We’re Not Over. ~ R.C
Summary: You should have just broke up, but Rafe would never let that happen.
Warning: DV, NONCON/DUBCON, PHYSICAL ABUSE, toxic relationship, emotional abuse, physical violence, Alcohol, addiction, pregnancy, mention or abortion, drug use (from rafe). if any of this triggers you or isn’t your thing, scroll away. This is fiction. 
An: heyyy yall lmk if u want a part 2 and like, comment reblog for more! Hearing what u think keeps me motived to write more fics!!
Part 2
MINORS DNI
The house was quiet in that heavy way it got after everyone left. Rafe had made sure the door was locked behind the last person out. You'd felt it, the shift in him all night. The way his eyes tracked you from the corner of the room, jaw locked, fingers drumming restless on his knee while you talked to friends. He hadn't said much then. Just drank. Watched. Waited.
Now the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both. The lock turned slow, deliberate. The lamp on his dresser cast a dim yellow glow, catching the sweat on his neck, the flush creeping up from his collar.
Whiskey breath mixed with the faint chemical bite of coke still lingering on him. His shirt hung open at the top buttons, sleeves shoved up, arms tense like coiled wire.
He didn't speak right away. Just stood there, back to the door, staring at you like he was deciding something. You stayed near the bed, arms loose at your sides but ready, heart already picking up speed. The carpet felt rough under your bare feet, the air thick and stale.
"You had fun tonight," he said finally. Voice low, slurred just enough to show the liquor had settled deep. No question in it. Statement. Accusation.
"I talked to people. That's what parties are for."
He pushed off the door. Slow steps toward you. "Yeah. You talked. Laughed. Let that Pogue asshole get right up in your space. Smiled at him like he was funny. Like I wasn't standing ten feet away."
Your throat tightened.
"It was nothing. He made a joke. I laughed. End of story."
Rafe stopped close. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the sharp edge of his anger under the booze.
"Nothing," he repeated. Soft. Almost thoughtful. Then his hand came up, slow, like he had all the time in the world, and wrapped around your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Fingers warm, thumb resting over your pulse. You felt it jump under his touch.
"You think I'm stupid?" he murmured. Eyes locked on yours. Pupils blown wide. "You think I don't see how you light up for them? How you pull away from me the second someone else is around?"
"Rafe." Your voice came out small. You hated it. "You're drunk. Let go."
His thumb pressed in a little. Just enough to make breathing feel deliberate. "Nah. We're talking now. You wanted to act like everything's fine all night? We're talking about why it's not."
You tried to step back. His other hand shot to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise tomorrow. He pulled you forward instead. Chest to chest, his heartbeat thudding fast against yours.
"You always do this," he said. Voice dropping lower. Rougher. "Act like I'm the crazy one. Like I imagine shit. But I don't. I see it. Every time."
His grip on your throat tightened fraction by fraction. Air got thinner. Your hands came up instinctively, pushing at his wrist. He didn't budge.
"Stop," you rasped.
He tilted his head. Studied your face like he was memorizing the fear there.
"You know what happens when you push me like this. You've known for a while."
The words hung heavy. He wasn't yelling. Wasn't frantic. Just calm. Cold. Like this was inevitable. Like you'd walked into it on your own.
You shoved harder at his chest. He let go of your throat only to grab both your wrists instead. Twisted them behind your back in one rough motion. Pain flared sharp up your arms. You gasped. He used the momentum to force you back until your legs hit the bed. You fell onto it, him following, knee between your thighs, pinning you down.
He loomed over you. Breathing steady now. Controlled. His free hand came back to your face, cupping your cheek almost gently. Thumb brushed over your bottom lip.
"You think you can leave?" he whispered. Not mocking. Not angry. Just stating fact. "You think you walk out that door and this ends?"
His weight pressed heavier. You felt every inch of him, solid, unmovable. The hand on your wrists tightened until your fingers went numb.
"You don't get to decide that," he continued. Voice soft. Almost tender. "Its not just your choice."
Tears burned hot in your eyes. You blinked them back. "You're hurting me."
"I know." Simple. No apology. Just acknowledgment. Like it was part of the conversation.
