livie

21

spicy pisces

she/her

infp

obsessed with drew starkey

k-pop enthusiast

who i write for !

• rafe cameron / drew starkey

• sturniolo triplets

• bill skarsgård / roman godfrey

• nate jacobs / jacob elordi

ask me anything !!

As if friends send voice notes at 2 a.m. that sound like confessions.

As if friends don’t press their foreheads together when the world feels too loud.

As if friends don’t kiss like they’re dying for air.

He’d said it with that crooked little smile, the one he always pulls when he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

You almost believed him. Almost.

But you’re here now—his hoodie swallowing you whole, the sleeves past your fingers, his cologne clinging to your skin like he never left. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending you’re only here because you forgot your charger, not because it’s the only place that still feels like home.

Rafe walks in from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. He hands you one without looking, like it’s muscle memory. And maybe it is. That’s what the worst part is—how easy it still is. How easy you still are.

“You always steal my good hoodie, y’know that?” he mutters, dropping beside you with a groan like this whole thing is normal. Like you didn’t say goodbye three months ago. Like he didn’t stop texting you back for two weeks, then showed up at your door like nothing happened.

You shrug. “It’s your fault. You leave your stuff at my place like you live there.”

He smirks without meeting your gaze. “Might as well.”

Silence. The kind that presses against your ribs like a too-tight seatbelt. You take a sip of the hot cocoa he made—he remembered how you like it. Extra marshmallows. One cinnamon stick. It tastes like the past and something you’re not ready to name.

“You shouldn’t be here, angel.” His voice is quiet now, rough in that way it gets when he’s tired. Or sad. Or pretending not to care.

You glance at him over the rim of your mug. “Then why’d you text me?”

And there it is.

That look. The one that flickers across his face like lightning in a storm. Like he hates that you asked, hates even more that he doesn’t have an answer.

“Habit, I guess,” he says, finally. But his leg is bouncing. His fingers are twitching. And he still hasn’t stopped looking at your mouth.

You want to scream. You want to shake him and ask why he keeps pulling you back in just to pretend it means nothing. But you don’t. Because you’re just as bad.

You never deleted his playlist. He never gave back your book.

You keep showing up. He keeps letting you in.

So you finish your drink. You pretend not to notice how close your knees are. You pretend you don’t still love him like it’s your full-time job.

Because if you say it—if you say anything—this fragile, twisted, beautiful disaster of whatever-you-are might shatter.

And neither of you is ready for that.

taglist!!

@memoirofasparklemuff1n @jjasmiinee @phoebesatoru @corpse-abr @xoxosblogsblog

But you’re still sitting in his truck, hands nervously twisted in your lap as the engine dies.

Nate glances over, one hand already on the door handle. “You good?” he asks, his voice low, calm — like it’s just the two of you, like none of the noise outside even exists.

You nod, but it’s hesitant, your breath catching a little as your eyes flick toward the crowd. “Yeah. Just… there’s a lot of people.”

He grins — not mocking, but amused, fond. “It’s a party, sweetheart. That’s kinda the point.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks already flushing, and reach for the door handle — only for Nate to beat you to it. He’s already out and moving, the truck groaning slightly under his weight as he rounds to your side.

He opens the door and holds a hand out to you, like it’s second nature. Maybe it is. And even though your instinct is to be stubborn and independent, you take it anyway. Because his hand is warm, steady — grounding.

The problem is… his truck is huge. Stupidly tall. And you, well — you are not.

You brace a hand on the seat and slide toward the edge, but the moment your feet leave the truck and dangle in mid-air, panic flickers behind your eyes.

“I got you,” Nate says easily, and without even waiting, his hands settle at your waist and lift you down like you weigh nothing.

Your feet hit the ground, a little too hard, and you wobble for half a second, catching yourself on his chest — fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of his jersey.

You flush, moving to tuck your skirt down quickly. It had ridden up in the process, and you feel the air hit your thighs a little too high for comfort.

But Nate beats you to it. His hand moves without thought, sliding down to adjust the hem of your skirt — tugging it just enough to cover more of you.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

You freeze, heart skipping hard, heat rushing straight to your face.

He doesn’t even look fazed. Just drops his hand and glances down at you, casual as ever.

“You good?” he asks again, and this time it sounds different — like he knows exactly what he just did to your brain.

You nod, lips pressed together, barely managing to squeak out, “Yeah.”

