sukuna's sweetheart!reader gf accidentally gets high for the first time..
wc: 1.7k
meet sweetheart!reader
you had smoked weed once before this, if you could call that smoking. it was at one of tojis infamous parties, you were wasted and curled up against sukuna on the battered couch of the frat house. sukuna had been smoking the blunt, his eyes drooping with each puff.
you turned to him, drunk and giggly, "sukuna can i try?"
he side eyed you and grunted, "no. shits bad for you"
"but you're doing it" you attempted puppy dog eyes, desperately wanting to know what it would be like.
he had let out a rough sigh before taking a hit and grabbing your face kissing you and exhaling into your mouth. he smirked a bit when you coughed and spluttered.
"you okay baby?" he watched as you slumped back against him further, eyes dilated and limbs heavy.
you mumbled a faint response before closing your eyes against him chest.
and that was it. you never felt like smoking again, and sukuna was very against you doing anything to harm your virgin lungs.
until...
you were at geto's birthday party. sukuna would be a bit late because he was getting a last minute birthday gift for suguru (despite you telling him multiple times in the past week to go get him something).
you had offered to come help him pick one out but sukuna insisted you go to the party and give suguru the gift you had gotten (which you were so proud of).
while sukuna didn't like the idea of you alone at a party, he entrusted toji to be on lookout duty and take care of you, at least for the first hour before sukuna got there.
you entered the party with shoko and utahime, your pretty white dress sliding up your thighs slightly when you trot over to suguru to give him his birthday wishes and gift.
he had happily taken your perfectly wrapped gift and in exchange pushed a drink into your hand and sent you on your merry way.
you were on your way back to shoko and utahime when you spotted brownies laying tantalisingly on a plate. you were hungry and the night was going to be long so you grabbed 4 brownies, one for each of your friends and you wandered back to them.
plopping down on the couch next to yuki, you offered her one, to which she denied giving you an incredulous look. which was strange because, were they not just regular brownies?
both utahime and shoko denied, shoko saying she'll stick to smoking.
weird.
thats how you found yourself eating 4 brownies. after the first one you had stumbled your way around to try and offer the other brownies to any takers.
you were nibbling on the second one when you spotted choso. "hey cho! do you want a brownie?"
his half lidded eyes met yours, "no thanks i already had one, and i made them so i can have them any time."
"i guess i have to eat these four then.." you sighed
"i don't think that's a good idea.." choso trailed off.
"huh" you mumble already on the third one. before he can clarify you're gone.
having swayed your way back to the couch, you slump, really feeling the effects. "sho i feel weird..." and you're reaching for the 4th brownie.
only you realise thats not shoko, it's toji.
"oh hey toji" you mumble, mouth full with the remnants of the 4th brownie.
the drink he was sporting is now resting on the table as he turns to look at you. slumped, eyes dilated, red rimmed, drooping lids, pouted glossy lips.
fuck. hes so incredibly fucked.
"angel how many of those fucking brownies did you have?"
you giggle at his seriousness. putting up 4 fingers you shove them in his face.
he drags a hand down his face.
"sukuna is going to fucking kill me"
toji’s already hauling you up by your elbows before you can slump any further into the couch
“c’mon, angel. up.”
“mmm no…” you whine softly, your head tipping back dramatically, “i’m sitting…”
“yeah? you’re also gone,” he mutters, half to himself, half to whatever higher power is about to watch him get murdered by sukuna
you don’t really register moving
just that suddenly you’re somewhere quieter—some random bedroom upstairs, the bass of the party muffled through the walls, your body melting into the mattress like it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched
“toji,” you mumble, blinking slowly at the ceiling, “i feel like… floaty”
“yeah. no shit,” he snorts, dragging a chair over so he can keep an eye on you
“am i dying?”
he pauses. looks at you.
“…no. you’re just high out of your mind”
“toji,” you say again, very serious, “my arms feel weird”
“that’s because you ate four edibles,” he says flatly
you blink at him
“…what’s an edible?”
he actually laughs at that. like a short, disbelieving huff
“you’ve gotta be kidding me”
when sukuna arrives, he throws the poorly bagged gift onto the pile of gifts and immediately seeks you out.
he goes to the couch, where you would normally be. can't see you. he goes to shoko who's smoking outside. she hasn't seen you. he goes to yuki and choso who were all over eachother. they haven't seen you. he even goes to that idiot gojo with his stupid fucking amazing eyes. he hasn't seen you.
he starts to flip his shit. he opens every room of the fucking house, before he reaches a bedroom where he sees you laying on a bed, with toji in a chair taking a sip of a drink.
he inspects you. spread out on the bed, glassy-eyed, cheeks flushed, blinking at him like he’s just walked out of a dream
his expression drops instantly
“what the fuck happened.”
toji raises his hands immediately “not my fault. she ate the brownies”
“what brownies.”
“the ones choso made”
silence. then, slowly “…how many”
toji points at you “ask your girl”
sukuna’s gaze snaps back to you
he crosses the room in two steps, crouching in front of the bed, one hand coming up to cup your face, turning your head toward him
“hey,” his voice is lower now, rough but controlled, “look at me”
you do. and then you smile: soft, dopey, completely gone.
“hi ‘kuna…”
something in his expression softens for half a second before snapping back. “how many did you eat.”
you hold up your hand proudly. four fingers.
he stares “…you’re joking”
you shake your head, very serious again. “they were really good”
toji barks out a laugh from the corner “i told you. she inhaled them”
“get out,” sukuna says immediately.
“gladly” and he’s gone in seconds.
traitor.
the door shuts and suddenly it’s just you and sukuna. his hands are still on your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes as he studies you. your pupils are huge. your breathing is slow. you lean into his touch without thinking
“you’re late,” you mumble
his jaw tightens, “yeah. i know”
then your hand lifts, clumsy, grabbing at his sleeve “i missed you”
that hits him harder than anything else tonight, his grip on you softens immediately
“yeah?”
you nod, then squint at him “…your face is moving”
he huffs, almost a laugh, shaking his head, “course it is”
“you’re not allowed to eat random shit at parties anymore,” he mutters into your hair
“i didn’t know…” you mumble defensively
“i know”
he sighs, pressing his cheek briefly to the top of your head “…i know, sweetheart”
you readjust so you're on top of him, swaying slightly on your way up. before your head lulls forward and plops on his chest. you’re fully draped across sukuna at this point. not even sitting properly. just sprawled half on his lap, half against his chest.
he’s got one arm locked around your waist to keep you from sliding off the bed
“…you good?” he asks, low and unimpressed
you tilt your head up to look at him very slowly, very seriously.
“…you have two faces”
he rolls his eyes “…i have what”
you squint, lifting a hand and poking his cheek but missing spectacularly and instead landing on his chin.
“…they’re like… overlapping” he grabs your wrist before you can poke his eye out. “that’s called being high, genius”
you gasp “don’t call me that”
“…genius?”
“yeah” you mumble, offended, immediately melting back into him, “be nice to me…”
he rolls his eyes but his grip tightens slightly around you anyway “i am being nice. you’re lucky i don't drag you downstairs and grab myself a blunt so i don't have to deal with your bullshit”
you go very still then slowly lift your head again.
“…you would never do that”
he doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at you for a second.
“…yeah,” he mutters finally, quieter, “no. i wouldn’t”
you grin like you’ve just won something then immediately get distracted by your own hand.
“…my fingers feel fake”
you wiggle them in front of your face, completely fascinated
“‘kuna… look”
“i see them”
“no like… look”
you grab his face this time, turning it toward your hand and he lets you.
because apparently this is his life now
“…they’re moving when i tell them to,” you whisper, awestruck
“that’s usually how it works”
“that’s crazy”
he huffs out a laugh through his nose shaking his head.
“…don’t go anywhere” you mumble
his expression shifts again. softens, just slightly “not going anywhere,” he mutters
you hum, satisfied. then after a second, “…‘kuna?”
“what.”
“…if i was a dog…”
he already looks tired “no”
“just listen”
he sighs “…fine. what”
you look up at him, dead serious again “…would you adopt me?”
there’s a pause. then he actually laughs. low, surprised, real “you’re so fucking stupid,” he mutters, shaking his head but his hand comes up anyway, brushing your hair back from your face. gentler than his words.
“…yeah,” he says after a second “i would”
you beam like that’s the best answer you could’ve gotten then immediately tuck your face back into his chest completely content.
and sukuna just sits there one arm around you, hand absently rubbing slow circles into your back, waiting it out, making sure you’re okay, even if you’re the most ridiculous thing he’s ever had to deal with.
4 times hotch acts like a father figure and the 1 time he most definitely does not.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader
warnings: fem!reader, slow burn, age gap (reader is 20s, hotch is late 40s, iktr), dbf!hotch, power imbalance, boss/subordinate dynamic, mutual pining, daddy issues (reader... prob also hotch), fluff, hurt/comfort, touch starved reader, garcia sending dirty texts!!, reader having dirty thoughts!!, reader sending hotch a suggestive pic by accident whoops!!, they are sooooo down bad for each other
wc: 6.8k (shewww stfu already gurl)
1 THE NUCLEAR OPTION
Aaron Hotchner looks very, very out of place standing in your bedroom.
Not inappropriate. You want to be very clear about that. You are two fully grown adults with fully operational frontal lobes and a respectable understand of professional decorum.
There is nothing scandalous happening here beyond your own imagination, briefly supplying an image of him against your headboard before you swatted it away like a cat attempting to push a glass from a countertop.
It’s just… visually disorienting.
He’s all severity and slate-gray composure now in a room rendered in blush and cream and the kind of girlish optimism that suggests you refuse to let your job bleach the color out of you.
He doesn’t fit, to put it plainly. Not physically (the man has shoulders like a structural beam) and definitely not symbolically.
Despite this, he takes his time as he scans the space with a clinical neutrality that feels less like judgment per se and more like being positioned beneath an unforgiving forensic lamp, dusted for prints you didn’t realize you’d left behind.
Is he analyzing this? Is he building a psychological profile right now based on the chipped mug of pens beside your bed and the stuffed bear you can’t seem to get rid of? The half-burnt vanilla candle on your nightstand that, yes, you absolutely lit knowing he was coming — all of it suddenly looks childish.
Embarrassing. Juvenile.
This is how people die.
Not from shame, exactly, though that’s certainly trying its best, but from being comprehensively, devastatingly perceived by a man whose entire job is to see through facades.
He offered to wait by the door. Kindly. Considerably. With that quiet, unfussy courtesy that makes you sure, in the fullest sense of the word, he holds elevators open and always returns his shopping cart with solemn civic pride.
You should’ve let him. Really.
But no, instead of choosing the sensible option like someone who understands the boundaries of time, space, and self-preservation, you made a mistake. A fatal, irredeemable mistake.
You waved him in.
And now, instead of standing respectfully beside your umbrella stand and politely pretending that driving you to the airport isn’t already a favor beyond what his job requires, Aaron Hotchner is in your bedroom.
What did you offer in exchange for this selfless act of transportation? Not coffee or gas money. Oh, just full unfiltered access to the inner circle of your private life.
You shove another sweater into your suitcase.
“I promise I usually plan better than this,” you say, “but I got caught on a call with my landlord trying to determine whether my oven is gas or electric, which I apparently never clarified in three years of tenancy.”
You hesitate, already regretting the admission, because he is a man who knows the make and model of every government-issued vehicle he’s ever driven.
“In my defense,” you tack on quickly, “it functions. I press a button, it produces heat. We’ve maintained a very mutual, low-communication relationship.”
One of his eyebrow lifts, just enough to suggest that he has several thoughts and is choosing the kindest one.
“That’s the sort of thing you really should know,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of dry humor threaded through the words, as if he’s allowing himself a single inch of amusement. “I can take a look when we get back.”
You let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like nervous air leaking from a balloon you’ve been gripping too tightly.
“That’s — you don’t have to — you really don’t have to do that,” you rush out, tripping over your own politeness. “You are not responsible for my… appliance literacy. Or the alarming gaps within it.” You gesture helplessly at the room, at the half-packed suitcase. “You’re already doing so much. If I start assigning you household infrastructure, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as abuse of power.” You pause. “Not that I have any. Power, I mean. Very famously not in possession of that.”
He doesn’t bother disguising that same for of amusement this time that touches now his mouth.
“I’ve done worse favors.”
You squint at him.
“I feel like that says more about your life than it does about me.” You study him for a moment, then let your shoulders ease despite your best efforts. “Still. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
The words come out sincere, and for half a second the eye contact holds in a way that feels less professional and more… something else.
Which is your cue to flee into safer territory.
“Anyway, I am really excited about this conference. The keynote speaker is incredible. I’ve read three of her papers, and the case studies she’s presenting are the kind of things I used to read in grad school like they were campfire ghost stories.” You pause, reconsider. “More academic ghost stories. Less paranormal. Still pretty grim, though. Just… fascinating grim.”
He lets your excitement taper off unanswered, glancing down into your suitcase before lifting his eyes back to you.
“It’s going to be cold.”
You frown at derailment of the conversation. “...Yes?”
“You need a coat.”
“I have a coat,” you reply, pointing to the quilted white thing draped over your desk chair.
It has gold buttons. It is elegant. It is, admittedly, constructed with more outer-appearance than insulation.
“A real coat.”
“It is real,” you insist, because it exists, and you have worn it outside, and therefore it satisfies the basic criteria of outerwear under the laws of physics.
“You’ll freeze.”
You want to keep arguing.
You want to explain that the coat you chose is mostly warm, that it performs adequately under reasonable atmospheric conditions, that packing the bulky, government-issued tundra shield he likely considers appropriate would have required sacrificing something essential.
Like your backup flats, the only pair that doesn’t turn conference halls into endurance trials, or your travel straightener, which is less about aesthetics and more about appearing competent in harsh lighting.
But the look he gives you — so mild on the surface, so pointed beneath — drains the rebellion right out of your lungs.
Suddenly, it’s not about fashion or function. It’s about the existential need to not disappoint him.
You cannot afford to lose even a sliver of the regard he has chosen to extend to you.
You hoard his approval the way a crow gathers bright scraps of tin and glass, tucking them into the hollow spaces inside you, convinced that if you collect enough of it, it might one day harden into something sturdy enough to stand on.
So you sigh, equal parts petulance and submission, and turn back toward the closet in search of something thicker.
You sift through your wardrobe and grab a soft navy peacoat. You smooth your palm over the fabric as if presentation alone might improve its chances, then hold it up with the careful hesitation of someone submitting evidence to the court.
You don’t speak, but your eyes ask the question plainly: Is this acceptable? Does this restore confidence? Does this prove I can anticipate basic survival?
He studies it for no more than a second before the verdict arrives in the form of a single shake of his head.
You exhale slowly, already holding a small, private funeral for your pride, and reach into the back of the closet for the final option.
The nuclear choice.
The coat you swore would remain undisturbed unless meteorologists began using phrases like “artic blast” or “polar vortex.”
It’s fleece-lined. Excessively practical. It is also deeply, almost maliciously unattractive.
It swallows you whole, reduces your silhouette to an amorphous mass, and renders you less woman-on-business-trip and more sentient sleeping bag with ambition.
He nods, once. “Atta girl.”
You hate how effortlessly those two words melt down the structural integrity of your independence liquefying into dopamine-slush.
He’s an asshole, you decide.
Because you are entirely certain he knows what it does to you, how his approval lands like a controlled substance you never consented to trying, let alone craving.
Sometimes you suspect he enjoys it, just a little, watching you attempt to maintain dignity while your internal self is spinning barefoot through a field of daisies, drunk on validation.
