The next morning, Adelaide posted exactly three things to her story.
The first was harmless.
A polished family photo from the ballroom staircase. Her parents smiling perfectly beside her, silver chandeliers glowing overhead, old money elegance wrapped up neatly for public consumption.
The second photo had no caption at all.
Just her and Rafe.
Standing too close in the garden beneath the lights.
His hand at the bare curve of her waist. Her head tilted slightly toward him mid-laugh. Rafe looking at her instead of the camera with an expression that felt a little too possesive to post publicly.
No caption. No tag. Nothing.
And somehow that made it worse.
The third story was only a tap away.
A photo of her and Dean in that same garden, his hand at her waist, both of them smiling toward the camera. Another guys hand on Adelaide's waist in the Tannyhill garden.
A white heart emoji on the photo.
Simple. Polite. Intentional.
Rafe stared at that one longest.
Not only because of the picture. Mostly because they took a couples photo, acting all happy in the Tannyhill garden. The fucking nerve.
Kelce texted first, obviously.
Kelce: brother i regret to inform you that you are losing the narrative war
Rafe: kill yourself
Kelce: the no caption pic is CRAZY though
thats basically an engagement announcement in rich people language
Three minutes later:
Topper: ngl the heart emoji saved you
Rafe: how
Topper: everyone knows you two belong together
dean had to get a heart so other people wouldnt think you were her date
she should honestly apologize to him for posting him last
Rafe reopened the story again. The one with him.
Her smiling up at him. His hand on her waist.
The way he was looking at her like he'd already forgotten the photographer existed.
Then his phone buzzed again.
A new message from Adelaide.
Adelaide: wanna go sailing with me? i gotta work more on my tan 💗
Rafe: you know i do
Adelaide: ill be right over 💗
Rafe: ill see you soon gorgeous
The house was quiet in that late-morning way that Tannyhill always got when everyone else had somewhere to be except him. Sunlight poured across the floors, too clean, too bright, like it was trying to expose something he wasn’t ready to name.
He changed without thinking too hard about it.
Swim trunks, white shirt half-buttoned, something expensive and unnecessary that his father would’ve approved of if he cared enough to notice. He didn’t check the mirror for long. He already knew what he looked like.
That wasn’t a problem.
The problem was the way his mind kept circling back to her. Rafe grabbed sunglasses off the counter and headed out.
The dock hit him with heat immediately, salt air, sun glare off the water, the slow creak of boats shifting against their lines. My Druthers floated there like it always did, polished and patient, like it had never once been used for anything as messy as feelings.
He stepped aboard and let his hand drag briefly along the railing as he passed. Familiar. Automatic.
Not because it needed to be perfect. Because he needed something to do with his hands that wasn’t thinking.
A few minutes later, he heard the sound of sandals hitting a sole on the dock.
Light. Unhurried.
He didn’t turn right away. He already knew it was her.
“You’re fast,” he said, finally looking up.
Adelaide was standing on the boat like she belonged there more than anyone else ever could. Sunlight on her skin already, hair in a loose braid, bag slung over her shoulder like she had stood in front of him many times before.
She smiled at him like nothing had changed since last night.
Like she hadn’t rearranged his entire sense of calm with a new guy in her life.
Rafe straightened slightly, sunglasses sliding into place as if that made him harder to read.
“You’re gonna stand there all day,” he said, nodding at her like that was the only thing worth commenting on.
And then, quieter, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it:
“You’re not being shadowed today, I see.”
Adelaide tilted her head, still smiling, but slower now. Not gone. Just… recalibrated.
“Shadowed?” she repeated lightly, stepping further onto the boat like she hadn’t noticed the way his grip tightened on the rail.
He exhaled through his nose.
“Dean,” he said, like that explained everything without needing to turn it into something uglier.
For a second, she just looked at him.
Then she set her bag down near the seating bench, unhurried, deliberate. Like she had all the time in the world to decide what version of this conversation she wanted to have.
“There’s no Dean on my Rafe day,” she said simply.
Rafe gave a short nod, like that should’ve meant something comforting.
It didn’t.
Because it wasn’t the point, and they both knew it.
She kicked off her sandals, sitting down with her legs folded under her, already tilting her face toward the sun like she belonged to it more than she belonged to any conversation they were avoiding.
Rafe watched her for half a second too long. Because she’d stepped into the part of him that didn’t know how to be convincing her that she was just a friend to him still.
Adelaide had already claimed the sun pad like it was hers.
Which, on some level, it always had been.
Rafe kept one hand on the helm, the other resting loosely nearby, eyes forward like the open water required his full attention. It didn’t. The yacht practically drove itself in this stretch. Calm seas, clear horizon, nothing to react to.
Except her.
She’d had flung her braid over her shoulder, messy and careless in a way that still somehow looked phenomenal. Lying back on the sun pad in a black bikini that made absolutely no effort to be subtle, skin already warming under the sun like she’d been built for it.
She wasn’t doing anything.
That was the problem.
Just existing there. Relaxed. Unbothered. Like she hadn’t turned his entire morning inside out with a photo order and a text message.
Rafe adjusted the speed slightly. Not because he needed to. Because he couldn’t not move.
“You had fun yesterday?” he asked, voice casual enough that it almost passed as normal.
Almost.
Adelaide didn’t open her eyes right away.
“Mhm,” she said. “It was nice. Beautiful venue really.”
Rafe exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking briefly toward her before returning to the water.
“Sure was.”
A pause.
Then, lazily: “You’re literally interrogating me from the helm right now.”
He hated that she was right.
Still.
He leaned slightly against the wheel, shifting his weight like it didn’t matter.
“Did you eat before you came out?” he asked instead.
That earned him a look. One eye open now, shaded by sunlight and lashes.
“What?”
“Just asking,” he said evenly. “Dean feed you before your tanning day or is that not part of the...” he paused, searching for the right word that didn’t sound like what it was “...routine.”
There it was. A beat of silence.
Then Adelaide sat up slightly on her elbows, studying him like she could see exactly what he was doing and was deciding whether to call him out or let him dig his own grave.
“There’s no ‘routine,’” she said finally.
Rafe nodded once, like that settled it. But he didn’t look away from the horizon.
“Right,” he said. “So he’s just… invited to Midsummers without a routine.”
Adelaide let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so controlled.
“Well, we've just been taking it slow for a while.”
Rafe finally glanced back at her then.
Just for a second.
“Yeah,” he said. “Slow.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary before leaning back again, arms stretched above her head like the conversation wasn’t doing anything to her at all.
“It’s called 'testing the waters',” she said.
“Mm.”
Rafe adjusted the helm again, subtle correction, unnecessary movement.
“Hope the waters cold then,” he said.
That made her pause. Not much. Just enough.
And then, softer, still looking up at the sky:
“You’re not exactly competing with him.”
Rafe didn’t answer immediately.
The yacht kept cutting forward, smooth and expensive and indifferent to the way something tightened in his chest.
He should’ve laughed. He didn’t.
Instead, he said the only thing he could say that didn’t give anything away.
“Good,” he replied. “Wouldn’t want that much disadvantage for him.”
But his grip on the wheel stayed a little too steady after that.
Like if he let go, something else might slip instead.
Rafe didn’t answer her right away.
He just adjusted the throttle, let the yacht level out into a slower glide, then set the helm on autopilot like the open water could be trusted to behave without him for five minutes.
It couldn’t. Neither could he.
Adelaide had already turned back onto her stomach, sunglasses on again, face angled toward the sun like she’d dismissed the entire conversation as something unimportant. Something passing.
Like he was passing.
That thought alone pulled something tight in his chest.
Before he could overthink it, Rafe stepped away from the helm.
Not hurried. Not obvious.
Just decided.
He crossed the deck and dropped down onto the sun pad beside her like it had always been the plan, one arm stretching out behind him as he settled in. Legs spreading slightly without thinking, taking up space in the way he always did when something felt like his and he wanted it known.
The yacht shifted gently under them, steady and expensive and private.
Adelaide turned her head slightly toward him.
One eyebrow lifted.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Rafe leaned back against his hands, looking out at the water instead of at her at first.
“Taking a break,” he said.
“Sure,” she replied, like she didn’t believe a word of it.
A beat.
Then, quieter, almost too casual:
“You gonna tell me what ‘testing the waters’ actually means or is that just something you say so people don’t ask questions?”
Adelaide sighed, shifting slightly on her stomach, one leg bending up at the knee.
“It means I’m not rushing anything,” she said.
Rafe nodded slowly, like he was considering that.
But his eyes flicked to her anyway.
To the way she was stretched out on the Cameron boat like she belonged there. Like she belonged in sun and salt and space that no one else was supposed to take up.
Especially not some guy named Dean.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Does he know that?”
Adelaide didn’t move for a second.
Then she turned her head just enough to look at him properly now.
“You’re really curious about him today,” she said.
Rafe let out a short breath through his nose.
“Am I?”
“You are.”
Silence stretched between them.
Engine hum. Water against hull. Sun too bright to look at directly.
Rafe leaned back a little more, manspreading without thinking, elbows resting behind him now as he looked down at her properly.
Not hiding it anymore.
Not bothering.
“Just trying to figure out the situation,” he said.
Adelaide smiled slightly again, but it didn’t reach her tone.
“There’s no situation.”
Rafe’s jaw flexed.
“Right,” he said. “So he’s just… a guy your parents like. You’re just… taking it slow. And I’m just what? Curious?”
He stopped himself there.
Didn’t finish it.
Didn’t need to.
Adelaide held his gaze this time, longer than before.
Then she turned her face back toward the sun like she was done answering questions she didn’t feel like making complicated.
“You’re my Rafe,” she said.
Simple. Clean. Fatal.
And Rafe sat there beside her, staring out at the water like it suddenly wasn’t wide enough.
Because if he was her Rafe, then why does it feel like he was the only thing on this entire boat that actually belonged to her, even when she refused to say it out loud?
Rafe didn’t answer right away.
For a second, he just looked at her.
Not like he was thinking about Dean anymore. Not like he was trying to solve anything. Just… looking.
Then he leaned back further in his seat across from her, one arm draped along the backrest, posture loose in a way that didn’t match the tension still sitting under his skin.
“Your Rafe, huh?” he said finally.
Adelaide didn’t open her eyes.
“Mhm.”
That small sound should’ve meant nothing. It didn’t.
Rafe let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost like a laugh.
“Bold of you,” he said. “Considering how you’ve been acting lately.”
That got her attention. One eye opened again, slow this time.
“Acting how?”
Rafe tilted his head slightly, like he was considering how honest he wanted to be.
Then he chose the version of honesty that kept things dangerous.
“Bringing another guy over,” he said. “Considering I'm yours.”
Adelaide exhaled softly, like she was already bored of this topic again.
“What?”
“I’m just saying,” he said.
A pause.
Then he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, voice dropping just a little.
“Maybe I just don’t like sharing.”
That landed differently.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… direct.
Adelaide turned her head toward him fully now.
“You don't want me to have options?” she asked, more meant as playful than the serious tone Rafe obviously seeked.
Rafe held her gaze.
And then, slower than before, almost testing it himself,
“I don’t remember signing up to be the second male lead”
Silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Not easy either.
Something suspended between them.
Adelaide studied him for a second longer than usual, sun catching the edge of her cheek, expression unreadable.
Then she smiled again. Smaller than before.
More knowing.
“And what do you think you are then?” she asked.
Rafe didn’t look away this time.
That was the point.
He let the silence sit for a beat longer than necessary, just enough to make it intentional.
Then, lightly, like it meant nothing even though it absolutely did:
“Depends,” he said.
Adelaide’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“On what?”
Rafe leaned back again, relaxed now, like he hadn’t just shifted the entire temperature of the conversation.
“On whether you keep calling me yours,” he said.
Rafe held her gaze for a moment longer than he should’ve.
Then he leaned back again, like he was settling the conversation into something more casual than it actually was.
“Okay,” he said.
Adelaide glanced at him, waiting.
He nodded slightly toward her, like he was choosing his words carefully, but not carefully enough to stop himself.
“How serious is it?” he asked.
Her brow flicked.
“That’s a broad question.”
Rafe shrugged.
“Answer it how you want.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, but not less direct:
“Like… are we talking dinner dates in Charleston, or are we talking like a few FaceTimes a week?”
Adelaide didn’t respond immediately.
That was what made it worse.
The delay.
Rafe’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice stayed even.
“I’m not judging,” he added, though it didn’t sound entirely convincing. “I just want to know what I’m dealing with.”
Adelaide finally shifted, propping herself up a little more on her elbows now, sunglasses pushed up into her hair.
“You’re not dealing with anything,” she said.
Rafe nodded once.
“Right,” he said. “So it’s not serious.”
Adelaide sighed softly.
“I didn’t say that.”
That landed heavier than anything else so far.
Silence stretched again.
Rafe looked out at the water for a second, like he needed somewhere else to put his attention before it turned into something obvious.
Then he looked back at her.
“Okay,” he said.
Just that. A beat.
Then another question, softer in tone, but more dangerous because of it.
“Have you two fucked yet?”
Adelaide’s expression changed immediately.
Not shocked.
Not offended.
Just… frozen.
Like she’d finally registered what direction he was actually pulling this conversation.
Rafe didn’t look away.
He didn’t soften it. He just waited.
Because he already knew he shouldn’t be asking.
And still, he needed the answer anyway.
"No, we haven't fucked." Adelaide answered, tone sharp.
Rafe sat there for half a second too long. Then it slipped.
The tension in his face broke, not into words, not into explanation, just… relief. Real, immediate relief.
