Drew is doing all this press for lucky but his name isn’t even in the opening credit sequence?????😭😭😭😭he’s also not listed in the cast & crew list on apple tv?????
Does he not gaf???? I would be pissed 😭 and it’s not like he’s a side character either like he is the reason lucky doesn’t have any money and is in trouble with HIS mama????? And they keep talking about him?????
pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader
summary – rafe cameron becomes a father in pieces: scared at twenty-two, steadier at twenty-five, and still impossibly protective by the third baby.
warnings – pregnancy, pregnancy nausea, family conflict, disapproving parent, implied discussion of pregnancy options, toddler tantrums, parenting stress.
notes from me – i love rafe. i love rafe. i love rafe. as requested here!! x
word count – 3.5k
navigation – masterlist |
The first time she’s pregnant, they’re twenty-one and twenty-two and still living among boxes.
There are two unopened cartons of college textbooks in the spare room of the little rental near the marina, a saucepan in the kitchen that technically belongs to Kelce, and a pale rectangular patch above the couch where the previous tenants took their television mount and half the paint with it.
Rafe has been working for Cameron Development for four months and wearing collared shirts every morning like the stiffness might force him into becoming the sort of man who knows what an escrow account is without quietly Googling it beneath his desk.
She has a positive pregnancy test wrapped in toilet paper at the bottom of her handbag because she couldn’t bring herself to throw it out, and every time she remembers it’s there, something warm and frightened turns over beneath her ribs.
Ward asks them to come to Tannyhill for dinner. He doesn’t serve dinner.
Instead, they sit in his office while the late-afternoon sun falls in expensive gold strips across the rug, Ward behind his desk and Rafe beside her on the leather sofa, one knee bouncing so subtly she only notices because his hand is resting over hers and the movement travels through both of them.
She’s been nauseous since breakfast. The smell of Ward’s scotch isn’t helping. Neither is the way he keeps looking at her stomach despite the fact there’s nothing to see yet, only the soft fold of her dress when she sits and Rafe’s palm spread low against her thigh like he could physically keep the conversation from reaching her if he held on tightly enough.
“You’re both very young,” Ward says finally, voice arranged into something calm and reasonable. It’s the same tone he uses with contractors who have disappointed him and waiters he intends to have fired later. “You’ve only just finished school. Rafe’s barely started at the company.”
Rafe’s jaw moves. “I know how old I am.”
“I’m trying to be practical.”
“Then be practical.”
Ward’s eyes harden slightly. “There are options here. You don’t need to announce anything until you’ve had time to think clearly.”
Beside her, Rafe goes still. Still in the particular way he gets when anger has moved past heat and found somewhere colder to live, his thumb stopping against the side of her hand, his shoulders settling beneath the pale blue cotton of his shirt.
She feels her own fingers curl inward before she can stop them, nails pressing into her palm, and Ward notices. His gaze flicks toward her face with something almost sympathetic in it, which is somehow worse.
Rafe sees that too. “Don’t look at her like that,” he says.
Ward blinks. “Like what?”
“Like she– she did something to me.”
“Rafe–”
“She didn’t.” His voice stays low, but she can feel the pulse beginning to beat hard in his wrist beneath her fingertips. “We came here to tell you we’re having a baby. Not ask what you think we should do about it.”
“I’m your father. I’m allowed to be concerned about your future.”
“My future’s sitting right here.”
The words leave him before he can seem to decide whether he wants them exposed. For half a second, something young and naked moves through his face, the boy who’s spent most of his life waiting for Ward to approve of the next version of him and finding each one slightly wrong. Then Ward leans back in his chair, mouth thinning, and it disappears beneath Rafe’s anger.
“You need to understand what this looks like,” Ward says. “People are going to assume she–”
Rafe stands so quickly the leather cushion lifts behind him. She catches his hand before he can do anything else. She doesn’t think he’ll hit Ward. She doesn’t really know what she thinks he will do, and that uncertainty is the problem.
His fingers close around hers instantly, and when he looks down at her, the whole room seems to drop away from his attention.
“You feel sick?” he asks.
“A little,” she mumbles.
“We’re leaving.”
Ward says his name sharply, but Rafe has already bent to collect her handbag. He puts his hand at the small of her back and guides her toward the door with none of the usual uncertainty he carries through this house. Ward calls after him once more. Rafe doesn’t turn around.
His hands shake when they reach the car. Only slightly. Enough that the key scrapes once against the ignition, then again, and she covers his wrist before he can try a third time.
Through the windshield, Tannyhill sits huge and white against the water, every window catching the sun. Rafe stares at it with his mouth pulled tight, breathing through his nose like he’s run here instead of walked.
“You didn’t have to fight with him,” she says softly.
“Yeah, I did.”
“He’s shocked.”
“So am I.” His head turns toward her, eyes bright and furious and scared in a way he would hate anyone else for noticing. “But I’m not making you sit there while he talks about you like you trapped me.”
“I know I didn’t.”
“I know.” Rafe’s grip loosens beneath her hand. His thumb turns, dragging once over the inside of her wrist. “I was there. Very involved, actually.”
A laugh catches unexpectedly in her throat.
His mouth twitches, but the anger doesn’t leave his eyes. “Enthusiastic participant.”
“Rafe.”
“What? It’s an important distinction.”
She looks down at their hands and feels the nausea settle somewhere lower, becoming something else. Still fear. Still the enormous, impossible shape of a life arriving before they’ve bought a dining table. But Rafe lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses the centre of her palm with a tenderness that doesn’t suit the hard line of his jaw, and the fear no longer feels like hers alone.
“We’re not going back in there tonight,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Maybe not tomorrow either.”
“Okay.”
“Could be a while.”
She smiles faintly. “Start the car, baby.”
Rafe looks once more at his father’s house. Then he turns the key, puts the car into reverse, and takes her home.
Marlowe begins causing problems before she’s developed fingerprints. At twenty-five weeks, she’s turned her mother’s ribs into a private climbing wall, made the smell of coffee unbearable, and inspired Banks to completely reject the concept of sisterhood.
He’s two and a half, deeply suspicious of change, and has spent the past week responding to any mention of the baby by shouting no with the sombre conviction of a tiny, corrupt villain.
“No baby,” he says when they show him the painted nursery.
“No baby,” he says when Sarah brings over a bag of miniature dresses.
“No baby,” he says directly to her stomach one morning, then bursts into tears because Rafe tells him he cannot cover Mama’s belly with a couch cushion to make the problem go away.
That night, after Banks throws half his dinner onto the floor and kicks the bathroom door because she cannot physically fit beside him and the tub anymore, she leaves bedtime to Rafe.
Her back aches. Her ankles have begun disappearing by late afternoon. She stands beneath the shower until the water goes lukewarm, then pulls one of Rafe’s old shirts over her head and walks down the hallway with moisturiser still cooling against her legs.
Banks’s bedroom door is open by three inches. Through the gap, she can see Rafe sitting on the rug beside the toddler bed with his work trousers still on and his tie pulled loose around his neck.
He has one forearm resting across his raised knee, the other hand wrapped around Banks’s small bare foot where it sticks out from beneath the dinosaur quilt. Banks is lying on his stomach, cheeks swollen with the final remnants of a tantrum, glaring at his father with wet lashes and exhausted hostility.
“I don’t want her,” Banks mutters into the pillow.
Rafe rubs his thumb over the soft curve of his heel. “Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear, buddy.”
“Baby takes Mama.”
“No.” Rafe’s voice loses its dry edge. “Nobody takes Mama.”
Banks turns his face enough to look at him. “She’s mine.”
Rafe’s mouth moves like he has to bite back the first response that occurs to him, probably because it’s difficult to explain marriage-based territoriality to someone who still eats bath bubbles. “She’s everybody’s,” he says after a second. “But she was mine first.”
From the hallway, she closes her eyes.
Banks considers this grave injustice. “No.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
His little brows furrow. “No, Daddy.”
“Ask her. She’ll tell you.”
The mattress squeaks as Banks shifts, little fingers twisting into the quilt. “Mama likes me best.”
“Probably,” Rafe says, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re shorter. People fall for that.”
But Banks doesn’t laugh. His mouth wobbles instead, and Rafe’s expression changes immediately. He leans closer, forearm sliding onto the edge of the mattress.
“Hey. Listen to me.” His voice is quieter now, shaped for the dark room and the boy inside it. “You’re allowed to be mad. New baby’s weird. She’s gonna cry, and she’s gonna take your stuff, and everybody’s gonna look at her all the time because babies can’t do anything for themselves.”
“I can do things,” Banks huffs.
“I know. You can put your own shoes on the wrong feet.”
Banks frowns, uncertain whether this is relevant. Rafe squeezes his foot once and continues before he can argue.
“But you don’t get to be mean to Mama because you’re mad. Mama’s making your sister right now. That’s hard work. Makes her tired. Makes her back hurt. Makes her cry when the grocery store doesn’t have the cereal she likes.”
“That was one time,” she whispers beneath her breath in the hallway.
“So we’re easy with her,” he says. “We help her. We don’t kick doors, and we don’t throw food, and we definitely don’t try to hide her stomach under couch pillows.”
Banks looks mildly ashamed. “Baby was gone.”
“Baby was still there.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Rafe brushes Banks’s hair away from his forehead, awkwardly gentle in the way he still is sometimes with softness, like he knows what he wants his hands to do but has to think through every movement first. “You know how Daddy looks after Aunt Sarah and Aunt Wheezie?”
Banks nods.
“Even when they’re annoying?”
Another nod, more enthusiastic.
“That’s you now. You’re the big brother.” Rafe taps two fingers lightly against his chest. “We look after our girls. You look after your Mama, and when your sister gets here, you look after her too.”
Banks is quiet for long enough that her throat begins to ache.
“What if she’s mean?”
“Then you come get me.”
“What if she takes my truck?”
“You take it back.”
“Rafe,” she murmurs from the hallway.
His eyes flick toward the door. “Politely,” he adds.
Banks pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Can I hold her?”
“Yeah.”
He tilts his head. “She little?”
“Very.”
“Smaller than me?”
Rafe’s eyebrows lift. “For a while.”
That seems to satisfy something in him. Banks lies down again, turning onto his side this time, his face pointed toward Rafe. “I look after her.”
“Good man.”
“And Mama.”
“Especially Mama.”
Banks’s eyes begin to close. Rafe stays where he is, hand resting around his son’s ankle, until the soft resistance goes out of the small body beneath the quilt. When he finally rises and steps into the hallway, she’s leaning against the opposite wall with both hands folded beneath the curve of her stomach.
He takes one look at her face and exhales. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re crying.”
She sniffles. “I’m pregnant.”
“You’ve been using that one a lot.”
She laughs wetly and catches the front of his loosened tie, drawing him closer. Rafe puts both hands around her waist, careful of the belly between them, and bends his head until his forehead rests against hers.
“‘We look after our girls’?” she whispers.
His eyes move over her face, suddenly wary beneath the humour. “Too much?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Sounded better than telling him I’ll throw him off the dock if he makes you cry again.”
“He’s two.”
“Mm. He’ll bounce.”
Her laugh presses them closer. Rafe kisses the damp corner of her eye, then crouches without warning and puts his mouth against the stretched cotton over her belly.
“Your brother’s being difficult,” he tells the baby. “Don’t take it personally.”
She places her hand on the back of his head. “She’s a Cameron. She’ll make it everyone’s problem.”
Rafe smiles against her stomach. “That’s my girl.”
By the third pregnancy, protection has become an administrative position. There are vitamins in her handbag, the kitchen, Rafe’s truck and both upstairs bathrooms because he’s decided folic acid should be available at emergency exits.
There’s a standing grocery order every Tuesday, three numbers written beside the house phone even though everybody owns a mobile, and a family group chat called DO WHAT YOUR MOTHER SAYS that includes Sarah, Wheezie, ten-year-old Banks, six-year-old Marlowe, and, briefly, the plumber until Rafe notices and removes him without explanation.
The baby wasn’t planned. She had stood in their bathroom at thirty-one with the test in her hand and laughed once, sharply, because crying felt too obvious. Rafe had stared at the two pink lines, then at her, then back at the test as if one of them had committed accounting fraud.
After nearly a full minute, he said, “I thought you said that app was accurate,” and she threw a hand towel at his head.
Now she’s seven months pregnant, Rafe is in Charleston twice a week overseeing a development project that appears to require his physical presence whenever the universe senses she has slept badly, and the children have developed a coordinated ability to need separate, urgent things at the exact moment her pelvis begins to feel as though it’s been assembled incorrectly.
