Hi! I was wondering if you knew how many parts Crash Course was going to be? I’m loving it so far!
thank u !! i actually have no idea cause when i write, i try to prioritize being realistic w letting the plot fan out and not rushing it so i never know how long it’ll take.
i also came from wattpad before i ever touched tumblr (2018-2024ish) so in my eyes, my series should usually be around 20+ parts so keep that in mind i guess
PLOT After a near-fatal car accident, Rafe wakes up with memory loss, remembering only you as the last person he loved. Now, he trusts no one but you, even as his family tries to keep you away, forcing you both to navigate the fragile line between past and present.
CONTENT CHAPTER TWO, car accident / trauma, memory loss, bf rafe cameron and gf reader, more to come !
MAIN | SERIES | NEW TAGLIST FORM * | LAST
the next few days pass in a haze that leaves you feeling disconnected from your own life. every morning starts with the same drive to the hospital. doctors come and go carrying clipboards and scans, nurses adjust medications and check vitals, and somewhere between all of it, rafe continues waking up every day believing exactly what he believed the day before.
there are no sudden breakthroughs, no dramatic returns of memory, no miraculous moment where everything falls back into place. there is only repetition, and the longer it continues, the more dangerous it becomes because everyone is getting used to it.
you watch him improve in small ways that are easy to miss if you aren’t paying attention. the bruising along his jaw fades from dark purple into dull yellow, the cuts across his arms begin to knit together, and the stiffness in his movements slowly disappears until he no longer looks like someone who crawled out of a wrecked vehicle.
each improvement should make you feel relieved, and part of you is relieved because despite everything that happened between you, you never wanted him hurt. another part of you feels a growing sense of dread every time a doctor smiles and says he’s progressing well. the healthier he becomes, the less the hospital can justify keeping him here, and the less the hospital can justify keeping him here, the closer everyone gets to facing problems that white walls have been temporarily hiding.
ward practically lives in meetings with specialists during those final days. every conversation seems to end with him asking some version of the same question, wanting a timeline, wanting certainty, wanting someone to tell him exactly when his son will return to normal.
nobody gives him the answer he’s looking for because nobody can. the neurologist repeats himself enough times that even you could probably recite the speech by memory now, explaining that recovery isn’f linear and memories can return in fragments, all at once, or not at all.
ward never looks satisfied after those conversations, but he still nods and shakes hands and thanks them anyway because frustration doesn’t change the reality sitting in room 3-12.
sarah settles into a routine alongside you without either of you discussing it. she brings coffee more often than not, sometimes for herself and sometimes for you, and eventually neither of you acknowledge how unusual that would’ve felt a month ago.
there are still awkward silences, or moments where old history hangs between the two of you, but they aren’t as strong as they used to be. every once in a while you’ll catch her watching rafe through the window in the door with an expression that makes her look younger than she is. those moments remind you that no matter how complicated everything feels for you, he’s still her brother.
the morning he’s discharged arrives with surprisingly little fanfare. there isn’t some grand announcement or emotional speech from a doctor standing at the foot of his bed. instead, a nurse wheels in paperwork while another explains medication schedules, and suddenly everyone is discussing practical things like follow-up appointments and physical restrictions.
it feels ridiculous how ordinary it is considering the last week has altered the course of multiple lives. you stand near the window listening to conversations happen around you and wonder if anyone else feels the same strange disconnect, like reality is moving much too quickly for something this complicated.
rafe is in an annoyingly good mood about the entire thing. he spends most of the morning teasing nurses, making comments that earn reluctant smiles, and acting like he’s being released from prison instead of a hospital.
every now and then his gaze finds you across the room, and each time it does, that warmth settles into his expression so naturally that it makes your chest ache.
there was a time when being looked at that way felt as effortless as breathing. now every glance feels like standing too close to a fire you promised yourself you wouldn’t touch again.
you’re busy pretending to read a discharge packet when you feel someone stop beside your chair. before you even look up, you already know who it is because nobody else in this room moves like that.
his shoulder brushes yours lightly as he leans over to glance at the papers in your lap, and the scent of hospital soap follows him despite the fact that it somehow still smells distinctly like rafe. when you finally lift your head, you find him smiling down at you.
“you know,” he says, hooking a thumb toward the hallway, “i’m starting to think they just wanted to keep me here for entertainment.”
you huff a laugh despite yourself and shake your head. “yeah, i’m sure the entire nursing staff is gonna miss you terribly.”
“they will.” his grin widens without hesitation. “‘m kind of unforgettable, you know?”
you roll your eyes, but the gesture feels weaker than intended because for a second, just a second, it sounds exactly like the version of him you used to know.
not the version shaped by years of arguments and disappointments, but the one from before all of that, who used to make you laugh when you were trying very hard not to.
the realization hits hard enough that you immediately look back down at the papers in your lap. because that’s the problem.
the longer this goes on, the easier it becomes to forget that this version of rafe only exists because he doesn’t remember what came after.
the actual discharge takes longer than anyone expects. nurses stop by with final instructions, prescriptions are reviewed twice because ward insists on asking questions nobody else thinks to ask, and somewhere in the middle of it all, sarah ends up carrying half the paperwork because nobody can figure out where anything is supposed to go.
by the time you’re finally making your way through the hospital lobby, the afternoon sun is spilling through the glass entrance.
rafe seems determined to enjoy every second of his freedom.
he walks slower than usual because of his ribs, but not slow enough to stop him from talking. most of his comments are directed toward whoever happens to be closest, bouncing between sarah, wheezie, you, and occasionally some poor nurse trying to leave for lunch.
every now and then he reaches for your elbow or brushes your shoulder without thinking, little habits that used to feel normal enough you would’ve never noticed them.
outside, the warm air immediately replaces the sterile scent of the hospital. cars are scattered across the parking lot in neat rows, sunlight reflecting off windshields hard enough to make you squint.
you spot your car exactly where you left it earlier that morning, tucked several spaces away from ward's suv. for a brief moment, relief settles in your chest because this is the end of your responsibility for today. rafe is discharged, he’s healthy enough to leave, and soon he’ll be heading home with his family while you finally return to your own apartment and whatever version of normal still exists, until the next time sarah will call you, probably.
then rafe reaches into his pockets, and you watch him pat his pants down for what you’re assuming are his keys, not realizing it was for a specific reason.
“do i have your keys? no— where’re your keys? let’s go.”
your stomach drops before he even looks at you. he assumes he’s riding with you and not his family?
his expression remains relaxed, completely unaware of the panic beginning to spread through everyone standing around him.
“babe, where’d you park?” he asks.
you blink. “what?”
his eyebrows lift like you’ve asked a ridiculous question. “your car.” he gestures toward the lot. “where is it?”
silence follows immediately, the kind where nobody knows who's supposed to answer first. you can practically feel ward stiffen beside you, but rafe notices none of it. he’s too busy scanning the rows of vehicles.
when you reluctantly point toward your car, he nods once, satisfied.
“oh, yeah. there it is.”
his hand brushes the small of your back before dropping away again, and it makes your chest tighten. “c’mon,” he says. “let’s get outta here.”
ward’s jaw sets so hard you’re surprised his teeth survive it. rose looks away immediately, rubbing her temple like she’s already developing a headache. wheezie suddenly becomes very very interested in all the cracks running through the pavement, while sarah’s expression slowly falls before your eyes.
because of course that’s what he assumes. why wouldn’t he?
you haven’t given him a single reason not to. you’re still his girlfriend, you’re still the person waiting beside his hospital bed every morning, which means . . .
you still live together, too.
from his perspective, this is the most normal thing in the world.
“actually,” ward starts carefully, “i was thinking—”
“dad.” rafe looks genuinely confused. “i wanna go to my bed for today. can i do that?”
he asks in a sarcastic way a son can ask his dad, because of course he can. he didn’t need ward’s permission at this point in his life. everywhere you were, his family knew that naturally he was going to be there too.
ward opens his mouth, then closes it. he opens it again, and you watch him wage an entire war behind his eyes.
every instinct is telling him to put his son in the suv and drive him home himself, that letting you spend an hour alone with rafe is a terrible idea. unfortunately, every doctor involved in this situation has spent the last week explaining exactly why challenging rafe’s reality isn’t worth the risk.
rafe’s gaze shifts between all of you, and for the first time, uncertainty begins creeping into his expression.
“okay, what’s goin’ on?” he asks.
your heart immediately sinks, because this is exactly what everyone has been trying to avoid: any suspicion, or questions, or doubt.
the neurologist warned all of you that once his brain starts recognizing contradictions, there is no way to predict where those thoughts might lead.
before ward can make things worse, you force a smile onto your face. “nothing is going on.” the words taste strange.
rafe studies you for a second longer, then slowly relaxes. “okay . . .” he says.
another silence settles over the group, and this one somehow worse than the first.
finally, ward exhales through his nose, defeated. “fine,” he mutters, but the word clearly causes him physical pain. “you can drive him.”
for a second, you aren’t sure which person looks more surprised - you or ward himself.
for a second, nobody moves. the parking lot buzzes, car doors slamming somewhere in the distance and tires crunching over pavement, yet the small circle surrounding rafe just feels so completely disconnected from it.
ward’s agreement feels so awkward, unwanted by almost everyone involved. you certainly don’t want it, and judging by the expression currently frozen on his face, neither does he.
rafe, unfortunately, looks pleased. “see, dad?” he says, glancing between you and his father. “i’ll just see you when i’ll see you.”
you immediately look away before he can catch whatever expression nearly slips across your face. because to him, this interaction probably seemed ridiculous from the start.
he has no idea that every interaction since waking up has become an act for everyone around him. he just sees his family acting weird and his girlfriend looking more exhausted than usual.
your stomach twists. if only it were that simple.
the walk toward your car feels much longer than it should. you can hear ward’s footsteps lingering behind for several moments before eventually turning away. when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already heading toward the suv with rose beside him. sarah offers you a look that falls somewhere between sympathy and apology before climbing into the backseat seat. as you unlock your car, wheezie gives you a small wave.
none of them seem eager to rescue you. traitors. the thought arrives so suddenly that you almost laugh.
rafe opens your passenger door before you can reach it, and the gesture catches you off guard. he used to do things like this without thinking.
he waits expectantly as you stare at the open door, then at him, then at the open door again. “thanks,” you manage.
his smile appears instantly. “you’re welcome.”
you slide into the driver’s seat before your thoughts can wander anywhere else. the interior of the car feels smaller than usual once he climbs in beside you. the door shuts, and now suddenly it’s just the two of you.
you grip the steering wheel harder than necessary as silence stretches until eventually he speaks. “you nervous or somethin’?”
you nearly laugh, but not because it’s funny. because if you don’t laugh, you swear you might scream.
“why would i be nervous?”
“i dunno.” he shrugs carefully, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at his ribs. “been weird all week.”
your fingers tighten around the steering wheel. outside, ward’s suv starts backing out of its parking space, thankfully, finally. something to focus on.
“yeah, i think getting into a near-fatal accident might make anybody weird.”
“i wasn’t talking about me.”
of course he wasn’t. you should’ve known better. heat creeps into your face immediately but you keep your eyes fixed on the windshield. he studies you openly from the passenger seat, you can feel the attention.
“you’ve barely looked at me.”
“i’ve looked at you.”
“not really.”
you start the engine, the vibration settlint beneath your feet. genuinely anything to avoid this conversation, anything.
“seatbelt.” the command slips out before you can stop it.
he stares at you, then laughs. “seriously?”
you look at him, doubling down with a nod. “seatbelt, rafe.”
his grin widens. “yes, ma’am.”
you hate that your mouth immediately twitches, but you hate it even more when he notices. because of course he notices, he always notices.
he clicks the seatbelt into place and leans back against the seat and the moment passes. you pull out of the parking lot behind ward’s suv.
for several minutes, neither of you says anything. the road unwinds ahead in long stretches of asphalt, sunlight flashing between trees as traffic drifts around you. you focus on driving and try very hard not to think about the person sitting beside you. unfortunately, rafe has never made avoiding him particularly easy.
“hey.”
you glance at him briefly. “what?”
he shifts carefully in his seat, one hand resting against his ribs. “when the crash happened . . where was i even going?”
your stomach tightens so fast it almost hurts. for a second, all you can think is that you have no idea. you don’t know where he was going, who he was with, what he was doing, or why he was on the road that night.
you keep your eyes forward, forcing your voice to stay even. “i don’t know,” you say.
he furrows his brows. “you don’t?”
you hesitate for the briefest second before the lie forms itself. “i . . was asleep when you left.” the words come out smoother than they should. you’re praying it’s believable.
during your relationship, there were plenty of nights where one of you fell asleep first while the other stayed up too late doing something pointless. maybe that’s why the lie feels weird in a way, because it sounds like something that could’ve been true once.
rafe nods slowly, accepting it without argument. “oh,” he murmurs. “no wonder then.”
his gaze drifts back toward the windshield, but he doesn’t stop thinking about it. you can see it in the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way his fingers tap absently against his knee. he’s trying to reach for something his brain won’t give him.
“i don’t remember leavin’,” he says after a moment. “or why i was going out.”
you swallow hard. you make a mental note right then to ask sarah later. or ward, if you have to. somebody has to know where he was headed that night, and if he keeps asking questions, you can’t keep answering “i don’t know” forever without sounding suspicious.
then, quietly, he asks, “why weren’t you there when i woke up?”
oh. you’d almost forgotten that part. because from your perspective, you got a frantic text from them out of nowhere, threw on clothes, contemplated in the mirror whether or not this was a bad idea, drove across town, and rushed through a hospital. from his perspective, he woke up in pain and confusion with his family already there, but not you.
and because he still thinks you’re his girlfriend, of course that would stand out to him.
you force yourself to answer calmly. “i didn’t know about the accident until after,” you say. “sarah called me as soon as she could. i had to drive over, and it took me a while to find your room.”
he’s quiet for a moment. you risk a glance over and find him watching you, but you can tell he’s not suspicious, but mid-thought.