You duck your head quickly, hiding the smile that threatens to surface, and shove the coat into your suitcase as if you can compress the feeling along with it.
“You always this stubborn?”
You wrinkle your nose.
“I prefer the word… determined,” you say, keeping your tone light, flippant even. Then you exhale. “But yes. Probably.”
“I don’t want you getting sick.”
You freeze for a second before looking at him. He’s already watching you with that stupidly hot expression that means something, but never tells you what.
Your throat tightens around something inconvenient. “Okay.”
He nods once, satisfied, like the matter has been properly resolved.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wear it on the plane.”
You huff a small breath through your nose.
“You’re surprisingly bossy for someone who isn’t technically supervising me right now.”
“Think of it as preventative strategy.”
You shake your head, but the smallest smile slips through despite yourself as you reach for the coat anyway. Because if his concern is the motive, then anything else suddenly feels… unnecessary.
And maybe a little unkind.
2 FORTY-TWO AND FORTY-THREE
The hotel is… not what you prepared for. You’d braced yourself for something sensible. Industrial carpet in a shade of brown that exists solely to forgive stains. The smell of disinfectant doing its honest, blue-collar best to mask a thousand anonymous overnights. Clean sheets, sure. Functional plumbing, ideally.
Maybe a little plant in the lobby that some waters too enthusiastically out of obligation rather than love.
Instead, there’s marble everywhere. Gold accents. Furniture that looks as though someone fluffs it between guests on a strict hourly rotation.
It’s almost funny, the budgetary whiplash between “active serial killer in rural nowhere” and “please observe our institutional excellence.”
Apparently, when the FBI wants to project competence, it does so in chandeliers and imported stone.
“Did you manage to sleep on the flight?” you ask, hoping it sounds completely normal coming from your overextended mouth.
Which you are, to set the record straight. Normal. Very normal. A model of composure. The very portrait of workplace appropriateness.
Not, for example, someone who, five minutes ago at the front desk, briefly entertained the likelihood of an overbooking error and the subsequent moral dilemma of one room, one bed, and a shared look of well, this is unfortunate.
You did not, under any circumstances, imagine saying something graceful like, “Oh, I don’t mind the couch,” while secretly hoping there wasn’t one.
You are a rational human being, after all.
If your thoughts briefly detoured into logistical fantasy, that is simply narrative conditioning from too many romance novels dog-earred on your nightstand teaching you that proximity plus tension equals destiny.
It is not a reflection of your character.
Probably.
Although the fact that your first instinct in a crisis is self-sacrifice for the sake of optics is… interesting. Something to unpack later. Preferably never.
“Enough,” he answers. “I wanted to make sure you did.”
Your pulse somersaults. You can’t figure out why.
“Oh. I did,” you assure him.
“Good.” He inclines his head slightly. “Long day tomorrow.”
“Right,” you nod. “Can’t have me falling asleep mid-panel and drooling on a nationally recognized criminologist. That would be deeply damaging to the Bureau’s image.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets, hiding the nervous flex of your fingers, and lengthen your stride to keep pace with him.
He manages to walk with such an unrushed confidence that somehow never looks like an effort, and you fall into step beside him like you’ve been trained to it.
The hallway stretches ahead in muted tones and hotel anonymity, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sharp click of your heels as though it understands the value of discretion.
“I’ve reviewed your grad work,” he says calmly. “You’re more likely to correct the panel than fall asleep during it.”
You freeze.
“You have?”
It comes out before you can moderate the enthusiasm.
Of course he has, you remind yourself quickly. He does not tolerate blind spots. You are an allocation of federal resources, and he is meticulous about ensuring his investments are strategically sound.
Still, the idea of him reading your thesis — your painstakingly footnoted, cross-referenced, over-edited labor of love — feels intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
You remember the nights you folded yourself around your laptop, hair twisted up, rereading paragraphs until the words blurred, muttering about theoretical frameworks and definitional clarity like they were moral obligations.
You rewrote the introduction twelve times because it didn’t sound authoritative enough. You panicked over whether your sources were recent enough. Influential enough. Impressive enough.
Did he think it was disciplined? Did he see how hard you worked to make it unimpeachable? Did he notice where you rushed the methodology section because the deadline was breathing down your neck? Did he recognize the case study you were secretly proud of, the one you worried might read as ambition masquerading as competence?
“Yes.”
He looks at you, and for one breathless, precarious second you’re convinced he’s going to add something more. A descriptor. An evaluation. Something you could cradle later in private.
A word like “impressive,” perhaps. Or even “solid.”
You’d take solid. Solid is dependable. Solid can be examined from every angle at midnight while you’re brushing your teeth, replayed and replayed until it wears smooth.
But he offers nothing else. He simply holds your gaze, and the silence lengthens until it becomes reflective, until you can see yourself inside it.
The flicker of expectation you tried to mute, the hopeful tilt of your expression, the subtle widening that betrays how badly you wanted confirmation.
You’re suddenly hyperaware of how readable you must be, how clearly you hunger for the thing he chose not to give.
He looks away first and keeps walking, and you’re left wondering whether the silence is mercy, sparing you from overinvestment, or leverage, something he’ll deploy when it serves him best.
You quicken your pace regardless, because composure feels optional and you are, inconveniently, invested in every unsaid thing.
You close the gap between you more quickly than necessary, nearly brushing his shoulder when he stops in front of two identical doors.
Forty-two and forty-three.
Twin thresholds to separate, responsibly partitioned realities, as if a number on a plaque is enough to define distance.
“Any preferences?” you ask, gesturing between the rooms.
As if you aren’t very intune with the fact that whichever number you take situates him precisely one wall away, separated by drywall, wiring, and the thinnest possible illusion of propriety.
“Take this one,” he says, already extending the keycard. Forty-three.
“Okay,” you say instantly, because apparently your default setting when he gives you direction is cheerful compliance.
Pavlov would have had a field day.
You glance toward his door, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Should I be concerned you’re assigning yourself the superior territory? Is it the presidential suite? Hidden minibar advantage?”
He nearly smiles, but it never quite materializes.
“Yours faces the main corridor and the elevators. Mine faces the exterior exit.”
You blink at him, confused by the specificity.
“If something happens,” he continues, “I want you between both access points. That gives me visibility from either direction.”
“You’re planning for something?”
“I always plan for something.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t shock me.”
And it doesn’t, not really, because this is a man who could probably draft a contingency plan for a power outage in a room full of generators, who once paused outside a crime scene long enough to reroute you around a thin patch of ice you hadn’t seen, hand hovering near your elbow, just in case gravity decided to make an example of you.
Planning is his default state, his resting pulse, his love language if he had one he’d admit to.
But you’ve started noticing, and you wish you hadn’t, how the calculations seem to grow sharper when you’re involved, how his posture adjusts if you’re nearest to a door, how he subtly corrals space so you’re buffered from whatever could go wrong.
It’s probably subconscious. It has to be subconscious. You are not the axis around which his vigilance rotates. You are a member of the team. A junior one at that. This is leadership, not preference. Protocol, not protectiveness.
“No,” he agrees calmly. “It shouldn’t.”
You lift the keycard toward the reader, already angling yourself toward the door, but he moves a half-step ahead of you. His hand closes around the handle before yours can, body stepping between you.
You look up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
He says it like the answer should have been self-evident, like you’re the one lagging behind for needing clarification, and then he’s stepping into your room before you are.
You watch as he moves through the space.
The deadbolt is tested. The chain latch examined. He leans in to inspect the peephole alignment, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the doorframe, and you have the deeply inconvenient thought that this is what intimacy apparently looks like in your life — a man assessing sightlines and entry points.
His gaze tracks the ceiling corners next, scanning for blind spots. The bathroom door opens, lights flick on, the shower curtain is drawn back in one motion. Closet doors slide open and closed.
You hover near the entrance with your arms folded loosely, doing your absolute best impression of a person who is not secretly going, wow, okay, so this is what it looks like when a man is competent and terrifying and also, unfortunately, really, really attractive while doing the least romantic task imaginable.
You need to get a grip.
“It’s not exactly a cartel safehouse,” you offer.
“No,” he agrees evenly, checking the window latch. “But it’s still a point of vulnerability.”
He presses the window once more.
Satisfied with the resistance, he steps aside only then, as if you’ve been waiting for clearance.
“You can go in.”
You tilt your head. “Permission granted?”
“Recommendation,” he corrects.
“Right.”
He turns toward the hallway.
“Call me if you need me.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You could call him for a hundred legitimate reasons. You could call him because the lock jams. Because the heater rattles. Because the hallway feels too quiet.
You could call him for none at all, just to hear his voice confirm that the wall between you is only drywall and not distance.
3 EFFICIENT ENERGY ALLOCATION
You know something is wrong the second you open your hotel door. Or, fine, not something. Someone. More specifically, him. Hotch.
There are two small lines gathering between his eyebrows, deepening incrementally the longer he looks at you, like he’s sketching blueprints for a cathedral of disapproval.
You know that look. You’ve built a secret mental archive of his face, categorized and cross-referenced with devotion, the way other people collect vintage wine or heirloom china.
This particular arrangement means he’s thinking too hard. Which is either excellent or catastrophic, and with him, the margin between those two things is gossamer-thin.
It’s a tell, though he would sooner walk into oncoming traffic than admit he has any.
And you would never correct him on it. You are not nearly foolish enough to forfeit your single, fragile advantage in this — whatever this is.
Because in the market of Hotch, he is always running four moves ahead on a chessboard you're still trying to locate.
And the longer he stares, the more your confidence begins to dissolve like sugar melting into coffee until you can’t even remember it once existed in defined, crystalline pieces.
Your body, traitor that it is, moves to compensate: spine straightening without permission, vertebrae aligning themselves one by one, chin tipping upward a fraction as though the geometry of good posture might function as armor.
Your hand finds your hair. Smooths it back over your shoulder. Corrects, with careful fingers, a flaw that was not there a moment ago. That would not exist at all, actually, if his eyes hadn’t passed over you and invented it.
“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that,” you ask, attempting breezy and landing somewhere closer to ambitious intern pleading her case before a tribunal, “should I be concerned?”
He doesn’t answer right away and the silence manages to gather density. It pools in the corridor between you, thickening by the second, and you hold out for what feels like a respectable amount of time before your mouth makes a unilateral decision.
“Did something smudge? I knew I blinked weird during mascara and I made a judgment call that it was probably fine and I think we're both seeing how that turned out. This is what I get for rushing.”
For a second, something almost like disbelief crosses his features, there and gone, a brief constitutional crisis behind his eyes, as though he’s carefully sorting through his available responses and selecting the least inflammatory one.
“Your mascara is fine,” he says finally, and the economy of it, the complete lack of reassurance beyond the bare clinical fact, is so extraordinarily him that you almost want to write it down.
His eyes move downward again before finding yours again, the crease between his brows intact and now, you think, accompanied by a friend.
“I’m trying to determine,” he continues, “whether you were aware of the temperature outside when you selected that outfit.” He looks toward the end of the hallway. “It’s fourteen degrees.”
You frown and glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of every seam and hem. Pencil skirt. Tailored, modest, entirely appropriate. Blouse tucked in neatly, sleeves buttoned to the wrist.
Tights, which are admittedly optimized somewhat more for aesthetic cohesion than for any serious confrontation with polar endurance, but which are nonetheless indisputably, demonstrably present.
And the jacket he chose. You draw it closed around yourself now, pulling the lapels together with both hands, turning just slightly toward him. Here. Look. Proof. You followed the parameters. You incorporated the feedback. You are, in this moment, the living embodiment of a person who listens and learns and shows up correctly dressed, and you would like that acknowledged, please.
“I was aware.”
“Then I’m concerned about your definition of the word.”
“I’m wearing layers.”
His brown eyes drop once again. Slow with the unhurried certainty of a man who has never once been rushed by another person’s discomfort, and comes to rest at the hem of your skirt, right where it grazes your thighs, and simply remains.
Every hair on your body stands at full attention, a physiological standing ovation for the specific quality of being looked at by him. Your hands want to move — to the hem, to the lapels, to anything that might constitute a defensive action — and you refuse them, one by one, with great effort and limited success.
No. Absolutely not. You will not flinch. You will not fidget. You will not give him the satisfaction of watching you fold, because the moment you reach for that hem is the moment you've lost, and you are already losing enough in this conversation.
He exhales slowly, the kind of exhale that has a whole paragraph in it, before he speaks. “The skirt is short.”
“It’s not —” you begin, warmth rushing up your neck before you can determine whether it’s indignation or something more humiliatingly self-conscious steering the ship.
“It’s appropriate,” he says, and his voice has shifted, gone quieter, the hard edge filed down like he's recognized he's overshot and is now carefully correcting course. “I’m not criticizing it. That’s not —” He stops. Starts over. “You look exactly as you should.” He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for just a moment. “I’d just prefer you not be miserable on the walk over.”
You stare at him, running a rapid internal audit of your available emotional responses and finding the inventory deeply unhelpful. Mortification is one option. Gratitude is another. They are not, as far as you can tell, mutually exclusive, which is its own problem entirely.
You shouldn’t have to feel both things simultaneously before eight in the morning, that seems like a violation of something, some basic covenant between a person and their day.
You are going to need significantly more caffeine before you can be expected to feel things correctly.
“I am aware of how temperature works,” you reply, gently defensive but not sharp, “and I do, in fact, possess the ability to identify discomfort before it becomes life-threatening.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to recognize discomfort,” he says. “I doubt your inclination to admit it when you’re experiencing it.” The brow tightens, just slightly, just enough. “You have a habit of tolerating more than you need to.”
There's nothing wrong with what he said.
That's the problem with what he said. You recognize yourself in it with the specific, sinking clarity of someone who has just been handed a mirror they weren't expecting.
You reach for your smile. The reliable one, the soft, deflecting smile you've been deploying since approximately the third grade, and let it do what it's always done. Cover the crack. Keep the walls presentable. Move things along before anyone gets a good look at the load-bearing ones.
“I wouldn’t call it a habit,” you reply carefully. “More like… efficient energy allocation.”
“Is that what we’re calling it.” It isn’t a question. A hint of dry amusement surfaces in his expression, not a smile exactly, just the suggestion of one, the ghost of one haunting the corner of his mouth, as he relents. “All right.” His tone softens. “I’ll defer to your… methodology.”
You beam at him with a brightness that is frankly disproportionate to the exchange. Wildly, embarrassingly disproportionate. You don't care even a little.
“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”
He is, unfortunately, completely correct.
Fifteen minutes later, the wind finds you like it has a personal grievance, carving straight through your layered confidence, making a thorough and public mockery of your efficient energy allocation.
You keep your chin up and your expression neutral because you would genuinely rather fossilize in place than give him the satisfaction.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t point, doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t deploy a single syllable of the told-you-so he has absolutely, irrefutably earned.
He simply pauses mid-stride, unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around you with both hands.
You try not to kiss him.
4 HIS FLOOR OR YOURS
The conference has been going on for three hours and forty minutes, which feels less like a span of time and more like a psychological experiment designed to test how long a human being can remain upright while their soul quietly slips through their ears. Two hours and forty minutes beyond what your attention span contractually agreed to when you walked in with your notebook.
During the break, Hotch had taken one look at you, at the restless rotation of plastic between your hands, at the brittle way you were holding yourself together, and said, in the tone of a man who had already made the decision and was merely informing you of it rather than requesting your input, come on.
So now you’re walking to get lunch, which would have been entirely pleasant, almost restorative, even, sunlight, fresh air, the gentle reward of carbohydrates after too much bureaucratic endurance, if Garcia hadn’t chosen this exact moment to text you something that demands both your full visual attention and the majority of your remaining cognitive function.