He leaned down. Lips brushing your ear. "And you'll still be here in the morning. Won't you?"
You didn't answer. Couldn't. The room spun slowly, fear, pain, the sick twist of knowing he was right about the pattern. The bruises he'd left before. The apologies that came too late. The way you'd always gone back.
His mouth moved to your neck. Not kissing. Just breathing there. Hot. Possessive. "Say it."
You shook your head. Small. Defiant.
His hand slid from your cheek to your hair. Gripped hard. Yanked your head back until your throat arched. "Say you'll be here."
The words stuck in your chest. You swallowed against the ache. "Fuck you."
He laughed once, low, quiet. Lacking humor. "Yeah. But you're still here."
He released your wrists suddenly. Rolled off you. Stood up. Backed toward the door like nothing had happened. "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
You stayed curled on the bed. Breathing shallow. Wrists throbbing. Throat raw. Face wet from the tears you hadn't let fall until he turned away.
He didn't look back. Just flipped the lamp off. Darkness swallowed the room.
You waited until his breathing evened out on the couch across the room. He never slept in the bed after nights like this, like he needed distance to cool off.
Then you moved.
Quiet. Careful. Slipped off the bed. Grabbed your shoes. Keys. Didn't bother with anything else.
The front door opened without a sound. Cold night air hit your face. You didn't run. Just walked fast to your car. Started it. Pulled out slowly so the engine wouldn't wake him.
Drove home in the dark. Locked every door behind you. Went to your room. Sat on the floor against the wall. Felt the bruises forming on your wrists, the ache in your throat, the hollow pit in your stomach.
Three days.
You stayed inside. Curtains closed. Phone off. Ignored the rumble of his truck outside, once, twice, then nothing.
On the third day, when the marks had turned deep purple and the fear had hardened into something colder, you turned your phone on.
Typed: We're done.
Sent.
Turned it off.
The silence after felt different this time. Sharp. Final.
You didn't cry. Just sat there. Breathing. Waiting for the fallout you knew was coming.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The beach house was already alive when you arrived. It felt warm and forgiving after weeks of hiding in your room. Music drifted out the open doors, vibrating up through the deck planks. The air carried bonfire smoke, spilled tequila, and the faint coconut of someone's sunscreen even though it was dark.
You walked in through the side gate like you always did. Sophia and Avery had texts you earlier.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 GROUPCHAT 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
(6:30 pm)
Sophᥫ᭡: girl pls come out ;(
Sophᥫ᭡: just us girls seriously we need u here!!!
Averyʚɞ: mias margaritas r actually insane tn… come save me
Mia spotted you first. She waved you over with both hands, red cup already in one. "There she is! Finally." Her smile was bright, genuine enough that the knot in your chest loosened a fraction. She pressed the cup into your hand without asking. The glass was cold and slick with condensation. You took a sip…tart lime, too much tequila, the burn sliding smooth down your throat.
"Sit, sit," Sophia said, patting the wicker chair next to her. "We’ve been dying without you."
You sat. The chair creaked under you. The fire pit crackled a few feet away, heat licking at your shins. Avery leaned in on your other side, shoulder bumping yours.
"You look good. Like, really good. We missed your face."
Conversation flowed easily at first. Safe. School gossip. Someone’s new internship. A story about Topper wiping out on his board last weekend that had everyone laughing. You laughed too. The margarita helped. You finished the first one faster than you meant to. Mia was right there with the pitcher, topping you off before you could protest.
"Lightweight rules don’t apply tonight," she teased.
The second drink went down smoother. The third even easier. Your limbs felt loose, the edges of the night blurring just enough that the ache in your wrists, the faint ghosts of bruises, was easier to ignore. You let yourself lean back. Let the fire warm your face. Let the laughter wrap around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you were cold without.
You didn’t hear the truck pull up. Didn’t notice the shift in the air until Topper’s voice cut through the chatter. "Yo, look who decided to grace us."
Your head turned slowly. The alcohol made everything lag half a second.
Rafe stepped onto the deck from the side stairs. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched against the breeze. Hair messy from the wind. He looked worse than you remembered, sunken under the eyes, skin pale in the fairy light. But when his gaze found you across the fire, it sharpened. Locked. Held.
