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How to get the girl

The original series can be found here!

Synopsis: the Euro Trip told through Rafe Cameron’s perspective.

Word count: a little more than 20k because I’m insufferable 🫠

a/n: a cherished project !!! very very excited to share this one. That’s all 🤗 (ps. i apologise for any grammatical errors and typos, I edited this a million times over but with how long it is, I’m sure some things slipped through the cracks!)

Last hole of nine, and Rafe Cameron was saved by the bell. His harmless bet with Noah — loser buys winner beers for the rest of summer break — was a single swing away from burning a gaping hole in his wallet, and it was perhaps his acute awareness of this fact that led to the eager way he clawed at his back-pocket. A furtive glance in his best friend’s direction, fingers scrambling to unlock his phone, and Rafe Cameron found himself thinking — hoping, praying, that his saving grace was displayed within his recent notifications. His eyes darted over the screen as he threw his club onto the freshly cut green, free hand tugging at the bill of his backwards cap distractedly.

Around him — the makings of a cruel summer. Balmy breeze on his skin, sunshine held within blue irises, and the promise of all of his Figure Eight lasts before the commencement of college. He scanned over his notifications once, twice, three times, just to be certain. Because the last text he had received held a Figure Eight first, not a last — an opportunity that couldn’t possibly be real; he must have imagined it, somehow. Too good to be true, and yet, there it fucking was. His breath hitched, eyes widening hopefully, and there was an undercurrent of something else there — wonderful fate, because why else had he not made concrete plans for his summer break?

Topper: what are u doing over break?

Rafe Cameron was well-acquainted with Topper Thornton, having spent the last two years playing football alongside him. The boy had a friendly enough disposition, and he wasn’t half-bad as a wide receiver, either. Though Rafe thought privately that in amongst all of his amicable qualities, his relation to you was his greatest one.

The same you that he had fallen head-over-heels for in freshman year — endearingly stubborn, stupidly beautiful, fresh-faced, doe-eyed you. He heard Taylor Swift lyrics in the air every time you were near, felt your lavender shampoo like something syrupy sweet in his veins. Strength and conviction and the way you tended to see right through him, and Rafe Cameron was fairly certain you held fate within your irises. Constellations that felt like bullet after bullet to his chest, like something wonderful and golden and real — as though you and him were the only thing that made sense.

Rafe: whos asking

The answer probably wasn’t you; you were open about your dislike for him, seldom entertained the tongue-in-cheek comments that he teased you with. And it wasn’t as though this revelation was anything new; it was how it always had been between the two of you. But apparently, yearning didn’t mix well with the overconfidence he seemed to exude, because Rafe was a douchebag, sure, but he was also hopelessly in love. And he was working on his blasé behaviour, he swore it; working on it, and on deserving you, and on making his mother proud, too.

So — alright, the answer probably, definitely, wasn’t you, but that didn’t stop him hoping to God that it was. It didn’t stop the way his heartbeat quickened at the thought, nor the adrenaline in his veins, the anticipatory furrow to his brow.

Topper: y/n…

Your name, and Rafe felt a wonderful warmth spread through his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, and his thoughts appeared to fragment. It was like a highlight reel of how he had come to define love; your soft skin, your gentle eyes, the way you tried not to smile when he was around.

Rafe: im listening

Topper: me, kelce and her had a euro trip planned for the summer. kelce can’t go anymore, so we have a spare ticket

A slew of curses fell from Rafe’s lips then, breathy and disbelieving, and he faltered, meeting Noah’s gaze with a hopeful expression.

Noah cocked his head to one side curiously, surveying Rafe’s features with a quirk of his brow. “What is it?”

It was a rhetorical question, really — his best friend knew true love like the back of his hand.

“Dude,” a pause, a slow shake of his head. Rafe tugged his backwards cap off distractedly, raking his fingers through his hair. “I — look.”

He thrust his phone in Noah’s direction, the beat of his heart growing increasingly trepidatious. Tongue-tied, and he wasn’t sure he had the courage to read out the text — if it was something he had managed to dream up (a concoction of heat-stroke and pure, honest-to-God love), he wanted to remain in its throes for as long as humanly possible.

Noah’s eyes scanned over the message thread with care, the furrow in his brow growing increasingly skeptical. There was zero way you had willingly agreed to this — you were set in your ways, adamant about your disapproval of Rafe’s antics.

And it wasn’t as though Noah didn’t appreciate your point of view — he knew better than anyone how inappropriate Rafe’s behaviour could be around you. But understanding as he was, he had a protective streak, too, and if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Rafe’s heart was in the right place. He was a cocky, insufferable douchebag, sure, but the love he felt for you was genuine and true. It left him vulnerable to heartbreak, inevitably so, and Noah had a funny feeling that was the only way this trip was going to go.

“This seems,” he gesticulated awkwardly, taking a pause to gather his thoughts, “uh, I don’t know. Do you really think Y/n would agree to it?”

“I mean,” Rafe frowned, his tone growing a little defensive, “we did dance together at prom —”

“She went with Topper,” Noah interrupted, cutting Rafe a surreptitious look. “Cameron, c’mon. What if this is a set-up?”

“By Thornton?” Rafe questioned, cocking an eyebrow at the claim. “What the fuck would he gain from that?”

Noah shrugged helplessly, combing his fingers through his hair. “No fucking clue. But I just don’t know if —” he took another pause, lowering his voice to a gentler lilt, “— if Y/n’s… ready to say yes to something like this.”

Rafe faltered. He let out a long, drawn-out breath, willing his restless mind to still. He knew Noah was right (your resolve was his favourite thing about you), but just this once, Rafe wanted to ignore it. He wanted to be selfish — wanted to want something he shouldn’t.

But that wasn’t Rafe; not the Rafael he was with you, anyway. Because shit — his feelings for you drove him insane. They held magnetic, all-consuming love, the kind that prompted selfless acts and choosing your happiness over his.

Rafe: no way y/n would agree to me coming

Topper: we can figure that out later

Rafe’s eyes narrowed a little as he read over the text, his apprehension growing by the minute. It felt hurried, almost terse — as though the decision to replace Kelce with Rafe had been made before first consulting you. His heart dropped at the thought, panic overwhelming his senses. Topper wouldn’t dare do that, would he? The last thing Rafe wanted to do was upset you. He would sooner die than make a decision that could hurt you. Bury himself six feet under if it meant you remained above ground. And he placed emphasis on the six feet under — he would do anything before taking your happiness out of the equation. Did Topper understand that? Did he care?

Perhaps he must have noted Rafe’s hesitance, because in the beat that passed, he sent through another text.

Topper: anyway, we’ll be together all the time. no way anyone can dislike someone that long, right?

And in the technical sense — it was true. A secret part of Rafe was sure you didn’t really dislike him, not as much as you wanted to. You couldn’t. He wasn’t certain he could explain why he was so sure of it, but he was, and perhaps that was what prompted his next text message.

Rafe: when do we leave ?

At his side, Noah let out a disappointed sigh. There was a sheepish look in Rafe’s eye, but the timbre of his voice never faltered. “You don’t get it,” he said, almost matter-of-factly.

“You’re digging yourself a fucking grave,” Noah muttered in response. “And I’m not going to be in Europe to pull you out.”

—

Ward Cameron didn’t attend his son’s high-school graduation.

He was on an obligatory business trip in the Bahamas, one that he insisted he absolutely had to attend. As though he wasn’t the one in charge; couldn’t just as easily move the dates around to remain in Kildare. He definitely could do so without blinking an eye, though perhaps he scheduled it the way he did for a reason. Because if he was on another island, he would remain a safe distance away from soft, baby blues. From memories he had long since buried, and other things that reminded him of his youth. Like fresh peonies and true love and danger, and Lillian Dumont dressed in a cap and gown, too.

“Ward!” Lillian exclaimed excitedly, an arms length away when she pulled him into a tight hug. His graduation attire was far more tattered than hers, catching reproachful glares as the Kildare Academy graduating class dispersed. “How are you here right now?”

Ward shrugged easily, a devious smile on his lips. “Left mine early. Have something important to say.”

He tugged Lillian away from the crowd and into a hidden corner of the Academy; time was of the essence — he hadn’t escaped his high-school graduation for just anything.

“What?” She asked curiously, searching his features in earnest.

The box in his back-pocket held all of his life savings and then some. He wasn’t sure he had anything else figured out. He wasn’t sure he needed to — not with Lillian soon-to-be-Cameron around.

Rafe Cameron would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a dreadful ache in his absence.

And don’t get him wrong, Rose was absolutely wonderful; she had cheered him across the stage with a blushing bouquet and wide smile, and Rafe was sure that hiring a professional photographer had been her idea. But she didn’t know all of him the way his father did; he held Lillian’s gaze within his own, and that in itself heightened the loss Rafe felt at his non-attendance.

Things used to be so different before she had passed away, and he often found himself reminiscing about his old life with a poignant sense of detachment. As though those memories didn’t belong to him, as though they defined an entirely different Rafael.

When Rafe Cameron was dejected, he didn’t feel like himself. He wasn’t this guy, the one who dwelled on his own trauma and guilt. He was loud and blithe and carefree to a fault, and it was his connection to you that managed to bring those qualities back out. Because though there was cement in his stomach and shackles tightening at his chest, they gave way almost too easily when you gave your valedictorian speech near the end of the ceremony.

And — once. You met his eye in the crowd exactly once. It wasn’t much at all, but it was enough to oust the heavy lump in Rafe’s throat. You were saying something sweet about how capable the graduating class was, but in that very moment, it felt as though your words were meant only for him.

“And I know that we’re a summer away from going our separate ways,” you continued, wearing a flowing gown and a loose cap that covered looser tresses. Your lips looked soft, your eyes impossibly bright, and your glowing skin reminded Rafe that his mother had once been this young. “But I have a funny feeling that we’ll return to the Banks when all’s said and done.”

—

“Sweetheart,” Rafe greeted with a grin, taking his time dragging his eyes over your figure. You hadn’t bothered changing out of your graduation dress, he noted, and the soft lilac looked ethereal cascading down your curves. He absently loosened his tie, and the fabric of your dress creased as you folded your arms across your chest. “You look —”

“Not in the mood,” you interrupted curtly, attempting to sidle past him to minimal avail.

Rafe faltered at the harsh register of your tone, brow furrowing as he shifted his gaze toward Topper and Kelce. Standing on either side of you, they looked more than a little sheepish, and Rafe realised that they must not have told you yet. You were set to leave tomorrow, and were still none the wiser to the change in plan. Unbelievable. You couldn’t have picked worse best friends. If you and him were together (and his chest thrummed then, soft and anticipatory as though the ‘if’ should have actually been a ‘when’), he wouldn’t dream of throwing you in the deep end like this. If you and him were together —

“Rafael,” you repeated with a frown, bringing him out of his reverie. “What are you doing?”

In the midst of his daze, you must have attempted to side-step his figure. His hand held your wrist against his chest, and it was with a start that he realised he had stopped you without apprehending it. Your skin was unbelievably soft. Rafe’s thoughts fragmented as the pad of his thumb brushed over your palm.

“You look like you belong,” he pulled you a little closer, eyes trained on the angle of your throat as you swallowed, “right here.”

The ease of his admission left you momentarily disarmed, and Rafe took the opportunity to straighten and send Topper a reproachful glance.

“There’s one more thing,” he added carefully, using his free hand to give his shirt collar a nervous tug. “So, about tomorr—”

Topper’s pointed cough behind you forced a falter, and Rafe cocked his head to one side, silently daring the boy to stop him.

“Cameron,” he let out an awkward laugh, eyes wide and pleading where they met Rafe’s. “Aren’t you going to let us in?”

Rafe scanned Topper’s features with a knitted brow, allowing a pause before letting out a defeated huff.

“Yeah, of course,” he responded after a beat, loosening his clasp on your wrist to usher Kelce and Topper forward. “Come on in.”