The text reads, in its entirety:
how’s the conference bestie!!!!! followed immediately, without waiting by: and before you say “informative” or productive” or any other word that means you’re reflecting… i want to know about the OTHER curriculum. the one where it’s just you and hotch and a hotel and no rossi chaperoning.
Your face heats to 380 degrees, a temperature at which most metals would begin to warp. You type with your thumb as you walk, squinting against the glare on your screen.
garcia.
A breath.
GARCIA.
You delete that. Too much.
the conference is going fine, there is no other curriculum, we are colleagues attending a professional development event and i would like you to reflect on what you've said.
You pause. Add:
also rossi wasn't chaperoning he was just. present. there's a difference.
You read it back. Delete it because now you sound like someone with something to prove. Add it back because you do, in fact, have something to prove. Mainly your innocence. Allegedly.
Hotch shifts slightly closer to navigate a narrow patch of sidewalk and you physically rotate your entire torso away from him like a sunflower turning from the light, except the opposite of that, and hit send.
The response comes through in the time it takes you to exhale.
there's a difference !!! yeah the difference is whether or not you end up on his floor or your floor tonight babe
You read it twice. You read it twice because the first time your brain just skips, like a record catching on something, and the second time it processes it fully and that is infinitely worse.
Because now you’re thinking about it. Now the thought has a foothold and it is making itself at home, spreading out, getting comfortable, putting its feet up, and your imagination, which we’ve already covered is your most disloyal organ, starts filling in details you did not ask for.
Carpet burn. His chest pressed flat against your back, his rough breath against your ear, telling you what to do, how to do it, what to feel.
You guillotine the thought before it can finish forming. You do. You absolutely do. You are doing it right now.
You type back one handed, the response dissolving and reforming as your fingers fumble, something about how Garcia is clinically unwell and should be investigated by her own team, your attention fractured by the screen and the pavement you assume will continue existing beneath your feet.
You don’t see the curb.
You don’t see the car.
You don’t see anything at all until Hotch’s hand finds your arm and the world snaps back into focus all at once, as the vehicle tears through the space you’d been about to occupy.
The wind of it grazes your knees.
You look up at him because you don't know what else to do and immediately wish you'd looked literally anywhere else.
His eyes darken and move over your face with the rapid, assessing quality of someone running a systems check.
Pupils. Color. Responsiveness.
And when he’s satisfied that you are intact and present and not currently dying, something shifts.
Hotch doesn’t soften exactly, that’s not the right word for it, more like reconfiguration. A rearrangement of something that had gone momentarily, dangerously loose. The aftermath of relief rather than relief itself.
His thumb moves once against your arm. Small. Probably involuntary.
“Are you all right.” Once again not quite a question. The tone of a man who needs confirmation of a thing he's already determined to be true.
“Yes,” you say, which comes out smaller than you intended.
His hand finally releases your arm.
“Put your phone away.”
You do as you're told. Immediately, without deliberation, without the small internal debate you’d normally stage on principle.
It disappears into your pocket with the speed of someone who has just been reminded that the universe has consequences.
Garcia can wait. Garcia, in fact, has forfeited her right to immediacy, because Garcia and her terrible timing almost got you killed, and she is going to receive a text later when you are safe and stationary and no longer shaking slightly in a way you hope isn’t visible.
“You sound like my fa —” you start, because apparently you are constitutionally incapable of letting a silence exist peacefully, and then your brain catches up to your mouth approximately three words too late and the sentence just stops.
You don't finish it. You can't finish it, actually, because finishing it would require you to say out loud the thing you were about to say out loud, which was to compare hotch to your father, which you were apparently fully prepared to do two seconds ago and are now prepared to die before doing.
You swallow the rest of it. Redirect your gaze to the middle distance, to some fixed and blameless point that isn't his face, and devote every remaining resource you have to convincing your expression to do literally anything other than what it's currently doing, which is, you are fairly certain, everything.
You feel him look at you. There’s a particular quality of his attention when he’s already understood something and is giving you the grace of not saying it out loud.
He knows. He absolutely knows.
Neither of you says anything. You keep walking.
+1 FOR SCIENCE
The scolding had gone well, you think. You’d communicated the full extent of your feelings about Garcia’s role in the near-death-by-crosswalk incident with clarity, and she had said okay you’re right i’m sorry in the sincere tone she reserves for when she actually means it, and that should have been the end of it.
That was the natural ending. But then, approximately four seconds later, as if the apology had simply been a brief administrative detour:
but do you even own any lingerie just in case… this is a completely unrelated question, purely for science.
And somehow, through a conversational sequence that had felt, step by step, almost reasonable, that is how you have arrived at this.
Hotel bed. Nearly eleven. Cross-legged in your white lace pajames with your hair loose and your phone held aloft at an angle you’ve adjusted three times now, trying to produce a photograph that communicates see, I have perfectly good taste, this is both comfortable AND attractive for the benefit of a woman who treats every piece of information she receives as a potential future weapon.
Garcia had said prove it with the energy of someone issuing a formal declaration of war and you had, apparently, accepted the terms without reading them.
The fourth attempt is the one.
You know it immediately. The angle is right, the light is doing exactly what you wanted it to do, the lace sits exactly as it should and you look, if you’re being objective about it, genuinely pretty.
Soft and warm and settled in yourself in a way that doesn't always come naturally, in a way you don't always feel entitled to, and something about the photograph catches it, holds it still, makes it documentable.
You open the conversation. Tap the photo. Hit send. Set the phone face down on the duvet with the kind of pleased energy of someone closing a chapter, pouring yourself a glass of water from the sink, taking a sip, allowing yourself eight whole seconds of serenity.
Then you pick the phone back up because Garcia hasn't responded and this is wrong, this is factually incorrect behavior for Garcia, who has never in the entire history of your friendship allowed more than thirty seconds to pass without a reply, whose response time is frankly less a reflection of effort than of some innate physiological gift, and you look at the screen and —
The background of the conversation is wrong.
The contact picture is wrong.
Something is wrong with the name at the top of the conversation in a way that your brain, in an act of profound self-protection, declines to process for three full seconds.
Sits there cycling through increasingly implausible alternatives, searching for any exit ramp from the conclusion that is, despite everything, the only one available.
And then it arrives. All at once, the way bad things do, complete and total and horribly clear.
Hotch.
Garcia.
Recent conversations, right next to each other, because they would be, because why wouldn't they be, because the universe has a personal investment in your suffering and an excellent sense of comedic structure.
The photo is delivered.
For science sits beneath it.
And you sent it to your boss.
You make a sound that has no letter equivalent, something that exists purely in the register of visceral horror, and you are off the bed before the sound has finished leaving you.
Think, you need to think.
Option one: he's asleep. It's late. Hotch is a disciplined, regimented person who almost certainly has a consistent sleep schedule because of course he does, because he is Hotch, and maybe, maybe, he'd put his phone on silent and gone to bed and hasn't seen it and won't see it until morning at which point you will have already faked your own death and started a new life somewhere without extradition.
Option two: his phone. You could get to his phone. His room is right beside yours. You could be there in twenty-two seconds, and hotel door locks are — okay you don't actually know how to pick a hotel door lock but you could figure it out, probably, under sufficient duress, and this qualifies as sufficient duress —
A knock sounds at your door.
You stand in the center of the hotel room and you do not move, do not breathe, do not produce any sound or evidence of biological function whatsoever, because if you are very still and very quiet then perhaps the universe will lose interest and move on to someone else.
Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's housekeeping, at eleven at night, which, yes, is not when housekeeping comes, but hotels are unpredictable, stranger things have happened, you are not ruling anything out.
Maybe it's the person in the next room who miscounted doors, maybe it's someone who has the wrong floor entirely, maybe it's — your phone screen lights up.
Open the door.
You stare at it. It stares back.
You open the door and immediately wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn’t.
Not because of the expression on his face, though that’s — that’s a lot, that’s an entire situation, his jaw tight and his eyes doing something you’ve never seen them do before, moving over you in a way that starts at your face and doesn’t stay there and snaps back up with the control of a man making a conscious decision.
Not even because of the grey t-shirt. The sweatpants. The fact that Hotch, your Unit Chief, apparently exists in soft cotton after hours like a normal person, which is information you are placing in a box, sealing the box, and sliding the box to the very back of a shelf you will not be visiting tonight.
No. It’s the silence that does it.
He just looks at you. Says absolutely nothing, makes no move to explain himself or fill the space or give you anything to work with. It presses on you with considerable force.
“It was an accident.” The words come out before you've decided to produce them, falling over each other with the graceless urgency of someone trying to outrun a consequence. “I love this job. I'm good at it, I mean, I think I'm good at it, I hope you think I’m good at it, and I know this looks insane, it is insane, but please — please don't make this into something that ends my career, I was just trying to win an argument with Garcia about whether I owned ling — Uh, nice pajamas and —”
“Garcia,” he interrupts.
You blink. “What?”
“The argument.” His words are careful. Doing a great deal of structural work beneath the surface. “It was with Garcia.”
“Yes,” you say. “About whether I — yes.”
“About the pajamas.”
“About whether I owned any.” You are aware you’re not improving the situation. “Nice ones. She implied I didn’t and I — it was a matter of principle.”
He looks at you for long enough that you become acutely, specifically, inventory-level aware of every square inch of white lace currently within his line of sight.
And the awareness moves over you in real time, square inch by square inch, because he is. He is doing exactly that. Looking at the neckline and the hem and everything the light is enthusiastically illuminating and then looking at more of it, and you stand very still in the doorway of your hotel room and breathe very carefully and wait for him to say something, and he doesn't, and the looking continues, and it has a temperature.
“You’re not losing your job,” he says. His voice has done something you can't quite name. The professional remove still present but thinner somehow, like fabric that's been washed too many times. “That was never —” He stops. Edits. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I really am sorry,” you say, which is true, which is entirely true, which is also complicated by the fact that he’s standing in your doorway and you have now run out of layers to hide behind, literally and figuratively.
“I know.” He says. “I came because I wanted to make sure you were —” a pause, brief and loaded, “ — all right.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say, which comes out quieter and more honest than you intended, stripped of the deflection you’d normally wrap around something like that. “Come, I mean. I’m glad you came.”
You become very interested in a point just past his shoulder and then make yourself look back.
“For the record,” he says, “you won the argument.”
“Hotch —” His name comes out barely a whisper.
“You did.”
“That’s not —” you start, “I don’t need you to —”
“I know you don’t need me to,” he says. “That’s not why I said it.”
“Why did you say it?”
He moves first.
Or maybe you do.
Or the wanting does, finally, after months of being firmly managed.
Later you might look for the beginning and find only that the distance was there and then wasn’t. His hand comes up to your face with that steadiness, that particular Hotch steadiness that you have been watching without permission since the day you met him, the kind that says I have considered this and I am not afraid of it, tilting your chin up.
And then his mouth is on yours.
And here is what you were not prepared for: that it would feel like being returned to you. Not given, returned.
Like something you’d been missing your whole life without knowing what it was called, without having a word for the specific absence of it.
Your father’s approval delivered at arm’s length, your college boyfriend who never quite saw you, every authority figure you’ve ever rearranged yourself for in hopes that this time, this time, it would be enough.
And Hotch, who has been watching you with those eyes for months, who has noticed the necklace-tugging and the over-apologizing and the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking, who has known, who has known —
It is nothing like what your imagination built. Your imagination was not working with sufficient information.
It is exactly like the thing you've been most terrified of wanting, because wanting things this much has historically been the setup for not getting them, and you are so tired of not getting them, and for a moment, for this moment, there is only his mouth and yours and the feeling moving through you in waves you can’t name and don’t need to.
Finally.
You lean into it with everything you have. Every feeling you've filed under inadvisable. Every careful professional distance you've maintained. Every time you looked away first. You stop looking away. You give him all of it, and he makes a sound low in his throat, vibrating through you.
Then he stops.
Goes still first, and then pulls back by degrees. Slow, almost reluctant, like something being peeled away rather than removed.
His forehead drops to yours just for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath uneven and his hand still at your jaw.
You don't move. You barely breathe. You are terrified of breaking it and equally terrified of what exists on the other side of it, and so you stay very still in the small sacred space of his forehead against yours and try not to want more than you're being given.
What comes next is his eyes opening. Finding yours. And in them, underneath the want that he’s no longer quite managing to conceal, something older settling back into place like sediment after a disturbance.
You can see it.
Something that was always going to come back. Responsibility settling through him like silt after a tremor, like a tide reasserting itself, the accumulated weight of everything he is and everything he thinks you deserve and every reason he has been filing this under don't from the very beginning.
You can see exactly where it lives. In the careful way his jaw sets. In the incremental straightening of his posture, degree by degree, a man rebuilding his architecture in real time, becoming your Unit Chief again by visible effort.
His hand leaves your face last.
“I’m sorry.” His voice has gone hard again, a professional distance reassembling itself word by word. “That wasn’t —” a pause in which several things clearly occur to him and are discarded — “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It's okay,” you say, which is both completely true and completely insufficient. “I'm — please don't apologize, I —” you hear yourself, recalibrate, attempt something in the vicinity of normal. "I'm sorry too. For the photo. For all of —” another vague gesture, this one encompassing roughly the last hour of your life — “this.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Okay,” you say, because what else is there.
You both stand in it for a moment that lasts too long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally.
“Yeah.” Your voice is remarkably steady. You’re proud of it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
You stand in the doorway until the corridor is empty and then you close the door and press your back against it and stare at the ceiling of a hotel room that feels entirely different than it did an hour ago.
summary: after his release from prison, spencer returns to a life that no longer feels like his own. haunted by what he’s endured, he doesn’t expect kindness, least of all from you. yet, little by little, spencer learns how to trust again… and it all starts with you.
pairing: spencer reid x sweetheart!reader
content warnings: small age gap, maeve arc doesn't exist / never existed (sorry !!), spencer's trauma from prison is constantly mentioned
a/n: hai lovelies !! i'm so sorry for this long ( unplanned ) hiatus, but i'm back with a series and i really hope you like it !! <3 i'm going to try my best to update it weekly, but no promises can be made as most chapters still need to be edited.
You were the vanilla to Sarah Cameron’s spice. The calm to her storm. The designated driver to her reckless abandon, figuratively speaking, of course, since you barely had your license and drove five miles under the speed limit.
You were Sarah’s "sweet" friend. The one parents loved. The one who wore eyelet lace while the other Kooks wore bikinis as tops. You were soft-spoken, terrified of confrontation, and had never touched a drop of alcohol in your life.
"Please, please, please," Sarah begged, dragging you by the arm toward the looming entrance of Topper Thornton’s massive estate. "I can’t deal with Topper alone tonight. He’s being clingy. I need a buffer. I need you."
"Sarah," you whined, clutching your purse like a life preserver. "I don't fit in at these things. It’s loud, it smells like body spray and bad decisions, and Rafe is going to be there."
Sarah stopped, rolling her eyes. "Rafe won't bother you. He barely acknowledges anyone unless he’s yelling at them. Besides, he likes you. You’re the only person he doesn't look at like he wants to punch them."
"That’s a low bar."
"Come on. One hour. Then we go back to my place, watch movies, and eat cookie dough. I promise."
You sighed, the sound lost in the thumping bass vibrating through the walls of the house. You could never say no to her. "One hour."
Thirty minutes later, Sarah had vanished.
One minute she was standing next to you by the keg, and the next, she had been pulled away by Topper, leaving you stranded in a sea of pastel polo shirts and boat shoes.