He gets home after ten on a Thursday night and finds her halfway up the stairs carrying a laundry basket against the underside of her stomach while Marlowe trails behind in fairy wings, explaining that tomorrow isn’t technically costume day, but could be if her teacher was flexible. Banks is calling from the kitchen that the dishwasher is making a noise. One of Rafe’s socks is stuck to the side of the basket by static.
He leaves his suitcase in the foyer. “What are you doing?”
She looks down at him over the towels. He’s still dressed for work, sleeves rolled, collar open, travel sitting beneath his eyes in dark, tired shadows. “Laundry.”
“I can see that. Why are you carrying it?”
“Because towels remain tragically unable to climb stairs.”
Rafe comes up three steps at a time and takes the basket from her before she can object, his jaw already tightening. “Banks!”
From the kitchen, their son calls, “What?”
“Get over here.”
Banks appears at the bottom of the stairs with the wary expression of someone summoned by his father’s business voice. He has Rafe’s height beginning in him already, all knees and shoulders and hair that refuses to lie flat. “What happened?”
Rafe hands him the basket. “New rule. Your mother doesn’t carry laundry upstairs.”
Banks looks at the towels, then at her stomach. “Okay.”
“And fix the dishwasher.”
Banks frowns. “I don’t know how.”
Rafe sighs. “Neither do I. Press buttons until it stops.”
“That’s not how appliances work,” she says.
“It’s worked for me so far.”
Marlowe pushes between them, wings scraping along the wall. “What’s my job?”
Rafe looks down at her. “Keep your mother’s water full.”
Marlowe’s face lights up with the dangerous purpose of a child newly granted jurisdiction. “Always?”
“No,” she says quickly.
“Yes,” Rafe says at the same time.
Marlowe runs downstairs.
“Rafe,” she sighs.
He puts a hand against her back and guides her up the remaining steps, slower now. “What?”
“I don’t need a household task force,” she grumbles.
“You were carrying a basket you couldn’t see over.”
“Also can’t see over my belly, why don’t you snatch that from me?”
“You nearly stepped on Marlowe.”
“She has wings. She should’ve flown.”
His mouth twitches, but the tension remains beneath it. In their bedroom, he sets his watch on the dresser and begins unbuttoning his cuffs with the short, irritated movements he uses when the anger isn’t really anger and both of them know it. She sits on the edge of the bed, pressing her fingers into the soft swelling above one ankle.
Rafe notices immediately. He drops into a crouch in front of her and takes her foot into his lap before she can pull it away. His thumbs press carefully along the arch, then circle the puffed skin beneath her ankle bone, his gaze fixed downward.
The buzz cut has grown out slightly around the crown. There’s a faint crease through his shirt from the plane seat and a missed call glowing on the phone beside him.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“I am.”
“I know.” His thumb moves along her heel. “You’re always fine.”
Something in the way he says it makes her stop. Not sarcastic. Frustrated by the word and everything she manages to hide inside it.
Rafe looks up. “Banks said you fell asleep at the table Tuesday.”
She groans and rolls her eyes. “He’s a snitch.”
“He’s ten.”
“He’s your son.”
“Exactly. No loyalty.”
She tries to smile, but his hands have gone still around her foot.
“I can move Charleston,” he says.
Her brows draw together. “You can’t move a city.”
“The meetings.”
“Rafe–”
“I don’t need to be there twice a week,” he mutters.
“The project’s yours.”
“So is this.”
His eyes drop briefly to her stomach, then travel around the room as though this means the house too: the costume wings abandoned against the doorframe, the pile of school forms on her nightstand, the laundry moving down the hallway in Banks’s arms, the life waiting for Rafe every time his plane lands and continuing, somehow, on the days it doesn’t.
She brushes her fingers over the back of his neck. “I’m not asking you to stop working.”
“I know.” His jaw shifts. “That’s not the same as me pretending none of this is work because you don’t send an invoice.”
At twenty-two, he would have needed an enemy – Ward, the world, somebody standing close enough to push back against. At thirty-two, he sits on the bedroom floor with her swollen foot in his lap and understands, slowly and unwillingly, that sometimes the thing wearing her down has his name on the travel itinerary.
His phone lights again. Rafe picks it up, opens the email containing his flight confirmation for the following Thursday, and presses cancel.
She watches him. “You’re going to make everyone hate me.”
“They already hate me. You’re safe.”
A small set of footsteps comes charging down the hallway. Marlowe appears with a water bottle filled so completely it spills over her hands and onto the carpet. “Mama! Water duty.”
Rafe nods approvingly. “Good job.”
She takes the bottle before their daughter can flood the room. “Thank you, baby.”
“Drink it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“Daddy said.”
Rafe looks down quickly, suddenly very interested in her ankle.
“Rafe.”
“What? She’s taking the position seriously.”
Marlowe stands over her until she drinks, then races away to report her success to Banks. Rafe’s shoulders begin to shake beneath her hand. She nudges his thigh with her foot, and he catches it before she can pull back, pressing his mouth to the inside of her ankle.
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
“Mhm.”
“And bossy.”
“Yeah.”
“And you cannot turn our children into your private surveillance network.”
He kisses her skin again, smiling now. “Already did.”
The baby moves beneath her ribs, a long, slow roll that makes her inhale and place one hand against the side of her stomach. Rafe’s palm leaves her foot and spreads over the movement, broad and warm, waiting until the small body shifts against him again.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
“She’s been there all day. On my bladder.”
“Missed me,” he grins.
“She doesn’t know you left.”
Rafe looks up at her. “Yeah, she does.”
She could argue. Usually would. Instead, she runs her fingers over the soft growth at the back of his head while his thumb moves absently over her stomach, his cancelled flight still open on the phone beside them and his suitcase untouched in the foyer downstairs.
Outside the bedroom, Banks tells Marlowe she’s giving Mama too much water. Marlowe tells him he’s not in charge of water duty. The dishwasher makes one final, miserable clunk and falls silent.
Rafe glances toward the hallway, then back at her. “See? Everything’s handled.”
“The dishwasher may be dead,” she sighs.
“I’ll buy another one.”
“You say that about everything.”
“Usually works.”
She smiles despite herself, and Rafe watches it happen with the same intent attention he has given her since they were teenagers, like every version of their life still begins with checking her face first.
Then he leans forward, rests his cheek against her stomach, and stays there while the house keeps moving around them.
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soft!reader who blushes over absolutely everything. rafe compliments your outfit? pink. he calls you pretty? pinker. he so much as looks at you for a second too long? suddenly you're hiding your face in his shoulder because you don't know what to do with yourself.
rafe thinks it's the cutest thing he's ever seen. "look at me."
"no."
"why?"
"you're smiling."
"that's usually how conversations work, sweetheart."
rafe who absolutely abuses the fact that you're shy. not in a cruel way. in a "i think watching you get flustered is the funniest thing on earth" way. he'll lean against the kitchen counter while you're making breakfast and just stare, not saying anything, just looking at you, until eventually you look over.
"...what?"
"nothin'."
"then why are you looking at me like that?"
"because you're pretty."
soft!reader who is ridiculously affectionate without even realizing it. you'll walk past him and automatically fix the collar of his shirt, brush invisible lint off his shoulder, absentmindedly tuck messy strands of hair behind his ear or straighten his necklace & smooth your thumb over his jaw.
they're all such tiny, unconscious acts of love. rafe notices every single one and every single one makes his chest feel strangely full.
rafe who starts finding excuses to be close to you because physical affection becomes his favorite language. one hand resting on your knee while he's driving, pulling your chair closer to his instead of moving himself. standing behind you while you're cooking just so he can wrap his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. "what're you making?"
"you've asked me four times."
"forgot."
liar. he just likes hearing your voice.
soft!reader who gets overwhelmed in loud places like crowded parties, big family gatherings and especialyl too many conversations happening at once. eventually your smile starts fading, your hands fidget and you get quieter.
rafe notices before you even realize it yourself. "c'mon."
"where?"
"outside."
no questions. no attention drawn to you. he just quietly takes your hand and lets you breathe for a while.
rafe who secretly loves how excited you get over tiny things. ducks at the park, fresh flowers at the grocery store, dogs hanging their heads out car windows. even finding heart-shaped rocks on the beach.
you'll stop everything just to point them out. "look!"
and every single time... rafe looks. not at whatever you're pointing at. at you.
soft!reader who always falls asleep first during movie nights. it doesn't matter how invested you are. twenty minutes in and you're gone, curled up against his side, your breathing slow with the movie still playing quietly in the background.
rafe never wakes you. just turns the volume down, pulls a blanket over you and spends the rest of the movie absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, not paying attention to the screen at all.
rafe who cannot handle it when you cry. genuinely. anger? he knows how to deal with anger. tears? absolutely not. he panics every single time.
"hey."
"hey, sweetheart."
"look at me."
"talk to me."
seeing you cry makes something deep inside him twist painfully. he'd rather take a punch than watch your heart break.
soft!reader who always reaches for his hand without thinking. crossing the street? hand. walking through a store? hand. standing in line? hand. watching fireworks? hand. it becomes so automatic that one day you reach beside you while distracted... and accidentally grab someone else's hand. you look up, horrified, and immediately let go. "i'm so sorry!"
the stranger laughs. rafe is bent over laughing so hard he can barely breathe. "baby..."
"don't."
rafe who absolutely melts when you're sleepy. sleepy you is somehow even softer. your words start slurring together, you get clingier. your eyes keep drifting shut while you're trying to stay awake.
"m'not tired."
"sweetheart."
"hm?"
"you're literally asleep."
"no'm not."
"...you answered three seconds late."
"did i?"
soft!reader who always believes the best in people. sometimes to a fault and rafe pretends it drives him insane. "he was probably just having a bad day."
"or he's just an idiot."
"rafe."
"what?"
"be nice."
"for you?" he sighs dramatically. "fine." only because if kindness matters to you he'll try. even if it doesn't come naturally to him.
rafe who starts becoming gentler without even noticing. his voice softens when he talks to you. he knocks before walking into rooms you're in. he catches himself lowering his volume when you're startled. he becomes more patient, more careful. loving someone as gentle as you makes him want to deserve your softness instead of overwhelming it.
soft!reader who has absolutely no idea how beautiful you are. you'll walk past mirrors without looking, shrug when people compliment you, genuinely believe they're just being polite. it drives rafe insane.
he looks at you and sees sunlight, sees kindness, sees every good thing he's convinced he doesn't deserve. somehow you still don't see what he sees. so he tells you. every single day. until one day, years later, you smile when he calls you beautiful instead of looking away and rafe quietly decides that might be his greatest accomplishment.
pairing: Criminal!Rafe Cameron x Preacher's!Daughter!Reader
blurb: you are the sweet innocent preacher's daughter. he's the town's most notorious criminal. what happens when he becomes obsessed with you, and you can't help but fall for him?
warnings: mdni, mentions of violence, alcohol, smoking, suggestive themes, abuse, crime, guns, knives, religious themes, religious trauma/guilt, religious language, kissing, hallucinations, slight starvation, masturbation, angst, dark themes.
wc: 7.1k
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You always thought hell would be a wretched place. For wretched people. After all, surely they had committed awful sins and deserved to suffer for eternity. Deserved to think about and repent their actions. Never did it cross your mind that you might find yourself there. If this wasn’t hell, you weren’t sure what was. Did this make you a wretched person? Had you too committed unforgivable sins? Would you ever be forgiven?
Would you ever see him again? No. Stop thinking about that. He is why you are here. At least that’s what you told yourself, taking a deep breath to focus your thoughts. Your mind had been wandering more often now. Maybe that is what’s meant to happen after you spend every waking second locked in this cage of a room with ample food and water, forced to recite the scriptures surrounding you.
“This isn’t punishment. It’s a cleansing.” Your father’s words floated back to you. “You shall be pure once again, mind rid of all these vile thoughts.”
To say he wasn’t exactly pleased once you returned that night was an understatement. He was furious. Disobeying him twice in such a manner was unacceptable. You could remember his almost menacing gaze in the dim, flickering light of the hallway.
“Where were you?” he’d demanded, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.
“At the church, sir.” Your voice had been shaky as you’d tried to even out your breathing.
Your father had just stared for a second, clearly having seen through your weak lie. You’d known that, but it was as though he’d wanted to make you squirm. To make you regret ever lying to him. To accept the inevitable fallout, which was the result of the consequences of your actions.
“So late?” he’d asked, a hint of mockery in his tone.
Your mother had gotten out of bed now, pale in her nightgown as she stood behind your father. The look in her eyes had been pitiful. Her disappointment was always worse than your father’s rage. “Tell us the truth, sweetheart. It’ll be best.” Her words were grim for a place where truth only led to pain.
