mal.

tuesday, january 14th

you nibbled on your pen as you stood in front of your oversized 2024-2025 calendar, scrutinizing the packed schedule staring back at you. it was a mountain of tasks, every inch of space crammed with commitments and deadlines. for now, you were miraculously on track, but all that would go out the window the moment rafe cameron made his long-anticipated appearance at your front door.

you tossed the pen onto your bed and scolded yourself silently for clinging to that tiny, stubborn habit. pen chewers don’t get into dream schools, you reminded yourself.

the hum of a car speeding past your window sent your heart into overdrive. you forced yourself to breathe, to relax. this was no big deal. just a straightforward arrangement where both of you got something out of the deal. rafe cameron was just a boy. a boy who smelled heavenly and objectively happened to be the conventially attractive kind.

you glanced around your bedroom—the same one you’d had since you were eleven. soft blue walls adorned with delicate flower details framed the space, bookshelves stuffed with novels you’d read at least three times over, and textbooks for classes you didn’t even take yet because preparation was everything. your closet concealed rows of neatly folded clothes, and the pièce de résistance: your desk. a long, well-equipped workspace lined with pens, sticky tabs, notebooks, calculators, and every imaginable tool a student could need. the tools for your greatness.

you'd set it up for him. moved away some of your "mess" and placed a calculator, notebook and pencil knowing he probably wouldn't even bring one. you didn't have an extra chair which worked in your favor. he and his downright divine smell could stay all the way over there whilst you watched him from your bed.

your phone chimed, and the message flashed across your open laptop screen—two simple words that sent a strange, fluttering sensation through your chest:

you turned to the mirror, giving yourself a once-over. a white tank top showing just a sliver of midriff, paired with a cozy yellow cardigan, jeans, and fluffy slippers.

adjusting your high ponytail, you hurried downstairs and opened the door. there he was, standing on your porch, looking unfairly good for a lazy sunday. no surprise, the only thing he held was his algebra book—no pencil, no supplies. predictably unprepared.

“hey.”

there was something unnervingly open about his eyes. when he looked at you, it was like he was peeling back layers, welcoming you into some uncharted depth of himself. most people avoided eye contact, but not rafe. his gaze was arresting, almost disarming, and it made you feel vulnerable, as if he could see straight through you.

"hey, come in." you turned on your heel and let him into the foyer. you went to stand by the stairs as he took off his coat and when he followed you, you stopped him, pointed to his feet and said, "shoes off." outside dirt was not something your mom found entertaining in the slightest.

"oh, right—yeah," he halted with a nod and turned to kick off his sneakers. you got a good look at his back. he was wearing loose cargo jeans with this white tee that irritatingly did wonders for his arms. they did not look this big last week in principal oakley's office. and his back? the way it flexed was something out of this world. you'd never seen a more attractive back.

you willed yourself to turn around, to avoid being caught staring. "okay, c'mon." you bounded up the stairs two at a time, hearing him follow close behind. "i don't..have to say hello to your parents?" he asked and you hate that your mind immediately went: green flag!

"normally, yes. but no one is home right now." you go all the way up to the attic which was the only room up there. a room you had to fight tooth and nail for but would gladly leave for your sister when you left for university next year.

you closed the door behind him, "work?" he asked and you hummed, "my mom is at work, my dad gets off work at 3:45 and takes my brother and sister to their extracurriculars so we have plenty of time for you to master the first chapter of algebra." you patted toward your desk and tapped on the chair insinuating he sits on it.

he made a face that said he was already tired before you'd even started and you laughed and grabbed his algebra book. "okay, did you read the first chapter?" you asked half-expecting him to say no but he nodded as he slumped into your chair.

you leaned against your desk and did a quick read through of what the first chapter entailed. it had been very long since you'd opened this book in the beginning. "tell me what it's about."

"it's about numbers." he said flatly

you gave him a look and narrowed your eyes. "what kind of numbers?" you asked and he parted his lips like he was going to say something but then stopped to think briefly. "unknown numbers?" he said almost like a question and the answer shuldn't have made you as happy as it did but you quiped, "yes!" happily.

"so, what about these unknown numbers? what are we doing with them?" you dug a little deeper and you could see the cogs turning in his head. "they're unknown so..we need to figure them out?" he says which wasn't wrong, just not exactly what you were looking for. "how?"

"using variables."

"yes, that's right. we need to figure out unknown numbers using variables."

"and i read some shit about expressions and equations?" you find it adorable how he hasn't sounded not confused since the moment he sat down. "mhm, do you know what expressions and equations are?" you ask.

he stares at you for a moment, " expressions are… parts of math that don’t have an equals sign, and equations do…" he hesitates, staring at you for confirmation and you nod gesturing for him to continue. "uh, variables are the letters in those… like x or y, and you have to figure out what they stand for by, you know, solving." he says and you nod. he had a basic grasp of the foundation. that was something.

"yes, perfect. the first chapter covers the basics of algebra—like what variables are and how they work in expressions and equations. it explains how to combine like terms, use the properties of equality to keep equations balanced, and solve for an unknown variable, usually 𝑥. basically, it’s the foundation for everything else, so if you don’t get this, the rest of algebra’s going to feel like trying to read a book in another language."

he blinked at you. "fucking hell..that was english?" he asks and you chuckle and start writing an equation on the notebook you'd prepared for him. "i will walk you through an exercise. once you've done enough of them, you start to see patterns and realise they're mostly, if not all kinda the same thing over and over. math is the most logical course there is."

you covered the intro of variable expressions and basic operations with algebraic expressions and it went okay, rafe was starting to get the hang of the easier exercises but it wasn't smooth sailling either.

you gave him a bit of a challenging one to complete but you had a feeling he could do it if he just concentrated. he was clearly trying, but his attention wandered. he doodles a soccer ball in the margin of his notebook until you snap your fingers in front of him. “eyes on the prize, cameron. the prize being you not failing.”

“so… this balancing thing,” he says, frowning at the equation. “it’s like… i’m balancing practice, school, and you bossing me around, right?”

“sure,” you says dryly. “except the equation has better odds of working out.”

he laughs at that and you will yourself to not let the sound replay in your mind a dozen times. you fail.

by the end of the lesson he managed to make 6 equations all by himself with no mistakes. it wasn't easy, he had a lot of work but after the lesson you just had, you really believed in his ability to succeed.

"thanks for today." he said as he pulls on his jacket and you shake your head, "no worries."

you turn to the front door and open it before turning back to rafe and your breath hitches when you're face to face with him. the proximity sent a jolt through you. you blink up at him, seemingly frozen in place for a solid three seconds before you clear your throat and move away from the door. "good work today. you're better than i thought." you say as he starts to walk out and he turns, walking to his car backwards. "that's when you're right by my side. once i'm alone? everything hits the fan." he says.

you shake your head, holding on to the door. "you did really good. just make the exercises i gave you and if you get stuck, write down your questions and we can go over it on sunday."

"alright, thanks teach!" he says before he's getting in his car and driving off.

you stood in the doorway for a moment, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air, before realising you never sat down on your bed. you stayed right by his side the whole time.

everyone arrived carrying the exact same baggage they'd graduated high school with, they'd just packed it into more expensive suitcases.

the campus practically encouraged the illusion. red-brick academic buildings covered in ivy that looked beautiful from a distance but smelled permanently of damp stone after it rained. tree-lined walkways littered with coffee cups and bike locks.

students lying across the grass between lectures with laptops balanced on their knees, pretending to study while gossiping about people they'd only met three weeks ago.

everywhere you looked, someone was trying desperately to become someone else. you'd stopped trying a long time ago. you'd been here nearly three years. you knew which lecture halls had broken air conditioning, which library floors stayed silent. which vending machines actually stocked edible food. which professors rounded grades and which ones absolutely did not.

your weeks never changed. eight a.m. lecture. coffee. work. library. sleep. repeat. it wasn't glamorous, definetly wasn't exciting but it worked.

it had to. your scholarship depended on it. your rent depended on it. your future depended on it. you didn't have parents wiring you emergency money every time life became inconvenient.

if you wanted something — you earned it. every single time, which was exactly why people like rafe cameron made your eye twitch.

everyone knew rafe even if they'd never spoken to him. his reputation usually entered a room before he did. president of one of the biggest fraternities on campus, captain of the lacrosse team, son of ward cameron—the kind of wealthy businessman whose name ended up on buildings after writing one cheque.

he drove a truck worth more than your tuition, wore watches that probably cost more than your apartment and the worse thing of all? never seemed particularly concerned about consequences.

he was loud without being obnoxious enough for anyone to call him out.

confident enough that people mistook it for charm. girls smiled at him before he even opened his mouth, laughed at his jokes before he even finished them.

professors gave him extensions they'd never give anyone else. the dean apparently knew him by first name. not because he was exceptional because he practically lived in disciplinary meetings.

you'd never understood the appeal. sure. he was attractive. painfully so. all sharp jawlines and messy blond hair that somehow always looked intentional. the sort of smile that probably sold people bad ideas but underneath all of that — he carried himself like the world owed him something. like every room belonged to him the second he stepped inside it. it drove you insane.

the first time you met him was during freshman orientation. you'd been carrying too much which, in hindsight, felt incredibly on brand. two coffees balanced carefully in one hand, three textbooks hugged against your chest despite classes not starting for another week your scholarship paperwork tucked safely between the pages.

you remembered feeling strangely optimistic. excited, even. then, the future still looked neat. he'd walked backwards out of the student union while laughing at something one of his friends said when someone directly slammed into you.

hard.

coffee flew everywhere. your books hit the pavement with a heavy thud. loose papers scattered across the concrete like playing cards. hot coffee soaked straight through your shirt.

for one completely silent second — all you could do was stare. brown liquid dripped steadily off the corners of your notes, ink bled into meaningless blue smudges.

you remembered standing there completely speechless while rafe stared for exactly three seconds before laughing. actually laughing. "shit." you could hear it immediately: he sounded inconvenienced, like he'd bumped into a chair, not ruined someone's morning.

you looked down at the ruined papers. then back at him. "...are you kidding?"

he reached into his wallet, peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and held them out. "buy new ones."

you looked up. baseball cap. backwards. sunglasses tucked into messy blond hair despite the fact there wasn't even any sun. one hand shoved lazily into his pocket.

"...what?"

"buy new ones."

you stared. "you think that's the problem?"

he blinked once, like you'd told him the sun was green. "...isn't it? it covers it."

"that's not —"

"probably extra."

you'd never wanted to throw coffee at someone more in her life. instead you'd shoved the money back into his chest like nobody had ever rejected the solution before. "not everybody can fix every problem by throwing cash at it."

you bent down, gathered the ruined papers, and walked away before he could say anything else.

behind you, you heard one of his friends call his name. then, after a beat: "your loss, then."

that should've been the end of it. it wasn't. college campuses were smaller than people realised, especially when you shared the same major. the first lecture you had together, he arrived twenty-three minutes late.

the professor didn't even stop talking. rafe wandered in carrying an iced coffee and absolutely no shame. he looked around the lecture theatre before his eyes landed on the only empty seat.

next to you. of course. he dropped into it, chair squeaking loudly. he looked over. "...hey." you kept writing. "still mad?" when you was silent, "i said my bad."

without looking up, you replied, "that's probably the most sincere apology you've ever given."

he was quiet for a second. "you got jokes."

"i've got notes."

"can i borrow them later?"

that finally made you look at him with the exasperation you gave petulant children. "...no."

"why?"

"because you should've come to class."

"i'm here now."

"twenty-three minutes late."

"still counts."

you looked back at the lecturer. conversation over. rafe watched you for another second before leaning back in his chair. "...mean."

he had an answer for everything. unfortunately every economics lecture became a battle. he talked constantly. if he wasn't talking to you, he was talking over the lecturer. if he wasn't talking, he was asleep. or scrolling through his phone. or throwing rolled-up paper at one of his frat brothers across the room. once he got caught watching a lacrosse highlight reel during a quiz.

the professor simply sighed and took his phone away. another professor would've failed anyone else. rafe got it back at the end of class with a warning. you nearly lost your mind.

"i don't understand why they let him get away with everything," you muttered one afternoon.

your roommate, kiara, looked up from her laptop. "because he's charming."

"he's manipulative."

"same thing to some people."

you groaned. "he doesn't even try."

"that's kind of his thing."

"it's infuriating."

she laughed. "you think about him an awful lot."

you looked horrified. "only because he keeps existing near me."

midterms arrived. the library looked like a disaster zone. students asleep over textbooks, empty energy drink cans stacked on desks, highlighters everywhere.

you'd claimed your usual corner on the fourth floor hours ago. it was nearly midnight now. quiet. finally. until — a chair scraped loudly across the floor opposite you.

you closed your eyes. "...please don't."

"don't what?"

you looked up. rafe. hoodie. backwards cap with a smirk already waiting underneath. "sit somewhere else."

he looked around dramatically. every other seat was taken. "...can't."

"try harder."

"you're funny."

"you're annoying."

he sat anyway. you lasted exactly seven minutes before closing your textbook, packing your bag and leaving. behind you he laughed loud enough to earn three separate shushes.

the following afternoon, an email appeared in your inbox.

please stop by my office after today's lecture.

professor hayes. strange. you assumed it was about your research paper or graduate recommendations. or maybe the internship you'd applied for through the department.

you certainly weren't worried. professor hayes liked you. he'd told you more than once that you were one of the strongest students he'd taught. so after class, you knocked twice before stepping into his office. "come in."

his office smelled like old books and coffee. the walls were lined with overflowing shelves. papers stacked in careful piles across every available surface. he smiled when he saw you. "have a seat."

you did. "you wanted to see me?"

he nodded. "i did." he folded his hands together. "you're one of the strongest students in this department."

you smiled politely. "thank you."

"which is why i wanted to ask you something."

"of course."

"would you consider tutoring another student?"

easy enough. you'd tutored first-years before. the money helped. "who is it?"

he glanced down at the folder on his desk like he was preparing for your response. "mr. cameron."

your smile disappeared. "no."

he blinked. "i'm sorry?"

"no."

"you haven't heard the details."

"i don't need the details."

"he's failing."

"that sounds like a him problem."

the professor sighed. "he's capable."

"he's lazy."

"he needs help."

"he needs consequences."

another sigh. "the department is paying."

you hesitated. "paying?"

he named the hourly rate. your heart sank. it was enough to cover nearly two months of groceries. he noticed the hesitation immediately. quietly, he added, "i know you're working two jobs."

damn him. you looked down at your hands. rent. tuition. textbooks. everything suddenly became numbers in your head. you hated that money made this difficult. you hated even more that you couldn't afford to say no. after a long silence— you sighed. "fine."

professor hayes smiled. "excellent."

you stood already regretting the decision. "when does he start?"

he checked his watch. "today."

"TODAY?"

before he could answer there was a knock against the open office door. "you done convincing her?"

you turned, and there he was. leaning lazily against the doorway like he owned the building, hands in the pockets of an expensive hoodie, baseball cap backwards. that same infuriating grin. his eyes met yours. the grin disappeared.

"...seriously?"

you said it at exactly the same time he did. professor hayes beamed. "perfect. i think you two are going to get along just fine."

the walk across campus felt significantly longer than it usually did. maybe because every step brought you closer to spending two uninterrupted hours with the most irritating man you'd ever met or maybe because professor hayes had smiled when he'd handed you the tutoring schedule.

actually smiled as though he'd just solved world peace instead of creating what would almost certainly become the department's biggest liability.

you clutched the folder a little tighter under your arm. inside were rafe's grades. or, more accurately — the complete lack of them. you'd skimmed them exactly once before immediately wishing you hadn't.

economics: forty-three.

statistics: thirty-eight.

business law: absent.

marketing: incomplete.

comments filled the margins in red ink. shows potential but does not apply himself.

excellent participation when present. attendance remains a concern.

please come to office hours.

the phrase shows potential appeared so many times it almost became insulting. potential wasn't achievement. potential didn't pass exams.

potential certainly didn't explain how someone could coast through life with the confidence of a straight-a student while collecting failing grades like souvenirs.

you pushed open the heavy library doors.

warm air wrapped around you immediately.

the familiar smell of old paper and burnt coffee settled your nerves—slightly.

the fourth floor was nearly empty.

late afternoon sunlight spilled through the enormous windows, stretching long rectangles of gold across rows of wooden tables.

it was quiet. study room twelve sat at the very end of the corridor. small. glass walls. one table. four chairs, a whiteboard. you unlocked the door with the key the librarian had given you and stepped inside.

your notebook landed neatly on the table. so did three sharpened pencils. highlighters. sticky notes. the textbook. you'd even printed practice questions.

because if you were doing this— you were doing it properly. you checked your watch. 3:58. two minutes early. exactly as planned.

3:59. 4:00. 4:02. nothing. you weren't surprised. 4:07. still nothing. you tapped your pen against the table. once. twice. 4:11. the door finally opened without so much as a knock.

rafe wandered in, backwards cap, grey hoodie with fraternity letters stretched across the chest, phone in one hand. keys spinning lazily around his finger.

he glanced around the room then at you. "'s looks depressing."

you didn't even look up from your planner. "you're eleven minutes late."

he checked the expensive watch on his wrist. "ten."

"eleven."

"close enough."

you slowly closed your notebook. met his eyes. "if you're eleven minutes late every session, by the end of the semester you'll have missed nearly three full hours."

he blinked. "did you just calculate that?"

"yes."

"that's..." he laughed once, sort of nervously. "...kind of terrifying."

"sit down."

instead of sitting, he wandered around the room. looked out the window. picked up one of your highlighters. swirled it between his fingers.

"don't touch my things."

he looked at the highlighter. then at you.

"...it's a highlighter."

"it's mine."

he set it down. exactly where it hadn't been before. you hated that even more. "you always this particular?"

"you always this difficult?"

"depends who's asking."

"me."

"...then yeah."

you took one slow breath. "are you actually interested in passing this class?"

he shrugged. "my dad is."

"that wasn't the question."

another shrug. he finally dropped into the chair opposite you, stretching his legs out beneath the table. "there."