You were overwhelmed. The humidity was suffocating, sticky with the scent of beer and salt air. You had retreated to the kitchen, leaning against the marble island, trying to look like you belonged.
"Hey! You're Sarah's friend, right?"
A guy you vaguely recognized, Kelce, maybe?, slid a red solo cup toward you. "You look thirsty. Loosen up."
"Oh, I don't—"
"Just try it. It’s mostly fruit punch," he lied, grinning before disappearing back into the crowd.
You stared at the cup. You were hot, anxious, and Sarah was gone. Maybe a sip wouldn't hurt. Just to take the edge off. Just to make the pounding music stop giving you a headache.
You took a sip. It tasted like gasoline masked by hawaiian punch. You coughed, your throat burning.
Gross, you thought. I'll just hold it.
But then someone bumped into you, jarring your nerves, and you took another sip out of reflex. And another. The sugar rushed to your head first, followed quickly by the vodka.
Because it was your first time, you had zero tolerance. Absolutely none.
By the time forty minutes had passed, the kitchen island wasn't just a piece of furniture; it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. The room had taken on a soft, hazy quality. The lights were trailing like shooting stars.
You giggled. You didn't know why, but the pattern on the floor tiles was suddenly hilarious.
“Y/N?"
The voice was sharp. Deep. It cut through the fuzz in your brain like a knife.
You turned around, swaying heavily. The room tilted dangerously to the left. You reached out to grab the counter, but your hand missed.
A large, firm hand caught your upper arm, steadying you before you could hit the floor.
You looked up. And up.
Rafe Cameron was staring down at you. He looked… intense. He always looked intense, with his buzzed hair and that jawline that looked like it could cut glass, but tonight he looked irritated. His blue polo was unbuttoned at the top, and he smelled like expensive cologne and smoke.
"Hi, Rafe," you beamed. Your voice sounded bubbly and far away. "You're really tall."
Rafe’s brows knitted together. He looked from your glassy eyes to the nearly empty red cup in your hand. His grip on your arm tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you upright.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low. He scanned the room, a scowl deepening on his face. "Where is Sarah?"
"She went… poof!" You made an exploding motion with your free hand, splashing a little bit of purple liquid onto Rafe’s expensive loafers.
Rafe looked down at his shoes, then back at you. He snatched the cup from your hand and slammed it onto the counter with enough force that people nearby jumped.
"Who gave you this?" he demanded.
"Kelce. Or… someone who looked like Kelce. It’s fruit punch!"
"It is not fruit punch, Y/N. It’s jungle juice. It’s basically pure grain alcohol." Rafe grabbed your chin gently, tilting your face up to check your pupils. "Christ. How much did you drink?"
"Just one cup!" you defended, pouting. "Is the floor moving for you? It feels like we’re on a boat."
Rafe let out a sharp exhale through his nose. He looked around the party with disdain. He was usually the one leading the chaos, the one starting fights or doing keg stands, but seeing you, Sarah’s innocent, wide-eyed shadow, completely wasted made something protective and ugly flare up in his chest.
You didn't belong here. You belonged in a library, or a garden. Not here, surrounded by sharks who would take advantage of how out of it you were.
"Okay," Rafe muttered, stepping into your personal space. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. "We’re leaving."
"But I have to wait for Sarah!"
"Sarah is busy being an idiot," Rafe growled. "Come on."
He practically marched you through the house. You stumbled, your legs feeling like jelly, but Rafe was like a solid wall. He took the brunt of the crowd, shoving people out of the way with his shoulder.
"Move," he barked at a freshman blocking the hallway. "Move, or I'll make you move."
The kid scrambled. Rafe Cameron was terrifying on a good day. Tonight, he looked lethal.
He navigated you up the stairs, away from the noise.
"Where are we going?" you slurred, leaning your head against his shoulder. His shirt was soft. "I feel dizzy, Rafe."
"I know. Hold on."
He kicked open the door to one of the guest bathrooms, dragged you inside, and locked the door behind him. The sudden silence was jarring. The bathroom was massive, all white marble and gold fixtures.
Rafe maneuvered you over to the toilet. "Sit. Before you fall."
You sat on the closed lid, clutching the edges. "I don't feel good anymore."
"Yeah, that happens," Rafe said. He was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, watching you closely. His eyes were scanning you for injuries, for anything wrong. "You're a lightweight. Note to self."
You looked up at him, tears welling in your eyes. Everything was spinning too fast. "I want to go home."
Rafe’s expression softened. He pushed off the sink and crouched down in front of you so he was at eye level.
"I'm gonna take you home," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But first, you need to drink water. And you need to not puke in my car."
He reached over, turned on the tap, and filled a glass cup. He handed it to you.
You took it with shaking hands. You took a sip, but your coordination was shot. Water trickled down your chin.
"Jesus," Rafe muttered. He took the glass back. "Here."
He held the glass to your lips, tipping it slowly. "Drink. Slowly."
You obeyed, gulping down the cool water. Rafe watched you with laser focus. His hand came up, his thumb brushing away the water that had spilled on your chin. His skin was rough, calloused from the dirt bikes and the weights, but his touch was feather-light.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little," you whispered. You looked at him, really looked at him. Up close, you could see the faint freckles on his nose, the stress lines between his eyebrows. "You have pretty eyes Rafe."
Rafe froze. He blinked, pulling back slightly. "You're wasted."
"No, I mean it," you insisted, your filter completely dissolved by the alcohol. You reached out, your soft fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You always look so angry. But you're nice. You're taking care of me."
Rafe stopped breathing for a second. He was used to people fearing him. He was used to people wanting him for his money or his status. He was used to his dad looking at him with disappointment.
He wasn't used to… this. Pure, unadulterated sweetness.
He caught your hand in his, stopping you from touching his face, but he didn't let go. He held your hand in his much larger one.
"I'm not nice," Rafe said, his voice raspy. "You don't know me."
"I know you," you mumbled, your eyelids drooping. "You're Sarah's brother. You saved me from the spinning floor."
Rafe stared at you for a long moment. A complex mix of emotions crossed his face, guilt, longing, and a desperate need to keep you this pure, to keep the ugliness of his world from touching you.
"Okay," he said abruptly, standing up and pulling you with him. "Let's go. Before someone comes up here and asks why I'm locked in his bathroom with you."
He guided you out of the bathroom. Instead of going back down into the party, he led you down the back stairs that led to the garage.
"Wait," you stumbled on the last step. "My shoes hurt."
Rafe sighed, looking at your strappy sandals. Without a word, he bent down.
"Rafe, what are you—"
"Hop on," he said, turning his back to you.
"What?"
"Get on my back. I'm not carrying you bridal style, it looks stupid. Get on."
You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck. He hooked his arms under your knees and hoisted you up effortlessly. He was warm and solid, and he smelled really, really good.
He carried you out of the garage, past the throngs of drunk teenagers who stared in shock as Rafe Cameron, the Rafe Cameron, carried Sarah’s sweet best friend like she was precious cargo.
He walked to his car, unlocked it, opened the passenger door, and deposited you gently onto the leather seat.
He leaned in to buckle your seatbelt. His face was inches from yours. You could feel his breath on your cheek.
"Stay," he commanded softly.
"I'm buckled, silly," you murmured, closing your eyes.
Rafe lingered for a second, staring at your peaceful face, before slamming the door shut and rounding the car.
The drive to your house was quiet. Rafe drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping anxiously on the gear shift. He kept glancing over at you. You had fallen asleep, your head lolling against the window.
He turned the radio down low. He drove slower than he ever had in his life.
When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark. Your parents were asleep.
"Hey," Rafe said, nudging your shoulder. "Princess. Wake up."
You groaned, shifting. "Nooo."
"You're home. Come on."
Rafe got out and walked around to your side. He opened the door. You blinked up at him, disoriented.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"Maybe."
You swung your legs out. You stood up, wobbled, and immediately tipped forward. Rafe caught you against his chest.
"Nope," he said. "Okay."
He scooped you up again, this time in his arms, bridal style, contradicting his earlier statement. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. It was beating fast.
He carried you to the front door. He fished your keys out of your purse for you, unlocked the door, and carried you inside.
"Which room?" he whispered in the dark hallway.
"Upstairs," you whispered back. "First on the left."
He carried you up the stairs, the floorboards creaking slightly under his weight. He pushed your bedroom door open with his foot.
Your room was exactly like you. Soft colors, fairy lights, stuffed animals. It smelled like vanilla and fresh laundry. Rafe felt like an intruder. He felt dirty standing in the middle of it.
He set you down on the edge of your bed.
"Okay," he said, stepping back, putting distance between you. "You're safe. Drink more water. Take two aspirin before you sleep or you'll hate yourself tomorrow."
You kicked off your sandals and looked up at him. The alcohol was fading into sleepy exhaustion.
"Thank you, Rafe," you said softly.
Rafe shoved his hands into his pockets, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah. Whatever. Don't tell anyone."
"Tell anyone what? That you have a heart?"
Rafe scoffed, a dark smirk tugging at his lips. "That I played babysitter. It ruins my rep."
He turned to leave. He made it to the doorway before he stopped. He didn't turn around, his hand gripping the doorframe.
"And Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't drink that shit again," he said, his voice dropping low, almost threatening in its intensity. "And don't take cups from guys like Kelce. If you want a drink... you come find me. Only me. Got it?"
A shiver went down your spine. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was something electric.
"I got it," you whispered.
Rafe nodded once. "Goodnight."
He pulled the door shut, leaving you in the safety of your room.
Downstairs, Rafe got back into his car. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared up at your window, watching as the light turned on, then off.
He let out a shaky breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
He was a mess. His life was a mess. His head was a mess. But for the last hour, taking care of you, he had felt... grounded. He had felt useful.
He revved the engine, the aggressive roar tearing through the quiet suburban street, and peeled out of the driveway. But as he drove back, he couldn't get the smell of vanilla or the feeling of your small hand on his face out of his mind.
WARNINGS ⭑.ᐟ first time sex, superrr soft sex, praising, light swearing, fingering, basically a word dump lol
NOTES ⭑.ᐟ slightly longer fic than usual! you’re responsible for the content you consume.
WORD COUNT ⭑.ᐟ 1.0k
AUTHOR’S NOTE ⭑.ᐟ likes, reblogs, and requests are appreciated and encouraged 🐆
the line of friendship between you and rafe was blurry.
it started with a lingering touch on your thigh. which turned into you sitting on his lap. which turned into you being with him at all times. which turned into him kissing you when he felt like it.
you still referred to him as your best friend, even if you acted like his girlfriend and even if he treated you like you were his. which is why you felt comfortable telling him how dry your love life was— and why he felt comfortable enough to ‘help’ you.
his lips moved softly over yours, his palm roaming over the soft skin of your thigh, his nose brushing against yours with every press of his lips on yours. “s’this okay?” he mumbled softly, palming at your inner thigh.
your gave a shaky nod, not trusting your voice not to crack, the heat in your cheeks almost unbearable. s’not that you’ve never kissed a boy or did anything romantic— s’the fact that you’re a virgin, with a crush on her best friend like every other girl on the island. he’d barely gotten your shirt off without you squirming underneath him, letting out a breathy chuckle against your sternum.
his fingers dipped lower, lower, lower— sly fingers untying your pajama bottoms effortlessly and tugging them down your thighs, easing you onto your back with a soft kiss against your neck. you keened at the touch, your hips bucking against his palm out of instinct, heat flooding your stomach even more at the smug grin rested on his lips.
“y’warm as hell, baby.” he mumbled, littering kisses against your stomach and across your chest. “barely got your panties off, yet you’re buckin’ into me like i’m inside you.”
you let out a groan, a pout tugging at your lips as your eyes flickered to his. “just— take them off, c’mon.”
your voice was whiny, needy even— your fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties alongside his, attempting to rush them down your thighs, feeling the gusset stick to your center.
he tossed the fabric aside, fingers moving to his boxers, tugging them off hastily as he groaned— trying not to look at the needy expression on your face, trying to reel himself in. the fabric hit the floor, revealing the thick length of him, the tip red and pearly, pre-cum pooled at the top.
“s’this okay?” his voice was quiet, muffled against the soft skin of your inner thigh, rubbing over your entrance with thick fingertips. you gave a shaky nod of your head, barely able to hear him through the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, your thighs twitching when he eased them in, a soft squeak of a moan leaving your lips, eyes squeezing shut.
his touch was gentle, almost too gentle for hands that were buried beneath car parts all day, for hands that pumped your gas for you, hands that build the same bookshelf his body was concealing from your view. the pads of his fingers drug over your walls, easing out to swipe through your folds, circling your clit with a quiet hum.
“rafe,” your voice was small, heavy with arousal and need that he caused, your fingers wrapping around the thick muscle of his arms. “need you inside me, please—“
you barely finished your sentence before he was leaning back up, tearing open the condom packet on your dresser, sliding the latex onto his dick with a practiced ease, planting a free hand next to your torso as he lined himself up.
he hooked your legs over his shoulders, the thickness of him between your legs making your vision almost cloudy, a ragged exhale leaving you when he pushed in, slow— till he was fully inside of you, till you felt like you couldn’t breathe.
“you’re so fuckin’— shit,” he groaned, rolling his hips into you with a quiet huff of air, pressing a kiss against your ankle, holding onto you by the crook of your knee. “so fuckin’ tight f’me, baby.”
your fingers wrapped around his arm like a vice, quiet moans of his name muffled behind your palm, that honeyed voice murmuring— “i know, baby, i know.”
“rafe—“ you started, your thighs twitching instinctively as your hips bucked upward. “m’gonna cum—“
he was already there, the rough pad of his thumb on your clit making you squirm, his free hand rubbing against your torso in an attempt to calm you down. his lips pressed into yours, before peppering small kisses over your cheeks, your forehead, your nose— anywhere he could reach.
“i know, baby,” he cooed quietly, pressing featherlight kisses against your cheek. “jus’ let go f’me, baby, hold my hand.”
his fingers laced with yours, holding your hand when your eyes squeezed, groaning when you came around him with a muffled cry of his name, your pussy squeezing around his dick like you couldn’t let him go, his own voice wrecked when he let go.
your chest was heaving when he pulled out, tying off the condom and throwing it away, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
every year after fourteen
part two / part three / part four
WARNINGS: emotional manipulation , toxic relationship dynamics , childhood trauma parental emotional abuse/neglect , alcohol/drug use , violence/fighting , possessiveness/jealousy , self-destructive behavior, abandonment issues , anxiety/panic responses , unhealthy attachment/codependency , degradation of mental health over time eventual dark themes depending on later eras , would estimate as a 10k+ word count
PAIRINGS: childhoodbsf!rafe x sweetheart!reader ➜ frat!rafe x sweetheart!reader
SUMMARY: as rafe slowly unravels under the weight of love, anger, addiction, and abandonment, reader becomes the only person who remembers who he was before he learned how to turn pain into cruelty.
the thing about figure eight was that everybody already knew who you were before you got the chance to become it.
the pogues grew up barefoot and loud, saltwater drying on their skin beneath the sun. the kooks grew up behind gates and golf carts and houses so big they echoed when nobody was talking.
and the camerons were the richest people on the island. which meant they were also the loneliest.
ward cameron owned half the coastline, or at least acted like he did. people lowered their voices around him at country clubs and charity dinners. adults smiled too hard when he shook their hands. every magazine spread about wealthy families in the obx somehow circled back to the camerons eventually — their boat, their house, their perfect christmas photos where nobody looked directly at the camera for too long.
from the outside, they looked untouchable. inside the house, it was quieter than a church especially after their mother left. nobody talked about that part: not openly, if you were in your right mind.
not in the way kids are supposed to ask questions when something disappears.
sarah adapted first. she smiled easier, learned how to make herself lovable in ways people understood. wheezie became invisible whenever possible. and rafe became loud. not all at once.
at eight years old, it existed in flashes. slammed doors. quick tempers. the way his jaw locked whenever ward spoke too sharply but before he became difficult, before people started describing him with words like troubled or angry or unstable, he was just a little boy who hated being alone.
which was how she ended up in his life.
her mother worked events sometimes. catering mostly. planning if people paid enough.
summer parties on yachts. fundraisers. country club dinners where rich women wore linen and diamonds at the same time which meant, occasionally, she got dragged along.
she remembered the first time she saw tanneyhill like something out of a dream. white columns, massive windows, golf carts lined in the driveway. the smell of ocean air curling through expensive perfume.
she’d been seven, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of sprite somebody handed her while adults rushed around carrying trays.
