summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
wc: 2.5k
warnings: 18+ eventual smut/fwb, but this will be a series
a/n: inspired by my college experience since it's been almost a year since graduation! but Rafe is so much more fun and interesting ~
banner by @uzmacchiato
Where you sit in class at college usually determined where you would sit for most of the year, so it was a very important decision. Usually, you would pick a seat next to a girl who looked friendly. Rarely, you would sit next to a guy if he was incredibly hot. But unfortunately today, you were early.
The classroom had three tables arranged like a U. Chairs sat outside of the table, 15 total. Small class, but that was expected. It was only an hour, and supposed to be an easy A. It was basically a class on study skills. Time management, focus, motivation. A good way to boost your GPA.
But you were early enough that only one person was in the room. He was seated right in front of you, at the first table, his short hair dyed blue like he was fully committed to supporting the Duke Blue Devils. It felt wrong to sit far away from the only other person in the room, so you took a seat next to him, relieved when he smiled warmly at you.
The rest of the class filed in slowly, an almost even mix of girls and guys. One of the last to arrive sauntered in, taking a seat beside the guy next to you. They fist bumped, clearly recognizing each other. And you couldn’t help but notice he looked familiar. You’d definitely seen those piercing blue eyes before. But where?
The professor introduced herself as Ms. Smith. A boring name for an easy class, but she seemed very sweet. Her voice was soft as she called out attendance. You almost missed it when she called out your name. She moved through the short list quickly.
“Ah, Rafe Cameron?” She widened her warm brown eyes, searching the room.
“Present.” The boy with the blue eyes muttered. Rafe. That’s right. He was the hockey player the girls in your dorm talked about. Well, they talked about a lot of the hockey players, but you had been to a few games last year and remembered him well. He was a forward. Aggressive, mouthy, fast, and very, very, good. And apparently very good in bed. You quickly looked away from him, like he'd catch you staring.
“Alright, I want you to introduce yourself to the people to your left and right. Take a minute to get to know each other.” Ms. Smith announced, taking a seat at her desk on the other side of the room.
“Hi, I’m Evan.” The blue haired boy next to you spoke before it could get awkward. You introduced yourself, mentioning your major in finance. He tells you he hasn’t picked a major yet, but he’s a freshman playing soccer at Duke.
Next up was the girl to your left, her dark curly hair piled into a messy bun. Her green eyes were striking against her tan skin. She tells you her name is Meghan, a sophomore in communications.
Ms. Smith starts her lecture on time management, her voice the perfect cadence to lull you to sleep. You would have, if it weren’t for the athlete boys next to you chattering under their breath and chuckling at every little thing. Evan seemed nice enough, but you’d heard enough about male athletes to want nothing to do with them. Egotistical assholes who only cared about themselves. No thanks.
Ms. Smith had other plans, though. She divided the class up into their first group assignment, pointing out every other person. That paired you up with none other than Rafe Cameron. And knowing that he was the only hockey player you remembered by name, he probably had an ego the size of North Carolina.
Rafe introduces himself to you with a casual confidence that you envy, like he doesn’t expect you to know who he is but he wouldn’t be surprised if you did. He takes a moment to learn your name, and then oddly enough, he gets started on the assignment. You expected some goofing off with his buddies, or a complete disinterest altogether. But he takes charge, asking for your input now and then.
At the end of class, it feels like it will be easy enough to get an A and that you made the right decision signing up. The rest of the week, you focus on your new routine for the semester. When to get coffee between classes. The café you like to eat at that still takes your student card and is cheaper than the dining hall, even if it’s a bit further away.
You had no intention of including Rafe Cameron in your routine, but he seemed to have other ideas. Any time Ms. Smith suggested pairing up for class, he would corral you and Evan before either of you could speak. His excuse was that there had to be one group of three with the 15 students, so it might as well be you three. Nevermind the fact that you had wanted to get to know Meghan a little.
Two weeks later, you tried to be quick when Ms. Smith asks you to pair up. You turned to Meghan, hoping she would turn to face you, when someone to your right cleared their throat. You turn to Evan, who looked at you sheepishly. Rafe, on the other hand, was faking a pout.
“Not gonna join us, partner?” He accused.
“I-” You looked over at Meghan, who was already pairing up to the blonde girl who always sat next to her. “Don’t you have a hockey friend you’d rather have in the group?” You nod at the ginger guy next to Rafe.
“Holiday? He’s my roommate. I see enough of him.” Rafe shrugs. Holiday. So, the guy with orange hair came from a hockey family. His dad definitely played: Roger Holiday. Maybe his grandpa, too, if you remembered right. You could bet his ego was worse than Rafe’s.
“Fine.” You say, crossing your arms. You give Evan a gentle smile, not wanting him to think your irritation was at him. The assignment was simple enough, and as soon as class was dismissed, you nearly sprinted to Meghan to chat with her. You hadn’t been out yet, and were craving a night out with some girls.
Lucky for you, Meghan agrees, and the two of you hit the bars on Friday night. Your roommate and few other girls from class are supposed to meet up with you at the only club on campus later, but you take Meghan to your favorite bar. It has a ton of retro arcade games, and you used to come here whenever you visited your older brothers before they graduated.
“Wanna play against me?” You ask Meghan, sticking some tokens in for the Mortal Kombat game.
“Um, sure,” She smiles hesitantly. “It’s like boxing, right?”
“Yeah. Those buttons say what they do when you press ‘em. But no pressure.” You tell her, sifting through the characters.
“Oh! The hockey team is here!” She practically squeals, turning her head to the entrance.
“Nice.” You comment, picking Kitana as your player.
“You’ve been talking to Rafe, right? He’s so cute.” She gushes, and you finally glance away from the screen. Meghan’s actually blushing, her cheeks matching the lip gloss she had put on.
“Uh,” You stammer, her enthusiasm catching you off guard. “Not really.”
“Oh, come on! He always picks you as his partner in class.”
“He picks me and Evan.” You remind her, shrugging.
“Well, I saw him make a big stink when you tried to match up with someone else.” She wags her eyebrows suggestively, making you laugh. “If you won’t talk to them, I will. I’ve got a bit of crush. Is it okay if I go say hi?” Her green eyes widen, glancing back at the screen for a second. You could tell she didn’t seem super interested in playing video games, and didn’t want to keep her from talking to any boys she liked.
“Yeah, go for it! Good luck!” You try to match her enthusiasm, and she grins before sauntering off. You turn back to your game, choosing to go against the computer this round. You were rusty anyway. You get into a rhythm, starting another match when a voice interrupts you.
“Now, what kind of guy would leave a pretty girl like you all by yourself at this game?”
You freeze. You knew that voice.
Sure enough, when you turn your head, Rafe Cameron is standing behind you. For a moment, he seems taken aback, like he didn’t fully recognize you in a full face of makeup. But then his smirk returns. His eyes quickly skim your outfit, and you try to stand a little taller and more confidently.
“Hey, partner. Mind if I join you?” He asks, nodding at the game.
“Sure.” You take a moment to let the computer win before adding some tokens for another match.
You can feel adrenaline starting to simmer under your skin. Growing up with two brothers had made you competitive, or you were born that way and never grew out of it with them around. You could feel your fingers tense in anticipation as Rafe chose his character. After an excruciatingly long time deliberating, he chose Sub Zero. You picked Kitana again, going with your most comfortable.
At the start of the first round, you landed a couple hits off the bat, getting your confidence up. Rafe cursed under his breath, noticing that you were all in. He cleared his throat, and landed a few kicks. You blocked one, and started to attack again.
“Jesus, do you just button mash?” Rafe commented, voice low.
“What?” You scoff. “I know what buttons I’m pressing.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not button mashing.” He replies, and your focus is so thrown off that he wins the round.
“You bitch.” You mutter, glaring at him.
“Watch your language.” He smirks, getting ready for the next round.
This time, you force yourself not to be distracted by him. He tries to make a few more comments, but you ignore him and win that round, and then the next. With the match won, you look up at him in satisfaction. You expect him to look angry or annoyed, but his bright blue eyes are glinting like you just stepped up to the challenge.
“My turf next.” He nods his head over to the air hockey table.
“Shouldn’t that be an easy win for you?” You raise a brow.
“Why don’t you find out? Unless you’re too much of a pussy.”
“Please, don’t say that.” You roll your eyes.
“Chicken.” He counters.
“You’re on, but I need to buy some more tokens.”
“I can-” He starts before you cut him off.
“Nope. I do not want to owe you in any way.” With that, you walk over to the token machine, eyes scanning for Meghan. She’s talking to another hockey player, a super tall one with tanned skin. When she catches your eye, she gives you a thumbs up, and you can’t help but smile. Once you scan your card and grab the tokens, you start to make your way back until shrill laughter stops you in your tracks.
A group of girls have surrounded Rafe at the air hockey table, all trying to talk to him and fiddling with the pieces of the game. They’re all fairly tipsy, but clearly happy to have run into a hockey player that they know. You find yourself standing there, tokens in hand as you hear some of them ask if they can play the game with him. And honestly, they’re stunning. Beautiful, confident girls that Rafe would probably be more than happy to drop you for. You start to head back to Mortal Kombat when you hear Rafe speak up.
