pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader, topper thornton x fem!reader
summary — rafe cameron has never wanted something he couldn’t take. it’s not his fault topper’s girlfriend turns out to be one thing he can’t stop thinking about.
word count — 18.1k (i know!!!!)
warnings — not proofread so sorry;; fem!reader, ooc topper, emotional infidelity, physical cheating, complicated love triangle (best friend’s girlfriend), relationship conflicts, alcohol use, drug use (cocaine), physical violence, description of blood and injuries, emotional manipulation through emotional vulnerability, power imbalance, sexual tension, making out/kissing, very impaired judgement due to intoxication, aggressive-ish behavior, explicit sexual tension, infidelity/cheating, emotional cheating, ambiguous consent due to intoxication and emotional state, power imbalance, controlling parents, possessive behavior, manipulation, guilt and shame due to intimacy, objectifying internal monologue, imagination of reader in explicit sexual scenarios, sexual fixation on reader, reader mentioned wearing dresses, makeup, embodying “perfect girlfriend” role. lmk if i missed any!!
part one part two part three
Topper had never quite gone against the grain most kids on Figure Eight did—sneaking coke at Midsummers, fucking in someone’s parents’ beds during charity galas, stealing boats just to see if they could—once in a while. His entire being relied on his foundation of good breeding and the optimism that came from being a part of the 1%. He had never needed anything. The best way Rafe could describe him was by saying he was a golden retriever in human form. He was loyal, eager to please, and just smart enough to know he wasn’t the smartest person in any given room, and that made him try harder at everything else. Being kind. Being decent. Being exactly what his mother had raised him to be.
Which was why—Rafe supposed—Topper had gotten the girl.
You were laughing at something Kelce said. Rafe hadn’t been listening, too busy tracking the way the June sun caught your hair, turning colours that probably had names that sounded like they belonged on paint chips. They were sprawled across the Thorntons’ perfectly manicured lawn like they were in some Ralph Lauren ad. Topper, Kelce, Ruthie, you, and Rafe. He’d shown up because Topper had texted him and what else was he supposed to do? Say no? Admit he’d rather be literally anywhere else than watching his best friend play house with his girlfriend of two years? Sitting at Tannyhill waiting for Ward to notice him long enough to be disappointed? At least here he could pretend he had friends; had a place; had something resembling a normal fucking life.
But lately he couldn't stop cataloging the small things. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking; it was always the left side. How you always brought those homemade cookies to parties, the ones you always wrapped in the same blue cloth each time. The kind that actually tasted like they were baked in a home oven rather than in a commercial kitchen that used bleached flour and measured everything with no real meaning behind it. You used real butter and too much vanilla, and he supposed that was the imperfection that came from someone who actually gave a fuck. The little gold anklet you wore that caught the light when you moved. Stupid things. Things that shouldn't matter. Things he noticed anyway and filed them away into what started as a small nook in his brain and turned to an overpowering compartment.
Two years. Christ.
“—and I told my Dad there’s no one behind me, what does it matter?”
“It matters because you could hit someone,” Ruthie said, barely looking up from her phone.
“I passed my driver’s test—”
“Then why are we talking about this?” Ruthie’s thumb moved across her screen, nails clicking. She was always bored, yet she always showed up. How much is there to do here?
Topper laughed, genuine, and shifted so you could lean back against his chest. You fit there like you’d measured for the space. His arms came around your waist, casual and propriety, the way someone would hold something they knew was theirs. Something nobody else would try to take.
Rafe took a pull from his beer. It was warm and disgusting now. He was nursing the drink slowly given that Kelce’s parents were home. If he stopped focusing on drinking slowly, he’d be on his fifth by this point because Rafe had never learned moderation.
“Rafe, back me up,” Kelce said. “You’ve seen me drive—”
“You drive like shit,” Rafe said, and there was the stupid, perpetual edge in his voice he couldn’t smooth out. It always made the people around him shift uncomfortably and that reminded him why Ward always kept him at arm’s length.
“Wait, what?”
Rafe shrugged. “You drive like shit,” he repeated, then picked at the label on his beer bottle, watching it tear in damp strips. “You almost hit a mailbox on Sea Breeze last week.”
“The mailbox was in my blind spot—”
“The stationary mailbox? The mailbox that couldn’t move was in your blind spot?”
You, Topper’s girlfriend—god, even in his head he couldn’t call you by your name, like saying it would make this whole thing more real—made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. It was soft and musical and Rafe briefly felt something crawl up his throat that was most likely disgust at the way he’d begun thinking. Your head was tipped back against Topper’s shoulder, face turned toward the sun. You looked like you were exactly where you wanted to be.
You probably were.
“I’m a great driver,” he said, but he was grinning now, playing it up. “You’re all just jealous of my Jeep.”
“We all have Jeeps,” Ruthie said, raising a brow.
“Yeah, but mine’s nicer.”
“It’s literally the same car,” Ruthie said, voice lowering towards the end like she couldn’t be bothered to argue.
From inside the house, Mrs. Thornton appeared at the French doors, waving with enthusiasm Rafe was sure he’d perfected from Junior League training. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything. “Lunch is ready, kids! Hope you’re hungry—I made way too much pasta salad.”
“You’re a saint, Mrs. T,” Kelce called back.
“Oh, stop,” she said, but looked pleased. Her eyes lingered on you and Topper, together, appropriate, and exactly what a mother would want for her son. The look on her face was satisfaction. Pride, even.
Rafe had seen that look before. On Rose’s face when Sarah did something worth bragging about at the club. On Ward’s face when he talked about Topper getting into Chapel Hill, about how good a kid he was, how he had his head on straight. Never on Ward’s face when he talked about Rafe.
"Come on," Topper said, standing and pulling you up with him in one smooth motion. You stumbled slightly—the grass was uneven or maybe you'd been sitting too long—and he steadied you with a hand at your waist. He was laughing, and so were you, and your fingers were tangled together like they were stitched together. "Careful."
"I'm fine," you said, but you were smiling, and your fingers were still linked with his.
Rafe watched the stumble, the catch, the laugh. He watched the way Topper looked at you like steadying you was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd do it forever if you needed him to. And you looked up at Topper with this expression Rafe couldn't quite name. So unguarded and soft like this trust didn’t have to be earned was so uncomplicated, and the thought of earning it had never even occurred to you.
What the fuck would that be like? To look at someone and just—trust them? To not have to calculate every word, every move, every expression to make sure you didn't give too much away? For someone to look at Rafe, of all people, and feel that way?
Rafe stood too, brushed grass off his shorts. His hands were shaking slightly—not from the beer, barely half-finished—but from something else. Something that felt too much like anger but wasn't. Couldn't be. What did he have to be angry about? Topper was his best friend. You were Topper's girlfriend. This was how it was supposed to be.
You and Topper walked together, shoulders touching, your sundress—pink today, always some shade of soft—swishing around your knees. Your little gold anklet caught in the light. You looked like something out of a catalog selling a lifestyle Rafe’s family already had but somehow always felt a little out of reach. He was twenty and only just realizing that—truly—some things couldn’t be purchased in the same way Ward bought boats and houses and buildings. Some things you had to deserve.
“You good?” Topper said, dropping back to walk beside Rafe.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know, man. You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
Topper laughed shortly. “No, you’re always talking shit. Quiet’s different.” His brows furrowed, concerned and probably genuine. Girls like you made boys like Topper genuine, made sure he didn’t want to be anything other than what he appeared to be. “Everything good with Ward?”
Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine.”
“Cool. Cool. Just—you know you can always talk about stuff, right? If you need to.”
Rafe’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “What the fuck are you saying?”
Topper chuckled, shaking his head too. He had lost that quality of getting defensive and irritated too quickly when he started dating you. “Don’t know. But I mean it, yeah?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.” Topper clapped his shoulder, reassured, and jogged ahead to catch up with you. You’d stopped to wait for him, leaning against the doorframe, and when he reached you, you smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile you gave everyone else, it seemed more private. Just for him. For Topper. Rafe filed that away without meaning to, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when it was real..
Inside, Mrs. Thornton had set out enough food for thrice their number. Pasta salad, finger sandwiches and normal-sized sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies that looked homemade. The kind of spread that said she cared and wanted them to feel welcome and that this was a home where people were fed and happy and safe.
They loaded their plates and settled around the Thorntons’ dining room table. Real plates, cloth napkins, and a lunch with structure. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rose tried, sometimes. She’d set out cheese boards when Ward had important colleagues over, she arranged things the way magazines told her to. But Ward was always working. Sarah was always out. Wheezie was always watching TV in her room with the door closed. Rafe was usually too high to sit through a meal, or too angry, or just too something. The Camerons ate in shifts, quietly, or not at all.
“So,” Mrs. Thornton said, perching on the edge of the chair with her own plate, “what are you kids up to this summer? Besides laying around my backyard like a bunch of lazy seals.”
“Mom,” Topper said.
“What? You are.”
“Not much,” Kelce said seriously. “It’s important we don’t get burned out too early.”
“Burnt out of what?” Ruthie asked.
“Of… summer. Having fun.”
“You can’t get burnt out of summer. It’s not a race—”
“Everything’s a race—”
Rafe tuned them out. He was watching you, sitting across from him, carefully spreading mayo on your sandwich. You had this way of doing things, and even making a sandwich required your complete attention. Or maybe Rafe was just imagining things? Your nails were painted the same pink as your dress. You wore a little gold necklace with your initial on it; it was delicate enough that Rafe hadn’t noticed until now. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate.
"What about you, sweetheart?" Mrs. Thornton asked, and it took Rafe a second to realize she was talking to you. "Any fun plans?"
"Oh, just the usual. Volunteering at the library on Tuesdays. Hanging out with friends. There's that charity thing at the club next week—"
"The children's hospital benefit," Mrs. Thornton said, nodding. "Your mother mentioned you're on the planning committee."
"Just helping where I can."
"She's being modest," Topper said, squeezing her hand where it rested on the table. "She basically organized the whole thing."
"I didn't—there's a whole committee—" Rafe watched the fluster creep into your cheeks.
"You made all those decorations yourself," Topper insisted. He looked at his mother and said, "She stayed up until like 2 AM cutting out paper flowers."
"They're for a good cause," you said, and there was something in your voice that sounded firm. Like you needed them to know you weren’t doing it for praise and that the doing itself was enough.
Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. It was good. Everything in this house was good. That was the problem.
"That's wonderful, honey," Mrs. Thornton said warmly. "We need more young people who actually care about giving back. Don't we, Topper?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Rafe, what about you? Are you helping with the benefit?"
Every eye at the table turned to him. He swallowed his bite of sandwich and took his time with it, feeling the bread stick to his throat. "Haven't really thought about it."
"You should come," you said, offering. Your eyes met his across the table and Rafe’s gaze involuntarily froze on you. Something uncomfortable and scalding set in his ribs. "We could use the help. It's next Saturday, six to nine."
"I might be busy."
"Doing what?" Kelce asked, taking a bite of his pasta salad.
"Stuff."
"Stuff," Ruthie repeated flatly, one eyebrow raised.
"Come on, man," Topper said. "It'll be fun. Open bar for the parents, which means nobody's paying attention to what we're doing—"
"It's for charity," you said, shrugging slightly like you weren’t sure if it was your place or not.
"It can be for charity and fun. Multitasking." Topper grinned slightly, shameless, and you rolled your eyes but you were smiling. You were always fucking smiling.
Rafe watched. The easy back-and-forth, the way you’d developed your own rhythm after two years together. The way you let Topper be annoying and he let her be serious and somehow it worked. Somehow you’d figured out how to be two people who actually liked each other.
"I'll think about it," Rafe said, even though he wouldn't.
"That's a yes," Kelce decided.
"That's a 'I'll think about it.'"
"On Figure Eight, 'I'll think about it' means yes. It's like when your mom says 'we'll see'—also yes."
"Sometimes 'we'll see' means no," you said quietly.
"Only if you've been bad," Mrs. Thornton said, reaching over and patting your hand gently. "Which I'm sure you never were."
You smiled down at your plate. "I had my moments."
Rafe tried to imagine you having ‘moments.’ He couldn't quite picture it. You seemed like the kind of kid who'd colored inside the lines and done your homework without being asked and never talked back. The kind teachers loved, parents bragged about, boys brought home to meet their families.
You were the kind of girl Ward would approve of.
The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Rafe shoved it away, took another bite of sandwich. Fuck. He knew that Ward would approve, because when Ward had seen you with Topper, he’d said to Rafe, “Now that’s a nice girl. Why can’t you find someone like that?
They ate and talked, but it was mostly Kelce and Ruthie bickering, you and Topper sharing food off each other's plates like you’d been married for twenty years, Mrs. Thornton interjecting with questions and comments that kept the conversation moving. It was painfully normal and painfully nice.
Rafe's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it under the table: Barry asking where he was, if he was coming by today. Three texts, actually, each more impatient than the last.
He should go. Should make an excuse and get out of here and go pick up what he needed to take the edge off this feeling, this crawling, itching feeling that said something was wrong, that he was in the wrong place, that everyone here was playing a game where they knew how to navigate and he didn’t.
But Topper was laughing at something you had said, and Mrs. Thornton was offering seconds, and Kelce was stealing a cookie before he'd finished his sandwich, and for a second—just a second—Rafe let himself imagine this was his life. That he was the one with the uncomplicated girlfriend and the mother who gave a shit and the kind of problems that could be solved by showing up to a charity event.
The phone buzzed in his hand again. bro?? He locked it and pushed it into his pocket.
"Rafe?" you said. He realized you’d asked him something—were still asking him something—and everyone was sitting around him waiting for his response again.
He swallowed nothing. "What?"
"I asked if you wanted more pasta salad. You've barely eaten."
You were looking at him with those eyes he’d memorised, head tilted slightly, concerned in that soft way you had. Not pitying—you were too careful for that—just genuinely wondering if he was okay. Like you cared and like you actually gave a shit whether or not he ate lunch.
"I'm good," he said.
"You sure? Mrs. Thornton made a lot—"
"I said I'm good. Stop asking.”
It came out harsher than he’d meant. You blinked, drew back just half an inch, and Topper’s arm came around your shoulders automatically, protective like Rafe was a predator and you were his next meal.
“Dude,” Topper said.
“What?”
“She’s just trying to be nice.”
“I know.” His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. “I’m good. That’s all I said.”
The table went silent. Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat, Ruthie studied her phone, and Kelce suddenly found his sandwich fascinating. You were looking at him from the corner of your eye with what he assumed was hurt or concern. Your hand moved to your necklace and twirled the initial around once, then back around twice.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at you. “Sorry,” he said, eyes meeting yours, almost shamefully. “Didn’t mean to—sorry.”
Your eyes widened slightly. Maybe you were surprised he’d apologized at all. He didn’t blame you. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, gently, which somehow made him feel worse. Were you that forgiving with Topper, too? Would you forgive Rafe that quickly if you were his, because he knew he’d fuck up a lot. “I didn’t mean to push.”
“You weren’t.”
𖦹
Rafe almost didn’t go. He had his truck pointed towards Barry’s and everything with his cash in pocket and the familiar itch under his skin that said he needed something to take the edge off Ward’s recent disappointment (this morning delivered over breakfast like a side of shitty cold eggs (“I assume you’re not going to the L/N’s charity event tonight”)) But then he’d driven past the country club on his way and seen the parking lot filling up with cars that cost more than people’s houses (Range Rovers, Mercedes, that asshole Jenkins’s new Porsche) and something in him—maybe it was boredom, maybe spite, or just the kind of restless energy that came from doing too much coke the night before and not enough today—made him turn in.
He told himself it was to prove Ward wrong. And also because Topper had texted him three times, ever the supportive boyfriend. Or because he had nothing better to do on a Saturday night in June when the whole island felt like it was suffocating under humidity.
He did not tell himself it had anything to do with you.
The country club itself looked like someone had thrown up pastels all over it. Pink and yellow streamers twisted around the columns, balloons clustered by the entrance in a way that was almost scary, and those fucking paper flowers—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—strung up everywhere, the ones Topper had mentioned you stayed up until 2 AM making, which Rafe had filed away without meaning to because apparently his brain was keeping track of shit like that now.
He was adjusting his shirt—had put on something with buttons for once, though he’d left the top two undone because he wasn’t a complete fucking sellout—when he saw you.
You were outside the main entrance with a clipboard, which was so perfectly on-brand it almost made him laugh. Your hair was pulled back in something already falling apart, little pieces sticking to your neck in the heat. You wore a lavender dress that hit just above your knee and clung in ways that made Rafe’s mouth go dry. It was fitted enough that he could see the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and the line of your legs.
You were talking to two guys in catering uniforms, gesturing with your free hand—sharp and short moments that weren’t like you—and even from across the parking lot Rafe could see you were stressed. He could see it in the set of your shoulders and the way you kept pushing those loose pieces of hair out of your face and the rigid way you were holding the clipboard.
You looked like you could use a drink. Or a Xanax. Or someone to tell you it was fine. Or maybe just someone who could fuck the tension out of you until you remembered how to breathe normally.
Not that he was volunteering. His hand tightened on the steering wheel. Except he was apparently walking toward you instead of toward Barry’s, so maybe he was.
“—by five-thirty at least,” you were saying as he got closer, voice strained but still disgustingly polite. “That’s what we were told. So I’m not sure why—”
One of the catering guys—older, maybe forty, with a mustache—cut you off with something that Rafe didn’t catch but could guess from the gesture; you were just a kid to him with a shit-ton of money playing event planner (in other words: absolutely nothing to take seriously).
“I understand that,” you said, and there was a barely perceptible edge to your pageant voice now. “But we have a hundred-and-fifty people arriving in forty-five minutes and we don’t have—” You stopped, closed your eyes briefly, took a breath, and when you opened them you looked steadier, as though you’d shoved everything messy into whatever box you kept it in.
Rafe felt something uncomfortable watching you pull yourself together in real time.
“Okay. Can you at least tell me when—”
“Problem?” Rafe said.
You turned, surprised. You blinked at him like you couldn’t quite place why he was there, which was fair because he wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Rafe,” you said, and he liked the way his name sounded in your voice. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“I wasn’t, either,” he said honestly, and your mouth twitched like you found it funny. He looked at the catering guys, who were both studiously avoiding eye contact now that someone else was there. “You having problems?”
“No, there’s just been a miscommunication about the time.”
“So, yes.”
“Rafe—” you said, slightly flustered at his presence and the situation.
“What’s the problem?” The catering guys looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“No problem, man,” one of them said. “We’re just waiting on—”
“Half the equipment is missing,” you cut in, and yeah, there was definitely an edge now. You were pissed now. Trying very hard not to show it, but pissed. “The tables are wrong, the setup’s behind schedule, and nobody mentioned it until thirty minutes ago.”
“So fix it.” Rafe shrugged.
You looked at him. “I’m trying to fix it.”
“Try harder.”
The catering guys looked between them like they were watching a tennis match. You opened your mouth—to tell him to fuck off, maybe, which was very unlikely but would’ve been incredibly hot—then closed it. Then looked down at your clipboard, back at the guys, then Rafe.
“Can you give us a minute?” The catering guys couldn’t leave fast enough.
When they were gone, you turned to Rafe fully and stepped closer, close enough to smell your floral perfume that probably cost more than his expensive coke habit, he got a better look at you up close. The dress was even better at this distance; thin straps, sweetheart neckline, the kind of thing that was technically modest but didn't feel that way when you were looking at it. Or when he was looking at it. At you.
You weren't wearing much makeup, just enough to look polished, and there was a small stain on the hem of the dress that you probably didn't know about yet. It was probably coffee or those tiny chocolates they served at these things. You’d be horrified if you noticed, so Rafe kept the stain to himself. You looked stressed and like you'd been running around in heels for too long, which you had, judging by the way you kept shifting your weight.
"What are you doing here?" you asked.
"You invited me."
"That—I didn't think you'd actually come. You said you’d think about it.”
“Thought about it,” he said. “Decided to show. Here I am.”
“Why?” Your eyebrows knitted together, like you were sure he had an ulterior motive like ransacking the entire place as soon as guests began walking in.
"Guess I'm full of surprises." He pulled out his cigarettes, offered you one out of habit more than any expectation. You shook your head, predictably. He shrugged. "So what's actually wrong?"
"I just told you—"
"What's the actual problem?"
You stared at him for a second, and Rafe watched you recalculate. Decide whether to bother explaining or just tell him to leave. He could see it happening behind your eyes, the cost-benefit analysis, the weighing of options.
"The DJ canceled," you said finally. "Last minute. And the tables they sent are the wrong size, which means we have to completely rearrange the layout, which means the floor plan I spent three weeks on is useless, and everything else has to shift, and the photographer's going to be here in thirty minutes and we're supposed to start in forty-five and I still have to check on the auction setup and make sure the kitchen has everything they need and—" You stopped, pressed your fingers to your temple. "Sorry. You don't care about any of this."
"Not really,," Rafe agreed. "But this seems like it'd be bad for the sick kids or whatever."
You almost smiled at that. Almost. "Very compassionate."
"I try." He lit his cigarette, took a drag, buying him a second to think. "You got a backup DJ?"
"My phone and a speaker from 2015."
"That'll work."
"It won't—"
"Nobody's here for the music. They're here for the open bar and the tax write-off. You could play the same song all night as long as the drinks keep coming and nobody would notice."
"That's very sad."
"Doesn't make it wrong."
You looked at him like you were trying to figure out if he was fucking with you or actually trying to help. Rafe wasn't entirely sure himself. "The tables—"
"I'll move them."
"You don't have to—"
"Jesus,” he breathed out, letting some annoyance creep in because you were exhausting and Rafe couldn’t keep playing at this for much longer. This would’ve been his one good deed of the year. “You want help or not?"
That made you stop. Blink. "You're offering to help."
"Don't make it weird."
"It's already weird. You hate events like this. You’ve said that.”
Had he? Yeah. Probably. At the club, or at one of Top’s things, or somewhere else where you’d been in earshot and he’d been running his mouth.
Well, you’d been listening. Something about that—about you paying attention to what he said, filing it away the way he filed away everything about you—made his chest feel tight.
"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." He took another drag, watched you process this. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Or keep going crazy. Your call."
You bit your lip—nervous habit, probably, or maybe just the lip gloss was bothering you—and Rafe's eyes caught on it. On your mouth. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip and the little indent it left when you released it. He wondered if you did that during sex. If Topper had ever noticed. If—
Stop.
"Okay," you said, and Rafe refocused, eyebrows moving slightly up. "Okay. The tables need to go along the back wall, but first we have to move everything that's already there, and then rearrange the chairs, and—"
"Got it."
"I didn't finish—"
"Don't need you to. Tables go there, chairs go somewhere else, I can figure it out."
"Are you always this—"
"Helpful? Yeah,” he said sarcastically.
You shook your head, but you were almost smiling again, and Rafe decided that was worth more than whatever he would've gotten from Barry anyway. He didn’t feel completely useless. "Come on. I'll show you."
He followed you inside, where the situation was exactly as much of a shitshow as you'd described. Tables stacked wrong, chairs everywhere, decorations half-hung. The guys who were supposed to be setting up looked like they'd collectively given up on life. Rafe could relate.
"Okay," you said, clipboard up, and Rafe noticed your nails were painted the same color as your dress. Coordinated. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate and probably planned three weeks in advance. "So we need to—"
"I got it," Rafe said, because you were about to go into a detailed explanation complete with diagrams and he could see the basic problem from here. Tables needed to go there, chairs were in the way, move the chairs, move the tables. Easy.
He grabbed a stack of chairs. Started hauling them to the side.
They were heavier than they looked—real wood, not the cheap plastic shit—and by the third trip he'd worked up a sweat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Could feel you watching him from across the room where you were directing someone else, and when he glanced over he caught your eyes on him. Specifically, his arms, on the way his biceps flexed under his shirt sleeves as he carried the chairs. You looked away quickly when you realized he’d caught you, face flushing.
Interesting.
Rafe smiled to himself, guilty but satisfied, and moved another stack of chairs. Then another. Fell into a rhythm of lifting, carrying, setting down, repeat. Simple. Clear.
"You're really good at that," you said from somewhere behind him.
He turned. You were closer than he'd expected, making him straighten his back too quickly.
"At moving chairs?" Rafe asked, setting them down because holding them with you being this close felt awkward.
"At just doing things." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It immediately fell back out. "I would've spent twenty minutes thinking about how to move them.”
"Sometimes you just gotta move the fucking chairs." Rafe said simply.
You laughed, surprised.
You were standing close enough now that Rafe could see the mascara was slightly smudged under your left eye. Could see a small scar on your collarbone he'd never noticed before. Maybe from childhood.
You were watching him too, your eyes tracking over his face, his shoulders, down to where his shirt was sticking to his chest.
"You got something—" He reached out without thinking, thumb brushing under your eye where the mascara had smudged.
You went very still. "What are you—"
"Mascara. Hold still." He wiped it away, the pad of his thumb against your skin, and felt you inhale sharply. Your eyes were locked on his, pupils dilating, and for a second neither of you moved. He was close enough to see the texture of your lip gloss and count your eyelashes if he wanted to. Close enough to kiss you.
Then you stepped back. "Thanks."
"Mhm."
You touched your face where his thumb had been unconsciously, your hands slightly shaking.
"I should—" You gestured vaguely toward the rest of the room. "There's still so much to—"
"Go. I got this."
You hesitated, then nodded and disappeared to handle something else. Rafe stood there for a second, thumb tingling where he'd touched your face, then went back to moving chairs because that was easier than thinking about why he'd touched you in the first place.
Tables next. Heavier, but he'd rather work alone than try to coordinate with the setup guys who all looked like they'd never seen a table before. He got the first one moved, then the second, then—
"Jesus, Cameron, you trying to give yourself a hernia?"
Kelce's voice. Rafe looked up to see him standing in the doorway with Ruthie, both of them dressed like they were here for the event rather than the setup.
"Should you be doing this?" Kelce asked, gesturing at the tables. “Like actually. Isn’t this what we pay people for?”
"They were being useless,” Rafe said. “Someone’s gotta do it.”
"Yeah, usually not you." Kelce looked genuinely confused now.
"Fuck off."
"No, seriously." Ruthie came closer, studying him like he was a science experiment. "Where's Rafe? What'd you do with him?"
"I can help without it being a whole thing—"
"It's definitely a thing," Kelce said, grinning. "You hate events like this."
"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." Rafe moved another one into place, wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. "You gonna stand there all day or help?"
"I’m here for moral support," Ruthie said, examining her nails.
"Useless, got it."
But Kelce did grab one end of the next table, and together they got the rest moved in half the time. Ruthie mostly watched from a chair she'd pulled over, occasionally offering commentary that ranged from unhelpful to actively detrimental, but whatever. At least it was entertaining.
And Rafe could keep half an eye on you as you moved through the space, fixing things, directing people, climbing onto a chair in your dress and heels to adjust a banner that someone had hung crooked. He watched you wobble slightly and had to physically stop himself from crossing the room to steady you. You were fine. You got it fixed and climbed down and immediately moved on to the next thing.
“Dude,” Kelce said quietly so Ruthie couldn’t hear. “You’re staring.”
“Shut up.”
“Like, really, obviously staring.”
𖦹
You’d been to enough Figure Eight parties to know the entire song-and-dance. Ruthie would alcohol that could feed Figure Eight and The Cut, but three times over; people would set up a station to play very wrong, ruleless beer pong; someone would get in a fight; someone would call the cops and Ruthie would socially exile them for the next six months or until she conveniently forgot about it. Tonight was tracking perfectly to schedule: the handles were half-finished by eleven, there were red Solo cups floating in the pool, and you’d watched two guys argue about whether a bounce shot counted as a double for the past ten minutes even though there was literally no one keeping track.
You were nursing the same drink you’d picked up off the counter half-an-hour ago. The Truly can—Wild Berry, the only flavour that had been left by the time you arrived—was getting warm in your hand, condensation making the label peel in little strips. You kept picking at it without thinking, rolling little soggy pieces of tissue and dropping them into the can where you imagined they floated like dead flies. Topper was in the middle of some story about golf. Something about his swing, the ninth hole at the club, and his dad’s advice; you’d stopped tracking the details about seven minutes in. The thing about dating Topper was that all his stories had the same shape to them; something happened, his dad had an opinion about it, and he agreed or planned to prove it wrong. The details changed—golf, school, Jeep—but the shape, as a whole, was identical. You’d memorized the blueprint.
You were good at this, at least. You nodded at the right moments, you made small affirming noises, and laughed when his voice lifted in that way that indicated something was funny. You could do it in your sleep at this point. You were worried that you had been, that you’d actually been asleep for months and it had gone unnoticed because you were always nodding at the perfect times.
“—he won’t listen. He’s convinced it’s my follow-through—” Topper took a pull from his beer, gestured with the bottle, nearly hit Kelce in the face. “Babe, you’re not listening.”
You blinked, refocusing. “I am.”
“What did I just say?”
“Something about your follow-through.”
“Before that.”
You didn’t know. You were watching Ruthie across the room, the way she was laughing at something with her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious, and not worried if her laugh was too loud or fake or if the angle made her head look wrong. She was just laughing. When was the last time you laughed like that? You didn’t know.
“I’m sorry,” you said, touching Topper’s arms lightly, apologetically. It was the kind of touch you’d learned said that you were there, you cared, and that you were paying attention now. “I’m just so tired. The week was long.”
“You feeling okay?” He shifted immediately to boyfriend-mode, which was sweet, and was one of the first things you’d learned to love about him in the first place. He cared. He worried. He made sure you’d eaten, had water. Most times it felt like being cared for. “We can leave if you want.”
“No, I’m fine. Keep telling your story.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He kissed your temple—quick, casual, and the kind of kiss that marked you as his in public—and turned to Kelce, picking the story back up from wherever you’d lost the thread. You took a sip of your drink; it was warm and disgusting, but drinking gave you something to do with your hands.
You loved Topper. You did. You loved him the way you loved Outer Banks summers and Sunday dinners at the club and the worn-in comfort of your childhood bedroom that looked like it belonged to a 30-year-old woman with very specific specifications for her interior design. You loved him in a way that felt familiar, safe, and exactly what was supposed to be.
He was kind and reliable and everyone loved him and your mother almost cried—shed a tear—when you’d brought him home for dinner junior year. He was exactly the kind of boy you were supposed to end up with. Figure Eight royalty, good family, going places. He talked about the future like it was something you’d built together brick-by-brick: UNC next fall, he’d major in finance, you’d major in something you hadn’t decided, but everyone assumed something that involved helping people because that’s what you were good at. After graduation, you’d move back here, get a place on the water, start planning a wedding. His mother already showed you the venue book. Twice.
It was perfect. All perfect.
“I’m getting another drink,” you said, even though you weren’t.
“Want me to come?” Topper asked, turning back to you, ready to follow.
“No, I’m good. Keep talking. I’ll be right back.”
He nodded, already turning back to Kelce. You could’ve said you were going to the moon for a second and he would’ve believed it.
You pushed through the crowd of Figure Eight kids, mostly. They were all people you’d known since elementary school, plus randoms from The Cut who’d heard about the party and showed up anyway because Ruthie didn’t check who walked through the door. The house was too hot, too loud, the bass from whatever song made the windows rattle in their frames. Someone had spilled beer on the hardwood that nobody bothered to clean it up, and your sandals kept sticking to it slightly with each step.
You dumped your drink in the sink in the kitchen and grabbed a red solo cup that you filled up with water from the fridge dispenser. You drank half of it standing there, forehead pressed to the cool stainless steel. When you turned around, Maddie was there, drunk, hanging on your shoulder.
“Oh my god, you look so cute tonight,” she said. “Is that new?”
“No, I’ve had it—”
“I love it. We should go shopping next week. There’s a new collection at that place on the Mainland. The one with the dresses? You look so good in dresses. You should wear dresses more.”
“Sure,” you said, the word noncommittal, because the thought of stores with fluorescent lighting and their helpful salespeople and their pleasure to find things that fit you right made you want to crawl out of your skin.
“How are you and Top? You guys are so cute. Like actually. I was telling Cas the other day, you’re like the perfect couple.”
“We’re good. Thanks—”
“Are you guys thinking of schools together? Because I heard he got into Chapel Hill early and you’re obviously going to get in. You’re so smart—”
“Hopefully.” You smiled tightly; you hadn’t finished your applications yet, every time you sat down to work on your essays you ended up staring at the blank screen until your eyes hurt.
“You will. And then you’ll get married and have the cutest babies—”
“Madi—”
“What? You would! Could you imagine? Little Topper running around—”
You excused yourself before she could finish the thought, pushed back into the main room where the party was getting louder, messier, more of what was always going to become. Someone had turned up the music. Someone else was doing a keg stand in the corner and people were counting—”Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen”—and you felt tired. So tired.
You found Topper right where you’d left him. Still talking to Kelce. Still gesturing with his beer. You slid back under his arms like you were supposed to and he kissed the top of your head without pausing his sentence and you realized—for the hundredth time—this is your life now, and this is it. The thought should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.
“You okay?” Topper asking, looking down at you with those eyes that were genuinely so concerned that it made you feel guilty for not being okay. “You look weird.”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure? Because we can really leave if—”
“I’m fine.” It came out harsher than you’d intended. His face did a combination of something complicated (hurt, confused, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong). “Sorry, I’m just—it’s hot in here.”
“Let’s go outside then.”
“No, you’re talking to Kelce—”
“Don’t care. Come on.” He was already steering you towards the back doors, hand on your lower back, and you let him because that was easier than arguing. Outside the air was cooler but not by much, humid and thick with that almost-rain feeling. The pool was glowing blue, and there were people in it even though nobody had suits on, just jumping in with their clothes because that’s what you did at Ruthie’s.
“Better?” Topper asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been kind of off all week.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just—” His lips flattened, like he was trying to find the right words for a moment. “Are you stressed about your school stuff? Your mom?”
“A little.”
“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna get in everywhere you apply. You’re so fucking smart.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “And we’ll be together. That’s what matters, right?”
“Right.”
“UNC is gonna be perfect. We can get an apartment off campus junior year. Somewhere with two bedrooms so your parents don’t freak out but we both know—” He laughed, squeezed you tighter, and his hands moved from your waist to hips, pulling you further back against him. “It’s gonna be so good, babe. I can’t wait.”
You could hear it in his voice, he meant it all.
You could feel him getting hard against your back. Of course. Topper had a one-track mind at parties. A few beers in, and suddenly everything translated to being foreplay. Your hand in his. You laughing at his jokes. Existing in his orbit. All of it translated, in his mind, to we should have sex now.
His lips found your neck, kissing that spot below your ear that he’d decided early on was your spot, even though you’d never actually told him it did anything for you. It was fine. It didn’t not work. It just—it was fine. Which was the saddest way you could describe your boyfriend’s touch. Fine, really? Not electric or the kind that made you forget your own name. You were so tired of just fine, but you were also not courageous enough to admit that.
“Baby—” you started, but his hand was already sliding under the hem of your tank top, thumb brushing the underside of your bra.
“Ruthie’s got that pool house,” he murmured against your back. “Nobody’s in there. We could—”
“There’s like seventy people here, Top.”
“So? That’s never stopped us before.” He turned you around, and his eyes had that look he conveniently gets when he wants something. “Come on, it’s been like a week.”
Had it been a week? You tried to remember the last time. Lask weekend, maybe. At his house, in his bed, with the door locked and the lights off because you always asked for the lights off even though he always wanted to see you. It had been fine. Good, even. Topper was considerate in bed, always asking if you were okay, if this felt good, if that made you finish even though sometimes you faked it just to move it along. Sometimes your brain wouldn’t turn off long enough to get there and it was easier to pretend.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I’m kind of tired.”