His shoulders dropped like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. One hand came up briefly to his mouth, pressing there for a second like he could physically contain the reaction, but it was already out.
“Okay,” he said again, quieter now. “Good.”
Adelaide didn’t move at first.
Then she pushed herself up. Slowly. Fully.
The sun pad creaked slightly under the shift as she sat upright, legs bent to the side now instead of stretched out, like the entire posture of the conversation had changed with her.
Her sunglasses came off.
Not dramatically. Just deliberate.
And then she looked at him properly.
“You’re actually relieved by that?” she pointed out.
Rafe blinked once.
“What?”
Adelaide stared at him for a second longer, then let out a short, disbelieving breath.
“You’re actually relieved.”
Rafe shifted slightly in his seat, like he’d been caught doing something he didn’t mean to be seen doing.
“I didn’t say,”
“You literally said ‘good,’” she cut in immediately.
Silence.
The engine hummed under them, steady and indifferent.
Rafe dragged a hand through his hair once, then let it fall.
“I just,” he started, then stopped.
Because there wasn’t a clean version of it.
Adelaide leaned forward slightly now, elbows resting on her knees, fully engaged in a way she hadn’t been all morning.
“So what was that?” she asked, sharper now. “You ask me something completely insane, I answer you, and then you sit there like that.”
Rafe exhaled through his nose.
“It wasn’t insane,” he muttered.
That earned him a look.
“Rafe.”
He paused.
Then, quieter, more honest than he probably meant to be:
“I just don’t like the idea of you like... fucking him.”
Adelaide didn’t respond right away.
Just stared at him. Waiting.
For him to continue.
Rafe looked away for a second, jaw tightening, then back at her again.
“And I really didn’t like the idea of you not telling me.”
That landed differently.
Not softer. Just clearer.
Adelaide’s expression shifted, less offended now, more sharply focused.
“Why would I tell you that?” she asked.
Rafe shrugged once, too quickly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Because it changes things.”
Adelaide let out a short, humorless laugh.
“What things?”
Rafe hesitated. Just for a second too long.
Then, quieter:
“Everything baby.”
And for the first time since she stepped onto the boat, the space between them didn’t feel like sun and water and distance anymore.
“Everything,” he repeated, quieter this time.
It felt like something had finally been named and neither of them knew what to do with it yet.
Summary: Being in love with Rafe Cameron wasn't an original experience. Him being in love with you? That definitely is. How many ways are there for someone so in love with you to fuck up? Ask him.
Pairing: College!Rafe Cameron x Reader
Trope: Best Friends Brother to Friends to Something to Enemies to ???
Word Count: 7.3k
AN: The words got away from me, my apologies 😔
Previous Part Masterlist My Masterlist
You were never a big fan of surprises. Any chance you got, you made sure that your friends understood that loud and clear after you accidentally broke John B’s nose at the surprise 15th birthday party they had thrown you because you thought an intruder was breaking into your house.
Surprises weren’t something you could prepare yourself for, and you liked keeping your expectations low. It lowered your chances of disappointment, but it also made it more difficult for you to find yourself in a position to be hurt.
In less than a week, Rafe had managed to not only completely shatter your heart, but he had managed to slip right in and knock you off your feet worse than anyone ever had before.
You should’ve known better. You had been warned a million times. You had seen exactly how easy it was for Rafe’s actions to spiral into a whirlwind that took everyone else out in his path, but for some idiotic reason, you thought that he would find a way to spare you.
Ward couldn’t have possibly felt like this when Rafe had backed into his work truck, destroying a few thousand dollars worth of windows that were supposed to be installed the night before.
You doubt this had been the feeling in Sarah’s chest when she realized that it was her brother who had been trying to help Wheezy carry her Star Wars Lego through the garage and broke the surfboard she had made for John B for their anniversary.
Betrayed.
Maybe you didn’t really have a right to feel that way, but that doesn’t make the feeling in your chest go away. The two of you weren’t dating. He wasn’t your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he cheated on you.
Except, you feel like he did. Judging by the look on his face earlier, he at least thinks he did something wrong. The two of you haven’t managed to disagree on that.
Rafe had betrayed you in a way nobody had before, which has given way to a feeling that you haven’t directed towards him in a very long time.
Anger.
It curdles every ounce of sadness in your bones, fueling you with a ridiculous feeling of irritation as you watch Sarah attempt to call him for the fifth time across the room. Kie is texting him in all caps with curses that you didn’t even know existed flying out of her fingertips as you sit on the couch, foot anxiously tapping against the ground.
He had kissed you.
He told you that he loved you.
All of this, every bit of it, had been because he was the one who decided to act on his feelings. He knew how you felt. You’d bet your life he knew. He was the one who had jumped the gun, and now he couldn’t even be man enough to own up to it? He was just planning on hiding out until all of you brushed it under the rug like you always did?
You were the one who made everyone see his side in these situations.
You.
If he thought for a second he got to drag you around on a whim behind him, hoping and wishing for him to finally get his head out of his own ass then he has another thing coming.
Maybe he can avoid having to answer for his shit to everyone else, but you won’t be the one to fix it. If he wanted to throw his life away without all of you, then let him.
He had made his decision and it damn sure wasn’t you.
“Whoa, where are you going?” Kie asks as you stand up, your hand swiping your phone off of its spot on the floor and tucking it into your back pocket.
“Pope-”
You start to speak, but Sarah is in front of you in a flash, phone tossed on your kitchen counter no longer trying to harass her brother into answering. Her hands find your arms like she is trying to keep you in one place
“Pope isn’t allowed to kill him either,” She says quickly. “He is unfortunately still my brother.”
You roll your eyes, reaching out to grab her forearms with your fingers. The two of you stand locked together, both of you worried about entirely different things without even realizing it. The two of you are hardly ever this far off from each other’s train of thought, but this situation definitely isn’t something you’ve encountered before.
“Pope isn’t killing anyone-”
“He would if you asked,” Kie chimes in.
“Pope,” You continue, “Says that there’s a party at some guy he knows place. I’d rather not go looking like death reincarnated.”
Sarah’s hands drop from your arms, a look of confusion settling over her face. You don’t look anything like you look when she had come around the corner earlier in the day, eyes no longer watery and heartache not etched so deeply in your face she had been afraid it would never go away.
You look-
Indifferent.
“A party?”
Kie is the one to break the silence that looms for just a few short moments, her fingers no longer angrily typing away on her keyboard as she looks from Sarah back to you.
“Like with people and drinks and-” You ramble off, motioning with your hands as if she doesn’t know what a party is.
She’s not stupid, you know that, but you are trying to ease the irritation in your chest and the only way you can think to do that is to focus on something else. Something far away from engagement rings and tabloid releases and tests that you don’t even want to think of the implications of.
A party.
Full of people you don’t really know where you can try to stop JJ from dancing on top of a fire pit or persuade Cleo to try a shot of Fireball even though you know she hates it. Instead of letting yourself sit and sulk about something that you no longer wish to have any stake in, you can go somewhere and have fun.
“Are you sure that’s-” Sarah asks, her voice cutting off the second your attention is back on her. That’s all it takes for the two of you to sync right back in line with each other, the thoughts swirling in your mind clicking into place in hers in a second. She nods immediately, tucking a stray hand behind her ear in finality. “Right, party. We can party.”
She looks to Kie, who has her eyebrows pinched together as she silently looks for an explanation as to how a party is going to help with the world crumbling down around you. Sarah shoots her a look, motioning with her head for Kie to stop asking questions before you catch her eye and she sends you a smile to try to cover it up.
If Rafe Cameron wanted to make his own life miserable, you weren’t going to stop him.
But you’re done letting him make yours.
Two days ago, you had been in the worst shape of your life, crying over the loss of your best friend’s brother and whatever relationship the two of you had launched yourselves into.
Tonight, you are standing in the middle of some frat party, watching JJ trying and failing to convince Pope to do body shots while you are nursing your third drink of the night since your arrival twenty minutes ago.
As far as shifts in the universe go, you can’t be too mad at this one.
Not with the warmth settling into your chest as you take a sip out of the wine cooler Kie had pressed into your hand without a word about your usual limit being exceeded for the night. You never cared for drinking in public, usually allowing yourself a drink or rarely two, but liking to keep your bearings.
Tonight?
You’ve got Sarah playing bodyguard, turning down the outstretched drink in her boyfriend’s hand while she tries to pretend like she isn’t still trying to figure out what she is going to do with her tipsy best friend and her brother who has yet to return one of her phone calls.
The phone tucked into the pocket of your jeans hasn’t stopped buzzing since you received the article, a number you know all too well flashing across the screen now lacking the contact info it once had. You don’t answer phone calls from people you don’t know. No contact, no conversation.
You’re not going to go back on that just because you were the one to rid him of his contact.
Sarah’s fingernails tapping harshly against her phone screen grab your attention away from your mission of finding where Kie had disappeared to, the girl taking her drink and slipping out the back door while her boyfriend was trying to drag a very reluctant Pope into various party festivities.
If you didn’t know her as well as you do, you might think she is just trying to find a better spot to hang out or maybe she was trying to buy some cheap weed off of one of the Kooks who didn’t pay attention enough to realize she was trying to swindle them.
You could live with not knowing if you didn’t know her, but you do.
And when Kie disappears at a party, it’s for one thing and one thing only: information.
Information is a girl's best friend, and while Rafe may think not answering either of their calls prevents them from finding out what the hell is going on, that doesn’t mean the rest of the campus feels that way. If there is anything that hasn’t been spilled to the news or floated around in the locker rooms, Kie is liked enough in all circles to find out anything and everything that they could possibly want to know.
They.
Not you.
Because you have no interest in any sort of information pertaining to the unknown caller running rampant in your pocket.
The only interest you have is draining the drink in your hand and making your way to the kitchen for another.
“You and Maybank in some kind of race or something?”
A voice has your face turning up from where you lean against the wall next to a furiously typing Sarah and John B, who has been trying to no avail to tie a cherry stem in his mouth. Your now empty bottle drops away from your mouth and down to your side as you arch your eyebrow at the person standing in front of you.
“Why?” You ask Barry with a tilt of your head, “Think I’m winning?”
Barry just smirks in response, using his head to motion towards your blonde friend who is currently downing a line of shots across the kitchen counter surrounded by applause. You roll your eyes, clicking your tongue against the back on your teeth in faux disappointment.
“There goes my gold medal.”
You and Barry aren’t what you would consider even acquaintances, your interactions with him usually limited to a nod while he and Rafe are lost in conversation or in passing. Not that you have anything against him, but you don’t really know anything about him. Other than Rafe never let the two of you interact for long periods of time and he couldn’t hide the look on his face whenever Barry would greet you with words rather than nonverbally.
Any other night, chatting with him probably wouldn’t have worked in your favor, but you don’t have it in you to care anymore.
Maybe a tiny part of you finds a little satisfaction in the idea of Rafe feeling the tiniest twinge of anything you were feeling the first time you saw him with Sofia.
Or maybe you’re just a little petty.
You can always blame it on the alcohol in the morning.
Barry chuckles, grabbing Sarah’s attention away from her phone as she realizes that you are indeed talking to someone and not just mumbling something under your breath. Her eyes narrow in on his presence before they turn to you, red flags practically waving right in your face.
“Barry.”
His grin widens as his focus flickers over to the girl next to you, her fingers still wrapped around her phone as she takes in the boy in front of you.
“Miss Cameron,” he says with a mock bow, earning him a glare from your best friend.
“Routledge actually,” John B corrects, putting his hand up before smacking himself in the chest, cherry stem nowhere to be found. “Dammit, I need to get another one. I almost had it.”
He pushes himself away from the wall, gearing up to head to the kitchen when Sarah’s hand reaches out, lightly grabbing his arm. The two of them exchange looks, a warning on her face that you know he isn’t stupid enough to ignore.
Flopping back against the wall, a huff sliding out of his mouth, he offers you a forced smile as he settles back in. While his girlfriend might not have pleasant feelings towards you chatting with her brother’s acquaintance, he doesn’t seem to mind the idea as he glances between the two of you.
If the wink he throws your way is any indication, you think he might actually like the idea.
“You looking for a consolation prize?”
Barry’s eyes are back on yours, fingers reaching out and swiping the empty bottle out of your hands with a knowing look. Sarah’s next to you in a second, phone tucked into her pocket and fingernails brushing against your arm.
“I don’t think-”
“Why? Are you offering one?” You ask him, crossing your arms over your chest and arching a brow at him. His grin widens, a gleam in his eye that you’ve only ever seen right before he’s dragging someone into trouble.
He swirls your empty bottle around in the air like he’s taunting you with it, both of you already knowing you’re going to follow him. He’s offering you everything you need on a silver platter: a distraction.
Better yet, one that is just dangerous enough that you’re sure to get people talking about you without a breath of pity for your stupid broken heart.
Sarah says your name, fingers tugging you back a step to look at her. You already know what she is going to say, that you’re not in this for the right reasons, but you know the real reason she is so hesitant.
You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and Barry isn’t offering anything more than a drink even if she thinks differently. One step out of line and you’ll have the guy in front of you on the floor before a very temperamental blonde who is currently mixing shots on the counter will gladly start swinging in your honor.
As much as she may love you, she still is concerned about her brother, who will absolutely hear about this and probably pitch a fit even though he has no right to.
This is you shoving Rafe Cameron’s feelings out of your area of concern.
It actually feels way better than you thought it would.
Let him brood in his silence, storm through his room and have to sit in the fact that you are allowed to do whatever you want with whoever you want. If he wanted your feelings to be his concern, he had every opportunity.