Your stomach flipped. The cup in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.
You started to stand.
Sophia’s hand landed lightly on your wrist. Not grabbing. Just resting there. "Hey. Stay."
Mia leaned in close. Voice soft, almost conspiratorial. "He’s not here to start shit. He’s been quiet all week. Like, really quiet. Just… give it a minute?"
Avery nodded on your other side. "We all miss how things used to be. One night. That’s it."
You looked around the circle. Faces lit orange by the fire. Eyes on you,concerned, hopeful, a little pleading. No one was forcing you. No one was blocking the gate. But the weight of their quiet expectation pressed in anyway. Saying no now would mean explaining why. Would mean ripping the fragile normalcy they’d all been clinging to.
You sat back down.
Rafe didn’t come straight over. He drifted instead. Slow. Casual. Grabbed a beer from the cooler near Topper. Cracked it open. Taking a long pull. Then another. He laughed at something Kelce said, low, forced, but enough to make the group relax a notch.
You kept your eyes on the fire. Flames snapping. Sparks drifting up into the dark. The tequila hummed warm in your veins, dulling the sharp edge of panic. Your head felt fuzzy. Pleasant fuzzy. The kind that made bad decisions feel distant.
He moved closer eventually. Sat on the low bench across the pit from you. Knees spread. Elbows on his thighs. Beer bottle dangling between his fingers. He didn’t look at you right away. Just stared into the flames like everyone else. But you felt it, the pull of his attention. Steady. Unavoidable.
After a while, it had been long enough that another round of drinks had been passed, and he spoke. Voice low. Rough around the edges from the alcohol or the week or both.
"You’re here."
Two words. Simple. No accusation. No demand. Just observation.
You swallowed. The margarita now tastes worse on your tongue. "Yeah."
He nodded once. Slow. Took another drink from his beer. "Good."
The group kept talking around you both. Laughing. Teasing. Pretending the tension wasn’t there. But it was. Thick. Electric. Every time someone shifted, every time the fire popped, you felt his eyes flick to you. Quick. Careful. Like he was afraid that if he stared too long, you’d bolt.
Mia leaned over again. Whispered so only you could hear. "See? He’s chill. Just stay a little longer. For old times’ sake."
You nodded. Small. Automatic.
The fourth margarita appeared in your hand somehow. You didn’t remember asking for it. But you drank anyway. Let the burn chase away the last of the clarity.
Rafe finally stood. Walked around the pit. Slow steps. Stopped a few feet from your chair. Hands still in his pockets. Head tilted just enough that the firelight caught the sharp line of his cheekbone.
"Can we talk?" he asked. Quiet. Almost careful. "Just for a second. Down by the water."
You looked up at him. The world tilted soft from the drinks. His face looked different in the low light, less angry, more… lost. The same face you’d seen in the dark of his room weeks ago, right before everything went wrong.
Sophia touched your shoulder lightly. "Go. We’re right here if you need us."
Avery smiled slightly. "Five minutes. Then come back and make fun of Topper with us."
You stood. Legs wobbly but holding. The sand was cool under your feet as you followed him down the steps, away from the fire, away from the lights. Waves rolled in steady. White foam hissing against the shore.
He stopped near the waterline. Turned. Didn’t crowd you. Just stood there. Waiting.
"I fucked up," he said. Voice rough. Low. "Bad. I know it."
You crossed your arms. The wind tugged at your hair. Salt stung your lips. "Yeah. You did."
He looked down at the sand. Kicked at a shell. "I’ve been trying to fix it. Therapy. Cutting back. All of it. Doesn’t make it right. Just… means I’m trying."
Silence stretched. Waves filled it.
"I don’t expect you to believe me," he continued. "But I’m sorry. For real."
You searched his face. The tequila made it hard to read him. Or maybe it made it easier. He looked wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw tight like he was holding something back.
You didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Letting the words settle.
He stepped closer. Slow. Careful. "Can I…?" He opened his arms a little. Not grabbing. Just offering.
