“it’s late, come back to bed.”
PROMPT CELLY GO BRRRRRRRRR. thank u for requesting this one (forever ago) bestie!!!! 💓🤩👯♀️
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new light: space and time
rafe x reader, part of the 2k prompt celly for new light (masterlist if ur not up on NL). we’re back in the present!
A stubborn knot about the size of a fist had settled into place at the top of Rafe’s spine slowly over the last few weeks, right in between his often-taught shoulder blades.
He guesses it was during the late nights like these that it began to form, when he’s hunched over his sketching table in the garage lit only by the warm lightbulb in the work lamp over his head—drawing and erasing and scrapping to start over again and again. Or when he’s on his laptop tinkering with his website or any of the platforms he uses for invoicing and processing orders, easily his least favorite part of all of this, until his eyes are irritated and red.
Though it’s certainly not made better by the other half of his day, where he’s hunched over or crouching under his projects as he brings them to life, doubting himself the entire time, twisting himself into weird angles just to make sure everything holds and looks how he pictured it. But at least he likes that part.
A hand, holding a warmth that Rafe can feel through the cotton of his long-sleeve t-shirt, settles directly into place over that knot at the top of his spine, and he feels himself take a deep, steadying breath as he leans back into your touch.
“What’s this, baby, the built-ins?” you ask, your voice softer in these midnight hours.
“Yeah,” Rafe sighs, immediately rubbing his hands into his eyes, his knuckles turning his vision bleary momentarily. “For Beau’s friend.”
“Mmm,” you hum, slightly digging the heel of your palm into his back. Rafe lets out a groan. “There?”
“Right there,” he confirms, letting his head drop back gratefully, accepting a few sleepy kisses once he goes.
You place your other hand on his shoulder for some leverage, leaning over him to peer at his catastrophe of a workstation. “I thought you’d already gone over the sketches with them?”
“I did,” he says. “But they go in tomorrow.”
“Right,” you nod, scrutinizing them again, looking to see if they’d changed at all. “I remember.”
“So I’m just making sure—” Rafe stops momentarily, letting out a hiss. “Careful, baby.”
The pressure on his back eases immediately, and you take to rubbing your hand across the span of his shoulders instead. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I’m just making sure I have everything down,” he continues, leaning forward again. “I wanna know my stuff before I head in.”
“What if I quiz you? On measurements and colors and finishes and—”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” he interjects, his smile rivaling yours when you finally settle into his lap like he’d been angling for you to since he heard the garage door open and knew he’d be getting that reprieve from the mess inside his head. “But it doesn’t really work like that, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes, snaking your arms around his neck anyway, the pads of your fingers rubbing circular motions into his trouble spot again. “Then how else can I get you to come back to bed?”
Guilt settles into Rafe’s stomach like a rock, the soreness in his back momentarily forgotten as he sees the plea in your eyes. “I swear I’ll be up soon.”
“Rafe, it’s late.”
“Coming from you,” he retorts, virtually no bite behind his words. Because as Rafe had left Beau’s company months ago and only since then become more entrenched in his new job, in starting his own business, you’d seamlessly settled in at your job at the publishing house, not overworking yourself nearly as much as the two of you used to argue about. Still more than Rafe would ever prefer, naturally, but he’s not sure he has room to talk anymore.
“We’re turning into perfect little Figure 8 capitalists right on schedule, aren’t we?” you say, wiggling around in his lap in a way he isn’t convinced isn’t a punishment for abandoning his side of the bed a few hours ago.
You lean forward, grabbing one of the pencils Rafe had discarded and tapping it on your chin while he checks his watch, feeling his eyes widen.
“God, I’m turning into my dad.”
“No you’re not,” you laugh, still leaning out of his reach as you seem to start writing something in one the margins. You pause, pointing the pencil at the long-cold cup of coffee next to his pencil cup. “Unless there’s secretly liquor in your decaf over there. You know decaf still has caffeine in it, right?”
At Rafe’s silence, you turn to him with your eyebrows raised, the pencil dropping out of your hand and clattering onto the table.
“Like… trace amounts, right?” he asks sheepishly.
“My sweet, sweet boy,” you sigh, running your fingers through the hair on top of Rafe’s head that’s really beginning to need a cut.
“Probably need it,” he shrugs. “I’ll only be up a little while longer though. Promise.”
“You’re really worried about this one, aren’t you?” you ask him softly, some of the mirth fading in your eyes as you trace a finger around the shell of his ear.
“It’s Beau’s friend, baby, I… these guys could have anyone working on their houses. And Beau was really good to me about quitting. I just wanna nail this one and be done with it,” Rafe admits.
He doesn’t tack on the bit about how this feels like one of his first big tests; his first custom, built-in piece period, outside of the ones he’s made for his most forgiving audience, his sisters and you. Because it’s one thing to make a piece for a friend of a friend of a friend, or even to sell one in a store where someone can see it and touch it and decide that they hate it before they have to commit. But it’s another to have someone counting on him to deliver exactly what they envision, let alone someone who could be Rafe’s foot in the door to a wealth of opportunities. He wants to be done with it at this point, sure, but he doesn’t want it to be the end of this road.
“Exactly,” you say, shrugging. “They could have anyone. And I love you, Rafe, but I mean literally anyone else. But your designs are good. Really good. And your craftsmanship is impeccable. They want you.”
He feels his cheeks heating up, and knows it’s showing based on the twinkle in your eye. “You’re an expert in furniture and carpentry now, are you?”
“I am, because I’ve now lived in two Pinterest-level apartments without ever having to hire a contractor. And I’m a picky bitch,” you say, laughing around the last bit.
“You are not,” Rafe laughs. “And half of that is your decorating. Maybe 70, 75%.”
“Your modestly will never not exhaust me,” you declare, smacking one last kiss onto his lips before standing up. “You’re gonna be fine tomorrow, alright? But you’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Ten minutes?” he pleads.
“I will generously give you ten seconds instead. It’s your lucky day,” you say, shuffling toward the doorway back into the house, where two curious dogs await your return.
“Thanks,” he answers sarcastically, before standing to check everything over one last time. These guys could have anyone, he tells himself. They chose him.
He’s gathering his pencils to deposit back into the cup, just about to reach over his head and turn off his work lamp for the night when he sees it, what you’d been scribbling into the margin on one of his designs: you got this RC. hurry home!
At just the same moment that he’s he’s tracing over your loopy “y” and the heart you’d finished your note off with, you call out his name from the doorway, his family waiting for him.
You give him a saccharine-sweet smile, your arms crossed over your chest. “I wasn’t asking.”
