction by fraction. Air got thinner. Your hands came up instinctively, pushing at his wrist. He didn't budge.

"Stop," you rasped.

He tilted his head. Studied your face like he was memorizing the fear there. 

"You know what happens when you push me like this. You've known for a while."

The words hung heavy. He wasn't yelling. Wasn't frantic. Just calm. Cold. Like this was inevitable. Like you'd walked into it on your own.

You shoved harder at his chest. He let go of your throat only to grab both your wrists instead. Twisted them behind your back in one rough motion. Pain flared sharp up your arms. You gasped. He used the momentum to force you back until your legs hit the bed. You fell onto it, him following, knee between your thighs, pinning you down.

He loomed over you. Breathing steady now. Controlled. His free hand came back to your face, cupping your cheek almost gently. Thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

"You think you can leave?" he whispered. Not mocking. Not angry. Just stating fact. "You think you walk out that door and this ends?"

His weight pressed heavier. You felt every inch of him, solid, unmovable. The hand on your wrists tightened until your fingers went numb.

"You don't get to decide that," he continued. Voice soft. Almost tender. "Its not just your choice."

Tears burned hot in your eyes. You blinked them back. "You're hurting me."

"I know." Simple. No apology. Just acknowledgment. Like it was part of the conversation.

He leaned down. Lips brushing your ear. "And you'll still be here in the morning. Won't you?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't. The room spun slowly, fear, pain, the sick twist of knowing he was right about the pattern. The bruises he'd left before. The apologies that came too late. The way you'd always gone back.

His mouth moved to your neck. Not kissing. Just breathing there. Hot. Possessive. "Say it."

You shook your head. Small. Defiant.

His hand slid from your cheek to your hair. Gripped hard. Yanked your head back until your throat arched. "Say you'll be here."

The words stuck in your chest. You swallowed against the ache. "Fuck you."

He laughed once, low, quiet. Lacking humor. "Yeah. But you're still here."

He released your wrists suddenly. Rolled off you. Stood up. Backed toward the door like nothing had happened. "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

You stayed curled on the bed. Breathing shallow. Wrists throbbing. Throat raw. Face wet from the tears you hadn't let fall until he turned away.

He didn't look back. Just flipped the lamp off. Darkness swallowed the room.

You waited until his breathing evened out on the couch across the room. He never slept in the bed after nights like this, like he needed distance to cool off. 

Then you moved.

Quiet. Careful. Slipped off the bed. Grabbed your shoes. Keys. Didn't bother with anything else.

The front door opened without a sound. Cold night air hit your face. You didn't run. Just walked fast to your car. Started it. Pulled out slowly so the engine wouldn't wake him.

Drove home in the dark. Locked every door behind you. Went to your room. Sat on the floor against the wall. Felt the bruises forming on your wrists, the ache in your throat, the hollow pit in your stomach.

Three days.

You stayed inside. Curtains closed. Phone off. Ignored the rumble of his truck outside, once, twice, then nothing.

On the third day, when the marks had turned deep purple and the fear had hardened into something colder, you turned your phone on.

Typed: We're done.

Sent.

Turned it off.

The silence after felt different this time. Sharp. Final.

You didn't cry. Just sat there. Breathing. Waiting for the fallout you knew was coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beach house was already alive when you arrived. It felt warm and forgiving after weeks of hiding in your room. Music drifted out the open doors, vibrating up through the deck planks. The air carried bonfire smoke, spilled tequila, and the faint coconut of someone's sunscreen even though it was dark.

You walked in through the side gate like you always did. Sophia and Avery had texts you earlier.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 GROUPCHAT 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

(6:30 pm)

Sophᥫ᭡: girl pls come out ;(

Sophᥫ᭡: just us girls seriously we need u here!!!

Averyʚɞ: mias margaritas r actually insane tn… come save me

Mia spotted you first. She waved you over with both hands, red cup already in one. "There she is! Finally." Her smile was bright, genuine enough that the knot in your chest loosened a fraction. She pressed the cup into your hand without asking. The glass was cold and slick with condensation. You took a sip…tart lime, too much tequila, the burn sliding smooth down your throat.

"Sit, sit," Sophia said, patting the wicker chair next to her. "We’ve been dying without you."

You sat. The chair creaked under you. The fire pit crackled a few feet away, heat licking at your shins. Avery leaned in on your other side, shoulder bumping yours.

 "You look good. Like, really good. We missed your face."

Conversation flowed easily at first. Safe. School gossip. Someone’s new internship. A story about Topper wiping out on his board last weekend that had everyone laughing. You laughed too. The margarita helped. You finished the first one faster than you meant to. Mia was right there with the pitcher, topping you off before you could protest. 

"Lightweight rules don’t apply tonight," she teased.

The second drink went down smoother. The third even easier. Your limbs felt loose, the edges of the night blurring just enough that the ache in your wrists, the faint ghosts of bruises, was easier to ignore. You let yourself lean back. Let the fire warm your face. Let the laughter wrap around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you were cold without.

You didn’t hear the truck pull up. Didn’t notice the shift in the air until Topper’s voice cut through the chatter. "Yo, look who decided to grace us."

Your head turned slowly. The alcohol made everything lag half a second.

Rafe stepped onto the deck from the side stairs. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched against the breeze. Hair messy from the wind. He looked worse than you remembered, sunken under the eyes, skin pale in the fairy light. But when his gaze found you across the fire, it sharpened. Locked. Held.

Your stomach flipped. The cup in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.

You started to stand.

Sophia’s hand landed lightly on your wrist. Not grabbing. Just resting there. "Hey. Stay."

Mia leaned in close. Voice soft, almost conspiratorial. "He’s not here to start shit. He’s been quiet all week. Like, really quiet. Just… give it a minute?"

Avery nodded on your other side. "We all miss how things used to be. One night. That’s it."

You looked around the circle. Faces lit orange by the fire. Eyes on you,concerned, hopeful, a little pleading. No one was forcing you. No one was blocking the gate. But the weight of their quiet expectation pressed in anyway. Saying no now would mean explaining why. Would mean ripping the fragile normalcy they’d all been clinging to.

You sat back down.

Rafe didn’t come straight over. He drifted instead. Slow. Casual. Grabbed a beer from the cooler near Topper. Cracked it open. Taking a long pull. Then another. He laughed at something Kelce said, low, forced, but enough to make the group relax a notch.

You kept your eyes on the fire. Flames snapping. Sparks drifting up into the dark. The tequila hummed warm in your veins, dulling the sharp edge of panic. Your head felt fuzzy. Pleasant fuzzy. The kind that made bad decisions feel distant.

He moved closer eventually. Sat on the low bench across the pit from you. Knees spread. Elbows on his thighs. Beer bottle dangling between his fingers. He didn’t look at you right away. Just stared into the flames like everyone else. But you felt it, the pull of his attention. Steady. Unavoidable.

After a while, it had been long enough that another round of drinks had been passed, and he spoke. Voice low. Rough around the edges from the alcohol or the week or both.

"You’re here."

Two words. Simple. No accusation. No demand. Just observation.

You swallowed. The margarita now tastes worse on your tongue. "Yeah."

He nodded once. Slow. Took another drink from his beer. "Good."

The group kept talking around you both. Laughing. Teasing. Pretending the tension wasn’t there. But it was. Thick. Electric. Every time someone shifted, every time the fire popped, you felt his eyes flick to you. Quick. Careful. Like he was afraid that if he stared too long, you’d bolt.

Mia leaned over again. Whispered so only you could hear. "See? He’s chill. Just stay a little longer. For old times’ sake."

You nodded. Small. Automatic.

The fourth margarita appeared in your hand somehow. You didn’t remember asking for it. But you drank anyway. Let the burn chase away the last of the clarity.

Rafe finally stood. Walked around the pit. Slow steps. Stopped a few feet from your chair. Hands still in his pockets. Head tilted just enough that the firelight caught the sharp line of his cheekbone.

"Can we talk?" he asked. Quiet. Almost careful. "Just for a second. Down by the water."

You looked up at him. The world tilted soft from the drinks. His face looked different in the low light, less angry, more… lost. The same face you’d seen in the dark of his room weeks ago, right before everything went wrong.

Sophia touched your shoulder lightly. "Go. We’re right here if you need us."

Avery smiled slightly. "Five minutes. Then come back and make fun of Topper with us."

You stood. Legs wobbly but holding. The sand was cool under your feet as you followed him down the steps, away from the fire, away from the lights. Waves rolled in steady. White foam hissing against the shore.

He stopped near the waterline. Turned. Didn’t crowd you. Just stood there. Waiting.

"I fucked up," he said. Voice rough. Low. "Bad. I know it."

You crossed your arms. The wind tugged at your hair. Salt stung your lips. "Yeah. You did."

He looked down at the sand. Kicked at a shell. "I’ve been trying to fix it. Therapy. Cutting back. All of it. Doesn’t make it right. Just… means I’m trying."

Silence stretched. Waves filled it.

"I don’t expect you to believe me," he continued. "But I’m sorry. For real."

You searched his face. The tequila made it hard to read him. Or maybe it made it easier. He looked wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw tight like he was holding something back.

You didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Letting the words settle.

He stepped closer. Slow. Careful. "Can I…?" He opened his arms a little. Not grabbing. Just offering.

The drinks had softened everything. The fear. The anger. The memory of his hand on your throat. It all felt farther away. Muted.

You stepped into him.

His arms closed around you. Tight. Familiar. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other low on your back. He smelled like smoke and salt and him. His heartbeat thudded fast against your cheek.

"I missed you," he whispered. Barely audible over the waves.

You didn’t hug back. But you didn’t pull away.

Behind you, up on the deck, the group watched. Faces glowing in the firelight. Smiling soft. Relieved.

You stayed like that longer than you planned.

When you finally stepped back, his hands slid to your arms. Lingered a second. Then dropped.

"Stay?" he asked. Quiet. No demand. Just a question.

You glanced back at the house. Sophia raised her cup. Mia gave a small nod. Avery mouthed please.

The net was soft. Warm. Almost comfortable.

You nodded once.

Walked back with him.

Sat down again.

Took the next drink when it was handed to you.

Let the night keep pulling you under.

Slow.

Subtle.

Inevitable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three weeks later, your period was late.

You bought the test at the small pharmacy on the Cut because no one there would recognize you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The cashier didn’t look at your face. You sat in your car in the parking lot with the plastic bag in your lap, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your teeth. 

The two pink lines stared back at you from the bathroom counter like they had been waiting there all along.

You had taken the test twice. Same brand. Same result. The first time you sat on the closed toilet lid for twenty minutes, knees drawn up, staring at the stick until the plastic felt warm from your grip. The second time you did it in the shower, water running cold, hoping the steam would blur the lines or wash them away. It didn’t.

Your period was nine days late now. You had never been this late. Not once.

The night at the beach house came back in fragments. Not clean memories. Just flashes. The margaritas tasting stronger than they should have. Mia’s hand on your arm, refilling your cup again. Rafe’s arms around you by the water, the group watching from the deck like it was some kind of movie moment. Then the guest bedroom. His mouth on your neck. His hands sliding under your shirt. You remembered saying “wait” once, maybe twice, the word slurring into the music thumping through the floor. You remembered his weight pressing you into the mattress. After that the edges went soft and dark. You woke up the next morning in his bed upstairs, sheets tangled, head pounding, no clear memory of how you got there or what happened between the guest room and waking up.

You had asked him once, days later, casual, testing the water.

“Do you remember… that night? Like, after we talked on the beach?”

He had looked at you with those tired eyes, thumb brushing your cheek. “Yeah. You were drunk. We both were. You wanted it. We both did.”

You had nodded because pushing felt dangerous. Because the alternative meant admitting you didn’t remember consenting. Or not consenting. The lines were too blurry to touch.

Now the lines weren’t blurry anymore.

You drove to his house that afternoon because the nausea had started and you couldn’t keep pretending it was stress or bad takeout. Your hands shook on the wheel the whole way. The Cameron driveway felt longer than usual. The house loomed white and quiet under the late sun.

Rafe answered the door shirtless, hair damp like he had just showered. He smiled when he saw you, small and hopeful, the way he had been smiling lately. Careful. Like he was afraid the wrong expression would make you bolt.

“Hey. You okay? You look…”

You didn’t let him finish. You stepped inside, closed the door behind you, and held up the test. The plastic trembled in your fingers.

His eyes dropped to it. Then back to your face. Everything in him went still.

“Is that…”

You nodded once.

He took the stick from you gently, like it might break. Stared at the lines. His breathing changed. Shallow. Fast. Then his face cracked open in a way you had never seen before. Not anger. Not smugness. Something raw and bright and terrifyingly real.

“Holy fuck.” His voice broke on the last word. He looked up at you, eyes wet, shining. “We’re… we’re having a baby?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed tight.

He pulled you into him suddenly, arms wrapping around you so hard it hurt a little. His face buried in your hair. You felt his chest shudder against yours. He was crying. Quiet, ragged breaths. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and broken.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is us fixing everything. You and me and… fuck, a kid. Our kid.”

You stood there frozen. His heartbeat hammered against your cheek. Too fast. Too loud. You felt the nausea roll again, sharp and sour.

“Rafe. I don’t… I don’t remember us having sex without… a condom. That night. I don’t remember any of it clearly.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your arms, thumbs stroking slow circles like he was trying to soothe you.

“You were drunk. We both were. But you wanted me. You pulled me down there. You said my name like…” He swallowed. “Like you needed me. We didn’t use one because… shit, I don’t know. It happened fast. You were on top at one point. You didn’t stop me.”

The words landed heavy. You searched his face for a lie. Couldn’t find one. But the memory still wouldn’t come clear. Just heat. Pressure. His voice in your ear. Your own hands on his back. Had you pulled him down? Had you said his name?

“I said wait,” you whispered.

His expression flickered. Pain. Guilt. Something darker underneath.

“I know. I heard you. But then you kissed me again. You wrapped your legs around me. I thought… I thought that meant yes. I’m so fucking sorry if I got it wrong. I swear to God I thought you wanted it.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing shaky.

“I would never hurt you like that on purpose. You know that. Right?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He took your hand. Led you to the couch. Sat you down. Knelt in front of you like he was praying.

“This baby… It’s not an accident. It’s us. It’s proof we’re supposed to be together. After everything I put you through, after I almost lost you… This is how we make it right. Ward’s gonna be so fucking proud. The girls are gonna lose their minds. They already love you. They’ll love this.”

He reached for your stomach. Hesitant. Palm flat against the flat plane. His hand shook.

“Our kid won’t grow up like I did. No yelling. No bullshit. Just… us. Safe. Together.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. Silent. You didn’t wipe them away.

He saw them. Misread them, maybe. Or didn’t care.

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But we can do this. I’ll take care of everything. Doctor’s appointments. Money. All of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words stuck.

“What if I don’t want…”

He froze. Hand still on your stomach.

“Don’t say that.” His voice cracked again. Not angry. Pleading. “Please don’t say that. Not yet. Just… think about it. Think about how good this could be. How much better I’ll be. For you. For them.”

He leaned in. Kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I fucked it all up. This… this is our second chance.”

You sat there. Numb. 

He stood up. Pulled out his phone. Already texting.

“I’m telling Ward. And our friends. They need to know. They’ll be so happy for us.”

You watched him type. Watched the messages send. Watched the little dots appear almost immediately.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t look.

You just sat there.

Staring at the spot on the floor where his knees had been.

Feeling the weight of something you couldn’t name settle deep in your chest.

Something final.

Something you hadn’t chosen.

But something you were already carrying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You met them at Sophia’s house because it felt safer than anywhere public. The living room smelled like vanilla candles and fresh coffee. Sunlight cut through the big windows and landed in sharp rectangles on the white couch. Mia had brought muffins. Avery kept refilling your water like that would fix anything.

They were smiling when you sat down. Real smiles. The kind that made your stomach twist worse.

“So,” Mia started, tucking her legs under her, “how are you feeling? Like, actually feeling? The group chat is already losing it over baby names.”

You stared at the muffin on your plate. The blueberries looked too bright. Your throat felt tight.

“I’m not keeping it.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

For a second, nobody moved. Sophia’s hand froze halfway to her coffee cup. Avery blinked slowly, like she was trying to replay what you just said.

“What?” Mia laughed, nervous. “Come on. You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head. Your hands were shaking, so you pressed them between your knees. “I’m not ready. None of this… none of it feels right. Rafe and I are still so messed up…And now there’s a baby? I can’t bring a kid into this. I feel so guilty even thinking about it, and I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

Sophia leaned forward. Her voice was soft, careful, the way people talk to someone on the edge. “Babe, I get that you’re overwhelmed. Pregnancy hormones are crazy. But this is a good thing. Rafe’s been trying so hard. He’s different now.”

“He’s not different,” you said. Your voice cracked. “He’s the same. And I’m not ready to be someone’s mom. I can barely take care of myself when he’s… when things get bad.”

Avery reached over and touched your arm. “We’re all here for you. We’ll help. The whole group will. This baby could be what finally makes him stable.”

You pulled your arm away. The touch felt too heavy.

“You don’t get it.” Your heart was pounding now. The vanilla candle suddenly smelled sickeningly sweet. “I don’t even remember that night clearly. I was so drunk. I said wait. And now I’m pregnant, and everyone’s acting like it’s this beautiful second chance. It’s not. It’s a trap. I feel trapped.”

Mia’s face changed. The soft concern hardened into something sharper. “Okay, that’s not fair. Rafe told us what happened. You were into it. You went to the guest room with him. You can’t rewrite it now just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not rewriting shit!” Your voice rose. You hated how loud it sounded in the bright, pretty room. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m terrified of raising a kid with him. He’s literally a drug addict!”

The word exploded out of you.

The silence after was worse than the shouting.

Sophia’s eyes went wide. Avery looked away, cheeks flushed. Mia stared at you like you had slapped her.

“Jesus,” Mia whispered. “You really just said that?”

You were breathing hard. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 “It’s true. He does coke all the time. He gets paranoid. And now you all want me to bring a baby into it? What kind of mother would that make me?”

Sophia’s voice was quiet but edged. 

“He’s been clean for weeks. He’s going to therapy. Ward even said he’s proud of him. You’re acting like he’s so fucked up when he’s trying to be better for you. For the baby.”

“He’s not fucking clean,” you snapped. “He just hides it better when you’re watching.”

Avery stood up suddenly. 

“This is fucked up. We all saw how broken he was when you left. He was crying to us. And now you’re pregnant, and you want to… what? Get rid of it? After everything we did to get you two back together?”

The words hit like ice water.

You looked at each of them. The people who had lied about Rafe not being at the party. The ones who kept pushing drinks on you that night. The ones who told you this was fate.

Guilt and rage and fear tangled so tight in your chest you couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t do this,” you said, quieter now. Voice raw. “I can’t bring a child into this. I’m not ready. And I don’t think I ever will be with him.”

Mia shook her head. Tears in her eyes. “You’re being selfish. That baby is innocent. And Rafe… he’s going to be devastated. You have no idea what this will do to him.”

The room felt too small. The sunlight too bright. The vanilla candle cloying.

You stood up on shaky legs.

“I need to go.”

None of them tried to stop you.

But as you walked to the door, you heard Sophia’s phone buzz. Once. Twice. Then three more times in quick succession.

You didn’t have to ask who it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your phone started exploding the second you left Sophia’s house.

It vibrated nonstop in your pocket the whole drive home. You didn’t look. You already knew. By the time you pulled into your driveway, the screen was flooded with missed calls from Rafe, Mia, and Avery. Text after text.

Rafe: answer ur fucking phone (4:56 pm)

Rafe: you told them you want to kill my kid???

Rafe: after everything ur really doing this to me???

You turned it off and went inside.

The knocking started softly at first. Polite. Almost hesitant. Your mom answered, voice muffled through the door.

“Rafe? Honey, what’s going on?”

You heard the low rumble of his voice, calm, measured. “Can I talk to her? Please. It’s important.”

There was a pause. Your dad appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, watching. Your mom stepped aside. Rafe walked in slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes were red, his hair damp with sweat, but his face was composed. Polite smile for your parents. The perfect Kook boy.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N. Sorry to show up like this. I just… need a minute with her. If that’s okay.”

Your dad glanced at you. You stood frozen in the living room doorway, arms wrapped tight around yourself. He nodded once. “Upstairs. Door open.”

Rafe gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

He followed you up the stairs without touching you. The hallway light buzzed overhead. Your bedroom door creaked when you pushed it open. He stepped inside after you. Closed it most of the way, not all the way, respecting the “open” rule, but enough that voices wouldn’t carry downstairs clearly.

The second he faced you, the mask slipped.

He turned. Locked eyes with you. The polite smile vanished.

“You told them,” he said. Voice low. Controlled. Barely above a whisper. “You told our friends you want to get rid of my kid. And you called me a fucking drug addict.”

You backed up until your calves hit the edge of your bed. “Rafe-”

“Shh.” He held up a hand. Not aggressive. Just firm. “Keep your voice down. Your parents are right downstairs. We’re not doing this loud.”

He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. You could smell the faint chemical edge on him, coke, fresh. His eyes were glassy but focused. Calculating.

“You have no idea what you just did,” he continued, still quiet. “The girls are blowing up my phone. Telling me you’re scared. Telling me you’re not ready. Telling me you think I’m gonna be a shit dad because I’m… what? A drug addict?”

He laughed once. Soft. Bitter. No humor.

“I’m trying. Every day. For you. For this.” His hand moved toward your stomach, not touching, just hovering. “And you go behind my back and tell them you want to kill it? That’s cold. That’s really fucking cold.”

You swallowed. “I said I’m not ready. I didn’t say I was-”

“You said it.” His voice dropped even lower. Almost a hiss. “You said the words. And now they’re all texting me like I’m the problem. Like, I forced this on you. Like I’m the one who’s dangerous.”

He took another step. Close enough, you felt the heat coming off him.

“I didn’t force anything,” he whispered. “That night? You wanted me. You pulled me into that room. You kissed me back. You wrapped your legs around me. Don’t try to spin it now just because you’re scared.”

His hand finally touched you, palm flat against your stomach. Gentle. Possessive.

“This is ours,” he said. “God gave us this. You think He makes mistakes? You think He’d put a baby in you if it wasn’t meant to be?”

You tried to step back. He didn’t let you. His other hand came up to the side of your neck. Fingers curling lightly into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Keeping you there.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “Not like that. Not with our kid inside you. But you need to understand something.”

His thumb brushed your jaw. Slow. Almost tender.

“If you try to take this away from me… if you go to a clinic, if you make an appointment behind my back… I will lose it. Completely. And I won’t be quiet about it. I’ll tell everyone. Your parents. Ward. The whole fucking island. I’ll tell them you’re unstable. That you’re trying to kill my baby because you hate me. That you’re the one who’s dangerous.”

His eyes searched yours. Wet. Pleading. But the grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.

“And Ward?” He leaned in. Breath hot against your ear. “Ward already knows. I told him the second your friends did. He’s furious. Not at me. At you. He said we’re handling this the right way. He’s already talking to lawyers. Prenatal custody stuff. Visitation. Support. He can make your life hell without ever raising his voice.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again.

“But I don’t want that,” he whispered. “I want us. I want our family. I want to be good. For you. For the baby.”

His hand slid down to cup your cheek. Thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was there.

“So here’s what’s happening,” he said. Still quiet. Still calm. “Tomorrow you’re coming to the house. Ward wants to talk. He’s already got the guest house ready. Full doctor coverage. Money for whatever you need. But you’re staying there. With me. Until the baby comes. After that… we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You opened your mouth.

He pressed his thumb over your lips. Gentle. Shushing.

“Don’t say no yet,” he murmured. “Think about it. Think about what happens if you fight this. Think about your parents downstairs. They already let me in. They already know about the baby. They’re not gonna let you do something stupid.”

He leaned in. Forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you hate me. Even when you want to hurt me. I still love you. And I’m gonna love this kid so much it scares me.”

His hand stayed on your stomach. Warm. Heavy.

“But if you try to take it away… I won’t survive it. And I won’t let you walk away clean.”

He stepped back slowly. Dropped his hands.

“I’ll be outside in the truck,” he said. Voice back to normal volume. Polite again. “Whenever you’re ready to talk. No rush.”

He turned. Opened the door wider. Walked downstairs as if nothing had happened.

You heard him thank your parents again. Heard the front door close softly.

You sat on the edge of your bed. Breathing shallow. Scalp stinging. Stomach churning.

Downstairs, your mom called up quietly.

“Honey? Rafe said… he said you’re pregnant?”

The silence stretched.

You didn’t answer.

Your phone buzzed once.

Rafe: I meant what I said. I’ll wait. (5:31 pm)

Then another.

Ward: We’ll see you tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late.

The screen went dark.

You stared at it.

The house felt smaller than ever.

And the weight in your stomach, the one you hadn’t chosen, felt heavier than Rafe’s hand ever could.

…….

LIKE REBLOG AND COMMENT FOR MORE! YOUR SUPPORT KEEPS ME MOTIVATED TO WRITE!!

[keikikait]

ɴᴇᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ (ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!f!reader, (not au, both are early to mid 20s)

word count: 3.7k

summary: maybe you're just a caddie after all

warnings: ANGST, SLIGHTLY SMUTTY (18+) , kook!rafe x pogue!reader, not even friends with benefits, just fuck buddy vibes, slight power imbalance, yearning/pining, reader is down bad, rafe lowkey sucks, not proofread

a note: inspired by my most recent situationship (i'm in pain)

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

You didn’t think you were the type of girl to fuck your boss.

But, Rafe Cameron really isn’t your boss, is he? Sure, he owns The Island Club now (fully renovated with a brand-new golf course) but your manager is a different Kook, yet a sleazeball all the same, Bruce. Your pay didn’t come out of Rafe’s pocket, your checks weren’t signed by his hand, yet his presence loomed, and the guilt still ate at you, ripping you apart piece by piece.

It didn’t help that you were his personal caddie now. You were special, in a way.

It was slightly demeaning, almost cruel, but deep down a part of you liked it. You craved it. You always feel a small flicker of pride when he saunters into the bar, biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, ready for him to take the half finished drink out of your hand, excuse you from the presence of your shift lead and lead you through the airy French doors that lead to the golf course. When you’re far away enough, far from prying eyes, your fingers interlock, his hand squeezes yours, and he’s finally yours.

At least for a little bit. Rafe disappears from your grasp the second his game is done, always tipping you way too much before giving you a brief kiss, his golf bag swung over his shoulder as he makes his way back to the parking lot. Cheeks burning and head in the clouds, you return to the bar, trying to drown yourself in the drinks your customers ordered, making Cosmopolitan after Cosmopolitan, but you find your eyes always drifting back towards the main entrance, hoping he’d walk back in just to see you again.

You always wait like a puppy would for its owner, tail wagging outside the closed door, occasionally pawing at the wood, and maybe in some ways Rafe owned you, too.

But he’s yours again when you settle onto your knees in front of him, pressing yourself into the pillow that separates you from the hardwood mansion floor. He’s yours when you’re pulling his hard cock out of his slacks, hair already wound around his fist. He’s yours when he’s pulling you up from your knees and onto his bed, cum splattered on your face and in your mouth, turning you on your side so he can cuddle up behind you, wrap one hand loosely around your neck as he plants soft kisses behind your ear and takes deep inhales of your hair, now matted from his calloused palms.

And when he falls asleep, trapping you against his chest with his arms wrapped around you, you take your time to admire him. Your fingertips gently trail over his features, brushing over his lips as your heart fills with dread, always wondering if this would be the last time you see him. You knew deep down that you weren’t his. You weren’t the only girl Rafe held like this, you weren’t the only girl whose forehead he would kiss mid thrust, watching her eyes roll back with a smirk on his face. You weren’t his only girl, but you were the girl he picked in those moments, and it was enough for you.

You were enough for him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You watch from the golf cart as he sets up his tee on the 3rd hole. It’s taking longer than normal, Rafe having picked today of all days to goof off with his friends Topper and Kelce. You still remember the first time he introduced you to them, keeping it so short and brief that he never even told them your name, treating you as if you were a burden, a poisonous cloud that followed him around the green. It was too damn hot, and the server book in your apron pocket doesn’t make a very good fan. You clear your throat, shifting in the seats, feeling your thighs stick to the leather, trying to avoid the sunlight creeping towards you.

Rafe glances at you as he grabs one of his clubs, finally ready to take the shot. You smile softly, giving him a small nod, wanting to do more but knowing you couldn’t draw too much attention to yourself. Your relationship was a secret, just the way Rafe liked it. You knew it was for his reputation; it was finally starting to sprout and grow, and his investors finding out he’s fucking his Pogue caddie definitely wouldn’t help it flourish.

Rafe clears his throat as well, wiping a thin sheen of sweat off his forehead. The rest of the sun was hot as well, burning brightly against the back of his neck and down his face, almost making his neck ache. He grips his club with a white-knuckled grip, glancing your way again. His jaw is clenched, a vein already popping on the side of his neck and face red from the heat. “Hey,” He calls out, voice slightly raspier. “Pass me those towelettes.”

“You got sweaty hands, Rafe?” Topper taunts him, leaning on his club. “You nervous?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Rafe grumbles, almost ripping the package out of your hands. It startles you, your hand quickly retreating to your side. He pulls two out, tossing the package back onto the seat next to you, wiping his hands with one and his neck with the other. He moves the collar of his polo down, reaching to wipe the back of his neck.

Your eyes travel down his arms, admiring his biceps and the way the Pima cotton clings to his skin. You sit up straight, trying to catch a peek of his back muscles and his traps, eyes following his hand as he wipes his shoulders.

Your eyebrows furrow when you see it. A dark purple bruise bridging the gap between his shoulder and his neck. You lean forward slightly, trying to get a better view, but Rafe’s already pulled his polo back up, adjusting the collar, tossing the used towelettes next to the package next to you.

A bruise. He just got hurt. Maybe he got in a fight again.

