Mini summary: you looked too good holding that baby, and now rafe’s got one thing on his mind — you, him, and the mess of wanting more.
Word count: 1.0k
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Rafe had been on edge all night, and you couldn’t figure out why. He barely touched his drink, barely responded to Sarah’s chatter, barely even looked at JB. But when you picked up Sarah and JB’s baby—tiny little fists curling around your finger, soft coos pressed against your chest—you felt it.
His stare burned through you, sharp and heavy, like he was memorizing the sight. You laughed it off, bouncing the baby gently, pretending you didn’t notice how tense he’d gone. But the weight of his eyes stayed with you all the way upstairs.
Now you knew why. Because the second the door shut, he was on you—hands gripping, mouth crashing, body caging yours like he’d snap if you slipped away. And then he was inside you, driving deep, fucking like a man who couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
Pinned flat on your back, legs shoved wide apart, his hips snapped into yours again and again. His hand circled your throat, the other pressing your thigh back until it burned. He was brutal, desperate, fucking you like he needed to brand you from the inside out.
“Rafe—fuck—” you gasped, nails raking hard down his back.
He groaned raggedly, burying himself to the hilt, grinding so deep you cried out. His mouth dragged along your ear, his voice shaking with filth and want.
“Take it all,” he growled. “Every drop. I’m gonna put a baby in you, doll.”
The words hit you like a fist to the chest. For a split second, you froze—your mind screaming no, that’s insane, he can’t mean that, he can’t—
But your body betrayed you instantly. Heat shot through you, your cunt tightening around him so hard he groaned. A whimper slipped past your lips, humiliating and raw.
“God. No. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t let — fuck — you — talk like this. I shouldn’t let you do this to me.” But you wanted it. You wanted his baby. “I want it.” You cried out.
His cock was buried so deep, stretching you, pounding into that place that made you see stars—and with his words echoing in your head, it was like your body flipped a switch. The thought of him filling you, keeping you, claiming you from the inside out… it lit you up.
“Oh fuck,” he snarled when he felt you clench. His grin twisted dark, triumphant. “You like that? You want me to fuck my cum so deep it sticks?”
“Rafe, fuck—yes.” You sobbed out.
“You do.” His hips slammed forward, slow and punishing, making you choke on a cry. “Your pussy’s choking me—don’t you dare lie.” You shook your head, tried to say no, but it came out a broken moan. “You do,” he hissed again, voice cracking, thrusts brutal. “Your body knows. Wants me to breed you, make you mine forever.”
Every thrust knocked logic out of you. You wanted to scream that it was filthy, that he was insane—but instead, your nails carved down his shoulders and your legs locked around his waist, pulling him in deeper.
“I want a baby! Please Rafe!”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, hips snapping harder, faster. “Knew it. Knew you’d love it. Thought about you all day, holding that baby. You’d look so fucking beautiful, round with mine. Glowing for me.”
Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes as his words twisted inside you, mixing with the relentless friction, the deep ache of him grinding right against your core.
“Please,” you sobbed, the word breaking in your throat. “Please give it to me.”
“Say it.” His forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down between you. The headboard slammed against the wall with every thrust. “Say you want it. Say you want me to fill you up, keep you dripping for me.”
You whimpered, trying to hold out, trying to keep your dignity, but your body betrayed you again. Your nails dug deeper, your cunt clenched so hard he cursed, and your voice broke.
“I want a baby,” you gasped. “I want you—I want it so bad.”
“That’s my girl.” His voice cracked, deep and filthy. “Gonna make you mine forever. Gonna love you even more when you’re carrying our baby. Gonna watch you swell for me, glow for me. Fuck, I’ll be so in love I won’t ever let you go.”
That broke you. Your orgasm ripped through like lightning, raw and blinding. You screamed his name, legs shaking, body seizing around him as waves of heat rolled through you. He went with you, snarling into your neck as he slammed one last time, grinding as he spilled deep inside. His hips jerked, shoving every drop as far as he could get it.
“Fuck yes,” he panted, chest heaving, still buried to the hilt. “Take it all, doll. Keep it. Don’t waste a drop.”
You whimpered, trembling as his release leaked hot between your thighs. But Rafe didn’t move. He stayed inside, cock still heavy, keeping your hips locked to his.
One arm banded tight around your waist, the other cradled the back of your head, pulling you against him. He pressed his mouth to your temple, voice softer now, but no less obsessive.
“Stay like this. Keep me inside you. Wanna hold you full of me. Mine.”
Your breath hitched when you felt him throb again, still hard, still claiming. He stroked your stomach with the back of his hand, almost reverent.
“Gonna be so beautiful, doll. Round with my baby. Glowing for me. And I’ll be so fucking in love with you, I won’t let you lift a finger. You’ll be mine in every way.”
Tears spilled hot down your temples, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the overwhelming aftershocks, the filth, or the truth of it all.
Because you hadn’t known. You hadn’t expected it. But the way your body melted under his, the way your heart ached at his words—you realized you wanted it too.
And with Rafe still inside you, holding you down, refusing to let go, you didn’t even try to deny it.
Rafe barely gave you time to talk to Sarah and Topper before dragging you upstairs, muttering something about needing help with one thing or another.
The moment the bathroom door shut, his mouth was on yours. His tongue slipped past your lips, tangling with yours as you sighed and raked your fingers over his buzz cut.
His hand slid down to your ass, squeezing greedily like he couldn’t get enough. You gasped at the suddenness, making him groan against your mouth.
You pushed his shorts down and palmed his bulge. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands roaming up your back before tugging loose the strings of your bikini top. When it fell away, he stared openly, then buried his face between your breasts.
You braced yourself against the counter with one hand, the other tangled in his hair as you ground against him through your bottoms. He alternated between your nipples, sucking until they hardened, switching back and forth like he couldn’t decide which one he liked more.
Your hand slipped into his boxers, wrapping around his cock. He gasped into your chest, then latched on harder, making you whimper. Breathless, you pushed his head back, both of you panting as clothes hit the floor—his boxers, then your bikini bottoms.
You dropped to your knees, pumping him quickly, nails dragging softly over his length before taking him down your throat. Rafe jolted, one hand fisting in your hair, the other braced on the wall. You pulled off for a breath, then went back to work, flicking your tongue over his slit before sinking deeper until you gagged. He groaned, leaning over the counter, forcing the angle even deeper down your throat.
You stroked him as you came up for air, teasing his balls with your mouth before swallowing him down again. That was all he could take—he hauled you up, spun you toward the mirror, and kissed down your neck while holding your jaw in place.
“Eyes open, baby,” he muttered, pushing inside you.
You gasped, eyes flying wide. “Ray—”
“Jesus, baby. You’re so tight.” His voice cracked, sliding all the way in. He was long and thick—easily the biggest you’d ever taken.
“Big,” you whispered, forcing your eyes to stay open. “So big.”
“God, you feel so good,” he panted in your ear, finding his rhythm. He’d been craving you from the moment you walked in, and now that he had you—it was better than he’d imagined.
His hand slid up to your breast, circling your nipple until you cried out, arching back into him. He bent you slightly over the sink, the new angle letting him slam deep, right against that spot that made you wail.
“Shit, baby. Best pussy I’ve ever had,” he choked, smacking your ass hard.
“Rafe!” you moaned, nails digging into the counter. Usually it took fingers or his mouth to make you cum, but with every thrust hitting your G-spot, every slap and twist of your nipple, the heat swarmed low and fast.
Then his hand slid from your ass to your jaw, tilting your face toward the mirror. “Look at you,” he growled.
One sharp thrust, and you shattered. Your body seized, stars bursting behind your eyes as you came hard. You sagged against him, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up.
Rafe groaned, fucking into you with two more slow, deep thrusts before burying himself inside and spilling over, your body shaking with the aftershocks.
“God baby, you felt so good.”
You giggled at the words, but also flushed at the praise. “You make me feel good too, Ray.”
