The truck groans as Rafe throws it into park, headlights slicing across the yard. You push the door open before he can come around to help you, bare legs swinging out first. The hem of your skirt climbs higher when you hop down, too short, too soft, too you.
Barry’s standing on the porch with a beer in hand, smirking. Rafe barely gets a breath in before Barry whistles. "She really left the house like that, huh?” Rafe doesn’t answer. Instead, he lunges forward, hoodie already off, wrapping it around your hips so quickly you stumble. You laugh, bright and drunk on the way your heels click up the steps. You don’t look back, but Rafe does. watches you until the door shuts behind you.
Barry takes a sip. "Are you ever going to stop pretending you’re not in love with that girl?” Rafe lights a cigarette. jaw clenched, thumb flicking the lighter until it sparks. “We’re just friends.” Barry laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “You almost fought me for saying her name once.”
Rafe doesn’t answer.
Inside, the music pounds. The crowd swallows you in seconds. But Rafe never loses sight of you. not once. He trails a few steps behind while you dance. while you accept drinks from your friends. while your laugh bubbles over in neon light. You spin in that stupid skirt, and his hand shoots out, tugging it down before anyone else can see too much.
You roll your eyes. “You’re such a dad.” “No,” he says, low and flat. “I’m someone who doesn’t want assholes staring at you like that.” Some guy tries anyway. walks past too slowly. It looks too long. Rafe steps in front of you so naturally it doesn’t even look like a choice. arms crossed, shoulders broad, eyes daring. The guy walks away.
You barely notice. You’re smiling again. safe. Rafe just stands there like a soldier with his hands in his pockets, jaw clenched and eyes following you like he’s not allowed to touch.
And when you come stumbling back into his space, dress twisted, glitter on your cheeks, reaching for him like it’s home—he softens. lets you loop your arms around his neck. tucks your hair behind your ear with a calloused knuckle.
“Having fun?” he asks, voice low. “Always do when you’re here,” you say, and it cuts him clean open. He holds you tighter after that. lets you laugh against his chest, hands splayed wide across your back. guys glance. stare. Try to figure it out. but none of them come close.
Not when Rafe’s posted up in every corner you walk toward. not when he’s adjusting your straps, fixing your hem, giving dirty looks to anyone who looks twice. not when Barry walks by again and mutters, “Still just friends, huh?” And Rafe nearly throws a punch.
You grin when you see them. Grab Rafe’s hand and squeeze. no words. Just that soft, knowing look, like you see right through him. Like you know exactly how much he’d burn down for you.
He carries you out of the party when your legs give up. one arm under your knees, the other against your back, and your head tucked into his chest, laughing drunk complaints into his collar. “Put me down; I can walk; I’m fine.” “You’re not walking anywhere in those heels,” he says, smiling. low. fond. like he loves the weight of you in his arms.
“You’re always so bossy,” you mumble, words slurred, cheek pressed against his throat. “But you smell good. like soap and cologne. And you’re always warm. That’s annoying.” He grins—stupid, wide, helpless. “you’re drunk.” “You’re pretty,” you say, poking his jaw. “Your face is all mean, but you’re nice. secretly. Don’t think I don’t know.”
His laugh rumbles through your spine. “Don’t tell anyone. It ruins my rep.” Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your perfume clings to his throat. His muscles shift under your body, strong and steady, and you don’t fight him this time. You just let him take you home.
The truck groans as Rafe throws it into park, headlights slicing across the yard. You push the door open before he can come around to help you, bare legs swinging out first. The hem of your skirt climbs higher when you hop down, too short, too soft, too you.
Barry’s standing on the porch with a beer in hand, smirking. Rafe barely gets a breath in before Barry whistles. "She really left the house like that, huh?” Rafe doesn’t answer. Instead, he lunges forward, hoodie already off, wrapping it around your hips so quickly you stumble. You laugh, bright and drunk on the way your heels click up the steps. You don’t look back, but Rafe does. watches you until the door shuts behind you.
Barry takes a sip. "Are you ever going to stop pretending you’re not in love with that girl?” Rafe lights a cigarette. jaw clenched, thumb flicking the lighter until it sparks. “We’re just friends.” Barry laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “You almost fought me for saying her name once.”
Rafe doesn’t answer.
Inside, the music pounds. The crowd swallows you in seconds. But Rafe never loses sight of you. not once. He trails a few steps behind while you dance. while you accept drinks from your friends. while your laugh bubbles over in neon light. You spin in that stupid skirt, and his hand shoots out, tugging it down before anyone else can see too much.