The smirk he gives you is borderline cocky — satisfied in a way that makes your chest tighten.

And then he nods toward the house. “Stick close.”

You were already planning on it, but the way he says it makes it sound like a command. Like he wants you right next to him. Like he doesn’t want to share you.

The second you step into the house, it’s clear Nate is the guy tonight.

It’s not just a party — it’s his victory lap. People swarm him the moment he walks in. Hands slap his shoulders, drinks are shoved in his direction, girls you don’t recognize call his name with too much enthusiasm.

He’s drinking it all in — grinning, nodding, playing it cool — but even in the chaos, his hand never leaves you.

It’s either curled around your wrist, warm on the small of your back, or loosely gripping your fingers.

And you stay close. Not because you feel like you have to — but because he makes you feel like it’s okay.

That this party, this attention, this whole storm — it doesn’t matter as long as you’re next to him.

People glance at you. You catch the stares, the whispers, the girls trying not to scowl when they realize you’re with him. But Nate doesn’t even acknowledge them.

His focus keeps shifting back to you — like you’re the only one in the room that matters.

“Drink?” he asks, leaning down close so his lips brush your ear to be heard over the music.

You shake your head. “I’m good.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“Too many people?”

You look up at him, cheeks pink. “Maybe.”

He chuckles, his hand sliding down your back again. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs, and you think it’s ridiculous how much that actually helps.

A few guys call for him from across the room — teammates, grinning and already half-drunk — and Nate sighs.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, then bends a little so you can hear the next part, voice lower, rougher. “Don’t move.”

You nod again, practically rooted to the spot anyway.

And even as he steps away, he glances back over his shoulder every few seconds — making sure you’re still there.

You stand near the kitchen archway, tucked into a corner with your back against the wall, sipping from a water bottle someone handed you out of pity — or maybe confusion. You’re not sure.

The music is thumping louder now, bass rattling the cheap picture frames on the walls, and the house smells like beer, perfume, and way too much cologne.

But all you’re really aware of is how far Nate’s gotten.

He’s only across the room, surrounded by teammates and people you think are from the football booster club. He’s laughing, smug and golden under the dim light, towering over everyone like he’s built the damn house himself.

And even still — even swamped — he keeps glancing back at you. Quick, sharp looks that say I’m watching. I see you.

You smile to yourself.

Until someone steps into your line of sight.

“Hey,” a voice says, cocky and a little too loud. “You’re new.”

You blink, startled. A guy — tall, kind of cute, but definitely trying too hard — is standing in front of you now, sipping a beer and leaning against the wall like it’s his party.

You force a polite smile. “Um, yeah. Kinda.”

He grins. “Didn’t know Nate had a girlfriend.”

“I’m not—” You pause, cheeks flushing. “I’m not his girlfriend.”

“Right,” he drawls, like he doesn’t believe you for a second. His eyes flick down to your legs — your skirt — and you instantly want to disappear into the floorboards. “Well, I’m Jackson.”

You don’t answer fast enough, and he chuckles.

“Nate won’t care if I talk to you,” he says. “You know... since you're not dating.”

You stare at him, mouth opening — but before you can say anything, a shadow looms over both of you.

And just like that, Jackson’s face goes a little pale.

Nate steps in close. Too close.

One arm snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against him. His other hand — still holding a half-full cup — dangles casually by his side.

His body language is all calm. Relaxed, even.

But his jaw?

Locked.

His stare?

Absolutely murderous.

“Hey, Jack,” Nate says smoothly, voice low and almost… friendly.

Which is exactly what makes it terrifying.

Jackson clears his throat. “Yo, Nate. Didn’t know— I was just—”

“Didn’t know what?” Nate interrupts, tightening his arm around your waist. His hand is splayed across your hip now, his thumb brushing slow circles against your side — possessive, firm, a silent 'mine' in every motion.

Jackson blinks. “Didn’t know she was—”

“She’s with me,” Nate says, sharper now. “That not clear?”

You swallow, heart pounding.

Jackson opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. “Yeah. No. Totally. My bad, man.”

Nate’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

Jackson doesn’t need to be told twice. He backs off like he’s just remembered an appointment in another state and disappears into the crowd.

And Nate finally looks down at you.

“You okay?” he asks, his thumb still grazing your hip. His grip hasn’t loosened.

You nod slowly, your voice barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

His eyes flicker, scanning your face. “He say anything that pissed you off?”

You hesitate. “Just… the usual stuff. Didn’t think I was with you.”

