every year after fourteen part two / part three / part four
WARNINGS: emotional manipulation , toxic relationship dynamics , childhood trauma parental emotional abuse/neglect , alcohol/drug use , violence/fighting , possessiveness/jealousy , self-destructive behavior, abandonment issues , anxiety/panic responses , unhealthy attachment/codependency , degradation of mental health over time eventual dark themes depending on later eras , would estimate as a 10k+ word count
PAIRINGS: childhoodbsf!rafe x sweetheart!reader ➜ frat!rafe x sweetheart!reader
SUMMARY: as rafe slowly unravels under the weight of love, anger, addiction, and abandonment, reader becomes the only person who remembers who he was before he learned how to turn pain into cruelty.
the thing about figure eight was that everybody already knew who you were before you got the chance to become it.
the pogues grew up barefoot and loud, saltwater drying on their skin beneath the sun. the kooks grew up behind gates and golf carts and houses so big they echoed when nobody was talking.
and the camerons were the richest people on the island. which meant they were also the loneliest.
ward cameron owned half the coastline, or at least acted like he did. people lowered their voices around him at country clubs and charity dinners. adults smiled too hard when he shook their hands. every magazine spread about wealthy families in the obx somehow circled back to the camerons eventually — their boat, their house, their perfect christmas photos where nobody looked directly at the camera for too long.
from the outside, they looked untouchable. inside the house, it was quieter than a church especially after their mother left. nobody talked about that part: not openly, if you were in your right mind.
not in the way kids are supposed to ask questions when something disappears.
sarah adapted first. she smiled easier, learned how to make herself lovable in ways people understood. wheezie became invisible whenever possible. and rafe became loud. not all at once.
at eight years old, it existed in flashes. slammed doors. quick tempers. the way his jaw locked whenever ward spoke too sharply but before he became difficult, before people started describing him with words like troubled or angry or unstable, he was just a little boy who hated being alone.
which was how she ended up in his life.
her mother worked events sometimes. catering mostly. planning if people paid enough.
summer parties on yachts. fundraisers. country club dinners where rich women wore linen and diamonds at the same time which meant, occasionally, she got dragged along.
she remembered the first time she saw tanneyhill like something out of a dream. white columns, massive windows, golf carts lined in the driveway. the smell of ocean air curling through expensive perfume.
she’d been seven, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of sprite somebody handed her while adults rushed around carrying trays.
“don’t wander,” her mom warned. “and don’t touch anything.”
she lasted maybe twelve minutes.
the camerons’ house was too big not to explore. hallways stretching forever, framed paintings staring down at her, polished floors she nearly slipped across in sandals.
and somewhere upstairs, somebody was yelling. not screaming, just enough to make her stop walking. a man’s voice first, sharp.
then another crash. she should’ve turned around. instead, she kept going. the upstairs hallway was colder somehow, air conditioning biting against sunburnt skin. one of the bedroom doors sat halfway open, and through the crack she saw a blond boy shoving clothes angrily into a closet.
he couldn’t have been much older than her. maybe eight and yet he noticed her immediately with the awareness of an adult, blue eyes snapping toward the doorway. “who’re you?”
she froze. “nobody.”
“then why’re you in my house?” his tone wasn’t mean exactly. defensive, maybe. like a dog growling before deciding whether to bite.
she should’ve left. instead she pointed behind him. “your lamp’s broken.”
the ceramic lamp beside his bed lay shattered across the floor. the boy looked at it for a second before shrugging. “yeah.”
“are you gonna get in trouble?”
“already did.” he said it casually. too casually for a kid. then he squinted at her. “you’re not a kook.”
she frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“means your shoes are dirty.”
“your attitude’s dirty.”
for one horrible second, she thought he might actually get mad. instead, his mouth twitched. just a little, the beginning of a smile. “what’s your name?”
she told him. he nodded once. “i’m rafe.” like she should already know that. truthfully, everybody on figure eight probably did. there was another silence after that. awkward in the way only children could make things awkward — too honest to fake politeness yet. then, downstairs, somebody shouted: “rafe!”
his entire expression changed instantly. shoulders stiffening, mouth flattening, something shuttering behind his eyes so fast it almost didn’t look real. “you should go,” he muttered.
she hesitated. “okay.” she turned toward the hallway.
“wait.” when she looked back, rafe was digging through his desk drawer. he pulled out a handful of candy — probably stolen from downstairs — and walked over before dumping it into her hands.
a peace offering or maybe a bribe for silence. “don’t tell anybody you saw me.”
she blinked. “why?”
another yell from downstairs. louder this time. rafe looked toward the door and for the first time, she realized he looked scared. not of getting caught with candy. not of breaking the lamp but of whoever was downstairs. “just don’t, okay?”
she nodded slowly. “okay.”
that was the beginning of it. not dramatic, not fate and certainly not love at first sight. just two lonely kids inside a house too big for either of them.
after that, rafe started appearing everywhere. not in a creepy way but more like a stray cat deciding somebody belonged to him.
the next time her mother worked at tanneyhill, she found him waiting near the driveway with scraped knees and a tennis racket dragging behind him. “you came back.”
she frowned. “i don’t really choose that.”
“still counts.” he said things confidently even when they didn’t make sense. before she could answer, he grabbed her wrist and started pulling her toward the backyard. “c’mon.”
“where?”
“you ask too many questions.”
“you’re rude.”
“yeah, well.”
he didn’t finish the sentence. she noticed he did that a lot. started thoughts and abandoned them halfway through like he didn’t know what to do with them once they became real.
the backyard looked like a resort.
pool glittering bright blue beneath the sun. huge stone patio, private dock stretching into the marsh. she slowed near the edge of the pool. “are we allowed out here?”
“it’s my house.”
“that doesn’t answer the question.”
rafe snorted. “you sound eighty years old.” that made no sense, and before she could ask, he dropped onto one of the lounge chairs dramatically, legs hanging off the side because he was still too small for it.
“my sisters are inside doing dumb rich people stuff.”
“what’s dumb rich people stuff?”
