ᤢ ♥︎⠀⠀⸻ dark is the night / rafe cameron!
content WARNING: rafe (22) / reader (19), violence, mentions of war, pregnancy, mentions of death, money struggles, loneliness, sensitive content.
click here for the playlist — here for the pinterest board!
It was a February night, the kind where the cold didn’t just bite... it gnawed. And a 16-hour day on the trawler—hauling nets, gutting cod, dodging a near-miss with a snapped cable—had left Rafe’s muscles aching and his mind fogged. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his blue eyes, usually sharp were dulled by exhaustion.
Inside, the house was barely warmer. Rafe dropped his keys on the chipped Formica table, next to a stack of envelopes that seemed to multiply each day: bills, final notices, a creditor’s letter with red ink screaming urgency. As soon as he sank into a wobbly chair, the numbers stared up at him:
28,000 rubles for the boat’s fuel pump
15,000 for last month’s utilities
10,000 to appease the bank breathing down his neck about his grandfather’s debts
His last market haul had brought in 12,000 rubles, half of which went to diesel and ice to keep his fish fresh. Even food, real food, not just instant noodles or day-old bread, was a luxury he could barely afford.
Rafe rubbed his calloused hands together, trying to coax warmth into them.
Another job, he thought.
Night shifts, maybe, or loading crates at the warehouse.
Not because he wanted to. God, no.
His body was already screaming. But need didn’t care about want. If he didn’t find more hours, the house, his grandfather’s house—would be gone. And with it, the last piece of the man who’d raised him, who’d taught him to read the sea’s moods and knot a line before he could tie his shoes.
He stood, joints protesting, and shuffled toward the narrow hallway leading to his room. Sleep, if it came, would be a brief mercy before the 4 AM. alarm.
But then... a sound.
A faint rustle, not the wind’s usual moan or the groan of the old house settling. It came from outside, like footsteps. Rafe froze, one hand on the hallway’s peeling wallpaper. His grandfather’s neglected garden, a pitiful patch of cabbage and carrots barely clinging to life behind the house, was out there. He’d kept it alive out of duty, not care, coaxing a few vegetables from the rocky soil when he could.
Another rustle, louder now, and a soft snap, like a stalk breaking.
His first thought was exhaustion playing tricks. He’d been seeing things lately, shadows in the waves, flickers in the fog, his mind worn thin by endless days. He rubbed his eyes, and squinted through the kitchen window. The garden was bathed in the dim glow of a streetlamp, its orange light cutting through the night. There, a shadow moved among the rows of stunted cabbage. Not a stray dog or the wind. A person.
Rafe’s heart kicked.
“Hey!” he shouted, alarmed, almost irritated. He lunged for the door, boots thudding on the linoleum, and yanked it open. The cold hit him like a slap, but he barely felt it. He stumbled down the back steps, breath clouding in the frigid air, and caught a clearer glimpse, a girl crouched in the dirt, her hands clutching a half-eaten carrot. Her face, pale and sharp in the streetlamp’s glow, snapped up at his yell. Wide eyes—green, maybe?—met his for a split second, wild with panic, before she bolted.
“Wait!” Rafe called, but she was already gone, a blur of hair and a too-thin jacket vanishing around the corner of the fence. He ran a few steps, his boots crunching on frozen gravel, but stopped at the edge of the garden. She was fast, and he was too damn tired to chase her. His breath heaved, forming fleeting clouds, and he stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the empty street.
The garden was a mess. A few carrots lay uprooted, one half-bitten. Rafe’s jaw tightened. Those vegetables were his... But as his anger flared, it sputtered. That girl looked desperate. Her cheeks were hollow, her movements frantic, like a cornered animal. Hungrier than him, maybe. The thought twisted in his chest, a strange pang he couldn’t name. Guilt? Pity?
He knelt, picking up the bitten carrot, its dirt-smeared end cold in his hand. Why here? Why his garden? Vladivostok was full of markets, soup kitchens, places she could’ve gone. Yet she’d crept into his yard, risking getting caught for a few half-dead vegetables. Rafe’s fingers brushed the fishing hook pendant, a nervous habit, as he scanned the shadows. Nothing. Just the wind and the distant hum of the port.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.
content: 01 , 02 , 03 , 04 , 05 , 06 , 07 , 08 , 09 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16. FINISHED!
extras: year in hell , cod , guardian