“I am going to go get a drink,” You tell Sarah confidently, tugging your phone out of your pocket and holding it out to her. The screen is lit up with the same number that has been calling, no picture gracing the non-existent contact as she takes it in her hand with a confused look. “You watch over this for me. Tell him I’m busy, but you have all the time in the world to listen to his shit.”
“I-”
“Sarah,” You say her name and her protests die in her throat, disapproval softening into something else entirely. “I’m getting over it.”
“Okay,” She says simply, scrunching her lips up for a second as she lets the idea settle. “Okay. Just be safe and-”
“I’ll find you.”
“Okay.”
You leave her with a smile, following a grinning Barry towards the drinks with a thumbs up from John B. When you look back, she is putting your phone up to her ear. The understanding look she had been giving you is long gone as she opens her mouth to answer the phone, anger settling into her features.
Heaven help Rafe Cameron because you certainly won’t be.
“Any chance you know where your uglier half is?”
Barry is the first to break the silence, cigarette smoke spilling from where he stands next to you. You’ve perched yourself on the porch railing, a new glass bottle sitting next to you and halfway empty as your feet dangle over the side.
You tilt your head at him, looking over his face as if you are trying to crack some kind of code. You’re not drunk, but you are definitely tipsy. Not tipsy enough to let the question go over your head, eyes narrowing at him.
“Did you come talk to me to get tabs on your boyfriend?”
Barry laughs, flicking some ash onto the wood beneath his feet. He takes another drag, letting the moment sit between you before he answers. Like not answering is going to be enough to get you to stop asking.
“I believe our boyfriend,” Barry corrects, “Is giving us both the silent treatment.”
You roll your eyes dramatically, taking a sip out of your drink. Your fingers tap around the neck of the bottle, trying to decide how much information you are willing to divulge to this somewhat stranger.
“He’s not giving me the silent treatment-”
“Ah,” Barry clicks his tongue, nodding like he has cracked some code with just a few words. “So, you’re not talking to him. That would explain why he’s dropped off the face of the earth.”
Arguing with that point doesn’t seem like it would go anywhere. Coincidentally you and Rafe had dropped off the planet at the same time, even Sarah had mentioned it when she was trying to figure out what really had gone on between the two of you. You know why you had locked yourself away from the world, but you’re not really sure why he did.
Not to mention he wasn’t too far gone to not bring his fiancee out for the public to speculate on. You knew that he was at least feeling guilty for what had transpired between the two of you, but he wasn’t sitting around with a broken heart and sulking on the porch of a stranger’s house.
He’s getting married.
That tells you everything you need to know about his feelings on the matter.
And that leaves you here.
“I’m not not talking to him.”
Barry shakes his head, amused at you trying to shift the focus off of you. It’s not really any of his business, but you say it anyway. Even if you both know it’s a lie.
“What could Country Club have done to chase you off?” Barry asks curiously, twisting the cigarette in his fingers. “He’s in love with you or some shit.”
You can feel the feelings you had chased off swelling in your chest at the reminder of the confession you not only had to hear from Rafe, but the constant reassurance from everyone else to confirm what you had already known but hadn’t wanted to face before this situation threw it in your face.
Rafe had been in love with you. Even Barry had noticed. And still-
You take another sip of your drink, shoving the creeping sadness down in your chest and replacing it with indifference. You don’t want to think about anything but the truth that is glaring in your face.
“He’s getting married.”
The vivid memory of the photo you had seen of the ring flashes in your mind, but before you have time to dwell on it, Barry is coughing. He drops the cigarette out of his hand and onto the ground, twisting the tip of his shoe to put it out before his cough dissolves into laughter.
Real, genuine laughter.
For the life of you, you can’t imagine what could possibly be funny about any of this. As someone in the middle of it, the only laughs that have escaped you have been at the expense of yourself and your naivety.
Him laughing just pisses you off.
When his eyes meet yours, his laughing dissolves a bit when he notices the look in your eye. He clears his throat, knocking his fist against his chest.
“Sorry, I-” He coughs again, amusement evident on his face. “He’s-”
“Getting married,” You finish bitterly. “Don’t act like you didn’t see the shit online.”
You don’t know much about the guy, but you know he always knows something. He’s who Rafe goes to anytime he needs information. There’s no way that something like this went down, especially with his weird friendship with the person in question, and he didn’t know about it.
“Right, and he didn’t say anything to you?”
Confusion etches its way onto your face, another almost laugh escaping him before he is trying to cover it up with a cough and an apology. Obviously, you had been left out of the loop when it came to the announcement of the upcoming nuptials.
Apparently, Barry hadn’t.
You don’t like the way that information settles into your chest, the thought that not only had Rafe not come to you and told you about what was going on, but he went to Barry. Barry, who he was adamant was not his friend in name, but only transactionally. The two of them had always confused you, but the boy who swore that you were his best friend and that nothing would ever change hadn't come to you with something that would inevitably change everyone’s lives.
And now you had found the same solace that he had with someone who you’re not sure you’ve ever spoken a sentence to. The similarities in the two of you persisting despite your efforts to rid yourself of Rafe Cameron makes the irritation in your chest swell.
Even now, you can’t escape him.
“I think it would defeat the purpose of whatever game he thought he could play.”
The tone of your voice seems to catch Barry off-guard, his eyebrows pinching together as the words make their way out. You’re not sure what the man knows or how long he has known it, and you’re not sure you want to, but he at least knows that you have no part in any of this.
You hadn’t been considered in Rafe’s choices.
“Maybe the two of you need to have a chat,” Barry tries, his voice leading off like he doesn’t want it to be his place to tell you whatever he knows.
Not that you care.
You don’t.
The alcohol is just clearly destroying your ability to remain indifferent to the whirlwind of a situation that you have been dragged into. That’s all.
You don’t care that Rafe is marrying someone else.
You don’t care that out of everyone, after everything, he didn’t at least have the balls to tell you that himself.
“Not interested.”
Barry smiles, like there’s a secret swimming around that he is the only one lucky enough to know. You’ve decided you don’t like that look, and as much fun as it may be to bicker with someone while the twinkling lights around the outside of the house are starting to blur a bit around the edges, you’re done with this conversation.
“I think you-”
“I think you’re out of your league.”
Barry’s smile widens into something you haven’t seen before, almost like a kid in a candy shop as his focus shifts from you to the very irritating voice that you surely have to be imagining.
Your vision swims a bit at the speed you turn your head, eyes locking with the owner of the voice that you have tried to push out of your mind for the past few hours. He doesn’t look amused, not in the slightest, but neither do you.
The boy next to is completely undeterred by the murderous glare being thrown his way, metal tooth gleaming in his smile as he looks at the intruder.
“Country Club,” Barry’s voice sounds entirely too happy to be in the presence of the person responsible for the bitterness you feel burning through your veins. “What an honor to see you here. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Rafe Cameron has been known to be quite a few things. Smart. Somewhat funny. Charming. Resourceful. A package that was just enough to drive girls crazy, but to also keep them coming back for more.
Calm, however, was not one of those things.
In fact, you witnessed Rafe losing his cool more times than you can count. Once things start going differently than how he imagined in his head, the gloves come off and he starts to react before thinking anything through.
As time went on, he had started to finally listen to you about letting things go. Not making a mountain out of a mole hill just because someone said or did something he didn’t like. He went from being the quickest to the draw to him now being slightly less reactive than your very own JJ Maybank.
From one glance, you could tell every bit of restraint that was instilled in him was being tested by the obvious proximity you and Barry were sharing.
“I’ll leave you lovebirds to chat,” Barry breaks the silence with a bright smile, hand reaching out to grab yours and pressing his lips to your knuckles before he is pushing away from the porch railing. He throws you a wink, eyes full of mischief as he makes his way towards the party. If he hears Rafe mutter his name in warning, he doesn’t react, just brushes past him before deciding to clap him on the shoulder. “Tell the missus I said hello.”
In any other situation, it would be commendable how much restraint Rafe shows as Barry parts with you. His jaw is clenched tight enough that in the past you might have been worried about him cracking a tooth, but neither of his hands connect with any part of Barry’s body in an angry way, fingers twitching at his sides like they are eager.
The two of them engage in a brief conversation in tones so low that you can’t find it in yourself to care about trying to listen in. Whatever it is has Barry walking away with a smirk and Rafe flaring his nostrils in an attempt to keep his temper at bay.
He doesn’t make a move, his blue eyes focusing on you with an irritated expression that you don’t think you have ever seen reserved for you.
It takes you a second to place it, emotions flickering over his face as he attempts to search your face to gauge how upset you are with him. You are looking at him like a stranger, and he is looking at you like-
Jealousy is a funny thing.
So funny, in fact, that you can’t help but laugh when it dawns on you why Rafe is standing in front of you looking like he doesn’t know whether to scream or cry. It’s a cold laugh, one that has his lip curling up as if you just reached out and slapped him, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.
He doesn’t find any amusement in the situation, but you certainly can. The man put a ring on someone else’s finger, but you can’t have a conversation with someone else without him wanting to throw a punch.
It’s more ridiculous than it is sad to tipsy you, who downs the rest of your drink and hops off the railing with every intention of going to get another one.
He steps to the side before you can even get a stride in, the motion freezing you in place when you realize that there isn’t an escape close enough to get you away from this conversation. He had come looking for one, and he had decided he was going to get one.
Once again, you’ve been left out of a decision that should be yours to make.
If he wants a conversation, he’ll get one. You’re not going to cry and beg him to explain things to you because you don’t want that. You want to scream at him. To make him feel even the slightest bit of what you are feeling.
You’re done crying over Rafe Cameron, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to make his life hell.
The bottle in your hands settles nicely on the railing behind you, your arms crossing over your chest as you turn your focus back to the blue eyes in front of you. His eyebrows pinch together for a split second before he is trying to hide his surprise at you holding your ground.
He had expected you to run.
Without the alcohol in your system, you probably would’ve. Saves you the heartache of having to stand in front of him like he wasn’t the most important person in your life just a few weeks ago.
“What were you-”
You roll your eyes, huffing out a breath because of course his concern is on the fact that you were out here with Barry. After everything, this is what he wants to talk to you about.
“Not any of your business, Cameron.”
“You are my business,” He fires back immediately, earning a scoff from you.
“Your fiancee is your business,” You retort. “Your sister is your business. What I do and who I do it with has nothing to do with you.”
Calm.
While Rafe is known for his explosive tendencies, you are known to keep a level-head in stressful situations. Your friends joke that if they were ever trapped on a deserted island, their survival would entirely hinge upon how unphased you allow yourself to be in a crisis.
The first to talk someone down. You’ve always been able to find a way through situations that other people let overwhelm them. The wiring in your brain somehow decides to step up anytime the universe throws the people you love a curveball.
As much as it may make you seem entirely unaffected by things, you can’t lie and say it isn’t the most helpful tool in your inebriated arsenal right now. Even teetering over the edge between tipsy and drunk, you keep yourself from the shouting burning to escape your throat.
Rafe, on the other hand, can’t hide the irritation on his face. His jaw is almost pulsing with how many times he flexes it, trying to stop himself from launching into an argument that you somehow are his business.
He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want you to be.
There’s the smallest piece of you that yearns to feel guilty for the look on his face. The circles under his eyes and the way his face flashes between wanting to cry and wanting to let out a scream of his own would normally tug at your heart and have you feeling the ever present need to fix whatever problems he has in his life, but you don’t.
Right now, it seems like his biggest problem is you.
You didn’t do anything wrong.
In fact, the thought of you somehow having anything to do with how utterly ridiculous this situation is makes you want to laugh. It’s outrageous how far you’ve been willing to go to make him feel better when he hasn’t done the same for you at all in this.
“You shouldn’t hang around guys like him.”
There’s no stopping that laugh that jumps out of you, the audacity of him to think that in all of this what you need is a warning about having a conversation with Barry. If he was so concerned about your well-being, the warning he should’ve given you was about the ring on another girl’s finger after just telling you that he was in love with you.
“Eat shit,” You say, irritation evident in your tone. “Don’t act like you give a fuck about who I’m hanging around. You just care because it’s not you.”
Maybe it comes out a little meaner than it should, but you can’t really find it in yourself to care. He wanted to find you to have this conversation. That doesn’t mean you have to make it a nice one.
“I care.”
It comes out in a bite, him trying to stop himself from going any further and saying something that you can tell is building up. While you apparently aren’t good at reading all of his tell-tale signs, you’ve at least picked up on when he is trying to hold himself back from saying something he doesn’t mean.
If he had been able to do that days ago when you had been standing in his room, maybe you wouldn’t be standing in front of him with a bitter taste in your mouth at the thought that he was still somehow keeping things from you. You try not to let it overtake you, the anger that you feel rising up at Rafe being able to hide from a fight when it comes at your expense, but the drinks you’ve had and the tears you’ve wasted over the past few days won’t let you.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you,” You find the button you want to press, putting your hand up to your ear as if you are having trouble hearing. “Trying to save your voice for a TMZ exclusive later or did you not pay them enough to follow you into the bushes out here too?”
He’s across the porch in just about three strides, blue eyes staring at you with more anger than you’ve ever seen directed your way. You don’t back down, satisfaction flooding into your chest at the realization that you have successfully ruffled his feathers.
The alcohol hasn’t stripped you of your senses, but it has definitely made you bolder. More confident. Confident that you are going to handle this conversation with a little less moping and a little more backbone than you may have under other circumstances, but also in knowing that as unfortunate as it has been for your heartache, you still know Rafe better than anyone on the planet.
“I care,” He insists, jaw ticking for the millionth time. “You know that I do. I told you I love you-”
“Oh boo fucking hoo, Cameron.” You cut him off, crossing your arms over your chest indignantly. “Forgive me if I find it a little hard to believe that when you proposed to someone else in almost the same breath.”
