( ꈍᴗꈍ)

You were laughing at something Kelce said. Rafe hadn’t been listening, too busy tracking the way the June sun caught your hair, turning colours that probably had names that sounded like they belonged on paint chips. They were sprawled across the Thorntons’ perfectly manicured lawn like they were in some Ralph Lauren ad. Topper, Kelce, Ruthie, you, and Rafe. He’d shown up because Topper had texted him and what else was he supposed to do? Say no? Admit he’d rather be literally anywhere else than watching his best friend play house with his girlfriend of two years? Sitting at Tannyhill waiting for Ward to notice him long enough to be disappointed? At least here he could pretend he had friends; had a place; had something resembling a normal fucking life. 

But lately he couldn't stop cataloging the small things. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking; it was always the left side. How you always brought those homemade cookies to parties, the ones you always wrapped in the same blue cloth each time. The kind that actually tasted like they were baked in a home oven rather than in a commercial kitchen that used bleached flour and measured everything with no real meaning behind it. You used real butter and too much vanilla, and he supposed that was the imperfection that came from someone who actually gave a fuck. The little gold anklet you wore that caught the light when you moved. Stupid things. Things that shouldn't matter. Things he noticed anyway and filed them away into what started as a small nook in his brain and turned to an overpowering compartment. 

Two years. Christ.

“—and I told my Dad there’s no one behind me, what does it matter?”

“It matters because you could hit someone,” Ruthie said, barely looking up from her phone.

“I passed my driver’s test—”

“Then why are we talking about this?” Ruthie’s thumb moved across her screen, nails clicking. She was always bored, yet she always showed up. How much is there to do here?

Topper laughed, genuine, and shifted so you could lean back against his chest. You fit there like you’d measured for the space. His arms came around your waist, casual and propriety, the way someone would hold something they knew was theirs. Something nobody else would try to take. 

Rafe took a pull from his beer. It was warm and disgusting now. He was nursing the drink slowly given that Kelce’s parents were home. If he stopped focusing on drinking slowly, he’d be on his fifth by this point because Rafe had never learned moderation.

“Rafe, back me up,” Kelce said. “You’ve seen me drive—”

“You drive like shit,” Rafe said, and there was the stupid, perpetual edge in his voice he couldn’t smooth out. It always made the people around him shift uncomfortably and that reminded him why Ward always kept him at arm’s length. 

“Wait, what?”

Rafe shrugged. “You drive like shit,” he repeated, then picked at the label on his beer bottle, watching it tear in damp strips. “You almost hit a mailbox on Sea Breeze last week.”

“The mailbox was in my blind spot—”

“The stationary mailbox? The mailbox that couldn’t move was in your blind spot?”

You, Topper’s girlfriend—god, even in his head he couldn’t call you by your name, like saying it would make this whole thing more real—made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. It was soft and musical and Rafe briefly felt something crawl up his throat that was most likely disgust at the way he’d begun thinking. Your head was tipped back against Topper’s shoulder, face turned toward the sun. You looked like you were exactly where you wanted to be.

You probably were.

“I’m a great driver,” he said, but he was grinning now, playing it up. “You’re all just jealous of my Jeep.”

“We all have Jeeps,” Ruthie said, raising a brow.

“Yeah, but mine’s nicer.”

“It’s literally the same car,” Ruthie said, voice lowering towards the end like she couldn’t be bothered to argue. 

From inside the house, Mrs. Thornton appeared at the French doors, waving with enthusiasm Rafe was sure he’d perfected from Junior League training. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything. “Lunch is ready, kids! Hope you’re hungry—I made way too much pasta salad.”

“You’re a saint, Mrs. T,” Kelce called back.

“Oh, stop,” she said, but looked pleased. Her eyes lingered on you and Topper, together, appropriate, and exactly what a mother would want for her son. The look on her face was satisfaction. Pride, even. 

Rafe had seen that look before. On Rose’s face when Sarah did something worth bragging about at the club. On Ward’s face when he talked about Topper getting into Chapel Hill, about how good a kid he was, how he had his head on straight. Never on Ward’s face when he talked about Rafe. 

"Come on," Topper said, standing and pulling you up with him in one smooth motion. You stumbled slightly—the grass was uneven or maybe you'd been sitting too long—and he steadied you with a hand at your waist. He was laughing, and so were you, and your fingers were tangled together like they were stitched together. "Careful."

"I'm fine," you said, but you were smiling, and your fingers were still linked with his.

Rafe watched the stumble, the catch, the laugh. He watched the way Topper looked at you like steadying you was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd do it forever if you needed him to. And you looked up at Topper with this expression Rafe couldn't quite name. So unguarded and soft like this trust didn’t have to be earned was so uncomplicated, and the thought of earning it had never even occurred to you.

What the fuck would that be like? To look at someone and just—trust them? To not have to calculate every word, every move, every expression to make sure you didn't give too much away? For someone to look at Rafe, of all people, and feel that way?

Rafe stood too, brushed grass off his shorts. His hands were shaking slightly—not from the beer, barely half-finished—but from something else. Something that felt too much like anger but wasn't. Couldn't be. What did he have to be angry about? Topper was his best friend. You were Topper's girlfriend. This was how it was supposed to be.

You and Topper walked together, shoulders touching, your sundress—pink today, always some shade of soft—swishing around your knees. Your little gold anklet caught in the light. You looked like something out of a catalog selling a lifestyle Rafe’s family already had but somehow always felt a little out of reach. He was twenty and only just realizing that—truly—some things couldn’t be purchased in the same way Ward bought boats and houses and buildings. Some things you had to deserve. 

“You good?” Topper said, dropping back to walk beside Rafe.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, man. You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Topper laughed shortly. “No, you’re always talking shit. Quiet’s different.” His brows furrowed, concerned and probably genuine. Girls like you made boys like Topper genuine, made sure he didn’t want to be anything other than what he appeared to be. “Everything good with Ward?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine.”

“Cool. Cool. Just—you know you can always talk about stuff, right? If you need to.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Topper chuckled, shaking his head too. He had lost that quality of getting defensive and irritated too quickly when he started dating you. “Don’t know. But I mean it, yeah?” 

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” Topper clapped his shoulder, reassured, and jogged ahead to catch up with you. You’d stopped to wait for him, leaning against the doorframe, and when he reached you, you smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile you gave everyone else, it seemed more private. Just for him. For Topper. Rafe filed that away without meaning to, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when it was real.. 

Inside, Mrs. Thornton had set out enough food for thrice their number. Pasta salad, finger sandwiches and normal-sized sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies that looked homemade. The kind of spread that said she cared and wanted them to feel welcome and that this was a home where people were fed and happy and safe.

They loaded their plates and settled around the Thorntons’ dining room table. Real plates, cloth napkins, and a lunch with structure. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rose tried, sometimes. She’d set out cheese boards when Ward had important colleagues over, she arranged things the way magazines told her to. But Ward was always working. Sarah was always out. Wheezie was always watching TV in her room with the door closed. Rafe was usually too high to sit through a meal, or too angry, or just too something. The Camerons ate in shifts, quietly, or not at all.

“So,” Mrs. Thornton said, perching on the edge of the chair with her own plate, “what are you kids up to this summer? Besides laying around my backyard like a bunch of lazy seals.”

“Mom,” Topper said.

“What? You are.”

“Not much,” Kelce said seriously. “It’s important we don’t get burned out too early.”

“Burnt out of what?” Ruthie asked.

“Of… summer. Having fun.” 

“You can’t get burnt out of summer. It’s not a race—”

“Everything’s a race—”

Rafe tuned them out. He was watching you, sitting across from him, carefully spreading mayo on your sandwich. You had this way of doing things, and even making a sandwich required your complete attention. Or maybe Rafe was just imagining things? Your nails were painted the same pink as your dress. You wore a little gold necklace with your initial on it; it was delicate enough that Rafe hadn’t noticed until now. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate.

"What about you, sweetheart?" Mrs. Thornton asked, and it took Rafe a second to realize she was talking to you. "Any fun plans?"

"Oh, just the usual. Volunteering at the library on Tuesdays. Hanging out with friends. There's that charity thing at the club next week—"

"The children's hospital benefit," Mrs. Thornton said, nodding. "Your mother mentioned you're on the planning committee."

"Just helping where I can."

"She's being modest," Topper said, squeezing her hand where it rested on the table. "She basically organized the whole thing."

"I didn't—there's a whole committee—" Rafe watched the fluster creep into your cheeks. 

"You made all those decorations yourself," Topper insisted. He looked at his mother and said, "She stayed up until like 2 AM cutting out paper flowers."

"They're for a good cause," you said, and there was something in your voice that sounded firm. Like you needed them to know you weren’t doing it for praise and that the doing itself was enough. 

Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. It was good. Everything in this house was good. That was the problem.

"That's wonderful, honey," Mrs. Thornton said warmly. "We need more young people who actually care about giving back. Don't we, Topper?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Rafe, what about you? Are you helping with the benefit?"

Every eye at the table turned to him. He swallowed his bite of sandwich and took his time with it, feeling the bread stick to his throat. "Haven't really thought about it."

"You should come," you said, offering. Your eyes met his across the table and Rafe’s gaze involuntarily froze on you. Something uncomfortable and scalding set in his ribs. "We could use the help. It's next Saturday, six to nine."

"I might be busy."

"Doing what?" Kelce asked, taking a bite of his pasta salad. 

"Stuff."

"Stuff," Ruthie repeated flatly, one eyebrow raised.

"Come on, man," Topper said. "It'll be fun. Open bar for the parents, which means nobody's paying attention to what we're doing—"

"It's for charity," you said, shrugging slightly like you weren’t sure if it was your place or not.

"It can be for charity and fun. Multitasking." Topper grinned slightly, shameless, and you rolled your eyes but you were smiling. You were always fucking smiling.

Rafe watched. The easy back-and-forth, the way you’d developed your own rhythm after two years together. The way you let Topper be annoying and he let her be serious and somehow it worked. Somehow you’d figured out how to be two people who actually liked each other.

"I'll think about it," Rafe said, even though he wouldn't.

"That's a yes," Kelce decided.

"That's a 'I'll think about it.'"

"On Figure Eight, 'I'll think about it' means yes. It's like when your mom says 'we'll see'—also yes."

"Sometimes 'we'll see' means no," you said quietly.

"Only if you've been bad," Mrs. Thornton said, reaching over and patting your hand gently. "Which I'm sure you never were."

You smiled down at your plate. "I had my moments."

Rafe tried to imagine you having ‘moments.’ He couldn't quite picture it. You seemed like the kind of kid who'd colored inside the lines and done your homework without being asked and never talked back. The kind teachers loved, parents bragged about, boys brought home to meet their families.

You were the kind of girl Ward would approve of.

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Rafe shoved it away, took another bite of sandwich. Fuck. He knew that Ward would approve, because when Ward had seen you with Topper, he’d said to Rafe, “Now that’s a nice girl. Why can’t you find someone like that?

They ate and talked, but it was mostly Kelce and Ruthie bickering, you and Topper sharing food off each other's plates like you’d been married for twenty years, Mrs. Thornton interjecting with questions and comments that kept the conversation moving. It was painfully normal and painfully nice.

Rafe's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it under the table: Barry asking where he was, if he was coming by today. Three texts, actually, each more impatient than the last. 

