Pillow talk and pleading the fifth amendment (8)
Previous part ↳ ❝ [masterlist] ¡! ❞ (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)
party favors (noun, plural)
1. Small gifts, tokens, or items distributed to guests at a celebration as a gesture of hospitality or commemoration. 2. Informal. Substances or indulgences discreetly shared among attendees at a gathering—often alcohol, drugs, or other vices—used to heighten mood, blur tension, or temporarily suspend the emotional undercurrents of the event. 3. Figurative (within the context of a fraught, emotionally charged celebration). Distractions exchanged in place of honest conversation; offerings—whether material (e.g., a symbolic gift, a cigarette, a blade with engraved wings) or physical (a kiss, a body, a night spent together)—that mask deeper conflicts simmering beneath the surface of the party atmosphere.
Your head throbbed dully when you cracked your eyes open, the sunlight pouring in through the thin gap in the curtains and hitting you square in the face like it had something to prove. You groaned quietly, hand lifting on instinct to shield your eyes as if that would undo the damage already done. You didn’t need to reach for your phone to know what day it was—you could feel it in your bones, in the way your chest tightened before you were even fully awake.
The muffled conversation drifting through the thin chateau walls only confirmed it, every laugh and half-whisper carrying far too clearly into the spare room. You dreaded this day. That was probably why you couldn’t remember last night at all. You’d thought drinking might blur the edges of the calendar, smear the date into something forgettable. Instead, it just left you with a splitting headache and a hollow gap where your memory should’ve been, and right now, that felt like a mercy. Whatever happened last night didn’t follow you into this morning, and you decided you didn’t care enough to go looking for it.
“Hey, call me back when ya get this…” The voice crackled through your phone’s speaker, slurred just enough to make your stomach drop, like the universe had impeccable timing and a cruel sense of humor. You sighed, patting around the tangle of sheets and pillows for your phone, your chest tightening with each second it took you to find it. “…Or really, when you’ve got a minute. We really need to talk. You never seem to have any time for me anymore.” The words were painfully familiar, the tone almost rehearsed, and by the time you finally found your phone buried under a pillow, the voicemail was already unraveling exactly the way you remembered from last year. “Wait—y’know what? Maybe just forget it. ’Cause by the time you get this, your number may be blocked.” Your mother’s voice lingered even after the message ended, wet and shaky and lodged somewhere behind your eyes. You didn’t even check the screen. You just tossed the phone across the room like it had burned you, listening to it clatter uselessly onto the cluttered floor before you slumped back against the mattress. A shaky breath left your lips as you scrubbed a hand down your face, the ache in your head dull compared to the weight pressing into your chest.
You lay there longer than you meant to, staring at the ceiling while the low murmur of the pogues’ conversation filtered in from the living room. You knew you couldn’t avoid them forever. Eventually, you forced yourself upright, your right leg protesting sharply from the knee down as you stood. You stretched anyway, jaw tight, as if rolling your shoulders might shake loose the heaviness sitting in your lungs. It didn’t. When you finally pulled the spare room door open and padded down the hall, the conversation in the living room cut off so abruptly it almost made you laugh. Almost. Ten pairs of eyes snapped to you the second you appeared in the archway, and you paused there, swaying slightly, offering a half-hearted, “Mornin’,” like that might convince them to act normal.
Kiara nodded first, a small, careful gesture, and JJ grunted beside her, both of them looking unmistakably guilty. Pope and John B followed with smiles that didn’t quite land, lips pressed too tight, eyes too serious, and you nearly groaned at that alone. They did this every year. Every single time, like ritual. Sarah, though—Sarah stared at you like she was balancing on the edge of a decision she’d already made. You saw Kiara’s hand settle on her shoulder, a quiet warning, but Sarah shook her head, muttering something under her breath before she sprang up from the couch. She crossed the room quickly, her smile cautious but bright, hands landing warmly on your biceps before you could stop her.
“Look, I know, okay?” she started immediately, words tumbling out fast, like she was afraid you’d shut her down if she paused too long. “I know what you’re gonna say. You don’t even have to say it—I already know the drill. We’ve known the drill for, like, two years now, and we never pressed.” She glanced over her shoulder, rolling her eyes as if remembering something. “Well—except last year, with the custom cupcake that just said ‘bday.’ Which I still think was a crime,” she added, shooting JJ an accusing look. “But this year’s different. You’re literally the first legal adult out of all of us, and I just—” She cut herself off, face scrunching as she shook you gently, undeterred by the scowl pulling at your mouth. “The best friend manual does not allow me to let this day pass with just a couple beers and a birthday blunt.”
“Sarah—” you tried, your voice rough and unused, but she leaned in closer, shaking her head again.
“Something small,” she insisted softly. “I swear. Just us and a couple people by my pool. And don’t even start with the money thing because I already kind of… bought everything.” She winced, sucking air through her teeth like that sealed your fate.
“It’s barely eleven a.m., Sare,” you muttered when she finally paused, rubbing your temples. “Can I just get a glass of water and a Tylenol before making… decisions?”
Her expression softened immediately, that familiar flicker of pity flashing across her face before she could stop it. “I know it’s your dad and all,” she said quietly, hands dropping to her sides. “But you don’t have to make this day all about him. I mean, we’ve got your twenty-first coming up too, and yeah, maybe your frontal lobe will be developed by then,” she added with a weak smile, “but still…”
She trailed off when Kiara stepped up behind her, murmuring something low about not knowing the full story. “I know the full story, Kie,” Sarah whispered back, firm but gentle. You squeezed your eyes shut, the sound of your own breathing suddenly too loud, and turned toward the kitchen before you could say something you’d regret. The cool tile beneath your feet grounded you as you reached the sink, bracing yourself against the counter while the faucet ran. The water was cold and steady, and for a moment, with the chatter muted behind you, you let yourself pretend that was enough to wash the day away.
Your jaw stayed clenched as you leaned over the sink, the porcelain cold beneath your palms, the sound of running water filling the space where your thoughts kept threatening to spill over. The glass rattled faintly when you set it down, fingers trembling just enough to piss you off, and you stared at your reflection in the dark window above the counter instead of the people behind you, because you already knew what you’d see if you turned around—careful eyes, pity dressed up as concern, that familiar, suffocating brand of love that always showed up on this day whether you asked for it or not.
You swallowed the water too fast, the ache behind your eyes flaring in protest, and muttered, “I’m not making it about him,” even though no one had said his name out loud, voice low and defensive like you were arguing with the walls. “I’m just… tired. And hungover. And I don’t wanna be paraded around like this is some kind of victory lap.”
“You’re not being paraded,” Sarah insisted immediately, too quick, which only proved your point, her voice following you as you reached for the medicine cabinet and fumbled for the bottle with shaking fingers. “It’s literally just us. And okay, maybe Topper for like five minutes because he already knows and he’ll be offended if I don’t invite him, but I swear he won’t stay.” A pause, then softer, more careful. “You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to make a speech. You don’t even have to stay long. Just—don’t disappear today, okay?” That did it. That cracked something open in your chest that had already been sore when you woke up, and you let your forehead rest briefly against the cabinet door, eyes squeezing shut as Kiara cleared her throat behind Sarah like she was trying to anchor the moment before it tipped too far.
“We can keep it low-key,” Kie added gently, stepping closer, her presence less invasive somehow, like she knew when to give you air. “No surprises. No singing if you don’t want it. We’ll just hang out, swim a little, get food. Normal stuff.” JJ shifted on the couch, you could hear the leather creak, and when he spoke his voice was rough, stripped of its usual bravado. “I already promised not to do anything stupid,” he said, then winced. “Okay, anything extra stupid. Cross my heart.” Pope snorted despite himself, and even John B let out a quiet breath of a laugh, but the sound faded quickly, like everyone was afraid of pushing their luck.
You finally turned around, bottle of Tylenol clenched in your hand, and leaned back against the counter, scanning their faces one by one like you were committing them to memory against your will. “I don’t want a cake,” you said flatly. “And if anyone says ‘happy birthday’ like that—” you gestured vaguely, fingers curling in mock enthusiasm, “—I’m leaving.” Sarah nodded rapidly, hands up in surrender. “Deal. No cake. No chanting. No weird speeches about how proud we are of you for surviving another year.” Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Maybe just… burgers. And beer. And the pool.” She watched you carefully, waiting for the final verdict, and when you sighed again—long, resigned, tired—it felt like the room exhaled with you.
“Let me shower,” you said finally, pushing off the counter. “And don’t—” your voice wavered just slightly before you steadied it, “—don’t make a big thing out of it.” Sarah smiled, softer this time, relief shining through as she stepped back to give you space. “Scout’s honor,” she promised, even though she had never been a scout in her life. As you padded back down the hallway, the ache in your leg flaring with every step, you could still hear them murmuring behind you, the conversation picking up again in hushed tones, and for the first time that morning it didn’t feel quite as cruel. Just inevitable.
Just like most things in your life, really. It was like the moment you were born, you were fated to run away from things and stall the process of addressing or taking accountability for them. And the anger that you carried in the process? Soul crushing. And that part of you, that one that seemed to claim to be the one holding the common sense, usually wearing your mother's voice, told you that it wasn't that deep. That you making a big deal out of not celebrating your birthday was just too much.
Your father didn’t die. He didn’t drown chasing some salt-stung fantasy, didn’t vanish into the ocean with a poetic excuse people could lower their voices for. That was the part that clawed at you every single day. He didn’t dramatize his leaving, didn’t slam doors or make speeches or cry into your hair like it hurt him too. He just… disappeared. A note left on the fridge, held up by a magnet that barely clung, curling at the corners like it had already given up.
No happy birthday. No shaking you awake that morning, no awkward hug, no promise to “do something later.” Just gone. As if he’d never missed his October football games to take you trick-or-treating anyway, never spent weeks crouched beside you on the dock teaching you how to tie a line properly, hands patient around yours as he said, “Slow down, kiddo. It’s not goin’ anywhere.”
You remembered your sweet sixteen with a clarity that still made your chest tighten. That was the day you found out he’d remarried—found out there had even been a divorce to begin with. You, sweet and stupid and blissfully unaware, left without so much as breadcrumbs to piece it together. You’d drifted away from the bonfire that night, the laughter and music fading into background noise as you lay back in the sand, staring up at a sky that didn’t care, phone glowing too bright in your hands.
A family photo had popped up on your feed like a cruel joke. His face—older, lined, but softer than you remembered it being under the harsh trailer lights—smiling beside a woman you didn’t know, an arm slung around a boy who looked nothing like you. “Day out on the boat with my favorite son,” the caption read, obnoxious emojis tacked on like salt in an open wound. You remembered whispering, broken and small, “I didn’t even know you had another one,” as if the screen could hear you.
The Pogues said you blacked out that night, that you didn’t remember much past the second bottle, but that wasn’t true. You remembered that hour on the beach too clearly. The way the vodka burned going down, the way it mixed with the salt of your tears until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. You remembered JJ asking, “You okay?” from somewhere far away, his voice warped and worried, and you remembered lying through your teeth, nodding and saying, “Yeah. Just tired.” In a way, your father was dead. Because the man who used to stand at the small kitchen table, staring helplessly at your mother while she cried for the hundredth time that she “didn’t mean to come home late,” that man wasn’t your dad anymore. Your dad existed somewhere else now—far away, flattened into pixels and captions, trapped inside a Facebook post where he smiled like he hadn’t left anything unfinished behind.
And sixteen-year-old you? She stayed. She stayed on that beach, on that island, letting the cut fester long before she even finished high school, learning too early that girls like her didn’t really get clean exits. They didn’t get closure or explanations or fresh starts. They just learned how to carry the absence quietly, year after year, every birthday a reminder that being left didn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looked like a fridge note curling at the edges, a phone screen lighting up at the wrong moment, and a voice in your head that kept asking, What did I do that made it so easy to go?
By the time the weight of it all loosened its grip on your chest, you were standing under the shower, water beating down on your shoulders hard enough that it almost felt intentional, like you deserved the sting. Steam fogged up the small bathroom, blurring the cracked mirror until your reflection was nothing but a vague outline, and you stayed there longer than necessary, letting the heat sink into your muscles, letting the ache settle somewhere quieter. You scrubbed at your skin until it went pink, washed your hair twice like it might rinse the memory out too, and when you finally shut the water off, the silence rushed back in just as loud. You wrapped yourself in a towel, forehead resting briefly against the cool tile as you exhaled, then pulled it together the way you always did—mechanically, efficiently, like feelings were something you could leave behind in the drain if you tried hard enough.
By the time you got to Tanny Hill, dressed in something light and sun-appropriate, hair still damp and curling at the ends, something had shifted. There was movement now, purpose. Laughter floated down the hallway, doors opened and closed, and when you stepped outside into the bright OBX afternoon, Tannyhill was already alive with it. The pool shimmered under the sun, painfully blue, and the Pogues were scattered around the yard like they’d been doing this their whole lives—which, in a way, they had.
JJ was standing on a chair he absolutely shouldn’t have been standing on, stringing up cheap party lights between two poles while Pope stood below him, arms crossed, muttering something about electrocution and liability. “Relax,” JJ shot back, squinting up at the wire, “If I die, it’ll be iconic. Very on-brand.” “That’s not comforting,” Pope replied flatly, but he didn’t move to stop him.
Kiara was by the table near the pool, laying out mismatched decorations with focused care, chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to make it all look intentional rather than thrown together last-minute. “I swear,” she said when she noticed you, straightening up with a small smile, “Sarah went full Pinterest mode and then panicked halfway through.” As if summoned by her name, Sarah popped up from behind the bar area with a roll of streamers looped over her arm, eyes lighting up the second she saw you. “You showered,” she said like it was an accomplishment, like she’d been holding her breath until you did. “Good. Great. That means you’re officially committed now.” You snorted despite yourself, grabbing the end of the streamer she handed you. “I never said that,” you murmured, but you took it anyway, fingers already helping her tie it off along the railing.
The air felt different out here—lighter, sun-warmed, humming with the low buzz of cicadas and the distant crash of waves. Someone had put music on, something easy and familiar, and for the first time that day, your shoulders eased just a fraction. You moved around the pool with them, holding ladders steady, tying knots, passing drinks back and forth, letting yourself exist in the in-between moments where no one was asking you to feel anything deeper than here. At one point, John B nudged your shoulder gently, nodding toward the half-inflated float drifting lazily in the pool. “You want me to blow that up or… emotional support?” he asked, half-smiling. “Dealer’s choice,” you replied, and he laughed, the sound grounding in a way you didn’t comment on.
For a while, it almost worked. The sun on your skin, the sound of your friends arguing over balloon placement, Sarah declaring, “It’s a vibe, trust me,” like it was law. You let yourself believe that maybe this year could be different—that maybe this birthday could just be a pool, and cheap lights, and people who stayed. And standing there at Tannyhill, damp hair clinging to your neck, fingers sticky from tape and sunscreen, you let yourself breathe into it, even if just for the afternoon.
