mistake(rebound) r.c
✵ pairing: friend!rafe turned ex hookup x reader
✵ warnings: angst angst, very sad:(happy ending tho, fluff too, kissing, not really edited!!!!mentions of hooking up, smoking, language, drinking, etc. pls lmk what i’ve missed!!!
✵ words: 11k??
✵ first part second last part
his car slows down like it’s afraid of you. and then it stops. right there in front of your corner. the headlights cut off, and for a second you just see the silhouette, rafe leaning forward, squinting through the windshield like he’s not even sure you’re real.
he opens the window halfway. his voice, low,like a half choked breath “hi… uh—hello. get—get in?”
you don’t even hesitate. you’re barefoot in slippers and wearing a t shirt that used to be his, but you open the door and slide in like it’s second nature. like you haven’t avoided him for weeks. like he didn’t come out of a bathroom with brianna fucking someone at tpper’s party.
the door shuts. you swallow. he smells like perfume and cigarette ash, like the boy you tried to forget but never could. you keep your eyes ahead, on the dash, on the glowing red clock that says 1:59am like it’s counting down to your destruction.
“i—fuck,” you say, exhaling like you’ve been holding it in for a month. “i don’t even know why i asked you here.”
he shifts beside you, but says nothing. just watches you. just waits.
you laugh dry, sharp. “i mean, we didn’t even talk for weeks. and i’m dating nate. i’m dating someone, rafe. i’m…”
your voice cracks under the weight of it “this was a mistake. god, this was such a fucking mistake.”
you start reaching for the door handle like maybe you’ll escape this moment if you move fast enough. like maybe your slippers will carry you to safety but then he says it. quiet. broken. reverent “you still wear my shirt.”
you freeze. you don’t look at him. because if you do, you’ll see that look—the one that made you stay the night. the one that made you block him to save yourself. the one that made it feel like maybe he actually felt something too.
your hands curl in your lap, you whisper, “shut up.”
he doesn’t “you called me,” he says, softer now. “not him.”
he whispers again, steady this time—too steady, the kind of calm that makes your throat go dry “you didn’t call me here for nothing.”
you press your lips together, like that’ll stop everything rising up your chest. he says it again, lower. “you didn’t.”
you close your eyes. “rafe—”
“you’re clearly thinking about me,” he cuts in, more desperate now, “as much as i’m thinking of you. i know it. i fucking know it.”
“but fuck” your voice cracks. “i’m with nate.”
he flinches at the name.
“and you—” you turn now, finally, facing him. and the words fly out like venom. “you’re fucking brianna, rafe.”
his expression twists, like you slapped him. then “we didn’t do anything.”
you stare at him. he shakes his head, jaw clenched, voice shaky now. “me and brianna. nothing happened.”
you squint, watching his face carefully, because this, you need to know. you need to see it. if there’s any trace of bullshit, of a lie curling around his lips, you’ll smell it from a mile away. you know him like that. but he just looks at you like he’s being flayed alive. his hand fists on the gear shift. “i wanted to. fuck—i’m so dumb. but i did want to. i wanted to forget.”
your pulse spikes. he swallows, like the words are hard to chew.“but the moment i looked at her and saw her face—and not yours…” he trails off. his voice breaks. “i—I couldn’t.”
you blink. “what do you mean?”
he lets out this soft, bitter laugh, one that makes your heart twist because it’s so rafe—so dry and sharp and soaked in regret “well, shit. this is fucking embarrassing.”
you wait. he leans his head back against the headrest, stares up at the car ceiling like he wishes it would crush him “my dick went limp,” he says. “that’s what i mean.”
your eyes widen.
rafe doesn’t even look at you, just laughs again. “couldn’t even pretend. literally couldn’t. like my body was rejecting her on instinct. just—shut off.” he shrugs, almost like he’s mocking himself. “guess it doesn’t work unless it’s you.”
your breath catches, his voice is quieter now. “feels like that’s just how i’m built now. like i’m wired for you.”
the air in the car feels suffocating suddenly. too hot. too heavy. you stare at him, lips parted, still clutching your thighs like they might hold you together.
he finally turns his head to look at you. “i’m sorry,” he says. “for everything.”
you don’t say anything. you’re not sure if you can.
he keeps going, like he has to spill it all now or combust “i fucked it up. i know. i made you think you were just—just some quick fuck i could forget.” he looks away again, jaw tight. “but you weren’t. you aren’t.”
you whisper, “rafe.”
“i know i don’t deserve you back,” he says, eyes locked on the dash now, voice brittle and tired. “but i couldn’t not come. you texted and my body moved before my brain could even think about it.”
he pauses, then meets your eyes again “why did you text me?”
you’re silent. the question hangs like fog between you. you can’t answer. when everything you’ve been trying to bury is now clawing its way up your throat.
you snap. you don’t mean to. not really. but something in your chest cracks under the weight of it all. the spiraling, the silence, the look on his face like he’s waiting to be told he’s the villain again, so it comes out like fire “fuck, yes—okay?!” your voice trembles. “i asked you here because i can’t stop thinking about you. you’re right. you’re right. you happy now?”
your words echo in the car like a gunshot. you don’t mean for them to sound so mean, but they do. they’re soaked in panic. guilt. that itchy kind of honesty that feels like peeling off skin.
rafe doesn’t flinch. he just looks at you. quiet. blinking slow. then “fuck…” his voice is low, almost stunned. “no.”
you pause, breathing shallow.
he shifts in his seat, looks like he’s about to break “i’m not happy,” he says. “you’re not happy, so why the fuck would i be?”
you look at him, eyes wide and glassy, trying to figure out what the hell that means. why it hurts so much. why it feels like he’s saying the things you didn’t even let yourself admit in your own head “i don’t…” your words falter. “i don’t know what to do, rafe.”
he watches you. you rub your hands over your face, voice cracking again. “nate’s nice. he’s—fuck, he really is. he’s good. he’s good to me. he doesn’t make me feel like I’m falling off the edge of something all the time—” you bite down the rest of it. you can’t look at rafe. not when the truth feels this raw on your tongue. you whisper, “i feel safe with him.”
rafe’s quiet. still. like he doesn’t want to move in case you disappear. then, softly “but you’re thinking about me anyway.”
you clench your jaw.
he lets out a bitter exhale, like it hurts. like it comforts him and kills him at once “that’s the worst part, isn’t it?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “you’ve got someone safe. someone sweet. someone who probably sees the world in you… but you still called me.”
you sink lower into the passenger seat, pressing your back into the headrest like you can melt away into the fabric, vanish, disappear from this moment and the thousand feelings clawing up your throat “i don’t know why i feel this way,” you whisper, almost ashamed to admit it, voice barely there. “it was supposed to be nothing. just a hookup.”
the word feels ugly now. cheap. you glance sideways at him—at the boy who ruined you by being the one person you never expected to need this much. and rafe—he laughs. it’s bitter, hollow, the kind of sound that’s almost not a laugh at all “yeah,” he mutters. “i know. that’s all i’m good for, right?”
