summary: hooking up with you isn’t that great. i mean—it is, you’re just scared and emotionally detached. rafe is quite the opposite; he wants to give you his all. so after a late-night hook up, you actually start to think about the situation between you two, and rafe…rafe thinks that he should finally give you the space you always demanded???
warnings: 18+ mdni !! loooong nothingness!!! explicit but no actual real freaky nasty smut, swearing, smoking, toxic!reader, clingy!rafe, annoying!reader 80% of the time. open ending…possible part 2..?
your back is already against the wall when the moment begins. cold paint through your shirt. his hands braced on either side of you, caging without quite touching, like he’s afraid if he does it’ll all vanish. the room smells like burnt coffee and something metallic—the adrenaline, maybe. it’s late enough that the night feels hollowed out, stretched thin.
rafe’s breathing is uneven. yours is fine
“you’re somewhere else,” he murmurs with his forehead pressed to the wall beside your head. not accusing, just fascinated.
you shrug, a small movement. noncommittal. your eyes drift past his shoulder to the window, to your own reflection caught between streetlight glare and shadow. you look untouched. like this isn’t happening to you at all.
that’s what he likes most.
his mouth finds your neck, lingering there like he’s trying to memorize it. he’s careful in a way that feels almost reverent, like he’s afraid of spooking you. like he knows you could disappear if he moves too fast.
you don’t respond the way he wants you to. no soft sounds. no hands clutching at him. your body lets him do whatever he’s already decided he’s going to do, passive as weather. it only makes him more intent.
rafe has always been like this—too much focus, too much meaning assigned to things that were never meant to carry it. the way he watches you at the café when he thinks you’re not looking. the way he remembers your order even when you change it just to see if he’ll trip up. the way his jaw tightens when someone else makes you laugh.
now all that attention is pressed into the inches between you.“say something,” he whispers.
you don’t. your silence settles over him like a challenge. his hands finally slide to your hips, thumbs pressing in like he’s checking to see if you’re real. his touch is grounding, possessive, desperate in its restraint. he leans in, mouth hovering near yours, waiting for permission you never give.
so he takes it anyway. and the kiss isn’t soft.; it’s searching. like he’s trying to pull a reaction out of you by force of will alone. his lips move against yours with a hunger that borders on frantic, like if he stops you’ll wake up and decide this was a mistake.
you kiss him back just enough to keep him there.
that’s the thing—you never push him away. you never pull him closer. you exist in this perfect, maddening middle ground that keeps him circling you like a moth convinced the flame is worth i
his hands roam, exploratory, reverent, like he’s cataloguing you. every brush of skin makes his breath hitch. every lack of response makes his focus sharpen “fuck,” he exhales against your mouth, half laugh “you don’t even look at me.”
you don’t. your gaze stays unfocused, sliding past him, like you’re watching something only you can see. maybe you are.
it makes something dark curl in his chest.
rafe presses closer, like proximity alone might anchor you. his forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot, uneven. for a second he’s still, collecting himself, like he’s trying not to scare you off with the intensity of it all.
“i think about you all the time,” he admits quietly, like it’s a secret he’s been choking on “like—constantly. i hear your voice when i close my eyes. i replay the way you stand at the counter, the way you never smile when i flirt.”
you finally look at him then. just briefly. empty. unreadable. it wrecks him.
his hands tighten, not painful, just firm. grounding himself through you. he kisses along your jaw, your throat, everywhere but your mouth now, like he’s afraid of losing what little connection he has left.
you let him. you always let him.
the night drags on in fragments—his breath, the press of his body, the way he keeps whispering your name like it’s a spell. he’s fully submerged in it, in you, in the idea of you. every movement he makes is charged with meaning, with want, with a desperate need to be remembered.
you remain distant, observing yourself from somewhere above it all.
it’s almost tender, how badly he wants this to matter. eventually the intensity burns itself down. his movements slow. his breathing evens out. he rests his forehead against your collarbone, eyes closed, like he’s exhausted himself trying to reach you.
for a moment, neither of you moves.
then you gently shift. just enough to slip free.
rafe’s eyes snap open “hey,” he says softly, immediately alert. “you okay?”
