THE NIGHT YOU TOLD ME. (pt 2) (and final).
pt 1 → (the night i told you).
bbf!rafe cameron x reader.
summary: After four years and what seems like a lifetime, you and Rafe meet again.
word count: 11-ishk, almost 12k...... (just TAKE IT.)
warnings: language. very long fic lmao. i think really nothing else. (as always English isn't my first language so apologies for any possible grammatical errors).
author's note: guys.... I REALLY TRIED BUT I JUST COULDN'T OK ? 11 goddamn thousand words 😭 that's why pt2 took so long bro i hope you like this outcome. ALSO, i tagged some people ONLY in this post, let me know if u wanna be in the official taglist !!
You didn't talk to each other after that. Rafe stopped coming to your house that often, and if he did, he made sure to not cross paths with you. You didn't met him and Elijah at the kitchen every time your heard them in the house.
He wasn't there when you left for college two months later, you pretended not to notice one less person helping with the boxes. And for the first time in years, you weren't there on his birthday either. Rafe pretended he didn't care when you didn't text him congratulating him. You were both paying each other with something that you both had complained about millions of times: distance.
He was your brother's best friend but goddamn it if he wasn't your friend either.
And the space hurt. So badly.
But pain has a strange way of softening under sunlight and distance. Eventually it dulled— or maybe you just learned to pretend it did. Rafe was right about one thing: you couldn’t live suspended in the moment he rejected you.
So you forced yourself forward. New city, new routine, new life. You put on your bravest face, even on the days it felt like your heart was stitched together with fake courage.
You pretended not to notice how Elijah avoided saying Rafe’s name the first few times you called home, or how he never once asked if something had happened between the two of you. But he knew. Brothers always know.
Time moved slowly at first in this new life. You couldn't bring yourself to get used to it. But then a month passed. Two months.
Two months was when you finally unfollowed Rafe on social media— after realizing that muting his stories was somehow more humiliating. The unfollow felt like ripping off a bandage: necessary and long overdue.
By six months, you didn’t think about him anymore, you didn't think about the way he talked to you that night, like you were something he would never want. Then not every week. He became something like an old injury— still sensitive when the weather changed, but mostly just… there.
Just like he said, he became a nostalgic memory.
And then, who would've thought that years actually started to slip by. One year, two years, three and then four.
Four years with a lifetime inside of them. So much had changed. So many things had broke and fixed or never fixed at all.
An ex boyfriend, a finished major, a whole group of friends you can't imagine your life without now. But most importantly, a new you.
And you had comeback for the holidays before, for two or three weeks at a time in between breaks during your studies. And he was never there, you don't know if he was that busy or if he purposefully avoided seeing you every time you were back.
He wasn’t around anymore, at least not where you could cross paths. Not in the grocery store, not on the marina. Not even at Elijah’s late-night gatherings when everyone else from your childhood seemed to show up.
Eventually, you stopped wondering where he was.
And now, four years later, you were back on the island. Not visiting, not passing through but home. For good.
Freshly graduated from college, your mother had decided to throw you a little party. Something intimate on that big backyard of your childhood home.
Some family members, some old friends. You invited two of your own new friends to tag along, it was only fair after all the endlessly talking about how it was like living in Outer Banks.
And... he was also there.
You almost can't believe it when you saw him, first thing you saw when walking down the stairs.
He's... right there.
Elijah invited him, obviously. You remembered he had briefly mentioned it to you a week ago. You have been so busy you completely forgot. He had said the words: "Hey, can Rafe come by? Some friends haven't seen him in a minute, he's been busy."
You remembered the way you had stopped what you were doing, just for a moment. You couldn't help but think about it at the time; busy with what? What does he do for a living? Has he left the island and he's also making a comeback?
But it slipped through your mind just as fast. You didn't have the time to think about it.
But now he was... right there. Standing on the front door, hugging your mother for a few lingering seconds, demonstrating how she clearly hasn't seen him in a while.
And when he straightened, turning in your direction, it felt like the air thickened around you.
He looked even taller, broader, ten times more adult than you last remembered him.
His hair was... gone. He buzzed it. And you hated the way he knew that was the move to make him look ten times better. It made the lines of his face impossibly striking, drawing attention to the blue of his eyes and the cut of his cheekbones.
He looked grown, a whole professional man that handles shit like he gets paid for it.
He wasn’t in a suit like the last time you saw him —your high school graduation— but somehow he looked even hotter now. Dark jeans that fit him too well, a charcoal shirt that hugged his arms like it had been tailored just for him. The sleeves strained just slightly at his biceps when he moved. And he still wore that gold ring on his right hand, you immediately catch the glimpse of it.
Rafe looks up from your mother's shoulder the moment he senses another presence, one that he hasn't sensed in years.
Yours.
"Hey," He dared to be the one who greeted first, wanting to break the ice as soon as possible to avoid an even more tense situation. "Congratulations." His voice was smoother. Like he had completely grown into his own self now and he showed it in every sense, even in his voice.
You stepped into his casual hug, more out of reflex than intention. "Hi...!" You reciprocated the enthusiasm. "Yeah, uhm— thanks." You answered to his words. And the second your chin almost touched his shoulder, he pulled away, as if touching you was too much.
"You look..." He said, looking down at you.
Absolutely gorgeous. Like everything I've ever imagined you'd become. I want to kill myself, obviously. He thought.
But he didn't say that. Instead he said:
"Great."
He contained a sigh.
You hummed, awkwardly pressing your lips into a line as you nodded with a stiff neck. "Yeah, you too." You reciprocated. "It's been a minute."
Rafe chuckled, as if he was actually amused by your words. Yeah, he knows. "Yeah, it has—" He said carelessly before he was called into the kitchen to help.
And just like he had appeared. He left.
The backyard slowly filled with voices, amber lights strung from tree to tree, and that soft ocean breeze that always made you nostalgic. You moved around, greeting people, catching up, showing your friends around.
But every so often —too often— your eyes drifted.
And every time, he was already looking.
It was never long, never obvious; a glance over the sip of a beer bottle, a look sent your way when someone made a joke, a half-second of eye contact when you both moved past the drink table.
Four years had changed him.
And four years had changed you.
You could see the recognition in his gaze. A kind of quiet, startled revelation. You weren’t the teenage girl on a balcony anymore. And he wasn’t the boy who pushed you away out of fear.
He stood differently now. Weight balanced, posture relaxed, one hand in his pocket in a way that suggested ownership. He spoke differently too. More confident, measured, adult.
And the way he looked at you… God, it was a man looking at a woman now.