The drinks had softened everything. The fear. The anger. The memory of his hand on your throat. It all felt farther away. Muted.
You stepped into him.
His arms closed around you. Tight. Familiar. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other low on your back. He smelled like smoke and salt and him. His heartbeat thudded fast against your cheek.
"I missed you," he whispered. Barely audible over the waves.
You didn’t hug back. But you didn’t pull away.
Behind you, up on the deck, the group watched. Faces glowing in the firelight. Smiling soft. Relieved.
You stayed like that longer than you planned.
When you finally stepped back, his hands slid to your arms. Lingered a second. Then dropped.
"Stay?" he asked. Quiet. No demand. Just a question.
You glanced back at the house. Sophia raised her cup. Mia gave a small nod. Avery mouthed please.
The net was soft. Warm. Almost comfortable.
You nodded once.
Walked back with him.
Sat down again.
Took the next drink when it was handed to you.
Let the night keep pulling you under.
Slow.
Subtle.
Inevitable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three weeks later, your period was late.
You bought the test at the small pharmacy on the Cut because no one there would recognize you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The cashier didn’t look at your face. You sat in your car in the parking lot with the plastic bag in your lap, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your teeth.
The two pink lines stared back at you from the bathroom counter like they had been waiting there all along.
You had taken the test twice. Same brand. Same result. The first time you sat on the closed toilet lid for twenty minutes, knees drawn up, staring at the stick until the plastic felt warm from your grip. The second time you did it in the shower, water running cold, hoping the steam would blur the lines or wash them away. It didn’t.
Your period was nine days late now. You had never been this late. Not once.
The night at the beach house came back in fragments. Not clean memories. Just flashes. The margaritas tasting stronger than they should have. Mia’s hand on your arm, refilling your cup again. Rafe’s arms around you by the water, the group watching from the deck like it was some kind of movie moment. Then the guest bedroom. His mouth on your neck. His hands sliding under your shirt. You remembered saying “wait” once, maybe twice, the word slurring into the music thumping through the floor. You remembered his weight pressing you into the mattress. After that the edges went soft and dark. You woke up the next morning in his bed upstairs, sheets tangled, head pounding, no clear memory of how you got there or what happened between the guest room and waking up.
You had asked him once, days later, casual, testing the water.
“Do you remember… that night? Like, after we talked on the beach?”
He had looked at you with those tired eyes, thumb brushing your cheek. “Yeah. You were drunk. We both were. You wanted it. We both did.”
You had nodded because pushing felt dangerous. Because the alternative meant admitting you didn’t remember consenting. Or not consenting. The lines were too blurry to touch.
Now the lines weren’t blurry anymore.
You drove to his house that afternoon because the nausea had started and you couldn’t keep pretending it was stress or bad takeout. Your hands shook on the wheel the whole way. The Cameron driveway felt longer than usual. The house loomed white and quiet under the late sun.
Rafe answered the door shirtless, hair damp like he had just showered. He smiled when he saw you, small and hopeful, the way he had been smiling lately. Careful. Like he was afraid the wrong expression would make you bolt.
“Hey. You okay? You look…”
You didn’t let him finish. You stepped inside, closed the door behind you, and held up the test. The plastic trembled in your fingers.
His eyes dropped to it. Then back to your face. Everything in him went still.
“Is that…”
You nodded once.
He took the stick from you gently, like it might break. Stared at the lines. His breathing changed. Shallow. Fast. Then his face cracked open in a way you had never seen before. Not anger. Not smugness. Something raw and bright and terrifyingly real.
“Holy fuck.” His voice broke on the last word. He looked up at you, eyes wet, shining. “We’re… we’re having a baby?”
You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed tight.
He pulled you into him suddenly, arms wrapping around you so hard it hurt a little. His face buried in your hair. You felt his chest shudder against yours. He was crying. Quiet, ragged breaths. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and broken.
“This is it,” he whispered. “This is us fixing everything. You and me and… fuck, a kid. Our kid.”
You stood there frozen. His heartbeat hammered against your cheek. Too fast. Too loud. You felt the nausea roll again, sharp and sour.