The afternoon bled into early evening so seamlessly you barely noticed it happening, the sun dipping lower until everything at Tannyhill was washed in that warm, honeyed glow that made even chaos look intentional. Despite all your earlier protests—despite the way you’d dug your heels in about not wanting anything big—you found yourself genuinely startled by how many people had shown up. What was supposed to be small and almost private had ballooned into a full-blown Sarah Cameron–style pool party, the kind that felt like it had a gravitational pull of its own.
Cars lined the drive and spilled onto the grass, music thumped from speakers that definitely cost more than your monthly groceries, and the pool was crowded with bodies, laughter ricocheting off the water and stone like it always did here. You hovered near the edge for a moment, red cup sweating in your hand, watching it all with a faint crease between your brows, equal parts overwhelmed and quietly touched.
“I told you,” Sarah said triumphantly, appearing at your side like she’d been waiting for this exact expression. She leaned into you, bumping her shoulder against yours, eyes bright as she scanned the crowd. “You can’t half-ass a birthday at Tannyhill. It’s against the law. Ward Cameron Law, section… everything.” You huffed a weak laugh, shaking your head. “This was supposed to be, like, ten people,” you pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward the pool where JJ was already attempting some kind of reckless jump off the side, Pope shouting at him to stop like it had ever worked before. “I said small, Sarah.” She waved you off, unapologetic. “This is small. I didn’t even invite half the people I know,” she said, then paused, squinting at you. “Okay, maybe I invited them indirectly. But still.”
You moved through the crowd slowly, people you barely knew clinking cups with you, shouting happy birthdays over the music, some of them calling you by nicknames you didn’t remember earning. Every “happy birthday” landed differently—some light, some heavier—but none of them felt cruel, and that alone surprised you.
Kiara looped an arm through yours at some point, pressing a cold drink into your hand. “You okay?” she asked quietly, eyes searching your face in that way of hers. You nodded, then hesitated, then nodded again more firmly. “Yeah,” you said, meaning it more than you expected. “I think I am.” She smiled softly at that, squeezing your arm before letting you go, already being pulled away by someone asking for help with the grill.
As the sky darkened, the string lights flickered on, reflected in the pool like scattered stars, and the music softened just enough to let conversations overlap instead of collide. You found yourself laughing—actually laughing—at something dumb JJ said, felt Pope press a cupcake into your hand with a sheepish grin. “It says ‘bday’ this time too,” he admitted. “But I spelled it myself, so.” “Progress,” you teased, and he rolled his eyes, smiling anyway. Standing there, surrounded by noise and warmth and people who chose to show up, you felt the ache in your chest loosen just a little more. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t erase anything—but for the first time that day, maybe even that year, it felt survivable.
The night kept unfolding whether you were ready for it or not, layers stacking gently instead of crashing down the way you’d braced yourself for all day. Someone turned the music up again once the sky fully darkened, bass thrumming through the ground beneath your bare feet, and the pool lights clicked on, turning the water that impossible electric blue that made everything feel a little unreal.
You sat on the edge for a while, feet dangling in the cool water, letting the contrast seep into your skin while voices drifted around you—half-heard jokes, laughter breaking out and fading again, the clink of bottles, the splash of someone getting pushed in fully clothed. JJ surfaced nearby at one point, hair plastered to his forehead, pointing an accusatory finger at John B. “You’re dead,” he announced dramatically, and John B just raised his hands, grinning. “Worth it.”
Sarah circled back to you eventually, this time calmer, her earlier buzz mellowing into something softer as she sat beside you, knees drawn up to her chest. “See?” she said quietly, nudging your knee with hers. “Not so terrible.” You watched the ripples spread across the pool before answering, eyes following the reflection of the lights as they wobbled and steadied again.
“Yeah,” you admitted, voice low. “I hate that you’re right.” She laughed under her breath, leaning her head briefly against your shoulder. “You can hate it tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight you just have to exist.” The simplicity of that landed harder than anything else she’d said all day, and you swallowed, nodding once.
Later, when the crowd thinned just a little—when people started drifting toward the fire pit or disappearing inside for drinks—you found yourself standing near the fence, arms folded loosely around yourself, the noise dulling enough for your thoughts to creep back in. Kiara joined you without a word, handing you a hoodie that smelled faintly like laundry detergent and smoke.
“You’re gonna get cold,” she said simply. You slipped it on, exhaling as the warmth settled over your shoulders. “Thanks.” She leaned beside you, gaze trained on the pool. “You don’t have to be okay about everything tonight,” she added after a beat. “Just… thought I’d say that.” You glanced at her, something tight easing in your chest. “I know,” you replied. “I think that’s what’s making it okay.”
As the hours slipped by, the party softened around the edges, laughter quieter but no less genuine, conversations stretching longer and deeper. You caught snippets of stories you’d heard a hundred times and a few you hadn’t, found yourself smiling at memories instead of bracing against them. At some point, someone shouted your name again—another toast, another cheer—and you lifted your cup, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway.
For the first time in a long while, the date didn’t feel like a wound being poked. It still ached, still existed, but it wasn’t the only thing in the room.
And how foolish were you to think the day was going to pass without anything happening. Your unsteady feet carried you through the thinning crowd near the pool, offering soft smiles as you passed a cluster of kooks doing shots and pointing at you with loud, sloppy enthusiasm, before you slipped away toward the kitchen like you needed air more than another birthday cheer. It was quieter in here, the music dulled into a distant thrum by the walls, the laughter outside softened until it felt like background noise instead of something pressing in on you.
You leaned back against the counter, eyes dragging over the clutter—colorful solo cups stacked crookedly, half-empty beer bottles sweating onto the granite, a stray lime wedge abandoned near the sink—and you already knew you’d be helping Sarah clean tomorrow, both of you groaning through hangovers and pretending this mess wasn’t yours.
You pulled a red cup from the clean stack, poured vodka without measuring, topped it off with whatever orange juice was left in the carton, ice clinking loudly despite your attempt at quiet, and lingered there longer than necessary just to let the silence settle. Even though the party was technically yours, at Tanny Hill of all places, you hadn’t seen Rafe once. Not upstairs, not by the pool, not even a half-assed text lighting up your phone.
A small, traitorous part of you kept circling that fact, poking at it, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to say happy birthday—why he hadn’t at least made an appearance. The other part of you, sharper and meaner and still clinging to every reason you’d ever had to resent kooks like him, insisted it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer. You were just starting to convince yourself of that when the kitchen door creaked open.
Your heart did something stupid, hopeful, before you even turned around, like muscle memory hadn’t learned its lesson yet. You looked anyway—and it wasn’t Rafe. It was JJ, swaying slightly as he slipped inside like he was afraid of waking someone, grin already pulling at his mouth, eyes glassy and bright in that way that meant he’d had just enough to be honest and not enough to be careful.
“There you are,” he said quietly, like he’d been looking for you on purpose, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. “I was startin’ to think you fell into the pool and no one noticed.” You huffed a weak laugh, lifting your cup a little. “That’s reassuring,” you muttered. “Glad to know I’d go out dramatically.”
He leaned against the opposite counter, arms folding loosely, gaze flicking over your face like he was taking inventory, like he was checking in without saying it out loud. “You okay?” he asked after a beat, voice softer than it had been all night. You shrugged, noncommittal, staring into your drink.
“Define okay.” That earned you a quiet chuckle as he nodded. “Fair,” he said. “I just—” He stopped himself, tongue pressing briefly to his bottom lip, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands before lifting back to your face. “I know you hate all this birthday shit. I didn’t wanna make it worse.” Something about that tightened your chest, and you swallowed, shoulders loosening just a little. “You didn’t,” you said. “You never do.”
Silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t awkward—just heavy, loaded with things neither of you were saying. JJ shifted closer without really acknowledging it, close enough now that you could smell the familiar mix of chlorine and cheap beer on him, could feel the heat of his body bleeding into your space. “I meant what I said earlier, y’know,” he added quietly. “About being glad you were born. Even if the day sucks.” You finally looked at him then, really looked, and your voice came out softer than you meant it to.
“Thanks,” you said. “That actually… means more than the pool party.” His grin flickered into something else at that, something less cocky and more uncertain, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the moment now that it was here.
Your eyes lingered on JJ’s relaxed features, and it felt like standing on the edge of something sharp and inevitable, the air between you charged in that quiet, unmistakable way that always betrayed you around him. The look in his eyes was too intense to be casual, too soft to be harmless, and your heart did what it always did—leaned toward him without asking your permission first. Neither of you moved for a second too long.
Your cup lowered to the counter, plastic clicking softly against stone, and his hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed your wrist like he was testing the ground before stepping onto it. “C’mere,” he murmured, not quite a question, not quite a demand. You didn’t answer—you just closed the small distance between you, even as a voice in the back of your head screamed that this was a bad idea, that you knew better. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, too quiet, like it was holding its breath with you.
“Happy birthday, sugar…” he whispered before leaning in, the words warm and familiar in a way that made your chest ache. The kiss was tentative at first, careful, like you were both bracing for impact, but it deepened quickly, slipping into something that felt natural in a way that almost scared you. His hand came up to cradle your jaw like he’d done it a hundred times before, thumb brushing your cheek with unconscious tenderness, and for a moment the party outside ceased to exist entirely. The bass thudding from the speakers, the laughter, the splashing water—it all disappeared, swallowed whole by the soft clink of ice in your forgotten cup and the steady, grounding beat of your heart finally doing something other than hurting.
And then it hit you. Your eyes snapped open, and you pulled back—not abruptly, not dramatically, but too calmly for the panic sparking sharp and sudden in your chest. When you’d fallen in love with JJ, this was the moment you’d imagined in stolen daydreams and late-night what-ifs: him kissing you, crossing that invisible line of your friendship with something soft and meaningful, a birthday wish finally coming true. But standing here now, lips still tingling, all you felt was wrong. Not butterflies. Not relief. Just a strange, hollow twist in your stomach, like you’d stepped slightly out of sync with the world. Like this kiss broke a rule you couldn’t name, even if it was one you’d been wishing to break for years.
JJ noticed immediately. He always did. His hand fell from your face, brow furrowing as he searched your expression, the drunken haze in his eyes clearing just enough to make room for concern. “Hey,” he said quietly, voice dropping. “What’s wrong?” You swallowed, shaking your head once as if that might organize the mess in your thoughts. “I—I can’t,” you started, then stopped, exhaling slowly. “This… we shouldn’t have done that.” His jaw tightened, and he glanced away for half a second, like he already knew what you were going to say but needed to hear it anyway. “Because of Kie,” he murmured, not accusing, just stating it. You nodded, guilt crawling up your spine. “Because of Kiara,” you echoed. “Because she’s my friend. Because she’s your girlfriend. Because this isn’t who I wanna be.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, blowing out a breath, leaning back against the counter like the weight of it had finally caught up to him. “I didn’t plan it,” he said, quieter now. “I swear. I just—saw you in here, and you looked… I dunno. I wanted to be there.” You laughed softly, humorless. “You’re always there,” you said. “That’s the problem.” He looked at you then, really looked, eyes shining with something conflicted and raw. “You think this is easy for me?” he asked, not angry, just tired. “You think I haven’t thought about this before?” The words hit harder than the kiss had, and you closed your eyes briefly. “That’s exactly why it has to stop,” you replied. “Before it turns into something worse.”
Silence settled between you again, heavier this time, filled with everything you weren’t saying. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loudly, the sound jarring and out of place. JJ straightened, nodding once like he was forcing himself back into reality. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “You’re right.” He offered you a small, crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I owed you a better birthday moment than… moral panic in the kitchen.” That earned a weak smile from you. “I’ll survive,” you said. “I always do.”
He hesitated, then leaned in just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours, a quiet apology wrapped in the gesture. “Happy birthday,” he said again, softer this time. When he pulled away and slipped back toward the door, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your untouched drink, you couldn’t tell which hurt more—the kiss, or the fact that it felt like a goodbye you’d been postponing for years.
When he left the kitchen, the silence rushed back in to take his place, thicker now that you were alone with your thoughts. They weren’t as jumbled as you expected—still sharp, still uncomfortable, but clearer. Your body knew what just happened wasn’t good, even if the part of you that had loved JJ for most of your life was screaming that this was exactly what you’d been wishing on candles and shooting stars for years. A simple kiss. Not reckless, not secretive in some dark room—just him murmuring happy birthday, sugar like it had lived in his head as long as it had lived in yours. Gentle. Earnest. The kind of thing you used to think would change everything.
And maybe you would’ve let it deepen. Maybe you would’ve followed him somewhere quieter, let the night stretch and soften and pretend, just for a few hours, that the world would allow it. If it weren’t for Kiara. And—much harder to swallow—if it weren’t for Rafe. Because no matter how much you told yourself you hated him, his face kept intruding, uninvited and vivid, slipping into your thoughts like it belonged there.
Your mind betrayed you by comparing: JJ’s careful hesitation against the way Rafe never hesitated at all, the way Rafe’s hand fit against your jaw like it was muscle memory, the way his kisses shifted between desperate and lazy depending on the night, the mood, the fight beforehand. You hated that comparison. Hated that it even existed. Hated that the kiss you’d waited years for felt… quieter.
That realization sat heavier than the guilt. You were guilty—you’d kissed your best friend’s boyfriend, even if only for a heartbeat—but it felt worse knowing your heart didn’t do what it was supposed to do. Worse knowing that some part of you had measured JJ against someone you weren’t supposed to be thinking about at all. You swallowed it all down with a mouthful of vodka-orange juice, grabbed your cup, and stepped back outside, letting the noise and lights swallow you before you could think too hard about it.
The string lights felt blinding after the dim kitchen, laughter crashing back into you in uneven waves. People were still lingering, still celebrating like the night hadn’t cracked open for you at all. Your eyes betrayed you immediately, finding JJ without effort. He was beside Kiara, head bent to whisper something into her ear, smirk easy and familiar, like nothing had happened. Like the kitchen had never existed. You looked away before the ache in your chest could sharpen, forcing yourself to breathe, to move.
Sarah found you quickly, clearly past the point of subtlety, arms wrapping around you as she grinned. “There she is,” she announced, loud and proud. “The birthday girl survived.” John B and Pope followed close behind, mid-argument about a beer pong game they apparently won “in your honor,” and for a while—almost half an hour—the night steadied itself again. Cards were passed around, someone shoved a plastic tiara onto your head after a winning round, and you even laughed, real laughter, the kind that didn’t feel forced.
When you stood to grab another beer, adjusting the crooked tiara as you did, you barely took two steps before someone moved into your path. The shift in the air was immediate, like the music dipped just enough for you to notice the change.
“Wow,” came the familiar voice from directly in front of you, low and edged with something sharp. “How heartwarming.” Rafe stepped into your path, the music and chatter dimming around him like the world knew to give you space. “The party too,” he added, eyes dragging from your face to your mouth and back again, accusatory in a way that made your stomach drop.