you nod. already reaching for your shirt, your shoes, the pieces of yourself you left scattered around the room. you don’t rush, but you don’t linger either. every motion is deliberate, detached.
he sits up on the edge of the bed, watching you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks
“you don’t have to leave,” he says, too quickly. “i can make coffee. i’ve got—i’ve got stuff.”
you give him a small smile. polite. distant “it’s late,” you say, neutral.
something in his face cracks just a little.
he watches you walk to the door, hand already on the knob, like this was always the plan. like this was just another stop on your way somewhere else
“i’ll see you,” he says, because he needs to believe that.
you pause. just long enough to glance back. “yeah,” you reply.
it’s a lie you both pretend not to notice.
the door clicks shut behind you, leaving him alone in the dim quiet. rafe stares at the empty space where you were, chest tight, mind already replaying every second.
he’ll think about this for weeks.
you won’t think about it at all. i mean, you will think about it. you always do.
you pretend you don’t but that’s just a skill you’ve learned. selective amnesia. strategic detachment. you replay things only long enough to catalog the damage, then you lock them away and keep moving.
but rafe lingers and that’s the problem.
you walk down the stairwell with your keys already in your hand, pulse steady, posture relaxed like you didn’t just leave him sitting there with his chest cracked open and his thoughts spiraling. the night air hits your skin and for a second—just one—you feel it. the ghost of his hands. the heat of him. the way his focus felt like pressure.
you hate that part, because having a hot ass guy like rafe is scary.
not in the obvious way. not in the ‘he might hurt me way’—though that’s there too, faint and familiar. it’s scarier because he could always just leave. because men like him do. because men like him get bored, get curious, get greedy. because you’ve seen how easily attention drifts when someone better, shinier, less complicated walks by.
and worse—so could you. that’s the part you don’t like to sit with.
you know you’re hot. you know it the way you know gravity exists—undeniable. you see it in reflections, in the way people look twice, in the way rafe’s voice tightens when he thinks you’re about to slip through his fingers.
two hot people together don’t make sense in your head. it feels unstable. volatile. like putting two open flames too close and pretending there won’t be collateral damage.
it feels like intentionally walking toward cheating. not because you want to betray anyone—but because attraction like that never stays contained. because someone always wants more. because someone always gets curious about what else is out there.
because someone always leaves first.
you unlock your car and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield without really seeing anything.
rafe won’t sleep tonight, you know that. he’ll lie there replaying everything—what he said, what you didn’t. the way you looked past him like he was a feeling instead of a person. the way you left without apologizing. without promising anything.
that’s what gets him. you didn’t make it a moment. you didn’t make it special. you didn’t anchor it with reassurance or softness or false intimacy. you treated it like something that simply happened—and for him, that’s unbearable.
he needs things to mean something.
you need them not to.
rafe has always been intense like that. even at the café, wiping down counters with his sleeves pushed up, jaw tight, eyes tracking you like you’re the only variable in the room that matters. the way he leans a little too close when he hands you your cup. the way his smile flickers when you don’t flirt back.
he doesn’t know what to do with someone who won’t reflect him.
and god—he’s so into it. into you. into the mystery. into the way you never reassure him. into the quiet distance that makes him work harder, think deeper, spiral faster. you can feel it every time he touches you—like he’s trying to solve something instead of just experience it.
you’re not sure if that makes you powerful or cruel. probably both.
you start the car. the engine turns over smoothly, grounding. familiar. safe.
you tell yourself you’ll put space between you and him. fewer late night visits. fewer lingering looks over coffee cups. less letting him pull you into rooms that feel too charged to be neutral.
but you don’t believe yourself. because the truth is—you like how unbalanced he gets around you. you like how badly he wants it to matter. you like that you can step in and out of his orbit without losing your footing, while he stays suspended there, waiting.
it’s not love. it’s not even attachment.
it’s tension; and tension doesn’t ask for commitment. it doesn’t ask for honesty. it doesn’t ask you to stay.
you pull away from the curb, already replaying the way his breath hitched when you didn’t look at him. the way his hands hesitated like he was afraid to be too much. the way he whispered your name like it was a confession instead of a fact.