“Actually, I was playing with her.”
You turn to Rafe, meeting his eyes as the gaggle of fangirls stares at you. He tilts his chin up, as if urging you to ignore them and come back. And for some reason, you do. The girls get flustered, saying goodbye to both of you and wishing him a good night as they scurry away. And then it’s just you two, facing off over the air hockey table.
Unsurprisingly, Rafe wins all three rounds. He’s too quick, his reflexes too fast. It’s not even close, and if he weren’t an athlete you’d be a little embarrassed. You roll your eyes when he celebrates like he just won the rival game in overtime.
“Okay, ready to get back to your teammates?” You try to bring him back to reality.
“What? No. They don’t give a shit. They’re down to leave without me.” He says dismissively.
“Watch your language.” You retort, and that gleam in his eyes is back.
“Besides, partner, we’re now 1 to 1 at these games. We gotta play at least one more to see the real winner.”
“Fine. Pick a game that’s not basically what you do for a living.” You tease, secretly loving the challenge. He pretends to be annoyed at you, shaking his head. Walking around the arcade, he slows in front of the basketball hoops. What he doesn’t know is that you played for a few years. Not good enough to be a college athlete, but good enough for high school. You try to play it off and act nervous.
“How about this one?” Rafe’s smile grows.
“I don’t know…” You trail off, pretending to scan the arcade.
“We’re doing this one. Give me the tokens or I’m buying.” He insists, and you do everything you can to hold back a smirk. Hook, line, and sinker.
You make the most shots each round easily, giggling at Rafe’s grunts of frustration. You shrug as if it was an accident, as if you got lucky. But he’s not buying it, his mouth set in a thin line.
“That how you wanna play, partner?” He growls in a way that makes your cheeks flush, and you work to keep your composure.
“It’s only fair. You made me play air hockey.” You bat your lashes, playing innocent. “Looks like I win.”
“Nah,” He shakes his head, marching up to a racing car game that’s nearly enclosed. “One more. Let’s go.”
“Rafe,” You hesitate, looking back at Meghan. She seemed fine talking to the other boys, and some of the girls from class had shown up. But you weren’t planning on ignoring them all night.
“What, afraid you’ll lose?” He already knows that’ll get under your skin. Of course it does. You sigh, taking a seat at the racecar next to him. Dropping in the tokens, you wait for him to pick a race course, but he’s just looking at you.
His blue eyes are still confident, amused, determined. But he doesn’t say anything. It’s like he’s finally taking you in now that you’ve both paused. Suddenly, you’re aware of how close together you two are in this stupid arcade game. And suddenly, it feels too hot, his gaze too intense, yet you can’t look away.
A loud smack on the back of the racecar seats startles you both. You turn to see some of the hockey boys peering in, and you try to look as unassuming and normal as possible.
“Cameron!” One of them calls. “Let’s go. Reyes is looking for you.” “Ah, shit. Sorry.” Rafe says to you, chuckling as he slides out of the racecar seat. “This isn’t over, okay? Find me tonight.” He leaves you with a wink.
sypnosis after your ‘relationship’ ended, you got yourself a new boyfriend—steady, safe, loving— everything a girl could wish for. but after one drunk night and one not-so-expected call, you start thinking…even now?
warnings 18+ mdni!! drinking, language, intoxicated rafeee, suggestive and mentions of sex, angstttt angst, weird metaphors?? lemme know if i missed something!
words 8k
based on this ask
the thing about whiskey is that it burns going down but never really leaves. it lingers, clinging to the back of his throat. rafe cameron has never been good at letting things go; booze, grudges, you.
that’s the real problem. not the drinking, not the nights that blur into mornings, not the fights he starts just to feel something. it’s you.
the way you exist in his head like a cracked neon sign, buzzing and flickering, impossible to ignore. the way he catches himself tracing old outlines of you in places you’ve never been. at the bottom of a glass, in the corner of a crowded room, in the silence between songs.
and it’s worse now, because you’re not just gone. you’re with someone else. marcus.
rafe hates even thinking that fucking name. it sounds clean, too clean, like a boy who holds open doors and calls his mother every sunday.
marcus is the type of guy who probably does the right thing without thinking about it, who doesn’t have to fight against the urge to ruin everything he touches.
and that’s what makes it unbearable; you didn’t run from rafe into something opposite—you didn’t find safety in a poet, or softness in someone fragile, or quiet in someone harmless. you ran into someone who is almost him.
marcus looks like the man rafe pretends to be. broad shouldered, easy smile, that casual confidence that doesn’t reek of desperation. people like him. people trust him. he’s everything rafe could have been if he hadn’t cracked himself open a long time ago and let all the good seep out.
it’s almost insulting. like you went shopping for a new version of him, the kind that comes polished and functional, one that won’t cut your hands open when you try to hold on
rafe tries to picture how you are with him. does your laugh sound different now? softer, easier, without that sharp little edge you always had around rafe, like you were waiting for the floor to drop? do you smile more, or less?
does marcus touch you in public, pull you in close without shame, without fear of what people will say? does he know you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry? does he know you talk in your sleep when you’re too tired?
he probably does. he probably knows everything now.
rafe remembers the first time he saw you with marcus. it wasn’t even supposed to be a big deal—just another night, another crowded place, another drink in his hand.
but then you were there, across the room, your hand on his arm. and marcus, smiling down at you like he’d won something he didn’t even know was a prize.
rafe felt it like a punch, but he didn’t flinch. he never flinches in public. he laughed too loud at something topper said, threw back another shot, pretended it didn’t matter.
but later, when he was alone, he broke a mirror with his fist.
he tells himself it’s not jealousy. he tells himself it’s ‘just pride’, ‘just ego’, just the fact that marcus is walking around with something that used to be his. but deep down he knows that’s a lie.
it’s not about possession. it’s about you.
you were supposed to be the one who stayed. the one who saw through the wreckage, who believed there was something worth saving underneath. you were supposed to be the one who could hold his hand when it shook, who could press your palm against the violence in him and make it quiet.
and for a while, you were.
he remembers nights when the two of you existed like the world had finally stopped spinning. your head on his chest, your fingers in his hair, his heart beating too fast but steadying under your touch.
he remembers you whispering things like “you don’t have to be anything but with me” he remembers thinking that maybe, just maybe, you meant it
but then you left.
not dramatically, not with screaming or doors slamming. not by cheating.
you left like someone quietly closing a window at night, careful not to wake their parents. you left with soft words, with apologies, with one last kiss that wasn’t really a kiss at all.
and now you’re with marcus. and rafe is still here. still drinking. still spinning in circles like a dog chasing its own tail.
he thinks about calling you sometimes. not even to say anything—just to hear your voice. he imagines what you’d sound like if you picked up. would you be surprised? annoyed? would you sigh his name like a curse, like a prayer? would you hang up before he could speak?
sometimes he even dials the number. he knows it by now, he could never forget it. thumb hovering over the call button, pulse pounding in his throat. but he never presses it.
instead he sits in places like this—too loud, too crowded, too dark—and lets the thought of you eat him alive.
because the truth is, he doesn’t want you happy with marcus. he doesn’t want you safe, or steady, or clean. he wants you messy, tangled up in him, drowning in the same poison he drinks every night.
he wants you ruined. like him.
and while rafe was drunk off his ass in the club, drowning himself in neon and noise, you were somewhere quieter.
marcus’ place.
his apartment isn’t much—just a few blocks off the college campus, two bedrooms, a balcony that overlooks a parking lot instead of an ocean—but it’s enough. more than enough, because it feels safe in a way you haven’t known in years. the floors don’t creak under the weight of tension, the air doesn’t feel like it might snap in half at any moment. there are books stacked on the coffee table, dishes in the sink, a plant you’re not sure he remembers to water.
it feels lived in. steady
and marcus himself—he’s steady too. steady in the way he rests a hand on the small of your back when you pass by, steady in the way he laughs at himself, steady in the way he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.
he’s broad shouldered, handsome, sharp around the edges in that all american way. when people look at him, they see reliability, potential, a future that doesn’t collapse in on itself.
he’s rafe, but not rafe.
and that’s the truth you don’t like to admit: the only reason you even noticed marcus in the first place was because he reminded you of him.
the resemblance is shallow at first;tall, strong, a presence that fills up a room before he even speaks. the kind of boy people turn their heads after.
the kind of boy you’ve always been drawn to, even when you swore you wouldn’t be. but it wasn’t just the surface.
it was the way he carried himself, that little bit of recklessness in the way he leaned against a wall, the way he let his gaze linger like he wasn’t afraid of being caught
but marcus’s recklessness doesn’t bleed. it doesn’t bite. it doesn’t come home with bruised knuckles and false promises
marcus is everything you wanted rafe to be.
he’s the softened version, the proof that it was possible all along—someone could look like that, talk like that, be like that, and still…be gentle.
