💌🎧🧸💋

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“whoa—sweetheart, stopstopstop.”

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

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

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

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

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

“it's soooooo hot,” you complain.

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

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

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

and his hands are still resting on your hips.

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

“wanna take it off.”

“jesus christ,” he mutters under his breath.

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

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

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

you tug at the skirt again stubbornly.

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

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

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

your sleepy eyes blink downward curiously.

“rafe...” you whisper, dazed.

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

“don’t start.”

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

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

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

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

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

“is it ‘cause of me?”

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

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

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

“Ouch… fine.” Topper said, holding his hands up in faux innocence. Kelce did the same, causing y/n to have to stifle her own laughter at their antics and Rafe’s dramatics as the boys finally left them.

“Ok, are you ready?” Y/n asked, picking up a bit of the bleach mixture from her bowl. She’d never done this before— save the one time her and Sarah did tacky, neon highlights in middle school, which probably didn’t count— but there was no way in hell Rafe was going to let Topper or Kelce near his hair.

“As I’ll be, I guess.” Rafe pouted. The corner of y/n’s mouth quirked up into a smile, a laugh threatening to bubble up because of Rafe’s pouty behavior.

“Alrighty…” y/n raised the brush up to his hair, “here we go.”

She dabbled a small dot of bleach onto his hair before looking up to meet Rafe’s eyes in the mirror. He looked entirely unamused, but fortunately not panicked, so she continued, focused intently on coating each strand of hair with the mixture. She spared a glance up at Rafe every couple of minutes as she continued to carefully cover his entire head.

“Ok, done.” Y/n said as she brushed the last bit of bleach onto his head. Rafe let out a long sigh before standing up from the chair, allowing the towel wrapped around him to fall to the floor and reveal his shirtless torso. He leaned into the mirror, looking at his bleach covered hair with a grimace.

“Oh wait!” Y/n said, quickly placing the little bowl she’d been using to mix the bleach back onto the counter. She grabbed a nearby plastic bag, opening it up before gesturing for Rafe to lean down.

“What?” Rafe asked, looking at her with a confused expression.

“I’ve gotta like—” y/n gestured with the plastic bag— “wrap it so it… soaks in.”

“Soaks in?” Rafe asked. “Like to my skull? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never done this before!” Y/n threw her hands up dramatically. “I just know the Tik Tok I watched said you were supposed to wrap it with a plastic bag.”

“The Tik Tok you watched?” Rafe’s eyes widened. “You’re handling my hair based on a Tik Tok?!”

Y/n scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest as she glared up at him.

“Would you rather I call Topper and Kelce back in here to help? Because I could go and—” Y/n began.

“No, no, no.” Rafe sighed before leaning down reluctantly. “Just… do whatever.”

“That’s what I thought.” Y/n said under her breath as she began to wrap the plastic around Rafe’s head. He glared at her, not that she’d see.

“Ok, now we wait for…” Y/n checked her phone, “half an hour.”

Rafe grumbled as he straightened up again before turning to look at himself in the mirror. He looked like an idiot with a plastic bag on his head… so obviously y/n took a picture.

“Delete that.” Rafe said quickly, whipping back around to face y/n as she darted out of the bathroom and into Rafe’s bedroom with a giggle. 

“Never!” Y/n shouted as she rounded his bed, Rafe close behind her. She had almost made it out when he grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her torso and lifting her off the ground.

“Give me your phone!” Rafe laughed, delivering a playful jab to y/n’s ribs which caused her to let out a squeal as she attempted to wriggle out of his grasp.

“No!” Y/n giggled. Rafe let out a playful growl, tossing y/n onto his bed. She bounced against the mattress before settling, clutching at her stomach as she laughed. Rafe stood at the foot of the bed, his hands on his hips as he shook his head, a small smile on his face.

“You’re the worst.” Rafe said before climbing to sit on the bed next to y/n with a dramatic huff. Y/n simply smiled at him, straightening up to sit next to Rafe at the headboard.

“You love me.” Y/n blinked up at Rafe playfully, which only caused him to roll his eyes. “Ok, ok, fine.” Rafe sighed before stretching his arm out to wrap around y/n’s shoulders. He jostled her shoulders as she let out a dramatic coo. Y/n looked up at Rafe— or Rafe’s head— closely, examining her handiwork.

“I don’t think I did too bad.” Y/n murmured, poking at Rafe’s scalp. He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes suspiciously.

“Hmm, I guess we’ll see.” Rafe grumbled lowly, causing y/n to let out a scoff. 

Then, the timer y/n had set went off.

“Yeah, I guess we’ll see.” Y/n said sassily, quirking her eyebrows up before climbing off the bed. Rafe sighed before following her back into the bathroom. She patted the stool, to which Rafe obediently sat down atop.

“Ok, let’s see!” Y/n said, letting out a long exhale before she began to peel back the plastic to reveal Rafe’s bleach covered hair. She examined it closely, picking up a few pieces of hair.

“I was expecting the reveal to be a bit more… different.” Rafe said with a small chuckle. “I don’t think it worked.”

“It worked, just—” y/n sighed. “I think it just needs to be rinsed out.”

“Ok, Miss Hair Stylist.” Rafe grumbled before standing up from the stool and making his way over towards the shower. He grabbed a nearby bath towel, draping it over the glass shower door before turning to y/n.

“Are you just gonna stand here and watch me take a shower?” Rafe asked. Y/n’s face immediately twisted up into a look of… disgust? Well, not exactly… it’s not like it wasn’t anything she’d seen before— by accident, of course— but it wasn’t like she minded. Rafe was a good looking guy and definitely had the whole package to match—

“What? No!” Y/n scoffed. “I have to like… rinse it out under the tap.” 

“Is that really necessary?” Rafe sighed with the attitude of a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Yes, it’s necessary if you want it to look good and not like… burn your scalp.” Y/n gestured dramatically to his still bleach covered hair.

“Burn my scalp?!” Rafe said, his eyes flying wide open. “What did you put in my hair?!”

“Oh my god, stop with the dramatics and sit in the shower.” Y/n rolled her eyes before pulling the shower door open and stepping in.

“But you said—” Rafe began as he followed her in.

“Sit down.” Y/n said sternly. He turned around, his broad chest practically pushing against her face in the crowded shower.

“Ok fine, girl.” Rafe grumbled before slowly crouching down to sit on the tile floor of the shower. He let out a low groan as he shifted to pull his legs up to his chest, sitting like a small child. Even sitting down, Rafe was still quite tall, his head coming up to well past her waist.

“Alrighty, let's do this.” Y/n said, grabbing the shower head from the wall and turning it on. Immediately, Rafe was shot with a jet of freezing cold water.

“What the f—” Rafe began, his hands instinctually coming up to bat the cold water away, instead forcing the water to shoot directly at y/n and soak her pants with icy water.

“Oh my god!” Y/n screeched, stumbling back against the shower wall and allowing the shower head to drop from her hands and hit against the wall with a solid thud.

“Why did you spray me in the face?!” Rafe scoffed, wiping the water from his face.

“Why did you spray me in the pants?!” Y/n snapped back, looking down at her uncomfortably wet and cold pants.

“You sprayed me first!” Rafe said. Y/n glanced between Rafe’s still unwashed hair and her now soaked pants.

“You— ugh.” Y/n sighed before pointing into the back corner of the shower. “Look away.”

“What? Why?” Rafe scoffed.

“I’m taking my pants off because you drenched them in water.” Y/n snapped. Rafe’s eyes widened before he quickly looked away. She began to pull them down, slipping slightly, her hand shooting out to clamp down on Rafe’s shoulder. His arm reached up, quickly grabbing firmly onto y/n’s wrist without even turning his head. Finally, she tugged the last of her pants off before flinging them out onto the bathroom floor.

Now she stood in her underwear and t-shirt, the water still running in the shower as Rafe turned completely away. She gnawed at her lip slightly. Rafe had seen her countless times in a bathing suit, and this was basically the same thing. No big deal… right?

“Ok, you can… look back now.” Y/n grumbled, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to appear confident. Rafe slowly turned back, his eyes unfortunately immediately coming into contact with y/n’s Star Wars themed underwear, given his position on the shower floor. He instantly forced himself to look down, his cheeks flushing bright red.

“Nice underwear.” He said under his breath.

“Shut up.” Y/n snapped before snatching the shower head back up. After running for a while, the water had warmed up to a more manageable temperature.

“Ok, lean your head back.” Y/n gestured, Rafe following and craning his head back slightly. Y/n lifted the shower head to allow the water to fall on his hairline, her other hand coming up to shield the water from streaming into his eyes as they fluttered closed.

The water flowed through his hair, rinsing away the bleach to reveal his bright, yellow-tinged locks. Y/n smirked to herself as she combed her fingers through Rafe’s hair. As she continued, Rafe found himself relaxing and let out a low sigh of relief. The two of them sat in silence for a moment, Rafe bathing in the comfort of y/n lightly scratching his scalp and y/n focusing intently on her “work”.

“It definitely worked.” Y/n said lowly, smiling widely as she held up a longer piece of Rafe’s hair to examine it closely in the light. Rafe’s eyes fluttered open, and he was met with an almost angelic sight.

Y/n was leaned over him, pieces of her hair that had been tied back falling around her face. The light above shone down around her almost like a halo, her smile beautiful enough to make Rafe feel as if he were dreaming.

As a matter of fact, he’d probably dreamt of this scenario— being with y/n in a beautiful and simply intimate way— a hundred times. But still, the real thing— even if it wasn’t quite how he would’ve liked— felt so, so much better.

So much better, apparently, that Rafe had begun to relax a little too much. His head tilted back too far, his shoulders falling too much, causing y/n’s careful balance over him to slip. Y/n yet out a yelp as she tumbled forward, her knee immediately colliding with Rafe’s groin as the two of them fell onto the shower floor. He let out a groan, his head only narrowly avoiding the faucet as he hit the tile. In the fall, the shower head was somehow lost and was now spraying about the shower and onto the bathroom tile.

Y/n and Rafe lay sprawled out on the shower floor, twisting around in pain and half-naked confusion as water continued to spray at them haphazardly. Rafe groaned, curling in on himself as his freshly bleached, yellowed hair stuck to his forehead

“What the hell happened here?!” Topper said. Y/n and Rafe turned to see Topper and Kelce in the doorway, their mouths agape in shock, confusion, and terror at the sight in front of them. Y/n lifted a hand, dramatically waving the two boys off as she wiped water out of her eyes. Rafe continued to groan in pain, finally reaching up to turn off the water with a huff.

“We are not toning your hair, boy.” Y/n let out a gasp.

“Tone? What the hell does that mean?” Rafe scoffed.

“Oh lord,” Mrs. Cameron mutters into her drink as Rafe bites back a chuckle, burying his smile in her neck.

“He has a name, you know.”

“I don’t care what his name is. I’m sure it’s stupid.”

A tiny, wounded gasp ricochets through the living room. Poppy whips her Barbie around to glare at the Ken doll in Max’s hand. “His name is Anthony.”

Max answers with a low, petty growl, dripping venom. “Anthony… I knew it was stupid.”

Winnie silently laughs, hand over her mouth as she twists around in her chair to watch. “They get really into it,” she whispers.

“And he doesn’t just have a surfboard, Kenneth,” Poppy continues with the gravitas of a scorned woman.

“Not my government name,” Max whines.

“It’s serious,” Poppy insists. “He has… a car.”

“A car… I can’t compete with that,” Max mumbles miserably, like a grown man losing his wife, his dignity, and his Malibu dream house.

You bite your lip, holding back a giggle as you peek into the living room—Max lying on his stomach in a backward hat and cozy hoodie, clutching Ken in one hand. He’s pacing the doll back and forth across the floor, mumbling under his breath about how ungrateful Barbie is.

“I’m taking the kids,” Poppy announces, her Barbie’s tiny plastic pumps thumping across the marble. “All of ‘em.”

Max gasps dramatically, scrambling after her. “But they need their Dad!”

“You’re not their dad anymore,” she says, deadly serious, “because you’re in time out.”

“No,” Max groans in defeat, laying his Ken doll face-down on the cold, hard floor. “Forever?”

Poppy thinks about it for a moment, sighing like she’s exhausted by his foolishness. Nose tilted in righteous judgment.

“Five minutes.”

“SO FOREVER!” Max fake-sobs, rolling his doll onto its back as Poppy corrals the children and stuffs them into Anthony’s pink Jeep.

“I’m taking the plant too—”

Max’s voice cracks. “You wouldn’t… that’s all I have.”

“You should have thought twice,” Poppy says, lowering her voice to a dangerous whisper, “before crossing Barbarella Jones.”

“The government name…” Max whispers it like he’s afraid to even breathe it.

“It’s that serious.”

Rafe flips his wrist and checks his watch, pushing off the island with a sigh. “Okay, princess. Bed.”

“Ugh, Fiiiiiine,” Poppy groans, drawing the word as she throws her head back to the ceiling in protest.

Mr. Cameron scoops her off the floor in one smooth motion. He disappears toward the hallway with her, her little voice still going a mile a minute; softer and softer as they press further into the house.

Crackle.

You hear the feedback from a walkie talkie crackle to life. Max reaches into his back pocket, grabbing the little Minions walkie talkie he had stuffed in his pocket.

“Hey, buuuddy,” Max says sweetly as he rolls to his back, fixing his hat to the front.

“It’s ready,” Rory whispers excitedly.

“I owe you, man,” Max smiles, rolling his head to the side to lock eyes with you, and his grin only gets wider, softening even more. “You ready, baby?”

You nod, stepping off the barstool as he pops to his feet, walking over to you. His big arm wraps around your waist, lips pressing a kiss against your hair.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Cameron,” you say as you look over your shoulder and she smiles warmly.

Max leads you through the massive house, giving you a little tour—the two of you running from the airport to Thanksgiving dinner—finally able to slow down.

“They really love you, you know,” Max smiles as he draws you in a little tighter.

You lean into him without thinking, warmth blooming in your chest at the quiet sincerity in his voice. The house feels softer now—lights dimmed, laughter settling into the walls, the lingering smell of cinnamon and sugar still drifting through the hallway as the chaos of the day fades behind you.

Max keeps one hand warm on your waist, thumb brushing in slow, absent circles, guiding you through familiar space, framed memories lining the walls.

You both slow as you reach the guest room door. A narrow strip of light flashes under it, moving across the hardwood. Max nudges open the door for you.

The planetarium light Rory brought from his room spins soft constellations across the high ceilings—slow and dreamy, glowing blue and silver.

The room’s lavish and homey at the same time; the king-sized bed is crisply made, a generously packed welcome basket resting on the nightstand.

You walk closer and look at the tag. Welcome, cutie 🩵 —From the Camerons written in Winnie’s bubbly letters and glittery gel pen. Inside, it’s stacked with a new fuzzy robe and socks to match, Lush shower products all tied with a cream-colored bow.

“Aww,” you whisper, plucking a note perched against a Lego flower arrangement you can only assume was put together by Rory.

“The kid got you flowers, huh?” Max teases as his hands wrap around your waist, head tilting down to rest on your shoulder to look down at the note too.

“How are you gonna compete with that?” You mutter under your breath, feeling him chuckle against your neck as you throw back his words from his Barbie fight.

“Just don’t leave me for the CEO of the aquarium, please,” he whispers as you open the letter—rough crayon writing, Welcome to Are Home, with the Are scratched out and an Our doodled over the top, spelled adorably, beautifully wrong.

Inside, there’s a drawing of the ceiling; a little model of the planets and stars overhead, you and Max as stick figures holding hands at the bottom.

You tuck it back between the gifts and the moment you do he turns you around and lifts you off your feet. Your arms loop around his neck and he kisses you tenderly, slow and grateful in a way that makes your head float.

He tastes like sweets and champagne, his lips soft and warm as he holds you close. You can tell he’s happy—happy his family loves you—happier he gets you to himself now.

The planetarium light swirls across his jaw, faint blues catching on his cheekbones. He walks you backward until your back meets the door, pressing you into it, lips sliding down your throat before coming back up, soft and hungry all at once.

Click.

You hear the soft, unmistakable sound of the lock turning. You giggle breathily against his mouth, the sound warm and airy making him smile.

“Max.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “What?”

“They’re all out there,” you whisper as he gives you a little more of his weight. “What if they hear—”

“Hear what?” He asks as he pulls back, fake innocence, voice dipping into that velvety flirt that makes you swoon.

“You’re unbelievable,” you breathe as your nails scratch into his hair making him groan at your touch. “And, you’re loud, baby. So loud,” you tease and his nose scrunches and his eyebrows pinch as he scowls; like the man didn’t get a note from his neighbor two nights ago about the two of you keeping it down.

“I can be quiet,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to yours.

“Liar,” you whisper back. That earns you a low laugh that goes straight through you.

“Oh yeah?” He challenges softly as he pulls away from the door, not letting you go. “Bet.”

His mouth trails along your jaw, down your neck, right to that spot he knows makes you melt. “You, on the other hand… You think you can stay quiet for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whisper, the answer shaking faintly.

“Atta girl.”

He walks you back toward the bed and sets you down, climbing over you in one smooth, hungry motion. His lips catch yours in a breathless kiss, hands slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, palms warm and rough against your skin.

“God, I missed you today,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you deeper. “Missed having you to myself.”

His tongue slides against yours, one hand pressing you into the mattress while he grinds his hips into yours, slow and purposeful. The sound that escapes you is soft—a gasp you don’t mean to let out.

“Shhh,” he teases, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Thought you said ‘you could stay quiet’, huh?”

Your fingers claw at his back, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

“I’m trying,” you breathe, head sinking back into the mattress as his mouth trails down your throat; thighs falling open for him.

