#obx3

[starkeyboxd]

[mggssocks]

Don't Worry I'll Make You Worry - Part Two to You Don't Have To Say It Yet

masterlist

pairing: fem!readder x Drew Starkey

cw: nsfw including oral (m receiving), fem dominating if you squint, no protection once again. 18+ MDNI

a/n: I know I haven't put anything out in a while. So sorry guys.. I decided to take a small hiatus for the first month of the year to give myself some time without a lot on my plate. I probably should've told you guys that before lol. But you guys have been so patient I decided to momentarily break my hiatus to give this to you. I won't be updating The Eighth until next month so I'm sorry lol. But I hope you enjoy this part two.

part one here

You’re in the middle of cooking dinner. Or at least, you were. The kitchen smells like ambition gone wrong- burnt gravy clinging to the air, thick and bitter. Norah Jones hums softly from the speaker on your counter, something slow and forgiving that does not match your mood. You lean over the stove, dip a finger into the pan, and bring it to your mouth.

Instant regret.

Your face twists, brows knitting as you pull your finger away. “Oh, absolutely not,” you mutter to no one. You don’t even bother trying to fix it. You lift the pan, dump the sauce straight into the sink, and crank the faucet on, rinsing the evidence away like it personally offended you. As the water runs, your music dips -just for a second- interrupted by the sharp, unmistakable ding of a text notification. Then Norah fades back in, like nothing happened.

You freeze. Slowly, you turn, eyes landing on your phone where it rests face-up on the counter. The screen is lit.

Unknown Number: Hey. It’s Drew.

You stare at it longer than necessary, then tilt your head back toward the ceiling like you might find answers up there. Almost a week since the party. Since the bathroom. Since the very real, very memorable collision with a celebrity stranger you technically weren’t supposed to think about this much afterward.

Your brain immediately offers two explanations:

1. He was nervous. Overthinking. Building up the courage.

2. He’s bored. Or lonely. Or horny.

You decide -very deliberately- to believe the first one. It feels better. Safer. Less… annoying. Then you remember the sink.

“Shit.” You drop your phone back onto the counter and rush to turn the faucet off before the pan overflows. The moment you twist the handle shut, your phone dings again. You grab it.

Unknown Number: My apologies for taking so long to reach out. I just didn’t really know how to approach me texting you after the other night.

You blink once. Twice. Then, before you can overthink it, another message comes through.

Unknown Number: Which I enjoyed, by the way. Not just the sex but your company too.

You smile despite yourself. A real one. Soft and small, like you’ve been caught doing something private. You bite your lip, thumb hovering over the screen, rereading it once more just to make sure it still says what you think it does.

Cute, you think. Dangerously so. You type back.

You: Hey, Drew. And it’s okay- I’ve been pretty busy anyway.

Casual. Controlled. Just enough distance to keep the balance where you want it. Before you can second-guess yourself, you exit the messages app and open your browser instead. The familiar local takeout site loads, photos of glossy noodles and steaming rice bowls filling the screen as your stomach growls in agreement. Dinner is officially someone else’s problem tonight. You place your order and sink down onto the couch with a sigh- trying to act normal while your pulse hums just beneath your skin.

A week later, and just like that, he’s back in your orbit. And you already know -whether you admit it or not- that you’re going to make him wait just a little longer before he figures out where he stands. You save his number quickly, thumbs moving on autopilot, slotting it neatly into your contacts as Drew S - casual, unceremonious, like you’re not very aware of the way your pulse keeps jumping.

Almost on cue, a message pops up.

Drew S: Working?

You answer faster than you mean to, the response sent before you can overthink the tone.

You: Something like that.

A beat passes. Just long enough for you to wonder if you should’ve waited.

Then:

Drew S: I was actually reaching out to see if you wanted to hang out sometime? Maybe catch a movie or get dinner?

You pause, phone hovering over your lap. Your instinct is to say yes -immediately, enthusiastically- because there’s no real reason not to. He’s polite. Thoughtful. Nervous in a way that feels earnest, not rehearsed. Which is exactly why you don’t give it to him right away. You bite your lip, eyes narrowing slightly as if you’re negotiating with yourself. Let him wonder a little. Let him sit with it.

You: A movie sounds nice. It just depends on the day.

Another pause - longer this time - and you can almost picture him rereading that, parsing every word.

Drew S: I was thinking this upcoming Thursday, if that works for you. And if not, I’m sure we can find another day that works for both of us.

You smile despite yourself. It’s careful. Respectful. Almost formal. Still- you don’t answer right away.

You: I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.

Drew S: Sounds good.

You leave him on read. Not because you’re busy. Not because you’re unsure.

Your calendar is wide open Thursday - glaringly empty - but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that so easily. Even though you already know he’s not a game-player. Even though everything about him so far suggests patience, not entitlement. Still. You can’t help it. Time passes. Your takeout arrives. You curl into the corner of your couch, legs tucked beneath you, orange chicken steaming in its container as you absently poke through it with your chopsticks.

It’s only then - mid-bite, relaxed, full - that you decide he’s waited long enough. You pick up your phone.

You: Thursday works for me.

You barely have time after pressing send before the typing bubbles appear. Immediately. You laugh quietly to yourself, biting your lip as if that might hide the smile threatening to give you away.

Drew S: Great! Looking forward to it.

You set your phone down beside you, letting Norah Jones fill the apartment again, warmth settling into your chest. You don’t text back right away. Let him have that too.

——

Thursday comes faster than you expected. You twist in front of the mirror, studying your outfit. A white wife beater layered under an oversized pale blue cardigan, black capris just below the knees, and simple black kitten heels. Your hair is down, the curls from yesterday now soft and natural, tousled like you didn’t even try. It may be slightly more put-together than necessary for a movie night, but it feels like you.

Barefaced, no makeup -you didn’t want him thinking you tried too hard- though a swipe of lip gloss catches the light and you fuss with your hair until it looks like an accidental 90s blowout. Picking up your phone, you see a message from him, sent twenty minutes ago while you were getting ready.

Drew S: I’ll meet you in the lobby.

You grin, heart skipping. He’s waited, and yet here you are, fashionably late.

You: Sorry, just now seeing this. I’m headed out now. Should be there in fifteen.

Drew S: No worries. The movie doesn’t start for another twenty.

You grab your keys and head out, stomach fluttering in ways you’d thought were reserved for teenage crushes. When you pull into the theater parking lot, the butterflies in your chest are relentless. You shut off the ignition and step inside, the blast of air conditioning hitting you like a wall. Your eyes scan the theater lobby, settling on him immediately. Freshly buzzed hair, surprisingly perfect on him. A simple white shirt under a heavy leather jacket, black cargo pants, black-and-white Adidas Sambas. Hands tucked into his pockets, he’s surveying the space until his gaze finds yours.

You offer a small, tentative smile and approach.

“Hey,” you say, fingers tightening on the strap of your shoulder bag.

“Hey,” he answers, chuckling softly. There’s a quiet amusement in his eyes, corners crinkling, the kind of restrained grin that almost gives him away. He opens his arms, but you hesitate. Just as you reach, he retracts slightly -a perfectly timed, awkward near-miss- and then, after a moment of hesitation, you both extend your arms again. Hugging safely, like distant relatives, but with a warmth that makes your chest hum.

“Sorry I’m late- traffic,” you say casually, as though you weren’t scrutinizing your reflection for ten straight minutes.

“No, you’re not. I’m early,” he rushes to reassure you, palms brushing against his pants as if they’re conspiring against him.

You nod slowly, glancing around. “So… what do you want to watch?”

He meets your gaze before looking away, biting his lip, just enough to show nerves under the cool exterior. “Uh… actually, I was giving you the choice.”

You laugh quietly, a short huff escaping your nose. A soft smile follows. “I just watched the trailer for the second Five Nights at Freddy’s. Is that okay?” You tilt your head slightly, enjoying the subtle fold in his composure as he averts his gaze.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he says, nodding toward the ticket counter. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about it.”

You begin walking in that direction. “Have you ever seen the first one?”

“Uh-” He lets out a breathy laugh, glancing down. Cheeks faintly pink. “Actually, I haven’t.”

“Oh, we don’t have to watch that one. We can pick something else-”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mind, really.”

You approach the counter together. You reach into your bag for your wallet, but he’s faster, already handing over his card to the clerk with a smooth, silent shake of his head that says I got this. You nod, hand dropping from your bag, heart skipping a little. Not that you expected him to pay- but seeing him do it so effortlessly? Definitely hot. You catch his brows knitting in concentration, the casual efficiency somehow magnetic.

And then -suddenly- your mind betrays you. Bathroom. Him inside you. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, pressing you back into his chest. Hungry, precise, consuming. A flash of heat pools between your thighs before you can even register it.

“Y/n?” His voice cuts through your reverie.

“What?” You shake your head, snapping out of it, cheeks warming.

He smirks, just a hint, lips tugging into a half-grin. “I asked if you were hungry.”

You follow him to the concessions, nodding weakly. Heat still lingers on your cheeks, betraying the memory of last night as he slides his card back into his wallet, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, entirely unaware of -or maybe perfectly aware of- the effect he’s having.

He quickly orders a large popcorn and two Icees- one big red one for him, a big blue one for you. The clerk raises an eyebrow at the coordinated colors, but Drew just shrugs, calm and casual as always. You take the cup from him with a small smile, the chill of the frozen drink waking your fingers just a little.

Together, you step into the theater, the air heavy with the scent of buttered popcorn and the faint hum of the projector. You lead the way, his presence close behind, each step echoing softly on the carpeted stairs. The theater is sparsely populated, only a handful of other moviegoers dotted across the rows, letting the two of you feel like the only people in the room.

Once you finally settle into your seats, trailers and advertisements blaring from the massive screen, you tuck your legs beneath you and keep your eyes fixed forward, letting the brightness wash over your features.

“So… how was your week?” His voice comes low, deliberate, as though he’s aware of the empty space between you and feels compelled to fill it, even though the booming Pepsi ad is already doing that job.

You glance at him, a small, soft smile tugging at your lips as you sip through your straw. And then it happens- the same way it did at the party. His eyes flick down, a subtle, drawn-down gaze tracing the movement of your lips, then back up, lingering just enough to catch you off guard.

“It was good,” you answer quietly, careful of the few others around, though your tone carries a warmth meant only for him. “How was yours?” You meet his gaze again, locking eyes like it’s the only conversation that matters in the room.

He exhales, slow, almost relieved, like he’s been holding it in for a while. “It was… okay.” he admits, offering a small, tentative smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. You smile back, soft, indulgent, your chest warming at the subtle vulnerability he rarely lets show. There’s a pause, comfortable and charged, the glow of the screen reflecting off both of your faces, and you can’t help but think that somehow, just sitting here, feels like the most natural thing in the world.

You shift slightly in your seat, reaching for the popcorn. Drew leans just a fraction closer as your hands brush over the tub, a subtle but deliberate closeness that makes your stomach flutter. You catch his eye out of the corner of your vision, and he gives a small, almost apologetic smile, like he’s aware of the effect he’s having but doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

You pop a kernel into your mouth, chewing slowly, and notice him subtly glancing down at your lips before returning his gaze to yours. Your lips twitch into a soft smile, almost teasing, though you don’t say anything. The glow from the screen dances across his face, highlighting the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the slight pink tint in his cheeks.

“You didn’t answer me earlier,” he murmurs quietly, almost shyly, as though speaking a little louder would break the fragile bubble around the two of you.

“Hm?” You tilt your head, straw hovering over your lips.

“About your week. You said it was good, but… nothing more than that,” he says, shrugging like it’s casual, though the way he watches you tells a different story.

You laugh softly, a low, almost private sound. “It really was good. Nothing crazy. Work, errands… boring adult stuff.” You take a slow sip of your Icee, eyes flicking to the screen, then back to him. “Yours? Besides the obviously improved part since we met?”

He smirks, the faintest ghost of a blush on his cheeks. “Touché,” he whispers, leaning back just enough to create space but not so much that the gap between you feels empty. “It really was fine… better now, definitely.” He bites his lip, like he’s holding himself back, and you can feel it- the quiet, contained energy he radiates, part shyness, part subtle dominance in the way he holds your attention without moving a muscle.

The trailers roll on, but neither of you is really watching. You grab a handful of popcorn and offer it to him. “Want some?” you ask, hand hovering with the kernels.

He shakes his head lightly, eyes soft, voice low. “I’m good… I think I’ll just watch you eat.”

You freeze mid-chew, eyebrows lifting, and then bite back a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I said… I like watching you. It’s… nice,” he admits, voice quiet, measured. He shifts slightly, brushing just a little closer, almost unconsciously, as if proximity alone is a comfort.

You swallow, heat rising to your cheeks, and decide to lean into it, letting your hand linger near his on the popcorn tub. Just enough contact to make him aware of it, just enough to make yourself aware of him. He catches your glance, eyes soft, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips.

For a few moments, you sit like that. Side by side, sharing popcorn, you explaining the premise of the first film, tension thick but unspoken. The movie trailers flicker across the screen in front of you, bright and loud, but the space between you two is quieter than anything else in the theater. And for the first time since the party, you feel the delicious edge of anticipation- the slow, simmering pull that makes every glance, every subtle touch, feel electric.

Then, without a word, he shifts slightly, just enough to brush his arm against yours. Not an accident. Not a shove. Just deliberate, casual closeness that speaks louder than any conversation could. Your pulse spikes, a soft hum of awareness, and you realize: the movie hasn’t even started, but somehow, this… this is exactly what you were waiting for.

The lights dim further, and the opening trailer fades into the black screen of the theater. The unmistakable hum of anticipation fills the room, punctuated by the low rumble of the surround sound as the first scenes of the movie flicker to life. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to focus on the screen, but the faint brush of Drew’s arm against yours keeps your attention half on him, half on the flickering images in front of you.

He seems equally aware, though his composure is nearly perfect. Shoulders relaxed, hands resting on his lap, but there’s a subtle tautness in the way his eyes occasionally flick toward you, just long enough to catch your expression. You can feel the warmth of his presence beside you, close but restrained, and it makes the inside of your stomach coil pleasantly.

You take a slow sip of your Icee, eyes trained forward, but he notices anyway. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable, just… observant, like he’s cataloging every small detail. The way you chew popcorn, the soft tilt of your head when a jump scare makes you flinch, the tiny hum you let out when the tension in a scene spikes.

“You’re… very focused,” he murmurs quietly, voice low, almost a purr meant only for you. You catch the subtle curve of his lips in the dim light.

“I’m just… trying not to scream,” you whisper back, leaning slightly toward him without meaning to. Your arms brush, and the touch is electric in the soft darkness. He doesn’t flinch; if anything, he seems to lean imperceptibly closer, careful, considerate, without breaking the moment. A particularly tense scene makes you inhale sharply, and you feel him shift slightly beside you. His hand hovers near yours, brushing almost accidentally against your fingers as he adjusts in his seat. You don’t move yours away. Instead, you let it linger, just enough to register, just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick toward your hand, then up to your face, and for a moment the movie might as well not exist.

“Not bad,” he whispers, almost shyly, eyes flicking back to the screen, voice husky but controlled. “You… jump pretty easily.”

You glance at him, eyebrow raised, lips twitching with the smallest, knowing smile. “You’re enjoying watching me flinch, aren’t you?”

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. “Maybe,” he admits softly, almost conspiratorially. “It’s… kind of fun.” His gaze lingers on you just long enough for you to feel the warmth behind it, a quiet, teasing intensity that’s so subtle you almost question if it’s real.

You bite your lip, looking back at the screen, but your mind is spinning with the memory of him from the bathroom, the way he touched you, the way he watched you. The memory makes your thighs tighten ever so slightly beneath the fabric of your capris, and you can feel him notice, because his next glance toward you is softer, measuring, almost reverent.

The movie rolls on, jump scares and suspenseful moments flashing on screen, but your focus has shifted entirely to the silent communication between you two: the brush of his arm, the way his knee occasionally presses closer to yours, the soft exhale he lets out when you flinch or shift in your seat.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, letting the tension breathe between you. It’s unspoken, electric, and completely intimate, even in a crowded, dark theater. And as the first reel comes to an end, you realize- you don’t need words. Every glance, every subtle movement, every half-smile shared in the dim light says more than anything either of you could say aloud.

The credits finally roll, and the theater is quieting down. Outside, night has fully settled in, bathed in soft, amber light from the overhead lamps. You stretch slightly, the tension from the movie and the lingering buzz of sitting close to Drew making your body hum in a pleasant, fluttering way.

“So… that was…” you trail off, trying to find the words, though your lips twitch with a soft smile. “Intense. Definitely scarier than I expected.”

He chuckles, the low sound warm in the darkness. “Yeah… I didn’t think it would get me that much either,” he admits, voice quieter than necessary, like he’s savoring the soft aftermath of the movie and your proximity. “But… you made it better.”

You glance up at him, a little startled by the statement. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes locking on yours for just a moment, soft but steady. “Watching you react… made it fun. Better than watching it alone.”

Your chest warms, heart skipping a beat. You gather your bag, and he rises with you, hands casually tucked into his pockets but shoulders slightly forward, attentive. The walk to the parking lot is quiet, the night air cool against your skin, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic. You walk side by side, neither of you speaking much, letting the comfortable silence stretch.

When you reach your car, you pause, hand on the door handle. He stops beside you, a few inches away, and looks down at you with a soft, almost vulnerable expression, the kind that makes your stomach flutter.

“Thanks for tonight,” you murmur, voice quiet but genuine. “I had a really nice time.”

“Me too,” he replies, voice low, almost a whisper meant just for you. There’s a pause, long enough that the air between you feels charged, electric. Both of you are waiting- for what? A kiss, maybe. Or just a moment that lingers.

You catch the faintest quirk of a smile on his lips and feel your heart hammer in your chest. Instead of leaning in, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, hugging him firmly. He stiffens for the briefest second, then hugs you back, warm and tentative, like he’s holding himself back from leaning further.

You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder for a moment. “Goodnight,” you whisper softly.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs in response, his hand brushing your back as you step away.

You open your car door, giving him one last glance. There’s a quiet understanding, a shared electricity, even as you settle into your seat. He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching you, a soft, shy smile tugging at his lips before he finally turns and walks back to his own car.

As you start the engine, your chest still fluttering, you can’t help but think how perfect the night was- quiet, simple, full of subtle tension, and leaving both of you wanting just a little more.

When you get home, you drop your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and let yourself sink into the couch like your body’s been waiting for permission to exhale. The apartment is quiet in that way it only ever is late at night- refrigerator humming, city noise muted through the windows, your thoughts suddenly much louder than everything else.

You pull your phone from your pocket and stare at the screen longer than you mean to. Your thumb hovers. Retreats. Hovers again. You tap your nails anxiously against the sides of the phone, a nervous little rhythm, before finally pressing his name and hitting call before you can talk yourself out of it. The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times. You’re already preparing what you’ll say to his voicemail when the call finally connects.

“Hello?” he answers, voice warm but surprised like the idea of you calling this soon hadn’t crossed his mind.

“Hey,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how fast your heart is beating.

“Hey,” he replies, casual but with a thread of confusion woven through it. Curious. Awake.

There’s a brief pause, just long enough to feel it.

“I- um…” You sigh, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the couch cushion. You don’t know when the script flipped, when you became the nervous one, but here you are. “I just wanted to say… I had a really great time tonight.”

Another pause. Softer this time.

“And,” you add before you can overthink it, “I’d like to hang out again sometime.”

Silence stretches across the line. Your brain does what it always does- spirals. He’s unsure. He’s reconsidering. He’s replaying the hug. He’s muted himself to pace his living room. He’s regretting everything. Or-

He lets out a quiet laugh. Not loud. Not cocky. Almost relieved.

“I’m glad,” he says, and there’s something genuine there that settles your nerves a notch. “I really enjoyed it too. I was hoping you’d say that.”

You smile to yourself, knees tucking up under you on the couch.

“And yeah,” he continues, voice softening just a little, “I’d love to do it again. Hopefully… soon.”

The word hangs there -soon- not a promise, not a question. Just an opening.

“Yeah,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t mean as much as it does. “Soon sounds good.”

You can practically hear his smile through the phone.

Neither of you rush to hang up. And for a moment, it feels like you’re both standing in the same quiet space again -not touching, not crossing any lines- just aware of each other in that way that makes the waiting feel intentional.

-

Morning comes slower than you expect. Sunlight leaks through the blinds in thin stripes, cutting across your couch, your discarded cardigan, the spot where you fell asleep with your phone still in your hand. You check the time. Too early to text. Too late to pretend you forgot about him. Your phone buzzes anyway.

Drew S: Morning 🙂

You stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering. He didn’t overdo it. No follow-up. No pressure. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

You wait. Brush your teeth. Make coffee. Let the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate. Then-

You: Morning

Three dots appear almost instantly. Disappear. Appear again.

Drew S: Hope you slept okay

You picture him saying it- careful, gentle, like last night. You take a sip of coffee before replying.

You: I did. You?

Another pause. Longer this time.

Drew S: Yeah eventually

You smile to yourself. Good. Your phone buzzes again before you can decide whether to push or pull.

Drew S: I was thinking about what you said last night. About hanging out again.

There it is. The opening. The invitation to make it easy. You don’t.

You: Oh yeah?

Three dots. Stop. Start.

Drew S: Yeah. I’d like that whenever you’re free

You let the message sit. Long enough to feel intentional, not accidental. You set your phone down, busy yourself with nothing, then pick it back up.

You: I’m pretty busy this week. But I’ll let you know

It’s not a lie. It’s just… incomplete.

This time the typing bubble doesn’t show up right away.

When it finally does, his response is careful.

Drew S: Okay just let me know. No rush

You can almost hear him choosing every word. You imagine him rereading the thread, wondering if he misstepped, replaying the hug, the almost-kiss, the phone call.

You soften- just a little.

You: I did have fun though. Just so you know

The reply comes faster than anything else he’s sent.

Drew S: I’m really glad. Me too

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to. You lock your phone, letting the quiet settle back in, knowing exactly what you’ve done- left him warm, hopeful, and just uncertain enough to keep thinking about you all day.

And somewhere between the coffee cooling on the counter and the sunlight shifting across the floor, you realize: You didn’t push him away. You just didn’t let him get comfortable.

-

“So,” Clarissa says, dragging the word out as she sets her mimosa down a little too deliberately, eyes glinting across the brunch table. “Tell me how one casually finds themselves hooking up with the Drew Starkey.”

You freeze for half a second, fork hovering midair.

“Shhh,” you hiss, immediately glancing around the patio, paranoia flaring even though no one is paying attention. You drop your voice and finally cut into your omelette. “And we are not hooking up.”

“Oh?” Jana cuts in, already smug as she pops a square of waffle into her mouth. “So you didn’t sleep with him?”

You shoot her a look.

“Yes, you did,” Yasmine says easily, completely unhelpful, swirling her iced coffee like she’s narrating a documentary.

“Once,” you say, emphasizing the word as you finally take a bite, “does not count as hooking up. That was a one-night stand.”

Clarissa tilts her head. “But you went out with him again.”

“We went to the movies,” you correct. “That was it.”

Jana nearly chokes. “You’re telling me you had the chance to sleep with him again and you didn’t?”

Her tone is so scandalized it almost makes you laugh.

“I wasn’t in the mood,” you shrug, wiping your mouth. “And honestly? He didn’t seem like he was pushing for it either.”

Jana’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. So he’s into you into you.”

You roll your eyes, but you can feel heat creep up your neck.

“Not surprising,” Yasmine adds casually. “He looked like he was about to kiss you when he walked us to the Uber.”

You side-eye her hard. “He probably would’ve if you weren’t standing there staring at us like an audience member.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Don’t blame me. You’re cold. He was probably scared you’d shut him down.”

“I’m not cold,” you argue.

Clarissa hums, watching you with a knowing smile. “You didn’t kiss him, didn’t sleep with him again, didn’t give him clarity-”

She lifts her glass. “Congratulations. You’ve officially made him nervous.”

You stab another bite of omelette a little harder than necessary, lips pressing together to hide the smile threatening to form as you eye your phone that sits in your lap. Clarissa is the first one to clock it.

“You keep checking your phone,” she says lightly, swirling her mimosa.

“I’m not,” you reply too fast, eyes still trained on your plate.

Jana snorts. “You’ve checked it three times since the waffles arrived.”

“That’s not true.”

Yasmine leans across the table, lowering her voice like this is a confidential briefing. “Did he text you?”

You pause. Just long enough to answer the question without words. “No,” you say finally. “And that’s fine.”

“That is not fine,” Jana says immediately. “You literally called him Thursday night to tell him you had a good time.”

“And?” you shrug. “Balls in his court.”

Clarissa raises a brow. “You hugged him goodbye. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t sleep with him. You gave him nothing to work with.”

“I gave him honesty,” you argue.

“You gave him mixed signals,” Yasmine corrects gently. “Which, to be fair, is kind of your brand.”

You shoot her a look. “I’m not desperate.”

“No one said desperate,” Clarissa says quickly. “We’re saying intentional.”

Jana grins. “Text him first.”

“No.”

“Text him,” Yasmine echoes.

“Absolutely not.”

Clarissa slides her hand across the table toward you like a peace offering. “You don’t even have to flirt.”

“Yes I do,” you argue. “That’s the problem.”

Jana leans in, elbows on the table. “You literally fucked him against a bathroom sink and now you’re scared to send a text?”

“That is different,” you say defensively.

“How?” Yasmine asks.

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “…Because texting implies continuation.”

Clarissa smiles slowly. “Exactly.”

You glance down at your phone that you moved to sit face-down beside your plate. Your thumb taps against the edge once. Twice.

“What would I even say?” you ask, quieter now.

Jana doesn’t miss a beat. “Something casual. Cool. Slightly dismissive.”

Yasmine nods. “But not cold.”

Clarissa adds, “Something that makes him think you’re busy but still thinking about him.”

You groan. “That’s impossible.”

Jana grins wider. “No, it’s you.”

You flip your phone over, screen lighting up. No new notifications.

“Five words,” Clarissa says. “Max.”

You inhale. Exhale. Open your messages.

You: Hey. How’s your Sunday going?

You stare at it for a full five seconds before hitting send.

Immediately, regret.

You drop the phone face-down again like it might burn you.

Jana claps once. “Proud of you.”

“Now,” Yasmine adds, “we wait.”

You pick up your fork again, heart doing something stupid in your chest.

Across the table, Clarissa smiles into her drink.

“Don’t worry,” she says sweetly. 

Four minutes pass. You know because you count them.

You pretend not to -fork moving, nodding along while Jana talks about something unrelated- but now your phone is face-up now, curtesy of Yasmine, screen dimming and lighting again every time you ‘accidentally’ touch the screen.

Then it lights up for real. You don’t grab it right away. You let it sit. Two seconds. Three. Casual. You pick it up.

Drew: Hey. It’s been pretty slow, honestly. Just trying to enjoy the quiet. How about you?

It’s a normal text. Friendly. Relaxed. Which is annoying.

Jana clocks your face instantly. “He answered.”

You slide your phone closer to your plate, angling it away like you’re not about to reread the message for the fourth time.

“He took four minutes,” you say.

Clarissa hums. “That’s intentional.”

Yasmine smiles. “That’s someone trying not to answer too fast.”

You type. Delete. Type again.

You settle on something easy.

You: Brunch with friends. Nothing too exciting.

You hit send, then immediately lock your phone.

Jana raises a brow. “That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?” you ask. “Thinking about you?”

“Maybe not that,” Clarissa says. “But you could give him something.”

You shrug. “I did. I replied.”

Your phone buzzes again. This time, you don’t wait.

Drew: That sounds nice. I’m glad you’re out doing something fun.

There’s a pause after that. You stare at the typing bubble when it appears. Then disappears. Then appears again. Your stomach flips.

Drew: I was actually thinking about you earlier.

You repeat the text to the girls. The table goes quiet. You swallow. 

Jana’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

Yasmine smiles slowly. “There it is.”

Clarissa leans back, satisfied. “Your move.”

You glance down at the screen, heart thudding- the push-pull tightening, subtle and electric.

You type. Stop. Erase it. Then finally:

You: Were you?

And just like that, you give him nothing- and everything at the same time.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

No pause. No hesitation.

Like he was already holding his phone.

Drew: Yeah. I was.

Your breath catches. Just a little.

It’s simple. No emojis. No explanation. Just the truth laid bare like he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

Jana makes a small noise. “Oh, he’s gone.”

You don’t respond right away- not because you’re calculating this time, but because your chest feels tight in a way that’s unfamiliar. Real.

Another message comes through before you can even decide what to say.

Drew: I kept thinking about how you hugged me goodbye. And how I didn’t kiss you.

Your thumb hovers over the screen as you read this text out loud.

Across the table, Yasmine watches your face soften. “You like him,” she says quietly.

You don’t deny it. You type slowly this time.

You: I thought you didn’t want to.

Three dots appear immediately.

Drew: I did. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your stomach flips.

There’s something almost unfair about how gentle he is- how he says exactly what he means without trying to impress you. 

Jana exhales dramatically. “He’s respectful and hot? That’s illegal.”

You bite your lip, then type:

You: You could’ve tried.

This time, there’s a pause.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Then:

Drew: …Yeah. I probably should have.

You smile despite yourself.

Clarissa leans over. “That right there? That’s the moment he fell.”

You shake your head, but your fingers betray you.

You: So what now?

The typing bubble appears again- steady, deliberate.

Drew: I’d like to see you again. No pressure. Just… us.

You stare at the message, heart racing, the pull tightening again.

And for once - you don’t know whether you’re about to push him away…or pull him closer.

You stare at his message for a long moment.

I’d like to see you again. No pressure. Just… us.

It’s earnest. Too earnest to ignore- but not something you’re ready to meet head-on.

You type anyway.

You: Maybe. We’ll see how this week goes.

You hit send before you can soften it.

Three seconds pass.

Four.

Then his reply comes through- one message, no push, no ego.

Drew: Yeah, of course. Just let me know.

That’s it.

No follow-up. No question mark. No attempt to claw for reassurance. Which somehow makes your chest ache more than if he had.  You lock your phone and set it face-down on the table.

Clarissa tilts her head. “He take it well?”

“Too well,” you murmur.

Jana squints. “Men don’t do that.”

Yasmine smiles softly. “Unless they like you.”

You reach for your coffee, fingers warm around the mug, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Back to the way he looked at you in the dark theater. The way his voice dropped when he said better now. The way he didn’t kiss you- not because he didn’t want to, but because he cared more about how you felt than what he wanted. Conversation continues around you -brunch plans, weekend gossip, someone’s new job- but it all washes over you like background noise.

Your phone sits there, silent. You don’t turn it over. But you think about him anyway. You think about how easy it would be to text him later. How hard it would be not to. And somewhere between bites of omelette and sips of lukewarm coffee, you realize something unsettling: You didn’t leave him on read to be cruel. You did it because if you kept talking… you might stop pretending you didn’t already care.

Later that night, the apartment is too quiet.

-

You’re curled up on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt, one leg tucked under you, the TV on but muted- something familiar you’re not really watching. The glow from your phone lights up your face every few minutes as you pick it up, check it, set it back down again.

Still nothing.

You tell yourself that’s good. That this is what you wanted. You open your messages anyway.

The thread with Drew sits near the top, his last text still there: Yeah, of course. Just let me know.

So reasonable. So calm. You scroll up without meaning to.

I kept thinking about how you hugged me goodbye.

I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

Your chest tightens in that annoying way it’s been doing all day. You type. Delete it. Type again.

You: Hope your Sunday ended okay.

Too nice. Delete.

You: Still thinking about that movie.

Too obvious. Delete.

You toss your phone onto the couch beside you and drag a hand down your face.

“This is stupid,” you mutter to no one.

You weren’t trying to play games - at least, not consciously. You just didn’t want to be the one who leaned in first again. Not when it already felt like you’d done that last night with the phone call. Not when you liked him enough that it scared you a little.

You pick your phone back up. This time, you don’t open your messages. You open his contact. Your thumb hovers over his name. If you text him now, he’ll probably answer. If you don’t, he’ll probably let you be.

And that thought -that he’d respect your silence- does something uncomfortable to your stomach.

You exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling. You don’t text him. Not yet. But you don’t put the phone down either.

You just lie there, screen dimming in your hand, thinking about the way he said yeah, I was like it was the easiest truth in the world.

And wondering which would make you feel worse: Letting him worry… Or realizing you already are.

-

The clock blinks 12:43 a.m. and your apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. You’re still wrapped in your oversized sweatshirt, legs still curled under you, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give you answers.

You grab your phone. Your thumb hovers over his contact, heart thudding just a little faster than it should. The decision is impulsive- boredom, curiosity, and desire all tangled together in one electric pulse.

You tap his name.

You: you up?

The three dots appear almost instantly, and your chest does that little flip.

Drew: yeah. can’t sleep. you?

You: same. movie in my head won’t stop playing.

He responds quickly.

Drew: let me guess… Five Nights at Freddy’s 2?

You laugh quietly into the dark.

You: exactly. how’d you know?

Drew: because I remember you talking through every trailer about the first film.

You bite your lip, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your sweatshirt.

You: huh. so you were paying attention.

Drew: I always pay attention. Especially to you.

Your stomach twists in anticipation. You set the phone down for a second, staring at it, and then pick it back up.

You: wanna come over?

There’s a beat of silence that stretches your pulse across eternity. Then the familiar typing bubble appears.

Drew: …yeah. give me twenty?

Your fingers hover over the screen for a second, then you type:

You: okay… I’ll send you my address.

You hit send, then feel that little rush of heat -a mix of nerves and excitement- as you imagine him navigating to your apartment.

Drew: got it. see you soon.

The second he says that, you jump into action.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every corner of your apartment. “Okay, okay,” you mutter, tossing your sweatshirt onto the chair, tugging off your leggings. You grab a fresh pair silk white of shorts and a tank top from the drawer, tossing your hair up into a messy bun.

A quick shower turns into a flurry- water splashing, shampoo lathering, the sound of the shower echoing like a countdown in your apartment. You’re brushing your teeth at one point while mentally checking off all the things you could have forgotten: towels, lighting, making sure the couch blanket isn’t wrinkled…

Every few seconds, you glance at your phone, heart jumping when it lights up with a notification- but it’s just the timer you set for yourself. You remind yourself that in exactly twenty minutes, he could be here, and your pulse surges again.

You finish up, towel-dry hair, toss on the fresh clothes, swipe on a hint of lip gloss, and glance in the mirror. Your reflection is messy, unpolished, but perfect for tonight- unpretentious, casual, a little flirty just by default. You grab your phone, set it on the counter, and sit on the edge of the couch, legs swinging slightly, waiting for the familiar sound of him buzzing your apartment. The anticipation hums through you, electric and delicious.

After running your fingers through your hair, you dust the loose strands off your silk two-piece night set. The fabric glides softly over your skin, catching the low light from the lamp you’d left on. Just as you’re about to settle onto the couch, the faint buzz of the apartment intercom pulls you upright again.

You bite the inside of your cheek and step over, leaning close to the speaker.

“Who is it?” you ask, letting just the tiniest hint of playfulness edge your tone. You know exactly who it is, but it didn’t hurt to make him think you might have other company.

“Uh… it’s Drew,” he says, his voice catching just slightly, like your little question caught him off guard.

You smirk, buzzing him in. “Come on up.”

Quickly, you give your apartment a once-over. Cushions fluffed, a throw neatly draped over the couch, your phone now moved over to charge on the side table. You’ve done enough tidying for tonight- the rest will just have to look… effortless.

Before you can even catch your breath, a sharp knock lands on your door. Three knocks, deliberate, confident. You stand there, fingers brushing against the doorframe, glancing at your watch. A minute, maybe a minute and a half, passes. You want to seem composed, not desperate- patient, just enough to make him wonder what you’re thinking. Finally, deciding that’s long enough, you reach for the handle and pull the door open.

