coming home from college with rafe and finding out you’re pregnant
(mr. & mrs. cameron throwback series) <- can be read alone
c/w .ᐟ.ᐟ heavy angst, drug use, alcohol, jealousy, harassment, robbery, physical assault, burning, blood mentioned, relationship conflict/fighting, pregnancy
10K words
The lights are too bright and the aisles too quiet, the whole situation unfamiliar, making it worse. You’re tired in a way sleep hasn’t fixed—hormonal and foggy, unsteady, like you can’t quite get your feet under you.
You blame it on finals, the early flight, the chaos of being in Rafe’s hometown. You blame it on everything except the one thing you refuse to say out loud.
Rafe stayed in the truck. He barely got it into park before two guys leaned out of their daddy’s car, shouting his name, recognition lighting their faces instantly.
“Cameron! Dude—no way you’re home!” They swallowed him whole, pulling him into conversation you were too far in your own head to process through the haze of your anxiety.
“Two minutes,” you whisper, squeezing his hand, excusing yourself from the impromptu class reunion—which is how you ended up here, alone, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floors, your head pounding as you drift past shelves.
Your period came… well, sort of—light and barely there. Enough to convince you it was real, but not enough for it to feel normal.
Again, you chant those three little words keeping you tethered: stress, travel, disruption. Nothing more. Nothing else. They swirl through your head so many times you almost believe them.
You stand in the aisle at the crossroads of what could be.
Your eyes drift to the right, to the pregnancy tests—every kind, every brand. Digital screens promising clarity beside cheap plastic sticks and expensive ones with words instead of lines, two-packs and five-packs all lined up together.
Your eyes sail to the left—feminine care. The kind that wouldn’t involve anything more than a week of inconvenience, an explanation for the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes right now.
You look up at the ceiling and blink a few times; the fluorescent bulbs leave your vision swimming, one warm, fat tear rolling down your cheek before you can stop it.
Your fingers hover for half a second before you reach out and grab a pregnancy test, then again for a box of tampons, the latter quickly covering the first like a shield, like someone is watching.
You’re just about to turn the cart around when another cart rolls to a stop beside you, making you gasp.
She’s wearing a matching pink yoga set, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Her wedding ring sits heavy on her manicured finger, large enough to catch the shitty lights you took refuge in moments before.
A little boy clings to her thigh, maybe three or four; his face tucked into her leg. “She’s trash at her job, Jason,” she snaps as she reaches out without hesitation, practically pushing past you to grab the same pregnancy test you had hidden, tossing it in her basket. “I’m watching your kid. Buying my own pregnancy tests. Like what is this? This isn’t my responsibility.”
You slip past her, walking down another aisle, snagging a bottle of Advil off the shelf as her voice disappears toward the front. You take a deep breath, letting your heart slow for a moment, grabbing a bottle of water too before you make your way to the register as well.
She’s still on the phone when you reach the front, barking about how the woman you can only assume is her nanny doesn’t know how important it is that the celery be organic in her pressed juice— “Ma’am?” The girl at the register calls out. “Mrs?” She tries again. “Do you have a MyCare card?”
The blonde purses her lips, nose scrunching despite the preventative Botox enough to let her know she doesn’t have it and she doesn’t need it. The boy tightens his grip around her leg, pressing closer. The woman waves her AMEX in front of the register, not bothering with goodbyes.
When it’s finally your turn, the girl behind the counter looks up at you with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes—young, brunette, short hair pulled off her face in a neat ponytail; the name tag sitting lopsided and weathered.
“Find everything okay?” She asks softly, and you nod, your eyes drifting toward the door as she rings one item, then the next. She doesn’t react.
“Mhmm…”
“That’ll be $19.88.”
Your fingers tremble just slightly as you wave your card, the receipt ribboning out, the bag passed back to you like a weight in your grasp.
The doors whoosh open, bringing in the night air, carrying Rafe’s laugh with it, making your stomach sink. Those three words you were breathing through to keep your sanity shift into something different entirely. Rafe is so happy.
The truck is still running. Rafe’s back is pressed against the side, still deep in conversation with his old friends. His eyes meet yours and he smiles at you like he always does—a smile that says he’s better when you’re around. The weight of the bag feels even heavier than before.
It can wait.
“There she is,” he grins, pushing off the truck.
But before he can reach you, someone else gets there first— “Holy shit. Rafey?” She squeals, warm and familiar, a complete one-eighty from the woman inside. That nickname slipped her filler-filled lips like nails on a chalkboard—like she’s said his name a million times before. “How are you? You look amazing.”
Rafe blinks, stunned for a split second, embarrassment and guilt clouding his wide eyes, red heat creeping across his cheeks anyway.
He gives her a casual nod, stuffing his hand in his pocket, the other wrapping around your waist when you walk closer. “Been great,” he mumbles, clearing his throat when it comes out hoarse. “We’re—uh—we’re home for the holidays.”
The rock on her finger makes the corner of his lip quirk, eyes sliding to his buddy, catching to see if he caught the same thing, before returning to her. “You, uh…” Rafe gestures vaguely.
“Married?” She chirps. “This past fall,” she says, wincing. “Kaylor’s dad.”
“Kaylor?” Rafe asks as his eyes widen. “Like… your best friend Kaylor?”
“It’s a little complicated now. But, sure. Somethin’ like that—” And as those words leave her lips, a scream rips from the backseat.
“And, that’s—”
“His kid—Kaylor’s brother. My son, I guess.”
“You guess?” Rafe asks under his breath, like he dodged a bullet. “Congrats. To you and uh, Kaylor’s dad.”
“Oh fuck off,” she laughs and rolls her eyes, walking to the driver’s side. “Always a pleasure, Rafey.” The boys surrounding you try their best not to laugh but the chuckles squeak past their lips as her car rolls in reverse.
“Let’s get outta here,” Rafe mumbles under his breath as his buddies talk about their plans for the night, using that little exchange as your out, guiding you to the passenger’s side, promising the guys you’ll meet up with them later at Topper’s.
You shove the bag into your purse, quickly clicking your seatbelt, feeling your anxiety rise again when he looks over at you and smiles nervously. “Uh… Umm, what did you get in there, baby?” He asks, trying to distract you with a question but you’re thinking the same thing.
“Just some stuff I forgot—who was that?” The sentences topple over each other in a desperate move to shift the conversation away.
“Gwen,” he mutters, shaking his head as he looks through his rearview mirror, backing out of the spot. “We just—hooked up and shit. Nothin’—nothing serious or anything. I mean, you met her.”
“Her best friend's dad?” You gossip.
“Her best friend's dad,” he confirms, through a sigh. “More money than god. Can’t say I didn’t see it comin’.”
He pulls out of the lot without looking back, his hand quickly finding your thigh, the other twisting around the steering wheel. His jaw’s still tight from the encounter, muscles coiled tight like he can’t quite get comfortable, but the second your hand rests on top of his, his shoulders fall.
“You okay, baby?” He asks as his rough thumb traces gentle circles on your skin.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice cracking, making him double-take, your response spinning up his nerves once again. “She grabbed a pregnancy test,” you add, looking ahead at the dark road in front of you.
The reaction is instant, unfiltered, just like when he saw that ring on her finger—just like it was when he found out just who gave it to her.
“What?” He lets out a short laugh, like he heard you wrong. He exhales through his nose, already over it. “That’s fucking insane.”
His eyes narrow on the road, imagining it all, the look on his face making your stomach turn.
“At our age?” He continues. “With a kid already?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s just… dumb.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, agreeing softly but the reaction is doing nothing to balm your worry.
“I mean, what is she thinkin’, huh?” He rambles, words tumbling out in that loose, careless way he gets when he’s worked up but not invested. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you and you’re gonna—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Nah,” he says, easy. “Couldn’t be us.”
He drums his thumb against the steering wheel, irritation already dissipating, the music on the speakers filling the cab around you and the road hums beneath you.
He doesn’t notice the way your voice thins, your palms clammy, hands trembling in his, too focused on your reaction to running into her that he can’t see what’s happening right now—right beside him. How each word that leaves his lips haphazardly is nailing you like a shot to the heart.
“Just some Figure Eight bullshit,” he mumbles.
And you don’t say another word—not because you disagree, but because you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to unhear how easily he said it.
Music thumps through the walls, bass pounding in your head. The two of you barely made it through the front door of Top’s before you were pulled away, thrown in the middle of a group of his boys and their girls for the night, talking about college and life and everything in between. Just noise.
Kelce got to him first, grabbing his shoulders, smiling wickedly as he mutters something about weed and yayo. Topper swoops in right after, already pressing a drink into your hands, gesturing for the two of you to come to the living room.
You hang back, letting Rafe know you’re running to the restroom, disappearing down one of the many halls, putting space between you and everyone else, but you need to know…
You push open the bathroom door and lock it behind you, and everything stills.
Lowering yourself onto the closed toilet lid, you let your purse slip from your shoulder, the soft thud it makes against the marble floor sounding louder than it should, making you flinch. You breathe in through your nose and out your mouth, then again, trying to convince your body to slow down.
Your fingers drift toward the zipper, drawing it open, listening to the metal teeth splay. You could take the test right now—you could know. You could walk back out there with a peace of mind instead of panic. You could enjoy this moment with your fuckin’ boyfriend—the thought claws at your throat, stomach twisting in knots, the cold sweat on your skin making you tremble.
Your hand slips inside, grabbing the box—BANG. BANG. BANG.
The gasp punches from your chest; you scramble for the zipper of your purse, standing up quickly, the heavy wooden door rattling on its frame. “Come on!” A voice snaps from the other side, impatient and annoyed. “People gotta fuckin’ piss! No coke in the bathroom.”
“One sec!” You call back quickly, your voice coming out small and thin.
This is not the time. Not here. Not like this. Not with the music thumping through the walls and strangers pounding on the door and your chest aching.
When you unlock the door and step back into the hallway, pushing past the guy waiting impatiently, you start walking toward the noise. The bass hits your chest, the room tightening around you as you press back into the crowd.
And then you see him.
Rafe is sprawled on a couch, legs spread, glassy-eyed and laughing. His knee bounces quickly, grin stretched wide, his pupils robbing the blue from his eyes.
There’s a girl beside him, her tanned legs crossed, jean skirt riding up her bare thighs. She leans in close—too close for your liking.
Your eyes drift back to Rafe, rolling a hundred-dollar bill between his big fingers, white powder laid out in a small line on the glass-topped table.
He leans forward without hesitation, taking the bump, filling his nose with a sharp snort, his eyes lolling back before they pinch shut. The tension he was holding slips off him, his head rolling as if it’s working out the last bit of stress from his neck.
Your stomach sinks, not because it’s shocking—not that the two of you haven’t talked about what he has and hasn’t done before—but because it’s the first time he’s done it in front of you.
The warmth of the week in Miami evaporates instantly. That softer version of him—the drive, the kisses, the whispered I love you—feels suddenly far away. Rafe feels far away.
He still hasn’t seen you yet, his name right on the tip of your tongue as she rests her hand on his thigh, jealousy burning hot. She leans in further, slipping money into his hand, smiling like she’s sharing a secret.
Rafe finally comes to, glancing down at her, double-taking like he thought it was you for half a second before he realizes it isn’t. He shifts immediately, sliding down the couch and putting space between them. “You good?” He asks her.
She giggles and rolls her eyes, biting her lip as she nods, bleach-blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. “C’mon, Ray. Please?”
“What’s this?” He asks with a short, condescending laugh.
“Forty—”
“Forty?” he repeats, flat, and a few of the boys chuckle at his tone.
“Please,” she says again, lips pouting, head tilted with that look in her eyes like this has worked on him before. Rafe’s reaction is the opposite of what she’s expecting. “I know it’s not enough,” she adds sweetly. “Let me make it up to you.”
Rafe lets out a short, mean laugh, rolling his eyes away. “Nah.”
She blinks, thrown completely off. “I just meant—”
“Shit’s not workin’. Tell your boyfriend he owes me the rest,” Rafe cuts in, already turning away, his attention drifting before the sentence even lands.
She lingers anyway, laughing awkwardly, fingers brushing his arm like she’s waiting for him to change his mind.
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, careless, unfocused. “You takin’ this one?” He asks Topper, gesturing vaguely toward coke.
Topper shakes his head.
Rafe doesn’t wait. He bends forward again, quick and impatient, snorting up some more. He cleans his nose half-assed before tilting back into the couch, head sinking into the cushions, her hand lifting to rest on his chest as the girl leans in to whisper something.
He snatches her wrist and shoves it away, the whole group of boys laughing without a filter now.
“If you ain’t her,” Rafe says flatly, “you can go.”
