exboyfriend!rafe who refuses to call you his ex, like the word itself pisses him off, jaw tightening anytime someone says it, muttering a quiet “that’s not my ex” under his breath like it’s a correction, but won’t explain what you are either.
exboyfriend!rafe who gets territorial the second he sees you with another guy. he doesn’t make a scene in front of you, but give him ten minutes? and yeah, he’s following that guy outside.
exboyfriend!rafe who corners them when they’re alone, voice calm in that scary way “promise you, she’s mine.” with a slight tilt of his head, “so i’d back off if i were you.” and he makes sure they don’t text you again, and when he comes back, you’re left staring at your phone like “why does this keep happening?”
exboyfriend!rafe who watches your confusion from a distance, a little satisfied because in his mind, no one else gets access to you.
exboyfriend!rafe who is always on your instagram liking your pictures within seconds, like he has your post notifications on, commenting things like, “mine.” “you’d look better in my bed.” and you’d delete that one immediately.
exboyfriend!rafe who smirks to himself every single time you delete his comments and still does it again on the next post like it’s a game between you, because you didn’t block him or ignore it, and that’s enough for him
exboyfriend!rafe who texts you at 3 in the morning like clockwork
rafe: you up? and he already knows you are, knows you’ll stare at it for a minute before answering anyway, because no matter how hard you try to ignore him, you don’t. not really anyway.
exboyfriend!rafe who smirks at his phone when you finally text back, like ‘there’s my girl’.
exboyfriend!rafe who pulls you right back into him so easily it’s almost embarrassing. one little conversation, one look, one “come here” or “i miss you” and suddenly you’re right back where you said you’d never be again, like you never left in the first place .
exboyfriend!rafe who gets under your skin like no one else. he knows exactly what to say, what buttons to push, how to make you fold. but if you look at him and say “leave,” he'll hesitate for half a second, then actually listen
exboyfriend!rafe who you did break up with for a reason, all the fighting, his constant jealousy, or the way he never knew when to stop, but honestly none of that really made you stop wanting him. you just kept listening to outside noise.
exboyfriend!rafe who is completely, unhealthily infatuated with you, like you’re not something he can lose, you’re something he just doesn’t let go of, just something temporarily out of reach.
exboyfriend!rafe who shows up uninvited sometimes, leaning against his car like it’s nothing, eyes scanning until they land on you, “get in." like you didn’t spend weeks trying to stay away from him, and he doesn’t even question it when you hesitate, just tilts his head slightly, knowing look on his face, “you’re still thinkin’ about it, aren’t you?”
exboyfriend!rafe who hears from your friends that they’re telling you to stay away from him, and just laughs under his breath, “yeah? how’s that workin’ for them so far?”
exboyfriend!rafe who knows you’re tired of the cycle, and sees it in the way you hesitate more, or how you pull away faster. but instead of letting you go, he just pulls you in harder.
exboyfriend!rafe who will never admit it out loud, but the idea of you being truly done with him? that’s the only thing that actually scares him, because he knows he’s the worst thing for you, the one person you know you should stay away from, but can't possibly fathom not having you anymore.
exboyfriend!rafe who knows exactly what he’s doing, and knows you’re not strong enough to stop it either.
exboyfriend!rafe who watches your stories like it’s his job, every single one, immediately, even when you post something random just to see if he will, but he always does. and he’ll reply to them sometimes too, “that for me?” like you didn’t post it for everyone, like it’s still just between you and him
exboyfriend!rafe who gets under your skin on purpose, saying just enough to irritate you, to pull a reaction out of you, because he’d rather you be mad at him than ignore him completely, and every time you do, it feeds that obsession even more
exboyfriend!rafe who notices when you try to move on for real. the way you stop answering, or showing up, and that’s when he gets the worst, the most persistent, like he refuses to be replaced, like it personally offends him like the idea of you with someone else doesn’t even register as real
exboyfriend!rafe who always stands a little too close when he’s near you, always finding a way to touch you, even if it’s small, your wrist, your hand, the small of your back, like he’s reminding both of you that he still can, like distance isn’t something he respects when it comes to you
exboyfriend!rafe who lowers his voice when he talks to you in public, like it’s instinct, like whatever this is should still feel private
exboyfriend!rafe who doesn’t verbally beg for you back, he’s too proud for that, but everything else he does says the opposite
exboyfriend!rafe who softens for a split second sometimes, when it’s just you and him, like the version of him you fell for is still there, and that’s what makes it harder to leave
exboyfriend!rafe who still knows your body like muscle memory, like nothing’s changed, like he never had to relearn a single thing about you.
exboyfriend!rafe who gets a little rougher than he should sometimes, not in a careless way, but in that pent up, frustrated way, like all the tension between you has nowhere else to go
exboyfriend!rafe who always pauses for half a second, checking your reaction, always making sure you’re enjoying it just as much as he always is.
exboyfriend!rafe who still gets that same look when you touch him first, slight surprise, then that slow smirk, like he knew you’d fold eventually
exboyfriend!rafe who always lingers after he fucks you senselessly, longer than he should, like neither of you want to acknowledge what just happened
exboyfriend!rafe who can't help but moan your name, whispering sweet nothings in your ear that make you not want to ever pull away, "you'll always be fucking mine" "no one will ever make you feel as good as i do" and the worst part is, you know he's right.
exboyfriend!rafe who doesn’t rush it anymore, he takes his time, slowly teasing you, feeling your entire body, kissing every sweet spot on your neck and thighs, like he’s savoring it more because he doesn’t technically have you anymore
exboyfriend!rafe who hates that you have that kind of control over him, but at the same time? it’s exactly why he’s so hooked on you
exboyfriend!rafe who melts the second you give him even a little bit of attention, like all that attitude, all that control just, drops when it comes to you
exboyfriend!rafe who would burn everything down for you, but still waits on your word before he does anything
exboyfriend!rafe who acts like he owns you in private, with that usual cocky tone, but the second you pull back or say his name a certain way? yeah, he’s the one adjusting, not you
exboyfriend!rafe who knows you better than anyone, your moods, your limits, your tells, and uses it to his advantage, but also lets you use it against him just as easily
exboyfriend!rafe who is completely, undeniably obsessed with you, but still looks at you like you’re the one holding all the power anyway.
an: sorry, i love the jealous, possesive, toxic trope
WARNINGS ⭑.ᐟ ex dynamic, jealousy, car sex, mentions of alcohol, fem terms & anatomy used, degradation if u squint, not proofread (literally written in 10 minutes).
NOTES ⭑.ᐟ read at your own risk.
WORD COUNT ⭑.ᐟ under 1k.
AUTHOR’S NOTE ⭑.ᐟ likes, reblogs, and reposts are appreciated and encouraged 🐆
another june, another midsummers.
you stood off to the side with your friends, drinking overpriced champagne from your flute, leaning against the white pillars of the mansion, your head tilted as you looked around.
he saw you before you saw him, a smirk curling his lips when he saw the way your brows furrowed, noticing the way his arm tightened around her waist, taunting you without her even knowing it.
eventually, you drifted away from your crowd of friends and put yourself in his circle, flashing a faux smile to the rest of the group with a tight hold on his arm, tugging him away towards the hallway of the mansion.
you’d went off on him, jealously overriding every bit of sense you had left, your voice raising even higher when you saw the obnoxious curve of a smirk on his lips— before your lips were on his.
for the fourth time that month.
you let him drag you to his car, pulling you into his backseat with greedy hands, kissing every inch of your neck your dress allowed, tugging the hem of it over your waist the closer you go to him, flipping you onto your stomach.
“mmm, my god—“ you moaned hazily, the champagne in your system causing your hips to rock back into his with greed, fingers reaching for his with a groan of his name. “fuckin’— fuckin’ hate you—“
rafe let out a low groan, his hips moving faster into yours with a clenched jaw, a breathy chuckle leaving his lips. his hand snaked up your lower back, pressing you further down into the leather seating of his backseat, snapping into you faster and faster.
“you hate me?” he echoed, panting against your ear. “s’that why you came over to me, baby?”
his pace picked up, if even possible, tugging your hips back harsher. “s’that why you wore this dress, baby? knew this color would drive me crazy? knew these panties were my favorite? knew that she could never amount to you? s’that what you wanted to hear?”
a choked, pitiful moan left your lips, the noise muffled by the cold leather underneath you, his arm wrapping around your stomach. his fingers found their way to your clit, rubbing harsh circles around the bud, earning a yelp from you.
“don’t ever wanna hear that you hate me,” he panted, his fingers digging deeper into you. “don’t ever wanna hear those words out of you when you’re creamin’ my dick like a whore.”
you let out another yelp into the leather, your thighs tensing back up as you came around him, your eyes squeezing shut as he groaned from behind you, spilling his release onto your back. he let out heavy breaths, still holding on tightly to your hips, smoothing his hand over the side of your thigh.
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 😭😭
just imagining you being kidnapped by singh instead of kie, and reuniting with your ex boyfriend, rafe. it starts out a bit hostile when he turns around and see’s you in a red dress. instantly walking over to you and saying “the fuck are you doing, huh? butting in on my deal like this? we’re not together anymore, you can’t do this—“ when you two sit down, it’s tense and neither of you are looking at each other.
mr. singh speaks for a little, apologizing for the rough tactics in bringing you here. rafe is instantly chiming in, because he needs to know what singh did to you. “what tactics, huh?” he asks, and singh just tells rafe to calm down. that’s when you look up at rafe and mouth an, “it’s okay.”
singh killing jimmy portis forces you and rafe to reconcile. you walk right up to rafe to watch through the window, like singh told you to, and are barely even aware that you’ve been holding onto his bicep in fear the entire time you watched. that’s when he knew you were scared.
he sits you down on the shared bed, looking at your pouty and nervous face. “hey, don’t bullshit me, alright? do you know where the fuck this diary is?” he asks, ice cold eyes looking panicked for once. “no lies, or else me ‘n you are dead.” he adds because he needs to put this in perspective for you. you nod gently, although you know if it was anyone else, they’d be saying no and lying.
but of course, too nervous to tell mr. singh (as anyone else would be as well), you wait for a night. you offer to sleep on the floor of your shared bedroom, saying that maybe it’ll be awkward if you two share after months apart. he rolls his eyes and tugs you beside him. you don’t fall asleep cuddling, both too nervous about this situation to initiate anything. but somehow you wake up tangled in each others arms.
flash forward to when you two have escaped. he’s bringing you to his boat, the one he took here to make the deal. when you say that it’s okay, that you should just be looking for your friends, he’s physically tugging you onto the boat with a strangled, “no, you’re not looking for your fucking friends. i’m not letting you get killed, okay? shit, kid, after all these months, thought you’d be smart enough to—“ you cut him off with an “okay, i get it!”
but the minute you’re on the boat and he’s untying the knot, you’re murmuring an, “i’m super sorry rafey,” and kissing his cheek before shoving him into the water. he can find another way home, no way you’re going back to the OBX without the pogues — it wouldn’t be the same.
