I Guess I Have a Crush

W E E K O N E // M O N D A Y

Fuck my life.

That was the first thought crossing your mind as Mr. Smith announced the partners for the upcoming two-week project in art class.

In pairs, you were supposed to create a reinterpretation of the Greek gods. The execution and medium was up to you.

The assignment itself wasn’t the problem. In fact, it actually sounded kind of fun. But your partner? Yeah, that was the real issue.

Fucking Rafe Cameron.

Of all the people in this class, it had to be him.

You didn’t even know why he'd chosen this class in the first place. Rafe was probably the last guy you’d expected to take an art elective—well, ok, no, right after jock asshole Chris Reid.

He'd probably thought it was an easy class to boost his GPA.

Rookie mistake.

Okay, whatever, it was just a small project. You could handle this.

NO, YOU COULDN’T, HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

The thought of working with Rafe (FOR TWO WHOLE FREAKING WEEKS) made your skin crawl. In all your years at Kildare Academy, you'd maybe exchanged two words with him—and that was only because he'd mistaken you for another girl.

HAHAHAHA maybe he drops this class after this lesson and Smith pairs me up with another student.

Fun fact: he didn’t.

Instead, he appeared at your desk at the end of class, a bored expression on his face. "Y/n, right?"

Okay, okay, just act normal. Be nice. AND IGNORE HOW FAST YOUR HEART’S RACING.

HOW, THOUGH. He looked so freaking cute with his slick-backed hair, the salmon-colored polo, and the little furrow of his brows.

You nodded, managing a polite smile. "Yeah."

Rafe stared at you for a moment, probably waiting for you to continue BUT YOU HAD NO CLUE WHAT TO SAY, his whole presence startling you.

A crease formed between his brows before he raised his chin, adjusting the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. "Cool, okay. Let’s just meet up during lunch break and get this over with."

Did he seriously think you could finish a two-week project in one single lunch break?

When he saw the look on your face, he raised his brows in amusement, his tone teasing. "What? You too busy?"

AKCKWNDKAKX.

Your cheeks heated up as you shook your head. "No, lunch sounds good."

Marry me, please.

"Aight, then let’s meet after fifth period." Before you could ask for a place (not that you even had the brainpower to form a question), he turned around and disappeared out of the classroom.

A soft exhale left your lips, the tension fading from your shoulders. This was off to a great start.

Just two weeks, you reminded yourself as you slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed to math class.

On the way, you unlocked your phone to text your bestie Cara:

You shoved your phone away and tried to ignore the uneasiness creeping into your stomach. You didn’t usually have trouble talking to guys but Rafe Cameron was a whole different story. Not because he was "too cool" or some dumb shit like that.

No, Rafe was just... intimidating. Not in that bad-boy, cringe Wattpad kind of way. It was something else, something you couldn’t quite put into words.

He wasn’t arrogant, he was proud. He was loud, but not in the annoying way Kelce Statter was. He wasn’t necessarily rude, he just said whatever the hell was on his mind.

He was just ... himself. And yet, somehow he wasn't. It felt like there was a lot more going on beneath the surface. (Maybe you also just hoped your years-long crush wasn’t wasted on some braindead guy.)

But this missing variable—the lack of answers and depth—made him so interesting to you. Sure, he had a nice face and a well-known name, no doubt about that. But more than anything, you wanted to understand who he was and get to know him.

Was he just a blunt person who didn’t give a fuck, or was there more to him than his looks and cocky aura?

So yeah, a big part of you was curious about him, but Rafe had such an overwhelming presence, you wouldn’t even know where to start. You could barely even hold eye-contact with him without your brain short-circuiting.

In the past, he'd had a few friends-with-benefits situations, but none of them had lasted long. And that was definitely a path you didn't want to go down.

Under different circumstances, maybe you could but you've never even held hands with a guy, let alone kissed one or—yeah, no, not going there.

Okay, chill. Internally, you cursed Cara for fueling your delusions.

You had more important problems right now anyway. Like math class with Mrs. Richman. And no one could claim you were a star student in that subject.

As the lesson dragged on, your thoughts constantly drifted. And it was real hard holding onto any other topic that wasn’t Rafe.

Rafe, who had PE right now.

Shit.

You tried not to think about a sweaty, heavy-breathing, and—NOPE, NOT NOW.

GOSH but the idea of working with him in less than twenty minutes…NONONONONO. This was just too much all at once. If you’d had at least some time to prepare, get your mind ready and calm your nerves a little, that would’ve been so much easier.

BUT NO.

Mr. Smith had freestyled today’s lesson and just randomly decided to introduce a huge project that decided on 40% of your Art grade.

OKAY SURE I MEAN WHY NOT.

And on top of that, he’d put you in a group with Rafe.

Funny. Yeah. Real fucking funny.

HAHAHAHAHAH.

Okay, back to being nonchalant :))))))

"That’s it for today. Don’t forget about the math test next week,” Mrs. Richman announced, dismissing the class. “But for now, go enjoy the nice weather.”

Yeah, more like enjoying how badly you were about to embarrass yourself during the next hour.

As you got up to leave, your hands felt clammy as hell. What the fuck is wrong with me?

You immediately headed to the restroom and washed your hands, trying to get rid of this horrible feeling spreading in your gut. Washing off the panic and anxiety and the fear of turning into an awkward mess as soon as you and Rafe started working.

Why were you so nervous about spending one lunch break with him?

OH MAYBE BECAUSE EVERY TIME YOU LOOKED AT HIM, THE BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH WENT ABSOLUTELY INSANE.

"Everything okay, Y/n?" A soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. "You look kinda pale."

You turned to see the pretty face of Molly Crane. Strawberry-blonde hair, cute freckles, and the kindest smile in the whole universe. She was one of the few Kooks who was genuinely nice.

You forced a smile. "Yeah, yeah, all good. I think I just ate something bad for breakfast."

Molly didn't look convinced. "You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Really, thanks, Molly. I’m fine now." With an awkward smile, you excused yourself and headed out, only to realize that, well… great, you and Rafe had never picked a meeting spot.

Brrrzt.

Your phone had been buzzing since math class. Of course, it had been Cara.

Should you really wait in front of the gym?

Um, no, that felt weird af. But at the same time, you didn’t want to miss Rafe and end up having an awkward conversation about it in the next art class. Holy shit, just the thought of explaining to him why you’d been nowhere to be found just because you were too scared to talk to him, almost ended your nerves.

Okay, wait.

So, the dining hall was the most obvious spot to meet up, considering that’s where most students gathered during lunch. But the question was, would Rafe actually look for you there?

Ugh, this would imply he even cared about seeking you out in the first place, but instead, he’d probably feel relieved skipping your first project session.

And sure, you could probably manage this project in the last few days if necessary but there was no need to risk anything just because you’re spiraling over a simple question.

You pressed your lips together. Fuck it.

Heart pounding LIKE CRAZY, you headed toward the gym. And your adrenaline? Through the ROOF.

Good thing your body totally knew how to distinguish between social interaction and actual danger.

When you arrived at the large building at the side of the campus, muffled voices of the boys inside rang out, along with Coach Brown’s instructions.

Just breathe, it’s just one lunch break, you told yourself. Then again, this was probably how the next two weeks were going to feel.

Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool.

And as the gym doors swung open ten minutes later, you held your breath at the anxiety and sight of a crowd of sweaty—oops wrong—freshly showered boys streaming out.

You awkwardly stepped to the side, ignoring the curious glances thrown your way.

DON’T MIND ME, JUST WAITING FOR THE LOVE OF MY LIFE HAHHAAH.

But.

No sign of Rafe yet.

A sick feeling settled in your stomach. Even worse than being here and explaining HOW you knew that he was here, would be explaining WHY you were standing here if he didn’t actually have PE right now.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD.

But the universe spared you this misery. Relief washing over you when you spotted Kelce Statter and Topper Thornton. And right behind them—Rafe Cameron.

Instinctively, you tightened your grip on your bag, nerves buzzing like a thousand bees under your skin.

Okay, okay, I got this. They’ll probably say bye to Rafe and leave for lunch now.

Oh.

HAHAHAHAHAH.

They didn’t.

Great.

When Rafe spotted you, his brows twitched for a moment, and you were too startled to analyze whatever that reaction meant.

You expected him to just walk past you but instead, he HEADED STRAIGHT TOWARD YOU.

…with Kelce and Topper right behind him.

Your blood pressure? Probably around 180 by now.

Okokok, relax. Just smile. No, not like that, you probably look like a creep. Oh god, okay.

"Yo," Rafe greeted you with a slightly puzzled smile as the three of them stopped in front of you. "Didn't expect you here."

In other words: You some fucking stalker or what the fuck are you doing here?

Kelce and Topper eyed you with amusement, exchanging (not so) subtle side-eyes.

This is so unbelievably embarrassing.

Cheeks flushed, you pointed at the gym bag slung over his shoulder, an awkward smile on your face. "Well, I saw you bringing a sports bag today, and PE is usually scheduled right before lunch ... so I just assumed you’d be here."

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Kelce stifling a laugh.

DUDE.

You wanted to disappear from Earth, no from this universe. No way anyone would believe--

"Uh-huh," Rafe replied, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "Could’ve waited in the dining hall. I’d have joined you.”

…

So you had been right. And you could've saved yourself this painfully awkward moment :)))

G-r-e-a-t.

"Good thinking though, I guess. The faster we get this shitty project over with, the better."

Shit, did Rafe just compliment you? Then again, why did the last sentence sound like he didn't want to work with you? HAHAHAH WHAT AM I EVEN DOING HERE?

A strained chuckle escaped your lips. "Exactly."

"You're Y/n Y/l/n, right? Your mom owns Y/l/n Yacht Sales." Topper’s voice cut in, and you were goddamn grateful for the topic change.

You nodded, this time with an honest smile. "Yeah."

Oh! Was that admiration on Topper’s face?

"Ohh, a business Mommy", Kelce said, and both Topper and Rafe eyed him with shaking heads.

Topper blinked at him annoyed. "Bro, shut the fuck up for once."

Kelce just giggled in response.

"My dad bought a Grady-White from you guys recently," Rafe remarked, and your gaze flicked back to his strikingly blue eyes.

Jesus, he wasn’t just looking at you, he was staring straight into your soul. If he was always looking at girls like that you'd gladly be his friends-with-benefits-girl.

JUST KIDDING, I COULD NEVER.

You prayed to whatever gods were listening that you didn’t look like an awkward mess. "I remember. A 456 Canyon."

The corner of Rafe’s mouth twitched up, his eyes boring into yours. "Yeah, a beauty."

HELP.

Wildfire spread across your neck and cheeks, and with that way too tensed smile you probably looked like a weird-ass cartoon character.

SOMEONE SHOOT ME.

"Oh shit, that sounds like a yacht party," Kelce chimed in with a grin directed at you. "If I were you, I’d have thrown a dooozen parties by now. So many possibilities…"

Rafe scoffed, amused. "Shit, good thing she isn’t, or her family would be broke by now."

You chuckled awkwardly. I’m so bad at whatever this is, fucking shit.

“Hey, I’m just saying.“ Kelce raised his hands innocently.

Topper tapped him on the chest with the back of his hand. “Okay, dude, and I’m saying we’re leaving now before you say more stupid shit.“ He eyed you apologetically before turning his gaze to Rafe. “See you later.“

Rafe just gave him a short nod, his expression hard to read. Then he turned back to you, a crooked smile on his face as Kelce and Topper disappeared behind the gym. “So, you hungry?“

BREATHE, GIRL.

Why did this situation suddenly feel so… intimate?

It wasn’t. Definitely not. There was absolutely no reason to feel weird about this. And yet—standing here alone with Rafe Cameron was… a lot.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you—calm, focused, and yet way too intense. Or maybe it was the damn wet strands of hair falling into his forehead after his shower, making him look CUTE AS HELL.

Get a grip.

You nodded quickly, trying to calm your nerves. “The dining hall offers quinoa veggie bowls today.” An awkward smile tugged at your lips. “Or fries, if you’re not into influencer food.“

Oh God. Was that your attempt at being funny?

Tragic.

Rafe’s lips twitched with amusement. “So, you’re assuming I don’t like quinoa bowls?“

Oh. Oh no.

Heat immediately rushed to your face, and you could feel your cheeks straight up burning. Why the hell did I say that?

“No—I mean…“ You let out a nervous laugh, which sounded more like a weird cough. “Not that you wouldn’t like it, but you’re just more like—uh, not that I’m putting you in a box or anything, but you don’t seem like someone who…“

Rafe raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Someone who eats quinoa?“

You let out a shaky breath, smiling awkwardly. “Forget it. I’m just talking nonsense.“

“Nah, now I’m curious.“ His voice sounded genuinely amused, almost teasing. “How exactly do I seem?“

You swallowed. Shit.

“Uh…“ Your eyes flickered over him for a second—his broad shoulders, the damp strands of hair falling into his forehead, the fresh polo shirt fitting way too well against his body—oh God, wrong direction.