“Yeah?” He asks softly, lips grazing your collarbone. His hand drifts lower, settling between your legs, rubbing over your panties and tights.

A sound breaks out of you again—small and sweet—and his breath catches at the realization that you’ve never had to be quiet with him before. The idea that you’re trying now does something to him.

“Sorry,” you whisper but he only smiles against your skin.

“Nah, baby. Run that back,” he mumbles, voice low and wicked. “Let me hear it again.”

His fingers hook into the tights, tugging just enough for a soft tearing sound to split the air. You gasp, eyes snapping open, lips parted in shock and heat.

He looks down at you with that boyish, dangerous grin—tongue poking between his teeth.

“Max,” you scold, but you don’t mean it, and he knows you don’t mean it.

His smile widens as his fingers press against the lace beneath, the only piece of fabric keeping you from him now, dragging another sound out of you—a little higher, a little needier.

“God, I love you,” he mumbles, lowering his mouth to yours again as his greedy fingers hook around the lace.

“I love you too,” you sigh, and he kisses you like he means it.

His voice dips, rough and sweet, right against your mouth. “Did I tell you how much I missed having you to myself?” He asks, letting your panties go, snapping back against your skin, making you gasp.

You giggle and nod ‘yes’ as his fingers play with the button of your skirt; easing it down slowly, the zipper following close behind as he lowers himself on the bed, lifting your shirt to kiss between your ribs and down your stomach.

“Let me show you.”

You tilted your head, straining to hear. The voices were muffled, coming from the direction of the kitchen. For a split second, your brain went straight to the worst-case scenario: intruders.

Grabbing the nearest ‘weapon’ (a decorative vase from a side table), you crept toward the kitchen, heart pounding. The whispers grew louder, accompanied by the distinct sound of rustling bags.

You tightened your grip on the vase, poking your head around the corner—and stopped dead in your tracks.

There, in the glow of the open pantry, stood Sarah and Wheezie, bickering in hushed tones as they dug through the shelves.

“What do you mean we don’t have Oreos? You said there were Oreos,” Sarah was whispering, pulling out random boxes and shaking them.

“They were here yesterday!” Wheezie replied, holding up a bag of chips. “Just eat these.”

“No way. I don’t want something salty.”

Still clutching the vase, you exhaled loudly, causing both of them to whip around, startled.

“Uh… hi?” you said, setting the vase down and trying to calm your racing heart.

“Hi?” Sarah echoed, her hand frozen mid-reach into the pantry.

Wheezie just blinked at you, her cheeks stuffed with chips like a squirrel caught hoarding food.

You looked between the two of them, raising an eyebrow. “So… we’re all just hungry?”

Sarah relaxed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “Apparently.”

Wheezie nodded, swallowing her mouthful of chips. “What are you doing down here? Shouldn’t you be upstairs… with Rafe?”

You shrugged, holding up the pack of Buldak Carbonara noodles you’d grabbed from the counter. “I got hungry. And, well, noodles.”

Sarah squinted at the packaging. “Wait, isn’t that the crazy spicy stuff?”

“It’s not crazy spicy—it’s creamy and amazing. Big difference,” you corrected, already moving toward the kettle to start boiling water.

Wheezie craned her neck to get a better look. “Is it actually good? I always thought those things were just for people trying to punish themselves.”

“It’s the best late-night snack ever,” you said, putting a pot on the stove. “Want to try some?”

Wheezie’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Chips are boring.”

Sarah made a face but eventually sighed. “Fine. I’ll try a bite. But only because I want to understand the hype.”

As the water began to boil, you leaned against the counter, glancing between the two of them. “What are you guys even doing up? I thought I was the only weirdo sneaking around for snacks at midnight.”

“Wheezie woke me up,” Sarah said flatly, glaring at her sister.

“I was starving!” Wheezie protested, clutching her chips defensively.

“You were also banging cabinet doors like a maniac,” Sarah shot back. “It’s a miracle you didn’t wake the entire house.”

“Fair,” Wheezie admitted, taking another handful of chips.

You laughed, shaking your head as you poured the boiled water in the pan and put the noodles in as well. “Honestly, I thought you were burglars or something.”

Sarah smirked. “That would’ve been entertaining.”

“Not for me!” Wheezie exclaimed.

The three of you dissolved into quiet laughter, the tension of the moment melting away. When you poured some water away and added the cream, cheese, and spices, a rich and spicy aroma began to fill the air.

Sarah tilted her head, smirking at you.

“You know Rafe’s gonna freak when he wakes up and he can’t find you?”

“Probably,” you said with a grin. “But he can survive for five minutes without me.”

“Bold of you to assume,” Sarah teased.

You set three bowls on the counter, handing one to each of them. Wheezie immediately dug in, her eyes widening as she took her first bite.

“Okay, wow, this is amazing,” she mumbled through a mouthful of noodles.

“Told you,” you said smugly, taking a bite from your own bowl.

Sarah hesitated but eventually took a small bite. Her eyes widened slightly, and she cleared her throat, trying to play it cool. “It’s… decent.”

“Decent?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow with a smile.

“Fine. It’s amazing,” she admitted begrudgingly.

As you were sitting around the island, slurping noodles and swapping stories under the dim glow of the overhead light, Sarah was making fun of Wheezie for the way she held her chopsticks, while Wheezie defended herself with half-coherent arguments between bites.

You were laughing so hard you nearly dropped your bowl when you heard the telltale sound of heavy, uncoordinated footsteps padding down the stairs.

All three of you froze, turning toward the doorway just as Rafe stumbled in, his hair sticking out in every direction, his hoodie slightly askew. His half-lidded, sleepy eyes scanned the scene, his brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was looking at.

“What the hell is going on?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“Hi, baby,” you said, trying to stifle a laugh at how utterly confused he looked.

Rafe blinked at you, his gaze shifting to Sarah and Wheezie, then to the bowls of noodles on the counter. “Is this… a dream? Am I—what?”

“Nope, very real,” Sarah quipped, taking another bite of her noodles. “Welcome to the midnight noodle club.”

Rafe rubbed a hand over his face, clearly trying to wake himself up. “I thought you were in bed,” he said, looking at you accusingly.

“I was,” you admitted, giving him an innocent smile. “But I got hungry. And, well, Sarah and Wheezie were already raiding the pantry, so…” You gestured at the spread of noodles like it explained everything.

Rafe stared at the scene for a long moment, then pointed at the bowls. “Are those the spicy noodles?”

“Yes,” you said proudly.

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course they are. Why am I not surprised?”

“You want some?” you asked, holding up your bowl in offering.

Rafe shook his head, though his lips quirked in a small smile. “Nah, you can keep your torture food. I’m good.” He shuffled over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “You left me for noodles?”

“I left you for the Buldak Carbonara noodles,” you corrected, twirling some noodles around your chopsticks and taking a bite.

“You’ve got issues,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his voice.

“She fits right in,” Sarah said, smirking at the two of you.

“Clearly,” Rafe muttered, glancing at his sisters. “What are you two doing awake anyway?”

Wheezie shrugged, still focused on her bowl. “We got hungry.”

“And she woke me up,” Sarah added, shooting Wheezie a pointed look.

“Whatever,” Wheezie said with a mouthful of noodles. “These are worth it.”

Rafe shook his head, his grip tightening slightly around your waist as he kissed your temple. “Alright, noodle girl. Finish up and come back to bed.”

“You could just sit and join us, you know,” you teased.

He smirked, leaning closer to whisper in your ear. “Or I could carry you upstairs and steal you back.”

Your face went warm, nudging him away playfully. “Let me finish my noodles first, Rafe.”

He sighed dramatically, but you could see the fondness in his eyes as he let go. “Fine. Ten more minutes.”

As Rafe leaned against the counter, watching the three of you eat, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

The second time

It was the middle of the night at Tannyhill again, and once more, you found yourself lying wide awake. Rafe was snoring softly beside you, one arm draped possessively over your waist. For most people, this would’ve been the perfect setup for drifting off into peaceful dreams.

But not for you.

Your stomach growled, and the craving hit like a freight train: buldak noodles.

It’d been a week since the first midnight noodle escapade, and Rafe hadn’t let you live it down. But this time, you promised yourself you’d be quick and quiet—no waking him, no recruiting his sisters. Just you, your noodles, and the late-night craving.

You slid out of bed and tiptoed downstairs. The house was silent. You slipped into the kitchen, grabbed your favorite noodle packet, and started boiling water.

As the water bubbled away, a faint noise made you freeze mid-stir. Footsteps? Whispers?

Not again, you thought. For a second, you were sure it was Wheezie and Sarah trying to raid the pantry like last time. But when you turned, two familiar figures were sneaking in through the back door: Sarah and John B.

Both froze when they spotted you standing there with a pot of boiling water and a packet of noodles.

“Oh, hey,” John B said casually, like sneaking into the house at midnight was no big deal.

“Uh… hi?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “What are you two doing?”

Sarah tossed her keys on the counter, unfazed. “We went to the beach. Felt like a midnight swim.”

“In jeans and sneakers?” you asked, eyeing their less-than-swim-friendly outfits.

“Okay, fine,” Sarah admitted, pulling a stray leaf from her hair. “We were climbing trees. John B’s idea.”

“Climbing trees,” you repeated, deadpan.

“Don’t look at me,” John B said, holding up his hands. “She started it.”

You sighed, setting the noodles aside for a moment. “And you thought sneaking back in through the back door at midnight wouldn’t look suspicious?”

“We didn’t think anyone would be awake,” Sarah said, sliding onto a barstool. “What are you doing up anyway?”

“I got hungry,” you said simply, holding up the bright pink noodle packet.

“This your thing now?” she smirked. “Midnight noodles?”

“Apparently.”

“I could get used to that,” she smiled as she sat down.

John B sniffed the air, eyebrows raising. “What’s that? Smells good.”

“Buldak carbonara,” you said proudly, grabbing the seasoning packets.

“Spicy noodles?” he asked, intrigued.

“They’re creamy and spicy,” you corrected. “Want some?”

Before John B could answer, Sarah cut in, “You do not want that, John B. It’s her thing, and she’s obsessed, but trust me—it’s like eating fire.”

“It’s not that spicy!” you protested, tearing open the sauce packet.

“I had some last week,” Sarah said, shaking her head. “Pretty sure I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“If you’re making it as spicy as last time, I’m out. That stuff nearly killed me.”

John B snorted. “Now I kinda want to try it.”

You rolled your eyes but grabbed a second packet, adjusting the sauce ratio for their bowls. “Fine. I’ll make a mild version for the babies,” you teased.

“Thank you,” Sarah said skeptically, watching you stir the sauce into the noodles.

Once ready, you served three bowls—yours with the full kick, theirs toned down. Sarah and John B eyed their bowls suspiciously at first, but after a few bites, they both relaxed.

“Okay, this is actually good,” Sarah admitted, twirling noodles onto her fork.

John B nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, solid. Creamy, just a little spicy—perfect.”

You smirked, biting into your bowl. “Told you. Midnight noodles are superior.”

“Alright, I’ll give you that,” Sarah grinned. “But only if you keep making it like this. None of that fire-breathing dragon nonsense.”

“No promises,” you winked.

The three of you laughed—Sarah nearly choking on noodles as John B recounted the time he got stuck in a tree—when heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs.

You froze, chopsticks halfway to your mouth.

“Uh-oh,” Sarah whispered, eyes darting to the doorway.

“Don’t ‘uh-oh’ me,” you hissed. “He won’t care.”

“I don’t know…” Sarah smirked.

Before you could argue, Rafe appeared in the doorway, half-asleep and unimpressed. His hair stuck out in every direction, hoodie thrown on backward. His squinting eyes scanned the scene: you, Sarah, John B, and three bowls of noodles.

For a moment, he just rubbed his face like he couldn’t believe this was happening again.

“Really?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “This is a regular thing now?”

“Hi, baby,” you said, trying not to laugh at his furrowed brow.

Rafe’s eyes zeroed in on you first. “You ditched me for noodles. Again.”

Then he glanced at Sarah, grinning around her chopsticks. “You, I expected.”

Finally, his gaze landed on John B, who looked sheepish. “But you, John B? Really, bro? Midnight noodles with my girlfriend?”

John B held up his hands defensively, noodle dangling from his chopsticks. “Hey, man, she offered. I wasn’t gonna say no.”

“Unbelievable,” Rafe muttered, leaning against the counter. “First my sisters, now you. What’s next? Dad sneaking down for a bowl?”

Sarah snorted. “Dad’s too boring for this. But Wheezie’s probably mad she missed it.”

“Don’t give her ideas,” Rafe grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking at you. “I thought we had a deal. You wake me up if you’re leaving bed.”

You smirked, twirling noodles on your chopsticks. “And ruin the surprise? Come on, babe.”

Rafe sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “At this point, I’m not even mad about the noodles. I’m mad everyone’s in on this except me.”

“You’re welcome to join,” you said, sliding the half-finished pot toward him.

He looked at it skeptically. “Did you make it with that insane sauce again?”

“Nope,” you said sweetly. “Mild, just for Sarah and John B.”

Sarah nodded eagerly, mouth full. “It’s really good. You should try it.”

John B held up his bowl. “Yeah, man. It’s fire—but like the good kind. Not the ‘I need milk’ kind.”

Rafe hesitated, then sighed, grabbing a fork. “Fine. But if this is some kind of trick…”

“It’s not,” you promised, watching as he took a small bite.

To your delight, his eyebrows lifted slightly, and he nodded. “Alright. This is actually good.”

“Told you,” you said smugly, taking another bite.

Rafe shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he grabbed a barstool and sat beside you. “I swear, you’re corrupting this entire house.”

“Just making it more fun,” you said with a wink.

The four of you spent the next half hour sharing noodles and banter, Rafe’s initial annoyance melting away. By the time the pot was empty, even he seemed to admit midnight noodles weren’t the worst tradition to start.

Leaning into his side, bowl empty and stomach full, you couldn’t help but smile. Midnight chaos, sleepy Rafe, and noodles—what more could you ask for?

The third time

The house was silent, the air still except for the soft snores of your boyfriend beside you. You glanced at Rafe, his face half-buried in the pillow, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady.

You tried. You really did.

Gently nudging his shoulder, you whispered, “Rafe… babe, I’m hungry.”

Nothing.

You shook him a little harder. “Rafe, come on. Midnight noodles?”

Still nothing.

Letting out a sigh, you stared at him for a moment, debating your next move. But his peaceful expression convinced you otherwise—it wasn’t worth waking the grumpy side of Rafe Cameron just for noodles.

So, you slipped out of bed, grabbed a hoodie, and padded downstairs, the craving for your beloved buldak carbonara too strong to ignore.

The kitchen was eerily quiet. It felt strange not having Sarah, Wheezie, or even John B around, their late-night antics usually keeping the house alive. You moved quietly, grabbing a pot and filling it with water. The pantry drawer creaked softly as you pulled it open to retrieve your prized noodle packet.

But just as you reached for it—

“Ooh, are we making noodles again?”

You let out a startled yelp, spinning around to see Wheezie standing there, arms crossed, a mischievous grin plastered across her face.

“Wheezie! What the hell? You scared me!” you hissed quietly, clutching the packet like it was your lifeline.

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “You were loud. I heard the drawer.”

“You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“Please,” she whined, hopping onto a barstool. “I’ve been waiting for this. I’m still mad I missed it last time.”

You groaned, setting the pot on the stove and turning on the heat. “Okay, fine. But this time, you’re helping.”

“Deal,” Wheezie said, practically bouncing off the stool to join you. “What do I do?”

“Start by getting the bowls,” you instructed, grabbing the scissors to cut open the noodle packet.

As Wheezie rummaged through the cabinet, she started her mini rant. “Sarah told me all about last time, by the way. Midnight noodles with you, her, and John B? And nobody thought to wake me up? Rude.”

She was midway through her rant, waving the sauce packet for emphasis, when a voice interrupted from the doorway.

“This, again?”

You froze, chopsticks clutched in your hand, and slowly turned toward the source. Standing there, looking far too amused for someone supposedly asleep, was Ward Cameron himself.

Wheezie nearly dropped the sauce packet. “Dad?”

You tried to play it cool, giving him your best innocent look. “Huh? Again? No idea what you’re talking about.”

Ward stepped into the kitchen, arms crossed and a sly smile on his face. “Who do you think cleans this up in the morning? Or keeps restocking the noodles? You guys go through five packs at a time.”

Wheezie gasped, whipping around to face you. “You knew!”

Ward chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course I knew.”

You winced, trying to salvage the situation. “Well… uh, thank you for restocking?”

Wheezie, recovering quickly, grinned. “Wait, so you don’t care?”

“I didn’t say that,” Ward replied, giving her a pointed look. “But I figured it was harmless. Midnight noodles are better than midnight parties, I guess.”

Before you could respond, another voice chimed in from behind him.

“Ooh, it’s midnight noodle time?”

You turned to see Sarah stroll into the kitchen, her hair messy and a gleam of excitement in her eyes. She took one look at the scene—the noodles, the bowls, and Ward standing there—and grinned. “Guess I came down at the perfect time.”

Wheezie raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t even awake five minutes ago.”

“I have a sixth sense for these things,” Sarah said smugly, grabbing a bowl and plopping herself onto a stool.

Ward sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose but still smiling. “This house…” he muttered under his breath, though he didn’t leave.

You decided to just embrace the chaos, handing Sarah the next sauce packet. “Fine. Let’s make it a semi-family noodle night, I guess.”

“Finally,” Wheezie said, grinning as she helped stir the pot.