Warnings: little angst, fluff, first kiss, kissing, Sofia is a bitch lol, Rafe and Ruthie and Topper are good
Word count: ~850
Mini summary: you’ve never been missed before, but Rafe doesn’t mind showing you how it’s done. Good thing you both like each other.
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You don’t slam the door when you get to Rafe’s room.
You close it quietly, carefully, like if you’re gentle enough the words won’t echo in here. Like maybe they’ll stay out in the hallway where Sofia left them—smiling, sweet, sharp enough to cut.
They don’t.
You pace. Back and forth. Bare feet brushing against the floor, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’ve been doing since you were a kid. Since you were twelve and watching Rafe Cameron lean against lockers with a crooked grin, too tall, too confident, too everything. Since you learned early how to admire quietly. From a distance. Without ever letting it show.
A schoolgirl crush you never quite outgrew.
The door opens behind you.
“I heard what she said.”
Your shoulders stiffen.
“Forget it, Rafe.”
You don’t turn around. You stare at his desk instead, at the mess of papers and keys and things that make this room feel lived in. Safe.
“It’s not a big deal.” He says immediately. No pause. No softness. “But why didn’t you tell us?”
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“Tell you what?” You turn then, finally. “That I’ve never kissed anyone? That nobody’s ever wanted to? Yeah, okay. That sounds humiliating.”
His jaw tightens.
“But Ruthie knows.”
“Ruthie’s my best friend,” you say quietly. “Of course she knows.”
Rafe drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needs to bleed off the anger before it spills the wrong way.
“Sofia shouldn’t have said that to you.”
You shrug, even though it hurts. “It’s fine. I’m used to it. Being the little sister. The one nobody expects anything from.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
You start pacing again, needing the movement, the space. “It’s whatever.”
“Kiss me.”
You stop short.
“What?”
Rafe is standing now. Right in front of you. Close enough that you can see the seriousness in his eyes, the way this isn’t a joke or a dare or some careless Rafe thing.
“Kiss me,” he says again, quieter this time.
Your chest tightens. “Rafe, I—”
“I’m not messing with you,” he says. “And I’m not asking you to prove anything. I just—” He hesitates, then reaches for you gently when you try to step past him. “Come here.”
You shake your head, nerves spiking. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I do.”
You take half a step back anyway. Old instincts. Old fears. You turn toward the door before you can think better of it.
Rafe moves fast—but not rough.
He steps in front of you, hands light but firm at your arms, stopping you. Then he leans down and kisses you.
It’s slow. Careful. His lips barely brush yours at first, like he’s asking permission even now. Like he’s willing to stop the second you pull away.
Your breath stutters.
The kiss deepens just a little, his hand sliding to your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek. You don’t think—you just feel. The way his mouth moves. The way he waits for you to follow.
You do.
Then panic hits.
You pull back, heart racing, embarrassed heat flooding your face.
“She’s your—” You stumble over the word. “She’s your…”
Rafe exhales softly, not annoyed, not amused. He steps back, sits down on the edge of the bed, and before you can retreat again, he reaches for you and pulls you gently onto his lap.
You end up straddling him awkwardly, knees on either side of his thighs, hands hovering like you don’t know where they belong.
It’s not sexy.
It’s intimate. Terrifying. Safe all at once.
“She’s my ex,” he says calmly. “That’s it.”
You look at him, nervous, searching his face.
“And I don’t want her,” he adds. “I don’t want anyone who makes you feel small.”
Your throat tightens.
“She shouldn’t have said that to you,” he continues, voice firm now. “And for what it’s worth—I already told her the fuck off. The second I heard.”
You blink. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Nobody gets to talk to you like that. Not in my house. Not ever.”
Your hands settle against his shoulders without you realizing it. Familiar. Like they’ve always known where they belong.
“I’ve always liked you,” you admit softly. The truth slips out before you can stop it. “Like… forever.”
Rafe’s expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
“You do?”
He nods. “You’ve always looked at me like I’m something steady. Something safe. I never wanted to mess that up. But I like you too. I always have.”
Your eyes burn.
“Kissing you makes me nervous,” you whisper.
His mouth curves into a small, genuine smile. “Good,” he murmurs. “Means it matters.”
You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His arms come around you naturally, holding you there like that’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “I am now.”
He presses a gentle kiss to your temple. No rush. No pressure.
Just Rafe. Being Rafe.
And when he kisses you again, slow and careful, you don’t pull away this time.
Warnings: emotional whiplash, mutual pining, unspoken love, alcohol use, mentions of past grief, unresolved tension, orgasm, grinding, slow burn
You know it’s Rafe before you even open the door. He never knocks like a normal person—always that same impatient three-beat rhythm, like he’s daring you not to answer. You tug it open and there he is: hoodie unzipped, damp curls curling along his temple, that lazy half-smirk already pulling at his mouth like he’s halfway through a joke you weren’t invited to hear.
Topper’s behind him, arms loaded with junk food and cheap beer. Kelce follows, dragging a bag of fast food that already smells like regret. They barely say hello before they’re in your kitchen, slamming cupboards and bitching about traffic, Blackwell party politics, and how JJ said something about Rafe’s boat being “as washed up as his personality.”
(You laugh. Rafe doesn’t.)
And then it’s just… a normal night. Like nothing’s changed. Like your heart hasn’t been doing backflips every time he’s near.
Rafe drops onto the couch beside you like gravity prefers him close. His thigh bumps yours. You don’t move. Neither does he. The boys are arguing over what to put on the TV, voices rising with each bad suggestion. You tune them out, hyper-aware of how near he is. The warmth of him. The scent of his cologne. The static in the air that always seems to crackle when he’s this close.
You’re halfway through teasing Topper for his taste in music when Rafe’s phone buzzes on the armrest. You both glance at it at the same time. Sofia. The name glows on the screen like a warning sign. Rafe sighs before he even picks it up. Quiet, but heavy.
“Hey.”
His whole posture shifts. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping into something tired and low. You can’t hear her, not exactly, but you’ve heard enough of their fights to know how this goes.
“No, I didn’t say that,” he mutters. “It was a joke. Jesus, why do you always do this?”
He stands, walks into the kitchen like distance might help. You hear the fridge open. Then close. Like movement will calm him. It won’t.
“She doesn’t get it,” Kelce mutters under his breath.
Topper scoffs. “She never has.”
You don’t say anything. You just stare at the screen, still lit with her name like it’s mocking you. Like it knows something you don’t. Rafe’s voice spikes again—sharper this time.
“I’m not doing this tonight, Sof. I’m with the guys. I didn’t know the Blackwells’ party meant that much to you.”
A beat. Two. Three.
Then: the soft, clean click of the call ending. Final. Familiar.
Rafe walks back in like nothing happened. But it did. You both know it did.
“What was that about?” you ask, voice softer than you meant it to be.
Rafe shrugs like it’s nothing. Like her name didn’t just put a crack down the middle of him. “Party drama. She wants me to take her. So she can smile for the country club cameras and pretend we don’t spend every other night yelling or not speaking.”
Topper scoffs. “You’re not actually going, right?” Rafe doesn’t answer immediately. And that silence says too much.
Kelce leans forward, deadpan. “Bro. Don’t be a dumbass. You take her, it’s the same old loop—she guilt-trips you into playing prince charming, then crucifies you the second it’s not perfect.”
Rafe exhales hard, rubs at his temple like he’s trying to press the thought out of his head. “I know. I’m not going.”
“You sure?” you ask.
He turns to you then. And this time—he really sees you.
Not just the easy banter and the tucked-away smile. But the girl who’s sat through every bad fight. Every messy come-down. Every night he came over instead of going home.
His voice is quieter now. Different. “I’m tired,” he says. “Of pretending. Of keeping my mouth shut to avoid a meltdown. I just… I want someone who gets me. Who doesn’t make me feel like I have to apologize for existing.”
A long pause. Then Kelce—no patience for emotional tension, apparently—lifts his beer and points it at you. “So. The girl next to you. Maybe?”