“I just meant…“ Maybe you should just stop talking and dig your own grave, how about that?

You sighed, furrowing your brows. “Okay, look, I'm sorry if you’re actually a secret quinoa veggie bowl advocate or whatever. I didn’t mean to sound condescending.“

Rafe laughed. Not in a mocking way—no, it was real, boyish, which somehow made the situation worse because it only made you all the more nervous.

GETTING A LAUGH LIKE THAT OUT OF RAFE LIKE OKAY.

“Nah, shit, I get it,“ he said, shrugging with an amused smile. “Guess I gotta work out more if I’m giving off ‘McDonald’s stan’ vibes.“

Your eyes widened, and you quickly shook your head. “That’s not what I—“

“Jesus Christ, relax, I know what you meant,” he cut you off, nodding toward the dining hall. “Now, come on, you can keep judging me in there.“

I am the most embarrassing person alive, you thought, face still burning.

Nonetheless, you gathered all your strength, energy and dignity, and fell into step beside him, gripping the strap of your bag so tightly, your knuckles hurt.

Brain, could you please shut the hell up? Thanks.

But that bitch had other plans.

Because why the fuck did Rafe’s presence feel so overwhelming in the best and worst way possible? And why did his ridiculously good aftershave still linger in the air between you, like the universe was trying everything to make you lose composure?

And most importantly—how the hell were you supposed to survive two whole weeks of this?

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

he always finds you sitting at the kitchen island while sarah gets ready upstairs. or curled up on the couch reading a book. or timidly helping ward clean up after dinners even if sarah tells you over and over again that you don't need to.

you're just awfully sweet to a fault and painfully polite.

frat!rafe cameron who realizes that making you nervous is one of his favorite hobbies. he notices how quickly your eyes drop whenever he catches you looking at him. he would even stand unnecessarily close to you simply because he enjoys watching you squirm.

your fingers would always start fidgeting with your clothes the moment you notice him getting closer. it's honestly a miracle that he hasn't done anything appropriate or crossed the line yet. he just occupies the space so much that he hopes he's large enough to cloud your mind as well.

frat!rafe cameron who becomes disturbingly observant where you're concerned. your flustered smiles, awkward laugh, and whatever nervous excuse you throw before retreating from a conversation.

sometimes you wonder if he watches people this closely in general. but a huge part of you suspects the answer is no.

frat!rafe cameron who gradually develops an unsettling habit of knowing things he shouldn't.

you never notice it but for some reason, he always seems to know when you've had a bad day before you have the chance to mention it. he knows it when a professor gave you trouble in class today or which cafés you're most likely spending the afternoon studying in.

as disturbing as it sound, none of the information seems to be impossible for him to know.

"how'd you know i was there?"

rafe glances up from his drink and his expression doesn't falter, "did you forget? you told sarah about it."

you just nod timidly.

but later on, when you backread your messages with her again and notice you hadn’t mentioned anything to her, the conversation leaves you feeling confused.

your days fall back into their familiar shape after that night. classes, readings, the same seat at your desk by the window in your room where sunlight drifts across your pages in tired streaks. you still work the dock a few evenings a week, and still for the camerons, too. things with rafe seem normal when you’re there, though he lingers around more. talks a little more. not enough to distract or get you in trouble, but his presence is established, and you don’t seem to mind it as much as you used to, even when he picks on you.

you cherish your time at the dock, the feeling of the sun’s kisses on your skin, the smell of seaweed and wet sand tangling with the smell of bait and fuel. the regulars pass through in their usual rhythm. fishermen with sunburned noses, families pairing bait buckets with laughter. sometimes jj and kiara stop by, loud and bright, always tracking sand across the boards. everything feels the same.

except now, rafe cameron has quietly woven himself into the edges of your nights. he comes back a week later after the first time. then the night after that. and then the next, until suddenly it feels strange on the nights he doesn’t. sometimes he knocks, three short taps, then one long, fingers tracing along your windowsill like he’s memorizing it. second floor, first window on the right. he never gets it wrong and he never hesitates.

other nights, he doesn’t knock at all. he slips inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he’s sure you’ll let him stay. and you do. eventually, you stop asking why he’s there, and he never bothers explaining. it’s just what you do now. a private ritual neither of you ever agreed to out loud.

you learn pieces of him you didn’t think anyone else knew. things he’d never say in daylight. things he probably didn’t mean to tell you. the way ward pushes him, the pressure he’s drowning in. his strained relationship with his sister. his dislike of rose, sharp and cold, like the hatred bubbles in his chest. once, you catch the glint of a tear on his cheek, wiped away before he can stop himself. you pretend not to notice, but you do.

most nights he brings beers—dark circles under his eyes—the kind that come from choosing not to sleep, the one that says he hasn’t slept enough and thinks too much. sometimes he brings the exact brand of papers you like. “yours are always shit,” he mutters, tossing them onto your bed like he didn’t go out of his way to buy them for you.

you’d grown comfortable with each other, unpredictably close during the graveyard hours. you started to learn the rhythm of him. the weight of his steps on your floorboards. the soft click of his lighter in the dark. the way he exhales right before saying something real. the shift in his eyes when he’s holding something back.

sometimes he rests his head on your thighs, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s grounding himself. these are the vulnerable nights, the ones where he talks about whatever he wants, or whatever he’ll never have. his fingers trace lazy shapes over your skin, thoughtful, like he’s scared he might break you if he presses too hard. some nights you don’t talk at all.

on the quiet ones, he just watches you study. you pretend you don’t notice, but you always do. the way his eyes settle on you like the whole world softens when you’re near. there’s no teasing, no snark, just a silence that feels safe, like you’re the only calm he’s found in weeks.

you weren’t sure how the two of you had gotten here, how rafe cameron managed to become such a personal part of you. if someone had told you at the beginning of summer that he’d be climbing into your window and sharing silence with you, you wouldn’t have believed it. in fact, you probably would’ve done anything to stop it. but now? you didn’t seem to mind his presence so much. sometimes you’d even hope for it.

no matter what he’s been doing, no matter how late, he always finds his way to you. even if you’re asleep, he slips onto your bed and settles beside you like he belongs there. and soon enough it starts to feel like he does.

each time he leaves, something stays behind. loose coins, a lighter, a cufflink, a small matchbook from someplace you’ve never been. your nightstand becomes a small library of him. things he’d never explain. things you never ask about.

then he disappears for days. maybe you’d see him around figure eight, maybe you wouldn’t. but something about the uncertainty makes it feel like the world dulls around the empty space he leaves behind. sometimes you don’t see him for a while. when he returns to your window, he doesn't apologize. just says he had things to handle. sometimes, he’s honest. most of the time, he isn’t. you’ve learned that asking too many questions shuts him down fast, makes him snappy.

tannyhill sits quiet at night, the kind of quiet that feels too expensive to rest in. the lights never fully turn off. they dim and soften and pretend to be warmth, pooling golden across marble floors. when he’s home, rafe moves through those halls like a ghost. present, but not touched by anything around him. there’s always noise in his head. ward’s voice, his expectations, the pressure. talk of clients and legacy and things rafe never necessarily chose for himself, but stood up for anyway. it all blurs together into static.

“i need you focused. not fucking around on the cut. no distractions,” ward says. “not if you want a future here.”

and that’s what you are, even if neither of you know it yet. a distraction.

but rafe doesn’t care about what ward says because you’re also something he doesn’t have words for. a soft place in the chaos. when rafe slips away to your side of the island, it feels like breathing again. you don’t push. you don’t pry. you let him exist without having to perform. you make him feel… steady, maybe. understood. and it terrifies him, how much he’s started needing that. because lately, it seems like even you aren’t enough to quiet the storm building in him. not for long.

five. are you trying to get shot? // seven. the window + the blood.

TAGLIST <3

@lillell467 @memoirofasparklemuff1n @alanahlovesryan @emmiesummers

a/n: it’s slow right now i knooow, but it’ll start picking up. trust 🙂‍↕️

your house is quiet in that late-night way, the kind of quiet that feels like if you breathe too loudly, the whole place might wake up. your dad is asleep down the hall, the old box fan rattling in his room like it always does. you’re cross-legged on your bed with a textbook open across your lap, highlighters scattered, eyes burning from staring too long at the same paragraph. you’d skipped the shop and tannyhill today. too much homework, too much pressure, and you told yourself you didn’t miss it.

you didn’t miss the dock. you didn’t miss the thought of a certain kook prince lingering around while you scrubbed at boats in the beaming sun. you didn’t miss the lighter sitting on your nightstand like a quiet, silver reminder. you absolutely did not miss any of it. you’re reciting that lie for maybe the sixth time that night when three sharp knocks hit your front door. you freeze. they’re faint from upstairs, but you’re not crazy. no one knocks this late.

you set your pencil down quietly and pad over to your bedroom door, tiptoeing your way down the steps. the house is dim, only the kitchen nightlight on. the knocks come again, softer now. you whisper through the door, “who is it?” there’s a breath. you peer through the peek-hole, then hear a voice you know immediately.

“open up.”

your heart lurches. your hand flies to the doorknob to crack it open just an inch, one blue eye staring back at you—sleepless, tense like he has every right to be here.

"are you- rafe. are you fucking insane? my dad is home. are you trying to get shot?" you hiss as you yank the door wider.

rafe stands on your porch like he's completely unfazed by the threat of being shot. he looks different tonight. not polished, not cocky. his hair is mussed from the wind, hoodie half-zipped, knuckles scraped raw. he's trying not to look frantic, but his breathing gives him away-shallow, uneven, like he's been running or thinking too hard or both.

"was in the neighborhood." he mutters, but his voice cracks just slightly on the last word, and you catch it.

you glare hard, eyes narrowing, arms crossing. "you live on the other side of the island."

"barry's." he says, but it doesn't land right. his jaw tightens immediately after, like he knows the lie is too thin and he's daring you to call him on it anyway.

you squint, body leaning up against the frame, studying him. "you drove from figure eight to barry's... and then all the way here?" you say it slowly, letting the absurdity of it settle between you. "that's not 'in the neighborhood,' rafe. that's a whole fucking circuit."

he doesn't answer. just stares at you, chest rising and falling too fast, hands flexing at his sides like he's trying to keep them still. the silence stretches, and you realize-he's not going to admit it. he drove in circles just to end up at your door, and he's standing here like he had no other choice.

"you came here on purpose," you say quietly, and it's not a question.

his jaw tightens. "i was at barry's."

"bullshit."

"believe what you want." his voice is flat, controlled, but there's something sharp underneath it. he's daring you to push. daring you to call him a liar to his face even though you both know the truth. he holds your stare, unblinking, and doesn't give an inch.

you exhale hard through your nose, shaking your head. "next time, use the window."

it's meant to be dismissive. sarcastic. a way to end this without admitting he got under your skin. but the second the words leave your mouth, his expression shifts. a slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, something dangerous lighting up his eyes.

"that an invitation?"

your breath catches. not because of what he said, but the way he said it. too smooth, too certain, like he just won something you didn't realize you were playing for.

"no," you snap, but it's too late. he's already stepping past you, moving into your house like he owns it, like the hour doesn't apply to him, like your answer doesn't matter because he heard what he wanted to hear.

you scowl, following him inside and shutting the door as quietly as you can. "take off your shoes and go before he wakes up. quietly."

you watch as he slips them off and picks them up with one hand. he’s already following the dim light casting down the steps, walking toward your room like he’s done it a million times, eyes taking in every little detail, and you follow behind him. he sits on your bed without asking, dropping his hoodie beside him, leaning back on his hands like it’s routine. your irritation flares as your eyes finally land on him, shutting your door quietly behind you before settling back down on your bed. “so why are you here.”

rafe tilts his head toward you, eyes catching the dim bedside lamp as he studies your face.

“you weren’t at work today. or the dock.” his voice is casual, but the way his gaze stays on you makes the air feel heavier. “yeah,” you say, grabbing your pencil again. “busy.” he nods once, but there’s a flicker in his expression, maybe interest or amusement. it lingers like he came in here for a reason and now he’s trying to decide if he’s going to say it. “you skip out on me?” he asks finally, the words lazy, dipped in a teasing drawl. you don’t look up immediately, but when you do, his eyes are already on you. “please,” you say, half scoff, half breath. “did you miss me or something?”

his smile pulls slow, starting in one corner, the kind that feels like it has a history behind it, even if you don’t, something sharp underneath. he relaxes a little bit on the bed, the closeness is deliberate. “nah. just the look on your face when i piss you off.” he murmurs. your stomach tightens, embarrassingly quick, and heat pricks the back of your neck. you flip a page just to do something with your hands. “don’t start,” you mutter.