“don’t wander,” her mom warned. “and don’t touch anything.”
she lasted maybe twelve minutes.
the camerons’ house was too big not to explore. hallways stretching forever, framed paintings staring down at her, polished floors she nearly slipped across in sandals.
and somewhere upstairs, somebody was yelling. not screaming, just enough to make her stop walking. a man’s voice first, sharp.
then another crash. she should’ve turned around. instead, she kept going. the upstairs hallway was colder somehow, air conditioning biting against sunburnt skin. one of the bedroom doors sat halfway open, and through the crack she saw a blond boy shoving clothes angrily into a closet.
he couldn’t have been much older than her. maybe eight and yet he noticed her immediately with the awareness of an adult, blue eyes snapping toward the doorway. “who’re you?”
she froze. “nobody.”
“then why’re you in my house?” his tone wasn’t mean exactly. defensive, maybe. like a dog growling before deciding whether to bite.
she should’ve left. instead she pointed behind him. “your lamp’s broken.”
the ceramic lamp beside his bed lay shattered across the floor. the boy looked at it for a second before shrugging. “yeah.”
“are you gonna get in trouble?”
“already did.” he said it casually. too casually for a kid. then he squinted at her. “you’re not a kook.”
she frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“means your shoes are dirty.”
“your attitude’s dirty.”
for one horrible second, she thought he might actually get mad. instead, his mouth twitched. just a little, the beginning of a smile. “what’s your name?”
she told him. he nodded once. “i’m rafe.” like she should already know that. truthfully, everybody on figure eight probably did. there was another silence after that. awkward in the way only children could make things awkward — too honest to fake politeness yet. then, downstairs, somebody shouted: “rafe!”
his entire expression changed instantly. shoulders stiffening, mouth flattening, something shuttering behind his eyes so fast it almost didn’t look real. “you should go,” he muttered.
she hesitated. “okay.” she turned toward the hallway.
“wait.” when she looked back, rafe was digging through his desk drawer. he pulled out a handful of candy — probably stolen from downstairs — and walked over before dumping it into her hands.
a peace offering or maybe a bribe for silence. “don’t tell anybody you saw me.”
she blinked. “why?”
another yell from downstairs. louder this time. rafe looked toward the door and for the first time, she realized he looked scared. not of getting caught with candy. not of breaking the lamp but of whoever was downstairs. “just don’t, okay?”
she nodded slowly. “okay.”
that was the beginning of it. not dramatic, not fate and certainly not love at first sight. just two lonely kids inside a house too big for either of them.
after that, rafe started appearing everywhere. not in a creepy way but more like a stray cat deciding somebody belonged to him.
the next time her mother worked at tanneyhill, she found him waiting near the driveway with scraped knees and a tennis racket dragging behind him. “you came back.”
she frowned. “i don’t really choose that.”
“still counts.” he said things confidently even when they didn’t make sense. before she could answer, he grabbed her wrist and started pulling her toward the backyard. “c’mon.”
“where?”
“you ask too many questions.”
“you’re rude.”
“yeah, well.”
he didn’t finish the sentence. she noticed he did that a lot. started thoughts and abandoned them halfway through like he didn’t know what to do with them once they became real.
the backyard looked like a resort.
pool glittering bright blue beneath the sun. huge stone patio, private dock stretching into the marsh. she slowed near the edge of the pool. “are we allowed out here?”
“it’s my house.”
“that doesn’t answer the question.”
rafe snorted. “you sound eighty years old.” that made no sense, and before she could ask, he dropped onto one of the lounge chairs dramatically, legs hanging off the side because he was still too small for it.
“my sisters are inside doing dumb rich people stuff.”
“what’s dumb rich people stuff?”
“sarah’s making wheezie play wedding with her again.”
“that sounds normal.”
“they made me be the dog last time.”
she stared at him. “the dog?”
“exactly.”
she laughed before she could stop herself. a real laugh, loud enough that rafe blinked at her for a second like he hadn’t expected it then he grinned too and suddenly he didn’t look like the angry boy from upstairs anymore.
he looked eight. just eight. sunlight in his hair. freckles across his nose. swimsuit half untied at his hips because apparently rich kids never wore clothes correctly.
“you wanna see something cool?” he asked.
before she could answer, he stood up on the lounge chair. “rafe—”
he launched himself into the pool like a missile and water exploded everywhere. she yelped as cold droplets soaked her shirt while rafe surfaced laughing hysterically.
“oh my god!”
“did you see that?!”
“you splashed me!”
“because you were standing too close!”
“because you JUMPED AT ME!”
full-body laughter, messy and uncontained. she realized then that rafe cameron laughed like somebody who didn’t get to very often. he swam toward the edge of the pool, blond hair dripping into his eyes. “c’mon in.”
“i don’t have a swimsuit.”
“so?”
“rafe.”
“what?”
“normal people don’t swim in their clothes.”
“normal people are boring.”
she crossed her arms. “easy for you to say. your dad owns this pool.”
for a second, his smile faded but then he shrugged one shoulder. “he doesn’t really care what i do.”
the words sounded exciting at first like freedom but something about the way he said it made her stomach twist. before she could think too hard about it, rafe reached out suddenly and grabbed her ankle.
she screamed as he yanked. “RAFE —”
she hit the water fully clothed while he cackled loud enough for birds to scatter from nearby trees. when she surfaced sputtering, he was grinning so hard his dimples showed. “you’re the worst person alive.”
“yeah, but now you’re swimming.”
she shoved water at his face. he splashed her back immediately. and somehow that became the rest of the afternoon. swimming until their fingers wrinkled, arguing over nothing. rafe trying to hold his breath underwater long enough to “die dramatically.”
her timing him while sitting at the edge kicking her feet into the water. it felt easy.
which surprised her because most rich kids on figure eight treated people like her strangely — either invisible or temporary but rafe talked to her like they’d known each other forever like it had already been decided.
at one point, they ended up laying on the dock side by side, drying beneath the late afternoon sun.
“you ever think about running away?” rafe asked suddenly.
she turned her head toward him. “what?”
he shrugged, staring up at the sky. “i dunno. somewhere else.”
“why would you wanna leave here?”
“because everybody’s annoying.”
“that’s not a real reason.”
“is too.”
“where would you even go?”
he thought about it seriously. “california.”
“why california?”
“they surf there.”
“people surf here too.”
“yeah, but in california nobody knows your dad.”
that quiet feeling returned again. the weird one. the one that always showed up whenever ward cameron entered a conversation. she glanced toward him carefully. “is your dad mean?”
rafe went still. not visibly, not enough for most people to notice but she did because kids notice things adults think they hide well. his expression flattened toward the sky. “sometimes.”
she waited. eventually, he mumbled: “mostly when i screw stuff up.”
“everybody screws stuff up.”
“not like me.” he said it matter-of-factly like he already believed it completely. before she could answer, he sat up abruptly. “wanna go steal ice cream from the freezer?”
the conversation ended there. that was another thing about rafe. even as a kid, he knew exactly how to run from things before they could catch him.
by the time summer ended, rafe had decided she was his person. he never actually said it like that.
eight-year-old boys didn’t have the language for things that deep yet.
instead, he showed up at her house unannounced with sand all over his feet and demanded she come outside immediately because he “found a dead stingray and it looked cool.”
or he called the landline six times in a row just to ask if she thought sharks could smell fear through boats. or he sat way too close to her during movies and stole food directly off her plate while acting like it was legally his. it happened gradually enough that neither of them noticed it becoming permanent.
until one day everybody else did.
“that cameron boy likes you.” her mother said it casually while folding laundry. she nearly choked on her juice.
“he does not.”
“mmhmm.”
“mom.”
“he called here three times today.”
“because he’s annoying.”
“sweetheart, he asked if you were sick because you didn’t answer.”
she groaned dramatically and buried her face in the couch cushion. secretly, she liked that rafe noticed when she disappeared. most people didn’t.
school started again in september. figure eight elementary mixed kook kids and pogues together just enough for rich parents to pretend they cared about community.
rafe hated school immediately. not because he was bad at it. actually, because he was actually smart. that was the problem. he got bored fast.
he finished worksheets too early and started bothering everybody else afterward. teachers constantly told him to sit still, lower his voice, stop talking back.
he treated authority like a challenge. especially the male teachers and especially when they raised their voices. “rafe cameron, hallway. now.”
their third-grade teacher sounded exhausted already. rafe slumped back dramatically in his chair. “i didn’t even do anything.”
“you threw an eraser at timothy.”
“he was talking.”
“so were you.”
“yeah, but i’m interesting.”
half the class laughed. the teacher pinched the bridge of his nose. “hallway.”
rafe stood slowly, muttering something under his breath before grabbing his notebook. on the way out, he glanced toward her, winked, like getting in trouble was funny.
except she noticed the way his shoulders tightened once the classroom door shut behind him. noticed how he stopped smiling the second adults couldn’t see him anymore.
he came back from lunch with a split lip. small and still fresh enough to shine red. she stared at him across the table. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
he peeled open his milk carton aggressively. “tripped.”
“you don’t get punched-looking lips from tripping.”
“you don’t know that.”
she narrowed her eyes as he refused to look at her. finally, he muttered: “some fifth grader shoved wheezie.”
her anger disappeared instantly. “oh.”
“so i shoved him back.”
“and?”
“and apparently fifth graders hit hard.” he said it proudly like losing the fight didn’t matter because he’d fought at all.
she studied him quietly. “did you win?”
rafe grinned then, bloody lip and all. “kinda.”
that was the first time she realized rafe would throw himself into a fight even if he knew he couldn’t win it especially for people he loved.
october brought storms to the obx, the kind that rattled windows and turned the ocean mean.
she hated thunder yet rafe found this hilarious. “it’s literally just noise.”
“okay, then you sit outside in it.”
“i would.”
“you absolutely would not.”
“would too.”
another crack of thunder shook the house hard enough to flicker the lights. she jumped violently from where they sat on the living room floor.
rafe burst into laughter. “you looked like a cat.”
“i hate you.”
“no you don’t.” he said it immediately. without thinking and maybe that should’ve scared her a little — how sure he always sounded about her staying — but instead she just rolled her eyes and threw popcorn at his face.
another boom echoed outside. this time closer. her smile slipped and rafe noticed instantly. he always noticed instantly. perks of being someone with a father that a mood he always had to manage.
without saying anything, he scooted closer across the carpet until their shoulders touched. then, quieter: “it’s not gonna hit the house.”
“you don’t know that.”
“yeah i do.”
“how?”
“because if it did, my dad would sue god.”
she laughed despite herself. mission accomplished. rafe leaned back against the couch afterward like he hadn’t intentionally comforted her at all but a few minutes later, during another loud crack of thunder, she fel his hand tap twice against hers on the floor.
still there.still here. safe. even then, rafe loved through contact. small touches. shoved shoulders. knees bumping under tables. messing with the strings of her hoodie while pretending to listen like if he kept physical proof of people nearby, they couldn’t disappear unexpectedly.
sometimes she wondered if that started when his mother left. sometimes she wondered if he even remembered a version of himself before that happened.
that winter, ward cameron forgot to pick rafe up from school. at first, rafe acted like he didn’t care.“he’s probably busy.”
he kicked at the curb while everybody else slowly disappeared into cars and golf carts around them. thirty minutes passed, then forty.
the office secretary kept glancing outside with tight sympathy adults got when they didn’t know what to say. “we can call your house again, honey.”
“don’t.”
too fast, too sharp. she looked surprised. rafe swallowed. “he’ll come.”
except his voice sounded smaller now. eventually her mom arrived instead. “c’mon,” she said gently. “i’ll drive you home.”
rafe immediately shook his head. “m’fine.”
“rafe.”
“i said i’m fine.”
anger flashed across his face so quickly it almost looked painful. not at her. at himself like embarrassment curdling into fury before anybody could pity him. her mother ignored it completely. “okay,” she said lightly. “then i guess i’ll have to eat all the mcdonald’s fries myself.”
silence. rafe blinked. “you got fries?”
“yep.”
another pause. then: “large?”
“obviously.”
he got into the car after that quietly and halfway through the drive, while rain tapped softly against the windows, she noticed him holding the fry carton in his lap like something fragile like nobody had remembered to take care of him all day.
winter on figure eight always made everything feel emptier. the tourists disappeared, the beaches went gray. even tanneyhill looked colder somehow, stripped of summer light and party noise.
and rafe changed during winter. not completely. just enough for her to notice. he got quieter after christmas break started. moodier. sometimes she’d come over and find him sprawled upside down on the couch watching television at full volume, talking a mile a minute like he needed noise filling every corner of the house.
other days, he barely spoke at all. those were the bad days. the house felt different then too. stiffer.
rose smiled too brightly. wheezie stayed upstairs. sarah vanished to friends’ houses whenever possible. and ward became impossible to miss.
he wasn’t loud all the time. that was the strange part. sometimes he was perfectly charming. laughing at dinner, asking questions, resting a hand on rafe’s shoulder like a normal father.
those moments confused her more than the angry ones because rafe would spend the entire time trying to earn them.
sitting straighter, talking faster, watching ward’s reactions like they held the answer key to his entire existence. it made her chest hurt in ways she didn’t understand yet.
one friday afternoon, she found rafe outside near the dock skipping rocks violently across the water.
well. trying to skip rocks. mostly throwing them hard enough to sink immediately.
“those are supposed to bounce.”
“i know that.”
“clearly not.”
“shut up.”
she smiled a little and sat beside him anyway, pulling her knees to her chest against the cold. for a while, neither of them spoke. wind curled across the marsh grass. somewhere far off, a boat engine hummed. rafe picked up another rock. threw it hard. splash.
“you’re bad at this,” she informed him.
“maybe the water’s stupid.”
“yeah. definitely the water.”
another rock. another angry splash. then suddenly: “my dad thinks i’m an idiot.”
the words landed strangely between them. casual tone serious meaning. she looked over slowly while rafe kept staring at the water. “he didn’t say that.”
“did too.”
“when?”
he shrugged. “not exactly.” another rock. “but he thinks it.” kids weren’t supposed to sound that certain about things like that.
she frowned. “you’re not an idiot.”
“you kinda have to say that. we’re friends.”
“i don’t have to do anything.”
finally, he looked at her. blue eyes sharp even at nine years old. “then why do you?”
she opened her mouth. closed it again because she didn’t actually know how to explain it.
that being around rafe felt like standing too close to lightning sometimes — unpredictable and bright and dangerous in ways you couldn’t describe yet.
that even when he was mean or loud or impossible, she still understood him better than anybody else seemed to. that she worried about him constantly. instead she just nudged his shoulder with hers. “because somebody has to.”
his expression changed for half a second. softened. small enough that she almost missed it then he looked away again quickly, jaw tightening like he regretted letting her see anything real. “my dad says i get emotional over stupid stuff.”