Nate snorts. “Everyone knows now.”

You look up at him through your lashes, a small smile creeping in. “You think that was a little much?”

He leans down until his nose brushes your temple, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

“I think you wore that skirt to get me in a fight.”

Your jaw drops. “I did not!”

He grins, smug and dangerous. “If someone else comes near you tonight, I’ll break their fucking nose.”

Your whole face burns, but it’s not from embarrassment. It’s from the way he says it — like a fact, not a threat. Like he’s itching for someone to give him a reason.

You bite your lip. “You gonna do that every time someone talks to me?”

His grin widens, teeth flashing. “You want me to?”

You don’t answer.

And you don’t have to.

Because the next second, he pulls you in by the hips, cups your jaw with his free hand, and dips his head so his lips hover just shy of yours — not kissing you, just breathing you in.

Close enough to feel. Not close enough to take.

“I like you next to me, sweetheart,” he says. “Don’t wanna chase you around this party.”

Your voice comes out softer than you mean for it to. “I haven’t moved.”

He smirks. “I know.”

Because if Nate Jacobs has anything tonight — it’s you. And he’s making damn sure everyone knows it.

After Nate’s little standoff with Jackson, you kind of expect him to tell you to “stay put” again. Or maybe even walk you out. But instead, his hand finds yours — firm, warm, completely claiming — and he tugs you in closer.

“You’re sticking with me now,” he mutters, low enough for just you.

“Wasn’t I already?”

“Yeah, but now I’m not leaving you for a second.”

You blink up at him, startled by the intensity in his tone — and, okay, a little flustered. But when he tugs you forward again and wraps his arm around your waist like it’s second nature, it’s hard to think straight.

He guides you through the house like you’re the guest of honor, not just his guest. And when his teammates swarm him in the kitchen again, he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t tell you to hang back like some quiet afterthought.

He introduces you.

“This is her,” he tells them simply, like you’re some long-awaited answer to a question nobody asked out loud. “The one I told you about.”

A beat of silence. A few glances. Someone raises an eyebrow.

“You mean the diner girl?”

You go to correct them — waitress, actually — but Nate just grins and tugs you in tighter.

“Yeah. That one.”

“She’s cute,” someone says, immediately earning a warning glare from Nate.

“And she’s with me,” Nate replies, all teeth and threat hidden under a smirk.

After that, you become part of the circle. One of the guys throws you a Gatorade, another makes a joke about how Nate’s never had a girl around for more than an hour, and someone else actually whispers to you, “You must be magic or something,” before Nate shuts that down with a look that could freeze lava.

He’s the man of the hour, and you’re his plus one — whether anyone expected that or not.

And you? You stick close.

Not because he tells you to.

But because being close to Nate tonight feels… safe. Special. Like being let in on a secret that no one else gets.

Later, when the party finally thins out and Nate walks you to his truck, your legs are tired, your voice is hoarse, and your face hurts from smiling way more than you expected to. Nate helps you up into the passenger seat without a word, hands careful at your waist again.

It’s quiet on the drive home, but not awkward. Just… charged.

You tug at your skirt a little. He notices.

“Still riding up?” he asks, voice low.

You nod.

His hand drops down at the red light, tugging it into place again — like earlier — casual, instinctive, protective. You blush. Again.

When he pulls up in front of your house, the clock on the dash glows 12:38 AM.

“Thanks for driving me,” you say softly, reaching for the handle.

“You really are crazy for thinking I’d let you Uber.”

You giggle, then pause. “Wanna come in for a glass of water or something?”

Nate raises an eyebrow. “Water?”

You shrug. “You need hydration. MVP duties. Also so you don't die tomorrow.”

He snorts. “Alright. But only if it’s cold.”

You push open the door and lead him inside. The house is dark, quiet, not even a porch light on.

Nate steps in behind you and instantly goes tense. “Where are your parents?”

You pour him a glass. “Gone. Out of town or something. They’re usually never home.”

“So you live here alone?”

You nod. “Pretty much."

He accepts the water, but he’s staring at you like you just said "I sleep in the woods with bears."

“You lock the doors, right?” He's hoping that you'd left the door unlocked earlier only because you knew he was coming, and not that leaving your door like that was a regular ocurrence.

You hesitate.

Nate stares.

“Sometimes?” you offer weakly.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, setting the glass down without drinking. “Are you kidding?”