“Her?” She asks. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
Rafe’s eyes meet hers again, and he looks at her like she’s said something genuinely stupid. “The fuck are you talkin’ about? Of course I’ve got a girl—”
“He’s always got a girl,” Topper mutters proudly as he lights the end of a blunt.
“I’m not lettin’ shit slide—I’m not cuttin’ you a deal,” Rafe adds, taking the joint from Kelce and resting it between his lips.
His heavy eyes drift, and he notices you about three seconds too late. The last bits of color drain from his face. He pushes the smoke out through his lips, passing the joint back to Topper, hands cutting through the haze like he’s trying to clear the air.
“Baby,” he says, standing too fast and catching himself on the arm of the couch when he stumbles. “You good? You—I was gonna come find you. You want a drink?” He asks, already moving around the table toward you.
“Look who it is,” Kelce smiles up from the couch, handing you the weed like a peace offering—like it’ll soothe the sting of whatever you may have seen. “You smoke, right?”
Rafe reaches for you immediately, body angling in, his hand finding your lower back. “You don’t have to,” he says quickly, his smile trembling on his lips.
You shake your head gently, giving the boys a shaky smile of your own. “I’m fine.”
Rafe stays close, arm tight around your waist, staring back at the other people at the table. To the people who knew him from before college. Before Miami. Before you did.
“This is my girlfriend,” he says, loud enough to cut through the music, loud enough that everyone who heard the “her” comment with the girl on the couch would know that you were the her in question. But it's too loud—too performative for a coked-out group of Figure Eight’s finest, who truly couldn't give a single fuck.
He keeps talking, words tumbling out. How you met. How easy it was. How perfect it’s been. How you’re different. How he’s never felt like this before.
Your gaze drifts as embarrassment courses through your veins.
Your eyes fall to the table again—cash folded small, coke dusted across glass, the girl’s folded cash mingled with the rest of the little stack he made on your short trip to the bathroom. The drugs you didn't even know he had when you arrived—but you're finding out a lot about him tonight.
“Alright,” Topper says suddenly, clapping his hands together once, sharp and decisive. “Kitchen? Shots? Let’s move this.”
Kelce laughs immediately, backing him up without question. “Yeah, yeah. New spot.” His big palms reach out, swiping the coke dust away fast, grabbing the wad of cash, handing it to Rafe with a low pass, moving to the other room already.
Rafe’s hand finds you, tightening around your wrist, asking yet again. “You good, sweetheart?” He murmurs as he dips in close, tucking himself into your neck for the moment.
“I just need a minute,” you say softly, keeping it between the two of you.
“Baby—”
“Rafe,” your voice breaks a little with unease and it shatters him. “A minute just—please.”
His grip softens, fingers threading into yours like he needs the reminder that he has the right. Like this is something you'll still allow him to do.
“Okay,” he says warmly, nose skimming your cheek, pressing a kiss against your temple. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Come find me, okay? Or—Or I'll find you, alright?”
You nod and move, pushing through the crowd, stepping out onto the balcony, your pulse loud in your ears as the cold November wind cuts across your skin.
The pool below glows electric blue, light rippling as tears gather in your eyes, blurring everything around you. You lean against the railing, knuckles whitening as you focus on breathing slowly, trying to steady yourself, your attention drifting to the darkness beyond the pool, the nothingness of the ocean ahead, even still, the wheels in your mind refuse to stop turning.
Maybe you don’t know him like you think you do.
The thought settles low in your stomach, heavy and unwelcome. Rafe told you he wasn’t perfect. He warned you that he had a past, and you believed him. But seeing him here—back home, back in his element, surrounded by boys who knew him before you ever did—lands differently than hearing it whispered in the dark, when his voice was soft, his hands steady, and he looked at you like you were the exception.
The hair along your arms lifts, and that’s when you feel it—that quiet, instinctive awareness that you’re not alone out here. There are people you don’t know everywhere, sure, but then there’s a flash of familiarity that pulls the rug out from underneath you.
She stands at the far end of the balcony, half-turned away from the house, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt, her arms folded tightly around herself. She nods absently at whoever is speaking beside her, but her attention isn’t there. Her gaze is fixed through the glass doors, straight into the kitchen, straight at Rafe.
And suddenly, everything clicks. The weathered drugstore name tag flashes in your mind—Sofia. The cashier. The woman behind the register. The name that meant nothing when you read it, because it didn’t have to. Rafe’s Sofia. His ex.
You look back through the glass just as he pours three more shots, liquor sloshing clumsily over the rims. His hand braces against the counter, steadying himself as he says something low to the boys and they nod, tapping the glasses against marble before tossing them back.
When your eyes return to Sofia, she still hasn’t looked your way. Maybe you’re just another blur of a customer in the shuffle of a night she already forgot. Either way, her expression doesn’t change—still fixed, still aching, still tethered to a version of Rafe that existed long before you.
Her jaw tightens, her mouth pressing into two thin lines as she lifts her cup to her lips, masking her reaction even though you already saw it. The softness hardens, curdling into resentment, and your stomach drops because you already know why.
You follow her gaze just in time to see a redhead round the corner, another one of Rafe’s girls you’re sure, her whole body lighting up when she spots him. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t check to see if he’s here with anyone else. She doesn’t ask before she stakes her claim, arm slipping around his waist.
He turns, smiling thankfully, drunk and high, relieved above all else, burying his face into her neck the same way he buried it into yours earlier, the way he always does. His shoulders loosen, and his breath leaves him in a thankful exhale because he thinks it’s you.
“Fuck, Rafe,” you whisper bitterly, the words slipping out before you can stop them and your blood runs cold. You don’t have to look to know she’s watching now, but you do anyway.
Sofia’s eyes finally find yours, and in them you see it—that same understanding of what you mean to him, and why you’re out here. She probably saw him on the couch, laughing with his friends, having fun. She probably came out here to work up the confidence to walk up to him. The two of you needed a minute, needed some air; you just didn’t know you’d need it in the same place at the same time, for entirely different reasons.
Her face breaks, just a little, just enough that you catch it. Because not only did she lose Rafe, there is no reconciliation tonight. No lingering possibility. No unresolved tension waiting to be eased, nothing she’s been holding onto since he left for school.
And that pregnancy test she rang up earlier—for a girl who meant nothing to her in that moment—means everything now.
She turns away from you, from the glass, choosing the darkness beyond the balcony too. She lifts her drink and takes a slow sip, posture steady, dignity intact, and something about that hurts worse than if she’d said something.
And, at this moment, you can’t bring yourself to care whether she knows about the pregnancy test or not—or anything else, for that matter.
You bite the inside of your cheek, tears burning hot behind your eyes as your body moves on autopilot. Your legs feel numb as you push open the balcony door and step back inside, the noise swallowing you whole.
Rafe’s head lifts, his eyes blinking a few beats before panic sets in as he realizes who he’s holding. He shoulders past her immediately, hands reaching for you fast.
“Hi—hey, baby,” he stammers, pulling you into your usual place against his chest, but it doesn't feel like yours. Her perfume clings to his shirt, his steady heartbeat hammering against your ear. “I thought that was you. I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers just for you.
You don’t answer, looking out at the wrong time, watching her expression twist.
“Who’s that?” One of her girlfriends murmurs nearby, just loud enough for you to hear.
“The fuck if I know,” she scoffs, already popping the cork off a bottle of tequila, her laughter tight. “Not from here. That’s for sure—”
“My girlfriend,” Rafe cuts in sharply, making everyone look your way. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“Oooh,” the other girl sings, tipping back the shot with deliberate slowness, eyes dragging over you where you stand tucked into him. “That’s new.”
Your stomach drops, Rafe’s big arm tightening around you like he can feel you slipping.
“Aww… You good, babe?” She asks you with faux concern.
“She’s fine,” Rafe mutters. “Stop being a bitch, Cass. Big house—don’t you got somewhere else to be?”
Cass laughs, delighted, like she got exactly what she wanted. “Well, Cameron,” she slurs, swaying slightly in her heels, “I was waitin’ in our usual spot, but it looks like you came prepared.”
“Fuck you—”
“I was trying to,” she cuts in smoothly, lips curling. “She not doin’ it for you, Rafey?”
The color drains from Rafe’s face, his brows shooting up in panic as he reaches for you, but you’re already pulling away without warning.
Your body draws like a magnet toward the door. Your heart fragile and two seconds away from shattering beyond repair, unable to take anymore run-ins with the girls who came before—the universe testing your patience when you’re clearly holding on by a thread.
And just like Sofia, you try to keep your dignity intact, tears swimming in your eyes—not falling, but even through the party you can hear him behind you pleading with you to stop.
“Baby, c’mon—”
You shake your head, gentle but final, as he spins you back toward him. “I can’t. I can’t do this anymore tonight. I’m—just let me go,” you push the words out through it all.
“Shh—hey—hey. Sweetheart. We can go somewhere quieter. Just you and me—”
“I want to leave. I don’t want to be here anymore,” you shut him down, tearing away, your body trembling with adrenaline, shoes sticking to the slick floor as you push through unfamiliar faces.
You take the stairs, tearing down the front walk like you have an escape plan, even though you don’t. Even if you wanted to leave together, Rafe is too far gone to take you home.
“Baby, please—just wait—don’t leave. Just—just let me call us a cab. Please. Please don’t leave me.” His voice cracks on the last word, and it nearly breaks you with it.
The cold bites at your cheeks as tears spill over, hot and sudden. You swipe at your face, gasping for air as his footsteps close the distance and he catches your wrist again, breathless and unsteady, the smell of liquor heavy on him.
“Where are you going?”
“Where am I going?” You repeat. “Anywhere but here.”
“You can’t just leave. You don’t even know where you are—”
“I’m not helpless, Rafe.” The words come out sharp, edged with fear and humiliation. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” he says quickly, frantic. “I know you can do everything without me. I just—I don’t want you to.”
“I’m done with tonight,” you say, your voice breaking despite yourself. “I’m done with this party. I’m done feeling like I’m just another one of your girls, Rafe.”
“You?” He drags a hand through his hair, pupils blown wide from the coke. “That’s the last thing you are to me.”
You swallow, your chest tight with it. “Does Sofia even know the two of you aren’t together?” You ask softly. “Because the way she was looking at you doesn’t feel finished.”
He exhales hard through his nose, like the name alone is a trigger, and for the first time tonight his voice steadies. “She cheated on me,” he says plainly. “More than once. She knew exactly what she was doin’. And before you ask, I didn’t leave for school and forget her,” he continues, words coming slower now, more sober-sounding than he’s been all night. “I left already done, alright? I don’t owe her anything. I didn’t owe her closure tonight. She’s not gettin’ shit from me. She’s sure as hell not taking away the only thing I care about.”
He reaches out, taking your hand in his, cold and clammy, tears pooling in his red-rimmed eyes.
“Rafe—”
“I don’t care about her,” he cuts in. “I don’t care if she’s upset. I don’t care if she’s still thinkin’ about me. That part of my life ended before you ever showed up. These girls—” He swallows hard. “I told you I wasn’t perfect, and I was fuckin’ serious, alright? But they mean nothing to me. None of this means a goddamn thing to me. My life—my life sucked before you—”
“YO, RAFE! YOU TWO GOOD?”
The moment shatters as Topper sticks his head outside the front door, looking down at the two of you with Kelce by his side. Your eyes lift, catching Cass and her friends in the kitchen, watching through the window, your stomach turning and your cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“WE’RE FINE,” Rafe bellows back, forcing the words out, and you watch as the girls laugh, glancing at the scene like this is nothing new, like this is just vintage Rafe Cameron in his natural form.
“I need some space,” you whisper.
“Space?” The word breaks on his lips as a thick tear slips down his cheek, Rafe wiping it away quickly with the sleeve of his shirt.
Shoes crunch along the driveway. Keys jingle as the shadows of two figures move closer. You catch sight of the brunette again—Sofia. Her under-eyes glisten with tears as she walks away from the party with her friends looped tightly around her for support.
Her steps falter for a moment, like you were the last people she was hoping to see. You turn your body slightly and her face falls, eyes fixed on her feet as they move, her friends’ eyes cutting daggers into Rafe. He looks back at her friend stone-cold, no emotion, his jaw sharp, eyes sharper.
Their steps disappear down the path, giving you a moment to collect yourself. You look back up at Rafe and his eyes are already on you, just waiting for what you’ll do next. You take a deep breath, your hand wrapping tight around the leather strap of your purse.
“Just go be who you were before me,” you say quietly. “I don’t have it in me to compete with tonight—”
“What competition? What are you even talking about?” He asks, and for the first time all night it feels like he’s sidestepping it, like he understands exactly how awful that sounds and he cannot make himself admit it anyway.
