community service - rafe cameron smau
rafe sat in the driver’s seat, the engine off, the silence inside the cab so heavy it made his ears ring.
the rec center’s front doors blurred through the rivulets of water sliding down the glass. kids darted across the lot with jackets pulled over their heads, sneakers splashing in puddles, laughter carrying faintly through the storm. they didn’t notice him sitting there, still as stone, hands locked around the wheel.
his hands flexed on the steering wheel. he’d been sitting there for ten minutes, maybe longer. long enough that the coffee he picked up on the way had gone lukewarm in the cup holder.
he leaned forward, elbows on the wheel, forehead dropping to his hands.
go in.
do your hours.
pretend it’s fine.
he exhaled hard through his nose, jaw clenched.
or he could turn the key.
back out and keep driving.
keep driving until he hit the bridge. until the rec center and its director and everything she’d said to him was a small dot in the rearview.
would jail really be worse than this? than seeing your face again, calm and unreadable, telling him to forget it like he was nothing?
he groaned low, pushing back in his seat. staring up at the ceiling of the truck like it might give him an answer.
he’d been in fights. bloody, ugly ones. he’d gotten chewed out by his dad more times than he could count—screamed at, shoved, threatened. he’d been called every name in the book. but nothing had hit him like those words behind the shed.
we didn’t even start, and you already fucked up.
he’d tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. that you didn’t matter. but the way his stomach had dropped when you turned your back, the way your voice still echoed in his head—yeah, it mattered. too much.
he dragged a hand down his face. maybe if he just stayed out here, they’d mark him absent. another strike on his record. court would send him back in front of the judge. and the judge wouldn’t hesitate. jail.
his fingers tightened around the wheel again.
jail would mean quiet, at least. it would mean he wouldn’t have to walk inside and see you pretending like he was just some guy putting in community service hours.
but the thought of never being near you again made his chest ache in a way he hated admitting to himself.
through the glass, he saw you. just for a second—passing in front of the doorway, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back. you didn’t glance outside. didn’t know he was there.
rafe closed his eyes. counted to three.
and then, with a muttered curse, shoved the door open and stepped out.
the gravel crunched under his boots.
every step toward the building felt heavier than the last.
the door creaked as rafe pushed it open, rain still dripping from his hoodie, shoulders hunched, hair plastered to his forehead.
he trudged past the front desk without a glance, ignoring the “morning” offered by the volunteer on duty.
the usual sounds of the center filled the hallway—kids laughing somewhere off in the gym, the squeak of a sneakers on the floor—but it all felt distant. muffled. like he was moving underwater.
the staff room sat just past a supply closet and a laminated weekly schedule curling at the corners. he’d been in and out of it a dozen times. knew every scratch on the table, the way the coffee machine hissed when you leaned on the counter, the clipboard of assignments always hung crooked by half an inch.
but this time, something was different.
hair slightly damp from the rain. pen in one hand, checklist in the other. voice smooth and even as you rattled off names and assignments—unbothered, unreadable.
not even when the door clicked shut behind him.
no flirty comment about him being late.
no slick remark about the storage closet needing to be reorganized—your usual code for meet me there in five.
“matt’s leading crafts today. jerome’s on reading buddies. rafe—main floor cleanup and backdoor supervision.”
his name landed in the room with a dull thud. like punctuation. not importance.
you didn’t even glance up from the clipboard.
rafe blinked. tried not to let the silence hollow him out.
he ran a hand through his soaked hair, water flicking off the ends. looked around the room. everyone else was either grabbing their assignments or pretending not to notice the way the air had shifted.
pope stood near the fridge, arms crossed, steaming coffee in hand, watching. quiet.
his stare wasn’t curious. it wasn’t passive.
confused, maybe. disgusted, probably.
like he couldn’t figure out how rafe had the fucking nerve to walk in like nothing had happened.
didn’t know what he could say.
he crossed to the lockers along the back wall, pulled open the one labeled by a sticker with his name on it, and grabbed a towel. the motion felt stiff. his hands fumbled. his pulse thundered in his ears.
behind him, your voice continued—professional, practiced. giving directions like nothing was wrong. like he wasn’t standing six feet away, completely erased.
still—not once did you look at him.
rafe didn’t bother drying off all the way. what was the point?
he tossed the towel back into his locker, slammed the door shut harder than necessary, and headed out into the hall. still dripping, hoodie clinging to his back like a second skin.