still be kind. still remember to text you back, still keep his promises, still pull you closer instead of pushing you away.
and maybe that’s why you let yourself fall into it. not because you wanted marcus—at least, not at first—but because you wanted the version of rafe that never existed.
you wanted to rewrite the story, to see what it would’ve been like if the boy with the storm in his chest had ever chosen calm instead of chaos.
you wanted to prove to yourself that it wasn’t foolish to believe. marcus made it easy. he didn’t ask about rafe, didn’t dig into the scars you carried like some kind of archaeological dig.
he just opened the door, handed you a drink, smiled at you like you were worth everything. he didn’t try to fix you. he just let you be.
sometimes, when you lie beside him in morning, you try to imagine that it’s enough. you trace the lines of his shoulders, the shape of his jaw, the curve of his smile, and you tell yourself this is what you always wanted. safe. steady. simple.
but sometimes, when the room is too quiet, when marcus is asleep beside you, you catch yourself staring at the ceiling and feeling hollow.
because the truth is that marcus doesn’t set you on fire. he doesn’t drag the air out of your lungs with a single look. he doesn’t make you want to scream and stay and run all at once.
marcus is warm. rafe was wildfire. and you miss the burn more than you should.
but still—you stay. because you remember what it felt like to bleed yourself dry trying to hold onto someone who never held on back
you remember the exhaustion, the humiliation, the breaking. you remember the way rafe made you feel like you were both everything and nothing at the same time.
so you tell yourself marcus is what you need. even if he’s not what you ache for.
now back to rafe…rafe’s not really serving nonchalant playboy kook king tonight. not the version of himself he parades when he wants control, when he wants the room to bend toward him like it always does.
that armor isn’t here;no smirk, no show of easy confidence, no crown tilted careless on his head.
tonight he’s just the sensitive, bitter, jealous ex that’s hurting.
he’s hunched in the booth like the air’s been sucked out of him, glass in hand but no taste left on his tongue. the neon paints him in harsh colors, but he doesn’t wear them well. his eyes are bloodshot, mouth set in that hard line that’s less anger than it is ache
every laugh he hears from across the room grates against him, every pair of bodies pressed together makes his jaw clench. but none of it is really about the people here. it’s about you.
you, at marcus’.
rafe knows it without having to see it. he can picture it too clearly—your shoes kicked off by the door, your legs tucked under you on his couch, your head tipped back in a laugh that comes easier now. marcus beside you, solid, steady, broad shouldered and golden in all the ways rafe never could be.
marcus, who’s like him but not him.
marcus, who’s the softer version, the safer one, the one you only like because he is what you wanted rafe to be.
rafe can’t decide if that thought makes him want to smash the glass in his hand or cry into it. mayb both.
he tips his head back against the wall, lets his eyes slip shut for a second, and feels the burn of liquor and jealousy curl through him like smoke. he hates marcus—hates the way he walks through life without cracking the floor beneath him, hates the way people smile when they say his name, hates that you smile when you say his name
but most of all, he hates himself. because he knows if he’d been better—steadier, softer, anything other than what he is—you never would’ve gone looking for marcus in the first place.
you wouldn’t have needed him.
and that’s the part that stings most, the part that makes his chest feel like it’s splitting open. not that you left. but that you replaced him with the kind of man he could never quite manage to be.
his phone is on the table, face down like it’s mocking him.
he’s been staring at it for the past ten minutes, maybe longer, his hand hovering close like it might bite him if he reaches for it.
it’s stupid, really. he’s rafe cameron. he’s supposed to be above this—supposed to have people waiting on his call, not the other way around
but all that posturing, all that nonchalant playboy king shit, feels paper thin tonight.
because the only name he wants to press is yours.
he can picture it too clearly, the way it’s still saved in his contacts. he never deleted it, even on nights when he told himself he would. he’s scrolled past it a hundred times, heart punching against his ribs every time, like muscle memory won’t let him forget.
what would happen if he called?
he runs through it in his head like a rehearsal, even though he knows reality never plays out the way he imagines. maybe you wouldn’t pick up. maybe it would ring and ring until voicemail caught it, and he’d hear that clipped little tone followed by your voice—the one you recorded months ago, back when you were still his. back when you still answered.
he could live on that alone. just your voice,even if it’s just a voicemail, would be enough to carry him through the night.
but what if you did answer? that’s the thought that keeps him frozen.
because if you answered, then what?
what the fuck would he even say? “hey, it’s me, i’m drunk and miserable and i can’t stop picturing you in someone else’s bed?”
yeah, that’ll go over real well
he knows he shouldn’t. he knows it down to his bones. you’ve moved on, you’ve made it clear, you’re with marcus now. calling you would only make him look pathetic—bitter, jealous, the ex who can’t let go.
but isn’t that exactly what he is?
he drags a hand over his face, palms rough against his skin, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night. the logic is simple: don’t call. move on. let it go.
but nothing about you has ever been simple.
he thinks about how your voice used to sound when you said his name, how it could land like a soft plea or a sharp curse depending on the day.
he thinks about how you’d press your thumb into the space between his brows when he was tense, telling him to stop frowning, stop burning himself alive from the inside out
marcus probably gets that now.
that thought alone nearly kills him.
his fingers twitch toward the phone, then retreat. he picks up his glass instead, drains what’s left, grimaces at the taste, sets it back down with too much force. the bartender glances over, but rafe ignores it.
“don’t call her”
he repeats it like a mantra, like if he says it enough he’ll start to believe it.
don’t call her.
don’t.
but then his mind betrays him, spins out a fantasy: you answering soft, sleepy, your voice catching in that familiar way. “rafe?” like you can’t quite believe it’s him, like a part of you was waiting for this all along.
he swallows hard. his chest aches like he’s been running, like he’s chasing something he’ll never catch.
what would you say to him? would you hang up immediately, or would you stay on the line long enough to hear him out?
would you laugh, cruel and disbelieving, or would you go quiet, that heavy silence that always meant you were listening, even when you wanted to hate him?
he wants to believe you’d listen. that somewhere inside, you’d want to hear him too
but what if marcus is there? what if his name lights up your screen in the middle of your safe little night, and marcus leans over, asks who it is, and you lie? or worse—you tell the truth.
he imagines marcus’s arm around you, his voice in the background, his body curled against yours while rafe’s voice hears through the phone. it makes him sick. he wants to smash the thought out of his skull, but it just digs deeper.
maybe that’s why he wants to call. not just to hear your voice, but to remind you. to plant himself back in your head, even for a second. to remind you that no matter how good marcus is, no matter how much softer or steadier or safer he is, rafe was first. rafe is the reason you still know what it feels like to burn. to be alive
his thumb is already brushing over the screen, flipping the phone over, lighting it up. your name glows at him like it knows the power it holds.
“just one call. one. what’s the worst that could happen?”
he knows the answer to that too.
the worst that could happen is you don’t pick up, and he’s left with nothing but static and silence and the hollow in his chest that even whiskey can’t fill.
the worst that could happen is you do pick up, and you remind him in real time that you’re gone, that you’ve chosen someone else, that marcus is the man rafe couldn’t be.
he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, breathing through his nose, eyes locked on the glow of your name.
don’t call her.
don’t. but god, he wants to.
his thumb hovers over your name, and it’s like the glow of it pulls him backward instead of forward.
that’s the thing about being drunk—it makes time elastic. stretches it, snaps it, blurs the edges until past and present bleed together.
suddenly he’s not in the club anymore. he’s in your car, driving it, window down, music too loud, your voice singing along even louder. your hand drumming on the board. your laugh spilling into the night air like it belonged to him.
“focus, rafe. you’re gonna miss the turn”
you used to say it all the time, grinning, teasing, the kind of patience no one else had for him
now the glass is sweating in his hand, and the steering wheel is gone, and so are you.
he blinks, shakes his head, but the memory doesn’t let go. it shifts, morphs.
your dorm room this time. the little string lights you hung, the thrift store blanket thrown across the bed, the smell of whatever cheap candle you insisted made the room feel like home. you’re curled up on his chest, eyes half shut, whispering something he can’t quite catch now.
maybe “i love you.” maybe “don’t fuck this up.” probably both.
rafe drags a hand over his face, because god, he did fuck it up.
another drink would drown it, but the glass is empty. so he just sits with it, lets the ache gnaw at him.
and then another flash—sharper this time. the last fight.
you standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight over your chest. your eyes glassy but steady. his voice too loud, words sharp enough to cut.
he can’t remember exactly what he said, only that it was cruel. it always was, in the end.