“must’ve scared you,” he says softly. the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.
and before you can think too hard about it, the response slips out. “i mean, i wasn’t exactly thrilled.”
the words hang between you for half a second, then his mouth twitches. “thrilled?” he repeats. you keep your attention on the road, but you can already hear the amusement creeping into his voice. “that’s the word you’re going with?”
you shrug one shoulder. “believe it or not, getting messaged that you wrapped your car around a tree wasn’t exactly the highlight of my week.” a laugh escapes him again. “hey, and i’m trying to be polite. you did wrap your car around a tree.”
“that’s polite?”
“for me?” you glance at him briefly before returning your eyes to the road, nodding. “for sure.”
his grin widens immediately, and you’re suddenly aware of the fact that you answered him without thinking. the sarcasm had slipped out automatically. it sounded too comfortable.
rafe settles deeper into his seat, looking entirely pleased with himself. “there you are.”
your stomach drops. you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “what do you mean?”
he shrugs. “i said you’ve been weird all week. that just sounded more like you.”
for a second, you don’t know what to say, because the worst part is that he’s right. and the even worse part is how quickly he noticed.
the rest of the drive passes with both conversation and silence sometimes. rafe points out boats whenever the road carries you close enough to the water, comments on restaurants he wants to go back to, and asks about people you haven’t spoken to in years because he still thinks they’re part of your everyday lives.
some questions are easy enough to dodge, while others leave you staring at the road a second longer than necessary while you search for something harmless to say. by the time ward’s suv turns onto a different road and disappears from view, you’re already exhausted.
now the rules aren’t technically rules. nobody hands you a pamphlet or makes you sign paperwork promising you’ll follow instructions. but after hearing the neurologist repeat the same warnings every day for nearly a week, they might as well be carved into the inside of your skull.
don’t force memories.
don’t aggressively correct him.
don’t overwhelm him.
don’t shock him.
let his brain make connections naturally.
it all sounds reasonable sitting inside a hospital surrounded by doctors who explain it with diagrams and medical terminology and little smiles. but it becomes significantly less simple when your ex-boyfriend believes he still lives with you and is currently sitting in your passenger seat asking what you guys should have for dinner.
you haven’t actually thought about dinner. or tomorrow. or the day after that.
every plan you’ve made this week has slowly dissolved the moment your phone rang and sarah told you rafe had been in an accident. some of them were small things that didn’t matter much, like coffee dates and errands and nights spent doing absolutely nothing. others mattered more. there are texts sitting unanswered in your phone from friends asking if you’re still available for some things.
none of them know what to do with an explanation like this, and truthfully, neither do you. you don’t blame rafe for any of it though. he didn’t ask for this, you’re sure. he didn’t choose this.
sometimes you catch yourself looking at him and wondering if ignorance really is bliss, because at least one of you doesn’t have to spend every waking second worrying about what happens when reality finally catches up.
the apartment building appears sooner than you’d like. your stomach sinks the second you pull into your parking spot.
until now, you’ve spent so much energy worrying about what comes out of your mouth that you completely forgot there are physical reminders everywhere that your relationship ended.
you park and kill the engine.
rafe glances out the windshield before looking back toward the building, completely relaxed. meanwhile, your thoughts are racing through every room inside the apartment. all you can remember in the moment is that the dining table isn’t even in the same place anymore and that half the artwork hanging on the walls wasn’t there when he last remembers living there.
you slowly unbuckle your seatbelt as your heart drops further.
his stuff. none of his stuff is there. maybe some sweaters you kept from him in some corner of your closest but that’s it.
not even a single jacket hanging by the door, or a pair of shoes beside the entryway, especially not a toothbrush sitting next to yours in the bathroom. there won’t be a drawer filled with his clothes, or his stupid collection of trucker hats that somehow multiplied every few months.
nothing, because he moved out. you packed everything for him and had him move back to his family’s house.
“you okay?” the sound of his voice snaps you out of your thoughts.
you glance over and realize he’s watching you again, concerned.
“yeah,” you answer quickly.
his eyebrows pull together slightly. “you sure?”
“i’m sure.” the lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
he studies you for another second before eventually nodding. outside, the afternoon air feels warmer than it did at the hospital. you make your way toward the staircase, keys already in your hand. rafe follows beside you without hesitation.
the walk up the stairs is mercifully short. you spend all of it contemplating whether or not to text sarah that eventually the lying will become too much for you that you’ll want to quit this, but without knowing the risks of what could happen if you did that is what makes you afraid.
meanwhile rafe looks tired beside you, which isn’t surprising after everything his body has been through, but otherwise remarkably normal. if someone walked out and saw you two right now, they would probably assume you were a couple returning from a long day, because that’s exactly what you’re pretending to be.
you approach your front door while rafe is saying something about one of the restaurants near the marina. after unlocking and opening the door, you step inside first.
the scent of your apartment greets you immediately, carrying traces of laundry detergent, whatever candle you burned last night, and something faintly citrus lingering from the cleaning spray you used earlier that week.
behind you, the door clicks shut. you slip your keys onto the small table near the entrance and shrug off your jacket, trying to act natural despite the uncomfortable awareness prickling across your skin. for a few seconds, neither of you says anything. the silence isn't awkward exactly, but it feels unusually observant. eventually, curiosity gets the better of you and you glance over your shoulder.
rafe hasn’t moved very far from the doorway. he’s standing several feet inside the apartment with his hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his pants, his attention fixed somewhere beyond you. there isn’t any alarm in his expression, nor any suspicion.
his gaze drifts slowly around the room, taking in one thing after another while he silently compares memory against reality. “when’d you move that?”
you follow his line of sight automatically, and it takes you a second to realize he’s talking about a sofa chair, and still, you play dumb. “um, move what?”
“the chair.” he even gestures vaguely toward it. “it used to be over there.”
your eyes flick between the chair and the area he’s indicating. embarrassingly enough, you can’t immediately remember if he’s right. you’ve lived here so long that most changes happened gradually until the current layout simply became normal.
whatever arrangement he’s remembering belongs to a version of this apartment that hasn’t existed for literal years. like you’re pretty sure you moved a lot of stuff after the breakup because you were having an emotional breakdown one night.
“oh, i don’t know,” you admit. “at some point.”
a grin pulls briefly at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, that’s specific.”
“you asked.”
“and you answered absolutely nothing.”
despite yourself, you feel your eyes roll. rafe catches it immediately, but instead of saying anything, something brightens in the look on his face.
he begins wandering farther into the apartment, moving carefully thanks to his ribs but still unable to sit still for very long. his attention drifts toward the bookshelf next, lingering there before shifting to a framed print hanging near the hallway. you trail after him without meaning to, watching as he takes everything in.
“that wasn’t there, was it?” he murmurs to himself, though you can tell he’s talking about the frame. you grimace and turn away slowly.
each change earns little more than a comment or a passing observation before he moves on to the next thing, accepting every explanation you give him without hesitation, if you even give him one.
eventually, his attention settles on you again. “did you redecorate?”
you think about your answer before shrugging one shoulder, “yeah, sort of.”
“sort of?”
you sigh dramatically to play the part of the anxious girlfriend, preparing the first excuse that comes to mind. “yeah, i got stressed.”
his eyebrows lift. “and that resulted in feng shui?”
you’re almost grateful you haven’t changed much since you two have broken up, but still you can’t help but worry about what he does remember from the relationship three years ago, if any of this still holds up. anything that might have changed too much will get a question, you’re sure, but you know that you can’t keep lying forever. at some point you’re worried the lies will clash.
you gesture vaguely around the apartment. “yep! you know how sometimes people get bangs or dye their hair after a breakdown?”
his mouth twitches. “yeah.”
“yeah well, i move furniture.”
he furrows his eyebrows with a smile, then he laughs. you know he won’t question it ‘cause you swear you’ve it before when you two were together. it was honestly better than drinking or drastically changing your appearance - plus you found a twenty dollar bill laid behind something, in dust . . so all that’s saying is that you should do it more often.
he continues wandering through the apartment, and that’s when another thought suddenly crashes into your head. text sarah, text sarah.
because while you’ve been worrying about framed artwork and furniture layouts, you’ve briefly overlooked the much bigger problem sitting right in front of you. sooner or later, he’s going to expect evidence - in clothes or shoes - that he lives here. and there’s nothing.
yet.
you linger several steps behind him, pretending to watch whatever has captured his attention while carefully pulling your phone from your pocket. the second the screen lights up, your thumbs are already moving.
where is all his stuff???
the message sends before you can rethink it, and for a moment, nothing happens, then the typing bubble appears immediately.
you are serious
i forgot
your eyes close briefly. of course sarah hadn’t thought about it either. neither of you have exactly been planning for this.
give me like 30 mins
i’ll grab clothes and whatever else
just dont let him notice
you glance up automatically. rafe has wandered toward the living room window now, peering outside at the parking lot below. from where you’re standing, he looks completely at ease like he has absolutely no reason to think anything is wrong.
your attention returns to the screen.
how am i supposed to do that
another bubble appears.
figure something out
please
i’ll be quick
and dont let him see me
if he sees me bringing his stuff he’ll know something’s going on
you stare at the message. she isn’t wrong. the image immediately forms in your mind: rafe opening the front door, sarah standing there holding a box full of clothes he thinks are already inside the apartment. yeah, no.
you immediately type back.
oh okay great
love that for me
the response arrives almost instantly.
good luck
before you can decide whether you appreciate the encouragement or want to throw your phone across the room, another text follows.
seriously tho
30 mins
distract him
you let out a slow breath through your nose. it’s easy for her to say. she gets to pack boxes while you get to play pretend with your ex-boyfriend. no, you can’t think like that.
you send a quick thumbs up before locking the screen and sliding the phone back into your pocket.
thirty minutes. yeah, you can survive thirty minutes. maybe. the thought has barely finished forming before you look up, and immediately regret it. your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical. somewhere during your conversation with sarah, rafe kept moving. and of all the places he could’ve wandered toward, he somehow managed to find one of the places you’d been hoping he’d avoid: the hallway closet.
any closet makes you nervous. you stop walking, and for a second, you genuinely consider pretending you don’t see him. like maybe if you stand perfectly still, he’ll magically lose interest and move on.
unfortunately, life has never worked that way.
rafe stands in front of the open closet, one hand resting against the doorframe while he studies the contents inside. from where you are, you can already see the problem. there are coats hanging inside and shoes that line neatly along the bottom shelf. storage bins are stacked near the back.
every single item belongs to you. there isn’t a single thing in there that’s his. you’re just praying you kept some of his stuff after the breakup that maybe are in there? hoping. you feel like you did keep some things.
your pulse begins climbing immediately because he looks confused. you can tell he noticed something doesn’t make sense to him. it’s the kind of scenario doctors specifically warned everyone about.
slowly, he turns around and his gaze finds yours almost instantly. “where’s my stuff?”
your heart sinks. because for the first time since this entire thing began, you genuinely don’t think you can just lie your way out of this one.
SUMMARY . . rafe gets exactly what he asks for when he calls you clingy in front of everyone and discovers that silence is a lot harder to live with than he expected.
AUTHOR’S NOTE . . 2847 words ; PART TWO, rafe admitting he was wrong for that night so theres closure
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART ONE
the conversation should make him feel better. logically, it should, because you answered.
that alone is more than he’d gotten from you for days. you responded to every question he asked, told him where you were, reassured him you weren’t angry, and never once left him sitting there wondering if you’d disappeared again.
he finds himself staring at the messages with a growing sense of irritation he can’t even explain, not because of anything you said. if anything, that’s the problem. you were reasonable, you were patient.
over the next few days, he rereads the conversation more than he’d ever admit to out loud. every time he does, he finds himself stopping at the same messages. i’m literally texting you right now. how is that avoiding you.
before, conversations with you had never felt like work. he never had to think about whether you’d answer or if he’d hear from you that day. you were always somewhere nearby, reaching out first. he tells himself this is temporary. you’re still upset and it’ll pass. but the longer it goes on, the more obvious it becomes that this isn’t punishment. you’re simply matching the energy he’s always given you.
that’s the part that keeps bothering him. if you were screaming at him, he’d at least know what to do. instead, you’re calm, you smile when you see him, you don’t seem upset.
by the time he sees you at the country club, he’s convinced himself that what the two of you need is time together. if things feel weird, then all he has to do is make them feel normal again. it’s the kind of logic that makes perfect sense inside his own head and literally nowhere else.
the afternoon sun hangs low over the golf course as people move in and out of the clubhouse. you’re standing near the outdoor counter waiting for a drink you’d ordered, one hand resting against the strap of your bag while you scroll absentmindedly through your phone. from across the patio, rafe spots you immediately.
without hesitation, he changes direction. you don’t even notice him until he’s really close. when you glance up, surprise flashes across your face for half a second before settling into something softer.
“hey.” it’s just a hey, and for some reason, it already annoys him.
“hey,” he says back. “what’re— what’re you doing?”
you glance toward the counter. “waiting for my drink.”
“then what?”
the question earns a small look from you, but you smile like it’s obvious, “then i’m leaving, babe. i’ve gotta go. i told you i’d be out with friends today.”
his jaw tightens slightly as you suppress your smile. it’s not even because it’s funny. you can just already know where this conversation is heading.
there’s a beat of silence before he exhales through his nose. “you’ve got a lot of friends all of a sudden.”
you raise an eyebrow, “i’ve always had friends.”
he immediately realizes how that sounded, unfortunately, not before the words are already out there, but you don’t argue with him over it. don't get defensive. you choose to let the comment sit there until the awkwardness belongs entirely to him.
“look,” he says, shifting his weight. “we should do something.”
you blink. “what do you mean?”
“later. tonight. whatever.”
your expression remains unchanged. “i already have plans.”
“cancel them.” the response comes so naturally he doesn’t even think about it.
you stare at him for a second. something about your expression makes him realize he’s done it again - in the expectation that you’ll immediately rearrange yourself around whatever he wants.
your drink is placed on the counter beside you before either of you says anything else.
you reach for it. “sorry, i can’t tonight. i already made plans.”
“your friends again?”
“no.” you shake your head lightly. “my family’s doing something, and on friday too.”
for a second, he just stares at you. he doesn’t know why that answer bothers him as much as it does. maybe because it catches him off guard, that somewhere along the way he’d convinced himself the only reason you weren’t around was because you were deliberately staying busy because you were upset or something.