“I’m not making my own, though,” Sarah declared, leaning on the counter. “This is your thing.”

“You’re so lazy,” Wheezie muttered, but she passed the finished noodles to you for seasoning anyway.

As the four of you stood there—cooking, laughing, and chatting—the kitchen felt strangely cozy. Ward shared stories about catching Rafe sneaking snacks as a kid, Wheezie kept complaining about how long it took her to get in on the noodle tradition, and Sarah teased you about how you’d turned her boyfriend’s house into a late-night ramen hub.

When the noodles were finally ready, the four of you sat down to eat, the conversation flowing easily.

“This is actually really good,” Ward admitted after a few bites, surprising everyone.

“You’re just figuring that out now?” Wheezie teased, twirling noodles onto her fork.

Sarah leaned toward you conspiratorially, repeating Rafe’s words from the last time. “You’ve corrupted the entire family.”

You laughed, glancing at Ward, who just shook his head with a bemused smile. “Maybe,” you said. “But at least we’re all well-fed.”

The kitchen was alive with laughter and the clinking of chopsticks against bowls. Wheezie was dramatically recounting her missed opportunity during the last noodle night, Sarah was making snarky comments between bites, and Ward was suspiciously quiet as he polished off his bowl.

“Dad, you’re eating like you’ve been waiting for this all day,” Sarah teased, nudging his arm.

“Not true,” Ward replied, his tone far too casual to be convincing. “It’s just good.”

You were mid-bite when the sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs. Everyone froze, turning toward the doorway.

There stood Rose Cameron, her silk robe tied snugly around her waist, her hair perfectly in place despite the late hour. She took in the scene before her: Ward sitting at the island with an empty bowl, Sarah and Wheezie slurping cheesy noodles, and you standing at the stove stirring yet another batch.

Her expression was a mixture of confusion and mild exasperation.

“What is going on here?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

Wheezie, unfazed, waved her chopsticks in the air. “Midnight noodles. Want some?”

Rose blinked, clearly processing the absurdity of the situation. “I beg your pardon?”

“Midnight noodles,” Sarah repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “It’s kind of a thing now.”

Rose’s gaze shifted to Ward, her eyebrows lifting. “And you’re okay with this?”

Ward shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s harmless. Besides, they’re good. You should try some.”

“Harmless?” Rose echoed, gesturing to the cluttered counter and sink full of pots. “Do you know how much cleanup this is going to take?”

“I’ll clean it up,” you offered quickly, not wanting to face her full wrath.

Rose gave you a pointed look, then sighed, shaking her head. “I swear, this family is impossible.”

“Oh, come on, Rose,” Ward said, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Live a little. Have some noodles.”

Sarah snorted into her bowl. “Yeah, Rose. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Wheezie chimed in, grinning. “I mean, if Dad’s eating it, you know it’s worth it.”

Rose hesitated, clearly debating whether to shut the whole thing down or give in. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she threw up her hands. “Fine. One bowl. But only to see what all this fuss is about.”

Wheezie practically cheered as you quickly made a fresh serving for Rose, this time dialing back the spice even more. She accepted the bowl reluctantly, sitting down at the island with the rest of the family.

As she took her first bite, everyone watched with bated breath.

“Well?” Sarah asked, smirking.

Rose chewed slowly, her face giving nothing away. Then, to everyone’s surprise, she nodded. “It’s… not bad.”

“Not bad?” Wheezie repeated, laughing. “That’s basically a rave review coming from you.”

Rose rolled her eyes but took another bite, and the conversation picked up again, the kitchen filled with warmth and chaos.

When the pot was finally empty, Rose stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs off her robe. “I’m going back to bed. And this better be spotless by morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said with a mock salute, earning a laugh from Sarah and Wheezie.

As Rose disappeared up the stairs, Ward leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Told you she’d like it.”

Before anyone could respond, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps came from the hallway.

And then Rafe appeared, leaning against the doorway, his hair sticking up at wild angles, his hoodie half on, and his face a mix of confusion and irritation. He squinted at the scene before him: Ward sitting with an empty bowl, Wheezie and Sarah with noodles in hand, and you standing at the stove with chopsticks in one hand and a sheepish expression on your face.

“I really don’t like this,” Rafe said, his voice groggy. He gestured vaguely to the kitchen. “This is happening again? And you didn’t wake me again?”

“Hi, baby,” you said with an awkward smile.

Rafe just blinked at you, his expression unimpressed. “No, seriously. You’re downstairs, eating noodles with my entire family, and I’m… asleep?”

You shrugged, trying to keep a straight face. “I tried to wake you! You’re a very heavy sleeper, Rafe.”

“That’s not—” Rafe started, but Sarah interrupted with a laugh.

“Oh, don’t pout, Rafe. You missed it because you sleep like a rock.”

Wheezie grinned, pointing her chopsticks at him. “She’s right. We’re over here having the time of our lives, and you’re drooling into your pillow.”

“I don’t drool,” Rafe said defensively, glaring at Wheezie before turning his attention back to you. “You could’ve tried harder to wake me up.”

“I shook you! I whispered! I even said, ‘midnight noodles,’ and you didn’t budge!” you said, laughing now. “At some point, I had to just accept defeat.”

Rafe let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. First Wheezie and Sarah, then Sarah and John B, now my dad and Wheezie and Sarah again? What’s next, Rose?”

“Already happened,” Sarah said, smirking. “She had a bowl. Loved it.”

Rafe stared at her, then at Ward, who gave him a shrug and a knowing look.

“Even Rose?” Rafe said, his voice bordering on betrayal. “Really?”

“Welcome to the club,” Ward said with a chuckle. “You’re late, son.”

Rafe groaned, walking into the kitchen and flopping onto a stool next to you. “Fine. Where’s mine?”

You grinned, handing him the last bowl you’d prepared. “Right here. But it’s the mild version. I wasn’t about to make a new batch just for you.”

He took the bowl with a grumble but didn’t hesitate to dig in, the familiar taste of the noodles clearly softening his irritation.

“See? Now everyone’s happy,” you said, leaning against his shoulder.

Rafe looked at you, still chewing, and muttered, “Barely.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, calm down. You’re here now. The chaos is complete.”

Bonus

It had been one of those long, exhausting days. You’d been running around, working on a million things at once—picking up groceries, answering calls, finishing tasks, and just trying to survive the whirlwind. By the time you and Rafe finally collapsed into bed, you were wiped out, barely able to keep your eyes open. You fell asleep almost instantly, the weight of the past few days finally catching up to you.

Rafe woke up a few hours later, his stomach growling in hunger. The soft moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a silvery glow on the room. He groggily turned toward you, only to find you sound asleep, your body curled up against the blankets.

He smiled softly at how peaceful you looked, but his stomach was practically screaming for food. He nudged you lightly, hoping you might stir—after all, you had made a habit of late-night noodles together.

“Babe,” he whispered, giving your shoulder a gentle shake. “Baby, you awake?”

But there was no response. You were out cold, snoring softly in a way that made it clear you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

He sighed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

A deep hunger gnawed at him, and despite the temptation to just sleep through it, he couldn't ignore his cravings. Grumbling under his breath, he got out of bed, slipped into a pair of sweatpants, and made his way downstairs.

Rafe padded down the stairs, grumbling to himself. He could always just raid the pantry, but that wasn’t going to fill him up in the same way. He paused at the kitchen drawer and opened it, scanning for something sweet. When his eyes landed on a few cookies tucked in the corner, he grabbed one and took a bite, savoring the sugar for a moment.

Still not enough to satisfy him.

He closed the drawer and walked further into the kitchen, noticing the faint light coming from the living room. There, sitting around the coffee table, were Sarah, Kiara, Wheezie, and Ward—all waiting expectantly.

When Sarah heard the sound of footsteps approaching, she shot up, excited. “Finally—”

She froze when she saw who it was. “Oh. It’s just Rafe.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, taking a bite of his cookie and leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, thanks for the warm welcome. Can’t a guy just get a midnight snack?”

“And what are you doing here, Kie?”

Kiara, sitting cross-legged on the couch, flashed him a wide grin. “Well, I couldn’t miss it. I heard so much about this midnight noodle thing from Sarah that I had to try it myself.” She gave Sarah a playful nudge. “I heard it’s become a legendary tradition in this family.”

Wheezie grinned softly. “Oh, it’s definitely legendary.” She took her chopsticks and tapped them dramatically against the counter as she readied the noodles. “We’ve been having these late-night noodle sessions since last month. But guess who helped start this? Me.”

Rafe looked at her with an eyebrow raised, still processing the whole situation. “So, you guys just wait for me to wake up to make noodles?”

“No,” Sarah chimed in, “we wait for you to wake up so we can eat noodles. It’s a whole process, you know.”

Rafe was about to make a snarky remark when he felt his stomach growl loudly again. “Alright, alright. I’m hungry. But seriously, I tried to wake up my girlfriend, and she’s a rock.”

“You couldn’t wake Y/N up?” Kiara asked, her brows furrowing.

“Yeah,” Rafe sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “She didn’t budge. I was this close to dumping a glass of water on her just to get a response.”

Wheezie looked over at him with a raised brow. “You should’ve just offered her some noodles. You know, she never says no to these.”

Rafe frowned. “That’s not the point, Wheeze.”

He leaned back against the counter, still holding his cookie. He glanced over at his dad, who was sitting casually on the couch, watching the chaos unfold with a hint of amusement.

“Okay, so I tried to wake her up,” Rafe added, running a hand through his hair. “But she’s completely dead to the world. Like, no reaction.”

Ward raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, if she doesn’t wake up, who’s gonna make the noodles?”

The entire house went quiet for a moment. Everyone turned to look at each other, the realization hitting them all at once. Without you, there would be no noodles. The dreaded No Noodle Night.

Wheezie, ever the problem-solver, jumped to her feet. “We can do it. Right, Sarah? We’ve got this. We’ve watched her do it like a thousand times.”

Sarah stared at her, blinking in disbelief. “Are you crazy?” she said, her voice incredulous. “None of us can make the noodles like she does! You think we’re capable of pulling off the perfect midnight noodle recipe? You’re out of your mind.”

Wheezie held up her hands, trying to calm the storm. “No, seriously. It’s simple. Boil water, add noodles, dump away some water, add cheese and cream, dump in the sauce. Done.”

“Yeah, except we always argue over how much of the sauce to use,” Sarah countered, throwing her hands in the air.

“Okay, but we have to use the right ingredients now,” Wheezie said, her confidence growing. “I mean, last time Y/N wasn’t here, was a disaster because you decided to add soy sauce to everything.”

“I was going for flavor,” Sarah shot back defensively. “You just don’t understand the artistry of seasoning.”

Kie, who had been quietly observing, suddenly broke in with a laugh. “Honestly, I’d like to see you try, Wheezie. If you can make them as good as she does, I’ll eat the whole pot.” She was clearly egging them on, just to see where this would go.

Rafe glanced between his dad, sister, and the others, amused by the chaos. “I think they’re underestimating you, Wheeze. You might be onto something.”

Wheezie flashed a smug smile. “Exactly! I’ve got this. Just leave it to me.” She pulled out the packets of noodles, looking at Sarah for confirmation. “So, are we doing the spicy ones, or the mild ones this time?”

Sarah sighed dramatically. “I told you, we’re doing mild. Mild. We don’t need another spicy incident like last time.”

“Can we do both?” Kiara interjected, leaning forward from the couch. “It’s not that hard, right?”

“Yeah, no, we can’t,” Sarah replied, arms crossed. “If we mix flavors, it’ll be a disaster. Like last time.”

Wheezie’s eyes narrowed. “You ruined the noodles last time, not me.”

“I did not ruin them,” Sarah snapped back. “You ruined them by adding too much sauce, and then they were like… liquid lava. You can't make noodles that spicy.”

“It’s the right amount of spice!” Wheezie shot back. “If you can’t handle it, that’s on you!”

“Okay, okay,” Rafe said, stepping between them, looking a little exasperated. “How about we just stick to one thing and avoid turning this into a nuclear war?” He glanced at Ward, who was sitting quietly at the table, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Dad, tell them it’s not worth arguing over noodles.”

Ward took a slow sip of his drink and grinned. “I’m just here for the noodles, kid. Not getting involved in this one.”

It was clear that, in this family, noodles became a big deal. And while he wasn’t sure they’d survive the night without you, it seemed they were determined to try. All of them decided to move toward the kitchen, watching the scene unfold before them as Wheezie and Sarah tried to make the noodles.

“Alright,” Rafe said, grabbing a chair and sitting down at the table. “I’ll just sit back and watch this trainwreck.” He looked at Kiara. “If they mess this up, we’re all gonna starve.”

Kiara grinned and took a seat next to him. “I’m here for the drama.”

Wheezie set the pot on the stove, clearly in charge now. “Watch and learn, people.” She added the noodles with a flourish, clearly more confident than anyone else in the room.

Sarah crossed her arms. “I’m just saying, if this goes south, I’m not taking the blame.”

Wheezie rolled her eyes. “Trust me, it’ll be perfect.”

Ward watched the entire scene with a quiet smile, shaking his head. “I can’t wait to see how this ends.”

As they started getting the noodles cooking, chaos resumed. Sarah grabbed the spoon to stir the pot, only to have Wheezie take it from her and dramatically announce, “You’re stirring wrong. You’ve got to spin it, not just swirl it around like you’re mixing a salad.”

“Oh, seriously, can we just cook the noodles?” Sarah groaned, rolling her eyes. “You make everything more complicated than it needs to be.”

“I’m just trying to make sure we don’t ruin the noodles, alright?” Wheezie shot back, obviously taking her task very seriously.

You stirred awake, groggy and slightly disoriented, as faint sounds drifted up the stairs. It started as a low hum of voices, but as you became more alert, it was unmistakably the sound of laughter, bickering, and... was that a pot clanging?

You glanced over at Rafe’s side of the bed and found it empty. Typical. His late-night hunger strikes again. Sitting up, you stretched and yawned, your stomach grumbling faintly as if to agree with your decision to investigate.

Quietly padding down the stairs, you followed the familiar smell of something spicy and savory. The closer you got to the kitchen, the more chaotic the scene revealed itself to be.

The first thing you saw was Rafe and Ward sitting at the table, both looking more amused than anything else. Rafe was slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, clearly over the chaos, while Ward nursed a glass of something that was definitely not water, a small smirk playing on his lips.

But that wasn’t all.

Kiara was the next to catch your eye. She stood up the moment she saw you, beaming. “Hey! You’re awake!” she said, crossing the room in a few steps to pull you into a warm hug. “We missed you for the start of this noodle madness.”

“What... what is even happening here?” you asked groggily, still half-asleep as you glanced around.

“Welcome to the show,” Rafe called from the table, flashing you a lopsided grin. “Apparently, if you don’t wake up to make noodles, the entire house loses its mind.”

At the stove, Wheezie and Sarah were engaged in what could only be described as a full-on noodle battle. Wheezie was stirring a pot while Sarah tried to take over, her voice rising with irritation.

“You’re stirring it wrong!” Sarah snapped, reaching for the spoon in Wheezie’s hand. “You’re not mixing the sauce properly. It’s gonna be uneven!”

“Excuse me, I know what I’m doing!” Wheezie retorted, pulling the spoon back. “You’re the one who always burns it. Back off!”

“I don’t burn it!” Sarah shouted, throwing her hands up dramatically. “I caramelize it for flavor!”

“That’s just fancy talk for burning it!” Wheezie shot back.

You blinked, taking it all in. “Is this... about noodles?”

“Yup,” Kie said with a laugh, guiding you toward the table. “And it’s been like this for almost twenty minutes. Honestly, I don’t know how they haven’t burned the kitchen down yet.”

“They might still,” Ward said casually, taking a slow sip from his glass. He gestured toward the chaos. “This is what happens when you don’t wake up. No one can agree on anything.”

“I tried to wake you,” Rafe chimed in, shrugging. “You didn’t even budge. You were out cold.”

You gave him a small, apologetic smile as you slid into the chair beside him. “It’s been a long day. I didn’t even hear you.”

“Well,” Rafe said with a smirk, leaning closer, “now you can witness this mess firsthand.”

Your stomach growled, pulling your focus back to the kitchen. “Are they even close to being done?”

“Define ‘close,’” Rafe replied, gesturing toward the stove where the two sisters were still fighting over the sauce packet.

“I’m adding all of it,” Wheezie declared, her voice resolute as she began to tear open the packet.

“No, you’re not!” Sarah said, grabbing her wrist. “Do you want everyone’s mouths to catch fire? We’re adding half—half!”

“It’s not my fault you can’t handle spice!” Wheezie quipped, holding the packet out of Sarah’s reach.

“Stop!” you called, finally stepping in. “Wheezie, Sarah, just—let me do it, okay? Sit down before you two kill each other over noodles.”

They both froze, blinking at you like children caught misbehaving. Reluctantly, Sarah handed you the spoon while Wheezie stepped back, muttering, “I was doing fine, but okay.”

You took over, quickly finishing the noodles with a practiced ease. In no time, the pot was off the stove, and you were dividing the steaming noodles into bowls.

As you placed a bowl in front of Rafe, he gave you a look of pure gratitude. “This is why I need you, babe. No one else can handle these lunatics.”

Ward chuckled. “True. If you hadn’t come down, we might’ve been here all night.”

Kie grinned, holding up her chopsticks. “Well, I’m glad I stayed for this. Midnight noodles are officially my new favorite thing.”

Sarah huffed, still glaring at Wheezie. “Next time, we’re doing it my way.”

“Not if I get to the kitchen first,” Wheezie shot back, smirking.