“Don’t play stupid, Rafe. Four of your exes in one fucking night. Remember how worked up you got about one of mine? Add three and see how that fucking feels.”
“I’m sorry—” He starts, reaching for you, pulling you back when you start to walk away. “There’s just—somethin’ else goin’ on with you,” he says quietly, like the thought’s been circling him all night and he finally put his finger on it, and that realization makes your stomach drop. “I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. You’ve been off—” He swallows hard. “You’ve been hurtin’ about somethin’. I know it. I know this shit didn’t help, but there’s something going on with you, baby—”
“Nothing’s wrong, Rafe,” you whimper.
“I’m serious,” he cuts in, desperation sharpening his tone.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you get to figure me out,” you say, and you can tell your words hurt. “You don’t.”
His mouth opens, frustration flashing across his face as he tries to come up with the right thing to say but he’s too fucked up.
“That’s not fair,” he says, quieter now, wounded and hurt, biting his cheek as he loses the fight with his emotions, each puzzled blink of his eyes sends tears down his cheeks.
He looks at you for a moment, chest heaving from the fight, eyes searching your face for the words he knows you’re not saying, because despite everything he doesn’t know, he can feel that this isn’t the whole story.
“I’m done.”
“With me?” He asks softly, his eyes glittering under the streetlights, lip trembling, tears wicking cold down his chin in the wind, too devastated to even wipe them away.
“No,” you whisper. “Just with tonight.”
And through the heartbreak, you see a flicker of relief anyway, because he takes a step back, putting space between the two of you like he finally understands he has to. You turn before you can change your mind, walking back the way you came at the beginning of the night, because you know if you look at him again you’ll fold.
The ground crunches beneath your heels, each step a reminder that you dressed for a party and not for this. The neighborhood stretches out in front of you, quiet and pristine, lined with massive homes lit warmly behind iron gates.
Your phone glows in your hand, the previous location showing Rafe’s childhood home two miles down the way as you route yourself there, the device trembling as the tears refuse to stop coming.
And the second you take a breath, your phone vibrates in your hand—back-to-back calls from Rafe that you do not have the heart to decline. You just let them ring through as your feet slap against the pavement, keeping time with the rapid thrumming of your heart.
Headlights bloom up from behind, casting your shadow onto the sidewalk in front of you, and you know it has to be someone from the party—the only question is who. Your hand wraps around your waist instinctively, your face turning toward the estates instead of the road, the embarrassment of leaving without Rafe—small, but still there.
The engine does not zoom past, though. It crawls, getting closer and closer. Your steps quicken and the vehicle behind you matches your cadence.
You glance back, catching the front of an unrecognizable truck just as the engine rumbles lower, pulling up beside you, the window rolling down before you can even catch up.
“Hey,” the voice leaves his lips friendly, but you are already facing forward again, hand going for the strap of your purse, ready to rip it off and swing it if you have to. “Hello?”
“Please,” you say immediately, your voice thin and breathless, wiping the tears away with your sleeve like you can hide the fact that you’re falling apart. “Leave me alone, alright?”
“Nah. Hey—hey,” the man says quickly, a gentle laugh like you’ve got him all wrong, like he knows you’re scared and you have no reason to be. “I ain’t trying to hurt you. Honest. You’re Rafe’s girl, huh?”
“I—” Your throat tightens. “…Yeah.”
“Alright,” he says simply. “Then get in.”
You hesitate, instinct screaming at you not to trust him. He leans out of the window, his denim shirt messy with dirt and motor oil, Barry stitched in frayed white lettering across the chest, a lit cigarette pinched lazily between his fingers; gold tooth glinting as he smiles.
“I’m takin’ you home. Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you walk back to Tanneyhill alone, and ain’t no way Rafe Cameron ever forgives me if I leave you out here like this. I insist.” The truck slows down, putting you in front of it again, instead of alongside, the man waving you to the passenger side.
“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible as you step back toward the truck.
The door shuts and your phone keeps buzzing, Barry’s truck pulling forward as his window rolls up. He turns the music up a little, and just before the window seals shut you hear it—a voice coming from behind, your name shouted and clipped off.
You look through the side mirror and sure enough there’s Rafe, sprinting after you, panic radiating off him like a wave with his phone glowing in his hand, the horror in his face unmistakable as you pull away, the darkness of the night swallowing him up behind you.
Barry’s hands settle on the steering wheel, knuckles rough, and work-worn. “Boy losin’ his mind or what?” He asks, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. “No way you’re walkin’ home alone if he didn’t fuck up or something—what he do?” The same smile plays on his lips, soft like he’s trying to ease the tension.
“It’s nothing,” you respond softly. “You… Uh—You know Rafe?”
He lets out a quiet, amused laugh that sounds like there’s too much history and not enough patience left for it. “Know him?” He grunts. “Yeah, I know him. Lucky me, huh? Kid’s a fuckin’ mess.”
“He must’ve turned things around then,” you say, more to fill the silence than anything else.
Barry hums, cigarette bobbing as he speaks, “Turned things around, huh?” He repeats slowly. “That what he told you?”
“He’s—He’s just fine…” Your voice shakes, not sure how to answer anymore.
“Sure,” Barry drawls. “Until he ain’t.” His tone stays casual, almost bored. “Daddy’s money, nose full of snow, heart full of nothin’… You one of them rich girls too?”
You can hear the judgment starting to bleed into his tone for you, just a slow drip, about the fact that you don’t know him—like you know the version of Rafe he wanted you to see but Barry knows the man underneath.
“No,” the word breathes past your lips.
His eyes flick back to you, slower this time, lingering just a second too long, his truck swaying on the road. “You seem different.”
The truck hums steadily beneath you, the world around you blurring together in the dark.
“Guess he finally found somethin’ worth keepin’, huh?”
You nod, eyes drifting toward the passenger window behind you, your reflection staring back at you, mascara clinging to your cheek. You try to level your breathing but your eyes lift, catching his gaze in the reflection of the glass too.
His eyes drop, lingering somewhere else, making you draw in a breath. “Gift, then?” He asks, eyeing the watch Rafe had just bought you before you left for vacation, the glimmering tennis bracelet he bought you too ‘just because’ shining like a spotlight stacked next to it. “Must be nice. Someone always payin’ for pretty shit.” You gasp—heart leaping in your throat as he knocks the gold YSL emblem with his ring. “Lucky you.”
The engine snarls, the truck lurching forward as Barry presses harder on the gas, the area around you is nothing like what you’ve seen before—your cellphone buzzing nonstop.
“Could you slow down?” You ask, and he grins, eyes still fixed ahead as his fingers curl around the wheel.
“Rafe ever tell you what he owes me?”
Your stomach turns, chills racing down your spine as your better judgment screams I told you so over the pounding of your heart. “No…”
“’Course he didn’t,” Barry says easily, blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke in your direction, laughing like he’s tired—like he expected nothing less. “Country Club left for college. You think he paid me back?” His voice booms through the car, the smile still slicked on his lips as he shakes his head. “I’ll let you guess.”
He doesn’t wait for your response, sucking a deep drag of his cigarette, letting the ash free-fall as the needle climbs.
“Spendin’ money on frat-boy bullshit, Miami, you.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “I didn’t know—”
“’Course you didn’t.” He mutters bitterly. “He don’t tell no one nothin’. That’s his trick. Boy’s good, I’ll give him that. Probably makes you feel pretty special.” He takes the turn hard enough to make you brace yourself. “You feel stupid yet, princess?”
“Please—” You start, voice breaking.
He exhales toward you again, laughing when you cough. “What’s in that fancy bag, huh?”
“Stop,” you scream, and he dives for it—the whole car jerking as he yanks it from your hands, the zipper screaming as he tears it open, rummaging through it fast.
He digs through it, fingers clumsy and half-focused as the truck barrels forward; lip gloss, change, receipts, nothing he wants to find until there is. The corner of his lips curls into a smirk as he finds a little wad of cash, eyeing it fast, clicking his tongue like he’s unimpressed. “This it?” He asks. “This all you got?”
He pockets it immediately, turning onto Rafe’s street.
“You runnin’ around with Rafe motherfuckin’ Cameron,” he continues, eyes fixed ahead, “and you’re carryin’ what? A hundred bucks?”
The tires screech, slamming to a violent stop in front of the driveway. Your body snaps forward, seatbelt tightening, pinning you in place.
He hurls the purse in your direction, hitting the passenger’s window, sending the contents clattering across your lap and the floor.
Your eyes widen on the pregnancy test in your lap. Everything goes silent. For a moment, he just stares at it.
Then he laughs, slow and mean. “Ain’t that somethin’,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Whore’s luck.”
You choke on your tears, breath hitching as your hands shake, and you scramble to shove everything back into the purse. Your fingers fumble blindly in the dark, desperate to leave, but the truck’s still locked.
You gasp as his hand snatches for you, closing around your wrist, too tight to fight. The watch… He twists your arm just enough to see—just enough to hurt, his eyes dropping immediately to admire it.
He yanks it off, then the tennis bracelet next, your wrist bare but locked in his hold. You whimper, small and broken, wincing as you wait for what he’ll do next. “Please,” you beg, voice shaking. “Please—don’t—”
“Good thing,” he says calmly, like he is explaining something reasonable, “you might be pregnant.” Your head shakes frantically as he plucks the cigarette from his lips. “I’m feelin’ generous tonight.”
The cigarette presses into your skin.
“I’d have killed you otherwise,” he adds calmly, and you scream; the pain hits you white-hot and absolute, smoke curls as it brands the soft skin of your wrist, your body jerking away but he stays firm. Your sobs flee your lips soundless, tears pouring from your eyes.
“Let me go, please,” you bawl, your voice gone, face turned away, buried in your shoulder.
“Well, would you look at that,” he chuckles. Your eyes peel open, finding him looking through the mirror with a grin on his lips as Rafe comes sprinting up behind you. “Runnin’ all this way. Goddamn. You might be his favorite one, huh?” He mutters meanly, the unlock button sounding like a starting gun, leaving you racing for the door handle.
You spill out of the truck, hitting the ground hard, clutching your purse to your chest as the driveway bites into your palm and knees.
The engine roars and the truck peels away, taillights disappearing down the road, as Rafe’s footsteps pound closer.
He drops to his knees beside you, breath broken, hands trembling as they hover uselessly over you, like he does not know where it is safe to touch you.
His eyes catch on your arm, seeing it all—the empty wrist, the angry red burn branded into your skin, and he’s on his feet in the next breath, sprinting after the truck as it rolls toward the stop sign, shouting hoarse, incoherent threats into the dark that echo off the trees.
When he stops, his chest is heaving; hands knotted behind his head as his lungs burn, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might split him open. He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, but when he opens them again, you’re gone.
He runs back toward the house, taking the steps two at a time, slamming the front door open hard enough that it bangs against the wall, the sound cracking through the quiet house.
“Baby?”
The word rips out of him, the only thing he can manage before silence answers back. His shoes slap against the marble as he follows the strip of light at the end of the hallway, the faint hiss of running water mixing with your uneven breaths and the soft, broken sniffles he hears through the door.
You’re standing at the sink, shoulders trembling as you tip rubbing alcohol over the fresh burn on your arm. Your jaw clenches as you brace yourself, a cry slipping through your teeth when the pain hits again. The smell reaches him instantly—sharp, sterile; painfully clean. “Baby, hey,” he says, his voice cracking. “Look at me. Please.”
You don’t turn around. His voice feels muffled, distant, even though he’s right next to you—and even if it were clear, you couldn’t make yourself respond.
He catches your reflection in the mirror. You look scared and shaken, your face washed with tears, dissociated from the world around you—from him.
From the man standing behind you, hollowed out and broken, realizing too late that even if he wasn’t the one who touched you, his unfinished mess is what put you in that man’s path.
He reaches for you and your body flinches on instinct, and the reaction devastating him more. Rafe pulls his hand back immediately, raking it through his hair instead, his breath stuttering as he forces himself to stay where he is.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly. “I want to know what you need right now. Please.”
“He stole everything, Rafe,” you whisper. “I—I need to get out of here.”
“Then we’ll leave,” he says quickly. “Right now. We’ll go.”
You shake your head, the movement small and helpless. “I couldn’t get on a fucking plane even if I wanted to. All of it is gone—my wallet, my ID, my credit cards—everything.”
He sees it then, the way the walls are closing in on you, the panic weighing on your shoulders, crushing you below it. His jaw tightens as he swallows back tears, knowing he does not get to fall apart right now.