you’ll think about it later.you’ll pretend you won’t.
and rafe…rafe will be thinking about you long after you’ve decided what this is supposed to mean.
and that’s the fucked up part, actually.
because rafe is good. like—annoyingly good. offensively good. why are you like this good.
you hate that your brain keeps circling back to it, keeps making lists you didn’t ask for.
he’s good in bed. not just technically—though yeah, that too—but attentive. like he’s listening to your body even when you’re not saying anything. like he notices the smallest shifts, the pauses, the way you go still instead of louder. like he understands that quiet doesn’t mean bored, it means focused. it means present.
which is unfair. he’s good with you and that’s worse.
he doesn’t push when you pull away. he doesn’t get pissed when you don’t text back for hours. he doesn’t demand explanations. he just… stays open. waiting. hopeful
and god, he likes you. it’s obvious. painfully obvious.
in the way he remembers shit you never thought mattered. the way he asks questions and actually listens to the answers instead of just waiting to talk. the way his voice drops when it’s just the two of you, like he’s letting you in.
it’s terrifying because people who like you like that always want more eventually.
and people like you always leave before they do.
you grip the steering wheel a little tighter, jaw clenched, laughing under your breath because—are you serious right now???
you’re actually utterly fucked???
you have this hot, attentive, emotionally available man who smells sooo good and looks at you like you’re something he’s been searching for—and your brain is like yeah no this is a problem.
because it won’t last.
at least, not in your head, it never does.
you can already see the ending. not even dramatically, just inevitability. the slow shift. the expectations creeping in. the moment he starts needing reassurance you don’t know how to give without lying. the moment he realizes you don’t need him the way he needs you.
and he’ll resent that. or you will. or both.
someone will cheat. emotionally, physically, whatever. not even because you’re cruel, but because intensity like this always looks for somewhere to go. because attraction doesn’t just sit still and behave.
you don’t trust it. you don’t trust yourself. because you know how easily you detach. how quickly you can decide something is over internally and start moving on before the other person even knows there’s a problem. you’ve done it before. you’re good at it. too good. and rafe doesn’t move like that. rafe commits emotionally before he admits it. he lets things root. he lets himself feel it fully, stupidly, openly.
that’s why he’s dangerous to you. not because he’s toxic. because he’s not.
because if he were an asshole, this would be easy. if he were careless or selfish or half nterested, you could justify leaving. you could roll your eyes, cut him off, move on clean.
but he’s kind. and intense. and patient. and good with his hands and his mouth and his attention. and he looks at you like you’re something worth staying for.
and that makes you want to run.
you pull into your driveway and sit there again, engine still on, thoughts still racing, heart doing that annoying thing where it won’t slow down even though nothing is technically wrong.
you picture him back in his apartment—shirt discarded somewhere, sheets messy, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. replaying everything. wondering what you’re thinking. wondering if he did something wrong.
he didn’t.
you did this knowing exactly how it would land. knowing he’d feel it more than you would. knowing you’d walk away mostly intact while he stayed up late with it lodged under his ribs.
and you hate that about yourself. but you don’t hate it enough to stop.
because liking someone this much feels like standing too close to the edge of something irreversible. because staying feels riskier than leaving. because endings feel safer when you plan them in advance.
you shut the car off. silence rushes in.
you tell yourself you’ll pull back. create distance. keep it casual. stop letting it blur into something with weight.
but even as you think it, you already know—the next time you walk into that café late at night and he looks up from behind the counter like that?
you’re going to fold. yeahhh,because rafe will let you.
not because he’s weak—he isn’t. not really. he’s stubborn, volatile, prideful, the kind of man who usually doesn’t bend for anyone. the kind who walks away first just to prove he can.
but when it’s about you?yeah. he bends.
he hates that about himself, too. he knows he shouldn’t be this open, this available, this stupidly loyal to something that doesn’t even have a name. he knows better than to pour himself into a situationship like it’s a lifeline. he knows how this ends—he’s not delusional.
and still.
he’ll let you come and go because it’s you. because you look like that and talk like that and move through the world like you don’t need anyone’s permission. because you’re a smoke show and you don’t even try, which somehow makes it worse. because you’re smart and funny and devastatingly observant. because you’re good with kids in that natural way that makes something ache in his chest when he notices it.