Later, when the sun dipped below the houses and someone suggested a night out, the decision was practically unanimous. Everyone wanted one more excuse to stretch the celebration, to see the rest of the island on a warm night, to drink something stronger than the polite wine your parents had set out. Elijah clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, baby,” He said, already gesturing for everyone to get moving. “Let’s take the kids to the pier.” Everyone laughed. Even you. Even Rafe.
The group was a mix of familiar faces and new ones: Elijah and his old friends, your college friends eager to see the local nightlife, and Rafe… who walked slightly behind, or slightly ahead, but never too far.
The bar Elijah chose was one you used to sneak into during high school, the one you first entered with a fake ID— dim lights, live music on weekends, that unmistakable spilled-beer smell woven into the wooden old floors.
Inside, the energy rose. Drinks flowed. People who hadn’t seen each other in years hugged too long or laughed too loudly. Elijah bounced between different groups like he owned the place, his favorite kind of thing. A brutal host.
Rafe didn't hover. He didn't press into your space. But every now and then when you said something, he turned his head slightly toward your voice, as if it carried its own gravity and wasn't able to help it.
Whenever someone in the group brought up a high school memory, Rafe’s eyes flicked to you— to catch the way you reacted, the small laugh, the widening of your eyes, the moment you recognized the story. It was subtle, almost imperceptible.
When the music grew heavier, your friends dragged you onto the dance floor. You let them. The bass thumped through every part of you, the lights too warm, your hair falling over your shoulders as you swayed. You felt alive but disoriented.
But the most important part: you didn't care who was watching anymore.
At one point a guy approached you (how couldn't he), leaning too close to say something over the music. You laughed politely at whatever the fuck he had said, though you didn’t hear half of it. You weren’t paying attention to him anyway.
But Rafe was.
His jaw tightened along with his posture. And then he looked away with a slow, deliberate exhale, as if forcing himself not to care.
Later, needing a break, you slipped outside. The night air cooled your skin instantly, salty and soft, carrying the faint crash of waves. You wrapped your arms around yourself and let the breeze settle your thoughts after lighting up a cigarette.
The door behind you cracked open.
"You smoke now?"
You didn't have to turn to know who it was.
"Only to feel cool on a night out." You said, smiling as you took another drag of it.
Rafe appeared next to you. You raised the cigarette to him, offering. He used to smoke back in the day, you used to hate it. "Nah, I quit." He shrugged.
"Since when?"
"A few years ago."
He didn't need to say anything else.
"Hm." You went back into your thing, looking at the view in front of you. The waves crashing on the shore were so clear from right here.
"You okay?" He asked again in a quieter voice.
You hummed as answer, nodding with your head. "Yeah, just... A lot of catching up to do in one place." You chuckled softly, the smoke coming out of your mouth.
He snorted softly back, tiredly agreeing with you. "Yeah, I get it." He took a look back to the bar before looking back at you. "It's a lot."
"Where you've been, by the way?" You asked without an ounce of shame. He was resting his arms against the railing, making him having to look up at you. "Elijah said you've been busy."
He nodded. Elijah had talked about you on the time you were gone, like nothing ever happened. He wonders if your brother did the same with you, but by your question, he can tell he hasn't. Fucking Elijah. "I got the family company on my name now, so. Lot to handle at times." He explained softly.
"Hm, so you're a real estate agent now? The boss?" You asked, raising a brow with a teasing tone on your voice.
He grinned back, not caring if you were about to make fun of him. "Yeah, the boss." He repeated your words in the same silly tone.
You laughed softly again, letting the silence fall between you.
You look at him—really look. He’s broader now, the kind where men grow into their own body during their twenties, thicker through the chest and shoulders, his face leaner and more defined. His eyes seem steadier too, like they land where they mean to now. He carries himself like someone who’s had to grow up fast, and actually did.
“Four years...” You murmur, dragging the last of your cigarette. “You’ve changed.” You conceded.
He raises an eyebrow, turning his head toward you, a smirk creeping up his face. “That good or bad?”
“Good.” You say easily and without hesitation. “You look… settled.”
The admission slips out without overthinking it— because you’re not the girl who blushes at her own words anymore.
Rafe’s lips part just slightly, surprised by the boldness. Then he lets out a small, almost disbelieving chuckle. “Well. Thank you.”
Rafe studies you in return— slowly, openly, like he does realize he’s doing it but clearly boundaries have changed between you. So he doesn't really care if he's staring.
“And you…” He says, voice dropping into something lower, more careful, more honeyed. “Yeah. You’ve changed too.” He nodded.
“How so?” You tease, leaning your side against the railing. Confident. Warm. More in control than you would’ve ever dared to be at eighteen.
Rafe looks at you like he doesn’t know where to start.
"You just..." He chuckled softly, out of breath by the image of you that's now standing in front of him. "Look like you. The full version." He complimented.
You nod in appreciation, accepting his careful and also well used words. He's right. You have changed: you've grown, you know who you are. You embraced what you used to hide and you found new things to work around.
You're... stunning.
He adds something more before you can speak again. "Can't imagine being back after so long." He said quietly. Rafe has never left the island for long, no matter how much money he has. He always came back, his place was always here.
But you found your place out there and you still manage to find your place back here. It's admirable.
You shrug, half playful as you look at him. “Well, I didn’t leave the country. Just the island.” You've learned that nothing is ever that serious.
“Still," He says. “This place holds… a lot.”
You laugh softly, watching the way his mind seems to work now. “That’s diplomatic of you.”
“Maturity looks good on me.” He sarcastically deadpans, playing along with your joke.
You snort, tilting your head to the side. “Confidence looks even better.”
For a moment —just a moment— Rafe looks like you’ve taken the wind out of him. His throat works as he swallows, eyes dropping to the pavement before returning to yours.
“Yeah, well,” He mutters. “You didn’t have to grow up to get bold, huh?”
“You have no idea,” You say lightly, confident on the topic.
That does something to him. You see it. And you love it. For years you were the only one showing a reaction. Now the tables had turned and Rafe isn't fighting it.
He shifts— little movements: a hand flexing, his stance tightening, his jaw working like he’s biting something back. He was always composed around you, always trying to be the safe, older, stable one.
Now he looks… caught.
"Hm," You reflect, eyes dropping to his chest, lingering before you bring them back up. And Rafe definitely notices. “Yeah, you changed for the better.” You granted to him, letting the innuendo come out of your mouth.
He clears his throat— just slightly, suddenly nervous and excited to be in this position: yours to dissect. “You think so?”
“I know so.” You tilt your head, letting your shoulder brush his arm just barely. “Why? You fishing for compliments?”
Rafe laughs— caught completely off guard as he dragged a hand down his face with realization. “Christ,” He mutters under his breath. “You’re dangerous now.” He straightened up.