You slouch back against the seat, reaching into the cupholder for your water bottle, still fanning yourself with your server book, watching as Rafe goes to take a swing. Rafe rolls his shoulders before bending his knees, lining up his shot. His hands grip the club with a tight grip, tongue running along his dry bottom lip as he stares down the ball. Topper and Kelce watch on with grins on their faces, anticipating a miss. You couldn’t blame them. Rafe’s always had a temper, and the past few games it’s been on a short handle. The club almost snaps in two as he swings it back, almost like a bat in a batter’s hand.

Smack!

The ball goes flying, soaring through the air, landing about 5 feet from the hole. Kelce is more congratulatory, patting him on the back while Topper groans, bumping his club with his feet, trying to think of a way to beat that. You bite back a smile, fingernails digging into your sweaty thighs, trying to seem casual. Normal. Professional, even.

Rafe approaches you with an outstretched hand, looking over his shoulder as Topper steps up next. You understand immediately, handing him his water bottle. You watch, adoration in your eyes, as he uncaps it and takes a swig. You shift in the seat, scooting closer to him. “Congrats. You almost got a hole in one.”

Rafe lowers the bottle when he’s finished, capping it and letting out a heavy breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You’re closer now, thigh pressed right against his, and his eyes are on you. He lets out a slight sigh when you congratulate him, his hand finding your thigh just under the hem of your shorts. His fingers press in, nails digging into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Almost.” He repeats, almost under his breath.

Your mouth dries up, your voice a whisper. “I’m proud of you.”

Rafe lets out a slight laugh, glancing at Topper swinging his club. His grip on your thigh tightens, almost like a vise. You can see his jaw clench again, the vein pulsing on the side of his head. “Proud?” He repeats with a raised brow, turning back to you. “You’re proud of me?”

Your eyes move over to Topper and Kelce, making sure they aren’t watching before meeting his gaze. “Always am.”

Rafe’s grip tightens again on your thigh, this time you feel his nails pressing hard into your skin. He glances over his shoulder briefly, his friends still distracted with their game, before he turns back to you, leaning down. “Are you really getting all sentimental on me now?” He asks you in a low murmur, hand moving higher up your thigh. “Is that why you were being all quiet?”

Your cheeks burn. He could read you like a fucking book. “I thought you didn’t want me to talk a lot around your friends. You know, it was one of your rules, or whatever.”

“You’re smart,” Rafe’s hand slips halfway underneath your shorts to rub over your inner thigh, thumb circling the skin. “So you should know when to and when not to talk.” Kelce lets out a loud curse that turns into an obnoxious laugh, turning to look at the both of you. Rafe removes his hand from you in a flash, sitting up straight. His hands go for the towelette package, looking around casually as he digs another one out. You purse your lips, scooting away from him, trying to give him some space. He was like an old stick of dynamite, sensitive to the touch and unpredictable. You both know that he had too much power over you. He was the most powerful man in all of Kildare, and you were just a measly bartender and caddie, your job held on by a thread that Rafe could easily cut.

You had to be good.

You take a swig of your water, watching him as he wipes down his neck and face. You see the bruise again, dark purple and slightly welted, marring his soft tan skin. The words tumble out of your mouth before you even think. “Did you get in a fight or something?”

Rafe’s hand freezes against his neck at your question. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before dropping the towelette back onto the seat again. He clears his throat, pulling the collar of his polo up to cover the bruise. “Why would you think that?”

“The bruise,” You say, leaning against the seat again. “I’m just wondering, Rafe.”

He clears his throat again, shifting in the seat. He looks at you for a moment before looking back forward, trying to pretend like he’s watching Kelce. “It’s nothing to worry about. Just a stupid fight I got into,” He glances back at you when you don’t respond, seeing you staring at his neck intently. “Stop looking at it,” He grumbles. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

You nod, taking another swig. You bite your lip, looking up at Topper and Kelce. Their backs are turned, and Kelce’s too busy taunting Topper and trying to throw him off his game to pay attention to either of you. Your hand reaches out, wrapping around Rafe’s fingers, his hand flat against the seat.

Rafe’s head darts up when he feels your fingers on his. He glances back at Kelce and Topper, seeing them both distracted with their game, before he looks down at your hand, your fingers now threaded with his. He lets you hold his hand for all of about ten seconds before he’s pulling it away. He crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head faintly. “You’re gonna get us caught if you keep trying to touch me.” He says under his breath.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, your hand falling back into your lap.

Rafe looks at you again, noticing the hurt look in your eyes. He lets out a sigh, running a hand over his face before glancing back at you. His face softens slightly, reaching a hand out to rub the top of your thigh. “Come on. Don’t give me those eyes,” He says, voice much softer. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” His fingers flex against your skin, almost like an apology, and you accept, smiling softly at him while nodding your head.

You glance at Topper and Kelce again, watching as Topper finally takes his swing. It doesn’t go very far, tumbling down the green into the sand. “Are you coming over tonight?”

You were being bold, but you wanted him. You needed him. You craved him.

Rafe’s fingers dig into your thigh once again, his eyes glued to Topper’s terrible swing as his club gets sucked into the sand. He doesn’t respond to your question, tongue running along the inside of his mouth while he watches Topper’s meltdown. The hand on your thigh tightens, and you can practically hear Rafe’s jaw clench. “Yeah,” He finally breathes out, head snapping back to look at you. “I’ll come over.”

Your chest feels warm, and you bite the inside of your lip to keep yourself from smiling. “Sweet.”

He was yours again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You practically leap off of the couch when you hear him knock.

You rush over to the door, smoothing out your hair before opening the door, a smile etching across your face when you see him. “Hey, handsome.”

Rafe’s hands immediately go to your waist, stepping inside the front door and kicking it shut behind him. “Hey, pretty girl,” He says, returning your smile. His hands slide down to grab two handfuls of your ass, pulling you against him. His mouth goes straight for your neck, tongue darting out to leave wet stripes on your skin. “Miss me?”

You almost moan, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Mhm. Missed you so much.”

Rafe lets out a low laugh against your neck, leaving more wet kisses against the skin, nipping lightly at the curve of your shoulder. “Yeah?” His hand comes up, fingers tangling in your hair, and he pulls your head back, making you look at him. He watches as you take panting breaths, chest rising and falling against his. “Missed me that much?” He asks with a mocking lilt in his voice.

The noise you make is utterly pathetic. “Mhm.”

Rafe’s smile only grows, fingers still pulling at your hair to keep you there, and he lets out a low chuckle. “You’re all hot and bothered already, huh?” He says, taking in how red your cheeks are. “I haven’t even done anything yet.” He leans forward and connects your mouths, hands releasing your hair and moving to cradle your face instead. He bites your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth.

Your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto him, fingers digging into his biceps. “I can’t help it. I need you.”

Rafe smirks against your mouth, tongue dipping inside to taste you with a low moan. His fingers slide down to grip the hem of your shirt, wasting no time in pulling it off over your head and tossing it onto the ground. His mouth is back on you in an instant; lips, tongue, and teeth assaulting your skin. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down your legs until they’re crumpled at your feet. “Already so wet for me,” He murmurs against your collarbone, squatting to pick you up and place you on your kitchen counter.

Your hands are already tugging at his t-shirt, whining as you try to pull it off, eyes closing momentarily, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Please don’t tease me.”

Rafe lets out another short laugh, hands going up to help you rid him of his shirt. He lets it drop onto the ground, hands going back to rest on your thighs. “I like watching you squirm, baby.” He says, hands sliding up to grip your hips and pull you to the edge of the counter, settling himself in between your legs.

You lift your head, your eyes opening.

Your heart suddenly plummets to your feet.

Rafe’s neck, chest, and shoulders are covered in, what you now realise, in your naïveté, hickies. Dark red bruises cover his perfect tan skin, mixed in with some healing green remnants of nights he never told you about.

Your head spins, your mouth going dry. “Wha-what the fuck?”

Rafe’s smirk falters when he sees the look on your face, hands pausing on your thighs. “Don’t look at me like that,” He says, furrowing his brows when he sees something new behind your eyes, and not the usual ones full of lust and admiration. “Come on. Don’t give me that look,” He tries to pull you against him, but your hands push against his chest. He lets out an exasperated sigh. “What?”

You feel disgusting. Sick. Used. You push on his chest again when he tries to cup your face.

You always knew you weren’t the only girl. You always knew he had options.

So why was it hurting so bad?

“I think you should go.” You finally say, trying to hop off of the counter.

Rafe’s lips part in surprise when you say that, hands instantly going to steady you on the counter. “Woah, woah, woah,” He says when you try to stand up. His grip on your waist and hips tightens, forcing you to stay. “Just stop for a second.” His blue eyes watch your face, and he curses inwardly when he sees your eyes filling with unshed tears.

“No,” Tears fall from your eyes, and you’re pissed, angry about how pathetic you know you look. “No.”

Rafe’s hands tighten on your waist, and he moves so he’s standing right in between your legs again, trapping you against the counter.  “Baby, stop,” He says again, voice firm. “You’re not going anywhere.” He can tell you’re trying to wiggle out of his grip, his hands not budging. His eyes are dark and hard, while yours are teary and pleading. He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “Stop crying, please.” 

His touch feels like stinging nettles against your skin, the hair on the back of your arms standing up. “No. You don’t get to call me that.”

He looks surprised at your response and at how cold your voice sounded. “What? You don’t want me calling you baby anymore?” He asks, furrowing his brows. The grip on your waist tightens even more, almost like he’s trying to keep you there by force now. His gaze darkens again when you start to cry more, letting out a deep sigh and releasing one of your hips. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your neck, trying to force you to look at him. “You’re being ridiculous. You’re not my girlfriend, baby.”

Your stomach lurches. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!” You bang your fists against his chest.

Rafe lets out a short yelp when your hands connect with his chest, his fingers automatically going to grip your wrists tightly. His face softens again when he sees your face twisted up in anger and hurt, bottom lip quivering as you try to get out of his grip. A few moments pass while he looks at you, his grip unwavering. “You’re upset,” He finally begins, eyes darting all over your tear stained face. “But you don’t have any right to be.”

You take a shaky breath, your voice thick. “I-I thought-”

“Yeah, you thought,” He cuts you off, shaking you slightly, his hands still around your wrists. “You thought you change me, is that it?” He leans in closer. “You thought you were special? That even though I told you that I don’t want a relationship, you thought I would change my mind?”

You nod, face burning with shame. Rafe was upfront since day one that you were just casual, but the way he held you and the way he kissed your forehead as you were falling asleep had you thinking he felt something, anything for you.

Rafe’s grip tightens again at your admission, his jaw setting and eyes darkening again. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, mouth opening and closing for a few seconds before he finally responds in a low murmur. “You’re an idiot,” One hand drops your wrist, coming up to tangle in the hair at the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. “A fucking idiot, baby. A beautiful fucking idiot.”

You swallow hard. “I think you should go.”

Rafe’s grip in your hair tightens when you speak, eyes boring into yours and jaw set. “You don’t really want that, do you, baby?” When you don’t respond right away, he shakes you. “Do you, baby?”

You can’t resist him. You know, deep down, hidden away, that you would do anything to keep him around a little longer.

You don’t want it to end this way.

You shake your head.

He chuckles, loosening his grip on your hair. “That’s what I thought,” He tugs on your hair again, bringing your eyes to meet his. “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?” He smirks.

“For thinking I’m special,” You hiccup slightly. “For thinking I could change you.”

Rafe’s gaze softens, just slightly, letting go of your other wrist. He brings his free hand up to brush over your bottom lip, and you instinctively kiss his thumb. “Good girl.”

His mouth slams down on yours in an almost bruising kiss, and he forces his tongue past your lips, hand moving down to grip your chin instead, forcing you to keep your mouth open as he sucks and bites on your bottom lip. You recoil at the metallic taste as he draws blood, pulling back slightly just to have Rafe tug you right back, his hand now joining the other at the back of your neck.

Blood smears across your lips when he finally pulls away, chuckling at the look on your face. He licks his lips, brushing his thumb across the blood on your plush bottom lip before bringing it to his mouth.

Every drop of blood is love you don’t get back.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

ending is actually ass lmao

★taglist: @ietss, @teenwolfbitches28, @gilwm, @momoewn, @drewsphswife, @odairtrqsh, @wearemadeofstardust0, @rafesbabygirlx, @slumnit, @evermorx89, @ivy-34, @ts1mp0ne, @drewstarkeysstuff, @kayreblogs, @rafeycameronsgf, @lulbabes, @xomarryamox, @montanajgbn, @koalalafications, @stylestarkey, @loves0phelia, @lhhlver, @katecokeed, @cwufst, @user381953, @wintergirlysstuff, @emberaurora, @wtfisastiles, @bluejeepgirl11, @artistadistrada2002, @fastlovela, @lucifersie, @marlenee3e, @koibleufish, @ashleyyy323, @rafesdoll, @dasia21, @blairsblg (italics means i couldn't tag you!)

join my obx taglist here!

[lonelyl00n]

Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: A relationship with your childhood crush is not all that it seems

Warnings: Non-con, toxic relationship, infidelity, possessive behavior, pogue!reader

I published this on Ao3 a while ago and thought "why not post on Tumblr?" Enjoy!

inspired by To Annual an Annulment from the wonderful @chinkbihh

୨୧

Your knuckles rasped softly against the wooden door. Your hair was styled into a neat ponytail, not a strand out of place. Your feet swelled as you stood still in your white Chanel pumps, matched accordingly with your overpriced cream-colored dress. In your eyes, the outfit was hideous, not an ounce of self-expression in the cloth that wrapped around you, but he didn’t care about that. He never did.

You heard a gruff voice summon you in.

His office never ceased to amaze you. The Cameron Company Headquarters was located in a fifteen-story high-rise tower at the heart of downtown Charlotte. You weren’t from here, much like he wasn’t either. You both grew up in the Outer Banks, on two opposing sides of Kildare.

The Cameron boy looked up from his desktop, his predatorial eyes were quickly replaced with his normal lovestruck gaze when he saw you.

“Baby!” He exclaimed, eagerly rising from his leather chair. “My receptionist didn’t tell me you had arrived. I should really fire her ass.” He walked over to you and placed his hand on your back as he led you over to the dining table on the other side of his large office.

The sweet smell of baked goods filled your nostrils as you reached the table. A variety of cakes, cookies, and pies were spread out across the table – all from your favorite bakery.

“This is…a lot.” You gasp.

Rafe laughs as the two of you sit. “I know you wanted a “small brunch,” but I don’t do small, you know that.” 

 Rafe Cameron was a man everybody feared and respected back in Kildare. Even you, who grew up on the poorer side of Kildare and was nearly ten years younger than the man, knew of his reputation. Despite being known as a psychotic piece of shit, he was popular with the ladies. During midsummer, he would recite a speech about drug addiction to fund his charity, but every year there were new stories about all the women he had taken in the storage closet with his eyes blown out and white powder coating his upper lip.

You were just one of the many girls who would swoon at the man when you saw him around town. However, being a geeky glasses-wearing teenager, he never gave you the time of day. There were many pretty rich girls to his disposal, it would be a miracle if you were even a thought on his mind. What was a miracle, was getting into UNC Charlotte and getting a paid internship with The Cameron Company in the spring of your freshman year.

 Your first few weeks at the company were what you had expected. You learned much about advertising and gained experience that a normal college student would kill to have. However, when you came in the second month of your internship, you were told that you were needed on the top floor.

It was then, nearly 400 miles away from home, that you finally came face to face with the infamous Cameron heir. He looked up at you with a stern expression, immediately arming any worries that ran in your head. “It’s an honor to meet you Mr. Cameron.”

“You know my name, sweetheart, why so formal?” A small smirk played on his lips as he picked up a yellow folder from his desk, looking over the content inside. “It says here that you grew up in Kildare.” Rafe paused, looking you up and down. “You used to be friends with my sister, right?

Friends was an overstatement. You had been given a scholarship to attend Kildare Academy in your freshman year of high school. Despite the last generation redefining the meaning of Pogue and Kook, not much had changed with the younger generation. You were constantly ridiculed and harassed until Wheezie Cameron offered you a spot in her clique. Growing up with a dysfunctional family made it easier to bond with her, but that didn’t take away from the fact that she was Kook royalty.

The Cameron girl ruled the school, and because of social law, you could never be a close friend to her, only given the high privilege of being a nameless figure in her posse. You were invited to all her shopping excursions, parties, and sleepovers. You couldn’t correct your seemingly irritated CEO though, so you simply nodded in agreement.

“I see you’ve made a few noticeable contributions to my advertising team. You were always a smart girl.” He mumbled the last part.

“I have an offer for you, one that you won’t regret.” Your eyes widen in excitement, but you quickly masked it before he noticed.

“What is your offer, Mr. Cameron?”

“Call me Rafe.”He tuts.

“Rafe.”

“Well, I need somebody to sponsor. Something to show the community that The Cameron Company “encourages young minds” or some shit like that, and you are the perfect fit.”

“What would this sponsorship look like, Mr.. I mean, Rafe?”

“It’s simple. I pay for your tuition, and all your pretty self has to do is let me parade you around like a little doll.” You shiver at his demeaning choice of wording.

“So, you’d be like…a sugar daddy?” You blurted out. Rafe chuckled while sipping on his sparkling water.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“Then darling, you can kiss this internship goodbye.” And so, you accepted, signing away the next four years of your life.

୨୧

True to his word, Rafe focused on every other aspect in your life so that you could focus on your education. While you were truly grateful for the opportunity, at times you couldn’t help but feel like you were losing control of your life bit by bit. First, it was housing. You had drunkenly ranted about your messy roommate to Rafe one night, and after class the next day, you found all your items gone with a singular note from Rafe on your bare mattress displaying an address.

The apartment was bigger than your childhood home. Rafe stocked the place full of everything you could possibly need. On the off chance that he didn’t have an item you desired there, he left you his black card which he strongly recommended you use.

Especially after all the clothes you brought with you mysteriously disappeared from your closet and dresser after a heated conversation between the two of you after a visit the country club.

You felt uncomfortable in the preppy Ralph Lauren outfit Rafe had given you to wear, making all the other rich women glare daggers at you for being with their dream man. After voicing your discomfort, he scurintized your usual style, and by the next day, you had no clothes of your own.

A year into your arrangement, Rafe took you to some fancy Italian restaurant that you had to reserve months in advance to get a table. It was there that he asked you to officially be his girl.

Your dynamic switched fast.

Before, Rafe would stay in his own apartment whenever he visited Charlotte. Now, he upgraded your fancy studio apartment near your university to a ritzy penthouse near his company. Despite the longer commute, you were still able to attend normal college events, which included parties. One of your friends that you made in freshman year invited you to Alpha Sigma Delta’s annual Halloween party.

You knew Rafe would never let you go if you asked, but you also knew that he was back in the Outer Bank for the weekend, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

After a long night of grinding bodies, lingerie as costumes, smoke machines, and loud techno, you made it to the parking garage of you and Rafe’s building. Pulling into your reserved spot, you were startled the see the buzz cut blonde standing beside his parked car, arms crossed with his golf bag leaned against his Porsche.

Damn it, how could you forget about your Life360?

You immediately put the car in park and rush out to him.

“Rafe it isn’t what it looks like-”

“Isn’t what it looks like?” He fumed, “What it looks like is that my girlfriend lied to me so that she could go to some frat party in some slutty costume.”

His hand reached out to tug on your flimsy crop top. “What are you supposed to be anyway, some sort of hooker mouse?” He chuckled darkly, “Probably fucked every guy there, right, baby?”

“No, Rafe, I would never-“

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear your voice for the rest of the night, got it?” You meekly nodded. You awkwardly walked behind Rafe on the journey up to the penthouse. You waited for Rafe to come into the bedroom that night, but he never did.

୨୧

The sound of moaning woke you up the next morning. You rubbed your eyes and trudged into the living room, only to be met with a heartbreaking sight.

Some blonde was on her knees in front of him, her head bobbing up and down. Rafe leaned his head back in pleasure, eyes closed before regaining his senses and harshly tugging the girl closer to his shaft. It was only then that his gaze met your teary ones. He took in your shocked and smirked. “Enjoying the show, baby?”

You shouldn’t have been surprised. You knew what you were getting into when you started dating Kildare’s most notorious playboy. He said he changed. He promised you weren’t just one of his many situationships. One of his many fucks. 

“Does this make you jealous, baby? Does it make you want to cry?” He taunted you as he guided the girl’s mouth off him and guided her body on top of his, positioning himself into her slowly, his eyes fixated on you as he rutted up into her. Their euphoric moans filled the room. “Fuck, she feels so good, baby. I bet this is what you felt like last night to those college boys.”

Finally, finding the strength in your body, you scoff at him before running out the door, tears never stopping.

୨୧

It occurred to you an hour later that you had nowhere else to go. Sure, you could do the six and a half drive back home, but you had class on Monday, and you couldn’t miss it. For now, you took refuge in a fellow intern’s apartment that she thankfully didn’t share with anyone. When you called her, voice quivering about what had just conspired, she didn’t hesitate to open her home to you.

“Honestly, that man has freaked me out ever since he started taking an interest in you. He literally fired half of the male interns because he thought they were flirting with you. I’m glad he finally showed you his true colors. You are worth so much more than any money that man could give you.”

She gave you the courage you needed.

Later that day, you sent Rafe a message: “I’m done.”

Simple and concise — except it wasn’t. He immediately began calling, texting, leaving voice messages that grew unpleasant over time.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

“If you leave me I’ll die. I can’t live without you.” 

“This is starting to piss me off, answer the fucking phone.”

“I fucking own your life, I own you.”

“I’ll wring your fucking throat, Bitch! Answer your goddamn phone, now!”

Flowers began to appear at your colleague’s door every day. Letters were left on your Jeep expressing the same disturbing threats as the voicemails. Everywhere you went in town, you felt eyes burning into you.

Then things escalated. Days later, you received an E-mail from your financial aid office.

We regret to inform you that one of your scholarships has been removed from your account, you now owe a balance of $12,000. If you would like to enroll in classes next semester, please pay your remaining debt.

After contemplating back in forth in your head, you did the one thing your brain was telling you not to do. You texted Rafe.

Which leads you to where you are currently, taking a bite of a scone while his blue orbs analyzed your every move.

“Umm, so I wanted to talk about what happened last week.” You began.

Rafe interrupted before you could continue, “I’m so sorry about that baby, I don’t know what came over me that day. I know you would never betray me, but the thought of those undeserving guys looking at your body made me lose it. I’ll do better I promise.” His eyes were wet as he reached out to rub your free hand.

His “apology” made you want to scuff. This is what you get after he cheated on you and harassed you for a week.

“Your plan of doing better is by cutting my scholarship?”

Rafe shrugged, “You really don’t need a degree anyway, especially after what happened. I thought about it and I realized, nothing like this would’ve happened if you didn’t have those school friends dragging you places, tempting you. Staying devoted to me is the only thing you need to do.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, “Are you hearing yourself right now? I’m not your fucking housewife Rafe, this isn’t the 1950s!”

His grip on your hand became tighter as tears raced down his pathetic face. “Baby, you’re not thinking straight. We can talk about this. It’s just a rough patch but we’ll fight our way through it. Even couples as good as us have problems sometimes.” He sniffed.

“Rafe, I’m not getting back together with you. Our relationship isn’t healthy. Ending my housing lease without my knowledge, throwing out my clothes and telling me what to wear like I’m some Barbie doll, accusing me of cheating then doing it right in front of me, and fucking stalking me. Does that seem healthy to you?”

The large office felt tiny as silence suffocated the room.

Then a chuckle came from deep within his chest.

“So, I’m toxic?” He got up and started pacing around the room, “Baby you don’t know how toxic I can be. Toxic would’ve been taking you on my desk that first day you walked into my company with that tiny pencil skirt on. Toxic would’ve been indulging in your little fantasies when you would eye-fuck me when you were apart of Wheezie’s brainless crew. Toxic would’ve been chaining you up in the basement of Tanny Hill and pumping you until your stomach was nice and round the second I found out you were leaving Kildare– leaving the life I’d been planning for us when you turned eighteen. But no, I kept quiet, let you have your freedom and shit.” He glared at you.

“I was patient, played the long game until I knew you would be ready to be the girl I wanted you to be, and what do I get? An ungrateful little brat.”

 He started a rampage around the room, throwing papers, breaking glass, turning the once pristine office into a walking hazard.

You jumped up from your chair, slowly walking towards the crazed man you once spent nights dreaming of. “Rafe, please stop! I don’t want your money, you don’t have to do anything for me anymore. I just want to stop being your girlfriend. We’re not compatible.”

You screamed and ducked as a ceramic mug flew past your head, shattering on the wall behind you. “I swear, sweetheart, if you say were not compatible one more fucking time, I won’t miss.” He threatened.

His next words caused your blood to run cold.

“It would be a real shame if your family lost their home because they hadn’t been paying the property tax their daughter’s caring boyfriend had been covering. It would be a shame if your little sister found herself in the wrong place one night after her late-night shifts, girls her age sell well. And it would truly be a shame if someone ratted to your father that your mother is planning to run away from him and charge him with domestic abuse. It’s a crazy world out there, sweetheart. You’ve been lucky to have me on your side. Don’t make a stupid decision.”

 You cried harder as he placed a silver necklace with the letter “R” around your neck.

“Anyways,” He switched back to his cheerful voice that he reserved only for you, his lovesick eyes wide and piercing, “I was thinking, it’s about time we made things official. I found this venue off the coastline. It would be perfect for our engagement party.”

[simpforboys]

thinking about perv!bsf!rafe when you’re sleeping…

(inspired by this loosely)

you were laying facing him, having gone to bed with you snuggling into the skin of his naked, muscular back.

he wakes up before you, as always. his body is stiff from sleeping in the same position all night long.

he gently untangles his limbs from yours, shifting his body to face you.

and oh, god.

when your right breast has fallen out of the thin fabric of the silk tank top Rafe had boughten you, your nipple hard due to being exposed.

he really had no choice. you were his sweet best friend, the one girl who made his dick rock hard within the matter of two seconds.

he shifts his body down a little bit, running the pad of his thumb directly over the hard bud, looking up to see if you were awake.

when he saw you were still fast asleep, his mind racing with thoughts, his cock twitching in his boxers.

he ducked his head down, flicking his pink tongue along the bud, almost moaning from the taste of finally getting some part of your gorgeous body.

pretty blue eyes flickered back up to your face, seeing your eyes still shut, mouth open just a little bit.

his chest was warm, stomach achy. he shouldn’t really be doing this to his best friend, but you hadn’t slept with him in all those years of friendship.

his lips gently enclosed around your nipple, eyes almost rolling back from how hot he was feeling.

he hadn’t even noticed his right hand drifted down to his dick, gently palming himself in his boxers as he sucked your hard peak.

your body shifted slightly, laying more on your back as you continued to sleep, unaware your best friend was tonguing your exposed flesh.

he was already close and he had only just started. his tip was leaking pre cum all over his navy blue boxers, hand quickly stroking himself as he gazed up at your pretty face.

his breathing was shaky, almost terrified what would happen if you were to wake up, how he would explain this to you.

but when your back unconsciously arched up more into his mouth, his cock twitched as his body trembled. he spurted hot semen into his boxers, moaning softly around your peak.

reluctantly, he pulled away, staring at your nipple that was slick with his saliva. and fuck, he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

he slipped out of his king bed and walked into the bathroom to clean himself up. by the time he came back out, you were stretching and rubbing your sleepy eyes.

“good mornin’, rae.”

“g’morning, sweet girl.”

[mcybank]

Good Intentions (1) — Rafe Cameron

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader, topper thornton x fem!reader

summary — rafe cameron has never wanted something he couldn’t take. it’s not his fault topper’s girlfriend turns out to be one thing he can’t stop thinking about.

word count — 18.1k (i know!!!!)

warnings — not proofread so sorry;; fem!reader, ooc topper, emotional infidelity, physical cheating, complicated love triangle (best friend’s girlfriend), relationship conflicts, alcohol use, drug use (cocaine), physical violence, description of blood and injuries, emotional manipulation through emotional vulnerability, power imbalance, sexual tension, making out/kissing, very impaired judgement due to intoxication, aggressive-ish behavior, explicit sexual tension, infidelity/cheating, emotional cheating, ambiguous consent due to intoxication and emotional state, power imbalance, controlling parents, possessive behavior, manipulation, guilt and shame due to intimacy, objectifying internal monologue, imagination of reader in explicit sexual scenarios, sexual fixation on reader, reader mentioned wearing dresses, makeup, embodying “perfect girlfriend” role. lmk if i missed any!!

Topper had never quite gone against the grain most kids on Figure Eight did—sneaking coke at Midsummers, fucking in someone’s parents’ beds during charity galas, stealing boats just to see if they could—once in a while. His entire being relied on his foundation of good breeding and the optimism that came from being a part of the 1%. He had never needed anything. The best way Rafe could describe him was by saying he was a golden retriever in human form. He was loyal, eager to please, and just smart enough to know he wasn’t the smartest person in any given room, and that made him try harder at everything else. Being kind. Being decent. Being exactly what his mother had raised him to be. 

Which was why—Rafe supposed—Topper had gotten the girl. 

You were laughing at something Kelce said. Rafe hadn’t been listening, too busy tracking the way the June sun caught your hair, turning colours that probably had names that sounded like they belonged on paint chips. They were sprawled across the Thorntons’ perfectly manicured lawn like they were in some Ralph Lauren ad. Topper, Kelce, Ruthie, you, and Rafe. He’d shown up because Topper had texted him and what else was he supposed to do? Say no? Admit he’d rather be literally anywhere else than watching his best friend play house with his girlfriend of two years? Sitting at Tannyhill waiting for Ward to notice him long enough to be disappointed? At least here he could pretend he had friends; had a place; had something resembling a normal fucking life. 

But lately he couldn't stop cataloging the small things. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking; it was always the left side. How you always brought those homemade cookies to parties, the ones you always wrapped in the same blue cloth each time. The kind that actually tasted like they were baked in a home oven rather than in a commercial kitchen that used bleached flour and measured everything with no real meaning behind it. You used real butter and too much vanilla, and he supposed that was the imperfection that came from someone who actually gave a fuck. The little gold anklet you wore that caught the light when you moved. Stupid things. Things that shouldn't matter. Things he noticed anyway and filed them away into what started as a small nook in his brain and turned to an overpowering compartment. 