“Rafe. I don’t… I don’t remember us having sex without… a condom. That night. I don’t remember any of it clearly.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your arms, thumbs stroking slow circles like he was trying to soothe you.
“You were drunk. We both were. But you wanted me. You pulled me down there. You said my name like…” He swallowed. “Like you needed me. We didn’t use one because… shit, I don’t know. It happened fast. You were on top at one point. You didn’t stop me.”
The words landed heavy. You searched his face for a lie. Couldn’t find one. But the memory still wouldn’t come clear. Just heat. Pressure. His voice in your ear. Your own hands on his back. Had you pulled him down? Had you said his name?
“I said wait,” you whispered.
His expression flickered. Pain. Guilt. Something darker underneath.
“I know. I heard you. But then you kissed me again. You wrapped your legs around me. I thought… I thought that meant yes. I’m so fucking sorry if I got it wrong. I swear to God I thought you wanted it.”
He dropped his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing shaky.
“I would never hurt you like that on purpose. You know that. Right?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He took your hand. Led you to the couch. Sat you down. Knelt in front of you like he was praying.
“This baby… It’s not an accident. It’s us. It’s proof we’re supposed to be together. After everything I put you through, after I almost lost you… This is how we make it right. Ward’s gonna be so fucking proud. The girls are gonna lose their minds. They already love you. They’ll love this.”
He reached for your stomach. Hesitant. Palm flat against the flat plane. His hand shook.
“Our kid won’t grow up like I did. No yelling. No bullshit. Just… us. Safe. Together.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks. Silent. You didn’t wipe them away.
He saw them. Misread them, maybe. Or didn’t care.
“I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But we can do this. I’ll take care of everything. Doctor’s appointments. Money. All of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words stuck.
“What if I don’t want…”
He froze. Hand still on your stomach.
“Don’t say that.” His voice cracked again. Not angry. Pleading. “Please don’t say that. Not yet. Just… think about it. Think about how good this could be. How much better I’ll be. For you. For them.”
He leaned in. Kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering.
“I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I fucked it all up. This… this is our second chance.”
You sat there. Numb.
He stood up. Pulled out his phone. Already texting.
“I’m telling Ward. And our friends. They need to know. They’ll be so happy for us.”
You watched him type. Watched the messages send. Watched the little dots appear almost immediately.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t look.
You just sat there.
Staring at the spot on the floor where his knees had been.
Feeling the weight of something you couldn’t name settle deep in your chest.
Something final.
Something you hadn’t chosen.
But something you were already carrying.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You met them at Sophia’s house because it felt safer than anywhere public. The living room smelled like vanilla candles and fresh coffee. Sunlight cut through the big windows and landed in sharp rectangles on the white couch. Mia had brought muffins. Avery kept refilling your water like that would fix anything.
They were smiling when you sat down. Real smiles. The kind that made your stomach twist worse.
“So,” Mia started, tucking her legs under her, “how are you feeling? Like, actually feeling? The group chat is already losing it over baby names.”
You stared at the muffin on your plate. The blueberries looked too bright. Your throat felt tight.
“I’m not keeping it.”
The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.
For a second, nobody moved. Sophia’s hand froze halfway to her coffee cup. Avery blinked slowly, like she was trying to replay what you just said.
“What?” Mia laughed, nervous. “Come on. You’re joking, right?”
You shook your head. Your hands were shaking, so you pressed them between your knees. “I’m not ready. None of this… none of it feels right. Rafe and I are still so messed up…And now there’s a baby? I can’t bring a kid into this. I feel so guilty even thinking about it, and I’m scared. I’m really scared.”
Sophia leaned forward. Her voice was soft, careful, the way people talk to someone on the edge. “Babe, I get that you’re overwhelmed. Pregnancy hormones are crazy. But this is a good thing. Rafe’s been trying so hard. He’s different now.”
“He’s not different,” you said. Your voice cracked. “He’s the same. And I’m not ready to be someone’s mom. I can barely take care of myself when he’s… when things get bad.”
Avery reached over and touched your arm. “We’re all here for you. We’ll help. The whole group will. This baby could be what finally makes him stable.”
You pulled your arm away. The touch felt too heavy.