“well your dad sucks.”
rafe barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. a real one but it faded fast. “don’t say that.”
“why not? it’s true.”
his face closed immediately. “just don’t.”
there it was again.
that invisible line nobody in the cameron house crossed. ward could yell. ward could forget him. ward could make rafe feel two inches tall with one look but nobody else was allowed to notice.
a week later, she learned what happened when someone did.
she’d come over after lunch, shoes damp from rainwater, only to hear shouting the second she stepped through the front door.
not normal arguing.
worse. the kind of yelling that made the entire house hold its breath. ward’s voice thundered somewhere upstairs. “you embarrass me constantly!”
silence. then rafe shouting back. not words she could understand.
just anger. another crash echoed through the hallway.
rose appeared almost immediately. “sweetheart,” she said too quickly, intercepting her near the stairs, “why don’t you wait outside for a little while?”
she hesitated. upstairs, something shattered. her stomach twisted. “is rafe okay?”
rose’s smile strained painfully at the edges. “of course he is.”
another lie adults expected children to accept. she backed toward the front door slowly and right before she stepped outside, she heard ward yell: “why can’t you be more like your sister for once?”
the silence afterward felt worse than the shouting. she found rafe an hour later sitting beneath the big oak tree near the edge of the property. knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves covering his hands.
he looked up when she approached. one side of his face was red, not bruised just flushed enough to make her chest tighten.
“rose said you left.”
“she lies a lot.” his voice sounded flat.
she sat beside him carefully. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
“drop it.”
normally she would’ve argued, teased him until he cracked and waited him out but something about him felt different today. too still like all the loud parts of him had collapsed inward. so instead she just sat there quietly beside him while wind rustled through the branches overhead.
minutes passed. finally, rafe spoke without looking at her. “do you ever feel bad all the time?”
she blinked. “what?”
he picked at loose thread on his sleeve. “like even when nothing’s wrong.”
her heart hurt suddenly because no nine-year-old should know how to ask that question. “sometimes,” she admitted softly.
“how do you make it stop?”
she didn’t have an answer and maybe he knew that already because he laughed once under his breath. bitter in a way kids shouldn’t know how to be. “yeah,” he muttered. “me neither.”
another long silence. then, quietly: “my dad says there’s something wrong with me.”
anger flashed hot in her chest. “there isn’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do actually.”
for the first time all afternoon, rafe looked at her fully. his eyes were red around the edges not crying now which somehow meant he already had. “how?”
she swallowed. because the truth was simple. because even at nine years old, she already knew this with terrifying certainty: if something was wrong with rafe cameron, it was because the people around him kept teaching him he was impossible to love.
by thirteen, rafe cameron had learned two important things:
anger made people listen. and pretty people got forgiven for almost everything. he grew into himself unfairly fast after twelve.
all sharp cheekbones and long limbs and sun-bleached hair falling into blue eyes that looked softer than they actually were. girls at school started orbiting him without meaning to. teachers gave him too many second chances. parents laughed nervously at things that weren’t funny because ward cameron’s son smiled afterward.
he carried himself differently now too.
less frantic. more dangerous like he’d discovered exactly how much space he could take up in a room if he wanted to.
and still he showed up at her window throwing pebbles at two in the morning because he was bored.
some things never changed except she changed too. not suddenly more like the island itself shaped her over time.
summer-browned skin, saltwater-soft hair, hoodies stolen from friends and tied around her waist. a laugh people turned toward before realizing they were staring.
she became prettier in the quiet kind of way. the kind that snuck up on people. boys started finding excuses to talk to her at school. older girls copied the way she did her eyeliner. people remembered her name now instead of just recognizing her face beside rafe’s.
and rafe noticed all of it immediately.
every glance. every lingering conversation. every boy who stood too close. he never said anything directly. instead, he’d appear out of nowhere draping an arm across her shoulders while staring somebody down lazily. or interrupt conversations with: “you ready to go?” even when they’d arrived separately.
at first, she thought he was being annoying on purpose. then she realized rafe looked genuinely irritated afterward. which honestly made it funnier.
“you know you act insane, right?” she told him one afternoon after he scared off another freshman boy from talking to her outside school.
rafe blinked innocently from where he leaned against his truck. “what’d i do?”
“you stared at him like you wanted to kill him.”
“maybe i did.”
“rafe.”
“what? he looked annoying.”
“you didn’t even know him.”
“didn’t need to.”
she rolled her eyes, but secretly, part of her liked that rafe still looked for her first in every crowd like no matter how much they changed, some instinct inside him still circled back to her automatically.
except that instinct was starting to become something else now. something sharper. harder to name.
“if my dad catches you out there, he’s literally gonna kill you.”
she whispered harshly, shoving the window open anyway. rafe grinned from where he stood balanced on the roof outside. “nah. he likes me.”
“that’s because you lie to adults professionally.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
he climbed through the window like he owned the place, smelling like seawater and expensive cologne he definitely stole from ward. “c’mon.”
“rafe, it’s two in the morning.”
“exactly.”
“normal people sleep.”
“normal people are boring.”
he’d been saying that since he was eight. only now it sounded different coming out of his mouth. less childish and more intentional.
she narrowed her eyes at him. “where are we even going?”
“the beach.”
“for what?”
“you ask too many questions.”
“and you answer none of them.”
he just smirked and grabbed her hoodie off the chair before tossing it at her face. “move, princess.”
the beach at night felt enormous. waves crashing black against the shore. cold wind tangling through their hair. rafe walked ahead of her barefoot, carrying a six-pack he’d stolen from somewhere with casual expertise that concerned her deeply. “you know beer tastes disgusting, right?”
“you sound eighty.”
“you sound like you’re trying too hard.”
that got his attention. he glanced back over his shoulder. “trying too hard at what?”
she shrugged. “being cool.”
he scoffed immediately. “i am cool.”
“rafe, you got suspended last week for setting a paper towel dispenser on fire.”
“allegedly.”
“there were witnesses.”
“snitches.”
she laughed despite herself and for a second he smiled too — real and easy, dimples flashing briefly beneath moonlight. then it vanished again.
that happened more now. moments where she saw the old rafe before he covered him back up. they settled near the dunes eventually. rafe sprawled across the sand dramatically while she sat beside him pulling her knees against her chest.
for a while, they just listened to the ocean. comfortable silence. their version of peace.
then: “kelly morgan asked if i’d hook up with her.”
she snorted. “you’re thirteen.”
“and?”
“that’s disgusting.”
“you’re just jealous.”
“of kelly morgan? absolutely not.”
he laughed quietly at that. then took a sip from the beer before grimacing. “this tastes like shit.”
“wow. shocking development.”
“shut up.”
she smiled a little but when she looked over at him again, he’d gone distant. staring out at the water with that familiar tension in his jaw.
“what?” she asked softly.
“nothing.”
“rafe.”
he rubbed a hand over his face and suddenly he looked older than thirteen. “my dad’s been on my ass lately.”
there it was. always circling back to ward somehow. she leaned back onto her hands. “about what?”
“everything.” he kicked sand aggressively. “grades. golf. sarah getting into honors classes.” his voice sharpened slightly. “breathing wrong probably.”
she stayed quiet because by now she understood that interrupting rafe when he actually talked about real things usually made him stop altogether.
he scoffed under his breath. “he keeps saying i’m wasting potential.”
“that’s not the worst thing someone could say.”
“you didn’t hear how he said it.” the words hung there.
she looked over at him carefully. “you know parents are supposed to make you feel good about yourself, right?”
rafe barked out a laugh and not a happy one. “according to who?”
she didn’t know what to say to that. because honestly the older they got, the more obvious it became that something inside rafe was changing.
hardening.
he got angry faster now. meaner sometimes. more reckless. last month he’d bloodied a kid’s nose at a bonfire because the guy made some joke about sarah. afterward, rafe laughed while his knuckles bled like violence had thrilled him more than scared him.
that terrified her a little. mostly because part of him had looked relieved during it like hurting somebody finally matched the chaos already living in his chest.
“hey.” she blinked. rafe was watching her now. closely. “where’d you go?”
“nowhere.”
“liar.”
“you literally lie for sport.”
“yeah, but i’m good at it.”
she rolled her eyes and then, before she could stop herself: “sometimes i worry about you.” silence. the ocean crashed somewhere behind them. rafe’s expression went unreadable immediately. guarded. she regretted saying it almost instantly. “forget it.”
“why?”
“because.”
“because why?”
she looked away. “you’re different lately.”
the words came out quieter than intended. rafe went still beside her. “different how?”
dangerous question. she could feel it immediately like stepping onto thin ice. “i dunno,” she said carefully. “angrier.”
he stared at her for a long moment then smiled except it wasn’t really a smile. more like something sharp pretending to be one. “maybe you just didn’t notice before.”
her stomach twisted.
because somehow that felt true. and worse: some small part of her thought rafe wanted it to be true like if he convinced everyone he’d always been this way, nobody could mourn the version of him that used to be softer.
after that night, things between them shifted slightly.
not enough for anybody else to notice just enough for her to feel it. rafe started looking at her longer than he used to like he was trying to figure something out.
sometimes she’d catch him staring from across bonfires or hallways at school, expression unreadable until she noticed him — then suddenly he’d smirk or say something sarcastic to cover it up. other times he got weirdly irritated over nothing.
especially boys and especially when they touched her. “why was he hugging you?”
she blinked at him across the gas station parking lot. “because i’ve known him since kindergarten?”
rafe leaned against his truck with his arms crossed. “looked unnecessary.”
“it was literally a goodbye hug.”
“yeah, well. i didn’t like it.”
she stared at him. “you hear yourself, right?”
“all the time.” he said it without shame. that was the dangerous thing about rafe. he rarely hid the uglier parts of himself once they surfaced. he just smiled like daring people to call him on it.
that spring, he got into his first real fight.
not schoolyard shoving. not roughhousing. a real fight.
it happened at a beach bonfire packed with high school kids trying too hard to look older than they were. somebody brought vodka. somebody else brought fireworks. music blasted from cheap speakers while people stumbled through the sand laughing too loudly.
she found rafe near the waterline already drunk enough that his words blurred together around the edges.
“there y’are,” he said immediately when he saw her, grabbing her wrist. “been lookin’ for you.”
“you smell awful.”
“that’s mean.”
“you stole ward’s liquor again, didn’t you?”
“allegedly.”
she rolled her eyes then noticed blood on his knuckles. her stomach dropped. “rafe.”
he glanced down lazily. “oh. yeah.”
“what happened?”
“nothing.”
“you are literally bleeding.”
he shrugged like it was boring. “some guy was talking shit.”
“and?”
“and i told him to stop.”
she stared. “you punched him over talking?”
“nah.” a grin spread slowly across his face. “i punched him because he touched you earlier.”
silence. the ocean roared somewhere behind them. her chest tightened painfully. “what?”
rafe looked genuinely confused by her reaction. “he had his hand on your waist.”
“that doesn’t mean you get to hit people.”
“felt like i did.”
the words should’ve scared her more than they did. instead she just looked at him standing there beneath bonfire light — pretty and drunk and bleeding and looking at her like this all made perfect sense like she was something that belonged to him instinctively.
“you’re insane,” she whispered.
his grin widened. “yeah.” but then his expression softened slightly. just for her. “he shouldn’t’ve touched you.”
there it was again. that terrifying sincerity underneath all the arrogance. she hated how much it affected her. later that night, she sat beside him in the bed of his truck while everyone else ran through the surf screaming over fireworks. rafe leaned back against the cab beside her, shoulder pressed against hers.
drunk quieter now. thoughtful. his knuckles were swollen. she cleaned them anyway using napkins and water from somebody’s cooler.
“ow.”
“stop being dramatic.”
“i could be dying.”
“unfortunately you’re surviving.”
he laughed softly under his breath then went quiet again. she focused on wrapping one of his scraped fingers carefully.
“you know,” he said eventually, voice rougher now, “you always do that.”
“do what?”
“take care of me.”
her hands paused briefly. rafe stared out toward the ocean. not looking at her. “even when i’m an asshole.”
she swallowed. “you’re not always an asshole.”
“yeah?”
finally, he turned toward her. blue eyes heavy beneath half-lowered lashes, windswept hair. mouth split slightly at the corner from fighting. beautiful in the way storms were beautiful. “what am i then?”
the question felt bigger than it should’ve. she looked at him for too long because she honestly didn’t know anymore.
you’re my best friend. you’re exhausting. you’re lonely. you’re angry all the time. you’re still that little boy waiting upstairs for someone to come back for him.
instead she just tied off the makeshift bandage around his hand and muttered: “trouble.”
rafe smiled slowly at that. “yeah,” he said quietly. “probably.”
and for one dangerous second, sitting there beneath exploding fireworks and salt-heavy air, she realized something terrifying: she would probably love every version of him. even the ones that hurt her.
summer hit the obx hard that year.
everything felt overheated. the air. people’s tempers, her friendship with rafe. especially rafe.
because fourteen-year-old rafe cameron became impossible to ignore. he shot up another two inches over the summer, shoulders broadening, voice roughening unexpectedly. girls stared openly now. older girls too. waitresses smiled at him too long. boys either wanted to be him or punch him.
and rafe noticed every second of it. he started carrying himself with lazy confidence that didn’t quite fit yet, like he was testing out versions of himself to see which one people reacted to best.
some days he acted almost academic — sprawled beside her with books open, explaining random facts he’d memorized just because he liked the look on her face when he knew things she didn’t. “did you know sharks can smell blood from like a quarter mile away?”
“why do you know that?”
“because i read.”
“that’s deeply nerdy of you.”
“shut up.”
he’d grin afterward, all bright and boyish again. other days he became something sharper. louder, cockier and reckless in ways that made adults nervous.
he liked attention now. needed it, maybe. especially hers and whenever he didn’t have it he got mean.
“you flirting with him?”
she looked up from her towel on the beach. rafe stood over her dripping seawater, surfboard tucked under one arm, expression already irritated.
she blinked. “what?”
“that guy.” he jerked his chin toward some tourist boy she’d spoken to for maybe thirty seconds while buying drinks.
“i ordered a coke, rafe.”
“you were smiling.”
“people smile during conversations.”
“not like that.”
she stared at him incredulously. “what is wrong with you lately?”
his jaw tightened immediately. there. that switch, always so quick now. “nothing.”
“you act insane every time i talk to another guy.”
“maybe they should stop talking to you then.”
she laughed once because honestly what else was there to do except rafe didn’t laugh back. he looked serious. completely serious and suddenly the joke stopped being funny.
“rafe…”
“forget it.” he grabbed his board again before turning toward the ocean. angry now. at her, at himself, at things he didn’t know how to name.
she watched him paddle out too aggressively through the waves and felt something cold settle in her stomach because lately every conversation with rafe felt like standing near exposed wires. one wrong move and everything sparked.
the kiss happened two weeks later which was honestly the problem.
there was no lead-up, no confession, no grand realization like she'd seen and learned to yearn for in those movies her mom loved. instead, it was just years and years of something building quietly until one reckless moment cracked it open.
it happened at tanneyhill. ward and rose were hosting another party downstairs — music echoing through the massive house, adults drinking expensive wine while pretending their marriages worked.
rafe hated those nights.
she found him upstairs in his room sitting on the floor beside his bed with a physics textbook open beside him and music blasting through headphones.
“you’re studying voluntarily?” she asked dramatically.
he looked up immediately and softened. he always softened for her first. “failed my last test.”
“nerd.”