Rafe looks. You feel it. He turns slowly, meets your eyes. Blinks once. Then laughs. Low. Boyish. Easy. But you hear the panic beneath it.
“She’s my best friend,” he says, nudging your knee with his like that should be enough. Like that title doesn’t burn every time he says it.
And you try to laugh too. Try to smile. Like your heart isn’t folding in half right there on the couch.
“Yeah, well,” you say, reaching for his drink without looking at him, “your best friend’s hotter than your girlfriend. So maybe try being grateful.”
Topper lets out a low whistle. “Not wrong.”
“Facts,” Kelce mutters around a mouthful of fries. “I don’t even like girls and I’d kiss her sober.”
You fake a laugh. Toss your head back like none of it matters.
But Rafe just shakes his head, still grinning, still casual—like he didn’t just slice you open and call it friendship. And you let him. Because that’s what you do.
You keep the smile. You keep the distance. You keep drinking with the guys like you haven’t memorized the sound of his laugh in the dark or the weight of his hoodie on your shoulders after a long night.
Because if he hasn’t figured it out by now… he probably never will. And if he ever does—it won’t be tonight.
The house is too quiet after they leave. The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts get mean. The kind that makes memories feel louder than footsteps.
You end up on your bedroom floor, back pressed to the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, an old hoodie swallowing your frame. It smells like dryer sheets and history. You’re halfway into a cocktail of nostalgia and cheap vodka—the kind of mix that only ever ends in tears or bad decisions. Probably both.
You shouldn’t be thinking about high school. But you are.
About the way she used to flip her hair in the hall like she was auditioning for a shampoo ad. About how Rafe always looked at her. Like she was made of something magic.
You never wore the skirt. Never stood under the stadium lights. You were the girl in the hoodie, the scraped-knee tomboy with sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. The one who stayed after class to help clean up and walked home with your headphones in and your head down.
Still—some part of you thought maybe, maybe Rafe would notice. Wake up one day and see you standing right there. See the years, the loyalty, the way you knew him better than anyone else.
But he never did. And tonight? You’re too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
So you do what you always do when you’re on the edge of unraveling. You call Kelce.
“Bitch,” he says, not even pretending to be concerned. “I was just thinking about you. Like. In a spiritual, twin flame kind of way.”
“I’m spiraling.”
“Of course you are,” he says brightly. “Let me grab the tequila. Don’t move.”
Two hours later, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open takeout containers and enough empty shot glasses to make a bartender cry. Kelce’s halfway into a passionate rant about how the cheerleader-to-hot-girl pipeline is “statistically unfair and rooted in misogyny,” while you’re crying-laughing into a pillow.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, mouth full of fries, “you peaked emotionally in sophomore year when you told that entire classroom that Rafe’s ex had the personality of a wet sock.”
“She does, though!”
“You were his soulmate back then,” he says. “He just didn’t deserve you.”
You’re still laughing when you hit Rafe’s contact and call.
He answers after two rings. “You good?”
You stretch out across the rug, hair fanned dramatically around your head. “I’m great.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Am not.”
Kelce yells in the background, “She is. And I love it for her.”
You snort. “We’re bonding. Don’t ruin this.”
There’s a pause. Then Rafe says, amused but slightly wounded, “You called him and not me?”
You smile into the phone. “Well, I didn’t know if your bed was gonna be… occupied.”
It’s a throwaway line. A tease. Mostly. But the silence that follows stretches just long enough to sober you halfway.
Then—“You know I don’t have anybody in my bed,” Rafe says. Quiet. Firm. No hesitation. “I haven’t in months.” You freeze. Your brain short-circuits. Your heart stutters, stumbles, keeps going.
“I—” you try, but it comes out thin.
“I guess I’m just…” Rafe exhales. “Tired of waking up next to people who don’t actually see me.” Kelce’s eyes widen. You slap a hand over the speaker.
“Did he just soft-launch his vulnerability?!” he hisses. You mouth shut up and uncover the phone.
“Well,” you say, trying for playful but it lands a little too breathless, “tell your bed I feel sorry for her.”
“Don’t do that,” he says immediately. “Don’t turn it into a joke.” Your chest tightens. He’s never said it like that before.
You clear your throat. “Come babysit us. Please. Before I pour out my heart to this rug and Kelce writes a sonnet about it.” There’s a beat. Then Rafe sighs—soft, fond. “I’ll grab Topper. Try not to die before we get there.”
You hang up and immediately roll onto your back, hand covering your eyes. Kelce grins like a devil. “Well that was emotionally charged.”
You groan. “I hate him.”
“You love him.”
“I know,” you whisper, and it tastes like truth. “And I hate that even more.”
Kelce lies down beside you, nudging your arm. “When he gets here, I’ll distract Topper with tequila shots and stories of my childhood trauma. You? You tell Rafe what you meant.”
You blink at the ceiling. “I won’t.”
“You will. Or so help me, I’ll do it for you. And I’ll use dramatic metaphors.”
You laugh in spite of yourself. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best thing that ever happened to you,” he says, already scrolling through his playlist. “Second to Rafe. And don’t worry—I’m working on fixing that.”
And you let yourself close your eyes, just for a second, because for once, it feels okay not to hold it all together.
When Rafe and Topper push open the door—after knocking three times with no answer and deciding that was definitely enough effort—they expect drunk.
They expect a mess. They don’t expect this.
You’re in the middle of your living room, barefoot, glowing under cheap string lights, a bottle in one hand and your phone in the other, blasting This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things at full volume. You’re mid-spin, hair flying, cheeks flushed, mouth open in a dramatic, joyful scream of a chorus. And you’re wearing his shirt. Not just any shirt. His shirt.
The old faded OBX sweatshirt from two summers ago—stretched out from sleep, worn thin at the collar, and without question his. It swallows you, hits mid-thigh, and hangs off your shoulder like it belongs to you.
Kelce is dancing too—if by dancing, you mean violently flailing in gym shorts and a tank top, swinging a spatula around like it’s a microphone.
“I invite you here to break me like a promiseeee—” he wails.
“SO I DON’T HAVE TO PRETEND I LIKE YOU!!” you scream back, nearly toppling into the couch. Rafe freezes in the doorway.
Topper snorts. “Holy shit.”
“They’re gone,” Rafe mutters. “She’s feral.”
“We were built to fall apart!” Kelce belts, throwing an arm around you and dragging you into a clumsy spin. You squeal, laughing breathlessly.
Rafe just stares. Your hair’s messy. Your mascara is smudged. There’s glitter on your cheek that he knows wasn’t there earlier. And that’s his shirt. And you look so fucking good in it, it makes something twist low in his stomach.
“I think they’re drunk,” Topper says helpfully.
Rafe shoots him a deadpan look. “You think?”
You finally notice them, pausing mid-twirl with a delighted gasp. “RAFE!”
Kelce raises his spatula in salute. “THE DADS ARE HOME!”
Topper collapses onto the couch. “I am not your dad.”
“I am your problem,” Kelce says, stumbling into a very dramatic bow.
Rafe walks toward you slowly, like he’s not sure if you’re going to try and tackle him or spontaneously combust.
You beam at him, still breathless from dancing. “Guess what I’m wearing.”
His gaze drops for a half-second. “I noticed.”
You tug at the hem, voice light and teasing. “It’s yours.”
“I know.”
You grin, drunk and soft and barely holding it together. “You okay with that?”
His eyes meet yours, just for a second. Something flickers.
“I don’t hate it.” Your heart skips. You hope it’s the alcohol. You sway a little, so he steadies you with a hand on your elbow.
“You smell like tequila and bad decisions,” he says, voice quieter now.
“Isn’t that my brand?” Rafe huffs a laugh. He should let go. He doesn’t.
Behind you, Kelce yells, “TOPPER, PUT ON A MOVIE OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL START READING ‘TWILIGHT’ OUT LOUD.”
