𝑘𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑎

[poeticpoutk]

𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

You wake up tangled in his sheets, the sun already pushing through the blinds like it’s got something to prove. Tannyhill is still and quiet, save for the low hum of waves outside, and Rafe’s arm is heavy across your waist, holding you there like he’s got no intention of letting go.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him, but of course, he already is.

“You’re staring,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded and voice thick with sleep.

You roll your eyes. “I was not.”

His mouth curves into that smug, sideways smirk. “It’s fine, baby. I get it. Hard not to look when you wake up next to all this.”

You laugh softly and try to pull away, but he tightens his hold, dragging you in against his bare chest like you’re his personal teddy bear.

“You forgot what day it is,” you say into the space between you.

“I didn’t forget.” He pauses, leans back just enough to look at you. “It’s Valentine’s Day. And yes, before you say anything, I have something planned.”

Your brows rise. “You? Planned?”

He sits up, stretching with a groan and reaching for the shorts he dropped on the floor the night before. His tan skin is littered with faint purple shadows.

“Like what you see?” he asks, throwing you a wink.

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Yeah, and you love it.”

You do. Unfortunately. Completely. Hopelessly.

⸻

You didn’t expect this.

The place he takes you to? Not just some cute café. It’s one of those ridiculous brunch spots in Figure Eight that looks like a Pinterest board exploded, white tablecloths, glass walls, flowers on every table, and a menu where the cheapest thing is water and even that costs extra if it’s sparkling.

And he walks in like he owns the damn place.

Rafe’s in a white polo shirt that fits too perfectly, sleeves tight on his arms, collar popped just slightly, and his favorite navy shorts paired with expensive slides and a fresh tan. His chain glints against the cotton, his sunglasses are pushed into his messy hair, and his whole attitude screams I don’t belong here but I’ll still act like it’s beneath me.

He glances at you as you step out of the truck and whistles.

“Geez.”

You smooth your dress instinctively, the soft pink fabric hugging you just enough before flaring out around your hips. It’s mid-thigh, fluttery and romantic, he loves it.

“You’re lucky I let you leave the house in that.”

You shoot him a look. “You didn’t let me do anything.”

He smirks. “Sure I didn’t.”

He grabs your hand and pulls you inside, leading the way through a sea of linen napkins and bored rich couples. The hostess clearly knows who he is, half-smile, subtle eye-roll, and takes you to a table outside overlooking the water.

Private. Quiet. Exactly what he wanted.

“Why here?” you ask, scanning the room. Everyone’s dressed like they’re about to get interviewed by Vogue.

“Less people.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Didn’t wanna deal with anybody. Just wanted to spend time with you today.”

Your heart does something weird at that.

“You’re being nice,” you say softly, glancing at the menu like it makes sense. (It doesn’t. What the hell is ‘caviar with egg foam’?)

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I’m not.”

When the waiter comes, Rafe orders for both of you without asking, just smirks when you give him a look and mouths, trust me. He tips in cash like a brat and hands the guy his card without even flinching. He leans back in his seat after, legs spread and fingers drumming on the table like he’s waiting for something.

“You good?” you ask.

“Yeah. Just… hold on.”

Then he pulls something from his pocket—a tiny, pale blue velvet box.

Your whole body freezes.

“Rafe.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just sets it gently in front of you. Then leans back again, face unreadable but cocky as hell under the surface.

“Open it.”

You do, carefully. Inside is a dainty chain with a tiny charm: a single letter in diamonds. Your initial. Perfect and understated and very much not something Rafe picked out on a whim.

You look at him, eyes wide.

“I-”

“It’s real,” he says. “Before you ask. Obviously. You think I’d buy you fake shit?”

You’re quiet for a second too long, and he narrows his eyes like he’s not used to you being this quiet.

“You don’t like it?”

“No,” you say quickly. “I love it. I just… I didn’t think-”

“Yeah, well. I think about you a lot more than you think I do.”

He says it so bluntly, so Rafe, and the air leaves your lungs all at once.

“I wanted to give you something that wasn’t just a memory,” he says. “Something you can actually keep. You know. Since you’re always talking about how I never think long-term.”

You blink hard. Bite the inside of your cheek.

“Come here,” he mutters.

You lean over the table, and he reaches around your neck, brushing your hair off one shoulder to clasp the necklace with fingers that shake just slightly.

When he leans back, he looks at it, then at you.

“Looks better on you than I expected.”

“You thought about it?”

He shrugs, lips twitching.

“Maybe.”

