❀ i'm here for you, always
❀ high maintenance
❀ paired up together
❀ the language of roses
❀ mini boyfriend
❀ not so cocky
❀ finding you again
❀ not for the money
❀ taking care of you
❀ your locker
❀ distractions
৻ꪆ you're perfect
❀ /৻ꪆ just one date
৻ꪆ yours to keep
৻ꪆ changes
৻ꪆ ugly addiction
⋆˚࿔ SONG FICS˚⋆
৻ꪆ that's so true
⋆˚࿔ HEADCANONS˚⋆
❀ rafe getting you your job back
❀ rafe supporting his girl to study
❀ rafe gets grumpy when he doesn't pay for your nails
❀ having a movie night with rafe
❀ you wearing your glasses around rafe for the first time
❀ rafe wiping away your tears after a bad day
❀ rafe helping you sleep
❀ nerd!rafe tries to take pictures of you for his class
❀ enemy!rafe: who did this to you?
summary: absence makes the heart grow fonder (for two people)
warnings: cigarette smoking, swearing, mentions of drinking
wc: 4.9k
a/n: hiii ahh im so excited and i hope you guys enjoy this just as much as i enjoyed writing it! as always, let me know your thoughts! xoxo
series masterlist
In the morning, you and Rafe settle on the small breakfast place right around the corner from your apartment. You’d offered to pick him up, but he told you he wanted the fresh air of the walk and then reminded you to bring him a book. You tried not to be too distracted by his morning voice and made a mental note to pick one out.
It became a more difficult task than you initially anticipated. To you, it feels like you and Rafe have a sense of communication through books, so shouldn’t you give him something that falls into how you feel?
This opens up the question your brain has been begging to ask your heart: how do you feel?
You shake that thought from your head and get ready, considering all the while what book to bring him. Just as you’re walking out the door, bag thrown over your shoulder and going over a mental checklist of everything you need, you snatch your book up off the coffee table and examine it. The Storyteller by Walter Benjamin. You’d read it a few months ago and enjoyed it, and a part of you is curious what Rafe will think of it. Plus, it keeps the feelings aspect vague.
It goes into your bag right as you snatch your keys from the hook by the front door, and with a deep breath, you leave.
Rafe’s already seated when you arrive, even though you’re twenty minutes earlier than the time you’d agreed on. He has a coffee mug in front of him and he hasn’t seen you enter yet, but he’s holding his letter to you. It’s still sealed up, but he’s staring at the envelope like he’s deep in thought. You’re hesitant, but step forward, and watch his eyes immediately catch on you. He stands, tucking the letter into his back pocket once again, and smiles.
“Good morning,” he greets, “Any hangover?”
You laugh and sit down across from him, placing your bag in the other chair beside you.
“No, I’m okay,” you say.
“Good,” he nods.
You watch as he sits there, seeming calm now despite having looked a little rattled as he stared at your letter. He sits back in his chair, slinging his right arm lazily across the chair beside him. With his left hand, he gestures to the waitress to bring you a coffee, then gives her his best smile.
“So, I brought you a book,” you tell him, reaching into your bag to pull it out.
He watches you curiously, and when you slide the book across the table, he picks it up and flips it over to read the back cover.
“What made you pick this one?” he asks.
You know the answer. You’d thought about it the entire way here. Looking Rafe in the eye and telling him why you chose that book just sounds overwhelming. The waitress places a mug of coffee down in front of you, then gracefully states she’ll give you two a few minutes. You fiddle with the coffee, adding more sugar than you normally take, knowing he’s watching you and waiting for an answer. He’s patient and you know he’ll wait you out every time.
“Um,” you start, groaning internally at that, “I just– the author. He writes these short stories and if you pay attention, you see how he kind of incorporates his loneliness into them, but not in a way that makes him desperate. He’s just calmly lonely. He’s composed and restrained, and when I was thinking about it, I realized those are all qualities I see in you.”
When you look up at him again, he swallows visibly. His hands wrap around his coffee mug just to have somewhere to go, something to do. You lick your lips and look back down at your mug, hoping you didn’t offend him.
“I’m not lonely right now,” he says quietly, “In fact, the last few weeks, I’ve felt less lonely than I have my entire life.”
Your eyes move quickly back to his, and this time, you don’t feel shy enough to look away. He always gets to watch you, so you want to watch him back. With a slight smile, you hold his eye contact. He grins after a minute and lets you win, breaking it to sip from his mug.
“I feel the same, you know,” you tell him, “Less lonely.”
“Yeah?”
His Adam’s apple bobs at your admission, forcing you to nod your head.
“Yeah.”
He shifts his jaw around to hide his smile, then picks up the menu he’d had in front of him the entire time.
“Want to share something?”
You would’ve never pegged Rafe Cameron to be a pancake guy. In fact, you probably would’ve bet that he hates them. But he doesn’t, not even in the slightest. You’d finished eating ten minutes ago, so full you could hardly move but refusing to even bring up leaving. He’s picking bites off of your leftover pancakes with his fork, and for some reason, it makes your heart swell in your chest every time he does it.
Something about all of this feels comfortable. You consider how this is really only your third time hanging out with him, and yet, you don’t feel awkward or anxious about starting or carrying conversations. He’s easy to talk to and he makes you laugh, and most of all, he doesn’t make you feel pressured in any way. He’s calm and relaxed, enough that it seems to radiate off of him and into you.
“All right, all right,” he says, picking another bite of pancakes from your plate, “Tell me your favorite movie series.”
“Hmm,” you hum, sipping your coffee and watching him watch you, “It has to be the Harry Potter films.”
Rafe laughs and sits back in his chair, wiping his mouth with his napkin as you stare at him with a raised eyebrow, wondering why that made him laugh.
“You were so the kid that read the whole series in, like, seventh grade. I’m talking about reading them at lunch, in between classes, and while you waited for your mom to pick you up from school. Always had your nose in a book, didn’t you?”
He’d pegged you exactly right, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. You just purse your lips and hum, then take another long sip from your coffee mug. He laughs again, and it makes you smile.
“I’m going to guess yours is The Hangover,” you say, pointing an accusing finger his way.
“It is,” he confirms, “I’m surprised you remember that.”
“Well,” you smirk, “When someone tells you they’re spending Christmas watching such a terrible set of movies, it really sticks with you–”
“Come on, now. Have you ever even seen them?” he questions, leaning forward with purpose.
“I mean,” you shrug, “I’ve seen, like–”
“Exactly,” he laughs, “We’ll watch them together sometime. You need some culture in your life.”
You laugh with him now, enjoying how his smile takes over his entire face. He’s perfected the brooding, lonely look so well that seeing him like this gives you an entirely different version of Rafe to write letters to.
And that’s when it hits you, mug halfway to your lips and smile still gracing your mouth. He has to leave, and you two will go back to writing letters. You won’t get to see him like this for a while, and when, you’re not even sure. The thought of leaving him without having another time to look forward to makes your smile fall. You try to cover it with your mug, but the ever so attentive Rafe Cameron immediately latches onto that expression.
“What is it?” he asks gently.
You just shake your head, unwilling to confess that you’re going to miss him. You’ve only hung out with him a few times, and the weight on your chest at the thought of not being around him feels so heavy you don’t think you can carry it.
“Nothing,” you reply, “I just realized I have some school stuff I have to take care of later. Laundry to do. That’s why I look like this.”
You laugh easily, meant for it to be a joke, as you look down at your old, slightly ripped jeans and UNC tee.
Rafe frowns, “You look beautiful.”
His words strike you just as they did last night. He picks up his fork and steals yet another bite of the pancakes on your plate, seemingly unaffected by what he’d just said. You, however, feel frozen in your seat, unable to stop yourself from blurting out your question.
“Why do you keep saying that to me?”
He freezes now, fork halfway to his mouth. His eyebrows furrow, as if he’s trying to decide if he misunderstood the question. Slowly, he sits back in his chair and analyzes every last feature of yours before he speaks.
“Do you not think you’re beautiful?”
You genuinely have no idea how to answer that. He’s studying you, watching every movement of your eyes as they drop into your mug.
“I guess I’ve never given it much thought,” you reply, figuring that’s as safe as it can get.
“That’s a shame,” he says, throwing his napkin down on the table as a sign that he’s through eating.
When you look up at him, he’s still watching you. His frown is evident and he almost looks upset, but you can’t grasp why.
“It’s just that nobody said it outright to me before,” you speak up, “Not like that. Not like you.”
This softens his features a bit. He exhales his exasperation and leans forward again, growing closer to you.
“That’s a shame,” he repeats, “Because it’s my first and last thought every time I see you. And most in between.”