"thank you."

"you're welcome."

you slid the textbook across. "page eighty-six."

he looked down then back up. "...didn't bring mine."

you stared."you knew you were coming to a tutoring session."

"yeah."

"and you didn't bring the textbook."

"forgot."

"your notebook?"

"...forgot."

"a pen?"

he patted his pockets dramatically. "also forgot."

silence. finally, you reached into your bag and placed a spare notebook and pencil in front of him. he smiled. "thanks."

"don'tmistake preparation for kindness. page eighty-six."

he opened the book with exaggerated slowness. the silence lasted all of twenty seconds. "so..."

you looked up. "...what?"

"how come you're always studying?"

"because i'm at university."

"yeah, but like..."

he gestured vaguely. "all the time."

"because unlike some people, i have to work for my grades."

he leaned back. "you think i don't?"

you almost laughed. instead, you pushed his latest exam across the table. forty-three. circled in thick red pen. "convince me."

his jaw tightened, only for a second, so quickly you almost missed it and then the grin came back. "low blow."

"accurate blow."

"professor hayes said you were nice."

you frowned. "he lied."

"clearly."

another silence settled between you. he picked up the pencil and spun it around his fingers yet didn't write a single word. you watched him for a moment, really watched him. for someone who acted so effortlessly confident, he hadn't actually looked at the exam once.

his eyes kept sliding around it. past it. over it. anywhere but directly at the grade. interesting. you made a note of it mentally.

"why economics?"

he blinked. "what?"

"why this major?"

"family business."

"do you like it?"

he answered too quickly. "doesn't matter."

the room fell quiet again. for the first time since he'd walked in, there wasn't a joke waiting. no smirk. no sarcastic comment. just a simple answer that sounded strangely rehearsed. then, almost immediately, he caught himself: the grin returned. "you psychoanalysing me now?"

"i'm trying to figure out if teaching you is a waste of my time."

he smiled. "and?"

you looked him dead in the eye. "the jury's still out."

in the next 20 minutes, rafe hadn't written a single word. e just stared at the textbook, page eighty-six.

you sighed. "read the first paragraph. out loud."

"seriously?"

did it look like you were joking? "yes."

he pinched the bridge of his nose. "this is humiliating."

"it's tutoring."

"same thing."

"read."

another long sigh. the sort of sigh that belonged to a child being asked to clean their room. he finally started reading. stumbled twice, skipped an entire sentence & mispronounced a word you knew he'd heard before, then stopped halfway through. "i hate this."

you looked up. "reading?"

"being bad at something."

that wasn't the answer you expected. you leaned back slightly. "you're not bad at it."

he laughed, actually laughed. there wasn't anything funny about it. "you've seen my grades."

you looked down at the papers spread across the table. forty-three. thirty-eight. missing assignments. late submissions. you'd assumed laziness, carelessness, someone who simply couldn't be bothered. "why are they so bad?"

he shrugged. "didn't do the work."

"i know that."

"that's the answer."

"it's not."

his jaw tightened. "you always this nosy?"

"only when i'm supposed to be helping someone."

he looked away towards the windows. outside, students crossed the quad in little groups, laughing loudly enough that you could hear them through the glass.

frat boys. sorority girls. backpacks. coffee. normal.

"they're bad because..." he started then stopped. "...forget it."

"finish the sentence."

"why?"

"because i'm asking."

he looked back at you. "you don't give up, do you?"

"no."

"because if i fail enough..."

he rubbed at the label on his drink. "...i don't have to go back."

you frowned. "...go back where?"

"home."

the word came out flat. empty. "the outer banks." he looked out the window again, rubbing the back of his neck while his voice got progressively more hoarse. "everybody thinks it's paradise." he laughed under his breath. "guess it is." another pause. "unless you grow up there."

you didn't interrupt. he seemed to appreciate that.

"people think money fixes everything." he picked absentmindedly at the edge of the paper in front of him. "it doesn't. especially there." his voice had gotten quieter now. "everything's divided."

he drew an invisible line across the table with his finger. "you've got the kooks." another line. "you've got the pogues." he gave a humourless smile. "and everybody decides who you are before they even know your name."

you'd heard the terms before. mostly through stories & tourists. students from the outer banks. it always sounded more like folklore than reality.

he didn't sound like he was telling a story. he sounded exhausted.

"i'm supposed to be..." he searched for the word. "perfect. captain, fraternity president, ward cameron's son." every title sounded heavier than the last. "doesn't leave much room for anything else."

the room was very quiet. you realised he still hadn't looked at you. not once. he'd spent the entire conversation staring at the table.

"professor hayes said you asked for tutoring."

he nodded. "i did."

"why?"

he smiled faintly. "because my dad would've laughed if i admitted i needed help."

"so i..." he shrugged. "used his account."

your eyebrows shot up. "what?"

"his university donor account." he glanced over, finally meeting your eyes. "he leaves himself logged in to everything."

you blinked. "you emailed professor hayes pretending to be your father?"

"pretty much."

"that's probably academic misconduct."

"probably."

"and fraud."

"little bit."

"you're insane."

"been told."

you stared at him. trying to work out whether he was joking. he wasn't. "why not just ask?"

that made him smile. not smugly. sadly. "because nobody like me asks for help. where i come from," he continued quietly, "if you can't do something, you either fake it..." another pause. "or somebody else does it for you." he looked down at the failing grades. "turns out neither works forever."

you watched him for a long moment. this wasn't the version of rafe cameron everyone else on campus knew. there was no grin, no effortless confidence, no jokes. just a tired twenty-one-year-old who looked like he'd spent years pretending he had everything under control.

it almost made you feel sorry for him. almost because then he ruined it.

he looked back at you. the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "you're different than i thought."

"i don't remember asking."

"i figured you'd be one of those people who likes fixing everyone."

you frowned. "i don't."

"good."

"'cause i'm not interested in being fixed."

there it was. the wall. straight back up. whatever honesty had slipped out a minute ago disappeared behind the same lazy grin he'd walked in wearing.

he reached for the pencil. spun it between his fingers. "besides..." his eyes met yours. "i'm mostly here because professor hayes said you were the smartest person in our year."

"...okay?"

"wanted to see if it was true."

your eyebrow lifted. "and?"

he shrugged. "jury's still out."

you actually laughed. the audacity of him saying that after arriving eleven minutes late, without a textbook, notebook, or pen, was almost impressive.

"that's rich."

"you've done absolutely nothing."

"i showed up."

"late."

"still counts."

you leaned forward.

"listen carefully."

his smile widened.

"yes, ma'am."

"if you're going to waste my time every tuesday and thursday afternoon, i promise you i'll make those two hours the most miserable part of your week."

he held your gaze for a long moment far longer than necessary. "can't wait." he stood, grabbed his untouched coffee, and headed for the door. his hand rested on the handle. "same time thursday?"

"unless you fail to show up."

he looked over his shoulder, that infuriating grin back in full force. "i'll be here." a beat. "wouldn't want you thinking you won."

the door clicked shut behind him. the room finally fell silent again. you looked down at the pristine notebook you'd brought specifically for tutoring. he hadn't written a single word. not one. you closed it with a sharp sigh. "unbelievable."

outside in the hallway, rafe shoved both hands into the pockets of his hoodie and walked away with that same cocky stride everyone on campus knew.

anyone passing him would've thought the session had gone exactly how he'd wanted.

they didn't see the way his jaw clenched once he was out of sight or how tightly he was gripping the strap of his backpack because if there was one thing rafe cameron hated more than failing — it was the fact that, for two whole hours, someone had looked straight through every version of himself he usually performed...

and he hadn't been able to stop them. which meant, whether either of you liked it or not — he'd be back on thursday. and he'd make absolutely sure you regretted agreeing to teach him.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

AN: please leave thoughts & feelings about this below! also i am so super tired so if there's plot holes pls lmk cause it wasnt intentional im js so drained but pumped this out lmao

"all i'm saying," your state with a heavy sigh, spine straight and arms resting on the table at malone's that you were occupying with you friends, "is that it is extremely unfair that he gets to sleep with a different girl every week, but every guy at briar is too scared to talk to me because he punched the last one who asked me out." it is, in your opinion, a valid point to be made. especially since you had only tried to move when you had caught wind that he hooked up with someone else at a party. therefor you had assumed that he had also decided to move.

yet when the guy from the football team flirted with you at the kegger and then asked for your number, logan completely flew off the handle. you didn't even realize that he was close enough to hear the conversation, and was only made aware when you watched his fist collide with the guys jaw.

that's the last time a guy outside of your friend group even attempted to talk to at a party. all of them just seemed to afraid of your ex to even consider talking to you. which was fine at first, but when you realized that you and john were not getting back together... the whole thing just became one big, colossal headache to deal with.

hannah moves to take a drink of her water then before clearing her throat and smiling in your direction, "i have an idea," she says softly, "what if you dated a guy who didn't go to briar?"

your eyebrow quirks up then as you look at her, "you have my attention," you state as if urging her to continue.

"well," she starts slowly, "you were telling us about that guy from your high school that slid into your dm's after your breakup. his name was tanner, right?" you just nod in agreement, waiting to see where she goes with this, "and i might have stalked him on insta and found out that he plays hockey for eastwood, which isn't that far from here," she continues, the smile on her face growing as she speaks.

"so?," you ask then, as if you needed her to spell it out for you.

"so," she says then, leaning forward a bit as she continues, "ask him out! he doesn't go here, so he doesn't know about all the logan stuff and shouldn't be too afraid to say yes."

dean, almost immediately, cuts in then, "no, fuck that, you are not going to date some dude from eastwood."

garrett chimes in, "seconded."

visible irritation flickers across your face, and you settle back against the back of the booth that you were in. your arms then cross before you and you state in a snarky tone, "well now i want to just to piss you off."

it's tucker who chimes in then, almost absentmindedly stating, "they are not the only ones who it's going to piss off, logan also--" then his voice cuts off and the whole booth falls silent at the mention of his name.

your eyes search around them before a heavy, annoyed sigh falls from your lips. "you can say his name for christs sake," you state in irritation, "it's not like i'm going to start sobbing at the mere mention of it."

"yeah, but you do get livid," garrett states, tone flat and annoyed, "you both do."

"seriously," dean adds in, "it's exhausting being a child of divorce, we never know what's going to fucking set you off."

you level a glare at dean then before bluntly stating, "shut up." your eyes flicker to tuck then before you add, "and to go back to what you said, why would i care about pissing him off? if he can sleep with half of briar then i can dm a guy i knew in high school." you watch then as dean goes to add something else and you are quick to cut him off, "and i am not taking another man's take on it."

hannah rolls her eyes then and lets out a soft chuckle before leaning forward across the table and lowering her voice (though, everyone could definitely still hear her), "well, if it matters, i definitely think you should go for it."

you lean forward, to meet her in the middle and there is a smirk on your face as you add, "don't worry, i definitely am."

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿ john ✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿

john settles into the couch, beer bottle in hand as he waits for garrett and hannah to finish getting ready so the three of them could head to the sigma tau party. he didn't want to go, but he also didn't have a good reason not to go. therefor he had agreed, especially since garrett had already offered to be the designated driver which meant john could fall back to his two favorite coping mechanisms: getting drunk and hooking up.

it wasn't healthy, and he knew that he needed to back off of both. it was your face everywhere that he went, and he heard your laugh in the melody of every song. it was hard to escape, and at least when he drunk or hooking up with someone he could pretend that he could forget about you for just a moment.

garrett's heavy footsteps start to sound as they descended down the stairs, and logan lifts his head to look up at him, "hey." garrett looks at the bottle in logan's head and then back at his face before laughing lightly and shaking his head. at this point, garrett seemed more used to dealing with logan and his coping mechanisms, and had given up trying to say anything about it.

garrett plops down on the couch then, and turns his body to look at logan, "hey," he says casually, but there is nervous look on his face that is really hard to ignore. as if he was suddenly tiptoeing around logan, and it was odd given that they never really had to do that with one another before.

"what's wrong," logan says, deciding that it's better to just cut to chase.

garrett clears his throat then and scrubs a hand over his face, "i think i should tell you that she will be at the party tonight, she just texted hannah about it."

there is a confused look that flicks over logan's face, because that had never been a problem before. you and him had frequented the same parties enough times by now that it was easy to avoid each other. "okay?," he says, the confusion on his face seeping into his town as he speaks.

"and," garrett continues, a heavy sigh leaving his lips, "she has a date." logan's body tenses then, and garrett is quick to pick up on it. he hesitates before deciding to continue, "and i wanted to tell you because it's this guy who plays for eastwood? tanner woods, i think? he is--"

"i know who he is," logan is quick to cut in, his tone heavy and his jaw tense.

"so if you don't want to come, we totally get it," garrett continues cautiously. as if he was worried that logan would fly into some uncontrollable rage at any moment.

john lets a silence settle between them as he brings the bottle to lips and takes a very long drink from it. then, he stands, setting the bottle down on the table, "i'm going."

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿ you ✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿

the party was already in full swing by the time that you had walked through the doors to sigma tau. you had come here enough that you knew your way around, and was easily able to lead tanner back to the kitchen, fingers intertwined with his as you make your way through the crowded room.

you had texted tanner right after you left the lunch that you had with your friends. it took him no time to respond, and the two of you just got to talking. it only took a few days before he asked you on a date, saying that he didn't mind making the drive up to briar to do so.

that was a few weeks ago now, and the two of you have been hanging out relatively frequently since. enough that you thought it was a good time for him to come to a party and meet some of your friends.

well, okay, he already knew most of them, but it was good for them to spend time together.

you had just grabbed your cups of beer when your name said in a very cheery tone floats through the room, causing your head to snap and your eyes to immediately connect with hannah. "i'm so happy you are here," she says as she wraps her arms around neck and pulling you into a hug, "and wearing an eastwood hockey jacket? the boys are going to be so mad."

you had considered this when tanner had offered you his jacket earlier in the night when you had realized you had forgot your own. there was a moment where you considered just letting yourself freeze, but you liked how the overside jack clung to your body. loved how it seemed to establish something about the two of you that had yet to be said out loud.

"anyway, we are all over here," she says as she nods towards the entry way that led to another room, "we should head over before dean starts to think you are purposely avoiding us."

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿ john ✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿

there is a moment where logan is busy talking to one of the guys from the team when the sound of your laughter rings through the room. it's bright and full, causing his head to snap and immediately find you in the crowd. when his eyes land on you, the first thing he notices is the way that the eastwood hockey jacket drapes over your body. then his eyes flickers down to where your hand was wrapped together with this man.

a muscle in his jaw tenses and his eyes squint, cup being raised to his lips as he watches the two of you. the way that you look at him with softened eyes and a bright smile, and how you seem to laugh at everything that he says.

it's just all really fucking infuriating, and he knows that he should look away. that tucker would tell him that he was just torturing himself, but it was like watching a car accident. it was tragic, but he couldn't rip his eyes away from it.

everyone around him keeps talking, and logan just adds absent yeah's and uhuhs, but he isn't actually listening to a word that is being said. even when a girl saddles up to him and attempts to flirt, logan can't even find it in himself to give her any attention. she could be fully throwing herself onto him, and logan is pretty sure that he wouldn't notice.

another drink from his cup, and he watches as you say something to the group before letting go of the guy's hand and walking away. there is a split second when he feels glued to the floor. time slows and everything is still, and he hesitates.

the feeling only lasts for a moment, though. soon enough he is downing the rest of his beer and storming through the room and up the stairs to follow you.

your name falls from his lips, and your body goes still for a moment. your spine straightens, and your muscles tighten as you stop fully in your spot. it takes a moment, but you slowly turn to face him as he closes the distance between you in the hall.

your arms cross over your chest and a hard, annoyed look settles onto your face as the word, "johnny," falls from your lips.

his eyes roll as he stops in front of you, "don't do that," he says as his eyes settle on yours. there is an anger that seemed to be firing up right behind his eyes.

"do what exactly?," you ask then, the annoyance seeping into your tone as you ask it, "i thought everyone was just calling you that now." even though you could on maybe one hand count the amount of people who call him that. the list including his immediate family and you, and that was it. everyone else stuck to his last name, so to hear the nickname fall from another girls lips seemed to have stabbed a sharp, burning dagger right into your chest.

"i don't know why she did that," he tries to explain, but it falls flat between the two of you.

"i don't care," you respond, hand gripping tightly against your arm then. you look up at him under furrowed, angry brows as you sigh and ask, "what do you want, john?"

he looks down at you, and a muscle in his jaw tenses at the question. he sucks in a sharp breath then before saying through gritted teeth, "you're here with someone." it was a statement, and it fell hard in the small gap that was between you. "who plays for eastwood," he continues. again, it wasn't a question, but rather a simple observation.

it's weird how the observation makes you feel guilty. as if you had been caught doing something that you weren't meant to. a criminal caught red handed in the middle of grand scheme.

except, you haven't done anything wrong.