You shivered at the loss of contact, taking a step back to sidle into the space between your best friends. Topper was quick to throw an arm around your shoulder, head bowed as he murmured something sweet in your ear. There rose a heat in your cheeks, and it brought a funny twang to Rafe’s heartstrings. It felt like cruel, ugly jealousy, the kind that didn’t settle quite right in his chest. And it wasn’t as though he could do anything about it — you weren’t his (yet), and you had a soft smile on your lips that he would sooner die than come to ruin. Rafe Cameron was a master at letting you go. Perhaps that was why you were equally skilled at finding your way back home.

“You coming?”

You turned your head to where he still stood near the doorway — your eyes were keenly trained on Kelce, so why did it feel as though the sentiment was for him?

“Yeah,” Kelce nodded quickly, hurriedly, eagerly — go, his eyes appeared to say, Topper, please, take her away. “I just need to speak to Cameron about something.”

Your brow knitted at the revelation, forehead creasing in a way that had Rafe’s thumb itching to smooth it out. Scanning his features carefully, you nodded a response in the beat that passed, allowing Topper to whisk you away just as Rafe rounded on Kelce’s figure.

“C’mon,” Rafe accused, raising an eyebrow at Kelce’s sheepish features. “When the fuck were you planning on telling her?”

“Hey,” Kelce responded defensively, raising his arms in surrender. “Not technically my prerogative. Let the record show that I still think this is a terrible fucking idea.”

“But,” he added, wincing preemptively, “it’s happening. And I do think she deserves to hear about it from us, not you.”

“Then fucking tell her,” Rafe urged, fixing Kelce with a punishing glare. “Smith, we’re leaving tomorrow —”

“I know, I know,” Kelce sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “We will, alright? In a bit. Together.”

They were his parting words, and he managed to push past Rafe’s figure with just enough conviction to find something stronger than sparkling water. He did so just as you stumbled across a box of white-claws in the fridge (clearly labelled: for Y/n, because of course they were — you were at Tanny fucking Hill). So Rafe was alone, again. He was alone, he was antsy, and he needed to find his best friend.

“There you are!” Noah greeted, tipping back his beer before dapping Rafe up. “I was just telling Rose, here,” he cocked a brow, corners of his mouth twitching as he jerked a thumb toward Rose’s figure, “about how fucking bored I’m going to be all summer.”

“Ah,” Rose nodded apologetically, giving Noah’s shoulder an amiable pat. “Well, you’re always welcome to come to Tannyhill, Noah, even when Rafe isn’t around. I’m sure we can find something for you to do.”

“Really?” Noah questioned, making a show of displaying his gratitude. “You’re the best Rose, seriously.”

Rose winked, ever so slight, ruffling his hair playfully before taking her leave. “Have fun tonight, you two! And congratulations again on graduating!”

Noah waited until she was out of sight to flash Rafe a roguish grin, ready to goad him relentlessly until the pained expression on his features registered.

“What?” Noah asked, his smile faltering.

“She doesn’t know,” Rafe sighed, combing his fingers through his hair. “We’re leaving tomorrow, and she doesn’t even fucking know.”

Noah bit back the ‘I told you so’ on his tongue, resigned instead to casting Rafe an apologetic glance. “Shit.”

“I mean — they’ll definitely tell her, they promised they would,” Rafe added in a hurry, sure he knew exactly what Noah was thinking. “But fuck — what if this was a mistake?”

There was a long pause then, one that would come to define this story. There were two routes Noah’s response could take, and years later, Rafe Cameron would still come to wonder — would his life be any different, had his best friend taken the other?

“It’s not,” Noah announced after a beat, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s like all that fate crap you go on about. What are the chances that Kelce can’t go, and you’re the first fucking person Thornton texts? No way. This isn’t a mistake. If it was, he wouldn’t have asked you in the first place.”

—

A champagne flute in your hand and Dom Perignon on your lips, and for a moment, Rafe thought, shit. He thought, this has to be illegal, and also, that there was no way you were real. Because how could one person look this beautiful walking away from him?

Somehow, you had agreed to his accompaniment on the Euro Trip, and he wasn’t quite sure he could believe his own luck. His chest bloomed with a wonderful warmth, mind gratified by the mere thought, and he had Topper and Kelce to thank, alongside the moon and the stars. Oh, and also you. He had you to thank — you, you, you.

He stumbled forward just as you stepped out of the kitchen, managing to catch you up as you headed into the living room.

“Sweetheart,” he called easily, absently licking his bottom lip. An uninterrupted month in your presence — loose dresses and soft eyes and warm skin like sunshine, and Rafe Cameron felt like he had won the fucking lottery, for once in his life.

“What do you want now?” you scowled, rounding on him with flushed cheeks and a furrowed brow.

“To thank you,” he murmured, brushing his thumb against the contour of your cheek. He was obsessed with the way your lashes fluttered as it registered, obsessed with the way you leaned into the touch. Obsessed with you — but hey, what else was new? He had known that fact since before he had understood love. “For giving me a chance.”

“I haven’t,” you swallowed, using all of your conviction to take a step backward, “not yet.”

And it was the ‘not yet’ that gained permanence in the back of his head — the ‘not yet’ that he fixated on as the graduation party came to an end. When he found you again, it was after he had spoken with Noah about his plan. The prospect of visiting his mother’s grave had left him more than a little sentimental, and he needed a moment alone to gather his composure.

Perhaps that was why he stumbled across your figure — he may have thought that he needed a moment alone, but it was the exact opposite that would provide him with the peace he so craved. Because there you were as he turned the corner, like fate, and when he guided you to his room, there was a wonderful solidarity in the way your gaze gravitated toward that one, photo frame. The one that held Lillian Cameron’s gaze, that had your features softening in a way that made Rafe melt, just a little.

You said she was beautiful, and it was the only truth that mattered. Rafe agreed, wholeheartedly, and then he picked the photo up and held it. He felt as though he was seeing it with fresh eyes, and he wondered why he hadn’t shown you a picture of her before this. She was beautiful, just like you. Kind, just like you. Soft spoken and tender-hearted and all his, just like you. He wished you could have known her. Why hadn’t he introduced you sooner?

It was the same thing he wondered the very next morning, placing fresh peonies at Lillian’s grave before shoving his hands in his front pockets.

“I’m heading to Europe today, mom,” he said softly, crouching down before slowly exhaling, “and I keep thinking… the last time I was in France, you were there with me.”

“We aren’t going to Nice or anything,” he added quickly, combing his fingers through his hair, “so I can’t say hi to Aunt Clem or Uncle Gabe, but mom — we’re going to fucking Paris. Like, the city of love, Paris.”

There was a wistful smile on Rafe’s lips, unshed tears swallowed down before continuing. “And by we, I mean Y/n. Yeah, the very same. Her and her friend Topper, and me — like, how the fuck did that happen?”

Taking a pause, Rafe shook his head slowly, glancing down at the large bouquet before picking out a single peony from within it. He straightened with the flower held against his chest, gazing heavenward a moment before taking in a deep breath.

“Anyway,” he said finally, met with an encouraging smile when he looked back toward Noah, “it means I won’t be able to visit for a while.”

“But don’t worry!” Noah grinned, throwing his arm over Rafe’s shoulder as he stepped into his side, “I’ll drop flowers off on his behalf, Lil.”

He had called her Lil since he was a fresh-faced, seven year old. There was something Rafe Cameron loved about the constancy of the address.

Nodding his reiteration, he let out a slow breath, requiring another beat before following Noah back to his parked Jeep. The drive was reasonably quiet, the way it always was after visits, broken intermittently by the static of morning radio and the ocean breeze in the distance.

Noah pulled into the airport carpark just as Rafe’s phone dinged with a ‘where are you?’ text, helping him gather his things and pile it on to a luggage trolley. When they entered the large building, Rafe’s eyes found your figure first — oversized hoodie and tousled tresses, nothing special, but he still found himself thinking it ridiculous that you looked this fucking beautiful.

“Good morning,” Rafe greeted once within earshot, bright-eyed gaze meeting yours a moment. He broke off the stalk and threw it into the nearest bin, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear before placing the pink peony within them. “This is for you.”

Your eyes widened at his touch, fingers flying to the petals on instinct. “Seriously?”

Rafe shrugged easily, grinning when you didn’t remove it from its spot. “You’re beautiful. Peonies are beautiful —”

“Rafael,” you interrupted sternly, swallowing your hitched breath, “I — please focus.”

“Y/n,” Rafe teased, bumping your chin affectionately, “you look cute when you’re being bossy, y’know that?”

You rolled your eyes in response, focussing all of your attention on Noah (not on the way your traitorous cheeks were heating up).

“Noah, hey,” you smiled politely, and fleetingly, Rafe thought — you could be best friends if you wanted to be. Noah was just Rafe minus the overconfidence and relentless pining, so you would really like him, he decided, his personality was everything. And he was sweet to you, always kind. Perhaps when you and him were together, he could make that friendship happen, somehow.

“Y/n,” Noah grinned, sending you a playful wink. “Excited for the worst month of your life?”

You breathed an easy laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. “I sure hope so.”

“Hey,” Topper lilted, and when he tugged you into his side, Rafe didn’t miss the way your eyes widened at his proximity. “I’ll be there too —”

“And?” You teased, crinkling your nose playfully. “If anything, that makes it even worse —”

“Take it back,” Topper gasped, and it was almost as though he was enjoying this — the effect he had on you, and Rafe fucking hated it. “Take it back, or I swear to god —”

Rafe coughed. His calloused palm found the back of his neck, ghosting over the blonde locks kissing the skin there.

“Anyway,” he said then, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Should we get in line?”

You nodded in response, reaching down to pick up a bag Rafe had already placed on his own trolley.

“I can carry my own bags, Rafael,” you huffed, making to retrieve your suitcase just as he caught your hand.

“And I can carry you,” he shrugged easily, thumb brushing over the pulse point on your wrist, “but that doesn’t mean I should.”

He brought your knuckle to his lips just as your eyes widened, heartbeat in his throat and crazy, stupid love in his chest. “Right?”

“Rafe —” you warned, swallowing slightly.

“Hey,” he murmured, ignoring you. “Reckon I can sit beside you on this twelve hour flight?”

And you might have said no, but fate tended to work in funny ways. Because when you insisted on the aisle seat, when a flight attendant spilled a drink on your lap, when Rafe offered up his hoodie and caught your slight, wistful stare, everything appeared to culminate, and it felt as though this had always been the plan.

“Here,” Rafe offered, pointing between you and Topper before sending the latter a meaningful glance, “swap with Top.”

“What?” Topper questioned blearily, still a little disoriented from his nap. “Why?”

You hesitated a moment, eyes darting between Rafe and Topper sheepishly. “I — uh, the view.”

“Oh,” Topper nodded, rubbing at tired eyes before standing up. “Yeah, s’algood. I need to go pee, anyway.”

“Thank you!” You exclaimed excitedly, smile widening as he sidled past you and disappeared down the aisle.

And then, a moment where time froze in its place.

You stood at the same time Rafe did, and his hands found purchase on your hips. Wearing a hoodie that held his cologne (that often held him) was dizzying enough as is, let alone feeling his fingers on your skin as you attempted to slip past him. His chest was broad against your back, warm and welcoming and — you must have been really tired then, because a small part of you was loving how this felt. A small part of you was flirting with the idea of staying right there.

You swallowed slightly, forcing yourself to separate and collapse onto Topper’s seat beside him. Refusing to make eye-contact, you fixed your gaze intently on the scene below you — it was early morning, and the promise of Paris was so very near; you could barely contain your excitement, you were finally, finally here.

Rafe required more than a beat to regain his composure. His fingers were still suspended in thin air, calloused palms still holding the curve of your waist. It was the only thing that mattered in that moment. In any moment, really, that involved you and him. And he was fairly certain it couldn’t get any better than this, but then you broke the silence, and he ate his words.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, drinking in the view. “Isn’t it so beautiful?”

Perhaps it was, but Rafe wouldn’t have known — it had absolutely nothing on you, so his gaze remained transfixed on your features.

Your lips were slightly parted, your gentle eyes on the scene below you. And the early morning light was a halo on your skin, it airbrushed it — rendered it ethereal, somehow. A few more words were exchanged, ones Rafe wasn’t sure he would be able to recall. He was too busy trying not to get down on one knee, far too busy resisting the urge to profess his undying love. Your voice sounded gibberish, and it wasn’t registering at all. There was only you now, and shit — he was pathetic over the thought. He wasn’t sure his heart was capable of taking this at all.