“you don’t even try, rafe. i can’t keep doing this”
he remembers your voice perfectly. remembers the way it cracked, not from weakness, but from weight. from exhaustion
and he remembers how he didn’t stop you when you turned and walked out.
he told himself you’d come back. you always came back. except you didn’t.
now he’s here, drunk and bitter, thumb hovering over your name like it’s a detonator.
his mind keeps skipping like a scratched record. flashes of you pressed against him in a dark hallway, your lipstick smudged against his mouth. flashes of your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, grounding him when he couldn’t breathe.
flashes of you in the morning, barefaced, sleepy eyed, still beautiful enough to knock him sideways.
and then flashes of you with marcus. the ones he made up, because he doesn’t have to see them to know. your head on marcus’s chest the way it used to be on his. marcus’s arm heavy over your waist. marcus kissing your hair, your temple, your smile. marcus steady where rafe was shaking.
the images layer on top of each other until he feels sick. the world tilts, the neon blurs. he presses the heel of his hand into his eye until colors explode behind the lid, but it doesn’t block you out.
he can still hear your voice “you could be better, rafe. if you wanted to, you could”
you meant it when you said it. he knows you did, but he didn’t believe you.
now he’s stuck here, drowned in whiskey and regret, staring at your name like it might save him.
one call. just one.
he imagines your hello. imagines your silence. imagines your anger. imagines you softening, just a little, because it’s him. because it’s always been him.
and then the reel snaps again—the night you left. your hand slipping out of his, slow and deliberate. your eyes not even watery this time, just tired. tired in a way that told him this wasn’t a threat, wasn’t a game, wasn’t another one of your fights. this was final.
“goodbye, rafe.”
he can’t remember if he said anything back. maybe he didn’t. maybe he just let the door close and sat there in the wreckage.
here he is now, wreckage still. phone in hand. thumb trembling. heart hammering so hard he swears the whole room can hear it.
don’t call her. don’t.
but drunk minds don’t listen to reason. they only listen to longing. and his longing is screaming your name.
don’t call her.
the voice in his head is sharp, clipped, cold. the voice that sounds like topper, like ward, like reason. “don’t do it. you’ll look pathetic. you’ll sound pathetic. she doesn’t want to hear from you. she’s with him now. she chose him”
he nods, almost agrees but….
but then another voice, softer, meaner because it’s his own “but what if she does want to hear from you? what if she’s lying there in his bed wishing it was you instead? what if she still thinks about you the way you think about her?”
he shakes his head, runs a hand down his face, tries to ground himself in the sweat slick wood of the table. it doesn’t work.
“don’t call her. you’ll ruin whatever scraps of dignity you have left”
“call her. she’s yours. she’s always been yours. marcus is just a placeholder”
his chest aches. his throat tightens. he stares at your name like it’s bait and he’s the dumb animal too hungry to resist.
“don’t call her. you’ll hear his voice in the background. you’ll hear her hesitate. you’ll hear her lie to him while she’s on the line with you. do you really want that?”
but then the ache claws up his throat, the desperate, drunken logic that always wins in the end: “but what if she picks up and it’s just her? what if she says your name soft? what if she misses you too? what if she’s waiting?”
he laughs, because he knows how insane it sounds. waiting? you’re not waiting for him. you’re not checking your phone at midnight hoping his name lights up your screen. you’re not stuck in a booth with an empty glass and too much poison in your blood.
you’re with marcus. steady, golden marcus. the man rafe could’ve been if he hadn’t set himself on fire years ago and kept walking into the flames.
he grits his teeth “don’t call her. she’s safe now. don’t drag her back into your mess”
but the thought cuts deeper than anything else—safe. as if that’s all you wanted.
as if safe could ever be enough for you, for the girl who once looked him in the eyes after he’d broken something precious and said “i don’t care if it kills me, i just want you”
you weren’t built for safe.
he seizes on that, twists it. if you weren’t built for safe, then you weren’t built for marcus. which means you’re still his. right?
right.
but the other voice hisses back “if she was still yours, she’d be here. not there. not with him”
his pulse hammers, his thumb trembling against the glass.
he thinks about what he’d even say, if you answered.
“hey. i miss you” too soft. pathetic.
“he’s not better than me” too bitter, too obvious.
“you’ll never love him the way you loved me” too desperate.
“please come back” too much.
the words tangle in his throat before they’re even spoken. he doesn’t know which version of himself would slip out—the apology, the accusation, the plea. probably all of them at once, a drunken mess spilling through the receiver.
he imagines you listening, breathing quietly, not saying anything until he runs out of words. he imagines you hanging up without a goodbye. he imagines you crying. he imagines you laughing
he imagines every possible ending, and none of them save him.
‘don’t call her. you’ll just hurt more’
but the longing howls back: “but what if, just once, she answers and doesn’t hang up? what if she remembers? what if she lets you in?”
he presses his fist against his mouth, eyes burning, head heavy.
he’s not the fuckboy tonight. not untouchable, not in control. he’s just a boy staring at a name on a screen, arguing with the voices in his head
and the voices are winning.
“fuck it, just one more time” his thumb drops before he can stop it. like muscle memory, like instinct, like falling.
the line lights up, your name glowing in his hand, and suddenly he feels sick. not the drunk kind of sick, not the whiskey burn in his gut—worse. the kind of sick that comes from wanting something you’re not supposed to have.
it rings. each chime feels like a nail being driven deeper into his chest.
he pictures you at marcus’, phone buzzing on the nightstand while you laugh at something stupid he said. you probably won’t even look at it. maybe marcus will glance at the screen, see rafe’s name, and smirk like he’s already won.
the ringing keeps going.
rafe drags a hand over his face, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache. he should hang up. he should end it before it goes to voicemail, before he humiliates himself even more.
but he doesn’t, he lets it ring, hoping against hope, hating himself with every second that ticks by.
and then—voicemail.
your voice. not live, not real, just the old recording. still, it hits him like a blade to the ribs.
he doesn’t leave a message. he hangs up. his hands are shaking now, his chest burning. it wasn’t enough. not even close.
before he can think, he’s pressing the button again.
ring. ring. ring.
he leans forward, elbows braced on the table, phone pressed tight in his grip like maybe if he holds hard enough, you’ll feel it on the other end.
but it goes to voicemail again.
he exhales, rough and shaky, almost laughs. bitter, broken.
two calls. pathetic.
but it’s not enough so he hits it again.
third time.
ring. ring.
his heart is pounding in his throat, head spinning, every nerve in his body strung tight. he tells himself if you don’t answer this time, he’ll stop. he’ll take the loss. he’ll drink until the night swallows him whole and he forgets your name for at least a few hours.
ring.
ring.
the silence between chimes is torture. he can hear his own blood rushing in his ears, hear the way his breath shudders out of him.
and then—“…rafe?” your voice. small, cautious, half asleep maybe.
everything in him stutters.
fuck. you actually picked up.
his whole body jerks like someone’s just poured ice water down his spine.
for a second he thinks he’s hallucinating. he has to be. there’s no way that’s your voice, real and alive and on the other end of the line.
it can’t be, because he’s imagined it too many times before—late nights, drunk and desperate, whispering your name into a dead line. it always ends the same: silence.
but now…now it’s you. soft. uncertain. and god, so painfully real.
his brain blanks. every thought he rehearsed, every line he spun in his head, every bitter, jealous, broken thing he wanted to spit—it all scatters like birds.
you answered.
fuck. you actually answered.
his breath catches. he presses a hand to his mouth, like he can hold it all in, keep from breaking apart completely. his chest feels like it might cave in, like the air’s been sucked out of the room.
this isn’t how it was supposed to go. you weren’t supposed to pick up.
you were supposed to let it ring, let him hit voicemail again, let him sit in the safety of his own self pity. he could’ve lived with that. he could’ve told himself it was fate, that you didn’t want him, that it was done.
but now? now you’re here. on the line. waiting.
he doesn’t even realize he hasn’t spoken yet. he’s stuck in the shock, drowning in it, his mind spiraling with too many voices at once.
“say something. don’t say anything, hang up, salvage your pride.
but it’s her, it’s really her…don’t ruin it, don’t beg, don’t let her hear how wrecked you are—just fucking speak before she hangs up”
and then your voice again, softer this time. tentative“…hello?”
that one word guts him.
you sound cautious, like you don’t know which version of him you’re about to get. like you’re bracing yourself—for anger, for tears, for silence. all three
rafe closes his eyes, swallows hard, feels the liquor rise sharp in his throat. he knows he should say something simple. something sane.
but all he can think is: you picked up.
rafe swallows, mouth dry, tongue clumsy. he opens his mouth, closes it, tries again
“hi—” his voice cracks. he clears his throat, drags a hand down his face. “hey. uh. hey.”
smooth. real smooth.
he squeezes his eyes shut, presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like maybe he can drag the right words out of himself.
“rafe?” you ask again, softer this time, and fuck—he could fall apart just hearing you say his name. like it still belongs in your mouth, like it still means something
“yeah, it’s me.” his laugh is sharp, bitter, self deprecating. “who else would be calling you this late, right?”
silence. the kind that chews at his nerves, makes him feel like he’s already lost
you sigh, almost hesitant “what’s wrong?”
two little words, and suddenly it’s like the floor gives out under him. because you’re not angry. you’re not cold. you sound… worried. and that hurts more than anything else
he shakes his head, though you can’t see it. his chest is tight, words clawing at his throat, spilling before he can stop them.