There he is. Beige cargo slacks, crisp white t-shirt, leather jacket hanging just right over broad shoulders. Hands casually in his pockets, yet every inch of him radiates that effortless, magnetic draw. His eyes flick to yours, a little dazed, a little reserved, and suddenly the space feels charged.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping aside. He takes the cue, sliding past you into the apartment without a word.

“Hey,” he says again, eyebrows furrowed just slightly, eyes scanning the space as you close and lock the door behind him. There’s a momentary pause -subtle, electric- like he’s taking it all in, committing it to memory.

“Make yourself at home,” you say lightly, brushing past him toward the kitchen.

He toes his shoes off without hesitation, hands still tucked in his pockets, following you a few steps behind. “You expecting someone else?” His voice is low, casual, but the little quirk in his tone betrays curiosity- maybe even mild amusement.

“Mhmm,” you shrug, opening the cup cabinet and pulling out two glasses. “Sometimes people just show up randomly.” You meet his gaze over your shoulder and let your lips curve into a playful smirk.

He tilts his head, bottom lip poking out slightly, still digesting that casual admission. “Huh. Good to know,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You shake off the brief tension. “Water, tea, wine? Or… coffee?” You let the question float in the air, easy, almost mundane, letting him settle into the moment.

“Water’s fine,” he says, sliding onto the stool in front of your kitchen island. He folds his hands on the counter, shoulders relaxed, but there’s that soft tension in the air- the quiet pull between composure and something unspoken.

You pour two glasses of water, the sound of liquid filling the glasses echoing softly in the kitchen. You set one in front of him and take a sip from your own, feeling the heat of the moment press lightly against your skin, as if the room is waiting for one small spark to ignite it.

He catches your eyes mid-sip, that shy-dazed look softening into a small, crooked smile. “So… this is nice,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent, as if even ordinary water tastes better in your presence.

You smirk, letting him simmer in that quiet tension, taking a deliberate sip, already imagining how the rest of the night might unfold.

“So… how was your Sunday?” you ask, leaning back slightly as you lift yourself onto the counter in front of him. Your legs swing freely, bare, letting the cool air brush against your skin.

His gaze drops instinctively to your thighs before darting anywhere but your eyes. He takes a slow sip of water, swallowing audibly, then exhales with a quiet sigh. “It wasn’t too bad. Yours?” His shrug is casual, but when he finally looks up, there’s a tension in his jaw, like he’s measuring you as much as himself.

You bite your lip, pretending to think, eyes scanning the kitchen like you’re deep in thought. “Mhmmm… it was okay.” Your gaze flickers back down to him, sharp and teasing. “Better now,” you add, almost casually, though your tone carries weight.

He tilts his head, pretending confusion. “How so?” he murmurs, like he doesn’t already know.

You arch an eyebrow, the kind of “really?” tilt that makes him pause mid-breath. With a deliberate motion, you take the glass from his hand and set it to your side, letting your fingers brush his knuckles in the process. Then, slowly, you shift, sliding fully onto the counter, your legs parting just enough for your feet to dangle on either side of his thighs.

“You’re here,” you murmur, voice low, almost purring, as your hand snakes up the sleeve of his leather jacket, fingers tracing the line of his arm before gripping the collar and tugging lightly. It’s not enough to pull him down, but his body reacts anyway- rising to meet you, eyes scanning your face with that quiet intensity that makes your pulse race.

“You still… never kissed me,” you tease, letting your knees subtly bracket his hips, feeling the warmth of him close against your skin.

“I take that as… you want me to now,” he murmurs, leaning just enough so you can feel his breath, minty and warm, ghosting over your lips. His eyes are locked on yours, searching, soft but commanding, like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t actually need.

“That… would be nice,” you whisper, nodding slightly, keeping your gaze pinned on his, daring him without words.

And then, without hesitation, he closes the space. His lips crash into yours, not rough, not rushed, but heavy with intent, claiming you in a way that sends a shockwave straight through your body. Your hands instinctively rise, tangling in the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the short buzz of his hair, pulling him closer.

His hands find your waist, fingers digging in just enough to ground you against him, tilting your hips slightly forward, deepening the contact. Your breath hitches against his mouth as he shifts, pressing in, slow and deliberate, letting the kiss linger and tease all at once.

For a moment, the rest of the world disappears. There’s just him, you, the heat building between your bodies, and that intoxicating mix of softness and control in the way he holds you, the way his eyes still search yours through the kiss, hungry but reverent all at once.

Your hips shift almost instinctively, pressing forward as he deepens the kiss, and you feel the immediate weight of him pressing against you. One of his hands slides lower, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat radiating from his body is enough to make your breath hitch.

You respond without thinking, grinding your hips up into him, testing the hardness already straining against his beige slacks. His lips part slightly against yours, letting out a low, guttural groan that vibrates against your mouth. He tilts his head, pressing you harder into him, guiding your movements without ever letting go of the kiss, letting you feel just how turned on he already is.

Your hands slide down, fingers brushing the fabric of his pants, rubbing over the outline of him. You feel the reaction immediately- the way his body stiffens, the way his hips press back into you, matching your movement. He groans again, softer this time, almost a warning, almost a promise, but his eyes never leave yours, dark and hungry.

“Fuck…” he murmurs against your lips, breath shaky, his hands tightening slightly on your ass, anchoring you, making every movement intentional. “You feel… so good like this.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still kissing him, rubbing up and down through his pants, teasing, testing, letting him know exactly how much you notice him, how much you want him. His reaction is instant, one hand moving to your lower back, guiding you as you grind, the other still cupping your ass, holding you perfectly in place.

“You’re… dangerous,” he mutters, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you closer. “And I… I can’t… resist you.”

Your lips curve into a sly smile against his, shivering slightly from the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Good,” you murmur, voice husky, “because I don’t plan on stopping.”

And just like that, the push-pull between you ignites further- him dominating softly but entirely captivated, you teasing and grinding, your hands doing the talking as much as your lips, and the tension between need and control stretching taut in the air.

He groans into your mouth as he grips your ass tighter, lifting you effortlessly off the counter. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, and the press of his body against yours sends a shock of heat straight through you. He carries you toward the living room, the leather of his jacket brushing against your bare thighs, the anticipation in the air thick and electric.

Just as he’s about to lay you down on the couch, you shift slightly in his arms, a sly smirk tugging at your lips.

“Wait,” you murmur, voice low, teasing. His eyebrows lift, clearly caught off guard but intrigued.

Before he can ask, you twist your body, nudging him gently but firmly toward the couch. “You lay down,” you instruct softly, brushing your lips over his jaw, watching his reaction.

For a moment, he hesitates -his eyes searching yours, a mixture of shock and arousal flickering there- but the soft dominance in your tone wins. He sinks onto the couch, letting out a low chuckle, eyes dark and locked on you as you straddle him, your knees on either side of his hips.

“Good choice,” you murmur, leaning down, letting your hands trail over his chest, brushing against the rising hardness through his pants. He exhales shakily, one hand reaching up to tangle in your hair, holding you in place.

Your lips hover over his for a beat, just to tease, before lowering to capture his in a slow, deliberate kiss. Your weight presses lightly into him, and the subtle control -you on top, guiding the rhythm- sends a shiver through both of you.

He groans low in your mouth, hips lifting slightly, pressing into you, already straining with need. Your hands slide down, brushing him through his pants again, teasing, testing, coaxing. His eyes flutter closed, jaw tightening, breath catching, completely surrendered to your control yet utterly captivated by your every move.

“Fuck… you’re insane,” he murmurs, voice rough and breathless, eyes still locked on yours. “And I… I love it.”

You smirk, grinding lightly, letting the heat between your bodies do the talking. “Good,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “Because I’m just getting started.”

The tension coils between you, every glance, every touch, every subtle movement a mix of dominance and submission, teasing and surrender, as the air around you crackles with desire.

You straddle him, leaning forward just enough to let the heat of your body press into his, lips brushing his jaw and neck as you whisper, “You look really good like this.”

He swallows, throat tight, trying to keep that calm, collected demeanor he’s known for, but the way your weight presses down on him, your hands tracing slow lines across his chest, is unraveling him just enough. His hands twitch at his sides before he finally lets them drift to your hips, fingers gripping lightly, testing the boundaries of your control.

“Mm… you’re… unbelievable,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes darting up at you, trying to maintain composure while his body betrays him. “You really know what you’re doing, huh?”

You smirk, leaning down to press your lips to his collarbone, then pulling back just slightly, letting your gaze meet his. “I think you’ll tell me,” you tease, grinding lightly against him, the friction making him inhale sharply.

Your hand drifts lower, sliding into the waistband of his pants. His eyes widen fractionally, biting his bottom lip to keep the groan from escaping. You cup him through the fabric of his boxers, your fingers wrapping around him and giving a slow, deliberate stroke.

He exhales sharply, hips lifting slightly on instinct, trying to stay in control but failing miserably. “Fuck…,” he murmurs, voice husky, shaking his head slightly as if trying to convince himself he’s still calm.

You hum against his neck, grinding down a little more, teasing, watching his chest rise and fall with every shallow breath. “Mmm… I don’t think you’re that good at pretending, Drew,” you murmur, fingers sliding faster, just enough to make him shiver and clench under your touch.

His hands grip your thighs now, trying to anchor himself, trying to act like he’s not unraveling completely beneath you. “… I can’t… fuck…,” he groans, voice tight with need, eyes dark and glistening. 

Your smirk grows. “Good. I want you like this.”

Finally, you lean down, lips brushing his ear, whispering just for him, “Let me help.” Your other hand slips expertly to the waistband, tugging his pants down along with his boxers in one smooth motion.

The sight of him, fully revealed beneath you, makes you bite your lip, thrilled by the control and the desperation masked as composure in his eyes. He exhales sharply, chest rising, hands still gripping your hips, trying to steady himself as you take the next step, guiding him with your hands and your teasing presence.

He groans low, letting out a shaky laugh, whispering, “I- fuck… you’re… something else,” still trying to keep that cool exterior, even though every stroke, every brush of your fingers, is melting him entirely beneath you. You shift your weight, leaning forward until you’re hovering over him, thighs bracketing his hips. His chest rises and falls faster as his eyes track every movement you make, the faintest bite of anticipation tugging at his bottom lip.

Slowly, deliberately, you slide down, letting your hands glide along his hips for guidance as you sink to your knees between his thighs. The subtle brush of your hands along his inner thighs draws a shiver from him, though he tries to keep his expression composed. His jaw tightens, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second, just long enough for you to know he’s lost a little control. You lean in, breath warm against him, and begin teasing him with the tip of your tongue, dragging it lightly over the head before taking him fully into your mouth. The faint pressure of your lips and the slow, deliberate movements make him exhale sharply, hips pressing instinctively toward you.

He doesn’t speak- he doesn’t have to. The wide-eyed, almost incredulous look on his face, the way his hands twitch toward your hair before gripping the sides of the couch, says it all. He’s trying to act like he’s still cool, still in control, but every soft hum and teasing glide of your lips is undoing him.

You watch him carefully, gauging every reaction- the slight hitch of his breath, the subtle arch of his back, the tightening of his thighs around you. You let your tongue flick along the underside slowly, teasing, coaxing, letting him adjust and react, keeping a deliberate rhythm that’s equal parts sensual and commanding.

His eyes stay on you, disbelief and want flickering across his features. A low groan escapes him, muffled, restrained, as though he’s trying to convince himself this is happening. His hands tense slightly at his sides, then relax, letting you take control -and you can feel it. The way his hips lift, the subtle bucking against your mouth, the tiny exhalations that escape between teeth- all of it tells you he’s completely undone, but still trying to play it cool.

You pull back just slightly, letting your tongue trace along the slit before taking him in again, slow and deliberate, letting him feel every inch, every flick of your tongue. He bites his lip, eyes dark and wide, a soft, almost whispered groan breaking free despite his attempts at composure.

Your hands grip his thighs, grounding him, keeping him steady as you move with purpose, letting your mouth and fingers do all the talking. He exhales raggedly, still trying to act like he’s not completely mesmerized by you, like he’s not already losing control.

Every soft hum, every gentle swirl of your tongue is met with a tightening of his body, small whimpers he swallows, his jaw flexing, a low, restrained “shit…” caught between lips. The disbelief is written all over him- that quiet, tense, awe-struck sensation of a man who can’t believe he’s this lucky.

And you lean in closer, pressing a kiss lightly against his thigh, eyes flicking up at him, smirking just enough to let him know you know exactly what effect you’re having.

You slide a hand up his hip, tugging him closer as your mouth takes him deeper, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. His breath hitches sharply, hips twitching involuntarily, fingers clenching at his sides as he tries to maintain some composure.

“Fucking hell…” he groans low, eyes half-lidded, trying to act like he’s still calm, but his body betrays him completely. His chest rises and falls erratically, thighs tensing as your lips and tongue work over him with deliberate pressure. His eyes widen, a shallow inhale escaping him as you rise to your knees.

Without hesitation, you push him back gently against the couch, straddling his thighs. Your bare skin slides against his, the friction sending an immediate jolt through both of you. He groans, unable to help himself, hands gripping your hips as you settle your weight down on him.

You grind slowly at first, savoring the moment, rocking your hips with purpose. His jaw tightens, mouth opening in a soft, strangled gasp as he tries to keep his cool, but it’s a losing battle. Every movement, every grind of your body over his, makes him whine softly, the restrained groans breaking into more desperate sounds.

“Fuck… oh god…” he mutters, hands clutching your waist, trying to stay grounded, trying to stay composed, but the heat in his body is unraveling him. His hips buck instinctively into yours, chasing friction, chasing feeling.

You lean forward, hair brushing his chest, pressing down harder into him, setting the rhythm. Your thighs squeeze around his hips as you ride him, rolling your hips in perfect, deliberate strokes. He’s a moaning, writhing mess beneath you- desperate, needy, his control slipping further with every motion.

“Y/n…” he breathes, voice thick, struggling between trying to stay composed and giving in to the pleasure. His hands grip your hips tighter, pulling you down into him with every stroke, rocking you faster.

You tilt your hips, angling yourself just right, letting the friction hit that spot inside you that makes your breath catch. A sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips as a coil of heat snaps tight in your stomach. You bite your bottom lip, fingers digging into his shoulders, eyes closing as the pleasure builds impossibly high.

He groans beneath you, desperate but trying to stay cool, but the sound of your moans, the way your body moves against him, drives him wild. He’s straining into you, hips jerking, trying to hold back while you ride him with increasing fervor.

Then, just when you can’t take it anymore, your back arches, hips snapping forward, and you shiver violently as your orgasm crashes through you. You cry out softly, legs trembling, squeezing him tight as heat coils low in your body, every nerve alight.

He doesn’t last long after that- every gasp, every tremor, every grinding movement from you pushes him over the edge. He shudders, groaning loudly, spilling into you with an intensity that leaves him a panting, moaning mess beneath you. His hands clutch your hips, guiding your movements as he rides out the wave of his own release.

You stay on top, riding out the aftershocks together, both of you gasping, shivering, bodies slick and trembling. Finally, you lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest, letting the rhythm slow as your breathing evens out.

He lifts his head slightly, cheeks pink, eyes dazed and unfocused from the intensity. “Holy… shit,” he mutters, voice rough, still trembling.

You smirk, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “Told you I was just getting started,” you murmur, though your body feels spent, satisfied in a way that makes the room feel heavy with heat.

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, pulling you close and holding you down gently. The dazed, lost look in his eyes is unmistakable, and you can feel the satisfaction of having taken control, set the pace, and left him completely undone- and yet, he’s still trying to play it cool, still trying to regain some composure even as he melts under you.

-

You shift off him slowly, letting your legs touch the floor first, chest heaving, body still trembling from the intensity. His chest rises and falls as well, but the dazed, shy look has returned, that quiet, almost guilty shyness he wears so well after moments like this. He’s trying to act like he’s composed, but you can see it in the slight tremor of his hands, the way his eyes keep darting to yours before looking away.

You sigh softly, brushing a sweaty strand of hair off your forehead, glancing down at the evidence of the night still clinging between you. “Mm… let’s clean this up,” you murmur, voice low, not wanting to break the intimacy but needing some practicality.

He shifts nervously, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. “Uh… you okay?” he asks, still soft, still shy, like he doesn’t want to bother you.

“I’m fine,” you reply, reaching for that sweatshirt you tossed on the couch earlier. You press it gently against yourself, wiping away what’s left of him that slipped out, feeling the warmth linger, the memory of him still pressing into your skin. He watches quietly, almost reverent, hands finally sliding down to tug his pants and boxers back up with careful, slow motions, like he’s afraid of ruining the delicate tension of the moment.

You slip your shorts back on, tugging them into place, smoothing the fabric over your thighs. Your hair is damp, sticking slightly to your shoulders, but you don’t care- he doesn’t seem to either, still sitting there, slightly hunched, staring at you like he can’t believe this is real, that he’s really here.

You lean against the arm of the couch, brushing your fingers over your damp skin, chest still rising and falling. “I guess…” you start, voice low, eyes meeting his, “I guess that’s it for tonight.”

He swallows, cheeks still pink, lips parted slightly. He nods, not saying much, because saying much would ruin this- the soft tension, the shy awe, the quiet satisfaction of what just happened. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice husky but still restrained.

You step closer, reaching out to brush a hand over his shoulder, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. He stiffens slightly, then relaxes, eyes closing briefly at the touch. You don’t want to rush him, don’t want to kick him out just yet, but the night has run its course.

“Thanks for coming over,” you say softly, voice low, teasing without teasing. You watch him, knowing he’s processing everything, still that shy, controlled presence even after being completely undone.

He nods again, voice quiet, “Thank you… for… everything.” The hesitation in his words makes your chest tighten, that quiet vulnerability mixed with desire.

You give him a small, almost imperceptible smile before moving to the counter to grab your phone. “I’ll let you out,” you murmur, still feeling the warmth between you linger. He stands slowly, hands brushing briefly over yours as he goes to the door, and you catch the small, shy smile that tugs at his lips. He hesitates with his hand on the knob, just long enough that the pause feels like it stretches between you. You catch the hesitation, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“Wait,” you murmur, stepping closer, stopping him mid-motion. “Wanna… watch a movie or something? Keep the night going a little?”

His eyes flick up at you, wide and slightly incredulous, like he can’t believe you’re asking. That shy, awkward smile tugs at his lips, still soft, still hesitant, but the daze in his eyes deepens. “Uh… yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, barely above a whisper, as if testing the waters.

You nod, satisfied, stepping aside so he can close the door behind him properly. “Good,” you say, a little teasing in your tone. “I’ll grab more pillows.”

He exhales slowly, relief and quiet anticipation written all over him, cheeks still pink, hands brushing lightly over his pants as if trying to ground himself. You can feel the tension of the night lingering between you, the heat of what just happened still pulsing, and now… a new layer of anticipation has been added- this time, with him staying, unsure but willing, and you firmly in control of the tempo.

You settle onto the couch, the cushions shifting under you as you make yourself comfortable, Drew sinking in beside you. The soft glow of the TV illuminates the room, the previews and trailers flickering across his face. He’s still tense- shoulders a little tight, hands fidgeting in his lap, like the aftermath of earlier hasn’t quite settled in him yet.

You glance at him, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. “You… tense after all that?” you murmur lightly, brushing a stray curl from your face. The tone is teasing, not mocking, but enough to draw a soft, embarrassed laugh from him.

“Maybe a little,” he admits quietly, almost sheepishly, eyes flicking toward you before he looks back at the screen. You can tell he’s trying to act casual, like it’s no big deal, but his fingers are still clenching slightly.

You shift closer, letting your knee lightly brush his, the contact deliberate but casual. “Relax,” you whisper, voice low. “You’re allowed to just… exist for a minute.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally, and for a beat he just sits there, watching the movie like he’s trying to ground himself. Then, without a word, his hand drifts over and settles over yours.

You freeze for just a second, blinking down at your fingers now entwined with his. His thumb brushes softly over your hand in a slow, steady rhythm. You glance up at him, expecting maybe a shy glance or an awkward grin- instead, he just smiles at you, casual, easy, like it’s no big deal, before returning his attention to the flickering images on the screen.

You stare at him for a beat, a little dumbfounded. Weird… but okay, you think, letting out a quiet huff of laughter and squeezing his hand lightly in response. You lean back into the couch, letting yourself settle into the warmth of him next to you, hand in hand, letting the movie be background to the comfortable, teasing tension that still hums between you.

Even as the trailers roll, your mind can’t help but wander to the way he just casually held your hand, the subtle mix of shyness and confidence in him, and you realize… this push-pull between you isn’t going to end anytime soon.

-

The movie drones on quietly in the background, the room dim except for the flickering light of the screen. Your hand is still loosely wrapped in his, though you notice he’s grown quieter, his shoulders sagging slightly. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you realize he’s drifted off- his head tilting a little toward the couch, eyes closed, breath steady and soft.

A small smile tugs at your lips. He looks… peaceful, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tighten just a little. Carefully, so as not to wake him, you slide your fingers out of his hand, letting them rest gently on the arm of the couch for a moment before pulling a soft throw blanket from the back of the couch.

You drape it over him slowly, smoothing it down across his shoulders. His hand twitches slightly as the warmth touches him, and his eyes flutter open, blinking blearily into the low light.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice thick with sleep.

You lean down just a little, brushing his cheek with your thumb. “Shh… go back to sleep,” you whisper, voice low, almost a lullaby. “It’s late. You don’t have to stay awake.”

He hesitates, gaze searching yours for a beat, lips parting as if to argue, but the heaviness of his eyelids wins. With a soft, almost imperceptible nod, he relaxes again into the couch, tucking himself a little deeper under the blanket.

You shift beside him, careful not to disturb him, and rest your hand lightly on his arm for a moment before letting it fall to your lap. Watching him breathe steadily, you feel a quiet warmth spread through you- the closeness, the trust, the simple softness of the moment.

For the first time since the night began, the world feels like it’s slowed down, and you let yourself just… exist here, in this calm, quietly intimate space with him.

-

You stir awake, the pale pre-dawn light spilling softly through the blinds. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the gentle rise and fall of Drew’s chest next to you. Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you just watch him, the small rise and fall of his chest, the way he looks almost impossibly relaxed despite everything that happened the night before.

Then reality hits- or at least, the version you’re willing to admit to yourself. You have “work” in a couple of hours. Slowly, carefully, so as not to startle him, you shift, gently untangling yourself from his side. He groans softly in his sleep, half-turning toward you, but doesn’t wake fully.

You clear your throat awkwardly. “Uh… hey,” you whisper, voice low. He blinks once, then rubs his eyes, hair mussed in every direction, before sitting up groggily. “I… I should probably get going. I, uh… have work soon.”

He quirks an eyebrow, half-smile tugging at his lips, clearly unconvinced. “Work, huh?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “At five a.m.? That’s… ambitious.”

You bite your lip, shrugging sheepishly. “Yeah… deadlines… stuff.”

He chuckles softly, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “Right,” he says, giving you a knowing look. Despite the tease in his tone, he’s gracious, getting up slowly and pulling on his jacket.

You hover near the door, awkwardly shuffling your feet. “So… can I see you again?” he asks quietly, stopping just inside the doorway. His eyes search yours, sincere, gentle, the shy-but-considerate energy still there.

You grin, leaning casually against the doorframe, trying to keep it light. “Yeah… but, uh,” you tease, lifting a finger, “no more movies. Too dangerous for my productivity.”

He laughs softly, and the sound warms the apartment in a way that makes you pause for a moment. “No movies,” he agrees, a subtle grin tugging at his lips. “Then what are we doing next time?”

You shrug, smirking. “We’ll figure it out. Something… fun. Or maybe… more of this,” you say, nodding toward the couch behind him, voice trailing teasingly.

He gives a small, amused groan, shaking his head as he finally steps toward the door. “Okay. I’ll hold you to that,” he murmurs, soft and low, before hesitantly leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “See you soon, yeah?”

You nod, trying not to grin like an idiot, and watch him leave. As soon as the door clicks shut, you sink against it, a small laugh escaping your lips, heart still racing despite the hour. The apartment feels too quiet without him, and you know… you’re already looking forward to the next time.

-

Your phone buzzes on the counter, startling you slightly- it’s early, too early for anything besides caffeine and regrets, but the name on the screen makes your chest skip a beat.

Drew S

You answer, voice still thick with sleep. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, casual but soft, like he’s grinning even though you can’t see him. There’s a brief pause, and then he chuckles low. “I just… wanted to say I really enjoyed last night.”

You smirk immediately, tilting your head as you lean back against the counter. “All of last night?” you tease, voice dripping with amusement.

There’s a faint laugh on the other end, a little breathless, and you can hear him shift uncomfortably. “Yeah… all of it,” he admits, a little flustered. “You… you’re incredible.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing outright, the satisfaction of hearing him so flustered warming you. “Mm-hmm,” you hum, letting the silence linger for just a second before changing the subject, playful. “So… what’s the plan now? You gonna stalk me all day, or are we plotting our next hangout?”

He chuckles again, deeper this time, recovering some of his cool. “Well… I was thinking… dinner? Or an arcade. I figured I’d let you choose this time.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to grin too much. “An arcade? Really? You trying to make me beat you at skee-ball?”

“Maybe,” he teases, voice low but amused. “Maybe I just want to see that competitive streak of yours. Or we could keep it low-key with dinner. Your call.”

You tap your fingers against your lips, pretending to think hard. “Hmm… tough choice.”

He hums, waiting patiently, and you can hear the faint grin in his voice. “Take your time,” he murmurs. “I don’t mind. I can… wait.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a small warmth in your chest at how patient and soft-spoken he still is, even after last night. “Fine,” you finally answer, teasing in just the right way. “But I’m warning you- arcade, I’ll demolish you.”

“Challenge accepted,” he says immediately, a hint of laughter creeping in. “Dinner, arcade… whatever you want, just say when. I’ll make it happen.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Okay… I’ll let you know. But seriously, last night was… fun. Don’t get too cocky.”

“Noted,” he mutters, voice low and amused. “Noted.”

You hang up with a small, satisfied grin, already imagining the push-pull tension that’s about to start all over again- and secretly hoping it never ends.

-

The week drags on in a blur of errands, work, and whatever small distractions you can find. Normally, you’d be fine flying solo for a few days, but this week feels heavier. Your phone sits beside you, quiet, no texts, no calls. You know he’s filming- long hours, early mornings, late nights- but it doesn’t make the absence sting any less.

By Wednesday, you catch yourself glancing at your phone more than usual, thumb hovering over his name in your contacts. It’s not even real longing yet, just a faint ache, the kind that makes you notice the little things- like the corner of the couch he leans against when he’s trying to act casual, or the way his lips curl when he laughs at something small, private. You try to shove it down, tell yourself he’s busy, that you’re fine, that you don’t need him blowing up your phone just to validate the little spark between you two.

But by Thursday afternoon, boredom has taken over. You’re sprawled on your couch, flipping through channels, absent-mindedly scrolling social media, when the emptiness of your apartment hits differently. The echo of Sunday -the movie, the teasing, the way he’d fall asleep with his hand in yours- starts creeping into your mind.

You bite your lip, almost laughing at yourself. You’re missing him, and you didn’t even realize it until this exact second. Not in a desperate way, not even in a need-to-call-him-now way- but enough that your chest feels a little warmer when you imagine his soft, teasing voice, his shy smiles, the way he’d lock eyes with you just to make you squirm a little.

You glance at your phone again, debating. You could text, just a small, teasing message- something that won’t make you look needy, just enough to remind him that you exist. Something playful. Something like…

You:So… are you busy or just ignoring me?

You laugh softly to yourself, shaking your head. Of course, it’s cheeky, not mean, not really serious- but it’s enough to make your stomach flutter at the thought of him reading it, maybe grinning, maybe flushing a little, maybe trying to figure out how to respond without losing his chill demeanor.

You hit send before thinking twice. And now the waiting begins- the kind of waiting that’s equal parts exciting and torturous, because you know he’ll respond eventually. He always does. And in the meantime… you can’t help replaying his soft, subtle dominance in your mind, how easy he makes everything feel even when he’s trying not to show it, and how much you’re already craving him again.

Minutes later, you’re lounging on your couch, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone finally buzzes. The screen flashes Drew S., and for a second, your stomach does that little flip. You bite your lip, hesitating, and then swipe to answer.

“Hey,” you say, deliberately nonchalant, tugging a loose curl behind your ear. You don’t let your voice carry the warmth you feel, even though you’re itching to.

“Hey.” His voice comes through, low and casual, like he’s just leaning back somewhere, but you catch the faint surprise underneath- he wasn’t expecting you to text after a week of radio silence. “I got your text.”

“Mm,” you hum, playing it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal that you’d missed him. “Thought I’d reach out. See what you’re up to.”

There’s a brief pause. You hear him shift, maybe leaning forward, maybe just thinking, then a small laugh. “Honestly? Not much. Filming, you know… but I was thinking about you.”

You suppress the little smile that wants to escape. “Mhm. Busy week, I’m sure.” You’re careful, casual, brushing past the edge of curiosity and desire.

“Yeah, busy,” he says, a note of shyness creeping in, like he’s still trying to hold onto that calm demeanor you love. “But I was hoping… maybe we could hang again soon. Not just… you know, movies.”

You pause, letting it hang. “Oh? And what did you have in mind?” You’re intentionally vague, letting the conversation tease itself out.

“Well…” he starts, then hesitates. “Maybe dinner, or… an arcade? Your choice.”

“Huh, I forgot about the arcade” You raise an eyebrow, pretending to consider. “I haven’t been to one in years. Are you sure you’re ready to lose badly?”

He laughs softly, the sound low and warm. “I think I can handle it. But… maybe I need some coaching. From you.”

You tap your fingers on the arm of the couch, letting him wait a beat. “I’ll think about it.” You give a small, teasing pause before finally adding, “Saturday work for you?”

“Saturday’s good,” he replies immediately, like he’d been hoping you’d pick that day. “I can make it anytime. You pick the time.”

You hum, casual, like it’s not a big deal. “Let’s say seven.”

“Perfect,” he says, voice soft, just a hint of that flustered, shy energy you love. “Looking forward to it.”

“Mm.” You hum again, brushing your hair back and standing to refill your water glass. “Me too… I guess.”

He chuckles quietly, the sound low, like he’s holding himself together. “Cool. I’ll see you then.”

You hang up, placing your phone down as though it were no big deal. But your heart is still racing a little, and your mind won’t stop replaying his voice, the way he said your name, the way he’s still this careful, shy, soft dominance that drives you wild.

You settle back onto the couch, pretending to scroll through social media, but your thoughts are entirely elsewhere-counting down to Saturday, wondering how much longer you’ll be able to play it cool.

-

Saturday rolls around faster than you expect, and you’re standing in front of your mirror, twisting slightly as you check yourself from every angle. You settle on low-waisted, slightly distressed jeans that hug your hips and a soft, cropped baby tee that leaves just a hint of skin exposed. Nothing overdone- just easy, casual, and the kind of outfit that says “effortless” without trying too hard.

Your phone buzzes, a text from Drew.

Drew S: I’m on my way. See you in a few.

You smile faintly, swiping it away as you grab your bag. You weren’t expecting him to insist on picking you up, but part of you likes it- likes that he’s calm, deliberate, and clearly enjoys the idea of being the one to come for you.

Minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You take a deep breath, smoothing your hair casually, and open it. He’s there, standing in that effortlessly put-together way that makes your stomach do a little flip: jeans, a fitted white tee, leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says, low and calm, giving off that chill, soft-spoken energy that you’ve grown to love. He leans slightly forward, like he’s keeping the moment intimate even at your doorway.

“Hey,” you reply, stepping up on your toes just a little and throwing your arms around him in a quick hug. Before he can fully react, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then the smallest smile curls at the corner of his lips.

“Wow… didn’t expect that,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual, just a little caught off guard, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes you think he likes it- maybe more than he’s letting on.

You shrug innocently, stepping back with a grin. “I’m full of surprises.”

He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair, the motion calm but clearly betraying a little fluster. “Yeah… I can see that.” His hands remain tucked in his pockets, but his eyes linger on you, scanning you up and down, subtle but attentive.

“Ready to go?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, that controlled calm returning. “Let’s roll.”

The drive is easy, casual conversation sprinkled with small laughs, but beneath it, there’s that unspoken tension- the pull between you, the curiosity, the awareness of what the other does to you. By the time you pull up to the arcade, your stomach is buzzing in anticipation, and you realize just how much you’ve missed the thrill of being around him, even when he’s calm and collected.

The arcade lights hit you first- flashing, neon, chaotic in the best way. You step out of the car and pull the door open for him, letting him walk in first. He’s calm, hands still in his pockets, but there’s a subtle tension in his shoulders that betrays him. He glances back at you with that soft, unreadable gaze, and you feel your pulse pick up, like your chest remembers exactly why he has this effect on you.

“Wow,” you murmur under your breath, more to yourself than him, eyes sweeping over the games and the scent of popcorn and soda in the air.

He smirks faintly, letting you take it all in. “First time in one of these in a while?” His voice is low, casual, soft.

You shake your head, turning toward him, pretending to look around but really letting your eyes scan him- how relaxed he looks, that subtle curve of his jaw, the way the light catches the edge of his leather jacket. Your lips press together lightly. You’ll keep it to yourself.

“Not for a while. But I’m competitive,” you tease lightly, nudging his shoulder with yours as you pass.

He chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach twist in a good way. “Oh, yeah? Confident you can beat me?”

“Absolutely. But you won’t see it coming,” you reply, ducking under the neon glow, letting your voice drop just a little as if you’re making a silent challenge.

You make your way to the bar area first, ordering two drinks. The bartender hands you a fruity cocktail -something red and sweet- and Drew gets a darker, stronger drink, amber with ice clinking softly. You take a sip of yours, the cold burning just enough to make you shiver.

“Cheers,” you say, holding your glass up toward him, eyes meeting his briefly. He touches your glass with his lightly, just enough, with that small smirk he always wears when he’s amused.

“Cheers,” he echoes, voice low, smooth.

You take a small sip, pretending to focus on your drink while sneaking glances at him. He’s just… watching the room, casual, but every now and then his eyes flick to you, soft, attentive, like he’s waiting for a move only you know he wants.

“Let’s see about that skee-ball game,” he says, nodding toward the nearest game, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small, teasing grin.

“Is that a challenge?” you raise an eyebrow, walking over and setting your drink onto the counter. “Because I accept all challenges.”

He tilts his head, that calm, easy confidence still there, though his jaw tightens just slightly. “Good. I like a girl who plays hard.”

You glance at him, smirk teasing, eyes drinking him in quickly before looking back at the game. Underneath that calm, soft-spoken exterior, you see it- the tension, the subtle thrill. And damn, he’s hot. So hot. But you don’t say a word. You just keep the teasing playful, letting it linger in the air like a dare.

He rolls up his sleeves casually and lines up his first shot at the skee-ball machine. “You’re going first,” he says, letting his voice drop just a hair lower, like he’s letting you take the lead.

You step up, grip the ball, and glance over your shoulder at him, smirk playing on your lips. “You sure you’re ready?”

His eyes meet yours briefly, warm, soft, a little daring, and he shrugs almost nonchalantly. “I’m always ready.”

And that’s when the night begins- the teasing, the challenge, the subtle touches, and the way the arcade lights seem to catch him in just the right way every time you look at him. You’re both laughing, flirting silently, the drinks making you bolder, the games giving you an excuse to brush against him or catch his glance in a way that feels electric, without him or anyone else saying a word.

Moments later you wander over to the basketball arcade game mostly out of curiosity, not confidence. The balls are oversized, the hoop looks deceptively far away, and the timer flashes like it’s already judging you.

“Oh no,” you laugh under your breath, rolling one of the balls between your palms. “This is a terrible idea.”

Drew steps up beside you, amused immediately as he swipes the game card. “You don’t play?”

You shoot him a look. “I don’t even watch.”

The buzzer goes off before he can respond, the timer starting its aggressive countdown. You panic just a little, tossing the first ball far too short. It bounces off the rim and ricochets back into the narrow pit.