“Rafe. What’s that face?”

You didn’t call him Rafael, and it was enough to break his reverie. He gave his backwards cap a tug, searching your features carefully before offering up an awkward shrug. “What face?” He said, “there’s no face.”

You cocked your head to one side, narrowing your eyes in a way that — unbelievable, quite literally tugged at his heartstrings, as if that was fucking possible. “Rule #1. No making that face.”

He cracked a roguish grin then, nodding an amiable response. A fake, half-hearted, teasing response, because Rafe Cameron had never been a stickler for rules. Especially not rules that concerned love, or happiness, or anything at all that involved you.

—

Rafe Cameron definitely wasn’t going to survive this summer.

He first came to terms with the revelation on day one — well, night one, if one was being meticulous about the timing of his downfall. Because when you stepped out of your hotel room in a silver sundress, features harried some but still soft in a way that shifted him off-balance, Rafe Cameron thought, fuck, I’m doomed. He thought, you look so beautiful that I’ve forgotten how to breathe. He thought, spaghetti straps are dangerous enough as is, without your figure being the one holding them up.

Topper was clearing his throat beside him, speaking in an awkward way that didn’t quite register. Your cheeks heated a little, nimble fingers fiddling with the silver chain on your neck, and Rafe found himself fixating on the soft skin there. You were rambling something endearing about how you weren’t sure about the dress, wide eyes and frown lines and — Rafe’s arm moved of its own accord, then.

The small part of him capable of rational thought piped up, assuring you a “no, c’mon” before guiding you toward down the corridor and toward the elevator. Rafe always had a sneaking suspicion that you had a schoolgirl crush on Topper, it was plainly written in the way that you acted when he was around. It was genuine and predictable — a crush, but was it as deep as true love?

Unrequited, maybe, but the way Topper’s eyes lingered on your figure appeared not to agree with the sentiment. And though it didn’t quite settle right in his stomach, your embarrassed smile brought about a selflessness he employed far too often. He wanted to inject your smile into his skin. He could survive off the feeling that your soft smile gave him.

The past five years of his life had been teasing quips and going all in, but perhaps it was time he proved to you how serious he really was. You were the real deal, and he may have even believed that you and him were endgame, once. But when he registered the subtle chemistry between you and Topper, he realised that that wasn’t it at all. All this time he had assumed that it was you that he desired; you were the girl of his dreams, after all, someone he had pined for as long as he could remember. But really, you, happy — that was what he was chasing. You, content, with someone who deserved you — that was what he wanted.

It was probably why he made the foolish proposition in the first place. He was high on the feeling of your figure on his, the way you had absently reached for his hand earlier, tugged him close as though your life depended on it. Because a small part of you genuinely cared about him — ‘just didn’t want to lose you’, as if that was in any way possible. It was like that Taylor Swift song: invisible string. Rafe made a mental note to ask you whether you listened to it as much as he did.

Later though, when Topper and Amelie didn’t have all of your attention. Rafe presumed they had disappeared in hopes of leaving you and him alone, seemingly unaware that it was doing the exact opposite of bringing you close.

You were sad, so Rafe was, too. He no longer wanted Topper to fulfill his wingman duties, almost hoped for his return, as if that wasn’t the worst possible outcome for his own love. But Topper probably wouldn’t budge on his own, and for a moment, Rafe entertained the idea of whisking Amelie away from him. She had flirted with him too, so he was sure that it would work, but he had a funny feeling it wouldn’t have the kind of lasting effect that would nudge you and Topper together. No — he needed a better plan than just removing other girls from the equation. If he was serious about ensuring your happiness, far more drastic action was required to garner Topper’s attention.

“You really like him, huh?” Rafe questioned gently, searching your features in earnest. Your eyes were bright, a tell-tale sign that you were tipsy, and the way your expression faltered told him it was liquid courage that prompted your honest response.

“If you’re going to be a dick about it,” you frowned, as if Rafe would so much as dream of entertaining the idea, “then I’m not in the mood, Cameron.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he murmured with a frown, tucking a stray curl back into your claw clip. “Not with you.”

And you allowed yourself to believe him, just this once. Because when you talked through the proposition, your hesitance appeared to disappear a bit — you were half-way to agreeing, and it was then that you admitted it. A part of you was holding back, you insinuated, was doing so for his sake, not your own.

“This feels mean,” you muttered, swallowed slightly. And you averted your gaze then, or you would’ve seen the way Rafe’s lips parted. Because this “feels mean” to him, apparently, as though some small part of you cared. Rafe’s insides were melting, he realised. They were quite literally melting, bringing a warmth to his cheeks, and something gooey and sweet was settling in every crevice of his chest. He was malfunctioning, and fuck if any of this made sense, but the revelation only heightened his resolve — he needed you to see that he would do anything for you, and that anything meant absolutely anything, including this.

“Let me do this for you,” he said firmly. “Whatever there is between us, you hating me, I want to fix it.”

Fix this, he thought, get us back on track. Maybe I can’t call you mine, but I sure can make you his.

And then you said that you didn’t really hate him, and he found himself teasing Rule #5. One that he couldn’t promise to abide by himself, not with the way he knew all of you off by heart. This feeling, of your figure wrapped up in his strong arms, it was the only thing that made sense in this moment. He gave himself a beat to commit it to memory, slotting you into his side just as a small frown found home on your lips. Because — well, because, he didn’t say ‘noted’, apparently, but he had far more important things to worry about.

“There they are,” he murmured softly, dipping his head a little before meeting Topper’s gaze. He had an arm around Amelie’s waist, eyebrow quirked as he gave your entwined figures a once-over.

You gulped down your nerves as it registered, smiling weakly as Rafe’s cologne overtook your senses. Perhaps you had expected more than a nod in your direction, because when Topper and Amelie disappeared again, Rafe felt your figure tense against him.

“It’s not working,” you frowned, and Rafe placed his hands on your shoulders then, inadvertently relaxing them, “he doesn’t even care.”

Except that he did, because when he came back around, there was a jealous glint in Topper’s eye that Rafe Cameron knew far too well. It told him that the ploy was working, though he wasn’t able to appreciate it in its entirety — a strong arm wrapped around your neck, a chaste kiss on your temple, and he found himself wondering how it would feel, were all of this real. He was well-versed in keeping his composure, in goading Topper just enough to garner his attention. But there was an ache in his chest — bittersweet like stale syrup, and Rafe Cameron thought: I’m definitely not going to survive this summer.

—

“Rule #7,” Topper muttered, rolling his eyes as he turned. “No flirting.”

Rafe quirked an eyebrow at the sentiment, cutting Topper a surreptitious look. You hadn’t quite managed to catch it, but the furtive glance Topper sent him told Rafe he had meant it. Keeping a strong arm around your waist (all while reminding himself that this wasn’t real — torture he didn’t mind putting his heart through, at this stage), Rafe took his time guiding you toward Musee D’Orsay. A part of him knew this ruse was sure to crack soon; Topper was beginning to come to terms with his feelings for you, and Rafe wanted to fully appreciate calling you his before he would have to let you go.

Because, shit, there was a permanence in the warmth you brought to his chest. Light and airy, like spun gold to his thoughts, and dizzying enough for his thoughts to stray to a make-out session. Fingers under the spaghetti straps of your dress, bare skin on his, and it didn’t make any sense, but Rafe swore you felt like you belonged this close. In his arms, smelling like balmy summer and Taylor Swift songs on the radio. He posed for photos with you, danced with you, laughed with you, and when he lay in his bed at night, found himself searching the line between what was fake and what was genuine.

Sure, your smile would falter when Topper disappeared, and sure, you would tense a little when he wasn’t around. But there was something real in the way your eyes twinkled when they met his — something real in how your figure naturally gravitated toward him.

In amongst the fake dating ruse, Rafe had managed to tick certain, selfish things off his own agenda — you had two of his hoodies in your room, the imprint of his lips on your temple and his backwards cap worn through. Your figure was flush against his more often than it wasn’t, and his stupid, teasing quips were no longer falling short. And most important of all, though this was a sacred thought, France knew the two of you together. The country was his mother’s home, once, and there was something about that that felt right, somehow.

“…and,” Rafe exhaled, pacing his room with adrenaline in his veins, “Thornton definitely fucking likes her, because he keeps trying to get her alone. He even got some random French chic to flirt with me when we were at the Museum —”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Noah interrupted with a frown, registering the excited lilt to Rafe’s tone, “you’re happy about this?”

“Yeah?” Rafe answered bemusedly, halting. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Why wouldn’t you — Cameron, the fuck?” Noah pinched the bridge of his nose with a huff, equal parts amused and incredulous. “Maybe because you’ve been pathetic over her since you were fucking fourteen?”

“Bro,” Rafe responded then, shaking his head patiently. “Besides the point. She has a crush on him, not me.”

Noah furrowed his brow at the revelation, unsure whether it was worth voicing his observations. Because truth be told, he didn’t buy your dislike of his best friend one bit. A million stolen glances and the way you found each other like magnets, and Noah always thought it far too predictable for you to be in love with Topper Thornton.

“How can you be so sure?” He asked after a careful beat, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Trust me,” Rafe hurried dismissively. “Anyway, we just arrived in Amalfi. Meant to be heading out for dinner soon, so I might confront him beforehand to see if he’s ballsy enough to make the first move.”

Noah huffed a defeated sigh, biting back his disapproval in favour of something far stealthier.

“Cameron…” he started slowly, taking a pause before continuing, “…no way you’re 100% okay with this.”

Rafe faltered, shrugging after a moment. “I — doesn’t matter. The whole fake dating thing was nice while it lasted, but shit… it can’t go on forever, can it?”

“That doesn’t mean you have to just —” Noah winced, back-tracking, “— uh, I mean, I don’t get it. Five years of pining, and you give up just as you’re making progress?”

“It isn’t real progress,” Rafe lied, because he couldn’t afford to think it was — this would hurt far more if he did, and would feel selfish in a way he didn’t want it to.

“Cameron,” Noah said firmly, shaking his head, “we both know that isn’t true. With all the shit you’ve been telling me about the last week —”

“No, bro, c’mon,” Rafe interrupted, raking his fingers through his hair, “I can’t — it doesn’t matter, okay? I need to do this one thing for her before she leaves me for college. Like — shit, do you know how far UPenn is from UNC? I need to leave a lasting impression, alright, because if I don’t, I’ll just be that stupid douchebag she knew in high-school. I can’t be him. I just — if I make this happen, I’m the sweet guy who helped her find true love. That has to count for something, doesn’t? When she comes back to the Outer Banks with Topper, when they have kids and a dog and all that shit that he better fucking give her, then she’ll smile at me and think — he helped make this happen. Not resent me for standing in her way.”

“True love?” Noah echoed, and it was silent for a while, the words losing their integrity with every beat that passed. “Topper’s her true love?”

“Don’t know,” Rafe shrugged, and he felt like he was lying then, but it didn’t matter; you, your happiness, your future — his mind was set. “But on the off chance that he is, I’m not going to be the one that fucks it up.”

So when he confronted Topper a little bit later, he gained immense satisfaction in hearing the boy confess how he felt. He wasn’t sure what prompted the stern talking-to that followed — you weren’t his, and he didn’t have a foot to stand on, being this protective. But when you leaned into his side (not Topper’s) inside the elevator, he thought that perhaps it was the right decision, after all.

He wanted to memorise the feeling of your figure against his. This was probably the last time you would ever stand in such close proximity, and he closed his eyes a moment, breathing in deep until he really felt it. Because Topper was going to ask you out, soon, and you were just going to let him. And this story would end with you, Topper, and a happily ever after, and Rafe Cameron back in the shadows because of it.

“I don’t think that we need to, uh —”

“What?” You whispered, and shit — you looked nervous, almost sheepish, and he swallowed. He wanted to kiss away every frown line on your forehead. “Oh! You mean…”

You took a pause then, and Rafe felt himself leaning back in. “…you’re warm. That’s all.”