your stomach sinks “rafe…”
but he won’t look at you now, eyes locked on the steering wheel, jaw tense, hands gripping his thighs like he’s keeping himself from combusting “i’m not nate,” he says, and his voice is low and clipped, like the words taste sour in his mouth. “i’m not sweet. i’m not safe. i’m not whatever the fuck he is. the guy who says all the right shit, the guy who’s never fucked up, who probably brings you flowers and tells you how ‘grateful’ he is just to breathe your air.”
you don’t say anything, because…well. he’s not wrong.
but then he turns, finally meeting your gaze, and something in his eyes is wrecked. vulnerabl in a way that makes you ache “i wanted to be,” he says. “for you.”
your heart twists “but you weren’t,” you say softly, not to hurt him, just to speak the truth. “you weren’t that for me, rafe. not then.”
he nods once. like he already knew. like he agrees “i know,” he says, voice rough. “i know i wasn’t. i didn’t know how. but fuck, i tried. i gave you my weekends. my time. i gave you me in every way i knew how. and yeah, i wasn’t perfect. but i never meant for it to feel like nothing.”
you flinch, because that’s what you told yourself over and over again to cope: that it was just sex. just tension. just a hookup. it had to be. anything more would’ve destroyed you. “you didn’t act like it meant anything,” you say.
and he looks at you like he’s about to cry “because i thought if i did,” he says slowly, “you’d run.”
you blink.
“i was scared, alright?” he adds. “scared i’d fuck it up. scared i wasn’t enough. and then nate came along, and he is enough. he’s everything i’m not. and when i saw you with him, i—fuck.” he exhales like he’s bleeding from the mouth “i wanted to tell you everything.”
you sit there frozen, hands in your lap, heart pounding like it wants out of your chest.
he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated and broken and helpless “he gets to be with you now,” rafe says, softer. “he gets the soft you. the real you. he gets your mornings and your dates and your goddamn affection. and i’m the fuckup who got your body once and then ruined it.”
you’re staring at him now, eyes wide, throat dry “you think that’s all you gave me?” you ask quietly.
he looks at you. you’re shaking, just a little. you barely notice “i smoked my first cigarette with you,” you say. “you bought us shitty vodka and we got drunk in your truck and you told me i was your favorite person. you. i believed you.”
rafe’s expression changes—melts, softens, splits at the seams “you were,” he says hoarsely. “you are.”
you’re still breathing hard, lips parted like another thousand confessions are waiting behind your teeth “i don’t want to feel this way about you,” you whisper.
he nods, gaze never leaving yours “i don’t want you to either,” he replies. “not if it hurts. not if it makes you second guess someone who actually treats you the way you deserve.”
silence swallows the car. you both sit in it. soaked in guilt, nostalgia, pain. affection too deep to erase. tension that crackles like lightning through your skin. and still, it’s not enough to pull you apart. not yet. because you’re both still here. still staring. still wanting.
your voice is quiet. soft. like if you speak any louder, it’ll shatter the moment completely “you think things would be different in another life?”
his eyes flicker to yours, and something in his chest cracks open.
the heat off, windows slightly fogged, the kind of stillness between you that vibrates. everything outside is quiet. no headlights passing. no breeze. just the world on pause and rafe cameron staring at you like he’s seeing his future and his past at the same time.
he lets out a small, dry laugh, like it hurts to smile “another life, huh?” he mutters, leaning his head back against the seat, eyes still on yours. “fuck, yeah. in another life, i wouldn’t be such a fucking coward.”
your heart jumps at how easily that slipped out of him.
he swallows, slow and hard. then he looks away for a second, gathering his words like they’re scattered glass “in another life,” he continues, “i would’ve held your hand and told everyone you were mine. not just when no one was looking.”
you breathe in sharply, like it physically hit you
rafe glances at you again, a little sideways this time. “i wouldn’t have let you walk away thinking you were just…just a good time. cause you were never that. not to me.”
you blink fast, because your throat is tight now. everything is “you would’ve shown up?” you ask, voice so small, so unsure
he nods once“every time. no hesitation.”
your eyes search his, and it’s terrifying how raw he looks. how soft. it’s still rafe—still a little rough around the edges, still a mess—but there’s no mask right now. just him cracked wide open in front of you.
he keeps talking, more gentle now “i’d have taken you to dinner like a real date. made you wear something cute, even though you’d show up in shorts and still look like a fuckin’ dream. i’d have kissed you in front of everyone. picked you up from your house just so your dad knew who you were with.”
you laugh quietly, sad and sweet “he would’ve hated you.”
rafe smiles. a real one this time. a little crooked, a little broken “yeah,” he says, “but he would’ve known i loved you.”
your breath hitches.
he stares at you, and there’s a pause. a beat where you think maybe you’re both going to explode from all this tenderness sitting between you
“what about me?” you whisper. “what would i have done in another life?”
rafe’s eyes darken slightly, but not in a bad way. more like he’s imagining it—really seeing it “you’d be happy,” he says. “not confused. not torn up about some other guy. you’d have your own toothbrush at my place and my shirt on in the morning and your stupid little playlist on loop even when you’re not there.”
you smile, wet and full of ache “you remembered my playlist?”
“i still have it.”
silence again. you can’t look away. neither can he “i think about it sometimes,” you admit, voice thick now. “if we met at the right time. if you had been just a little less scared and i had been a little less in denial.”
he nods slowly, eyes softening further “we could’ve been fucking unstoppable.”
you laugh through your tears. “we’d probably still fight all the time.”
“yeah,” he smirks, “but it would’ve ended in sex or pancakes.”
“or both.”
he chuckles low in his throat.
“you’d have loved me properly, huh?” you say it like a question. like a hope.
he stares at you, gaze unmoving, deadly serious “i would’ve worshipped the fuck out of you.”
and that? that undoes you. you can’t speak. can’t breathe. because here he is, right in front of you—telling you everything you used to dream he’d say. and it’s too late. or maybe it’s not. maybe it never really was. maybe it’s just you, torn in two by the sweetness of what could’ve been and the pain of what is.
you sit there for a moment longer, both of you completely silent. completely undone.
just two people in the wrong life. staring like maybe if you look hard enough, you’ll fall into a better one.
you say it before you can think better of it. before shame wraps around your throat and drags you back under. your voice breaks, and it sounds nothing like the version of yourself you show to other people. not the confident one, not the funny one, not the one who can pretend things are fine when they’re clearly not. not the one nate sees. this one is real. cracked open and pleading
“i’m scared,” you whisper. “i don’t know what to do, rafe. help me. please.”
the moment the words leave your mouth, the silence in the car shifts. it’s no longer heavy. it’s fragile. breathless. like even the air knows something’s about to give.
rafe freezes. his eyes lock on yours like they’re made of glass and you’ve just shattered them.
you’ve never asked him for help before. not like this.
he blinks a few times, like he’s trying to ground himself. his jaw tightens, then loosens again. slowly, carefully, he reaches out—his hand hovering between you, waiting for permission.