You roll your eyes. “You’re such a dad.” “No,” he says, low and flat. “I’m someone who doesn’t want assholes staring at you like that.” Some guy tries anyway. walks past too slowly. It looks too long. Rafe steps in front of you so naturally it doesn’t even look like a choice. arms crossed, shoulders broad, eyes daring. The guy walks away.
You barely notice. You’re smiling again. safe. Rafe just stands there like a soldier with his hands in his pockets, jaw clenched and eyes following you like he’s not allowed to touch.
And when you come stumbling back into his space, dress twisted, glitter on your cheeks, reaching for him like it’s home—he softens. lets you loop your arms around his neck. tucks your hair behind your ear with a calloused knuckle.
“Having fun?” he asks, voice low. “Always do when you’re here,” you say, and it cuts him clean open. He holds you tighter after that. lets you laugh against his chest, hands splayed wide across your back. guys glance. stare. Try to figure it out. but none of them come close.
Not when Rafe’s posted up in every corner you walk toward. not when he’s adjusting your straps, fixing your hem, giving dirty looks to anyone who looks twice. not when Barry walks by again and mutters, “Still just friends, huh?” And Rafe nearly throws a punch.
You grin when you see them. Grab Rafe’s hand and squeeze. no words. Just that soft, knowing look, like you see right through him. Like you know exactly how much he’d burn down for you.
He carries you out of the party when your legs give up. one arm under your knees, the other against your back, and your head tucked into his chest, laughing drunk complaints into his collar. “Put me down; I can walk; I’m fine.” “You’re not walking anywhere in those heels,” he says, smiling. low. fond. like he loves the weight of you in his arms.
“You’re always so bossy,” you mumble, words slurred, cheek pressed against his throat. “But you smell good. like soap and cologne. And you’re always warm. That’s annoying.” He grins—stupid, wide, helpless. “you’re drunk.” “You’re pretty,” you say, poking his jaw. “Your face is all mean, but you’re nice. secretly. Don’t think I don’t know.”
His laugh rumbles through your spine. “Don’t tell anyone. It ruins my rep.” Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your perfume clings to his throat. His muscles shift under your body, strong and steady, and you don’t fight him this time. You just let him take you home.
He said he was just dropping something off. Something for your dad, maybe. That was the excuse, at least. But your dad wasn’t even home, and he knew that deep down. He knew before he pulled into the driveway. knew when he walked up to your front door and saw the porch light still warm and the little shoes by the mat. knew when you opened it in a soft sweater and socks, your hair half-up and your mouth sticky with lip balm.
Rafe doesn’t belong here. not in this house, not in this room, and definitely not on the plush pink rug that warms the floor beneath his jeans. Your room smells like vanilla and clean laundry and whatever perfume you always dab behind your ears. There are teddy bears leaning into one another on the bed like they’re sharing secrets. Lip gloss tubes and nail polish bottles are lined up on your dresser like candy. There’s music playing from somewhere—something sleepy and slow.
When you sit beside him, your knee knocks his, and your hands fold shyly in your lap. You ask, barely louder than a whisper, if he wants water. He shakes his head. You nod like you understand, but you don’t. How could you? You have no idea what you’re doing to him just by sitting there. No idea how much restraint it takes for him to keep his hands to himself. You’re too young. too soft. And he’s not supposed to want this.
But then you lean in. barely. Your fingers press to the front of his hoodie, just over his chest. like you’re steadying yourself. like you’re listening to how fast he’s breathing. Your lips part, unsure. Your lashes flutter.
He doesn’t kiss you.
You kiss him.
and it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. because it’s gentle. It’s sweet. It’s all strawberry gloss and shaky breath, and when you pull back, your eyes search his face like you’re waiting for praise.
"Was that okay?" you ask. He swallows. nods. "Are you sure?" you blink all nervous. "It just felt like… I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you."
You say it so simply, like it’s that easy. like it doesn’t rewrite every part of him. And it should scare him—god, it should—but you’re still looking at him like you mean it. like you trust him. Like you don’t see what he is. He exhales hard and leans back against your bed. lets his eyes close. He doesn’t say anything for a minute.
And then you move closer. Your fingers ghost over the sleeve of his hoodie. You lean your head on his shoulder, careful and light, and he knows you’re nervous by the way your breath hitches.