Your realization came a beat too late, heavy and unwelcome. He’d seen it. Or enough of it. Your jaw tightened as you straightened, instinctively aware of who might be watching. “Not here,” you muttered, stepping closer so your words wouldn’t carry. “What do you want, Rafe?”
He let out a humorless laugh, leaning in just enough to look intimate without actually touching you. “You always say that,” he replied quietly. “Funny how that rule only applies to me.” You bristled, eyes flicking past him to the crowd. “You don’t get to do this,” you hissed. “Not tonight.”
“Didn’t stop you,” he shot back, voice dropping even lower. “Didn’t seem to mind breaking a few rules yourself.” Your chest tightened. “You don’t know what you saw.” He tilted his head, eyes hard now. “I know enough.” There was a pause, stretched thin. “Guess I just wanted to know,” he continued, softer but no less cutting, “if that was part of the celebration too.”
You swallowed, anger flaring hot. “You don’t get to question me,” you said, a strange sense of guilt twisting in your chest.
Something flickered across his face—frustration, something wounded—and he straightened, jaw working. “Right,” he muttered. “Semantics.” Then, quieter, just for you: “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, angelface.”
“This isn’t about you,” you snapped. “So don’t make it that.” He laughed under his breath, humorless. “Everything with you ends up being about me eventually,” he replied quietly. “Or maybe I just notice when you look like you’re trying to convince yourself of something.” That made you falter, just for a second, and he saw it. His gaze softened a fraction—not kinder, but more dangerous. “Enjoy your party,” he added quietly. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
Then he stepped back, melting into the noise and lights like he’d never stopped the night at all, leaving you standing there with your drink, your tiara, and the uncomfortable certainty that the day wasn’t done with you yet.
Rafe didn’t walk away far—just far enough to look like he had, to anyone paying half attention. He stopped near the edge of the pool, back half-turned to the crowd, shoulders tense in a way you recognized too well. The music swelled again, laughter filling the space he left behind, but it all felt artificial now, like someone had turned the saturation up too high. You stood there for a second longer than necessary, pulse thudding, before forcing yourself to move past him toward the cooler, hands shaking just enough that you cursed under your breath.
You cracked open a beer you didn’t really want and took a long sip anyway, mostly to give yourself something to do with your mouth. When you straightened again, Rafe was watching you over the rim of his own cup, eyes unreadable, expression locked into that lazy composure he wore like armor. You hated how easily he slipped into it. Hated how easily it got under your skin. “Relax,” he said when you caught his gaze, voice pitched casual, like you weren’t standing on a fault line. “I’m not gonna cause a scene. It’s your birthday.” The way he said it made it sound like a concession rather than kindness.
You scoffed quietly, stepping closer so your words wouldn’t carry. “You already did,” you replied. “You didn’t have to say anything.” His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say much,” he countered. “Just pointing out the obvious.” You shook your head, anger and something more fragile tangling in your chest. His jaw tightened at your guilty silence and the slight slur in your words, eyes flicking briefly toward where JJ and Kiara were laughing with Sarah. “You think this is easy for me?” he asked quietly. “Watching you pretend like I don’t exist?”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” you shot back. “I’m trying to survive tonight without blowing up my life.”
He laughed under his breath again, shaking his head “Yeah,” he said. “Funny how that never includes me.” The words lingered between you, heavy, before he exhaled and looked away, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Look,” he added, lower now. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I know that. I just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
It mattered, though. You could feel it in the way the night no longer fit the way it had half an hour ago, in the way your chest ached with things left unsaid. “You don’t get to disappear and then reappear just to remind me you’re watching,” you said, voice quieter but no less firm. He met your eyes again, something raw slipping through the cracks this time. “Then stop giving me things to watch,” he replied.
Before you could answer, Sarah’s voice rang out from across the pool, calling your name again, bright and insistent. You flinched, the spell breaking. Rafe stepped back instinctively, distance snapping into place like it always did. “Go,” he said, already retreating into that familiar detachment. “Be the birthday girl.” You hesitated, then turned away, heart heavy, knowing you’d both return to your roles for the rest of the night.
And there it was—that familiar, low-slung ache of guilt you knew far better than you ever knew how to stay angry. It settled in your chest with practiced ease, tightening every time your eyes found Rafe again, lingering at the edges of the scene like he couldn’t quite force himself to leave it. The way he hovered made you feel exposed, like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, something quietly unforgivable. And maybe kissing JJ was wrong—with Kiara existing in the equation like a hard, undeniable truth—but so was being in love with him in the first place, and no one had ever handed you a rulebook for that. Rafe of all people wasn’t one to surround himself with morally righteous choices, and you knew that better than anyone who smiled at him from across a pool.
No—this wasn’t about judgment. It never was with him. You could see it too clearly in the way his eyes flickered when they met yours, that sharp, almost juvenile spark of hurt, like a kid realizing too late that the person he wanted picked someone else for the swing set. Like you’d betrayed him specifically in those few seconds you’d let yourself kiss JJ back, rewrote something without asking permission. You’d both gone off-script, somewhere along the way. The careful routine you’d built—keeping your nights with Rafe sealed off from your daylight with the pogues—had dissolved quietly, insidiously, somewhere between prolonged eye contact that lingered too long after sleeping together and him washing your hair after shower sex. Things that felt dangerously domestic. Things that didn’t belong in something that was supposed to be temporary.
You hadn’t even noticed when you started getting reckless with it. Texting him when things went quiet on the HMS, when JJ was distracted and Kiara was asleep against the rail. Catching yourself staring at Sarah a second too long because her smile curved the same way his did. Letting Rafe exist in spaces he was never meant to occupy. And now—now your stomach churned unpleasantly as you made your way back toward the pogues, smile fixed in place, pulse skittering, no idea how you were supposed to slip back into the easy rhythm of the night like nothing had shifted off its axis.
JJ glanced up first when you rejoined them, brow creasing just slightly. “You good?” he asked, voice casual but eyes searching your face, before flicking to Rafe just long enough to keep you on edge. You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just—too much vodka,” you said, lifting your cup like proof. Kiara smiled at you, warm and unsuspecting, and the guilt flared sharper for it. Sarah slung an arm around your shoulders, laughing about something Pope had said, and you let yourself be pulled into it, the noise, the movement, the illusion of normalcy.
But you could still feel Rafe’s gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades.
Later—too late to pretend it was accidental—you felt him again, closer this time, clearly not able to allow himself not to press further. “You gonna keep pretending I’m not here?” he murmured, passing behind you under the cover of laughter and music, not looking at you as he spoke. Your breath caught. “I’m not pretending,” you whispered back, keeping your smile trained on Sarah. “I’m surviving.”
He huffed quietly, “Looks like you’re doing just fine.”
You finally turned then, just enough to catch his eye. “Don’t,” you said, barely audible. “Not tonight.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded once, sharp and controlled. “Right,” he replied. “Your night.” The words sounded like a reminder he was giving himself more than you.
As he slipped away again, swallowed by the edge of the party, you were left standing there with the awful, sinking realization that no matter how hard you tried to fold yourself back into place, something fundamental had already cracked—and it was only a matter of time before it showed.
The night softened the way it always did when people started to peel off in twos and threes, laughter fading into yawns, the music lowering from something meant to be heard to something meant to be background. Cups were abandoned along the pool’s edge, string lights swaying gently as the breeze cooled the leftover heat of the day, and you felt the slow, inevitable exhaustion settle into your bones.
Sarah was already halfway gone, her energy flickering like a dying sparkler, clinging to you and Kie both as she declared, for the fifth time, that this had been “the best birthday ever, no contest,” before John B finally convinced her it was time to get upstairs. You helped gather a few things—empty bottles, discarded towels—mostly just to give your hands something to do, your mind still too loud even as the party quieted. Every now and then your eyes flicked instinctively toward the house, toward the darkened corners of the yard, half-expecting Rafe to reappear like a bad habit you hadn’t quite kicked. He didn’t. That somehow made it worse.
By the time the last of the pogues said their goodbyes, Pope promising to text you tomorrow and JJ flashing you a grin that lingered just a second too long before Kiara tugged him away, the night felt hollowed out. The silence after them was heavy, pressing in around the pool like it was trying to make you sit with everything you’d been avoiding. Sarah looped her arm through yours as you headed inside, her steps uneven.
“You’re not driving anywhere,” she slurred lightly, pointing a finger at your chest. “You’re staying. Birthday rule.” You let out a tired laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it,” you admitted, voice softer than you meant it to be. Upstairs, her room was already dim, fairy lights casting a warm glow over the mess of clothes and makeup scattered across her vanity. She kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed with a groan. “I swear, I’m never drinking again,” she muttered, then immediately added, “Okay, maybe until next weekend.”
You changed quietly, borrowing one of her oversized shirts without asking—something soft and familiar that smelled faintly like her perfume and sunscreen. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you checked your phone out of habit, heart stuttering when you saw no new notifications. No message from Rafe. No follow-up. Just silence, deliberate and loud in its own way. Sarah noticed your stillness even through her haze. “Hey,” she said gently, rolling onto her side to look at you. “You okay?” You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just… tired.” She studied you for a second longer, like she wanted to say more, then sighed and patted the pillow beside her. “C’mere. Tomorrow you can tell me whatever that look is about.”
You lay down beside her, staring up at the ceiling as the house finally settled, every sound amplified in the quiet—the distant hum of the fridge, the soft creak of wood as it cooled. Sarah was asleep within minutes, breathing slow and even, one arm thrown over your waist like an anchor.
You let your eyes close, exhaustion eventually outweighing the noise in your head, but even as sleep tugged at you, your thoughts drifted back to the night—to JJ’s hesitant smile, to Rafe’s wounded stare, to the way everything felt just slightly off-kilter now. Tanny Hill had always felt like borrowed space, like somewhere you passed through but never stayed.
Despite the way your head was spinning, your body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that should’ve knocked you out instantly, sleep refused to come. You lay there staring at the faint glow of fairy lights on Sarah’s ceiling, every thought circling back to the same place until it made your chest feel tight. The knowledge that Rafe was under the same roof, breathing the same recycled air, and that none of it had been said out loud gnawed at you relentlessly.
The hurt in his eyes replayed itself on a loop—too sharp, too personal to be brushed off as just another messy moment between you. This silence was different from the ones you’d grown used to, the comfortable, unspoken agreements that followed nights tangled together, when neither of you reached out because that was the rule. This one felt unfinished, like a sentence cut off mid-word.
Eventually, you gave up. You carefully untangled yourself from the mess of blankets and Sarah’s arm draped over your waist, moving with clumsy gentleness, bare feet whispering against the wooden floor. She shifted and mumbled something incoherent as you slid free, but didn’t wake. You stood there for a second, steadying yourself, then slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you, heart already beating too fast for no real reason.
You didn’t actually know where you were headed—maybe the kitchen for water, maybe straight to Rafe’s room, maybe nowhere at all—but when you lifted your gaze down the dim corridor, the universe finally seemed to blink in your favor. Rafe was stepping out of his room at the same time, shoulders tight, movements jerky as he fumbled with his lock like he’d already lost patience with it. He looked wired and closed-off, the way he did when he’d had too much to drink or too many lines alone with his thoughts.
He didn’t see you at first. And then he did—but only for a fraction of a second, eyes skimming past you as if looking any longer might crack something open. He walked by without stopping, jaw set, like he was actively choosing not to acknowledge you. Panic flared before you could stop it. “Where are you going?” The question slipped out shakier than you meant it to, your feet carrying you forward on instinct as he reached the top of the stairs. He paused, just barely, shoulders stiffening.
“Out,” he muttered, not turning around, the word clipped and final like it was all he was willing to give. The dismissal stung more than you expected. “Rafe,” you pressed, following him down the stairs anyway, one hand grazing the banister to keep your balance. “It’s— it’s late.” He let out a quiet, humorless scoff, finally glancing back at you as you reached the bottom step, eyes unreadable in the low light. “Didn’t stop you earlier,” he said flatly, and the words landed with enough weight to make you stop short.
Outside, the night air was cool and damp, sobering in the worst way. He headed toward the driveway without waiting to see if you were keeping up, lighting a cigarette with hands that shook just enough to be noticeable. You trailed after him, barefoot on the concrete, feeling a little stupid and a little desperate all at once.
“You’re just gonna leave?” you asked quietly. He exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes fixed ahead. “Didn’t say that,” he replied, nonchalant to the point of cruelty. “Just need air.” You swallowed, hugging your arms around yourself as you stopped a few feet away from him. “You didn’t even look at me,” you said, the need to be seen bleeding through your voice despite your efforts to keep it casual.
“Don’t need to,” he murmured, the words thrown over his shoulder like an afterthought. “I already know how gorgeous and bitchy you look.” The comment should’ve sounded lazy, teasing, but his voice was too clipped, too tight around the edges for the nonchalance to be anything but a lie. He kept walking as if he hadn’t said anything at all, long strides crunching against the gravel, lifting the cigarette to his mouth and inhaling like the smoke was the only thing keeping him stitched together. You followed without thinking, barefoot and slightly unsteady, the cool stones biting into the soles of your feet as if to remind you that this wasn’t a dream, that you were really trailing after him like this.
When he reached his truck and veered toward the driver’s side, you stopped just in front of it, forcing him to either acknowledge you or walk straight into you. He chose the former, halting short with a sharp exhale, eyes flicking down to you before dragging back up like he was taking stock of the damage.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, not unkind, but guarded, like he already knew the answer and didn’t want to hear it anyway. You shrugged, the motion small and defensive. “Talking to you,” you said, too honestly. “You kinda made that hard upstairs.”
He scoffed under his breath, tapping ash onto the gravel and leaning back against the side of the truck, metal creaking softly under his weight. “Yeah, well. I figured you had enough conversations for one night,” he replied, gaze drifting pointedly back toward the house, toward the dark windows and the people inside who didn’t know a thing about the way your chest tightened at the implication.
“That’s not fair,” you said, stepping closer despite yourself, arms wrapping around your middle. “You didn’t even let me explain.” He laughed then, another short and clipped sound, shaking his head as he looked down at the cigarette between his fingers. “Explain what?” he shot back, finally meeting your eyes again. “That it didn’t mean anything? Or that it did, but just not enough?” The words weren’t loud, but they cut deeper than shouting ever could. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, frustration bubbling up as your throat tightened. “It wasn’t like that,” you insisted, voice wavering just slightly. “And you know it.”
He studied you for a long second, eyes searching your face like he was trying to decide whether to believe you or not, jaw flexing as he worked his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know anything,” he said finally, pushing off the truck and dropping the cigarette under his boot. “That’s kinda the problem.” He stepped closer too now, close enough that you could smell the smoke and the familiar clean edge of his cologne, his presence filling the space between you in a way that made your pulse spike. “You disappear on me all day, I walk in and see that, and I’m just supposed to… what? Pretend it doesn’t get under my skin?” His voice dropped at the end, frustration bleeding through despite his best efforts to keep it contained.
