The Eighth
the eighth masterlist | part ten
pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron
cw: good ole love makin'
a/n: sooo...just a note, I've been trying to post every Sunday for the last few chapters and will continue along with that schedule. Also, I imagine Owen as Ross Lynch when he was brunette. And one last thing... I reached 200 followers the other day and just wanted to take a quick moment to show my gratitude for everything- the likes, reblogs, and comments. I'm glad this series is being enjoyed and loved. More to come.. stay tuned!
You’re seated on your flight back to New York, forehead gently pressed against the cool window. The sky outside is a wash of fading blues and soft clouds, but you barely notice. You’re not watching the scenery- you’re hiding behind it. Quietly crying in business class.You blink quickly, trying to keep your tears from becoming too obvious, even as one slips down your cheek. You dab it away with the corner of your sleeve, pretending to adjust your seatbelt. You’ve never cried like this over a goodbye before- not even the dramatic ones in the past. But this one? This one tore something out of you.
It was the hardest goodbye you’ve ever had to say.
By the time the wheels touch down in New York, you feel slightly more composed. Slightly. The kind of “fine” that’s just good enough to get you through baggage claim. But your face tells the truth- eyes puffy and rimmed red, your cheeks flushed, your nose sore from dabbing away tears for hours. Your driver says nothing, thankfully. Just nods and helps with your bag before dropping you off at your apartment. Once inside, you shut the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a moment. The quiet of your place feels heavier than usual, like it knows your heart is too full and too empty at the same time.
You strip off your travel clothes and run a warm bath, letting the tub fill slowly while you pour in lavender salts, a few drops of oil, and a bath bomb that releases soft foam. You sink in and let your head fall back, the warmth wrapping around your body like a hug you didn’t know you needed. But even the water can’t wash away the ache in your chest. After your bath, you towel off, slip into your softest lounge clothes, and curl up on the couch. You don’t even bother opening the blinds. The apartment stays dim and cozy as you pull a blanket over your legs, open a fresh bag of snacks, and flip on Love Island- the kind of background noise that doesn’t require thinking.
You’d always judged the show a little, but now, in your raw emotional state, something about it feels… oddly comforting. You start to understand the appeal—- the longing, the messiness, the way people reach for love even when it’s complicated and loud and imperfect. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. The soft sound of accents and flirtations fades into the background as sleep starts to pull you under.
Knock knock.
The sudden sound jerks you awake. You sit up, blinking fast, heart racing slightly from the jolt of it. You weren’t expecting anyone. Not tonight. Not now. You glance at the door. Another knock.
Slower this time. More hesitant. You wipe your face with your sleeve again and stand, your breath catching in your throat as you quietly cross the room, wondering who could possibly be on the other side.
You press your eye to the peephole, squinting. The fisheye lens distorts everything, but there’s no mistaking the two figures on the other side of your door: Noel is practically pressed against it, her face magnified and wide-eyed, while Allegra stands a few feet behind her, effortlessly composed, arms crossed like she’s posing for the cover of a fashion editorial. You crack the door open.
Before you can even say hello, Noel throws herself at you with a dramatic squeal, wrapping her arms tightly around your neck. You stumble back a step from the force of her hug, the breath catching in your throat, but it’s a good kind of surprise.
“You’re back!” she says, squeezing you like she hasn’t seen you in years.
Allegra walks in behind her, cool as ever, letting the door click shut behind her. She doesn’t say much, just offers you a quiet, assessing look as she leans against the wall, arms still folded. She’s the final boss of emotional control, sharp eyes taking in everything without giving much away.
“I am,” you reply softly, finally letting Noel go.
Noel’s still smiling as she pulls back, but her expression shifts when she gets a better look at you. Her brows furrow and she tilts her head, the way someone does when they’re not sure if you’re about to laugh or cry.
“You okay?” she asks gently, one hand rubbing your upper arm in slow circles.
You nod automatically- an instinct, a reflex, a lie you don’t even mean to tell. You try to summon a smile, but it wavers before it can fully form. Allegra’s gaze sharpens a little, and Noel’s hand stills.
And then it hits you. Like a crack in the dam.
Your breath hitches, your chin trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re covering your face with your hands and sobbing- raw, quiet at first, then deeper, like something’s been waiting to escape. Noel immediately wraps her arms around you again, holding you tighter than before, rubbing your back and whispering something soft you can’t quite make out.
“Oh, Y/N…” she breathes, her voice a blend of sympathy and heartbreak.
Allegra crosses the room quietly, sitting on the arm of your couch. She doesn’t say anything just yet- but her posture shifts. Arms uncrossed, one hand resting on her thigh, the other hanging loosely. Still chill, but open. Present. The silence in the room is suddenly warm. Held. You’re not alone in this. You let Noel hold you for a little longer before finally exhaling against her shoulder, your body a little lighter for it.
After Allegra brews a pot of tea in your kitchen -her only domestic act of the week, probably- the three of you settle back onto your living room couch, mugs in hand and socks pulled up. The steam curls between you like fog over water, and for once, the room feels soft enough to confess in.
You tell them everything. About Rafe. About your parents. About how you lied to Becca yesterday- and how the guilt of it is still sitting on your chest like a paperweight.
Allegra takes a long sip of her tea and raises an eyebrow. “This Rafe guy better be hot for all that trouble.”
You let out a breath of a laugh, rubbing your fingers along the rim of your mug.
“He is. Unfortunately. He’s also an asshole… but like-” you shrug with a helpless smile, “in the most charmingly infuriating way possible.”
“Charming assholes are still assholes.” Allegra snorts, ever the realist.
Noel gives her a subtle side-eye, the way a tired mom might glance at a brash aunt during a family dinner. She turns back to you, voice softer.
“It was really sweet of him. All those gifts. The ring. And letting you set boundaries without throwing a tantrum? That’s… rare.”
She’s always been the optimist of the two. The one who looks for the stitch in the tear. They don’t press you for more. Instead, they stay for another half hour, chatting about upcoming shoots and weird subway stories before eventually gathering their things. You walk them to the door, hugging Noel tight and giving Allegra a playful side-eye when she calls you a “lovesick poet.”
Once they leave, the apartment falls into quiet again. You pad barefoot back into the kitchen, tossing the used tea bags in the trash and rinsing out the mugs before setting them in the sink. Your fingers trail across the counter. You pause a moment, just breathing. Letting the stillness settle.
Then you return to your dent in the couch, picking up your phone absentmindedly. There’s a missed call. Rafe.
Your heart jumps- not sharply, but enough to remind you it’s still tender. You hadn’t heard it. The phone was on vibrate. Without thinking too hard, you press redial.
He answers almost instantly, like he’s been holding the phone in his hand.
“Y/n,” he breathes. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you say softly, tucking your knees up. “Sorry I missed your call- I had some friends over.”
There’s a pause. You don’t say who. He doesn’t ask. But you can feel the question hovering there, unsaid, like smoke.
“I was just calling to see how your flight went,” he says finally, voice low and careful. It sounds like he’s lying in bed, speaking in that nighttime tone, halfway between sleepy and raw.
Your eyes sting suddenly. Not sadness exactly. But a wave of something, nostalgia, grief, longing, all braided together.
“It was fine,” you whisper, brushing away a tear. “Thanks for asking.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Do you need anything?” His voice drops even gentler, like he’s checking on a sick child. A part of you aches at the tenderness.
You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No… I’m okay. Do you?”
“I’m good,” he says, though there’s something fragile behind the words.
The silence that follows is not awkward. It’s not heavy either. Just full. Like you’re both on the other end of something you don’t know how to name.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he says at last, even though neither of you want to hang up.
You nod, barely. “Okay.”
“Goodnight, Y/n.”
“Goodnight, Rafe.” You hesitate.
And then he says it, so softly you almost miss it: “Love you.”
You don’t know if it’s muscle memory or something he meant to say. But it leaves you breathless all the same.
“I love you too,” you reply without thinking, because it’s true, even if it’s not simple.