⸻

Brunch is too pretty to eat and way too expensive to enjoy without guilt, but with Rafe across from you? It’s perfect. He keeps reaching out—grabbing your hand, playing with your rings, tapping your knee under the table like he can’t go more than five seconds without touching you.

At one point, he wipes whipped cream off the corner of your mouth with his thumb, slow and deliberate.

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, like it’s physically painful to admit.

“You’re such a liar.”

He grins. “Nah. You’re just not used to me being this nice .”

“I like it.”

That makes him pause. His eyes flick up to yours, and his whole expression changes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He nods like he’s tucking that away for later.

⸻

Back in the truck, as you lean your head against the window, full and warm and a little dazed, he glances over.

“I did good, right?”

You turn toward him, smiling. “You did so good.”

His smirk returns, arrogant and familiar.

“Obviously.”

Then he grabs your hand, lacing his fingers through yours on the center console like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And somehow, on this ridiculous, overpriced, over-decorated Valentine’s Day morning, Rafe Cameron makes you feel like the only girl in the world, messy, complicated, chaotic Rafe, doing something sweet just for you.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

sooo i have no idea where this idea came from, I was just so bored and it popped into my head.

Thanks!

[poeticpoutk]

𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘦 - 𝘱𝘵2

pt 1

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

The first few days, he doesn’t say a word.

You keep expecting your phone to light up. A paragraph. A voicemail. One of his rants, maybe. Something. But there’s nothing.

Which, in some twisted way, hurts more than if he’d tried.

You still think about him constantly, though. Of course you do. It’s Rafe.

You sleep with your phone face-down just in case. You avoid your usual spots. You ignore the way your chest tightens every time someone says his name. You try to breathe through the ache.

Then, a week later, it starts.

Rafe (1:12 AM):

| I miss you so much.

| I can’t sleep. Are you okay?

You don’t reply.

The next night, it comes again:

Rafe (12:04 AM):

| You’re so beautiful. I don’t deserve you.

| You’re the best thing I ever had.

You delete the text without reading it twice.

But they keep coming. At weird hours. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes incoherent. Sometimes a photo of something stupid you liked, your favorite seashell he kept on his nightstand. A streetlamp on your block. A song screenshot you once played in his truck.

Rafe (3:07 AM):

| Can we talk?

| Just talk. Please.

And then a switch flips.

Rafe (4:36 AM):

| You were always a stuck-up bitch anyway.

| Acting like you’re some angel. You’re not.

You sit up in bed that night, heart racing. You block his number.

Two days later, it’s a new number.

Unknown (9:52 PM):

| I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t. I was angry.

| I love you. Don’t leave it like this. Please don’t.

You block that one too.

Eventually, you stop counting how many numbers he’s burned through. Some nights he doesn’t say anything at all. Others, it’s four texts in a row. A missed call. A voicemail you don’t listen to. A photo from a year ago, legs in the sand, his hand over your ankle.

And then it goes quiet again. Really quiet.

Almost long enough for you to breathe.

—

It’s a party. You didn’t want to go.

But your friend was begging, and you haven’t left the house in three days, and honestly... you miss being seventeen. The soft weight of a drink in your hand. The feel of ocean air in your hair. Music pulsing up through your shoes. Being a teenager instead of some girl with a broken heart and a Rafe-shaped hole in her chest.

You’re already three drinks deep when you see him.

He’s standing in the archway of the living room like he’s trying not to be seen. But of course he is. That’s Rafe. He looks… not awful. His shirt’s wrinkled, his jaw clenched, but his eyes catch yours like they never forgot how.

Your stomach drops.

You turn your back to him. You start moving, fast, out the back. Somewhere quieter. The deck. The sea breeze.

But he follows.

You hear it in the way the door shuts behind you. The quiet click. His shoes on the wood.

“Wait,” he says, voice tight. “Can we please talk?”

You don’t turn around. “No.”

“Please.”

His voice is different. Not angry. Not bitter. Just tired.

You glance over your shoulder. His eyes are glassy. You can tell he’s been drinking, but not enough to stumble. Just enough to lower the wall.

“I love you,” he says. Like it’s a fact. Like gravity.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to get over you,” you whisper. “And you don’t let me.”

“I don’t know how to.”

You look at him. His arms are crossed. He’s swaying slightly with the wind, but his face is steady. For once.

He swallows. “Come talk with me. Out by the dock.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. But he looks so human, so quiet, so unlike the storm he always is.

So you follow.