You shook your head slowly. “I didn’t disappear on you,” you said, softer now. “You didn’t come looking.” That made him flinch, just barely, like the words landed somewhere tender. He let out a breath through his nose, eyes dropping to the gravel between your feet. “Maybe I didn’t think I was allowed to,” he muttered.
The admission hung between you, fragile and unsteady. You took another step closer, close enough now that your toes brushed his boot. “Rafe,” you said quietly, his name a plea whether you meant it to be or not. He looked back up at you, something raw flickering across his face before he masked it again, shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. “Don’t,” he warned softly. “Not like that. Not if you’re gonna make this harder than it already is.”
You didn’t know if it was the alcohol still buzzing through your veins or the way his shoulders went rigid, but something in his tone felt final, like a door being shut carefully but with intent. Not slammed—worse than that. Like he’d already decided to step back before you even realized you were losing ground.
He turned toward the driver’s side, keys already in his hand, and the sight sent a sharp spike of panic straight through your chest. “I didn’t kiss him!” you blurted, the words tumbling out too fast, your voice shaking as your hands came down against the front of his truck—not hard, just enough to stop him, to anchor him there for one more second.
He froze. The night seemed to hold its breath with him, the distant music from the house fading into something dull and far away. Slowly, he turned back to look at you, brow furrowing like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “What?” he asked, flat, guarded. You swallowed, throat tight, fingers curling against the cool metal beneath your palms. “I didn’t,” you repeated, softer but firmer now. “I pulled away. Before it—before anything happened.” You watched his face closely as you spoke, the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes searched yours like he was trying to find the lie hidden between the lines.
He scoffed under his breath, running a hand through his hair, pacing a step away before stopping again. “I saw you,” he said quietly. “Don’t do that. Don’t tell me I didn’t see what I saw.” You shook your head immediately, stepping toward him again despite the way he instinctively leaned back. “You saw a moment,” you shot back, frustration creeping into your voice. “Not the whole thing. Not how wrong it felt. Not how fast I stopped it.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly, emotion bleeding through every word. “You think I’d stand there and lie to your face about that?”
His silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. He looked away again, staring out into the dark like it might offer him clarity. “He’s with Kiara,” he muttered, almost to himself. “And you’re—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “This is exactly why I didn’t wanna do this.” That hit harder than you expected, your stomach dropping. “Do what?” you asked, quieter now. “Care?”
He turned back to you at that, eyes flashing. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, though the bite in his tone was dulled by something dangerously close to hurt.
You stepped closer again, close enough that there was barely any space left between you. “Then tell me what you meant,” you said, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “Because right now it feels like you’re already leaving.” He looked down at you, really looked this time, and for a second the mask cracked—just enough for you to see the conflict underneath. “I don’t know how to do this halfway,” he admitted finally, voice low. “And I don’t know how to stand there and watch you almost choose someone else and pretend it doesn’t tear something up inside me.” His words hung between you, raw and unpolished, and your chest ached at the honesty of them.
“I didn’t choose him,” you said immediately. “I came after you, didn’t I?” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah,” he replied. “You did.” His gaze softened just a fraction, thumb worrying at the edge of his keys. “That’s the problem.”
You opened your mouth to protest again, the words already lining up on your tongue, but he didn’t give you the chance. His gaze softened for half a heartbeat before twisting again, something wounded flashing across his face like he hated himself for letting it show. “You came after me because you know you can’t have him,” he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut. The way he emphasized me sounded like it physically hurt him, like he was pressing on a bruise he refused to admit existed.
“The whole premise of… us,” he continued, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “was that you were in love with him and couldn’t have him ‘cause of Kiara. That’s how this started. And now you’re trying to play damage control. Trying to salvage what you know you can have.” His jaw clenched, eyes never leaving yours. “Which is me.”
The words hit you harder than you expected, knocking the breath out of your lungs in a way the alcohol hadn’t managed to. “That’s not—” you started, but your voice faltered, frustration and panic tangling together. You shook your head, stepping closer despite the way he stiffened instinctively. “You think I came after you because you were… convenient?” you asked incredulously, hurt seeping through your tone. “You think I don’t know how fucked up that sounds?” Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms like you needed the grounding. “If this was about having something easy, Rafe, I wouldn’t be standing here barefoot at four in the morning begging you to talk to me.”
He scoffed, turning his head away again, staring out over the dark stretch of lawn like it might offer him an answer. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never do.” That stung, sharp and unfair, and you felt it flare in your chest.
“Then explain it to me,” you snapped, voice cracking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’ve already decided what I am to you, and you’re punishing me for it.” He looked back at you then, really looked, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’m not punishing you,” he said quietly. “I’m protecting myself.”
You laughed softly, bitter and tired, the sound wobbling on its way out. “By walking away?” you asked. “By pretending this doesn’t mean anything?” He flinched at that, just barely, and it told you everything. You took another step closer, lowering your voice. “I didn’t stop that kiss because of Kiara,” you admitted, the truth burning on your tongue. “I stopped it because it didn’t feel right. Because all I could think about was you.” His breath hitched, subtle but unmistakable, and his grip tightened around his keys. “You don’t get to decide my intentions for me,” you continued, eyes shining. “And you don’t get to reduce whatever this is to something I’m settling for.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The night pressed in around you, heavy with things neither of you seemed ready to say out loud. Finally, he exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping just a little, like the fight had gone out of him. “You make it really hard to leave,” he admitted, voice rough. You swallowed hard, heart thudding painfully in your chest. “Then don’t,” you said softly. “Not like this.”
He stayed where he was, keys still clenched in his fist, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact even though you weren’t touching him. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the faint sound of cicadas drifting from the marsh.
Rafe dragged a hand down his face, frustration etched into every sharp line of him. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he said finally, voice low and strained. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m not gonna be able to pretend this doesn’t get under my skin.” He glanced at you again, jaw flexing. “And that’s a problem.”
You shook your head, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “Since when do you pretend?” you asked quietly. “You’ve never been good at that.” You took a cautious step closer, close enough that you could smell the smoke clinging to him, the familiar cologne underneath it that made your chest ache. “I’m not asking you to forgive me for something I didn’t do,” you added. “I’m asking you to stop deciding I’m the villain in a story you helped write.”
He huffed out a short laugh, but there was no amusement in it. “Helped write?” he repeated, incredulous. “You walked into my life already in love with someone else. You made that real clear.” His eyes searched your face like he was looking for cracks, for proof. “I knew what I was signing up for. Doesn’t mean I like how it feels now.” He looked away again, shaking his head. “Seeing you with him—” He stopped himself, lips pressing together. “Doesn’t matter if you kissed him or not. The fact that I even had to ask myself that makes me feel fucking stupid.”
Your throat tightened, guilt curling low in your stomach. “I never wanted to make you feel that way,” you said, voice softer now. “And I’m not asking you to be okay with it overnight. I just—” You hesitated, then forced the words out. “I don’t want you to disappear on me because you’re scared of wanting more.”
His gaze snapped back to you at that, sharp and defensive. “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he snapped. “You don’t get to pull that card.”
“Then stop acting like this doesn’t matter,” you shot back, matching his tone despite the tremor in your hands. “Because it does. You do.” The words hung between you, fragile and exposed. He stared at you for a long moment, chest rising and falling faster now, like he was fighting himself. Finally, he muttered, “You make everything complicated,” but there was something tired in it, something close to honesty. You swallowed, nodding once. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I know. So do you.”
You could feel it in the way his body stayed angled toward the truck, keys still clenched in his fist like an anchor, like if he loosened his grip even a little he’d cave and do something he’d regret. A part of you hated how small you felt in that moment, how desperate it made you to be the one asking him to stay, to smooth this over, to keep him tethered to you when you’d spent so long pretending you didn’t care if he walked away.
Scared, more than anything, of finally admitting to yourself that Rafe mattered, that he wasn’t just some kook you slept with in secret and tried not to think about in daylight. “Don’t leave…” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice trailing off as you fought the urge to add a please you weren’t sure he’d survive hearing.
The night pressed in around you, humid and heavy, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the dark, your head spinning in an unpleasant way. Maybe it was the alcohol still swimming in your veins, or the weight of your birthday sitting ugly in your chest, but the feeling was achingly familiar—too close to that night on the beach when you were sixteen, when the loss of your dad had lodged itself between your ribs and refused to move. That same hollow panic, that same fear of being left behind without warning. Maybe that was what had your fingers curling into the hem of your shirt now, what made the thought of Rafe driving away feel unbearable in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.
Rafe exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping just a fraction like your words had knocked the wind out of him. He didn’t turn right away, just stood there staring at the side of his truck, jaw tight, thumb worrying at the edge of the key fob. “You can’t say it like that,” he muttered finally, voice rough. “Like I’m the bad guy for needing some space.” He glanced back at you then, eyes sharp but tired, conflicted in a way you didn’t see often. “You don’t get to pull me back every time I try to walk away.”
“I’m not trying to trap you,” you said quickly, stepping closer without realizing it, bare feet scuffing against the gravel. “I just—this feels like you’re punishing me for something I didn’t even do.” Your voice cracked despite your efforts to keep it steady. “And yeah, maybe I am selfish for not wanting you to leave, but I don’t think I can pretend this doesn’t hurt just to make it easier for you.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the gesture. “You think this is easy for me?” he snapped, then caught himself, tone dropping again. “I’m trying not to blow up in front of your friends. I’m trying not to say something I can’t take back.” His eyes flicked to the house and then back to you. “You don’t see it, but you have this way of making me feel like I’m always one step behind, like I’m the fallback option when everything else gets messy.”
“That’s not fair,” you said softly. “You’re not a fallback. You’re—” You stopped yourself, swallowing hard, the rest of the sentence too dangerous to finish. “You matter to me,” you settled on instead, quieter but honest. “More than I let on. And I know I’ve been shitty about that.”
For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The keys jingled faintly as his grip finally loosened, his shoulders slumping as if the fight drained out of him all at once. “You don’t make this easy,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation and more like a confession. He turned to face you fully now, eyes searching your face. “I don’t know how to do this halfway,” he muttered again, as if he was ashamed of the admission. “And I don’t know how to protect myself from wanting more than you’re ready to give.”
You shook your head, teeth worrying at the inside of your cheek like the intimacy of the moment could be undone if you focused hard enough on the dull sting. “I just…” you trailed off, the words collapsing under their own weight, and you took a step back before your body betrayed you and reached for him out of habit. “Explaining myself right now is more than I could give you in these four months,” you admitted quietly, a tired honesty bleeding through the alcohol-softened edges of your voice.
“I didn’t want you to leave thinking I was gonna discard you now that JJ decided to act on his feelings,” you rushed on, the explanation tumbling out fast and uneven, like if you didn’t get it all out now you’d lose the nerve. “I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me and I—” you inhaled sharply, chest rising like you’d just run uphill. “It felt wrong,” you whisper-shouted, frustration cracking through. “And you think I’m just settling for the convenient option when you’re not that anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.”
The silence that followed stretched thin and painful, the night pressing closer as if it was listening. You could feel tears threatening at the corners of your eyes, hot and humiliating, a reminder that you were unraveling in front of someone who still looked like he was halfway out the door. You lifted a hand toward his truck, the gesture loose and defeated. “You can go,” you said softly. “I just didn’t want you leaving still thinking I was the villain here, trapping you in second place when there’s no first place anymore.” Your shoulders lifted in a weak shrug as you stared past him, fighting not to blink. “It’s just you.”
Rafe didn’t move right away. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth, eyes fixed on you with something raw and unguarded flickering behind them. “You don’t get to say that like it doesn’t mean something,” he muttered finally, voice low. “You drop that on me and then tell me I can go?” He shook his head, a humorless huff escaping him. “You’re really bad at letting people leave, you know that?”
He took a step closer, then stopped himself, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t trust them. “You think I don’t know I’m not convenient anymore?” he asked, quieter now. “That’s the problem. I stopped being convenient and started being… this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Something that gets under my skin. Something I can’t just turn off.”
Your gaze finally lifted to meet his, tears glassing your eyes despite your best efforts. “I didn’t ask you to feel that way,” you said, voice small but steady. “But I’m done pretending I don’t either.”
That did it. He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as the tension seemed to drain out of him all at once. “Fuck,” he murmured, running a hand down his face. “You really know how to mess with my head.” His eyes softened when they landed back on you, lingering on the way your hands trembled slightly at your sides. “I don’t think you’re evil,” he said at last. “I think you’re scared. And selfish sometimes. And confusing as hell.” A beat. “But not that.”
“Of course I’m scared,” you muttered, your gaze flicking away on instinct as if eye contact alone might make this too real, too heavy to hold. Your arms wrapped around your middle defensively, thumbs digging into your ribs. “This—” you gestured between the two of you, the space charged and fragile, “—I mean, you spent your whole life acting like you’re better than me and my friends. I’m just scared you’ll turn around one day and… I don’t know. Drop the act. Stop allowing me all this.” Your voice wavered despite your attempt to keep it steady. “All the bitching, all the comfort you let me take without ever asking for anything back.”
He laughed then, but not sharply, not cruelly—more like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. It startled you, the sound warm and almost fond, and he looked away as he did it, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek like he was biting back entire paragraphs. “I am better than your friends,” he said plainly, the words delivered with that familiar Rafe bluntness, the same tone he used when he was needling the Pogues about class and territory and lines drawn in the sand since childhood. “Not just because they’re from the Cut or because they work shitty jobs. I just am.”
Your brows furrowed, a reflexive response, but you didn’t snap back. Something in the way he said it—too calm, too detached—kept you quiet. His gaze drifted back to you then, and whatever smugness you were bracing for never came. Instead, his eyes were soft, almost careful, like he was handling something that could shatter if he pushed too hard.
“So that’s why you…” you started slowly, suspicion creeping in despite yourself. “Because you think you’re better than me? Like some fucked up power play?” Your head tilted as you studied him, searching for the angle, the trick. His hands came up before you could step back, cradling your face gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into your cheeks just enough to force your attention back to him, to keep you from slipping away into your head.
“No, angel,” he said quietly, simply, and he held your gaze for a long moment before continuing. “You really think I’d allow you all that if I thought I was better than you?” His thumbs shifted slightly, grounding, steady. “All the pestering. You tearing through my life, not sparing a single good thing I had before stomping all over it and still somehow putting me in second place while you’re at it?” A breath left him, rough but controlled. “You think I’d let you do that if I looked down on you?”
His hands didn’t leave your face when he shook his head, slow and deliberate. “Not you,” he said, voice lower now, stripped of bravado. “Never you. Never once have I thought I was better than you.”
The words settled heavy in the space between you, and suddenly the years made sense in a way that made your chest ache. The way he’d always been there on the edges—too sharp, too loud, too much—but watching. The way his cruelty never quite landed on you the same way it did on everyone else. The way he’d orbit without ever stepping fully in, like he was afraid of being seen wanting something he wasn’t supposed to have.
He dropped his hands then, but he stayed close. “You don’t see it,” he added quietly, almost to himself. “You never did. You were always too busy surviving, too busy being… you.” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I just learned early on that if I stood too close, I’d get burned. So I stayed loud. Stayed arrogant. Stayed everywhere else.”