Two years. Christ.

“—and I told my Dad there’s no one behind me, what does it matter?”

“It matters because you could hit someone,” Ruthie said, barely looking up from her phone.

“I passed my driver’s test—”

“Then why are we talking about this?” Ruthie’s thumb moved across her screen, nails clicking. She was always bored, yet she always showed up. How much is there to do here?

Topper laughed, genuine, and shifted so you could lean back against his chest. You fit there like you’d measured for the space. His arms came around your waist, casual and propriety, the way someone would hold something they knew was theirs. Something nobody else would try to take. 

Rafe took a pull from his beer. It was warm and disgusting now. He was nursing the drink slowly given that Kelce’s parents were home. If he stopped focusing on drinking slowly, he’d be on his fifth by this point because Rafe had never learned moderation.

“Rafe, back me up,” Kelce said. “You’ve seen me drive—”

“You drive like shit,” Rafe said, and there was the stupid, perpetual edge in his voice he couldn’t smooth out. It always made the people around him shift uncomfortably and that reminded him why Ward always kept him at arm’s length. 

“Wait, what?”

Rafe shrugged. “You drive like shit,” he repeated, then picked at the label on his beer bottle, watching it tear in damp strips. “You almost hit a mailbox on Sea Breeze last week.”

“The mailbox was in my blind spot—”

“The stationary mailbox? The mailbox that couldn’t move was in your blind spot?”

You, Topper’s girlfriend—god, even in his head he couldn’t call you by your name, like saying it would make this whole thing more real—made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. It was soft and musical and Rafe briefly felt something crawl up his throat that was most likely disgust at the way he’d begun thinking. Your head was tipped back against Topper’s shoulder, face turned toward the sun. You looked like you were exactly where you wanted to be.

You probably were.

“I’m a great driver,” he said, but he was grinning now, playing it up. “You’re all just jealous of my Jeep.”

“We all have Jeeps,” Ruthie said, raising a brow.

“Yeah, but mine’s nicer.”

“It’s literally the same car,” Ruthie said, voice lowering towards the end like she couldn’t be bothered to argue. 

From inside the house, Mrs. Thornton appeared at the French doors, waving with enthusiasm Rafe was sure he’d perfected from Junior League training. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything. “Lunch is ready, kids! Hope you’re hungry—I made way too much pasta salad.”

“You’re a saint, Mrs. T,” Kelce called back.

“Oh, stop,” she said, but looked pleased. Her eyes lingered on you and Topper, together, appropriate, and exactly what a mother would want for her son. The look on her face was satisfaction. Pride, even. 

Rafe had seen that look before. On Rose’s face when Sarah did something worth bragging about at the club. On Ward’s face when he talked about Topper getting into Chapel Hill, about how good a kid he was, how he had his head on straight. Never on Ward’s face when he talked about Rafe. 

"Come on," Topper said, standing and pulling you up with him in one smooth motion. You stumbled slightly—the grass was uneven or maybe you'd been sitting too long—and he steadied you with a hand at your waist. He was laughing, and so were you, and your fingers were tangled together like they were stitched together. "Careful."

"I'm fine," you said, but you were smiling, and your fingers were still linked with his.

Rafe watched the stumble, the catch, the laugh. He watched the way Topper looked at you like steadying you was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd do it forever if you needed him to. And you looked up at Topper with this expression Rafe couldn't quite name. So unguarded and soft like this trust didn’t have to be earned was so uncomplicated, and the thought of earning it had never even occurred to you.

What the fuck would that be like? To look at someone and just—trust them? To not have to calculate every word, every move, every expression to make sure you didn't give too much away? For someone to look at Rafe, of all people, and feel that way?

Rafe stood too, brushed grass off his shorts. His hands were shaking slightly—not from the beer, barely half-finished—but from something else. Something that felt too much like anger but wasn't. Couldn't be. What did he have to be angry about? Topper was his best friend. You were Topper's girlfriend. This was how it was supposed to be.

You and Topper walked together, shoulders touching, your sundress—pink today, always some shade of soft—swishing around your knees. Your little gold anklet caught in the light. You looked like something out of a catalog selling a lifestyle Rafe’s family already had but somehow always felt a little out of reach. He was twenty and only just realizing that—truly—some things couldn’t be purchased in the same way Ward bought boats and houses and buildings. Some things you had to deserve. 

“You good?” Topper said, dropping back to walk beside Rafe.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, man. You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Topper laughed shortly. “No, you’re always talking shit. Quiet’s different.” His brows furrowed, concerned and probably genuine. Girls like you made boys like Topper genuine, made sure he didn’t want to be anything other than what he appeared to be. “Everything good with Ward?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine.”

“Cool. Cool. Just—you know you can always talk about stuff, right? If you need to.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Topper chuckled, shaking his head too. He had lost that quality of getting defensive and irritated too quickly when he started dating you. “Don’t know. But I mean it, yeah?” 

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” Topper clapped his shoulder, reassured, and jogged ahead to catch up with you. You’d stopped to wait for him, leaning against the doorframe, and when he reached you, you smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile you gave everyone else, it seemed more private. Just for him. For Topper. Rafe filed that away without meaning to, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when it was real.. 

Inside, Mrs. Thornton had set out enough food for thrice their number. Pasta salad, finger sandwiches and normal-sized sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies that looked homemade. The kind of spread that said she cared and wanted them to feel welcome and that this was a home where people were fed and happy and safe.

They loaded their plates and settled around the Thorntons’ dining room table. Real plates, cloth napkins, and a lunch with structure. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rose tried, sometimes. She’d set out cheese boards when Ward had important colleagues over, she arranged things the way magazines told her to. But Ward was always working. Sarah was always out. Wheezie was always watching TV in her room with the door closed. Rafe was usually too high to sit through a meal, or too angry, or just too something. The Camerons ate in shifts, quietly, or not at all.

“So,” Mrs. Thornton said, perching on the edge of the chair with her own plate, “what are you kids up to this summer? Besides laying around my backyard like a bunch of lazy seals.”

“Mom,” Topper said.

“What? You are.”

“Not much,” Kelce said seriously. “It’s important we don’t get burned out too early.”

“Burnt out of what?” Ruthie asked.

“Of… summer. Having fun.” 

“You can’t get burnt out of summer. It’s not a race—”

“Everything’s a race—”

Rafe tuned them out. He was watching you, sitting across from him, carefully spreading mayo on your sandwich. You had this way of doing things, and even making a sandwich required your complete attention. Or maybe Rafe was just imagining things? Your nails were painted the same pink as your dress. You wore a little gold necklace with your initial on it; it was delicate enough that Rafe hadn’t noticed until now. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate.

"What about you, sweetheart?" Mrs. Thornton asked, and it took Rafe a second to realize she was talking to you. "Any fun plans?"

"Oh, just the usual. Volunteering at the library on Tuesdays. Hanging out with friends. There's that charity thing at the club next week—"

"The children's hospital benefit," Mrs. Thornton said, nodding. "Your mother mentioned you're on the planning committee."

"Just helping where I can."

"She's being modest," Topper said, squeezing her hand where it rested on the table. "She basically organized the whole thing."

"I didn't—there's a whole committee—" Rafe watched the fluster creep into your cheeks. 

"You made all those decorations yourself," Topper insisted. He looked at his mother and said, "She stayed up until like 2 AM cutting out paper flowers."

"They're for a good cause," you said, and there was something in your voice that sounded firm. Like you needed them to know you weren’t doing it for praise and that the doing itself was enough. 

Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. It was good. Everything in this house was good. That was the problem.

"That's wonderful, honey," Mrs. Thornton said warmly. "We need more young people who actually care about giving back. Don't we, Topper?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Rafe, what about you? Are you helping with the benefit?"

Every eye at the table turned to him. He swallowed his bite of sandwich and took his time with it, feeling the bread stick to his throat. "Haven't really thought about it."

"You should come," you said, offering. Your eyes met his across the table and Rafe’s gaze involuntarily froze on you. Something uncomfortable and scalding set in his ribs. "We could use the help. It's next Saturday, six to nine."

"I might be busy."

"Doing what?" Kelce asked, taking a bite of his pasta salad. 

"Stuff."

"Stuff," Ruthie repeated flatly, one eyebrow raised.

"Come on, man," Topper said. "It'll be fun. Open bar for the parents, which means nobody's paying attention to what we're doing—"

"It's for charity," you said, shrugging slightly like you weren’t sure if it was your place or not.

"It can be for charity and fun. Multitasking." Topper grinned slightly, shameless, and you rolled your eyes but you were smiling. You were always fucking smiling.

Rafe watched. The easy back-and-forth, the way you’d developed your own rhythm after two years together. The way you let Topper be annoying and he let her be serious and somehow it worked. Somehow you’d figured out how to be two people who actually liked each other.

"I'll think about it," Rafe said, even though he wouldn't.

"That's a yes," Kelce decided.

"That's a 'I'll think about it.'"

"On Figure Eight, 'I'll think about it' means yes. It's like when your mom says 'we'll see'—also yes."

"Sometimes 'we'll see' means no," you said quietly.

"Only if you've been bad," Mrs. Thornton said, reaching over and patting your hand gently. "Which I'm sure you never were."

You smiled down at your plate. "I had my moments."

Rafe tried to imagine you having ‘moments.’ He couldn't quite picture it. You seemed like the kind of kid who'd colored inside the lines and done your homework without being asked and never talked back. The kind teachers loved, parents bragged about, boys brought home to meet their families.

You were the kind of girl Ward would approve of.

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Rafe shoved it away, took another bite of sandwich. Fuck. He knew that Ward would approve, because when Ward had seen you with Topper, he’d said to Rafe, “Now that’s a nice girl. Why can’t you find someone like that?

They ate and talked, but it was mostly Kelce and Ruthie bickering, you and Topper sharing food off each other's plates like you’d been married for twenty years, Mrs. Thornton interjecting with questions and comments that kept the conversation moving. It was painfully normal and painfully nice.

Rafe's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it under the table: Barry asking where he was, if he was coming by today. Three texts, actually, each more impatient than the last. 

He should go. Should make an excuse and get out of here and go pick up what he needed to take the edge off this feeling, this crawling, itching feeling that said something was wrong, that he was in the wrong place, that everyone here was playing a game where they knew how to navigate and he didn’t.

But Topper was laughing at something you had said, and Mrs. Thornton was offering seconds, and Kelce was stealing a cookie before he'd finished his sandwich, and for a second—just a second—Rafe let himself imagine this was his life. That he was the one with the uncomplicated girlfriend and the mother who gave a shit and the kind of problems that could be solved by showing up to a charity event.

The phone buzzed in his hand again. bro?? He locked it and pushed it into his pocket. 

"Rafe?" you said. He realized you’d asked him something—were still asking him something—and everyone was sitting around him waiting for his response again. 

He swallowed nothing. "What?"

"I asked if you wanted more pasta salad. You've barely eaten."

You were looking at him with those eyes he’d memorised, head tilted slightly, concerned in that soft way you had. Not pitying—you were too careful for that—just genuinely wondering if he was okay. Like you cared and like you actually gave a shit whether or not he ate lunch.

"I'm good," he said.

"You sure? Mrs. Thornton made a lot—"

"I said I'm good. Stop asking.” 

It came out harsher than he’d meant. You blinked, drew back just half an inch, and Topper’s arm came around your shoulders automatically, protective like Rafe was a predator and you were his next meal. 

“Dude,” Topper said.

“What?”

“She’s just trying to be nice.”

“I know.” His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. “I’m good. That’s all I said.”

The table went silent. Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat, Ruthie studied her phone, and Kelce suddenly found his sandwich fascinating. You were looking at him from the corner of your eye with what he assumed was hurt or concern. Your hand moved to your necklace and twirled the initial around once, then back around twice. 

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at you. “Sorry,” he said, eyes meeting yours, almost shamefully. “Didn’t mean to—sorry.”

Your eyes widened slightly. Maybe you were surprised he’d apologized at all. He didn’t blame you. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, gently, which somehow made him feel worse. Were you that forgiving with Topper, too? Would you forgive Rafe that quickly if you were his, because he knew he’d fuck up a lot. “I didn’t mean to push.” 

“You weren’t.”

𖦹

Rafe almost didn’t go. He had his truck pointed towards Barry’s and everything with his cash in pocket and the familiar itch under his skin that said he needed something to take the edge off Ward’s recent disappointment (this morning delivered over breakfast like a side of shitty cold eggs  (“I assume you’re not going to the L/N’s charity event tonight”)) But then he’d driven past the country club on his way and seen the parking lot filling up with cars that cost more than people’s houses (Range Rovers, Mercedes, that asshole Jenkins’s new Porsche) and something in him—maybe it was boredom, maybe spite, or just the kind of restless energy that came from doing too much coke the night before and not enough today—made him turn in. 

He told himself it was to prove Ward wrong. And also because Topper had texted him three times, ever the supportive boyfriend. Or because he had nothing better to do on a Saturday night in June when the whole island felt like it was suffocating under humidity.

He did not tell himself it had anything to do with you. 

The country club itself looked like someone had thrown up pastels all over it. Pink and yellow streamers twisted around the columns, balloons clustered by the entrance in a way that was almost scary, and those fucking paper flowers—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—strung up everywhere, the ones Topper had mentioned you stayed up until 2 AM making, which Rafe had filed away without meaning to because apparently his brain was keeping track of shit like that now. 

He was adjusting his shirt—had put on something with buttons for once, though he’d left the top two undone because he wasn’t a complete fucking sellout—when he saw you. 

You were outside the main entrance with a clipboard, which was so perfectly on-brand it almost made him laugh. Your hair was pulled back in something already falling apart, little pieces sticking to your neck in the heat. You wore a lavender dress that hit just above your knee and clung in ways that made Rafe’s mouth go dry. It was fitted enough that he could see the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and the line of your legs. 

You were talking to two guys in catering uniforms, gesturing with your free hand—sharp and short moments that weren’t like you—and even from across the parking lot Rafe could see you were stressed. He could see it in the set of your shoulders and the way you kept pushing those loose pieces of hair out of your face and the rigid way you were holding the clipboard. 

You looked like you could use a drink. Or a Xanax. Or someone to tell you it was fine. Or maybe just someone who could fuck the tension out of you until you remembered how to breathe normally. 

Not that he was volunteering. His hand tightened on the steering wheel. Except he was apparently walking toward you instead of toward Barry’s, so maybe he was.

“—by five-thirty at least,” you were saying as he got closer, voice strained but still disgustingly polite. “That’s what we were told. So I’m not sure why—”

One of the catering guys—older, maybe forty, with a mustache—cut you off with something that Rafe didn’t catch but could guess from the gesture; you were just a kid to him with a shit-ton of money playing event planner (in other words: absolutely nothing to take seriously). 

“I understand that,” you said, and there was a barely perceptible edge to your pageant voice now. “But we have a hundred-and-fifty people arriving in forty-five minutes and we don’t have—” You stopped, closed your eyes briefly, took a breath, and when you opened them you looked steadier, as though you’d shoved everything messy into whatever box you kept it in. 

Rafe felt something uncomfortable watching you pull yourself together in real time. 

“Okay. Can you at least tell me when—”

“Problem?” Rafe said.

You turned, surprised. You blinked at him like you couldn’t quite place why he was there, which was fair because he wasn’t supposed to be there. 

“Rafe,” you said, and he liked the way his name sounded in your voice. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“I wasn’t, either,” he said honestly, and your mouth twitched like you found it funny. He looked at the catering guys, who were both studiously avoiding eye contact now that someone else was there. “You having problems?”

“No, there’s just been a miscommunication about the time.”

“So, yes.”

“Rafe—” you said, slightly flustered at his presence and the situation. 

“What’s the problem?” The catering guys looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

“No problem, man,” one of them said. “We’re just waiting on—”

“Half the equipment is missing,” you cut in, and yeah, there was definitely an edge now. You were pissed now. Trying very hard not to show it, but pissed. “The tables are wrong, the setup’s behind schedule, and nobody mentioned it until thirty minutes ago.”

“So fix it.” Rafe shrugged.

You looked at him. “I’m trying to fix it.”

“Try harder.”

The catering guys looked between them like they were watching a tennis match. You opened your mouth—to tell him to fuck off, maybe, which was very unlikely but would’ve been incredibly hot—then closed it. Then looked down at your clipboard, back at the guys, then Rafe.

“Can you give us a minute?” The catering guys couldn’t leave fast enough.

When they were gone, you turned to Rafe fully and stepped closer, close enough to smell your floral perfume that probably cost more than his expensive coke habit, he got a better look at you up close. The dress was even better at this distance; thin straps, sweetheart neckline, the kind of thing that was technically modest but didn't feel that way when you were looking at it. Or when he was looking at it. At you. 

You weren't wearing much makeup, just enough to look polished, and there was a small stain on the hem of the dress that you probably didn't know about yet. It was probably coffee or those tiny chocolates they served at these things. You’d be horrified if you noticed, so Rafe kept the stain to himself. You looked stressed and like you'd been running around in heels for too long, which you had, judging by the way you kept shifting your weight.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

"You invited me."

"That—I didn't think you'd actually come. You said you’d think about it.”

“Thought about it,” he said. “Decided to show. Here I am.”

“Why?” Your eyebrows knitted together, like you were sure he had an ulterior motive like ransacking the entire place as soon as guests began walking in.

"Guess I'm full of surprises." He pulled out his cigarettes, offered you one out of habit more than any expectation. You shook your head, predictably. He shrugged. "So what's actually wrong?"

"I just told you—"

"What's the actual problem?"

You stared at him for a second, and Rafe watched you recalculate. Decide whether to bother explaining or just tell him to leave. He could see it happening behind your eyes, the cost-benefit analysis, the weighing of options.

"The DJ canceled," you said finally. "Last minute. And the tables they sent are the wrong size, which means we have to completely rearrange the layout, which means the floor plan I spent three weeks on is useless, and everything else has to shift, and the photographer's going to be here in thirty minutes and we're supposed to start in forty-five and I still have to check on the auction setup and make sure the kitchen has everything they need and—" You stopped, pressed your fingers to your temple. "Sorry. You don't care about any of this."

"Not really,," Rafe agreed. "But this seems like it'd be bad for the sick kids or whatever."

You almost smiled at that. Almost. "Very compassionate."

"I try." He lit his cigarette, took a drag, buying him a second to think. "You got a backup DJ?"

"My phone and a speaker from 2015."

"That'll work."

"It won't—"

"Nobody's here for the music. They're here for the open bar and the tax write-off. You could play the same song all night as long as the drinks keep coming and nobody would notice."

"That's very sad."

"Doesn't make it wrong."

You looked at him like you were trying to figure out if he was fucking with you or actually trying to help. Rafe wasn't entirely sure himself. "The tables—"

"I'll move them."

"You don't have to—"

"Jesus,” he breathed out, letting some annoyance creep in because you were exhausting and Rafe couldn’t keep playing at this for much longer. This would’ve been his one good deed of the year. “You want help or not?"

That made you stop. Blink. "You're offering to help."

"Don't make it weird."

"It's already weird. You hate events like this. You’ve said that.”

Had he? Yeah. Probably. At the club, or at one of Top’s things, or somewhere else where you’d been in earshot and he’d been running his mouth. 

Well, you’d been listening. Something about that—about you paying attention to what he said, filing it away the way he filed away everything about you—made his chest feel tight. 

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." He took another drag, watched you process this. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Or keep going crazy. Your call."

You bit your lip—nervous habit, probably, or maybe just the lip gloss was bothering you—and Rafe's eyes caught on it. On your mouth. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip and the little indent it left when you released it. He wondered if you did that during sex. If Topper had ever noticed. If—

Stop.

"Okay," you said, and Rafe refocused, eyebrows moving slightly up. "Okay. The tables need to go along the back wall, but first we have to move everything that's already there, and then rearrange the chairs, and—"

"Got it."

"I didn't finish—"

"Don't need you to. Tables go there, chairs go somewhere else, I can figure it out."

"Are you always this—"

"Helpful? Yeah,” he said sarcastically.

You shook your head, but you were almost smiling again, and Rafe decided that was worth more than whatever he would've gotten from Barry anyway. He didn’t feel completely useless. "Come on. I'll show you."

He followed you inside, where the situation was exactly as much of a shitshow as you'd described. Tables stacked wrong, chairs everywhere, decorations half-hung. The guys who were supposed to be setting up looked like they'd collectively given up on life. Rafe could relate.

"Okay," you said, clipboard up, and Rafe noticed your nails were painted the same color as your dress. Coordinated. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate and probably planned three weeks in advance. "So we need to—"

"I got it," Rafe said, because you were about to go into a detailed explanation complete with diagrams and he could see the basic problem from here. Tables needed to go there, chairs were in the way, move the chairs, move the tables. Easy.

He grabbed a stack of chairs. Started hauling them to the side.

They were heavier than they looked—real wood, not the cheap plastic shit—and by the third trip he'd worked up a sweat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Could feel you watching him from across the room where you were directing someone else, and when he glanced over he caught your eyes on him. Specifically, his arms, on the way his biceps flexed under his shirt sleeves as he carried the chairs. You looked away quickly when you realized he’d caught you, face flushing.

Interesting.

Rafe smiled to himself, guilty but satisfied, and moved another stack of chairs. Then another. Fell into a rhythm of lifting, carrying, setting down, repeat. Simple. Clear.

"You're really good at that," you said from somewhere behind him. 

He turned. You were closer than he'd expected, making him straighten his back too quickly.

"At moving chairs?" Rafe asked, setting them down because holding them with you being this close felt awkward. 

"At just doing things." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It immediately fell back out. "I would've spent twenty minutes thinking about how to move them.”

"Sometimes you just gotta move the fucking chairs." Rafe said simply.

You laughed, surprised.

You were standing close enough now that Rafe could see the mascara was slightly smudged under your left eye. Could see a small scar on your collarbone he'd never noticed before. Maybe from childhood. 

You were watching him too, your eyes tracking over his face, his shoulders, down to where his shirt was sticking to his chest.

"You got something—" He reached out without thinking, thumb brushing under your eye where the mascara had smudged.

You went very still. "What are you—"

"Mascara. Hold still." He wiped it away, the pad of his thumb against your skin, and felt you inhale sharply. Your eyes were locked on his, pupils dilating, and for a second neither of you moved. He was close enough to see the texture of your lip gloss and count your eyelashes if he wanted to. Close enough to kiss you. 

Then you stepped back. "Thanks."

"Mhm."

You touched your face where his thumb had been unconsciously, your hands slightly shaking. 

"I should—" You gestured vaguely toward the rest of the room. "There's still so much to—"

"Go. I got this."

You hesitated, then nodded and disappeared to handle something else. Rafe stood there for a second, thumb tingling where he'd touched your face, then went back to moving chairs because that was easier than thinking about why he'd touched you in the first place.

Tables next. Heavier, but he'd rather work alone than try to coordinate with the setup guys who all looked like they'd never seen a table before. He got the first one moved, then the second, then—

"Jesus, Cameron, you trying to give yourself a hernia?"

Kelce's voice. Rafe looked up to see him standing in the doorway with Ruthie, both of them dressed like they were here for the event rather than the setup.

"Should you be doing this?" Kelce asked, gesturing at the tables. “Like actually. Isn’t this what we pay people for?”

"They were being useless,” Rafe said. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

"Yeah, usually not you." Kelce looked genuinely confused now.

"Fuck off."

"No, seriously." Ruthie came closer, studying him like he was a science experiment. "Where's Rafe? What'd you do with him?"

"I can help without it being a whole thing—"

"It's definitely a thing," Kelce said, grinning. "You hate events like this."

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." Rafe moved another one into place, wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. "You gonna stand there all day or help?"

"I’m here for moral support," Ruthie said, examining her nails. 

"Useless, got it."

But Kelce did grab one end of the next table, and together they got the rest moved in half the time. Ruthie mostly watched from a chair she'd pulled over, occasionally offering commentary that ranged from unhelpful to actively detrimental, but whatever. At least it was entertaining.

And Rafe could keep half an eye on you as you moved through the space, fixing things, directing people, climbing onto a chair in your dress and heels to adjust a banner that someone had hung crooked. He watched you wobble slightly and had to physically stop himself from crossing the room to steady you. You were fine. You got it fixed and climbed down and immediately moved on to the next thing.

“Dude,” Kelce said quietly so Ruthie couldn’t hear. “You’re staring.”

“Shut up.”

“Like, really, obviously staring.”

𖦹

You’d been to enough Figure Eight parties to know the entire song-and-dance. Ruthie would alcohol that could feed Figure Eight and The Cut, but three times over; people would set up a station to play very wrong, ruleless beer pong; someone would get in a fight; someone would call the cops and Ruthie would socially exile them for the next six months or until she conveniently forgot about it. Tonight was tracking perfectly to schedule: the handles were half-finished by eleven, there were red Solo cups floating in the pool, and you’d watched two guys argue about whether a bounce shot counted as a double for the past ten minutes even though there was literally no one keeping track. 

You were nursing the same drink you’d picked up off the counter half-an-hour ago. The Truly can—Wild Berry, the only flavour that had been left by the time you arrived—was getting warm in your hand, condensation making the label peel in little strips. You kept picking at it without thinking, rolling little soggy pieces of tissue and dropping them into the can where you imagined they floated like dead flies. Topper was in the middle of some story about golf. Something about his swing, the ninth hole at the club, and his dad’s advice; you’d stopped tracking the details about seven minutes in. The thing about dating Topper was that all his stories had the same shape to them; something happened, his dad had an opinion about it, and he agreed or planned to prove it wrong. The details changed—golf, school, Jeep—but the shape, as a whole, was identical. You’d memorized the blueprint. 

You were good at this, at least. You nodded at the right moments, you made small affirming noises, and laughed when his voice lifted in that way that indicated something was funny. You could do it in your sleep at this point. You were worried that you had been, that you’d actually been asleep for months and it had gone unnoticed because you were always nodding at the perfect times.

“—he won’t listen. He’s convinced it’s my follow-through—” Topper took a pull from his beer, gestured with the bottle, nearly hit Kelce in the face. “Babe, you’re not listening.”

You blinked, refocusing. “I am.”

“What did I just say?”

“Something about your follow-through.”

“Before that.”

You didn’t know. You were watching Ruthie across the room, the way she was laughing at something with her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious, and not worried if her laugh was too loud or fake or if the angle made her head look wrong. She was just laughing. When was the last time you laughed like that? You didn’t know. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, touching Topper’s arms lightly, apologetically. It was the kind of touch you’d learned said that you were there, you cared, and that you were paying attention now. “I’m just so tired. The week was long.”

“You feeling okay?” He shifted immediately to boyfriend-mode, which was sweet, and was one of the first things you’d learned to love about him in the first place. He cared. He worried. He made sure you’d eaten, had water. Most times it felt like being cared for. “We can leave if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. Keep telling your story.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

He kissed your temple—quick, casual, and the kind of kiss that marked you as his in public—and turned to Kelce, picking the story back up from wherever you’d lost the thread. You took a sip of your drink; it was warm and disgusting, but drinking gave you something to do with your hands. 

You loved Topper. You did. You loved him the way you loved Outer Banks summers and Sunday dinners at the club and the worn-in comfort of your childhood bedroom that looked like it belonged to a 30-year-old woman with very specific specifications for her interior design. You loved him in a way that felt familiar, safe, and exactly what was supposed to be.

He was kind and reliable and everyone loved him and your mother almost cried—shed a tear—when you’d brought him home for dinner junior year. He was exactly the kind of boy you were supposed to end up with. Figure Eight royalty, good family, going places. He talked about the future like it was something you’d built together brick-by-brick: UNC next fall, he’d major in finance, you’d major in something you hadn’t decided, but everyone assumed something that involved helping people because that’s what you were good at. After graduation, you’d move back here, get a place on the water, start planning a wedding. His mother already showed you the venue book. Twice. 

It was perfect. All perfect.

“I’m getting another drink,” you said, even though you weren’t. 

“Want me to come?” Topper asked, turning back to you, ready to follow. 

“No, I’m good. Keep talking. I’ll be right back.” 

He nodded, already turning back to Kelce. You could’ve said you were going to the moon for a second and he would’ve believed it.

You pushed through the crowd of Figure Eight kids, mostly. They were all people you’d known since elementary school, plus randoms from The Cut who’d heard about the party and showed up anyway because Ruthie didn’t check who walked through the door. The house was too hot, too loud, the bass from whatever song made the windows rattle in their frames. Someone had spilled beer on the hardwood that nobody bothered to clean it up, and your sandals kept sticking to it slightly with each step. 

You dumped your drink in the sink in the kitchen and grabbed a red solo cup that you filled up with water from the fridge dispenser. You drank half of it standing there, forehead pressed to the cool stainless steel. When you turned around, Maddie was there, drunk, hanging on your shoulder.

“Oh my god, you look so cute tonight,” she said. “Is that new?”

“No, I’ve had it—”

“I love it. We should go shopping next week. There’s a new collection at that place on the Mainland. The one with the dresses? You look so good in dresses. You should wear dresses more.”

“Sure,” you said, the word noncommittal, because the thought of stores with fluorescent lighting and their helpful salespeople and their pleasure to find things that fit you right made you want to crawl out of your skin.

“How are you and Top? You guys are so cute. Like actually. I was telling Cas the other day, you’re like the perfect couple.”

“We’re good. Thanks—”

“Are you guys thinking of schools together? Because I heard he got into Chapel Hill early and you’re obviously going to get in. You’re so smart—”

“Hopefully.” You smiled tightly; you hadn’t finished your applications yet, every time you sat down to work on your essays you ended up staring at the blank screen until your eyes hurt.

“You will. And then you’ll get married and have the cutest babies—”

“Madi—”

“What? You would! Could you imagine? Little Topper running around—”

You excused yourself before she could finish the thought, pushed back into the main room where the party was getting louder, messier, more of what was always going to become. Someone had turned up the music. Someone else was doing a keg stand in the corner and people were counting—”Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen”—and you felt tired. So tired. 