“sarah’s making wheezie play wedding with her again.”
“that sounds normal.”
“they made me be the dog last time.”
she stared at him. “the dog?”
“exactly.”
she laughed before she could stop herself. a real laugh, loud enough that rafe blinked at her for a second like he hadn’t expected it then he grinned too and suddenly he didn’t look like the angry boy from upstairs anymore.
he looked eight. just eight. sunlight in his hair. freckles across his nose. swimsuit half untied at his hips because apparently rich kids never wore clothes correctly.
“you wanna see something cool?” he asked.
before she could answer, he stood up on the lounge chair. “rafe—”
he launched himself into the pool like a missile and water exploded everywhere. she yelped as cold droplets soaked her shirt while rafe surfaced laughing hysterically.
“oh my god!”
“did you see that?!”
“you splashed me!”
“because you were standing too close!”
“because you JUMPED AT ME!”
full-body laughter, messy and uncontained. she realized then that rafe cameron laughed like somebody who didn’t get to very often. he swam toward the edge of the pool, blond hair dripping into his eyes. “c’mon in.”
“i don’t have a swimsuit.”
“so?”
“rafe.”
“what?”
“normal people don’t swim in their clothes.”
“normal people are boring.”
she crossed her arms. “easy for you to say. your dad owns this pool.”
for a second, his smile faded but then he shrugged one shoulder. “he doesn’t really care what i do.”
the words sounded exciting at first like freedom but something about the way he said it made her stomach twist. before she could think too hard about it, rafe reached out suddenly and grabbed her ankle.
she screamed as he yanked. “RAFE —”
she hit the water fully clothed while he cackled loud enough for birds to scatter from nearby trees. when she surfaced sputtering, he was grinning so hard his dimples showed. “you’re the worst person alive.”
“yeah, but now you’re swimming.”
she shoved water at his face. he splashed her back immediately. and somehow that became the rest of the afternoon. swimming until their fingers wrinkled, arguing over nothing. rafe trying to hold his breath underwater long enough to “die dramatically.” her timing him while sitting at the edge kicking her feet into the water. it felt easy.
which surprised her because most rich kids on figure eight treated people like her strangely — either invisible or temporary but rafe talked to her like they’d known each other forever like it had already been decided.
at one point, they ended up laying on the dock side by side, drying beneath the late afternoon sun.
“you ever think about running away?” rafe asked suddenly.
she turned her head toward him. “what?”
he shrugged, staring up at the sky. “i dunno. somewhere else.”
“why would you wanna leave here?”
“because everybody’s annoying.”
“that’s not a real reason.”
“is too.”
“where would you even go?”
he thought about it seriously. “california.”
“why california?”
“they surf there.”
“people surf here too.”
“yeah, but in california nobody knows your dad.”
that quiet feeling returned again. the weird one. the one that always showed up whenever ward cameron entered a conversation. she glanced toward him carefully. “is your dad mean?”
rafe went still. not visibly, not enough for most people to notice but she did because kids notice things adults think they hide well. his expression flattened toward the sky. “sometimes.”
she waited. eventually, he mumbled: “mostly when i screw stuff up.”
“everybody screws stuff up.”
“not like me.” he said it matter-of-factly like he already believed it completely. before she could answer, he sat up abruptly. “wanna go steal ice cream from the freezer?”
the conversation ended there. that was another thing about rafe. even as a kid, he knew exactly how to run from things before they could catch him.
by the time summer ended, rafe had decided she was his person. he never actually said it like that.
eight-year-old boys didn’t have the language for things that deep yet.
instead, he showed up at her house unannounced with sand all over his feet and demanded she come outside immediately because he “found a dead stingray and it looked cool.”
or he called the landline six times in a row just to ask if she thought sharks could smell fear through boats. or he sat way too close to her during movies and stole food directly off her plate while acting like it was legally his. it happened gradually enough that neither of them noticed it becoming permanent.
until one day everybody else did.
“that cameron boy likes you.” her mother said it casually while folding laundry. she nearly choked on her juice.
“he does not.”
“mmhmm.”
“mom.”
“he called here three times today.”
“because he’s annoying.”
“sweetheart, he asked if you were sick because you didn’t answer.”
she groaned dramatically and buried her face in the couch cushion. secretly, she liked that rafe noticed when she disappeared. most people didn’t.
school started again in september. figure eight elementary mixed kook kids and pogues together just enough for rich parents to pretend they cared about community.
rafe hated school immediately. not because he was bad at it. actually, because he was actually smart. that was the problem. he got bored fast.
he finished worksheets too early and started bothering everybody else afterward. teachers constantly told him to sit still, lower his voice, stop talking back.
he treated authority like a challenge. especially the male teachers and especially when they raised their voices. “rafe cameron, hallway. now.”
their third-grade teacher sounded exhausted already. rafe slumped back dramatically in his chair. “i didn’t even do anything.”
“you threw an eraser at timothy.”
“he was talking.”
“so were you.”
“yeah, but i’m interesting.”
half the class laughed. the teacher pinched the bridge of his nose. “hallway.”
rafe stood slowly, muttering something under his breath before grabbing his notebook. on the way out, he glanced toward her, winked, like getting in trouble was funny.
except she noticed the way his shoulders tightened once the classroom door shut behind him. noticed how he stopped smiling the second adults couldn’t see him anymore.
he came back from lunch with a split lip. small and still fresh enough to shine red. she stared at him across the table. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
he peeled open his milk carton aggressively. “tripped.”
“you don’t get punched-looking lips from tripping.”
“you don’t know that.”
she narrowed her eyes as he refused to look at her. finally, he muttered: “some fifth grader shoved wheezie.”
her anger disappeared instantly. “oh.”
“so i shoved him back.”
“and?”
“and apparently fifth graders hit hard.” he said it proudly like losing the fight didn’t matter because he’d fought at all.
she studied him quietly. “did you win?”
rafe grinned then, bloody lip and all. “kinda.”
that was the first time she realized rafe would throw himself into a fight even if he knew he couldn’t win it especially for people he loved.
october brought storms to the obx, the kind that rattled windows and turned the ocean mean.
she hated thunder yet rafe found this hilarious. “it’s literally just noise.”