His eyes lifted back to yours, unguarded now in a way that felt more dangerous than any anger. “Letting you take from me isn’t charity,” he said. “It’s the only way I’ve ever known how to keep you close without asking for something you didn’t know how to give.”
The night felt quieter after that, like even the crickets had paused. And for the first time, the fear twisting in your chest wasn’t just about being left—it was about realizing how long he’d been standing there, waiting, without ever demanding you turn around and look at him.
He swallowed, jaw tightening like he’d said more than he planned to, and for a moment you thought he might retreat again—lock it back up, crack a joke, open the truck door and leave. Instead, his gaze drifted past you, over your shoulder, toward the dark stretch of Tanny Hill and the house looming behind you, like the past was laid out there whether he wanted it or not.
“Do you remember the dock behind the old bait shop?” he asked suddenly, voice quieter now, almost careful. “Before they tore it down. You were—what—ten? Maybe eleven.” His lips twitched faintly, the memory tugging at something softer. “You had that ugly yellow life vest on. Too big for you. Thing damn near swallowed you.”
You frowned, the image surfacing slowly. “I fell in,” you said, uncertain. “Everyone laughed.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. You did.” A breath left him through his nose, something like a huff. “But before that—before you slipped—you were standing there arguing with that old fisherman about how knots worked. Like you knew better than a guy who’d been doing it for fifty years.” His eyes flicked back to you, fond despite himself. “You were so serious about it. So pissed he wouldn’t listen.”
Your chest tightened.
“I remember thinking,” he continued, voice low, “that you were the bravest person I’d ever seen. Not loud. Not trying to be anything. Just… stubborn. Refusing to back down even when you were clearly out of your depth.” He paused, fingers flexing at his side. “Then you fell in, and everyone laughed, and I remember being so mad about it. Not at you. At them.”
You stared at him, heart thudding.
“I jumped in after you,” he added, like it was an afterthought. “Didn’t even think about it. Got yelled at by my dad for ruining my shoes.” He scoffed quietly. “Worth it.”
You remembered then—the cold water, the panic, the way someone’s arms had wrapped around you and hauled you back up onto the dock, spluttering and embarrassed and furious at the tears burning your eyes. You’d never really looked at who it was. Just a blur of blond hair and sharp words and hands steadying you until you stopped shaking.
“You told me not to cry,” you murmured.
His mouth curved faintly. “Yeah. Told you crying pissed me off.” He shook his head. “Real smooth, Cameron.”
Silence stretched between you again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It was full. Heavy with years you’d lived side by side without ever lining up the memories the same way.
“That was the first time,” he said quietly. “Not the first time I noticed you. Just the first time I knew I was screwed.” He glanced down, then back up, eyes steady. “You’ve always had this way of walking straight into things that scare you. And I—” He exhaled. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to control everything. People. Outcomes. Myself.”
His gaze softened, almost rueful. “You were never something I could control. So I stayed close enough to watch. Close enough to catch you if you fell again.”
The keys were still in his hand, but they hung loose now, forgotten. And standing there in the cool night air, with the house behind you and the past stretched out between you like a tide line, it finally clicked—not as a confession, not as a demand, but as something quieter and more devastating.
He hadn’t been circling you for four months.
He’d been doing it for years.
It gutted you even more, sharpened the dull sting of guilt that had been sitting in your chest all night, the kind that didn’t burn hot but ached steadily, relentlessly. The realization that he’d let you believe he was thriving off the crumbs you left behind—late-night texts, bodies tangled in the dark, moments you convinced yourself were disposable—felt cruel in hindsight. Especially knowing that to him, those crumbs had weight. Meaning. That getting to have you, even briefly, even under stupid, messy, childish circumstances, wasn’t casual in the slightest. It was something he’d been careful with in a way you hadn’t noticed because you didn’t know to look.
Your silence seemed to please him. Not in a smug way—more like he liked watching the gears turn behind your eyes, liked knowing you were finally trying to line up the version of him you thought you knew with the one standing in front of you now. He knew you’d never fully understand it, never feel the exact gravity of his side of things, but the attempt mattered. After a beat, he spoke again, brows pinching together as if he wasn’t quite sure where to place his feet in the past without tripping over it.
“I had this slingshot,” he started, voice low, almost distant. “Something I begged my dad to let me win at the fair. Supposedly for Sarah.” A humorless breath left him. “Of course, she scrunched up her face and said she’d rather play with her brand new dollhouse.”
You huffed softly despite yourself, and he glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching before he looked away again. “I liked it,” he continued. “It was something I earned without money. No credit card, no last name attached. Just… me.” His fingers curled slightly, as if remembering the weight of it. “So I carried it everywhere. Learned tricks. Showed it off. Thought it made me special.”
His gaze dropped to the gravel, voice darkening. “One afternoon I got bored. Started launching rocks at random shit inside the house. Lamps, picture frames. Stupid kid stuff.” He paused. “Ended up chipping the handle of this vase my dad’s grandma owned. Old. Ugly. Apparently priceless.”
Your stomach sank.
“I panicked,” he admitted quietly. “Didn’t want the slingshot taken away. Didn’t want the lecture. So I turned it just right, figured no one would notice.” A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “The maid found it while dusting. Told my dad. At first he thought she broke it.”
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “She was scared. Thought she’d lose her job. So she told him she’d seen me messing around with it.” He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “He called me into his office that night. Started talking about responsibility. About class. About how men like us don’t blame the help.”
You could already see it, the room, the desk too big for a child.
“He slapped me,” Rafe said flatly. “Not a warning. Not a tap. A real slap. Like you’d hit another grown man.” His hand lifted unconsciously to his jaw, fingers brushing skin like it still remembered. “I didn’t cry. Didn’t make a sound.”
Your chest ached.
“My mom found me at the top of the stairs later,” he went on, voice softer now. “She kept saying it wasn’t my fault. Ran her fingers through my hair like she was trying to memorize me.” His eyes flicked away. “That was the day before she left.”
The words settled heavy between you, and for a second all you could hear was the distant hum of the island at night.
“A few days later,” he continued quietly, “I saw you. You were sitting on the steps outside my house. Your dad had left after another fight with your mom. Temporary, everyone said.” He scoffed faintly. “You were younger than me. Still had those old sneakers with the busted soles. Dirt on your knees.”
You swallowed.
“And I remember thinking…” He shook his head slowly. “It felt less lonely. Seeing you there. Like maybe it wasn’t just me. Didn’t matter that your mom scrubbed my floors. Didn’t matter that we came from opposite sides of the same damn island.” His eyes lifted to yours then, unguarded. “We were both waiting for someone who didn’t come back the way they were supposed to.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent. You stepped closer without realizing, toes brushing his shoe.
“So when I tell you I never thought I was better than you,” he said quietly, “I mean it. You were the first person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this place. Like I wasn’t the only one pretending everything was fine.”
His voice dropped, almost careful. “And I guess I never really stopped holding onto that.”
He didn’t say anything after that, just reached for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, fingers warm and familiar as if they’d been doing this for years and had simply forgotten. He led you quietly up the side path, gravel crunching softly beneath your bare feet, every step deliberate, careful. The house loomed ahead, all white columns and dark windows, asleep and unaware. He paused at the door, glancing back at you with something unreadable in his eyes—half warning, half invitation—before easing it open, slow enough that the hinge didn’t dare betray him.
Inside, the air was cooler, heavier, carrying the faint scent of salt and expensive cleaner. You moved through the house like ghosts, shoulders brushing as you passed down the hallway, his hand hovering at the small of your back without quite touching, guiding you away from creaky floorboards and spots he knew too well. The intimacy of it made your chest tighten more than any confession had—this quiet, practiced care, the way he kept checking behind him to make sure you were still there. When he finally pushed open his bedroom door, the click was soft, final, sealing you into a space that felt untouched by time.
His room was dim, moonlight spilling in through the window and cutting silver lines across rumpled sheets and posters that had survived every version of him. He leaned back against the door once it was closed, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath the entire walk in. “You’re okay?” he asked quietly, not looking at you yet, like he was afraid the answer might crack something open.
You nodded, setting your feet on the familiar rug, the room suddenly feeling too small and too big all at once. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… processing.”
A soft, almost disbelieving huff left him. “Yeah. Me too.” He finally looked at you then, eyes dark in the low light, stripped of the sharpness he wore so easily in daylight. “I didn’t plan on telling you any of that tonight.”
“I’m glad you did,” you said, and it came out steadier than you felt.
Something shifted in his expression at that—relief, maybe, or something closer to surrender. He crossed the room in a few slow steps, stopping just short of you, like he was giving you space even now. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said quietly. “Not because of tonight. Not because of… history.”
You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze. “I know.”
The silence that followed was different here. Softer. Charged. He reached out then, fingers brushing your wrist, tentative, asking without words. When you didn’t pull away, his hand curled more securely, grounding. He guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, perching beside you after a moment, shoulders nearly touching.
“I used to lie awake in this room,” he admitted, voice low, “thinking if I stayed quiet enough, nothing bad could find me. Guess I never really grew out of that.” He glanced at you, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Feels different with you here. Every time.”
You let your shoulder lean into his, just slightly. “You don’t have to be quiet with me.”
For a second, it looked like that might undo him. He nodded once, jaw tight, and stayed there with you—no rush, no demands—just two people sitting in the dim, listening to the steady rhythm of each other’s breathing, like the night itself was finally giving him permission to rest.
You watched Rafe quietly, really watched him, like you were trying to commit his face to memory in a way you’d never allowed yourself to before. These were the same features you’d seen twisted into sneers and sharp smiles, the same mouth that had spat cruel words at you and your friends without hesitation—now calm, almost soft, painfully familiar after four months of stolen nights and half-lit rooms. You didn’t want to admit how well you knew him like this, how your familiarity hadn’t come from conversations or daylight honesty, but from watching him up close when everything else fell away.
You’d memorized him in pieces. The faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, the ones you teased him about whenever you were feeling brave enough, because they made him look younger, less intimidating than he liked to pretend he was. His hair, usually left untouched when he was with you, no gel, no careful styling—just messy strands that fell into his eyes until he shoved them back impatiently. And that small scar above his left eyebrow, the one you’d traced with your thumb more than once without ever asking where it came from, because some part of you already knew the answer would circle back to Ward, to raised voices and hands that struck too hard.
You exhaled slowly, the breath trembling despite yourself. It was strange—how fearless you’d always been when it came to touching him, to pulling him closer or asking for more with nothing but your body, yet how fragile this felt now. Your voice came out softer than you meant it to, still faintly slurred from the alcohol warming your veins. “Can I kiss you?” you asked, eyes flicking to his mouth and then back up again, almost shy.
His head tilted toward you, a lazy, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “That’s new,” he murmured. “Since when do you ask?”
You swallowed, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. “Since now.”
He studied you for a second too long, gaze sharp but unreadable, then clicked his tongue softly. “What, JJ didn’t do it right?” he teased, voice low and smug. “Gotta come check if Cameron kisses better?”
Your cheeks burned instantly. “Rafe—”
“I’m kidding,” he cut in, though his smile sharpened, jealousy flickering behind his eyes. “Mostly.” He leaned a fraction closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the quiet tension humming just under his skin. “You looked a little too comfortable with him back there.”
Your heart thudded. “You didn’t seem to mind.”
He scoffed quietly. “Doesn’t mean I liked it.” His gaze dropped to your mouth again, lingered. “Still wanna kiss me?”
You nodded, barely perceptible, and that was all it took.
He moved first, slow at the start like he was giving you one last chance to pull away, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressing lightly under your chin, tilting your face toward his. When his mouth finally met yours, it wasn’t careful for long. The kiss deepened almost immediately, needy and unguarded, like he’d been holding himself back all night and finally snapped. His lips were warm, firm, moving against yours with a hunger that made your knees feel weak, breath hitching as he kissed you like he meant it.
He shifted closer without breaking it, your sides touching now at the edge of the bed, his free hand bracing against the mattress beside you as if grounding himself. You could feel the tension in him, the way he kissed you like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t. When he finally pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing was uneven.
“See?” he murmured, lips brushing yours again, softer this time. “Still mine.”
His words hung in the air between you, a claim you couldn't deny even as part of you rebelled against it. Still mine. The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You'd started this arrangement as some twisted revenge, a way to soothe your wounded pride after JJ chose Kiara, but somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred beyond recognition.
You leaned back slightly to look at him properly, your fingers still tangled in his shirt. "And what if I don't want to be yours?" you challenged, though your voice lacked conviction.
Rafe's expression hardened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of that familiar Kook superiority crossing his features before softening again. "Too late for that," he murmured, his thumb stroking along your jawline. "You've been mine since that first night at the bonfire when you looked at me like you actually saw something beyond the 'prince of Kooks' bullshit."
Your breath caught. He wasn't wrong, though you'd never admit it. That night—three months into your secret arrangement—had been different. He'd found you crying after seeing JJ and Kiara kissing on the beach, and instead of his usual cruel remarks, he'd sat beside you in silence for ten full minutes before offering you a handkerchief that smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something uniquely Rafe.
"You were an ass that night," you said weakly.
"Always am," he agreed without apology, then surprised you by pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "But not to you. Not anymore."
The admission hung between you, fragile and dangerous. Four months of stolen moments, of hooking up in empty guest rooms and his truck when you were supposed to be elsewhere—none of it prepared you for this honesty, this vulnerability in a man who built walls higher than the Cameron estate.
"Why me, Rafe?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "Out of everyone, why bother with some Pogue you supposedly can't stand?"
His hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he studied you with an intensity that made your heart race. "Because you never looked at me like everyone else does," he said finally. "Not like I was a prize or a monster, just… Rafe. Even when you hated me, you saw me."
Before you could respond, he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring years of unspoken feelings into it. His other hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he deepened the kiss. You responded instinctively, months of secret encounters making your bodies perfectly attuned to each other despite the emotional distance you'd maintained.
When you broke apart, both breathing heavily, Rafe's eyes were dark with emotion. "Stay tonight," he said, not as a command but as a request. "No sneaking out before dawn, no pretending this doesn't mean anything."
The offer terrified you. Staying meant crossing a line you'd carefully avoided, acknowledging that this had become more than just a physical arrangement. It meant facing the complicated feelings you'd developed for a man your friends would never accept, a man whose family represented everything your group stood against.
"Rafe, I can't—" you started, but he cut you off with another soft kiss.
"Just tonight," he murmured against your lips. "Let me have you for a whole night. No sunrise escape."
You hesitated, torn between the safety of your established boundaries and the undeniable pull toward something more with him. As you looked into his eyes—those same blue eyes that had watched you with growing intensity over the past months—you realized you were already in too deep to pretend this was just physical anymore.
With a nod that felt both like surrender and liberation, you agreed. "Just tonight."
His answering smile was genuine, reaching his eyes in a way you rarely saw. "Good," he said softly, already maneuvering you both onto the bed. "Because I'm not done proving you're still mine."