He should go. Should make an excuse and get out of here and go pick up what he needed to take the edge off this feeling, this crawling, itching feeling that said something was wrong, that he was in the wrong place, that everyone here was playing a game where they knew how to navigate and he didn’t.

But Topper was laughing at something you had said, and Mrs. Thornton was offering seconds, and Kelce was stealing a cookie before he'd finished his sandwich, and for a second—just a second—Rafe let himself imagine this was his life. That he was the one with the uncomplicated girlfriend and the mother who gave a shit and the kind of problems that could be solved by showing up to a charity event.

The phone buzzed in his hand again. bro?? He locked it and pushed it into his pocket. 

"Rafe?" you said. He realized you’d asked him something—were still asking him something—and everyone was sitting around him waiting for his response again. 

He swallowed nothing. "What?"

"I asked if you wanted more pasta salad. You've barely eaten."

You were looking at him with those eyes he’d memorised, head tilted slightly, concerned in that soft way you had. Not pitying—you were too careful for that—just genuinely wondering if he was okay. Like you cared and like you actually gave a shit whether or not he ate lunch.

"I'm good," he said.

"You sure? Mrs. Thornton made a lot—"

"I said I'm good. Stop asking.” 

It came out harsher than he’d meant. You blinked, drew back just half an inch, and Topper’s arm came around your shoulders automatically, protective like Rafe was a predator and you were his next meal. 

“Dude,” Topper said.

“What?”

“She’s just trying to be nice.”

“I know.” His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. “I’m good. That’s all I said.”

The table went silent. Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat, Ruthie studied her phone, and Kelce suddenly found his sandwich fascinating. You were looking at him from the corner of your eye with what he assumed was hurt or concern. Your hand moved to your necklace and twirled the initial around once, then back around twice. 

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at you. “Sorry,” he said, eyes meeting yours, almost shamefully. “Didn’t mean to—sorry.”

Your eyes widened slightly. Maybe you were surprised he’d apologized at all. He didn’t blame you. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, gently, which somehow made him feel worse. Were you that forgiving with Topper, too? Would you forgive Rafe that quickly if you were his, because he knew he’d fuck up a lot. “I didn’t mean to push.” 

“You weren’t.”

𖦹

Rafe almost didn’t go. He had his truck pointed towards Barry’s and everything with his cash in pocket and the familiar itch under his skin that said he needed something to take the edge off Ward’s recent disappointment (this morning delivered over breakfast like a side of shitty cold eggs  (“I assume you’re not going to the L/N’s charity event tonight”)) But then he’d driven past the country club on his way and seen the parking lot filling up with cars that cost more than people’s houses (Range Rovers, Mercedes, that asshole Jenkins’s new Porsche) and something in him—maybe it was boredom, maybe spite, or just the kind of restless energy that came from doing too much coke the night before and not enough today—made him turn in. 

He told himself it was to prove Ward wrong. And also because Topper had texted him three times, ever the supportive boyfriend. Or because he had nothing better to do on a Saturday night in June when the whole island felt like it was suffocating under humidity.

He did not tell himself it had anything to do with you. 

The country club itself looked like someone had thrown up pastels all over it. Pink and yellow streamers twisted around the columns, balloons clustered by the entrance in a way that was almost scary, and those fucking paper flowers—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—strung up everywhere, the ones Topper had mentioned you stayed up until 2 AM making, which Rafe had filed away without meaning to because apparently his brain was keeping track of shit like that now. 

He was adjusting his shirt—had put on something with buttons for once, though he’d left the top two undone because he wasn’t a complete fucking sellout—when he saw you. 

You were outside the main entrance with a clipboard, which was so perfectly on-brand it almost made him laugh. Your hair was pulled back in something already falling apart, little pieces sticking to your neck in the heat. You wore a lavender dress that hit just above your knee and clung in ways that made Rafe’s mouth go dry. It was fitted enough that he could see the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and the line of your legs. 

You were talking to two guys in catering uniforms, gesturing with your free hand—sharp and short moments that weren’t like you—and even from across the parking lot Rafe could see you were stressed. He could see it in the set of your shoulders and the way you kept pushing those loose pieces of hair out of your face and the rigid way you were holding the clipboard. 

You looked like you could use a drink. Or a Xanax. Or someone to tell you it was fine. Or maybe just someone who could fuck the tension out of you until you remembered how to breathe normally. 

Not that he was volunteering. His hand tightened on the steering wheel. Except he was apparently walking toward you instead of toward Barry’s, so maybe he was.

“—by five-thirty at least,” you were saying as he got closer, voice strained but still disgustingly polite. “That’s what we were told. So I’m not sure why—”

One of the catering guys—older, maybe forty, with a mustache—cut you off with something that Rafe didn’t catch but could guess from the gesture; you were just a kid to him with a shit-ton of money playing event planner (in other words: absolutely nothing to take seriously). 

“I understand that,” you said, and there was a barely perceptible edge to your pageant voice now. “But we have a hundred-and-fifty people arriving in forty-five minutes and we don’t have—” You stopped, closed your eyes briefly, took a breath, and when you opened them you looked steadier, as though you’d shoved everything messy into whatever box you kept it in. 

Rafe felt something uncomfortable watching you pull yourself together in real time. 

“Okay. Can you at least tell me when—”

“Problem?” Rafe said.

You turned, surprised. You blinked at him like you couldn’t quite place why he was there, which was fair because he wasn’t supposed to be there. 

“Rafe,” you said, and he liked the way his name sounded in your voice. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“I wasn’t, either,” he said honestly, and your mouth twitched like you found it funny. He looked at the catering guys, who were both studiously avoiding eye contact now that someone else was there. “You having problems?”

“No, there’s just been a miscommunication about the time.”

“So, yes.”

“Rafe—” you said, slightly flustered at his presence and the situation. 

“What’s the problem?” The catering guys looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

“No problem, man,” one of them said. “We’re just waiting on—”

“Half the equipment is missing,” you cut in, and yeah, there was definitely an edge now. You were pissed now. Trying very hard not to show it, but pissed. “The tables are wrong, the setup’s behind schedule, and nobody mentioned it until thirty minutes ago.”

“So fix it.” Rafe shrugged.

You looked at him. “I’m trying to fix it.”

“Try harder.”

The catering guys looked between them like they were watching a tennis match. You opened your mouth—to tell him to fuck off, maybe, which was very unlikely but would’ve been incredibly hot—then closed it. Then looked down at your clipboard, back at the guys, then Rafe.

“Can you give us a minute?” The catering guys couldn’t leave fast enough.

When they were gone, you turned to Rafe fully and stepped closer, close enough to smell your floral perfume that probably cost more than his expensive coke habit, he got a better look at you up close. The dress was even better at this distance; thin straps, sweetheart neckline, the kind of thing that was technically modest but didn't feel that way when you were looking at it. Or when he was looking at it. At you. 

You weren't wearing much makeup, just enough to look polished, and there was a small stain on the hem of the dress that you probably didn't know about yet. It was probably coffee or those tiny chocolates they served at these things. You’d be horrified if you noticed, so Rafe kept the stain to himself. You looked stressed and like you'd been running around in heels for too long, which you had, judging by the way you kept shifting your weight.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

"You invited me."

"That—I didn't think you'd actually come. You said you’d think about it.”

“Thought about it,” he said. “Decided to show. Here I am.”

“Why?” Your eyebrows knitted together, like you were sure he had an ulterior motive like ransacking the entire place as soon as guests began walking in.

"Guess I'm full of surprises." He pulled out his cigarettes, offered you one out of habit more than any expectation. You shook your head, predictably. He shrugged. "So what's actually wrong?"

"I just told you—"

"What's the actual problem?"

You stared at him for a second, and Rafe watched you recalculate. Decide whether to bother explaining or just tell him to leave. He could see it happening behind your eyes, the cost-benefit analysis, the weighing of options.

"The DJ canceled," you said finally. "Last minute. And the tables they sent are the wrong size, which means we have to completely rearrange the layout, which means the floor plan I spent three weeks on is useless, and everything else has to shift, and the photographer's going to be here in thirty minutes and we're supposed to start in forty-five and I still have to check on the auction setup and make sure the kitchen has everything they need and—" You stopped, pressed your fingers to your temple. "Sorry. You don't care about any of this."

"Not really,," Rafe agreed. "But this seems like it'd be bad for the sick kids or whatever."

You almost smiled at that. Almost. "Very compassionate."

"I try." He lit his cigarette, took a drag, buying him a second to think. "You got a backup DJ?"

"My phone and a speaker from 2015."

"That'll work."

"It won't—"

"Nobody's here for the music. They're here for the open bar and the tax write-off. You could play the same song all night as long as the drinks keep coming and nobody would notice."

"That's very sad."

"Doesn't make it wrong."

You looked at him like you were trying to figure out if he was fucking with you or actually trying to help. Rafe wasn't entirely sure himself. "The tables—"

"I'll move them."

"You don't have to—"

"Jesus,” he breathed out, letting some annoyance creep in because you were exhausting and Rafe couldn’t keep playing at this for much longer. This would’ve been his one good deed of the year. “You want help or not?"

That made you stop. Blink. "You're offering to help."

"Don't make it weird."

"It's already weird. You hate events like this. You’ve said that.”

Had he? Yeah. Probably. At the club, or at one of Top’s things, or somewhere else where you’d been in earshot and he’d been running his mouth. 

Well, you’d been listening. Something about that—about you paying attention to what he said, filing it away the way he filed away everything about you—made his chest feel tight. 

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." He took another drag, watched you process this. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Or keep going crazy. Your call."

You bit your lip—nervous habit, probably, or maybe just the lip gloss was bothering you—and Rafe's eyes caught on it. On your mouth. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip and the little indent it left when you released it. He wondered if you did that during sex. If Topper had ever noticed. If—

Stop.

"Okay," you said, and Rafe refocused, eyebrows moving slightly up. "Okay. The tables need to go along the back wall, but first we have to move everything that's already there, and then rearrange the chairs, and—"

"Got it."

"I didn't finish—"

"Don't need you to. Tables go there, chairs go somewhere else, I can figure it out."

"Are you always this—"

"Helpful? Yeah,” he said sarcastically.

You shook your head, but you were almost smiling again, and Rafe decided that was worth more than whatever he would've gotten from Barry anyway. He didn’t feel completely useless. "Come on. I'll show you."

He followed you inside, where the situation was exactly as much of a shitshow as you'd described. Tables stacked wrong, chairs everywhere, decorations half-hung. The guys who were supposed to be setting up looked like they'd collectively given up on life. Rafe could relate.

"Okay," you said, clipboard up, and Rafe noticed your nails were painted the same color as your dress. Coordinated. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate and probably planned three weeks in advance. "So we need to—"

"I got it," Rafe said, because you were about to go into a detailed explanation complete with diagrams and he could see the basic problem from here. Tables needed to go there, chairs were in the way, move the chairs, move the tables. Easy.

He grabbed a stack of chairs. Started hauling them to the side.

They were heavier than they looked—real wood, not the cheap plastic shit—and by the third trip he'd worked up a sweat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Could feel you watching him from across the room where you were directing someone else, and when he glanced over he caught your eyes on him. Specifically, his arms, on the way his biceps flexed under his shirt sleeves as he carried the chairs. You looked away quickly when you realized he’d caught you, face flushing.

Interesting.

Rafe smiled to himself, guilty but satisfied, and moved another stack of chairs. Then another. Fell into a rhythm of lifting, carrying, setting down, repeat. Simple. Clear.