“I didn’t propose.”
You falter for a second at his immediate response. Just one tiny second before it hits you that he is really trying to gaslight you into thinking that you didn’t see the rock on that girl’s hand along with 90% of the population around you. Hell, you’re sure even your mom had seen it and the woman doesn’t even know how to find an article that isn’t a Facebook reel.
“Am I a fucking joke to you?” You ask, taking a step back from where your chests had almost been touching and throwing your hands up in the air.
“I’m not laughing.”
You narrow your eyes at him, a scoff escaping your lips as your eyes flicker across his face. There’s no deep line in the middle of his eyebrows, no teeth clamping down on the inside of his lip to tell you that he’s lying. That doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth.
“I saw the ring.”
He doesn’t shuffle from foot to foot like he usually does when his lies are tumbling down around him. His eyes aren’t shifting around, trying to find something to grasp onto to help him gain back some footing in the conversation.
He’s focused on you, solely on you, and it makes you want to knock the daylight out of him.
“Your mom’s ring.” You add on, trying to stop yourself from cussing him up one side and down the other.
You aren’t some idiot so blind in your hope for Rafe Cameron’s affection that you are going to let him twist this around and make you feel like you didn’t see something that is forever burned into your mind. The ring was there, you had seen it, and you knew exactly what ring it was.
There’s no universe in which he can make you somehow forget that.
“I know.”
It comes out in almost a whisper, his shoulders dropping as your eyes find him again. The irritation has wiped off of his face completely, but it’s replaced with an emotion that you have been trying to avoid recognizing since he waltzed himself out here.
Guilt.
He doesn’t waste a beat, words tumbling out of his mouth as fast as he can get them to. His dad got a call from some friend of his, letting him know that there were some scouts interested in him. Big time scouts. Scouts that would be responsible for if he got drafted or not after the season was over.
That part you practically miss, the idea that he needed to worry about any kind of scout not liking him feeling ridiculous. He had been born and bred to impress them. That future had been decided for him long before he had even accepted that it was a fate he wanted.
He did want it. For him. Not just for his dad. The two of you had talked about that enough times for you to know that.
Apparently, word of mouth gets around a little more than game footage because teams that had practically been drooling over him every week were now heavily reconsidering after his brawl with a rival player at a party about two months ago.
You remember the night, he had showed up to your dorm with a split lip and bloody knuckles, mumbling something about an asshole never knowing when to keep his mouth shut. You had sighed like you always did and patched him up, giving him the same talk about how he needed to stop letting people get in his head like that.
Scouts said it made him seem like a risk. Cocky. Arrogant. A hot-head who will inevitably blow up with no consideration for the team that he would be dragging down with him. He was coming off as too immature to be taken seriously, and he was risking going undrafted if he didn’t find some way to get their attention on him in a positive light.
His dad had come up with the hair-brained idea that if he could seem serious about something, or rather someone, they would take another look at him and see something else. A college kid who had turned his life around in the name of love.
There had been a few dates that you hadn’t seen in the headlines, but had been leaked to the right places. Photos that were made to look like this relationship had been going on for far longer than he wanted to admit. Then came the ring.
“Okay.”
Your voice cuts him off mid ramble, words dying in his throat as his eyebrows furrow together in confusion.
“Okay?”
You nod, as if that answers the question he is asking. It doesn’t, but you don't have anything else to say. The situation has been explained and not only does it not fix anything, but it actually makes you feel worse at the realization of what went down.
“Can I go now?”
“Wait, I-”
“It’s been lovely chatting,” You say as you wipe your sweat palms against your legs. “But I really don’t think any of this is helpful and I would much rather be pretty much anywhere else right now.”
He looks like a fish out of water, your words settling in but he’s not understanding why the situation isn’t at least starting to repair. You still are looking at him as if he is a stranger, and he’s looking at you like he is going to be sick.
“You don’t have anything you want to say?” He asks, voice faltering a little bit as the panic starts to settle in. “You don’t want to yell at me? Tell me I’m an idiot? There’s nothing-”
You sigh, tiredness starting to settle into your bones. This entire situation has drained everything out of you, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.
“What do you want me to say, Rafe?” You ask, throwing your hands up in the air. “You played rom-com. Do you not get that?”
He shakes his head, hand wiping across the front of his face before he is opening his mouth to disagree. You already know what he is going to say. Tipsy you isn’t interested in hearing it.
“Have you not seen enough shitty movies to know that this was exactly how this was going to end up? You picked the wrong girl,” Your voice is gentle, but firm. There’s no room for argument in your tone, but he’s going to try. Of course he is going to try. “If you loved me-”
“I do love you.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me?” You don’t give him a chance to continue trying to convince you that he cares about you. “You needed someone to get fake engaged to, so why didn’t you ask me? Why ask her? Did you think I wouldn’t get it?”
Rafe drops his shoulders, the realization setting in a little too late for him that there is nothing he is going to be able to say to make this better right now. If he says no, then he viewed your friendship in a way that was significantly weaker than you did.
Saying yes means that he considered it- considered you- and still didn’t choose to ask you.
“You said I was your best friend, and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me,” You continue, the lump in your throat swelling up way too fast for your liking. “I found out that you were engaged through a stranger’s Instagram story.”
“I’m sorry, I just-”
“Is she pregnant?”
He blinks at your question, the red around his eyes making it a bit hard for him to focus on yours, but he snaps into focus in the same way that the memory dawns on you.
A test.
He had publicly gone with her to get the test. They didn’t order it. She didn’t go alone. He went with her, knowing what it would mean. Knowing how it would be perceived. He knew, and once again, you were finding out about his life through the press when he lived so close you could practically throw a rock at his window.
“Can you just give me two seconds to explain?”
You suck in a breath, vision wobbling for a second before you are trying to stop yourself from once again crying over an idiot who couldn’t ever seem to choose you in a moment where it mattered.
“You made your choice, Rafe,” Your voice is nearly a whisper in an attempt to not let it shake. He doesn’t need to know how affected you are by his decisions, even though you are sure it is evident on your face. “Take some responsibility."
Rafe had charm, wealth and a reputation that would turn heads wherever he went. He had never even heard of the word no - until he met her. The one woman he couldn’t buy, couldn’t charm and couldn’t stop thinking about. Now, he’s willing to risk everything to have the one thing he can’t seem to touch. You.
CONTENT
swearing, Suggestive Content, all characters are over 18 (Reader is 20, Rafe is 21), Rafe being a dork, mentions of ward, making Bella hadids pasta, shitty writing, lmk if I missed any
A/N!
Hey... sorry abt the wait I was lowkey stuck on what to do next. But I watched Bring it on again and I forgot how much I loved that movie lol. I quit my job bc I will not work for the she-devil of a boss so there will be more frequent updates!
The silence soon turned into giggles. The distance between you two slowly collapsed as your head settled into his lap, his head craning to watch you as you spoke.
If Rafe was being completely honest, he wasn't listening to a word you said.
He was completely mesmerized by the way your eyes glistened when you gave random facts about things you were clearly interested in, not to mention the way the corners of your lips curled when you were about to let out a hearty laugh.
You didn't seem to notice—or even care. You just kept rambling on before you suddenly came to a stop, taking in a quick breath. Rafe's brows furrowed. "Keep talking—I like hearing you talk." His fingers played with a strand of your hair.
Your heart stuttered, and you thanked the stars it was dark because you were sure you were as red as a lobster. "I'm hungry," you managed to keep your voice steady.
His eyebrows furrowed and he checked his watch. "It's like 2 AM, everywhere's closed." Were you hinting that you wanted to go?
Disappointment weighed on his shoulders as he watched you get back up, brushing the sand off your thighs. "You leavin'?"
"Yeah, going back to mine." You murmured, shaking the sand out of your hair.
He nodded slowly, his eyes hanging low as he pouted like a child. "Oh... okay, I'll see you around?"
You only laughed and raised a brow at him. "You're not hungry?"
"What?"
You laughed and held your arm out, fingers wiggling. "I promise, I can make a mean bowl of pasta." You gave him a teasing smirk which made Rafe lose all train of thought.
He instantly took your hand, your fingers immediately interlocking with his as you guided him back to the boardwalk.
"You got your own place?" He questioned gruffly, silently praying that you didn't suddenly become aware of how clammy his hands were getting.
You nodded. "Yeah, I share it with Riley. But unfortunately for you, it's in the Cut. But don't worry Cameron, I'll protect you if anyone tries anything." You lifted a fist with a grin.
Rafe dramatically placed a hand to his heart. "Thank you, really." He said with a boyish grin before he realized you both had left your car by the sea wall.
He tugged your hand lightly to make you stop. You spun around to face Rafe, who had his eyebrows furrowed. "What's wrong?"
He glanced back in the direction you came from, pointing a thumb back. "Your car? You're just going to leave it there? What if it gets stolen?" The genuine concern on his face made you giggle.
"I don't drive after smoking." You tugged him closer towards you and continued walking. "Besides, I don't think anyone would even want to steal that piece of shit anyway." You shrugged.
Rafe stayed quiet, before squeezing your hand tighter and nodding.
The two of you carried on the way back to your small house. The front garden was overgrown with weeds, the paint on the walls flaked off, and a rusty bike was parked by the porch.
Your fingers unlaced with his as you patted your pockets to find your key. Rafe's fingers twitched, and he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he watched you walk to the front door and push it open.
You stood by the entrance with a smile and your arms held open. "Welcome to my humble abode!" you grinned. He chuckled before moving towards you, his eyes not leaving your frame for a second. "I'm expecting five-star service," he said with a teasing smile.
You rolled your eyes before grabbing his forearm and dragging him inside. "Oh trust me baby, you will be getting ten-star service."
Rafe froze for a second, heat creeping up his neck as his pulse quickened. The nickname hit him like a spark, and he tried to hide the way his fingers twitched. He cleared his throat softly before allowing himself to be manhandled by you.
The interior of your house was cozy in a lived-in way that made Rafe's chest tighten unexpectedly. Mismatched furniture, fairy lights strung along the walls, and the faint scent of vanilla candles mixed with something reminded him of you. It was nothing like the pristine, cold perfection of Tannyhill, and somehow that made it feel more like home than anywhere he'd ever been.
"Sorry about the mess," you said, kicking off your shoes and tossing your keys onto a cluttered coffee table. "Rileys probably crashed out in her room, she had an early shift today."
Rafe shook his head, still taking everything in. "It's nice," he said, and meant it.
You shot him a look over your shoulder as you headed toward what he assumed was the kitchen. "You sure you're not just saying that because you're starving?" you grin
"Maybe a little," he admitted with a smirk, following behind you like a lost puppy.
The kitchen was small but it was enough. The cabinets were mismatched and there was a window over the sink that led to the small backgarden.. You were already pulling ingredients from various cupboards—pasta, garlic, olive oil, motzarella cheese that looked suspiciously expensive for someone living in the Cut.
"Sit," you commanded, pointing to a battered barstool at the small island. "And tell me about Figure 8. I bet its like desperate housewives."
Rafe perched on the stool sheepishly, watching as you filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. There was something hypnotic about the way you moved around the kitchen, completely natural and in your element. "What kind of gossip?"
"I don't know, what do grossly rich people do? Who's sleeping with who? Whose daddy bought them a new yacht?" You glanced at him with a mischievous smile as you started mincing garlic. "Oh Come on Cameron, I wont tell, im really good at keeping secrets trust me."
He found himself laughing, actually laughing, as he told you about the ridiculous drama that passed for entertainment among the Kooks. Topper's never-ending quest to please Ruthie, the way Mrs. Henderson from three houses down had installed security cameras specifically to spy on her teen neighbors pool parties.
"No fucking way," you gasped, nearly dropping your wooden spoon. "Isnt she like– 40? Thats hella creepy"
"Cross my heart," Rafe said, making the gesture dramatically. "Said it was only for ‘security’ but i dont think burglars are gonna wanna take a dip in the pool"
You were giggling now, the kind of laugh that made your whole body shake, and Rafe felt something warm and unfamiliar settle in his chest. When was the last time someone had laughed at his stories like that? Not the polite chuckles he got from other Kooks, but genuine laughter.
The pasta water was boiling now, and you dumped in the pasta with practiced ease. "Okay, your turn to help. Can you grate this?" You slid the block of mozzarella across the counter along with a small grater.
"I should probably tell you," Rafe said, picking up the grater hesitantly, "I'm not exactly... domestic."
"It's grating cheese, not performing brain surgery," you teased, but your voice was gentle. You turn to watch him awkwardly hold the grater, observing the different ridges on each side “which one do I use?”
"Oh my god. Here, like this." You moved to stand beside him, your hand covering his to guide the motion.
The contact sent electricity shooting up his arm. You were so close he could smell your shampoo, something fruity that made him want to bury his face in your hair. Your fingers were warm against his, and when you looked up at him to make sure he was getting it, your faces were only inches apart.
"Got it?" you asked softly, and he nodded, not trusting his voice.
You stepped back, but not before he caught the slight flush in your cheeks. Good.
The next few minutes passed in comfortable silence, punctuated by your humming and the sounds of cooking. You drained the pasta and tossed it with olive oil, garlic, and tomato puree, creating something that smelled incredible and looked deceptively simple.
"Voilà," you said, presenting him with a bowl topped with the cheese he'd grated and a generous crack of black pepper. "Bon appetit, courtesy of a very stoned YouTube binge last year."
Rafe took a bite and nearly moaned in pleaure. "Holy shit, this is amazing."