Before you can even get a handle on his words to even form any sort of response back, he’s flagging down the waitress to get the check. He digs his wallet out of his back pocket and pulls your letter out as well, glancing up at you quickly and noting that you’ve seen it.
He presses it down on the table and slides it across to you, hesitant to release it but doing so anyway when you reach for it.
“Ferry leaves soon,” he says, “I should head out.”
Something in his voice sounds reluctant, and you wonder if you’re making it up or if he genuinely feels the same way you do about separating. You nod and tuck his letter into your bag, reaching for your own wallet.
He pulls a few bills out from his own and places them down on the table, and when he catches onto your action, he shakes his head.
“Put that away, Y/N,” he waves you off, “I showed up here without warning you first. The least I can do is buy you coffee and half a breakfast.”
He points to your plate, still containing food even after he’d picked off what he wanted.
“Rafe, really–”
He’s adamant, shaking his head at you with intent.
“I want to, seriously. Plus, paying gives me an excuse to look at this.”
He grins mischievously and pulls the picture of you from his wallet, holding it gently between his fingertips. You groan, but can’t help the smile that forms on your face. He turns it around to show you, and you feel your body grow warm once more. It really is a good picture of you, even you are willing to admit it. He laughs and turns it around again, staring at it for a few seconds with an admiring smile before tucking it away.
“You don’t have to keep that, you know,” you say.
He frowns, “Yes, I do. Finish your coffee and we’ll go.”
You swallow the remnants in your mug slowly, as does he, and when you both run out, he stands. His eyes fall to the floor as he does so, which confirms to you that leaving is the last thing he really wants to do.
“How are you getting to the port?” you ask.
You stand too, holding your bag in your hand. He smiles softly at your concern and reaches for your bag, placing it on your shoulder for you as he avoids your eyes.
“Uber,” he replies.
“Rafe, that has to be expensive. Let me–”
He just shakes his head, finally meeting your gaze.
“It’s not bad. It’ll give me time to read.”
You smile, but it’s sad and gentle. He takes a deep breath, then gestures for you to follow him outside. He thanks your waitress as you both pass her, and when you get outside, you notice how cloudy it is.
“You’ll be careful getting back?” you ask, although you know it’s not really up to him.
He smiles again and nods his head, “Yes.”
“Okay.”
He walks with you to your car, pulling open the driver’s side door for you. You bite down on your bottom lip, not sure how you should leave things with him. As if he can sense it, he grabs ahold of your left hand with his right one, interlocking your fingers together.
“Thanks for not turning me away this weekend,” he says.
“Rafe, I–” you stop when you see the vulnerability in his eyes, and you drop your voice down to be more forbearing, “I would never turn you away.”
His smile is soft as he takes in your words, knowing that you mean them.
“Write to me, okay?”
You nod, “Of course I will.”
“Good.”
You pull your hand from his and just as his face falls, you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles lightly against you and wastes no time hugging you back, one of his hands cradling your head and the other rubbing softly on your back. You hadn’t thought the movement out, you’d just done it. Your emotions seem to be handling this for you, not wanting him to leave you.
“You gonna be okay?” he asks with a slight tease in his voice.
“Yeah,” you reply weakly.
After a second, you pull back from him and watch him smile. He runs his hand over your hair to tame it where it had been messed up from his grip.
“Tell me I’ll see you soon,” he whispers as he stares at you.
Your heart clenches in your chest. You’re unwilling to remove your arms from his, but he doesn’t care. His hands remain settled on you.
“You’ll see me soon,” you tell him.
When you say the words, you mean them. You’re not sure how or when, but you mean them. The thought of not seeing him for a while is too much to think about right now.
He grins, “I better.”
You laugh, then drop your arms from his as you know he needs to get going, and if you cling to him for another second, you might not let him leave.
“Be safe,” you tell him.
He nods and grabs ahold of the door handle again, waiting for you to get inside.
“I will.”
You sit down in the car and let your eyes finally fall from him, the sadness weighing down on your heart. He sets his arm on the top of the car and leans his head in, looking as resistant to leave you as you are to him.
“Maybe you could text me when you get back. Just so I know you made it home safe,” you propose.
“I’ll call you,” he corrects, the same way he did last night, “If that’s okay.”
“That would be good,” you nod.
“Okay,” he agrees, “Go on. You have homework. And laundry.”
You smile at the fact he remembered that, letting him close the door. You roll the window down and watch as he steps back, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket. He lights it, then looks up at you as he inhales.
“Rafe?”
“Hm?”
He exhales the smoke, waiting on you to speak.
“I can’t wait to see you again.”
He laughs, pulling his cigarette from his lips and letting it rest between his fingers.
“Me neither, honey.”
The term of endearment makes your mouth go dry, but you do your best not to let it show. With a small smile, you put the car in drive. He nods his head in the direction of the exit, pressing his cigarette to his lips once more.
When you wave, he doesn’t waste a second waving back. He stands in the same spot and watches as you leave, and your eyes don’t leave him until he’s no longer visible in your rear view.
His letter gets read before you even walk upstairs. Still in the parking lot of your apartment complex, you open the envelope and pull out the pieces of notebook paper. The handwriting, having become so familiar to you, makes you smile.
Y/N,
I’m on a ferry right now. You’ll only know this if I actually show up, because if I chicken out, I’m not mailing this one to you. This one gets hand delivered only.
I didn’t have a plan when I drove down to the port today. Or when I bought my ticket. Or even now. I have no plan. I just know one thing: I have to see you.
I can’t even tell you why. That’s the crazy part. You’d think I’d have some form of restraint, but I don’t. I’m on a fucking ferry to go lay eyes on a girl I’ve seen one time. But you baked me cookies and wrote me a letter just so I’d feel less lonely on Christmas, so I guess this is my gesture back to you. I’m just hopeful that you’ll want to see me. That you’ll even be home. It’s such a gamble. Maybe I should go home. You have a life out here. Friends and the guy you kissed on New Year’s. I don’t want to disrupt that.
Fuck it. I took a break from writing to you and cleared my head. I’m coming to see you. If you turn me away, that’s okay. I’ll torch this letter and write you a new one in a few days and that will be it.
I’m sorry. I’m writing this more to myself than I am to you. I just have no idea how this is going to go. I’m struggling to find the right things to say, because if you read this, that means I saw you. So, here’s what I’m sure I’ll be thinking about the entire ride back home.
I had fun with you. I’m sure I did. How could I not? You’re brilliant and funny and so fucking beautiful. I’m sure I’ll spend the ferry ride thinking about your laugh and replaying whatever opinion on whatever book you told me about. Your perception of books and their characters never ceases to amaze me. I’m so curious what you’re going to read next.
To be honest with you, I’m infatuated. I’m so goddamn infatuated that I’m on a ferry right now and looking up motels to stay in tonight. I don’t know where all the honesty is coming from. I don’t know the last time I told someone the real truth. Something about you just makes me feel so different.
Anyway, thanks for entertaining me this weekend. I hope you had as much fun as I did.
Sincerely,
Rafe
You fold the letter up and sit silently in your car, a smile present on your lips as you place your hand over your mouth. He’s smitten. He’s smitten and he’s honest and he’s not ashamed. All the doubts, all of the worrying you’ve held over what Rafe wants is gone, the soothing words sitting right in front of you on notebook paper. When you do finally allow yourself to laugh, to deeply feel whatever it is you feel for him, it's as if your heart grows ten sizes in your chest.
As you walk up the stairs, you feel as if you’re in a daze. A Rafe Cameron infused daze. You move faster as you near your apartment, just wanting to collapse on your bed and read that letter until it’s dark out.
“Y/N? That you?” Emma calls, her voice strained from the hangover she’s sporting.
“It’s me,” you call back.
She’s sitting in the living room with the hood of her sweatshirt pulled over head, groaning as she holds her mug of coffee. Ethan’s leaned back on the couch, eyes closed. You’re not sure if he’s asleep or just super hung over, but you don’t question it.
“Oh, God,” Emma groans, “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“All lovesick and happy.”
Your eyebrows shoot up on your forehead, the envelope sitting in your hand. She shakes her head at you but gestures you over to the couch, pulling you down to sit beside her. You do, letting her rest her head on your shoulder.
“We went to breakfast,” you say quietly, “He’s heading home.”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you reply, “He gave me this letter.”
She slides the envelope from your hand and opens it up, groaning when she sees the length of it.
“Is this why you came in all giddy?”
You laugh quietly, “Yes.”
You sit in silence as she scans over it, but she gives you no hint about how she feels until she folds it closed and tucks it away again. Then, she sits up and looks at you, sympathetic smile on her lips.