—
You walk the red carpet beside Celeste, the sharp hum of camera shutters creating a kind of rhythm beneath the clamor. Bright flashes go off from every direction, bouncing off the velvet ropes and polished shoes. You try to keep your expression neutral, composed, but your fingers are gripping the clutch in your hand like it’s a lifeline. Never in a million years did you imagine you’d be the one being photographed by paparazzi. The second you both step inside the venue, the sound dims behind the thick doors, replaced by a pulsing bass and the muffled chatter of a glamorous crowd. Glittering chandeliers hang overhead, and fashion insiders dressed in layers of perfectly executed effortlessness float from corner to corner.
“You’ll be doing this soon,” Celeste says, glancing over at you with a knowing smile. “Running around, getting people ready for a show. Styling chaos. Controlled panic. And the best adrenaline rush you’ll ever have.”
You nod, managing a smile. It’s genuine. But faint.
She notices. Of course she does. “You okay?” she asks, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back.
You nod again, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… feeling a little off today.”
Her eyes study your face, sharp and soft at once. “You sure? You’ve seemed… a little out of it. Since you got back from the OBX- what, two weeks ago?” She lowers her voice slightly, leaning in. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“What? No! God, no,” you whisper-shout, turning to her with wide eyes.
She lifts her hands in mock surrender, though there’s a glint of amusement in her expression. Still, she gives you a sympathetic look. Celeste doesn’t push -not when she knows you’re not ready- but she doesn’t stop noticing either.
“Well, if you ever want to talk about whatever’s causing that far-off stare of yours…” she taps the side of her own head before straightening. “Want to go backstage?”
Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, we can do that?”
“This is one of the perks, sweetheart,” she grins. “Come on.”
She leads you through a side corridor lined with moody lighting and abstract art, and suddenly, the glamour gives way to organized chaos. Backstage is a world of its own -flooded with fluorescent lights, the smell of hairspray and heat tools thick in the air. Models swerve around racks of clothes in six-inch heels. Stylists bark last-minute changes. There’s a distinct hiss of a steamer somewhere and the rhythmic click of someone power-walking in platform boots.
“This,” Celeste says, gesturing to the controlled whirlwind around you, “is what you’ll be knee-deep in soon.”
You blink, wide-eyed, taking it all in. “It’s like a beautiful war zone.”
She laughs. “Exactly. And you’re going to thrive in it.”
A voice calls out over the clamor. “Celeste, darling!”
You both turn. The woman approaching is unmistakably the designer- she wears a cropped white baby tee with a blue-and-green patterned shawl tossed over it, like a cape. A flowy cobalt skirt brushes the floor as she walks, her oversized glasses perched at the tip of her nose. Her hair’s twisted into a makeshift bun, held together by a pencil, and somehow it works.
She hugs your aunt tightly before turning to you. “And this must be the lovely Y/N I keep hearing about!”
Caught slightly off guard, you offer a shy wave before reaching out your hand. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m incredibly honored to be here.”
She takes your hand with the grace of someone who knows the importance of first impressions.
“The honor’s all mine. Celeste tells me you’re the future of this industry.”
You let out a nervous laugh. “She’s being generous,” you say, glancing at your aunt.
“She’s being honest,” the designer corrects you with a wink. “And something tells me you’ll be running a show of your own soon enough.”
Celeste nudges you gently. “Told you.”
And for a moment, surrounded by talent and vision and the buzz of creativity, you almost believe it. Almost forget the ache of a boy back home, the tension with your mother, and the lie that still lingers between you and Becca.
Almost.
-
As you and Celeste settle into your assigned seats near the front row, a soft hum of anticipation buzzes through the room. Guests chat over glasses of champagne, glossy programs flutter in manicured hands, and the runway -clean, stark, and glowing under overhead lights- waits like a blank canvas about to come alive.
You glance down at your phone, unlocking it out of instinct, and see a notification: a text from Rafe.
Rafe: that’s good to hear. hope you enjoy it. love you.
Your stomach flips- not in a bad way, but not in a good one either. That sort of ache that reminds you of what once felt like home. This was his response to you telling him you were attending a fashion show.
Since you left the Outer Banks, the two of you have been… cordial. The texts are consistent. Soft check-ins. How are you’s. What are you up to today’s. The kind of gentle familiarity you might find between two people pretending they’re not standing on the remnants of something once intense.
There are no late-night confessions. No flirtatious remarks. No heavy moments of emotional weight. Just small conversations that carefully tiptoe around the memory of a shared summer.
But the “I love yous”- those still come from him. Regularly. Softly. Like muscle memory.
And you? You’ve stopped saying it first. You’ll echo it when you hang up the phone, maybe. Whisper it back sometimes when it feels right. But never more than that. Never like before. Because you’re trying to keep it friendly.
You’re trying to make it platonic. At least… that’s what you keep telling yourself.
You snap a quick photo of the runway -just the clean minimalist view, nothing filtered, nothing curated- and send it to him without a caption. Something casual. Easy. Just as the house lights begin to dim, you slide your phone into your purse out of respect, folding your hands in your lap. The music starts low and slow, and you take a steadying breath as the first model steps out.
Your eyes remain fixed on the runway. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re still thinking about that text. Still thinking about him.
——
After lunch with Celeste and a few others—publishers, models, someone who swore they’d “just flown in from Paris that morning”- you return to your apartment. You’re full, a little dazed from small talk, and even more exhausted from pretending to be okay.
As soon as you unlock the door, Celeste walks in behind you and pauses just past the threshold, surveying the space.
“You haven’t really decorated much, have you?” she muses aloud, toeing off her heels with a soft clunk.
“Not really, no,” you mumble, already flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. She joins you, folding herself gracefully into the seat beside you, one leg tucked under the other. She leans her head on her hand, elbow perched on the back cushion, watching you quietly.
“I’m not going to push,” she starts, her voice gentle. “But I just want you to know that if -or when- you want to talk, I’m here. No pressure. I just… I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not being yourself. And it’s worrying me.”
You try to swallow it down, but the weight of her words hits something raw in you. Your throat tightens. “I just…” you begin, already blinking past the sting behind your eyes. “I like this life. I really do. The job, the city, the opportunity… I should be happy.” You pause, voice breaking. “But I left so much behind. And it hurts more than I thought it would.”
Celeste nods slowly. “It does hurt,” she agrees quietly, her tone warm and maternal. “Letting go of anything meaningful always does.” Then, she tilts her head, studying you carefully. “Is this about that Rafe character?”
You look at her, startled. “How did you—?”
She chuckles, waving a hand. “Your mom and I aren’t as estranged as you think. She said a name in passing. And you’re not exactly hard to read when something’s weighing on you.”
Your gaze drops to the coffee table, where your sketches and fabric swatches lie in a beautiful mess. You sigh, reaching up to scratch at your temple like you’re trying to get the pressure out of your head.
“It’s a long story,” you say finally, voice low.
“Good,” she smiles, already standing up and heading for the kitchen. “Because I’m putting the kettle on.”
You hear her rummaging through cabinets, the sound of water running, and it brings a small bit of comfort. The kind of comfort that makes you feel, even for a moment, like you’re not entirely alone in this big, beautiful, lonely city.
-
It feels like déjà vu- just like that first night back in New York, sitting across from Allegra and Noel, pouring your heart out. Only this time, it’s Celeste. And somehow, repeating the story doesn’t make it any easier to tell.
You walk her through everything- your parents, Becca’s party, the summer that blurred into something both painful and beautiful, and finally, Rafe. Every detail, from the high to the heartbreak, spills out between quiet sips of tea.
When you finish, Celeste sits quietly for a moment, her hands wrapped around her mug.
“I’m not trying to invalidate your pain,” she says carefully, “but… I think you did the right thing.”
You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”
The silence that follows is thick. Not awkward- just heavy. You’re about to speak again when she gently lifts a few pages from the coffee table.
“These designs are really good,” she says, flipping through them slowly.
You glance up, grateful for the change in subject. You were dangerously close to crying again.