"Language," you scolded playfully, settling beside him with your own bowl. "What would your Rose say?"
The mention of Rose made Rafe's stomach clench in agitation, but he pushed the feeling away. Tonight was about this; you, him, pasta at 2:30 AM in a kitchen.
"She’d probably ask why I'm not eating it with a proper wine pairing," Rafe said dryly.
"Well, Next time I'll make sure to stock some Dom Pérignon for our next late-night pasta sessions." You bumped his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact made his heart skip.
"There's gonna be a next time?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, vulnerable and hopeful in a way that made him want to take it back immediately.
But your smile was soft, almost shy. "I hope so.I would be offended if you didn't think my cooking wasn't good enough to come back for."
You finished eating while swapping more stories, your knees bumping under the small counter, the space between you gradually diminishing until your thighs were pressed together. When you got up to rinse the bowls, Rafe found himself missing the warmth immediately.
"Movie?" you asked, already heading toward the living room. "I've only got Netflix and an embarrassing collection of rom-coms on DVD."
"Dealer's choice," Rafe said, settling onto your couch—a well-loved sectional that was probably older than both of you but somehow the most comfortable thing he'd ever sat on.
You disappeared down a hallway for a moment, returning with a throw blanket and wearing an oversized t-shirt that fell to your mid-thighs. Rafe tried not to stare at your legs, failed spectacularly, and hoped you didn't notice.
"Hope you're ready for some quality cinema," you said, settling beside him and pulling up Netflix. "I'm talking foreign films, thought-provoking documentaries, maybe some– oh, or we could watch this."
The screen showed the thumbnail for some ridiculous-looking comedy ‘Bring it on; All or nothing!’ a 2000s movie about cheerleading. Rafe raised an eyebrow.
"What happened to foreign films?"
"I lied. I want to watch something stupid and funny." You looked at him hopefully. "Is that okay?"
The fact that you were asking, like his opinion mattered, like you cared if he was comfortable, made his chest tight. "Yeah, just dont blame me if i suddenly need to throw up"
You pressed play and settled back against the couch, pulling the blanket over both of you. The movie was exactly as it looked. But it was funny, and more importantly, it made you laugh.
Rafe found himself watching you more than the screen. The way you threw your head back when the Blonde cheerleader complained about her new school, how you'd grab his arm during particularly cringy scenes, the running commentary you provided in whispered that were often funnier than the actual movie.
"Oh my god,i cant watch this scene" you cringed during a scene where the boys were teaching the blonde cheerleader how to krump.
"What the hell?" Rafe held a hand over his mouth to contain his laughter, and you dissolved into giggles that you tried to muffle against his shoulder.
The contact sent heat racing through his veins. You stayed there, your head resting against him, and Rafe held perfectly still, afraid that moving might break whatever trance was keeping you close.
As the movie played, you shifted closer, your legs tucking up under you, your body gradually melting against his side. Rafe's arm came up almost involuntarily, wrapping around your shoulders, and when you didn't pull away, when you actually snuggled closer– he thought his heart might actually stop.
This was dangerous territory. He'd been attracted to plenty of girls before, had hooked up with his fair share, but this felt different. This felt like something that could be more, something that would hurt like a bitch if it went wrong. But with your warmth pressed against him and your quiet laughter vibrating through his chest, he couldn't bring himself to care about the risks.
The movie was winding down, the credits starting to roll, when you shifted to look up at him. Your faces were close again, closer than they'd been in the kitchen, and neither of you moved away.
"Rafe," you said softly, and the way you said his name, airy, like a melody. It made his breath catch.
"Yeah?"
Instead of answering, you leaned up and kissed him.
It was soft at first, hesitant, like you were giving him a chance to pull away. But there was no way in hell Rafe was going to pull back.
His hand came up to cup your face, and he kissed you back with all the want that had been building up.
You made a small sound against his lips, like a hum of content and something inside him snapped. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you responded by shifting in his lap, your legs straddling his thighs. The new position made him groan, his hands sliding down to grip your hips.
"Is this okay?" you whispered against his mouth, and he nodded frantically.
"More than okay," he managed gruffly, before capturing your lips again.
The kiss deepened, became hungrier, more desperate. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, and the sensation sent sparks straight down his spine. He could taste mint and something sweet on your tongue, could feel the way you were breathing hard against him, and it was intoxicating.
His hands explored the curve of your waist, the soft skin of your thighs, the place where your shirt had ridden up to reveal a strip of your lower back.
Every touch made you shiver, made small sounds escape your throat that were driving him absolutely crazy.
"God, you're incredible," he murmured against your neck, pressing kisses along the column of your throat that made you arch against him.
"Rafe," you breathed, and the want in your voice nearly undid him completely.
He was just about to suggest maybe moving somewhere more comfortable when a door slammed somewhere in the house, followed by the sound of footsteps and someone fumbling around in what sounded like the kitchen.
You both froze, your eyes wide as you stared at each other.
"Shit," you whispered. “Shes got great timing” yo dropped your head onto his shoulder in defeat
The footsteps were getting closer to the living room causing you to scramble off Rafe's lap, both of you trying to look casual as a girl with messy blonde hair and wearing an oversized sleep shirt padded into the living room.
"Oh," she said, stopping short when she saw you both on the couch. Her eyes were bleary with sleep, but she was clearly taking in the scene; your mussed hair, Rafe's swollen lips, the general air of two people who had definitely been damn near dry humping 30 seconds ago. "Hi."
"Hey" you said, your voice slightly strangled. "This is Rafe. Rafe, Riley."
"Hi," Rafe cleared his throat, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
Riley looked between you two for a moment, a slow grin spreading across her face. "Well, this is awkward. I was just getting some water, but I can... go back to bed. While you guys carry on with… whatever you were doing."
"You don't have to– " you started, but Riley was already backing toward the hallway, giggles following her.
"Use protection!" she called over her shoulder before disappearing back down the hall. A moment later, her bedroom door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was deafening. You and Rafe stared at each other, the moment thoroughly broken, the heat that had been building between you now replaced by awkward tension.
"I should probably..." Rafe started, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah," you said quietly, looking anywhere but at him.
He stood up, immediately missing your warmth, and looked around for his shoes. The magic of the evening was fading, reality creeping in around the edges. What was he doing?.
"Thanks" he said when he found his shoes by the door. "For food, and the movie, and uh… yeah"
You walked him to the door, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Yeah, of course."
He wanted to kiss you again, wanted to ask when he could see you again, he wanted to do a lot of things but unfortunatley Rileys interruption had been like a bucket of cold water, and now he had no idea what to do
"I'll... see you around?" he said unsurely, scratching the back of his neck
You nodded, giving him a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Yeah. See you around, Cameron."
He stepped outside, the night air cool against his flushed skin, and heard the door close softly behind him. It wasn't until he was halfway down your street that he realized what he'd forgotten to do.
"Fuck," he said aloud, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He'd been so thrown off by the interruption that he'd walked out without getting your number. He didn't even know your last name. How the fuck was he supposed to find you again?
Rafe turned around, looking back at your house, but the lights were already off. Going back now would make him look weird and desperate.
The walk back to Figure 8 was long, giving him plenty of time to replay every moment of the evening. Your laugh, how natural it had felt to be in your safe space, the spark between you the moment your lips met his. And then the way it had all fallen apart in the span of thirty seconds.
By the time he reached the familiar streets of the figure eight, Rafe's mind was still spinning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd met someone who made him feel so normal.
Not like Rafe Cameron, son of Ward Cameron, the expectations and baggage that came with that name.
He felt like Rafe, a guy who could make you laugh and who felt like the luckiest person alive when you looked at him like he was worth something.
You were smart, funny, genuine in a way that was rare among the people he usually spent time with. You made amazing pasta at 2 AM and laughed at stupid movies and looked at him like he was interesting rather than just another rich kid with daddy issues.
And you were hot. God, you were hot. The way you'd felt in his lap, the little sounds you'd made when he kissed your neck, the way your shirt had ridden up when you'd stretched to reach something in the kitchen.
Rafe groaned, running both hands through his hair. He was completely fucked, and he didn't even have your number.
As he finally reached his house. The massive, pristine Tannyhill. The large space that was overtaken with loneliness.
It was then and there Rafe made himself a promise. He was going to find you again. However long it took, whatever he had to do, he was going to see you again.
Because tonight had been the first time in a long time that he'd felt like himself. And he wasn't ready to give that up.
The moment he was inside, Rafe pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Kelce's name.
His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment. It was nearly 4 AM, but this couldn't wait until morning. He typed out a quick message
yo i need rileys number. need to ask her something about work schedules at the club.
He hit send before he could overthink it, then stared at his phone, praying to every god he could think of that Kelce would be awake.
The phone buzzed in his hand and he scrambled to open it. Kelces sent Rileys number and a string of question marks.
Rafe ignored the questions and immediately started typing
hey its rafe. Could you tell me when Y/N works at the club?
His thumb hovered over the send button as his heart hammered in his chest.
PLOT Years after their messy breakup, Y/N, now a rising documentary filmmaker, is assigned to direct a film about Saint Halo, the world-famous band fronted by her ex, Rafe Cameron. What starts as a professional reunion turns into an emotional collision, as old wounds resurface under the lights of fame and the camera starts catching more truth than either of them planned.
CONTENT CHAPTER ONE, strong language, emotionally charged intimacy, emotional infidelity, & me overdoing this whole thing and writing way too much. i lowkey dont check my taglist app so just dm me or comment underneath !
MAIN MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST
you sit in the back of the conference room with your coffee going cold. your producer for the documentary, mae, is standing at the front beside a whiteboard that’s already crowded with color-coded notes: names, dates, arrows, scribbles about logistics, flights, permissions. somewhere between week 2 and week 5, she’s managed to fit a doodle of a little guitar.
her handwriting is almost too neat for what she’s saying. “access to saint halo will be limited at first,” mae’s explaining, marker cap clicking in her hand. “they’ve had issues with press, and management is being cautious. we’ll need to be careful about tone early on. don’t push for anything too personal until they trust us.”
you nod automatically. your pen is between your fingers, but you’re not taking notes, mostly because you don’t need to. you could do this half-asleep and still nail it. and honestly, part of you probably is half-asleep, if not physically then somewhere in your head.
mae’s voice blurs into the background. she’s walking through the plan: week one is sit-down interviews, week two is live tour footage, weeks three through (hopefully) six is studio and off-days.
it’s all textbook. you’ve done this a dozen times before with politicians, small-town artists, even that surfer doc that got you the sundance shortlisting, but this one’s different. you’re not sure if it’s the subject, or the subject of the subject. saint halo, of all the bands in the world.
you try to tell yourself you’re lucky. it’s a high-profile project with real budget, real eyes on it. the label’s backing it, the production company’s been trying to get in with the music industry for years, and now they have their foot in the door because of you. your name carries weight. mae knows it, the executives know it. they all trust you.
but your stomach still twists when you think about what that means. you swallow hard, tune back in just in time to hear mae’s voice.
“we’ll be traveling in the next few days,” she says, flipping through her clipboard. “they’re still on tour, so we’ll meet the band at one of their gigs first. we’ll get permission for backstage access and maybe some audience shots. it’s a good chance to get performance footage early - kill two birds with one stone.”
you blink, forcing yourself to focus. performance footage, early material, travel prep. got it. you underline something meaningless in your notebook just to look busy.
mae continues, “i know the idea of filming on-site can be chaotic, but it’s good energy. it’s raw. we want the audience to feel the noise, you know? that’s what makes the music documentaries land.”
you nod again, even though she isn’t really looking at you anymore. your eyes drift back down to your laptop, to the corner of the screen where your email is still open, but your cursor hovers over the imessages icon instead.
you shouldn’t, but your fingers move before you can stop them. it’s like muscle memory, almost.
the chat window pops up with a list of names you know too well. you see the cinematographer from your last film, the sound designer who’s been wanting a chance to work with you again, even that editor who worked with you on a hurricane doc. she still calls you “boss” even though you hated it.
and then, somewhere near the bottom, rafe cameron.
his name looks wrong in the context of work. the little profile circle is just a gray placeholder now. there’s no photo or last activity timestamp, but the thread is still there. the scroll bar is small, a testament to how much you once texted.
you deleted your old messages from your phone years ago. it was an act of cleansing, but the laptop kept everything.
you exhale slowly and scroll up anyway, eyes moving over fragments you’d forgotten were still here. there’s jokes about lyrics, him sending you a rough demo at two in the morning, ‘don’t laugh if it sucks,’ and pictures from nights you barely remember.
your reflection stares back at you from the black edge of the screen. you can hear mae still talking in the background about shooting permits and camera setups. you should be listening. you want to be listening, but instead you’re typing. your fingers move on their own.
no, too casual. delete.
no, he knows who you are. delete.
you breathe in through your nose, try again.
the words look too bare, too defensive for a first message after, what, two years? three? you stare at them for a long time, the blinking cursor pulsing.
you imagine him seeing it. the unread notification, the way his brow might furrow, the possible what now he’d mutter under his breath. you imagine him ignoring it. you imagine him answering. neither version even feels survivable. your thumb hovers over enter.
then, slowly, you backspace. each letter disappears until there’s nothing left. no message, no start, no chance to ruin or repair anything. you shut your laptop gently, the click of it closing louder than it should be.
around you, the meeting wraps up. mae’s saying something about the call sheet, about flight times. the crew’s laughing softly as chairs scrape against the floor. someone tosses a marker into the bin.
you nod when mae passes by and says, “we’ll touch base tomorrow.”
you land in chicago a little after noon. the flight itself was . . . fine, except for the hour you spent stuck behind a group of drunk bachelor-party guys arguing. by the time you finally got off the plane, your patience was thin, your earbuds were dead, and your iced coffee had melted into something closer to literal dishwater. still, you made it, and that’s what matters.
you pick up your luggage, check into the hotel mae booked for the crew and drop your bags at the foot of the bed. the white comforter looks tempting enough to dive into, but mae’s text pops up before you can even think about sitting down: van leaves in 20. wear something casual. soundcheck at 4.
so much for rest. guess you should’ve done more of it on the plane. but now, twenty minutes later, you’re squeezed into the middle row of a black sprinter van with mae and three other crew members. mae’s at the front, laptop open, talking to the driver about the route to the venue while she sips her third cold brew of the day. she’s good at multitasking, she always has been.