“Do not threaten me with a good time,” Topper calls back. Rafe glances past you at the chaos, then back at you.
“You should sit down before you fall over.”
You nod, suddenly sleepy. “Tuck me in, then.”
He hesitates. Just for a breath. Then he catches your hand, gentle, like you’ll float away, and leads you to the couch.
You’re curled up under two mismatched blankets, face squished against Rafe’s shoulder, legs tangled over Kelce’s and Topper’s like some weird, chaotic cuddle pile. On screen, Jacob Black is shirtless and brooding in the rain.
“See?” you say, pointing with your third glass of wine. “This is the problem. Bella’s so emotionally constipated she can’t see what’s right in front of her.”
Rafe snorts. “I still don’t get why she didn’t pick Jacob.”
Kelce gasps. “Because trauma bonds are sexy.”
“She literally almost dies every time she’s with Edward,” you mutter.
“And Jacob would’ve bought her a sandwich and braided her hair,” Kelce sighs, dramatic as hell. “He had golden retriever energy. She chose violence.”
“She didn’t choose the best friend,” you mumble, settling deeper into Rafe’s side. “The best friend never gets picked.”
Rafe turns toward you. “That’s not subtle at all.”
You smile lazily. “I’m drunk. I’m not responsible for what I say.”
“Still feels pretty specific.”
“It’s just… true. From experience.” You say it too lightly. Too fast. Like if you rush the words out, they won’t land the way they do.
And then there’s silence. Not the awkward kind. The heavy kind. The I-heard-you-but-I’m-not-ready-to-answer kind.
Until Rafe says, voice low, almost rough, “We both know I chose you.”
You blink, heart hiccuping. “Do I need to bring up Sofia?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then—“You don’t know how it ended.”
You pause. You sit with that. You feel him shift beside you, just slightly. Like he’s giving you space to say something, ask something, call him out—but you don’t. Not tonight.
“We should have this conversation when I’m not drunk,” you murmur, the edges of your voice going soft and sleepy.
Rafe exhales like he was holding that breath. “Yeah,” he says. “We should.”
You curl closer into his side, burying your face in the curve of his neck, and sigh. “You smell good.”
He laughs, low and warm and stunned. “Jesus. What are you?”
“A delight,” you whisper, smile barely there.
And then he does something you’re not expecting—something that sends your already spiraling heart into full freefall. He runs a hand through your hair. Slow. Gentle. Again and again, fingers threading at your scalp like a lullaby.
You don’t mean to fall asleep. But wrapped in his warmth, in his smell, in that slow, steady motion—you do. And Rafe stays there long after the credits roll. Like maybe, finally, he sees it too.
You should’ve texted. You should’ve known from the way he didn’t answer your last message, from the silence between the two of you since that night on the couch—since you fell asleep with your head on his chest and woke up to him already gone.
But you didn’t. You just show up. Like always. You don’t knock. He doesn’t lock the door for you anymore.
The house is quiet, except for the distant sound of something crashing in the back room—followed by a muttered fuck and then the unmistakable thud of something hitting drywall.
Your heart jumps. You find him in the kitchen, shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes dark and storming. His knuckles are raw and red. There’s a shattered glass on the floor near the fridge.
“Rafe?” you ask gently, like you’re approaching a wild animal that already decided it doesn’t want to be saved.
He doesn’t look at you. “Now’s not a good time.”
You step in anyway. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” He’s lying. You lean against the counter, watching him tear into a drawer like it personally wronged him.
“Want me to pretend I believe that or cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually going on?”
He slams the drawer shut. “Don’t start.”
You cross your arms. “Rafe.”
He finally looks at you, and God, the look in his eyes is something close to ruin. Hair a mess. Shirt rumpled. That familiar crack behind his expression—the one you know better than your own reflection. He’s holding on by a thread. And it’s snapping.
“Saw Sarah,” he says bitterly. “If you’re wondering.”
You straighten. “Okay. And?”
“And it was a shitshow, like always.”
“What’d she say?”
“That it’s my fault. That he’s dead because of me.” His voice breaks on the word like it tastes like blood. “That I never change.”
You’re quiet for a beat. Then—carefully—“Is that what you think? That it’s your fault?” He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.
“What?”
“Why are you still here?” he snaps suddenly. “Why haven’t you left yet?”
The words hit harder than they should. You blink. Swallow. Take a breath.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Maybe because I thought I mattered to you.”
He scoffs. “Everybody else left. Sarah. JJ. John B. All of them. Even Kelce has one foot out.”
“I’m not them, Rafe.”
He looks at you then—really looks at you—and there’s something in his face that cracks open. Pain. Confusion. Anger. Something helpless and hollow.
You shake your head, voice shaking now too. “Why can’t you just see it? I’ve always been here.” Rafe doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t try. So you laugh. It’s bitter and breathless. “Of course.”
You step back, heart splintering in your chest like broken glass under bare feet. “You don’t have to shove me out, Rafe. You don’t have to say it.”
“Say what?” he asks, and it’s almost defensive, like he doesn’t know what you mean or doesn’t want to.
You meet his eyes. “That you’ll never choose me.”
And then you’re gone. Out the door, down the steps, past the place where he kissed Sofia once and you pretended it didn’t gut you. He doesn’t follow. He just lets you go. Like they all did. And for once, you wish you hadn’t tried so hard to be the one who stayed.
You’ve been ignoring him for three days. Not in the dramatic, block-his-number-and-burn-his-hoodie kind of way. No, your kind of silence is quieter. Sharper. You don’t text. Don’t call. You don’t laugh at his dumb memes he always sends late at night, and you don’t show up to the dock where he waits, just in case.
You’ve only answered Kelce. Because Kelce doesn’t lie. And when he told you Rafe was “just grabbing food” at the country club—that country club—where Sofia happens to work? It sat in your stomach like rot.
So you stop showing up. Stop trying. Let the ache simmer and settle. And then, of course, you run into him.
You’re walking back from a boutique with a broken sandal in your hand and a half-eaten smoothie in the other when you spot him—sitting on a bench just off Main Street, hunched over, elbows on his knees, a baseball cap pulled low over his brow like he’s hiding. He looks miserable. Of course he does.
“Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Rafe looks up, startled. And then… relieved. That same flicker of softness that always comes with seeing you, no matter how tense things are.
“I know Kelce told you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “About what?”
He sighs. “The country club. Sofia. Whatever.”
Your voice is flat. “Were you even phased about our fight?”
Rafe looks at you then. Really looks. “This is all really confusing, okay?” he says, voice low and strained. “Seeing Sofia again didn’t make anything better. It just made it clear I don’t want her.”
You fold your arms. “Then why go?”
“Because I’m stupid,” he snaps. “And because I thought maybe if I saw her, it would make this easier. You and me. Everything that’s… changing.”
You shake your head. “Don’t. Don’t say anything else.” You turn on your heel before he can see the way your throat tightens, but he follows. Because of course he does.
The shop is quiet, air-conditioned, the kind of place that smells expensive even when it’s not.
You’re half-determined to pretend Rafe didn’t follow you inside—but he trails behind you like he belongs there. Like he’s trying to stay close without crowding you. Like he knows he messed up but still doesn’t want to let you go.
You disappear into a fitting room with a suit you don’t even think will look good—light purple, silky-soft, definitely out of your price range—and ignore the way your heart is beating way too fast.
When you step out, it’s quiet. Then Rafe looks up. And everything about him freezes.
His mouth parts slightly. His hands go still at his sides. His eyes—God, his eyes go soft in a way that makes your chest ache. “You look…” He exhales. “I don’t even have the words.”
You smile. Just a little. “It’s a bit much.”
“No,” he says, immediately. “It’s perfect.”
You look at yourself in the mirror again, trying to pretend it doesn’t matter how he sees you. That it doesn’t mean everything.
But you take it off. You put it back on the hanger, press it gently against the rack like maybe if you’re delicate enough, it won’t feel like letting go. And when you walk into the bathroom to wash your hands, Rafe’s already reaching for his wallet.