“Y/N,” she whispers, “I’m really sorry I tried to force you to hang out or whatever with Chris. I shouldn’t have done that. Clearly, whatever you have with Rafe is really special to both of you. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, Em,” you smile, “I appreciate you looking out for me. You’re my best friend, you know?”
“You’re mine, too,” she nods.
Emma wastes no time throwing her arms around you and pulling you close, which makes you laugh and squeeze her back. Ethan stirs beside both of you, so you pull back and press your fingers to your lips.
“Babe,” Ethan groans, “I drank too much.”
Emma rolls her eyes, which makes you chuckle.
“I’ll make you both some breakfast,” you tell her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Extra bacon, pretty please,” she insists as you stand.
You watch as Emma cuddles into Ethan’s side on the couch and closes her eyes. Even in his hung over state, he presses a kiss to the top of her head. It makes you smile, and for the first time ever, you realize that you want that intimacy with someone, too. But not someone. With one person. One person who is growing further away by the minute.
You’re fresh out of the shower and thinking about what to make for dinner when your phone rings. You’d put the volume up on full blast after you came home, knowing Rafe would call like he said he would.
You pull the towel from your hair and get comfortable on your bed, then answer after you calm the excitement fluttering around in your stomach.
“Hi,” you say, your voice giving you away immediately.
He chuckles lighty, “Hi.”
“Are you home?”
“I am,” he replies, “I was trying to play it cool and not call you for a while after I got back.”
You let out a laugh and listen to him do the same.
“How long did that last?” you ask him.
“Thirty-one minutes. And it’s only because I did every single chore I could think of.”
You can’t help but laugh again, imagining him vacuuming and unloading his dishwasher just to keep himself away from the phone. You know you would’ve probably done the same out of anxiousness.
“I didn’t know Rafe Cameron had a domestic side,” you tease.
“I have a lot of sides,” he shoots back, “Did you read my letter?”
You glance over at the letter, sitting open on your nightstand. You’d read it about fifty times since this morning. Knowing that you can hold onto the words, grasp onto physical proof that Rafe Cameron has some semblance of feelings for you, makes your heart want to burst in your chest. You want him to have the same feeling.
“Yes,” you say, “I want to write my response, though. Not tell you over the phone.”
You can practically hear the grin that spreads across his face, and it makes you smile, too.
“I would appreciate that.”
You shift on your side, laying your wet hair against your pillow but not caring because all you can think about is him on the phone and his letter now in your vision. All you can think of are pancakes and adjectives and how the smell of cigarette smoke doesn’t make you turn your nose up when it’s his.
“Thanks for coming here, Rafe,” you say softly.
“It was really good to see you, Y/N,” he replies, “Write to me soon.”
You grin, “I will. I promise.”
“Okay. Have a good week with school, yeah?”
“Hmm. We’ll see,” you tease.
He chuckles, and for a moment, both of you are aware that you don’t want to hang up. But with you wanting to write out your response to him, there’s too much left unsaid to carry on a meaningless conversation just for the hell of it.
“Talk soon,” he promises quietly, “Bye, Y/N.”
“Bye, Rafe.”
Rafe,
I had so much fun with you this weekend. Which is crazy, because all we did was sit on my balcony and talk, then go to a restaurant and talk. I just really enjoy your company and I don’t feel the pressure to be anything else when I’m with you. Guys don’t really know the “pressure” I’m referring to – but essentially, it’s this pressure to say the right things, do the right things, look the right way. I’ve never really been able to do any of that. And I don’t really want to, either. Honestly, I think the whole thing is stupid. But it’s also why I’ve never seriously dated anyone, either.
With you, the pressure feels like it’s been switched off. That’s really the only way I can explain it. You never make me feel like I am less than or not enough. We just have fun together. I love that.
I guess I should confess to you how I feel, too. I kind of did that already, but I’ll spell it out for you, too. I’m infatuated. Smitten. I think about you far too often and I’m writing this on Sunday, the day after you left, but I’d love nothing more than to know I’m seeing you tomorrow. I suppose that means I miss you, huh?
For the first time since I started school, a part of me is sad that I’m not in the Outer Banks anymore. I shot out of there and didn’t look back when I got accepted into UNC, and every holiday I have to come back feels like pulling a splinter out. That night with you at the Christmas party, I felt different. You made me really nervous at first, I think you know that, but I saw through your whole facade really quickly. Now, I’m lucky if I go five seconds without thinking of that night. You looked very handsome.
Thank you for being honest with me. I imagine it can’t be an easy thing to do, and I am appreciative that you’ve chosen me to try it out with.
I don’t really know what else to say. I hope you have a great work week. Thank you again for making the trip to see me. It means so much.
Take care,
Y/N
Emma crosses paths with you on Monday morning before you leave for class, and she smiles widely.
“Mailing a letter today?” she asks, condescension evident in her voice.
“Yes,” you laugh, “Coffee?”
She nods, “Yes, please.”
You fill up her mug and your travel cup, then set the pot back down. She cuddles up to her warm mug on the barstool while you slide your backpack over your shoulder.
“Hey, Em?” you call from the entryway, sliding your shoes on.
“Yeah?”
You inhale and then exhale, staring straight at the front door and trying to keep your voice even as you reply.
“Would you mind driving me down to the port on Friday?”
Emma squeals and is up and around you before you can think twice about it. She almost spills your coffee, if not for you expertly steadying your hand.
“You’re going to see him?” she grins.
“Yeah, I think I am. Is that too soon?”
She watches you bite your lip, and her first response is to shake her head with intent.
“No. Absolutely not. I think you should definitely go.”
You nod slowly, letting her words excite you, “Okay.”
“Okay!” she cheers, “Now, off you go, you’re going to be late. I know you’re big on punctuality and everything.”
You laugh and blow her a kiss, listening as she closes and locks the door behind you once you walk away. Finalizing your plan with Emma is your way of committing, knowing she won’t let you back out if you get anxious at the last minute. The thought of spending the weekend with him in his apartment scares you, yes, but it’s a challenge you’re ready for. The high school version of you is going crazy in your head, but you push her away. This Rafe Cameron is different, and you’re loving everything you see.
summary: learning a thing or two about someone else can teach you a lot about yourself
warnings: swearing, drinking, cigarette smoking, brief allusions to sex/virginity
wc: 4.5k
a/n: eeeeek very excited for this one, let me know what you think and thank you so much for all the love so far :)
series masterlist
“What–” you stutter out, watching his smirk transform into a grin as he pulls the cigarette from his lips.
He’s leaned against the doorframe, one arm resting there to support himself while the other holds the envelope you’d been waiting on. As you take in his jeans and button-up, you can’t help but feel extremely small in your current outfit.
He laughs, “I was going for surprised, but this is a little extreme.”
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, “Um, yeah, you definitely surprised me.”
“Good,” he nods, then throws his cigarette down on the ground and crushes it under his shoe.
You can’t help but stare, taking him all in after being separated from him for almost three weeks now. He looks vastly the same but also a little different – given the last time you’d seen him he was dressed up more than he is now. Stubble lines his chin and jaw in a way that has your mouth dry up. Quickly, you note the bag over his shoulder but you don’t acknowledge it.
“Oh, sorry,” you say when his expectant eyes meet yours again, “Come in.”
His laugh displays his amusement as you step aside and give him space to enter. He takes his time looking around, observing every single thing that sits in the entryway. A picture of you and Emma hangs on the wall, your raincoat and Emma’s sweater hang on the coat hooks, and when he sees the shoe rack complete with half of your shoes, he slides his off without saying a word about it.
You close the front door, taking one second to lean up against it and whisper ‘what is happening?’ to yourself before turning and following him into the living room. He laughs to himself and shakes his head when he sees The Golden Girls on TV, then stares at the singular wine glass and bottle on the coffee table for a beat too long. He turns back to you slowly, shoving a piece of gum into his mouth before placing his hands in his pockets.
“Nice place,” he remarks, inching closer, “It’s just you here?”
His question isn’t suggestive and doesn’t make you uncomfortable, at least, not any more uncomfortable than you already are, standing in pajama shorts that leave little to the imagination while the boy you’ve been writing to stands two feet away.
“Yes,” you nod, “Emma went out.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, I just wasn’t feeling like it tonight,” you say, hoping that doesn’t sound lame.
“I get that,” he nods his head, comforting your worry that he’ll find you boring or uninteresting. When he takes another daring step forward, you step back. It reminds you of the games the two of you played that night on the deck.
“Would you like something to drink?” you ask weakly, his proximity only messing with your head.
He lets out a short laugh, “You don’t have to wait on me, Y/N.”