You rolled your eyes playfully as you took a seat beside Rafe, finally ready to enjoy the meal. “Remind me to never sleep through this again.”

“Please don’t,” he said, leaning over to steal a bite from your bowl. “I don’t think my sanity can take another night like this.”

With laughter echoing around the room and the comforting warmth of noodles filling the air, you couldn’t help but smile. Midnight noodles were chaotic, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect in their own way.

+ One time he cooks for you

The house was unusually quiet, with Rose and Ward away in the Bahamas for business, Wheezie holed up in her room, and Sarah at the Chateau with John B. Normally, the lack of chaos would’ve been a treat, but today, the stillness only amplified how awful you felt. You were bundled up in a blanket on the couch, sniffling and surrounded by a collection of crumpled tissues, trying to find some comfort in the familiar melodies of Frozen 2.

Rafe sat beside you, his arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, occasionally glancing at you with concern. “You need anything, baby?” he asked softly, careful not to disturb you too much.

You sniffled, curling further into your fluffy blanket. “I’m kinda hungry,” you admitted, your voice hoarse.

He gave you a small smile. “Alright, I’ve got this. How about your favorite noodles?”

Your face lit up, despite your exhaustion, and you nodded. “That sounds amazing.”

Rafe stood up, stretching briefly before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Be right back,” he murmured, heading for the stairs. Quietly, he knocked on Wheezie’s door, sticking his head in when she called out. “Hey, I’m making noodles for her. You wanna help?”

Wheezie’s eyes lit up immediately. “Obviously. Let’s go!”

The two of them got to work in the kitchen, keeping their voices low and trying not to make too much noise. Wheezie buzzed with excitement, pulling out the noodles and sauces while Rafe set a pot of water on the stove.

“Don’t forget to stir it, or it’ll stick to the bottom,” Wheezie reminded him, sounding like a seasoned pro.

“I know, I know, Wheeze,” Rafe said, rolling his eyes but smiling. “You’re not the noodle boss here.”

“Actually, I am,” Wheezie retorted, sticking her tongue out at him. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”

Suddenly, the front door opened, and John B’s voice echoed down the hall. “Anyone home?”

Sarah’s voice followed. “Oh my gosh, it smells so good in here.”

“Living room!” you called weakly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as they appeared in the doorway.

Sarah gasped when she saw you. “Oh no, my baby, what happened to you? You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said, smiling faintly. “Just a cold. Nothing dramatic.”

John B plopped down in the armchair while Sarah sat on the edge of the couch near your feet. Her eyes flicked to the TV. “Frozen 2 again?”

“It’s her favorite,” Rafe called from the kitchen, his voice full of affection.

“It’s the best,” you said passionately, sitting up a little. “The music is incredible, the animation is stunning, and Elsa’s whole journey of self-discovery—ugh, it’s just perfect.”

Sarah smiled. “Okay, until Olaf’s whole ‘dying’ scene. That was devastating and uncalled for.”

You nodded fervently. “Don’t remind me. I cry every single time.”

John B chimed in. “But he comes back! Like, I get it’s sad, but he’s fine in the end.”

“That doesn’t make it less emotional,” you countered. “And don’t even get me started on Elsa being an absolute badass in the glacier. Her solo scene? Literal chills—no pun intended.”

Sarah laughed. “I think you’ve seen this movie too many times.”

“Not possible,” you said firmly. “The Frozen movies are cinematic perfection.”

“Alright, noodle delivery!” Rafe interrupted, entering the room with a pot in his hands. Wheezie trailed behind him, carrying extra napkins and plates.

“For the first time in forever—” Wheezie began to sing, only for Rafe to cut her off.

“Nope. We’re not doing that.”

“But it’s perfect!” Wheezie protested as she set the napkins down. “You’re no fun.”

The noodles smelled amazing, and you wasted no time digging in, the spicy warmth soothing your throat. Everyone else followed suit, and for the first time ever, you all ate together on the couch, passing bowls and joking about the movie.

As the night wore on, your exhaustion crept back in. Your head gradually drifted to Rafe’s shoulder, your bowl empty in your lap. He adjusted his position slightly, careful not to wake you, and wrapped an arm around you protectively.

“Out like a light,” John B said, nodding toward you with a small smile.

Rafe glanced down at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “She’s had a rough day,” he said quietly. “She deserves some rest.”

Sarah pulled a blanket over you both. “She’s got a good one, Rafe. Don’t screw it up.”

He chuckled softly, his hand resting on your arm. “Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “I know.”

And with the movie’s credits rolling in the background, the warm camaraderie of the group filled the quiet house, leaving the night feeling cozy and perfect.

CURRENT TAGLIST⋆⭒˚｡⋆

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in the background, he hears your friends talking over each other.

“wait—give me the phone—no, i got it—”

then one of them comes through clearer. “hi, um—she’s okay! just… very drunk. we’re outside the bar on—”

rafe’s already moving. “i’m on my way.”

ten minutes later, he pulls up, and it takes him exactly two seconds to spot you.

you’re sitting on the curb, heels kicked off somewhere, head tilted back, laughing at absolutely nothing.

his chest does a weird mix of relief and oh my god. he steps out of the car, locking it quickly. “hey.”

your head snaps toward him. “RAFE!”

you light up like he just hung the moon.

and then you’re scrambling u p— very unsteadily like a baby deer — and stumbling straight into him. he catches you immediately. “whoa—hey, easy,” he murmurs, hands firm on your waist as you basically collapse into his chest.

“you came,” you mumble into his shirt, arms wrapping around him like you’re afraid he might disappear.

his expression softens instantly.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “course i did.”

your friends hover nearby, watching with very knowing looks. one of them snorts softly. “she’s been talking about you for, like… two hours.”

you groan. “no i haven’t —”

“you have,” another cuts in. “it’s been rafe this, rafe that—”

“okay,” rafe interrupts, but he’s smiling a little, ducking his head as he looks down at you. “that so?”

you hide your face in his chest. “they’re lying.”

“mm,” he hums. “sure.”

he thanks your friends quickly, promises he’s got you, and then it’s just him and you. well, mostly him holding you up.“c’mon,” he says gently. “let’s get you in the car.”

“don’t wanna walk,” you mumble.

“yeah, i figured.”

before you can protest, he scoops you up. ull-on. one arm under your knees, the other around your back. you squeak, then immediately cling to him.

“rafe!”

“relax,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. “i’ve got you.”

you bury your face in his neck, giggling again. “you’re strong.”

“yeah?” he glances down at you. “you just noticing that now?”

“mmhm.”

he shakes his head, smiling despite himself as he sets you carefully into the passenger seat, buckling you in because you’re definitely not doing it yourself.

you watch him the whole time. like he’s fascinating. like he’s everything. he is.

the drive is… an experience.

you ramble. about your friends, about the music, about how the bathroom attendant “felt like a fairy,” about how much you love fries.

and then— “i love you.”

it just slips out. rafe’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. he glances at you. “you’re drunk,” he says quietly.

“i know,” you nod, very seriously. “…okay? but i still love you.”

his jaw ticks. he looks back at the road. doesn’t answer right away. “we’ll talk about it tomorrow, yeah?”

you pout, but a second later you’re distracted again by something outside the window.

he exhales slowly.

back at his place, getting you inside is…a process.

“shoes,” he says, crouching in front of you.

“no.”

“yes.”

“noooo.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna sleep in them?”

you think about it. “no.”

“yeah,” he mutters. “that’s what i thought.”

he gently slips them off, setting them aside, then stands and takes your face in his hands for a second. “stay,” he says.

“kay.”

you do not stay. you wobble after him immediately. he catches you (again). “you are not making this easy,” he says, but his hands are steady, careful, guiding you.

“you love me,” you sing.

he pauses. just for a second. then softer, almost under his breath “yeah.”

you don’t even register it. he gets you changed into one of his t-shirts, turns his head respectfully when needed but still helping when you get tangled and confused. he hands you water. you take one sip.

“more,” he insists.

“no.”

“yes.”

you glare at him. he stares back and so you take another sip.

“good,” he murmurs.

he wipes smudged makeup from under your eyes with a damp cloth, movements surprisingly gentle for someone like him.

“hold still,” he says quietly.

you do his time because it’s him. eventually, he gets you into bed. you flop down dramatically.

“rafeee.”

“yeah?”

you reach for him with grabby hands. “cuddle.”

he huffs out a soft laugh. “yeah, alright.”

he climbs in beside you, and you immediately latch onto him, arms wrapping around his middle, leg thrown over his. he freezes for half a second then relaxes. his arm comes around you, pulling you in properly, hand resting on your back. you sigh, content.

“feel weird,” you mumble.

“i know,” he says softly, thumb tracing slow circles against you. “it’ll pass. just sleep.”

you nuzzle into his chest. “don’t leave.”

his grip tightens just slightly. “not going anywhere.”

you hum, already drifting off. “love you,” you whisper again, sleepier this time.

he looks down at you. really looks. his hand comes up to brush your hair away from your face. “yeah,” he murmurs. then, quieter: “i know.”

he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, holding you a little closer as your breathing evens out. and he stays exactly like that, awake a while longer, just making sure you’re okay, before finally letting himself drift off too, still wrapped around you like you might disappear if he lets go.

“May I please have a bottle of water?” you ask, following him toward the kitchen and looking around as you go. The place feels lived-in - mismatched furniture, beach towels tossed over chairs, a surfboard leaned in the corner. They’d really made it their own.

“Will a glass do?” Pope asks, already opening a cabinet.

“A glass is fine,” you say with a grateful smile.

Kiara walks in as Pope fills the glass, followed by JJ and John B mid-argument.

“I’m telling you, Kie -all you and Sarah have to do is make a distraction, and John B and I sneak up and bam- we have the party desserts, the kooks have a horrible night, everybody wins,” JJ says, completely satisfied with himself.

“Yeah, you’re not roping Sarah into this,” John B replies.

“Or me,” Kiara adds, rinsing out a bowl and setting it on the rack.

“But it’s a brilliant plan - look, even y/n could participate,” JJ says, finally noticing you. He walks over and pulls out a chair beside the table without thinking. “She could pretend to give birth as the distraction.”

You sit immediately, grateful to be off your feet. “Yeah, I won’t be doing that,” you say.

John B and Pope laugh. JJ looks mildly offended. “Why are you here again?” he asks, sounding more like a curious brother than anything else.

You choke out a laugh as Pope hands you the glass of water. “I was actually wondering what you guys are doing Saturday evening… night-ish,” you say before taking a sip.

“We’re crashing Midsummers. You don’t have to distract anymore - you can be the getaway driver-” JJ starts.

“We’re not doing anything Saturday night, y/n,” Pope cuts in firmly.

You nod. “That’s good,” you say, setting the glass down. “I’m not going to Midsummers this year, so I was wondering if you guys wanted to come over. Eat, have snacks, watch movies? You obviously don’t have to- think of it as an invitation.”

JJ perks up immediately. “Yeah, that sounds nice. You’re gonna have the good stuff, right? The name-brand snacks? Not the knock-offs?”

“Uhhh… yes?” you answer.

“Right. I forgot you’re a kook,” he nods.

John B lightly shoves his head. “We’d love to come over, y/n,” he says, already moving toward the fridge like he lives there.

“Cool,” you say, standing slowly. You wipe your palms against your pale blue linen maxi skirt, suddenly aware of your nerves. “Maybe come no earlier than five? And you don’t have to bring anything. I’ve got snacks and everything covered.”

Kiara smiles at you. “That sounds really nice.”

There’s a small pause- comfortable, not awkward. Like this is becoming normal. And that surprises you more than anything.

-

The house feels different when you walk back in. Not empty- just waiting. You slip your sandals off at the door and rest your hand on your belly as you look around the living room, mentally rearranging furniture, counting seats, wondering if you have enough blankets, enough snacks, enough anything.

You laugh softly at yourself. It’s just movie night. Not a dinner party. Not Midsummers. Still, you move.

You fluff the couch pillows, fold throw blankets over the armrests, and adjust the coffee table an inch to the left like it matters. The fireplace catches your attention next- you crouch down and stack the logs the way Pope showed you the other night, double-checking them even though you’re not lighting it yet.

“You’re nesting,” you murmur to yourself. Or maybe you’re just nervous.

You move into the kitchen, opening cabinets and the pantry, taking inventory like you’re preparing for a hurricane instead of five people coming over. Chips. Popcorn. Cookies. Ice cream in the freezer. Enough drinks for a small army.

You grab a bag of popcorn, then pause, resting your weight against the counter. “What if this is weird?” you whisper. The baby shifts faintly beneath your hand.

You smile. “Yeah… I know. I’m overthinking.” Because you are.

They didn’t hesitate when you invited them. They didn’t look confused or uncomfortable. They didn’t treat you like you didn’t belong. They just said yes. You move upstairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister. The nursery door is still open from earlier, the new crib sitting in place like it’s always been there. You step inside.

“You’re going to have a lot of interesting people in your life,” you tell your belly, smiling softly. “Kooks. Pogues. All of them.” Another small kick. Your smile grows. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I’m excited too.”

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel heavy. It feels… open. You turn off the nursery light and head back downstairs, already thinking about which movie to put on first.

-

Saturday comes faster than you expect. The entire morning feels like anticipation sitting just beneath your skin - not anxiety exactly, but something close. You’d woken up earlier than usual, made breakfast you barely ate, and reorganized the living room twice for no real reason. By late afternoon, the house smells faintly like lemon cleaner and the vanilla candle you lit hours ago. Becca is already there, sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching you for the third time rearrange the throw pillows like they personally offended you.

“Okay,” she says slowly, “what is happening?”

You freeze mid-fluff. “Nothing.”

“You vacuumed twice.”

“There was sand.”

“You mopped hardwood floors.”

“There was… more sand.”

Becca narrows her eyes. You turn away quickly, wiping down the kitchen counter that is already spotless.

“I don’t understand why you’re acting like the Queen of England is coming over,” she continues. “We’re literally just hanging out.”

“We are just hanging out,” you insist, opening and closing cabinets you don’t need anything from.

Becca leans back into the couch cushions, watching you pace between rooms. “You’ve cleaned the bathroom, you’ve folded blankets that were already folded, you alphabetized your spice rack.”

You stop walking. “That one needed to be done.”

She sighs dramatically. “Y/n.”

You busy yourself straightening the stack of coasters on the coffee table.

“Y/n.”

“What?”

“Why are you nervous?”

You hesitate. Because you are nervous. Not in a bad way- just the unfamiliar feeling of two parts of your life getting ready to overlap. Becca. The Pogues. Your house. Your new life.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

Becca raises one eyebrow. “sure.”

You exhale. “Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous.”

“Why?” she asks, softer now.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I just want everything to go well.”

Becca studies you for a moment, then smiles gently. “It’s just me.”

You smile back, guilt tugging slightly in your chest. “Yeah. I know.”

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. Your stomach flips.

Becca sits up. “Were you expecting someone?”

You blink. There’s no stalling now.

“Yeah,” you admit, walking toward the door. Becca watches you, confused but curious, as you reach for the handle. You open it. And the familiar chaos of voices, laughter, and footsteps spills from your porch. The door swings open and the first thing you hear is JJ’s voice.

“Whoa… you cleaned.” He steps in like he’s been invited a hundred times, damp hair still messy from the ocean breeze, tracking a little sand behind him before Pope immediately smacks the back of his shoulder.

“Shoes off,” Pope mutters.

JJ groans but kicks them off anyway. Behind them, Sarah appears in the doorway with that easy smile you’ve grown fond of.

“Hi,” she says warmly, stepping forward and pulling you into a quick, careful hug. “We didn’t know if you meant like… actually five or OBX five.”

“I meant actual five,” you laugh. “You’re fine.”

John B follows her inside, nodding politely. “Thanks for having us.”

Kiara and Cleo come in behind him, both carrying the kind of relaxed energy that makes your house immediately feel less quiet. Cleo looks around approvingly. “Okay, this is nicer than i remember.”

Kie smiles at you. “It smells really good in here.”

Your shoulders drop a little. The nervousness starts dissolving. Then you remember. You turn. Becca is standing slowly from the couch.

Silent.

Blinking.

Processing.

Her eyes move across the room like she’s identifying animals in the wild. JJ notices her first. “Oh- hey.”

Everyone else turns. You clear your throat.

Becca smiles politely- too politely. “Oh. Wow. Hi.”

The room holds that awkward, fragile pause that happens when two worlds collide. Then JJ claps once.

“So what are we eating?”

The tension cracks immediately.John B laughs and heads toward the kitchen. Pope follows. Kiara asks where she can put the drinks they brought anyway despite your instructions. Cleo wanders toward the windows to look at the view. Sarah gives you a reassuring smile before joining them.

And then Becca grabs your wrist. “Kitchen. Now.”

You let yourself get dragged a few steps away, already knowing what’s coming. She lowers her voice. “What is happening?”

You wince. “I invited them.”

“I can see that.”

“You said you wanted to hang out this weekend.”

“With you,” she whispers aggressively. “Not the entire socioeconomic conflict of the Outer Banks.”

You laugh nervously. “They’re really nice, Becca.”

Becca peeks over your shoulder at them like they might bite. JJ is opening cabinets. Pope is apologizing while closing them, Kiara is lighting the candle again after accidentally blowing it out, Cleo is complimenting your fireplace, Sarah is helping John B carry bowls to the counter. They look… normal.

Becca turns back to you “I think I’m gonna go.”

Your stomach drops. “Becca.”

“No, it’s fine, I just— I don’t want to make it weird.”

“You’re not making it weird,” you say quickly. “Leaving would make it weird.”

She hesitates and you soften your voice. “They’re not what you think.”