“bitch.”
“language.” she kicked his foot lightly before dropping beside him on the floor. for a while, things felt normal again. safe. he explained formulas while she doodled nonsense in the margins of his notebook. occasionally he’d shove her shoulder when she distracted him on purpose. easy.
until downstairs ward started yelling. muffled through floors but still loud enough. rafe went completely still. it happened instantly like somebody pulled all the warmth out of him at once.
she looked over carefully. “you okay?”
“mhm.”
lie. downstairs, another burst of angry voices echoed upward. then silence. the worst kind. rafe ripped his headphones off too harshly.
“i swear to god,” he muttered.
she watched him stand abruptly and start pacing. “rafe—”
“he’s drunk again.” his voice carried no surprise, just exhaustion.
“maybe don’t go down there right now.”
“it’s my house.”
“and he’s angry.”
“he’s always angry.”
the words snapped out sharper than intended. she stood slowly. “okay.”
rafe scrubbed both hands down his face and suddenly he looked young again. not the cocky beach boy. not ward cameron’s golden son just a kid trapped inside a house that never felt safe. “sorry,” he muttered quietly.
“you don’t have to apologize.”
another shout downstairs. rafe laughed once under his breath. empty. “you know what his problem is?” she stayed quiet. “i’m never enough for him.”
her chest tightened painfully. “rafe—”
“seriously.” he looked at her now, eyes bright with something dangerous. “i could get straight A’s, play golf, act exactly how he wants, and he’d still look at me like there’s something rotten inside me.”
“that’s not true.”
“it is.”
“it’s not.”
his breathing had gone uneven, agitated. he paced once more before stopping directly in front of her. “then why does everybody leave?”
the question hit like a slap because suddenly this wasn’t about ward anymore. it was about his mother, every fight, every bad thing he believed about himself. and somehow it was about her too. she swallowed hard. “i’m still here.”
rafe stared at her. really stared like he was trying to memorize the sentence. then his eyes dropped to her mouth. everything changed after that.
the air, the room, the space between them. she should’ve stepped back. instead she froze. and rafe looked terrified. not of her but of wanting something.
his voice came out rough. “you can’t say stuff like that to me.”
“what stuff?”
“that.”
before she could answer, he kissed her. messy, impulsive. too intense for fourteen. all the things rafe was becoming shoved into one moment. his hand cupped her jaw too fast, like he thought she might disappear before he got there. his mouth tasted faintly like mint and anger and summer.
for one impossible second she kissed him back because of course she did. she’d loved him in every version already. little boy rafe, angry rafe, lonely rafe, beautiful disaster rafe.
all of them.
his breath caught immediately when she kissed him back. a tiny sound, wrecked, like nobody had ever chosen him first before. and then the door downstairs slammed violently.
ward shouting. glass breaking somewhere below. rafe jerked back instantly like he’d been burned. his entire expression changed. panic replacing softness so fast it hurt to watch. “shit.”
she blinked at him, still dazed. “rafe—”
“we can’t.”
her stomach dropped. “what?”
he started backing away from her immediately. hands in his hair. breathing hard. “that was a mistake.”
the words hit harder than they should’ve because he looked like he meant them. or worse — like he needed to mean them.
“okay,” she said quietly, even though it wasn’t okay at all.
rafe looked sick suddenly. “i just—” he swallowed harshly. “you’re the only good thing i have.”
her chest cracked open because she understood immediately. he thought loving him would ruin her eventually. the worst part was that she wasn’t sure he was wrong.
after that, rafe disappeared for almost a week. not physically. she still saw him at school sometimes. hallways, parking lots, across classrooms but he acted like there was suddenly glass between them.
he stopped calling. stopped showing up at her window. stopped looking at her for more than half a second at a time which honestly hurt worse than if he’d just been angry.
because this felt deliberate like rafe had decided she was something dangerous now.
by friday, she was furious. she found him behind the gym after school sitting on the hood of his truck smoking a cigarette badly. he looked up when he heard her footsteps.
and for one split second relief crossed his face. raw and immediate then it vanished replaced by that careless expression he’d been practicing lately. “you stalking me now?”
she stopped in front of him. “what is your problem?”
he took another drag from the cigarette even though he clearly didn’t know how. “don’t have one.”
“rafe.”
“what?”
“you kissed me and then started acting like i died.”
his jaw tightened immediately. there. that panic underneath him now. “keep your voice down.”
“why?”
“because.”
“because why?”
he jumped off the hood abruptly. “can you stop doing that?”
“doing what?”
“making everything into a thing.”
she stared at him in disbelief. “you kissed me.”
“yeah, and it was stupid.”
the words came too fast, too rehearsed like he’d been trying to convince himself all week.
anger flashed hot through her chest. “wow.”
“you know what i mean.”
“no actually, i don’t.”
rafe scrubbed a hand over his face aggressively. he looked exhausted with those dark circles beneath his eyes, shoulders tense like he hadn’t slept properly in days. “i just…” he exhaled sharply. “i can’t do this with you.”
“do what?”
“this.”
he gestured wildly between them. helpful. “you’re my best friend.”
the sentence should’ve sounded sweet. instead it landed like a warning.
“and?” she asked quietly.
rafe looked at her then and suddenly all the anger drained out of his face, leaving behind something much worse: fear. “and people leave when i fuck things up.”
her breath caught. because there it was.
the real reason. not embarrassment and not regret. terror. pure terrified certainty that if he loved her the wrong way, he’d lose her completely.
“rafe—”
“don’t.” his voice cracked slightly. he looked away immediately afterward, ashamed of it. “i can’t lose you too.”
too. the smallest word possible and yet still devastating. she swallowed hard. “you’re not going to.”
“you don’t know that.”
“i do.”
“how?”
because i stay. because i always stay. because i think i would let you break my heart forever if it meant you kept looking at me like that. instead she whispered: “because i’m here.”
rafe’s expression twisted painfully. for one dangerous second, she thought he might kiss her again. he stepped closer instinctively, eyes dropping to her mouth.
then somebody laughed nearby from the parking lot. the moment shattered instantly. rafe stepped back so fast it almost looked violent. walls up again. “forget it.”
she felt something inside her snap. “stop saying that.”
his eyes flashed. “saying what?”
“forget it. nothing. doesn’t matter.” her voice shook now despite trying to stop it. “you do all this shit and then act like i imagined it.”
“i’m trying to fix it.”
“fix what?”
“us.”
she laughed then. because suddenly she understood something awful: rafe thought loving her would destroy everything and he was so terrified of becoming the kind of person who ruined her that he was ruining her anyway.
“you know what?” she said quietly. “you’re becoming kinda mean.”
silence. wrong thing to say. immediately she knew it. rafe went completely still. his face emptied in that terrifying way he had now sometimes — all emotion disappearing at once instead of exploding outward. “mean?”
she hesitated but she was already here now. “yeah.”
his tongue pressed hard against the inside of his cheek. “right.”
“i didn’t mean that —”
“no, it’s fine.” except it very obviously wasn’t fine because suddenly he looked exactly like the little boy sitting on the dock asking if something was wrong with him. only now he was older and angrier and better at hiding the wound. “that’s what everybody thinks anyway.”
her stomach dropped. “rafe, that’s not what i said.”
“close enough.”
he grabbed his backpack roughly off the ground. she reached for his wrist instinctively. “wait.”
rafe froze. her fingers wrapped around his skin felt too familiar now. too intimate after the kiss. for a second neither of them moved and then quietly, without looking at her, he said: “you know the worst part?”
her throat tightened. “what?”
his laugh came out hollow. “i was actually trying really hard to be good for you.”
and somehow that hurt more than anything else he could’ve said. because if this was rafe trying his hardest what would happen when he stopped trying altogether?
they stopped talking in november. not all at once because that would’ve been easier. instead it happened slowly enough to feel like dying by inches.
first came the distance. missed calls. shorter conversations. days passing without seeing each other. then came avoidance. if she walked into a room, rafe found a reason to leave it. if she sat beside him in class, he suddenly needed to talk to someone else.
the absolute worst part was that she knew he was doing it on purpose because every now and then she’d catch him looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice and he always looked wrecked like avoiding her hurt him too.
he just kept doing it anyway. by fifteen, people started talking about rafe differently. not: “ward cameron’s son.” not: “that rich blond kid.” instead:
“did you hear what rafe did?”
“apparently he got suspended again.”
“he was wasted at the boneyard.”
“he punched somebody.”
“he hooked up with—”
his reputation arrived in rooms before he did now. and rafe leaned into it viciously. he started partying older, drinking harder, smiling meaner.
girls loved him. boys followed him around like satellites hoping some of the danger rubbed off. teachers gave up trying to “reach” him. even ward stopped pretending disappointment would fix anything.
sometimes she’d see rafe at parties surrounded by people and somehow looking lonelier than he ever had as a child. that hurt most because she remembered the little boy who used to wait by her driveway barefoot asking if she wanted to look for crabs on the beach.
and now he looked at people like he was daring them to leave first.
they officially stopped speaking after graduation. not because of a fight because by then they barely knew how.
she saw him once that summer at a gas station near figure eight. he leaned against a motorcycle smoking with two frat-looking guys beside him.
all broad shoulders now, gold chain around his neck, sunglasses hiding half his face. beautiful in a way that almost made her angry. he noticed her immediately.
of course he did. rafe always noticed her immediately. for one horrible second, everything around them seemed to pause. she saw it happen in real time: the old instinct.
his body straightening slightly. eyes tracking her automatically. that microscopic softening in his face.
then his friends said something and rafe smirked. just like that the wall slammed back into place. she looked away first. he never called after her. that night she cried so hard she made herself sick.
three years later, she saw him again and it felt like getting hit by a fucking monster truck.
unc chapel hill was crawling with boys exactly like rafe cameron. rich, loud, drunk on inherited money and cheap beer except none of them were actually like rafe because nobody else walked into rooms carrying that much destruction inside them.
the party was already packed by the time she arrived. music shaking the floors, girls in tiny dresses stumbling through crowds, frat boys yelling over pong tables.
she almost left immediately. until someone shouted: “yo, cameron!”
and suddenly every nerve in her body lit on fire. she turned before she could stop herself and there he was. older. god. older.
twenty-one looked devastating on rafe. his body had fully grown into violence now. broad chest beneath a half-unbuttoned polo, thick forearms veined from lifting, rings glinting beneath red solo cup light.
his hair was shorter. his jaw sharper. his eyes colder and people moved around him differently. carefully like they sensed something unstable underneath all the charm.
girls touched him constantly. guys laughed too hard at his jokes.
someone handed him another drink before he even finished the first.
he looked like every frat fantasy rolled into one and also like somebody moments away from setting himself on fire.
then he saw her. everything stopped. not around them. just inside him. she watched it happen. the shift.
his smile fading slowly. eyes locking onto hers across the crowded room. that terrifying intensity she remembered too well crawling back instantly.
for one second, one tiny awful second, he looked exactly like fourteen again. wrecked, hopeful and fucking terrified. then one of the girls hanging off his arm whispered something in his ear and frat-boy rafe came back immediately.
he grinned lazily. looked away first like she meant nothing. that should’ve hurt less after all these years. instead it felt surgical. she made it exactly forty minutes before he cornered her in the kitchen.
of course he did because rafe had always found her eventually. always.
“well,” he drawled, leaning against the counter beside her, “this is fuckin’ weird.”
his voice had deepened. rough now. whiskey-soaked around the edges. she refused to look at him directly. “hi, rafe.”
“that all i get?”
finally she glanced over. big mistake. he was even prettier up close which honestly felt unfair considering the emotional damage. his nose slightly crooked now from fights, faint scar near his chin, expensive cologne mixed with alcohol and smoke.
he looked like every bad decision a girl could make wrapped into one person and he was staring at her like he wanted to devour her alive. “what do you want me to say?” she asked quietly.
something flickered across his face. hurt maybe that was gone instantly.
“damn.” he laughed under his breath. “still mean to me, huh?”
the audacity nearly made her dizzy. “you stopped talking to me for three years.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he took a long sip from his drink. then: “you stopped trying.”
that landed directly between her ribs because the worst part was part of her still carried guilt for it. for eventually getting tired. for letting him go. for not fighting harder against the tide dragging him under.
rafe watched her expression carefully. always observant underneath the chaos. always smarter than people realized. “there she is,” he murmured softly.
“what?”
“that look.”
her throat tightened because suddenly he sounded familiar again. not frat rafe. not party rafe. her rafe. the boy who used to know every emotion crossing her face before she said a word.
“you still do that thing,” he said quietly.
“what thing?”
“look at me like you’re mourning somebody.”
silence. the music downstairs pounded violently through the floorboards. neither of them moved.
rafe watched her for a long moment.
frat house lights flickered gold across his face. music thundered downstairs. people laughed somewhere beyond the kitchen like the world wasn’t ending quietly between them.
then he smiled, wrong around the edges. “you keep looking at me like you’re mourning somebody,” he said softly. her throat tightened. rafe’s laugh came out hollow. “you keep looking for the kid i used to be, but i think he stopped existing a long time ago.”
silence pressed hard between them. he took another sip from his drink without breaking eye contact. “you wanna know the fucked up part?” he asked quietly. “i think i became exactly what everybody expected.”
the words hit like bruises.
because standing in front of her was every version of rafe at once: the lonely little boy. the angry teenager. the beautiful disaster everybody wanted pieces of and somehow none of them looked happy.
“everybody here thinks i’m having fun,” he continued, voice rough now. “you’re the only one looking at me like you can tell i’m drowning.”
her chest physically hurt. rafe swallowed hard before laughing again under his breath. “i spent three years trying to become somebody who wouldn’t miss you this much.” another pause. “didn’t take.”
she looked away first because she couldn’t breathe correctly anymore. and quietly — so quietly she almost missed it — he admitted: “i think losing you made me meaner. i think,” rafe said slowly, eyes glassy beneath frat house lights, “you’re the only person who notices how bad i got.”
You’d been 3 months into your relationship when Toji Fushiguro finally realized that you, for some odd reason, loved letting idiots fuck you.
It must’ve been where that very minuscule masochism kink came from. Had to be.
He’d noticed the way you’d get shocked when he went to pay for— well- everything. Didn’t matter if he lost a shit ton from gambling and losing that day, didn’t matter if you went over your own set budget, didn’t matter that you didn’t ask because you didn’t want to look money hungry or if you quickly pulled out your card and paid. He’s sending $300 to you to make up for it. The man. Was going. To pay.
Toji also noticed the way you’d shy away when you realized he was actually listening to the words that came out of your mouth. Informing you that he hated that coworker of Sherl just a little bit more than you did. Plainly telling you ‘no’, he didn’t just want to see just your hair bone straight- he wanted to see your curly hair that framed your face (when you wanted to of course) and that he thought you would look good with any hair color not just the jet black. Or when you only went to make food that he liked,
“But this is what my ex-“
“—Mama, what do you really wanna eat? Tell me or we’ll both starve tonight.”
Truthfully, it irritated the fuck out of the man.
He didn’t get it, how someone so precious got treated like shit on multiple occasions. He kept reminding himself that you weren’t the problem, those fucking dick wads were.
But the irritation jumped back out when you rode him. He knew after that first time (just a week ago) that those fucking idiots didn’t know what the fuck to do with you. He’d cock his eyebrow up at you because he simply couldn’t hide the vexation of it all.
“You don’t like it Toj?” Your voice was hoarse, curls falling over your face, a pout forming.
It was clear the way you moved your hips back and forth, held yourself and didn’t use him for leverage, you rode your ex’s to get them off and nothing more.
More sins against God.