You smile innocently. “Why? Because I talk?”
“Because you—” He catches himself, shaking his head with a breathy laugh. “Never mind.”
“No, go on,” You press, leaning in just a fraction. “I’ve been gone four years. I deserve an explanation.”
Rafe meets your eyes, and something flashes there— want, restraint, recognition. Admiring the way you look so goddamn unreachable with the way the moonlight hovers over you. “Because you say things like that.”
“Things like what?” You ask, voice honey-sweet, playing the innocent part you used to play all the time as a kid, the one he knows. “Words?”
He gives you a look. A look.
“Don’t play dumb.” He says quietly.
“Why not?” You ask. “You did it once.”
His whole body goes still.
You don’t sound angry, or wounded, or even nostalgic. You’re simply stating a fact. Mature. Controlled. A version of you he’s never met before and one he can't honestly wait to see more of. He hopes he's lucky enough to meet it.
“Touché." He murmurs. A grin shines on his face as he looked away from you.
You smile, proud of yourself. “See? I told you I got better.”
He laughs again, slower, lower. That laugh you used to memorize like it was a song. Now it curls around you like heat.
He takes you in— your posture, your confidence, the way you’re not shrinking this time. The way you’re not asking for space or permission, you just take and take and take.
God, he hopes you take him too.
He swallows, scratching the stubble on his jaw as he analyzes you. “Damn.”
For the first time, you don't feel uncomfortable under his eyes, nervous that he might notice something he's not supposed to. "What?" You tease.
“You’re just… not who I remembered."
You lift a brow. “Disappointed?”
“No.” He says immediately, almost too fast. “No. Not even close.”
Your smile turns feline, shameless and comfortable on your own skin. “Good."
His jaw worked. You could tell he was trying not to smile.
The flirting didn’t feel forced for once. It came naturally from you— confident, comfortable, almost mischievous. And the more you teased him, the more he seemed to unravel in these subtle, barely-there ways that you wouldn’t have noticed at eighteen. The glance he dropped to your mouth; the way he tried not to look impressed; the way he caught himself looking again anyway when anything you said hit him a little too close.
“Four years and you’ve turned into a menace." He pretended to be quietly exasperated about it. “You’re not the girl who’d hide behind Elijah when you were embarrassed.” He started reminiscing.
“I was sixteen.”
Rafe hums a laugh, looking at you with heavy eyes. “And... you’re definitely not the girl who couldn’t flirt to save her life.”
But your new kind of filter doesn't fall with the memory that's been brought up. “I’m twenty-two." You reminded him, smirking. “And I happen to flirt just fine.”
He gave you a long, slow look— one that proved he absolutely agreed. Oh, yeah. You were definitely good at it and he wanted to see more of it.
“That’s the problem." He muttered, almost troubled all over again by the effect you have on him.
“What, that I’m good at it?”
“No.” His voice dropped, rough around the edges. Rough enough to get a reaction out of your body, a different kind. "That you’re good at it with me.”
Your pulse jumped, surprised at the way he decided to come back in the game: by calling you out. You tilted your head. “Does it bother you?”
He met your eyes, something bold and adult and terribly vulnerable in his expression that only makes you feel ten times more attracted. “It scares the hell out of me." He admitted.
And instead of shrinking, you stepped closer, your heels clicks one against the floor and Rafe thanked it, it gave his heart a moment to not be the loudest thing in the room.
“Well,” You whispered, tilting your chin up to look up at him. You felt at the same height as him with your confidence. “I’m not eighteen anymore.”
Rafe let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for four years before grinning back, falling right into your spell. Soft and sure.
Looking down at you, eyes dense with something he will admit later, he said: “So what do we do about that?”
Before either of you can continue, the bar door swings open and Elijah’s voice breaks the atmosphere:
“Hey! You two coming or what? We’re grabbing food!”
Rafe steps back first, but his eyes don’t leave you.
“Yeah,” He calls out. “Coming.”
You don't flinch for a moment. You just… looked at each other.
And for the first time since you’d gotten back, the silence between you wasn’t heavy or unfinished. It wasn’t holding old hurt or old fear. It was holding something new—something warm, something aware. Something where you both were on the same page. On the same level.
Rafe’s eyes stayed on yours longer than they ever would’ve before. He didn’t hide the way his gaze dipped once to your mouth, he meant it. He didn’t look away like he used to when he got caught staring.
He held it.
And when you held it right back, his expression changed— barely, softly. A slow, almost helpless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he was realizing in real time that you weren’t the same girl he’d once been terrified to want.
Rafe breathed out a quiet laugh through his nose as he didn't stopped looking at you, the spell loosening but not breaking. He pushed off the railing first, shoulders dropping into something casual—but not distant. Not anymore.
“You coming?” He asked, his tone light, but his eyes still tracing you like he wasn’t ready to look away.
You stepped forward, matching his pace, your shoulder nearly brushing his again. Competing, challenging.
“Yeah.” You said, letting a small smile slip. “I’m coming.”
And the vibe— God, the vibe had changed.
Not loud, not dramatic—just… shifted. Tilted toward something more daring, warmer, older, newer, all at once. All the things that you now both are.
The kind of shift that made walking back inside feel like stepping into a different version of the night than the one you started with.
And Rafe is so ready for it.
The group had taken over a long wooden table outside the food stand a few blocks away from the bar— half-eaten fries, open beer bottles, someone’s Bluetooth speaker sitting uselessly in the middle because the conversations were loud enough already.
Everyone was into their own world of things. Despite you being the reason everyone is here, the way the group had blended throughout the night into a beautiful wave of new friendships was something that warmed your heart. Elijah was trying to tell the story of how he got arrested one night at a party. An old summer rumour from almost ten years ago was being resuscitated in order to find new perspectives. And your friends from college were being interrogated about their entire lives.
You sat at the end of the table, there's string lights hanging from above all of you and it makes the scenery even more cinematic. Something you truly want to capture in your mind like an endless and timeless polaroid.
And then, Rafe sits next to you.
Not across, not with a few people in the middle. Right next to you.
His knee brushes yours when he sits down, casual but not innocent. It's enough to make you give him a glance, but he doesn't even turn to look at you. Just hands you the laminated menu of the place with the current options. Your hands aren't close to touching, but the way he looks at you makes you feel like they did.
You pretend to look at it with attention, you already know the menu by heart by the amount of times you came here growing up. You already know what you're going to order. But it works as a distraction for the way his body feels against you.
The groups are talking over each other in a messy but attractive way, it makes you want to be part of every conversation. But, for the first time tonight, you don't feel like it.
Because you and Rafe don't have to pretend you're not on your own parallel universe anymore.