"You're really good at that," you said from somewhere behind him. 

He turned. You were closer than he'd expected, making him straighten his back too quickly.

"At moving chairs?" Rafe asked, setting them down because holding them with you being this close felt awkward. 

"At just doing things." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It immediately fell back out. "I would've spent twenty minutes thinking about how to move them.”

"Sometimes you just gotta move the fucking chairs." Rafe said simply.

You laughed, surprised.

You were standing close enough now that Rafe could see the mascara was slightly smudged under your left eye. Could see a small scar on your collarbone he'd never noticed before. Maybe from childhood. 

You were watching him too, your eyes tracking over his face, his shoulders, down to where his shirt was sticking to his chest.

"You got something—" He reached out without thinking, thumb brushing under your eye where the mascara had smudged.

You went very still. "What are you—"

"Mascara. Hold still." He wiped it away, the pad of his thumb against your skin, and felt you inhale sharply. Your eyes were locked on his, pupils dilating, and for a second neither of you moved. He was close enough to see the texture of your lip gloss and count your eyelashes if he wanted to. Close enough to kiss you. 

Then you stepped back. "Thanks."

"Mhm."

You touched your face where his thumb had been unconsciously, your hands slightly shaking. 

"I should—" You gestured vaguely toward the rest of the room. "There's still so much to—"

"Go. I got this."

You hesitated, then nodded and disappeared to handle something else. Rafe stood there for a second, thumb tingling where he'd touched your face, then went back to moving chairs because that was easier than thinking about why he'd touched you in the first place.

Tables next. Heavier, but he'd rather work alone than try to coordinate with the setup guys who all looked like they'd never seen a table before. He got the first one moved, then the second, then—

"Jesus, Cameron, you trying to give yourself a hernia?"

Kelce's voice. Rafe looked up to see him standing in the doorway with Ruthie, both of them dressed like they were here for the event rather than the setup.

"Should you be doing this?" Kelce asked, gesturing at the tables. “Like actually. Isn’t this what we pay people for?”

"They were being useless,” Rafe said. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

"Yeah, usually not you." Kelce looked genuinely confused now.

"Fuck off."

"No, seriously." Ruthie came closer, studying him like he was a science experiment. "Where's Rafe? What'd you do with him?"

"I can help without it being a whole thing—"

"It's definitely a thing," Kelce said, grinning. "You hate events like this."

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." Rafe moved another one into place, wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. "You gonna stand there all day or help?"

"I’m here for moral support," Ruthie said, examining her nails. 

"Useless, got it."

But Kelce did grab one end of the next table, and together they got the rest moved in half the time. Ruthie mostly watched from a chair she'd pulled over, occasionally offering commentary that ranged from unhelpful to actively detrimental, but whatever. At least it was entertaining.

And Rafe could keep half an eye on you as you moved through the space, fixing things, directing people, climbing onto a chair in your dress and heels to adjust a banner that someone had hung crooked. He watched you wobble slightly and had to physically stop himself from crossing the room to steady you. You were fine. You got it fixed and climbed down and immediately moved on to the next thing.

“Dude,” Kelce said quietly so Ruthie couldn’t hear. “You’re staring.”

“Shut up.”

“Like, really, obviously staring.”

𖦹

You’d been to enough Figure Eight parties to know the entire song-and-dance. Ruthie would alcohol that could feed Figure Eight and The Cut, but three times over; people would set up a station to play very wrong, ruleless beer pong; someone would get in a fight; someone would call the cops and Ruthie would socially exile them for the next six months or until she conveniently forgot about it. Tonight was tracking perfectly to schedule: the handles were half-finished by eleven, there were red Solo cups floating in the pool, and you’d watched two guys argue about whether a bounce shot counted as a double for the past ten minutes even though there was literally no one keeping track. 

You were nursing the same drink you’d picked up off the counter half-an-hour ago. The Truly can—Wild Berry, the only flavour that had been left by the time you arrived—was getting warm in your hand, condensation making the label peel in little strips. You kept picking at it without thinking, rolling little soggy pieces of tissue and dropping them into the can where you imagined they floated like dead flies. Topper was in the middle of some story about golf. Something about his swing, the ninth hole at the club, and his dad’s advice; you’d stopped tracking the details about seven minutes in. The thing about dating Topper was that all his stories had the same shape to them; something happened, his dad had an opinion about it, and he agreed or planned to prove it wrong. The details changed—golf, school, Jeep—but the shape, as a whole, was identical. You’d memorized the blueprint. 

You were good at this, at least. You nodded at the right moments, you made small affirming noises, and laughed when his voice lifted in that way that indicated something was funny. You could do it in your sleep at this point. You were worried that you had been, that you’d actually been asleep for months and it had gone unnoticed because you were always nodding at the perfect times.

“—he won’t listen. He’s convinced it’s my follow-through—” Topper took a pull from his beer, gestured with the bottle, nearly hit Kelce in the face. “Babe, you’re not listening.”

You blinked, refocusing. “I am.”

“What did I just say?”

“Something about your follow-through.”

“Before that.”

You didn’t know. You were watching Ruthie across the room, the way she was laughing at something with her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious, and not worried if her laugh was too loud or fake or if the angle made her head look wrong. She was just laughing. When was the last time you laughed like that? You didn’t know. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, touching Topper’s arms lightly, apologetically. It was the kind of touch you’d learned said that you were there, you cared, and that you were paying attention now. “I’m just so tired. The week was long.”

“You feeling okay?” He shifted immediately to boyfriend-mode, which was sweet, and was one of the first things you’d learned to love about him in the first place. He cared. He worried. He made sure you’d eaten, had water. Most times it felt like being cared for. “We can leave if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. Keep telling your story.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

He kissed your temple—quick, casual, and the kind of kiss that marked you as his in public—and turned to Kelce, picking the story back up from wherever you’d lost the thread. You took a sip of your drink; it was warm and disgusting, but drinking gave you something to do with your hands. 

You loved Topper. You did. You loved him the way you loved Outer Banks summers and Sunday dinners at the club and the worn-in comfort of your childhood bedroom that looked like it belonged to a 30-year-old woman with very specific specifications for her interior design. You loved him in a way that felt familiar, safe, and exactly what was supposed to be.

He was kind and reliable and everyone loved him and your mother almost cried—shed a tear—when you’d brought him home for dinner junior year. He was exactly the kind of boy you were supposed to end up with. Figure Eight royalty, good family, going places. He talked about the future like it was something you’d built together brick-by-brick: UNC next fall, he’d major in finance, you’d major in something you hadn’t decided, but everyone assumed something that involved helping people because that’s what you were good at. After graduation, you’d move back here, get a place on the water, start planning a wedding. His mother already showed you the venue book. Twice. 

It was perfect. All perfect.

“I’m getting another drink,” you said, even though you weren’t. 

“Want me to come?” Topper asked, turning back to you, ready to follow. 

“No, I’m good. Keep talking. I’ll be right back.” 

He nodded, already turning back to Kelce. You could’ve said you were going to the moon for a second and he would’ve believed it.

You pushed through the crowd of Figure Eight kids, mostly. They were all people you’d known since elementary school, plus randoms from The Cut who’d heard about the party and showed up anyway because Ruthie didn’t check who walked through the door. The house was too hot, too loud, the bass from whatever song made the windows rattle in their frames. Someone had spilled beer on the hardwood that nobody bothered to clean it up, and your sandals kept sticking to it slightly with each step. 

You dumped your drink in the sink in the kitchen and grabbed a red solo cup that you filled up with water from the fridge dispenser. You drank half of it standing there, forehead pressed to the cool stainless steel. When you turned around, Maddie was there, drunk, hanging on your shoulder.

“Oh my god, you look so cute tonight,” she said. “Is that new?”

“No, I’ve had it—”

“I love it. We should go shopping next week. There’s a new collection at that place on the Mainland. The one with the dresses? You look so good in dresses. You should wear dresses more.”

“Sure,” you said, the word noncommittal, because the thought of stores with fluorescent lighting and their helpful salespeople and their pleasure to find things that fit you right made you want to crawl out of your skin.

“How are you and Top? You guys are so cute. Like actually. I was telling Cas the other day, you’re like the perfect couple.”

“We’re good. Thanks—”

“Are you guys thinking of schools together? Because I heard he got into Chapel Hill early and you’re obviously going to get in. You’re so smart—”

“Hopefully.” You smiled tightly; you hadn’t finished your applications yet, every time you sat down to work on your essays you ended up staring at the blank screen until your eyes hurt.

“You will. And then you’ll get married and have the cutest babies—”

“Madi—”

“What? You would! Could you imagine? Little Topper running around—”

You excused yourself before she could finish the thought, pushed back into the main room where the party was getting louder, messier, more of what was always going to become. Someone had turned up the music. Someone else was doing a keg stand in the corner and people were counting—”Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen”—and you felt tired. So tired. 

You found Topper right where you’d left him. Still talking to Kelce. Still gesturing with his beer. You slid back under his arms like you were supposed to and he kissed the top of your head without pausing his sentence and you realized—for the hundredth time—this is your life now, and this is it. The thought should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

“You okay?” Topper asking, looking down at you with those eyes that were genuinely so concerned that it made you feel guilty for not being okay. “You look weird.” 

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? Because we can really leave if—”

“I’m fine.” It came out harsher than you’d intended. His face did a combination of something complicated (hurt, confused, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong). “Sorry, I’m just—it’s hot in here.”

“Let’s go outside then.”

“No, you’re talking to Kelce—”

“Don’t care. Come on.” He was already steering you towards the back doors, hand on your lower back, and you let him because that was easier than arguing. Outside the air was cooler but not by much, humid and thick with that almost-rain feeling. The pool was glowing blue, and there were people in it even though nobody had suits on, just jumping in with their clothes because that’s what you did at Ruthie’s. 

“Better?” Topper asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been kind of off all week.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m just—” His lips flattened, like he was trying to find the right words for a moment. “Are you stressed about your school stuff? Your mom?”

“A little.”

“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna get in everywhere you apply. You’re so fucking smart.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “And we’ll be together. That’s what matters, right?”

“Right.”

“UNC is gonna be perfect. We can get an apartment off campus junior year. Somewhere with two bedrooms so your parents don’t freak out but we both know—” He laughed, squeezed you tighter, and his hands moved from your waist to hips, pulling you further back against him. “It’s gonna be so good, babe. I can’t wait.”

You could hear it in his voice, he meant it all. 

You could feel him getting hard against your back. Of course. Topper had a one-track mind at parties. A few beers in, and suddenly everything translated to being foreplay. Your hand in his. You laughing at his jokes. Existing in his orbit. All of it translated, in his mind, to we should have sex now.

His lips found your neck, kissing that spot below your ear that he’d decided early on was your spot, even though you’d never actually told him it did anything for you. It was fine. It didn’t not work. It just—it was fine. Which was the saddest way you could describe your boyfriend’s touch. Fine, really? Not electric or the kind that made you forget your own name. You were so tired of just fine, but you were also not courageous enough to admit that. 

“Baby—” you started, but his hand was already sliding under the hem of your tank top, thumb brushing the underside of your bra.

“Ruthie’s got that pool house,” he murmured against your back. “Nobody’s in there. We could—”

“There’s like seventy people here, Top.”

“So? That’s never stopped us before.” He turned you around, and his eyes had that look he conveniently gets when he wants something. “Come on, it’s been like a week.”