“They’re Pogues,” she whispers.

“And they’re also just people.”

Becca watches them again before sighing  “You owe me. I’ll stay for thirty minutes.” She crosses her arms.

“One hour.” you counter 

“Deal.” And for the first time, you feel like maybe these parts of your life don’t have to stay separate forever.

“What are we watching?” Sarah asks as you drag Becca back toward the living room by the wrist.

“I haven’t decided yet,” you admit, lowering yourself carefully onto the couch. You cradle your belly for a second before adjusting the throw blanket over your legs. Becca drops down beside you with the most dramatic, pouty expression you’ve seen since forever- the one that says she’s being deeply inconvenienced. Which she technically is.

“I was thinking maybe a rom-com?” you suggest, settling back.

JJ groans immediately. “Booooorrrinnnggg,” he drags out, already reaching toward the bowl of mixed candy you set out. The coffee table looks borderline professional- trail mix, small chip bags, sparkling water, sodas, and a carefully arranged charcuterie board in the center.

Kiara smacks his hand before he can grab anything. “Wash your hands and use the tongs,” she hisses, like the integrity of the evening depends on it.

JJ stares at her. “This is a safe space, Kie.”

“There are little baggies on the side,” you add, pointing. “You can load up and then sit down like civilized people.”

John B sits up from his slouched position, scanning the spread. “This is… classy.”

“Thank you,” you say, pleased.

“What about an action movie?” JJ suggests as he stands and heads toward the kitchen sink.

“No,” Pope says immediately, standing to follow him. “Action movies for you are like Cocomelon to a toddler.”

“That is disrespectful.”

“It’s accurate,” Cleo adds.

Sarah tucks her legs under herself. “What about comedy? That way everyone’s happy.”

“That sounds safe,” you agree.

JJ returns, shaking water off his hands like a dog before grabbing a baggie and the tongs dramatically. You glance at Becca. Her chin is still resting in her palm. The pout remains. You lightly elbow her ribs. She straightens instantly, plastering on the polished, society-approved smile you’ve seen her use at fundraisers.

“Uhhh… what about Superbad?” she suggests into the quiet.

JJ gasps “I love Superbad! I relate to Seth on so many levels.”

Kiara looks at him with genuine concern “That’s not a good thing.”

“Yeah,” John B nods.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “I actually think you’re more of a mix between Bill Hader and Seth Rogen’s characters.”

Cleo bursts out laughing. Sarah snorts “That’s biblically accurate,” Pope adds.

JJ points at Pope. “Okay, if I’m the officers, then you’re Fogell.”

“I’ll take it,” Pope shrugs. “Fogell’s the best character.”

“No, I’m Fogell,” John B interrupts. “Pope’s Evan.”

“Absolutely not,” Pope protests.

“What about the girls?” JJ asks, tossing a Skittle in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Becca has to be Becca.”

Becca rolls her eyes. You lean closer to her and whisper, “If you were a movie character, you’d be the Grinch.” She fights a smile.

“I can’t fake the funk,” she mutters under her breath.

“Don’t fake it,” you whisper back. “Just be open.”

Across the room, Sarah is laughing at something Cleo says. Kiara is reorganizing the snack table for the third time. John B and Pope are debating side characters like it’s a thesis discussion. JJ is passionately defending his emotional depth. Becca watches them. Really watches them this time.

“They’re… loud,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

On the TV screen, the menu for Superbad hovers, waiting. JJ grabs the remote triumphantly “If we’re doing this, we’re committing.”

“Fine,” Kiara says. “But please don’t quote the entire movie.”

He gasps like she’s wounded him. As the opening credits start, the room dims. Laughter begins almost immediately- overlapping, easy, unfiltered. Becca startles the first time JJ blurts out something ridiculous.

Then she laughs - not polite laughter- real laughter. You glance at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers.

“Like what?”

“Like you won.”

You smile and rest your hand over your belly, watching Becca as she leans back fully into the couch instead of perching on the edge. She grabs a handful of candy from JJ’s bag without asking. He gasps in betrayal.

“See?” you whisper to her. “You’re already one of them.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t move away. The movie keeps playing, the house filled with laughter that feels less divided than it did a few hours ago. JJ is quoting half the lines before they’re said. Pope keeps correcting him. Kiara threatens violence every ten minutes. John B laughs like he’s never seen the movie before. Cleo is completely invested. Sarah is half-watching, half-commenting. Becca is trying not to laugh. She fails.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket over your legs, one hand resting over your belly. The glow of the TV flickers across everyone’s faces. Your phone vibrates softly against your thigh. Once. You glance down. Rafe. Your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with pregnancy. You unlock it quietly.

Rafe: This is painfully boring.

Another text comes in before you respond.

Rafe: Is your night going better than mine?

You hesitate. Across the room, JJ shouts, “This is CINEMA,” and throws popcorn at Pope. You bite back a smile. You type back.

You: Yeah. It’s good.

Three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Reappear.

Rafe: Good.

A pause.

Rafe: She behaving tonight?

Your hand drifts to your belly instinctively. Right on cue, a small kick. You let out a quiet laugh. Across the room, Sarah glances at you. You look back down at the thread.

You: she’s a little hyper tonight.

Rafe: Must’ve ate some sugar.

You stare at that message a second longer than necessary. Your thumb hovers.

You: How long is Midsummers supposed to last tonight?

Rafe: Too long. Thinking about leaving soon.

Your chest tightens slightly at that. You don’t know why.

You: Drive safe.

Rafe: Always do. Text me if she starts practicing MMA again.

You smile at your phone. Will do. The conversation ends there. No heart emojis. No longing confessions. No jealousy. Just easy. You lock your phone and set it face down.

JJ suddenly looks at you. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“She is,” Pope confirms.

Becca narrows her eyes at you. You grab a handful of popcorn and throw it lightly at JJ. “Watch the movie.”

Laughter erupts again. The TV glow flickers. Your house feels warm. Your worlds don’t feel like they’re colliding. They feel like they’re coexisting. And that feels like progress. Your phone vibrates again. It’s subtle, but in a room this loud and this close, it feels amplified. You casually shift, angling the screen toward the outside of your thigh so no one can see it. Your heart does that small, annoying stutter before your brain catches up.

Rafe: I was thinking of leaving a little earlier. I know you said you were relaxing tonight, but do you think I could come over and hang out a little?

You lips twitch before you can stop them. Across the room, JJ is arguing with Pope about who ruined the fake ID plan. Cleo and Sarah are laughing. Kiara is mid-eye roll. No one’s paying attention. You force your face neutral. 

You: That’s not very coparenting of you lol

Rafe: This is very coparenting of me. I’m trying to get along and mend my relationship with the mother of my child.

You press your lips together, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. Touché.

You: Not tonight. But I can come see you tomorrow if you want.

Rafe: That sounds good. What time would that be?

You: Noon maybe?

Rafe: Sounds good.

Simple. Easy. Normal. You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, your thumb hovering like there’s something else you should say. There isn’t. You lock your phone. Becca nudges you sharply with her elbow. You nearly jump.

“Who are you texting?” she whispers.

You glance around instinctively. Everyone else’s eyes are glued to the TV, except JJ. He’s very obviously not watching the movie. He’s watching you. Specifically, you and Becca, like he just heard the question and isn’t pretending he didn’t.

You make direct eye contact with him. He immediately snaps his gaze back to the TV like he’s afraid you’re about to publicly execute him. You narrow your eyes slightly. He sinks lower into the couch.

Satisfied, you turn back to Becca.

“Nobody,” you murmur, sliding your phone under your thigh and forcing your attention to the screen. But Becca doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes linger on you, not accusatory, just curious.

“You’re glowing,” she whispers.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

On screen, Seth is yelling about something ridiculous and the room erupts again. JJ laughs a little too loudly. You grab a piece of popcorn and toss it in his direction without looking. It hits his shoulder. He gasps in betrayal.

“You’re violent tonight.”

“Focus,” you mutter.

Even as you pretend to be invested in the movie, you can still feel Becca’s stare. Suspicious. Measuring. You lean slightly closer to her. “It was just about tomorrow,” you say quietly, not looking at her. “Logistics with Rafe.”

Her brows lift. “Mm.”

You sigh softly. “It’s not a thing.”

She studies you for another second, then looks back at the screen. “I didn’t say it was.” The corner of her mouth twitches like she absolutely thinks it might be. On the other side of the couch, JJ shifts again. You glance at him. He gives you the smallest, most dramatic squint. You mouth: What? He mouths back: Nothing. You point at the TV. He straightens immediately.

The movie keeps playing. The room stays warm. The laughter stays easy. Under your thigh, your phone feels heavier than it should. 

Your phone starts vibrating under your thigh again. The entire cushion hums. Becca and JJ both turn at the same time- the only three of you on this section of the couch. Becca’s tucked into your right side, knees folded under her. JJ’s on the floor in front of her, back leaned against the couch on the right side of her legs, head tipped back just enough that he can glance up at you.

You freeze for half a second before sliding your phone out. Rafe calling. Of course. You roll your eyes and hit decline, trying to act casual. Becca’s gaze lingers a beat too long before she turns back to the TV. JJ watches your face instead of the screen, curious, then slowly looks forward again like he’s pretending he didn’t just notice.

You shove the phone back under your thigh. Ten seconds later, it starts ringing again. You mutter something under your breath and push yourself up from the couch, careful not to make it obvious you’re escaping. Your heart is beating faster than it should.

“Bathroom,” you whisper vaguely, already walking. No one questions it. You slip into the front entryway instead, clearing your throat softly before answering.

“Yes, Rafe?” you say quietly.

There’s a pause. “Hello to you too,” he mutters. That slight drag in his words. Your stomach sinks. He’s drunk. Not angry. Not explosive. Just drunk.

Your chest tightens anyway. He’d been doing better. He’d been trying.

“What’s up?” you ask carefully, bracing yourself for a shift in tone that never quite comes.

“I… I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

You blink. That wasn’t what you expected.

“I’m watching a movie,” you answer.

“What movie?”

“Superbad.”

There’s a faint laugh on the other end. “I’m surprised it’s not a romcom.”

“I was going to,” you admit, “but I decided against it.”

“Why’s that?”

You hesitate. Because I didn’t want to sit here crying while the pogues sits five feet away. Instead you pivot. “Why are you calling me, Rafe?”

There’s shuffling on his end. Maybe he’s pacing. Maybe he’s slouched somewhere expensive and empty. “I can’t talk to my favorite lady?” he says, softer this time.

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. “If you wanted to say goo goo ga ga to my belly, all you had to do was say so.”

He laughs. Warm. Unfiltered. “Yeah? Rub the belly for me.”

You glance down instinctively, hand resting there for half a second before you pull it away like someone might see down the hall.

“So are you going to tell me why you called?” you press gently.

“Well…” He exhales. “I’m drunk. Bored. And lonely.”

Your jaw tightens slightly.

“Not lonely like that,” he adds quickly. “Just… there’s never anyone around. Not really.”

“What about Topper and Kelce?” you tease, trying to lighten it.

“They’re cool and all but…” He sighs. “They’re not people I can have actual conversations with. It’s all money. Deals. Boats. Bullshit.”

You lean your back against the door, sliding down just slightly until your shoulders rest fully against it.

“It’s just… you and I are finally getting back on the same page,” he continues. “And it feels like having a friend again. I don’t know. It sounds stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” you say quietly. “I get it.” And you do. Even if it complicates everything.

“It is my own fault though,” he mutters. “I pushed you away.”

You close your eyes for a second. “It is,” you say honestly. “You did.” There’s silence on the line. “But you recognized it,” you continue gently. “You’re trying. That’s what matters.”

He exhales slowly. “Can you feed me words of wisdom when I’m not drunk?” he asks, a small smile tucked into his voice.

A soft laugh escapes you. “Sure. Tomorrow. Noon.”

“Tomorrow…” he repeats.

“Yeah. Noon.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow. Noon.”

There’s something fragile about the way he says it, like he’s anchoring himself to it. You hear faint laughter from the living room. The movie is still playing. Your real world is ten feet away.

“I should go,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, though he doesn’t hang up right away. You wait. Then finally, the line clicks dead.

You stare at your reflection in the dark window next to the door for a second, caught between two versions of your life, before slipping back into the living room.

.

The room erupts in laughter at something on screen. Becca glances at you. JJ does too. This time JJ doesn’t look away.

-

When you wake up, the TV has shifted to that dim, floating loading screen. The house is quiet. You blink a few times, disoriented, before realizing you’re still on the couch. Your neck aches slightly from the awkward angle. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.

John B is slumped sideways, mouth slightly open. Sarah’s curled against him. Pope is out cold on the armchair. Kie’s sprawled half on the ottoman. Cleo’s asleep upright. JJ is still on the floor, back against the couch, Becca’s arm lazily draped over his shoulder like she fell asleep mid-sentence.

You reach for your phone beside you. 1:07 a.m. Too late to wake everyone up. And honestly, you don’t want to.You ease yourself upright, moving slowly. The weight of your belly shifts with you. A small wince escapes before you can stop it. Your hand instinctively goes to the small of your back, pressing there for support. God, you didn’t expect pregnancy to feel this physical all the time.

You stand carefully and pad toward the linen closet, grabbing as many blankets as you can carry without overbalancing yourself. One by one, you drape them over everyone. Over Sarah and John B first. Then Pope. Then Kie and Cleo. You hesitate for half a second before laying one over JJ too, even though he’d probably claim he doesn’t need it. Becca gets the last one, and you tuck it gently around her shoulders.

For a moment, you just stand there looking at them, this messy, loud, chaotic group that somehow always ends up back together. It feels safe. It feels like before.

Quietly, you make your way upstairs. Each step is deliberate. You change into something softer, wash your face, and finally lower yourself into bed with a tired exhale. The room feels bigger without the noise downstairs.

You roll onto your side, one hand instinctively sliding over your stomach. Your thumb traces slow circles over the curve. Self-soothing. Grounding. Your thoughts drift to Rafe, to his slurred voice, to the quiet honesty in it, to the way he said lonely. You picture him in that big house, probably still in his clothes, sprawled across the living room couch. Maybe the TV still on. Maybe the lights too bright. Maybe a half-finished drink on the table. Drunk. Alone.

The heaviness in your chest surprises you. Despite everything, loneliness is never something you wanted for him. You press your palm a little firmer against your belly. “He’s trying,” you whisper to yourself or maybe to the baby. You’re not sure anymore. Tomorrow. Noon. Your mind lingers there.

—

You wake to sunlight pouring directly into your eyes. Not gentle, filtered morning light. Aggressive. Blinding. You groan softly, squinting as you throw an arm over your face. For a second you forget where you are, then the faint hum of voices downstairs pulls you back. Right. The Pogues. You blink a few more times before carefully rolling onto your side. You’ve learned your lesson about sitting up too fast. One wrong movement and your stomach tightens in protest.

Slowly, you push yourself upright, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Your hand presses instinctively to the underside of your belly, supporting it as you stand. Voices drift up the stairs. Laughter. A fork clinking against a plate. The unmistakable smell of butter and syrup. Your stomach growls.

You look down at your belly.

“We’re pretty hungry, huh?” you murmur, rubbing over the curve like you’re waiting for a response. You swear you feel the faintest shift. “Yeah, yeah. I’m moving.”

You brush your teeth, splash cool water on your face, and smooth your hair into something halfway presentable. It’s only 8:32 a.m. When you reach the top of the stairs, the scene below makes you pause.

The living room looks like a sleepover aftermath, blankets everywhere, bodies half-buried in cushions, except now everyone’s upright. And holding plates.

John B is cross-legged on the floor with a full stack of pancakes balanced on his palm. Sarah’s perched beside him, already halfway through hers. Pope has his plate dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table. Kie and Cleo are sharing syrup like it’s communal property. JJ’s back on the floor, leaning against the couch again, chewing like he hasn’t eaten in days.

The second John B spots you, his face lights up. “Well look who’s finally awake!” he calls dramatically.

Every single head turns toward you. You freeze halfway down the stairs, suddenly hyperaware of your oversized sleep shirt and messy hair. You let out a small, awkward laugh under the attention. “Sorry. I was going to wake up earlier but…” You glance down, placing a protective hand over your stomach. “She asked for another hour.”

A few of them soften immediately. JJ snorts. “Yeah, blame the innocent baby.”

You point at him defensively. “I absolutely will.”

He grins, completely unbothered. You pad the rest of the way down and follow the smell into the kitchen.

Becca is at the stove like she’s running a diner. Spatula in hand. Pancakes mid-flip. Hair tied up. Already fully dressed in your clothes she took from your room while you were still asleep like she’s been awake for hours. You lean against the counter, watching her with suspicion.

“I took the liberty of making them breakfast,” she says without looking at you. “Since their HOST was still asleep.” She flips another pancake with unnecessary flair. “I was going to subtly hint that they should leave,” she continues, lowering her voice slightly, “but they just looked like poor, hungry orphans.”

She makes a dramatic pout, eyes wide and glassy in fake sympathy. You stare at her.

“Becca,” you say slowly, reaching for the plate she’s already sliding toward you, “that’s deeply problematic.”

She shrugs, voice coming up to her normal level. “They were on the floor. Blankets and everything. It was giving Dickensian.”

You laugh under your breath, taking a bite. It’s warm. Soft. Exactly what your body was demanding.

From the living room, JJ calls, “Hey! We can hear you!”

Becca raises her voice without turning around. “GOOD.”

You shake your head, chewing as you glance back toward the living room. They’re loud. Annoying. Taking up your space. But they’re comfortable. And for the first time since last night, your chest doesn’t feel tight.

