invisible deja vu ⟡˖ ࣪

˙⋆✮ Rafe is going crazy over the nicknames. Call him “Ray,” “baby,” or “handsome,” or, god forbid, put “my” in front of that, and he melts like damn butter under the sun. His shoulders drop, the always present tension in his body releases, and he gets this rare boyish look—the one where his eyes sparkle, where he tries to hold back a smile, and where he hides the way heat crawls up his neck and ears. The first time you ever called him “sweetheart” and ruffled his hair, he literally locked you in a bear hug and didn’t let you move for a few minutes.

˙⋆✮ He randomly decided to get his ear pierced. He just came home one day, acting as usual and kissing you while you were slumped on the couch. You had to take a double look because you thought your eyes deceived you and there was no way he had a tiny hoop in his ear. Rafe brushed it off, saying that it was nothing, but you couldn’t stop staring at his ear for many days, or weeks, after that. If he was hot before, then it made him look like a piece of damn candy that you wanted to kiss or bite. 

˙⋆✮ Rafe is really good with his hands—and in the most innocent way too. One time the clasp on your bracelet got broken, and you asked Rafe to take it somewhere and fix it. He returned it to you two days later without a word. The next week your necklace broke the same way, and you asked him to take it to the same jeweler without a second thought. Though you were surprised when that same day, late at night, you walked into his office to find him sitting with a lamp on, various tiny screws and tools scattered around him, and your necklace in his hands. He was so focused on the details, barely paying attention while you stood there in shock. 

˙⋆✮ Talking about his fixing things, Rafe never calls anyone to do stuff around the house. With his childhood, you thought that he was one of those Kooks who couldn’t do anything and would rather pay a handyman than get their hands dirty. It turned out that Rafe is the opposite of it. He likes doing stuff around the house. He likes fixing things and likes when you notice it and thank him with kisses or just your words. It can be anything from simply changing a lightbulb to fixing the leaking faucet in your bathroom or building you a custom shelf for the library. Who would’ve thought, right? He says that it’s just easier that way, but you quickly realize that it’s his own way of making himself busy when he feels too restless.

˙⋆✮ He smokes. Not regularly, not every day, but you know that he has a few packs of cigarettes stashed “just in case.” Rafe usually goes outside when he gets way too overstimulated and when he feels like his brain has reached a turning point. He just stands there, looks at the front yard or at the ocean, and smokes one cigarette to help to clear his head. If it happens when you’re with him, he blows the smoke to the side, glancing at you every few seconds and mumbling soft “sorry”s because he knows you don’t really like it. You don’t. But you can’t deny that he looks hot doing it. 

˙⋆✮ Rafe is the eye contact final boss. He needs to see your eyes no matter what’s going on—if you’re arguing, if you’re telling him something, or if he flirts with you and wants to see you flushed. It just feels more intimate that way, and he thinks that he can read your emotions better because he’s not really good at it. If you ever feel shy under his gaze and try to look away, he dips his head down or lifts your face with his hand and forces you to look at him. 

˙⋆✮ He can play guitar. Not perfectly, but he definitely knows what he’s doing. You caught him once in his room, playing some melody and not realizing that you were standing in the doorway with your jaw on the floor because you had never even seen a guitar in Tanneyhill. Rafe says that it’s nothing and that it’s stupid, and he's a bit embarrassed in front of you, but if you beg him good enough and promise to not tell anyone, he will play something for you. 

˙⋆✮ Rafe is sentimental. He keeps a lot of things that you randomly give him or that remind him of something you’ve done together. Like a few tacky and cheap keychains that you found in some random shops near the beach or when you went with your family to another city—he has them dangling on the keys of his truck. Or those pictures he took of you on your dates printed and stashed in his wallet and in the glovebox in his car. Or tickets from the first time you went to see a movie. Or those sticky notes you sometimes leave for him and always write “I love you.” Rafe is never going to admit that he’s collecting it, but it’s something that always reminds him about you and grounds him in the best way possible. 

˙⋆✮ Sometimes he talks in his sleep. It doesn’t happen every day, mostly when he’s too tired, but some nights you wake up from the soft and mumbled nonsense, which most often is about you or stuff he did at work. In the morning he has zero memory of it, but if you ask, he denies it like his life is dependent on it. You still think it’s cute. 

˙⋆✮ Rafe is so touchy. You think that it may be because he doesn’t have a really affectionate family, but he wants to touch you anytime he gets. When you’re out somewhere, he always holds your hand. When you’re chilling in the living room and watching TV, he throws your legs over his and keeps caressing your skin. When you’re busy with something, he still finds a chance to kiss you or brush your skin just “by accident.” When you’re sleeping, he needs to hug you or at least to have your leg thrown over him. Even when it’s hot and you complain about being sticky and sweaty, he’d rather turn on a hundred fans than let you roll to the other side of the bed. He just can’t fall asleep like that. 

you’re lying on your side, phone screen lighting your face in blue-white flashes. your room’s too hot and your skin still smells like the perfume you sprayed for him, not for anyone else just him.

you were in his lap. you were saying shit like “i’d let you touch me if you asked nice.” you were so close. and he let you walk inside like none of it mattered.

you scroll up in the chat. reread the last few texts. he hasn’t said anything in… ten minutes.

you:

i didn’t mean it like that

or maybe i did idk sorry i just talk too much

can u forget it? pls?

delivered. .

no read.

you bite your lip and stare at the blinking cursor. unsend. resend. type. delete. type again.

you:

u looked so good tonight like really good like i wanted to

never mind.

you groan into your pillow, hugging it tight to your chest. your legs are tangled in the sheet, your bare thighs warm and restless from the mess of the night : the drinks, the laugh, him gripping the steering wheel like he was seconds from crashing the car just because you said something stupid like, “do you ever wanna kiss me?”

you:

i didn’t mean to make u uncomfortable i’m such a mess sorry

finally, his name flashes on your screen.

rafe:

you done?

your breath catches.

you:

no

maybe

i wish i was

rafe:

you want me to lie to you or what

you:

no maybe idk

rafe:

you climbed in my lap and said i could touch you if i asked nice and now you’re playing sorry?

you freeze. that message alone hits your stomach like a slap.

don’t twist it up now.

you knew what you were doing.

you still do.

you:

i just wanted you to want me

i feel really stupid now like maybe i made it all up

rafe:

yeah? that why you’re shaking when you walked back in?

you feel that in your chest. deep. sharp.

you:

i was tipsy

rafe:

you were needy

you:

maybe

rafe:

you looked at me like you wanted me to take you apart and then walked away like a coward

you:

i didn’t know if you wanted me back

rafe:

i had my hands on your ass and you’re asking if i wanted you?

your thighs squeeze together under the sheets. your cheeks burn. you don’t reply. your fingers hover.

rafe:

go to sleep

you:

are you mad at me

seen.

rafe:

yeah

you:

why

rafe:

because you don’t get to do that to me and then regret it

your hands shake just a little. something in your chest twists.

you:

what if i don’t regret it what if i just wanted u to say something first

he’s typing. typing. stopped. typing.

rafe:

say what

you:

that u wanted me too

nothing. no typing now. the screen’s still. silent.

you lock your phone and throw it on the other side of the bed like it burned you. your face buries in your pillow and your legs curl up. and you say into the dark, low and breathless: “i’m so dumb.”

but your phone buzzes again. once. you scramble to grab it.

rafe:

i wanted you so bad i could barely drive

you stare.

don’t ever doubt that again.

you press the phone to your chest. you close your eyes. you’re not sure if this is better or worse, but you are so sure you’re not sleeping tonight.

masterlist.