“I’ll do all the work.” He grinned, hands sliding down to your ass now, pulling you closer. “Come on, I’ve been thinking about you all week.”
You smiled, even though that only made you feel tired. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” His whole face lit up. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”
He grabbed your hand, started pulling you toward the pool house, and you followed because what else were you going to do? Explain that you didn’t want to but couldn’t articulate why?
The pool house was unlocked, dark, smelling like chlorine and the musty scent of furniture that spent too much time in humidity. Topper flicked on the lamp in the corner—dim, throwing everything into shadow—and pulled you to the couch.
He kissed you immediately, hands everywhere, enthusiastic in that golden retriever way he had about everything. You kissed back, let your hands go to his hair, his shoulders, the places you knew he liked. This was familiar. Routine. Two years of practice. You knew exactly how he liked to be touched and the sounds he made when you did it right. There was a rhythm and choreography to it.
He pulled you down onto the couch, climbed over you, and his mouth moved to your neck. Started kissing, then sucking, and you knew he was leaving marks. He always left marks when he was drunk, got possessive in this puppyish way that should've been endearing. His hand slid up your shirt, palm hot against your ribs, and he was grinding against you now, hard through his shorts.
"God, you're so hot," he murmured against your collarbone, kissing lower. "I love you so much."
“I love you too.”
He sucked harder at the spot where your neck met your shoulder—definitely leaving a mark there, you’d have to cover it tomorrow—and his hand was working the button of your shorts when his phone started to ring. He ignored it. Kept kissing. The phone stopped, then immediately started again.
“Babe—” you said.
“It’s fine. Just—”
It rang again.
“Topper, just check it.”
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, pulled back, fumbled for his phone in his pocket and squinted at the screen. “It’s my dad. Again.” He sat up, ran a hand through his hair like his dad could see him through the phone. “Shit. He called earlier and I—hold on. I’ll just.”
He answered it. “Hey, Dad… Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s loud here… What? No, I can—” He stood up, walked to the door, and you could hear his dad’s voice on the other end, irritated and tiny. “I know. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow… Yeah… Okay… Yeah, she’s with me… Okay…”
You sat up, buttoned your shorts back up, and tried to fix your hair. Your neck felt hot where he’d been sucking, and when you touched it, your fingers came slightly damp. Great. That would be purple by morning.
Topper hung up, turned back to you, and his face had a guilty look. “I’m sorry, babe. My dad’s pissed about—there’s this thing with the club. I was supposed to call someone back—” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I gotta call this guy really quick. Five minutes, I swear.”
This happened a lot. Topper’s father calling, needing something, and Topper drowning in everything to handle it. You understood it and resented it in equal measure.
“It’s okay.”
“You sure? Because I can—”
“No, it’s okay. Make your call. I’ll just meet you back outside.”
“You’re the best.” He kissed you quickly, already distracted and mentally somewhere else entirely. “Five minutes. Then we can—” He gestured vaguely at the couch with a tip of his head. “—continue?”
“Sure.”
Outside, you noticed a crowd dispersing and before you could try to make sense of it, Ruthie’s palm grabbed your shoulder and pulled you aside.
“This is the third fight he’s started this month,” she said, sentence coming out quickly like she was in the throes of stress.
“Who?”
“Rafe.”
You swallowed quickly, shaking your head. “Is he okay?”
“What? Rafe? He’s fine. He’s always doing this shit.” But she was frowning, scanning the crowd. “Where’d he go?”
“Maybe inside?”
“Great. He’s probably bleeding all over my mom’s white couch.” She sighed, then looked at you. “Can you go check on him?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. He’s Top’s best friend. And you’re like, good at the whole—” She gestured vaguely. “Thing.”
“I really don’t think—”
‘Please? I need to find the guy he beat up and make sure he isn’t going to make it a big deal. Rafe’s probably in one of the rooms. Just make sure he’s not dying or bleeding anywhere that isn’t expensive or visible.”
Given that Ruthie lived in an open-space concept house with nothing that cost less than four figures and very few doors to hide behind, that narrowed the list down to the bathrooms and maybe her dad’s office. The latter goes with the assumption that Rafe had the good sense to pick a room with wood or tile instead of white linen and glass.
She was already walking away before you could argue with her. You could find Topper, tell him what happened, and let him deal with his best friend. That’s what you should do. That’s what made sense. But your boyfriend was on the phone with his dad; Ruthie had asked you, and something about the situation made your chest twist uncomfortably.
𖦹
Rafe needed to get laid. Or high. Or hit something until his knuckles split. Twenty years of his life had taught him that when there isn’t one thing wreaking havoc over his life, he hyperfixated on the impossible. Self-sabotage, probably. The impossible being, currently, his best friend’s girlfriend the image that had been burned into his retinas and showed no signs of stopping no matter how much cocaine he shoved up his nose or how many drinks he threw back or how many times he told him he was just being a fucking idiot.
So, he picked a fight. With who? Didn’t matter. Some guy. A random fucking guy who had the misfortune of existing in Rafe’s vicinity at the exact moment Rafe had watched you disappear into Ruthie’s pool house with Topper, watched the door close behind you both, and felt something ugly and acidic rise up in his throat that tasted like very cheap vodka because he’d spent two years wanting something he couldn’t have. Two fucking years of seeing Topper touch you like it was easy, like you were some cosmic lottery he’d won just by being himself.
Now he was sitting on the closed toilet in Ruthie’s upstairs bathroom with blood drying on his knuckles and his face throbbing and the bass from downstairs making the floor vibrate under his feet, trying very hard not to think about what you and Topper had been doing in the pool house. The bleeding had mostly stopped. His right eye was going to swell shut by morning. His lip was split. Could've been worse. Had been worse, plenty of times. This was manageable. He was trying and failing, because his brain—traitorous, obsessive, completely fucked—kept supplying images; Topper’s hands on your waist, your hips, your head tipped back, the sounds you probably made, whether you’d let him keep the lights on, whether you were any good at it or whether you just laid there perfect and pretty while—
The door opened, and his eyes snapped up and there you were, standing in the doorway like a fucking hallucination, like something his substance-soaked brain had conjured because it hated him, too. You were backlit by the hall light in a way that should’ve been corny but wasn’t. You looked real solid there. Rafe thought there was no fucking way this was happening.
“Get out,” he said.
You didn’t get out, and Rafe was mad at the world because this was probably the first fucking time you didn’t do what someone else asked of you. Of course you chose right now, when Rafe was barely holding himself together, to stop being obedient.
You stepped inside instead, and the bathroom suddenly felt about three sizes too small, and Rafe could smell you, that perfume you wore, floral and clean and so aggressively innocent it made him want to break something. He could smell it all over the metallic tang of blood and the chemical burn of Ruthie’s fancy hand soap and his own sweat.
“You’re bleeding,” you said.
“Yeah, no shit.” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant, but what-fucking-ever. Harsh was good, and that would make you leave. “Where’s Topper?”
“On the phone with his dad.”
Right. Topper. Your boyfriend, the guy whose hands had been all over you. The guy who got to touch you whenever he wanted because you were his, officially his, had been for two years while Rafe stood on the sidelines watching and acting like he didn’t care.
“Cool. Go wait for him somewhere else.”
“Ruthie asked me to check on you.”
Obviously she fucking did. Of course Ruthie—who’d watched Rafe watch you for two years, who’d made pointed comments Rafe had ignored, who definitely knew more than she should—would send you up here like a deer to slaughter. She would put you in a room alone with him when he was high and drunk and had just beaten someone bloody because he couldn’t handle himself in his body like a normal person.
“Mm, you checked. I’m fine. Door’s right there.”
But you were closing the door instead behind you. Locking it. The lock was so obscenely loud that Rafe’s body went rigid and his head snapped in your direction. Every muscle in his body tensed and coiled. You’d locked yourself alone in a bathroom with him. What were you thinking?
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You need help.”
“What I need is for you to leave.”
“Rafe—”
“No, I’m serious. Get the fuck out.” He stood up too fast, the room tilted, and he had to brace one hand against the wall while his vision did something complex and unstable. Everything went bright and sparkly around the edges the way it did when he mixed uppers and downers; his body was in a constant state of figuring out whether he should be flying or crashing. The coke was hitting him all weird, and that probably meant he had to do a bump in less than five minutes, mixing with vodka in ways that made everything bright and too close. He probably looked like shit.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
Because Topper probably had just fucked you. Because Rafe could still see that middle-school-hookup-hickey on your neck, all red and obvious and making him want to punch a hole through Ruthie’s bathroom mirror. Because you were standing there looking at him with genuine concern on your face like Rafe was someone worth for you to worry about, like you hadn’t spent the last hour with your boyfriend, like you had any business being so close to him when Rafe was barely holding onto his self-control with both hands, bloody and beat-up.
“Because I’m telling you to.”
You were already kneeling down though, opening the cabinet under Ruthie’s sink, and Rafe watched your ass in those jean shorts and thought that this was hell. This was actual hell and he was in it.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice coming out gruff. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”
“Your face is bleeding.”
“Really.”
You ignored him, and pulled out Ruthie’s first aid kit. It was the expensive kind that came in a hard plastic case with actual organization inside, not just a jumble of Band-Aids and expired Advil, and stood up with it tucked under your arm. You wet a washcloth at the sink—one of Ruthie’s monogrammed hand towels—wrung it out, and looked back at him. You met his eyes for just a second, long enough for Rafe to catch the stubborn determination on your face.
And then—holy fuck—you stepped between his legs.
Just fucking stepped right between his legs like that was a normal place to be, like you had any fucking idea what that did to him. You, standing right between his legs, so close that if she shifted about two inches forward, you’d be pressed right to him. His jaw clenched tight.
You didn't know. Of course you didn't. Because you thought Rafe hated you. Thought he'd been an asshole to you for two years because he didn't like you, not because liking you was the problem, had always been the problem, would continue to be the problem until Rafe died or moved to another country or developed severe amnesia.
"Sit down," you said. Soft. Like you were talking to a scared animal.
He should say no. Should physically remove you from the bathroom. Should do literally anything other than what he did, which was sink back down onto that toilet seat like his legs stopped working. He even let you step closer, close enough that your knees bumped his, close enough that he could see the freckles scattered across your shoulders like someone had flicked a paintbrush at you.
"This might sting," you said, and reached up to touch his face.
Your fingers made contact with the cut above his eyebrow—gently, so fucking gently—and Rafe's entire nervous system went haywire. Every nerve ending firing at once. Every muscle in his body locking up trying to keep still, keep from grabbing you, keep from doing something catastrophically stupid that he couldn’t take back. He felt like he’d forgot how to breathe. Your touch felt branded, like every place your skin met his was burning.
Nothing about this was sexual. That was the fucked up part. Yeah, there was the fact that Rafe's brain had a one-track mind when it came to you and that track involved significantly less clothing than you were currently wearing, but this was worse. This was your hand on his face, gentle and careful like he was worth being gentle with. Like he was something other than Ward Cameron's greatest disappointment and the guy who got too fucked up at parties and picked fights for no reason.
"Sorry," you murmured when he flinched. "I'm trying to be gentle."
Rafe let out something between a laugh and a choke at how oblivious you were. “Yeah, that—” He swallowed, cleared his throat, then tried again. “I know.”
Stop talking. Seriously, stop talking.
His hands were gripping his thighs. He was gripping them hard enough to hurt, hard enough his knuckles—already fucked from the fight—were screaming at him. But it was either grip his thighs or grab you, and grabbing you was not an option. Grabbing you was the opposite of an option.
“You don’t have to do this.” His voice came out tight and strained. Nothing normal.
“I know,” you said quietly.
“Then why are you?”
You dabbed at the cut again, concentration evident in the way that you were biting your bottom lip. “Because you’re hurt,” you said like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Was that reason enough for you to do this? “So?”
“So, someone should help.”
“And it had to be you?”
“Ruthie asked—”
“Ruthie’s not here.” His fingers were going numb now from how hard he was gripping his legs. “It’s just us. You can leave. I don’t think Ruthie meant you had to do all of this.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
Because you were Topper’s, and Topper was Rafe’s best friend, one of his only real friends, if Rafe was being honest, the only person besides Kelce and Sarah who didn’t see Ward’s DNA walking around making the wrong choices. Because twenty minutes ago you’d been in a pool house with Topper doing things Rafe had no right to think about, and now you were touching Rafe’s face with fingers that probably still smelled like Topper’s cologne. Because if you didn’t leave right now, Rafe was going to do something unforgivable.
He opened his mouth to say some version of that—to say anything that would make you leave—when you spoke first.
“Because you don’t like me, right?” you said quietly after a moment, and Rafe’s brain stuttered to a complete stop.
“Huh?”
“You don’t like me. You never have.” You weren’t looking into his eyes anymore—and Rafe realized he missed having your eyes on him—and were focusing very intently on the washcloth. “Since I started dating Topper, you’ve been—you act like I’m annoying you all the time.”
Rafe stared at you. At your face, all concentration and hurt poorly hidden, and felt something in his chest twist sideways. You couldn’t meet his eyes, like you were embarrassed to have said it out loud.
You thought he didn't like you. You actually, genuinely thought that the reason Rafe had been cold and dismissive and sometimes cruel was because he didn't like you. Not because he'd spent two years watching you be Topper's perfect girlfriend and wanting you so badly it made him physically ill. You didn’t think it was because every time you smiled at him or laughed at something he said or looked at him like you were looking at him right now, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to cross whatever line existed between being Topper's best friend and being the asshole who wanted his girlfriend. You had zero idea liking you was so much worse than not liking you that Rafe had chosen cruelty as the easier option. If you were anybody else, Rafe would’ve been irked at how much having one person dislike you hurt you.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he managed.
“Don’t I?” You pulled back slightly, met his eyes. “Because I’ve spent two years trying to be nice to you and you act like I’m—I don’t know. Like I’m a problem.”
"Maybe you are."
You flinched. Good. Flinching meant distance meant you'd leave meant Rafe could get his head straight and stop thinking about all of this. You put an inch of space between the two of you. Good. Except it also made him feel like the piece of shit he was and suddenly, he wanted to apologize, take it back, and explain.
“I’m trying to help you,” you said, and there was an edge to your voice now. Your hurt was bleeding into anger. “The least you can do is not be an asshole about it.”
“Nobody asked you to help.”
“Ruthie—”
“Fuck Ruthie.” Rafe leaned back against the wall, putting more distance between his face and your hands because if you touched him again he was going to lose it. “I don’t need your help. Don’t want it. So you can go back to your boyfriend—” He paused at the word to make sure you could feel the weight of it, even though he knew your intentions were all innocent, “—and your best friend and tell them I’m fine.”
You were still standing there, between his legs, and close enough that Rafe could see the way your pulse was jumping in your throat right below that hickey Topper left like a fucking brand. Like he pre-anticipated all of this, and wanted to plaster a reminder on your body to remind Rafe whose you were.
“Fine.” Your voice had gone flat. “Bleed, then. I don’t care.” But you said it while standing between his legs without moving, your hands still hovering over him like you were fighting the exact same battle he was: stay or go, touch or don’t touch.
Someone pounded on the door. Hard. Three times in rapid succession. You jumped—actually jumped, startled—and stumbled slightly backward, and Rafe’s hands moved before the circuits in his brain caught up. They shot out and caught your hips, steadying you, pulling you back between his legs where you’d been standing.
His hands were on your bare skin. He pushed down the groan forming in his throat.
“Yo. Yo. Someone in there?” A guy’s voice, drunk and completely impatient.
Rafe’s hands were on your hips. On your bare skin where your tank top had ridden up slightly. His fingers were spread, wide, thumbs pressing just above your hip bones, and he could feel you breathing fast—with your whole body—underneath his palms. This was the first time he’d touched you—he thought—skin-to-skin, and it felt like every bad decision he’d made in his life had led him to this one final straw.
“Occupied,” he called out. His voice came out steadier than it should’ve.
“How long you gonna be, man? I gotta piss—”
“As long as I fucking wanna be.”
“Dude, come on—”
“There’s a fuckin’ bathroom downstairs. Use that one.”
The guy on the other side muttered, groaned, and they heard the footsteps retreat down the hall. Silence. Rafe’s hands were still on your hips. Neither of you were moving. Rafe could feel your pulse underneath his thumbs, he could feel it racing, jackrabbit-fast, and his own wasn’t much better. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the softness of it, the way you fit perfectly under his hands like you’d been designed for them.
This was bad. This was so, so bad. He should let go. He should move his hands back to his thighs where they belonged. He should laugh it off and put distance between you to pretend his hands weren’t burning where they touched you.
“Rafe,” you said quietly, almost breathless.
“Yeah?” he said quickly.
“Your hands.”
“You’re good,” he said, and his thumbs moved fractionally, just a tiny shaft to see if you’d pull away.
“Rafe,” you said again, voice on the edge of concern.
He tilted his head to look down, and he could feel your body jerking slightly as his hair brushed against your torso. “Just—give it a second.”
A second for what? Why were you giving him a second? You weren’t pulling away, and you weren’t telling him to let go. You were just standing there, looking down at him with your eyes too wide and lips parted slightly and that hickey on your neck that Rafe wanted to cover with his mouth, wanted to replace with his own mark, wanted—
Rafe’s thumb moved just slightly. A small circle against your hip bones. He tilted his head up slightly to meet your eyes, watching your face to see if you’d pull away, if you’d slap him, if you’d do anything to stop him before it became something neither of you could take back. He had to see if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.
You inhaled sharply but you didn’t pull away.
“What are you doing, Rafe?”
“Don’t know.”
“Okay,” you said, but your voice was unsure.
His thumb kept moving. Small circles. Hypnotic. He could feel the exact moment you stopped breathing normally. Your body tensed underneath his hands. Your hands had come up at some point, were hoving near his shoulders like you weren’t sure what to do with them, like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you were allowed.
And that—that fucking uncertainty, that unnamed want—that was going to be Rafe’s undoing.
Because he could keep his hands on your hips and pretend it was nothing. He could tell himself he was just steadying you, just making sure you didn’t lose your balance. But if your hands touched him—if you made the choice to touch him back—then this becomes something else. It would become something mutual. Something that couldn’t be explained away by the cocaine or the alcohol or the general fucked-upness of the night. It would become a choice and it would be your choice.
Your fingers brushed his shoulders lightly and tentatively. Rafe’s breath stopped short, and the realization that you were indulging him hit him like a fucking brick. If he didn’t let go right now—right this second—he was going to kiss you. Your fingers pressed slightly harder against his shoulders.
And Rafe let you go.
He dropped his hands like your skin had burned him. He pushed himself up the toilet so fast his vision swam, the bathroom tilting sideways in that way that said he’d moved too quick, that the drugs were still very much in his system. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the wall. He put three feet of space between you and him in the span of three seconds.
“You gotta leave,” he said. His voice came out all wrong. Too rough, too raw, like he’d swallowed glass.
You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Your hands were still raised slightly, frozen in the air where they’d been about to touch him. He wanted to tell you to put your hands down, but he also wanted to grab them and pull you closer. Your face was doing something Rafe couldn’t look at, because your confusion was bleeding into hurt once again.
“What—” you started.
“Just go.”
“But you—”
“Go.” He couldn’t look at you right now. He looked at the wall instead. He focused on the expensive floral wallpaper that probably cost half the price of the house as a whole. “You need to leave. Right now.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Topper’s probably looking for you.”
“He’s on the phone—”
“He’ll be off the phone soon. And he’s gonna wanna know where you are.” Rafe made himself look at you, and he made himself see the confusion on your face, the way you’d wrapped your arms around yourself like you were cold even though Ruthie’s bathroom was stuffy and warm. He tipped his chin in your direction, feigning as much carelessness as he could. “What are you gonna tell him?”
You blinked. “What?”
“When he asks where you were. What’re you gonna say?”
“I’ll—I’ll tell him I was checking on you. Because Ruthie asked me to?”
“That’s it?” He heard himself push; he was being cruel again because that was safer than being honest.
“That’s it, yeah. Yeah.” But your voice wavered slightly on the words. “That’s all that happened.” He could hear the uncertainty in your words, like you were trying to convince yourself.
“Good. Tell him that.”
You were still standing there, still looking at him with those eyes that saw too fucking much, and Rafe could see you trying to working through it, trying to figure out what had just happened, what it meant that his hands had been you, that his hands had been moving in circles against your skin, that maybe for a minute there something had shifted between you that couldn’t be unshifted.
“Did I do something wrong?”
The question hit Rafe in the chest all wrong. You thought you’d done something wrong, like any of this was your fault. Like you’d been the one to grab on, to hold too long, to move your thumbs in ways that had nothing to do with steadying and everything to do with wanting.
“No,” he said, having to push the word out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then—”
“Because I’m high.” His voice came out flat now, matter-of-fact. He’d found his voice again, the one that made everything sound meaningless. The lie was easier when he didn’t look at you, he realized. “I’m high and drunk and not thinking straight. That’s all this is.”
“Okay.”
Maybe it did make sense to you; you wanted it to be that simple. If 1+1=2, then high+drunk=temporary insanity. Nothing more complicated than chemistry and bad decisions.
𖦹
A week had passed since the party at Ruthie’s, and you’d gotten very good at pretending nothing had happened. You’d seen Rafe twice—once at the country club when your families had overlapping dinner reservations, once at Topper’s house when you’d shown up and he’d been leaving—and you’d smiled politely, said hello, and acted like everything was completely normal. Both times, he’d barely looked at you. He nodded in your general direction, mumbled something that might’ve been a greeting. And left as quickly as possible.
Which was fine. Good, even. Exactly what was meant to happen. Except you couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on your hips, the way his thumbs had moved in small circles. About the look on his face when he’d let go, like he’d done something he couldn’t take back. You wished you could try talking to Ruthie about it, but you also knew that if you slipped on the wrong word or revealed the tiniest detail, she’d catch onto it like a vulture and somehow figure out exactly what happened.
And now you were at Sunday brunch with Topper and both set of parents, and your mother kept looking at you like she could tell something was wrong. Topper kept reaching for your hand under the table, and all you wanted was to be literally anywhere else.
“—so, we’re thinking late April for the engagement party,” Topper’s mom was saying. She had her phone out, scrolling through her calendar with one hand while cutting eggs Benedict with another. “That gives us plenty of time to plan something before you two leave for school.”
You looked up from your untouched fruit salad. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The engagement party, hon.” Mrs. Thornton smiled at you warmly. “Nothing official, of course. You’ll do the actual engagement after graduation, I’m sure. But we thought it’d be nice for both of you to have a celebration before you head to Chapel Hill. Really cement things.”
Your mother made an approving sound. “That’s a lovely idea, Cynthia.”
“I just think it’s important to acknowledge these milestones,” she continued. “Topper and—” She said your name like it was already hyphenated with his. “—they’re so good together. And with our families being so close together, it just makes sense to start planning now.”
“Mom,” Topper said, and there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “We haven’t even—I mean, we’ve talked about it, but—”
“Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m not trying to rush anything. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about the timeline.” She looked at you expectantly. “You are planning on going to Chapel Hill, aren’t you?”
Four sets of eyes turned to you. Topper's parents. Your parents. Topper himself, looking hopeful and nervous and so certain that the answer would be yes because of course it would be yes, why wouldn't it be yes?
“I haven’t decided yet,” you said.
Everyone went very still.
"What do you mean you haven't decided?" your mother asked. Her voice was light but there was an edge to it. "Your applications were due weeks ago."
"I applied to other schools too."
"Yes, but—" Your mother set down her fork with a soft clink. "We've discussed this. Chapel Hill makes the most sense. It's a good school, it's close enough to visit, and—" She glanced at Topper. "—well. It makes sense for other reasons too."
“I know what reasons you mean, Mom.”
You could feel Topper’s hands tighten around yours under the table. You could feel the anxiety radiating off him even though his face stayed neutral. “Babe,” he said quietly. “I thought we talked about this.”
“We did talk about it.”
“And I thought—” He stopped. Started again. “You said you were fine with Chapel Hill.”
"I said I'd think about it."
"That's not—" He stopped again. Glanced at his parents, at yours, clearly not wanting to have this conversation in front of an audience. "That's not what it sounded like."
"Maybe you heard what you wanted to hear."
That came out sharper than you'd meant. Topper's face did something complicated. His hurt bled into frustration bled into confusion. Your mother made a small sound of disapproval. Mrs. Thornton looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should.
𖦹
You were drunk. Not falling-down drunk, not blacking-out drunk, but drunk enough that the bonfire had halos around it and the sand felt unsteady under your feet and when Topper talked it took you both an extra second to process what he was saying. Topper was drunker. He had been drinking since before he’d picked you up, had kept drinking in the Jeep on the way there, had been working his way through a twelve-pack since you’d arrived at the beach an hour ago. His movements kept getting looser and more expansive, and he’d told the same story about the golf tournament twice in the past twenty minutes.
You were sitting in the sand near the bonfire, backs against a piece of driftwood, Topper’s arm heavy on your shoulders. The party was in full-swing around you. Sixty kids scattered across the beach, music thumping from someone else’s truck, the ocean dark and loud behind all of it. Someone was taking shots. Someone was throwing up behind the dunes. Madi was making out with some guy from The Cut. It was all normal.
"I don't get why you're being so weird about this," Topper was saying. Or had been saying. You'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere around your third drink. "It's not a big deal."
“What’s not a big deal?”
“Chapel Hill,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re acting like—it’s all this huge thing. It’s just college.”
Oh. This again. The conversation from brunch wasn’t over despite both of you pretending it was for the past eight hours.
“Can we not do this right now?”
“Do what?”
“This. The college thing. I’m really tired of talking about it.”
“Well, I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on with you.” Topper’s arm over your shoulder tightened. Insistent. “You’ve been weird for like a week.”
“I haven’t been weird.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cause it feels like you’re mad at me.”
"I'm not mad, Top. I'm just—" You stopped. Tried to find words through the alcohol fog. "I'm just trying to figure stuff out."
"What stuff?"
"School stuff. Future stuff."
"Our future?"
"My future."
“Same thing.” He said that, too, like it was obvious. There was no version of future that didn’t have you and him together. “Right?”
You took another sip from the drink in your hands. Was it? It couldn’t be the same thing. You were a person separate from him, separate from “you and Topper,” separate from everyone else’s plans. You did exist outside your relationship, right?
“Right?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” He pulled his arms away from your shoulders. “What does that mean? We talked about this. We made plans.”
"You made plans. And I just—I went along with them because everyone was so happy about it and I didn't want to—" You gestured vaguely. "I didn't want to ruin it."
Topper stared at you. "Ruin what?"
"This. Us. The whole—" You stopped again. Nothing was coming out right. "Everyone's so sure about everything. You're sure, my parents are sure, your parents are sure. And I'm just—I'm not."
"Sure about what? About me?"
"About everything."
"That's not—" He stood up suddenly, swayed slightly, caught himself. "That's not an answer. Do you want to be with me or not?"
"I do—"
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is I don't know if I want everything else that comes with it! The engagement party planning, the apartment hunting, the whole—" You stood up too, because this conversation felt wrong sitting down. "Everyone treating us like we're already married when we're nineteen."
"So you don't want to marry me."
"I didn't say that—"
"That's what it sounds like."
"That's not—Topper, you're not listening—"
"I am listening. You're saying you don't know if you want a future with me."
"I'm saying I don't know what I want for my own future! Period! Not just the part with you in it—the whole thing!" Your voice was getting louder. A few people nearby were starting to look over. "I don't know what I want to study or where I want to go or who I want to be. And everyone keeps acting like those are already answered questions and they're not. Not for me."
Topper ran both hands through his hair. "Okay. Okay. So you need time to figure it out. That's—I can give you time."
"It's not just time—"
"Then what is it? Just tell me what you need and I'll—I'll do it. Whatever you need."
"I need space." The words came out before you could stop them. "I need room to think without everyone—without you—asking me what I've decided every five seconds."
The second the words came out, you wanted to take them back. You did mean them, but you could see what they did to Topper’s face.
His face did something awful and twisted. Like you'd physically hit him. "Space."
"Not—I don't mean—" You stopped. The vodka was making everything harder. "I just mean I need to figure this out on my own. Without everyone weighing in."
"Everyone meaning me."
"Everyone meaning everyone. My parents, your parents, you—"
"So you want to break up."
"That's not what I said—"
"That's what space means."
"No it's not—"
"Then what does it mean?" He was angry now, genuinely angry. Topper never got angry. "Because from where I'm standing it sounds like you want to break up but you don't want to say it."
"I don't want to break up!" You were yelling now. "I love you! I just—I need time to figure out what I want that's not about us. That's just about me."
"But I'm part of your life. We're—we're together. You can't just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You know what? Fine. You want space? You got it."
“I love you,” you said, because that was meant to be grounding. That was supposed to fix things. Love was supposed to be the answer to it all, wasn’t it? And you needed him to hear that. You needed him to understand that this wasn’t about not loving him. “I love you. Isn’t that what matters?”
Topper looked at you for a long moment, and his face was doing something you'd never seen before. He looked hurt and frustrated and something that looked almost like resignation. "I don't know anymore," he said quietly. "Maybe it should be enough. But right now it just—it doesn't feel like it is."
His words hit you like a physical blow. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“I need a break,” Topper said. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He sounded like he was just tired. “Not from you. Just from this. This conversation and this night. I—I can’t do this right now.”
"Okay," you said quietly.
"I'm gonna stay here. At the party. But you should go home." He looked at you, and there was something almost gentle in his expression despite everything. "You look exhausted, babe. You should go home."
"I can stay—"
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think both of us need to cool off. Think about shit. And we can’t if we’re both here drunk and—” He gestured vaguely between you two. “—doing this.”
“How am I supposed to get home?” you asked, because he had drove you and apparently he was insistent on being the one that stayed at the party.
“I’ll figure it out. Just—give me a second.” He turned his back to you, looking around the area. “There.” He pointed. “Rafe’s here. He’ll drive you.”
Your stomach dropped. “He doesn’t have to—” Your voice came out wrong, high and panicked. Topper didn’t notice.
“He can drive. He’ll drop you off.” Topper was already walking toward Rafe standing at the bonfire. “Yo! Rafe.”
Rafe looked up to see Topper, then you standing a foot behind him.
“What’s up?” he called back.
“Do me a favour?” Topper reached him and put a hand on his shoulder. You followed him close behind, hesitant of your steps. “Can you give her a ride home?”
Rafe’s eyes flicked to you, an eyebrow raised, then moved back to Topper. “Something wrong with your car?”
"Nah. I just—we had a thing. She needs to go home and I'm staying here and I don't want her to drive." Topper's voice was still doing that too-casual thing, that trying-to-hold-it-together thing. "You're good to drive, right?"
"Yeah." It came out too quickly.
"So can you take her? Please?"
Rafe looked at you again and held your gaze for a beat too long. Or maybe you were imagining that?
"Yeah. Sure. No problem." He shrugged.
"Thanks, man. I owe you." Topper turned back to you, and his face softened slightly. "Get home safe, okay? We'll talk tomorrow. When we're both—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—not like this."
"Okay," you said.
"And I do love you. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Good." He kissed your forehead—quick, careful, almost formal. "Text me when you get home."
And then he walked back toward the bonfire, toward Kelce and the others, and left you standing there with Rafe.
The silence stretched out. You could hear the ocean, the music, people laughing somewhere down the beach. Could feel Rafe not looking at you, determinedly staring at something over your shoulder.
"You don't have to—" you started.
"My truck's in the lot," Rafe said, cutting you off. His voice was flat. Careful. "You ready to go or do you need to say goodbye to people?"
"I'm ready."
"Okay."
He started walking and you followed, and the distance between you felt like miles even though you were only a few feet apart. Neither of you said anything as you crossed the beach, as you climbed the short path up to the parking lot, as you reached his truck.
He unlocked it. You got in. He got in. Started the engine. He quickly pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.
The silence in the truck was suffocating. You could hear your own breathing, could hear the road under the tires, could hear the distant thump of the bonfire music fading behind you. Could feel Rafe's presence next to you like a physical thing; it was too close and too far away at the same time.
“Thanks for doing this,” you said finally.
“It’s fine.”
You watched streetlights pass through the windshield, painting the cab of the truck in alternating light and shadow. Rafe's hands on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. Everything about his body language screaming that he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, didn't want to be alone in a truck with you.
Which was fair. You'd both been doing a good job of avoiding each other all week. And now here you were, trapped together, and the air between you felt electric and dangerous and wrong.
“You guys good?”
“Yup.”
Your throat went tight. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to breathe evenly and tried to think about what on earth had just happened. The fight. Topper’s face. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t anymore either. Your eyes were burning; you blinked and felt the wetness on your lashes. Great. Perfect. You were crying now; drunk-crying in Rafe Cameron’s truck after fighting with your boyfriend who you loved but maybe didn’t love enough or maybe loved in the wrong way completely. You didn’t even know anymore.
A tear slid down your cheek, and then another. You tried to wipe them away quickly but they kept coming, and your breath was hitching in that embarrassing way that meant you were about to properly cry, and you turned your face more toward the window so Rafe wouldn’t see.
“Hey,” he said, his voice was flat and careful at the same time. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked on the words.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not.”
“I can see you crying.”
“I’m fine. I’m just—” You wiped at your face again. “Drunk. Just drunk. It’s stupid.”
Rafe remained silent and kept driving. His jaw was doing that thing it did, and his hands stayed on the wheel, and you thought maybe he was just going to ignore it and drive you home in silence while you cried quietly in the passenger seat like some pathetic drunk girl who couldn’t keep her relationship in check.
But then the truck slowed and his turn signal clicked on. He took a right down a side road you couldn’t place in your haziness, one of those residential streets that branched off the main drag, lined with scrub pine and chain-link fences and houses set back from the road. It was dark and quiet and empty. He put the truck in park and cut the engine.
You could hear every single thing now; you could hear your breathing, still hitching and uneven, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant sound of the ocean even though you were blocks away from the beach.
“I’m sorry,” you said, and your words came out shaky. “I didn’t mean for this to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—I’m fine. Really. You can just take me home. I’m sorry.”
Rafe let you talk without interrupting.
“I’m just drunk,” you continued, because in your mind stopping would mean actually feeling and sitting in the silence and acknowledging what had just happened with Topper and what was just happening in the truck. “And I got into this argument with Topper, but it’s fine. We’re fine. We fight sometimes. It’s normal. I love him. I do—”
Your voice cracked again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming anyway.
“He's such a good person. And he loves me and he's never done anything wrong and I love him but sometimes I feel like I can't breathe around him and I don't know if that's normal or if that means something's wrong with me or if I’m just crazy—"
You were rambling. You knew you were rambling. But you couldn't stop. The vodka and the tears and the week of avoiding thinking about any of this had cracked something open and now it was all spilling out in Rafe Cameron's truck and you couldn't make it stop.
Rafe still hadn't said anything. Was just sitting there listening. Which was unusual. Rafe didn't listen. Rafe interrupted, Rafe made snide comments, Rafe left the room when conversations got uncomfortable. But he was just sitting there. Letting you empty it all out.
“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I shouldn’t be saying this. You’re—you’re his best friend. I shouldn’t be—”
“I don’t think you’re being crazy,” Rafe said, almost shrugging.
“What?”
He cleared his throat. “Anyone would feel like that. He doesn’t wanna deal with shit he doesn’t wanna hear. It’s about him, not you.”
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m not trying to make him the bad guy.”
Rafe let out a short laugh. “I know.”
“He’s not. He’s good. He’s—”
“I know he is.”