“i didn’t,” he says, tone dropping lower. “you did.”

the room goes quiet for a moment and. his eyes drop to the bed. not your notes, but your highlighter. he reaches for it swiftly, eyes cutting back toward you, fingers brushing the paper as he picks it up. he twirls it lazily between his long fingers, like he’s testing how far he can push this. you reach out to take it back, but he tilts his wrist just enough that you miss. you lean in slightly, barely, but he notices because he always notices. his smirk deepens, soft but cutting. “careful,” he says quietly. “looks like you might actually want something from me.”

you exhale a quiet breath and lunge again, not necessarily because you want the highlighter that badly, but because the way he’s looking at you makes staying still impossible. you yank it from his hand anyway, rolling your eyes to cover the way your stomach flips. rafe lets out a quiet breath, something like a laugh, something like defeat. he lays down on his side like the bed belonged to him. and you let him. he props his head up on his hand, eyes falling back down to the open textbook again.

“start over,”

“why?”

“i don’t know, wanna hear you talk about ecosystems ‘n shit.”

it shouldn’t make your chest warm the way it does. it shouldn’t make you scoot an inch closer. it shouldn’t make the night feel heavier, but it does. you start explaining a concept, and he listens, really listens, eyes trained on your face more than the page. he watches your mouth when you say certain words, watches the tiny crease in your brow when you think, watches like he’s trying to memorize something he shouldn’t. your phone vibrates suddenly. you flip it instinctively, but he catches the name before the screen dims.

JJ 🤍 // 11:58PM

hey you good? kie said she didn’t see you at the dock today.

you shove your phone face-down immediately, but you can see rafe’s jaw clench. the shift is tiny, but unmistakable. he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to. jealousy coils through the room, settling somewhere low and electric. you don’t know why you were trying to hide it, it’s not like you owed him an explanation or anything at all for that matter. maybe part of you just wanted to protect the peace, shield your sanctuary from the toxic rivalry.

“homework,” you say quickly, as if explaining yourself. “that’s why.”

“didn’t ask,” he says coolly, but his shoulders go rigid. and before you can answer, footsteps creak down the hallway. they’re unmistakable and it makes your pulse spike. “shit-” you whisper, standing up and reaching quietly to the lamp to flick it off.

rafe moves before you can think-his hand catches your waist and pulls you hard into the shadowed corner between your dresser and the wall. your back slams against his chest, his arm locking around you like a vice. he shifts you both deeper into the dark, out of the sliver of light from the hallway, and your breath stutters in your throat.

his other hand comes up fast, palm covering your mouth. not harsh, but firm. steady. the kind of gentle that has weight behind it-possession dressed up as protection. you can feel his chest rising and falling against your spine, uneven and too fast. his heartbeat is pounding, harder than yours, like the reality of being caught has finally hit him. like he has just as much to lose.

the footsteps grow louder. closer. your breathing is too loud, too ragged, and you try to pull it back but you can't. the air catches in your chest and your hand flies up instinctively, pressing over his-adding pressure, doubling down, trying to muffle the sound of your own panic. his fingers tense beneath yours but he doesn't pull away. he holds you tighter.

the footsteps stop.

right outside your door.

time stretches. your heart slams against your ribs so hard you're sure he can feel it. rafe's grip on your waist tightens, his fingertips slipping just barely under the hem of your shirt-skin to skin-and the contact makes you freeze. his touch is warm, deliberate, and it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the cold. or maybe it does. you don't know. you can't tell.

his breath ghosts over the side of your neck, too close, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up. another shiver. your skin prickles where his fingers rest against your bare waist, where his palm presses over your mouth. the heat of him is everywhere-his chest against your back, his arm locked around you, his hand burning into your skin like a brand.

you should hate this. you should be focused on the danger, on your dad standing right outside the door, on the fact that you're about to get caught. but all you can feel is him. the way his fingers flex slightly against your waist, the way his breathing matches yours, the way his body has you caged in so completely that you can't tell if he's shielding you or claiming you. both, maybe. neither.

it terrifies you. not the fear of being caught-the fear of how much you notice. how much you feel.

three seconds. that's all it is. but it feels like an eternity. you can hear your dad breathing on the other side of the door. you can feel rafe's pulse hammering against your back. you can feel the pressure of his hand over your mouth, the possessive weight of his arm around you, the way his thumb brushes-just once, barely-against the skin of your waist, and you don't know if it's intentional or if he's just as rattled as you are.

then the footsteps move. down the hall. toward the kitchen. a cabinet clicks open. water runs. the fridge hums.

rafe doesn't let go.

not right away.

his hand stays over your mouth for another beat, another breath, like he's making sure. like he's not ready to release you yet. when he finally does, it's slow-deliberate. his palm drags away from your lips first, then his arm loosens around your waist, fingers trailing over your skin as he pulls back. the absence of his touch burns worse than the contact did.

you stay there for a moment, frozen in the corner, your back still pressed to the wall where he'd pinned you. your cheeks are hot. your breathing is still shaky. and you can feel it-the ghost of his grip on your waist, the pressure of his hand over your mouth, the way his fingers had slipped under your shirt and stayed there, skin to skin, like he had every right. it lingers on your skin like a brand, like physical proof that he was there, that this happened, that you let him pull you into the dark and hold you like that.

and worse-that some part of you didn't want him to let go.

you can still feel him even after he's let go.

“you’re actually insane,” you whisper, turning away to hide how flustered you are, your hand finding the softest, dimmest light to turn on. he sits back on your bed, watching you with a look that’s too intense for someone pretending not to care. a lazy, smug smile drifts onto his lips as he brews a joke. “told you the door was a bad idea.”

you scoff and climb onto the bed to finish your notes, but he shifts closer, just enough that your knees brush. you hate how much you don’t pull away, how you wanted to be close to him.

you work for a while and he stays. he doesn’t talk much, just leans against your headboard. the two of you fall into a quieter rhythm. sometimes he’ll ask something offhand, something small.

“that class hard?”

“you really wanna do marine biology?”

you answer before you realize you’re answering. your responses are honest. sometimes your ramble on without meaning to. he careful not to distract you, so the questions come in waves, and then there’s silence again.

his eyes drift to the wall in front of him-plastered with posters, polaroids, memories tacked up like proof of a life lived loud and messy and full. pictures of you and your friends everywhere. laughing on the boat. arms slung around each other at bonfires. sun-bleached and salt-stained and real.

he studies them like he's trying to memorize something he'll never have. like he's been holding his breath.

his gaze catches on the photos of you and jj. there are more than a few. your head on jj's shoulder. his arm around your waist. both of you grinning like the world couldn't touch you. rafe's jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away. he stares at them longer than he should, and you can feel the weight of whatever he's thinking pressing into the quiet.

"you ever think about leaving the island?" he asks suddenly, voice low and careful, like he's testing the words before he commits to them.

you turn your head to look at him, trying to read his face, but his expression is unreadable. his eyes are still on the wall. still on your life. still on jj.

the question isn't casual. it's not small talk. it's loaded with something heavier-something that makes your chest tighten because you know he's not just asking if you've thought about it. he's asking if you want to. if you'd actually do it. if you'd leave all of this behind.

you exhale slowly, the weight of the question settling between you like a stone dropped into still water. "all the time," you admit softly, and the honesty of it surprises even you.

his eyes finally leave the wall. they find yours, and there's something raw in them-something desperate and tired and trapped. like he's been drowning for a long time and he's just now realizing you might be the only person who knows what that feels like.

"me too," he says quietly.

but it doesn't sound like agreement. it sounds like confession. the silence that follows is heavy, thick with meaning neither of you will name. you're both stuck. both suffocating under the weight of your own lives. both looking for a way out.

sometime later, your head tips sideways-slow, inevitable-and lands softly against his shoulder. the contact registers a second too late. your eyes snap open and you jerk upright, heart kicking hard in your chest like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't. mortified. you don't look at him. you can't. you turn your attention back to your textbook, blinking hard, rubbing at your eyes like that'll erase what just happened.

neither of you say anything.

you try to focus. you really do. but the words blur together, and your eyelids feel like they're made of lead. you shift positions, sit up straighter, dig your nails into your palm just to stay present. but exhaustion is dragging at you, pulling you under, and you're losing.

after another hour, you've given up on the pretense of studying. your materials are still spread out at the foot of the bed because you're too tired to pack them away. you're slumped back against your pillows, bones heavy, mind hazy. rafe rolls a joint on your notebook without asking.

"you should probably go to sleep."

"yeah, no shit."

he huffs a breath, almost a laugh, and hands you the joint first. you shift your body over to the window that sits right beside your bed and open it. your lips wrap around it and you take a slow drag, elbows resting against the sill. you watch as the smoke slips out the window, rising slow until it drapes over the moon. you pass it back and forth until there's nothing but filter left, and when you're finished, you resume your spots like you'd never left. the room is quiet, warm, hazy.

your head swims. the world edges toward soft.

you don't realize your eyes have shut until your head tips again-this time landing fully against his shoulder. the warmth of him registers first, then the solid weight of his body beside you, and your eyes fly open. you pull back fast, breath catching, cheeks burning.

"sorry," you whisper, voice tight with embarrassment. you try to sit up, to put distance between you, to regain some semblance of control. but his hand catches your wrist-gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

"just sleep."

you shake your head, even as your body sways slightly toward him. "you're not staying."

it comes out sharper than you mean it to. not a statement. a plea. a boundary you're desperately trying to hold.

he smirks slightly, but there's something softer underneath it. "who said i was?"

you roll your eyes because he's right. you were assuming. you were assuming he wanted to stay. you were assuming you wanted him to. and now you've said it out loud and made it real. you don't answer and you don't move either.

his hand is still around your wrist, thumb resting against your pulse. he doesn't pull you closer. doesn't push. just... holds you there. waiting. you could pull away. you should pull away. but you don't.

slowly-so slowly it feels like surrender-you let yourself lean back. your head finds his shoulder again, and this time you don't jerk away. you let it rest there. let yourself feel the rise and fall of his breathing. let yourself stop fighting.

he doesn't touch you. doesn't wrap an arm around you or pull you closer. he stays in his own space, eyes on the ceiling, breathing slow and steady like the house has finally let him breathe too. but he's there. right there. close enough that you can feel the heat of him, hear the quiet rhythm of his breath, sense the tension coiled in his body even as he forces himself to stay still.

you fall asleep first.

rafe doesn't sleep at all.

he lies there until the sky outside your window turns to a soft blue, and then pink, until the first birds break the silence, until the soft morning light hits your cheek. he’s careful when he repositions you, stealthy enough to keep you from waking from your slumber. he slips out the window this time. quiet, careful.

morning breaks, sunlight prying your eyes open. you reach for your phone first, blinking at the time, then freeze. there's something in the sheets. small. cold. heavy.

you sit up slowly, heart kicking once in your chest as you pull the blanket back. a ring. golden, solid, unmistakably his. it sits in the indent where his body had been, catching the morning light like it's been waiting for you to find it.

your breath catches.

he left it.

you pick it up slowly, and the weight of it feels strange in your palm. heavy. real. expensive. you turn it over between your fingers, studying the way the gold catches the light. it's the kind of thing that means something. family, legacy, the kind of weight that doesn't leave a person's hand by mistake. and he left it in your bed. in the exact spot where he'd been lying all night.

your chest tightens and you set it on your nightstand, trying to create distance, trying to think. but your eyes keep drifting back. the gold gleams in the morning light, and you can't stop looking at it. can't stop feeling the phantom warmth of it in your palm.

the lighter on your deck. now this. the thought surfaces slow, unwelcome. two things. two separate times. both his. both left behind in places he shouldn't have been in the first place. you don't know what it means. just that it happened twice. you pick it up again.

your hands move before your brain catches up—reaching for the jewelry box on your nightstand, pulling out a thin gold chain you haven't worn in over a year. you thread the ring onto it slowly, watching the way it slides along the links and settles in the center.

you don't know why you're doing this.

you just... need to. need to keep it close. need to wear it. the thought doesn't make sense, but your hands keep moving anyway, fastening the clasp at the back of your neck. the ring falls into place just above your collarbone, and the weight of it is immediate. solid. grounding. his.

you catch your reflection in the mirror across the room and stop. there it is. resting at your throat. visible. something twists in your chest. it's not quite fear, not quite want. something in between. something you don't have a name for yet. you made a choice. but so did he. and you don't understand what either of them mean.

it should terrify you.

it does terrify you.

but you don't take it off.

you don't take it off.

you take a shower with it on. throw on a bathing suit, jean shorts, a t-shirt. the whole time, the ring sits heavy and warm at your throat, and you don't stop touching it.

your dad is already up when you wander into the kitchen, barefoot, hair a little wild. he’s sitting at the dining table digging through a tackle box for a hook he swears was there yesterday. “you’re up early,” he says without looking at you. “yeah.” you reply, your voice still riddled with sleep. he glances over, eyes catching the chain around your neck. he pauses just a second, long enough to notice. “that new?”

“yeah, found it. thought it looked nice.” you shrug, hovering in the doorway as he begins to oil a reel. “hey, uh… do you care if i skip the shop today? kie and the guys wanna hang out. go out on the water.” he finally looks at you, really looks. your tired eyes. your restless hands. the necklace you keep touching without noticing.