“okay, then you sit outside in it.”
“i would.”
“you absolutely would not.”
“would too.”
another crack of thunder shook the house hard enough to flicker the lights. she jumped violently from where they sat on the living room floor.
rafe burst into laughter. “you looked like a cat.”
“i hate you.”
“no you don’t.” he said it immediately. without thinking and maybe that should’ve scared her a little — how sure he always sounded about her staying — but instead she just rolled her eyes and threw popcorn at his face.
another boom echoed outside. this time closer. her smile slipped and rafe noticed instantly. he always noticed instantly. perks of being someone with a father that a mood he always had to manage.
without saying anything, he scooted closer across the carpet until their shoulders touched. then, quieter: “it’s not gonna hit the house.”
“you don’t know that.”
“yeah i do.”
“how?”
“because if it did, my dad would sue god.”
she laughed despite herself. mission accomplished. rafe leaned back against the couch afterward like he hadn’t intentionally comforted her at all but a few minutes later, during another loud crack of thunder, she fel his hand tap twice against hers on the floor.
still there.still here. safe. even then, rafe loved through contact. small touches. shoved shoulders. knees bumping under tables. messing with the strings of her hoodie while pretending to listen like if he kept physical proof of people nearby, they couldn’t disappear unexpectedly.
sometimes she wondered if that started when his mother left. sometimes she wondered if he even remembered a version of himself before that happened.
that winter, ward cameron forgot to pick rafe up from school. at first, rafe acted like he didn’t care.“he’s probably busy.”
he kicked at the curb while everybody else slowly disappeared into cars and golf carts around them. thirty minutes passed, then forty.
the office secretary kept glancing outside with tight sympathy adults got when they didn’t know what to say. “we can call your house again, honey.”
“don’t.”
too fast, too sharp. she looked surprised. rafe swallowed. “he’ll come.”
except his voice sounded smaller now. eventually her mom arrived instead. “c’mon,” she said gently. “i’ll drive you home.”
rafe immediately shook his head. “m’fine.”
“rafe.”
“i said i’m fine.”
anger flashed across his face so quickly it almost looked painful. not at her. at himself like embarrassment curdling into fury before anybody could pity him. her mother ignored it completely. “okay,” she said lightly. “then i guess i’ll have to eat all the mcdonald’s fries myself.”
silence. rafe blinked. “you got fries?”
“yep.”
another pause. then: “large?”
“obviously.”
he got into the car after that quietly and halfway through the drive, while rain tapped softly against the windows, she noticed him holding the fry carton in his lap like something fragile like nobody had remembered to take care of him all day.
winter on figure eight always made everything feel emptier. the tourists disappeared, the beaches went gray. even tanneyhill looked colder somehow, stripped of summer light and party noise.
and rafe changed during winter. not completely. just enough for her to notice. he got quieter after christmas break started. moodier. sometimes she’d come over and find him sprawled upside down on the couch watching television at full volume, talking a mile a minute like he needed noise filling every corner of the house.
other days, he barely spoke at all. those were the bad days. the house felt different then too. stiffer.
rose smiled too brightly. wheezie stayed upstairs. sarah vanished to friends’ houses whenever possible. and ward became impossible to miss.
he wasn’t loud all the time. that was the strange part. sometimes he was perfectly charming. laughing at dinner, asking questions, resting a hand on rafe’s shoulder like a normal father.
those moments confused her more than the angry ones because rafe would spend the entire time trying to earn them.
sitting straighter, talking faster, watching ward’s reactions like they held the answer key to his entire existence. it made her chest hurt in ways she didn’t understand yet.
one friday afternoon, she found rafe outside near the dock skipping rocks violently across the water.
well. trying to skip rocks. mostly throwing them hard enough to sink immediately.
“those are supposed to bounce.”
“i know that.”
“clearly not.”
“shut up.”
she smiled a little and sat beside him anyway, pulling her knees to her chest against the cold. for a while, neither of them spoke. wind curled across the marsh grass. somewhere far off, a boat engine hummed. rafe picked up another rock. threw it hard. splash.
“you’re bad at this,” she informed him.
“maybe the water’s stupid.”
“yeah. definitely the water.”
another rock. another angry splash. then suddenly: “my dad thinks i’m an idiot.”
the words landed strangely between them. casual tone serious meaning. she looked over slowly while rafe kept staring at the water. “he didn’t say that.”
“did too.”
“when?”
he shrugged. “not exactly.” another rock. “but he thinks it.” kids weren’t supposed to sound that certain about things like that.
she frowned. “you’re not an idiot.”
“you kinda have to say that. we’re friends.”
“i don’t have to do anything.”
finally, he looked at her. blue eyes sharp even at nine years old. “then why do you?”
she opened her mouth. closed it again because she didn’t actually know how to explain it.
that being around rafe felt like standing too close to lightning sometimes — unpredictable and bright and dangerous in ways you couldn’t describe yet.
that even when he was mean or loud or impossible, she still understood him better than anybody else seemed to. that she worried about him constantly. instead she just nudged his shoulder with hers. “because somebody has to.”
his expression changed for half a second. softened. small enough that she almost missed it then he looked away again quickly, jaw tightening like he regretted letting her see anything real. “my dad says i get emotional over stupid stuff.”
“well your dad sucks.”
rafe barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. a real one but it faded fast. “don’t say that.”