"Still get the same thing?" He tilted his head, quietly talking at you once you pass the menu to someone else.
You don't avoid his eyes anymore. "You remember what I used to get?"
He chuckled softly. "Hard not to. You ordered the same thing every time." Rafe liked when you had something you liked and held onto it. You were sure of what was yours.
"Well, I was gonna order something different tonight, actually."
Of course you would. He almost wants to rolls his eyes at your for it. But an amused smile is the only thing that comes out of him. "What are you gonna get?"
You shrugged with a relaxed smile. It seems like you wear it all the time now and he loves to see it. "I don't know, I never got this one. We're gonna try it."
Rafe hated how he so delusionedly believed that sounded like a promise.
Your personal bubble was popped when the food arrived, the chaos shifting to trying everything for the next couple of minutes. It's all different kinds of snacks. Fries, nachos, chicken wings and some mozzarella sticks were there too.
"Try this." You nudged your plate to Rafe, picking up a tater tot with your fork and handing it to him.
He raised a brow. "What is it?"
You laughed instead of rolling your eyes with annoyance. "Just try it, Cameron. You survived worse."
He gave you a look —deadpan and unsurprised— before leaning his head down, lowering enough to take the bite from your fork instead of grabbing it himself. His eyes were on you while he did it. Your breath silently hitched with the it felt like a challenge or an offer, you wouldn't turned down either.
You blinked, your heart jumping just a little on your chest. You were now stronger than this but not immune.
He chewed, his jaw catching your attention before he nodded. "Good."
"You barely tasted it." You complaint after seeing how he swallowed it almost instantly.
Rafe shrugged, coming up to rest his elbow against the table and getting more comfortable. His eyes flickered down on your face just for a moment, his brain felt like he was actually tasting something else. "Tasted enough. I trust your judgement."
You stopped for a moment as you avoided the necessity of biting back with a smart answer or giving him a confused frown. The age of playing dumb was long gone and it left you in a difficult position, exposed and in control at the same time. You only have to choose which one is the one you want.
“You’re bold tonight,” You murmured.
He gave the smallest, almost secret smile, only meant for you tonight. “Just answering energy with energy.”
You tilted your head, playing innocent. “Oh? I’m giving energy?”
His eyes dropped —slowly— to your lips (again) before coming back up. “You know you are.”
You felt it then. The shift people talk so much about, the shift you only felt once before, four years ago when things got colder. But this one was different, it felt like it. It felt in way the air warmed between you, the way it looked like someone had lowered the lights to make the atmosphere more romantic.
You leaned forward, letting your shoulder brush his arm this time. Intentionally for the first time. Your perfume drifted toward him with the movement— you knew it, and from the look in his eyes, he definitely knew it too.
“You always did like being right,” You teased. You blinked sensually, looking up at him as you batted your eyelashes to him.
Rafe’s laugh was low, from his chest. “Not always. Just when it matters.” He shrugged, like the modesty was going to help him not looking like such a fool in front of you. He doesn't think anything could help at this point.
And he doesn't care either.
“And this matters?”
Another brush of knees. Another shared breath when he leaned closer, this time around one of his knees parted way in between your legs, making his thigh brush against yours. His voice had softened. “Talking to you always has.”
Your pulse stuttered at the honesty in it, unguarded and unashamed. If there was something that four years or ten could never be able to erase was the way Rafe Cameron parted inside your heart with just a simple glance.
And you almost hated how easy it felt.
Then, as he leaned over just some more, he couldn't pretend enough that the chatting around you was too loud. He grew out of the chaos he used to chase so much when they were kids, he looks for something quieter now. But the noise around them only helps him in this situation.
Something came from deep down on his chest, a truth he had to say, apparently. "I like this." The same intimate tone you were keeping with each other was still there.
"Like what?"
"The way you look at me now." His gaze traced down your face, absorbing every new detail he has missed.
You held his stare, the tension warm and steady. You were the one who brushed your leg against his now. "You let a small smirk tug at your mouth. “Pretty sure I’m not the only one looking.”
His voice dropped, softer, thicker. “Yeah. I’m not hiding it.” He shook his head slowly.
You laughed softly, feeling like you needed to breathe some actual air that wasn't his scent if you actually wanted to continue the night. "You're being intense." You smirked, glancing down at the table.
"You're handling it." He said simply.
And you were. Surprisingly well.
His eyes moved along your face with a softness that made your stomach twist— not sweet, not innocent, just… aware. Like he was finally seeing you the way he had always wanted to.
You rested your arm against the table when you grabbed your drink, letting your shoulder graze his chest when you turned toward him. “So, intense boy..." You teased, lifting a brow. “Got something on your mind?”
“Yeah,” Rafe said without a second of pretending. “Actually.”
You felt it coming— the shift, the lowering of his voice, the weight behind what he was really trying to ask. The question he had so deep in his mind that he has been waiting all night to pull out. And he hadn't wanted to ask someone else for this information, he wanted it directly from you.
“You…” He started, eyes on you the entire time. Hoping it'll make you blush enough to answer. “got someone?”
It wasn't casual, not even close. And... God, you almost can't believe how is he the one asking this.
You smirked slowly, deliberately as you rested your cheek against your hand, propping your arm on the table. "Why? You need something?"
He shook his head lightly, keeping his eyes locked on what he wanted. He didn't laugh it off, didn't back away after asking or pretended like it had a different intention than what it really is. "Just asking a question." He said softly.
You snorted softly, feeling how the confidence you had built over the years may be crumbling under his words. "You're bad at being subtle." You taunted.
"I wasn't trying to." He replied. His voice didn't wavered, if something, it roughened. Rafe meant what he was saying. "You said it once, remember? We shouldn't be scared of saying what we mean." He repeated your own words from that damn night four years ago.
The words that were his first, six years ago.
You swallowed. Reminiscing and seeing if you should do something new about a situation that seemed to be giving you a deja Vu.
You fall into it.
So quietly you say, eyes almost hooded with the heaviness of the situation: "Do you memorize every little thing I've ever said?"
Rafe only looked at you: so open and stripped down, obviously older and so much wiser than what he used to be.
"Yes."
Just that.
One syllable that hit harder than four years of distance.
Heat curled through your stomach— slow, spreading, impossible to ignore.
You looked away for a moment, just to breathe, and when you turned back, he was still watching you. Still waiting so patiently.
"No." The answer was simple to his question. There was no need to lie. "I don't."
Rafe hummed, slowly nodding as he gave you the moment of air you probably needed. He looked away for only a second, quietly making sure it was still just the two of you in the conversation. "Good."
You hummed a small laugh, holding it inside of you as you looked at him. "You're not even trying to hide it?