“you can take the day,” he says gently. “you deserve one.” you nod, relieved, kissing his cheek before grabbing a bag and running out the door. the sun is already burning high by the time you get to the shop, wind sweeping your hair back as you jog down the dock. your friends are already there, jj’s leaning against the boat railing, pope is arguing with john b over whether or not cereal counts as soup, and kie is waving you over with both hands. the moment you step on the boat, it smells like summer. sea salt, gasoline, cheap beer, mango body spray.

"finally," kie teases. "thought you were gonna bail."

"of course not." you smile, and for a moment, it feels real.

the boat pushes off, gliding into open water. music buzzes through a portable speaker, jj at the wheel, sun bouncing off his tan skin. everyone talks over each other, laughing, existing in that easy way people do when they've known each other forever.

you stretch your arms out on the side of the boat, legs dangling over the edge, toes skimming the water. the chain around your neck warms under the sun and you pretend not to feel it.

jj nudges your shoulder with his, grinning. "you gonna actually swim today or just sit there looking pretty?"

you roll your eyes, shoving him back. "i'm pacing myself."

"that's what you said last time. and the time before that."

"maybe i just like watching you idiots almost drown each other."

he laughs, warm and easy, and something in your chest tightens. this is home. this is supposed to be home.

after a while, kie cannonballs off the side, pope right behind her, and john b follows with a whoop that echoes across the water. jj stays at the wheel a little longer, steering lazy circles while they wrestle and shout below.

you're watching the water, the way the light catches on the surface, when your hand drifts to your throat. your fingers close around the ring without thinking, thumb brushing over the metal. warm. solid. his.

"you good?"

you blink, pulling your hand away quickly. jj's looking at you, eyebrows raised.

"yeah. sorry, what?"

"i said, you wanna take the wheel for a bit?"

"oh. yeah, sure."

he studies you for a second, then shrugs and hops down to join the others. you take his place, hands gripping the worn leather of the wheel, but your mind is somewhere else entirely.

"hey!" kie's voice cuts through. she's treading water, squinting up at you. "you coming in or what?"

you force a smile. "in a minute."

she gives you a look but doesn't push, diving back under with pope. you cut the engine and throw the anchor, the sun beating down on your shoulders, the ring heavy against your collarbone.

eventually you slip into the water, the cold shock of it pulling you back into your body. kie swims over, grinning, and splashes you hard enough that you choke on saltwater. you retaliate, laughing, and for a few minutes it's just noise and movement and the kind of chaos that makes you forget everything else.

but then you're floating on your back, staring up at the sky, and your mind wanders again. you don't even realize it until john b calls your name twice.

"huh?"

"i said, you wanna head to the chateau after this?"

"oh. yeah. sounds good."

he frowns a little but doesn't say anything, just swims back toward the boat.

after an hour, everyone climbs back in, dripping water everywhere, still laughing about something pope said that you only half heard. jj flops down beside you, hair plastered to his forehead, tank top clinging to his chest. he flicks a bottle cap into the marsh, then glances over at you.

"so," he says, voice casual but his eyes a little too careful. "what's with the necklace?"

your hand goes to it immediately. fingers closing around the ring before you can stop yourself. a tell. you know it's a tell the second you do it, but you can't take it back now.

your breath catches, and you force yourself to look down at it like you're just noticing it for the first time. the ring glints once in the sun, gold and heavy and his. you know exactly what you're about to do. you know it's a choice.

"oh," you say, voice light, practiced. "my dad's. he let me have it."

the lie comes out smooth. too smooth. and the moment it leaves your mouth, the weight of it settles in your chest like a stone.

jj's eyes linger on the necklace for a beat too long, then flick up to your face. he smiles, but it's small. sad. it doesn't reach his eyes.

"looks good on you."

he doesn't believe you.

you can see it in the way his gaze holds yours for just a second longer than it should, the way his smile feels like a question he's not asking out loud. and that makes it worse. because now you're not just lying. you're lying badly. to someone who's known you long enough to see through you, and he's letting you get away with it anyway.

your heart pinches. guilt floods in sharp and immediate, cutting through the warmth of the sun and the sound of your friends laughing. you're wearing rafe around your neck. you're sitting here with the people you love most, the people who would do anything for you, and you're lying to their faces.

you murmur a quiet "thanks," but it comes out hollow.

jj's quiet for a moment, then his voice drops, softer. "you been alright lately? seems like you've been... i don't know. different."

the concern in his tone cracks something open in your chest. he's not accusing you. he's worried. he cares. and you're lying to him anyway. you swallow and nod, a half truth at the tip of your tongue. "yeah, just got a lot on my plate right now. that's all."

he watches you for another beat, then nods slowly, like he's deciding whether or not to believe you. "alright. but you know you can talk to me, right? about anything."

"i know," you say quietly. and you do. that's what makes it worse.

eventually, the others start talking again, and the moment gets swallowed by noise and sun and movement. but when the boat turns toward home and the cool spray hits your face, you catch your reflection in the metal railing. the ring rests at your throat like a secret.

you touch it again, and this time, you don't lie about why.

four. seagrass // six. quiet rituals (interlude)

TAGLIST <3

the next few days pass quietly. the lighter lives on your nightstand, untouched, though it catches your eye every time you walk by it. silver catching the sun rays, winking at you like it knows something you don't. you spend most of your late afternoons by the dock, bare feet on sun bleached boards, textbook and notebook splayed across the counter. every time an engine hums on the water, your head glances up before you can stop it, though you never admit to yourself what you're waiting for.

one evening, the quiet breaks. rafe returns to your dad's dock. it's getting late. you're just at the end of your closing when you see the same boat you'd worked on just a few days prior pulling in slow, sounding just a little worse in condition than how you had left it the last time.

"you've got to be kidding me," you mutter under your breath. you toss your grease stained rag over your shoulder as you make your way down to the edge of the dock. when you reach the edge, you're already knowing. rafe stands behind the wheel like he never left, all arrogance and fresh pressed clothes.

"starting to think you shouldn't be handling a boat, rafe." you raise your voice slightly over the boat's rumbling motor, crouching down to catch the line he tosses you. you start tying the vessel to the dock as he kills the engine, and the sudden silence rings loud.

"nah. i think it's just seagrass." he steps out with what seems like practiced ease, one hand pulling his shades from his face, the other tucked in his pocket like usual. the smirk fits his face like it belongs there.

“sounds like user error to me.” he scoffs, small and stitched with irritation, folding his glasses absently. “what- you callin’ me stupid?”

“no, i’m calling you careless. stupid can’t be fixed.” you look at him with a blank expression, unamused, voice dead pan, the smell of fuel and salt water hanging between you. he pauses for a moment, jaw flexed like its brewing something to spit back at you, but it never comes. his mouth twitches and he shakes his head, eyes with a look that could catch fire if you let it. a mosquito whines past your ear, and you swat at it.

“touché,” he mutters, dropping down to check the motor. his hands brush away the stringy clumps of seagrass floating near it. you sink beside him in a crouch, squinting at the problem, the boards creaking beneath your weight. his cologne catches the breeze, clean and sharp, cutting through the thick ocean air. “you’ve got a real habit of showing up when i’m about to go home.”

“got a problem with me showin’ up?” his tone carries that same half smirk, the one you can hear but refuse to look at.

“yeah, when it’s for dumb shit like this,” you tug strands of seagrass loose from the motor, tossing it into the water. “hand me the flashlight, rafe.” he obeys, passing it to you, fingers brushing yours. his voice dips low, lazy and taunting. “you like sayin’ my name like that.” he says it like he’d caught your game, like he read you before you could realize.

"yeah right." you win silence. he doesn't argue after that, just lets you work in silence for a few minutes, eyes watching the way your fingers move over the metal, pulling more green from it. the water laps against the dock, his breathing quiet beside you.

“how’d this happen anyway?” you ask.

“guess i wasn’t payin’ attention.”

“shocking.”

he laughs low, leaning back on his heels, a corner of his mouth curling. “you ever get tired of talkin’ shit?”

“nope.”

he hums like he’s not surprised. “wouldn’t like you half as much if you did.” that stops you. your hands still for a second, heartbeat skipping. you keep your eyes on the motor, pretending like your chest doesn’t tighten at the words. but it does, and for a moment, the world feels like it holds still, though you do your best not to show it. “oh, so you like me now?”

“you’re tolerable.”

“right.” you roll your eyes, a soft smile threatening to show. but you keep it to yourself, wiping your hands on your shirt. “try it now.” he hops back onto the boat like gravity likes him more than anyone else and flicks the ignition. the engine roars to life, vibrating through the planks and up your legs. you stumble back instinctively and his smile returns instantly, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to show it off. “told you it was just some grass.”

“you’re welcome?” you say, standing up.

“you expect me to say thank you?”

"i expect you to find a new excuse next time."

rafe lounges against the console from inside the boat, and he hums, eyes holding yours for a beat too long. "you want me to stop comin' around?" he asks it simply, no edge, just honest. like he's actually asking.

your mouth parts, caught off guard. you weren't expecting that. "i—"

"you like it," he says, not smug, just certain. his hand slides to the throttle, knuckles brushing the wheel. "get in."

"absolutely not," you snap, shaking your head. "i just fixed that thing."

"and i'm about to prove you did it right."

he jerks his chin toward the seat near him, like the invitation is already a foregone conclusion. he doesn't even straighten up, just watches you with that lazy annoyance, that heat that feels like it's aimed straight at your spine. "c'mon," he adds, voice low. "i'm not asking." you cross your arms, still stubborn, though you know it probably won't last. "i'm off in five minutes."

"cool," he shrugs. the engine hums beneath him. "i'll have you back in four." you glare, but the sound of the motor, the smell of salt and fuel, the way he's watching you like he already knows what you'll choose… it all coils tight in your stomach, a mix of irritation and adrenaline. your feet move before your brain does and suddenly you're climbing in.

the deck shifts under you, the engine rumbling louder. everything feels sharper in here, closer to him. rafe doesn't give you a warning. the boat lunges forward before you can even sit down, slicing through the water. your breath jerks out of you. instinct wins and you grab the nearest thing to steady yourself. rafe's arm.

he glances down at your fingers curled around his bicep and something shifts in his expression—a flash of satisfaction that crosses his face before he can catch it. "what, you scared or somethin'?"

"i'm not scared," you grit out, clutching harder as he takes a sharp turn that sends your shoulder brushing his. "just seems like you're trying to kill us." he laughs, a real one, rough and boyish, and takes another turn just because he likes hearing your breath catch.

"rafe, i swear to god!"

"relax," he drawls. "i know what i'm doing."

"do you? because i have a feeling this is exactly why your motor keeps going to shit."

"you're doin' a lot of shit talkin' for someone who's clingin' onto me right now."

"i'm not!"

the boat dips abruptly, catches the wake, and you lurch forward. instinct has you grabbing for him—your hand finds his shirt at his ribs, fingers curling into the fabric like it's the only thing keeping you tethered. heat radiates through the thin material and your pulse hammers as you try to steady your breathing. he glances down at where you're gripping him, jaw tightening, and doesn't move away. the contact feels like it's burning through your palm. you snatch your hands back like you'd touched a heating stove. "take me back."

"mm," he tilts his head, pretending to consider it. "nah."

"rafe."

"what?" he asks innocently, slowing the boat only a little. "i'm showin' you the good side of the island."

"i didn't ask-"

"didn't say you had to."

you shove him again only a little, shoulder meeting his. he barely moves, but his eyes drop to your mouth and linger long enough for you to feel it. you look away first. he finally cuts the engine near a small sliver of coastline. it's shallow, the water still, saltgrass whispering against the sand. the sun is low and gold, but you're not really watching the light—you're watching him.

"sit," he orders lightly, nodding to the bow. you don't know why you listen, but you do. he tosses you a beer—the kind you never mentioned but he somehow knew—then opens one for himself before taking a seat beside you. you look down at the can sweating in your hand, your voice coming quieter than you mean it to.

he catches it, settling onto the bow without him having to ask. he sits beside you, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours.

"seems like you're always wound up," he says it casually, like he's just noticing. not mean, just observing.

the comment lands harder than it should. you look at him sharply, defensive. "i'm fine."