“what, like dinner?” he asks.
you shrug. “yeah, something like that. i just haven’t spent much time with them lately, so.”
it’s vague, but not dismissive. you’re answering him, same as you’ve been doing all week - just giving him enough information that he can’t accuse you of shutting him out, but not volunteering anything extra either.
a month ago, you would’ve told him three days in advance, probably would’ve asked if he wanted to come.
the realization lands heavily in his chest. “okay. so you’re busy all night tonight?”
“probably.”
another silence settles, but you don’t seem uncomfortable inside it. you shift your drink into your other hand and glance toward the parking lot where a familiar SUV has just pulled into one of the spaces.
even from this distance, you immediately recognize it. your expression softens almost instantly. “i asked them to pick me up.”
he follows your gaze as a man steps out from the driver’s side, your father. your mother climbs out from the passenger side a second later while your siblings in the backseat leans forward, waving through the window after spotting you near the clubhouse.
before rafe can stop himself, his eyes flick back toward you. you’re smiling at them. while he’d spent days sitting in his room staring at his phone, waiting for your attention to come back, you’d simply gone back to living your life. but of course, why wouldn’t you?
“i should go,” you say.
he opens his mouth, ready to say something, but he isn’t entirely sure what, like don’t go. come with me instead. what about tomorrow? something, anything, but none of it sounds right.
so all he manages is a stiff nod. “alright, i’ll see you.”
you offer him a small smile. “i’ll see you.”
the entire drive home, he keeps replaying the interaction in his head, picking apart pieces of it. nothing about the conversation was bad. if anything, it was frustratingly normal.
he spends the rest of the evening trying to distract himself from it. he throws himself into whatever’s in front of him, whether it’s helping move something down at the dock, sitting through a conversation he barely listens to, or aimlessly scrolling through his phone while the television drones somewhere in the background.
for days after the argument, he’d assumed the distance came from sadness. then, when the sadness seemed to fade, he’d convinced himself it was just stubbornness. now he isn’t so sure it’s either of those things anymore. sadness still reaches for people and anger still demands something from them.
he wakes up and instinctively checks his phone before remembering there probably won’t be anything waiting for him, again. every little thing seems to lead back to the same uncomfortable conclusion. somewhere along the way, he’d become used to being a priority without ever having to earn it.
the memory of the party comes back more often now. before, whenever he thought about that night, his focus stayed on the argument itself, then on the smaller details instead. he remembers your smile disappeared in the moment, the look on your face after he said it what he said, you knew you genuinely didn’t understood what you’d done wrong.
the more distance he gets from it, the harder it becomes to justify what happened. he’d spent so much time convincing himself that you were too attached and too involved in every part of his life that he’d never stopped to consider why. you weren't demanding things from him. you weren't
one night, he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed with your message thread open again.
he doesn’t even remember opening it. one second he’s scrolling through something else, and the next he’s staring at months of conversations stretching up the screen.
for the first time, embarrassment starts creeping in alongside everything else. it’s not the embarrassment of being ignored, but the embarrassment of realizing he’s been trying to skip straight to the part where things go back to normal without actually addressing the reason they changed in the first place.
he’s asked where you’ve been, who you’ve been with, what you’ve been up to. he’d focused so heavily on restoring access to you that he’d never once stopped to acknowledge the thing that pushed you away. and once he notices it, he can’t stop noticing it.
the thought follows him long after midnight.
he leans back against his bed’s headboard and stares at the ceiling, one hand resting across his stomach while the events of the past couple weeks continue looping through his head. eventually, a frustrated laugh escapes him, because the answer feels so obvious now that he almost wants to be annoyed with himself.
the next morning, you don’t expect to see him.
the weather’s nice, people move in and out of storefronts, golf carts weave lazily down the street. you’re standing outside a small shop near the marina, waiting for a bag someone inside is still putting together for you, when a truck pulls into a nearby parking spot.
you recognize it immediately. rafe steps out and spots you, but for a second, neither of you moves, and then he starts walking over.
you watch him approach, noticing almost immediately that something feels different. like he’s still rafe, shoving his hands into his pockets halfway through crossing the sidewalk, but there’s something less impatient about him today. he seem less reactive than as of late.
he stops in front of you. “hey.”
“hey.” you glance toward the shop window.
he notices. “you busy?”
the question almost makes you smile. “my parents wanted to go out on the boat today, remember?”
he nods once. for a moment, it seems like he’s about to fall into the same pattern as before to ask how long you’ll be gone for or if the plans are gonna take over the entire day. you can practically see the questions forming behind his eyes.
instead, he exhales slowly, and lets them go, which surprises you. “okay.”
another pause settles between you. as a group of tourists walk past, you realize he’s actually nervous. at least not visibly, but you’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s uncomfortable.
your expression softens slightly, “what’s up?”
rafe looks away first, and that surprises you too. he drags a hand across the back of his neck. “been thinking about that night, and before you say anything—” he starts, then immediately stops himself with a frustrated shake of his head. “actually, no. never mind.”
you tilt your head slightly, but still don’t say anything. the conversation goes quiet as a worker approaches you, handing you a bag. you thank her, nodding politely and wishing them well before you turn away, fiddling with the handles of the bag while lingering long enough to let rafe know you’re still listening.
“i was already in a bad mood,” he tries again. you stay quiet and watch him carefully. “i was irritated, stressed, whatever. but that wasn’t your problem, i know. you weren’t doing anything wrong. you weren’t bothering me, and you weren’t being clingy.”
frustration flickers across his expression after saying it, just only with himself for needing to say it out loud in the first place.
“i just . . i took everything out on you because you were standing there. i guess. and then i did it in front of everybody.” there’s no excuse attached to it.
you study him for a moment before speaking. “why?”
his eyebrows pull together. “what?”
“why did it bother you so much?”
the question catches him off guard. you can see it happen. it’s easier to apologize for the outcome than it is to examine the reason.
“i don’t know.”
you raise an eyebrow, waiting.
he lets out another quiet laugh. “okay, that’s not true.” his gaze drops briefly toward the pavement before returning to yours. “i think i just got used to it.”
“used to what?”
“you.”
you furrow your brows in confusion.
“you’ve always been there, calling me, checking on me, all that. i started acting like it was annoying when really . .” he shakes his head once. “i don’t know. i just stopped appreciating it.”
people continue moving around the marina while a boat horn sounds somewhere behind you. the tension that’s been sitting between you for weeks finally feels different.
you look at him for another second before your expression softens almost imperceptibly. you ask quietly, “so when i stopped?”
rafe’s eyes meet yours. “hated it.”
you hum with a nod, looking away. he doesn’t try to explain himself again, but he stands there looking at you, waiting.
you don’t realize it, but you’re currently holding all the power in the conversation. he’d finally handed you something honest, and now he has absolutely no idea what you’re going to do with it.
your eyes narrow thoughtfully, and rafe swears he feels his stomach twist. the corners of your mouth don’t even move that suddenly rafe finds himself wondering if he somehow managed to make things worse.
a couple weeks ago he would’ve literally rather had to swallow glass than stand in public talking about his feelings, even if people aren’t even close enough right now to hear you two. but still, you’re standing on a marina sidewalk with people walking past every few seconds.
“i mean it, y/n.” your eyebrows lift slightly at his low voice. “i shouldn’t have said any of that, especially not like that. you didn’t deserve it. and i’m sorry.”
the apology hangs there. for a moment, neither of you says anything. you can see how awful he’s been feeling. you sensed it the moment he kept messaging you. he doesn’t even know sarah overheard rafe topper and kelce about her that one time and told y/n about it.
you smile. it’s small at first, but it’s enough for something in rafe’s expression to immediately soften. all week he’s been bracing for resistance or disappointment. instead, you’re smiling.
you shake your head lightly before glancing past him toward the docks. “c’mon,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
you turn before he can ask what you mean, already beginning to walk away from him, and for half a second rafe simply stands there watching you go. then he notices your arm moving behind your back.
your hand’s open, waiting.
the sight nearly makes him smile, because apparently after everything, after a week of driving himself insane and rereading text messages and checking your location like a lunatic, this is how you choose to tell him he’s forgiven. he’s been forgiven, you’ve just been waiting for him to admit how much of a dick he’d been that night.
you don’t even look back so you can keep walking, fully expecting him to be there. rafe reaches for your hand immediately. there isn’t even a second of hesitation.
his fingers close around yours, and the relief that hits him is so sudden it almost catches him off guard. he shortens his stride as he catches up beside you, careful not to tug your arm as he brings your hand toward his mouth and presses a quick kiss against your knuckles.
only then do you finally look at him, and the second he sees your face, he lets out a quiet huff of laughter because you’re grinning. you’ve apparently been waiting for him to catch up.
his thumb brushes across the back of your hand, then gives your hand a gentle pull, reeling you slightly closer until you’re forced to stumble half a step toward him with a laugh. before you can say anything, he’s already leaning down, pressing a brief kiss against your lips, and the second he pulls away he follows it with another against your temple.
you roll your eyes, but he immediately does it again.
“rafe.”
“what?” he sounds entirely too pleased with himself, you can hear it, which is exactly why your smile refuses to leave.
by the time you reach the docks, he’s hovering close behind you, both hands settled comfortably at your waist while the two of you walk. every so often he leans down to press another absent-minded kiss somewhere he can reach, to your temple, the side of your head, the back of your hair.
your family’s boat comes into view a few moments later where your parents are already waiting. the second they spot you, your mother lifts a hand in greeting. you wave back.
“can rafe come?” you call out to them.
your father looks from you to him, then immediately smiles, nodding big, just once, maybe twice if you didn’t catch the first one. “of course.” the answer comes so quickly it makes you smile.
beside you, rafe’s grip tightens slightly against your waist. he’s walking beside you, and this time, when you reach for him, he has no intention of letting go.
Hi! Love your writing! If you’re up to a rage fic -
I would love an angst trade where he calls reader clingy and she distances herself!
are you busy?
SUMMARY . . rafe gets exactly what he asks for when he calls you clingy in front of everyone and discovers that silence is a lot harder to live with than he expected.
AUTHOR’S NOTE . . 2144 words ( before edit ) ; i did use she/her pronouns for this ; did a little obsession spin on this because i feel like he’d actually become the version he saw you as before his little outburst, so a bit of irony. if anyone wats me to fulfill any more requests let me know !!
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART TWO REQUEST
the party stretches across the cameron property, spilling from the back patio and out toward the water where expensive boats rock gently against their slips. music drifts through air while people move in clusters.
you’ve spent the better part of the evening weaving through those groups looking for rafe, catching glimpses of him only long enough for somebody else to pull him away again before you can get more than a few words out of him.
when you finally spot him near the edge of the deck, talking to topper and a handful of other people, relief settles in your chest before you can stop it.
maybe it’s pathetic. maybe it isn’t. all you know is that finding him feels like finally being able to exhale after spending the last hour searching.
you make your way over without thinking twice, squeezing between a couple of people until you’re standing beside him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his arm as you tilt your head up toward him with a smile.
“there you are,” you say. “i’ve been looking for you.”
for a moment, he doesn’t answer. his jaw flexes instead while he stares out toward the water. you've seen him stressed at things that had absolutely nothing to do with you before. because of that, it takes a second to realize the look he finally turns on you isn’t aimed through you or past you. it’s aimed directly at you.
“can you relax?” he asks sharply.
the smile fades from your face. “what?”
“you’ve been looking for me all night.”
confusion settles over you immediately because the accusation feels so strange. of course you’ve been looking for him. he’s your boyfriend. he literally picked you up so you could be here tonight.
the idea that he’d be annoyed by that doesn’t even occur to you until you catch the way topper’s attention shifts between the two of you, along with the subtle quieting of the conversation around him.
“i mean, i was just trying to find you,” you tell him.
rafe smiles and runs his palm across his buzzed head, looking every bit as frustrated as he has all evening. except now, instead of whatever has been bothering him all day, all of that frustration seems to have landed squarely on your shoulders.
“no, that’s exactly what i’m talking about,” he says, “you’re always trying to find me.”
your stomach sinks. people are listening now, you know they are.
you can see it in the way conversations nearby begin to slow, or the way somebody glances over their shoulder before quickly looking away.
somehow none of that feels as important as the expression on rafe’s face, though. while everyone else fades into the background, your attention stays fixed entirely on him, searching for some indication that he’s going to stop, realize what he’s saying, and walk it back.
instead, he keeps going.
“you’re always texting me, always asking where i am, always asking what i’m doing,” he says, throwing one hand out in exasperation. “you don’t have to be attached to me every second of the day.”
your entire body gives a small involuntary flinch, not because he moves toward you or because you’re scared of him, but because hearing something like that from the person whose opinion matters most to you feels a little like missing a step in the dark.
you stare at him. that’s all you can do.
suddenly you’re replaying every interaction you’ve had over the past few months, wondering which part of it annoyed him this much.
was it the good morning texts? the calls? asking if he’d made it home safely after disappearing for hours? was it showing up when he asked you to? sitting beside him when he was in a bad mood? listening to him complain about his father, his life, his problems, and everything else? none of it had ever felt excessive to you. it had just felt like a relationship.
for the first time since you’ve known him, rafe seems to realize how bad what he said actually sounded, but just for a split second. the anger on his face falters slightly, uncertainty slipping through the cracks, but by then the damage is already done.
there are too many people standing around, too many eyes watching, and too much pride keeping either of you from pretending the moment never happened.
the lump in your throat makes it difficult to speak. still, you manage.