“we should get there right as saint halo’s starting soundcheck,” she says over her shoulder. “perfect timing to get some behind-the-scenes footage before the crowd fills in.”
you nod, even though you’re not sure she’s talking directly to you. the city slips by through the tinted window, and the closer you get to the venue, the heavier your chest feels. you tell yourself it’s nerves or excitement. or maybe it’s just the cold pressing through the glass. the venue’s big, but you’ve seen enough arenas from concerts you’ve been to in your freetime.
you step out of the van with your camera bag slung over your shoulder and take it all in. mae’s already directing traffic, telling the camera crew where to unload, which doors to use, what permissions they have. the venue’s front-of-house staff points you toward a side entrance, wristbands waiting for you at check-in.
entry’s been covered by one of the documentary’s major backers. you’d read their name enough times on contracts and funding proposals that it feels weird to finally see their logo plastered on the laminate around your neck.
you move with the rest of the crew through the back corridors of the venue. someone’s already doing a mic check in the distance.
there are equipment cases stacked against the walls backstage, crew members in all black darting between sound techs and lighting rigs. mae stops every few steps to talk logistics with someone, while you find yourself wandering toward the stage area.
a man spots you first, nate ellison, saint halo’s manager. he’s in his mid-40s, beard going silver, wearing a vintage tour tee and a headset like he’s been doing this since the literal dawn of time.
“you’re with mae’s team, right?” he says, smiling as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “y/n, yeah? we’ve been expecting you.”
you nod, offering a polite handshake that he returns with the kind of practiced friendliness of someone who meets too many people in a day.
“they’re just finishing soundcheck,” nate explains, tilting his head toward the stage. “i’ll take you over to meet them real quick. won’t keep you long.”
you follow him up the steps to the side of the stage and notice wide lights, the empty stretch of seats and railings, a few fans scattered near the barricade, phones already up. apparently, saint halo allows a handful of people to buy early-access passes to watch soundcheck.
on stage, the band’s finishing a run-through of a song. instruments hum, and you can feel the vibration through the floorboards. nate lifts a hand, gesturing for them to wrap up.
“hey, guys,” he calls out. “come take a second, this is y/n. she’s with the documentary team.”
the noise quiets. the drummer stops first, setting her sticks down on the snare, followed by the bassist leaning back against his amp, and then, finally, the lead singer turns.
your heartbeat doesn’t care that this is a work assignment. it doesn’t care about professionalism or posture or how many years it’s been. all it knows is that he’s here.
the band gathers at the side, sweat still shining under the stage lights, the early-access fans in the audience murmuring behind their hands. you can’t look away, not yet, and he doesn’t either.
nate’s voice fades into the background as you step forward. the first one to reach out is this tall, lanky guy with a grin and a sweat-darkened shirt. he takes your hand in his, eyebrows raising almost immediately.
“no offense,” he says, his tone somewhere between amusement and disbelief, “but you look kinda young for the gig.”
before you can even think of a response, another voice cuts in, a deeper laugh from just beside him. “i was gonna say the same damn thing,” the other guy adds, shaking his head.
you let out a small, polite laugh, giving the first one a nod. “i’m twenty-five,” you say simply. “and i promise i know what i’m doing.”
that earns a few chuckles from the others. they’re not being mean, they’re just curious. you’re used to it. people expect the kind of person who directs documentaries to be older, more jaded. not . . . well, you.
the first guy is luca if you remember correctly. he still looks half-surprised, half-impressed. the bassist, the one every article called “the glue” or whatever. he’s pretty, that’s for sure.
next is orion, their synth and guitarist. seems like a nice kid. he’s got that restless energy you’ve seen in so many artists. his hand is warm, his grin crooked. the profiles you read called him the “spark” of saint halo, the one who starts ideas that everyone else eventually shapes into something bigger. you can see why.
then comes nox, the only girl in the band. she’s quiet at first, her handshake firm. her dark hair is pulled back, a faint sheen of sweat from soundcheck still clinging to her temples. articles always called her “the backbone of saint halo,” and it fits. she’s presence before she’s sound.
and then rafe. you knew this part was coming, but no amount of bracing can soften it.
he steps forward, slower than the rest, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering his hand. his eyes meet yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he hasn’t been the ghost sitting at the back of your mind for months, maybe years. his hair’s a little shorter, his jaw sharper, but the way he looks at you hasn’t changed at all.
you inhale through your nose before taking his hand. his grip is steady. there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. maybe amusement. “so you’re the director?” he asks. it sounds like he’s teasing you and testing the air between you at the same time. you know that he’s known you’re the director for this project.
you squint at him, a slight curve at the corner of your mouth but it never really turns into a smile. “mm,” you hum, then you drop his hand.
nate clears his throat somewhere off to the side. “alright,” he says, clapping his hands together once, “we’ll keep this quick. they’ve still got a couple things to run before doors open.”
the words are mostly for you, though his tone is light, almost apologetic, like he’s trying to usher the moment along without stepping on it. you nod, stepping back a little.
luca adjusts the strap of his bass. orion twirls a pick between his fingers, and nox has already turned away, reaching for her sticks. rafe doesn’t really move.
his hand falls back to his side, fingers flexing once. his gaze stays on you, not intense exactly, just more curious, like he’s trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who used to exist beside him.
“this way, y/n,” nate says, gesturing toward the stairs that dip backstage. you follow, the soles of your boots scuffing lightly against the stage.
as you descend, you feel his gaze again, but you keep your expression neutral, professional. behind you, a chord rings out. nate says something about schedules, about how tomorrow will run smoother once everyone’s comfortable. you nod along, eyes on the narrow hallway ahead.
you don’t look back. but if you did, you’d see rafe still standing where you left him, one hand on the mic stand, watching until the curtain swallow you whole.
the rest of the setup moves like clockwork. sound techs darts across the stage, crew members crouch over cables, lights flicker in bursts as the rigging adjusts. the band slips back into their rhythm, instruments tuning, mics checked.
by the time the house lights dim, the venue’s a different animal. it’s crowded, people are sweating already. you’ve got your walkie in hand, headset on, threading yourself through the barricade gap where the cinematographers are already stationed. the pit smells like warm metal and adrenaline. you speak low, guiding them like it’s instinct.
“camera two, hold that wide. three, pan left when rafe hits the chorus. stay on the drummer when the bridge hits. there’s a rhythm shot there i want.”
they nod. you move between them, just close enough to see the flicker of the stage lights bouncing off the lenses. you tell one of the crew to grab a side angle, another to get close on rafe’s hands. you don’t have to think too hard.
after about an hour, though, the volume starts pressing against your skull. you step away, slipping behind the curtain and down the narrow hall that leads backstage. mae’s there at a folding table with an open bag of chips and two monitors showing the live feed from your cameras.
“you’re a machine,” she says, mouth full.
you snort, sitting beside her and grabbing something off the snack spread. the monitors flicker with alternating shots, like the band bathed in red light, sweat on their necks, the crowd’s hands reaching like waves.
you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand as you watch. every so often, you murmur something into the walkie: “tighten the frame. yeah, that’s better,” or “hold that shot until he turns.”
mae chews, glances over. “this is gonna be good. i can feel it.”
you don’t answer. you’re too focused. the concert stretches on for another hour or so, long enough for the monitors to turn from blue to gold to near-black as the lights shift for the encore. when it’s finally over, the band jogs offstage, laughing, breathless. one of your cameramen follows close, capturing luca wiping sweat with a towel and grinning, orion shouting something about “that last chord,” nox raising her drumsticks like a victory flag. rafe’s there too, grinning wide, a flash of teeth, his eyes briefly catching the lens before he disappears past it.
you stand, tucking your headset off, nodding to mae. “alright,” you say softly, almost to yourself.
the rest happens smoothly. the makeshift interview room is already cleared backstage, low lights and two chairs facing each other with a single camera trained between them. someone’s placed bottles of water and towels in the corner.
it’s time to start the diary footage. mae hovers nearby, letting you handle the first round. you glance over at the others in hair and makeup, each one waiting their turn, fiddling with phones or headphones, shooting little glances toward the monitors where you’ll later sync everything.
the first one is luca, hands folded loosely in his lap, legs bouncing just a little as he smiles easily at you. he leans forward in the chair the second you gesture for him to start.
“we didn’t think anyone would care about four kids playing in a garage,” he says. he laughs softly, like the memory is both funny and unbelievable. “i mean . . . it was just us, instruments no one wanted, riffs we ripped off from old bands we loved, and a lot of late nights arguing over chord progressions and lyrics that didn’t make any fuckin’ sense—am i allowed to swear?”
you tilt your head, letting the camera roll as you ask the first few guiding questions, “so what made you stick with it? why keep playing together?”
he shrugs like it’s obvious. “i don’t know. we just found a rhythm. rafe had that spark, ri could turn any random idea into something that actually worked, and i guess someone had to keep us from completely losing it long enough to actually get a song finished. that ended up being me.”
you nod, scribbling a few notes in your pad while watching his eyes light up as he talks. the way he gestures, it’s clear he loves sharing this story, loves that someone’s actually listening. you ask him about his background, like how he grew up, what drew him into music.
“my parents moved from puerto rico when i was ten,” he says, “so, like . . . everything felt new, like different language, different beaches, different vibes. i had to figure out who i was really quick, and music was my thing. i had a landscaping job one summer to make enough for strings and gas on my own. didn’t matter what anyone else thought, i just wanted to play. like it wasn’t rebellion, not really. it was more like boredom, or pressure. figure eight’s full of money but short on air, you know? you can’t breathe unless you build your own world.”
you ask about their first gigs. he leans back, thinking, hands drumming lightly on his knees. “some house parties, random bars, once at a friend’s dad’s warehouse. nothing fancy. mostly just to see if people would show up. and when nox joined? that changed everything.”
orion’s calmer and quieter when he comes in for his interview. he adjusts the collar of his shirt.
“saint halo really started to make sense once we realized we wanted more than noise,” he says. “i grew up around music my whole life, classical piano, jazz, the whole thing. rafe and luca were kind of . . . chaos incarnate? they could make this messy, emotional stuff, but it needed structure. i provided that. added synth, layered guitars, textures. it was the first time i felt like someone else really understood what i wanted to hear.”
you ask him how they all came together.
“we knew each other in school,” he says carefully, “but we didn’t really hang out ‘til after graduation. different circles, i guess. our parents all had these plans for us. college, finance, business degrees, whatever. but none of us wanted that. we just wanted to play.”
you nod, smiling softly. then nox takes her turn a few questions later. she slides in like she’s only half-interested, but there’s still this carefulness, a hint that she’s clearly media trained. she’s moody, but it’s contained.
“their old drummer bailed before the first gig,” she says bluntly, like that explains everything. “i read the sheet once, figured i’d just play it by ear after. i played it close enough to near-perfect the first try. they asked me to stay. i didn’t really think about it beyond that.”
you raise an eyebrow, letting the camera capture the slight shrug she gives. “so you knew them before the band?”
“yeah, school,” she says casually, tapping the side of the chair. “but we didn’t really . . . hang out until after i graduated. they graduated before me.”
you nod. you don’t need the extra drama on camera, just the essence of it. “so you were kind of the final piece?” you ask.
“i guess,” she says. “kept the rhythm.”
and now, all four of them are backstage in hair and makeup again to regroup and wait for each to finish.
you glance at the monitors again after nox is done, and you see rafe pacing slightly. it’s not anxiety, probably just passing time. he catches your eye for a moment through the reflection of a mirror and then looks away.
you’re still hunched slightly over your notebook, pen scratching as you jot down notes from the last interview. the pages are crowded with observations, like little personality quirks, things to remember for continuity, moments you might want to reference when editing. your head’s down, focused.
mae appears beside you quietly, hands folded in front of her. she stands there for a beat, watching you, tilting her head slightly as if measuring your mood.