"yeah?" he doesn't push, just takes a sip of his beer, eyes still on you.

you look down at the can sweating in your hand. something cracks open before you can stop it. "it's not just you," you say quietly. "it's everything."

the words leave your chest too fast. you regret them immediately, taking a sip like it might erase what you just admitted.

rafe doesn't say anything at first. then, low and quiet: "yeah, well. everyone's got their shit."

when you glance at him, he's still looking at you. jaw tight, expression unreadable, but something in it feels real. like he actually gets it.

you're the one who looks away first. the silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. the waves bump the hull gently. the breeze cools your skin. he doesn't fill the quiet, doesn't try to fix anything. he just sits there, breathing steady, and lets it be.

minutes pass. maybe more. you're not sure when you stopped counting.

the sun drops lower, bleeding gold across the water. the light shifts slowly, warm amber fading to something softer, cooler. orange bleeds into pink, then lavender at the edges. the sky doesn't rush. neither do you.

the water laps against the boat in a rhythm that feels like breathing. gentle, constant, grounding. insects start to hum in the distance, their chirping rising as the heat begins to ease. the breeze picks up, just enough to lift the hair off the back of your neck, and you realize you're not tense anymore. your shoulders have dropped. your jaw isn't tight.

rafe shifts beside you, leaning back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him. he tilts his head toward the sky like he's watching the colors change too. he doesn't say anything. doesn't need to.

you take another sip of your beer. it's gone warm in your hand, but you don't care. the quiet pools around you both, thick and easy. neither of you moves to leave. neither of you suggests it.

the light keeps fading. the sky deepens. the insects grow louder, filling the spaces between the sound of water and wind. time stretches, pulls thin, loses shape. you didn't mean to stay this long. you're pretty sure he didn't either. but here you are.

when you finally glance at the horizon, the sun is nearly gone. just a sliver of gold sinking below the tree line. the sky is all cool blues and purples now, the warmth bled out of it entirely.

you blink, realizing. it's been way longer than four minutes.

he brings the boat back slow, much slower than he left. the sun had nearly set by now, and it had been much longer than four minutes like he'd promised, and although you didn't mind, you wouldn't admit that to him. his hands stay steady on the wheel the whole ride back, jaw tight like he's thinking too hard, but he doesn't say anything and neither do you. the wind lifts strands of your hair, brushing them across your cheeks. every so often you catch him looking. not quick glances, but long, measured ones. the kind that feel like they leave fingerprints. the motor hums low as he pulls up to the dock again, settling into quiet as he kills the engine.

"see?" he says simply, barely above a whisper. "boat's fine." you roll your eyes, but the bite isn't there anymore. you hop out, landing lightly on the dock. your legs feel a little shaky from the ride; the adrenaline, the way he kept taking turns sharper than necessary, the way your body kept reacting before your brain could catch up. he steps onto the dock after you, the boards creaking under his weight. he's close. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you swear you can still feel the shape of his gaze on the side of your neck.

"don't break it again," you mutter, grabbing your bag from the corner of the dock. he exhales a single huff. "won't promise you anything." his voice softens, hand rubbing the back of his neck like the words are fighting their way out. "thanks. for fixin' it." the way he says it—direct, almost careful—makes it feel like it costs him something.

you stare at him, something shifting in your chest. "you mean that."

“don’t get used to it.”

you turn away so he doesn’t see the stupid smile threatening to bloom on your face and make your way up the dock, calling over your shoulder that you’d see him around at tannyhill. you don’t hear anything else, just the sound of his boat pulling off and ripping down the water.

you walk home replaying the moment on the water when your hand landed on his chest. how he didn't move. how he held everything back like it cost him—every second he stayed still was a choice, a deliberate restraint that felt like its own kind of power. he just looked at you, and you felt the weight of what he wasn't doing, the control it took for him not to. and something in that look burrowed beneath your ribs and won't leave.

the beer he tossed you like he already knew what you liked. the way his voice dipped when you told him how overwhelmed you were, how the pressure was crushing you. the way he said he understood like he meant it. like he actually heard you.

you've met a lot of people on this island. none of them seemed to digest you the way he did. none of them made the world feel that still.

rafe cameron is trouble. you know it. you can feel it in the way he looked at you on that boat, in the way his hand felt warm at your back when he helped you up. but still, it sits warm and terrifying under your skin like it's aching to be free.

three. low tide. // five. are you trying to get shot?

TAGLIST <3

you've been helping your dad run his fuel, bait & tackle shop that summer, and also doing work for the cameron boats at tannyhill, splitting time between work and marine bio classes. the shop is nothing crazy. you mostly get regulars, people who've known you since you were a kid. it's quiet work, boring most days, but you like it. like the rhythm of it, the smell of fuel and fish, the way the air turns soft before sunset.

tannyhill is work, but this is peace. less of a helping hand to your dad, more like home. the evening you actually interact with rafe cameron in a way that matters isn't your first time seeing him. but this time, it's in your territory, your turf. not the kooks, not the pogues, yours. usually, he lingers around while you work, leaning against the railings like boredom is a disease. flicking you a dismissive glance when you come to scrub hulls or replace lines on boats worth more than your father's entire shop, making snarky comments that you can't help but shut down and snap back at.

he knows your name, though he pretends not to, he knows your dad used to work for his, and you know he treats everyone from the cut the same. kooks don't say please, john b always jokes. and camerons don't say thank you, jj adds. you learn quickly over the summer that rafe cameron doesn't do or say anything unless it benefits him. or unless he's just being a dick.

"no fucking way, not tonight." you mutter under your breath like a prayer you know won't be answered. you're already half in your head, thinking about a shower, your bed, the open textbook waiting for you upstairs. but the sound keeps getting closer. louder, sloppy. when you finally look up through the window, you see a boat coming in too fast, slicing through the water like it owns it—one you've cleaned enough times to recognize on sight. you sigh loud enough to startle the quiet, wipe your hands on an old rag, black streaks of grease still smudging your skin, and push open the door. the bell above it chimes, soft and small against the slap of waves.

barefoot, you cross the dock, stepping over every other plank like you always do, an old superstition. at the edge of it is where you find him, rafe cameron. in the flesh, standing behind the wheel with that trademark smirk that makes you want to shove him into the sound all at once. he brings the boat in fast, too fast, making water slap the dock hard enough to splash your legs.

you stare him down, weight shifting to one hip, arms crossed like armor. "there's a speed limit." he looks up, a provocative grin widening like he's already playing in his head how he'll get his way.

"it's a guideline."

"it's the law, actually. and we're closed." he cuts the engine completely. the confidence in that one movement is infuriating, posture arrogant even when his boat isn't, the last streaks of sunset cutting across his face, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw.

"did you not just hear me? i said we're closed. no service. goodbye." you wave him off like it's a dismissal, but he ignores you, naturally, hopping onto the dock with practiced ease, tying the bow line without asking, without hesitation, without even acknowledging that this isn't his space to invade.

"boat's actin' up." he nods toward it, voice dry and clipped, sounding as if he's expecting you to put the pieces together. "sounds like a problem for tannyhill." the annoyance drips from your voice, arms folded even tighter, but rafe takes it like a challenge. he nearly mirrors your stance like he's accepted it, arms folded, head tilted, only his posture is smug, and yours is rigid. his tone is just shy of mocking like your time is nothing. "techs are gone. figured you could spare a couple minutes."

"well, too bad. i can't."

"you're still standin' here." your jaw clenches at the statement, because he's right. and he sees it. you are still here, still talking to him, still lingering. you let out a short laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "i'm off the clock. this isn't a charity."

he doesn't move. just leans against the railing, head tilted, that lazy grin spreading slow. "i've got all night." the way he says it sticks with you. the confidence, the low warmth of it, the promise tucked somewhere underneath the arrogance.

"great," you turn on your heel quickly and start walking back toward the shop to grab your things and lock up. the boards creak under your bare feet, the air warm and sticky against your skin. "have fun with your fucked up boat, maybe it'll fix itself." you laugh at him, a mockery almost, but the sound comes out lighter than you intend.

his grin fades quickly and he rolls his jaw once, muscles ticking in his cheek like they're brewing something brutal, eyes flicking toward the water like it might cool him down. it doesn't. his eyes cut back to you, the edge in them still sharp, but his voice is smooth again like a sting covered in sugar.

"pretty sure your old man wouldn't love wakin' up to a cameron boat stranded at his dock. findin' out his daughter left me hangin'." his tone dips low. measured, almost lazy. there's a threat underneath, though it's covered with something casual. the statement makes your lips purse, because he's not wrong. your dad doesn't work for ward anymore, not since he opened his own shop, but there are still ties. favors. a debt you don't know the details of. yes, ward owes your father, but still somehow there's a benefit for ward. and rafe knows exactly where to press for it. you spin on your heel, ready to charge at him and shove him into the water. "you're unbelievable." he can see it on your face, how much he gets under your skin, and somehow, that only fuels him more.

"that what they teach you in marine bio? bein' difficult?" his eyes drag over you slow, gesturing carelessly toward you like he's calling your bluff. the way he does it feels almost deliberate. slow, teasing. eyes filled with challenge like he's daring you to tell him no again.

"you don't know shit about me, cameron." the words come out like a hiss, dripping with venom, showing he's pressing all the right buttons. "i know you're here," he says, hands deep in his pockets, voice dropping to something low and annoyingly calm. "and i know you're the only one who can fix it before your dad gets mixed in it." the threat isn't loud, it's not rude. just surgical. you glare at him, sharp enough to cut through the dark. the night hums with crickets, the tide brushing softly at the posts below.

you exhale through your nose and stand there for a few beats, the silence stretching until it almost becomes part of the night itself. annoyance, exhaustion both written clearly across your face. then, with a tight breath, you turn back toward the shop. "fine." the word leaves you sharp and flat, the sound of it echoing faintly in the still air. and of course, rafe gets the last word. "thought so."

you return with everything and set it all down on the dock before dropping into a crouch. the air smells like salt, oil, and the faint sweetness of old bait. rafe sits beside you, leaning back on his arms as he watches you sort through tools, the dock's faint vibration humming under you both. "you're an ass, you know that? hold the flashlight and don't speak."

he blows out a quiet breath through his nose, that smug half-laugh that tells you you didn't even need to say it. "wasn't plannin' on it." he mutters, mouth twitching. he adjusts himself, shifting into a crouch beside you, knees brushing the edge of your space, and he takes the flashlight from your offering hand. his fingers graze yours briefly, cool and calloused.

he angles the beam across the motor. the soft hum of electricity buzzes in the dark, insects tapping at the glass. his eyes follow your hands as you work. not because he knows what you're doing, but because watching you focus seems to quiet something in him.

"you always this pissy?"

"are you always this entitled?" you should've known he'd have a comeback. he does for just about everything.

"nah, just good at gettin' what i want."

you try a few fixes in silence. he turns the key once; the engine coughs, sputters, and dies again. the sound fades, leaving the night thicker than before. the silence stretches thin. his knee bounces once, twice. then he snaps.

"fuck—" he yells, hands reaching for his hair in a stressful stretch, as if it's going to calm him down. his legs make a couple of long strides like he's ready to pace. his mind is racing with the impending doom of ward's confrontation. it's clearly starting to get to him. his eyes flicker to you as you flinch at his voice that slices through the quiet of the water. "if you're gonna have a meltdown, do it quietly. you're stressing me out."

he exhales slowly, deeply, like he's trying to ground himself again. you hear him mutter something under his breath, too quiet for you to hear, but the words seem to escape like they're riddled with bitterness in his mouth. when he returns back to his spot beside you, he moves closer this time, slow enough that the motion feels deliberate. your shoulders brush, but neither of you flinch, the heat from his arm seeping into yours.

you blow a puff of air to force a waving piece of hair from your face, grime streaks the side of your cheek and frustration prickles beneath your skin. and he's watching. really watching, though his expression is unreadable, mouth tilted somewhere between angst and apology. he watches your hands, the expressions on your face, your mouth when you hold a bolt between your teeth, the way the last slivers of orange paint your skin. it makes him quiet, something you'd never thought he could be.

the flashlight wobbles, beam drifting, and then the soft click-scratch of metal on metal breaks the quiet. a flame blooms for a second, gold against his face. the smell reaches you first, something earthy that sticks to the air.

"perfect timing." you roll your eyes, waving the haze away, more for show than anything. rafe ignores the jab, inhaling slow, lids half-lowered. the tiny ember flares again when he breathes. he leans forward slightly, joint resting between two of his fingers, and his hand extends toward your lips, wordless. the offer hangs there, orange light catching the lines of his knuckles.

you don't move at first, annoyed at how close he is, at the way he's looking at you like he already knows what you'll do. refusing feels stupid though, like handing him the satisfaction of getting under your skin. so you lean in, lips brushing the paper, and take it from him. the smoke fills your lungs, sweet and sharp. you exhale sideways, and he watches the smoke drift. "least you could do," you murmur, irritation still sharp in your voice.

his eyes focus on you again, tracking every arc of your movements with a steadiness that feels a little too heavy for a simple engine check. the flashlight trembles in his grip, not enough to be nerves, but enough for you to notice. crickets pulse in the grass around you. the tide laps lazily against the pilings.

you find the issue after a few minutes: a fouled spark plug. easy. you unthread it, wipe the soot on the hem of your shirt. when you glance up, he's watching like he paid for front-row seats. head tilted. mouth curved. waiting.

"ever heard of maintenance before?" you ask around the joint, smoke curling from the corner of your lips.

"that mouth's gonna be a problem for you."

you raise a brow. "what's that supposed to mean?"

the smirk hits instantly, sharp, reflexive, like he's been waiting for you to say something.his eyes move from your mouth to your throat, slowly, deliberately, like his brain is remembering something his body already decided. his voice lowers, not much, but enough that your skin tightens.

