proclivity - pt. 8 - moon song
ex!bff!rafe cameron x diabetic!kook!fem!reader
at one point in time rafe was your best friend. can summer romance erase all the damage he's done?
mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, heartbreak, diabetes lingo, injury, ghosting, fluff and fear, domestic violence (not rafe), mean!ex!jj etc.
nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was originally posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity and i have rewritten + reshared it here :) trying out a new format with this post, hope you like it!
Rafe followed you out to the front of the venue like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. His presence trailed you, heavy and guilt-laced, the echo of his shame clinging to the space between your footsteps. You hated the way it had gone down—how JJ’s voice, sharp and raw, had eviscerated him in front of everyone. You were angry, yes—burning with confusion and betrayal—but God, the look on Rafe’s face? Crushed and distant, like a cathedral crumbling inward, stone by stone.
He was always good at hiding the storm inside, but not now. Not here. Not with you. And you needed the truth—needed to peel it from his ribs before this thing between you died a premature death, snuffed out like a match in the wind.
The truck sat in the far corner of the lot, a dark silhouette under the stingy gleam of the streetlights. You could hear his breath hitch behind you, a stutter in the night air. His guilt festered between you, thick and unspoken. The moment your heels stilled on the pavement, he stopped too. You turned, your back resting against the cool navy metal of the truck, and blocked his reach for the handle.
“We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck that was.”
Your voice cracked like thunder—sharp, demanding, but laced with ache. You weren’t just asking for truth. You were asking for him. Whole and bare.
“No,” you cut in, trembling as the words spilled. “What the fuck was that, Rafe? I’m trying to hold onto the softness—the flask with the chocolate milk, the stupid grin—and then JJ calls you a drug addict? And I look to you, because I know, know, it can’t be true. But it is, isn’t it? Not all of it maybe, but enough.”
The tears came without warning—hot and blurring and relentless. You hated them. Hated that you were unraveling.
“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
His voice was barely audible, raw at the edges. He looked so small then, all broad shoulders and broken pieces, and still, it wasn’t enough to soothe the jagged thing clawing inside your chest.
Your voice echoed in the night, ricocheting off the asphalt.
“Rafael.” You softened your voice, quieter now, more tired than angry. “I love you. But you have to stop with the nicknames when I’m like this. It hurts.”
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, then nodded. The wind bit at your arms, raising goosebumps along your skin. Without a word, he shrugged out of his blazer and draped it over your shoulders, fingers lingering—tethering.
“Let’s talk inside the truck. Please. You’re cold.”
You wanted to resist. Wanted to hold the line. But your limbs ached with exhaustion, and so you relented. He opened the door like he always did—gentle, reverent—and helped you in, his hand careful at your back. Then he slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and sat there in the hum of silence.
“You remember when my mom died?”
His voice was soft, almost childlike. Of course you remembered. The grief had bound you both—two thirteen-year-olds clinging to each other in a house that no longer smelled like lavender and lemon pie.
“Of course I do,” you said. “How could I forget?”
“I wanted to forget,” he whispered. “Everything. Barry handed me coke and I thought—maybe it’d let me forget watching her die. Forget the smell of her hospital bed. Forget how quiet the house got.”
Tears glistened in his lashes. Your heart cracked wider. Katherine Cameron had been light incarnate, and her death had hollowed him. You reached for his hand—small, tentative. A lifeline.
“That doesn’t make you a bad son,” you said.
He scoffed, bitter. “Makes me a coward. I ran. I used. And every time I saw you, I remembered her. You were the last soft thing in my life and I—I didn’t know how to hold you without bleeding.”
You climbed into his lap then, instinct and grief guiding you. He buried his face in your shoulder, and you held him—held the broken boy you loved and the man he was becoming.
“No, Rafe. It makes you human.”
He pulled back, eyes red. “Why’d you still love me?”
“Because you’ve always been the good guy. Even when you didn’t see it.”
He cracked a half smile. “And here I thought it was for my wicked dance moves.”
You laughed, the tension breaking for a moment.
“Okay, okay, let’s get back before they send a search party,” you said, teasing.
He kissed you softly, reverent. Then took your hand.
But fate had more to say that night—and it waited, watching, as a shadow stepped from the trees.
The music spun slow and sweet around you as Rafe pulled you into the warm cradle of his arms. His hands found your waist, his lips grazing your forehead as you melted into him, breathing in the scent of cedarwood and something unmistakably him. The string lights above shimmered like constellations, casting golden halos over the two of you.
He whispered something to the DJ—something secret and sacred—and slipped him a bill. You laughed as he spun you toward the center of the makeshift dance floor.
"Rafael, what are we doing?"
"Just want to dance with my girl."
And then came the harmonica—melancholy and soft. The lyrics spilled out like prophecy:
Hold me through the shakes, although it's more than I can take…
By the second verse, you were sobbing quietly against his chest. Because it wasn’t just a song. It was a confession. A promise. And you felt it—deep in the marrow of your bones—that he meant every word.
The world fell away. It was only Rafe. Only the way his thumb traced circles on your back. Only the shudder of his breath against your temple. Only the future, raw and waiting, stretching before you like the shore at dawn.
You didn’t need vows. This was one.