Once chance. That's all you're giving him. But with Rafe Cameron, nothing is ever simple.
The dock moaned under your weight as you leaned against the railing, staring at the moon's reflection rippling in the water. It was late, and the party at The Wreck was still roaring behind you. JJ yelling about something stupid, Pope shaking his head, Sarah laughing like everything in the world was okay.
You needed air. Space. Anything to silence the hum in your head that whispered maybe you didn't fit in here the way you thought.
You didn't hear him at first. Not until the air shifted.
Not until you felt that heavy presence.
Not until a voice you thought you'd buried spoke softly behind you.
"Didn't think I'd find you out here."
Your stomach turned, and when you faced him, it was like the world tilted. Rafe Cameron stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets like he hadn't shattered you once and left you bleeding. Like the nights you spent hating him didn't matter.
He looked the same. Dangerous, beautiful, eyes as sharp as glass and just as likely to cut you.
You swallowed. "What are you doing here?"
"Same as you," he said, stepping closer, voice low. "Needed a break." There was that smile, the one that used to undo you. Soft, charming, and threaded with a darkness that always scared you more than you'd admit.
You turned back to the water. "You shouldn't be here"
"Why not?" His tone was calm, like he already knew your reasons but didn't care. "We used to come here all the time."
Your jaw tightened. "That was a long time ago."
"Not long enough." His voice softened, and damn him, it sounded almost tender. "I miss you."
That cracked something in you. You hated how easy it was for him to say it, like those words didn't come with the wreckage of nights where he yelled so loud you couldn't hear yourself think, mornings where he left you feeling like you weren't enough.
"Don't." You shook your head, fighting the pull in your chest. "You don't get to say that."
Rafe moved closer, slow, like a predator with all the time in the world. "Why not? Because it's true?"
You laughed bitterly. "You broke me."
"And I'm here to fix it." His eyes pinned you like he could see through every wall you built. "Tell me you didn't miss me, and I'll walk away right now."
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because maybe you had. God help you, maybe you still did.
He saw it, the hesitation. The way your throat worked like swallowing glass. That smile curved his hips again, the dangerous one, the one that meant he'd won something.
"There it is," he whispered. "You feel it too."
You stepped back, but his hand caught your wrist, warm and sure. "Rafe-"
"Just one chance." he murmured, inching closer until the nights smelled like his cologne and bad decisions. "We were never finished, baby."
Your heart hammered, and you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe this could be different. That he could be different.
You let him kiss you.
And it felt like home and hell all at once.
Two Weeks Later
You told yourself you were careful this time. That you didn't fall back into him completley. But Rafe didn't want pieces, he wanted all of you. And he had a way of getting what he wanted.
He'd started calling you every night. Showing up outside The Chateau when you didn't answer. Telling you how the Pogues didn't deserve you, how they didn't really get you the way he did.
"You think JJ cares?" he sneered one night when you said you were hanging with the boys. "You think any of them would fight for you like I did?"
"Rafe-"
"They're just distractions," he cut in, voice sharp now, nothing like the velvet tone that coaxed you back to him. "You're mine. You've always been mine."
And maybe part of you believed it, because the nights you were with him felt like gravity, dangerous and inescapable. But so did the nights you cried yourself to sleep because something in your gut screamed this wasn't love. Not really.
You remember those words on the dock. Reconnecting with an ex wouldn't hurt anyone.
You were young.
Because now, Rafe wasn't just in your life again. He owned it. And leaving him this time?
thinking about your ex rafe cameron, breaking you, but also putting the pieces back together.
"we're done! i'm over this bullshit!" you scream walking away from him. "baby, no don't fucking walk away from me" he says sternly, anger rising in his voice. "you don't get to call me that anymore" you respond entering his room grabbing your things. rafe quickly approaches behind you grabbing your hands to stop you from putting your things in the purse he just bought you.
“stop, y/n!” his grip isn’t gentle, not enough to hurt, but enough to stop you completely. your hands freeze mid motion, his fingers wrapped tight around your wrists, your purse slipping slightly from your hold. “rafe, let go.” your voice comes out sharper than you mean it, breath uneven, chest rising and falling too fast.
he doesn’t. “no.” he says, voice low, like he’s trying to stay in control but he knows it’s slipping. “you’re not just gonna walk in here, say we’re done, and act like that’s it.” you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, trying to pull your hands back. “that’s exactly what i’m doing.” his jaw tightens immediately. eyes darkening, “no, it’s not.”
he steps closer, forcing you back a half step until the edge of the dresser presses into your hips. his grip loosens just enough to slide from your wrists to your hands, like he’s trying to make it look softer than it is. “you don’t mean that,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for something to prove himself right. “you’re mad. that’s all this is.”
“i’m not just mad, rafe.” your voice cracks this time, and you hate that it does. “i’m tired of this shit.” that makes him pause for a second. but then he shakes his head like he’s rejecting it completely, like the idea itself pisses him off. “tired of what, huh?” he presses, leaning in closer. “me? or the fact you don’t get to control everything?”
you scoff, finally yanking one hand free, shoving against his chest. he barely moves. “this, this right here,” you gesture between you, frustration spilling over, “you don’t listen. you don’t care about what i want unless it lines up with what you want.” his eyes darken at that. “that’s not true.”
“it is,” you shoot back immediately. “i said we’re done.” his tongue drags across his bottom lip, like he’s holding himself back from saying something or doing something worse. “no,” it’s quieter this time. your brows pull together. “what do you mean no?” he lets out a breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly, like you’re the one not getting it. “i mean you don’t get to decide that on your own.” your stomach drops at how calm he suddenly sounds. “rafe-”
“you think you can just walk away from me?” he cuts in, voice low again, stepping closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “after everything? after you let it get this far?” your back hits the dresser fully now. “that’s not how this works.” your heart is pounding from anger and nerves. pounding from him being too close, like always.
“that’s exactly how it works,” you say, but it comes out less certain this time, and you mentally kick yourself because you know he’ll notice that, and exploit that. his gaze flickers to your lips for half a second before coming back to your eyes, a slow, almost satisfied exhale leaving him. “see?” he murmurs. “you don’t even sound sure.”
“i am sure,” you insist, but you don’t move away or don’t push him back this time. his hand comes up, slower now, less force, brushing against your jaw, not quite gentle, but not rough either. “then go,” he says quietly. but doesn’t move. he doesn't give you the space to breathe. just stands there.
“go!” he repeats. “door’s right there.” but he still doesn’t step back from you, nor give you space to pass. that infuriates you even more. you shove his chest harder this time. “you’re so full of shit.” his head snaps slightly at that, brows pulling together. “excuse me?”
“you tell me to leave, but you’re standing right in front of me like you’re waiting for me not to,” your voice sharpens, frustration spilling over. “like always.” his jaw tightens. “because you don’t.”
“that doesn’t mean i won’t this time.”
“yeah?” he steps closer again, like he can’t help himself. “you’ve said that before.” and that hits you in the chest, because you know he’s right. your grip tightens around your bag. “that’s exactly the problem, rafe. this-” you gesture between you, shaking your head, “this keeps happening.”
“because you keep coming back,” he shoots back immediately, like he’s been waiting to say it. you let out a breath, incredulous. “you think it’s just me?”
“don’t twist it,” he snaps. “you show up, and text me. you come into my room like nothing’s changed-”
“because you pull me back every time!” your voice raises now, breaking through his. “you don’t let anything end, you don’t let anything be done, you just-” you cut yourself off, frustration settling in, shaking your head. he watches you, chest rising, eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s trying to figure out and fight at the same time. “you act like you don’t want this,” he says, quieter now, but sharper. “like you’re so over it.”
“i should be,” you fire back. “we’re not even together, rafe. we haven’t been.” those few words hit him like a moving truck, making his expression shift. “yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “whose fault is that?” you blink watching as he can’t be vulnerable, having this hard tough guy act, but why with you?. “mine?”
“you’re the one who didn’t wanna make it official again,” he says, stepping back just enough to run a hand through his hair, pacing. “you’re the one who said ‘no labels,’ remember?”
“because of this!” you throw your hands up. “because we always end up right back here, arguing and yelling, you not listening-”
“i listen.” you laugh, short and bitter. “no, you don’t. you hear what you want, and then you do whatever the hell you were gonna do anyway.” his eyes flash at that. “that’s not fair.”
“neither is this,” you shoot back, softer now but no less intense. “you don’t get to keep me like this, rafe.” he stills completely. “like what?” his voice drops again. you hesitate saying it, but then you say it anyway. “like something you can pick up whenever you feel like it,” you swallow. “and put down when it gets too hard.”
his reaction is too immediate, “that’s not what this is.” he almost yells. “then what is it?” you challenge, stepping toward him now. “because we’re not together. we fight every other time we see each other. and yet-” your voice falters slightly, “i’m still here.”
his eyes soften for a split second at that, but it’s leaves just as fast. “yeah,” he says quietly. “you are.” your chest tightens. “that’s not a good thing.”
“maybe not,” he shrugs slightly, but there’s tension in it, something real under the surface. “but you’re still here anyway.” you shake your head, backing up a step now. “this is exactly why i didn’t wanna do this again.”
“do what?” he presses. “us.” your voice is barely controlled now. “whatever this is. the hooking up, the pretending it doesn’t mean anything when it clearly does,”
“then just stop pretending,” he cuts in, suddenly closer again. you freeze. his voice is lower now, more intense than before. “you think i don’t see it?” he says, eyes locked onto yours. “you think i don’t notice the way you look at me? the way you come back every time even after you swear you’re done?” your breath catches. “you’re not over it either.”
“that doesn’t mean this is good,” you whisper. he exhales, running a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through now. “i don’t care if it’s good,” he finally admits. “i just..” he stops himself, jaw tightening. you stare at him. “you just what?”
“i’m not letting you walk out like you don't care!.”
your heart breaks a little, because all you wanted was a sign that he wanted this as much as you did. and that’s what makes it worse. you swallow, gripping your bag tighter. “rafe…” you say, but you don’t move and he notices that again. his gaze drops to your lips for half a second before coming back up, something almost darkly satisfied settling in. “yeah,” he murmurs. “that’s what i thought.”
the shift in energy is almost instant. like all the softness meant nothing. one second the space is filled with heavy tension, but now it’s making a turn for the worst. you shake your head, backing up, voice tight. “this is pointless. you’re not even hearing m-”
“no, i hear you,” he cuts in sharply, something mean slipping into his tone now. “i just think it’s funny.” your brows pull together. “what’s funny?” he lets out a dry laugh, pacing once like he’s working himself up. “you standing here acting like you’re some victim in this.” your stomach drops slightly. “a victim? i’m not acting like anything-”
“yeah, you are,” he interrupts, harsher now. “like i’m the problem, like i’m the one keeping you here.” you stare at him. “you are part of the problem, rafe-”
“or maybe,” he cuts in again, voice sharper, colder, “you just like what comes with me.”
you feel like you just got slapped in the face, your hands start trembling of hurt, of anger, or that irritation voice on your shoulder telling you to yell back, to disrespect him like he just did you. “…what?” is all that manages to come out. he shrugs, but it’s defensive, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care.