When you both settled onto the bed on your sides facing each other, Rafe didn't go in for another kiss. His hand rested on the curve of your waist, gently watching you silently like he was waiting for you to make the first move. But you didn't, at least not yet. You just watched him, a calm and almost sad look on your features now that the silence had settled.
You hesitated again, even with the vodka coursing through your veins, your mouth awfully dry as you swallowed hard in the silence of the room. "I miss my dad, Rafe.." you mumbled, words mashed by the hand resting under your cheek. His expression turned solemn, brows furrowing slightly before his hand lifted to brush your cheek. "I know, angel.." he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle as his thumb stroked your skin. Three years. Three years since he'd walked out on your fifteenth birthday, leaving behind nothing but a half-eaten cake and a little girl with bruised knees from skateboarding all day. Today, you were eighteen, and the absence had become a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing seemed to fill—not even the distraction of Rafe's body against yours in the dark.
Rafe shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly as he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at you more fully. The moonlight filtering through his bedroom window caught the silver in his eyes, making them seem almost translucent in the dim light. "Happy birthday," he said softly, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that still surprised you sometimes, even after all these months. You flinched slightly at his words, the reminder of what day it was hitting you like a physical blow.
"Don't," you whispered, turning your face away from his touch. "Please don't say that."
"Sorry," he murmured, gently turning your face back toward him. "I just thought… I mean, it's still your birthday, right? Even if…" he trailed off, not needing to finish. Rafe knew the story—how your dad had left on this exact day three years ago, how you hadn't heard from him since except for a few sporadic emails in the first year that eventually stopped altogether.
"It's just a day," you said, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. "It doesn't mean anything."
"It means something to you," Rafe countered quietly, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I can see it in your eyes. You've been off all night, even before you started drinking."
You didn't deny it. How could you? When you'd woken up this morning, the first thought that crossed your mind was that you were now legally an adult, yet you still felt like that fifteen-year-old girl watching her father pack a bag with tears in her eyes. The Pogues had tried to make it special—John B had "borrowed" a cake from the Wreck, Pope had decorated the Chateau with streamers, even JJ had attempted to make you a gift out of driftwood that had fallen apart before he could give it to you. But all you could think about was how your dad had promised to be there for every birthday, how he'd broken that promise on the one that mattered most.
"He promised," you said softly, tears welling in your eyes despite your best efforts to hold them back. "He promised he'd never miss a birthday, and then he left on mine. Didn't even have the decency to wait until the next day."
Rafe's expression hardened, a flash of anger in his eyes that you recognized was directed at your absent father, not at you. "Fuck him," he said bluntly. "Anyone who walks out on their kid—especially on their birthday—doesn't deserve to be missed."
"Easy for you to say," you mumbled, though you knew Rafe understood abandonment better than most. "Your dad might be an asshole, but at least he's still here."
"Is he though?" Rafe asked bitterly, his hand moving from your cheek to tangle in your hair. "Because it feels like I'm talking to a ghost most days. At least your dad had the decency to leave instead of sticking around to remind me every day that I'm not good enough."
The raw pain in his voice made your heart ache. You'd never talked about your fathers like this before, never crossed into this territory where you acknowledged the parallel wounds that somehow bound you together despite your different worlds. Without thinking, you reached up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
"We're quite the pair, aren't we?" you murmured, managing a weak smile. "The Pogue princess and the Kook prince, both daddy issues extraordinaire."
Rafe's lips curved into a genuine smile at that, the first one you'd seen from him all night. "The Pogue princess," he repeated, his voice dropping to that low register that made your stomach flutter. "I like that. It suits you."
"Shut up," you said, though there was no heat behind it. "You know I hate when you call me that."
"No you don't," he teased, leaning closer until his lips were just inches from yours. "You love it. You love that I see you as royalty even when you're running around with those delinquents."
"They're not delinquents," you protested weakly, already melting under his proximity.
"Could've fooled me," he murmured, then captured your lips in a kiss that was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. This was different from your usual encounters—no urgency, no desperation, just a slow, deliberate exploration that felt more like comfort than passion. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft.
"Make a wish," he said quietly.
"What?"
"It's your birthday," he explained, his fingers stroking through your hair. "Make a wish."
You hesitated, then closed your eyes. The first wish that came to mind was the one you'd made every year since he left—that your dad would come home, that he'd walk through the door with an apology and a promise to never leave again. But as you lay there in Rafe's arms, you realized that wasn't what you wanted anymore. Or at least, not all that you wanted.
When you opened your eyes, Rafe was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "What did you wish for?" he asked.
Instead of answering, you leaned in and kissed him again, deeper this time, pouring all your complicated feelings into it. Rafe responded immediately, his hand sliding from your hair to your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. This was what you knew, what you'd come to rely on—the way your bodies fit together, the desperate need that transcended the complicated world outside this room.
When you finally broke apart, breathless, Rafe's eyes were dark with emotion. "Tell me," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "What did you wish for?"
You hesitated, then decided to be brave. "I wished," you said softly, "that for once, I could have something that's just mine. Something that doesn't remind me of what I've lost."
Rafe's breath hitched slightly, his eyes closing for a moment as if processing your statement. When he opened them again, there was something new there—something fragile and hopeful that made your chest ache with affection.
"You already have that," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "You have me."
The simplicity of his statement, the raw honesty in it, was more overwhelming than any grand declaration could have been. And as you lay there in his arms, the moonlight casting shadows across the room, you realized with terrifying clarity that your wish had already come true. Somewhere along the way, in the stolen moments and secret encounters, Rafe Cameron had become yours—completely, irrevocably, and terrifyingly yours.
And wasn't that ironic? That the thing you avoided the most ended up happening anyway? Or maybe Rafe had been yours all along and he was just waiting on the sidelines for you to catch up. Either way, you couldn't sit there and lie to yourself that Rafe hadn't become a constant in your life. A fucked up, volatile and unstable constant but one nonetheless. He spent nights drying the tears that either JJ or your mother welled in your eyes, without even asking for anything in return, his expensive shirts stained with your mascarand cheap body glitter as he held you until your sobs subsided into hiccups.
He never once asked you to stop snorting lines, smoking blunts or stop at one bottle, instead watching with those intense blue eyes as you self-destructed, his presence a silent acknowledgment that he saw you—really saw you—in all your damaged glory. He always hovered just far enough at parties, enough to inevitably be there when you'd stumble away from the party commotion to drive you away safely, his truck appearing like magic when your vision started to blur and the world began to tilt on its axis.
It wasn't romantic or romance-worthy, not the kind of affection you spent most of your middle school years dreaming and reading about in dog-eared paperbacks hidden under your mattress. But he stayed loyal. Even when you threw empty bottles at him, screaming names when you both knew you'd just end up fucking him anyway. Even when you'd ignore and sneer at him in public, letting your friends talk bullshit about him when his marks were littered all over your body like a roadmap to your own betrayal.
"Remember that time you tried to fight Topper?" Rafe murmured against your hair, his fingers tracing patterns on your hip bone as if reading your thoughts. "At the beach bonfire last month?"
You winced at the memory, the shame still fresh despite the weeks that had passed. "He was talking shit about John B."
"He always talks shit about John B," Rafe countered with a low chuckle. "But you don't usually try to drown him for it."
"He said John B's dad was a coward who ran off and left him," you defended weakly, though you knew Rafe was right. The memory was hazy at best, a blur of cheap beer and misplaced loyalty that had ended with you being physically dragged away by Pope while Topper sputtered and coughed up saltwater.
"And you took that personally because?" Rafe prodded gently, though he already knew the answer.
"Because he was right," you admitted quietly, the confession tasting like betrayal even as you said it. "John B's dad left him. Just like mine left me. It's different, but it's the same."
Rafe's hand stilled on your hip, his expression softening in the dim light. "Yeah," he agreed after a moment. "It is the same. But Topper didn't say it because he gives a shit about abandonment issues. He said it to get a rise out of you, and it worked."
"I still should've—" you started, but he cut you off with a soft kiss.
"No," he murmured against your lips. "You should've let me handle it."
The implication hung between you—that Rafe had defended John B, had stepped between you and Topper before things could escalate further. It was a strange dynamic you'd fallen into, where Rafe protected your friends from his friends while you protected your pride from the complicated feelings he stirred in you.
"Why do you do that?" you asked softly, pulling back slightly to look at him properly. "Why do you help them when you hate them?"
"I don't hate them," he countered, though the skepticism in your expression must have been obvious. "Okay, maybe I hate Maybank a little—"
"A lot," you corrected with a small smile.
"A lot," he amended, returning your smile. "But the rest of them… they're just kids trying to survive, same as us. And if hurting them hurts you, then what's the point?"
The simplicity of his logic caught you off guard. In your world, everything was complicated—loyalties divided, secrets kept, lines drawn in the sand that you both crossed and retreated from depending on the day. But Rafe, for all his volatility, had a surprisingly straightforward way of looking at things when it came to you.
"You're not as much of an asshole as you want people to think," you observed quietly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"Don't tell anyone," he murmured, catching your hand in his to press a soft kiss against your palm. "I have a reputation to maintain."
The joke fell flat in the charged silence that followed, both of you acutely aware of the truth beneath his words. Rafe worked hard to maintain his reputation as the Kook prince, as the ruthless heir to the Cameron empire who cared for nothing and no one. But you'd seen behind the mask—had been one of the few people allowed to see behind it—and what you'd found was both more terrifying and more comforting than you wanted to admit.
"What are we doing, Rafe?" you asked softly, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "This thing between us… what is it?"
Rafe's expression tightened almost imperceptibly, the familiar walls going up in his eyes before he forced them down again. "It's whatever you want it to be."
"That's not an answer," you countered quietly, though you knew why he was hedging. Defining what you had meant acknowledging its existence, meant giving it power over you both.
"Yes, it is," he insisted, his voice firm as he shifted to prop himself up on one elbow, looking down at you more fully. "It means that however fucked up this is, however much it doesn't make sense to anyone else, it's ours. And that's enough for me."
The raw vulnerability in his eyes made your chest ache. This was the side of Rafe that no one else saw—the desperate boy beneath the Kook prince facade, the abandoned child seeking connection in the only ways he knew how. This was the Rafe who held you through nightmares, who cleaned you up when you drank too much, who never judged you for the darkness that lived inside you.
"But is it enough for me?" you whispered, the question as much for yourself as for him.
"It could be," he answered softly, his thumb stroking your cheek. "If you let it."
The offer hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Four months of this—of secret encounters and stolen moments—had somehow led to this strange intimacy where you could show each other the broken parts you kept hidden from everyone else. Where Rafe could be gentle and you could be sad, and neither of you had to pretend.
Before you could respond, he was kissing you again—deeper this time, pouring all his complicated feelings into it. Rafe responded with equal intensity, his hand sliding from your hip to your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. This was what you knew, what you'd come to rely on—the way your bodies fit together, the desperate need that transcended the complicated world outside this room.
When you finally broke apart, breathless, Rafe's eyes were dark with emotion. "Stay," he said again, though this time it sounded less like a request and more like a plea. "Not just tonight. I mean… stay. Here. With me."
The offer was everything you'd secretly wanted and everything you knew you couldn't accept. Your life was with the Pogues, with JJ and John B and the rest of them. Rafe existed in the shadows of your world, a secret you kept even from yourself most days.
"Rafe, we can't—" you started, but he cut you off with a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of vodka and unspoken promises.
"Just think about it," he murmured against your lips. "That's all I'm asking."
You didn't answer, couldn't answer, so you just kissed him again, pouring all your conflicted feelings into it. Rafe responded with equal intensity, his hand sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. This was what you knew, what you'd come to rely on—the way your bodies fit together, the desperate need that transcended the complicated world outside this room.
His kisses became a little messier as the conversation faded out, neither of you capable of any sort of serious discourse for the night. They shifted between your lips, chin, your flushed cheeks. Everywhere Rafe's lips could reach, in a manner so familiar when you knew he was done pretending to be mad at you. "I thought you were gonna leave tonight.." he murmured at one point and your fingers stilled their movements through the hair at the nape of your neck in confusion.
"What'dya mean..?" you murmured when his kisses shifted away from your lips again, allowing you to speak, even if it was muffled and breathless from his body half draped above yours. "You were the one on the verge of leaving less than an hour ago.." you chuckled softly.
He hummed, like your words were unimportant compared to the kisses he was busy planting all over your face. "Yeah, but i thought you were gonna.." he trailed off like he was losing his train of thought, "I dunno.. Ditch this thing between us for Maybank, now that he kissed you and all.." He didn't stop kissing you, didn't allow you to respond clearly as his hands roamed over your thighs and occasionally slipping just under the hem of the baggy t-shirt Sarah had borrowed you, inching closer to the sleeping shorts just to tease you. "Are we gonna have a conversation or…?"
"Do you wanna keep having vulnerable conversations?"
"I would if you'd let me speak.." you scoffed, half amused, half already affected by his touch. "You can talk if you want.." he mumbled under his breath dismissively, fingers still roaming under the hem of your sleeping shorts.
You tried to push against his chest, to create the space needed for a serious conversation, but your arms felt heavy, your resolve melting with every lazy circle his thumb drew on your inner thigh. The rough callus on his skin was a delicious friction against your sensitive flesh, a familiar sensation that already had your breath hitching. "Rafe, we actually need to talk about this," you managed, though your voice came out breathier than you intended, betraying your body's eagerness. "About JJ, about what happens when people find out—"
"God, you're so boring when you're being responsible," he groaned dramatically, pulling back just enough to look at you with mock exasperation. "It's my favorite girl's eighteenth birthday and you wanna have a board meeting about Pogue drama? Lame." He punctuated his complaint by nipping at your bottom lip, his hand sliding further up your thigh, his thumb hooking under the leg of your shorts. The fabric was thin, worn soft from countless washes, and you could feel the heat of his palm through it.
"I'm not being boring, I'm being realistic," you shot back, though your voice wavered as his knuckles brushed against the edge of your panties. The lace was already damp, a fact you were sure he was well aware of. "He's my friend, Rafe. You can't just—"
"I can," he interrupted smoothly, his lips trailing down your neck. His other hand pushed the hem of Sarah's t-shirt up, exposing the skin of your stomach. His fingers splayed across your belly, possessive and warm. "And I will. Watch me." He didn't wait for a response, his mouth finding that spot just below your ear that made your whole body tense up. His teeth grazed the skin, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to send a jolt straight down your spine.
"You're such a child," you breathed, but your hands were no longer pushing him away. Instead, they were gripping his biceps, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt.
"Yeah, but you like it," he smirked against your skin. His fingers finally, finally, pushed the flimsy barrier of your panties aside. The first touch of his fingertips against your bare, slick folds made you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily. "See? You don't wanna talk. You wanna play."