Had it been a week? You tried to remember the last time. Lask weekend, maybe. At his house, in his bed, with the door locked and the lights off because you always asked for the lights off even though he always wanted to see you. It had been fine. Good, even. Topper was considerate in bed, always asking if you were okay, if this felt good, if that made you finish even though sometimes you faked it just to move it along. Sometimes your brain wouldn’t turn off long enough to get there and it was easier to pretend.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I’m kind of tired.” 

“I’ll do all the work.” He grinned, hands sliding down to your ass now, pulling you closer. “Come on, I’ve been thinking about you all week.” 

You smiled, even though that only made you feel tired. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” His whole face lit up. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

He grabbed your hand, started pulling you toward the pool house, and you followed because what else were you going to do? Explain that you didn’t want to but couldn’t articulate why?

The pool house was unlocked, dark, smelling like chlorine and the musty scent of furniture that spent too much time in humidity. Topper flicked on the lamp in the corner—dim, throwing everything into shadow—and pulled you to the couch.

He kissed you immediately, hands everywhere, enthusiastic in that golden retriever way he had about everything. You kissed back, let your hands go to his hair, his shoulders, the places you knew he liked. This was familiar. Routine. Two years of practice. You knew exactly how he liked to be touched and the sounds he made when you did it right. There was a rhythm and choreography to it.

He pulled you down onto the couch, climbed over you, and his mouth moved to your neck. Started kissing, then sucking, and you knew he was leaving marks. He always left marks when he was drunk, got possessive in this puppyish way that should've been endearing. His hand slid up your shirt, palm hot against your ribs, and he was grinding against you now, hard through his shorts.

"God, you're so hot," he murmured against your collarbone, kissing lower. "I love you so much."

“I love you too.”

He sucked harder at the spot where your neck met your shoulder—definitely leaving a mark there, you’d have to cover it tomorrow—and his hand was working the button of your shorts when his phone started to ring. He ignored it. Kept kissing. The phone stopped, then immediately started again.

“Babe—” you said.

“It’s fine. Just—” 

It rang again.

“Topper, just check it.”

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, pulled back, fumbled for his phone in his pocket and squinted at the screen. “It’s my dad. Again.” He sat up, ran a hand through his hair like his dad could see him through the phone. “Shit. He called earlier and I—hold on. I’ll just.”

He answered it. “Hey, Dad… Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s loud here… What? No, I can—” He stood up, walked to the door, and you could hear his dad’s voice on the other end, irritated and tiny. “I know. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow… Yeah… Okay… Yeah, she’s with me… Okay…”

You sat up, buttoned your shorts back up, and tried to fix your hair. Your neck felt hot where he’d been sucking, and when you touched it, your fingers came slightly damp. Great. That would be purple by morning.

Topper hung up, turned back to you, and his face had a guilty look. “I’m sorry, babe. My dad’s pissed about—there’s this thing with the club. I was supposed to call someone back—” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I gotta call this guy really quick. Five minutes, I swear.”

This happened a lot. Topper’s father calling, needing something, and Topper drowning in everything to handle it. You understood it and resented it in equal measure.

“It’s okay.”

“You sure? Because I can—”

“No, it’s okay. Make your call. I’ll just meet you back outside.”

“You’re the best.” He kissed you quickly, already distracted and mentally somewhere else entirely. “Five minutes. Then we can—” He gestured vaguely at the couch with a tip of his head. “—continue?”

“Sure.”

Outside, you noticed a crowd dispersing and before you could try to make sense of it, Ruthie’s palm grabbed your shoulder and pulled you aside.

“This is the third fight he’s started this month,” she said, sentence coming out quickly like she was in the throes of stress.

“Who?”

“Rafe.” 

You swallowed quickly, shaking your head. “Is he okay?”

“What? Rafe? He’s fine. He’s always doing this shit.” But she was frowning, scanning the crowd. “Where’d he go?”

“Maybe inside?”

“Great. He’s probably bleeding all over my mom’s white couch.” She sighed, then looked at you. “Can you go check on him?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. He’s Top’s best friend. And you’re like, good at the whole—” She gestured vaguely. “Thing.”

“I really don’t think—”

‘Please? I need to find the guy he beat up and make sure he isn’t going to make it a big deal. Rafe’s probably in one of the rooms. Just make sure he’s not dying or bleeding anywhere that isn’t expensive or visible.”

Given that Ruthie lived in an open-space concept house with nothing that cost less than four figures and very few doors to hide behind, that narrowed the list down to the bathrooms and maybe her dad’s office. The latter goes with the assumption that Rafe had the good sense to pick a room with wood or tile instead of white linen and glass.

She was already walking away before you could argue with her. You could find Topper, tell him what happened, and let him deal with his best friend. That’s what you should do. That’s what made sense. But your boyfriend was on the phone with his dad; Ruthie had asked you, and something about the situation made your chest twist uncomfortably.

𖦹

Rafe needed to get laid. Or high. Or hit something until his knuckles split. Twenty years of his life had taught him that when there isn’t one thing wreaking havoc over his life, he hyperfixated on the impossible. Self-sabotage, probably. The impossible being, currently, his best friend’s girlfriend the image that had been burned into his retinas and showed no signs of stopping no matter how much cocaine he shoved up his nose or how many drinks he threw back or how many times he told him he was just being a fucking idiot. 

So, he picked a fight. With who? Didn’t matter. Some guy. A random fucking guy who had the misfortune of existing in Rafe’s vicinity at the exact moment Rafe had watched you disappear into Ruthie’s pool house with Topper, watched the door close behind you both, and felt something ugly and acidic rise up in his throat that tasted like very cheap vodka because he’d spent two years wanting something he couldn’t have. Two fucking years of seeing Topper touch you like it was easy, like you were some cosmic lottery he’d won just by being himself. 

Now he was sitting on the closed toilet in Ruthie’s upstairs bathroom with blood drying on his knuckles and his face throbbing and the bass from downstairs making the floor vibrate under his feet, trying very hard not to think about what you and Topper had been doing in the pool house. The bleeding had mostly stopped. His right eye was going to swell shut by morning. His lip was split. Could've been worse. Had been worse, plenty of times. This was manageable. He was trying and failing, because his brain—traitorous, obsessive, completely fucked—kept supplying images; Topper’s hands on your waist, your hips, your head tipped back, the sounds you probably made, whether you’d let him keep the lights on, whether you were any good at it or whether you just laid there perfect and pretty while—

The door opened, and his eyes snapped up and there you were, standing in the doorway like a fucking hallucination, like something his substance-soaked brain had conjured because it hated him, too. You were backlit by the hall light in a way that should’ve been corny but wasn’t. You looked real solid there. Rafe thought there was no fucking way this was happening. 

“Get out,” he said.

You didn’t get out, and Rafe was mad at the world because this was probably the first fucking time you didn’t do what someone else asked of you. Of course you chose right now, when Rafe was barely holding himself together, to stop being obedient. 

You stepped inside instead, and the bathroom suddenly felt about three sizes too small, and Rafe could smell you, that perfume you wore, floral and clean and so aggressively innocent it made him want to break something. He could smell it all over the metallic tang of blood and the chemical burn of Ruthie’s fancy hand soap and his own sweat. 

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“Yeah, no shit.” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant, but what-fucking-ever. Harsh was good, and that would make you leave. “Where’s Topper?”

“On the phone with his dad.”

Right. Topper. Your boyfriend, the guy whose hands had been all over you. The guy who got to touch you whenever he wanted because you were his, officially his, had been for two years while Rafe stood on the sidelines watching and acting like he didn’t care.

“Cool. Go wait for him somewhere else.”

“Ruthie asked me to check on you.”

Obviously she fucking did. Of course Ruthie—who’d watched Rafe watch you for two years, who’d made pointed comments Rafe had ignored, who definitely knew more than she should—would send you up here like a deer to slaughter. She would put you in a room alone with him when he was high and drunk and had just beaten someone bloody because he couldn’t handle himself in his body like a normal person. 

“Mm, you checked. I’m fine. Door’s right there.”

But you were closing the door instead behind you. Locking it. The lock was so obscenely loud that Rafe’s body went rigid and his head snapped in your direction. Every muscle in his body tensed and coiled. You’d locked yourself alone in a bathroom with him. What were you thinking?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You need help.”

“What I need is for you to leave.”

“Rafe—”

“No, I’m serious. Get the fuck out.” He stood up too fast, the room tilted, and he had to brace one hand against the wall while his vision did something complex and unstable. Everything went bright and sparkly around the edges the way it did when he mixed uppers and downers; his body was in a constant state of figuring out whether he should be flying or crashing. The coke was hitting him all weird, and that probably meant he had to do a bump in less than five minutes, mixing with vodka in ways that made everything bright and too close. He probably looked like shit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

Because Topper probably had just fucked you. Because Rafe could still see that middle-school-hookup-hickey on your neck, all red and obvious and making him want to punch a hole through Ruthie’s bathroom mirror. Because you were standing there looking at him with genuine concern on your face like Rafe was someone worth for you to worry about, like you hadn’t spent the last hour with your boyfriend, like you had any business being so close to him when Rafe was barely holding onto his self-control with both hands, bloody and beat-up.

“Because I’m telling you to.”

You were already kneeling down though, opening the cabinet under Ruthie’s sink, and Rafe watched your ass in those jean shorts and thought that this was hell. This was actual hell and he was in it.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice coming out gruff. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”

“Your face is bleeding.”

“Really.”

You ignored him, and pulled out Ruthie’s first aid kit. It was the expensive kind that came in a hard plastic case with actual organization inside, not just a jumble of Band-Aids and expired Advil, and stood up with it tucked under your arm. You wet a washcloth at the sink—one of Ruthie’s monogrammed hand towels—wrung it out, and looked back at him. You met his eyes for just a second, long enough for Rafe to catch the stubborn determination on your face. 

And then—holy fuck—you stepped between his legs.

Just fucking stepped right between his legs like that was a normal place to be, like you had any fucking idea what that did to him. You, standing right between his legs, so close that if she shifted about two inches forward, you’d be pressed right to him. His jaw clenched tight. 

You didn't know. Of course you didn't. Because you thought Rafe hated you. Thought he'd been an asshole to you for two years because he didn't like you, not because liking you was the problem, had always been the problem, would continue to be the problem until Rafe died or moved to another country or developed severe amnesia.

"Sit down," you said. Soft. Like you were talking to a scared animal.

He should say no. Should physically remove you from the bathroom. Should do literally anything other than what he did, which was sink back down onto that toilet seat like his legs stopped working. He even let you step closer, close enough that your knees bumped his, close enough that he could see the freckles scattered across your shoulders like someone had flicked a paintbrush at you.

"This might sting," you said, and reached up to touch his face.

Your fingers made contact with the cut above his eyebrow—gently, so fucking gently—and Rafe's entire nervous system went haywire. Every nerve ending firing at once. Every muscle in his body locking up trying to keep still, keep from grabbing you, keep from doing something catastrophically stupid that he couldn’t take back. He felt like he’d forgot how to breathe. Your touch felt branded, like every place your skin met his was burning.

Nothing about this was sexual. That was the fucked up part. Yeah, there was the fact that Rafe's brain had a one-track mind when it came to you and that track involved significantly less clothing than you were currently wearing, but this was worse. This was your hand on his face, gentle and careful like he was worth being gentle with. Like he was something other than Ward Cameron's greatest disappointment and the guy who got too fucked up at parties and picked fights for no reason.