“the bags, the clothes, the shit i buy you,” he gestures vaguely toward your purse. the one he just got you, the one you were just shoving all your shit in, “all of it.”
“don’t..” your voice shakes slightly, “don’t do that.”
but he’s already too far in. “what?” he scoffs. “you gonna tell me you don’t like it? you don’t like showing it off?” his eyes drag over you, cruel now. “walking around like that, acting like it’s not mine?” those words hit you hard, like something physically just knocked the air out of you. “you think i’m with you for your fucking money?” your voice is loud and sharp, hurt bleeding through every word.
he doesn’t hesitate like he’s had this thought for ages, and it’s just now coming out. “i think it doesn’t hurt.” your vision blurs almost instantly, tears filling your eyes before you can stop them. you shake your head slowly, like you’re trying to process what he just said.
“wow.” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, but he doesn’t take it back, or try to fix it. “you really think that low of me?” you whisper. “you think i’m like every other kook bitch on the island who wants your money?” you ask louder, “you really think that’s why i’ve stayed, and had your back through everything? for purses and dinners?” you say letting out all your frustration.
he doesn’t answer right away. and somehow, that’s even worse. your let out a laugh, shaky and disbelieving, tears slipping down your cheeks now. “i have never, not once, needed anything from you, rafe.” he looks at you, but there’s still that edge there, like he’s too deep in his own anger to pull himself out.
“then why are you still here?” he throws back. and that’s the final blow, your teared eyes widen in shock, not expecting him to say anything worse, but it just piles on. “because i loved you.”
his expression flickers, just for a second, but you don’t let him speak, don’t give him the chance. “because i wanted you,” your voice cracks, tears falling faster now. “not your money, not your stupid gifts, not any of that, just you.” he takes a step toward you. “y/n-”
“no,” you snap, backing away quickly, grabbing your keys off the dresser with shaking hands. you dump the purse of your things, throwing the bag at his chest. “you don’t get to take it all back now” panic flashes across his face now, the anger leaving. “hey, hey, i didn’t mean-”
“yes, you did,” you cut him off, voice breaking. “you said it. you thought it.” you turn toward the door, wiping at your face but it does nothing, tears still streaming uncontrollably. “y/n, stop-” he moves after you. “don’t follow me!” you spin back for a second, voice shaking but loud.
“baby, i’m sorry, please-” he begs, but you shove him back. you stare at him for a second longer, chest heaving, then shake your head. “fuck you, rafe cameron.” your voice cracks on his name. For the first time all night you can physically see his heart break, his eyes turning glossy, while his mouth is a gap, like he’s stuck between saying something, or letting out a sob.
“leave me the fuck alone” and this time, you really walk out.
the door slams behind you, echoing through the house as you rush to your car, hands shaking so bad you can barely get the key in. tears blur your vision, falling faster, harder, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you finally start the engine.
“FUCK!” you hear him yell, but you don’t care, you put the car in drive and you don’t look back.
-
you can’t even count how many times you’ve ignored every text, every call. every text that said “im outside,” because he did try to see you, and speak to you. at first is was way too messy, only coming late at night in the form of drunk texts, always a string of texts with unreadable spelling mistakes, saying the same “i’m sorry baby” “I love you so much” “please you mean everything to me” and it hurt so much more because all you wanted to do was run back into his arms.
but then you kept telling yourself no. that him saying sorry enough times wouldn’t undo what he said or how he acted. and it was like he realized it for himself as well, because the messages slowly decreased, and when they did, they were more honest, and less quick and poorly written, like “i know you don’t wanna hear from me, but I’m trying to give you space.” “i fucked up. i know that.” “not texting you again after this. just I’m so fucking sorry baby.”
and that was the last you heard from him for a few days, until those days turned into a week, then a week into two, and eventually it became a month and so on. it hurt too, because somehow, for once he finally actually listened, and of all the times he could’ve listened, why’d he choose this time?
-
you almost don’t go.
you stood in front of your mirror for ten minutes, staring at your reflection like you were trying to convince yourself this was just another night. “girl, staring at the mirror isn’t gonna do anything” your best friend says to you. “i don’t know if i wanna go honestly” you reply to her, and it’s partly true. “you just don’t want to run into him, but honestly fuck him, he can’t stop your life” she says, and you immediately know who she’s speaking about.
“no you’re right, and we look hot as fuck anyway” you say with a smile. “hell yeah we do!” she laughs with you.
the air is warm when you arrive, the feeling of the start of summer. the waves silently crashing into the sane, while everyone is in conversation and the music is playing lightly in the background. you and your best friend grab a drink, saying hello to your other friends.
you glance around like you’re trying to reassure yourself he’s not here when your eyes drift to the past the bonfire smoke, and there he is.
rafe cameron, your ex boyfriend.
standing a little forward down the beach, talking to someone, but not really. he looks different, his eyes are darker, like he’s been in his head, his shoulder relaxed like he doesn’t care anymore. you stare longer than you intended, when his eyes roam around, feeling the heat of behind stared at, when they fall on you.
it feels like the whole party faded away, like the music just stopped, and the conversations ended. your heart nearly drops to your ass, while you almost forget how to breathe. he doesn’t look away, and neither do you. “shit,” you mutter under your breath. your friend glances at you. “what?”
“um, nothing,” you say quickly like you’re trying to cover it up, but it’s already too late. because he’s already making his way towards you both. his movements are careful, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t disappear, like it’s a fragile moment. your heart is pounding a thousand beats per second, you’re not sure how you haven’t fainted at this point. you force yourself not to leave to hear him out because honestly? you missed his voice.
“hey,” he says when he finally reaches you. the moment is awkward and filled with nerves from you both. “hi.” you respond. there’s a pause that stretches a little too long, both of you clearly trying to figure out how to exist in the same space again without everything blowing up.
“you look really good,” he says finally, like he’s just trying to start somewhere normal. you let out a small smile. “so do you.” he shifts his weight slightly, glancing down for half a second before looking back at you. “i wasn’t sure if you’d, talk to me, or if you’d just ignore me.” you raise a brow slightly. “you didn’t exactly give me a reason to run up and say hi.”
“yeah,” he nods, accepting that immediately. “that’s fair.” he pauses before continuing, “i’ve been wanting to talk to you.” your arms cross loosely, more out of grounding yourself than defensiveness. “you’ve took plenty of chances.”
“i know,” he says. “i just figured you didn’t wanna hear it anymore.” you tilt your head slightly, “and now?” he exhales. “now i think even if you don’t wanna hear it, you deserve to.” that softens your sassy exterior a bit. “okay,” you say slowly. “then talk.” he runs a hand through his hair, like he’s organizing his thoughts in real time. “i meant what i said,” he starts. “about being sorry. not in a ‘i messed up, let’s move on’ kind of way. i mean, i actually get why you left.” your brows pull together slightly. “do you really though?”
“i do,” he nods. “because if you said that shit to me? i would’ve lost it too.” you let out a quiet, almost humorless laugh. “you did lose it.”
“i know,” he says quickly. “that’s what i’m saying. i was already off it and i still said worse.” your gaze hardens slightly. “you didn’t just say something ‘worse,’ rafe. you questioned why i was even with you.”
“i know.”
“you made it sound like i was using you.”
“i know,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “and i’ve been replaying that over and over in my head, wishing i could take it back.”
“well, you can’t,” you say, your voice sharper now.
“i know i can’t,” he says, stepping a little closer, but still not invading your space. “that’s why i’m not standing here asking you to forget it. i just, i needed you to know i didn’t mean it.” you shake your head slightly. “then why even say it?” he doesn’t answer immediately, and it makes you open up a space to truly heal from that comment, because for once, he’s not rushing to defend himself, actually thinking before he speaks.
“i was so angry,” he says finally. “and i wanted to win the argument.” your jaw tightens, the angry of that night slowly rising. “so you said the one thing you knew would hurt me the most.”
“…yeah.” the honesty knocks the air out of your lungs more than any excuse would’ve. “you don’t even understand how deep that cut, rafe” you say quietly, your voice starting to shake despite your best effort.
“i do,” he says immediately.
“no, you don’t,” you shake your head, stepping back slightly. “because you didn’t have to walk away wondering if the person you loved ever actually respected you. you didn’t have to think about how i thought you just viewed me like all the other girls you dated. how the island looks at me like that. ” his face softens, like the guilt is eating at him, now that he can see and hear how bad he broke you with that small sentence.
“i’ve never needed anything from you,” you continue, your voice breaking now. “not your money, not your gifts, not any of that. and the fact that you could even think that-”
“i didn’t think that,” he cuts in, more desperate and pleading now. “i don’t think that.”
“but you still said it,” you fire back. “and that means somewhere in your head, you believed that.” he exhales sharply, frustrated, but at himself. “you’re right,” he admits. “it did. for a second. and i grabbed onto it because i knew it would get to you.” you stare at him. “which makes it worse, i know” he adds, quieter now. “because i used it against you knowing it wasn’t true.”
“i’ve been around people like that my whole life,” he continues. “people who do want me for that. and instead of recognizing that you’re not like them, i threw it back in your face. i threw you in that same category just to hurt you.” you don’t even know what to say at this point. “yeah,” you whisper. “you did.”
“and i hate that i did,” he says. “i hate that that’s what you walked away with.” you laugh softly, shaking your head. “you didn’t just hurt my feelings, rafe. you messed with how i see things now.” his brows pull together. “what do you mean?”
“i mean,” you swallow, “now every time someone does something nice for me, i’m wondering if they think i expect it. or if they think i’m taking advantage.” his face falls. “and that’s on me now,” you continue. “because you put that thought there.”
“i’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. “not in a fix it way. just- i’m so fucking sorry i did that to you.” you look at him for a long moment. “and it’s not just that,” you add. “it’s everything. the fighting, the way we talk to each other when we’re mad, the way it always turns into something bigger than it needs to be.”
“i know.”
“i’m exhausted, rafe,” you admit, your voice softer now but heavier. “i don’t wanna keep doing this. i don’t wanna keep loving someone who makes me feel like i’m constantly fighting to be understood.” he nods slowly.
“i hear you,” he says. “i really do.” you tilt your head slightly. “do you? or are you just saying that because you think it’s what i wanna hear?”
“i’m saying it because i do get it,” he replies. “there’s a difference.” you cross your arms again, studying him. “okay. then explain it to me.” he takes a breath.
“i’ve been treating this like, as long as you don’t leave, it’s fine,” he says. “like the relationship is successful just because you’re still here.” your expression shifts slightly. “but that’s not the point,” he continues. “the point is making you wanna stay. and i haven’t been doing that.” you don’t interrupt, because he’s not wrong.
“i’ve been controlling, i haven’t listened, i’ve pushed you, pulled you back, pushed you again, and just assumed you’d always come back.”