You have no idea what that means, if he wants a drink or not. He just stands there and watches you, a curious expression lining his features as he watches you squirm – clasping and unclasping your hands, eyes darting around the room to avoid his, your body standing alert to his presence.
“Y/N,” he says quietly, and when your eyes finally meet his, he whispers, “Relax.”
“Sorry,” you say quickly, “I’m just – you’re here.”
He grins, and for a second, you think your heart is attempting to escape from your chest.
“I mean, I can go–”
“That’s not what I meant,” you stop him.
He purses his lips to hide his continuing grin, then nods his head and points to the direction of the kitchen.
“Why don’t you sit, and I’ll try to find something in your fridge that isn’t too girly.”
You smile and nod, not even objecting to his comment. While he’s in the kitchen, visible to you over the bar only because of his height, you add more wine to your glass. Your relaxing evening has quickly transformed into something so different, but you don’t mind in the slightest. As you glance over the bar at his back, you spy the envelope with your name on it hanging out of his back pocket. You grin, wanting nothing more than to read it right now.
“You and your roommate drink beer?” he asks, walking into the living room with a beer can in his hand.
“No, it’s her friend’s beer,” you explain, and when he furrows his eyebrows, you elaborate, “They aren’t together, but they kiss and go out together and sleep together and all that.”
You explain the details quickly, trying to ignore how your body heats up when you say the words sleep together to Rafe Cameron, who is sitting in the same armchair Christian had been sitting in less than an hour ago.
“I see,” he pauses to sip from his beer, “Do you have a friend like that?”
Your skin grows even hotter. He seems genuinely curious, at least in his voice, because you don’t have the nerve to look up at him. You reach for your wine glass and sip from it, swallowing before you meet his gaze.
“No.”
His mouth twitches, “Not even with the guy you kissed on New Year’s?”
He still doesn’t seem jealous, and you’re not sure what that means. A part of you wishes Emma were here. She’s always been better at playing the game than you.
“That–” you clear your throat and start again, “That was a one time thing.”
“Okay,” he nods, shrugging his shoulders as if to tell you he accepts your answer.
You bite the inside of your cheek anxiously, wondering if he truly believes you or if he’s just trying to play it cool. You don’t even want to touch on why you care about that so much.
“What about you?” you blurt before you can overthink it, “Do you have a friend like that?”
Your stomach twists as he smirks, eyes beading into yours with such intensity that you have no idea what he’s going to say next. You tell yourself you have every right to ask him that, because he asked you first. He watches you squirm, and you wonder if he’s not answering right away on purpose.
“I can’t,” he finally says.
You push your eyebrows together, “You can’t?”
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
He just shakes his head, smirk still teasing his lips as he takes another sip from his can. You stare at him now, some semblance of confidence found, and await his elaboration.
“Is that a balcony?”
He changes the subject in the most obvious way, pointing to the sliding door next to your bedroom. It’s dark out and it’s hard to tell if you don’t know, so you peg it as a real question.
“Yes.”
He stands from his chair, beer still firmly in his grasp, and nods toward it.
“Sit outside with me while I smoke.”
You find it interesting that he demands it rather than asks, but his voice is gentle enough that you just nod. He watches you stand, letting the blanket fall from your legs, and does a once over of your body.
“Maybe I should change,” you mumble.
He shakes his head slightly, “I think you look beautiful. Come on.”
He says the word so nonchalantly, so effortlessly, not even realizing he’s stolen the air from your lungs and walked away with it. When he reaches the door, he turns back to you, still frozen in that same spot. Quickly, you close your mouth and snatch your wine glass, then walk across the room to him.
He waits for you to unlock the sliding door and push it open, but doesn’t bother backing up or giving you space. You can feel his body heat the entire time, warming your exposed skin and making it hard for you to swallow.
The brazen chill in the air makes it easier for you to breathe once you get the door open. Rafe takes his time sitting down in the patio chair that’s usually yours; you take a seat in Emma’s and swallow half your wine as he takes in the view from your balcony.
“You sit out here a lot?” he asks, finally sitting down.
“Not really.”
Rafe fishes his cigarettes and lighter from his jeans, setting your letter – now removed from the pocket his cigarettes were in – down on the table between the two of you. He removes the gum from his mouth quickly and wraps it in an old receipt from his pants.
“I only ask because–” he pauses, lights his cigarette, and takes a drag, “I write to you on my balcony a lot. Thought it would be kind of weird if we both did.”
“Oh,” you shrink down in your seat, the image of him sitting out here and writing to you pleasing you in ways you didn’t even know it could, “Yeah, that would be weird.”
He laughs quietly, “You’re funny, you know that?”
“Am I?”
“Mhm,” he hums, clearly amused with you, “I mean, you write me letters and tell me all these things, and then I see you in person and you’re shying away from me. Why is that?”
The rest of your wine goes down in one gulp. He watches you carefully as you place the empty glass down on the table, eyeing your letter for a moment before you look up at him.
“I guess it’s just easier to be honest when it’s on paper. It’s different when–”
You trail off, picking at a loose thread on your shorts. He raises his eyebrows and leans his head forward, prompting you to continue.
It isn’t until he’s settled his cigarette between his lips again that you decide to finish your thought.
“It’s different when I’m looking at you.”
He nods, all hints of teasing gone, “I get that.”
You give him a small smile, both of you ignoring the way you’re fiddling with your hands in your lap. He doesn’t call you on it and you’re grateful for that.
After a few minutes of silence, of Rafe smoking and you trying to get yourself to relax, you break it.
“Rafe,” you say gently, earning his attention.
“Hm?”
“Why did you come all the way over here on a Friday night?”
He smiles, closed mouth and eyes shining, as he watches you. His lack of urgency drives you crazy; he doesn’t seem to mind that your heart is beating a mile a minute just waiting for some sort of explanation. Some way that you can convince yourself not to go to that place in your head. Maybe he’ll tell you he has an old friend who goes to school here and he stopped in to see you because he knew you wouldn’t be at the bar. You swallow that thought, and your anxiety, down.
“This letter–” he points down to the envelope on the table, “Is different. I wrote it on the ferry today. Not on my balcony. I explain why I came here and everything, too.”
He watches your eyes flicker down to the envelope, and when you lean forward to reach for it, he slides his fingers along the table and swipes it from your reach.
“You’re not going to let me read it?” you question.
He stands, tucking it in his back pocket and placing his cigarette between his lips.
“Not ‘til I leave,” he says through the cigarette, “I’m gonna get your wine bottle.”
“Rafe, you don’t have to–”
“I know,” he turns back to you, standing half in the apartment and half outside, “I finished A Sicilian Romance, by the way. I’ll tell you my thoughts in a minute.”
You nod, giving him a smile and watching him return it before he slips all the way back into your living room. You bite your lip to conceal your smile when you face forward in your chair again, picking at the nail polish on your thumb as you think about the fact that he’s here, and he wrote to you on the ferry today, and he read a book you recommended. It’s enough to make you feel dizzy.
You feel him come back out, the hair on the back of your neck standing up as your body responds to his stare. Lazily, gently, easily, he walks over to you and refills your wine glass, then places your phone down beside you.
“It was ringing when I went inside,” he explains.
You press on the screen and find a missed call from Emma, immediately dismissing it as a drunken call to check in. You flip the screen over, and Rafe’s tongue pokes the side of his cheek to hide a smile at that.
He launches the end of his cigarette over your balcony, shrugging when you raise your eyebrows at him.
“So,” you say, taking a sip from your now refilled glass, “A Sicilian Romance.”
“I’ll describe it in three adjectives,” he announces, holding up a finger as he says each word, “Confusing. Eye-opening. Convoluted.”
You smile, “What is it with you and adjectives?”
He shrugs, flicking his lighter so it lights, then lets it die.
“They get my point across without all the extra bullshit,” he explains, “I’m sure you have objections to my opinion.”
“I do, actually.”
He grins, wide and open-mouthed this time. As if to celebrate the fact that he’s right, he sits back in his chair and lights another cigarette, then takes a sip of his beer.
“Go on, then.”
You lick your lips, no longer concerned with saying just the right thing or holding his attention. This, you could talk about for hours without feeling insecure or as if you’re doing something wrong.
“Well, first of all, I don’t see how you find it confusing, I mean– yes, convoluted, I agree with. She does jump from one topic to another pretty rapidly and lacks transitions, but I found her take on women in the 1700s to be very accurate and very telling of what was thought of them back then. That’s eye-opening for sure, so I give you that. But, confusing? I mean, maybe to a man, but not to me. Or most women.”
He’s still grinning when you stop speaking. You’re not quite sure why, and to fill the silence and calm yourself from the fact that he’s staring at you like that, you grab your wine glass again.
