IN WHICH ✶ Rafe Cameron is the last person Y/n should ever be acquainted with—her friend’s older brother, a cocky Kook, and the guy her and her friends despise most. He doesn’t want to get caught with a Pogue, and she doesn’t want to be caught with a Kook—especially him. But no matter how wrong it is, she’s still his dirty secret… and he’s hers.
genre ୨୧ ꙳ smau/irl, rafe cameron x female pogue reader.
warnings ; swearing, suggestive themes, some chapters may contain nsfw MDNI, hook up culture, suggestive jokes, drugs, alcohol, underage drinking, kys/kms jokes, using a face claim for photos.
context: months after your divorce, rafe still leaves his light on for you.
you notice it three months after the divorce is finalised.
every night, like clockwork, rafe’s porch light turns on at around 9PM. he used to leave it on when you came home from work late, and you used to leave it on too. like a gentle reminder of where you had to go, what was waiting for you inside. comfort after long days. rafe thought of it as keeping you safe on the walk back to your shared house. it was a quiet gesture– not spoken out loud. but you both knew what it meant.
and now? you’re in separate houses, but the light is still on.
at first, you thought it was coincidence. just habit.
by the third week, you wondered if it might be deliberate.
by the sixth, it had you pissed off.
you glare at the light out your window, arms crossed over your chest, muttering, “he can’t keep doing that.”
but you don’t look away.
you still check each night when you get out of the car to make sure it’s there.
it comes to a head on a thursday.
work was long. you were stuck with a client who couldn’t make their mind up, trapped in traffic for two hours and your co-worker said you looked “tired”.
you shut your car door, work bag on your shoulder, and the light flicks on. illuminating his porch, his house– as if you should be going there. and you’ve had enough.
you scoff, marching up the path to his door and knocking on it. you’re tired, and it would be best to just go home, forget about it, but you can’t. not when you know what it means.
rafe opens the door before you can knock, barefoot, shirtless and groggy. he rubs the back of his neck, eyes still adjusting, squinting. like he was waiting up for you.
“seriously?” you snap. “still with the light?”
he leans against the doorframe, hair messy, you can see the little bags under his eyes. he looks exhausted. you both are.
he looks almost…soft in a way, like a memory you never meant to revisit.
quietly, he whispers, “didn’t think you’d notice.”
you blink. “i live right there!” you point to the next door. consumed in black.
“yeah,” his eyes flick past yours to your porch. “yours is always off.”
“because i’m not waiting for anyone anymore.”you clench your jaw.
he smiles— but it’s the sad kind. the one that’s too honest. too raw in the late hour where he could never conceal his thoughts or emotions.
“i leave it on,” he says, voice slightly raspy, “just in case.”
“in case of what, rafe?”
his eyes meet yours. tired. vulnerable. real.
“in case you needed to come home.”
your stomach drops. eyebrows pinching together, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the wobbly frown about to cross your face.
“you’re not my home..and i’m not yours,” you say, but it comes out shaky.
he looks at you like he still disagrees. sympathetic, almost, that you believe that.
you stay there for a beat too long. under the yellow light. in the space between not over it, and definitely moved on.
then you go to your house before you can make a mistake you’ll regret. before you can go home.
rafe pulls into the carport one night, two days later. ten pm, tie hanging loosely around his neck, stressful day at work. his porch light’s on, still. but he’s sure it’s a trick of his fatigued state, that he swears it’s brighter tonight. rubbing his eyes, he turns around.
warnings: fight with parents, angst, lots of hurt comfort
It was nearly midnight. The wind was sharp, salty from the ocean and heavy with the summer rain that hadn't started falling yet—but promised it would.
Sage parked her car halfway on the curb in front of Tannyhill, headlights briefly illuminating the massive estate before she cut the engine. Then came the silence.
Just her and the hum of cicadas. Her heartbeat in her ears. Her fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, knuckles white. She could hear the shouting. Her mom's voice echoing like it was bouncing around the car. Still feeling the sting from her friends' words. The memory felt raw, like sunburn she'd just noticed.