because you were there.
right place. right time. wrong emotional conditions.
and rafe—of course he did—poured his whole ass half-empty black soul into it.
he tells himself it’s casual. he tells himself he’s not attached. that he’s just enjoying the moment. but that’s bullshit and he knows it every time his phone lights up and his heart jumps before his brain can catch up.
it’s why he’d answer your calls even five years later.
no contact. no explanation. no closure.
of fucking course he would. he wouldn’t even hesitate. wouldn’t wonder why. wouldn’t ask what you want. he’d just answer, voice a little rough, pretending he hasn’t imagined this exact scenario a hundred times.
“yeah?” like he hasn’t been waiting.
because to rafe, you’re not just someone he slept with. you’re not just a phase. you’re not just a girl who passed through his life and left a dent.
you’re the one who saw him without flinching, the one who didn’t try to fix him or use him or save him. the one who let him give without promising to stay.
and that ruined him a little.
he knows you’re detached. he feels it in the way you don’t cling, the way you leave without drama, the way you never ask for reassurance. he knows you could disappear tomorrow and survive just fine.
that’s what scares him. because he wouldn’t.
he’d sit with it. he’d replay it. he’d turn it over in his head until it became a story he couldn’t stop telling himself. he’d compare everyone else to you and find them lacking in ways he couldn’t quite explain.
he’s not in love but he’s close enough that it doesn’t matter.
he’s invested. emotionally, stupidly, irreversibly. and even if you never give him more than this—late nights, half-promises, almost-intimacy—he’ll take it. because some version of you is better than none.
that’s the imbalance.
that’s the quiet tragedy of it.
you think it’s obvious this will end…he thinks maybe—just maybe—it doesn’t have to.
and that’s why, when you pull back, he doesn’t chase you loudly. he doesn’t demand answers. he doesn’t corner you with feelings you’ve already decided you can’t hold.
he just wait…open. hopeful. fucked.
because when it comes to you, rafe cameron will always choose the version of himself that stays, even when he knows better. it’s not even that you don’t want him.
that’s the fucked part.
you do want him. obviously. painfully. your body reacts before your brain can even start its little safety lecture. chemistry like that doesn’t lie. it doesn’t ask permission. it just is.
but wanting someone and wanting a life with them are two completely different beasts, and you’ve learned the difference the hard way.
you love your alone time. you need it. you love sitting alone at a bar with a drink you didn’t explain to anyone, phone face down, music too loud in your head. you love not answering. not texting. not checking in. disappearing for a night and reappearing unchanged.
silence feels like oxygen to you.
rafe doesn’t breathe like that. he loves being there. always. constantly. he wants the shared air, the shared space, the shared hours. he’s the kind of person who checks in without realizing it’s a check-in. the kind who texts just because something reminded him of you. the kind who wants to know where you are not to control you, but to feel close.
he’s clingy like that. not in an annoying way—worse. in a sincere, real way.
you give him a finger and he takes the whole hand, not because he’s greedy, but because he thinks you’re offering. because he assumes closeness is an invitation, not a risk. because when he feels something good, his instinct is to lean into it instead of stepping back.
you give him ten minutes of your life and he wants eternity.
he starts imagining routines without meaning to. late nights turning into mornings. your coffee order becoming muscle memory. your absence feeling wrong instead of normal. he doesn’t notice the shift happening until it already has.
you do. you always do.
that’s when the alarm goes off in your head. that sharp, panicked nope. that instinct that says ‘this is how it starts’ this is how expectations form. this is how something beautiful turns heavy.
you don’t want to hurt him but you also don’t want to be held.
and rafe—god—rafe is all hands and knees once he’s in. all presence. all devotion he pretends he doesn’t have. he doesn’t know how to give halfway. doesn’t know how to love lightly. even when he says it’s casual, his actions betray him every single time.
he’s the type who would show up, who would stay. who would try.
and you’re the type who already has one foot out the door just to make sure you still can. it’s survival for you.
you need space the way he needs connection, and neither of you is wrong—but put together, it feels like a countdown. like something with an expiration date you’re both pretending not to see.