His lips parted as the words registered, the arm he had wrapped around your shoulder pulling you impossibly closer. One last time, he thought. I want to flirt with fate one last time. And when you didn’t quite pull away as silence fell, he heard violin symphonies and smelled lavender and tasted French wine on his lips. Did any of that make sense? Probably not, but it was you, and the selfish part of him thought: his.

It was only when he met Topper’s withering gaze that he forced himself to separate. He latched onto an excuse about pizza, making minimal eye contact before disappearing in search of it. It was a poorly planned escape, but it was enough of a distraction to numb the foreboding ache that was making its way into his chest.

This was the right thing to do… wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure why it brought about this emptiness he couldn’t shake. Like he was betraying you, somehow, not allowing fate to run its natural course. But if there was one thing he knew, it was that that line of reasoning was a slippery slope. He couldn’t let himself believe it. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

“If you love someone, let them go,” he said, trying his best to mean it. A leggy blonde whisked him away from you and Topper, and he let her do so with a strained smile and forced farewell. There was nothing left for him here. It was time that he accepted it.

She was gorgeous, all sun-kissed skin and full lips, though Rafe wasn’t sure that those qualities meant anything to him. If he was the douchebag he was attempting to epitomise, he would have used her to forget about you. Why couldn’t he?

“I’m Frankie,” she greeted with a wink, handing him a Bellini before bumping her shoulder against his, “and you’re American.”

“Rafe,” Rafe grinned, tipping it back and licking his bottom lip. “Is the accent really that obvious?”

“Unfortunately,” Frankie nodded sagely, eyes twinkling as they met his, “but hey, you got the fact that you’re cute going for you. That’s definitely something, isn’t it?”

“Something we have in common, then,” Rafe lilted, enjoying the way she blushed as it registered.

She breathed a laugh before leaning a little closer, lips brushing Rafe’s jaw, and — fuck, he felt nothing. Sure, flirting was plenty of fun; he could do it in his sleep, get her in his bed just as easily. He could, but something about it felt wrong.

You had branded him a douchebag back in freshman year, and the descriptor had stuck until very recently, in France. And though he had made peace with this fact a long time ago, a part of Rafe still worried that a meaningless hook-up would garner your disapproval. He didn’t want to be that guy, anymore — the one that disappointed you. He had done so once, with cocaine and shitty decisions losing him your trust, and he wasn’t sure your relationship would survive another indiscretion, on his part.

So he drew backward just as Frankie puckered her lips, meeting her perplexed gaze with a sheepish expression.

“Shit, sorry,” he said apologetically, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth, “I didn’t mean to give off the wrong impression.”

Frankie blinked. She paused, scanning his features carefully, and when she clocked it, she let out an exasperated sigh. She was blind, apparently, and more than a little naive, because all of the clues were right there in front of her and she had still managed to miss them.

“You didn’t,” she winced, combing her fingers through her blond tresses. “I thought that girl was with your friend. It’s my mistake.”

Rafe faltered, brow furrowing. “She is.”

“Ah,” Frankie exhaled, features softening, “sorry. One sided love sucks.”

“I —” Rafe hesitated, realising in the beat that passed that it was fruitless to try and deny it, “— yeah.”

Frankie gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, gulping down the rest of her Bellini before taking a step back. “Well, good luck with that. I better not keep you from her for more time than necessary.”

Rafe nodded a grateful response, watching her figure disappear into the crowd before setting his sights on you. The bar was reasonably crowded, boozy individuals at every turn, but there was something strangely magnetic about the way he knew exactly where to look.

He wasn’t sure he could explain it, but there was an impatience to the way he navigated the dance floor. His demeanour held a gnawing sense of foreboding, as though he could sense that something was about to go wrong. He quickened his pace, steps sharp and terse, trying his best to find you before trouble did.

And it was like he knew, of course he did, that you were being harrassed by someone brawny and unwelcome. The stranger appeared to tower over you, firm hands on bare skin, and the way you were shrinking was enough for Rafe’s anger to bubble red-hot. It swirled in the pit of his stomach like something egging him on, fuelled by guilt and sheer outrage and — shit, you were being heckled. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered fleetingly whether Topper was nearby. The thought lingered for a moment before being replaced by something far stronger — it didn’t matter where the other boy was, because this was his fucking responsibility, and he had failed.

He didn’t deserve you, but you deserved this hulky stranger far less. Because who the fuck did he think he was, teasing an embrace or even just attempting to look your way? Rafe’s shoulders were squared, his figure pushing through the crowd at an alarming pace. You were beautiful, and impossibly gentle, and the way your expression faltered was his final straw.

This, he thought blindly. His fists were blanched at his sides, near-vibrating with adrenaline and acrimony, and Rafe thought, this is the Universe giving me a second chance. He thought, I’m not going to fuck this one up. And it wasn’t as though the idea was in any way rational — fourteen felt too young to understand the true cause of his mother’s death, and that was probably why he felt to blame for it all. But not this time, he thought, a long step forward closing the space between your figure and his. Complacency isn’t going to hurt another person I love.

He was within earshot now, and a muscle in Rafe’s jaw ticked at the stranger’s taunt.

“I think she said no,” he warned, and you audibly exhaled. His name was impossibly soft on your lips, and it brought forth an entirely new sense of guilt. Because he should have been there — should have been an arm’s length away, but he wasn’t, and you were alone, and now, a stranger’s touch had found purchase on wrists that weren’t his.

Rafe wanted to make this hurt. He wanted to coat his blanched knuckles with something permanent, and it almost prompted him to throw the first punch. But then his cold, blue gaze met yours a moment, features softening at the panicked way your expression transformed. You took his hand, slotted into his side like home, and though there was a pleading lilt to your tone, the words you spoke told him you didn’t realise how much better you deserved.

“Apologise to her,” he ordered, because he most certainly wasn’t going to let this one go. He was going to force a muttered sorry through a strangled throat if it was the last thing he did on this Earth. He was going to break this man’s nose and probably do the same with his dirty fingers. He was going to beat him to a pulp, and then some, because how fucking dare he —

“Rafe,” your voice seemed a little far-away, the crack of his knuckles far more resonant. You said, “it doesn’t matter,” as if any part of him was going to believe you. And then, “let’s just go”, as though you really really wanted to. Your voice held an undercurrent of trepidation — something terse and panicked that prompted Rafe’s attention. He forced out a harsh breath, willing his features to soften, because this wasn’t about him, nor his need to get even. You, taken care of, that was what he wanted.

“Y/n…” his eyes met yours, zero-ed in like it was his full time job. Your shoulders relaxed. He felt you lean close like you belonged. “You’re sure?”

You nodded several times, appearing hurried, but it didn’t matter how quick you thought you were — the fight was lost before it had even begun.

Because of course the jerk was going to provoke Rafe with you, and of course Rafe was going to throw the first punch. The taunt rang through his ears like something cruel and unforgiving, numbing the harsh sting that his second punch brought. Then his third, his fourth coating his signet ring with blood. It was only when the gash on his forehead began to crust that he allowed a pause, grip punishing as he placed the stranger back onto the ground.

It took several, painful bruises and a crooked nose to get the words out of his mouth, but Rafe didn’t mind — he would get into a thousand more fights to defend your honour. A million more, a billion; he could do this all day, if you wanted him to. Because though Rafe’s satisfaction was momentary, it was enough to vindicate every single, irrational thought.

He hadn’t yet noticed his own injuries when he turned toward you, and it was perhaps why his brow furrowed as he took in your expression. Your eyes were wide, worry on your lips, and the desperate way you were dragging him away from the scene prompted his thumb to brush over the bleeding gash on his.

For a single, infinitesimal moment, Rafe wondered whether he could fix this by kissing you slow. Holding you close, soft skin and softer lips, and Rafe found himself thinking — your gentle touch would act better than stitches. There was a metallic taste on his tongue, a deep cut smarting the skin above his eyebrow, but he wasn’t sure he minded either of them, not with the way your nervous gaze met his features. You looked scared, nimble fingers clasping his wrist, and he barely registered Topper’s cursed admonishment behind him. Your breathing was jagged, and he frowned a bit as it registered, more than a little bewildered. Because despite your pained expression, despite your soft touch on his knuckles, your words were saying one thing, and your wide-eyed gaze another.

“You’re bleeding,” you swallowed slightly, and Rafe’s eyes fell to the column of your throat. It looked soft, unblemished, framed by stray curls that appeared disheveled. It was definitely the adrenaline talking (and perhaps the after-effects of several, strong Bellini’s), but for a moment, Rafe Cameron flirted with the idea of purpling your skin. There was a sensitive spot right beneath your earlobe, with raised goosebumps and nerve-endings on fire, and Rafe wanted to do something lawless and stupid. He wanted to taste you, and —

“…not to mention, you’re a fucking idiot.”

The reprimand was stern enough for Rafe to crack a roguish grin, his teasing response an attempt to diffuse the tension. “But I’m your idiot.”

Your brow pinched at the playful quip, and it did something syrupy sweet to Rafe’s conviction. There was a worried lilt to your tone, almost as though a part of you cared about him, and fuck if he was halfway to a head injury, but in that moment, Rafe thought, worth it. He thought, I’ll always take care of you before I take care of myself. He thought, if it was between you getting hurt and me, I’d choose the latter a million times over. God, if only you knew. Do you have any idea the lengths I’d go, just to keep you safe?

“…and, we’re in a foreign country, and —”

We may be in a foreign country, Rafe thought, but it seems I still have those same, Outer Banks feelings for you.

“You know,” he teased, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

“Rafael.”

And there was something about the way his name sounded on your lips — Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain he would ever get used to it. Perhaps a part of him knew he wouldn’t have to; knew that fate tended to work in strange ways, and would lead you back to him eventually. Because something changed then, and it was written in the natural way you leaned right into him. A halo, bright and warm, and Rafe thought, this is it. He thought, I want this feeling to last forever.

—

“I don’t know,” you had said. I don’t know, and then some other words that had stuck to Rafe’s insides like fresh cement. The kind that hardened with every beat that passed; gained permanence through the way Topper’s apprehension matched yours.

And though Rafe knew that he was selfish to ignore it, a jealous part of him found itself justifying his actions through the exact opposite. Because technically, he had done his duty as a friend and confidante. He had delivered several, stern admonishments when Topper had panicked, and ensured his own scarcity so that your date didn’t include him. Bartender girl was reasonably attractive; someone disposal to distract him from the envy poisoning his thoughts. And, her name on a napkin had passed the ‘i’ test — Noah White would approve, and that was what he decided to focus on.

Not the subtle way you had begun leaning into his touch, nor the way you tended to gravitate toward him when the three of you were out. Not the warmth of your skin, nor the way you reached for his hoodies over your own; more teasing quips, nowadays, more conversations that felt two-sided, instead of one.

But Rafe wasn’t focussing on that. He wasn’t focussing on the fact that two glasses of Sav got you drunk, nor the fact that drunk you tended to get handsier, somehow. He wasn’t focussing on the fact that you often fiddled with the signet ring on his thumb, nor how you mumbled something soft about wanting a similar one. He had broken several rules in succession, but he wasn’t focussing on the fact that you didn’t seem to mind it anymore. Thrown you over his shoulder more times than one, but he definitely wasn’t thinking about the way your waist fell against his palm. Not the curve of your hips, nor the sunshine on your legs, nor that one sundress with thin straps that his forefinger always found.

You had worn it to a wine-tasting near the Amalfi Coast, requiring little more than a Pinot Noir to giggle something sweet and tug Rafe close. It was the first time ever you had teased nimble fingers through his locks, and when your bright-eyed gaze had met his, he was certain his heart had stopped. But Rafe wasn’t focussing on that. And his mind definitely wasn’t doing a play-by-play of it every time his tired eyes shut.

“Rafaellllll,” you lilted, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks as you peered up at him. “Can I say something?”

Rafe nodded a roguish grin, steadying your hips with strong hands as you stumbled. “Careful, sweetheart.”

“I think,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, reaching up to ruffle his gelled locks just a bit, “your hair looks better long. And messy.”

You continued your assail until his hair was adequately hand-mussed, leaning all of your weight against his bicep in order to draw back and survey the damage.