“i just—fuck, i don’t even know why i called,” he mutters, though that’s a lie. he knows exactly why. “i was just sitting here thinking about you and… i couldn’t—i couldn’t not.”
he laughs again, but it’s hollow. “stupid, huh? marcus probably hates me already and now i’m giving him more reasons.”
he hears you shift on the other end, maybe sitting up, maybe sneaking out of bed so marcus won’t overhear. the thought sends a twist of satisfaction through his gut, ugly and selfish
“rafe…” your voice is careful, like you’re handling glass.
he cuts you off before you can say more. he can’t bear it—the pity, the rejection
“look, i’m sorry, okay? i’m sorry for—fuck, for everything. for the way i treated you, for the way i fucked it all up. i know i don’t deserve to call you. i know i don’t deserve you.”
his throat burns. his hand tightens on the phone until his knuckles ache “but god, i can’t stand thinking about him. about you with him. marcus. he’s not—he’s not me.”
the words tumble out faster, messier, like a dam breaking
“he’s good, i get it. he’s nice, he’s steady, he’s probably everything i should’ve been. but he’s not me. he can’t be me. and maybe you think that’s a good thing, maybe you think you needed someone safer, cleaner, but—”
his breath catches, jagged, “but he doesn’t know you like i do. he doesn’t know how you bite your lip when you’re trying not to laugh or cry. he doesn’t know how you always have to sleep on the left side. he doesn’t know the way you look when you’re angry—like you’re ready to burn the world down but you’d still let me hold the match.”
he presses his fist to his mouth, eyes burning “he doesn’t know you, not really. not the way i do.”
the silence on your end stretches. he can hear faint static, maybe your breath, maybe nothing at all. it gnaws at him, makes him reckless
“you could do better, you know.” his voice breaks “you could do better than him. better than me, even. but fuck, i wish—” he cuts himself off, drags a hand through his hair “i wish better still meant me.”
his laugh is choked, humorless “i sound pathetic, don’t i? drunk and pathetic. classic rafe.”
you finally breathe out his name, soft “rafe…”
and it’s enough to undo him
“i just—i miss you,” he admits, the words torn out of him. “i miss you so much it hurts every time i see you with him. and i know i shouldn’t say that, i know i shouldn’t be calling you, i know i lost that right—but i can’t stop thinking maybe… maybe you miss me too. even just a little.”
his voice cracks again. “do you?”
the question hangs there, fragile.
he imagines you biting your lip, eyes closed, torn between telling the truth and saying what’s safe. he imagines marcus asleep in the next room, oblivious.
he imagines you lying in bed, phone pressed to your ear, his name lighting up your screen in the dark.
his heart pounds. his breath shudders
“just… tell me i’m wrong,” he whispers. “tell me you don’t think about me. tell me you don’t wish it was me sometimes. i’ll hang up. i’ll stop.”
but he doesn’t really believe he will. because deep down, he knows—this isn’t the last time. it never is.
you sit there with the phone pressed to your ear, staring at the ceiling in the dark, marcus’ slow, even breaths behind you like a reminder you don’t want.
rafe’s voice bleeds through the line, ragged and unsteady, cracking open old places you’ve tried so hard to stitch shut.
you hate how it still pulls at you.
how even now, after everything he did—after all the bruises he left on your heart, after the apologies that came too late, after the nights he vanished and the mornings he came back smelling like smoke and whiskey—you still feel that little ache when he says he misses you
you don’t want to miss him. but god, sometimes you do.
you close your eyes, press your free hand against your forehead like you can hold the thoughts in place. marcus is steady. marcus is safe. marcus makes you laugh without making you cry first. you like him because he’s what you wanted rafe to be.
but rafe’s voice still slips under your skin like nothing else can “…do you?” he asks, the words raw, almost broken. “do you miss me?”
you bite your lip hard enough to sting. the honest answer sits heavy on your tongue, but you know if you let it out—even in a whisper—it’ll unravel you both
“rafe,” you say softly, careful. “you need to go home. get some sleep.”
there’s a pause. you can hear his breathing, uneven, shaky “that’s not an answer,” he mutters, bitter.
you squeeze your eyes shut “it’s the only one i can give you.”
he exhales, rough, like it hurts.
your throat feels tight. you wish you could be cruel, cold, something that would make him hang up and never call again. but you can’t. you’ve never been able to with him
“look,” you murmur, keeping your voice low, glancing back at marcus just to be sure he’s still asleep, “i’m not going to tell anyone about this. not marcus, not anybody. it’s just between us, okay?”
the line is quiet for a second, and you picture him with his head in his hands, fighting whatever storm is tearing through him
“why?” he asks finally, voice slurred but sharp underneath. “why wouldn’t you tell him? if he’s so perfect, if he’s so much better than me, shouldn’t you run straight to him with this? show him what a mess i still am?”
your chest twists. “because i’m not trying to hurt you,” you whisper. “and i don’t want to hurt him, either.”
you can hear him breathing again, softer now, like maybe the fight’s draining out of him.
“go home, rafe,” you say again, steady this time. “please. just… go home and sleep.”
you don’t add for me, but it hangs there anyway, unspoken, heavy in the dark
“go home, rafe.”
your voice is soft, pleading, the kind that’s meant to soothe. it only makes something in him snap
“stop saying that,” he mutters, low and jagged, like broken glass. “stop acting like you get to send me away. like you don’t still think about me when he’s got his arm around you. like you’re not lying there wishing it was me.”
you exhale, steady but shaky underneath. “rafe…”
he barrels over you, words tumbling out too fast, too heavy, each one scraping his throat raw
“you don’t get it. i can’t stand it. i see you with him and it’s like—like someone’s got their hands around my throat. he looks at you like you’re the whole fucking world, but he doesn’t know you. he doesn’t know the nights you used to cry into my chest, doesn’t know the way you get quiet when you’re scared, doesn’t know how you hate thunderstorms but you’ll sit through every one if i hold your hand.”
his breath hitches. his knuckles are white where he grips the phone “he doesn’t get to have that. he doesn’t get to have you.”
you close your eyes, lean your head back against the wall. “rafe, you lost the right to say that. you lost it a long time ago”
the words lance through him, sharp and true. he flinches, but the whiskey in his blood makes him reckless, makes him push harder even when it hurts
“i know,” he bites out. “i know i ruined it. i know i broke you, and i hate myself for it every fucking day. but you’re still mine. you’ll always be mine, no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise. i can feel it. i can hear it in your voice right now.”
his voice drops, hoarse, dangerous. “tell me you don’t still think about me. tell me you don’t still want me. lie to me. i dare you”
you press your hand against your mouth, because the truth is riiight there on the tip of your tongue, and it terrifies you
“rafe,” you whisper, shaking your head. “you can’t do this to me. you can’t call me like this in the middle of the night and say things like that.”
“why not?” his laugh is bitter, broken. “because marcus wouldn’t like it? because he’d finally see that i’ll always be the shadow in your bed, no matter how hard you try to scrub me out? he’s a placeholder, that’s all he is. he’s not me. he’ll never be me.”
your chest aches, tears stinging at the back of your eyes. “stop. please.”
but he doesn’t. he can’t.
“you love him?” rafe asks suddenly, sharp and slurred all at once. “look me in the eye—no, fuck, say it into this phone and mean it. tell me you love him.”
silence. just the thud of your pulse in your ears.
rafe’s breath catches on the other end, jagged, uneven
“you can’t, can you?” he whispers. “because part of you still loves me. no matter how much you hate it. no matter how much you wish you didn’t.”
you don’t answer. you can’t. and that silence is enough to keep him talking, spilling everything he shouldn’t
“god, i’m such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice breaking. “but at least i’m your mess. i’d rather be broken with you than whole without you. marcus can have your smile, your hand, the polite little pieces of you you’re willing to give him—but he’ll never touch the parts of you that were mine. he can’t. they’re locked up in me. i’ve got the key, and i’m never giving it up.”
he drags a shaking breath, chest heaving. “i don’t care if it ruins me. i’d rather burn down everything than watch him keep you warm.”
your heart is in your throat. you want to scream at him, to tell him he’s wrong, that you’ve moved on, that he doesn’t get to claim you anymore. but the words stick, because part of you still aches for him.