“you don’t have to figure it out right now,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “you don’t have to pick anything or anyone or—fuck, you don’t even have to explain it to me.”
his fingers barely graze your knee. grounding, warm “but i’m here,” he says. “i’m fucking here. and if you want me to help you, i will. no questions, no bullshit. just say it, and i’m yours.”
you look at him. god. his eyes. those eyes. like they were made to look at you like this. and maybe it’s not fair. maybe it’s selfish. maybe it’s cruel to nate and terrifying to you and dangerously close to everything you swore you wouldn’t do again. but it’s rafe.
and when he looks at you like that?it’s not just comfort. it’s not just lust. it’s not just old habits. it’s home.
so you nod, just a little. barely there.
his hand finds yours and holds it like it’s something precious. your voice cracks before you can even stop it, eyes dropping to your lap, hands still clasped in his like muscle memory. like instinct “nate will hate me,” you say, barely louder than a breath.
rafe squeezes your hand once, then lets go gently like he’s trying not to hurt you, even in the smallest way. his voice is tight when he says, “fuck. if you want nate, i won’t say anything. to anyone. that we met up tonight. i promise.”
you glance up at him. he’s not even looking at you. he’s staring out the windshield like it’s easier to pretend this is nothing.
he swallows hard and keeps going “if you’re happy,” he says, slower this time, voice hoarse, “i’m not standing in the way of that.”
you don’t even feel the tear slip until it lands on your thigh, soaking into the fabric of your oversized shirt. it surprises you—makes you laugh, but not like anything is funn
a sad little sound. fragile. worn “where’s the jealous rafe, hm?” you murmur, turning toward him. “what’d you do to my rafe?”
his head turns slowly. eyes meeting yours,blue and broken and still somehow soft. his mouth twitches. not a smile. not even close “you did this to your rafe, actually,” he says.
and god it hits like a bruise. like a confession. like the truth he’s been carrying around since the night everything went to hell. he looks like he means it. like every word sits heavy in his chest. you did this.
you softened him. made him feel safe. made him care so deeply it bled out in every wrong way. and now you’re here, both sitting in the wreckage, both pretending you aren’t shaking.
he shifts a little in his seat, like he’s trying to keep it together. he looks at you a second longer, like he’s trying to memorize you. maybe he is. maybe he’s scared this is the last time you’ll ever sit beside him like this.
but then he blinks, exhales through his nose, shakes his head a little—like he’s brushing off the heaviness for just a second—and lets out a soft, strained laugh.
“remember when you got so drunk,” he says, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth, “that i had to carry you in my arms from topper’s house all the way to yours?”
your mouth drops open, a short laugh escaping before you cover your face with both hands, half mortified, half caught in the memory.
“oh my god,” you groan, peeking at him between your fingers. “four streets, rafe. four fucking streets.”
he grins fully now, and it’s the first time tonight it doesn’t look like it hurts. “you kept singing that one taylor swift song the whole time.”
“don’t,” you say, already laughing.
“you were slurring it,” he continues, ignoring your protests, “and you tried to make me dance with you on the sidewalk in front of the old lady’s porch. what was her name again—mrs. walker?”
“mrs. walker hates me now, thanks to you,” you laugh, voice high and shaking, the memory hitting you like warm light, like comfort, like home
“nah,” he says, eyes twinkling, “she hated me. said i was a bad influence.”
you’re both laughing quietly now, and it’s easier than anything else tonight “you carried me the whole way,” you say after a beat, soft again, quieter. “you didn’t let me walk.”
rafe shrugs, leaning back a little. “wasn’t gonna let you fall.”
and he means it. he’s always meant it. even when he did.
he leans back in the seat, arms draped lazily over the wheel, head tilted just enough to watch you through the soft dark. his voice is low, warm like summer air,“remember that time we snuck into the country club pool after hours? and you made me swear we wouldn’t get caught?”
you laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “you cannonballed in and screamed ‘yolo’ so loud i’m pretty sure they still have you on some kind of watchlist.”
he grins. “but you were the one who did a backflip off the diving board and hit the water like a belly flop.”
you slap his arm lightly. “i was dared. by you.”
he smirks. “and you lost your earring in the pool.”
you sigh dramatically. “my favorite one.”
“and i stayed in the water for like an hour looking for it.”
you go quiet for a second. you remember. you remember the way he swam around in circles like a madman, hands brushing the bottom, even after you told him to let it go. his hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes red from chlorine, stubborn as hell because he hated seeing you sad over something he dared you to do.
“you’re trying to make me sad?” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.
his smile falters just enough “no,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “i’m trying to remind you what we were. what we… are, maybe. even if we’re not supposed to be.”
his hand drifts lazily from the steering wheel, fingers brushing the leather in quiet rhythm as if thinking through the silence, then he turns slightly in his seat, facing you full on now. there’s something painfully earnest in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorize you in this exact second.
“do you…” he starts slow, voice low and rough like a question he’s afraid to hear the answer to, “do you feel loved with him?”
his brows lift just slightly, trying to read you.
you don’t respond. you don’t even breathe at first.
so he nudges your cheek with the tip of his finger, soft and teasing, trying to make it lighter than it is. “c’mooon,” he murmurs, the ghost of a smirk forming. “promise i won’t be mad, baby. scouts honor.”
but you don’t smile back. you sit there, fingers picking at a loose thread on your shorts, lips parting then closing again.
finally, you speak. “i should.”
his expression falters.
“i should feel loved,” you repeat. “he does everything right. he tells me i’m pretty. he brings me flowers. he—he listens. and he remembers the little things. like how i hate cinnamon and how i like my tea.”
he waits.
“but i don’t know what i feel,” you admit, voice thinner now. “he’s nice and he’s sweet and… i like him. i do.”
“but,” he presses softly.
your chest tightens. the silence between you swells “but he doesn’t have that.” you glance at him.
his brows furrow. “that what?”
you swallow. “what we had.”
he holds your gaze, something wild and gentle all at once flashing in his eyes. “what we had?” he echoes, a bitter trace of hope wrapped around the words.
you nod slowly. “that fire.”
and when you say it—that fire—it’s like something erupts between the two of you, invisible and burning
you both feel it. the memory of it coils between your bodies in the car, thick and electric. every time you kissed like you’d die if you didn’t. the yelling. the laughing. the late night drives to nowhere. the silence that was never really silence because it always felt safe with him. the way he’d call you “baby”, like you were a secret no one else got to have
nate never looked at you like rafe does. like you hung the goddamn stars.
“that fire,” rafe repeats under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. he looks back at the windshield, nodding slightly like he’s letting the truth settle.
you think maybe he’s going to say something else, but he just sits there. until he murmurs, “that fire ruined me, you know.”
your head turns toward him, breath caught.
his voice is raw now, honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. “after you, everything felt cold. like nothing was alive unless it was with you. even when we were just ‘friends’—i mean, fuck, i was in so deep, it didn’t matter what we called it.” he laughs weakly. “and then i blew it all up like an idiot. like i always do.”
you don’t say anything, but your hand is shaking in your lap.
his voice softens again. “but i want it back. you. even if it hurts. even if you pick nate tomorrow morning and block my number again. i’ll still want it.”
you blink, and another tear slips without warning. neither of you wipe it this time
your voice trembles slightly when you ask it, eyes fixed out the windshield like maybe if you don’t look at him, the words will come out easier “you think we were more in love with the world?”
rafe furrows his brows, the question catching him off guard. he turns to face you again, lips parting just a bit as if searching for meaning behind your words. “what do you mean?”
you inhale sharply, “i mean…” your voice is small now, cracking at the edges. “we were always so scared. you and me. scared of what people would say. scared of looking stupid. i didn’t say anything back then because—because i was terrified of you not feeling the same way, of ruining whatever we had.”
you finally look at him, watery eyes sharp with emotion “and you?” you say, voice rising a little now, “you were scared of rejection too, but also scared of fucking up your fucking reputation.”
he looks like he wants to say something, but you keep going.