He bends down and lifts your purse from the floor, setting it carefully on the counter, like he’s afraid even this might scare you again. He tips your purse onto the counter, slower now, more careful than anyone has been with your things all night.
The contents scatter softly; receipts slide, lip glosses roll, your phone lands with a dull thud, the screen glowing despite the cracks, a spiderweb splintering the picture of the two of you on your lock screen.
His attention drifts, and the question he asked you earlier is answered without any words at all.
Is something else going on with you?
The answer sits right there on the counter, in the wreckage of your night, and it hits him all at once. Yes. He just didn’t know how deep it went.
Rafe looks up at you first, then down again.
His fingers hover just above it, the same way they did when he found you on the ground, too overwhelmed to know what to do with himself. He picks it up nonetheless, drawing a deep breath. When your gaze lifts this time, you do not look away.
“Are you?” He asks quietly, then hesitates. “Do you think you’re—”
“I don’t know,” you say, heat burning behind your eyes as you see the fear reflected back at you in his face.
He nods once, chewing on his lip, his voice barely steady when he speaks again. “Did you take one before?”
You close your heavy eyes and shake your head. “No.”
“Can you?” His voice frays at the edges.
“I’m too scared.”
“Why?” He asks, and he knows the answer’s going to hurt but he needs to hear it.
Your lips tremble before the words come out, your voice thin and shaking under the weight of everything you feel.
“Because I don’t know you, Rafe,” your voice slips past your trembling lips. “I barely know you.” Your chest aches as you try to breathe through it, but the panic sits too high—too tight around your throat. “Tonight, after everything that just happened, it scared me—”
“I’m so sorry, I—”
“All night, Rafe… all fucking night I was surrounded by people who know a version of you that I don’t. I don’t want this,” you say quietly. “I want a normal life. I want to feel safe. And I don’t know if I can have that with you, because tonight—tonight you weren’t who I thought you were.” Your voice breaks. “Or maybe you were. And I don’t know which one is fucking worse.”
Rafe looks back at you like the floor just dropped out beneath him, like there is nothing left to grab onto. Tears tumble down his cheeks as he looks down at you, his lips parting again, and just like before nothing comes out.
“He said you owe him money, Rafe.”
“Like nothin’,” he says honestly, his voice breaking, stripped of its bravado. “It wasn’t even that much… like two grand—I forgot.”
“You forgot?” You stare at him, disbelief cutting clean through the tears. “And in what world is that not a lot?”
He drops his gaze, shame flooding his face so completely he has to look away. He rubs his hands over his glassy eyes, not an ounce of confidence left.
“I’m going to fix this,” he says, the words tumbling over each other. “I swear I am. I’ll make it right. I’ll fix everything, okay? I promise.”
The promise hangs between you, thin and fragile, and he can tell you don’t believe him like he wishes you would.
Then, slow and careful, he steps forward, guiding you toward him, chest to chest, your fingertips grazing his, but he knows the contact’s more than he deserves. His head tilts in, lessening the space between you; half-hiding his face to mask the tears he can’t stop—but you can hear it in his words.
“The person you know—that’s who I am.” He swallows hard. “You know me. You do, baby. Tonight—” He shakes his head slightly, fingers twiddling against yours anxiously. “I don’t wanna be that person. I don’t. I’m not proud of what you saw—what happened to you. I'll never forget that and I'll never forgive myself. You know that.”
He sniffles a little, adjusting on his feet, the tears sliding down his cheeks landing warm and wet on your shoulder. He breathes out a shaky breath against your skin, and it breaks your heart how much this exposure stings—the person he was before suddenly clear, suddenly ugly, in a way you cannot unsee.
“I’m gonna walk back to Top’s. I’m gonna get him and Kelce, right now. I’m gonna get your stuff back. I’m gonna pay Barry. I’m ending all this shit—every bit of it. No loose ends, I swear to God. I’m not letting anything else happen to you.”
Rafe’s voice softens, fear clinging to every word, his breathing slowing with yours.
“I’m fucked up,” he admits quietly. “I know I am. But I’ll stop—everything. All the stupid shit I use to feel big or numb or whatever the fuck was because being with you… it’s easy. It makes sense. I’m fucking happy. And pregnant or not none of this is fake. None of this was ever a game. No competitions. Nothing. Only you.”
He pulls back enough so you can see his eyes—vibrating with a want to wrap his fingers in yours but he doesn't know if he can anymore.
“I’m who you think I am,” he whispers. “I’m me around you. I’m the best version of myself when I’m with you. I’m who I—” His voice catches. “I’m who I want to be.”
His voice softens, the look in his eyes pleading with you to believe him.
“I know you want to leave and I get it. I know you got that test and you don't want to take it, but you don't have to do any of this without me. I want to go with you. I want to be with you. But I know I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, without defensiveness or drama. “Never have. I know that. But whatever happens tonight—whatever happens after this—I swear to you,” he says softly, “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that the guy you met is real. I swear I’ll make good on my word and I’ll keep you safe. You’re it for me.”
Your throat tightens, tears springing in the corners of his eyes, emotion and heat climbing up your throat.
“I’m not ready to be a dad,” he whispers. “But if that’s where this goes, I’ll learn how to be. I’ll mess up, I know I will—but never like this. Just the little things—nothing that'll hurt you or make you doubt us.”
He forces himself to keep looking at you, even though it hurts, even when his pride tells him to break. He inhales shakily, stepping forward, letting his forehead rest against yours.
“You’re gonna be okay. Whatever you decide. You are going to have a life, and I'm not gonna get in your way. Whatever choice you make about your life—I won’t take that from you. I won’t drag you down. I swear.”
His lips press softly against your forehead, lingering for a moment.
“I love you,” he whispers into your skin. “More than I’ve ever loved anything.”
He pulls away before you can answer and heads toward the door.
You hear the front door open, then close.
You do not have the energy to clean up properly. You do not have the energy to think about anything beyond the next steps you need to take back into the bedroom. Your feet pad against the cold wooden floor, shutting the bedroom door and turning off the lights.
Everything falls into darkness; a newfound quiet surrounding you, heavy and needed, like a weighted blanket. You walk toward your suitcases, opening his instead of your own, tugging on one of his t-shirts, the fabric swallowing you up as his cologne clings to the cotton.
You crawl into his bed and sink into the mattress, pulling the covers up around you tight, letting your eyes close for a moment and the second they do you’re met with nothing. The man you got so used to seeing on the other side, gone.
Your tears come quietly at first. They slide down your cheeks, soaking the pillow below. You try to be quiet, even though there is no one left to hear you, the effort making your head pound.
Your eyes shut again, too heavy—your body too tired to keep them open anymore. You do not think about the test on the counter or the burn on your arm, or the life you wanted before tonight.
All you can think about is him.
You wake with your head pounding, a dull pressure sitting stubbornly behind your eyes, like a hangover.
You push the covers back and sit up carefully, instinctively looking toward the side of the bed where Rafe should be, but it’s still empty. Your stomach drops, fear spiking fast and sharp, hands patting blindly at the mattress for your phone as you stand, legs unsteady beneath you. For a split second it feels like he’s gone, like the night ended worse than you remember—but when you turn, the panic dissolves.
Rafe is there.
He’s slumped awkwardly in the armchair by the window, asleep in a position that looks less like rest and more like surrender, like he never meant to sleep at all and his body finally gave out sometime in the night. One arm hangs off the side of the chair, fingers swollen and split across the knuckles, while the other rests loosely over his stomach.
On the small table beside him sit your watch and your bracelet, laid out carefully, side by side.
Your breath catches when you see his face, swollen from tears and bruised from brute force. Deep purple shadows paint the underside of his left eye, dried blood faintly tracing his cheekbone, his lip split down the center.
You turn away before the weight of it sends you spiraling again, moving toward the bathroom.
Your purse is there on the counter, opened and organized. Everything is inside. It is not dumped or tossed back together, but arranged with care, like he took the time to put something broken back into order, even when he didn’t know how to fix anything else. Your wallet sits where it should, your cash and cards tucked inside, and beside it—the pregnancy test.
You reach for it, fingers closing around the plastic before you can talk yourself out of it again. You sit on the edge of the toilet, watching your hand tremble despite how familiar the instructions are—how many times you read them and put the box back. You fumble with the perforated edge, nerves clumsy and uncooperative.
When it’s done, you set it on the counter and turn away, this time on purpose.
Your body moves, crossing the room, climbing into his lap before you can think about it anymore. He startles awake immediately, fear flashing across his face before recognition softens it, the tension draining out of him as soon as he realizes it is you.
His arms come around you slowly, carefully, like he is making sure he is allowed to hold you at all. You lean into him, and he exhales shakily, forehead dropping to your shoulder, holding you close.
He buries his face into your neck, breath shaking against your skin—a tear landing on your collarbone, then another as “I’m sorry” slips from his mouth with each shaky exhale.
He’s crying silently, shoulders trembling as he tries not to make a sound, fingers digging into your skin with a desperation that makes your chest ache. You cup his cheeks gently and guide his face up just enough to see him, his eyes impossibly blue as tears cling to his lashes.
“I love you,” you whisper first, your voice quiet but certain.
His mouth purses and his nostrils flare, trying to answer you without shattering because even though you have said those words hundreds of times since they first breathed past your lips, they mean something different now.
“I love you,” he whispers back, his voice barely a sound at all. “I love you so much.”
Your eyes fall to the table beside you and his follow, nodding toward it.
“I should’ve never let it happen in the first place, but,” his voice drifts away, hands shaking as he reaches for it, “I got your stuff back, baby.”
You smile gently as he guides your wrist, biting his lip when he sees the bandage just below where the jewelry’ll sit, a cruel reminder that you are still carrying pain from last night, and that even in his arms it still hurts—and it will for a while yet.
He dips in, pressing a tender, apologetic kiss against your soft skin before he slides on the bracelet, then the watch, clasping them again.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, not letting your hand go, kissing your knuckle, one then the next.
“I know,” you whisper.
“Plane leaves today at noon. I booked myself a ticket too, but I can always cancel if you need some space.”
You cup his cheek in your hand and he leans into it, your thumb brushing along his stubble as his eyes close; lashes skimming the apples of his bruised face.
“I don’t want space from you,” you whisper, and his eyes pinch a little tighter, another tear tumbling down his cheek that you rub away.
“Thank you, baby,” his voice breaks, hoarse with emotion.
“I took the test.”
His eyes lift, looking ahead for a moment, collecting himself before he looks up at you. “What did it say?” He asks.
“You told me I don’t have to do any of this without you,” you say, your voice wavering, a nervous smile pulling at your lips as his expression softens in understanding.
“And I meant that,” he breathes. Your fingers card through his hair nervously, fighting back tears.
“I’m scared,” you whimper.
“Me too.” He echoes your emotion, his strong arms binding around your body, pulling you into him. Your bodies tangle together, the two of you barely holding on, but there is comfort in him knowing—in doing this together. “We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers against your skin, pressing a kiss against your hair, sealing the promise and you nod, snuggling a little closer for the moment. You can tell he’s trying to be strong for you; his body language, secure while his heart races away.
You push up and stand again, reaching out your hand, and he takes it immediately.
The light is softer in here now, morning sun diffused through the bathroom mirror, and when you stop in front of the counter you catch sight of the two of you reflected back. You see yourself first—tired, swollen-eyed, held together by that same thread you thought would break last night, but you’re stronger than you thought—and then you see him behind you.
Rafe’s hands come to rest at your waist, warm and steady. In the glass, his face is beaten, still marked by last night, but his eyes are clear. He does not look like the man he was last night—he looks like the Rafe you love. Your Rafe.
You swallow, your gaze dropping toward the counter before you can stop yourself, then lifting again just as quickly.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says immediately, gentle and sure, lips kissing your cheek then your temple. “That’s okay.”
He turns into you, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you toward his chest. You try your best to hold on, focusing on his breathing instead, matching his cadence as your head lies to rest against his strong chest.
“Baby,” he murmurs softly against your skin, turning his cheek into you, getting closer, kissing you absentmindedly. “I swear whatever happens I’ll make sure you’re taken care of—that we’re good. You gotta trust me.”
Your chest tightens, but you nod.
“Want me to look first,” he whispers, and you nod again just a little—and he does.
Rafe’s breath leaves him in a quiet, broken sound, the steady beating of his heart climbing. His hand tightens around you, forehead resting against the side of your head again, his eyes still locked on the test.
“Okay,” he whispers, and it sounds like acceptance instead of panic, like he is already bracing himself to stay rather than run.