“I’ll be damned,” he mutters to himself, “I gotta be more careful about my words, huh?”
You laugh, “No. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he sits up straight, leaning closer to you, “I love hearing what you have to say. And, for what it’s worth, I agree. I think she perfected the image of women within social convention in that time period. That’s why I said it was eye-opening. It made me think.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah,” he blows out smoke, watching it disappear, “I think my next read is going to be A Vindication of the Rights of Women.”
You laugh and roll your eyes, and soon, so does he. Gradually, you feel the tension and the anxiety start to float off with Rafe’s cigarette smoke, leaving both of you behind without a second thought.
“You know what I never asked you?” he continues on, “What are you majoring in?”
“Human Communication with a concentration in Literacy,” you recite, having to remind everyone at the Club every time you go home because they so frequently forget.
“That fits you perfectly,” he smiles with purpose, making your body run warm.
After another glass of wine, you lay your head back on your chair and look over at him, smiling sweetly. You can feel it; the alcohol starting to overwhelm your veins and give you that feeling of fuzziness in your brain.
“Still can’t believe you’re here,” you say.
“Why’s it so hard to believe that someone would take time out of their day to see you?”
“Because,” you shrug, “It just doesn’t happen.”
Rafe frowns, “It did tonight.”
You look back up at him and smile, admiring the ease at which he smiles back at you. He stands from his chair and tucks his belongings back into his pockets – including your letter – then gestures for you to get up.
“I think it’s time to take you inside,” he laughs, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were a lightweight.”
“I’m not drunk,” you defend, standing from your chair quickly as if to prove it.
“You’re tipsy,” he corrects, reminding you of your argument with Emma where she’d said the same thing, “And that was not my goal tonight, I promise.”
You stare at him, time slowing as you watch him pick up your wine glass and wine bottle, then his beer can. When his eyes meet yours, ready to lead you inside, he can’t help but smile at the admiring look on your face.
“What was your goal tonight, Rafe?” you ask him, taking that daring step forward.
“Y/N, stop,” he says, stepping back, “Not like this.”
“I just asked you a question.”
“My goal was to see you. And I did.”
You frown, not sure what that means. He walks past you and into the apartment, heading straight to the kitchen. You follow him, socks sliding against the wood floor as you step inside. He’s washing your wine glass when you enter the kitchen, your bottle of wine on top of the fridge and his half-consumed beer in the trash.
“So, you’re just leaving?” you ask.
“I’m not staying the night,” he counters, not looking up from the sink.
“The ferries don’t run this late. You can’t get back on the island.”
He sighs, “I know. I rented a room at the motel down the street. Do you just want this on the dish rack to dry?”
“Yes,” you wave his question off, “You mean–”
“I was never planning on sleeping with you, Y/N. I didn’t mean to suggest that when I said that stupid shit about having a goal tonight.”
He sets a hand on his hip as he turns to you, fingers flexing as he suppresses the urge to pull out his cigarettes.
“So, you really just came here to spend time with me?”
He laughs sarcastically, reaching up and running a hand over his jaw as he decides how he wants to respond. You shrink away from him, crossing your arms over your chest and letting your eyes fall to the floor.
“Yes, I did.”
“Wow,” you mumble, leaning your head against the wall for support.
Your eyelids droop and Rafe notices, sucking in a deep breath before taking one step toward you.
“Come on,” he says quietly, “You should lay down.”
“I’m fine,” you shake your head, feeling almost entirely sobered up based on this conversation alone.
“Are you disappointed or something?” he asks. His voice has dropped, sounding deeper and more vulnerable than he had a minute ago.
“Of course not, Rafe,” you answer, “You got on a ferry and came all the way here to see me. And you don’t even expect anything from me, I mean–”
“Y/N,” he stops you, voice soft, “It’s kind of fucked up that you’re so shocked I don’t expect sex from you. You realize that?”
“Yeah,” you nod.
You don’t even realize he’s taken another step forward until he’s standing so close, all you’d have to do is move forward one inch and your chest would touch his. All you have to do is look up and stand on your tiptoes, and you could kiss him.
“That’s why I stay in a lot,” you continue, “The expectations.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” you nod, “I just don’t believe it’s transactional. It’s fine if other people do, but I don’t. And I’ve never…”
His eyes widen when you trail off and don’t continue, forcing him to swallow as he considers what you’re saying and not saying.
“Really?” he repeats, but his voice is lower and cracks slightly at the end of the word.
“Really,” you confirm.
You’d spent so long telling yourself it was nothing to be ashamed of. That you weren’t any less of a women because you’d never engaged in sex with a man you didn’t love. Coincidentally, you’d never loved a man. It seems like simple math to you. And now, with the way Rafe’s looking at you, it seems completely worth it.
“Should I tell you something personal now?” he asks, a smile threatening his lips.
“Yes, please.”
He has you practically pressed against the wall of the kitchen, one hand coming up to rest beside your head. The other scratches the stubble on his jaw as he considers how he wants to answer.
“Anything in particular you’d like to know?”
Your brain fills with ideas. There are so many things about him you want to learn; why he smokes, what happened to him after high school, why he’s not especially close with his family, and even smaller things like his favorite book or favorite album. Instead, you push those ideas away and shake your head.
“I want to know whatever you want me to know,” you reply.
He grins and nods his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours as he thinks. Your brain jumps immediately to the adjective game, and you have a new one for him. Intense.
“Okay,” he finally says, watching you smile, “Ready?”
You nod, suppressing the urge to reach out to him and touch him.
He seems to do the same, eyes doing a quick scan of your entire body before he decides to speak.
“That picture you sent me of you on New Year’s Eve?” he waits for you to nod, showing him you’re following, “Keep it in my wallet.”
Your throat tightens so much that you swear you’ll never be able to breathe again. You’d never even seen this picture; Emma took it and then whisked it away in the envelope without your knowledge.
“Why?” you choke out.
“Because I think you’re beautiful. And it makes me happy when I look at it.”
His eyes bead into yours, that intense stare never faltering. You almost wonder if he can read your mind. The sound of keys in the lock at the front door makes your heart sink, your time with Rafe always seeming to end too soon.
“I can open the fucking door, Ethan,” Emma snaps, voice slurring slightly, “You didn’t have to leave the bar, too.”
“I wasn’t going to let you go home like this by yourself, Em,” he replies.
Rafe doesn’t seem the slightest bit concerned about backing off of you. You feel frozen, unable to move even with Emma nearing the threshold of the kitchen. Just as she rounds the corner, almost passing the kitchen completely to get to the living room, Rafe stands up straight and takes exactly one step back from you.
Emma sees him out of the corner of her eye and stops, mouth falling wide open at the image of you, here, with a boy, in the apartment, alone.
“Shit,” she whispers to herself, “Did I just totally walk in on something?”
“No,” you answer.
“Yeah,” Rafe says at the same time you speak.
Your body runs warm again, watching Emma take him in. She’s drunk, you can tell, which should only add to the fun of this moment.
“Y/N,” she hisses, “What the hell is going on? It’s like I barely even know you. You’re bringing random men into our apartment after you tell me you’re spending the night alone, you’re writing letters to Rafe Cameron–”
“Em,” you try to stop her, but her drunken rant will continue regardless of what you say.
“Who even is he?” she asks, pointing to Rafe as if he’s incapable of being asked the question himself.
“Rafe Cameron,” he speaks up, smug smirk on his when Emma’s jaw practically meets the floor.
“What the fuck–”
“Babe,” Ethan shouts from the doorway, “Can we come inside now?”
“Holy shit, Rafe Cameron, you’re like a celebrity around here,” Emma gushes, “I mean, you should see her checking our mailbox every single–”
“Emma,” your voice is stern, but your expression begs her to stop.
Ethan must have taken Emma’s lack of response to mean ‘yes’, because he enters the kitchen with Christian right behind him.
“I hear I have you to thank for that New Year’s Eve photo,” Rafe grins, taking a dangerously close step toward you once he spies the two boys having entered the apartment.
“Oh, my God, I told her you would love that! Didn’t I tell you, Y/N?” Emma laughs, reaching for your hand.
“What are you guys doing back here?”
You glance at the clock and it’s only midnight. You should still have a few hours with Rafe. Alone.
“Emma felt guilty for leaving you behind,” Ethan explains, letting Emma collapse into his side.
“Clearly, she didn’t need to,” Christian says, eyeing Rafe up and down.
You’re not sure what his words mean exactly, but you also don’t care. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rafe’s jaw clench as he scoffs at the comment.
“She’s fine,” Rafe tells him, then turns to Emma, “I promise. A little tipsy, though.”