“There,” you nodded, coating soft lips with crimson as you tipped back your wine glass. “That’s better.”

“You look like the boy-next-door types I tend to fall in love with, now,” you added as an afterthought, using the words ‘love’ and ‘you’ in the same sentence as though Rafe Cameron wasn’t already halfway to a heart-attack. And fuck if he understood exactly what you meant by that, but you had called it love, and he felt it like someone had poured maple syrup onto his heart. Sweet and gooey, and it had definitely stuck — but again, Rafe digressed, he wasn’t focussing on it at all.

He had separated from you and Topper a long while ago, sure that keeping his distance was the only way to go. But then, you threw a spanner in the works, and drunk texted him to “come party” as though any part of him could ever say no.

“Rafael!” You slurred dopily, stumbling right off your barstool and into his chest. And it didn’t help that Sofia’s words still swirled within its depths; she was far more perceptive than he needed her to be, bringing forth a sense of pining he was trying desperately to bury.

He caught you against him, and for a moment, he wondered what it would take to keep you there. Safe, Rafe thought fleetingly, exactly where you belong. But the thought passed as quickly as it had come, and he plastered on the same, roguish grin he always had when you were around. “Y/n! How much did you guys drink?”

“A lot,” you responded, and your voice was solemn, low, double in its meaning and the way it brought Rafe’s stomach a punishing blow, “needed it.”

Topper Thornton wasn’t speaking up. And when he did meet Rafe’s searching gaze, it was to mutter a defeated “she wanted you to come.”

He was missing something, he was sure of it, but before he could bring it up, you were turning on your heel and downing another shot. And wrinkling your nose, and shaking your head, and stumbling right into Topper’s torso now, and it felt as though everything was moving in slow motion because how the fuck did someone look this beautiful when they were drunk?

“Be honest,” you said to him, but Rafe’s mind was miles away when you did, not quite there since “not like you” had fallen from downturned lips.

And Topper was right, you were drunk, but where had that panicked look in his eye come from?

“S’ruined now?” You asked then, words slurring to the point of no return. The way you wobbled had Rafe’s mind reeling; he wrapped an arm around your waist like damage control, hoping to diffuse the tension before things got out of hand.

But they already had, a long while ago, and Topper’s unawareness of this fact only prompted Rafe’s frustration to grow. The stupid motherfucker was living out every one of Rafe’s dreams, and he had the gall to act as though things getting “a little awkward” was a good enough excuse for letting his guard down. He was angry, now, far angrier than the situation commanded. The feeling was red-hot and bubbling, something green swirling within its depths, and he felt his jaw clench on instinct as he —

“You’re strong,” your sweet voice said, leaning right into him and forcing him out of his reverie, “can you carry me? My feet hurt.”

And shit — he wanted to, he really really did, but this wasn’t about him, and he had to learn to accept that. This wasn’t about him, the same way you weren’t his, and this wasn’t about him enough for Rafe to give Topper the benefit of the doubt for a second. Give him one more chance to get his shit together, one more chance to feel something genuine for you and fix this mess. But he didn’t want it, it seemed, nor need it, if his forbidding expression was any indication. There was a funny look in his eye, his laugh cruel and humourless, and though his demeanor alone should have raised alarm bells, Rafe only felt his shoulders square when he clocked your wince as it registered.

“You’re drunk bro,” he warned, fruitlessly, tiredly, protectively as you froze, “don’t.”

Topper looked punchable.

He had his fucking eyebrow cocked, as if he would ever win in a fight against Rafe, especially one that involved you — scared, drunk you with the broken-hearted gaze. “That’s just perfect, isn’t it?”

His face was a balled fist away from bruising, and Rafe privately thought he deserved it, too, but there was your name on his lips again, and it was like everything just stopped. Taylor Swift lyrics, he thought, you make me think in Taylor fucking Swift lyrics. His mind wandered for a moment, and the rest of the song found its way to the forefront. ‘Dress’ doesn’t make any sense, he thought. We could’ve never never started out as friends, because my stupid big mouth doesn’t go a day without saying its in love.

“Isn’t it fucking obvious?” And if time was suspended before, Topper’s accusation only acted to unravel the sinews holding it together.

“You have feelings for him,” he scorned, pointing at 6 foot 4 Rafe Cameron like he was still fourteen, sitting in the back of Mr Williams math class, “not me.”

And okay, Rafe Cameron was definitely going into cardiac arrest.

He had probably passed out sometime earlier, dreamed up this entire conversation on a hospital stretcher. And the paramedics must have been starting compressions now, because Topper’s words traveled through his chest like an electric shock. And then another, and one more in alarming succession, reverberating through his skin and right into his bones. Rafe thought, this is it. He thought, I’m so fucking down bad that I’m creating scenarios in my head. Because there was absolutely no way that he had heard Topper right, was there?

Sure, he loved to sweet-talk fate and the Universe and you, but it wasn’t as though he had ever really believed any of it — ever let himself do so, lest it be untrue. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, sewn together like old memories of you and him and Kildare. He required several beats to gather his composure, but —

“Y/n…” Topper groaned. “Dude, I think she’s going to —”

The words read like a mantra in his head: she needs you, she needs you, she needs you — don’t fuck this up. Not like Topper did. Not like anyone else ever would.

It was probably why the rest of the night passed by in a blur; he couldn’t afford to think about how badly he wanted this — the way your eyes said one thing and your words said another. Ironic, really, because his mind did often stray, think through all the ways he could go bankrupt in an effort to make you his. But again, he didn’t have the funds to let himself linger — she needs you, he thought. Don’t fuck this up, he thought. And he didn’t waver, nor falter, until a little later in the night when you asked him to tuck you in.

Tuck you in, you mumbled, like five-foot-something trouble packaged into a heart-shaped box. And the order was followed by several more, teasing comments in succession, as though your figure flushing his wasn’t already melting his conviction. As though he was ever going to survive the fact that you looked fucking iridescent — as though he wasn’t already abso-fucking-lutely done for, “you’re warm” sounding suspiciously like “you’re where you belong, Rafael.”

The thrum in his chest was quickening at an alarming pace, and if he was pathetic over you before, this feeling was the cherry on top of the cake. Because he was retrieving your room key and guiding you to bed, unclasping your heels and finding you warm clothes to wear. And in return, you were doing the exact opposite of help, mumbling words that sounded like the recipe for a heart-attack.

“He’s only interested now,” you frowned absently, “because he thinks I like you.”

And Rafe Cameron didn’t fucking stutter, alright? But shit — there was something about the way you asked him if he did, all bright eyes and quiet mischief, a lopsided smile on your lips.

“Rafael,” you grinned, having registered the fact that he was buffering. Hesitating, he would correct when retelling the story to anyone else, but again, if you said that he stuttered, then he probably did. You could rewrite this part of the story for him. He would let you. You could do the same to his whole life, if you wanted to. He would let you. “Are you stuttering?”

For you? He thought, I am. He thought, always. He thought, you’re drunk, you’re crazy beautiful, and you’re doing strange things to my head. He thought everything illegal about the fact that he was here, a few steps from your unmade bed, and then he said — “But everything with you.”

He meant it, and hoped it encompassed every, all-consuming emotion he felt. Because it was the truth, and it promised the same, honest-to-Goodness love that his mothers influence had hard-wired into his brain. She was probably creating constellations somewhere above him, nodding her approval at the glass of water and note on your bedside table. Right?

The beginning and the end, Rafe thought. Lillian Cameron was one hell of a teacher when it came to the art of falling in love.

—

“No fucking way.”

Noah White was at the Club. It was a little after midnight in the Province of Salerno, the time difference translating to tee-off on the Carolina Coast.

“She was drunk, though,” Rafe repeated for what felt like the millionth time, raking his fingers through his hair. “So I don’t —”

“Cameron,” Noah interrupted, and somewhere in the distance, Emma’s teasing voice yelled a pointed drunk words are sober thoughts, buddy! “The fuck happened to all that fate crap you never shut up about?”

“Bro, c’mon,” Rafe responded impatiently, shaking his head. “No way you ever actually believed any of it —”

“No, but you did,” Noah leveled, halting his paces a moment. “So why are you back-tracking all of a sudden?”

Rafe faltered at the question, brows snapping together as he gathered his thoughts. “I — shit, you don’t get it, alright? A lot of stupid things were said in the heat of the moment. What if it’s the same with the way she felt? She wasn’t thinking straight, Noah — none of us were, and —”

“That’s not true,” Noah said then. “You definitely were. The only time you’re ever thinking straight is when it concerns her.”

He was right. Rafe couldn’t deny it. It was the plain and simple truth, and perhaps that was why he decided to employ a different tactic.

“I — alright, yeah,” he nodded after a beat, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “But, I have bigger things to worry about than me and her, because fuck, the way Top was acting made me want to give him a shiner. He — bro, he clearly ruined his chances with her on this date, and then had the audacity to blame me for the fact that she texted me to come to the club…”

He was rambling, now. Noah knew it through the way his sentences began running into each other; he was thinking out loud, and it was exactly what he needed to do to come to the correct conclusion. So he let it happen. And Rafe Cameron continued voicing his frustration, continued to feel all his yearning, live through his heart-wrenching sense of desire. He felt his stomach twist, and his chest thrum, and —

“…which is fucking ridiculous, because how is that my problem? It’s not my fault that she doesn’t like spending time with him. I mean — fuck, she has my heart in her hands and I let her give hers to him, anyway. That’s real love, you know? Not the selfish crap Top pulled in the corridor just before, acting like I don’t deserve her as if he fucking does…”

Noah knew that Rafe hadn’t let that conversation go. Because though he had dismissed it not a moment prior, there had been something thick and accusing in his voice when he had done so. Venomous, as though Topper’s words held a special type of poison — the kind that appeared to strengthen the longer that it lay dormant.

“…and anyway, I can’t fucking control how she acts around me. Just like I can’t control the fact that she fell for me, not him, despite him being the world’s shittest wingman.”

Rafe froze. He took in several, gulping breaths, and he thanked God that Noah White couldn’t see the expression on his face. On the other end — the low hum of Island Club chatter, a rustling breeze in the distance, the promise of an OBX summer. A weighty silence, the kind that said more the further it stretched. And then, a long sigh. The timbre of Noah’s voice held something smug and all-knowing and — okay, he had definitely let Rafe ramble on purpose. He knew what he was doing. Perceptive motherfucker.

“True,” Noah agreed, the satisfied smirk on his lips audible. “You can’t control that she fell for you.”

“But,” he added then, brow furrowed as he gathered his thoughts. “What you can control is what you do about it.”

And if Rafe registered the hesitance in Noah’s voice, he didn’t have the courage to confront him about it. It felt a funny twang in the middle of his chest, something strange and incongruous that heightened the disquiet he felt. Because though Noah was sure Rafe’s suspicions were correct, there was a small part of him that wasn't sure that you knew it.

“Right,” Rafe responded, exhaling slowly.

“Cameron,” Noah said firmly, “you have to back yourself.”

Rafe nodded a reluctant response, raking his fingers through his hair. “I — yeah.”

He squeezed his eyes shut until stars dotted his vision, willing himself to believe everything that Noah had just said. “Anyway, I should probably go, alright?”

“Probably,” Noah agreed. “Talk soon, yeah?”

He kept his phone pressed against his ear until Rafe ended the call, mind still reeling with all the new information when Emma interrupted his thoughts.

“Was that about the girl from the game?” She questioned, watching Noah lock his phone and slide it back into his back-pocket.

“Y/n,” Noah nodded, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “Yeah.”

Emma cocked her head to one side, surveying Noah’s expression with mild curiousity. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just,” Noah faltered a moment, not wanting to butcher his words, “she’s — she’s great, really. But Em, you know how Rafe is with her. You saw it first hand when he called a fucking timeout to give her that hoodie.”

“Yeah?” Emma responded bemusedly, not quite placing Noah’s solicitude. “So?”

“So,” Noah explained, a knowing lilt to his tone, “even if she does like him, it’ll have nothing on the way he feels about her.”

“He’s —” another laboured pause, and realisation flickered over Emma’s features in the beat that passed.