“you ready for rafe?” she asks finally.
you barely lift your eyes, still scribbling, fumbling slightly with your pen. “uh, yeah, yeah,” you murmur, distracted. your free hand smooths down your shirt as you shift, trying to get comfortable on the chair again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs to prepare yourself for the next one.
mae nods once and slips away toward the hall to call rafe in. you barely register any of the murmurs over walkies, someone checking the camera, the faint scratch of a notepad on a clipboard.
you don’t pay any mind when rafe enters. mae and nate are speaking with him a few feet away, hands gesturing, heads nodding, giving him quiet instructions on how to act for the cameras, what to expect, how to settle into the room like they did with the others. you catch only fragments of movement, like him nodding, his hesitation on whether they’re done talking to him so he can finally sit, but you don’t look up.
mae’s voice floats over to you, calling your name. you glance up slowly, placing your palms flat on top of your crossed legs, feeling the cool edge of the chair beneath your fingers.
he’s there, sitting across from you. the chair swallows part of his frame, but he leans just enough to the side. his cheek rests against his index finger, his thumb tucked beneath his chin.
your pen hovers over the notebook again, but you don’t write. you glance at him one last time. “you ready?” you ask softly.
he tilts his head, smirking slightly, and gives a slow nod. you exhale quietly and turn toward your crew, a subtle motion with your hand. they nod back, red dots blinking on the sides of cameras, microphones clicking to life. they’re recording.
you clear your throat, “so, let’s start with the obvious. how did saint halo first come together?”
he leans back just slightly, but he answers. it’s the same as the others, just worded differently. the first gig with nox is the same deal.
you nod, letting it sit. you shift slightly, leaning forward, curious eyes tracking his gestures. “walk me through a typical writing session with the band. how do songs start? what’s your inspiration?”
he tilts his head, thoughtful now, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. “depends,” he says slowly. “sometimes a riff hits, someone hums a melody, a word pops into someone’s head. sometimes we sit in silence until someone cracks. most of the time, the inspiration is regret. sometimes love. mostly the same thing, just dressed up differently.”
your pen scribbles furiously, but your eyes flick up at him unconsciously. he watches you, just enough that it feels deliberate, almost teasing. “and,” he pauses, casual, “every now and then, someone or something inspires a line, a hook. you wouldn’t even notice unless you’re listenin’ close.”
you clear your throat, humming. “so then how do you manage creative disagreements? does it get messy?”
he laughs quietly, “all the time. we argue, we mock each other, we literally threaten to quit mid-song. but it works! it works. we need the chaos, honestly. without it, we’d be boring.”
you nod. “there will be new listeners after this, there are currently people who’ve never exprienced saint halo. how would you describe the band’s sound to someone who’s never heard you before?”
“rough around the edges,” he says, almost smiling. “but it’s personal. like, if someone played their diary through a speaker, that’s basically us.“
you hum with a half-smile. you actually hate that you like the sound of that. he leans back again, hands resting lightly on his thighs, gaze drifting to the ceiling for a moment before snapping back to you.
you pause your notes for a moment, and decide to go for something a little heavier. “so do you have any regrets going into this career? anything you’d do differently?” your voice is careful.
he tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if weighing how much to give. he lets out a long breath, fingers brushing across his knee, tapping lightly. “regrets . . .” he starts slowly, almost like the word tastes funny on his tongue. he exhales lazily, having to think about it at first. you almost think he doesn’t have any until he continues. “i mean, sure. everyone has them. maybe some songs i wish i’d never written, shows i could’ve skipped.”
maybe it’s because of your history, but it isn’t exactly the answer you’d hoped for. as the manager of this project, it’s a solid answer. you nod, pen moving again, jotting down a few more notes as he watches you intently.
“maybe a few decisions that burned bridges i shouldn’t have.”
you scribble, but your eyes flick up to him briefly. it’s deliberate, the way he avoids naming names, avoids specifics. you almost, just for a moment, assume that’s actually aimed at you, but you’d be stupid for thinking so. maybe. most likely. you brush over it, not thinking about what that could even mean.
he leans back, crossing his arms lazily as if he’s done with the topic. “but honestly?” he says, shrugging. “every mistake led here. every late night, every chord, every fight got me to a place i can stand on stage, play my music, ‘n actually mean it.”
your stomach sinks a little, a faint knot forming. not because he’s lying, not exactly, but because you know him. you’re grateful he’s found his place. you shouldn’t be upset about anything else.
you scribble a note anyway, trying to capture what he actually said, not what you wanted him to say. “got it,” you murmur quietly and glance back at the cameras to ensure the framing catches everything perfectly.
he’s charismatic. he’s effortless. he’s captivating. but he’s not giving you that one answer you’ve been wondering about for years. not yet, you don’t think, anyway.
the cameras roll, capturing the frontman of saint halo in his element, and you let the disappointment settle quietly in your chest, tucked away beneath your notes and your carefully curated professionalism, and you move on.
Summary: All you had wanted was for your life to go back to normal after the disaster that was your college experience. Freshly graduated and trying to figure out how to start your life over in your hometown seemed like a great idea at the time, but everything is not what it seems when you return. A serial killer is on the loose and all evidence points to you. Who killed your ex-boyfriend? Who killed your former best friend? Well, that’s for you to figure out before it’s too late…
Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader/ Past!Topper Thornton x Reader
Warnings: Murder, violence, harsh language, dark themes, angst (updating as the story progresses)
AN: This is my first written series, so please be nice!!! Theories are welcome!!
My Masterlists
Word Count: 24.6k (and counting)
Lights Out- [Posted 9/21/25] wc: 3k
Possession- [Posted 9/28/25] wc: 4.3k
The Haunting of Tannyhill [Posted 9/29/25] wc: 5.5k
Dawn of the Dead [Posted 10/3/25] wc: 6.8k
Cabin in the Woods [Posted 10/11/25] wc: 5k
The Heyward Maybank Massacre [Posted 10/20/25] wc: 7.1k
Ready or Not [Posting 10/26/25]
The Warden [Posting 10/27/25]
Goosebumps [Posting 10/28/25]
Dead Man Walking [Posting 10/29/25]
Final Girl [Posting 10/30/25]
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summary: rafe goes to talk to you five months later after Morocco...
word count: 5.0k
warnings: language. ANGST, like fully. talks about grief. talks about people who passed away. talks about bad mental places. (as always English isn't my first language so apologies for any possible grammatical errors).
author's note: alr i made myself cry w this one ngl. also why do i lowkey want to start a series w them 👀 like there's SO MUCH to unpack that i could fit in here.
It has been a while. Not enough to ease the creases of pain that you were completely covered in now. But enough time to finally breathe without wincing as much anymore.
It has been a few months now (almost five), everything seems... harder, to be honest. The picture of grief that you have always envisioned in case something ever happened was nothing alike with real life. This was heavier, unmovable, completely impossible to carry.
But there is one thing you're certain of, the only thing: he is gone. For good. And he's not coming back, not today, not tomorrow or in a few days when you guys used to get in fights and he stayed over at John B's. He's... forever stuck on the way home.
In days like this when you're in charge of the Surf Shop that was miraculously still existing when you came back from Morocco, you like to imagine he got lost on the train, his bike finally ran out of gasoline or something.
But you know it's a lie, JJ had an incredible sense of direction. No matter where he is, he somehow always knew how to come back home, to Outer Banks. He was like that.
The day was hot, as always, Outer Banks never gives it a break to its poor population. You always got to be ready for high temperatures.
The evening had been quiet, not many people had showed up today. But then again, no one does at this hour and everyone knows it, you have the suspicion your friends gave you this shift because of that. You can't blame them, you haven't been the best at human interaction lately.
But you distract yourself. You clean, you organize. You try to do your best on a light day.
That was, until...
"Rafe..."
You notice him the second he steps in, the wood creaks under his footsteps, the few ones he takes, he doesn't dare to come closer.
You were surprised to see him. You haven't since you all came back from that desertic place. Well, all is a generous word. But you... made it in one piece, at least. You haven't talk to Rafe in weeks, months, ever since you stepped the island again. You couldn't talk to him.
"What are you..?" You looked around, trying to figure out what he was doing here. You weren't expecting him nor had you planned on meeting up.
The group has called it a truce with the famous Rafe Cameron, Sarah's older brother. They have been making peaces and rebuilding their failed sibling relationship after everything that happened. You know he has been trying to do that even before that trip, Sarah told you.
Rafe wanted to make amends with his connections. His family, his sisters that he's still not entirely in contact with. But especially with you.
You, you, you.
Rafe's first love. And only one, if he's completely honest.
"It's alright," He quickly covered. "I just... wanted to talk."
Talk.
Yeah, you haven't been thinking about that lately. You haven't talked at all in general.
Rafe was your first. Your first love, your first boyfriend back when you were 18 and 19 years old.
Around the time when you sneaked around the island to see him in clandestine matters because you were a Pogue and he was Rafe Cameron, the Kook of Kooks. But God, did he made you feel like the only girl in the world while it lasted. And goddamn it, you loved him like breathing. More than anything.
You have obviously drifted apart the more things he did, the more dirtier it all got. The way he ended up plotting against you too just because of who you're friends are.
And... the relationship you used to have was never a public tale tell. It always stayed hidden under his expensive sheets and the cold sand laying at the beach after a late night swim, one of the places you used to meet up all the time.
Things had ended multiple times with him. As toxic and excruciating it became at one point, it completely crushed you to the point of staying alone for a long minute. You just... loved him more than you could ever admit.
"Oh..."
The surprise was evident in your voice. Soft, shallow, like you haven't had anything in your mind for a while now. And to be honest, you haven't. Numb and asleep in the hard pillows of your own pain, the heavy blanket of despair that you couldn't take off yourself.
You cleared your throat, even stuttering to do that. You gripped the rag in your hand harder as you looked down to the wood counter, trying to wipe off any dirt in it. But self destruction is harder to clean.
"About... about what?" You swallowed nervously now, obviously knowing what he wanted. *What he deserved to talk about*.
"Just... talk." He promised. He didn't push.
Oh, what's there not to talk about, that's the real question.
Things had started happening again long before Morocco. The bond between you had always lingered, standing around you like the ghost you now live with. The relationship with Rafe was actually more incarnated than what you're sadly living with now despite not talking to each other for almost three years. It was always through glances, whispers and unspoken feelings.
That time when the entire group flew to El Dorado along with John B's dad and with the (you'll apologize later for talking about a dead man) the insufferable Ward. You remember that night, you were the last one to get on that plane with your friends. You heard when he threatened John B with Ward, you saw it.
But once John B was inside and you were about to follow, he grabbed your arm when no one was seeing.
Because he didn't trust any of them. None. But he trusted you.
He looked you dead in the eye and said: "If this ever meant something to you, you won't touch him." It was cold, calculated and more dominating than you would've liked, but you still said in a whisper, still a secret:
"Yes."
When you came back, without Big John and without Ward feelings were definitely moved but considering both men had already been believed dead, everyone was able to face it differently. Not for Rafe.
But, you had finally found it. The gold. What you have been looking for, haunting for years, the adventure of a fucking lifetime. But the next day, late at night when everyone fell asleep, you had this hunch. You knew where he will be. So that night, you followed your heart and you went out, stole JJ's bike and ran out.
And he was there, at to the dock in Tannyhill, alone and bitter. You didn't say much.
"I'm sorry." You hated Ward, you hated that crazy man for everything he had done but you couldn't hate Rafe.
"I knew it." He said, voice low and dangerous. He was clearly resentful, not against you. Never against you. "I knew he wasn't coming back—" He choked in his own words. "I should never have let him go."
When you hugged that night something changed, you still don't know what it was. You didn't talk for almost two years after it.
And then Groff happened, JJ happened, everything happened all at once and you never felt like your life had been more out of control.
You were tense when Rafe saved all of you from Shoupe, when he came out with that plan, travelling to Morocco together because he knew he needed all of you for a common purpose, you knew where Groff was. He swore he was in his best behavior.
And damn it, he really wanted to believe it was because of Sarah and because that was still his sister but your name weighed a lot in his decision. And when you stepped in that land, he looked heavily in a bad mood, like he knew he didn't belong and the only person he dared to look at was you. And God forbid you looked at him too. He was all you could still ever look at.
You needed time to cool off, to get away from your friends and relieve the bad feeling you had about this entire mission (it was premonitory), so when he wandered off to find Groff, you followed. He didn't push away.
Okay, stop.
You quickly blinked, trying to actually get your mind active in a conversation. You have been half talking for months now, and you know he doesn't deserve only half of your mind.
"Right, uhm..."
But Rafe saw it. He saw the struggle and the way your mind drifted off. He always thought your mind was one of the most incredible things he has come across with. He hates to see you so lost now.
He reconsidered, shaking his head. Let's take it lightly. "How you being..?" He let the question hanging. He had learned to be patient.
And you can't blame him for asking. You haven't talked ever again after what happened, you couldn't. Your brain has been drowning in pain, melancholy and loneliness ever since your brother passed away.
It's the only thing you're capable of thinking.
"I'm... here." You said softly, not pretending to not know what he was asking you about. Everyone asks the same when they ask how are you? They just want to know how you've been dealing with the tragedy.
Rafe couldn't help but wince at the pain that lingered in your voice, in the way you simply said that the only thing you could manage was being physically alive. Not mentally. It hurt him to see you like this.
You're here. Yeah, he can be thankful for that. It's probably the only manageable thing in your life right now.
Rafe didn't have a connection with JJ, they always hated each other. You think Rafe used to hate you too for being a Pogue when you were younger, for falling for one.
He was still absolutely crushed. He saw someone who he thought was invincible die, betrayed by his own blood. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw JJ, laying there... gone.
But he stayed still, silent. And he watched you. He took in your every move, the way your hair fell around your face, how you avoided looking into his gaze even when you cleared your throat. How your voice sounded tired.
Rafe nodded, his eyes not leaving your face. He saw it all. The pain, the hurt, the loss. It all took a toll on you, how could it not? He couldn't even imagine what you were going through every morning when you woke up. Your baby brother, the one you always took care of. He never had a good relationship with his sisters, he can't really relate. But he's trying.
His fingers itched to reach out the same way he did the last time he saw you.
"Yeah..." He agreed quietly, he kept his arms folded, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip on his arms.
A few moments passed. The wind was warmer again, it never stopped here. The endless summer you used to love now only reminds me of the unbearable heat of the dessert where JJ was killed. The sand makes you think about the sandstorm there was the night you guys buried him.
Rafe buried him, actually. He dug in the sand when you couldn't bring yourselves to do it. Your friend, your brother...