“okay.” the word comes out quiet enough that he almost doesn’t hear it. you don’t argue or try to defend yourself.
you simply nod once, forcing yourself to hold his gaze for another second before looking away, and somehow that hurts him far more than any argument probably would have. because for the first time all night, you’re not trying to reach him anymore.
the drive home that night is quieter than rafe expected, not because of what happened earlier. if anything, he almost wishes you were arguing back to him. arguments are familiar territory. he knows how to handle yelling and angry words and people fighting back.
what he doesn’t know how to handle is silence. after your small, quiet okay at the party, you never bring it up again.
you don’t ask him why he said it. you don’t just tell him he embarrassed you. you don’t even demand an apology or make him explain himself. you simply retreat into yourself, staring out the passenger window. a few times he glances over, almost expecting you to say something, but you never do.
eventually his grip tightens around the steering wheel as irritation replaces the guilt. if you’re upset, then be upset. if you’re angry, then say something. instead, you just sit there, and by the time he drops you off, he’s convinced himself the entire thing wasn’t nearly as bad as it felt.
the next morning feels strangely peaceful.
his phone isn’t lighting up every few hours. there isn’t a text waiting for him when he wakes up or a notification asking if he slept well, if he’s busy today, or if he wants to do something later.
at first, he barely notices. if anything, a part of him feels relieved.
isn't this what he wanted? space? room to breathe?
for the first couple of days, that’s exactly how he frames it in his head. he spends his time doing whatever he wants, going wherever he wants, and never once has to answer a question about where he’s been. every now and then he catches himself expecting a text to come through, but when it doesn’t, he simply tosses his phone aside and moves on.
it isn’t until the third day that the silence starts feeling less like freedom and more like something missing, because it isn’t just the texts. it’s everything.
it’s the fact that you don’t stop by tannyhill after being nearby, or that he doesn’t hear your name from rose asking if you’re coming over, or ward wondering if you’re joining them for dinner.
somehow you’d become woven into the routine of his life so gradually that he never noticed it happening, and now every missing piece sticks out.
he keeps expecting things to go back to normal on their own, and keeps expecting you to call first like you always do. he just keeps expecting you to show up, but each day passes exactly like the one before it.
then a week goes by. by that point, he’s checking his phone more than he’d ever admit out loud.
not texting you. he’s not that desperate. at least that’s what he tells himself. he’s just looking, just seeing if maybe you posted something, or if maybe you called while he wasn’t paying attention.
just seeing if maybe—
nothing.
which is why your name slips out so casually one afternoon that even he doesn’t realize he’s asking about you until it’s too late.
he’s sitting with topper and kelce outside the country club, all three of them halfway through a conversation that started about boats and somehow turned into making fun of one of the kook guys they know. laughter circles the table, and for a few minutes rafe almost forgets about the irritating little knot that’s been sitting in his chest all week.
then he reaches for his drink and says, “where’s y/n been?”
the laughter dies immediately. kelce blinks and topper looks up. for a second neither of them answers, because of all people, why would they know?
“what?” kelce asks.
rafe grins like he doesn’t understand. “what do you mean ‘what’?”
“you just asked where y/n’s been.”
“yeah.”
another pause. topper and kelce exchange a glance.
rafe immediately notices, and immediately hates it. “what?” he asks.
“nothing,” topper says.
“then answer the question.”
topper leans back slightly. “i don’t know. i think she was down at the wreck yesterday.”
rafe’s eyes narrow. “the wreck?”
“yeah.”
“with who?”
kelce lets out a short laugh. “how are we supposed to know?”
rafe ignores him, his attention staying fixed on topper.
topper shrugs. “some friends, i guess.”
“what friends?”
this time both of them stare at him, and rafe doesn’t understand why. the questions seem perfectly reasonable.
he’s your boyfriend, or at least he thinks he still is.
asking where you are shouldn’t feel weird, and asking who you’ve been spending time with shouldn’t earn him these looks. at least this is what he thinks in his own head.
“i don’t know, man,” topper says slowly. “i just heard she was there.”
rafe’s jaw tightens, “like, all day?”
“i guess.”
“she was there the day before too, then,” kelce adds. “pretty sure i saw her when i was driving through.”
that piece of information settles uncomfortably in rafe’s chest. so for the last two days, while he’s been sitting around waiting for some sign of life from you, you’ve apparently been out enjoying yourself.
the realization annoys him far more than it should. he tells himself it’s because it’s weird. maybe ‘cause it’s different. after months of knowing exactly where you are and what you’re doing, the sudden lack of information feels unfamiliar.
deep down, though, he knows that’s not the reason. the real reason is that he’d expected you to be upset and miss him. instead, every report he’s hearing now makes it sound like you’re doing perfectly fine without him.
that night, the thought follows him home, and then into his bedroom, and then into the early hours of the morning.
he ends up sprawled across his bed with one arm behind his head and his phone balanced against his chest, staring at the ceiling. every few minutes he unlocks his screen or checks the time. he finds himself opening the same apps for absolutely no reason before locking the phone again.
but eventually he gives up pretending. his thumb presses against your contact. he stares at your contact photo and the message thread that’s been dead for over a week. then he backs out, opens your location instead. the map loads.
you’re not home. his foot starts bouncing immediately. he tells himself he doesn’t care, he’s obviously only looking because he’s curious. right? because it’d be weird not to wonder. because—
you’re at the movies.
the realization irritates him instantly. movies with who? how many people are there with you? when did that plan even get made? how come he didn’t know about it?
his thumb pinches the screen, zooming in on the little circle as if the answer might magically appear if he looks hard enough, but he knows it doesn’t. all it tells him is that you’re somewhere having fun. somewhere that isn’t with him.
every bit of these thoughts trace back to one stupid night and one stupid argument that he can’t stop replaying no matter how badly he wants to. because the more he thinks about it, the more details come back - the way you’d looked at him and didn’t argue. you’d just looked hurt.
rafe shifts against the headboard. your location is still pulled up on his screen, somewhere near the beach tonight, probably with friends.
his jaw tightens, loosens, then tightens again. it almost makes him angry. reaching out means admitting something, that he was wrong and that he misses hearing from you.
eventually, the silence wins. or maybe it loses. he isn’t sure anymore. all he knows is that his thumb finally presses against the keyboard.
he starts typing something longer before deleting it immediately, starts again, then deletes that too. nothing sounds right. in the end, he settles on the only thing he can manage.
rafe stares at the message for a second before he finally hits send. the delivered notification appears almost instantly, and for the first time in weeks, the waiting belongs to him.
‘ are you busy? ’
and just seconds later, your read receipts pick up below his message.
actually if anyone wants to put in a request for a oneshot or anything for rafe or drew, feel free to leave me an anon while im ever mid writing cause i get writers block a lot w series compared to oneshots 😭😭
plot ── immortality gave you everything you never wanted and took everything you couldn’t bear to lose. when one impulsive decision leaves nineteen-year-old rafe cameron sharing your eternity, the two of you spend years growing from strangers into something neither of you ever believed in.
warnings ── chapter one, twilight au, vampire!rafe x vampire!reader, making rafe overly nicer than we know his character to be lowkey whoops, just setting before we get into the events of twilight idk .. read da author’s note at the end!
main masterlist | series masterlist (wip) | taglist
you can only remember so many faces. that realization creeps up on you slowly over the course of a century. nobody sits you down and warns you that immortality has limits of its own, because immortals rarely spend much time discussing the things they’ve lost.
humans worry constantly about forgetting people they love, but eventually you learn that memory becomes crowded when there are decades piled on top of decades, and entire lifetimes squeezed into the space where one should have been. after enough years, names begin slipping away first, then birthdays, especially some voices.
some memories survive anyway.
you still remember the color of your mother’s hands after long days of work. you remember the tiny apartment your family shared when you were young and the way every available surface somehow ended up covered in something drying, whether it was laundry, flowers, bread dough, or somebody’s school papers - maybe your brother’s.
you remember being terrified of death long before you had any reason to be, because even as a child you hated the idea that everything beautiful eventually ended. sometimes you think immortality is cruel specifically because it gives you enough time to discover that the ending was never the part you were afraid of.
there have been countless faces over the years.
there were classmates in chicago whose names have long since disappeared from your memory, and neighbors in montana who spent entire summers chatting with you over fences before you quietly vanished from their lives forever.
there were teachers, coworkers, cashiers, waitresses, mechanics, doctors, and strangers whose lives briefly brushed against yours before continuing down separate roads. some of them died before you ever left town. others are probably buried beneath headstones you have unknowingly driven past.
yet somehow, you always remembered him. you remember it before the golden eyes or the impossible speed, way before the strength or the cold skin. you remember it before he became part of the cullen family, before he learned how to live amongst vampires, and before he learned how to survive as one. more importantly, you remember it before he ever belonged to you.
you had always been picky about people. esme called it caution because esme liked giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, while rosalie called it stubbornness because rosalie preferred honesty over politeness whenever possible. despite the opinions of everyone around you, you simply liked your peace and guarded it carefully.
texas stretched endlessly beneath blue skies and blistering heat during the years you and the cullens lived there. jasper occasionally pointed out towns he’d known during his human life, though those stories usually stayed brief. alice seemed to have a talent for knowing exactly which memories were worth revisiting and which ones deserved to actually stay buried.
meanwhile, carlisle worked at a hospital on the edge of town, while esme spent her time transforming temporary houses into homes. you actually liked it there.
there were churches on corners, family-owned stores, old pickup trucks that somehow refused to die. no matter how many decades passed, you never quite lost your habit of watching the humans, and that was how you first noticed him.
there was a construction crew working near the hospital where carlisle spent most of his days, and you occasionally passed them whenever errands dragged you into town. they blended together at first, just another group of workers, then you began noticing one particular face appearing more often than the others. you could tell he didn’t demand attention though.
you saw him helping older workers lift equipment that should have required just two people. you saw him one time giving away half his lunch without a second thought and then pretending he hadn’t done it when somebody thanked him. he always ducked under the radar after every time like he didn’t want to draw attention.
once, you watched him spend nearly an hour helping a stranded family change a tire despite clearly being exhausted himself. none of those moments mattered at the time.
the day everything changed began with something embarrassingly ordinary. carlisle needed supplies from another city several hours away, and you volunteered before anybody else could. alice immediately perked up at the idea of a road trip before remembering she and jasper had already promised esme they’d finish helping with one of her renovation projects that weekend.
edward was busy at the hospital, and rosalie had transformed the garage into a literal crime scene with car parts. you didn’t even know where emmett was at that point, but by the time carlisle finished explaining what he needed, the responsibility somehow belonged entirely to you, which suited you just fine.
carlisle hesitated before asking you to go because he disliked separating the coven in single travels whenever possible. eventually he relented because you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself.
the drive itself was uneventful. you spent most of it watching miles of highway while old songs played through the speakers. humans passed by in both directions, unaware of what you were, and the simplicity of that fact had always brought a weird sense of comfort.
the scent reached you before you knew it. everything changed so quickly. the smell crashed into your senses from miles away, overwhelming and unmistakably human. it made the inside of your throat burn instantly. the truck swerved slightly before you regained control. in years of existence, you had never tasted human blood.
you abandoned the truck less than a minute later, just out of pure curiosity. someone had clearly been bleeding out.
the forest blurred around you as you ran, moving faster than any human eye could follow while the scent grew stronger with every passing second. sirens screamed somewhere in the distance, accompanied by shouting voices and twisted metal.
by the time you reached the construction site, you could see the machinery charred near one side of the clearing, fumes from put-out fires hanging in the air. some ambulances were parked near the entrance while others were already pulling away toward the highway.
your boots crunched against loose gravel as you walked toward the perimeter of the site, hands tucked into your jacket pockets while you observed the aftermath from a distance.
your entire body went still when you smelled it again. for over a century, human blood had existed as little more than background noise. you noticed it, certainly, but years of discipline had reduced it to something manageable. carlisle often joked that you and rosalie were two of the easiest vegetarians he’d ever trained because you two genuinely hated the idea of some person’s blood in your body. most days, that was enough.
this scent was different - it was strong. your eyes slowly lifted toward the far side of the construction site. the blood should’ve been concentrated near the emergency crews. instead, the scent seemed to be pulling you in the opposite direction entirely. before you realized it, you were walking, and the scent strengthened with every step.
soon the sounds of workers and medics began fading behind you. if not for your enhanced hearing, you might have believed you were completely alone. then you heard it - a heartbeat. the blood was someone bleeding out near you.
for a moment you simply listened, until another beat followed, and then another. each one was weaker than the last. your stomach dropped.
“no,” you whispered.
the sound came from beneath a collapsed section of the site. you reached it moments later. concrete slabs had fallen atop one another at awkward angles, surrounded by metal and shattered supports. from a human perspective, the debris field probably looked impossible to search thoroughly without heavy equipment. but it would be easy for you.
the heartbeat sounded again, so you moved immediately. pieces of concrete were lifted and discarded one after another. steel beams scraped across dirt as you dragged them aside. eventually even you found yourself muttering under your breath in annoyance as larger sections resisted being moved.
then you saw him. at first all you noticed was blood. there was so much of it. his body was half buried beneath debris, covered in dust and dirt and injuries severe enough that you immediately understood why his heartbeat sounded the way it did. his chest rose unevenly while one arm was trapped beneath concrete. blood stained nearly everything around him.
your hands froze. you knew that face. you had to look twice just to make sure. it’s someone from town.
the realization struck you harder than expected. you didn’t technically know him personally, and you’d never spoken more than a handful of words to him, yet you knew who he was, maybe not his name, but you knew he lived in town and worked construction.
he helped support his family, maybe two younger siblings you remembered seeing a few times. but you’d seen him enough times over the years to recognize him immediately.
slowly, you looked back toward the rest of the site. those injured here were part of the crew that left town a couple days ago, you remembered seeing it. carlisle was acquaintances with their foreman so you ended up waving them off alongside esme when it was their time to go.
but now, nobody was coming ‘cause the ambulances were leaving. they didn’t know he was here, probably couldn’t find him. or worse - they thought they’d already searched this section thoroughly enough.
your gaze returned to him. his heartbeat stumbled. you immediately reached for the small radio in your back pocket. carlisle answered as soon as he heard you.
for several minutes you explained everything while continuing to monitor the heartbeat. carlisle listened carefully. he asked questions, calculated distances, and remained calm throughout the entire conversation. the answer never changed. he couldn’t reach you in time. neither could edward, as even edward’s speed just not being enough.
by the time anyone arrived, he would already be dead. when the conversation ended, you sat in silence beside him for a few moments.
death happened every day; of course you knew that. every member of the coven knew that. your eyes remained fixed on the young man beside you.