You turn your cheek toward the mirror, looking back at his reflection, at the way his mouth trembles and his eyes shine with tears that do not fall—at the way he is shaken but not falling apart.
coming home from college with rafe and finding out you’re pregnant
(mr. & mrs. cameron throwback series) <- can be read alone
c/w .ᐟ.ᐟ heavy angst, drug use, alcohol, jealousy, harassment, robbery, physical assault, burning, blood mentioned, relationship conflict/fighting, pregnancy
10K words
The lights are too bright and the aisles too quiet, the whole situation unfamiliar, making it worse. You’re tired in a way sleep hasn’t fixed—hormonal and foggy, unsteady, like you can’t quite get your feet under you.
You blame it on finals, the early flight, the chaos of being in Rafe’s hometown. You blame it on everything except the one thing you refuse to say out loud.
Rafe stayed in the truck. He barely got it into park before two guys leaned out of their daddy’s car, shouting his name, recognition lighting their faces instantly.
“Cameron! Dude—no way you’re home!” They swallowed him whole, pulling him into conversation you were too far in your own head to process through the haze of your anxiety.
“Two minutes,” you whisper, squeezing his hand, excusing yourself from the impromptu class reunion—which is how you ended up here, alone, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floors, your head pounding as you drift past shelves.
Your period came… well, sort of—light and barely there. Enough to convince you it was real, but not enough for it to feel normal.
Again, you chant those three little words keeping you tethered: stress, travel, disruption. Nothing more. Nothing else. They swirl through your head so many times you almost believe them.
You stand in the aisle at the crossroads of what could be.
Your eyes drift to the right, to the pregnancy tests—every kind, every brand. Digital screens promising clarity beside cheap plastic sticks and expensive ones with words instead of lines, two-packs and five-packs all lined up together.
Your eyes sail to the left—feminine care. The kind that wouldn’t involve anything more than a week of inconvenience, an explanation for the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes right now.
You look up at the ceiling and blink a few times; the fluorescent bulbs leave your vision swimming, one warm, fat tear rolling down your cheek before you can stop it.
Your fingers hover for half a second before you reach out and grab a pregnancy test, then again for a box of tampons, the latter quickly covering the first like a shield, like someone is watching.
You’re just about to turn the cart around when another cart rolls to a stop beside you, making you gasp.
She’s wearing a matching pink yoga set, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Her wedding ring sits heavy on her manicured finger, large enough to catch the shitty lights you took refuge in moments before.
A little boy clings to her thigh, maybe three or four; his face tucked into her leg. “She’s trash at her job, Jason,” she snaps as she reaches out without hesitation, practically pushing past you to grab the same pregnancy test you had hidden, tossing it in her basket. “I’m watching your kid. Buying my own pregnancy tests. Like what is this? This isn’t my responsibility.”
You slip past her, walking down another aisle, snagging a bottle of Advil off the shelf as her voice disappears toward the front. You take a deep breath, letting your heart slow for a moment, grabbing a bottle of water too before you make your way to the register as well.
She’s still on the phone when you reach the front, barking about how the woman you can only assume is her nanny doesn’t know how important it is that the celery be organic in her pressed juice— “Ma’am?” The girl at the register calls out. “Mrs?” She tries again. “Do you have a MyCare card?”
The blonde purses her lips, nose scrunching despite the preventative Botox enough to let her know she doesn’t have it and she doesn’t need it. The boy tightens his grip around her leg, pressing closer. The woman waves her AMEX in front of the register, not bothering with goodbyes.
When it’s finally your turn, the girl behind the counter looks up at you with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes—young, brunette, short hair pulled off her face in a neat ponytail; the name tag sitting lopsided and weathered.
“Find everything okay?” She asks softly, and you nod, your eyes drifting toward the door as she rings one item, then the next. She doesn’t react.
“Mhmm…”
“That’ll be $19.88.”
Your fingers tremble just slightly as you wave your card, the receipt ribboning out, the bag passed back to you like a weight in your grasp.
The doors whoosh open, bringing in the night air, carrying Rafe’s laugh with it, making your stomach sink. Those three words you were breathing through to keep your sanity shift into something different entirely. Rafe is so happy.
The truck is still running. Rafe’s back is pressed against the side, still deep in conversation with his old friends. His eyes meet yours and he smiles at you like he always does—a smile that says he’s better when you’re around. The weight of the bag feels even heavier than before.
It can wait.
“There she is,” he grins, pushing off the truck.
But before he can reach you, someone else gets there first— “Holy shit. Rafey?” She squeals, warm and familiar, a complete one-eighty from the woman inside. That nickname slipped her filler-filled lips like nails on a chalkboard—like she’s said his name a million times before. “How are you? You look amazing.”
Rafe blinks, stunned for a split second, embarrassment and guilt clouding his wide eyes, red heat creeping across his cheeks anyway.
He gives her a casual nod, stuffing his hand in his pocket, the other wrapping around your waist when you walk closer. “Been great,” he mumbles, clearing his throat when it comes out hoarse. “We’re—uh—we’re home for the holidays.”
The rock on her finger makes the corner of his lip quirk, eyes sliding to his buddy, catching to see if he caught the same thing, before returning to her. “You, uh…” Rafe gestures vaguely.
“Married?” She chirps. “This past fall,” she says, wincing. “Kaylor’s dad.”
“Kaylor?” Rafe asks as his eyes widen. “Like… your best friend Kaylor?”
“It’s a little complicated now. But, sure. Somethin’ like that—” And as those words leave her lips, a scream rips from the backseat.
“And, that’s—”
“His kid—Kaylor’s brother. My son, I guess.”
“You guess?” Rafe asks under his breath, like he dodged a bullet. “Congrats. To you and uh, Kaylor’s dad.”
“Oh fuck off,” she laughs and rolls her eyes, walking to the driver’s side. “Always a pleasure, Rafey.” The boys surrounding you try their best not to laugh but the chuckles squeak past their lips as her car rolls in reverse.
“Let’s get outta here,” Rafe mumbles under his breath as his buddies talk about their plans for the night, using that little exchange as your out, guiding you to the passenger’s side, promising the guys you’ll meet up with them later at Topper’s.
You shove the bag into your purse, quickly clicking your seatbelt, feeling your anxiety rise again when he looks over at you and smiles nervously. “Uh… Umm, what did you get in there, baby?” He asks, trying to distract you with a question but you’re thinking the same thing.
“Just some stuff I forgot—who was that?” The sentences topple over each other in a desperate move to shift the conversation away.
“Gwen,” he mutters, shaking his head as he looks through his rearview mirror, backing out of the spot. “We just—hooked up and shit. Nothin’—nothing serious or anything. I mean, you met her.”
“Her best friend's dad?” You gossip.
“Her best friend's dad,” he confirms, through a sigh. “More money than god. Can’t say I didn’t see it comin’.”
He pulls out of the lot without looking back, his hand quickly finding your thigh, the other twisting around the steering wheel. His jaw’s still tight from the encounter, muscles coiled tight like he can’t quite get comfortable, but the second your hand rests on top of his, his shoulders fall.
“You okay, baby?” He asks as his rough thumb traces gentle circles on your skin.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice cracking, making him double-take, your response spinning up his nerves once again. “She grabbed a pregnancy test,” you add, looking ahead at the dark road in front of you.
The reaction is instant, unfiltered, just like when he saw that ring on her finger—just like it was when he found out just who gave it to her.
“What?” He lets out a short laugh, like he heard you wrong. He exhales through his nose, already over it. “That’s fucking insane.”
His eyes narrow on the road, imagining it all, the look on his face making your stomach turn.
“At our age?” He continues. “With a kid already?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s just… dumb.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, agreeing softly but the reaction is doing nothing to balm your worry.
“I mean, what is she thinkin’, huh?” He rambles, words tumbling out in that loose, careless way he gets when he’s worked up but not invested. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you and you’re gonna—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Nah,” he says, easy. “Couldn’t be us.”
He drums his thumb against the steering wheel, irritation already dissipating, the music on the speakers filling the cab around you and the road hums beneath you.
He doesn’t notice the way your voice thins, your palms clammy, hands trembling in his, too focused on your reaction to running into her that he can’t see what’s happening right now—right beside him. How each word that leaves his lips haphazardly is nailing you like a shot to the heart.
“Just some Figure Eight bullshit,” he mumbles.
And you don’t say another word—not because you disagree, but because you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to unhear how easily he said it.
Music thumps through the walls, bass pounding in your head. The two of you barely made it through the front door of Top’s before you were pulled away, thrown in the middle of a group of his boys and their girls for the night, talking about college and life and everything in between. Just noise.
Kelce got to him first, grabbing his shoulders, smiling wickedly as he mutters something about weed and yayo. Topper swoops in right after, already pressing a drink into your hands, gesturing for the two of you to come to the living room.
You hang back, letting Rafe know you’re running to the restroom, disappearing down one of the many halls, putting space between you and everyone else, but you need to know…
You push open the bathroom door and lock it behind you, and everything stills.
Lowering yourself onto the closed toilet lid, you let your purse slip from your shoulder, the soft thud it makes against the marble floor sounding louder than it should, making you flinch. You breathe in through your nose and out your mouth, then again, trying to convince your body to slow down.
Your fingers drift toward the zipper, drawing it open, listening to the metal teeth splay. You could take the test right now—you could know. You could walk back out there with a peace of mind instead of panic. You could enjoy this moment with your fuckin’ boyfriend—the thought claws at your throat, stomach twisting in knots, the cold sweat on your skin making you tremble.
Your hand slips inside, grabbing the box—BANG. BANG. BANG.
The gasp punches from your chest; you scramble for the zipper of your purse, standing up quickly, the heavy wooden door rattling on its frame. “Come on!” A voice snaps from the other side, impatient and annoyed. “People gotta fuckin’ piss! No coke in the bathroom.”
“One sec!” You call back quickly, your voice coming out small and thin.
This is not the time. Not here. Not like this. Not with the music thumping through the walls and strangers pounding on the door and your chest aching.
When you unlock the door and step back into the hallway, pushing past the guy waiting impatiently, you start walking toward the noise. The bass hits your chest, the room tightening around you as you press back into the crowd.
And then you see him.
Rafe is sprawled on a couch, legs spread, glassy-eyed and laughing. His knee bounces quickly, grin stretched wide, his pupils robbing the blue from his eyes.
There’s a girl beside him, her tanned legs crossed, jean skirt riding up her bare thighs. She leans in close—too close for your liking.
Your eyes drift back to Rafe, rolling a hundred-dollar bill between his big fingers, white powder laid out in a small line on the glass-topped table.
He leans forward without hesitation, taking the bump, filling his nose with a sharp snort, his eyes lolling back before they pinch shut. The tension he was holding slips off him, his head rolling as if it’s working out the last bit of stress from his neck.
Your stomach sinks, not because it’s shocking—not that the two of you haven’t talked about what he has and hasn’t done before—but because it’s the first time he’s done it in front of you.
The warmth of the week in Miami evaporates instantly. That softer version of him—the drive, the kisses, the whispered I love you—feels suddenly far away. Rafe feels far away.
He still hasn’t seen you yet, his name right on the tip of your tongue as she rests her hand on his thigh, jealousy burning hot. She leans in further, slipping money into his hand, smiling like she’s sharing a secret.
Rafe finally comes to, glancing down at her, double-taking like he thought it was you for half a second before he realizes it isn’t. He shifts immediately, sliding down the couch and putting space between them. “You good?” He asks her.
She giggles and rolls her eyes, biting her lip as she nods, bleach-blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. “C’mon, Ray. Please?”
“What’s this?” He asks with a short, condescending laugh.
“Forty—”
“Forty?” he repeats, flat, and a few of the boys chuckle at his tone.
“Please,” she says again, lips pouting, head tilted with that look in her eyes like this has worked on him before. Rafe’s reaction is the opposite of what she’s expecting. “I know it’s not enough,” she adds sweetly. “Let me make it up to you.”
Rafe lets out a short, mean laugh, rolling his eyes away. “Nah.”
She blinks, thrown completely off. “I just meant—”
“Shit’s not workin’. Tell your boyfriend he owes me the rest,” Rafe cuts in, already turning away, his attention drifting before the sentence even lands.
She lingers anyway, laughing awkwardly, fingers brushing his arm like she’s waiting for him to change his mind.
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, careless, unfocused. “You takin’ this one?” He asks Topper, gesturing vaguely toward coke.
Topper shakes his head.
Rafe doesn’t wait. He bends forward again, quick and impatient, snorting up some more. He cleans his nose half-assed before tilting back into the couch, head sinking into the cushions, her hand lifting to rest on his chest as the girl leans in to whisper something.
He snatches her wrist and shoves it away, the whole group of boys laughing without a filter now.
“If you ain’t her,” Rafe says flatly, “you can go.”