“Oh, well, that’s okay,” she laughs, “We’ll leave, yeah? You two can just–”
“It’s fine,” Rafe stops her from shoving Ethan out of the kitchen, “I was just leaving.”
Your heart sinks, even though you know he had to go eventually. When your eyes meet the floor, wondering what the hell you’re supposed to say in response to him coming all the way here, he steps closer to you.
“Really, you don’t have to go. We have a great air mattress. Ethan will blow it up for you!” Emma suggests.
“He will?” Ethan questions her.
“He will if he wants me to–”
“Em,” you interrupt, “Seriously. It’s fine.”
“Okay. We’ll be in the living room. Let you guys say goodbye or whatever. Nice to meet you, Rafe Cameron.”
She waves the boys away and they’re gone in a heartbeat. Rafe shifts and turns to you, staring down at you with that same intensity he had been before.
“You really can stay. Save the money, or whatever,” you tell him, your voice quiet.
He smiles but shakes his head, watching every move your eyes make.
“It’s okay,” he says, “Do me a favor, though.”
“Anything.”
His smile only grows, “Go to breakfast with me in the morning. Before I head home.”
His blue eyes remain on yours far long after you’ve answered him in your head, and it surprises you how quickly you’re willing to commit to that.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats, “I’ll need your number. Unless you’d like to write a letter to the motel.”
The smirk on his face makes your body burn up, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you hold your hand out for his phone, waiting patiently as he fishes it out of his pocket. Your fingers fumble when it comes time to type your number on the screen, but you do it with minimal error, then hand it back to him.
“Just text me or whatever in the morning and I’ll meet you,” you say, feigning nonchalance.
“I’ll call you,” he corrects with a shrug, then steps out of the kitchen and toward the front door.
“Do you want a ride?”
“Y/N, you’re tipsy and your roommate and her friends are all on their way to alcohol poisoning. I’ll walk, it’s okay.”
He grabs his bag, which he had set down on top of the shoe rack by the front door, and throws it over his shoulder. You step toward him, meeting his blue eyes in the dark hallway.
“Do you think I could have my letter now?”
He smiles widely, “Tell you what. I need something to read on the ferry tomorrow. You bring me a book, I’ll bring you your letter.”
“Rafe,” you whine, “I really want to read it.”
He pulls open the front door, removing yet another cigarette from his back pocket and lighting it up once he stands outside.
“Think you could wear those shorts to breakfast?” he smirks through the cigarette hanging from his lips.
“No,” you shake your head, reminding yourself to get checked out with the amount of hot flashes you’ve had tonight.
He laughs, then takes a step back as he releases smoke from his lungs.
“Hey,” he says softly, gaining your full attention, “You remember how I told you earlier that I can’t have a friend that I kiss and sleep with?”
You nod, “You never told me why.”
He hums, as if he already knows this, which he does. He’s methodical about the timing of his words; he’s torturing you and you know it. He watches as you lean your head on the doorframe, and his eyes shamelessly fall down your body.
“I always thought I couldn’t have a friend like that because I’d get attached,” he explains, taking another drag before continuing, “ I haven’t so much as laid a finger on you, but I can’t get you off my goddamn mind.”
Your chest squeezes in a way you’re sure can’t be healthy. He watches your lips part as you debate what to say, but how do you tell someone that they’ve left you speechless? That you’ve already had more firsts with Rafe Cameron than you’ve had with any other guy in your life?
When the words don’t come fast enough, he takes another step toward the stairs, ready to leave for the night.
summary: routines aren't meant to be followed, they're meant to be broken
warnings: swearing, mentions of cigarette smoking
wc: 4.5k
a/n: apologies in advance for the cliffhanger, but part 4 will be up sooner than you think so don't be mad! lolol let me know what you think of this and thank you for reading and supporting! xo
series masterlist
Y/N,
Are you trying to kill me? Never in a million years would I have pegged you as the type of girl that sends pictures. Especially to a guy you hardly know. Especially, especially to me. Not that I’m not appreciative. I definitely, completely, totally appreciate that picture. I have been trying to find the right word, an adjective, that would do you justice. It’s impossible. Most people have seven wonders of the world. I now have eight.
The cookies were great. I finished them off last night. I will definitely require more the next time you’re home. Do you have any idea when that will be?
I understand how you feel a little bit. The island’s too small to not feel suffocating occasionally. Especially with everyone knowing everyone’s business all the time. Nosy bitches.
And, just so you know, it wasn’t just because we were talking about books. Talking to you made me feel like I finally have a place on the island again. You just had to go back to college. (I’m joking).
Thank you for the copy of A Sicilian Romance. I started it before I started writing to you. I’m saving my thoughts for when I finish it.
I didn’t celebrate New Year’s. Well, that’s not entirely true. I watched Casablanca on my couch and ate five of your cookies. Then, I finished the book I’d been reading and fell asleep by eleven. Exciting, I know. That being said, no, I didn’t have a New Year’s kiss. I would ask if you did, but I think I wouldn’t like the answer. Don’t tell me. Besides, running around in that dress? I bet you had seventeen New Year’s kisses.
P.S – Stop telling me to not feel pressure to write back. If anyone doesn’t write back, it will be you.
Rafe
“Emma!” you scream from your bedroom.
It’s January third; proving to you that Rafe had received your letter, written back, and mailed it all in one day. If not for the pit of anxiety in your stomach, you’re sure you would have positive thoughts about that.
It’s another rainy day, calling for an afternoon nap. Classes start Monday, so Emma’s been sleeping as much as she can knowing the next four months will be very lacking in that department. You, however, do not care about that right now. You bust into her room and turn on every light she has just to spite her.
“What?” she groans, burying her face in her pillow.
“Wake up,” you demand.
One of her eyes pops open to look at you, and when she sees Rafe’s letter resting in your right hand, your grip careful not to wrinkle it, she grins. Her attempt to hide her smile with the comforter fails.
“He liked the picture?”
“He–” you start, then groan and try again, “I–”
Words are failing you. She just laughs and turns over on her back, finally opening both of her eyes.
You glare at her, hoping she gets your message.
“When did you even put that in the envelope?” you whine.
“Right before I told you to seal it. Honestly, it was a little too easy–”
“Emma,” you stop her, “I told you I wasn’t going to send him that picture. He barely knows me, he probably thinks it’s weird that I’m sending him photos of me in the mail–”
“Did he say that?” she questions, sitting up in her bed.
“No, but–”
“What did he say?”
You pull the letter behind your back, wanting Rafe’s words to stay between the two of you. You can feel your body heat up just at the thought of them, and with one look, you know Emma can see right through you.
“He said I looked nice,” you say quietly.
She hikes up a brow, “Nice?”
“Yes, nice. What’s wrong with that?”
She laughs loudly and grabs one of her throw pillows, launching it at you. She watches you avoid it, then send a glare in her direction.
“Nice is what you say when you compliment your mom on Christmas Eve,” she says, “Nice is what you call a guy you don’t want to go out with anymore. Nice is not what you say in response to that picture.”
“Well,” you just shrug, avoiding her eyes.
Because you’re not looking at her, you fail to see her launch herself at you until it’s too late. She’s got you on the ground and removes the letter from your grasp before you can even think.
“Emma!” you groan, fighting to get her off of you.
“Shh,” she hushes, her eyes scanning rapidly across the page, “Holy shit! Who the hell is this guy?”
“Emma!” you shout, trying to tell her you’re serious.
“‘Talking to you made me feel like I have a place on the island again’, Jesus, Y/N, this shit is what gets you all hot and bothered?”
Her words do you in. You shove her off of you and grab the letter back from her, folding it up and shoving it in the back pocket of your shorts so she can’t even consider finishing reading. She frowns at the serious look on your face.
“Stop it,” you snap, inching toward the door, “You don’t even know him.”
You walk out of her bedroom and into the hall, not expecting her to follow you and definitely not expecting her to raise her voice.
“Neither do you!” she exclaims, “Why are you getting so defensive over some guy you barely know–”
“I don’t know!” you yell back at her, exhaling loudly when you see her chest deflate.
The anger leaves both of you at the same time; Emma’s eyes soften and she takes a step forward, holding her hand out for you to take.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I shouldn’t have meddled in it.”
You want to swallow your question, but you know that Emma knows you better than anyone, so you ask it anyway.
“Why did you?”
“Because it’s obvious he means something to you. I’ve never seen you fall for a guy before. You’re usually so sensible, so independent, that seeing you freak out over a letter kind of shocked me. And I know how much it would suck for you if it turns out that this whole writing letters thing means more to you than it does to him. I sent the picture to gauge his reaction to it, to see if he’s just trying to get in your pants or whatever. His response, while a bit pretentious and a little cheesy, isn’t necessarily top of the list for douchebags.”