"Rafe…" It was a warning, but it sounded more like a plea. He took it as encouragement. His middle finger traced a slow, maddening line from your entrance up to your clit, circling the swollen nub once, twice, before retreating. It was a tease, a deliberate withholding of what you were starting to crave desperately. Your thighs fell open a little wider, an invitation you couldn't stop yourself from giving.
"Tell me you want me to stop," he whispered, his voice low and husky right next to your ear. "Tell me you'd rather discuss JJ Maybank's feelings right now, and I'll stop. I'll get you a glass of water and we can talk all night."
You hated him. You hated how well he knew you, how he could dismantle your resolve with a few simple touches. "I hate you," you whimpered, turning your head to capture his lips in a messy, desperate kiss.
He chuckled into your mouth, the vibration of it humming against your lips. "Liar." And then he pushed one long finger inside you. The intrusion was slow, deliberate. He didn't stop until he was buried to the knuckle, his palm pressed flat against you. He held it there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the fullness of it. You could feel the slight ridge of his callus, the heat of him, the sheer possession of the act.
"Still wanna talk?" he asked, his voice a smug rumble. He curled his finger slightly, stroking that sensitive spot on your front wall, and your eyes rolled back in your head. A soft, broken moan escaped your lips.
"Asshole," you gasped, as he began to move. It was a slow, torturous rhythm. Out, almost all the way, leaving you feeling empty and wanting, before sliding back in, deep and steady. His thumb found your clit, pressing down as his finger curled inside you. The dual stimulation was almost too much, a current of pleasure running through you so strong it made your toes curl.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" he teased, his own tongue tracing the shell of your ear. He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you more completely. The stretch burned slightly, a delicious ache that only added to the building pleasure. "Or is it just my fingers?"
"Shut up," you managed to get out, your voice breathy and thin. You rocked your hips against his hand, trying to increase the pace, to take control of the rhythm, but he just chuckled and slowed down even more, his movements becoming lazy and deliberate.
"Nuh-uh," he tsked. "I'm driving tonight. You just lie there and look pretty." He shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbow so he could watch you. His blue eyes were dark, fixed on your face, on your parted lips and flushed cheeks. He loved watching you fall apart, you knew that. It was his favorite power trip. He scissored his fingers inside you, spreading them wide before curling them again, hitting that spot with unerring accuracy. "You're so fucking wet for me. Were you thinking about this when Maybank was kissing you?"
The question was meant to provoke, to knock you off balance, but you were too far gone to care. "No," you lied, the word barely a whisper.
"Liar," he repeated, his thumb beginning to move in tight, fast circles over your clit. The sudden change in pace made you cry out, your back arching off the bed. "You were. You were wishing it was me. Admit it."
And in a sense you hated that he was right. Hated that the main reason why the kiss felt wrong, was because you were thinking about Rafe.
"Rafe, please…" You didn't even know what you were begging for anymore. For him to stop talking? For him to stop teasing? For him to finally let you fall?
"Please what?" he demanded, his voice rough with his own desire. "Please make you come? Is that what you want?" He curled his fingers just right, pressing hard against that spot inside you while his thumb worked your clit mercilessly. The combination was devastating. The coil of pleasure in your belly tightened to an almost painful degree, your muscles locking up as the tension built.
"God, yes," you sobbed, your hands fisting in his sheets. "Please, Rafe, please…"
"That's my girl," he growled, and with a final, perfectly timed curl of his fingers and a hard press of his thumb, he sent you flying over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure. You cried out his name, your body convulsing around his fingers, your vision whiting out. He didn't stop, working you through it, prolonging the pleasure until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath him, begging him to stop.
When you finally came back to yourself, panting and boneless, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he tasted you, a smug, possessive look on his face. "See?" he murmured, leaning down to kiss you softly, a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. "Much better than talking."
He didn't give you a chance to recover, to come down from the high he'd so expertly sent you on. Before the last tremor had even subsided, he was moving, shifting his body down the bed with a predatory grace that made your breath catch. His lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your chin, over the frantic pulse in your neck, and across your collarbones. He paused to nip at the delicate skin just above the fabric of Sarah's t-shirt, leaving a small, possessive mark that would be a bitch to hide tomorrow.
"Rafe," you breathed, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair again. The strands were soft between your fingers, a stark contrast to the rough, demanding way he was touching you. "What are you doing?"
He looked up at you from under his lashes, his blue eyes dark and mischievous. "Celebrating your birthday," he said, his voice a low rumble against your stomach. "It's tradition, right? Birthday girl gets whatever she wants."
"And what if I want you to stop talking?" you challenged, a lazy smile playing on your lips.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "Funny, that's exactly what I was thinking." With that, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your sleeping shorts and panties, pulling them down your legs in one smooth, deliberate motion. He tossed them carelessly over the side of the bed, leaving you completely exposed to his gaze. The cool air of the room felt like a shock against your overheated, still-sensitive skin.
He didn't give you a moment to feel self-conscious. He settled between your thighs, his hands pushing them open wider, his grip firm and unyielding. He took a moment to just look, his eyes roaming over you with an intensity that was both unnerving and incredibly arousing. It was a look of ownership, of appraisal, like a connoisseur admiring a prized possession.
"You're staring," you accused softly, your cheeks flushing.
"Can you blame me?" he shot back, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, dangerously close to where you wanted him most. "You're a fucking masterpiece. Especially all flushed and wet like this. All for me."
"Rafe, please," you whimpered, your hips shifting restlessly. The teasing was becoming unbearable. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm, but a new wave of desire was already building, a desperate, aching need for more.
"Please what?" he asked, though he knew damn well what you wanted. He loved hearing you beg, loved knowing he had you at his mercy. "Use your words, birthday girl."
"Please… just…" You couldn't finish the sentence, too embarrassed to say the words out loud.
He smirked, a slow, confident curve of his lips. "As you wish." And then he lowered his head, and the world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth on you.
The first touch of his tongue was a shock. He was slow and deliberate, starting with a broad, flat stroke that had you crying out, your back arching off the bed. His hands held your hips down, preventing you from moving, forcing you to take everything he was giving you. He explored you with his mouth, learning every fold, every sensitive spot, his tongue a masterful instrument. He alternated between long, slow licks and quick, fluttering flicks against your clit, never letting you settle into a rhythm, keeping you on the edge, a trembling, desperate mess.
"Fuck, Rafe," you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, holding him to you. The feeling was overwhelming, a pleasure so intense it was almost painful. He hummed against you, the vibration sending another jolt through you. He knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard. He knew how to take you apart piece by piece, how to reduce you to nothing but sensation.
"You taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled against you. "Better than I remembered. And I think about this a lot." He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked, hard, and you saw stars. Your entire body tensed, your thighs shaking as the pleasure built to an impossible peak. He slipped two fingers back inside you, curling them to find that spot again, and began to pump them in time with the movements of his tongue.
The combination was devastating. It was too much, too intense, too perfect. You could feel another orgasm building, stronger this time, a tidal wave gathering in the distance. "Rafe, I'm… I'm gonna…" you managed to get out, the words broken by gasps and moans.
"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Come for me. I want to feel it."
That was all it took. With a final, hard suck and a perfectly timed curl of his fingers, he sent you flying over the edge again. This orgasm was different from the first. It wasn't a sharp, blinding crash, but a slow, rolling wave of pleasure that washed over you, leaving you trembling and breathless in its wake. You cried out his name, your body convulsing around his fingers as he worked you through it, prolonging the pleasure until you were completely spent.
He didn't stop immediately, but slowed his movements, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling inside you. He placed soft, open-mouthed kisses against your thighs, your stomach, any bit of skin he could reach, as if worshipping your body. When you finally came back to yourself, panting and boneless, he slowly withdrew his fingers and crawled back up your body, a look of smug, male satisfaction on his face.
He hovered above you, his forearms braced on either side of your head. "Happy birthday," he murmured, before leaning down to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his lips, a heady, intimate flavor that made your stomach clench all over again. It was a dirty, possessive kiss, a claim, and you kissed him back with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.
"Best birthday ever," you whispered against his lips, when you finally broke apart, both of you breathless.
He smirked, his eyes dark with promise. "I'm not done yet."
But he didn't move to take things further. Instead, he shifted his weight, settling beside you on the bed, his hand resting possessively on your stomach. He propped his head up on his hand, his eyes roaming over your face, your body, with a look of lazy satisfaction.
"What?" you asked, a self-conscious blush creeping up your neck. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?" he countered, though he knew exactly what you meant.
"Like you just won the lottery or something."
"Maybe I did," he said, his thumb stroking circles on your skin. "I mean, look at you. All fucked out and flushed because of me. It's a good look on you."
"You're ridiculous," you scoffed, but you couldn't help but smile. You turned onto your side to face him, the t-shirt you were wearing twisting around your waist. "And full of yourself."
"I'm full of a lot of things right now," he smirked, his eyes dropping to your lips. "But you're not complaining."
You weren't. You couldn't. He had a way of unraveling you, of taking all the sharp edges and complicated feelings and turning them into nothing but pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was a dangerous, addictive kind of magic.
"So, what's next, Mr. Cameron?" you asked, your voice teasing. "What's the next part of my birthday celebration?"
"Well," he said, pretending to think about it. "I could fuck you until you can't walk straight. Or we could raid the kitchen and find that expensive champagne my dad thinks is hidden. Or..." he trailed off, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "We could do that again. I'm not sick of the taste yet."
Your breath hitched at his words, a fresh wave of desire washing over you. You were exhausted, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your last two orgasms, but the thought of him doing that again, of his mouth on you once more, was almost too tempting to resist.
"Rafe," you breathed, not sure what you were trying to say. Stop? Please? Again?
He just smirked, knowing exactly what you were thinking. "Don't worry," he murmured, leaning in to kiss you softly. "We'll save round three for later. I think you need a break."
He wasn't wrong. You felt like you could sleep for a week, boneless and sated in a way you hadn't been in a long time. But as you lay there in his arms, the moonlight casting shadows across the room, you knew you wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. Not with Rafe Cameron next to you, his hands already beginning to roam again, his lips finding yours in a kiss that promised the night was far from over.
He didn't give you that break. His lips, which had just been soft and teasing, turned demanding against yours, his tongue delving into your mouth with a possessive sweep that left no room for argument. His hand, which had been resting innocently on your stomach, slid down, his fingers tangling in the patch of hair between your legs before one slid inside you again, testing your readiness. You were still swollen and sensitive from your last orgasm, and the intrusion made you gasp into his mouth.
"Thought you said I needed a break," you panted, when he finally let you come up for air. Your hips were already rocking against his hand, a traitorous betrayal of your words.
"Changed my mind," he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. He curled his finger, stroking that spot inside you that made your whole body clench. "And besides, you didn't really want a break, did you? You're already soaking my hand again."
"Asshole," you moaned, but there was no heat in it, only a desperate, aching need. You were insatiable for him, a fact he took great pride in.
Instead of letting him dictate the next move, you saw your chance. With a surge of energy, you pushed against his chest, using his surprise to your advantage. He fell back against the pillows with a soft "oof," a look of shock and then amusement crossing his face. Before he could recover, you swung a leg over his waist, straddling him. The hard, hot length of him pressed against your dripping core, and you both groaned at the contact.
"Well, look at you," he smirked, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the skin there. "Taking charge. I like it."
"Don't get used to it," you shot back, rising up on your knees. You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his thick cock. He was rock hard, the tip already leaking with pre-cum. You gave him a slow, deliberate pump, enjoying the way his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with lust. "This is my birthday, remember? I get what I want."
"And what do you want, birthday girl?" he asked, his voice strained as you rubbed the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing him, torturing him.
"I want this," you whispered, and then you sank down on him, taking him all in in one slow, smooth movement. The feeling of him filling you up this way, deep and unrelenting, stole your breath. You stayed there for a moment, your head thrown back, your hands braced on his chest as you adjusted to the incredible stretch. You could feel every inch of him, every pulse and throb inside you.
"Fuck," he groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. "You feel so fucking good like this. So goddamn tight."
You started to move, a slow, torturous roll of your hips that had you both gasping. You set the pace, rising up until just the tip of him was inside you before sinking back down, taking him as deep as you could. The t-shirt you were still wearing was thin and damp with sweat, clinging to your skin. Rafe's hands were everywhere, roaming up your sides to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your hard nipples through the fabric, then sliding around to grab your ass, guiding your movements, urging you to go faster.
"That's it, ride me," he commanded, his voice rough. "Take what you need. Show me how much you missed this cock."
You leaned forward, changing the angle, and cried out as he hit that spot deep inside you. Your movements became more frantic, more desperate, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. You were chasing your release, your body moving on pure instinct. But just as you felt the familiar coil of pleasure begin to tighten in your belly, he stopped you.
His hands clamped down on your hips, stilling your movements. "Not yet," he growled. Before you could protest, he sat up, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. The new position was devastating, driving him even deeper inside you. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck, your bodies pressed together from chest to groin.
"My turn," he murmured against your lips, and then he started to move. He used his strength to lift you, almost pulling you off his cock before slamming you back down.
The movement was brutal, efficient, designed to shatter you. He used the strength in his arms and core to lift and drop you, his hips snapping up to meet yours on every downward stroke. The angle was punishing, driving him so deep you could feel him in your stomach, a breathtaking, overwhelming fullness that stole the air from your lungs. Your bodies were slick with sweat, the thin t-shirt you still wore a useless barrier between your chests. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours, a frantic, primal rhythm that matched the pounding he was giving you.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a harsh growl against your ear. When you didn't respond, too lost in the haze of pleasure, he grabbed a fistful of your hair at the nape of your neck and pulled, forcing your head back. "I said, look at me."
Your eyes fluttered open, and you were met with the intense, burning blue of his. His face was a mask of raw concentration and lust, his jaw clenched, his lips parted. "Who's fucking you like this?" he demanded, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. "Was it Maybank? Did he make you feel this way? Did he make you soak his sheets like a dirty little slut?"
"No," you sobbed, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Only you, Rafe. It's only ever been you."
"Damn right," he grunted, satisfied. He released your hair, his hand moving between your bodies to find your clit. He rubbed it in tight, harsh circles, the stimulation almost too much on top of the relentless pounding. "This is my pussy. My favorite fucking birthday present. And I'm gonna unwrap it over and over again tonight."
The coil in your belly tightened to an almost painful degree. Your muscles locked up, your thighs trembling where they were wrapped around his waist. You were so close, teetering on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into the abyss.
"Rafe, I… I can't…" you whimpered, your voice breaking.
"Yes, you can," he growled. And then, in a move that made you cry out, he flipped you. He somehow managed to roll you both over without pulling out, ending up with you on your back and him looming over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. The new position allowed him to go even deeper, and he took full advantage, slamming into you with a renewed, ferocious energy.
He hooked his arms under your knees, pushing your legs back towards your chest, folding you in half. The position was utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, and it sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you. You were completely at his mercy, spread open for him, and the look on his face told you he knew it.
"Fuck, look at that," he breathed, his eyes glued to where his body was disappearing into yours. "Taking me so deep. You were fucking made for this, weren't you? Made to be on your back for me."