“Then why—”
“‘Cause good doesn’t mean he’s right,” he said.
You felt your breath hitch slightly and felt more tears coming. You hugged yourself without realizing it. You wrapped your arms around your middle like if you could just hold yourself together physically, you can keep it together mentally.
Rafe’s hand left the steering wheel and settled on your thigh assuredly. Not brushing the hem of your shorts, but close. His hand was close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through the denim. His fingers spread, thumb, resting at the edge where the fabric ended and your bare skin began. Suddenly you thought that the shorts were too short, too much leg showing, too much everything. You should tell him to move his hand.
“Are you okay?” he asked again, but you had a feeling he didn’t mean your situation with Topper as much as the situation with your bodies touching.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
“Good.”
Rafe didn’t know what he could blame his actions on. He didn’t have a reason in Ruthie’s bathroom, but now, he had no reason. None. You were crying to him about Topper; he wasn’t catching all your words because you were rambling more than talking, but he could’ve sworn you mentioned the word love and loving Topper about three times throughout your entire monologue. But was it his fault when you turned to meet his eyes—was it his fault when you looked at him like that?
Because you did. Because you looked like everything he'd been trying not to think about for two years, everything he'd been mean about and cruel about and dismissive about because acknowledging it would mean admitting that Topper's girlfriend was the prettiest girl Rafe had ever seen and also the one girl on this entire fucking island he couldn't have.
Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, mascara smudged underneath that should’ve been messy but only made him think you were letting him see something more real and something nobody else got to see. Your cheeks were flushed from crying and probably the alcohol, that pink spread down your neck to your collarbone, and Rafe’s eyes followed it without permission. He cataloged and memorized it. Your lips were glossy; it was probably the lipgloss you always wore that Rafe had watched you apply about a hundred times at parties, that you reapplied obsessively like it was a nervous habit. It was now smudged at the corner from where you’d been crying and wiping your face and Rafe wanted to fix it.
Or ruin it more. He hadn’t decided. Both maybe. Fix it by ruining it. Ruining it by touching it.
Your hair was falling out of whatever you’d done to it earlier and you looked vulnerable in a way that made Rafe’s chest twist uncomfortably because he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be cataloging the way your tank top had rode up slightly when you’d turned toward him, showing a strip of your skin that was rising and falling too fast. He shouldn’t be noticing that your breath was still uneven, and your chest was rising and falling too fast, and the strap of your bra was visible under your top (white, lace-edged), and Jesus Christ, he needed to fucking stop. But his hand stayed exactly where it was.
But Rafe couldn’t stop because you were looking at him in a way he couldn’t name. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew you were looking at him with those eyes—red and wet and too wide—and your lips were parted slightly and you weren’t pulling away from his hand on your thigh and this was so fucking dangerous.
“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” he said through a rough chuckle.
Your throat moved when you swallowed. “Like what?”
Like you want me to kiss you. Like you’ve forgotten Topper exists. Like I’m not the worst possible person you could be alone with right now.
“You know.”
And he knew you knew. It was evident in the way your breath caught, the way your eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. He could tell in the way you didn’t pull away when his thumb moved against your thigh. He should move his hand. He should drive his truck and take you home and never be alone with you ever, ever again. He should do literally anything other than sitting here in the dark with his hand on your thigh thinking how easy it would be to slide it higher, to find out if your skin was as soft as it looked, to make you make a sound that wasn’t crying.
But you were still looking at him and not pulling away. You were sitting there with your lips parted and eyes glassy and that fucking lip gloss catching the light from the streetlamp and Rafe’s brain had officially short-circuited.
This was Topper’s girl. Topper’s perfect girlfriend who baked fucking cookies and volunteered and lead charity events and smiled at everyone. She was soft and sweet, everything Rafe wasn’t. And now you were here, in Rafe’s truck, looking at Rafe like that, and Rafe was only human. He was only twenty and fucked up and good at making horrible decisions.
His hand moved again higher this time. Just enough to feel where denim ended and skin began. It was enough to make you inhale sharply.
“Rafe,” you said. You only said his name, and he was sure he’d heard you say it about a hundred times before, but the way you said it breathy and uncertain made every rational thought in Rafe disappear. Not stop. Not don’t. Just his name.
“I know,” he said. “We can’t. I know this is—” He stopped. His hand involuntarily tightened on your thigh. “I know.” He took in a sharp breath. “You’re crying. And you’re looking at me like that. And you’re—” He shook his head. “Fuck.”
You only looked at Rafe and he watched you try to figure out what to say, how to respond, what any of this meant.
“Rafe,” you whispered finally. “We can’t.”
“Iknow.” The words came out quickly. “I know all of it. I should move my hand and drive you home and never be alone with you again.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“‘Cause I don’t wanna.”
The words hung there. Too honest. Too raw. Rafe watched you process them, watched your face do something complicated, watched you bite your bottom lip—that nervous thing you did—and his eyes locked on your mouth.
On that lip gloss. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. On the little indent it left when you released it.
God, he wanted to kiss you. Wanted it so badly he could barely think straight. Wanted to know if you tasted like strawberries or if that was just the gloss. Wanted to know if you'd kiss him back or push him away. Wanted to know if you'd been thinking about him the way he'd been thinking about you.
Wanted to know if that moment in Ruthie's bathroom had meant something or if he'd imagined the way your breath had caught when his hands were on your hips.
“We’re gonna regret this,” you said quietly.
Oh, Rafe wasn’t sure about that part. Rafe's thumb moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Drawing a circle against your skin right where your shorts ended, right where he could feel how warm you were, how soft.
"Rafe," you breathed.
His voice came out low. Rough. "Tell me to move my hand and drive you home and I will."
“You should—”
“Not what I asked.” His eyes locked on yours. “Tell me to stop.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rafe watched you struggle with it and watched you try to find the words, try to be good, try to do the right thing.
"I can't," you whispered finally.
And that was all Rafe needed. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. He wanted to give you time to say no, he almost needed you to say no. He wanted to give you time to remember you had a boyfriend because the time he got (two years) was enough to make him not care about your boyfriend being his best friend. You didn't pull away.
You weren’t even breathing. He could tell because his chest had stopped moving and you’d gone completely still under his hand like a deer that didn’t know whether to run or stay.
You only sat there frozen as Rafe closed the distance between you, as his free hand came up to cup your face, as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone right where the mascara was smudged.
"Last chance," he murmured. His lips were an inch from yours. Less. "Tell me no and I'll stop." His thumb traced your cheek once, and then again. He wanted to give you time. He wanted to give you an out.
Your eyes were huge and locked on his. Rafe could see you warring with yourself and he could’ve sworn he saw the moment you made the decision, the moment you stopped fighting it.
"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.
Good. He kissed you, slow at first. Like he was testing, giving you one more second to change your mind. His hand rested on your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone because he couldn’t stop touching you. His other hand tightened on your thigh. You made a small sound, maybe it was surprise, but he hoped it was want. Your body turned further toward him, and his fingers rested between the skin of your thighs, warm and soft and fuck.
Then you kissed him back, and something horrible in Rafe snapped. His lips worked harder and his hand slid from your face into your hair—fisting it, tangling in it—tilting your head back to get a better angle, so he could kiss you better, the way he’d been thinking about for two years. You made a small, surprised sound, and Rafe swallowed it whole.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “We’re so fucked.”
Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go in the cab of his truck. The center console dug into his ribs but he didn’t care. He would’ve climbed over it if he could.
“Rafe—” you gasped when his lips moved to your neck.
“Hm?” His teeth grazed your pulse point.
“Rafe,” you said again, voice breathy and all perfect.
He hummed against your skin. “Yeah, baby?”
You shivered against him.
“I’m sorry.” Your hands went up his back and landed on his neck, nails softly grazing against the skin under his hair. The touch was so light it almost hurt Rafe, as though you weren’t allowed.
“Don’t.” Rafe’s lips met the corner of your jaw before he pulled back just enough to look at you. He rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, and his hands stayed in your hair, fingers still tangled like he’d forgotten how to let go. Maybe if he held on long enough, this moment wouldn’t end and tomorrow would never come. “Don’t apologize to me. That’s not what this is.”
Your hands stilled on his neck, and the barely-there touch made all hairs on his body rise.
“What is it?” you asked softly.
Rafe laughed once, but all humor was devoid. What was it? Fuck if he knew. A really, really good mistake. He’d wanted this so long that it didn’t even feel real now that it was happening. His thumb slid along your jaw, tilting your face back toward him so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again. “You’re upset.”
He leaned back and in, kissed you again. It was shorter this time, firmer than before, like he was reminding himself what it felt like rather than losing himself in it; he would likely never have you in this position ever again. So he memorized it, your taste and the way your mouth fit against his and the sounds you made.
When he pulled away, his hand slid back down to your thigh, thumb pressing there, grounding both of you.
“You gotta breathe,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re one to talk.” Rafe liked your voice too much.
“Hey,” he said, voice now slightly playful. “I’m not the one crying.” He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond. “You okay?”
You nodded.
“Good,” he said, and forced himself to pull away. Your hands stayed on his neck—fingers still curled there, warm—and he had to physically remove it. He took your wrist and gently guided your hand back to your own lap. “Because if we keep going like that, I really can’t take this back.”
He forced himself to start the truck because he wasn’t sure how true his words rang. His body felt like it was boiling about twenty emotions together at once; how could you take this back? He’d made you cross a line. He’d pulled you across it, really. The engine turned over. The headlights cut through the dark. Rafe put his truck in drive because if he sat there one more second looking at you with your swollen lips and smudged mascara and his fingerprints still visible in your hair, he was going to do something even more unforgivable than what he'd already done.
The drive to your house was silent. It was heavy and loaded with every single thing that had just happened and couldn’t happen again. Rafe kept both his hands on the wheel this time because he couldn’t trust himself to do anything else.
You sat with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring out the passenger window, and Rafe couldn't tell if you were crying again or just thinking. Either way, he didn't ask. He didn't know what he'd say if you were. He’d have to acknowledge what he’d just done if he asked.
Your street appeared too quickly. The familiar houses, the broken streetlight, your driveway with your parents' cars parked in it. All the normal pieces of your normal life that had nothing to do with what had just happened in Rafe's truck on some random side street.
“I should—” you started.
“Yup.”
You reached for the door handle. Stopped. Your hand just rested there on the metal, not pulling, not opening. “This didn’t happen?”
“Okay.” He kept his eyes on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling a hundred times smaller. “Didn’t happen.”
“We can’t—this can’t happen again.”
“I know that. So go inside.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Text Topper. Tell him you got home safe. Forget about this.”
“Will you forget about it?”
No. Absolutely fucking not. He’d probably remember this for the rest of his life; he’d remember the way you tasted, the sound you made, the way you’d kissed him back. He’d remember all of it and it’d torture him everytime he saw you with Topper, every single fucking time he had to pretend this never happened, every time he had to be Topper’s best friend and not the guy who’d kissed his girlfriend in a parked truck after she cried.
“Yeah,” Rafe said, nodding. “I’ll forget about it.” For some reason, the lie tasted worse on his tongue than the truth would’ve.
You stared at him for a long moment before opening the door. You climbed out onto the sidewalk, and Rafe watched you smooth down your shorts, fix your hair, try to put yourself back together into the girl you'd been before you got in his truck. You leaned in before closing the door. “Thank you,” you said. “For the ride and listening and—” You stopped yourself. “Just thank you.”
Rafe nodded once, sharply. You turned away from him and went inside. He sat there for a long time. Staring at your dark house. Trying to process what he'd just done. Trying to figure out how he was supposed to look Topper in the face tomorrow knowing that he'd had his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and you'd kissed him back.
His phone buzzed.
Topper: she get home okay?
Rafe stared at the text. His best friend's name on the screen. At the trust implicit in that question, the assumption that Rafe had done exactly what he'd been asked to do and nothing more.
SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ When you enter the Love Island villa as a bombshell, you spark an instant, high-stakes connection with the intense and complicated Rafe Cameron. As you navigate each others web of secrets, messy betrayals, and jealous rivals, you must decide if your undeniable chemistry is a genuine match or just a casualty of the game...
WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, smut, mentions of past relationships, suggestive content, mentions of addiction, circumstantial cheating/infidelity, general LI drama, arguments, mentions of mental health, drinking, more detailed warnings for each individual chapter
SERIES TAG NAV‧₊˚ #fic analysis☀️ | #sotb | #mailbox:sotb
some quick (kinda important) notes
EPISODES
The Deep End (Day 1+2) | tweets
2. Muggy Mornings and Moonlit Pasts (Day 3+4) | tweets
summary: after finding out that your fiancé had cheated on you with his childhood best friend—who just so happened to be Rafe's fiancée— Rafe proposes a reckless plan: follow them across Italy and Greece and ruin the dream honeymoon they stole. but somewhere between petty sabotage, breathtaking views, and far too much time together, the two of you begin to discover there's more waiting for you than revenge.
content warning: strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, one bed, sexual tension, explicit sexual content 18+ MDNI
a/n: okay I was too excited not to share this but here's a little preview!! coming soon!!
“Rafe, I’m really not in the mood—”
“Just listen to me,” Rafe interrupted, wrapping his hands around your wrist as he pulled you towards the hallway. As soon as you closed the door to your bedroom, Rafe was leaning his hands on your dresser, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Charlotte never changed the passwords to her email. I still have access to everything. They think they’re being slick, but I just saw the confirmation emails. They are taking the exact same honeymoon itinerary that we planned. The one I paid for.”
You stared at him, confused. “What?”
“I overheard it from Topper at the country club, they’re going to Italy and Greece,” Rafe said, a dark, vindictive smirk spreading across his lips. “It was supposed to be my wedding gift to her since her type A ass couldn’t stop perfecting her dream trip.”
“Okay, so what am I supposed to do about that?” You countered, shrugging your blazer off as you approached your closet. He tapped the folder, the noise almost as loud as your heart thumping as Rafe replied, “I want you to come with me. We're going, and we’re going to follow them and make ‘em pay for the shit they pulled on us.”
You blinked, your brain struggling to process the sheer audacity of the words coming out of his mouth. “You want me to WHAT?” you hissed, your voice rising in pitch, not entirely caring if Sage could overhear your conversation with Rafe. “You want to follow our ex-fiancés on their makeshift-honeymoon wannabe trip and sabotage everything they do?”
“Yes,” Rafe’s expression was serious as ever, not a flicker of sarcasm in his voice. He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that persuasive, lethal cadence. “Think about it. We show up at the same places they go to and boot them out, then take every opportunity to ruin their entire trip. C’mon, they wasted all of these years of our lives just to fuck each other behind our backs, you don’t want a little bit of payback?”
SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ After weeks of silence following his confession, a midnight car breakdown finally forces you to face Rafe
WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ swearing, mentions of past self-harm, mental illness, mentions of substance abuse, mild toxic/co-dependent relationship dynamic
part one | part two
FOR Rafe, the silence wasn't quiet. It was a more physical thing—a suffocating weight that settled over his chest the second the front door of his apartment slammed shut behind you, weeks ago.
In the days that followed, he tried everything, everything, to put on the face of a man who was doing just fine.
He went to his classes. He sat in the front rows, his posture straight, his shoulders broad, staring at whiteboards and projectors while professors droned on about economics and marketing logistics and other shit he couldn’t care less about. He went to the campus gym every single afternoon at precisely six o'clock, lifting until his muscles burned and his veins strained against his skin, channeling every ounce of rage he had in him.
Whether it was directed at you, or himself, or the world—he wasn’t sure.
To Topper, Kelce, and anyone else, Rafe looked the best he ever had.
The erratic, twitching energy that had defined his final years on the island was gone, replaced by control. His jaw was sharper, his frame thicker, his eyes clearer. He smiled when he was supposed to smile. He appeared, by all superficial measures, completely fine. Put together.
But only when he was surrounded.
The second the crowds thinned, and he was left alone with the buzz of the refrigerator in his apartment or the empty passenger seat of his truck, the facade came crumbling.
Your absence was a ghost, haunting him. And the memories didn't trickle in, they flooded—heavy, hard, breaking through whatever walls he tried to build. He would sit on the edge of his mattress in the dark, staring at his hands, and suddenly he wasn't twenty years old in a college away from Kildare anymore.
He was eight, standing under the massive live oak at the country club, watching Sarah run away and looking down at a girl in a pleated dress. He could still feel the exact lightness of that afternoon—the way your small voice had sounded when you whispered that ‘hate was a strong word’, the way his own chest had eased the moment you agreed to go look at the crabs by the dock, feeling like he’d finally managed to make a friend.
Then the timeline would twist, warping into the memory of fifth grade. He would see you sitting beside him in the school cafeteria, your small fingers wrapping around his wrist after his mother had gone. He remembered how your skin had felt, warm against his own, and how you hadn't asked him a single stupid question, choosing instead to just hold onto him. He remembered the weight of his own vow to protect you then, a vow made long before either of you had words for what you were to each other.
He remembered everything he had ever done for you. The lies he’d told your mother to cover your missed assignments, the fights he’d picked with guys who breathed too close to you, the way he’d destroyed his own standing with the island’s elite just to ensure your name stayed clean of rumors while you were gone that summer. And he remembered what you had done for him—the way you had walked him to the nurse’s office with bleeding knuckles, the way you had lied to the principal, the way you had snatched the silver flask from his hands at the country club banquet and thrown it out the window because you were terrified he would destroy himself.
You were woven into the very foundation of his identity. To tear you out meant ripping away the only parts of himself he actually liked.
Dozens of times a night, he would pull up your contact, thumb hovering over the screen, his heart aching in a way that made his breath catch.
He would draft messages, but he could never send them.
Rafe
Where are you?
Delete.
Rafe
Are you okay? Just tell me you're okay.
Delete.
Rafe
I'm sorry I said it. We can pretend like I didn't. Just come back.
Delete.
Every word looked pathetic. Every sentence felt like a confession of how completely powerless he was without you, how the foundation of his “new, clean life” depended on a girl who had looked him in the eye and told him that neither of them knew how to love.
So, he would lock the phone, throw it face down onto the mattress, and press the palms of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to blot out the lingering sound of your footsteps running down his apartment stairs.
YOU, meanwhile, had faded into a shadow…again.
You had turned into a ghost, moving through, keeping everyone at a distance. Your roommates, Kat and Janae, watched you with a growing, silent concern that you intentionally ignored. You stopped going out to the diner for breakfast. You stopped sitting on the benches in the quad to watch the sunset. Your existence had shrunk down to a repetitive loop—your dorm room, the lecture halls, the library, and back.
You felt hollowed out, as if Rafe’s confession had stripped away everything. You had spent years hiding yourself behind a wall of perceived perfection, and behind the haze of euphoria. But now, without the pills, without the smoke, and entirely without him, the world felt sharp, and the corners were starting to stab you again.
You spent your nights staring at the ceiling, your fingers curled into the fabric of your blanket. Rafe's voice lived in the corners of your room, repeating those eight devastating words over and over.
Fuck, I did it because I love you.
Every time the memory hit, your chest would constrict, so much so you could barely breathe. You loved him. You knew that with a certainty that terrified you, but your love had always been a dangerous thing—born from the wreckage of your families, nurtured in empty parking lots and hospital waiting rooms.
To admit it, to actually step across that line and be his in the way he wanted, felt like inviting a hurricane into a house already built on a weak foundation.
So, you ran.
But the campus wasn't big enough. Nothing, no place, ever would be.
Rafe felt your presence long before he saw you. It was a tingling static in the air, a sudden tightening in his chest. He would be walking with Topper and Kelce, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, and his head would snap around on instinct.
He would catch the ghost of a shadow against the brick walls, see the unmistakable glimpse of your hair whipping around the corner. He would freeze, turning toward the space you had just occupied, lungs burning with the urge to run after you, to grab your arm, to force you to look at him as you hadn’t in weeks.
But he never did.
He would stand there, his fists clenched deep in the pockets of his shorts, watching the empty corner until Topper would shove his shoulder and ask him what the hell he was looking at.
And Rafe would just shake his head, face straightening out. "Nothing," he’d mutter, voice flat. "Thought I saw someone I knew."
THE breaking point for the whole group came on a random evening, after classes. Rafe, Topper, Kelce, Kat, and Janae were crowded into a corner booth at the local bar.
The table was cluttered with empty beer bottles and baskets of cold fries. Usually, the energy was overtaken by Topper’s brainless political arguments or Kelce’s complaints about his classes. But tonight, the space next to Rafe was empty, and the silence it created was…suffocating.
Kat let her glass drop onto the wood of the table, her eyes darting toward Rafe, who was mindlessly peeling the label off his Bud Light bottle with his thumb.
"Okay, seriously," Kat announced, her voice cutting through the ambient musical thrum of the jukebox. "Where the hell is she, Rafe?"
Rafe didn't look up, his thumb continuing its slow scraping, a small curl of white paper dampening against his skin. He knew she was talking about you.
"How should I know?" He answered, voice low, shrugging lightly.
"Um, because she’s like your best friend?” Kat shot back.
“And she hasn't been to breakfast with us in three weeks," Janae stepped in, her tone sharper, leaning forward over her folded arms. "She doesn't answer our texts unless it's a one-word reply about whether she locked the door. She’s living like a hermit, Rafe.” She emphasized, cocking an eyebrow his way. “And every time someone mentions your name, she looks like she’s about to throw up."
Topper exchanged a look with Kelce, a knowing expression crossing his face. He leaned back in the booth, throwing an arm over it, his eyes locking onto Rafe's rigid profile. "Yeah, man, and you’ve been acting crazy at the gym, too…dropping weights like you’re trying to break the floorboards.” He throws out. “What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Rafe muttered, his voice dropping into that low tone that usually signaled the end of a conversation. He finally raised his eyes, fixing Topper with a cold stare. "Maybe she’s busy. I’m busy.” He snapped. “It’s not a big deal that I don’t know where the fuck she is every second of every day."
"Bullshit," Kelce snorted, taking a sip of his beer. "You two haven't gone twenty-four hours without speaking since we were in middle school.” He scoffed. But little did he know. “You think we're blind? You act like her personal bodyguard everywhere we go, and now you mean to tell me you don't even know if she's breathing?"
Rafe’s jaw ticked, the muscle along his cheekbone flexing, grip tightening around the neck of his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.
The table went quiet, tension rising.
Topper leaned forward, his voice dropping, replaced by something uncharacteristically serious. "...You told her, didn't you?"
Rafe froze. His thumb stopped scraping the label. "Told her what?"
Topper pursed his lips, tilting his head. "That you love her," he said plainly. "...You did, didn't you?"
Rafe let out a short, mocking laugh, turning his head away toward the bar window. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about..."
"Oh, please," Kat rolled her eyes, throwing herself back into the seat of the booth. "We've known it since we met you two,” She points between her and Janae, “And we’ve only known you for two years!” She scoffs, leaning to look at Rafe. “You’re not exactly subtle.” She deadpans, an unamused expression on her face. “So…did you? Tell her?"
Rafe’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He looked at Kelce, then at Topper, looking for a way out, but their faces were waiting for an answer as well.
"...Yeah," Rafe sighed as he leaned forward, his voice a harsh, shaky whisper. "Yeah, I told her. Alright? Is that what you want to hear? I told her."
Janae blinked, her face softening. "And...what did she say?"
"She didn't say anything," Rafe spat, his eyes welling with an angry rush of tears that he desperately tried to blink away, rubbing a hand against his face. "She…fuck, she ran. She pushed me off her, said some shit about how neither of us knows what love is, and ran out of my place. I haven't heard a single word from her since..."
He let out a ragged breath, leaning his head back against the booth, staring at the ceiling tiles. "I don't know what the fuck to do. I’ve never... I’ve never really had to live without her.” He kept going. “I know there was a period of my life where she wasn't around, I know that…but I can't see it anymore. When I look back, she’s just... she’s always there."
He swallowed hard, bitterness coating his tongue. "But I can't force her to…love me.” His voice, not really used to being vulnerable with anyone but you. “If she wants to be away from me, to pretend I don't exist because I apparently ruined everything by opening my fucking mouth... then I guess that's it."
"...Are you an idiot?" Kat asked, all eyes shooting to her. "What?” She looked around at everyone, eyes landing back on Rafe, narrowing. “You're just going to let it go? Just like that?"
"She doesn't want to talk to me," Rafe snapped, his voice cracking, drawing looks from the nearby tables. He didn't care. "What do you want me to do? Go drag her out by her hair? There’s no point.” He hissed. “She didn't even say it back."
"Well, she can't," Janae said softly.
Rafe frowned, his brows pinching together as he averted his gaze to her. "What?"
"Rafe, think about it," Janae continued, her voice gentle, as if she were explaining something to a child who had missed the obvious. "You know her. Have you ever heard her say those words to anyone? Ever?"
Rafe opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat. He stared at her, his mind flipping through over a decade of memories.
He’d heard you laugh, he’d heard you scream, he’d heard you cry on the cold of a bathroom floor, he'd heard you plead before your hand struck him across the face for being stupid. He’d heard you tell him he was your best friend, that he was the only one who mattered. But as he searched the archives of his brain, that was when he realized.
He had never heard you say 'I love you'.
Not to your mother.
Not to your brothers.
Not to your friends.
Not even about yourself.
"She’s never said it, Rafe," Kat reinforced, leaning across the table to touch the back of his trembling hand. "To anyone. The fact that she didn't say it back to you isn't because she doesn't feel it.” She said softly. “It's because she's fucking terrified."
THEY were right, but Rafe didn't get the chance to find you first.
You’d actually found him.
It happened in the middle of the night—12:42.
The storm had been raging all evening, a downpour that rattled against the glass of Rafe’s bedroom window. He was lying awake, flat on his back, arm thrown over his eyes, listening to the thunder when the sudden buzz of his phone on the nightstand made him sit up.
He didn't even look at the caller ID, his hand shooting out, fingers gripping the device.
He flipped the screen over and your name flashed at him in the dark.
His heart jumped, and he answered before the second ring could finish, pressing the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
"...Rafe?"
Your voice was a tiny, meek sound, nearly swallowed by the static and the rain. You sounded cold, and smaller than he had ever heard you.
"What's wrong?" Rafe demanded, pushing every negative feeling to the side, his feet already swinging off the bed, bare soles hitting the cold floor as he stood up.
"My... my car," you stammered, your teeth chattering over the line. "The engine just... it just died. I was coming back from... it doesn't matter.” You sighed. “I’m on that narrow road behind the old salt marsh. The dark one. Rafe, it’s pouring, and no one else is answering their phones, and I—"
"I’m on my way," he cut you off, his voice entirely absent of the anger or hesitation from the past weeks. He didn't wait for you to finish the sentence, and he didn't care why you were out, or where you had been.
He shoved his feet into his sneakers, grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter, and yanked a hoodie over his bare chest as he sprinted out of his apartment, the door slamming behind him.
He drove his truck through the storm like a mad man, tires hydroplaning across the flooded blacktop as he took corners at speeds that should have flipped the large vehicle. The windshield wipers were on their highest setting, slapping violently against the glass, barely clearing the sheets of gray water that were falling from the sky. His heart was beating violently against his ribcage, a familiar, terrifying rush of adrenaline burning through him.
He was late once before.
And despite everything...he promised you, and himself, that he’d never be late to you again.
HE made it to you in record time, The road completely black. The only illumination came from the yellow glare of your car's headlights, which were cutting weak lines through the rain. Your vehicle was pulled halfway onto the muddy shoulder, the hazard lights flashing.
As Rafe pulled his truck up, his high beams flooded the scene, and, through the downpour, he saw you.
You weren't inside your car. You were standing out in the open, completely drenched, your clothes plastered to your skin and your hair hanging around your face. The hood of your car was jacked open, and you were leaning over the engine bay, your hands buried in the wires, trying desperately to fix something he knew you didn't understand.
Rafe slammed his truck into park, threw the door open, and stepped out. The cold water hit him, soaking through his hoodie in seconds, but he barely registered it as he marched over to you.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he roared over the sound of the thunder, squinting his eyes from the water trying to leak into them, leaning in until he was directly in your field of vision. "Get in the truck! Now!"
You flinched, your head snapping up, your eyes wide and glassy under the glare of his high beams. For a split second, the weeks of silence disappeared, replaced by a look of relief at the sight of him looming over you. But just as quickly, your jaw tightened.
"I’m trying to check the alternator!" you shouted back, your voice shaking violently from the cold. "The battery light came on and then everything just went dark—"
"You don't know anything about an alternator!" Rafe yelled, his grip tightening on the hood as he stepped closer, his body blocking the wind from hitting your face. "You’re freezing to death, look at you!” He huffed. “Go get in my car,"
You stared at him for a long second, the rain streaming down your cheeks, mixing with the tears you were trying so hard to hide.
“Go.” He urged, throwing a hand out.
Your shoulders slumped then, exhaustion taking over. You pulled your hands out of the engine bay, wiping the grease onto your wet jeans, dropped your keys into his palm, and walked around to his truck, pulling the passenger door open and climbing inside.
Rafe slammed your car hood shut, locked your doors, and ran back to the driver's side of his truck, sliding into the seat and pulling the door shut behind him.
The sudden silence that enveloped you both was soul crushing. The only sound was the thud of raindrops against the roof and the blasting of the truck's heater, which Rafe immediately cranked to its highest setting.
He didn't look at you right away, keeping his hands on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, breathing ragged as he tried to calm himself.
You were huddled against the passenger door, as far away from him as the small space allowed. Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, your knees tucked together, your teeth chattering. You were staring fixedly out the side window, drenched and shaking.
The awkwardness between you was evident, of course—heavy from weeks of unspoken words, anger, and the devastating memory of his confession.
Rafe turned his head slowly, his eyes scanning your shivering form. He immediately reached into the backseat, grabbed a dry hoodie he’d left on the floor, and tossed it into your lap. "Put that on."
You didn't look at him, fingers slowly uncurling, picking up the garment and sliding into it, burying yourself in the familiar scent of him. "Thanks," you whispered, voice raspy.
Rafe let out a long breath, shifting his weight in the seat. He looked back through the windshield at your dark car sitting in the mud. "Look, I looked at it. The belt is snapped. There's nothing I can do tonight without tools.” He tried to be casual. As casual as he could, anyway. “I’m gonna drive you back to your place, and we’ll handle getting it towed tomorrow morning—"
"No," you said instantly, your voice gaining an edge. "No, it's fine. You can just... you can go. I’ll just call a tow service or an Uber or something. I don't need you to drive me."
Rafe scoffed, letting out a humorless laugh as his restraint snapped. The irritation, the worry, the absolute agony of, nearly, the last month boiled over in a second. He whipped his torso around, his blue eyes flashing.
"Are you fucking serious right now?" he barked, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Look out the window. It is pouring down raining, it’s midnight, and you are on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere!” He reminded. “You’re gonna sit here and wait for a tow truck that’ll take three hours, at least, to show up, all because you’re too goddamn stubborn to sit in a car with me—"
"Yes, actually, " you shrieked, finally turning your head to face him, your eyes wild and brimming with tears. "Yes, Rafe! Just go! I told you, I don't need your help!"
"Then why the fuck did you call me?!" he roared back, his face inches from yours, contorted into an expression of complete frustration. "If you hate me so much—"
"I don't hate you—"
"If you can't stand the sight of me—"
"I never said that—"
"Then why was I the one to call when your car broke down?"
"I told you," you seethed, voice cracking as a sob escaped your throat. "No one else was answering their phone!"
Rafe froze, eyes narrowing. He didn't say a word, just slowly lowered his gaze to the passenger seat between you.
Unbeknownst to you, your purse had fallen over when you got in, the contents spilling out onto the leather. And there, sitting beneath the glow of the dashboard lights, was your phone. The screen was on, completely unlocked, displaying your call log.
Rafe reached down, his large fingers picking up the device before you could snatch it away. He held it up between your faces, his thumb tapping the screen to bring the log into full view.
"No one else was answering?" Rafe asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, terrifyingly steady whisper.. "That's funny. Because it almost looks like... you haven't called Kat today. You haven't called Janae. Or Topper. Or Kelce. Or anyone, for that matter."
He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours in a way that stripped away every single layer of your defense. "I am the only person you called all day.” He hissed. “You didn't try anyone else. You dialed my number first."
The phone fell from his hand, clattering against the center console as he let it go carelessly. You looked down at it, your breath hitching in your throat, lips parting. It wasn’t like you could deny it.
Rafe pressed his palms against the steering wheel, eyes boring into the side of your face. "...Why did you call me?"
You shook your head, your fingers clutching the edges of his hoodie. You tried to look away, to turn back to the window, but the air in the truck was entirely filled with his presence, a presence you had felt for nearly all your life, that you had rid yourself of for the last few weeks—his warmth, his voice, that fucking look in his eyes—
"Because I missed you." you blurted out, the words ripping from your throat.
A sob broke through your lips, shoulders shaking as the tears finally spilled over. You covered your face with your hands, your voice muffled and broken. "I missed you, Rafe.” You admitted, voice broken. “I’ve been sitting in that room for a fucking month, trying to push you out of my head, trying to pretend that if I just stayed away long enough, I could go back to normal. But I’m not normal. I never have been, and no matter what I do, no matter where I look, you’re just... you’re just there."
Rafe flinched, his expression softening. He reached a hand out, his fingers hovering inches from your shoulder before he pulled them back, jaw tightening as the hurt from the past weeks reintroduced itself.
"...You missed me?" he asked, a bitter sound escaping his throat. "You ran out of my apartment. I told you how I felt. And you couldn't even look me in the eye, wouldn't even walk on the same side of the street as me.” He criticized, though his own voice was shaking. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? You're all I have, and you spent weeks running from me."
"Don't...say that—" you winced, pulling your hands down from your face, your eyes red and wild as you stared at him through the dark.
"Why?" he yelled back, his anger flaring. "My dad hates me, my family is a joke, I’m trying every single day to stay clean, and the only person who makes me feel like I’m actually a human being is you.” He emphasized. “You are all I have."
"I can't be all you have when I am literally nothing!" you screamed, the weight of your deepest, darkest insecurity leaking out.
The words echoed against the inside of the car. You leaned back against the passenger door, your chest heaving, your voice dropping into a broken whisper.
"Look at me, Rafe.” You scoffed, tears sitting at your waterline as your face fell. “I have nothing to offer you. I don't love myself. I don't even know what I am, who I am. I’m just a mess of...pills and emotions and expectations I’ll never reach that no one knows what to do with!” You sobbed, throwing a hand out as you let your eyes leave his. “... If I don't even know how to exist in my own skin, how can you expect me to love you back? How can I give you that?"
You wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, your face contorting with a bitter, self-loathing laugh. "I would be a terrible girlfriend, Rafe. An even worse wife o-or mother, if I ever even make it that far—”
“Don’t—”
“I would just bring you down.” You cut him off sharply. “Look at what you’ve done since we got to college—you got away from it.” You smiled sadly, choking on your own emotions. “But I can't.” You nearly whimpered. “...I don’t know who I am and I can’t be what people expect me to be, so I’m just...lost and unloveable—"
"Don't say that," Rafe whispered, his voice trembling, large hands coming up to grip your face, rendering you silent. His palms were warm against your freezing, wet skin, thumbs gently but firmly wiping away the tears that were pooling beneath your eyes. "Why do you always say that shit about yourself—"
"Because I am being honest," you sobbed, trying to pull your head back, but his grip was unyielding, holding you right there, forcing you to look at him. "I’ve tried so hard, Rafe.” You slumped. “I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to love myself, how to be normal, and I can't do it. If I can't even do it for myself, how the hell can you do? Huh? How can you look at me and see something worth loving?"