“Her?” She asks. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
Rafe’s eyes meet hers again, and he looks at her like she’s said something genuinely stupid. “The fuck are you talkin’ about? Of course I’ve got a girl—”
“He’s always got a girl,” Topper mutters proudly as he lights the end of a blunt.
“I’m not lettin’ shit slide—I’m not cuttin’ you a deal,” Rafe adds, taking the joint from Kelce and resting it between his lips.
His heavy eyes drift, and he notices you about three seconds too late. The last bits of color drain from his face. He pushes the smoke out through his lips, passing the joint back to Topper, hands cutting through the haze like he’s trying to clear the air.
“Baby,” he says, standing too fast and catching himself on the arm of the couch when he stumbles. “You good? You—I was gonna come find you. You want a drink?” He asks, already moving around the table toward you.
“Look who it is,” Kelce smiles up from the couch, handing you the weed like a peace offering—like it’ll soothe the sting of whatever you may have seen. “You smoke, right?”
Rafe reaches for you immediately, body angling in, his hand finding your lower back. “You don’t have to,” he says quickly, his smile trembling on his lips.
You shake your head gently, giving the boys a shaky smile of your own. “I’m fine.”
Rafe stays close, arm tight around your waist, staring back at the other people at the table. To the people who knew him from before college. Before Miami. Before you did.
“This is my girlfriend,” he says, loud enough to cut through the music, loud enough that everyone who heard the “her” comment with the girl on the couch would know that you were the her in question. But it's too loud—too performative for a coked-out group of Figure Eight’s finest, who truly couldn't give a single fuck.
He keeps talking, words tumbling out. How you met. How easy it was. How perfect it’s been. How you’re different. How he’s never felt like this before.
Your gaze drifts as embarrassment courses through your veins.
Your eyes fall to the table again—cash folded small, coke dusted across glass, the girl’s folded cash mingled with the rest of the little stack he made on your short trip to the bathroom. The drugs you didn't even know he had when you arrived—but you're finding out a lot about him tonight.
“Alright,” Topper says suddenly, clapping his hands together once, sharp and decisive. “Kitchen? Shots? Let’s move this.”
Kelce laughs immediately, backing him up without question. “Yeah, yeah. New spot.” His big palms reach out, swiping the coke dust away fast, grabbing the wad of cash, handing it to Rafe with a low pass, moving to the other room already.
Rafe’s hand finds you, tightening around your wrist, asking yet again. “You good, sweetheart?” He murmurs as he dips in close, tucking himself into your neck for the moment.
“I just need a minute,” you say softly, keeping it between the two of you.
“Baby—”
“Rafe,” your voice breaks a little with unease and it shatters him. “A minute just—please.”
His grip softens, fingers threading into yours like he needs the reminder that he has the right. Like this is something you'll still allow him to do.
“Okay,” he says warmly, nose skimming your cheek, pressing a kiss against your temple. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Come find me, okay? Or—Or I'll find you, alright?”
You nod and move, pushing through the crowd, stepping out onto the balcony, your pulse loud in your ears as the cold November wind cuts across your skin.
The pool below glows electric blue, light rippling as tears gather in your eyes, blurring everything around you. You lean against the railing, knuckles whitening as you focus on breathing slowly, trying to steady yourself, your attention drifting to the darkness beyond the pool, the nothingness of the ocean ahead, even still, the wheels in your mind refuse to stop turning.
Maybe you don’t know him like you think you do.
The thought settles low in your stomach, heavy and unwelcome. Rafe told you he wasn’t perfect. He warned you that he had a past, and you believed him. But seeing him here—back home, back in his element, surrounded by boys who knew him before you ever did—lands differently than hearing it whispered in the dark, when his voice was soft, his hands steady, and he looked at you like you were the exception.
The hair along your arms lifts, and that’s when you feel it—that quiet, instinctive awareness that you’re not alone out here. There are people you don’t know everywhere, sure, but then there’s a flash of familiarity that pulls the rug out from underneath you.
She stands at the far end of the balcony, half-turned away from the house, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt, her arms folded tightly around herself. She nods absently at whoever is speaking beside her, but her attention isn’t there. Her gaze is fixed through the glass doors, straight into the kitchen, straight at Rafe.
And suddenly, everything clicks. The weathered drugstore name tag flashes in your mind—Sofia. The cashier. The woman behind the register. The name that meant nothing when you read it, because it didn’t have to. Rafe’s Sofia. His ex.
You look back through the glass just as he pours three more shots, liquor sloshing clumsily over the rims. His hand braces against the counter, steadying himself as he says something low to the boys and they nod, tapping the glasses against marble before tossing them back.
When your eyes return to Sofia, she still hasn’t looked your way. Maybe you’re just another blur of a customer in the shuffle of a night she already forgot. Either way, her expression doesn’t change—still fixed, still aching, still tethered to a version of Rafe that existed long before you.
Her jaw tightens, her mouth pressing into two thin lines as she lifts her cup to her lips, masking her reaction even though you already saw it. The softness hardens, curdling into resentment, and your stomach drops because you already know why.
You follow her gaze just in time to see a redhead round the corner, another one of Rafe’s girls you’re sure, her whole body lighting up when she spots him. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t check to see if he’s here with anyone else. She doesn’t ask before she stakes her claim, arm slipping around his waist.
He turns, smiling thankfully, drunk and high, relieved above all else, burying his face into her neck the same way he buried it into yours earlier, the way he always does. His shoulders loosen, and his breath leaves him in a thankful exhale because he thinks it’s you.
“Fuck, Rafe,” you whisper bitterly, the words slipping out before you can stop them and your blood runs cold. You don’t have to look to know she’s watching now, but you do anyway.
Sofia’s eyes finally find yours, and in them you see it—that same understanding of what you mean to him, and why you’re out here. She probably saw him on the couch, laughing with his friends, having fun. She probably came out here to work up the confidence to walk up to him. The two of you needed a minute, needed some air; you just didn’t know you’d need it in the same place at the same time, for entirely different reasons.
Her face breaks, just a little, just enough that you catch it. Because not only did she lose Rafe, there is no reconciliation tonight. No lingering possibility. No unresolved tension waiting to be eased, nothing she’s been holding onto since he left for school.
And that pregnancy test she rang up earlier—for a girl who meant nothing to her in that moment—means everything now.
She turns away from you, from the glass, choosing the darkness beyond the balcony too. She lifts her drink and takes a slow sip, posture steady, dignity intact, and something about that hurts worse than if she’d said something.
And, at this moment, you can’t bring yourself to care whether she knows about the pregnancy test or not—or anything else, for that matter.
You bite the inside of your cheek, tears burning hot behind your eyes as your body moves on autopilot. Your legs feel numb as you push open the balcony door and step back inside, the noise swallowing you whole.
Rafe’s head lifts, his eyes blinking a few beats before panic sets in as he realizes who he’s holding. He shoulders past her immediately, hands reaching for you fast.
“Hi—hey, baby,” he stammers, pulling you into your usual place against his chest, but it doesn't feel like yours. Her perfume clings to his shirt, his steady heartbeat hammering against your ear. “I thought that was you. I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers just for you.
You don’t answer, looking out at the wrong time, watching her expression twist.
“Who’s that?” One of her girlfriends murmurs nearby, just loud enough for you to hear.
“The fuck if I know,” she scoffs, already popping the cork off a bottle of tequila, her laughter tight. “Not from here. That’s for sure—”
“My girlfriend,” Rafe cuts in sharply, making everyone look your way. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“Oooh,” the other girl sings, tipping back the shot with deliberate slowness, eyes dragging over you where you stand tucked into him. “That’s new.”
Your stomach drops, Rafe’s big arm tightening around you like he can feel you slipping.
“Aww… You good, babe?” She asks you with faux concern.
“She’s fine,” Rafe mutters. “Stop being a bitch, Cass. Big house—don’t you got somewhere else to be?”
Cass laughs, delighted, like she got exactly what she wanted. “Well, Cameron,” she slurs, swaying slightly in her heels, “I was waitin’ in our usual spot, but it looks like you came prepared.”
“Fuck you—”
“I was trying to,” she cuts in smoothly, lips curling. “She not doin’ it for you, Rafey?”
The color drains from Rafe’s face, his brows shooting up in panic as he reaches for you, but you’re already pulling away without warning.
Your body draws like a magnet toward the door. Your heart fragile and two seconds away from shattering beyond repair, unable to take anymore run-ins with the girls who came before—the universe testing your patience when you’re clearly holding on by a thread.
And just like Sofia, you try to keep your dignity intact, tears swimming in your eyes—not falling, but even through the party you can hear him behind you pleading with you to stop.
“Baby, c’mon—”
You shake your head, gentle but final, as he spins you back toward him. “I can’t. I can’t do this anymore tonight. I’m—just let me go,” you push the words out through it all.
“Shh—hey—hey. Sweetheart. We can go somewhere quieter. Just you and me—”
“I want to leave. I don’t want to be here anymore,” you shut him down, tearing away, your body trembling with adrenaline, shoes sticking to the slick floor as you push through unfamiliar faces.
You take the stairs, tearing down the front walk like you have an escape plan, even though you don’t. Even if you wanted to leave together, Rafe is too far gone to take you home.
“Baby, please—just wait—don’t leave. Just—just let me call us a cab. Please. Please don’t leave me.” His voice cracks on the last word, and it nearly breaks you with it.
The cold bites at your cheeks as tears spill over, hot and sudden. You swipe at your face, gasping for air as his footsteps close the distance and he catches your wrist again, breathless and unsteady, the smell of liquor heavy on him.
“Where are you going?”
“Where am I going?” You repeat. “Anywhere but here.”
“You can’t just leave. You don’t even know where you are—”
“I’m not helpless, Rafe.” The words come out sharp, edged with fear and humiliation. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” he says quickly, frantic. “I know you can do everything without me. I just—I don’t want you to.”
“I’m done with tonight,” you say, your voice breaking despite yourself. “I’m done with this party. I’m done feeling like I’m just another one of your girls, Rafe.”
“You?” He drags a hand through his hair, pupils blown wide from the coke. “That’s the last thing you are to me.”
You swallow, your chest tight with it. “Does Sofia even know the two of you aren’t together?” You ask softly. “Because the way she was looking at you doesn’t feel finished.”
He exhales hard through his nose, like the name alone is a trigger, and for the first time tonight his voice steadies. “She cheated on me,” he says plainly. “More than once. She knew exactly what she was doin’. And before you ask, I didn’t leave for school and forget her,” he continues, words coming slower now, more sober-sounding than he’s been all night. “I left already done, alright? I don’t owe her anything. I didn’t owe her closure tonight. She’s not gettin’ shit from me. She’s sure as hell not taking away the only thing I care about.”
He reaches out, taking your hand in his, cold and clammy, tears pooling in his red-rimmed eyes.
“Rafe—”
“I don’t care about her,” he cuts in. “I don’t care if she’s upset. I don’t care if she’s still thinkin’ about me. That part of my life ended before you ever showed up. These girls—” He swallows hard. “I told you I wasn’t perfect, and I was fuckin’ serious, alright? But they mean nothing to me. None of this means a goddamn thing to me. My life—my life sucked before you—”
“YO, RAFE! YOU TWO GOOD?”
The moment shatters as Topper sticks his head outside the front door, looking down at the two of you with Kelce by his side. Your eyes lift, catching Cass and her friends in the kitchen, watching through the window, your stomach turning and your cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“WE’RE FINE,” Rafe bellows back, forcing the words out, and you watch as the girls laugh, glancing at the scene like this is nothing new, like this is just vintage Rafe Cameron in his natural form.
“I need some space,” you whisper.
“Space?” The word breaks on his lips as a thick tear slips down his cheek, Rafe wiping it away quickly with the sleeve of his shirt.
Shoes crunch along the driveway. Keys jingle as the shadows of two figures move closer. You catch sight of the brunette again—Sofia. Her under-eyes glisten with tears as she walks away from the party with her friends looped tightly around her for support.
Her steps falter for a moment, like you were the last people she was hoping to see. You turn your body slightly and her face falls, eyes fixed on her feet as they move, her friends’ eyes cutting daggers into Rafe. He looks back at her friend stone-cold, no emotion, his jaw sharp, eyes sharper.
Their steps disappear down the path, giving you a moment to collect yourself. You look back up at Rafe and his eyes are already on you, just waiting for what you’ll do next. You take a deep breath, your hand wrapping tight around the leather strap of your purse.
“Just go be who you were before me,” you say quietly. “I don’t have it in me to compete with tonight—”
“What competition? What are you even talking about?” He asks, and for the first time all night it feels like he’s sidestepping it, like he understands exactly how awful that sounds and he cannot make himself admit it anyway.