"wow, aren't you just so observant," you say, snark lacing your tone as you speak. "what gave it away? the jacket or the man who couldn't keep his hands off me?" that wasn't fair to say, and you knew it. you knew it was just rubbing dirt in the wound, yet the words came out so easily as if you wanted them to hurt.

it seems to work, and you can see the way the muscle in his jaw only tighten. there is a tension in his arms as well that draws your eyes down to his hands which seemed to loosely balled into fists. silence falls between you then, and his eyes seem to burn holes into your own. there was an angry, passionate fire behind them that begins to feel uncomfortable the longer that you look into them.

your hand moves from it's place on your arm up to the necklace around your neck, fiddling with it had always been a nervous habit. his eyes flicker to the gold chain and there is a realization that dawns on him then. his hand reaches out and he pulls at the chain, exposing the golden 22 that was hidden under your shirt.

his eyes flicker from the necklace back to your face and there is a hint of a smirk on his face, "huh," he says aloud, "must not be that serious." the smug tone of his voice sets you on edge, and you reach up and push his hand away causing him to drop the necklace.

there is a moment of hesitation, a flicker of conflict crossing across the face as you think over what to do next. however, then his smug voice runs through your head again and you know that you can't let him win.

your hands reach back and you fiddle with the latch of the necklace until you unlatch it and remove it from around your neck. your hand then reaches down to pick up his, the contact causing something warm and wanting pulse throughout his body. "here," you say then placing the necklace firmly in his hand, "i don't want it anymore."

his hand stays open as yours moves back to your side. there is a crease between his eyebrows as he looks down at the simple gold chain that lay in his hand. there is a tense, charged silence that falls between you then. a moment where no one dares to breathe.

then, his hand wraps around the necklace in a fist and falls by his side as he says, "so it is serious?"

a flicker of guilt crosses your face before you say, "no." then there is a hesitation and a sigh, as a hand runs through your hair and you continue, "i don't know? maybe?" your eyes, big and soft now, find his as you speak. "he is gentle and sweet, and things are nice," you explain softly, "and i think i can like nice."

you think you can like nice. the word rolls around in his head, and he can't help but dissect it. you didn't say that you did like this guy, nor did you describe what you had with him with any passion. it was nice. nice, which seemed to be the exact opposite of what you shared with john.

your love was passion and fire. it made you both feel alive, and it was addicting in so many ways.

it wasn't nice. john wasn't sure if you were built for nice.

then, you clear your voice, "i should get back before he begins to wonder where i went." john can't help but notice the way the tension had left your body. you push past him, and his hand flex's by his side, resisting the urge to reach out to you. resisting the urge to pull you back and into his arms.

resisting, because that wasn't his place anymore.

The North Carolina sun beats down on Rafe’s shoulders as he weaves through people entering and exiting the Norfolk International Airport. His red and black snapback is only just shielding his face from its harsh rays, but it’s better than nothing if the sweat sticking his clothes to his skin is any indication. Humid air only worsens the heat, thick against his nose as he tries to inhale. He should be used to the pressure, having experienced it for most of his life, but he’d gotten used to Connecticut winters where breathing feels easier.

There’s a flash of movement, and that’s all the warning Rafe gets, before he jerks to the right as a toddler suddenly swerves into his path—narrowly avoiding a collision between his knee and the kid’s face. The toddler remains entirely unaware, not even looking at Rafe before running off again, and Rafe has to bite down on his cheek to stop himself from glaring at the parents, who seem to be in too much of a rush to realize their child isn’t next to them.

At the sudden movement, Rafe’s luggage wobbles on its wheels, catching on a crack in the sidewalk and tipping onto its side, yanking his left wrist with it. A frustrated hiss forces itself through his teeth and Rafe stops on the sidewalk, fumbling with the handle for a moment before twisting his suitcase back onto its wheels with a bit more force than necessary. It’s awkward enough to be pulling the bag with his left hand and the heat is causing his palm to sweat—it’s causing all of him to sweat—making the process all the more aggravating.

His backpack—which was hanging off only his left shoulder—had been a pain in his ass since he stepped off the plane, inching its way down his t-shirt with every few steps and forcing him to stop walking every time to drag it back up. In his wrestling with his suitcase he failed to notice the way the strap was slipping off his shoulder until it had already slid down his bicep. The strap catches at the crook of his elbow, hanging on his arm as his backpack awkwardly swings underneath it.

Rafe has to take a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling harshly through his nose to ignore the strong urge he has to just hurl his backpack into the street.

He lets go of the handle of his luggage, bending his elbow upward to keep the bag from sliding off his arm. His hand drops down and he ignores the burning in his right shoulder as he attempts to pinch the backpack strap between his fingers, lifting and twisting his left arm in different directions to move the bag closer.

“Hey man, you need any help with that?”

Rafe turns to see a couple stopped a few feet to his right, still bent awkwardly as he’s finally able to pull his backpack back over his shoulder. The man looks around Rafe’s age—probably a few years older—and has a friendly expression on his face, a large duffel bag balanced against his side. His mouth starts moving again when they make eye contact, but the words fizzle out before they reach Rafe’s ears, unable to keep his attention as he notices the woman standing next to the guy and the obviously pitying smile she’s giving him.

“I’m good,” Rafe interrupts suddenly. “Thanks.”

The man’s eyes travel over Rafe’s bag and suitcase before he shares a brief, knowing glance with the woman next to him and Rafe feels a sizzling wave of heat rush through him that he knows isn’t entirely due to the humidity and hot sun. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s no—,”

“I got it.” The words come out sharper than Rafe intended, and he wasn’t even trying to be that polite in the first place. 

If the couple were going to push further, he doesn’t wait around for it, turning and walking away before he can see their reaction to his tone, his stupid rolling suitcase making noise the whole way and his stupid backpack already starting to fall off his arm again. He doesn’t necessarily feel bad for how he handled the situation, but Rafe still decides to blame it on the dull pain emanating from his right shoulder. Or maybe the buried anger that has been sizzling next to it since January. One of the two.

Once he’s far enough away from the couple—and closer to the line of cars and Ubers parked along the curb—Rafe stops again, letting go of the handle of his suitcase and fixing his backpack so that he can pull his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants. It unlocks a moment after he holds it to his face and he pointedly ignores the multiple text notifications from his dad and one from his sister, not bothering to read more than the few words his eyes catch as he swipes to his home screen. 

Rafe has to shift the phone in his grip, still unable to instinctively find an angle that gives his thumb the full range of motion it needs to reach all his app icons. Again, he feels that sizzling feeling under his skin. It takes a couple more taps of his thumb to pull up Topper’s contact and call it and then Rafe’s holding his phone to his ear, scanning the cars in front of him for the familiar sight of Topper’s black BMW.

The phone continues to ring in his ear, but there’s a sudden honk from down the row of cars. Rafe squints to see a familiar head of dark blond hair making its way out of the driver’s side with an attention-grabbing wave. He drops his phone back in his pocket after ending the call and grabs his suitcase again, picking up his pace slightly to reach his friend, who was already leaning against his open trunk.

“Hey,” Topper grins, no doubt amused by how much Rafe’s appearance has been affected by the heat. “Good flight?”

Rafe just shrugs before he can think better of it, his neutral expression quickly replaced with a wince as the movement aggravates his shoulder. He lets out another hiss as he relaxes it back into place, before clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

Topper just nods, pushing himself off the edge of the trunk as Rafe retracts the handle of his suitcase back down and finally takes his backpack off, leaving it sitting on the asphalt. For a moment, Topper almost looks like he’s reaching for Rafe’s luggage before seemingly thinking better of it, instead choosing to watch his friend with a wary expression as Rafe awkwardly lifts the suitcase with one hand and shoves it into the trunk of the BMW. 

Rafe takes a step back, almost stumbling over the backpack he forgot was there, and by the time he looks up again, Topper had already closed the trunk. He still doesn’t say anything, but he waits until Rafe’s fingers curl around the top handle of his backpack before he starts heading back to the driver’s side door.

A sigh of relief slips past Rafe’s lips when Topper turns on the car and the A/C starts blasting in his face. Some country song on Topper’s playlist also starts blasting through the car, but Topper turns it down quickly. In the time it had taken Rafe to put away his luggage, a few cars ahead of them had already driven off and, though he’d turned his blinker on, Topper still had to wait for the new line of cars that were driving around him to fill up the space.

The backpack in Rafe’s hand had moved to his lap when he sat down and, before tossing it into the backseat, he unzips the front pocket to grab a small Ziploc of painkillers. He thinks enough time has passed for him to take a second dose but, honestly, Rafe doesn’t really care if it hasn’t, and he cups two of the small pills into his palm. Next to him, Topper takes one hand off the wheel, halfway to gesturing at a plastic water bottle in the cup holder between them, but Rafe’s already tipping the pills into his open mouth before he can offer. 

Topper grimaces like he’s also experiencing the feeling of swallowing the medication dry, but again he chooses not to comment on it. The traffic next to them slows and Topper pulls away from the airport as Rafe shoves the Ziploc back in his bag and puts it in the backseat. Rafe shifts again to get comfortable, setting his hat down on his thigh before running his fingers through his damp hair.

“How much longer do you have to wear that for?” Topper asks once they’ve made it out of the pick-up lane, his eyes darting to the black sling keeping Rafe’s right arm bent against his chest.

Rafe sniffs, reaching forward with his left hand to angle one of the A/C fans more directly in front of his face. “Another week. Then I can start taking it off more and then I’ve got, like, 12 weeks of physical therapy and rehab.”

Topper cheeks puff out slightly as he lets out a low breath. “Shit, man. That sucks.”

This time Rafe is able to keep his shrug to one shoulder, feigning indifference as he keeps his eyes locked on the freeway in front of them. “It was my fault. Probably wouldn’t even have needed surgery if I had just let it finish healing the first time.” His tone is flat, sounding more like he’s reciting lines than having a conversation. And, in a way, he is—just parroting the words all his doctors had told him. The words his dad had told him.

“Still…” Topper spares him another glance before shaking his head slightly. “Fucking Maybank, man.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches. Yeah, fucking Maybank. It’s easy to blame JJ Maybank for everything that happened, and so Rafe does. It was his upcoming games against JJ that pushed Rafe to return to the ice before he was ready, and JJ’s dirty hit that worsened his AC joint injury and ultimately ended his season, and the fact that none of that would have even happened to begin with if Rafe hadn’t spent the whole year being compared to JJ and his all star breakout season. 

Deep down, Rafe knows that most of his problems started way before JJ Maybank, but, if anything, it only makes Rafe hate him more.

Topper’s music switches to a song Rafe recognizes—mainly from it being blasted in locker rooms and he’s pretty sure he’s actually heard it live at a concert Topper and Kelce dragged him to—and it’s almost enough to keep Rafe from noticing the single buzz of his phone that vibrates in his pocket. 

“You’ll be cleared to play by the time the season starts though, yeah?”

Rafe nods. “Should be. If everything goes right, I should be good by August to get back into weight training and everything.” He lets out a soft breath, relaxing against the seats of Topper’s car. “But my first physical therapy appointment is tomorrow, so I guess we’ll see.”

“You still need me to take you to it?” The question sounds genuine and Topper’s eyes haven’t wandered from the road and those are really the only things stopping Rafe from snapping. 

The complete helplessness that came with his injury is still an unfamiliar feeling. He can hardly do anything by himself anymore—like wash his hair, or change his shirt, or drive—and anything he can do can only be done with so much effort and struggle that he feels just as frustrated doing it as he would be if he hadn’t done it at all. Or, worse, Rafe doesn’t even get the chance to do it himself because someone else is already offering to do it for him with a sympathetic tone and that same look of pity like he’s someone to feel bad for.

Rafe keeps his eyes trained on Topper’s GPS, watching as the estimated distance switches from an hour and 49 minutes to an hour and 48. “I guess.” 

Topper hums in agreement, fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. “Kelce is flying in on Thursday,” he supplies after a moment.

“Yeah?” Rafe knows what Topper’s doing and he knows that Topper is just as aware, but no part of him wants to confront any of it, so instead he plays along.

“Yeah.” And then Topper rolls his eyes with an amused scoff. “And he’s probably gonna be fucking annoying when he gets here. He won’t shut up about this girl he met in California and he hasn’t even left yet.” 

Rafe lets out a soft snort. “What happened to Jennifer?”

“Dumped him after spring break. She’s with some soccer guy now–Which I only know because I had to be the one to stop Kelce from egging the soccer house.” Rafe wipes at his face to hide his smile as Topper continues. “But don’t worry,” he grins. “He’s found his future wife now. Sapphire’s the one, Rafe.”

“Sapphire?” Rafe’s brows raise in disbelief before he throws his head back against the headrest with a groan. 

Topper cackles. “Whatever you’re thinking, that’s exactly what she’s like.”

“How long has he even—?”

“Four days.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“So… Like… Is your sister coming back for the summer, do you think?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Rafe’s fingers shake against the pen in his hand. It sits awkwardly against his first two fingers and thumb, wobbling as he tries to fill in the small check box next to ‘Caucasian’. Just to keep the clipboard steady, he’s had to use his forearm to press it firmly against his thighs and hunch over until his back almost feels horizontal just to reach the paper. 

When he and Topper had first walked in for his physical therapy appointment and the woman at the front desk handed him a clipboard full of forms that he needed to fill out before seeing his PT, Rafe almost laughed in her face. Because, sure, make the guy with one functional arm and nondominant hand physically fill out paperwork. Once they sat down in the waiting room, Topper had cautiously offered to do it for him, but Rafe had quickly shot down the idea.

Currently his paperwork looks like it had been filled out by an actual second grader, but if the front desk woman wanted to be able to read any of his information, maybe she should have thought of that before she handed the guy with an AC joint injury a pen. Stupidly, Rafe thought that that would be the most annoying thing he’d have to go through in this beige, strangely lit waiting room, but obviously Topper had other plans.

“I’m just asking, dude!” Topper says defensively. He shifts in the stiff, scratched up, waiting room chair and looks away from Rafe uncomfortably. “‘Cause, like, she hasn’t really texted me or anything and… Well, you know, we—,”

“If you start talking to me about how you almost hooked up with my sister over spring break, I’m actually going to throw this clipboard at your head.”

Topper mutters something under his breath about how that’s “not very threatening coming from a guy with his arm in a sling”, but Rafe ignores it with a roll of his eyes, jerkily checking the ‘yes’ box next to the question ‘Do you drink alcohol?’.

When he goes to fill out the second part of the question—‘How much?’—he stops with a sigh. “Sarah’s in Cancún. Dad gifted her a ‘girls trip’ or some shit for her graduation, so she and her friends are staying there for the summer.”

Topper pouts. “Dude. Your dad’s such a cockblock—Ow! Okay, sorry!” Topper yelps when Rafe suddenly stabs him in the bicep with his pen. 

It garners them both a few looks from the other people in the waiting room, but Rafe doesn’t care and Topper is too busy trying to rub the smudge of pen ink out of his Polo to notice. 

Rafe’s in the middle of checking off if he’s ‘currently having any of the following symptoms’ when Topper speaks again. There’s a small wet patch on his shirt sleeve—surrounding the not-at-all-faded pen mark—that makes Rafe think that Topper had tried, unsuccessfully, to wash it away with his spit.

“I don’t remember you going anywhere after you graduated, though?”

“I didn’t.” Rafe sniffs. “Dad didn’t want any distractions with the draft coming up. Can’t really meet with teams and agents in Cancún.”

Topper nods in understanding, before shifting weirdly in his seat again and pulling out his phone from his back pocket. 

After finishing the last question on the page, Rafe begrudgingly sticks the pen between his lips in order to free his hand enough to flip to the next page. He pulls the pen from his mouth again, reading over the next question.

The words ‘Over the last 2 weeks, how often have you been bothered by the following problems (check one answer):’ stare back at him. He skims through the first couple problems quickly—haphazardly checking the ‘Not at all’ box for all of them—until one of them makes him stop suddenly, the ballpoint of his pen pressing just a bit too hard into the paper.

‘Feeling bad about yourself - or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down?’

The words almost mock him as he reads them over and over until his vision blurs. It’s only when the pressure from his pen becomes too much for the paper—the tip of it piercing a hole through the sheet—that Rafe snaps out of it. He checks the ‘Not at all’ box again.

It’s after watching his dad’s call go to voicemail for the fifth time since he got off the plane that Rafe decides that he should stop ignoring him and just get it over with. 

He’s sitting at Topper’s kitchen island, taking some slow sips of the leftover protein shake Topper had made for his workout. It’s taking Rafe longer than it usually does for him to finish it because Topper had put an unholy amount of protein powder into it before blending—to the point that the drink was borderline paste—and every sip left a tacky, filmy feeling in Rafe’s mouth.

Topper wasn’t even here anymore—after bringing Rafe back from his appointment, he went to the gym for his morning workout—so technically Rafe could dump the rest of the shake down the drain and he wouldn’t know, but Rafe’s never been one to waste a protein shake, regardless of how disgusting it is.

Thrown casually on the granite countertop in front of him is the stack of stretches and exercises Rafe’s physical therapist had assigned him during their appointment. Each sheet is filled with detailed instructions and a weird mix of cartoon and anatomical pictures showing him how to do each exercise. Rafe doesn’t know if his physical therapy office mostly works with kids or something because, along with the how-to guides, he was also gifted a paper chart of the week and a sheet of dinosaur stickers that could be used to track his progress in completing his daily exercises. Rafe had thrown it away before they even left the building.

He takes another sludgy sip of protein shake before finally grabbing his phone and tapping on the missed call notification from his father. After three rings, his dad picks up.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” Rafe replies flatly. 

“Right.” And because Rafe knows that, ultimately, his dad doesn’t really care enough to argue with him, he moves on. “Did you go to your physical therapy appointment?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“Same as the last one. I need to wear my sling for the rest of the week and then 12 weeks of PT.” Rafe looks down at the papers in front of him. “But she gave me some exercises and said if I was careful I could start doing some of them now a few times a day and it might help shorten the recovery time.”

“And you’ve started doing them, right?”

Rafe rolls his eyes. “I got them today, Dad.”

“Don’t catch an attitude with me, Rafe, I’m the one helping you fix this. If you had just let your shoulder heal the first time, we wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re the one who told me to play the Boston College game!”

“No, I told you to play better than Maybank, which you had the whole season to do—,”

“I did play better than him and he fucking checked me from behind!” The bar stool Rafe had been sitting on squeaks against the European oak hardwood flooring of Topper’s kitchen as he stands up from the kitchen island in frustration.

His father lets out a condescending sigh. “I’m not going to keep having this argument with you, Rafe, just do your rehab exercises and go to your appointments and call me if anything changes.”

And then Rafe is met with the taunting beeps of the call disconnecting as his dad hangs up the phone.

He pulls the device away from his ear, looking down at the darkened screen. His jaw is so tense his teeth are grinding and his knuckles are white as he grips his phone. After a moment, Rafe tosses the phone back onto the kitchen island—where it lands screen side up with a forceful thump—and chugs the rest of Topper’s shitty protein shake. 