“Oh my god,” you groan. “I look ridiculous.”

He laughs softly, not teasing- fond. “Okay, okay. Hold on.” He smiles, sitting his drink down.

Before you can protest, he steps closer. Not just beside you- behind you. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him before you feel anything else. His chest hovers just shy of your back, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how small the space is.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice low, calm, right near your ear. “You’re rushing it.”

His hands come to your waist briefly -quick, respectful, like he’s checking himself- then settle again, more confidently this time, thumbs resting at your hips like he’s grounding you. It sends a jolt straight through you, sharp and unexpected, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your composure.

“Bend your knees a little,” he says, breath warm against your neck. “Yeah. Like that.”

You nod, swallowing hard, trying very hard to focus on the game instead of the way his voice drops when he’s this close, or how easily he fits behind you like he belongs there.

He reaches forward, guiding your arms gently, his hands covering yours just long enough to show you the motion. His fingers are warm. Steady. Everything about him feels deliberate.

“Don’t throw it,” he murmurs. “Just… push.”

You do- and the ball actually goes in.

You gasp, laughing. “Wait- did you see that?”

He chuckles softly, closer now, his mouth near your ear. “Told you.”

Another ball. Another shot. This one hits the rim but drops through anyway. The timer is still counting down, the sounds of the arcade buzzing around you, but it all fades into background noise. All you can feel is him- his hands briefly returning to your hips, the brush of his jacket against your back, the way he leans in without quite touching.

Your stomach flips, heat pooling low in a way that surprises you with its intensity. You straighten just a fraction, forcing yourself to breathe normally, to look casual- even though your pulse is racing.

“You’re doing great,” he adds quietly, almost like it’s just for you.

The buzzer goes off before you’re ready for it to end. You step forward instinctively, breaking the contact, turning to face him with a smile that you hope looks playful instead of affected.

“Beginner’s luck,” you say lightly, though your voice feels just a touch breathless.

He looks at you for a moment -really looks- eyes a little darker than before, expression soft but unreadable. Then he smiles, easy again, like he hasn’t just been standing impossibly close to you.

“Or maybe you’re just a natural,” he says.

You laugh it off, grabbing your drink, but your hands feel warm and your heart is still beating too fast.

And you know -he knows- that something shifted just now.

He glances down at the scoreboard, then back at you, grin easy and boyish like he’s still riding the high of standing behind you.

“Okay,” he says, nodding toward the row of machines. “Redemption round? Or maybe something you’re actually good at this time?”

You take a sip of your drink, eyes lingering on him longer than necessary. There’s something different now- less teasing, more intent. You can still feel his hands on your hips if you think about it long enough.

You tilt your head slightly. “Actually…”

He pauses, attention sharpening immediately. “Yeah?”

You step a little closer, lowering your voice- not secretive, just deliberate. Like you’ve already decided.

“Would it be weird if we just… went back to your place?”

The question hangs between you, heavier than the arcade noise, heavier than the music and the laughter and the clatter of machines. For half a second, he just looks at you- processing, recalibrating.

Then his eyebrows lift, surprised but unmistakably pleased.

“Uh,” he lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. No, that wouldn’t be weird.”

You watch him closely as he adds, carefully, “I mean- only if that’s what you want.”

You shrug, casual again, even though your pulse jumps. “Sounds better than losing another game.”

That gets a real smile out of him- soft, a little dazed, like he’s trying not to read too much into it.

“Okay,” he says, already reaching for his jacket. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And as you turn to leave together, you catch the way he glances at you once more- quick, like he’s checking to make sure this is actually happening.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable way- the kind of quiet that isn’t awkward because neither of you feel the need to fill it. He navigates the suburban streets easily, headlights cutting through the early evening fog. Houses with neat lawns and warm glows in the windows slide by, grounding the scene, making it feel almost ordinary… except for the electricity crackling in the car between you.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the slight way his jaw tightens when he concentrates, or the way he hums along softly to a song on the radio without thinking. It’s subtle, but it makes your stomach twist in anticipation.

When he pulls into his driveway, the car’s engine clicks off. You both sit for a moment, letting the tension stretch just a little longer.

“You wanna come in?” he asks, voice casual, like he isn’t thinking about the obvious reason you’re both here.

“Yeah,” you say, already unlocking your side.

The house is warm, lived-in but clean, the kind of place that feels inviting without being staged. You take a small tour in your head as you step in, letting yourself relax slightly, like you belong there- even if only temporarily.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, dropping his keys on the counter and heading for the cabinet. A second later, you hear the clink of glasses.

He returns with two short glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Thought we could start with something small,” he says, sitting back on the edge of the couch and holding a glass out to you.

You take it, letting your fingers brush his just slightly, and nod. “Perfect.”

You sink down into the couch, crossing your legs under you. He sits a little apart but close enough that you can feel his presence, the warmth radiating from his side. You raise your glass briefly. “Cheers,” you murmur, letting the whiskey burn as it slides down.

He smirks, letting his gaze linger on you for just a beat too long. “Cheers,” he says, voice low, calm, but with a weight you can feel in your chest.

You take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle in. For a few minutes, you talk about nothing important- music, a random TV show, the absurdity of the arcade. You’re laughing softly, letting the conversation drift, but every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand across the couch fabric reminds you both why you’re really here.

At one point, you tilt your head, watching him with a little smirk. “You know,” you say, voice teasing but soft, “we could just skip all the small talk if you wanted.”

He raises an eyebrow, letting a slow smile spread across his face. “And do what exactly?” he asks, still keeping his composure, still calm- but you catch that quick flicker of want in his eyes.

You shrug, casual, playful. “You tell me.”

He leans back slightly, studying you for a moment, hands loosely wrapped around his glass. The subtle shift in his posture is enough- there’s anticipation there, restraint, but you can feel the undercurrent of him already imagining what’s next.

You take another sip, slow, deliberate, letting the tension hang in the air. For a moment, you just sit there, letting the whiskey warm your hands and the quiet stretch between you. Both of you know what’s coming- but for now, it’s just the two of you, the soft clink of glasses, and the unspoken agreement hanging heavier than words ever could.

You shift on the couch, letting the warmth of the whiskey settle in your chest, and slowly, deliberately, you slide closer to him. Before he can react, you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of him, hands brushing his shoulders as you lean in. Your lips hover just above his, teasing, soft, inviting.

He doesn’t move forward. Instead, his hands find your hips, steadying you, but not in the same urgent way you’d expected. You catch the hesitation in his chest against yours, the slight tension under your thighs. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifts back just enough to create space, his hands holding your hips- not pushing you away, but steadying you. His voice is low, calm, gentle.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your side, “we don’t have to do this right now.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Don’t want to?” you tease lightly, though the heat in your chest tells you it’s more than that.

“I do,” he admits, voice almost a whisper, “I just… I like being with you, and I don’t want this to be only that.”

You pause, caught in the shift- the way he says it, soft and deliberate, the kind of restraint that makes your stomach coil. You catch the faint blush in his cheeks, the tiny part of him that wants to give in, but doesn’t.

He leans back slightly, enough to guide your hips down, and offers a crooked smile. “How about we just… watch a movie or something first?”

You let out a breath, half-laughing, half-sighing, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Movie, huh? Keeping it classy?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We’ve got time for everything else later.”

And just like that, the heat isn’t completely gone -it lingers, thick and delicious- but now it’s layered with a tease of anticipation. He’s close, present, intoxicating, and he’s making you wait… carefully, deliberately, like he’s savoring more than just the physical.

You settle into him anyway, arms around his neck, leaning against him as he presses a soft kiss to your temple. He’s restrained, but it’s impossible to ignore the tension humming between you both, the unspoken promise that the night isn’t over- just… paused.

You pull back slightly, letting out a soft huff as you slide off his lap and settle back onto the couch next to him. You don’t say it, but the small crease in your brow and the little roll of your eyes say it all- this wasn’t supposed to be a lovey-dovey evening. You just wanted the heat, the friction, the rush of him. Not… whatever this is.

He glances at you, just briefly, catching the shift in your energy, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he reaches for the remote, flipping through options with calm, deliberate movements, as if the tension between you is just another layer of the evening’s entertainment. His focus is on the screen, but his presence is heavy, magnetic, almost like a gentle weight you can’t shake.

You reach for your phone, sliding your thumb over the screen. A small plan hatches in your mind, something to distract yourself from the momentarily complicated vibe. You quickly type a message to Yasmine:

You: Call me in like, five minutes. Say you have an emergency. Please.

You set the phone down just as Drew glances your way, his eyebrows slightly raised but his lips tugging at a quiet smile. He doesn’t say anything, just leans back, letting the silence stretch between you as you tuck your legs under yourself.

You pick up your phone again, pretending to scroll through something urgent while sneaking peeks at him. He’s flipping through the streaming menu like he’s carefully deciding what you’ll both “enjoy” tonight, but his shoulders are relaxed, his body language soft. There’s a tension there too, the kind that simmers quietly after what you two already shared, but it’s controlled- he’s controlled.

You glance over at him, catching him in the corner of your eye, and bite back a smile. He’s so calm, so impossibly composed, and yet you can feel the pull of him, the warmth lingering from earlier. It’s frustrating and enticing all at once.

Then your phone buzzes. Yasmine’s calling. You answer, murmuring a quiet, “Hello?” and let her drag you into her “emergency,” all the while keeping one eye on Drew. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask, just watches, letting you run the show- but there’s a flicker in his eyes, a hint of curiosity, of mild amusement, that makes your chest tighten.

You sit up, letting the tension melt into quiet mischief. You’re annoyed, slightly, that the night took a softer turn than you wanted- but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it. You turn towards him, hand brushing against his shoulder as you keep your focus split between the fake emergency call and the man next to you, and for a moment, it’s exactly what you wanted: him close, alive, teasing, but not overbearing.

You tug your phone away from your ear and give Yasmine a quick nod though she can’t see you. “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” you say, voice calm but a little clipped, already slipping into your jacket as you stand.

Drew watches silently, leaning back against the couch with his usual cool posture, but there’s something in the set of his shoulders that betrays him- just a little.

“You want me to drive you?” he asks casually, though his tone carries that quiet, subtle hopefulness he can’t quite hide.

You shake your head, looping your bag over your shoulder. “Nah, I’ll grab an Uber. Shouldn’t be long.”

He exhales softly, almost a sigh, eyes flicking down to the floor for a second before returning to you. “Right… yeah, okay.” There’s a small crease between his brows, the barest hint of disappointment tugging at his expression. You know exactly what it is- and he knows you know.

“I’m… sorry,” he murmurs quietly as he stands with you, voice low, almost reverent. “If you wanted more tonight.”

You shrug, keeping your face neutral, voice casual. “Nah, it’s fine. I just… gotta help her, that’s all.”

But both of you know it’s a lie. You’re leaving because he didn’t let the night go the way you wanted it to go. He wanted more than a hookup, and you… well, you weren’t ready to give that to him tonight.

Drew steps closer, just a little, the distance between you charged but respectful. “I get it,” he says softly, eyes meeting yours. “I really do. I just…  I think we should try-”

You cut him off with a small smile, light and teasing, though there’s a hint of truth in it. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” You turn slightly, moving toward the door, keeping your voice easy, brushing past him just enough to remind him you’re in control of the night’s ending.

He watches you go, silent for a beat, before nodding, letting you take the lead. There’s a softness in his expression, a mix of longing and respect that doesn’t need words. You both know the truth, but neither says it aloud.

As the door clicks shut behind you, you can almost feel him exhale from the other side. And even as you step outside and get into your Uber, you can’t shake the little twist in your chest- part satisfaction, part frustration, part anticipation for the next time you’ll see him.

The Uber ride is quiet. You stare out the window at the blur of streetlights, trying to untangle your thoughts. Part of you is still buzzing from the night -the whiskey, the closeness, the tension- but another part is nagging at you: guilt, because he knows exactly why you left when you did.

When you finally reach your apartment, you slip inside quickly, setting your bag down and sinking into the couch. The door clicks softly behind you, and your phone vibrates almost immediately. It’s him. You swipe to answer, nerves twisting just a little.

“Hey,” he says, voice calm but threaded with concern.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“You okay? How’s your friend?” There’s genuine care in his tone, the kind of soft attention that makes your chest tighten.

“She’s fine now,” you reply, keeping it short. “All good. Nothing major.” You don’t go into detail- you don’t want him to dig into the faked emergency, not right now.

There’s a pause. Then he says, quietly, almost shyly, “I… had a really great time tonight.”

You glance down at your hands, picking at the edge of the couch cushion. “Mm.” You don’t say yes. You don’t disagree either.

“Hey,” he continues softly, “I’m sorry if I made it feel like I was only into this.… for one thing.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t. Really.”

Another pause, the line carrying the weight of unsaid things. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Good. I just… wanted you to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” you reply, voice quieter now, reflective.

And just like that, you both hang up. The apartment is still and quiet around you, and the realization sinks in: you feel… shitty. Not about him -he’s genuinely kind, respectful, the kind of person who makes you feel seen even when you’re holding back- but about yourself. About how you pushed, pulled, and left things unfinished because you weren’t ready to let the night mean anything more than… what you wanted it to mean.

You lean back, staring at the ceiling, chest tightening. It wasn’t a bad night. It was… complicated. And now, alone, you have to wrestle with that little sting in your chest: wanting him, knowing he’s good for you, and also being stubborn enough not to let yourself say it out loud.

-

The apartment smells faintly of takeout and candles as you slump onto the couch, a glass of red wine in your hand. Your friends are sprawled across the living room -half on the floor, half on the other couch- giggling over some nonsense on TikTok. You take a slow sip, letting the warmth of the wine hit your belly, though it barely masks the gnawing irritation that’s been building all week.

It’s been a week and a half since the last time you’ve spoken to Drew. A week and a half. And while part of you is annoyed that he hasn’t reached out -you’re not even sure why you’re annoyed, exactly- another part of you is tense, restless, missing him in ways you won’t admit even to yourself. And if that wasn’t enough, your period’s making every little thing sharper, every wine sip burn a little hotter, every teasing glance from your friends a little more pointed.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” Clarissa says suddenly, stretching out on the floor. She tilts her wine glass toward you with a grin. “Something wrong, or are you just… pouting like a baby?”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “I’m not pouting.”

“Oh, come on,” Yasmine laughs, plopping down next to you with her glass in hand. “Don’t act like we don’t know you. You’ve been… grumpy all week. And what’s with that face?” She leans closer, squinting like she’s inspecting a crime scene.

You shrug, taking another sip of your wine, trying to look casual. “I’m just… tired.”

“Tired?” Clarissa snorts. “You’re not tired. You’re missing someone. Admit it.”

You glance at them, lips pressed together, pretending to think. “Mm… maybe I’m just… appreciating the drama of wine and friends?”

Yasmine laughs, nudging your arm. “Yeah, sure. If by chaos you mean your sulking about a certain Drew Starkey, then yeah, totally drama.”

You groan, rolling onto your side dramatically, a hand pressed to your forehead. “I’m not missing him,” you mumble, even though a small pang of longing tightens in your chest. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t say it.”

Clarissa smirks, giving you a pointed look. “Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you keep checking your phone every five minutes, huh?”

You bite your lip, wine glass hovering mid-air. They notice. They always notice. You swish the wine around in your glass to distract yourself -and them- from the truth: that even though he hasn’t reached out, even though your period’s making everything sharper, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his voice, the way he looks at you, the way he makes you feel simultaneously frustrated and… something else.

Yasmine leans in closer, whispering conspiratorially, “Honestly, we should just call him. Make him sweat a little. I mean, you’re clearly suffering over there.”

“Yeah,” Clarissa adds, grinning wickedly. “Send him a little reminder that you exist. Make him miss you for a change.”

You roll your eyes, swirling your wine, trying to act indifferent, but the faintest smirk tugs at your lips. Maybe… maybe just a little.

-

The door clicks behind her friends as they leave, their laughter and teasing fading down the hallway. You slump onto the couch, the apartment suddenly quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. The wine glasses are cleared, but the warmth of the night -and the lingering buzz of your mood- remains. You pick up your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. 

You: Hey. 

Simple. Minimal. Safe. You hit send and set the phone down, half-expecting nothing.

But a second later, your phone rings. You glance at the screen.

Drew S

“Hello?” you answer, trying to sound casual, though your chest is tightening.

“Hey,” he says, calm, steady, almost gentle- but the seriousness under his tone makes your stomach twist. “I… saw your message.”

You hum, nervously twisting your hair around your finger. “Yeah… just wanted to say hi.”

A pause stretches across the line. Then he sighs, low and deliberate, like he’s been holding something in for a while. “Look… I didn’t reach out sooner because I wasn’t sure where we stood after the other night. I didn’t want to assume anything, and I didn’t want to… bother you if you weren’t feeling the same.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off-guard. He’s not joking, not teasing. He’s steady. Serious. Your stomach knots.

“I like you,” he says finally, clearly, directly. “I like spending time with you, the way you make me feel… and I’m looking for something real. Something… serious.”

You shift on the couch, silence stretching in the empty apartment.

“But I also need to be honest with myself,” he continues, voice calm but firm. “I’m not going to be the person you call when you’re bored or lonely, or just looking for a hookup. That’s not fair to either of us. If that’s all you want, I need to know now, so I can find someone who’s actually looking for the same thing I am.”

You’re quiet, frozen. This isn’t what you were expecting. You thought maybe he’d text back casually, flirt a little- but not this. Not intention. Not boundaries.

“I-” you start, then stop, realizing there’s nothing to argue with. He’s laid it out, sharp and real and somehow… intimidating.

“Take your time,” he adds softly, letting the silence stretch between you. “But I needed to say it. I can’t just… wait around wondering if we’re on the same page.”

You close your mouth, blinking down at the phone. Words fail you. You hadn’t expected to be met with honesty like this, clear and deliberate, especially in the quiet of your empty apartment.

Finally, he exhales. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Talk soon?”

“Yeah…” you whisper, still at a loss for words. You hang up, thumb hovering over the screen for another message, but you don’t type. The apartment is still, except for the soft hum outside, and your thoughts are spinning. One thing is certain: this conversation just changed everything.

The apartment is quiet, the soft hum of the city outside the windows the only sound. You flop back against the couch, arms tucked behind your head, and stare at the ceiling. Your friends’ laughter has faded, and now the emptiness of your place feels heavier, almost deafening.

You replay the conversation with Drew in your head, word by word. How calm he sounded, how sure, how impossibly sincere. How he didn’t just say he liked you -he made it clear he wanted more than casual, more than late-night messiness. The boundaries? That hit you harder than you expected. Not because it was a threat, but because it showed he valued himself -and you- enough to be honest.

Your stomach twists with that familiar pull: a mix of longing, guilt, and the tiniest flutter of excitement. You realize you miss him. Not just the sex, not just the adrenaline of sneaking around or the thrill of a late-night hookup- but him. His voice. His presence. The way he looks at you when he’s trying not to look at you too much.

Your phone rests on the coffee table, screen dark. You stare at it, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You could wait, play it cool, let him think you’re uninterested… but the thought of him waiting, wondering where you stand, makes your chest tighten. You bite your lip, exhale slowly, and finally pick it up.

Okay, you tell yourself. Just say it. Don’t overthink.

You type, slowly at first, each letter deliberate:

You: I like you too.

You reread it, heart hammering in your chest. Short. Simple. True. No games. No teasing. Just you finally being honest, letting him know that, despite your usual push-and-pull energy, the feeling is mutual.

You hit send and set the phone down, staring at the ceiling again. The hum outside the window feels softer now, more comforting. And somewhere deep down, you can’t help the small, satisfied smile curling at your lips.

Because for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re holding back. Not completely.

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: angst if you squint towards the end but it gets better

a/n: just noticing how many of the past chapters have been angst lmao guys I swear its only up from this chapter 😭 also, my updates have been so sporadic because I've been working on a new Rafe series that's a first person story. I can't tell you exactly when the first chapter will be out but its very different for me so I'm so excited to share! anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this part!

part nineteen

New York greets you the same way it always has- loud, alive, unapologetic. Only this time, it isn’t wrapped in autumn chill or winter steel. It’s the beginning of summer now. The air is warm without being heavy yet, sunlight filtering through the trees like it has something to prove.

You, Becca, and Beau cut through Central Park on foot, the city stretching endlessly around you on all sides. Runners weave past in quick blurs of motion, couples sprawl across blankets in the grass, music drifts faintly from somewhere unseen. It feels surreal in that way New York always does- like too many lives happening at once for you to fully keep track of.

Beau checks his phone for the third time in five minutes. “He said he’d meet us there,” he mutters, thumbing across the screen again like it might change the facts.

Becca hums. “Uh-huh. And mom said I’d be six feet tall by sophomore year.”

“You’re just being dramatic,” Beau says quickly. Still- his jaw tightens as he locks the phone again. 

The restaurant sits just off the edge of the park, all glass windows and warm wood tones, sunlight spilling lazily across the floor. The kind of place that makes you feel like you should already be doing better in life by association alone. The second you step inside, you spot them.

Allegra and Noel are already seated at a circular table near the windows, two empty chairs waiting across from them. Allegra’s sunglasses are perched dramatically on her head like she might be photographed at any moment. Noel sits with her hands wrapped around a glass of water, posture neat, eyes scanning the room.

Beau hesitates near the entrance, scanning the restaurant. “He’s not here yet,” he mutters.

“Good,” Becca says. “We didn’t come all this way for you to immediately get kidnapped.”

You smile faintly as Beau reluctantly chooses a nearby table instead- close enough to yours to see, close enough that Becca could realistically leap to his defense if needed- not that she was big enough to do so. He drops into the chair, phone back out in his hand.

“I’ll give him fifteen minutes,” he says.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” Becca fires back.

You and Becca head for Allegra and Noel. The moment Allegra spots you, everything changes.

She gasps loudly and shoves her chair back with zero shame. “Oh. My. God-”

Noel stands at the same time, smiling like she’s afraid she might cry. They both rush you at once, wrapping their arms around you like time never passed at all. You laugh softly into the space between them, shoulders relaxing for the first time since you set foot back in the city.

This- this feeling of being loved out loud. Of being welcomed without condition. It settles somewhere deep in your chest. And still, quietly, there’s that familiar ache beneath it- the knowledge of whose love you wish you were feeling like this from.

They pull back, and Allegra immediately drops her gaze to your stomach. “Officially the hottest mom ever,” she declares.

Noel nods earnestly. “You really are glowing.”

You laugh, cheeks warming as your hand drifts instinctively to your belly. Becca drops into her chair beside you with a huff.

“Don’t hype her too much,” Becca warns. “She’s fragile.”

Allegra smirks. “Please. She’s thriving.”

Across the restaurant, you spot Beau still watching the door, phone in hand- waiting on a future that hasn’t quite arrived yet. By the time all four of you finally slow down from catching up on each other’s lives -everyone’s stories loud, overlapping, full of movement- your breakfast arrives, carried out in warm, fragrant waves. Two -yes, two- plates of perfectly golden French toast are set down first, each slice thick and soft, crowned with a melting pad of butter and dusted generously with powdered sugar. Fresh strawberry slices sit vivid and red against the white. Then come the cheesy scrambled eggs, steaming and fluffy, followed by a chilled fruit bowl glistening with color. Your stomach growls before you even register it. So does the baby.

You laugh under your breath and place a hand absentmindedly over your belly as if to hush her. You force yourself to wait, polite for once, giving time for everyone’s food to arrive before you finally dig in. But the second you do? All dignity is gone. You eat like you’ve never seen food before.

Thankfully, no one judges. Or at least- they’re understanding about it. Conversation barrels on around you while you chew and chew and chew, barely acknowledged for being halfway feral.

Noel is in the middle of recounting how she recently sold a piece to “some absolute creep” who then immediately tried to hit on her and then, mid-sentence, she freezes. Her eyes flick toward the entrance. She chokes. Like, actually- chokes.

There’s a violent cough, a sharp gasp, panic tightening her face as she tries to breathe and laugh at the same time. Allegra is instantly on her feet, pounding carefully at her back while Becca shoves Noel’s water toward her and jams the straw into the cup.

“You okay?” you manage to ask, despite your cheeks being so full you feel like a literal chipmunk, eyes wide as you watch the chaos unfold.

Noel waves them off weakly as she finally gets air back into her lungs, taking a long sip of water.

“Holy shit,” she rasps once she can breathe again. “He’s hot.”

“Who?” Becca asks immediately, leaning forward like this is middle school gossip and she’s about to hear the tea.

Noel lifts one discreet finger and points toward the front door. All three of you follow the direction of her hand. You turn slowly, still chewing. And then- Oh. It’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. No- actually. Literally. He’s tall, built in that quiet, effortless way like he doesn’t even have to try. Broad shoulders under a simple fitted t-shirt, long legs in dark slacks. His hair is dark and thick, just long enough to fall forward when he moves. His features are sharp but somehow soft at the same time- strong jaw, straight nose, eyes that look like they could be kind or dangerous depending on the day. Young movie-star handsome. Like the kind of man that doesn’t look real in real life. Like he belongs on a screen, not hovering awkwardly near a hostess stand. Like a business casual Clark Kent. You realize you’ve stopped chewing. Your mouth is still completely full.

Becca sucks in a loud breath through her teeth. “Okay… wow.”

Allegra squints. “Is it illegal to be that attractive casually at breakfast?”

Noel whispers, still traumatized, “I almost died.”

Across the room, blissfully unaware of the havoc he’s causing, the man shifts his weight, scanning the restaurant like he’s looking for someone who hasn’t arrived yet. Breakfast stretches on, the initial shock dulling just enough for conversation to find its footing again. Plates clink. Coffee is refilled. The restaurant settles back into its low, ambient hum. You focus on your food. You eat slower now, one hand resting absently against your belly as the conversation drifts around you- Allegra complaining about a casting director who refused to take her dad’s bribery to get her into a film, Noel talking about a commission she might finally say yes to, Becca half-listening while scrolling through her phone.

A few minutes pass. Then chairs scrape softly against tile. You don’t look up right away. Beau’s voice reaches you first.

“My sister and her friends,” he mutters, clearly to someone beside him. That’s what makes you glance up. Beau stops at the edge of your table, one hand hooked in his pocket, the other gesturing toward the man next to him. The Clark Kent man.

“Hey,” Beau says, a little less casual than usual. “This is Jessie. Jessie Eddison. My business partner.”

Jessie steps forward with an easy smile.

“Hi,” he says. Calm. Polite. “Nice to meet you.”

He shakes Allegra’s hand, then Noel’s, then Becca’s- each interaction brief, respectful, practiced. When he turns to you, his attention doesn’t linger, but it does register. His gaze dips for the smallest fraction of a second -not long enough to feel like staring, just long enough to acknowledge your round belly- before returning to your face. You hate that you notice it. You give him your hand anyway.

“Hi,” he says again, tone unchanged.

“Hello,” you answer, equally neutral.

You pull your hand back and reach for your fork, already shifting your attention elsewhere. Jessie doesn’t comment or react, just steps back slightly, folding his hands together like he’s content to stand where he is.

“Well,” Beau says, clapping his hands once. “That’s everyone.”

Jessie smiles. “I won’t interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Allegra says automatically.

Becca shoots her a look. Jessie chuckles quietly but doesn’t move to sit. “I’ll catch you guys later.” He nods once and turns back toward Beau’s table. Conversation resumes around you almost immediately, overlapping voices filling the space he leaves behind. Noel exhales softly. Allegra leans back in her chair. Becca glances at you, searching your face. You take another bite of food, chewing slowly, letting the noise swallow the moment before it can become anything else. Across the room, Beau pulls out a chair. Jessie sits. You don’t look again.

-

After paying, the four of you stand and begin gathering your things. Chairs scrape softly against the floor, purses are slung back onto shoulders, shopping bags looped over wrists. Without thinking, your eyes flick toward Beau first- then drift to Jessie. They’re still deep in whatever conversation they’ve been having since he arrived, heads angled toward each other, bodies relaxed. It looks easy. Familiar.

As the rest of you start talking over one another -half-formed plans about walking, shopping, finding somewhere to sit- you excuse yourself and step away, heading for the restroom for the third time since you arrived.

The bathroom is quiet. Cool. You wash your hands a little longer than necessary, watching the soap swirl down the drain before reaching into your purse. When you unlock your phone, there’s a text waiting. From Rafe. Your brows knit together in surprise, but you open it anyway.

Rafe: Hey. Where are you?

You tilt your head slightly, the question sitting wrong in your chest. Why does he want to know where you are? Why now? Another message comes through before you can decide whether to respond.

Rafe: I’m sitting outside the doctor’s office. You have an appointment today…

Your jaw tightens. You type back quickly, decisively.

You: I rescheduled it. I had to go out of town for a while.

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately. Then stop. Nothing else follows. You stare at the screen for a beat longer than you mean to, then slip your phone back into your purse and exhale, squaring your shoulders before leaving the bathroom. The girls are waiting near the door when you rejoin them, mid-conversation.

“So where are we headed next?” Allegra asks. “Shopping? Or resting y/n’s feet like responsible adults?”

“That would be nice, actually,” you say with a smile. They hadn’t seen you approach.

They laugh as Becca pushes the door open, warm summer air spilling inside and wrapping around you.

“We should do a karaoke night,” Noel says as you step out onto the sidewalk. “All of our friends. Snacks, drinks, pizza.”

“Pizza sounds good,” you blurt out without thinking, even though you just ate.

“And games,” Becca adds.

“I’ll start texting the group chat,” Allegra says, already pulling out her phone.

You glance back once, toward the restaurant now shrinking in the distance. Through the window, Beau and Jessie are still seated, likely just getting their food now. The sight passes through you without sticking. Turning back, you nudge Becca’s arm gently. “Make sure you let Beau know where we’re going.”

“He’s fine,” she says, scrolling. “He can find his way back to the hotel.”

You chuckle softly.

“Ooh- before we do that, we have to spoil y/n and the baby,” Noel gasps suddenly. Her hands find your belly before she bends down and presses a quick, affectionate kiss there.

You laugh, shaking your head, instinctively rubbing your stomach afterward. “You guys don’t have to do that.”

“We know,” Allegra says, already flagging down a car. “But this is the first baby in the friend group. She’s getting spoiled whether you like it or not.”

⸻

When you arrive at Allegra and Noel’s apartment building, nostalgia hits you harder than expected. As you wait for Noel to unlock the door, your eyes drift -unbidden- to the apartment across from theirs. Your old one.

It looks smaller than you remember. Quieter. Like something preserved behind glass. Seeing it feels like looking into a different lifetime, one you barely recognize as yours anymore. You’re pulled back to the present when the door opens and Noel steps inside. The weight of the shopping bags in your arms suddenly feels heavier, more real. You step forward anyway.

Their apartment still smells the same -cinnamon and oranges, warm and familiar- and you take a slow, steady inhale as the door closes behind you. It settles something in your chest, the kind of comfort you didn’t realize you’d been craving. Noel gently takes the shopping bags from your arms, her touch careful, considerate, and sets them down by the entryway like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“What kind of pizza are we getting?” Becca asks, already kicking off her kitten heels and padding farther inside like the place is her own.

“I was thinking cheese, pepperoni, and meat lovers,” Allegra calls out, disappearing into her bedroom. “Oh- and Sienna, Myra, Owen, Mario, and Jack are all coming.”

“Oh!” Noel perks up immediately. “We should get ice cream. Like- multiple flavors. And toppings. We can do an ice cream bar.”

The apartment hums with movement as she starts tidying instinctively. It’s colorful and lived-in- bright throw pillows, framed art, little knickknacks that feel intentional. You’re almost certain that’s Noel’s influence, and Allegra just lets it happen. After helping clean up, you and Becca decorate, stringing fairy lights across the living room and arranging bowls of candy and toppings along the table. Allegra and Noel drag the karaoke machine out of Allegra’s room, fiddling with cords until it finally connects to the TV. Soon enough, the doorbell starts ringing.

Myra and Mario arrive first, both of them lighting up the moment they see you.

“Look at the belly!” Myra squeals, voice pitching high as she steps closer.

You laugh, hugging both of them as they gush, your stomach undeniably more noticeable now- nothing dramatic, but enough to mark the passage of time.

“Hey, how’s Marie?” Mario asks once he pulls back, his hands briefly resting on your shoulders.

You pause just long enough for it to register. “Uh… I’m not sure,” you say lightly. “Maybe you should reach out and ask her?”

You do know how Marie’s doing- but him asking you instead of her feels wrong. This is your subtle nudge, and he seems to catch it, nodding thoughtfully. When he steps away, you glance over at Becca, who gives the faintest eye roll before politely greeting Myra. You clock it but let it go. You’ve learned when not to get involved.

Owen and Jack arrive next, both effortlessly good-looking. You hug Jack first -quick, warm, familiar enough- and then there’s Owen. He looks exactly the same as the last time you saw him at your engagement party. If anything, he looks even better. Relaxed. Grounded.

“Hey, you,” he says with a smile, arms opening slowly.

You don’t hesitate. You step into him, arms looping around his neck, and for a second the room disappears. You breathe in his teakwood scent, your eyes fluttering shut before you realize you’ve done it.

You both pull away quickly, laughing softly, like you’ve been caught in something unspoken.

“Look at you,” you say, resting a hand on your hip before reaching up and lacing your fingers through his hair, deliberately messing up the style he clearly worked on. “If I’m not mistaken, this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you without a camera.”

“Not so fast,” he says, grinning as he pulls a small digital camera from his pocket.

You laugh, taking it from him and flipping it over in your hands. “At least your neck can rest,” you say, biting your lip as you smile before handing it back.

“Yeah… yeah,” he trails off, then gestures vaguely toward you. Toward your stomach. “But look at you. You’re-”

“Yeah,” you say softly, glancing down and rubbing your belly. The smile falters for just a second before you smooth it back into place.

“You look amazing,” he finally says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s relieved to have landed on the right words.

“Thank you, Owen.” You give him a small push, playful, affectionate.

He chuckles and moves off to join the others, already teasing Allegra, who predictably swats at him. You watch the group gather -hugging, laughing, overlapping voices- and only then do you feel Becca’s eyes on you. You step closer to her, both of you watching instead of joining.

“What was that?” she asks.

“What was what?” you reply, eyes drifting briefly to Allegra and Jack’s interaction- his hand sneaking a little too low, her smacking his arm but smiling all the same.

Becca doesn’t answer right away. You turn to find her staring at you, suspicious and unreadable.

“What?” you ask again, heat creeping into your cheeks.

“Nothing,” she says too calmly, raising her hands in surrender.

You don’t believe her for a second but you let it go. Sienna is the last to arrive. The door swings open just as Allegra is dramatically untangling the cords of the karaoke machine, and Sienna steps in with a laugh, tossing her bag onto the chair like she never missed a beat.

“I swear you guys only start without me,” she says, arms already out.

The room erupts- hellos overlapping, hugs traded in a messy cluster. Sienna freezes mid-embrace when she finally looks at you, her eyes dropping to your stomach.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, softer now. “You.”

You smile before she even reaches you, arms opening. Her hug is careful, grounding, the kind that lingers just long enough to say I’m here without needing the words. Soon the apartment is full- music playing, voices raised, laughter bouncing off the walls. Someone hands you a soda in a plastic cup. Someone else insists you sit, then immediately forgets and pulls you up again when your song comes on. Karaoke turns chaotic fast.

Allegra belts like she’s auditioning for something serious. Jack takes backup vocals way too seriously. Myra and Noel scream-sing together, arms locked. Mario records everything on his phone, narrating like a documentary no one asked for.

You’re laughing -really laughing- when Owen appears at your side, close enough that your arms brush.

“You good?” he asks, leaning down slightly so only you can hear him over the noise.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just… overstimulated in a good way.”

He smiles at that, his hand briefly touching your elbow as he gestures you toward the couch when someone starts jumping dangerously close. It’s quick, barely there- but when he lets go, you feel the absence of it.