“Don’t play stupid, Rafe. Four of your exes in one fucking night. Remember how worked up you got about one of mine? Add three and see how that fucking feels.”
“I’m sorry—” He starts, reaching for you, pulling you back when you start to walk away. “There’s just—somethin’ else goin’ on with you,” he says quietly, like the thought’s been circling him all night and he finally put his finger on it, and that realization makes your stomach drop. “I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. You’ve been off—” He swallows hard. “You’ve been hurtin’ about somethin’. I know it. I know this shit didn’t help, but there’s something going on with you, baby—”
“Nothing’s wrong, Rafe,” you whimper.
“I’m serious,” he cuts in, desperation sharpening his tone.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you get to figure me out,” you say, and you can tell your words hurt. “You don’t.”
His mouth opens, frustration flashing across his face as he tries to come up with the right thing to say but he’s too fucked up.
“That’s not fair,” he says, quieter now, wounded and hurt, biting his cheek as he loses the fight with his emotions, each puzzled blink of his eyes sends tears down his cheeks.
He looks at you for a moment, chest heaving from the fight, eyes searching your face for the words he knows you’re not saying, because despite everything he doesn’t know, he can feel that this isn’t the whole story.
“I’m done.”
“With me?” He asks softly, his eyes glittering under the streetlights, lip trembling, tears wicking cold down his chin in the wind, too devastated to even wipe them away.
“No,” you whisper. “Just with tonight.”
And through the heartbreak, you see a flicker of relief anyway, because he takes a step back, putting space between the two of you like he finally understands he has to. You turn before you can change your mind, walking back the way you came at the beginning of the night, because you know if you look at him again you’ll fold.
The ground crunches beneath your heels, each step a reminder that you dressed for a party and not for this. The neighborhood stretches out in front of you, quiet and pristine, lined with massive homes lit warmly behind iron gates.
Your phone glows in your hand, the previous location showing Rafe’s childhood home two miles down the way as you route yourself there, the device trembling as the tears refuse to stop coming.
And the second you take a breath, your phone vibrates in your hand—back-to-back calls from Rafe that you do not have the heart to decline. You just let them ring through as your feet slap against the pavement, keeping time with the rapid thrumming of your heart.
Headlights bloom up from behind, casting your shadow onto the sidewalk in front of you, and you know it has to be someone from the party—the only question is who. Your hand wraps around your waist instinctively, your face turning toward the estates instead of the road, the embarrassment of leaving without Rafe—small, but still there.
The engine does not zoom past, though. It crawls, getting closer and closer. Your steps quicken and the vehicle behind you matches your cadence.
You glance back, catching the front of an unrecognizable truck just as the engine rumbles lower, pulling up beside you, the window rolling down before you can even catch up.
“Hey,” the voice leaves his lips friendly, but you are already facing forward again, hand going for the strap of your purse, ready to rip it off and swing it if you have to. “Hello?”
“Please,” you say immediately, your voice thin and breathless, wiping the tears away with your sleeve like you can hide the fact that you’re falling apart. “Leave me alone, alright?”
“Nah. Hey—hey,” the man says quickly, a gentle laugh like you’ve got him all wrong, like he knows you’re scared and you have no reason to be. “I ain’t trying to hurt you. Honest. You’re Rafe’s girl, huh?”
“I—” Your throat tightens. “…Yeah.”
“Alright,” he says simply. “Then get in.”
You hesitate, instinct screaming at you not to trust him. He leans out of the window, his denim shirt messy with dirt and motor oil, Barry stitched in frayed white lettering across the chest, a lit cigarette pinched lazily between his fingers; gold tooth glinting as he smiles.
“I’m takin’ you home. Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you walk back to Tanneyhill alone, and ain’t no way Rafe Cameron ever forgives me if I leave you out here like this. I insist.” The truck slows down, putting you in front of it again, instead of alongside, the man waving you to the passenger side.
“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible as you step back toward the truck.
The door shuts and your phone keeps buzzing, Barry’s truck pulling forward as his window rolls up. He turns the music up a little, and just before the window seals shut you hear it—a voice coming from behind, your name shouted and clipped off.
You look through the side mirror and sure enough there’s Rafe, sprinting after you, panic radiating off him like a wave with his phone glowing in his hand, the horror in his face unmistakable as you pull away, the darkness of the night swallowing him up behind you.
Barry’s hands settle on the steering wheel, knuckles rough, and work-worn. “Boy losin’ his mind or what?” He asks, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. “No way you’re walkin’ home alone if he didn’t fuck up or something—what he do?” The same smile plays on his lips, soft like he’s trying to ease the tension.
“It’s nothing,” you respond softly. “You… Uh—You know Rafe?”
He lets out a quiet, amused laugh that sounds like there’s too much history and not enough patience left for it. “Know him?” He grunts. “Yeah, I know him. Lucky me, huh? Kid’s a fuckin’ mess.”
“He must’ve turned things around then,” you say, more to fill the silence than anything else.
Barry hums, cigarette bobbing as he speaks, “Turned things around, huh?” He repeats slowly. “That what he told you?”
“He’s—He’s just fine…” Your voice shakes, not sure how to answer anymore.
“Sure,” Barry drawls. “Until he ain’t.” His tone stays casual, almost bored. “Daddy’s money, nose full of snow, heart full of nothin’… You one of them rich girls too?”
You can hear the judgment starting to bleed into his tone for you, just a slow drip, about the fact that you don’t know him—like you know the version of Rafe he wanted you to see but Barry knows the man underneath.
“No,” the word breathes past your lips.
His eyes flick back to you, slower this time, lingering just a second too long, his truck swaying on the road. “You seem different.”
The truck hums steadily beneath you, the world around you blurring together in the dark.
“Guess he finally found somethin’ worth keepin’, huh?”
You nod, eyes drifting toward the passenger window behind you, your reflection staring back at you, mascara clinging to your cheek. You try to level your breathing but your eyes lift, catching his gaze in the reflection of the glass too.
His eyes drop, lingering somewhere else, making you draw in a breath. “Gift, then?” He asks, eyeing the watch Rafe had just bought you before you left for vacation, the glimmering tennis bracelet he bought you too ‘just because’ shining like a spotlight stacked next to it. “Must be nice. Someone always payin’ for pretty shit.” You gasp—heart leaping in your throat as he knocks the gold YSL emblem with his ring. “Lucky you.”
The engine snarls, the truck lurching forward as Barry presses harder on the gas, the area around you is nothing like what you’ve seen before—your cellphone buzzing nonstop.
“Could you slow down?” You ask, and he grins, eyes still fixed ahead as his fingers curl around the wheel.
“Rafe ever tell you what he owes me?”
Your stomach turns, chills racing down your spine as your better judgment screams I told you so over the pounding of your heart. “No…”
“’Course he didn’t,” Barry says easily, blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke in your direction, laughing like he’s tired—like he expected nothing less. “Country Club left for college. You think he paid me back?” His voice booms through the car, the smile still slicked on his lips as he shakes his head. “I’ll let you guess.”
He doesn’t wait for your response, sucking a deep drag of his cigarette, letting the ash free-fall as the needle climbs.
“Spendin’ money on frat-boy bullshit, Miami, you.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “I didn’t know—”
“’Course you didn’t.” He mutters bitterly. “He don’t tell no one nothin’. That’s his trick. Boy’s good, I’ll give him that. Probably makes you feel pretty special.” He takes the turn hard enough to make you brace yourself. “You feel stupid yet, princess?”
“Please—” You start, voice breaking.
He exhales toward you again, laughing when you cough. “What’s in that fancy bag, huh?”
“Stop,” you scream, and he dives for it—the whole car jerking as he yanks it from your hands, the zipper screaming as he tears it open, rummaging through it fast.
He digs through it, fingers clumsy and half-focused as the truck barrels forward; lip gloss, change, receipts, nothing he wants to find until there is. The corner of his lips curls into a smirk as he finds a little wad of cash, eyeing it fast, clicking his tongue like he’s unimpressed. “This it?” He asks. “This all you got?”
He pockets it immediately, turning onto Rafe’s street.
“You runnin’ around with Rafe motherfuckin’ Cameron,” he continues, eyes fixed ahead, “and you’re carryin’ what? A hundred bucks?”
The tires screech, slamming to a violent stop in front of the driveway. Your body snaps forward, seatbelt tightening, pinning you in place.
He hurls the purse in your direction, hitting the passenger’s window, sending the contents clattering across your lap and the floor.
Your eyes widen on the pregnancy test in your lap. Everything goes silent. For a moment, he just stares at it.
Then he laughs, slow and mean. “Ain’t that somethin’,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Whore’s luck.”
You choke on your tears, breath hitching as your hands shake, and you scramble to shove everything back into the purse. Your fingers fumble blindly in the dark, desperate to leave, but the truck’s still locked.
You gasp as his hand snatches for you, closing around your wrist, too tight to fight. The watch… He twists your arm just enough to see—just enough to hurt, his eyes dropping immediately to admire it.
He yanks it off, then the tennis bracelet next, your wrist bare but locked in his hold. You whimper, small and broken, wincing as you wait for what he’ll do next. “Please,” you beg, voice shaking. “Please—don’t—”
“Good thing,” he says calmly, like he is explaining something reasonable, “you might be pregnant.” Your head shakes frantically as he plucks the cigarette from his lips. “I’m feelin’ generous tonight.”
The cigarette presses into your skin.
“I’d have killed you otherwise,” he adds calmly, and you scream; the pain hits you white-hot and absolute, smoke curls as it brands the soft skin of your wrist, your body jerking away but he stays firm. Your sobs flee your lips soundless, tears pouring from your eyes.
“Let me go, please,” you bawl, your voice gone, face turned away, buried in your shoulder.
“Well, would you look at that,” he chuckles. Your eyes peel open, finding him looking through the mirror with a grin on his lips as Rafe comes sprinting up behind you. “Runnin’ all this way. Goddamn. You might be his favorite one, huh?” He mutters meanly, the unlock button sounding like a starting gun, leaving you racing for the door handle.
You spill out of the truck, hitting the ground hard, clutching your purse to your chest as the driveway bites into your palm and knees.
The engine roars and the truck peels away, taillights disappearing down the road, as Rafe’s footsteps pound closer.
He drops to his knees beside you, breath broken, hands trembling as they hover uselessly over you, like he does not know where it is safe to touch you.
His eyes catch on your arm, seeing it all—the empty wrist, the angry red burn branded into your skin, and he’s on his feet in the next breath, sprinting after the truck as it rolls toward the stop sign, shouting hoarse, incoherent threats into the dark that echo off the trees.
When he stops, his chest is heaving; hands knotted behind his head as his lungs burn, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might split him open. He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, but when he opens them again, you’re gone.
He runs back toward the house, taking the steps two at a time, slamming the front door open hard enough that it bangs against the wall, the sound cracking through the quiet house.
“Baby?”
The word rips out of him, the only thing he can manage before silence answers back. His shoes slap against the marble as he follows the strip of light at the end of the hallway, the faint hiss of running water mixing with your uneven breaths and the soft, broken sniffles he hears through the door.
You’re standing at the sink, shoulders trembling as you tip rubbing alcohol over the fresh burn on your arm. Your jaw clenches as you brace yourself, a cry slipping through your teeth when the pain hits again. The smell reaches him instantly—sharp, sterile; painfully clean. “Baby, hey,” he says, his voice cracking. “Look at me. Please.”
You don’t turn around. His voice feels muffled, distant, even though he’s right next to you—and even if it were clear, you couldn’t make yourself respond.
He catches your reflection in the mirror. You look scared and shaken, your face washed with tears, dissociated from the world around you—from him.
From the man standing behind you, hollowed out and broken, realizing too late that even if he wasn’t the one who touched you, his unfinished mess is what put you in that man’s path.
He reaches for you and your body flinches on instinct, and the reaction devastating him more. Rafe pulls his hand back immediately, raking it through his hair instead, his breath stuttering as he forces himself to stay where he is.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly. “I want to know what you need right now. Please.”
“He stole everything, Rafe,” you whisper. “I—I need to get out of here.”
“Then we’ll leave,” he says quickly. “Right now. We’ll go.”
You shake your head, the movement small and helpless. “I couldn’t get on a fucking plane even if I wanted to. All of it is gone—my wallet, my ID, my credit cards—everything.”
He sees it then, the way the walls are closing in on you, the panic weighing on your shoulders, crushing you below it. His jaw tightens as he swallows back tears, knowing he does not get to fall apart right now.