the assignments you handed to people you didn’t want to think too hard about.
the mop closet was already unlocked. he grabbed the bucket and the long-handled mop, yanked open the utility sink, and started filling it with hot water. steam curled upward, fogging the edges of his vision.
he could hear the buzz of kids echoing from the gym, the squeak of sneakers, the occasional laugh or shout—but none of it registered. not really.
his jaw was locked so tight it hurt.
because really—what the fuck did he expect?
that you’d look up and smile at him? bat your lashes and pretend like nothing happened? that you’d forget what he said? how he laughed along with the others? how he stood there like a fucking coward?
he shoved the mop into the water and wrung it out like he was imagining his own neck.
maybe he thought you’d say something.
even if it was mean. even if you cursed him out in front of everyone.
that shit was unbearable.
rafe rolled the bucket out into the hallway. the wheels squeaked across the tile, water sloshing with every turn. he started with the main stretch outside the cafeteria—long rows of smudged floor and tracked-in mud from the rain.
each swipe of the mop was mechanical. thoughtless.
push. drag. twist. repeat.
the motion was mindless. angry.
and still—your voice echoed in his head.
We didn’t even start, and you already fucked up.
I shouldn’t have to teach you how to respect me.
he cursed under his breath and rammed the mop into the corner, the head slamming against the baseboard with a dull, wet thud.
behind him, someone cleared their throat.
leaning against the doorway that led to the front office. arms crossed. no clipboard. no coffee. just watching.
rafe straightened, mouth pulling into a tight line. “what?”
pope didn’t answer right away. just cocked his head, eyes narrowed like he was trying to solve an equation and didn’t like the answer he was getting.
“didn’t think you’d show,” pope said finally.
rafe scoffed. “yeah, well. neither did i.”
then: “she told us what happened.”
rafe didn’t flinch. just turned back to the mop. dipped it again. squeezed. started scrubbing hard at imaginary dirt.
pope’s voice stayed even. “you’ve got this whole act, man. this thing you do.”
“what thing?” rafe muttered without looking.
“like nothing gets to you. like you don’t care.”
he kept his eyes on the water, swirling and filthy. grip tightening.
“but she saw through it,” pope said. “you know she did.”
rafe’s fingers tightened around the handle. “you done?”
pope didn’t blink. “you’re a fucking idiot.”
rafe stilled. grip turning white-knuckle. but he said nothing.
a casual bump that wasn’t casual at all. pope brushing past him, deliberate. harsh.
pope didn’t slow. didn’t glance back.
just kept walking, voice trailing behind him.
“also—use the side exit today. jj’s looking for you.”
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆
you heard the door open before you saw him.
not loud. just a soft creak and the shift of air pressure that always came when someone walked in from the rain.
you knew it was him the same way you’d know a storm was coming if you stepped outside—by the way the air changed.
like something about to snap.
you kept your eyes on the clipboard.
“matt’s leading crafts today,” you said, voice steady. “jerome’s on reading buddies. rafe—main floor cleanup and backdoor supervision.”
his name barely snagged on your tongue. clean cut. nothing extra.
you didn’t glance up. didn’t dare let your expression shift.
it was hard enough just standing there—cool and composed—when your pulse jumped the second you heard his boots hit the tile.
because last week, he’d been late again and you’d teased him for it.
last week, he’d leaned against the wall, cocky and damp from the rain, and asked if the supply closet needed reorganizing again- followed by that half-lidded gaze that made your stomach flip.
last week, he’d looked at you like you were something soft in his sharp-edged world.
today you didn’t look at him once.
you read the assignments, flipped the clipboard shut, and handed it off to pilar without breaking rhythm.
you could feel him though.
standing in the back, dripping and stiff, trying not to shift under the weight of his own guilt.
and maybe, if you let yourself glance over, you’d see it in his face. that quiet sort of ache he never let anyone else see.
but he didn’t deserve that.
he didn’t deserve the softness.
you stepped aside, gesturing for the rest of the staff to head out, your tone clipped but polite.
pope hadn’t said anything yet. just stood near the fridge with his arms crossed, eyes bouncing between the two of you like he was waiting for a signal you weren’t willing to give.
you’d already spent the morning ignoring jj’s texts—
—and the last thing you needed was pope joining the warpath too.
you lingered by the whiteboard as the last of them cleared out, pretending to adjust the schedule.
just long enough to hear rafe’s footsteps retreat down the hall.