Globs of it still stick to the sides of the cup—globs of it still stick to his throat—and Rafe drops the dirty glass into Topper’s kitchen sink. If there’s any upsides to his injury, it’s that, at least, he can’t really wash dishes or clean things. The few weeks he was on his own before flying out to Topper’s beach house, he was living off of dining hall food and paper plates.

He grabs a Cool Blue Gatorade Zero from the fridge to get the protein shake taste out of his mouth. It takes a little bit of fiddling—he has to squeeze the bottle between his right elbow and chest to be able to hold it steady enough to twist the cap off—and then he’s downing half of it in large gulps, swishing it around his mouth to wash out any lingering protein powder.

Topper probably had another hour in his workout, at least, before he would be done at the gym and he gave Rafe free reign to do pretty much anything at the house to keep himself entertained. Taking another sip of Gatorade, Rafe makes his way to the Thornton’s cinema room—or, at least, that’s what Topper insisted everyone call it. On one of their trips to an away game, Topper had cornered Rafe on the plane and made him listen to all the HD, high-tech upgrade bullshit that Topper had added to make it the “peak cinematic experience”. Rafe let him go on about it for 45 minutes before he put his AirPods in and stopped listening—it took Topper another 45 minutes before he realized this.

Rafe reaches for the remote, lazily scrolling through the various streaming service icons, before settling on ESPN. Nothing that interesting is being played mid-morning on a Wednesday, mostly recaps of games that had already happened and, in Rafe’s opinion, washed up opinions from washed up former athletes who weren’t famous enough to be given more popular time slots.

He tries to relax back into a more comfortable position on the couch, but he can’t get settled, every position either pulling or pushing on his shoulder too much or making him contort his neck and back in uncomfortable ways. He lets out a few swear words under his breath before giving up on the whole thing and sitting up again.

ESPN quickly grows boring and, after one too many weirdass ads, Rafe exits the application. He somehow finds himself clicking into Topper’s YouTube account, mostly out of a somewhat morbid curiosity to see what kind of videos his friend has on his homepage. It’s almost exclusively college hockey and NHL highlights—with the exception of one ASMR hairdresser roleplay that Rafe makes the active choice not to question. 

He scrolls through a couple various hockey podcast episodes and opinion-pieces on player signings, but doesn’t make the commitment of actually clicking on any. Finally Rafe lets out a heavy sigh and stops pretending like he doesn’t already know what he’s going to watch, navigating to the YouTube search bar.

It’s a video he’s watched so many times, he probably has it memorized. Sometimes he would sit on his bed, pull it up on his phone, and just watch and rewatch it until his phone battery died. He doesn’t really know why he keeps doing it to himself, even the ASMR video would probably be better for him, but Rafe types in the exact title of the video he’s looking for and clicks on it without a second thought. 

The video opens on a wide shot that shows off the entire University of Connecticut ice rink. In the top left corner a small graphic highlights the score—4-3 in favor of Boston College—and the time—8 minutes left in the second period. One of BC’s players is in the penalty box and the camera cuts to him looking up at the jumbotron, counting down the seconds until the power play is over—42.  

The feed cuts back to game-play and the announcers’ voices fill the room though Topper’s surround sound, luxury speakers. 

“—UConn wins the face-off. Thornton gets possession of the puck and quickly passes it back to Cameron.”

“UConn is gonna have to be smart if they want to make the most of this power play, Boston College has one of the highest penalty kill percentages in the country. I mean, we’re almost a minute and a half into the power play and UConn still doesn’t even have a shot on goal. Boston’s good at defensive plays like this, even a man down, they’re not gonna make this an easy goal for UConn.”

“You know, normally, I’d be kind of surprised at UConn sending Rafe Cameron’s line out for this power play—He’s obviously a phenomenal forward, but his strengths this season have seemed to be in his defensive plays more than offense, you know? He can certainly keep puck possession, but it’s not like… You know, JJ Maybank, who can consistently get pucks into the net. But I don’t know what kind of locker room speech Coach Bront gave those guys because Cameron’s been on fire tonight.”

“There’s no doubt Cameron’s having a great night. I mean, he’s played a role in all of UConn’s goals tonight, scoring two of them and picking up an assist on the third. Honestly, we haven’t seen this level of play from him since his freshman season. But I wanna go back to what you said at the beginning of that, Dale, because I think I might have to disagree with you—,”

“Here we go…”

“—I just think his defensive play is… Cameron’s a big guy, he’s—he doesn’t get pushed around, you know, and he’s not afraid to—Well, let’s just say, he’s not afraid to get physical clearing the slot. I think UConn’s gonna need that against a team like Boston.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t say we’ve been seeing much of that from him this season. Aside from tonight, he’s been—Oh, a quick one-timer from Ivanov!—Blocked by Patterson! Boston can’t get to the puck and Thornton regains possession, he passes to Cameron. Cameron to Ivanov. Back to Cameron—,”

In the left corner of the screen, 15 seconds are left in the power play.

“—Cameron passes to Thorn—No! He fakes the pass and passes the puck to Adelsköld who’s at the blue line. He passes it back to Cameron. Cameron—Oh! Cameron takes a hard hit from Maybank!”

“Oh, I think Maybank might’ve—I think that might’ve been a check from behind.”

“Was it? I didn’t—Well, Cameron’s teammates certainly seem to think so. Thornton’s dropped his stick and has Maybank pinned against the glass right now—,”

“Looks like everyone’s getting involved in the extracurricular activities now. Yeah, the refs are coming to break it up.”

“Thornton definitely got a couple hits in—,”

“Cartwright, too.”

“—I think a lot of guys are gonna be getting penalties for this.”

“You think Maybank checked Cameron from behind?”

“I’m not sure, I think—I’m gonna wanna see the replay first, I’m not sure.”

“Cameron’s not getting up though.”

“No, he isn’t. He’s grabbing his shoulder and—Okay, some of UConn’s medical team are heading onto the ice now. This is Cameron’s first game back since a shoulder injury back in January, it looks like it’s the same shoulder—,”

The camera cuts to a slow motion replay. Rafe watches as his own body turns as he passes the puck to his teammate. To make the pass, his body had shifted to be facing the glass. The puck comes back to him, but the pass is a bit sloppy. The puck gets caught in his skates, Rafe looks down to get it back on his stick. And then JJ is crashing into him at full speed, Rafe never even saw him coming.

He watches—in painfully slow, HD clarity—how his head snaps back before he falls forcefully to the ice, his right shoulder taking almost all of the impact. The slow motion video is silent, but in his head, Rafe can still hear the agonizing sound of his shoulder blade pushing away from his collarbone.

“Oh, that’s—that’s definitely a check from behind. I’d be surprised if Maybank doesn’t get a major for this.”

“Yeah, that’s—it’s unfortunate, I think, because I don’t think Maybank was—Like, I don’t think he expected Cameron to turn around so suddenly, you know. From his perspective, it should’ve been a clean hit.”

“Yeah, I mean, he was doing all the things he was supposed to do. You’re on the penalty kill, the other guy has the puck, you should check him—but, obviously, this isn’t…”

“The refs have gone to review the footage. To me it looks pretty cut and dry, like, it looks like an accident definitely, but I don’t think it can be anything but a check from behind.”

“I mean, I’ll say the same, but then I always end up wrong about these things. It looks like Cameron still hasn’t been able to get up yet, some of the medical team is looking him over right now. I can’t lie, Dale, he looks like he’s in a lot of pain…”

“I think you’re right. This might be the end of the season for Rafe Cameron.”

The video ends then, YouTube already queuing up another video—‘Top 10 WORST College Hockey Injuries’. Rafe turns the TV off before the video can load.

Another night later, Rafe finds himself back at the Norfolk International Airport, though this time he’s on the other side of it. He and Topper are back in the pickup lane outside one of the terminals, though this time there aren’t nearly as many people surrounding them, the airport significantly less busy at 1:00 in the morning. Next to him, Topper is pinching the bridge of his nose, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Dude, just—Have you gotten your luggage from baggage claim yet? …No, I’m—I wanna go home, man.” Whatever Kelce says on the other end of the line makes Topper groan. “I’m not saying that, I get that it was the soonest flight—No, you don’t need to call Sapphire right now—…Because you just called her! You called her before you called me!”

Rafe quickly busies himself with his phone to hide his amused smile. Out of habit, he opens Instagram, figuring he’ll just watch silent Reels until his friends are done arguing on the phone.

“Fine! Then she can pick you up from the airport, if she’s so great—!”

The app loads, bringing a photodump Sarah had posted a few hours earlier to the top of his feed. Rafe scrolls through the carousel indifferently. The pictures aren’t anything unusual—Sarah and her friends in bikinis, girly looking drinks, artsy pictures of the beach. The second to last picture is a group photo of her and all her friends along with a couple guys that Rafe doesn’t recognize. Rafe almost swipes past it, until something makes him freeze. He brings the phone closer to his face to make sure—after a few failed attempts of trying to hold his phone and zoom in on the picture with the same hand—plenty of people look like that blond-headed dickhead, it probably isn’t…

He sends the post back to his sister with a demanding dm.

Rafe Cameron: Why tf are you hanging out with JJ Maybank

Only a second later, three typing dots appear and he watches them impatiently.

sarah 🌺🦋: omg, chill. he knows kiara

Rafe Cameron: That doesn’t answer my question

sarah 🌺🦋: 🙄

sarah 🌺🦋: he and his friends came to cancún too

sarah 🌺🦋: SEPARATELY!!! 

sarah 🌺🦋: and then kiara posted something on her story and he dmed her and realized we were all in the same place and they wanted to meet up  

Rafe’s tongue swipes across his teeth in annoyance, his thumb hovering above the keyboard as he contemplates leaving his sister on read.

sarah 🌺🦋: look i know you hate him or wtv but he does seem genuinely sorry about what happened

Rafe Cameron: You talked to him about me??

sarah 🌺🦋: i mean when he found out i was your sister he asked how you were doing and stuff

Rafe Cameron: What did you say?

sarah 🌺🦋: i said you were doing better

sarah 🌺🦋: not that i would know bc you’ve been ignoring all my texts

Rafe Cameron: Yeah cuz you go and immediately spread that shit to Maybank

sarah 🌺🦋: YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THAT I KNEW HIM

Rafe looks up when Topper gets out of the car suddenly. When he turns his head to look out the passenger side window, Kelce is walking over the car, wheeling two, large suitcases behind him.

Rafe Cameron: Just don’t fucking talk to him about me

sarah 🌺🦋: i mean i wasn’t 🙄 but fine

sarah 🌺🦋: and answer my texts next time asshole

Rafe clicks his phone off just as Kelce makes his way into the backseat. A glance to the review mirror shows that he’s left Topper to deal with the task of fitting his two, over-packed suitcases into the trunk.

Kelce closes the car door before patting Rafe’s good shoulder excitedly. “Hey, man! How’s it goin’?”

“It’s been alright.” Kelce has taken the initiative of leaning forward until he’s resting against the center console so that Rafe doesn’t have to turn too much to look at him. “How was the flight?”

“Dude,” Kelce leans back with a groan. “You’d think a red-eye would be chill, but I got stuck next to a crying baby the whole time. Had to give my complimentary coffee to the mom ‘cause I felt bad.”

Rafe chuckles as Topper gets back into the driver’s seat. He turns to glare at his friend in the backseat.

“Gee, man, thanks for the help with your luggage!”

Kelce grins with a mock salute. “Always happy to help, Thornsy.”

Topper flips him off and starts the car. As soon as the center console screen turns on, Kelce is reaching forward to connect his phone to the car’s bluetooth. Topper tries to slap his hand away a couple times, before finally relenting—”Dude, I always get aux!”—and Kelce leans back into his seat as the beginning instrumental of some J. Cole song fills the car.

“So we throwing a massive rager tomorrow night, or what?” Kelce asks after a couple minutes of scrolling through all the less important notifications he missed while he was on his flight.

“Big time.” Topper’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror to look back at him. “Kyle said he’d bring all the alcohol if he can invite a bunch of people and Ruthie’s bringin’ all of her sorority friends.”

Rafe grimaces slightly at the name. 

Ruthie was Topper’s on-again-off-again situationship. They only ever hooked up in the summer—when they were both back in the Outer Banks—and then would completely cut contact as soon as the fall semester started. Rafe didn’t really see the appeal in Ruthie, to be honest. She was hot, sure, but she had the ability to overpower any social situation in a way that Rafe thought was exhausting.

Ruthie also got crazy jealous, getting in long, loud arguments with Topper if he so much as looked at another girl—not that Topper was totally innocent either, Ruthie wasn’t wrong in accusing him of flirting with other girls, just annoying—and that always resulted in her basically moving herself into the beach house to “keep an eye on him”. Rafe could barely handle her on a good day and, ever since his injury, he’d been having very few good days.

“Think you can keep up, Cameron?”

Kelce receives his second middle finger of the night. “Which one of us had to be carried home after two mojitos?”

“That was one time!”

“No, it definitely wasn’t.”

“Like you can talk, Topper—!”

The bass is pumping so loud it’s giving Rafe a headache as he navigates through Topper’s overcrowded house. It’s so loud, he can’t even hear what the song is, just loud, obnoxious buzzing he can feel all the way to his feet. Someone knocks into Rafe’s right shoulder as he moves past them, sending a searing pain through him so suddenly that he has to clamp down on his tongue to keep from shouting out in agony.

The guy doesn’t care, not even looking up from the girl that’s currently grinding on him long enough to notice what had happened. Rafe has to take a moment to let the worst of the pain pass, before he turns so that his back is facing the guy, shoving him hard as he makes room to keep walking out of Topper’s living room. Rafe can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction as he sees the guy stumble into the girl dancing on him.

The party had been raging on for a few hours now and showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Aside from the loud house music, he’s surrounded by the sounds of cheering from the beer pong table and somewhat distant screams and splashes from Topper’s pool outside. 

Rafe grits his teeth as he finally pushes past enough tightly packed college students to make it to the stairs. He’s still slightly buzzed from pregaming with the guys earlier, but it isn’t leaving him with the easy feeling it usually does. Instead he feels weirdly tired and sore, and his temples feel tight like it’s only a matter of time before he gets a killer migraine.

Topper and Kelce had left him ages ago. Topper to go “talk with”—have sex with—Ruthie and Kelce said he needed to go call Sapphire and then never came back. Rafe had entertained himself with a few sorority girls, but with the sling he wasn’t really in the mood to dance or go off somewhere to hook up and he and the girls all realized quickly that none of them had ever actually been interested in talking to each other. With drinking and girls removed from the equation, there wasn’t much left for him to do at a house party and he just wanted to go to bed and sleep this whole thing off. 

There’s a strong smell of weed coming from the closed door of one of the upstairs rooms that Rafe knows Topper is definitely going to complain about in the morning, but Rafe just walks past it, ignoring the weird noises coming from most of the upstairs room until he finally makes it into his own.

As he steps inside and closes the door, Rafe’s brows furrow. The main light in the room is on—which he’s pretty sure it wasn’t when he left earlier—and the door to his en suite bathroom is closed—which, again, it wasn’t when he left. Rafe moves to go open the bathroom door, but is met with resistance and the door handle only jiggles.

“One second!” A voice Rafe doesn’t recognize calls out from behind the closed door. “I’m just, um, getting sexy for you…”

Rafe lets his forehead hit the wood of the door with a soft thud—that he instantly regrets. He’s really not in the mood for this right now. He tries the door handle again before the door swings open suddenly and he’s met with a pair of frazzled eyes.

“Listen—Oh… You’re not Paul.”

“Who the fuck is Paul?”

Rafe isn’t really sure where to look first. The curtains and rod that were hanging over his small bathroom window and are now on the floor next to two mega packs of toilet paper stacked on top of each other like some kind of macgyvered step stool or you, the clear perpetrator. You somehow seem more confused than he is, eyes darting around his frame nervously.

“That’s not—What are you doing here?”

Rafe lets out a rude laugh. “It’s my room.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.” And then suddenly they open even wider. “Oh. Listen, I think I messed here—,”  

Before you can finish explaining what exactly you’re doing in Rafe’s room, the bedroom door opens. The loud music and chatter that was slightly muffled from the door comes back full force as another person Rafe doesn’t recognize steps into his room.

The guy looks between the two of you with a dumb blink. He’s wearing a teal blue basketball jersey with the name and number ‘Hornets 15’ scrawled across his chest. Rafe’s sure that, if it were on anyone else, he wouldn’t have even really clocked the Kemba Walker jersey, but this guy is so sweaty that the fabric is practically fused to his chest. The guy’s whole body is flushed pink, his hair that must have been at one point styled now plastered in strands to his forehead.

“Paul…” You supply.

That’s Paul?

“Hey, what happened? I was waiting for you,” Paul steps farther into the room, much to Rafe’s annoyance. He sounds like that stupid turtle from Finding Nemo—which Rafe only knows because, for a couple of years in his adolescence, it was the only movie Wheezie would watch. He must have made a face or something because he catches Paul’s attention, who gives him a greeting nod. “You good, bud?”

At this point, Rafe thinks he’s genuinely going to lose it if he isn’t alone in his room taking his next dose of painkillers in the next five seconds. 

Nothing about this situation is making much sense to him because, while Paul’s gone back to looking at you, his eyes full of an obviously horny lust, you’ve moved slightly behind Rafe, like you’d rather be anywhere else. You meet Rafe’s eye suddenly and something flashes through them as you seem to try and communicate without speaking.

To really seal his fate, a small “Please?” passes your lips in a soft breath.

Rafe takes a breath, before turning back to Paul. “Yeah, bud, I’m good.”

He hesitates, his eyes glance back at you briefly to catch you staring at his bathroom window. Right. He lets out a strained sigh, tries to fight his oncoming migraine, and then says something he’s certain he’ll regret in the morning—not even, he’s regretting it now and he hasn’t even said it yet.

“Just trying to figure out why you’re talking to my girlfriend.”