“why not? it’s true.”
his face closed immediately. “just don’t.”
there it was again.
that invisible line nobody in the cameron house crossed. ward could yell. ward could forget him. ward could make rafe feel two inches tall with one look but nobody else was allowed to notice.
a week later, she learned what happened when someone did.
she’d come over after lunch, shoes damp from rainwater, only to hear shouting the second she stepped through the front door.
not normal arguing.
worse. the kind of yelling that made the entire house hold its breath. ward’s voice thundered somewhere upstairs. “you embarrass me constantly!”
silence. then rafe shouting back. not words she could understand. just anger. another crash echoed through the hallway.
rose appeared almost immediately. “sweetheart,” she said too quickly, intercepting her near the stairs, “why don’t you wait outside for a little while?”
she hesitated. upstairs, something shattered. her stomach twisted. “is rafe okay?”
rose’s smile strained painfully at the edges. “of course he is.”
another lie adults expected children to accept. she backed toward the front door slowly and right before she stepped outside, she heard ward yell: “why can’t you be more like your sister for once?”
the silence afterward felt worse than the shouting. she found rafe an hour later sitting beneath the big oak tree near the edge of the property. knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves covering his hands.
he looked up when she approached. one side of his face was red, not bruised just flushed enough to make her chest tighten.
“rose said you left.”
“she lies a lot.” his voice sounded flat.
she sat beside him carefully. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
“drop it.”
normally she would’ve argued, teased him until he cracked and waited him out but something about him felt different today. too still like all the loud parts of him had collapsed inward. so instead she just sat there quietly beside him while wind rustled through the branches overhead.
minutes passed. finally, rafe spoke without looking at her. “do you ever feel bad all the time?”
she blinked. “what?”
he picked at loose thread on his sleeve. “like even when nothing’s wrong.”
her heart hurt suddenly because no nine-year-old should know how to ask that question. “sometimes,” she admitted softly.
“how do you make it stop?”
she didn’t have an answer and maybe he knew that already because he laughed once under his breath. bitter in a way kids shouldn’t know how to be. “yeah,” he muttered. “me neither.”
another long silence. then, quietly: “my dad says there’s something wrong with me.”
anger flashed hot in her chest. “there isn’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do actually.”
for the first time all afternoon, rafe looked at her fully. his eyes were red around the edges not crying now which somehow meant he already had. “how?”
she swallowed. because the truth was simple. because even at nine years old, she already knew this with terrifying certainty: if something was wrong with rafe cameron, it was because the people around him kept teaching him he was impossible to love.
by thirteen, rafe cameron had learned two important things:
anger made people listen. and pretty people got forgiven for almost everything. he grew into himself unfairly fast after twelve.
all sharp cheekbones and long limbs and sun-bleached hair falling into blue eyes that looked softer than they actually were. girls at school started orbiting him without meaning to. teachers gave him too many second chances. parents laughed nervously at things that weren’t funny because ward cameron’s son smiled afterward.
he carried himself differently now too.
less frantic. more dangerous like he’d discovered exactly how much space he could take up in a room if he wanted to.
and still he showed up at her window throwing pebbles at two in the morning because he was bored.
some things never changed except she changed too. not suddenly more like the island itself shaped her over time.
summer-browned skin, saltwater-soft hair, hoodies stolen from friends and tied around her waist. a laugh people turned toward before realizing they were staring.
she became prettier in the quiet kind of way. the kind that snuck up on people. boys started finding excuses to talk to her at school. older girls copied the way she did her eyeliner. people remembered her name now instead of just recognizing her face beside rafe’s.
and rafe noticed all of it immediately.
every glance. every lingering conversation. every boy who stood too close. he never said anything directly. instead, he’d appear out of nowhere draping an arm across her shoulders while staring somebody down lazily. or interrupt conversations with: “you ready to go?” even when they’d arrived separately.
at first, she thought he was being annoying on purpose. then she realized rafe looked genuinely irritated afterward. which honestly made it funnier.
“you know you act insane, right?” she told him one afternoon after he scared off another freshman boy from talking to her outside school.
rafe blinked innocently from where he leaned against his truck. “what’d i do?”
“you stared at him like you wanted to kill him.”
“maybe i did.”
“rafe.”
“what? he looked annoying.”
“you didn’t even know him.”
“didn’t need to.”
she rolled her eyes, but secretly, part of her liked that rafe still looked for her first in every crowd like no matter how much they changed, some instinct inside him still circled back to her automatically.
except that instinct was starting to become something else now. something sharper. harder to name.
“if my dad catches you out there, he’s literally gonna kill you.”
she whispered harshly, shoving the window open anyway. rafe grinned from where he stood balanced on the roof outside. “nah. he likes me.”
“that’s because you lie to adults professionally.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
he climbed through the window like he owned the place, smelling like seawater and expensive cologne he definitely stole from ward. “c’mon.”
“rafe, it’s two in the morning.”
“exactly.”
“normal people sleep.”
“normal people are boring.”
he’d been saying that since he was eight. only now it sounded different coming out of his mouth. less childish and more intentional.
she narrowed her eyes at him. “where are we even going?”
“the beach.”
“for what?”
“you ask too many questions.”
“and you answer none of them.”
he just smirked and grabbed her hoodie off the chair before tossing it at her face. “move, princess.”
the beach at night felt enormous. waves crashing black against the shore. cold wind tangling through their hair. rafe walked ahead of her barefoot, carrying a six-pack he’d stolen from somewhere with casual expertise that concerned her deeply. “you know beer tastes disgusting, right?”
“you sound eighty.”
“you sound like you’re trying too hard.”
that got his attention. he glanced back over his shoulder. “trying too hard at what?”
she shrugged. “being cool.”
he scoffed immediately. “i am cool.”
“rafe, you got suspended last week for setting a paper towel dispenser on fire.”
“allegedly.”
“there were witnesses.”
“snitches.”
she laughed despite herself and for a second he smiled too — real and easy, dimples flashing briefly beneath moonlight. then it vanished again.
that happened more now. moments where she saw the old rafe before he covered him back up. they settled near the dunes eventually. rafe sprawled across the sand dramatically while she sat beside him pulling her knees against her chest.
for a while, they just listened to the ocean. comfortable silence. their version of peace.
then: “kelly morgan asked if i’d hook up with her.”
she snorted. “you’re thirteen.”
“and?”
“that’s disgusting.”
“you’re just jealous.”
“of kelly morgan? absolutely not.”
he laughed quietly at that. then took a sip from the beer before grimacing. “this tastes like shit.”