"Told you," He shrugged without a worry. "'M not being subtle."
You scoff, trying to accept the fact that this is going to be what it is from now on. Shameless and honest on way you won't like from time to time. It gives you goosebumps down your spine.
“And you?” You ask. “Someone in your life?”
Rafe just watches you for a second, then gives the smallest shake of his head. “No. Not at all."
“Why?” You press— same teasing note as before, but there’s something warmer under it now. “You waiting on someone?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He just lets the truth sit in his eyes where you can read it if you want to.
“Maybe,” He says quietly.
The way he says it makes your pulse skip, just a little. He isn’t handing you an answer— he’s handing you the space to choose whether you wants to understand it or not.
So you holds his gaze, matching his calm with something just as intentional. “And if I asked who she is?”
He shrugs one shoulder, lips curving into something soft and dangerously honest. “Depends if you already know.” He opens the door for something more.
And you consider walking into it.
When the laughter at the table rose around you, Rafe leaned in again— close enough that his breath brushed your ear, a shiver sliding down your spine.
“You wanna take a walk after this?” he asked, tone low, careful, but not uncertain. “Somewhere quieter.”
Your heartbeat answered before you did.
But you still let the words drip slow from your lips:
“Yeah,” You murmured. “I do.”
The streets are quieter by the time you and Rafe finally break away from the others, the long awaited walk that carried the last of the takeout containers and the lingering warmth of whatever… that was. Laughter still echoes faintly somewhere behind you, but it fades quickly, swallowed by the night and the distance. The sharp edges of the flirting have softened on their own, worn down by time and truth, leaving something gentler in their place.
The two of you fall into step without thinking about it. No conversation about where you’re going, no nothing. Just you two... walking.
The air is still warm when it hits your face. You brush some hair out of your eyes, fingers lingering at your temple as you glance toward the beach now stretched dark and empty beside you. The sand is barely visible, the water even less— but you can hear it. The ocean is loud at this hour, restless and constant, crashing and pulling back again and again. It reminds you of what you used to be: shy and so loud at the same time, only showing it when no one was watching.
You quietly notice Rafe and the years after him, all the experience that goes behind him. It settles behind his eyes instead of weighing them down. There’s a calm to him now. Not rigid, not forced— just stable. Like someone who’s been knocked around enough to learn how to stay upright without bracing for the next hit. It doesn't look defensive. As if, despite not really knowing what the future might hold, he trusts himself to figure it out anyway.
It’s not that he wasn’t good before. He always had been. But he used to chase chaos like his life depended on it (adrenaline, noise, distraction), all of it carefully masked whenever he stepped into your house alongside your brother.
“So,” He starts first, voice softer but not tentative. “Four years, huh? You really went and did it.” He nods his head, only half looking at you as a relaxed, teasing smile rests on his face. The streetlight catches the edge of his jaw, the faint shadow there was now something permanent.
“Graduated?” You tease lightly, nudging his arm with yours.
Rafe snorted softly. “Graduated. Survived the city. Survived college parties— those I’m still shocked about.”
He really likes to think about the life you had there, away from this island, away from him. He likes to imagine you in your full form— walking streets he’s never seen, laughing with people whose names he doesn’t know, building a life that didn’t orbit around this island or the expectations attached to it.
It kind of sucks that it had to be without him.
You laugh. “What, you didn’t think I was capable?” You tilted your head, daring him to disagree with you.
He glances at you sidelong, rolling his eyes at your fire. “I never said you weren't." He defended himself, raising his hands in a playful manner of innocence. "It's just... you never liked partying with us so much, so."
That pulls a snort out of you. Rafe acting as if him and Elijah were the gods of parties during your high school years was something you definitely will never forget.
"I always liked partying, just... now with you two." You said the truth.
Rafe scoffs dramatically, one hand flying to his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply. Him and your brother were impossible back then — loud, reckless, convinced the night existed just for them. There wasn’t a party they wouldn’t attend.
You glance at him. “What about you? How’s… everything? The company? Estate Cameron treating you well?" You ask with curiosity.
Damn, you can really see it. Rafe as an entire businessman, someone who knows exactly when to talk, who to call, how to move things in order to get what he wants. Someone with weight to his decisions.
It’s… attractive. In a grounded, undeniable way.
He lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief, not entirely convinced, that's for sure. “The company is… a beast.” He shakes his head, already frowning at just thinking about it.
You chuckle. “That sounds about right.”
“I didn’t plan on taking it over so soon. Actually, I didn’t plan on taking it over at all. But...” He shrugs, shoulders rolling like he’s learned how to live with that kind of surrender. “You know, life had other plans.”
He’s not bragging. He isn’t flexing or making it sound glamorous. He’s just… telling you the truth.
Yeah, you definitely know about life having a different plan for you, something unexpected that isn't quite what you desired.
“You seem good at it,” You say honestly.
He huffs, something quiet coming out of him as he scratches the back of his neck. A gesture you haven't seen in years. “Some days I’m good at it." He breaks the fantasy down for you and lets out a sigh. "Some days I... feel like I’m playing with everything. Like I'm just... trying to figure out how to do it.”
You tilt your head, studying him. His profile is stronger now—older, a little tired, but grounded. Settled in his skin in a way he never was when he was growing up and terrified of every feeling he had for you (not that you know about that part). You always thought he looked so confident while growing up, you realize how wrong you were when you looked at him now.
“You seem good." You say quietly. It slips out before you can stop it.
He glances at you, eyes soft. “I'm still here." He says, gesturing the island— the night, the empty streets. "Always.”
You walk another few steps in easy silence. A dog barks somewhere far off. The air smells faintly of night-salt from the ocean.
“So what was it like?” He asks a moment later, itching to fulfill that image of you away from this place. So different. “The city. All that time away.”
You think about the question before answering. “Loud,” You say. “I think I needed it, tho. I didn’t have to be anyone. No one knew who my family was. No one cared who I grew up with.”
The noise around a city like that was somehow comforting and overwhelming. You always debriefed it in two parts: on one side, it's completely overpowering. There is so much going on, so much to see and to do, and you struggle to keep up, you want to force yourself to do it. But on the other side, it's so loud no one cares about what you're doing. No one is actively watching and thinking about you; who you are or where you come from. Is up to you to tell your story and how do you want to do it.
Rafe nods, slow and thoughtful, trying to think about it. “Must’ve been nice.”
“It was. And exhausting. I was so used to everyone knowing everything about me and... no one knew me there. And I had to be the one to make myself known.” You hummed softly thinking about your first days there, you were so shocked. "Which... I haven't done before. So."
You kick lightly at a pebble, sending it skittering ahead of you. “But I learned a lot. About myself, I guess.”