“What? It’s a nice neighborhood.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re like five feet tall, you leave your doors unlocked, and you live here alone? Do you want me to have a heart attack?”

You cross your arms, trying not to smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being realistic. Anyone could just walk in here.”

“Like you did,” you tease.

He pauses.

Then takes another step toward you — close now. Warm. Towering. Present.

“Yeah. Like I did,” he says softly.

You blink up at him. For a second, it’s silent.

Then it hits you both — the house is empty. No teammates, no party noise, no parents, no nothing.

Just you.

Just Nate.

Alone.

And the way he’s looking at you now? Yeah, that’s not just a "thanks for the water" kind of stare.

That’s the "I’ve been waiting all night for this" kind.

taglist!! @memoirofasparklemuff1n @yktayy9669 @idontknowwhyimhere33 @sunshinedaisy21

Friends who send drunk texts at two in the morning. Friends who show up at each other's doors without knocking. Friends who keep finding their way back into the same bed, pretending it doesn’t mean anything.

You ended things months ago. You said goodbye. You promised you’d move on. But every time you look at him, you see the boy who held you like you were his whole world. Every time he touches you—like he can’t help it—you feel every promise he never kept.

It’s a lie you both agreed to live inside. Pretend you’re strangers. Pretend the way he looks at you now doesn’t unravel everything you worked so hard to stitch back together. Pretend that sharing a bed, sharing breaths, sharing everything—doesn’t still feel like home.

But lately, the lies are starting to crack. And maybe... maybe neither of you are ready to let go. Maybe you never were.

Because how can you go back to being friends, when you never stopped being in love?

taglist!!

@memoirofasparklemuff1n

a/n: planning on making this a series hehe 🤭

inspired by back to friends by sombr, go stream!!!

teaser | moodboard | taglist

series:

it's currently sitting in my drafts 🤭

The clock ticks louder with every second that drags by, reminding you that Nate’s going to be here any minute.

The jersey feels and looks like it drowns you.

It falls to mid-thigh, your skirt barely peaking out underneath, the sleeves nearly past your elbows, the fabric soft and heavy with his scent. He didn't tell you but he'd actually made sure to spray his cologne over the jersey a couple of times before giving it to you. There's just something about you wearing it and smelling like him that he couldn't describe.

You tug at the hem, trying to adjust it, but there’s no helping it — it’s massive.

You look like you raided his closet and got caught. Your fingers fidget with the collar, pulling it down one second, smoothing it the next.

I’m going to look ridiculous, you think.

Everyone’s going to stare. They’re going to wonder who I am. Why I’m wearing his name.

You turn to the side, then back again, chewing your lip so hard it almost hurts.

This was a mistake.

You’re not built for this kind of attention — not the kind that comes with wearing someone else’s name in bold letters across your back.

Especially not his.

You’re mid-spiral, heart racing and brain fogged with nerves, when the sharp knock echoes through the house.

“Door’s open!” you call, louder than intended, wincing at how shaky your voice sounds.

There’s a pause, then the door creaks open.

You hear the heavy tread of his shoes before you see him.

And then his voice — low, annoyed — drifts from the front door. “You leave your door unlocked when you’re alone?”

There’s an edge to it. Like the idea alone pisses him off.

You step out of your room just as he’s shutting the door behind him.

He turns, ready to scold you — and freezes. His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, darkening with every inch they take in.

You feel it like a physical touch, heat rising up your neck, settling heavy in your chest.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares.

And then his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

The jersey swallows you up completely — his name, his number, hanging off your frame like it belongs there.

It made you look so small, so delicate. Like he could pick you up and toss you around effortlessly.

You shift on your feet, suddenly self-conscious.

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” you mumble, staring down at the floor.

He exhales slowly, almost like he’s trying to get a handle on himself.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough, “if you knew what you looked like right now…”

You glance up, heart stuttering at the way he’s looking at you — like you’re his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

His jaw tightens slightly, his hands clenching at his sides like he’s restraining himself. You’re pretty sure he is.

The air between you hums, thick and heavy, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

Finally, he clears his throat, pulling himself back together.

“Come on,” he mutters, softer this time. “We’ll be late.”

You grab your jacket with trembling fingers and follow him out to his truck, the cool night air doing little to calm your nerves.

The drive is quiet at first.

You sit with your hands twisted in your lap, trying to steady your breathing, but your heart’s pounding hard enough to shake you.

He notices. Of course he does.