In less than a week, Rafe had managed to not only completely shatter your heart, but he had managed to slip right in and knock you off your feet worse than anyone ever had before. 

You should’ve known better. You had been warned a million times. You had seen exactly how easy it was for Rafe’s actions to spiral into a whirlwind that took everyone else out in his path, but for some idiotic reason, you thought that he would find a way to spare you. 

Ward couldn’t have possibly felt like this when Rafe had backed into his work truck, destroying a few thousand dollars worth of windows that were supposed to be installed the night before. 

You doubt this had been the feeling in Sarah’s chest when she realized that it was her brother who had been trying to help Wheezy carry her Star Wars Lego through the garage and broke the surfboard she had made for John B for their anniversary.

Betrayed. 

Maybe you didn’t really have a right to feel that way, but that doesn’t make the feeling in your chest go away. The two of you weren’t dating. He wasn’t your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he cheated on you. 

Except, you feel like he did. Judging by the look on his face earlier, he at least thinks he did something wrong. The two of you haven’t managed to disagree on that.

Rafe had betrayed you in a way nobody had before, which has given way to a feeling that you haven’t directed towards him in a very long time.

Anger. 

It curdles every ounce of sadness in your bones, fueling you with a ridiculous feeling of irritation as you watch Sarah attempt to call him for the fifth time across the room. Kie is texting him in all caps with curses that you didn’t even know existed flying out of her fingertips as you sit on the couch, foot anxiously tapping against the ground. 

He had kissed you.

He told you that he loved you.

All of this, every bit of it, had been because he was the one who decided to act on his feelings. He knew how you felt. You’d bet your life he knew. He was the one who had jumped the gun, and now he couldn’t even be man enough to own up to it? He was just planning on hiding out until all of you brushed it under the rug like you always did? 

You were the one who made everyone see his side in these situations. 

You.

If he thought for a second he got to drag you around on a whim behind him, hoping and wishing for him to finally get his head out of his own ass then he has another thing coming. 

Maybe he can avoid having to answer for his shit to everyone else, but you won’t be the one to fix it. If he wanted to throw his life away without all of you, then let him.

He had made his decision and it damn sure wasn’t you.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Kie asks as you stand up, your hand swiping your phone off of its spot on the floor and tucking it into your back pocket. 

“Pope-” 

You start to speak, but Sarah is in front of you in a flash, phone tossed on your kitchen counter no longer trying to harass her brother into answering. Her hands find your arms like she is trying to keep you in one place

“Pope isn’t allowed to kill him either,” She says quickly. “He is unfortunately still my brother.”

You roll your eyes, reaching out to grab her forearms with your fingers. The two of you stand locked together, both of you worried about entirely different things without even realizing it. The two of you are hardly ever this far off from each other’s train of thought, but this situation definitely isn’t something you’ve encountered before. 

“Pope isn’t killing anyone-”

“He would if you asked,” Kie chimes in. 

“Pope,” You continue, “Says that there’s a party at some guy he knows place. I’d rather not go looking like death reincarnated.”

Sarah’s hands drop from your arms, a look of confusion settling over her face. You don’t look anything like you look when she had come around the corner earlier in the day, eyes no longer watery and heartache not etched so deeply in your face she had been afraid it would never go away. 

You look-

Indifferent.

“A party?”

Kie is the one to break the silence that looms for just a few short moments, her fingers no longer angrily typing away on her keyboard as she looks from Sarah back to you. 

“Like with people and drinks and-” You ramble off, motioning with your hands as if she doesn’t know what a party is. 

She’s not stupid, you know that, but you are trying to ease the irritation in your chest and the only way you can think to do that is to focus on something else. Something far away from engagement rings and tabloid releases and tests that you don’t even want to think of the implications of.

A party. 

Full of people you don’t really know where you can try to stop JJ from dancing on top of a fire pit or persuade Cleo to try a shot of Fireball even though you know she hates it. Instead of letting yourself sit and sulk about something that you no longer wish to have any stake in, you can go somewhere and have fun. 

“Are you sure that’s-” Sarah asks, her voice cutting off the second your attention is back on her. That’s all it takes for the two of you to sync right back in line with each other, the thoughts swirling in your mind clicking into place in hers in a second. She nods immediately, tucking a stray hand behind her ear in finality. “Right, party. We can party.”

She looks to Kie, who has her eyebrows pinched together as she silently looks for an explanation as to how a party is going to help with the world crumbling down around you. Sarah shoots her a look, motioning with her head for Kie to stop asking questions before you catch her eye and she sends you a smile to try to cover it up. 

If Rafe Cameron wanted to make his own life miserable, you weren’t going to stop him.

But you’re done letting him make yours. 

Two days ago, you had been in the worst shape of your life, crying over the loss of your best friend’s brother and whatever relationship the two of you had launched yourselves into.

Tonight, you are standing in the middle of some frat party, watching JJ trying and failing to convince Pope to do body shots while you are nursing your third drink of the night since your arrival twenty minutes ago.

As far as shifts in the universe go, you can’t be too mad at this one.

Not with the warmth settling into your chest as you take a sip out of the wine cooler Kie had pressed into your hand without a word about your usual limit being exceeded for the night. You never cared for drinking in public, usually allowing yourself a drink or rarely two, but liking to keep your bearings.

Tonight? 

You’ve got Sarah playing bodyguard, turning down the outstretched drink in her boyfriend’s hand while she tries to pretend like she isn’t still trying to figure out what she is going to do with her tipsy best friend and her brother who has yet to return one of her phone calls. 

The phone tucked into the pocket of your jeans hasn’t stopped buzzing since you received the article, a number you know all too well flashing across the screen now lacking the contact info it once had. You don’t answer phone calls from people you don’t know. No contact, no conversation. 

You’re not going to go back on that just because you were the one to rid him of his contact.

Sarah’s fingernails tapping harshly against her phone screen grab your attention away from your mission of finding where Kie had disappeared to, the girl taking her drink and slipping out the back door while her boyfriend was trying to drag a very reluctant Pope into various party festivities. 

If you didn’t know her as well as you do, you might think she is just trying to find a better spot to hang out or maybe she was trying to buy some cheap weed off of one of the Kooks who didn’t pay attention enough to realize she was trying to swindle them. 

You could live with not knowing if you didn’t know her, but you do.

And when Kie disappears at a party, it’s for one thing and one thing only: information.

Information is a girl's best friend, and while Rafe may think not answering either of their calls prevents them from finding out what the hell is going on, that doesn’t mean the rest of the campus feels that way. If there is anything that hasn’t been spilled to the news or floated around in the locker rooms, Kie is liked enough in all circles to find out anything and everything that they could possibly want to know.

They.

Not you.

Because you have no interest in any sort of information pertaining to the unknown caller running rampant in your pocket. 

The only interest you have is draining the drink in your hand and making your way to the kitchen for another.

“You and Maybank in some kind of race or something?”

A voice has your face turning up from where you lean against the wall next to a furiously typing Sarah and John B, who has been trying to no avail to tie a cherry stem in his mouth. Your now empty bottle drops away from your mouth and down to your side as you arch your eyebrow at the person standing in front of you.

“Why?” You ask Barry with a tilt of your head, “Think I’m winning?”

Barry just smirks in response, using his head to motion towards your blonde friend who is currently downing a line of shots across the kitchen counter surrounded by applause. You roll your eyes, clicking your tongue against the back on your teeth in faux disappointment.

“There goes my gold medal.”

You and Barry aren’t what you would consider even acquaintances, your interactions with him usually limited to a nod while he and Rafe are lost in conversation or in passing. Not that you have anything against him, but you don’t really know anything about him. Other than Rafe never let the two of you interact for long periods of time and he couldn’t hide the look on his face whenever Barry would greet you with words rather than nonverbally. 

Any other night, chatting with him probably wouldn’t have worked in your favor, but you don’t have it in you to care anymore.

Maybe a tiny part of you finds a little satisfaction in the idea of Rafe feeling the tiniest twinge of anything you were feeling the first time you saw him with Sofia.

Or maybe you’re just a little petty. 

You can always blame it on the alcohol in the morning. 

Barry chuckles, grabbing Sarah’s attention away from her phone as she realizes that you are indeed talking to someone and not just mumbling something under your breath. Her eyes narrow in on his presence before they turn to you, red flags practically waving right in your face.

“Barry.”

His grin widens as his focus flickers over to the girl next to you, her fingers still wrapped around her phone as she takes in the boy in front of you.

“Miss Cameron,” he says with a mock bow, earning him a glare from your best friend.

“Routledge actually,” John B corrects, putting his hand up before smacking himself in the chest, cherry stem nowhere to be found. “Dammit, I need to get another one. I almost had it.”

He pushes himself away from the wall, gearing up to head to the kitchen when Sarah’s hand reaches out, lightly grabbing his arm. The two of them exchange looks, a warning on her face that you know he isn’t stupid enough to ignore. 

Flopping back against the wall, a huff sliding out of his mouth, he offers you a forced smile as he settles back in. While his girlfriend might not have pleasant feelings towards you chatting with her brother’s acquaintance, he doesn’t seem to mind the idea as he glances between the two of you.

If the wink he throws your way is any indication, you think he might actually like the idea.

“You looking for a consolation prize?”

Barry’s eyes are back on yours, fingers reaching out and swiping the empty bottle out of your hands with a knowing look. Sarah’s next to you in a second, phone tucked into her pocket and fingernails brushing against your arm.

“I don’t think-”

“Why? Are you offering one?” You ask him, crossing your arms over your chest and arching a brow at him. His grin widens, a gleam in his eye that you’ve only ever seen right before he’s dragging someone into trouble.

He swirls your empty bottle around in the air like he’s taunting you with it, both of you already knowing you’re going to follow him. He’s offering you everything you need on a silver platter: a distraction. 

Better yet, one that is just dangerous enough that you’re sure to get people talking about you without a breath of pity for your stupid broken heart.

Sarah says your name, fingers tugging you back a step to look at her. You already know what she is going to say, that you’re not in this for the right reasons, but you know the real reason she is so hesitant. 

You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and Barry isn’t offering anything more than a drink even if she thinks differently. One step out of line and you’ll have the guy in front of you on the floor before a very temperamental blonde who is currently mixing shots on the counter will gladly start swinging in your honor. 

As much as she may love you, she still is concerned about her brother, who will absolutely hear about this and probably pitch a fit even though he has no right to. 

This is you shoving Rafe Cameron’s feelings out of your area of concern.

It actually feels way better than you thought it would.

Let him brood in his silence, storm through his room and have to sit in the fact that you are allowed to do whatever you want with whoever you want. If he wanted your feelings to be his concern, he had every opportunity. 

“I am going to go get a drink,” You tell Sarah confidently, tugging your phone out of your pocket and holding it out to her. The screen is lit up with the same number that has been calling, no picture gracing the non-existent contact as she takes it in her hand with a confused look. “You watch over this for me. Tell him I’m busy, but you have all the time in the world to listen to his shit.”

“I-”

“Sarah,” You say her name and her protests die in her throat, disapproval softening into something else entirely. “I’m getting over it.”

“Okay,” She says simply, scrunching her lips up for a second as she lets the idea settle. “Okay. Just be safe and-”

“I’ll find you.”

“Okay.”

You leave her with a smile, following a grinning Barry towards the drinks with a thumbs up from John B. When you look back, she is putting your phone up to her ear. The understanding look she had been giving you is long gone as she opens her mouth to answer the phone, anger settling into her features. 

Heaven help Rafe Cameron because you certainly won’t be.

“Any chance you know where your uglier half is?”

Barry is the first to break the silence, cigarette smoke spilling from where he stands next to you. You’ve perched yourself on the porch railing, a new glass bottle sitting next to you and halfway empty as your feet dangle over the side. 

You tilt your head at him, looking over his face as if you are trying to crack some kind of code. You’re not drunk, but you are definitely tipsy. Not tipsy enough to let the question go over your head, eyes narrowing at him.

“Did you come talk to me to get tabs on your boyfriend?” 

Barry laughs, flicking some ash onto the wood beneath his feet. He takes another drag, letting the moment sit between you before he answers. Like not answering is going to be enough to get you to stop asking. 

“I believe our boyfriend,” Barry corrects, “Is giving us both the silent treatment.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, taking a sip out of your drink. Your fingers tap around the neck of the bottle, trying to decide how much information you are willing to divulge to this somewhat stranger.

“He’s not giving me the silent treatment-”

“Ah,” Barry clicks his tongue, nodding like he has cracked some code with just a few words. “So, you’re not talking to him. That would explain why he’s dropped off the face of the earth.”

Arguing with that point doesn’t seem like it would go anywhere. Coincidentally you and Rafe had dropped off the planet at the same time, even Sarah had mentioned it when she was trying to figure out what really had gone on between the two of you. You know why you had locked yourself away from the world, but you’re not really sure why he did.

Not to mention he wasn’t too far gone to not bring his fiancee out for the public to speculate on. You knew that he was at least feeling guilty for what had transpired between the two of you, but he wasn’t sitting around with a broken heart and sulking on the porch of a stranger’s house. 

He’s getting married.

That tells you everything you need to know about his feelings on the matter.

 And that leaves you here.

“I’m not not talking to him.”

Barry shakes his head, amused at you trying to shift the focus off of you. It’s not really any of his business, but you say it anyway. Even if you both know it’s a lie.

“What could Country Club have done to chase you off?” Barry asks curiously, twisting the cigarette in his fingers. “He’s in love with you or some shit.”

You can feel the feelings you had chased off swelling in your chest at the reminder of the confession you not only had to hear from Rafe, but the constant reassurance from everyone else to confirm what you had already known but hadn’t wanted to face before this situation threw it in your face. 

Rafe had been in love with you. Even Barry had noticed. And still-

You take another sip of your drink, shoving the creeping sadness down in your chest and replacing it with indifference. You don’t want to think about anything but the truth that is glaring in your face.

“He’s getting married.”

The vivid memory of the photo you had seen of the ring flashes in your mind, but before you have time to dwell on it, Barry is coughing. He drops the cigarette out of his hand and onto the ground, twisting the tip of his shoe to put it out before his cough dissolves into laughter.

Real, genuine laughter.

For the life of you, you can’t imagine what could possibly be funny about any of this. As someone in the middle of it, the only laughs that have escaped you have been at the expense of yourself and your naivety. 

Him laughing just pisses you off. 

When his eyes meet yours, his laughing dissolves a bit when he notices the look in your eye. He clears his throat, knocking his fist against his chest.

“Sorry, I-” He coughs again, amusement evident on his face. “He’s-”

“Getting married,” You finish bitterly. “Don’t act like you didn’t see the shit online.”

You don’t know much about the guy, but you know he always knows something. He’s who Rafe goes to anytime he needs information. There’s no way that something like this went down, especially with his weird friendship with the person in question, and he didn’t know about it. 

“Right, and he didn’t say anything to you?” 

Confusion etches its way onto your face, another almost laugh escaping him before he is trying to cover it up with a cough and an apology. Obviously, you had been left out of the loop when it came to the announcement of the upcoming nuptials.

Apparently, Barry hadn’t. 

You don’t like the way that information settles into your chest, the thought that not only had Rafe not come to you and told you about what was going on, but he went to Barry. Barry, who he was adamant was not his friend in name, but only transactionally. The two of them had always confused you, but the boy who swore that you were his best friend and that nothing would ever change hadn't come to you with something that would inevitably change everyone’s lives.

And now you had found the same solace that he had with someone who you’re not sure you’ve ever spoken a sentence to. The similarities in the two of you persisting despite your efforts to rid yourself of Rafe Cameron makes the irritation in your chest swell.

Even now, you can’t escape him. 

“I think it would defeat the purpose of whatever game he thought he could play.”

The tone of your voice seems to catch Barry off-guard, his eyebrows pinching together as the words make their way out. You’re not sure what the man knows or how long he has known it, and you’re not sure you want to, but he at least knows that you have no part in any of this. 

You hadn’t been considered in Rafe’s choices.

“Maybe the two of you need to have a chat,” Barry tries, his voice leading off like he doesn’t want it to be his place to tell you whatever he knows. 

Not that you care.

You don’t.

The alcohol is just clearly destroying your ability to remain indifferent to the whirlwind of a situation that you have been dragged into. That’s all.

You don’t care that Rafe is marrying someone else. 

You don’t care that out of everyone, after everything, he didn’t at least have the balls to tell you that himself. 

“Not interested.”

Barry smiles, like there’s a secret swimming around that he is the only one lucky enough to know. You’ve decided you don’t like that look, and as much fun as it may be to bicker with someone while the twinkling lights around the outside of the house are starting to blur a bit around the edges, you’re done with this conversation.

“I think you-”

“I think you’re out of your league.”

Barry’s smile widens into something you haven’t seen before, almost like a kid in a candy shop as his focus shifts from you to the very irritating voice that you surely have to be imagining.

Your vision swims a bit at the speed you turn your head, eyes locking with the owner of the voice that you have tried to push out of your mind for the past few hours. He doesn’t look amused, not in the slightest, but neither do you.

The boy next to is completely undeterred by the murderous glare being thrown his way, metal tooth gleaming in his smile as he looks at the intruder.

“Country Club,” Barry’s voice sounds entirely too happy to be in the presence of the person responsible for the bitterness you feel burning through your veins. “What an honor to see you here. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Rafe Cameron has been known to be quite a few things. Smart. Somewhat funny. Charming. Resourceful. A package that was just enough to drive girls crazy, but to also keep them coming back for more. 

Calm, however, was not one of those things. 

In fact, you witnessed Rafe losing his cool more times than you can count. Once things start going differently than how he imagined in his head, the gloves come off and he starts to react before thinking anything through.

As time went on, he had started to finally listen to you about letting things go. Not making a mountain out of a mole hill just because someone said or did something he didn’t like. He went from being the quickest to the draw to him now being slightly less reactive than your very own JJ Maybank.

From one glance, you could tell every bit of restraint that was instilled in him was being tested by the obvious proximity you and Barry were sharing. 