You found Topper right where you’d left him. Still talking to Kelce. Still gesturing with his beer. You slid back under his arms like you were supposed to and he kissed the top of your head without pausing his sentence and you realized—for the hundredth time—this is your life now, and this is it. The thought should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

“You okay?” Topper asking, looking down at you with those eyes that were genuinely so concerned that it made you feel guilty for not being okay. “You look weird.” 

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? Because we can really leave if—”

“I’m fine.” It came out harsher than you’d intended. His face did a combination of something complicated (hurt, confused, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong). “Sorry, I’m just—it’s hot in here.”

“Let’s go outside then.”

“No, you’re talking to Kelce—”

“Don’t care. Come on.” He was already steering you towards the back doors, hand on your lower back, and you let him because that was easier than arguing. Outside the air was cooler but not by much, humid and thick with that almost-rain feeling. The pool was glowing blue, and there were people in it even though nobody had suits on, just jumping in with their clothes because that’s what you did at Ruthie’s. 

“Better?” Topper asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been kind of off all week.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m just—” His lips flattened, like he was trying to find the right words for a moment. “Are you stressed about your school stuff? Your mom?”

“A little.”

“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna get in everywhere you apply. You’re so fucking smart.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “And we’ll be together. That’s what matters, right?”

“Right.”

“UNC is gonna be perfect. We can get an apartment off campus junior year. Somewhere with two bedrooms so your parents don’t freak out but we both know—” He laughed, squeezed you tighter, and his hands moved from your waist to hips, pulling you further back against him. “It’s gonna be so good, babe. I can’t wait.”

You could hear it in his voice, he meant it all. 

You could feel him getting hard against your back. Of course. Topper had a one-track mind at parties. A few beers in, and suddenly everything translated to being foreplay. Your hand in his. You laughing at his jokes. Existing in his orbit. All of it translated, in his mind, to we should have sex now.

His lips found your neck, kissing that spot below your ear that he’d decided early on was your spot, even though you’d never actually told him it did anything for you. It was fine. It didn’t not work. It just—it was fine. Which was the saddest way you could describe your boyfriend’s touch. Fine, really? Not electric or the kind that made you forget your own name. You were so tired of just fine, but you were also not courageous enough to admit that. 

“Baby—” you started, but his hand was already sliding under the hem of your tank top, thumb brushing the underside of your bra.

“Ruthie’s got that pool house,” he murmured against your back. “Nobody’s in there. We could—”

“There’s like seventy people here, Top.”

“So? That’s never stopped us before.” He turned you around, and his eyes had that look he conveniently gets when he wants something. “Come on, it’s been like a week.”

Had it been a week? You tried to remember the last time. Lask weekend, maybe. At his house, in his bed, with the door locked and the lights off because you always asked for the lights off even though he always wanted to see you. It had been fine. Good, even. Topper was considerate in bed, always asking if you were okay, if this felt good, if that made you finish even though sometimes you faked it just to move it along. Sometimes your brain wouldn’t turn off long enough to get there and it was easier to pretend.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I’m kind of tired.” 

“I’ll do all the work.” He grinned, hands sliding down to your ass now, pulling you closer. “Come on, I’ve been thinking about you all week.” 

You smiled, even though that only made you feel tired. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” His whole face lit up. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

He grabbed your hand, started pulling you toward the pool house, and you followed because what else were you going to do? Explain that you didn’t want to but couldn’t articulate why?

The pool house was unlocked, dark, smelling like chlorine and the musty scent of furniture that spent too much time in humidity. Topper flicked on the lamp in the corner—dim, throwing everything into shadow—and pulled you to the couch.

He kissed you immediately, hands everywhere, enthusiastic in that golden retriever way he had about everything. You kissed back, let your hands go to his hair, his shoulders, the places you knew he liked. This was familiar. Routine. Two years of practice. You knew exactly how he liked to be touched and the sounds he made when you did it right. There was a rhythm and choreography to it.

He pulled you down onto the couch, climbed over you, and his mouth moved to your neck. Started kissing, then sucking, and you knew he was leaving marks. He always left marks when he was drunk, got possessive in this puppyish way that should've been endearing. His hand slid up your shirt, palm hot against your ribs, and he was grinding against you now, hard through his shorts.

"God, you're so hot," he murmured against your collarbone, kissing lower. "I love you so much."

“I love you too.”

He sucked harder at the spot where your neck met your shoulder—definitely leaving a mark there, you’d have to cover it tomorrow—and his hand was working the button of your shorts when his phone started to ring. He ignored it. Kept kissing. The phone stopped, then immediately started again.

“Babe—” you said.

“It’s fine. Just—” 

It rang again.

“Topper, just check it.”

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, pulled back, fumbled for his phone in his pocket and squinted at the screen. “It’s my dad. Again.” He sat up, ran a hand through his hair like his dad could see him through the phone. “Shit. He called earlier and I—hold on. I’ll just.”

He answered it. “Hey, Dad… Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s loud here… What? No, I can—” He stood up, walked to the door, and you could hear his dad’s voice on the other end, irritated and tiny. “I know. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow… Yeah… Okay… Yeah, she’s with me… Okay…”

You sat up, buttoned your shorts back up, and tried to fix your hair. Your neck felt hot where he’d been sucking, and when you touched it, your fingers came slightly damp. Great. That would be purple by morning.

Topper hung up, turned back to you, and his face had a guilty look. “I’m sorry, babe. My dad’s pissed about—there’s this thing with the club. I was supposed to call someone back—” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I gotta call this guy really quick. Five minutes, I swear.”

This happened a lot. Topper’s father calling, needing something, and Topper drowning in everything to handle it. You understood it and resented it in equal measure.

“It’s okay.”

“You sure? Because I can—”

“No, it’s okay. Make your call. I’ll just meet you back outside.”

“You’re the best.” He kissed you quickly, already distracted and mentally somewhere else entirely. “Five minutes. Then we can—” He gestured vaguely at the couch with a tip of his head. “—continue?”

“Sure.”

Outside, you noticed a crowd dispersing and before you could try to make sense of it, Ruthie’s palm grabbed your shoulder and pulled you aside.

“This is the third fight he’s started this month,” she said, sentence coming out quickly like she was in the throes of stress.

“Who?”

“Rafe.” 

You swallowed quickly, shaking your head. “Is he okay?”

“What? Rafe? He’s fine. He’s always doing this shit.” But she was frowning, scanning the crowd. “Where’d he go?”

“Maybe inside?”

“Great. He’s probably bleeding all over my mom’s white couch.” She sighed, then looked at you. “Can you go check on him?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. He’s Top’s best friend. And you’re like, good at the whole—” She gestured vaguely. “Thing.”

“I really don’t think—”

‘Please? I need to find the guy he beat up and make sure he isn’t going to make it a big deal. Rafe’s probably in one of the rooms. Just make sure he’s not dying or bleeding anywhere that isn’t expensive or visible.”

Given that Ruthie lived in an open-space concept house with nothing that cost less than four figures and very few doors to hide behind, that narrowed the list down to the bathrooms and maybe her dad’s office. The latter goes with the assumption that Rafe had the good sense to pick a room with wood or tile instead of white linen and glass.

She was already walking away before you could argue with her. You could find Topper, tell him what happened, and let him deal with his best friend. That’s what you should do. That’s what made sense. But your boyfriend was on the phone with his dad; Ruthie had asked you, and something about the situation made your chest twist uncomfortably.

𖦹

Rafe needed to get laid. Or high. Or hit something until his knuckles split. Twenty years of his life had taught him that when there isn’t one thing wreaking havoc over his life, he hyperfixated on the impossible. Self-sabotage, probably. The impossible being, currently, his best friend’s girlfriend the image that had been burned into his retinas and showed no signs of stopping no matter how much cocaine he shoved up his nose or how many drinks he threw back or how many times he told him he was just being a fucking idiot. 

So, he picked a fight. With who? Didn’t matter. Some guy. A random fucking guy who had the misfortune of existing in Rafe’s vicinity at the exact moment Rafe had watched you disappear into Ruthie’s pool house with Topper, watched the door close behind you both, and felt something ugly and acidic rise up in his throat that tasted like very cheap vodka because he’d spent two years wanting something he couldn’t have. Two fucking years of seeing Topper touch you like it was easy, like you were some cosmic lottery he’d won just by being himself. 

Now he was sitting on the closed toilet in Ruthie’s upstairs bathroom with blood drying on his knuckles and his face throbbing and the bass from downstairs making the floor vibrate under his feet, trying very hard not to think about what you and Topper had been doing in the pool house. The bleeding had mostly stopped. His right eye was going to swell shut by morning. His lip was split. Could've been worse. Had been worse, plenty of times. This was manageable. He was trying and failing, because his brain—traitorous, obsessive, completely fucked—kept supplying images; Topper’s hands on your waist, your hips, your head tipped back, the sounds you probably made, whether you’d let him keep the lights on, whether you were any good at it or whether you just laid there perfect and pretty while—

The door opened, and his eyes snapped up and there you were, standing in the doorway like a fucking hallucination, like something his substance-soaked brain had conjured because it hated him, too. You were backlit by the hall light in a way that should’ve been corny but wasn’t. You looked real solid there. Rafe thought there was no fucking way this was happening. 

“Get out,” he said.

You didn’t get out, and Rafe was mad at the world because this was probably the first fucking time you didn’t do what someone else asked of you. Of course you chose right now, when Rafe was barely holding himself together, to stop being obedient. 

You stepped inside instead, and the bathroom suddenly felt about three sizes too small, and Rafe could smell you, that perfume you wore, floral and clean and so aggressively innocent it made him want to break something. He could smell it all over the metallic tang of blood and the chemical burn of Ruthie’s fancy hand soap and his own sweat. 

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“Yeah, no shit.” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant, but what-fucking-ever. Harsh was good, and that would make you leave. “Where’s Topper?”

“On the phone with his dad.”

Right. Topper. Your boyfriend, the guy whose hands had been all over you. The guy who got to touch you whenever he wanted because you were his, officially his, had been for two years while Rafe stood on the sidelines watching and acting like he didn’t care.

“Cool. Go wait for him somewhere else.”

“Ruthie asked me to check on you.”

Obviously she fucking did. Of course Ruthie—who’d watched Rafe watch you for two years, who’d made pointed comments Rafe had ignored, who definitely knew more than she should—would send you up here like a deer to slaughter. She would put you in a room alone with him when he was high and drunk and had just beaten someone bloody because he couldn’t handle himself in his body like a normal person. 

“Mm, you checked. I’m fine. Door’s right there.”

But you were closing the door instead behind you. Locking it. The lock was so obscenely loud that Rafe’s body went rigid and his head snapped in your direction. Every muscle in his body tensed and coiled. You’d locked yourself alone in a bathroom with him. What were you thinking?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You need help.”

“What I need is for you to leave.”

“Rafe—”

“No, I’m serious. Get the fuck out.” He stood up too fast, the room tilted, and he had to brace one hand against the wall while his vision did something complex and unstable. Everything went bright and sparkly around the edges the way it did when he mixed uppers and downers; his body was in a constant state of figuring out whether he should be flying or crashing. The coke was hitting him all weird, and that probably meant he had to do a bump in less than five minutes, mixing with vodka in ways that made everything bright and too close. He probably looked like shit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

Because Topper probably had just fucked you. Because Rafe could still see that middle-school-hookup-hickey on your neck, all red and obvious and making him want to punch a hole through Ruthie’s bathroom mirror. Because you were standing there looking at him with genuine concern on your face like Rafe was someone worth for you to worry about, like you hadn’t spent the last hour with your boyfriend, like you had any business being so close to him when Rafe was barely holding onto his self-control with both hands, bloody and beat-up.

“Because I’m telling you to.”

You were already kneeling down though, opening the cabinet under Ruthie’s sink, and Rafe watched your ass in those jean shorts and thought that this was hell. This was actual hell and he was in it.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice coming out gruff. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”

“Your face is bleeding.”

“Really.”

You ignored him, and pulled out Ruthie’s first aid kit. It was the expensive kind that came in a hard plastic case with actual organization inside, not just a jumble of Band-Aids and expired Advil, and stood up with it tucked under your arm. You wet a washcloth at the sink—one of Ruthie’s monogrammed hand towels—wrung it out, and looked back at him. You met his eyes for just a second, long enough for Rafe to catch the stubborn determination on your face. 

And then—holy fuck—you stepped between his legs.

Just fucking stepped right between his legs like that was a normal place to be, like you had any fucking idea what that did to him. You, standing right between his legs, so close that if she shifted about two inches forward, you’d be pressed right to him. His jaw clenched tight. 

You didn't know. Of course you didn't. Because you thought Rafe hated you. Thought he'd been an asshole to you for two years because he didn't like you, not because liking you was the problem, had always been the problem, would continue to be the problem until Rafe died or moved to another country or developed severe amnesia.

"Sit down," you said. Soft. Like you were talking to a scared animal.

He should say no. Should physically remove you from the bathroom. Should do literally anything other than what he did, which was sink back down onto that toilet seat like his legs stopped working. He even let you step closer, close enough that your knees bumped his, close enough that he could see the freckles scattered across your shoulders like someone had flicked a paintbrush at you.

"This might sting," you said, and reached up to touch his face.

Your fingers made contact with the cut above his eyebrow—gently, so fucking gently—and Rafe's entire nervous system went haywire. Every nerve ending firing at once. Every muscle in his body locking up trying to keep still, keep from grabbing you, keep from doing something catastrophically stupid that he couldn’t take back. He felt like he’d forgot how to breathe. Your touch felt branded, like every place your skin met his was burning.

Nothing about this was sexual. That was the fucked up part. Yeah, there was the fact that Rafe's brain had a one-track mind when it came to you and that track involved significantly less clothing than you were currently wearing, but this was worse. This was your hand on his face, gentle and careful like he was worth being gentle with. Like he was something other than Ward Cameron's greatest disappointment and the guy who got too fucked up at parties and picked fights for no reason.

"Sorry," you murmured when he flinched. "I'm trying to be gentle."

Rafe let out something between a laugh and a choke at how oblivious you were. “Yeah, that—” He swallowed, cleared his throat, then tried again. “I know.”

Stop talking. Seriously, stop talking.

His hands were gripping his thighs. He was gripping them hard enough to hurt, hard enough his knuckles—already fucked from the fight—were screaming at him. But it was either grip his thighs or grab you, and grabbing you was not an option. Grabbing you was the opposite of an option.

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice came out tight and strained. Nothing normal.

“I know,” you said quietly.

“Then why are you?”

You dabbed at the cut again, concentration evident in the way that you were biting your bottom lip. “Because you’re hurt,” you said like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

Was that reason enough for you to do this? “So?”

“So, someone should help.”

“And it had to be you?”

“Ruthie asked—”

“Ruthie’s not here.” His fingers were going numb now from how hard he was gripping his legs. “It’s just us. You can leave. I don’t think Ruthie meant you had to do all of this.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Because you were Topper’s, and Topper was Rafe’s best friend, one of his only real friends, if Rafe was being honest, the only person besides Kelce and Sarah who didn’t see Ward’s DNA walking around making the wrong choices. Because twenty minutes ago you’d been in a pool house with Topper doing things Rafe had no right to think about, and now you were touching Rafe’s face with fingers that probably still smelled like Topper’s cologne. Because if you didn’t leave right now, Rafe was going to do something unforgivable.

He opened his mouth to say some version of that—to say anything that would make you leave—when you spoke first.

“Because you don’t like me, right?” you said quietly after a moment, and Rafe’s brain stuttered to a complete stop.

“Huh?”

“You don’t like me. You never have.” You weren’t looking into his eyes anymore—and Rafe realized he missed having your eyes on him—and were focusing very intently on the washcloth. “Since I started dating Topper, you’ve been—you act like I’m annoying you all the time.”

Rafe stared at you. At your face, all concentration and hurt poorly hidden, and felt something in his chest twist sideways. You couldn’t meet his eyes, like you were embarrassed to have said it out loud.

You thought he didn't like you. You actually, genuinely thought that the reason Rafe had been cold and dismissive and sometimes cruel was because he didn't like you. Not because he'd spent two years watching you be Topper's perfect girlfriend and wanting you so badly it made him physically ill. You didn’t think it was because every time you smiled at him or laughed at something he said or looked at him like you were looking at him right now, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to cross whatever line existed between being Topper's best friend and being the asshole who wanted his girlfriend. You had zero idea liking you was so much worse than not liking you that Rafe had chosen cruelty as the easier option. If you were anybody else, Rafe would’ve been irked at how much having one person dislike you hurt you. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," he managed.

“Don’t I?” You pulled back slightly, met his eyes. “Because I’ve spent two years trying to be nice to you and you act like I’m—I don’t know. Like I’m a problem.”

"Maybe you are."

You flinched. Good. Flinching meant distance meant you'd leave meant Rafe could get his head straight and stop thinking about all of this. You put an inch of space between the two of you. Good. Except it also made him feel like the piece of shit he was and suddenly, he wanted to apologize, take it back, and explain.

“I’m trying to help you,” you said, and there was an edge to your voice now. Your hurt was bleeding into anger. “The least you can do is not be an asshole about it.”

“Nobody asked you to help.”

“Ruthie—”

“Fuck Ruthie.” Rafe leaned back against the wall, putting more distance between his face and your hands because if you touched him again he was going to lose it. “I don’t need your help. Don’t want it. So you can go back to your boyfriend—” He paused at the word to make sure you could feel the weight of it, even though he knew your intentions were all innocent, “—and your best friend and tell them I’m fine.”

You were still standing there, between his legs, and close enough that Rafe could see the way your pulse was jumping in your throat right below that hickey Topper left like a fucking brand. Like he pre-anticipated all of this, and wanted to plaster a reminder on your body to remind Rafe whose you were.

“Fine.” Your voice had gone flat. “Bleed, then. I don’t care.” But you said it while standing between his legs without moving, your hands still hovering over him like you were fighting the exact same battle he was: stay or go, touch or don’t touch. 

Someone pounded on the door. Hard. Three times in rapid succession. You jumped—actually jumped, startled—and stumbled slightly backward, and Rafe’s hands moved before the circuits in his brain caught up. They shot out and caught your hips, steadying you, pulling you back between his legs where you’d been standing. 

His hands were on your bare skin. He pushed down the groan forming in his throat.

“Yo. Yo. Someone in there?” A guy’s voice, drunk and completely impatient. 

Rafe’s hands were on your hips. On your bare skin where your tank top had ridden up slightly. His fingers were spread, wide, thumbs pressing just above your hip bones, and he could feel you breathing fast—with your whole body—underneath his palms. This was the first time he’d touched you—he thought—skin-to-skin, and it felt like every bad decision he’d made in his life had led him to this one final straw.

“Occupied,” he called out. His voice came out steadier than it should’ve. 

“How long you gonna be, man? I gotta piss—”

“As long as I fucking wanna be.”

“Dude, come on—”

“There’s a fuckin’ bathroom downstairs. Use that one.”

The guy on the other side muttered, groaned, and they heard the footsteps retreat down the hall. Silence. Rafe’s hands were still on your hips. Neither of you were moving. Rafe could feel your pulse underneath his thumbs, he could feel it racing, jackrabbit-fast, and his own wasn’t much better. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the softness of it, the way you fit perfectly under his hands like you’d been designed for them.

This was bad. This was so, so bad. He should let go. He should move his hands back to his thighs where they belonged. He should laugh it off and put distance between you to pretend his hands weren’t burning where they touched you. 

“Rafe,” you said quietly, almost breathless.

“Yeah?” he said quickly.

“Your hands.”

“You’re good,” he said, and his thumbs moved fractionally, just a tiny shaft to see if you’d pull away. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice on the edge of concern.

He tilted his head to look down, and he could feel your body jerking slightly as his hair brushed against your torso. “Just—give it a second.”

A second for what? Why were you giving him a second? You weren’t pulling away, and you weren’t telling him to let go. You were just standing there, looking down at him with your eyes too wide and lips parted slightly and that hickey on your neck that Rafe wanted to cover with his mouth, wanted to replace with his own mark, wanted—

Rafe’s thumb moved just slightly. A small circle against your hip bones. He tilted his head up slightly to meet your eyes, watching your face to see if you’d pull away, if you’d slap him, if you’d do anything to stop him before it became something neither of you could take back. He had to see if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. 

You inhaled sharply but you didn’t pull away. 

“What are you doing, Rafe?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay,” you said, but your voice was unsure.

His thumb kept moving. Small circles. Hypnotic. He could feel the exact moment you stopped breathing normally. Your body tensed underneath his hands. Your hands had come up at some point, were hoving near his shoulders like you weren’t sure what to do with them, like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you were allowed. 

And that—that fucking uncertainty, that unnamed want—that was going to be Rafe’s undoing.

Because he could keep his hands on your hips and pretend it was nothing. He could tell himself he was just steadying you, just making sure you didn’t lose your balance. But if your hands touched him—if you made the choice to touch him back—then this becomes something else. It would become something mutual. Something that couldn’t be explained away by the cocaine or the alcohol or the general fucked-upness of the night. It would become a choice and it would be your choice. 

Your fingers brushed his shoulders lightly and tentatively. Rafe’s breath stopped short, and the realization that you were indulging him hit him like a fucking brick. If he didn’t let go right now—right this second—he was going to kiss you. Your fingers pressed slightly harder against his shoulders.

And Rafe let you go.

He dropped his hands like your skin had burned him. He pushed himself up the toilet so fast his vision swam, the bathroom tilting sideways in that way that said he’d moved too quick, that the drugs were still very much in his system. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the wall. He put three feet of space between you and him in the span of three seconds. 

“You gotta leave,” he said. His voice came out all wrong. Too rough, too raw, like he’d swallowed glass.

You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Your hands were still raised slightly, frozen in the air where they’d been about to touch him. He wanted to tell you to put your hands down, but he also wanted to grab them and pull you closer. Your face was doing something Rafe couldn’t look at, because your confusion was bleeding into hurt once again. 

“What—” you started.

“Just go.”

“But you—”

“Go.” He couldn’t look at you right now. He looked at the wall instead. He focused on the expensive floral wallpaper that probably cost half the price of the house as a whole. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Topper’s probably looking for you.”

“He’s on the phone—”

“He’ll be off the phone soon. And he’s gonna wanna know where you are.” Rafe made himself look at you, and he made himself see the confusion on your face, the way you’d wrapped your arms around yourself like you were cold even though Ruthie’s bathroom was stuffy and warm. He tipped his chin in your direction, feigning as much carelessness as he could. “What are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “What?”

“When he asks where you were. What’re you gonna say?”

“I’ll—I’ll tell him I was checking on you. Because Ruthie asked me to?”

“That’s it?” He heard himself push; he was being cruel again because that was safer than being honest.

“That’s it, yeah. Yeah.” But your voice wavered slightly on the words. “That’s all that happened.” He could hear the uncertainty in your words, like you were trying to convince yourself.

“Good. Tell him that.” 

You were still standing there, still looking at him with those eyes that saw too fucking much, and Rafe could see you trying to working through it, trying to figure out what had just happened, what it meant that his hands had been you, that his hands had been moving in circles against your skin, that maybe for a minute there something had shifted between you that couldn’t be unshifted.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question hit Rafe in the chest all wrong. You thought you’d done something wrong, like any of this was your fault. Like you’d been the one to grab on, to hold too long, to move your thumbs in ways that had nothing to do with steadying and everything to do with wanting. 

“No,” he said, having to push the word out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then—”

“Because I’m high.” His voice came out flat now, matter-of-fact. He’d found his voice again, the one that made everything sound meaningless. The lie was easier when he didn’t look at you, he realized. “I’m high and drunk and not thinking straight. That’s all this is.”

“Okay.”

Maybe it did make sense to you; you wanted it to be that simple. If 1+1=2, then high+drunk=temporary insanity. Nothing more complicated than chemistry and bad decisions.

𖦹

A week had passed since the party at Ruthie’s, and you’d gotten very good at pretending nothing had happened. You’d seen Rafe twice—once at the country club when your families had overlapping dinner reservations, once at Topper’s house when you’d shown up and he’d been leaving—and you’d smiled politely, said hello, and acted like everything was completely normal. Both times, he’d barely looked at you. He nodded in your general direction, mumbled something that might’ve been a greeting. And left as quickly as possible.

Which was fine. Good, even. Exactly what was meant to happen. Except you couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on your hips, the way his thumbs had moved in small circles. About the look on his face when he’d let go, like he’d done something he couldn’t take back. You wished you could try talking to Ruthie about it, but you also knew that if you slipped on the wrong word or revealed the tiniest detail, she’d catch onto it like a vulture and somehow figure out exactly what happened. 

And now you were at Sunday brunch with Topper and both set of parents, and your mother kept looking at you like she could tell something was wrong. Topper kept reaching for your hand under the table, and all you wanted was to be literally anywhere else.

“—so, we’re thinking late April for the engagement party,” Topper’s mom was saying. She had her phone out, scrolling through her calendar with one hand while cutting eggs Benedict with another. “That gives us plenty of time to plan something before you two leave for school.”

You looked up from your untouched fruit salad. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The engagement party, hon.” Mrs. Thornton smiled at you warmly. “Nothing official, of course. You’ll do the actual engagement after graduation, I’m sure. But we thought it’d be nice for both of you to have a celebration before you head to Chapel Hill. Really cement things.”

Your mother made an approving sound. “That’s a lovely idea, Cynthia.”

“I just think it’s important to acknowledge these milestones,” she continued. “Topper and—” She said your name like it was already hyphenated with his. “—they’re so good together. And with our families being so close together, it just makes sense to start planning now.” 

“Mom,” Topper said, and there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “We haven’t even—I mean, we’ve talked about it, but—”

“Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m not trying to rush anything. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about the timeline.” She looked at you expectantly. “You are planning on going to Chapel Hill, aren’t you?”

Four sets of eyes turned to you. Topper's parents. Your parents. Topper himself, looking hopeful and nervous and so certain that the answer would be yes because of course it would be yes, why wouldn't it be yes?

“I haven’t decided yet,” you said.

Everyone went very still. 

"What do you mean you haven't decided?" your mother asked. Her voice was light but there was an edge to it. "Your applications were due weeks ago."

"I applied to other schools too."

"Yes, but—" Your mother set down her fork with a soft clink. "We've discussed this. Chapel Hill makes the most sense. It's a good school, it's close enough to visit, and—" She glanced at Topper. "—well. It makes sense for other reasons too."

“I know what reasons you mean, Mom.”

You could feel Topper’s hands tighten around yours under the table. You could feel the anxiety radiating off him even though his face stayed neutral. “Babe,” he said quietly. “I thought we talked about this.”

“We did talk about it.”

“And I thought—” He stopped. Started again. “You said you were fine with Chapel Hill.”

"I said I'd think about it."

"That's not—" He stopped again. Glanced at his parents, at yours, clearly not wanting to have this conversation in front of an audience. "That's not what it sounded like."

"Maybe you heard what you wanted to hear."

That came out sharper than you'd meant. Topper's face did something complicated. His hurt bled into frustration bled into confusion. Your mother made a small sound of disapproval. Mrs. Thornton looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should.

𖦹

You were drunk. Not falling-down drunk, not blacking-out drunk, but drunk enough that the bonfire had halos around it and the sand felt unsteady under your feet and when Topper talked it took you both an extra second to process what he was saying. Topper was drunker. He had been drinking since before he’d picked you up, had kept drinking in the Jeep on the way there, had been working his way through a twelve-pack since you’d arrived at the beach an hour ago. His movements kept getting looser and more expansive, and he’d told the same story about the golf tournament twice in the past twenty minutes.

You were sitting in the sand near the bonfire, backs against a piece of driftwood, Topper’s arm heavy on your shoulders. The party was in full-swing around you. Sixty kids scattered across the beach, music thumping from someone else’s truck, the ocean dark and loud behind all of it. Someone was taking shots. Someone was throwing up behind the dunes. Madi was making out with some guy from The Cut. It was all normal. 

"I don't get why you're being so weird about this," Topper was saying. Or had been saying. You'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere around your third drink. "It's not a big deal."

“What’s not a big deal?” 

“Chapel Hill,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re acting like—it’s all this huge thing. It’s just college.”

Oh. This again. The conversation from brunch wasn’t over despite both of you pretending it was for the past eight hours.

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?”

“This. The college thing. I’m really tired of talking about it.”

“Well, I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on with you.” Topper’s arm over your shoulder tightened. Insistent. “You’ve been weird for like a week.”

“I haven’t been weird.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause it feels like you’re mad at me.”

"I'm not mad, Top. I'm just—" You stopped. Tried to find words through the alcohol fog. "I'm just trying to figure stuff out."

"What stuff?"

"School stuff. Future stuff."

"Our future?"

"My future."

“Same thing.” He said that, too, like it was obvious. There was no version of future that didn’t have you and him together. “Right?”

You took another sip from the drink in your hands. Was it? It couldn’t be the same thing. You were a person separate from him, separate from “you and Topper,” separate from everyone else’s plans. You did exist outside your relationship, right?

“Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” He pulled his arms away from your shoulders. “What does that mean? We talked about this. We made plans.”

"You made plans. And I just—I went along with them because everyone was so happy about it and I didn't want to—" You gestured vaguely. "I didn't want to ruin it."

Topper stared at you. "Ruin what?"

"This. Us. The whole—" You stopped again. Nothing was coming out right. "Everyone's so sure about everything. You're sure, my parents are sure, your parents are sure. And I'm just—I'm not."

"Sure about what? About me?"

"About everything."

"That's not—" He stood up suddenly, swayed slightly, caught himself. "That's not an answer. Do you want to be with me or not?"

"I do—"

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is I don't know if I want everything else that comes with it! The engagement party planning, the apartment hunting, the whole—" You stood up too, because this conversation felt wrong sitting down. "Everyone treating us like we're already married when we're nineteen."

"So you don't want to marry me."

"I didn't say that—"

"That's what it sounds like."

"That's not—Topper, you're not listening—"

"I am listening. You're saying you don't know if you want a future with me."