“and when you didn’t,” he adds, quieter now, “that’s when it finally hit me.” the silence settles between you, and your heart hurts, because you’re realizing you weren’t the only one suffering these past few weeks. “i didn’t get over you,” you admit after a moment.
his eyes flicker a look of relief, like he was hoping you’d give him an indication, just a smidge of leeway back into your life. “i just stopped letting myself go back,” you continue. “because i knew if i did, nothing would change.”
“fair,” he says, but it’s not casual this time. his voice is lower, rougher around the edges, like he’s choosing his words instead of just throwing them at you.
“and i can’t do the old version of us again,” you tell him, holding your ground. “i won’t, rafe.”
he nods slowly, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours. you hesitate slightly at that. “then we don’t,” he adds, a little more firmly now. you let out a small breath, shaking your head. “it’s not that simple, and you know it’s not.”
“i do,” he says, stepping a little closer, but not too close, not pushing. “i know it’s not simple. i just, i know it’s that clear.” your brows pull together, studying him like you’re trying to catch the part where he slips back into old habits.
“you’re not gonna rush me?” you ask. he huffs a quiet breath, almost like the idea annoys him but not at you, at himself. “no. i’m not doing that again. i pushed you enough.”
“and you’re not gonna try to pull me back in the second i let my guard down?” his gaze flickers, something honest passing through it. “i’ve wanted to every day since you left,” he admits, voice dropping. “but no, i’m not gonna do that either.”
that makes you take a second, .
“you’re actually gonna listen to me?” he lets out a small, humorless laugh, running a hand over his jaw. “i should’ve been doing that the whole time,” he says. then softer, more serious, “ but yeah, course i am.” he says with that stupid smirk now. “and if it starts feeling like it used to?” you ask quietly.
he doesn’t answer right away, smirk fading, as he really deeply thinks about the answer. then he nods once, like he’s settling into something. “then you walk,” he says. “and i don’t chase you, or try to talk you out of it.” his jaw tightens slightly. “…even if it kills me.” you internally frown at that. “that’s not what you used to do.”
“i know,” he says immediately. “that’s the problem.” silence falls between you, heavier now but real. “i still care about you,” you admit, your voice quieter now. his head dips slightly, exhaling like that hits deeper than anything. “I was hoping you still would” he said with relief.
“and that’s what makes this hard.” he nods, eyes not leaving you. “same. i wouldn’t be standing here right now if it wasn’t.” you look away for a second, collecting yourself, then back at him. “this doesn’t just go back to normal,” you say. “there’s no jumping right back into whatever we were.”
“i don’t want that,” he says quickly. you blink, confused. “you don’t?” he shakes his head, stepping closer again, carefully. “no. because whatever we were? that’s what screwed it up in the first place.” his voice lowers. “i don’t want half of you. i don’t want the ‘when it’s convenient’ version.”
“so what do you want?” you ask. He steps into you space now, still not touching you, but he doesn’t hesitate with his words, like he’s so sure of it, “i want a real shot,” he says, eyes steady on yours. “i want to do it right. no games. i want you, and i want it in a way that doesn’t end like this again.” your heart flutters.
“and if it doesn’t work?” you ask, softer now.
“that’s not an option in my mind. It will work, because I want you more than anything.” he says so softly you barely know if you even heard it, and his words linger in your mind. the waves crash behind you, filling the silence you don’t know how to break, making you remember, you’re at a bonfire with actual people near you.
you glance around, looking for your best friend. Her eyes are already on yours, looking for any indication that you need help, need her to rip rafe a new one, but you give her a nod that says “i’m good” and she takes it, taking a sip of her drink while looking back at the guy she’s speaking to.
“you can try,” you say finally, glancing back at rafe. his eyes only waiting for an answer. “yeah?” he asks quietly, like he doesn’t want to push it. “yeah,” you nod. “but slow. and if i feel like i’m losing myself in this again, i’m done. for real this time.”
“you won’t,” he says so surely. you give him a look. “you don’t know that.”
he reaches out to place his hand on yours, hesitating for a second, like he’s asking for permission, grabbing it with a small squeeze, reassuring you. “ i’ll make sure you don’t,” he corrects, “i’ll fix it before it gets there.”
you feel a warmth creep up your arm at the contact, and you have to stop yourself for melting into it, but you body reacts before your brain can even process what you’re doing. your hand comes up first, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer.
his restraint snaps as instantly as yours, his hand slides to your waist, the other to your jaw, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s everything you’ve both been holding back for weeks. weeks of missing each other, of him stopping himself from just showing up to your door, weeks of you having to force yourself to not think about him.
his grip tightens just slightly, pulling you closer like he’s making sure you’re real, like you’re not about to disappear on him again. when he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch, his forehead resting against yours, breath uneven.
“please, don’t ever leave me again,” he mutters, raw and honest, a side of rafe you’ve never seen, until now. and for once things feel like they’ve gone back to normal.
cw 18+ mdni!!!! angst??? kinda weird?? def weird metaphors, self hatred, insecure reader kinda??, very very very touchy rafe and reader, pathetic!rafe, cheating(reader on boyfriend), yearning cause i’m a slut for it, toxic dynamic, lemme know if i missed something, no smut(yet??)
sypnosis part 2 of “even now” -> after answering your exes call and planning a “one more time”, for closure, you make a even bigger mistake… so my question is: was it really the last time?
words 9k i’m sorry
note this is kinda weird. idk if i like it 😭😭 update: i hate it rn, i used the same phrases way too much
after agreeing to meet up with rafe once again,for closure of course (nothing else, duh, because what else could it possibly be), you hung up the call and stared at your own reflection in the black screen of your phone.
your face looked wrong in the glow of the kitchen light. pale, wide eyed, like you’d just agreed to sell your soul for half a second of quiet.
you stood there for another minute, heart still thundering, until the silence of the house pressed too heavy against your chest. marcus was asleep in the other room. marcus, your actual boyfriend. marcus, who was stable, sweet, safe. marcus, who wasn’t a hurricane in a human body, who didn’t tear through every piece of you and call it love.
marcus, who’d never call you at 2 a.m. begging for “one last time”
you slipped your phone onto the counter, pressed the heel of your hand against your forehead, and muttered to yourself “god, you’re such a dumb bitch”
because of course it wouldn’t be the last time. who the hell were you trying to kid? him? yourself? me???
when you finally padded back to the bedroom, the sheets were still warm, his breathing even. he shifted as you slid under the covers, half asleep, pressing closer without opening his eyes
“where’d you go?” his voice was heavy with sleep, slow and muffled against your shoulder
“kitchen,” you whispered, “i was hot. needed some water.”
not the truth. not even close. not that you’d been standing in the kitchen with your heart in your throat, whispering to your ex like you weren’t already in someone else’s house. not that you were planning to see him behind marcus’ back. definitelyyyy not that.
marcus hummed, satisfied with the answer, nuzzling into you before drifting back into deeper sleep.
you stared at the ceiling, wide awake, your chest aching with the weight of the lie.
closure. you repeated the word like a prayer, like a shield. closure was clean. closure was practical. closure was what people did when they were ready to move on.
but then the echo of his voice played in your head—raw, drunk, desperate ‘there’s no such thing as one last time with you’
and fuck, maybe he was right. maybe there wasn’t. maybe you were already lying to yourself worse than you’d lied to marcus.
still, you curled into your boyfriend’s chest, let him wrap an arm around you, let yourself pretend—for just a second—that you could keep both truths separate. that morning would come and you’d still be able to walk into the kitchen like nothing happened, like you hadn’t promised your ex one last night.
your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry. you just let yourself lie there, tense and tired, whispering to your own brain ‘damn, you’re really a dumb bitch for believing it’s the last time’
maybe you’re just too young to keep good love from going wrong. that’s one way to spin it. the gentlest version of the truth.
like it’s not really your fault, like maybe it’s just an age thing, an experience thing. maybe you’re still learning how to not trip over your own heart.
or maybe you’re just too young to not make these mistakes. that’s what people do, right? they mess up, they rebound, they circle back to things they swore they’d never touch again. like pills. like rafe.
you broke up, you got with someone else, you answered a call you shouldn’t have, and now you’re planning to meet your ex again. sounds like a bad song, or maybe a good one, depending on who’s singing.
and the ex? the one you’re sneaking out for? yeah, we can agree by now—he’s your weakness. no use pretending otherwise. he always has been. the boy who looks at you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever believe in, the boy who breaks you in half and then begs you to hold him together. your own personal poison.
and you? you’re the idiot who keeps drinking.
you know better. god, you know better. you’ve got marcus—good on paper marcus—who smiles at you, who kisses you without leaving bruises after, who doesn’t set your whole body on fire just by breathing near you. and yet here you are, lying in his bed, already plotting how you’ll sneak out of it.
damn. you really are fucking bitch for believing it’s the last time.
but maybe that’s part of being this age, too, thinking you can still get away with it. thinking you can thread the needle between the right thing and the thing you want, like consequences won’t come for you eventually
so you let yourself keep believing in the idea of closure, the fairy tale version where one more night with rafe will cure you of him. like he’s a fever you can sweat out if you just suffer through it long enough.
and even as you think it a voice inside you laughs. because you know damn well there’s no such thing as one last time with rafe cameron.
but hey. you’ll find that out soon enough.
and oh, rafe—let’s not forget about the other dumb bitch in this story.
because while you’re lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, guilty and restless beside a boy who loves you in all the right, reasonable ways…rafe cameron is on the other side of town, drunk and euphoric, glowing like a man who just won the lottery.
pathetic, right?
he’s pathetic for you. and it’s not a crush, not a passing thing, not even lust (though there’s plenty of that, always). it’s love. ugly, rabid, bottomless love. the kind of love that chews holes through the walls of his chest, the kind that claws at his ribs like it wants out.
it’s the kind of love that should be holy, but in his hands, it rots.
rafe cameron loves you like a sickness. like a fever he doesn’t want cured. he loves you in metaphors he’ll never say out loud because they scare even him. you’re not his sunshine—you’re the cigarette he lights when drunk, knowing it’ll kill him but craving the drag anyway.
you’re not his safe harbor—you’re the storm he sails into on purpose, daring the waves to split him in half.
and he is so, so, soo fucking gone for you.
he’s lying there now, staring at the ceiling of a stranger’s living room, the bass from the club still buzzing faint in his skull, but all he can think about is you. your voice when you whispered ‘one last time’ the way you cracked, just slightly, even as you tried to resist him.
that sound has already ruined him. it’s branded into his head, louder than the music, sharper than the alcohol. he could live off that sound alone, starve himself of food and water and still survive on the echo of your voice.
pathetic. absolutely pathetic.
but here’s the thing: rafe cameron doesn’t love like other people. he doesn’t know moderation. his heart doesn’t beat at a normal rhythm, it slams, it riots, it riots for you.