"Sorry," you murmured when he flinched. "I'm trying to be gentle."

Rafe let out something between a laugh and a choke at how oblivious you were. “Yeah, that—” He swallowed, cleared his throat, then tried again. “I know.”

Stop talking. Seriously, stop talking.

His hands were gripping his thighs. He was gripping them hard enough to hurt, hard enough his knuckles—already fucked from the fight—were screaming at him. But it was either grip his thighs or grab you, and grabbing you was not an option. Grabbing you was the opposite of an option.

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice came out tight and strained. Nothing normal.

“I know,” you said quietly.

“Then why are you?”

You dabbed at the cut again, concentration evident in the way that you were biting your bottom lip. “Because you’re hurt,” you said like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

Was that reason enough for you to do this? “So?”

“So, someone should help.”

“And it had to be you?”

“Ruthie asked—”

“Ruthie’s not here.” His fingers were going numb now from how hard he was gripping his legs. “It’s just us. You can leave. I don’t think Ruthie meant you had to do all of this.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Because you were Topper’s, and Topper was Rafe’s best friend, one of his only real friends, if Rafe was being honest, the only person besides Kelce and Sarah who didn’t see Ward’s DNA walking around making the wrong choices. Because twenty minutes ago you’d been in a pool house with Topper doing things Rafe had no right to think about, and now you were touching Rafe’s face with fingers that probably still smelled like Topper’s cologne. Because if you didn’t leave right now, Rafe was going to do something unforgivable.

He opened his mouth to say some version of that—to say anything that would make you leave—when you spoke first.

“Because you don’t like me, right?” you said quietly after a moment, and Rafe’s brain stuttered to a complete stop.

“Huh?”

“You don’t like me. You never have.” You weren’t looking into his eyes anymore—and Rafe realized he missed having your eyes on him—and were focusing very intently on the washcloth. “Since I started dating Topper, you’ve been—you act like I’m annoying you all the time.”

Rafe stared at you. At your face, all concentration and hurt poorly hidden, and felt something in his chest twist sideways. You couldn’t meet his eyes, like you were embarrassed to have said it out loud.

You thought he didn't like you. You actually, genuinely thought that the reason Rafe had been cold and dismissive and sometimes cruel was because he didn't like you. Not because he'd spent two years watching you be Topper's perfect girlfriend and wanting you so badly it made him physically ill. You didn’t think it was because every time you smiled at him or laughed at something he said or looked at him like you were looking at him right now, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to cross whatever line existed between being Topper's best friend and being the asshole who wanted his girlfriend. You had zero idea liking you was so much worse than not liking you that Rafe had chosen cruelty as the easier option. If you were anybody else, Rafe would’ve been irked at how much having one person dislike you hurt you. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," he managed.

“Don’t I?” You pulled back slightly, met his eyes. “Because I’ve spent two years trying to be nice to you and you act like I’m—I don’t know. Like I’m a problem.”

"Maybe you are."

You flinched. Good. Flinching meant distance meant you'd leave meant Rafe could get his head straight and stop thinking about all of this. You put an inch of space between the two of you. Good. Except it also made him feel like the piece of shit he was and suddenly, he wanted to apologize, take it back, and explain.

“I’m trying to help you,” you said, and there was an edge to your voice now. Your hurt was bleeding into anger. “The least you can do is not be an asshole about it.”

“Nobody asked you to help.”

“Ruthie—”

“Fuck Ruthie.” Rafe leaned back against the wall, putting more distance between his face and your hands because if you touched him again he was going to lose it. “I don’t need your help. Don’t want it. So you can go back to your boyfriend—” He paused at the word to make sure you could feel the weight of it, even though he knew your intentions were all innocent, “—and your best friend and tell them I’m fine.”

You were still standing there, between his legs, and close enough that Rafe could see the way your pulse was jumping in your throat right below that hickey Topper left like a fucking brand. Like he pre-anticipated all of this, and wanted to plaster a reminder on your body to remind Rafe whose you were.

“Fine.” Your voice had gone flat. “Bleed, then. I don’t care.” But you said it while standing between his legs without moving, your hands still hovering over him like you were fighting the exact same battle he was: stay or go, touch or don’t touch. 

Someone pounded on the door. Hard. Three times in rapid succession. You jumped—actually jumped, startled—and stumbled slightly backward, and Rafe’s hands moved before the circuits in his brain caught up. They shot out and caught your hips, steadying you, pulling you back between his legs where you’d been standing. 

His hands were on your bare skin. He pushed down the groan forming in his throat.

“Yo. Yo. Someone in there?” A guy’s voice, drunk and completely impatient. 

Rafe’s hands were on your hips. On your bare skin where your tank top had ridden up slightly. His fingers were spread, wide, thumbs pressing just above your hip bones, and he could feel you breathing fast—with your whole body—underneath his palms. This was the first time he’d touched you—he thought—skin-to-skin, and it felt like every bad decision he’d made in his life had led him to this one final straw.

“Occupied,” he called out. His voice came out steadier than it should’ve. 

“How long you gonna be, man? I gotta piss—”

“As long as I fucking wanna be.”

“Dude, come on—”

“There’s a fuckin’ bathroom downstairs. Use that one.”

The guy on the other side muttered, groaned, and they heard the footsteps retreat down the hall. Silence. Rafe’s hands were still on your hips. Neither of you were moving. Rafe could feel your pulse underneath his thumbs, he could feel it racing, jackrabbit-fast, and his own wasn’t much better. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the softness of it, the way you fit perfectly under his hands like you’d been designed for them.

This was bad. This was so, so bad. He should let go. He should move his hands back to his thighs where they belonged. He should laugh it off and put distance between you to pretend his hands weren’t burning where they touched you. 

“Rafe,” you said quietly, almost breathless.

“Yeah?” he said quickly.

“Your hands.”

“You’re good,” he said, and his thumbs moved fractionally, just a tiny shaft to see if you’d pull away. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice on the edge of concern.

He tilted his head to look down, and he could feel your body jerking slightly as his hair brushed against your torso. “Just—give it a second.”

A second for what? Why were you giving him a second? You weren’t pulling away, and you weren’t telling him to let go. You were just standing there, looking down at him with your eyes too wide and lips parted slightly and that hickey on your neck that Rafe wanted to cover with his mouth, wanted to replace with his own mark, wanted—

Rafe’s thumb moved just slightly. A small circle against your hip bones. He tilted his head up slightly to meet your eyes, watching your face to see if you’d pull away, if you’d slap him, if you’d do anything to stop him before it became something neither of you could take back. He had to see if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. 

You inhaled sharply but you didn’t pull away. 

“What are you doing, Rafe?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay,” you said, but your voice was unsure.

His thumb kept moving. Small circles. Hypnotic. He could feel the exact moment you stopped breathing normally. Your body tensed underneath his hands. Your hands had come up at some point, were hoving near his shoulders like you weren’t sure what to do with them, like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you were allowed. 

And that—that fucking uncertainty, that unnamed want—that was going to be Rafe’s undoing.

Because he could keep his hands on your hips and pretend it was nothing. He could tell himself he was just steadying you, just making sure you didn’t lose your balance. But if your hands touched him—if you made the choice to touch him back—then this becomes something else. It would become something mutual. Something that couldn’t be explained away by the cocaine or the alcohol or the general fucked-upness of the night. It would become a choice and it would be your choice. 

Your fingers brushed his shoulders lightly and tentatively. Rafe’s breath stopped short, and the realization that you were indulging him hit him like a fucking brick. If he didn’t let go right now—right this second—he was going to kiss you. Your fingers pressed slightly harder against his shoulders.

And Rafe let you go.

He dropped his hands like your skin had burned him. He pushed himself up the toilet so fast his vision swam, the bathroom tilting sideways in that way that said he’d moved too quick, that the drugs were still very much in his system. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the wall. He put three feet of space between you and him in the span of three seconds. 

“You gotta leave,” he said. His voice came out all wrong. Too rough, too raw, like he’d swallowed glass.

You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Your hands were still raised slightly, frozen in the air where they’d been about to touch him. He wanted to tell you to put your hands down, but he also wanted to grab them and pull you closer. Your face was doing something Rafe couldn’t look at, because your confusion was bleeding into hurt once again. 

“What—” you started.

“Just go.”

“But you—”

“Go.” He couldn’t look at you right now. He looked at the wall instead. He focused on the expensive floral wallpaper that probably cost half the price of the house as a whole. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Topper’s probably looking for you.”

“He’s on the phone—”

“He’ll be off the phone soon. And he’s gonna wanna know where you are.” Rafe made himself look at you, and he made himself see the confusion on your face, the way you’d wrapped your arms around yourself like you were cold even though Ruthie’s bathroom was stuffy and warm. He tipped his chin in your direction, feigning as much carelessness as he could. “What are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “What?”

“When he asks where you were. What’re you gonna say?”

“I’ll—I’ll tell him I was checking on you. Because Ruthie asked me to?”

“That’s it?” He heard himself push; he was being cruel again because that was safer than being honest.

“That’s it, yeah. Yeah.” But your voice wavered slightly on the words. “That’s all that happened.” He could hear the uncertainty in your words, like you were trying to convince yourself.

“Good. Tell him that.” 

You were still standing there, still looking at him with those eyes that saw too fucking much, and Rafe could see you trying to working through it, trying to figure out what had just happened, what it meant that his hands had been you, that his hands had been moving in circles against your skin, that maybe for a minute there something had shifted between you that couldn’t be unshifted.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question hit Rafe in the chest all wrong. You thought you’d done something wrong, like any of this was your fault. Like you’d been the one to grab on, to hold too long, to move your thumbs in ways that had nothing to do with steadying and everything to do with wanting. 

“No,” he said, having to push the word out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then—”

“Because I’m high.” His voice came out flat now, matter-of-fact. He’d found his voice again, the one that made everything sound meaningless. The lie was easier when he didn’t look at you, he realized. “I’m high and drunk and not thinking straight. That’s all this is.”

“Okay.”

Maybe it did make sense to you; you wanted it to be that simple. If 1+1=2, then high+drunk=temporary insanity. Nothing more complicated than chemistry and bad decisions.

𖦹

A week had passed since the party at Ruthie’s, and you’d gotten very good at pretending nothing had happened. You’d seen Rafe twice—once at the country club when your families had overlapping dinner reservations, once at Topper’s house when you’d shown up and he’d been leaving—and you’d smiled politely, said hello, and acted like everything was completely normal. Both times, he’d barely looked at you. He nodded in your general direction, mumbled something that might’ve been a greeting. And left as quickly as possible.

Which was fine. Good, even. Exactly what was meant to happen. Except you couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on your hips, the way his thumbs had moved in small circles. About the look on his face when he’d let go, like he’d done something he couldn’t take back. You wished you could try talking to Ruthie about it, but you also knew that if you slipped on the wrong word or revealed the tiniest detail, she’d catch onto it like a vulture and somehow figure out exactly what happened. 

And now you were at Sunday brunch with Topper and both set of parents, and your mother kept looking at you like she could tell something was wrong. Topper kept reaching for your hand under the table, and all you wanted was to be literally anywhere else.

“—so, we’re thinking late April for the engagement party,” Topper’s mom was saying. She had her phone out, scrolling through her calendar with one hand while cutting eggs Benedict with another. “That gives us plenty of time to plan something before you two leave for school.”