"I'm saying I don't know what I want for my own future! Period! Not just the part with you in it—the whole thing!" Your voice was getting louder. A few people nearby were starting to look over. "I don't know what I want to study or where I want to go or who I want to be. And everyone keeps acting like those are already answered questions and they're not. Not for me."

Topper ran both hands through his hair. "Okay. Okay. So you need time to figure it out. That's—I can give you time."

"It's not just time—"

"Then what is it? Just tell me what you need and I'll—I'll do it. Whatever you need."

"I need space." The words came out before you could stop them. "I need room to think without everyone—without you—asking me what I've decided every five seconds." 

The second the words came out, you wanted to take them back. You did mean them, but you could see what they did to Topper’s face.

His face did something awful and twisted. Like you'd physically hit him. "Space."

"Not—I don't mean—" You stopped. The vodka was making everything harder. "I just mean I need to figure this out on my own. Without everyone weighing in."

"Everyone meaning me."

"Everyone meaning everyone. My parents, your parents, you—"

"So you want to break up."

"That's not what I said—"

"That's what space means."

"No it's not—"

"Then what does it mean?" He was angry now, genuinely angry. Topper never got angry. "Because from where I'm standing it sounds like you want to break up but you don't want to say it."

"I don't want to break up!" You were yelling now. "I love you! I just—I need time to figure out what I want that's not about us. That's just about me."

"But I'm part of your life. We're—we're together. You can't just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You know what? Fine. You want space? You got it."

“I love you,” you said, because that was meant to be grounding. That was supposed to fix things. Love was supposed to be the answer to it all, wasn’t it? And you needed him to hear that. You needed him to understand that this wasn’t about not loving him. “I love you. Isn’t that what matters?”

Topper looked at you for a long moment, and his face was doing something you'd never seen before. He looked hurt and frustrated and something that looked almost like resignation. "I don't know anymore," he said quietly. "Maybe it should be enough. But right now it just—it doesn't feel like it is."

His words hit you like a physical blow. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. 

“I need a break,” Topper said. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He sounded like he was just tired. “Not from you. Just from this. This conversation and this night. I—I can’t do this right now.”

"Okay," you said quietly.

"I'm gonna stay here. At the party. But you should go home." He looked at you, and there was something almost gentle in his expression despite everything. "You look exhausted, babe. You should go home."

"I can stay—"

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think both of us need to cool off. Think about shit. And we can’t if we’re both here drunk and—” He gestured vaguely between you two. “—doing this.”

“How am I supposed to get home?” you asked, because he had drove you and apparently he was insistent on being the one that stayed at the party.

“I’ll figure it out. Just—give me a second.” He turned his back to you, looking around the area. “There.” He pointed. “Rafe’s here. He’ll drive you.”

Your stomach dropped. “He doesn’t have to—” Your voice came out wrong, high and panicked. Topper didn’t notice. 

“He can drive. He’ll drop you off.” Topper was already walking toward Rafe standing at the bonfire. “Yo! Rafe.”

Rafe looked up to see Topper, then you standing a foot behind him. 

“What’s up?” he called back.

“Do me a favour?” Topper reached him and put a hand on his shoulder. You followed him close behind, hesitant of your steps. “Can you give her a ride home?”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to you, an eyebrow raised, then moved back to Topper. “Something wrong with your car?”

"Nah. I just—we had a thing. She needs to go home and I'm staying here and I don't want her to drive." Topper's voice was still doing that too-casual thing, that trying-to-hold-it-together thing. "You're good to drive, right?"

"Yeah." It came out too quickly.

"So can you take her? Please?"

Rafe looked at you again and held your gaze for a beat too long. Or maybe you were imagining that?

"Yeah. Sure. No problem." He shrugged.

"Thanks, man. I owe you." Topper turned back to you, and his face softened slightly. "Get home safe, okay? We'll talk tomorrow. When we're both—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—not like this."

"Okay," you said.

"And I do love you. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." He kissed your forehead—quick, careful, almost formal. "Text me when you get home."

And then he walked back toward the bonfire, toward Kelce and the others, and left you standing there with Rafe.

The silence stretched out. You could hear the ocean, the music, people laughing somewhere down the beach. Could feel Rafe not looking at you, determinedly staring at something over your shoulder.

"You don't have to—" you started.

"My truck's in the lot," Rafe said, cutting you off. His voice was flat. Careful. "You ready to go or do you need to say goodbye to people?"

"I'm ready."

"Okay."

He started walking and you followed, and the distance between you felt like miles even though you were only a few feet apart. Neither of you said anything as you crossed the beach, as you climbed the short path up to the parking lot, as you reached his truck.

He unlocked it. You got in. He got in. Started the engine. He quickly pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.

The silence in the truck was suffocating. You could hear your own breathing, could hear the road under the tires, could hear the distant thump of the bonfire music fading behind you. Could feel Rafe's presence next to you like a physical thing; it was too close and too far away at the same time.

“Thanks for doing this,” you said finally.

“It’s fine.”

You watched streetlights pass through the windshield, painting the cab of the truck in alternating light and shadow. Rafe's hands on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. Everything about his body language screaming that he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, didn't want to be alone in a truck with you.

Which was fair. You'd both been doing a good job of avoiding each other all week. And now here you were, trapped together, and the air between you felt electric and dangerous and wrong.

“You guys good?”

“Yup.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to breathe evenly and tried to think about what on earth had just happened. The fight. Topper’s face. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t anymore either. Your eyes were burning; you blinked and felt the wetness on your lashes. Great. Perfect. You were crying now; drunk-crying in Rafe Cameron’s truck after fighting with your boyfriend who you loved but maybe didn’t love enough or maybe loved in the wrong way completely. You didn’t even know anymore.

A tear slid down your cheek, and then another. You tried to wipe them away quickly but they kept coming, and your breath was hitching in that embarrassing way that meant you were about to properly cry, and you turned your face more toward the window so Rafe wouldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said, his voice was flat and careful at the same time. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked on the words.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“I can see you crying.”

“I’m fine. I’m just—” You wiped at your face again. “Drunk. Just drunk. It’s stupid.”

Rafe remained silent and kept driving. His jaw was doing that thing it did, and his hands stayed on the wheel, and you thought maybe he was just going to ignore it and drive you home in silence while you cried quietly in the passenger seat like some pathetic drunk girl who couldn’t keep her relationship in check. 

But then the truck slowed and his turn signal clicked on. He took a right down a side road you couldn’t place in your haziness, one of those residential streets that branched off the main drag, lined with scrub pine and chain-link fences and houses set back from the road. It was dark and quiet and empty. He put the truck in park and cut the engine. 

You could hear every single thing now; you could hear your breathing, still hitching and uneven, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant sound of the ocean even though you were blocks away from the beach. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, and your words came out shaky. “I didn’t mean for this to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—I’m fine. Really. You can just take me home. I’m sorry.”

Rafe let you talk without interrupting.

“I’m just drunk,” you continued, because in your mind stopping would mean actually feeling and sitting in the silence and acknowledging what had just happened with Topper and what was just happening in the truck. “And I got into this argument with Topper, but it’s fine. We’re fine. We fight sometimes. It’s normal. I love him. I do—”

Your voice cracked again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming anyway.

“He's such a good person. And he loves me and he's never done anything wrong and I love him but sometimes I feel like I can't breathe around him and I don't know if that's normal or if that means something's wrong with me or if I’m just crazy—"

You were rambling. You knew you were rambling. But you couldn't stop. The vodka and the tears and the week of avoiding thinking about any of this had cracked something open and now it was all spilling out in Rafe Cameron's truck and you couldn't make it stop.

Rafe still hadn't said anything. Was just sitting there listening. Which was unusual. Rafe didn't listen. Rafe interrupted, Rafe made snide comments, Rafe left the room when conversations got uncomfortable. But he was just sitting there. Letting you empty it all out.

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I shouldn’t be saying this. You’re—you’re his best friend. I shouldn’t be—”

“I don’t think you’re being crazy,” Rafe said, almost shrugging. 

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Anyone would feel like that. He doesn’t wanna deal with shit he doesn’t wanna hear. It’s about him, not you.”

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m not trying to make him the bad guy.”

Rafe let out a short laugh. “I know.”

“He’s not. He’s good. He’s—”

“I know he is.”

“Then why—”

“‘Cause good doesn’t mean he’s right,” he said. 

You felt your breath hitch slightly and felt more tears coming. You hugged yourself without realizing it. You wrapped your arms around your middle like if you could just hold yourself together physically, you can keep it together mentally.

Rafe’s hand left the steering wheel and settled on your thigh assuredly. Not brushing the hem of your shorts, but close. His hand was close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through the denim. His fingers spread, thumb, resting at the edge where the fabric ended and your bare skin began. Suddenly you thought that the shorts were too short, too much leg showing, too much everything. You should tell him to move his hand. 

“Are you okay?” he asked again, but you had a feeling he didn’t mean your situation with Topper as much as the situation with your bodies touching.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. 

“Good.”

Rafe didn’t know what he could blame his actions on. He didn’t have a reason in Ruthie’s bathroom, but now, he had no reason. None. You were crying to him about Topper; he wasn’t catching all your words because you were rambling more than talking, but he could’ve sworn you mentioned the word love and loving Topper about three times throughout your entire monologue. But was it his fault when you turned to meet his eyes—was it his fault when you looked at him like that?

Because you did. Because you looked like everything he'd been trying not to think about for two years, everything he'd been mean about and cruel about and dismissive about because acknowledging it would mean admitting that Topper's girlfriend was the prettiest girl Rafe had ever seen and also the one girl on this entire fucking island he couldn't have.

Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, mascara smudged underneath that should’ve been messy but only made him think you were letting him see something more real and something nobody else got to see. Your cheeks were flushed from crying and probably the alcohol, that pink spread down your neck to your collarbone, and Rafe’s eyes followed it without permission. He cataloged and memorized it. Your lips were glossy; it was probably the lipgloss you always wore that Rafe had watched you apply about a hundred times at parties, that you reapplied obsessively like it was a nervous habit. It was now smudged at the corner from where you’d been crying and wiping your face and Rafe wanted to fix it.

Or ruin it more. He hadn’t decided. Both maybe. Fix it by ruining it. Ruining it by touching it.

Your hair was falling out of whatever you’d done to it earlier and you looked vulnerable in a way that made Rafe’s chest twist uncomfortably because he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be cataloging the way your tank top had rode up slightly when you’d turned toward him, showing a strip of your skin that was rising and falling too fast. He shouldn’t be noticing that your breath was still uneven, and your chest was rising and falling too fast, and the strap of your bra was visible under your top (white, lace-edged), and Jesus Christ, he needed to fucking stop. But his hand stayed exactly where it was. 

But Rafe couldn’t stop because you were looking at him in a way he couldn’t name. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew you were looking at him with those eyes—red and wet and too wide—and your lips were parted slightly and you weren’t pulling away from his hand on your thigh and this was so fucking dangerous.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” he said through a rough chuckle.

Your throat moved when you swallowed. “Like what?”

Like you want me to kiss you. Like you’ve forgotten Topper exists. Like I’m not the worst possible person you could be alone with right now.

“You know.”

And he knew you knew. It was evident in the way your breath caught, the way your eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. He could tell in the way you didn’t pull away when his thumb moved against your thigh. He should move his hand. He should drive his truck and take you home and never be alone with you ever, ever again. He should do literally anything other than sitting here in the dark with his hand on your thigh thinking how easy it would be to slide it higher, to find out if your skin was as soft as it looked, to make you make a sound that wasn’t crying.

But you were still looking at him and not pulling away. You were sitting there with your lips parted and eyes glassy and that fucking lip gloss catching the light from the streetlamp and Rafe’s brain had officially short-circuited.

This was Topper’s girl. Topper’s perfect girlfriend who baked fucking cookies and volunteered and lead charity events and smiled at everyone. She was soft and sweet, everything Rafe wasn’t. And now you were here, in Rafe’s truck, looking at Rafe like that, and Rafe was only human. He was only twenty and fucked up and good at making horrible decisions. 

His hand moved again higher this time. Just enough to feel where denim ended and skin began. It was enough to make you inhale sharply.

“Rafe,” you said. You only said his name, and he was sure he’d heard you say it about a hundred times before, but the way you said it breathy and uncertain made every rational thought in Rafe disappear. Not stop. Not don’t. Just his name.

“I know,” he said. “We can’t. I know this is—” He stopped. His hand involuntarily tightened on your thigh. “I know.” He took in a sharp breath. “You’re crying. And you’re looking at me like that. And you’re—” He shook his head. “Fuck.”

You only looked at Rafe and he watched you try to figure out what to say, how to respond, what any of this meant.

“Rafe,” you whispered finally. “We can’t.”

“Iknow.” The words came out quickly. “I know all of it. I should move my hand and drive you home and never be alone with you again.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna.”

The words hung there. Too honest. Too raw. Rafe watched you process them, watched your face do something complicated, watched you bite your bottom lip—that nervous thing you did—and his eyes locked on your mouth.

On that lip gloss. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. On the little indent it left when you released it.

God, he wanted to kiss you. Wanted it so badly he could barely think straight. Wanted to know if you tasted like strawberries or if that was just the gloss. Wanted to know if you'd kiss him back or push him away. Wanted to know if you'd been thinking about him the way he'd been thinking about you.

Wanted to know if that moment in Ruthie's bathroom had meant something or if he'd imagined the way your breath had caught when his hands were on your hips.

“We’re gonna regret this,” you said quietly.

Oh, Rafe wasn’t sure about that part. Rafe's thumb moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Drawing a circle against your skin right where your shorts ended, right where he could feel how warm you were, how soft.

"Rafe," you breathed.

His voice came out low. Rough. "Tell me to move my hand and drive you home and I will."

“You should—”

“Not what I asked.” His eyes locked on yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rafe watched you struggle with it and watched you try to find the words, try to be good, try to do the right thing.

"I can't," you whispered finally.

And that was all Rafe needed. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. He wanted to give you time to say no, he almost needed you to say no. He wanted to give you time to remember you had a boyfriend because the time he got (two years) was enough to make him not care about your boyfriend being his best friend. You didn't pull away. 

You weren’t even breathing. He could tell because his chest had stopped moving and you’d gone completely still under his hand like a deer that didn’t know whether to run or stay.

You only sat there frozen as Rafe closed the distance between you, as his free hand came up to cup your face, as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone right where the mascara was smudged.

"Last chance," he murmured. His lips were an inch from yours. Less. "Tell me no and I'll stop." His thumb traced your cheek once, and then again. He wanted to give you time. He wanted to give you an out.

Your eyes were huge and locked on his. Rafe could see you warring with yourself and he could’ve sworn he saw the moment you made the decision, the moment you stopped fighting it.

"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.

Good. He kissed you, slow at first. Like he was testing, giving you one more second to change your mind. His hand rested on your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone because he couldn’t stop touching you. His other hand tightened on your thigh. You made a small sound, maybe it was surprise, but he hoped it was want. Your body turned further toward him, and his fingers rested between the skin of your thighs, warm and soft and fuck.

Then you kissed him back, and something horrible in Rafe snapped. His lips worked harder and his hand slid from your face into your hair—fisting it, tangling in it—tilting your head back to get a better angle, so he could kiss you better, the way he’d been thinking about for two years. You made a small, surprised sound, and Rafe swallowed it whole. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “We’re so fucked.” 

Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go in the cab of his truck. The center console dug into his ribs but he didn’t care. He would’ve climbed over it if he could.

“Rafe—” you gasped when his lips moved to your neck. 

“Hm?” His teeth grazed your pulse point. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice breathy and all perfect.

He hummed against your skin. “Yeah, baby?”

You shivered against him. 

“I’m sorry.” Your hands went up his back and landed on his neck, nails softly grazing against the skin under his hair. The touch was so light it almost hurt Rafe, as though you weren’t allowed. 

“Don’t.” Rafe’s lips met the corner of your jaw before he pulled back just enough to look at you. He rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, and his hands stayed in your hair, fingers still tangled like he’d forgotten how to let go. Maybe if he held on long enough, this moment wouldn’t end and tomorrow would never come. “Don’t apologize to me. That’s not what this is.”

Your hands stilled on his neck, and the barely-there touch made all hairs on his body rise. 

“What is it?” you asked softly.

Rafe laughed once, but all humor was devoid. What was it? Fuck if he knew. A really, really good mistake. He’d wanted this so long that it didn’t even feel real now that it was happening. His thumb slid along your jaw, tilting your face back toward him so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again. “You’re upset.”

He leaned back and in, kissed you again. It was shorter this time, firmer than before, like he was reminding himself what it felt like rather than losing himself in it; he would likely never have you in this position ever again. So he memorized it, your taste and the way your mouth fit against his and the sounds you made. 

When he pulled away, his hand slid back down to your thigh, thumb pressing there, grounding both of you.

“You gotta breathe,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re one to talk.” Rafe liked your voice too much.

“Hey,” he said, voice now slightly playful. “I’m not the one crying.” He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond. “You okay?”

You nodded. 

“Good,” he said, and forced himself to pull away. Your hands stayed on his neck—fingers still curled there, warm—and he had to physically remove it. He took your wrist and gently guided your hand back to your own lap. “Because if we keep going like that, I really can’t take this back.”

He forced himself to start the truck because he wasn’t sure how true his words rang. His body felt like it was boiling about twenty emotions together at once; how could you take this back? He’d made you cross a line. He’d pulled you across it, really. The engine turned over. The headlights cut through the dark. Rafe put his truck in drive because if he sat there one more second looking at you with your swollen lips and smudged mascara and his fingerprints still visible in your hair, he was going to do something even more unforgivable than what he'd already done.

The drive to your house was silent. It was heavy and loaded with every single thing that had just happened and couldn’t happen again. Rafe kept both his hands on the wheel this time because he couldn’t trust himself to do anything else. 

You sat with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring out the passenger window, and Rafe couldn't tell if you were crying again or just thinking. Either way, he didn't ask. He didn't know what he'd say if you were. He’d have to acknowledge what he’d just done if he asked. 

Your street appeared too quickly. The familiar houses, the broken streetlight, your driveway with your parents' cars parked in it. All the normal pieces of your normal life that had nothing to do with what had just happened in Rafe's truck on some random side street.

“I should—” you started.

“Yup.”

You reached for the door handle. Stopped. Your hand just rested there on the metal, not pulling, not opening. “This didn’t happen?” 

“Okay.” He kept his eyes on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling a hundred times smaller. “Didn’t happen.”

“We can’t—this can’t happen again.” 

“I know that. So go inside.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Text Topper. Tell him you got home safe. Forget about this.”

“Will you forget about it?” 

No. Absolutely fucking not. He’d probably remember this for the rest of his life; he’d remember the way you tasted, the sound you made, the way you’d kissed him back. He’d remember all of it and it’d torture him everytime he saw you with Topper, every single fucking time he had to pretend this never happened, every time he had to be Topper’s best friend and not the guy who’d kissed his girlfriend in a parked truck after she cried. 

“Yeah,” Rafe said, nodding. “I’ll forget about it.” For some reason, the lie tasted worse on his tongue than the truth would’ve.

You stared at him for a long moment before opening the door. You climbed out onto the sidewalk, and Rafe watched you smooth down your shorts, fix your hair, try to put yourself back together into the girl you'd been before you got in his truck. You leaned in before closing the door. “Thank you,” you said. “For the ride and listening and—” You stopped yourself. “Just thank you.”

Rafe nodded once, sharply. You turned away from him and went inside. He sat there for a long time. Staring at your dark house. Trying to process what he'd just done. Trying to figure out how he was supposed to look Topper in the face tomorrow knowing that he'd had his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and you'd kissed him back.

His phone buzzed.

Topper: she get home okay?

Rafe stared at the text. His best friend's name on the screen. At the trust implicit in that question, the assumption that Rafe had done exactly what he'd been asked to do and nothing more.

yeah, he typed back. got her home safe.

thanks man. i owe u one.

[mcybank]

Twin Scars — Rafe Cameron

pairings — bsf!rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary — the thing about loving rafe cameron is that you learn to expect disappointment the way you expect the sun to set: predictable, inevitable, yet somehow still surprising when darkness comes. 

word count — 23.1k

warnings — angst, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to [??], unrequited love (kind of), pining, very toxic friendship dynamics, medical emergency (brain aneurysm), emotional manipulation, codependency, self-destructive behavior, drug use, intoxication, mention of DUI, hospitalization of parent, details about blood, ward cameron’s d- parenting, mentions of drug dealing, the “i love you but i won’t be with you” trope, right person wrong time (?), self-sabotage, minor jj x reader, hickey mention, jealous!rafe, mentions of absent mother, a lot of blurred boundaries in friendship, a very intimate sad kiss

warnings — i have no idea if this warrants a part two or not yet please let me know what you guys think !! also not very proofread, i switched writing this between my laptop + phone so formatting may be weird in some places. this was my first time writing friends to lovers so i’m terrified of how this came out 😭😭

based on this request from @starboyev thank you so much for requesting i had so much fun writing this and i hope you enjoyed it!!

The first time you’d seen a boy cry was when you were eleven. Rafe Cameron had gone over his handlebars doing something stupid, racing you down the beach path on bikes that were too big for both of you, hitting a patch of loose sand at the worst possible angle. The sound of it was terrible; metal scraping against pavement, his sharp, loud intake of breath, then nothing for a second that felt like an eternity before you heard him make a noise you’d never heard him make before.

You’d crashed your own bike trying to stop, skinned your palms on the concrete, but you barely felt it. By the time you scrambled over to him, he was sitting up, and that was when you saw it; his collarbone area was scraped raw, bleeding through his torn shirt, his hands and knees matching. It was his face that made your stomach drop, the tears streaming down his cheeks, and he wasn’t trying to hide them.

“Fuck,” he gasped out, which you’d never heard him say before, not in front of you. “Shit, that—”

“Let me see.” You crouched next to him, reaching for his arm, but he yanked it back quickly.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t touch it.”

You pulled your hands back, left them hovering uselessly in the air between you. There was blood—not a lot, but enough—and the way he was holding himself, all tight and small, made him look younger than twelve. He looked breakable. 

“Should I get someone?” You were already looking around, but the path was empty. Just the two of you and the ocean and the bikes lying twisted in the sand.

“No.” He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, mixing blood with tears as he smeared it across his cheek without seeming to notice. “No. Just—give me a minute.”

So you sat down next to him on the pavement, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, and waited. You could hear him trying to breathe through it, these shallow gasps that kept hitching. Your own palms were stinging, little pinpricks of pain where the skin had torn, but it felt wrong to mention it when he was sitting there looking like something inside him had cracked open.

“My dad,” he said finally, voice rough and quiet, and for a moment you thought he meant he wanted you to call for his dad. “He’s gonna—he’s already so pissed at me about the math test, and now this—”

He didn't finish, but you understood. You'd been around the Camerons enough to know that Ward's disappointment was something Rafe carried like a weight, something that made him try too hard at everything and still never feel like it was enough.

“We don’t have to tell him it was a race,” you offered hesitantly. “We could tell him a dog ran or something. That we were trying to avoid it.”

Rafe looked at you, eyes red and wet, and something in his expression shifted to one close to a smile. “A dog?”

“A small one. Really scared.”

“That’s a terrible lie.”

“Do you have a better one?”

He was quiet for a moment, still breathing hard but the tears had stopped flowing. “Yeah, okay. A dog.”

You helped him up eventually, both of you limping back toward the main road where you could call someone. Your mom had come to get you—Rafe said to call her instead of his dad, and you knew why—and she’d taken both of you to urgent care without making a big deal of it. The doctor had cleaned Rafe’s cuts and said he was lucky, nothing broken, just really badly scraped. You’d sat in the next chair over while they worked on him, watching how his jaw stayed tight and how his hands gripped the edge of the exam table.

He hadn’t cried again. He didn’t cry when the doctor stitched him up, or when your mom was driving you both there. But when she dropped him off at Tannyhill and his dad opened the door with that look on his face—the one that said he was going to give Rafe a lecture—Rafe had glanced back at you through the car window just once. You nodded, like you were sealing some kind of unknown pact.

The next summer, you'd been racing the same bikes down the same path—because neither of you had learned anything apparently—and you'd been the one to wipe out. Same patch of sand, same stupid speed. You'd hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of your lungs, and when you'd finally managed to sit up, Rafe was already there, crouched next to you with his hands hovering near your shoulders.

“You good?” His voice had the same edge to it as it did before he went back home, or asked if his dad had mentioned anything about him when he was talking to yours.

You’d looked down at your knee—torn up, bleeding, a long scrape that went from kneecap to shin—and felt your eyes start to burn. “I think so.”

“Let me see.”

You let him. He’d examined your knee with the focus you’d noticed on him when he tried to learn how to fix a boat’s motor when that wasn’t a necessary skill, or trying to solve impossible math problems, fingers gentle around the edges of the wound. “‘S not that bad,” he said, and you both knew that was a lie, but you appreciated it anyway. “Just scraped.”

“Does it look cool at least?” You’d meant it as a joke, trying to keep your voice steady, but it came out wobbly.

“Really cool.” He’d sat back on his heels, and that’s when you noticed he was almost smiling. “We match now.”

You'd looked at his knee, at the scar from last summer that had faded to a pale line against his tan skin, and then at your own fresh wound in roughly the same spot. Something about that had made you want to cry more than the actual pain.

“Don’t.” Rafe had said it quietly, and when you looked up, his expression had gone soft in a way that made you want to memorize it forever. “Come on. You didn’t cry when you broke your wrist in third grade. You’re not gonna cry over this thing.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

You didn't have an answer for that. Maybe it wasn't different. Maybe you just hadn't had an audience before, someone who'd remember if you fell apart.

He'd helped you up, let you lean on him as you hobbled to the nearest bench. And then he'd sat with you for two hours, missing the dinner his dad had probably already started, just keeping you company while you waited for your mom to finish her showing and come get you. He'd told you stupid stories about Topper doing something idiotic at the club, about Sarah getting into a fight about going out, about nothing and everything, until the pain had dulled to something manageable and you could almost forget about the blood drying on your leg.

Your mom had asked what happened when she finally showed up, and Rafe had jumped in before you could speak. “A really small dog ran out. She tried to avoid it.”

She'd given him a look that said she didn't believe it for a second, but she'd let it slide. In the car on the way home, she'd glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “That boy’s a good friend to you.”

You nodded, biting down a smile, as you watched Tannyhill disappear behind you through the back window. 

The scars had healed the same, both of you with twin marks on your left knees, pale, shiny, and permanent. 

Sometimes, years later, you’d catch yourself running your thumb over yours without really thinking—sitting during dinner or lying in bed or standing in line—and you’d wonder if he ever did the same thing. If he ever thought about that summer, about the fact that you’d crashed in the same spot like you were following some script neither of you had read. Like even your accidents were connected. 

By the time you were fourteen, Rafe’s bedroom had become more familiar to you than your own. You knew which floorboards creaked (the one by his desk, the one near the bathroom) because he never wanted to ask to get them fixed, which drawers stuck (top left on his dresser), where he kept things he didn’t want people to find (shoebox in his closet, under the jackets). You knew that he slept on his stomach with one arm under the pillow, that he kept his room cold enough to see your breath when the temperatures started to drop, that the paperweight you’d given him for his sixteenth birthday stayed on his desk even though he’d laughed when he first opened it.

“What the fuck is this?” he’d said, turning the glass sphere over in his hands. There was a sailboat suspended inside, frozen mid-voyage. 

“It’s stupid.” You'd immediately regretted the choice, watching his face for signs of mockery. You should’ve just given him an envelope of cash or a check like the others did. “I just—you liked sailing before… you know. Thought maybe—”

“Nah, it’s—” He’d cut himself off, jaw working like he was chewing on gum. “It’s cool. Thanks.” 

He'd set it on his desk, right next to his phone where he'd see it constantly, and you'd tried not to read into that. 

But you noticed everything about Rafe Cameron, had been noticing for years now. The way his mood could shift like weather, sunny to storming in the space of a phone call from Ward. All of the tells he didn't know he had, jaw clenching when he was angry, hand through his hair when he was anxious, tongue pressed to his cheek when he was biting back something mean. You'd learned to read him the way other people read books, and somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a necessity.

It was a Tuesday when his mom left. You'd heard about it before you saw him. People talked at school, and—obviously—you were the first person after Rafe people started questioning for the details. 

You'd gone to Tannyhill after school, not bothering to text first because you knew he wouldn't answer. Rose had opened the door, still new enough to the family that she looked uncomfortable in the space, uncertain of her role. “He doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“Okay.” You’d shifted your backpack on your shoulder, made no move to leave. 

You saw something shift in Rose’s expression, like she was only just noticing her soon-to-be-stepson’s mannerisms were like yours, the stubbornness was only Exhibit A. Her expression softened. “You can go around back. The window. Ward doesn’t want him to have visitors right now.”

The trellis to Rafe's window had become a familiar route by then. You'd climbed it enough times that you knew which parts would hold your weight, which sections to avoid. His window had been unlocked. It was always unlocked, like he was perpetually waiting for you to need the way in.

His room had been dark, curtains drawn even though it was barely four in the afternoon. He'd been in bed, still in the clothes he'd probably slept in, facing the wall. For a second you'd thought maybe he was asleep, but then his shoulders had moved in a way that told you he was breathing too deliberately for sleep.

You'd kicked off your shoes, set your bag down quietly, and climbed into bed next to him. The mattress had dipped under your weight, and he'd gone still.

“You can go,” he’d said, his voice coming out too rough. 

“I know.” You'd settled on top of the covers while he was underneath, leaving that thin barrier between you.

“I’m serious. I don’t want—I can’t talk about anything right now.”

“Okay.”

“So you can—” He'd rolled over then, finally looking at you, and his face had been wrecked. Eyes swollen, skin blotchy, expression raw in a way that made you feel like you were seeing something you shouldn't. “Why are you here?”

You shrugged stiffly. “Does it matter?” You weren’t sure if he could hear the hesitance in your voice, because you were still afraid of pushing too hard too quickly.