The song dissolved into static, swallowed whole by a rush of applause and conversation that felt far too loud, too sudden. Yet neither of you moved. Rafe held you like he was anchoring himself, arms wound around you like silk cords, your fingertips trailing the sharp line of his collar, memorizing the shape of him. You could feel the hum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek—racing, thunderous, as if the very air between you still trembled with the echo of the music.
“Was that too much?” he whispered, the question soft as breath against your temple. It lingered there, warm and uncertain, threaded with peppermint and nerves.
You shook your head, barely a movement, your voice tight and caught somewhere between your ribs. “It was perfect.”
But perfection shattered quickly.
A flicker of silver light.
You turned, instinct pulsing behind your eyes, and your gaze locked on a shadow at the edge of the lawn.
His presence carved the magic from the night like a scalpel. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t drink or dance. He simply watched, a serpent coiled in the tall grass, smirk dripping venom.
Rafe’s body tensed beneath your hands, his warmth replaced by steel. His breath hitched—not in tenderness now, but in rage. You felt the shift in him, felt the tether of control fray thread by thread.
“Stay here,” he said, voice a low rumble, like the crack of distant thunder.
“No—Rafe, don’t.” You reached for him, fingers closing around his wrist, desperate. “Not here. Not like this.”
You saw the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, the cords in his forearms flexing with restraint as he cut through the crowd like a storm moving over the sea. Barry’s smile stretched wider, wicked and knowing. Like a match had been struck and he was waiting for the blaze.
Panic bloomed in your chest.
You moved to follow, but a hand landed gently on your arm—Topper. His voice came steady, an anchor in the swell. “I’ve got him. Stay with me, Y/N.”
Topper’s eyes didn’t leave the brewing fire across the lawn. “Because Barry knows when happiness starts to grow roots. And he likes to rip things up.”
You turned away, bile rising in your throat. The warmth Rafe had wrapped around you was unraveling fast, the soft cocoon of safety peeling back to reveal jagged edges. Your vision blurred, the insulin pump at your waist vibrating, persistent.
Of course your body would choose now to betray you.
The string lights above flickered like anxious stars. The music had lost all meaning, reduced to a dull pulse beneath the roar in your ears. You saw Rafe’s shoulders rise and fall—sharp, deliberate. And Barry, ever smug, leaning casually against a pillar as if he hadn’t just ruined the night with his very existence.
“Didn’t think you had the balls to show your face,” Rafe said, voice like gravel dragged over pavement. “Especially not here.”
Barry’s eyes drifted—slow and deliberate—until they landed on you.
“Didn’t come for you,” he replied, sing-song. “Just wanted to see how my little investment turned out. She looks good on you, golden boy. Polished. But fragile. Still sweet?”
Rafe surged forward—not fists first, not yet—but a breath away from destruction.
Topper gripped his shoulder, dragging him back like a man pulling another from a cliff edge.
“Not here,” Topper hissed. “You throw a punch and you lose everything.”
Barry held up his hands in mock surrender. “See? Still the same temper. Just dressed better.”
“Leave,” Rafe growled, voice shaking, not with fear—but with fury barely leashed. “Before I make you.”
Barry laughed—a sound that felt like spit in a church. “You can clean up your image, Cameron. Hell, you can swap out your girl. But dirt like you? It always sticks.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the music and the night and the rot he’d left in his wake.
Rafe’s eyes found you instantly.
You were pale, swaying, the world spinning just a little too fast. His blazer hung from your shoulders like a shield slipping off a wounded knight. You clutched the edge of the nearest table, knuckles bleached white.
“Y/N?” His voice tore across the space.
You tried to answer—tried to call out to him—but your throat was dry and metallic and the stars above you were starting to tilt.
“I—Rafe…” The words ghosted from your lips.
His arms scooped you up before you hit the ground, holding you like something sacred. Your body slumped against his chest, and your pump beeped again—urgent, screaming now.
“She’s low,” Topper said, digging through your bag for the glucose.
“I’ve got her,” Rafe whispered, over and over like a mantra, a vow. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
He didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care that eyes turned. He carried you to the steps behind the venue, knelt with you in his lap, cradling you like glass.
“Hey, hey—stay with me. Look at me, sweet girl.”
Your eyes fluttered. The world was cotton and light.
Topper handed him the glucose tabs, and Rafe coaxed them to your lips with trembling hands.
“Come on. Open your mouth. Just a little. That’s it.”
The sugar was too sweet. Cloying. But his voice kept you tethered, his hands cupping your face like you were art he didn’t deserve to hold.
Your breath evened, inch by inch.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears sliding down your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across your temple. “I let him get to me. I left you. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
You leaned your forehead against his, breath shallow.
“I hate that he still lives in your head,” you said, voice barely a thread.
“He doesn’t,” Rafe replied, voice raw. “Not anymore. Not after this. He doesn’t get to win.”
Silence settled, fragile and heavy.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispered, his hand at the back of your neck.
“You scare me too,” you said, eyes closed. “Not because I don’t trust you. But because I do.”
The party roared behind you—glasses clinking, music rising—but here in this moment, it was just the two of you, suspended in a hush that felt holy.
Rafe stood, still holding your hand.
And this time, when he said “home,” you believed him.