“That part I can see,” He murmurs. He can see it now. And it's so clear he loves the view.
You glance up. His eyes are already on you.
You look away first.
He doesn’t say anything for a bit. His arm swings loosely as he walks, until it brushes yours, barely, but the contact is steady enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You pretend to adjust your sleeve to cover the reaction.
“So you’re back,” He says gently, breaking the silence around you. “Like— back back?”
You nod, humming. “For good,” You confirm what he heard from your brother. “I think I’m… done looking for something somewhere else.”
He hums, and it sounds like understanding. Or recognition.
You don’t realize where you’re headed until the street bends the way it always has. The curve is subtle, a familiar thing. Muscle memory disguised as coincidence that is, somehow, so convenient to your situation.
Your steps slow without meaning to. His match yours just as unconsciously. Neither of you comment on it.
The houses start to look more familiar. Older and softer. Porch lights glowing low and patient, like they’ve been waiting.
You glance up, and there it is.
Your house.
Rafe notices the change in your pace. The way your attention drifts forward. His eyes stay solemnly on you.
They stop a few steps short of the driveway, like crossing onto the property would make the moment too real or like it could possibly end it somehow. The house sits quiet. The one that’s never stopped being home, no matter how far you all went. The light on the porch is still on, the one your mother always leaves on. The tree out front leans just slightly to the left, annoying as ever.
You glance automatically toward the side of the house, toward the driveway.
Empty.
Your parents’ car isn’t there. No second car either. No sound from leftover guests who linger for a late-night glass of wine, nothing. Just the faint smell of jasmines and the distant sound of waves.
You pause.
Rafe notices. He always did— the small shifts, the way your attention drifts before your words do.
“They out?” He asks, casual, like it doesn’t matter.
You nod slowly, still looking at the driveway as to make sure. “Looks like it.” A beat passes. “They said they might stay over at my aunt’s tonight.”
You don’t look at him when you say it. You don’t have to. The implication hangs there on its own, unforced.
Silence stretches, not awkward, not heavy. Just so full of many unsaid things.
You exhale and turn toward him finally, anticipating in a way you haven't in a while. “Do you… wanna come in?” You ask, simple and honest. “I don’t really feel like calling it a night yet.”
Rafe’s jaw tightens for half a second, like he’s checking himself and questioning if this is a good choice. Then he nods once. “Yeah,” He clears his throat. “I’d like that.”
You walk ahead of him, keys already in hand. The door unlocks with the same soft click it’s always had. Rafe steps inside after you, eyes heavily trailing over your figure as you move around the house. You feel him.
You don’t turn on many lights. Just the one by the stairs, casting long shadows across the walls. The place smells faintly like laundry detergent and old wood and something warm you can’t name.
“So,” You say, toeing off your shoes. “Drink?”
He glances at you, stopping for a moment before answering. It feels surreal to be the ones at this hour now, at this place, as if it was all yours now when for so many years it wasn't. “Sure.” He says. “Whatever you’ve got.”
You grab two waters from the fridge, pass one to him. Your fingers brush. It’s brief, but neither of you ignores it because you are looking into each other's eyes when it happens.
You lean back against the counter, taking a sip. “It’s weird,” You admit. “Being back like this.”
He nods. “I can imagine.”
You glance toward the sliding doors that lead to the backyard. Beyond them, the balcony waits— dark, open, and vulnerable in a way that used to make your chest tighten.
You hesitate only a second. “Let’s go outside.”
Rafe follows without question.
The night air is cooler back here. The balcony creaks softly under your weight, the same way it always has. You lean against the railing instinctively, hands resting on the white wood worn smooth by years of elbows and late-night talks just like this one.
Oh, this balcony has seen a lot.
He stands a little to your side, not crowding you, not distant either. Closer than what he did at the bar but further away than what he did at the table with your friends. It was a different context.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then he clears his throat, suddenly nervous to be back in this place with you. “Funny how this place hasn’t changed.”
It really hasn't. It used to torment you, the idea of being back here again at some point of your life with Rafe. You're not that dramatic, you never thought you would never not talk to him again in your life, especially if he was still Elijah's best friend. But you definitely didn't expect the way things had turned out either.
The one time you decided to be spontaneous...
He shifts just slightly closer, elbows resting on the railing beside yours, mirroring your posture without really meaning to. And then he says, quietly:
"Feels weird being back here with you."
You glance at him, expecting a half-smile, some joking deflection. But he's not smiling and he's not deflecting either. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the street below, like the memories are haunting his vision.
"Weird how?" You ask, softer than you intended, shyer.
He exhales sharply through his nose as he thinks about it. "Just... didn't think this would happen again." He admits.
You try to keep your heartbeat steady. "Me being home?" A frown goes over your face, slightly confused.
"No," He shakes his head in a slow manner. And then he finally looks at you. "Us. Talking like this."
The air changes—sharper, closer, charged in that familiar way you both pretended didn't exist for years.
Your hands curl slightly against the railing. "Rafe, that was four years ago." You look down, trying not remember the way rejection had hit you so hard that day, the way it knocked you down and you had to quickly get up.
"Yeah," He mutters, just as tense. "But I didn't forget."
Your throat tightens.
Neither did you.
The memory rises sharply— your graduation dress, the warm June air, the balcony lights at your house. The way you'd finally said it, trembling and hopeful: I like you, Rafe. Always have. I thought it was obvious. And the way he'd stepped back, eyes wide, voice rough as he told you it wasn't a good idea. Told you he couldn't do that to your brother. Told you you deserved something better—someone better.
The way you'd cried and tried so hard to pretend you didn't care how you ignored each other after it.
You swallow, searching your own fingers to fidget with them. "I didn't think you'd ever want to talk about that night."
He lets out a humorless laugh, it's self deprecating and way too conscious. "I didn't. Not back then." His fingers tap anxiously against the wood railing. "But tonight? Seeing you again?" He shakes his head, it's too much for him. "It's all I can think about."
You don't trust yourself to speak, so you don't.
Rafe shifts, angling his body halfway toward you like he should've done years ago. His voice drops. "I was a coward that night." He confesses, throat bobbling with emotion.
Your chest squeezes painfully at the memory. “You weren't. You just—”
"I was," He cuts in gently, not letting you sugarcoat it for the sake of it. "I've always been better at letting shit blow up than actually dealing with what I felt."
You blink at him. This version of him, the one who owns his mistakes, who doesn't flinch away from the truth... It scares you more than the one who avoided you. You don't know how this version will react.
But then again, you didn't expect the past version of him to react the way he did either. And you thought you had him so figured out at the time.
He looks at you for a long moment before continuing.