You swallowed the lump in your throat, your voice dropping into a heartbreaking whisper that broke his heart.
"I know what love is, Rafe. I do.” You told him, voice barely there. “I know because... I love you.” You admitted, finally. “I’ve loved you since I met you and you taught me what love was, when neither of us knew the meaning. And I’m sorry... I’m so sorry I didn't say it back to you. But I was... I am, so fucking scared."
Rafe’s thumbs froze against your cheekbones. His breath hitched, lips parting as the words he had waited a lifetime to hear finally met his ears. "Scared of what?" he whispered, looking at you like the most fragile thing in the world. “What could you possibly be scared of?”
"Of ruining the only thing I’m sure of," you cried, the tears spilling over his fingers. "Us, whatever this is, is the only real thing I’ve ever had in my entire life.” You cried. “I’m terrified that if we cross that line, if we try to be something more, our problems will just pull us both under.” You tell him, eyes locked on his now. “We’re both so broken, Rafe. What if we just destroy each other even more?"
Rafe shook his head, pulling your face a fraction of an inch closer to his. "You are my best friend," he reminded you, his voice thick, his forehead leaning in until it nearly touched yours. "That means something. Nothing about that has to change—"
"We were never just friends," you interrupted, a watery laugh escaping you. You reached up, your hands locking around his wrists, not to push him away, but to hold him right there against you. "Friends don't scream at each other until three o'clock in the morning in empty parking lots. Friends don't look at each other the way we look at each other. They don't scare off every single person who tries to come near them until there's no one left but each other. They don't sit in your car and do this—"
“Exactly,” Rafe stared at you, his breathing heavy, lips trembling. "We’re basically already past whatever line you're so afraid of crossing. So, what are you so afraid of?" he asked, his voice a soft, a plea. "...Why are you so afraid of being in love with me?"
"I am not scared,” Your voice grew firm, a hint of anger seeping into your words. “To love you." you emphasized. "I’m scared for you to love me back. Because I’m still... Rafe, I’m still not sure that I fit. In this world, on this planet, in this timeline. Whatever’s wrong with me... it makes it so hard to just open my eyes in the morning. It feels like a weight pulling me down, and I don't want you to be stuck with me when you're finally doing so much better. I don't want to drag you back."
Rafe’s face twisted, shaking side to side as he slid his hands down to grip your shoulders, his thumbs digging into your skin. "Hey, I will always lay myself on the line for you," he said, voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone. "Every single time."
"Don’t you get it?” You breathed. “I don't want you to." you wept, shaking your head. "You shouldn't have to ruin yourself for me—"
"You’ve always done it for me," Rafe argued back, his voice breaking into a sob as his own tears finally spilled over. "Who stood by me when I was sniffing lines off coffee tables? Who lied to my dad? Who came to my bedroom when I was losing my fucking mind and held onto me until I stopped?” He asked, eyebrows pinching. “You."
"That’s different—”
“How?!”
“Because you're all I've ever had to live for!" you confessed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
You fell forward then, burying your face in his chest, hands clutching the damp fabric of his hoodie as you sobbed against him, turning your face so you could still speak. "I still hear your fucking voice, Rafe.” You admitted through an unrelenting sob. “Every single day when I wake up, I still hear you talking to me on that bathroom floor. And I carry that shit around.” You cursed yourself. “...I almost left you alone. I almost died and left you. And I’m so terrified... I’m so terrified that one day, another day will come and I won't be able to stop it, and neither will you."
Rafe’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you completely across the center console until you were sitting in his lap, your face buried in his neck. He held you so tightly it nearly bruised your ribs, his large frame shaking with his own repressed sobs that made is body shake every time he released a breath, struggling to hold it together.
"It won't happen again," he whispered into your hair, lips pressing against your temple. "I swear to you, it won't happen again."
"You can't promise something like that. Being with me will only drag you down," you choked out, your fingers tightening around his neck. "You got out of it, Rafe. You did the work. You got clean.” You sniffed, going numb—physically, emotionally. “But I never could. I’m still there."
Rafe pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands coming up to cup your chin, forcing your tear-streaked face up. A sad, soft grin touched his lips.
"I’m still there, too," Rafe said plainly, his voice steady.
He leaned in closer, blue eyes zeroing in on your lips, his thumb brushing against the lower one. "I stopped the coke because you asked me to. I cut down the drinking because I wanted to be better for you. But I still have you.” He whispered. “That’s one addiction I’ll never give up. I can give up everything else, but I can't give up you."
You sighed, chest aching, unamused by his words. They only hurt more. "That's the problem," you whispered. "It shouldn’t be like that—"
"I don't care," Rafe disagreed, his voice dropping into a rough growl as his lips brushed against yours with every word he spoke. "You make me better. You make me want to be something. My mood, my day, everything about my fucking life depends on whether you're okay. So yeah, maybe we are toxic and overly co-dependent and forever fucked.” He mused, a small laugh escaping his lips, though it held little humor. “But, fuck it.” He shrugged, jutting his bottom lip out. “I’d rather be all of that than be without you."
He pulled his head back slightly,his eyes searching yours with an intensity that demanded everything you had left to give. He leaned in, his lips hovering mere millimeters from yours, his breath warm against your skin.
"So, love me back."
You shivered against him, your fingers tangling into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your defenses disintegrating under his gaze. "Rafe..." you whispered, your voice soft, breathless.
"Say it," he pleaded, his voice cracking as he leaned his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist tightening until you were completely flush against him. "Say it.”
“I—”
“Say you love me."
“...”
“I need you to—”
"I love you," you let out, the words finally breaking through. "Okay, I love you, Rafe.” Your voice shook. “...And I’m sorry."
A pained, breathless sound escaped Rafe’s throat—something between a sob and a laugh.
He didn't say another word, simply closing the tiny distance between you, his mouth slamming down onto yours with a desperation that poured years of pain, longing, and emotion into you.
It was painful almost, riddled with a decade of unspoken words. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of rain and the salt of your tears, his tongue sliding against yours with a force that claimed every single part of who you were—the dark spaces, the shadows, and everything in between. You opened up for him completely, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling his large body down against yours until there was no space left between you, letting him anchor you in a way no pills or smoke ever could.
And when he finally pulled back, both of your chests were heaving, breaths coming out in short, ragged gasps. Rafe didn't let you go. He kept his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses against your collarbone while his breathing slowly evened out.
"I’ve got you," he whispered against your skin, his voice thick and steady. "I’ve got you, okay? We're gonna handle the car tomorrow. We're gonna handle all of it."
You nodded against his shoulder, fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, the terrifying unknown of the future suddenly feeling somewhat manageable with one less weight on your shoulders. Because his chest was rising and falling beneath your cheek, and for the first time in your entire life, the dark felt like something you didn't have to carry all by yourself.
summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
wc: 2.5k
warnings: 18+ eventual smut/fwb, but this will be a series
a/n: inspired by my college experience since it's been almost a year since graduation! but Rafe is so much more fun and interesting ~
banner by @uzmacchiato
Where you sit in class at college usually determined where you would sit for most of the year, so it was a very important decision. Usually, you would pick a seat next to a girl who looked friendly. Rarely, you would sit next to a guy if he was incredibly hot. But unfortunately today, you were early.
The classroom had three tables arranged like a U. Chairs sat outside of the table, 15 total. Small class, but that was expected. It was only an hour, and supposed to be an easy A. It was basically a class on study skills. Time management, focus, motivation. A good way to boost your GPA.
But you were early enough that only one person was in the room. He was seated right in front of you, at the first table, his short hair dyed blue like he was fully committed to supporting the Duke Blue Devils. It felt wrong to sit far away from the only other person in the room, so you took a seat next to him, relieved when he smiled warmly at you.
The rest of the class filed in slowly, an almost even mix of girls and guys. One of the last to arrive sauntered in, taking a seat beside the guy next to you. They fist bumped, clearly recognizing each other. And you couldn’t help but notice he looked familiar. You’d definitely seen those piercing blue eyes before. But where?
The professor introduced herself as Ms. Smith. A boring name for an easy class, but she seemed very sweet. Her voice was soft as she called out attendance. You almost missed it when she called out your name. She moved through the short list quickly.
“Ah, Rafe Cameron?” She widened her warm brown eyes, searching the room.
“Present.” The boy with the blue eyes muttered. Rafe. That’s right. He was the hockey player the girls in your dorm talked about. Well, they talked about a lot of the hockey players, but you had been to a few games last year and remembered him well. He was a forward. Aggressive, mouthy, fast, and very, very, good. And apparently very good in bed. You quickly looked away from him, like he'd catch you staring.
“Alright, I want you to introduce yourself to the people to your left and right. Take a minute to get to know each other.” Ms. Smith announced, taking a seat at her desk on the other side of the room.
“Hi, I’m Evan.” The blue haired boy next to you spoke before it could get awkward. You introduced yourself, mentioning your major in finance. He tells you he hasn’t picked a major yet, but he’s a freshman playing soccer at Duke.
Next up was the girl to your left, her dark curly hair piled into a messy bun. Her green eyes were striking against her tan skin. She tells you her name is Meghan, a sophomore in communications.
Ms. Smith starts her lecture on time management, her voice the perfect cadence to lull you to sleep. You would have, if it weren’t for the athlete boys next to you chattering under their breath and chuckling at every little thing. Evan seemed nice enough, but you’d heard enough about male athletes to want nothing to do with them. Egotistical assholes who only cared about themselves. No thanks.
Ms. Smith had other plans, though. She divided the class up into their first group assignment, pointing out every other person. That paired you up with none other than Rafe Cameron. And knowing that he was the only hockey player you remembered by name, he probably had an ego the size of North Carolina.
Rafe introduces himself to you with a casual confidence that you envy, like he doesn’t expect you to know who he is but he wouldn’t be surprised if you did. He takes a moment to learn your name, and then oddly enough, he gets started on the assignment. You expected some goofing off with his buddies, or a complete disinterest altogether. But he takes charge, asking for your input now and then.
At the end of class, it feels like it will be easy enough to get an A and that you made the right decision signing up. The rest of the week, you focus on your new routine for the semester. When to get coffee between classes. The café you like to eat at that still takes your student card and is cheaper than the dining hall, even if it’s a bit further away.
You had no intention of including Rafe Cameron in your routine, but he seemed to have other ideas. Any time Ms. Smith suggested pairing up for class, he would corral you and Evan before either of you could speak. His excuse was that there had to be one group of three with the 15 students, so it might as well be you three. Nevermind the fact that you had wanted to get to know Meghan a little.
Two weeks later, you tried to be quick when Ms. Smith asks you to pair up. You turned to Meghan, hoping she would turn to face you, when someone to your right cleared their throat. You turn to Evan, who looked at you sheepishly. Rafe, on the other hand, was faking a pout.
“Not gonna join us, partner?” He accused.
“I-” You looked over at Meghan, who was already pairing up to the blonde girl who always sat next to her. “Don’t you have a hockey friend you’d rather have in the group?” You nod at the ginger guy next to Rafe.
“Holiday? He’s my roommate. I see enough of him.” Rafe shrugs. Holiday. So, the guy with orange hair came from a hockey family. His dad definitely played: Roger Holiday. Maybe his grandpa, too, if you remembered right. You could bet his ego was worse than Rafe’s.
“Fine.” You say, crossing your arms. You give Evan a gentle smile, not wanting him to think your irritation was at him. The assignment was simple enough, and as soon as class was dismissed, you nearly sprinted to Meghan to chat with her. You hadn’t been out yet, and were craving a night out with some girls.
Lucky for you, Meghan agrees, and the two of you hit the bars on Friday night. Your roommate and few other girls from class are supposed to meet up with you at the only club on campus later, but you take Meghan to your favorite bar. It has a ton of retro arcade games, and you used to come here whenever you visited your older brothers before they graduated.
“Wanna play against me?” You ask Meghan, sticking some tokens in for the Mortal Kombat game.
“Um, sure,” She smiles hesitantly. “It’s like boxing, right?”
“Yeah. Those buttons say what they do when you press ‘em. But no pressure.” You tell her, sifting through the characters.
“Oh! The hockey team is here!” She practically squeals, turning her head to the entrance.
“Nice.” You comment, picking Kitana as your player.
“You’ve been talking to Rafe, right? He’s so cute.” She gushes, and you finally glance away from the screen. Meghan’s actually blushing, her cheeks matching the lip gloss she had put on.
“Uh,” You stammer, her enthusiasm catching you off guard. “Not really.”
“Oh, come on! He always picks you as his partner in class.”
“He picks me and Evan.” You remind her, shrugging.
“Well, I saw him make a big stink when you tried to match up with someone else.” She wags her eyebrows suggestively, making you laugh. “If you won’t talk to them, I will. I’ve got a bit of crush. Is it okay if I go say hi?” Her green eyes widen, glancing back at the screen for a second. You could tell she didn’t seem super interested in playing video games, and didn’t want to keep her from talking to any boys she liked.
“Yeah, go for it! Good luck!” You try to match her enthusiasm, and she grins before sauntering off. You turn back to your game, choosing to go against the computer this round. You were rusty anyway. You get into a rhythm, starting another match when a voice interrupts you.
“Now, what kind of guy would leave a pretty girl like you all by yourself at this game?”
You freeze. You knew that voice.
Sure enough, when you turn your head, Rafe Cameron is standing behind you. For a moment, he seems taken aback, like he didn’t fully recognize you in a full face of makeup. But then his smirk returns. His eyes quickly skim your outfit, and you try to stand a little taller and more confidently.
“Hey, partner. Mind if I join you?” He asks, nodding at the game.
“Sure.” You take a moment to let the computer win before adding some tokens for another match.
You can feel adrenaline starting to simmer under your skin. Growing up with two brothers had made you competitive, or you were born that way and never grew out of it with them around. You could feel your fingers tense in anticipation as Rafe chose his character. After an excruciatingly long time deliberating, he chose Sub Zero. You picked Kitana again, going with your most comfortable.
At the start of the first round, you landed a couple hits off the bat, getting your confidence up. Rafe cursed under his breath, noticing that you were all in. He cleared his throat, and landed a few kicks. You blocked one, and started to attack again.
“Jesus, do you just button mash?” Rafe commented, voice low.
“What?” You scoff. “I know what buttons I’m pressing.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not button mashing.” He replies, and your focus is so thrown off that he wins the round.
“You bitch.” You mutter, glaring at him.
“Watch your language.” He smirks, getting ready for the next round.
This time, you force yourself not to be distracted by him. He tries to make a few more comments, but you ignore him and win that round, and then the next. With the match won, you look up at him in satisfaction. You expect him to look angry or annoyed, but his bright blue eyes are glinting like you just stepped up to the challenge.
“My turf next.” He nods his head over to the air hockey table.
“Shouldn’t that be an easy win for you?” You raise a brow.
“Why don’t you find out? Unless you’re too much of a pussy.”
“Please, don’t say that.” You roll your eyes.
“Chicken.” He counters.
“You’re on, but I need to buy some more tokens.”
“I can-” He starts before you cut him off.
“Nope. I do not want to owe you in any way.” With that, you walk over to the token machine, eyes scanning for Meghan. She’s talking to another hockey player, a super tall one with tanned skin. When she catches your eye, she gives you a thumbs up, and you can’t help but smile. Once you scan your card and grab the tokens, you start to make your way back until shrill laughter stops you in your tracks.
A group of girls have surrounded Rafe at the air hockey table, all trying to talk to him and fiddling with the pieces of the game. They’re all fairly tipsy, but clearly happy to have run into a hockey player that they know. You find yourself standing there, tokens in hand as you hear some of them ask if they can play the game with him. And honestly, they’re stunning. Beautiful, confident girls that Rafe would probably be more than happy to drop you for. You start to head back to Mortal Kombat when you hear Rafe speak up.
“Actually, I was playing with her.”
You turn to Rafe, meeting his eyes as the gaggle of fangirls stares at you. He tilts his chin up, as if urging you to ignore them and come back. And for some reason, you do. The girls get flustered, saying goodbye to both of you and wishing him a good night as they scurry away. And then it’s just you two, facing off over the air hockey table.
Unsurprisingly, Rafe wins all three rounds. He’s too quick, his reflexes too fast. It’s not even close, and if he weren’t an athlete you’d be a little embarrassed. You roll your eyes when he celebrates like he just won the rival game in overtime.
“Okay, ready to get back to your teammates?” You try to bring him back to reality.
“What? No. They don’t give a shit. They’re down to leave without me.” He says dismissively.
“Watch your language.” You retort, and that gleam in his eyes is back.
“Besides, partner, we’re now 1 to 1 at these games. We gotta play at least one more to see the real winner.”
“Fine. Pick a game that’s not basically what you do for a living.” You tease, secretly loving the challenge. He pretends to be annoyed at you, shaking his head. Walking around the arcade, he slows in front of the basketball hoops. What he doesn’t know is that you played for a few years. Not good enough to be a college athlete, but good enough for high school. You try to play it off and act nervous.
“How about this one?” Rafe’s smile grows.
“I don’t know…” You trail off, pretending to scan the arcade.
“We’re doing this one. Give me the tokens or I’m buying.” He insists, and you do everything you can to hold back a smirk. Hook, line, and sinker.
You make the most shots each round easily, giggling at Rafe’s grunts of frustration. You shrug as if it was an accident, as if you got lucky. But he’s not buying it, his mouth set in a thin line.
“That how you wanna play, partner?” He growls in a way that makes your cheeks flush, and you work to keep your composure.
“It’s only fair. You made me play air hockey.” You bat your lashes, playing innocent. “Looks like I win.”
“Nah,” He shakes his head, marching up to a racing car game that’s nearly enclosed. “One more. Let’s go.”
“Rafe,” You hesitate, looking back at Meghan. She seemed fine talking to the other boys, and some of the girls from class had shown up. But you weren’t planning on ignoring them all night.
“What, afraid you’ll lose?” He already knows that’ll get under your skin. Of course it does. You sigh, taking a seat at the racecar next to him. Dropping in the tokens, you wait for him to pick a race course, but he’s just looking at you.
His blue eyes are still confident, amused, determined. But he doesn’t say anything. It’s like he’s finally taking you in now that you’ve both paused. Suddenly, you’re aware of how close together you two are in this stupid arcade game. And suddenly, it feels too hot, his gaze too intense, yet you can’t look away.
A loud smack on the back of the racecar seats startles you both. You turn to see some of the hockey boys peering in, and you try to look as unassuming and normal as possible.
“Cameron!” One of them calls. “Let’s go. Reyes is looking for you.” “Ah, shit. Sorry.” Rafe says to you, chuckling as he slides out of the racecar seat. “This isn’t over, okay? Find me tonight.” He leaves you with a wink.
pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader, topper thornton x fem!reader
summary — rafe cameron has never wanted something he couldn’t take. it’s not his fault topper’s girlfriend turns out to be one thing he can’t stop thinking about.
word count — 18.1k (i know!!!!)
warnings — not proofread so sorry;; fem!reader, ooc topper, emotional infidelity, physical cheating, complicated love triangle (best friend’s girlfriend), relationship conflicts, alcohol use, drug use (cocaine), physical violence, description of blood and injuries, emotional manipulation through emotional vulnerability, power imbalance, sexual tension, making out/kissing, very impaired judgement due to intoxication, aggressive-ish behavior, explicit sexual tension, infidelity/cheating, emotional cheating, ambiguous consent due to intoxication and emotional state, power imbalance, controlling parents, possessive behavior, manipulation, guilt and shame due to intimacy, objectifying internal monologue, imagination of reader in explicit sexual scenarios, sexual fixation on reader, reader mentioned wearing dresses, makeup, embodying “perfect girlfriend” role. lmk if i missed any!!
part one part two part three
Topper had never quite gone against the grain most kids on Figure Eight did—sneaking coke at Midsummers, fucking in someone’s parents’ beds during charity galas, stealing boats just to see if they could—once in a while. His entire being relied on his foundation of good breeding and the optimism that came from being a part of the 1%. He had never needed anything. The best way Rafe could describe him was by saying he was a golden retriever in human form. He was loyal, eager to please, and just smart enough to know he wasn’t the smartest person in any given room, and that made him try harder at everything else. Being kind. Being decent. Being exactly what his mother had raised him to be.
Which was why—Rafe supposed—Topper had gotten the girl.
You were laughing at something Kelce said. Rafe hadn’t been listening, too busy tracking the way the June sun caught your hair, turning colours that probably had names that sounded like they belonged on paint chips. They were sprawled across the Thorntons’ perfectly manicured lawn like they were in some Ralph Lauren ad. Topper, Kelce, Ruthie, you, and Rafe. He’d shown up because Topper had texted him and what else was he supposed to do? Say no? Admit he’d rather be literally anywhere else than watching his best friend play house with his girlfriend of two years? Sitting at Tannyhill waiting for Ward to notice him long enough to be disappointed? At least here he could pretend he had friends; had a place; had something resembling a normal fucking life.
But lately he couldn't stop cataloging the small things. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking; it was always the left side. How you always brought those homemade cookies to parties, the ones you always wrapped in the same blue cloth each time. The kind that actually tasted like they were baked in a home oven rather than in a commercial kitchen that used bleached flour and measured everything with no real meaning behind it. You used real butter and too much vanilla, and he supposed that was the imperfection that came from someone who actually gave a fuck. The little gold anklet you wore that caught the light when you moved. Stupid things. Things that shouldn't matter. Things he noticed anyway and filed them away into what started as a small nook in his brain and turned to an overpowering compartment.
Two years. Christ.
“—and I told my Dad there’s no one behind me, what does it matter?”
“It matters because you could hit someone,” Ruthie said, barely looking up from her phone.
“I passed my driver’s test—”
“Then why are we talking about this?” Ruthie’s thumb moved across her screen, nails clicking. She was always bored, yet she always showed up. How much is there to do here?
Topper laughed, genuine, and shifted so you could lean back against his chest. You fit there like you’d measured for the space. His arms came around your waist, casual and propriety, the way someone would hold something they knew was theirs. Something nobody else would try to take.
Rafe took a pull from his beer. It was warm and disgusting now. He was nursing the drink slowly given that Kelce’s parents were home. If he stopped focusing on drinking slowly, he’d be on his fifth by this point because Rafe had never learned moderation.
“Rafe, back me up,” Kelce said. “You’ve seen me drive—”
“You drive like shit,” Rafe said, and there was the stupid, perpetual edge in his voice he couldn’t smooth out. It always made the people around him shift uncomfortably and that reminded him why Ward always kept him at arm’s length.
“Wait, what?”
Rafe shrugged. “You drive like shit,” he repeated, then picked at the label on his beer bottle, watching it tear in damp strips. “You almost hit a mailbox on Sea Breeze last week.”
“The mailbox was in my blind spot—”
“The stationary mailbox? The mailbox that couldn’t move was in your blind spot?”
You, Topper’s girlfriend—god, even in his head he couldn’t call you by your name, like saying it would make this whole thing more real—made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. It was soft and musical and Rafe briefly felt something crawl up his throat that was most likely disgust at the way he’d begun thinking. Your head was tipped back against Topper’s shoulder, face turned toward the sun. You looked like you were exactly where you wanted to be.
You probably were.
“I’m a great driver,” he said, but he was grinning now, playing it up. “You’re all just jealous of my Jeep.”
“We all have Jeeps,” Ruthie said, raising a brow.
“Yeah, but mine’s nicer.”
“It’s literally the same car,” Ruthie said, voice lowering towards the end like she couldn’t be bothered to argue.
From inside the house, Mrs. Thornton appeared at the French doors, waving with enthusiasm Rafe was sure he’d perfected from Junior League training. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything. “Lunch is ready, kids! Hope you’re hungry—I made way too much pasta salad.”
“You’re a saint, Mrs. T,” Kelce called back.
“Oh, stop,” she said, but looked pleased. Her eyes lingered on you and Topper, together, appropriate, and exactly what a mother would want for her son. The look on her face was satisfaction. Pride, even.
Rafe had seen that look before. On Rose’s face when Sarah did something worth bragging about at the club. On Ward’s face when he talked about Topper getting into Chapel Hill, about how good a kid he was, how he had his head on straight. Never on Ward’s face when he talked about Rafe.
"Come on," Topper said, standing and pulling you up with him in one smooth motion. You stumbled slightly—the grass was uneven or maybe you'd been sitting too long—and he steadied you with a hand at your waist. He was laughing, and so were you, and your fingers were tangled together like they were stitched together. "Careful."
"I'm fine," you said, but you were smiling, and your fingers were still linked with his.
Rafe watched the stumble, the catch, the laugh. He watched the way Topper looked at you like steadying you was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd do it forever if you needed him to. And you looked up at Topper with this expression Rafe couldn't quite name. So unguarded and soft like this trust didn’t have to be earned was so uncomplicated, and the thought of earning it had never even occurred to you.
What the fuck would that be like? To look at someone and just—trust them? To not have to calculate every word, every move, every expression to make sure you didn't give too much away? For someone to look at Rafe, of all people, and feel that way?
Rafe stood too, brushed grass off his shorts. His hands were shaking slightly—not from the beer, barely half-finished—but from something else. Something that felt too much like anger but wasn't. Couldn't be. What did he have to be angry about? Topper was his best friend. You were Topper's girlfriend. This was how it was supposed to be.
You and Topper walked together, shoulders touching, your sundress—pink today, always some shade of soft—swishing around your knees. Your little gold anklet caught in the light. You looked like something out of a catalog selling a lifestyle Rafe’s family already had but somehow always felt a little out of reach. He was twenty and only just realizing that—truly—some things couldn’t be purchased in the same way Ward bought boats and houses and buildings. Some things you had to deserve.
“You good?” Topper said, dropping back to walk beside Rafe.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know, man. You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
Topper laughed shortly. “No, you’re always talking shit. Quiet’s different.” His brows furrowed, concerned and probably genuine. Girls like you made boys like Topper genuine, made sure he didn’t want to be anything other than what he appeared to be. “Everything good with Ward?”
Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine.”
“Cool. Cool. Just—you know you can always talk about stuff, right? If you need to.”
Rafe’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “What the fuck are you saying?”
Topper chuckled, shaking his head too. He had lost that quality of getting defensive and irritated too quickly when he started dating you. “Don’t know. But I mean it, yeah?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.” Topper clapped his shoulder, reassured, and jogged ahead to catch up with you. You’d stopped to wait for him, leaning against the doorframe, and when he reached you, you smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile you gave everyone else, it seemed more private. Just for him. For Topper. Rafe filed that away without meaning to, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when it was real..
Inside, Mrs. Thornton had set out enough food for thrice their number. Pasta salad, finger sandwiches and normal-sized sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies that looked homemade. The kind of spread that said she cared and wanted them to feel welcome and that this was a home where people were fed and happy and safe.
They loaded their plates and settled around the Thorntons’ dining room table. Real plates, cloth napkins, and a lunch with structure. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rose tried, sometimes. She’d set out cheese boards when Ward had important colleagues over, she arranged things the way magazines told her to. But Ward was always working. Sarah was always out. Wheezie was always watching TV in her room with the door closed. Rafe was usually too high to sit through a meal, or too angry, or just too something. The Camerons ate in shifts, quietly, or not at all.
“So,” Mrs. Thornton said, perching on the edge of the chair with her own plate, “what are you kids up to this summer? Besides laying around my backyard like a bunch of lazy seals.”
“Mom,” Topper said.
“What? You are.”
“Not much,” Kelce said seriously. “It’s important we don’t get burned out too early.”
“Burnt out of what?” Ruthie asked.
“Of… summer. Having fun.”
“You can’t get burnt out of summer. It’s not a race—”
“Everything’s a race—”
Rafe tuned them out. He was watching you, sitting across from him, carefully spreading mayo on your sandwich. You had this way of doing things, and even making a sandwich required your complete attention. Or maybe Rafe was just imagining things? Your nails were painted the same pink as your dress. You wore a little gold necklace with your initial on it; it was delicate enough that Rafe hadn’t noticed until now. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate.
"What about you, sweetheart?" Mrs. Thornton asked, and it took Rafe a second to realize she was talking to you. "Any fun plans?"
"Oh, just the usual. Volunteering at the library on Tuesdays. Hanging out with friends. There's that charity thing at the club next week—"
"The children's hospital benefit," Mrs. Thornton said, nodding. "Your mother mentioned you're on the planning committee."
"Just helping where I can."
"She's being modest," Topper said, squeezing her hand where it rested on the table. "She basically organized the whole thing."
"I didn't—there's a whole committee—" Rafe watched the fluster creep into your cheeks.
"You made all those decorations yourself," Topper insisted. He looked at his mother and said, "She stayed up until like 2 AM cutting out paper flowers."
"They're for a good cause," you said, and there was something in your voice that sounded firm. Like you needed them to know you weren’t doing it for praise and that the doing itself was enough.
Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. It was good. Everything in this house was good. That was the problem.
"That's wonderful, honey," Mrs. Thornton said warmly. "We need more young people who actually care about giving back. Don't we, Topper?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Rafe, what about you? Are you helping with the benefit?"
Every eye at the table turned to him. He swallowed his bite of sandwich and took his time with it, feeling the bread stick to his throat. "Haven't really thought about it."
"You should come," you said, offering. Your eyes met his across the table and Rafe’s gaze involuntarily froze on you. Something uncomfortable and scalding set in his ribs. "We could use the help. It's next Saturday, six to nine."
"I might be busy."
"Doing what?" Kelce asked, taking a bite of his pasta salad.
"Stuff."
"Stuff," Ruthie repeated flatly, one eyebrow raised.
"Come on, man," Topper said. "It'll be fun. Open bar for the parents, which means nobody's paying attention to what we're doing—"
"It's for charity," you said, shrugging slightly like you weren’t sure if it was your place or not.
"It can be for charity and fun. Multitasking." Topper grinned slightly, shameless, and you rolled your eyes but you were smiling. You were always fucking smiling.
Rafe watched. The easy back-and-forth, the way you’d developed your own rhythm after two years together. The way you let Topper be annoying and he let her be serious and somehow it worked. Somehow you’d figured out how to be two people who actually liked each other.
"I'll think about it," Rafe said, even though he wouldn't.
"That's a yes," Kelce decided.
"That's a 'I'll think about it.'"
"On Figure Eight, 'I'll think about it' means yes. It's like when your mom says 'we'll see'—also yes."
"Sometimes 'we'll see' means no," you said quietly.
"Only if you've been bad," Mrs. Thornton said, reaching over and patting your hand gently. "Which I'm sure you never were."
You smiled down at your plate. "I had my moments."
Rafe tried to imagine you having ‘moments.’ He couldn't quite picture it. You seemed like the kind of kid who'd colored inside the lines and done your homework without being asked and never talked back. The kind teachers loved, parents bragged about, boys brought home to meet their families.
You were the kind of girl Ward would approve of.
The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Rafe shoved it away, took another bite of sandwich. Fuck. He knew that Ward would approve, because when Ward had seen you with Topper, he’d said to Rafe, “Now that’s a nice girl. Why can’t you find someone like that?
They ate and talked, but it was mostly Kelce and Ruthie bickering, you and Topper sharing food off each other's plates like you’d been married for twenty years, Mrs. Thornton interjecting with questions and comments that kept the conversation moving. It was painfully normal and painfully nice.
Rafe's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it under the table: Barry asking where he was, if he was coming by today. Three texts, actually, each more impatient than the last.
He should go. Should make an excuse and get out of here and go pick up what he needed to take the edge off this feeling, this crawling, itching feeling that said something was wrong, that he was in the wrong place, that everyone here was playing a game where they knew how to navigate and he didn’t.
But Topper was laughing at something you had said, and Mrs. Thornton was offering seconds, and Kelce was stealing a cookie before he'd finished his sandwich, and for a second—just a second—Rafe let himself imagine this was his life. That he was the one with the uncomplicated girlfriend and the mother who gave a shit and the kind of problems that could be solved by showing up to a charity event.
The phone buzzed in his hand again. bro?? He locked it and pushed it into his pocket.
"Rafe?" you said. He realized you’d asked him something—were still asking him something—and everyone was sitting around him waiting for his response again.
He swallowed nothing. "What?"
"I asked if you wanted more pasta salad. You've barely eaten."
You were looking at him with those eyes he’d memorised, head tilted slightly, concerned in that soft way you had. Not pitying—you were too careful for that—just genuinely wondering if he was okay. Like you cared and like you actually gave a shit whether or not he ate lunch.
"I'm good," he said.
"You sure? Mrs. Thornton made a lot—"
"I said I'm good. Stop asking.”
It came out harsher than he’d meant. You blinked, drew back just half an inch, and Topper’s arm came around your shoulders automatically, protective like Rafe was a predator and you were his next meal.
“Dude,” Topper said.
“What?”
“She’s just trying to be nice.”
“I know.” His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. “I’m good. That’s all I said.”
The table went silent. Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat, Ruthie studied her phone, and Kelce suddenly found his sandwich fascinating. You were looking at him from the corner of your eye with what he assumed was hurt or concern. Your hand moved to your necklace and twirled the initial around once, then back around twice.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at you. “Sorry,” he said, eyes meeting yours, almost shamefully. “Didn’t mean to—sorry.”
Your eyes widened slightly. Maybe you were surprised he’d apologized at all. He didn’t blame you. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, gently, which somehow made him feel worse. Were you that forgiving with Topper, too? Would you forgive Rafe that quickly if you were his, because he knew he’d fuck up a lot. “I didn’t mean to push.”
“You weren’t.”
𖦹
Rafe almost didn’t go. He had his truck pointed towards Barry’s and everything with his cash in pocket and the familiar itch under his skin that said he needed something to take the edge off Ward’s recent disappointment (this morning delivered over breakfast like a side of shitty cold eggs (“I assume you’re not going to the L/N’s charity event tonight”)) But then he’d driven past the country club on his way and seen the parking lot filling up with cars that cost more than people’s houses (Range Rovers, Mercedes, that asshole Jenkins’s new Porsche) and something in him—maybe it was boredom, maybe spite, or just the kind of restless energy that came from doing too much coke the night before and not enough today—made him turn in.
He told himself it was to prove Ward wrong. And also because Topper had texted him three times, ever the supportive boyfriend. Or because he had nothing better to do on a Saturday night in June when the whole island felt like it was suffocating under humidity.
He did not tell himself it had anything to do with you.
The country club itself looked like someone had thrown up pastels all over it. Pink and yellow streamers twisted around the columns, balloons clustered by the entrance in a way that was almost scary, and those fucking paper flowers—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—strung up everywhere, the ones Topper had mentioned you stayed up until 2 AM making, which Rafe had filed away without meaning to because apparently his brain was keeping track of shit like that now.
He was adjusting his shirt—had put on something with buttons for once, though he’d left the top two undone because he wasn’t a complete fucking sellout—when he saw you.
You were outside the main entrance with a clipboard, which was so perfectly on-brand it almost made him laugh. Your hair was pulled back in something already falling apart, little pieces sticking to your neck in the heat. You wore a lavender dress that hit just above your knee and clung in ways that made Rafe’s mouth go dry. It was fitted enough that he could see the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and the line of your legs.
You were talking to two guys in catering uniforms, gesturing with your free hand—sharp and short moments that weren’t like you—and even from across the parking lot Rafe could see you were stressed. He could see it in the set of your shoulders and the way you kept pushing those loose pieces of hair out of your face and the rigid way you were holding the clipboard.
You looked like you could use a drink. Or a Xanax. Or someone to tell you it was fine. Or maybe just someone who could fuck the tension out of you until you remembered how to breathe normally.
Not that he was volunteering. His hand tightened on the steering wheel. Except he was apparently walking toward you instead of toward Barry’s, so maybe he was.