“— all in,” she finished, nodding in understanding, “and if she doesn’t say she is, it’s going to destroy him, isn’t it?”

—

Apparently, hard liquor from the Amalfi Coast rendered you a hung-over amnesiac. And apparently, this was a revelation well-suited to Topper’s plan — avoid, avoid, avoid, and ensure Rafe Cameron didn’t jeopardise anything else. He wanted so badly to believe it was the truth, that Rafe almost didn’t blame him for missing every tell. Almost.

Because when you dozed off on the train somewhere between Naples and Santa Maria, he took the opportunity to confess to Topper how many times he had wanted to punch him, the night prior. Three (one to break his nose, another to make it bleed, and a third to take out several teeth), but maybe that wasn’t as important as Rafe deemed it to be. And maybe he hadn’t confronted Topper in exactly the manner he had planned, but there was an undercurrent of steel within the words that he said.

“Thornton,” he muttered, voice thick and accusing, “the fuck was that before?”

Topper grimaced at the harsh register of Rafe’s tone, eyeing your figure furtively before responding. “What was what?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Rafe scoffed, leveling him with a glare. “You need to tell her the truth about last night. You owe her that much, at the very least.”

Topper bit back the strident response on his tongue, feeling jealousy rear its ugly head. “Why?” He challenged instead, “so you can be her knight in shining armour again?”

A muscle in Rafe’s jaw twitched. His roughened knuckles held remnants of the brawl Paris had brought, and the cuts and red grazes were begging to be retouched. And then some, Rafe thought, clenching his fist at Topper’s refusal to back down. You have every-fucking-thing I want, and you’re somehow still managing to fuck it all up.

“This isn’t about me,” he gritted, low and mirthless, “and you know it.”

“Do I?” Topper goaded, huffing a humourless laugh. “Because last I checked, the only reason you agreed to come to Europe is to get the one thing you can’t have.”

“Her,” he added then, nodding toward your figure beside Rafe’s. And shit, it can’t have been a minute past twelve — the sun should have been at its highest point, but instead he saw it within your delicate frame. Within the way your loose tresses fell against your face, the sleep creasing your cheeks, the soft skin of your neck. You were glowing, as if that was fucking possible, and there was a moment there where Rafe wondered — seriously, seriously wondered, whether you were something he had dreamed up. There was zero way you were real. You looked untouchable, somehow.

“Maybe,” Rafe responded honestly, voice softer now, words more genuine. “But priorities change.”

And they did, though perhaps not in the way Topper intended. He believed that the one thing Rafe couldn’t have was you, and that may have been true once, but it was clear that it wasn’t anymore. The Earth’s axis had tilted a little, shifted you off-balance in a way that tended toward falling for the wrong (right) person.

It was written in the subtle way your actions favoured him, from the half-hearted admonishments to the magnetism you shared. Like now, for example, when you shifted sideways as you stirred. Right into his stupidly big bicep, mumbling something sweet and imperceptible in your sleep. Rafe thought, are you comfortable? He thought, I’ll make them stop this train if you aren’t. He thought, I’ll knit a blanket with all of the hoodies I own. I’ll wrap my arm around you and carry all of your weight and then some. Not just physical; I’ll take the emotional baggage too. Are you comfortable? Let me take care of you.

—

You were fiddling with the silver chain adorning your neck. Had your fingers found purchase on his signet ring, he was sure a secret part of you would have itched to slide it up and down like a nervous tick.

“Reading up on it?” You questioned, faltering momentarily. “Why?”

Topper didn’t seem to register your apprehension, nor the growing imprints on the pads of your forefinger and thumb. He was a fucking idiot, apparently, because shit, how wasn’t he seeing this? Rafe frowned. He wondered fleetingly whether Topper even knew. Whether this was some kind of special circumstance — whether your biggest tell wasn’t as salient as he had once thought. Admittedly, he tended to forget that other people’s lives didn’t orbit yours. Not the way his did, at least; he had all of your quirks memorised, stored neatly in the back of his mind. No, Noah had once insisted, incredulous and exasperated and just plain irritated at his ridiculously, insanely, hopelessly in love best friend. No, Rafe, it isn’t weird that I don’t recognise the way Y/n smells. That shit isn’t normal, he added then, and okay, alright — it probably wasn’t. Not for anyone else. But since when had Rafe’s feelings for you ever made any sense?

“For you,” Topper responded simply, and when he didn’t receive the answer he wanted, he had the gall to probe you for further clarification.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” He asked, like some stupid, half-baked douchebag that didn’t deserve you at all.

“I didn’t know you did things for me.” And then, you inadvertently shifted into Rafe’s side, and the action bloomed a golden warmth right in the centre of his chest. Apprehensive you found home in little old him, and for a breath, the selfish part of Rafe’s brain felt satisfied by the revelation. Him, not Topper fucking Thornton. The stars aligned, and the moon appeared to blush; fate seemed to acquiesce, and — him.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

There was a long pause then, silence that stretched far longer than it needed to. When you nodded a circumspect response, there was something cagey about the way you broke eye contact. Rafe recognised it almost immediately — he had been on the receiving end of that look far too many times to count, and it was in that moment that he finally understood it.

You couldn’t read his mind. Five years of feeling crazy, stupid, illegal things for you, but perhaps, without meaning to, his words had sounded far too aloof to ring true. The same way Topper’s had just then, because it was the only explanation, really, for the way your expression faltered as they registered. Reluctance flickered over your features surreptitiously, though it appeared clear as day to him. Five years of professing his undying love for you, but perhaps you had refused to take it seriously. It was a defence, Rafe realised then. You were protecting yourself, safeguarded by impenetrable walls with barbed wire, and Rafe felt like a fucking idiot all of a sudden. He had appeared disingenuous. He wanted to punch himself.

It was ironic really, that he was only now realising it. After letting you go, and watching you find your way back. Home, Rafe thought. You need patience to build a home.

—

Rafe Cameron was standing at the foot of your door. He was feeling brave, and fucking stupid, apparently, because when was being alone in a room with you ever not dangerous? There was something desperate and lawless about the way you made him feel. A soft rap of his knuckles on hardwood, and his resolve was slipping through his fingers like quicksand. Innocent intentions didn’t bode well for Rafe, and they only amplified ten-fold at the prospect of you in a mystery dress. It was sure to be tailored to perfection, having previously been set aside for Midsummer's. Rafe often daydreamed about escorting you to the annual, Figure Eight event, with his hands on your waist and yours on his broad shoulders. With your kind eyes and delicate lips and that one, genuine smile; the one that brought a crinkle to the corners of your —

“Think it’s open, Cameron!” You called then, simultaneously breaking him out of his reverie and somehow plunging him deeper into it. “Nearly, you?”

Rafe furrowed his brow a moment, seemingly bemused, requiring a beat to gather his composure. He needed to take a breath. He needed to think lower-risk thoughts. And — fuck it, who was he kidding? He had lost that fight before it had even begun.

“No,” he responded, striding through the open door and toward your bedroom. “I need help.”

And then, he registered your figure within it, and halted in his tracks. Like really stumbled to a stop right fucking there, like something out of those Nicholas Sparks novels that his mother loved to collect. You were in soft lilac that looked a single tug away from slipping right off, and Rafe swallowed slightly, feeling his heartbeat in his throat. He wasn’t sure he was breathing, and found himself wondering whether he had dreamed this up. There was an opalescence to the way the satin cascaded down your frame, it was made to show you off, and Rafe thought, your skin’s like constellations. He thought, I’m not going to survive this. He thought, if I kiss you now, will you kill me? And then, he backtracked a bit. Because really, there was something else he should have been worrying about. If I kiss you now, he corrected silently, shit, if I somehow manage to kiss you now, you won’t have to worry about killing me. Because your lips on mine, soft and warm and everything good and bright, will definitely fucking end me before you get the chance.

And there were a million emotions swirling through his chest, his heart bursting at the seams, something akin to honey within its depths. Syrupy sweet and feeling the same consistency as it, no expiry date on display, like those hopeless, undying feelings that consumed him. Like faint lavender and track-and-field meets, history projects and burger shack and 10 Things I Hate About You on the TV. Rafe was blushing, wildly. He wanted to say everything and then some to you, but all he could manage was an inadequate — shit.

“Shit,” he cursed, but it read like you’re insane. “You look — shit,” though what he really meant was, sweet like cinnamon. You look like you’re mine, he thought, but that was definitely the selfish part of him talking.

“Stop saying shit,” you laughed, all heated cheeks and constellations in your irises. And then, you said something about Rule #1, though the adrenaline in Rafe’s veins held a breath-hitching sense of resolve.

“What about it?” He said, boldly, lawlessly, recklessly. He took a step closer, mere inches from the satin fabric of your slip. And the back and forth barely registered, because Rafe was getting closer, closer still; his dress shirt was off now, and he was drunk off the thought of skin on softer skin. Your gaze was averted, breath growing slight, and — okay, maybe this was a little mean. He was enjoying the way his proximity was making your eyes go wide.

“You know what I think, Y/n?”

You swallowed, and Rafe’s eyes fell to the column of your throat. He was definitely being mean now, because the selfish part of him piped up again, flirting with the idea of leaving a trail of bruises along your neck. “You know why.”

He did. And yet — “I don’t think I do,” he said, lying through his fucking teeth because he wasn’t thinking straight. You were endgame, this was endgame, and he wanted to kiss you so badly it was driving him insane. “You know what I think, Y/n?” He added, and you swallowed, again, as if his mind wasn’t already drifting away from innocent thoughts and common sense.

“I think,” he breathed, voice low, “that you’re lying.”

And alright, the accusation was definitely a risky decision. But if the way you changed the subject was anything to go by, it had worked in exactly the way he wanted it to. Because your fingers were shaking, and lips mumbling a meek excuse about undone buttons. They were his, and you were reaching for them, like something wonderfully domestic he hadn’t yet had the luxury of entertaining. He caught your wrists just as you fumbled, heartbeat thumping right out of his chest. “Do I make you nervous?”

“Rafe,” and shit — it was music to his ears, was that selfish of him to admit it? His name belonged to you.

Your voice was telling him to stop, but your actions were saying something else entirely. You were melting right into his touch, lashes fluttering and lips like candy, and fleetingly, Rafe wondered whether this moment was better than the actual kiss. The several seconds of silence that preceded it — the anticipation and yearning and way his heart skipped several beats as he felt it. Unbelievable. You hadn’t so much as ghosted your lips over his, and Rafe Cameron was developing a fucking arrhythmia over the mere promise of it.

But then, you faltered. Rafe did, too, but he was sure the strange twang in his chest was his, and his only — not yours.

“I’m going to get hurt,” you admitted reluctantly, and then, the feeling plummeted to his stomach. It was heavy, like cloying guilt. He hated it, and he hated himself. “You’re Rafe Cameron.”

His name sounded foreign on your lips, this time around. He searched your features in earnest, attempting to convey the depth of his feelings through the intensity of his gaze. “You know that I’ve been —”

“Do I?” You accused, and oh shit — you were serious. He hadn’t meant to voice the thought, but perhaps his surprise had rendered that temporarily out of his control. Because when you responded an incredulous “of course I’m serious”, Rafe thought, Y/n. He thought, isn’t it obvious? He dipped his head slowly and allowed his eyes to linger on your lips, his hands finding purchase on thinly veiled hips. He took in a breath. And then he thought, you.

Except that he didn’t. He must’ve said all of that out loud, too.

“It’s always been you,” he repeated, and it was simple, easy, the only thing that had ever made sense. “I’d never hurt you.”

Your breath hitched then, eyes flitting toward his lips. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do,” and he pulled you closer, closer still, you weren’t close enough — he wanted to feel you melt into his fucking skin. “I didn’t agree to Rule #5.”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to it.”

You kissed him, and Rafe malfunctioned. The action held an element of diffidence, as though a part of you believed that he didn’t want it. It registered with a hurried, “no — shit, c’mere”, and Rafe pressed his lips against yours like you were oxygen. He cupped your face, brushing his thumb over the contour of your cheek. And you were melting into his touch, tasting of fresh mint and Pinot Gris, and Rafe thought, okay. He thought, this is my first kiss. He thought, nothing in my past has mattered as much as this.