“wow. shocking development.”
“shut up.”
she smiled a little but when she looked over at him again, he’d gone distant. staring out at the water with that familiar tension in his jaw.
“what?” she asked softly.
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
he rubbed a hand over his face and suddenly he looked older than thirteen. “my dad’s been on my ass lately.”
there it was. always circling back to ward somehow. she leaned back onto her hands. “about what?”
“everything.” he kicked sand aggressively. “grades. golf. sarah getting into honors classes.” his voice sharpened slightly. “breathing wrong probably.”
she stayed quiet because by now she understood that interrupting rafe when he actually talked about real things usually made him stop altogether.
he scoffed under his breath. “he keeps saying i’m wasting potential.”
“that’s not the worst thing someone could say.”
“you didn’t hear how he said it.” the words hung there.
she looked over at him carefully. “you know parents are supposed to make you feel good about yourself, right?”
rafe barked out a laugh and not a happy one. “according to who?”
she didn’t know what to say to that. because honestly the older they got, the more obvious it became that something inside rafe was changing.
hardening.
he got angry faster now. meaner sometimes. more reckless. last month he’d bloodied a kid’s nose at a bonfire because the guy made some joke about sarah. afterward, rafe laughed while his knuckles bled like violence had thrilled him more than scared him.
that terrified her a little. mostly because part of him had looked relieved during it like hurting somebody finally matched the chaos already living in his chest.
“hey.” she blinked. rafe was watching her now. closely. “where’d you go?”
“nowhere.”
“liar.”
“you literally lie for sport.”
“yeah, but i’m good at it.”
she rolled her eyes and then, before she could stop herself: “sometimes i worry about you.” silence. the ocean crashed somewhere behind them. rafe’s expression went unreadable immediately. guarded. she regretted saying it almost instantly. “forget it.”
“why?”
“because.”
“because why?”
she looked away. “you’re different lately.”
the words came out quieter than intended. rafe went still beside her. “different how?”
dangerous question. she could feel it immediately like stepping onto thin ice. “i dunno,” she said carefully. “angrier.”
he stared at her for a long moment then smiled except it wasn’t really a smile. more like something sharp pretending to be one. “maybe you just didn’t notice before.”
her stomach twisted.
because somehow that felt true. and worse: some small part of her thought rafe wanted it to be true like if he convinced everyone he’d always been this way, nobody could mourn the version of him that used to be softer.
after that night, things between them shifted slightly.
not enough for anybody else to notice just enough for her to feel it. rafe started looking at her longer than he used to like he was trying to figure something out.
sometimes she’d catch him staring from across bonfires or hallways at school, expression unreadable until she noticed him — then suddenly he’d smirk or say something sarcastic to cover it up. other times he got weirdly irritated over nothing.
especially boys and especially when they touched her. “why was he hugging you?”
she blinked at him across the gas station parking lot. “because i’ve known him since kindergarten?”
rafe leaned against his truck with his arms crossed. “looked unnecessary.”
“it was literally a goodbye hug.”
“yeah, well. i didn’t like it.”
she stared at him. “you hear yourself, right?”
“all the time.” he said it without shame. that was the dangerous thing about rafe. he rarely hid the uglier parts of himself once they surfaced. he just smiled like daring people to call him on it.
that spring, he got into his first real fight.
not schoolyard shoving. not roughhousing. a real fight.
it happened at a beach bonfire packed with high school kids trying too hard to look older than they were. somebody brought vodka. somebody else brought fireworks. music blasted from cheap speakers while people stumbled through the sand laughing too loudly.
she found rafe near the waterline already drunk enough that his words blurred together around the edges.
“there y’are,” he said immediately when he saw her, grabbing her wrist. “been lookin’ for you.”
“you smell awful.”
“that’s mean.”
“you stole ward’s liquor again, didn’t you?”
“allegedly.”
she rolled her eyes then noticed blood on his knuckles. her stomach dropped. “rafe.”
he glanced down lazily. “oh. yeah.”
“what happened?”
“nothing.”
“you are literally bleeding.”
he shrugged like it was boring. “some guy was talking shit.”
“and?”
“and i told him to stop.”
she stared. “you punched him over talking?”
“nah.” a grin spread slowly across his face. “i punched him because he touched you earlier.”
silence. the ocean roared somewhere behind them. her chest tightened painfully. “what?”
rafe looked genuinely confused by her reaction. “he had his hand on your waist.”
“that doesn’t mean you get to hit people.”
“felt like i did.”
the words should’ve scared her more than they did. instead she just looked at him standing there beneath bonfire light — pretty and drunk and bleeding and looking at her like this all made perfect sense like she was something that belonged to him instinctively.
“you’re insane,” she whispered.
his grin widened. “yeah.” but then his expression softened slightly. just for her. “he shouldn’t’ve touched you.”
there it was again. that terrifying sincerity underneath all the arrogance. she hated how much it affected her. later that night, she sat beside him in the bed of his truck while everyone else ran through the surf screaming over fireworks. rafe leaned back against the cab beside her, shoulder pressed against hers.
drunk quieter now. thoughtful. his knuckles were swollen. she cleaned them anyway using napkins and water from somebody’s cooler.
“ow.”
“stop being dramatic.”
“i could be dying.”
“unfortunately you’re surviving.”
he laughed softly under his breath then went quiet again. she focused on wrapping one of his scraped fingers carefully.
“you know,” he said eventually, voice rougher now, “you always do that.”
“do what?”
“take care of me.”
her hands paused briefly. rafe stared out toward the ocean. not looking at her. “even when i’m an asshole.”
she swallowed. “you’re not always an asshole.”