he was nineteen, and he had family waiting for him. he had plans, probably an entire future. and somehow, against all logic, you knew he wasn’t ready to leave it behind. not this way.
his heartbeat weakened again. your decision was made before you consciously acknowledged it. perhaps it wasn’t your choice, and it never should have been, yet there was nobody else here but you.
slowly, carefully, you leaned forward. “i’m gonna save you,” you whispered. then you gave him the only chance you had left to offer.
three days later, after retrieving the supplies carlisle had originally sent you for, sleeping nowhere because neither of you required it, and listening to him scream his way through every burning second of the transformation, you finally drove back toward the cullen house with a newborn vampire sitting beside you.
the drive home was quiet. you mostly had expected screaming and questions, definitely accusations. maybe even panic. you had prepared yourself for the possibility that he would wake up furious. but instead, he listened, and sat in silence for most of the journey, staring through the passenger-side window with crimson red eyes that seemed incapable of settling on any one thing for very long.
you spent most of the journey wondering how exactly you were going to explain yourself to the others. the answer, unfortunately, never arrived.
every now and then his jaw tightened. you would catch him staring at his reflection in the glass before immediately looking away again. he hadn’t spoken a single word since waking up.
carlisle met you in the driveway. esme stood beside him while rosalie lingered near the porch railings with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. alice had already seen enough fragments of the future to know you were returning with someone, though even she seemed unsure of what exactly that future looked like now.
the newborn stepped out of the truck slowly, the movement alone drawing everyone’s attention. newborn vampires were dangerous, everyone knew that.
their strength was unpredictable. their instincts were overwhelming and their thirst was unlike anything older vampires could remember clearly after enough decades had passed. yet despite all of that, the young man standing before them seemed less interested in attacking someone and more interested in figuring out what exactly to do with himself now.
his eyes swept across the gathered coven and he said nothing.
carlisle approached first, “hello, son.”
you winced, understanding carlisle’s means to welcome him into the family, but even you could tell it was too soon and not the greeting this guy probably wanted to hear.
his expression immediately hardened. “i’m not your son.” his voice was rough from disuse. it was also the first thing he’d said all day.
carlisle smiled anyway, “fair enough. come on in, we’ll show you inside.”
the following weeks were difficult, and the following months were worse.
it nearly convinced rosalie that she should be allowed to throw him into a river and leave him there until he developed a better attitude. emmett disagreed, though mostly because he found the newborn’s stubbornness entertaining. the two of them ended up wrestling often enough that furniture occasionally needed replacing afterward. nobody was entirely sure whether those fights were hostile or recreational.
the newborn never explained much. he answered questions when he felt like answering them, then ignored them when he didn’t. for almost three months, nobody even knew his name.
every attempt at conversation ended exactly the same way: either he walked away halfway through it or stared at whoever was speaking until they became uncomfortable enough to leave first. eventually emmett started inventing names simply to annoy him. none of them worked.
then one afternoon, while rosalie was threatening bodily harm over something involving a stolen wrench and emmett was insisting he had done nothing wrong, somebody referred to him as “the blue collar kid” for perhaps the hundredth time.
he looked up.
“rafe.”
the room went quiet.
esme blinked, “what?”
“my name.” there was another pause. “it’s rafe. rafe cameron.” then he stood up and left. for reasons nobody could adequately explain, that counted as progress.
the move came sooner than expected. newborns attracted attention, but rafe attracted even more.
there was only so long an entire coven could remain hidden when one of its members occasionally forgot he could launch himself through walls if he wanted to. eventually the family packed their belongings, gathered their vehicles, and relocated once more. it wasn’t unusual. every member of the coven had left pieces of themselves scattered across dozens of towns already.
rafe hated it, and you understood why. everyone else had experienced that loss decades earlier. for him, it was fresh. his family was still alive, his siblings were still growing older.
his parents were still sitting at the same dinner table each night grieving their son never came home. the news confirmed rafe’s body to be gone from the accident, everyone but him was found, and human.
you caught him driving back more than once, but not all the way. he never got close enough to be recognized, just close enough to see, and he always came back afterward. carlisle never stopped him. neither did you.
“he’ll get himself killed.” rosalie said it often, usually while watching him disappear into the woods again. “or someone else.”
carlisle never seemed particularly concerned. “we trust him. he’ll come back.”
and he always did.
years passed very slowly. the anger never disappeared entirely, though it changed shape over time. the distrust became less obvious. eventually conversations lasted longer than five minutes, and he even started helping around the house without being asked.
you noticed those changes long before he realized they were happening. carlisle noticed too.
one evening, after rafe had vanished into the garage to work on one of the cars for the third consecutive night, carlisle glanced toward the open doorway and smiled faintly.
“he trusts you.”
you looked up from your sketchbook. “that’s a generous interpretation.”
“i don’t think so.” his attention remained fixed on the garage. “i think you’re the reason he’s still here.”
you didn’t answer immediately. across the property, metal clinked softly against metal. rafe was working - again. he seemed happiest when his hands were busy.
carlisle’s smile widened slightly. “you know, some vampires form bonds that are stronger than most.”
your eyes narrowed immediately. “don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you were about to. i’m not gonna force him to see me as his mate.”
from somewhere outside, a wrench hit the concrete floor. it alerted you both to turn toward the garage.
rafe had heard every word. a moment later the garage door opened. he emerged carrying a toolbox beneath one arm, his expression completely unreadable.
“i’m going for a drive,” then he got into his truck and left.
you and carlisle watched him disappear down the road. after several moments passed, carlisle finally sighed. “perhaps i should have chosen a different topic.”
“yeah, perhaps.”
there’s another pause before carlisle speaks again, “he’ll come back.”
you stared toward the empty road.
despite everything, with the distance he tried maintaining between himself and everyone else, and with every argument and every slammed door, you already knew carlisle was right. he always came back, so nobody chased after him.
by then, everyone had grown familiar with his habits, even if nobody claimed to understand them completely. whenever something frustrated him, confused him, or simply became too much, he left. you didn’t know what he would do every time he left, was what worried you when he was a younger vampire, but years of watching him eventually taught you the same lesson carlisle had learned long ago.
still, you found yourself glancing toward the driveway more often than usual during those three days he was gone after he overheard you two. every vehicle that passed in the distance caught your attention for a moment before disappearing again. alice noticed, though she was polite enough not to mention it.
by the time rafe finally returned, pulling into the driveway as though he’d only been gone for an afternoon, you were irritated enough to immediately decide you weren’t going to tell him that you’d missed him. he didn’t mention carlisle’s comment, and you didn’t either.
a few years later you had to move again. carlisle always had the seven of you in college every time you moved, though as the years passed he started talking to you guys with ideas of starting out in high school instead from now on, so you could stay in a place longer. you weren’t opposed - you just didn’t think any of you actually looked like high schoolers. it was just an idea for now.
anyway, alaska forests swallowed entire landscapes, snow blanketed everything for months at a time, and the sunlight itself was different. esme fell in love with the scenery almost immediately, while emmett spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to convince everyone that wrestling a grizzly bear in alaska somehow differed from wrestling one anywhere else.
the denali coven quickly became part of your lives after that. carlisle and esme already knew them well, of course. edward had spent enough time with them over the decades that their home felt familiar to him, but for the rest of you, those first introductions carried the awkwardness of meeting relatives you technically weren’t related to.
tanya welcomed everyone warmly, irina watched you guys with cautious curiosity, and eleazar immediately became fascinated by rafe. that last part didn’t go particularly well.
eleazar had always possessed an interest in gifts and abilities, especially unusual ones, and rafe’s power caught his attention almost immediately. unfortunately, rafe already disliked being the center of attention, and being examined by an ancient vampire who could identify supernatural talents within minutes did absolutely nothing to improve his mood.
you remembered standing nearby while eleazar politely asked questions about his experiences and his instincts during combat, only to watch rafe respond with increasingly shorter answers until he finally excused himself and disappeared altogether.
“did i say something wrong?” eleazar had asked afterward.
“probably not,” you replied.
despite his tendency to disappear whenever too much attention landed on him, rafe gradually settled into life with the coven. he remained quieter than emmett, less openly affectionate than jasper, and nowhere near as social as alice, though that wasn’t a particularly difficult achievement considering alice could become friends with a complete stranger in under ten minutes.
he participated in conversations when he felt like it, offered opinions when he thought they mattered, and otherwise preferred observing the room before deciding whether anything needed his attention.
somehow, without either of you planning for it, he spent most of that time around you. at first it happened for practical reasons, ‘cause you were the person he knew best.
every other member of the family had entered his life after his transformation began. they met him as a newborn, and the only reasoning that made sense to him was that you had known him briefly before any of that, even if your interactions had been limited. you had at least seen the human version of him first, and perhaps that mattered more than either of you realized.
the habit started small. sometimes you would find him sitting nearby while you sketched. he never asked what you were drawing, though every now and then you’d notice him glancing over your shoulder.
sometimes you would wander into the garage and discover him rebuilding something that had worked perfectly fine before he’d decided to take it apart. those evenings usually ended with you sitting nearby while he worked, occasionally handing him tools and listening to him explain things you barely understood.
neither of you spoke constantly, and that was part of what made it easy. silence never felt uncomfortable around him.
you never felt responsible for filling every quiet moment, and he never seemed to expect you to. entire afternoons passed with little conversation beyond a few casual remarks here and there. if another person had walked into the room, they might have assumed neither of you particularly enjoyed the other’s company. the reality was that both of you kept choosing the same rooms over and over again.
years passed. somewhere along the way, rafe stopped disappearing for days without warning, and you would stop wondering whether he would return every time he left. his presence became such a normal part of your routine that you didn’t notice how much space he occupied in your life until he wasn’t there.
the possibility of becoming mates never crossed your mind during those years, and it wasn’t because you disliked him. it was quite the opposite.
you simply couldn’t imagine your life revolving around another person in the way you had watched it happen with rosalie and emmett or alice and jasper. more than a century of independence had taught you how to exist on your own.
you’d built hobbies, friendships, routines, and entire identities without needing a mate to complete them. whenever the topic came up, you genuinely believed you would spend eternity perfectly content without one.
rafe seemed even less interested. for a long time, you were pretty sure he was still grieving his human life, which was valid.
he spoke about his family occasionally, usually late at night, and those conversations reminded you that some losses didn’t disappear simply because enough time had passed.
eventually, however, the grief became something softer. it stopped controlling every decision he made, and as the years continued, the two of you developed countless little habits that neither of you consciously acknowledged.
he started looking for you first whenever he entered a room. you automatically set aside books you thought he’d enjoy reading. he learned which songs would make you stop everything to listen, and you learned that he focused better whenever his hands were occupied with some kind of project.
none of those moments felt significant at the time, that was the funny part.
people always imagined love as something dramatic. they imagined grand confessions, impossible coincidences, or life-changing realizations. if someone had asked either of you when things began changing, neither of you would have known how to answer. there was no single moment where everything suddenly became different.
instead, it happened the way mountains formed, just slowly enough that nobody noticed until one day the landscape looked completely different than it had before, and by the time either of you realized what was happening, the foundation had already been there for years.
the trail had gone cold three separate times over the last week, which was becoming irritating. carlisle wanted answers from the rogue vampire before somebody else found him first, which meant killing him was out of the question and losing him was somehow even worse.
every time you thought you were getting close, the scent would vanish again, leaving you and rafe staring at each other from opposite sides of the truck with matching expressions of annoyance. if nothing else, the trip was proving that frustration apparently survived death.
rafe had wandered deeper into a clearing after deciding he was tired of sitting in the truck, and you followed. he was standing near a fallen tree now, rolling his shoulders as though he were preparing for a fight already. the sight earned a smile despite yourself.
his blond hair was a mess from the wind, and there was still dried dirt on the sleeve of his jacket from earlier when he’d climbed beneath the truck to fix something.
he picked up a rock from the ground and tossed it absentmindedly between his hands while you watched the forest around you, listening to sounds.
“come here for a second,” you eventually said.
the suspicion appeared immediately. “why?”
“because i’m asking. just walk over here, please.”
rafe hesitated for a moment before pushing himself away from the fallen tree. the instant he started moving toward you, you bent to grab a rock from the forest floor. rafe immediately narrowed his eyes, which was usually a sign that he was about to regret whatever came next.
“what’re you doing?”
“science.”
“that is not science—”
you launched the rock without warning. the stone crossed the clearing faster than any human eye could follow, cutting through the air with enough force to split a tree trunk if you had wanted it to.
rafe moved before it even reached him. the reaction happened instantly, his body shifting sideways at the exact moment necessary for the rock to miss. there was no hesitation and no visible thought process behind it. the rock disappeared into the woods behind him.
you tilted your head thoughtfully. “see, that’s interesting. you moved before you even saw it.”
“no, i did see it.”
“you absolutely did not.”
rafe opened his mouth to argue before stopping. “okay,” he admitted reluctantly. “maybe i didn’t.”
the conversation shifted after that, becoming less about your gift and more about his. that part was always harder because his ability remained frustratingly vague even after years of experimentation.
your power had announced itself immediately after your transformation. his had hidden beneath layers of instinct and reaction.
you spent the next hour throwing things at him, just using branches, stones, chunks of bark, and eventually an entire fallen log became unwilling participants in the training exercise. every impact met resistance somewhere in front of him.
even with vampire eyesight, you couldn’t fully see it. there were moments when the air distorted faintly, bending light for a fraction of a second before returning to normal.
“how’s it looking?” you asked eventually, folding your arms across your chest.
rafe’s eyes shifted toward you briefly before returning to whatever shape he’d managed to create. “exactly the same as yesterday, and the day before,” he replied. there was a pause before he added, “which is probably disappointing for you, considering you’ve spent the last month acting like i’m secretly capable of something crazy.”
a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “i don't think you’re secretly capable of anything. i think you’re obviously capable of it and too stubborn to admit it.” you stepped closer, circling him once. “every time i ask you to expand your shield, you stop the second it becomes uncomfortable. if rosalie did that with cars, half the garage would still be sitting in boxes.”
“okay, but that’s because rosalie enjoys making herself miserable,” he said immediately.