—

Everything changed entirely too quickly.

An hour, maybe two, and Rafe was grappling with the aftermath of what could have been. To be numb to this feeling would have been an act of mercy, but he wasn’t, he felt it all, and it aged him beyond belief. Everything in him ached, and there lay deadweight in his bones.

Rafe wasn’t sure whether the pain he felt was yours or his. The night was a confusing blur, events moving and fragmenting and falling apart every single time he blinked. He would close his eyes, and it was as though you were all he saw. Your tear streaked cheeks had burned two, clean holes into his retinas.

And pathetic as it was, a desperate part of him didn’t mind it. Because before everything had fallen apart, you had kissed him — slowly and genuinely, like a secret kept, an oath. That part of the story, he enjoyed replaying, because it was the first time in a long time he had felt truly happy. Things were falling into place, and shit, he had finally tasted your lips — they held cherry chapstick and electricity and the twinkle of stars as they brushed his. So he allowed it. His heart was tearing itself to shreds, but your kiss was a band-aid that collected some of the pain he felt.

He would close his eyes, and focus on the way his hand had found the small of your back. The way it had remained there, belonged, and made home within the flimsy satin of your dress. Guided you into the elevator and through cobbled streets, kept you in close proximity as you found a place to eat. As though this was the most natural thing in the world, as though you were meant to be here, in his arms. With his kiss on your lips and the taste of him on your tongue, and that soft smile on your features that he had come to adore. Your figure would linger against his, knuckles brushing over his wrists — it was all so easy, and for a moment, Rafe almost believed that you were his.

Because somewhere between playful flirting and recounting how he’d fallen for you in the first place, he forgot that you didn’t wear your heart on your sleeve the way he did. You kept some of your cards hidden, urged him to do the same, and maybe he forgot about this fact because it hurt him. Because it was a reminder that he wasn’t enough for you, that he was ‘just’ Rafe Cameron — painfully inadequate. You were sweet, dreamy, delicate you, and he was some silly story you told about your youth. That one douchebag that you had known back in high-school. The same one who you had kissed so foolishly in Europe, perhaps even fallen for, but refused to settle down with.

Rafe Cameron had royally fucked up. And he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about it.

1 July 2018 at 2:30am

Mom,

You’re a million miles away.

All I want to do is spend all day at your grave like I did back in sophomore year. Because I feel so fucking alone, and you’re the only person who would get it. But you’re a million miles away, and I don’t know what to do about it. So please don’t be mad about the fact that I’m typing out swear words; I’ve fucked everything up and the way I did it involves a broken heart. And the girl, the one I’m always talking about. Though you probably already figured that out, considering I’ve never used my notes app to write to you before. I must be fucking desperate is what you’re probably thinking, because it’s not like you’ll ever actually see this. I don’t know what else to do though, because I feel everything all at once and it’s destroying me from the inside out.

Remember when I start doing coke in the summer before junior year? This is worse than that time Y/n caught me high at the bonfire. Way worse. But you knew what to do, and you helped me fix it. I was still high when I drove to your grave right after, and a part of me wants to book a flight back to the Outer Banks, just to sit with you like I had that night.

Everything only just fell apart an hour ago, but the pain feels like it's been here forever. It feels like it won’t ever go away. I almost don’t even want it to, because shit, I wanted to die when I saw her face. I know I don’t deserve her, mom, so why do I still want her so bad? Why do I still feel hurt by the fact that she knows her worth, knows she deserves more than ‘just’ Rafe Cameron?

If I was with you right now, I probably wouldn’t have time to buy you those peonies you like. I’m sorry. I keep trying to fix this without you, but I can’t. I’m reading over this note and none of it makes any sense. That’s how I feel, too. You know that we kissed tonight? Yeah, fucking insane. We kissed, and then she wanted to keep it a secret. Like… I don’t know, like it was a mistake. Maybe it was.

Mom, my heart fucking hurts. I wish you were here. I want to come home, but I know you won’t truly be there, either. I wonder if things would be different if you had been there though sophomore year. I did some pretty stupid shit to distract myself from the fact that you were gone, and junior year was definitely worse when it came back around. I was finally getting my act together this year, and now I’ve fucked it all up. What should I do? Why aren’t you here?

—

1 July 2018 at 3.45pm

Mom,

Y/n and Topper are on a walk. I’m in my hotel room, and I’m meant to be acting like everything is fine. I can’t. I constantly feel like there’s something pricking at my eye. I called Noah just before, and he told me that he’s been dropping off peonies every other day. He also told me to get my shit together, as if I’m even capable of doing that. My heart is in a million pieces, and they seem to be scattered everywhere. I’m pretty sure I’ve also lost a few, because there’s this big hole in the middle of it that feels like it’s going to swallow me whole. Noah said, and I quote, “don’t let her see you upset”. Probably because if she does, it’ll make things worse for me, but I’m pretty sure I only put on a brave face because it doesn’t feel like I deserve to hurt. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know what to do. I’m meant to be acting normal, but I don’t even know what normal is. You would know what to do. You always did. Come home, mom. I fucking miss you.

—

3 July 2018 at 6.00pm

I apologised, I think. Things are okay, I think. Not for me, or anything, but Y/n seems better. Maybe this was how it was meant to go, because I’ve managed to bring her and Topper together. Just like I promised. If you love someone, let them go. You were the one that told me that. But right now, I need you to tell me that it’s okay to be selfish. Everything is awkward, and fuck, I wish none of this had happened. It’s so dumb, because when we kissed — mom, you don’t get it, when we kissed, it felt like my life split into two. Like BC and AD, or something like that. I don’t know. It was like I wasn’t the same person I used to be in high-school. But the way we interact now, I almost wish I could go back to how it was before. Because at least before we kissed, there was still a chance that something more could come of it, you know? That’s selfish of me, isn’t it?

We went to the markets today, and I saw a bunch of peonies in one of the flower stalls. Y/n likes them too, isn’t that funny? I wish you could have met her. I wish you could have been here to tell me that I deserve her. (I don’t. But you always were the only person that ever believed in me, weren’t you?)

—

So perhaps Rafe Cameron wasn’t immune to jealousy, after all.

“Listen,” he muttered lowly, placing a punishing grip on Topper’s shoulder, “can I talk to you a second?”

When his eyes flitted toward your bemused features, they appeared to soften on instinct. How couldn’t they? Rafe was fairly certain his feelings for you were muscle memory, at this stage. Just like sweetheart and not your sweetheart, just like the stern Rafael that fell from soft lips.

“Look,” he started once out of earshot, keeping a firm hand pressed into Topper’s shoulder. “Thanks for forcing us together yesterday, but I still haven’t received a fucking apology from you. And this whole club thing better not become —”

“It won’t,” Topper interrupted quickly, and was it possible that he felt almost sheepish at the claim? “I’m sorry. For real.”

That was far easier than Rafe thought it would be, and he almost stumbled backward as it registered. Almost too easy, he thought, and his brow was furrowed then, dread growing ten-fold at the words that Topper said next.

“…I’ve sorted it out with Y/n, now,” and Rafe felt his throat close up, something cloying and thick in the middle of his chest. “And we’re on the same page,” one that he wasn’t on, Rafe thought. His stomach plummeted to his feet, heart wrung through and irreparably bruised.

“Oh,” he managed to say, scuffing his feet on loose gravel. “You guys are on the same page?”

“Relax,” Topper responded knowingly, raising an eyebrow at the low timbre of Rafe’s tone, “I just mean that we…”

But his voice sounded too far away to register, something far louder, far more confronting, reverberating through Rafe’s ears. He needed alcohol. Enough for sober thoughts to become drunk words. To become drunk actions — drunk kisses and drunk hands holding delicate skin, drunk eyes on soft lips and, Rafe felt his resolve slip. He wasn’t at all fine, and it was fruitless acting as though he was. As though he could live his life like this, an arm’s length away from you — always close, but never close enough. He had finally had enough, he decided. Rafe Cameron wanted to get stupidly drunk.

Perhaps that was why his stride felt so purposeful when he returned to your side. He may have blamed it on the liquor coursing through his veins, but there was something else egging him on — a higher power nudging him in the right direction.

Fate, Rafe concluded, though perhaps that was the tequila talking. Fate, and the effortless way he spotted you within a crowd. The bar was reasonably busy —a sea of stumbling individuals wedged between you and him — and yet? You seemed to be the only person he saw. It was as though his peripheral vision didn’t exist. Rafe wondered fleetingly whether he would have passed his driving test, had you been around when he was getting his eyes checked. And alright, maybe they were a little glassy by now. He had tipped back several shots since disappearing from your side, far more than he required to make troublesome decisions. He had lost count somewhere between number six and number eight, his mind straying to that first night at the Parisian bar. Same shots. Same sting of tequila. Same breathtaking smile and same fingers brushing his, and if Rafe really really concentrated, same warmth blooming in his chest when your bright-eyed gaze found his features.

“Where’d you go?” You asked once within earshot, like there was some, small part of you that cared about him. “We couldn’t find you when we came inside!”

Rafe Cameron was putty in your hands. “Y/n,” he slurred, seemingly unperturbed by the way his words warbled, “can we talk?”

You winced at the liquor on his breath, and Rafe found himself fixating on the way your forehead pinched. He absently wet his bottom lip, wondering whether it would be wise to kiss the creases there. Once, twice, over and over until they disappeared. And he was fairly certain your heated cheeks belonged in his palms, he would be gentle, you looked breakable, which was an ironic thought really, because he was the breakable one. You had his heart in your hands, and all of the power needed to destroy it.

“Rafe,” Topper frowned, forcing him out of his reverie. “How much have you had to drink?”

The room was tilting, Rafe’s vision dangerously close to blurring, and now, Topper was asking irrelevant questions that he didn’t have time for. “Shhh, Top,” he urged, impatient and annoyed and stupidly drunk, “I’m speaking. Y/n?”

You gazed up at him a moment, and if he was half-cut before, the intoxication only heightened ten-fold when his eyes met yours. “Rafael,” you said, voice sweet and dulcet. “You good?”

His memory of the night appeared to fragment at this stage. He was sure that his hands found purchase on your hips at some point; he might have even thrown you over his shoulder, mumbled something silly about the way you belonged there. Knowing him, he most definitely insisted that you tuck him in. You, him, and an empty hotel room, and Rafe also managed to conclude that he had asked you to stay in his bed. Several times, probably, with other slurred confessions bringing up their rear.

When he woke up the next morning, a hang-over pounding through his ears, he should have felt a sense of dread over all the stupid shit he had said. Except that he didn’t; he almost didn’t mind that he had gotten drunk enough to forget it. Because knowing him, he was sure it wouldn’t have been anything disingenuous. Knowing him, it would have been exactly what he had been bottling up since the incident in Florence. You deserved to hear it. Was it selfish of him to be glad that it had happened?

The feeling was fleeting, but it allowed him a moment’s relief, all the same. One that he desperately needed, resigned to spending the rest of his morning keeled over a toilet bowl. With the harsh sting of stomach acid came the threat of reality; sure, you deserved to know what he had to say, but that didn’t mean that you had to respond to it in a positive way.

What if his drunk words had somehow made things worse? What if they had done the exact opposite of what he had intended — drove you further away from him, instead of bringing you close? You were never one for physical displays of affection, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine how fucking insufferable he would have been. He vomited again, despite his insides being uncomfortably void. He still felt extremely ill, though now, it was for an entirely different reason. A few, uninterrupted hours on the water, and Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain that he could face you sober. He wondered whether he could make some kind of excuse and call Noah. His mind was a mess, emotions in similar disarray, and he still hadn’t shaken the feeling when he emerged from his hotel room with his suitcase.

The sound of Topper’s chuckle was strident, and it was distraction enough to break Rafe’s daze.

“Shut up,” Rafe muttered tersely, wincing as the sound reverberated through his eardrums. “Too loud, Top.”