His hand moves from the gearshift to your leg, palm warm and steady on your thigh.

You shift slightly at the contact but don’t pull away. His thumb brushes a slow circle into your skin, anchoring you.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, eyes still on the road. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, but it’s tight and nervous.

“You’re with me tonight,” he adds softly, almost like a reassurance.

Your breath catches.

His grip tightens just slightly — not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it.

The tension eases just a little as his thumb keeps stroking slow, calming circles into your leg.

By the time he pulls into the school parking lot, the noise of the world seems distant compared to the steady hum of his presence beside you.

He throws the truck in park and turns to you, eyes steady.

“You ready?” he asks, but it sounds less like a question and more like a statement.

You nod, this time with a little more confidence.

And as you step out into the bright lights of the stadium, jersey hanging off your frame, his name bold on your back — you’re still nervous.

But you’re here with him.

And that thought alone makes it just a little easier to breathe.

Nate heads off to the locker room to prepare for the game after making sure you were seated where he could spot you easily from the field.

You're not left alone for long though.

A girl slides onto the bleacher beside you, glossy lips curved into a knowing smile.

“You new around here?” she asks, friendly but curious, her eyes flicking to the bold JACOBS stretched across your back.

You nod a little shyly, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the jersey.

Before she can ask more, a guy leans casually on the railing in front of you, his eyes lingering a little too long.

“So… you with Nate or what?” he asks, more teasing than serious — but still enough to make your stomach twist.

You open your mouth, not even sure how to answer.

And then —

Bang.

The sharp, metallic crack of a helmet slamming against the railing right in front of you.

Your head jerks up just in time to see Nate walking by with his helmet in hand, eyes locked on the guy with a glare so dark it practically vibrates.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t really need to.

The guy freezes, swallows hard, and takes a step back.

Nate doesn’t even break stride. He just throws the helmet over his shoulder and jogs toward the bench with his team, his jaw tight, muscles flexing under his jersey like he’s two seconds from tackling someone right there in the stands.

You feel your face flush hot, heart racing in your chest. The girl beside you just lets out a low whistle.

“Yeah,” she mutters, almost impressed. “Definitely with Nate.”

You can’t breathe.

And now, even with the roaring crowd and blaring whistles all around you, you feel Nate’s presence like gravity — heavy, impossible to ignore, pulling you tighter into his orbit with every glance he throws your way from the field.

The game starts, and for the first few minutes, you can barely focus.

Your heart’s still pounding from that moment — from him. Every time Nate’s on the field, your eyes are glued to him.

He moves like he owns it. Confident. Fast. Unstoppable.

You’ve never seen him like this — not laid-back at the counter, not teasing in a booth — but commanding, sharp, and fierce.

And then, between plays, he glances up.

Right at you.

That same fire in his eyes softens for just a second, and your breath catches. He smirks — cocky, but just for you — before jogging back to the huddle.

Your stomach flips.

You’re sweating in a cold night breeze, heart racing like you’re the one playing.

The girl next to you leans in.

“You good?” she teases, nudging your arm.

You nod quickly, cheeks burning, but you can’t tear your eyes away. Every time he scores, every tackle, every successful pass — he looks for you.

And when the final whistle blows with Nate’s team on top, the stadium roars. But all you hear is your pulse pounding in your ears.

You stand up with the crowd, clapping awkwardly, not sure what to do — until he breaks away from the huddle.

Helmet under his arm, sweat dampening his hairline, he makes a beeline straight for you. People call his name, try to high-five him, but he doesn’t slow down.

And then he’s there.

He doesn’t care about the dozens of people around, the cameras, the noise — he just reaches out, tugs you forward by the hem of his jersey on you, until you’re pressed against the railing.

“Didn’t think I was gonna celebrate without you, did you?” His voice is low, rough from shouting on the field, and it hits somewhere low in your stomach.

You shake your head, breathless.

He smirks, presses his forehead briefly against yours despite the mess and sweat and chaos around you.

“You looked real good up there, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “All for me.”

You think your heart might actually stop.

And then, just like that, he’s jogging off toward the locker rooms. His head tilts slightly in your direction, and you instantly know what it means.

His subtle gesture, a brief nod toward the exit — it’s an unspoken command for you to follow him.

You can’t explain why, but your feet start moving, almost automatically, as if your body knows it’s meant to be beside him. You follow him through the crowd, your heart racing, the excitement bubbling inside you at the thought of what’s next.