“rafe,” you say finally, your voice breaking, “please. just… stop. go home. sleep this off. tomorrow you’ll regret it, and i can’t—i can’t survive you regretting me again”
his breath shudders out, uneven. for a moment you think he might hang up.
but then, low and almost childlike, he whispers, “don’t hang up yet. just… let me hear you breathe. please.”
you can hear him breathing, the faint hum of bass still leaking through wherever he is, the muffled echo of voices around him. and in the quiet, you almost hear your own pulse, hammering too hard in your chest
“…okay,” you whisper, so soft you’re not sure he even caught it
but he does. his breath hitches, like that single word is the rope he’s been dangling for, the one thing keeping him from slipping under
and then nothing. just you and him, suspended in the dark, both pretending you’re not falling apart.
your mind spirals—marcus asleep just a few steps away, the man you’ve been trying so hard to build something real with. the man who’s steady, who’s good, who’s safe.
and yet you’re standing here, clutching the phone like it’s lifeline and poison all at once.
finally, you say “i’m in the kitchen now. he can’t hear us.”
the words leave your lips and immediately coil around your throat, suffocating. but you can’t take them back.
rafe goes quiet on the other end, stunned. his drunken mind stalls, flashes. ‘she’s in the kitchen. not her kitchen. not some neutral place. his kitchen. his house. marcus’ house’
not the same counters rafe used to lift you onto, not the same table where he once had you laughing and gasping with his hand between your thighs.
a hot wave of jealousy smashes through his chest
“you’re at his place?” he mutters, voice hoarse, disbelieving. “you sleep in his bed now?”
the accusation is heavy, but beneath it is hurt, raw and bare
“rafe…” you whisper, pressing your forehead into your palm. “please don’t—”
but he cuts you off, his voice low, sharp, cracking. “does he do it like me? does he touch you like i did?”
your stomach drops “rafe—”
“answer me,” he snaps, though it wavers, slurred with whiskey “when he puts his hands on you, when he kisses you, does it feel like me? does it even come close?”
you grip the counter so hard your knuckles ache. the memory of rafe’s hands is still etched into your skin, every brush, every bruise, every desperate pull. it clings like smoke, no matter how many showers you take, no matter how soft marcus’ touch is.
“stop,” you murmur, but your voice shakes.
he hears it. he knows that tremor better than anyone. and it fuels him.
“he doesn’t, does he?” rafe’s tone drops to something darker, almost pleading. “he doesn’t fuck you like i did. doesn’t make you fall apart just by looking at you. tell me the truth. when he’s inside you, do you close your eyes and see me?”
you squeeze your eyes shut, breath trembling. images flood you—rafe pinning you to his sheets, rafe’s breath hot against your ear, rafe saying your name like it was the only thing he knew how to
and now him, drunk and broken, tearing your heart open over the phone “rafe,” you whisper, broken.
“fuck,” he breathes, and you can hear the ragged desperation in him, the way he’s clinging to every shred of you. “i can’t stand it, baby. i can’t stand knowing he’s the one who gets to lay beside you now. that you wear his shirt to bed, that you smile at him in the morning. that you let him touch what used to be mine.”
your throat closes. you hate how much it hurts. you hate how much of it is true
“rafe, please,” you choke out. “you’re making this worse.”
“worse?” he laughs, bitter and jagged. “i’m already worse. i’m already wrecked. don’t you get it? you were the only good thing i ever had, and i let you go. and now he gets to keep you warm while i’m out here in the fucking cold.”
his voice breaks on the last word.
you press a shaking hand to your lips, tears burning your eyes
and when you don’t answer, when you can’t, he whispers it again but lower, gutted “does he do it like me?”
you know he’s waiting—waiting for you to confess something you can’t, something you shouldn’t
“rafe,” you whisper, the crack in your voice giving you away. “if you don’t stop, i’ll hang up.”
the words slice through him. clean, sharp, terrifying. his whole chest seizes. in one instant, the anger, the bitterness, the drunk recklessness—all of it falls away, leaving only panic.
“no—no, wait,” he blurts, fast, desperate. “don’t—don’t hang up. i’m sorry. fuck, i’m sorry.”
you breathe hard, your grip on the phone tightening. you’ve never heard him sound like this. not even in your worst fights
“i didn’t mean—i just—” his words tangle, his voice cracking. “please, don’t go quiet on me. i can’t take it. you don’t know what it’s like, hearing your voice after so long—it’s the only thing that feels real right now. please.”
your chest aches. you press your palm against the countertop to keep stead “rafe…”
“i’ll shut up, i swear,” he stammers. “i won’t say another word about him, about you, about us. just—just don’t hang up. don’t leave me here with my head.”
he drags in a breath that sounds like it hurts. “i’m sorry i said that shit. i’m drunk, i’m stupid, i’m jealous, but i didn’t call to hurt you. i swear i didn’t. i just—i didn’t know what else to do. i couldn’t stop thinking about you. i tried, but i can’t. i don’t know how”
his voice breaks entirely now, cracking into something you’ve never let yourself imagine. never knew rafe cameron could sound so…small. fragile. like the boy under all the bravado has been stripped bare.
“please, just stay with me a little longer. i’ll behave. i promise.”
your throat tightens. it’s dangerous, this moment—the vulnerability, the way he sounds like he’s on his knees, the way it tugs at the part of you that still aches for him
and god, that part is still there, no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury it
“rafe,” you say softly, like you’re testing the weight of his name. “you can’t keep doing this.”
“i know,” he whispers, broken. “i know i can’t. but i don’t know how to stop.”
“please,” he murmurs again, so low it barely catches through the phone. “just… do me one last favor.”
your stomach twists. you press your fingers into the countertop, grounding yourself, because even drunk, even broken, he still knows how to thread his way under your skin
“fuck…” you whisper, already wary, already knowing. “what favor?”
there’s a pause. you can hear him breathing on the other end, ragged, like he’s working up the courage.
and then, softly, almost like he’s ashamed to even say it—“please see me. one last time. for closure.”
the word hangs there between you, too heavy, too sharp. closure. you hate how it echoes, how it tempts.
your eyes squeeze shut, breath catching. because you know what “closure” with rafe means. it’s never clean, never simple. it’s messy and bleeding and hands that won’t let go even when they should. it’s never just goodbye—it’s just another wound, maybe another desperate fuck
“rafe…” you try again, but your voice breaks.
“i need it,” he whispers, desperate now. “please. i can’t keep walking around with this weight, with you haunting me every night. i see you everywhere. i hear you in my head. i just—i just need to see you, one last time, and then i’ll let go. i’ll let you go.”
you don’t answer. you can’t. because part of you wants to believe him, part of you aches for that promise of release. but another part knows—knows that with rafe cameron, there is no such thing as “one last time.”
he senses your hesitation, hears the silence like a blade against his throat
“please,” he says again, more broken now, almost childlike. “just one last time. i swear, i swear i won’t ask for more. i just need to look at you. to know you’re real. to say goodbye the right way.”
your chest aches. your heart is beating too fast, too loud, like marcus might hear it even from the other room.
“you’re drunk, rafe,” you whisper, trying to sound steadier than you feel. “stop this.”
there’s a beat of quiet. then a low, bitter laugh, raw around the edges.
“yeah,” he says. “i’m drunk. i’ve been drunk since the day you left me.”
your throat burns. “rafe—”
“no, listen,” he cuts in, rushing, terrified you’ll hang up before he’s finished. “i don’t care that i’m drunk. i don’t care if i sound pathetic. you don’t understand what it’s like—lying awake at night knowing you’re in someone else’s bed. knowing someone else gets to hold you, touch you, breathe the same air as you. i can’t take it.”
you close your eyes, nails digging into your palm. “that’s not fair.”
“i know it’s not,” he says instantly, brokenly. “i know. but i don’t care. i can’t pretend to be fair about you. i don’t have it in me”
the weight of his words presses down until you feel like you might collapse under it.
“rafe,” you try again, softer now, almost pleading. “you have to go home. sleep this off. this isn’t—this isn’t good for either of us.”
but he barrels past you, voice cracking. “then don’t come in my house. you don’t have to come inside. you can drive—you can come here, or…or i’ll meet you wherever you want. in front of your house, in the middle of the fucking street, i don’t care. i’ll stand there and take it if your dad beats me bloody. i’ll take anything, as long as i can just see you.”
your heart slams hard in your chest, uneven, traitorous. the way he says it—reckless, raw, like there’s no bottom he won’t drop to—it shakes something inside you.
you grip the counter so tight your knuckles ache “fuck…” you whisper, but it comes out wrong—too soft, too close to giving in.
he hears it. you know he hears it.
your hand is shaking around the phone, nails pressing crescents into your skin, as if pain alone can anchor you. you know you should hang up. you know you should draw a line so sharp it cuts him clean out of your life.
but your mouth betrays you, so…“one last time…” you whisper, so quiet you almost hope he won’t catch it.
the silence that follows is devastating. for a second you think maybe the call dropped, maybe he’s too far gone to even hear you.
“what?” his voice is unsteady, thrashed raw, like those three words knocked the air out of him.
you close your eyes, guilt hot in your throat. “don’t-don’t make me repeat it.”
a sound breaks out of him, half a laugh, half a sob. you’ve never heard anything like it “fuck… you don’t know what that does to me. you can’t just—you can’t say that unless you mean it.”