when he loves, it’s possession. it’s obsession. it’s hunger. it’s not holding hands and lazy sunday mornings—it’s teeth at your throat, it’s mine mine mine, it’s every cell in his body revolting against the idea of you belonging to anyone else.
and he does love you. he loves you so much it makes him sick, makes him mean, makes him cruel in ways he doesn’t even recognize until it’s too late
you’re his cocaine. not in the lazy cliche way, but in the exact, ugly, accurate sense: you make him high, you make him reckless, you ruin his life in ways he’ll happily let you. and like coke, once he had a taste, he could never get enough.
his chest still carries the memory of you—like your fingerprints are pressed into his sternum, like his bones remember your touch. he could pick your laugh out of a crowd of thousands, could map the exact sound of your sigh against the back of his neck, could draw your face in the dark with his eyes shut.
that’s how bad it is. that’s how far gone he is.
and god, he knows it’s pathetic. he knows he looks like a fool, begging into the phone, promising closure when he has no intention of ever letting you go. but knowing doesn’t stop him.
rafe cameron has never been able to stop himself where you’re concerned.
he’d bleed himself dry for you. he’d break every bone in his own body if it meant keeping you close for five more minutes.
because to him, you’re not just a girl he loved once. you’re not just an ex. you’re it. the whole thing. the beginning, the middle, the end.
rafe cameron is twenty something years old, and in his mind, his life already started and ended with you.
and so he glows tonight, pathetic and euphoric, because he gets to see you again. one more time. alone.
and maybe he knows, deep down, that there’s no such thing as “one last time” but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t care how much it hurts him, doesn’t care how much it hurts you
because when rafe cameron loves, he doesn’t let go. ever.
when rafe woke up the next morning, his first thought was you. his second thought was you. his third, fourth, fifth—still you. it was you you you you. always you.
the sunlight that cut through the blinds didn’t matter, the pounding hangover in his skull didn’t matter, the fact that he’d passed out on some stranger’s couch with his shoes still on didn’t matter. none of it touched him. because you had said yes. you had said one last time.
and that was enough to make his chest feel like it was splitting open.
the sad thing; the really tragic, pathetic, laughable thing, is that rafe never actually left. you broke up, you left him, you moved on, but he’s still there.
still at the restaurant. still sitting at the table for two, waiting like an idiot with his drink going flat, swearing you’d walk back in any second.
months have gone by. other people came and went. but rafe? rafe never stood up. never paid the bill. never walked out the door.
he’s still there, heart clutched in both hands like a reservation slip, convinced that if he just waits long enough, you’ll come back.
and last night, when you whispered one last time, it felt like you finally cracked the door open again. like the waiter came by, pulled out the other chair, and set it back down across from him.
today. today is the day.
he keeps repeating it in his head as he drags himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face. today is the day. the day he either breaks completely or stitches himself back together. the day he either loses you forever or proves to himself—proves to you—that what you had wasn’t just something you toss away
it’s pathetic, how much hope he’s choking on. he knows that. he can feel it in his chest, too big, too sharp. it hurts, but he clings to it anyway.
he stumbles into the bathroom, splashes water on his face. in the cracked mirror, he barely recognizes himself. eyes bloodshot, jaw shadowed.. but beneath all that—the wreckage—he sees the gleam. that same fever bright look that only comes when he’s high off something he shouldn’t be.
except this time, it’s not coke. not whiskey. not pills. it’s you.
you’re the line on the table. you’re the shot in his veins. you’re the one thing that makes him feel alive when everything else has gone flat and gray.
and god, it terrifies him.
because if today is the day—if today is really the last time—then what happens after? what happens if you look at him and it doesn’t undo you the way it undoes him? what happens if you say goodbye and mean it this time”
the thought makes him sick. makes him grip the edge of the sink until his knuckles blanch
rafe cameron does not know how to live without you. he’s tried. he’s failed.
so he shoves the thought away, drowns it before it can spread. convinces himself instead that today won’t be an ending. no—today is the beginning again. today you’ll see him, you’ll remember, you’ll feel the same pull that drags him under every time.
because you always did. and he’s betting everything that you still do
he moves through the motions like a ghost. home, coffee, a shower, the slow crawl of hours until it’s time. but no matter what he does, your name is a drumbeat in his head. your face, your laugh, your voice from last night—it’s all there, louder than anything else.
you, you, you.
today is the day. and whether it breaks him or makes him whole again, he’ll take it. he’ll take anything, as long as it means one more glimpse of you.
you’re home now. you left marcus this morning with guilt pressed sharp against your ribcage, carrying your heart in your hands. your stomach’s been dropped since the second you closed his front door behind you, because—well…
if i’m being completely honest, if i strip down all your excuses and your careful little lies, here’s the truth: you’re meeting the love of your life again today.
alone. just you two. always you two.
and isn’t that the scariest part? not that you said yes, not that you’re lying to marcus, not even that you’re sneaking around with the boy who ruined you—no, the scariest part is that deep down, you know exactly what rafe is.
what he’s always been. he’s the gravity under your feet. the storm under your skin. he’s the one who can make you feel everything all at once—love, rage, hunger, devastation—until you’re dizzy and gasping
so you sit in your bedroom now, staring at your reflection in the mirror, and all you can think is: “what if i fall too much today? what if i slip back into the freefall and there’s no pulling myself out?”
you remember last night, his voice dripping through the receiver like poison and honey at the same time. you remember the way he begged, the way he turned jealous and then soft and sorry, like he couldn’t hold himself together in one shape for more than a few seconds
you know what drunk rafe sounds like. you know what drunk rafe promises. so the doubt worms in too, twisting cruel in your chest: what if he didn’t mean it? what if he wakes up sober and shrugs it off, chalks it up to another night he doesn’t want to remember?
what if you’re the only one still caught in this endless orbit, waiting like a fool for a boy who’s already let go”
your hands are shaking. you press them against your knees, try to still them. but your whole body feels unsteady, restless, like it knows you’re walking into fire.
maybe you’re just too young, you think. too young not to make these mistakes—the breaking up, the getting with someone else, the circling back to your ex like a moth to a flame.
and rafe—god. rafe has always been your flame.
marcus is good. he’s everything you told yourself you wanted after the wreckage of rafe. and yet here you are, lying to him before the morning’s even over. telling him you’re running errands, when really you’re waiting, sick with nerves, to see the boy who ruined you and still owns you
your mind runs circles around itself, pulling memories up like they’re proof. rafe laughing with his head tilted back, rafe’s hands framing your jaw like he’s holding the world, rafe whispering things he was too proud to say in daylight. rafe looking at you like you were the first and last thing that ever mattered.
you remember the fights too, the slammed doors, the words that cut so deep you bled for weeks after. but the thing about scars is that they fade, even when they shouldn’t.
and all you can feel right now is the echo of his touch, the burn of his eyes, the way your name sounds in his mouth.
you lie back on your bed and stare at the ceiling. your heart won’t slow down. you’re scared. you’re so fucking scared.
scared you’ll see him and fall right back into his arms. scared you’ll see him and realize he’s moved on and you’re the only one still tethered to the past. scared of the power he still holds, scared of the way he unravels you without even trying.
but beneath all of it—beneath the fear and the guilt and the doubt—is the truth you don’t want to name: you want to see him. god help you, you want it.
and isn’t that pathetic? isn’t that exactly why you’re a dumb bitch in this story, too?
because no matter how much you say you love marcus, no matter how hard you try to move forward, it’s still rafe’s voice that shreds you open. it’s still rafe’s shadow that follows you into every room. it’s still rafe you think of when you’re lying awake at night, even now.
especially now.
you squeeze your eyes shut. take a breath. tell yourself it’s closure. it has to be. just one last time, just to put it to rest.
and maybe you almost believe it. but deep down, in that corner of your heart that never learned how to lie, you know better.
you know it’s never just closure with rafe cameron. it’s never just one last time. it’s always you two. always has been. always will be.
and when your phone rings, when you flip it over on your bed and see the notification glowing against the screen.
rafe: i’m at the door.
your heart drops so hard it feels like it smashes against the floorboards.
for a moment, you swear it stops beating altogether.
you just sit there, staring at the words, hands going clammy, throat dry. your breath shallow and uneven like you’ve just run a mile when you haven’t even stood up yet.
he’s here.
not a maybe, not a promise for later, not some thing floating in the future. no. he’s here. now. right outside.
the whole morning you’ve been telling yourself you have time. time to fix your face, fix your excuses, fix the way your insides won’t stop twisting themselves into knots. time to rehearse what you’ll say when you see him. time to prepare yourself, fortify yourself, convince yourself you’ll be fine.
but no. rafe doesn’t give you that luxury. he never did.
he’s at your door, and suddenly it’s not some plan anymore—it’s real.
you can’t stop the thoughts from pouring in all at once, flooding you.
what if he’s only here because he’s still drunk? what if he doesn’t mean any of the things he said? what if he came just to prove to himself that you still want him and then leaves you hollow again?
what if you open the door and your whole chest caves in the second you look at him?
your legs feel like lead when you stand. your phone is a weight in your hand, screen still burning his words into your palm. you can see yourself reflected in the black glass for a second and you look—terrified.
that’s what makes you laugh under your breath, this shaky, broken sound. terrified of him, terrified of yourself, terrified of how badly you still want him after everything
you take one step toward the door, then stop. your stomach flips. your skin prickles hot. it feels like walking toward the edge of a cliff, and part of you is screaming to turn around, go back, lock yourself in your room, text him ‘don’t do this’
but another part—the part that always wins where rafe is concerned—pulls you forward anyway.
because if you’re being honest, this is what you’ve been waiting for since the second you picked up his call last night
on the other side of that door, rafe stands with his heart in his throat, pacing small tight circles on your porch.
he barely slept. woke up too early, too wired, nerves buzzing under his skin like electricity. he showered, dressed, changed shirts three times. he doesn’t even know why—like you’d notice, like you’d care. but he couldn’t help it.
and now that he’s here, now that he’s close enough to reach out and touch the handle, he feels like he might actually throw up.
he’s been replaying it in his head the whole walk up your driveway—what you’ll look like, what you’ll say, if you’ll smile at him or if you’ll glare. if you’ll look through him like he’s nobody, or if your eyes will soften just for him, like they used to.
he’s shaking. his palms are slick. he rubs them on his jeans, curses himself under his breath, whispers “fuck, get it together
but he can’t get it together. not when you’re on the other side of that door.
not when he knows in less than a minute, he’ll see you again.
he hears the shift of footsteps inside. the sound makes his lungs seize. his whole body goes rigid, like a hunting dog catching the scent.
and then—the knob turns.
the door creaks open. and there you are. the world tilts, just a little.
you stand there, framed by the light behind you, hair messy from nerves or sleep, lips parted like you were about to speak but forgot how.
he can’t breathe.
he thought about this moment all night, all morning, but nothing prepared him for the real thing. the sheer impact of you.
you’re not dressed up, not trying, not even ready for him, but god—you’re still the most devastating thing he’s ever seen.