-

Later, when you’re all packed onto the couch, knees overlapping, you catch him watching you during a quieter song. His gaze isn’t heavy or curious- just soft. Familiar. When the couch shifts and you lose your balance slightly, his hand finds your lower back automatically, steadying you before either of you really think about it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s okay,” you say, just as quietly.

At one point, he hands you a bowl of ice cream he somehow knows is exactly what you want. Chocolate, extra strawberries. No questions.

“Thanks,” you say, fingers brushing his as you take it.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do you. Sienna ends up beside you later, her arm slung around your shoulders as the room hums with noise and comfort.

“This,” she says softly, nodding around at everyone, “feels right.”

You swallow, emotion tightening your throat, and lean into her just a little. Across the room, Owen laughs at something Jack says, throwing his head back. When he looks back at you, your eyes meet- and for a brief moment, the noise fades. You don’t feel fixed.But you feel held. And for now, that’s enough.

You’re in the middle of laughing -really laughing- watching Mario and Allegra absolutely scream their hearts out to “No Air” like their lives depend on it, when your phone buzzes against your thigh.

You barely glance at it at first. Then you do. Rafe. Your smile falters. Just a little. Enough that Becca notices from across the room. You flip the phone over.

Rafe: Where are you?

Your brows knit together, a knot forming low in your chest. You weren’t expecting a text from him tonight. You especially weren’t expecting this- the way it already feels like it’s pressing in on your space. You type back.

You: I told you I’m out of town.

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately. Disappear. Come back.

Rafe: Who are you with?

Your jaw tightens Excuse me? You don’t even get the chance to respond before his name lights up your screen, vibrating insistently in your hand. He’s calling. Your body stiffens as if it recognizes the shift before your brain does.

“You okay?” Owen asks quietly, his hand coming to rest on your upper back- steady, grounding. Not possessive. Just there.

“Yeah- yeah,” you say quickly, forcing a breath. You glance toward Noel, who’s perched on the arm of the couch. “Is there somewhere I can take this?”

“Yeah,” she says immediately, pointing. “My room- down the hall.”

You push yourself up with a soft grunt, ignoring the way your pelvis protests, and hurry down the hallway before the call can roll over to voicemail. Noel’s room is exactly what you remember- bright yellow walls, sketches taped up in chaotic clusters, half-finished ideas everywhere. An unmade bed. An easel in the corner with a painting still waiting to be finished. It smells faintly like acrylic paint and citrus cleaner. You answer before you can overthink it.

“Hello?” you say, keeping your voice even.

“Where are you?” Rafe asks again.

He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds… pointed. Like he already thinks he knows the answer. You lean against the edge of the bed, crossing your arms loosely over your belly.

“Why do you think you’re entitled to know where I am?” you ask.

There’s a pause. Just long enough to tell you he didn’t expect that.

“Why are you avoiding my question?” he shoots back.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” you say calmly. Too calmly. “I just don’t owe you an explanation. Last time I checked, you’re not my boyfriend. Or my fiancé. So I get to decide what I answer.”

He exhales on the other end- too slow, too heavy.

“I want to make sure my child is being carried responsibly.”

That does it. Your spine straightens, heat flashing through your chest. And only now do you really hear it- the slight drag in his words, the looseness around the edges. He’s been drinking.

You laugh once, sharp and humorless.

“Okay,” you say. “You want to know that badly? I’m in New York. I’m with my friends. There.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “New York?”

“Yes. New York,” you repeat. “I’m not at a bar. I’m not doing anything reckless. I’m eating pizza, singing karaoke, and sitting down every fifteen minutes because my back hurts.”

Another pause.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to New York.”

“I told you I was out of town,” you say. “That was the information you’re barely entitled to.”

His voice drops. Not softer- just heavier. “There any guys there?”

Your breath catches- not because of guilt, but because of the audacity. “Rafe,” you say slowly, carefully, “this is exactly why we are not together.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” you correct. “That’s a boundary.”

You hear him swallow. A chair scrape. Maybe he’s sitting in his favorite chair in the living room at Tanny Hill. Maybe he’s somewhere else entirely.

“I just don’t want to be cut out,” he says, finally. And for the first time, there’s something raw in his voice. Something unguarded. You close your eyes.

“You’re not cut out,” you say. “But you don’t get to control me. Not anymore.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quietly, “I miss you.”

Your chest aches. Not because it fixes anything- but because it doesn’t.

“I know,” you say. And you mean it. “But missing me doesn’t give you access to me.”

When you hang up, your hand trembles slightly as you lower the phone. You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing in Noel’s paint-scented air, one hand settling instinctively over your belly. When you step back into the living room, the song has changed. Laughter still fills the space. Owen looks up immediately, concern flickering across his face.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, sitting back down. “I am.”

And for the rest of the night, you let yourself be exactly where you are.

-

By the time the ice cream has melted into pale, soupy streaks at the bottom of their cartons and nearly everyone’s voices are shot, the night begins to wind down. The pizza boxes sits abandoned on the counter, only the unwanted slices left behind- pepperoni, cold cheese, crusts no one bothered with.

Shoes start appearing again by the door. Jack murmurs something vague about “meeting up with someone,” which you’re fairly certain is code for a late-night hookup. Sienna checks her phone and groans about an early morning shift- despite her parents’ money, hers are the kind that insist she clock in anyway. Myra and Mario stay back to help tidy for a bit, laughing softly as they gather empty cups, before heading out together.

Eventually it’s just you, the girls, and Owen.

Noel is crouched on the floor with a paper towel, scrubbing at a sticky patch of dried ice cream someone spilled hours ago. Allegra is stacking glasses at the sink. The apartment feels quieter now- comfortable in that end-of-the-night way.

You shove the second, unopened tub of vanilla into the freezer with more force than necessary.

“So,” Owen says casually, wiping down the kitchen island behind you, “everything okay?”

You shrug without turning around. “Um- yeah. It’s fine.” You can feel his eyes on you anyway. He must’ve noticed how you went quiet after disappearing earlier, how you’d laughed a little less, leaned back a little more into yourself.

He stops wiping and leans against the counter instead. “I know we don’t talk all the time,” he says carefully, “but you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

You close the freezer door and pause, your reflection staring back at you in the brushed steel. You exhale before turning around, crossing your arms loosely over your chest.

“I know. It’s just… a lot,” you admit. “And I don’t really want to dump it all on someone else’s plate.”

“My plate’s empty,” he says with a small shrug, hands slipping into his pockets.

You nod, appreciative, but the words still don’t come. Before the silence can stretch too long, Allegra appears beside you with a stack of glass plates balanced against her hip. “So are these,” she announces. “Can you guys load the dishwasher?”

Owen takes the plates from her immediately. “Yeah, I got it.”

You linger by the fridge while he loads them, listening to the clink of ceramic and the low hum of the dishwasher kicking on. When Allegra disappears back into the living room, Owen glances at you again- hesitant this time, like he’s deciding something.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “If you don’t feel like going back to wherever you’re staying tonight… or even if you just don’t want to be alone-” You look up.

“There’s a late place down the street,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck. “Coffee, dessert, open way too late for no reason. We could hang out. No pressure. Just… sit.”

It doesn’t feel like a date. It doesn’t feel like an obligation. It just feels like an offer. And for the first time all night, the tightness in your chest eases- just a little.

-

The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of late-night quiet that feels intentional rather than lonely. One barista hums softly behind the counter while wiping down the espresso machine, the lights dimmed just enough to make everything feel warmer than it actually is. You bite into the toasted cheese danish, the edges crisp, the center still soft, and chase it with a sip of tea. Across from you, Owen cradles a mug of black coffee between his hands.

Earlier, while you and Becca were getting ready to meet Beau back at the hotel, you’d told her you were going to hang out with Owen instead. Of course, she’d given the two of you that same suspicious look- eyes darting between you, lips pressed together like she had thoughts she was choosing not to voice. Still, you made sure both of you walked her back to the hotel before heading here.

Now, you sit tucked into the corner of the café, knees angled toward each other, the silence between you not uncomfortable- just full.

“So,” Owen says finally, breaking it gently as he takes a sip of coffee, “what happened earlier?”

You keep chewing, eyes on your plate. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head slightly, lips curling in a way that says ‘you know exactly what I’m talking about’. “When you came back from Noel’s room. You got really quiet. What was that about?”

You sigh, your chewing slowing. “I was on the phone with my idiot ex-fiancé,” you admit. “That’s what that was.”

His eyebrows lift, not in surprise- more like confirmation. “What’d he do?” he asks, then quickly adds, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I think the better question is what didn’t he do?”

Owen leans back slightly, listening.

“He’s broken my heart and ruined me a million times,” you continue, voice steady even if the words aren’t. “I don’t know why I thought the last time would be different.” You pause, thumb tracing the edge of your plate. “And now -with the baby- you’d think he’d try harder. Be better. But I guess that’s my fault for believing literally any man.” You glance up at him. “No offense.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and lifts his mug in mock surrender. “None taken. You’re not wrong.”

You smile faintly, then look back down.

“I’m really sorry,” he says after a moment, more softly now. “That you’ve had to endure… all of that.”

There’s no rush in his voice. No attempt to fix it. Just sympathy, plain and real, and it catches you off guard more than anything else tonight.

“It’s fine,” you say automatically, shrugging. “It’s not your fault.”

Owen doesn’t respond right away. He watches you over the rim of his mug, then sets it down.

“You know,” he says, careful, “it doesn’t have to be someone’s fault for it to suck.”

That makes you look up.

“And you don’t have to minimize it just because you’ve survived it,” he adds.

The words settle heavy -but not unkind- between you. You take another sip of tea, feeling something loosen in your chest.

“Thanks,” you murmur finally.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

The coffee shop hums quietly around you again, and for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re carrying everything alone.

—

The OBX air feels exactly the same as it did when you left. It always does. Salty, heavy, familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest whether you want it to or not. Becca and Beau have barely pulled away when your phone buzzes as you’re unlocking the door. You glance down, pushing it open with your shoulder.

Owen: Make it home okay?

You’re smiling before you even realize it.

You: I did. Thank you again for last night. I really appreciate you.

A few seconds pass.

Owen: Glad to be of help.

You lock the door behind you and lean back against it, pressing the cool wood into your spine. You hold your phone to your chest, biting your lip, exhaling slowly. This isn’t a I think I found someone new feeling. It’s not butterflies or anticipation or longing. It’s quieter than that.

It’s realizing how long it’s been since a man sat across from you and simply listened. No defensiveness. No arguing. No trying to fix or control or dismiss what you were feeling. He hadn’t wanted anything from you. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked for more. He’d just been there.

And sometimes, that was everything.

You’re still leaning there, wrapped in the silence of your house, when the sound of a vehicle swerving outside cuts through the calm. Tires crunch against gravel.  Your brows knit together.

You straighten and pull the door open, peering out and your stomach drops.

A motorcycle is pulling into your driveway. The rider swings a leg off, removes his helmet, and you blink once. Twice. Like your eyes might be lying to you. They aren’t.

Rafe Cameron stands there, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw tight. Your heart sinks straight to your feet. Before you can stop yourself, you storm outside, your belly leading the way.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you demand. Your voice isn’t loud- but it’s sharp. Grounded.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Why the hell are you flying to New York when you’re this pregnant?”

The audacity nearly steals your breath.

“I’m four months pregnant,” you snap. “Not days away from giving birth. And it’s none of your business. You. Are. Not. My. Fiancé. Do you not understand that?”

He ignores you completely, brushing past and heading for the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” you call after him, following close. “And how did you even find my house?”

You slam the door shut behind you, more for the neighbors than for him. Your quiet street doesn’t need front-row seats to this.

Rafe paces your living room like a caged animal, hands raking through his hair, anger vibrating off him even as he tries -badly- to rein it in.

“What has gotten into you, Rafe?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper now.

He whirls around. “What’s gotten into me? What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m still the same me,” you say. “You’re the one who changed. This isn’t the Rafe I met at the beginning of last summer.”

Your eyes burn. Everything feels like it shifted overnight- good to bad, bad to unbearable. You see the tears in his eyes too, but his pride keeps them caged. Then, without warning, he strides toward you and snatches your phone from your hand.

“Rafe- what are you-” you reach for it, panic spiking, but he twists away, already unlocking it.

“Who the fuck is Owen?” he hisses, scrolling.

“He’s my friend,” you cry. “And you’ve met him. Rafe, give me my phone back.”

You instinctively cradle your belly as you sob, fear crawling up your spine- not for yourself, but for what he might do to the baby trying to keep you from your own phone.

“What’s ‘thanks for last night’?” he spits. “What did you do while carrying my child?” He throws your phone down the hallway. It skids across the floor and cracks loudly against the wall. You flinch.

“Nothing!” you sob. “We sat in a coffee shop. I talked. He listened. Something I begged you for- something you never gave me.”

Your chest heaves as the words tumble out. Who is this man? Where is the person you loved?

Rafe exhales shakily, hands trembling as he drags them over his buzzed hair. His face crumples.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He drops into a squat, head bowed, shoulders shaking as he breaks. Fully breaks. And that terrifies you. This is the Rafe who scares you. The Rafe who hurt Sarah. The Rafe everyone warned you about. You back away slowly until your spine hits the door. You slide down, shielding your belly as tears fall freely. The two of you cry in silence, the room heavy with it.

“I love you,” he sobs. “And I can’t stand this. Being away from you.” His breath stutters. “I hurt her.”

Your crying stills. “Hurt who, Rafe?” you whisper.

“Sarah,” he chokes. “I hurt Sarah. I messed up. I didn’t want you to see me the way everyone else does- as this monster.” He looks up, eyes red. “But now that’s all you see, isn’t it?”

Your heart fractures watching him like this. You hate how much it still hurts. “I don’t see you as a monster,” you say softly, wiping your face. “I just wanted honesty. That’s all I ever wanted from you.”

The words hang between you- simple, devastating, and far too late.

“I’m giving it to you now,” he cries. “Everything. I just- I want you back. I want us to be a family.”

Your chest tightens. “You broke up with me, Rafe,” you say, your voice trembling despite yourself. “You hurt me a thousand times and you think you can just… show up and I’ll take you back?” A shaky breath slips past your lips. “All you had to do the first time was be honest. People mess up. Emotions get out of control. None of what you did was okay- but all you had to say was that you hurt her, that you were wrong, that you didn’t mean it.”

He nods frantically, wiping at his face. “I fucked up. I know I did. I was stupid. I ruined our future with my own hands.” His voice cracks. “I’m owning that. I swear I am. Just… please.”

He stands and crosses the room in two quick strides, then drops to his knees in front of you again. His hands find yours, warm and familiar, and your breath catches. It hurts- how immediate it is. How your heart swells the second his skin touches yours. Four months without him. Four months without this. You hate how deeply your body remembers him, how much you’ve missed something you swore you were learning to live without.

“Please, y/n,” he whispers. Begging.

Your vision blurs. God, you want to say yes. You want to fold, to pull him into you, to believe him, to go back to the version of your life where loving him didn’t feel like walking on broken glass. But you can’t.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, pulling your hand free even though it feels like tearing something out of your chest. “I forgive you- but I can’t do this again. I can’t put myself through it. I can’t put the baby through it.” Your voice breaks completely. “I just can’t.”

His shoulders sag. His head drops forward, and a single tear slides down the bridge of his nose before dripping onto the floor. He sniffs once, sharply, like he’s trying to pull himself back together and failing.

The room fills with the sound of both of you breathing through heartbreak- his too late, and yours finally choosing to survive. The house settles back into silence.

The tears are gone, wiped away with the backs of your hands and shallow breaths, but the hurt lingers- heavy and unresolved, sitting in your chest like something you don’t know where to put yet. Rafe has shifted from kneeling to sitting across from you on the floor, his back slumped over. His fingers trace idle patterns along the wood, like he needs to keep moving or he’ll unravel all over again.

You’re the one who breaks the quiet.

“How did you know I was in New York?” you ask softly.

“You told me” he chuckles, eyes still on the floor.

“No- before i told you. You knew i wasn’t in the obx.” 

He lets out a small, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Beau,” he says. “We talked a while back. He mentioned going to New York with his sister to meet some investment guy.” He shrugs. “You said you were out of town, so I took a wild guess.”

You nod, staring at a spot on the floor between you. The silence stretches again, thick but not hostile. Not anymore. You don’t really know how to fill it- and truthfully, you don’t want him to leave. The realization surprises you with how immediate it is.

Rafe clears his throat and pushes himself to his feet. “I should probably go,” he says, forcing a weak half-smile. “Sorry I showed up like a total psychopath.”

You shake your head quickly. Despite the chaos, despite the fear and the shouting, something about this -all of it- feels necessary. “No, it’s…” You trail off, unsure how to finish. It wasn’t okay. But it was honest. And maybe that’s what you both needed.

He steps closer and holds out his hands, wordlessly offering to help you up. You take them, his grip steady as he pulls you to your feet. For a moment, neither of you moves. Time freezes. You stand there, close enough to feel his warmth, looking at each other like you’re both waiting for the same invisible cue- what now?

“I know you said no,” he says quietly. “And I’ll respect that.” His voice softens. “But… can we talk? Maybe be friends?” His eyes search yours. “Not just for the baby. For us.”

You’re nodding before you fully realize it. “Yeah,” you say, surprised by how easily the word comes out. “Yeah, we can.”

Relief flickers across his face. He exhales, looking down- and that’s when you notice your hands. Still tangled together, holding too tight, like neither of you was ready to be the one to let go first. You take a deep breath and gently pull away. He follows your lead, fingers lingering just a second too long before falling back to his sides.

You walk to the door and open it. The sky has darkened, clouds rolling in low and heavy, the air thick with the promise of a storm. You can smell it -the familiar OBX rain that always comes fast and leaves everything different in its wake. It’s strange how only minutes ago you were yelling, crying, breaking- and now the world feels still. You step aside to let him pass.

He walks onto the porch, pauses, and turns back to look at you one last time. There’s so much left unsaid, but neither of you tries to say it. He puts his helmet on, mounts the bike, and rides off down the street, the sound fading into the distance.

You close the door behind him.

The house is quiet again- but this time, it doesn’t feel quite as empty.

----------

taglist: @maybankslover @silkylovey @xoxosblogsblog@mrsscountryclub@mslvena @sweetnastybunny

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: angst & ultimatums. that's it.

a/n: Shit's getting good. I hope this long ass chapter makes up for me not updating last week lol. Also you have Olivia Dean's 'Close Up' to thank for this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

part seventeen

Sarah disappears into the small kitchen while the rest of the Pogues hover uncertainly, half-awake and trying to read the tension in the room. Cleo leans against the counter, arms crossed, and JJ rubs at the back of his neck before mumbling something about going to check the bait. One by one, they drift away -Pope heading outside, Kiara grabbing her shoes and following- until it’s just you and Sarah.

She comes back a few minutes later with a chipped mug between her hands, steam curling from the top. She sets it down in front of you and takes the seat across the table.

“Here,” she says softly. “Chamomile. Or… whatever’s left of it.”

You wrap your hands around the mug, the warmth grounding you even as your chest tightens.  The silence stretches -uncomfortable, heavy- and Sarah studies you for a long moment before asking, quietly, “Are you okay?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. You take a small sip of tea, then look up, your eyes rimmed red but steady. “Sarah,” you start, “I need to know what really went down between you and Rafe.”

Her body tenses instantly- the kind of stiffness that comes from a truth she’s not ready to say aloud. She looks toward the hallway, maybe hoping one of the others will come back and save her from answering. But no one does. It’s just the sound of the ceiling fan and the faint chirp of morning birds outside.

“Y/N…” she says finally, voice low. “I don’t think that’s something you want to know.”

You stare at her, shaking your head. “I do. I need to. Because he won’t tell me. Every time I try, he shuts down, and I can’t-” your throat tightens, “-I can’t marry someone who looks at me like I’m the enemy whenever I mention your name.”

Sarah swallows hard, eyes flicking down to your hand- to the faint indentation where your engagement ring presses into your skin. Her jaw flexes.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispers. “What happened between Rafe and us… it’s not something that can just be explained over tea.”

“Try,” you say quietly, almost pleading just as the others begin to come back one by one.

Sarah looks torn- guilt flickering across her face. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like the words are caught somewhere between her throat and conscience. Finally, she exhales shakily, pressing her palms flat on the table.

“There are things he’s done,” she says at last, “things I don’t think you could ever look at him the same way after hearing.”

You freeze. Her words hang in the air, cold and final.

Your voice is small when you ask, “Did he hurt you?”

Sarah’s silence says more than anything else could. JJ’s voice cuts through the thick, uneasy silence.“Sarah, come on,” he says, leaning forward in his chair. “She deserves to know.”

Sarah shoots him a sharp look, but it doesn’t stop him. “JJ,” she warns quietly.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m serious. You can’t just- pretend like that didn’t happen. Especially if she’s…” He trails off, glancing at you, then at the mug trembling in your hands. “She’s marrying him, Sarah. You really gonna keep quiet about what Rafe’s capable of?”

“JJ,” John B cuts in firmly. “This isn’t your call.”

JJ scoffs, dropping back in his seat. “Yeah, sure, but it’s not yours either. She’s sitting here, crying her eyes out, trying to make sense of the guy she’s about to spend the rest of her with. And we’re just gonna play dumb?”

Cleo exhales slowly, arms crossed as she leans against the counter. “He has a point,” she mutters.

Pope looks between them all, clearly uncomfortable. “But if Sarah tells her, Rafe will know it came from here. And who do you think he’s gonna come after?”

Sarah rubs her hands over her face, visibly torn. “It’s not about Rafe,” she says finally, her voice shaking. “It’s about you. And what hearing this might do to you. You don’t know him like that- you know the version he shows you.”

Your voice cracks as you interrupt, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know him at all, do I?”

They all fall silent again.

Sarah looks at you, eyes soft and pained. “I think you should hear it from him,” she says. “Not from us. It’ll mean something different that way. And if he can’t be honest with you now… then that tells you everything you need to know.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. You swallow hard, holding back another wave of tears.

“Okay,” you say, voice trembling. “Okay.”

The room stays quiet after that, just the sound of the kettle clicking off behind you.

Sarah gets up, grabs the mug from your hands, and refills it with fresh hot water. When she sets it back down in front of you, her voice is barely a whisper.

“If you need to stay here for a bit… you can.”

——

When you get home, it’s barely 8 a.m. The world is quiet in that soft, pale light that comes before the day really begins  -the kind of quiet that makes you feel small. After leaving their house, you didn’t drive straight back. You found yourself at the water instead, sitting in the same spot where Rafe first took you- that night that felt like the start of everything. You remember how he looked at you then, how real it all felt. But now, even that memory feels tainted.

You stare out at the rippling surface, wondering if you’d fallen in love with someone who never truly existed. If the man who held you and promised you forever was just a carefully constructed version of himself- one he thought you’d believe.

By the time you finally pulled into the driveway, your body felt hollow. You close the front door without a second thought, the soft click echoing through the empty house. You don’t even bother to move quietly anymore. What’s the point?

Your stomach twists as you think about what Sarah didn’t say- the silence that filled every corner of that room when you asked what happened between them and Rafe. That silence said enough. Something’s wrong. Something’s dark.

You press a shaking hand to your forehead, heart pounding.

Maybe this was why he didn’t want you near them. Maybe he knew the truth would eventually find its way to you. And maybe the version of Rafe you loved -the one who laughed with you, planned a wedding with you, kissed your shoulder in the mornings- was just a mask he wore to keep you from seeing what was underneath.

You swallow hard, fighting the sting in your chest.

If that’s the case, then it’s already too late -because you didn’t just fall for him. You built your life around him. And now you’re not sure if any of it was real. Your mother warned you about him, and you didn’t listen. You brushed it off as her usual skepticism- her way of testing every man who came near you. But standing here now, drained and hollow, you can’t help but wonder if she’d been right all along.

The quiet of the house feels heavy, too neat, like nothing bad could possibly exist within it. You step further inside, and there’s Eve perched at the kitchen island, iPad in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear like always.

“You’re home!” she chirps, barely looking up as her fingers dance across the screen. “I was wondering where you went. The wine tasting starts at three-thirty. At twelve, you have brunch with Becca and Marie- Becca confirmed it this morning. Oh, and your friends from New York? They went back home. Something about Noel having an art gallery event, but they’ll be back in two weeks.”

Her voice is smooth, efficient- like a walking calendar app with too much enthusiasm. You nod absently. You’d forgotten about the wine tasting, the brunch, all of it. The idea of sitting across from Rafe, pretending to be a glowing fiancée, makes your stomach turn. You’re not even sure you can look at him without feeling sick- not after realizing how little you actually know about the man you’ve been building a life with.

“Everything okay?” Eve asks, all wide-eyed concern. But you catch the faint glint in her gaze- she knows. She was here last night, wasn’t she? Definitely heard the argument. Maybe even enjoyed watching it unfold from behind her tablet screen.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m fine,” you say, your voice thin with exhaustion as you slip your shoes off by the door. “I’m going to take a nap.”

You head down the hall, then up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. You pause at the guest room -the same one you slept in last night- your hand resting on the door handle. But when your gaze drifts toward the end of the hall, toward the primary bedroom, something in you tightens.

Your bedroom. Rafe’s.

Why should you be the one sleeping in a guest room? You’re not the one who’s been living a lie. You made a mistake, sure- going behind his back to see Sarah and the Pogues. You own that. But you went searching for truth, and he’s been hiding from it. From you.

He’s been showing you this carefully polished version of himself- the doting fiancé, the steady provider, the man who wants a family. But underneath all that charm, there’s something darker, something he refuses to name. Whatever happened between him, Sarah, and the Pogues -it’s not small. You can feel it in your bones.

If -and it’s a big if- you still go through with this wedding, it can’t be built on secrets. You deserve to know who he is. Who he’s hurt. How far he’s gone. You deserve the truth- not a persona crafted to keep you in the dark.

You inhale sharply. Fuck it.

You push the bedroom door open.

It’s empty. The faint smell of his cologne still lingers- clean and sharp, like cedar and regret. The comforter’s rumpled on his side, and one of his watches sits carelessly on the dresser. The absence of him somehow makes it easier to breathe.

You exhale, drop your towel, and crawl into the cool sheets. The tension in your chest eases slightly. You grab your phone, set an alarm to give yourself time to wake up, shower, and make it to brunch with Becca - maybe Marie, if Becca actually invited her.

The moment your head hits the pillow, exhaustion wins. Thoughts blur into static - your mother’s voice, Sarah’s hesitation, Rafe’s anger - all swirling into silence as you finally, mercifully, drift off to sleep.

——

You wake to your alarm blaring, the afternoon sun spilling through the window in warm, unbothered streaks. For a moment, you forget everything- until the ache in your chest reminds you. You reach for your phone. No texts from Rafe. No missed calls. The house feels too still, too quiet, like it’s waiting for you to admit something you’re not ready to.

After a long shower, you pull on a white tank top and a floral orange-and-yellow maxi skirt, slicking your hair into a low bun. You stare at your reflection longer than usual. You look fine. You can act fine.

By the time you pull up to the brunch spot, it’s buzzing with the lazy afternoon crowd. You check in at the host stand and spot Becca waving from across the patio, sunglasses perched on her head, iced water already half gone. Marie isn’t there yet.

“Hey,” you greet her with what you hope is an easy smile, slipping into the seat across from her.

“Hey,” she echoes, squinting at you like she’s trying to read the fine print of your expression. “You look… tired.”

You shrug, brushing it off as the server drops off a menu. “Didn’t sleep great. Rafe snores.”

Becca hums, unconvinced. “Mhm.”

Before she can press, Marie arrives- oversized sunglasses, expensive silver hoops, and a bright two-piece that’s definitely doing a lot for brunch but somehow works for her.

“Sorry, traffic was insane.” She leans down to hug you both before sliding in beside you. “I need a mimosa pitcher. If that’s okay.”

You nod gratefully, taking the chance to hide behind your napkin.

Conversation drifts easily at first -Becca talks about work, Marie complains about a guy who ghosted her after three dates suddenly hitting her up again- but you’re barely there. You laugh in the right places, sip your drink, push food around your plate.

Becca eventually narrows her eyes again. “So. You’re really not gonna tell us what’s going on?”

You blink, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

She tilts her head. “You’ve been weird all week. I thought maybe it was just stress, but now you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Marie nods slowly, side-eyeing you. “You didn’t even touch your pancakes.”

You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m fine. Just… tired. Wedding planning, pregnancy hormones- it’s a lot.”

Becca studies you for a beat longer, like she’s deciding whether to call your bluff. Then she lets out a small sigh and leans back. “Okay. Fine. But you know you don’t have to pretend, right?”

“I’m not pretending,” you say lightly, even though you both know you are.

Marie raises her glass, breaking the tension. “Well, here’s to pretending anyway. God knows I’ve done enough of it. Especially with orgasms.”

You laugh with them, clinking glasses, but the sound doesn’t reach your chest. The whole time, your mind drifts back to that conversation with Sarah- the way her voice shook, the way she looked at you like she pitied you.

And as you sip your virgin mimosa, you wonder if Becca can tell that the ring on your finger suddenly feels too heavy.

The three of you end up lingering at brunch longer than you planned. The conversation eventually settles into something easy- Becca teasing Marie about her outfit, Marie dramatically insisting she’s “manifesting better energy,” and you pretending to listen, smiling when you’re supposed to.

Becca keeps watching you though. You can feel it even when you’re not looking at her, like she’s waiting for you to crack.

When the bill finally comes, Marie insists on paying (“It’s my treat, brides only get married once- or twice, if you’re lucky”), and Becca rolls her eyes. You gather your things, grateful to have had something to do with your hands.

Outside, the sun’s warmer than expected, the kind that makes everything feel slightly surreal. Marie’s already scrolling through her phone, checking the address for the wine tasting.

“Are we all heading there together?” Becca asks, keys jangling in her hand.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second too long. “Oh- uh, no. Rafe’s supposed to meet me there.”

Marie glances up. “He’s not picking you up?”

You shake your head, forcing an airy tone. “He had something to handle this morning. Said he’d meet me at the vineyard.”

Becca’s brow furrows slightly. “You sure? It’s kind of a drive, and with the way you’ve been feeling-”

“I’m fine,” you cut in, sharper than intended. You soften it with a small smile. “Really. I’ll see you guys there.”

They exchange a quick look -one of those silent, wordless girl-friend telepathies- and Marie shrugs, nudging Becca’s arm. “Okay, but if you’re late, we’re starting without you.”

You wave as they walk off toward their car, keeping your smile in place until they’re out of sight. Only then do you let your shoulders drop.

For a moment, you just stand there in the parking lot, sunlight glinting off the ring on your finger. You twist it once, twice, until it feels loose. The brunch laughter still echoes faintly in your head, but underneath it is something else- Sarah’s voice, low and uncertain, repeating the same words over and over.

You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over Rafe’s location again. You tell yourself you won’t look. That you’ll trust him. But your stomach churns with that familiar unease- the kind that feels a lot like knowing the truth, even if you’re too afraid to see it.Finally, you slip your phone back into your bag, take a steadying breath, and walk toward your car.

Because for now, pretending still feels easier than finding out.

By the time you pull into the vineyard, the sun is warm but not harsh, and the air carries that faint, earthy scent of oak barrels and soil. You park and step out, adjusting your maxi skirt as you spot everyone gathered near the tasting tables. Becca waves, already halfway through telling a story, and Marie is laughing too loudly at some detail. Your mom is perched on a folding chair, glass of sparkling water in hand, while Topper leans lazily against a barrel nearby.

Then there’s Rafe. Leaning casually on the table, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on, scanning the group with that infuriatingly calm look he always manages to pull off. And behind him, Eve- tucked slightly to the side, iPad in hand, scribbling or typing something down, quietly taking in the scene like she’s part of the furniture. Though, you don’t recall inviting her.

Your chest tightens as you walk toward them, forcing a polite smile. “Hey,” you say, voice steady, though your fingers clutch the strap of your bag a little too tightly.

“Hey, bride-to-be,” Rafe says, voice casual, tipping an imaginary hat. His smile is there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You bite back a groan.

“Hi,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I’ll just… watch from here. No wine for me today.” You give a nod to the sommelier, letting him know you won’t be tasting.

Marie rolls her eyes at your warning but smirks. “ Someone has to remember what happens here.”

Rafe tilts his head at you, expression neutral. “Someone has to keep us all in line,” he says lightly. You grit your teeth just behind your smile.

Eve glances up briefly from her iPad. “Glad you could make it,” she says. That simple acknowledgment sets your teeth on edge - she should know that she shouldn’t be here, and you’re still seething under the surface.

“Thanks,” you say flatly, eyes flicking away.

Becca steps in between the two of you like an unwitting buffer. “Okay, so here’s the plan. We’re tasting in groups- I’ll keep everyone organized.” She glances at you. “You just hang back and make sure no one tries to spill wine on you.” She gives you a playful wink, but you can feel the tension in your shoulders, the heat rising from your chest.

Rafe moves closer to the table where the bottles are lined up, flipping one over, inspecting the label. You force yourself to glance at him -calm, composed, flawless- and suppress the urge to march over and call him out for inviting Eve behind your back, for violating the unspoken boundaries between you.

Beau pops up beside Rafe, joking about one of the labels, and Rafe smirks, joining the banter like it’s normal. Your jaw tightens. You’re literally only here because you’re the bride, and yet he’s playing some sort of game using Eve like none of this matters.

You take a breath and let Becca pull you toward the chairs set up under the pergola. “Come on, you can supervise,” she says. You give a forced laugh, sliding into your seat. You keep your posture stiff, back straight, hands folded in your lap. Every time Rafe’s gaze flicks to you -and you know it does- you remind yourself: cordial. Controlled.

The group moves through the wine tasting, glasses clinking, bottles being opened. Everyone is engaged, chatting, laughing, but there’s a subtle undercurrent- a quiet tension whenever Rafe and you are in the same visual line. You notice the little things: the way Rafe leans slightly toward Eve when she talks, how he laughs at something she says, the small nods he gives her. You fight the wave of frustration rising inside.

When Topper cracks a joke that makes everyone laugh, even you, Rafe shoots a quick glance at you. His expression unreadable, almost apologetic, though he doesn’t say anything. You catch your breath, willing yourself not to explode, not to bring up the betrayal in front of everyone.

The tasting continues, the afternoon sun dipping lower. You sip water, forcing yourself to engage in polite conversation, all the while watching Rafe move through the motions, Eve close at his side, and realizing just how much you’re suppressing.

This is your wedding, you remind yourself. You’re the bride. You don’t need to get pulled into his games. But every polite smile feels like a lie, and every shared laugh he gives Eve is a dagger twisting in your chest.

By the time the group starts moving to the next tasting station, you’re exhausted - not from walking or socializing, but from holding yourself together. And in the back of your mind, you know it won’t be long before all this pretending catches up to you- and when it does, it won’t be polite anymore.

You step a few feet away from the table, forcing yourself to breathe in the crisp morning air of the vineyard. The tension in your chest burns, and you can feel Rafe’s presence before you hear him.

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?” he mutters sharply, his voice low but laced with controlled anger. He steps closer, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

“Let what go?” you snap, spinning to face him, heat rising in your chest. “You want to talk about letting things go? You’ve been hiding everything from me. Everything! And I find out -through others- that you hurt Sarah. That you… that you did something to her!”

His eyes widen, just slightly, like he didn’t expect you to know. His hand clenches at his side. “What are you talking about?” His voice drops to a harsh whisper.

“You know what I’m talking about.” You pause to allow the tears to dry out before looking back to him. “I don’t know everything,” you hiss back, voice shaking despite yourself. “But enough to know that I can’t just sit here and pretend like I don’t know. And then you’re inviting Eve behind my back like some petty revenge because I went to see the Pogues?!”

Rafe steps closer, lowering his voice but the anger is sharp in every word. “That’s not revenge. You went behind my back first! You went to them, you talked to Sarah- you went again this morning! And I didn’t even know!”