"nothin'," he says, but there's a scratch in it now, a pull. "just seems like you're lookin' for trouble." the way he says trouble is different, less joke, more promise. you break the stare first, snapping the panel closed harder than intended, metal ringing against your palms. "whatever, rafe. start it up."

he pushes off the railing, movements unhurried in that way he does when he's fighting the urge to rush. he slides back into the helm seat, glancing over his shoulder once, long enough to catch your eyes again, long enough to make the air feel staticky.

the key turns; the engine purrs, smooth and revived. he leans back like he always knew it would start, smile spreading slow, victorious, claiming the moment. your eyes roll, but your pulse doesn't get the message. you start gathering tools, trying to ignore the way his gaze follows you, warmer now, heavier now, something-not-playful smoldering under it.

"where do you live?" he asks suddenly, following you up the dock. "why?" you can't help but squint at the question.

he clears his throat, body language nonchalant almost like he might be doing you a favor. "cause i'm walkin' you." your face bunches up, eyes wary and weirded out by such an offer from him, and you can't help but bark a laugh at him, stopping right outside of the door to the shop where you turn to face him. "no, you're not." he steps closer, not too close, but enough to invade your space, enough for your bubble to be consumed by him, his confidence and expensive cologne. "i am. don't argue."

you should, but you don't. you simply accept his word.

you walk home in warm darkness, the night air starting to feel thicker the farther you go, quiet except for your breathing and the soft click of his lighter spinning in his hand. you loosen first, tossing small jabs his way. he returns them easily, voice carrying a dry edge that never quite tips into mean. he laughs once, quick and low, but real. you roll your eyes, the sound of his voice following you all the way up the path. when your house appears, he slows. the porch light spills weak yellow across the yard. at the gate he gives a single nod with a small twitch of his lips.

you hitch your thumb toward the front door. "okay, you walked me. happy?" he doesn't answer. instead, his gaze drifts over your yard, the thin line of trees, the stretch of road behind him. checking exits. checking shadows. checking for things you don't even think to look for. then his eyes settle back on you, sharp, steady, something restless slipping beneath the surface. "you shouldn't walk home alone at night," he says quietly. you huff a laugh, shaking your head. "i made it here just fine."

"that's not the point."

"then what is?" you lift your chin, bracing yourself for some smug comeback, some clipped insult wrapped in charm. but he doesn't smirk, he doesn't deflect. he steps closer, enough that you feel the heat radiating from him, enough that his cologne sinks into the air between you, enough that you have to tilt your head to hold his stare.

"it's different for you," he murmurs. "people look for you." you blink, thrown off by the shift in his tone. he swallows once, jaw tightening. "nobody's lookin' for me."

the words hang there, heavy and strange. you don't know what to do with them. don't know what he wants you to say. he's being serious in a way that feels wrong coming from him, and it makes your skin prickle with discomfort.

he shakes his head once, like he regrets saying it, and steps back just enough to break the space between you.

"go inside," he says, voice rougher. you stand there for a beat, unsure, then nod slowly because you don't have anything better to do.

"goodnight," you whisper. he doesn't turn around immediately, but when he does, he looks at you one last time, that unreadable expression flickering like a match in the dark. then he nods, turns, and walks back down your driveway, hands in his pockets, head low, as if he knows no one is waiting for him on the other side of the island.

inside your room, your heart still pounding, you dig through your bag, fingers brushing something cold and metallic at the bottom of the pocket. you pull it out and find a flip-top lighter, which certainly doesn't belong to you. your fingers roll it around in your palm, brushing the intricate markings on it as you wonder where it came from and how it got there. then you find RC engraved in neat initials on its side.

you sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the way it glints under your lamp, feeling the echo of his voice in your bones.

"people look for you. nobody's lookin' for me."

the words replay long after you set the lighter on your nightstand, right where it doesn't belong, but somehow fits anyway.

two. the bite // four. seagrass.

TAGLIST <3

kie's family's restaurant is buzzing with the soft chaos of early evening. plates clinking, surf wax still on your hands from the afternoon, salty hair sticking to your cheek every time the breeze crawls through the open windows. the place smells like fried shrimp and citrus, a mix that somehow always means summer.

the five of you took over a corner booth the way you always do, still half-damp from the ocean, sand stuck to your ankles. pope is half-buried in a plate of chips and crab dip, kie keeps shouting at jj to stop stealing her fries, and john b is retelling some story about nearly wiping out on a wave he swears was "a solid eight feet" even though it was definitely five.

you sit beside jj at the edge of the booth. he keeps bumping your shoulder with his stupid cheesy grin, pointing out "all the chicks" who keep walking in and out. "and yet you're the prettiest one here," he says loud enough for only you to hear, smirking when you roll your eyes and shove a fry in his mouth. it feels normal. easy. warm. then the bell over the entrance jingles.

you don't look up at first. you just feel the shift in the room, the way everything hushes. kie is the first to notice, and her eyes flick toward the entrance. "oh great," she mutters. "kook infestation."

topper walks in first. rafe follows. tan, sweaty from what you could only assume was a day at the golf course. his shirt clings to his chest, and his hair is pushed back lazily like he didn't try, but still, he looks polished.

you laugh under your breath then stop, because you can feel when topper spots your group. he nudges rafe whose eyes lift, sharp and bored, and scan the restaurant lazily until they land on you. it's quick, barely a second. but something in his expression flashes, then smooths back into nothing. jj catches the glance, too. he straightens, shoulders tensing, jaw clenching the way it does when he's about to get himself into trouble.

"the fuck's he lookin' at?" jj says it a little too loud despite meaning to be quiet.

"jj," kie warns softly.

you'd think they'd have no desire for trouble, but you'd be lying to yourself if you didn't acknowledge the truth of the matter, which was that they love trouble. rafe and topper don't sit at a table across the restaurant like normal people. no, rafe and topper veer toward the bar, the one directly beside your booth across the walkway, close enough that you can hear the ice in their drinks hit the glasses. he strides over under the guise of going to do something else, but he stops at your booth. hand in his pocket, his head tilted with a smug smile that begs for someone to wipe it off.

"little pogue reunion, huh?" he drawls. "cute." jj rolls his eyes hard enough to sprain something. "yo, walk away, dude." topper laughs from the bar, and rafe doesn't move. he stays where he is, one hand braced on the top of the booth, the other wrapped around a sweating beer bottle. his eyes skim past jj, barely giving him the satisfaction of attention, and land on you again. and this time, they don't move.

"you missed a spot."

you blink. "what?"

his gaze drops to your thigh, a smear of dried surf wax from earlier. your stomach tightens. topper says something from the bar, but rafe ignores him. he leans in, one hand still steady on your booth, lowering himself into your space like he owns the air around you.

"you missed a spot." rafe repeats himself like it's simple, pointing lazily at the spot.

your jaw tenses. "you always this observant, or just bored?"

"depends," he says, taking a slow drink. "you always this mouthy, or just trying to impress your little audience here?"

jj sits up straighter. "bro—"

"jj," you warn sharply. rafe smirks.

kie leans forward, glaring. "don't you have a yacht to polish or something?"

"nah, i don't do polishing," rafe says smoothly, eyes flicking back down to you. "but i know someone who does."

your face heats. you open your mouth to snap something back, because no way in hell you're letting rafe get the last word, but he interrupts, eyes narrowing slightly. "isn't that right?" your body goes warm. something else too, but you shove that down. and then you say it.

"careful, cameron. i could always tell ward about your little rendezvous with barry."

jj chokes on his soda. pope's eyebrows shoot up. kie's fork freezes. john b grips his jaw. and rafe goes completely still. his smirk disappears. his eyes lock onto yours, still hovering over your space, too close, but at this moment, he leans down just a little further like it's a conversation for just the two of you. you watch the way his nose twitches like he's holding back something bitter.

"don't say my name like that unless you want a reaction." he says it low and quiet like it's meant for your ears only. your breath stutters. you recover. you straighten, lifting your chin. your brows pinch, eyes narrow, voice steady and sharp, but a little too quiet. "is that supposed to scare me?"

"does it?" you hold his stare. fingers tightening around your glass. his jaw flexes once before he straightens, giving you a casual shrug and a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. a dangerous one that clearly says he's won.

"don't start something you can't finish." he turns and sits back down at the bar. jj is the first to speak, fingers scratching at the side of his head like he's trying to make sense of what's happening. "okay, i'm sorry, what the actual fuck was that?"

kie's eyes search your face, eyebrows furrowed. "did he just threaten you?"

"no," you say it too fast, and you shrug, trying to play off the shaking in your hands by pulling a fry from pope's plate. they all watch you like they're close to believing you, but not fully convinced, and then you look up, eyes scanning over all of them like you're setting down the final word. "guys, seriously."

they settle back into it. or they try to. it sounds reasonable. it feels like a lie. everyone tries to settle back into normalcy, but it doesn't quite fit anymore. jj keeps sneaking glances at you like he's waiting for you to crack. pope and john b look uncomfortable. kie studies you with her head tilted, like she's asking questions she doesn't want to voice.

and rafe, from the bar, doesn't stop watching you. jaw tense. drink untouched. knee bouncing.

when you all finally leave the restaurant, jj throws his arm around your shoulders, shouting something obnoxious about milkshakes. pope groans and follows. kie lingers on the other side of you, eyes narrowed.

"that was weird," she murmurs.

"he's just an ass."

"yeah," she agrees. "i don't know, he just looked weird."

you pretend you don't know what she means. the night air is cooler outside. the sky is purple at the edges. you walk toward the parking lot, jostled between your friends, letting the noise of their voices drown out whatever emotion is still lodged in your chest. you don't look back. but rafe does. he watches through the restaurant window as you laugh at something jj says, your head falling back, light catching your face. and for a moment, he forgets to breathe. then his hand closes slowly around his glass, knuckles whitening. you scared him, and he liked it. and he hates that he liked it. he doesn't take his eyes off you until you're gone.

one. tannyhill. // three. low tide.

TAGLIST <3

the sun at tannyhill always hits different. hotter, sharper, like even the light knows it belongs to the camerons. it glints off the white hulls of their boats, burns on polished chrome, and sinks into the cedar deck. you've been scrubbing those boats, cleaning them, maintaining them all summer.

the job had landed in your lap because your dad "knew people," which was the polite way of saying ward cameron owed him a favor from another lifetime. a debt wrapped in silence, something old and private that your dad never talked about. he quit working for ward years ago, opened his own shop, built something small and honest. but when you needed a summer job to help with tuition, ward had offered this one with a shrug that meant nothing and a stare that meant everything.

"we'll call it even," he'd told your dad.

you didn't know what that was supposed to mean and you didn't bother asking.

so some mornings, you're here. hair tied up in a knot that never seems to stay in place, old tee sticking to your skin from the humidity and sweat, hands stained faintly with wax and grime. your routine is simple: scrub, rinse, restock, repeat. the only interruption comes from cicadas whining in the trees and the occasional engine humming on the water. and rafe cameron, of course.

you heard about him long before you met him. everyone had. the stories drifted through kildare like smoke: coke lines on bathroom counters, fights at kook parties, a temper that snapped quick and ugly. every once in a blue moon, you'd see him over at barry's, who you'd also visit whenever you wanted to grab some weed for pogue adventures with your friends. you believed maybe half of what you'd heard, but it didn't matter. the version you met your first week here was enough to tell you to stay away. he'd stepped onto the dock on your first day like he owned gravity, not even bothering to look at you. "wipe it down again."

you'd stared at him for a few moments like his tone alone had stunned you. he'd raised a brow like he was daring you to protest, and that was the beginning. now, four weeks later, he's almost always around, and you can practically feel him coming before you see him. you're on your hands and knees on the druthers deck, ward's pride and joy, scraping hardened salt from the chrome fixtures when you hear the rhythm of his bare footsteps on the dock. smooth, arrogant, never rushing, like everything comes to him eventually. that's the way his world works.

"you're gonna scratch the finish doing it like that," he says instead of hello. you blink once, slow, stopping your task like his presence alone was an interruption, tone flat and unamused. "good morning to you too, rafe."

rafe is standing just before the boat's entrance, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, arms crossed over a perfectly fitted shirt he didn't earn. "been here for what, like a month?" he says, stepping up on deck with far more confidence than someone who contributes nothing to boat maintenance should. his eyes drag over you, then over the boat like he's assessing your work. he squats down right beside you for a brief moment, his knee brushing yours.

he always does that. moves closer without asking, without warning, stepping into your personal space like it's his favorite shortcut.

he points lazily at a particular area before looking back at you, and you glance at the single streak of drying polish he's gesturing at—a streak you had already finished cleaning and polishing. you meet his gaze slowly, eyes narrowing like he's stupid, because he kind of is.

"rafe, i literally just cleaned that panel. the streak isn't even dry yet."

"then dry it," he shoots back without missing a beat, jaw ticking, smirk ghosting the corner of his mouth. you want to hit him, shove him into the water, but you don't. "you could say please."