“yeah?”
finally, he turned toward her. blue eyes heavy beneath half-lowered lashes, windswept hair. mouth split slightly at the corner from fighting. beautiful in the way storms were beautiful. “what am i then?”
the question felt bigger than it should’ve. she looked at him for too long because she honestly didn’t know anymore.
you’re my best friend. you’re exhausting. you’re lonely. you’re angry all the time. you’re still that little boy waiting upstairs for someone to come back for him.
instead she just tied off the makeshift bandage around his hand and muttered: “trouble.”
rafe smiled slowly at that. “yeah,” he said quietly. “probably.”
and for one dangerous second, sitting there beneath exploding fireworks and salt-heavy air, she realized something terrifying: she would probably love every version of him. even the ones that hurt her.
summer hit the obx hard that year.
everything felt overheated. the air. people’s tempers, her friendship with rafe. especially rafe.
because fourteen-year-old rafe cameron became impossible to ignore. he shot up another two inches over the summer, shoulders broadening, voice roughening unexpectedly. girls stared openly now. older girls too. waitresses smiled at him too long. boys either wanted to be him or punch him.
and rafe noticed every second of it. he started carrying himself with lazy confidence that didn’t quite fit yet, like he was testing out versions of himself to see which one people reacted to best.
some days he acted almost academic — sprawled beside her with books open, explaining random facts he’d memorized just because he liked the look on her face when he knew things she didn’t. “did you know sharks can smell blood from like a quarter mile away?”
“why do you know that?”
“because i read.”
“that’s deeply nerdy of you.”
“shut up.”
he’d grin afterward, all bright and boyish again. other days he became something sharper. louder, cockier and reckless in ways that made adults nervous.
he liked attention now. needed it, maybe. especially hers and whenever he didn’t have it he got mean.
“you flirting with him?”
she looked up from her towel on the beach. rafe stood over her dripping seawater, surfboard tucked under one arm, expression already irritated.
she blinked. “what?”
“that guy.” he jerked his chin toward some tourist boy she’d spoken to for maybe thirty seconds while buying drinks.
“i ordered a coke, rafe.”
“you were smiling.”
“people smile during conversations.”
“not like that.”
she stared at him incredulously. “what is wrong with you lately?”
his jaw tightened immediately. there. that switch, always so quick now. “nothing.”
“you act insane every time i talk to another guy.”
“maybe they should stop talking to you then.”
she laughed once because honestly what else was there to do except rafe didn’t laugh back. he looked serious. completely serious and suddenly the joke stopped being funny.
“rafe…”
“forget it.” he grabbed his board again before turning toward the ocean. angry now. at her, at himself, at things he didn’t know how to name.
she watched him paddle out too aggressively through the waves and felt something cold settle in her stomach because lately every conversation with rafe felt like standing near exposed wires. one wrong move and everything sparked.
the kiss happened two weeks later which was honestly the problem.
there was no lead-up, no confession, no grand realization like she'd seen and learned to yearn for in those movies her mom loved. instead, it was just years and years of something building quietly until one reckless moment cracked it open.
it happened at tanneyhill. ward and rose were hosting another party downstairs — music echoing through the massive house, adults drinking expensive wine while pretending their marriages worked.
rafe hated those nights.
she found him upstairs in his room sitting on the floor beside his bed with a physics textbook open beside him and music blasting through headphones.
“you’re studying voluntarily?” she asked dramatically.
he looked up immediately and softened. he always softened for her first. “failed my last test.”
“nerd.”
“bitch.”
“language.” she kicked his foot lightly before dropping beside him on the floor. for a while, things felt normal again. safe. he explained formulas while she doodled nonsense in the margins of his notebook. occasionally he’d shove her shoulder when she distracted him on purpose. easy.
until downstairs ward started yelling. muffled through floors but still loud enough. rafe went completely still. it happened instantly like somebody pulled all the warmth out of him at once.
she looked over carefully. “you okay?”
“mhm.”
lie. downstairs, another burst of angry voices echoed upward. then silence. the worst kind. rafe ripped his headphones off too harshly.
“i swear to god,” he muttered.
she watched him stand abruptly and start pacing. “rafe—”
“he’s drunk again.” his voice carried no surprise, just exhaustion.
“maybe don’t go down there right now.”
“it’s my house.”
“and he’s angry.”
“he’s always angry.”
the words snapped out sharper than intended. she stood slowly. “okay.”
rafe scrubbed both hands down his face and suddenly he looked young again. not the cocky beach boy. not ward cameron’s golden son just a kid trapped inside a house that never felt safe. “sorry,” he muttered quietly.
“you don’t have to apologize.”
another shout downstairs. rafe laughed once under his breath. empty. “you know what his problem is?” she stayed quiet. “i’m never enough for him.”
her chest tightened painfully. “rafe—”
“seriously.” he looked at her now, eyes bright with something dangerous. “i could get straight A’s, play golf, act exactly how he wants, and he’d still look at me like there’s something rotten inside me.”
“that’s not true.”
“it is.”
“it’s not.”
his breathing had gone uneven, agitated. he paced once more before stopping directly in front of her. “then why does everybody leave?”
the question hit like a slap because suddenly this wasn’t about ward anymore. it was about his mother, every fight, every bad thing he believed about himself. and somehow it was about her too. she swallowed hard. “i’m still here.”
rafe stared at her. really stared like he was trying to memorize the sentence. then his eyes dropped to her mouth. everything changed after that.
the air, the room, the space between them. she should’ve stepped back. instead she froze. and rafe looked terrified. not of her but of wanting something.
his voice came out rough. “you can’t say stuff like that to me.”
“what stuff?”
“that.”
before she could answer, he kissed her. messy, impulsive. too intense for fourteen. all the things rafe was becoming shoved into one moment. his hand cupped her jaw too fast, like he thought she might disappear before he got there. his mouth tasted faintly like mint and anger and summer.
for one impossible second she kissed him back because of course she did. she’d loved him in every version already. little boy rafe, angry rafe, lonely rafe, beautiful disaster rafe.
all of them.
his breath caught immediately when she kissed him back. a tiny sound, wrecked, like nobody had ever chosen him first before. and then the door downstairs slammed violently.
ward shouting. glass breaking somewhere below. rafe jerked back instantly like he’d been burned. his entire expression changed. panic replacing softness so fast it hurt to watch. “shit.”
she blinked at him, still dazed. “rafe—”
“we can’t.”
her stomach dropped. “what?”
he started backing away from her immediately. hands in his hair. breathing hard. “that was a mistake.”
the words hit harder than they should’ve because he looked like he meant them. or worse — like he needed to mean them.