When you reach him by the locker room door, he’s already waiting, his stance casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

“You did good out there,” you say, your voice soft and quiet, a stark contrast from the distant shouts on the field.

A flicker in his eyes of something you couldn't quite catch before he gestures toward the hallway. “Come with me.” His voice has that quiet authority again, like he’s already decided you’re coming with him, and there’s no room for protest.

You blink, suddenly unsure. “Where?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His lips curve into a small smile, but it’s almost like he’s humoring you. “A couple of the guys are having a small get-together at their place,” he explains, his tone easy, but there’s something in his eyes that says he’s expecting you to come along. “You should come. It’ll be fun.”

You feel a tug in your chest, and for a moment, your instincts scream at you to decline. It’s supposedly a small gathering, but you’re still not sure if you belong there. The thought of stepping into a room full of unfamiliar faces, even with Nate by your side, feels overwhelming.

You open your mouth to decline, but Nate steps closer before you can get the words out, his presence enveloping you, his gaze unwavering. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you — like he’s already decided, and no matter what you say, he’s not letting you back out.

“Hey, no pressure,” he says, his voice quiet but insistent. “But I’d really like you to come.” He reaches out, his hand brushing your arm in a gesture that’s casual but deliberate, like he’s marking his territory in the subtlest way. “I’d like you there. Trust me, it’ll be a good time.”

You hesitate, but the way his eyes soften, the almost pleading tone in his voice — it makes you second-guess yourself. You try to push back against the pull, but it’s hard. So hard.

“I… I don’t know,” you say, your voice small, unsure. “I don’t know anyone, Nate.” You repeat the same words you'd said to him the day before.

His smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a firmness in his voice that tells you he’s not going to take no for an answer. “Stop saying that. You’ll know me,” he says simply, his hand gently curling around your wrist, his fingers warm and steady, like he’s grounding you. “And that’s all you need right now.”

You swallow hard, feeling your resolve weaken under the weight of his words. The subtle pressure from his hand, the quiet insistence in his voice, it’s all too much. You know he’s not asking you to come, he’s simply guiding you there, and part of you wants to comply, to follow his lead.

“Come on,” he says, his voice coaxing now, but still laced with that underlying firmness. “I’ll be there. You’ll be fine. And I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you that, for now, you don’t have much of a choice. It’s a little uncomfortable, the way he’s subtly making decisions for you, but at the same time, it’s almost comforting — like he’s taking care of everything.

“Okay,” you finally whisper, your chest tightening at the thought of what you’re agreeing to.

His smirk widens, like he knew exactly how this would go. “That’s my girl,” he says, his voice a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. It makes your heart flutter in your chest, even though you’re not entirely sure why.

Without another word, he leads you through the hallway, his hand still firmly on your back, guiding you like it's his second nature.

taglist!! @memoirofasparklemuff1n @yktayy9669 @idontknowwhyimhere33 @sunshinedaisy21

Not really, anyway. Just a few texts here and there—one-word answers, dry replies, the kind of stuff Rafe only ever sends when he’s pissed but trying to act like he isn’t. No FaceTime calls. No random pop-ins. Not even a passive-aggressive “where are you?” like he usually sends when you’re gone too long without checking in.

You told yourself it was fine. That you needed space too.

That you wanted space.

But when your phone buzzes and you see a message from the same guy who dropped you off that night—hey, you still up?—you don’t reply. He'd been texting you every now and then, but you didn't really care. So you just stare at it. Let the screen go dark again.

And then your front door opens.

Not a knock. Not a heads-up. Just the jingle of keys and the creak of hinges and the low, familiar sound of heavy footsteps on your floor.

Your stomach knots instantly.

Rafe steps into the living room like he’s lived there his whole life, dressed in black, his buzzed head fresh from a recent cut. He’s got that calm but angry look again—blank face, tight jaw, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s holding something in.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

He barely looks at you before dropping onto the couch.

You hesitate, then join him, legs tucked under you, trying not to fidget. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you missed me.”

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you—just leans back against the cushions like this is all routine. “You been busy, right? Hanging out. Talking. Distracted.”

“Rafe…” you sigh, “I’ve barely texted him.”

“I never said who,” he cuts in, smooth and sharp.

You flinch.

There’s silence. Tense and stretched thin between you. He finally turns his head, and his eyes meet yours—cool, unreadable.

“I give you space,” he says lowly, “and you fill it with him?”