He'd stared at you for a long moment, and you'd watched something move across his face. Then he'd shifted closer, rolling so his face was pressed against your shoulder, his arm coming around your waist like he was holding on to keep from drowning.

You'd stayed like that for hours. Long enough that the light outside had faded, long enough that you'd heard Ward come home and yell something up the stairs that Rafe had ignored, long enough that your mom had called twice and you'd texted back that you were at Tannyhill and staying for dinner, even though you had no intention of eating. 

He hadn't cried. Hadn't talked about his mom or Ward or how he was feeling. He'd just breathed against your shoulder, held on too tight, and let you be there. And when you'd finally had to leave—your mom threatening to come get you herself if you didn't come home—he'd walked you to the window.

“Thanks,” he’d said quietly, you almost didn’t hear it.

“For what?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know.” He’d almost smiled, then. “Does it matter?”

After that, it became the thing you did. When things got bad—and they got bad often with Rafe—you showed up. Sometimes he called, sometimes you just knew, some internal alarm that went off when he needed you. You'd climb through his window or meet him at the dock or find him at whatever party he was using to avoid going home, and you'd just be there. Present. Steady. The thing he could count on when everything else was falling apart.

People noticed, obviously. By the time you were fifteen, the questions had started.

“So are you two together or…?” The girl was asking in your math class, someone you barely knew but felt entitled to answer anyway.

“We’re friends,” you said, and tried to ignore the way it felt insufficient. “Best friends—?” It came out like a question, and you were testing the term on your tongue the same time you were labelling it all as that. 

“Right. But you’re, like, always together. And he’s really weird for you. Didn’t he punch that guy last month for talking shit about you?”

“That wasn’t—” You'd stopped, because it had been about you, actually. Some guy from the mainland had made a comment about your body at a party, and Rafe had broken his nose before you'd even processed what was said. “We’re just friends.”

The girl had given you a look that said she didn't believe you, and you'd ended the conversation by walking away. Her words had stayed with you, burrowed under your skin like a splinter. Because the thing was, you didn't know what you and Rafe were anymore. The lines had been blurring for a while now, smudging at the edges until you couldn't tell where friendship ended and something else began.

There were moments that felt like more. His hand on your lower back guiding you through crowds. The way he'd tuck your hair behind your ear when you were trying to study and it kept falling in your face. How he always knew your coffee order, your schedule, your tells. He could read your mood as easily as you read his. The night you'd fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up in his bed, tucked under his covers with him on the floor beside you because he didn't want you to wake up alone in an empty house.

And then there was the New Year’s Eve thing. 

You’d both been sixteen, drunk on champagne and tequila someone’s older sister bought, counting down with everyone else at the houseparty. All around you people had been grabbing their girlfriends, their boyfriends, their crushes. And Rafe had turned to you at “three,” his eyes a little unfocused, his hand coming up to your face, and for one breathless, drunk, fuzzy moment, you’d been absolutely certain Rafe Cameron was going to kiss you. 

Your heart had stopped. The world had narrowed to just his face, his hand on your cheek, the way he was looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he couldn't quite work out, especially not in three seconds.

Then he'd shifted at the last possible second, pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth—not quite your cheek, not quite your lips, somewhere in the dangerous in-between—and lingered there long enough that you felt his breath, his eyelashes against your skin, the barely-there brush of his bottom lip against yours.

When he'd pulled back, his eyes had been searching yours for something, but you'd been too shocked to know what your face was showing him.

“Happy New Year,” he’d said, and there was something in his voice that made you think he was almost scared. 

“Yeah,” you’d managed. “You too.”

Neither of you had mentioned it after. Not the next day when you'd both been hungover and eating breakfast at the diner, not the week after, not ever. It had just become another thing in the box of moments you didn't examine too closely, couldn't afford to think about for too long.

By seventeen, you'd started to understand what you were doing to yourself. Started to see the pattern clearly: you rearranged your life around Rafe Cameron's needs, and he let you, and neither of you acknowledged what that meant.

You’d had boyfriends, who were brief and doomed attempts at normal that had ended all the same way. Matt, at seventeen, who’d been nice and steady and had lasted four months before sitting you down at the club to break up with you.

“I like you,” he’d said, and he seemed genuinely regretful about it. “I really do. But you’re not really here. Even when you’re with me, there’s just—someone else.”

He didn’t have to say who or how, and that should’ve been the first sign to you about how people really saw you in conjunction to Rafe. “That’s not—”

“Your phone goes off and you check it immediately to see if it’s Rafe. You’ve canceled on me three times in two months because he needed something. Last week at the party, you spent the entire night with him because he got too high instead of talking to me.” Matt had given you this sad, knowing look as he shook his head. “I’m not competing with Rafe-fucking-Cameron. I can’t do that.”

Most of the time, you’d blame yourself when a relationship didn’t work out. Some—if not most—guys weren’t that easily willing to be with a girl who put another guy’s needs so high up on her priority. But most of the time, it was also that Rafe made it practically impossible for you to hold down a relationship. He never did it on purpose, or maybe he did but never admitted it. But there was always something. Always a crisis that needed you, a night he couldn't handle alone, a moment where you were his only option and he knew exactly how to make you feel it.

The pattern was so consistent you could have set your watch by it: you'd start seeing someone, things would be going well, and then Rafe would implode. Sometimes spectacularly (a fight with Ward that left him bloody-knuckled and hollow-eyed on your doorstep at 2 AM). Sometimes quietly (a text that just said can't sleep or you around? that you both knew meant I need you and I'm not okay and please don't make me say it out loud).

And you’d go. Every single time, you’d go. 

Rafe, meanwhile, cycled through girls like he was trying to prove something. Never the same one twice, never anyone who lasted long enough to matter. But between all of that, there was a girl he’d met at a party in Chapel Hill. Sienna. She was quieter, smarter, studying environmental science or something equally serious. Rafe had been into her. He’d brought her to Kildare for the summer, took her to all the places he usually only took you. You'd watched it happen with this growing sense of dread, like watching a car accident in slow motion.

Sienna had tried with you. She really tried. She invited you to things, complimented your clothes, and talked to you with what seemed like genuine interest. She made it difficult to not like her by being relentlessly nice.

“I’m glad Rafe has you,” she’d said once, the three of you sitting on the beach after a boat day. Rafe had gone to get more drinks, left you alone together in that awkward way that meant he hadn't thought about whether you two would have anything to say to each other. “He talks about you all the time.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. You’ve known each other forever, right?” She'd drawn her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. “That must be nice. Someone who knows you that well.” 

“Yeah,” you’d said. “It’s nice.” 

Rafe’s bedroom always smelled like him, like cologne that cost more than most people’s car payment, the cotton-clean scent of laundry detergent, and underneath it all, smoke and salt air and this musk of his skin you’d know anywhere. You’d probably recognize it blind and half-dead. You’d spent enough time in his room to have it memorized: his king-sized bed with its navy sheets that he never made, the desk covered in shit he never threw away (old receipts, a broken watch, three different half-empty cologne bottles, that paperweight you'd given him for his sixteenth birthday that he'd laughed at and then kept). The window that overlooked the dock where you'd spent a thousand nights sitting with your legs dangling over the water, passing a cigarette back and forth even though you didn't really smoke.

You were lying on that bed now, on your stomach with your chin propped on your folded arms, watching him pace. He’d been pacing for the past ten minutes, phone pressed to his ear, and you’d learned too early not to interrupt him when he got like this. Wound up. Those moments of Rafe Cameron agitation that could flip into anger or anxiety or sometimes both at once; his moods had become like a riptide you’d gotten good at reading.

“I don’t give a fuck what he said,” Rafe was saying on the phone, hand gesturing sharply even though whoever he was talking to couldn’t see him. Barry, probably. It was usually Barry these days. “The deal was three grand for the full load. He doesn’t get to re-negotiate after the fact just because—no. No, you listen to me—”

You let your gaze drift to the window. It was late afternoon, that golden-hour light slanting through the glass and making everything look softer than it was. From here you could see a corner of the pool, hear the faint sound of Rose's voice from somewhere downstairs, probably talking to the caterers about whatever party Ward was throwing this weekend. Thursday. It was Thursday, which meant you'd come over after your shift at the country club, still wearing the white polo and khaki shorts that made up your uniform, your hair pulled back in a ponytail that had started giving you a headache an hour ago.

You should take it down. You should probably go home, actually. But Rafe had texted you can you come over and you'd texted back when? and he'd just sent now, so here you were.

“Yeah, well tell him to go fuck himself then.” Rafe’s voice cut through your thoughts. “I’ll find another buyer. I don’t need his—yeah. Yeah, I know. Just—fuck. Fine. I’ll talk to him.” He hung up without saying goodbye, a habit that used to surprise you and now didn’t even register.

He stood there for a second, staring at his phone, jaw working. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand had curled into a fist. Counting down in your head—three, two, one—before he pivoted and threw his phone onto the bed. It bounced once, landed next to your hip. You didn't flinch.

“Fucking people,” he muttered, running his both hands through his hair. It was getting longer. He needed a cut but he kept putting it off, and you kind of liked it long anyway, long enough that it fell across his forehead when he wasn’t paying attention. “Every single person in this place is trying to screw me over.”

“What’d Barry want?” Your voice came out muffled against your arms.

“Money. What else?” He finally stopped pacing, dropped onto the bed next to you hard enough that you bounced slightly. The mattress dipped under his weight. “This guy I’ve been trying to get money from is trying to short him on the last pickup. Says the quality wasn’t what he expected, wants to pay half. Half! After he already moved the shit.”

You made a noncommittal sound. You'd learned that too—when to engage with his rants about deals and money and all the shit he got into with Barry, and when to just let him talk himself out. This felt like a let-him-talk situation.

“I should’ve fuckin’ known,” he continued, rolling onto his back beside you. He was close enough that you could feel the heat wavering off his body and smell his cologne. “Barry said the guy was solid but obviously he wasn’t, because nobody’s actually solid except—” He stopped, and you felt rather than saw him turn his head toward you. “You listening?”

“Mmhm.” You shifted your chin on your arms, met his eyes. They were very blue. You'd known that for fifteen years and it still did something to you, every single time. “Guy’s trying to screw you over on payment. Barry’s pissed. You’re handling it.”

Something in his expression softened, just slightly. “Yeah.”

“Want me to come with?” The offer was automatic. You'd done it before, gone with Rafe when he had to handle something, stood there looking pretty and unbothered while he did whatever he had to do. Your presence somehow made people take him more seriously, or maybe just made him feel more in control. You'd never been totally sure which.

“Nah,” he said, still looking at you, and there was something discerning in his gaze. “Probably gonna get ugly. Don’t want you there for that.”

“Since when do you care about me seeing things get ugly?”

“Since always.” He said it like it was obvious, like you were supposed to know that. His hand came up and you thought for a second he was going to touch you—your face, your hair, something—but instead he just tucked his arm behind his head. “You’re too good for all that shit anyway.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that you'd been watching him get into shit for years, that you'd cleaned blood off his knuckles more times than you could count, that there wasn't much you hadn't seen. But the way he'd said it—too good—made something in your chest constrict.

He didn't mean it the way you wanted him to.

He never did.

“Your mom still doing that charity thing on Saturday?” he asked, abrupt change that you followed because you always did. 

“The gala? Yeah.”

“You going?”

“Have to. She’s making me help set up.” You wrinkled your nose. “Four hours of arranging flowers and decorating silent auction tables.”

“Sounds fucking awful.”

“It is,” you said, rolling onto your side to face him properly. He was still on his back, staring at the ceiling, and you let yourself look at him. You looked at the sharp line of his jaw, the way his t-shirt had ridden up slightly, showing a strip of tan skin above his shorts. There was a thin scar across his collarbone where he’d wiped out on his bike when you were twelve. “You could come. Make it less awful.”

“Yeah?” He turned his head to meet your eyes again. “What’s in it for me?”

“My eternal gratitude”

He snorted. “Got that already.”

It was a joke. Probably a joke. But something about the casual way he said it—like your devotion to him was a given, like of course you'd always be there—made you look away.

“You should come anyway,” you said, focusing on the loose thread in his comforter instead of his face. “Your dad’s gonna be there. Ward loves those things.”

You noticed him tense, shoulders stiffening. “Yeah, well, he loves anything that makes him look good.”

There was an edge in his voice that meant you were getting into dangerous territory. Rafe and Ward. Ward and Rafe. The central wound that everything else bled from.

“He asked about you last week,” you said carefully. “At the club.”

“What’d you say?”

“That you were fine.”

“‘M not.”

“I know, but I wasn’t gonna tell him that.” You picked at the thread. “Said you were busy with work. He seemed to buy it.”

Rafe went quiet for a moment, and the only thing you could hear his soft inhales and exhales. “You don’t have to cover for me with him.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. If he asks, you can just—”

“Rafe,” you said, eyes meeting his again. “I’m always gonna cover for you. You know that.”

Something flickered across his face. You couldn't name it or catch it before it was gone, replaced by that familiar cocky half-smile that meant he was deflecting.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

His phone buzzed between the two of you. He picked up and frowned at the screen. “Fuck.” 

“Hm?”

“Topper’s having a small thing tonight.” He was already typing a response. “You wanna go?”

You should say no. “Sure.”

He glanced up from his phone, grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. What time?”

“Like nine? Gonna be the usual people. Topper, Kelce, some of the girls.” He was still typing. “Probably will get messy. Top said he got shit from his cousin.”

Messy meant drugs. Drugs meant Rafe would get high, maybe too high, and you’d end up being the one to make sure he got home okay. To make sure he didn’t do anything stupid or life-altering; to make sure he kept breathing. “Okay.”

He finished texting, then tossed his phone to the side. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“So you keep telling me.”

“I mean it.” He shifted, turning to his side to face you properly. He was close now. You could count his eyelashes if you wanted to, and you could see the faint stubble growing along his jaw that meant he hadn’t shaved today. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You’d heard it before—some versions of it—but it never got easier. Nothing could make you stop hoping for things you knew better than to hope for. “Probably crash and burn.”

“Probably.” His smile dimmed, and he was just looking at you now. “You’re too good to me.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

“Yeah.” His voice had gone soft, and he was pushing his face into the pillow now, like he wanted to bury himself there. “But it doesn’t have to be you.”

“I know.” You swallowed harshly. 

Rafe looked at you for another moment, one eye opened while the other rested against the pillow, and then he was rolling away, sitting up, the moment—if it had been a moment—broken. 

“I’m starving,” he announced, standing. “You eat yet?”

“No.”

“Come on. Rose probably had the caterers make extra. We can grab some before they pack it up.” He held out his hand and you took it, let him pull you to your feet. His hand was warm, calloused at the base of his fingers from—well, you weren’t sure. Lifting, maybe. Gripping his motorcycle handles. Fighting.

He held onto your hand for a moment longer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to look at him. Then, he let go and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You should take your hair down.” He nodded toward your head, like you didn’t know where it was. “That ponytail looks like it hurts.”

“It does.”

“Then take it down.”

You reached up and pulled the elastic free. Your hair fell around your shoulders and Rafe watched, tracked the movement, and you tried not to think about what it meant that he noticed these things. That he paid attention to when you were uncomfortable, when you were tired, when you needed something, but only the small things. The things that didn't cost him anything.

“Better?” you asked.

He turned and headed for the door, expected you to follow. You did. You always did.

The hospital waiting room smelled like industrial cleaner and something organic the cleaner couldn’t mask. You’d been staring at the same scuff mark on the linoleum for the past twenty minutes, a black streak shaped like a comma, and you’d counted the ceiling tiles twice. Forty-seven, or forty-eight if you counted the one that was partially hidden by the fluorescent light fixture that kept flickering every thirty seconds like a heartbeat with arrhythmia.

Your coffee had gone cold an hour ago but you kept lifting the paper cup to your lips anyway, more for something to do with your hands than because you wanted it. It tasted like burnt dirt. Like the bottom of an ashtray. You drank it anyway because your mouth needed something to do besides form the words that kept cycling through your head. Please don't let her die. Please don't let her die. Please.

Your mom was still in surgery. Brain-bleed. Subarachnoid damage, the doctor had said, like the technical term would make it all less terrifying. Fucking Latin couldn’t sanitize the image of your mother collapsed on the kitchen floor. You’d found her by the island where she’d been chopping vegetables for dinner she’d never finish making. The knife was still in her hand. There was blood—not a lot, but enough—and her eyes had been half-open, staring at nothing, and for one horrible second, the one that would haunt you for the rest of your life, you’d thought she was already gone. 

The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and paramedic’s hands moving over your mother’s body with such scientific efficiency and his voice asking you questions you couldn’t process, let alone answer. Your dad was in Charlotte for a development deal, and he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Your older brother was in California and had already booked the first flight back, but he wouldn’t be in until noon. So it was just you in this waiting room with its outdated magazines (the most recent one was April, something about royal baby names) and its mounted television playing CNN on mute, closed captions running across the bottom of the screen like a ticker tape of the world’s suffering. 

You’d called Rafe three hours ago. 

Your phone said it was 11:47 now. You knew it was three hours because you’d called him at 8:52; you also knew the exact minute because you’d looked at the call log approximately seven hundred times since then. When he’d answered, you’d barely been able to get the words out around the panic closing your throat, but you’d managed these: hospital, mom, surgery, so, bad, come, please. And he’d said—you could still hear his voice, the way it had shifted from whatever he’d been doing (there had been noises in the background, music, people) to something more focused and immediate—“Fuck. Okay. I’m coming right now. I’m coming.”

Present tense. I’m coming. Not I’ll come or I’ll be there soon, but I’m coming, like he was already in motion and on his way to you. 

He wasn’t there.

Your phone said you also had six missed calls from Kiara and a text from twenty minutes ago that just said “where are you??? are you okay???” Kie had probably driven by your house, seen your car gone, put together that something was wrong. She was good at noticing things, reading between the lines, seeing what people were trying to hide. It was what made her a good friend and also what made her the only person in your life who'd ever said out loud what everyone else was too polite to mention: that your friendship with Rafe Cameron wasn't actually a friendship at all, but something more fucked up and unnameable that was slowly hollowing you out from the inside

You should call her back. You should tell her where you were.

But if you called Kie, she would come, and if she came, she’d ask where Rafe was, and you didn’t have an answer to that question that wouldn’t make you feel like you were being flayed open by so many things all at once.

The TV above your head was showing footage of a hurricane forming off the coast of Florida. The closed captions said it was expected to strengthen to a Category 3. You watched the satellite image of the storm system, the way it spiraled in on itself.

A nurse walked by—not your mom's nurse, a different one—and she gave you a smile that was probably meant to be comforting but just looked like pity. You'd been here long enough that the staff had started to recognize you. The girl in the waiting room who was alone. The girl whose phone kept lighting up with calls she wasn't answering. The girl who'd gone to the bathroom an hour ago and cried so hard she'd thrown up, then splashed water on her face and come back out here to wait some more.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. 

It was Kie: i’m coming to the hospital. sarah told me. don’t try to stop me.

Sarah. Of course. You’d forgot that Sarah started dating John B not too long ago, and Sarah probably knew you were here because news traveled fast on Figure Eight. Ward most likely heard from your dad, who told Rose, who told Sarah, who told Kie. 

you don’t have to come.

She responded immediately: fuck that. i’ll be there in 10.

You set your phone face-down on the chair next to you and closed your eyes. The fluorescent lights were still visible through your eyelids, turning the darkness behind them red-orange like the inside of a body. You thought about Rafe’s words again—I'm coming—and felt something twist in your chest that was too complicated to name. You were too tired for anger. It was something heavier, something that sat on your sternum like a weight.

This wasn't the first time Rafe had said he was coming and then didn't show. But it was the first time it mattered like this. The first time the thing you needed him for wasn't about him at all.

You'd been there for everything. Every fight with Ward that ended with Rafe's knuckles bloody from punching something (usually a wall, sometimes Topper, once the side of his truck hard enough that he'd broken two fingers). Every arrest, every party where he'd gotten too fucked up and needed someone to make sure he kept breathing, every 3 AM phone call that was just him on the other end of the line, silent, and you saying “I'm here, Rafe, I'm here”until his breathing evened out. You'd been there when his mom left with packed her bags and drove away. You'd been sixteen and he'd shown up at your window at two in the morning, eyes wild, and you'd let him climb into your bed and hold onto you like you were the only solid thing in a world that was dissolving.

You’d lied to your parents for him. You’d lied to the cops for him. You’d canceled plans, rearranged your life, and set yourself on fire to keep him warm.

And tonight, when your mom was in surgery and you'd needed him—actually needed him, not just wanted him or missed him or wished he was there, but needed him with the kind of desperation that felt like drowning—he'd said he was coming. And he hadn't come.

Your phone lit up again. It wasn’t Kie this time. 

Rafe: I’m sorry

You stared at the text. Two words. No explanation. No excuse, either. Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Appeared again, disappeared again. You waited, watching the screen because looking down the hall to where you weren’t allowed to visit your mom yet was too much, and finally felt something in your chest that had been pulled out for three hours finally start to fray.

Rafe: Is your mom ok

You sucked in a sharp inhale of breath and typed, without thinking, where are you?

He started typing immediately. 

Rafe: Something came up

Rafe: I’m handling it

Rafe: I’ll be there soon

Something came up. You read the words three times, four times, and each time they made less sense. You didn’t respond to that and set your phone down and went back to staring at the scuff mark on the floor. 

The automatic doors at the entrance whooshed open and you looked up on instinct, knowing she’d get here before she actually did. 

She was wearing the same clothes from earlier—cutoff shorts and a tank top, her curly hair pulled back in a bandana, which meant she'd come straight from wherever she'd been. Probably the Chateau. You'd been invited a few times, but it always felt weird, like you were crossing some invisible line. Kook girls didn't hang out in the Cut, not really. Even if Kie was technically a Kook too, she'd never felt like one. Not the way you did.

She spotted you and crossed the waiting room in quick strides, dropped into the chair next to you without asking. “Hey,” she said. “How is she?” 

“Still in surgery.” Your voice came out hoarse. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d said anything or had water. “They said it might be a few hours.”

Kie nodded. “Have you eaten?” 

You shoot your head dumbly, barely processing the question. 

“Okay, I’m gonna find a vending machine or something. You have to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry, Kie.”

“Don’t care,” she said, then paused, looking down at you. Her eyes moved to your phone, still face-up on the chair where you’d left it, and forgotten to lock it. She looked at Rafe’s texts on the screen, and you watched her read them, her jaw tighten, and something flashed across her face that might’ve been anger or pity. You hated the latter.

“He’s not here,” she said.

You didn’t answer.

“He’s not here,” she repeated, tilting her head back to the phone, vaguely gesturing to the text.

“Something came up,” you heard yourself say, and you hated how automatic it was, how quickly you jumped to defend him even now. “He's handling it. He'll be here soon.”

“And you’re still—” She stopped herself and shook her head. “Never mind. I’m gonna get you food. Be right back.” 

She walked away before you could respond, and you were left alone again with the fluorescent lights and the CNN coverage of the hurricane and the scuff mark on the floor that looked like a comma, like a pause in the middle of a sentence that would never finish.

Your phone buzzed.

Rafe: Hey please don’t be mad

Rafe: I’m fixing something and I’ll be there

Rafe: Promise

You stared at the word ‘promise’ until it stopped looking like a word at all and the letters began to float around your vision. You blinked. 

You turned your phone face-down this time and closed your eyes and tried not to think about the fact of anything. Tried not to think about how your mother was going through surgery for something very terrifying, that none of your family was able to be here, that that that. 

Kiara came back with a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water. She sat down next to you and opened the pretzels and held them out, and you took one even though the idea of eating made your stomach turn. You chewed mechanically, tasting nothing, and Kie didn't say anything. She just sat there, solid and present, and you thought about how she'd dropped everything to be here. How she hadn't asked questions or made excuses or said she'd come soon. She'd just come.

Your phone buzzed again. You didn't look at it.

“You don’t have to answer him,” Kie said quietly. 

“I know.”

“Especially not tonight. You don’t owe him anything.”

You wanted to argue and explain that she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand that Rafe was as complicated as they come, that he had his reasons, that he was dealing with shit nobody could imagine. You wanted to defend him the way you’d been defending him for years, to everyone who looked at you with the same expression Kie was wearing now, like you were someone breaking and too stupid to see your own demise.

But you were so tired.

So instead, you just said, “Okay.”

Kie’s hand found yours, palm closing over the fist you hadn’t even realized you’d balled, and squeezed. You uncurled your fingers and squeezed her back. 

And you sat there in the horrible fluorescent lighting of the waiting room, eating pretzels you couldn't taste, while somewhere in the hospital your mother was on an operating table and somewhere in Kildare County Rafe Cameron was handling something that was more important than you.

The doors opened again at 1:33 AM and this time it was the surgeon, still in his scrubs, pulling down his mask. You stood up so quickly you knocked over the bottle of water. Kie grabbed it before it could spill everywhere. You were already crossing the room, your heart in your throat, reading the doctor’s face for signs of the future, whether you still had a mother or whether the world had rearranged itself into something unimaginable. 

“She’s stable,” he said, and the relief hit you so hard you thought your legs might give out. “The surgery went well. We were able to repair the aneurysm. The next twenty-four hours are critical, but she’s a fighter.”

You heard yourself saying thank you, heard yourself asking questions about recovery and risks and when you could see her, heard the doctor's answers like they were coming from underwater. Kie's arm was around your shoulders, holding you upright, and you realized distantly that you were crying—had been crying—and couldn't remember when you'd started.

“You can see her in about an hour,” he was saying. “She’s in recovery now. She’ll be groggy, probably won’t remember much, but you can sit with her.”

You turned to Kie and she pulled you into a hug, and you let yourself fall apart for exactly thirty seconds before you pulled yourself back together. Your mom was okay. Your mom was going to be okay. Everything else could wait. Except.

Except your phone was buzzing in your pocket, and you pulled it out, and there were seven new texts from Rafe, all sent in the last ten minutes:

Rafe: Fuck I’m so sorry

Rafe: I got caught up with some shit

Rafe: Barry needed help and something went sideways

Rafe: I’m leaving now

Rafe: I’m on my way

Rafe: Please answer me

You looked at the timestamp on the first message. 1:19 AM. Almost five hours after you'd called him. Almost five hours after he'd said he was coming. And something inside you—something that had been pulled tight for so long you'd forgotten it was there—finally snapped. It just broke, like a bone fracturing under pressure it was never meant to bear. 

You typed: she’s okay. surgery went well. 

He responded immediately.

Rafe: Thank fuck. I was so worried.

Rafe: I’ll be there in 15

You stared at that message. I was so worried. Not worried enough to come. Not worried enough to choose you over whatever Barry had needed, over whatever shit had gone sideways. Just worried in the abstract, the way you might be worried about a stranger, a theoretical person you didn't actually have to do anything for.

Kie was watching you. You could feel her looking, could feel her trying to figure out what to say.

Your fingers moved across the screen: don't.

He responded in seconds.

Rafe: What

Rafe: Don’t what

You took a breath. Then another. 

don’t come. i don’t want you here.

Rafe: What are you talking about

Rafe: I’m coming

Rafe: Already omw

You looked up at Kie with a frown on your face, and she peeked over to look at the texts. 

i needed you here hours ago

not now

Rafe: Come on

Rafe: It’s not like I didn’t wanna be with u

You laughed, actually laughed, and Kie pulled you by the shoulders so you could rest your head on hers.

then where were you?

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. You waited, watching the screen, and felt Kie's hand on your arm squeezing.

Rafe: I told you. Barry had a problem. These guys from Charlseton tried to fuck him over and I had to help

Rafe: It was important

Rafe: I couldn’t just leave

You read it twice, and you could feel Kie suck in a sharp breath beside you. 

more important than this?

Rafe: That’s not fair

You pressed your lips into a straight line at that. The phrase he always used, the one that meant he wasn’t going to admit he was wrong, and wasn’t going to apologize in any way that meant anything. 

go home

Rafe: No I said I’m coming and we’re going to talk

Rafe: You’re upset but you’re not thinking straight

Rafe: Just give me 15 min

You looked up at Kie. She was still watching you, her expression careful, like she was afraid if she said the wrong thing you'd shatter.

"He's coming," you said. Your voice sounded strange.

“Do you want him to?” 

It was such a simple question, and the answer you realized was no. You didn't want him here. You didn't want to see his face, didn't want to hear his excuses, didn't want to feel the way you always felt around him lately—like you were shrinking, like you were making yourself smaller and smaller to fit into whatever space he was willing to give you.

Your mom was okay. That was what mattered. Your mom was alive and you were going to see her in an hour and Rafe had nothing to do with any of it.

“No,” you said. “I don’t.”

Kie nodded slowly. “Then tell him.” 

You waved your phone loosely, knowing she was reading. “He’s not listening.”

“Then don’t be here when he shows up.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You can see your mom in an hour. So let’s go outside. Get some air. When he gets here, he can sit in an empty waiting room and wonder why that is.”

It was petty. It was probably childish. It was definitely going to make Rafe angry.

You stood up.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay."

You didn't text him again. You just walked out of the waiting room with Kiara, through the automatic doors and into the parking lot where the air was warm and thick with humidity and you could finally breathe.

Your phone started ringing almost immediately. You looked at the screen. Rafe, with the photo you'd set years ago, him laughing at something you'd said, his eyes crinkled at the corners, looking at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

You declined the call.

It rang again. You declined again.

When it rang the third time, Kie said, “Do you want me to answer it?”

“No.” You turned the ringer off and shoved the phone in your pocket. “Let him be.”

You sat down on the curb outside the ER entrance and Kie sat next to you, and for a while neither of you said anything. There was just the sound of cars on the distant highway, the humid buzz of crickets, the occasional wail of an ambulance siren somewhere in the night.

“How many times has he done this?” Kie asked finally.

You knew what she meant. How many times had he promised and not delivered. How many times had he said he was coming and then didn't show. How many times had you needed him and he'd chosen something else.

“I don't know,” you said. And then, more honestly, you added, “A lot.”

“And you always forgive him.”

It wasn’t a question, but you answered it anyway. “Yup.”

“Why?”