“and you don’t?”
that earned a look. you laughed before bending to pick up another rock from the forest floor. you turned the stone over thoughtfully between your fingers, seeing the look on his face. “you know, for someone whose entire gift revolves around sensing danger, you’re really dramatic whenever i help you practice.”
“help isn’t the word i’d use.”
“stop being ungrateful, rafe.”
before he could respond, you flicked the rock toward him. his shield appeared instantly. even after years of watching him use it, the speed still surprised you. there was enough invisible resistance between him and the stone to shatter it completely. fragments scattered across the clearing before either of them could hit the ground.
you pointed toward the broken pieces with a look of satisfaction. “see? perfect.”
rafe stared at the debris for a moment before looking back at you. “you threw a rock at my head.”
“i threw a rock at your shield.”
“those are not the same thing.”
“your power seems to disagree.”
later, after several more attempts at expanding the shield and an increasingly ridiculous debate about whether he could eventually create multiple barriers at once, both of you ended up sitting beneath one of the larger trees near the edge of the clearing.
“did yours happen right away?”
the question arrived so casually that it took you a second to realize what he meant. you glanced toward him and found him looking back now.
“my gift?”
when he nodded once, you considered it for a moment before letting out a small breath. “sort of.”
one of his eyebrows lifted slightly. “sort of?”
“i didn’t know it was a gift at first.”
the answer seemed to surprise him.
“for months after i was turned, people kept second-guessing themselves around me. they’d stop in the middle of conversations, change their minds halfway through decisions, or just stare at me like i’d interrupted a thought.” you brushed a loose pine needle from your sleeve before shaking your head. “i genuinely thought i was just awkward to be around.”
that earned an actual laugh from him. “you?”
“believe it or not, yeah. but then eventually i realized it kept happening too often to be coincidence. i started paying attention and figured out people hesitated whenever i focused on them.” your gaze drifted toward the trees again. “at first i thought i was making people nervous, then i thought maybe i was scaring them or something. i didn’t really understand what was happening.”
you paused, remembering how confusing those first months had been. “the truth ended up being much less dramatic . . ‘cause all i do is create a pause.”
he tilted his head slightly.
“sometimes it’s enough to stop a fight before it starts. sometimes it’s enough to make somebody reconsider something stupid. if i’m lucky, they redirect completely ‘n choose a different course of action.” you shrugged lightly. “if they’re determined enough though, they keep going anyway. i can’t control people. i can only give them a second to think.”
“honestly,” you continued, “i think we’re two of the luckier ones.”
that drew a look from him. “lucky how?”
“compared to other gifts.” you leaned back against the tree. the memory of old conversations surfaced almost immediately.
“alice told me once that her visions terrified her when she first woke up. she didn’t understand why she kept seeing things that hadn’t happened yet. she thought she was losing her mind for a while.” your expression softened slightly. “edward wasn’t much better. carlisle told me his gift overwhelmed him from the second he opened his eyes.”
rafe’s attention remained fixed on you, “he could hear everybody.”
“exactly,” you nodded. “every thought. i doubt he knew how to block any of it out. i can’t imagine what that would’ve felt like.” after a moment, you glanced toward him. “but anyway, that’s why i think getting control of a gift matters. when you’re a newborn, i don’t know . . jasper knows more about this than me, but you can kinda assume we don’t wake up immediately understanding how to fully control them until later.”
“carlisle said something about how one out of every fifty vampires develops something, or maybe less,” you recalled. “when it happens, the gift usually grows from whatever trait defined them most as a human. that’s probably why you can sense danger before it happens.”
his expression shifted. “because i was protective?”
“in a sense, but i think it was because you were always paying attention to what could go wrong.”
for a while, he looked away again, and you assumed the conversation was finished until he spoke. “what about you?”
you frowned slightly. “what about me?”
“like what was your most dominant human trait?”
the question caught you off guard more than it should have. for a second, you genuinely didn’t know how to word it.
your eyes wandered toward the treeline while you thought about it - about california, your family, just your human life in general. eventually, you laughed quietly to yourself.
“i think i was just curious.”
rafe glanced over. “curious?”
“about people.” you smiled faintly. “i don’t know. i paid attention to them, probably more than i should’ve. ‘cause most people move through life on instinct. they react before they think, or they decide things quickly, or they act on emotion.” your fingers traced absent patterns against the bark beside you. “i always found that interesting, i guess. i didn’t think it was a huge part of me but maybe it was bigger than i thought.”
you paused. “carlisle explained it better than i ever could. he told me i spent my whole human life noticing things other people missed. i thought my gift made people afraid of me, and he told me that wasn’t what was happening at all, but that my gift makes people consider. he said i’ve always given myself a moment to think before acting, and now i accidentally force everyone else to do the same. ‘n that, i guess, my gift gives people the same pause i’d always given myself.”
for a moment he stayed silent, which prompted you to also, but then rafe huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “that is the most carlisle explanation i’ve ever heard.”
IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST, leave me comments so i can add you for the next time! this taglist is temporary to the first chapter only, starting now i will officially add anyone who voices wanting to be added thru comments, reblogs (with msg attached), or anons (with ur profiles attached), and of course thru my taglist. NOT thru likes.
Hi! Will there be more chapters to your Like Gasoline fic?
i actually have no idea, maybe not now but maybe in the future. im not permanently staying on tumblr since im still on break, but for rn only really committed to “im coming, wait for me” and my upcoming twilight fic 😓
sorry for any disappointment cause i did rly like that series’ plot, but im just so out of ideas and have such little time at this point in my life rn, but again, maybe ill return to it someday impulsively at 3am again
PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.
CONTENT chapter thirty-two, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rafe being tortured by jabberjays, reminding me that y/n has to be the one captured soon im gna cry, small rafe & y/n moment to rmbr that theyre tg honest (edit: hi i didnt know i wrote so much of this draft already so ill finish it off and release w no mistakes hopefully)
main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous
you’re crouched low in the sand, pressed into the shade of a tree whose branches dip so far down they nearly brush the ground. finnick has his chest braced against the trunk while peeta sits across from him, resting on a root.
“so besides castella and harmon, who’s left?” katniss asks.
your head perks up. castella and harmon. your first time hearing their names said aloud. it hits you in some way, proof that katniss truly had done her research before this.
“maybe chaff,” peeta says. “just those three.”
“they know they’re outnumbered. i doubt they’ll attack again,” finnick adds, rolling a bit of sand between his fingertips.
“seven against two?” rafe’s voice cuts in low, and for a second his eyes flash toward the group like he’s measuring them all out.
“we’re safe here on the beach,” finnick finishes with a nod.
“so what do we do? we hunt ’em down?” johanna throws out, itching for something to do. you don’t blame her for being the one to kill cashmere earlier. she spent all that time trying to keep wiress and the others alive, just for her to go like that.
but before anyone can answer, a scream rips through the air, cutting from the jungle. it’s a girl’s scream.
you jolt, your head snapping up, heart slamming once against your ribs. the sound doesn’t belong here, at least not with who’s left alive. it sounds too young.
“katniss, help me!” the voice cries again.
you don’t even need to think about it. of course everyone looks to katniss. and in the blink of an eye, she’s already moving, shooting up from the sand so fast it’s like she’s spring-loaded. her bow’s in her hand and her feet are carrying her toward the trees before any of you can react.
“prim! prim!” she screams. you’re quick to remember that’s her sisters name.
it chills you, because you’ve heard this before, this trick. you’ve heard these birds echo the voices of the dying in previous games, long before even your own. you’ve heard victors choking on sobs, usually their family begging. the sound is designed to tear you in half, and to rot you from the inside out.
“jabberjays,” you breathe, but there’s no time for any of it to sink in. you’re already pushing to your feet with the rest of them, bodies surging forward to chase after katniss.
the jungle swallows her quickly. katniss is fast, cutting through the brush with a desperate speed that leaves the plants snapping back in her wake. your chest burns trying to match her pace, branches catching against your arms as you force yourself forward. you can hear the others scattering out in a broken line behind you, some falling behind, but finnick and peeta stay closest, their voices pushing out after her.
“katniss!” your own voice breaks panicked, because the sound is too loud, all of it - her shouts, your shouts, the thunder of bodies running through the greenery. it’s too much noise, and it must be too easy to track.
castella and harmon could be anywhere. this could drag them in like a beacon. you know katniss hears her baby sister’s cry, but she has to hear you too. she has to know this isn’t real.
she’s just too fast. finnick manages to stay on her trail, but even he looks strained, jaw set as though he knows he’s seconds from losing her.
you’re running blind, lungs burning, when it happens. there’s a sharp stumble, the thud of a body hitting the ground. beetee.
it jolts through the ground. everyone falters, just for a heartbeat, and you whip around instinctively.
“beetee!” johanna calls like there’s no time to slow down, and she doubles back immediately.
you skid in the dirt, shoes slipping, and for a split second your eyes lock on rafe. he’s stopped mid-run, frozen halfway between the you and beetee, eyes flicking from you to the path katniss disappeared down.
your chest heaves, breath ragged as you rush past him. your hand catches his arm, grounding you for half a second. “go, go with them!” you push at his shoulder lightly.
he lingers just a second, scanning you, then but he listens, sprinting after finnick, who’s paused only long enough to glance back and see what’s happened. rafe gives him that sharp hand gesture where he points ahead with his hand, the kind that means don’t worry, just go. finnick’s jaw clenches before tearing off again.
then you’re dropping down beside beetee. his glasses are askew, his coil of wire half-unraveled like a trail behind him. his hands fumble uselessly, as if his brain can’t keep up with his body.
“beetee, please,” you beg, crouched low as you press a hand to his arm.
his eyes are glassy, distant. you know what he’s hearing. you know who he’s lost.
johanna kneels on his other side, one hand already braced against his back, the other swiping angrily at the mess of wire. “c’mon, genius. this isn’t where you get to fall apart.” her tone is biting, but you can see the tightness around her mouth.
you help gather the wire too, looping it clumsily into manageable coils, anything to lighten the load. between the two of you, you manage to wrestle it together and sling it back into beetee’s trembling hands.
then, both of you hook your arms under his, hauling him upright. he stumbles, but with the combined force, he finds his feet.
johanna’s voice comes out harsher than she probably means it to. “no one else is going to die. we just—” she cuts herself off, teeth sinking into her lip as she tries to swallow the burn in her chest. finally she spits it out, “we have to be careful. stick with the group.”
you nod hard, still clutching beetee’s arm as his weight leans on you. “together. we’ll stay together.”
somewhere ahead, katniss’s voice still carries. the jabberjays don’t stop. even as you and johanna drag beetee forward, the voices chase you through the trees, calling katniss’s name over and over, a child’s voice ripping itself raw. “katniss, help me! please!” it doesn’t let up.
you can hear katniss ahead, her bow catching branches as she barrels through the jungle.
and then, just as suddenly as it began, the cries cut off.
you look toward the dark tangle of trees, chest rising and falling like you’ve been holding your breath for miles. the silence lasts a second too long before it fractures.
“finnick!” a girl’s scream tears through the canopy. you jolt, head snapping to the sound. finnick himself lets out a ragged curse somewhere ahead.
“annie!” it’s his voice this time, desperate.
another jabberjay swoops low, wings thrashing the air, and the sound shifts again. it’s male now, a man’s voice howling through the branches, “katniss!”
your chest tightens, pulse hammering, but it’s the next one that cracks you open.
“rafe!”
it’s not katniss’s sister, and it’s not annie. it isn’t some nameless voice pulled out of the districts. but you know this one. it’s so familiar.
your throat goes dry, your body cutting off your breath like it doesn’t trust you to survive it. “sarah,” you swallow. your stomach caves in, folding around the name.
you both promised, in a thousand whispered plans, that you’d protect her. how did they get her voice? how did they catch the sound of her screaming?
it nearly tears you apart, even if you’re not the target, because you know rafe is hearing it too. and unlike you, he doesn’t get the buffer of disbelief. he’ll believe it, he’ll feel it in his marrow.
your legs keep moving, but the sound begins to fade. and with each step, you realize what’s happening: the voices are following the others up ahead. panic eats its way up your throat. you think that if you lose the sound completely, it means they’re too far ahead.
“c’mon,” you gasp, adjusting beetee’s weight. you steal glances at the back of peeta’s head, his blond hair bobbing just ahead. as long as he’s in sight, you’re not lost. peeta’s the thread tying both groups together.
then he slows, stops. your heart lurches, and you see him crouch.
through the break in the brush, you catch it all in fragments. katniss is curled on the ground, hands clamped over her ears, jabberjays darting like knives in the air. peeta kneels in front of her, calling to her. finnick stands like a shield behind them, swatting at the birds, jaw tight.
and rafe . . . he’s a few feet off, hands over his ears, body pitched forward like he’s trying to collapse in on himself, but he doesn’t move away. he stays close, even through the torment. and for one splintering moment, you think he’s waiting for you.
you drop beetee’s arm. the coil wire falls heavy in the dirt. your legs carry you forward before you’ve even decided, cutting through branches, reaching for him.
but when you do, you slam into nothing. the impact rattles your teeth, sends you stumbling backward with your palms stinging. confusion surges first. it’s a forcefield.
you blink, dazed, staring at the faint shimmer in the air where your body hit. then you try again, shoving forward, shoulder-first this time. nothing. it throws you back, relentless.