"You were eighteen," He says quietly, eyes tracing down your face in that longing way. "And I was... so fucking gone for you I couldn't even see straight." His eyes close for a moment, aching.
Your breath catches.
"And after tonight... I can't stop thinking about it." He admitted, looking down at you like his heart was begging him for a break. "I really can't— I tried to, stay away, but I just... couldn't." He swallowed, thick and heavy as he couldn't process what he was feeling with the way you were looking at him. "You're... you. More than ever. And I knew that would happen."
His heart hasn't raced this fast in years, you were the last person who made him feel this way. "I knew you were gonna leave and live your life." He shrugged. "And I knew I was gonna stay here. Same life, same island, same everything, I just— I felt like I was gonna hold you back."
Your breath catches, sharp and involuntary, like your body reacts before your mind can catch up, your heart commanding your body for the first time. The night seems to close in around the balcony, the sounds of the ocean and the distant street dimming until all you’re really aware of is him— his voice, his nearness, the way you want him closer, the weight of what he just admitted hanging heavy between you.
Rafe swallows, jaw tightening like he’s bracing himself.
“I know how that sounds,” he continues, quieter now, slower. “I'm years late, but..."
You turn your head fully toward him. He’s not looking at you anymore— his gaze has dropped to the railing, knuckles white where his fingers grip the wood. Like if he looks at you for too long, he might lose the nerve to keep going.
You never thought you would be the one making him nervous.
“I didn’t see you as some kid,” He says. “I never did. That was the problem.”
You shift closer without realizing it, your arm brushing his. This time, neither of you pretends it didn’t happen.
“I liked you way before that night,” He admits. “Way before you said anything." He shakes his head, reminiscing the days of having to physically pull himself away from you. "It wasn’t subtle either. Elijah clocked it. He called me out on it one night."
You would ask him about it another time.
But he definitely remembers it so well. Just like you were talking about earlier, it had happened at one typical party. You were fifteen and you had only started to go out of Elijah was there (your mother's rules). And of course you would catch attention as soon as you arrived.
And Rafe saw red when a guy approached you for the first time. A stupid senior who could barely walk anymore, Rafe almost knocks the shit out of him just at the sight of him talking to you.
He remembers the way Elijah stopped him on the way home, a knowing look on his face that Rafe hadn't been a fan of. "Gonna get you some acting lessons, man. You're too obvious."
Yeah, Rafe can still remember that.
He adds something else, softer this time around as he laid his younger self thoughts bare for you to see. "I just... didn't know what to do with it."
You keep your eyes on the street below, afraid that if you look at him too long you'll give yourself away. "You hid it pretty well." You shrugged with one shoulder.
Yeah, it never really occurred to you that he might like you back at the time. You were always putting yourself down with what you thought was 'reality'.
He lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. "I didn't. I just acted like an idiot and hoped no one would notice."
Then his expression sobers again, the smile fading like it never really belonged there in the first place because he wants you to know he's serious.
“When you told me,” He says, voice rougher now as he remembered that night more specifically. “It felt like my world was put upside down. I wanted it so much.”
Your fingers curl tighter around the railing as he continued, heart silently mimicking his own. Just as fast and anxious.
“I was twenty...” He goes on. “Barely holding my shit together. I didn’t have a plan. Didn’t have stability." He swallows, struggling with the idea of his past self hurting so badly. "I was angry all the time, reckless, acting like I didn’t care about consequences when really I just didn’t know how to deal with them.”
He finally looks at you again, eyes dark and honest and unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache.
“And you were… you,” He says simply. Rafe shakes his head once, almost to himself. "You were just—" He stops, jaw clenching again as he looks for a safer word. "You were a lot."
You blink. "A lot?"
"A lot to handle." He corrects, but the helpless smile tugging at his mouth betrays him. "In the best possible way. You were too good for me, you still are."
It's too much for one moment, too direct, too real, and he seems to feel that because he pulls back just slightly, looking out at the horizon like he needs one second to steady himself. His hand moves on the railing— closer to yours now, just brushing distance. Not touching, not so brave yet. But close enough that the warmth of his skin bleeds into the space between you.
The honesty of it hits you harder than any dramatic confession could have. There’s no grand gesture here, no sweeping declaration. Just a truth he’s clearly been holding onto for a long time.
“I kept tabs from afar,” He admits, knowing he should be ashamed, but he really can't. “Not in a creepy way. Just…" He clarified. "Elijah would mention things. Your parents would talk. I knew when you moved apartments... when you changed majors. When you graduated.” He mentioned the most recent event, the reason you're here together tonight.
Your throat tightens. “You never reached out.”
He nods. “Didn’t feel like I had the right.” He speaks quietly. "And I'm really sorry. I'm sorry about the entire thing, I should've... known how to handle it, in whatever way I answered to you. I should've been better." He lets his heart beat for a moment before finishing: "I'm sorry."
Your eyes glisten with emotion when you decide to look up at him again after his apology. You find his eyes already on you, eager and desperate to get a glimpse of yours. He has missed your eyes so much, and he'll admit it without a doubt.
You lean your weight back against the railing. “I hated you for a while,” You confess. “Not all the time. Just… in waves.”
He accepts that without flinching. “I know.” He whispers, leaning closer to you, seeing the way you don't push him away.
You let him get closer as you take another step forward and put your hand next to his. “I cried that whole summer...” You relate the process. Your voice steadier as you go on. “Then I got angry. Then I left. And somewhere in between, I realized I couldn’t keep carrying it if I wanted to grow up.”
He’s watching you now like the moment is fragile, knowing every word matters. His blue eyes are darker than usual, filled with something you can finally name. He follows the movement of your mouth as you speak (inevitably, it's the most hypnotizing thing ever), the way your lashes flutter when memories sting, the way your breath shifts when you say something heavy.
And you really see him too. The faint crease between his brows when he’s thinking. The way his throat works when a feeling catches. The ease with which he speaks now, no armor. Most of all, the way he doesn’t shy away from emotion anymore.
“I dated...” You add, remembering your fair share of fleeting loves, flings. “I lived... I learned how to flirt without panicking.” You glance at him briefly, a hint of that earlier teasing returning. “Which you’ve already noticed.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Hard not to.” He tilted his head like he wants to see you from every angle.
"I did it all in order to move on..." You press your lips after your words, eyes shining with everything you have tried to deny for the past four years.
There's a moment where he leans in closer, slow and ready, just leaving him inches away from you. It's enough to feel his warmth, to feel the pull you’ve both been wanting and denying for years at the same time. The wanting that lived in the silence and on the things unsaid. On the wishful thinking you relied on your entire life.
"And have you moved on?"