"I’ve never kissed anyone before," you say. his eyes open. slowly. "You’re kidding." You shake your head. He turns toward you, one arm braced behind him on the rug. His voice drops. "That was your first kiss?"
You nod, feeling warm. "I picked you." He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. His hand slides up, brushing a loose piece of hair from your cheek. "Jesus, sweetheart." He says it too quietly. too reverent. like a prayer. because you picked him. And now he’s never going to be able to leave.
You kiss him again before he can even breathe right. slow and clumsy, your nose bumping his, a shaky little breath against his mouth as you shift closer, pulling his hoodie between your fingers. He feels it deep, like a bruise under his ribs, like something breaking apart and blooming all at once. Your lips are softer than anything he’s ever touched. And when you kiss him again and again, shy but braver now, he lets it happen. lets you climb into his lap like it’s innocent, like it’s nothing, like you’re not destroying him with every soft press of your mouth.
Your fingers curl around his jaw, unsure. Your breath hitches every time his lips part against yours. It’s slow. so slow. almost too tender. He doesn’t let it go further. doesn’t push or guide. He just kisses you back like it’s the only language he knows. You smell like strawberries and sugar and something pure, and he’s never hated himself more than he does when you sigh into him and smile.
"You’re really good at that," you whisper. Your forehead pressed against his like you’re catching your breath. He nods, eyes still closed. "Yeah, Angel. But you’re better."
He said he was just dropping something off. Something for your dad, maybe. That was the excuse, at least. But your dad wasn’t even home, and he knew that deep down. He knew before he pulled into the driveway. knew when he walked up to your front door and saw the porch light still warm and the little shoes by the mat. knew when you opened it in a soft sweater and socks, your hair half-up and your mouth sticky with lip balm.
Rafe doesn’t belong here. not in this house, not in this room, and definitely not on the plush pink rug that warms the floor beneath his jeans. Your room smells like vanilla and clean laundry and whatever perfume you always dab behind your ears. There are teddy bears leaning into one another on the bed like they’re sharing secrets. Lip gloss tubes and nail polish bottles are lined up on your dresser like candy. There’s music playing from somewhere—something sleepy and slow.
When you sit beside him, your knee knocks his, and your hands fold shyly in your lap. You ask, barely louder than a whisper, if he wants water. He shakes his head. You nod like you understand, but you don’t. How could you? You have no idea what you’re doing to him just by sitting there. No idea how much restraint it takes for him to keep his hands to himself. You’re too young. too soft. And he’s not supposed to want this.
But then you lean in. barely. Your fingers press to the front of his hoodie, just over his chest. like you’re steadying yourself. like you’re listening to how fast he’s breathing. Your lips part, unsure. Your lashes flutter.
He doesn’t kiss you.
You kiss him.
and it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. because it’s gentle. It’s sweet. It’s all strawberry gloss and shaky breath, and when you pull back, your eyes search his face like you’re waiting for praise.
"Was that okay?" you ask. He swallows. nods. "Are you sure?" you blink all nervous. "It just felt like… I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you."
You say it so simply, like it’s that easy. like it doesn’t rewrite every part of him. And it should scare him—god, it should—but you’re still looking at him like you mean it. like you trust him. Like you don’t see what he is. He exhales hard and leans back against your bed. lets his eyes close. He doesn’t say anything for a minute.
And then you move closer. Your fingers ghost over the sleeve of his hoodie. You lean your head on his shoulder, careful and light, and he knows you’re nervous by the way your breath hitches.
"I’ve never kissed anyone before," you say. his eyes open. slowly. "You’re kidding." You shake your head. He turns toward you, one arm braced behind him on the rug. His voice drops. "That was your first kiss?"
You nod, feeling warm. "I picked you." He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. His hand slides up, brushing a loose piece of hair from your cheek. "Jesus, sweetheart." He says it too quietly. too reverent. like a prayer. because you picked him. And now he’s never going to be able to leave.
You kiss him again before he can even breathe right. slow and clumsy, your nose bumping his, a shaky little breath against his mouth as you shift closer, pulling his hoodie between your fingers. He feels it deep, like a bruise under his ribs, like something breaking apart and blooming all at once. Your lips are softer than anything he’s ever touched. And when you kiss him again and again, shy but braver now, he lets it happen. lets you climb into his lap like it’s innocent, like it’s nothing, like you’re not destroying him with every soft press of your mouth.