“i don’t,” you snap, too fast, too defensive. “i mean—i do, but not how you think. not—”
your breath hitches. “i just want this to end. i want it to be over, rafe. and if seeing you one last time… if that’s what it takes for you to finally let me go, then fine. one last time.”
he’s quiet, but you can hear the way he’s breathing, fast and shallow like he’s just surfaced from underwater
“you don’t get it,” he finally whispers. “there’s no such thing as one last time with you.”
your stomach twists painfully. “then maybe this time we make it real.”
he laughs again, hollow, bitter. “you really think i could look at you—touch you—and then just walk away?”
you squeeze your eyes shut. “rafe—”
“say it again,” he interrupts, pleading now. “say it’s one last time. just… let me hear it.”
your chest caves in. because you know once you say it, once you give it voice again, there’s no going back.
and yet, with your heart in your throat, you whisper anyway “one last time.”
and so you start to think… even now.
he still calls you, even now.
and you still answer, even now.
you still agree to seeing him… even now.
masterlist next part
note hiii nonnie i hope you liked this???i put my whole pussy into this 😭😭
synopsis: your first week in university, rush week, and meeting new people. your new sorority sister convinces you to go out to a party that very night. after exchanging words with her arrogant brother, he makes a bet to get you by the end of football season.
somehow ends up in a frat he thinks he’s too good for at first. joins because ward pushed the idea of “networking” and “legacy,” but stays because he finds out it’s the only place he can get blackout drunk sometimes and no one asks questions.
you’re the only one who can get him to leave parties early. you don’t even have to say anything. he’ll spot you across the room and walk over like, “you good?” and if you say yes, he still says, “we’re leaving.”
everyone on campus either fears him, is obsessed with him, or has a story about him punching someone at a tailgate.
still has that rafe cameron temper. it doesn’t go away. he’s just gotten slightly better at walking away unless someone disrespects you or his dad.
gets reckless when he’s spiraling. he skips class, disappears for hours, comes back to your apartment smelling like weed and ocean water but he never stops texting you, and it’s usually one-word updates like “alive.” “u up?” “sorry.”
rafe + school = he’s coasting. he passes with mostly b’s and c’s, pulls off a few a’s in business classes. tells people he’ll “figure it out” after graduation.
he actually likes economics but doesn’t tell anyone. he gets weirdly focused during lectures, fingers tapping out numbers against his thigh.
has a picture of you taped to the inside of his closet and pretends it’s just there by accident. he looks at it more than he’ll admit.
his room’s a mess, but he’ll clean it when you’re coming over and makes the bed like a military kid. he’ll light a candle and pretend like he’s always that neat.
definitely has one professor who really believes in him. they pulled him aside after an essay and said, “you’ve got something, if you’d stop getting in your own way.” rafe nodded and pretended he didn’t care, but it messed him up for a week.
he goes home less than he should. he makes excuses, like midterms, fraternity responsibilities, car trouble, but the truth is, it makes his skin itch being back in that house.
might send wheezie memes and stupid updates like “just bombed a midterm lol” and “these frat guys are idiots.” sometimes him and sarah will talk, but usually when it’s late and no one else is around.
Summary: The Thornton Fellowship is THE most prestigious journalism fellowship in North Carolina. It's practically a golden ticket into the journalism world, and you want it. BAD. You've spent your whole life working towards landing yourself the only spot for someone at UNC-Kildare. The only issue? Rafe Cameron, your sworn enemy, wants it too. Which of you will get the coveted spot and which of you will have to pack up your dreams? Well... fate seems to be in the hands of UNC- Kildare's new transfer football player JJ Maybank. There's a catch, of course. JJ Maybank refuses student interviews.
AN: The man is a menace.... A MENACE
Relationship: Rafe Cameron x Reader (enemies to lovers)
𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: Rafe is finally ready to let you take control for a night, allowing himself complete and total vulnerability with you. It's not a responsibility you take lightly and you're determined to make sure he has a good time.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): language, college!au, use of a strap-on, praise and affirmations, oral (m), anal penetration, light overstimulation, this is actually quite soft tbh, a nice introduction! if I missed anything lmk!
---
Rafe's dorm room was cosy with blankets and pillows on his double bed as the rain beat down outside. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, sweatpants around his ankles with you between his knees. Your actions were slow and deliberate; each bob of your head and stroke of your hand along his shaft has his head thrown back, eliciting delicious noises from him.
Tonight was going to be a big step in your relationship, so you were determined to have him relaxed and at ease before the main event. It was no secret between you that Rafe had been with both men and women and had been open about his past relationships and hookups. And now he'd asked you to do something you'd not tried before. He wanted you to peg him.
The talking process around this choice was fairly straightforward. You'd let him pick from an online retailer which strap-on he wanted, trusting his judgement that he'd be able to handle it before pressing buy now. So here you were, getting him good and ready for such a vulnerable and intimate act.
"Fuck -" he groaned, throaty and breathless. The subtle cues from his body warned you that he was close and now you could progress to part two of the plan. Slowly, you pulled away, still gently stroking him as you looked up at Rafe with his rosy cheeks and heavy breathing.
"Wanna get naked?" He nodded and shed his sweatshirt and t-shirt over his head. You pulled his sweatpants off all the way and climbed up onto the bed to join him. You were still wearing one of his athletic department t-shirts but with no underwear and the strap-on hanging between your legs. It was a decently sized 8.5 inches and a little wider than what you thought he'd go for, but you didn't question it.
"Deep breaths, remember?" Rafe nodded as he lay back, hooking his legs around your waist as you leaned over him to reach for the bottle of lube from the nightstand. Once you'd added a satisfactory amount you waited for Rafe to tell you it was okay to go ahead.
"I'm right here," you assured him, leaning in to share a soft, tender kiss as you pressed the tip of the toy against him. As you pushed forward, slowly, the noises that left Rafe were swallowed by a string of kisses.
"Breathe, baby..." you cooed in his ear, kissing along his jaw and cheek as your hips came flush to the backs of his thighs. Rafe drew in a shaky breath as you began slowly moving your hips, grinding into him with each push forward. The noises he made were heavenly. Breathy moans and whimpers that were music to your ears with each thrust.
"Feels s' good..."
"You're bein' such a good boy, takin' me so well," you praised, letting him reach between you to stroke himself in time with your thrusts. Foreheads pressed together, and your one hand threaded through his hair, tugging gently on the soft tresses.
"Shit, I'm - "
"I know, I know," you cooed, picking up your movements and allowing him to keep matching your thrusts into his hand. With a loud moan that turned into a whimper, Rafe came undone and his cum painted his stomach in hot, white spurts. Not quite ready to be done, you carried on, stuffing him full of the silicone toy despite his attempts to tell you he was too sensitive.
"Sound so pretty, baby... Just wanna make you feel good." A second wave of that first orgasm hit Rafe and had him begging for a reprieve with teary eyes and a white-knuckle grip on his bedsheets. That's when you decided to stop being mean and gradually slowed to a stop. When you pulled out, Rafe couldn't help but squirm at the loss of contact.
"I'll be back in just a minute," you assured him, climbing off his bed to put the strap in the bathroom, so you could clean it later and grab a warm washcloth to clean him up with. The sight of him on his bed, legs outstretched, cheeks flushed and rosy as he tried his hardest to stay awake. It made you melt more than a little.
"How d' you feel?" you asked softly, wiping away the streaks of cum off of his stomach and the remnants of lube from around his ass.
"Good... Tired," he admitted, almost shyly as you finished and handed his sweatpants and hoodie back to him, with a fresh pair of boxers.
"Wanna watch a movie?" He nodded, making room for you to lie next to him as you settle with your laptop open, loading Netflix. You were more than content in just your (his) t-shirt and underwear once the two of you got comfortable under the sheets.
Grace is the very opposite of her brother in every way. when she finally moves onto campus at UNC Chapel Hill, she feels like she gets to be her own person, make her own friends, and hopefully start a promising career in the museum industry, and maybe, one day, get married to her high school sweetheart and live the American dream for herself. Rafe Cameron however, upon their very first meeting, throws a wrench in her very perfect plan.
tags/warnings:
rafe cameron x fem!oc, rafe is giving very much homewrecker, fanon!rafe (kinda), college!au, friends to lovers, slow-burn (maybe?), minimal oc description, drug and alcohol use, mostly unedited, (these tags are not exhaustive, lmk if i should add anything!)
wc: 2.1k
my master list
series masterlist
requests
January 4th, 2019
B: i'll be at the caf in 10 if you want to grab breakfast before class
Her phone buzzes twice in quick succession as the screen lights up on the table in front of her. She leans over to read it, putting down her coffee mug and rolling her eyes slightly to herself. Grace had already eaten the same thing she always does, being frozen strawberries and whipped cream for breakfast, and is finishing up her first of several cups of coffee for the day when she receives this text from her brother.
g: okay, back table in the corner
She sends her quick reply and goes back to what she was doing, pretending to read her textbook and hoping to absorb at least the key points before her eight am class. So far, this method has worked well for her. Only one semester down so far, but with a 3.91 GPA, Grace is feeling pretty good about her academic career.
Her brother, Ben, on the other hand, got into the same school on a scholarship for soccer, and Grace is pretty positive he's only doing the same degree as her so she can tutor him while he lives in a frat house. Which he very promptly moved into after orientation, leaving Grace on campus alone, and she didn't mind it one bit. Having some space from her brother and her parents for the first time has been amazing.
Grace looks up as her disheveled-looking brother slides into the seat across from her at the table, practically throwing his plate down. She removes her headphones to hear what he's saying. "Huh?" She asks, prompting him to repeat himself.