The dock is empty. All the party noise fades behind you as you walk down the wooden planks. The moonlight cuts across the water in ripples. His family’s yacht looms at the far end, silent and pristine like some ghost ship.

You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the edge. He sits beside you, knees pulled up, elbows resting there.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, softly “I’m sorry.”

You stare at the water. “You’ve said that before.”

“I know. But I mean it now.”

“You always say that, too.”

“I’m not yelling,” he says, glancing sideways at you. “I’m not high. I’m not making excuses. I’m just sitting here. With you.”

You don’t answer. The wind rustles your hair. You feel your heart pounding and hate how much you still want him.

He sighs. “I fucked up.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“I meant what I said. All of it. That night in my truck? That wasn’t fake. I really thought I could do it.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice flat.

“No.” He exhales. “I didn’t.”

There’s a long pause.

“I think about you every day,” he says.

You close your eyes. “Rafe-”

“I do,” he insists. “I think about you all the time. I think about how I hate not knowing what's going on between us. I think about a lot of things.”

You say nothing.

“I messed it all up. And I hate myself. I hate that I was the one thing in your life that made it worse, not better.”

Your eyes sting. “You weren't all bad.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You weren’t all bad,” you say. “That’s the worst part. You weren’t just bad. You were… a decent boyfriend half the time. You held my hand when I cried. You taught me how to drive. You kissed my shoulder just to calm me down. You made me feel- i dunno” You stop yourself.

He turns fully toward you. “I made you feel what?”

You look at him. His eyes are wide. Earnest.

“special,” you whisper. “even when it hurt I liked how it felt.”

Silence.

You hear him swallow.

The dock creaks under you. You lean back on your hands, trying to ground yourself. You feel dizzy. Not just from the drinks.

He leans a little closer.

“I don’t want to make you more promises I can’t keep,” he says, voice slower now, quieter. “But I want to try. I want to do it different this time. Slower. Whatever you need.”

You look at him.

He looks like Rafe. But not the Rafe from your nightmares. The Rafe from the morning afters. The one who used to rest his forehead on yours and breathe like he needed you to live.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” he says again. “I wouldn’t either.

“I’m tired.”

“I can wait.”

“You say that…”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, gently. “For once, I mean it.”

He stares at the water for a long time, then looks back at you, drunk but steady.

“I'll be patient with you.”

Your heart aches.

“i love you rafe” you say softly.

He nods. “Yeah, I love you too.”

You sit in silence.

The wind is cold on your arms. His presence is warm beside you, familiar in a way that makes you want to curl up and cry.

It’s not fixed. Not even close.

But it’s not nothing.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Hii guys! I have no school and i'm sick stuck in my room so i'm super bored and just felt like writing. I'm not 100% sure if this is how you wanted the pt 2 to go, or if you even wanted a 2nd part but here you go!

Thanksss.

[poeticpoutk]

𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘦

pt 2

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

You shouldn’t have come tonight. That much is clear now.

The bass is rattling the picture frames on the walls of the giant Kook house, a beachside monster that belongs to someone’s dad, you’re not even sure whose. The lights are low, just glints of neon LEDs wrapped around the stair banister and the corners of the ceiling. You can barely hear yourself think. People you don’t really know keep brushing past you with drinks sloshing in red cups, laughing too loud, shouting half-remembered inside jokes across the room like they own the air.

And Rafe’s beside you.

Well... he was.

He’d been different all night. Not the usual sharp-edged, biting, mean Rafe, at least not exactly. But not sweet either. More like… distant. Anxious. Off. He’s wearing that white linen button-down that he always leaves open too low, and he’s got this wired energy in his jaw like he’s constantly clenching it to hold something in. Every time you leaned into him, trying to anchor yourself, his arm over your shoulder, your head on his chest, he didn’t really hold you back. His hands just kind of hovered.

And then he said he was going to the bathroom.

That was almost an hour ago.

You don’t wear a lot tonight, but you hadn’t exactly planned on dressing scandalous—just a tiny, sparkly, strapless top and a little black mini skirt, something light ‘cause of the heat, something cute. You’d flat ironed your beautiful long hair, because rafe says likes it out, he says it makes you look “too sweet for the shit you put up with.” And maybe it was stupid, but you wanted to look good for him. For once. Like before.

You broke up with him a month ago. You’d sworn you were done.

It had been awful. The late nights, the mood swings, the drugs. The silence. The rage. You’d ended it in a whisper because that’s just who you are, you can’t scream, you can’t throw things, you just cry until your voice disappears and then you let go.