You don’t realize what he’s done until you’re halfway down the block and a bag is pressed into your hands.
“What’s this?” you ask.
He shrugs. “Consider it an apology.”
You blink. “Rafe—”
“You smiled,” he says. Quiet. Vulnerable. “I haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks. I couldn’t let it go back on the rack.”
You stare at him. Then down at the bag. Then back at him. And something inside you cracks, soft and slow and stupidly hopeful. He sees it, too. Maybe he always did.
The house is quiet now, save for the low hum of bass coming from outside and the soft whir of the ceiling fan. You’re barefoot, flushed, still damp from the pool. That lilac bikini top clings to your skin, and your cutoffs ride just a little higher with every step.
Rafe’s in the kitchen, sipping from a half-empty drink, shirtless, hair still wet. His eyes track you like he’s trying not to make it obvious—but it is.
You smirk. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “You just look…” He trails off.
You raise a brow, teasing. “Good?”
“Better than good.”
The speaker inside glitches for a second—then shifts into something slow, smooth, and bass-heavy. One of those songs that sinks into your spine and makes you move before you think.
You step closer, barefoot on tile. “You gonna dance with me or just stare?”
Rafe’s lips twitch. He sets his drink down and lets you lead. You turn, back to his front, and press your body into his slowly—just a sway at first. A test. His hands hover, then land on your hips like they were always meant to be there.
The music pulses low. You roll your hips against him. Slow. Intentional. Rafe’s breath hitches behind you.
“Jesus,” he mutters. His hands slide up your stomach, slow and warm, pausing just under the edge of your bikini top.
You keep moving—grinding back into him, subtle but deliberate—until his hands cup your chest, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric. You bite your lip and lean your head back against his shoulder.
“This okay?” he asks, voice ragged.
“Yeah,” you whisper. And it is. It’s not rushed. Not reckless. Just right.
You grind into him again, dragging a soft, low moan from his throat. His grip tightens. His lips brush the shell of your ear, not quite a kiss, just a breath. And God, if you didn’t already feel drunk, this would do it.
“Keep doing that,” he murmurs, hips shifting just enough to meet you.
You do. Over and over. To the rhythm. To the silence between words. To the tension that’s been stretching between you like a rubber band just shy of snapping.
No one outside notices. They don’t hear the breathy gasp you try to swallow. Or the way Rafe presses into you like it’s the only language he knows. You don’t kiss. You don’t speak. But when the song fades and his hands drop from your chest—lingering for a beat too long—it leaves you breathless anyway. And wanting.
You can’t sleep. Your skin still buzzes from the way he touched you earlier, slow and careful and wanting, and it’s driving you insane. Not just the physical part—but the way he looked at you, like he didn’t want to let go when the music stopped.
So you toss the blanket aside, pad down to the kitchen in nothing but one of your oversized tees and soft shorts, hair still damp, heart still too full.
He’s already there. Leaning against the counter. Barefoot. Shirtless. Hands braced wide like he’s trying to hold the world still.
You pause in the doorway. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
He glances at you, jaw clenched. “Yeah.”
You hesitate. Then: “What are you thinking about?” There’s a pause. Too long.
“Nothing,” he lies.
You huff, moving toward the fridge. “Fine. Whatever. I can’t do this tonight.”
He turns. “Do what?”
“This,” you say, waving a hand vaguely between you. “This thing where you touch me like I matter and then clam up like I don’t.”
His voice softens. “You know everything about me.”
You blink. “What?”
“I tell you everything,” Rafe says, stepping closer now. “You ever think about that?”
Your chest tightens. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I do. Quite a lot, to be honest.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “When my dad died, I came here. I didn’t know where else to go. You didn’t say shit when I started crying on your floor.”
“I never would.”
“Sofia did,” he says, flat. Bitter.
You flinch. “That’s… unfortunate.”
“She said it made me weak,” he murmurs. “That I needed to grow up. Be a man.”
Your jaw clenches. “Then she never knew you.”
Silence again. He looks at you like he wants to say something else. Then—“What’s my favorite song?” he asks suddenly.
You blink. “What?”
“What’s my favorite song.”
You furrow your brow, confused. “Rafe, come on—what does that have to do with—”
“Just answer me.”
You frown. “Come On Get Higher. You used to play it in the car when you were pissed or trying not to cry or both.” He stares at you.
Then moves. Fast. Before you can react, he’s closing the space, hands on your waist, lifting you up like it’s nothing. You squeal—half surprised, half breathless—as he sets you on the counter, stepping between your knees.
“Rafe—”
“I belong with you,” you whisper, words tumbling out before you can second-guess them. “I always have.”
His mouth crashes into yours. And it’s not slow this time—it’s everything. Weeks of aching tension, years of almosts, every late-night thought and silent hope poured into one messy, gorgeous kiss. You gasp against him, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.
When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, eyes wild and soft all at once, you stare at him for a beat. Then grin. “Fucking finally.” He laughs—really laughs—and you kiss him again, smiling into it, already knowing this is the start of everything.
Warnings: angst, family drama, fighting, Sofia is a mean girl again, Ruthie, topper, Rafe, and kelce are all good, kelce is gay
Word count: 2.7k
Mini summary: you’re done with school, your mom wants you to have plans like topper, but you were never one to follow the rules. Good thing Rafe gets it.
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The house is too full.
Too loud. Too warm. Too many congratulations stacked on top of each other like no one knows when to stop.
It’s an engagement dinner for Ruthie and Topper, which it is. Champagne on ice, flowers everywhere, Ruthie’s ring catching the light every time she moves her hand. It’s also your graduation party, apparently, though no one asked you how you wanted to celebrate that. Someone hung a banner that just says Congratulations! without specifying who it’s for.
That tracks.
You sit at the long dining table with your napkin folded neatly in your lap, posture polite, plate full and untouched. Across from you, Ruthie looks impossibly happy. Topper can’t stop smiling at her like he still can’t believe she chose him.
You love them. Truly. That part doesn’t hurt.
What hurts is the anticipation.
Your mom clears her throat.
“So,” she says, turning toward you with that careful brightness that always means she’s about to dig. “What’s the plan now?”
You smile. Soft. Pleasant. Non-committal.
“I’ve got one.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
You don’t rush. You take a sip of water, calm as hell, because for once you can be.
“I’m working for Rafe.”
The table stills just enough.
Your mom blinks. “Working… how?”
Rafe, seated beside you, shifts closer like this is his cue. He rests his forearm on the table, casual confidence dialed all the way in.
“She starts next week,” he says easily. “Consulting side. Writing, behavioral analysis, strategy support.”
Your mom’s mouth opens. Closes.
Rafe continues, unbothered. “She’s smart. Knows how people work. I offered her the position last week. She said yes.”
You glance at him, biting back a smile.
Your mom recalibrates fast. “Well,” she says, a little stiff now, “your company is… very reputable.”
Rafe hums. “We do alright.”
There’s nothing she can argue with. No gaps to poke. No concern to dress up as advice. She nods, tight but polite, and moves on.
Inside, you feel smug. Just a little. As a treat.
Under the table, Rafe’s hand finds yours. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, grounding and warm.
You let your shoulders drop.
Dinner continues. Ruthie and Topper field engagement questions. Laughter bubbles up and spills over. Someone refills your glass. Your mom stays suspiciously quiet when it comes to you.
Rafe leans closer, voice low. “Told you she wouldn’t fight it.”
You murmur back, “I enjoyed that more than I should’ve.”
He smirks. “Good.”
Later, when plates are cleared and people drift toward the living room, he nudges you lightly with his knee.
“You good?” he asks.
You shrug. “Better.”
“Yeah?” His eyes flick over your face, softening. “You look better.”
Ruthie claps her hands from across the room. “Photos! Everyone. Phones out.”
You groan quietly but stand anyway. Ruthie grabs your wrist and pulls you forward.