popped into classrooms to check on sessions, ran supply deliveries to the gym, took the long way to the front desk just so the younger kids could swarm you with questions.
you liked moving. liked having your hands full, your mind buzzing, your eyes on something other than paperwork.
your office—usually just a stopover between tasks—had become a bunker.
the grant paperwork you’d already triple-checked? suddenly worth quadruple-checking.
you reread every paragraph. every comma. revised numbers that didn’t need revising. dug through folders for reports you didn’t need to pull until next week.
because walking the halls meant maybe bumping into him.
and you weren’t ready for that.
not when you were still trying to breathe normally every time someone so much as said his name.
you peeked out your door before stepping into the hallway—twice.
once around the corner by the cafeteria.
again by the supply closet.
you moved fast when you did leave the office. sharp turns, tight detours. taking the side stairwell instead of the main one just to avoid the front lobby in case he happened to be there.
every time you did catch a glimpse of him—mopping by the back doors, wiping down the front desk window, sorting bins by the gym—you ducked out of sight.
you sat back down at your desk and clicked open another spreadsheet, eyes glazing over almost instantly.
but you forced yourself to focus.
forced yourself to do something useful.
you didn’t have time to feel sorry for yourself.
didn’t have time to feel anything, really.
because there were deadlines to meet, attendance numbers to update, donations to confirm—
and none of it stopped just because rafe cameron turned out to be exactly who everyone warned you he was.
you blinked hard, dragging your finger across the touchpad and clicking into the next cell.
your jaw ached from clenching.
your fingers hovered above the keyboard like they didn’t quite know what to do next.
you stayed in that office.
because if you stopped working, you might start thinking.
and if you started thinking, you might look up.
your spreadsheet focus session didn’t last long, though.
barely twenty minutes passed before a knock tapped twice against your door.
“hey,” pilar said, already halfway in. “jerome’s out. food poisoning. said he can’t keep anything down. not even water.”
you sighed, dragging your hands down your face. “okay. i’ll cover it.”
“you sure? i can move someone over from—”
“no,” you cut in, already grabbing your lanyard. “it’s fine.”
you headed out, mind already shifting into kid-mode. you liked reading buddies. it was usually easy. gentle. gave your brain a break.
but when you turned into the “library”—a glorified office, really, with haphazardly hung fairy lights and uneven bookshelves—you stopped dead.
yellow bucket tucked in the corner, mop in hand, sleeves shoved to the elbows.
he didn’t see you at first.
he was in the back of the room, head down, scrubbing a sticky trail of something dark red—juice, probably. maybe paint. maybe both—with the kind of urgency usually reserved for hiding evidence.
you swallowed hard and stepped in.
the air felt tighter in here. the walls too close.
you and rafe had snuck into this room more than once.
not for reading. not for kids.
but for stolen minutes. for kisses and closeness. for giggles behind the shelves and whispered shut up, someone might hear us.
his eyes flicked up as you crossed toward the book crate in the corner.
and you pretended not to notice.
“reading buddies?” you asked the cluster of kids already crisscrossed on the floor. “you ready?”
one of them pointed at the shelf. “you should do the bug one. the one where he eats all the stuff.”
The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
“classic,” you said with a smile, pulling it from its spot with muscle memory alone.
you didn’t look at rafe again.
he moved toward the far side of the room, quietly—mopping like he wasn’t there. like he was trying to be invisible.
every shift of his weight.
every soft slosh of the bucket.
every sweep of the mop against the laminate floor.
you opened the book and started reading.
“in the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf…”
and when one of the kids leaned against your arm, giggling about how the caterpillar ate five oranges, you smiled back, because this you could still do.
but every now and then, your gaze flicked sideways—just for a second—toward the edge of your vision.
still pretending not to look at you.
still pretending not to hear your voice.
still pretending like the silence between you wasn’t deafening.
you were halfway through the caterpillar’s food rampage—saturday’s stomachache and all—when one of the kids raised their hand like it was a classroom.
they looked serious. like what they were about to say was important.
“you read good,” they said solemnly. “but this one needs a different voice.”
you tilted your head slightly. “what kind of voice?”
“a deep voice.” they nodded, definitive. “like a boy voice. or a monster voice. your voice is too soft.”
you raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. “you’re saying i don’t have monster voice range?”
they didn’t laugh. didn’t budge.
just pointed—directly behind you.
rafe had frozen mid-mop. still crouched in the corner, one hand on the handle, eyes wide like he’d just been caught sneaking in.
he opened his mouth—then closed it again.