Your fingers curl around his jaw, unsure. Your breath hitches every time his lips part against yours. It’s slow. so slow. almost too tender. He doesn’t let it go further. doesn’t push or guide. He just kisses you back like it’s the only language he knows. You smell like strawberries and sugar and something pure, and he’s never hated himself more than he does when you sigh into him and smile.
"You’re really good at that," you whisper. Your forehead pressed against his like you’re catching your breath. He nods, eyes still closed. "Yeah, Angel. But you’re better."
hi !! so this is tricky because while i’ve stopped that au i still love step bro rafe so i guess i wouldn’t mind small blurbs but not loads… i’ve kinda moved away from smut too soo any genre for him is good
Rafe thought you looked beautiful tonight – too beautiful. He’d lounged on your bed while you got ready, arms tucked behind his head, watching you through half-lidded eyes like you were a dream he hadn’t earned. His hoodie was already slipping off your shoulder before you left. Your lip gloss was perfect. He thought you’d keep laughing like that for him.
But now? Now you’re laughing like that for someone else. Some guy in a backwards cap, leaning too close. His voice is loud, but yours is softer. and sweet. God, it’s so sweet.
Rafe watches from across the room, posture slack but jaw locked, solo cup crushed in his hand. Barry says something. He doesn’t hear it.
He just sees you: pretty mouth smiling, knees crossed, head tipped back, eyes lit up like you’ve never looked at him that way.
Barry nudges him. "You good?" "Fine," he lies, already walking away. Outside, the night air stings. Fog coils at his ankles like it’s trying to pull him under. He's by your car, head down, fists shoved in his pockets like he's holding back something sharp.
You find him there. your breath visible, your voice careful. "Hey." He doesn’t look at you. "Are you mad?" You whisper, almost scared. His laugh is low. bitter. "Why would I be?" You tug on his sleeve, fingertips grazing his wrist. He flinches—then stills. Your touch is warm, grounding. You step in closer. His heartbeat stutters. He smells like wind and salt and jealousy.
"I only ever laugh like that with you, I promise," you whisper sweetly. Something in him breaks open. His chest caves in like a lung giving out. He turns to you slowly, like he's afraid you'll disappear. His eyes are soft now, full of hurt and heat and something he won’t say aloud.
He reaches for your hand. grips it like it’s the last thing keeping him steady. "Don’t do that," he breathes. "What?" "Act like you’re not mine." You don’t speak—you just rest your head against his chest, right over that frantic heart of his. His arms wrap around you with the kind of reverence that says, Please don’t ever leave.
just friends. But, God, how do you explain this kind of love?
Rafe thought you looked beautiful tonight – too beautiful. He’d lounged on your bed while you got ready, arms tucked behind his head, watching you through half-lidded eyes like you were a dream he hadn’t earned. His hoodie was already slipping off your shoulder before you left. Your lip gloss was perfect. He thought you’d keep laughing like that for him.
But now? Now you’re laughing like that for someone else. Some guy in a backwards cap, leaning too close. His voice is loud, but yours is softer. and sweet. God, it’s so sweet.
Rafe watches from across the room, posture slack but jaw locked, solo cup crushed in his hand. Barry says something. He doesn’t hear it.
He just sees you: pretty mouth smiling, knees crossed, head tipped back, eyes lit up like you’ve never looked at him that way.
Barry nudges him. "You good?" "Fine," he lies, already walking away. Outside, the night air stings. Fog coils at his ankles like it’s trying to pull him under. He's by your car, head down, fists shoved in his pockets like he's holding back something sharp.
You find him there. your breath visible, your voice careful. "Hey." He doesn’t look at you. "Are you mad?" You whisper, almost scared. His laugh is low. bitter. "Why would I be?" You tug on his sleeve, fingertips grazing his wrist. He flinches—then stills. Your touch is warm, grounding. You step in closer. His heartbeat stutters. He smells like wind and salt and jealousy.
"I only ever laugh like that with you, I promise," you whisper sweetly. Something in him breaks open. His chest caves in like a lung giving out. He turns to you slowly, like he's afraid you'll disappear. His eyes are soft now, full of hurt and heat and something he won’t say aloud.
He reaches for your hand. grips it like it’s the last thing keeping him steady. "Don’t do that," he breathes. "What?" "Act like you’re not mine." You don’t speak—you just rest your head against his chest, right over that frantic heart of his. His arms wrap around you with the kind of reverence that says, Please don’t ever leave.
just friends. But, God, how do you explain this kind of love?