“you cared so much about how people saw you, rafe. the image. the name. the attitude. and me?” you laugh, bitter and breathless. “i was just the girl you spent time with but never called yours. not in public. not out loud. we were just… hidden. behind closed doors. all heat and touch and feelings that neither of us had the guts to name.”
you look down at your hands.
“so yeah, maybe we weren’t in love with each other,” you whisper. “maybe we were just in love with what it could be if the world didn’t matter.”
he swallows hard, his jaw tight as he processes your words.
you’ve never spoken to him like this before. not with the ache so sharp in your chest, not with your voice so broken around the truth.
you sniff, wiping under your eye. “and i keep thinking about it, y’know? how maybe if we weren’t so fucking scared, we would’ve had a shot. if you weren’t so wrapped up in being rafe cameron—if i wasn’t so scared of needing someone who could leave just as fast as he came.”
rafe leans back in his seat, eyes still glued to you. he looks older suddenly, more tired. wrecked, even.
he exhales slowly. “you think that’s all it was?”
you blink. “what?”
“reputation,” he says. “fear. appearances.”
you hesitate. “doesn’t it feel like that now?”
he doesn’t answer. instead, he just looks at you—really looks at you—and for once, there’s no smugness, no mask, no front.
just him. your rafe. he’s quiet for a long time after that. so long, you almost regret saying anything at all.
you’re about to open your mouth to take it back, to laugh it off, brush over it, pretend none of this ever left your lips, when his gaze finally lifts. and lands on you.
hard. heavy. he really looks at you this time. like he’s peeling back skin, not just clothes. like he’s not seeing the girl in a too big t-hirt and slippers, but the girl who’s haunted him every fucking night for months. the girl he sees in cigarette smoke and ocean waves and his own fucking dreams
you feel it in your chest when he does it, how his stare strips you down, not with lust, but with history.
and then, low, rough, nothing like the boys you’ve been around lately, he says it “can you fight fire with fire, baby?”
your heart drops.
he tilts his head, tongue grazing his bottom lip. “’cause that’s what this is, right? what we were. what we are. fire.”
you don’t speak. can’t.
his voice softens, but only just “you said nate doesn’t have that.” a beat “you said we had fire.”
you nod slowly, throat tight. “yeah.”
he shifts closer, one arm tapping his thigh with that restless energy you remember so well. he’s nervous. but trying not to be.
“then tell me,” he whispers. “tell me if you think that fire can burn everything else down. the fear. the guilt. the perfect boy waiting for you to text back. tell me if it’s worth it.”
you look at him, and god, his eyes. those fucking eyes.
“can you fight fire with fire, baby?” he repeats, a little softer now.
he leans in like he might kiss you, but stops just short—close enough to feel him, but far enough that you’ll have to make the choice.
and maybe he’s right. maybe that’s all you ever were. too much heat in a world that wanted cold. too much flame for a place built out of reputation and rules.
you breathe, heavy and uneven, as your mouth parts but no words come. just that look. that ache.
he’s still waiting. so are you. you whisper it before you even realize it left your mouth “I hope… in time I can just love, freely.”
the words hang in the air, delicate and bruised. not hopeful, not hopeless. just real.
and for once, rafe doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
he breathes it in instead. your honesty, your ache, the way your voice cracked a little on free. he nods, slow. like he gets it. like he’s been trying to get there, too.
his fingers tap against his thigh again, but gentler this time. almost nervously. and when he speaks, it’s not sharp or sarcastic or layered in all that old pride he used to wear like armor.
it’s just soft, scared “I hope in time…” he looks at you, really looks at you again, the way he always does right before he says something you’ll never forget “…we can love each other freely.”
you don’t even blink.
he exhales like the words cost him something. like they gave him something back, too.
you stare at him—this boy who’s hurt you, wanted you, feared you, missed you.
this boy who always shows up when he shouldn’t. this boy who knows the worst parts of you and still—still—looks at you like he’d burn it all down just to hear you laugh.
you shift slightly in your seat, knees pulled up, hands knotted in your lap, the fabric of your oversized tee wrinkling with the motion. your throat feels raw.
he’s still watching. and for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s asking you to choose. just…to feel. to be.
after that, you decided you should go home. all you wanted to do was sleep.
did you sleep? nope. you laid in bed, eyes burning in the dark, every fiber of your body heavy with exhaustion and still, your mind wouldn’t shut up. you kept ignoring topper’s texts, and everyone else’s too. you didn’t even read them. couldn’t.
you just kept thinking. about nate. and rafe. and how it’s not supposed to be this hard. you didn’t want to break nate’s heart. he’s so good. so golden. he says what he means. makes you feel like someone easy to love, not this walking storm of overthinking and damage and what ifs.
he’s gentle hands and easy smiles. not a single sharp edge.
but rafe…rafe feels like—you can’t even describe it. like home? but no, not really. home doesn’t scare the shit out of you.
like fire? too cliche. and not the right kind. rafe doesn’t burn you to ash, he scorches everything else around you, and you let him.
rafe feels like the one person who’s ever really seen you. not the dressed up version. not the smart answer or the curated laugh or the quiet polite thing you sometimes turn yourself into around other people.
he saw the mess. the ugly. the selfish. the insecure. he saw your bare skin and your worst moods and your clumsy love and your fears—he didn’t run. not until you both got scared.
you twist under the sheets and flip your pillow for the third time in twenty minutes. stare at the ceiling like it might offer a decision.
nate deserves more than this confusion.
more than a girlfriend who kissed her past in a parked car hours ago and still hasn’t decided what to do about it.
but rafe….rafe fucking cameron. you hate how much you still want him. how much he still makes you feel. how the smallest flicker in his voice changes everything in your chest.
you don’t know if it’s love. you don’t know if it’s trauma. you don’t know if it’s the worst idea you’ve ever had. but you know it’s not nothing.
with rafe…it’s free. it always was, even when it felt like it wasn’t. even when you two danced around each other like you were both one wrong word away from setting fire to the whole thing. even when it ended before it ever had a name.
it could be free again. maybe. maybe in another life.
one where you weren’t scared of the way he looked at you. one where he didn’t care so much about how others saw him. one where you didn’t waste all that time pretending it didn’t matter—when all it ever did was matter.
you imagine it sometimes. you can’t help it.
that version of you walking through the grocery store with him, fingers laced, no need to pull away when someone you know walks by. his lips pressed to the side of your neck when he’s had too much wine, both of you laughing over something that isn’t even funny anymore. waking up beside him with sunlight warming your face, no guilt in your chest. no secrets. no ifs or buts or maybes. just love. just him.