You looked up from your untouched fruit salad. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The engagement party, hon.” Mrs. Thornton smiled at you warmly. “Nothing official, of course. You’ll do the actual engagement after graduation, I’m sure. But we thought it’d be nice for both of you to have a celebration before you head to Chapel Hill. Really cement things.”

Your mother made an approving sound. “That’s a lovely idea, Cynthia.”

“I just think it’s important to acknowledge these milestones,” she continued. “Topper and—” She said your name like it was already hyphenated with his. “—they’re so good together. And with our families being so close together, it just makes sense to start planning now.” 

“Mom,” Topper said, and there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “We haven’t even—I mean, we’ve talked about it, but—”

“Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m not trying to rush anything. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about the timeline.” She looked at you expectantly. “You are planning on going to Chapel Hill, aren’t you?”

Four sets of eyes turned to you. Topper's parents. Your parents. Topper himself, looking hopeful and nervous and so certain that the answer would be yes because of course it would be yes, why wouldn't it be yes?

“I haven’t decided yet,” you said.

Everyone went very still. 

"What do you mean you haven't decided?" your mother asked. Her voice was light but there was an edge to it. "Your applications were due weeks ago."

"I applied to other schools too."

"Yes, but—" Your mother set down her fork with a soft clink. "We've discussed this. Chapel Hill makes the most sense. It's a good school, it's close enough to visit, and—" She glanced at Topper. "—well. It makes sense for other reasons too."

“I know what reasons you mean, Mom.”

You could feel Topper’s hands tighten around yours under the table. You could feel the anxiety radiating off him even though his face stayed neutral. “Babe,” he said quietly. “I thought we talked about this.”

“We did talk about it.”

“And I thought—” He stopped. Started again. “You said you were fine with Chapel Hill.”

"I said I'd think about it."

"That's not—" He stopped again. Glanced at his parents, at yours, clearly not wanting to have this conversation in front of an audience. "That's not what it sounded like."

"Maybe you heard what you wanted to hear."

That came out sharper than you'd meant. Topper's face did something complicated. His hurt bled into frustration bled into confusion. Your mother made a small sound of disapproval. Mrs. Thornton looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should.

𖦹

You were drunk. Not falling-down drunk, not blacking-out drunk, but drunk enough that the bonfire had halos around it and the sand felt unsteady under your feet and when Topper talked it took you both an extra second to process what he was saying. Topper was drunker. He had been drinking since before he’d picked you up, had kept drinking in the Jeep on the way there, had been working his way through a twelve-pack since you’d arrived at the beach an hour ago. His movements kept getting looser and more expansive, and he’d told the same story about the golf tournament twice in the past twenty minutes.

You were sitting in the sand near the bonfire, backs against a piece of driftwood, Topper’s arm heavy on your shoulders. The party was in full-swing around you. Sixty kids scattered across the beach, music thumping from someone else’s truck, the ocean dark and loud behind all of it. Someone was taking shots. Someone was throwing up behind the dunes. Madi was making out with some guy from The Cut. It was all normal. 

"I don't get why you're being so weird about this," Topper was saying. Or had been saying. You'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere around your third drink. "It's not a big deal."

“What’s not a big deal?” 

“Chapel Hill,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re acting like—it’s all this huge thing. It’s just college.”

Oh. This again. The conversation from brunch wasn’t over despite both of you pretending it was for the past eight hours.

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?”

“This. The college thing. I’m really tired of talking about it.”

“Well, I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on with you.” Topper’s arm over your shoulder tightened. Insistent. “You’ve been weird for like a week.”

“I haven’t been weird.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause it feels like you’re mad at me.”

"I'm not mad, Top. I'm just—" You stopped. Tried to find words through the alcohol fog. "I'm just trying to figure stuff out."

"What stuff?"

"School stuff. Future stuff."

"Our future?"

"My future."

“Same thing.” He said that, too, like it was obvious. There was no version of future that didn’t have you and him together. “Right?”

You took another sip from the drink in your hands. Was it? It couldn’t be the same thing. You were a person separate from him, separate from “you and Topper,” separate from everyone else’s plans. You did exist outside your relationship, right?

“Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” He pulled his arms away from your shoulders. “What does that mean? We talked about this. We made plans.”

"You made plans. And I just—I went along with them because everyone was so happy about it and I didn't want to—" You gestured vaguely. "I didn't want to ruin it."

Topper stared at you. "Ruin what?"

"This. Us. The whole—" You stopped again. Nothing was coming out right. "Everyone's so sure about everything. You're sure, my parents are sure, your parents are sure. And I'm just—I'm not."

"Sure about what? About me?"

"About everything."

"That's not—" He stood up suddenly, swayed slightly, caught himself. "That's not an answer. Do you want to be with me or not?"

"I do—"

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is I don't know if I want everything else that comes with it! The engagement party planning, the apartment hunting, the whole—" You stood up too, because this conversation felt wrong sitting down. "Everyone treating us like we're already married when we're nineteen."

"So you don't want to marry me."

"I didn't say that—"

"That's what it sounds like."

"That's not—Topper, you're not listening—"

"I am listening. You're saying you don't know if you want a future with me."

"I'm saying I don't know what I want for my own future! Period! Not just the part with you in it—the whole thing!" Your voice was getting louder. A few people nearby were starting to look over. "I don't know what I want to study or where I want to go or who I want to be. And everyone keeps acting like those are already answered questions and they're not. Not for me."

Topper ran both hands through his hair. "Okay. Okay. So you need time to figure it out. That's—I can give you time."

"It's not just time—"

"Then what is it? Just tell me what you need and I'll—I'll do it. Whatever you need."

"I need space." The words came out before you could stop them. "I need room to think without everyone—without you—asking me what I've decided every five seconds." 

The second the words came out, you wanted to take them back. You did mean them, but you could see what they did to Topper’s face.

His face did something awful and twisted. Like you'd physically hit him. "Space."

"Not—I don't mean—" You stopped. The vodka was making everything harder. "I just mean I need to figure this out on my own. Without everyone weighing in."

"Everyone meaning me."

"Everyone meaning everyone. My parents, your parents, you—"

"So you want to break up."

"That's not what I said—"

"That's what space means."

"No it's not—"

"Then what does it mean?" He was angry now, genuinely angry. Topper never got angry. "Because from where I'm standing it sounds like you want to break up but you don't want to say it."

"I don't want to break up!" You were yelling now. "I love you! I just—I need time to figure out what I want that's not about us. That's just about me."

"But I'm part of your life. We're—we're together. You can't just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You know what? Fine. You want space? You got it."

“I love you,” you said, because that was meant to be grounding. That was supposed to fix things. Love was supposed to be the answer to it all, wasn’t it? And you needed him to hear that. You needed him to understand that this wasn’t about not loving him. “I love you. Isn’t that what matters?”

Topper looked at you for a long moment, and his face was doing something you'd never seen before. He looked hurt and frustrated and something that looked almost like resignation. "I don't know anymore," he said quietly. "Maybe it should be enough. But right now it just—it doesn't feel like it is."

His words hit you like a physical blow. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. 

“I need a break,” Topper said. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He sounded like he was just tired. “Not from you. Just from this. This conversation and this night. I—I can’t do this right now.”

"Okay," you said quietly.

"I'm gonna stay here. At the party. But you should go home." He looked at you, and there was something almost gentle in his expression despite everything. "You look exhausted, babe. You should go home."

"I can stay—"

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think both of us need to cool off. Think about shit. And we can’t if we’re both here drunk and—” He gestured vaguely between you two. “—doing this.”

“How am I supposed to get home?” you asked, because he had drove you and apparently he was insistent on being the one that stayed at the party.

“I’ll figure it out. Just—give me a second.” He turned his back to you, looking around the area. “There.” He pointed. “Rafe’s here. He’ll drive you.”

Your stomach dropped. “He doesn’t have to—” Your voice came out wrong, high and panicked. Topper didn’t notice. 

“He can drive. He’ll drop you off.” Topper was already walking toward Rafe standing at the bonfire. “Yo! Rafe.”

Rafe looked up to see Topper, then you standing a foot behind him. 

“What’s up?” he called back.

“Do me a favour?” Topper reached him and put a hand on his shoulder. You followed him close behind, hesitant of your steps. “Can you give her a ride home?”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to you, an eyebrow raised, then moved back to Topper. “Something wrong with your car?”

"Nah. I just—we had a thing. She needs to go home and I'm staying here and I don't want her to drive." Topper's voice was still doing that too-casual thing, that trying-to-hold-it-together thing. "You're good to drive, right?"

"Yeah." It came out too quickly.

"So can you take her? Please?"

Rafe looked at you again and held your gaze for a beat too long. Or maybe you were imagining that?

"Yeah. Sure. No problem." He shrugged.

"Thanks, man. I owe you." Topper turned back to you, and his face softened slightly. "Get home safe, okay? We'll talk tomorrow. When we're both—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—not like this."

"Okay," you said.

"And I do love you. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." He kissed your forehead—quick, careful, almost formal. "Text me when you get home."

And then he walked back toward the bonfire, toward Kelce and the others, and left you standing there with Rafe.

The silence stretched out. You could hear the ocean, the music, people laughing somewhere down the beach. Could feel Rafe not looking at you, determinedly staring at something over your shoulder.

"You don't have to—" you started.

"My truck's in the lot," Rafe said, cutting you off. His voice was flat. Careful. "You ready to go or do you need to say goodbye to people?"

"I'm ready."

"Okay."

He started walking and you followed, and the distance between you felt like miles even though you were only a few feet apart. Neither of you said anything as you crossed the beach, as you climbed the short path up to the parking lot, as you reached his truck.

He unlocked it. You got in. He got in. Started the engine. He quickly pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.

The silence in the truck was suffocating. You could hear your own breathing, could hear the road under the tires, could hear the distant thump of the bonfire music fading behind you. Could feel Rafe's presence next to you like a physical thing; it was too close and too far away at the same time.

“Thanks for doing this,” you said finally.

“It’s fine.”

You watched streetlights pass through the windshield, painting the cab of the truck in alternating light and shadow. Rafe's hands on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. Everything about his body language screaming that he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, didn't want to be alone in a truck with you.

Which was fair. You'd both been doing a good job of avoiding each other all week. And now here you were, trapped together, and the air between you felt electric and dangerous and wrong.

“You guys good?”

“Yup.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to breathe evenly and tried to think about what on earth had just happened. The fight. Topper’s face. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t anymore either. Your eyes were burning; you blinked and felt the wetness on your lashes. Great. Perfect. You were crying now; drunk-crying in Rafe Cameron’s truck after fighting with your boyfriend who you loved but maybe didn’t love enough or maybe loved in the wrong way completely. You didn’t even know anymore.

A tear slid down your cheek, and then another. You tried to wipe them away quickly but they kept coming, and your breath was hitching in that embarrassing way that meant you were about to properly cry, and you turned your face more toward the window so Rafe wouldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said, his voice was flat and careful at the same time. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked on the words.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“I can see you crying.”

“I’m fine. I’m just—” You wiped at your face again. “Drunk. Just drunk. It’s stupid.”

Rafe remained silent and kept driving. His jaw was doing that thing it did, and his hands stayed on the wheel, and you thought maybe he was just going to ignore it and drive you home in silence while you cried quietly in the passenger seat like some pathetic drunk girl who couldn’t keep her relationship in check. 