His question falls as everything he means it to be: honest. Therefore scared, full of hesitation and still, still so hopeful of something else. Of a second chance. He wants to believe the look in your eyes can also mean something to you too.
You're face to face, hands next to each other on the railing. He attempts to lean in for something more definitive every once in a while but backs up at the very last moment each time. He doesn't want to rush something that might not be there.
Your bodies are almost touching and his heart is making its way out of his chest with the way you're looking at him. You stay silent until the moment is charged and fragile, unsustainable.
So you whisper:
"No."
That's all it takes.
He leans in and this time he doesn't pull back.
The kiss is gentle at first —almost hesitant— like both of you are afraid of breaking something fragile. His lips brush yours once, twice, like he's checking if it's real. Like he's waited his whole life for this exact moment and wants to make sure it won't disappear.
He doesn't ask you to explain. He doesn't give himself another second to think or doubt or protect either of you from something that's been chasing you for years. He just moves instinctively and one of his hands comes up to your face as his mouth crashes into yours.
It's not careful. It's not tentative. It's relief.
Your lips meet with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs, like something inside both of you finally snaps into place. Like all the restraint, all the fear, all the years of wanting and pretending you didn't— it all rushes out at once. You gasp into him.
All the restraint he’s practiced for years disappears the second your lips meet. He exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding his breath since the night you left, like he’s been drowning quietly and only now found air.
He kisses you like he's been starving. Like he's been holding himself back since the first time he ever noticed you weren't just Elijah's little sister. Like every almost, every what-if, every night he thought about you while you were gone is pouring into this single moment. His thumb presses into your jaw, grounding, reverent, while his other hand finds your waist and pulls you closer until there's no space left to doubt.
Years of quiet longing bleed into the way your mouth moves against his— sure, desperate, finally allowed. The balcony disappears. The past collapses into this one breathless, perfect collision. You don't think about who you used to be or what stopped you before. You don't think about tomorrow. You only know the weight of him, the warmth, the certainty.
This is what it was always supposed to feel like.
This is it. This was what you both always wished for.
It felt like coming home for something you never knew you actually had but always existed. It was always there.
One of his hands finds your waist immediately, fingers spreading like he needs to anchor himself, like he needs to be sure you won’t vanish again if he lets go. His thumb digs in just slightly, possessive without meaning to be (but it's Rafe we're talking about here), grounding the kiss in something physical and undeniable.
Your hands lift on instinct, gasping— one curling into the fabric of his shirt at his chest, the other sliding up his neck, your fingers fitting there like they always belonged. The contact pulls a low sound from him, so starved, something between a breath and a groan, and the kiss deepens even more.
Rafe’s other hand comes up to your face, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that clashes beautifully with the desperation of his mouth. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again— like he’s terrified this might still be a dream. He tilts his head just enough to kiss you better, fuller, like he intends to make up for lost time all at once.
The years collapse in on themselves.
Every almost. Every stolen glance. Every night he forced himself not to cross a line. Every time you told yourself you imagined it. It all pours into the kiss— thick, overwhelming, right.
When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, lips still chasing each other like neither of you knows how to stop.
“Fuck,” He whispers, voice wrecked and breathless. His hand stays firm at your hip, thumb brushing slow circles like he can’t help himself. Because letting go is no longer an option.
You’re both smiling now, soft, disbelieving, a little shaken.
"Feels a little disrespectful doing this here," He murmurs with a tiny smirk, blindly gesturing the whole place. Meaning the balcony, your childhood home.
You giggle, scrunching your nose when it touches his and relaxing at the contact. "Yeah? You feel bold, huh?" You play into it.
He chuckles softly, refusing to unglue his eyes from you, touching your forehead with his whenever he needs you a little closer. "Yeah, feel like your dad's about to come out somewhere..."
Another soft laugh is pulled out of you. It's soft and exhausted of years of waiting, years of watching him from a distance.
The situation feels surreal, out of the best romantic novels you have read. And it still wouldn't come to comparison. You know you're down bad for good when it still manages to feel like this after four years apart, after a lifetime of pulling back, of so many disappointments that should've put you both out the story.
It feels long overdue.
It feels like something that was always going to happen, no matter how long it took you to find your way back to this exact moment.
It feels right. And it most definitely feels like love.
As if the joke was just that —a joke— and the truth is written in the way his hand tightens at your waist, in the way he leans his forehead into yours again. He sighs again, biting his lower lip.
“I thought I was gonna have a heart attack when I saw you today,” he admits quietly, the words rough at the edges. There’s no bravado in it, no charm to hide behind. Just nerves, laid bare.
You let out a soft breath through your nose, a quiet laugh slipping out before you can stop it. Your cheeks burn, warmth blooming fast and unforgiving. “Didn’t look like it,” You tease gently, lifting your brows. “You were all—” you lower your voice, mimicking him, “‘Hey, congrats.’ Like you were congratulating a coworker.”
Rafe laughs under his breath, shaking his head, eyes lighting up in that familiar way—only softer now. He lifts a hand, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with a tenderness that makes your stomach flip. It’s slow, careful, like he’s memorizing you again. Like he’s been waiting for permission to touch you like this.
“Come on,” he murmurs, a weak defense wrapped in a half-smile. Exactly where he wants to be, under the microscope of your teasing. “What was I supposed to do? I was nervous."
You smile, leaning into his touch without thinking, your nose brushing his. The night feels closer now, smaller, like it’s folding in on the two of you.
He goes quiet for a second, his thumb still tracing that same spot, over and over. Then his voice drops, the humor fading into something more honest. More vulnerable.
“I missed you,” He says simply. No jokes or sarcasm around. His eyes search yours, like he’s bracing for something. “Like… a lot."
He tugs you closer, scanning your face with the level of detail he always wanted. Every feature he stopped in, he found himself completely enchanted.
"I missed you too." You whisper, racing both of your hands to cup his cheeks, slowly drifting down until you are in his pulse point, feeling the beat of his heart. It's loaded with adrenaline. "A lot."
He knows it now.
Wrapping his arms around your middle, rubbing your lower back, he leans down again, more confident on his movements this time around. He kisses you again—slow this time, deep and intentional, like he’s sealing something. There is only this: the warmth of his mouth, the way his thumb presses into your hip like he’s anchoring himself to the present, to you.
And time slips away in here, in the same balcony things seemed to break apart so many years ago, it's now witness of the inevitable.
You have so many years between you, so many things you have lived side by side throughout your entire lives. Rafe for so many years wished he could go back in time, fix what he broke, not hurting you and not letting you go the way he did.
But now you're here. You're back for good.
And you're back forever with him.
And he's not letting you go again this time around.
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