you blink at the ceiling, your chest aching under the weight of all the things you’ve never said out loud. how much you wanted to believe the timing didn’t matter.
how much you lied when you said it was just a hook up. how much it destroyed you to see him with brianna, even if he never touched her like he touched you.
it could’ve been clean, maybe. maybe if you hadn’t been so young. maybe if he hadn’t been so lost. maybe if you both weren’t so good at pretending you didn’t care when your eyes said everything.
but this life? this one is messy. you’re dating nate. rafe is—fuck. rafe is rafe.
and no matter how much your heart aches at the idea of “what if,” you know it doesn’t change where you are right now.
stuck in a storm of feelings that don’t make sense. still thinking about a boy who said, “i hope in time we can love each other free.”
and maybe that time just hasn’t come yet. maybe it never will. maybe there won’t be a time when it’s clean or easy or feels like the right thing instead of the selfish one. and that’s what scares you. because life is about taking chances, right?
so why can’t you take this one? why does it feel so impossible to just make the choice, to lean into what you want instead of what looks better on paper?
if you choose nate—god, nate. his patience, his soft hands, the way he opens the passenger door like it’s instinct. he’d step down. he would. he might be heartbroken, might cry in his car, might never text you again, but he wouldn’t beg. he wouldn’t call you names. he wouldn’t ask for more than you could give. he’s not like that. he’d let you go, because he’s too good not to.
and if you choose rafe—that’s the real kicker, isn’t it? you already did, once. chose him in secret, in silence, in the way your body moved without permission every time he was near.
and back then, it still ended in fire.
but maybe he’s different now. maybe you are too. you think about how he looked at you last night—like he’d burn down the whole world if you asked him to.
how he said he wouldn’t tell a soul if you wanted nate. how he didn’t kiss you. didn’t push. he used to be reckless. last night…he was careful. with you.
and still, you’re frozen. you tell yourself you’re just scared to hurt nate. and you are.
but the truth is, you’re terrified that you’ll choose rafe, give him your full heart this time, and he’ll still leave. not for another girl—no, not that. just for himself. because that’s what he does when it gets too close. he runs.
you sigh, flipping your phone over on the pillow beside you, screen black, texts still unread. you try to convince yourself nate would understand. he probably would. he’s gentle like that.
but that doesn’t make it easier. what if neither of them is the answer? what if you’re the one who needs fixing?
you let out a bitter laugh, palms pressed into your eyes. because it’s just like him to waltz back in with that crooked mouth and those eyes that know too much—and fuck everything up all over again. because you let him. because part of you wants to. and that’s what makes you the worst kind of selfish. not the reckless kind. not the mean kind. the kind who’s too scared to be happy
rafe is no better than you. it’s 4:02am and is he sleeping? no fucking way.
he’s laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it’s gonna give him answers, one arm flung over his head, the other pressed against his chest like he’s trying to feel his own heartbeat. like if he listens close enough, maybe it’ll tell him what to do
but all it does is ache. his room’s dark, silent except for the occasional creak of the ceiling fan and the distant waves crashing behind tannyhill. but in his head, it’s anything but quiet.
he keeps playing the night over, rewinding, replaying, like some messed up movie scene. your face. the way your voice cracked when you said help me please. how your fingers trembled just slightly on your thighs. how your eyes didn’t leave his once—not once.
he should be content with that, right? some part of you still wants him. but all he can think is you deserve better.
he knows it. fuck, he knows it.
you deserve better than a guy who left without warning. a guy who couldn’t even tell you why because even he didn’t really know. only that it felt too good, too big, too dangerous. like he might actually be capable of ruining something pure again.
you were the first thing that ever felt safe. and that scared the shit out of him.
so he did what he always does. he self sabotaged.
and now, he keeps wondering if maybe he could be that better for you. if he just wasn’t so scared. if he wasn’t still wrestling with the shadow of who he used to be and the man he’s trying to become.
it’s not about being clean—not entirely. he hasn’t touched a line in a long time, hasn’t gone back to that darkness, but that doesn’t mean he’s whole.
he’s still selfish. still wounded. still obsessed with the idea of you and him in another life where the world wasn’t watching, where expectations didn’t chain you both to bullshit roles.
he wants that life so bad it burns.
the one where he’s not rafe cameron: tannyhill’s golden fuck up. and you’re not the girl caught in the middle, afraid to be seen loving him too loud.
in that life, you laugh in the open. in that life, you kiss in daylight. in that life, he’s not scared to be exactly who you need.
but it’s not that life. it’s this one. where you’re still with nate, and he’s still paying for mistakes he hasn’t even made yet.
rafe turns over, burying his face into the pillow and groaning into it.
he wants to text you. call you. do something stupid like show up at your house with flowers from the gas station and a half baked apology.
but he doesn’t. because for once, he knows that might do more harm than good. so he waits. and hopes.
and thinks maybe—just maybe—if there’s a version of the world where love is brave and clean and free…it’ll look something like you.
and him, without all the in betweens.
but still, he hopes.some twisted, stubborn part of him still fucking hopes.
hopes that if you choose love..real love, the kind that strips you down, breaks you open, burns you alive and somehow puts you back together again…that love will look like him.
and you. together.
not nate. not some perfectly put together, gentle boy with a sweet laugh and a reliable car and parents who probably love him in the right way.
not the world, either. not safety. not ease. not what everyone expects you to choose.
but him. the one thing you swore you wouldn’t come back to. but still did. he thinks about your text. no punctuation. no explanation. you didn’t need to give one.
and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t mean everything. because deep down, rafe doesn’t want to just be someone you remember fondly at night when the room is too quiet. he doesn’t want to be the ghost you almost loved. he wants to be chosen. on purpose. in spite of everything.
he knows that doesn’t make him noble. doesn’t make him good. but it’s honest. and at least it’s his. so yeah—he hopes.
he hopes you don’t want the version of love that looks good on paper, that makes sense to your friends, your parents, your carefully folded life. he hopes you want the kind of love that leaves marks. the kind that comes with broken glass and bruised hearts and whispered promises between parked cars at 3am.
because that’s the only kind he’s ever known. and the only kind he knows how to give you.
so if you choose love—if you really, really choose it—he hopes it looks like him.
not the best version of him, not the cleaned up, crowd approved version. just him. raw and fucked and trying anyway.
he turns his head into the pillow and finally lets the thought sit on his chest like weight:
if you choose love…please let it be him.
rafe’s phone dings. one buzz. sharp in the quiet, slicing through the dark like it knows what it’s doing. like it knows he’s been wide awake all night, laying flat on his back, eyes on the ceiling, your name tangled in every single thought.
he barely moves when he grabs it, just tilts the screen toward his face.
topper: you met up with her didn’t you
his heart skips. fucking skips.
rafe: how the fuck did you know
the bubble pops up instantly. topper’s probably been waiting for this.
topper: she texted me “i’m about to do something” and then turned off her phone. you didn’t answer the whole time. it wasn’t hard to figure out
rafe exhales through his nose, thumb tapping, deleting, typing again.
rafe: yeah. she texted me. i didn’t plan it
topper: you never do, but you care about her. dude. don’t fuck this up again
rafe stares at the screen, jaw locked. his stomach turns. not in the sick way. in the “fuck, he’s right” kind of way.