and you—you forget every line you rehearsed.
you forget marcus, forget the lies, forget why this is bad.
because rafe is standing there, tall and broad and unsteady, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in existence.
and it’s that stare. that stare you know too well.
hungry and broken and worshipping all at once, like he hasn’t seen water in months and you’re the ocean.
it pins you in place. it strips you bare. it feels like he’s looking through your skin, down into the marrow of you, like he could name every thought in your head if he wanted to.
you can’t move. can’t speak. neither can he.
so you just stand there, the two of you, drowning in silence but louder than any noise. longing stretches between you like a rope pulled too tight.
his jaw works, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.
your chest aches. your hands twitch at your sides. god, you missed him. you hte how much you missed him.
the air between you buzzes. it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to this doorway, this stare, this unbearable almost.
rafe swallows hard, his throat bobbing. his eyes flicker down your face, linger on your mouth for a heartbeat too long, then drag back up to meet yours again.
you can feel it. the pull. the inevitability, but you don’t look away and neither does he.
just standing there, staring, longing, the weight of everything unsaid pressing heavy between you.
and in that moment, you both know. you never really left each other. not then. not now. not ever
no no no no. that’s what you’re telling yourself, standing in the doorway with rafe right there, close enough you could reach out and feel the heat of him if you wanted. no no no no.
you’ve repeated it so many times in your head it almost sounds like a prayer. like maybe if you chant it enough you’ll convince your hands not to shake, your lungs not to ache, your heart not to pound like it remembers something your mind swears it’s forgotten.
but your body? your body is saying yes yes yes yes.
the way your breath catches, the way your pulse quickens, the way your skin hums just from his stare alone—it’s all yes.
and rafe feels it too. you can see it in the way his shoulders rise and fall too fast, in the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding back something feral, in the way his eyes—god, those eyes—are devouring you, drinking you down whole, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever fed him
he doesn’t even say hello. doesn’t move, doesn’t try to bridge the silence. it’s like he knows words would ruin it, knows this moment is too raw, too much for something as flimsy as a greeting.
the world is suspended. nothing exists except this—him, you, the ache. the longing
and maybe it would’ve stayed like that, stretched thin and unbearable, if it weren’t for the way your fingers twitch, traitorous, craving the familiar weight of him
before you know what you’re doing, you’re reaching. closing the distance. grabbing him by the collar of his shirt like you’ve done a thousand times before, except this time it’s desperate, reckless, breaking every rule you swore to yourself you’d keep
rafe stumbles forward with the force of it, eyes flashing wide for a second before they darken, his lips parting like he might say your name.
but you don’t let him.
you tug him inside instead, shutting the door behind you with a slam that feels like sealing yourselves into some kind of secret chamber. the lock clicks loud in the silence, final.
and then you turn. slowly, like it takes everything in you. you face him, standing there in the light of your hallway, too close, too big, too much.
you tilt your chin up, meet his eyes, and it’s like staring straight into your own undoing
rafe looks at you like you’re carved into his very bones. like he’s memorized you and still can’t get enough.
his throat bobs. his hands flex at his sides. his whole body is tense, like he’s holding himself back with chains that could snap at any second.
you drink him in, every line of him, every shadow. it feels like your chest might crack open from the sheer force of wanting.
and then, before you can stop yourself “hi.” it slips out soft. shy. nervous. a whisper, barely there. fuck i’m so dumb, you think to yourself.
it’s like you’re sixteen again, meeting him for the first time. like none of the pain ever happened, like this is the first spark all over again.
your own voice betrays you. because it trembles. because it’s tender when you swore you’d be cold.
rafe’s lips part, his breath catching at the sound, like it shattered something inside him.
that’s all it takes, one word. and the whole world tips, crumbles, catches fire.
his lips part, and for the first time since you opened the door, he tries to speak“i missed y—”
you don’t let him finish.
because the second you hear it, the second you realize he’s about to say it out loud—out in the open, raw and dangerous—the panic flares hot in your chest. you don’t wanna hear those words so you panic…
panic, but also need. need so sharp it slices through you before you can think. so you silence him the only way you know how.
your mouth on his.
the kiss is reckless. too fast, too hard, too desperate to be anything but hunger finally let loose. you press up onto your toes, fingers still fisted in his collar, dragging him down into you like you’re drowning and he’s air.
rafe makes a sound against your mouth, a groan that rumbles from his chest straight into yours. it vibrates through you, makes your knees weak, makes your head spin.
he kisses you back like a man possessed, like he’s been starving for you, and now he’s finally allowed to eat. his mouth moves against yours with the kind of desperation that should scare you but instead makes you melt.
his hands find your waist, clutching tight, almost bruising. he pulls you in flush against him, like if there’s even an inch of space between you, he might combust.
it’s too much. it’s not enough.
your head is spinning. your chest is aching. your body is screaming yes yes yes.
and then you rip yourself away. you stumble back, gasping, lips swollen, heart hammering so loud you swear it echoes in the quiet hall
“fuck,” you whisper, shaking your head, your hand flying to your mouth like you can stuff the moment back inside “fuck, i’m sorry. i—i don’t know why i did that.”
your voice cracks. the truth is—you do know why. you’ve always known why.
but saying it out loud would mean admitting what you’ve just done. what you’ve just set in motion.
and you can’t. you can’t.
rafe’s chest is heaving, his pupils blown wide, lips reddish and wet from you. he stares at you like you just ripped the ground out from under him, but he’s not angry. he’s wrecked. undone. more alive than you’ve seen him in months.
“don’t be sorry,” he whispers, voice rough, shaky. “don’t—don’t you dare be sorry, baby.”
you turn too fast, like the motion itself might cut the tension, might shake off the weight of his stare still burning into your skin
your feet carry you down the hall, toward the kitchen, because that’s what you do when you don’t know what else to do—you run.
you don’t look back, don’t dare, but you can feel him. you can feel him following.
his footsteps echo yours, just a half beat behind, like a shadow that refuses to let you go. pathetic, really. like a dog trailing after its owner, helpless and obedient.
and maybe you should hate him for it. maybe you should hate how easily he slips into that role for you—how he always has. but instead it makes your chest ache, makes your hands tremble as you grab the counter and lean hard into it like it’s the only thing holding you up.
you stare at the grain of the wood, at the shine of the faucet, at anything but him
“i’ll hate myself for this” you whisper. the words slip out before you can stop them, cracking in the middle
for a second, silence. you think maybe he didn’t hear, maybe he’ll let it die in the air.
“you won’t,” rafe says. his voice is rough but steady. sure. too sure
you squeeze your eyes shut, shake your head once. “i will.”
you hear him behind you, a sharp inhale. then, softer, closer now “i won’t.”
you turn at that. slowly, like you’re afraid of what you’ll see, even though you already know
and there he is, standing in the doorway like he belongs there, like he’s been standing in that very spot in every version of your life, waiting for you to turn around
his eyes catch yours and hold, pinning you in place “i won’t hate you,” he says again, firmer this time. “not for this.not for leaving.”
and god, it’s pathetic. it’s devastating. the way he says it, like a promise carved into stone, when you both know how unsteady he is, how easily he crumbles.
you believe him anyway. at least part of you does, because rafe has never been good at lying when it comes to you. not about this, you tw. not about love.
you grip the counter harder, nails biting into the wood. your heart is a wild, messy thing in your chest, beating against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.
you want to scream. you want to cry. you want to throw yourself into him and never let go but instead, you just stand there, staring, while the silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.
and both of you know—you’re already too far gone. again.
he steps closer. just one inch. then another. the space between you shrinks until it’s unbearable.
your chest hammers, your stomach coils, your hands twitch like they want to claw at him or at yourself—you don’t know which.
“i shouldn’t even—” you start, voice shaking, but he doesn’t stop. he never does. he’s closer now, too close, and it’s like the air itself is pulling him toward you
“i know,” he murmurs. low, desperate, like he’s trying to catch you in his voice before you slip away completely
“i’m a fucking cheater,” you snap, the words tasting bitter in your mouth. “i have a boyfriend, rafe. and i kissed you. i let you do that. i—”
“shh,” he interrupts, but it’s not gentle. it’s needy. almost pleading “don’t say that.”
but you have to. you need to. need to shove the truth into the air so it burns between you, so maybe it can keep you from doing something worse
“i’m fucked in the head,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “i don’t even know why i—why i let it happen. i—i’m… i’m everything i swore i wouldn’t be.”
rafe’s eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and he tilts his head, like he’s memorizing your voice, your tremor, the way the words break when you try to speak them.
“you’re not a cheater,” he says, voice rough, low, carrying that desperate weight that’s always been his curse. “not to me. not when it’s me. i—i won’t let you be. not like that.”
you step back instinctively, but your feet hit the counter. nowhere to go. the walls seem to close in
“i don’t give a—” you begin, then falter, voice catching “i don’t give a fuck, rafe. i’m—i’m—i’m wrong. i’m a mess. i’m a bad person. and you—you’re… you’re gonna think i’m terrible, and maybe you hate me now, maybe—”
he moves again. closer. closer. and this time, your body doesn’t follow your orders. your stomach flips, your knees weaken, your chest feels like it’s about to burst.
his hand rises slowly, almost trembling, and hovers near your jaw. near enough to brush, near enough to claim
“stop,” you whisper, voice tight, sharp. “don’t.”
he doesn’t
“i… i kissed you,” you say again, louder, trembling. “i did that. i’m… i’m—i’m everything i swore i wouldn’t be. i’m cheating on someone i like with you, rafe! do you know what that is? do you know what kind of person does that?”
he swallows hard, pupils dilated, throat bobbing. “i… i don’t care,” he says. almost too softly, almost too broken to hold up the weight of it. “i don’t care. just… don’t leave. don’t run.”
you shake your head violently. “i should! i have to! i can’t… i can’t do this. it’s wrong. i’m wrong. i’m fucked.”
this time your heart rebels in rhythm with him. your lungs betray you, your hands want to touch him even as you push away.
“i won’t let you leave,” he says, voice tight, almost ragged. “not from me. i… i love you, okay? god, i love you so much it’s killing me and it’s pathetic and it’s too much and it’s—”
“stop saying that!” you whisper, almost screaming. “i can’t—i can’t be the one you love. not now. not like this. i’m wrong! i’m a disaster! i’m a bad person! you’re a bad person!”
his eyes darken further. he leans in just a fraction, enough that the heat from his chest radiates against yours. his breath fans over your face
“doesn’t matter,” he growls, voice breaking. “i don’t care if it’s wrong. i don’t care if you’re a mess. i don’t care if you’re with someone else. i… i just want you. i’ll take you however you are.”
and you want to scream, want to collapse, want to kiss him again and beg him to stop—but your brain fights, clawing for some semblance of morality
“i—i can’t,” you choke. “i… i… i—”
he groans low, frustrated, desperate, and takes another tiny step closer. his hand finally grazes your jaw, feather light, like he’s testing the world to see if you’ll break.