She says this with a sad smile and cheer, one that makes you laugh despite the circumstances. You press your lips in a tight line, not sure if you should deny or confirm that you have feelings involved.
“And,” she continues, “It seems like he might be just as invested. You’re his eighth wonder of the world, Y/N.”
She’s teasing you now, watching and laughing when you roll your eyes. The letter suddenly feels heavy in your pocket and you have every desire to write him back just as quickly as he wrote you.
“So, what are you saying? Do I keep writing or run away?”
She takes a moment, considering her answer.
“Proceed with caution.”
Rafe,
My roommate snuck that photo in the envelope before I mailed it. I didn’t know it was in there. You would’ve been right with your initial assumption, I didn’t plan on sending you that picture. I appreciate your words, but you don’t have to exaggerate for my sake. I don’t normally wear stuff like that.
I have no idea when I will be back in the Outer Banks. Things with my parents make it really hard to come back, no matter how much I will need a break from this place once my classes start up on Monday. I could always mail you a batch next time I make them here. I’m glad you liked them so much.
You always have had a place on the island. Just because that place may have changed doesn’t mean it’s gone forever. But I’m glad that it meant something to you, too.
Your New Year’s celebration sounds much better than mine. I’m not a big drinker so I never really enjoy New Year’s Eve the way other people do. However, I’m never hung over on New Year’s Day, so I guess I enjoy that part more than they do. I love Casablanca. And I didn’t have seventeen New Year’s kisses.
Hope things are well.
Talk soon,
Y/N
Checking the mail every day quickly becomes routine for you. You grin when you arrive home on Saturday to find that Emma set Rafe’s newest letter on the shelf by the door for you. You’d written to him on Thursday, and he amazes you with how fast he writes and mails his responses.
Emma emerges from her room when she hears you come in, her gaze following yours to the white envelope.
“A new letter from lover boy?” she grins, “Maybe one day you two will graduate to using phones.”
Emma’s observations about your unusual arrangement have you questioning it, only for a moment. Should you be talking on the phone? Do the letters mean that he wants to keep this entire thing private?
“Should we be?” you ask.
She shrugs, fishing around the fridge for a water bottle, “I don’t know. I’ve never had a guy write me letters before. They normally just send me a text at two in the morning asking if I’m up.”
“How do you think people had relationships before technology?” you question.
She rolls her eyes, “I’m just saying. And I thought you said it wasn’t a relationship.”
“It’s not.”
When she turns, her eyebrow is raised so high on her forehead it runs the risk of sliding off completely.
“So, you’re saying you don’t want it to go anywhere? You’re just gonna write letters to him for the rest of your life?”
You just shrug, shrinking back a little at her words, “I don’t know. I really don’t know what I want. I don’t know what he wants.”
“You know what you want, Y/N,” her shoulders fall in disbelief as she stares at you, “You reread his letters, like, four times after you get them. You check our mailbox like a mad woman, and your entire body goes hot at the mention of his name.”
You can feel the warmth spreading through your body as you lie, “No, it doesn’t.”
She rolls her eyes again and reaches out, pressing her hand to your neck.
“You’re fucking burning up,” she replies, “Ask him for his number. Talk to him on the phone. Have phone sex, I don’t know. Writing to him won’t get you anywhere.”
She leaves the kitchen before you have time to argue, and instead, you hurry off to your room to open his letter. It soothes the worries and the insecurity that Emma’s words brought out.
Y/N,
Please send my deepest thanks to your roommate. I know this year just started, but that picture made the entirety of it. Believe me, I didn’t say anything that I didn’t mean. Although, I don’t know if I said it outright in my last letter, so I’ll say it now. You’re beautiful, Y/N. I’m sorry if someone ever made you feel like you’re not.
Even more than that, your mind is beautiful, too. Why do you think I followed you out of the Christmas party that night? Initially, it was because you looked so beautiful. I stayed out there with you because I was amazed at how brilliant you are. And you don’t even know it. How crazy is that?
I started off this letter pretty strong. I would apologize, but I’m not sorry. These are things you should know.
I don’t know how to ask about your parents without asking if things are okay, which they’re obviously not, because you’d come home if they were. I know your brilliant mind could come up with a way to articulate this question I’m trying to ask, and I’m also sure you know what I’m trying to say. If you want to talk about it, nobody will ever see your letters but me. I promise. However, I have to deny your proposal to mail the cookies. I need them fresh. I counter with this: when you need a break from school and you want to come home, you can always come to my apartment. I have a kitchen where you can bake and a guest room you can stay in if you don’t want to see your parents. This is just an offer. You don’t have to take me up on it. But I hope you think about it.
I love Casablanca, too. I’ve watched it every New Year’s Eve for the past ten years or so. I refuse to watch it otherwise. It’s a weird thing I have. Maybe next year, we can watch it and refrain from alcohol together. I’m relieved to hear you didn’t have seventeen New Year’s kisses. I’m hating the one you did have, though. I’m sure that drunk asshole has no idea just how lucky he was.
Sorry this was a bit long. Good luck with school on Monday.
Sincerely,
Rafe
You beat Emma home from class on Monday. You only have two classes on Mondays and Wednesdays – both back to back so you’re done with your day by one in the afternoon. You put your kettle on the stove to heat up, then collect a piece of paper and a pen from your bedroom to settle in to write to Rafe in the living room.
After everything Emma’s had to say about the letters – good and bad – you can’t help but feel a little insecure about this entire thing with Rafe. What does he want out of this? Is he writing just to be nice? Are you? Does he wonder where this is going to go?
You write his name at the top of the page and then move down to the next line, but no words come out. You consider telling him about your first day of classes, but you’re not sure he would care about that. For reference, you pull his last letter out of your back pocket and read over it again. It’s quickly become your favorite because of the way he talks about your beauty and your mind. Nobody’s ever told you anything like that before. Especially not in a handwritten letter like this.
He offered you his apartment. His kitchen. His space. Then, he proposed to spend the next New Years with you. So, maybe, he is thinking about the future.
Or maybe he’s just being nice.
The kettle whistling on the stove causes you to jump in your seat, and when you realize the noise, you toss your pen down and get up to remove it from the heat.
Once you have your tea in a mug, you attempt to write again.
Rafe,
Thank you. Your words mean a lot to me. I’ve thought a lot about them in the past few days. I’ve even reread them a few times. Okay, many times. So, I guess it’s only fair if I tell you that I enjoyed looking at you that night, too. More than that, I enjoyed talking to you. Getting your perspective and countering it with my own. I like how different we are. It makes the similarities more noticeable.
My parents need a divorce. I’ve never told anyone that before. They need one, but as you know, people don’t get divorced on the Eight. It’s a status thing, I guess? They think I don’t notice the tension and the separation, but I do. I think that they think I’m still a kid. That sucks. Thank you for offering to listen to me talk about it. They wouldn’t want this to get out.
I appreciate your offer but I wouldn’t want to impose on you like that. My “brilliant” brain considers all possible outcomes when invited into a man’s home – especially one she hardly knows. Not that I think you’d harm me, but you know. Every woman has to keep that in mind at least, right?
How did your Casablanca tradition start? I would love to know more about it. If we’re better acquainted by next New Years, I’d be honored to watch it with you and bake.
Take care,
Y/N
Right as you sign your name to the bottom of it, you hear Emma’s key in the lock of the front door. Quickly, you fold the sheet of paper up and slide it into your envelope, then tuck the envelope under your leg on your seat. You’ll address it and mail it tomorrow. With half a second to spare, Emma comes bolting into the apartment, backpack slung lazily over her shoulder and sunglasses still covering her eyes.
“Well,” she sighs the second she sees you, “That fucking sucked. But on the bright side, one of my professors is hot as hell. That will make it increasingly hard to concentrate. But, hey, who needs to pay attention in Gender Analytics anyway?”
She laughs at herself, tossing her backpack onto the floor and pushing her sunglasses on top of her head. You smile and sip from your tea.
“It was our last first day,” you remind her.
She grins, “Always looking at the bright side, aren’t you, miss thing? Water in here still warm?”
She points to the kettle and watches you nod. Emma grabs a mug from the counter and prepares her own tea, then steps to the opposite side of the counter as you two continue to speak.
“How were your classes?” she asks.
“Enlightening,” you tease, “No, it was all introductions and syllabus stuff. We won’t get into the real stuff until Wednesday.”
She nods, “Same here. Oh my gosh, I ran into Ethan and Chris on campus. He asked if I wanted to go out Friday night and I was trying to play hard to get, but you know how I am with him.”