“no—” your voice cracks, rising with panic. you press your hands flat to the invisible barrier, dragging them down as if you could claw it apart. “no, how long ‘til it lifts?”
beetee, still catching his breath, adjusts his glasses. “if the gamemakers designed this as part of the system then it won’t release us at whim,” he says, “an hour, perhaps less, but no sooner than that.”
an hour. this is an active sector. you have to wait for an hour.
your heart breaks as your gaze locks on rafe. he’s still crumbling in the sound, shoulders rigid, face strained like he’s holding himself together by force.
you press your palm harder against the barrier, almost like you could reach him. like if you push hard enough, your hand might break through. you want to tear it away with your bare hands. you want to be in there, shoulder to shoulder, anything but standing useless on the outside.
but the arena has made sure: all you can do is watch.
you sit there the entire time, your knees dug into the dirt. your eyes never leave him. rafe shifts between trying to shut it all out with his fingers shoved into his ears and his heads bent low, and snapping up to swat the jabberjays away when they get too close to him, or katniss, or finnick.
it’s unbearable, watching him, knowing it’s sarah’s voice they chose.
and after what feels like forever, the first real movement startles you. rafe rips his hands from his ears, his grip snapping around the handle of his mace, and with a sudden, violent swing he brings it across a small cluster of jabberjays swooping too close.
the crunch being sharp, feathers scattering, finnick averting his gaze. rafe pins them into the dirt. he doesn’t look relieved. if anything, he looks colder, staring down at the bodies as if he isn’t even seeing birds anymore, but just bloodied, broken things.
your head tilts without meaning to, your palm pressing harder to the forcefield, like you could reach him if only you leaned far enough. you can’t. all you can do is watch as he sits down hard, knees bent, arms hooked over them, his forehead resting against the edge of his wrist.
time blurs. minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity. you don’t even notice it at first, not until peeta finally manages to reach katniss. the barrier collapses without warning, and the jabberjays scatter. the others begin to move, relief rushing through the group, but all you see is rafe.
you’re already moving before you even think. you drop down behind him, close enough that your knees brush his back as you settle on the dirt. your hands reach for his shoulders, light at first, the touch almost cautious. he flinches, just barely, like a twitch under your fingers, but you don’t draw away. instead you squeeze gently, then lean down, your lips pressing to his shoulder blade, tasting salt and sweat.
your arms slide around him from behind, circling his frame. you rest your cheek against his back. the sector is quiet now, the jabberjays gone. it’s over, and you want him to feel that, through the press of your arms, that you’re here.
“are you okay?” you whisper, leaning into him. you don’t really expect an answer, not after what he just went through. he’s silent, but you can still hear katniss gasping, her breaths jagged while peeta murmurs quick reassurances, telling her she’s alright, telling her the capitol wouldn’t dare touch prim.
“your fiancé’s right,” johanna cuts in, standing again after checking on finnick. her axe is loose at her side, her voice carrying that bite that always makes you wonder if there’s something else behind it. like envy, maybe. “the whole country loves your sister. if they tortured her or did anything to her, forget the districts, there would be . . .” she smirks bitterly, eyes flicking away, “riots in the damn capitol.”
johanna doesn’t stop there. she turns her face up, addressing the canopy above like it’s snow himself looking down. “hey, how does that sound, snow? what if we . . . what if we set your backyard on fire? you know you can’t just put everybody in here.”
“johanna—” you try calling her name low, a warning, but she barrels on.
eventually her eyes come back to the group, her tone dropping quieter. “what? they can’t hurt me,” she says. “there’s no one left that i love.”
your expression falters, your gaze slipping down to the ground beneath her boots. you pity her, almost. you can feel it in your chest, but you know better than to let it show, because johanna would tear you apart for it. so you stay quiet, watching as she looks over to katniss, her voice barely above a whisper. “i’ll get you some water.”
even now, she’s focused on katniss, protecting the girl who was just forced to hear her baby sister’s cries through a flock of mutts. still your mockingjay.
you glance at katniss now. her face is a mess of shock, grief, and confusion all blurred together. but you turn back to rafe. he’s still folded into himself, silent, distant. your hand lifts, brushing dirt off the fabric of his suit in small strokes, like it matters, like if you can clean away what clings to him, maybe you can take some of the weight too. you smooth the fabric at his shoulder.
“it wasn’t real, rafe,” you murmur, low enough for only him to catch. your hand finds the back of his neck, slick with sweat, and you rub slow circles there. when your palm comes away damp, you wipe it against your thigh without thinking, your eyes never leaving him.
he doesn’t answer or even move. you let him have that silence, watching the tightness around his jaw, the way his shoulders haven’t loosened even once.
then, carefully, you reach across and set your hand against his chest. his heart beats hard beneath your palm, proof that he’s still here. “strong heart,” you tell him quietly, pressing your fingers into the fabric.
his eyes drop down to your hand and he stares at it like he doesn’t know what to do with the words. then he looks away, angled just enough toward you that you know he heard, even if he can’t face you yet.
“no fear,” you add, softer still, rubbing small circles into his chest, coaxing him back piece by piece.
your hand shifts, reaching past him to the far side of his head. you guide him toward you, pulling him in until you can press your lips to the side of his face, before you ease back and breathe, “let’s go, c’mon,” when the sound of the others moving nearby filters through, meaning it’s time to leave.
he doesn’t move right away. not until you rise, brushing dirt from your legs, and extend your hand down to him. he looks at it for a beat, then lets you help him up.
he still looks gutted, the memory of sarah’s voice echoing in his head. annie’s screams, prim’s cries, they even cut deep enough on their own, but sarah . . . that had been unbearable.
you keep your touch on him as you guide him forward. the two of you retrace the path back toward the beach, back to where you’d run from an hour ago.
HAII YES I LOWKEY after posting that “im gonna write for 2026!!” i deleted tumblr ..
but now i have a LOT of free time so i can write all i want 😋 this time i think i can for sure commit to my promise in writing as much as i can but I HOPE 2026 HAS BEEN KIND TO U ALL
love u guys miss u guys im going to revive starkeymeow acc 2026 !!!!
update: nevermind i just got a whole lot busy and i cant write as consistently as i thought i could guys sorry if u see this😭
i reinstalled tumblr for 5 seconds and saw a comment under “im coming, wait for me” (my hunger games drew starkey fic) and decided maybe ill let u guys off with something more to read since its been a while since ive written for it 😓
i wont be consistent here but its 4am, i cant sleep, ive been scrolling tiktok, and this is like the best time for me to put out one or maybe even two chapters in a row if im lucky
ok miss u guys xoxo ill release something very soon within the next something hours ? hopefully
HAII YES I LOWKEY after posting that “im gonna write for 2026!!” i deleted tumblr ..
but now i have a LOT of free time so i can write all i want 😋 this time i think i can for sure commit to my promise in writing as much as i can but I HOPE 2026 HAS BEEN KIND TO U ALL
love u guys miss u guys im going to revive starkeymeow acc 2026 !!!!
update: nevermind i just got a whole lot busy and i cant write as consistently as i thought i could guys sorry if u see this😭
PLOT Years after their messy breakup, Y/N, now a rising documentary filmmaker, is assigned to direct a film about Saint Halo, the world-famous band fronted by her ex, Rafe Cameron. What starts as a professional reunion turns into an emotional collision, as old wounds resurface under the lights of fame and the camera starts catching more truth than either of them planned.
CONTENT CHAPTER ONE, strong language, emotionally charged intimacy, emotional infidelity, & me overdoing this whole thing and writing way too much. i lowkey dont check my taglist app so just dm me or comment underneath !
MAIN MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST
you sit in the back of the conference room with your coffee going cold. your producer for the documentary, mae, is standing at the front beside a whiteboard that’s already crowded with color-coded notes: names, dates, arrows, scribbles about logistics, flights, permissions. somewhere between week 2 and week 5, she’s managed to fit a doodle of a little guitar.
her handwriting is almost too neat for what she’s saying. “access to saint halo will be limited at first,” mae’s explaining, marker cap clicking in her hand. “they’ve had issues with press, and management is being cautious. we’ll need to be careful about tone early on. don’t push for anything too personal until they trust us.”
you nod automatically. your pen is between your fingers, but you’re not taking notes, mostly because you don’t need to. you could do this half-asleep and still nail it. and honestly, part of you probably is half-asleep, if not physically then somewhere in your head.
mae’s voice blurs into the background. she’s walking through the plan: week one is sit-down interviews, week two is live tour footage, weeks three through (hopefully) six is studio and off-days.
it’s all textbook. you’ve done this a dozen times before with politicians, small-town artists, even that surfer doc that got you the sundance shortlisting, but this one’s different. you’re not sure if it’s the subject, or the subject of the subject. saint halo, of all the bands in the world.
you try to tell yourself you’re lucky. it’s a high-profile project with real budget, real eyes on it. the label’s backing it, the production company’s been trying to get in with the music industry for years, and now they have their foot in the door because of you. your name carries weight. mae knows it, the executives know it. they all trust you.
but your stomach still twists when you think about what that means. you swallow hard, tune back in just in time to hear mae’s voice.
“we’ll be traveling in the next few days,” she says, flipping through her clipboard. “they’re still on tour, so we’ll meet the band at one of their gigs first. we’ll get permission for backstage access and maybe some audience shots. it’s a good chance to get performance footage early - kill two birds with one stone.”
you blink, forcing yourself to focus. performance footage, early material, travel prep. got it. you underline something meaningless in your notebook just to look busy.
mae continues, “i know the idea of filming on-site can be chaotic, but it’s good energy. it’s raw. we want the audience to feel the noise, you know? that’s what makes the music documentaries land.”
you nod again, even though she isn’t really looking at you anymore. your eyes drift back down to your laptop, to the corner of the screen where your email is still open, but your cursor hovers over the imessages icon instead.
you shouldn’t, but your fingers move before you can stop them. it’s like muscle memory, almost.
the chat window pops up with a list of names you know too well. you see the cinematographer from your last film, the sound designer who’s been wanting a chance to work with you again, even that editor who worked with you on a hurricane doc. she still calls you “boss” even though you hated it.
and then, somewhere near the bottom, rafe cameron.
his name looks wrong in the context of work. the little profile circle is just a gray placeholder now. there’s no photo or last activity timestamp, but the thread is still there. the scroll bar is small, a testament to how much you once texted.
you deleted your old messages from your phone years ago. it was an act of cleansing, but the laptop kept everything.
you exhale slowly and scroll up anyway, eyes moving over fragments you’d forgotten were still here. there’s jokes about lyrics, him sending you a rough demo at two in the morning, ‘don’t laugh if it sucks,’ and pictures from nights you barely remember.
your reflection stares back at you from the black edge of the screen. you can hear mae still talking in the background about shooting permits and camera setups. you should be listening. you want to be listening, but instead you’re typing. your fingers move on their own.
no, too casual. delete.
no, he knows who you are. delete.
you breathe in through your nose, try again.
the words look too bare, too defensive for a first message after, what, two years? three? you stare at them for a long time, the blinking cursor pulsing.
you imagine him seeing it. the unread notification, the way his brow might furrow, the possible what now he’d mutter under his breath. you imagine him ignoring it. you imagine him answering. neither version even feels survivable. your thumb hovers over enter.
then, slowly, you backspace. each letter disappears until there’s nothing left. no message, no start, no chance to ruin or repair anything. you shut your laptop gently, the click of it closing louder than it should be.
around you, the meeting wraps up. mae’s saying something about the call sheet, about flight times. the crew’s laughing softly as chairs scrape against the floor. someone tosses a marker into the bin.
you nod when mae passes by and says, “we’ll touch base tomorrow.”
you land in chicago a little after noon. the flight itself was . . . fine, except for the hour you spent stuck behind a group of drunk bachelor-party guys arguing. by the time you finally got off the plane, your patience was thin, your earbuds were dead, and your iced coffee had melted into something closer to literal dishwater. still, you made it, and that’s what matters.
you pick up your luggage, check into the hotel mae booked for the crew and drop your bags at the foot of the bed. the white comforter looks tempting enough to dive into, but mae’s text pops up before you can even think about sitting down: van leaves in 20. wear something casual. soundcheck at 4.
so much for rest. guess you should’ve done more of it on the plane. but now, twenty minutes later, you’re squeezed into the middle row of a black sprinter van with mae and three other crew members. mae’s at the front, laptop open, talking to the driver about the route to the venue while she sips her third cold brew of the day. she’s good at multitasking, she always has been.
“we should get there right as saint halo’s starting soundcheck,” she says over her shoulder. “perfect timing to get some behind-the-scenes footage before the crowd fills in.”
you nod, even though you’re not sure she’s talking directly to you. the city slips by through the tinted window, and the closer you get to the venue, the heavier your chest feels. you tell yourself it’s nerves or excitement. or maybe it’s just the cold pressing through the glass. the venue’s big, but you’ve seen enough arenas from concerts you’ve been to in your freetime.
you step out of the van with your camera bag slung over your shoulder and take it all in. mae’s already directing traffic, telling the camera crew where to unload, which doors to use, what permissions they have. the venue’s front-of-house staff points you toward a side entrance, wristbands waiting for you at check-in.
entry’s been covered by one of the documentary’s major backers. you’d read their name enough times on contracts and funding proposals that it feels weird to finally see their logo plastered on the laminate around your neck.
you move with the rest of the crew through the back corridors of the venue. someone’s already doing a mic check in the distance.
there are equipment cases stacked against the walls backstage, crew members in all black darting between sound techs and lighting rigs. mae stops every few steps to talk logistics with someone, while you find yourself wandering toward the stage area.
a man spots you first, nate ellison, saint halo’s manager. he’s in his mid-40s, beard going silver, wearing a vintage tour tee and a headset like he’s been doing this since the literal dawn of time.
“you’re with mae’s team, right?” he says, smiling as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “y/n, yeah? we’ve been expecting you.”
you nod, offering a polite handshake that he returns with the kind of practiced friendliness of someone who meets too many people in a day.
“they’re just finishing soundcheck,” nate explains, tilting his head toward the stage. “i’ll take you over to meet them real quick. won’t keep you long.”
you follow him up the steps to the side of the stage and notice wide lights, the empty stretch of seats and railings, a few fans scattered near the barricade, phones already up. apparently, saint halo allows a handful of people to buy early-access passes to watch soundcheck.
on stage, the band’s finishing a run-through of a song. instruments hum, and you can feel the vibration through the floorboards. nate lifts a hand, gesturing for them to wrap up.
“hey, guys,” he calls out. “come take a second, this is y/n. she’s with the documentary team.”
the noise quiets. the drummer stops first, setting her sticks down on the snare, followed by the bassist leaning back against his amp, and then, finally, the lead singer turns.
your heartbeat doesn’t care that this is a work assignment. it doesn’t care about professionalism or posture or how many years it’s been. all it knows is that he’s here.
the band gathers at the side, sweat still shining under the stage lights, the early-access fans in the audience murmuring behind their hands. you can’t look away, not yet, and he doesn’t either.
nate’s voice fades into the background as you step forward. the first one to reach out is this tall, lanky guy with a grin and a sweat-darkened shirt. he takes your hand in his, eyebrows raising almost immediately.