You’d almost thought about it for a second. Telling them everything. You’d always told them everything. Before Rafe. Before you’d seen him for the first time. Before thoughts of him had invaded your mind. Before he’d taken you on his bike. Before you’d went into the back of that gas station with him. Before…
What were you even supposed to tell your parents? That you had been seeing the most wanted criminal in town? That you couldn’t stop thinking about him? That you’d been dreaming about marrying him, having kids-
“Tell me the truth. Now.” Your father’s command snapped you out of your thoughts. You’d looked back up at him, swallowing hard.
You couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come out. Lying again wasn’t an option, but for reasons unknown, the truth refused to fall from your lips. You’d chosen silence.
“Very well.” Your father hadn’t asked again. He hadn’t forcibly demanded answers from you. It was as if he knew they’d come eventually. “Clear out the storage.” He’d ordered your mother without turning.
Here you were now.
You’d been in the storage room before to retrieve items your mother asked for. Go through boxes sometimes. But never for this reason. Your father's punishments were often cruel, mostly physical. You’d been subjected to canings, beatings, and all kinds of violence, yet in this moment nothing could compare to this mental agony.
Your father was calculated, sure however, there was no way he could know the state to which your mind had been plagued with thoughts. Thoughts of him. Thoughts of… You couldn’t think of his name. No. Don’t think of it. You’d gone so long. You can’t. It’ll all come back. The memories. The feelings. Everything.
Every time it came, it pulled you under like a wave. It was almost like you’d go numb. Lose all feeling. Lose all coherent thoughts. Except him. Rafe. The way his calloused fingers felt when he brushed back a strand of your hair. The way his breath was warm against your skin when he called you “sweetheart”. The way his lips would feel when they finally pressed against yours-
You gasped, coming to from your trance at the sound of your mother slipping in your dinner from the slot in the door, one of your two daily meals for the next week in here as per your father’s strict words.
“You will spend the week here,” he’d muttered, gesturing to the storage room, now void of the boxes cleared out by your mother. The wooden door that was previously blocked had now been slightly ajar, revealing a little toilet and sink. The only thing that had remained in the room, on the black and white tiles, was piles of scriptures, stacked neatly in the corner. “Your time is to be occupied reading the words of God. You will return to his side, sanctified.”
Your had mother sighed, her nimble fingers wrapping around the necklace she always wore. A silver chain with a plain cross. “May the Lord be with us…” she’d whispered as though you’d traversed to the dark side. You hadn’t. It wasn’t like that, right? No… You were still good. You were the preacher’s daughter.
You’d wanted to scream it. To beg your father. To sob at your mother’s knees. But you couldn’t give them what they wanted. The truth. So you’d walked in, crossing the threshold of the door with a quiet step.
“Do you understand, child?”
“Yes, sir…”
Those were the last words you’d heard from your father, three days ago, before he slammed the door shut. Your stomach had twisted when you heard the click of the lock. Just like it twisted now, seeing the cold meal placed in front of you. Warmth didn’t belong in penance. And penance was eating you alive.
You looked disheveled at best. Your hair matted from sleeping, curled up on the freezing tiles, your thin church dress useless against the bite of the cold. Your lips cracked from the bitter taste of the tasteless bread you’d shoved down for every excuse of a meal, given with a simple glass of water. Your mind fighting to claw its way out of these four walls. To him. Always to him. You were his. Why wasn’t he coming for you?
You couldn’t do it anymore. It was becoming unbearable. After you’d been alone for the first few minutes, you’d convinced yourself you could get through this. How hard could it be to stay in a room for seven days? Besides, you had an endless supply of readings to get through. Then the lights flicked off outside, and your parents went to sleep. You were truly alone.
The sobs tore their way out of you, the sounds that came with them ugly. You’d cried until you couldn’t breathe, left gasping for air that only fueled the pain. If your parents heard, they’d think it was because of this. You cried for everything but that. You cried for how you got here. For how you’d let your wandering mind taint everything you’d built for years. For the version of yourself forever lost. The girl who was free from these sinful thoughts of him.
You stared at the scriptures that layed in front of you now, pages crinkled from the tightness of your desperate grip. You’d tried your best to believe that you could be cleansed. That your mind could once again be pure. Spent the first morning reading every word, trying to clear your mind and absorb every scrap of meaning.
Your finger trembled slightly now as you traced the line with complete focus. “Purge me, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”
“I shall be clean…” Your voice was shaky as you repeated the words as if that would engrave them into you. The first line was always the easiest. Keep going. You have to. Don’t think about him.
“Bring the broken vessel to the altar, for the righteous shall pray.”
“The righteous shall pray,” you whispered out, throat dry.
Pray. You couldn’t help but concentrate on the word. The letters on the page. How they were printed out so evenly, the lines of black ink a stark contrast to the yellowed state of the paper.
Prey.
No. That wasn’t right.
You were to pray… but… You were the prey.
No, no, no- It was here again- Your knuckles went white as you grasped the page, trying to claw onto anything tangible as your mind reeled again. Just like it always did. Like it wanted to scour into the darkest depths rather than stay within the bounds of the pages in front of it.
You were his prey. Rafe’s prey. You’d fallen for a facade that was a fantasy. And now he was going to hunt you down. And he’d enjoy it. He wasn’t a good guy.
But would that be so bad? He’d save you. Save you from this room. Save you from your parents. Save you from these words. You’d move from town to town, pressed up against him on the back of his bike. You’d be pretty and distract the guards while he broke into the vaults. And maybe he’d buy you a ring and a white dress with that stolen money. Forge some fake papers. It would be you and him.
You… Him… Forever…
And he’d kiss you. And touch you. And-
You sucked in a breath of air as you came to your senses, on your knees now, leaning back against the chipping wall. This had to stop. It was getting worse. The page that had been in front of you had been crumpled, your nails still digging in. You ripped it out with a grunt, tossing it into the corner where a pile of rolled-up paper balls laid.
“Please, R-rafe…” you begged, half sobbing out of sheer desperation now, as if he were your God. As if he’d hear it somehow and stop tormenting your mind. As if he had any control over this.
As if you weren’t consuming his thoughts too.
Rafe couldn’t stop himself from pacing from one end of his bedroom to the other. His breathing was ragged. His desk a larger mess than his mind, scattered with blueprints of the bank’s layout that he’d managed to obtain from another acquaintance. After he dropped you off that day.
Rafe had tried his best to busy himself these past three days. Mapping out plans of how to successfully carry out this heist. Going to every single bar in town, drinking till he could barely stand anymore. Fucking any girl there to distract his mind. And yet it wasn’t working.
What the fuck had you done to him? There was something wrong with him. No matter what he did, you kept invading his mind. “Stop it,” he muttered to himself. “Think, think, think-”
Rafe cut himself off with another sharp inhale, closing his eyes for a second, trying to narrow his focus to the plan. This was it. The biggest bank in town. He could not screw this up. It was simple. He’d pulled off more complicated heists, right? Why was he second-guessing himself? No. Pull yourself together.
Wait until the guard switch at 11.55pm. Get through the back entrance. Open the vault. Grab the money. And leave town. Rafe went through the steps over and over in his mind as if that would help. Help get the image of you out. How tempting you looked in that little church dress. How tightly you held onto him on his bike. The awe on your face at the sight of the sunset. How you trusted him.
The dread that ran through you when he led you into the back of that gas station. The look on your face when he told you he enjoyed it. How he felt you staring at him once he drove off.
It was better this way. That’s what Rafe told himself every single waking second. Because he could not stop thinking of you every single waking second. He needed to rob this last bank and leave town. He could never see you again. Rafe knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back this time. Wouldn’t be able to stop himself from dragging you into the nearest empty space and fucking you until all you could blabber out was his name. He wanted to take up every fucking thought in your mind. Wanted to make you his forever.
Hell, he was contemplating it now. Driving to your house and scaling up to your bedroom window. How he’d just watch you sleeping for a second. Admire how peaceful you looked. Then he’d climb in and toss you over his shoulder. If you stirred or woke up, he’d make sure you couldn’t scream.
He’d take such good care of you in his own twisted way. Maybe you’d fight him at first, but eventually you’d understand, right? Rafe was so much better than any other man your parents could ever find for you. No. He’d never let another man have you. If he couldn’t have you, then no one could. He’d hunt down every single one and would find pleasure in their suffering. They shouldn’t have touched you.
Fuck, he was hard just from the thought of thinking about you. No one else ever had this effect on him. But that was the thing. You weren’t just anyone else. You’d become the focal point of his mind. The one thing he craved to have under him. You were the prey he wanted to capture.
Rafe glanced at the clock on the wall. 11:27pm. He had time. Just one more time. That’s what he told himself. One more high before he committed one last crime and left this town forever. Before he left you behind forever.
Rafe unbuttoned his jeans roughly, pulling down his boxers in a hurry. This was better than the alternative. If he couldn’t have you, then at least he had the thoughts of you. Those belonged to him. Just like you would too- Stop.
He groaned slightly as his dick sprang up against his stomach, now free and painfully hard. “Shit…” Rafe muttered, slowly starting to stroke up and down his shaft as he let the thoughts come to him. He could almost imagine if you were here instead. If it were your soft touch jerking him off instead. How it would feel to have your hand wrapped around his cock. The thought spurred him on.
Rafe’s motions sped up as he envisioned how nervous you’d be, hand trembling while trying to please him, your movements careful, unlike his. There would be no way you’d seen a man up close. And how glad Rafe would be as the first one to corrupt your innocence.
“That’s it… go faster…” he’d growl, savouring your every stroke.
You’d do exactly as he said, of course, your eyes taking in everything. “L-like this?” you’d whisper, uncertain.
“Fuck yes, sweetheart. Just like that. Doing so good for me.”
Rafe can just imagine how you’d melt under his little praises. How your face would light up a little. How you’d bite your lip, brows furrowed in concentration. God, the look on your face when he came all over your hand-
The thought is what sends him over the edge now. “Fuck,” Rafe groans as he releases into his own hand, thick spurts of his cum staining the sheets. He sighs, cleaning himself up quickly before stuffing his duffel bag with the tools he got from the gas station last time. The same tools that made you see him for what he is.
He knew what a sick fuck he was for getting off at the thought of you, especially now that you despised him. Rafe didn’t exactly care. He had nothing else left to lose now after he’d already lost any shot he had with you. There was never a chance to begin with.
Rafe is a criminal. He’d make you remember it. Remember him one last time. Before he was out of your life forever. He shoved the gnawing feeling that came with the thought, pulling on his mask. He needed this high.
The town was flooded with sirens and police cars the next morning. Just like it always was after a robbery. Especially one at the biggest bank in the area. You stirred awake at the shrilling echoes, groaning softly. Your body ached from sleeping on the hard tiled floor, muscles sore. It’s okay. Only a few more nights until you were granted the comfort of your bed again. Just a few more days of this “penance”.
The morning light was faint, falling in strips across the walls and over the scattered scriptures. There was no way to tell time here, but assuming you hadn’t been served breakfast yet, you assumed it was around 7am. You winced as you sat up, the dull throb in your head shifting to a dizzying feeling. Why wasn’t the ringing stopping? You rubbed your eyes desperately, pinching the bridge of your nose. The last few days hadn’t been ideal, but you’d never woken up like this.
The sound was muffled. Distant. You focused on the rhythm, hoping that would make it go away. It almost sounded like… sirens? Why were sirens this early in the morning? The station shouldn’t even be open. You couldn’t figure out why you cared that much about them, but your mind refused to stay in one place. Why aren’t they stopping? Why- No… There was no way. He must have already left town after dropping you off that day. But then why did he get those tools from the back of the gas station?
You dropped your head into your hands, squeezing your eyes shut. Whether to focus or shut out the thoughts? You couldn’t tell. The memories from then came crawling back, gripping onto the edges of your mind.
“Why do you do this?” You’d asked, so naive.
“Do what?” His voice was so… detached.
“Rob banks. Commit crimes. Live a life on the run.” You’d wished he would tell you a good reason. “Don’t you want something… more?”
“This is who I am, sweetheart. I told you before. You hadn’t seen the worst yet.”
“No,” you whimpered, trying to tether yourself to reality. Trying to escape the thoughts that lingered in your mind. His voice didn’t leave.
“This is what I do. I am selfish and corrupt, and that will not change.”
Stop thinking about him. There was no way. Those sirens could be for anyone. There were more criminals in town than just him. Your hands fisted in the thin fabric of your dress. What if they were looking for him? You almost laughed at yourself. Of course they’re looking for him. They’ve been looking for him for the past month. Even if he committed some crime and those sirens were for him, this had happened before. And everything had been fine.