he thinks closeness means safety and you think closeness means risk. so you keep it undefined. messy. unnamed. you let it exist in this limbo where no one has to promise anything and no one has to stay.
but deep down, you both know—he’s giving you everything he has in pieces.
and you’re rationing yourself just enough to never disappear.
and that imbalance? yeah. that’s how this ends.
he sits on the edge of his bed long after you’ve gone. the room is dark except for the pale stripe of moonlight slipping through the blinds.
his phone is beside him, silent.
he told himself he wasn’t gonna check it again. he checks it again.
nothing…the screen goes black.
rafe stares at his own reflection for a second before tossing the phone onto the mattress “fuck.”
the word disappears into the empty room because he doesn’t know. that’s the problem, he never fucking knows with you.
some days you look at him like he’s the only thing keeping the earth from splitting open beneath your feet.
other days you look through him like he’s already gone, like you’re practicing, like you’re teaching yourself how to leave before there’s even something to leave behind.
he leans forward, elbows on his knees.
his hands clasp together. unclasp. clasp again.
restless, always fucking restless.
his mind won’t shut up. did you actually mean it when you laughed today?when you touched his arm? when you stayed a little longer than usual? or was it just another thing you did without thinking?
another breadcrumb he’s stupid enough to follow.
his jaw tightens.
because maybe he’s the problem, maybe he’s always been the problem.
he gets attached too fast. cares too much. holds on too hard.
he knows that, always has. it’s like there’s something wrong inside him.
some broken switch. everyone else knows how to want people normally, rafe only knows extremes.
distance or obsession. nothing in between.
he thinks about you, always you, and it makes his chest ache. because he knows exactly what kind of girl you are.
you aren’t built for forever, you aren’t built for promises, you don’t belong to anyone.
that’s what makes you you. you run when things get too close, when people start expecting things.
when love starts sounding like a cage instead of a home.
and somehow—some fucking how—that’s exactly what pulls him toward you. like a moth circling a fire it already knows will burn.
he laughs once. quiet. humorless “good one.” his own voice sounds strange.
because if he was smart, he’d leave. if he was smart, he’d stop answering your calls.
stop letting you crawl under his skin. stop waiting around for messages that may never come.
but rafe has never been smart where people are concerned. especially women, especially broken women. especially the ones who don’t know what to do with the love they’re given.
his father taught him that lesson early, and somehow he keeps relearning it.
over. and over. and over.
his gaze drifts toward the ceiling. the silence feels heavy tonight.
the kind that presses against your ribs. the kind that makes every thought louder
what if you’re just having fun? what if this means more to him than it ever will to you? what if one day he wakes up and realizes he built an entire home inside someone who was only passing through?
the thought makes his stomach twist. because he can already see it.
you leaving…not cruelly.
just…leaving.
the way the tide leaves the shore. natural. inevitable.
you’d probably kiss him goodbye, tell him he’s amazing, tell him he deserves someone better; and then disappear anyway.
and the worst part? he wouldn’t even hate you for it.
he’d understand and that’s what terrifies him.
his eyes close. for a moment he imagines your laugh, your voice, the way you never stay in one place too long like you’re afraid the ground might claim you if you stand still.
and despite everything, despite every warning sign—he wants to reach for you, wants to tell you to stay, wants to be selfish enough to ask.
because maybe that’s the cruel joke of it all. you think closeness is dangerous. and rafe?rafe thinks distance is.
so every time you take a step back, he takes two forward.
every time you disappear, he waits.
every time you leave a door cracked open, he walks through it hoping this time it’ll lead somewhere permanent.
it never does.
yet he keeps trying because that’s all he knows
holding on even when his hands are bleeding.
even when the person he’s holding isn’t holding him back.
his phone lights up suddenly. a notification.
his heart jumps before he can stop it. stupid. pathetic. hopeful.
all at once.
he grabs it and looks down and for a second—just a second—he forgets how to breathe.
the boy who: • beat Pope bloody • choked Kie without hesitation • pulled the trigger on Peterkin
…now makes you coffee in the morning. you were sure that he was healed now, twenty four looked softer on him than nineteen ever had. you saw composure, restraint, growth.
you remembered the stories before you knew the man. how a single decision ended the Sheriff’s life , a crack of a gunshot that never really stopped echoing- and still let him touch you.
he, now, does so many gentle things…like affection comes naturally to him. sometimes you almost believe it does, sometimes. absent kisses to your shoulders, holds doors, remembers how you like your coffee. but history clings to him, and that doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be let out.
even tho he’s absurdly gentle with you, the unsettling part isn’t his temper anymore, it’s how controlled he is now.