rafe: i already fucked it up but she texted me. that has to mean something right?
topper doesn’t reply right away. rafe sets the phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling again. heart thumping.
she called me. she called me. she called me.
he says it in his head like a prayer.
because even if it’s the last time,
even if it’s wrong, even if you go back to nate—it still meant something. it had to.
cause in rafe’s mind, even if you choose nate—be with him for real, love him out loud and without fear, maybe even marry him one day, wear white and cry at the altar.
maybe you’ll have a home with warm lights and picture frames and messy counters.
maybe a kid with nate’s soft eyes and your stubborn little mouth. maybe a life so sweet it makes you forget rafe’s name when you whisper love.
but.
but. even if you do all that,even if you never say his name again—rafe knows something now.
you texted him. you chose him, even if just for one night. one moment. one 30 minute car ride that smelled like perfume and regret.
and maybe that’s all he’ll ever get. maybe he’ll always be the dumbass who couldn’t give you clean, couldn’t give you calm. maybe he’ll always be the fuckup.
but for once—for the very first time in his life—he meant something. to someone. and not just anyone. to you.
you, with your fire and your mouth and your guilt. you, who never needed saving but still let him be near. you, who made everything feel stupid and sacred at the same time.
and yeah, it’ll fucking destroy him if you go back to nate. but he’ll take that destruction like a medal. he’ll carry it until it bruises his ribs and caves his chest in.
because now he knows. he meant something. one time. to you. and that…that might have to be enough. for him, at least.
a week later. you haven’t talked to rafe since that night. since the 30 minutes that rewired your entire fucking brain. since the confession, the almosts, the eye contact that should’ve meant nothing—but felt like everything.
and now…now you’re in nate’s car. he’s got one hand on the wheel and the other resting near your thigh, fingers twitching like he wants to hold you but won’t push. he’s been perfect. sweet. too fucking sweet.
he got you flowers two days ago just because he saw you sad on facetime. he took you to that stupid thrift market you always talk about. he asked your coffee order and actually remembered it.
he’s been trying. and it should be enough. you should want this.
you so should.
but god, your body feels like it’s betraying you every second. you keep thinking about the wrong hands. the wrong voice. the wrong boy.
or maybe not wrong. maybe just… not safe.
“hey,” nate says, his voice gentle but worried. again. you blink out the window, your cheek against the glass, pretending to nap but you’re not fooling anyone
“you okay?” you don’t answer. he waits five seconds. then says again, “you okay?”
you suck in a breath and close your eyes harder like that’ll drown it all out. it doesn’t.
he asks again. a third time “baby, are you okay?”
you almost say yes. you almost lie. but the fourth time he asks, when you don’t answer right away, he gently squeezes your thigh and whispers, “talk to me, please. this is the fifth time i’ve asked.”
that’s when you snap. not angry. just… full. overwhelmed. tipping over the edge “fuck, nate,” you mutter, voice raw and thin, “i don’t fucking know, okay?”
he doesn’t respond at first. so you keep going “i don’t know. i’m trying, i am, but i don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me. you’re—god, you’re amazing, nate. you’re nice and easy and thoughtful and i should love you, i should—but i don’t even know if i can.”
he stares at the road, lips pressed in a flat line, his hand frozen.
you exhale hard, tears stinging but not falling. you don’t even look at him when you whisper, “i’m sorry.”
you’re not sure if you mean for this moment or for something else entirely. for rafe. for meeting up. for thinking about it every night since.
nate nods once, quietly “thank you for telling me,” he says after a while, so calm it cuts deeper “even if it hurts.”
and fuck. you wish it would’ve been easier. you wish nate was the right kind of chaos. you wish his kiss tasted like fire. you wish his hands made your spine ache the way rafe’s name does. but they don’t.
and now you both know.
he pulls the car over. just… turns the wheel slowly and lets the tires crunch against gravel as the car rolls to a stop on the side of the empty road. it’s quiet. humid air pressing against the windows. music still playing low, some soft indie song he probably put on for your sake.
you feel your stomach twist before he even says anything.
“you, uh…” he starts, voice gentle but thick in his throat. he won’t look at you. just stares straight ahead, fingers flexing on the wheel “you still want him. rafe. don’t you?”
you inhale like you’re about to answer, but nothing comes out. you blink hard. your lips part, then shut. you hate this. you hate hurting him.
“i…” your voice cracks. “i don’t know what i want, nate.”
and it’s the truth. you’re drowning in it. the guilt, the confusion, the ache. nate is looking at you now. not angry. not cold. just… trying.
“i’m fucking scared, okay?” you whisper. “i don’t know how to make the right choice, i don’t even know if there is one. and it’s not fair to you and i know that, and i’m sorry. i swear to god i’m sorry.”
he nods slowly, looking down at his lap “scared of what?” he asks. “what is it about him that makes you scared?”
you shrug, your nails digging into the edge of your seat “everything,” you whisper. “he feels like fire and falling and all the things that could ruin me. and you—you’re good. you’re safe. and maybe that’s why i can’t stop comparing.”
“so you’re scared of me… not being enough?”
you shake your head “no, nate. you are enough. you’re more than enough. i’m the one who’s not.”
he sighs, pressing his knuckles to his mouth. thinking “i want to be mad at you,” he admits after a moment. “i really do. i want to be the guy who slams the door and says fuck you and never looks back.” he looks over at you. “but i care too much.”
your chest aches.
“you didn’t mean to hurt me,” he says. “and that’s why it hurts even more.”
a silence stretches out, thick and pulsing. you wipe under your eyes, not even realizing you’d been crying again.
nate sighs and finally, finally reaches over and takes your hand—just for a second “i hope you find what you’re looking for,” he says softly. “even if it’s not me.”
and just like that—your throat closes. because you never deserved someone like nate. but he still gave you permission to leave. and now… now you have to figure out if you’re brave enough to take it.
you swallow hard, voice barely above a whisper “nate… what do i do?”
he looks over at you, eyes soft but tired “i don’t know,” he admits, voice low. “what feels right, i guess.” there’s a pause before he lets out a bitter laugh “honestly, i should’ve known you’d still want him.”
you blink, heart sinking.
“i mean,” he continues, “the first night we met he came over to that bench and acted like a maniac. totally reckless, like he was trying to stake his claim or something.”
he shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but you catch the way his jaw tightens “it was clear you weren’t mine to take.”
you don’t answer right away. you stare out the window, trying to figure out what feels right when everything inside you feels so tangled.