You open your mouth to respond but your phone buzzes again on the coffee table—same name, second message. You both see it light up.

Rafe’s gaze drops to it, then flicks back to you. He doesn’t look mad.

Worse—he looks disappointed.

“Wow,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself.

“Rafe, I wasn’t even gonna reply—”

He cuts you off again. “You think I’m mad?” he asks with a dry laugh. “Nah, kid. I’m not mad. I’m just… realizing you really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

He leans in a little, voice lowering. “You think he gives a shit about why you don’t text back? Think he notices that you’re upset? Think he’d show up if you were having a bad day, no invite, no reason—just because?”

You blink fast.

“No, because he doesn’t see you,” Rafe says. “Not the way I do.”

Your throat tightens. “Then why’ve you been ignoring me?”

He tilts his head. “You were pulling away first.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Every time I came around, you were nose deep in your phone,” he says smoothly. “You laughed less when I was around. Got quieter. Didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“I was just—”

“Just what?” he interrupts gently, like he’s coaxing a child. “Trying something new? Seeing what it’s like with someone who doesn’t even know your middle name?”

The words sting more than you want to admit.

You cross your arms, turning away, but he leans closer, warm breath brushing your ear.

“I’ve been here,” he murmurs. “Always been here. You think that’s an accident?”

Your chest tightens. He’s too close. He smells like his cologne and the ocean and that stupid expensive soap he pretends not to use. And you hate how much you missed it.

“How many times do I have to prove it, huh?” he asks, voice soft now. “How many more people are you gonna test me with?”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

He notices. Smirks faintly.

And just like that—snap—the tension breaks. He stands, grabs the remote, and flops back onto the couch like everything’s fine.

“You hungry?” he asks, casual. “You barely eat when you’re sad.”

You glance at him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me, baby.”

Your breath catches at the nickname—rare, but not unheard of. Always drops when he knows you’re too vulnerable to fight it.

“I’ll make something,” he says, already headed to your kitchen like it’s his kitchen.

And just like that… the conversation’s over.

No apology. No “I’m sorry I made you cry,” or “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t care.” Just Rafe sliding back into your world like he never left—making you grilled cheese, asking if you want a movie, throwing you a hoodie when you shiver.

And you let him.

Because he’s always been here.

Because you don’t know how to say no.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

taglist!!

@drewsdirtyslut @rafestoothbrush @vanessa-rafesgirl @dookeyfartt @doublejeon @memoirofasparklemuff1n @sunsetmade @xummer01 @justoxyo22 @maybankslover @jkrafe @meetmeintheemeraldpool @actcvntwhennoonesaround

★ If he thinks there’s any risk of you being around anyone else, even family members he doesn't trust, he’s gonna try to warn you with his usual “look out for yourself, don’t let anyone mess with you” speech. He’ll go as far as giving you all his “good advice” on how to avoid attention from any “guys,” subtly implying that only he should be allowed to have your attention.

★ Rafe will act like he’s fine with you being somewhere else, doing who knows what, but he's also gonna make sure you feel the weight of his displeasure. He’ll sulk a little, ignoring your texts and calls, then hitting you with a sarcastic comment like, “Thought you’d be too busy to text me.”

★ Of course, he’ll keep an eye on everything you post. He'll be stalking your social media without actually commenting—he's just watching, waiting for any guy to pop up in your pictures. If anyone shows too much attention in your comments, Rafe’s jealousy will show. He might start liking your posts excessively, even the ones that don’t need a like. He wants everyone to know that he's present.

★ Rafe may show up unannounced—maybe at your house before you leave for the trip, making sure your luggage is packed correctly, or giving you a “reminder” that you’re not allowed to forget anything (especially him). He's definitely the type to drop by at the last second, looking for any excuse to extend his presence in your life, even when you’re about to leave.

★ If you send him a text or snap from the trip showing you having fun, enjoying yourself, he’ll act like it's nothing, but you’ll know he's salty about it. He won’t admit it, but his responses will be short. “Must be nice” or something equally bratty will follow. If you’re with your family, though, he'll make sure you understand that he’s the one who would’ve made it even better.

★ Once the trip is near its end, Rafe won’t let it go. He might text you multiple times a day, asking when you’re coming back, what you’re doing, and subtly letting you know how miserable he’s been without you. He’s trying to guilt-trip you, just a little. He’s the kind of guy who would tell you that he’s been “bored as hell” or “lost without you.”