You took a deep breath, trying to convince yourself that. He was fine, right? He was okay? You groaned, this time in frustration. Why did you care? He didn’t care about you. He’d told you that himself.
"What, you really thought I was a good guy, huh, princess?” Rafe’s words came back to you again. “I told you what I am, and now you can fucking see it, can’t you?"
“S-stop,” you whispered brokenly, begging him. Like Rafe was here now and had some form of control over this. He had control over you. That’s why he wouldn’t leave, right? He wanted to make you suffer- What if they caught him? Is that why the sirens are louder this time? Why there is so much commotion outside?
Why did it matter? Rafe was a criminal. He should be caught. He’d robbed banks. He’d done terrible things- You’d never see him again. It was not like you’d had much of a chance before, but now he’d be locked up for life. But he was supposed to come save you. Take you away from all this. You were his.
“No!” you gasped, coming to from the grasp of the conflicting voices in your mind. Your mother was standing there. The door was open. Why was she standing there? She was supposed to give you meals through the slot in the door, but… she isn’t holding a meal.
Your mind was overcome with more thoughts, your head pounding harder. Had it been seven days already? Has your mind truly been so polluted that you couldn’t keep track of the days anymore? You’d barely read any of the scriptures. Your father was going to be furious-
“Hurry up. Do not make me repeat myself.” Your mother’s voice was harsher than usual. Did she say something? You could’ve sworn you didn’t hear. The sirens were still screaming outside. You tilted your head, a little confused about what she wanted.
“Mama-” you started, but she cut you off with a sigh.
“Your father wants to see you,” she repeated. “Fix yourself.”
With that, she turned and walked down the hall. You watched her fading figure, attempting to straighten up. Your hands clung to the wall for support as you slowly stood, one of the few times in the past three days. Had it even been three days or seven? You had so many questions but didn’t want to risk upsetting your parents more.
Your legs ached with every step as you shuffled down the hall towards your father’s study. He was sitting there, face stern as always, Bible in hand. You suddenly felt self-conscious as his gaze landed on you. You brushed your hands through your hair and over your dress in a weak attempt to make yourself a little more presentable, but it was obvious. You were a mess.
“Sit,” your father commanded, voice chilling.
You did as he told, taking a seat in the chair opposite him, your hands arranging themselves in your lap. Maybe he was feeling generous. Maybe he believed you’d been cleansed within three days. Maybe-
“Tell me what you know,” he asked firmly, eyes trained on you.
“W-what?” you stuttered out under his gaze, not sure what to make of that question.
“You are seeing him.” There was not a hint of doubt in his voice.
Your blood ran cold. There was no way. Your father couldn’t know. How would he know? “S-seing w-who, sir?” you whispered, trying to stay calm. Your breathing was already shaky.
“You think I don’t know?” he chuckled, the sound wrong. You’d learn over the years to keep silent. To show nothing. Let your father tell you rather than assume. But the thought of him knowing about Rafe made your stomach churn. You managed to stay silent, looking down at your lap.
Your father sighed as if you were being difficult. “Another bank has been broken into as of this morning.” No, no, no… It was Rafe. You tried to keep your expression neutral as he took a sip of his usual morning coffee before continuing, “The Dunwich one. The police say over ten thousand dollars were taken. Largest sum of any of the recent robberies.”
Your breath hitched. That was the biggest bank in town. Every police station within a radius of ten miles will be looking for Rafe. There would be a bounty on his head. A target on his back. You couldn’t stop a shaky gasp from escaping you as the dark thoughts clung to you. Again. No… You couldn’t do this now. Not in front of your father- What if they found him? He’d be shot dead.
Rafe could be dead at any moment. What if he already was-
Your father’s cold tone pulled you back to the present. “Do you understand now? He is a wanted man. You will tell me everything now.”
You bit your lip, understanding now what your father wanted. He wanted information about Rafe. Enough for the police to recognise him. Find him. Arrest him or worse. All so, your father could once again get the recognition and praise he so desperately craves.
“I do not know anything about him, father. I’m- I’m sure he is a terrible man.” The lies felt bitter slipping from your lips. He was a terrible man. You were the preacher’s daughter. Why were you protecting him? You were supposed to be the town’s good girl. Helping your father. Helping the authorities. But you couldn’t. Rafe was going to save you from here, right? You couldn’t turn him in. How were you meant to keep your mind occupied with thoughts of him, knowing you were the reason he was arrested? Or dead.
Oh God. Why was your mind wandering to such dark places? Maybe you deserved to be in “cleansing”. Your mind had clearly succumbed to the dark side, and you needed to break free into the bounds of holiness again-
“Look at you. Lying to me now,” your father’s jaw clenched as he stood, towering over you now. “He’s corrupted your mind, but I will make you pure again. Tell me about him. Now.” Your father demanded this time, his patience wearing thin.
You looked up at him, inhaling another shaky breath. You couldn’t. How could you forgo the best escape you had? “Father, I don’t-”
Your head snapped to the side as your father’s hand cracked against your cheek. The slap pulled out a gasp from you, your skin stinging under his palm. “You pathetic little bitch-” he growled. You winced as his hand landed again. Harder this time. Silent tears were streaming down your cheeks now, but you knew better than to resist. Than to fight.
Your father stopped then, as if waiting for you to speak. What were you even meant to say? You barely knew anything about Rafe. He’d existed in your mind longer than you’d ever spoken with him in person. You had no clue as to how he committed his crimes, where he stayed, or where he was now? All you knew really was his name.
You thought about telling your father. Rafe. How would he say it? With disdain? With anger? How would the police say it? The town?
But his name was yours. It was the only thing you really had from him. You weren’t ready to share that with everyone. You couldn’t. It was yours.
You met your father’s gaze, lips sealed, bracing for more punishment. A caning? More time in that room? Forced to read scriptures to purify your mind? Instead, your father just stood there, assessing you. “You think I’m harsh, hm? Think you’re so tough?” Your father laughed, the sound mocking. “You will talk. The police will come. They’re already making rounds.”
His hand fisted in the knots of your hair, tilting your face up towards him. “And they won’t stop until they have an answer out of your wretched little mouth.” He held you there for a second, his eyes boring into yours before he dropped you back in the chair. “Lock her in her room,” he ordered your mother before storming out. You let out a sob once he left, taking in a desperate gasp of air. Where was he? Was he okay? You knew it was wrong, but you prayed desperately to God. Your fingers held tight to the necklace you wore. It matched your mother's with a similar smaller cross. You hoped he was safe.
He needed to leave. Needed to get out of town right now. Before it was too late. That was the only thing on Rafe’s mind as he sped down the empty road on his bike, the sun starting to set. He’d only taken what was necessary right now, knowing how to play this game with all his experience. The money was well hidden, and he would return for it later, once the heat had died down. It was too risky to smuggle it out now.
Rafe could see the town border in the distance. No police yet. Perfect. He should be content. Happy even. The heist had gone as well as it could and what he considered successful. He was ten thousand dollars richer. He was about to leave without any problems. Then why did he feel a pit in his stomach?
Fucking hell. Of course, you were still lingering in his mind. He couldn’t even deny it. All he could see yesterday night while breaking open that vault was the look you’d have on your face if you saw him committing these crimes. The rush he got from that was more than he’d ever gotten from breaking into any bank. He could picture the fear in your eyes. Your shaky breaths. The way your hands would be playing with the hem of your shirt.
Rafe scoffed. Of course, his subconscious had your typical mannerisms memorised. It didn’t matter now. He was going to leave. Come back a few months later for the money. He couldn’t see you then. Couldn’t risk it. The police would’ve surely gathered more than enough information about him within that time to have a rough idea of his demeanour. Rafe had been careful at covering his tracks, but one camera unaccounted for or one pair of strayed eyes and he’d be fucking compromised.
Rafe almost didn’t notice as he reached the border, far too caught up in unimportant thoughts. It finally occurred to him then. He’d never see you again. Or perhaps if he, by chance, caught a glimpse, you would’ve moved on. It was better that way. That’s what he told you last time. To not wait for him.
“Won’t be waiting for me now, will you, sweetheart?” Rafe’s tone had been cold. “Don’t.” He’d answered his own question, it being the last thing he said to you.
Rafe should be glad you were moving on. If not for your sake than for his. If he didn’t cross your mind, it was safer. Less of a liability. Then the images came. Rafe skidded the bike to a stop even though there was no one there. His jaw clenched as he pictured you. With a husband. Your father was certainly already eager to marry you off. Rafe knew men like him well. He imagined you, holding the arm of your newlywed husband, looking like the perfect wife. Smiling beside him. Laughing at his stupid jokes. You belonging to some other fucking man.
He didn’t understand why he gave a shit. It wasn’t like you ever belonged to him. There was never anything between you two. So why couldn’t he go over the border? Rafe needed to go soon. But he just couldn’t. His body wasn’t cooperating.
Just one last time. He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself. Rafe just needed to see you one last time. Needed to take in the high that came with it. That’s it. It wasn’t because he needed you. He just… needed the rush. At least that’s what Rafe told himself as he revved the engine and took a turn, speeding down the highway. In the other direction this time. Towards your house. Just once more before he left.
You were trapped. This time in your room. Your father had come back to drag you upstairs, tossing you past the threshold before looking at the door. It had been just around an hour, the sun beginning to dip past the horizon. You stared out the window, partly terrified, as you watched the police make their way down the street, officers knocking meticulously at each and every house. Taking their time to talk to every resident. This investigation was bigger than you’d anticipated.
“Better to tell them the truth when they come.” Your mother’s voice, calm and steady, reached you.
You turned to find her standing there. She looked as she always did, wearing a pale blue dress with white lace trims, hair pulled back in a neat bun. Put together despite everything that had gone on in the past few days. As if she didn’t have a care in the slightest about you, her daughter.
“Mama, I didn’t lie,” you whispered quietly, not meeting her eyes.
It was clear she didn’t believe you either. “Whatever it is you know, confess it. If not to me, then to the police. Perhaps Christ will have mercy and forgive you.”
You could see in your peripheral vision as she took a step closer. “I don’t know anything,” you breathed.
The next thing you felt was your mother’s icy hand tilting your chin up. “I did not raise you like this. You shall not behave like this.” She never sounded upset. Always just disappointed. “Your father was right. Once this is all over, you are in need of a proper cleansing. To rid your mind of whatever darkness it has congregated.”
With that, she spun on her heel and left, locking your door once again. No. You couldn’t go through that again. Three days had been grueling enough, but the thought of going through it again for a longer period was suffocating. You wouldn’t survive it this time.
Your heart lept into your throat as you heard the voices of the police. Only one house down now. You needed to go. Escape. But the door was locked. You spun towards the voices again, eyes landing on the window. Your mind ran through every question. Every possibility. All at once.
You could climb down, right? But where would you go even if you made it out? Maybe you could run away. Oh god. Your mother was right. You had lost your mind to these dark notions. You should just tell the police whatever you can. Purify yourself again through the cleansing.
What if you went to see Rafe? The idea jumped out at you for a second before you laughed at the absurdity of the thought. You had no clue where he was. The search was still going, so he was still free, but Rafe had almost certainly left town by now. He could be anywhere. Doing anything. Without you. He didn’t care about you. Why was that so hard for you to accept?
You layed back on your bed as the thoughts came. Hope. What if you somehow saw Rafe? Then everything would be fine, right? If you saw him, got some final closure that he never cared and that you both could never be together, maybe your mind would finally accept it. You’d believe it if it came from his lips. You’d get to see Rafe one last time, memorise every inch of him before he was gone. Then thoughts of him wouldn’t linger in your mind anymore.
You imagined the better half of that scenario, something that was surely a daydream, but after the amount of sinful thoughts you’d had, you could let yourself indulge in a few more before the cleansing.
Rafe deciding to take you with him. What if you could convince him? That you’d let him do whatever he wanted if he just saved you. That you’d do whatever he said. Rafe would agree, right? If you promised you’d be good, he’d agree. And he’d take you on the back of his bike to somewhere far away-
The light from the oranging sun came into focus again. You were running out of time to decide. The police would be here any moment, and it would be dark soon. In the high chance this didn’t work, you still had to come back. Even the thought of your father’s future wrath was painstaking. But if you didn’t go, you’d regret it. You knew that. Being trapped in your coordinated life, knowing you didn’t even try, was worse. What was he doing to you? You’d never think like this a week ago.
