summary: after breaking up with your boyfriend because he thought you were too “old school”, you meet an older man at a bar who seems very interested.
a/n: first rafe fic!! join the taglist <3
🏷️: @downbadwellread
the breakup should have hurt more than it did.
instead, you mostly just felt annoyed.
you sat alone in your favorite little diner the morning after, stirring cream into your coffee while replaying the argument over and over again. your ex had spent nearly twenty minutes listing all the reasons you were “too much.” apparently liking handwritten letters instead of texts was too much. wearing dresses instead of leggings was too much. wanting flowers for no reason other than the fact they were pretty was too much. wanting a man to actually plan dates instead of asking what you wanted to do every single weekend was too much.
“you’re like a fifty-year-old woman trapped in a twenty-something’s body,” he’d snapped.
and honestly?
good.
if having standards made you old-fashioned, then so be it.
the problem was that hearing it from someone you’d spent nearly two years loving still left an ugly ache in your chest. it followed you through the rest of the week until friday night found you sitting at a dimly lit bar downtown, nursing a cocktail you barely touched while a jazz record crackled softly through the speakers overhead. the place was exactly your style. dark wood, amber lighting, old music, actual conversation instead of people screaming over club music. most people your age hated it.
you loved it.
which was why you didn’t immediately notice the man watching you.
he was sitting several stools away at first, broad shoulders filling out a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. older. definitely older. not old, but mature in a way that made every man in their twenties suddenly seem unfinished. his dark blond hair was slightly messy, a few strands falling across his forehead, and there was something effortlessly confident about him. no peacocking. no trying too hard. just the quiet certainty of a man comfortable in his own skin.
you caught him looking and quickly glanced away.
then looked back.
he was still looking.
and smiling.
heat crawled up your neck.
a few minutes later, he appeared beside you.
“you’ve been staring into that drink for fifteen minutes,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “starting to think you don’t actually like it.”
you laughed before you could stop yourself.
“maybe i don’t.”
“then why keep drinking it?”
“because i paid fourteen dollars for it.”
his grin widened immediately.
“that’s a fair answer.”
you found yourself smiling too.
the conversation came easier than it should have. his name was rafe. he was older than you by more than a decade, owned several businesses, had a daughter who apparently thought she ran his entire life, and possessed the kind of confidence that made you want to keep listening whenever he spoke. unlike every guy you’d dated recently, he didn’t spend the entire conversation talking about himself. he asked questions. remembered your answers. actually listened.
and when you casually mentioned your breakup, his eyebrow lifted.
“let me guess,” he said.
you laughed. “go ahead.”
“he thought you expected too much.”
your eyes widened.
“how did you know that?”
“because you’re sitting in a dress from another decade drinking a cocktail in a jazz bar.” amusement danced across his face. “a man would’ve had to be blind not to realize you appreciate effort.”
the simple statement hit harder than it should have.
you stared at him for a moment.
rafe noticed.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“that’s a lie.”
you rolled your eyes.
“it’s just…” you hesitated. “he used to call me high maintenance.”
rafe’s expression changed immediately.
not angry.
not shocked.
just confused.
“wanting effort isn’t high maintenance.”
your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“apparently it is.”
he shook his head.
“no. wanting expensive gifts for no reason is high maintenance. wanting a man to respect you enough to open a door isn’t.” his gaze softened slightly. “sounds like he was lazy.”
you laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink.
“you don’t even know him.”
“don’t need to.”
for the first time all week, the ache in your chest eased.
the night stretched on around you. people came and went. glasses clinked. music drifted through the room. somehow neither of you noticed how much time had passed until the bartender announced last call.
rafe glanced at his watch and winced.
“well.”
“well.”
neither of you moved.
which made both of you laugh.
when you finally stood, he was already reaching for your coat before you could grab it yourself.
another small thing.
another thing nobody your age ever seemed to do anymore.
outside, the summer air was warm and heavy. city lights reflected off the pavement from an earlier rainstorm, and for a moment neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
“can i ask you something?” rafe said.
you nodded.
“how old are you?”
“21.” you told him.
his eyebrows rose slightly.
“and you really like all that old-fashioned stuff?”
“i really do.”
a slow smile spread across his face.
“good.”
“good?”
“because i do too.”
your heart betrayed you by fluttering immediately.
rafe noticed.
of course he noticed.
he stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you could smell his cologne.
clean. expensive. comforting.
“i know we just met,” he said quietly, “but i’d like to take you to dinner.”
your breath caught.
“like a date?”
“yes, sweetheart.” his smile turned softer. “like a date.”
the nickname should have felt presumptuous.
instead it made your stomach flip.
you smiled before you could stop yourself.
“you know, most people ask for my number first.”