“You don’t get it.” Your heart was pounding now. The vanilla candle suddenly smelled sickeningly sweet. “I don’t even remember that night clearly. I was so drunk. I said wait. And now I’m pregnant, and everyone’s acting like it’s this beautiful second chance. It’s not. It’s a trap. I feel trapped.”
Mia’s face changed. The soft concern hardened into something sharper. “Okay, that’s not fair. Rafe told us what happened. You were into it. You went to the guest room with him. You can’t rewrite it now just because you’re scared.”
“I’m not rewriting shit!” Your voice rose. You hated how loud it sounded in the bright, pretty room. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m terrified of raising a kid with him. He’s literally a drug addict!”
The word exploded out of you.
The silence after was worse than the shouting.
Sophia’s eyes went wide. Avery looked away, cheeks flushed. Mia stared at you like you had slapped her.
“Jesus,” Mia whispered. “You really just said that?”
You were breathing hard. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“It’s true. He does coke all the time. He gets paranoid. And now you all want me to bring a baby into it? What kind of mother would that make me?”
Sophia’s voice was quiet but edged.
“He’s been clean for weeks. He’s going to therapy. Ward even said he’s proud of him. You’re acting like he’s so fucked up when he’s trying to be better for you. For the baby.”
“He’s not fucking clean,” you snapped. “He just hides it better when you’re watching.”
Avery stood up suddenly.
“This is fucked up. We all saw how broken he was when you left. He was crying to us. And now you’re pregnant, and you want to… what? Get rid of it? After everything we did to get you two back together?”
The words hit like ice water.
You looked at each of them. The people who had lied about Rafe not being at the party. The ones who kept pushing drinks on you that night. The ones who told you this was fate.
Guilt and rage and fear tangled so tight in your chest you couldn’t breathe.
“I can’t do this,” you said, quieter now. Voice raw. “I can’t bring a child into this. I’m not ready. And I don’t think I ever will be with him.”
Mia shook her head. Tears in her eyes. “You’re being selfish. That baby is innocent. And Rafe… he’s going to be devastated. You have no idea what this will do to him.”
The room felt too small. The sunlight too bright. The vanilla candle cloying.
You stood up on shaky legs.
“I need to go.”
None of them tried to stop you.
But as you walked to the door, you heard Sophia’s phone buzz. Once. Twice. Then three more times in quick succession.
You didn’t have to ask who it was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your phone started exploding the second you left Sophia’s house.
It vibrated nonstop in your pocket the whole drive home. You didn’t look. You already knew. By the time you pulled into your driveway, the screen was flooded with missed calls from Rafe, Mia, and Avery. Text after text.
Rafe: answer ur fucking phone (4:56 pm)
Rafe: you told them you want to kill my kid???
Rafe: after everything ur really doing this to me???
You turned it off and went inside.
The knocking started softly at first. Polite. Almost hesitant. Your mom answered, voice muffled through the door.
“Rafe? Honey, what’s going on?”
You heard the low rumble of his voice, calm, measured. “Can I talk to her? Please. It’s important.”
There was a pause. Your dad appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, watching. Your mom stepped aside. Rafe walked in slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes were red, his hair damp with sweat, but his face was composed. Polite smile for your parents. The perfect Kook boy.
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N. Sorry to show up like this. I just… need a minute with her. If that’s okay.”
Your dad glanced at you. You stood frozen in the living room doorway, arms wrapped tight around yourself. He nodded once. “Upstairs. Door open.”
Rafe gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”
He followed you up the stairs without touching you. The hallway light buzzed overhead. Your bedroom door creaked when you pushed it open. He stepped inside after you. Closed it most of the way, not all the way, respecting the “open” rule, but enough that voices wouldn’t carry downstairs clearly.
The second he faced you, the mask slipped.
He turned. Locked eyes with you. The polite smile vanished.
“You told them,” he said. Voice low. Controlled. Barely above a whisper. “You told our friends you want to get rid of my kid. And you called me a fucking drug addict.”
You backed up until your calves hit the edge of your bed. “Rafe-”
“Shh.” He held up a hand. Not aggressive. Just firm. “Keep your voice down. Your parents are right downstairs. We’re not doing this loud.”