“okay,” she said quietly, even though it wasn’t okay at all.
rafe looked sick suddenly. “i just—” he swallowed harshly. “you’re the only good thing i have.”
her chest cracked open because she understood immediately. he thought loving him would ruin her eventually. the worst part was that she wasn’t sure he was wrong.
after that, rafe disappeared for almost a week. not physically. she still saw him at school sometimes. hallways, parking lots, across classrooms but he acted like there was suddenly glass between them.
he stopped calling. stopped showing up at her window. stopped looking at her for more than half a second at a time which honestly hurt worse than if he’d just been angry.
because this felt deliberate like rafe had decided she was something dangerous now.
by friday, she was furious. she found him behind the gym after school sitting on the hood of his truck smoking a cigarette badly. he looked up when he heard her footsteps.
and for one split second relief crossed his face. raw and immediate then it vanished replaced by that careless expression he’d been practicing lately. “you stalking me now?”
she stopped in front of him. “what is your problem?”
he took another drag from the cigarette even though he clearly didn’t know how. “don’t have one.”
“rafe.”
“what?”
“you kissed me and then started acting like i died.”
his jaw tightened immediately. there. that panic underneath him now. “keep your voice down.”
“why?”
“because.”
“because why?”
he jumped off the hood abruptly. “can you stop doing that?”
“doing what?”
“making everything into a thing.”
she stared at him in disbelief. “you kissed me.”
“yeah, and it was stupid.”
the words came too fast, too rehearsed like he’d been trying to convince himself all week.
anger flashed hot through her chest. “wow.”
“you know what i mean.”
“no actually, i don’t.”
rafe scrubbed a hand over his face aggressively. he looked exhausted with those dark circles beneath his eyes, shoulders tense like he hadn’t slept properly in days. “i just…” he exhaled sharply. “i can’t do this with you.”
“do what?”
“this.”
he gestured wildly between them. helpful. “you’re my best friend.”
the sentence should’ve sounded sweet. instead it landed like a warning.
“and?” she asked quietly.
rafe looked at her then and suddenly all the anger drained out of his face, leaving behind something much worse: fear. “and people leave when i fuck things up.”
her breath caught. because there it was.
the real reason. not embarrassment and not regret. terror. pure terrified certainty that if he loved her the wrong way, he’d lose her completely.
“rafe—”
“don’t.” his voice cracked slightly. he looked away immediately afterward, ashamed of it. “i can’t lose you too.”
too. the smallest word possible and yet still devastating. she swallowed hard. “you’re not going to.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do.”
“how?”
because i stay. because i always stay. because i think i would let you break my heart forever if it meant you kept looking at me like that. instead she whispered: “because i’m here.”
rafe’s expression twisted painfully. for one dangerous second, she thought he might kiss her again. he stepped closer instinctively, eyes dropping to her mouth.
then somebody laughed nearby from the parking lot. the moment shattered instantly. rafe stepped back so fast it almost looked violent. walls up again. “forget it.”
she felt something inside her snap. “stop saying that.”
his eyes flashed. “saying what?”
“forget it. nothing. doesn’t matter.” her voice shook now despite trying to stop it. “you do all this shit and then act like i imagined it.”
“i’m trying to fix it.”
“fix what?”
“us.”
she laughed then. because suddenly she understood something awful: rafe thought loving her would destroy everything and he was so terrified of becoming the kind of person who ruined her that he was ruining her anyway.
“you know what?” she said quietly. “you’re becoming kinda mean.”
silence. wrong thing to say. immediately she knew it. rafe went completely still. his face emptied in that terrifying way he had now sometimes — all emotion disappearing at once instead of exploding outward. “mean?”
she hesitated but she was already here now. “yeah.”
his tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek. “right.”
“i didn’t mean that —”
“no, it’s fine.” except it very obviously wasn’t fine because suddenly he looked exactly like the little boy sitting on the dock asking if something was wrong with him. only now he was older and angrier and better at hiding the wound. “that’s what everybody thinks anyway.”
her stomach dropped. “rafe, that’s not what i said.”
“close enough.”
he grabbed his backpack roughly off the ground. she reached for his wrist instinctively. “wait.”
rafe froze. her fingers wrapped around his skin felt too familiar now. too intimate after the kiss. for a second neither of them moved and then quietly, without looking at her, he said: “you know the worst part?”
her throat tightened. “what?”
his laugh came out hollow. “i was actually trying really hard to be good for you.”
and somehow that hurt more than anything else he could’ve said. because if this was rafe trying his hardest what would happen when he stopped trying altogether?
they stopped talking in november. not all at once because that would’ve been easier. instead it happened slowly enough to feel like dying by inches.
first came the distance. missed calls. shorter conversations. days passing without seeing each other. then came avoidance. if she walked into a room, rafe found a reason to leave it. if she sat beside him in class, he suddenly needed to talk to someone else.
the absolute worst part was that she knew he was doing it on purpose because every now and then she’d catch him looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice and he always looked wrecked like avoiding her hurt him too.
he just kept doing it anyway. by fifteen, people started talking about rafe differently. not: “ward cameron’s son.” not: “that rich blond kid.” instead:
“did you hear what rafe did?” “apparently he got suspended again.” “he was wasted at the boneyard.” “he punched somebody.” “he hooked up with—”
his reputation arrived in rooms before he did now. and rafe leaned into it viciously. he started partying older, drinking harder, smiling meaner.
girls loved him. boys followed him around like satellites hoping some of the danger rubbed off. teachers gave up trying to “reach” him. even ward stopped pretending disappointment would fix anything.
sometimes she’d see rafe at parties surrounded by people and somehow looking lonelier than he ever had as a child. that hurt most because she remembered the little boy who used to wait by her driveway barefoot asking if she wanted to look for crabs on the beach.