"i could," he shrugs in agreement. "but i won't." he walks past you, again, brushing just a hair too close. you focus on the work, you always do. but today, he lingers. he settles down onto a section of the couch near the spot you're working in, kicks his feet up, and opens his laptop like he's got business to take care of.

you feel a vibration in your jean shorts and remove your phone from your back pocket to check the notifications. a post kie sent you about turtle facts, two messages from your dad about if you'd be back for lunch, and three from jj. you find yourself clicking on the notification to see what he'd sent. it's something mindless and stupid, and yet it earns a soft curl of your mouth, a gentle smile followed by the slightest drop in your shoulders, like it's a moment of relaxation washing over you. it's all interrupted by the sound of rafe's voice, which makes you snap your eyes over to him immediately.

"don't think ward is paying you to giggle at your phone."

"excuse me?"

he shrugs one shoulder, trying to play it off as casual when it's anything but. "you're always on it."

"it was my friend."

"i'm sure," he says, tongue pressed against his cheek in a way that tells you he's holding something back.

he knows exactly which friend. jj's laugh travels through speakerphone like wildfire; you've learned it carries. rafe had walked by earlier while you were sitting on the dock's edge with your feet dangling in the water during your break, phone pressed to your ear. you wouldn't have imagined he'd notice, because why would he? but you were wrong. he's quieter now, eyes cutting toward the rag in your hand that you've just picked up, the sun on your skin. he looks annoyed, but not at you. you've seen this version of him enough times not to flinch.

"look," you sigh, grabbing the brush from where he set it. "if you're that bothered, take it up with your dad."

rafe huffs a laugh, tipping his chin skyward. "yeah. because he listens to me."

the bitterness is quick, sharp, unguarded. unexpected. you freeze a second, glancing at him. "rafe—"

"just finish the boat."

you do. in silence mostly, except for the occasional clink of metal or the slap of waves against the hull. he sits in the same spot, legs stretched out across the couch, laptop in his lap, digging at the peeling label of a water bottle. you pretend you're not aware of him watching you, like you don't feel the weight of it on your shoulders. when ward cameron shows up with two investors, rafe straightens instantly. jaw tight, shoulders stiff. you see it happen. like someone flipped a switch and replaced him with the "correct" version of his son.

"morning," ward says to you, polite but cold. "we'll need the big boat prepped for tomorrow. noon sharp."

"yes, sir."

"and rafe," ward adds, almost as an afterthought. "try not to get in the way."

you keep your eyes down, but you hear rafe's breath leave like he took a hit straight to the ribs. ward walks off without waiting for acknowledgement, and the investors trail behind him like shadows. rafe stands there a moment, eyes locked on his screen, one hand gripping the water bottle so tight his knuckles turn white. you speak before you think. "your dad's a dick."

his head snaps up, stunned because you've never said anything like that before. maybe no one has. for a heartbeat, you think he might yell. but instead, he looks back down at the work in front of him, jaw unclenching slowly. "finish the boat," he repeats, but it's softer now with something else layered underneath. so you do, and he stays until you're done. when you finally pick up the rags and sling your bag over your shoulder, he walks with you halfway up the dock without saying why. you don't ask.

your phone vibrates again, this time with a call, and you answer. jj's voice is bright through the receiver, not too loud, but loud enough as he teases you, wondering if he'll be seeing you later. "still at tannyhill or you done being bougie for the day?" you laugh, soft and involuntary. "yeah, jayj. rafe's here. i'm wrapping up now." you mention rafe like you're trying to warn jj to choose his next words carefully, as you're sure rafe could hear every word echoing from your phone. rafe's head turns instantly, like a dog hearing a sound it doesn't like. his eyes narrow just a fraction at the sound of jj's nickname dripping casual from your tongue. you swear you see something flicker, but you ignore it.

"tell loverboy i said hi," rafe says it loud enough for jj to hear, and your eyes cut over to glare at him. you don't say anything, but the look you give him is enough to earn a smirk of satisfaction from him, another tally he marks for getting under your skin. jj says something smart in response, but you don't repeat it. you only snort in laughter.

when you hang up, the silence between you thickens. not hostile, but not friendly either. it's something in between, and it feels like it sits just beneath the surface of your skin. rafe steps closer once you reach the equipment shed, not too close, but just enough that you notice his clothes smell like fresh laundry and expensive cologne.

"that's new," he says after clearing his throat, his tone deceptively casual. the words make you blink, brows pinching like they're trying to calculate something. "what?"

he looks at you fully, eyes dragging over your face, slow, deliberate, almost annoyed with himself for looking so long.

"just never seen you without an attitude before." the corners of his lips turn downward for a moment, and he shrugs like it's an afterthought, like it's supposed to explain everything, but it doesn't. your breath catches slightly, and you square your shoulders, arms crossing over your chest. "rafe, what's your problem?"

rafe's tongue presses into his cheek, that sharp little tell he has, the one that says he's fighting the urge to say something harsher.

"no problem," he says, but it's a lie and both of you know it. his tone shifts, carrying a hint of irritation, maybe even a little bit of disgust. maybe jealousy. "just figured if you're gonna flirt and kick your feet, you could at least pretend to be working."

the word lands wrong—accusatory, close to the truth. the audacity sparks white-hot through your veins. "i'm not flirting." he leans in, a fraction, enough that the edges of your worlds almost overlap. "you sure about that?" he says matter-of-factly. your pulse jumps so hard you feel it in your fingertips. the corner of his mouth twitches. "relax," he drawls, stepping back a bit like he's saving you from something, then his shoulders drop like he's recovering himself, the smirk settling on his lips. "short fuse, aren't you?"

you swallow, suddenly unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with the heat. his smile—the way his lips curve—hits you like a current straight through your chest.

"no, you're just a pain in my ass."

"right," he says, eyes dragging over you one last time before he turns away. "funny how you keep talking to me anyway."

you put the supplies away and speed walk past him before he can see your reaction.

you hope that it'll give you control again. but it won't

⎯ MASTER CHAPTER LIST ⎯

PART I.

one. tannyhill.

two. the bite.

three. low tide.

four. seagrass.

five. are you trying to get shot?

six. quiet rituals.

seven. the window + the blood.

PART II.

eight. champagne + fairy lights.

nine. the cut + the glance.

ten. gasoline.

eleven. you're not the boss of me.

twelve. too close to hide.

thirteen. moon’s view.

fourteen. his space, his rules.

fifteen. when the water smelled like fire.

PART III.

sixteen. miss country club.

seventeen. fault lines.

eighteen. mine.

nineteen. rage.

twenty. the green bubble.

twenty-one. people are good until they’re not.

PART IV.

twenty-two. storm surge.

twenty-three. undertow.

twenty-four. capsize.

twenty-five. jj’s house.

twenty-six. the yacht + the truth.

twenty-seven. the quiet between us.

TAGLIST <3

you've always understood there are places you don't go with rafe cameron. in fact, most places are places that you don't go with him, and inside his house is one of them. you keep your lives divided on purpose. work stays work, outside where it belongs. nights stay elsewhere. his room stays his. you've never asked to go. in fact it had never crossed your mind until tonight. you've learned the shape of his rules through the spaces he leaves untouched. but, tonight, he tells you to come anyway.

you park, engine cutting off with a soft click that feels louder than it should. the house is dark from here, tannyhill looming in silhouette against the trees, too big and too awake even when it’s quiet. your nerves hum, that familiar buzz settling just under your skin as you grab your phone and tell yourself, again, that this doesn’t mean anything. you’re not breaking rules. it’s just a visit. just a night. just a choice you’re making with your eyes open.

your phone lights up before you've even shut the door.

UNKNOWN // 1:32 AM

Walk to the left. I'll meet you.

there's no greeting, no explanation, nothing but the instructions themselves. you weren't even entirely sure of how he knew you were there already, but he did.

you step out into the night and make your way onto the property, gravel crunching under your shoes, and you follow the path he's laid out without thinking about why you trust it. the air smells like warm earth, cicadas loud enough to mask the sound of your breathing. at first you don't see him anywhere in the darkness. then he's there, stepping out from the shadows and detaching from the dark like he was always part of it, like he'd been waiting there the entire time.

rafe's hand closes around your wrist immediately, firm and grounding, his thumb pressing once like he's checking you're real. it's not rough, but it's urgent, like he doesn't want to risk you hesitating. he leans in close, mouth near your ear, his voice pitched low enough that it feels like it's meant only for you.

"parked too close," he murmurs like it's a private correction, not a scolding.

you open your mouth to argue, but he's already moving, already pulling you with him. he leads you across the property with practiced ease, cutting through shadows and blind spots like this is something he's done a hundred times before. his hand never leaves you, not really. sometimes it slips from your wrist to the small of your back, sometimes it's just his fingers hooked into your sleeve, but the contact is constant.

you pass dark windows, lights glowing faintly in distant rooms, and he steers you around them without looking, body angling instinctively between you and the house. the closeness is almost unbearable. every step puts you just a little more inside his space and he's making sure you feel every second of it.

the back door is already cracked open.

you notice it just as he does, his grip tightening briefly like confirmation instead of surprise. he eases it wider with his shoulder, guiding you through before pulling it shut again with careful precision. the lock clicks softly into place.

the silence stretches between you, heavy and charged. neither of you moves right away. you can feel the heat of him still close behind you, his breath steady but deliberate, like he's forcing himself to stay calm. his hand remains at your back, warm and steady, fingers spread wide like he's anchoring you there.

you're standing in his house now. his space. somewhere you were never supposed to be, somewhere he clearly wanted to bring you anyway. and the thought settles in, he didn't just make room for you; he was waiting.

inside, the house feels even bigger. everything smells clean and polished and untouched. the floors gleam faintly under low lights, the walls stretch higher than they need to. it feels less like a home and more like a place designed to be impressive from a distance.

you're suddenly aware of yourself in it. your shoes. your breath. the fact that you don't belong here in any way that's simple or explainable.

rafe moves ahead of you without a word, already halfway across the room before he realizes you're not keeping up. he slows instantly, glancing back, something unreadable flickering across his face. he steps closer again, his hand hovering at the small of your back again as you start up the stairs. he doesn't touch, not quite, but it's there, ready, like a reflex he's keeping on a leash.

each step echos quietly beneath your feet and the sound feels intrusive. the hallway upstairs is darker and quieter, the kind of quiet that presses in on you instead of settling. rafe stops in front of one door and doesn't open it right away.

you notice it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his hand hovers over the doorknob without turning it. the hesitation is brief, but real, like he's bracing himself for something. when he finally looks at you, there's something exposed in his expression that you don't see often. not fear. something closer to being seen.

"just," he mutters, then stops, clearing his throat. his jaw works like he's chewing on the words before he lets them out. "don't be weird about it."

it comes out half defensive, half embarrassed, like the words are a shield he's not entirely sure he needs. he looks away as he says it, hand reaching for the knob with care, like he's giving himself a second to breathe. you shake your head once, your response lingering on your tongue as if you're no longer sure of what to expect. "i won't."

he opens the door and steps aside, letting you in first, then shuts it behind him. the realization lands quietly, but hard. that it's not just a room. it's the one place he doesn't let anyone be careless with, contrasting all of what you know rafe to be. you step inside slowly, like the room might change if you move too fast.

it doesn't look the way you expected. it's not sharp-edged the way his reputation makes him seem. it feels… lived in, like someone who uses the space but never really rests in it.

there are trophies along one wall, lined up on a shelf that looks more obligatory than proud. they aren't polished. some are tilted, others pushed too far back like they were set down and forgotten. they feel heavy somehow. less celebratory and more like reminders that never seemed to stop asking something of him.

a couple medals hang off a hook near the dresser, tangled together, not displayed so much as stored like proof he doesn't want to look at unless he has to. personal things are there, but hidden: a watch tucked into a drawer left slightly open, folded papers shoved beneath a stack of shirts. sentiment disguised as clutter. things that matter carefully misfiled so no one can accuse him of caring.

the bed is unmade. sheets twisted, comforter half on the floor. it looks like sleep happens only when there's no other choice.

you don't realize you've stopped moving until he speaks.

"you're really lookin' at everything," rafe says from behind you, and there's something uncomfortable in his voice. not quite defensive, but close. like he's aware of being studied and doesn't know what to do with it.

you glance back at him. he's leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed, but his posture is tighter than usual. less casual. his eyes move away from yours almost immediately, landing somewhere over your shoulder instead.

"it's just a room," he adds, quieter. like he's trying to convince himself as much as you. like the space suddenly feels smaller with you in it, cataloging every detail. "nothing special."

but there's something in the way he says it, a crack in the deflection. he knows you're seeing things he doesn't usually let people see. and it's making him uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with exposure.