“no offense,” he says, his tone somewhere between amusement and disbelief, “but you look kinda young for the gig.”
before you can even think of a response, another voice cuts in, a deeper laugh from just beside him. “i was gonna say the same damn thing,” the other guy adds, shaking his head.
you let out a small, polite laugh, giving the first one a nod. “i’m twenty-five,” you say simply. “and i promise i know what i’m doing.”
that earns a few chuckles from the others. they’re not being mean, they’re just curious. you’re used to it. people expect the kind of person who directs documentaries to be older, more jaded. not . . . well, you.
the first guy is luca if you remember correctly. he still looks half-surprised, half-impressed. the bassist, the one every article called “the glue” or whatever. he’s pretty, that’s for sure.
next is orion, their synth and guitarist. seems like a nice kid. he’s got that restless energy you’ve seen in so many artists. his hand is warm, his grin crooked. the profiles you read called him the “spark” of saint halo, the one who starts ideas that everyone else eventually shapes into something bigger. you can see why.
then comes nox, the only girl in the band. she’s quiet at first, her handshake firm. her dark hair is pulled back, a faint sheen of sweat from soundcheck still clinging to her temples. articles always called her “the backbone of saint halo,” and it fits. she’s presence before she’s sound.
and then rafe. you knew this part was coming, but no amount of bracing can soften it.
he steps forward, slower than the rest, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering his hand. his eyes meet yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he hasn’t been the ghost sitting at the back of your mind for months, maybe years. his hair’s a little shorter, his jaw sharper, but the way he looks at you hasn’t changed at all.
you inhale through your nose before taking his hand. his grip is steady. there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. maybe amusement. “so you’re the director?” he asks. it sounds like he’s teasing you and testing the air between you at the same time. you know that he’s known you’re the director for this project.
you squint at him, a slight curve at the corner of your mouth but it never really turns into a smile. “mm,” you hum, then you drop his hand.
nate clears his throat somewhere off to the side. “alright,” he says, clapping his hands together once, “we’ll keep this quick. they’ve still got a couple things to run before doors open.”
the words are mostly for you, though his tone is light, almost apologetic, like he’s trying to usher the moment along without stepping on it. you nod, stepping back a little.
luca adjusts the strap of his bass. orion twirls a pick between his fingers, and nox has already turned away, reaching for her sticks. rafe doesn’t really move.
his hand falls back to his side, fingers flexing once. his gaze stays on you, not intense exactly, just more curious, like he’s trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who used to exist beside him.
“this way, y/n,” nate says, gesturing toward the stairs that dip backstage. you follow, the soles of your boots scuffing lightly against the stage.
as you descend, you feel his gaze again, but you keep your expression neutral, professional. behind you, a chord rings out. nate says something about schedules, about how tomorrow will run smoother once everyone’s comfortable. you nod along, eyes on the narrow hallway ahead.
you don’t look back. but if you did, you’d see rafe still standing where you left him, one hand on the mic stand, watching until the curtain swallow you whole.
the rest of the setup moves like clockwork. sound techs darts across the stage, crew members crouch over cables, lights flicker in bursts as the rigging adjusts. the band slips back into their rhythm, instruments tuning, mics checked.
by the time the house lights dim, the venue’s a different animal. it’s crowded, people are sweating already. you’ve got your walkie in hand, headset on, threading yourself through the barricade gap where the cinematographers are already stationed. the pit smells like warm metal and adrenaline. you speak low, guiding them like it’s instinct.
“camera two, hold that wide. three, pan left when rafe hits the chorus. stay on the drummer when the bridge hits. there’s a rhythm shot there i want.”
they nod. you move between them, just close enough to see the flicker of the stage lights bouncing off the lenses. you tell one of the crew to grab a side angle, another to get close on rafe’s hands. you don’t have to think too hard.
after about an hour, though, the volume starts pressing against your skull. you step away, slipping behind the curtain and down the narrow hall that leads backstage. mae’s there at a folding table with an open bag of chips and two monitors showing the live feed from your cameras.
“you’re a machine,” she says, mouth full.
you snort, sitting beside her and grabbing something off the snack spread. the monitors flicker with alternating shots, like the band bathed in red light, sweat on their necks, the crowd’s hands reaching like waves.
you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand as you watch. every so often, you murmur something into the walkie: “tighten the frame. yeah, that’s better,” or “hold that shot until he turns.”
mae chews, glances over. “this is gonna be good. i can feel it.”
you don’t answer. you’re too focused. the concert stretches on for another hour or so, long enough for the monitors to turn from blue to gold to near-black as the lights shift for the encore. when it’s finally over, the band jogs offstage, laughing, breathless. one of your cameramen follows close, capturing luca wiping sweat with a towel and grinning, orion shouting something about “that last chord,” nox raising her drumsticks like a victory flag. rafe’s there too, grinning wide, a flash of teeth, his eyes briefly catching the lens before he disappears past it.
you stand, tucking your headset off, nodding to mae. “alright,” you say softly, almost to yourself.
the rest happens smoothly. the makeshift interview room is already cleared backstage, low lights and two chairs facing each other with a single camera trained between them. someone’s placed bottles of water and towels in the corner.
it’s time to start the diary footage. mae hovers nearby, letting you handle the first round. you glance over at the others in hair and makeup, each one waiting their turn, fiddling with phones or headphones, shooting little glances toward the monitors where you’ll later sync everything.
the first one is luca, hands folded loosely in his lap, legs bouncing just a little as he smiles easily at you. he leans forward in the chair the second you gesture for him to start.
“we didn’t think anyone would care about four kids playing in a garage,” he says. he laughs softly, like the memory is both funny and unbelievable. “i mean . . . it was just us, instruments no one wanted, riffs we ripped off from old bands we loved, and a lot of late nights arguing over chord progressions and lyrics that didn’t make any fuckin’ sense—am i allowed to swear?”
you tilt your head, letting the camera roll as you ask the first few guiding questions, “so what made you stick with it? why keep playing together?”
he shrugs like it’s obvious. “i don’t know. we just found a rhythm. rafe had that spark, ri could turn any random idea into something that actually worked, and i guess someone had to keep us from completely losing it long enough to actually get a song finished. that ended up being me.”
you nod, scribbling a few notes in your pad while watching his eyes light up as he talks. the way he gestures, it’s clear he loves sharing this story, loves that someone’s actually listening. you ask him about his background, like how he grew up, what drew him into music.
“my parents moved from puerto rico when i was ten,” he says, “so, like . . . everything felt new, like different language, different beaches, different vibes. i had to figure out who i was really quick, and music was my thing. i had a landscaping job one summer to make enough for strings and gas on my own. didn’t matter what anyone else thought, i just wanted to play. like it wasn’t rebellion, not really. it was more like boredom, or pressure. figure eight’s full of money but short on air, you know? you can’t breathe unless you build your own world.”
you ask about their first gigs. he leans back, thinking, hands drumming lightly on his knees. “some house parties, random bars, once at a friend’s dad’s warehouse. nothing fancy. mostly just to see if people would show up. and when nox joined? that changed everything.”
orion’s calmer and quieter when he comes in for his interview. he adjusts the collar of his shirt.
“saint halo really started to make sense once we realized we wanted more than noise,” he says. “i grew up around music my whole life, classical piano, jazz, the whole thing. rafe and luca were kind of . . . chaos incarnate? they could make this messy, emotional stuff, but it needed structure. i provided that. added synth, layered guitars, textures. it was the first time i felt like someone else really understood what i wanted to hear.”
you ask him how they all came together.
“we knew each other in school,” he says carefully, “but we didn’t really hang out ‘til after graduation. different circles, i guess. our parents all had these plans for us. college, finance, business degrees, whatever. but none of us wanted that. we just wanted to play.”
you nod, smiling softly. then nox takes her turn a few questions later. she slides in like she’s only half-interested, but there’s still this carefulness, a hint that she’s clearly media trained. she’s moody, but it’s contained.
“their old drummer bailed before the first gig,” she says bluntly, like that explains everything. “i read the sheet once, figured i’d just play it by ear after. i played it close enough to near-perfect the first try. they asked me to stay. i didn’t really think about it beyond that.”
you raise an eyebrow, letting the camera capture the slight shrug she gives. “so you knew them before the band?”
“yeah, school,” she says casually, tapping the side of the chair. “but we didn’t really . . . hang out until after i graduated. they graduated before me.”
you nod. you don’t need the extra drama on camera, just the essence of it. “so you were kind of the final piece?” you ask.
“i guess,” she says. “kept the rhythm.”
and now, all four of them are backstage in hair and makeup again to regroup and wait for each to finish.
you glance at the monitors again after nox is done, and you see rafe pacing slightly. it’s not anxiety, probably just passing time. he catches your eye for a moment through the reflection of a mirror and then looks away.
you’re still hunched slightly over your notebook, pen scratching as you jot down notes from the last interview. the pages are crowded with observations, like little personality quirks, things to remember for continuity, moments you might want to reference when editing. your head’s down, focused.
mae appears beside you quietly, hands folded in front of her. she stands there for a beat, watching you, tilting her head slightly as if measuring your mood.
“you ready for rafe?” she asks finally.
you barely lift your eyes, still scribbling, fumbling slightly with your pen. “uh, yeah, yeah,” you murmur, distracted. your free hand smooths down your shirt as you shift, trying to get comfortable on the chair again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs to prepare yourself for the next one.
mae nods once and slips away toward the hall to call rafe in. you barely register any of the murmurs over walkies, someone checking the camera, the faint scratch of a notepad on a clipboard.
you don’t pay any mind when rafe enters. mae and nate are speaking with him a few feet away, hands gesturing, heads nodding, giving him quiet instructions on how to act for the cameras, what to expect, how to settle into the room like they did with the others. you catch only fragments of movement, like him nodding, his hesitation on whether they’re done talking to him so he can finally sit, but you don’t look up.
mae’s voice floats over to you, calling your name. you glance up slowly, placing your palms flat on top of your crossed legs, feeling the cool edge of the chair beneath your fingers.
he’s there, sitting across from you. the chair swallows part of his frame, but he leans just enough to the side. his cheek rests against his index finger, his thumb tucked beneath his chin.
your pen hovers over the notebook again, but you don’t write. you glance at him one last time. “you ready?” you ask softly.
he tilts his head, smirking slightly, and gives a slow nod. you exhale quietly and turn toward your crew, a subtle motion with your hand. they nod back, red dots blinking on the sides of cameras, microphones clicking to life. they’re recording.
you clear your throat, “so, let’s start with the obvious. how did saint halo first come together?”
he leans back just slightly, but he answers. it’s the same as the others, just worded differently. the first gig with nox is the same deal.
you nod, letting it sit. you shift slightly, leaning forward, curious eyes tracking his gestures. “walk me through a typical writing session with the band. how do songs start? what’s your inspiration?”
he tilts his head, thoughtful now, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. “depends,” he says slowly. “sometimes a riff hits, someone hums a melody, a word pops into someone’s head. sometimes we sit in silence until someone cracks. most of the time, the inspiration is regret. sometimes love. mostly the same thing, just dressed up differently.”
your pen scribbles furiously, but your eyes flick up at him unconsciously. he watches you, just enough that it feels deliberate, almost teasing. “and,” he pauses, casual, “every now and then, someone or something inspires a line, a hook. you wouldn’t even notice unless you’re listenin’ close.”
you clear your throat, humming. “so then how do you manage creative disagreements? does it get messy?”
he laughs quietly, “all the time. we argue, we mock each other, we literally threaten to quit mid-song. but it works! it works. we need the chaos, honestly. without it, we’d be boring.”
you nod. “there will be new listeners after this, there are currently people who’ve never exprienced saint halo. how would you describe the band’s sound to someone who’s never heard you before?”
“rough around the edges,” he says, almost smiling. “but it’s personal. like, if someone played their diary through a speaker, that’s basically us.“
you hum with a half-smile. you actually hate that you like the sound of that. he leans back again, hands resting lightly on his thighs, gaze drifting to the ceiling for a moment before snapping back to you.
you pause your notes for a moment, and decide to go for something a little heavier. “so do you have any regrets going into this career? anything you’d do differently?” your voice is careful.
he tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if weighing how much to give. he lets out a long breath, fingers brushing across his knee, tapping lightly. “regrets . . .” he starts slowly, almost like the word tastes funny on his tongue. he exhales lazily, having to think about it at first. you almost think he doesn’t have any until he continues. “i mean, sure. everyone has them. maybe some songs i wish i’d never written, shows i could’ve skipped.”
maybe it’s because of your history, but it isn’t exactly the answer you’d hoped for. as the manager of this project, it’s a solid answer. you nod, pen moving again, jotting down a few more notes as he watches you intently.
“maybe a few decisions that burned bridges i shouldn’t have.”
you scribble, but your eyes flick up to him briefly. it’s deliberate, the way he avoids naming names, avoids specifics. you almost, just for a moment, assume that’s actually aimed at you, but you’d be stupid for thinking so. maybe. most likely. you brush over it, not thinking about what that could even mean.
he leans back, crossing his arms lazily as if he’s done with the topic. “but honestly?” he says, shrugging. “every mistake led here. every late night, every chord, every fight got me to a place i can stand on stage, play my music, ‘n actually mean it.”
your stomach sinks a little, a faint knot forming. not because he’s lying, not exactly, but because you know him. you’re grateful he’s found his place. you shouldn’t be upset about anything else.
you scribble a note anyway, trying to capture what he actually said, not what you wanted him to say. “got it,” you murmur quietly and glance back at the cameras to ensure the framing catches everything perfectly.
he’s charismatic. he’s effortless. he’s captivating. but he’s not giving you that one answer you’ve been wondering about for years. not yet, you don’t think, anyway.
the cameras roll, capturing the frontman of saint halo in his element, and you let the disappointment settle quietly in your chest, tucked away beneath your notes and your carefully curated professionalism, and you move on.
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