It wasn't one fight that broke it all apart. It was months of miscommunication, being pulled in opposite directions, trying to balance between the two halves of her life—Pogue heart, Kook world. She thought she could manage it. She was wrong.
And now she was here.
With nothing but a half-zipped duffle bag she shoved clothes into while tears blurred her vision. Her journal, a sweatshirt that smelled like the beach, and her dad's old surf t-shirt were all she managed to grab before storming out as her mom's voice followed her down the stairs—"You want to live like a Pogue? Fine. Go be one."
She hadn't meant to end up at his house. Not at first.
She drove aimlessly. Past the surf shop. Past the Chateau. Past Kiara's. No one would answer. They were done with her, said she'd changed, that she betrayed them. Maybe they were right.
And now she stood on the stone steps of the Cameron estate, her duffle hanging off her shoulder like it weighed more than just clothes.
She hesitated before knocking. The porch light buzzed above her, casting pale gold over her tired face. She hadn't looked in the mirror since earlier that day, but she didn't need to. She knew her mascara was probably smudged, cheeks blotchy from crying, skin hot with frustration and regret. She didn't want to see herself anyway.
The door opened before she could knock.
Rafe stood there, barefoot, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hoodie pushed up to his elbows. He looked like he'd just come from the gym or had been pacing. There was something about his eyes, though. Like they had been waiting for her—like he knew.
"Sage?" he asked, like her name was a question. Like he wasn't sure if she was real. His voice wasn't teasing, or cocky, to hard. It was quiet, careful.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her lips trembled and she immediately looked away, blinking fast.
"I—I didn't know where else to go," she whispered finally, voice cracking around the edges.
He stared at her for a moment, brows furrowing like he was trying to read between her words. And then, without a second of hesitation, he stepped aside and opened the door wider.
"Come in."
She hesitated again. Her pride told her to turn around. That this was stupid. That this couldn't be her lowest point. But her legs moved before her mind could catch up. She stepped inside.
The door shut behind her with a soft click. It felt final.
Rafe stood a few feet away from her now, eyes flickering between her face and the bag she still had slung over her shoulder.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asked. Soft, no pressure.
"No." She didn't even try to sugarcoat it. "I just... I need somewhere to crash. Just for a night."
His jaw ticked. Not in frustration—but in concern. "You can stay as long as you need."
That made her blink. Once. Twice. She couldn't find the strength to argue.
—
She sat on the edge of the couch like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to make herself comfortable. Like she might disappear if she sank too far in. Her arms folded around herself like armor.
He left for a second, returning with a glass of water and a blanket. He didn't say anything when he handed it to her, just sat on the opposite end of the couch, watching her the way someone watched the ocean when it's angry—beautiful, but unpredictable.
"I don't have anywhere to go," she admitted suddenly, like it was a confession. Her voice was hollow. "My mom kicked me out. My friends don't want me around anymore."
He didn't speak at first. Just nodded, and then said, "You've got here."
The words hit her like a wave. Not loud. Not dramatic. But somehow more real than anything else she'd heard all week. She looked at him, really looked at him.
"Why?" she asked. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
He scoffed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Because it sucks when no one's on your side." he paused. "I know what that feels like."
She didn't respond, but her eyes softened. Her grip on the blanket loosened.
A silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy in the way shared loneliness often is—where two people sit in the wreckage of their lives, not trying to fix it, just being.
He leaned his head back against the couch, glancing sideways at her. "You hungry?"
She shook her head.
"Tired?"
She nodded.
He stood up and offered her a hand. "C'mon, I'll set you up in Sarah's old room."
She stared at his hand for a second before taking it. His palm was warm. Steady. Real.
And for the first time all day, she didn't feel like she was falling.
—
That night, as Sage laid in the guest bed wrapped in a too-big t-shirt that smelled like fresh detergent and something that was unmistakably Rafe, she let herself cry—soft, silent tears soaking into the pillow.
But when she woke up the next morning, the first thing she saw was a mug of coffee on the nightstand, still steaming, and a sticky note that read: "Didn't know how you take it. Made it how I like it. Come find me when you're up."
And somehow, in the soft morning light, it didn't feel like the end of everything anymore.
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