You cleared your throat again, eyes focused on the surroundings and not on Rafe. You can't face him. "I know you came here to talk about—"
"I'm not, swear I just—" He tried to say.
"But I know you are." You cut him off, sharp and steady now. It's not an accusation. "I know you are, I just..." A shaky breath came out.
How can you even talk to him? You had promised to be together again minutes before your brother died.
Rafe swallowed hard, his throat tight. He looked down, then away—out toward the water, where the waves curled lazily against the shore like nothing in the world had changed.
But everything had.
He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t step closer. He just stayed there, solid as ever, even while something inside him cracked.
"I wasn't gonna say it," he said quietly, voice rough like sandpaper. "Didn't wanna... shove it in your face. But yeah." He exhaled. "Yeah, I came to talk about it. Us."
He turned back to you then, slow and careful—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.
"But not if you don't want to," he added softly. "And only if you still... want that." Rafe didn't dare to say what they have promised, it sounded so in the past now.
His eyes held yours now—not pushing, not demanding, just waiting.
"Just so you know," He whispered, "I do."
That made you look up at him. With the same pained expression you have looked at him so many times since you know each other. And for the first time, it's not his fault.
You pressed your lips in a line as you nodded, your eyes immediately watering after you heard him. This is so fucked up. You closed your mouth for a moment, hoping it'll stop the absolute agony your voice wanted to express.
It's been five months of no contact, the last words shared were a promise. Everyone knew now, you didn't have to hide anymore, it could've been different, you promised that to each other. Of course he wants to know where you stand.
"Yeah, about that..." You looked down, trying not to cry again, trying to not let your voice be another broken whisper.
I have to do it. You thought. I have to tell him.
Rafe's heart stopped, his breath caught in his throat. He could see it written all over your face: the pain, the sadness, the rejection.
He had known it was coming, but fuck, he hated it.
Still, he waited, bracing himself, his eyes never leaving your face—taking in every flicker of expression, every flash of feeling moving across your features.
He said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together, jaw clenched as he watched you struggle to find the words.
"I just..." You had to swallow your words again before talking. You felt like you were going nonverbal, a excruciating fucking thing that has been happening for months now.
"I can’t…” The voice cracked. You looked up at him—really looked—and your lip trembled.
“I can’t, Rafe.”
He knows.
A beat. The wind cut between you like glass. A sob almost intervened in your body but you stopped it, stopped the heart from coming out of your chest. It just wanted to run to his arms.
Rafe's eyes darkened, his heart twisting at the raw pain in your voice.
"Yeah, I know." He cleared his throat, forcing the words out through the lump that had just formed—trying like hell to keep his voice steady.
He didn't try to touch you, still. He wanted to, wanted to hold you, to pull you close and take away your pain.
But he didn't move, forced himself to keep his hands clenched tightly by his sides, his jaw clenched fiercely and his eyes locked with yours.
"I'll wait."
When did he ever wanted to wait? When has he ever wanted and loved someone so much to be up to wait... forever? Because he knows it could be that long.
He said it so simply. Like it costs nothing. As if this—waiting for you—was written into his bones. Your heart pounds, wild and loud, trying to speak for you, begging to be heard. Say yes! It screams and it burns. But you’ve mastered the art of silencing it.
No.
You can't allow it. You don’t know when this ache will end or if it ever will. You keep searching for light through the cracks,
but the window stays dark. Everything is dark, no matter if you can feel the literal sun burning your skin when you go walking down the beach.
"Rafe, no—" You tried to say.
"The fuck you mean no—" He fires back, but you cut through him before the anger can rise.
"Rafe, I can't make you wait! I can't even actually think about being with someone right now. It's not fair, it's not what I want."
Rafe’s expression hardened before you even finished speaking — that quiet, frustrated kind of heartbreak that doesn’t explode, it just tightens. His shoulders went tense, his jaw locked like he was trying to swallow a thousand things he didn’t know how to say.
He hated this— the space between you, the ache sitting quietly in your voice, the way you couldn’t even meet his eyes without flinching.
“Stop acting like you don’t know.” He said, voice low, rough around the edges. “You think I can just turn it off? Pretend I don’t still—” He stopped himself, biting down the rest, then exhaled sharply. “I’ll wait,” He said finally. “If that’s what it takes.”
You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. The air between you was thick, heavy with things that once came easy.
You haven’t thought about Rafe like that. Like you and him. You thought about him, yes —too much, maybe— in the quiet hours when the house stopped making noise and all your friends were sleeping and your mind wouldn't shut up. You thought about the way he used to rest his hand on your thigh when he drove on those secret dates, the way he said your name like it was his favorite word because he always liked forbidden. But not like that. Not in a way that felt possible anymore. Not in the way he still thinks about you. Not when your world’s been stripped of color, and you’re still trying to learn how to move through a version of life your brother never got to finish.
“Rafe…” your voice caught before you could finish. You exhaled, pressing your palms against your face, grounding yourself. You had to say it.
“Before I’m ever with anyone else, I have to...” You said quietly. “... learn how to live in a world without my brother.” The words fell like glass— fragile and easy to shatter. Your voice was shaking the same way it does when you talk about him. “Because I miss him so much it kills me and it’s the only thing I can think about.” A few inevitable tears fell down your cheeks.
You tried to clean them.
Rafe blinked slowly, jaw still locked, like he was trying to keep the pain from spilling out.
“And I don’t know when that’s going to be. I can't make you a promise." You whispered. “And having you waiting for me is not just unfair, it also, it's..." You hesitated. "It doesn't help."
Rafe's expression flickered, his body rigid as he processed your words.
God, it was like a punch to the gut. He knew you were hurting, he knew how much you were struggling, but hearing you say it—hearing the raw honesty and despair in your voice—it hit him hard. He could practically feel the weight of your pain in the air around them.
But he still shook his head, his jaw clenched stubbornly.
"I don't care about fair, alright? I never did. I just want you." He touched his chest, trying to touch his heart with his hand.
How can you even be mad at him when this was exactly what you secretly begged for years? For Rafe to change, to be an actual decent version of himself, the version you always knew he had.
The wish you had hidden from everyone.
And funnily enough, JJ was the only one who knew about it for years until that time on the way to fucking Africa as surreal as that sounds. He was bitter with his new discovery about his past, his origin (because it also differentiated him from you) and he revealed it to everyone.
"Well, he's here. And we definitely will have to talk to him." John B stated, wind hitting forcedly against him.
"Talk to Rafe?" JJ scoffed.
"Well, you're definitely not talking to him—" John B said again, trying to keep JJ as short as possible with the kind of attitude he was having.
"Oh, I'm not doing it, right." JJ said sarcastically. "Okay, what did I do now, huh?" You remember how you were able to see how utterly hurt he was by everything everyone was saying, not just now. It made your chest hurt at the time.
"Look, we just think it might be easier if we handle it." Kiara said, always the one who was able to talk JJ through it.
"Well, I know someone who can." Your brother started, jaw clenching and fidgeting with his hands like every time he didn't want to look up.
You had raised your eyebrows, immediately straightened up but not reacting. This could mean anything, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he wouldn't take his anger out on you.
"My sister apparently knows how to talk to Rafe pretty well, don't you, sis?" He had said.
Yeah, you were wrong.
And now here you are, betraying your brother's last words to you. Gaze fixated on the tall man in front of you. Rafe always called your eyes danger, he always meant to say more but the last few times he was with you years ago he was too high to be so honest.
You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on him like looking away might make it easier. It didn't. You already knew the only thing that would make him finally step back— the truth he didn’t deserve, but needed to hear.
“Rafe,” you started, your voice trembling, every word feeling like it had to claw its way out of your chest. “I don’t want you to wait.”
You watched it land, the faint shift in his eyes, the way his jaw locked and his shoulders tensed, like he’d braced for a hit but he still wasn’t ready for it.
“I don’t want…” You hesitated, hating the shape of the words before you even said them. “…you, right now.” It came out quieter than you meant.
“I want my brother.” You whispered, voice cracking under its own weight. You placed a hand on your chest, expressing the sense of belonging you ached to have with JJ. “And that’s not gonna happen.” Your eyes fell shut before you could see his face. A small, helpless sound escaped your throat: half sob, half exhale. You’d been holding it in for too long.
In your defense, it wasn’t all a lie. You didn’t want Rafe— not the way he wanted to be wanted. Not in this limbo where everything still hurt too much. You couldn’t build something steady and whole, not when you were still learning how to live in the wreckage. Not when guilt still sat next to you in bed.
You shook your head, voice barely holding together. “It’s not fair,” You said softly. “To you. To anyone.”
He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t even breathe loud enough for you to hear. Just stood there, letting the silence bruise both of you. He forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting to get his emotions in check. He couldn't lose it now, couldn't let you see how much your words were ripping him apart inside.
He had been ready for rejection, he had been ready for you to say you needed more time, for you to say you weren't ready, for you to say anything but the words "I don't want you".
But they were the last words he wanted to hear from your lips.
The way you looked at him was even worst.
No, worse—the worst.
That, he could hardly handle.
The look in your eyes... it was killing him. That pain, that heartbreak. It was tearing him apart, but he forced himself to stay steady, to keep his back straight and his hands clenched at his sides. He had to stay strong, even when every cell in his body was screaming for him to grab you and hold you and never let go.
God, he wanted to beg. To get down on his knees in the sand and beg you to take him back, to stop feeding him these lies, to choose him now that he's finally the man he always knew you deserved.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Careful. “You think I don’t know that?” He asked, but it wasn’t angry— it was soft, almost weary. Like he’d already had this conversation a hundred times in his head before it ever happened.
“I know it’s not fair,” he said. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”
You looked up at him then, eyes burning, thinking that for a moment you might see that 19 year old Rafe, the boy you used to fight with all time. But he wasn't that boy anymore. Neither of you were.
“Rafe…” You started, but he shook his head gently.
“No, don’t.” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I get it. You miss him. You can’t breathe without him. Believe me, I get it." Hell, if he doesn't get it. "And I kept thinking that maybe, I don't know, we could've tried again... and being near you would made things easier."
The words hit you somewhere deep, right where love and grief start blurring together.
He let out a shaky laugh — dry, humorless. “Guess I was wrong.”
You didn’t reach for him this time. Maybe because you knew that if you did, neither of you would survive it.
"You're not wrong, Rafe." Your throat was exhausted. You haven't talked much the entire day.
"Yeah but I'm not right either."
Rafe's heart felt like it was being torn in two.
He wanted to argue, to fight, to prove you wrong, to somehow make you see what you were saying was bullshit. But the look in your eyes...
But he doesn't see it like you do. You're not capable of seeing life more than two weeks ahead of you, how the hell are you going to predict when are you going to feel better? Exactly. And you can't have him waiting around for that long. Waisting his time for something that might not even be.
It crushed him. That emptiness, the pain, the exhaustion... it told him that maybe you actually believed it, maybe you actually meant it.
He had to swallow hard before he spoke again, his voice rough and strained. And the impulsiveness that he always carried himself was faster when he asked you again.
"You don't love me anymore?"
It was almost soft, the way he was trying really hard not to show this vulnerable side of him. The one he had always found himself showing to you again and again without being able to help it.
Silence.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Your eyes found his, and for a split second, everything inside you screamed to tell him the truth— that you did, that you always would, that love wasn’t the problem, it was everything after it. But your mouth wouldn’t move. The words wouldn’t come.
Rafe watched you, searching for anything — a flicker, a shake of the head, something to hold on to. There was nothing. Just your silence, and the way your breath stuttered once, sharp and unsteady, before you looked down with tears in your eyes.
And that was all he needed.
He chuckled, barely— one of those broken sounds that never reaches the eyes, it was rough around the edges like he had tried so hard not to be anymore. He nodded once, jaw tightening, his tongue pressed against his cheek like he was trying to keep himself from saying something cruel.
“Alright,” He said finally, voice low and even. Too even.
You looked up at him then, and he smiled. A small, tired curve of his mouth that didn’t belong to the Rafe you knew, this one was quiet, defeated. “That's all I needed to know."
He took a step back, his hand running over his jaw, the other tugging absently at the back of his neck like he needed something to do with all that restless hurt. He felt caged and he needed to get out.
For a second, he looked like he might say more. But he didn’t.
“Rafe…” you breathed, but it was too late.
He didn’t look at you this time. He just rubbed a hand over his face, exhaled through his nose. “Don’t. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. It would never be fine, but he wasn't going to say it.
He took a few steps back, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. His voice came quieter now — low, rough, steady in the only way he knew how to be when everything inside him was coming apart.
“I’m not gonna ask you to try,” he said. “And I’m not gonna wait around like a fucking ghost or whatever. Just…” He paused, eyes flickering to yours, softening even as his throat tightened. “Take care, okay?”
You couldn't even move. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it drew blood. You nodded, unable to trust your voice.
Only then, after he saw you promising you'll be okay, he turned around and walk away. Still as steady and strong like the waves breaking at the shore, the ones you haven't surfed in months.
And he still can't blame you, he still can't find it in himself to be angry at you for being so logical and still so considerate despite breaking his heart. You can't handle it right now, you don't want him around and you're right.
You're always so right about everything, even in this. It still scares him that you actually don't love him anymore, he... he really doesn't want to believe it.
And only then did you realize your hands were shaking. You hadn’t noticed before. Your throat ached, your lips were parted like you were about to say something but all that came out was a soft, uneven breath. A sob.
You stayed there, staring at the spot where he’d been, your mind refusing to catch up with what your body already knew: he was gone.
JJ's face flashes for a second in your mind, his last breath, looking at you:
"Tell Rafe."
You sighed, sinking your face in between your hands, resting your elbows against the counter.