“Nope. You’re standing here,” she says, positioning you right next to Rafe. “Both of you.”
Rafe laughs under his breath. “What, we’re a set now?”
“Yes,” Ruthie says, completely unbothered. “Also, congrats on the promotion.”
There’s another wave of congratulations. Rafe nods, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when attention lands too hard. Someone asks about the company again, about growth, about plans.
He answers smoothly. Mentions expansion. Mentions consulting. Mentions the team.
Mentions you.
Ruthie lifts her phone. “Smile!”
You do. It’s easier this time. Rafe’s arm rests warm and steady at your back, like it belongs there.
The camera clicks.
As people disperse again, he leans in, voice just for you.
“Congrats,” he says. “Graduated. Employed. Still hot.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth curves anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grins. “And you’re working for me now. Get used to it.”
For the first time all night, your chest feels light.
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The party is meant to be easy.
That’s what Ruthie said when she texted you the invite. Just friends. Just drinks. No pressure.
You should’ve known better.
It’s been a few weeks since the engagement dinner. A few weeks of early mornings and late afternoons at Rafe’s office, of learning the rhythm of his business and the way his mind works. A few weeks of him checking in without hovering, of flirty comments slipped in like afterthoughts, of something warm and unspoken settling between you.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
You’re not.
The night hums around you—music low, laughter drifting, the air thick with salt and summer. Ruthie hands you a drink, then another. Kelce keeps you laughing, keeps your glass full, keeps the sharp parts of your brain dulled just enough.
You let yourself relax.
Then you see her.
Sofia stands near the bar, polished and effortless, like she never left. She laughs at something Rafe says, tilts her head just slightly, fingers brushing his arm in a way that feels practiced.
He doesn’t lean in. He doesn’t touch her back. He isn’t flirting.
He also doesn’t move away.
Your chest tightens, sudden and unwelcome.
You look down at your drink and finish it in one swallow.
Kelce notices immediately. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We’re not spiraling tonight.”
“I’m not spiraling,” you say, too quickly.
Ruthie follows your gaze, sighs. “She won’t last the night,” she murmurs. “She never does.”
That doesn’t help.
You take another drink. The edge softens, then blurs. The music feels louder. Your thoughts get heavier, slower, harder to hold in place.
When Topper checks on you—gentle, familiar—it lands wrong.
“You good?” he asks.
Something inside you snaps.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say, forcing a laugh that sounds off even to your own ears.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” you cut in. “You never do.”
The words hang there, heavier than you intended. Ruthie steps closer, concern written all over her face.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You’re drunk.”
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
You grab your bag, suddenly desperate for air, for distance, for somewhere that isn’t full of expectations and memories and people watching you pretend you’re fine.
“I want to go home.”
Topper hesitates. “You don’t have to leave like this.”
“I do,” you say. “If I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”
Ruthie squeezes your hand. “Okay. We’ll get you home.”
She looks past you, already searching.
“Rafe.”
He’s there instantly.
One look at you and his expression shifts—concern first, then something quieter and deeper. Understanding.
“I’ve got her,” he says.
You shake your head, stubborn even now. “No. I’m not going with him.”
Rafe steps closer anyway, voice low and steady. “You’re not walking. Let’s go.”
“I said no.”
“I heard you,” he replies calmly. “I’m still taking you home.”
You turn to argue and suddenly you’re airborne.
Rafe lifts you with ease, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. The world tilts, laughter erupts somewhere behind you, and you let out an indignant gasp.
“Rafe,” you hiss, mortified. “Put me down.”
“Nope.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Mm,” he hums. “I’ve been told.”
You grumble the entire way to the truck, burying your face against his shoulder, words spilling out half-muffled and unfiltered.
“You and Topper are the same,” you mutter. “Always deciding things. Always thinking you know best.”
He sets you down gently in the passenger seat, buckles you in despite your weak protest.
“Stay,” he says, firm but kind.
You cross your arms. “You’re annoying.”
He leans in, close enough that you can see the concern in his eyes beneath the teasing. “You’re drunk.”
“And sad,” you add quietly, staring out the window.
That makes him pause.
He shuts the door softly and gets behind the wheel. The party fades behind you as he pulls away, the road stretching dark and quiet ahead.
You mumble complaints under your breath—about Sofia, about Topper, about how tired you are of always being the one who adjusts.
Rafe listens.
He doesn’t interrupt.
He doesn’t dismiss it.
He just grips the steering wheel a little tighter and drives you home.
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You’re still wound tight when Rafe parks.
Not dramatic. Not screaming. Just coiled — like every nerve in your body has been pulled too far and left there.
When he comes around to your side, you shake your head before he can even speak.
“I can walk.”
He studies you for a beat, then nods. “Okay.”
He doesn’t touch you right away — but the second your heel catches on the step, his hand slides to the small of your back, steady and warm. His other arm carries your bag and both phones like it’s automatic. He moves with you, not ahead of you, not behind you.
Inside, the house is quiet in a way that feels almost unfamiliar after the noise of the party. Dim lamps, calm air, no ghosts of the Cameron house hanging over it.
You make it to his bedroom on sheer stubbornness.
Then you stop.
Your fingers shake as you fumble for the zipper at the back of your dress. Once. Twice. Nothing. Your chest tightens, breath going shallow.
“I can’t get it,” you snap, sharper than you mean to.
Rafe steps closer instantly.
“Turn around.”
You do — but your shoulders are tense, eyes already glassy.
His fingers find the zipper and ease it down slowly, carefully. His knuckles brush your spine, gentle enough that it almost makes you crack.
Then your hands drop.
And that’s when it hits.
Angry tears spill before you can stop them — not pretty, not soft, just frustrated and raw. You swipe at your face, mortified and exhausted all at once.
“I hate this,” you whisper, voice wobbling. “I hate tonight. I hate feeling like I’m always the problem.”
Rafe doesn’t rush you. He just stays close, quiet, solid.
“Lift your hair,” he murmurs.
You do, and he unhooks your bra with the same calm care, like this is simply something you need help with — no tension, no hesitation.
He hands you one of his long-sleeve shirts and a pair of his boxers. You change quickly, feeling small in his clothes but strangely safe.
You sit on the edge of the bed, hands in your lap, tears still quietly slipping.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
You text Topper.
You don’t show Rafe — but he sees your shoulders soften after you hit send. He knows enough.
“I told him I’m at your place,” you murmur. “And that I’m sorry I was a bitch.”
Rafe exhales slowly, something easing in his face.
When you crawl toward the middle of the bed, he shakes his head.
“You take it.”
You tuck yourself to the side instead. “No. It’s yours.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re annoying.”
A tired, quiet back-and-forth follows until he sighs.
“What if we share?”
You hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”
You turn onto your side, back to him, staring into the dark while your chest aches with guilt.
“I was a dick to Topper,” you whisper.
Rafe doesn’t say anything.
He just moves closer, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him until your spine fits against his chest. You curl into him without thinking, forehead pressing to his shoulder as your breath stutters.
He holds you — steady, warm, unshakeable — until you fall asleep.
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Morning comes slow.
Soft gold light stripes the room. The air feels lazy and warm.
You wake tangled.
Rafe’s arm is around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, legs threaded together like your bodies already know how to fit. His face is tucked near your hair.
You shift slightly — and before you can even move fully, his arm tightens and he pulls you back into him.
Not hard. Not possessive. Just instinctive.
“Stay,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
You smile without turning. “Good morning to you too.”
He hums, burying his face briefly against your hair like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.
You lie there like that for a while, wrapped together in quiet sunlight, neither of you rushing to break it.
Eventually you both stretch and untangle, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed while the day wakes up.
Rafe disappears and comes back with coffee without you asking. You curl your hands around the mug, grateful.
“I’m starving,” you admit.
He opens the fridge, squints, closes it again.
You laugh. “You can’t cook.”
“I can survive,” he mutters.
Five minutes later, he’s ordering food.
When he rattles off your drinks, you freeze.