Until you remember. Noon. Your hand drifts absently to your belly again. Tomorrow had felt far away last night. Now it feels close.

The house is louder now than it was last night. Plates are being stacked in the sink. Someone’s arguing about who ate the last pancake. Cleo is trying to find her other shoe. Pope is apologizing for absolutely nothing. Sarah and Kie are re-folding the blankets you put out.

You lean against the kitchen counter with a glass of water, smiling despite yourself. It feels normal. Almost too normal.

“Alright, alright,” John B claps his hands together. “We should probably let the pregnant lady rest.”

“Hey,” you protest lightly. “I’m not fragile.”

“You literally blamed the baby for sleeping in,” JJ says, pointing at you.

You narrow your eyes at him. “And I’ll do it again.”

Laughter ripples through the room. One by one they start heading toward the door. Sarah hugs you first, careful but tight. “Text me if you need anything. Like actually.”

“I will,” you promise.

Kie squeezes you next. Cleo follows with a soft smile and a quick, firm hug.

 Pope adjusts his hair awkwardly before stepping in for a side hug like he’s afraid of crushing you.  “If you need help with anything. Baby stuff. Research. I’ve already started a folder.”

You blink. “Of course you have.”

JJ hangs back until the end. Of course he does. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels like he’s debating something serious.

“What?” you ask.

He looks at your stomach. Then back at you. “So like, hypothetically…”

You already don’t like this. “Hm.”

“When the baby gets here,” he continues slowly, “would it be weird if I called you mom too?”

The room goes silent. John B chokes on air. Sarah slaps his arm. Kie says, “Oh my God.” You stare at JJ.

He shrugs defensively. “What? You cook. You lecture. You yell at me when I do dumb stuff. Feels natural.”

“You’re two years younger than me,” you say flatly.

“And emotionally?” he counters.

You can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of you. You step forward and pull him into a hug before he can dodge it. He stiffens for half a second, then melts into it, arms wrapping around you carefully.

“You can call me whatever you want,” you murmur. “Just not at school pickup.”

He grins against your shoulder. “Deal.”

When you pull back, you look at all of them, standing in your doorway like they’ve claimed it as their own.

“Seriously,” you say, softer now. “You guys can come here whenever you need or even want to. I mean that.”

John B tilts his head. “Careful. We’ll take you up on that.”

“I know,” you smile. And you mean it.

They file out slowly, still talking, still laughing, JJ being the last one to step off the porch. He turns around one more time. The house goes quiet except for the sound of Becca cleaning up the pancake mess. You close the door and rest your hand over your belly again.

“Alright,” you murmur. Noon is coming. And this time, there’s no one around to buffer it. 

You stand in front of your closet for a long moment, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

It’s just a conversation. Just noon. Just coparenting. Your fingers slide past hoodies. Past oversized tees. Past the safest options. You stop on the pink tank top. Soft. Fitted. Not tight, but it skims your shape in a way that makes you look glowy. You pull it off the hanger before you can overthink it.

Then the green maxi skirt. Flowy. Light. It drapes under your belly comfortably without squeezing. When you step into it and pull it up, it falls in a soft line down your legs, brushing your ankles. You turn sideways in the mirror. You don’t look like you’re trying too hard. You just look pretty. Your eyes drop to your shoes lined up by the wall. You reach for the pink kitten-heeled sandals - the ones with the tiny artificial flowers stitched along the thong strap. They’re delicate. Almost sweet. You slide them on.

Definitely not something you’d wear to “just talk.”

You stare at your reflection.He’s going to notice. A knock hits your door before you can spiral further.

Becca doesn’t wait for permission. She pushes it open and leans against the frame, then slowly straightens when she sees you.

“Oh.”

You pretend not to hear the tone. “What?” you ask casually, adjusting the hem of your skirt.

Becca steps fully into the room, eyes scanning you from head to toe. “Where,” she asks carefully, “are you going?”

You grab your lip gloss from the dresser and swipe it on like this is nothing. “I told you,” you say lightly. “I agreed to talk to Rafe.”

Becca’s eyebrows lift. “Talk.”

“Yeah.”

She folds her arms. “Since when do you wear an outfit like that to talk?”

You look down at your outfit like you just remembered it exists. “It’s comfortable.”

She just stares at you. You sigh. “It’s just a conversation. About the baby. About coparenting. We need to be on the same page.”

Becca’s expression softens slightly, but only slightly. “Are you secretly seeing him again?” she asks.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just asking,” she says quickly. “Because if you are, I’d rather hear it from you than find out later.”

You step closer, genuinely offended. “You really think I wouldn’t tell you?”

Her face shifts immediately. “That’s not what I meant-”

“No, because it kind of is,” you say, quieter now. “You think I’d hide something like that from you?”

Becca’s shoulders drop. “I don’t think that,” she admits. “I just… don’t want you getting hurt.”

The edge drains out of you. You know that tone. You soften. “I’m not secretly seeing him,” you say gently. “We’re just… figuring things out. For the baby.”

Which isn’t a lie. It just isn’t the whole truth. Becca studies you for another moment, then steps forward and wraps her arms around you carefully. You hug her back, chin resting lightly on her shoulder.

“If he messes with your head,” she murmurs, “I will personally key his bike.”

You snort. “Not the KTM.”

“Especially the KTM.”

You pull back, smiling. “I’ll be fine.”

She gives you one last look- not fully convinced, but trusting you anyway. “Text me when you leave,” she says, grabbing her bag.

“I will.”

She pauses at the door. “And if this is not just ‘talking,’” she adds pointedly, “I expect details.”

You roll your eyes. “Go home.” She laughs and finally leaves. The front door clicks shut. Silence settles back in. You turn toward the mirror one more time.

Pink.

Green.

Soft.

You smooth your hands over your belly. “Okay,” you whisper. Now it feels real.

No buffer.

No audience.

No chaos.

Just you. And him. And whatever this is becoming.

-

The drive feels shorter than it should. Or maybe longer. You can’t decide.

The engine hums beneath you as you pull out of your neighborhood, sunlight flashing across the windshield in brief, blinding bursts. Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel at the first red light, then loosen again when you realize you’re gripping too hard.

It’s just Rafe. You’ve done this a thousand times. Except you haven’t. Not like this. Not after everything. Not with a baby growing beneath your hands. Not after a drunk midnight confession about loneliness. Your hand drifts to your stomach at another stoplight.

“We’re just talking,” you murmur softly.

The word feels thin. Talking. Your mind replays last night against your will.

It feels like having a friend again.

You swallow. The light turns green.

You pass familiar streets, places that used to feel smaller when you were younger. The gas station he used to stop at. The turn that leads toward the marina. The stretch of road where you once screamed at each other with the windows down because neither of you knew how to stop.

Your pulse ticks up the closer you get. You check the time on the dashboard. 11:57. You’re early. Of course you are.

His house comes into view at the end of the long drive, big, clean, intimidating in that quiet, old-money way. The kind of house that feels too still when no one’s laughing inside it.

You slow as you pull in. There’s his truck. Good. You shift into park but don’t get out immediately. Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the windshield.

Pink tank.

Green skirt.

Soft gloss.

Flowers on your heels.

You look like someone going on a date. Your stomach flips at the thought.

“We are not,” you mutter to yourself. “This is not that.”

Your palm presses gently against your belly again, grounding. A breeze moves through the trees lining the driveway. It’s quiet. Too quiet. You wonder what he’s doing inside. Is he pacing? Did he clean? Is he pretending he doesn’t care? Does he remember every word from last night? Is he embarrassed? Is he hoping?

You exhale slowly and reach for the door handle before you can talk yourself out of it. The air outside is warmer than you expected. Your sandals click softly against the driveway as you make your way toward the front door. Each step feels heavier than it should.

You pause at the door. For half a second, you consider knocking. Instead, you lift your hand and press the doorbell. The chime echoes faintly inside. Your heart starts beating harder. Footsteps. You hear them before you see him. And suddenly the reality of this, of noon, of the outfit, of last night, of everything unfinished between you, settles squarely in your chest.

The handle turns slowly. And for one irrational second, you consider running. The door opens. Rafe stands there.

Barefoot. Grey sweatpants. A plain white t-shirt that looks like he threw it on five minutes ago but somehow still fits him like it was tailored. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered, like he made an effort. He looks sober.

Clear-eyed. Nervous.

There’s a flicker of surprise when he takes you in, pink, green, soft, and it lingers just a second too long.

“Hey,” he says.

Not slurred. Not guarded. Just hey.

“Hi.”

There’s an awkward half second where neither of you move.

Then he steps back. “Come in.”

You walk past him, the familiar scent of his house hitting you instantly. Clean. Faint cologne. Something citrus from whatever he used to wipe things down. He definitely cleaned. The living room looks staged. Pillows adjusted. Coffee table clear. No stray bottles. No evidence of last night.

You notice.

He notices that you notice.

“I, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, “didn’t know what you wanted to do so I just figured we could sit.”

“Sit is good,” you say, smoothing your skirt as you lower yourself onto the couch.

He sits on the opposite end at first. Too far. Like you’re coworkers. Silence settles between you, not hostile, just thick.

He glances at your stomach.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Hungry. Always,” you admit.

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I made coffee. And I have, I don’t know, like six types of cereal.”

You laugh softly. “Wow. Impressive.”

He shrugs. “Trying.”

That word again. Trying.

Your fingers twist together in your lap. “You remember last night?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

You study him carefully. “All of it?”

“Enough,” he replies quietly.

Silence again, but this one is different. More fragile. He shifts slightly closer, not touching you, but not miles away either.

“I meant what I said,” he adds. “About it feeling like having someone again.”

Your throat tightens. “You were drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I was lying.”

That lands heavier than you expect. You glance down at your belly, smoothing your hand over it to give yourself something to focus on. “You said you were lonely,” you say.

He nods once. “I am,” he admits. “I built a life where everyone’s around but no one’s really there.” He looks at you then, not intense, not demanding, just honest.

“I don’t want you lonely,” you say quietly before you can stop yourself.

Something shifts in his expression. Softens.

“I don’t want you stressed,” he counters gently, eyes flicking down to your stomach. “Especially not because of me.”

There’s space between you still, but it feels smaller now.

“You don’t have to dress up to talk to me, by the way,” he says suddenly, one corner of his mouth lifting.

Your head snaps up. “I didn’t dress up.”

He raises an eyebrow. You look down at your skirt, your shoes. Heat creeps up your neck. “This is comfortable.”

“Uh huh.”

You glare at him, but there’s no venom in it. He shifts closer again, not enough to touch, just enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“You look really pretty,” he says quietly.

Your breath stutters before you can stop it. You clear your throat. “We’re here to talk.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

But neither of you move away. The silence stretches just long enough for your stomach to betray you. A low, unmistakable growl. You freeze. Rafe blinks, then his mouth twitches.

“Wow,” he says softly. “That was aggressive.”

You press a hand to your belly, mortified. “She’s dramatic.”

“She?” he echoes, amused.

You ignore that part. “I told you I’m always hungry.”

He stands immediately. “Okay. Kitchen.”

You push yourself up slower, adjusting your skirt as you follow him. The house feels different now, less intimidating, more quiet. You step into the kitchen. It’s clean. Suspiciously clean. You open the fridge and pause.

There’s almond milk.

Half a carton of eggs.

A bottle of hot sauce.

Two beers.

An unopened thing of spinach that looks like it’s losing hope.

And a single takeout container.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “This is it?”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “I told you. I have cereal.”

You close the fridge slowly. “Rafe.”

“What?”

“When was the last time you grocery shopped?”

He shrugs. “Couple weeks?”

You stare at him. “You can’t just live off cereal and takeout.”

“I’m alive,” he counters lightly.

“Barely.” You open cabinets. 

Crackers.

Protein bars.

Pasta.

No sauce.

You exhale sharply. He watches you move around his kitchen like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

“You’re already in momma bear mode,” he says lazily.

You don’t look at him. “Someone has to be.”

“And she hasn’t even come yet.”

That makes you stop. You slowly turn to face him.

“Don’t,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.

He steps closer, not cornering you, just entering your space. “It’s kinda hot,” he says quietly. “You taking over my kitchen.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t even have actual food. What if I wasn’t here?”

He shrugs again, smaller this time. “That’s kind of the point.”

That softens you. “You haven’t really been taking care of yourself,” you say gently.

He looks away first. “Been busy.”

“With what?”

He doesn’t answer. You don’t push. Instead, you grab the eggs, the spinach, the bread.

“Sit,” you tell him.

He huffs a quiet laugh but obeys, grabbing a knife. You crack eggs into a bowl. He watches you, not your hands, you.

“You look comfortable in here,” he says.

“I am.”

“You hate my kitchen.”

“I hate your lack of groceries.”

He smiles faintly. You move around each other easily, like muscle memory. He hands you the chopped spinach without being asked. You mix it in. The pan sizzles softly. The smell fills the space. It feels almost normal.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“You could’ve just had cereal.”

“I don’t want cereal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You glance up at him. “I know what you meant.” And you do.

He studies you. “You’re gonna be really good at this,” he says after a moment.

“At what?”

He nods toward your stomach.

You flip the eggs carefully. “We both are.”

He doesn’t argue. And for the first time since you walked in, it feels like something is building instead of breaking.

Eventually, the omelettes are done. You slide them carefully onto two plates while Rafe grabs forks from the drawer. He hands you one without looking, like muscle memory hasn’t faded.

“Careful,” he says quietly as you balance both plates.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

You lead the way out of the kitchen. You feel him hesitate behind you for a second, probably assuming you’re heading for the couch. But the living room feels too soft. Too familiar. Too easy to slip into something that isn’t safe yet.

So you stop at the island instead. You pull out a stool and sit. He notices. And he respects it. He leaves one stool between you and takes the next one down, and you appreciate that more than he knows. You both start eating. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just careful.

“So…” you begin lightly, cutting into your omelette like this is casual. “What’s new in your life?” The question sounds almost formal. Like you ran into an ex at a high school reunion and you’re both pretending time didn’t exist.

“Uh…” He does a quick lip buzz, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s scanning for something impressive. “I’ve been selling houses really well.” He nods once like that should cover it. “And that’s about it.” He glances at you. “You?”

There’s something about the way he says it, like he genuinely wants to know. And something about the way that’s all he had to offer that makes your chest ache a little. But you don’t let it show.

“Well,” you say, thinking, “most of the changes to my house are almost done.” He nods, listening. “My prenatal yoga teacher said I’m one of the most flexible pregnant women she’s ever seen.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth. You search for more, eyes drifting around the room like inspiration might be sitting on his countertops.

“I have a package coming tomorrow,” you add. He waits. “And I went to the grocery store the other day, and you know how every time I go, they’re out of samples? And there’s always that little table with the sample lady but it’s empty?” He’s already smiling. “Well, I just so happened to walk in as they were bringing out fresh ones. Fresh, like still steaming. And the lady let me take five because of my belly.” You’re rambling now. You know you are. But you can’t stop. “And I’m telling you, it felt like a personal victory because every other time I go they’re gone. Every single time.”

You finally glance up. And he’s just staring at you. Not blankly. Softly. That dazed, almost helpless look, like he’s watching something precious.

“What?” you ask, your neck warming instantly.

“You seem really happy,” he says. No teasing. No sarcasm. Just observation.

“I am,” you answer honestly.

He nods slowly. “And yeah,” he adds, a small laugh escaping him, “you used to get so mad about those samples.”

That breaks you. You both laugh, real laughter, the kind that feels familiar and effortless.

“That lady definitely had it out for me,” you say, wiping at your eye dramatically. “It’s suspicious that I just so happen to get five from a new lady. The old one definitely didn’t like me.”

“Personal vendetta,” he agrees solemnly. “She was threatened.”

You shake your head, smiling. The laughter fades gradually, but the warmth lingers. Then he says, casually, “By the way, your prenatal yoga teacher’s onto something.”

You narrow your eyes. “What does that mean?”

He leans back slightly, a grin slowly forming. “You are pretty flexible.”

You roll your eyes immediately and shove his shoulder lightly. “Rafe.” There’s no real heat in it.

He chuckles. “You’re the most flexible person I’ve ever seen. Remember that one time on the hallway banister…”

“Okay,” you cut in quickly, cheeks flushing at the memory. “We’re not doing that.”

He raises his hands in surrender, still smiling. But the air shifts slightly. Not heavy. Just charged.

You clear your throat. “So,” you continue, forcing composure, “have you done anything exciting recently? Like outside of selling houses?”

He hesitates. And this time, it’s different. His fork slows. He looks down at his plate for a second longer than necessary.

“Not really,” he admits quietly. “Work. Gym. Sleep.”

There’s a subtle emptiness in the way he says it. You don’t comment on it. But you feel it. And for the first time since sitting down, the space between your stools feels a little wider than before. You both fall into a softer quiet after that. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

You finish the last bite of your omelette and glance at the plates between you. Without thinking, you slide off the stool.

“I’ll clean up…”

“Nope.” His voice is immediate.

You blink at him as he stands too. “I can wash two plates, Rafe.”

“I know you can,” he says evenly. “But you don’t have to.”

You open your mouth to argue. He gently takes the plate from your hands before you can.

“Sit.” It’s not commanding. It’s protective.

You hesitate. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

“I know,” he repeats. “Sit anyway.”

There’s something steady in his tone. Not ego. Not control. Just intention. So you sit back down. He turns toward the sink, running the water. You watch him roll up his sleeves slightly, the small domestic gesture hitting harder than it should.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you say softly.

The water keeps running for a second longer before he answers. “I’m not trying to prove anything.” He turns the faucet off. Dries his hands slowly. “I just don’t want you doing everything.”