You stood, legs shaky, as you went to open your window as quietly as possible, trying to map out your course of action. There was a patch of grass below just before the hard concrete of the road and driveway. If you managed to somehow land on that you’d make it with some scapes at worst. Just as you were about to take a step onto the roof, the chilly air hit you like a wave. You turned back to your closet, opening it to look for something warm. That’s when your fingers brushed against it.
Rafe’s leather jacket. The one he gave you after the night of the bar fight. You’d kept it neatly folded behind a box of scriptures. Back when you were still “pure”. Before you could think too much about it, you pulled it on over your dress. If you did see Rafe, you guessed you should return it. After all, it was his. God, it still smelled like him. Like cigarettes and his cheap whiskey.
You lost track of time once the sun set, barely a few minutes later, and the world plummeted into darkness. You’d managed to scale down the house and leave the neighbourhood without being seen. Your parents were most definitely aware of your absence by now. Maybe they were talking to the police right now.
You whimpered, trying to slow down your running mind and focus on your shaky steps instead. The pounding had come back and the ache in your legs was worse than before. The lack of food and sleep was certainly getting to you, your vision blurring occasionally. Everything hurt.
There wasn’t much ahead of you except a dark, empty road, tall grass surrounding its edges. It almost looked like the road where Rafe had taken you on that ride. You remembered every second. How it felt to be pressed against him. The wind in your hair. The golden sun sinking.
You tried to shun the memories that came after as another gust of wind blew, causing you to hug Rafe’s jacket tighter around you. You didn’t even know where you were or what you were doing. All you knew was you couldn’t keep walking for much longer. Exhausted was the only way to describe your state right now. Like there were chains holding you down, shackling you to the ground. Everything was heavy.
You almost lost your balance on the next step, but managed to keep yourself upright. You had to keep going. You would find Rafe. You had to. He would come for you, right? He’d save you.
“Fucking great,” Rafe muttered as he continued speeding down the road, his headlights cutting through the dark. He could see a figure in the distance. It was probably some hitchhiker, desperate to get a ride. The Rafe noticed their stride, as if every step was painful.
Why the fuck did he care? He had one goal, and that was to see you then disappear- Rafe couldn’t help as his eyes zeroed in on the unmistakable white dress. He laughed to himself. There was no fucking way. How could you even-
Rafe braked hard, pulling the bike over as he realised he wasn’t seeing things. It really was you. Walking down the edge of the highway.
You winced as his headlights landed on you, bathing you in white. You blinked, tilted your head slightly. You had to be dreaming. Or dead. You watched as a figure got off the bike, walking closer. Your lips curled up in a smile. This had to be heaven. There was no other way.
“Rafe,” you beamed softly as you stumbled towards him, sure this was a hallucination.
“What the fuck are you doing out here?” Rafe growled, eyes filled with a mix of confusion, anger, and pure possessiveness as he ripped off his helmet. His chest tightened at that pure, innocent smile of yours.
“You’re here…” you whispered, smile not fading.
Something was wrong. Rafe could feel it. This wasn’t like you. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to-” Rafe didn’t get a chance to finish.
Everything went black. The last thing you felt was Rafe’s arms around you, your face pressed against the fabric of his shirt.
Rafe lunged forward, just managing to catch you in his arms, pulling you instinctively against him. What the fuck was happening? He shook you slightly, trying to wake you up. “Get up,” he muttered as if he thought this was just a ruse. When you didn’t move, one of his hands flew to your wrist. You still had a pulse. A wave of relief flooded him.
“Sweetheart? Wake up. Can you hear me?” Rafe called cautiously. “Wake up, damnit!” he cursed, his frustration building up.
You were wearing his jacket. The one he gave you weeks ago. You still had it. Unfamiliar warmth flooded Rafe’s body. You didn’t hate him. Still. Even after the incident at the gas station… You didn’t hate him. He couldn’t understand why.
The feeling disappeared in a heartbeat as he noticed the bruise on your cheek, now dark and slightly swollen. Your fucking father. He’d hurt you. Rafe’s jaw clenched, rage flooding him as he remembered he’d sworn to kill him. When he saw him lay a hand on you. Rafe had been so caught up in the high he’d almost forgotten. Never again.
Rafe was going to kill that son of a bitch if it was the last thing he’d do. He hurt what was his. And now Rafe would make him suffer. He slowly brushed back the hair that had fallen over your face with his free hand. He knew he couldn’t leave town now. Not yet. He couldn’t leave you like this.
“You’re coming with me, princess,” Rafe murmured before lifting you up, one hand on your back, the other under your knees. He considered walking to his place for a second, but that would take too long. Using the bike would be difficult but not impossible.
Rafe managed to get on after a minute, settling you sideways across the front of his Harley, your legs hanging over one side. He started the engine before wrapping an arm around your waist for support. Hopefully, he could drive well enough with one hand.
“Hold on tight, sweetheart,” he purred, as if you were still awake. Rafe kicked up the stand before starting down the highway. He’d keep you safe. You were his now.
a/n: its finally hereeeeee!!!!! 🥳 im sorry this actually took so long lol but i hope you guys like it. we see a LOTT of reader's and rafe's thoughts in this one and i enjoyed writing both of their mental breakdowns and obsessions lol 🤭 anyways i love this series so much and as always tysm for all your support and im so excited to keep adding more little pieces to this little universe 💕 always feel free to send in requests and please please please scream and rant to me about this series ✨ i love seeing all your thoughts and my inbox is always open! ꫂ᭪݁
summary: after finding out that your fiancé had cheated on you with his childhood best friend—who just so happened to be Rafe's fiancée— Rafe proposes a reckless plan: follow them across Italy and Greece and ruin the dream honeymoon they stole. but somewhere between petty sabotage, breathtaking views, and far too much time together, the two of you begin to discover there's more waiting for you than revenge.
content warning: strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, one bed, sexual tension, explicit sexual content 18+ MDNI
summary: after finding out that your fiancé had cheated on you with his childhood best friend—who just so happened to be Rafe's fiancée— Rafe proposes a reckless plan: follow them across Italy and Greece and ruin the dream honeymoon they stole. but somewhere between petty sabotage, breathtaking views, and far too much time together, the two of you begin to discover there's more waiting for you than revenge.
content warning: strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, one bed, sexual tension, explicit sexual content, mentions of death (for this chapter only!) 18+ MDNI
w/c: 9.4K
a/n: another long chapter, sue me (so sorry!!) i just need you all to read this with through a romcom lens — trust me, it'll help
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Sleep hadn’t come easy to Rafe in the past two months; if anything, it’d been the last thing he’d gotten. There were a few things he could think of why it might’ve been the case; perhaps it’d been the silence that filled Tannyhill now that Charlotte was gone, or maybe it’d been how his bed had suddenly felt far too big for just one person, a subtle reminder that every empty inch served as a reminder that someone else had once occupied it. Or perhaps it’d been the way he kept seeing his father’s disgruntled face when anyone would come up to Rafe asking about his now-called-off wedding, even if Rafe had nothing to do with it.
Whatever the reason, sleep had become something he tolerated rather than welcomed, which was exactly why waking up after one of the best nights of sleep he'd had in weeks irritated him beyond belief. Rafe had woken long before the sun had fully climbed over the rooftops, the first rays of morning spilling through the terrace doors in pale strips across the room, casting over your body. For a moment, he simply lay there, unusually still, waiting for the familiar heaviness to settle over him, but it never came. Just silence. A comfortable silence that hadn’t come easy to him for a bit.
Until he heard you sigh in your sleep.
Rafe internally groaned as he realized that someone else was in the room, that someone being you. It wasn't that he'd particularly enjoyed or despised sharing a bed with you, there was barely anything for you both that the other could provide except two people working together to ruin someone’s life. However, there had been something strangely familiar about hearing another person's steady breathing in the darkness, about feeling the mattress dip ever so slightly every time you shifted in your sleep. It reminded him of a time before everything had fallen apart, before a version of himself was lost.
Rafe looked to see you sleeping peacefully on your side, your small breaths making your chest heave as the satin rubbed against your skin. That was until a loud, aggressive knock against the door, causing Rafe to nearly jump out of his own skin. You stirred beside him with a sleepy groan, pulling one of the pillows over your head as you groaned, "Who in their right mind comes at the crack of dawn?"
“Jus’ ignore it,” Rafe muttered, slamming his palms over his eyes as he let out a long, ragged exhale. The brief, peaceful illusion of his perfect night of sleep vanished instantly, replaced by his usual morning irritability. As you both stayed silent, your eyes shut until the door knocked again.
“Room service!” A voice called out from behind the door. Your eyes flew open at the same moment Rafe's did, making bolted upright, your hair a wild, tangled halo around your face as your eyes darted around the unfamiliar room in a blind panic before looking back at Rafe, whose expression matched yours. The two of you stared at one another across the ridiculous expanse of the honeymoon bed, equally confused.
"Did you order breakfast?" you whispered through your teeth. Rafe looked offended as he whispered back, “Does it look like I ordered breakfast?” You both rolled your eyes as the same three raps hit the door, making you feel bad as the voices strained when they called out again. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose.
"They're gonna keep knockin'." You glanced down at your satin pyjamas before looking back up at him. "I'm not answering looking like this." He looked you up and down for half a second before forcing himself to look away. "Yeah, probably for the best."
"Was that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No."
“Oh my god, Rafe, just go!” You shooed him away when the knocking reappeared, Rafe muttering as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I am, as soon as you quit arguing with me for five seconds."
With one last sigh, he unlocked the door, opening to find a young server standing with an elaborate silver trolley overflowing with polished domes, fresh fruit, pastries, steaming coffee, and enough food to feed six people.
"Buongiorno!" he greeted cheerfully as he wheeled the trolley into the room. "Congratulations again to the beautiful newlyweds.” Rafe didn't even bother correcting him this time, grumbling, "Mornin'."
"Here is your breakfast." The server beamed at you as you marvelled at the spread. Part of you tried to push away the thought that Charlotte and Ethan would’ve been enjoying right now, yet instead, their exes were in their place, even if it’d been a sour start. You gave a small smile back to him, “Thank you, this is wonderful.”
“Oh, and before I forget, this is especially for you,” he pointed towards a specific dish, the edges of the plate adorned with flowers and touches of saffron. “The chef made it just for you. It is considered good for fertility.”
You choked on your own spit as Rafe cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Fertility?”
“Yes, you know? To have babies.”
“I don’t want babies!”
“You don’t want babies?” The server looked at Rafe before looking at you with a raised eyebrow and a pointed finger at Rafe, as he asked again with a confused yet joyful tone, “You don’t want his babies?”
“No!” Rafe looked back at you with mock offence as he questioned, “You don’t want my babies?” He couldn’t help but feel dejected with your response, as if it’d added more salt to the wound that he wasn’t wanted even by someone whom he’d just shared a bed with, which had then become apparent to you as you sank back into the bed in embarrassment.
“Uhm, no, I just meant not right now. Of course I want… your babies.” You cringed as the words came out of your mouth before you turned back to the server, your face hot as you began, exasperated, “Tell the chef I say thank you.”
As soon as he was on his way, Rafe sat back down on the bed, an awkward silence lingering as you both looked at the dish. Breaking the silence, you croaked out, “You can have it.”
"You trying t'send me a message, Angel?" Rafe snorted, yelping when he felt a napkin hit the side of his face.
“Shut up.”
The repeat of heavy footsteps hitting the road beat like a metronome as you watched Rafe pace in circles while talking on the phone, one hand stroking the top of his head as he argued with the poor soul who was on the other side of the phone. Behind him, the Colosseum was in view, standing in its glory in the sun as the heat rose from the ancient stone in dizzying waves. The air was thick with the scent of hot asphalt, cheap exhaust from passing Vespas, and the melted sugar of nearby gelato stands.
The plan was simple: find the tour that they’d booked, cancel it under the guise of an emergency, and have the two stranded without any plans and in the blistering sun. Knowing that Charlotte had planned everything specific to every moment of the day, and would ensure that her plans went smoothly, getting this one mix-up would’ve done a number. That was until you saw Rafe walk up to you with his signature stern look set on his face that said otherwise.
“She changed the booking,” Rafe grumbled, glare fixed on his screen. “And they’re not letting me know shit about it because it’s under her name now.”
“Even if it was with your credit card?”
“Yeah, some fuckin’ safeguarding thing for their customers.” He scanned around the bustling plaza, his broad shoulders tensing as he tried to map out a backup plan. “As if my money doesn’t make me a customer.” You looked at the phone clenched tightly in his hand, a sudden spark of inspiration hitting you. “Give me your phone. And the original confirmation.”
“Huh?”
“Just give it to me, trust me.”