and now he looked at people like he was daring them to leave first.
they officially stopped speaking after graduation. not because of a fight because by then they barely knew how.
she saw him once that summer at a gas station near figure eight. he leaned against a motorcycle smoking with two frat-looking guys beside him.
all broad shoulders now, gold chain around his neck, sunglasses hiding half his face. beautiful in a way that almost made her angry. he noticed her immediately.
of course he did. rafe always noticed her immediately. for one horrible second, everything around them seemed to pause. she saw it happen in real time: the old instinct.
his body straightening slightly. eyes tracking her automatically. that microscopic softening in his face.
then his friends said something and rafe smirked. just like that the wall slammed back into place. she looked away first. he never called after her. that night she cried so hard she made herself sick.
three years later, she saw him again and it felt like getting hit by a fucking monster truck.
unc chapel hill was crawling with boys exactly like rafe cameron. rich, loud, drunk on inherited money and cheap beer except none of them were actually like rafe because nobody else walked into rooms carrying that much destruction inside them.
the party was already packed by the time she arrived. music shaking the floors, girls in tiny dresses stumbling through crowds, frat boys yelling over pong tables.
she almost left immediately. until someone shouted: “yo, cameron!”
and suddenly every nerve in her body lit on fire. she turned before she could stop herself and there he was. older. god. older.
twenty-one looked devastating on rafe. his body had fully grown into violence now. broad chest beneath a half-unbuttoned polo, thick forearms veined from lifting, rings glinting beneath red solo cup light.
his hair was shorter. his jaw sharper. his eyes colder and people moved around him differently. carefully like they sensed something unstable underneath all the charm.
girls touched him constantly. guys laughed too hard at his jokes. someone handed him another drink before he even finished the first.
he looked like every frat fantasy rolled into one and also like somebody moments away from setting himself on fire.
then he saw her. everything stopped. not around them. just inside him. she watched it happen. the shift.
his smile fading slowly. eyes locking onto hers across the crowded room. that terrifying intensity she remembered too well crawling back instantly.
for one second, one tiny awful second, he looked exactly like fourteen again. wrecked, hopeful and fucking terrified. then one of the girls hanging off his arm whispered something in his ear and frat-boy rafe came back immediately.
he grinned lazily. looked away first like she meant nothing. that should’ve hurt less after all these years. instead it felt surgical. she made it exactly forty minutes before he cornered her in the kitchen.
of course he did because rafe had always found her eventually. always.
“well,” he drawled, leaning against the counter beside her, “this is fuckin’ weird.”
his voice had deepened. rough now. whiskey-soaked around the edges. she refused to look at him directly. “hi, rafe.”
“that all i get?”
finally she glanced over. big mistake. he was even prettier up close which honestly felt unfair considering the emotional damage. his nose slightly crooked now from fights, faint scar near his chin, expensive cologne mixed with alcohol and smoke.
he looked like every bad decision a girl could make wrapped into one person and he was staring at her like he wanted to devour her alive. “what do you want me to say?” she asked quietly.
something flickered across his face. hurt maybe that was gone instantly.
“damn.” he laughed under his breath. “still mean to me, huh?”
the audacity nearly made her dizzy. “you stopped talking to me for three years.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he took a long sip from his drink. then: “you stopped trying.”
that landed directly between her ribs because the worst part was part of her still carried guilt for it. for eventually getting tired. for letting him go. for not fighting harder against the tide dragging him under.
rafe watched her expression carefully. always observant underneath the chaos. always smarter than people realized. “there she is,” he murmured softly.
“what?”
“that look.”
her throat tightened because suddenly he sounded familiar again. not frat rafe. not party rafe. her rafe. the boy who used to know every emotion crossing her face before she said a word.
“you still do that thing,” he said quietly.
“what thing?”
“look at me like you’re mourning somebody.”
silence. the music downstairs pounded violently through the floorboards. neither of them moved.
rafe watched her for a long moment.
frat house lights flickered gold across his face. music thundered downstairs. people laughed somewhere beyond the kitchen like the world wasn’t ending quietly between them.
then he smiled, wrong around the edges. “you keep looking at me like you’re mourning somebody,” he said softly. her throat tightened. rafe’s laugh came out hollow. “you keep looking for the kid i used to be, but i think he stopped existing a long time ago.”
silence pressed hard between them. he took another sip from his drink without breaking eye contact. “you wanna know the fucked up part?” he asked quietly. “i think i became exactly what everybody expected.”
the words hit like bruises.
because standing in front of her was every version of rafe at once: the lonely little boy. the angry teenager. the beautiful disaster everybody wanted pieces of and somehow none of them looked happy.
“everybody here thinks i’m having fun,” he continued, voice rough now. “you’re the only one looking at me like you can tell i’m drowning.”
her chest physically hurt. rafe swallowed hard before laughing again under his breath. “i spent three years trying to become somebody who wouldn’t miss you this much.” another pause. “didn’t take.”
she looked away first because she couldn’t breathe correctly anymore. and quietly — so quietly she almost missed it — he admitted: “i think losing you made me meaner. i think,” rafe said slowly, eyes glassy beneath frat house lights, “you’re the only person who notices how bad i got.”
© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE , do not copy, translate or edit my work as your own nor feed it into anything for your amusement.
A/N: this is a series id definitely commit myself too so if anyone else would be interested please comment some love!
join the taglist here, divider credits to @/pixopix
taglist: @heathandrewstarkey , @corallandtragedy3 , @awrad2 , @filthyrafe , @bonjourjiminie , @dopepeacedestiny , @unicornyogakween , @eerilyjaggedconstruct , @heartsforvenus , @skkeletonns , @bonni-98 , @ljh22 , @shmd-nora , @harrrrystylesslut , @angel06babysworld , @rosiecherie , @loveislikeathunder , @shewants7 , @ssugartalkin , @kurtcobaintbh , @ana09hb , @be0m9yu, @octoberbxby , @joelmillrenthusiast , @drewsbby , @sex-the1975 , @rafesbunnygirl