“I’ll leave you lovebirds to chat,” Barry breaks the silence with a bright smile, hand reaching out to grab yours and pressing his lips to your knuckles before he is pushing away from the porch railing. He throws you a wink, eyes full of mischief as he makes his way towards the party. If he hears Rafe mutter his name in warning, he doesn’t react, just brushes past him before deciding to clap him on the shoulder. “Tell the missus I said hello.”

In any other situation, it would be commendable how much restraint Rafe shows as Barry parts with you. His jaw is clenched tight enough that in the past you might have been worried about him cracking a tooth, but neither of his hands connect with any part of Barry’s body in an angry way, fingers twitching at his sides like they are eager. 

The two of them engage in a brief conversation in tones so low that you can’t find it in yourself to care about trying to listen in. Whatever it is has Barry walking away with a smirk and Rafe flaring his nostrils in an attempt to keep his temper at bay. 

He doesn’t make a move, his blue eyes focusing on you with an irritated expression that you don’t think you have ever seen reserved for you. 

It takes you a second to place it, emotions flickering over his face as he attempts to search your face to gauge how upset you are with him. You are looking at him like a stranger, and he is looking at you like-

Jealousy is a funny thing. 

So funny, in fact, that you can’t help but laugh when it dawns on you why Rafe is standing in front of you looking like he doesn’t know whether to scream or cry. It’s a cold laugh, one that has his lip curling up as if you just reached out and slapped him, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. 

He doesn’t find any amusement in the situation, but you certainly can. The man put a ring on someone else’s finger, but you can’t have a conversation with someone else without him wanting to throw a punch.

It’s more ridiculous than it is sad to tipsy you, who downs the rest of your drink and hops off the railing with every intention of going to get another one.

He steps to the side before you can even get a stride in, the motion freezing you in place when you realize that there isn’t an escape close enough to get you away from this conversation. He had come looking for one, and he had decided he was going to get one.

Once again, you’ve been left out of a decision that should be yours to make. 

If he wants a conversation, he’ll get one. You’re not going to cry and beg him to explain things to you because you don’t want that. You want to scream at him. To make him feel even the slightest bit of what you are feeling. 

You’re done crying over Rafe Cameron, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to make his life hell.

The bottle in your hands settles nicely on the railing behind you, your arms crossing over your chest as you turn your focus back to the blue eyes in front of you. His eyebrows pinch together for a split second before he is trying to hide his surprise at you holding your ground. 

He had expected you to run.

Without the alcohol in your system, you probably would’ve. Saves you the heartache of having to stand in front of him like he wasn’t the most important person in your life just a few weeks ago. 

“What were you-”

You roll your eyes, huffing out a breath because of course his concern is on the fact that you were out here with Barry. After everything, this is what he wants to talk to you about.

“Not any of your business, Cameron.”

“You are my business,” He fires back immediately, earning a scoff from you.

“Your fiancee is your business,” You retort. “Your sister is your business. What I do and who I do it with has nothing to do with you.”

Calm.

While Rafe is known for his explosive tendencies, you are known to keep a level-head in stressful situations. Your friends joke that if they were ever trapped on a deserted island, their survival would entirely hinge upon how unphased you allow yourself to be in a crisis. 

The first to talk someone down. You’ve always been able to find a way through situations that other people let overwhelm them. The wiring in your brain somehow decides to step up anytime the universe throws the people you love a curveball. 

As much as it may make you seem entirely unaffected by things, you can’t lie and say it isn’t the most helpful tool in your inebriated arsenal right now. Even teetering over the edge between tipsy and drunk, you keep yourself from the shouting burning to escape your throat. 

Rafe, on the other hand, can’t hide the irritation on his face. His jaw is almost pulsing with how many times he flexes it, trying to stop himself from launching into an argument that you somehow are his business.

He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want you to be.

There’s the smallest piece of you that yearns to feel guilty for the look on his face. The circles under his eyes and the way his face flashes between wanting to cry and wanting to let out a scream of his own would normally tug at your heart and have you feeling the ever present need to fix whatever problems he has in his life, but you don’t.

Right now, it seems like his biggest problem is you.

You didn’t do anything wrong. 

In fact, the thought of you somehow having anything to do with how utterly ridiculous this situation is makes you want to laugh. It’s outrageous how far you’ve been willing to go to make him feel better when he hasn’t done the same for you at all in this. 

“You shouldn’t hang around guys like him.”

There’s no stopping that laugh that jumps out of you, the audacity of him to think that in all of this what you need is a warning about having a conversation with Barry. If he was so concerned about your well-being, the warning he should’ve given you was about the ring on another girl’s finger after just telling you that he was in love with you.

“Eat shit,” You say, irritation evident in your tone. “Don’t act like you give a fuck about who I’m hanging around. You just care because it’s not you.”

Maybe it comes out a little meaner than it should, but you can’t really find it in yourself to care. He wanted to find you to have this conversation. That doesn’t mean you have to make it a nice one. 

“I care.”

It comes out in a bite, him trying to stop himself from going any further and saying something that you can tell is building up. While you apparently aren’t good at reading all of his tell-tale signs, you’ve at least picked up on when he is trying to hold himself back from saying something he doesn’t mean.

If he had been able to do that days ago when you had been standing in his room, maybe you wouldn’t be standing in front of him with a bitter taste in your mouth at the thought that he was still somehow keeping things from you. You try not to let it overtake you, the anger that you feel rising up at Rafe being able to hide from a fight when it comes at your expense, but the drinks you’ve had and the tears you’ve wasted over the past few days won’t let you.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you,” You find the button you want to press, putting your hand up to your ear as if you are having trouble hearing. “Trying to save your voice for a TMZ exclusive later or did you not pay them enough to follow you into the bushes out here too?”

He’s across the porch in just about three strides, blue eyes staring at you with more anger than you’ve ever seen directed your way. You don’t back down, satisfaction flooding into your chest at the realization that you have successfully ruffled his feathers. 

The alcohol hasn’t stripped you of your senses, but it has definitely made you bolder. More confident. Confident that you are going to handle this conversation with a little less moping and a little more backbone than you may have under other circumstances, but also in knowing that as unfortunate as it has been for your heartache, you still know Rafe better than anyone on the planet. 

“I care,” He insists, jaw ticking for the millionth time. “You know that I do. I told you I love you-”

“Oh boo fucking hoo, Cameron.” You cut him off, crossing your arms over your chest indignantly. “Forgive me if I find it a little hard to believe that when you proposed to someone else in almost the same breath.”

“I didn’t propose.”

You falter for a second at his immediate response. Just one tiny second before it hits you that he is really trying to gaslight you into thinking that you didn’t see the rock on that girl’s hand along with 90% of the population around you. Hell, you’re sure even your mom had seen it and the woman doesn’t even know how to find an article that isn’t a Facebook reel. 

“Am I a fucking joke to you?” You ask, taking a step back from where your chests had almost been touching and throwing your hands up in the air. 

“I’m not laughing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, a scoff escaping your lips as your eyes flicker across his face. There’s no deep line in the middle of his eyebrows, no teeth clamping down on the inside of his lip to tell you that he’s lying. That doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth.

“I saw the ring.”

He doesn’t shuffle from foot to foot like he usually does when his lies are tumbling down around him. His eyes aren’t shifting around, trying to find something to grasp onto to help him gain back some footing in the conversation. 

He’s focused on you, solely on you, and it makes you want to knock the daylight out of him.

“Your mom’s ring.” You add on, trying to stop yourself from cussing him up one side and down the other.

You aren’t some idiot so blind in your hope for Rafe Cameron’s affection that you are going to let him twist this around and make you feel like you didn’t see something that is forever burned into your mind. The ring was there, you had seen it, and you knew exactly what ring it was.

There’s no universe in which he can make you somehow forget that. 

“I know.”

It comes out in almost a whisper, his shoulders dropping as your eyes find him again. The irritation has wiped off of his face completely, but it’s replaced with an emotion that you have been trying to avoid recognizing since he waltzed himself out here.

Guilt.

He doesn’t waste a beat, words tumbling out of his mouth as fast as he can get them to. His dad got a call from some friend of his, letting him know that there were some scouts interested in him. Big time scouts. Scouts that would be responsible for if he got drafted or not after the season was over. 

That part you practically miss, the idea that he needed to worry about any kind of scout not liking him feeling ridiculous. He had been born and bred to impress them. That future had been decided for him long before he had even accepted that it was a fate he wanted. 

He did want it. For him. Not just for his dad. The two of you had talked about that enough times for you to know that.

Apparently, word of mouth gets around a little more than game footage because teams that had practically been drooling over him every week were now heavily reconsidering after his brawl with a rival player at a party about two months ago.

You remember the night, he had showed up to your dorm with a split lip and bloody knuckles, mumbling something about an asshole never knowing when to keep his mouth shut. You had sighed like you always did and patched him up, giving him the same talk about how he needed to stop letting people get in his head like that. 

Scouts said it made him seem like a risk. Cocky. Arrogant. A hot-head who will inevitably blow up with no consideration for the team that he would be dragging down with him. He was coming off as too immature to be taken seriously, and he was risking going undrafted if he didn’t find some way to get their attention on him in a positive light. 

His dad had come up with the hair-brained idea that if he could seem serious about something, or rather someone, they would take another look at him and see something else. A college kid who had turned his life around in the name of love. 

There had been a few dates that you hadn’t seen in the headlines, but had been leaked to the right places. Photos that were made to look like this relationship had been going on for far longer than he wanted to admit. Then came the ring. 

“Okay.”

Your voice cuts him off mid ramble, words dying in his throat as his eyebrows furrow together in confusion.

“Okay?”

You nod, as if that answers the question he is asking. It doesn’t, but you don't have anything else to say. The situation has been explained and not only does it not fix anything, but it actually makes you feel worse at the realization of what went down.

“Can I go now?”

“Wait, I-”

“It’s been lovely chatting,” You say as you wipe your sweat palms against your legs. “But I really don’t think any of this is helpful and I would much rather be pretty much anywhere else right now.”

He looks like a fish out of water, your words settling in but he’s not understanding why the situation isn’t at least starting to repair. You still are looking at him as if he is a stranger, and he’s looking at you like he is going to be sick.

“You don’t have anything you want to say?” He asks, voice faltering a little bit as the panic starts to settle in. “You don’t want to yell at me? Tell me I’m an idiot? There’s nothing-”

You sigh, tiredness starting to settle into your bones. This entire situation has drained everything out of you, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. 

“What do you want me to say, Rafe?” You ask, throwing your hands up in the air. “You played rom-com. Do you not get that?”

He shakes his head, hand wiping across the front of his face before he is opening his mouth to disagree. You already know what he is going to say. Tipsy you isn’t interested in hearing it. 

“Have you not seen enough shitty movies to know that this was exactly how this was going to end up? You picked the wrong girl,” Your voice is gentle, but firm. There’s no room for argument in your tone, but he’s going to try. Of course he is going to try. “If you loved me-”

“I do love you.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me?” You don’t give him a chance to continue trying to convince you that he cares about you. “You needed someone to get fake engaged to, so why didn’t you ask me? Why ask her? Did you think I wouldn’t get it?”

Rafe drops his shoulders, the realization setting in a little too late for him that there is nothing he is going to be able to say to make this better right now. If he says no, then he viewed your friendship in a way that was significantly weaker than you did.

Saying yes means that he considered it- considered you- and still didn’t choose to ask you. 

“You said I was your best friend, and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me,” You continue, the lump in your throat swelling up way too fast for your liking. “I found out that you were engaged through a stranger’s Instagram story.”

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“Is she pregnant?”

He blinks at your question, the red around his eyes making it a bit hard for him to focus on yours, but he snaps into focus in the same way that the memory dawns on you.

A test.

He had publicly gone with her to get the test. They didn’t order it. She didn’t go alone. He went with her, knowing what it would mean. Knowing how it would be perceived. He knew, and once again, you were finding out about his life through the press when he lived so close you could practically throw a rock at his window. 

“Can you just give me two seconds to explain?”

You suck in a breath, vision wobbling for a second before you are trying to stop yourself from once again crying over an idiot who couldn’t ever seem to choose you in a moment where it mattered. 

“You made your choice, Rafe,” Your voice is nearly a whisper in an attempt to not let it shake. He doesn’t need to know how affected you are by his decisions, even though you are sure it is evident on your face. “Take some responsibility."

Taglist:

it’s all textbook. you’ve done this a dozen times before with politicians, small-town artists, even that surfer doc that got you the sundance shortlisting, but this one’s different. you’re not sure if it’s the subject, or the subject of the subject. saint halo, of all the bands in the world.

you try to tell yourself you’re lucky. it’s a high-profile project with real budget, real eyes on it. the label’s backing it, the production company’s been trying to get in with the music industry for years, and now they have their foot in the door because of you. your name carries weight. mae knows it, the executives know it. they all trust you.

but your stomach still twists when you think about what that means. you swallow hard, tune back in just in time to hear mae’s voice.

“we’ll be traveling in the next few days,” she says, flipping through her clipboard. “they’re still on tour, so we’ll meet the band at one of their gigs first. we’ll get permission for backstage access and maybe some audience shots. it’s a good chance to get performance footage early - kill two birds with one stone.”

you blink, forcing yourself to focus. performance footage, early material, travel prep. got it. you underline something meaningless in your notebook just to look busy.

mae continues, “i know the idea of filming on-site can be chaotic, but it’s good energy. it’s raw. we want the audience to feel the noise, you know? that’s what makes the music documentaries land.”

you nod again, even though she isn’t really looking at you anymore. your eyes drift back down to your laptop, to the corner of the screen where your email is still open, but your cursor hovers over the imessages icon instead.

you shouldn’t, but your fingers move before you can stop them. it’s like muscle memory, almost.

the chat window pops up with a list of names you know too well. you see the cinematographer from your last film, the sound designer who’s been wanting a chance to work with you again, even that editor who worked with you on a hurricane doc. she still calls you “boss” even though you hated it.

and then, somewhere near the bottom, rafe cameron.

his name looks wrong in the context of work. the little profile circle is just a gray placeholder now. there’s no photo or last activity timestamp, but the thread is still there. the scroll bar is small, a testament to how much you once texted.

you deleted your old messages from your phone years ago. it was an act of cleansing, but the laptop kept everything.

you exhale slowly and scroll up anyway, eyes moving over fragments you’d forgotten were still here. there’s jokes about lyrics, him sending you a rough demo at two in the morning, ‘don’t laugh if it sucks,’ and pictures from nights you barely remember.

your reflection stares back at you from the black edge of the screen. you can hear mae still talking in the background about shooting permits and camera setups. you should be listening. you want to be listening, but instead you’re typing. your fingers move on their own.

no, too casual. delete.

no, he knows who you are. delete.

you breathe in through your nose, try again.

the words look too bare, too defensive for a first message after, what, two years? three? you stare at them for a long time, the blinking cursor pulsing.

you imagine him seeing it. the unread notification, the way his brow might furrow, the possible what now he’d mutter under his breath. you imagine him ignoring it. you imagine him answering. neither version even feels survivable. your thumb hovers over enter.

then, slowly, you backspace. each letter disappears until there’s nothing left. no message, no start, no chance to ruin or repair anything. you shut your laptop gently, the click of it closing louder than it should be.

around you, the meeting wraps up. mae’s saying something about the call sheet, about flight times. the crew’s laughing softly as chairs scrape against the floor. someone tosses a marker into the bin.

you nod when mae passes by and says, “we’ll touch base tomorrow.”

you land in chicago a little after noon. the flight itself was . . . fine, except for the hour you spent stuck behind a group of drunk bachelor-party guys arguing. by the time you finally got off the plane, your patience was thin, your earbuds were dead, and your iced coffee had melted into something closer to literal dishwater. still, you made it, and that’s what matters.

you pick up your luggage, check into the hotel mae booked for the crew and drop your bags at the foot of the bed. the white comforter looks tempting enough to dive into, but mae’s text pops up before you can even think about sitting down: van leaves in 20. wear something casual. soundcheck at 4.

so much for rest. guess you should’ve done more of it on the plane. but now, twenty minutes later, you’re squeezed into the middle row of a black sprinter van with mae and three other crew members. mae’s at the front, laptop open, talking to the driver about the route to the venue while she sips her third cold brew of the day. she’s good at multitasking, she always has been.

“we should get there right as saint halo’s starting soundcheck,” she says over her shoulder. “perfect timing to get some behind-the-scenes footage before the crowd fills in.”

you nod, even though you’re not sure she’s talking directly to you. the city slips by through the tinted window, and the closer you get to the venue, the heavier your chest feels. you tell yourself it’s nerves or excitement. or maybe it’s just the cold pressing through the glass. the venue’s big, but you’ve seen enough arenas from concerts you’ve been to in your freetime.

you step out of the van with your camera bag slung over your shoulder and take it all in. mae’s already directing traffic, telling the camera crew where to unload, which doors to use, what permissions they have. the venue’s front-of-house staff points you toward a side entrance, wristbands waiting for you at check-in.

entry’s been covered by one of the documentary’s major backers. you’d read their name enough times on contracts and funding proposals that it feels weird to finally see their logo plastered on the laminate around your neck.

you move with the rest of the crew through the back corridors of the venue. someone’s already doing a mic check in the distance.

there are equipment cases stacked against the walls backstage, crew members in all black darting between sound techs and lighting rigs. mae stops every few steps to talk logistics with someone, while you find yourself wandering toward the stage area.

a man spots you first, nate ellison, saint halo’s manager. he’s in his mid-40s, beard going silver, wearing a vintage tour tee and a headset like he’s been doing this since the literal dawn of time.

“you’re with mae’s team, right?” he says, smiling as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “y/n, yeah? we’ve been expecting you.”

you nod, offering a polite handshake that he returns with the kind of practiced friendliness of someone who meets too many people in a day.

“they’re just finishing soundcheck,” nate explains, tilting his head toward the stage. “i’ll take you over to meet them real quick. won’t keep you long.”

you follow him up the steps to the side of the stage and notice wide lights, the empty stretch of seats and railings, a few fans scattered near the barricade, phones already up. apparently, saint halo allows a handful of people to buy early-access passes to watch soundcheck.

on stage, the band’s finishing a run-through of a song. instruments hum, and you can feel the vibration through the floorboards. nate lifts a hand, gesturing for them to wrap up.