“—by five-thirty at least,” you were saying as he got closer, voice strained but still disgustingly polite. “That’s what we were told. So I’m not sure why—”
One of the catering guys—older, maybe forty, with a mustache—cut you off with something that Rafe didn’t catch but could guess from the gesture; you were just a kid to him with a shit-ton of money playing event planner (in other words: absolutely nothing to take seriously).
“I understand that,” you said, and there was a barely perceptible edge to your pageant voice now. “But we have a hundred-and-fifty people arriving in forty-five minutes and we don’t have—” You stopped, closed your eyes briefly, took a breath, and when you opened them you looked steadier, as though you’d shoved everything messy into whatever box you kept it in.
Rafe felt something uncomfortable watching you pull yourself together in real time.
“Okay. Can you at least tell me when—”
“Problem?” Rafe said.
You turned, surprised. You blinked at him like you couldn’t quite place why he was there, which was fair because he wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Rafe,” you said, and he liked the way his name sounded in your voice. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“I wasn’t, either,” he said honestly, and your mouth twitched like you found it funny. He looked at the catering guys, who were both studiously avoiding eye contact now that someone else was there. “You having problems?”
“No, there’s just been a miscommunication about the time.”
“So, yes.”
“Rafe—” you said, slightly flustered at his presence and the situation.
“What’s the problem?” The catering guys looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“No problem, man,” one of them said. “We’re just waiting on—”
“Half the equipment is missing,” you cut in, and yeah, there was definitely an edge now. You were pissed now. Trying very hard not to show it, but pissed. “The tables are wrong, the setup’s behind schedule, and nobody mentioned it until thirty minutes ago.”
“So fix it.” Rafe shrugged.
You looked at him. “I’m trying to fix it.”
“Try harder.”
The catering guys looked between them like they were watching a tennis match. You opened your mouth—to tell him to fuck off, maybe, which was very unlikely but would’ve been incredibly hot—then closed it. Then looked down at your clipboard, back at the guys, then Rafe.
“Can you give us a minute?” The catering guys couldn’t leave fast enough.
When they were gone, you turned to Rafe fully and stepped closer, close enough to smell your floral perfume that probably cost more than his expensive coke habit, he got a better look at you up close. The dress was even better at this distance; thin straps, sweetheart neckline, the kind of thing that was technically modest but didn't feel that way when you were looking at it. Or when he was looking at it. At you.
You weren't wearing much makeup, just enough to look polished, and there was a small stain on the hem of the dress that you probably didn't know about yet. It was probably coffee or those tiny chocolates they served at these things. You’d be horrified if you noticed, so Rafe kept the stain to himself. You looked stressed and like you'd been running around in heels for too long, which you had, judging by the way you kept shifting your weight.
"What are you doing here?" you asked.
"You invited me."
"That—I didn't think you'd actually come. You said you’d think about it.”
“Thought about it,” he said. “Decided to show. Here I am.”
“Why?” Your eyebrows knitted together, like you were sure he had an ulterior motive like ransacking the entire place as soon as guests began walking in.
"Guess I'm full of surprises." He pulled out his cigarettes, offered you one out of habit more than any expectation. You shook your head, predictably. He shrugged. "So what's actually wrong?"
"I just told you—"
"What's the actual problem?"
You stared at him for a second, and Rafe watched you recalculate. Decide whether to bother explaining or just tell him to leave. He could see it happening behind your eyes, the cost-benefit analysis, the weighing of options.
"The DJ canceled," you said finally. "Last minute. And the tables they sent are the wrong size, which means we have to completely rearrange the layout, which means the floor plan I spent three weeks on is useless, and everything else has to shift, and the photographer's going to be here in thirty minutes and we're supposed to start in forty-five and I still have to check on the auction setup and make sure the kitchen has everything they need and—" You stopped, pressed your fingers to your temple. "Sorry. You don't care about any of this."
"Not really,," Rafe agreed. "But this seems like it'd be bad for the sick kids or whatever."
You almost smiled at that. Almost. "Very compassionate."
"I try." He lit his cigarette, took a drag, buying him a second to think. "You got a backup DJ?"
"My phone and a speaker from 2015."
"That'll work."
"It won't—"
"Nobody's here for the music. They're here for the open bar and the tax write-off. You could play the same song all night as long as the drinks keep coming and nobody would notice."
"That's very sad."
"Doesn't make it wrong."
You looked at him like you were trying to figure out if he was fucking with you or actually trying to help. Rafe wasn't entirely sure himself. "The tables—"
"I'll move them."
"You don't have to—"
"Jesus,” he breathed out, letting some annoyance creep in because you were exhausting and Rafe couldn’t keep playing at this for much longer. This would’ve been his one good deed of the year. “You want help or not?"
That made you stop. Blink. "You're offering to help."
"Don't make it weird."
"It's already weird. You hate events like this. You’ve said that.”
Had he? Yeah. Probably. At the club, or at one of Top’s things, or somewhere else where you’d been in earshot and he’d been running his mouth.
Well, you’d been listening. Something about that—about you paying attention to what he said, filing it away the way he filed away everything about you—made his chest feel tight.
"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." He took another drag, watched you process this. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Or keep going crazy. Your call."
You bit your lip—nervous habit, probably, or maybe just the lip gloss was bothering you—and Rafe's eyes caught on it. On your mouth. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip and the little indent it left when you released it. He wondered if you did that during sex. If Topper had ever noticed. If—
Stop.
"Okay," you said, and Rafe refocused, eyebrows moving slightly up. "Okay. The tables need to go along the back wall, but first we have to move everything that's already there, and then rearrange the chairs, and—"
"Got it."
"I didn't finish—"
"Don't need you to. Tables go there, chairs go somewhere else, I can figure it out."
"Are you always this—"
"Helpful? Yeah,” he said sarcastically.
You shook your head, but you were almost smiling again, and Rafe decided that was worth more than whatever he would've gotten from Barry anyway. He didn’t feel completely useless. "Come on. I'll show you."
He followed you inside, where the situation was exactly as much of a shitshow as you'd described. Tables stacked wrong, chairs everywhere, decorations half-hung. The guys who were supposed to be setting up looked like they'd collectively given up on life. Rafe could relate.
"Okay," you said, clipboard up, and Rafe noticed your nails were painted the same color as your dress. Coordinated. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate and probably planned three weeks in advance. "So we need to—"
"I got it," Rafe said, because you were about to go into a detailed explanation complete with diagrams and he could see the basic problem from here. Tables needed to go there, chairs were in the way, move the chairs, move the tables. Easy.
He grabbed a stack of chairs. Started hauling them to the side.
They were heavier than they looked—real wood, not the cheap plastic shit—and by the third trip he'd worked up a sweat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Could feel you watching him from across the room where you were directing someone else, and when he glanced over he caught your eyes on him. Specifically, his arms, on the way his biceps flexed under his shirt sleeves as he carried the chairs. You looked away quickly when you realized he’d caught you, face flushing.
Interesting.
Rafe smiled to himself, guilty but satisfied, and moved another stack of chairs. Then another. Fell into a rhythm of lifting, carrying, setting down, repeat. Simple. Clear.
"You're really good at that," you said from somewhere behind him.
He turned. You were closer than he'd expected, making him straighten his back too quickly.
"At moving chairs?" Rafe asked, setting them down because holding them with you being this close felt awkward.
"At just doing things." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It immediately fell back out. "I would've spent twenty minutes thinking about how to move them.”
"Sometimes you just gotta move the fucking chairs." Rafe said simply.
You laughed, surprised.
You were standing close enough now that Rafe could see the mascara was slightly smudged under your left eye. Could see a small scar on your collarbone he'd never noticed before. Maybe from childhood.
You were watching him too, your eyes tracking over his face, his shoulders, down to where his shirt was sticking to his chest.
"You got something—" He reached out without thinking, thumb brushing under your eye where the mascara had smudged.
You went very still. "What are you—"
"Mascara. Hold still." He wiped it away, the pad of his thumb against your skin, and felt you inhale sharply. Your eyes were locked on his, pupils dilating, and for a second neither of you moved. He was close enough to see the texture of your lip gloss and count your eyelashes if he wanted to. Close enough to kiss you.
Then you stepped back. "Thanks."
"Mhm."
You touched your face where his thumb had been unconsciously, your hands slightly shaking.
"I should—" You gestured vaguely toward the rest of the room. "There's still so much to—"
"Go. I got this."
You hesitated, then nodded and disappeared to handle something else. Rafe stood there for a second, thumb tingling where he'd touched your face, then went back to moving chairs because that was easier than thinking about why he'd touched you in the first place.
Tables next. Heavier, but he'd rather work alone than try to coordinate with the setup guys who all looked like they'd never seen a table before. He got the first one moved, then the second, then—
"Jesus, Cameron, you trying to give yourself a hernia?"
Kelce's voice. Rafe looked up to see him standing in the doorway with Ruthie, both of them dressed like they were here for the event rather than the setup.
"Should you be doing this?" Kelce asked, gesturing at the tables. “Like actually. Isn’t this what we pay people for?”
"They were being useless,” Rafe said. “Someone’s gotta do it.”
"Yeah, usually not you." Kelce looked genuinely confused now.
"Fuck off."
"No, seriously." Ruthie came closer, studying him like he was a science experiment. "Where's Rafe? What'd you do with him?"
"I can help without it being a whole thing—"
"It's definitely a thing," Kelce said, grinning. "You hate events like this."
"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." Rafe moved another one into place, wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. "You gonna stand there all day or help?"
"I’m here for moral support," Ruthie said, examining her nails.
"Useless, got it."
But Kelce did grab one end of the next table, and together they got the rest moved in half the time. Ruthie mostly watched from a chair she'd pulled over, occasionally offering commentary that ranged from unhelpful to actively detrimental, but whatever. At least it was entertaining.
And Rafe could keep half an eye on you as you moved through the space, fixing things, directing people, climbing onto a chair in your dress and heels to adjust a banner that someone had hung crooked. He watched you wobble slightly and had to physically stop himself from crossing the room to steady you. You were fine. You got it fixed and climbed down and immediately moved on to the next thing.
“Dude,” Kelce said quietly so Ruthie couldn’t hear. “You’re staring.”
“Shut up.”
“Like, really, obviously staring.”
𖦹
You’d been to enough Figure Eight parties to know the entire song-and-dance. Ruthie would alcohol that could feed Figure Eight and The Cut, but three times over; people would set up a station to play very wrong, ruleless beer pong; someone would get in a fight; someone would call the cops and Ruthie would socially exile them for the next six months or until she conveniently forgot about it. Tonight was tracking perfectly to schedule: the handles were half-finished by eleven, there were red Solo cups floating in the pool, and you’d watched two guys argue about whether a bounce shot counted as a double for the past ten minutes even though there was literally no one keeping track.
You were nursing the same drink you’d picked up off the counter half-an-hour ago. The Truly can—Wild Berry, the only flavour that had been left by the time you arrived—was getting warm in your hand, condensation making the label peel in little strips. You kept picking at it without thinking, rolling little soggy pieces of tissue and dropping them into the can where you imagined they floated like dead flies. Topper was in the middle of some story about golf. Something about his swing, the ninth hole at the club, and his dad’s advice; you’d stopped tracking the details about seven minutes in. The thing about dating Topper was that all his stories had the same shape to them; something happened, his dad had an opinion about it, and he agreed or planned to prove it wrong. The details changed—golf, school, Jeep—but the shape, as a whole, was identical. You’d memorized the blueprint.
You were good at this, at least. You nodded at the right moments, you made small affirming noises, and laughed when his voice lifted in that way that indicated something was funny. You could do it in your sleep at this point. You were worried that you had been, that you’d actually been asleep for months and it had gone unnoticed because you were always nodding at the perfect times.
“—he won’t listen. He’s convinced it’s my follow-through—” Topper took a pull from his beer, gestured with the bottle, nearly hit Kelce in the face. “Babe, you’re not listening.”
You blinked, refocusing. “I am.”
“What did I just say?”
“Something about your follow-through.”
“Before that.”
You didn’t know. You were watching Ruthie across the room, the way she was laughing at something with her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious, and not worried if her laugh was too loud or fake or if the angle made her head look wrong. She was just laughing. When was the last time you laughed like that? You didn’t know.
“I’m sorry,” you said, touching Topper’s arms lightly, apologetically. It was the kind of touch you’d learned said that you were there, you cared, and that you were paying attention now. “I’m just so tired. The week was long.”
“You feeling okay?” He shifted immediately to boyfriend-mode, which was sweet, and was one of the first things you’d learned to love about him in the first place. He cared. He worried. He made sure you’d eaten, had water. Most times it felt like being cared for. “We can leave if you want.”
“No, I’m fine. Keep telling your story.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He kissed your temple—quick, casual, and the kind of kiss that marked you as his in public—and turned to Kelce, picking the story back up from wherever you’d lost the thread. You took a sip of your drink; it was warm and disgusting, but drinking gave you something to do with your hands.
You loved Topper. You did. You loved him the way you loved Outer Banks summers and Sunday dinners at the club and the worn-in comfort of your childhood bedroom that looked like it belonged to a 30-year-old woman with very specific specifications for her interior design. You loved him in a way that felt familiar, safe, and exactly what was supposed to be.
He was kind and reliable and everyone loved him and your mother almost cried—shed a tear—when you’d brought him home for dinner junior year. He was exactly the kind of boy you were supposed to end up with. Figure Eight royalty, good family, going places. He talked about the future like it was something you’d built together brick-by-brick: UNC next fall, he’d major in finance, you’d major in something you hadn’t decided, but everyone assumed something that involved helping people because that’s what you were good at. After graduation, you’d move back here, get a place on the water, start planning a wedding. His mother already showed you the venue book. Twice.
It was perfect. All perfect.
“I’m getting another drink,” you said, even though you weren’t.
“Want me to come?” Topper asked, turning back to you, ready to follow.
“No, I’m good. Keep talking. I’ll be right back.”
He nodded, already turning back to Kelce. You could’ve said you were going to the moon for a second and he would’ve believed it.
You pushed through the crowd of Figure Eight kids, mostly. They were all people you’d known since elementary school, plus randoms from The Cut who’d heard about the party and showed up anyway because Ruthie didn’t check who walked through the door. The house was too hot, too loud, the bass from whatever song made the windows rattle in their frames. Someone had spilled beer on the hardwood that nobody bothered to clean it up, and your sandals kept sticking to it slightly with each step.
You dumped your drink in the sink in the kitchen and grabbed a red solo cup that you filled up with water from the fridge dispenser. You drank half of it standing there, forehead pressed to the cool stainless steel. When you turned around, Maddie was there, drunk, hanging on your shoulder.
“Oh my god, you look so cute tonight,” she said. “Is that new?”
“No, I’ve had it—”
“I love it. We should go shopping next week. There’s a new collection at that place on the Mainland. The one with the dresses? You look so good in dresses. You should wear dresses more.”
“Sure,” you said, the word noncommittal, because the thought of stores with fluorescent lighting and their helpful salespeople and their pleasure to find things that fit you right made you want to crawl out of your skin.
“How are you and Top? You guys are so cute. Like actually. I was telling Cas the other day, you’re like the perfect couple.”
“We’re good. Thanks—”
“Are you guys thinking of schools together? Because I heard he got into Chapel Hill early and you’re obviously going to get in. You’re so smart—”
“Hopefully.” You smiled tightly; you hadn’t finished your applications yet, every time you sat down to work on your essays you ended up staring at the blank screen until your eyes hurt.
“You will. And then you’ll get married and have the cutest babies—”
“Madi—”
“What? You would! Could you imagine? Little Topper running around—”
You excused yourself before she could finish the thought, pushed back into the main room where the party was getting louder, messier, more of what was always going to become. Someone had turned up the music. Someone else was doing a keg stand in the corner and people were counting—”Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen”—and you felt tired. So tired.
You found Topper right where you’d left him. Still talking to Kelce. Still gesturing with his beer. You slid back under his arms like you were supposed to and he kissed the top of your head without pausing his sentence and you realized—for the hundredth time—this is your life now, and this is it. The thought should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.
“You okay?” Topper asking, looking down at you with those eyes that were genuinely so concerned that it made you feel guilty for not being okay. “You look weird.”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure? Because we can really leave if—”
“I’m fine.” It came out harsher than you’d intended. His face did a combination of something complicated (hurt, confused, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong). “Sorry, I’m just—it’s hot in here.”
“Let’s go outside then.”
“No, you’re talking to Kelce—”
“Don’t care. Come on.” He was already steering you towards the back doors, hand on your lower back, and you let him because that was easier than arguing. Outside the air was cooler but not by much, humid and thick with that almost-rain feeling. The pool was glowing blue, and there were people in it even though nobody had suits on, just jumping in with their clothes because that’s what you did at Ruthie’s.
“Better?” Topper asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been kind of off all week.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m just—” His lips flattened, like he was trying to find the right words for a moment. “Are you stressed about your school stuff? Your mom?”
“A little.”
“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna get in everywhere you apply. You’re so fucking smart.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “And we’ll be together. That’s what matters, right?”
“Right.”
“UNC is gonna be perfect. We can get an apartment off campus junior year. Somewhere with two bedrooms so your parents don’t freak out but we both know—” He laughed, squeezed you tighter, and his hands moved from your waist to hips, pulling you further back against him. “It’s gonna be so good, babe. I can’t wait.”
You could hear it in his voice, he meant it all.
You could feel him getting hard against your back. Of course. Topper had a one-track mind at parties. A few beers in, and suddenly everything translated to being foreplay. Your hand in his. You laughing at his jokes. Existing in his orbit. All of it translated, in his mind, to we should have sex now.
His lips found your neck, kissing that spot below your ear that he’d decided early on was your spot, even though you’d never actually told him it did anything for you. It was fine. It didn’t not work. It just—it was fine. Which was the saddest way you could describe your boyfriend’s touch. Fine, really? Not electric or the kind that made you forget your own name. You were so tired of just fine, but you were also not courageous enough to admit that.
“Baby—” you started, but his hand was already sliding under the hem of your tank top, thumb brushing the underside of your bra.
“Ruthie’s got that pool house,” he murmured against your back. “Nobody’s in there. We could—”
“There’s like seventy people here, Top.”
“So? That’s never stopped us before.” He turned you around, and his eyes had that look he conveniently gets when he wants something. “Come on, it’s been like a week.”
Had it been a week? You tried to remember the last time. Lask weekend, maybe. At his house, in his bed, with the door locked and the lights off because you always asked for the lights off even though he always wanted to see you. It had been fine. Good, even. Topper was considerate in bed, always asking if you were okay, if this felt good, if that made you finish even though sometimes you faked it just to move it along. Sometimes your brain wouldn’t turn off long enough to get there and it was easier to pretend.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I’m kind of tired.”
“I’ll do all the work.” He grinned, hands sliding down to your ass now, pulling you closer. “Come on, I’ve been thinking about you all week.”
You smiled, even though that only made you feel tired. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” His whole face lit up. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”
He grabbed your hand, started pulling you toward the pool house, and you followed because what else were you going to do? Explain that you didn’t want to but couldn’t articulate why?
The pool house was unlocked, dark, smelling like chlorine and the musty scent of furniture that spent too much time in humidity. Topper flicked on the lamp in the corner—dim, throwing everything into shadow—and pulled you to the couch.
He kissed you immediately, hands everywhere, enthusiastic in that golden retriever way he had about everything. You kissed back, let your hands go to his hair, his shoulders, the places you knew he liked. This was familiar. Routine. Two years of practice. You knew exactly how he liked to be touched and the sounds he made when you did it right. There was a rhythm and choreography to it.
He pulled you down onto the couch, climbed over you, and his mouth moved to your neck. Started kissing, then sucking, and you knew he was leaving marks. He always left marks when he was drunk, got possessive in this puppyish way that should've been endearing. His hand slid up your shirt, palm hot against your ribs, and he was grinding against you now, hard through his shorts.
"God, you're so hot," he murmured against your collarbone, kissing lower. "I love you so much."
“I love you too.”
He sucked harder at the spot where your neck met your shoulder—definitely leaving a mark there, you’d have to cover it tomorrow—and his hand was working the button of your shorts when his phone started to ring. He ignored it. Kept kissing. The phone stopped, then immediately started again.
“Babe—” you said.
“It’s fine. Just—”
It rang again.
“Topper, just check it.”
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, pulled back, fumbled for his phone in his pocket and squinted at the screen. “It’s my dad. Again.” He sat up, ran a hand through his hair like his dad could see him through the phone. “Shit. He called earlier and I—hold on. I’ll just.”
He answered it. “Hey, Dad… Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s loud here… What? No, I can—” He stood up, walked to the door, and you could hear his dad’s voice on the other end, irritated and tiny. “I know. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow… Yeah… Okay… Yeah, she’s with me… Okay…”
You sat up, buttoned your shorts back up, and tried to fix your hair. Your neck felt hot where he’d been sucking, and when you touched it, your fingers came slightly damp. Great. That would be purple by morning.
Topper hung up, turned back to you, and his face had a guilty look. “I’m sorry, babe. My dad’s pissed about—there’s this thing with the club. I was supposed to call someone back—” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I gotta call this guy really quick. Five minutes, I swear.”
This happened a lot. Topper’s father calling, needing something, and Topper drowning in everything to handle it. You understood it and resented it in equal measure.
“It’s okay.”
“You sure? Because I can—”
“No, it’s okay. Make your call. I’ll just meet you back outside.”
“You’re the best.” He kissed you quickly, already distracted and mentally somewhere else entirely. “Five minutes. Then we can—” He gestured vaguely at the couch with a tip of his head. “—continue?”
“Sure.”
Outside, you noticed a crowd dispersing and before you could try to make sense of it, Ruthie’s palm grabbed your shoulder and pulled you aside.
“This is the third fight he’s started this month,” she said, sentence coming out quickly like she was in the throes of stress.
“Who?”
“Rafe.”
You swallowed quickly, shaking your head. “Is he okay?”
“What? Rafe? He’s fine. He’s always doing this shit.” But she was frowning, scanning the crowd. “Where’d he go?”
“Maybe inside?”
“Great. He’s probably bleeding all over my mom’s white couch.” She sighed, then looked at you. “Can you go check on him?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. He’s Top’s best friend. And you’re like, good at the whole—” She gestured vaguely. “Thing.”
“I really don’t think—”
‘Please? I need to find the guy he beat up and make sure he isn’t going to make it a big deal. Rafe’s probably in one of the rooms. Just make sure he’s not dying or bleeding anywhere that isn’t expensive or visible.”
Given that Ruthie lived in an open-space concept house with nothing that cost less than four figures and very few doors to hide behind, that narrowed the list down to the bathrooms and maybe her dad’s office. The latter goes with the assumption that Rafe had the good sense to pick a room with wood or tile instead of white linen and glass.
She was already walking away before you could argue with her. You could find Topper, tell him what happened, and let him deal with his best friend. That’s what you should do. That’s what made sense. But your boyfriend was on the phone with his dad; Ruthie had asked you, and something about the situation made your chest twist uncomfortably.
𖦹
Rafe needed to get laid. Or high. Or hit something until his knuckles split. Twenty years of his life had taught him that when there isn’t one thing wreaking havoc over his life, he hyperfixated on the impossible. Self-sabotage, probably. The impossible being, currently, his best friend’s girlfriend the image that had been burned into his retinas and showed no signs of stopping no matter how much cocaine he shoved up his nose or how many drinks he threw back or how many times he told him he was just being a fucking idiot.
So, he picked a fight. With who? Didn’t matter. Some guy. A random fucking guy who had the misfortune of existing in Rafe’s vicinity at the exact moment Rafe had watched you disappear into Ruthie’s pool house with Topper, watched the door close behind you both, and felt something ugly and acidic rise up in his throat that tasted like very cheap vodka because he’d spent two years wanting something he couldn’t have. Two fucking years of seeing Topper touch you like it was easy, like you were some cosmic lottery he’d won just by being himself.
Now he was sitting on the closed toilet in Ruthie’s upstairs bathroom with blood drying on his knuckles and his face throbbing and the bass from downstairs making the floor vibrate under his feet, trying very hard not to think about what you and Topper had been doing in the pool house. The bleeding had mostly stopped. His right eye was going to swell shut by morning. His lip was split. Could've been worse. Had been worse, plenty of times. This was manageable. He was trying and failing, because his brain—traitorous, obsessive, completely fucked—kept supplying images; Topper’s hands on your waist, your hips, your head tipped back, the sounds you probably made, whether you’d let him keep the lights on, whether you were any good at it or whether you just laid there perfect and pretty while—
The door opened, and his eyes snapped up and there you were, standing in the doorway like a fucking hallucination, like something his substance-soaked brain had conjured because it hated him, too. You were backlit by the hall light in a way that should’ve been corny but wasn’t. You looked real solid there. Rafe thought there was no fucking way this was happening.
“Get out,” he said.
You didn’t get out, and Rafe was mad at the world because this was probably the first fucking time you didn’t do what someone else asked of you. Of course you chose right now, when Rafe was barely holding himself together, to stop being obedient.
You stepped inside instead, and the bathroom suddenly felt about three sizes too small, and Rafe could smell you, that perfume you wore, floral and clean and so aggressively innocent it made him want to break something. He could smell it all over the metallic tang of blood and the chemical burn of Ruthie’s fancy hand soap and his own sweat.
“You’re bleeding,” you said.
“Yeah, no shit.” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant, but what-fucking-ever. Harsh was good, and that would make you leave. “Where’s Topper?”
“On the phone with his dad.”
Right. Topper. Your boyfriend, the guy whose hands had been all over you. The guy who got to touch you whenever he wanted because you were his, officially his, had been for two years while Rafe stood on the sidelines watching and acting like he didn’t care.
“Cool. Go wait for him somewhere else.”
“Ruthie asked me to check on you.”
Obviously she fucking did. Of course Ruthie—who’d watched Rafe watch you for two years, who’d made pointed comments Rafe had ignored, who definitely knew more than she should—would send you up here like a deer to slaughter. She would put you in a room alone with him when he was high and drunk and had just beaten someone bloody because he couldn’t handle himself in his body like a normal person.
“Mm, you checked. I’m fine. Door’s right there.”
But you were closing the door instead behind you. Locking it. The lock was so obscenely loud that Rafe’s body went rigid and his head snapped in your direction. Every muscle in his body tensed and coiled. You’d locked yourself alone in a bathroom with him. What were you thinking?
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You need help.”
“What I need is for you to leave.”
“Rafe—”
“No, I’m serious. Get the fuck out.” He stood up too fast, the room tilted, and he had to brace one hand against the wall while his vision did something complex and unstable. Everything went bright and sparkly around the edges the way it did when he mixed uppers and downers; his body was in a constant state of figuring out whether he should be flying or crashing. The coke was hitting him all weird, and that probably meant he had to do a bump in less than five minutes, mixing with vodka in ways that made everything bright and too close. He probably looked like shit.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
Because Topper probably had just fucked you. Because Rafe could still see that middle-school-hookup-hickey on your neck, all red and obvious and making him want to punch a hole through Ruthie’s bathroom mirror. Because you were standing there looking at him with genuine concern on your face like Rafe was someone worth for you to worry about, like you hadn’t spent the last hour with your boyfriend, like you had any business being so close to him when Rafe was barely holding onto his self-control with both hands, bloody and beat-up.
“Because I’m telling you to.”
You were already kneeling down though, opening the cabinet under Ruthie’s sink, and Rafe watched your ass in those jean shorts and thought that this was hell. This was actual hell and he was in it.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice coming out gruff. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”
“Your face is bleeding.”
“Really.”
You ignored him, and pulled out Ruthie’s first aid kit. It was the expensive kind that came in a hard plastic case with actual organization inside, not just a jumble of Band-Aids and expired Advil, and stood up with it tucked under your arm. You wet a washcloth at the sink—one of Ruthie’s monogrammed hand towels—wrung it out, and looked back at him. You met his eyes for just a second, long enough for Rafe to catch the stubborn determination on your face.
And then—holy fuck—you stepped between his legs.
Just fucking stepped right between his legs like that was a normal place to be, like you had any fucking idea what that did to him. You, standing right between his legs, so close that if she shifted about two inches forward, you’d be pressed right to him. His jaw clenched tight.
You didn't know. Of course you didn't. Because you thought Rafe hated you. Thought he'd been an asshole to you for two years because he didn't like you, not because liking you was the problem, had always been the problem, would continue to be the problem until Rafe died or moved to another country or developed severe amnesia.
"Sit down," you said. Soft. Like you were talking to a scared animal.
He should say no. Should physically remove you from the bathroom. Should do literally anything other than what he did, which was sink back down onto that toilet seat like his legs stopped working. He even let you step closer, close enough that your knees bumped his, close enough that he could see the freckles scattered across your shoulders like someone had flicked a paintbrush at you.
"This might sting," you said, and reached up to touch his face.
Your fingers made contact with the cut above his eyebrow—gently, so fucking gently—and Rafe's entire nervous system went haywire. Every nerve ending firing at once. Every muscle in his body locking up trying to keep still, keep from grabbing you, keep from doing something catastrophically stupid that he couldn’t take back. He felt like he’d forgot how to breathe. Your touch felt branded, like every place your skin met his was burning.
Nothing about this was sexual. That was the fucked up part. Yeah, there was the fact that Rafe's brain had a one-track mind when it came to you and that track involved significantly less clothing than you were currently wearing, but this was worse. This was your hand on his face, gentle and careful like he was worth being gentle with. Like he was something other than Ward Cameron's greatest disappointment and the guy who got too fucked up at parties and picked fights for no reason.
"Sorry," you murmured when he flinched. "I'm trying to be gentle."
Rafe let out something between a laugh and a choke at how oblivious you were. “Yeah, that—” He swallowed, cleared his throat, then tried again. “I know.”
Stop talking. Seriously, stop talking.
His hands were gripping his thighs. He was gripping them hard enough to hurt, hard enough his knuckles—already fucked from the fight—were screaming at him. But it was either grip his thighs or grab you, and grabbing you was not an option. Grabbing you was the opposite of an option.
“You don’t have to do this.” His voice came out tight and strained. Nothing normal.
“I know,” you said quietly.
“Then why are you?”
You dabbed at the cut again, concentration evident in the way that you were biting your bottom lip. “Because you’re hurt,” you said like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Was that reason enough for you to do this? “So?”
“So, someone should help.”
“And it had to be you?”
“Ruthie asked—”
“Ruthie’s not here.” His fingers were going numb now from how hard he was gripping his legs. “It’s just us. You can leave. I don’t think Ruthie meant you had to do all of this.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
Because you were Topper’s, and Topper was Rafe’s best friend, one of his only real friends, if Rafe was being honest, the only person besides Kelce and Sarah who didn’t see Ward’s DNA walking around making the wrong choices. Because twenty minutes ago you’d been in a pool house with Topper doing things Rafe had no right to think about, and now you were touching Rafe’s face with fingers that probably still smelled like Topper’s cologne. Because if you didn’t leave right now, Rafe was going to do something unforgivable.
He opened his mouth to say some version of that—to say anything that would make you leave—when you spoke first.
“Because you don’t like me, right?” you said quietly after a moment, and Rafe’s brain stuttered to a complete stop.
“Huh?”
“You don’t like me. You never have.” You weren’t looking into his eyes anymore—and Rafe realized he missed having your eyes on him—and were focusing very intently on the washcloth. “Since I started dating Topper, you’ve been—you act like I’m annoying you all the time.”
Rafe stared at you. At your face, all concentration and hurt poorly hidden, and felt something in his chest twist sideways. You couldn’t meet his eyes, like you were embarrassed to have said it out loud.
You thought he didn't like you. You actually, genuinely thought that the reason Rafe had been cold and dismissive and sometimes cruel was because he didn't like you. Not because he'd spent two years watching you be Topper's perfect girlfriend and wanting you so badly it made him physically ill. You didn’t think it was because every time you smiled at him or laughed at something he said or looked at him like you were looking at him right now, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to cross whatever line existed between being Topper's best friend and being the asshole who wanted his girlfriend. You had zero idea liking you was so much worse than not liking you that Rafe had chosen cruelty as the easier option. If you were anybody else, Rafe would’ve been irked at how much having one person dislike you hurt you.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he managed.
“Don’t I?” You pulled back slightly, met his eyes. “Because I’ve spent two years trying to be nice to you and you act like I’m—I don’t know. Like I’m a problem.”
"Maybe you are."
You flinched. Good. Flinching meant distance meant you'd leave meant Rafe could get his head straight and stop thinking about all of this. You put an inch of space between the two of you. Good. Except it also made him feel like the piece of shit he was and suddenly, he wanted to apologize, take it back, and explain.
“I’m trying to help you,” you said, and there was an edge to your voice now. Your hurt was bleeding into anger. “The least you can do is not be an asshole about it.”
“Nobody asked you to help.”
“Ruthie—”
“Fuck Ruthie.” Rafe leaned back against the wall, putting more distance between his face and your hands because if you touched him again he was going to lose it. “I don’t need your help. Don’t want it. So you can go back to your boyfriend—” He paused at the word to make sure you could feel the weight of it, even though he knew your intentions were all innocent, “—and your best friend and tell them I’m fine.”
You were still standing there, between his legs, and close enough that Rafe could see the way your pulse was jumping in your throat right below that hickey Topper left like a fucking brand. Like he pre-anticipated all of this, and wanted to plaster a reminder on your body to remind Rafe whose you were.
“Fine.” Your voice had gone flat. “Bleed, then. I don’t care.” But you said it while standing between his legs without moving, your hands still hovering over him like you were fighting the exact same battle he was: stay or go, touch or don’t touch.
Someone pounded on the door. Hard. Three times in rapid succession. You jumped—actually jumped, startled—and stumbled slightly backward, and Rafe’s hands moved before the circuits in his brain caught up. They shot out and caught your hips, steadying you, pulling you back between his legs where you’d been standing.
His hands were on your bare skin. He pushed down the groan forming in his throat.
“Yo. Yo. Someone in there?” A guy’s voice, drunk and completely impatient.
Rafe’s hands were on your hips. On your bare skin where your tank top had ridden up slightly. His fingers were spread, wide, thumbs pressing just above your hip bones, and he could feel you breathing fast—with your whole body—underneath his palms. This was the first time he’d touched you—he thought—skin-to-skin, and it felt like every bad decision he’d made in his life had led him to this one final straw.
“Occupied,” he called out. His voice came out steadier than it should’ve.
“How long you gonna be, man? I gotta piss—”
“As long as I fucking wanna be.”
“Dude, come on—”
“There’s a fuckin’ bathroom downstairs. Use that one.”
The guy on the other side muttered, groaned, and they heard the footsteps retreat down the hall. Silence. Rafe’s hands were still on your hips. Neither of you were moving. Rafe could feel your pulse underneath his thumbs, he could feel it racing, jackrabbit-fast, and his own wasn’t much better. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the softness of it, the way you fit perfectly under his hands like you’d been designed for them.
This was bad. This was so, so bad. He should let go. He should move his hands back to his thighs where they belonged. He should laugh it off and put distance between you to pretend his hands weren’t burning where they touched you.
“Rafe,” you said quietly, almost breathless.
“Yeah?” he said quickly.
“Your hands.”
“You’re good,” he said, and his thumbs moved fractionally, just a tiny shaft to see if you’d pull away.
“Rafe,” you said again, voice on the edge of concern.
He tilted his head to look down, and he could feel your body jerking slightly as his hair brushed against your torso. “Just—give it a second.”