“i told you to not fucking do that anymore, didn’t i?” he raises his voice at you, for the hundredth time tonight
you flinch before you can stop yourself.
rafe’s pacing now back and forth across the living room, hands dragging over his buzzed hair, breath uneven. his face is flushed, ears red, that familiar heat crawling up his neck the way it does when something inside him finally slips loose.
“you think i don’t see it?” he snaps. “standing there laughing with him touching his arm like that?”
“rafe, i wasn’t—” you try.
“don’t” his hand cuts through the air. “don’t you fucking lie to me.”
the words hit harder than the volume. you feel them settle somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and humiliating. tears blur your vision before you even realize they’ve started. it had been nothing. a coworker walking you to your car. a joke after a long shift. normal things. harmless things
but normal doesn’t exist where rafe is concerned.
he stops pacing suddenly, turning toward you like he’s just remembered you’re the center of all this anger.
“you know how people look at you,” he says, quieter now which somehow makes it worse “you know what they want.”
his jaw tightens “and you just… smile at them anyway.”
your throat burns. “i was just being nice”
rafe laughs “yeah. yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” he steps closer “you’re always nice. too nice. acting like people don’t have intentions.”
you back up instinctively until the couch hits behind your knees.
his voice rises again, frustration spilling over. “do you even think sometimes? or do you just like the attention? huh?” his hands gesture wildly now. “you like making me look stupid?”
the accusation breaks something inside you “i wasn’t trying to—”
“you never try, that’s the point!” he interrupts, running a hand over his mouth, breathing hard “you just do whatever you want and expect me to be okay with it.”
tears slip freely noe. you hate crying in front of him. hate how small it makes you feel
for a moment he keeps going — muttering under his breath, pacing again, anger searching for somewhere to land. words spilling out rough and careless.
“fuckin’ clueless sometimes… swear to god—
then he looks at you properly, really looks, annd stops.
your shoulders are curled inward, eyes glassy, trying not to sob out loud. hands twisted together like you’re bracing for impact that never comes.
the silence stretches. rafe exhales sharply, like the anger drains all at once
“shit,” he mutters.
he crosses the distance fast this time, hands coming up to cradle your face before you can pull away. his grip is firm — almost desperate — thumbs brushing under your eyes, catching tears as they fall.
“hey… hey.” his voice drops, rougher now, shaken“don’t cry. c’mon.”
you turn your face slightly, hurt still fresh, but he follows immediately, forehead pressing against yours.
“i just—” he swallows hard. “i hate when people look at you like that.”
another tear slips free.
his expression twists, anger turning inward “you don’t get it,” he murmurs, softer. “you don’t see what i see.”
his mouth presses to your cheek, then beneath your eye, kissing away the wetness with surprising gentleness. slow, apologetic touches replacing every harsh word from moments before.
again. and again.
“mine,” he whispers against your skin, barely audible
his hands slide to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your breathing matches his.
the intensity doesn’t disappear. it never does. just changes shape.
as if the yelling wasn’t the frightening part.
as if this quiet devotion —the way his anger folds instantly into tenderness is what truly keeps you rooted beside hi
his lips brush your temple one last time.
“i just need you to be careful,” he murmurs
and you realize he means careful of everyone else. never him.
his thumb is still resting beneath your eye when you pull back. ust enough to breathe, just enough to look at him clearly.
rafe frowns immediately, sensing the shift before you even speak — that instinct he has, the one that notices distance like a threat
“what?” he asks quietly.
you shake your head, wiping the rest of your tears yourself this time. his hand lingers in the air for a second before falling uselessly to his side.
the apartment feels smaller now. heavier.