He started talking then, a stream of filthy, possessive words that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He told you how good you felt, how tight you were, how he was going to fill you up until you were dripping with him. He told you he was going to fuck the memory of any other man out of your head, until all you could think about was his cock, his mouth, his hands.
"Come on, birthday girl," he panted, his rhythm starting to falter, his own release clearly approaching. "Come for me. Let me feel that tight little pussy come all over my cock. Give it to me."
His words were your undoing. With a silent scream, your body arched off the bed, and you came harder than you ever had in your life. It was a violent, all-consuming orgasm that ripped through you, leaving you shaking and sobbing, your vision whiting out. Your walls clenched around him, a rhythmic pulsing that seemed to go on forever.
"Fuck, yes," he roared, his own control shattering. He thrust into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came, his hot release flooding you. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pinning you to the bed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, his ragged breaths ghosting across your skin.
For a long moment, you just lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs, the only sound in the room your combined panting. He was still inside you, a heavy, comforting presence. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close, your fingers tracing random patterns on his damp skin.
Eventually he lifted his head, blue eyes softened and heavy in that way they only ever were after, when the sharp edges dulled and whatever he’d been bracing himself against finally let go. He leaned in again, slower this time, kissing you deep and unhurried, like he was saying things he didn’t have the words—or the nerve—for. “Happy birthday,” he murmured against your mouth, breath warm, forehead resting briefly against yours.
You smiled, lazy and loose and content in a way you hadn’t expected tonight to give you. “It definitely is now,” you answered quietly, fingers still curled into the sheets like you were anchoring yourself there.
When the silence returned, it wasn’t awkward, just familiar. Routine creeping back in, that strange post-intimacy rhythm you both pretended didn’t mean anything. Rafe shifted first, pulling away and sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you, shoulders rolling like he was shaking something off. You watched him peel the dark polo over his head, toss it aside, rake a hand through his hair until it stood up in uneven tufts, all muscle memory and ease. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand without even looking, like it was part of the ritual—one he only ever allowed himself when you stayed. He never smoked otherwise; said it was pointless, smelled bad, easier to just borrow someone’s vape or disappear into a bathroom stall at a party. But with you, afterward, he always did this. Balcony door cracked open, cigarette lit, you stealing a few drags while pulling your clothes back on before slipping out of his room like nothing lingered.
This time, though, you didn’t move. You stayed sprawled across his bed, eyes tracing the broad line of his back, the familiar dips and planes you knew too well now. That’s when you noticed it—the faint bruise blooming under his ribs, yellowed at the edges like it wasn’t fresh, but not old enough to be forgotten either. Marks on Rafe weren’t unusual; you’d seen split lips he never bothered to ice, knuckles scraped raw, shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation. Still, something in your chest tightened. “What was it this time?” you asked softly, carefully skirting around Ward’s name like it might detonate if spoken aloud.
Rafe froze for half a second, cigarette paused between his fingers. He exhaled slowly through his nose, then leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “You counting now?” he muttered, tone light but guarded, like he was testing whether you’d push.
“Not like that,” you said, sitting up a little, pulling the sheet higher around you without thinking. “Just… asking.”
He scoffed quietly, finally lighting the cigarette and taking a drag before answering. “Wasn’t a big thing,” he said, eyes fixed on the floor like it held the safest version of the truth. “Just him getting pissed. Same old.”
You didn’t respond right away, and he felt it—the weight of your silence settling between his shoulder blades. He glanced back at you, blue eyes flicking up briefly. “Don’t,” he added, softer. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?” you asked.
“The one where you start looking at me like I’m gonna shatter if you breathe wrong.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I’m fine.”
You shifted closer, careful not to crowd him, your voice still gentle. “You don’t have to sell it to me.”
That earned another pause. He took a longer drag this time, smoke curling around him as he leaned back slightly, resting one hand on the mattress near your thigh without looking. “He just… doesn’t like being questioned,” Rafe said eventually, the words slow, measured. “And I questioned him.” A beat. “About money. About Sarah. About things that aren’t supposed to be my business.”
You swallowed. “They are your business.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, “try telling him that.”
The room went quiet again, not heavy, but stretched thin, like the truth was lying between you both and neither of you wanted to be the one to poke it. He stubbed the cigarette out halfway, like he’d lost interest, then rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not like it used to be,” he added, almost like an afterthought. “He doesn’t hit me like when I was younger. Just… grabs. Shoves. Makes sure I remember where I stand.”
Your chest ached at that, a dull, familiar pain. “And where’s that?” you asked.
Rafe glanced at you again, expression unreadable, then looked away. “Where I always am,” he said. “Useful. Replaceable. Loud enough to blame when something goes wrong.”
You didn’t answer with words this time. You just reached out, fingers brushing his wrist where it rested on the bed, grounding without demanding. He let you. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in either. Just sat there, letting the contact exist, the conversation stretch and breathe instead of snapping shut like it usually did.
After a moment, he exhaled, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “You’re gonna hate me for saying this,” he said quietly, “but tonight was… good. Like, actually good.”
You looked up at him. “Why would I hate you for that?”
“Because it makes everything else louder,” he replied, voice low. “Makes it harder to pretend I don’t notice the difference.”
The words settled between you, unspoken things humming beneath them, neither of you rushing to break the moment—even if you both knew morning would come eventually, dragging reality back with it.
The ache in your chest flared sharp and sudden, the last echoes of pleasure dissolving and leaving something far more exposed in their wake. Whatever haze the orgasms had wrapped you in fizzled out, and all that was left was the rawness of the night pressing in from every direction—the kiss with JJ replaying unwanted, the hollow space your father left behind, the weight of Rafe’s father lingering in the room even when he wasn’t there, and Rafe himself sitting just out of reach. Your eyes burned before you could stop it, tears swelling without a clear origin, only a heavy convergence of everything that hurt. But they centered on his words, on the way he said them so casually, like this was just the natural progression of things. Like his father becoming less physical over the years was supposed to count as mercy.
You knew it was a lie. You’d seen the evidence too many times to buy it—the bruises caught in passing when he leaned over you, the way he flinched when his split lip brushed against yours mid-kiss, pretending it was nothing. Your mind, cruel and unhelpful and still swimming in alcohol, dragged up the image of little Rafe instead—the boy with the slingshot, the chipped vase, the slap he hadn’t braced for but took anyway. The kid who learned early that flinching only made it worse.
“Don’t do that.” Rafe’s voice cut in, low and hollowed out by an exhausted sigh, like this wasn’t how he expected the night to unravel.
You shifted on the bed, sitting up straighter, dragging your hands over your face like you could wipe the emotion away before it spilled. Your gaze flicked anywhere but him. “Do what?” you asked, voice unsteady, already giving yourself away.
“Don’t pity me,” he snapped quietly, the word coming out sharp and bitter, like it tasted wrong in his mouth.
Your head shook immediately, brows knitting together as you looked back at him. “I’m not pitying you,” you said, trailing off when his posture stiffened even more, shoulders squaring like he was bracing for impact. “I’m just—”
“Just what?” he cut in, finally turning to face you fully, blue eyes hard now, defensive walls slamming back into place. “Getting all sad-eyed because you heard a fucked-up story? Because you think you know how it feels?”
“That’s not fair,” you shot back, heat creeping into your voice despite the tremor underneath it. “I didn’t say I knew. I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to,” he scoffed, standing abruptly and pacing a step away from the bed, fingers threading through his hair in agitation. “I can see it all over your face. That look. Like I’m something broken you stumbled onto by accident.”
“I’m reacting because I care,” you said, softer now, but no less firm. “That’s not pity.”
He laughed then, short and humorless, shaking his head. “Yeah? Well it feels the same from where I’m standing.” He gestured vaguely at his chest, then at you. “I didn’t bring this up so you could sit there and feel sorry for me. I’m not asking for that.”
“I’m not offering it,” you insisted, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “I just… don’t like hearing you talk about it like it’s normal. Like it doesn’t hurt you.”
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding for a moment before he answered. “It doesn’t help me to pretend it hurts,” he said sharply. “That’s the part you don’t get. Sitting in it, letting it ache—that doesn’t change anything. It just makes it heavier.”
Silence stretched between you again, tense and fragile all at once. He finally looked back at you, expression conflicted, anger still flickering but dulled now by something closer to fear. “I don’t need you to fix it,” he added, quieter. “And I don’t need you looking at me like I’m some kind of tragedy.”
You nodded slowly, even as your eyes burned. “Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “But you don’t get to tell me not to feel something when you drop all of that on me.”
That stopped him. He exhaled, long and frustrated, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “This is why I don’t talk,” he muttered. “Everything turns into a thing.”
“Maybe it was always a thing,” you replied gently. “You just got really good at pretending it wasn’t.”
He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, caught between snapping back and sitting with it, the defensiveness still there—but thinner now, cracked enough to let the truth breathe.
The silence pressed in again, thick and uncomfortable, until you shifted on the bed and finally broke it, your voice careful but edged with something raw. “You didn’t have a problem talking when it was about my mom’s boyfriend,” you said quietly, eyes lifting to him. “You got… emotional. Angry. Protective. You kept asking questions you already knew the answers to.” Your fingers curled into the sheets. “You knew something was off. You felt it.”
That did it. His head snapped up, whatever fragile calm he’d managed to pull together cracking clean through. “That’s not the same thing,” he shot back, harsher than you expected, words coming fast like he’d been waiting to unload them. “Don’t twist it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you insisted, sitting up straighter despite the way his tone stung. “I’m saying you don’t get to shut this down just because it’s about you.”
He let out a sharp laugh, pacing again, agitation rolling off him in waves. “No,” he snapped, turning on you abruptly. “You wanna know what this is? This is you projecting. You don’t actually give a shit about my dad right now—you’re thinking about yours. Or the lack of him. Or whatever anniversary of trauma this day is turning into for you.” His jaw tightened. “It’s your birthday. That’s why you’re digging. That’s why you’re suddenly all emotional.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “That’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking despite yourself. “Just because it’s my birthday doesn’t mean none of this matters.”
“It does to you,” he countered, eyes sharp. “Because everything lines up tonight. Your dad leaving, JJ kissing you, me being an asshole with a fucked-up family—it’s all bleeding together and you don’t know where to put it, so you put it on me.”
You stared at him, stunned. “I didn’t ask for any of that,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said immediately, the edge still there but something softer slipping through. “But don’t pretend this isn’t tangled up in your own shit too.” He ran a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line. “You wanna talk about my dad because it’s safer than talking about yours. Because mine’s still here to be angry at.”
The words landed heavy, and for a moment neither of you spoke. Your throat burned. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong for caring,” you said eventually. “Or that it doesn’t hurt to hear you talk like being hit less is some kind of win.”
His shoulders slumped just a fraction, anger draining into exhaustion. “I didn’t say it was a win,” he muttered. “I said it’s what it is.”
“And that’s the part that scares me,” you replied softly. “How used to it you sound.”
He looked at you then—really looked—and whatever he saw made him look away again. “You don’t get it,” he said, quieter now, but no less guarded. “If I let myself feel all of that every time someone brings it up, I wouldn’t function. I wouldn’t be… me.”
You swallowed hard. “Maybe that’s okay sometimes.”
He scoffed, but there was no humor in it. “Not for me.”
The room fell quiet again, heavy with unsaid things, the kind of quiet that didn’t mean the conversation was over—just that both of you were too close to something dangerous to keep pushing without consequences.
You let the quiet sit for a beat longer, then exhaled shakily and pushed yourself up a little, the sheet sliding down your shoulder as you faced him more fully. “You know what’s ironic?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt. “You were the one who asked me to stay. Not just tonight—stay stay. You said you didn’t want this to just be… sneaking around and pretending it didn’t matter.” Your fingers twisted together in your lap. “You asked for something real, Rafe. And now every time it gets even remotely close to that, you shut down.”
He stiffened, but didn’t interrupt.
“You can handle fucking me, you can handle keeping me, you can handle watching me walk out of your room every other night,” you went on, the words tumbling faster now. “But the second I try to talk to you—actually talk—you act like I’m pulling teeth.” Your mouth curved into a humorless smile. “Or you deflect. Like you always do.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t deflect.”
“You do,” you said gently. “You redirect. You change the subject. You give me things.” Your eyes flicked to the nightstand, then back to him. “Like that.”
He followed your gaze, and for a second something unreadable crossed his face. He didn’t argue. Instead, he turned, reached for the small gift bag you hadn’t even noticed before, and held it out toward you without looking. “Just—take it.”
You hesitated, then reached in, fingers brushing against cool metal. When you pulled it free, your breath caught despite yourself. A switchblade—sleek, familiar in weight—but new. The handle gleamed softly in the low light, angel wings etched into the metal, delicate and sharp all at once.
“…Rafe,” you murmured.
“You lost yours,” he said, too quickly. “In my truck.”
Your eyes snapped up to him. “I know where I lost it.”
He didn’t look away. “I kept it.”
The admission landed heavier than the gift itself. You turned the blade over in your hands, thumb tracing the wings, the symbolism not lost on you—how he’d always called you angel like it was a dare, like it scared him as much as it soothed him. “So this is what,” you asked softly, “an apology?”
“No,” he said immediately. “It’s… insurance.” He huffed a short breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s me saying I don’t forget shit. Even when I don’t know how to talk about it.”
You swallowed, throat tight. “You know you don’t have to buy your way out of opening up to me.”
“I’m not,” he snapped, then sighed, the fight draining out of him. “I just—this is easier. This I know how to do.”
You looked down at the blade again, then back at him. “But it’s not what you asked for,” you said quietly. “You didn’t ask me to stay so you could keep giving me pretty weapons and avoiding the hard parts. You asked because you wanted this to mean something.”
His eyes flickered, guilt flashing there before he masked it. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’re scared of it,” you replied. “Scared that if you let me see all of it, I’ll leave anyway.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, he sat back down on the edge of the bed, close enough that your knees brushed. “You don’t get how backwards my head is,” he muttered. “Every time I start to feel like this is real, like you’re not just gonna disappear on me, something in me wants to ruin it first.”
You reached out without thinking, resting the switchblade on the mattress and placing your hand over his. “Then stop trying to protect yourself from something you already asked for.”
He looked at your joined hands like they might burn him. “I don’t know how to do this without fucking it up.”
Your lips curved sadly. “Neither do I. But you don’t get to keep me and keep me at arm’s length.”
author's note: hello pillowtalk nation, since i started uni i suck at posting. this was supposed to be symbolic as fuck, given it's the 8th chapter and it's y/n's birthday, i was gonna post this on MY bday since it was the 8th january but i got wrapped up with exams and clubbing and i forgot. yo girl turned 20 so the bday blues here are organic. jj is being reckless like usual and rafe still wants a relationship while simultaneously being scared of talking about shit with y/n. i would be too the girl's a mess. we got daddy issues, a cute gift, good smut? i hope, some jj action and some childhood angst. i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i promise i'm getting back on my posting grind, i love you all and i hope you're still here reading 💕🥹
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