A second for what? Why were you giving him a second? You weren’t pulling away, and you weren’t telling him to let go. You were just standing there, looking down at him with your eyes too wide and lips parted slightly and that hickey on your neck that Rafe wanted to cover with his mouth, wanted to replace with his own mark, wanted—
Rafe’s thumb moved just slightly. A small circle against your hip bones. He tilted his head up slightly to meet your eyes, watching your face to see if you’d pull away, if you’d slap him, if you’d do anything to stop him before it became something neither of you could take back. He had to see if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.
You inhaled sharply but you didn’t pull away.
“What are you doing, Rafe?”
“Don’t know.”
“Okay,” you said, but your voice was unsure.
His thumb kept moving. Small circles. Hypnotic. He could feel the exact moment you stopped breathing normally. Your body tensed underneath his hands. Your hands had come up at some point, were hoving near his shoulders like you weren’t sure what to do with them, like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you were allowed.
And that—that fucking uncertainty, that unnamed want—that was going to be Rafe’s undoing.
Because he could keep his hands on your hips and pretend it was nothing. He could tell himself he was just steadying you, just making sure you didn’t lose your balance. But if your hands touched him—if you made the choice to touch him back—then this becomes something else. It would become something mutual. Something that couldn’t be explained away by the cocaine or the alcohol or the general fucked-upness of the night. It would become a choice and it would be your choice.
Your fingers brushed his shoulders lightly and tentatively. Rafe’s breath stopped short, and the realization that you were indulging him hit him like a fucking brick. If he didn’t let go right now—right this second—he was going to kiss you. Your fingers pressed slightly harder against his shoulders.
And Rafe let you go.
He dropped his hands like your skin had burned him. He pushed himself up the toilet so fast his vision swam, the bathroom tilting sideways in that way that said he’d moved too quick, that the drugs were still very much in his system. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the wall. He put three feet of space between you and him in the span of three seconds.
“You gotta leave,” he said. His voice came out all wrong. Too rough, too raw, like he’d swallowed glass.
You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Your hands were still raised slightly, frozen in the air where they’d been about to touch him. He wanted to tell you to put your hands down, but he also wanted to grab them and pull you closer. Your face was doing something Rafe couldn’t look at, because your confusion was bleeding into hurt once again.
“What—” you started.
“Just go.”
“But you—”
“Go.” He couldn’t look at you right now. He looked at the wall instead. He focused on the expensive floral wallpaper that probably cost half the price of the house as a whole. “You need to leave. Right now.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Topper’s probably looking for you.”
“He’s on the phone—”
“He’ll be off the phone soon. And he’s gonna wanna know where you are.” Rafe made himself look at you, and he made himself see the confusion on your face, the way you’d wrapped your arms around yourself like you were cold even though Ruthie’s bathroom was stuffy and warm. He tipped his chin in your direction, feigning as much carelessness as he could. “What are you gonna tell him?”
You blinked. “What?”
“When he asks where you were. What’re you gonna say?”
“I’ll—I’ll tell him I was checking on you. Because Ruthie asked me to?”
“That’s it?” He heard himself push; he was being cruel again because that was safer than being honest.
“That’s it, yeah. Yeah.” But your voice wavered slightly on the words. “That’s all that happened.” He could hear the uncertainty in your words, like you were trying to convince yourself.
“Good. Tell him that.”
You were still standing there, still looking at him with those eyes that saw too fucking much, and Rafe could see you trying to working through it, trying to figure out what had just happened, what it meant that his hands had been you, that his hands had been moving in circles against your skin, that maybe for a minute there something had shifted between you that couldn’t be unshifted.
“Did I do something wrong?”
The question hit Rafe in the chest all wrong. You thought you’d done something wrong, like any of this was your fault. Like you’d been the one to grab on, to hold too long, to move your thumbs in ways that had nothing to do with steadying and everything to do with wanting.
“No,” he said, having to push the word out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then—”
“Because I’m high.” His voice came out flat now, matter-of-fact. He’d found his voice again, the one that made everything sound meaningless. The lie was easier when he didn’t look at you, he realized. “I’m high and drunk and not thinking straight. That’s all this is.”
“Okay.”
Maybe it did make sense to you; you wanted it to be that simple. If 1+1=2, then high+drunk=temporary insanity. Nothing more complicated than chemistry and bad decisions.
𖦹
A week had passed since the party at Ruthie’s, and you’d gotten very good at pretending nothing had happened. You’d seen Rafe twice—once at the country club when your families had overlapping dinner reservations, once at Topper’s house when you’d shown up and he’d been leaving—and you’d smiled politely, said hello, and acted like everything was completely normal. Both times, he’d barely looked at you. He nodded in your general direction, mumbled something that might’ve been a greeting. And left as quickly as possible.
Which was fine. Good, even. Exactly what was meant to happen. Except you couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on your hips, the way his thumbs had moved in small circles. About the look on his face when he’d let go, like he’d done something he couldn’t take back. You wished you could try talking to Ruthie about it, but you also knew that if you slipped on the wrong word or revealed the tiniest detail, she’d catch onto it like a vulture and somehow figure out exactly what happened.
And now you were at Sunday brunch with Topper and both set of parents, and your mother kept looking at you like she could tell something was wrong. Topper kept reaching for your hand under the table, and all you wanted was to be literally anywhere else.
“—so, we’re thinking late April for the engagement party,” Topper’s mom was saying. She had her phone out, scrolling through her calendar with one hand while cutting eggs Benedict with another. “That gives us plenty of time to plan something before you two leave for school.”
You looked up from your untouched fruit salad. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The engagement party, hon.” Mrs. Thornton smiled at you warmly. “Nothing official, of course. You’ll do the actual engagement after graduation, I’m sure. But we thought it’d be nice for both of you to have a celebration before you head to Chapel Hill. Really cement things.”
Your mother made an approving sound. “That’s a lovely idea, Cynthia.”
“I just think it’s important to acknowledge these milestones,” she continued. “Topper and—” She said your name like it was already hyphenated with his. “—they’re so good together. And with our families being so close together, it just makes sense to start planning now.”
“Mom,” Topper said, and there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “We haven’t even—I mean, we’ve talked about it, but—”
“Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m not trying to rush anything. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about the timeline.” She looked at you expectantly. “You are planning on going to Chapel Hill, aren’t you?”
Four sets of eyes turned to you. Topper's parents. Your parents. Topper himself, looking hopeful and nervous and so certain that the answer would be yes because of course it would be yes, why wouldn't it be yes?
“I haven’t decided yet,” you said.
Everyone went very still.
"What do you mean you haven't decided?" your mother asked. Her voice was light but there was an edge to it. "Your applications were due weeks ago."
"I applied to other schools too."
"Yes, but—" Your mother set down her fork with a soft clink. "We've discussed this. Chapel Hill makes the most sense. It's a good school, it's close enough to visit, and—" She glanced at Topper. "—well. It makes sense for other reasons too."
“I know what reasons you mean, Mom.”
You could feel Topper’s hands tighten around yours under the table. You could feel the anxiety radiating off him even though his face stayed neutral. “Babe,” he said quietly. “I thought we talked about this.”
“We did talk about it.”
“And I thought—” He stopped. Started again. “You said you were fine with Chapel Hill.”
"I said I'd think about it."
"That's not—" He stopped again. Glanced at his parents, at yours, clearly not wanting to have this conversation in front of an audience. "That's not what it sounded like."
"Maybe you heard what you wanted to hear."
That came out sharper than you'd meant. Topper's face did something complicated. His hurt bled into frustration bled into confusion. Your mother made a small sound of disapproval. Mrs. Thornton looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should.
𖦹
You were drunk. Not falling-down drunk, not blacking-out drunk, but drunk enough that the bonfire had halos around it and the sand felt unsteady under your feet and when Topper talked it took you both an extra second to process what he was saying. Topper was drunker. He had been drinking since before he’d picked you up, had kept drinking in the Jeep on the way there, had been working his way through a twelve-pack since you’d arrived at the beach an hour ago. His movements kept getting looser and more expansive, and he’d told the same story about the golf tournament twice in the past twenty minutes.
You were sitting in the sand near the bonfire, backs against a piece of driftwood, Topper’s arm heavy on your shoulders. The party was in full-swing around you. Sixty kids scattered across the beach, music thumping from someone else’s truck, the ocean dark and loud behind all of it. Someone was taking shots. Someone was throwing up behind the dunes. Madi was making out with some guy from The Cut. It was all normal.
"I don't get why you're being so weird about this," Topper was saying. Or had been saying. You'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere around your third drink. "It's not a big deal."
“What’s not a big deal?”
“Chapel Hill,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re acting like—it’s all this huge thing. It’s just college.”
Oh. This again. The conversation from brunch wasn’t over despite both of you pretending it was for the past eight hours.
“Can we not do this right now?”
“Do what?”
“This. The college thing. I’m really tired of talking about it.”
“Well, I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on with you.” Topper’s arm over your shoulder tightened. Insistent. “You’ve been weird for like a week.”
“I haven’t been weird.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cause it feels like you’re mad at me.”
"I'm not mad, Top. I'm just—" You stopped. Tried to find words through the alcohol fog. "I'm just trying to figure stuff out."
"What stuff?"
"School stuff. Future stuff."
"Our future?"
"My future."
“Same thing.” He said that, too, like it was obvious. There was no version of future that didn’t have you and him together. “Right?”
You took another sip from the drink in your hands. Was it? It couldn’t be the same thing. You were a person separate from him, separate from “you and Topper,” separate from everyone else’s plans. You did exist outside your relationship, right?
“Right?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” He pulled his arms away from your shoulders. “What does that mean? We talked about this. We made plans.”
"You made plans. And I just—I went along with them because everyone was so happy about it and I didn't want to—" You gestured vaguely. "I didn't want to ruin it."
Topper stared at you. "Ruin what?"
"This. Us. The whole—" You stopped again. Nothing was coming out right. "Everyone's so sure about everything. You're sure, my parents are sure, your parents are sure. And I'm just—I'm not."
"Sure about what? About me?"
"About everything."
"That's not—" He stood up suddenly, swayed slightly, caught himself. "That's not an answer. Do you want to be with me or not?"
"I do—"
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is I don't know if I want everything else that comes with it! The engagement party planning, the apartment hunting, the whole—" You stood up too, because this conversation felt wrong sitting down. "Everyone treating us like we're already married when we're nineteen."
"So you don't want to marry me."
"I didn't say that—"
"That's what it sounds like."
"That's not—Topper, you're not listening—"
"I am listening. You're saying you don't know if you want a future with me."
"I'm saying I don't know what I want for my own future! Period! Not just the part with you in it—the whole thing!" Your voice was getting louder. A few people nearby were starting to look over. "I don't know what I want to study or where I want to go or who I want to be. And everyone keeps acting like those are already answered questions and they're not. Not for me."
Topper ran both hands through his hair. "Okay. Okay. So you need time to figure it out. That's—I can give you time."
"It's not just time—"
"Then what is it? Just tell me what you need and I'll—I'll do it. Whatever you need."
"I need space." The words came out before you could stop them. "I need room to think without everyone—without you—asking me what I've decided every five seconds."
The second the words came out, you wanted to take them back. You did mean them, but you could see what they did to Topper’s face.
His face did something awful and twisted. Like you'd physically hit him. "Space."
"Not—I don't mean—" You stopped. The vodka was making everything harder. "I just mean I need to figure this out on my own. Without everyone weighing in."
"Everyone meaning me."
"Everyone meaning everyone. My parents, your parents, you—"
"So you want to break up."
"That's not what I said—"
"That's what space means."
"No it's not—"
"Then what does it mean?" He was angry now, genuinely angry. Topper never got angry. "Because from where I'm standing it sounds like you want to break up but you don't want to say it."
"I don't want to break up!" You were yelling now. "I love you! I just—I need time to figure out what I want that's not about us. That's just about me."
"But I'm part of your life. We're—we're together. You can't just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You know what? Fine. You want space? You got it."
“I love you,” you said, because that was meant to be grounding. That was supposed to fix things. Love was supposed to be the answer to it all, wasn’t it? And you needed him to hear that. You needed him to understand that this wasn’t about not loving him. “I love you. Isn’t that what matters?”
Topper looked at you for a long moment, and his face was doing something you'd never seen before. He looked hurt and frustrated and something that looked almost like resignation. "I don't know anymore," he said quietly. "Maybe it should be enough. But right now it just—it doesn't feel like it is."
His words hit you like a physical blow. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“I need a break,” Topper said. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He sounded like he was just tired. “Not from you. Just from this. This conversation and this night. I—I can’t do this right now.”
"Okay," you said quietly.
"I'm gonna stay here. At the party. But you should go home." He looked at you, and there was something almost gentle in his expression despite everything. "You look exhausted, babe. You should go home."
"I can stay—"
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think both of us need to cool off. Think about shit. And we can’t if we’re both here drunk and—” He gestured vaguely between you two. “—doing this.”
“How am I supposed to get home?” you asked, because he had drove you and apparently he was insistent on being the one that stayed at the party.
“I’ll figure it out. Just—give me a second.” He turned his back to you, looking around the area. “There.” He pointed. “Rafe’s here. He’ll drive you.”
Your stomach dropped. “He doesn’t have to—” Your voice came out wrong, high and panicked. Topper didn’t notice.
“He can drive. He’ll drop you off.” Topper was already walking toward Rafe standing at the bonfire. “Yo! Rafe.”
Rafe looked up to see Topper, then you standing a foot behind him.
“What’s up?” he called back.
“Do me a favour?” Topper reached him and put a hand on his shoulder. You followed him close behind, hesitant of your steps. “Can you give her a ride home?”
Rafe’s eyes flicked to you, an eyebrow raised, then moved back to Topper. “Something wrong with your car?”
"Nah. I just—we had a thing. She needs to go home and I'm staying here and I don't want her to drive." Topper's voice was still doing that too-casual thing, that trying-to-hold-it-together thing. "You're good to drive, right?"
"Yeah." It came out too quickly.
"So can you take her? Please?"
Rafe looked at you again and held your gaze for a beat too long. Or maybe you were imagining that?
"Yeah. Sure. No problem." He shrugged.
"Thanks, man. I owe you." Topper turned back to you, and his face softened slightly. "Get home safe, okay? We'll talk tomorrow. When we're both—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—not like this."
"Okay," you said.
"And I do love you. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Good." He kissed your forehead—quick, careful, almost formal. "Text me when you get home."
And then he walked back toward the bonfire, toward Kelce and the others, and left you standing there with Rafe.
The silence stretched out. You could hear the ocean, the music, people laughing somewhere down the beach. Could feel Rafe not looking at you, determinedly staring at something over your shoulder.
"You don't have to—" you started.
"My truck's in the lot," Rafe said, cutting you off. His voice was flat. Careful. "You ready to go or do you need to say goodbye to people?"
"I'm ready."
"Okay."
He started walking and you followed, and the distance between you felt like miles even though you were only a few feet apart. Neither of you said anything as you crossed the beach, as you climbed the short path up to the parking lot, as you reached his truck.
He unlocked it. You got in. He got in. Started the engine. He quickly pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.
The silence in the truck was suffocating. You could hear your own breathing, could hear the road under the tires, could hear the distant thump of the bonfire music fading behind you. Could feel Rafe's presence next to you like a physical thing; it was too close and too far away at the same time.
“Thanks for doing this,” you said finally.
“It’s fine.”
You watched streetlights pass through the windshield, painting the cab of the truck in alternating light and shadow. Rafe's hands on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. Everything about his body language screaming that he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, didn't want to be alone in a truck with you.
Which was fair. You'd both been doing a good job of avoiding each other all week. And now here you were, trapped together, and the air between you felt electric and dangerous and wrong.
“You guys good?”
“Yup.”
Your throat went tight. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to breathe evenly and tried to think about what on earth had just happened. The fight. Topper’s face. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t anymore either. Your eyes were burning; you blinked and felt the wetness on your lashes. Great. Perfect. You were crying now; drunk-crying in Rafe Cameron’s truck after fighting with your boyfriend who you loved but maybe didn’t love enough or maybe loved in the wrong way completely. You didn’t even know anymore.
A tear slid down your cheek, and then another. You tried to wipe them away quickly but they kept coming, and your breath was hitching in that embarrassing way that meant you were about to properly cry, and you turned your face more toward the window so Rafe wouldn’t see.
“Hey,” he said, his voice was flat and careful at the same time. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked on the words.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not.”
“I can see you crying.”
“I’m fine. I’m just—” You wiped at your face again. “Drunk. Just drunk. It’s stupid.”
Rafe remained silent and kept driving. His jaw was doing that thing it did, and his hands stayed on the wheel, and you thought maybe he was just going to ignore it and drive you home in silence while you cried quietly in the passenger seat like some pathetic drunk girl who couldn’t keep her relationship in check.
But then the truck slowed and his turn signal clicked on. He took a right down a side road you couldn’t place in your haziness, one of those residential streets that branched off the main drag, lined with scrub pine and chain-link fences and houses set back from the road. It was dark and quiet and empty. He put the truck in park and cut the engine.
You could hear every single thing now; you could hear your breathing, still hitching and uneven, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant sound of the ocean even though you were blocks away from the beach.
“I’m sorry,” you said, and your words came out shaky. “I didn’t mean for this to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—I’m fine. Really. You can just take me home. I’m sorry.”
Rafe let you talk without interrupting.
“I’m just drunk,” you continued, because in your mind stopping would mean actually feeling and sitting in the silence and acknowledging what had just happened with Topper and what was just happening in the truck. “And I got into this argument with Topper, but it’s fine. We’re fine. We fight sometimes. It’s normal. I love him. I do—”
Your voice cracked again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming anyway.
“He's such a good person. And he loves me and he's never done anything wrong and I love him but sometimes I feel like I can't breathe around him and I don't know if that's normal or if that means something's wrong with me or if I’m just crazy—"
You were rambling. You knew you were rambling. But you couldn't stop. The vodka and the tears and the week of avoiding thinking about any of this had cracked something open and now it was all spilling out in Rafe Cameron's truck and you couldn't make it stop.
Rafe still hadn't said anything. Was just sitting there listening. Which was unusual. Rafe didn't listen. Rafe interrupted, Rafe made snide comments, Rafe left the room when conversations got uncomfortable. But he was just sitting there. Letting you empty it all out.
“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I shouldn’t be saying this. You’re—you’re his best friend. I shouldn’t be—”
“I don’t think you’re being crazy,” Rafe said, almost shrugging.
“What?”
He cleared his throat. “Anyone would feel like that. He doesn’t wanna deal with shit he doesn’t wanna hear. It’s about him, not you.”
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m not trying to make him the bad guy.”
Rafe let out a short laugh. “I know.”
“He’s not. He’s good. He’s—”
“I know he is.”
“Then why—”
“‘Cause good doesn’t mean he’s right,” he said.
You felt your breath hitch slightly and felt more tears coming. You hugged yourself without realizing it. You wrapped your arms around your middle like if you could just hold yourself together physically, you can keep it together mentally.
Rafe’s hand left the steering wheel and settled on your thigh assuredly. Not brushing the hem of your shorts, but close. His hand was close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through the denim. His fingers spread, thumb, resting at the edge where the fabric ended and your bare skin began. Suddenly you thought that the shorts were too short, too much leg showing, too much everything. You should tell him to move his hand.
“Are you okay?” he asked again, but you had a feeling he didn’t mean your situation with Topper as much as the situation with your bodies touching.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
“Good.”
Rafe didn’t know what he could blame his actions on. He didn’t have a reason in Ruthie’s bathroom, but now, he had no reason. None. You were crying to him about Topper; he wasn’t catching all your words because you were rambling more than talking, but he could’ve sworn you mentioned the word love and loving Topper about three times throughout your entire monologue. But was it his fault when you turned to meet his eyes—was it his fault when you looked at him like that?
Because you did. Because you looked like everything he'd been trying not to think about for two years, everything he'd been mean about and cruel about and dismissive about because acknowledging it would mean admitting that Topper's girlfriend was the prettiest girl Rafe had ever seen and also the one girl on this entire fucking island he couldn't have.
Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, mascara smudged underneath that should’ve been messy but only made him think you were letting him see something more real and something nobody else got to see. Your cheeks were flushed from crying and probably the alcohol, that pink spread down your neck to your collarbone, and Rafe’s eyes followed it without permission. He cataloged and memorized it. Your lips were glossy; it was probably the lipgloss you always wore that Rafe had watched you apply about a hundred times at parties, that you reapplied obsessively like it was a nervous habit. It was now smudged at the corner from where you’d been crying and wiping your face and Rafe wanted to fix it.
Or ruin it more. He hadn’t decided. Both maybe. Fix it by ruining it. Ruining it by touching it.
Your hair was falling out of whatever you’d done to it earlier and you looked vulnerable in a way that made Rafe’s chest twist uncomfortably because he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be cataloging the way your tank top had rode up slightly when you’d turned toward him, showing a strip of your skin that was rising and falling too fast. He shouldn’t be noticing that your breath was still uneven, and your chest was rising and falling too fast, and the strap of your bra was visible under your top (white, lace-edged), and Jesus Christ, he needed to fucking stop. But his hand stayed exactly where it was.
But Rafe couldn’t stop because you were looking at him in a way he couldn’t name. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew you were looking at him with those eyes—red and wet and too wide—and your lips were parted slightly and you weren’t pulling away from his hand on your thigh and this was so fucking dangerous.
“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” he said through a rough chuckle.
Your throat moved when you swallowed. “Like what?”
Like you want me to kiss you. Like you’ve forgotten Topper exists. Like I’m not the worst possible person you could be alone with right now.
“You know.”
And he knew you knew. It was evident in the way your breath caught, the way your eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. He could tell in the way you didn’t pull away when his thumb moved against your thigh. He should move his hand. He should drive his truck and take you home and never be alone with you ever, ever again. He should do literally anything other than sitting here in the dark with his hand on your thigh thinking how easy it would be to slide it higher, to find out if your skin was as soft as it looked, to make you make a sound that wasn’t crying.
But you were still looking at him and not pulling away. You were sitting there with your lips parted and eyes glassy and that fucking lip gloss catching the light from the streetlamp and Rafe’s brain had officially short-circuited.
This was Topper’s girl. Topper’s perfect girlfriend who baked fucking cookies and volunteered and lead charity events and smiled at everyone. She was soft and sweet, everything Rafe wasn’t. And now you were here, in Rafe’s truck, looking at Rafe like that, and Rafe was only human. He was only twenty and fucked up and good at making horrible decisions.
His hand moved again higher this time. Just enough to feel where denim ended and skin began. It was enough to make you inhale sharply.
“Rafe,” you said. You only said his name, and he was sure he’d heard you say it about a hundred times before, but the way you said it breathy and uncertain made every rational thought in Rafe disappear. Not stop. Not don’t. Just his name.
“I know,” he said. “We can’t. I know this is—” He stopped. His hand involuntarily tightened on your thigh. “I know.” He took in a sharp breath. “You’re crying. And you’re looking at me like that. And you’re—” He shook his head. “Fuck.”
You only looked at Rafe and he watched you try to figure out what to say, how to respond, what any of this meant.
“Rafe,” you whispered finally. “We can’t.”
“Iknow.” The words came out quickly. “I know all of it. I should move my hand and drive you home and never be alone with you again.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“‘Cause I don’t wanna.”
The words hung there. Too honest. Too raw. Rafe watched you process them, watched your face do something complicated, watched you bite your bottom lip—that nervous thing you did—and his eyes locked on your mouth.
On that lip gloss. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. On the little indent it left when you released it.
God, he wanted to kiss you. Wanted it so badly he could barely think straight. Wanted to know if you tasted like strawberries or if that was just the gloss. Wanted to know if you'd kiss him back or push him away. Wanted to know if you'd been thinking about him the way he'd been thinking about you.
Wanted to know if that moment in Ruthie's bathroom had meant something or if he'd imagined the way your breath had caught when his hands were on your hips.
“We’re gonna regret this,” you said quietly.
Oh, Rafe wasn’t sure about that part. Rafe's thumb moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Drawing a circle against your skin right where your shorts ended, right where he could feel how warm you were, how soft.
"Rafe," you breathed.
His voice came out low. Rough. "Tell me to move my hand and drive you home and I will."
“You should—”
“Not what I asked.” His eyes locked on yours. “Tell me to stop.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rafe watched you struggle with it and watched you try to find the words, try to be good, try to do the right thing.
"I can't," you whispered finally.
And that was all Rafe needed. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. He wanted to give you time to say no, he almost needed you to say no. He wanted to give you time to remember you had a boyfriend because the time he got (two years) was enough to make him not care about your boyfriend being his best friend. You didn't pull away.
You weren’t even breathing. He could tell because his chest had stopped moving and you’d gone completely still under his hand like a deer that didn’t know whether to run or stay.
You only sat there frozen as Rafe closed the distance between you, as his free hand came up to cup your face, as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone right where the mascara was smudged.
"Last chance," he murmured. His lips were an inch from yours. Less. "Tell me no and I'll stop." His thumb traced your cheek once, and then again. He wanted to give you time. He wanted to give you an out.
Your eyes were huge and locked on his. Rafe could see you warring with yourself and he could’ve sworn he saw the moment you made the decision, the moment you stopped fighting it.
"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.
Good. He kissed you, slow at first. Like he was testing, giving you one more second to change your mind. His hand rested on your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone because he couldn’t stop touching you. His other hand tightened on your thigh. You made a small sound, maybe it was surprise, but he hoped it was want. Your body turned further toward him, and his fingers rested between the skin of your thighs, warm and soft and fuck.
Then you kissed him back, and something horrible in Rafe snapped. His lips worked harder and his hand slid from your face into your hair—fisting it, tangling in it—tilting your head back to get a better angle, so he could kiss you better, the way he’d been thinking about for two years. You made a small, surprised sound, and Rafe swallowed it whole.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “We’re so fucked.”
Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go in the cab of his truck. The center console dug into his ribs but he didn’t care. He would’ve climbed over it if he could.
“Rafe—” you gasped when his lips moved to your neck.
“Hm?” His teeth grazed your pulse point.
“Rafe,” you said again, voice breathy and all perfect.
He hummed against your skin. “Yeah, baby?”
You shivered against him.
“I’m sorry.” Your hands went up his back and landed on his neck, nails softly grazing against the skin under his hair. The touch was so light it almost hurt Rafe, as though you weren’t allowed.
“Don’t.” Rafe’s lips met the corner of your jaw before he pulled back just enough to look at you. He rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, and his hands stayed in your hair, fingers still tangled like he’d forgotten how to let go. Maybe if he held on long enough, this moment wouldn’t end and tomorrow would never come. “Don’t apologize to me. That’s not what this is.”
Your hands stilled on his neck, and the barely-there touch made all hairs on his body rise.
“What is it?” you asked softly.
Rafe laughed once, but all humor was devoid. What was it? Fuck if he knew. A really, really good mistake. He’d wanted this so long that it didn’t even feel real now that it was happening. His thumb slid along your jaw, tilting your face back toward him so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again. “You’re upset.”
He leaned back and in, kissed you again. It was shorter this time, firmer than before, like he was reminding himself what it felt like rather than losing himself in it; he would likely never have you in this position ever again. So he memorized it, your taste and the way your mouth fit against his and the sounds you made.
When he pulled away, his hand slid back down to your thigh, thumb pressing there, grounding both of you.
“You gotta breathe,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re one to talk.” Rafe liked your voice too much.
“Hey,” he said, voice now slightly playful. “I’m not the one crying.” He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond. “You okay?”
You nodded.
“Good,” he said, and forced himself to pull away. Your hands stayed on his neck—fingers still curled there, warm—and he had to physically remove it. He took your wrist and gently guided your hand back to your own lap. “Because if we keep going like that, I really can’t take this back.”
He forced himself to start the truck because he wasn’t sure how true his words rang. His body felt like it was boiling about twenty emotions together at once; how could you take this back? He’d made you cross a line. He’d pulled you across it, really. The engine turned over. The headlights cut through the dark. Rafe put his truck in drive because if he sat there one more second looking at you with your swollen lips and smudged mascara and his fingerprints still visible in your hair, he was going to do something even more unforgivable than what he'd already done.
The drive to your house was silent. It was heavy and loaded with every single thing that had just happened and couldn’t happen again. Rafe kept both his hands on the wheel this time because he couldn’t trust himself to do anything else.
You sat with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring out the passenger window, and Rafe couldn't tell if you were crying again or just thinking. Either way, he didn't ask. He didn't know what he'd say if you were. He’d have to acknowledge what he’d just done if he asked.
Your street appeared too quickly. The familiar houses, the broken streetlight, your driveway with your parents' cars parked in it. All the normal pieces of your normal life that had nothing to do with what had just happened in Rafe's truck on some random side street.
“I should—” you started.
“Yup.”
You reached for the door handle. Stopped. Your hand just rested there on the metal, not pulling, not opening. “This didn’t happen?”
“Okay.” He kept his eyes on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling a hundred times smaller. “Didn’t happen.”
“We can’t—this can’t happen again.”
“I know that. So go inside.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Text Topper. Tell him you got home safe. Forget about this.”
“Will you forget about it?”
No. Absolutely fucking not. He’d probably remember this for the rest of his life; he’d remember the way you tasted, the sound you made, the way you’d kissed him back. He’d remember all of it and it’d torture him everytime he saw you with Topper, every single fucking time he had to pretend this never happened, every time he had to be Topper’s best friend and not the guy who’d kissed his girlfriend in a parked truck after she cried.
“Yeah,” Rafe said, nodding. “I’ll forget about it.” For some reason, the lie tasted worse on his tongue than the truth would’ve.
You stared at him for a long moment before opening the door. You climbed out onto the sidewalk, and Rafe watched you smooth down your shorts, fix your hair, try to put yourself back together into the girl you'd been before you got in his truck. You leaned in before closing the door. “Thank you,” you said. “For the ride and listening and—” You stopped yourself. “Just thank you.”
Rafe nodded once, sharply. You turned away from him and went inside. He sat there for a long time. Staring at your dark house. Trying to process what he'd just done. Trying to figure out how he was supposed to look Topper in the face tomorrow knowing that he'd had his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and you'd kissed him back.
His phone buzzed.
Topper: she get home okay?
Rafe stared at the text. His best friend's name on the screen. At the trust implicit in that question, the assumption that Rafe had done exactly what he'd been asked to do and nothing more.
does anyone else remember the writer on here @uchispeach and her dark rafe x reader x dark nate jacobs fic omfg I’m so sick, your teeth in my neck was so good I randomly thought abt it bc I wanted to see if it got updated and their account is gone☹️☹️☹️
SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥[7.4k] During your sophomore spring semester of college, you and Rafe navigate a volatile, codependent relationship
WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ swearing, mentions of past suicide attempt, substance abuse, mental illness, toxic relationship, co-dependency, not sure how i feel abt this
part one
YOU were a sophomore now, nearly two years into a psychology degree that you initially chose just to understand the mess of your own mind—and his.
But college didn’t have the same rules as Kildare. There were no Pogues or Kooks here—there were just kids like you trying to survive early lectures, cheap food, and the freedom of being entirely on your own. The circles you had spent your whole life keeping separate from began to bleed into one another.
Topper and Kelce had followed Rafe down to school, neither having a real personality without him. But now, they sat at the same tables in dive bars as Kat and Janae, your roommates. And when your friends watched you and Rafe together, they finally began to understand. Understand why the two of you were so inseparable.
They saw it in the way Rafe didn't have to put on his typical show when you were in the room. They saw it in the way his entire posture shifted—the tightness of his broad shoulders dropping the second you slid into the booth beside him. He was different now, less unpredictable. The dark circles that used to carve themselves under his eyes throughout high school had faded and he had swapped the white lines on coffee tables for hours in the gym, channeling the rage that Ward had gifted him.
He looked older, bigger, his jawline sharper, but his eyes were calmer.
Most of the time anyway.
You were doing better, too. At least, on the surface. You were getting out more, you went to the beach, you went to thrift stores, and you didn't spend days on end staring blankly at the ceiling of your dorm room while the world moved on without you, mindlessly flipping through the limited ways of making your mother even the least bit proud. You were social and you felt alive. For the first time in a long time.
But you were both still deeply flawed underneath it all.
The truth was, the distance hadn't healed the scars.
Rafe was still a slave to his father's voice. Every time a text from Ward popped up on his phone, or every time his dad called to lecture him, his progress crumbled. The gym wasn't enough then, and he would slide right back into a bottle of whatever, drinking until his words slurred and he'd forgotten about whatever his father spat at him that day.
And you? You had stopped taking your meds. You hated the way they made you feel like you were living underwater—how it flattened the peaks and valleys of your emotions until you were nothing but a shell of whatever you called ‘yourself’. The exact shell your mother loved. But she wasn’t here. So, you dropped the pills in the trash every time a new prescription was mailed, replacing them with something more recreational. Weed didn't make you numb, but it made the sharp edges of the world fuzzy enough that they didn't cut you when you bumped against them.
You kept it hidden from him for a while, knowing Rafe cared for you, probably more than himself. Because he was dependent on you. If you were okay, then so was he. But you couldn't keep anything hidden from Rafe for long. Especially, when your dealer quits.
The argument happened one evening in your dorm room. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your fingers nervously tapping against your kneecaps, while Rafe paced the length of the floor.
"No," Rafe said, his voice flat. He didn't look at you, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his gray gym shorts. "No, I'm not getting it for you."
You let out a sharp laugh, sitting up straighter. "Are you serious, Rafe? It’s literally just a text.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m just asking you to grab me an eighth. It's not a big deal..."
"It is a big deal," he snapped, finally stopping his pacing to glare down at you. "You're supposed to be taking your meds. The ones the doctor gave you."
You stood up, stepping directly into his space. "They make me feel like a fucking zombie. I can't think, I can't..." You huffed, trailing off. "The weed actually helps me sleep at night.” You snarled, turning away from him. “Why are you being like this? You’ll get anything for anyone else, but not for your best friend? You’d buy a bag for Kelce or Topper without a single question, but the second I ask, you turn into some kind of moral saint?"
"Because Kelce and Topper don't—" Rafe yelled, his jaw twitching as he took a step closer, towering over you as he cut himself off, emphasizing his words to you as if you were a child. "You're trying to replace medication with weed, and you think I'm just gonna sit back and let you do that? You think I'm gonna be the one who hands it to you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was in a therapy session, right now," you spat, your vision blurring with a sudden rush of angry tears. "You replace much needed therapy with a bottle every single time your dad calls but you're gonna lecture me about smoking? What's the fucking difference?"
Rafe turned, his face turning a dark shade of crimson, your words clearly striking a nerve. The mention of his father hurt, and for a second, the air between you was so tense.
"The difference," Rafe started, his voice dangerously low. "is that I don't care if I destroy myself. But I care if you do."
"Yeah, well, maybe you should work on that," You snapped, shooting the boy a sharp look. "Worry about your fucking self..."
He stared at you, his breathing heavy, a look of bitter defeat washed over his features. He yanked his hands out of his pockets, turning on his heel.
"You want it so bad? Get your own shit," he muttered, marching across the small room, grabbing the doorknob, and yanking it open. A second later, the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a force that rattled the posters on your walls.
You stood in the silence of your room, your heart pounding with your hands balled into fists at your sides.
"Get my own shit?" you muttered, stomping around your room. "Fine."
IT took you less than twenty-four hours to find a new source. In a college town, finding marijuana wasn't exactly a hard task. You asked a guy in one of your classes, who pointed you toward a sophomore named Dominic.
Dominic was the exact opposite of Rafe. He was easygoing and alarmingly laid-back, and he lived in an off-campus apartment that smelled of incense and take-out. He had curly brown hair that fell into his eyes, a lazy smile, and an effortless charm.