You do. For a girl who claims to be so independent; majoring in Gender Studies and always ranting about men versus women, she gives into Ethan with a snap of her fingers.
“I do,” you nod, ushering her to continue.
“Then, Chris asked if you would come out, because then he would, too, so I said yes!”
She’s cheering, but you’re not quite sure why. You shift in your seat, feeling the paper of the envelope scrape along the bottom of your thigh.
“Why? I don’t want to go out,” you sigh.
“Oh, come on. It’s not like we’re going to study anything, and Chris seems interested. I mean, shit, Y/N, you can’t just bottle yourself up in our apartment and write letters to some guy–”
“Will you stop bringing Rafe up every chance you get?” you say, raising your voice slightly.
“When was the last time you gave a guy a chance?” she snaps back, “Besides Rafe Cameron. Chris is the first dude I’ve seen you look at twice in, like, a year. You even let him kiss you on New Year’s Eve!”
“I was drunk,” you defend.
“You were tipsy,” she corrects, “And it’s not like he took advantage of you.”
“Let me ask you something,” you stand from the chair, the envelope falling to the floor, “If you’re so against Rafe, why did you put that picture in the envelope right after New Years?”
“I’m not against it, babe,” she says, stepping forward to hold her hand out to you, “I’m just concerned. I don’t want you putting all your eggs in one basket. Especially with a guy who lives in the city you’ve been wanting to get away from. You can’t blame me for being hesitant when I’ve never even met the guy, can you?”
You sigh and squeeze her hand, letting your eyes flutter closed only for a moment.
“No, I guess not,” you mumble, “I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, but me not wanting to go out Friday night has nothing to do with Rafe. I just don’t want to pursue anything with Chris.”
“You don’t want to pursue sex?” she raises an eyebrow.
You wince but cover it by shifting your entire body away from her, letting your hand fall to your side. To distract yourself, you bend down to pick up the letter you’d finished writing to Rafe. She watches but doesn’t verbally acknowledge it.
“No,” you reply.
She watches as you reach for the white wine bottle above the fridge and pour out a glass, taking hefty sips as you think about this conversation.
“Fine,” she shrugs, “I just think you deserve more than sitting in our apartment alone on Friday night watching Golden Girls reruns and writing letters to a guy you met once.”
You don’t respond to that, mostly because you have no argument. Her words, although harsh, are true. And you have no rebuttal against the truth.
Emma takes her tea and walks out of the kitchen, leaving you with your thoughts and your half empty wine glass.
You mailed your letter Tuesday, and now, settling into the couch on Friday evening, you’ve heard nothing from Rafe. You try not to let it bother you, but you don’t fail to notice how that white wine bottle joins you on the couch. After a glass and a half, you start to feel a little better.
Emma emerges from her bedroom in a crop top and black jeans, makeup all done and hair up in a high ponytail. She looks absolutely stunning, and you tell her so.
“Why thank you, sweet roommate,” she grins, doing a twirl for you.
Emma grabs a white claw from the fridge and joins you in the living room, downing about half of it before she informs you that she’s waiting on the boys to arrive.
“Have you gotten another letter?”
You suck in a deep breath, fearing her response if you tell her the truth. She’ll be nice and promise you a response is coming, but you know she’ll drunkenly tell someone – or you – later, that she’s sad that you’re sad, and that Rafe isn’t worth staying home on a perfectly fine Friday night.
“No,” you tell her, pressing your wine glass to your lips once more.
“Aw, Y/N,” she says with a sympathetic smile, “Don’t worry. You’ll get a letter tomorrow, I’m sure.”
You just nod, then give her a smile. The wine fills your mouth and burns your throat slightly as you swallow, but you’re sure that has more to do with your insecurities than it does with the wine.
Ethan and Christian arrive a few minutes later, prompting Emma to finish her white claw and toss the can before opening the door for them. Ethan greets her with a kiss as she invites both of them inside, dragging them into the kitchen to pregame.
“Y/N’s watching Golden Girls,” she informs them, “Beer, E?”
Ethan nods and yells his greeting to you, which makes you smile. Ethan, while loud and obnoxious when drunk, is always so polite and attentive when it comes to saying hello to you. Christian grabs himself a beer, then makes his way into the living room.
“Drink?” he asks you from the threshold of the room.
You shake your head and point to the wine bottle on the coffee table in front of you. He just nods, then awkwardly takes a seat in the armchair beside the couch. It’s the same position both of you sat in the first time you met, and yet, you’d just prefer for him to leave.
“So, you’re not going out with us tonight?” he tries, lifting his beer to his lips.
“No, I just wanted some time alone,” you reply.
He nods, “I get that. Ethan kind of dragged me out.”
“I’m sorry,” you say shyly, knowing how he feels. He just laughs and shrugs, then sips more beer from his can.
Ethan and Emma stumble into the living room, already looking drunk on the alcohol and each other. Ethan’s grip on Emma is firm, but not in a possessive way. It’s to keep her from falling, which you’re sure will be necessary at some point tonight.
“Y/N, you sure you’re okay here?” Emma asks, pouting at the thought of leaving you alone.
“I’m fine, I promise,” you say.
She nods, then tugs the collar of Christian’s shirt to get him to stand. It seems to be her silent way of telling him it’s time to leave.
“You still have my debit card in your Apple wallet?” she questions you as she downs a shot Ethan handed off to her.
“I do.”
“Good,” she nods, making a face as the liquor goes down, “Order Uber Eats or something. On me. I want you to have a good night, too, babe.”
You smile and stand up, giving her a hug. She squeezes you tight, every protective instinct wanting to come out at the thought of leaving you alone.
“Be safe, be careful,” you remind her, raising an eyebrow at Ethan to tell him to keep her out of trouble.
“Yes ma’am,” Emma grins.
She reaches for Ethan’s hand and lets him lead her toward the front door, Christian trailing behind them.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says quietly.
“Goodnight,” you answer.
“Love you!” Emma calls as Ethan guides her out the front door.
“Love you, too,” you reply, “Call me if you need a ride.”
Emma starts to respond but the door closes before she can, and you walk over to lock it behind them. It’s rounding the corner to nine at night, and the thought of lighting a candle, having a glass of wine, and watching your favorite TV makes your heart swell in your chest.
You do just that, lighting up your favorite candle and placing it on the coffee table beside your wine bottle. You cover yourself with a blanket and get to that sweet spot on the couch – the one that makes you never want to get up. Just as you’re truly cuddled in, happy with your wine, your candle, and your TV, there’s a knock on the front door. You groan and pause your episode, telling yourself Emma probably forgot her keys or phone or Ethan decided he wanted another shot before he had to pay for them at the bar.
Swinging open the front door, everything hits you at once. The fact that you’re in pajama shorts and an old Metallica shirt of your dad’s, the vision of him and your brain processing if it’s real, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey – faint, but present, and the ever so tangible idea that you have the apartment to yourself until about three in the morning.
“Hey,” he smirks, taking in your outfit before he holds up a white envelope between his fingers, cigarette hanging effortlessly from his pink lips, “Figured I’d save the post office some trouble and deliver this one myself.”
welcome to the letters to you masterlist :) might be my favorite project i've worked on so far and i'm so grateful for all of the support and love!
as always, my work is not to be transferred, copied, or removed from this site. i work very hard on my writing and hope that my readers will understand this. thank you!
warnings: swearing, cigarette smoking, intoxication, more specific warnings in each part
you and your star-crossed lover are dancing in a crowded ballroom. as the music swells and you gaze into each others eyes, you realize- this is right where you were meant to be.
pov: it's late at night. like, 3:24 in the morning, late. you're alone in your bedroom with your lights off. the only sounds you can hear apart from your own breathing are the crickets faintly chirping outside, joined occasionally by a (rather loud) frog. you stare at your ceiling wondering how you got here, but not in the self-deprecating sense. you're here for a reason, but what is it?
pov: its the end of the world. you and your lover have survived for as long as you can, but your time grows short. you lay down and stare at the stars as you celebrate your final night alive. it seems only fitting you two would leave this world together.
pov: you love them. you love them with your whole heart. you love them so much, in fact, not seeing them for long amounts of time hurts you too much to bear. it won't hurt if they don't catch you looking through their windows.. right?
pov: you just dreamt about them. you know who i'm talking about. the last thing you remember from your dream is them holding you close. you felt safe there. as you come back to being fully conscious, you start to wonder: do you really like them like that? or was it all, truly, just a dream?
pov: it's been a while since you've crushed on someone, but you notice your feelings for this person start to shift from "i really love spending time with you" to "OH S H I T i REALLY love spending time with you, and not in the friend kind of way". this is feeling is terrifying, but almost welcome all the same.
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