He bends down and lifts your purse from the floor, setting it carefully on the counter, like he’s afraid even this might scare you again. He tips your purse onto the counter, slower now, more careful than anyone has been with your things all night.
The contents scatter softly; receipts slide, lip glosses roll, your phone lands with a dull thud, the screen glowing despite the cracks, a spiderweb splintering the picture of the two of you on your lock screen.
His attention drifts, and the question he asked you earlier is answered without any words at all.
Is something else going on with you?
The answer sits right there on the counter, in the wreckage of your night, and it hits him all at once. Yes. He just didn’t know how deep it went.
Rafe looks up at you first, then down again.
His fingers hover just above it, the same way they did when he found you on the ground, too overwhelmed to know what to do with himself. He picks it up nonetheless, drawing a deep breath. When your gaze lifts this time, you do not look away.
“Are you?” He asks quietly, then hesitates. “Do you think you’re—”
“I don’t know,” you say, heat burning behind your eyes as you see the fear reflected back at you in his face.
He nods once, chewing on his lip, his voice barely steady when he speaks again. “Did you take one before?”
You close your heavy eyes and shake your head. “No.”
“Can you?” His voice frays at the edges.
“I’m too scared.”
“Why?” He asks, and he knows the answer’s going to hurt but he needs to hear it.
Your lips tremble before the words come out, your voice thin and shaking under the weight of everything you feel.
“Because I don’t know you, Rafe,” your voice slips past your trembling lips. “I barely know you.” Your chest aches as you try to breathe through it, but the panic sits too high—too tight around your throat. “Tonight, after everything that just happened, it scared me—”
“I’m so sorry, I—”
“All night, Rafe… all fucking night I was surrounded by people who know a version of you that I don’t. I don’t want this,” you say quietly. “I want a normal life. I want to feel safe. And I don’t know if I can have that with you, because tonight—tonight you weren’t who I thought you were.” Your voice breaks. “Or maybe you were. And I don’t know which one is fucking worse.”
Rafe looks back at you like the floor just dropped out beneath him, like there is nothing left to grab onto. Tears tumble down his cheeks as he looks down at you, his lips parting again, and just like before nothing comes out.
“He said you owe him money, Rafe.”
“Like nothin’,” he says honestly, his voice breaking, stripped of its bravado. “It wasn’t even that much… like two grand—I forgot.”
“You forgot?” You stare at him, disbelief cutting clean through the tears. “And in what world is that not a lot?”
He drops his gaze, shame flooding his face so completely he has to look away. He rubs his hands over his glassy eyes, not an ounce of confidence left.
“I’m going to fix this,” he says, the words tumbling over each other. “I swear I am. I’ll make it right. I’ll fix everything, okay? I promise.”
The promise hangs between you, thin and fragile, and he can tell you don’t believe him like he wishes you would.
Then, slow and careful, he steps forward, guiding you toward him, chest to chest, your fingertips grazing his, but he knows the contact’s more than he deserves. His head tilts in, lessening the space between you; half-hiding his face to mask the tears he can’t stop—but you can hear it in his words.
“The person you know—that’s who I am.” He swallows hard. “You know me. You do, baby. Tonight—” He shakes his head slightly, fingers twiddling against yours anxiously. “I don’t wanna be that person. I don’t. I’m not proud of what you saw—what happened to you. I'll never forget that and I'll never forgive myself. You know that.”
He sniffles a little, adjusting on his feet, the tears sliding down his cheeks landing warm and wet on your shoulder. He breathes out a shaky breath against your skin, and it breaks your heart how much this exposure stings—the person he was before suddenly clear, suddenly ugly, in a way you cannot unsee.
“I’m gonna walk back to Top’s. I’m gonna get him and Kelce, right now. I’m gonna get your stuff back. I’m gonna pay Barry. I’m ending all this shit—every bit of it. No loose ends, I swear to God. I’m not letting anything else happen to you.”
Rafe’s voice softens, fear clinging to every word, his breathing slowing with yours.
“I’m fucked up,” he admits quietly. “I know I am. But I’ll stop—everything. All the stupid shit I use to feel big or numb or whatever the fuck was because being with you… it’s easy. It makes sense. I’m fucking happy. And pregnant or not none of this is fake. None of this was ever a game. No competitions. Nothing. Only you.”
He pulls back enough so you can see his eyes—vibrating with a want to wrap his fingers in yours but he doesn't know if he can anymore.
“I’m who you think I am,” he whispers. “I’m me around you. I’m the best version of myself when I’m with you. I’m who I—” His voice catches. “I’m who I want to be.”
His voice softens, the look in his eyes pleading with you to believe him.
“I know you want to leave and I get it. I know you got that test and you don't want to take it, but you don't have to do any of this without me. I want to go with you. I want to be with you. But I know I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, without defensiveness or drama. “Never have. I know that. But whatever happens tonight—whatever happens after this—I swear to you,” he says softly, “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that the guy you met is real. I swear I’ll make good on my word and I’ll keep you safe. You’re it for me.”
Your throat tightens, tears springing in the corners of his eyes, emotion and heat climbing up your throat.
“I’m not ready to be a dad,” he whispers. “But if that’s where this goes, I’ll learn how to be. I’ll mess up, I know I will—but never like this. Just the little things—nothing that'll hurt you or make you doubt us.”
He forces himself to keep looking at you, even though it hurts, even when his pride tells him to break. He inhales shakily, stepping forward, letting his forehead rest against yours.
“You’re gonna be okay. Whatever you decide. You are going to have a life, and I'm not gonna get in your way. Whatever choice you make about your life—I won’t take that from you. I won’t drag you down. I swear.”
His lips press softly against your forehead, lingering for a moment.
“I love you,” he whispers into your skin. “More than I’ve ever loved anything.”
He pulls away before you can answer and heads toward the door.
You hear the front door open, then close.
You do not have the energy to clean up properly. You do not have the energy to think about anything beyond the next steps you need to take back into the bedroom. Your feet pad against the cold wooden floor, shutting the bedroom door and turning off the lights.
Everything falls into darkness; a newfound quiet surrounding you, heavy and needed, like a weighted blanket. You walk toward your suitcases, opening his instead of your own, tugging on one of his t-shirts, the fabric swallowing you up as his cologne clings to the cotton.
You crawl into his bed and sink into the mattress, pulling the covers up around you tight, letting your eyes close for a moment and the second they do you’re met with nothing. The man you got so used to seeing on the other side, gone.
Your tears come quietly at first. They slide down your cheeks, soaking the pillow below. You try to be quiet, even though there is no one left to hear you, the effort making your head pound.
Your eyes shut again, too heavy—your body too tired to keep them open anymore. You do not think about the test on the counter or the burn on your arm, or the life you wanted before tonight.
All you can think about is him.
You wake with your head pounding, a dull pressure sitting stubbornly behind your eyes, like a hangover.
You push the covers back and sit up carefully, instinctively looking toward the side of the bed where Rafe should be, but it’s still empty. Your stomach drops, fear spiking fast and sharp, hands patting blindly at the mattress for your phone as you stand, legs unsteady beneath you. For a split second it feels like he’s gone, like the night ended worse than you remember—but when you turn, the panic dissolves.
Rafe is there.
He’s slumped awkwardly in the armchair by the window, asleep in a position that looks less like rest and more like surrender, like he never meant to sleep at all and his body finally gave out sometime in the night. One arm hangs off the side of the chair, fingers swollen and split across the knuckles, while the other rests loosely over his stomach.
On the small table beside him sit your watch and your bracelet, laid out carefully, side by side.
Your breath catches when you see his face, swollen from tears and bruised from brute force. Deep purple shadows paint the underside of his left eye, dried blood faintly tracing his cheekbone, his lip split down the center.
You turn away before the weight of it sends you spiraling again, moving toward the bathroom.
Your purse is there on the counter, opened and organized. Everything is inside. It is not dumped or tossed back together, but arranged with care, like he took the time to put something broken back into order, even when he didn’t know how to fix anything else. Your wallet sits where it should, your cash and cards tucked inside, and beside it—the pregnancy test.
You reach for it, fingers closing around the plastic before you can talk yourself out of it again. You sit on the edge of the toilet, watching your hand tremble despite how familiar the instructions are—how many times you read them and put the box back. You fumble with the perforated edge, nerves clumsy and uncooperative.
When it’s done, you set it on the counter and turn away, this time on purpose.
Your body moves, crossing the room, climbing into his lap before you can think about it anymore. He startles awake immediately, fear flashing across his face before recognition softens it, the tension draining out of him as soon as he realizes it is you.
His arms come around you slowly, carefully, like he is making sure he is allowed to hold you at all. You lean into him, and he exhales shakily, forehead dropping to your shoulder, holding you close.
He buries his face into your neck, breath shaking against your skin—a tear landing on your collarbone, then another as “I’m sorry” slips from his mouth with each shaky exhale.
He’s crying silently, shoulders trembling as he tries not to make a sound, fingers digging into your skin with a desperation that makes your chest ache. You cup his cheeks gently and guide his face up just enough to see him, his eyes impossibly blue as tears cling to his lashes.
“I love you,” you whisper first, your voice quiet but certain.
His mouth purses and his nostrils flare, trying to answer you without shattering because even though you have said those words hundreds of times since they first breathed past your lips, they mean something different now.
“I love you,” he whispers back, his voice barely a sound at all. “I love you so much.”
Your eyes fall to the table beside you and his follow, nodding toward it.
“I should’ve never let it happen in the first place, but,” his voice drifts away, hands shaking as he reaches for it, “I got your stuff back, baby.”
You smile gently as he guides your wrist, biting his lip when he sees the bandage just below where the jewelry’ll sit, a cruel reminder that you are still carrying pain from last night, and that even in his arms it still hurts—and it will for a while yet.
He dips in, pressing a tender, apologetic kiss against your soft skin before he slides on the bracelet, then the watch, clasping them again.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, not letting your hand go, kissing your knuckle, one then the next.
“I know,” you whisper.
“Plane leaves today at noon. I booked myself a ticket too, but I can always cancel if you need some space.”
You cup his cheek in your hand and he leans into it, your thumb brushing along his stubble as his eyes close; lashes skimming the apples of his bruised face.
“I don’t want space from you,” you whisper, and his eyes pinch a little tighter, another tear tumbling down his cheek that you rub away.
“Thank you, baby,” his voice breaks, hoarse with emotion.
“I took the test.”
His eyes lift, looking ahead for a moment, collecting himself before he looks up at you. “What did it say?” He asks.
“You told me I don’t have to do any of this without you,” you say, your voice wavering, a nervous smile pulling at your lips as his expression softens in understanding.
“And I meant that,” he breathes. Your fingers card through his hair nervously, fighting back tears.
“I’m scared,” you whimper.
“Me too.” He echoes your emotion, his strong arms binding around your body, pulling you into him. Your bodies tangle together, the two of you barely holding on, but there is comfort in him knowing—in doing this together. “We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers against your skin, pressing a kiss against your hair, sealing the promise and you nod, snuggling a little closer for the moment. You can tell he’s trying to be strong for you; his body language, secure while his heart races away.
You push up and stand again, reaching out your hand, and he takes it immediately.
The light is softer in here now, morning sun diffused through the bathroom mirror, and when you stop in front of the counter you catch sight of the two of you reflected back. You see yourself first—tired, swollen-eyed, held together by that same thread you thought would break last night, but you’re stronger than you thought—and then you see him behind you.
Rafe’s hands come to rest at your waist, warm and steady. In the glass, his face is beaten, still marked by last night, but his eyes are clear. He does not look like the man he was last night—he looks like the Rafe you love. Your Rafe.
You swallow, your gaze dropping toward the counter before you can stop yourself, then lifting again just as quickly.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says immediately, gentle and sure, lips kissing your cheek then your temple. “That’s okay.”
He turns into you, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you toward his chest. You try your best to hold on, focusing on his breathing instead, matching his cadence as your head lies to rest against his strong chest.
“Baby,” he murmurs softly against your skin, turning his cheek into you, getting closer, kissing you absentmindedly. “I swear whatever happens I’ll make sure you’re taken care of—that we’re good. You gotta trust me.”
Your chest tightens, but you nod.
“Want me to look first,” he whispers, and you nod again just a little—and he does.
Rafe’s breath leaves him in a quiet, broken sound, the steady beating of his heart climbing. His hand tightens around you, forehead resting against the side of your head again, his eyes still locked on the test.
“Okay,” he whispers, and it sounds like acceptance instead of panic, like he is already bracing himself to stay rather than run.
You turn your cheek toward the mirror, looking back at his reflection, at the way his mouth trembles and his eyes shine with tears that do not fall—at the way he is shaken but not falling apart.
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