But then the truck slowed and his turn signal clicked on. He took a right down a side road you couldn’t place in your haziness, one of those residential streets that branched off the main drag, lined with scrub pine and chain-link fences and houses set back from the road. It was dark and quiet and empty. He put the truck in park and cut the engine. 

You could hear every single thing now; you could hear your breathing, still hitching and uneven, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant sound of the ocean even though you were blocks away from the beach. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, and your words came out shaky. “I didn’t mean for this to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—I’m fine. Really. You can just take me home. I’m sorry.”

Rafe let you talk without interrupting.

“I’m just drunk,” you continued, because in your mind stopping would mean actually feeling and sitting in the silence and acknowledging what had just happened with Topper and what was just happening in the truck. “And I got into this argument with Topper, but it’s fine. We’re fine. We fight sometimes. It’s normal. I love him. I do—”

Your voice cracked again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming anyway.

“He's such a good person. And he loves me and he's never done anything wrong and I love him but sometimes I feel like I can't breathe around him and I don't know if that's normal or if that means something's wrong with me or if I’m just crazy—"

You were rambling. You knew you were rambling. But you couldn't stop. The vodka and the tears and the week of avoiding thinking about any of this had cracked something open and now it was all spilling out in Rafe Cameron's truck and you couldn't make it stop.

Rafe still hadn't said anything. Was just sitting there listening. Which was unusual. Rafe didn't listen. Rafe interrupted, Rafe made snide comments, Rafe left the room when conversations got uncomfortable. But he was just sitting there. Letting you empty it all out.

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I shouldn’t be saying this. You’re—you’re his best friend. I shouldn’t be—”

“I don’t think you’re being crazy,” Rafe said, almost shrugging. 

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Anyone would feel like that. He doesn’t wanna deal with shit he doesn’t wanna hear. It’s about him, not you.”

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m not trying to make him the bad guy.”

Rafe let out a short laugh. “I know.”

“He’s not. He’s good. He’s—”

“I know he is.”

“Then why—”

“‘Cause good doesn’t mean he’s right,” he said. 

You felt your breath hitch slightly and felt more tears coming. You hugged yourself without realizing it. You wrapped your arms around your middle like if you could just hold yourself together physically, you can keep it together mentally.

Rafe’s hand left the steering wheel and settled on your thigh assuredly. Not brushing the hem of your shorts, but close. His hand was close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through the denim. His fingers spread, thumb, resting at the edge where the fabric ended and your bare skin began. Suddenly you thought that the shorts were too short, too much leg showing, too much everything. You should tell him to move his hand. 

“Are you okay?” he asked again, but you had a feeling he didn’t mean your situation with Topper as much as the situation with your bodies touching.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. 

“Good.”

Rafe didn’t know what he could blame his actions on. He didn’t have a reason in Ruthie’s bathroom, but now, he had no reason. None. You were crying to him about Topper; he wasn’t catching all your words because you were rambling more than talking, but he could’ve sworn you mentioned the word love and loving Topper about three times throughout your entire monologue. But was it his fault when you turned to meet his eyes—was it his fault when you looked at him like that?

Because you did. Because you looked like everything he'd been trying not to think about for two years, everything he'd been mean about and cruel about and dismissive about because acknowledging it would mean admitting that Topper's girlfriend was the prettiest girl Rafe had ever seen and also the one girl on this entire fucking island he couldn't have.

Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, mascara smudged underneath that should’ve been messy but only made him think you were letting him see something more real and something nobody else got to see. Your cheeks were flushed from crying and probably the alcohol, that pink spread down your neck to your collarbone, and Rafe’s eyes followed it without permission. He cataloged and memorized it. Your lips were glossy; it was probably the lipgloss you always wore that Rafe had watched you apply about a hundred times at parties, that you reapplied obsessively like it was a nervous habit. It was now smudged at the corner from where you’d been crying and wiping your face and Rafe wanted to fix it.

Or ruin it more. He hadn’t decided. Both maybe. Fix it by ruining it. Ruining it by touching it.

Your hair was falling out of whatever you’d done to it earlier and you looked vulnerable in a way that made Rafe’s chest twist uncomfortably because he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be cataloging the way your tank top had rode up slightly when you’d turned toward him, showing a strip of your skin that was rising and falling too fast. He shouldn’t be noticing that your breath was still uneven, and your chest was rising and falling too fast, and the strap of your bra was visible under your top (white, lace-edged), and Jesus Christ, he needed to fucking stop. But his hand stayed exactly where it was. 

But Rafe couldn’t stop because you were looking at him in a way he couldn’t name. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew you were looking at him with those eyes—red and wet and too wide—and your lips were parted slightly and you weren’t pulling away from his hand on your thigh and this was so fucking dangerous.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” he said through a rough chuckle.

Your throat moved when you swallowed. “Like what?”

Like you want me to kiss you. Like you’ve forgotten Topper exists. Like I’m not the worst possible person you could be alone with right now.

“You know.”

And he knew you knew. It was evident in the way your breath caught, the way your eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. He could tell in the way you didn’t pull away when his thumb moved against your thigh. He should move his hand. He should drive his truck and take you home and never be alone with you ever, ever again. He should do literally anything other than sitting here in the dark with his hand on your thigh thinking how easy it would be to slide it higher, to find out if your skin was as soft as it looked, to make you make a sound that wasn’t crying.

But you were still looking at him and not pulling away. You were sitting there with your lips parted and eyes glassy and that fucking lip gloss catching the light from the streetlamp and Rafe’s brain had officially short-circuited.

This was Topper’s girl. Topper’s perfect girlfriend who baked fucking cookies and volunteered and lead charity events and smiled at everyone. She was soft and sweet, everything Rafe wasn’t. And now you were here, in Rafe’s truck, looking at Rafe like that, and Rafe was only human. He was only twenty and fucked up and good at making horrible decisions. 

His hand moved again higher this time. Just enough to feel where denim ended and skin began. It was enough to make you inhale sharply.

“Rafe,” you said. You only said his name, and he was sure he’d heard you say it about a hundred times before, but the way you said it breathy and uncertain made every rational thought in Rafe disappear. Not stop. Not don’t. Just his name.

“I know,” he said. “We can’t. I know this is—” He stopped. His hand involuntarily tightened on your thigh. “I know.” He took in a sharp breath. “You’re crying. And you’re looking at me like that. And you’re—” He shook his head. “Fuck.”

You only looked at Rafe and he watched you try to figure out what to say, how to respond, what any of this meant.

“Rafe,” you whispered finally. “We can’t.”

“Iknow.” The words came out quickly. “I know all of it. I should move my hand and drive you home and never be alone with you again.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna.”

The words hung there. Too honest. Too raw. Rafe watched you process them, watched your face do something complicated, watched you bite your bottom lip—that nervous thing you did—and his eyes locked on your mouth.

On that lip gloss. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. On the little indent it left when you released it.

God, he wanted to kiss you. Wanted it so badly he could barely think straight. Wanted to know if you tasted like strawberries or if that was just the gloss. Wanted to know if you'd kiss him back or push him away. Wanted to know if you'd been thinking about him the way he'd been thinking about you.

Wanted to know if that moment in Ruthie's bathroom had meant something or if he'd imagined the way your breath had caught when his hands were on your hips.

“We’re gonna regret this,” you said quietly.

Oh, Rafe wasn’t sure about that part. Rafe's thumb moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Drawing a circle against your skin right where your shorts ended, right where he could feel how warm you were, how soft.

"Rafe," you breathed.

His voice came out low. Rough. "Tell me to move my hand and drive you home and I will."

“You should—”

“Not what I asked.” His eyes locked on yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rafe watched you struggle with it and watched you try to find the words, try to be good, try to do the right thing.

"I can't," you whispered finally.

And that was all Rafe needed. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. He wanted to give you time to say no, he almost needed you to say no. He wanted to give you time to remember you had a boyfriend because the time he got (two years) was enough to make him not care about your boyfriend being his best friend. You didn't pull away. 

You weren’t even breathing. He could tell because his chest had stopped moving and you’d gone completely still under his hand like a deer that didn’t know whether to run or stay.

You only sat there frozen as Rafe closed the distance between you, as his free hand came up to cup your face, as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone right where the mascara was smudged.

"Last chance," he murmured. His lips were an inch from yours. Less. "Tell me no and I'll stop." His thumb traced your cheek once, and then again. He wanted to give you time. He wanted to give you an out.

Your eyes were huge and locked on his. Rafe could see you warring with yourself and he could’ve sworn he saw the moment you made the decision, the moment you stopped fighting it.

"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.

Good. He kissed you, slow at first. Like he was testing, giving you one more second to change your mind. His hand rested on your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone because he couldn’t stop touching you. His other hand tightened on your thigh. You made a small sound, maybe it was surprise, but he hoped it was want. Your body turned further toward him, and his fingers rested between the skin of your thighs, warm and soft and fuck.

Then you kissed him back, and something horrible in Rafe snapped. His lips worked harder and his hand slid from your face into your hair—fisting it, tangling in it—tilting your head back to get a better angle, so he could kiss you better, the way he’d been thinking about for two years. You made a small, surprised sound, and Rafe swallowed it whole. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “We’re so fucked.” 

Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go in the cab of his truck. The center console dug into his ribs but he didn’t care. He would’ve climbed over it if he could.

“Rafe—” you gasped when his lips moved to your neck. 

“Hm?” His teeth grazed your pulse point. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice breathy and all perfect.

He hummed against your skin. “Yeah, baby?”

You shivered against him. 

“I’m sorry.” Your hands went up his back and landed on his neck, nails softly grazing against the skin under his hair. The touch was so light it almost hurt Rafe, as though you weren’t allowed. 

“Don’t.” Rafe’s lips met the corner of your jaw before he pulled back just enough to look at you. He rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, and his hands stayed in your hair, fingers still tangled like he’d forgotten how to let go. Maybe if he held on long enough, this moment wouldn’t end and tomorrow would never come. “Don’t apologize to me. That’s not what this is.”

Your hands stilled on his neck, and the barely-there touch made all hairs on his body rise. 

“What is it?” you asked softly.

Rafe laughed once, but all humor was devoid. What was it? Fuck if he knew. A really, really good mistake. He’d wanted this so long that it didn’t even feel real now that it was happening. His thumb slid along your jaw, tilting your face back toward him so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again. “You’re upset.”

He leaned back and in, kissed you again. It was shorter this time, firmer than before, like he was reminding himself what it felt like rather than losing himself in it; he would likely never have you in this position ever again. So he memorized it, your taste and the way your mouth fit against his and the sounds you made. 

When he pulled away, his hand slid back down to your thigh, thumb pressing there, grounding both of you.

“You gotta breathe,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re one to talk.” Rafe liked your voice too much.

“Hey,” he said, voice now slightly playful. “I’m not the one crying.” He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond. “You okay?”

You nodded. 

“Good,” he said, and forced himself to pull away. Your hands stayed on his neck—fingers still curled there, warm—and he had to physically remove it. He took your wrist and gently guided your hand back to your own lap. “Because if we keep going like that, I really can’t take this back.”

He forced himself to start the truck because he wasn’t sure how true his words rang. His body felt like it was boiling about twenty emotions together at once; how could you take this back? He’d made you cross a line. He’d pulled you across it, really. The engine turned over. The headlights cut through the dark. Rafe put his truck in drive because if he sat there one more second looking at you with your swollen lips and smudged mascara and his fingerprints still visible in your hair, he was going to do something even more unforgivable than what he'd already done.