You swallow. “I’m used to doing everything,” you admit.

He turns toward you fully now. “That’s what I’m trying to change.”

The words land heavier than the kitchen noise ever did. You look down at your hands resting over your stomach. “It’s hard to know what’s real with you sometimes,” you say quietly.

There it is. The truth. He doesn’t get defensive. Doesn’t snap. He just nods once. “That’s fair.” Silence. “I’ve spent a long time reacting,” he continues, “instead of thinking. Instead of showing up the way I should.”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“I don’t expect you to just trust that’s different now.” You glance up at him. “But it is.”

You study him carefully, searching for cracks. “For how long?” you ask.

His jaw shifts slightly. “For as long as it needs to be.”

That answer surprises you. You shift on the stool, fingers brushing absently over your belly. “This isn’t just about us.”

“I know.”

“She deserves stability.”

“I know.”

You search his face again. “And I’m scared,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

That one costs you something. His expression softens immediately. “Of what?” he asks gently.

“Of letting things feel good again,” you say honestly, “and then it falling apart.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I can’t afford chaos anymore.”

His eyes flick down to your stomach. Then back to you. “You won’t get chaos from me,” he says. It’s not dramatic. You hold his gaze for a long moment. The kitchen feels smaller now. More intimate than the living room ever could have been. 

He steps a little closer, not invading, just closing the emotional gap. “You don’t have to carry everything,” he says softly.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I’ve gotten really good at it.”

He nods. “I know.”

And something about the way he says that, like he sees it, like he respects it, makes your chest ache in a completely different way than before. Something that feels like the beginning of a partnership instead of a relapse.

He glances down again. “Can I?” he asks quietly. He’s looking at your stomach.

You hesitate only a second. Then you nod. He steps closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. His hand rests gently against the curve of you. Warm. Careful. Grounded. And for the first time since you walked into his house, it doesn’t feel like tension. It feels like something steady being built.

His hand is still there. Warm. Open. Careful. Not possessive. Not claiming. Just resting. He traces a slow line over you.

“You’re going to be such a great mom,” he murmurs, voice softer now, no teasing edge. 

You try to smile, but something in your chest tightens. Because this is the part that blurs things. The domestic quiet. The way he looks at you like you’re already a family. His thumb makes another slow pass across your stomach. And instead of leaning into it, you clear your throat gently.

“So,” you say, keeping your tone steady, “have you thought about newborn care classes yet?”

It shifts the air. There’s a small pause where he looks at you differently, like he understands what you’re doing. He doesn’t push. Instead, his palm settles flat against your stomach, steady.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I’ve been looking. There’s one in Nags Head. Small classes. Good reviews.”

Your shoulders relax.

“Okay. We should probably tour a couple. And maybe take that infant safety and CPR class Becca mentioned.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re really making me do all of it, huh?”

You arch a brow. “It’s your kid too.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. Softer now. Thoughtful. He steps back just enough to give you space. “I’ll sign up. Whatever we need.”

We. Your chest warms, steadier this time. He lets his hand fall from your stomach slowly, respecting the shift. He moves toward the sink, picking up the dish towel again even though everything’s already clean. You sit on the stool, watching him. After a minute he glances over his shoulder.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And you are. Because this feels different. Deliberate. After a while, you slide off the stool.

“I should probably head home,” you say softly.

He shuts the water off immediately. “I’ll walk you out.” Of course he will.

He grabs your keys from the counter before you can, holding them loosely as he follows you to the door. When he hands them back, his fingers brush yours, lingering just a second too long. On the porch, the mid afternoon air is cooler. You breathe it in.

“Text me when you get home,” he says.

“I will.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. Instead, he steps forward. For a split second you think he’s going to kiss you. He doesn’t. He just bends slightly and presses his lips to your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Safe.

“For her,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Goodbye, Rafe.”

You walk down the steps before you can second guess yourself. When you get in your car and look back, he’s still standing there. Hands in his pockets. Watching you go. Choosing stability.

-

Becca slides a mug of tea across the kitchen counter toward you, her expression already set in that older-sister seriousness she only pulls out when she thinks you’re about to make a mistake. “I think it’s a bad idea,” she says plainly. “I mean, obviously coparenting and getting along for my future goddaughter? That’s good. That’s healthy. But I wouldn’t let him be anything past that. You’re on your healing journey, remember?”

You left Tannyhill and came straight here. Didn’t even stop at home. You wrap your hands around the mug, letting the warmth sink into your palms, a sharp contrast to the blast of air conditioning in her kitchen.

“Becca,” you say carefully, “just because we’re being cordial… friends… doesn’t mean it’s going anywhere past that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Friends,” she repeats like it’s a foreign word.

Before she can continue, Beau walks in, opening the fridge and squinting inside like something new might’ve magically appeared since the last time he checked. “What’s going anywhere past what?” he asks, already reaching for leftover pizza.

“None of your business,” Becca shoots back immediately. “Especially since you like to run and tell your friends things.”

He pauses mid-bite and turns to her with the most genuinely confused expression you’ve ever seen on Beau’s face. “What are you talking about?”

You lift your brows at him slowly. “How did Rafe know she kicks when I eat donuts?”

You already know the answer. Rafe told you himself, almost sheepishly. Beau makes that unmistakable “oh no” face, the one that says he realizes he’s been caught before he even tries to defend himself.

“To be fair,” he starts, scratching at his blonde curls, the complete opposite of Becca’s dark ones, “I ran into him at the bar. We were just talking. You came up. He was asking how you were and shit like that.”

“Shit like what?” you press, leaning forward slightly as you take a sip of tea.

He hesitates. Actually hesitates. His face twists like he’s weighing how much trouble the truth will get him in. “He was just… curious,” Beau finally says. “Asking how you were doing. If you were sleeping okay. If you were still craving sweets.” He shrugs. “That’s really all we could talk about before we got interrupted by Topper and Kelce.” He rolls his eyes. “Aren’t they like eighteen and nineteen? How are they even allowed in that bar?”

“You know how it is here,” Becca mutters. “They only care about money. They’d sell beers to toddlers if someone tipped enough.”

But you barely hear her, because Beau’s words are still hanging in the air. If you were sleeping okay.

You look down at your tea. That’s not casual curiosity. That’s someone who’s paying attention. Becca watches you closely. Too closely.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” she says gently now. Not sharp. Not accusatory. “He doesn’t get to suddenly care now that you’re carrying his baby. He doesn’t get boyfriend privileges without doing boyfriend work.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not giving him boyfriend privileges.”

“Are you sure?” she asks softly.

That one lands harder. Because you think about his hand on your stomach. The way he stepped back when you changed the subject. The way he didn’t push. You swallow. “We’re just trying to be stable,” you say. “For her.”

Becca studies your face for a long second. “I just don’t want you confusing stability with hope,” she says quietly. “Those are two different things.”

The kitchen falls silent. Even Beau doesn’t have anything to add to that. And that’s when you realize this isn’t just about Rafe. It’s about whether you trust yourself not to fall again. Becca starts talking about something else. Beau finally finds something else in the fridge that satisfies him. The conversation shifts.

But you don’t. You’re still sitting there, fingers curled around your mug long after the tea stops steaming. The words replay in your head. Not Are you still mad at me? Not Is she seeing anyone? Not even Does she talk about me? If you were sleeping okay. You press your palm lightly over your belly. She shifts faintly beneath your hand, like she’s reminding you she’s there. Like she always does when your mind starts running ahead of you.

“You’re overthinking,” Becca says gently, noticing your silence.

“Am not,” you mumble automatically.

She gives you a look that says she knows you better than that.

“I just…” you trail off. You don’t even know how to finish the sentence.

You just what?

Miss him?

Believe him?

Want it to work?

Want it not to hurt again?

You sigh and push your chair back slightly. “I’m not trying to go backwards,” you say finally. And that’s the truth. “I just want things to be calm. Stable. For her.”

Becca softens. “And they can be,” she says. “Just don’t lose yourself trying to make it peaceful.”

You nod. Because that’s the real fear, isn’t it? Not that he’ll hurt you again. But that you’ll slowly bend yourself into something smaller just to keep everything steady. A few minutes later you’re standing in her driveway, the evening air warmer than her kitchen ever was. Beau shouts a distracted “Drive safe!” from inside. Becca hugs you tight.

“If he does anything stupid,” she murmurs into your hair, “I’m keying his SUV.”

You laugh softly. “Not the SUV too.”

When you pull away, she searches your face one last time like she’s checking for cracks. There aren’t any. But there are questions. You get in your car and sit there for a moment before starting it. The neighborhood is quiet. Distant waves. Cicadas humming. Outer Banks at night, calm on the surface, unpredictable underneath. You rest both hands on the steering wheel. Then one drifts down to your stomach. You inhale. You don’t feel reckless. You don’t feel swept away. You feel cautious. And maybe that’s growth. You start the engine.

As you pull out of the driveway, you tell yourself something steady. Something safe. I can want stability.

I can want him to be better. That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who I am. And for the first time in a long time, the hope doesn’t feel wild. It feels measured. Which almost scares you more.

The drive home is quiet. By the time you pull into your driveway, the sky has shifted into that deep blue just before night fully settles in. The porch light clicks on automatically as your car gets close, casting a warm glow over the front steps and the edges of the yard. You sit there for a moment, engine idling, hands still resting on the steering wheel. Your hand drifts down to your stomach without thinking.

“She just wants us to be careful,” you murmur quietly. “That’s all.”

There’s a faint, slow movement beneath your palm. Not a kick. More like a stretch.

It makes your lips curve. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

You cut the engine and step out, the evening air wrapping around you. It’s cooler now, softer. Your back aches slightly from the drive and you stretch once before heading up the steps and inside.

The house is exactly how you left it. Blankets folded over the couch. A glass of water still sitting on the coffee table. The faint scent of the candle you burned earlier lingering in the air.

You slip off your shoes by the door and head into the kitchen, filling another glass of water. You lean against the counter, taking a slow sip, letting yourself settle.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, expecting Becca.

It’s not. Rafe.

Rafe: Get home safe?

You blink at the screen for a second, then type back.

You: I did. Thank you, Rafe.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Rafe: No… thank you.

Another message follows.

Rafe: I really needed today.

You stare at the words longer than you mean to, your fingers still wrapped around your glass.

It’s simple. But it isn’t light. You set your phone down on the counter for a second, exhaling as you try to figure out what to say without making it more than it is.

Or less. You pick it back up.

You: Same here. It was nice.

The typing bubble pops up. Disappears. Comes back. Then nothing. A second later, he reacts to your message with a heart. Seen. That’s it. The conversation settles. You set your phone down again and take another sip of water, your eyes drifting toward the small stack of baby books on the dining table. The house is quiet again. But it doesn’t feel empty.

You push off the counter and walk into the living room, picking up one of the books and flipping it open, scanning the page without really reading it. Just letting your mind slow down. A few minutes later, your phone buzzes again. Becca.

Becca: Are you doing anything Saturday afternoon? You glance at the screen.

You: Not that I know of. Why?

There’s a pause before her reply comes through.

Becca: Just wondering.

You narrow your eyes slightly. Becca never just wonders. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up.

Becca: Also don’t make plans.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you set your phone down.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

Whatever she’s planning, you’ll find out soon enough. For now, the house settles around you again. Calm. Familiar. And for the first time in a while, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy. It just feels like life continuing.

-

By Wednesday, the weather turns warmer again. You’re in the backyard when he pulls up. You don’t hear the text notification first. You hear the SUV. That low, familiar rumble rolling down your driveway while you’re crouched beside the raised garden bed Becca insisted on helping you plant earlier that spring. You straighten slowly, brushing dirt from your gloves as the engine cuts off and the driver’s door opens. Rafe steps out, walking around the front of the truck. He’s holding a tote bag from some store, filled enough that the sides are stretched slightly. A rolled-up yoga mat sticks out of the top.

“Hey,” he calls, easy, like this isn’t the first time he’s shown up unannounced.

“Hey,” you answer, pushing a piece of hair back behind your ear.

He stops a few feet away, glancing down at the half-turned soil. “You gardening now?”

“Don’t make fun,” you say, already smiling a little. “Apparently it’s good for stress.”

He lifts his hands slightly. “Wasn’t making fun.” His eyes flick down to your stomach for a second before he holds the bag out toward you.

“I stopped by that yoga place earlier,” he says. “The one you used to go to all the time. They had a bunch of stuff on sale. Figured you’d probably want it for your prenatal classes.”

You take the bag from him, surprised by the weight. You peek inside. Candles. Soft socks. A new tumbler. Folded fabrics. Small things, but thoughtful. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, looking back up at him.

“I know.” There’s no expectation in it. No waiting. Just a shrug.

“Figured you could use it,” he adds. “Stay… flexible or whatever.” A small smirk tugs at his mouth.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you set the bag down on the patio table, but you can’t quite hide the smile that comes with it. For a second, neither of you says anything.The air smells faintly like salt and dirt. The sun sits lower now, casting everything in that soft late-afternoon glow.

“You been feeling okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Mostly just tired.”

He nods once, like that makes sense. Like he expected it. Then he glances back toward his truck.

“I won’t keep you,” he says. “Just wanted to drop that off.”

That catches you off guard. You expected him to linger. To find a reason. But instead, he turns and starts walking back toward the driveway.

“Rafe,” you call.

He turns, one hand already on the truck door, brows lifting slightly.

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods once. “Yeah.” He starts to get in.

“Rafe!” Your voice carries before you can stop it.

He pauses again, looking back at you. You lift your hand to block the sun from your eyes as you take a few steps closer, your heart picking up just enough for you to notice it.

“Do you… want to stay for dinner?”

------

- - -

“Welcome to the Stark Industries Annual Firefighters of New York Gala…in this night we want to acknowledge and celebrate the hard work of the many…” You stood beside Peter, watching Pepper switch flashcards she read at the considerable crowd surrounding her. She was inaugurating the annual gala thrown for the firefighter departments in New York, where they dedicated the night not only to shower them in praise but to showcase the the renewal of all the departments equipment, curtsey of the company, “I invite you to raise your glasses for a toast, to these heroes and…” And to getting drunk, you clinked your glass to Peter’s, before urging him to down it with you.

“Ugh…” You watched Peters face contort into a grimace and then stick out his tongue, “That’s… ugh…”

“It’s not that bad… bitter…” You downed the last bit of it before setting it on some waiters tray to go look for more. 

“At least you get something out of it…” You bit the inside of your cheek at the comment, knowing you had the perfect solution for that. 

You craned your neck searching for the bar, spotting it, grabbing Peter’s arm and dragging him with you, “Come on, lets got get you not champagne…” 

“Hi, good night… could you get me a cosmo double cranberry and a coke with ice…please…” You slid the bartender a generous tip and turned back to Peter. As you leaned back on the island, waiting for the drinks, Peter snaked a hand around your waist, perfectly fitting himself to your side.

“You look… gorgeous… by the way,” He said, with bit of an awestruck look in his eye.

“You could use haircut…” you snarked back, he nodded with a smirk, you leaned in to kiss his temple, then wiped any lipgloss residue. 

“Here you go miss…” You turned at the voice of the bartender, could I get an extra vodka shot…” He gave you an almost judgemental look if it wasn’t for the amused one on top. You took the shoot and chased it with the drink, Peter side eyed you while sipping the coke, and soon the bartender walked away. 

“Don’t look at me like that… we’ll die of boredom if we don’t get wasted…its my goal for tonight…” 

“Yeah… my coke’s gonna do the trick…”

“That will get you closer to a sugar rush than anything else… no…” You reached in your small purse for the vile, “but this will”, you twinkled the small bottle in front of him. Peter looked at you with raised eyebrows waiting for an answer.

“It’s Thor’s magic booze” You said like it was the most obvious thing.

“WhAt?!” He looked around when he noticed how loud he had been, “what? No way” He went to grab it before you closed your hand around it yanking it back, “I’m in charge,” You opened it and didn’t even had to pull it closer to smell something that stunk stronger than pure medical grade ethanol.

“Let’s hope you don’t go blind,” Peter guarded his drink with a concerned look, “You won’t go blind silly… I’m joking,” You grabbed his glass and poured something close to a shot, and mixed. 

“Y/n… is this safe?” He looked at you with those concerned puppy eyes, so you grabbed the drink and took a sip, “Whatever happens to you happens to me,” You pecked his lips, and grabbed your own drink, he smiled softly and that’s how it began. The single drink had him giggling and stumbling over the place, you got a glimpse into Peter, just Peter, no spider-man, no superhuman senses, or reflexes, just a giggling, clumsy, blushing mess, that you would’ve been able to appreciate if you hadn’t been overly near as intoxicated as him. 

You were on your own little world, the fastest night of urging the other for just one more drink, laughing at all the inappropriate times, crashing into strangers, and of course making out in the sidelines.

“Baby, where ar-hmp,” You crashed your lips into his after you dragged him to an empty hallway, you bit his lip and he whimpered as he let you stick your tongue in his mouth, whining anytime you’d pull away. 

“Let’s go…”

“Mhm…hm…”

You grabbed his hand and blundered to the elevator, as soon as the doors closed you pushed him against the doors and kissed him, the fifty floors you were lifted you had your tongue teasing him, finally got to your floor and the doors opened, Peter and yourself being so out of it, you fell back. Peter on his back, and you right on top of him, after the thirty seconds of trying to cath his breath, there was at least two minutes of hysterical shrieks of laughter. 

“We should get up…” Peter said, underneath you.

“Yeah,” You said, laying on top of him, with no effort to move.

“Okay…okay…1, 2, ugh!” He sat up, and you with him. He stood up and took your hand, helping you up, before knocking you on your feet, bridal style, he carried you to the bedroom, as you turned into a blushing giggling even more of a mess. 