He was hoping to avoid addressing the previous night’s events, an expansive library of small-talk in his arsenal on the off-chance that Topper brought it up. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t get a chance to employ it. Because though he made an amicable effort to deflect, deflect, deflect, the boy was adamant that they talk about it. Namely, his ‘extremely disgusting speech from last night’, the one Rafe couldn’t quite remember and was intent on forgetting, anyway.

“Fuck,” he cursed then, grateful for the shades shielding his vision. “Fuck.”

And then his gaze fell to the Cartier watch on his wrist, and he realised with a gulp that you were late. It felt like a tight pressure at the center of his chest, as though someone was wringing his broken heart out. All of his yearning and chasing and hopeless pining lay bare, in plain sight, inescapable despite him trying to forget them.

“Fuck,” he repeated, realising he really had fucked up, and he must have been thinking out loud, because Topper’s voice cut him off. The boy offered up a meek “no way”, as if anything about this situation was fixable. As if he hadn’t messed up in a permanent way, wasn’t doomed to spend the rest of his life watching you run the other way. As if he hadn’t just given up the big house on the Eight, the white dress and sonogram and maybe one more, a little bit later, because a three year gap was probably better, and —

Rafe heard you before he saw you. He was frozen in place, palms growing clammy, and the soft tone of your voice wasn’t helping his cause.

“Sorry I’m late,” you greeted sheepishly, dragging your suitcase forward. “I, uh, slept in.”

You were lying, Rafe knew it in the way your fingers flew your silver chain. And deflecting, apparently, because you didn’t let him get a word in — he tried, and you cut him off, and sidled into Topper’s side. You were avoiding eye contact, keeping your distance, too, and Rafe thought, this is it. He thought, this is how the rest of my life is going to go. He thought, will you hold my gaze when you walk down the aisle? It’ll be toward the wrong person… will you mind? He thought, will you hold my gaze when I see you at PTA meetings, or soccer games, or Figure Eight events with the wrong person, too? Will you hold my gaze, and let it linger, and realise the I was right person for you?

__

“Rafe?” You repeated, and — were you speaking to him? He hadn’t noticed. He was far too preoccupied with crumpling into himself. “Dude, c’mon, the ferry terminal is this way.”

“Hangover,” he offered lamely, feeling foolish for ever thinking there could be a you and him, “I’m in a bad state.”

“You were even worse last night,” and Rafe’s heartbeat quickened them, a trepid thrum that vibrated through his chest and into his veins.

“Yeah,” he swallowed thickly, unsure if he was capable of eye contact, “about that –”

“Later,” you said then, as though he wasn’t already halfway to a heart-attack. “When we’re sitting.”

So Rafe waited. He waited, and then waited some more, feeling his heartbeat in his throat despite taking in hulking breaths. He felt winded, as though there wasn’t enough oxygen in his lungs — as though his impatience had swallowed it right up. Rafe Cameron was going to lose consciousness, soon. A part of him hoped that you knew mouth-to-mouth.

When Topper did finally manage to excuse himself, he left a silence in his wake that was difficult to digest. Your gaze was averted, brow furrowed in that way that made Rafe’s head spin, though it was only when you mumbled a meek “right” to his absence that the selfless part of him gained the courage to speak up.

“Listen,” he started slowly, “if you don’t wanna talk about it…” he cleared his throat, feeling something thick and defeated within its depths, “...I mean, I get it.”

He didn’t. He was lying through his teeth, and he was rambling too, as if his deep voice wasn’t enough of a headache on its own. “We can just act like it didn’t happen,” he added then, as if that was in any way the truth. As if his heart wouldn’t break cleanly in two on the off-chance that that was what you wanted to do.

“We’re only here for one more week,” and then you’re gone, Rafe thought. And then I need to learn to know you through Instagram stories and Facebook posts. “And then we’ll —”

The rest of Rafe’s sentence appeared to stick to the back of his throat, so he was more than grateful for your interruption.

“I don’t want that to be the end, though,” you whispered softly, genuinely, wonderfully slow, “of, uh, us hanging out.”

And shit, when your sentences ran into each other, it was music to Rafe’s ears — confirmation that you felt it too. This, the something sweet in the air, the promise of fate and forever that was becoming increasingly hard to miss.

“Maybe we should talk it out,” you continued, starting strong and feigning nonchalance, but your fingers were tangled in your silver chain and Rafe wanted to replace it with his own touch. “Uh, besides, we’ll probably see each other at parties and stuff,” absolutely, definitely, “and you’re at the same college as Topper and Kelce,” and I’ll visit you at UPenn, “and I’ll probably come to visit, and we might bump into each other —” and catch up, and stand too close, and Rafe really really wanted to feel your skin on his, now.

He was halfway to crazy at the thought, and his conscious mind wasn’t in control anymore. Perhaps that was how it happened — on instinct, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. His firm hand was placed atop yours, and the way it was shaking appeared to still some.

You faltered then, and the corners of Rafe’s mouth quirked up at it registered. There was a twinkle in his eye, brilliant blue gaze never wavering, and he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, willing you to continue.

“Sorry,” you said meekly, as if anything about this situation deserved an apology. “Nervous.”

And alright — Rafe was fairly certain he looked insufferable, in that moment, because his roguish grin was returning like an old habit he refused to shake. “Nervous?” He repeated, and his features really brightened then, “I make you nervous?”

“Shut up, Rafael,” you muttered in embarrassment, and he marveled at the way his name fell off your lips. Yours, he thought. Don’t be nervous, I’m yours. “I think we’ve already established that you do.”

His smile widened, something teasing on his tongue, and he was nodding an amiable response when you brought him back to reality with a grimace.

“Can we get back on topic?”

Okay, Rafe decided, it was time to lay all his cards on the table. Or perhaps, it was time to shift your gaze to the space they inhabited. Because Rafe was fairly certain they had always been there, right in front of you, because he had been frank about his feelings for you from day dot. You had made a valiant effort of avoiding them in the years that had passed, but it was time now for you to really begin to accept them.

He took in a gulping breath, and hoped it held the kindest particles of oxygen. He hoped this, because Rafe Cameron knew — he knew all of that air would be used to convey how he felt about you. Would be used to talk through the delicate intricacies of his emotions — it needed to be the very best type of air, to contain kindest particles of oxygen. You deserved that much. You deserved more, in fact. And Rafe hoped to God that if this all worked out, he would be able to spend his days ensuring that that was exactly what you got.

“Listen,” he started softly, meeting your wide-eyed gaze in earnest. “What I said at dinner, there was no excuse for that, okay? I was riled up — wouldn’t be the first time, when it comes to you — and I was being shitty. It wasn’t okay, at all.”

The hardest part was over. He swallowed down his nerves, and tried his best to reiterate his love. “But you have to know,” he pressed, dipping his head just a little, “that… fuck. I’ve wanted you for so long, Y/n. Long enough that it makes me do stupid things, say stupid things, and, I mean, the way you make me feel…”

He trailed off, paling. “...I don’t deserve that feeling. At all.”

Though perhaps he did, because when you squeezed his hand then, it was gentle, it was warm, and you responded a “that’s not true” with wholehearted conviction in your chest. Fleeting reassurance, replaced with a flicker of reluctance, and Rafe’s heart plummeted. Unrequited love, once again.

“Look,” you frowned, looking smaller than you usually did, and then you said something about the ‘idea of him’ that had his mind reeling.

And you were trying to explain it, you were, but then you asked him the why question and guilt tightened at Rafe’s chest. He felt like a textbook fucking douchebag for ever allowing your thoughts to falter. He was the worst, because even after five years of relentless pining, Rafe Cameron’s feelings had still managed to appear disingenuous. He was the worst, and he deserved a punch in the nose for his behaviour. He wondered fleetingly how much better your right hook was from junior year, when he had taught you how to use it in order to gain your forgiveness.

“Why you?” He echoed, and you were a perfect match really, because you were equal parts clueless and stubborn, the same way that he was. “Are you kidding me, Y/n?”

You weren’t finished, you said obstinately, and Rafe wondered whether he could shut you up by pressing his lips to yours.

“You also had a reputation,” you said then, as if his high-school persona didn’t begin and end with you. “I mean — every girl in our class was falling at your feet,” not you, “and you enjoyed it —”

“I didn’t,” Rafe interrupted, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, and really — wasn’t it? The red string of fate held your figures together. “I was too busy pining for someone else.”

You weren’t finished, again, and Rafe felt himself fall harder. “And… your little comments, I didn’t know if they were real, I mean, no one took them seriously —”

“Then they weren’t paying enough attention.”

Perhaps it was the anticipation coursing through his veins, but you were his girl, and the revelation clouded any and all rational thought. If he thought back, if he thought really really hard, he realised that — yeah, that had always been the case. There was something magnetic in the way your figure gravitated toward his, and he was sure that he wasn’t the only person that registered it. People around you felt it too, he was absolutely sure of it. It was true love, and it was causing Rafe’s thoughts to buffer. He wanted to do this feeling justice, but he wasn’t sure the English language had a word that perfectly described it.

It was like this: the breeze sounded a hum of Taylor Swift songs when you were around. It was like this: he could get drunk off the smell of faint lavender and bergamot. It was like this: you were his girl, and he wasn’t sure he could explain how, but he was so sure of it that his conviction never wavered when you were around.

And though he knew it, he corrected himself anyway. For your sake, he said “I mean,” and then he added “the girl for me,” as if any part of him meant it.

But then you responded in a way that Rafe didn’t expect, and it was like this: he was all in. You fucking own me, Rafe thought. You could hurt me a million times over and I would let you, Rafe thought. If it meant an eventual, happily ever after, I would let you, Rafe thought. I’m fucking done for, you know that? And I don’t even mind it.

“Your girl,” you said, and something inside Rafe melted. He repeated it, just to be sure, and he clocked another flicker as the words escaped his lips. He voiced another earnest “I don’t deserve you”, but you were stubborn, it seemed, because you refused to back down.

“Stop,” you said softly, bringing his panicked thoughts to a halt. “Why do you keep saying that?”

Rafe swallowed. There was a lump in his throat that hadn’t been there before. “You’re just… I rarely get the good things. In life, I mean.”

“You deserve the good things, Rafe,” you murmured, and it was soft, it was real; Rafe couldn’t explain how, but he knew in his heart that you meant it. The next few words were strained, didn’t quite appear to register, and it wasn’t until you said that he didn’t care that he really heard them.

“I cared,” he interrupted, because shit — were you kidding? He cared so much that it was fucking killing him. It was a knife to his chest, twisted a million times over, and his heart was still bleeding out at the fact that you didn’t think so. “But I didn’t want to ruin the week, you were enjoying your time with Top —”

“Trying to,” you said, “failing.”

And then — and then, you really admitted it. “My feelings,” you said, something about them creeping up on you. “And when I realised, they scared me. But that’s unfair on you.”

Rafe knew the answer, the smile on his lips tell-tale, but he cocked his head to one side and asked the question anyway. “And what are they? Your feelings?”

“Broken a few rules,” you teased, crinkling your nose, looking embarrassed and nervous like he wasn’t already head-over-heels in love with you.

This, he could do. This, he was a natural at. This, he had been waiting for since your first encounter in freshman math.

“Not more than me, I’m sure,” he responded. “Let’s see… broken #1, #3 far too many times, #4, #5 before we even came on this trip –”

“Stop,” you admonished, swatting a hand against his chest, “you don’t mean that.”

Rafe caught your wrist easily, pad of his thumb brushing over the skin of your palm. He was blushing wildly, drunk off the thought of you, and when he asked you which ones you had broken, your shy gaze conveyed your answer in a way words never could.

“Rafael,” you smiled coyly, and Rafe thought, okay. He thought, you don’t have to say another word. He thought, five fucking years later, and I’ve finally got the girl.

—

tags: @destourtereaux @delicaties @euphoriapillz @thesimpletype @starkeybae @estrellarimar @fallinmaris @atlabeth @mackenzielovee @novxturient @drewstarkey @marveloussensations @heyaitsklaudia @peachyxrosie @itssoweirdyoureher @jordynsharum @gillybear17 @emotionalbruv @truewdw1 @around1302 @r0und3bitch @itsalexwin @notdisneychannel @lovedetlost @wrathspoet @browneyedboys @valeriiecameron @roc2021

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