“maybe,” you whisper, “maybe i’m just too scared to admit what i want.”
nate nods, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips “i’m glad you said something, you know. it’s still early. doesn’t hurt that much, y’know?”
you let out a breathy laugh, half amused, half bitter “oh wow, really comforting for both of us,” you say, shaking your head, “just huffing out the drama.”
nate huffs a laugh, shaking his head “yeah, you’re definitely in your adele era, huh?”
you roll your eyes with a smirk,“haha, real funny. sarcasm’s your love language, huh?”
he grins,“probably would be, if i had that much to laugh about.”
you raise an eyebrow, “wow, real dramatic. you’re full of surprises today.”
nate shrugs,“me??? you’re the one that dropped that bomb on me.”
you sigh,“yeah… really sorry about that.”
he gives you a small smile,“nah, you’re good. i get it.”
there’s a quiet pause, the hum of the engine filling the space between you “look,” he says softly, “whatever happens, i just want you to be happy. even if it’s not with me.”
you bite your lip, hesitant “i should talk to rafe, shouldn’t i?”
nate glances over at you, a little unsure but trying to help. “i uh… i could take you to his place, y’know…” he trails off, like he’s not totally sure if that’s a good idea, but he wants to be there for you either way.
nate blinks, then grins wide, a teasing spark in his eyes “waaaait—is that why we didn’t do anything? and we were just ‘taking our time’?”
you flush a little, trying to hide the small smile tugging at your lip “oh, shut up.”
nate laughs, shaking his head “oh my god, it was because of rafe, wasn’t it?” he’s laughing now, but it’s warm, easy, like he’s trying to make light of the tension between you
you sigh, a little defeated but amused “okay, you got me there. i’ll give you that.”
nate’s grin just widens like he won “figured as much.”
you twist in your seat a little, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around them. it’s quiet for a moment. not awkward quiet, just… heavy. everything’s kind of sunken in now, and there’s a weird comfort in how nate’s still here. still being nate. still kind, still making jokes even when you sort of crushed him
you glance at him. he doesn’t look mad. just maybe a little… sad. but the gentle kind. the kind that says he already prepared himself for this possibility. maybe he’s been seeing it in your eyes the whole time.
you clear your throat. “you know what?”
he glances at you, hand still resting on the steering wheel “yeah?”
you breathe in through your nose. your voice isn’t shaky, but it’s definitely unsure “yeah. take me to tannyhill.” you nod, more to yourself than to him “please.”
he raises his eyebrows, nodding slowly “okay…” he breathes. “fuck. we’re doing this.”
you both kind of laugh. not really because it’s funny, but because it’s insane. the way this night turned out, the way your head’s been spinning for a week straight. the fact that you’re about to show up at rafe cameron’s house like you didn’t spend seven days avoiding your own reflection.
nate signals left “you sure you wanna do this now? it’s like… late late.”
you nod. “it’s always late when it comes to him.”
he hums. doesn’t argue.
you watch the night roll by outside the car window. the way the streetlights flicker across. just barely threw a hoodie over the big shirt. you didn’t even check if your hair looked okay or if you had mascara under your eyes. you didn’t even care. and that’s what scares you most. because every time it’s rafe, you lose your pride. your balance. your logic. but god, it’s him. and you miss him. and no matter what you try to do to smother it, it leaks out of you like light through your ribs.
“you look nervous,” nate says softly.
“i am,” you admit.
“you shouldn’t be.”
“i feel like i’m about to jump into a volcano.”
“well,” he chuckles, “at least you’re doing it in slippers.”
you snort, head tipping back against the seat “thanks for being cool about this.”
he shrugs. “i’m not cool. i’m coping. difference.”
you look at him, eyes soft “seriously.”
he glances at you, and this time it’s warmer. “you’re welcome.”
by the time you turn onto the familiar gravel road to tannyhill, your stomach is killing you. not physically—just that ache of what the fuck am i doing and what if he slams the door in my face. what if he doesn’t even answer. what if you misread everything, what if last week was just nostalgia and desperation and loneliness?
you’re chewing your thumb, pulse racing in your neck. nate slows the car near the gate. you freeze.
he looks at you. “i can turn around right now if you want. we can pretend this never happened.”
you inhale deep. really deep. then exhale, shaky “no,” you murmur. “i have to know.”
he nods again, slow “okay then.”
he drives the car past the gate. tannyhill looks the same. porch light on. one window glowing upstairs—his room. it’s like time stopped here even if you didn’t.
nate parks. you don’t move right away.
he glances at you and raises an eyebrow “go on.”
you lick your lips. “fuck.”
he grins. “yeah. fuck.”
you unbuckle your seatbelt, fingers trembling just a little “thank you,” you say one more time, hand on the door handle.
“go get your boy,” nate says, soft and without bitterness.
you step out, shutting the door quietly behind you. it’s so still here. the kind of still that makes you feel every breath and every heartbeat in your throat. you walk up the porch steps slowly. your hand hesitates on the door for a second before you knock.
not loud. just enough.
you wait. and wait.
then the porch light flickers. you hear the sound of a lock shifting, the slow creak of a door being pulled open.
rafe stands there in gray sweatpants, a white tank, and sleepy eyes that still go wide when they land on you. his hair’s a mess, and he looks like he hasn’t slept either.
he blinks.
“…hey.” you breathe. god, you didn’t even realize how much you needed to see him.
“hey.” he doesn’t move. doesn’t say anything for a second. then “you—uh…you wanna come in?”
you nod.
he steps aside and lets you walk in. you don’t get far, just inside the door before you stop and turn. he’s still looking at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.
“you weren’t sleeping,” you say.
“wasn’t,” he confirms.
“me neither.”
“figured.” he gestures toward the living room, and you both sit, facing each other. the silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s charged. like everything’s sitting on the edge of a sentence.
finally, he says it “what made you come?”
you chew your lip. “i don’t know. i think i just… could feel you thinking about me.”
he nods slowly, chest rising “i was.”
your hands are in your lap, fidgeting “i told nate.”
his head lifts slightly “you did?”
“mhm.”
“how’d he take it?”
“better than i would’ve.”
he breathes out a laugh through his nose “course he did. that guy’s an angel.”
you pause. then say “i didn’t come here for a decision, rafe.”
he nods. “i didn’t expect one.”
you shift closer “i came here because… it doesn’t feel right unless i talk to you.”
he swallows hard. you can see it in his throat “you always had that effect on me,” he says.
“what effect?”
“like no one else existed.”
you smile. a small one “you said that before.”
“i meant it then, too.”
you shift in your seat, looking at the floor for a second. god, everything’s swimming in your chest. the nerves, the adrenaline, the guilt, the ache you’ve been trying to ignore all week. and rafe’s just there—watching you like you hung the damn moon and forgot to tell him.
your voice is barely above a whisper when it comes out “i… fuck,” you laugh a little, mostly at yourself. “i basically made my ex, now, drive me here. to you.”
rafe’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t interrupt. you go on, fumbling with your sleeves “i feel like it wasn’t fair to him. not really. because—” you breathe“—because i want you, rafe.”
he blinks.
you look at him, eyes wide and raw and shimmering “i don’t know why, okay? i mean, you kinda fucked me up—”he winces a little. “but i still… for some reason… i want you.”
he exhales slowly, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. he’s quiet for a second, running a hand down his face before letting it fall back between his legs.
then he looks at you. really looks at you. like his eyes could touch you “you think i don’t want you?” his voice cracks a little “you think i’ve been sleeping since that night? you think i haven’t thought about every word you said—how you looked at me like i was yours again?”
you open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes.
rafe swallows, voice low and hoarse “you were always it for me. even when we were friends, even when you hated me. i still fucking—i still saw you in everything. every fucking mistake i made. every time i lied, every time i drank too much, every time i couldn’t sleep. it was always you, it’s always been you.”
your heart thuds against your ribs. your throat tightens.