You stiffen. “Yes, I did. Because I needed to know what the hell is going on. Because you won’t tell me. You pretend to be someone else around me. You smile, you charm, you act like… like nothing happened, but it did! And I deserved to know.”

“You deserved to know?” he echoes, disbelief coloring his tone. “You think you can just march in there and get answers while I’m supposed to sit here like a child?!”

Your voice rises, just enough to scare yourself. “I went because what you were showing me wasn’t the whole truth! And now I’m supposed to just ignore everything else? Pretend that your secrets -whatever you’ve done- don’t exist? I can’t, Rafe. I just can’t!”

His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard. “I didn’t want you to find out through them. I wanted to be able to tell you myself. And… I didn’t think you’d actually go back to them. Not after the first time!”

You glance at him, the anger mingling with disbelief. “Tell me yourself? Really? Would that have been before or after I would've been trapped in a marriage with you? And then you think I could just let that go? I fell in love with some fake version of you, and I find out you’ve… hurt people, Rafe. And you expect me to just… sit in your lap and smile?”

He flinches at the accusation, eyes flicking away for just a second, like he’s realizing the weight of what you know. “I didn’t- no, you don’t understand. It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” you snap. “I don’t know, Rafe! And that’s the point. I don’t know the half of it, and you won’t tell me! And now, somehow, you’re acting like I’m the problem for trying to figure it out myself?!”

His hands clench at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “You don’t get it- you think you’re protecting yourself, but all you’ve done is go behind my back, the way I guess you think I went behind yours. You went to Sarah, and I… I didn’t want you to. Not because I don’t trust you… because I didn’t want to- ”

“Because you didn’t want me to what? Because it would expose you?” you cut in, voice trembling with fury. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time, Rafe! And I’m supposed to act normal at a wine tasting while you sit there acting like everything is fine?”

He exhales sharply, jaw tight, and the sudden quiet between you is almost worse than the whispered yelling. You can see the anger, the frustration, the realization in his eyes. He didn’t expect you to know, and now that you do, he understands just how deep this goes.

“Fine,” he mutters finally, low and tense. “We… we’ll pretend. For them. But you… you need to understand something. This isn’t just about the Pogues. It’s not just about Sarah. You… you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

You stare at him, chest heaving, and the bitter truth in his words makes your stomach twist. “No. You’re wrong. I do understand that there’s more to you. But I’m done pretending I don’t. And if we’re going to move forward… if we’re going to get married… I need to know. Everything. Or I can’t do this. I just can’t.”

His eyes flick to yours, full of something unreadable- a mix of anger, fear, and something that almost looks like regret. “You went to Sarah again,” he says, quiet now, and it’s almost a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I need to know who I’m marrying. And because I don’t want to be in the dark anymore. Not with a child on the way. Not ever.”

Rafe’s chest rises and falls, his fists unclenching just a little. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” he mutters, though his voice lacks the previous fire. “You’ve forced me to… face things I’ve tried to bury.”

You step back, the tension in the air heavy, your anger mingling with exhaustion. “Good. Because I won’t bury anything for you. Not anymore.”

The moment stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid truths, the knowledge that whatever comes next is going to change everything- wedding, pregnancy, and the fragile trust between you.

When you and Rafe return to the table, the air feels heavier -thicker, even- as if everyone can sense that something’s cracked beneath the surface. You take your seat, careful not to brush against him, though he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his arm beside you. The others keep chatting, trying to smooth over the awkward energy, but the strain is obvious.

Your mom perks up almost instantly, oblivious- or maybe too aware, trying to diffuse it with politeness.

“Are you two okay? Rafe, you’ve missed the past two wines.”

Before he can open his mouth, you cut in quickly, sharper than you mean to. “We’re fine, Mom.”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes trained on the empty glass in front of you, the scent of cabernet hanging in the air making your stomach twist. You can’t drink, so you focus on slow, shallow breaths instead- counting them, grounding yourself, trying not to let your thoughts spiral.

The sommelier moves on to the next bottle, describing the “notes of blackberry and smoke” while you tune it all out. Rafe leans back in his chair, jaw tight, thumb tapping an impatient rhythm on his knee. He hasn’t said a word since you sat down, but his silence is loud enough to fill the space between you.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. You glance down.

Becs: uhhh you guys good?

You glance up, and Becca’s staring at you from across the table with that unmistakable look- eyebrows slightly raised, concern etched across her face, not even bothering to pretend she hasn’t noticed.

You tap back a reply.

You: I’m fine. Why?

Another ping, almost immediately.

Becs: we’re just gonna pretend you didn’t have a whispered argument over there?

You fight the urge to glance at Rafe again, knowing Becca saw more than she should’ve. Instead, you type quickly, fingers tense.

You: we’ll talk about it later.

When you look up again, Becca’s already turned back toward Marie, clearly trying to give you space- but her eyes still flick toward you every few seconds, checking in silently.

You shift in your chair, pretending to adjust your napkin, but really just trying to keep your composure. Your mom’s voice hums faintly in the background, the sommelier’s spiel washing over you like static. You feel Rafe’s hand twitch beside you, like he almost reached for yours out of habit- but stops himself before he does.

It’s quiet. Painfully quiet.

And all you can think about is how impossible it feels to keep pretending you’re okay when every part of you is burning to ask him what he’s still hiding.

When the wine tasting finally winds down, there’s a collective murmur around the table as everyone votes on their favorite. Empty bottles and half-filled glasses clutter the white tablecloth, the air thick with that mellow scent of fruit and oak.

Topper raises his glass dramatically. “I’m just saying- my grandpa’s favorite always wins,” he declares, voice booming across the table. “Classic never fails.”

A few people laugh, and even your mom humors him with a smile, though you can tell she’s just glad to steer the mood somewhere lighthearted.

Becca and Marie have stayed mostly quiet for the last hour, only chiming in when someone directly asks for their opinions. You can feel their eyes on you every so often -gentle, worried, cautious- but neither of them pushes. They know better than to prod when your walls are up.

You’ve been quiet too, keeping your hands folded neatly in your lap, nodding when appropriate, pretending to listen to the sommelier’s final notes. It’s easier that way. You don’t need to taste anything; your pregnancy gives you the perfect excuse to withdraw without question. Still, sitting there sober while everyone else sips and laughs makes the distance between you and Rafe feel even more unbearable.

Your mom, as always, steps in to fill the silence. She’s animated now, leading the conversation effortlessly- asking about table arrangements, vineyard views, even bringing up potential menu pairings. You can tell she’s trying to keep everyone engaged, maybe even trying to shield you. 

She’s always been good at that.

But your focus keeps drifting. Every time Rafe shifts beside you, your attention snaps back. He’s been doing that thing he does when he’s avoiding your eyes- talking to anyone but you. Eve sits on his other side, laughing softly at something he says, her hand brushing his arm once or twice.

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. You tell yourself it’s fine, that you don’t care, that this is what happens when two people decide to hurt each other back. But your chest tightens anyway, your stomach turning even before the scent of wine hits you again. You press a palm against the tablecloth, grounding yourself, forcing a small smile when your mom looks your way.

Everything looks normal from the outside- just another wedding outing, just another couple planning their future. But beneath the linen and laughter, you can feel the cracks spreading. 

When the tasting wraps, the group slowly begins gathering their things- emptying glasses, scribbling down their votes, stretching from sitting too long. The air feels lighter for everyone else, but not for you. For you, it’s thick, suffocating.

Rafe stands, exchanging a few words with your mom about scheduling a follow-up visit. His tone is calm, collected, maybe even charming to an outsider- but you can see the sharpness in his jaw, the tightness behind the smile. The same controlled tension that’s been brewing since the argument.

Eve laughs softly at something Beau says, her bangles clinking when she sets her glass down. She doesn’t seem to notice your glare- or maybe she does and enjoys pretending she doesn’t. You try not to look, but it’s impossible not to see her sitting there, close enough to touch Rafe’s shoulder if she wanted to.

“Alright, I think we have our winner,” your mom announces cheerfully. “Cabernet number three. Smooth, elegant, perfect for the reception.”

Everyone murmurs in agreement, some clapping lightly. You nod absently, eyes trained on your half-empty glass of water.

As chairs scrape and people start filing out toward the exit, Becca lingers back, pretending to fix her purse strap. She sidles up to you, her voice low enough that no one else can hear.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks softly, eyes searching your face.

You swallow, forcing a tight smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Becca’s lips purse. “Yeah, you said that earlier too.”

You glance past her- Rafe’s talking to your mom again, his hand in his pocket, perfectly at ease. Like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t both nearly rip each other apart under your breath half an hour ago.

You look back at Becca. “I’ll tell you later, okay?” you say quietly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I just… can’t right now.”

Becca studies you for a second, her eyes softening. She doesn’t push, just nods once. “Alright. But you’re not fooling me, and you know it.”

You huff out a faint, humorless laugh. “Didn’t think I was.”

Before either of you can say more, Rafe turns toward you, his voice steady but clipped. “You ready?”

You nod, slipping your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah.”

He offers a hand, a gesture that feels more performative than genuine- something for your mom’s benefit. You take it anyway, because pretending is easier than another fight.

As you walk toward the exit together, Becca watches from behind, worry etched into her expression.

And though the sun is still shining over the vineyard, everything between you feels like it’s slowly going cold.

When the group starts scattering toward the parking lot, Rafe naturally falls in step beside you. It’s silent at first- no words, no small talk, not even the polite kind. Just the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the low murmur of laughter from the others behind you.

He’s walking you to your car, the way he always does. The gesture is automatic, rehearsed. It looks normal from the outside, like everything’s fine. Like you’re still that couple people envy for being so “put together.”

But neither of you says a word.

Your hands brush once -accidental, fleeting- and he takes it as his cue, reaching for yours out of habit. You let him, only because you can feel your mother’s eyes on your back and you don’t have the strength to start another argument in a parking lot full of people.

The silence stretches as you approach your car. He stops when you do, standing just close enough that you can smell his cologne under the faint breeze. His expression is unreadable -controlled, careful- but you catch the smallest flicker of guilt in his eyes when he glances at you.

You let go of his hand first.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, your voice flat. You don’t look at him when you open the car door.

He nods once, his tone equally clipped. “Drive safe.”

You almost laugh—drive safe. Like the past 24 hours hadn’t happened, like you hadn’t both whispered threats and accusations between sips of water and fake smiles. Like everything was normal.

“Yeah,” you murmur, getting in. “You too.”

He steps back as you close the door, watching you through the glass. You can’t tell if he’s waiting for you to say something else or if he’s just making sure the performance looks good from the outside.

You start the car, pretending not to notice the way his jaw tightens when you finally pull away.

In the rearview mirror, he’s still standing there—hands in his pockets, face unreadable, sunlight catching on his hair like it’s mocking how warm things used to be between you.

——

You toss your bag onto the couch with a dull thud, the leather slumping against the cushions. The sound echoes through the quiet house, heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Y/n,” Rafe calls from behind you, his footsteps following close.

You don’t stop walking. “Unless you’re about to tell me everything,” you snap, voice tight, “I don’t want to hear it.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And I didn’t want you talking to those fucking Pogues,” he fires back, his tone sharp, almost taunting. “And yet-” He gestures around the room, pacing. “Here we are.”

You stop dead in your tracks and turn to face him. “The difference,” you say, voice trembling more from anger than fear, “is that you didn’t want me talking to them because you had something to hide.”

His jaw ticks. “Doesn’t matter if I was hiding something or not,” he snaps, his voice rising, “you still went behind my back before you even knew that!”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. You can see the muscle in his jaw twitching, his chest heaving like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“You’re really gonna stand there and make me the problem?” you ask, voice breaking slightly. “When you’re the one who’s been lying to me- keeping God knows what from me- while I’m planning a wedding and carrying your child?”

That last part lands between you like a slap. His face flickers -guilt, shock, maybe even regret- but he says nothing.

You shake your head, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. “You think me going to talk to Sarah is betrayal, but hiding whatever it is that you did to her- that’s justifiable?”

His mouth opens, then closes again. His silence is all the answer you need.

You take a step back, your voice soft but shaking. “You want to keep pretending? Fine. But don’t expect me to.”

The air between you is thick with everything you both can’t say- anger, fear, disappointment, love that’s starting to feel like a bruise.

You stare at him, chest rising and falling, waiting for him to say something- anything that makes sense of this. But instead, Rafe just shakes his head, running a hand over his hair, pacing like he’s seconds away from snapping.

“Maybe we should just call the wedding off,” he mutters finally, his voice low but sharp enough to cut straight through you.

You blink, your breath catching in your throat. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it again, more certain this time. “Maybe we should call it off.”

For a second, you can’t even move. The words hang there, heavy and cruel, echoing in your chest until you almost laugh from disbelief. “You’d rather call off our wedding,” you whisper, “than just tell me the truth?”

He exhales, jaw tightening, eyes flicking toward the floor. “It’s not that simple.”

Your voice breaks into a bitter scoff. “No, Rafe- it is that simple.” You take a step toward him, your tone trembling. “You’ve been lying to me, shutting me out, and the second I ask why, you’d rather throw all of this away than just be honest?”

He finally looks up, and there’s something cold in his expression- guilt buried under pride. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

You stare at him, almost laughing through the ache in your chest. “You’re right,” you whisper. “I don’t. Because you won’t let me.”

He stays silent, the space between you buzzing with unspoken things.

You swallow, feeling your throat tighten. “Maybe we should,” you say quietly. “Maybe we should call it off.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. Not when the man in front of you -the one who once made you feel safe- now feels like a stranger. He doesn’t move, doesn’t argue. Just stares at you with that same quiet, haunted look. And that hurts worse than if he’d yelled.

You turn away before he can see the tears spill over, muttering a shaky, “I can’t do this right now,” as you walk down the hall- leaving him standing there in the living room, motionless, surrounded by everything you both built together that suddenly feels like it’s already starting to fall apart.

 —

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You hiss through your teeth, jerking your hand back as the edge of the oven rack scorches your skin. The smell of baked apples and caramelized sugar fills Becca’s kitchen, but all you can focus on is the sting blooming across your palm. You set the pie -slightly lopsided, edges too dark- on the stovetop with a loud clang, muttering a quick, instinctive apology to your grandmother for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Old habits, even after she’s gone.

You twist the faucet on and let the cold water run over your hand, wincing as the temperature shocks the burn.

Becca watches from across the kitchen island, brow furrowed, but says nothing. She’s holding a bottle of wine she bought “for moral support,” which really just means getting drunk. She pops the cork, the sharp thunk echoing louder than it should in the quiet space.

For a while, neither of you speak. The kitchen hums softly with the sound of running water and the faint whir of the refrigerator. The silence isn’t uncomfortable- it’s the kind that exists when two people know each other too well to fill it with small talk.

You dry your hands on a towel, the burn already throbbing less, and glance over as Becca pours wine into an absurdly large glass. You can’t drink, obviously, but watching her swirl the dark liquid like it’s some kind of ritual almost soothes you.

“Looks drinkable,” you say softly, just to say something.

“Barely,” she replies, her voice light but her eyes searching yours.

You both fall quiet again, the smell of a freshly homemade pie lingering between you. You exhale slowly, leaning against the counter, letting the weight of everything -of Rafe, of last night, of the exhaustion you’ve been carrying- sink into your bones.

Becca doesn’t push. She never does, not until you’re ready. She just takes a long sip from her glass, eyes flicking toward you like she’s silently saying, whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.

And for now, that’s enough. But you were ready to talk. You just didn’t know how. So you blurt it out.

“I think I’m gonna cancel the wedding.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the counter like the words might disappear if you don’t look up. Shame prickles at your skin. And maybe you should be ashamed. You jumped into this engagement so fast- even when he asked so casually. There was no grand moment, no real pause to think, just the weight of his gaze and your heart racing too loud to hear reason.

You remember when you didn’t take the bare minimum from a man. When you had standards- expectations. When you made him ask properly to be your boyfriend, because you knew what you deserved and you weren’t afraid to say it. That girl had a spine. She had a voice.

Now, you’re not sure what happened to her. The version of you that let him pull a ring out of his pocket like it was nothing- like proposing to you was just another question in passing- feels like a stranger. You miss the first girl. You miss how sure she was of herself.

Becca freezes mid-sip, glass halfway to her mouth. “What? No! You can’t,” she says, voice sharp with disbelief. “You’ve been getting so much ready -your dress, the venue, everything. You can’t just- cancel it.”

You shrug weakly, finally looking up at her. “Maybe I can.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and final at the same time.

“No, Y/n, I can’t let you throw this all away. You two went through hell this past year- it’s gotta be worth it.”

You know she means it with love. With protection. With the desperation of someone who has watched you bend yourself in half just to feel safe again. But with everything you’ve learned- everything that’s unraveling- it makes you wonder if any of it could be worth it, even if you were to walk down that aisle tomorrow.

You take a slow, shaky breath and set your palms flat on the counter, staring at the cool surface like it’s the only thing holding you upright.

“Rafe isn’t the person I thought he was.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears rise before you even feel them, the grief of betrayal hitting you all over again. You don’t look up, but you know -you know- Becca’s head tilts with confusion.

“What do you mean?” she asks softly.

You swipe quickly at the tear that slips down your cheek, angry it escaped before you were ready.

“I did something…” you breathe out, voice trembling. “Rafe hates his sister and the Pogues so much. Always has. And I always wondered why, but I never pressed it. I just… trusted him. Trusted that he’d tell me when he was ready.”

The shame burns.

“But after that small interaction with Sarah -the day I got sick at the store- it just kept nagging at me. They were kind. Confused, yeah, but kind. I couldn’t understand why he hated these sweet kids so much.”

Becca stays quiet, listening. Watching you unravel.

“I came clean to him about visiting them,” you continue, “and he blew up on me. We blew up on each other. And when he still refused to tell me anything, I went back again. Because I was scared. Because I felt like if I was marrying someone who won’t even talk to his own sister of all people, who else would he do that to?”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“JJ Maybank said something about Rafe hurting Sarah,” you whisper. “And now it’s killing me not knowing what he did. I confronted Rafe. I told him that if we were getting married -if we were having a baby- he couldn’t keep hiding this. I told him I didn’t want to marry a stranger.”

Your voice breaks fully this time.

“And he suggested we call off the wedding. He’d rather call off our own wedding than tell me the truth-” You stop when your breath catches and your chest aches from holding everything in for too long.

Becca is out of her chair within seconds. She wraps an arm around you and pulls you in, rubbing your shoulder firmly as she leans against the counter with you.

“Forget what I said,” she murmurs. “Something is seriously wrong with him. Whatever he did… it had to be pretty bad if he can’t even tell you. Especially now.”

You swallow hard, tears spilling freely. “Or he never wanted to marry me in the first place.”

It’s quiet after that. Heavy. True in a way you wish it wasn’t. Becca doesn’t try to deny it. She just holds you tighter, because she knows you’re finally saying the thoughts you were too scared to think earlier.

—

You wake up to the sour burn of nausea climbing your throat. It’s becoming routine - the kind of morning sickness that drags you out of bed before you’re even fully conscious- but today it lands harder. Maybe because your stomach already hurts for an entirely different reason.

The bathroom light is too bright.

Your reflection looks tired.

Your hands shake a little on the edge of the sink.

You rinse your mouth, splash cold water on your face, and try to steady your breathing. Behind you, down the hall, you hear the creak of the mattress as Rafe wakes up. For a moment, you freeze.

You don’t know how to look at him. Not after last night. Not after he stood in the living room and said, voice quiet and trembling, “Maybe we should… call the wedding off.”

He didn’t yell.

You didn’t either.

And somehow that made it worse.

You step out of the bathroom, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Rafe is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He looks up when he hears you. His eyes flicker - worry? guilt? something he won’t name - and then smooth over like he’s forcing himself neutral.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from sleep.

“Hey.” You pretend your heart doesn’t crack at the sound of his.

He stands, stretching like it’s any other day, like he didn’t suggest unraveling your entire future less than twelve hours ago.

“You sick again?” he asks, stepping closer but stopping just short of touching you.

You nod. “It’s fine.”

It’s not.

None of this is fine.

But pretending feels easier than facing whatever last night meant.

He nods once - relieved you’re not pressing the issue, relieved you’re not asking him if he really meant it or why he said it - and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.

“Okay.”

He pauses in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Do you want toast or something? I can make you something before I go in.”

Before I go in. Work.

He’s talking about work on Valentine’s Day without even realizing what day it is.

“Valentine’s Day,” you murmur under your breath, mostly to yourself.

Rafe freezes mid-step.

You see it hit him - the realization - and then you see the second thing hit him: the resignation. The quiet, heavy belief that today is already too fragile for him to try fixing.

He swallows. “Right. I… forgot.”

You give him a small smile that feels like a paper cut. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he says, barely audible. “But… I don’t want to make today worse.”

Worse. As in: already bad.

Your chest squeezes painfully. “Rafe, we don’t have to-”

“I’m not trying to be cold,” he says quickly, eyes trained on the floor. “I just… holidays aren’t really my thing. You know that.”

You nod. You do know. He’s rarely ever cared about days on the calendar  - but you thought things with you would be different. You thought being pregnant, being engaged, planning a life together would change something.

“I didn’t expect anything,” you lie.

Rafe looks up at you for just a moment, as if checking whether he should believe you. You’re both too careful, too gentle, too terrified of stepping on the wrong emotional landmine.

Finally, he nods. “Okay.”

He disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up a second later. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands pressed over your stomach.

The baby is still tiny, quiet, not yet making its presence known. But you feel the weight of it anyway - the responsibility, the future, the fear. And for the first time since seeing those two pink lines…

You feel alone.

Not abandoned.

Not unloved.

Just alone.

Like you and Rafe are standing on opposite sides of a cracked bridge, each pretending they don’t see the fracture widening beneath your feet.

-

You settle on spending Galentine’s Day with Becca and Marie - two girls who are still pretending to be cordial, even though everyone can feel the thin film of tension between them. They don’t seem to mind, though. Maybe because they’re both single. Maybe because you showed up looking like someone whose heart is sitting too high in her chest and too low in her stomach.

And honestly?

You’re grateful for the distraction.

You’re not sure what happened between Mario and Marie - they had that “cute but chaotic” energy that usually burns hot and quick. Kind of like you and Rafe, but without the engagement ring and a fetus involved.

You spend the entire morning telling Marie everything you’d already told Becca: the coldness, the silence, the way Rafe has been… different since everything happened. Since he said maybe we should call the wedding off.

Marie, being Marie, gasps dramatically and tosses a strawberry into her mimosa before taking a sip.

“You should break up with him,” she says matter-of-factly. “And the three of us will buy a private island and raise Baby Cameron in peace. Sun, sand, and no men except the bartender we hire who wears linen and calls us ‘goddess.’”

You laugh - because it’s ridiculous, because it’s Marie - but the moment the laughter fades, your chest tightens.

You would miss him. God, you would miss him in ways you don’t even want to name. Despite everything he puts you through, despite how wrong it feels right now, you know you can’t imagine your life without him. You hate that. You hate how deeply hooked your heart is, how even when you’re angry or hurt, a part of you still reaches for him in the dark.

“Earth to Y/N.” Marie’s sing-songy voice cuts clean through your spiraling.

You blink, turning your head toward her. “What?”

She points her fork at you like she’s conducting an orchestra. “I asked if you already finished your wedding dress. Because I’m pretty sure you can just sell that design to Vivienne Westwood or Mirror Palais and buy us our island.”

Becca nods. “Seriously. It’s obscene how talented you are.”

You smile- small, tight, the kind you can control. “I’m not selling it.”

“Ooh,” Marie says, wiggling her eyebrows, “sentimental.”

You take a breath and try to keep your voice light. “If… Rafe and I don’t get married…” The words scrape coming out, sharper than you expected. “I’ll just save it for my first real wedding.”

You shrug with forced nonchalance, sitting up straighter, as if posture can make grief prettier.

Becca and Marie exchange a look - one that tries not to be pitying, tries not to be worried - and for a second, you hate that they saw the crack.

But it’s Valentine’s Day. And for your first one being with him, you’re spending it imagining a future that doesn’t have Rafe Cameron in it. And the thought of that alone nearly knocks the air out of you.

The rest of the day is spent drifting through boutique racks and overpriced cafés, gossiping about nothing and everything. You try to let yourself enjoy it - the buzz of girl talk, the relief of not being in that quiet house with Rafe, the chaos that always follows Marie like perfume.

But you feel the looks. People your family knows. Old money women with soft lips and sharper eyes. Teenagers who recognize the Cameron name before they recognize you. Store managers who pretend not to stare.

It’s subtle - a fleeting raise of eyebrows, a pointed glance at your bare ring finger, an unspoken question hanging in the air: Why isn’t she with her fiancé today?

You feel it, even if no one says a word. And God. You’re not excited to tell your mother any of this. But she’ll find out sooner or later. She always does. She promised to “back off,” but you know she still texts Eve behind your back - little updates, quick questions, “just checking the schedule.”

Eve. You forgot about her.A knot twists in your stomach. You still don’t know what to do with her. With the wedding. With the fact that Rafe said maybe we should call it off in that soft, terrifying voice.

It wasn’t a declaration.

It wasn’t even anger.

It was… a suggestion. A retreat. A quiet surrender because you wouldn’t stop asking about his past.

And now the not-knowing gnaws at you.

“Do you guys want to go get drunk or what?” Marie announces, hands on her hips like she’s about to rally troops.

“I want to, real bad, but-” You point to your belly.

Marie gasps like she’s been caught in a scandal and claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I forgot about you. Sorry, queen.” She places a dramatic palm on your stomach.

You laugh. “You act like I’m incapable of having fun now.”

“You are,” Becca says dryly. “And also, why is everyone team girl? I want you to have a boy, Y/N.”

“I don’t care what I get,” you say. “I’ll be happy with whatever-” Your phone buzzes in your hand. The name on the screen makes your whole body go still. Rafe.

Both girls groan in perfect stereo from either side of you.

You shush them quickly, forcing a smile you don’t quite feel as you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

You give him your most deadpan voice - flat enough to make a point, not hostile enough to pick a fight.

“Hey…” His voice is low, tentative. You hear a breathy laugh - the kind he gives when he’s nervous or trying to make something sound casual. “I finished some work early. I, uh-” another small laugh, “-I reserved a table for us tonight. Some restaurant. I was wondering if you wanted to go?”

You blink. He’s asking you. Rafe Cameron, who used to book reservations without a second thought, who used to just say “Be ready by seven,” is asking.

Like you are the one who pulled away. Like you are the one reconsidering your life together. Like he didn’t forget Valentine’s Day existed this morning. How did he get a table so fast?

“Um… sure,” you say slowly. “I’ll be home soon to get ready.”

You hang up before he can say anything else.

Marie stares at you. “Girl, don’t tell me-”

“Yes,” you say instantly.

“Y/N…” she whispers, and for once, Marie sounds guilty - like she wants to tell you that you’re being stupid, but she won’t, because she loves you too much to say it out loud.

“If you’re going to criticize me-” you start.

“We’re not,” she cuts in quickly. “We’re just…” She exhales a long, defeated sigh and then pulls you into a hug. “Be… okay,” she murmurs into your shoulder.

You don’t realize she’s hugging you until her arms tighten. When you look over her shoulder, Becca is still standing a few feet away - arms crossed, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a straight line. You don’t dare meet her eyes.  You already know what you’ll see in them: love, worry, and the silent fear that this dinner is just another step toward breaking your own heart.

-

When you pull into the driveway, your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. You have no idea why. You’ve driven up this exact driveway a thousand times. You’ve walked into this house confidently. You’ve kissed him hello without thinking. You’ve fit into this life so easily, so naturally, that coming home never felt like a question.

But tonight? Tonight feels different.

You unlock the door and step inside, and the first thing that hits you is the light.

Soft. Flickering. Warm.

Candles - dozens of them - line the entryway, tucked between roses that trail along the hallway in messy, imperfect clusters. Not florist-perfect arrangements. Not staged. Just… effort. Human, clumsy, earnest effort.

Your heart swells with every step you take. And aches a little too.

“Rafe?” you murmur, your voice catching somewhere between nervous and hopeful.

“In here,” he calls back from the sunroom - a space you never really occupy, a space that never felt like yours.

You follow the candlelit path, glancing over your shoulder repeatedly to make sure you don’t knock anything over with your bag or coat. You’re so distracted by the ridiculous romance of it that you almost forget to look ahead.

“Rafe, these candles are kind of a fire haza-”

Your sentence dies in your throat. Because you finally see him. He’s stretched out on the floor of the sunroom, propped up on one elbow, wearing a black long-sleeve shirt and jeans that make him look painfully soft, painfully earnest, painfully familiar. In front of him is an entire picnic laid out on a blanket: 

A fruit platter.

A cheese board with all your favorites.

Mini sandwiches you know he spent way too long assembling.

Sparkling water.

Chocolate-covered strawberries.

Two wine glasses - one empty, one filled with something nonalcoholic for you. It’s beautiful. It’s thoughtful. It’s the most Rafe Cameron thing he’s done in weeks. And God, it hits you all at once. It’s the Rafe Cameron you got to know and you hate that you can’t tell if this is really him or not.

Part of you feels relief - a slow, warm loosening in your chest. He’s showing up. He’s trying. He’s doing the little things, the soft things, the things you once fell in love with. But the other part of you…You don’t know what to do with it. How are you supposed to react? How do you smile and melt and breathe normally when the same man who set all this up is the one who told you last night that maybe the wedding wasn’t a good idea? Are you supposed to be happy? Grateful? Touched? Or are you supposed to wonder why the man who suggested walking away from you is now trying to romance you back into pretending nothing happened?

Your emotions twist in your stomach, tangled and heavy.

He looks up at you with a small, hopeful smile - like he’s terrified you won’t like it, like he’s terrified you won’t like him.

You stand there in the doorway with your heartbeat rattling in your chest, realizing that love shouldn’t feel this complicated.

And yet with Rafe… It always is.

“Rafe…” you breathe, sinking onto your knees across from him. The blanket is soft under you, and for a moment, your eyes catch on a perfect, glistening grape in the corner of the spread. It looks too juicy to resist - and honestly, you need ten seconds of something easy. So you reach out, pluck it from the vine, and pop it into your mouth.

Rafe smirks, smug in a quiet, boyish way - like he takes your eating as proof that his plan is working.

You refuse to give him that satisfaction. Small talk. Thank him. Go to bed. That was the plan.

You swallow. “What is this?”

“I- Valentine’s Day.” He says it so simply, so casually, like it explains everything.

You pause. “You didn’t have to-”

“Of course I did.” He plucks a grape of his own and tosses it into his mouth. “You’re my fiancée.”

Your heart stutters. What in the world is happening? Whose reality is he living in? You take a slow breath, gathering the courage you’d been rehearsing all day. The question forms in your mouth like a bruise.

“…Do you want me to be?” His face twists in confusion, eyebrows knitting. You push forward before he can deflect. “I mean- you just suggested we call off our wedding, Rafe. I can’t ignore that. I need to know where you stand because I can’t just pretend we didn’t have a screaming match a few days ago and that was the conclusion you jumped to.”

His eyes drop to the floor, shoulders sagging. “I-” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding out of him. “I think we started moving too fast.”

Despite all your internal preparation, something inside you cracks. Just slightly. Just enough to hurt. But he isn’t done.

“I mean…it hasn’t even been a full year since we started hooking up. Not even dating, like- officially. And now we’re doing wine tastings like that’s something normal people do.”

He gestures vaguely at the food spread, still avoiding eye contact, as if looking at you might make everything real.

Your throat tightens. “I wasn’t the one who proposed.”

“I know,” he murmurs quickly, painfully. “I know. That’s on me. I just think we need- maybe- another year to feel things out. To really understand-”

A hollow laugh escapes you. Bitter, sharp. A tear falls before you even feel it forming. You wipe it with your sleeve, embarrassed.

“Yes. Because everything runs on Rafe Cameron’s time.” The sarcasm spills out before you can stop it.

“Y/N-” His sigh is heavy and tired. “Don’t start, okay? I’m trying to figure out something that works for both of us.”

“Yes,” you snap. “You get another year of not having to be a husband, and I get another year of not knowing who you actually are.”

You’re already standing, the blanket wrinkling beneath you. Reflexively, you turn toward the hallway and begin blowing out candles, one by one, your movements clipped and angry.

Rafe scrambles to his feet, following you. “That’s not why I said it. I’m not trying to bail- I just- every time we try to settle into something normal, it falls apart. Something blows up. If we get married now, it’s going to get old fast and one or both of us will end up wanting a divorce.”

You spin around sharply, the flame of the last candle flickering beside you. Your voice is steady- deadly steady.

“I’ll be a single mom. You can be the hottest bachelor on the OBX again. Boom. You get exactly what you’ve been acting like you want.”

The words hang between you - heavy, painful, honest. And for the first time since you walked through the door… Rafe looks scared.

“I don’t want to break up with you. You’re not fucking listening to me.” His voice cracks open, the last edges of restraint snapping as he follows you into the kitchen. The frustration isn’t simmering anymore- it’s spilling, hot and sharp, every step behind you echoing with it.

“I’m fully aware of what you’re trying to say.” You whip around, your words slicing the space between you. “Rafe, I’m not a fucking idiot. But since you’re Rafe Cameron, go ahead- enlighten me.” Your voice rises, bitter and trembling. “Because apparently no one else knows anything. Rafe Cameron is the only one who understands. Rafe Cameron is the most important person on earth-” You slam your palm onto the counter hard enough to sting.

He flinches. “Calm down. I never said any of that—”

“Oh, you don’t have to say it.” Your laugh is humorless, scraped raw. 

“Everything-everything- is on your time. We started hooking up on your time. We started dating on your time. When we broke up the first time? That was because you didn’t want to support me.” Your voice cracks but you push through it. “When you proposed, you didn’t even consider if I wanted it. You did it because you decided it was time.”

Your throat tightens, but every word feels like truth you’ve been holding underwater for months.

“And now our wedding? It’s not happening because of you. Our relationship? All of it? Every direction, every decision- all you. Everything is always you.”

You straighten, shoulders rolling back, a steadiness you don’t actually feel rising inside you. You step toward him. He’s breathing hard, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like he’s bracing for impact.

“So here’s what we’re going to do.” Your voice drops, quiet but lethal. “I’m going to give you the power to make one last decision.”

His nostrils flare.

“If you want to cancel our wedding on the date we have set, then be my guest.” Your chin lifts. “But if you cancel it- we’re done. Not ‘let’s slow down.’ Not ‘let’s take a break.’ Not fiancé, not boyfriend, nothing.” Your stomach lurches; the words are out before you can stop them. You regret them instantly. But they’re out in the open now, living things. “If you don’t want this, then you don’t get me. At all.”

He shakes his head, scoffing in disbelief. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m not,” you shoot back. “I’m giving you what you seem to want- more control. One more thing to decide, since you’ve practically been running this entire relationship from day one.”

You step back, turning to leave before your voice can break. And then-

A crack that sounds like a gunshot.

You jump as the drywall beside you caves inward, plaster dust floating in the air like ash. Rafe’s fist is buried in the wall, his chest rising and falling in ragged, furious breaths.

For a moment, the only sound in the entire house is the faint crumble of drywall hitting the floor.

Then he pulls his hand back, knuckles bleeding, and looks at you like he’s seeing you -and losing you- all in the same breath.

And you have no idea which one of you is going to walk away first.