Rafe reluctantly handed the device over, watching you with a heavy, irritated skepticism. Part of him—the ugly, volatile part—almost wished you’d fail. He wanted you to prove that nothing could be done, if only to give him the familiar comfort of being right and remaining on top of things. As twisted as it was, the alternative was worse; losing control meant being inferior, giving someone else the upper hand and another reason to scrutinize him.
Though the heat was unlike what it was at home, he’d remembered the last time he stood in the sun, the intensity of its rays being much less compared to his father’s gaze on him.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell people?”
“What?” Rafe looked up from the kitchen island at his father as if he’d misheard him, his eyes closing in on him as if it were the first time those words had been pieced together. Ward paced the room, phone pressed against his ear before tossing it onto the marble countertop with enough force to make Rafe flinch, before sighing, his fingers closed over his nose in annoyance.
"Two hundred guests. Business partners. Investors. Family." He laughed bitterly, though there wasn't a shred of humour behind it. "Do you have any idea what this looks like?"
“Dad, she cheated on me with her best friend who’s engaged himself,” Rafe grimaced. “I gave her everything.”
“And what are you going to do about telling everyone, huh?” Ward complained, barely acknowledging anything that Rafe had said. Rafe flinched as Ward’s voice became lower, which felt worse. "They're going to ask what was wrong with my son that his fiancée walked away two months before the wedding."
“I didn’t do anything, Dad.”
"It doesn't matter." Ward's gaze settled heavily on him. "Perception is reality, Rafe. And right now, our family looks like a goddamn embarrassment."
A sharp nudge to his arm suddenly snapped Rafe out of the memory. He blinked, the image of his father dissolving to reveal you standing in front of him with a sharp, mischievous smirk painted all over your face—an expression he’d never seen on you before.
“Rafe, how would you like to go on an all-expenses-paid, VIP tour of the Colosseum?” The light sparkled in your eyes as you looked up at him.
“What?”
“I said-”
“Okay, no, I heard that, smartass. I mean, what do you mean?”
“Charlotte paid extra and upgraded the reservation, but it’s nonrefundable,” You said as your fingers wrapped around Rafe’s forearm, pulling him to move forward as you walked towards the Colosseum. “So why don’t we just go ourselves? We’re here anyway, and I’m sure Ethan will find a way to please her just to make her feel better.”
Rafe blinked at you, bewildered by the sudden change in your demeanour. “Are you okay? Are you having a heat stroke because just yesterday you were feeling bad for them?”
“Yeah, well, we gotta stick to the plan somehow so we can mess up theirs.”
Awestruck couldn’t cover half of what you both felt as you approached the Colosseum.
No photograph, no travel brochure, nor history documentary could have prepared either of you for the sheer scale of it as you approached the entrance. The ancient stone shone in the sunlight, despite the age of its stone otherwise, while its weathered arches stacked endlessly toward the cloudless sky. Time had softened parts of it, worn away corners and details, yet somehow that only made it more impressive. It stood there scarred and broken and centuries old and still managed to dwarf everything around it.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of chatting tourists, the distant hum of traffic, and the occasional shriek of excitement from nearby tour groups all blurred together beneath the weight of what stood before you.
"Holy shit," you whispered, as Rafe let out a low whistle beside you, softly exclaiming, "Yeah." You had never seen him so peacefully quiet. The VIP entrance guided you away from the larger crowds, and through a shaded stone corridor, the sudden drop in temperature was a relief after the blistering heat outside. Ancient walls towered around you, the stone rough beneath your fingertips when you reached out instinctively to touch it.
"I can’t believe this is from a whole time before us," you muttered. “I wonder if two people tried to screw over their exes here back then too.”
Rafe glanced over. "Pretty sure one would’ve had their head slain before they got to that point."
"Quite the optimist, aren’t we, huh?"
"One of us has gotta be the one with red horns to counter you, angel." The laugh that escaped you surprised both of you, making Rafe stare at you as you immediately looked away afterward, as though you regretted letting it slip. The joke wasn’t particularly funny, yet it was one of the first genuine laughs he’d gotten out of you in a while, one where your posture wasn’t so rigid, and you weren’t so guarded.
That was until a couple came up next to you, their friendly demeanour prompting them to break the awkwardness between you and Rafe. “Did you hear the commotion?”
Rafe immediately put his hand on your hip, as though to guard you from them, as you turned to look at them, confusion on your face as you asked, “No, what happened?”
“Oh honey, you missed it!” The lady exclaimed. “There was this young couple, probably around your age, going all crazy that someone stole their booking, but they couldn’t prove it.”
“They were also complaining to each other about their hotel booking being taken as well. They had that poor associate stressing for no reason,” her husband chimed in. “Talk about karma, huh?”
Rafe squeezed your hip as you looked to him with the same soft smirk he’d taken a liking to. “You don’t say?”
Finally, the guide led you deeper into the Colosseum, explaining various sections of the arena. Massive tunnels stretched beneath your feet. Ancient passageways twisted below like a maze, while above, sunlight poured through gaps in the stone, illuminating floating dust particles that looked almost golden. Everywhere you looked, there was something else to marvel at.
"Can you imagine building this?" you asked quietly. Rafe followed your gaze upward to see thousands of seats curved around the arena in massive tiers. "Nah, it'd take me three business days just to figure out which contractor was screwing me over." He jokingly deadpanned, making a smile tug at your lips again.
As the guide motioned everyone toward a restricted section reserved for private tours, she explained, "From here, we can also access the upper viewing platforms."
Your eyes visibly brightened as you looked at it, recalling the memories you had of your father telling you about seeing it himself, but then almost immediately dimmed again with hesitation. Rafe sensed your hesitation, the way you looked between the guide and the area, but only for you to keep walking ahead with the group as the guide continued to speak.
Rafe felt an odd discomfort as he noticed something in you shift, how moments ago you'd been practically glowing with curiosity. Now, your shoulders had drawn inward slightly, while your hands stayed clasped together in front of you. How you’d shown interest in something but then immediately pulled back as if you were apologizing for wanting something that strayed from the usual, making him more irritated than he probably should have been.
As the group continued walking, your attention lingered on a gated staircase leading toward another section of the monument, constantly trying to catch a glimpse further into it. Rafe sighed, making you direct your attention to him. “What?”
"You wanna go up there."
Your eyes widened. "No, I don't. I was just looking."
"You know, you’re terrible at lying." You rolled your eyes. "We don't need to."
"Who said anything about need?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it as the old knot of anxiety tightened in your chest. It felt stupid, embarrassing even to voice anything when it all felt so foreign to you. You'd spent so many years shrinking your wants into something smaller, easier, less inconvenient, willingly going with what Ethan had said because it’d made sense from a logical standpoint. It was still like it’d happened yesterday, when you’d first expressed excitement before for something, only for it to be turned down and somehow turned into a burden—too much, too expensive, too childish, too dramatic. That any alternative that Ethan provided was good enough. Eventually, asking had stopped feeling worth it. So now, even something as simple as wanting to explore an extra staircase felt foreign.
"I'm fine," you insisted. “Rafe, I promise, it’s okay.”
Rafe stared at you, right through you, not buying a word. Then, without warning, he raised his hand. "Hey." The guide turned along with a few people from the tour as well, and you immediately wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Rafe pointed toward the staircase. "Can we see that section?"
You looked at him in horror. "Rafe—" You were cut short when the guide smiled immediately. "Of course, I completely forgot to show that."
Rafe looked down at you, smug when he saw your jaw that was slightly dropped. "There y’go, angel."
You smacked his arm. "Oh, my God."
"What?"
"I- nothing. Thank you." You hated how you didn’t have anything to say, even if it felt embarrassing to have someone speak up for you, as if you couldn’t do it yourself.
The staircase led to one of the higher viewing platforms, and the moment you stepped onto it, every ounce of embarrassment from Rafe speaking up had vanished. The view was breathtaking. Rome stretched endlessly beyond the ancient walls. Terracotta rooftops glowed beneath the afternoon sun, church domes rose above the skyline, and the city looked endless, alive, and impossibly beautiful.
You walked closer to the railing, a soft gasp escaping you. Rafe watched your expression instead of the view—the way your eyes widened, the way wonder softened your features, the way you forgot to be self-conscious for a few precious seconds. Something about it tugged at him unexpectedly.
"You happy now?" he asked.
You glanced back, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Very."
For the rest of the tour, the energy between you both had changed from the stiffness to comfort and ease, with subtle things neither of you paid mind to, from the way you started walking beside him instead of keeping a respective distance, your arms brushing each other, leaving a warm aftertouch that felt normal. Times where you’d point out random details to which Rafe would make stupid jokes, making you laugh more. At one point, you stumbled slightly on an uneven stone step and instinctively grabbed his arm to avoid falling forward, your fingers pressing into the muscle of his arm that felt hard and plush under your grip, while Rafe’s other arm immediately went straight to your waist to hold you up.
Neither of you let go immediately. Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to notice too. An older woman from another tour smiled knowingly as she passed. "Nice to know young love is still so pure." You nearly choked while Rafe barked out a laugh, but she’d disappeared before either of you could defend yourselves.
"I swear, no part of this makes us look like a couple."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about; I act like this with all my fake wives." You shoved him again.
A few minutes later, another tourist offered to take a photograph for the "newlyweds." Then someone else asked how long ago you’d been married. By the third time, even Rafe looked exhausted. "This is ridiculous."
"It is."
"You literally just linked arms with me."
"The stairs were steep. Would they rather I die?"
"Were you going to die when you rested your head on my shoulder during the explanation?"
"I was looking at something."
"You were looking at the wall."
"It was a very interesting wall." Despite your complaints, both of you were smiling.
By the time the tour ended, the afternoon sun had softened into a warm golden glow. The Colosseum looked even more beautiful now, the stone practically burning amber beneath the fading light. You lingered near the exit, reluctant to leave. It had been the first genuinely enjoyable day you'd had in a long time—the first day where revenge hadn't entirely consumed your thoughts, where you hadn't spent every second comparing yourself to Charlotte, where you hadn't felt small. "Y'know," he said.
"Hm?"
"It’s okay to ask for things, or to let someone else take care of you." Your heart stumbled. Looking up, you found his expression unusually serious. "You wanted that view."
You glanced away. "Maybe."
"You would've missed it." The truth settled uncomfortably in your chest, because he was right; you would’ve and probably would’ve kept thinking about it for years to come. Rafe shoved his hands into his pockets as he continued, "You don't gotta act grateful every time you want something."
Your throat tightened unexpectedly, nodding as you pondered how many things you’d let go just for Ethan’s sake. Neither of you spoke for a moment, but before the silence could become too heavy, Rafe nodded toward the street. "C'mon."
"Where?"
His grin returned as he looked towards a small shop with a striped blue and white banner. “We have some time before they get to Trevi Fountain.” Rafe jerked his chin toward the storefront, “Let’s go get some gelato."
The array of trays of gelato spread across the creamery, bright like technicolour with how colourful they were right when you stepped in. It was almost exactly how your mother had described it, how you could smell the saccharine in the air without feeling dizzy, or how impossible it’d be to pick just one flavour. The coolness from the low temperature the creamery was set at felt like a relief compared to how hot it was outside, despite the linen dress you had on.
As you stepped forward, the cold bursts from the freezer made you shiver, yet it didn’t give you the same chills that you’d gotten once asked, “So, what are you getting?”
“Oh uh—,” you peered over the display, your eyes settling on the raspberry gelato that immediately spiked your interest, before immediately spotting what felt safe, “Probably the vanilla or stracciatella.”
“That’s basic.”
“Excuse me, but it’s hard to go wrong with something that’s so versatile and safe.” You retorted, suddenly defensive for a flavour you hadn’t even wanted, even though you were wincing at your words. You recalled the last time you had said what you’d wanted at the local ice cream shop near your university years ago, the way you could practically taste the flavour profile before you got shut down.
“I think I’m leaning towards chocolate cheesecake,” you mentioned as you eyed your choices. It’d been a hot day on campus at university, and after a few months of grieving, you’d decided that it was time to go back to places you hadn’t visited since that day.
“That’s so much sugar, it’ll make you crash before you get your next class,” Ethan interjected, sugar-coating every word under the guise of concern. “Plus, chocolate doesn’t always taste the same every time.”
“They’ve had this for ages though,” As you laughed nervously, you looked at his face, his eyebrows raised. “What could you possibly suggest that’s good, E?”
“Vanilla.”
“Vanilla?”
“Hear me out, it’s so versatile and safe; you can’t go wrong with a classic flavour.”
“You can get that; I’ll just go with-”
“Trust me,” he pleaded, the irises in his eyes widening as if everything depended on this very moment. “Please?”