"I said..." He draws it out, clearly frustrated his sister didn't listen. "You're already reading that? It's only the second class."
"Oh, well yeah, they're assigned readings for a reason." Grace replies, putting in her bookmark and closing the book, shoving it in the bag at her feet before looking back at her twin brother. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, which, of course, he did.
"Right. Give me the summary then, yeah?" He asks through a mouthful of cinnamon and sugar toast.
Grace sighs a little. "So, basically, there's this guy, totally a dick." She begins to explain and Ben nods, but he's already looking down at his phone. "So he shoots this elephant, right, and then someone else shoots him, and then that's how the third world war started."
"Wait, what? Really?" Ben asks, his attention suddenly drawn back to her.
"No. There was no World War III, dumbass." She replied flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Do you even know what this course is about?"
"Not yet but that's why I'm here isn't it?" Ben chuckles, taking another bite of his toast and instantly chasing it down with his orange juice.
Grace cringes a little as she watches that. "Not exactly..." She replies, looking down at her watch. "We have fifteen minutes. We should probably go, we have to get all the way across campus."
Ben nods and shoves the rest of his one piece of toast in his mouth and picks up the other to carry with them while they grab their bags and clean up the table.
No one really knows what it is about the first week of the semester, but Grace, as well as every other girl she's seen so far, has fallen victim to the idea that you need to look put together and organized knowing damn well that by two weeks from now, she'll be showing up in pyjamas. But today, for the time being, she's actually wearing jeans and makeup to class.
They walk across the beautiful campus that overlooks the city from a hill. It's January, but the sun is rising and there's hardly any snow left on the ground, not that there ever was much to begin with at UNC. Grace grips her coffee cup with both hands to try and warm them- it was probably an oversight to leave her gloves back in her dorm.
They make it inside and find their classroom, walking in and looking around, scanning to see open seats. Grace's eye lands on a table with two seats that no one is sitting at, and makes a beeline for it, placing her bag down before realizing her brother isn't at her side anymore.
"Hey, man, how's it going?" She hears as she looks back over her shoulder, seeing her brother grabbing the hand of a boy sitting in the back row. She sighs and sits down as he sits in the back with someone she's assuming he knows from his frat or soccer or something,
"I'm pretty good. Don't know why I took an eight am but here I am I guess." Ben's friend, Rafe, says as Ben takes a seat next to him.
"Honestly, same." Ben laughs slightly, pulling his laptop out of his bag and placing it on the desk.
"Hey, uh..." Rafe starts, leaning closer to his friend and lowering his voice. "Who's that girl you came in with?"
"Why?" Ben asks, taking on a defensive tone as he digs around in his bag, looking for his textbook.
Rafe instantly shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. "Just wondering." He says quickly, looking forward at the long-haired girl sitting a few rows in front of them. "I didn't know you had a girl- I just thought you would have told the team."
"What? I don't." Ben looks up at him to see his friend staring at his sister. "That's just Grace. My sister." He admits, leaning back in his chair as well.
Oh, his sister. Rafe thinks to himself, nodding slightly in response to his friend, that was now watching him, watching his sister. Time to look away. "You have a sister?"
"Uh, yeah, dude."
"You never talk about her," Rafe says, glancing back at her.
"Not much to say I guess." Ben shrugs in response. "Uh, we're twins, I don't know she likes to read apparently. She's a history major, she lives here on campus. I don't know what really there is to add."
"Oh, really? I was thinking of doing history."
Ben laughs. "Dude, as if Ward would ever let you even think about taking anything other than business. Pretty much the only thing you can do with history is write or teach, that's boring as hell."
Rafe sighs, he knows Ben is probably right. "I mean, like, I wouldn't hate that. At least it would be my choice."
"Yeah, I mean, whatever you want man. Why not, right? Being a prof makes bangin money too. People respect you and shit-" Ben rambles on but Rafe isn't really listening. His eyes are trained again on the girl sitting closer to the front of the room, as her hair cascades over her shoulders when she leans forward more, writing something down in a notebook.
"Right?" His thoughts are interrupted.
"Oh, yeah, totally." Rafe nods, completely unaware of what his friend was talking about by now.
"Okay, so we've got some new faces in here today." A man who Rafe assumes to be the prof says, clapping his hands together to get everyone's attention as the room quiets down. "You, in the back there. You missed introductions on Monday, so basically we all shared our names, our majors, and what year we're in if you'd like to share as well."
He's looking dead on at Rafe in the back, and everyone's heads turn to look at him. "I, yeah, sure. I'm Rafe, uh, this is my first year, so I haven't made any big decisions yet, but I'm thinking about majoring in history." He says, making eye contact with Grace and giving her a slight smile.
"Right, yes, Rafe Cameron. You're on the soccer team with Ben here. Your dad is Ward, right?" The prof asks and Rafe nods.
"Yes sir."
"I've met your father, he's a really nice man, hey?" He grins and Rafe nods again slightly in response, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Anyway, let's get started, shall we? Did everyone get the readings done?"
——
Grace gets up at the end of class, placing everything in her bag and her headphones back in, assuming that her brother would take off with his friend.
"Shouldn't we wait for Grace?" Rafe asks Ben as his friend turns to the door.
"Nah, I'll talk to her later." He shrugs in response. "Come on- we've got practice this afternoon and I want to have a nap first."
"Hold on one sec," Rafe replies, holding his hand up at his friend signaling for him to wait, and watching as Grace turns around evidently surprised to see them still standing there looking at her- waiting.
"Oh, hi." She says, removing one of her headphones.
"What did you think of the first real lecture? Did you write down every word?" Ben asks her and she laughs a little.
"No, but I'm glad we're getting into something interesting at least." She replies, avoiding eye contact with his friend, who's watching her intently.
"Hey, uh, I'm Rafe, by the way." He says to her before Ben can get a word in.
Grace looks briefly at her brother, who is staring at Rafe with an indecipherable look on his face. "I'm Grace." She says, looking back at her brother's friend and smiling politely. "You said you want to take history? That's my plan too." She adds, making an effort to move the conversation along so they don't just all stand there staring at each other.
"Yeah, I mean, maybe. My dad wants me to take business because he owns a company and I'll have to take it over eventually and all that crap." Rafe shrugs as the three of them head for the door.
Grace nods at that, shoving her hands in her pockets as they walk out the door and down the hall. "My boyfriend was supposed to take business too, or that was originally his plan in high school. He decided to go into chemical and electrical engineering instead and he's loving it, but I guess it's a bit different than your situation but I still think it's important to do what you want, not what other people want you to do." She shrugs, as Rafe looks at her brother, giving him a 'what the fuck, man?' expression.
Ben raises an eyebrow at him, the silent exchange finished with his confusion, and Rafe quickly continues his conversation with the girl who wasn't watching them, eyes straight ahead as she walked. "Yeah, I guess you're right. My plan right now is to sell it as soon as my name's on it, so my degree won't really matter."
"Yeah, you probably don't need a degree in business for that." She agrees, laughing slightly as she shakes her head.
As the three approach the end of the hall, Rafe takes a few quick steps forward to grab the door, and Ben smiles at him, laughing slightly and patting him on the shoulder as he walks through. "Thanks, bro." He steps outside, leaving Rafe to stare at the girl who took a turn down the hall instead of following them out.
"Not going back to dorms?" He asks her, making her turn as she continues to walk backward staying with the flow of other students.
"I have a class in C building in ten minutes- this way is much faster. It was nice meeting you!" Grace smiles with a slight wave, popping her headphone back in as she turns around and continues down the hall. Rafe smiles back and raises his hand in a quick wave, sighing as he's stuck holding the door for a few more people before he can follow Ben.
"Dude, you didn't think to tell me she has a boyfriend?" Rafe asks, jogging slightly to catch up with his friend.
"Sorry, didn't think you'd be into my sister. Didn't think it mattered- that's not like, the most important thing about her, you know." Ben scoffs, shaking his head.
"Well, of course not. Would've been nice to know, though." Rafe grumbles, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.
"You're not hooking up with my sister. Listen, even if she wasn't dating that loser I wouldn't let you. That's like, fucked up." Ben says sternly. "What would you say if I said I was into Sarah, huh?"
"Dude- gross. She's like, seventeen." Rafe shakes his head, scrunching up his nose at the thought.
"Exactly." Ben agrees.
"Okay, well, that's different."
"You're digging yourself deeper and deeper man- you've just got to let it go." Ben insists, turning to walk towards his car on the opposite side of the parking lot from where Rafe parked his bike. "I'll see you at home!" He shouts back.
"See ya'," Rafe replies, walking in the opposite direction. He pulls the other side of his backpack over his shoulder, holding tightly onto the straps as he makes his way back to where he parked his bike- completely unaware that he was being watched through an upstairs window in C building by his friend's sister.
ahhh finally part one!! i’ve been working on this one for a hot minute so lmk all your thoughts and everything- i don’t have the whole thing planned out so also if anyone has any requests on where this should go, pls lmk!!
taglist: @madelynie @slut4drudy (message me or reply to this to be added!)