-----------

taglist: @maybankslover @silkylovey @xoxosblogsblog @mrsscountryclub @mslvena @sweetnastybunny

[octoberbxby]

rewatching obx rn & i’m on s3. all i have to say is kiara is so much better than me because you lock me in a room with rafe cameron and i will be thrilled. like don’t even save me i am exactly where i wanna be LMAO

[puzziepoppin]

i can’t sleep and all i can think about is spooky season with rafe.

my first time even attempting to write anything in two (?) years so sorry if it’s #shitty.

mdni 18+, rafe cameron x fem!reader, oral (f! receiving)

it’s brisk on the island, the fall chill coming in, and what did you want to do with your boyfriend? go to a pumpkin patch duhh. so, you, rafe, topper, and his current fling, eloise, go to the only pumpkin patch you can without having to take the ferry.

you’re wearing a warm white sweater and you’re favorite jean skirt, and your boyfriend is wearing a sour face because this is too sappy and soft for him. he’s rushing you to the car because you’re taking forever to get your hair exactly how you want it, and he doesn’t want to keep topper waiting for forever. but before you both leave tanny hill, he can’t help from admiring how beautiful his girl is and noting how much easy access he has with your current outfit.

you somehow make it to the pumpkin patch on time, and you’re noticing that rafe is always lingering behind you. walking through the corn maze, in line for apple cider, and even picking out the actual pumpkins. he’s always either right up against you, caressing your arms and hips with subtle touches, or burning two holes into your ass from behind.

you pick out a pumpkin for each of you to carve back at home, and end your outing. of course, rafe won’t let his precious girlfriend carry either of them to the car, so, you just hold your cider in your hand as he trails behind you. on the way back home rafe seems like he’s in another world, not saying much, but his hand stays on your thigh inching up almost dangerously close to your heat but never making it there.

you both can barley make it inside before he’s on you. his facade breaks and he’s kissing you like a desperate man. you’re stuck between him and the doorway, and he speaks as he kisses down you’re neck; complaining of how you had been teasing him all day with your short skirt. bending over to look at pumpkins, you’re cheeks basically falling out just from walking.

before you can even process your legs are being lifted off of the ground and he’s carrying you to the bedroom. he lays you on the bed and hike. your skirt up to your hips almost fully revealing you to him. all of his movements are rushed and full of need. he has no more patience left in him to even take your panties off, so they’re pushed to the side, and he begins to eat you like he never had before. his tongue tracing figure eights into your clit and fingers teasing at your entrance.

he switched his movements intermittently until his face his soaked and you’re withering from overstimulation, but he’s not done. rafe waited all day to ruin you, and he was going to soak up every minute of it.

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist | part fifteen

pairing: fem!kook!reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: smut, maybe jealousy (?), puking

a/n: I imagine Eve as a young Kristin Kreuk (aka Lana Lang from Smallville)

You’re halfway through reorganizing your sketches on the dining room table when a sharp knock rattles the front door. The sound carries through Tannyhill’s cavernous entryway, and you know immediately who it is before you even open it.

Your mother stands on the porch, blazer draped over her shoulders despite the OBX humidity, lips painted a perfect shade of mauve. Her eyes dart past you into the house before landing back on you.

“Well,” she says, sweeping inside without waiting for an invitation. “If you’re going to be living here, you could at least open the curtains. It’s depressing.”

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind her. “Hello to you too.”

She sets her leather tote on the nearest chair, already pulling out a slim notebook. “I’ve been thinking. If you insist on doing this-” she waves vaguely at your engagement ring, “then you’ll need to start taking the planning seriously. Do you have a venue booked? A caterer? A florist?”

You blink, still standing in the foyer with your sketches tucked under your arm. “We got engaged, like, five minutes ago.”

“That’s five minutes wasted. Venues book out a year in advance.” She flips open the notebook, licking the tip of her pen like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. “I wrote down a few options. Country clubs, beach resorts, even a vineyard two hours inland. You’ll thank me later.”

You follow her into the dining room, setting your papers down in defeat. “I thought maybe we’d just…figure it out together. Slowly.”

“Slowly?” She scoffs. “Weddings are not slow. They are machines. And unless you want yours to be a disaster, you’ll need help. A wedding planner, at the very least. Honestly, I’d suggest an assistant for you as well. Someone to keep track of fittings and schedules so you don’t forget to show up in a white dress on your own wedding day.”

“I can handle it,” you mutter, though even you don’t sound convinced. Between the engagement, your sketches, and the constant weight of your secret, your brain already feels overstuffed.

Your mom pauses, softening just a fraction as she studies you. “Sweetheart, I know you think you can juggle everything, but this isn’t just another art project. You’re building a life here. With him.” Her voice lowers, for once not sharp, but almost tender. “Let someone help you.”

You stare down at your sketches, tracing the edge of a half-finished gown with your finger. “I’ll…think about it.”

-

You collapse onto the couch with a groan, Becca sitting cross-legged beside you, flipping through the binder your mom had practically shoved into your hands earlier.

“Ugh,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “Can you believe she just shows up and starts planning my entire wedding like I’m some kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing?”

Becca glances up, flipping another page. “Well…she kind of has a point.” She pauses, eyes scanning a list of potential engagement party venues. “I mean, an engagement party could be fun. Get everyone together before the madness starts, you know?”

“I don’t even know…” you trail off, burying your face in your hands. “It’s just a lot, Becca. My mom, the planners, the venues…she’s basically treating me like the wedding day is already here.”

Becca shrugs and nudges the binder toward you. “Look, it doesn’t have to be a big thing. Just something small. Friends, family, maybe a cute little cocktail hour. It doesn’t have to be a circus.”

You peek through your fingers, scanning the pages. Pictures of flowers, catering options, potential venues. “I’ll…have to talk with Rafe about it,” you say cautiously. “I mean, it’s his engagement too, and I don’t want to plan something without him having a say.”

“Fair,” Becca nods, flipping to a page with pastel-themed tables and tiny hors d’oeuvres. “But honestly? If he’s as excited as you are…he’ll probably love this kind of stuff.” She winks. “Plus, think of it as a warm-up for the big day. Less stress, more champagne.”

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “Okay…maybe. But only if we run it by him first.”

Becca grins, tucking the binder into her lap. “Deal. But I’m telling you, once you say yes to the party, there’s no going back. You’re officially a grown-up engaged woman.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Don’t remind me.”

-

The apartment feels quiet after Becca leaves, the hum of the city outside barely noticeable. You flop onto the couch for a moment, trying to shake off the tension from the day- a spring/summer look that couldn’t go through, the endless phone calls, the sinking feeling of everything not aligning.

Eventually, you drag yourself upstairs. Rafe is already in bed, sitting on the edge, facing away from you as he pulls off his socks, the muscles in his back tense even in this small motion.

You step up behind him, draping your hands over his shoulders, kneading gently. He lets out a soft groan but doesn’t turn around, not yet. You trace the binder with your fingers -the one your mom dropped off earlier, still stiff with new pages and suggestions- and pull it out from where you tucked it.

“Rafe,” you start softly, nudging it into his side, “my mom left this for us. What do you think?”

He hums, leaning back slightly into your hands to look at it. “I don’t mind. Could be fun, honestly,” he says, finally turning his head just enough to give you a small, tired smile. “Might even take some stress off your shoulders… or mine.”

You tilt your head, brushing a strand of your loose hair from his neck. “I don’t want to rush it,” you admit, voice low. “But… I’d like the wedding to be over before my bump gets too big. You know, so it’s still me walking down the aisle and not… this.” You place a hand lightly on your stomach, letting him feel the subtle curve already forming.

He laughs softly, shaking his head, the sound warm and grounding. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, turning fully now to meet your gaze. “We’ve got time… but yeah, I get it. I want that too.”

You smile, the weight on your shoulders easing just a little, and squeeze his hand. For the first time in hours, the chaos of the day feels manageable.

——

“I had my assistant do tons of interviews. I know you said you preferred someone younger-hip, as your generation would say.” Your mom gives the word extra weight, as if she’s not entirely convinced she’s using it right. “We found this girl- Evelyn. She was up to par in terms of her experience, but I thought it would be smart to do a second round. A… well, not an interview exactly, more like a meet-and-greet. With me and you. Just to make sure she’s what we- what you want.”

You blink, brows knitting as you walk beside her. “Interview?”

“Not an interview,” she corrects quickly, fluttering her hand in the air like she’s brushing the word away. “Wrong word. More like a formal introduction. You’re just getting to know her, making sure she has your best interest in mind when it comes to planning the wedding.”

Before you can reply, a man steps out of the coffee shop you’re approaching and holds the door open. Your mom sweeps in without so much as a glance, her heels clipping across the tile. You cringe at her brusqueness, whisper a quick, “Thanks,” for the both of you, and slip in after her.

Inside, the place is warm and humming with soft conversation, the smell of espresso curling around you. Your mom is already halfway to the counter, pulling a glossy folder from her bag as if she can’t wait another second to launch into business. You trail behind, still trying to catch up with the fact that apparently you’re about to “interview” your own assistant.

You rub your arms against the early February chill, your sweater doing little to fight off the bite of the wind. The bell above the café door jingles as your mom steps ahead of you, already scanning the room with purpose.

“Evelyn! So glad to finally meet you in person,” she calls warmly.

You shift from behind her shoulder, and then- there she is. The girl who turns at your mother’s voice is, without exaggeration, one of the most beautiful people you’ve ever seen. She looks about your age- maybe a bit younger. Just a touch shorter than you, long dark brown hair swept into a loose claw clip, a few strands falling effortlessly around her face. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes catch the light and brighten, warm and steady, like she’s genuinely happy to be here.

Gorgeous doesn’t even begin to cover it. For a moment, you feel a strange self-consciousness settle in your chest, as if you’ve walked straight into the room unprepared.

“This is my daughter, Y/n!” your mom says proudly.

“Nice to meet you, Evelyn,” you offer, stepping forward with a polite smile.

Her hand slips into yours- soft, small, delicate. Her nails are painted a neat baby pink, glossy and perfect. Instinctively, your eyes flick down at your own, plain and bare from lack of time, and heat creeps into your cheeks. You pull your hand back too quickly and shove both into your sweater pocket as the three of you move to sit.

“Please, call me Eve.” She flashes a grin, teeth white and straight, even her canines gleaming in a way that shouldn’t be possible. And then there are her dimples- deep, sharp little crescents that carve into her cheeks when she smiles.

This girl was perfect. Almost unfairly so.

You slide into the chair across from Eve while your mom takes the one beside her, already launching into chatter about venues and timelines. A server comes by, takes your orders- your mom rattling off her latte choice without glancing at the menu, Eve politely asking for an herbal tea, and you sticking to something simple.

“So, Eve,” your mom begins, leaning forward with her hands folded like she’s in the middle of some board meeting. “I told you a little about what Y/n wants for the wedding, but we’re still very open to suggestions. Budget isn’t an issue, so really it’s about elegance, efficiency, and-”

“Actually,” Eve interrupts gently, her eyes flicking to you instead of your mom. “I really like to hear directly from the bride before I suggest anything. It’s your day, after all. What matters most is that it feels like you.”

You blink, surprised -and a little relieved- by how she phrases it. Your mom blinks too, like she hadn’t expected that answer.

“I… well, I don’t want anything too over-the-top,” you admit cautiously, testing the waters. 

“Classic, but not like… stiff. Something warm. Inviting. I don’t want to feel like I’m hosting a gala for strangers.”

Eve nods as though she’s heard this sentiment before, but she leans in with genuine interest. “That makes sense. The best weddings I’ve seen are the ones that reflect the couple’s personality, not anyone else’s expectations. Do you already have ideas in mind, or are you open to exploring?”

Your mom jumps in again, “She’ll need a venue large enough for at least two hundred guests-”

“Or,” Eve says smoothly, still keeping her gaze on you, “we could focus on creating something intimate. Guest count is flexible, and honestly, smaller weddings often feel more memorable. It’s about the quality of the moment, not the quantity of people.”

The words settle over you like a warm blanket. Finally, someone who wasn’t trying to make this day into a spectacle.

“See?” Eve adds with a light laugh, still holding your eyes. “It’s really important to do what you like. No matter how much help you get -or how many opinions fly around- at the end of the day, you’re the one walking down the aisle. If it doesn’t feel right to you, it doesn’t matter how perfect it looks on paper.”

Your mom clears her throat, her smile a little tight, but Eve just sips her tea like she hasn’t noticed the shift in the air. You do notice, though- and you can’t help but feel a flicker of loyalty forming toward this girl you’d only just met.

———

“This is our house,” you say as you twist the key in the lock and push open the front door to Tannyhill. The words feel strange on your tongue -our house- but the warmth they bring settles in your chest. Eve lingers behind you with your mother, both of them waiting politely as you shoulder the heavy door open.

You step inside first, juggling the shopping bags dangling from your arms, and immediately wish you’d had time to tidy up. The foyer isn’t a disaster, but there’s a faint trail of Rafe’s shoes by the staircase, a stack of unopened mail on the console table, and a faint scent of last night’s dinner still hanging in the air. Not exactly the pristine first impression you wanted for Eve- the girl who might end up being your right hand through this entire wedding circus.

You set the bags down with a sigh, brushing your hair from your face. Convenient, you remind yourself. It would be convenient if she stayed here. She could keep track of schedules, appointments, fittings, even doctor visits. Someone in the house who wasn’t trying to control you, but help you. Still, you’d need to talk to Rafe about it first.

“Y/n, you should really get a maid in here,” your mother says, her voice sharp as she surveys the space like she’s already calculating how many hours it would take to deep-clean the place.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, already exhausted. “Mom, I’m a working woman with a lot going on… give me a break?”

Before your mother can fire back, Eve’s gentle voice cuts in. “Honestly, I think it feels lived-in. Cozy, even. It looks like a home, not a showroom, and that’s way more important.”

You glance at her, caught off guard, and she offers you a small smile- dimples deep, hazel eyes bright. She says it so casually, so effortlessly, but you can feel the weight behind it. She’s not here to judge, and she’s not here to side with your mom. She’s here for you.

Your mother lets out a quiet sniff, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t argue further. You exhale and shift your shopping bags again, feeling a little lighter than you did a moment ago.

Four rooms later, you’re upstairs, showing Eve and your mom the last stop- your and Rafe’s bedroom. You’re halfway through pointing out the balcony when you hear the front door creak open downstairs.

“Baby?” Rafe’s voice carries up the stairwell.

“Up here!” you call back, exchanging a quick glance with Eve before ushering her and your mom toward the landing. “Come on.”

By the time you descend, Rafe is at the door, crouched to slip off his shoes, hair freshly buzzed and shoulders tense like he’s had one of those days. The moment he straightens, you close the distance, sliding your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He leans into it, his hands briefly finding your waist before his attention snags on the two extra figures trailing behind you. His posture stiffens almost imperceptibly. He gives your mom a curt nod, polite but distant. “Mrs. Y/L/N.”

Then his gaze shifts to Eve. She steps forward before you can properly introduce her, hand extended, her smirk small but confident.

“Evelyn,” you begin, but she cuts in smoothly-

“Eve.”

Rafe glances at you, then at her hand. After a beat, he takes it, his grip firm but fleeting, like he’s not sure how long he wants to hold on. “Hi,” he says flatly.

“Eve,” you correct yourself quickly before she can again. “She’s… an assistant. With everything going on, I thought we could use the help.” You search his face as you speak, hoping he’ll catch on that this isn’t a fight, it’s a conversation.

Rafe’s eyes flicker back to Eve, then settle on you. He nods slowly, processing, but his expression is unreadable- part calculation, part caution.

Eve is still admiring the foyer and your mom is halfway through commenting on the crown molding when you feel Rafe’s hand curl lightly around your wrist. It’s subtle, but firm enough to guide you a few steps toward the hallway, out of earshot.

“An assistant?” he mutters low, eyes narrowing slightly. His tone isn’t sharp, but it carries that edge he gets when he’s trying not to snap in front of other people.

You bite your lip, leaning into the wall so it doesn’t look like a confrontation. “It’s just… with everything going on -the wedding, the baby, work- it could take some of the weight off me. Off us.”

His brow furrows, eyes flicking back to where Eve is laughing politely at something your mom said. “And you didn’t think to run this by me before she was in our house?”

“I was going to,” you insist softly, slipping your hand down his arm until your fingers find his. You squeeze, grounding him. “I wasn’t making a decision without you. My mom kind of sprung it on me, and… I didn’t hate the idea.”

Rafe exhales through his nose, glancing at you with that blend of suspicion and reluctant softness. “I don’t like surprises. Especially not ones that move into our house.”

“She wouldn’t just be moving in,” you whisper, careful not to let your voice carry. “It’s temporary. Convenient. She’d keep track of appointments, help manage wedding details so you’re not stuck with my mom all the time, and-”

He cuts you off with a look, sharp but not unkind. “That’s supposed to convince me?”

You give him a small, almost guilty smile. “It might convince you not to kill me.”

Rafe sighs, shoulders dropping as the fight drains out of him. He squeezes your hand back, eyes lingering on you like he’s still weighing the risk. “You know I can’t tell you no. Even when I want to.”

“I know.” You tilt your chin up, brushing a kiss against his jaw before pulling back just enough to whisper, “So… give her a chance?”

He grumbles, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “One chance. And if she so much as breathes wrong, she’s out.”

You nod quickly, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Fair.”

When you both step back into the foyer, it looks seamless, like nothing happened- except for the way Rafe keeps one arm draped over your shoulders, his stance protective and his eyes tracking Eve every time she moves.

Later that night, after your mom and Eve leave, the house feels hollow in their absence. Too quiet, especially considering Rafe has barely said two words since the door closed behind them.

You’re curled up in bed, half-focused on your book, when the bathroom door clicks open. Rafe steps out, damp from the shower, briefs clinging low on his hips. He doesn’t say anything as he crosses the room, just sinks onto the mattress with a heavy exhale before tipping back until his head finds your lap.

A laugh slips out of you, soft and amused, as you set your book down on the nightstand. Your fingers cradle his face, thumbs stroking along his jaw.

“I know you’re hesitant about all of this,” you start gently, searching his eyes though he doesn’t meet yours, “but she has a forty-minute commute. And she lives on the Cut. I was just thinking… it’d be easier if she stayed here. She can help with the wedding, appointments for the baby. Even work stuff when it piles up. It’ll take pressure off both of us. I promise.”

He sighs, long and deep, before turning his head to press his lips against your palm. He lingers there, silent, like he’s weighing a thousand things in his head.

“When does she move in?” he asks finally, brows pulling together, blue eyes fixed somewhere past the ceiling.

“We’re aiming for Monday morning,” you explain. “But I’ve got that meeting, so it might have to be evening- depends how long it drags out.”

Rafe’s lips twitch, and before you can wonder what’s on his mind, he murmurs, “So… we’ve got all weekend to be as loud as we want.”

He kisses your palm again, this time trailing lower- down to your wrist, then the inside of your arm. A laugh bubbles out of you, nervous and ticklish, before it dissolves into warmth.

“Rafe…” you warn halfheartedly, already smiling as he shifts.

In one smooth motion, he rolls off his back and over you, bracing his weight on either side as you fall into the pillows. His mouth finds your cheek, your jaw, the delicate line of your throat.

“Rafe-” your laugh cuts off into a squeak as you fall back against the pillows, his weight pressing into you. His lips drag across your cheek, your jaw, down the side of your throat.

You squirm beneath him, giggling when he nips your skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm, maybe,” he hums against your neck, “but you love it.”

His hand slides down your hip, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt until it’s bunched around your waist. He grinds into you, the outline of him hard and heavy through his briefs, and your giggles falter into a breathy moan.

“Rafe-”

“What?” he teases, hips rolling again, slower this time. “You sound different all of a sudden.”

You swat at his shoulder, but your fingers curl into his damp skin instead. He smirks knowingly, lips ghosting over yours but never quite kissing you.

“Say it,” he taunts.

“Say what?” you breathe.

“That you want me.”

You pout, refusing to give him the satisfaction, and he laughs, low and rough, before dipping down to finally claim your mouth. The kiss is hot and messy, his tongue sliding against yours while his hips keep grinding- teasing, torturing.

“Rafe,” you whimper when he pulls back just enough to smirk down at you.

“There it is,” he whispers, eyes dark. “Knew I’d get it out of you.”

His hand trails down, slipping beneath your underwear, and you gasp when his fingers slide through your slickness. He bites back a curse, grinning as he works you open with lazy circles, deliberately slow.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over your ear. “All this from me teasing you?”

You try to glare, but your moan betrays you as his fingers sink deeper.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “definitely all me.”

His fingers work you open slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the way your body clings to him. Your thighs twitch and you try to rock up into his hand, but he only smirks, curling his fingers just enough to make you gasp before pulling back.

“Rafe,” you whine, grabbing at his wrist.

“Patience, baby.” His voice is low, smug. “You wanted me to listen about Eve moving in- now you get to listen to me.”

You groan, rolling your eyes, and he laughs, leaning down to kiss you again. The kiss is sloppy, tongues brushing, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he slides his hand out of your panties. You almost protest until you feel him pushing his briefs down, cock springing free, hard and hot against your thigh.

“See what you do to me?” he mutters, dragging himself along your skin, smearing precum. “And you’re still gonna act like you don’t want me inside you?”

“I never said-” your protest cuts off in a gasp as he pushes the head of his cock through your folds, nudging against your entrance but not giving you more.

“You didn’t have to say it,” he grins, blue eyes dark with heat. “Your body’s screaming it.”

“Rafe,” you beg, wriggling beneath him, trying to pull him in.

He chuckles, giving in just enough- sliding an inch inside, stretching you, then stopping.

“God,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel so good.”

You whimper, clawing at his back. “More.”

“Mm, needy,” he teases, pulling out only to push deeper, slow, steady, until he’s fully seated inside you. Your breath catches, eyes fluttering shut as he grinds his hips against yours.

“Fuck,” he hisses, kissing along your jaw, “so fucking tight- like you were made for me.”

He starts moving, thrusts lazy at first, dragging out every inch just to hear the way you moan for him. He nips at your throat, your shoulder, laughing breathlessly when you roll your hips up to meet his.

“That’s it, baby. Ride me back.”

You squeeze around him, making him curse, and suddenly his pace shifts- thrusts sharper, deeper, his smirk faltering into something hungrier. The bed creaks under you both, your giggles dissolving into desperate moans as he fucks into you harder.

“God, listen to you,” he groans, burying his face in your neck. “Can’t even pretend you don’t love this.”

You tug his hair, breathless. “Shut up and- fuck- keep going.”

He grins against your skin. “Bossy.” His hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing quick circles that make your body arch up into his.

“Rafe!” you cry out, legs trembling around him.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants, hips slamming harder, chasing your sounds. “Give it to me, baby. Let me feel you.”

It’s too much- the thick stretch of him inside you, his thumb working you, his voice low and rough in your ear. Your climax crashes over you, pulling a broken moan from your throat as you clamp down around him.

“Fuck- fuck yes,” Rafe groans, pace faltering as he feels you squeeze him. “Just like that, keep milking me- shit-”

With a final thrust, he buries himself deep, cock twitching as he spills inside you. His groans are muffled against your neck, body shuddering as he holds you close.

——

It’s early Monday afternoon, the kind of quiet lull that makes Tannyhill feel too big. Your meeting wrapped an hour ago, and you finally peel yourself away from your laptop to drift toward the kitchen, craving something sweet. As you pass through the hallway, one of the cleaners bustles by, arms full of folded linens. Rafe had insisted on hiring eight of them for a full sweep before Eve moved in- because of course he did.

“Miss Y/L/N,” the woman says softly, almost timid. “Mr. Cameron asked me to tell you to call him when your meeting was done.”

You blink, surprised by the formality, but smile anyway. “Oh- thank you.”

She nods and disappears upstairs while you slip into the kitchen. The air smells faintly of polish and citrus cleaner. You pluck a strawberry from the crystal bowl on the counter, leaning your forearms against the marble while you dig your phone out of your back pocket. With your thumb you scroll to Rafe’s contact and press call, popping the berry between your teeth as it rings.

It goes on for several beats before you finally hear the click, and his voice slides warmly through the speaker.

“Hey, baby.”

The nickname still makes your stomach flutter. You chew quickly, swallowing before answering. 

“Hey. You asked me to call?”

“Yeah,” he says, dragging the word a little, like he’s been waiting to bring this up. “So I was thinking… we’re getting that girl-”

“Eve,” you cut in, smirking at how he refuses to commit her name to memory.

“Eve,” he repeats, and you can practically hear his smirk. “Right. We’re moving her into our place. And she’s a complete stranger, babe. I think we need to put some security cameras in the house, just in case. You know how pogues are-”

You groan before he can really get momentum. “Rafe,” you laugh, biting the last bit of your strawberry, “she’s not going to steal anything.” You flick the green stem into the sink.

There’s a pause. You know he’s frowning. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say firmly, reaching for another berry. “She’s sweet. She’s professional. She’s literally here to help us, not rob us blind.”

He exhales sharply. “Babe, I’m not saying she’s gonna empty the safe or something. But this is Tannyhill. My dad’s shit is everywhere. People talk. A pogue gets a taste of what it looks like in here, maybe they get ideas.”

“Or maybe,” you counter gently, “you give her a little trust, and she proves she’s worth it.” You pop another berry in your mouth, fighting the grin pulling at your lips. “Not everyone from the Cut is out to get you.”

“You’re too trusting.” His tone softens a little, but there’s still an edge there. “I just don’t want you blindsided. If I’m not here and something happens-”

“Then we’ll deal with it. Together,” you finish for him, leaning on the counter with your cheek in your palm. “I get why you’re protective. I do. But Eve deserves a chance to do her job without feeling like she’s under a microscope.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you imagine him pacing somewhere, probably rubbing a hand over his buzzed hair the way he does when he’s trying to let go of an argument but can’t quite. 

Finally, he sighs. “Fine. We’ll… hold off. But I’m calling the security company anyway. Just in case. Cameras outside at minimum. That’s non-negotiable.”

You roll your eyes but smile. “Fine. Outside only. That’s fair.”

“Good,” he mutters, like he’s won, but then his voice softens again. “I just don’t want anything messing with you. Or the baby.”

That one sentence makes your chest ache and warm all at once. You twirl the end of your sweater sleeve around your finger. “I know. And I love you for it. But maybe try being a little open with her? She really is on our side.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced but at least not arguing. “We’ll see.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Baby steps.”

—

It’s nearly 6:30 when you find yourself back in the kitchen, arranging the bouquet of pale roses and baby’s breath in the glass vase you had the florist deliver earlier. You keep shifting it one way, then another, fussing over the exact placement so it’s perfectly centered on the island.

Rafe comes up behind you, his presence warm and solid, hands slipping instinctively to your belly. His lips brush your neck, then your jaw, trailing soft kisses while he murmurs low against your skin, “You know what sounds good right now? Lobster. God, lobster would hit the spot.”

You smirk, still adjusting the vase by a fraction of an inch. “You know what else sounds good?”

He hums, distracted by kissing the spot just beneath your ear. “What’s that?”

“An orgasm.” You sigh, the confession slipping out as easily as breathing. “God, I knew pregnancy made you horny, but I didn’t realize it’d be like this… nearly twenty-four seven.”

His hand drifts from your stomach, teasing lower until his fingers flirt with the waistband of your pants. “Maybe we can take care of that.” He tugs you flush against him, and you giggle, caught between exasperation and want.

“Not now,” you scold softly, though your thighs squeeze together as his hand slides inside. “Eve is literally on her way here.”

He’s kissing down your neck now, right to that spot that makes your knees weaken. A sharp gasp escapes you- and then the doorbell rings.

Rafe groans like it’s personal. “Jesus Christ.” Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away, dragging it over his face in frustration.

You lean against the counter with a sigh, biting your lip as the ache lingers. This was your idea, after all. You were the one who pushed for Eve to stay, to make things easier, to keep everything on track. Which now meant giving up the freedom to let Rafe pull you into every corner of the house whenever the mood struck.

You glance back at him. His jaw is clenched, blue eyes fixed on you with a look that says exactly what you’re thinking- this is going to be torture.

The doorbell rings again, sharp and insistent. You sigh, smoothing down your sweater before heading to the foyer. Rafe lingers behind, dragging his hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake off the mood.

When you open the door, Eve is standing there with a single suitcase at her side. She’s dressed simply -jeans and a fitted top- but she looks as effortless as she had at the café, dimples flashing as soon as she sees you.

“Hi! I hope I’m not too early,” she says warmly.

“Not at all,” you assure her quickly, stepping aside to let her in. “Come in. Let me take your bag.”

Rafe has wandered up behind you, his posture relaxed but his eyes cool. Before you can stoop for the suitcase, you nod toward him. “Rafe, can you grab that?”

He doesn’t argue, just bends to pick it up in one easy motion. “Where to?”

“Guest room down the hall,” you tell him, then turn back to Eve with your best smile. “Did you eat already? Are you hungry? I was going to make tea anyway.”

Eve shakes her head. “I grabbed something on the way, but thank you. Tea sounds perfect, though.”

“Great.” You lead her toward the kitchen, chattering as you go. “I’ll show you around after you’re settled. I want you to feel at home here- please don’t hesitate to tell me if you need anything.”

You busy yourself with the tea, arranging mugs on the counter while Eve chats about the drive over. Rafe doesn’t say much, just lingers in the kitchen doorway like a guard dog pretending not to be on duty. His eyes flick between you and Eve, his jaw tight whenever her smile lingers a little too long.

By the time the water’s boiled, you’ve made a plate of small snacks too- grapes, crackers, and cheese, even though Eve insists she isn’t hungry. You set everything down on the island and slide the tray toward her.

“Please. You’re in my house now. Let me feed you,” you insist lightly.

Her dimples deepen as she gives in. “You’re already being too kind. Thank you.”

Rafe mutters something under his breath, too low to make out, before turning on his heel and heading down the hall. You shoot him a look, but he doesn’t glance back.

After tea, you insist on showing Eve to the guest room yourself. She looks around at the soft blue walls and the big window overlooking the back lawn.

“This is perfect,” she says, turning back toward you. “I really don’t need much.”

“I just want you to be comfortable,” you say, adjusting a framed photo of you and Rafe on the dresser. “Fresh towels are in the bathroom, and if you need anything -literally anything- don’t hesitate to knock. Tomorrow we’ll start on the calendar together, and you can see how we’ve been organizing things.”

Her eyes brighten. “I’d love that.”

You linger for another moment, fussing with the corner of the quilt on the bed before finally excusing yourself. “I’ll let you settle in. Goodnight, Eve.”

“Goodnight,” she says warmly, dimples flashing again.

When you close the guest room door behind you, the house feels still again. Too still. You find Rafe in your shared bedroom, sprawled on top of the comforter with his phone tossed aside. He doesn’t even look up when you walk in, just runs a hand over his face with a sigh.

You climb onto the bed, nudging his side until he rolls enough for you to crawl in next to him. He turns toward you finally, eyes softer but still carrying that edge.

“You’ve been quiet,” you murmur, brushing a hand over his forehead.

“I don’t like it,” he admits bluntly. “Some stranger living under our roof. I don’t care how perfect she looks on paper- people can fake anything.”

You sigh, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I know you’re wary. And I get it. But she’s here to make things easier for us, not harder. Between the wedding and the baby… I need the help, Rafe. I can’t do this all by myself.”

He studies you for a long beat, then takes your hand and presses his lips to your palm, just like he always does when he’s trying to ground himself. “I don’t care about the wedding, not compared to you. I just don’t want you stressed. But I swear, if she gives me even one bad feeling-”

“Then we’ll deal with it together,” you promise softly.

His eyes soften further, and he pulls you closer until your head is resting on his chest. The steady beat of his heart under your ear calms you, even as the weight of everything ahead lingers in the quiet.

“She better not expect me to carry that damn suitcase again,” he mutters, breaking the tension.

You laugh into his skin, the sound muffled but full of relief.

—

By morning, the house feels different. You’re not used to hearing anyone else moving around so early, but when you wander down to the kitchen in your robe, Eve is already there- hair twisted up in a claw clip, sleeves pushed to her elbows as she neatly arranges papers across the island.

“Morning,” she chirps, flashing that perfect smile.

“Morning,” you echo, a little surprised but not displeased. “You’ve been busy.”

“I figured it’d be good to lay everything out before we really dive in,” she explains, tapping the edges of the stack into alignment. “I took what your mom gave me and made a preliminary schedule. Of course, it’s all flexible- you get the final say. But it might be a good place to start.”

You can’t help smiling as you grab two bowls and pour cereal, sliding one in front of her before setting your own down. “You’re already working before breakfast? You’re making me look bad.”

She laughs softly. “I actually like this part. Organizing chaos. It’s… fun, to me.”

You shake your head with a grin, spooning cereal into your mouth. “You and I are going to get along just fine.”

The two of you eat while Eve flips through the binder she’d brought down. She points to highlighted sections, sticky notes, and suggestions that somehow already look neater than anything your mom had managed.

You’re halfway through talking about possible engagement party dates when you hear the front door click open. Rafe strides in, phone in one hand, keys in the other. He smells faintly of cologne and coffee, hair still damp from his shower.

He steps into the kitchen, eyes flicking immediately to Eve before landing on you. His expression softens just enough.

“Morning,” Eve offers with a polite smile.

Rafe gives her a brief nod, then leans over to press a quick kiss to your lips. His hand lingers at your jaw for a second longer than necessary, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Got a meeting across town,” he murmurs just for you. “Don’t wait on me for dinner.”

“Okay,” you nod softly, smiling up at him.

He squeezes your shoulder once before straightening, sparing Eve a final glance. “Nice to meet you… Eve.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You exhale, spoon pausing in your bowl, before turning back to Eve with a half-smile. “Don’t take it personally. He’s not really a morning person.”

She just nods, dimples showing again. “Understandable. Most men aren’t.”

You stir your cereal absentmindedly, the binder of neat schedules and notes sitting between you and Eve. She’s already rattling off a list of things to consider -venues, photographers, travel dates- and you catch yourself drifting, a little overwhelmed.

Eve notices. She tilts her head, lowering her voice. “Hey… am I moving too fast with this?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, you’re great. Honestly, you’re better at this than I am.” A small laugh escapes before you add, softer, “It’s just… there’s something else I haven’t really told people yet. And it makes all this a little more complicated.”

Eve’s brow furrows, but she stays quiet, letting you fill the silence.

You take a breath, your fingers tracing the rim of your bowl. “I’m pregnant.”

The word hangs there, heavier than you expected. Eve blinks, her lips parting before she lets out a quiet, genuine, “Oh.” Then her face softens, a hand reaching across the counter to squeeze yours. “Congratulations.”

Your throat tightens at how sincere she sounds.

“Thanks,” you whisper, squeezing her hand back. “It’s still… early. And no one knows. Not even my mom. Just Rafe, Becca, and now you. So please… it’s important you keep it that way.”

Eve nods quickly, her voice firm but gentle. “Of course. I won’t say a word unless it’s to you- or if Rafe or Becca brings it up. Promise.”

You exhale in relief, feeling your shoulders relax a little.

She gives your hand another squeeze before pulling the binder closer. “Then we’ll make this work around you. I’ll keep track of appointments, block off time for rest, whatever you need. You don’t have to handle this alone, okay?”

A laugh escapes you, shaky but real. “You really came in ready to be superwoman, didn’t you?”

Eve smiles, dimples flashing. “Someone has to keep you sane. Might as well be me.”

For the first time that morning, the weight on your chest lightens, just a little.

Eve flips to a fresh page in her notebook, the corners of her mouth still curved in a reassuring smile. “Alright, then here’s what we’ll do.” She writes quickly, her pen scratching against the paper with a kind of confidence that makes you blink. “We’ll start with the wedding appointments- we can build those around your doctor visits so you’re not overloading yourself. Thursdays, you already have the OB slot, right?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, every other week for now.”

“Perfect.” She makes a neat box around the day. “Then no dress fittings or meetings on those days. I’ll make sure vendors know that’s a hard line.”

Her decisiveness makes you laugh softly. “You’re acting like I’m some celebrity client.”

“Well,” she says without looking up, her tone light but firm, “you are my priority. And you’re carrying a baby. I’m not letting anyone burn you out.”

Something about the way she says it, so matter-of-fact, so protective, makes your throat pinch a little.

She continues, flipping through the calendar. “I’ll also block time in the afternoons for rest, especially on busier weeks. That way, even if Rafe wants to run errands or pull you into something, you’ll have space to breathe.”