“then don’t think,” he whispers. “don’t think. just… be. with me. right now.”
and you feel the pull, the gravity of him, the weight of everything you’ve always tried to resist. it’s overwhelming
your hands twitch again, tempted to close the gap, to touch, to fall completely into the madness that is rafe cameron
“i… i’m wrong,” you whisper again, voice breaking. “i’m… i’m a fucking mess. and you… you’re… i—”
and he cuts you off with the smallest motion, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers curling into your hair “i know,” he says, low and ragged. “i know. that’s why i love you. all of it.”
and the words land in your chest like bricks, heavy, suffocating, impossible. he’s not wrong. he’s never been wrong.
and suddenly the room, the air, the distance between you—it all disappears.
you’re standing there, trembling, hearts pounding, denying it in your head while your body screams yes.
and rafe? pathetic, needy, desperate rafe is leaning in, letting himself be pulled apart by you, letting himself be yours, letting himself love you in a way that’s dangerous, messy, unstoppable.
you don’t step back this time. your body betrays you completely, leaning into him even as your mind screams.
his hands find yours, clutching, tangling, refusing to let go. you twist your fingers around his, heart hammering in protest, in anticipation, in terror
“i shouldn’t,” you whisper, but it’s weak. you’re trembling too much for it to mean anything.
he groans low, almost a growl, and presses his forehead to yours. “you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not possession, not exactly. it’s desperation, need, something uglier and more beautiful than anything else you’ve ever felt.
your lips brush, accidentally, almost accidentally, and he takes it as permission. fingers slide up your arms, hands on your waist, thumb brushing the curve of your hip
“fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged, low in his throat. “god, you’re mine.”
“i have a boyfriend,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips
“i don’t care,” he says. simple. final. a confession, a threat, a plea. he presses you closer
and you? you melt into it. hands wander, not caring about rules, not caring about morals, not caring about consequences. yours trace the line of his jaw and his, his trace every single part of you that he can.
he kisses you again, desperate, claiming, but it’s rough, not tender—not fully. teeth graze your lip, tongue slipping in, exploring, testing, as if he’s mapping you, needing to remember every inch.
“i shouldn’t—” you whisper again, voice cracking.
“shhh,” he interrupts, fingers tangling in your hair. “don’t talk. don’t think. just feel.”
and you do. the guilt claws at your ribs. marcus. your promises. the life you’ve been trying to live. the right thing. all of it screaming at you to push him away, to run, to slam the door and lock it, to never look back.
but your body leans in, arches, presses. your stomach flips every time his fingers graze your hips, every time his lips leave yours for just a second and brush your jaw, every time he inhales sharply when your teeth graze his bottom lip
“god,” he groans. “i’ve missed this. missed you. missed… everything.”
“i shouldn’t,” you manage again. weak, trembling, but your hands betray you. sliding over the plane of his chest, down the slope of his ribs, brushing the heat of him
“you’re mine,” he murmurs again. and maybe he’s right. maybe the world would fall apart if he wasn’t
your breath hitches when his hand drifts lower, just grazing your hipbone, over your pants, just enough to make your knees go weak “rafe—”
“shhh” he interrupts, low, grave. “don’t say anything. just… feel it. i need this.”
your fingers trace the taut line of his shoulder, drift down his back, across the curve of him you’ve always memorized, the strength beneath the skin, the warmth.
his lips find yours again, and this time, it’s not just hunger—it’s confession, apology, devotion. every groan, every bite, every brush of his hands across you says: i’m yours. always.
and the guilt tears at you. nd the need tears at you.
the push and pull is insane. maddening. a rhythm you can’t escape, like a song you know the words to but keep singing anyway, louder and louder until it’s almost painful.
“we can’t—” you gasp, pressing a hand against his chest to push him back, and he groans again, crushing you to him, not letting the words land, not letting the thought breathe.
“don’t,” he growls. “don’t. just… one more time. one more. one more.”
the desperation in his voice, the rawness, the ache—it’s too much.
your fingers slide over the ridge of his jaw again, brush against the curve of his ear, and he shivers. groans into your mouth.
“god, i’ve been waiting for this,” he mutters, lips trailing down your jaw, your neck. “i’ve waited too long. too fucking long.”
and your knees nearly buckle under him, your mind screaming stop stop stop, but your body betrays you every second. every nerve ending alive and aching, every hair standing on end from his touch.
“rafe, i—i can’t—” you gasp, pressed flush against him, hands clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth
your teeth scrape his bottom lip lightly, a tiny, inadvertent bite, and he groans deep in his chest, arms tightening around you.
“fuck,” he mutters, voice raw. “you feel too good. too much. too—god, you’re mine.”
you tremble against him, trying to remember who you are, trying to remember you have a life outside this kitchen, outside this doorway, outside him.
well…not when he’s here, hands wandering, lips claiming, breath hot against your neck. not when every nerve in your body is screaming yes yes yes.
your lips brush his again, soft, hesitant, trembling.
and then it slips “i missed you too,” you whisper, voice breaking, raw, carrying everything you’ve held back.
it’s pathetic. it’s messy. it’s everything.
he freezes for half a second, just long enough for your heart to hammer in your chest. then his arms tighten around you like he’s been holding this in, holding you in, for months
“finally,” he mutters, almost to himself, a groan buried low in his chest “fucking finally.”
you can feel him trembling, the heat of him, the desperation. the ache. god, the ache of him wanting you like this, like only he can
“hm?” he murmurs after a second, voice thick, low, almost dangerous. “one more time?”
your breath hitches. your body rebels, goosebumps rising along your skin. your chest is tight. your knees feel weak
“one more time,” you whisper back, lips brushing his, letting him taste it before you pull back, wid eyed, catching your breath.
“last time,” you add, voice barely more than a breath, but steady, like a warning. like a promise you might not keep but swear to anyway
he groans, low and ragged, like the word last is a knife, but he can’t help himself. he leans in and kisses you again, harder this time, like he’s trying to memorize every part of you before it’s over.
“sorry,” he whispers against your mouth, breath hot and ragged, trembling. “that… that was the last time.”
you feel it, the ache of it, the truth and the lie tangled together. the weight of what you both know—you’ll both pretend this is the last time, but you already know it won’t be. not really. not ever.
your hands clutch him like he’s gravity, like he’s air, like letting go would be death “i know,” you whisper back, voice breaking again. “i know.”
and the silence that follows isn’t really silence. it’s full. full of breathing, full of heat, full of the electricity between you.
“one more?” he murmurs again, voice low, almost pleading
“last time,” you murmur back, trembling, and press your lips to his again, slow, soft, tasting him, memorizing him, knowing it’s forbidden, knowing it’s dangerous, knowing it’s exactly what you both want.
he groans into you, hips pressing flush, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you like he’ll never let go “sorry,” he whispers again, voice breaking. “that… that’s really the last time.”
your knees almost give out. your chest is tight. your head spins.
and somehow, in that single moment, with your lips pressed together and your hands tangled in his hair, with his chest against yours and his groan vibrating against your mouth, the world contracts down to just you two.
last time. maybe. and yet, neither of you moves.
because the truth is, you’ll both lie to yourselves again, just like last night, just like every time before.
and you both know it. and still, you kiss.
again. and it’s perfect. and it’s wrong. sooo wrong
but it’s everything.
you pull back just slightly, enough to look into his eyes, trembling, breath coming uneven, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your chest.
“cross my heart and hope to die?” you whisper, voice barely there, a nervous laugh shaking the edges, and his lips twitch at the corner, just the faintest smirk tugging at the darkness in his expressio
“cross your heart…” he murmurs, voice low, rasping, almost breaking “…and hope to die.”
you swallow hard, eyes flicking down, feeling the heat radiating from him, the press of his body, the way your chest feels both heavy and hollow at the same time.
“okay,” you whisper. “…one last time.”
and god, it’s a lie neither of you believes, not even for a second. but it’s enough to pull him in, and the kiss—oh, the kiss—breaks everything.
soft at first, tentative, like both of you are testing the truth of it, and then hungry, desperate, clinging, like you’re trying to remember what months apart felt like, like you can cram it all into this single contact.
his hands slide up, framing your face, fingers feather light, caressing your cheekbones, thumbs brushing over your lips, over the corner of your jaw.
and your hands? god, your hands betray you completely. they slip up to his wrists, to his forearms, finally finding the curve of his hands pressed to your face, holding him, memorizing him, trembling with need.
you tilt your head into him, breathe him in, lips pressing just slightly against his palm, teeth grazing the back of his knuckle, and he groans softly, low and broken, vibrating through you like an electric current you can’t shut off.
“i… i missed you,” he mutters against your lips between shallow breaths, thumb tracing the line of your jaw again. “so fucking much.”
“me too,” you whisper, trembling, brushing your fingers across his hand, over the veins, the tendons, holding him like he’s a lifeline “…me too.”
his eyes close for a second, long enough that your chest twists. he leans into your touch, pressing his forehead against yours, still holding you, still claiming you
“god,” he groans, voice low and ragged. “you feel like too much. you always have. and i can’t—i can’t stop. can’t leave. can’t…”
“shh,” you whisper, running your hands along the backs of his fingers, over the hardness of his knuckles, the heat under his skin. “it’s okay. it’s fine. just… stay.”
his lips brush yours again, slow, soft, almost reverent this time. and your hands can’t resist—they travel from his wrists to his face again, tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck
“fuck,” he breathes, fingers pressing a little harder against your cheeks, thumb brushing over your lips again “i’ve been waiting… so long… for this. for you.”
“i know,” you whisper back, voice shaking. “i know…me too”
your hands won’t leave him. his hands won’t leave you. it’s like gravity and electricity combined—magnetism, obsession, addiction. your fingers entwine with his, palms brushing, over his hands that are still cupping your face, trembling slightly, holding you, claiming you, needing you
“i’m… god, i’m pathetic for you,” he mutters, voice low, hoarse. “…love you like this… like it’s the only thing that matters…”
“i know,” you whisper again, tilting your head against his, caressing the back of his hand with yours. “it’s okay”
the kiss breaks for just a second, barely an inhale between you, enough to gasp for air but not enough to really separate.
and then you’re back, pressed together, lips grazing, mouths moving with the unsteady rhythm of people who have waited too long, who are desperate for too much, who are addicted to each other in a way that’s beautiful and dangerous all at once
his hands linger on your face, fingers stroking over your skin, thumb brushing lightly across your lips, and you trace them, worship them with your own hands, holding onto him like he’s a tether to reality, to some fragment of the life you thought you’d los
“stay,” he whispers again, low, broken, needing “…just a little longer.”