He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. You could smell the faint chemical edge on him, coke, fresh. His eyes were glassy but focused. Calculating.
“You have no idea what you just did,” he continued, still quiet. “The girls are blowing up my phone. Telling me you’re scared. Telling me you’re not ready. Telling me you think I’m gonna be a shit dad because I’m… what? A drug addict?”
He laughed once. Soft. Bitter. No humor.
“I’m trying. Every day. For you. For this.” His hand moved toward your stomach, not touching, just hovering. “And you go behind my back and tell them you want to kill it? That’s cold. That’s really fucking cold.”
You swallowed. “I said I’m not ready. I didn’t say I was-”
“You said it.” His voice dropped even lower. Almost a hiss. “You said the words. And now they’re all texting me like I’m the problem. Like, I forced this on you. Like I’m the one who’s dangerous.”
He took another step. Close enough, you felt the heat coming off him.
“I didn’t force anything,” he whispered. “That night? You wanted me. You pulled me into that room. You kissed me back. You wrapped your legs around me. Don’t try to spin it now just because you’re scared.”
His hand finally touched you, palm flat against your stomach. Gentle. Possessive.
“This is ours,” he said. “God gave us this. You think He makes mistakes? You think He’d put a baby in you if it wasn’t meant to be?”
You tried to step back. He didn’t let you. His other hand came up to the side of your neck. Fingers curling lightly into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Keeping you there.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “Not like that. Not with our kid inside you. But you need to understand something.”
His thumb brushed your jaw. Slow. Almost tender.
“If you try to take this away from me… if you go to a clinic, if you make an appointment behind my back… I will lose it. Completely. And I won’t be quiet about it. I’ll tell everyone. Your parents. Ward. The whole fucking island. I’ll tell them you’re unstable. That you’re trying to kill my baby because you hate me. That you’re the one who’s dangerous.”
His eyes searched yours. Wet. Pleading. But the grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.
“And Ward?” He leaned in. Breath hot against your ear. “Ward already knows. I told him the second your friends did. He’s furious. Not at me. At you. He said we’re handling this the right way. He’s already talking to lawyers. Prenatal custody stuff. Visitation. Support. He can make your life hell without ever raising his voice.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you again.
“But I don’t want that,” he whispered. “I want us. I want our family. I want to be good. For you. For the baby.”
His hand slid down to cup your cheek. Thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was there.
“So here’s what’s happening,” he said. Still quiet. Still calm. “Tomorrow you’re coming to the house. Ward wants to talk. He’s already got the guest house ready. Full doctor coverage. Money for whatever you need. But you’re staying there. With me. Until the baby comes. After that… we’ll figure it out. Together.”
You opened your mouth.
He pressed his thumb over your lips. Gentle. Shushing.
“Don’t say no yet,” he murmured. “Think about it. Think about what happens if you fight this. Think about your parents downstairs. They already let me in. They already know about the baby. They’re not gonna let you do something stupid.”
He leaned in. Forehead resting against yours.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you hate me. Even when you want to hurt me. I still love you. And I’m gonna love this kid so much it scares me.”
His hand stayed on your stomach. Warm. Heavy.
“But if you try to take it away… I won’t survive it. And I won’t let you walk away clean.”
He stepped back slowly. Dropped his hands.
“I’ll be outside in the truck,” he said. Voice back to normal volume. Polite again. “Whenever you’re ready to talk. No rush.”
He turned. Opened the door wider. Walked downstairs as if nothing had happened.
You heard him thank your parents again. Heard the front door close softly.
You sat on the edge of your bed. Breathing shallow. Scalp stinging. Stomach churning.
Downstairs, your mom called up quietly.
“Honey? Rafe said… he said you’re pregnant?”
The silence stretched.
You didn’t answer.
Your phone buzzed once.
Rafe: I meant what I said. I’ll wait. (5:31 pm)
Then another.
Ward: We’ll see you tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late.
The screen went dark.
You stared at it.
The house felt smaller than ever.
And the weight in your stomach, the one you hadn’t chosen, felt heavier than Rafe’s hand ever could.
…….
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