You blink at the casual way she includes Rafe in the picture- already slotting him into the rhythm of your life. “You’re really… organized,” you say, a little stunned.

Eve grins, finally glancing up. “I like lists. And besides, this isn’t just about a wedding. It’s about your health and your baby’s.” She gives a playful little shrug. “The more on top of it I am, the more freedom you’ll have.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re already spoiling me.”

“Well, get used to it.” She scribbles one last note, then sits back, satisfied. “From now on, all you have to do is show up where I tell you. I’ll handle the rest.”

There’s something warm in her tone -almost like an older sister stepping in- even though she’s the same age as you. For now, it feels comforting.

——

The coffee table in the Tannyhill living room is buried under swatches of fabric, stacks of bridal magazines, and half-empty glasses of iced tea. You’re curled up in the corner of the sectional with your feet tucked under you, scrolling through a vendor’s website on your iPad. Becca’s perched on the opposite armrest, tossing candied pecans into her mouth one at a time, while Eve sits cross-legged on the floor with a notebook spread open, a pen tucked behind her ear.

“Okay,” Eve says, flipping through a folder she’s already organized. “Engagement party is smaller than the wedding, so I think you could go two ways. Either intimate and cozy- like twenty people, backyard, fairy lights. Or… a little more glam, guest list closer to eighty, catered dinner. Thoughts?”

“ As much as I would love the Backyard fairy lights,” you start instantly, not looking up from your screen. “It feels more like us. But my mom will invite everyone under the sun.”

“Us?” Becca teases, quirking an eyebrow. “As in you and Rafe? Or as in you, your hormones, and that baby?”

You groan and throw a pillow at her. She ducks, cackling.

“Both,” you mutter, cheeks warming.

Eve just smiles, jotting it down like she’s recording official minutes of a board meeting. 

“Glam engagement. Got it. And since it’ll be at Tannyhill, I’ll draft a layout to show the rental company- tables, dance floor, where the bar goes.” She glances up, eyes bright. “I already emailed a florist for centerpiece options, too.”

Becca looks impressed. “Damn, girl. Do you come with a warranty or something? I can barely organize my laundry.”

Eve grins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I like logistics. It keeps things from spiraling.”

You watch her for a beat, noticing how quick she is, how her pen flies across the page like she’s done this a hundred times before. “You’re making me feel lazy,” you admit, shifting deeper into the couch cushions.

“Nah,” Becca smirks. “You’re pregnant. You get a pass.” She leans forward, plucking one of the fabric swatches. “What about this color for napkins? It matches your ring.”

You glance down at the diamond on your finger, then back at the swatch- a muted blue-gray. 

“That’s actually… kind of perfect.”

Eve nods approvingly. “See? We’re already building a palette.”

Becca wiggles her brows at you. “I like her. She’s got vision.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but you can’t help agreeing. Eve’s energy fills the room, efficient and steady. For now, it feels like everything is falling into place.

You’re still studying the swatch when you feel familiar arms slide around you from behind the couch, firm and warm against your shoulders and chest.

“Hey,” Rafe murmurs into your hair.

You turn your head instinctively, lips finding his. The kiss is quick at first, but then you pepper him with more, dotting his cheek, jawline, the corner of his mouth until he chuckles against your skin.

Becca doesn’t even look up from the magazine she’s flipping through, completely unfazed. Eve, though, stills with her pen in midair. Her hazel eyes linger on the two of you for just a moment -long enough to catch the intimacy, the way Rafe melts when you touch him- before she blinks quickly and drops her gaze back to her notes, pretending to be absorbed in the page.

“You didn’t think to ask me what I want, too?” Rafe teases, voice edged with mock indignation as he glances at the scattered swatches and notes over your shoulder.

That finally earns Becca’s attention. She arches a brow at him and smirks. “Are you into making color palettes, Rafe?”

He pauses, caught, and then huffs a laugh. “Touché.”

“Didn’t think so,” Becca says, returning to her magazine like the matter’s settled.

You tilt your head back to grin at him. “See? We’ve got it handled.”

Rafe shakes his head, but his arms tighten around you all the same, lips brushing against your temple like he can’t resist one more kiss. Across from you, Eve’s pen scratches faintly on the page again, quieter this time, like she’s writing just to have something to do with her hands. Rafe’s arms are still wrapped around you when he leans over your shoulder to eye the chaos of swatches and party notes. “Alright,” he says, his lips brushing your temple, “what’s for dinner?”

You twist slightly in his hold to look up at him. “I can order something in.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m tired of takeout. I want something homemade.”

You sigh softly. “Okay, fine. I’ll get up in a minute and-”

“I can cook,” Eve cuts in, her pen poised above her notebook. Her smile is easy, natural. “Really, it’s no trouble.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Oh… that’s sweet, but I don’t mind-”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Eve insists gently, tucking a loose strand of hair back into her clip. “You’re pregnant, Y/n. Rest. I’ll handle dinner.”

For a moment, the words sit in the air. Becca finally glances up from her magazine, lips twitching like she’s trying not to grin.

You press your lips together, not annoyed exactly- just uncertain. The offer is kind, thoughtful even, but it tugs faintly at something you can’t put your finger on. You smooth your hand over Rafe’s arm where it rests on your waist and offer Eve a smile. “Okay… if you’re sure.”

Rafe squeezes your hip, satisfied. “Sounds good to me. Looks like we’re eating fancy tonight.”

Eve laughs softly, already setting her notes aside. Becca flips another page but sneaks you a look over the top, her brows arched in silent amusement like she caught that half-second of hesitation.

You ignore her, reaching for a new palette card to distract yourself. Eve was only trying to help- how could you be anything but grateful?

——

“Dinner was good,” Rafe says as he works the buttons free on the crisp white oxford shirt you love so much, sleeves already rolled halfway up his forearms.

You nod, brushing a comb through your hair with your claw clip wedged between your teeth. From the corner of your eye, you catch him folding a towel-neatly, purposefully-the way he does when he’s joining you in the shower.

“It was,” you answer, your voice short but even. You pop the clip from your mouth and twist your hair back into place.

Rafe glances at you, smirking as he pulls the shirt off his shoulders. “You okay?” His tone is casual, teasing, but his eyes search your face.

“Yeah, why?” You slide your sweat shorts down, leaving yourself in just a white lace-trimmed tank and its matching underwear.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you back down from a fight.” He peels off his ribbed tank, the fabric stretching before it clears over his head.

“That was not a fight,” you chuckle, rolling your eyes.

“Whatever it was,” he teases, stepping closer, “you don’t back down like that with me.” His palm lands on your backside in a playful smack as he brushes past, and you yelp before breaking into laughter.

“That’s because you like it when I put you in your place,” you shoot back, giggling as you reach for the hem of your tank.

But before you can peel it off, a knock sounds at the bedroom door. You freeze mid-motion, eyebrows quirking. With a small sigh, you pad over and crack the door open. Eve stands there in a pale pink nightgown that falls just above her knees, her long braid pulled over one shoulder. She looks soft, fresh-faced, like she stepped straight out of a glossy magazine cover for bedtime elegance.

“Eve,” you greet, masking your surprise. It’s late, and you weren’t expecting her.

“Hey!” she says lightly, her voice warm but tinged with purpose. “Sorry for the interruption. I just wanted to let you know I booked your doctor’s appointment for Tuesday at ten-two hours after your meeting. Does that work?” Her hazel eyes flick across your face, bright with curiosity, her brows lifted slightly as if she’s studying your reaction.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks!” You offer her a smile, though you feel the odd tug of her presence in your doorway.

“Great.” Her dimples appear as she smiles back. “Goodnight.”

“Night.” You close the door, leaning your weight on it for just a second before turning away.

By the time you step back into the bathroom, steam curls out from the shower, fogging the glass. Rafe is already inside, water sluicing over his chest and hair, head tilted back under the spray. You strip quickly, tossing your tank and underwear onto the counter, and slip in beside him. His arms find you immediately, pulling you under the warmth with him as though he’s been waiting all along.

———

Two weeks of planning and preparation, and still your stomach twisted as you scanned the venue. The place buzzed with motion-staff weaving between tables, adjusting linens, testing lights. In the distance, Evelyn stood with the lead caterer, posture straight and professional, clipboard in hand like she’d been born to do this.

Becca was decidedly less invested. She leaned against the edge of a table beside you, plate piled high with cocktail wieners, chewing one lazily on a stick.

Across the room, your mother was mid–meltdown over the tablecloths. Apparently, the “white” wasn’t white enough, and she was letting the setup crew know exactly how unacceptable that was.

“So,” Becca said around her mouthful, pointing her stick like a baton, “how’s it been with girly living with you guys?”

You kept your eyes trained on the workers fussing with floral centerpieces, arms folded. “It’s been… okay. Quiet, mostly. She stays in her room when she’s not helping.”

Becca raised her brows but didn’t comment, just grabbed another skewer.

“Do you think this was the right call?” you asked, chewing your lip, suddenly second-guessing every decision that had led to this engagement party.

“Oh, one hundred percent.” She popped another wiener into her mouth with exaggerated enthusiasm.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a laugh. “That’s because you’re enjoying those wieners.”

Becca grinned, not even a little embarrassed. “Listen, it’s the only wieners I’ve had in months. I’ll take what I can get.”

That did it- you snorted, nearly doubling over, the nerves in your chest loosening for just a moment as laughter spilled out.

“Y/n, what are you still doing here?” your mom’s voice cuts through the hum of the venue. She strides toward you and Becca, heels clicking against the floor, expression sharp as she checks her smartwatch.

You and Becca’s laughter fizzle out instantly, like kids caught whispering in class.

“You still have to get your hair and makeup done- not to mention dressed.” She glances at the time again, then at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You don’t have time to be hanging around. Don’t worry, we’ve got this covered. Go home. Get ready.”

Before you can argue, Becca slips her arm through yours and pastes on a helpful smile. “I’ll come with,” she says quickly, tugging you toward the exit. It’s painfully obvious she’s just dodging whatever task your mom was about to dump on her, but you let her drag you anyway.

You’re laughing under your breath by the time you step outside, the cool air a relief after the chaos inside. Unlocking your car door, you shake your head at her antics.Becca doesn’t waste a second- she hops straight into the passenger seat like she’s claimed it for life. You slide into the driver’s seat beside her, still amused.

“You’re shameless,” you tell her, starting the car.

“And you’re welcome,” she fires back, grinning as she snaps her seatbelt on.

“Hey, baby.” Rafe’s voice softens as soon as you step through the door. Before you can even set your things down, his hands are at your waist, drawing you into his chest. His lips find yours in an easy, familiar kiss, the kind that melts your nerves instantly.

“Hey,” you murmur back against his mouth, stealing a few more pecks just because you can.

Behind you, Becca lets out a loud, exaggerated groan. “We do not have time for this, love birds. Chop-chop!”

You laugh against Rafe’s lips but still cradle his cheek with your palm, sneaking in two more quick kisses before Becca hooks her hand around your wrist and yanks.

“Okay, okay!” you protest through your giggles as she tugs you away. Rafe doesn’t let go right away, his thumb brushing over your hip like he’s reluctant to release you. His eyes catch yours- warm, a little amused, but also tender in that way that makes you want to linger.

Becca rolls her eyes, already halfway to the hallway. “Save it for after the vows!”

You give Rafe one last peck before finally letting Becca pull you completely, your laugh echoing down the hall as he shakes his head with a small grin.

-

You twist the curlers in your hair, careful not to tangle them, while Becca dusts blush across your cheeks with quick, practiced strokes.

“I can’t believe I’m having an engagement party,” you laugh softly, half to yourself.

Becca snorts. “Right? You’re the last person I ever pegged for a big ‘look-at-me’ event. Honestly, I thought you’d run off, elope somewhere random, and grab a stranger at a gas station to be your witness.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re not totally wrong.”

“Mm, I know,” she says smugly before spinning your chair toward the mirror. “Okay, moment of truth.”

You blink at your reflection. The makeup is light, luminous, with a soft shimmer on your lids that makes your eyes catch the light. Natural, effortless- like you, only dialed up. It pairs perfectly with your opalescent dress hanging on the door, the fabric glowing faintly in the lamplight.

“It’s gorgeous,” you breathe, smiling at her in the mirror. “Thank you.”

Becca smirks and gives you a playful swat on the arm. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t cry or you’ll ruin it. Now hurry up and get dressed before your mom has a coronary.”

You shake your head, still smiling, and rise from the chair.

—

The venue hums with life when you arrive, laughter and chatter spilling across the room. The party is brimming with relatives- some familiar, some barely remembered, and plenty you don’t know at all. It feels less like your celebration and more like a gathering of your parents’ friends and peers, polished and proper.

Your dress drapes over you like liquid silver, the loose opalescent fabric catching the light as you move, concealing the faint swell of your tiny bump.

“My sweet girl!” a voice sings out behind you.

You whirl around, and your heart leaps at the sight: your entire New York crew -Owen, Noel, Allegra, Mario, Jack, Sienna, and Myra- standing together, grinning like conspirators.

“No way!” you squeal, launching yourself into Allegra’s open arms. The two of you spin, laughing, before you tear yourself away to embrace the others one by one.

“You guys! What are you even doing here?” you beam, giddy and almost teary.

“How could we miss your engagement party?” Noel teases, brushing her bangs from her eyes as you hug Mario- still devastatingly handsome, still disarming with his smile.

You shoot a suspicious look over your shoulder at Becca. She just smirks and shrugs, clearly the mastermind behind the surprise.

“Thank you, seriously,” you say earnestly, heart swelling as you look at the group.

Before you can say more, Rafe arrives at your side, slightly out of breath, his hand immediately finding yours. Normally, you might scold him for being late, but the joy buzzing in your chest makes it impossible to care.

“Rafe-” you beam, squeezing his hand. “You remember my friends from New York?”

His gaze flicks over the group, lingering a beat too long on Jack, Owen, and Mario before settling politely on the girls. “Ladies,” he greets, his tone clipped but civil.

The moment hangs. This group -these friends- are a living reminder of the last messy chapter you and Rafe barely survived. The last time you all shared space like this was during the slow unravel of your relationship. You feel his shoulders stiffen, his grip on your hand tightening, and you instinctively squeeze back. A quiet warning. Be nice.

Rafe clears his throat and shakes hands with the guys, firm to the point of being nearly stern, but it’s still progress. “Nice to see everyone again,” he says, his voice even.

You exhale, trying not to let the tension spoil your glow. You bite your lip and scan the crowd, searching for an escape hatch. Your eyes land on Topper , Beau and Kelce, already laughing too loudly near the bar. You turn back to Rafe, tilting your chin up at him.

“Look- Topper, Beau and Kelce are here,” you murmur gently. “Why don’t you introduce the guys to them?”

He holds your gaze for a moment, something tight flickering in his expression, before he gives you a small, straight smile. A truce. He nods and releases your hand, stepping toward the group with measured steps. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The girls pull into a smaller circle, voices overlapping in laughter as the noise of the party fades into the background. You take the chance to formally introduce Becca, who earns approving smiles and quick hugs all around. Soon, Allegra launches into a dramatic retelling of her most recent run-in with Celeste- complete with exaggerated gestures and spot-on impressions. The circle erupts in laughter, your cheeks aching from smiling.

You’re still catching your breath when a light tap lands on your shoulder. Turning, you find Eve standing there, clipboard clutched in both hands like it’s an extension of her body. Her hazel eyes flick nervously toward the men across the room before snapping back to yours with a practiced smile.

“Hey- what’s up?” you ask warmly, still grinning from Allegra’s story.

“There’s, um-” she glances down at the clipboard as though it might give her courage. “There’s a girl at the door. Her name is Marie? She’s not on the guest list, so I-”

Before she can spiral further, you cut in gently. “Oh, no, it’s fine. She’s my friend.”

Your gaze swivels toward Becca, who is mid-sip with her champagne flute. She winces at the name, lowering her glass sheepishly. “Someone must’ve forgotten to put her on the list.”

“I really did forget- sorry,” she says, her apology as honest as it is sheepish.

You rub her arm in reassurance. “It’s fine.” Setting your own untouched flute on a nearby table, you make sure your hand doesn’t linger too long. You’ve kept up appearances well, but only three people in this room know about the tiny secret you’re carrying, and you’re not ready for anyone else to catch on.

Turning back to Eve, you soften your expression. “I’ll go get her.” You offer a small smile, and Eve nods in relief.

You start to step away before pausing mid-stride and glancing back. “And, Eve-” Her head snaps up immediately, eyes wide, as though bracing for correction. “Put the clipboard down. Please. Enjoy the party.”

There’s a beat of hesitation, but then her lips curve into a smile. She nods and places the clipboard carefully on the same table where your champagne flute rests.

“Help yourself,” you tease, pointing toward the glass.

Her smile shifts into something more mischievous as she picks it up, raises it in a mock-toast, and downs it in one go. You laugh, shaking your head as warmth spreads through your chest. For the first time tonight, Eve looks less like an assistant and more like a guest. Then, with your heart a little lighter, you turn toward the entrance to find Marie.

“Um- why am I not on the guest list?” Marie semi-jokes as you pull her into a tight hug. Her usual curls have been straightened, sleek and glossy- a rare occasion that makes you do a double-take.

“Becca forgot to put you on,” you explain quickly, pulling back from the hug and looping your arm through hers as you steer her inside. “And before you start- no, she didn’t do it out of spite.”

Marie arches a brow, smirking as she grabs a flute of champagne off a passing caterer’s tray. “Mhm. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did, though.”

You give her a look, part exasperated, part amused. “Don’t. Becca’s not petty enough for that. Plus, you guys ended things months ago. You should both be over it by now.”

By the time you circle back to the group, you’re keeping a careful eye between the two of them. To your relief, there’s no tension- Becca greets her with a polite smile, and Marie doesn’t push.

“Sorry about the mix-up,” Eve pipes up, clipboard hugged to her chest like a security blanket.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” Marie shrugs, distracted as her gaze drifts across the room. She stops, eyes narrowing in on something- or rather, someone. “Okay… who’s the hottie standing next to Rafe?”

You follow her line of sight straight to the group of guys. Before you can answer, your mom calls Eve’s name from across the room. Eve gives you a small nod before hurrying off, leaving you with Marie.

“My twin brother, Mario,” Myra cuts in smoothly.

The entire group looks over in unison.

“Sorry- he’s cute,” Marie admits, wincing a little but refusing to sugarcoat it. That blunt honesty of hers hasn’t gone anywhere.

Myra pulls a face, equal parts disgusted and amused, which makes the group laugh. Still, she shrugs with mock defeat. “Have at it, but… you’ve been warned.”

You’re still laughing when Eve slips back to your side, rejoining the circle as though she’d never left.

“Your mom wants you and Rafe together so she can call a toast,” she says softly.

You nod, already moving to step away. “Okay, I’ll go get him-”

But she cuts you off, her words quick and sure. “No, don’t worry. I’ll go get him.” Her smile looks a little nervous, but her eagerness doesn’t go unnoticed.

“…Okay?” you chuckle, amused but filing it away.

You watch as Eve crosses the room. She taps Rafe lightly on the bicep- her hand lingering just long enough that you notice. Maybe no one else would think twice, but you’ve been around Rafe long enough to catch the flicker of confusion that crosses his face before he tilts his head to listen. She says something low, pointing discreetly in your direction. Rafe’s gaze softens when he sees you, his whole expression shifting in a way that makes your chest ache with familiarity. He nods at Eve, then tosses out some remark to the whole group that makes them laugh before excusing himself. As he heads your way, you find yourself exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He seemed to be on better terms with everyone now- shaking hands, even laughing with your New York crew. That was one less problem you had to worry about tonight.

Still, when your eyes drift back to where Eve is standing -clipboard abandoned, cheeks flushed- you can’t help but tuck away the image of her hand on Rafe’s arm, small and subtle, but there all the same.

Rafe rejoins you moments later, slipping through the crowd with that natural confidence he wears like a second skin. His hand finds the small of your back, warm and grounding, and he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. You lean into it instinctively, your lips curling into a faint smile as the comfort of his touch settles over you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Eve passing by. For a fleeting second, something about her expression nags at you- something you can’t quite place. But before you can linger on it, the clear chime of a utensil striking a glass cuts through the noise.

“Excuse me, everyone!” your mother’s voice rings out, loud and commanding in a way only she can manage. The room falls to a hush, all eyes shifting toward her as she beams with your father dutifully at her side.

“I would like to make a toast!” she announces, lifting her glass. “To my lovely daughter, Y/n…” She pauses deliberately, and then adds, with a flick of her eyes toward Rafe, “…and Rafe.”

The crowd laughs good-naturedly, assuming her timing is part of the joke. You know better. She wasn’t joking. Not even a little.

Your mother keeps going, her words swelling with that mix of pride and subtle control she always weaves into her speeches. Something about the perfect match, the bright future, the family name. You try to stay present, but the words blur around the edges, muted beneath the thrum of your own thoughts.

Instead, your gaze drifts across the room, scanning faces until it lands on Eve. She isn’t listening to your mom either -at least, not entirely. Her eyes are fixed instead on Rafe’s hand, still firm and protective against the small of your back. The look in her hazel eyes is hard to read- something between thoughtfulness and longing, though she schools it quickly when she realizes she’s staring.

As if sensing your eyes on her, Eve glances up. For one heartbeat, you meet her gaze squarely. She startles, caught, and a quick blush rises to her cheeks. She forces a polite smile, sheepish, before turning back toward your mother’s speech as though nothing happened. You take a sip of your water, shifting slightly under Rafe’s touch. The warmth of his hand steadies you, but that lingering image -Eve’s gaze on him- lodges itself quietly in the back of your mind.

——

“How long are you guys in town?” you ask your New York group as the party starts winding down, the music mellowing into background chatter.

“Until Tuesday-” Allegra flicks her glossy hair over her shoulder, smirking. “But I can get my father’s jet to wait until whenever.”

“Please do,” you grin. “I’d love to show you guys around OBX.” You wave at a guest offering a quick goodbye and congratulations as they pass, then slide back into the circle with your friends.

“Oh!” Noel blurts out, bouncing a little on her heels. “Can we go on a boat? I’ve never been properly boating.”

Sienna narrows her eyes, incredulous. “You’re rich and you’ve never been boating?”

“What can I say? I’m a city girl.” Noel shrugs, grinning.

“Where are you guys staying?” you ask, sipping the last of your champagne.

“We Airbnb’d some mansion around here,” Allegra answers without looking up, scrolling idly on her phone like she’s already half bored.

“Cool. Maybe I’ll swing by tomorrow and drag you guys out on the water.” You turn to Eve, who’s been hovering a step behind like always. “Do I have anything on my schedule for tomorrow?”

She digs into her tote, pulls out the iPad you bought her -her latest toy for ‘efficiency’- and scrolls quickly. Her voice is bright when she looks up. “Nope! All clear.”

You catch the little extra lilt in her tone, but it feels almost forced. She hasn’t spoken much since that strange moment earlier, that unshakable memory of catching her staring at Rafe’s hand on your back. You try not to dwell on it; between your friends’ chatter and the endless stream of polite thank-yous from guests, you haven’t had the chance.

“Perfect.” You turn to Becca. “You down for tomorrow?”

She nods, raising her champagne flute- her fourth tonight. It’s not unusual, but you know her well enough to guess it’s not just the celebration. Maybe it’s Marie. Maybe it’s the fact that Marie spent a solid thirty minutes at the bar, head bent close to Mario, laughing like he was the funniest man alive.

You shift your attention to Marie, who’s now lingering beside you. “You?”

“I want to,” she says with a wistful smile. “But I didn’t rent a place. I was going to drive back tonight.”

“You can stay at mine,” you offer instantly.

Marie shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to intrude. Besides, you already have a guest. I don’t want to-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you cut her off.

“I can just rent a place-” she begins, but Mario suddenly appears at her side, his grin wide and shameless. “Or you can stay with us,” he says smoothly. “I mean… at the mansion. I’m in a room with a queen-size. Not the biggest bed, but plenty of room for you.” He throws her a suggestive smirk.

You nearly choke on your drink, biting your lip hard to keep from laughing.

“Okay,” Marie shrugs, way too casually for someone who was just making excuses.

You glance toward Becca. She’s standing rigidly, pretending to hang onto every word of Noel’s ramble about an art commission. But her eyes are glazed, her smile brittle, and you know she’s not listening to a single word.

The party has slowed to an end. The house, once humming with laughter and clinking glasses, now feels hollow- only the soft shuffle of caterers clearing trays and the distant hum of dishwashers fill the silence. Your friends left twenty minutes ago. Your mom stands close to your father as he scribbles his signature onto a check for the lead caterer, both of them looking tired but satisfied.

“Hey,” you murmur as you step up to Rafe just as he’s clasping hands with Beau in a final dap.

Beau pulls you into a quick, brotherly hug before heading off. On his way out, he swats the back of Becca’s neck with a teasing grin. She lets out a dramatic groan, swatting at him as he dodges easily, their bickering fading down the hallway. You can’t help but chuckle at the sight- and when you glance up at Rafe, you find him laughing too.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, his smile easing something in you as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. The warmth of it lingers, and even with the heaviness of what’s ahead, you think—this might be the best moment of the entire night.

“I think…” you start, breath catching as your eyes fall to his chest. You fuss with the front of his shirt, dusting away imaginary lint, anything to keep your hands busy. “I think it’s time I tell her. Tell them. Both of my parents. You can head home.” Your voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the clinking dishes across the room.

“That you’re…” Rafe doesn’t even finish the thought. He doesn’t have to. You nod before the word leaves him.

“I can’t keep this secret forever,” you say, biting your lip. “I’d rather tell them now than wait until I’m shoving myself into oversized hoodies and they start asking questions.” The nervous laugh you tack on sounds foreign in your own ears.

Rafe studies you carefully, his hand brushing your arm. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait in the car?”

You pause, considering it. The idea of him just outside steadies you, but still- “It’s late. I know you wanted rest this weekend before cramming in work before your week off. I don’t want you sleep deprived because of me.” Your throat tightens suddenly, tears pricking your eyes before you can even name the feeling.

“I’ll be sleep-deprived every day if it’s for you,” he says simply.

You let out a watery laugh as the first tear slips free. He doesn’t comment on it- just reaches up to brush it away with his thumb.

“Okay,” you whisper, sniffing. “Wait in the car.”

He tilts your chin up, his palms warm and steady against your cheeks. His lips press to your forehead in a long, grounding kiss. “I’ll be right outside. If you need me, just call.”

You nod, your hand clinging to his until it slips away as he walks out the door.

The venue feels bigger without him. Quieter. Your parents are still at the table, their heads bowed together in conversation. They’ve somehow acquired wine glasses, even though only champagne was served tonight. It strikes you as odd, but your nerves are too frayed to dwell on it.

“Mom. Dad.” Your voice wavers slightly as you step forward.

They turn toward you in perfect sync, their expressions curious but unreadable.

“I need to talk to you.” The words hang between you, heavier than you expected, but enough to carry you forward as you take another step closer. to

Your father sets his glass down, leaning back with a guarded expression. “Alright. What is it?”

You hesitate, twisting your fingers together before finally blurting, “I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Your mother’s eyes widen, her lips parting in disbelief. “You’re… what?”

“I’m pregnant,” you repeat, firmer now though your voice trembles. “A few weeks along.”

Your father exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if the weight of the night suddenly doubled. “Christ, Y/n.” His gaze flicks to your stomach, then back to your face. “And this is Rafe’s?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, lifting your chin but also confused as to who else’s it would be. “He knows. He’s been supportive.”

Your mother’s shock shifts into something sharper- controlled but cutting. “And you chose to tell us after announcing an engagement? After parading around tonight like everything is perfect?”

“Because I wanted you to hear it from me, not whispers in the room when it starts to show,” you fire back, your voice cracking. “I didn’t want to hide it anymore.”

Your father lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Pregnant before the wedding. That’s what we’re leading with, then? What are we supposed to say to people?”

“Say whatever you want,” you snap, tears burning the corners of your eyes. “This isn’t about them. This is my life.”

Silence presses in heavy. For a moment, you’re sure they’re about to tell you to leave, to figure it out on your own.

Then your mother sighs, softer this time. “Y/n…” She takes a step forward, her eyes searching yours. “This isn’t what we pictured for you. But… you’re our daughter.” Her lips purse as though the words taste bitter on her tongue. “And we’ll… deal with it.”

Your father’s mouth is still a thin line, but he finally nods. “We don’t like it. Not like this. But…” He pauses, his eyes softening just slightly. “You’ll have our support. Hesitant as it may be.”

Your chest caves with relief, even though their words sting. It’s not warmth, not celebration, but it’s not rejection either.

You nod quickly, swiping at your cheeks. “Thank you. That’s all I needed.”

They don’t reach for you. They don’t hug you. They just stand there, stiff but present. And for someone who’s used to feeling like she doesn’t quite measure up in their eyes, it’s strangely enough. But you still wished for more.

You leave the room lighter- not because they were overjoyed, but because you finally stopped carrying the secret alone. You get in the car without a word, shutting the door a little too gently, like you’re afraid the sound alone might shatter you. 

Tears blur your vision, clinging stubbornly to your lashes. Despite the complicated, almost transactional way things have always been with your parents, there’s a childlike part of you that aches for something else. Comfort. Softness. For your mother to pull you into her arms and whisper it’s going to be okay the way she did when you skinned your knee at six years old. For her face to light up the way it did when you burst out of the school doors on your very first day, proud of yourself and desperate to show her.

But none of that came tonight. And the hollow ache in your chest only deepens because of it.

“Want to talk about it?” Rafe asks gently, his voice a warm hum against the silence. His hand finds yours across the middle console, fingers curling around yours like he’s reminding you he’s still there.

“Not now,” you whisper, your throat tight.

He doesn’t push. Just squeezes your hand once, steady and sure, the kind of wordless reassurance you never seem to get from anyone else.

You lean your head back against the seat, trying to breathe, when a thought flickers and you turn to glance at the back seat. “Where’s Eve?”

“She went home when everything ended,” Rafe answers easily, eyes flicking between you and the road ahead as he starts the car. “Said something about you giving her the night off.” His brow quirks, teasing.

A small, watery smile tugs at your lips. “I did do that.”

“Well,” he exhales, easing the car into gear, “let’s get home so my feet can have the night off too.”

The comment is simple, but it pulls a laugh from you- soft, shaky, but real. He grins at the sound, satisfied, and the hum of the engine fills the space between you as he pulls away.

——

Rafe is still fast asleep when you stir awake, his arm draped heavy and protective across your waist. You sigh softly, stretching against the warmth of him. Despite the heaviness of your parents’ reactions last night when you broke the news, a small smile tugs at your lips. For all the complications, there’s still so much to be grateful for: your friends are here, you finally get to show them where you grew up, you’re carrying a baby, and you’re about to marry the love of your life. Life, in this rare quiet moment, feels almost perfect.

You ease yourself out of bed carefully, Rafe’s arm sliding lazily off your body, and after showering and freshening up, you head downstairs.

Eve is already in the kitchen, seated at the table with her iPad propped open, stylus in hand. A steaming bowl of oatmeal sits half-forgotten in front of her. She doesn’t even glance up until you pull a glass from the cabinet.

“Hey! You’re up early,” you say, filling the glass with water from the fridge.

She looks up with a bright smile. “Yeah, just trying to get ahead of some things. I’ve got a lot planned for Rafe’s week off- venue visits, cake tasting, wine tasting. Not to mention you two still need outfits for the wedding.” Her Apple Pencil scratches lightly against the screen as she scrolls.

You sip from your glass and chuckle. “Can’t really go dress shopping yet. I have to wait until closer to the wedding. My belly won’t stop growing for anyone.” You sit next to her.

Her eyes flick briefly to your stomach, then to your hand resting on the glass. More specifically- to the ring glinting on your finger.

You notice and lift your hand, turning it so the stone catches the light. “It was his mother’s. He says it’s been in the family forever.” The words come with a soft smile, but when you look back at her, Eve’s expression is harder to read. She blinks quickly and inhales, shifting her gaze back to her iPad.

“What do you have planned today?” she asks, her tone casual, though her focus doesn’t leave the screen.

The abrupt change of subject makes you pause. Still, you answer, “Well, the girls want to go shopping, so downtown first. Then later we’re going out on Rafe’s new boat because Noel’s obsessed with the idea. Honestly, I haven’t even had much time on the water myself.”

“Sounds fun!” Her voice is chirpy, but there’s something beneath it- something you can’t quite name.

You lean back in your chair, watching her bent over the tablet. “You know,” you say lightly, “you don’t have to work on my schedule all day. If you want, you can… go back home. Do your own thing. Take the day off.”

She finally looks up, her smile softening. “I will. Thank you.” This time, it sounds genuine.

You nod and carry your empty glass to the sink.

“What about Rafe?” she asks suddenly.

Your hand freezes under the faucet. “What about him?” you ask, glancing back at her.

“What’s he got planned for the day?”

You shrug. “I’m not sure. Probably sleep it away.” The joke pulls a smile from her.

As if on cue, footsteps sound in the hall. Rafe walks in, already dressed in a blue collared shirt and beige shorts, sandals on his feet. He looks like he’s heading out.

“Speak of the devil,” you smile, straightening as he leans down to kiss your cheek before moving past you to the fridge.

“Morning, baby,” he says, pulling out a banana.

“Morning. I didn’t know you had plans today,” you say, leaning against the counter.

“I didn’t, but I need to figure out how to get my sister here for the wedding. Rose won’t answer my calls, so I’ll need to get in touch with an attorney.” He shrugs, already peeling the banana.

You nod, stepping closer. “Okay. Let me know if something comes up?”

“Of course.” He grabs his keys, already halfway out the door.

“I’ll be with my friends most of the day,” you remind him, glancing back at Eve. “And Eve’s taking the day for herself, so don’t bother her.” You wink playfully in her direction. She returns a quick smile, though her eyes immediately drop back to her iPad.

“Got it,” Rafe says, kissing you goodbye before heading out.

It’s only after the door closes that you realize- not once did he acknowledge Eve. Not a nod, not a hello.

“Sorry,” you laugh awkwardly, turning back to her. “He can get ahead of himself sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, tilting her head with practiced confusion.

“He didn’t acknowledge you.”

“Oh,” she lets out a small laugh, like it just occurred to her. “It’s fine. I don’t think he realizes I’m here most of the time.”

The words are light, but something lingers beneath them. A hint of truth, and something else- something you’ve been trying to put your finger on since last night, when her hand lingered on his arm. When her eyes lingered on his hand resting at the small of your back. She likes him.

And the thought sits heavy, even as you force yourself to smile.

——

 The thought sits heavy in your chest all morning, even as you slip into the driver’s seat with Becca riding shotgun and the others piled into their cars behind you. Eve likes him. You can feel it in your gut. The way her hand lingered on his arm, the way her eyes caught on his ringless left hand before darting back to her iPad. She tries to be discreet, but you’ve always been good at noticing what people don’t say out loud.

By the time you’re weaving through downtown with Becca scrolling through her phone beside you, you’ve already argued with yourself a dozen times. Maybe you’re overthinking. Maybe she was just being polite. Maybe it’s hormones, nerves, exhaustion. Still, the thought sticks like a burr.

But then Allegra’s voice cuts through as you step into the first boutique:

“Okay, listen, if one of you doesn’t let me pick out a dress that makes you look slutty, I’m walking out.” She tosses her hair, dramatic as ever, and Noel nearly chokes on her iced latte, muttering something dry that makes all of you laugh. Just like that, the tension begins to ease.

Marie pulls you toward a rack of sundresses, insisting one would be “perfect for the boat,” while Sienna disappears into the fitting rooms and reemerges with something so over the top you and Becca collapse into each other, laughing until your stomach hurts. Myra, ever the voice of reason, starts organizing everyone’s selections into neat piles before the sales associate can even catch up.