“i…” you start, voice trembling, but you can’t finish. your hands are on him, and his hands are on you, and the world has collapsed down to heat, breath, heartbeats, and touch.
and he—pathetic, desperate, beautiful, broken rafe—leans in, forehead against yours again, holding you as if letting go would destroy him completely
and somehow, even in this moment of chaos, even in this madness of need and guilt and desire, there’s a fragile, fleeting kind of peace in the way your hands and his hands meet, trace, caress.
because for a second, the world narrows. the chaos doesn’t matter. the consequences don’t matter.
there is only you. only him. only this.
the last time? maybe. probably not.
you’re looking—really looking—into his eyes.
those eyes. dark, stormy, desperate, possessed, broken, worshipping. the ones that see straight through you, that unearth every hidden piece you’ve tried to lock away, the ones that make your chest ache and your knees weak and your heart hammer like it might shatter
“please,” he murmurs, low, hoarse, trembling slightly. “…please, baby…”
your pulse spikes. your breath hitches. every fiber of your being is vibrating at the pull of him, at the heat of him, at the sheer audacity of him even asking
“break up with him,” he whispers, voice tight, broken. “give me… one more chance. just one. please”
the words hit like a hammer. your stomach drops, twists, curls. guilt claws up your throat. marcus. everything you swore you wouldn’t do. everything you swore you’d be.
and yet…your body presses into him, trembling, betraying every thought in your head. your fingers brush along the side of his neck, tracing down the slope of his shoulder, curling around his wrists when they’re on your face
“rafe…” you whisper, voice shaky, soft, trembling. “…i—”
“baby,” he interrupts, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours, lips hovering just a breath away, voice ragged and desperate. “please… i can’t… not you. give me one more chance. i’ll… i’ll fix it. i’ll—i’ll be everything you need. just one more chance. please, please, please…”
he sounds needy. broken. desperate. the kind of broken that you’ve always wanted to mend but never could. the kind that makes you ache for him in ways that terrify you
and your hands clutch him tighter, trembling. your lips part, nearly grazing his, almost giving in. almost giving everything
“i… i don’t know—” your voice cracks. your chest feels like it’s ripping open. “…i can’t…”
“baby,” he groans, voice low, dangerous, shaking. “…i’m begging you. just… just one more chance. one more. break up with him…at least just for tonight. please…”
your heart twists, folds, unravels. because part of you wants to scream yes. part of you wants to throw yourself into him, press into him, melt into him, forget everything else.
but another part—the smaller, fragile part you cling to—whispers no. whispers stay away. whispers remember promises. remember consequences. remember that the world will burn if you give in entirely.
“i… i—” your breath catches, lips brushing his. “…god, i—”
he leans in anyway, forehead pressed against yours, nose grazing yours, eyes searching, trembling, desperate
“please,” he whispers, voice cracking, throat tight. “…baby. just one more chance. i’ll make it right. i’ll… i’ll—”
your hands, traitorous, slide from his face to curl around the back of his neck. your fingers thread through his hair, tug lightly, pull him closer, and he groans against your mouth, desperate, trembling, consumed by want
“i… i don’t know if i can—” you whisper again, body pressed flush to his. “…i’m scared. i… i don’t know if you… if this is real or—”
“it’s real,” he growls, voice low, almost rough with need and desperation “i swear it. i’m yours. always yours. i’ll prove it. baby… just one more chance.”
your lips tremble against his. your chest heaves. your stomach flips. your hands clutch him like you’re holding on to the only thing keeping you from falling apart
“one… last… chance?” you whisper, almost a question.
“yes,” he groans, trembling, voice raw. “just… one… please. one… for me. i… can’t lose you. not again.”
the words, the desperation, the heat, the ache…they hit you like fire.
and you… your body betrays you. your lips hover just over his again. your hands hold him closer. your chest presses against his
and even as your mind screams that this is wrong, even as your brain rattles with every ounce of guilt, need, and longing, your body betrays you completely.
because he’s rafe. and he’s desperate. and he’s always been yours.
and just like that, the kitchen, the hallway, the locked door—they disappear. there is only the pull of each other. only the hunger, only the ache, only the dangerous, messy, beautiful obsession that is rafe cameron
and tonight… tonight feels like the edge of the world. tonight feels like you might fall.
and somehow, even knowing all that, you don’t pull away. you can’t. because part of you… wants to give him that chance.
and god, you’re terrified of what it will cost you. but for just a heartbeat, you let yourself hope.
“fuck, rafe,” you whisper, voice breaking, almost strangled “…one… one more chance.”
he freezes, just for a second, like he can’t believe what he heard. then his whole body relaxes ever so slightly, but only ever so slightly, because he’s still tense with want, need, desperation
“wait,” he breathes, low and rough, voice almost trembling. “fuck … you mean it?”
you swallow, your lips trembling, eyes burning, fingers tightening on his buzzed hair “i do. one more chance. okay? but… god, rafe… please… don’t fuck this up.”
“don’t worry,” he murmurs, and the rasp in his voice makes your chest ache. “i won’t. i promise. just, please… just let me.”
you shake your head, laugh shakily, heart pounding too fast to catch it all. “jesus… you’re insane, you know that?”
“i know,” he says, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but his eyes betray him—they’re burning, desperate “…but i don’t care. i… i’m yours, always. can’t… won’t… not you.”
you press your forehead to his, breathing mingling, fingers still tangled in his hair, thumb tracing the line of his jaw “…you’re unbelievable,” you whisper. “…i should hate you. i don’t. i want you.”
he groans low, trembling, a hand sliding from your hip to your back, pulling you flush against him. “i’ve wanted you. always. can’t… couldn’t… god, i’ve been an idiot. but i’m here. now. finally. please… let me fix it. just… one more chance.”
“jesus, rafe,” you mutter, lips brushing his in a trembling, teasing way, “…i’m giving it to you. one more. but if you break me… if you hurt me again—”
“i won’t,” he interrupts, voice low, heavy, a promise and a prayer all at once “…i swear i won’t. just… let me try.”
you can’t help it. your lips press against his again, slow, then more insistent. your hands roam over him, over the slope of his back, up to his shoulders, tangling in the muscles there, feeling him, claiming him, remembering him
“god, you feel too good,” he groans, voice ragged against your mouth, fingers clutching your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. “…i’ve missed you. missed you like i can’t even… fuck, i need you.”
“i need you too,” you whisper back, heart in your throat, breath hitching. “…fuck, rafe…”
he groans, low, dark, desperate, pressing on you, tilting his head, deepening the kiss “…i’m never letting you go. not again.”
you gasp against him, lips parting, letting him take more, press harder, hands sliding over his chest, over his arms, holding on like he’s the only tether to the ground you have
“one more chance…” you murmur again, breathless, “…but god, rafe… i don’t know if i can…i’m terrified.”
“i know,” he groans against your lips, forehead resting against yours, voice low, trembling “and i’ll take it. all of it. fear, guilt, everything. i’ll handle it. jus let me love you.”
chest pressed to chest, stomach knotting with need, desire, and the ache of finally giving in. “…okay,” you whisper, trembling. “…one more chance. but just… just promise me…”
“i promise,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours again, soft, desperate, claiming, “…i won’t let you go. not tonight. not ever.”
and just like that, the tension, the guilt, the chaos—they’re still there, simmering under the surface, but you let yourself lean in, melt into him, let the world shrink down to just you two, breathless, tangled, addicted, finally, finally giving in.
his hands follow every line of your body they can reach, cupping, caressing, clutching, desperate not to let go.
“fuck,” he groans low, deep in his chest, “…i’ve waited for this. for you. always you…”
“always me,” you whisper back, voice breaking, “…always us…”
the pull, the push, the want, the guilt, the ache—they all collapse into one moment, one breath, one touch.
even now you two are still here, still at the restaurant…
masterlist
note- maybe pt 3 ??? bf finds out, bf number 2 doesn’t care, maybe smut??
NOTES ⭑.ᐟ once again, you’re responsible for the content you consume, read at your own risk.
WORD COUNT ⭑.ᐟ 1.0k
AUTHOR’S NOTE ⭑.ᐟ hello!! likes, reblogs, & requests are appreciated and encouraged 🐆
your breakup had been labeled as amicable by your friends, your family, basically half the damn island.
the only person who couldn’t accept that it was over was rafe cameron himself. phone calls that went unanswered, flowers delivered to your doorstep, gifts shipped to your address, paying for your hair and nail appointments— like you were still together, like he didn’t go on a coke rant months prior.
despite all of this, you relished in this. you relished in the way he obsessed over you, the gifts and flowers never failing to put a slight grin on your face, despite insisting that he meant nothing to you— that your relationship meant nothing. but you couldn’t avoid him forever, not when you were in the same social circle.
you ended up at a typical tannyhill party, kooks pouring out from the entrance and into the yard, loud howls of laughter mixing with the booming music. you were clad in a strapless mini dress, courtesy of rafe’s card, the floral print being a soft contrast against your skin, with white heels that curled around your ankles.
you were leaning against the bar, fingers curled around the red plastic, pink lips against the white rim, your eyes scanning the rest of the room. a presence slipped beside you, a warm hand cradling the curve of your hip, the low rumble of a hum against your back.
“hey, baby.”
you didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
“how you doin’, huh?” he mumbled into your ear, the smell of his cologne overriding your senses. his hand slipped over your hip, curling around your waist, pulling you back against him with a light tug.
“what’re you doing here?” you asked, dodging his attempt at casualty, taking another sip of the vodka filling your cup, your body tensing against his chest as he hummed quietly.
“what am i doing here?” he repeated your question, repeating it as if it was ridiculous, like you were stupid for even asking a simple question like that. “m’at a party, baby, with my ex girlfriend taunting me in a dress that i bought.”
your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, chewing at the plump muscle, your lashes fluttering in the dimmed light of the mansion, your fingers tightening around the cup. “you didn’t have to come.”
he let out a laugh, his lips pressing against the skin of your shoulder. “you wanted me not to come, huh? that it?”
he pulled you closer against his chest, his fingers digging into the side of your dress, pulling you closer against him. “wanted me not to come so you could eye-fuck other guys, huh? so you could grind your body against these motherfuckers who couldn’t care for you like i could?”
you let out another scoff, your arms crossing over your chest as your eyes flickered to meet his, a sight scowl tugging at your lips. “don’t flatter yourself because other guys would move on— unlike you.”
he tightened his grip against your hip, tugging you back against the hard muscle of his abdomen, his biceps bulging against your arms. “don’t pretend you don’t love it, princess. i see those french tips— i know you took the money.” he mumbled out, his fingers splaying over the surface of your tummy.
his lips brushed against your neck, the fabric of his polo shirt brushing against your back exposed by your dress, tugging you tighter against his chest, pulling on you like you were his personal toy. his hand slid off of your stomach, moving over your ass, giving the fat of it a roughened squeeze, just like before. “lemme know when your next nail appointment is, baby.”
with that, he turned and slipped away from you, flashing a grin at you from over his shoulder, disappearing into the crowd of rich kids with too much coke in their system, with money in their pockets and yachts to spend their summers on. you watched him leave, biting into your bottom lip to stop the grin that threatened to spread over your lips, adjusting the hem of your skirt from where his rough hand was.
you knew you couldn’t resist him, and it was only a matter of time till you found your way back to him.