 He got in the room with you, put you down just to push you against the door he had closed, your dressed bunched up as he grasped the leg he had lifted up to his hip, his other hand on your waist, setting you in place, as he took lead on kissing you, gently, slowly, messy, spit, tongue, lips, teeth, all over the place, but still made your tummy turn. 

“I love you…”, he trailed kisses from your mouth to your neck, biting, licking, and sucking, to gentle for any intention of leaving any marks, he just wanted to taste you. 

“Make love to me…”

He paused and snorted, then burst out laughing, making the heat in your core travel to your cheeks, the multiple drinks hanging over your head almost making your eyes sting with warm tears, when Peter saw that sight he pulled you in, kissing your temple. 

“‘msorry’msorry’msorry…baby,” he kissed your temple and cheek, still trying to contain his laughter, “’m sorry,” he cupped your face, still grinning like and idiot, “i didn’t mean it baby… you know im sorry, right?” You nodded, your flushed face still riddled with puppy eyes and a small pout, that he kissed until you were giggling with him again, “let’s go to bed…yeah?” he nuzzled his nose in your pulse point, breathing in your perfume. 

You walked to your closet, tying your hair up and got out of your heels, you tried getting the dress off, the zipper stuck.

“Peteeerrr!” You whined for him to help you, he placed warm hands on your back and pulled the zipper down in one swift motion, breaking it, but you didn’t have to know that, before you could notice, he let the dress fall, and help you out of it, before placing a soft kiss to your bare back that made you shiver, you grabbed a shirt of his and threw it on, then turned around to se him undoing the buttons of his shirt, you went to help him. 

“You’re so pretty Peter,” He blushed, letting you undress him, until he had nothing but his boxers on, you wrapped arms around him whining. 

“What is it, baby?” 

“I don’ wanna brush my teeth…take my make up off,” you jerked against him, stomping your foot, which he found adorable. 

“You gotta,” 

“No!” 

Yes. You took off your make up and roughly washed your face, then brushed your teeth, just as hard and fast wanting to be done with it, after that Peter walked you to your vanity, and scooped some of that expensive moisturizer you liked and coated your face in it, giving you a very weird massage he thought would help relax you, wich turned into him squeeing your face into making weird faces and laughing at you.

“qUIT thAt! Peeteeerrrr!” He chuckled, after he was done amusing himself, finally you made it to bed. Tangled in each other, you where on your back, Peter on your chest making himself very comfortable in your breasts. 

“You’re so soft,” He nuzzled in as he kneaded one of your breasts, making you flush.

“How would you feel if I was doin that to your balls?!”

“Fucking great,” Which made you even hotter. 

He wrapped both arms around you, squeezing you, still nuzzled in your chest.

“I love you…”

Rafe stood waist-deep in the water, his wet hair pushed back, tanned skin glistening under the sun, and the wide grin he wore was reserved for only one other person besides you: the little boy that was, without a doubt, his exact copy.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, even the dimples. A tiny hurricane in board shorts and way too much confidence for someone who couldn’t tie his shoes right the first time. “Okay, now go show her. Exactly how I showed you, alright?”

Rafe said, ruffling the boy’s hair before lifting him up out of the water and setting him near the shallow edge. Ralph grinned with the same mischievous spark his father always had, then bolted across the yard, little wet feet slapping against the concrete as he ran toward you.

“Mama!” You barely had time to set the book aside before he was launching himself into your arms, damp and giggling and wiggly. “What is it, sweetheart?” you asked, wrapping the towel around his tiny shoulders, brushing his wet bangs away from his forehead.

“I gotta do what Daddy says,” he announced, puffing out his chest proudly. “’Cause Daddy said you’re a queen. And queens get treated real nice.” You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest, tears almost rising from how sudden the sweetness hit you.

“Oh, did he now?” “Uh-huh.” Ralph climbed onto your lap as best he could, propping his chin on your shoulder and patting your cheek like he’d seen Rafe do a thousand times. “That’s why I’m gonna open the car door for you every time. And you don’t ever gotta carry groceries. And Daddy says real boys say ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘you look real pretty today.’ So…”

He cleared his throat dramatically. “You look real pretty today.” From the pool, Rafe chuckled, arms folded over the pool’s edge as he leaned there, watching the two of you. “Taught him everything he knows,” he said with a smirk. You shot him a fond look, brushing a kiss to Ralph’s head. “You’re raising him right.”

Rafe walked over, water dripping off him, and crouched beside your chair, brushing his hand along your arm and planting a kiss to your temple. “No,” he murmured, gaze flicking from Ralph to you. “We are.”

Ralph squirmed in your lap and reached up to grab Rafe’s face between both his small hands, smooshing his cheeks together. “Daddy’s gonna marry you again one day.” Rafe laughed. “Again? What do you mean again?”

Ralph looked between you both like it was obvious. “’Cause when I marry my girl, I’m gonna do it every year so she always feels special. Right, Mama?” You met Rafe’s eyes, both of you speechless for a moment. “Right, baby,” you said softly, heart nearly bursting.

“That sounds just right.” Rafe leaned in and kissed you gently, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone before murmuring, “You made me soft, y’know that?” “Not soft,” you teased. “Just finally living up to that golden boy reputation your mom wished you had.”

Ralph made a gagging noise at the kiss and scrambled off your lap. “Eww! Okay, I’m going back in the pool—no more kissing!” You both laughed as he bolted toward the water again, slipping a little but catching himself.

“Mini-me, huh?” you mused, wrapping your arm around Rafe’s shoulders as he sat beside you. He rested his head against your thigh, arm curling around your knees. “Yeah,” he murmured, watching his son with a softness you never got tired of.

You throw Rafe a look, wondering if he was being serious. “Do you seriously not remember what happened when the cops got called at your sisters party that happened to be at my house?” Rafe pulls a face as he thinks for a second, “Oh, shit. Yeah. You got stripped of everything at school, didn’t you?” He snickers as you hurl a shirt in his direction, which he skillfully dodges.

“Not funny dickhead.” you huff, gathering your belongings from his side of the bedside table. “C’mon babe, you know I’m joking,” he says, taking your hands and drawing you close, planting a soft kiss on your lips, causing you to melt into him.

“And no, Sarah isn’t home. She hasn’t been since Tuesday. Probably off with those fucking pogues.” Rafe murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. You scoff, shaking your head incredulously, “Kook princess, my ass.” Rafe snorts at the rivalry between you and his sister.

~

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sarah’s voice slices through the air, grating on your nerves as you click the door shut behind you. You turn to face her, meeting her intense gaze head-on.

“Isn’t it kind of obvious?” you retort, your sarcasm dripping like honey from your lips, accompanied by a subtle frown as she watches you, arm tightly crossed.

“Oh, come on, Sarah,” you scoff, trying to downplay the obviousness of the situation, though her piercing gaze makes it clear that she’s not buying it for a second.

“I was fucking your brother.” You say casually, the words landing with a blunt force that leaves Sarah slightly taken aback. The raw truth hangs in the air, mingling with the tension between you both.

Sarah’s voice trembles with fury as she starts, “Get the fuck out of my house—” but Rafe’s voice cuts through the air, commanding and firm, “Watch your fucking tongue, Sarah.” His touch sends a shiver down your spine as his hands gently snake across your waist, his gaze piercing and cold as he fixates on her.

“This isn’t any of your business, Rafe,” Sarah snaps defiantly, her eyes flashing with anger. But Rafe only chuckles, his amusement tinged with something unsettling as he glowered at her.

“It kind of is. She’s my girl so she’s my business. So why don’t you run along with your little pogue friends and leave us alone, sound good? Good,” he says, his voice dripping with authority and finality. With a firm grip, he pulls you back into his room, leaving Sarah standing there, stunned and speechless

You shared an amused glance with Rafe as he shook his head affectionately. “Wheezie, slow down!” Sarah’s voice called out in a mixture of exasperation and amusement, just before Wheezie came bounding around the corner, closely followed by Sarah, Rose, and Ward.

“Hey!” You greeted them warmly, arms open for hugs all around. Wheezie and Ward gravitated towards you and Mabel, their faces lighting up at the sight of the youngest Cameron family member.

Wheezie squealed, bouncing up and down in excitement as she gently pinched Mabel’s cheek. “Hey, easy there,” Rafe interjected firmly, earning a glare from his younger sister, though you couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s okay, Rafe, she’s being gentle,” you reassured him with an affectionate smile, his protective nature endearing as always. “Wanna take her, dad?” you offered to Ward, who nodded eagerly. “May I?” he asked softly, reaching out to cradle Mabel in his arms.

“Of course you can, she’s your granddaughter,” you chuckled, leaning in closer as Mabel reached out to Ward, her little arms outstretched in anticipation. You moved closer to Rafe’s side, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice low with admiration as he whispered, “They all look so happy.”

Jesus, Sarah. Stop shoving your phone in her face,” Rafe groaned, his tone edged with mild annoyance as he watched Sarah snap yet another 0.5 photo of Mabel. You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the sight, knowing that it was always Sarah’s candid photos of Mabel that Rafe eventually looked back on with a chuckle.

“Send them to me,” you mouthed to Sarah, who winked in response, both of you giggling like schoolgirls. “What are you giggling about, hmm?” Rafe asked, looking down at you with a smile, his irritation quickly fading. “Nothing, nothing,” you said, your smile widening. “Just excited to get to the island and have lunch together as a family again.”

Rafe’s smile softened, appreciating how much you valued these family moments. Before he could say more, Rose chimed in, glancing at her watch. “Okay, I think we should move this upstairs, don’t you think?” she suggested. Everyone agreed, and the group began making their way up to the spacious upper deck. The Bahamas sun was bright overhead, casting a warm glow over the yacht.

“You know, if you ever need a babysitter, I’m right here,” Wheezie offered, linking her arm through yours as you ascended the stairs. She batted her eyelashes playfully, making you giggle at her antics. Rafe, close behind, scoffed. “Yeah, as if I’m letting you look after my kid by yourself.”

Wheezie rolled her eyes dramatically. “And why not?” Rafe gave her an incredulous look. “Remember the time you almost burnt down the house because you wanted to heat up chicken nuggets in the microwave?” Wheezie huffs, “That’s not fair!” She protests, her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to put metal in the microwave!”

Your jaw dropped in mock horror as you imagined the scene. “Exactly,” Rafe said, patting Wheezie’s head with a teasing smile. “You’re not looking after Mabel by yourself. End of story.” He walked away, leaving Wheezie pouting with her arms folded. You squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Maybe you can help out when I’m around,” you suggested, trying to lift her spirits. Wheezie perked up a bit, her eyes brightening at the idea. “Deal!” she said, grinning.

~

“Guys! You have to tan with me, the UV rays are insane right now!” Sarah called out from one of the outdoor loungers, her phone in hand as she checked the weather app. “I’ll be right there!” you shouted back, finishing up changing Mabel’s clothes. You handed her to Rose and Ward, who eagerly took over entertaining their granddaughter with coos and smiles.

Rafe trailed behind you, intrigued by the idea of getting some sun. He settled next to you on the lounger, stretching out and letting the warmth of the sun wash over him.“How are your boobs not saggy?” Sarah suddenly blurted out as she watches you tie up your hair, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Sarah!” Rafe hissed, shooting her a disapproving look.“Shit, sorry. Is that a bad thing to ask?” Sarah’s face flushed slightly, realizing the bluntness of her question. You couldn’t help but laugh, finding the situation amusing. Sarah joined in, her laughter a bit more nervous.

“I’m just asking. All my friends said that your boobs begin to sag because your baby is always sucking on them,” she explained, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Which one of your friends has a fucking baby at your age?” Rafe interjected, his expression one of pure disbelief.

“None of them. They were just saying that,” Sarah shrugged nonchalantly. You giggled, reaching over to rub sunscreen on Rafe’s face where he’d missed a spot. “I think it’s different for everyone. I mean, I hope mine don’t sag,” you said, glancing down at your chest and giving them a light, playful touch.

“You have such nice tits, it’s really unfair, ” Sarah sighed dramatically, leaning back and closing her eyes against the sun. Rafe raised an eyebrow, clearly done with the conversation. “I’m putting my AirPods in,” he announced, inserting them with a huff as you and Sarah chuckled.

~

“Mabel, come here,” Rafe clapped his hands with a gentle yet encouraging tone. Mabel babbled happily, steadying herself before taking a few small, determined steps towards you and Rafe; you were nestled against his chest as you cheered her on.

“Keep coming, sweetie,” you cooed softly, your hands ready to catch her. Eventually, Mabel reached you and crashed into your waiting arms with a squeal. You kissed her chubby cheek affectionately, “Good job, baby girl!” You lifted her up in the air, as she squealed with joy.

Rafe took the moment to take a photo, capturing the pure happiness on both your faces. As Rafe looked through the many photos already taken, you couldn’t help but notice how Mabel lingered close to your chest.

“Are you hungry, bels?” You asked gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. Glancing at your phone, you noticed it was about time for Mabel’s next feeding.

With Rafe still focused on his phone, a small smile gracing his lips as he looked through the photos of you and Mabel, you adjusted your bikini top and began to nurse Mabel.

Noticing the quietness, Rafe briefly looks down, his eyes widening slightly. “Jesus, kid,” he muttered under his breath, quickly reaching behind him to grab his shirt.

“What? Mabel was hungry,” you said innocently, as Mabel peers up to the both of you. Rafe didn’t mind you breastfeeding in public, if his baby girl was hungry, she was hungry. But he always made sure to help you cover up with a blanket when you puly down your top, his protective instincts kicking in.

Rafe’s gaze darted around, making sure no one was watching. “You should’ve let me know beforehand so I could’ve helped you cover up,” he murmured, adjusting the shirt and to peek at Mabel.

You chuckled softly, appreciating his concern and love. Mabel watched the two of you with wide, curious eyes as she nursed contentedly. "Next time I will," you assured him, reaching over to pat his thigh affectionately.

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Liked by itssarahcameron, christoper_thorton, rosejcameron and 85,208 others

@/rafemfcameron we’ve got the cutest baby 🥰

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rafemfcameron: damn right mamas

↘️ eloise_cameron: I just puked 🤢

↘️ rafemfcameron: throwing u off the boat

itssarahcameron: SQUISHY

↘️ rafemfcameron: are you calling my kid fat?

↘️ yourusername: HAHAHAHAHA

christoper_thorton: guys let me babysit her again

↘️ yourusername: you tried offering her one of your brownies top….

Rafe barely responded, his gaze more intent on your figure than the content of your words. He watched the way your shoulders tensed, how your movements betrayed just how worked up you were, but he wasn’t truly listening. His mind was elsewhere, his lips twitching up into that familiar lazy smile as his eyes drifted over you.

“Rafe, baby, are you even listening?” you snap, suddenly stopping in your tracks, hands on your hips. You glared at him, expecting some kind of acknowledgment. Rafe blinked, seemingly dragged out of his own head, and lazily looked up at you, the smirk still lingering on his lips. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course I am,” he replied, his voice casual, as though you hadn’t just been spilling your frustrations.

“You want me to, uh, talk to Top? Tell me what you want me to do.” You huffed in annoyance, crossing your arms over your chest in a defensive move. The action, while innocent on your end, drew Rafe’s attention immediately. His eyes widened slightly, and he shifted in his seat, leaning back with his lips pursed. He watched the way you folded your arms, his gaze flickering between your face and your tits.

“I dunno,” you mutter, your anger deflating. “I’m just so mad at him. I don’t even want to speak to him right now.” Your voice softens, frustration fading into weariness as you finally give up on pacing and drop down onto the lounge chair beside Rafe. You set your eyes on the water in front of you, trying to focus on its calm surface, wishing it would somehow mirror in your emotions.

Without a word, Rafe slung an arm over your shoulders, pulling you close. His lips brushed the top of your head, a quiet kiss that melted some of your remaining tension. The silent comfort of his touch was enough to ease the knot of frustration in your chest. For a moment, everything felt still, his warmth grounding you.

But then, Rafe’s voice broke the silence, his tone a little too amused. “By the way,” he murmured, his voice low, “when did your tits get so big?” His hand reaching down to squeeze. Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide with shock. “Rafe Cameron!” you shouted, your playful outrage breaking through the calm as you shoved him away. His laughter rang out in response, the mischievous glint in his eyes only growing as he doubled over in amusement.

You narrow your eyes at him, though a smirk plays at the corner of your lips as his laughter fills the air. “It’s because of birth control, Rafe,” you retort, voice laced with playful sarcasm. His laughter slows, and he looks at you with raised eyebrows, the smirk fading into curiosity. “Birth control?” he echoes, clearly intrigued by where this was going.

You lean in closer, your eyes locking with his, a teasing glint in your gaze. “Yeah, because you can’t seem to pull out in time,” you say, your voice dripping with mock exasperation. Rafe’s smirk instantly returns, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he leans back into the chair, draping an arm behind his head.

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” he asks, his tone teasing but his grin growing wider. “Yes, Rafe,” you say, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a laugh as you nudge his leg with your foot. “I swear, every time—” Before you can finish, Rafe cuts you off with a low chuckle, his hand slipping behind your neck, gently pulling you closer. “Guess that’s something we’ll have to work on,” he murmurs against your ear, his breath warm and sending a shiver down your spine.

He tilts your chin up to look at him, his thumb brushing across your jaw, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “Or maybe I just like the idea of keeping you on birth control a little while longer.” You roll your eyes but can’t help the flutter in your chest at the way he was looking at you. “You're impossible,” you mutter, though the softness in your voice betrays any real frustration.