There had to be a scripture about it somewhere, “Never let thou spouse ride-ith you in cowgirl without her cumming.” Or something— the man didn’t know. He knew for a fact, only a bitch would never let a woman cum while she’s riding him.
“Toji? ‘M sorry, it must not be good.” You let out a shaky breath, trying to relax, not be too touchy. “ ‘S just harder cause you’re so… so big. ‘Nd I- fuck- mmm- don’t think I’ve ever had time to relax like this. I must be takin too long.”
Shit, you frowned, big brown puppy eyes looking down at the green eyed monster and his heart ached. He nuzzled his head in the crook of your neck, his poor pretty baby. Sweet doll, don’t you worry your little head. Your Toji would fix this little problem tonight.
And when you two were done, he’d beat the fucking breaks out of each and every single one your exes.
It would cleanse the soul.
“ ‘S okay baby, yer doin good. Need you to relax f’me. Want you to take a little bit more though, hm? You can take it, right? You’re a good girl.”
You bit your lip, nodding in agreement.
Such a good girl. Toji’s sweet ‘nd good girl.
Tojis hands pulled you closer. “How do I get ya to relax then? Can you tell me?” You felt your cheeks heat up, shaking your head and attempting to hide yourself in his neck. But Toji kept you still, playfully bumping your foreheads together with a chuckle.
“Let’s find out then,” His hands wandered, up and down your sides, then one staying at the small of your back, the other making its way to your pretty tit in his hand. Slowly massaging it in his palm. “Maybe you like it here?”
You whimpered in his mouth and Tojis scar moved upward in amusement, green eyes low. He left a trail of kiss from your cute cheeks, down to your jaw. “Or here?” Down to your neck, taking a few nibblies here and there. “Or here?”
You let out a soft moan, finally nodding your head.
“Words, mama.” He was stern but you felt the grin against your neck.
“T-there feels— feels so nice Toj.” The man hummed at your words, being sure to praise you with an array of kisses and hickeys for the world to see tomorrow on your neck.
“I-I can move now?” You asked. You felt so full with what he was giving you, but you felt so good with every little kiss the aching tip and veins of his member gave to your walls.
“Course doll.” He enterwinted your fingers, “Gotta take it nice ‘nd slow baby, don’t gotta go fast.”
You gulped, gradually lifting yourself up and down and rocking your hips back and forth, then repeating the motion. Your hands left his large ones, starting to use his shoulders as leverage, “There you go ma, there you fuckin go.”
He hissed, you were a god damn waterfall down there. Toji didn’t even know how the fuck you were still managing to keep him insider everytime you’d move up so just the tip was in, and slamming back down. When you tried to go faster a large calloused hand came down to your ass.
“B-but Tojiii,” you whined, slowly swiveling your hips one time to get a curse out of him. “Wanna make you feel good too.”
“ ‘Nd I ‘ppreciate Doll, I do. You feel so fuckin good too ma, but it’s not about me tonight, ‘s about you. Need you to really feel it deep in your pretty pussy.” He gave you a few thrusts, matching your rhythm creating the most beautiful smack smack smack your bedroom has ever heard.
“Take what you need babygirl.”
Toji had a way with words, he’d gotten a pornographic moan from it alone. Your nails dug into his shoulders, the meat of your thighs jiggling every time you came down. Slick drenching Toji’s cock, your thighs were burning but you kept moving. Chasing your high with every bounce on his fat fuck.
“Goooood girl, now you got it doll.”
“I can— I can take more Toji.” You stammered out.
“I’d loooove that sweetheart— shit ma- but not tonight. Ngh— This is just enough.”
“But—“
“-Aht,” he grumbled, helping you move your hips as you got just a tad too slow for his liking, “don’t bite more than you can chew. Come on, you can make yourself and your boyfriend cum, can’t you?”
He didn’t have to tell you twice, you were grinding and slamming yourself down what you could take as hard as ever getting a loud from Toji. You were such a good and fast leaner, the man would have to keep you. Train you to do other things, soon enough you’d be able to take all of him. You were fucking pulsing like a over worked heartbeat around him as a wave of emotions smacked you over the head, a string of fuck fuck fuck and Toji Toji Toji leaving your mouth.
The man growled, giving your ass a few harsh smacks as he rapidly thrust into you. You never knew when you were cumming so you never vocalized it.
You’d work on that too.
Quickly pulling out, spurts of his cum hit your stomach. You both were panting messes, Toji’s pink lips meeting your temple, then your soft full lips.
Summary: After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)
Word Count: 2.4k+
A/N & Disclaimer: This is a special addition to this series due to my 1k followers event based off the Character Questionnaire game from this ask! It has a significant time skip and is not part of the main chapters (at least not for a longggg time). The next update to this AU will go back to when they are not married, not expecting babies, etc.
Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist
You didn’t mean to keep it from him.
You chalked the fatigue up to stress. The soreness? A bad night’s sleep. The way your stomach flipped at the smell of coffee one morning and you nearly cried because of a stupid dog commercial? Well… okay, that was harder to explain.
But still, you told yourself it was a fluke. A weird week. Hormones, maybe. You didn’t want to worry Bucky. Not when things had been so peaceful lately with quiet mornings curled together in bed, more meals together, and late-night walks with his hand brushing yours. You didn’t want to ruin it with paranoia.
Still, Bucky noticed. Of course he did.
You’d catch him watching you, brow furrowed slightly like he was running numbers in his head. When you started getting lightheaded every time you stood up too fast, he stopped letting you carry anything heavier than a throw pillow. You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t say much, just kept that steady gaze on you like he was trying to crack a code you hadn’t realized you were writing.
You weren’t hiding what was going on for some grand plan or secret rebellion. It was fear. And maybe… maybe a little bit of disbelief. If you didn’t say it out loud, if you didn’t name it, then maybe you could keep everything as it was. Simple, safe, and normal.
So you smiled through the nausea, blamed the headaches on allergies, and quietly swapped your morning coffee for tea when Bucky wasn’t looking. You were careful. You hid your vitamins behind the cereal boxes and kept the pregnancy test buried under old wash clothes and unused toiletries in the very back of the bathroom drawer.
You were good at pretending, but Bucky was better at watching.
He saw the way you flinched from certain smells, the way your body gravitated toward the couch faster than usual after a long day, or the way your hand went protectively to your stomach whenever you thought no one was looking.
And then came the mood swings.
You were usually patient, especially with him, but one night you snapped at Bucky for leaving a dish in the sink. He didn’t even argue, just tilted his head, studying you quietly as you stormed out of the room like your heart was on fire.
He found you in the bedroom twenty minutes later curled into a ball, blanket pulled over your face like you could hide from the world.
“Wanna talk?” He asked, voice soft.
You didn’t answer, just shook your head.
He didn’t press. He just sat beside the bed quietly until you fell asleep.
And still… you didn’t tell him.
You wanted to be sure. You wanted time to think. You wanted to hold onto the tiny, flickering hope for just a little longer, uninterrupted.
So you waited and you planned.
One quiet morning, when Bucky left early for a training session, you slipped into the bathroom with shaking hands and another test clenched tight in your fist. The mirror showed a pale version of yourself, someone who was nervous, uncertain, and blinking too fast.
You followed the instructions with breathless precision and set the test on the counter like it might explode.
Then you waited. Two minutes. You could survive two minutes.
Except you didn’t feel like you were surviving. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once, like the air had turned to static and your bones were filled with buzzing dread. Your gaze shifted to the drawer where the old tests were.
Maybe they were faulty or glitched, maybe even expired. Maybe this was just stress, or a weird shift in your cycle. Maybe your body was playing tricks.
You hoped so.
Because your hands were shaking, your mouth was dry, and your head kept looping the same thought like it was stuck on a scratched record:
You still haven’t told Bucky.
The subject of kids had never come up, not seriously. There were no “what-ifs,” no late-night talks about futures with cribs or lullabies. You didn’t know if he even wanted them. What if he didn’t? What if the idea of a baby scared him and pushed him back into memories too dark to name?
Your stomach twisted. Not from nausea, though that hadn’t exactly eased, but from the gut-deep fear that this one thing, this one tiny life-altering truth might shift everything between you. Bucky loved you. That wasn’t in question. He told you in every touch, every breath, and every stupid middle-of-the-night trip for snacks you hadn’t even realized you were craving.
But love didn’t always mean ready.
And the last thing you wanted was to see anger on his face. Or worse, disappointment. Cold, quiet regret. A sharp flinch that said I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t want this. A withdrawal.
And when the lines appeared clear, certain, and real, your stomach dropped. You slid down onto the cool tile floor and stared because it was happening. You were pregnant, no doubts about it. And Bucky didn’t know.
You stayed in the bathroom longer than you meant to. Long enough that, when the front door creaked open, you jumped, heart lodging in your throat. Bucky’s voice echoed softly down the hall.
“Sweetheart? I forgot my gloves–”
Panic surged through you. You shoved the test back in its box and crammed it under the sink, slamming the cabinet door closed, standing back up just as Bucky rounded the corner into the hallway.
He paused when he saw you, your wet eyes, tense shoulders, and breath caught halfway to a sob.
You really weren’t as convincing as you thought.
“…You okay?” He asked gently, blue eyes narrowing with something deeper than concern. “You look… pale.”
You forced a smile that hurt. “Just tired.”
He studied you like he didn’t quite believe you, then stepped forward and raised a hand to your forehead. His touch was careful, the brush of his fingers cool against your skin.
“No fever,” He murmured. “But your heart’s racing.”
“I said I’m fine,” You said a little too fast.
That look came over him again. The one that meant he was filing something away, mentally circling something he couldn’t yet name.
“…Alright,” He sighed softly. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go fainting on me.”
You nodded, lips pressed tight.
He kissed the top of your head before heading back out the door, but you could feel the weight of his concern even after it shut behind him.
He knew something was going on. He just didn’t know what. Not yet.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Bucky didn’t ask what was wrong, but he made it impossible for you not to notice that he knew.
It was in the subtle things. You reached for the car keys one morning and found one of his men already standing by the door, your coat in hand, saying, “Mr. Barnes has requested I drive you.”
When you went to brew coffee, there was suddenly a mug of herbal tea beside your usual spot, caffeine-free, floral, and warm.
“I just thought you might want something gentler,” He said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the kettle like he hadn’t spent ten minutes researching safe teas and had them delivered the day of.
You told yourself it was coincidence, that you weren’t being obvious, that he couldn’t possibly know.
But then you caught him watching you when you sat on the couch and curled your arms around your stomach, something you did more and more without thinking. He didn’t comment, just gave you that look. That look.
Gentle. Patient. Heartbreaking.
And you knew. He was waiting. He’d already figured it out.
You came home one evening quite late, exhausted and foggy with emotion. Bucky had left a blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and warm. The fireplace was already lit. There was soup in the kitchen made by Nico. Something mild, simple, and exactly what your stomach could handle lately. He didn’t greet you at the door, didn’t hover. Just let you ease into the silence of the house as he was sat on the couch with a discarded book, staring patiently.
He was giving you a choice.
“Thought you were busy, didn’t think you’d be down here,” You murmured.
“Didn’t think you’d be home so late,” He answered, and you caught the quiet worry behind the words.
You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you saying anything for a long time. The crackling of the fire filling the space.
Then he asked, so quietly it nearly broke you, “You gonna tell me?”
Your breath caught.
“I mean… when you’re ready,” He added quickly. “I’m not going to force it out of you. I just…”
He paused, looking down at his hands, then up at you again.
“I just want you to know I already got you. No matter what it is.”
Your eyes stung. You didn’t say it yet. Not out loud.
But your hand found his, fingers weaving slow and certain. Holding on.
And Bucky didn’t push. He just laced your fingers together and waited with you.
The fateful day happened on a Tuesday.
Not a dramatic day. Not a falling-apart kind of day. Just… a Tuesday. The kind where your lunch didn’t settle right and everything felt a little too loud.
Bucky had been trailing the edges of your space again. Not smothering, just there. Like gravity that’s always near, always steady.
He hadn’t asked again, but he left things: crackers in your bag, your favorite fuzzy socks on the bed, or a bottle of ginger ale already opened with the fizz just right. You didn’t have to tell him. Somehow, Bucky knew the shape of your day before you could say it.
And maybe that’s what broke you.
Because when he found you that evening, curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, blanket half-dragged over your lap and your hands clutched tight in your sleeves; you looked up, met his worried blue eyes, and said it.
“James,” You whispered, voice wrecked and tired.
His whole body went still, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”
“I’m pregnant.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Bucky exhaled, slow and trembling, like you’d cracked something open in his chest.
“I know,” He said gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of you. “I figured.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
His hands came up to rest on your knees, tentative and warm. “Because I didn’t want to take it from you.”
You blinked. “Take what?”
“The chance to say ii, to let it be yours first.” His voice cracked, quiet and tender. “You needed to hold it for a while before sharing it. I get that.”
You stared at him, lip trembling. “Aren’t you mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”
“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I was never gonna be mad.”
You broke then as your sobs spilled out and your hands trembled. Bucky gathered you close without a second thought. He rocked you gently, murmuring things you didn’t catch.
When your tears slowed, and your breathing steadied, he kissed the side of your head and said quietly, “We’re gonna be okay. All three of us.”
You nodded into his shoulder, still shaking. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” He whispered, pulling the blanket around both of you. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, the fear didn’t feel so overwhelming.
But then it started the day after you told him.
At first, it was subtle. Bucky adjusted your car seat a little further back and mumbled something about “spinal alignment.” Then he replaced your shampoo with one that had “better prenatal safety ratings,” and you realized it was happening.
By the end of the week, your world had shifted.
You tried to carry a grocery bag inside one afternoon and he blinked like you’d committed a war crime.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping?”
“Not anymore, you’re not.”
From that moment on, you were banned. From lifting, from bending, from anything Bucky Barnes decided was “unnecessary effort” for a person growing a child.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
He didn’t argue. He just took the bag from your hands, scooped you up bridal-style, and carried you inside like you weighed less than a breath, ordering his staff to handle the rest of the groceries.
From then on, it only got more apparent how determined he was to provide nothing but the best for you.
If you so much as shifted in bed at 3 a.m., he was up. Padding to the kitchen in his sweats, eyes still half-shut, and grabbing pickle chips, orange slices, or whatever weird craving your body decided it had to have. You once whispered “s’mores” at 2:47 a.m. and woke up to him standing over you with a plate of them.
You weren’t allowed to open doors. You weren’t allowed to walk into any building first; he always went in first, eyes scanning, and body subtly angled in front of yours like a living shield.
You tried to argue once. “James, you can’t possibly keep doing this every single time we go somewhere–”
“I can and I will,” He said simply, “I know what this world’s like. I’ve seen too much. No one gets near you unless I say so.”
He meant it. No one raised their voice around you. No one touched you. People who even looked at you wrong got a tight-lipped stare that made them suddenly remember an urgent reason to be elsewhere.
Sam called him “feral.” Nat called him “a full-time bodyguard with a nesting complex.” You just called him yours.
And under all the sharp edges was softness.
Warm hands rubbing your lower back when it ached, whispered promises to your child, and bought an overly-excessive amount of books about parenting, swaddling, and sleep schedules. He helped you build baby furniture in the middle of the night when insomnia hit you and even hand-painted the tiny mural on the nursery wall, stars and constellations, soft and glowing.
He looked at you nowadays like he couldn’t believe he got this lucky. Like it terrified him, grounded him, and gave him purpose all at once.
And when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and then lower to the swell of your stomach, you knew what he meant without words.
You and the baby were his everything now and he’d do anything to protect you both.