“You really think so?” you ask, wiping your cheek with your sleeve before she can notice the gloss in your eyes.
Celeste holds up one of your sketches- a slinky gown with layered mesh and delicate embroidery. “These could make it into a runway show someday, you know.”
You shrug, half-embarrassed. “I just… I drew them without thinking. Just something to get my mind off things.”
“Even better,” she says, looking up at you. “That just proves your talent. Some people spend weeks trying to force something that wouldn’t hold a candle to these.”
A soft smile tugs at your lips. You stare into your mug, letting her words settle. Then, she sets the drawings down and glances at you with a more serious expression.
“How would you feel about running the behind-the-scenes of a show one day?” she asks, casually, but you can tell she’s testing the waters.
Your stomach flips. The idea excites you- but it terrifies you more.
“Uhhh… I don’t know,” you admit, your voice slightly tight. “That sounds… intense.”
“It is,” Celeste agrees. “But you don’t have to say yes now. Just think about it. It’s a good stepping stone- plus, it’ll give you more credibility when you’re the one running the show.”
You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. The idea lingers like the steam rising from your tea- hazy, warm, and a little intimidating. But maybe… maybe possible.
-
“You don’t want to do that though?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the quiet of your bedroom, low and pointed.
You’re mid-stride, walking around in a towel with under-eye patches stuck to your face, digging through your closet for something to wear. Your phone is propped up on the nightstand, plugged in and pointed at the ceiling. He’s FaceTiming you- his full face in frame as he lays on his bed, while yours is nowhere to be seen.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you say, tossing a rejected shirt onto the growing pile on your bed. “It’s just… it feels like too much, too fast.”
There’s a pause, long enough for you to wonder if he’s going to let it go. But then, his voice cuts through again- softer this time, careful.
“Isn’t that the whole point of walking away from the OBX?”
You freeze with your hand hovering over a pair of jeans. He’s not talking about the island. Not really. He’s talking about you and him. About how you pulled away- how you said goodbye. This is his quiet way of saying: Wasn’t that the reason you let me go?
You chew the inside of your cheek. Rafe Cameron holding up a mirror to you… yeah, you didn’t see that one coming. “I mean… yeah. I guess,” you admit, turning away from the closet. “I just didn’t think I’d get thrown into everything so fast. I needed time to… breathe.”
“What did you expect would happen?” he asks gently, but it still strikes a nerve- because he’s not wrong. And you hate that.
You sigh. “I don’t know.” You shrug as if he can see it. “Hey, um… I’m heading out in a sec. Can we talk later?”
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Love you.”
You don’t say it back. Not this time. You just hang up before the silence gets any heavier. You finish getting ready in a rush, pulling on a gray miniskirt and a black corset top. The outfit is edgier than your usual, but there’s something about Allegra’s effortless cool that’s been rubbing off on you lately. Black platform Mary Janes, gold jewelry, a matching purse. You straighten your hair, swipe on a final coat of lip gloss, and give yourself a once-over in the mirror. You look good. You feel… almost good.
Phone in hand, you head downstairs. Owen’s already waiting in the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He smiles as soon as he sees you, stepping forward into a warm, friendly hug.
“Hey,” he says, pulling back with a quick glance over your outfit. “You look- wow.”
“Thanks,” you grin. “I see we’re still waiting on the girls?”
“Supposedly,” he chuckles, pulling out his phone. A moment later, both of yours buzz with the same group text.
Allegra: Change of plans. We’re bailing. Go without us. Have fun ;)
Noel: You’re welcome <3
You blink down at the screen, then glance up at Owen. He’s already smiling.
“They’re trying to set us up,” you say.
“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees.
A laugh escapes you as you both head toward the door.
“Well,” you say, pushing it open, “let’s give them something to gossip about.”
He laughs and follows you out into the night.
-
You swipe the last fry through the ketchup, popping it into your mouth just as Owen finishes telling a story that has you nearly choking from laughter.
“So then she looks at me -dead serious- and says, ‘You’re not even a real photographer, are you? You just pretend so you can sleep with models.’” He shakes his head, grinning at the memory. “Meanwhile, I’m literally holding a $5,000 camera and wearing a lanyard that says CREW.”
You snort. “No way.”
“I swear!” he says, still laughing. “And the craziest part is- she still tried to sleep with me.”
Your jaw drops in amused disbelief. “Wait. She thought you were some kind of fraud and still made a move?”
“Yep. Apparently, I’m just that charming.”
You narrow your eyes playfully. “And you, a man, turned that down?”
He leans back in the booth, mock-offended. “What can I say? I’m not easy.”
You burst into laughter. “Wow. The bar. It’s in hell. But go ahead, king of standards.”
He gives you a playful salute. “A man of honor.”
You shake your head, still giggling as you reach for your water. And then, in a quiet moment between jokes, it hits you—you’re genuinely having a good time. Like… a real one. The first time since you left the OBX after Becca’s birthday that your laughter doesn’t feel like a mask or a distraction. It’s light, easy. It’s not pretending.
You lean your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm, and glance at Owen. He’s still smiling, stirring the ice in his drink with his straw.
“I forgot how nice this could be,” you admit softly, mostly to yourself.
Owen looks up. “What?”
You sit up straight. “Nothing,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a smile. “Just… this has been nice.”
His smile softens. “Yeah. It really has.”
You look down at your empty plate, fighting the urge to overthink the moment. For now, it’s enough to feel like yourself again- even if only for the night.
“You’re not going to laugh if I ask whether you need me to walk you upstairs, are you?” Owen asks, his voice teasing but sincere.
You laugh, turning slightly toward him on the sidewalk. “Only if you’re not offering just to stoop below your usual standards and try to get with me.”
He lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “I swear, that wasn’t the intention. Scout’s honor.”
You tilt your head at him, amused. “I won’t laugh at you,” you say gently, “but I will turn down your offer- kindly.”
You step into a hug before he can say anything else, and his arms come around your waist without hesitation. It’s warm. Uncomplicated. And you’re not mad at it. Not at all.
“Goodnight, Owen,” you murmur into his shoulder before pulling away.
He blinks at you, looking slightly dazed. “I -uh- goodnight, Y/n,” he stumbles, running a hand through his hair as you walk away.
You flash a quick, polite smile to the doorman as he opens the building’s glass door for you. Once inside, you step into the elevator, leaning your head back against the wall with a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Your apartment greets you with familiar stillness. You kick off your shoes, toss your purse on the counter, and head into your room, where the city lights bleed softly through the sheer curtains.
You sit on the edge of your bed and finally let yourself smile- an honest, full one that spreads across your face like warmth.
It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t chaos. But it was something steady. Something light.
You think back over the evening -no pressure, no expectations, just genuine laughter and conversation- and a strange but welcome thought crosses your mind: this is the first time you’ve had a good time with a guy… without sex even being a part of the equation.
You exhale and nod to yourself, letting the realization settle. Maybe things really are starting to shift.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t dread what comes next.
-
Between work, late-night hangs with Allegra and Noel, and your one-on-one outings with Owen, life had taken on a kind of rhythm again. Not perfect- but steady. Predictable in a way that felt safe. You were finally slipping back into your groove, and for the first time since leaving OBX, things felt… healthy.
You still talked to Rafe from time to time -brief check-ins, the occasional “hope you’re okay” text- but it wasn’t like before. You hadn’t told him about Owen. It didn’t feel like something he needed to know. And, thankfully, he hadn’t pushed. His texts had gotten less frequent, more respectful of your space. Maybe he was finally realizing what you both had been too afraid to admit: that chapter needed to close, or at least stay tucked away for now.
You’re leaned over the bathroom sink, eyeliner in hand, trying to keep your hand steady as music thumps from your portable speaker. Allegra and Noel move around you like you’re all sharing choreography, slipping between makeup bags and hot tools without saying a word. This time, they were actually going out with you -no surprise dates, no matchmaker schemes- just a girls’ night.
The three of you end up at a sleek bar in SoHo- marble countertops, candlelight glow, overpriced martinis in frosted glasses. You’re mid-sip when a guy walks past your table and you and Allegra both clock him. Tall, good hair, sharp jaw.
“Him.” Allegra whispers with a smirk.
“I’d climb him like a tree,” you murmur, setting your glass down.
Noel makes a face. “Ew. He looks like he cries after sex.”
You laugh, nearly choking on your drink. That’s when it happens.
“Is that ALLEGRA?”
You turn simultaneously with the girls, your stomach already twisting at the tone. The voice belongs to a tall brunette with rich-girl posture, all cheekbones and lip gloss. She’s model-pretty, and worse- she knows it. You instinctively straighten your shoulders.
Allegra sets her martini down slowly, her expression souring just for a second before she spins around with a sugary smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Miya!” she sings, stepping in for a hug. You and Noel rise behind her like backup dancers, exchanging a quick look of shared dread.
“How are you?! You look amazing!” Miya exclaims, holding Allegra’s arms like she’s about to auction her off.
“I’m great, how are you? You look… exactly the same,” Allegra replies sweetly.
The passive aggression between them is so thick you could ice a cake with it. You want to laugh, but you don’t. You’re a guest in this catfight.
“Oh, you know,” Miya says, flipping her perfectly waved hair over her shoulder. “Just climbing the ranks, going into my third year of Fashion Week. No big deal.” Her tone is drenched in false humility. “It’s been incredible.”
“That’s amazing,” Allegra says, all smiles. “I love that for you and your nepotism.”
You nearly snort. Oscar-worthy, the both of them- smiling like sorority sisters, clawing like alley cats.
Miya doesn’t miss a beat. “So… what happened to you following me on Insta?” Her voice turns syrupy-sweet. “I was scrolling through my one point two million followers and noticed you weren’t there anymore, and I got sooo confused. I thought we were, like, really good friends.”
You and Noel visibly cringe.
Allegra cocks her head. “You know what? That was probably my agent. She goes through my socials sometimes and deletes accounts with low engagement or… irrelevant reach.” Her smile never wavers. “But I’ll be sure to follow you again. Promise.”
This whole interaction is faker than a reality TV romance.
“That’d be amazing,” Miya beams, her pouty lip back in place. “Because I still follow you- even though I promised myself I’d never follow anyone with less than a million.”
Allegra laughs like Miya just told a great joke. “Well, so good seeing you, girl! You look…” she pauses, eyeing her outfit, “expensive.”
“Always,” Miya chirps.
Allegra turns on her heel, and you and Noel follow like shadows. The second you’re out of earshot, Noel mutters, “Was she real, or a Madame Tussauds wax figure come to life?”
“I don’t think she even knows we exist,” you add.
“She doesn’t,” Allegra confirms, rolling her eyes. “And thank God for that.”
You clink your martinis in quiet solidarity and head toward the other end of the bar.
-
The three of you sit drunk in a half-empty local pizza joint, the glow of the fluorescent lights bouncing off the red-and-white checkered tablecloths. Aside from a couple slumped over in the corner and a lone delivery guy picking up an order, the place is practically deserted- not surprising since it’s close to midnight.
Laughter bubbles at your table, the kind that only comes when you’re slightly sleep-deprived, full of carbs, and safe with people who get you.
“I hate her,” Allegra declares, rolling her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. She drops her phone onto the table with a dramatic thud- Miya’s Instagram page still open.
You lean over to glance at the grid of glossy selfies, ad campaigns, and filtered story highlights, before taking another bite of your pizza. “Okay, but what is your deal with her? It’s giving frenemy vibes… minus the ‘friend’ part.”
“She thinks she’s untouchable because her dad’s on the board for what gets approved for final Vogue spreads or something insane like that,” Allegra huffs, crossing her arms. “Top-tier nepotism baby. Trust fund. Insta fame. The face people fawn over?” She gestures at the screen. “Put under the needle. Thrice.”
Noel snorts into her water and glances your way. “That still doesn’t answer Y/N’s question.”
Allegra sighs, like the story itself is exhausting. “Okay, fine. We used to be cool. Like, actually cool. She was one of those trust-fund influencers who vlogged her whole life- Coachella trips, sponsored hauls, tacky celebrity parties with every D-list person you can think of.”
“She’s a stereotype,” Noel mutters.
“Exactly. Meanwhile, I moved here trying to go to acting school, remember? My dad -a producer- was like, ‘You’re either singing, or I’m cutting you off.’ So I picked up a few modeling gigs to survive, ended up getting signed. Booked and Busy.” Allegra leans back in her chair with a shrug. “The second she saw I was doing something real with my life -more than just filming herself in crop tops- she got weird. Jealous. Next thing I know, she’s injecting her face, getting long-ass extensions, and suddenly she’s walking next to me at New York Fashion Week… for her first ever show.”
You and Noel exchange wide-eyed looks as Allegra continues, her voice rising slightly.
“Then she ghosted me. Pretended we were never close. But still acts fake nice every time we run into each other like tonight.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Not me. That ship sailed. I think the fuck not, bitch.”
You can’t help it- you burst out laughing. There’s something deeply satisfying about Allegra’s unapologetic rage, especially paired with the dramatic flick of her wrist as she pushes the phone away from her. Curious, you pull out your own phone and type in Miya’s name.
Noel leans over. “You stalking now too?”
“Maybe,” you say, tapping through Miya’s photos- picture after picture of her posing outside art deco hotels and on rooftops in Paris. But it isn’t until you scroll to the top of the page that your heart skips.
You pause. Blink. Scroll back up to make sure you read it right.
Followed by RafeCameron_
You freeze.
“Something wrong?” Noel asks, catching your face change.
You force a half-smile and shake your head, but your stomach sinks slightly. You can’t help but wonder:
Did he just start following her… or has he been? And either answer feels worse than the other.
-
You lie on your bed, cross-legged in yesterday’s clothes, mind racing as you fiddle with your phone. Your fingers tap against the screen, then backtrack. You open Rafe’s contact. Close it. Open it again.
It’s almost 4 a.m. You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your brain won’t stop running laps. Miya.
You saw her name sitting right over that little “followed by RafeCameron_” on Instagram like it meant nothing. Maybe it does mean nothing. Maybe you’re spiraling for no reason. Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe it’s the pizza. Or maybe it’s the fact that no matter how hard you try to move forward, something about Rafe always drags you back into the undertow.
Logically, this isn’t your place. You’re the one who walked away. You’re the one who drew the line. You haven’t even told him about Owen. But this wasn’t about you right now. This was about her. Miya, with the high cheekbones and surgically perfected pout and the passive-aggressive grip on Allegra’s entire last nerve. Miya, who rubbed you the wrong way the moment she opened her mouth. And now she’s in his orbit?
You press the call button before your better judgment can slap the phone out of your hand.
The line rings. Once. Twice. Again. And again. No answer.
You stare at the screen for a while after it stops ringing, like you’re waiting for it to apologize for not fixing your heartache. You eventually set the phone on your nightstand, still face-up, still glowing. Then you pass out without even meaning to, mind whirring until sleep wins.
-
You wake up to your phone vibrating violently beside you and a loud, steady knocking at your front door. You groan, your limbs heavy and tangled in the blankets, and blink against the morning light cutting through your shades.
Your phone’s ringing. Celeste.
You swipe to answer just as you drag yourself out of bed, last night’s eyeliner smudged beneath your eyes like mascara war paint.
“Hey,” you croak, voice gravelly from sleep and dehydration.
“Open the damn door,” Celeste says flatly. “I’ve been knocking for ten minutes. I think your neighbors are about to call the cops.”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” you mumble, trudging toward the door as you hang up.
You swing it open and Celeste pushes in immediately, not waiting for an invitation. She’s in tailored pants, hair in a claw clip, and her lipstick is already perfectly applied- too put together for someone who’s obviously been up just as early.
In her hand is a rolled-up copy of something thick and glossy.
“Rough night?” she asks, eyeing your smeared makeup and pajama-level effort.
You shrug, barely functioning. “Didn’t sleep well.”
“Clearly,” she mutters. Then she holds out what’s in her hand. It’s a pre-release copy of Vogue.
You take it, brow furrowing- but then you see it. Right there on the glossy front page tag, in clean serif font:
“Spotlight: Valentina & Co.’s Meteoric Rise”
Your stomach drops. You fumble with the pages, flipping until you hit it. A full spread. Photos. Interviews. Details. Everything.
Valentina & Co. splashed across one of the most powerful pages in fashion- and you weren’t even sure how it got there.
You look up at Celeste. “How…?”
She shrugs a little, already sipping her iced coffee. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”
Your fingers trace the corner of the page, heart thudding for reasons you can’t quite name. It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not fear. But something about it buzzes under your skin. You blink down at the glossy pages again, a strange unease creeping in. You have no idea why, but this doesn’t feel like just another spread.
It feels like the beginning of something. Something you can’t see yet.
-
You’re perched beside Allegra in the bustling prep area, watching as her glam team swirls around her like bees. She’s scheduled to walk for Christian Dior’s Fall/Winter collection, and thanks to your increasingly public ties to Valentina & Co., you’d been granted the rare honor of tagging along- though strictly as a spectator.
As a makeup artist smooths highlighter across Allegra’s cheekbone, she glances sideways at you. “So… when are you and Owen finally going to, you know, take things to the next level?”
You sigh, chest tightening. The question immediately calls up Rafe’s face in your mind like muscle memory- his laugh, the way he’d touch your jaw when he wanted your full attention, the softness you’d tried to walk away from. You shake your head gently, trying to dislodge the image.
“I don’t think I’m ready for… another relationship. Or a fling,” you mutter, sinking slightly lower into the chair.
Allegra’s lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on-”
She’s cut off by a voice that grates like nails on glass.
“Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me we’re walking the same show!”
You both turn. Miya floats toward you in a voluminous silk robe with oversized feathered cuffs, her hair in rollers, her mouth already curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
You sense Allegra tense beside you but watch her pull out a sugary smile like muscle memory.
“I guess we are,” she replies coolly.
Miya sinks into the chair across from you both, completely uninvited, dropping her phone onto the vanity with all the grace of a mic drop. Her legs cross, her lips pout, and her gaze flickers to Allegra.
“Still waiting for that follow baaack,” she sings.
Allegra’s smile doesn’t budge. “I don’t have Insta on my phone. My manager runs my account.” A bold-faced lie.
Miya hums. “Well, I’d really hate to unfollow you. But following someone with less than a million who doesn’t follow me back? It just, like, messes with the aesthetic, you know?”
“I like, totally get it,” Allegra replies in an exaggerated valley-girl drawl, barely concealing the mimicry. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing.
Miya lets it slide, adjusting her robe like she’s prepping for a photo shoot. “Anyway, crazy that we’re doing the same show. I haven’t walked in the States in forever.”
“Funds must be running loooow,” Allegra sing-songs under her breath, laughing as she flips her hair. Miya laughs too -way too hard- but there’s an edge to it.
“You’re hilarious. But no, I was just visiting my boyfriend.” She stands and brushes imaginary dust off her robe. “I’m off to change. See you out there!”
You and Allegra watch her leave like she’s a walking ad for artificial sugar.
“Fucking bitch thinks she’s Bella Hadid,” Allegra mutters once Miya is out of earshot.
You chuckle, the tension breaking for a moment. Allegra stands, smoothing down her robe.
“I’ve gotta get into my first look. You’ll be watching, yeah?” she winks.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you smile.
She disappears into the chaos of racks and models, and you sit for a moment, letting the movement of the room carry on around you. Stylists bark orders, steam hisses from irons, and perfumes mingle in the air. It’s beautiful, frantic, and utterly intoxicating.
Your gaze drifts casually to the vanity across from you- where Miya’s phone still lies. It vibrates once, skittering slightly on the surface.
You look.
And then you freeze.
Rafe C.
The name flashes across the screen. Your breath catches in your throat. The blood drains from your face.
You take a shaky step back, mind racing, chest tightening. Of all the possible explanations, the most painful one settles in your gut like a stone. You’re halfway to spiraling when you turn- and bump straight into someone.
“Oh- sorry,” you mumble, blinking away tears as you look up.
Standing before you is Aïsha Bellamy- creative director of the house.
“Y/N Y/L/N? You’re here!” she says brightly, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been meaning to reach out to you.”
You try to collect yourself, forcing your expression into something that vaguely resembles polite interest.
“Oh, uh, hi. Wow, yeah. That’s me.”
“I’d love to have you assist on one of our international shows. Milan or Paris, maybe? That’ll give you time to prep. We could really use your eye.”
You nod before fully processing. Anything to get away. “Yes. Definitely. I’d love to.”
“Great! My assistant will be in touch.” She pats your shoulder and disappears into the crowd.
And you? You beeline for the bathroom. Not because you’re going to cry- Because you already are.
-
“You’re awful quiet today,” Rafe says, voice soft through your laptop speakers.
You’re lying on your bed, MacBook propped on your lap, head tipped back against the headboard. The room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the screen- and from him. He’s calling from his kitchen, phone leaned up against a glass, a reheated steak on the plate in front of him. Shirtless, naturally. And looking every bit as good as the food he’s eating.
You twist the silver ring on your finger- one of the many pieces of jewelry he left in your childhood bedroom, the one you swore you’d put away but never did. “Just… long day,” you murmur, eyes drifting from his face to his hands, to the slice of steak he’s cutting with far too much sex appeal for a domestic task.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, biting a piece off his fork. He chews lazily, like he knows how pretty he looks doing absolutely nothing at all.
You glance at your screen, trying to gauge his expression, trying to figure out how to slip Miya into the conversation without sounding crazy.
“I, um… I went to a show earlier,” you start, keeping your tone light. “A friend of mine walked for Christian Dior.”
Nothing. No flicker in his expression, no shift in his tone. He just hums in vague interest, eyes still on his plate.
You try again, fingers fidgeting with the ring. “Anything exciting or… new in your life?”
He swallows, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and shrugs. “Nothing worth speaking about.”
And there it is- the first hit of disappointment. Not because you expected him to confess, but because some naïve part of you hoped he might.
There’s a silence that settles for a beat too long before you speak again. “I actually got invited to help on a show,” you say casually, like it’s not the biggest news of your week. “Christian Dior. One of their upcoming ones.”
Now he looks up.
His expression shifts immediately- his whole face lights up. “No way. Really?”
You nod, warmth spreading across your chest. His excitement is real. Genuine. And that makes you smile- not because of the opportunity, but because he’s smiling.
“Yeah… it’s either Milan or Paris. I haven’t gotten all the details yet.” You shrug like it’s nothing, but the pink in your cheeks gives you away.
“I’m seriously proud of you, Y/N,” he says, voice quieter, more sincere.
You lower your gaze, chewing the inside of your cheek, unable to suppress your grin. The feelings -the ones you’ve been trying to outrun in crowded rooms and through Owen’s easy smiles- are back, swelling in your chest, sharp and soft all at once.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He squints at the screen. “Wait a second… are you blushing right now?”
You immediately cover your face with your hands, laughing. “Absolutely not.”
He grins. “You totally are. It’s ‘cause I’m shirtless, isn’t it?”
“You wish,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes.
His voice drops a little, suddenly more vulnerable. “I wish I was up there with you right now.”
Your breath catches. The words land like a stone dropped in still water, rippling through your chest.
You stare at your keyboard, picking at a faded Vans sticker near the touchpad. “Me too,” you say, just barely loud enough for the mic to catch it- like you’re admitting it more to yourself than to him.
The silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid. You look at each other for a moment longer than you should, and for a moment it feels like nothing’s changed.
“I should let you get to bed,” he says finally, voice a little softer now. “You’ve got a show to run soon.”
“Yeah…” you nod slowly. “Goodnight, Rafe.”
“Goodnight, Y/N.” He hesitates. “I Love you.”
You don’t even think- the words come out before you can catch them. “I Love you too.”
You end the call, your screen fading to black.
And you sit there for a moment, the weight of what just happened pressing in like gravity. You’ve been busy, sure- distracted with work, dinners, nights out, Owen. But suddenly, all that noise feels like exactly what it was: a distraction.
Because the truth is…
You miss him.
More than you’ve let yourself admit.
-
You lean against the cool stone of the balcony doorframe, watching as Noel enthusiastically snaps photos of Allegra, who’s draped effortlessly over the terrace railing like she’s shooting an editorial spread. The glow of the Parisian evening bathes the scene in gold, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the background like a postcard come to life.
Tomorrow is the Christian Dior show -the first one you’ve ever been a part of- and “nervous” doesn’t begin to cover it. It feels like everything’s been leading to this, and yet the only people here to cheer you on are your two newest friends. Becca had family obligations. Marie’s back in school. Celeste wanted to come, but business wouldn’t allow it. Your parents haven’t said much beyond a vague “good luck.” And Rafe… well, he’s moved on.
You sip from your champagne glass, trying not to let the ache of that last thought linger too long. Instead, you laugh quietly as the girls bicker playfully on the balcony.
“Don’t get my bad side,” Allegra says, flipping her hair with practiced flair.
“Bitch, your bad side is still better than my good side,” Noel fires back, adjusting her camera angle without missing a beat.
The jazz you had playing through the speaker cuts off abruptly, replaced by your ringtone. You glance over to the side table and see Rafe’s name lighting up your screen.
Your stomach flips.
It’s six p.m. in Paris, which means it’s only noon in the OBX. You usually only talk late at night, when the weight of the day softens the edges between you. Midday calls aren’t your thing- and definitely not his.
You grab the phone and walk away from the balcony, your fingers brushing the screen as you switch off Bluetooth and press it to your ear.
“Hey, Rafe,” you say, voice low as you slip into a quieter corner near the door.
“Hey, darling.”
The way he says it -warm, careful, intimate- makes your breath catch. You’re used to affection from him, but this? This sounds like something heavier. Something older. Like you’re still his.
“What’s up?” you ask, pacing slowly in the little entryway between the bathroom and closet.
“I know your show’s tomorrow,” he says. “I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”
That’s all it takes. Your chest tightens instantly. You feel it not just in your heart but somewhere lower too, deeper. His voice hits like a trigger, one you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks.
You blink fast, trying to hold it together. “I just…” Your voice falters. “I wish you were here.”
The silence that follows is thick, but not cold.
“Mmm,” he hums softly, and somehow that sound says everything he isn’t- like maybe he wishes he was there too. “You’re going to kill it tomorrow,” he adds. “I mean that.”
The tears finally fall. You shut yourself in the bathroom, turning the lock and bracing your hand against the marble counter as you look into the mirror. Your reflection is blurred by glassy eyes. You swipe at them quickly, hoping your mascara isn’t ruined.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
There’s a pause, and you can feel it building- something unspoken taking shape in the quiet.
Then he says it. “Hey… I love you.”
It doesn’t sound casual this time. It doesn’t sound like a placeholder, or an echo, or a routine sign-off. It sounds like a confession. You close your eyes.
“I love you too,” you reply- and this time, you mean it the way he does. Not platonic. Not safe. Just… real.
And as the words hang there between you, soft and fragile, you wonder if they’ll still mean the same thing tomorrow.
-
Outside, the hotel hallway is buzzing. Assistants rush by with garment bags slung over their shoulders, stylists with clipboards tap frantically on phones, and someone is yelling in French about a missing pair of heels.
By the time you reach the venue -an opulent courtyard wrapped in white florals and shimmering lights- the transformation is already underway. The Christian Dior team has taken a historic Parisian building and turned it into a dreamscape. The long runway, slick with soft light, cuts through the center of the room like a river of silver. Rows of editors, buyers, and celebrities already line the velvet benches, air-kissing and crossing their legs in curated choreography.
But you don’t sit down right away.
Instead, you’re led backstage- your domain tonight. Controlled chaos unfolds all around you: models ducking into dressing areas, hairstylists curling last-minute flyaways, makeup artists applying lip liner with military precision. Fabric whispers. Heels clack. Someone is crying. Someone is screaming about time.
And yet, amid it all, you find a strange calm in the rhythm.
You spot Allegra getting her final touches done- her gown draping off her like it was stitched directly onto her body. She glances over her shoulder and lifts a brow.
“You surviving?” she teases softly.
You smirk, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “Barely.”
A stylist taps your shoulder and asks for help pinning the hem of a jacket that snagged just before lineup. You kneel on the cold concrete floor and fix it carefully, your hands surprisingly steady.
You belong here.
Not because of your name. Not because of anyone else’s reputation. But because you’re learning how to make it work- quietly, efficiently. The designer, Aïsha Bellamy, passes through with her assistant and gives you a quick, approving nod. “Good,” she says simply, already moving on. It’s not effusive, but it’s enough. In this world, calm is currency.
Moments later, the lights dim and the music begins- haunting strings layered with a pulsing electronic beat. The show has begun.
From backstage, you watch Allegra take her first step onto the runway- measured, confident, seamless. Cameras flash in rhythm with her steps, and you find yourself exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
There’s no time to think about anything else- not Rafe, not what he’s doing, or if he somehow managed to stream the show. You’re too busy checking hems, smoothing collars, and nudging models toward the curtain at just the right time.
And when the final looks disappears down the runway, when the applause echoes faintly from the other side of the curtain, the energy backstage subtly shifts. The tension breaks -not with confetti or champagne- but with soft exhales, loosened shoulders, quiet grins. It’s done.
Allegra returns from the runway still glowing, stepping out of her heels the second she crosses backstage. She walks up to you and bumps your shoulder gently.
“No disasters. I’ll take that as a win,” she says, grabbing a bottle of water from a tray.
You smile faintly, too tired to offer anything more. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t explosive. But everything went the way it was supposed to- and that, in this world, is everything.
And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re running from something. You feel like you’re standing still, right where you need to be.
-
As you make your way through the venue, weaving between guests, you find yourself in conversation after conversation- thanking fashion editors, shaking hands with designers, nodding politely at influencers you’ve only seen on your feed. You’re smiling, you’re gracious, you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do. But beneath it all, your heart’s still thudding from the adrenaline of the show.
You’re halfway through a light chat with a journalist from Elle when something in the corner of your eye makes you freeze.
That buzzcut. That height. That familiar tilt of his head as he scans the crowd.
Your eyebrows knit as you trail off mid-sentence, excusing yourself with a soft “just a moment” and turning sharply, threading through the throng of well-dressed strangers, heels tapping quickly against the stone floor.
“Rafe?” you call out when you’re close enough.
He turns- like he was waiting to hear your voice. His eyes meet yours, and then he smiles, slow and warm, holding a single rose in his hand.
Your breath catches.
“What are you doing here?” you laugh, disbelief curling through your voice as you reach for him.
He doesn’t answer right away- just pulls you into him. And you go willingly, arms winding around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest.
His voice is soft against your ear. “I wanted to support you. I couldn’t do that from the island.”
The hug isn’t polite. It’s full-bodied, long, grounding. His warmth seeps into your skin, and for a moment, everything around you -the lights, the cameras, the Parisian venue buzzing with couture energy- fades into static.
When you finally pull back, your hands stay at his sides, but your eyes roam over his face like you’re trying to convince yourself he’s real. The bridge of his nose. The slant of his mouth. Those damn eyes.
You blink, but the tears come anyway. He notices instantly.
“Hey…” His voice is barely above a whisper as he gently reaches up, brushes a strand of hair away from your face, and tucks the rose behind your ear. “Don’t cry.”
But you do. Quietly. Unstoppably. A single tear, then another. Not because you’re sad—but because he’s here. Because you missed him. Because you didn’t realize how much you needed this moment until it landed right in front of you. He lets you have it. No pressure. Just his eyes on yours, full of something that’s almost too tender to name. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not bracing for the goodbye.
You’re just… here. With him.
-
“This is Rafe,” you say, voice a little softer than intended, gesturing between him and the girls.
The venue has mostly cleared out now, just a few staff and cleaners buzzing around in the background, the glamour stripped away. It feels quieter, more intimate. You can sense Allegra and Noel already sizing him up before you finish speaking. They exchange a glance -one of those silent, telepathic girl-friend looks- and you swear an entire conversation just passed between them without a word.
Allegra steps forward first, extending her hand. “Allegra. Pleasure to meet you.” Her voice is smooth, a little too polite- but not cold. Surprisingly, this might be the most gracious you’ve seen her be to a man who wasn’t Owen.
Rafe shakes her hand with a polite nod before turning to Noel, who offers hers more hesitantly.
“Noel,” she says, her voice quiet, unsure, but curious. He takes it gently and nods again.
Then his attention returns to you- full, present, and almost boyish. “You doing anything tonight?” he asks, tone casual but familiar. It hits you with a strange wave of déjà vu. This is the Rafe from early summer- the one who flirted with ease and always felt one step ahead of your heartbeat.
You glance at the girls, who are very pointedly pretending not to eavesdrop, failing miserably. Their eyes are glued to the two of you.
“I didn’t exactly have anything planned,” you admit, glancing at them again. “We might do something later.”
Before Rafe can respond, Allegra pulls you aside, looping her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
As soon as you’re a few feet away, she whispers, “So that’s Rafe.” Her eyes flick back to him, then to you again. “I get it now. Honestly, I might fall for it too.”
Noel leans in from your other side. “He’s hot. Like, dangerously hot,” she murmurs. “But he looks at you like he’d burn the world down for you, so… maybe worth it?”
You stifle a laugh, cheeks warming.
Allegra gives you a knowing nudge. “You gonna go? He looks like he came all this way for a reason.”
You hesitate. “I mean… if you guys don’t mind…”
“Girl.” Allegra deadpans. “We’re not your babysitters.”
“Go,” Noel adds with a grin.
When you turn back around, Rafe is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he already knew how this was going to end.
“I know this spot,” he says before you can speak. “Private, low-key. Best steak in Paris. Let me take you to dinner.”
You pause. Just for a second. Then nod. “Okay,” you say, voice soft but sure.
And just like that, you’re walking toward him, heels echoing against the marble, leaving behind the remnants of the show -and the girls- who watch you go with matching smirks.
-
You’re silently grateful you didn’t let Becca convince you to swap out your private French lessons for Spanish back in tenth grade. The words still come slowly, sure- but you can read a menu without embarrassing yourself. That has to count for something.
After the show, Rafe insisted on taking you somewhere special. He let you stop by your hotel to change, and now you’re wrapped in a black backless midi dress with matching ballet flats, your hair left softly tousled from the night. You’d opted for simple gold earrings, no necklace. You didn’t need anything else.
Now you sit across from him in a dim, elegant restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. He’s still in the tux he wore to the show, the tie gone, the top buttons undone. The two of you are tucked into a quiet corner table by the window, and the glow of the tower outside filters in like something out of a dream.
You rub the goosebumps from your arms -more from the A/C than the view- and lift your wineglass to your lips. The burgundy liquid is velvety, expensive.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you say with a quiet smile, looking at him over the rim of your glass.
His eyes are lit in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. “I’m glad that I am.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s steady, reverent. Like he’s memorizing your face.
There’s a stillness between you -soft piano music drifting in from the far side of the restaurant, silverware clinking gently, murmured conversation filling the rest of the space- but you’re only aware of him.
Then he speaks. “I need to come clean about something.”
Your stomach twists, but you keep your face neutral. Calm. Ready. You nod once, bracing yourself.
He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he reaches to adjust the knife on his side of the table, moves the candle an inch like it’s suddenly in the way.
“I don’t really know how to say it, so I’m just gonna… say it.”
“Okay,” you say softly, willing your breath to stay steady.
“I, uh… I was seeing someone.”
Your heart doesn’t just sink. It folds into itself. You look away, not trusting your face to hold itself together.
“It wasn’t anything,” he continues quickly. “Just-”
“You moved on,” you finish for him, the words more bitter than you meant.
“No.” His voice comes out louder than expected. Firm. Immediate. He glances around, then lowers his voice. “No. I never moved on.”
You look down at your lap, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat.
“That’s the thing,” he continues, voice low and slow. “Do you remember when Valentina & Co. got that full spread in that… Vogue magazine?”
You nod cautiously. “Yeah…”
His eyes meet yours. “That was me. Sort of. I… I dated this girl. Her dad’s one of the big players behind the scenes in that fashion shit. I convinced her to get it in front of him. To push it. I thought maybe it could help.”
You stare at him, mouth parting slightly. “Wait… you did that?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”
“Who was it?” you ask, though you already know.
He hesitates. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
He sighs. “Miya. Something. I don’t even remember her last name.”
You nod slowly, letting it settle. “So… you used her to help me?”
“I mean…” he leans back, running a hand over his face, “yeah. I guess I did.”
Your lips twitch into a smile you weren’t expecting. “You don’t feel bad about that.”
A grin pulls at his mouth. “No. Not really.”
The two of you laugh -quiet and conspiratorial- until the tension dissolves, leaving something warmer in its place.
After a beat, your voice drops, uncertain. “You didn’t… sleep with her, did you?”
He gives you a look. “God, no.”
You nod again, your breath releasing without realizing you’d been holding it.
The waiter places your food in front of you, and for a while, the conversation falls into an easy rhythm. You eat. You laugh about his god-awful French and how he refuses to even try with the pronunciation. He teases you for being a language snob. You tell him he’s lucky he’s pretty.
It’s not just dinner. It’s a return. A rebalancing.
You don’t say it, but you feel it: you’re not sure where this goes next. But for now -just for tonight- you’re glad he’s here. And you’re glad it still feels like this.
-
The car pulls up to the curb, the soft glow of the hotel’s golden lights reflecting off its polished windows. The driver gets out to open the door, and you and Rafe step out together, the quiet hum of the city night wrapping around you like silk. You’re both staying at the same hotel, something neither of you planned but secretly feel grateful for.
Inside, the marble floors gleam beneath the lobby chandelier. Rafe glances at you, his hand brushing yours for a second too long as you both slow your steps.
“Want me to walk you to your room?” he asks, voice casual but eyes unreadable.
You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sure.”
The two of you cross the vast lobby and step into the elevator, the hush of the space suddenly intimate. A woman slips in behind you—a tall blonde, maybe late twenties, in heels and a fitted dress that says she’s not here alone. She turns to Rafe, completely ignoring you.
“What floor?” she asks, smiling with a little too much interest.
Something twists low in your stomach. Maybe it’s irrational. Maybe it’s not. But you feel it all the same.
“Six,” you say, stepping a little closer and sliding your fingers through Rafe’s. Your tone is light, but the message is not.
You don’t look at him, but you can feel the smirk forming on his face. You don’t have to see it- you can feel the smug heat of it in the air between you. When the elevator dings and the doors open, Rafe’s hand is still wrapped around yours as you step out into the hallway.
The door to your room is only a few steps away, but the moment stretches like static.
“So…” he says, once you’re standing in front of it. “Was that jealousy back there?”
You roll your eyes, key card in hand. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He leans a shoulder against the wall, grinning. “You grabbed my hand like you were staking a claim.”
You shrug, but your smirk is involuntary. “Maybe I was.”
Rafe lifts an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this too much. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you still like me.”
You tap the key card, the lock flashing green with a soft click.
You glance back at him, your voice quieter now. “Do you want to come in?”
His teasing expression shifts- still amused, but softer now. “Yeah. I do.”
You push the door open and let him follow you inside.