“i’m tired, rafe.”
he exhales through his nose. “yeah, well, join the—”
“no.” your voice cracks, but you don’t stop.“not tired like that.”
he goes still.
you laugh weakly, shaking your head again, because suddenly everything feels ridiculous —the yelling, the apologies, the way he breaks you down just to hold you together again.
“i’m tired of this,” you say. “of us.”
his expression hardens instantly. defense snapping into place “what’s that supposed to mean?”
you gesture vaguely between you. “this back and forth. you screaming at me one minute and acting like i’m the only thing keeping you alive the next.”
his jaw ticks “don’t exaggerate.”
“i’m not.” your voice rises now, frustration finally catching fire. “we’re not even together, rafe.”
that lands. you see it. small recoil — almost invisible —but real.
“we spend every night together,” he says, slower now. careful “you’ve basically moved in.”
“that’s not the same thing”
he scoffs“sounds pretty fuckin’ official to me.”
“it’s not!” you snap “because when people ask what we are, you go quiet. when someone calls me your girlfriend, you change the subject.”
silence.
you swallow hard, forcing the words out anyway. “i’m twenty-four,” you say, softer now “not eighteen. i don’t want… whatever this is anymore. i want something real. stable. something that doesn’t make me feel like i’m constantly doing something wrong.”
rafe stares at you like you’ve just spoken another language
his hands settle on his hips, pacing once again — slower this time, agitation simmering instead of exploding
“so what,” he mutters. “this is about labels now?”
it hurts how casually he says it.
“it’s about feeling secure,” you reply. “it’s about not wondering every time you get mad if you’re just gonna disappear on me again.”
he stops walking. his back faces you.
“i don’t disappear.”
you laugh bitterly. “you shut down for days, rafe. you act like i don’t exist until you decide you need me again.”
his shoulders tense, the truth always makes him meaner
“you think this is easy for me?” he turns suddenly, voice rising “you think i just wake up knowing how to do this shit?”
“then talk to me!”
“i am talking!”
“no — you’re controlling!” the word slips out before you can soften it.
wrong move.
his expression changes instantly. hurt folding into anger so fast it makes your stomach drop.
“controlling?” he repeats, incredulous “because i don’t like some dude eye-fucking you at work?”
“because you treat me like i belong to you when you won’t even call me yours!”
the words echo.too loud. too honest.
rafe’s breathing turns uneven, chest rising and falling as something deeper surfaces not rage exactly. fear wearing anger’s face.
“you are mine,” he says finally, quieter. it isn’t romantic.
you shake your head. “see? that’s exactly it.”
he steps closer, slow, cautious now, like approaching a deer “you don’t get it,” he murmurs “i don’t… do relationships like normal people.”
“then what am i doing here?” your voice breaks. “waiting until you decide i’m worth claiming?”
his face twists “that’s not—”
“i need more than stolen mornings and fights that end with you kissing me ot fucking me like you’re sorry,” you whisper. “i need consistency. i need to know you’re choosing me —not just keeping me close because you’re scared to lose me.”
the room goes painfully quiet.
rafe looks at you like he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t know how to cross.
his hands come up again, slower this time, resting carefully on your waist. not trapping. holding.
“you think i don’t choose you?” he asks, voice rough.
you don’t answer. because choosing shouldn’t hurt this much.
his forehead drops against yours, breath shaky now — stripped of arrogance, stripped of control.
“you know what happens when i let people get too close,” he murmurs. “you know what i’ve done.”
the unspoken hangs between you. peterkin. the gunshot. everything after. everything before
his grip tightens slightly “i’m trying,” he says. “with you… i’m actually trying.”
and suddenly he sounds younger. not nineteen — but not healed either, just terrified.
his nose brushes yours, eyes searching your face like he’s afraid you’re already halfway gone.
“how deep do you want this to go, huh?” he whispers“because when i love someone…”
his voice falters.
danger flickers there again. devotion sharpened into something consuming “…i don’t know how to do it halfway. healthy”
his lips press against yours — not desperate, not angry — but heavy. lingering. like confession instead of apology.
and you realize the real problem isn’t that rafe refuses to love you.
it’s that loving you, for him, has never meant safety. only depth. only obsession
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