“can he do it?” the other kid chimed in, practically bouncing. “he should do the wolf book next!”
they scrambled for it, digging through the crate until they pulled out a slightly battered copy of The Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig.
you looked down at it. looked at them. then—unfortunately—looked up at him.
and you knew he knew it was a bad idea.
you could see it in the way his lips parted, ready to say no, ready to bolt.
but then one of them added, “please?” in that soft, pleading, child-voice way that cracked even the hardest adult exteriors.
he stood slowly. “uh. sure.”
say something—anything—to stop this from happening.
and he was already walking over.
already crouching beside you.
already taking the book from your hands like it weighed nothing. like it hadn’t been a landmine waiting to go off.
you made sure your fingers didn’t brush his.
he barely made it through the first sentence when one of the kids interrupted.
“he can’t do the little wolves,” one of them insisted, like it was a fact. “his voice is too rumbly.”
“you do the wolves,” the other added, pointing a tiny finger at you. “you already have a soft voice.”
“you guys have to do it together,” the first one chimed again, practically vibrating. “like teamwork!”
your lips parted to argue. to redirect. to escape.
but then they all looked at you—four pairs of bright, eager eyes, waiting like you were the missing piece to the best part of their day.
and rafe was already opening the book again, tilting it slightly in your direction, one hand steady on the page.
you sucked in a deep breath.
just enough to see the words.
just enough for your knees to graze.
“once upon a time there were three cuddly little wolves with soft fur and fluffy tails…” he began again, his voice just as deep and steady as before.
you swallowed, forced your tone to come out light.
“they lived happily together in a tiny cottage in the woods…”
he turned the page carefully, slow and deliberate.
the story played out that way—him, steady and growling and funny, and you, animated and sweet and trying not to let your face betray anything.
he did the big bad pig with just the right amount of huffing and menace, earning giggles that made the corners of your mouth curve upwards.
and for a few minutes, you almost forgot.
because the kids were laughing. leaning into each other.
one had their chin propped on your leg, totally transfixed.
he’d always been good with the kids.
the kind of good that made you forget the rest of him—until he reminded you.
and now, his voice dipped again, drawing out the pig’s ridiculous threats.
“i’ll huff… and i’ll puff… and i’ll blow your house in.”
but you heard it in his voice.
that little lilt of softness behind the rough.
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆
the second the book closed, they started begging for another.
“mr. rafe, do the goat one!”
and god help him, he would’ve read a hundred more books. would’ve done every silly voice they asked for until his throat gave out and his lungs burned—if it meant he could stay this close to you.
if it meant he could sit on this floor and pretend for just a little longer that things weren’t broken.
like you didn’t flinch when their knees brushed.
like you didn’t keep your voice so measured, so carefully indifferent.
like your eyes still softened when they landed on him.
he watched you smile at the kids—really smile—and his chest ached with it.
they were all leaning into you now, heads tipping onto your shoulder, arms tucked into your sides like you were the sun and they were trying to stay warm.
and he just watched. helpless. reverent.
like it was a memory he was never allowed to touch again.
“okay, that’s enough,” you said, voice light but firm. “time to head to the cafeteria. we can talk about your favorite parts after lunch.”
there were a few groans and pouts, but the room shuffled into reluctant movement anyways. because no one ever argued when you gave directions.
you herded them toward the door—with gentle taps on backs, whispered reminders to be kind and say thank you.
just a few more hugs. a few tiny high-fives.
then the door clicked shut behind them.
and suddenly, it was quiet.
the air in the room stretched thinner.
still too loud in all the wrong places.
rafe stayed kneeling on the floor, book still in his hands, watching as you turned back from the doorway. for a second, a single stupid second, he let himself hope. maybe those few minutes had softened something. maybe the story had worked a little magic. maybe you’d look at him like you used to.
he paused for a second, closed his eyes, tried again.
“bring your form by at the end of the day,” you said crisply, already turning back towards the door. “i’ll sign off on your hours.”
like he hadn’t even spoken.
like he was just some guy clocking community service.
like they hadn’t once defiled this very room with their hands and mouths and soft sounds and whispered laughter.
you walked out without looking back.
and rafe stood there, frozen.
book still dangling from his fingers.
heartbeat thudding in a room that suddenly felt way too quiet.
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆
