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Pillow talk and the fifth amendment (5)

(JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron ) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom.. (likes, reblogs, comments and follows would help greatly, thanks for reading in advance! <3)

There was a time when you liked being home. It wasn’t for long, and maybe you were too young to understand what that comfort meant—lazy Saturday mornings, cereal commercials humming from the TV, and the thrill of bringing your friends over like your place was something to be proud of. Now, home felt more like a memory you were squatting inside. When you came back, it was never through the front door. You slipped through the cracked-open window like a thief in your own life, grabbing clean clothes or spare parts to fix your busted skateboard. If you lingered, you regretted it. But that was the thing—regret worked both ways. You regretted being there. And you regretted not being there. Mostly because of your little brother.

He was the only soft thing left in this place. He made the nights bearable—especially when you got to share a bed and cook him those special packet noodles he liked, pretending for a few quiet minutes that you weren’t the one doing the parenting. But tonight, he was gone—sleeping over at a friend’s place. And you were alone. Alone to deal with your mother, and worse, with him.

You leaned over the kitchen counter, reaching for the cockroach darting toward the back of the fridge, your damp, sudsy hands leaving foamy prints on the laminate. You grunted, stretching your torso out until your fingers finally caught it mid-sprint. The crunch of its body under your palm made your face twist in disgust, but you straightened up triumphantly, wiping your hand on your jeans before returning to the last dish in the sink.

The small bubble of peace you’d managed to wrap yourself in—dishwater warm and quiet—popped like it was nothing when you heard it. That sound. The low, gravelly chuckle that reeked of expired cigarettes and cheap beer, the kind of laugh that belonged to no one decent.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Allan.

“Didn’t know we had a little exterminator living under our roof,” he drawled from behind you, his voice greasy and slow, dragging over the word our like he owned something here. Like he had any right to claim space that was never his to begin with. You could practically hear the grin stretched across his face—rotten, yellowed teeth and all.

Your hands paused over the sponge, shoulders tensing, jaw locking into place.

“We probably wouldn’t need an exterminator if you stopped leaving pizza crusts on the coffee table like a damn raccoon,” you muttered, not bothering to hide the bite in your tone. Your voice was sharp, but not loud—calculated. You’d learned the hard way that screaming never did much good in this place.

He chuckled again. That same low, smug sound that always felt like it was meant more for himself than anyone else. You could feel him before you saw him—his presence like smoke in a small room, creeping in even when you tried to hold your breath. You glanced over your shoulder and there he was, leaning against the fridge like it was some casual social call. Shirtless, arms crossed, tufts of wiry chest hair on full display like he thought it gave him authority. The look in his eyes made your skin crawl.

He was standing too close. Not enough to call it something. But too close to call it nothing.

“Your mama should be grateful, you know,” he said, dragging a hand through his thinning hair like he was some kind of prize. “Not every woman gets a man willing to put up with a mouthy little brat and pay for dinner.”

You turned fully then, sponge still in hand, arms dripping with soapy water. “You bought Chinese takeout once and split the bill with my mom,” you snapped. “Congratulations.”

He smirked wider, head tilting as he stepped forward a fraction of an inch. “Fiery little thing, ain’t you? Always got something to say.”

You stepped back before he could get closer, hitting the cabinet behind you. Your heart kicked up, not from fear exactly—but from the way your body was bracing itself, prepared for something to go wrong. Again.

“I’m not in the mood, Allan,” you said, quieter this time. “So why don’t you go back to your room, crack open a beer, and leave me the hell alone?”

His smile faltered—just for a second—but that flicker was enough to tell you it got to him. That you weren’t as small as he liked to pretend.

Then, like clockwork, he masked it with a scoff, turning as if you’d bored him. “You got no respect,” he muttered, grabbing a beer from the fridge anyway and cracking it open with one hand. “It’s no wonder your daddy walked out. You were probably a piece of work even back then.”

That one stung.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Instead, you went back to scrubbing the plate in your hand, white knuckles and foamy water, your back turned again—not out of fear, but to starve him of the satisfaction of your reaction.

The sickening slap of Allan’s bare feet against the grimy linoleum floor made your spine stiffen, the sound so familiar and violating that it felt like a warning bell. Your hand slowed slightly on the fork you were scrubbing, eyes narrowing as you caught his shape out of the corner of your eye. He was standing beside you now—closer than he had any right to be—his hip resting against the counter like this was a casual moment between family. Like this was normal.

“Come on, babygirl…” he murmured, voice low and syrupy, each syllable slathered in sleaze. The mock pout he gave you was laughable—an exaggerated curl of his lip that he probably thought made him look charming or boyish. But all it did was expose more of his yellowed teeth and the beer-stale breath that made your skin crawl.

Your stomach turned, nausea rising in waves as the pet name hit your ears like a slap. Babygirl. It was a word that used to mean something sweet—something harmless. But coming from Allan’s mouth, it sounded poisonous. Wrong. Perverted.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. The slow turn of your head toward him said enough. Your jaw locked, expression carved in ice as your knuckles went stark white around the silverware you were scrubbing. The fork in your grip shook slightly from how hard you were holding it, suds dripping off your hand like blood in a horror movie.

“I didn’t mean to be mean…” he added, softer this time. Like he thought he could soothe it over with that low, coaxing tone he always used when your mom was too drunk to notice how close he stood. Like he thought this was just a misunderstanding.

He leaned in a little, and you caught the faint smell of sweat and stale tobacco clinging to his skin, soaked into the fibers of his ragged T-shirt. His hand reached toward the dish towel beside you, fingers brushing it—but too close to yours, intentional in the way that made your stomach lurch again.

You stepped to the side—just enough to put distance between you, but not enough to make it a scene. That’s what you had to do here. Calculated moves. No flinching, no yelling, just control. You’d learned to weaponize your silence. He couldn’t twist what you didn’t say.

Still, the rage simmered just under your skin, humming like a live wire.

“I’m not your babygirl,” you said finally, voice quiet but cold enough to snap the air between you. You didn’t look at him when you said it. You didn’t need to.

Allan chuckled, low and lazy, like your disgust was cute. Like it fed something in him. His tongue clicked against his teeth, and he backed off by only a step, lifting the dish towel like he was helping, drying his hands even though they hadn’t touched water. The act of domesticity was insulting.

“Feisty,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You set the fork down with a loud clink, straightening your back and bracing your hands on the edge of the sink as you stared out the small window. The yard was dark. The street beyond it was still. And for a second, you counted the seconds it would take to climb out that window again.

But you didn’t move. Not yet.

You stood there with your hands braced against the sink and your breath coming slow, steady, practiced. Like holding in fire.

Because no matter how many times you made it out of this house—this time, this time, you swore would be the last.

You never quite understood what was so special about Allan.

He wasn’t your mother’s type—not the usual smooth-talking, sharp-dressed man who came and went through your life like a revolving door. He wasn’t handsome. He wasn’t rich. He didn’t even resemble your father, which, for a while, seemed to be the quiet pattern. But somehow, he stayed. Outlasted the others. Wormed his way into the fabric of your home like mildew—subtle at first, then suffocating.

And no matter how many times you tried to rationalize it, you kept coming back to the same question: Why him?

Your mother used to have decent taste. She dated flawed men, sure—but never ones that made your skin crawl. Never ones who stared too long when you walked into the kitchen in a tank top. Allan was different. And not in the way that made you feel safe. He wasn’t a stepfather. He wasn’t family. He was a squatter with a license to look at you like he had the right.

"You know..." he started, voice dragging slow and heavy behind you, like he was easing into something he’d been rehearsing. His tone was almost casual, but the slight tightness in his jaw gave him away. He didn’t sound relaxed. He sounded like he was trying to mask something beneath a veil of smugness—discomfort, maybe, or bitterness.

"For the town’s little slut, you sure don’t put out easily."

The words dropped like a grenade behind your ribs. For a second, you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there with your hands buried in a tub of dirty dishwater, the suds turning cold against your skin.

Slowly, you turned to face him. Not with fear, but with that practiced, hardened expression that you’d worn more and more lately—a stare like steel, tight-lipped and lethal.

"What the hell did you just say to me?" you asked, voice low, dangerous. Your fingers clenched around the soapy fork like it might double as a weapon.

Allan grinned.

Or at least, he tried to.

It was all teeth—crooked and yellowed—but none of the joy reached his eyes. His gaze was cold and sharp, and the tilt of his head said he wanted you to react. Wanted to push. Wanted you pissed.

"Relax," he said, with a shrug, feigning innocence like he hadn’t just called you a slut in your own kitchen. "I’m just sayin’. People talk in this town. You know that. Small place like this, and a girl like you?” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal some juicy piece of gossip. “There’s been a lot of chatter about you and that Cameron boy…"

Your jaw tightened at the mention of Rafe.

Allan’s grin widened, sensing the tension that radiated off you like heat.

"Specifically," he went on, drawing out the word with sickening glee, "how much time you two spend together. And what you might be doing during all that time."

He was close enough now that you could smell the stale beer on his breath, see the crusted ash beneath his fingernails as he gripped the edge of the counter like he belonged there. Like he had a right to stand there and say these things.

You didn’t flinch. Not visibly. But inside, something twisted.

It wasn’t about the rumors—people always talked. You’d lived in this town long enough to know that the second you so much as breathed next to a Kook, someone would have something to say. You could take that.

But Allan using it like this—using it to degrade you, to corner you, to make something private into something dirty, made your skin crawl.

"Maybe people would talk less if they weren't projecting their own sick fantasies," you snapped, voice sharp and clear, each syllable cutting.

His eyes narrowed, just for a second.

The moment passed in silence, thick and heavy with everything unspoken.

And when he took another sip of his beer, you watched the foam drip down his chin with disgust, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper.

This wasn’t your home. Not anymore.

It was a warzone.

And Allan? He was just another roach waiting to be crushed.

Let him talk, you thought, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turned white. Let him run his mouth.

Because tonight—tonight, someone else was coming.

And for the first time in a long time, you wouldn’t be the one standing in this kitchen alone.

Allan leaned back against the fridge, beer can sweating in his hand, gaze never quite leaving you. There was something about the way he looked at you that always felt off. Like he didn’t see you at all—not really. Just the version of you he wanted to see, filtered through the warped lens of beer and bitterness and something far uglier.

He took a long sip, licking the foam from his upper lip with a slow swipe of his tongue. “You know, I saw his truck once,” he said casually, voice thick with implication. “The blue one. Parked right outside the trailer in the middle of the night.”

Your spine stiffened, hands still gripping the counter behind you. You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. But your eyes flicked to him, guarded.

“Cameron boy, huh?” he went on, and his grin was back—wide and sharp. “Heard he’s a real piece of work. Pretty boy with a temper. Rich daddy. Wears those fancy rings like he’s in some gang.” Allan chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless sound. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

You said nothing, jaw tight. The silence stretched, but he didn’t seem to mind filling it.

“Bet he thinks he’s real smooth, huh? Flash some money, flash some attitude… and girls like you just eat it up.” His voice dipped lower, heavier. “Is that all it took? Some brat with a fancy name and a fast mouth?”

You didn’t move. Not when he pushed off the fridge and stepped a little closer again, closing in like he always did when he thought no one was watching. You couldn’t even step back—your lower back was pressed against the sink.

“You let him touch you here?” Allan murmured, eyes dragging over the kitchen like it meant something to him. “In this trailer? In your mama’s house?”

The implication in his voice was enough to make your stomach roll, bile licking up the back of your throat. Your hand twitched toward the sink, toward the fork still half-buried in suds, still covered in dried dish soap and rage.

You didn’t even bother to hide the disgust in your face. “You really should learn how to shut the fuck up.”

Allan didn’t flinch at the venom. Instead, his grin widened again. “Touched a nerve, huh?” he asked, taking another slow sip. “Didn’t mean to offend, babygirl. Just wondering what makes a girl like you so available for a guy like him, but too good to give your mom’s boyfriend the time of day.”

That word—boyfriend—came out soaked in filth.

You laughed once. A short, sharp sound, bitter as rust. “You’re delusional if you think you’d ever be in the same category as him.”

His smile dropped for the first time. Just for a flicker.

You seized it.

“You think you’ve got any kind of power in this house?” you went on, voice low and laced with loathing. “You’re just another leech. My mom gets bored, you’re gone. And when you’re gone? No one’s gonna miss you.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And neither did you. You just held his stare like a warning, the air between you brittle and charged.

You turned back to the sink, jaw clenched so tight it ached, and scrubbed harder at the last dirty plate, trying to ignore the boiling behind your ribs. You knew he wouldn’t push it further. Not right now. Not with you still holding something sharp in your hand.

But the way he lingered—leaning back against the counter beside you, eyes trailing down your profile like he owned it—made your skin crawl. And when he finally wandered out of the kitchen with a lazy stretch and a muttered, “Better watch yourself,” you waited until you heard the creak of the back room door before exhaling fully.

You dried the plate, wiped your hands, and checked the clock.

JJ was late.

And for once, you needed him to be early.

The trailer was quiet in the way all poor places were—never truly still, just a hum of half-broken things trying to survive. The buzzing air conditioning coughed from the ceiling like it was on its last leg, the refrigerator groaned from the corner, pipes moaned behind the walls, and the floors creaked with every breath the house took. It was the kind of silence that clawed at your skin. The kind of quiet that only amplified the chaos in your head.

You stood at the sink, watching the murky water swirl down the drain, suds clinging to the rim like a half-hearted apology. The sponge in your hand was too soaked to be useful anymore, and still you held it, jaw locked tight as the thought crossed your mind—this is how it starts. The slow rot. The bitterness. The quiet surrender. You were already walking away from dishes half-finished, already letting things slip. Already turning into her.

Your mother.

You shook the thought off like an itch, chest tightening with the kind of anger that didn’t have a place to go. It burned in your gut. You could almost taste the vodka that wasn’t there, the sharpness of the good scotch that lingered on Rafe’s mouth and burned on your own tongue. You missed it in a way that wasn’t really about alcohol.

You paused at the hallway, knuckles white around the dish towel you’d been wringing. Then—three hard knocks against the trailer door. Sharp and impatient, almost lost in the hum of failing appliances.

You wiped your hands on the front of your shorts, steeled yourself for another argument, another comment, another confrontation—but when you pulled the door open, it was JJ standing there.

Awkward. Out of breath. The keys to the Twinkie spun nervously between his fingers.

“I know I’m late,” he started, voice too fast and tumbling over itself. “We got caught up at the bonfire and Pope kind of forgot to tell me you asked one of us to pick you up and then we were like, trying to find someone sober enough and I was only like, two beers in so I just said fuck it and drove and I ended up running two red lights, which was stupid, but I didn’t hit anyone or anything—so that’s good—and I didn’t wanna bail on you. Not tonight.”

You blinked.

His hair was messy in that familiar, windswept way. Sand still clung to the hem of his shorts and he looked like he’d been running—or like he hadn’t stopped moving since the bonfire started. His shirt clung slightly to his chest, damp from humidity or nerves or both, and the look on his face… it wasn’t casual.

It was tentative. Like he didn’t know if you’d slam the door in his face or throw yourself into his arms.

The words got caught in your throat. Because for a moment, it didn’t matter how long he’d made you wait or how fast he talked—he showed up. Not Rafe, not Pope. JJ. He came, even though you didn’t ask him specifically to.

And somehow, that mattered.

You stepped aside silently, letting the door swing open wider. He hesitated just long enough for it to sting before he finally stepped inside.

And just like that, JJ was in your trailer again.

Right where you’d always wanted him.

Only now, it was far too late for it to be innocent.

JJ walked slowly down the narrow hallway, shoulders hunched slightly, sneakers barely making a sound on the cracked linoleum. He glanced over his shoulder once—like he was making sure the trailer wasn’t about to swallow him whole—before stopping just short of your bedroom door. His hand rose to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that nervous way he always did when he didn’t know where he stood. Like he didn’t know whether to step inside or hover in the doorway and pretend he hadn’t memorized every inch of the room already.

You fumbled with the doorknob—same stubborn one that always jammed when it got too humid—until it finally gave way with a loud click, and you stepped inside without a word. JJ lingered for a second before following you in, eyes flicking around like it was the first time he’d ever seen the space, even though it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

“I’ll just get changed and throw on a bit of makeup, then we can go,” you muttered, your tone clipped but not cold.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice soft and lost somewhere behind you. He didn’t sit. Just stood there near the threshold, like if he let himself get too comfortable, it’d mean something. Something he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

His gaze moved around the room—slow, deliberate. He took in the little details like they were anchor points, things to keep his hands from shaking. The sun-faded band posters curling at the corners. The cracked skateboard deck propped beside your surfboard, paint chipping off from wear. The mess of books piled on your nightstand, most with bookmarks stuck halfway in like you never found the time or the peace to finish them. He stared at them like he could read something about you from the pages you hadn’t turned.

He kept his hands shoved in the pockets of his cargo shorts, bouncing slightly on the heels of his feet. The tension between you was palpable—unspoken, but too loud to ignore. Not quite anger. Not quite comfort. Somewhere in between. The space between what was and what never really got to be.

You turned your back to him and rifled through your dresser drawer, pretending not to feel his eyes on you. But you did. You always had. JJ had this way of looking at you that was equal parts reverent and guilty—like he wanted to memorize you and apologize all at once.

The silence thickened, only broken by the buzz of the old ceiling fan and the dull thump of his heart in his ears.

And then, quietly, JJ spoke.

“You moved your mirror.” His voice was low, almost casual—but not really. Not when you both knew it hadn’t been touched in months.

You didn’t look at him when you answered, “Allan kept lingering in the hallway. I got sick of him looking in.”

The words hung there for a second too long. JJ’s breath caught, but he didn’t push. Not yet.

You picked out a clean shirt, something soft and plain, and tossed it on the bed before sitting beside it, reaching for your makeup bag. Still, JJ didn’t move. Didn’t make himself at home like he used to. He just stood there, halfway in, halfway out.

The thing about JJ was that he never needed to say much to fill a room. And right now, the silence between you two said everything.

Too much time had passed.

Too many words had been left unsaid.

But still—he came.

And part of you wanted to believe that meant something.

Then, like clockwork, you felt the shift in the air before he even spoke—a slow, invisible winding of tension, like JJ was pulling a string taut inside himself. You didn’t need to look. You knew that rhythm by now. That hesitation that came right before he said something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. You paused mid-eyeliner swipe, the felt tip suspended just shy of your lash line, and found his form in the reflection of the old vanity mirror.

He was standing exactly where he said he always ended up—by the wall, eyes flicking over the fading snapshots of another life. He looked almost out of place in the room now, like someone trying to step back into a moment that had already moved on without them.

“Is Charleston meeting you at the bonfire tonight?” he asked finally.

Your breath caught, barely. Not because of the question, but because of how quietly he said it—like he’d practiced saying it out loud to himself first. Like he thought it might shatter if it wasn’t spoken softly enough.

You watched him in the mirror as he reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of a photo tacked to the wall above your dresser. An old one. You and him and John B and Pope, half-sunburned, soaked from the water, caught in that golden hour kind of laughter. You couldn’t even remember what the joke had been. JJ’s thumb lingered on your face in the picture, brushing over it gently, like you were something delicate. Like pressing too hard would erase you from even the memory of it.

You tilted your head slightly, eyeliner still forgotten in your hand. “You really gonna call him Charleston every time?” you asked, not looking away from the mirror.

His mouth pulled into a half-smirk, but it was laced with something bitter. “That’s where he’s from, isn’t he?”

You hummed, something noncommittal. “He’s not meeting me. Not tonight.”

JJ’s hand fell away from the photo. He didn’t speak right away. You caught his eyes flicking to yours in the mirror, like he was trying to read something off your expression that you weren’t sure was even there. You returned to your eyeliner with a steadier hand than you felt, wings sharp now, precise, like you needed control over something—even if it was just your face.

But his silence lingered, stretching long and uneasy, until you added—without thinking—“He doesn’t really like crowds.”

“Right,” JJ said, voice tight. “Too good for pogue parties.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. You watched the flicker in his reflection, the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides like he was holding something back. He stepped away from the wall finally, crossing the room to sit on the edge of your bed with a weight that felt more emotional than physical.

“You look good,” he muttered, the words gravel-rough and scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest. His eyes didn’t meet yours. They stayed low, fixed on the peeling paint of your wall or maybe the floorboards beneath his sneakers—anywhere but the mirror that caught every flicker of truth between you.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t need to. Instead, you kept dragging the eyeliner along your lash line in a steady motion, using the compact mirror like it was a shield. The silence between you buzzed, heavy and crackling, the kind that hummed like the final notes of an old song you both knew by heart but refused to sing anymore. You let him linger there, still as a ghost, staring at the fading bones of what you used to be, and said nothing. Because part of you wanted him frozen in that ache a little longer. And the other part of you was terrified you’d never thaw out of it either.

You watched his reflection as he dragged his fingers through his hair, rough and frustrated. Like he could mess it up enough to shake off whatever was clawing beneath his skin. He pretended not to be watching you, but you both knew better. JJ never did anything halfway—not when it came to you. And you’d long since learned how to survive his gaze. How to pretend it didn’t undo the knots you tied yourself in every morning just to make it through the day.

Because JJ had always been able to peel the chaos off of you. He was the only one who could. Not because he tried hard enough—but because you let him. Because no matter how much armor you wore, some part of you still bent when he got too close.

And the jealousy? That was new.

Not to you, of course. You'd felt it plenty—watching him with Kie, with some pretty girl at a bonfire, with anyone who didn’t look at him like he hung the stars like you once did. But from him? That was different. This possessive edge to his voice every time he said Charleston like it left a bad taste in his mouth. The way he asked about that guy as if each word chipped a little deeper into something he didn’t want to name.

You and JJ had always played hide and seek. Since you were eight and your knees were always scraped, and the air smelled like summer sweat and saltwater. But this? This was a grown-up version of that game—less giggles, more aching silence. You remembered the adrenaline rush of hiding behind a tree or under the porch, trying not to breathe too loud while he hunted you down. The thrill of almost being found. That was the game you never outgrew.

Except now the hiding was less innocent. Now, you ducked behind sarcasm and casual cruelty. You buried your pain in Rafe Cameron’s sheets and let the shame soak into your skin like cologne. And JJ? He kept looking. Kept circling you like he knew exactly where you were hiding, but wasn’t sure if he had the right to drag you out anymore.

So you did what you always did when backed into a corner.

You lied.

“His name’s Miles,” you murmured after a long pause, eyes still on your eyeliner but no longer seeing anything. The words dropped like a grenade between you. Not loud. Just devastating. A carefully disguised landmine—meant to test him, to poke at the wound you knew still throbbed under his ribs. Meant to see if he’d flinch. Meant to make him feel special, even if he already was. Meant to prove something. Anything. That he still mattered enough to be the only one who got the name.

Even if you made it up.

Even if your throat went dry right after saying it.

JJ didn’t respond right away. You saw him freeze in the mirror, the shift in his body so slight but so telling. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening like the name had punched him in the gut, and he was trying not to let you see the bruise forming.

“Cool,” he said finally. One word, low and brittle and completely unreadable.

You didn't turn around. You just capped your eyeliner, lips pressing into a faint smirk that didn’t touch your eyes.

If this was still hide and seek, you were both getting better at pretending you didn’t want to be found.

You didn’t respond. Just blinked once at your reflection and leaned forward again, brushing mascara onto your lashes with slow, calculated strokes—like every second you took was a performance. Like if you focused hard enough on the curve of the brush, on not blinking, not flinching, you could ignore the weight of his stare burrowing into your spine.

JJ shifted behind you, something about the way he moved making the air in the room change. He was fidgeting, pacing, but quietly. Like a storm that hadn’t hit yet. You caught flashes of him in the mirror—hand tugging at his rings, foot bouncing, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. It would’ve been easier if he yelled. If he made some snarky joke or rolled his eyes and stomped out.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he hovered near your bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines of half-read novels and old comic books he used to lend you. Picking up a photo strip from a bonfire two years ago—John B’s arm thrown lazily over both your shoulders, your head tipped back mid-laugh, JJ’s smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe he had. Maybe back then, he’d seen where this was all headed, and hadn’t said anything. Because that was JJ: reckless with himself, careful with you.

He turned the photo over, then set it down without a word.

You finally looked at him then—not in the mirror, but for real. Your eyes met his just as he was forcing his face back into something neutral. But not fast enough. You saw it. That flicker of something feral. Jealousy, maybe. Or hurt. Or that aching, boyish vulnerability he only ever let slip when he thought you weren’t looking.

And maybe he saw something on your face too. Some flash of guilt, or shame, or the truth beneath the lie you’d just thrown at him like a brick through a stained-glass window.

He cleared his throat. “So,” he started, voice strained and lower than before. “You like him? This Miles guy?”

There it was.

The follow-up. The moment he gave you a second chance to lie better or tell the truth.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What does it matter?” you asked, too quickly. Too defensively. You rose from the vanity stool slowly, smoothing your shirt down and walking to your closet, giving your back to him, like it would help. Like it would hide the heat crawling up your neck.

“It doesn’t,” he said. “Just asking.”

But it did. It mattered too much. That’s why he wasn’t looking at you anymore. Why he said it like it tasted wrong. Like he wanted to spit it back out.

You pulled a hoodie off a hanger and shrugged it on, arms pushing through the sleeves slowly, deliberately. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “He’s... safe.”

JJ let out a breath, the sound short and sharp. “That’s a weird reason to fuck someone.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your heart thudded hard once, then twice. Because he wasn’t wrong. But he didn’t get it. Not really.

“Safe doesn’t mean boring,” you said, turning to face him again. “Sometimes it just means... not being with someone who makes you feel like a grenade waiting to go off.”

JJ tilted his head, his lips curling upward without any humor. “You mean like me.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t need you to.

The air between you crackled, sharp and unbearable. You felt it in your teeth. Behind your ribs. It was always like this with him—this constant pull toward the edge of something that couldn’t be undone.

“I’m not gonna fight you over him,” JJ said after a moment. “You’ve made it clear what this is. What it isn’t.”

“You don’t get to be jealous,” you said, quieter now. “You’re with Kiara.”

“I know.” His voice broke slightly on the second word. “I know I don’t. I just... I still am.”

It landed heavy in your gut.

You stared at him, really looked, and saw the boy you’d known forever standing in your tiny bedroom—shoulders slouched, eyes bloodshot, hands twitching with every word he hadn’t said and every touch he hadn’t given. The boy who used to find you first in hide and seek, not because you were bad at hiding—but because he always looked for you first.

“I don’t know how to not be,” he added, a little breathless, like it was the closest thing to a confession he could afford to give you.

You turned back to the mirror, fixing your hair again to hide the tremble in your fingers.

The silence hung between you, thick and bruised and holy.

And somewhere deep down, you both knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.

It was just another round of the same old game. You hide. He seeks.

And maybe, just maybe, you still wanted to be found.

“So you’re not happy, then…?” you asked, voice light but loaded, like you were just making conversation and not setting a slow-burning fire between you. Your fingers toyed with a lock of your hair as you tilted your head in the mirror, eyes on the reflection instead of him. You brushed the strands over one shoulder, watching the way they fell, debating if you should just throw it up into a ponytail before the heat made you feel like you were about to go up in flames. A matchstick girl burning at both ends.

“With Kie, I mean,” you added, offhandedly. Casually. Like it wasn’t a landmine.

JJ didn’t answer right away. You didn’t expect him to. You caught his expression in the mirror—still, guarded, that old tension tightening the corners of his mouth. His jaw shifted slightly, like he was chewing on the words before deciding whether to let them out or swallow them whole.

He scratched at the back of his neck again, the way he always did when he was uncomfortable or thinking too hard. “I didn’t say that,” he muttered.

“No,” you said quietly, reaching for your lip balm and uncapping it slowly, like it mattered. “But you didn’t say you were happy either.”

That made him look up.

Directly at you. Through the mirror, through all the space between you, through every unspoken thing hanging heavy in the room. You met his gaze, calm and unreadable, like this didn’t matter. Like the answer wasn’t going to hang on your ribs for the rest of the night.

JJ exhaled, low and frustrated, like you’d asked a question he didn’t want to answer because it might make things real.

“She’s good,” he said finally, dragging a hand down his face. “She’s smart, and she gives a shit about people, and she doesn’t take my crap. And she…” He trailed off, shaking his head like he was tired of his own list. “She deserves someone who’s not stuck in the past.”

You blinked slowly. “Is that what I am to you? The past?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast. “No. You’re… you’re something else. You’ve always been something else.”

The words settled heavily in the small room, between the soft creak of your ceiling fan and the rustle of your hoodie fabric as you stood. You turned toward him fully now, arms crossed lightly over your chest—not in defiance, but to keep yourself from doing something stupid, like reaching for him.

“You keep saying things like that,” you said, voice quieter now, more level. “Then you go right back to her.”

JJ looked wrecked by that. Not dramatically—no theatrics—but in a way that only someone who really knew him would catch. A twitch in his jaw. A downward shift of his shoulders. The way his fingers clenched into fists at his sides.

“Because if I stay here,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, “I won’t go back.”

You stared at him, the air between you turning thick, heavy, electric. Like that moment right before lightning hits—when the sky holds its breath.

Then you looked down, arms tightening. “That’s not fair to anyone.”

“I know,” he breathed. “But when have we ever played fair?”

Your gaze lifted slowly, narrowing on him—not in full-blown anger, but something that wore its mask. The kind of look that could pass for fury to anyone else, but JJ would know better. Your anger toward him never really stuck. It was always diluted by something—jealousy, maybe. Or love. That wrecking kind of love, the kind that came with too many memories and too much history to ever fully shake loose. You didn’t know which it was most days, or if it even mattered. All you knew was that it dulled your edges every time you tried to hate him.

In another world, maybe this would’ve been the moment. The one where you’d let all the built-up tension finally snap and crumble into something physical. Where you’d close the distance, tangle your fingers in his hair, and kiss him like you meant to make up for all the months you spent pretending not to want it. A kiss born of anger and aching and all the years you spent orbiting one another, close enough to feel but never touch.

But that wasn’t your style. Not really.

You were someone who liked the build-up. The slow burn. The delicious, drawn-out anticipation. In books, in movies, even in porn—if it didn’t earn it, it didn’t matter. You needed the tease, the tension. You liked the ache. Maybe that made you a masochist, or maybe it just made you honest.

So instead of closing the distance, instead of taking the bait, you cocked your head and studied him like he was a puzzle you already had the pieces to. Your voice came out soft, but sure. “You’re baiting me again.”

The accusation wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was amused—wry and knowing, like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit in your bedroom dripping in unsaid things and accuse your best friend of flirting with you while he had a girlfriend.

And it kind of was. Normal, for the two of you.

JJ looked caught, but not surprised. He wet his lips, eyes flicking toward the door like someone might be listening, even though you both knew no one was. “I’m not baiting,” he lied. Poorly.

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, pushing your hair over your shoulder like the moment didn’t feel like it was cracking open between you. “You are. You always do this when you’re about to go back to her. It’s like clockwork.”

He didn’t deny it. Not this time.

Instead, he stepped just slightly closer, enough for you to smell the faint trace of bonfire smoke on his hoodie and the shampoo you always teased him about using. “So why don’t you ever take it?” he asked, voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper. “The bait.”

You held his stare. “Because I don’t want to be your mistake.”

That made him flinch—not dramatically, but enough. And the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Heavy. Buzzing.

He exhaled sharply, hands digging into the pockets of his jeans like he needed to do something with them before they found their way to you. “You wouldn’t be,” he said after a long moment. “You never could be.”

And that? That was more dangerous than anything else he could’ve said. Because it sounded too much like the truth.

But you never liked facing the truth. People like you didn’t get that luxury. People like you learned to chew through bitterness with a smile, to survive off instant noodles and petty theft, not because it was some coming-of-age aesthetic, but because it was that or nothing. You didn’t scrape by just to face the truth—you denied it, rewrote it, twisted it into something you could wear like armor. Admitting you were poor, or angry, or in love—any of it—meant letting the world decide your ending before you even reached the halfway mark.

So when JJ offered you his version of the truth, something raw and unguarded, you did what you always did. You scoffed at it. Dismissed it like it wasn’t heavy in your chest, like it didn’t curl around your ribs and try to make a home there. He could see through it, of course—he always did. JJ had trained his eyes to catch every flicker of emotion on your face, just like he’d trained his hands to stay in his pockets instead of reaching for you the way he always wanted to.

So you said the most reckless thing you could.

"You know..." you murmured, voice almost conversational, like you weren’t about to detonate something between you. Your jaw clenched like you were holding something bitter on your tongue. "I could probably fuck you."

The words landed like a stone thrown through stained glass. Loud in the silence. Crude and true and terrible.

JJ froze, the breath catching in his throat like it didn’t know whether to leave or stay stuck there. Something shifted behind his eyes—maybe it was lust, maybe it was fury, or maybe it was just all that buried yearning being forced to the surface too fast. The sentence rattled him. Not because you said it, but because you meant it.

You didn’t say it with flirtation or a smirk. You said it like a fact. Like you were reading from some invisible ledger you both had kept over the years, tallying moments and glances and almosts.

And maybe it was the softness of it that did him in. Or maybe the vulgarity, stripped of sweetness, nothing dressed up. Maybe it was the way your voice cracked ever so slightly like you hated yourself for wanting him. Or the way you hesitated—not because you didn’t mean it, but because you absolutely did.

Because if you both said it out loud, if you gave this thing a name—this slow, hungry, breathless ache—then it stopped being a fantasy.

It would become real. And real things broke. Or worse, they lasted.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you, like you were holding him in place with your hands instead of your words.

And you smiled, a crooked thing—half challenge, half surrender.

"Bet you'd like that, huh?" you added, eyes darkening with something he couldn’t quite name, teeth tugging at the inside of your cheek. "You like the idea of being someone’s escape. Even if it ruins everything else."

JJ blinked slowly, like you’d punched him, like he was still trying to catch up. His hands twitched at his sides—he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. But he was so close. So close.

"Don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it," he muttered finally, voice rough, low. Almost pained.

And you leaned in, just a fraction, just enough to feel the tension coil tighter between you.

"Who says I don’t?"

JJ's expression shifted when you leaned in—just a little. Just enough to keep him on the edge. And that was the thing about JJ Maybank. He was all sharp edges and soft gazes when it came to you, and the fact that you still hadn’t kissed him? It was slowly undoing him. Like you were biting the bait just by not taking it. Like resisting him was its own kind of seduction.

His eyes dropped to your lips, hunger flickering there, months—maybe years—of wanting compressed into a single glance. His jaw flexed as he tried to collect himself, tried to stall, but it didn’t work. He cracked, voice low and bitter-sweet.

"You're just…" he started, then stopped, like the words hurt to say. A full minute passed—real time, heavy and breathless. Then he let the rest out, slowly, like he’d been holding it in too long. “You’ve always been so unapologetically good, haven’t you?”

The accusation was soft, but it hit like a bruise. You blinked. Brows knitting slightly—not because you didn’t understand what he meant, but because you did. Because he was wrong.

“Too honest. Too direct. Strong moral code and whatnot,” he went on, tongue wetting his lower lip as he glanced away, only to look back at you with a forced grin. “You don’t break hearts. You make people break their own trying to be enough for you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the words hang there between you like smoke. He was projecting. You knew it. And you also knew it was eating him alive that he couldn’t say what he really wanted to say, so he dressed it up in venom and mockery.

“You're probably pleased with the fact I’m either baiting you or taking your bait, right?” he continued, voice quieter now, more intimate. “Pleased with being the better and bigger person. The girl who never slips.”

Then he leaned in. Just slightly. Enough that you could feel the brush of his lips near your cheekbone when he spoke again, each syllable dragging across your skin like it meant to brand you.

"You can’t plead the fifth forever, sugar…" he murmured, voice dipped in something darker—almost a growl. “One day you’re gonna get charged for your little petty crimes.”

You finally let out a breath. Not a laugh, not quite. But something close. And it wasn’t because what he said was funny—it was because it was tragic. You watched him carefully, the way his eyes flickered over your face, searching for something he couldn’t admit he needed. He wanted to call you out for being unreachable, for making him feel like the bad guy just because he couldn’t be as good as you. But you weren’t good.

You were just better at hiding your damage.

“Petty crimes?” you echoed, voice low, amused. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I’ve committed a few.”

JJ didn’t smile. Not really. But his mouth twitched like he wanted to. “Startin’ with this one right here,” he muttered, his hand twitching at his side again like he was fighting the urge to reach for your wrist, your jaw, your mouth—anything that would remind him this was real.

“And what would that crime be?” you asked.

JJ’s eyes dragged over your face like he was trying to memorize it, like this moment might be the last time he’d be allowed to look at you like this. “Temptation,” he said finally, the word landing like a punch between you. “Premeditated. With intent to ruin.”

He didn’t say who was being ruined—didn’t have to. Because the answer was obvious.

You blinked at him, lips parting like a rebuttal was coming, but nothing did. Because you could feel it too—that slow, inevitable spiral into something neither of you were ready for, but both of you couldn’t walk away from.

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” you said finally, voice quieter, harder now. You leaned back slightly, just enough to reestablish the line he kept trying to cross. “I don’t go around seducing boys with girlfriends.”

The smirk that curved his mouth then was bitter, tight. “You don’t have to. Just breathing around me does the job.”

And there it was again—that confession hidden beneath a joke, said with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, restless, pacing a few slow steps away like he was trying to physically pull himself back from whatever edge he’d been standing on.

“You think this is easy for me?” he asked over his shoulder, tone ragged. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to talk myself out of this? Of you?”

The words hung like smoke again. Thick and impossible to ignore.

“Then why haven’t you?”

JJ stopped. Turned. Met your gaze with something like desperation hiding under all that swagger. “Because I’d rather be guilty with you,” he said, voice low and raw, “than loyal with someone I don’t want.”

It was quiet for a long time after that. Not the good kind. Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that came before something broke.

JJ let out a laugh that didn’t sound like one, maybe meant to break the silence. It was sharp, bitter, laced with the frustration of someone who’d been holding himself back for far too long. He dragged a hand down his face, then through his hair, jaw tight as he stared at the floor for a beat too long. When he looked up again, his expression was darker—hazed over with something dangerous and painfully honest.

“You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” he muttered, voice raw. “Dangling shit in front of me and pretending like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t have to pretend,” you replied, dry and flat. “I’m not the one looking for loopholes.”

JJ stepped in again. Closer now. Close enough that your shoulders brushed when you breathed. “You know what pisses me off?” he hissed, voice low and tight. “It’s not even the games. It’s the fact that you’re winning without even trying.”

Your throat tightened, but you tilted your head like you weren’t affected. “So stop playing.”

“I can’t,” he snapped, his voice nearly breaking around the edges. “That’s the problem.”

You stood still, watching him unravel in real time. His hands hovered at his sides like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. His eyes kept dragging to your mouth, to your collarbone, to the curve of your shoulder, like he was trying to memorize every inch before he crossed a line he couldn’t come back from.

“I hate that you do this to me,” he said, almost too quietly. “I hate that I care. That I think about you every time I kiss her. That it’s your fucking voice in my head when I’m trying to fall asleep.”

The words should’ve hurt. But they didn’t. They only made your stomach drop in that sick, addictive way you’d come to associate with him.

“Don’t blame me for your guilt,” you muttered. “You’re the one in love with the wrong girl.”

His hand hit the wall behind you before he could stop himself—not near you, not threatening, but loud enough to make the silence after it even sharper.

You flinched—but not in fear. In anticipation.

JJ leaned in again, one hand still braced against the wall, the other barely touching your wrist like it was tethering him to this moment. His breath was hot against your lips again, and you could feel how close he was to losing whatever resolve he had left.

“I’m one second away from kissing you,” he growled. “Don’t make me regret not doing it.”

You held his gaze. Breath steady, voice even. “You’d only regret stopping.”

And then… still, nothing.

Because that was the truth with you and JJ.

Always almost.

Always burning.

Never quite touching.

Not yet.

Your chest rose, barely, and he noticed—of course he noticed. JJ always noticed when it came to you. It was in the way his gaze dipped and lingered on the curve of your lips, the line of your throat, the place where your pulse betrayed just how not-in-control you really were. He stared at you like you were a fire he wanted to jump into just to see if you'd burn him the same way he knew he already burned for you.

And you? You just stood there. Letting him unravel with the barest inch of space between you. The tension didn’t just thrum—it pulsed, alive and humming between your bodies like it was its own entity, something you both fed with every look, every smirk, every word you didn’t say.

His fingers twitched near your waist, and your breath hitched as he finally let them brush your hip again—featherlight, infuriating, like he needed to touch you just to stay grounded. But it wasn’t enough. Not for either of you.

JJ’s mouth was so close you could feel the ghost of it on your skin, the warm tease of it dragging across your cheekbone when he spoke again. “You think I don’t want to ruin this? You think I don’t imagine what it’d feel like—your mouth, your skin, that smart fucking mouth gone quiet for once?”

Your jaw clenched, not in anger—no, in restraint. Because God, you wanted it too. And he knew it. He could see it in the way your knees tensed, your breath staggered, your fingers tightened slightly in the hem of your own shirt like you needed something to hold onto.

“But you won’t,” you murmured, voice slicing through the thick air between you. “Because you’re not ready to lose what’s left.”

His lips twitched—anger or desire, you couldn’t tell. “You say that like it’s still up to me.”

“It is,” you whispered, eyes locked on his. “You just want someone else to blame when it all burns.”

And maybe that was the cruelest part—because JJ Maybank didn’t fear destruction. He feared responsibility. He feared being the one to press the button, even if his hands were already shaking over it.

He didn’t move. Not really. Just leaned in so close now that the tip of his nose brushed yours. Close enough that you could feel the air leave his lungs when you didn’t back down. He was waiting—for what, he didn’t even know. Permission, maybe. Forgiveness. Or just the last fucking straw.

You smiled, slow and sharp. “I dare you.”

He almost kissed you.

Almost.

But instead, he stepped back like the floor burned under his shoes, running a hand down his face with a broken sound caught in his throat. He didn’t meet your eyes—not this time. Not when they were glassy and reckless and ready to cross every line he swore he wouldn’t.

You exhaled slowly, hands still trembling from restraint. And JJ? He looked like a man who’d just cheated death—but hated himself for surviving.

Neither of you spoke.

Because nothing either of you could say would fix the ache you were both trying to live with.

The drive to the Boneyard felt like the longest ten minutes of your life. Time always bent in strange, impossible ways around JJ Maybank—especially when neither of you dared break the silence thick with everything unspoken. You stared out the window like the stars might offer some clarity, like the salt air could cool the fire still smoldering beneath your skin from the almost that had happened in your bedroom. Or the many almosts that had come before.

You could feel him watching you out of the corner of his eye. One hand on the wheel, the other drumming restlessly against his thigh. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you reached. The air between you was too electric for that, too fragile. One wrong move and the night would collapse under its own weight.

When your beat-up Vans finally hit the warm, grainy sand of the Boneyard, it felt like a slap back into reality. The second JJ killed the engine, your ears were swallowed up by the distant crash of waves, the thump of bass-heavy music from a half-broken speaker, and the crackling of the bonfire at the center of it all. Laughter, slurred words, the hiss of beer cans cracking open—it all bled together into the soundtrack of your youth. Wild and wasted and a little bit dangerous.

The fire cast everyone in a flickering orange glow, softening sharp features and turning shadows into shapes that danced against the dunes. You scanned the crowd, letting your gaze sweep lazily over the groups of teenagers sprawled across faded towels and stolen lawn chairs. Everyone glowed in the firelight—sweaty and sun-kissed, their edges blurred by booze and smoke. You took it all in: the familiar silhouettes of the Pogues, the occasional glint of a gold chain or flash of a designer belt that gave away the Kooks who had slithered in.

You always found it ironic—how many Kooks flocked to these bonfires, these Pogue gatherings. You'd think this kind of chaos wouldn’t be their scene. They belonged in country clubs and coastal mansions, not kicking sand into Solo cups and fighting over who gets aux next. But then again, free booze was free booze. And when the alcohol started flowing and the fire got high enough, even the lines between Kook and Pogue blurred. Maybe not erased—but smudged enough to forget for a few hours.

Sure, the tension still simmered. Fights still broke out. Sometimes fists flew. Sometimes someone would get pushed into the surf. And once or twice, yeah, someone had flashed a piece just to feel big in front of the flames. But those moments passed quick, swallowed up by the music, the laughter, the high of pretending nothing could touch you here.

You stepped out of the Twinkie without waiting for JJ, brushing your fingers over your shirt like you could smooth out more than just wrinkles. The breeze kissed your skin, the scent of salt and weed and summer thick in the air. You didn’t look back when you heard JJ’s door slam, but you felt him behind you. Like always. Close, but never close enough.

Still, you keep walking.

JJ trails just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, but not close enough to touch. His silence is like a static charge clinging to your skin—heavy, restless, like he's holding something in his mouth he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. You don’t ask. You don't slow down. You just flash the occasional smile when someone passes, murmuring half-hearted hellos, pretending not to notice the way JJ’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you. Or maybe stop you. Or maybe rewind time to the exact second you said “I could probably fuck you” and said something—anything—different.

But then you're there. The fire’s glow is stronger now, casting flickering shadows over familiar faces. Your best friends huddle near the beer cooler, half-drunk and flushed with sun and smoke. You barely manage a greeting before Kiara stumbles straight into JJ’s arms, giggling as she loops herself around his neck with drunken ease. She presses a messy kiss to his cheek, her lip gloss smearing just faintly against his jaw.

You see him flinch. Not outwardly. Not enough for her to notice. But you catch it. The way his fingers hesitate on her waist, the way his shoulders lock.

Pope lets out a chuckle that sounds too practiced, like he’s playing his part. You glance at him and he meets your eyes over the rim of his Solo cup. He doesn’t smile, but he tips his drink in your direction—a silent toast to how both of you are biting your tongues tonight. That brief look is its own kind of exhaustion. He feels it too. The quiet ache of watching people you love touch someone else.

You’re about to retreat into the folds of your own forced indifference when Sarah breaks from John B’s side, squealing your name with wide eyes and a grin that’s entirely too sincere for you to fake anything in return. “I didn’t even know you owned skirts anymore,” she teases, dragging her gaze up and down your outfit, her hands already on your waist as if to twirl you. “Jesus, you took forever to get here, but clearly—worth it.”

Kie giggles beside her, now swaying slightly as she clings to JJ’s arm like she doesn’t feel the stiffness beneath her fingers. “Yeah,” she slurs lightly, eyes flicking between you and JJ. “Thought maybe you two got lost or something…”

JJ coughs. You don’t look at him.

Instead, you turn to Sarah and let your shoulders drop just a little, jaw unclenching as you return the squeeze on her waist with a small grin. “Had to look my best, right?” you murmur, your voice low and velvety, deliberately directing the comment at Sarah even though everyone knows it’s not for her.

Sarah grins wider, missing the shift beneath your words. JJ doesn’t.

You don’t miss the flicker in his jaw or the way he shifts under Kie’s touch like she suddenly weighs too much. You don't miss the way he keeps his gaze locked on the sand instead of you. You don’t say anything. But maybe you don’t have to.

Because silence? It always says too much.

The tension coils tighter, like a rubber band stretched past its breaking point. You smile through it. You've gotten good at that—at playing the part, at wearing expressions like armor. Sarah chats beside you, already pulling you closer to the makeshift bar where a cooler is sunk half into the sand, filled with half-melted ice and whatever was on sale this week. She’s laughing about something John B said, something dumb and harmless, but your ears are full of static. Your eyes flick once—just once—over your shoulder.

JJ is still standing where you left him. Kie has her head on his shoulder now, her arm still draped around him like he belongs there. Like this is normal. But JJ's eyes are somewhere else. Not on Kie. Not on Pope. Not on the fire. They're on you.

The look he gives you isn’t soft. It isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Dark. Like you’re something he wants to break open and crawl inside of.

You look away.

Sarah’s still talking, but her voice fades to background noise. You reach for a drink without thinking, cracking open a hard seltzer just to have something cold in your hand, something fizzy to distract from the burn in your chest. You feel Pope step up beside you and offer a nod—silent solidarity. You wonder how long it’ll take before he and Kie stop pretending, too.

“Are we pretending this isn’t uncomfortable?” he mutters under his breath.

You snort into your drink. “They always were great at playing house.”

Pope smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Except the house is on fire.”

And it is. Burning slow, crackling low under the surface. Your chest feels too tight for how breezy the night is. Sand gets between your toes. You feel it grind like grit in your teeth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see JJ finally move. He shifts Kie off of him gently, his excuse too quiet to hear. She waves him off, laughing, tipsy and unaware. He walks toward you. Purposefully.

You brace yourself.

He doesn’t say your name, just reaches for your wrist like he’s done it a thousand times, fingers curling around it like instinct. Like possession. Your eyes dart to where his hand is wrapped around your skin—warm, firm, grounding.

“Come here,” he says quietly, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but you hear it anyway. You always do.

You glance around. No one’s paying attention. Not really. Sarah’s still talking to John B. Kie is dancing near the fire. Pope’s watching, but he doesn’t move.

You could pull away. You should. You won’t.

JJ’s eyes are glassy from the firelight, pupils wide from whatever he’s trying to bury. Guilt. Want. Confusion. You don’t know. You never do with JJ until it’s too late. But his grip on your wrist is the most honest thing about him right now. It trembles, just barely.

“You gonna say something, or just drag me off like you always do?” you whisper, mouth inches from his.

His jaw clenches. You don’t know if it’s anger or restraint. “If I say it, it’s real.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then I’ll keep ending up outside your trailer.”

That lands hard.

You blink once. Twice. You don’t move. But you feel the shift inside you, the way your defenses sway like a door left unlocked during a storm.

Then you pull your hand free—not hard, but enough. Just enough to let him feel it.

“Then you better be careful,” you murmur, voice barely a breath, “or one of these days, I’m gonna let you in.”

Pope finally intervenes, stepping in like he’d heard every word of the whispered conversation but chose now to cash in his role as the group's voice of reason. He clears his throat, that familiar blend of amused exasperation and older-brother energy settling into the space like a wedge between you and JJ. It’s not loud, not confrontational—just enough to say: Not here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

JJ doesn't even flinch. He doesn't care. His eyes are still on you, locked in like you're both in some kind of silent, slow-burn standoff. His jaw tics. Your smirk only widens, lips wrapping around the rim of your seltzer as you raise it to your mouth with practiced ease, taking a deliberately slow sip, letting your tongue flick the corner of your mouth as the sweet liquid hits your tongue.

Just as you expected, his gaze drops—to your lips. His brows twitch faintly, not quite a glare but something darker, simmering beneath the surface. Anger. Jealousy. Resentment. All of it dressed in that pretty face and the sharp, boyish bone structure that always made it too easy to forget how destructive JJ Maybank could be when he wanted something he couldn’t have.

"I dunno what's happening," Pope drawls finally, sliding in beside you, his voice a thread of lightness cutting through the tension like a knife, "but I'm all for whatever this silent argument is. Feels like the prequel to someone getting slapped."

He's got an unopened beer bottle in hand, and with a half-grin, he offers it to JJ like a peace offering—like this isn't the third time he’s had to step between you two before the air turns flammable.

JJ takes it wordlessly, muttering a rough “Thanks,” under his breath before cracking it open and downing a long sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“We’re not arguing,” you say breezily, voice dipped in sugar and venom, letting the words roll off your tongue like honey over a blade. Your smile curls slow and deliberate, all teeth and challenge, and then—just to twist the knife—you drape your arm over Pope’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You feel JJ’s reaction in the shift of the air alone. His knuckles flex around the neck of the bottle. His mouth twitches at the corner, like he’s swallowing back words and bile all in the same breath. Pope stiffens for a second under your arm, sensing the game but choosing, wisely, not to play it. He just lets out a small chuckle, like he’s decided to stay neutral—for now.

JJ leans back, lips quirking into something that isn’t quite a smile. More of a warning. More of a promise.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he mutters, voice low and gravel-edged.

You raise your can in a mock-toast, head tilted, gaze locked. “I sleep just fine.”

And you do. At least when you don’t dream of him.

Your eyes flick back to JJ. And you don’t look away. Not once.

JJ latches onto your words like a lifeline—like you’d handed him a rope out of the pit he’s been sinking in since the second you opened your trailer door. “Yeah, I’d probably sleep like a baby too in a king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress in a nice mansion,” he fires back, voice soaked in sarcasm, bitterness biting through every syllable.

That earns a low whistle from Pope, his hand now resting a little heavier on your hip. He doesn’t say anything, but the amusement is written clear in the sideways lift of his brow as he glances between the two of you, like he’s watching a game of chicken where everyone’s already lost.

You shoot Pope a subtle glare—a warning, not a rejection—before turning back to JJ with a wicked glint in your eyes. You grin, slow and deliberate, like it physically pains you to keep the venom sweet.

“Ain’t you the one with a Kook girlfriend?” you ask, blinking up at him all faux-innocent, voice light as seafoam, but the undertone sharp enough to draw blood. “Too bad she likes to play Pogue and ignore her queen-sized bed and her daddy’s beach house.”

You cock your head toward the fire, where Kiara’s still twirling lazily in the glow, unaware—or maybe pretending not to be—of the way the room around her has gone cold. She laughs at something John B says, face flushed from whatever’s in her cup, and it only fuels your pettiness.

JJ’s jaw tightens. You see it—the pulse ticking at the side of his neck, the way his tongue runs over his teeth like he’s trying to chew through whatever pride he has left.

“She’s not pretending,” he says finally, voice low and defensive. “She knows who her people are.”

“Do you?” you ask, softly. Sharply.

It lands. You know it does. His eyes flicker. For a split second, the fire behind them dims. And then it flares—back in full force.

Before he can respond, Pope cuts in with a short laugh, light but strategic. “Okay,” he mutters, dragging his hand off your hip slowly, “I’m gonna go get another drink before this turns into a murder trial.”

You don’t stop him. JJ doesn’t either. The space between the two of you crackles in his absence.

JJ steps forward, just slightly. Not enough to close the gap, but enough to make your breath hitch. His voice drops lower, throatier now.

“You think you know what you’re doing?” he asks, eyes burning holes into you. “You think dragging Pope into this makes me jealous?”

“No,” you say, tilting your head again, gaze locked onto his like a challenge. “I know it does.”

And the worst part is—you both like it.

But your expression ticks—mean and mocking in a way JJ knows is all pretend. You’ve always been good at that. Sarcasm as armor, cruelty as camouflage. It’s the game you’ve both been playing for years now. And JJ? He learned the rules early. Memorized the terrain. Watched you wield words like weapons that looked blunt but cut all the same.

“You used to be more fun, you know…” you say, voice soft but edged—less gentle, more surgical. Not a strike, but a slice meant to bleed slow. “Now all you do is hover around me like you’re waiting for permission to burn.”

JJ stiffens like the words winded him, but he doesn’t argue. He just looks at you—really looks—tongue pressed against his cheek, jaw flexing like he's biting down the part of him that always wants to push back. But there’s something else in his gaze tonight, something wounded and defiant.

“You want me to burn,” he says finally. It isn’t a question.

You don’t answer. You just hold his gaze. Because yes—maybe you do. Maybe you want him to break first. You want him to be the one who ruins things this time. To fall, to reach, to cross the damn line. Because you’ve done it before—for people who weren’t him—and you have the scars to prove it. So maybe you want to know what JJ Maybank would look like in the wreckage.

But before either of you can move, before the moment can tip over the edge—Sarah’s voice crashes in like a wave, loud and light, unbothered by the tension clinging to the space between you.

“There you are!” she calls, weaving her way across the sand with two red cups in hand and a grin that’s all too knowing. “We’re doing shots. You’re both coming.”

You blink like you’re waking up. The heat between you and JJ scatters like ash caught in the wind. You laugh softly—more of an exhale than anything else—and turn your head toward her. “Well, I’m not saying no to that.”

JJ doesn’t speak. But his eyes never leave you. Not as you take the drink from Sarah. Not as your skirt sways with each step you take. Not as your chin lifts like you’re unaffected, untouched.

He stays behind, beer in hand, mouth set in something hard and unreadable.

But you know how this goes.

He’ll follow.

He always does.

Sarah loops an arm around your shoulder as she pulls you back into the glow of the bonfire, the thud of music pulsing through the sand beneath your shoes. You abandon your can of seltzer near a half-buried bucket and take the shot from her hand, knocking it back with practiced ease. The warmth of the liquor hits fast, sharp, but welcome.

Kiara’s beside you in seconds, tossing back her own drink and coughing through a laugh. “Your skirt looks amazing!” she half-yells over the music, swaying closer, eyes glassy and affectionate.

You glance down, brushing invisible lint off the fabric. “It’s a bit uncomfortable, to be honest,” you admit, your voice lighter now, easier in the chaos of friends and firelight.

“That’s the price of looking hot,” Kie shrugs, grinning. “Pain is temporary. The photos are forever.”

You snort. “Says the girl who wore flip flops to a hike last week.”

Sarah throws her head back laughing as Kiara flips you off, and for a moment—just a flicker—you let yourself get lost in it. The music, the fire, the familiar echo of friendship wrapping around your throat like a scarf. Safe and warm, but always a little too tight.

You’ve always loved the beach at night—kegger or not. There was something about it that felt sacred. Like the moonlight gave the island permission to spill its secrets, and the sand kept them buried just deep enough to forget come morning. Out here, under stars and the hum of cheap speakers, the beach belonged to the teenagers of Outer Banks. A place where sins went unnoticed as long as you smiled wide enough and kept a drink in hand.

Your gaze drifted over the stretch of chaos—half-drunk bodies dancing offbeat to music that pulsed more in your ribs than your ears, laughter curling in the air like smoke. It looked like a scene from a coming-of-age movie, blurry around the edges and too golden to be real.

And then you saw him.

Over the fire, at just enough distance to pretend you weren’t looking—but close enough to feel it when your eyes landed on his. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Not really. He was mid-laugh, mouth parted in that effortless grin he reserved for moments where he didn’t have to be in control, where he could pretend he wasn’t suffocating under the pressure of being Rafe Cameron. But you saw him.

You always did.

You hated how well you could recognize him, how instinctive it had become—like your brain was hardwired to know where he was at all times. You could trace that silhouette in your sleep—the way he loomed over his friends without even trying, height and arrogance giving him a natural advantage. Broad shoulders, proud posture, that cocky slouch that always hinted at violence or sex or both. His presence wasn’t just distinct—it was disruptive. You’d know him anywhere.

Even now, in the dim firelight and chaos, you could make out the pale polo shirt clinging to his frame—because of course it’s a polo. Always a fucking polo. You couldn’t tell the exact color, but the collar was rumpled and slightly stained. Your stomach twisted with something dark at the sight of it. Blood maybe? Paint? Or just the residue of another fight he swore he didn’t start. Rafe was always showing up with remnants of something. A bruise. A scab. A half-assed apology.

His hands were fidgeting, something you knew meant he was uncomfortable. Tense. Probably trying not to lose it in front of the Kooks who thought he was some polished legacy prince. You watched his fingers turn over a crumpled napkin like it owed him something, his rings catching the firelight as he ran a thumb over the face of one of them. Polishing it absently. Or maybe ritualistically. Like he needed something to focus on besides whatever was twisting his insides.

Your lips twitched at the memory of those same hands wrapped around your waist, your throat, buried in your hair while he begged in a voice that only came out when you had him beneath you. All that polish, all that control, gone in an instant under the right pressure. You’d seen Rafe Cameron unravel—and you were starting to think it might be your favorite hobby.

Still, watching him now—grinning like he belonged here, like he wasn’t rotting from the inside out—you felt a slow burn work its way through your chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly. Just the quiet throb of knowing something no one else here did. Something deeper than gossip. Something carved from flesh and memory and too many near-misses.

And as your eyes lingered, you wondered how long it would take for him to notice you.

Because he always did.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you keep watching, undetected. Undisturbed. You’re not sure what’s worse: the fact that he hasn’t noticed you yet, or the fact that part of you wants him to. Wants his gaze to snap to yours from across the fire, that twisted smirk to tug at his mouth like a challenge. Because that’s always been the beginning of the end with you two.

Unlike JJ, who orbited around you like he needed permission to burn, Rafe came with the matches already lit—no hesitation, no apologies. JJ was the one you were in love with, the one who felt like home before you even understood what that meant. But Rafe? Rafe was something else entirely. A temptation dressed in chaos and cologne, all sharp edges and splintered morals. He was the wrong choice with perfect timing. And your body, stupid and reckless, never failed to respond.

You knew he was a horrible guy. Maybe even the worst guy. But your body didn’t care about rumors or red flags when he looked at you the way he did. When his hands, rough and ringed, left bruises you didn’t bother covering. The body knew what it liked, and it never asked for permission.

Your gaze stayed glued to the firelit silhouette of him across the sand, hands moving in that slow, methodical way as he polished the glinting silver at his fingers. He wasn’t even looking at you, but it didn’t matter. The pull was already there—lazy and magnetic. He looked like he’d just ruined something and was proud of it, grinning faintly to himself like he was sitting in the aftermath of violence he didn’t regret.

You didn’t need to see his face to know that smile.

You didn’t need to hear his voice to feel the echo of it, somewhere low in your stomach.

A light poke at your shoulder finally broke your trance. You blinked once, slowly, head tilting as you turned to Sarah who was now giggling at her own story, slurring through a retelling of something Pope apparently did earlier with a keg and a dare. You nodded along, smiling faintly like you were keeping up, like you weren’t still feeling the way Rafe’s absence wrapped itself around your ribs tighter than his presence ever did.

Sarah's voice came in and out, too loud and too soft all at once. Her warmth was real, her laugh familiar, but your ears couldn’t settle on it. Not when your eyes had already betrayed you again.

They drifted back across the fire on instinct, like gravity itself had shifted toward him. And there he still was—same stance, same smug stillness, like he knew you were watching. Like he’d known all along.

His thumb dragged slow across the face of his ring again. Almost deliberate.

Your breath caught.

He’s still there, still silent and looming across the fire, half-shrouded in smoke and shadows and whatever sin he's plotting next. His friends are talking animatedly beside him, but Rafe doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. That’s what makes him so loud. He wears silence like a crown, like it gives him power. And maybe it does.

You’re not even sure when this fixation started—when the thrill of hating him bled into something darker, hotter. But now it’s in your bloodstream, carved behind your ribs, humming under your skin. You could hate him all you want. You could call him everything he is—violent, cruel, obsessive, fucked beyond repair—but none of that erases the fact that your body remembers his like a curse.

And you hate that part of yourself. The part that keeps turning toward fire just to see how close it can get without being consumed.

You blink once, hard, and drag your attention back to the group, past Sarah’s laugh and the sound of beer bottles clinking, past the music thumping in your chest. But the awareness of him doesn’t fade. It just sits there, heavy and electric.

Rafe hasn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe he has—and he’s just waiting for the right moment to strike the match.

You haven’t really been listening to the noise around you—not the scattered bursts of laughter, the tipsy chatter of your friends, or the chorus of voices layered across the beach. Everything had dulled into a low hum behind the steady rhythm of your heartbeat and the sound of waves crashing in the distance. Your attention, whether you liked it or not, was tethered to one place. One person.

But Pope’s voice cuts through the static, threading into your ears with just enough amusement to hook you. “Did you put your brother in rice?” he asks Sarah, chuckling as he nods toward the silhouette you’ve been quietly watching for the past few minutes.

Your brows lift slightly, pulled out of your trance as you glance at Pope, then follow his gaze like it’s not already burned into your retinas.

“What do you mean?” Sarah laughs, leaning more fully into John B, her drink wobbling slightly in her hand as her gaze lands on her brother. She sounds light, but there’s an edge of genuine curiosity there too.

“I mean,” Pope says with a lazy grin, “he seems less... unhinged. Less like he’s gonna commit a felony just because someone looked at him wrong.”

You snort softly, finally lifting your drink to your lips and taking a slow sip. Pope turns toward you as if waiting for confirmation, but you only offer a shrug, keeping your face neutral. Inside, though, your stomach tightens. Not because he’s wrong—but because you’ve noticed it too.

You glance back across the fire at Rafe, now deep in some one-sided conversation with Sofia. Or rather, she’s talking. His expression doesn’t shift much—cool, unreadable, the picture of disinterest. One hand plays with the hem of his sleeve, and he’s still rolling that same crumpled napkin between his fingers like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

Sarah hums, squinting slightly through the haze of heat and firelight. “I dunno,” she says after a beat, sounding both thoughtful and distant. “The last overdose kind of... mellowed him. Usually, after something like that, he’s worse. Like the world owes him for not letting him die.”

Her voice is too casual for the weight of her words, like she’s used to this. Like they’ve all been here before. The thought settles heavily in your chest.

“But this time...” she continues, “it’s like he’s okay with being alive.”

There’s a moment of silence after that. Not total, not with the kegger still raging around you—but within your circle, something quiets. And whether it’s intentional or not, you can feel their eyes drifting toward you. JJ especially. You feel the weight of his stare from across Kiara’s shoulder, feel the way he goes a little more still, like he’s bracing for something.

You tilt your head and smile faintly, masking the sharp twist in your gut. “Or maybe Sofia’s just treating him good,” you murmur, your voice low and slow, curling with just enough sarcasm to hide the truth underneath. The smirk that rises to your lips doesn’t reach your eyes.

The group gives polite little reactions—an eye roll from Sarah, a raised brow from Pope—but your gaze has already drifted back to Rafe. Sofia is still talking, animated in the way girls get when they’re nervous or too eager to please. And Rafe, well... Rafe isn’t really listening. Not fully. His eyes aren’t glassy, but they’re far away, distant in the way you’ve come to recognize. Like he’s humoring the moment. Like he’s only halfway in it.

You know that version of him. The quiet kind. The kind that follows a low, simmering rage or a night spent fucking out feelings he can’t name.

And maybe it’s that version that makes your jaw clench. Or maybe it’s the knowing—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t look like that with her. Not really. That whatever quiet calm he’s projecting now isn’t hers to take credit for.

But you don’t say any of that. You just watch. And sip your drink.

Sarah watches her brother for a moment longer, eyes narrowed slightly as she studies the almost mechanical way he nods at whatever Sofia is rambling about. Her brows furrow, and when she turns to you, it’s with a shrug and a slight grimace that looks too contemplative for how drunk she clearly is. “I don’t think so…” she mutters finally, dragging her eyes away from the firelight. “Him and Sofia stopped hooking up months ago.”

You blink once, surprised by the sudden clarity in her tone. The slur is still there, faint around the edges, but the words themselves feel more grounded than anything she’s said all night. She holds your gaze, like she’s trying to emphasize that she’s not bullshitting you, not this time. “She used to be at our house every day after work,” she continues, voice dropping lower, more private. “Like clockwork. She’d bring takeout or sit in the living room pretending she liked whatever movie he picked. But I haven’t seen her there in a while. Not even on weekends. And trust me—Rafe gets loud when he’s with someone. Whole house knew.”

You try to keep your face neutral, but something twists in your stomach anyway. Because Sarah isn’t just stating facts—she’s giving you a timeline, a subtle little warning you didn’t ask for but now can’t ignore. If Sofia isn’t the one keeping Rafe calm lately, if she isn’t the reason for the softness Sarah mentioned earlier… then who is?

Your silence must speak volumes, because Sarah tilts her head, smirking knowingly. “You’d be surprised how often I find his moods suddenly lifted right after he’s seen you,” she says, barely louder than the crackling of the fire behind her. “Or when you’re around. It’s weird. Like you have this... chokehold on him and don’t even realize it.”

You roll your eyes, partly to shield yourself and partly because you don’t have a good response for that. She doesn’t say it with judgment—more like quiet curiosity, like she’s watching a puzzle rearrange itself in real time. The kind of look that makes your skin feel hot, like she’s peeling back something you’ve been carefully hiding.

Still, you force a shrug, playful enough to deflect. “He’s a grown man, Sarah. Maybe he finally figured out therapy and essential oils.”

She snorts, loud and inelegant. “Yeah, and maybe JJ will propose to Kiara tomorrow.”

That earns a real laugh from you, something sharp and bitter at the edges. But it fades just as quickly as it came. Because even if Rafe isn’t with Sofia anymore, even if he hasn’t been for a while... the implication sits heavy in your chest now. That whatever version of him exists lately—the steadier, less violent one—might have something to do with you.

And that? That’s almost more dangerous than if he was still screwing Sofia.

Because Rafe Cameron being in a better headspace because of you means he’s watching, waiting, calculating. It means every slow grin, every passing touch, every comment that lingers too long—none of it is harmless. And that you’re not blameless either.

You glance back toward the fire, and this time, Rafe’s eyes are already on you.

And he’s smiling.

Not like he’s amused. Like he knows.

You feel that familiar spark of irritation bubble up at the sight of his smile—lazy, knowing, entirely too satisfied with himself. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t just provoke you, it invites something reckless. You tear your gaze away before he can catch you staring back, jaw clenching as your skin prickles from the weight of his stare. You can feel it, sharp and deliberate, cutting across the fire like a hot wire, latching onto the side of your face no matter how far you try to look elsewhere. The conversation around you shifts mercifully toward some other subject, some other scandal or drunken game, but none of it lands. Not with the way Rafe’s watching you. Still surrounded by his friends, still pretending to be part of the noise, but his attention is fixed.

You finish the last of your seltzer with a tight swallow and abandon the empty can beside you in the sand, muttering something vague to your friends about grabbing another drink. You don’t wait for their responses. Your legs move before you can second-guess them, pushing you forward through the crowd with tunnel vision, dodging swaying bodies and discarded solo cups, your eyes glued ahead as you navigate toward one of the forgotten coolers near the edge of the beach. It’s quieter here, the kind of quiet that buzzes in your ears after too much noise. The music fades into the distance, and for a brief second, you breathe—really breathe—listening to the waves crashing in steady rhythm and the creak of the wind bending through the beach grass.

You crouch beside the cooler, lifting the lid with a creak, your fingers digging into ice water that barely chills your skin anymore. Most of the drinks are gone or warm. You frown, pushing a few cans aside until you find one that’s still semi-cold—black cherry Twisted Tea. You turn it slowly in your hand, trying to make out the faded writing in the dim glow from the distant firelight, when a voice cuts clean through the calm.

“Lacy black,” the voice drawls, casual and smug in a way that turns your stomach, “Skimpy enough for the skirt you’re surprisingly wearing.”

You jolt, straightening up too fast, head whipping around to find him leaning just a few paces behind you, shadowed by the dark but unmistakably there. Rafe fucking Cameron. He’s been watching—of course he has. Probably standing there the whole time you were bent over, probably enjoying the view more than he has any right to. Your fingers twitch around the can, the metal denting under your grip as you quickly tug at the hem of your skirt with your free hand, an instinct more than anything else. The gesture feels defensive, small, but your glare is anything but.

“You spying on me now?” you ask, your voice calm but edged, more annoyed than startled. “What, Sofia not stimulating enough conversation-wise?”

Rafe tilts his head, grin deepening. He doesn’t bother defending himself, and that says more than anything else could. “Wouldn’t call it spying. You’re just really fucking hard not to look at tonight.”

You roll your eyes, cracking open the drink and taking a long sip. You let the sweet burn coat your tongue, let it calm the storm in your chest as you study him with narrowed eyes. He’s wearing some soft-colored polo again—cream maybe, or pale blue, you can’t really tell in the dark—but the collar is stained. You notice that again. Dark, messy. Could be blood. Could be ash. Could be wine or nothing at all. But the tension that clings to him is unmistakable, even here. His rings glint as he flexes his fingers, fidgeting, still polishing the edge of one like he needs to keep his hands busy or he might use them for something worse.

“Looks like you came all this way just to be a dick,” you mutter, eyes flicking back to the cooler like maybe you’ll find another drink to excuse your presence.

Rafe steps closer instead. “I came to drink. You just happen to be the better view.”

“You should try a mirror. Might finally scare yourself straight.”

He chuckles, low and slow, and it’s too warm against your skin in the cool air. “That mouth,” he muses, almost fondly. “It’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“It’s already gotten me worse,” you shoot back, still not looking at him, but you feel it—the way he takes that in. The way it winds through him like a wire being pulled tight.

He lets a pause hang between you, lets the quiet between waves stretch just long enough to blur the line between teasing and threat. Then, softly, “You didn’t answer me.”

You blink at him. “About what?”

“The panties.”

Your nostrils flare. “Jesus, Rafe—”

He raises a hand like he’s calling a truce, smile still carved across his face. “Relax. I already saw. Wasn’t really a question.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know, sometimes I wonder how you manage to function with all that smugness clogging your brain.”

“You like it,” he replies, tone flat and certain. “You like that I look. That I notice.”

You hate how fast your breath catches. Hate the accuracy in his words. Because yes—he looks at you like you’re something worth ruining for. And maybe part of you likes knowing you hold that kind of power. Maybe it’s what keeps pulling you back in, even when you should run.

“You don’t know what I like,” you say quietly.

Rafe takes another step forward. Close enough now that you can smell his cologne beneath the burn of alcohol, the smoke and sweat that clings to him like armor. “I know enough,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Enough to know you don’t look at anyone else the way you look at me.”

You lift your chin defiantly, but you don’t move. You don’t tell him he’s wrong. Because maybe you don’t want to.

Instead, you settle on taking another sip of your Twisted Tea, the can cool against your lips as you tilt your head ever so slightly, studying him over the rim. You mean for it to be judgmental, a warning glare hidden behind slow sips—but it doesn’t land that way. It never does with Rafe. Because your gaze lingers too long, your expression softens at the wrong moment, and the way your eyes flicker down to the cut blooming on the corner of his lip gives you away. You watch it like it might open wider if you stare too hard, like the blood might bloom again. He must’ve licked at it recently; there’s a sheen there that catches the moonlight.

You catch yourself staring and force your gaze back up to his eyes. Those baby blues. Too bright, too sharp, too silver in the moonlight, like frost under glass. They’re already locked on you, watching, expectant. There’s something infuriatingly soft in them now—crinkled at the corners with the beginning of a smile. Genuine. Warm, even. Which is absurd considering all the evidence of violence scattered across his skin like a breadcrumb trail. The messed-up hair, the bruised knuckles, the bloodied lip. He looks like someone who just got into a fight and won. And somehow, that makes him look more at ease than usual. Like bruises ground him.

He doesn’t speak. Just lets your silence stretch between you both, taut and humming, like he knows the longer you look at him, the more curious you’ll become. And fuck, you hate that he’s right. There’s a spark of something low in your stomach—not quite lust, not yet. It’s uglier than that. More dangerous. Like giddiness dipped in poison. Like wanting to touch the flame just to see how long it’ll take before you burn.

You shift your weight, sneaker digging into the sand as you try to stand your ground, pretend your legs aren’t buzzing under you. “Who’d you kill?” you mumble finally, voice low, not quite teasing, not quite serious either—just breathless. The words tumble out like an accident, too clumsy, too honest. Like you’ve been wondering since the second you laid eyes on him tonight. Because of course that’s what he looks like: someone who left a body behind just to show up here and lean against a cooler like nothing happened.

His lips twitch like he wants to laugh, but it doesn’t come out. Instead, he flexes his fingers absently, knuckles blooming with shades of purple and blue, as if he’s only now remembering they hurt. He brushes over them with two fingers like he’s proud of them. Like they’re proof.

“No one you’d miss,” he replies finally, voice calm, casual, too controlled.

You scoff, but it’s half-hearted. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs, stepping closer—just enough that your space feels smaller, the air between you tighter. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You arch a brow, taking another sip of your drink to keep from asking more. Because you do want more. And that makes you hate yourself a little. Not just because of what you’re craving—but who you’re craving it from.

He eyes the drink in your hand, gaze dipping to your lips again as you lower it. “You’re quieter tonight,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Not like you. Usually you’ve got a whole list of insults locked and loaded.”

“Maybe I’m tired,” you offer, leaning against the edge of the cooler like this is just another party, like you’re not standing in the dark with the most dangerous boy in Outer Banks, being looked at like you’re the secret he wants to keep for himself. “Or maybe you’re not worth the effort.”

His grin widens, flashing teeth. That stupid grin that says he knows every button to push, every switch to flip.

“And yet,” he drawls, voice dipping, “you’re still standing here.”

“Maybe I like the view,” you shoot back.

He steps forward again, close enough that you could count his lashes if you wanted to. “Careful,” he says softly, almost kindly. “You say things like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

You don’t move. Don’t blink. Just stare right back at him and shrug. “Maybe I do.”

That’s when it shifts. The air, the look in his eyes, the way he sways slightly forward like his body’s moving ahead of his brain. The moment feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the wind’s about to push you forward. He looks at your mouth again. You tilt your head, eyes still locked.

But neither of you moves. Not yet.

The silence presses in again, heavier this time. Your fingers curl tighter around your can. His knuckles flex again.

And still, you don’t leave.

Because maybe you do like him.

Or maybe you just like the danger of wanting him.

And maybe that’s the same thing.

Thinking back to four months ago, guilt and heartbreak dressed in jealousy was all you had after hooking up with Rafe for the first time. You weren’t even sure what drove you to him that night—maybe it was a dare to yourself, maybe it was loneliness laced with something self-destructive. Either way, it happened. And it kept happening. You thought the guilt would be enough to stop it, that hating yourself would somehow absolve the sin of crawling into his bed. It didn’t. Because days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and suddenly you were at his house at the smallest inconvenience. Some mild family drama, a bruised ego, a frustrating shift at work—any excuse to land on his doorstep, in his passenger seat, in his bed. And Rafe? Rafe lived for it. He wasn’t going to admit it—he never would—but it was in the way he always opened the door a little too fast, the way he kept your favorite lighter in his drawer, the way he bought your favorite snacks and pretended they were his.

In the beginning, it was about sex. You told yourself that. Told yourself that was all it could be. But then the nights stopped being transactional. There were nights where nothing even happened—nights where you showed up and just smoked together, legs stretched out across his lap, words soft and slow between you. Nights where he'd take you driving around Figure Eight, letting you blast music and stick your head out the window like you were sixteen again. Sometimes he'd hand you his gun and let you shoot at bottles behind his house. There was always tension. There was always the undercurrent of something about to snap—but it wasn't just lust anymore. It was a rhythm. A routine. And neither of you dared to call it anything more.

Rafe’s life shifted too. You didn’t see it the way he did, but it was there. A pattern forming in the way his eyes searched crowds for you, how he couldn’t enjoy a party unless he was sure you were somewhere nearby. And if you weren’t? His mood went sour. Quiet. Volatile. He started doing things for you—subtle, careful things he hoped you’d notice. Fixing your busted skateboard wheels and leaving it outside your porch before dawn. Quietly paying your overdue insurance bill. Leaving obnoxiously large tips at the café when you were working the counter, always with that smug little smirk like he was doing it to make fun of you. But it wasn’t about the money or the gestures. It was about proximity. About control. About him needing to feel like he was still in the picture even when you weren’t texting back.

Even if, logistically, you were a bitch. A sharp-tongued, distant, emotionally unavailable bitch who went out of her way to avoid any real feelings. Rafe shouldn’t have even been entertaining you. But there were two moments—just two—where he realized he’d gone too far to pretend it was casual anymore. The first was when Jack spiked your drink at a bonfire and Rafe broke three of his ribs without a second thought. The second? Tonight.

He wasn’t planning on it, really. He’d just gotten dressed, hair still damp from the shower, crisp white polo clinging to him in the summer heat. He was halfway to the Kegger, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, even if it was from across the fire. He pulled over to get gas and a shooter, something to light a buzz in his veins before seeing you flirt with someone else just to piss him off. And then—he heard it. The voice. That gravelly, smug drawl that made his skin crawl on instinct. Allan. Just behind him. Talking shit.

It wasn’t even what he said at first—just the tone. That stupid, sleazy laugh. Then Rafe caught pieces of it. You. His name. The kind of things no man with a death wish should be saying in public. Before Rafe could even register it, he was moving. Calm. Controlled. Efficient. He grabbed Allan by the ponytail and slammed him into the side of the gas station, knuckles flying, blood spraying. He didn’t stop until Allan was too limp to respond. Then he dragged him behind the building like he was trash—like he was something Rafe needed to throw away before heading to a party.

And now? Now he was standing in front of you on the beach like none of that happened. Like he hadn’t just turned a man into a bloody mess for the crime of speaking your name.

He chuckled, low and humorless, flexing his bruised hand like he still wasn’t satisfied. His knuckles were raw and his lip still bled at the corner, but his eyes glinted like he'd just won something. Then he looked up, gaze sharp and unreadable. “You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

“I’m not,” you replied calmly, raising the can to your lips again, keeping your voice even. “You’re here.”

He smiled slowly, something twisting behind his eyes. “That supposed to comfort me or scare me?”

You tilted your head, considering him. “That depends,” you said, letting the drink linger against your lips before lowering it again. “Do you scare easy?”

There was a flicker of something in his expression—something close to admiration. “Not really,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now. “But you... you got a way of making everything feel like a fucking dare.”

You raised a brow, lips twitching. “And you’ve got a way of never backing down from one.”

He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over yours in the moonlight. Not threatening. Not exactly. Just overwhelming. Just Rafe. “I beat the shit out of someone today,” he said casually, eyes never leaving yours. “And the whole time I was thinking about how you’d look at me if you knew. If you’d be scared. Or... impressed.”

You stared at him, pulse thick in your throat. “Should I be either?”

“Probably,” he said, and his grin was all teeth again. “But I think you like me best like this. Dirty knuckles. Dirty mouth.”

You didn’t deny it. You just held his gaze for another beat, then tipped your can toward him in mock salute before taking another sip.

Because you did like him like this.

And that terrified you more than anything.

There was a beat of silence. And then he asked, quietly, “Did he touch you?” The air went cold. You blinked, hard, like it would reset the moment. But it didn’t. “What?”

“Allan.” His voice was still quiet, but now there was no amusement. Only that deadly edge. “Did he touch you?” You could’ve lied. Should’ve, maybe. But instead, you shrugged. “He tried.” Rafe’s jaw tightened. A muscle in his cheek jumped. You took another sip. “It’s not your problem.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, stepping even closer. Now you could feel the heat rolling off him, the tension wrapped around his spine like a coil.

“I can handle it,” you said, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t need saving.”

“I didn’t do it to save you,” he said. “I did it because I wanted to.”

Somehow, that was worse.

Maybe it was because Rafe Cameron didn’t do things for other people. That was the rule. He was selfish—had always been. He looked out for himself, operated with sharp edges and rough logic that protected him first, no matter who got bruised in the process. He was violent, reckless, and dangerous in ways even the worst guys on this island weren’t. And yet, standing here now—after telling you he beat up your mom’s sleazy boyfriend for talking shit, for daring to say your name like he owned it—you weren’t so sure anymore.

He tilted his head slightly, like he didn’t know what to do next. Like the silence between you was unfamiliar. Which it was. Usually it was filled with gasps and moans, threats and whimpers, your bodies clashing instead of your words. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t him dragging you behind a house or pinning you against a wall just to get your breath caught in his mouth. This was quiet. This was something else.

Then, slowly, like he was testing the water, he lowered his head until his chin rested lightly against the top of yours. He didn’t touch you anywhere else. Just that. Just the subtle weight of him above you, like he was grounding himself in the moment. Then he shifted forward, tilting down until his forehead replaced the spot where his chin had been, breathing you in so deep it felt like he was trying to memorize the smell of your hair. Still, he didn’t move his hands. He let you be the one to reach out, your free hand brushing lightly over his bruised knuckles, thumb grazing the broken skin that split across them like tiny red secrets.

“I didn’t kill him,” he murmured into your hair, his voice barely audible over the distant crash of waves. The words were low, ragged, strangely reverent. “But it’s gonna take your momma a while to get used to that face in bed…” He snorted softly, the sound more breath than laugh, darkly amused at his own cynicism.

Your mouth twitched, the corner pulling upward in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re insane,” you whispered, voice breathless and brittle. “Unhinged, even.”

Rafe chuckled again, slow and quiet this time, like it crawled up from somewhere deep in his chest. He dragged the tip of his nose along the side of your head, through your hair, pausing by your ear with an intimacy that made your breath hitch. “If I was insane,” he whispered, the words slipping out like a secret, “I would’ve killed him. Shot him clean in the chest, left him face-up behind that station for someone else to find.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t even cruel. It was sensual, almost gentle, like he was describing something beautiful. And it should’ve terrified you. Should’ve made you step back. But instead, your thumb just kept stroking his knuckles, soft and slow like you were trying to soothe a wound that had nothing to do with the skin.

“So why didn’t you?” you asked finally, casual on the surface but thick with something else beneath—curiosity, concern, maybe even a twisted form of admiration.

He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you, his lips hovering close, breath fanning over your cheek as he smirked. “Because I don’t carry a silencer,” he said, like that was a perfectly reasonable answer. And then, before you could process it, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek—soft, deliberate, warm with something you couldn’t name.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t violence.

It was something worse.

It was care.

You stood there in the dark, heart slamming against your ribs, blinking against the heat that bloomed in your chest like firelight on the shore. Because even if Rafe was unhinged and dangerous and utterly wrong for you in every conceivable way—he was still here. Bruised. Bleeding. Quiet. And touching you like he meant it.

And you couldn’t help but lean in.

Just slightly.

Because maybe you meant it too.

The kiss on your cheek lingered. Not in touch—because Rafe had already pulled back—but in sensation, like a phantom thing made of heat and questions. His breath was still near, fanning the curve of your jaw, warm and steady despite the sharp, brutal tension lacing his knuckles. He didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. And you didn’t either.

There was something maddening in the quiet that stretched between you now. The fire behind you crackled and danced against the distant chorus of drunken cheers, but here—on this dark stretch of sand—it was still. Still and alive and loud in all the ways that didn’t involve sound. His eyes were on you again, silver-blue and unreadable, the corner of his lip still bleeding where the cut split open, darker now under the moonlight.

“I scare you?” he asked suddenly, voice low and smooth, but laced with something raw. Like he didn’t know if he wanted the answer to be yes or no. Like he needed it to be both.

You didn’t answer right away. You let your gaze drift to his mouth again—because how could you not? You'd had it on your skin too many times to count. On your throat, your collarbone, your stomach. But somehow, looking at it now felt more vulnerable than feeling it. “Sometimes,” you said finally, the honesty slow and heavy in your throat. “But it’s not the worst thing.”

His smile returned then, small and crooked. Not mocking—something closer to pleased. “Good,” he murmured. “Means you’re not stupid.”

You huffed a small laugh, taking another sip of the now-warm twisted tea just to avoid saying something you'd regret. But Rafe leaned in again, not touching you—just standing close enough to make it impossible to ignore him. You could smell the faint remnants of his cologne mixed with sweat and dried blood. It shouldn't have done anything to you. But it did. God, it did.

“You shouldn’t let people talk about you like that,” he said after a moment, his tone flat now. Controlled, but not cold. “That fucker—Allan. What he said? That shit doesn’t get to live in the air. Not if I’m in the room.”

Your mouth parted, breath catching at the raw possessiveness in his voice. He didn’t say it like he was defending your honor. Rafe wasn’t noble. He said it like your name belonged to him. Like it didn’t matter whether you minded what was said or not—he did, and that was enough.

“You don’t get to police what people say about me,” you murmured, softer than you intended. But the words were still there. Still brave, or maybe stupid.

“No,” he agreed, but didn’t step back. “But I will anyway.”

You let that sit. Let the weight of it settle in the sand around your shoes, in the silence between your bodies. You could’ve argued. Could’ve pushed him. But what was the point? You both knew you liked it. The twisted protection, the blurred morality, the way he defended you with fists and violence and showed affection through bruises and whispered secrets no one else got to hear.

“I know you’ve been watching me,” you said instead, voice quieter now. “Since I got here.”

His jaw clenched—not like he was caught, but like he was irritated you took so long to say it.

“You wore that skirt on purpose,” he said. “Just to fuck with me.”

“Maybe,” you replied, but you were already smirking.

He leaned in again, close enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear this time. “You want me to lose my mind?” he asked, and it wasn’t rhetorical. His breath was hot and heavy, damp with rage and reverence. “Because I’m already halfway there.”

Your hand moved on its own, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist, where the veins bulged and the skin was still scraped raw from whatever damage he’d done earlier tonight. He looked down at it, then back at you, and for a second, he softened. Not much—but enough. Enough to remember that underneath the chaos of who he was, there was something real pulling him toward you like gravity.

“I don’t care if you lose your mind,” you whispered. “I just don’t want you pretending you’re not already gone.”

He laughed, bitter and breathless, forehead dropping to yours with a thud that made you close your eyes. “You’re such a fucking bitch,” he whispered, and you didn’t even flinch. Because it wasn’t venom, it was devotion. His version of it. And if you were honest with yourself—you liked his version.

“And you’re a fucking psycho,” you murmured back, breath skimming his lips now.

“Match made in hell,” he smirked.

You don’t move, even when his forehead rests heavy against yours. You just breathe him in—salt, sweat, blood, a hint of weed still clinging to his collar like a secret. You’ve spent enough time this close to know how he smells in every state: high, drunk, just out of the shower, after sex, after violence. You know his scent like it’s yours. You hate that. You love it. It’s all the same now.

His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to grab your face and kiss you stupid, and you know the feeling because you’re fighting it too. His breath is steady against your lips, but he’s not moving. Neither are you. It’s not hesitation—it’s indulgence. The kind of patience that comes when you both already know you’ll give in eventually, so why not savor the moment before the fall?

You press your thighs together subtly, annoyed at your body’s response to nothing more than proximity and breath. But Rafe notices. Of course he does. His eyes drag down your face, over the line of your jaw, the flush in your cheeks, and he grins—slow and deliberate like a wolf who already knows the lamb is going to run but plans to enjoy the chase anyway.

“You get wet when I talk like that?” he asks, not even pretending to be polite, voice low and wrecked and so close to your mouth you can feel each syllable warm against your skin. “Or is it the blood on my knuckles that does it?”

You snort softly, masking the way your pulse kicks up by rolling your eyes, but your body betrays you by not backing away. Not even an inch. “Neither,” you lie, voice cool and flat, wrapping your fingers tighter around the can in your hand just to give them something to do that isn’t digging into his hair or yanking him closer. “It’s the part where you’re stupid enough to think this is still just sex.”

His face changes, not entirely, but enough to let you know the words hit. Not in a way that hurt him—Rafe Cameron doesn’t bruise easy emotionally—but like you cracked something open he wasn’t ready to admit. He looks at you like he wants to say something real, something ugly, and just when his lips part—ready to speak it into the air—he shuts them again. Jaw locking tight.

Instead of words, he steps closer. His body brushes against yours, chest to chest now, and you feel the full weight of him like a shadow swallowing yours whole. His hand finally moves, one of them raising slowly—so slow it’s maddening—until he’s brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. It’s gentle, shockingly so, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His skin is warm and rough, and it lingers just barely, teasing the sensitive skin there until your breath falters.

“You want me to say it?” he murmurs, gaze pinned to your mouth like he’s memorizing the way your lips part when he speaks to you like this. “You want me to admit it?”

You don’t answer. Because yes, you do. And no, you don’t. You want it and you fear it in equal parts. Because if Rafe Cameron says out loud what you both know, then it becomes real. And once it’s real, it’s no longer just lust and blurred lines and bruised lips in dark corners. It becomes something you can’t walk away from without consequence.

But then his hand drops, skimming the side of your neck in a featherlight touch that makes you shiver. He notices. Of course he does. “I don’t like sharing,” he whispers, mouth brushing the shell of your ear again, lower now, like he’s tucking the confession into your skin. “I don’t like people looking at you. Thinking they can touch you. Talk about you.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” you whisper, not quite mocking, but close. Your lips twitch, taunting him. Pushing him.

“I already did,” he says, voice dark and calm and dangerous.

You don’t doubt it. You don’t even flinch. Because this is how it’s always been with Rafe. He ruins things in your name and looks at you like he’s waiting to be thanked for it. And maybe the worst part is—you kind of want to thank him.

His hand finds your hip then, fingers brushing the edge of your skirt. Not pulling, not grabbing—just resting there like a threat. Like a promise. And you let him. You let him touch you, stand in front of you, stare at you like you hung the fucking moon, and you don’t tell him to stop. Because Rafe Cameron is a thousand bad decisions wrapped in a pretty boy shell, and you’re already past the point of pretending you won’t make every single one of them.

“You always wear black lace when you know you’re gonna see me?” he asks again, voice lower now, and there's something almost playful in it. Almost.

“Maybe I just like lace,” you offer, lifting your gaze back to his. “Not everything I do is about you.”

He hums in disbelief, thumb brushing your bare thigh now, higher than it should be for where you’re standing. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Because the silence had more weight than anything either of you could spit out, more meaning than any insult or low blow you could land on him in a moment of weakness. His forehead was still against yours, your breaths tangled together, and it felt like if either of you leaned just a little closer, the whole world might cave in. You felt it in your bones—the slow, dragging inevitability of something ruined long before it began. And the worst part? You liked it. You wanted it. The ache of it, the press of something filthy and intimate laced with the kind of fondness that people like you weren't supposed to deserve.

His hands hovered at his sides now, balled into fists because Rafe wasn’t used to restraint. He was the type of guy who touched without asking, who pulled and grabbed and took what he wanted. But now, with you, in this dim part of the beach with no one around but the ghosts of every wrong decision you both made, he stood still. Like your silence was holy. Like he knew that if he laid a single finger on you right now, he wouldn’t stop. Not until he’d torn through whatever little boundaries you had left between each other.

“I think about it a lot,” he muttered, and you almost didn’t hear it. His voice was so quiet it got lost in the waves for a second, like he was ashamed of saying it. But then his eyes flicked to yours, sharp again. “What it would feel like. If I kissed you when I wasn’t angry. Or high. Or trying to make you forget someone else.”

You swallowed hard. The can in your hand felt too cold suddenly, slick with condensation, and your knuckles were stiff from gripping it too tightly. You didn’t know what to say to that—because wasn’t that what you thought about, too? In the quiet moments between your friends' laughter and the way JJ’s eyes lingered on you across the fire? In the dark stretches of night when Rafe would text you something stupid and filthy and you’d still go to him anyway?

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if it wasn’t messy,” you said finally, the words cracking a little at the edges. “You’d get bored. You’d ruin it just to feel something.”

He laughed—low, guttural, cruel. Not at you, though. At himself. Because it was true, and he hated it. Hated that you saw right through him, right down to the splintered core of who he was. But he didn’t deny it. Rafe Cameron never denied the parts of him that were ugly.

“Maybe,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair again, that single ring on his pinky catching the moonlight. “But I’d ruin you slow.”

You looked away, breath catching, because he meant it. Not like a threat—but a promise. The kind that wasn’t sweet or soft or romantic. The kind that crawled beneath your skin and stayed there.

“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” you muttered, not really to him—but to yourself. Because you were already in it. Neck-deep and flailing and still too proud to admit you didn’t want out.

He stepped closer—not touching you, but close enough that your bare arm brushed the sleeve of his polo, that his breath fluttered the baby hairs at your temple. His voice was a gravel-smooth whisper when he finally said, “Then stop pretending you want me to.”

You turned to face him fully then, and for a second you were both just breathing, staring, unraveling at the seams together. You didn't even blink when his hand finally lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, knuckles trailing your jaw with reverence that didn’t match the person. You hated how good it felt. How easy it would be to fall into him like this—no games, no sharp edges, just the bruised tenderness of what you'd both been dancing around for months.

But you didn’t close the distance. Not yet.

Instead, you lifted the can again, took another slow sip, your eyes never leaving his. “Finish the thought,” you said quietly. “If you kissed me when you weren’t angry or high or trying to erase someone else… what then?”

His smile was crooked again, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. His fingers traced down your arm, slow, barely-there. “Then I wouldn’t let you leave.”

You felt that line in your spine. In your chest. And it stayed there long after he said it.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Rafe,” you said, the faintest shake in your voice betraying how deeply you wanted to believe him.

“I don’t make promises,” he replied. “I just take what I want.”

And the worst part?

You wanted to let him. Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t for promises. He didn’t speak in futures, didn’t build dreams on pillow talk or talk about the what-ifs of tomorrow like most boys with good intentions did. That was for JJ. For the boy you’d written about in the margins of your notebooks, the one you used to imagine first kisses and late-night confessions with. Rafe was something entirely different—darker, more volatile, more real in a way that scared the hell out of you and thrilled you all at once. Rafe was the storm you never wanted to survive. And you? You were the kind of girl who smiled at thunder. So it worked. Brokenly. Shamefully. Inevitably. The world would keep spinning no matter how many times you ended up in his bed or how many lies you told yourself to get there. The Earth never paused for two people losing control. It just spun harder.

"Promises are for pussies, angel..." he muttered, licking the edge of a split in his lip, like the taste of his own blood grounded him. His brows pinched just slightly, but there was something amused behind the way he looked at you, as if he was forming the next twisted sentence in his mind just for the sake of watching your reaction. “If I made you promises, I’d break them on purpose. Just to piss you off. Just to see that little twitch in your jaw.” He smirked at that, cocky and careless, like his cruelty was his favorite flavor of affection.

You chuckled, quiet and unwillingly genuine. And the effect on him was instantaneous. Like he didn’t expect it. Like that soft noise cracked open something inside of him he couldn’t tape back together even if he tried. His smirk faltered for a second—just a second—and something near-tender replaced it, blooming slow across his bruised features. The tension in his shoulders didn’t drop, but he shifted slightly, like the sound of your laugh was a place he suddenly wanted to sit inside.

"Promises are for lovers, no?" you asked then, arching a brow with a lazy sort of defiance that didn't match the pace of your heart. You tilted your head just slightly, lips quirking up in that taunting way you knew always got under his skin. You liked seeing what your words could stir in him—what part of his ego they scraped.

“So we’re not lovers?” he replied, mock-hurt thick in his tone, hand drifting to his chest like he was wounded, dramatic and boyish and dangerous all in one breath. He leaned in closer again, voice dropping to something deeper—something that curled around your ribs like smoke. “That’s funny, considering I’ve had my mouth on every inch of you.”

The words hung there, indecent and intoxicating, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. Because he wasn’t lying. Because your body still remembered the ghost of his touch and the taste of his name when you bit it into a pillow.

“Lovers care,” you murmured after a beat, slow and deliberate. “Do you care, Rafe?”

That made him pause. Just a flicker of something in his eyes—something too fast and too raw to catch fully before it vanished beneath the usual glaze of arrogance. He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even blink. Just stared at you like he wanted to crawl inside your head and scream into the hollow spaces until all you heard was his voice.

“I care enough to fuck up anyone who touches you,” he said finally, voice calm but violent in its undertone. “Does that count?”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Because you knew what that meant. Knew it was the closest thing to an I love you you were ever going to get from a boy like Rafe Cameron. Even worse—you were starting to think it might be enough.

You took a final sip from your can, the warm, sugary burn coating your tongue as you let the emptiness settle. Then you tossed the can to the sand like it didn’t matter—because it didn’t. Not in this moment. Not with him. The firelight danced faint and distant behind you, casting long, flickering shadows, but here in this quiet sliver of beach, it was only the moon above and the two of you toeing the line between lust and something deeper. Something you both refused to name.

You stepped closer without thinking, your bare legs brushing against his jeans, your body folding slightly into his space. Close enough to smell the heat still clinging to his skin, the faintest trace of sweat, blood, and his cologne—clean but expensive, sharp but comforting in the worst way. And your hand—God, your hand reached up before your brain could stop it, tentative and fragile in a way that didn't match the hurricane you were offering it to. Your fingers found his jaw first, thumb hovering a beat too long before brushing gently across the cut on his lip.

He stilled.

Not just in posture—but completely. Like the electricity you sparked in him short-circuited something internal. His breath hitched in the quietest way, a subtle shift in his chest, barely noticeable if you weren’t watching him like you always did. You expected him to flinch or tease or say something snide. But instead, he just stared. At you. Through you. Like he couldn’t quite make sense of the way you were touching him so softly, so goddamn tenderly, like he hadn’t just bloodied his knuckles for you. Like you weren’t always two seconds away from tearing each other apart.

"...Did he land a punch?" you asked finally, your voice small and thin and strained around the edges, like you were trying not to let the worry drip out from between the words. Your thumb moved again, just a slow trace across the angry skin, a gesture more loving than anything either of you were used to.

His brow furrowed. Something in his jaw twitched like he didn’t know what the hell to do with the quiet kindness in your tone. The cut split just slightly under the pressure of your touch, and he hissed through his teeth, but he didn’t move. He let you do it. Let you take him in your hands like he was something worth being careful with.

“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, his voice low and rough from disuse. “One. Before I broke his nose.” His gaze didn’t waver from yours, didn’t flicker to your lips or the hand still ghosting along his mouth. It just burned. All that unspoken heat and pent-up ache pooling in the narrowing distance between your bodies.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t scold him. You didn’t say thank you.

Instead, you just stood there, breathing him in, letting your thumb drag just slightly lower to the edge of his chin, as if memorizing the sharp line of it would somehow help you understand him better. But it wouldn’t. Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t meant to be understood. He was meant to be felt—like fire, like fury, like the rush of falling from a high place you had no business climbing in the first place.

And even now, with blood drying on his face and bruises blooming along his knuckles, he looked at you like you were worth it. Like he’d do it again. Like the only thing he regretted was not hitting harder.

“I thought I was gonna kill him,” he said suddenly, a confession, not a threat. “I wanted to.”

You didn’t look away. You didn’t recoil. You just held his eyes and let your fingers drop from his lip to his jaw, tracing the curve with a kind of care you knew he wasn’t used to. “But you didn’t.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth then, not out of lust, but something heavier. Like he wanted to say something and didn’t know how, so he stared at your lips like they could help him figure it out. “I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he muttered. “Not with you in my head.”

The silence that followed was thick, laced with unspoken things neither of you were ready to name. You weren’t lovers. Not officially. Not publicly. But standing here on the outskirts of a drunken bonfire, hearts thudding in the dark, maybe you were something worse—something deeper. A secret. A sanctuary. A slow collapse dressed like a connection. And that was something you both knew how to hold onto, even if it cut your hands open every time.

His words didn’t land like a blow—they sank in slow, heavy. Not with you in my head. They clung to your skin like humidity, settled somewhere between your lungs and your stomach, weighing down the parts of you that always convinced yourself this wasn’t serious. That he wasn’t serious. That this thing—whatever it was—was just sex and silence and shared loneliness. But now he was looking at you like you haunted him, like you were the reason he didn’t go too far, and that was worse. Because that meant you mattered. That meant he was thinking about you even when you weren’t there.

Your hand was still on his jaw. You could feel the clench of it now, the flicker of restraint buzzing just under the surface like an exposed wire. He looked taller like this. Not physically, but emotionally. Like the weight of what he carried—his violence, his obsession, his need—made him more than a boy. Less human, somehow. But it didn’t scare you. It should’ve. But it didn’t.

“You make it sound like I’m some kind of fucking conscience,” you said softly, your lips twisting into something between a smile and a grimace. “That’s not what I am to you.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brushing his cheek into your palm like he didn’t even mean to. Like your touch was instinct now, like he couldn’t help but lean into it even if the rest of him was trying to keep his distance. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But you’re the only thing I don’t want to ruin.”

It was such a stupid thing to say. Soft and tragic and so very un-Rafe. But the moment it left his mouth, you felt it. In your bones. In the ache between your ribs. Because you knew what it cost him to say it. To be vulnerable like this, even if it was buried beneath his usual brand of recklessness and blood.

You didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t good with words when it came to feelings. You were sarcastic and mean and deflected everything with a joke. But this? This didn’t feel like something you could deflect. So instead, you leaned in too, just a little, until your foreheads touched again. A ghost of closeness. A breath of surrender.

“I don’t want you to ruin me either,” you whispered.

And there it was—laid bare between you. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just quiet honesty dressed in moonlight and bruised lips. His breath hitched again, and you felt his hands finally, finally rise from his sides, hovering near your waist like he was asking for permission. His fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, just lightly, like he needed to hold something to anchor himself.

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” he said, voice tight, hoarse. “Not here. Not when I’m like this.”

You blinked up at him, and your heart cracked a little because he meant it. Because it wasn’t about control or games or who’d give in first. It was about respect. Twisted, possessive, deeply fucked-up respect. And from Rafe Cameron, that was the most honest kind of affection he could give.

“I know,” you said.

But you didn’t move away. Neither did he. You just stayed there, in the quiet dark corner of the beach, letting the space between your bodies whisper every word you weren’t ready to say out loud. Because it wasn’t love. Not yet. Maybe not ever

Rafe's hands finally settled on your waist, the touch careful but firm—like even now, even after everything he’d done tonight, he still wasn’t sure you wouldn’t disappear under his fingers. He held you there like that for a moment, watching you with those haunted, hungry eyes, the ones that always seemed to flicker between wanting to protect you and ruin you in the same breath. The weight of his stare was enough to make your chest tighten. And still, you stayed.

Then, slow and deliberate, he leaned in—closer than before. Not in a rush. Not desperate. Just intent. Like he was about to whisper something unholy, something final. But he didn’t speak. Instead, he brushed his lips against the corner of your mouth—feather-light and maddeningly reverent. Not a kiss, not exactly. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your heart drop somewhere near your knees.

It felt like a brand, that simple, almost-innocent kiss. Like something he was leaving behind on purpose. A mark that wasn’t visible but would stay with you anyway. And when he pulled back, his expression had shifted—colder again, quieter. Not because the moment didn’t matter, but because it did.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. You just let your hand fall from his face, your fingertips grazing his wrist on the way down. And he let go of your waist in return, not suddenly, but with a hesitance that betrayed how much he wanted to stay here, hidden with you in the dark where things didn’t have names and rules didn’t apply.

You both stepped back at the same time. Like it was choreographed. Like some part of you had always known this moment had an end.

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as he looked back toward the glow of the bonfire in the distance. “We should go,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“Yeah,” you echoed, already turning away from the cooler and the shadows. “They’ll start wondering.”

He didn’t ask if you meant your friends or JJ specifically. And you didn’t offer that clarity either.

You walked back first, sand sinking under your sneakers, your body still buzzing in the places he touched, in the places he didn’t. You didn’t look back, but you could feel him behind you, a few paces behind, watching the way your skirt moved, memorizing it like he always did.

And as you reached the edge of the firelight and the chaos of the beach, laughter and music swallowed you whole again. Voices called out. Someone handed you another drink. JJ’s silhouette loomed somewhere in the distance.

You slipped easily back into your place in the circle of noise and light—face calm, expression smooth, like nothing happened. Like Rafe Cameron hadn’t just kissed the corner of your mouth like it meant something.

But you could still feel it burning there.

And Rafe? He stayed a little further off, his presence more distant, leaning on a log by the fire like he hadn’t just threatened to unmake you with nothing but a look. He didn't come near you again.

Not right away.

You thrived in the chaos of parties and bonfires. The noise, the sea air thick with smoke and laughter, the reckless swirl of it all—it dulled your senses and gave you just enough to do, just enough to drink, just enough people to smile at to convince yourself you were fine. That the hollow ache in your chest could be soothed by someone else’s seltzer and a game of flip cup. You had grown used to this version of yourself, the one who knew how to dance just enough to be watched, who knew how to sip slowly and leave early, the one who used to watch JJ and Kiara and feel the kind of jealousy that settled in your bones like salt from the sea. It used to rot you from the inside out. You expected to feel that tonight. Expected your gaze to wander until it landed on JJ's arm slung over Kiara's waist, his head tipped back in laughter, that easy grin lighting up the part of him that used to be only yours.

But you didn’t look for him this time.

Your mind stayed rooted further down the beach, where the shadows kissed the waves and the firelight couldn't reach. Where Rafe Cameron had kissed the corner of your mouth with a reverence that wasn’t romantic, but something darker—possessive and volatile and undeniably his. Where he’d murmured violence like a promise, as casually as other boys said compliments. I didn’t kill him, but I should’ve. You don’t let filth speak your name. And you believed him.

Now, your eyes found him at every chance you had, and not by accident. Not even subconsciously. It was purposeful. It was need. Every time Sarah spun away in conversation, every time Pope and John B burst into some retelling of a story you didn’t care to follow, every time Kie laughed too hard at something JJ whispered in her ear—you looked for him. Rafe. Leaning against a log, drink in hand, jaw tight like he was forcing himself to stay still. He was further down the fire’s ring, close enough to see the expressions on your face but far enough to not be suspicious. Just barely. He watched you with that hooded stare that never looked nervous but always looked intense. Like you were some sort of living sin he couldn’t wait to confess again and again.

And you—God, you knew what this was turning into. You saw it plain as day. The lines were getting blurry. He wasn’t just a mistake anymore, wasn’t just a fuck to quiet the ache in your chest. It wasn’t even about JJ tonight. That was the terrifying part. It wasn’t about proving anything or making anyone jealous. It was about the way Rafe looked at you like the rest of the world didn’t exist, like he could build something dark and sharp out of the wreckage of you both and call it home.

You didn't want to say it out loud—you wouldn't—but you hoped he knew. That whatever this was blooming inside you, it was growing deep. Tangled roots in scorched soil, something doomed but still blooming anyway. Something too stubborn to die.

Then your phone pinged. The sharp buzz against your thigh cut through the noise. You unlocked it slowly, already knowing. Just one text.

got weed at home

It was sent at 11:45 p.m., and your stomach fluttered at how casual it was. It was ridiculous—how intimacy settled into the smallest gestures with him. The unspoken understanding. The kind of message that wasn’t really about weed and wasn’t really about home. It was about you. About him wanting you to come back with him, without needing to beg for it.

Another ping.

come home with me?

You looked up, phone still in hand, and there he was. Already watching. His thumb flicking against the edge of his lighter absently, his mouth parted just slightly like he was saying the words out loud to himself. His eyes met yours across the fire, and for the briefest moment, you let yourself imagine that he looked pleading. Just a bit. Like maybe, beneath all the bravado and chaos, Rafe Cameron was asking—not demanding, not expecting—but asking you to come back with him. Not for sex. Not for weed. Not even for comfort. Just to be there. With him.

Your fingers hovered over your phone, the blue glow lighting your face in the dark. And without really thinking, without weighing anything like you used to when it came to JJ, you typed back something simple. Something honest.

yeah. just gimme ten.

You hit send, locking your phone like you'd get struck down for texting him, and took a sip of your new drink—whatever it was, you didn’t even register the taste. Sarah said something beside you, and you nodded along, smiled even. You could pretend for a few more minutes. Pretend your heart wasn’t already walking toward the car parked on the edge of the beach. Pretend you didn’t already taste the cigarette on his lips. Pretend this wasn’t becoming something that no one else would understand.

Because Rafe Cameron was waiting.

And you were already his.

You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving. Not because you were hiding it—at least, that’s what you told yourself—but because you didn’t owe anyone an explanation. You stood there in the flicker of the bonfire for another long minute, taking in the way the shadows clung to Sarah’s smile, to Kie’s swaying silhouette, to JJ’s back as he walked away to grab another drink. None of them noticed. And even if they did, none of them would ask. You'd conditioned them to let you vanish like that, to slip away into the smoke and music and not reappear until the next afternoon, bruised knees and blurred memories in tow.

You moved slow at first. Casual. The way someone might wander off to pee behind the dunes or grab something from their car. But as soon as you were past the soft line of firelight and feet stomping to a song that was starting to give you a headache, your pace changed. It sharpened. Like your body was reacting to a signal only it could hear.

You didn’t even have to text again. Because as you crested the slight dip of sand that marked the end of the crowd, there he was. Leaned against the passenger side of his truck, arms crossed loosely like he hadn’t just beaten someone bloody for you earlier. Like this was just another night. Another ride. Another you.

He straightened when he saw you. Didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched as you walked toward him, the tension so thick it almost felt like fog between your bodies. There was something electric about the way your footsteps slowed the last few paces, like instinct demanded you soak up this moment. The way he reached out and wordlessly opened the door for you, like you were his girl. Like it was known. Decided.

You climbed in without a word, letting the door shut you into his world.

And neither of you said anything as he got in beside you and turned the key. The engine hummed to life, the headlights casting long shadows over the sand, and just before he shifted into drive, he turned toward you. His hand found the back of your neck—not rough, not tender, just there—like it belonged, like he needed the contact to keep from unraveling.

“You took your time,” he muttered, thumb brushing over the sensitive dip just beneath your ear.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, letting your eyes trace the cut on his lip, the slightly swollen knuckle on his right hand, the shadowed look in his eyes that said he hadn't come down from the high of violence yet. And maybe wouldn’t. Not until after he had you.

“You waited,” you murmured in return, voice low and even.

He didn’t argue. Just gave a small nod, jaw ticking once as he turned forward and shifted into drive.

The headlights cut through the night, carving a path through the sand and out onto the empty road. You watched the beach disappear behind you in the side mirror, and still, your heartbeat hadn’t slowed.

Because tonight, you weren’t heading back to someone who’d make you feel small for wanting. You were going with the only person twisted enough to match the storm inside you.

And maybe that wasn’t love.

But it was something.

In the span of four months, you’d sat in that same passenger seat more times than you cared to admit. Sometimes drunk out of your mind, head pressed to the window, words slurring as you bitched about JJ or your mom or whatever asshole made you feel small that day. Other times stone sober and bitter, arms crossed tight against your chest while Rafe drove in silence, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel, jaw ticking to the rhythm of whatever was playing low on the radio. And then there were the high nights—the ones where you’d laugh too loud at nothing, feet up on his dash, one hand lazily hanging out the window as the wind whipped through your hair and Rafe grinned despite himself. It didn’t matter the version of you he got—hammered, high, bitter, soft—he never seemed to flinch. He just let you be. Sometimes he even seemed to enjoy it.

Tonight felt different. The silence wasn’t filled with tension exactly, but it was heavier than usual, like both of you knew something had shifted and were pretending not to notice. Rafe’s fingers tapped the wheel as he drove through the empty, familiar streets of Outer Banks, the dashboard light casting a sharp glow over the angles of his face. You stole glances when you thought he wouldn’t notice, watching the way his jaw flexed, the line of his throat when he tilted his head slightly, the way his lashes looked too delicate for someone so violent. He didn’t say a word, and neither did you. The music played low, something bass-heavy and slow, but the silence between you was louder.

And yet your stomach fluttered the way it did before something irreversible happened. You tried to ignore it, tried to bury the rising guilt and shame under the familiar cover of lust and heat and all the unnamed feelings that were starting to press against the inside of your ribs like a bruise. You used to believe that if you ignored something long enough, it’d die on its own. But this thing with Rafe had roots. Roots you’d watered too often, even if you called it something else every time.

You shifted in your seat, fiddling with the hem of your skirt, suddenly too aware of everything. Your skin. The way your leg brushed his center console. The warmth of the air inside the truck, clinging to you like a second skin. You wanted to say something—anything—to cut the tension, to drag things back to the version of this you understood. The reckless, filthy version where the only thing that mattered was how fast he could get his hand between your legs or how rough his mouth could be against yours. But those versions were fading. Slowly, then all at once.

Because lately, you’d wake up tangled in his sheets, blinking against the morning light, only to find him already awake—already watching. And he wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t touch. Just stare like you were something he didn’t quite know how to categorize. Like he was memorizing the shape of you, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to. And the worst part? One night, when you were barely awake, barely conscious of anything other than the weight of him behind you, he’d leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Not your mouth. Not your neck. But your forehead. An intimate gesture that belonged to someone else. Someone who cared. For people he didn't plan to discard. For lovers.

You never brought it up.

Neither did he.

You shifted in your seat now, thighs pressed together, arms folded tight against your chest like maybe you could press the thoughts back down where they belonged. Rafe didn’t look at you, but you could feel the awareness rolling off him in waves. He felt it too. This thing between you—this living, breathing thing neither of you wanted to give language to because it meant something would break if you did. So instead, you let the silence linger. Let the miles pass in low hums and shadows. Let the storm churn just beneath your skin while he drove you toward whatever version of hell the two of you had built out of touch, tension, and shared secrets.

Somehow you knew, deep down, that neither of you were ever going to come back from this. Not really. And maybe that was the point. Maybe Rafe didn’t do promises. But you were starting to think he did you.

You should’ve drank more. Should’ve let yourself get sloppy, messy, untouchable by anything that required clarity. Being hammered gave you the kind of brutal liberty that made everything feel like a distant joke. Yeah, you'd have to deal with the wreckage in the morning—delete the Snap stories, mumble half-hearted apologies for whatever texts you sent or whatever punch you threw or wherever you ended up puking—but at least you wouldn’t be feeling this in the moment. The pressure of silence. The weight of breathing next to someone who had seen you at your ugliest and still dragged his mouth down your body like you were something holy. You weren’t drunk now. Not even close. And that made the air thick, made the inside of Rafe’s car feel smaller and tighter with every second, like you were being forced to sit inside the aftermath of a storm that hadn’t even finished yet.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. His hands were on the wheel, relaxed in a way that felt too deliberate, like he was trying to make this feel normal. Like it didn’t matter that a few hours ago your mouth was on his, your nails in his shoulder blades, your teeth grazing his throat as he whispered things you’d never repeat in daylight. And now here you were. Quiet. Sober. Sitting three inches apart and feeling every single one of them.

You swallowed hard, voice catching in your throat before you could stop it. “Does it feel different to you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just exhaled through his nose and gave a dry chuckle. “What, not fucking in the backseat this time?”

Your eyes flicked toward him, jaw tightening. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said, softer this time, eyes still on the road like looking at you might give something away. “It feels different.”

The admission sent something sharp through you. Something hot and alive. You weren’t even sure you wanted him to say it out loud. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because you did. Because you’d felt the shift, too. Felt it creeping in under your skin like vines, slow and dangerous. And maybe it started a few nights ago when he asked you to stay, not to fuck, not to kill the silence—but just to sleep. Or maybe it was when he kissed your forehead, or when you started craving the sound of his voice more than the weight of his body. You didn’t know. But it was there now. Sitting with you. Breathing with you.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” you admitted, quieter than you meant to. Your voice cracked halfway through the sentence and you winced, hating how naked it sounded.

Rafe finally looked at you then, really looked. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to read the parts of you you didn’t put into words. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “That’s the whole point, right? You get to pretend none of it’s real.”

“And you’re okay with that?” you asked, biting the inside of your cheek.

“No,” he said without hesitation. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

That landed hard. Too hard. You turned your head to look out the window, chest tightening, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. “I still love him,” you whispered.

“I know.”

You breathed through the silence that followed, trying not to cry or scream or do something stupid like reach for his hand. You hated how he said it without anger. Like he’d already accepted being the second choice. Like he’d decided that being near you in whatever capacity was worth the price of never being the one you chose first.

Your pulse quickened, mouth going dry, torn between curling up in his bed and letting him fuck the confusion out of you—or opening the door and throwing yourself out of the moving car just to get away from the closeness of it all. From the fact that you could smell his cologne and blood and still wanted to bury your face in the space between his shoulder and neck and forget every version of yourself that existed before this.

“I’m not good at this,” you muttered. “I’m not good at anything.”

Rafe scoffed lightly. “That’s bullshit.”

You looked at him, annoyed but grateful, and he grinned, a sharp little thing with no humor. “You’re excellent at being a bitch,” he added dryly. “Elite, really.”

You snorted despite yourself, shaking your head as you leaned back against the seat. “Fuck you.”

He glanced sideways again, voice quieter this time. “You already did.”

The tension lingered, wound tight in your chest like a rubber band stretched too far, one second from snapping. Whatever small, fleeting relief that had settled between you after the laughter had died was gone now, replaced by silence again—thicker this time, meaner. Your teeth found your bottom lip, worrying at the already split skin like it would keep your mouth from moving, from saying something stupid. The copper taste of blood was familiar, and you barely flinched when your teeth sank into a spot that hadn’t healed yet. Your fingers moved on instinct, brushing against the torn flesh, inspecting the red smear glinting under the dashboard light. It irritated you more than it hurt.

Rafe caught the motion from the corner of his eye, his own teeth grazing the cut on his lower lip like he felt it, too—your discomfort, the physical manifestation of all the things you wouldn’t say out loud. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and for a second you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything, maybe he’d let it fester the way he usually did. But then his voice cut through the silence—low and steady, not sharp, but not gentle either. “You know…” he started, slow and deliberate, “you like to pretend we’re so different. Like I’m the fuck-up and you’re the girl with the guilty conscience and the sad eyes who just happens to make bad decisions.”

You turned your head, eyes narrowing, pulse skittering with anticipation before the blow even landed.

“But the only real difference between us?” he continued, his voice almost thoughtful now, almost bored. “Is that unlike you, I don’t pretend to have any shame. I don’t act like I’m hiding something. You think sneaking out at sunrise makes you the good guy?” He let out a humorless laugh—not cruel, not mocking, just hollow. Just tired. “I don’t hide you. I don’t treat you like something that needs to be kept quiet.”

That made your stomach twist. You opened your mouth, but he kept going, eyes still fixed on the road like he couldn’t look at you while he said it. “You have this routine,” he muttered, jaw tight, “where you crawl into my bed after you’ve fucked up your own head. You take my weed, my blow, my fucking time—let me touch you like no one else gets to—and then you walk out before it’s even daylight. And then, every fucking time, you toss that same line at me like a lifeline: ‘I’m still in love with JJ.’”

He finally looked at you then, and it made your breath catch. His eyes weren’t angry, not exactly. Just tired. Bitter. “Like that sentence means anything anymore,” he added quietly.

You blinked, stunned by the brutal clarity of it all. You could feel yourself shutting down, heart rising to your throat, defensiveness bubbling in your chest like bile.

“You’re jealous,” you said, but it came out shaky, unsure. Weak.

Rafe scoffed, shaking his head as he looked back at the road, the corner of his mouth curling in something dark. “Jealous?” he echoed. “Nah. I just think it’s funny. You keep acting like that boy actually knows how to love you.” His voice dipped lower, more dangerous. “Like he isn’t confusing wanting to fuck you with actually knowing you. Like he’s not a massive pussy who thinks loyalty means sticking by someone he doesn’t even want the way I do.”

You stared at him, blinking hard, vision stinging at the edges from something you refused to call emotion. “You don’t want me,” you whispered. “You just like the control.”

His jaw flexed. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped suddenly, the words bursting out of you with the kind of rage you’d been choking on for months. “You like having me on a leash. You like that I keep coming back. It makes you feel like you won something over JJ, like you finally took something from him.”

“I don’t give a fuck about JJ,” Rafe growled, whipping his head toward you again, eyes flashing in the dark. “I’d still have you even if he never existed.”

The car filled with heavy silence again, but this time it was thick with unspoken things—desperation, pain, resentment, the kind of love that was buried so deep under the wreckage that neither of you were willing to dig it out.

You looked away first, heart in your throat, voice barely audible. “Then why do you always let me leave?”

That silenced him.

And that, more than anything else, was your answer.

But Rafe wasn't one to be silenced for long. Not even when it came to you. Not even when it came to the parts of you that were still bleeding, still hopeful, still rooted in fantasies that had long since rotted. His voice cut back into the quiet, sharp and unapologetic. “Why do I let you leave?” he echoed, turning the question over like it was something he’d practiced answering. Like he knew it would come eventually, and now that it had, he wasn’t about to let it slide. “Because even after all this time—even after four fucking months of sneaking around, and staying the night, and crawling back—you still have this little fantasy playing out in that soft head of yours. You still think JJ’s gonna come to his senses. That he’s gonna break up with Kiara and fall into your arms like a movie ending. That when he finds out you’ve been screwing the town’s most hated asshole, he’ll look past it—past me—and kiss your forehead and say something sweet, like ‘It’s okay, sugar, we all make mistakes.’”

His voice got quieter then. Not soft—never soft—but quieter, crueler, the way truth always was when it came from his mouth. “Like Kiara Carrera isn’t the safest fucking choice he’ll ever make. Like she isn’t the one he’s gonna lock down because she makes sense on paper. Because her daddy’s rich, and she’s already half-broken in. She looks good next to him. She’s got just enough edge to make him feel alive, but not enough to make him bleed.”

You didn’t interrupt. You couldn’t. His words weren’t daggers—they were scalpels. Precise. Intentional. And meant to hurt.

“Props to him, though,” Rafe added after a beat, eyes fixed on the road but jaw tight, voice seething with that brand of contempt only Rafe Cameron could perfect. “If he knocks her up, he’s got everything tied in a pretty little bow. Wealth, in-laws, a house with a front porch. The good guy act pays off, doesn’t it?”

You swallowed hard, throat burning like you’d swallowed glass, the words slicing on the way down.

Then came the quieter part. The part he said like a promise, or maybe a prophecy. “Mark my fucking words, angel,” he murmured, that nickname landing heavier than usual. “Once your little band of hooligans finds out that the Charleston hookup was a lie? That it wasn’t just some random stranger you hooked up with in a moment of weakness but me—Rafe Cameron—they’ll kick you to the fucking curb. Maybe not forever. Maybe just long enough to make it hurt. But it’ll happen. Because that Pogue loyalty you people scream about so much?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s conditional. Built on unfortunate status and tragic appearances. Built on you playing your part, being predictable. And you broke the script. You slept with the villain, angel. You don’t come back from that clean.”

You felt like the breath had been knocked from your lungs, like you were spiraling in the passenger seat, drowning in the weight of his words. But what made it worse—what truly sank the knife in—was that he wasn’t saying it to hurt you. Not really. He was just saying it because it was true. Because Rafe Cameron never needed to lie to destroy you. He only ever had to remind you of the things you already knew.

“And don’t look at me like that,” Rafe muttered after a beat, catching the flicker of something wounded in your silence. He didn't look away from the road, but you could feel his eyes cut sideways anyway, burning into your profile like he needed to catch the exact moment you flinched. “I’m not trying to be a dick. I mean—I am—but I’m not wrong. You think they’ll understand? That they’ll listen when you try to explain how it started? They won’t. Because you’ve spent your whole fucking life being the good one. The reliable one. JJ’s shadow. Pope’s conscience. Sarah’s moral compass. You’ve been the glue for them for so long, they’re gonna take one look at me and decide you snapped.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles blanching even through the bruises. “And you did, didn’t you? You snapped. You let yourself get close to me. Let yourself come back to me. Let me in—and not just inside you, but here.” His hand released the wheel just long enough to press his fingertips to the side of his head, tapping once, then once more to his chest, over his heart. “Here, too. That’s what scares you more than any of this shit. It’s not that you’re fucking the town’s golden menace—it’s that somewhere along the line you stopped pretending it was just fucking.”

The silence that followed felt louder than the music faintly humming through the speakers. Your fingers curled into your thighs, nails pressing into your skin like pain could tether you to something other than this moment. Because he was right. God, he was right. And that was the worst part—Rafe always knew when to twist the knife, but he also always knew exactly where to stab.

He huffed, almost to himself, and leaned back into his seat, posture finally easing like he’d expelled something he’d been carrying around for too long. “It’s not about JJ,” he said, voice lower now, less venomous. “It hasn’t been for a while, has it?”

You shifted in your seat like movement could save you, could shake loose the weight of his words still lingering in the charged air between you. But nothing budged. Not the silence, not the ache in your throat, not the truth sitting in your stomach like a swallowed stone. You were unraveling quietly. Like a thread being pulled from the inside out. And Rafe wasn’t even looking at you anymore. He didn’t need to. He’d already gotten under your skin, already said what needed to be said. The rest was just letting the guilt marinate.

You wanted to say something cruel, dig your nails back into the one place you knew he’d bleed for you. Tell him JJ almost kissed you today, that he looked at you like he used to—before Kiara, before things got complicated. You wanted to twist that dagger, watch it land like all of Rafe’s barbed truths did. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because maybe for the first time since this started, you didn’t want to be cruel to him. Not when you remembered the way his head had dipped earlier to press against yours, not when you remembered the way he kissed the corner of your mouth like it was sacred, not when you remembered the way he bled for you without asking for anything in return.

So you stayed quiet. Let the storm of your feelings roll through you, lightning cracking behind your ribs. Let the words that always came so easily to you rot behind your teeth. And he didn’t push. He just drove, his hand gripping the wheel tightly, bruised knuckles catching the pale yellow light of the next streetlamp you passed. You wondered if they still hurt. If he even cared that they did. Probably not. Rafe Cameron didn’t flinch for pain—not the physical kind, anyway.

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. Because he was right. He was always so fucking right. You had this fantasy—that JJ would wake up one day and choose you. That the world would right itself and you could be loved without shame, without hiding. But deep down you knew JJ would never pick you. Not in the way that mattered. Not when Kiara was safe, and sweet, and didn’t sleep with the enemy under cover of night. Not when you had Rafe Cameron’s fingerprints all over you—body and soul.

The shame hit then, hard and all-consuming. And yet, somehow, it didn’t crush you. It just sat there. Like a part of you. Like something you’d grown around. You hated how comfortable it felt, how it didn’t send you spiraling anymore. Maybe because Rafe made space for it. Held the mirror up and never asked you to look away. Never asked you to be better than what you were. He saw the wreckage and kept his door unlocked anyway.

And wasn’t that what scared you most? Not that he loved you. But that maybe, in the most fucked-up way imaginable, you were starting to love him back.

Your nails dug deeper into your thigh, but the pain barely registered. The car slowed as he took the familiar turn onto the long drive leading to Tannyhill, the headlights bouncing against gravel and trees you’d passed a hundred times by now. Your body knew the way like muscle memory, like addiction. You watched the house rise in the distance, dark and empty except for one porch light flickering near the front.

He still didn’t speak. But when he finally parked, he didn’t move either. Just sat there with the engine ticking quietly, hands still on the wheel. And for a moment, you both just existed in the silence, neither of you willing to make the first move.

Then, his voice—low, almost hoarse. “You coming in?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, slow and deliberate, before pushing the car door open and stepping out into the cool night air. Because the truth was, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. Not really. Not when your heart was somewhere between JJ’s hands and Rafe’s front seat. And right now, only one of them was still holding it.

The slam of the car door didn’t echo. It thudded dully against the stillness, like even the night was holding its breath for you. You heard his door shut a moment later, his footsteps catching up just as you were reaching the porch steps. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. The space between you vibrated with all the words neither of you dared voice, the mess of it strung out like tripwire from the passenger seat to the front door. You walked ahead, already familiar with the way into the house. He didn’t offer to unlock it. He just watched you push it open with the same hand that had just been trembling in your lap.

The house was quiet. Not empty—Rafe’s places never felt empty—but hushed in that eerie way that rich homes could be. All size and silence and dim lighting. The kind of quiet that made it feel like something was waiting for you upstairs. Maybe it was. Maybe it always was. You didn’t say anything as you walked in, shoes kicking off automatically at the front mat like muscle memory. His footsteps followed you in close behind, steady and unhurried, and you didn’t stop moving until you reached the stairs and started climbing. He let you go first. Always did.

His room smelled like him. Faint traces of cologne and something sharp beneath it—weed, maybe, or gunpowder, or the kind of aggression that never quite left a space. You stepped inside like it wasn’t the thousandth time you’d done this. Your eyes flicked briefly over the unmade bed, the cluttered nightstand, the discarded clothes on the floor. Familiar chaos. Lived-in in the way Rafe was. And then you spotted the tray on his dresser—grinder, papers, lighter, and a small jar already cracked open. A slow comfort curled in your gut at the sight of it.

You turned just in time to see him close the door behind him, his movements slow but assured. He tossed his keys onto the desk with a loud clatter, stripped off his polo in one lazy move, and tossed it to the chair without a glance. And for a moment, you just watched him—watched the play of shadow over his torso, the quiet tension in the line of his shoulders, the bruises blooming like secrets along his ribs. He caught you staring but didn’t say anything, just jerked his chin toward the dresser. “You wanna roll it or you want me to?”

Your lips twitched. “You’re better at it.”

He scoffed, stepping forward and grabbing the tray with one hand, already sitting down on the edge of the bed. “No shit,” he muttered, cracking the grinder open with practiced ease. His fingers moved deftly, confident and familiar, and you found yourself standing frozen in place for another long second—like you weren’t sure whether to sit beside him or crawl inside him.

Eventually, you moved, settling cross-legged across from him, knees brushing. He didn’t look up, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch in acknowledgment. The smell of weed filled the room in lazy plumes as he worked, and the sound of the grinder, the rustle of paper, the flick of the lighter—it all felt so absurdly normal for a situation that was anything but.

And still, nothing felt forced. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He passed you the joint once it was done, lighter already in hand. And when your fingers brushed his, a small jolt of something passed between you. Not lust. Not quite comfort. Just something.

You took it, brought the joint to your lips, and inhaled slowly, letting the heat settle deep in your chest before exhaling in a sigh. “You know I hate how good you are at this,” you murmured, voice thick from the smoke and something heavier.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that lazy half-smile that always meant trouble. “At rolling, or at you?”

You exhaled again, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “Both.”

Your fingers brushed when you handed him the joint, and his thumb lingered a fraction longer against your knuckle than it needed to. A moment too intentional. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first—too focused on the smoke curling from the lit end, or maybe just trying not to give himself away. But there was a shift. His shoulders dropped slightly, like the hit unwound something tight inside him, even if it was just for a second. You watched the way his jaw flexed as he exhaled, the white fog leaving his mouth like a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding. And then his fingers moved to his belt—slow, methodical, the leather tugging against the loop like it had been bothering him for hours. The sound it made, that soft scrape and snap of metal, was mundane. Ordinary. But somehow it felt weighted in the space between you, pressing in on something neither of you were ready to name.

It wasn’t meant to be sensual. Not really. But it tugged something low in your gut anyway, twisted up with everything else you’d been pushing down for the last hour. You exhaled quietly, not from the weed but from the heat—the kind crawling under your skin, soaking through your limbs. You reached for the hem of your shirt almost absently, the fabric tight from how you'd sat, and unbuttoned the top two buttons slowly. Not to tease. Not to tempt. Just because it felt necessary. Like you couldn’t breathe properly until you shed the extra layer of fabric. The shirt slipped over your head with a quiet rustle, landing in a small heap beside you on the bed. You glanced down at yourself, at the black lace of your bra, delicate and a little worn, the straps digging faintly into your shoulders. Your skirt had ridden up slightly, the hem brushing mid-thigh now that you were sitting cross-legged.

“Your AC’s broken,” you murmured, keeping your tone light, almost bored, as if your heart wasn’t slamming into your ribs.

Rafe didn’t answer right away. His eyes finally slid to you—slow, deliberate. First your collarbones, the way your skin was glowing faintly from the heat. Then lower. The lace. The curve of your legs. His gaze wasn’t crude, but it wasn’t innocent either. It was hungry, simmering with something dark and restrained, like he was trying not to look too hard even though it was already too late.

He took another hit, a shallow one this time, and when he exhaled, the smoke curled between you like it was painting the silence in something thick and electric. His free hand ran down the side of his face, scratching lightly at his jaw, the tension in his body suddenly unmissable. Like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or run a fist through the wall. He stared ahead, lips parted like he was working through the thousands of things he wanted to say, or maybe just trying to will himself to stay still.

“I should fix that,” he muttered eventually, nodding toward the ceiling fan with a ghost of a smirk that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “The AC.”

“Mhm.” You stretched your legs out slightly, knees brushing his. “You’ve said that the last three times I was here.”

His eyes dropped to the space between your knees, to the way your thighs shifted against the sheets. His fingers tightened around the joint just slightly, knuckles going taut before he brought it back to his lips. He didn’t respond this time, just stared at you over the burning tip, eyes unreadable but burning. The weight of it sat heavy on your chest—this push and pull, the quiet challenge threading between every glance.

Still, neither of you reached for the other. Still, the distance remained.

But the tension? The tension was already touching everything.

Your gaze roamed over his form laid beside you, shirtless, his jeans undone just enough to expose the sharp cut of his hips. His belt hung loosely, forgotten, the glint of the buckle catching in the low, moody light pooling through the cracked curtains. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he wasn’t in a hurry for anything—not the weed, not your answer, not even the inevitable tension simmering between your bodies. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, and the cut on his lip caught the moonlight in a way that made your stomach tighten. There was something about this—about him—that felt too intimate to be casual, even if neither of you had said anything yet. You were both pretending like it was the same as always, but it wasn’t. Not tonight. Tonight felt heavy. Like a line was being walked.

Your breath caught softly in your throat at the simplicity of the moment—just the two of you, alone in his room, the air thick with smoke and tension and something unspoken. It wasn’t about sex. Not right now. Not really. It was about him being comfortable enough to unbuckle his jeans in front of you like it meant nothing. About how your body didn’t startle when the bed dipped under his weight. About how your skin had stopped flinching under his stare.

He was watching you now, those icy eyes half-lidded and lazy with the high, but there was nothing relaxed about the way his gaze moved. He handed you the joint wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again, knuckles warm from holding it. You took it, and the corner of your mouth twitched up at the way his eyes dropped almost immediately—hovering somewhere between your mouth and the slow drag you took. You inhaled, exhaled, and for a moment the only thing between you was the thin curl of smoke twisting into the warm night.

He shifted onto his side, resting his weight on one elbow, body angling toward you without thinking. There was a slight crease between his brows like he was concentrating too hard on not staring—on being respectful when he had no real reason to be. Like he was trying to prove something, even now. His gaze flicked from your lips to your bra, then back up, as if trying to decide whether he should comment at all. But of course he did.

“They’re matching…” he murmured, voice low and almost distracted, eyes finally giving in and dragging downward to the black lace stretched across your chest. You didn’t look away—you let him look. Maybe you even wanted him to.

“You matched them for me?” he asked, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he gave a sharp jerk of his chin, gesturing lazily toward the delicate fabric. His voice carried something new in it, something almost reverent beneath the teasing. Like he wanted to make a joke but couldn’t quite manage to, because the sight of you in black lace had just knocked the breath from his lungs.

You held the joint between two fingers, letting it burn idly as your lips parted just enough for your next exhale. You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t need to. The silence between you said plenty. He’d seen you in far less, in far worse lighting, in far more vulnerable states. But now, when you were still mostly dressed and not even touching, he looked like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

“You like them?” you asked eventually, voice a little rough from the smoke and something else entirely.

His tongue swiped over the cut on his bottom lip, a slow, absentminded movement as his eyes moved over you again, slower this time, deeper. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, I do.”

And he meant it. Not like a guy who wanted to fuck you. Not even like a guy who wanted to rip them off. But like someone who felt weirdly lucky to be in the room with you at all. Like something about the lace felt private, intentional. Not because it was lingerie, but because it was yours. Because you chose it. Because you were here, wearing it, in his bed, and hadn’t run.

You passed the joint back to him, and your fingers lingered this time. Just barely. Just enough for both of you to notice. Just enough for the air to shift again.

His fingers brushed yours as he took the joint back, but he didn’t move away right away. He let his hand hover near yours, knuckles grazing your thigh so lightly it could’ve been accidental if not for the way he froze after. Like the warmth of your skin shocked him into stillness. His eyes were on your leg now, trained on the spot his hand had touched, then slowly dragging upward. His breath hitched so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, but you felt it. In the way his chest paused mid-breath. In the way his jaw tensed.

You swallowed thickly and leaned back on your palms, subtly shifting your weight so your knee brushed against his. A gentle press. Like a nudge. Like an opening. His gaze flicked to yours instantly, searching, trying to see if you meant to do it. If this was another game. Another silent tease. But you didn’t look away. You held it.

He brought the joint to his lips again, slower this time. Not to smoke it, but to stall. His fingers trembled just slightly when he inhaled, and when he blew the smoke out, it ghosted across your collarbone. Warm and fragrant and sticky-sweet. He didn’t lean forward. Not yet. But he did tilt his head, eyes following the smoke trail as it curled across your chest, disappearing into the shadows between your breasts.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered, almost amused, voice roughened with the mix of lust and restraint.

“Am I?” you asked, feigning innocence with a tilt of your head, but your chest rose a little faster now, breath tightening with every second he didn’t touch you.

His hand moved, hesitant but deliberate, reaching out to brush his knuckles along your bare thigh. It wasn’t a grope. Wasn’t even possessive. Just a slow drag of skin against skin, like he was checking if you were real. His thumb followed the same path, firmer this time, and your stomach tensed. You could feel how careful he was being, how fragile the moment felt in his hands. Like he was afraid that if he grabbed too hard, it’d shatter. Or worse, that you’d pull away.

“I like when they match,” he murmured again, eyes not leaving your body. “Means you were thinking about me when you got dressed.”

“I wasn’t,” you whispered, even though it wasn’t true. He smirked, but didn’t call you on it.

His hand settled on your leg, wide palm spreading across your thigh, grounding you there. You let him, your own fingers twitching like they wanted to do something—touch him back, run through his hair, trace the cut on his lip again—but you didn’t. You were both waiting. Both teetering on the edge.

The joint burned low between his fingers. He glanced at it absently, then stubbed it out in the ashtray on the nightstand before leaning in closer—just slightly. Just enough for your noses to almost brush. His hand tightened around your thigh, warm and firm, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked, eyes searching yours, already knowing the answer.

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. You leaned in instead, so faintly it could’ve been mistaken for breathing. But it was enough. His other hand reached up, fingertips skimming the curve of your jaw, then trailing down your neck. He hovered. Lips parted, breath ghosting over yours. But he didn’t close the distance. Not yet.

He needed you to do it. To meet him there.

So you did.

Your lips brushed his, tentative and slow, nothing like the frantic kisses from the past. This one was careful, lingering. Like you were both afraid of what would happen once it deepened. His mouth was soft, cut still healing, and you felt him tremble slightly against you—just for a second—before he exhaled into the kiss, pulling you a little closer by the thigh, lips finally pressing more firmly to yours.

It was gentle. Devastatingly so.

Because he was still holding back.

And you were letting him.

Rafe was a frantic kisser. He always had been. He moved like he had something to prove—like if he kissed you fast enough, hard enough, urgently enough, it would somehow stop you from slipping through his fingers come morning. His hands were usually greedy and impatient, gripping your waist like a lifeline, pulling at your clothes with that boyish kind of aggression that felt more like a dare than foreplay. He'd tear fishnets like they were wrapping paper, unbutton shorts with practiced speed, like he'd done it in his head a thousand times before he ever laid a hand on you. It had always been desperate, unpolished, the kind of lust that bloomed from chaos and tried to mask the ache beneath it.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Rafe kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Like whatever urgency had once clawed under his skin had been replaced with something heavier—something deeper. His lips moved against yours slowly, deliberately, making sure you felt the curve of every press, every tentative swipe of his tongue, like he was savoring you instead of devouring. His hand slid up your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, fingers curling in just enough to make you gasp softly, dragging your leg over his hip as he shifted closer. His palm stayed there, grounding you to him, thumb stroking along your inner thigh while his other hand gripped your waist, not to drag you closer, but to hold you in place—secure, like if he anchored you hard enough you wouldn’t drift.

Your breath stuttered into his mouth, the heat between you simmering low and slow instead of crashing hot. You hummed without meaning to, the kiss drawing a sound from somewhere deep in your chest as his tongue met yours, lazy and warm and devastatingly intimate. He made it feel like a secret. Like something sacred, even as your bodies started reacting to each other out of habit, muscle memory and instinct making your hips shift just a little. But the urgency wasn’t there. The rush was gone. It was something else now—wanting him and letting yourself feel it.

Your fingers twitched under his jaw before sliding up, tangling gently into his hair. His breath caught at the contact, like you’d touched something vulnerable, and it only pulled him closer. His hand on your waist slid up, grazing the curve of your ribs with a featherlight touch, brushing the edge of your bra like he didn’t want to take it off, just feel you there, warm and breathing and here. He kissed you like it meant something. Like it wasn’t about sex. Like the filth was just the language you spoke—but tonight, it translated to something slower, something a little like affection.

You could taste the weed on his tongue. Could feel the way his heartbeat had slowed, heavy and steady beneath your palm now that his guard had slipped down just far enough to show you the version of him he rarely let out. You parted your lips again, giving him access, and he took it—not to dominate, but to explore, to linger. His thumb stroked your thigh again, firmer this time, like he needed the pressure, needed to remind himself you were real. That you hadn’t pulled away yet. That you were letting him do this—to kiss you without hurry. To touch you like it didn’t have to end in anything but this.

Just this.

You pressed back into him, lips gliding over his as your hand curled tighter in his hair, pulling softly. And he groaned then—quiet and needy and low in his throat, like the sound had been stuck in him for weeks, and this kiss finally dragged it out.

He kissed you like he missed you.

Like you were something he couldn’t stop touching, but had to be gentle with anyway. And when his forehead finally dropped to yours, breath heavy and lips swollen, he didn’t speak. He just held you there, thumb tracing mindless shapes into your thigh, like saying it out loud might ruin the spell.

"Missed you, angel…” he murmured finally, voice quiet and wrecked, barely more than breath against your lips. The words hit you harder than they should have, softer than you expected. 'Missed you.' It echoed in your head, bouncing off every wall you'd built to keep this from meaning more than it was supposed to. The sound of it in his voice—low and genuine, frayed at the edges—twisted something deep inside you. You didn’t move, didn’t speak. You just stared at him, breathing through the way the heat curled up your spine and settled in your chest, your heart beating too loud in your ears.

His hand was still under your skirt, fingers splayed wide across your bare thigh, not moving, just existing there like a brand. Rafe never told you he missed you. He got emotional sometimes, sure—rambled when high, clung to you like gravity when he was drunk—but this? This was something else. This wasn’t the haze talking. This was him, clear-eyed and heavy-lidded, looking at you like you were something he’d been starving for.

He leaned in again, slower this time, bridging the last few inches of space like he couldn’t help himself, like the pull was too strong. You didn’t stop him. Didn’t even breathe. His lips found your cheek first, a soft press of heat that felt out of place for the kind of boy he was. Then another. Then one closer to the corner of your mouth. Featherlight, fluttery kisses like he was trying to memorize the feel of you with his lips. Your nails dragged through his hair gently, not to guide him—just to ground yourself, your fingers tightening slightly when his mouth hovered right over the seam of your lips.

“You missed me?” you whispered, the question slipping out before you could think better of it.

He let out a breathy chuckle, his mouth brushing against yours, not quite kissing you yet. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

“Thought you don’t do feelings, Cameron,” you teased lightly, voice hoarse from holding back everything you actually wanted to say.

“I don’t,” he murmured back, eyes flicking between yours, voice thick with honesty. “But you… you fuck with my head.”

You swallowed hard, the confession crashing into your chest like a wave. “You’re high.”

“Not that high.” His hand moved slightly on your thigh, fingers flexing just enough to make your stomach tighten. “I’ve missed you every day you weren’t here. Doesn’t matter how high I am. That part doesn’t change.”

You didn’t mean to kiss him then, not really. But your body moved before your brain could stop it, lips catching his in something quiet and slow, not even meant to escalate—just to acknowledge. Just to say I know. I missed you too. He kissed you back instantly, but without the usual hunger. It was languid and careful, like he wanted to stretch the moment out, keep it suspended between you forever. His thumb stroked your inner thigh once, and your legs instinctively shifted, giving him space to settle between them even though you both knew neither of you were going to rush anything yet.

“I hate you sometimes,” you mumbled when you pulled back, breath mingling with his, lips barely an inch apart.

“I know,” he said, and he was smiling. “You always come back anyway.”

You let your eyes drift shut, resting your forehead to his, trying to remember how to breathe properly. Because he wasn’t wrong. You always came back. But tonight—it wasn’t out of habit. It wasn’t just for weed, or sex, or to spite yourself.

Tonight, you stayed. And let it mean something.

His hand slid beneath your knee, guiding your leg up and over his hip with ease, securing it there like he didn’t want to risk you slipping away. The shift in position brought his body closer, pressed nearly flush against yours now, his chest brushing your bare stomach with every slow breath. He leaned down, nose nudging the curve of your throat before his lips followed—pressing slow, almost lazy kisses to the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. The drag of his mouth there sent tingles down your spine, light and maddening, the kind of affection that burned hotter than anything rushed.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, fisting it gently as his mouth moved lower, kisses turning more purposeful. He lingered at the base of your throat, tongue flicking out briefly before he kissed there again, making you shift beneath him involuntarily. The weight of his body blanketed you, warm and heavy, almost too much—but not enough to push him away. Still, your voice broke through the haze of heat, breathy and trembling as you murmured, “You’re crushing me…”

Rafe froze for a second, his breath huffing out against your skin in a quiet laugh that warmed your collarbone. “Good,” he muttered, lips brushing the hollow of your throat. “Then you won’t get any ideas about leaving.”

“Rafe…” you whispered, a breath caught between a protest and something softer.

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at you, and for a moment the smugness cracked into something more careful. “Too much?” he asked, voice lower now, the teasing edge dulled by something real—anxiety, maybe. Or that desperate need to stay close.

You shook your head once, brushing a strand of hair away from his temple. “No. Just… I can’t breathe when you’re on top of me like that.”

He kissed you again with that same intent, slower now but filthier in a way that made your stomach twist tight with heat. His tongue dragged purposefully against yours, coaxing a breathy whimper from your lips that he swallowed like it fed something in him. He shifted further between your thighs, the hand on your leg sliding up, pushing the soft fabric of your skirt higher until his knuckles brushed against the crease of your thigh. His palm splayed there, possessive and warm, and he tilted his head just enough to deepen the kiss—his teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or eat you alive.

“You don’t wear this skirt unless you want to get touched,” he rasped against your mouth, voice thick with smoke and hunger, the words curling hot in your core. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Your answer came in the form of a roll of your hips, the friction desperate and fleeting but enough to make him groan quietly into your neck. His hand flexed where it rested on your thigh, dragging closer to the heat between your legs but still not touching—not yet. The restraint in his movements made your chest tighten, a slow burn building as he kissed down your throat again, slower now, tongue flicking out to taste the thin sheen of sweat collecting just below your jaw.

“I waited all fucking week,” he muttered, voice vibrating against your skin. “You think I didn’t notice? The way you ignored my texts, left me on read, acted like I don’t fuckin’ own your head?”

You didn’t answer, not with words. You couldn’t. Not when his teeth grazed the slope of your collarbone and his fingers finally slipped beneath the hem of your underwear to brush the inside of your thigh. The contact was maddening—just close enough to tease, not enough to relieve.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, lips still against your skin. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your breath caught, nails digging into the back of his shoulder. “Then touch me,” you gasped, tone more of a dare than a plea, even if your thighs twitched around his waist like you were aching for it.

But Rafe didn’t rush. Not this time. He dragged his fingers along the edge of your panties, slow and deliberate, never quite dipping where you wanted them. His other hand skimmed up your side, fingers brushing the swell of your breast through the lace of your bra, knuckles grazing the curve before finally, finally cupping you fully. His thumb circled over your nipple, gentle at first and then rougher when he felt the way your body reacted, arching into him.

“Every time you pretend this doesn’t mean anything,” he growled, lifting his head to look down at you, eyes glassy but focused, locked on your mouth again, “you make me wanna ruin you worse.”

“You already did,” you whispered, half-laughing through the haze, and he grinned—dark, breathless, and fucking triumphant—before crashing his mouth to yours again.

The kiss was less patient now, his hand slipping further between your legs, fingers finally pressing against your slick heat through the soaked fabric. You gasped, hips bucking up instinctively, and he cursed under his breath like he’d just gotten everything he wanted. And in a way, he had. You. Here. Willing and wrecked beneath him, already crumbling just from his mouth and the heat of his fingers. And you hadn’t even gotten naked yet.

“Rafe…” you breathed, almost helpless.

He grinned against your lips, dragging your panties aside with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Say it again.”

“Rafe…” you whispered again, quieter this time, like saying his name was a confession you weren’t ready to own. But he caught it—memorized it like a prayer—and let it fuel the way his fingers finally slipped between your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering your wetness like it was something sacred. His exhale was low and wrecked, and for a moment he just hovered there—nose brushing yours, lips barely parted, like he was in awe of how quickly he unraveled you. His thumb circled your clit with a kind of focus that made your thighs twitch around his hips, and his fingers stayed unhurried, stroking through the slick warmth like he had all the time in the world to feel you fall apart.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice so low and reverent it made your chest tighten. “That’s mine, angel. All this mess, all this heat—I did that.”

You could barely form a response, head tilted back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as you bit your lip. The lace of your bra scratched lightly against your skin with every breath, and Rafe’s free hand slid up to tug it down lazily, exposing one breast to the air, then lowering his head to wrap his mouth around your nipple in one slow, warm pull. You gasped, back arching as his tongue circled it, mouth hot and wet and sinful, and then the fingers between your legs pressed a little deeper, curling just slightly, and your breath hitched so hard you whimpered.

He hummed against your chest, clearly pleased with himself. “You gonna come just from this?” he murmured, voice smug and husky, lips brushing the sensitive peak before pulling back. “That’s kinda pathetic, baby.”

But it wasn’t cruel—it was teasing. Dirty and intimate in a way that only he could make feel like affection. His fingers moved in steady rhythm now, coaxing more slick from you with every stroke, and the pads of them brushed against your most sensitive spot with the kind of expertise that came from knowing your body better than you did. He watched your face the entire time—those sharp blue eyes catching every stutter of breath, every twitch of your lips, like he could come just from watching you lose yourself under him.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered quietly. And when you did, the moment locked in. You were both breathing heavy now, skin flushed and sweat-slicked, pupils blown wide. And there was something devastatingly intimate about the way he looked at you then—like he wasn’t just trying to fuck you, but memorize every second of it. Burn it into his brain like some unholy possession.

“Say it’s mine,” he said next, fingers still stroking you through your growing tremble. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Your chest rose and fell in uneven waves, your hand reaching for him blindly—grabbing his wrist, nails digging into his skin as your orgasm crept closer, hotter. “It’s yours,” you choked out, not even thinking, not even lying. “It’s all yours.”

He groaned like the words cracked something in him wide open. Like he needed them more than air. And as your hips bucked against his hand, the pressure building impossibly high, he leaned down again, kissing you deep, swallowing every cry that spilled from your throat as he pushed you right over the edge.

The hand buried in his hair trembled, your fingers twitching in the soft, sweat-damp strands as your hips writhed beneath him, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress with every subtle shift of his body. He slowed the movement of his fingers on purpose now—just to watch you squirm. Just to drag it out and drink in the way your face pinched with frustration, lips parted in breathy, near-silent whimpers that made his cock throb against the inside of your thigh. The friction of his jeans rough against your skin, the heat of him barely restrained behind the undone waistband—it was maddening.

“Look at that, angel,” he murmured lowly, and you didn’t have to ask what. Because his eyes were fixed between your legs, lashes low and predatory as he watched the slick, lewd way your body sucked around his fingers, taking them in knuckle-deep like you were starving for him. “This pussy’s swallowing my fingers so easily…”

You whimpered, head lolling back, but his free hand came up and gripped your jaw—not hard, just enough to tilt your face toward him again. To make sure you heard every word.

“‘Cause you’re my little slut, yeah?” he asked, voice low and dark and teasing, the kind of cruel softness that had you clenching again before you could help it. His thumb dragged lazily over your clit now, feather-light, and the smirk that followed nearly broke you. “Oh, I felt that. Don’t look at me like that when you just proved it.”

“Rafe—” you started, half a plea, half a warning. But he didn’t let up. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, the scent of weed and sweat and your own arousal thick in the space between you.

“You get mean when I say it, but your cunt doesn’t lie, baby,” he whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the corner of your mouth like he needed a sample. “It’s the sweetest little contradiction—this filthy, wet fucking mess and that attitude.” He slipped his fingers in again, deeper now, the stretch hitting just right. “So tight still, like you’re trying to make me earn it.”

Your breath hitched, hands curling into fists in his hair, and you squeezed your eyes shut, body bucking upward in a frustrated arch. He chuckled, low and pleased, mouthing over your throat, biting down just hard enough to make your skin jump.

“Come on, angel. Say it,” he coaxed, his voice all molten drawl and heat, lips dragging along your collarbone. “Say you’re my little slut. Or should I make you beg for my cock first?”

“You’re such a—” you started, defiant, but it bled into a gasp when he crooked his fingers just right, thumb circling with sudden purpose. Your spine arched, knees falling wider on instinct, and your face burned as your body betrayed you again—slicker, needier.

“Go on,” he urged, tongue grazing your pulse, teeth nipping gently. “Be brave.”

And you couldn’t hold it anymore—not with the tension pulsing in your core, not with the smirk on his face or the way he looked at you like the whole fucking world existed between your thighs. “I’m your slut,” you spat finally, breath ragged, eyes meeting his in a glare that didn’t even land. “Happy now?”

But instead of gloating, he slowed again. Stilled, even.

“No,” he said, and his tone dropped into something quieter—dangerous and tender all at once. “Not happy. Obsessed.”

Then his mouth crashed into yours, hot and hungry, swallowing your next moan as his fingers started moving again—harder now, rougher, like he was trying to carve the truth of that confession into your body. Like he needed to mark it inside you. Because being Rafe Cameron’s little slut wasn’t something you got to say once. It was something you had to feel—over and over and over again.

You barely had the power or pride left to kiss him back, expression wrecked with a strange blend of irritation and pleasure that clashed behind your eyes. Rafe always liked to brag about how closed off he was, how he kept his emotions locked behind thick bone and pride, how he wore them by his heart and not on his sleeves like it was some kind of moral superiority. But you’d learned his tells. In the span of four messy, desperate months of this thing—of sex and resentment and late-night calls that neither of you wanted to explain—you’d learned how to read him like a goddamn script. When he was soft with you—and that didn’t happen often, not with someone like him—it meant he wasn’t bothering to hide the weight of what this was turning into. It meant he didn’t feel like pretending he didn’t care. You’d never say it aloud, not even in the quiet of your own mind without flinching, but there was something about that softness that you liked. It made you feel singular. Like the only girl in a room he swore he'd never step into.

But the real kicker was when he was mean.

Because that’s when you knew. That’s when the whole JJ part of your situation—your feelings, your history, your unresolved longing for a boy who only looked at you like that after he started dating Kie—ate away at Rafe like acid. He hated it. And when Rafe hated something, he twisted it until it screamed. So it would always start slow, almost tender—he’d kiss you like he meant it, touch you like he didn’t hate your guts—but somewhere between the climb of your arousal and the thick, foggy pleasure coating your brain, you’d hear them: the little comments. Mean, cutting, baiting. Half-jealous, half-cruel. That's when he gave himself away.

And tonight? He was high. That sharp, glassy kind of high that made his hands lazier but his mouth even worse. It always hit different when he was buzzed just right—blunt confidence, cocky amusement, no filter. He’d already worked you up to the point of shaking, his fingers inside you just slow and deep enough to make your thighs twitch around his hips, your mouth slack against his. That was the tell. The flickering signal that your orgasm was building and about to snap. It made him grin. He fucking loved that part, especially when he could rip it away. And he did, with zero warning, slipping his fingers out of you like it was nothing—like you weren’t seconds away from falling apart.

You gasped, breath catching as your hips jerked instinctively upward to chase the feeling, a low, frustrated whimper spilling from your lips. Your brows drew together, your voice barely a whisper as you exhaled, “Rafe, seriously—”

“Mm,” he cut you off with a shake of his head and a tsk of his tongue, licking his lips as he glanced down at his fingers, your arousal dripping and catching in the moonlight that sliced through the cracks in his blackout curtains. “You got my rings dirty, angel,” he murmured, smugness layered thick in his voice, like your desperation was some sort of minor inconvenience for him. Like you were the inconvenience. “So fucking messy. Can’t take you anywhere, huh?”

His tone wasn’t annoyed. It was entertained. He loved this—loved the way your face twisted in need, loved how close he could bring you just to pull back and watch the wreckage. His fingers flexed, glinting silver and slick under the low light as he tilted his hand toward you. “How about you stick out your tongue for me, huh?” he coaxed, his smirk stretching wide and sharp, practically glowing with the satisfaction of watching your jaw tighten. “Be a good girl. Clean 'em.”

You gave him that look—half glare, half helpless—because you wanted to be stubborn, you should have been stubborn, but your body was still buzzing from the build-up he’d left you on the edge of. You hated how easily he could twist you around with a few slow touches and cruel words. Hated how you didn’t walk away. Your eyes flicked from his to his hand, to the way he slowly brought his fingers to your lips with all the patience of a man who already knew he’d win.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you muttered, voice rough, throat dry.

He laughed, low and warm, leaning closer until his forehead brushed yours. “Yeah,” he agreed, a whisper against your skin. “But you’re letting the asshole fuck you instead of the guy you actually want, so what does that make you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was sitting too heavy between your ribs. So instead you opened your mouth, slow and reluctant, and let your tongue drag along the pads of his fingers as he slid them past your lips. His breath hitched—just a little—but he masked it with another smirk, like the taste of you on your tongue didn’t do something to him too.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, hand cradling your jaw now, thumb grazing your cheek like it was a privilege. “You get needy like this every time you see him with her?”

You didn’t respond—because biting back only made him worse and submitting made you hate yourself more. But that didn’t stop him. He leaned in again, his voice silk-drenched poison in your ear.

“He doesn’t even look at you like this. Doesn’t even know how bad you want him. But I do. I see it. Feel it.” His free hand trailed down between your legs again, sliding easily over your wetness like a reminder. “You think about him when I fuck you?”

Your breath caught, legs instinctively tightening around his hips again.

“Tell me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth now, soft in contrast to everything else. “When you close your eyes, is it him in your head? Or do you lie to yourself and say it’s me?”

You didn’t know whether you hated him more for asking or for how badly you wanted him to shut up and keep going. But either way, your voice came out in a whisper, cracked and mean and shamefully real.

His hand reached between your bodies, unhurried, like he wasn’t aching to be inside you every time it came down to this—like he didn’t come undone in private over the thought of you, like he wasn’t battling the same storm that tore through your chest whenever he looked at you like this. The way he moved, smooth and composed, was almost crueler than when he said something sharp. He pulled himself out of his boxers, the heavy weight of his cock brushing your thigh, hot and pulsing with need—but instead of pushing into you like you both knew he wanted to, he paused. Deliberately. Stalling, like he wanted to see you writhe just a little longer.

Then he slapped the flushed tip of his cock against your soaked center once, twice—just enough to make you jolt beneath him, muscles twitching from the contact, from the embarrassment of the wet sound it made. You bit your lip, chest rising with a shaky breath as your eyes fluttered open to glare at him. But he was already watching you, close enough to kiss, pupils blown wide with desire even though his expression still carried that usual amused cruelty.

“You don’t like me being mean, huh?” he asked softly, the edge in his voice muted by the hoarse, almost broken quality of it. His tone didn’t match his words—he sounded too close to losing control to really sell the meanness. Another soft slap followed, followed by the warm slide of his tip nudging against your entrance, dragging slick over already-sensitive skin. He exhaled hard through his nose like he was grounding himself, brow furrowed. “Fuck…” he muttered, voice dropping into something closer to awe than mockery, “Drenched.”

You whimpered involuntarily, hips rocking forward ever so slightly as if your body was begging him before you could form words. He stilled you with one firm hand gripping your thigh, his thumb digging in just enough to remind you who was in control.

Then he looked you in the eye—really looked, something colder and deeper behind the blue—and said low and deliberate, “At least this pussy’s loyal, angel.”

Your breath caught, a mixture of shame and fury bubbling up in your chest, but neither of them enough to overpower the way your body reacted to his words. You clenched around nothing, lips parting in a broken exhale that gave you away completely.

He caught it, of course he did.

“Oh, that got to you?” he smirked, biting back a grin as he leaned closer, brushing his nose against yours in a mockingly affectionate gesture. “God, you’re a mess. All those months following JJ around like a fucking shadow just to end up here, under me. You ever think about what he’d say if he saw you like this? Whimpering. So fucking wet for the guy you pretend to hate.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, but he didn’t stop. He never did. He liked pushing you right to the edge—emotionally, physically, all of it.

“You think he’d still look at you the same?” he whispered, voice dark and taunting now as he started to slowly push the head of his cock inside you, just enough to stretch you open and steal your breath. “Think he’d still call you sweet? Still flash you that little golden boy smile if he knew how you beg for me?”

“Shut up,” you managed to breathe out, fingers curling into the sheets, your body trembling beneath him.

But he only laughed quietly, the sound wicked and close to unhinged. “No. You like it. You want me to say it. You want me to ruin you and remind you that he’ll never know you like I do. He gets your heart, but I get this.” He thrust in a little deeper, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he felt how tight you were clinging to him. “And fuck, baby—you love giving it to me.”

“Rafe—” you tried again, but it broke into a moan halfway through, your voice shaking.

He kissed your jaw then, soft and slow, a contradiction to everything that had come out of his mouth, and whispered against your skin, “I know. I know you want him. But you need me.” And then he was all the way in, finally—thrusting deep with a groan like it hurt to hold back any longer, like he was punishing himself too for dragging it out.

And even through the sting of the stretch and the burn in your chest, you hated how good it felt to be claimed by him like this. How some part of you—the part that didn’t belong to JJ—thrived under Rafe’s cruelty.

His hand hooked under your knee, palm warm against the back of your thigh as he lifted your leg higher, guiding it up gently and pressing it against his hip to open you up more for him. The motion was tender—shockingly so—and it sent a ripple of heat through your chest, something shameful and intimate blooming beneath your ribs. Then he pushed in fully, slow but deliberate, bottoming out until your breath hitched and your nails bit into the skin of his shoulder. He stilled there, buried deep, not moving, not even taunting you anymore—just there—soaking in the feeling of your body clenching around him, like he needed a second to collect himself or else he’d lose the fragile grip he had on whatever control remained. His face dipped to your neck, nose brushing against the slope of your jaw, breath coming out hot and uneven as he mouthed at your skin, the tension in his back betraying how close he already was to unraveling.

Your hands braced against him instinctively, one digging into his shoulder for grounding, the other sliding up the back of his neck into his hair, fingertips scraping gently at his scalp as your head tilted back in response to the sensation, lips parting in a soft moan. Your walls fluttered around him, and he groaned low and deep against your throat, the sound sending a shiver racing down your spine.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin, his tone no longer mocking but raw—low and sincere in a way that made your heart stutter for reasons you didn’t want to name. He pulled out only an inch or two, dragging himself slow and steady along your walls before sliding back in just as slowly, a shaky exhale escaping his lips like your body was the only thing capable of grounding him.

“Fuck…” he breathed, almost to himself. “Shit, you feel so good…”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. The deliberate pace was torture—aching and slow and devastatingly full—and yet there was something different about it. It wasn’t about punishing you anymore. It wasn’t about JJ. It wasn’t even about winning. It was just him, stripped of the game, of the smugness, of everything but how good it felt to be inside you.

“You always do this,” you whispered, voice trembling but quiet. “Act like you hate me, then fuck me like you’re scared I’ll disappear.”

He paused, body tensing, the shift in him almost imperceptible if you hadn’t already learned every one of his tells. His nose brushed your jaw again, then your cheek, before he dragged his lips up to the corner of your mouth. “You don’t get it,” he said, barely audible. “I don’t hate you.”

You turned your head slightly, lips almost touching now, your eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Then what the fuck is this, Rafe?”

He didn’t answer, not directly. Just rolled his hips again—slower, deeper—until you gasped and arched up into him, your body giving in even if your heart hadn’t. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, fingers gripping you like he didn’t want to let go, like holding you tighter would keep something from slipping out of place.

“I think about you all the time,” he muttered, barely coherent as his lips brushed your cheek again. “When I’m alone. When I’m high. Even when I’m with someone else. It’s always fucking you.”

The admission hung heavy in the air, naked and ugly and real in a way that made your chest ache. You didn’t know if it was supposed to make you feel wanted or ruined. Maybe both.

And then he moved again, the steady rhythm returning, dragging pleasure out of you like a confession.

You arched into his chest the moment he thrust into you, a breathless sound catching in your throat as the depth of it hit just right, raw and slow and so deep it felt like he was carving himself into you. His arm slid beneath you, curling around your waist and anchoring there, palm resting on the small of your back while his fingers fisted into the bunched-up fabric of your skirt—a skirt that at this point was more of a suggestion than an actual article of clothing. It was twisted and rumpled between your bodies, forgotten in the chaos of how fast things had escalated, how desperately he always seemed to need you once his hands were on you.

He held you like that, halfway between a grip and an embrace, not letting your back hit the mattress again, keeping you just slightly lifted. His body hovered over yours, the muscles in his arms flexing as he braced his weight, his chest brushing yours with each controlled, deliberate thrust. The position made everything sharper—the stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming closeness of it all. Your hips tilted instinctively to meet him, and his hold on you tightened, pulling you closer, deeper, as if that was even possible.

“Fuck—there you go,” he grunted against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his rhythm faltered just slightly from the way your body clenched around him. “You feel that? That deep enough for you, angel?”

You whined in response, your voice high and wrecked, hands sliding up his back, nails scratching at the smooth, hot skin of his shoulders. “Rafe…” you breathed, helpless, already ruined and only getting worse with every slow drag of his cock.

“Yeah?” he muttered, lips against your cheek now, his breath ragged. “What, baby? You need more?”

You didn’t answer right away, your body too caught up in the dizzying heat of it, the coil tightening in your stomach again. Your mind was mush and your pride was slipping, and he knew it—could feel it in how you started moving with him, chasing him now instead of just taking it.

“You always do this,” you whispered, voice cracked and uneven as your fingers threaded into his hair. “You act like I’m nothing to you but you fuck me like you feel something.”

His movements stilled for a second, like the words landed too hard, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t scoff or get cruel like he usually would. Instead, he dragged his mouth down to your collarbone and kissed you there, open-mouthed and slow, like he was buying himself a moment.

“I do feel something,” he finally said, voice low and almost defensive, like admitting it cost him something. “I feel it every fucking time I’m in you, every time I look at you and you’re still looking at him.”

You swallowed, heart pounding, unsure whether the ache building in your chest was from the truth or the rhythm he started up again—deep, bruising, as if to prove a point.

“Then stop pretending I’m just a fuck.”

His thrusts slowed again, but this time they were even more intense, more deliberate, dragging your body up the mattress inch by inch with every stroke. His eyes locked on yours, blue and feral and a little too glassy for how calm he was trying to seem.

“I don’t fuck girls I don’t think about when I’m sober,” he said quietly. “And I don’t hold them like this either.”

He squeezed your waist then, arm still under your back, still clutching your skirt like it meant something—like you did. And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t punishing or cocky. It was slow and hot and messy with restraint, like he didn’t know how to kiss you without giving too much of himself away.

“What about Sofia, huh?” you asked, breath catching, the words leaving you like a dare and a wound all at once. Your voice wasn’t steady—there was too much pleasure threading through your limbs, too much vulnerability tangled in the way your body curled into his—but you said it anyway, spitting her name like it burned your tongue. You said it because you had to, because the pressure building inside you wasn’t just physical. It was months of being second choice, of stolen moments and too many blurred lines, of never really knowing where you stood with him. You needed to know what she meant in this chaos, even if the answer ruined you.

The moment the name left your mouth, he stilled again, his entire body freezing with it. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and wide, pupils blown and brow creased in something that wasn’t just physical anymore. But he didn’t move—not right away—didn’t pull out, didn’t throw some clever, biting insult like he usually would. Instead, he shifted his hips just barely, and when the head of his cock hit that spot inside you, the one that made your breath hitch and your back arch off the mattress, it was him who fell apart. His brows pinched even tighter, mouth parting around a sound that wasn’t entirely voluntary, like your body was the only thing capable of silencing whatever rage or confusion your question stirred.

“What about her?” he asked finally, his voice rough and unsteady, not cruel this time—just exposed. His forehead dropped against your collarbone, and you felt the weight of him there, the way his chest pressed to yours with something more than urgency. He was trying to gather himself, to keep control, but it was slipping. You could feel it in his grip, in the tremble of his arms holding you, in the desperation threaded between each breath.

You didn’t let it go. Your fingers curled tighter into his hair, pulling gently, grounding both of you even as your thighs trembled from how deep he still was. “You’re inside me and thinking about him—and I know you still see her.”

The accusation hung in the air like smoke, thick and poisonous. But the way he thrust into you again, shallow and automatic, betrayed something else entirely. It wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t deflection. It was reflex. Like being inside you was the only thing keeping him anchored. “I don’t see her,” he said, voice a little sharper now, though still low. “I fuck her sometimes. That’s not the same.”

You scoffed, your hand sliding down to push lightly at his shoulder—not enough to move him, just enough to protest. “Yeah? You gonna tell me this is different?” He lifted his head finally, and when his eyes met yours, they weren’t cold. They were open in a way that terrified you. “Don’t twist my shit around,” he muttered. “You’re the one in love with someone else.”

Your jaw clenched, the truth of it hitting hard, but you didn’t look away. “Yeah. I am. And you still call me yours when you come.” That struck something deep in him. His hand tightened around your waist, and his next thrust was harder, deeper—meant to bruise, meant to prove something. But his eyes stayed on yours.

“I say it,” he whispered, breath ragged, “because I mean it. Because when I’m inside you like this, I don’t give a fuck about JJ or Sofia or anyone else. It’s just you. It’s always been you.”

You blinked up at him, stunned into silence for a heartbeat too long, your own body betraying you again with how it clenched around him in response. His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, softer now, like he hated himself for telling you but hated lying more.

“You’re mine when I’m in you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Even if I’m not yours.” And then his hips jerked again—rough and aching, like he was trying to force every unspoken thing into that thrust, like he could make you forget all of it if he just fucked you hard enough to remember him instead.

His movements slowed even more, each thrust drawn out, languid and heavy like the world had melted away and only the two of you existed in this hazy, suspended moment. The air between you thickened with the scent of sweat and something softer—something almost tender buried beneath the sharp edges of everything else. His arm curled tighter around your back, holding you like you weighed nothing but mattered everything, fingers tracing lazy patterns along the curve of your waist, as if memorizing you in the quiet of his high.

Your skin flushed hot under his touch, pulse pounding in your veins, every nerve ending buzzing with that slow burn that only comes when time stretches thin and the rush dulls to something deeper. His breath hitched in ragged sighs against your neck, each exhale a slow surrender, and his hips rocked into you with a measured ease, each movement precise yet effortless, like he was savoring the feeling rather than racing toward release.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured low and slow, lips brushing over the sensitive skin beneath your ear, voice thick with something soft you hadn’t heard in a long time. “Feels like I’m melting into you, angel.”

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, heart slowing in tandem with his rhythm. Your fingers tangled in his hair again, and you let out a soft sigh, the tension from earlier slipping away like smoke in the night. For a moment, the bitterness faded, replaced by a quiet kind of closeness that felt almost like comfort.

“Yeah,” you breathed back, voice husky, “I feel it too… like I’m floating.” His eyes met yours, glassy and distant but focused, and he smiled—a small, slow curve that was more vulnerable than cocky. “Good,” he whispered, as if saying anything else might shatter this fragile calm. “Because right now, it’s just us. Nothing else matters.”

You nodded against him, your lips grazing his collarbone, your body melting into his steady heat. His hand slid from your waist to your back, fingers pressing gently into the hollow just above your ribs, anchoring you as his hips continued their slow, steady dance—each movement a languid exploration, a wordless conversation between two bodies untangling from the chaos outside.

“You’re so damn beautiful like this,” he breathed, voice thick with awe and something softer than desire, something almost like wonder. “Not rushed, not sharp… just… here.” You smiled against his skin, the warmth spreading through your chest a balm to the ache that had been there for so long. “I could stay like this forever,” you whispered, “just… like this.”

He caught your gaze then, slow and sure, and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Me too,” he said quietly. “No noise, no fights, no ghosts. Just us. Slow. Easy.”

The rhythm of his body against yours settled into something dreamlike—slow, sinuous, as if the two of you had slipped beneath the surface of the world and were just floating there, breathless and warm and suspended. Everything felt softer. Muted. The way his skin dragged over yours, the weight of him pressed so completely against you, the way his cock moved inside you with a lazy, steady purpose—it all felt like a hum in your bones rather than something sharp or defined. He wasn’t fucking you now. He was moving with you, inside you, like your bodies spoke a language that neither of you had the energy to argue with anymore.

You were pliant under him, hips tilting without thinking, mouth parting to let out little broken sighs that only made his head drop lower, lips pressing reverently to your throat, your collarbone, your cheek. He kissed you like he couldn’t help it—like it was instinct, like he needed to feel your skin under his mouth just to stay anchored. His hand was still beneath you, curled under the arch of your spine, holding you up like you might drift away if he let go. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he mumbled, lips brushing your temple now, his voice barely more than a husky rasp, slow and syrupy. “So soft. So fucking good for me.”

Your fingers were tangled in his hair again, fingertips brushing along his scalp in slow, mindless circles, your eyes fluttering closed as you breathed in the scent of him—weed and sweat and his cologne, all dulled and hazy, like it had soaked into your lungs. The pleasure wasn’t sharp anymore. It was thick and all-encompassing, rising and falling like waves as he rocked into you, his hips slow and deep, coaxing your body open again and again until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began. “I like it when you’re like this,” you murmured, barely audible, your lips brushing his cheek as your arms tightened around his shoulders. “Quiet. Sweet.”

He gave a low, amused hum against your skin, but didn’t argue. He didn’t tease. Didn’t turn it into a joke like he usually might. He just nuzzled into you, lips dragging down your jaw as his hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a gentleness that made your chest ache. “You make me like this,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of defensiveness in it. No mask. No smugness. Just truth, quiet and raw. “Only you.”

You opened your eyes slowly, your vision a blur of soft light and his face above you, his lashes low over his glassy eyes, his mouth parted as he watched you like you were the only real thing in a spinning world. The thrusts were getting slower, deeper, dragging out every inch like he was trying to memorize how you felt, how you looked, how you breathed underneath him. “Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice trembling from the weight of the moment more than the friction. “Just like this… I don’t want it to end.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours like a promise. “I got you, angel. We’ve got all night.”

His hips kept that unhurried, drugged pace, rocking into you with a lazy rhythm that spoke of indulgence, not urgency—like he wasn’t chasing a high anymore but trying to live inside it, to make it last, to sink so deep into you that the outside world couldn’t reach him. Every slow thrust felt deliberate, reverent, like he was worshipping something he didn’t believe he deserved but couldn’t let go of anyway. His breath stuttered against your throat, warm and uneven, catching on soft moans that made your skin erupt in goosebumps. His arm stayed wrapped under your back, holding you suspended just slightly above the mattress, pressing your chest flush to his with every movement, like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his to remind himself this was real.

The room was thick with heat and sweat and something sweeter—something unspoken and terrifying in its gentleness. The skin-to-skin contact was unrelenting: the slippery glide of your stomach against his, the hot insides of your thighs clinging to the flex of his hips, the damp tangle of your hair caught between his fingers and the crook of his elbow. The sweat made you stick together in places, but neither of you tried to pull away, not even when it became too much, not even when your bodies felt too close, too fused to make sense of whose limbs were whose. He just stayed there, inside you, hips rolling in slow, perfect waves that had your mouth parting in breathless little sounds you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

If someone told you four months ago that you'd end up here—sweaty, high, and letting Rafe Cameron fuck you like this—you would’ve laughed in their face. Probably said something snarky, maybe rolled your eyes. You’d have mocked the idea of being that vulnerable with someone like him. Someone too smug, too dangerous, too cruel on instinct. But now? Now he was buried so deep inside you it hurt in the most perfect, intimate way, his bruised knuckles digging into the bunched fabric of your skirt and the arch of your spine as he held you close like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between you. And it was so quiet. Just breath and skin and the wet, slow drag of him sliding in and out of your cunt, every sound filthy and raw in the thick silence of the room.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice hoarse and low, lips brushing the edge of your jaw as his hips rutted into you slowly, rhythm never faltering. “How wet you are? How deep I am right now?”

You whimpered, one leg curling tighter around his waist, the muscles in your thighs twitching as the pleasure built again, molten and slow and unbearable. “God… Rafe…” you breathed, your voice shaking, hands moving to claw at his back just to ground yourself. “Don’t stop. Fuck—don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he muttered, almost like it was a promise, like stopping would be a betrayal. His mouth found yours then, not rushed or rough, but slow and messy, his tongue dragging over yours lazily while he thrust into you, like he wanted you to taste how fucked-out you were. “You hear that?” he slurred slightly, forehead pressing to yours. “That little wet sound every time I slide in? That’s all you, baby.”

You whimpered again, your whole body arching under the weight of him, the weight of his words. His hand slid up your side, slow and heavy, brushing the curve of your breast before settling there, his thumb circling over your nipple in time with the grind of his hips. “So fuckin’ pretty like this,” he muttered, watching you through half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide. “Meltin’ for me. You always do.”

“High as shit and still so cocky,” you gasped out, but the breathless quality of your voice ruined the bite in your words. He grinned, dragging his lips down your throat as he thrust a little deeper, a little slower, angling just right. “M’not cocky,” he mumbled. “Just right.”

You moaned, louder this time, legs shaking as you clung to him, every slow roll of his hips sending you closer to the edge. The build-up was brutal—like being stroked raw and kissed sweet at the same time—and it made your head spin in the best way. You could feel the heat coiling low in your stomach, feel your body start to tremble with the pressure.

“Gonna cum for me?” he asked softly, not teasing, just curious—genuinely caught in the wonder of it. “Y-Yeah,” you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. “Keep going—don’t stop, please—”

“I won’t,” he promised, voice thick and reverent, like you were holy and he was nothing but your worshipper. “Fuck, angel… let me feel it. Cum all over me.”

When you did—body shaking, mouth open, whimpering his name like it meant something—he held you tighter, his thrusts faltering slightly as he groaned deep and low into your mouth, hips grinding through your orgasm like he wanted to feel every second of it, like he wanted to stay inside you long after the high faded.

You were still pulsing around him, walls fluttering from the slow, drawn-out orgasm that had unraveled you completely, but Rafe didn’t stop—not even for a second. His hips kept moving in that same lazy, hypnotic rhythm, dragging his cock through the sensitivity now clinging to every inch of your body like static. It wasn’t sharp or cruel the way he kept going—it was tender, almost reverent—but it didn’t matter. Every nerve ending in you was alight, raw and aching, stretched thin under the weight of how much he wasn’t letting up. The pleasure had peaked, but now it just… kept going. It kept taking.

You whimpered, your thighs twitching around his hips again, the leg he had hooked over his side threatening to fall slack. But he caught it, pressed a soothing kiss to your cheek, and murmured, almost apologetic but too far gone to stop, “I know, baby… I know it’s a lot.” Your breath stuttered as you clung to him, your fingers digging into his back like you needed something to hold on to, voice thin and cracked as you gasped, “Rafe—too much, I—I came, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, and his tone wasn’t mocking, not this time. It was soft. Gentle. Dangerously gentle. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he stayed buried inside you, moving slow and deep, dragging every inch of himself through your overstimulated cunt. “You feel too fucking good. Don’t make me stop. Please. Just a little more.”

Your body jerked under him involuntarily, a hiccup of a moan escaping you as another rush of sensation rippled through you, hotter, messier, less pleasure and more need. Your hips bucked, trying to get away and chase it all at once, your head spinning from the contradiction.

“I’m shaking,” you gasped, eyes glassy, lips parted, face twisted in something between bliss and desperation. “I can’t even think—” “Good,” he breathed, his eyes locked on your face, mouth parted in awe as he watched you unravel again beneath him. “Don’t think. Just feel me, angel. You can take it—I know you can. You always do.”

His voice was like smoke—low and coaxing, high dragging the edges off his words until they slurred into something sinful and addictive. His lips were at your throat again, kissing you through your ragged breath, his body pressed so flush to yours that you couldn’t tell where his heartbeat ended and yours began.

Every drag of his cock against your walls made your back arch, your toes curl, your breath catch in your throat. Your body was screaming and clinging and trembling under him, your orgasm turning into something more—something frantic and deep and overwhelming, cresting too fast again because he wouldn’t give you a break, wouldn’t stop worshipping your body like it was the only thing tethering him to this planet.

“Fuck—Rafe—” you sobbed, and he shushed you softly, hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit without hesitation.

“Shhh, I got you. One more, just one more for me, baby,” he whispered, his tone so achingly sweet you could cry from it, and then he circled his fingers there—slow, knowing, gentle but relentless. “Let me see you fall apart again. Please.”

You cried out, thighs clenching, chest heaving as the pressure built impossibly fast again, another orgasm blooming through the oversensitivity like fire through dry grass. Your body spasmed, overwhelmed and high and stretched to your limit, and he swallowed every sound you made with a kiss, holding you tighter as you fell apart in his arms all over again.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, hips stuttering, finally losing his own rhythm, his own control, driven mad by the way you clenched around him. “You feel unreal—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You barely heard the rest. The world dissolved again, your limbs shaking as you gasped for air, still trembling under him, his name broken on your lips while he buried himself deep one last time and came with a low, wrecked moan against your neck. He held you through it, body pressed tight, chest heaving, whispering things you couldn’t even decipher anymore.

He just stayed there, cock softening inside you, arms around your body like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. And all you could do was breathe—shaky, exhausted, high out of your mind—with your body spent and overstimulated and soaked in the intimacy of being undone again and again by someone you swore you’d never let in.

"You're insane…" you breathed out after several moments of heavy silence, the words slipping past your lips followed by a shaky exhale that felt like it carried the weight of everything you’d just been through. Your fingers, trembling but stubborn, slid from tangled strands of his hair to land with a soft slap against his cheek—more a plea than a reprimand—carrying all the fight you had left in your body. He just chuckled, that lazy, boyish laugh that didn’t quite match the raw heat of his body still pressed against you, his eyes roaming over your flushed face like he was taking in the evidence of your shared exhaustion, and maybe even silently daring himself to push for one more round if only his willpower wasn’t so thoroughly wrecked.

Leaning in without hesitation, he nibbled at your cheek with a wet, teasing bite, then pressed a soft kiss right between the warm hum of his chuckles. You swatted at him playfully, fingers weak but persistent, trying to push his face away, but he caught your wrist in a gentle grip, the roughness of his palm grounding you like an anchor in the storm of your racing heartbeat.

“Three orgasms?” he murmured against your skin, voice low and thick with amusement and the lingering haze of his high, grinning like he was casually commenting on the weather instead of something so filthy and intimate. “That’s pro numbers, baby… You’re a champ.”

You groaned in mock annoyance, letting your head fall back against the pillow as you swiped at his cheek again, though this time your fingers lingered in his soft, sweat-damp hair. “You’re insufferable,” you whispered, but the corners of your mouth twitched with something like a smile.

Rafe just grinned wider, eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and something quieter, almost vulnerable. His hand slid from your waist to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your flushed cheek like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. The harshness was gone now, replaced by a tenderness that felt almost foreign coming from him, but it settled in your chest like a balm.

“You did good,” he said simply, voice low and steady, like he meant it more than the teasing. “You always do.”

You shifted slightly beneath him, curling into the warmth of his touch, the rough edges of your anger and frustration softening in the quiet aftermath. Your fingers found his jawline, tracing the sharp planes with surprising gentleness. “And you? You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmured, voice thick with the shared vulnerability hanging between you. He chuckled again, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, slow and sweet, like an apology and a promise all at once. “Guess we make a good team, huh?”

You nodded against him, breath catching in your throat, the weight of everything — jealousy, bitterness, desire, and something softer — all blending into this fragile, perfect moment where neither of you had to pretend. “Yeah,” you whispered back, “a really fucked-up team.”

You never really noticed how much of yourself you’d left behind in Rafe’s room until it started showing up around you like little ghosts of intimacy—scattered and unapologetic. At first, it had been small things: a hair tie looped around his doorknob, a ring forgotten on his nightstand after a particularly chaotic night, your cheap green lighter tucked into his desk drawer. But somewhere along the line, it snowballed. Bras, underwear, tank tops, even a whole pair of jeans you didn’t remember taking off. There was an entire outfit folded neatly on the edge of his dresser last week, one you were sure you hadn’t worn in over a month. The kind of quiet claiming that wasn’t so quiet anymore.

You’d assumed—back when all this started—that Rafe would do what guys like him did: toss your stuff aside, maybe shove it under the bed, let it gather dust until you came back around or forgot it entirely. Worst case, he'd throw it out just to be spiteful. But he didn’t. Instead, you started to realize that it wasn’t random at all. It was intentional. Like when he offered you that hair tie out of nowhere one day, all casual, not even looking up from his phone. You’d been complaining about your hair falling into your face while trying to roll a joint and he just handed it to you like it had always belonged to him—like you did.

And then tonight, after the sweat and haze and slow afterglow had worn off and you both took your time cleaning yourselves up, you stepped out of the bathroom with damp hair and wobbly legs, only to find him already waiting for you. Shirtless, boxers hanging low on his hips, his hair a mess of waves from how much you'd tugged at it, and holding a folded pair of underwear like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Here,” he said, handing them over with a little smirk. “Figured you wouldn’t want to leave commando again. These are yours, right? Washed ’em.”

You blinked, taking the soft cotton from him as you fought the heat blooming in your cheeks. “Washed them?” you echoed. He shrugged, completely unbothered, moving back toward his dresser. “What, you think the laundry fairy does all this? No, I wash things now. I’m domestic as hell.”

You snorted, but didn’t argue. Just slid the underwear on, followed by one of his old t-shirts that smelled faintly like weed and detergent, and a pair of his boxers that you used as makeshift shorts. It was the most comfortable you’d been in weeks. You caught your reflection briefly in the mirror—sleepy-eyed, legs marked up from where his hands had held you too tight, wearing entirely him—and it startled you. Not in a bad way. Just enough to remind you how far things had come without either of you ever really talking about it. Then he was tugging at your hand, pulling you gently out of the room like he hadn’t just wrecked your entire body hours earlier, babbling about these brownie bites he bought and how “they were calling to him spiritually.”

“I’m starving,” he said, dragging you down the hallway barefoot, his voice echoing through the quiet house. “Like genuinely about to collapse. You want peanut butter on yours? I feel like it’s a vibe.” You chuckled, hobbling slightly behind him, the dull ache between your thighs catching up with you now. “You literally almost made me pass out earlier and now you want to feed me dessert like we’re in some fucked-up rom-com?” He grinned over his shoulder at you, eyes bright and dopey. “Exactly. We are the fucked-up rom-com, angel. Embrace it.”

Rafe dragged you down the stairs with the urgency of someone chasing a religious experience, his hand wrapped firmly around yours like it was second nature. His bare feet padded across the cool floors until he came to an abrupt stop just outside the kitchen doorway. Without warning, he turned, both of your hands caught in his grip as he faced you fully, practically vibrating with excitement. His grin was wide, eyes sparkling, cheeks still faintly flushed from sex and the residual buzz of his high. He leaned down so you were nearly nose-to-nose, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, like he was letting you in on the world’s best-kept secret.

“These brownies are gonna change your life, angel. I swear—like, actually change it.” You blinked up at him, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous seriousness behind his words, and nodded slowly. “Brownies,” you said dryly, raising a brow. “Life-changing. Got it.”

He nodded back, completely undeterred by your sarcasm. “No, but wait—wait—what if we melt Nutella on top?” His expression shifted to pure awe at his own idea, like he’d just unlocked a new tier of human enlightenment.

You rolled your eyes affectionately, chest warm, lips twitching as you stared up at him—his hair messy, face glowing from exertion and THC, standing barefoot in gray sweatpants with one hand clutching yours and the other gesturing wildly about dessert. It was absurd. And yet, in that moment, it felt dangerously right. Too easy. Too domestic. Like this wasn’t a hookup, like it wasn’t built on bitterness and jealousy and secrets. Like it was real.

You were just about to say something—some witty reply, maybe something softer, more teasing—when the illusion shattered. A sharp, choked noise echoed from inside the kitchen. Not the fridge humming or the creak of a cabinet door, but a distinctly human sound. Your head snapped toward it immediately, heart plummeting into your stomach. And there, standing frozen mid-step just a few feet inside the doorway, was Sarah.

Your breath caught. Her eyes were wide, jaw slack, one hand still hovering near the bowl she must’ve been holding. You weren’t sure how long she’d been standing there—long enough to see the shirt hanging loose over your thighs, the boxers slung low on your hips, Rafe’s hand tangled in yours, his whole body still radiating the aftermath of sex and weed and too much you.

The silence hit like a brick wall. Rafe tensed beside you, but didn’t drop your hand. You could feel his heartbeat in his palm, fast and loud, even as your own stomach twisted into knots. Sarah’s gaze snapped from you to her brother, then back again. Her expression warped slowly—shock, disbelief, something dangerously close to hurt.

“Oh my god,” she said finally, voice breaking around the syllables. “Are you fucking serious?”

author's note: me when i'm an asshole and i take forever to post only to end the chapter on a cliff-hanger... hi peaches, i hope i did good and i won't take so long to post anymore. i love you guys and talk to me don't be shy! join the tag-list, i'll see you all in the next chapter!💖💖

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