You let yourself get swept up in it—the chatter, the dressing-room chaos, the constant back-and-forth between friends who know how to make even errands feel like an event. Every time the thought of Eve starts to creep back in, Noel is making a sarcastic observation, or Allegra is twirling dramatically in a mirror, or Becca is pulling you aside to whisper that you have to try something on. By the time you’re walking back out with shopping bags looped over your wrists, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, the unease hasn’t disappeared. But it’s been pushed far enough into the background that, for now, you can breathe.

Life can be complicated- your parents, the wedding, the baby, and now Eve. But here, surrounded by the girls, you remember that it doesn’t always have to feel so heavy.

——

You get home mid-afternoon, arms loaded with shopping bags. The girls had begged to grab lunch and drinks after, but between the pregnancy and the fact that only Becca knew your secret, you’d gracefully bowed out. You’d promised you’d meet them later on the boat, where you’d finally share the news.

The sight of Rafe’s car in the driveway is grounding, reassuring. You push open the door, calling out as you let the bags tumble onto the floor, the sound echoing into the quiet house.

“Rafe?”

“In here!” His voice bounces back from the sitting room.

You follow the sound to find him pacing, jaw tight, a storm brewing beneath his skin. His phone sits on the coffee table until, with a sharp exhale, he snatches it up again only to throw it across the room. It lands harmlessly on a chair cushion, but the motion alone makes your heart pinch.

“Hey,” you murmur, setting your purse aside as you move toward him carefully, like approaching something raw and breakable.

“Hey.” His tone is rough, distant.

“What’s going on?” You brush your fingers along his arm, coaxing him to let you in.

“Goddamn Rose,” he grinds out, rubbing at his temples. “I can’t even get my own youngest sister here for our wedding.” The bitterness in his voice makes the room feel colder.

Before his hand can fall, you catch it. You press a kiss to his palm- soft, deliberate. A tiny gesture, but it’s enough to pull the tension out of his shoulders, his breath hitching like someone just cracked the pressure valve.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “We’ll figure it out. Even if we have to swim to Guadeloupe to go get her.”

That wins you a faint laugh, his lips twitching as he shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But it’s true.”

His arm winds around your waist, tugging you flush against him. He steadies himself on you. 

“What about you? How was your… shopping stuff?” His phrasing is vague, teasing, and it makes you smile.

“My ‘shopping stuff’ was good,” you answer, amused. “I bought a new bathing suit.” You reward him with a quick kiss, letting him taste the lightness you’re trying to keep afloat.

“Yeah?” His brow lifts, curiosity glinting in his eyes like he’s expecting a private preview.

“Yeah,” you nod, studying the way he’s looking at you, softer now, the sharp edges dulled.

But then his expression shifts, cautious. “Do you want to talk about last night…?”

A humorless laugh slips from you. “Well, they reacted exactly how you’d expect- Mom gasping, clutching her pearls, Oscar-worthy dramatics.” You shrug, but the weight still clings to your words.

He exhales slow, his thumb brushing circles into your hip. “And how are you feeling?” His voice drops lower, steady but careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he pushes too hard.

Your eyes drift down, finding a small birthmark on his shoulder and focusing there instead of meeting his gaze. “I don’t know,” you admit softly. The honesty feels fragile, but it’s the truth. “I really don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he says simply, his voice strong enough to hold you up when yours falters.

For a moment, silence hums between you—steady, not uncomfortable. Then you think back to this morning, and the memory tugs a small smile from you.

“What?” he asks, eyebrows quirking.

“You know… Eve has a crush on you.” Your grin widens as you say it.

Rafe lets out a disbelieving scoff, shaking his head almost immediately. “No, she doesn’t.” There’s a laugh threatening to break through, but he keeps it restrained.

“She does. I realized it this morning.” You lean back just enough to study his face.

“How do you know?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek, his thumb lingering at your temple.

“I don’t know… I just do.” You shrug, lips twitching. “It’s kind of adorable.”

“Until she tries to seduce me,” he mutters with a crooked smirk.

You scoff, shoving lightly at his chest, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips all the same. “Not funny.”

His laugh fills the room, the kind of laugh that makes you feel, for a fleeting second, like everything else -the parents, the stress, the secrets- can wait.

——

You’re fresh out of the shower for the second time today, skin still warm from the steam. Rafe had insisted on a private preview of your new bikini, and you’d barely worn it three minutes before it ended up forgotten on the floor. Two rounds later, you were already late to meet the girls at his boat, and there was no way you’d show up smelling like sex.

“Tie this for me?” you ask, holding the fabric of your bikini top loosely to your chest as you step in front of him. He’s still damp, a towel slung low around his hips, water dripping from the tips of his lashes. His hands are quick and sure as they grab the dangling strings and knot them behind your neck.

“You know,” he murmurs, fingers brushing along your skin as he finishes, “you could ditch your friends and we could go for round three.”

You laugh softly, giving him a playful look. “No chance.”

He chuckles, watching as you slip on sheer beach pants for a cover-up. By the time you’re tying the waistband, he’s already ditched his towel, tugged on boxers, and thrown a plain black shirt over his head, pairing it with shorts.

“Worth a shot,” he says with a crooked grin, and the two of you head downstairs together.

You’re digging through one of your shopping bags by the front door when it suddenly swings open, nearly knocking you off balance.

“Woah-” Rafe catches you instantly, steadying you before you can fall.

Eve steps inside, eyes wide. “Did I get you? I’m so sorry.” She rushes forward as if to help, but Rafe already has you upright against him.

“It’s fine,” you assure her, forcing a small smile as you pull the matching cover-up top over your bikini. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah. I just stopped by to see my folks.” She sets her bag by the door and glances between the two of you. “I’ll be back here for the rest of the weekend… in the house.” She chuckles lightly, though the sound feels a little forced.

You nod, swallowing around a lump in your throat. You know she’s harmless, that she wouldn’t actually try to cross a line with Rafe- but his joke from earlier lingers in your head like an echo, and it makes your chest tighten. Adjusting the beach bag slipping off your shoulder, you shift on your feet.

“You know you have free rein at the country club, right? Go enjoy yourself. Have at it,” you suggest lightly.

“Maybe I will.” She smiles again, though this one is more awkward than the last.

You nod once, then turn back to Rafe. “I should be back this evening. If I’m not home by eight, order yourself dinner-”

“I can cook,” Eve cuts in suddenly.

Both you and Rafe look at her at the same time. “It’s fine,” you say after a beat, forcing another polite smile. “He hasn’t had takeout in a while. He can handle it for one night.” Your tone is pleasant enough, but there’s an edge beneath it- an unspoken butt out.

“It’s really no problem.” She shrugs with easy confidence. “I actually like cooking for you guys.”

“It’s fine. I’ll get takeout,” Rafe interjects quickly, before you can respond again. His voice is firm enough to close the subject.

You sigh softly and turn back to him, letting it go. “Okay. I love you.” You lean up to press a gentle kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to remind yourself of where you stand with him.

Then you glance back at Eve with a polite nod. “See you later.”

With that, you slip out the door, the afternoon sun meeting you as you head for your car. But even as you drive toward the dock to meet your friends, there’s a tightness in your chest- a subtle, unsettled feeling that refuses to fade.

—

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Becca yells sassily the second you step onto the dock, fiddling with Rafe’s boat keys. The girls are already sprawled across the boat like it’s their private lounge, drinks in hand and manual fans waving lazily against the sticky air. Even in early February, the OBX sun has its own mind- hot, heavy, relentless.

“Sorry,” you say, dropping your bag on the seat as you climb aboard. The keys jingle in your fingers while you head for the console. “I lost track of time.”

“That happens when you and your man are sexually active,” Allegra calls out, loud enough to make two passing fishermen glance over. You huff a laugh, shaking your head as you fire up the engine.

Marie appears at your side, holding out a margarita that’s filled to the brim and sweating down her hand. “Drink?”

“Give me a sec,” you say tightly, focusing on steering out of the slip. The marsh opens up wide in front of you, sunlight flashing across the water. You weave carefully through the other boats, the engine rumbling under your feet.

“I’ll set it here,” Marie says, slipping the glass into a cupholder before bouncing off toward the others.

Once you’ve made it to the open stretch, you cut the engine and let the boat drift. The speaker rattles with Nelly Furtado’s “I’m Like a Bird”-loud enough to carry, but not obnoxious. Becca raises her glass high.

“A toast,” she announces dramatically, her cheeks pink from the heat. “To Y/N- for being the first in this group to land an actual, successful relationship.”

You laugh, lifting your glass in mock pride. “Thank you, thank you.”

Everyone clinks their cups together. You set yours on the floor by your foot, the condensation already pooling.

“Noel, can you get the music?” you ask. She nods, dutiful as ever, and turns the volume down. The chatter replaces the beat instantly, filling the air with laughter and overlapping voices. You swallow hard, nerves building in your chest, and finally push yourself up to your feet.

“Ladies,” you begin, glancing at each of them. “I need to talk to you all.” The words come out shakier than you planned. Chatter fizzles into silence. Six pairs of eyes lock onto you, waiting.

You take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to say this other than… I’m pregnant.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look to Becca, desperate, and she gives you a tiny, supportive thumbs-up.

“Pregnant, pregnant?” Allegra asks, brows raised.

“Yes?” you answer, baffled. “Is there another kind?”

That cracks the tension. Noel gasps and jumps up, her thin arms flying around your shoulders. “Congratulations!” She squeezes you so hard you nearly lose your balance.

The others join in, one by one, wrapping you in a warm group hug. Someone’s foot jostles your glass, sending the margarita toppling over and spilling across the floor. Everyone scrambles back.

“It’s fine,” you laugh breathlessly, crouching to grab the glass. Becca’s already on her knees, dabbing at the mess with the boat’s meager stash of napkins.

“Rafe is going to be so pissed if this stains,” she mutters, half amused.

“He’ll survive. He’s a big boy,” you joke, rummaging in another compartment for more napkins.

“Maybe we can stop over there,” Sienna suggests, pointing toward the shoreline.

You straighten and squint through the sunlight. A surfboard sign comes into focus- “Kildare Island Surfboard co.” Beyond it, the bait shop sits perched on the dock, with the surf shop further back. You’ve heard the stories -how the Pogues supposedly built it themselves, how impressive it is for a group of “kids” to be running their own spot- but you’ve never seen it in person until now.

Hand shielding your eyes, you take in the weathered wood, the bright paint, the bustle of locals drifting in and out. It’s nicer than you expected.

“Dock the boat,” you tell Marie. She’s already moving, quick and competent as she takes over.

Once tied off, the seven of you climb onto the dock, moving as a pack. You and Becca lead the way, your steps steady but your mind still swirling with the weight of what you just admitted.

“Doesn’t Rafe’s estranged sister own the place?” Becca asks as you all make your way down the dock.

“Uh- yeah, I think she’s one of the owners,” you answer distractedly. You can’t focus on anything except the flutter in your stomach- whether it’s nerves or nausea, you’re not sure.

The surf shop comes into view, weathered but bright, perched proudly over the water. And right there, stretched across the counter like he’s posing for a tourist postcard, lies JJ Maybank. He’s mindlessly whistling, twirling a stick between his fingers with zero shame. Professionalism at its finest. You expected nothing less.

He stops mid-whistle when he sees you, the stick stilling. Sitting up, he grins like you’re already friends.

“Y/N! Hey!” he calls, hopping down. “Welcome to the Kildare County Surf Shop, where we are open all the time! We got T-shirts, boots, bucket hats, live bait, kayak rentals, fishing nets-”

“Yeah, JJ, I got it,” you interrupt, brushing past him as your friends immediately scatter inside, squealing over displays and forgetting the napkins you came here for.

“JJ, we are not open all the time,” a voice calls from above. You glance up and spot a second level with an open loft view. Kiara leans over the railing, arms folded. Behind her, the rest of the Pogues peer down- John B, Pope, Cleo (you think that’s her name), and Sarah Cameron. One by one, they shuffle to their feet, heading down the stairs.

“Can we get you anything?” Pope offers as they reach the bottom. They’re buzzing, almost eager, like customers are rare treasures.

You hesitate. Buying something from the Pogues would be enough to make Rafe’s blood boil, but their energy is disarming. So you pluck a bucket hat off the rack and hold it up. “This.”

“We have food, too,” Cleo says, accent thick and lilting.

You smile faintly and gesture toward your friends. “Ask them- I was already almost an hour late meeting them.”

Kiara swoops in, taking the hat from your hand and passing it to Sarah at the register. Sarah meets your eyes briefly, offering a small, polite smile as she scans the tag. Your stomach flips again- not just nerves this time.

Meanwhile, JJ is attempting (poorly) to convince Allegra, Noel, Sienna, and Myra to try kayak rentals. They look hilariously out of place, acrylic nails and designer sunglasses clashing against the obx scenery.

“It’s gonna be $8.99,” Sarah says softly, pulling your attention back.

“Maybe later” the girls tell JJ, already drifting out the door.

“You want me to wait?” becca asks from the threshold, pausing to look at you.

“No, It’s fine. I’ll be out in a second.”

You fish your wallet from your tote and hand Sarah a ten. “Do you guys have napkins we can borrow?” You glance toward John B, who’s standing nearby. You remember your dad hiring him for odd jobs years ago- around the time Big John went missing. Ward had suggested it.

“You can’t borrow napkins,” JJ teases.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut, but John B cuts in smoothly, crouching to grab a stack from beneath the counter. “Here,” he says, passing them over.

“Thanks.” You exhale, but your breath catches short. A wave of dizziness washes over you.

“You okay?” Kiara asks, brow creasing.

You shake your head quickly. “Yeah, I-” But the words die as your stomach heaves. You clutch your belly, swallowing hard. “Trash can?”

“Yeah- yeah!” Sarah scrambles, grabbing the nearest bin and rushing it to your side just in time. You double over, falling to your knees as the contents of your stomach come up. Sarah steadies you, rubbing your back gently.

Another hand gathers your hair out of the way. You don’t dare look, but the touch is careful, steady.

“She needs water,” Cleo says firmly.

“JJ, go get one of her friends,” Pope orders.

“Which one?!” JJ panics.

“Any of them!” John B barks.

“Get Becca,” Kiara chimes in from behind you. “Dark curls.” She’s the one holding your hair, you realize.

Cleo crouches in front of you, unscrewing a water bottle and pressing it into your hands. “Sip. Slowly.”

You obey, swishing the water around your mouth before spitting it back into the bin. The taste lingers but it helps.

“You okay?” Sarah asks quietly, her hand still steady on your back.

“I’m fine,” you croak, wiping your mouth. “It’s fine- I’m fine.”

Just then JJ barrels back in, nearly tripping over his own feet, with Becca hot on his heels. She doesn’t hesitate, rushing straight to you.

“You okay?” she whispers, crouching beside you.

You nod quickly, embarrassed as hell, even with the kindness surrounding you. “Yeah- let’s go.”

“You sure?” she presses, but you nod again.

Becca slips an arm around you and helps you up. The Pogues step back, giving you space. Still, you glance at each of them before leaving, gratitude swelling in your chest. “Thank you, guys.”

“Of course,” Sarah says softly, her sincerity clear.

Becca guides you toward the door. You glance back once more, meeting Sarah’s eyes briefly before stepping out into the sun.

As you lean against Becca on the walk back to the boat, one thought echoes in your mind: Why does Rafe hate them so much? And how can one of them be his sister?

——————————

taglist: @maybankslover @silkylovey @xoxosblogsblog @mrsscountryclub

[mggssocks]

We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night

masterlist

pairing: girlfriend!reader x boyfriend!DrewStarkey

cw: toxic toxic toxic relationship, break up - make up, unprotected sex, cream pie, oral (both receiving), angst

Based off of We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night - Sabrina Carpenter

They seemed to happen more and more these days. Long, spiraling arguments that stretched into the night, followed by even longer, drawn-out apologies that never quite erased the sting of what was said. It was beginning to feel like a pattern neither of you could escape- exhausting in the moment, but oddly comforting once you smoothed over the cracks and convinced yourselves it was just another bump in the road. And somehow, every time you made up, it was as if the fights had dissolved into smoke, forgotten until the next one inevitably sparked.

Now, you sat at the edge of the bed, elbows balanced on your knees, your chin pressed into the cradle of your palm. The bedroom felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Drew had been gone most of the day, ever since last night’s argument. You tried to remember what had even started it, but it was already blurring at the edges-something small, something petty. Probably by tomorrow, it wouldn’t even matter. But today it left an ache in your chest that felt heavier than it should.

The creak of the front door opening downstairs broke the silence, followed by the familiar slam that made you jump. You straightened quickly, eyes darting to the dresser mirror across the room. Your reflection stared back at you- dark circles bruised beneath your eyes, your hair tangled from tossing in and out of restless sleep. You smoothed your hand through it, tugging gently at the strands as though you could press yourself into some neater version of the person he left behind last night.

Your heart hammered as you listened to his footsteps on the stairs.

The door clicked open, hinges groaning before shutting with a thud. Drew stepped inside, his green “SC” hat tugged low, shadowing the upper half of his face. For a moment, he just stood there in the doorway, frozen when his eyes found you.

“Hey,” you said softly, your voice rough and restless, like it hadn’t been used all day. The single word carried too much -fatigue, regret, longing- and you knew he could see it all through your tone.

He lifted the brim of his hat just enough to let his blue eyes catch the light. The sight of them tugged something sharp and familiar in your chest. You could’ve sworn you heard them, the way you always did- quiet but steady, saying things his mouth often didn’t. It was what it was with the two of you: messy, flawed, and forever predictable.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. No hesitation, no preamble.

Your breath snagged in your throat. Not because you didn’t expect it -you always expected it- but because it still caught you off guard every single time. Maybe it was the way he said it, like it cost him nothing and everything all at once. Maybe it was because apologies had become their own kind of love language between you two.

You pushed yourself to your feet, rubbing your arm nervously. “No, I’m sorry. This was… stupid. Petty. I don’t even know why we let little things get the best of us.” Your words tumbled out faster than you could control them, shaky and uneven. “We should-I should-know better by now. I just-”

You hadn’t even noticed he’d been moving toward you while you rambled, each step measured, closing the space like he always did. Before you could finish your thought, his lips were on yours-urgent, unrelenting.

You didn’t pull back. You didn’t even think to. You kissed him back instantly, letting yourself fold into the familiarity of him, into the pattern you both knew too well. It wasn’t forgiveness, not really. But it was enough. It was the same choice you’d made a thousand times before: to let the fight dissolve, to let his mouth on yours rewrite the story until you almost believed it had never happened.

His mouth devoured yours like he’d been starving all day, like the argument and the silence that followed had only sharpened the hunger clawing at both of you. His hands framed your face at first, rough with urgency, before sliding down -your jaw, your throat, your waist- pulling you flush against him until there was no space left to hide in.

Your back hit the wall before you realized he’d moved you, his hat knocked somewhere to the floor. His breath was hot and uneven against your lips as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he was trying to drown out every word you’d both said last night. And you let him- because you were just as desperate to forget.

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer, your teeth catching his bottom lip. He groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he pressed you harder into the wall, his hips finding yours in a rhythm that was more confession than touch. It was messy, raw, everything and nothing all at once- the way he kissed you, the way you clung to him, the way both of you seemed intent on consuming what the other was willing to give.

When he finally pulled back, only enough to breathe, his forehead dropped against yours. His lips were swollen, his chest heaving, and still his hands roamed your body like he couldn’t convince himself you were really there.

“I hate fighting with you,” he whispered, his voice cracked, almost breaking.

You answered him with another kiss -harder, hungrier- because words had never fixed anything between you two. But this, this fire between your mouths and your bodies, this always stitched you back together, even if it left new seams.

It was passion as apology. Heat as forgiveness. And in that moment, the two of you weren’t trying to love each other gently- you were trying to eat each other alive.

His lips on yours, devouring, desperate. You can taste the apology in his mouth, all the words neither of you know how to say pouring out in the heat of his kiss. His hands are everywhere -your face, your throat, your waist- gripping like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

He shoves you back against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, and you gasp into his mouth. The sound only fuels him. He growls low, rough, before trailing kisses down your jaw, biting hard at your neck until you gasp again. His fingers yank at your shirt, tugging it up over your head and tossing it aside without care.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasps against your skin, kissing down to your chest, his teeth scraping, lips sucking hard enough to leave marks. His hands are greedy, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples until they stiffen. You moan and arch into him, nails clawing down his back through his shirt.

He curses, dragging his shirt over his head, baring the hard lines of his chest and stomach. Then he’s on you again, pressing every inch of himself into you, kissing you so deep it feels like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His hands slide down, tugging open your shorts, shoving them down along with your underwear until they pool at your ankles.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you. His eyes flash up at you -blue, hungry, feral- and then his mouth is on you.

The heat of his tongue makes your knees buckle. You grip his hair, back arching against the wall as he devours you, licking and sucking like the fight left him starving for this. His hands hold your thighs apart, bruising in their grip, keeping you spread open for him as he works you mercilessly.

Your moans spill out, unrestrained, filling the quiet house. “Drew- fuck-” You can barely breathe, the pleasure coiling fast and tight. He groans into you, the vibration sending shocks through your body as his tongue flicks over your clit again and again.

When you come, it hits hard- your head tipping back against the wall, your whole body trembling as his mouth drags every wave out of you. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, shoving at his shoulders from the oversensitivity. Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes blazing.

He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, before spinning you around and bending you over the edge of the bed. His hands are rough on your hips, tugging your ass back against the thick bulge straining in his jeans.

“You want this?” he grits out, his voice raw, almost breaking.

“Yes,” you gasp without hesitation, looking back at him, pupils blown wide. “Please, Drew-”

That’s all he needs. He shoves his jeans down just far enough, frees himself, and then he’s slamming into you in one hard thrust. The force rips a cry from your throat. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t want to- he just fucks into you, fast and deep, every stroke a mix of anger and worship.

Your nails claw at the sheets as he pounds into you, the bed frame rattling beneath the force. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so your mouth falls open on another moan.

“Say you’re mine,” he growls in your ear, breath ragged.

“I’m yours,” you pant, voice breaking as the pleasure builds again. “Fuck, Drew, I’m yours-”

He groans, slamming harder, his hips snapping against your ass. One hand sneaks down, finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles that send sparks shooting through you. You come undone around him with a scream, your body clenching so hard it drags his orgasm from him seconds later.

He buries himself deep, shuddering against you as he comes, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to stifle his own cry.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The room is filled only with heavy breathing, the sound of two people trying to steady themselves after being consumed by the storm they created.

When he finally pulls out and collapses beside you on the bed, the silence is almost unbearable. The room is too quiet, your breaths too loud, the sheets sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.

You stare at the ceiling, your chest still fluttering with the aftershocks, but now the weight of everything lingers. The fight. The hours apart. The way you both tore into each other like it was the only language you knew.

Drew scrubs a hand over his face, his chest still heaving. “Well…” he says finally, his voice hoarse, rough around the edges. “That… wasn’t exactly the healthiest way to deal with things.”

A laugh escapes you, but it’s small, tired, and more of a sigh than anything else. “No. It wasn’t.” You pull the sheet higher over your chest, biting the inside of your cheek before adding, “But it’s kind of what we do, isn’t it?”

His hand drops to his stomach, and for a long moment he doesn’t answer. Then he turns his head toward you, his eyes softer now, regret threaded through the blue. “I don’t want it to be.”

You meet his gaze, your throat tight. It’s awkward, raw, like neither of you knows how to string the right words together. But still, you shift closer, resting your forehead against his arm. “I don’t either.”

For a moment, that’s all you give each other- quiet honesty in the stillness. No apologies this time. No promises you can’t keep. Just the heavy, aching truth that somehow, despite everything, you both still chose to stay.

——

“We’re fine. It’s fine,” you insisted, your voice a little too quick, a little too rehearsed, as you and your best friend wandered the empty streets on the outskirts of L.A. The sky was a dull, washed-out gray, the kind that made Monday mornings feel like they belonged to another world entirely. The streets were deserted, a ghost town in broad daylight, and the click of your shoes echoed louder than it should have.

“Yeah?” she mumbled, eyes glued to her phone, thumbs scrolling mindlessly.

“Yeah…” you said again, softer this time. The words felt flimsy, like tissue paper trying to hold up the weight of your entire relationship. “I think we’re on a good track now.” You weren’t sure if you were convincing her or yourself. Probably both. But you told yourself it was for her- for the look on her face when you showed up crying after every fight, for the way she always stayed up with you on the phone. She deserved reassurance. Even if it was a lie.

“Uh-huh.” She popped her gum, the sound sharp in the quiet. She didn’t look at you, and you knew that meant she’d heard all of this before.

You pushed forward anyway, your words tumbling out in a hopeful rush. “We’re just… gonna push and try our hardest. It’s a little rocky, sure, but we’ll get through it. It’ll be worth it.” You nodded, trying to inject belief into your own voice as she reached for the coffee shop door.

Her hand stilled on the handle. She turned and looked at you, her expression flat, almost tired. “That’s… not healthy, y/n.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp enough to cut. She pushed the door open and slipped inside, leaving you blinking against the sting in your eyes before you hurried to catch the door and follow.

“I know, but it’s not-” you started, but she cut you off before you could find the excuse.

“Y/n, you do this every time.” Her voice carried, not loud, but heavy enough to draw your shoulders inward. She stepped into the line, arms folded across her chest, her whole body radiating exhaustion. “You two argue, you come crying to me, swearing you’re on the verge of a breakup. Then you have sex, and suddenly everything’s fine again. Then you tell me it’s going to be okay- like clockwork.”

Her jaw tightened as she looked at you, eyes soft with guilt even as her words landed like a blow. “I love you. But it’s exhausting. I can’t tell you to leave him or stay, but if you stay… I don’t want to hear about it anymore.”

The words hit harder than you thought they would. Not just a sting, but a burn spreading through your chest, the kind that made it impossible to breathe without feeling it. Tears pricked hot at your eyes before you could stop them. You bit your lip, desperate not to sob, because your best friend had just read you to filth in the middle of a coffee shop, on a Monday morning, while strangers ordered lattes.

You nodded quickly, afraid that if you opened your mouth your voice would crack and betray you. But the tears won anyway. They spilled, hot and relentless, and suddenly you were wiping at your face, shoulders shaking.

She wasn’t wrong. She had just spoken aloud what you’d been burying for months. The pattern, the cycle, the sex-as-a-bandage- it wasn’t love. Not the kind that lasted.

Maybe it was time. Time to rip the bandaid off.

Because you did love Drew. God, you loved him more than you loved yourself. But somewhere deep down, beneath all the hope and all the denial, you knew the truth. Things were never going to get better.

——

You pace the living room in a loop, the same path worn into your brain like a record groove. Your fingers twist the rings on your hand until the metal bites into your skin, and you mouth the sentences you rehearsed leaving the coffee shop -over and over- until they taste like nothing. Each line feels more brittle than the last, and your pulse keeps skipping whenever a distant engine note roars past the building.

When the bike’s familiar rumble cuts out and the latch clicks, your chest flips. He’s home. You cross to the kitchen without looking, your eyes skimming the countertop- the half-empty cereal box, the overturned jar, a smear of something sticky you could have sworn you cleaned two days ago. For a beat you let irritation rise like bile, a sharp, practical thing you can hold onto. Then the door opens and there he is: hair plastered to his forehead, gym shirt dark with sweat at the chest, breath still loud from the ride. You’d forgotten Mondays were his gym days. You mentally curse yourself for how stupidly, painfully attractive he looks- like the heat has been cranked up just so the sun can worship him.

“Hey,” he says, flipping his keys into the bowl by the door and tugging at the laces of his shoes while he locks the deadbolt. He smiles -easy, tired- and crosses the room toward you. His blue eyes find your face the way they always do, soft and asking without words. Before you can string your rehearsed sentences together, he leans in and presses his lips briefly to your cheek.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice low and flat with concern.

The sound of it makes everything cave in. The resolve you’d bolstered all morning thins like tissue. You can’t do it. You can’t pull the plug on the life that’s threaded itself through your days- on the person who still knows where your favorite mug lives and tucks stray hair behind your ear like it’s his job. You hate yourself for it. You hate that your friend was right. You hate that the thing in your chest is not anger so much as a stubborn, stubborn love.

Tears prick sharp at the corners of your eyes -angry, embarrassed tears- and your gaze snaps to the kitchen, as if pointing at the mess will give your fury permission to exist. You heap all the complicated, unbearable feelings onto the dishes like they deserve it.

“I just -fucking- cleaned up,” you blurt, hands slamming a plate into the sink harder than you mean to. The sound rings. “I don’t get how hard it is for you to put things away, Jesus.” You move faster, shoving grocery bags into the trash, crumpling receipts, flinging out eggshells and plastic wrappers like confessions.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t snap. He reaches, quiet and slower than your storm, and lifts the pan from your hand, easing it into the soapy water. “Stop-” he says, the single word softer than he probably intends. “I was gonna clean when I got back, for-”

“Because you always say that,” you cut in, the sound coming out ragged. “You say you’ll do it later and then-” Heat and guilt twist together in your throat. Your chest tightens with shame at the way you’re unloading something much bigger than dishes.

He exhales, and you hear the roll of frustration under his breath. “I was running late. You know I only have so much time at that gym before people start to recognize me-” he tries, and you watch the excuse crumble on his lips.

You fold in on yourself, the practiced explanations cracking. “No-no. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Your voice thins; you close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose until stars bloom in the dark. “I think my period’s about to start. I’m… irritable.” The words feel cheap and small; you can feel their falseness like a splinter under your skin.

You don’t see the way his brow tightens, the pause that hangs longer than it used to. You can feel him studying you- searching for something honest beneath the tremor in your voice. His gaze is careful now, a question folded into concern. In the silence that follows, you realize how thin your defences have become. You wanted this to be simple -an explanation to smooth the edges- but the truth hums under everything else: you are lying to yourself more than you are lying to him.

You sigh and force your eyes open, locking onto him. His gaze is steady, glassy, like he’s holding back the kind of tears that would undo you both if he let them fall. He looks like he wants to cry, but he won’t- not here, not now.

Your teeth catch your lip as you step off the counter, bare feet padding across the floor until you’re right in front of him. Your eyes stay down, cowardly, because looking at him feels like staring at every version of this fight you’ve ever had.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice breaking under its own weight. “You didn’t deserve that. You never do. You treat me so sweet, and I love you.” You lift your gaze at last, your words tumbling out quick, desperate, as if they’ll plug the crack you just split between you. “No one else could ever compete with you. No other guy could come close.”

The confession tastes guilty in your mouth, as though you’re bargaining, as though if you say it enough times it’ll erase the anger you unleashed minutes ago. You hear yourself, how hollow it sounds, how familiar. The cycle of it all.

He exhales slowly, dragging a tired hand through his damp hair before reaching out to tuck a strand of yours behind your ear. It’s tender. It’s gentle. It makes your chest ache with shame because even now, even after your sharpness, he’s soft with you.

“It’s fine,” he says, though the words feel like paper over a fault line. His voice is quiet, resigned. “I could’ve at least thrown the dishes in the sink.”

But you know he knows. He’s not fooled by your apology dressed in desperation. He sees the rhythm of it, the way the script never changes: you snap, you cry, you swear you love him more than anyone else ever could. He sighs, he forgives. You both act like nothing broke, even when you feel it splintering.

And isn’t that what makes it unbearable? You can’t even walk away cleanly. Every time you try, you fold. Every time you pull the plug, he shows up with that soft voice, that worried stare, that tenderness that wrecks you. And you hate how predictable you are- how predictable this is.

The cycle is always the same: the I love you’s, the I’m sorry’s, the mess, the mending, the sex, the silence. Over and over. False alarms. Near-breaks that never stick. You almost break up, and then you don’t. You almost lose him, and then you remind yourself you can’t.

Because in the end, you’re in love with how much you’re in love with him- even when it hurts, even when it feels like both of you already know how the story goes.

The silence between you is heavy but not hostile, thick with everything said and unsaid. He gives you a small smile -sad, tired, but still soft for you- and presses his forehead briefly to yours before stepping back.

“I’m gonna shower,” he murmurs, voice scratchy from the weight of it all. You nod, letting him go, watching the set of his shoulders as he disappears down the hall.

You stay frozen in the kitchen for a moment, guilt gnawing through your chest. He’d given you his whole heart, again, without asking for anything in return. And what did you give him? An apology wrapped in excuses. A promise you weren’t sure you could keep.

It eats at you until you move, until you’re trailing after him, drawn by the hiss of water and the fog curling out from the bathroom.

He doesn’t hear you at first. He’s standing under the spray, head tilted back, water carving paths down his chest, catching in the hollow of his throat. Muscles flex with each shift of his arms, the fabric of the day washing off his skin, leaving him raw and unguarded.

You step inside quietly, steam wrapping around you both. He startles when he sees you, brows furrowing, lips parting to ask- but the words die when you sink to your knees on the wet tile, hands settling on his thighs.

“Y/n…” he whispers, torn between confusion and the ache already darkening his eyes.

“I know,” you murmur, looking up at him with wet lashes as the spray mists across your shoulders. “Let me… let me love you back. The only way I know how right now.”

His chest rises and falls hard, like he wants to protest, but when your hand wraps around his cock -already half-hard, twitching at your touch- his breath stutters and his head tips back against the tile.

You stroke him slowly at first, watching water bead and slide down his length, mixing with the slick from your palm. You take your time, running your thumb across the swollen head, spreading the wetness, until his cock thickens fully in your hand.

Then you lean in, pressing your mouth to the tip in a soft kiss, before parting your lips and taking him in.

“Fuck-” His curse echoes off the tile, hand instantly tangling in your damp hair.

You hollow your cheeks and sink deeper, gagging slightly when he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. You let the sting of tears blur your eyes, one hand braced on his hip, the other cupping his balls, rolling them gently as you swallow around him.

He’s panting above you, hips twitching despite himself, eyes squeezed shut as water runs in rivulets down his face and neck. “Jesus, baby… you don’t have to-”

But you cut him off with a moan around his cock, the vibration making his knees buckle. You bob your head faster now, tongue tracing the underside of him with each pass, desperate to give him everything, to pour your guilt and love into every messy, wet stroke.

“Fuck, you’re- god, you’re killing me,” he groans, thrusting up shallowly into your mouth now, unable to hold back. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding you, though his touch trembles with restraint.

You look up at him through wet lashes, drool and shower spray running down your chin, and that’s what unravels him. His whole body stiffens, abs flexing, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth.

You take it all, swallowing around him, not stopping until he twitches through the aftershocks and gently pulls your head back. His cock slips free from your lips with a wet sound, your chest heaving, eyes still locked on his.

And he just stares at you, undone. Cradling your face with both hands now, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth as though he can’t believe you’d just given yourself to him like that.

He gave you his whole heart. You gave him this.

And though it doesn’t fix anything, though it doesn’t stitch up the cracks, it’s enough- for now.

He helps you up, gentle in a way that makes your chest ache, and presses a damp kiss to your temple. Neither of you speaks as you towel off, as he pulls on sweats, as you crawl back into bed. The silence is thick but familiar, the kind you’ve both learned to live with.

You curl into his chest because it’s easier than pulling away. His arm comes around you automatically, muscle memory masquerading as love, and you hate yourself for how safe it feels.

The fight is already dissolving, blurring at the edges like it never happened. His warmth dulls the guilt; your body pretends it can forgive what your heart won’t stop bleeding over. It’s the same every time- this false balm, this fragile quiet.

You whisper, “I love you.” It comes out thin, guilty, like you’re trying to erase the sting of everything that came before.

“I love you too,” he answers, and you almost believe him. Almost.

But lying there in the dark, you know exactly what this is. The cycle is carved so deep it’s muscle memory: arguments that bleed into apologies, sex that tastes like bandages on an open wound, silence that poses as healing. It’s not love. Not really. It’s survival. It’s fear of the empty bed, fear of the truth-that neither of you is strong enough to walk away.

Tomorrow, it’ll start all over again.

Because tonight you made amends with your body. Tomorrow, you’ll find something else to fight about.

And the sickest part? You’ll keep calling it love.