But a week later, you ended up in the passenger seat of his truck outside a party just like this one. The windows fogged. His voice cracked. He cried. Real tears, heavy and raw. He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the Earth.

“I’ll get clean,” he swore, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll change, I will. I’m done with that shit. You’ll see. Just… don’t leave me.”

And you, stupid, soft, niave thing that you are. you believed him.

Because you love him.

God, you love him.

-

And so now you’re here, alone in a crowd of people you wish you didn’t know, feeling sick from the vodka someone poured way too strong in your soda and sicker from the fear rising like smoke in your chest. Something’s wrong. You feel it. Not just in your body, not just the way your head’s swimming, but in your bones.

You brush past a group of girls near the kitchen island, laughing so loud it rings in your ears. You nod when one of them—Jules, maybe—says, “You seen Rafe?” with a half-smirk like she already knows the answer.

“I’m looking for him,” you say softly. You don’t add anything else.

Your feet carry you down the hallway, dizzy and nauseous. You hate this kind of drunk, the slow, hot, heavy kind that sticks to your ribs. You don’t feel right. Your thoughts are foggy, slow. Everything feels two seconds delayed.

You stop in front of the stairs.

And then you go up.

The music softens the higher you climb. Upstairs is almost too quiet in comparison, just the dull beat leaking through the floorboards. You turn down the hall, lightheaded and buzzing with something like dread.

Then you hear them.

Laughter. Male voices. A door creaking. Something that sounds like a bottle tapping glass.

You push open the first door.

Empty.

You try the second, and this time the sound spills out loud and clear—Topper’s voice, that fake-loud laugh of his that means he’s trying too hard. Kelce too, talking over someone about something you can’t catch. Girls giggling. The smell hits you first, alcohol and something sharper, chemical, sour.

Your stomach twists.

You open the door slowly.

And there he is.

Rafe’s sitting manspread on a low leather sofa, surrounded by people who don’t care about him. A girl’s practically in his lap. His eyes are red. His smile doesn’t even look real. There’s a coffee table in front of him... lined.

Coke. Everywhere.

Your breath catches.

He sees you.

And something about his face shifts, he looks angry, brows furrowed, jaw tight. But he also looks... scared, upset, something like it, his eyes are filled with dread.

“Get up,” you say quietly, and it doesn’t even sound like your voice. “Rafe, I wanna go home."

Topper laughs. Kelce mutters something about “shit timing,” and the girls barely notice you at all, like you’re just another thing in the room. Background.

“I’m not done,” Rafe mutters, standing up slowly, brushing the girl off him like she’s nothing.

Your chest aches, and you don't even know why, how did you not expect this? how did you not see this coming? it is rafe after all.

“You said you were done with this,” you whisper, still frozen in the doorway. “You promised.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Babe. Don’t start.”

“No,” you say, and your voice is shaking now, but not loud. Never loud. “Don’t call me that.”

You don’t want to cry. You already feel like throwing up.

“Come on,” he mutters, pushing past the coffee table, grabbing your arm. “Let’s talk outside.”

You don’t resist. You can’t. Your legs are jelly and your brain is fuzzy and your heart is a hurting... again. You follow him out into the hallway and the door clicks shut behind you.

He turns to face you, eyes wild, teeth gritted. “You always do this.”

“What?” you say, confused.

“So what? your done with me again, your just gonna leave? You think your so much better then me huh?.”

“I never said that,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretches between you. You look at the floor. You don’t know how to breathe.

“I love you,” he says suddenly. His voice breaks again, like it did that night in his truck. “You know that, right? You know I fucking love you. I’ve never said that to anyone else.”

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper. “You lied to me.”

“I made a mistake.”

You blink at him. “You promised me it was different, you were actually gonna make an effort this time.”

“I’m trying—”

“No,” you say softly, and this time you step back. “You’re not.”

He looks panicked. The hallway light makes his face look hollow.

“You said you’d get clean,” you say. “You said you would never ever hurt me again.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear—”

“There’s always something,” you whisper, and your hands are trembling now. “There’s always a reason, a party, or a bad day, or whatever you can come up with to make it okay.”

He stares at you like he’s begging you not to move, and begging himself not to make it worse.

“You’re a liar,” you say, and it cuts your throat to say it. “And I don’t want to be with someone I don't trust.”

He steps forward, and his voice is sharper now, angrier. “You’re just gonna leave again? That’s what you do, huh? just run away when shit gets hard.”

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“You’re being a bitch,” he snaps. “You don’t even fucking know what I’m dealing with.”