You'd never really let yourself think about it before. Why you forgave him, why you kept forgiving him, why you accepted the scraps he offered and called it enough.

"Because he’s my friend," you said. The words came out quiet, almost inaudible. “He’s always been my friend and I don’t know how to stop.” And that was probably the most honest thing you could give Kiara then. No defence; no embellishments about Rafe’s character people would never believe; no ignoring.

She went quiet for a moment. “You sure?

“What?” Your voice came out slightly high, furrowing your brows as you turned to look at her. “Yeah.”

“Is that it? Just friends?”

“Yes.” You swallowed hard. “We're just friends. That's all we've ever been.”

“Bullshit.” But there was no bite to it, only some form of inflection she hoped would get to you. “Friends don't act like you two act. Friends don't—” She stopped herself, shook her head. “He knows. He has to know. And he uses it.”

You wanted to argue and defend him, to explain that it wasn't like that, that Rafe cared about you, that your friendship meant something. But sitting there in the parking lot at two in the morning, your phone in your pocket with calls you weren't going to answer, your mom alive upstairs, you couldn't find the words. Because maybe Kie was right. Maybe he did know you’d do anything for him. 

You finally pulled your phone out of the pocket to look at the screen. Eleven missed calls; four new voicemails; fifteen texts, and the previews on your screen read:

Rafe: Where are you

Rafe: I’m at the hospital you’re not there

Rafe: This isn’t funny

Rafe: Answer your fucking phone

Rafe: Are you seriously doing this right now?

You didn't read the rest.

"I should go back in," you said. "They'll be ready for me soon."

Kie stood up, offered you her hand. You took it and let her pull you to your feet.

“You know you don't have to do this tonight, right?” she said. “Whatever you're thinking about doing. With Rafe. You don't have to deal with it now. Not when you're—” She gestured vaguely at you, and you knew what she meant. Not when you were exhausted and traumatized and running on nothing but adrenaline and hospital coffee.

“I know.”

But the thing was, you did have to deal with it. Because you could feel it, that thing that had snapped inside you. It wasn't going to un-snap. It wasn't something you could ignore or push down or pretend hadn't happened. Something had fundamentally changed tonight. You just weren't sure yet what you were going to do about it.

You saw your mom at 2:47 in the morning. She was pale and groggy and had a bandage wrapped around her head like some sort of messed up halo, but she was alive and she remembered you, and when you took her hand she squeezed back, and you cried so much the nurse had to bring you tissues.

“Hey, baby,” your mom whispered, her voice scratchy from the breathing tube they’d removed. “Don’t cry. I’m okay.”

“I know,” you managed to say. “I know. I was scared.”

“I’m tough.” She smiled, and you could see how much effort that cost her by the way her fingertips stilled. “Takes more than that to get rid of me.”

You laughed through your tears and held her hand and told her about the surgery, about what the doctor had said, about how Dad was flying back first thing in the morning and your brother would be here by noon. Kie was waiting outside the room, giving you privacy, and when you came out thirty minutes later—your mom had fallen asleep mid-convo, which the nurse said was normal—she was on her phone texting someone. She looked up when she saw you.

“How is she?”

“Good. Really good, considering.” You felt lighter than you had in hours, like someone had removed a weight from your chest you hadn’t realized was completely suffocating you. “She’s going to be okay.”

Kie smiled, showing some of her teeth as she pulled you in for a tight hug. “I’m glad.” When she pulled away, she added, quieter, “Rafe’s in the waiting room.”

Your stomach dropped. “Really?”

“I think he hasn’t left. Been here for the past hour. I saw him, but didn’t say anything.” She paused, like she was considering her next words. “He looked pretty wrecked, for what it’s worth.” 

You closed your eyes. You could picture him exactly, probably wearing the same clothes from earlier, hair a mess and sticking up in different directions, that look on his face he got when things weren't going his way with his pupils blown wide. Lost and angry and desperate all at once.

Part of you wanted to go to him to smooth things over, to accept his his half-assed apology, to slip back into the familiar pattern of forgiving him because it was easier than this. But you were so tired. Tired of easy. Tired of being the one who always bent, always understood, always made it okay.

“I’ll talk to him,” you said.

Kie looked only slightly worried, as if she’d been expecting this. “You sure? You don’t have to.”

“I know. I need to, though.” You didn't know what you were going to say, didn't have a plan, didn't have anything except this strange hollow feeling in your chest where something used to be.

You walked down the hallway toward the waiting room, your footsteps echoing on the linoleum, and tried to prepare yourself for what came next. But your mind was blank, just white noise and exhaustion and that weird calm that came after something inside you broke.

He was exactly where Kie said he'd be, slouched in one of the plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked up when he heard you coming and the expression on his face was so relieved it physically hurt to look at.

“Finally,” he said, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “Fuck, I’ve been trying to call you for—where the fuck were you?”

And just like that, the relief curdled into something else. Not where were you, are you okay, how’s everything, just where the fuck were you, like you were the one who'd done something wrong and needed to explain yourself.

“Outside,” you said, and the words came out flat. You watched something flicker across his face. Confusion, maybe. Or the first hint of understanding that this wasn't going to go the way he expected.

“I’ve been sitting here for an hour. I thought—” He ran a hand through his hair, and you could see he was agitated, that jittery energy he got when he was coming down or stressed or both. There were dark circles under his eyes and his pupils were dilated and you knew without asking he was high. Not a lot, but enough. “Kiara saw me but she wouldn’t tell me where you are.”

“I know.”

“So, what? You’re just ignoring me now? After I drove all the way here—”

“After five hours, Rafe.”

Your words stopped him. He blinked at you like he couldn't quite process what you'd said, like the words didn't make sense in that order.

“I told you,” he started, and you could already hear the excuse he’d said over text forming in his mouth now. You knew it because this conversation had gone the exact same way a hundred times before. “I had to—”

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I don’t care what you had to do.” Your voice still sounded too calm, too flat, and some distant part of you wondered if you were in shock or something. If this weird detachment was your brain’s way of protecting you from feeling too much all at once. “I needed you here, and you weren’t here. That’s all that matters.” 

“That’s not—” He stepped closer, and you didn’t step back. His face went from confusion to something that might’ve been hurt if you believed he was capable of being hurt by you. “Come on. Don’t be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Cold. You’re being cold,” he said immediately, and you wondered if he’d been gearing up to say that, waiting for you to push out the question just so he could say the words to you.

You almost laughed. “I’m being cold?”

“Yes,” he said, voice rising as both of his palms went to lay flat behind his head. “I’m trying to apologize and you won’t even—”

“This isn’t apologizing,” you said, the words sharper, cutting through whatever he was going to say. “You’re making excuses. That’s the difference.”

He stared at you, and you could see him trying to recalibrate, trying to figure out what was happening. This wasn't how it usually went. Usually you were sad or angry or some combination of both, but you always felt something. Always gave him something to work with, something to push against or soothe or talk his way around. This calmness, the solidity was completely new.

“What should I say?” he asked finally. 

“I want you to say you chose fucking Barry over me.” Read: You chose your drug dealer over your apparent best friend. 

“It wasn’t—It’s not like that, okay? It’s not about choosing. These guys were serious, they had—if I hadn’t been there, Barry could’ve gotten hurt. Maybe killed. Was I just supposed to—”

“Yes.” The word came out quiet but final, and you watched him flinch like you’d slapped him. “You were supposed to just leave. You were supposed to come here. To me. That’s what people do when someone they care about needs them.”

“I do care about you—!”

“Then where were you, Rafe?” Your voice finally cracked, and you hated it, loathed yourself for giving him that. “So much fucking happened tonight. I thought she was already gone. And I—I called you here ‘cause you’re supposed to be my person, and you said you were coming and I believed you because I always do, and you didn’t come. You weren’t there.”

“I’m here now—”

“It’s too late.” The words hung between the two of you, and a part of you wondered if you were pushing things too far, biting off what you can’t chew. His expression shifted to something closer to panic. “You being here now doesn’t change you weren’t here when I needed you.”

He looked like you’d punched him, brows furrowing as his eyes narrowed, shaking his head. “So, what, you’re just done with me? One time I fuck up and you’re done?”

“It’s—it’s not one night,” you said as something hard lodged in your throat. You felt so tired suddenly, exhausted down to your bones in a way that had nothing to do with your lack of sleep. “It’s all the time. Every time I need you, you’ve had something more important. Every time I’ve made excuses for you, covered for you, changed my entire life to fit yours—I’m not giving up on you, Rafe. I’m just… I’m done.”

“Done.” Rafe echoed, and it wasn’t a question. It was like he was tasting the word on his tongue. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I don’t know yet.” And that was the truth. You didn’t know what came next, what this meant for your friendship, for fifteen years of history. You were sure if you took it all back right now, nothing would change. But that was the problem. Nothing would change. And you knew you couldn’t keep doing this. “I just—I think I need space.”

“Space,” he said. Then, he added, louder, “Space. Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

A nurse walking by gave you both a pointed look. You lowered your voice even though a part of you wanted to scream back at him. “Don’t make a scene.”

“I’m not making a—you know what? Fine. You want space. Take all the fucking space you want.” He said the last few words slower, and he was getting worked up now, that familiar edge creeping into his voice. The thing that turned mean when he felt cornered and trapped. “But don’t expect me to sit around waiting for you to decide you’re done punishing me.”

“Punishing you?” You stared at him, and something in your chest that had been numb started to burn. “You think this is about punishing you?”

“What else would it be? You're pissed that I wasn't here so you're making me suffer—”

“My mom almost died tonight!” The words came out too loud and you didn't care anymore, didn't care about the nurse or the scene or any of it. “This has nothing to do with you! For once in your life, Rafe, could you consider that not everything is about you?”

He flinched like you'd hit him, actually stumbled back a step. You saw the muscle in his jaw jump slightly. “That’s—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, feeling the fight drain out of you as quick as it came. “You did.”

You turned to walk away and his hand shot out, caught your wrist. Not hard, not painful, just desperate. You looked down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—the same hand that had held yours a thousand times, that had pulled you up when you fell, that had touched you in all those casual ways that made people look twice—and felt nothing.

“Wait,” he said. “Please. Just—give me a second, okay? Let me think.”

You stopped in your tracks but didn’t turn to face him fully. You could feel him behind you, taking in the moment to let the panic roll off him in waves, and you could feel the exact moment he realized he wasn’t only losing an argument, but also losing you as a whole, and didn’t know how to stop it. His palm tightened around your wrist slightly.

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out rough, cracked at the edges. “I'm really fucking sorry. I should've been here. I should've dropped everything and come, you're right. I fucked up. I always fuck up.” He paused, and you could hear him breathing, could hear the desperation in it. “But I can't lose you. Okay? I can't. You're all I have.”

There it was. The thing he always said, something to remind you that yes, you were all he had. Like it was friendship and love instead of suffocating. Like it wasn’t the clearest way for him to pretend he chose you when it really just meant he needed you to keep choosing him.

“That’s the problem,” you said softly, slowly moving your wrist out of his grasp. His hand protested for a moment, before his grip loosened, and you could see his mouth part at your words. “I’m tired of being your safety net.”

“You’re not—”

“I am.” You pulled your wrist free, finally turned to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, wild, and for a second he looked exactly like he had at fourteen when his mom left and he'd climbed through your window at 2 AM. But you weren't fourteen anymore. And you were so tired of being the person who caught him every time he fell. “You call me when you’re not okay. I’m the one you need when everything else goes to shit. But you never choose me when things are okay. I’m never the person you put first.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. You could see him trying to find an argument, a defense, trying to find the words that would make this okay, and coming up empty. Because he probably knew it was all true and, for the first time, it was laid out in front of him. 

“I gotta get bac to Kie,” you said. “You should go home.”

“Can I—” He swallowed hard, and you watched his throat work, watched him struggle with something. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

You wanted to say no and set a boundary to protect yourself, to start this process of untangling your life from his. But you knew all of this—the fifteen years and the millions of things in-between—couldn’t be undone overnight.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “Maybe give me a few days.”

Rafe’s lips pressed together into a small frown as he looked to the other side, and you could see the glistening of fresh tears in his eyes. “A few days?” he said, panic creeping into his voice, like this was something impossible. “I can’t do that. I gotta—I gotta know you’re okay. Need to know we’re okay.”

“We’re not okay.” You felt something drop in your chest even though the words came out of your mouth, but they were true. “We haven’t been for a while.”

“I’m fucked up,” he said, and it came out desperate, like an explanation, like that made it better. “You know how fucked up Ward is. You know how fucked up it all is You know—” His voice cracked completely, and one single tear fell down his cheeks. “Please don’t do this.” 

You looked at him. At the boy you'd known for fifteen years, the one who'd shared his toys with you when you were five and showed you his bruises when you were fourteen and held your hand through every hard thing in your life except, apparently, this one. The boy who took and took and took and genuinely didn't seem to understand why that wasn't enough. He hadn’t been the boy from before for a while. 

“You did this. By making me feel like I’m crazy for expecting you to choose me over drugs and over Barry and everything else.”

His expression crumpled. “I don't know how to do this,” he said, and his voice had gone small, young. “How to be what you need. I don't know how to—” He made a frustrated gesture with his hands. “I'm not good at this. At caring about people the right way. You know that.”

“I know,” you said, and you meant it. You did know. You knew about Ward's cruelty, about the impossible standards, about the way Rafe had been taught that love was something you earned and never quite achieved. “But you can’t use that as an excuse forever. At some point, you have to try—

“I am trying.”

“No.” The word came out gentle, which almost made it sound worse. “Stop taking what you need from me and giving back just enough to keep me around. I let you because I thought—” You stopped. What had you thought? That one day, he’d wake up and see you differently? That if you were patient enough, understanding enough, and always there, he’d finally do the same for you? 

You didn't even know what choosing you would look like. You weren't in love with him. You weren't. This wasn't about wanting him to be your boyfriend or whatever Kie seemed to think. This was about wanting him to be your friend. Your real friend. The kind who showed up.

“I just want you to care about me as much as I care about you,” you said finally. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He looked at you with a deep frown settling into his features like you’d asked for something impossible. “I do care—”

“Then show it.” You held his gaze, and you watched him cower under it now. “Just… prove it. By actually showing up. By being the person you keep saying you want to be.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Both of you looked at it like it was a snake. He didn't move to answer it, but he didn't silence it either. It buzzed again. A third time.

You both knew who it was.

“You should get that,” you said quietly.

Rafe tugged his bottom lip underneath his teeth. “It’s just Barry—”

“I know who it is.” You took a step back. “And you’re gonna answer it eventually. So just answer it now.”

“I’m not—” But his hand was already moving toward his pocket, that automatic response he couldn’t help. He caught himself halfway, stopped, but it was too late. You’d already seen it; his instinct, his reflex. 

“Go,” you said. “Go do what he needs.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Stop saying that.” You felt something shift in your chest, that broken thing settling into a new shape. Something harder. Something that might actually hold. “You don't get to decide what's fair anymore. You don't get to take everything and give nothing and then act surprised when I finally stop accepting it.”

His phone buzzed again. The sound was loud in the quiet hallway, aggressive, demanding, impossible to ignore.

“Answer it.”

“No.”

“Rafe, answer your fucking phone.”

“Not until you tell me we’re okay.” He was looking at you with those blue eyes that had gotten him out of trouble his entire life, that made people—made you—want to forgive him before he even apologized. “Not until you tell me we’re not—” He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say leaving me out loud, like saying it would make it real.

“We’re not.” 

You watched his face drop more, if that was even possible. He sucked in a sharp breath, and you knew he felt like the whole world was crashing down on him at once and it wasn’t fair. 

You turned to walk away and this time when he called your name—broken, desperate, pleading—you didn't stop. You walked back to where Kie was waiting, back to where your mom was sleeping, back to the parts of your life that existed separate from Rafe Cameron and his needs and his chaos.

Behind you, you heard his phone ring again. Heard him finally answer it.

The Chateau smelled like saltwater and old wood and cheap beer JJ insisted was “perfectly fine” even though it tasted like metal. You were sitting on the porch steps with your back against the railing, legs out in front of you, watching the bonfire Pope had built earlier flicker and spit sparks into the humid night air. The ocean was close enough that you could hear it beyond the music playing from someone's phone, something with a lot of bass that you didn't recognize but that JJ kept nodding along to like it was speaking directly to him and him only. 

Kie had picked you up that afternoon. Hadn't asked if you wanted to go anywhere, just showed up at your house around two with that look on her face that meant arguing was pointless. You'd slept for maybe three hours, woken up to seventeen new texts from Rafe that you hadn't opened, and when Kie knocked on your door you'd almost cried with relief at having somewhere to go that wasn't the hospital or your too-quiet house or anywhere Rafe might find you.

The Pogues had been exactly what you needed without knowing you needed it. No one asked about your mom beyond “how is she?” and accepting “she’s okay” as a complete answer. No one mentioned Rafe even though you pretty sure Kie had given them some kind of briefing before you arrived. They just folded you into their group like you’d always been there; JJ handed you a beer, Pope made space on the steps, Cleo offered you a bag of chips she’d been holding, all while they waited for the person whose house this was to finally show up. 

John B and Sarah showed up an hour later, and Sarah’s appearance created a brief moment of tension in your chest because you knew Sarah meant Rafe, and probably had questions you didn’t want to answer. But Sarah had just given you a long look and a tight hug and told you that she was glad you were okay and left it at that. She settled under John B’s arm on the couch inside where you could see them through the open door. 

You'd been nursing the same beer for an hour, the glass warm in your hand and probably flat by now. The sun had set maybe thirty minutes ago, that perfect summer twilight where everything looked softer, hazy, like you were seeing the world through a filter. JJ was attempting to teach Cleo some kind of card game that seemed to have rules he was making up as he went. Pope was trying to fix something on John B's boat with a flashlight and a lot of muttered cursing. Kie sat next to you on the steps, close enough that your shoulders touched, not saying anything but present in that way she was good at.

“So, what’s the over-and-under on how long before JJ gets punched?” Pope called from the dock, not looking up from whatever he was doing to the boat’s motor.

“He’s already cheating,” Cleo said, throwing a card at JJ’s head. “I can tell.” 

“That’s not cheating—”

“That’s cheating.”

John B’s laugh came from inside. “JJ, you literally always change the rules.”

“I’ve got creative liberty,” JJ protested, but he was grinning, already shuffling the cards again. “Come on. One more time. I’ll play fair.”

“You’ve never played fair your entire life,” Kie said, rolling her eyes.

You took a sip of your warm beer and tried to focus on the moment, the casual back-and-forth, the easy way they all moved around each other, the safety of people who weren't asking you for anything. It should have felt good. It did feel good, in a way. But there was this disconnect, like you were watching it happen from behind glass.

“Okay, but seriously though,” JJ said, giving up on the card game and stretching out on the porch with his head near your feet. “Pope, how long on the boat? I’m trying to plan my week and I gotta know if we’re gonna be seaworthy or if I need to make other plans.”

“Define seaworthy,” Pope said.

“Not sinking.”

“Then maybe by Thursday.”

“Maybe?”

“I’m working with duct tape here, dude.”

Sarah appeared in the doorway. John B was behind her with his arms around her waist. “We’re gonna make a food run. Anyone want anything besides the usual?”

“Usual’s fine,” Kie said.

“Get those chips I like,” Cleo said. 

“They don’t have those anymore,” John B said. “They stopped carrying them—like, two months ago. Where have you been?”

“Tragedy,” JJ said, shaking his head. 

You smiled despite yourself. This was good. This was normal. This was what life looked like when it wasn't centered around someone's crisis.

"What about you?" Sarah asked, looking at you. "You want anything specific?"

"I'm good. Thanks."

She nodded, squeezed John B's arms where they crossed over her stomach, and they headed out. You watched them go, the easy affection, the comfortable way they existed together. Everything about this place made you want to compare how bleak it all felt for you on a daily basis for—god, who even knows how long anymore?

“They’re gonna be gone for like an hour if Sarah’s driving,” JJ said, still sprawled. “She drives like someone’s grandma.”

“She doesn’t want to die,” Pope said.

“Same thing.”

The beer was making everything softer around the edges, that pleasant buzz where the world felt less sharp. You'd switched to your second one maybe thirty minutes ago, sipping it slowly while the conversation flowed around you. Kie had gotten up to help Pope with something on the boat, Cleo, who'd wandered inside to find the bathroom.  leaving you and JJ on the porch.

“You doing okay?” JJ asked, tilting his head back to look at you upside down. “Like, actually?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically, then reconsidered. JJ had always had a way of asking questions that made people want to answer honestly, and you weren’t even that close to him. “I don’t know. I’m tired.”

“Hospital-tired or life-tired?”

“Both?”

He nodded like he knew exactly what you meant. “Your mom’s gonna be good, though? Like the doctors said that for real?”

You briefly wondered where his mom was. JJ’s family life wasn’t broadcast information, at least to you. That made sense given that the most time you spent was with people who didn’t want to associate with him in the slightest. “Yeah. She’s tough.”

“Must get it from you.”

You looked down at him, at his sun-bleached hair and the easy grin. “I’m not that tough.”

“Nah, you are. You’re here.” He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows. “Hey, you want another beer? I’m getting another beer.”

“I’m still working on this one.”

“Work faster. I’ll get another one anyway.” 

He disappeared inside, and you heard him rummaging around in what passed for John B's kitchen, the sound of bottles clinking and JJ cursing about something. The music had shifted to something slower, something you actually recognized—an old song your mom liked, which made your chest tighten briefly before you shoved the feeling down.

Your phone was in your pocket, silent and heavy. Two days. Two full days since Rafe had stopped texting, three days after you’d talked to him at the hospital. Radio silence. Which was what you'd asked for, technically. Space. Time to think. But the absence felt louder than all his desperate texts combined.

JJ reappeared with two beers, handing you one even though you weren't done with your current one. “Pope’s being weird about the boat. I think he messed something up and doesn’t know how to tell John B. I don’t know, I stopped listening.”

“When did you start listening?”

He grinned, then took a long drink. “Yo, Sarah seemed weird earlier today. Running around all over the place. You know what that’s about?”

You swallowed. You could only guess. “No idea.”

“Probably family drama. There’s always drama in that family,” he said it casually, and you felt something constrict in your chest. 

“Mmhm.”

“I don’t know how she deals with it all. I mean, all of them—” JJ shook his head. “Ward was an ass to John B and is probably the biggest piece of shit on this island. Rafe’s a lost cause. At least Sarah got out when she did. Well, not out-out, but you know what I mean.” 

The words hit you wrong, made your stomach turn over. You took a drink of your warm beer to buy yourself a second. “Rafe’s not—” you started, then stopped. What were you going to say? That he wasn't a lost cause? That there was good in him if you looked hard enough? You'd been telling yourself that for years and you still weren't sure you believed it anymore.

JJ took in a sharp breath as he turned to face you with something that looked like guilt on his face. “Sorry. I know you guys were like, friends or whatever. That’s probably not nice to hear.”

“Were?” you squeaked out, and it was almost embarrassing how openly the past tense affected you.

“Are?” JJ furrowed his brows and shrugged, thankfully not catching onto your turmoil. “Kie said you needed a break from that side of the island. Guessing that includes him.”

“It’s complicated.”

He shrugged, then took another sip as he leaned back to rest his palms against the ground. “Don’t know. To each their own, I guess. I just remember how fucked up he was growing up, and how he treated us all.”

You wanted to defend him and explain that Rafe wasn’t just all anger and entitlement. There was context to him, and underneath all that there was something you’d always thought was worth saving. 

“He’s not all bad.” Your voice came out small.

JJ just shrugged again. “If you say so. But like, you don't have to defend him just because you have history. Sometimes people are just assholes, you know? No deeper meaning required.”

Was that true? Was Rafe just an asshole? Was there no good in him that people could see? Did it matter? The distinction felt important, and you needed to figure out why. But something in your chest constricted at hearing—not for the first time—how people really thought about Rafe, how they spoke about him behind his back. And there was nothing you could do to defend him to people he had actively chosen to hurt, even if you were one of them. 

“Anyway,” JJ said, reading something in your expression and pivoting. “Fuck all that. You’re here now. With people who aren’t assholes. Well—” He grinned. “I’m kind of an ass, but in a good way.”

You let out a small laugh. “Is that all we’re calling it?”

He bumped his shoulder against yours, friendly and warm and uncomplicated in a way that made something in your chest ease. “Hey, Kie vouches for you. You’re basically gonna be stuck to us now.”

The sound of Pope and Kie's voices drifted from the dock, something about needing a different wrench. Cleo had settled on the couch inside, scrolling through her phone. The bonfire crackled and popped, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky.

This was nice. This was easy. No one here needed you to fix them or save them or be anything other than just be here.

The night wore on like that, with easy conversation and comfortable silences and the kind of belonging that didn't require you to prove anything. Pope eventually gave up on the boat and joined everyone on the porch. Cleo told a story about her first week in the OBX that had everyone in stitches. John B and Sarah disappeared inside for a while, came back looking rumpled and pleased with themselves.

But there was also this weird hollowness, because you'd spent two days waiting for Rafe to text and he hadn't, and the one time your phone buzzed it was your dad, and you were sitting here with people who called Rafe a lost cause like it was obvious, like it was a foregone conclusion, and maybe they were right.

And you and JJ ended up alone on the porch again, the space between you smaller than it had been hours ago.

"This is nice," you said, and meant it.

"Yeah?" He looked pleased. "Good. You needed nice, I think."

"Probably."

"Definitely." He shifted slightly closer, and you were aware suddenly of how close you were, of the warmth of him next to you, of the way he was looking at you with something soft and careful in his expression.

"JJ—"

"I'm not trying anything," he said quickly. "Promise. Just—you have really nice eyes. Has anyone told you that?"

You laughed, caught off guard. "That's terrible."

"I know. I panicked." But he was grinning, and you were grinning back, and something shifted in the air between you.

Just a possibility, maybe.

"You're drunk," you said.

"So are you."

"Fair point."

"And for the record," he added, "I think Rafe’s an idiot."

Your stomach flipped slightly at the mention of his name. "Why?"

"Because if I had someone like you—" He stopped, shook his head. "Never mind. Not my business."

But he'd said enough. And you were drunk enough that it felt good, having someone say you were worth something. Worth showing up for. Worth not being an idiot about.

Even if that someone was JJ Maybank who you'd known for approximately eight hours.

"He's not—" you started, but you didn't know how to finish that sentence anymore.

JJ just looked at you, something knowing in his expression. "Yeah. He is."

And then—maybe because you were drunk, maybe because you were tired of thinking about Rafe, maybe because JJ was looking at you like you were something worth seeing—you leaned in. It wasn't planned or premeditated. It came from an impulse that your body followed before your brain could catch up.

JJ met you halfway, his hand coming up to your jaw, and then you were kissing him.

It was nice. It felt soft. He tasted like beer and salt and his lips were warm and careful like he was afraid you'd break. It should have felt good and exciting or thrilling or like something that mattered.

But you felt not nothing-nothing. But not what you were supposed to feel when you kissed someone. Your body was there but your mind was somewhere else, somewhere a mile away, somewhere in a hospital hallway two days ago watching Rafe's expression crumple when you told him to leave.

JJ's hand was on your waist now, gentle, and you were kissing him back on autopilot, going through the motions because that's what you were supposed to do when someone kissed you like this.

But all you could think was that this wasn’t right. This wasn’t him.

And that thought—that immediate, undeniable truth—made you pull back so fast you almost knocked your head against the railing.

"I'm sorry," you said immediately, and you could hear how unsteady your voice was. "I'm sorry, I can't—I can't do this."

JJ was already backing up, hands raised, expression concerned but not upset. "Hey, no, you're good. It's okay."

"I shouldn't have—"

"Seriously, it's fine." He ran a hand through his hair, gave you a small smile. "Bad timing. I get it."

"It's not you—"

"I know." And the way he said it, you believed he actually did know. "You've got shit to work through. That's cool. We're good."

You felt like crying suddenly, for no reason you could name. JJ was being so nice about it, so understanding, and you didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve any of this.

"I'm gonna—" You gestured vaguely toward the house. "I think I need to sleep."

"Yeah, of course. Kie's probably crashed in John B's room. You can take the couch or—there's blankets and stuff. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks."

You stood on unsteady legs, and JJ stood too.

"For what it's worth," he said, and his voice was gentle, "I don't think you're as over him as you want to be."

You couldn't argue with that. Didn't have the energy to try.

"Yeah," you said. "Probably not."

Inside, the house was quieter. Kie was already asleep in John B's room like JJ had predicted. You could hear John B and Sarah in the other room, their voices low and intimate. Cleo and Pope had disappeared somewhere. It was just you and the couch and the sound of the ocean through the open windows.

You curled up under a blanket that smelled like saltwater and sun and tried to quiet your mind. But all you could think about was Rafe. The way he'd looked at you in the hospital. The desperation in his texts. The silence for the past two days that felt like a chasm you didn't know how to cross.

You'd kissed someone and felt nothing. Because the only person you wanted to kiss was the one person you couldn't have. The one person who would destroy you if you let him get close enough.

You woke up to a hand on your shoulder, gentle but insistent, pulling you out of a dream you couldn’t remember. The room was dark except for the blue glow of someone's phone, and it took you a second to remember where you were. John B's couch, the scratchy blanket tangled around your legs. Your mouth tasted like stale beer and your head had that hollow ache that meant you'd be hungover in a few hours.

“Hey,” you heard Sarah say, voice quiet and careful. “Sorry to wake you.”

You blinked up at her, disoriented. She was backlit by the kitchen light, hair messy like she'd been woken up too, wearing one of John B's shirts that came down to her knees.

You hummed slightly. “What’s up?” 

She sat down on the edge of the couch, and even in the dim light you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands twisted together. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Your stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came from conversations that started like this at three in the morning. “What happened?”

Sarah took a breath, like she was steeling herself. “My dad called me. About 30 minutes ago.”

The mention of Ward made you sit up fully, the blanket falling away. Your brain was still foggy with sleep and alcohol but suddenly very alert.