The first time you went to his place to buy, you expected a quick, awkward transaction. Instead, Dominic handed you a glass of water, sat down on his worn couch, and asked you about yourself.
"Psychology?" he smiled, rolling a joint. "Dangerous.” He hummed. “You're gonna start analyzing me, aren't you?"
"Maybe," you murmured, letting the unfamiliar ease of the room settle over you. "Or maybe I just wanna figure out why everyone is so messed up."
"Fair enough," Dominic laughed, lighting up and offering it to you.
And over the next few weeks, Dominic went from your dealer to your friend. You found yourself walking over to his apartment even when you didn't need anything. He was cool because he didn't know your past, or anything about you really. Only what you cared to share. With Dominic, you could just be a normal college girl, laughing at stupid reels and smoking on his balcony while the sun went down.
Though, Rafe and you eventually made up, because you always did. The separation never lasted more than a few days before you were dragged back into each other's orbit. A muttered apology from him in the parking lot of the gym, a quiet apology from you, and you were back to sitting side-by-side in bars with your friends.
But you didn't tell him about Dominic.
And you definitely didn't tell him you were still smoking.
THAT revelation happened weeks later at a house party. The house belonged to some senior lacrosse players, and it was packed to the brim, the air inside suffocating, the bass from the speakers vibrating violently through the floorboards.
You had arrived with your entire group—Topper, Kelce, Kat, Janae, and Rafe. For the first hour, everything felt normal. Rafe stayed close to you, his large hand occasionally resting on the small of your back to guide you through the dense crowd, a barrier between you and the sweaty bodies of strangers. He was drinking a beer, looking relaxed, laughing at something Topper was saying.
But then, the house became too much. The walls felt like they were closing in, the noise turned into a nagging buzz in your ears and, suddenly, you needed air.
You slipped away while Rafe was distracted, navigating the crowded hallway until you found the back exit leading to a dimly lit side yard. The night air hit your skin, a much appreciated relief.
"Hey, you."
A voice caught you off guard. You turned to see Dominic sitting on an upturned crate near the overgrown bushes, a glowing ember hovering between his fingers. A relaxed smile spread across your face as you walked over to him.
"Hey," you sat down on the low concrete step beside him. "Didn't expect you were gonna be here. I didn’t think these things were your scene."
"I go where the crowds are, gotta follow the money." Dominic murmured, taking a drag before handing the joint to you. "You look like you could use a hit."
You sighed, taking it gratefully and bringing it to your lips. You inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs.
But inside the house, Rafe’s entire demeanor had changed the second he realized you were gone. He turned around, his eyes scanning the sea of faces, his chest tightening with that panic that always gripped him when you were nowhere to be found.
"Hey, you see where she went?" Rafe asked, cutting off Kelce mid-sentence as he was talking to some girl.
"Who?” He asked, Rafe cocking an impatient eyebrow. “Oh, she probably went to the bathroom, man, chill," Kelce muttered, taking a sip of his drink and returning to his convo.
But Rafe couldn’t. He pushed past everyone as he checked the kitchen, the hallways, his irritation and anxiety rising with every second that passed.
He threw open the back door, stepping out into the shadows of the side yard, his eyes darting around until they locked onto the corner by the bushes, his blood running entirely cold.
There you were, sitting in the dark, your head tilted back against the brick wall, a plume of grey smoke escaping your lips. And next to you was a guy he had never seen before in his life.
He marched across the grass, his face contorted into a terrifying expression of fury. Before you could even register the sound of footsteps, your head turning mere inches in his direction, a large hand descended into your space, violently snatching the joint right out from between your fingers.
"What the fuck?!" you gasped, your eyes flying open as you looked up.
Rafe stood over you, chest heaving with his jaw clenched. He dropped the joint onto the dirt, crushing it beneath the sole of his shoe.
Dominic blinked, thoroughly high and completely caught off guard by the sudden outburst from the guy in front of him. He looked between Rafe’s glare and your furious expression, tilting his head in confusion.
"Whoa, man...," Dominic muttered, holding his hands up defensively as he looked at you, his voice lazy. "Is he your boyfriend or somethin’?"
The question hung in the air, neither you nor Rafe saying a word. You both just sighed, looking at Dominic, before your eyes snapped to each other.
Rafe’s chest rose and fell, his lips parting slightly, but no sound came out.
You broke the stare first, your face hardening into a look of annoyance. You didn't want to do this here. You didn't want a scene in front of hundreds of people. Hell, you didn’t want to do this at all.
"Dick," you muttered, standing up and brushing the dirt off your clothes. You didn't look at Rafe as you brushed right past him, heading down the dark gravel driveway toward the street, wanting nothing more than to leave.
"Hey!” Rafe called, following behind. “Stop!"
His voice boomed down the empty street. You kept your pace fast, your heels clicking sharply against the asphalt, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. You could hear his heavy footsteps catching up to you.
Suddenly, his hand wrapped around your upper arm. His grip wasn't meant to hurt, but it was firm, heavy, manhandling you to stop and look at him.
His touch was the last straw as you whipped around, pushing hard at his chest with both hands, forcing him back a step.
"Get off me!" you shrieked, your voice trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and frustration.
"Then stop walking away from me!" he shouted back, stepping right back into your space, his face inches from yours under the yellow glow of a streetlamp. "What the hell were you doing? And who the fuck was that guy—"
"His name is Dominic, and he's my friend." you fired back. "Not that it's any of your business."
"Your friend? The guy selling you drugs is your friend?" Rafe barked. He grabbed your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your sweater, his eyes wild.
“What're you, an informant?" You shot back. "Yeah, he is, Rafe. I am allowed to have those outside of you.” You retorted, snatching away from him. “You’re making a big deal of nothing—"
“What the fuck is ‘nothing’ to you, exactly?” He cut you off, pressing his fingers to his temple. “You have clinical depression.” He emphasized, your eyes going wide. “Or do you forget that? What if the weed makes it worse—"
"Shut the fuck up,” you hissed, “and keep your voice down! There are people everywhere, Rafe! Anyone could hear you—"
"I don't give a shit!" he told you, though he lowered his pitch slightly, his chest heaving as he leaned into your space. "...Look, I'm scared that, one day, when you come down from a high, it’ll be worse for you than it is for most people. I know you think you're just having fun, but you're... you're playing with fire, and you're doing it with some random dude—"
"Oh, look at you," you laughed bitterly. "You're the last person to talk to me about drugs. Who kept you in line for years? I did! So don't you stand there and act like you have some moral high ground over me smoking a joint!"
Rafe huffed, a frustrated sound escaping his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, turning away for a second before snapping his gaze back to you, his eyes narrowing.
"Fine. Whatever. You want to talk about the past? Great," he sneered, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "But what about now? What about that Dominic guy? You're hanging out with random guys now? Is that what we're doing?"
"Why do you care so much who I hang out with?" you challenged, crossing your arms. "You hate when I hang out with guys, period. Every time a guy even breathes in my direction, you look like you want to kill him."
Rafe didn't deny it, but he didn't address your words either. "I don't know what's going on with you lately. You're…careless."
"I'm careless?" you let out a sharp laugh. "Because I'm actually trying to live my life the way I want? You think you're some kind of saint now just because you quit sniffing lines? News flash—you're not."
"And I did it because you asked!" Rafe snapped, rendering you completely silent. He stared at you, his chest heaving, eyes wide and vulnerable. "Exactly," He continued, his voice cracking slightly as he stepped closer, his hands hovering near your face before dropping back to his sides. "So why can't you just do the same for me when all I'm trying to do is look out for you? I changed everything because you told me we had enough problems. I stopped the coke because you asked me to. Why can't you just listen to me for once?"
You stared at him, your throat tight, a wave of guilt fighting with your pride. You narrowed your eyes, trying to harden your heart against the look of desperation in his eyes. "You listen to me one time and all of a sudden, what, I owe you?" you scoffed, your voice trembling.
"I listen to you all the time—" he fired back, exasperated.
"Half," you corrected sharply.
"I do whatever you want all the time!" Rafe shouted, his arms gesturing wildly between the two of you.
The silence settled over again, neither of you speaking—just heaving in front of each other. He was right, and you knew it. Since the moment you moved to college, Rafe had been almost a completely different person than who he’d become. He had done the impossible—conquered his demons all because you had looked at him with tears in your eyes and asked him to. But, right now, he was entirely unwilling to admit the deeper truth— that he couldn't stomach the sight of you with other men.
He hated the way guys had been flocking toward you recently, attracted to the bright, social light you were finally letting show. It upset him, selfishly beyond words, because he liked to be the only one who knew how to guide you through the dark.
Rafe let out a long, shaky breath, the fight draining out of him, leaving only exhaustion.
"Look," he muttered, looking down at his sneakers before locking his eyes onto yours. "Fine. If you want the weed so bad... I'll get it for you. From my dealer. I'll buy it, I'll bring it to you. But…promise me you’ll stop talking to that guy.” Rafe requested. “I don't want you getting laced or some shit.” He defended. “Deal?"
You stared at him, stunned by the sudden compromise, but more so by the lengths he would go to just to remove another man from your life.
"Fine, I'll take the weed from your guy," you said softly, your voice small. "But Dominic is my friend, Rafe. And you can't just dictate who I talk to."
You didn't wait for his response, turning around and walking back toward the house to rejoin the party, leaving him standing alone under the streetlamp, his fists clenched deep in his pockets.
WEEKS passed, and the ‘compromise’ did nothing to calm Rafe’s jealousy. If anything, it made it worse.
True to his word, he dropped a small plastic baggie on your desk every two weeks, never asking questions, his face flat whenever he did it.
And despite the conversation, you didn't completely cut Dominic off. He was in your major, your classes, and you saw him in the courtyard in passing.
One afternoon, Rafe was walking across the campus quad after a workout, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, when his eyes locked onto the stone benches near the library.
You were sitting in the sunlight, your head thrown back as a laugh escaped your lips. And next to you was Dominic, leaning over, showing you something on his phone, his shoulder brushing against yours.
Rafe didn't even register the movement of his own legs as he stormed across the grass, his face thunderous. Before you could finish your sentence, Rafe’s large hand gripped your elbow, pulling you up from the bench with jarring force. It wasn’t harsh or painful, but firm enough that you could tell he was upset.
"Hey," Rafe said, his voice dropping. "We gotta go.”
“What, why—”
“Topper needs help with his truck.”
“Topper's truck got towed last night—”
"He got it back. It...won't start."
"What the hell does that have to do with m—"
“Now."
"Rafe, what the hell?" you stumbled, pulling your arm out of his grip, shooting an embarrassed glance at Dominic who was now several feet away and whose smile had instantly vanished.
"Nice seeing you, man," Rafe shot a cold look the boy’s way as he practically dragged you down the concrete path, away from the benches.
"Stop it!" you yanked yourself away once you were far enough into the shadows. "What is wrong with you? I was just talking to him!"
"I told you I don't trust that guy," Rafe growled, his jaw ticking as he loomed over you. "You said you’d stay away from him."
“I actually explicitly remember not agreeing to that,” you hissed. "Okay, seriously, give me the real reason for all of this, Rafe," you pushed, stepping closer, staring directly into his eyes, demanding the truth that had been hovering between you for two years. "You don’t know him enough to not trust him. So, what is it, really?”
“Exactly. I don’t know him at all—”
“Say the real reason you don't want me around him. Say the real reason you don’t want me around any guy.” You pleaded. “Just say it."
Rafe stared down at you with his lips parted and his chest heaving, the words trapping themselves in his throat. His eyes darted down to your lips, a look flashing across his features before he forced it down, his face hardening. He couldn't say it. To say it would mean ruining everything.
"...I just don't trust him," he muttered, looking away.
You let out a disappointed sigh. "Right,” your tongue prodded the inside of your cheek. “Whatever. Well, you'll just have to get over it then." You turned and walked away, leaving him alone.
A week later, Rafe met Sofia— a junior, and a beautiful girl with dark hair and a bright smile. And she didn't know the version of Rafe Cameron you did. She just saw a broad-shouldered, breathtaking, handsome guy with money, a hung smile, and a nice truck.
It happened at a house party that you had skipped in favor of studying for a midterm.
They flirted for hours, made out on the couch in the middle of the living room, Rafe doing it half-drunk with his eyes open for a split second, scanning the crowd as if he were looking for someone who wasn't even there.
But Sofia clung to him after that night.
She began showing up at the diner where your group ate breakfast. She inserted herself into the booths, sitting next to Rafe with her manicured hand resting casually on his thigh.
And your demeanor surrounding their presence shifted almost instantly.
You didn't make a scene. You never did. Instead, you became uncharacteristically cold. Your other friends weren’t used to it, but Rafe was. Whenever Sofia spoke, you stared at your phone, giving short, dry responses that made the atmosphere noticeably awkward.
Rafe tried to corner you about it after breakfast one morning, catching you by his truck.
"What’s up with you?" he said, blocking your path. "You been acting weird since Sofia started hanging with us."
"Nothing’s ‘up with me’," you said, your voice dripping with annoyance as you looked up at him. "And no one’s worried about your girlfriend."
"She's not my girlfriend," Rafe stepped closer, his voice dropping, desperate. "Why do you even care?” He pressed, but you avoided his gaze, biting your lip. “...Why would it matter?"
You looked at him, your eyes flat, hiding the burning jealousy that was eating your chest alive. You didn't answer his question. You just forced an empty smile, patted his chest, and walked right past him.
THE breaking point happened on a crowded night in one of the bars you all frequented. Rafe was at the pool tables with Topper and Kelce, and Sofia had followed you and your friends into the girls' bathroom, cornering you by the mirrors while you were fixing your hair as Kat and Janae left, not without weary glances back at you.
Sofia leaned against the sink, turning to look at you with a curious, slightly insecure look.
"Hey," Sofia started, running a hand through her hair. "I know you and I don’t really, uh, talk, but...can I ask you something?” she asked, laughing nervously. “Since... you know, you and Rafe are like childhood best friends and all?"
You stopped adjusting your hair, your eyes locking onto her reflection in the glass. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the countertop. "Yeah?"
"...Am I his type?" Sofia asked, her voice dropping into a hopeful pitch. "Like... he's sweet when we're alone, but then he just gets so distant. And I really like him, and…” she trailed off. “I guess I’m asking…do you think he wants something real? Like, a real relationship?"
A sudden spike of something venomous sparked in your chest. The image of her hand on his thigh, the thought of his lips on hers at that party—it stripped away your restraint, or whatever was left of it. You turned around slowly, crossing your arms, your face nonchalant, feigning casual indifference.
"Sofia," you said, your voice entirely casual. "You're really pretty and sweet, but... you're not really Rafe's type."
Sofia’s smile faltered, her brow furrowing. "I’m not?"
"It's not even you, really. It's just, Rafe doesn't really do... serious," you shrugged, turning back to the mirror to apply a layer of lip gloss. "He likes to have fun and move on to the next thing. I’ve known him almost all my life and that’s just how he is.” You shrugged. “Honestly, it would probably be best if you just dropped him now before you get hurt. Plus, he doesn't seem to think you guys are super serious anyway. At least not from what he told me..."
Sofia stood there, her face draining of color as your words systematically dismantled her confidence.
"Oh," Sofia choked out, her eyes welling with tears. "I... I didn't know."
"Yeah," you gave her a tight smile, sliding your lip gloss into your purse. "Just thought you should know.”
"I, well...thank you, I guess." She said, sniffling.
You planted a hand on her shoulder as you moved to leave with a pitiful smile. You walked out of the bathroom, leaving her alone, your heart hammering with a sick sense of satisfaction. Not because you hurt her feelings. But because you knew you'd be giving Rafe a taste of his own medicine.
THE consequences arrived at two o'clock in the morning.
You were lying in your bed, the room dark, when a sudden banging rattled your dorm door. You jumped, eyebrows pinching as you slid out of bed, yanking the door open.
You sighed, rolling your eyes at the sight of Rafe standing in the hallway, his face twisted and his breathing ragged. He stepped into your room without an invitation, slamming the door behind him so hard the frame groaned.
"What the fuck did you say to Sofia?" he snapped, turning on you instantly.
You shrugged, walking back to your bed and sitting down, pulling the blanket over your legs, looking completely unphased. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't pull that shit," Rafe hissed. "She just called me, crying her eyes out, breaking things off. She said you told her she wasn't my type and that I told you we weren’t serious. Why would you say that shit to her?"
"Because it's the truth?" you shot back, sitting up. "That’s what you told me, so that’s what I told her." You said like it was the most casual thing in the world. "You didn’t care about her, Rafe. Why are you acting like I ruined some epic love story?"
"It doesn't matter if I care about her or not," Rafe stepped closer to the bed, his hands clenched into tight fists. "It's the fact that you went out of your way to ruin it! You had no right to tell her that—"
"Oh, I had no right?" you laughed, a bitter sound as you stood up from the bed, facing him down. "What about you? What about every single guy who tries to talk to me?" You cocked an eyebrow. "The guy from my stats class you hovered over at the library until he was too terrified to ask for my notes? Or the guy at the bar last weekend who asked for my number that you stared down until he left the booth? Or even Dominic?” You spat. “You scare them off until you’re the only guy left! You do the exact same thing to me—"
"T-that's different!" Rafe yelled, his face inches from yours as you both danced furiously around the 'why' of your behavior.
"How is that different?" you shrieked.
"Because I'm…protecting you!" Rafe shot back, his voice breaking. "I don't think you should be with anyone right now, alright? You have a lot of shit goin’ on, you can't handle a relationship!"
"And you can?" you fired back, the words cutting like razor blades. "Rafe, you're a functional alcoholic who can't handle a single text from his father! You're just as fucked up as I am!" You stepped closer, your breathing shallow, heart breaking into a thousand pieces as you looked into his eyes, the truth screaming between the inches of space left between your lips. "So, are you saving them from my 'baggage'," you whispered, your voice shaking violently as the tears finally spilled over your eyelashes. "...Or are you actually just saving me for yourself?"
Rafe froze, his jaw loosening slightly, his eyes locked onto yours.
The question crashed and burned the illusion of denial you’d be holding onto for years. The silence that followed was suffocating and terrifyingly cold. Rafe stared at you, his chest rising and falling, his lips trembling slightly as the implication of your words stripped away every single layer of denial he had used to protect himself since he met you.
He looked caught, terrified, and entirely overwhelmed.
But he didn't answer. He couldn't.
Rafe turned around, grabbed the doorknob, and walked out into the hallway, leaving you alone in the quiet room.
And for the next four days, the silence lasted.
It was the longest you had ever gone without speaking to each other, voluntarily, in your entire lives. You didn't text him, he didn't text you. You sat on opposite sides of the diner during group breakfasts, ignoring each other's existence completely, while Topper, Kelce, Kat, and Janae watched wondering what the hell could’ve possibly happened for the two of you to not speak.
You both spent hours staring at your phones late at night, your thumbs hovering over each other's contact names, debating the text, before locking your screens and throwing them onto the mattress, too stubborn to break the ice.
BUT then came a Saturday night.
You had gone to a frat party with Kat and Janae, determined to drown the ache in your chest with cheap liquor. By midnight, the plan had succeeded. Entirely too well.
The jungle juice was pure alcohol, and you were completely wasted, unable to even stand straight on your heels as you leaned against the walls, the world spinning.
Your friends weren't doing much better, and realizing none of you could drive or even navigate an Uber app, and with their phones dead, Kat slid down the hallway wall, pulled out your phone, and dialed the only person she knew would always answer for you.
Rafe was lying on the couch in his campus apartment, staring blankly at the TV when his phone buzzed. He picked it up instantly, his heart jumping when he saw your name.
"Hello?" he said, his voice tense.
"Rafe..." Kat slurred into the speaker, the loud bass of the party thumping in the background, and his shoulders fell at the sound of her voice. "You gotta come get us. We're at…” She slurred out the name of the house, her own head pounding. “We're all really wasted and she... she can't even stand up. Hold on, I’m gonna—"
Rafe didn't even hang up the phone as he heard Kat puking on the other side. He shot up, grabbed his keys, and sprinted out the door and down the stairs to his truck, his heart hammering. The anger from four days ago evaporated like nothing.
He arrived at the frat house ten minutes later, pushing through the crowds of drunk college kids like a hurricane. He found Kat and Janae in the upstairs hallway, supporting you between them. Your head was hanging low, your eyes glassy, your heels dragging on the floor.
"I got her," Rafe muttered, his face dead serious as he easily lifted you into his arms, your body heavy, your head instantly rolling into the crook of his neck. He looked at Kat and Janae. "C’mon, get in the truck."
He drove back to the campus dorms first, the silence in the car tense. He helped Kat and Janae out, carrying them to their door, before returning to the truck where you were slumped in the passenger seat.
Rafe looked at you—your face that had a light sheen of sweat, your frizzy hair. He couldn't leave you alone in your dorm room like this. He didn't trust you not to get sick or fall.
So, he drove you back to his apartment.
He carried you up the stairs to his bedroom, gently placing your limp form onto his mattress. You groaned, rolling onto your back, staring at the ceiling with hazy eyes.
"The room is spinning..." you whispered, a drunken chuckle escaping your lips.
Rafe didn't say a word. He sat at the foot of the bed, his large hands reaching down to gently unlace the straps of your high heels, sliding them off your feet and setting them neatly on the floor. He stood up, walked into the bathroom, and returned with a damp washcloth.
He sat on the edge of the mattress beside you, leaning over. His movements were tender as he used the damp cloth to gently wipe the smudged makeup and glitter off your face.
"You're wasted," Rafe muttered softly, his voice heavy with frustration as he wiped a streak of mascara from under your eye. "You know a lot of the kids at this college are from Kildare? Anything you do could easily get back to your mom."
"I don't care," you mumbled, your eyes closing as the warm cloth touched your skin. "If I’m lucky, she’ll kill me."
Rafe froze. The washcloth remained pressed against your cheek, his fingers tightening. His face turned incredibly tense, his eyes locking onto yours with complete seriousness.
"Don't say shit like that," he whispered, his voice trembling as his face twisted. "And I'm serious. Don't you ever say that shit to me. Ever again."
The reminder of that night always flared between you. Rafe was starting to think it affected him more than it did you.
You opened your eyes, looking up into his face, your drunken state stripping away all of your defenses, leaving nothing but curiosity from your last argument.
"Why do you care?" you pressed, reaching up with a hand, your fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down slightly as you tried to sit up.
Rafe sighed. "Because you're my best friend, believe it or not. No matter how much you piss me off—"
"No, not *hiccup* that," you waved him off mid sentence. "Tell me the real reason why you don’t want me around anyone?" you slurred.
Rafe let out a long, defeated sigh, his forehead dropping down until it was nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your lips.
"...You already know why," he whispered, his voice a soft surrender. "And I don't wanna do this tonight."
You stared at him, the alcohol slowing your brain but amplifying the ache in your chest. You let out a quiet, drunken sigh, your fingers loosening on his shirt.
"Did you *hiccup* fuck Sofia?" you mumbled, the insecurity ripping out of you before you could stop it.
Rafe blinked, taken completely aback by the question, his brow furrowing. "What?"
"Did you sleep with her?" you deadpanned, rolling your eyes and looking away from him, your voice small. "It's fine if you did... it's not like it matters, considering you've fucked other people... I just... I want to know—"
"No," Rafe said firmly, his voice cracking slightly as he grabbed your chin, forcing your face back to his. "No, I didn't."
"...Why?" you whispered, your eyes wide.
"Because," he started, debating his next words. "I haven't had sex with anyone," Rafe confessed, the truth pouring out of him like blood from an open wound.
You laughed in your drunken state. "You're lying,"
He looked down, his jaw tightening. "I've hooked up with people, touched up on girls at parties when I was drunk and trying to forget... but I haven't actually slept with anyone. At all."
"...You're not lying." your face fell. "...Why?" you asked again, your voice a tiny gasp.
Rafe went completely silent. He couldn't say the words. He couldn't tell you that every time he closed his eyes with another girl, his brain just showed him your face. He couldn't tell you that he felt like he belonged to you, even if you were both too broken to admit it.
"I'll tell you when you're sober." He ended the conversation, gently pulling the blanket up over your shoulders, tucking you into his bed as moved to stand up, wanting to sleep on the couch to give you space, but your hand shot out from beneath the covers, your fingers locking tightly around his wrist.
"Stay," you begged, looking up at him through the dark with an earnestness that shattered his chest. "Please? Just for tonight."
Rafe stared down at your fingers on his wrist, the image of that night of banquet flashing through his mind—the way you had detached his fingers from your hair. He looked at your glassy eyes, heard the faint slur in your voice, and he knew the boundaries were too blurred. He couldn't cross them. Not like this. Not while you were using alcohol to escape the reality of your questions.
"I can't," he whispered, his voice breaking.
He gently detached your fingers from his wrist, placing your hand back under the warm blanket. He turned around, walked out of the room, and closed the door behind him, leaving you to fall asleep.
THE next morning, the sunlight was blinding.
It cut through the cracks of the blinds in Rafe’s bedroom, triggering your headache that was bound to make an appearance no matter what. You sat up, groaning, your tongue dry as you yawned.
You walked out into the small kitchen, your bare feet quiet on the linoleum but Rafe was already awake. He was standing by the counter, wearing nothing but sweatpants, his broad back to you as he poured a glass of water.
"Good morning," you murmured, your voice raspy. You were used to bouncing back from your arguments, and you only remembered snippets of last night—the makeup wipe, the ride home.
"Morning," Rafe said. He didn't turn around. His voice was flat, distant.
You walked over to the cabinet, grabbing a bowl and a box of cereal, trying to shake off the awkward tension. "My head is literally splitting open.” you groaned. “I had way too much of that jungle juice, or whatever the fuck they were calling it..."
"Yeah, well, you're not drinking it anymore," Rafe said, finally turning around to face you. His eyes were dark, absent of any of the tenderness from last night, his jaw set into a hard line. "And I'm not getting you weed anymore, either."
You froze, the cereal spoon clinking sharply against the porcelain bowl. You looked up at him, your irritation flaring instantly. "We're back to this again?"
"I'm dead serious," Rafe said, stepping closer, leaning his hands against the kitchen counter. "You were saying some crazy shit last night—"
"I was drunk." you defended, your voice rising as you slammed the cereal box onto the counter. "Everyone says stupid things when they're drunk, it couldn’t have been that bad. Besides, I probably didn’t mean anything by it—"
"Yeah, that's the problem." Rafe retorted, frustratd.
"Oh, so you can drink your problems away but I do it for fun and you try to cut me off?" you yelled back, stepping directly into his space. "You're a hypocrite."
"Call me whatever you want. You’ve called me worse—" he shrugged, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.
"Why the fuck do you care so much?!" you protested, the words ripping out of your throat.
The question hit Rafe hard. His face contorted, a flash of hurt crossing his features for a split second before he put his walls back up, his eyes turning to ice. The stupidity of the question burned his blood.
"It doesn't matter why," Rafe said, his voice dropping. "You’re done. I'm not getting you weed. I'm not letting you drink.” He started, jamming a finger into your sternum. “You're gonna call your doctor, and you're gonna start taking your meds again. And if you find someone else to get drugs or alcohol for you,” He paused, contemplating his next words. “I won't hesitate to call your mom and tell her everything."
You stared at him, fixing him with a challenging, skeptical look, narrowing your eyes. "...You wouldn't."
"Try me," Rafe whispered, dead serious. "I don’t care if she hates me, or you, I'll do it. I'll call her, and I'll tell her everything.” He threatened.
A surge of fury took over your limbs—your teeth clenching so hard your jaw ached, your chest shrinking. You let your cereal bowl hit the counter, the milk splashing over the edge, before turning on your heel and storming back into his bedroom.
"Fine,” you hissed. “Fuck you.” You started grabbing your heels, your purse, and your belongings from last night.
Rafe followed you into the room, easily catching up as he tried to reason with you. "I’m not doing this to try and control you, I—Just listen to me for a second—"
You ignored him entirely, continuing to snatch your stuff up.
"Move. I don't know when you got so uptight but I'm sick of you acting like you're my dad or something." you scoffed. "You're not some redeemed individual, Rafe! So, stop trying to fucking crucify every thing I do—" you muttered, pushing past him as he stood in the doorway when Rafe’s restraint finally snapped. He lunged forward, his large hands wrapping around your arms with an overwhelming force that forced you to stop.
"Calm down!" Rafe ordered, pinning you back against the bedroom wall as your things fell to the floor.
He loomed over you, his chest rising and falling violently against yours, his eyes wild with tears, his entire body shaking.
"You make it so damn difficult for people to give a shit about you!" Rafe spat, the tears finally spilling over his eyelashes, hot and fast down his cheekbones.
You stopped struggling, your breath catching in your throat.
"I'm not perfect, alright? I know that!" Rafe yelled, his grip on your shoulders tightening. "But I did everything you ever asked me to do! I've been trying to be easier... I've been trying to cut down on the drinking, trying to stop making an ass of myself at events when we go home... I did it all for you! I've been trying to make things easier so you wouldn't always have to worry about me and yourself!"
He stopped, his breathing ragged, his forehead dropping down to rest heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck, I did it because I love you," Rafe whispered into your neck, the truth slipping out.
The silence that settled over the bedroom was more breathtaking than anything you’d ever experienced.
You stood pinned against the wall, your arms hanging limp at your sides. Your heart had stopped entirely, the blood freezing in your veins. The words hung in the air like a knife dangling from the ceiling. You were caught entirely off guard, your eyes welling with tears.
"Rafe..." you whispered softly, your voice trembling so violently you could barely form his name.
Rafe lifted his head, his eyes searching yours. "Don't," he choked out, his voice cracking as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't you dare tell me I don't. Because I do. I've loved you since I was eight and I've loved you every single day since—"
A sudden, overwhelming wave of panic slammed into your chest and walls felt like they were closing in, the air leaving your lungs. You loved him too, you knew you did. But the realization didn't bring comfort.
Because neither of you knew how to handle something so pure without breaking it.
"No..." you choked out, shaking your head frantically as you pushed hard against his chest, violently knocking his hands off your shoulders. “Rafe,” you started, speaking like you had to force air out of your lungs, holding back tears. “...I don’t think either of us even knows what love looks like. Not the good kind, anyway, so…” you continued, choking down your emotions. “How the hell could we love each other?"
The words were the truth of your existence, and Rafe flinched as if you had stabbed him in the chest, his face turning entirely pale, his hands dropping limply back to his sides. The look of heartbreak that washed over his features was the most agonizing thing you had ever had to look at.
You didn't wait for him to speak, couldn't take his words for another second. You dropped your eyes, scooped your shoes and purse up from the floor with trembling fingers, and ran out of his bedroom, slamming the front door of his apartment behind you, and sprinting down the stairs with tears streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.
SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [8.6k] Raised under the suffocating pressures of Figure Eight, two best friends anchor each other through family tragedies while spiraling into opposite, deeply destructive coping mechanisms...
WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ swearing, suicide attempt, overdose, substance abuse, physical violence/abuse, mental illness, toxic relationship, co-dependency, pls lmk what y'all think i rlly love this concept
YOU were seven years old the afternoon your world collided with Rafe Cameron’s. The country club was hosting a mid-summer gala—an excuse for the island’s elite to drink high-end scotch while solidifying real estate syndicates and shipping logistics. Your mother had spent three hours smoothing out the pleats of your dress, her fingers pinching your shoulders with a warning to be on your best behavior.
You stood on the veranda, the glare of the Marsh blinding you while the adults congregated. Your parents were in a corner with Ward Cameron, their voices dropping into that low register reserved for serious deals and contract closures. And you and your two older brothers were entirely forgotten, per usual.
"Go play," your mother had murmured, not looking at you as she waved a manicured hand toward the lawn. "And don’t get that dress dirty. Again."
At her dismissal, you wandered down the steps toward the edge of the forest. That was where Sarah Cameron found you. She was younger, a bright-eyed burst of energy in a pink sundress, dragging a boy by his wrist.
"Look, Rafe! I told you there were other kids. Hi!” Sarah announced, her voice high as she stopped in front of you, your brothers running off further. She looked between you and her brother, her nose crinkling as you both stood in silence. "You guys are boring. I'm going to feed the ducks." She rolled her eyes, skipping off. Sarah dashed away, leaving the two of you standing under the shade of a massive live oak.
Rafe was eight, adorned in khaki shorts and a polo shirt that already had a faint grass stain near the hem. He looked at you, his blue eyes squinting against the sun with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked just as stiff, just as bored, and just as suffocated as you felt.
"Your mom looks mean," Rafe said plainly, pointing to the woman staring at you from afar..
You blinked, shocked by the blunt honesty of it, looking carefully over your shoulder at her before looking back at Rafe. "She's just... serious." You muttered.
"My dad is too," Rafe muttered, shrugging and kicking at a rock in the dirt. "He keeps telling me I have to stand straight because people are watching. I hate it."
"I hate it too," you whispered. “But my mom says ‘hate is a strong word’.”
A slow smile broke across Rafe’s face, clearing away the tense look he had been wearing all afternoon. It was a sweet smile, completely devoid of the sharp edges that would define him later in life. "Want to go look at crabs? There’s a whole bunch of them by the dock.” He invited. “If we're quiet, they don't hide."
You looked back at the veranda. Your parents were still nodding along to Ward Cameron's booming laughter. They wouldn't notice your absence for hours.
"...Okay," you said, nodding.
That afternoon was the foundation being laid. While your parents signed documents, the two of you sat on the edge of a weathered wooden dock, your legs dangling over the water, discussing the annoyingness of the adult world.
You discovered you were born in the same hospital, raised on the same private streets, and held to the exact same impossible standards for children. You were cut from the identical piece of luxury cloth, and you both already knew the fabric was itching you alive.
From that day forward, you were inseparable.
Throughout elementary school, Rafe was your constant. He was a sweet, hyper-attentive boy whose devotion to you was uncomplicated. At the private academy you both attended, he would sprint across the courtyard the moment the lunch bell rang, just to ensure he secured the seat directly across from you.
"I brought you those fruit snacks you like," he’d say, tossing three plastic pouches onto your tray. He knew your mother had started monitoring your ‘calorie intake’ under the guise of "healthy habits," restricting you from candy and sweets, so he took it upon himself to ensure you never went unsatisfied.
When the older kids tried to crowd you at the swings, Rafe would step in, his chest puffed out, his small fists clenched at his sides until they backed down. He shared his toys without a second thought—his limited-edition comic books, his favorite skateboard, his video games. If you expressed even a passing interest in something he owned, it was yours.
Every single afternoon, when the yellow school bus hissed to a stop on Figure Eight, Rafe would sling his backpack over one shoulder, get off, and wait for you. Your house was three blocks past his, down the oak-lined avenue. He would walk you all the way to your front steps, his feet dragging as the distance closed.
"I’ll see you tomorrow" he’d smile, standing on the bottom step, looking up at you with an earnestness that made little you smile.
THE downfall didn't happen gradually. No. It happened violently.
You were ten years old, finishing up fifth grade when everything fell.
It began on a random Tuesday. Rafe hadn’t shown up at the bus stop that morning, and when you arrived at lunch that afternoon, he was sitting at a table alone, his food untouched and his face pale.
You sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his. "Rafe? What's wrong?"
He didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on the wood of the table. "I think…my mom left."
The words were tiny, barely carrying across the noisy cafeteria.
"What do you mean?" you asked.