And that’s the moment something in you. Some last, small piece, breaks.

Your voice doesn’t rise. You don’t scream. You don’t slap him or run or make a scene.

You just look at him with your wide, soft eyes and say, gently,

“Rafe… I can’t do this.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

“Please,” he whispers. “don’t leave.”

You don’t move.

“I need you.”

You shake your head. “You need help.”

He doesn’t answer.

And after a minute, you walk away.

Down the hallway, down the stairs, past the music and the smoke and the people who barely notice. You find your bag. You leave.

You don’t look back.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

Hi guys, I'm a pretty new writer, that's probably obvious in the not so great quality of my writing. I'm super open to ideas, requests and making more parts so just lmk.

Also if you do want a pt 2 to this just lmk! i can tag you in it too if you'd like!

Thanks.

[poeticpoutk]

𝘋𝘢𝘥!𝘙𝘢𝘧𝘦'𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────

He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, still in his work clothes, dress shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, laptop open in front of him with half a dozen tabs up, some boring contract for a property redevelopment proposal. The house smells like toast and coffee and that lavender soap she always puts on Aspen in the bath. The sun’s pouring in soft through the kitchen windows, and for a second, everything feels still.

And then he hears the little footsteps.

Soft. Fast. Purposeful.

And then Aspen’s voice, right beside him.

“Daddy?”

He looks down to see her, barefoot, cheeks pink from playing, hair half-brushed, wearing one of her sparkly skirts and a t-shirt with a sleepy unicorn on it. Her eyes are serious in that way only little kids can pull off, the kind of seriousness that makes adults laugh without meaning to.

“Hi baby,” he smiles, already reaching down to scoop her up onto his lap. She crawls up like she owns him, because she kind of does. “What’s up?”

She blinks at him for a second. “Daddy,” she says again, like it’s very important. “I need some of your money.”

Rafe pauses, stunned for a beat. “…You what?”

She straightens a little taller in his lap, all business. “I need some money. For my school.”

“You need money?” He tries not to laugh. “What do you need money for, huh?”

“Because…” She draws out the word with a sigh. “Kindy has a lucky book sale. And it’s for a fundraiser. For the kindy. For the children.” She says the last part with this solemn, rehearsed tone that’s clearly something she heard her teacher say.

Rafe bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too wide.

“And they said we can bring our money in a bag. And buy books. Lucky books.”

“Oh, lucky books?” he says, voice full of mock wonder.

“Yes! Like—you don’t know what the books are! They wrap them up. And you buy one, and then it’s a surprise!” Her eyes are wide, sparkling with this magic only four-year-olds can see. “And it’s for the fundraiser,” she adds again, just in case he forgot.

Rafe shifts her in his arms so he can look her straight in the eye. “How much money are we talkin’, Aspen?”

She holds up her little hand and counts her fingers out slowly. “Maybe… three dollars. Or maybe six dollars. Or maybe ten, if I’m lucky.”

“Ten?” he teases, raising his eyebrows. “You trying to buy the whole fundraiser?”

She giggles and buries her face in his chest. “Noooo,” she says. “Just the books!”

Rafe wraps both arms around her and kisses her hair, inhaling that soft baby-lotion-and-toast smell that always clings to her in the mornings. For a second, he just holds her there, all warm and sweet and small in his lap. She’s his littlest. His baby. And this is the first time she’s ever asked him for money in her life. The first time she’s said “I need money” without any idea that her dad could probably buy the whole damn kindy and turn it into a bookstore if she really wanted.

“Alright,” he says, whispering against her temple. “You can have ten dollars. But only if I get a big hug.”

“YAY!” she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly knocking his laptop off the bench. “THANK YOU DADDY! You’re the best! I’m gonna buy all the lucky books!”

He laughs, pulling her in tighter. “You get one book, munchkin. Maybe two if you share.”

“I’m not,” she says immediately.

He can’t stop smiling. Not even when she scrambles off his lap, dancing across the kitchen with her hair flying, yelling for you to find her a little bag right now.

And when he glances up from his laptop, watching her spin in the sunlight, he just shakes his head with that soft, overwhelmed kind of love.

She has no idea who she is yet.

She has no idea how different her life is.

All she knows is: daddy has money, and lucky books are ten dollars, and the world is bright and magical and safe.

And Rafe?

He’d pay any amount of money in the world to keep it that way just a little longer.

[kissmaybank]

IDC, SEASON ONE RAFE IS MY FAVORITE ONE. GIVE ME THAT FRAT COCK. 🤍