You sighed, smile soft as you agreed with him, “Sure.”
“And let me guess, Ethan told you that,” Rafe prodded as he looked at you, as if he could sense the whole scene playing out in your head. It made Rafe pity you with how he’d seen you light up at the sight of one flavour only to default yourself to what seemed like was pseudo-forced onto you. “C’mon, angel, don’t let him keep having a chokehold over your life when he’s out sticking his tongue down someone else’s throat.”
You glanced back at the display, “I don’t even know if it’ll be any good.”
Rafe felt himself getting more annoyed with the back and forth, probably more so that someone he’d be spending the next few days with was still being puppeteered by the same person who’d taken his fiancée and ruined his reputation. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered, stepping forward to give his order before you could say anything.
He shouldn’t be caring; it wasn’t his responsibility to break the habits you’d become used to, yet a small, nagging tug in his heart made it impossible to not want you to be your own person, to stray away from being someone who’d simply followed her ex’s lifestyle. He saw the way you’d been hurting, even if it wasn’t openly shown, and felt his stomach tighten at the idea that someone could love and miss someone so deeply. It hurt even more that he knew no one was sitting with themselves while they were missing him. Maybe it’d been because he’d never felt that pain before, the pain of grieving someone who was still alive, yet the death of their part in his life lingered unwantingly.
The only pain he could feel was the pain from the betrayal and its subsequent embarrassment that it brought, making Rafe wonder if he’d ever been loved by Charlotte as deeply as you loved Ethan, or if he was simply mourning the version of his life he thought he was supposed to have. He let out a quiet breath before looking back at the register, his brows furrowing at the two cups set in front, but neither had vanilla.
“That’s it? Where’s the uh-” Rafe looked at the employee before looking at the display again. “Sorry, I thought there was one for vanilla.” Rafe watched as your fingers wrapped around the one with bright pink gelato smoothed into it; a shy smile peeked through your lips. His eyes widened just slightly at the fact that you didn’t get vanilla.
“Cat got your tongue, Rafe?” You teased as he watched the way you placed a spoonful into your mouth.
“You didn’t get vanilla.” He said matter-of-factly as you both walked out, slightly gulping at the sight of your lips encased around the plastic, before shaking his thoughts away and rebuking the ideas that’d popped up.
“Well yeah, I figured I should maybe try what I like for once. Not like someone’s here to shove their propaganda about bland flavours into my face.” You shrugged. A sudden surge of energy ignited in you, almost as if a rush of euphoria ran through your nerves as you tasted the tartness of the raspberries, cutting through the sweet cream coating your mouth. For so many years, you’d become accustomed to specific things, knowing that if you’d strayed away, you’d get the same speech with the same carefully measured tones. It was almost freeing in a way to do things your way for once.
“Since you’re on your whole ‘self-discovery’ thing, here,” Rafe held out a spoon while you eyed its earthy green hue cautiously. “Pistachio.”
“No, it’s okay, Rafe, I can just stick to my own-” Rafe let out a quiet scoff, rolling his eyes before nudging the spoon a little closer. “Quit bein' dramatic.”
You hesitated for another second before finally leaning forward, taking a small bite from the spoon he held out. The rich, nutty flavour spread across your tongue, softer than you'd expected, followed by a subtle sweetness that lingered just enough. You lifted your eyebrows, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, you were right. It’s good.”
“I know.” Rafe smugly mused.
“Don’t let it get to your head now, Rafe.” A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks, which surprised him.
The more time he spent with you, the easier it became to forget—if only for a few moments—why the two of you had ended up in Italy together in the first place. Against all logic, he was beginning to enjoy your company, and judging by the grin you were trying very hard to hide, you weren't entirely immune to his either. Maybe it was the warmth of the afternoon sun, or the fact that for once neither of you had spent the last ten minutes thinking about Ethan or Charlotte, but the conversation came easier than it had before.
"So..." you glanced sideways at him as you took another bite of your raspberry gelato. "How many times have you actually been to Italy?"
"First."
"Seriously?"
"Mhm."
“Mister big developer has never been to Italy before his own honeymoon?” You questioned as you dug the spoon further into your cup. Ethan had talked about Rafe’s upbringing, the riches and lavish life that he’d enjoyed and how it was probably the only redeemable quality of his, that he’d be able to keep Charlotte happy and taken care of.
“Had other priorities, and then when I was ready, she’d already talked about it and, I dunno, I thought it would’ve been fun discovering it together,” he admitted. The words left his mouth so absentmindedly that he didn't realize what he'd admitted until a beat later. Together. You’d caught the word, yet still stayed quiet, refusing to acknowledge it for his sake of normality. Selfishly, also because you were enjoying how the day had been panning out so far.
Rafe, on the other hand, had realized that Ethan had definitely talked about him, and suddenly he felt his chest heave with anticipation over the thought of how he was painted in your eyes, if he’d been made out to be someone who he wasn’t, and more so, what you thought of him. He cleared his throat, eyes down as he began, “So, uh- Ethan told you about my past?”
You winced at his tone, hearing the vulnerability in his words that made you regret calling him that name.
“He did. Mostly that your dad practically ran Kildare and you’d taken after him and his business.”
“That all?”
You stayed silent, lying to Rafe that you didn’t know anything past the basics felt wrong when he’d been so honest with you. “He told me a lot of things, Rafe,” you said softly as the guilt started to ruminate within your body. “Ethan wasn’t exactly your biggest fan.”
"Yeah?" he scoffed. "News t'me."
"He said..." You hesitated, suddenly unsure if repeating it would do anything except reopen wounds that were barely beginning to scab over. "He said you were reckless. That you got into fights. That you had a problem with drugs and staying sober, but were your dad’s shadow. That you weren’t all that good for Charlotte and he never understood what she saw in you.” Rafe’s jaw ticked as he looked out over the crowded piazza, watching the pigeons scatter near an ancient stone fountain.
"Said I was a spoiled asshole too?"
"In… other words. Yes."
"Right." For a long moment, he didn't say anything. He simply watched the cobblestones beneath his feet, wondering if he’d spent so long coming off that way or if Charlotte had seen him that way and felt it was enough to tell others her perception of him. "Guess he thought he was a saint before goin’ and screwin' us both over."
"Rafe..." Even if you had something to say, it stayed within you, your lips sealed while your mind ran of all the ways you could’ve started a different conversation without disrupting your trip today.
"Nah." He shook his head once, forcing out a humourless chuckle. "Ethan's a real expert on me, huh? The guy spends five minutes around m’girl, and suddenly he's got me all figured out." Rafe continued with a low, husky voice. He stopped walking, turning his body toward you as he ran a hand over his tightly buzzed hair. "He doesn't know shit about me. None of 'em do."
There was a raw, volatile energy buzzing beneath his skin, the same kind you’d seen whenever someone brought up his father back home. But beneath the anger, you could hear the faint, desperate ache of a kid who had spent his whole life being judged by the shadow he walked in.
"I don't think he nor Charlotte knew you," you admitted quietly, meeting his dark, intense gaze. "But I don't think you're who he made you out to be."
Rafe searched your face for a long moment, his eyes tracking the serious line of your mouth as if he were trying to find the catch, the punchline to a joke he wasn't in on. Then, his shoulders dropped just a fraction, the rigid tension in his posture easing as his frown turned into a tight-lipped line.
“You don’t?”
You shook your head, looking at him with a look in your eyes that made it clear that you’d been honest. “I think…” A small smile tugged at your lips, “I think you’re just kind of an ass.”
“Okay,” He elongated, rolling his eyes with a small, humourless smirk played on his lips. “Thank you, Angel.” Rafe looked over just as you lowered the last spoon of your gelato, seeing a tiny streak of bright pink clung to the corner of your mouth. He reached over before either of you could think further about it.
“You got some uh-” His thumb brushed gently against the corner of your lips, wiping the small smear away in one smooth motion. Except, the action caught you off guard, making your entire body still while the path of his thumb left an invisible mark, as if he’d marked that part of your face that you’d remember for nights to come. The intimacy of it all, while he had done it so nonchalantly, made it almost impossible for you to say anything.
"So messy," he muttered automatically. Without thinking, he absentmindedly brought his thumb toward his mouth. The moment the raspberry touched his tongue, he froze, cheeks reddened, while your eyes widened in astonishment. The world seemed to go unnaturally quiet around you, as you both stared at each other, trying to make sense of what happened.
Neither of you spoke. For Rafe, he’d done it so absentmindedly as if he’d done this multiple times over; it hadn’t even registered as something intimate until your stunned expression reflected it back at him. Suddenly, he was painfully aware of how close the two of you were standing, while you couldn't stop wondering why such a small, thoughtless gesture had left your pulse racing.
You cleared your throat first, breaking the silence to avoid making the rest of the day awkward. “So… was it good?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rafe rubbed the back of his neck, finally looking away. "Not bad. Good choice, angel."
"Great." You nodded a little too quickly. "Good to know." An awkward silence settled between you as you started walking again, both pretending nothing had happened, despite being painfully aware of each other for the rest of the walk to the fountain.
The magazines and pictures of the Trevi Fountain did no justice to how breathtaking it was to be looking at it with your own eyes. The thunderous roar of cascading water could be heard before the fountain came into view, echoing through the narrow cobblestone alleyways like a distant waterfall. As you finally turned the corner into the piazza, the Trevi Fountain opened up before you, a sprawling, majestic wall of blinding white travertine marble that looked almost surreal against the stark blue of the afternoon sky. The water was a vibrant, crystal turquoise, churning and rushing over meticulously sculpted stone gods, throwing a fine, cool mist into the heavy air that settled like dew against your flushed skin.
It was beautiful, even if it was packed with a sea of tourists all vying for a square inch of stone to throw their hopes into the water. You walked up to the lower stone barrier, the sheer scale of the monument making you feel incredibly small as you watched the coins catch the sunlight before disappearing beneath the turquoise surface. As you saw them shimmer, it instantly took you back.
“Honey, you could make any wish you want at Trevi Fountain,” your mother cooed as she brushed your hair. Even as a teenager, you’d found comfort as she held the ends with care, even if it was more for your mother not to feel the pain of you getting older.
“Any?” You looked up at her, hope in your eyes as you met hers. “I didn’t think you were one for superstitions.”
“I’m not, until I threw a coin wishing for a baby girl. And ten months later, you were in my arms.”
“Are we sure it wasn’t-”
“Trust me, honey,” she interrupted, though her stern tone was light, “that fountain does wonders.”
“What would I even wish for?” Skepticism heavy in your voice as you thought of what you possibly could need. You had your family, the boyfriend of your dreams who made you feel loved, and a comfortable lifestyle.
“Well, they always say if you throw one coin, you’ll come back to Rome. Two to fall in love, and three to get married.” She squeezed your shoulders, smiling at you as you both looked into the mirror. “But I’m sure you’ll know what to wish for when the time comes.”
Well, now the time came, and it was abundantly clear that you still had no idea what to wish for.
Rafe leaned his forearms against the smooth stone railing, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair as his now-darkened blue eyes tracked the ripples in the pool. He felt entirely out of place amidst the wishing families and starry-eyed couples, his jaw set in the familiar, rigid line that you’d practically memorized. As he looked at the coins glimmering in the light, all that could come to mind was how ironic it’d be that if he could make a wish for every single thing in his life, he’d fill the fountain with enough for them to make a living. Yet, the biggest one on his mind was how he could get things to change so that he could stop living under the scrutiny of his father, to make himself appear like how he once was.
As he scanned the area, he finally caught a glimpse of her blonde hair in the crowd, as her body was enveloped by his arms. They’d looked so enamoured by each other, it was enough to make Rafe’s blood boil.
“Did you know?” Rafe started, his gravelly voice barely cutting through the crashing weight of the water. He didn't look at you, keeping his gaze fixed on the statue of Oceanus. It took you by surprise, the way he’d suddenly gotten quiet upon the question compared to how confident Rafe usually was.
“What?”
“Did you know they were together? Before… all of this. Did you have any idea they were doing this behind our backs?" The sudden bluntness of the question made your chest tighten, the sweet taste of the raspberry gelato turning somewhat sour in your throat. For almost a few hours, you’d completely forgotten why you were here in the first place, how you should’ve been finishing the details to your wedding. Following Rafe’s line of vision, you’d spotted Ethan and Charlotte, making your heart pang when you saw him give the same expression he’d once given you.
"No," you said softly, shaking your head. "Not for sure. But... I guess I had my suspicions here and there since high school. I just never thought more of it."
Rafe’s head snapped toward you, his brows furrowing in immediate confusion as he fully turned his body to face you. "You went to school with 'em? I thought Ethan said you guys met in college, that you were just some normal girl from the suburbs."