“Rafe got picked up,” Sarah continued, and her voice was so neutral it only made it all seem worse. “DUI, I think? He was drunk, probably really high, too. And ran a red. Cop pulled him over and he failed a breathalyzer. They took him to the station.”

Your heart was pounding now, that familiar spike of adrenaline that came with Rafe emergencies. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. No one else was involved, thank god. But he’s—” Sarah paused, mouth twisting like she was scared to say anything. “Ward won’t pick him up. He bailed him out and got him released, but he won’t pick him up.”

“What?”

Sarah’s jaw was tight. “He asked—well, he asked if I could ask you. Said he tried your number, but it went straight to voicemail.”

Fuck, it’d probably died sometime during the night. You began sitting up, wiping the sleep from your eyes. 

Sarah was tracking your movements carefully. “You don’t have to go.”

She was right. This was the opposite of space. This was exactly what you didn’t want to happen. “You don’t have to,” she repeated. “Ward’s his father. This isn’t your responsibility. It’s never been your responsibility.”

You were already reaching for your shoes. “I know that,” you said, because you did. You knew you were undoing whatever boundary you'd tried to set and that the second you showed up at that station, Rafe would take it as proof that you'd come back, that you'd always come back, that he could keep doing this because you'd always be there to catch him. But you put on your shoes anyway because Rafe was probably not okay.

Sarah sighed, but there was no surprise in her expression. “You really don’t have to.” You understood she was trying to communicate something bigger, but you couldn’t acknowledge that. 

“I can’t just leave him there,” you said quietly.

“Why not? Ward did.”

You didn't have an answer for that. Or you did, and it was exactly that. Because Ward did.

“I’ll drive you,” Sarah offered when you didn’t respond.

“It’s okay. I’ve got my car parked outside.”

Sarah looked like she wanted to argue, but then she just sighed and stood up. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

“And for the record—” She paused in the doorway. “I think you’re making a mistake, but I also get it.”

He looked terrible and somehow still good in that way that didn't make any sense. His hair was a mess, sticking up in the back like he'd been running his hands through it. His shirt was wrinkled and had some kind of stain on the collar. His eyes were bloodshot and his pupils were blown wide enough that even in the harsh fluorescent lighting you could tell he was still high. But he was smiling when he saw you, this loose, easy grin that made your heart do something painful in your chest.

“There she is,” he said, and his voice was too loud, too cheerful, slurring slightly at the edges. “My favorite person. Knew you'd come.”

Something about the certainty in his voice made you want to scream. 

He crossed the room in a few unsteady steps and before you could move back or say anything, he was pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you, face pressing into your hair. He smelled like whiskey and cigarettes and sweat and he had a jitter to his body that was definitely from coke.

“Missed you,” he mumbled against your neck, and his weight was heavy, like he was using you to stay upright. “Five days. Worst five days of my life. You can’t do that to me again, okay?”

You stood there frozen, hyperaware of Officer Peters watching from behind the desk, of how this must look, of the way your body was responding to Rafe's proximity after five days of nothing. Your hands came up automatically, settling on his back, and you hated yourself for it.

“Rafe,” you said quietly. “We gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” But he didn’t let go, only shifted his arm so it was slung around your shoulders, tucking you against his side like he’d done a million times before. Like absolutely nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t walked away from him. “Thanks for coming. Really. I know you're pissed at me but I knew—I knew you wouldn't actually leave me here.”

The words hit you wrong, but there was nothing you could unpack with Rafe when he was in this state right now.

“Let’s just get you home.”

“Home,” he said, trailing the word out with a chuckle punctuating it. “Can’t go to Tannyhill. Ward made that pretty clear.” He tightened your grip against his side. “Where am I going?”

You had no answer for that.

Peters cleared his throat loudly. “You kids need to clear out. I’ve got paperwork.”

Between the two of you—mostly you, with Rafe leaning heavily on your shoulder—you managed to get him out to the parking lot. The night air hit him and he stumbled slightly, laughed, caught himself against you.

“I’m so fucked up,” he announced, like this was news. “Did they tell you that? That why you showed up?”

“Something like that.”

He stopped walking suddenly, forcing you to stop too, and turned to look at you with unfocused eyes. His hand came up to your face, fingers brushing your cheekbone, and the touch was so familiar it made your chest ache.

“You didn’t respond,” he said, the sentence slurring together. “For five days. I thought—” He stopped, then swallowed hard as his finger brushed against your cheek again. “Thought maybe you were done. Like actually.”

“Rafe—”

“But you’re here now.” His thumb traced along your jaw now, and he was looking at you like you were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning. “So that means—we’re gonna be okay, right?”

You should say no. Should establish a boundary, should make it clear that showing up at three in the morning didn't mean everything was forgiven, didn't mean you were going back to how things were. But his eyes were so hopeful and desperate and lost, and you were so tired of fighting.

“Let’s just get you to the car,” you said, because that was not an answer at all.

He let you lead him toward your car, still using you for balance, and you tried not to think about how easy it was to fall back into this pattern. How natural it felt to be the person holding him up. You got him to the passenger side and he leaned against the door while you unlocked it. You opened the door and he folded himself into the seat with less grace than usual, all loose limbs and uncoordinated movements. You had to lean across to grab the seatbelt, and when you did, his hand came up to rest on your waist, thumb pressing on your hipbone through your joggers.

“You smell good,” he hummed, and you could feel his breath against your neck. “Missed that.”

You clicked the seatbelt into place and pulled back, but his hand lingered for a second longer than necessary before falling away. You shut the door harder than you meant to and walked around to the driver's side, using those few seconds to try to collect yourself. To remind yourself that this didn't mean anything. That Rafe touchy and drunk and high was just Rafe without his usual filters.

The interior of your car still smelled faintly like the vanilla air freshener you'd bought last month, mixed now with the salt air that clung to everything on the island. You turned the key and the engine hummed to life, and Rafe immediately reached for the temperature controls, turning the AC down like he always did because you always kept it too cold for him.

“So, where am I taking you?” you asked, backing out of the space.  The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, just a few scattered cars belonging to the night shift officers.

“Dunno.” He'd slouched down in the seat, head tipped back against the headrest, eyes half-closed. “Not home.”

You turned onto the main road, heading toward Figure Eight without really thinking about it. “You could’ve killed someone driving like this.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point—”

“I know what the point is.” He shifted in his seat, turned his body toward you. “You lecturing me, now? Is that what we’re doing?”

“I’m not lecturing you.” Your jaw tightened slightly.

“Sounds like you are.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, kept your eyes on the road. The streets were empty at this hour, just the occasional porch light and the glow from the few businesses that stayed open late. “I’m just saying you’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself. Or anyone else.”

“Yeah, well.” He went quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe he'd passed out, but then his hand was on your thigh, just above your knee, thumb rubbing small circles against your jeans. “‘M lucky you came.”

The touch sent electricity up your spine, made it hard to focus on the road. This was normal for Rafe; he'd always been tactile with you, especially when he was like this or in those moments where his walls came down. But five days of radio silence had made you forget what it felt like, the casual intimacy of his hands on you like he had every right to touch you whenever he wanted.

“Sarah called me,” you said tightly, because focusing on your words forced you to focus on everything else. “She thought I—”

“She thought you should bail me out instead.” He laughed, bitter. “Course she did. She always knows to call you when I fuck up. Knows if she calls you, you’ll come running. Saves her the trouble.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t. Don’t make it sound like—” You stopped, because you didn't know how to finish that sentence without revealing too much.

His hand squeezed your thigh. “Like what?” he asked, and you could hear the genuine question in his voice.

You didn't answer, just focused on the road, on the familiar route through Figure Eight that you'd driven a thousand times. The houses got bigger the further in you went, until you were passing estates with gates and circular driveways and grounds that could fit your entire house three times over.

Rafe was quiet for a moment, his thumb still moving against your leg, and then he shifted closer. The seatbelt caught but he just leaned into it, pressing against the restraint so he could get nearer to you. His other hand came up to play with a strand of your hair that had fallen forward over your shoulder.

“I really did miss you,” he said, and though his words were slurred and pulled together, his voice had gone soft. “Like, actually—It was, fuck, so weird not talking to you.”

You swallowed hard. “Well, here I am.”

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, and his fingers moved from your hair to the back of your neck, playing with the baby hairs there. “I know.”

You were passing the country club now, its lights still on for the late-night diners and the bar that stayed open until two. You'd been there just this afternoon, wearing your stupid uniform and serving drinks to people just to prove to your parents you weren’t a total mess. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“We should talk,” you said. “About the hospital. About everything.”

“Not now.” His hand slid from the back of your neck to your shoulder, then down your arm, fingers trailing along your skin. “Too fucked up to talk. Can we just—can we not do the heavy shit right now?”

You wanted to say no. You should’ve insisted that you needed to talk about this, about what had happened, about where you went from here. But he was already so unsteady, so clearly at the edge of something, and you'd never been good at pushing him when he was like this. “Fine,” you said.

He nodded. “Tomorrow,” he said, and you knew it wasn’t true, but you accepted it anyway. 

You turned onto a side street, muscle memory taking you toward your house without conscious decision. You didn’t want to, but you hadn’t become heartless enough to let Rafe be homeless for the night. You could manage one more night. Your parents would be asleep, and you could sneak him up to your room like you'd done a hundred times before.

“Where were you tonight?” he asked suddenly, his words bleeding together at the edges. 

“With Kie and everyone.”

His hand tightened on your leg. “And who?”

“Does it matter?”

“Mmhm.” His fingers pressed into your thigh, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to make his point clear. “Matters.”

You could feel him watching you, could sense the shift in his energy even through the haze of whatever he'd taken. “Sarah, Cleo, and the others.” 

“Who others?” The question came out lazy, uninterested, but you knew better. 

“John B. Pope.” You paused. “JJ.” 

You felt more than saw him tense beside you, his hand going still on your leg. “Huh.” He shifted in his seat, and his hand moved from your thigh to fiddle with the radio dial even though he didn't turn it on. “Since when do you hang around Maybank?”

“Since Kie invited me.” You kept your eyes on the road, the streets too familiar. “I’ve been spending time with them lately.”

“Yeah? That fun for you?”

“It’s good.” 

You thought maybe he'd let it drop, but then his hand was back on your leg, fingers drumming against your jeans in that restless way that meant his brain was working through something.

“They’re nice to you?”

“Yeah, Rafe. They’re nice to me.”

“Good. That’s—yeah. Good.” But he didn't sound like he thought it was good. He sounded like he was chewing on glass.

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of his fingers tapping against your leg. You were almost to your street when he shifted again, this time angling his body more toward you.

“Your hair’s different,” he said suddenly. His hand left your thigh and came up to touch the ends of your hair where it fell over your shoulder.  “You cut it?”

“No. Same as always.”

“Looks different.” His fingers caught a strand, twirling it around absently. “Pretty.”

The compliment caught you off guard. Rafe didn't usually do that. He wasn't the type to notice things like that, or if he did, he didn't say them out loud. You blamed the coke, the alcohol, the weird vulnerability that came with being this fucked up.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He made a soft sound of acknowledgment, still playing with your hair, and you tried to focus on driving and not on the way his touch made your skin feel too warm. You were turning onto your street when he gathered your hair in his hand and moved it over your other shoulder, away from him, like he was trying to see your face better in the dark car.

That's when you felt him go completely still.

His hand was frozen at the base of your neck, and you knew—with a sinking, horrible certainty—exactly what he was looking at.

“What’s that?” His voice had changed entirely, going flat. 

“It’s nothing—”

“Not nothing.” His hand dropped from your neck, fell back to his lap, and when you risked a glance at him, his jaw was tight. “Who’s giving you fuckin’ hickies now?”

You didn't say anything. Couldn't, really. Your hands tightened on the steering wheel and you kept your eyes forward, counting down the houses until yours.

“Who?”

“Rafe—”

“Who?”

You pulled into your driveway, put the car in park, killed the engine. The sudden silence felt too loud. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah.” He was staring straight ahead now, not looking at you, and you watched his hands curl into fists on his thighs. “It matters.”

“It was just—it was stupid. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Who was it?”

You closed your eyes briefly, then opened them. “JJ.”

For a long moment, Rafe didn’t say a word. Just sat there with his fists clenched and his jaw working and his eyes fixed on some point beyond the windshield. You could see the muscle in his cheek jumping, could see him trying to process through the haze. Then he let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You let a fuckin’ Pogue put his mouth on you?”

“It was—it was nothing. We were drunk and it was stupid and I stopped it before—”

He let your words hang, turning to face you with an eyebrow raised, wanting you to continue. “Before what? Before he fucked you?”

“No—fuck, Rafe—”

“Did he, then? You let him fuck you?”

“No.” The word came out immediately, and you shook your head. “Let’s just go inside—”

“You get pissed at me, tell me to give you space, and first thing you do is let Maybank—”

“Stop.” Your voice came out harder than you meant it to. “Just stop. Either come inside, or stay in the car, for all I care.” 

He stared at you, and you watched something in his face shutter. The anger bled away, and he nodded. “Yeah. Don’t wanna talk about this anymore.” 

You both got out of the car. Rafe was unsteady on his feet, and you watched him catch himself against your car door before straightening up with visible effort. You led him to the side entrance, the one that didn't creak, the one you'd been using since high school when you needed to sneak him in without waking your parents. The house was dark, silent except for the hum of the AC and the distant sound of your dad snoring from their bedroom on the other side of the house.

Up the stairs, careful to skip the third one that groaned under weight. Down the hallway, past Owen's old room that he didn't use anymore since he'd gotten his own place. Into your room, where you closed the door with a soft click that seemed too loud in the quiet.

Rafe stood in the middle of your room, swaying slightly, looking lost in a way that made your chest hurt. He'd been here a thousand times. He knew where you kept the extra pillows, which drawer had the clothes he'd left over the years, how the window stuck when you tried to open it. But he was standing there like he didn't know what to do with himself, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tight.

“You want water?” you asked quietly. “Or I can make you something to eat—”

“I’m good.”

The silence stretched. You grabbed a hair tie from your nightstand and pulled your hair up into a loose ponytail, just to have something to do with your hands. When you turned back, Rafe was watching you with an expression you couldn't read.

“You should try to sleep,” you said. “You’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

When he didn’t respond, you turned away, grabbed an old t-shirt from your drawer. “I’m gonna change. Just—make yourself comfortable.”

You went to the bathroom, changed quickly into shorts and the soft t-shirt that was worn thin from too many washes. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, tried not to look at yourself too long in the mirror because you could see the hickey even clearer under the bathroom lights. You mentally cursed yourself for not thinking this all through. It was all proof that you’d tried to move on but couldn’t.

When you came back, Rafe had taken off his shoes and was sitting on the edge of your bed, head in his hands. He looked up when you entered, and his eyes tracked over you in your sleep clothes with something unreadable in his expression.

“You can take the bed.” Your voice shook slightly, because the statement seemed so foreign in your mouth with him. 

“Don’t be stupid.” His voice was rough. “Bed’s big enough.”

You turned off the overhead light, left the small lamp on your nightstand on because Rafe didn't like complete darkness when he was coming down. The room filled with soft, warm light that made everything look gentler than it was.

You climbed into bed, staying close to your edge. Rafe lay down on his side of the bed, on top of the covers while you were under them, that thin barrier of fabric between you. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling, and you could see his jaw working.

“Rafe,” you said quietly. “Are you—”

“Just—let’s just sleep.” And he sounded so fucking tired.

You rolled onto your side, facing away from him, and closed your eyes. You tried to focus on breathing, on the familiar sounds of your room, on anything other than the fact that Rafe Cameron was in your bed and further away than he'd ever been.

You heard him shift, heard the rustle of fabric, the creak of your mattress, and then felt the covers move as he slid under them. You felt the dip of the bed as he moved closer.

His hand found your waist first. Tentative and careful, like he was asking permission without words. When you didn't pull away, his palm pressed flat against your stomach through your shirt, and he shifted closer still.

“Can I—” His voice was hoarse. He really should’ve had water. “Is this okay?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and his hand settled on your waist. Palm flat against your stomach through your shirt, fingers splayed wide. He shifted closer, and you felt his chest press against your back, the full length of him aligning with you. His legs tangled with yours, one of his knees sliding between your thighs, and his face found the space between your shoulder blades.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your back. “Missed this.” 

His arm wrapped properly around your waist now, pulling you back against him until there was no space left between you. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, could feel every breath he took.

“Five days,” he said. “Felt like so long.”

You didn't know what to say to that. Your throat was too tight, your chest too full of things you couldn't name.

His hand moved from your stomach to find yours, fingers threading through yours with a gentleness that made your breath catch. He held on, brought your joined hands up to rest against your chest.

“You’re my best friend,” he said quietly. “My person. The only one who gives a shit about me.”

Your eyes burned.

“Don't know what I'd do without you,” he continued, and you could feel his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “Probably be dead in a ditch somewhere. Or in jail. You're the only thing that keeps me—” He stopped, seemed to struggle for words. “You keep me human, you know? When everything else is shit, when I'm so fucked up I can't see straight, you're still there. Still putting up with my bullshit.”

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

“I know you said it’s not true,” he said. “But you matter to me more than anyone. You know that?”

The words were making something crack open in your chest. Because he meant them, you could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he was holding you. But he meant them as friends. As best friends. As the person who was always there but never quite enough.

“Rafe?” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you’d wanted it to. 

“Yeah?”

You turned in his arms then, needed to see his face. He let you turn, his arms loosening just enough to allow the movement, and then you were face to face with him in the dim lamplight. His eyes were clearer than they'd been all night, more focused, and he was looking at you with this expression that made your heart hurt. Soft and open, so vulnerable in a way Rafe never was with anyone else.

“What?” His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “You good?”

You looked at him, at the face you'd known for fifteen years, the boy who'd cried on the dock when his dad forgot him, who'd broken his collarbone and let you sit with him through it, who'd shown up at your window at fourteen when you called and didn’t want to be alone. The boy who'd become this man you were looking at now, all sharp edges and desperate eyes and so much need he didn't know what to do with it.

And you realized, with a clarity that felt like drowning, that you'd been in love with him for so long you didn't remember when it started. That somewhere between childhood and now, friendship had turned into something else entirely, and you'd been pretending not to notice because acknowledging it meant risking everything.

But lying here in his arms, listening to him call you his best friend, his person, his everything—while meaning something completely different than what you needed him to mean—you couldn't pretend anymore.

“I love you,” you said.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, soft and tired. “Love you too. You know that.”

“No.” You shook your head slightly against the pillow, holding his gaze to communicate what you couldn’t use words to. 

You watched the confusion flicker across his face, watched him try to process what you were saying through the haze. His hand stilled on your face.

“I—yeah. I love you too—”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words hung between you, and you watched his expression change. Watched confusion shift to understanding, watched understanding shift to something that looked like panic.

His hand dropped from your face. His whole body went rigid against yours.

“What?” The word came out harsh. “What are you—?”

“I can't—I can't keep doing this. Can't keep pretending I'm okay with being your best friend when I want—when I need—”

“Stop.” He pulled back, and the loss of his warmth felt like losing something vital. “Stop. You can’t—you don’t mean that—”

“I do.”

“No.” He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, and you could see him starting to spiral. “No, you’re just—you’re confused, or tired, or—”

“I’m not confused.” You sat up too, pulling your knees to your chest. “I know exactly what I’m saying.” You weren’t sure where this confidence was coming from; maybe you were confident that this, all of this limbo, the back-and-forth, the constant disruption of peace, would come to an end tonight. 

He stared at you, and you watched the devastation cross his face. “You can’t love me like that.” 

“Why?” This time, your voice croaked, as you looked at him.

“Because I—” He stopped and shook his head. “Because I fuck up everything. You deserve someone who’s got their shit together, a guy who can actually—” His voice cracked. “I can’t give you what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need.”

“Yeah, I do.” He turned to look at you straight-on, eyes wild. “You need someone who’s stable. Someone who—everything you fucking asked me to be that day. And I can’t be that guy.”

“I’m not asking you to be another person—”

“Yes, you are!” He stood up, started pacing your small room like a caged animal. “You’re asking me to be someone who can be in a relationship, who can be your boyfriend, who can be—I’m not. I don’t know how to be that.”

You watched him pace, watched him unravel, and felt something hard settle in your chest.

“So what?” you said quietly. “I'm just supposed to keep being your best friend? Keep showing up whenever you need me while you—what? While you sleep with other people? While you get jealous when I try to move on but won't do anything about it yourself?”

He stopped pacing and turned to look at you. “That’s not fair.” 

“I have spent ten years being whatever you needed me to be. I've dropped everything when you called. I've held you together through every crisis. I've canceled dates, pushed away guys who actually wanted to be with me, rearranged my entire fucking life around you. And for what? That’s not fair.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “Would it really be so hard?” you asked quietly, and Rafe looked up at the ceiling like the answer would be there.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’d be fucking impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because—” He turned to face you, and his hands were shaking. “Because I'd ruin it. I'd ruin you—" He stopped, ran both hands through his hair. “If you won’t protect yourself from me, I’m going to protect you from me.”

“That's not your choice to make,” you said, and your voice was steadier than you felt. “You don't get to decide what's good for me.”

“Someone has to!” His voice rose. He gestured at the bed, the space between the two of you. “You said it yourself, I give you nothing back.”

"Then give me something back!" You stood up too, faced him across your small room. "Stop taking and actually give me what I need for once!"

"I don't know how!"

"Then figure it out!" Your voice was rising now, too. "Figure it out, Rafe, because I can't keep doing this! I can't keep being the person you need while you refuse to be what I need!"

"What you need is someone better than me—"

"I don't want someone better!" The words came out raw, torn from somewhere deep. "I want you! I've always wanted you! But I can't—I can't keep waiting for you to want me back."

He stared at you, breathing hard, and you watched about fifteen different emotions flicker across his face. Pain, fear, desperation, something that might have been longing.

"I do want you," he said quietly. "I do. I just—"

"Just what?"

"I'm scared." His voice broke on the word. "I'm so fucking scared of losing you that I can't—I can't risk it. If we try this and I fuck it up, you'll leave. You'll finally see what everyone else sees and you'll leave and I can't—" He stopped, seemed to choke on the words. "I can't survive losing you."

"You're losing me anyway," you said, and watched him flinch. "By doing nothing, by refusing to try, you're losing me anyway. So what's the difference?"

"The difference is maybe you won't hate me." He took a step toward you. "Maybe if I don't try, if I let you go find someone who deserves you, you'll remember me as—as someone who cared about you. Not someone who destroyed you."

"You're destroying me right now." Your eyes were burning, tears threatening to spill. "By saying no. By walking away. You're destroying me." You shook your head. “Don't stand there and tell me you care about me when you won't actually do anything about it."

The silence that followed was deafening. You could hear your own heartbeat, could hear Rafe's uneven breathing, could hear the house settling around you.

"So what are you saying?" he asked finally. "You're saying it's all or nothing? I either—what? Be your boyfriend or lose you completely?"

The word boyfriend sounded wrong in his mouth, too simple for what you were actually asking for.

"I'm saying I need you to choose," you said. "Actually choose me. Or let me go so I can find someone who will."

"Let you go." He said it like he was testing the words, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "You want me to just—what? Watch you be with someone else? Watch you move on?"

You let out a chuckle, because why had you ever thought this could go any differently. “I want you to let me happy,” you said, lowering your voice. “Even if it isn’t with you.”

He crossed the space between you suddenly, hands coming up to grip your arms. Then, his hands moved from your arms to your face, cupping it almost desperately, as his thumbs brushed your cheekbones, and you realized he was crying too. You both stayed silent for a moment, his thumb brushing away your tears as they kept falling. 

His forehead came down to press against yours, and you felt his breath shudder out.

“I’m gonna fuck this up,” he whispered. “I’m gonna dissapoint you.” He made this sound—broken and desperate and something close to a sob. His hands tightened on your face, and when he pulled back to look at you, his expression was devastated. “I want to say yes.”

Your heart lurched. "Then say it."

He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see the war happening behind his eyes. Fear and want and need all tangled up together.

"I can't," he finally said, and the words felt like a physical blow. "I can't do this to you. Can't risk ruining the best thing in my life just because I'm too selfish to let you go."

You felt something inside you crack completely. "So that's it? You're saying no?"

"I'm saying—" He stopped, and his hands were still on your face, still holding you like you were something precious even as he broke your heart. "I'm saying you deserve better than what I can give you. And I care about you too much to pretend otherwise."

"That's bullshit," you said, and your voice came out flat. "You're just scared."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'm fucking terrified."

"So you're choosing fear over me."

"I'm choosing to not destroy you." His thumbs brushed your cheeks one more time, so gentle it made you want to scream. "Even if it kills me."

You pulled away from his hands, took a step back, and wrapped your arms around yourself. "You need to leave."

"Please don't—" He reached for you and you moved back again.

"I can't do this." Your voice was shaking. "I can't stand here and listen to you tell me you care about me while refusing to actually do anything about it. So you need to go. Please.”

"Can we just—can we talk about this? Figure something out?"

"There's nothing to figure out, Rafe. You made your choice." Then, you added, because your chest was feeling like it was caving in on itself. “Please.”

He stood there staring at you, and you watched him realize you meant it. Watched him understand that this was really happening, that you were really done.

"I love you," he said desperately. "You know that, right? I love you so fucking much—"

"Just not enough to try," you finished for him. "I know. Now get out."

"Please—"

He crossed the space between two strides, and before you could process it, his hands came up to frame your face and he kissed you like this was the last thing he’d ever do and he needed to make it count. The impact of him—all of him—knocked the breath out of your lungs. Fifteen years of knowing him, all the years of wanting, all of it was compressed into the press of his mouth against yours. 

You froze for half a second, shock rendering you immobile, and then your hands fisted in his shirt and you pulled him closer with a desperation that matched your own. 

His lips were chapped and warm and you could taste the salt of both your tears, could taste the whiskey still lingering from earlier, and could taste something that was just fundamentally him, familiar from knowing him and foreign from how you experienced it all at once. Your mouth opened under his and he made this sound, low and broken, like something inside him had finally snapped. His tongue swept against yours and your knees went weak, and if he hadn't been holding you up you would have fallen.

One of his hands slid from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the strands and gripping tight, possessive and anchoring. His other hand moved to your waist, pulling your body flush against his, and you felt the stature of him pressed against you from chest to hip. You felt his heartbeat hammering against your own. You felt the slight tremor in his hands that meant he was barely holding himself together.

You had kissed people before. Had kissed boys who wanted you, who tried to make it good, who did all the right things with their mouths and hands. But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like your entire body was waking up after years of sleep. Every nerve ending was firing at once.

He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, deepening the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. The sound seemed to undo something in him because suddenly he was kissing you harder, more desperately, like he was trying to crawl inside you, fuse your bodies together so you couldn't leave.

Your back hit the wall—you hadn't even realized he was walking you backward—and the solid surface behind you made everything more intense. You were trapped between the wall and Rafe's body, surrounded by him completely, and it should have felt claustrophobic but it didn’t.

His mouth left yours and you almost protested, but then his lips were on your jaw, your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that made you gasp and arch into him. His teeth grazed your skin and you felt it everywhere, felt it in your fingers and your toes and low in your stomach where something hot and desperate was building.

“Rafe,” you breathed, and your voice sounded all wrecked and broken. 

He made a sound against your neck that might have been your name or a curse. His hand on your waist slid under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against your bare skin, and the contact made you both shudder. His hand was warm and calloused and when his thumb brushed against your ribs you felt goosebumps break out across your entire body.

He kissed back up your neck, along your jaw, found your mouth again and kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. Like he was trying to brand this moment into his brain so he'd never forget. Your hands moved from his shirt to his face, cradling his jaw, and you felt the stubble there rough against your palms. His jaw was working, the tension in it, the way he was holding himself back from something.

When he finally pulled back, just inches, you were both breathing hard. His forehead pressed against yours and you could feel his breath coming in harsh pants against your swollen lips. His eyes were closed, face twisted in something that looked like pain.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, I—"

You waited for him to finish. Waited for him to say something, anything, that would make this make sense. That would tell you what this meant, where you went from here, whether this changed anything.

His eyes opened and he looked at you, and what you saw there made your chest ache. Want and fear and love and grief all tangled up together, and underneath it all, resignation.

"I can't," he whispered, and you felt the words like a knife between your ribs. His hand tightened in your hair, like he couldn't quite bring himself to let go yet. "I can't do this. Can't be with you. Even though I—even though I want—" He stopped, seemed to choke on the words.

You stared at him, at this boy who had just kissed you like you were his everything, who was still holding you against the wall with his body pressed to yours, who was looking at you like you were the sun and it was killing him.

“Then why’d you kiss me?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“Because I’m being selfish,” he said and his voice broke. “I wanted to know what it felt like. Just once. Before I—" He stopped, closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that wasn't fair to you.”

You felt your hand cover your mouth as you tried to hold something back. “No. It wasn’t,” you agreed.

His thumb came up to brush them away, the gesture so tender it made you want to sob. “I'm gonna let you go now,” he said quietly. “I'm gonna step back and walk out that door. And you're gonna let me. Okay?”

When had the tables turned? Wasn’t it you who was trying to get him to leave? Nothing felt right, nothing was the way it was supposed to be. “Rafe—”

He pulled back slowly, his hands sliding from your face and your waist, and the loss of his touch felt catastrophic. You watched him take one step back. Two. Watched him put distance between your bodies even though every line of him looked like it was taking physical effort. 

“I love you,” he said, and his voice was steady even though his hands were shaking. “I love you too much to let myself have this.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab him and kiss him again and make him see that he was wrong, that you could make this work, that loving each other was enough.

But you could see it in his eyes, the certainty, the resignation, the bone-deep belief that he would destroy anything good in his life.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

“Okay.” He nodded, took another step back. “Okay.”

He turned toward the door, and you watched him walk away from you. You looked at the way his shoulders tight with tension, watched his hands clench into fists at his sides, watched him leave.

You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, pulled your knees to your chest, and let yourself shatter completely.

Because now you knew, you knew exactly what it felt like to kiss Rafe Cameron, to be wanted by him, to have him look at you like you were everything. And you'd never get to have it again.