The suite is spacious, luxurious, and -thankfully- no longer a disaster. You kick off your shoes, the plush carpet soft under your feet as you step inside. The chaos you left behind that morning has vanished. The remnants of your half-eaten room service breakfast are gone, the bed is freshly made, trash bins emptied, and the crisp scent of something clean and citrusy lingers in the air.
You breathe in, grateful. When you’d rushed out earlier, it had looked like a hurricane passed through- clothes on chairs, towels on the floor, makeup scattered on the counter.
Now, everything feels quiet. Still. Intimate.
You walk over and sit at the edge of the bed, then let yourself fall backward with a soft thud, arms stretched above your head. Rafe is still near the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you. It’s the first time in a while -maybe ever- that you’ve seen him without that usual air of cocky confidence. He looks… unsure. Out of place, even.
“You can sit, you know,” you say, casting him a lazy smile.
He huffs a soft laugh, like your comfort eases something in him, and walks toward you. Slowly, he drops down beside you, then leans back until you’re both lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Your faces are nearly aligned, breath mingling in the space between.
Silence stretches for a beat. Then he speaks, his voice impossibly neutral.
“You never moved on?”
Your chest tightens. The question is simple, but it lands like a weight.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. You turn toward him, propping yourself up on one elbow, hair cascading down the side of your face and brushing the bed.
“Never.”
Owen was sweet. He did everything right. But he wasn’t Rafe. He never could’ve been.
Rafe’s eyes flick toward you, catching you in the corner of his vision. “Never?” he repeats, a hint of disbelief -or hope- threaded through the word.
“Never,” you whisper, the truth sitting heavy in the space between you.
Your eyes stay locked, and something deep in your chest pushes you forward. You don’t kiss him. You don’t need to. Instead, you gently lay your head beside his, your nose brushing his cheekbone, your forehead pressing lightly against his temple. The warmth of him seeps into your skin, familiar and achingly missed.
He exhales slowly, like the words have been waiting years to escape.
“I’ll never not love you,” he murmurs.
Your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll never not love you too,” you breathe, the confession soft, reverent.
Another beat of silence, filled only with the hum of the city outside the window and the quiet thunder of your heart. Then you slowly sit up, crossing the room toward the en-suite bathroom.
You twist the handle in the shower, steam starting to rise almost instantly, curling in the air like ghosts.
When you step back out, he’s still lying on the bed, watching you.
You walk over, standing between his knees. No words. Just the water running in the background, the dim light casting a soft glow on your skin. You reach out a hand to him, no pressure, no performance. Just an invitation. He looks up at you, and then down at your hand. And when he takes it, it’s not just about the shower. It’s about everything that came before- and maybe, everything still ahead. You stand across from each other in the steamy glow of the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling the space between you. Neither of you speaks as you undress, slow and unhurried, but there’s a nervous energy threading through the silence- your heartbeat is wild in your chest, and from the way Rafe stares down at the floor, jaw tense, you know he feels it too. He’s not smirking. Not teasing. Just quiet. Focused.
You step into the shower first, the blast of heat cascading over your skin and soaking your hair instantly. You tilt your face into the stream for a moment, eyes closed, grounding yourself in the warmth. Then you turn around- and he’s there. Rafe steps in behind you, and without a word, you wrap your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek to his chest. His arms encircle you in return, slow and sure, and he kisses the crown of your head like it’s second nature.
You both just stand there for a while, bodies swaying gently from side to side, water pouring over you like rainfall. Your eyes are closed, but your heart is wide open- his touch, his breath, the solid rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek… it’s all too much and somehow not enough.
Eventually, you both shift- he reaches for the body wash, you grab the loofah, and the moment turns practical but no less intimate. You wash each other’s backs, slow strokes and soft touches in between shy glances and barely-there smiles. There’s something sacred about it. No performance. Just care.
After rinsing off, you each step out, wrapping towels around yourselves. You press one to your face, still damp and flushed, while Rafe wanders the room like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His towel hangs low on his hips, water dripping from the ends of his short hair as he stops in front of the dresser. He runs a finger over the surface, pausing at the decorative tray filled with little glass bottles, candles, and hotel trinkets. He’s quiet- like something’s heavy on his mind.
You walk up behind him, slipping your arms beneath his, hands curling gently over his shoulders. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing warm skin still damp from the shower.
He watches you through the mirror for a beat, then turns his head, eyes locking with yours.
Without a word, he takes your hands and guides them down, turning around to face you fully. Then he lifts you effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct, like muscle memory. His eyes search yours- like he’s trying to find the exact words but knows he doesn’t need them. So you close the space between you, lips meeting his in a slow, deliberate kiss.
He carries you to the bed, laying you down with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He hovers over you, brushing damp hair from your face, and you reach between your bodies to untuck the towel from your frame, letting it fall away.
You break the kiss just enough to speak, eyes locked with his.
“I want to make love,” you whisper, voice trembling but steady with intent.
His eyes open, wide and searching. You expect a smile, maybe another kiss, but instead, he stills. For a second, you’re afraid he didn’t hear you right- until you notice the tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over.
Your brows draw together in concern. “Rafe…”
But before you can finish, he nods, that familiar furrow in his brow deepening as he leans in and presses his mouth to yours again- this time with more purpose, more emotion.
You kiss him back like it’s the only way to stay grounded, your hands sliding to the sides of his face, holding him as if he might disappear- like if you let go, this might all vanish, a dream you’ve conjured from missing him for far too long.
Rafe pulls you with him, guiding you both up toward the head of the bed, his towel slipping off and forgotten somewhere along the way. His lips leave yours only briefly, traveling down to the delicate skin of your neck, then just beneath your ear. Every kiss he places feels deliberate, reverent, like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.
He gently urges your legs apart, settling his weight between them with ease. You feel the heat of him against you, the soft drag of his tip gliding up and down your entrance- not teasing, just savoring. His eyes stay locked on yours, lips brushing over your jawline like a promise. You keep one hand cradling his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone slowly, eyes blinking against the overwhelming rush of emotion as he finally pushes in. The stretch is familiar, but the feeling? The feeling is entirely different.
This isn’t like the times before. Not your bedroom. Not his. Not Becca’s laundry room. Not the backseat of his car.
This time feels sacred.
Your mouth parts on a soft gasp, brows drawing together in pleasure- but your eyes never leave his. He begins to move, hips rolling in slow, tender thrusts, like he’s syncing his body to yours. One of his hands fists the pillow beside your head, the other gripping the edge of the sheet as if anchoring himself to this moment.
The bed creaks softly beneath you, your bodies finding a rhythm that’s more than physical- moans and breathless gasps filling the space like whispers of things you’re too afraid to say out loud. Your legs stay wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Then he slides an arm beneath you, lifting you slightly so your chest presses to his, skin flush against skin. His head drops to the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged.
“Rafe,” you cry out, arms locking tightly around him, holding him with everything you have left.
“I know, baby. Let go,” he murmurs, voice low and strained—like he’s barely holding it together himself.
That’s all it takes.
Your body arches against his as release takes over, your head falling back as a raw cry slips from your lips. Your eyes roll back, your chest trembling, and it feels like your soul is being drawn from your body- too much, too beautiful, too intense.
Rafe isn’t far behind. He lowers you both to the bed, staying inside just long enough to feel your shudders slow before gently pulling out. He finishes on your stomach with a soft grunt, then reaches for one of the discarded towels, careful and quiet as he wipes you clean. There’s no rush. No awkwardness. Just silence and something that feels a lot like love.
Eventually, the sheets are pulled up over your bodies, and you both settle beneath them, limbs tangled. The window offers a postcard view of Paris- city lights twinkling across the skyline, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance like a dream you forgot you once had. Rafe’s arm is wrapped tightly around you, the hand of the arm you rest on woven through your fingers. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, chest rising and falling slow and steady beneath your cheek.
You don’t know what this means. Not for tomorrow. Not for when you both go back to the States. There are still questions lingering in the air, consequences waiting on the other side of sunrise.
But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, he’s here. You’re here. And nothing else in the world comes close to mattering as much as this moment.