“i’m old school.”
that made you laugh again.
and when he offered his arm for you to take as he walked you toward your car, you slipped your hand through it without hesitation, realizing that maybe your ex had been right about one thing.
you were old-fashioned.
you just hadn’t been waiting for a younger man to appreciate it.
by the fourth date, you had stopped wondering whether rafe was simply putting on an act.
he wasn’t.
he still arrived early every single time. he still walked around to open your car door before you even had the chance to reach for the handle. he still brought flowers, never because he thought he had to, but because, as he’d put it, “they made me think of you.” they were never extravagant bouquets either. daisies one week because he’d remembered you saying they reminded you of summers with your grandmother. pale pink roses another because he’d overheard you admiring them while passing a florist.
he listened.
really listened.
and somehow, that was the thing that made you fall the hardest.
that friday evening had been simple. dinner at a quiet italian restaurant tucked away from the busy streets, followed by a slow walk through downtown while the storefront lights reflected across the sidewalks. he’d held your hand almost the entire time, his thumb lazily brushing over your knuckles as the two of you wandered without much of a destination. neither of you seemed interested in rushing the night to an end.
eventually, you found yourselves back at his house.
it was beautiful without being flashy. warm wood floors, shelves lined with framed photographs, the faint scent of vanilla and cedar lingering in the air. unlike the sleek bachelor apartments you’d seen before, this place looked lived in. comfortable. like a home instead of a showroom.
your eyes wandered toward a picture sitting on the mantle.
a little girl with sandy blond curls sat on rafe’s shoulders at what looked like the beach, both of them laughing so hard neither had noticed the camera.
your smile softened.
“she’s adorable.”
rafe looked over.
his entire expression changed.
the confident businessman disappeared, replaced by something much gentler.
“that’s emma.”
he walked over and picked up the frame almost instinctively.
“she’s eight.”
“she looks just like you.”
he chuckled.
“everyone says that.” he studied the picture for another second before setting it back down carefully. “thankfully she got her mom’s personality.”
“i doubt that.”
“trust me.”
you laughed quietly.
“where is she tonight?”
“with her mom.” he leaned against the fireplace, folding his arms. “we split custody.”
there wasn’t bitterness in his voice.
just acceptance.
you nodded.
“was it… hard?”
his eyes found yours.
“the divorce?”
“yeah.”
he was quiet for a long moment.
“harder than i ever expected.”
you sat beside him on the couch, giving him space to decide how much he wanted to say.
after another few seconds, he continued.
“we got married young. thought love would fix everything.” he smiled to himself, though there wasn’t much happiness behind it. “turns out love doesn’t solve poor communication.”
you listened without interrupting.
“we weren’t bad people,” he said. “we just stopped being good for each other.”
“do you still talk?”
“for emma.” he nodded. “and honestly… we’re better parents now than we ever were spouses.”
there was something incredibly mature about the way he spoke.
no insults.
no blaming.
just honesty.
“she’s lucky.”
his eyebrows lifted.
“emma.”
you smiled.
“she has parents who clearly love her enough to put her first.”
for a second, rafe simply looked at you.
then he smiled in that quiet way he’d started doing whenever you said something that surprised him.
“you’re something else.”
heat crept into your cheeks.
before you could respond, he reached over, gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
his fingers lingered for only a second.
long enough for your heart to speed up.
“can i kiss you?” he asked softly.
you smiled.
“yes.”
his hand rested lightly against your jaw as he leaned in, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to.
instead, you met him halfway.
the kiss was slow.
careful.
nothing rushed.
nothing demanding.
just warm lips against yours and the quiet realization that no one had ever kissed you like they actually wanted to savor the moment.
when you finally pulled back, your forehead rested lightly against his.
you took a steadying breath.
“there’s… something i should probably tell you.”
he immediately leaned back enough to look at you
his expression never changed.
never became impatient.
“go ahead.”
your hands twisted together nervously in your lap.
“i’m a virgin.”
you watched carefully for his reaction.
there wasn’t one.
he simply waited.
“and…” you swallowed. “i’m waiting until i’m married.”
silence settled between you.
for half a second, every insecurity your ex had ever planted threatened to come rushing back.
then rafe smiled.
a genuine one.
“okay.”
you blinked.
“…okay?”
“okay.”
he shrugged lightly, like you’d just told him your favorite color.
“that’s your decision.”
you stared at him.
“that’s it?”
he looked almost confused.
“what else would there be?”
“most people…”
“i’m not most people.”
his voice remained calm.
“if that’s something that’s important to you, then it’s important to me too.”
your shoulders relaxed so quickly you hadn’t even realized you’d been tense.
“you’re not disappointed?”
he reached for your hand.
“i asked you out because i like spending time with you.” his thumb traced slow circles across your skin. “not because i expected anything from you.”
your eyes began to sting.
he noticed immediately.
“hey.”
he smiled gently.
“don’t cry.”
you laughed through the embarrassing lump in your throat.
“i’m trying not to.”
“good.”
he squeezed your hand once.
“because i’d rather spend tonight learning more about you.”
you smiled.
“that’s funny.”
“why?”
“i was actually hoping to learn more about you.”
he laughed quietly.
“careful.”
“why?”
“i’ve got thirty-eight years’ worth of stories.”
you settled farther into the couch beside him, your shoulder brushing his.
“good.”
he smiled as he looked over at you.
“it’s going to be a long night then.”
“i was hoping it would be.”
and for hours afterward, the two of you stayed curled up on the couch talking about everything that had made you who you were. childhood memories, embarrassing teenage stories, the first time he’d held emma in the hospital and realized nothing in his life would ever matter more than being her father, your grandmother teaching you how to bake pies from scratch, the music both of you loved, the places you still wanted to visit someday. somewhere around midnight, you realized the best part of falling for rafe wasn’t the flowers or the dates or even the way he kissed you.