The drive to your house was silent. It was heavy and loaded with every single thing that had just happened and couldn’t happen again. Rafe kept both his hands on the wheel this time because he couldn’t trust himself to do anything else. 

You sat with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring out the passenger window, and Rafe couldn't tell if you were crying again or just thinking. Either way, he didn't ask. He didn't know what he'd say if you were. He’d have to acknowledge what he’d just done if he asked. 

Your street appeared too quickly. The familiar houses, the broken streetlight, your driveway with your parents' cars parked in it. All the normal pieces of your normal life that had nothing to do with what had just happened in Rafe's truck on some random side street.

“I should—” you started.

“Yup.”

You reached for the door handle. Stopped. Your hand just rested there on the metal, not pulling, not opening. “This didn’t happen?” 

“Okay.” He kept his eyes on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling a hundred times smaller. “Didn’t happen.”

“We can’t—this can’t happen again.” 

“I know that. So go inside.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Text Topper. Tell him you got home safe. Forget about this.”

“Will you forget about it?” 

No. Absolutely fucking not. He’d probably remember this for the rest of his life; he’d remember the way you tasted, the sound you made, the way you’d kissed him back. He’d remember all of it and it’d torture him everytime he saw you with Topper, every single fucking time he had to pretend this never happened, every time he had to be Topper’s best friend and not the guy who’d kissed his girlfriend in a parked truck after she cried. 

“Yeah,” Rafe said, nodding. “I’ll forget about it.” For some reason, the lie tasted worse on his tongue than the truth would’ve.

You stared at him for a long moment before opening the door. You climbed out onto the sidewalk, and Rafe watched you smooth down your shorts, fix your hair, try to put yourself back together into the girl you'd been before you got in his truck. You leaned in before closing the door. “Thank you,” you said. “For the ride and listening and—” You stopped yourself. “Just thank you.”

Rafe nodded once, sharply. You turned away from him and went inside. He sat there for a long time. Staring at your dark house. Trying to process what he'd just done. Trying to figure out how he was supposed to look Topper in the face tomorrow knowing that he'd had his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and you'd kissed him back.

His phone buzzed.

Topper: she get home okay?

Rafe stared at the text. His best friend's name on the screen. At the trust implicit in that question, the assumption that Rafe had done exactly what he'd been asked to do and nothing more.

yeah, he typed back. got her home safe.

to be fair, this was only the second time you’d ever gotten drunk.

you hated alcohol usually, which is exactly why rafe is sure you're going to regret this in the morning.

he knew all too well that one shot alone was enough to make your face hot and your words slur together embarrassingly fast. but tonight had been your birthday. every ten minutes somebody new would appear next to you, grinning with another bottle of tequila and insisted you take another birthday shot which involved your face up and a few wasted pours dripping down your neck.

the next few rounds of that turned into rafe carrying you bridal style up the stairs of your house because he knew you'd trip if you ever tried to walk up alone.

“s’fine, rafey,” you mumble lazily, words slurrying together while you sway slightly where you stand, “jus’ go home already.”

you don’t even wait for his response before flopping backward onto your bed, limbs sprawled out carelessly against the comforter.

your head spins pleasantly against the pillows while your overheated skin prickles uncomfortably beneath your clothes. with a soft whine, you start tugging at your skirt and trying to shove it down your legs.

“whoa—sweetheart, stopstopstop.”

his hands land firmly against your hips before the skirt can move any lower, keeping the fabric bunched stubbornly around your thighs while he leans over you.

you blink slowly up at him, struggling to keep your eyes open for more than two seconds at a time. and unfortunately for your poor drunk brain, this angle is horrible for you.

because rafe is hovering over you exactly the way he does in every embarrassing fantasy you’ve ever had about him.

his broad shoulders practically cage you into the mattress while the chain around his neck dangles over your clavicle.

even in your drunk state, you notice how messy his hair is from running his hands through it all evening while trying to manage you. plus, his stupidly pretty blue eyes keep darting everywhere except directly at your chest.

“it's soooooo hot,” you complain.

“i know, baby, i know.” his voice comes out rougher than he'd hoped. he immediately glances toward the wall again before shushing you gently. “you gotta keep it down, alright? your parents are literally just down the hall.”

you nod like you understand even though you absolutely don’t.

your attention is too focused on the fact that rafe smells really good right now. his expensive cologne mixed with cigarette smoke and the ocean. right now, he smells like every bad decision you’ve ever wanted to make in your life.

and his hands are still resting on your hips.

you squirm beneath him again with another frustrated little sound, once more trying to peel your skirt down your legs yourself.

“wanna take it off.”

“jesus christ,” he mutters under his breath.

he’s barely holding himself together. he keeps grinding his teeth and exhaling sharply through his nose every time your skirt rides up your thighs again.

he's your best friend. which means he absolutely should not be reacting to you like this. and yet he is.

it doesn't help that the alcohol in your system makes you just aware enough to notice the way his hands tense whenever you move beneath him.

you tug at the skirt again stubbornly.

“fuck. okay okay,” he says quickly, finally catching both your wrists in one hand before you can flash him accidentally. “i got it, alright? just—just let me do it for you.”

completely unprompted, you let out a soft pleased little moan while relaxing against the mattress.

his entire body goes rigid hovering over you while a slow flush crawls up the back of his neck. the universe apparently enjoys torturing him. you can physically feel the way he reacts to the noise through the denim of his jeans.

your sleepy eyes blink downward curiously.

“rafe...” you whisper, dazed.

“don’t.” his response comes immediately. with one hand still bunching both of your wrists together, he points a finger at you without looking directly into your eyes yet,

“don’t start.”

but you’re drunk enough to lose whatever tiny filter you normally have around him.

“you’re hard,” you murmur with genuine surprise.

rafe actually lets out a short laugh at that, except there’s absolutely nothing amusing about it.

“yeah, wonder whose fault that is,” he says tightly.

you stare up at him for another long second before your lips part slightly in realization.

“is it ‘cause of me?”

his head drops briefly forward while he drags a hand down his face, shoulders tense so tight they look painful.

as he looks back down at you, the expression on his face makes your stomach flip drunkenly.

“sweetheart, you are laying half naked underneath me asking if i’m hard because of you. what do you think?”

she gasps. “that’s so deep.”

he laughs harder this time, and she groans, covering her face. “stop doing that. it’s actually scary.”

“sorry.”

“whatever. at least you’re nicer than he was.” she pokes his chest. “rafe used to disappear at parties and leave me alone.”

his smile fades just slightly. “yeah?”

“yeah.” she looks down at her cup. “i think he loved being loved more than he actually loved me.”

for a second, he just stares at her. then quietly, “you really think that?”

she shrugs. “doesn’t matter now.” another crooked grin spreads across her face. “besides, i’m talking to you. frat boy clone number six.”

“number six?”

“maybe seven.” she tilts her head. “wait.”

his heart jumps. she steps closer, eyes scanning his face with drunken concentration. “oh my god.”

“what?”

“you even have the same cologne.”

there’s a long pause. then she bursts out laughing. “if you turn around and tell me your name is rafe i think i’d actually throw up.”

“…that would be pretty bad.”

“right?” she says, missing the way he’s already smiling. “anyway, what’s your name?”

he looks at her for a long second, like he’s debating whether to ruin the moment. then, “matt.”

“matt,” she repeats suspiciously. “that’s such a frat guy name.”

“you’re at a frat party.”

“fair.” she sways a little, nearly losing balance before he catches her elbow automatically. she blinks up at him. “see? rafe never caught me when i almost fell.”

“maybe rafe sucked less than you think.”

“absolutely not.” she points at him again. “don’t defend him. that man ghosted me for twelve hours during formal.”

“i was throwing up behind the hotel.”

“he didn’t even text me!”

“my phone died.”

she narrows her eyes. “you are weirdly invested in this story, matt.”

“just trying to see both sides.”

“there were no sides,” she insists. “he was terrible and i was adorable.”

“that part’s true.”

she freezes for half a second at the easy way he says it. “you flirt a lot,” she mumbles.

“only with girls who compare me to their ex boyfriends.”

“well maybe i have unresolved issues.”

“maybe.”

she studies him again, slower this time. his face is half-shadowed by the shitty colored lights strung across the ceiling, but something about him keeps tugging at her memory. “have we met before?” she asks softly.

his expression shifts. “i don’t know,” he says carefully. “have we?”

“your eyes are familiar.”

“that so?”

“mhm.” she steps closer until she’s practically pressed against him, squinting with intense drunken focus. “and your nose.”

he laughs under his breath. “my nose?”

“don’t laugh.” she reaches up and touches the bridge of it lightly. “i know this nose.”

his hand catches her wrist gently, mostly because he thinks his heart might actually stop. “you’re really drunk.”

“a little.” she looks at him through her lashes. “you’re really pretty.”

that catches him off guard enough that he actually looks away. she smiles triumphantly. “ha. made you nervous.”

“impossible.”

“matt,” she says seriously, “if you end up being secretly evil i’m going to be devastated.”

“what if i said i already know you?”

“i’d say that’s creepy.”

“fair.”

she tilts her head again. “wait.” there it is. that same almost-recognition. his stomach flips. “oh my god,” she whispers.

“yeah?”

“you stole rafe’s face.” he stares at her. then she frowns. “that sounded smarter in my head.”

he laughs so hard at that he has to look away and that’s what does it. the laugh. not the voice, not the eyes, not the stupid cologne she kept noticing — the laugh. the exact same laugh that used to wake her up at 2 a.m. in his dorm room when he was watching dumb videos with the volume too loud.

her smile slowly drops. “…rafe?”

his laughter dies immediately. around them, the party keeps moving. somebody yells from upstairs, music rattles the walls, cups clatter in the kitchen sink. but suddenly it feels weirdly quiet. she stares at him like she’s trying to sober herself through pure force. “oh my god,” she says again, except this time it comes out horrified.

“hey—”

“you asshole.” she smacks his arm hard enough to make him wince. “you let me talk shit about you for, like, twenty minutes!”

“in my defense, it was kind of entertaining.”

“rafe!”

“okay, yeah, i deserved that one.”

she covers her face with both hands. “i told you you were pretty.”

“still thinking about that part, actually.”

“i’m going to kill you.”

he grins despite himself. “you also said you were adorable.”

“because i am.”

“true.”

she groans loudly and leans forward until her forehead hits his chest. he catches her automatically, hands settling at her waist like muscle memory. that makes both of them go still. she notices it first, probably. the way he still holds her like nothing changed. like they didn’t spend months pretending not to exist to each other on campus. quietly, muffled against his shirt, “you really threw up behind the hotel?”

he snorts. “violently.”

she starts laughing before she can stop herself, shoulders shaking against him. “you could’ve texted me from the bathroom, idiot.”

“i know.”

“i thought you were cheating on me.”

his smile disappears. she lifts her head enough to see his face properly then, and the guilt there hits harder than she expects. “i never cheated on you,” he says softly.

the drunken haze in her brain dulls around the edges. “i know that now.”

for a second neither of them says anything. then, because she can’t handle sincerity for more than ten consecutive seconds, she pokes his chest. “still can’t believe you introduced yourself as matt.”

“panicked.”

“that’s not even close to your name.”

“could’ve been worse.”

“what, chad?”

“i could pull off a chad.”

she laughs again, and he swears it feels exactly like getting something back he thought he lost for good.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE , do not copy, translate or edit my work as your own nor feed it into anything for your amusement.