“One large iced chai,” he says. “And a caramel mocha with maple.”
Your head snaps toward him. “How did you know that?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I pay attention.”
Your chest melts a little.
Food arrives — breakfast sandwiches, warm muffins, too much for two people — and you sit at his island together, feet hooked around the stools.
You lean over without thinking and kiss the corner of his mouth.
He grins, cheeky. “Careful.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks warm, and turn back to your sandwich so you don’t have to look at him for a second too long. For a few minutes the kitchen feels easy again — sunlight, quiet, the clink of plates, the smell of coffee.
Then you feel him watching you.
Not teasing. Not playful. Steady.
He sets his sandwich down.
“You got quiet.”
You pick at your muffin. “Just thinking.”
“About last night?”
Your shoulders lift, then drop. “Not really.”
He doesn’t move back. He moves closer — forearms braced on the counter, voice low, eyes locked on you.
“You said things in the truck,” he says, gentler now. “About Sofia.”
Your stomach tightens. You take a long sip of chai instead of answering.
He waits.
You feel it — that patient, quiet pressure of him not letting this slide the way everyone else always has.
Finally, you exhale.
“She wasn’t loud about it,” you admit quietly. “Not the kind of mean you can call out without looking crazy.”
His jaw tightens immediately.
“Little comments,” you continue. “Eye rolls. Laughing like I was a joke when I talked. Like I was always… in the way. Like I didn’t belong anywhere she was.”
Silence. Heavy, still, charged.
Rafe pushes off the counter just enough to face you fully.
“And you didn’t tell me,” he says — calm, but sharp underneath.
You shake your head. “You were happy. I wasn’t going to ruin that.”
His hand comes down flat on the counter — not hard, but deliberate.
“All this time?” he asks quietly. “All this time, and you didn’t tell me?”
Your throat tightens. “What was I supposed to do?”
His eyes search yours, something fierce and unsettled moving behind them. “Did Topper know?”
You swallow. “No.”
A beat.
“Ruthie did,” you add softly. “She saw it. She always had my back.”
Something shifts in his face — not anger at Ruthie, but anger at the situation, at himself, at how alone you were.
“You should’ve told me,” he says, voice low but urgent now. “If someone makes you feel like shit, you tell me. I need to know.”
You blink at him, breath shallow. “And what would’ve been different, Rafe? If you knew?”
His jaw ticks.
“I would’ve handled it.”
“How?” you press gently. “Yelled at her? Made a scene?”
His eyes darken just a little. “Or told her off. Or punched someone, depending on the situation.”
You let out a shaky, almost disbelieving laugh. “So you’d get in trouble?”
His brows knit together. “I don’t care.”
You shake your head immediately. “That’s not okay either.”
Silence stretches between you again — thicker now, sharper.
Rafe looks at you like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“Neither is you thinking you deserved to be treated like that,” he says, quieter but unwavering. “Neither is you swallowing it and hurting alone.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
His voice softens, dropping lower, closer.
“You’re perfect,” he says. “You always have been.”
The words hit you like a crack in ice.
Your breath stutters. Your eyes burn.
Before you can overthink it, you lean in — slow, certain — and kiss him.
Rafe freezes for half a second, clearly not expecting it this time.
Then his hands come to your waist.
One smooth motion, and he pulls you off the stool and onto his lap, your legs settling on either side of him at the counter. His grip is firm, grounding, not rushed — just certain, like this is exactly where he wants you.
You don’t pull away.
His mouth moves against yours, softer than you expected, steadier than you imagined — but real, deliberate, unmistakable.
When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing unevenly, hands still holding on like neither of you is ready to let go.
His thumb brushes your waist once, slow, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.
No grand confession. No fireworks.
Just the quiet truth of something finally landing where it always belonged.
brought up the girls you could have instead — R.C.
January Jumble Day 11
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Warnings: insecure reader, Rafe is dumb, familial connection (reader and John B), no actual fight but reader is hurt, apologizing, angst
Word count: 900
Mini summary: Rafe is stupid, thank God John B knows his little sister and how to fix stupidity.
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Rafe says it without thinking. That’s what hurts the most.
You’re at the counter, red pen in hand, grading essays while the ceiling fan ticks lazily overhead. Outside, the sound of gulls and distant boat motors drifts in through the open windows. Rafe’s pacing behind you, talking about work, about deadlines, about Sofia dropping off paperwork late.
“She’s good,” he says. “I mean—she’s hot, obviously, but whatever—”
You stop writing.
The fan keeps spinning. The house keeps breathing. Something in your chest goes still.
You don’t look at him. You just set the pen down, slow and careful, like if you move too fast everything might shatter.
“Okay,” you say.
Rafe pauses. “Okay… what?”
“I’m gonna head out.”
He frowns. “Why?”
You grab your bag, sliding the papers inside without smoothing them. You don’t trust your voice to do anything but stay level.
“I don’t want to fight,” you say. “I just don’t want to be here right now.”
“Babe, I didn’t mean it like—”
“I know,” you cut in, finally meeting his eyes. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t land.”
You’re out the door before he can reach for you, bare feet hitting the porch, salt air filling your lungs like a sharp inhale after holding your breath too long.
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You don’t think about where you’re going.
You just go.
The Chateau has always been that place. Not because it’s calm or quiet—because it’s where he is.
The screen door slams behind you. Music hums low from inside. The porch boards creak the way they always have.
John B’s sitting on the steps, beer in hand, sunburned and barefoot, looking like he belongs exactly where he is. He looks up and immediately clocks it.
He doesn’t joke right away. That’s how you know he’s serious.
“What happened?” he asks.
Your chest tightens, the edge of everything finally catching up to you. You sit beside him, knees pulled up, leaning just enough that your shoulder brushes his.
“He said something stupid,” you say.
John B exhales slowly, like he’s already shifting into big brother mode.
“Rafe stupid,” he says, “or man stupid?”
“Both.”
You tell him. All of it. The comment. The tone. The way it followed you out the door. The way your mind filled in gaps you didn’t ask for—other versions of his life, other girls who wouldn’t need patience or explanations or emotional translation.
Girls who might’ve been easier.
Girls who wouldn’t need this much care.
John B doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, solid and quiet beside you, like he’s been doing your whole life—like he used to when you were younger, when things felt too big and he made them smaller just by staying.
“I don’t want to have to teach him how to talk,” you say softly. “I already do that all day. I stand in front of kids and explain how words land, how intent doesn’t erase impact. I can’t do that at home too, JB. I just can’t.”
John B nods, jaw tight.
“That’s fair,” he says. “You’re his partner. Not his teacher.”
You swallow. “I know he didn’t mean it. I just—don’t want to wonder if I’m the choice he made instead of the one he wanted.”
John B bumps his shoulder into yours, grounding, familiar.
“Hey,” he says. “You’ve always been the one he wants. He just doesn’t always know how to speak without setting himself on fire.”
There’s a beat.
Then, softer, “You came here to breathe. That’s okay.”
You nod, blinking hard.
“Oh,” he adds, already standing. “And I texted him.”
You groan. “John B—”
“I told him to come fix it,” he says. “Not fight. Fix. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
A truck crunches up the gravel driveway.
You don’t need to look to know who it is.
“I’m gonna grab another beer,” John B says, squeezing your shoulder once before heading inside. “You yell if you need me.”
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Rafe stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight like he’s bracing for impact.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. No deflection. No ego. Just truth. “I didn’t think before I spoke, and that’s on me.”
You cross your arms, steady but open.
“I don’t care that she works for you,” you say. “I care that you said it like I was… replaceable.”
His face falls.
“You’re not,” he says, fast and sure. “You’re it. You’re the only person I want to come home to. I don’t think about other versions of my life or other people I could be with.”
He drags a hand through his hair, voice rough.
“I love you. More than anybody. More than this job, more than this island, more than anything I’ve ever screwed up. You’re the only place that’s ever felt steady. And I hate that I made you feel like you were something I could swap out.”