“I lived in the nicer part of the suburbs, yeah,” you corrected, a faint, bittersweet smile touching your lips as you recalled how you’d felt stuck between feeling more privileged than others but not as much as your classmates were. “We were upper-middle class, so they sent me to the same private school as Ethan and Charlotte. Ethan was in my homeroom, and Charlotte was always... Charlotte. Just floating in a completely different social orbit."
Rafe let out a low, rough breath, his fingers tapping an agitated rhythm against the stone railing. He swallowed hard, his mind clearly racing as he tried to piece together the timeline. "If you suspected something was off between them since back then, why the hell did you stay? Why would you let him drag you along for years if you felt like he wasn’t loyal to you?"
His tone was a mix of frustration and genuine, unscripted curiosity. To Rafe, a man built on survival instincts and aggressive control, staying in a situation where you were losing seemed entirely baffling. Your fingers gripped the edge of the stone ledge until your knuckles turned white, the roaring sound of the fountain suddenly sounding like background static compared to the sudden ache in your heart.
“Because my parents passed away during our senior year and he’s all I had left of them,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the sudden weight of the memory.
“Shit,” Rafe softly murmured your name, guilt written all over his face. “I had no idea.”
“No, it’s fine. It happened right before graduation, but everything changed so quickly. I lost everything, my parents, our routine. It was like it all evaporated, and I was the last thing remaining, just completely alone. I haven’t entered the house since I left for college.” You finally turned your eyes to meet his, seeing the way his entire posture froze.
"Except for Ethan," you continued, a stray tear threatening to spill over your lashes as you forced yourself to stay steady. "He’d met my parents, spent weekends at our cottage with us, it was like he was part of the family. He was there through the worst of it. He held my hand at the funeral. He helped me pack up their things. He was the only person left alive who actually knew them, Rafe. The only one who remembered what my life looked like when they were still in it. If I left Ethan, it’d mean letting go of the very last piece of my parents I had left in this world. I thought if I lost him, I’d lose them completely."
“Jesus Christ, angel,” Rafe exhaled, feeling something in his chest twist painfully. “I’m so sorry. What a fuckin’ prick.” He looked at you for a long moment, the usual smart remark sitting uselessly on the tip of his tongue before it dissolved completely.
You let out a watery laugh, hastily wiping beneath your eyes before the tears had a chance to fall. "It's okay."
"No." Rafe shook his head once, jaw tightening. "No, it ain't." His cerulean eyes drifted back toward Ethan, who was smiling at Charlotte like he'd never spent eleven years building a life with someone else.
"He lets you bury your parents with him," Rafe muttered, more to himself than to you. "Then turns around and does... that?"
His lip curled in disgust. "What kinda man does that?" You followed his gaze, your own heart sinking despite yourself. "I don't know."
He hands you a coin before holding one of his own. “Make a wish, angel.”
“What?”
“Just make one, one that’ll be worthwhile.” He urged, before plopping another coin into your palm. “Wait, actually, make two; I need this for something else.”
“Rafe, what are you going on about?” You glanced at the coin in his hand and then to his face, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me, angel.”
You closed your eyes, wishing for something you hadn’t dared to voice out loud in years. You wished for a clean slate, one that the phantom weight of Ethan had put on your shoulders for the past eleven years would finally stop suffocating you, that you could finally figure out who you were meant to be, the you that your parents would love to see. Underneath that, a smaller, quieter wish slipped through, one that you knew you shouldn’t have thought of, but did anyway.
With a soft plunk, you tossed the first coin over your shoulder, before tossing over the second one into the turquoise water, opening your eyes just in time to see Rafe’s fingers tighten around his own.
"Alright, your turn," you murmured, watching him closely. "What are you wishing for?"
Rafe let out a low, dry chuckle that sounded rough against the thundering roar of the fountain. "I don't waste my breath on wishes, angel. None of that superstitious shit for me, y’know? I take what I want." He flipped the heavy euro coin in the air, catching it with a practiced ease before his eyes darted past your shoulder, locking onto something in the distance. “Just like this.”
Rafe’s knuckles whitened as his fingers wrapped around the heavy euro coin, not hesitating with the whiplash snap of his wrist when he hurled the metal directly through the mist.
Crack.
The coin flew, striking Ethan squarely in the side of his neck, causing him to let out a sharp yelp, his hand flying to his throat as his face twisted in immediate pain. He spun around, wildly scanning the crowded steps of the piazza to see who the hell had hit him. Almost instantly, an older tourist standing just a few feet away from you pointed a thick finger directly in Rafe’s direction, calling out to Ethan to show him where the projectile had come from.
“Oh fuck—”
“Oh my god, Rafe, he’s looking right at—” Before the warning could fully leave your lips, Rafe’s hand shot out. His fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck, his grip firm and desperate as he yanked your body flush against his chest. He didn't give you a second to think, going to tilt your head up and slamming his mouth onto yours.
Your breath hitched, your hands instantly coming up to press against his shoulders as your brain short-circuited. The crashing water of the fountain along with the copious amount of chatter around you had dissolved into thin air, and suddenly, you didn’t care where you were. The second your lips parted in shock, the entire nature of the kiss shifted.
Rafe deepened it with a bruising, desperate intensity that felt like a match catching fire in a dry forest. It was heavier, more passionate than anything you had ever experienced in your life. His other hand slid down to wrap tightly around your waist, pulling you so close you could feel the erratic, violent thud of his heart against your ribs. He could taste the raspberry that was still lingering on your tongue, his mouth moving against yours with a raw, possessive hunger that made your knees turn completely to water. Rafe was obsessed with how your lips moved effortlessly with his, like waves that swayed with each other effortlessly, despite the crashing environments around them.
You, on the other hand, hated the whole kiss because it was the best kiss you’d ever had, one that didn’t feel awkward. You found yourself chasing for more, chasing the feeling of someone who’d poured themself into you as if they had nowhere else to be. The way he had a faint taste of pistachio and tobacco was addictive, a combination that would’ve had you thinking otherwise not too long ago.
Against your closed eyelids, the illusion fractured. Rafe had opened his eyes. Through the thick fringe of your lashes, your own eyes fluttered open, and the breath died in your throat. He wasn't looking at you. His dark, intense gaze was burning right past your shoulder, his pupils scanning the crowd over your head to check if Ethan and Charlotte were still watching the performance.
A sudden, icy wave of humiliation flooded your veins, cutting straight through the heat in your chest. It’s just a cover up. He’s just using me to hide from them. You naturally assumed right then and there that the kiss meant absolutely nothing to him. It was just another calculation that he’d taken out of his dad's playbook, that’d had you regretting how you’d felt seconds earlier.
Except, there was a war of emotions raging inside Rafe’s head. He had only intended to look for a split second to ensure their cover was safe. He saw Ethan look away, entirely oblivious, but when Rafe’s eyes drifted back down to your face, his brain completely stalled. The safety window had passed, and he knew they were no longer looking. He knew he should pull away, but his body absolutely refused to cooperate.
Rafe kept kissing you. For several heavy, agonizing beats, he stayed entirely buried in the warmth of your mouth, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your jaw as he completely lost his grip on reality, and you were all he had to hold onto. He was drowning in the feel of you, completely caught up in a desperate, unscripted urge to erase every single trace of Ethan from your skin. To show how much you’d missed out on while you were being held back by Ethan.
When Rafe finally pulled back, his breathing was shallow, his lips flushed a dark, bruised red. A rare, unreadable vulnerability flashed in his eyes before he quickly masked it, his jaw tightening as he internally kicked himself for letting his guard down like a total idiot. Except, you’d suddenly become stiff and reserved, stepping back while your face paled despite the heat.
You threw up your guard around your heart, clearing your throat before motioning towards the exit, “We should head back.” Without waiting on Rafe’s reply, you turned on your heel and began walking back toward the alleyway, leaving him standing alone by the water as he watched the linen around your waist swish around your legs. The corner of his lip raised as his eyes zeroed in on you, completely unable to understand where your sudden change in attitude appeared from.
The steam from the shower had long since dissipated, leaving the bathroom heavy with damp heat and the sharp, clean scent of his hotel cologne. Rafe leaned both palms heavily against the edge of the marble sink, his head hung low between his shoulders as water dripped from his buzzed hair onto the porcelain basin.
He stared at his own reflection in the fogged mirror, his chest heaving under a tight, frustrated breath. He couldn't shake the feeling of you against him, like the way your hands gripped his shoulders that felt like you’d branded your handprints onto them permanently. The kiss felt so natural to him; he could barely remember how he’d kissed Charlotte all those times before, like you’d wiped every memory of their kisses out of his mind with every movement of your lips. It was driving him absolutely insane.
How the hell did Ethan do it? Rafe thought, his jaw clenching until his teeth ached. How did someone who was spineless, pathetic even, spend eleven years waking up next to you, holding your hand, and sharing a life with you, only to throw it all away over a change of mind? Rafe had spent years trying to decode Charlotte, trying to twist himself into the perfect, refined version of a husband she wanted, and she’d still treated him like an obligation. But you—you were real. You were sharp, and defensive, and entirely unfiltered when you actually let yourself speak.
"Get it together, Rafe," he muttered to the empty room, slamming a fist lightly against the marble. He vowed right then and there to lock it down. He wasn't going to feel anything about this situation. He couldn't afford to when he’d just gotten his heart broken two months ago, when he’d lost the foundation he’d invested so much time in building. This was a business transaction, a petty game of chess to ruin their exes, and letting himself get attached to Ethan’s old girl was a shortcut to losing his mind completely.
Besides, whatever progress he thought they’d made today had completely vanished the second the kiss ended. You’d spent the entire ride back to the villa acting like a stranger, your body stiff, your answers reduced to icy, polite monosyllables that made his blood boil. He hated the silence. He hated that he couldn't read the sudden shift in your attitude, and he hated even more that it bothered him.
Rafe grabbed a towel, drying his face roughly before throwing it over his shoulder. He turned the brass handle and stepped out into the bedroom. The space was dark, illuminated only by the pale, silver moonlight cutting through the open terrace doors. Rafe stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes immediately dropping to the small, stiff velvet couch in the corner of the room.
There you were, curled tightly into a ball, your knees tucked up to your chest under a thin linen blanket you’d dragged from the wardrobe. You looked impossibly small on the narrow sofa, your shoulders tense even in sleep, a physical manifestation of the guard you’d thrown up around your heart.
Rafe’s initial instinct was to just leave you there. Fine, he thought, a bitter, defensive edge flaring in his chest. If she wants to be stubborn and freeze on a stupid couch, let her. He took a step toward his side of the massive, empty king bed, ready to climb in and ignore you.
But as his eyes lingered on your huddled form, the irritation in his stomach dissolved into a heavy, uncharacteristic ache. He remembered what you’d said at the fountain. He remembered the raw, quiet grief in your voice when you talked about losing your parents, about how Ethan was the last piece of them you had left. You’d been through enough wreckage, and the thought of you sleeping on a hard couch in a foreign country because of a stunt he pulled made him feel incredibly sick.
Letting out a low, defeated sigh, Rafe crossed the cool terracotta tiles with quiet, deliberate steps. He stopped beside the couch, looking down at your face, relaxed slightly in sleep but still bearing the faint trace of the day's exhaustion.
Carefully, as if he were handling something incredibly fragile, Rafe slid one large arm beneath your shoulders and the other under the crook of your knees. He lifted you up bridal style in one smooth, effortless motion.
Your head instinctively rolled inward, your face burying into the crook of his neck as a soft, sleepy sigh escaped your lips. The sudden warmth of your breath against his bare skin made Rafe’s heart do a violent, erratic thud against his ribs. He froze for a second, holding his breath, terrified he’d wake you and bring back the icy glare from the fountain. But you stayed under, your fingers lightly clutching at the fabric of his shirt.
He walked over to the bed and gently laid you down onto the crisp, white sheets. You immediately uncurled, sinking into the luxury mattress with a contented murmur. Rafe reached down, grabbing the heavy duvet, and carefully pulled it up over your shoulders, tucking you in until you were completely safe from the cool night breeze rolling off the Mediterranean.
For a long moment, Rafe just stood there, leaning over your side of the bed. His eyes traced the soft lines of your face in the moonlight, a rare, completely unmasked tenderness settling over his features. Slowly, he walked around to his side of the bed, sliding under the covers while keeping a respectful distance between your bodies. He turned his head on the pillow, looking at your silhouette in the dark.
"Goodnight, angel," he whispered, his rough voice barely a breath in the quiet room, before finally closing his eyes.