“i used to think maybe i ruined us,” he says, voice trembling slightly, “but then i realized we both were scared. scared of wanting it too much. scared of what it’d cost. and it did cost us. but god i’d pay it again just to sit here like this. with you looking at me like you still want me.”
your lips part, shaky breath leaving them. you don’t even know when your eyes got glassy.
“i’m not proud of how i handled us,” he adds, “but i never stopped thinking about what it would’ve been like if we got it right. if we were brave. if we—”
you lean forward fast, cutting him off with your mouth on his. it’s soft, but desperate. your hands cupping his jaw, your lips moving against his like he’s home and you’re starving for it. like if you keep kissing him, maybe it’ll make sense. maybe the ache will finally quiet.
rafe freezes for half a second—just stunned. then he’s kissing you back like he’s drowning, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you tight enough. his hands grip your waist, dragging you closer like he can’t get enough of you. like he’s needed this for so long he forgot how to breathe without it.
your lips break only for a second, your forehead pressing to his. you whisper, “i don’t know what i’m doing.”
and he whispers back, voice thick “we’ll figure it out. just don’t leave.”
your breath catches against his, forehead pressed to his, eyes barely open. everything’s trembling..your voice, your fingers, the fragile hope in your chest you swore you’d buried.
but still, you say it “promise you won’t leave first.”
it’s not a demand. it’s a plea. like you need something—anything—to hold on to. something solid. something real. because your heart can’t afford to be shattered again, not by him, not when he’s the only thing in this goddamn world that’s ever felt like it could maybe be enough.
rafe’s lips part, his thumb brushing your jaw, his eyes scanning yours like he’s reading a secret you haven’t even told him yet.
his voice is hoarse when he answers “i won’t,” he says. “baby, i won’t leave. not unless you make me.”
your lashes flutter, throat tightening, and you hate that your body relaxes—just a little—at those words. like it believes him before your mind catches up.
“you mean it?” you breathe.
he nods. slowly. surely “yeah. i mean it. i’m not gonna walk away this time. i’ve done enough of that.”
he shifts, one of his hands sliding to hold yours, fingers intertwining like they always used to—like they’re still learning each other again “and if you get scared,” he adds, softer now “just tell me. i’ll stay. even if you run, even if you push me away again, i’ll stay.”
you’re quiet for a moment, staring down at your joined hands, heart beating too loud in your ears. it hurts how much you want to believe him. how badly you want it to work, to mean something this time.
“don’t lie to me,” you whisper. “please don’t lie.”
rafe squeezes your hand gently “i’m not,” he says. “i swear, i’m not lying. i haven’t lied to you once since that night on your street corner.”
that makes you laugh. just a little. it’s watery and quiet, but it’s real. you shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. your lips are still kiss bruised. your heart is still in his hands.
“what the fuck are we doing, rafe?” you ask, voice barely there.
he smiles. tired. small. real “something reckless,” he says. “something that might ruin us again.”
you nod “yeah.”
“but it might save us too,” he murmurs. “if we let it.”
you smile. soft. shy. the kind of smile that curls up slow and hesitant, like it’s been waiting its whole life to be let out again. your eyes search his—still scared, still unsure, but not running anymore.
your voice is quiet when you ask it, almost like it’s too delicate to say out loud “are we… are we finally free?”
rafe’s heart stutters in his chest. not in panic. not in fear. but something something like peace.
he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles—so fucking gentle it makes your stomach twist.
“let me take you on a date,” he whispers. “please.” his eyes don’t leave yours when he says it. there’s no game this time. no deflection. no pride “not some late night backseat shit,” he adds. “not something that feels like a secret. a real date. something good. something you deserve.”
you swallow thickly, tears welling up even as your lips stay curled.
he brushes your hair back from your cheek, tucks it behind your ear like he always used to, like nothing ever changed and everything did “we’re free,” he says. “i promise we are.”
you look at him, heart beating way too fast for something so soft, for something so still. like it’s afraid to believe this is real, that you’re here, that he’s here.
you tilt your head, voice small but shaking with everything inside you “is this not what we would do in another life?” you ask “wasn’t this wrong in this one?”
he stares at you. not blinking. not breathing. like he’s memorizing you all over again.
then he laughs. quiet, breathy, almost like relief. he leans in a little closer, bumping your knee with his “nah,” he says. “we’re in the right one now.”
your breath catches. he reaches for your hand again, fingers curling through yours like they belong there. like they never stopped.
“never was the wrong life,” he murmurs, eyes still locked with yours. “just two dumbasses who didn’t know how to live it right.”
his lips are on yours again before either of you can think twice. soft this time. slower. like he finally gets to kiss you the way he wanted to all along—without guilt, without rushing, without thinking of who’s watching or what it means or how much it might break him later.
you melt into it, into him, letting your fingers tangle in the collar of his shirt. he kisses like he’s missed you. like he’s remembering you. like this is everything.
and when he finally pulls away, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “come on a date with me. please?”
you smile. you’re breathless, dizzy with everything you shouldn’t feel but do anyway.
“yeah,” you murmur. “i’ll come on a date with you.”
rafe blinks. then just… beams “yeah?” he says, like he has to double check. like he can’t believe it. like he doesn’t want to let himself believe it until you say it again.
you nod, and he exhales the biggest breath of his entire life. a crooked, giddy grin breaks across his face as he brings both your hands up to his lips, kissing your knuckles one by one.
“fuck,” he mutters, grinning. “you have no idea what you just did to me.”
you laugh, flushed, and he leans in to kiss you again. slower this time. not urgent just full. full of things unspoken and undone and quietly, finally coming back together
his hands hold your face like you’re something fragile and he’s scared of breaking you. and then he’s whispering against your lips, “thank you. thank you for coming back to me.”
so you whisper back, “i never really left.”
taglist masterlist
a/n yall i feel like this is sooo rushed and bad wtf. i’m sorry if this is not what u expected 😔😔 also, reblogs and replies are HIGHLY appreciated and ALSO im taking requests for this.
tags 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @httpsdrewstarkey @qversazex @iconiccolo @devoutedlover @viqtoria @sc05 @alphabetically-deranged @meetmeintheemeraldpool @k4yr14 @t0x1cfaerie @purplerose291 @mrspuffdriving @silkylovey @mayanqueenxx @glitterylightkingdom @babygoddam @lolasangelz @my-diary1 @lalaloopsieparty @emeloyy @eunivalaa @belle101200 @ennycutie @maybankslover @zuccheromorena @senatorpadmeamidala @swhistledown @imaginethatblog @maybejj @f1petra @rosetintmworld @luvvrafey @marinrscomplex @eyve-5 @allthoughtsmindfull @kaydennnn @rafecameronswhoore @drewstarkeyspecs @electronicladystudent @ymnizuh @heycjjj @cataliveordead @idk0zx @itzzjulie @d00si @nonbeliever1 @bigjuli444 @tul1preads @rgrimesr @berryonasummerevening @abireichstein @whosyourmommy69 @macbaetwo @vdotcom @x-angel-o