“hey, guys,” he calls out. “come take a second, this is y/n. she’s with the documentary team.”

the noise quiets. the drummer stops first, setting her sticks down on the snare, followed by the bassist leaning back against his amp, and then, finally, the lead singer turns.

your heartbeat doesn’t care that this is a work assignment. it doesn’t care about professionalism or posture or how many years it’s been. all it knows is that he’s here.

the band gathers at the side, sweat still shining under the stage lights, the early-access fans in the audience murmuring behind their hands. you can’t look away, not yet, and he doesn’t either.

nate’s voice fades into the background as you step forward. the first one to reach out is this tall, lanky guy with a grin and a sweat-darkened shirt. he takes your hand in his, eyebrows raising almost immediately.

“no offense,” he says, his tone somewhere between amusement and disbelief, “but you look kinda young for the gig.”

before you can even think of a response, another voice cuts in, a deeper laugh from just beside him. “i was gonna say the same damn thing,” the other guy adds, shaking his head.

you let out a small, polite laugh, giving the first one a nod. “i’m twenty-five,” you say simply. “and i promise i know what i’m doing.”

that earns a few chuckles from the others. they’re not being mean, they’re just curious. you’re used to it. people expect the kind of person who directs documentaries to be older, more jaded. not . . . well, you.

the first guy is luca if you remember correctly. he still looks half-surprised, half-impressed. the bassist, the one every article called “the glue” or whatever. he’s pretty, that’s for sure.

next is orion, their synth and guitarist. seems like a nice kid. he’s got that restless energy you’ve seen in so many artists. his hand is warm, his grin crooked. the profiles you read called him the “spark” of saint halo, the one who starts ideas that everyone else eventually shapes into something bigger. you can see why.

then comes nox, the only girl in the band. she’s quiet at first, her handshake firm. her dark hair is pulled back, a faint sheen of sweat from soundcheck still clinging to her temples. articles always called her “the backbone of saint halo,” and it fits. she’s presence before she’s sound.

and then rafe. you knew this part was coming, but no amount of bracing can soften it.

he steps forward, slower than the rest, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering his hand. his eyes meet yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he hasn’t been the ghost sitting at the back of your mind for months, maybe years. his hair’s a little shorter, his jaw sharper, but the way he looks at you hasn’t changed at all.

you inhale through your nose before taking his hand. his grip is steady. there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. maybe amusement. “so you’re the director?” he asks. it sounds like he’s teasing you and testing the air between you at the same time. you know that he’s known you’re the director for this project.

you squint at him, a slight curve at the corner of your mouth but it never really turns into a smile. “mm,” you hum, then you drop his hand.

nate clears his throat somewhere off to the side. “alright,” he says, clapping his hands together once, “we’ll keep this quick. they’ve still got a couple things to run before doors open.”

the words are mostly for you, though his tone is light, almost apologetic, like he’s trying to usher the moment along without stepping on it. you nod, stepping back a little.

luca adjusts the strap of his bass. orion twirls a pick between his fingers, and nox has already turned away, reaching for her sticks. rafe doesn’t really move.

his hand falls back to his side, fingers flexing once. his gaze stays on you, not intense exactly, just more curious, like he’s trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who used to exist beside him.

“this way, y/n,” nate says, gesturing toward the stairs that dip backstage. you follow, the soles of your boots scuffing lightly against the stage.

as you descend, you feel his gaze again, but you keep your expression neutral, professional. behind you, a chord rings out. nate says something about schedules, about how tomorrow will run smoother once everyone’s comfortable. you nod along, eyes on the narrow hallway ahead.

you don’t look back. but if you did, you’d see rafe still standing where you left him, one hand on the mic stand, watching until the curtain swallow you whole.

the rest of the setup moves like clockwork. sound techs darts across the stage, crew members crouch over cables, lights flicker in bursts as the rigging adjusts. the band slips back into their rhythm, instruments tuning, mics checked.

by the time the house lights dim, the venue’s a different animal. it’s crowded, people are sweating already. you’ve got your walkie in hand, headset on, threading yourself through the barricade gap where the cinematographers are already stationed. the pit smells like warm metal and adrenaline. you speak low, guiding them like it’s instinct.

“camera two, hold that wide. three, pan left when rafe hits the chorus. stay on the drummer when the bridge hits. there’s a rhythm shot there i want.”

they nod. you move between them, just close enough to see the flicker of the stage lights bouncing off the lenses. you tell one of the crew to grab a side angle, another to get close on rafe’s hands. you don’t have to think too hard.

after about an hour, though, the volume starts pressing against your skull. you step away, slipping behind the curtain and down the narrow hall that leads backstage. mae’s there at a folding table with an open bag of chips and two monitors showing the live feed from your cameras.

“you’re a machine,” she says, mouth full.

you snort, sitting beside her and grabbing something off the snack spread. the monitors flicker with alternating shots, like the band bathed in red light, sweat on their necks, the crowd’s hands reaching like waves.

you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand as you watch. every so often, you murmur something into the walkie: “tighten the frame. yeah, that’s better,” or “hold that shot until he turns.”

mae chews, glances over. “this is gonna be good. i can feel it.”

you don’t answer. you’re too focused. the concert stretches on for another hour or so, long enough for the monitors to turn from blue to gold to near-black as the lights shift for the encore. when it’s finally over, the band jogs offstage, laughing, breathless. one of your cameramen follows close, capturing luca wiping sweat with a towel and grinning, orion shouting something about “that last chord,” nox raising her drumsticks like a victory flag. rafe’s there too, grinning wide, a flash of teeth, his eyes briefly catching the lens before he disappears past it.

you stand, tucking your headset off, nodding to mae. “alright,” you say softly, almost to yourself.

the rest happens smoothly. the makeshift interview room is already cleared backstage, low lights and two chairs facing each other with a single camera trained between them. someone’s placed bottles of water and towels in the corner.

it’s time to start the diary footage. mae hovers nearby, letting you handle the first round. you glance over at the others in hair and makeup, each one waiting their turn, fiddling with phones or headphones, shooting little glances toward the monitors where you’ll later sync everything.

the first one is luca, hands folded loosely in his lap, legs bouncing just a little as he smiles easily at you. he leans forward in the chair the second you gesture for him to start.

“we didn’t think anyone would care about four kids playing in a garage,” he says. he laughs softly, like the memory is both funny and unbelievable. “i mean . . . it was just us, instruments no one wanted, riffs we ripped off from old bands we loved, and a lot of late nights arguing over chord progressions and lyrics that didn’t make any fuckin’ sense—am i allowed to swear?”

you tilt your head, letting the camera roll as you ask the first few guiding questions, “so what made you stick with it? why keep playing together?”

he shrugs like it’s obvious. “i don’t know. we just found a rhythm. rafe had that spark, ri could turn any random idea into something that actually worked, and i guess someone had to keep us from completely losing it long enough to actually get a song finished. that ended up being me.”

you nod, scribbling a few notes in your pad while watching his eyes light up as he talks. the way he gestures, it’s clear he loves sharing this story, loves that someone’s actually listening. you ask him about his background, like how he grew up, what drew him into music.

“my parents moved from puerto rico when i was ten,” he says, “so, like . . . everything felt new, like different language, different beaches, different vibes. i had to figure out who i was really quick, and music was my thing. i had a landscaping job one summer to make enough for strings and gas on my own. didn’t matter what anyone else thought, i just wanted to play. like it wasn’t rebellion, not really. it was more like boredom, or pressure. figure eight’s full of money but short on air, you know? you can’t breathe unless you build your own world.”

you ask about their first gigs. he leans back, thinking, hands drumming lightly on his knees. “some house parties, random bars, once at a friend’s dad’s warehouse. nothing fancy. mostly just to see if people would show up. and when nox joined? that changed everything.”

orion’s calmer and quieter when he comes in for his interview. he adjusts the collar of his shirt.

“saint halo really started to make sense once we realized we wanted more than noise,” he says. “i grew up around music my whole life, classical piano, jazz, the whole thing. rafe and luca were kind of . . . chaos incarnate? they could make this messy, emotional stuff, but it needed structure. i provided that. added synth, layered guitars, textures. it was the first time i felt like someone else really understood what i wanted to hear.”

you ask him how they all came together.

“we knew each other in school,” he says carefully, “but we didn’t really hang out ‘til after graduation. different circles, i guess. our parents all had these plans for us. college, finance, business degrees, whatever. but none of us wanted that. we just wanted to play.”

you nod, smiling softly. then nox takes her turn a few questions later. she slides in like she’s only half-interested, but there’s still this carefulness, a hint that she’s clearly media trained. she’s moody, but it’s contained.

“their old drummer bailed before the first gig,” she says bluntly, like that explains everything. “i read the sheet once, figured i’d just play it by ear after. i played it close enough to near-perfect the first try. they asked me to stay. i didn’t really think about it beyond that.”

you raise an eyebrow, letting the camera capture the slight shrug she gives. “so you knew them before the band?”

“yeah, school,” she says casually, tapping the side of the chair. “but we didn’t really . . . hang out until after i graduated. they graduated before me.”

you nod. you don’t need the extra drama on camera, just the essence of it. “so you were kind of the final piece?” you ask.

“i guess,” she says. “kept the rhythm.”

and now, all four of them are backstage in hair and makeup again to regroup and wait for each to finish.

you glance at the monitors again after nox is done, and you see rafe pacing slightly. it’s not anxiety, probably just passing time. he catches your eye for a moment through the reflection of a mirror and then looks away.

you’re still hunched slightly over your notebook, pen scratching as you jot down notes from the last interview. the pages are crowded with observations, like little personality quirks, things to remember for continuity, moments you might want to reference when editing. your head’s down, focused.

mae appears beside you quietly, hands folded in front of her. she stands there for a beat, watching you, tilting her head slightly as if measuring your mood.

“you ready for rafe?” she asks finally.

you barely lift your eyes, still scribbling, fumbling slightly with your pen. “uh, yeah, yeah,” you murmur, distracted. your free hand smooths down your shirt as you shift, trying to get comfortable on the chair again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs to prepare yourself for the next one.

mae nods once and slips away toward the hall to call rafe in. you barely register any of the murmurs over walkies, someone checking the camera, the faint scratch of a notepad on a clipboard.

you don’t pay any mind when rafe enters. mae and nate are speaking with him a few feet away, hands gesturing, heads nodding, giving him quiet instructions on how to act for the cameras, what to expect, how to settle into the room like they did with the others. you catch only fragments of movement, like him nodding, his hesitation on whether they’re done talking to him so he can finally sit, but you don’t look up.

mae’s voice floats over to you, calling your name. you glance up slowly, placing your palms flat on top of your crossed legs, feeling the cool edge of the chair beneath your fingers.

he’s there, sitting across from you. the chair swallows part of his frame, but he leans just enough to the side. his cheek rests against his index finger, his thumb tucked beneath his chin.

your pen hovers over the notebook again, but you don’t write. you glance at him one last time. “you ready?” you ask softly.

he tilts his head, smirking slightly, and gives a slow nod. you exhale quietly and turn toward your crew, a subtle motion with your hand. they nod back, red dots blinking on the sides of cameras, microphones clicking to life. they’re recording.

you clear your throat, “so, let’s start with the obvious. how did saint halo first come together?”

he leans back just slightly, but he answers. it’s the same as the others, just worded differently. the first gig with nox is the same deal.

you nod, letting it sit. you shift slightly, leaning forward, curious eyes tracking his gestures. “walk me through a typical writing session with the band. how do songs start? what’s your inspiration?”

he tilts his head, thoughtful now, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. “depends,” he says slowly. “sometimes a riff hits, someone hums a melody, a word pops into someone’s head. sometimes we sit in silence until someone cracks. most of the time, the inspiration is regret. sometimes love. mostly the same thing, just dressed up differently.”

your pen scribbles furiously, but your eyes flick up at him unconsciously. he watches you, just enough that it feels deliberate, almost teasing. “and,” he pauses, casual, “every now and then, someone or something inspires a line, a hook. you wouldn’t even notice unless you’re listenin’ close.”

you clear your throat, humming. “so then how do you manage creative disagreements? does it get messy?”

he laughs quietly, “all the time. we argue, we mock each other, we literally threaten to quit mid-song. but it works! it works. we need the chaos, honestly. without it, we’d be boring.”

you nod. “there will be new listeners after this, there are currently people who’ve never exprienced saint halo. how would you describe the band’s sound to someone who’s never heard you before?”

“rough around the edges,” he says, almost smiling. “but it’s personal. like, if someone played their diary through a speaker, that’s basically us.“

you hum with a half-smile. you actually hate that you like the sound of that. he leans back again, hands resting lightly on his thighs, gaze drifting to the ceiling for a moment before snapping back to you.

you pause your notes for a moment, and decide to go for something a little heavier. “so do you have any regrets going into this career? anything you’d do differently?” your voice is careful.

he tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if weighing how much to give. he lets out a long breath, fingers brushing across his knee, tapping lightly. “regrets . . .” he starts slowly, almost like the word tastes funny on his tongue. he exhales lazily, having to think about it at first. you almost think he doesn’t have any until he continues. “i mean, sure. everyone has them. maybe some songs i wish i’d never written, shows i could’ve skipped.”

maybe it’s because of your history, but it isn’t exactly the answer you’d hoped for. as the manager of this project, it’s a solid answer. you nod, pen moving again, jotting down a few more notes as he watches you intently.

“maybe a few decisions that burned bridges i shouldn’t have.”

you scribble, but your eyes flick up to him briefly. it’s deliberate, the way he avoids naming names, avoids specifics. you almost, just for a moment, assume that’s actually aimed at you, but you’d be stupid for thinking so. maybe. most likely. you brush over it, not thinking about what that could even mean.

he leans back, crossing his arms lazily as if he’s done with the topic. “but honestly?” he says, shrugging. “every mistake led here. every late night, every chord, every fight got me to a place i can stand on stage, play my music, ‘n actually mean it.”

your stomach sinks a little, a faint knot forming. not because he’s lying, not exactly, but because you know him. you’re grateful he’s found his place. you shouldn’t be upset about anything else.

you scribble a note anyway, trying to capture what he actually said, not what you wanted him to say. “got it,” you murmur quietly and glance back at the cameras to ensure the framing catches everything perfectly.

he’s charismatic. he’s effortless. he’s captivating. but he’s not giving you that one answer you’ve been wondering about for years. not yet, you don’t think, anyway.

the cameras roll, capturing the frontman of saint halo in his element, and you let the disappointment settle quietly in your chest, tucked away beneath your notes and your carefully curated professionalism, and you move on.

In days like this when you're in charge of the Surf Shop that was miraculously still existing when you came back from Morocco, you like to imagine he got lost on the train, his bike finally ran out of gasoline or something.

But you know it's a lie, JJ had an incredible sense of direction. No matter where he is, he somehow always knew how to come back home, to Outer Banks. He was like that.

The day was hot, as always, Outer Banks never gives it a break to its poor population. You always got to be ready for high temperatures.

The evening had been quiet, not many people had showed up today. But then again, no one does at this hour and everyone knows it, you have the suspicion your friends gave you this shift because of that. You can't blame them, you haven't been the best at human interaction lately.

But you distract yourself. You clean, you organize. You try to do your best on a light day.

That was, until...

"Rafe..."

You notice him the second he steps in, the wood creaks under his footsteps, the few ones he takes, he doesn't dare to come closer.

You were surprised to see him. You haven't since you all came back from that desertic place. Well, all is a generous word. But you... made it in one piece, at least. You haven't talk to Rafe in weeks, months, ever since you stepped the island again. You couldn't talk to him.

"What are you..?" You looked around, trying to figure out what he was doing here. You weren't expecting him nor had you planned on meeting up.

The group has called it a truce with the famous Rafe Cameron, Sarah's older brother. They have been making peaces and rebuilding their failed sibling relationship after everything that happened. You know he has been trying to do that even before that trip, Sarah told you.

Rafe wanted to make amends with his connections. His family, his sisters that he's still not entirely in contact with. But especially with you.

You, you, you.

Rafe's first love. And only one, if he's completely honest.

"It's alright," He quickly covered. "I just... wanted to talk."

Talk.

Yeah, you haven't been thinking about that lately. You haven't talked at all in general.

Rafe was your first. Your first love, your first boyfriend back when you were 18 and 19 years old.

Around the time when you sneaked around the island to see him in clandestine matters because you were a Pogue and he was Rafe Cameron, the Kook of Kooks. But God, did he made you feel like the only girl in the world while it lasted. And goddamn it, you loved him like breathing. More than anything.

You have obviously drifted apart the more things he did, the more dirtier it all got. The way he ended up plotting against you too just because of who you're friends are.

And... the relationship you used to have was never a public tale tell. It always stayed hidden under his expensive sheets and the cold sand laying at the beach after a late night swim, one of the places you used to meet up all the time.

Things had ended multiple times with him. As toxic and excruciating it became at one point, it completely crushed you to the point of staying alone for a long minute. You just... loved him more than you could ever admit.

"Oh..."

The surprise was evident in your voice. Soft, shallow, like you haven't had anything in your mind for a while now. And to be honest, you haven't. Numb and asleep in the hard pillows of your own pain, the heavy blanket of despair that you couldn't take off yourself.

You cleared your throat, even stuttering to do that. You gripped the rag in your hand harder as you looked down to the wood counter, trying to wipe off any dirt in it. But self destruction is harder to clean.

"About... about what?" You swallowed nervously now, obviously knowing what he wanted. *What he deserved to talk about*.

"Just... talk." He promised. He didn't push.

Oh, what's there not to talk about, that's the real question.

Things had started happening again long before Morocco. The bond between you had always lingered, standing around you like the ghost you now live with. The relationship with Rafe was actually more incarnated than what you're sadly living with now despite not talking to each other for almost three years. It was always through glances, whispers and unspoken feelings.