“I don’t know," Rafe whispered, his voice cracking, though he fought with everything he had to keep from crying. "Her and my dad got into this big fight last night. I heard things breaking and I heard the front door slams, so I looked out of my window. I saw her ger in her car, and…she drove away.” He told you, voice small. “...It’s been three days. My dad told us she’s not coming back and we aren't allowed to ask about her anymore."
You reached out, wrapping your small fingers around his wrist. His skin was freezing despite the indoor heat. You didn't know what to say, because in Kook world, mothers didn't leave. Mothers stayed and maintained appearances, no matter how rotten the house was on the inside.
And three long weeks later, tragedy snuck it’s way into your own home.
Your father—the only person in your house who ever truly looked at you with kindness, the man who would secretly buy you ice cream when your mother wasn't looking—suffered a heart attack in his office. There was no warning. One minute he was checking your homework, and the next, your mother was standing in the foyer, informing you and your brothers that your father was gone.
The news fractured the very ground beneath your feet, replaced by an adult grief that your ten-year-old mind couldn’t comprehend.
Almost immediately, the ways you chose to survive your individual grief diverged.
Rafe exploded outward. The sweet boy who shared his lunch dissolved into an angry boy. He began picking fights at school, disobeying his teachers. If a boy looked at him too long in the hallway, Rafe’s fists were flying. He became a regular visitor in the principal’s office, his knuckles constantly skinned and bleeding. The teachers began to look at him with a mixture of fear and pity, whispering about him while he was less than a foot away.
You, conversely, imploded—retreating into a deep silence. The world lost its color. You stopped raising your hand in class—your grades, which had always been immaculate, plummeted into a sea of red ink. You stopped speaking to your friends, choosing instead to spend recess leaning against the chain-link fence, staring blankly at the horizon. And stopped smiling entirely.
Yet, amidst the chaos, your friendship held, even growing tighter.
Whenever Rafe got into a fight, you were the one who walked him to the nurse’s office.
"You can't keep getting in trouble," you whispered one afternoon, walking him back to class. "I heard Ms.Barkley say that they might have to expel you…"
"Let them," he snarled, his chest heaving with a scowl on his small face. "I don't care. My dad doesn't care…” He trailed off, huffing. “Nobody does."
"I do," you said softly, peering at the boy. That’s when Rafe’s breathing hitched, his face softening. He looked at you, the anger draining from his face for a split second.
"I know.” He nodded, looking away. “You're the only one."
From that point on, you became his ultimate personal voucher. When the principal called your mother because you had lied to cover for Rafe—claiming the other boy had started the fight, swearing up and down that Rafe had only been protecting himself—you took the scolding without flinching. Prepared to do it all again.
And Rafe was there for you in return, unconditionally. When everything became too loud, when your brothers were screaming at home and your mother’s criticisms were suffocating you, Rafe was there when you came to his door to “play”.
He would sit with you in absolute quiet, sometimes for hours, just letting his presence act as a buffer between you and the rest of the world. He tried, in his own clumsy ways, to bring you back. He would bring you weird shells he found on the beach, or tell you stupid jokes he’d heard from the older kids, just trying to catch a glimpse of the girl he met under that oak tree.
But the true depth of your parents' cruelty became clear on the day of your father’s funeral.
The wake was held at the country club—the very place you had met. The room was heavy with the scent of floral arrangements and perfume. You were in a black velvet dress that felt like a straightjacket, standing beside your mother as she received condolences with an unbothered dignity that made you sick to your stomach.
Unable to breathe, you slipped away under the guise of needing to use the restroom, hiding behind the velvet drapes of the library corridor.
A few feet away, hidden by the height of a massive marble pillar, Rafe was standing. He had followed you, as he always did, but he had stopped because he heard voices approaching from the adjoining lounge.
It was your mother and Ward, the clink of ice against crystal punctuating their conversation.
"She’s taking this all entirely too hard," your mother’s voice rang out, sharp and absent of any warmth. "I had to take her to a child psychologist last week. The woman had the nerve to call it 'Prolonged Grief Disorder.'” She scoffed. “She’s just being dramatic. You know, her brothers lost their father too, and look at them—they’re doing perfectly fine. They’re back to their sports, their grades are alright. But she just sits there, moping.” She rolled her eyes, sipping from her glass. “I won't have a child of mine acting like a martyr for the rest of her life."
Rafe’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking from across the hall.
Ward sighed. "It’s the same with Rafe. Ever since his mother left, the boy has been unbearable.” Ward sneered. “He’s doing it for attention, of course. I tell him every day—'look at your sisters'. Sarah and Wheezie have stopped asking questions. They’ve moved on. They understand. But Rafe…” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m giving him one more chance before I start taking things away. Or sending him away."
Behind the curtain, your breath hitched and you looked at Rafe—he was staring at the floor, his hands curled into fists by his side.
BY the time you entered middle school, the cracks in your foundations had widened.
Rafe was twelve, nearly thirteen, and he was a persistent disciplinary problem. He spent more time suspended than he did in the classroom and his anger had grown sharper, fueled by his father's growing disappointment in him.
You, on the other hand, had become entirely invisible. You were a ghost in the hallways—silent, fleeting, and entirely checked out. You didn't study anymore, you didn't do homework, you didn’t participate in class. You sat at the back, staring out the window, waiting for the bell to ring.
It was a Tuesday evening in late spring when you realized you were more alike than either of you cared to notice.
It had to be nearly ten o'clock at night and Rafe had just ended a screaming match with Ward, his father calling him a failure, a burden, because he wasn’t fond of his new stepmother, Rose. The words had burned like acid to his heart, Rafe slamming the front door of Tannyhill and marching down the dark streets of Figure Eight. He was fuming with rage, kicking violently at loose gravel, sending neighbors’ plastic recycling bins crashing into the gutters—hoodie pulled up with his hands in his pockets.
But as he rounded the corner onto your street, he stopped.
In the dim glow of the porch lights on your patio step was a small figure, curled up. You were sitting with your knees tucked into your chest, your head resting on your arms, your shoulders shaking with violent sobs.
Rafe’s anger evaporated instantly and he rushed to sit on the pavement beside you, his hand coming to rest on your trembling back.
"Hey," he said, his voice unusually soft. "What happened?"
You lifted your head. In the harsh fluorescent light, Rafe felt his blood run cold. Your left cheek was clearly swollen, a distinct handprint rising against your skin. Your eyes were bloodshot, your lips trembling.
"My report card came in the mail today," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I... I failed three classes."
"Did she…hit you?" Rafe’s voice dropped into a whisper.
You didn’t offer a clear answer, looking down between the two of you instead. "...She said... she said she's going to have to write a check to the school board just so they don't hold me back a grade. She called me a disappointment, said my father would be ashamed.” You explained, holding back tears. “She told me to get out of her sight."
Rafe stood up so fast his sneakers squeaked against the asphalt. He looked toward your house, his eyes wild. "She can’t—"
"Don't," you cried, grabbing the hem of his oversized hoodie, pulling him back down. "Please. Just... don't. You'll just make it worse. For both of us."
He looked down at you, his chest heaving. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing just below the red mark on your cheek, his touch surprisingly tender for a boy who spent his days breaking things.
"Fuck adults," Rafe said, the words heavy with absolute conviction. It was the first time you’d ever heard him swear. "They suck."
"They do," you agreed, wiping your eyes, a light laugh escaping you.
Rafe looked around the quiet neighborhood, the residents of Figure Eight were sleeping peacefully. And a reckless grin broke across his face.
"Come on," he said, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet. "Let's go make them miserable."
“Rafe, what—”
“They make us mad all the time. We can make them mad, too,” He looked at you. “Are you in or out?”
And you stared at him for a long while before following behind the Cameron boy.
That night, for hours, you and Rafe ran wild across the island. You didn't do anything truly criminal, but you were definitely in for it if either of your parents found out. You ran through the private golf course, tearing up the pristine sand traps with your bare feet. Rafe found a crate of expired fireworks behind a maintenance shed, and you spent an hour lighting firecrackers and throwing them into the empty swimming pools of the residents, laughing hysterically at the booming echoes as you ran off.
You climbed to the roof of the country club's boat house, stealing a cooler full of sodas and throwing the empty aluminum cans at the yachts docked in the slips.
For the first time in a long time, the devastating fog in your chest cleared away.
You caught Rafe's eye as you both sprinted away from a private security patrol car, ducking behind the dunes, a sound escaping your throat—it was a laugh. A real, breathless, genuine laugh.
Rafe froze, staring at you under the moonlight. The security car's headlights swept over the dunes, illuminating the lines of his face—he looked awestruck.
"What?" you whispered, pressing your back against the sand to stay hidden.
"...You smiled," Rafe said, his voice dropping. "You laughed. I haven't seen you do that since fifth grade."
The weight of his words settled over you, sweet and somehow still deeply painful. You looked at him—this boy who was constantly angry, yet always safe for you—and threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.
"...You're my best friend, Rafe," you whispered. "You're like... me, but in boy form."
Rafe’s arms hesitated before they tightened around your waist, holding you so close it nearly bruised your ribs.
HIGH School was harder.
When you turned fourteen, just weeks before the start of your freshman year, your mother, realizing your performance had slipped for the last time, dragged you to an upscale, discreet clinic in Charleston.
The diagnosis was unsurprising—severe clinical depression.
The doctor had handed your mother a pamphlet and a prescription as you left. And your mother had waited until you were in the parking lot before tearing the pamphlet into pieces and dropping the prescription slip into a trash can.
"You are not going to be dependent on medication because you refuse to control your emotions," she had said, her voice icy as she started the car. "You are fine. And you have responsibilities.” She spat. “Your brothers are utterly immature, they have no sense of…anything. And it’s up to you to represent this household."
The weight of the family name was officially transferred to your shoulders by the time you hit fifteen. While your brothers were allowed to be absent-minded teenage boys, you were expected to be the perfect daughter—the pristine hostess, the straight-A student, the family ornament at every event.
Meanwhile, Rafe was facing his own version of hell. As the oldest Cameron kid and only son, Ward had begun bringing him into the business meetings, demanding he understand the world of business. But Rafe didn't have the stomach for it, and his failures were met with scolding from Ward.
Throughout your freshman year, you watched each other die in slow motion.
He would sit with you on the beach after school, trying to talk about his day, and you would simply... drift. You would zone out in the middle of his sentences, your eyes locking onto a piece of driftwood or a wave breaking on the shore. He would catch you staring into nothingness for twenty, thirty minutes at a time, your face completely blank, your hands resting limp in your lap.
He’d take you to your favorite diner and you wouldn’t even touch the food. He’d drive you down to The Point to watch the sunset and you wouldn’t look up from your lap. Nothing made you happy.
In a desperate attempt to do something other than watch you become a fraction of who you were, Rafe did the one thing he swore he’d never do—he went to an adult.
He showed up at your house on a Saturday afternoon when he knew your mother was home. He stood in your living room, his voice cracking as he confronted her.
"Something is wrong with her," Rafe said, his tone desperate. "She isn't eating, it’s like doesn't hear me when I talk to her. She just stares at the wall. I think…she needs help.” He voiced. “Please,"
Your mother had looked at him with a blank expression. "Rafe, I think you forget that I know you.” She started. “You are a deeply troubled boy who has no right to lecture me on how to care for my daughter. She is perfectly fine, simply focused on her studies.” She lied, shrugging. “Now, I think it may be time for you to go…” She urged. “Before I call your father."
His efforts blew up in his face almost immediately. That evening, Ward cornered Rafe in the kitchen. Your mother had called him regardless, furious, claiming Rafe was trying to "stir up issues" around your family’s private life. Ward had cut deep that night, screaming at him for embarrassing the Cameron name.
But two weeks later, the final thread snapped.
It was a warm Friday night, the end of the year around the corner. The Kook kids were throwing a house party and Rafe was already there, a red solo cup clutched in his hand, his head buzzing from the cheap beer.
He’d spoken to you earlier, managing to get you to agree to show up. You told him you’d catch a ride with one of your girl friends. But when everyone started to trickle in and no sign of you, he pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact name.
Rafe
where are you at?
Ten minutes passed. No response. You always responded to Rafe within seconds.
Rafe
hey. you there?
You
i dont think im coming rafe.
Rafe
come onnn
it sucks without you here :(
Is your mom home? i can sneak you out
You
no. im just tired.
im really tired rafe.
Rafe
youre always tired lately.
i’m omw to get you.
You
don’t
rafe
im sorry.
And that was the last text.
Rafe stared at the words 'im sorry.' A sudden surge of fear and adrenaline slamming into his chest. It wasn't a standard apology, and even if it was—it was so out of place, unwarranted. You hadn’t done anything. But then he remembered, remembered you opening up about the diagnosis, about your mom ripping up the help you needed and trashing it.
He was right. About you needing help, he was right. And if he was right, then he was late.
"Whoa, Rafe, where you goin’ man?" Topper called out as Rafe dropped his beer cup onto the dirt and sprinted toward his truck.
He didn't answer. He threw his truck into reverse, the tires screeching against the gravel as he sped toward your house.
He ran every single stoplight on the island, his heart hammering against his ribs while he cursed to himself, hitting turns so fast that his truck held itself up on two wheels.
When he pulled into your driveway, the house was completely dark and he didn’t even bother to cut his car off. Rafe leapt out of the truck, taking the porch steps three at a time, rattling the front doorknob—It was unlocked.
He threw the door open, slamming it against the wall as he called your name.
"Hello?!" he yelled into the silent house. "Where are you?"
No answer. The silence was deafening as Rafe sprinted up the staircase, his feet heavy against the hardwood.
He checked your bedroom. Empty, but the bed was neatly made, too perfect.
He checked the other rooms. Nothing.
Then, he saw the faint sliver of light bleeding out from beneath your bathroom door when he checked your room one more time.
He called your name, cursing and throwing himself against the door, rattling the handle.
It was locked.
He pressed his ear to the wood. Inside, he could hear it—a ragged, shallow sound. You were hyperventilating, your breath coming out in tiny, desperate gasps.
"Open the fucking door!" Rafe screamed, banging his fist against the wood. "It's me! Can you hear me?! Unlock the damn door!"
Still silence from the other side, save for the desperate gasping for air. He could hear you panicking, your body shifting.
"Fuck—get away from the door!" Rafe roared, his voice breaking into a terrified sob.
He backed up two steps, throwing his shoulder into the heavy wood paneling. The wood groaned but didn't give. He cursed, his vision blurring with tears. He backed up further, raising his leg, and kicked the lock with everything he had.
The door frame splintered with a deafening crack as the door flew inward., hanging from a singular hinge
Rafe stumbled into the room, and the image before him burned itself into the framework of his brain for the rest of his life.
You were curled on the cold marble tile beside the bathtub, your knees tucked to your chest. Your face flushed with a thick sheen of sweat coating it, your eyes wide and glassy, fixed on the ceiling. Next to your limp left hand lay a small, orange plastic bottle—completely empty.
"No, no, no," Rafe chanted, dropping to his knees, his hands trembling violently as he grabbed your shoulders. "What did you do? What did you take?” He shook you, pulling you into him. “Shit, look at me, hey, look at me!" He panicked. “Why did you do that, huh, why would you do that?!” He cried, chest shaking as he watched you fall out of consciousness.
Your eyes rolled toward him, struggling to focus on his face as your lips turned blue.
"I'm sorry," you choked out, a tiny, fractured sound—sounding scared and genuinely sorry. "Rafe... I'm... I just... I didn't want to do it anymore."
"No, don't say that shit, don't you dare say that!" he screamed, his tears spilling over, hot and fast onto your cheeks. He reached for his phone, his fingers slick with sweat as he dialed 911. "I need help!” He sobbed as he read them your address. “Hurry, please, she's—"
Before he could finish the sentence, your body went entirely rigid. Your eyes locked, rolling back into your head as a violent seizure took hold of you.
Rafe dropped the phone, sobbing your name,cradling you and trying to keep your head from cracking against the marble tile. He held you, his own body shaking.
"Don't do this," he sobbed into your neck as the distant sirens began to wail across the water. "I need you. Why didn’t you just tell me you needed me?"
THE paramedics carried you away on a stretcher, a white sheet covering your trembling form with a mask over your face. Rafe had ridden in the back of the ambulance, his fingers locked around your limp hand, refusing to let go until the doctors at the hospital forcibly pushed him out of the trauma bay.
An hour later, your mother, brothers, and Ward arrived.
There were no tears from your mother. She looked panicked, afraid, but only for a moment. And mostly for herself. There was a hushed, frantic conversation with the attending physician and two local police officers in the corner of the waiting room. Words like 'accidental’ were thrown around, accompanied by the subtle implication of a substantial donation to the hospital.
The narrative was being rewritten in real-time, the truth being buried before your stomach was even fully pumped.
Your mother spoke with Ward before they both walked over to where Rafe sat on the chairs lining the walls, his clothes stained with your sweat and vomit from the bathroom floor.
"Thank you for…finding her, Rafe," she said, her voice entirely flat. "But the doctors said that she is stable. So, it’s probably best if you go and get some rest, now.” But it wasn’t a suggestion. “I can handle it from here."
Rafe stood up, his eyes bloodshot and his jaw set. "I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are," Ward’s voice boomed from beside him, his father’s heavy hand clutching Rafe’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the muscle with a certain force. Ward looked at your mother, giving her a tight, understanding nod. "We’ll be leaving. Give her our best.” He offered, patting Rafe on the shoulder. “Come on, Rafe."
Ward dragged him out to the parking lot, even when Rafe tried to protest, to scream, but Ward threw him against the side of the truck, his face inches from Rafe’s.
"Son, listen to me," Ward hissed, his voice low and lethal. "You will never speak of what happened tonight. To anyone.” His father clarified. “Not to your sisters, not to your friends, not to her when she wakes up. If this gets out, it will ruin her family's reputation, and it will ruin ours by association. Okay?” He emphasized, voice rising as Rafe opened his mouth to speak before being cut off. “It never. Happened. Do you understand me? It was an accident."
And Rafe swallowed, eyes tracking his father as he backed away, rounding the car to get into the driver’s seat.
But Rafe didn't anticipate not seeing you for the rest of the summer.
Your mother moved you to a private inpatient facility in the mountains of North Carolina under the guise of a "summer camp". Rafe spent those three months trapped in the torture chamber of his own mind.
Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the sound of the bathroom door splintering.
Every time he looked at his hands, he felt your body seizing beneath him.
To cope with it all—his dad’s glare, his sisters questions, classmates wondering where you were, to drown out the absolute terror of not knowing if you were truly okay—Rafe turned to the only things that offered him comfort.
He started going out every single night, partying, drinking until his vision went black, pouring alcohol down his throat like water just to stop the shaking in his fingers and the feeling like the world was ending.
You watched it all from a distance, unable to stop him this time. When you were finally allowed to have your phone back in August, you scrolled through his stories and his friends' stories in the dark of your bedroom, your chest tightening.
He looked different. Unhinged.
THE first day of sophomore year was a hot morning. You walked through the courtyard of the academy, wearing a pristine, fitted, high-collared sundress when Rafe intercepted you by the lockers. He looked awful—there were dark circles under his eyes and he smelled faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. But the moment he saw you, a light found his eyes.
"Y-you're back," he said, stepping into your personal space, his hands hovering near your arms as if he wanted to touch you but was terrified you’d break. "You didn't call me." He frowned. "The whole summer. I called your mom like fifty times, but she told my dad and.... I didn't know if—"
"Rafe," you whispered, looking around frantically. Several girls were watching you from down the hall, whispering behind their hands. "Please. Drop it."
"...Drop it?" Rafe’s voice rose, before he looked around, lowering it. "Are you serious? You almost —"
"I said drop it." you snapped, your voice cracking with an overwhelmed panic. "Just... stop. Seriously."
Rafe flinched as if you’d struck him. The hurt in his eyes was agonizing to look at as he swallowed hard, his hands dropping back to his sides. "Just... tell me you're okay. Alright, just tell me that."
You looked at him, forcing your face into that flat expression that made you look too much like your mother. "I'm fine, Rafe. I'm…medicated now.” You said, shame creeping onto your face. “Everything is taken care of."
You nodded before you turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the crowded hallway.
But from that moment on, the dynamic of your friendship shifted into something deeply complicated and dangerously blurred. Rafe was always a step behind you, watching your every move. If you talked to another guy, Rafe was there, staring the guy down until he left. If you sat alone for too long, Rafe would appear, sliding into the seat beside you, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of the vacancy that had preceded that one night.
But while he was trying to watch you, his own life was descending into chaos. The pressure from his father had amplified astronomically. Ward was constantly comparing him to other kids his age, demanding he step up.
And to survive it all, Rafe graduated from beer to hard liquor, and eventually, to prescription pills and whatever else he could buy from the dealers on the Cut.
You noticed. Of course you noticed.
You’d catch him in the parking lot before school, his pupils dilated, his hands twitching against the steering wheel.
"You need to… slow down, Rafe," you told him one afternoon as you both sat in his truck. "You're drinking like a fucking sailor. And everyone’s talking about it..."
Rafe laughed, a bitter sound that made your chest ache. "Everyone drinks.” He muttered. “Topper drinks, Kelce drinks. You drink even though you’re not supposed to…” He trailed off, shooting you a look. The reminder of the bathroom floor hung between you like a knife. You dropped your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. “It’s just alcohol. I'm fine."
"It's not just alcohol," you said, your eyes dropping, not elaborating any further.
"You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about" he retorted, his eyes flashing with a sudden anger. "And you don't get to lecture me..."
IT all boiled over during the winter of your junior year.
You rarely went to parties anymore. Your mother preferred you to attend mixers and volunteer events. But on a Friday night in January, your phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Group chats were lighting up with an address on the north end—a beachfront property under construction. You ignored them, until Kelce, one of Rafe’s friends, had sent you a direct message on snap.
Kelce
Hey, u might want to come get Rafe.
He’s losing his mind. Thought u were the best person to hit up.
Needing to escape the suffocation of your own house, you slipped on a thick sweater that probably belonged to Rafe, took your car keys, and drove towards him.
The house was a half-finished mansion crawling with hundreds of drunk teenagers. The bass from the speakers was vibrating through the floors as you pushed through the crowd of sweaty kids, your eyes scanning the rooms until you found him.
Rafe was leaning over a glass-topped coffee table, a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill pressed to his nose, as a thick, white line of cocaine vanished up it. You watched as he straightened up, his jaw twitching, his eyes completely bloodshot.
He caught your figure through the crowd of people, his vision zeroing in on you and the look of disapproval on your face. He froze, the rolled bill dropping from his fingers. He looked caught, a sudden flash of panic crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a smug, intoxicated grin.
"Hey," he slurred, getting up and dragging himself over to you. "What’re you doing here? You don't do parties."
You didn't say a word, the reality of how far he had fallen slammed into you. And you could only wonder if it had anything to do with you. You stepped forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and dragging him forcefully out of the room. He was high enough that he let you pull him, stumbling down the unfinished staircase and out onto the dark, chilly beach, away from the noise.
The moment the cold sea air hit your face, you let him go, turning on him with a fury you hadn't felt in years.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you screamed, your voice tearing through the sound of the crashing waves. "Coke, Rafe? Really? Are you trying to kill yourself?"
Rafe laughed, a loud, jarring sound that made your jaw clench. He began pacing the sand, his arms swinging wildly. "Oh, now you care?”
“I always cared—”
“I'm having fun! Everyone does it!"
"No, they don't!" you shrieked, tears of frustration stinging your eyes. "It’s like you’re trying to ruin yourself and I’m sick of being the one to try and help—"
Rafe stopped pacing. He stepped into your space, his face contorting into an expression of unadulterated malice. The coke was burning through his veins, stripping away whatever filters he had left.
"You're sick of me? I’m trying to ruin myself?" he roared, his chest inches from yours. "That's funny…That's really fucking funny coming from you, because finding my best friend on her bathroom floor then not hearing from her for a whole fucking summer will do that! Forgive me for hangin’ out with people that are less fucked up than me and you!"
The words slammed into your chest like a physical blow. It was the unspoken rule. And he had thrown it in your face.
And before you could even think, your hand flew out, the sound of your palm cracking across Rafe’s cheek echoing over the empty beach. The force of the slap turned his head to the side.
The silence that followed was absolute. Rafe didn't move, his cheek turning a violent shade of crimson in the moonlight. He looked down at you, the wild look in his eyes dying out, replaced by a devastating horror at what he had just said.
"So, it’s my fault?" you whispered, your voice shaking so violently you could barely form the words, though your face was still contorted with anger as your eyes welled with tears.
“No.” Rafe's face softened, his hands reaching out for you. “You know I didn’t—”
“Get one of your ‘less fucked up’ friends to take care of you then, asshole,” You spat, voice shaking as you turned and walked toward your car, your heart shattering into a thousand pieces as you hugged yourself.
"Hey! Wait, please!" Rafe’s voice called out behind you, but his shoes slipped in the sand, and he couldn't catch up before you got into your car and threw it into drive, speeding away.
TWO hours later, you were sitting in your bedroom, staring blankly at the ceiling, as music played softly, replaying the argument over and over until a faint scraping sound against your window made you tense.
You stood up, knowing exactly who it was as you pulled back the curtain.
Rafe was standing on the roof, his clothes soaking wet from the midnight rain, his hands gripping the window frame. His face was soft, entirely sobered up by the cold and the reality of what he’d said.
You unlocked the window, pushing it up an inch. "Go away, Rafe.”
"Let me in," he pleaded, his teeth chattering. "Just let me talk to you. C’mon, I'm freezing."
"No," you said, your voice cold. "You threw that shit in my face and basically blamed me for your drugs problems, hey—"
Rafe shoved the window up the rest of the way and scrambled into your room, bringing the cold, wet scent of the rain with him. You backed away, sighing, but he was faster. He caught your wrists, his grip tight, backing you up until your spine hit the bedroom wall.
"I'm sorry, okay?" he whispered frantically, his face inches from yours. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against yours as you turned your head to the side. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. The... it just makes my brain go crazy.” He explained.
“Yeah, cocaine will do that to you,” You sassed, narrowing your eyes at the boy.
He just nodded, accepting the blow. “But I can’t pretend that I'm not scared for you, all the time. I'm scared I'm going to lose you again." Rafe told you, eyes locked on your face. “I know you don’t wanna talk about it, but that shit was scary for me, too. I didn’t know what to do—your mom wouldn’t let me talk to, my dad wouldn’t tell me anything. I…can’t lose you. And I've already come so close once...”
"...You're losing yourself, Rafe," you choked out, looking up into his blue eyes. “And, clearly, you blame me for that—”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“You had to.” You corrected. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said it…”
The proximity between you was close to none and you could feel the heat radiating from his skin despite the cold wafting in from the open window. You could smell the faint tang of liquor and the distinct scent of him.
“...It’s not your fault. Okay, I don't blame you,” Rafe reiterated. “It’s my fault for not knowing what to do with myself without you.”
For a second, the lines that had blurred over the years became completely transparent, hanging in the quiet space between your lips.
"Promise me," you whispered, your hand coming up to rest against his wet jacket as you finally looked at him. "Promise me you'll stop the coke. At least. Please."
Rafe stared down at you, his eyes flickering down to your lips. He wanted to promise. He wanted to be the boy who could save you again. But he stood there, silent, just breathing you in, his forehead coming to rest against yours in a silent surrender.
The moment violently broken by the loud buzz of his phone.
Rafe flinched, pulling back just an inch to pull the device from his pocket. The screen illuminated his face, displaying Ward’s name. He answered it, his voice dropping into a tense register. You could tell by his face that the conversation was far from casual or pleasant.
Ward’s voice was loud enough that you could hear the distortion through the speaker. "It's past midnight…Get your ass home. Now." And then the line went dead.
There was a banquet tomorrow and Ward was probably on Rafe’s ass as much as your mother was on yours.
Rafe closed his eyes, a defeated sigh escaping his lips as he lowered the phone. He looked back at you, the tension turning bitter. He moved toward the window, moving to climb back out until your voice traveled across the room, calling his name.
"Try not to make a scene this time," you said softly, referring to his habit of getting into arguments with the older members at these functions.
Rafe paused on the window sill, a slow smirk returning to his face as he looked over his shoulder, his eyes glinting.
"Yeah, make sure you wear enough lipgloss to leave a mark on all the asses you'll be kissing tomorrow," he retorted, his voice dripping with that boyish sarcasm you missed.
You rolled your eyes, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Fuck you."
"In your dreams," he whispered, winking, and then he disappeared into the dark.
THE banquet was like every other mind-frying event. The country club ballroom was packed with Figure Eight’s wealthiest, all dressed in formal attire, smiling and pretending the world outside their island didn't exist.
Your mother had spent the entire morning criticizing your posture, ensuring your dress was flawless, reminding you that you were the face of the family today. You stood by her side for hours, nodding politely to associates, your smile plastered wide.
Across the room, Rafe looked nice in his tailored suit, but you had been watching him all night. Every twenty minutes, he would slip out to the terrace or the men’s lounge, returning with increasingly glassy eyes.
He was sneaking drinks from a silver flask he’d hidden in his jacket, drowning out the feeling of Ward’s watchful eye. By nine, he was visibly swaying, his laughter a little too loud and Ward’s face was turning a dangerous shade of red.
You knew what would happen if Rafe was caught drunk by his father in front of these people. Slipping away from your mother, you intercepted Ward just as he was marching toward Rafe.
"Mr. Cameron," you said, forcing your voice into its sweetest pitch, knowing the man had a sweet spot reserved for you—whether it was real or fake. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I’ve actually developed a terrible headache and Rafe offered to drive me home.” You lied, noticing the flare of the older Cameron’s nostrils. “Would it be alright if I stole him away for the evening? I’d hate to make a scene by fainting here."
Ward stopped, his eyes shifting from you to Rafe, who was leaning heavily against a cocktail table.
"...Of course, honey," Ward said, his face smoothing into a charismatic smile. "Take care of yourself.” He squeezed your arm, calling out to his son. “Rafe, get her car keys. Take her straight home." He ordered, fixing Rafe with a sharp, lingering glare.
Ten minutes later, you were in the driver’s seat of your car, the formal gown gathered around your legs, driving back toward Tannyhill while Rafe rode shotgun, the silence in the vehicle thick.
"Why can't you ever just survive the night?" you snapped, sighing as Rafe continued sipping from his flask before you snatched it from his hands and threw it out of the window, your hands returning to grip the steering wheel until your knuckles splintered. "One night, Rafe. Why do you always have to do this?"
“You sound just like him…” Rafe scoffed, leaning his head back against the leather seat, staring out the window at the passing streetlights.
“Don’t ever,” You warned, shooting the boy a warning glance.
"I'm sorry I'm not a perfect little puppet like you.” He slurred. “It must be so nice, huh? Just putting on that fake little smile, talking to those old creeps like they actually give a shit about you."
"Or maybe I think that we both have enough problems that I don’t feel like creating more," you snapped, the frustration boiling over. “ I lied to Ward tonight to protect you, Rafe, like always—"
"I didn't ask for your protection!" he yelled, turning his torso toward you, his breath smelling heavily of bourbon. "I don't need you to save me!"
"Yeah, you kind of do!" you yelled back, your voice cracking as you pulled into the driveway of Tannyhill. The house was empty. "You're a mess—"
"So are you!" he fired back.
You slammed the truck into park, both of you jerking forward as you turned off the ignition. The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of everything. You looked at him—his tie was loosened, his suit jacket wrinkled, his face beautiful.
You sighed, not wanting to argue, especially not when he was drunk. You composed yourself and kept your comments to yourself as you opened the driver’s side door.
"Come on," you whispered, the anger draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion. “I’m not arguing with you.”
You helped him out of the truck, his heavy arm draping over your shoulders for support. You guided him through the door of Tannyhill and up the stairs to his bedroom, the room you had spent half your childhood playing in.
You pushed him gently onto the mattress as he collapsed backward, groaning as he kicked his legs up.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you leaned over him, your fingers working efficiently to unbutton his stiff collar and pull the tie from his neck. You reached down, unlacing his formal shoes and sliding them off his feet, before pulling his heavy suit jacket off his shoulders.
Rafe watched you through sleepy, hooded eyes. “...’M sorry for yelling at you,” The alcohol had slowed his rage, leaving behind that flirtation that always hovered when you were alone.
“It’s fine, Rafe.”
He reached up, his fingers catching a loose strand of your hair, twisting it gently. "...You look really pretty in that dress," he murmured. "Even if it's for them. You're the prettiest girl on this stupid island. To me."
Your heart skipped a beat as you swallowed hard, your fingers freezing on his shirt cuff. "You're drunk, Rafe."
"I am," he whispered, a drunken, lopsided smile spreading across his lips as he tugged lightly on your hair, pulling your face a few inches closer to his. "But I'm not blind.” He defended. “Just stay here. Just for tonight."
It was the line you had been dancing around for years—the blurred boundary between best friends who saved each other's lives and two people who were destructively in love. But you looked at his glassy eyes, heard the faint slur in his voice, and you knew you couldn't cross it.
Not like this. Not while he was using alcohol to escape the reality of who he was. To love him now would mean drowning with him. And you were already drowning all on your own.
You gently detached his fingers from your hair, placing his hand back on his chest.
"I can’t,” You forced out. “Goodnight, Rafe,"
He stared at you for a long moment, a flash of heartbreak crossing his features before his eyelids grew too heavy to hold open. Within minutes, his breathing evened out as he fell asleep.
You stood up, smoothing down your gown, taking a deep breath as you walked out of Tannyhill with a heavy, aching chest, driving yourself back home—ready to receive a mouthful from your mother the next morning for leaving.
THE next two years were a blur.
As junior and senior year passed, the mirrors of your lives grew increasingly warped.
Rafe got worse. The cocaine became a regular habit, his debts to local dealers grew, and his outbursts at Tannyhill became almost daily.
You got worse in the opposite direction. You became the absolute pinnacle of perfection. You won the academic awards, you chaired the charity galas, you became the perfect daughter your mother had always envisioned…at the cost of whoever you really were.
You hid your depression behind a wall of prescription pills and big events.
Rafe hid his troubles and flaws behind white lines and empty bottles.
You screamed at each other on weekends— arguments where you tore each other’s choices to shreds—and then you would show up at each other’s windows on Sunday nights, because the rest of the world was a lie, and you were the only two people who knew the truth.
You both applied to the same university. It wasn't discussed. But it wasn’t accidental. Neither of you could survive where the other wasn't.
On the scorching hot morning of your high school graduation, the country club lawn was decorated with white tents and rows of folding chairs. The families of Kildare were gathered to celebrate the bright futures of their children.
You had just received your diploma, your mother nodding with a stiff approval from the front row and as the crowd dissolved, Rafe found you by the edge of the veranda you’d met near all those years ago. He was wearing his graduation cap crookedly, his gown open over his suit. He looked even older—the sharp lines of his jaw completely formed, shoulders broad, a map of muscles. But when he looked at you, the boy from fifth grade was still there, buried deep beneath.
"Well," he said, stepping into your space, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back. "We're out."
"We're out," you agreed, the weight of the college years ahead pressing down on your chest as a professional photographer hired by the school approached, his camera raised.
"Smile, kids!” He urged. “And congrats!"
Rafe’s arm slid around your waist, his grip tightening, pulling your side flush against his. You turned toward the lens, your posture straight, your face instantly smoothing into that perfect, practiced smile. Rafe leaned in, his jaw tightening as he forced his own confident smirk for the cameras.
The flash went off, capturing the two of you.
To anyone, you looked like the epitome of privilege and success.
Nobody would ever know about the bathroom floor, the white lines, the bruises or the empty bottles.
You stood side-by-side, your bodies locked together, completely unaware of how much more complicated your lives were bound to get.