You watch him for a long moment.
Then you say, softly, “I don’t want to teach you how to be careful with me.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m learning. I promise.”
You reach for his hand.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s go home.”
He blinks. “That’s… it?”
“You apologized,” you say. “I believe you. We’ll talk more later. Right now, I just want us.”
John B reappears instantly, beer in hand.
“Told you,” he says smugly. “Already fixed it. But good speech, man. Solid effort.”
Rafe groans. “You sent me, like, a novel.”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned cheekily. “It’s a brother thing.”
You climb into Rafe’s truck, fingers threading together over the console like it’s instinct, like it’s home.
As you pull away, the windows are down. Salt sticks to your skin. The ocean hums nearby.
Summary: Anna finds fragile safety with both Sarah and Rafe as fear and morning sickness push her closer to Rafe’s arms
Word count: 1.4k
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The Chateau was quieter than usual, just the soft buzz of the ceiling fan and the ocean wind sneaking through the open windows. Anna sat curled on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, the pill bottle rattling faintly in her hands every time she moved. Sarah sat beside her, close but not smothering, one hand resting lightly on Anna’s knee like an anchor.
“You don’t have to take it right this second,” Sarah murmured, watching the way Anna’s thumb worried the cap. “Just… when you’re ready.”
Anna swallowed hard and tipped the vitamin into her palm, staring at it like it might burn a hole straight through her skin. She didn’t even hear the crunch of tires on gravel until the screen door creaked open.
Rafe. His shadow filled the doorway, a stack of envelopes in one hand. His eyes swept the room and landed on the pill bottle before Anna had the chance to shove it out of sight.
“What’s going on?” His voice was sharp, suspicious. “Why are you here?”
Anna’s throat closed. She turned her face away. “None of your business, Rafe.”
His jaw ticked. “No. No, you don’t get to say that. What’s going on?”
The words hit too hard, too fast. Anna’s chest heaved, eyes stinging before she could stop them. Rafe took a step forward, temper spiking like it always did when he was scared. “Goddammit, Anna, answer me—”
Before she could unravel further, John B planted himself between them, palm flat against Rafe’s chest and shoving him back a step. “Back up, man. You need to back the hell up.”
Rafe’s nostrils flared, but John B didn’t budge. “She’s here because her mom kicked her out after she told her she was pregnant. And when Anna said she was keeping the baby? Her mom cut her off completely. She’s got nowhere else to go. That’s why.”
The words landed heavy. Anna’s breaths quickened into sharp, shallow gasps. Sarah tightened her arm around her shoulders, whispering, “In and out, Anna, c’mon. Just breathe with me.” But the panic had her in a chokehold—her body trembling, chest hitching as she spiraled toward hyperventilation.
Then Rafe moved. Not with anger this time, but with something raw and desperate. He slipped past John B and crouched down in front of Anna, ignoring Sarah’s warning look. His hand pressed warm against her back, rubbing slow circles, the exact way she’d always needed when the world got too heavy.
“Baby,” his voice cracked, but it was low, steady, right against her ear. “Stop fighting me. I’m here.”
Anna tried to jerk away, tried to resist the familiarity of his touch. But when his arms came around her—firm, not crushing, pulling her flush against him—her body betrayed her. The fight bled out, replaced by trembling sobs that shook into his chest.
“That’s it,” Rafe whispered, holding tight, his lips brushing her temple. “Just breathe with me. I’ve got you.”
For a fleeting second, it worked. Her lungs opened, ragged but fuller, and her fists unclenched against his shirt. But then Rafe’s voice broke through again, softer this time—pleading, almost.
“I should’ve never left you alone last night.”
Anna froze, the words slicing deep. She pulled back just enough to see his face, and the tears started all over again. “You did leave. You said you couldn’t do this. And now you’re here acting like you can.”
The crack in her voice gutted him, but he held on tighter, eyes wet and wild. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was scared, Anna. I’m still scared. But I—”
“Enough.” Sarah’s voice cut sharp, even though her hands were trembling. She pulled at Anna’s arm, glaring at her brother. “You don’t get to break her and then play savior. Not again.”
John B hovered behind them, jaw tight, watching the storm churn between them. “If you’re here to stay, fine. If not—walk away right now and don’t come back.”
Rafe’s grip faltered, just for a second, but he didn’t let go.
And Anna—caught between the boy who knew how to calm her storms and the wreckage he left behind—couldn’t decide if his arms felt like safety or another trap.
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The first week at Tanny Hill passed in a blur. Anna hadn’t unpacked more than a sweater and a toothbrush, but every morning she woke up with Rafe curled behind her, his arm slung heavy over her waist, his chest rising steady against her back.
It became routine. It became safe.
Until the morning it wasn’t.
Anna’s eyes blinked open to cold sheets and a half-empty bed. Her hand shot out, finding nothing but the imprint of where Rafe should’ve been. Panic clawed up her throat before she could stop it.
She shoved the blanket off and padded barefoot into the hall, heart racing, breath stuttering. By the time she reached the cracked door of his office, her cheeks were wet, silent tears she hadn’t even felt spilling down.
Rafe glanced up from the desk, brow furrowing. “Anna—baby, what?”
She stood frozen in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like it was holding her together. “You weren’t—you weren’t there when I woke up and I—I thought you left. I thought you were gone, Rafe, and I can’t—Rafe, I can’t—”
Her voice crumbled, breaking into gasps.
Rafe was out of his chair in an instant, pulling her onto his lap as soon as she was close enough. She folded against him, shaking, words tumbling half-formed into his shirt while his hands stroked broad, soothing lines down her back.
“I’m right here,” he whispered into her hair, rocking her slightly. “Always gonna be right here. Not leaving you, Anna. Not ever again.”
Her fists bunched into his t-shirt, clinging like it was the only thing holding her up. “I just—I woke up and it felt the same as that night, when you—when you weren’t—”
“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, then another just behind her ear. “That was then. This is now. You’re safe. I’m here.”
For a second, she almost let herself believe it. But then her stomach lurched hard.
“Oh—” she gasped, bolting from his lap and darting toward the bathroom down the hall.
“Anna?” Rafe’s voice cracked in confusion, following on quick footsteps. “Baby, what the hell—”
He heard it then—the hollow sound of retching on tile. His chest squeezed tight. He stopped outside the locked bathroom door, knuckles brushing the wood. “Anna, let me in.”
“No,” her voice came weak, raw. “Just—just go.”
“Not a chance.” His tone was soft but unyielding. “You’re sick and I’m not standing out here while you fall apart on the other side. Please, baby. Open the door.”
There was a beat of silence, then the soft click of the lock.
Rafe slipped inside to find her on her knees, one hand braced against the counter, the other gripping the porcelain like a lifeline. Sweat clung to her forehead, strands of hair plastered to her cheek.
“Oh, baby,” he breathed, dropping to his knees beside her. Without hesitation, he clipped her hair back with the nearest barrette, tucking the loose strands away from her face. Then he grabbed a washcloth, ran it under cool water, and pressed it gently to her forehead.
Anna closed her eyes, leaning into the touch, her chest still shuddering. “Don’t look at me like this,” she whispered, voice thick with shame.
Rafe shook his head, thumb brushing her damp temple. “I’m not going anywhere. Not when you need me. Especially not like this.”
She made a small, broken sound, and he eased down until he was sitting flat on the floor, back against the tub. He coaxed her gently into his lap, her head against his chest, his arms wrapping around her trembling frame.
“Let it out,” he murmured, rocking her slightly as she clung to him. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Anna pressed her face into his shirt, still embarrassed, still shaky, but his heartbeat was steady under her ear. His hand rubbed lazy circles between her shoulder blades, the other keeping the compress cool against her temple.
“Rafey,” she whispered, raw and small.
He kissed the crown of her head, tightening his hold. “I got you, baby. Always. No need to worry.”
And even on the bathroom floor, with her stomach in knots and tears drying on her cheeks, she let herself believe him.