That time when the entire group flew to El Dorado along with John B's dad and with the (you'll apologize later for talking about a dead man) the insufferable Ward. You remember that night, you were the last one to get on that plane with your friends. You heard when he threatened John B with Ward, you saw it.

But once John B was inside and you were about to follow, he grabbed your arm when no one was seeing.

Because he didn't trust any of them. None. But he trusted you.

He looked you dead in the eye and said: "If this ever meant something to you, you won't touch him." It was cold, calculated and more dominating than you would've liked, but you still said in a whisper, still a secret:

"Yes."

When you came back, without Big John and without Ward feelings were definitely moved but considering both men had already been believed dead, everyone was able to face it differently. Not for Rafe.

But, you had finally found it. The gold. What you have been looking for, haunting for years, the adventure of a fucking lifetime. But the next day, late at night when everyone fell asleep, you had this hunch. You knew where he will be. So that night, you followed your heart and you went out, stole JJ's bike and ran out.

And he was there, at to the dock in Tannyhill, alone and bitter. You didn't say much.

"I'm sorry." You hated Ward, you hated that crazy man for everything he had done but you couldn't hate Rafe.

"I knew it." He said, voice low and dangerous. He was clearly resentful, not against you. Never against you. "I knew he wasn't coming back—" He choked in his own words. "I should never have let him go."

When you hugged that night something changed, you still don't know what it was. You didn't talk for almost two years after it.

And then Groff happened, JJ happened, everything happened all at once and you never felt like your life had been more out of control.

You were tense when Rafe saved all of you from Shoupe, when he came out with that plan, travelling to Morocco together because he knew he needed all of you for a common purpose, you knew where Groff was. He swore he was in his best behavior.

And damn it, he really wanted to believe it was because of Sarah and because that was still his sister but your name weighed a lot in his decision. And when you stepped in that land, he looked heavily in a bad mood, like he knew he didn't belong and the only person he dared to look at was you. And God forbid you looked at him too. He was all you could still ever look at.

You needed time to cool off, to get away from your friends and relieve the bad feeling you had about this entire mission (it was premonitory), so when he wandered off to find Groff, you followed. He didn't push away.

Okay, stop.

You quickly blinked, trying to actually get your mind active in a conversation. You have been half talking for months now, and you know he doesn't deserve only half of your mind.

"Right, uhm..."

But Rafe saw it. He saw the struggle and the way your mind drifted off. He always thought your mind was one of the most incredible things he has come across with. He hates to see you so lost now.

He reconsidered, shaking his head. Let's take it lightly. "How you being..?" He let the question hanging. He had learned to be patient.

And you can't blame him for asking. You haven't talked ever again after what happened, you couldn't. Your brain has been drowning in pain, melancholy and loneliness ever since your brother passed away.

It's the only thing you're capable of thinking.

"I'm... here." You said softly, not pretending to not know what he was asking you about. Everyone asks the same when they ask how are you? They just want to know how you've been dealing with the tragedy.

Rafe couldn't help but wince at the pain that lingered in your voice, in the way you simply said that the only thing you could manage was being physically alive. Not mentally. It hurt him to see you like this.

You're here. Yeah, he can be thankful for that. It's probably the only manageable thing in your life right now.

Rafe didn't have a connection with JJ, they always hated each other. You think Rafe used to hate you too for being a Pogue when you were younger, for falling for one.

He was still absolutely crushed. He saw someone who he thought was invincible die, betrayed by his own blood. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw JJ, laying there... gone.

But he stayed still, silent. And he watched you. He took in your every move, the way your hair fell around your face, how you avoided looking into his gaze even when you cleared your throat. How your voice sounded tired.

Rafe nodded, his eyes not leaving your face. He saw it all. The pain, the hurt, the loss. It all took a toll on you, how could it not? He couldn't even imagine what you were going through every morning when you woke up. Your baby brother, the one you always took care of. He never had a good relationship with his sisters, he can't really relate. But he's trying.

His fingers itched to reach out the same way he did the last time he saw you.

"Yeah..." He agreed quietly, he kept his arms folded, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip on his arms.

A few moments passed. The wind was warmer again, it never stopped here. The endless summer you used to love now only reminds me of the unbearable heat of the dessert where JJ was killed. The sand makes you think about the sandstorm there was the night you guys buried him.

Rafe buried him, actually. He dug in the sand when you couldn't bring yourselves to do it. Your friend, your brother...

You cleared your throat again, eyes focused on the surroundings and not on Rafe. You can't face him. "I know you came here to talk about—"

"I'm not, swear I just—" He tried to say.

"But I know you are." You cut him off, sharp and steady now. It's not an accusation. "I know you are, I just..." A shaky breath came out.

How can you even talk to him? You had promised to be together again minutes before your brother died.

Rafe swallowed hard, his throat tight. He looked down, then away—out toward the water, where the waves curled lazily against the shore like nothing in the world had changed.

But everything had.

He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t step closer. He just stayed there, solid as ever, even while something inside him cracked.

"I wasn't gonna say it," he said quietly, voice rough like sandpaper. "Didn't wanna... shove it in your face. But yeah." He exhaled. "Yeah, I came to talk about it. Us."

He turned back to you then, slow and careful—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.

"But not if you don't want to," he added softly. "And only if you still... want that." Rafe didn't dare to say what they have promised, it sounded so in the past now.

His eyes held yours now—not pushing, not demanding, just waiting.

"Just so you know," He whispered, "I do."

That made you look up at him. With the same pained expression you have looked at him so many times since you know each other. And for the first time, it's not his fault.

You pressed your lips in a line as you nodded, your eyes immediately watering after you heard him. This is so fucked up. You closed your mouth for a moment, hoping it'll stop the absolute agony your voice wanted to express.

It's been five months of no contact, the last words shared were a promise. Everyone knew now, you didn't have to hide anymore, it could've been different, you promised that to each other. Of course he wants to know where you stand.

"Yeah, about that..." You looked down, trying not to cry again, trying to not let your voice be another broken whisper.

I have to do it. You thought. I have to tell him.

Rafe's heart stopped, his breath caught in his throat. He could see it written all over your face: the pain, the sadness, the rejection.

He had known it was coming, but fuck, he hated it.

Still, he waited, bracing himself, his eyes never leaving your face—taking in every flicker of expression, every flash of feeling moving across your features.

He said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together, jaw clenched as he watched you struggle to find the words.

"I just..." You had to swallow your words again before talking. You felt like you were going nonverbal, a excruciating fucking thing that has been happening for months now.

"I can’t…” The voice cracked. You looked up at him—really looked—and your lip trembled.

“I can’t, Rafe.”

He knows.

A beat. The wind cut between you like glass. A sob almost intervened in your body but you stopped it, stopped the heart from coming out of your chest. It just wanted to run to his arms.

Rafe's eyes darkened, his heart twisting at the raw pain in your voice.

"Yeah, I know." He cleared his throat, forcing the words out through the lump that had just formed—trying like hell to keep his voice steady.

He didn't try to touch you, still. He wanted to, wanted to hold you, to pull you close and take away your pain.

But he didn't move, forced himself to keep his hands clenched tightly by his sides, his jaw clenched fiercely and his eyes locked with yours.

"I'll wait."

When did he ever wanted to wait? When has he ever wanted and loved someone so much to be up to wait... forever? Because he knows it could be that long.

He said it so simply. Like it costs nothing. As if this—waiting for you—was written into his bones. Your heart pounds, wild and loud, trying to speak for you, begging to be heard. Say yes! It screams and it burns. But you’ve mastered the art of silencing it.

No.

You can't allow it. You don’t know when this ache will end or if it ever will. You keep searching for light through the cracks,

but the window stays dark. Everything is dark, no matter if you can feel the literal sun burning your skin when you go walking down the beach.

"Rafe, no—" You tried to say.

"The fuck you mean no—" He fires back, but you cut through him before the anger can rise.

"Rafe, I can't make you wait! I can't even actually think about being with someone right now. It's not fair, it's not what I want."

Rafe’s expression hardened before you even finished speaking — that quiet, frustrated kind of heartbreak that doesn’t explode, it just tightens. His shoulders went tense, his jaw locked like he was trying to swallow a thousand things he didn’t know how to say.

He hated this— the space between you, the ache sitting quietly in your voice, the way you couldn’t even meet his eyes without flinching.

“Stop acting like you don’t know.” He said, voice low, rough around the edges. “You think I can just turn it off? Pretend I don’t still—” He stopped himself, biting down the rest, then exhaled sharply. “I’ll wait,” He said finally. “If that’s what it takes.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve. The air between you was thick, heavy with things that once came easy.

You haven’t thought about Rafe like that. Like you and him. You thought about him, yes —too much, maybe— in the quiet hours when the house stopped making noise and all your friends were sleeping and your mind wouldn't shut up. You thought about the way he used to rest his hand on your thigh when he drove on those secret dates, the way he said your name like it was his favorite word because he always liked forbidden. But not like that. Not in a way that felt possible anymore. Not in the way he still thinks about you. Not when your world’s been stripped of color, and you’re still trying to learn how to move through a version of life your brother never got to finish.

“Rafe…” your voice caught before you could finish. You exhaled, pressing your palms against your face, grounding yourself. You had to say it.

“Before I’m ever with anyone else, I have to...” You said quietly. “... learn how to live in a world without my brother.” The words fell like glass— fragile and easy to shatter. Your voice was shaking the same way it does when you talk about him. “Because I miss him so much it kills me and it’s the only thing I can think about.” A few inevitable tears fell down your cheeks.

You tried to clean them.

Rafe blinked slowly, jaw still locked, like he was trying to keep the pain from spilling out.

“And I don’t know when that’s going to be. I can't make you a promise." You whispered. “And having you waiting for me is not just unfair, it also, it's..." You hesitated. "It doesn't help."

Rafe's expression flickered, his body rigid as he processed your words.

God, it was like a punch to the gut. He knew you were hurting, he knew how much you were struggling, but hearing you say it—hearing the raw honesty and despair in your voice—it hit him hard. He could practically feel the weight of your pain in the air around them.

But he still shook his head, his jaw clenched stubbornly.

"I don't care about fair, alright? I never did. I just want you." He touched his chest, trying to touch his heart with his hand.

How can you even be mad at him when this was exactly what you secretly begged for years? For Rafe to change, to be an actual decent version of himself, the version you always knew he had.

The wish you had hidden from everyone.

And funnily enough, JJ was the only one who knew about it for years until that time on the way to fucking Africa as surreal as that sounds. He was bitter with his new discovery about his past, his origin (because it also differentiated him from you) and he revealed it to everyone.

"Well, he's here. And we definitely will have to talk to him." John B stated, wind hitting forcedly against him.

"Talk to Rafe?" JJ scoffed.

"Well, you're definitely not talking to him—" John B said again, trying to keep JJ as short as possible with the kind of attitude he was having.

"Oh, I'm not doing it, right." JJ said sarcastically. "Okay, what did I do now, huh?" You remember how you were able to see how utterly hurt he was by everything everyone was saying, not just now. It made your chest hurt at the time.

"Look, we just think it might be easier if we handle it." Kiara said, always the one who was able to talk JJ through it.

"Well, I know someone who can." Your brother started, jaw clenching and fidgeting with his hands like every time he didn't want to look up.

You had raised your eyebrows, immediately straightened up but not reacting. This could mean anything, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he wouldn't take his anger out on you.

"My sister apparently knows how to talk to Rafe pretty well, don't you, sis?" He had said.

Yeah, you were wrong.

And now here you are, betraying your brother's last words to you. Gaze fixated on the tall man in front of you. Rafe always called your eyes danger, he always meant to say more but the last few times he was with you years ago he was too high to be so honest.

You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on him like looking away might make it easier. It didn't. You already knew the only thing that would make him finally step back— the truth he didn’t deserve, but needed to hear.

“Rafe,” you started, your voice trembling, every word feeling like it had to claw its way out of your chest. “I don’t want you to wait.”

You watched it land, the faint shift in his eyes, the way his jaw locked and his shoulders tensed, like he’d braced for a hit but he still wasn’t ready for it.

“I don’t want…” You hesitated, hating the shape of the words before you even said them. “…you, right now.” It came out quieter than you meant.

“I want my brother.” You whispered, voice cracking under its own weight. You placed a hand on your chest, expressing the sense of belonging you ached to have with JJ. “And that’s not gonna happen.” Your eyes fell shut before you could see his face. A small, helpless sound escaped your throat: half sob, half exhale. You’d been holding it in for too long.

In your defense, it wasn’t all a lie. You didn’t want Rafe— not the way he wanted to be wanted. Not in this limbo where everything still hurt too much. You couldn’t build something steady and whole, not when you were still learning how to live in the wreckage. Not when guilt still sat next to you in bed.

You shook your head, voice barely holding together. “It’s not fair,” You said softly. “To you. To anyone.”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t even breathe loud enough for you to hear. Just stood there, letting the silence bruise both of you. He forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting to get his emotions in check. He couldn't lose it now, couldn't let you see how much your words were ripping him apart inside.

He had been ready for rejection, he had been ready for you to say you needed more time, for you to say you weren't ready, for you to say anything but the words "I don't want you".

But they were the last words he wanted to hear from your lips.

The way you looked at him was even worst.

No, worse—the worst.

That, he could hardly handle.

The look in your eyes... it was killing him. That pain, that heartbreak. It was tearing him apart, but he forced himself to stay steady, to keep his back straight and his hands clenched at his sides. He had to stay strong, even when every cell in his body was screaming for him to grab you and hold you and never let go.

God, he wanted to beg. To get down on his knees in the sand and beg you to take him back, to stop feeding him these lies, to choose him now that he's finally the man he always knew you deserved.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Careful. “You think I don’t know that?” He asked, but it wasn’t angry— it was soft, almost weary. Like he’d already had this conversation a hundred times in his head before it ever happened.

“I know it’s not fair,” he said. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

You looked up at him then, eyes burning, thinking that for a moment you might see that 19 year old Rafe, the boy you used to fight with all time. But he wasn't that boy anymore. Neither of you were.

“Rafe…” You started, but he shook his head gently.

“No, don’t.” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I get it. You miss him. You can’t breathe without him. Believe me, I get it." Hell, if he doesn't get it. "And I kept thinking that maybe, I don't know, we could've tried again... and being near you would made things easier."

The words hit you somewhere deep, right where love and grief start blurring together.

He let out a shaky laugh — dry, humorless. “Guess I was wrong.”

You didn’t reach for him this time. Maybe because you knew that if you did, neither of you would survive it.

"You're not wrong, Rafe." Your throat was exhausted. You haven't talked much the entire day.

"Yeah but I'm not right either."

Rafe's heart felt like it was being torn in two.

He wanted to argue, to fight, to prove you wrong, to somehow make you see what you were saying was bullshit. But the look in your eyes...

But he doesn't see it like you do. You're not capable of seeing life more than two weeks ahead of you, how the hell are you going to predict when are you going to feel better? Exactly. And you can't have him waiting around for that long. Waisting his time for something that might not even be.

It crushed him. That emptiness, the pain, the exhaustion... it told him that maybe you actually believed it, maybe you actually meant it.

He had to swallow hard before he spoke again, his voice rough and strained. And the impulsiveness that he always carried himself was faster when he asked you again.

"You don't love me anymore?"

It was almost soft, the way he was trying really hard not to show this vulnerable side of him. The one he had always found himself showing to you again and again without being able to help it.

Silence.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your eyes found his, and for a split second, everything inside you screamed to tell him the truth— that you did, that you always would, that love wasn’t the problem, it was everything after it. But your mouth wouldn’t move. The words wouldn’t come.

Rafe watched you, searching for anything — a flicker, a shake of the head, something to hold on to. There was nothing. Just your silence, and the way your breath stuttered once, sharp and unsteady, before you looked down with tears in your eyes.

And that was all he needed.

He chuckled, barely— one of those broken sounds that never reaches the eyes, it was rough around the edges like he had tried so hard not to be anymore. He nodded once, jaw tightening, his tongue pressed against his cheek like he was trying to keep himself from saying something cruel.

“Alright,” He said finally, voice low and even. Too even.

You looked up at him then, and he smiled. A small, tired curve of his mouth that didn’t belong to the Rafe you knew, this one was quiet, defeated. “That's all I needed to know."

He took a step back, his hand running over his jaw, the other tugging absently at the back of his neck like he needed something to do with all that restless hurt. He felt caged and he needed to get out.

For a second, he looked like he might say more. But he didn’t.

“Rafe…” you breathed, but it was too late.

He didn’t look at you this time. He just rubbed a hand over his face, exhaled through his nose. “Don’t. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. It would never be fine, but he wasn't going to say it.

He took a few steps back, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. His voice came quieter now — low, rough, steady in the only way he knew how to be when everything inside him was coming apart.

“I’m not gonna ask you to try,” he said. “And I’m not gonna wait around like a fucking ghost or whatever. Just…” He paused, eyes flickering to yours, softening even as his throat tightened. “Take care, okay?”

You couldn't even move. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it drew blood. You nodded, unable to trust your voice.

Only then, after he saw you promising you'll be okay, he turned around and walk away. Still as steady and strong like the waves breaking at the shore, the ones you haven't surfed in months.

And he still can't blame you, he still can't find it in himself to be angry at you for being so logical and still so considerate despite breaking his heart. You can't handle it right now, you don't want him around and you're right.

You're always so right about everything, even in this. It still scares him that you actually don't love him anymore, he... he really doesn't want to believe it.

And only then did you realize your hands were shaking. You hadn’t noticed before. Your throat ached, your lips were parted like you were about to say something but all that came out was a soft, uneven breath. A sob.

You stayed there, staring at the spot where he’d been, your mind refusing to catch up with what your body already knew: he was gone.

JJ's face flashes for a second in your mind, his last breath, looking at you:

"Tell Rafe."

You sighed, sinking your face in between your hands, resting your elbows against the counter.

Oh yeah, you definitely told him.