"i know," you say gently. "just… didn't expect it to feel like this."

he scoffs, but it's quieter than usual. "like what."

you hesitate. choose your words carefully. "i don't know. it just feels like… a far away version of you."

his jaw tightens. barely. but you see it.

you turn back to the room, eyes catching on a small picture frame half-hidden on a shelf. it's old. the edges worn. a younger rafe, all limbs and crooked grin, standing beside his sister, both of them sunburned and happy in a way that looks unguarded.

your fingers brush the edge of the frame before you think better of it.

his voice cuts in, low and controlled. "don't-"

it isn't sharp or angry, just controlled in a way that almost hurts to hold back..

you freeze, then pull your hand back immediately. "sorry. i didn't mean to."

"i know," he says, too quickly. then he exhales and pushes off the doorframe, running a hand through his hair like he's trying to reset. his eyes flick away from you, landing somewhere on the wall. "those things just don't mean what people think they do."

you glance at him. "what do they mean, then?"

he doesn't answer right away. his eyes flick back to the trophies, the photo, the bed. everything. like the room itself is answering for him.

"nothing. they're just things." he says finally, voice rough around the edges. "that's it."

he almost looks like he doesn't mean it, and you don't believe him. not really, but he doesn't take it back. if they meant nothing, if they were just things, they wouldn't be there. "they mean nothing?"

he looks at you for a moment like he's debating on whether or not to accept your quiet challenge, lips quirking before glancing elsewhere. "no, they do," he corrects himself exhaling sharply like the gears you're forcing him to turn are exhausting. but he's being honest, and something about that makes your shoulders relax just a little. "but, sometimes i don't remember. keeping them makes me feel less guilty for it or whatever the fuck."

you meet his eyes, a small twitch flicking at your lips. you don't show a smile, but you'll acknowledge that you relate to rafe on a real level, despite how different your lives are, how different you are. and something about that feels comforting, even if you don't admit it to him. "yeah, i understand that."

something shifts. not tension easing, but something quieter. like permission. he doesn't tell you to stop looking anymore after that. he reaches into a drawer without looking and tosses something at you. you catch it against your chest automatically. one of his shirts. soft, worn thin, oversized enough that the hem brushes your thighs.

"no outside clothes on the bed," he says it like it's a rule that's always existed. you roll your eyes and cross your arms, and his mouth quirks when he sees your expression. "seriously? and what about all the times you climbed into my bed with yours on?"

"yeah, so what?" he says easily. "shit's different here. take 'em off."

you hesitate for half a second, then lift the shirt. "turn around, then."

"s’nothing i haven’t seen before," he starts, voice edging toward teasing.

"rafe." you cut him off cleanly and he holds your gaze for a beat, then turns away with exaggerated patience, shoulders broad beneath the dim light. he doesn't go far, just enough to pretend.

you change quickly, peeling off your clothes and pulling his shirt over your head. it smells like him, laundry soap and something warmer underneath. when you're done, you clear your throat softly and say, "okay. you can turn back now."

he turns back and his eyes drag over you without trying to hide it this time. the way the fabric hangs off one shoulder. the way it makes you look smaller in his space like you belong there more than you should. he looks away first, jaw working like he's biting back whatever thought just crossed his mind. he doesn't say anything, but the way his gaze flickers back to you for just a second says enough.

rafe strips off his own shirt and swaps his shorts for a pair of sweats, worn and low on his hips, movements easy. when he pulls on an old t-shirt, the room settles into something domestic..

you watch him grab a bottle from the dresser, dark, already half gone. he twists the cap off and takes a pull, throat working as he swallows. then he glances at you, quieter now. "you want some?"

"i'll mooch," you climb onto the bed before he says anything else and the mattress dips under your weight, sheets cool against your legs. you sit back against the pillows, suddenly aware of how exposed you are. how much space you're taking up. the vulnerability of it hits all at once. being here, in his space, wearing his clothes.

he joins you in bed and shifts closer without making a thing of it, putting a movie on his laptop somewhere in the process. the bottle passes between you, he takes a pull, then hands it over. you drink, the burn sharp and immediate, and hand it back. the rhythm settles into something easy. his arm finds its way behind you, not quite around you, just there. the bottle keeps moving between your hands and his fingers brush yours when you take it. neither of you acknowledges it.

the heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt. the room feels smaller with both of you in it, the air thicker. you can feel the alcohol starting to blur the edges of things. your thoughts, the space between you, the rules you're supposed to be keeping.

the laptop glow casts soft shadows across the walls, the movie hums quietly, voices overlapping with the distant sounds of the house settling around you.

"this movie's kinda embarrassing," he says after a minute, eyes still on the screen. his tone is casual, but there's tension under it, like he's bracing for something.

"i like embarrassing movies." you shrug with a smile. his knee shifts, brushing yours accidentally. except it doesn't move away afterward. the contact is light, but it's there. unmistakable.

"ward hated this one," he continues like the thought won't let him go. this time, he sounds more serious. "said it was pointless. all feelings, no payoff. told me it was a waste of time to sit around watchin' people figure themselves out."

you wait. you've learned not to rush him when he talks like this.

"used to tell me if i wanted somethin', i should just take it," he adds. "that movies like this make people soft. make 'em hesitate."

his jaw tightens. you can see it in the way his mouth presses flat for a second, like he's fighting the instinct to shut down.

"but you liked it anyway,"

he shrugs, but it's not dismissive. "yeah. guess i did." a beat. "liked that it didn't rush. that nobody won right away."

your shoulder drifts closer before you realize you're moving. not on purpose. just following something familiar. when you settle against him, the fabric of his shirt brushes your cheek, warm and faintly smelling like laundry soap.

he goes completely still and you feel it. the way his breath changes, shallow for a second before he forces it steady. his arm tenses beneath you, muscles tight like he's deciding something in real time.

"you okay?" you murmur, barely loud enough to compete with the movie.

he swallows. "yeah."

he doesn't move you away. slowly, carefully, like he's afraid of spooking the moment, his arm comes up behind you, a line of heat at your back. his hand rests against the mattress near your hip, close enough that you're aware of it constantly.

your body responds anyway, relaxing into the contact, breathing syncing with his without you trying. the closeness feels dangerous in its own quiet way. like something old slipping back into place.

neither of you looks at the screen anymore.

you can feel his attention on you even when he pretends it isn't. the way his gaze drops to where your legs are folded beneath you. the way it lingers at your shoulder, your hair, the collar of his shirt hanging loose against your skin.

he catches himself once. pulls his eyes away too quickly, jaw flexing like he's annoyed with himself. you don't say anything.

minutes pass. maybe longer. time feels weird here, stretched thin. the movie plays on, forgotten. your head shifts slightly, resting more fully against his chest now. you hear his heartbeat. steady, a little too fast.

his arm tightens just a fraction. it's almost hesitant, like he's afraid if he holds you too firmly, the moment will collapse under the weight of it.

"you get comfortable fast," he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing.

you hum. "well, you did invite me."

"did i?" he says, but there's no bite in it.

you tilt your head just enough to look up at him. "you could've told me to leave."

he meets your eyes then, really meets them. something unguarded flickers there, but is gone almost as soon as it appears.

"yeah," he says quietly. "i could've."

he shifts closer, just enough that your sides are pressed together now. his hand stays where it is, still restrained, still careful. but the choice has already been made. the first one of the night.

you wait longer than you should before speaking. the movie keeps playing, your head is still against his shoulder, his arm still behind you, close enough to feel like something and restrained enough to ache.

"can i ask you something?" you say finally.

"you already are."

you shift, careful, like you're handling glass. "it's just..." you stop. start again. "what's going on with you and sofia?"

the change in him is immediate. his arm pulls back completely this time, body going rigid. when he speaks, his voice is flat and controlled in a way that's worse than anger.

"that's what you wanna talk about?"

you sit up, creating space. "i just..."

"what, you jealous?" he cuts in, sharper now.

your stomach twists. "no." it comes out too fast.

"bullshit."

you swallow. "it's not. i just don't know where i fit."

he laughs, humorless and cold. "funny. you're real concerned about where i fit when you've got jj in your room."

"what?"

"don't play dumb," he says, jaw working. "i called you after."

the timing clicks. the insistence in his voice that night.

"you were watching," you say slowly.

he doesn't deny it. doesn't even blink.

"are you serious?" your voice rises. "everyone was there, rafe. kie, pope, jj, john b— we were watching a fucking movie. i didn't do anything wrong."

"didn't say you did."

"then what the fuck are you saying?"

he stands, and you do too, instinct putting you on your feet. the space between you feels dangerous now.

"i'm sayin’ i don't want him near you," rafe says, voice low and tight.

"that's not fair," you shoot back. "he's my friend. they're all my friends. i can't just..."

"you think i give a fuck about fair?" he cuts in, stepping closer.

"obviously not," you snap, anger flaring hot now. "sofia gets to be on your arm at every party, every event, everywhere that matters. but i'm supposed to what, cut off my friends just because you're jealous?"

something flashes in his eyes. "careful."

"no," you say, pushing. "you don't get to do this. you don't get to act like i'm the one breaking rules when you parade her around like..."

"like what?" he interrupts, voice dropping dangerously low. "like she means something? she doesn't. she's nothing."

"then why keep her around?"

"because my dad needs the optics," he snaps. "because it keeps shit clean. because she's useful and that's it."

"and me?" the question comes out smaller than you meant it to.

"you're not nothing."

"then what am i?"

he doesn't answer. his jaw flexes, hands curling into fists at his sides.

"that's what i thought," you say quietly.

"don't do that," he warns.

"don't what? ask questions you can't answer? want something you can’t give me?"

"you want something?" he says, voice rough. "then say it. stop hiding behind this shit."

"i'm not hiding..."

"you are," he cuts in, stepping closer. "you're standing here asking about sofia like you don't know exactly what this is. like you haven't already decided."

your pulse hammers. "decided what?"

"that you want something from me," he says, flat and certain. "that you don't wanna share. that you're fuckin' jealous and lyin’ about it."

heat floods your face. "you're the one who brought up jj..."

"because you asked about sofia first," he fires back. "because you're standin’ in my room wearing my clothes asking where you fit like you don't already fuckin’ know."

"i don't know," you say, voice shaking now. "that's the problem. i don't know what this is, i don't know what you want..."

"i want you to stop lying," he says, voice cutting. "to me. to yourself."

the words hit like a slap. your hands shake. you take a step back. "i can't do this."

"what?"

"this," you say, gesturing between you. "whatever this is? i can't."

you turn toward your stuff to gather it, but his hand catches your wrist before you take two steps.

"don't," he says, voice low and dangerous.

"stop it."

"no." his grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to stop you. "you're not leaving."

"rafe..."

he pulls you back, not rough but firm and, guiding you toward the bed. you stumble slightly and he steadies you, hand still locked around your wrist as he moves you backward until your knees hit the mattress.

"sit," he says.

"honestly, i don't wanna talk about this anymore,"

"i don't give a fuck," he cuts in. "sit down."

you sink onto the edge of the bed, heart hammering. he follows immediately, looming close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

"this is too much," you say, voice breaking. "i need to—"

"need to what?" he interrupts, leaning in closer. "go back to pretending? go back to lying to yourself about what this is?"

"i'm not lying."

"you are," he says, flat and certain. "you came here. you asked about sofia because you're jealous and you can't stand it."

"stop..."

"no," he says, voice dropping lower, meaner. "you wanted honesty. you're breakin’ your own rules and you can't even admit it."

you shift back on the bed, trying to put distance between you, but he follows. his hand releases your wrist only to plant on the mattress beside your hip, caging you in.

"move," you say.

rafe doesn't move and he doesn't look away.

"tell me you don't care then," he says, eyes locked on yours. "tell me sofia doesn't bother you. tell me you're not sitting here feelin’ exactly what i'm feelin’."

you can't. the words won't come.

"that's what i thought," he says quietly.

"you don't get to do this. you don't get to trap me here and..."

"trap you?" he interrupts, voice sharp. "you came to my house in the middle of the night. you climbed into my bed. you're wearing my shit right now. don't act like i forced you."

the truth of it lands heavy. you hear footsteps on the stairs, breath catching. rafe's eyes flick toward the door for half a second, then back to you.

"you asked me to come. and let's be honest," you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. "you didn't text me at 1 AM because you wanted to fuck. you texted me because you didn't wanna be alone anymore,"

his reaction is immediate. "don't- say shit like that," he says, jaw tight. "like you understand. like you see me. don't fucking do that."

but you do see him. and he knows it.

"i just... i don't wanna share," you admit quietly, the words breaking something open inside you. "i don't want to feel like an afterthought." his hand is still planted beside your hip. you can feel the heat of him, the tension coiled in every line of his body.

"you're not," he says.

"then what am i?"

he doesn't answer. just looks at you like the question itself is the problem. neither of you moves. downstairs, ward's voice carries faintly through the house.

"jealous." he answers, quieter this time.

"yeah. i am."

his mouth curves, sharp and dangerous. "good."

"good?"

"means you're finally bein’ honest," he says, shifting closer on the bed, close enough that you're forced to lean back slightly, elbows sinking into the mattress. "means you're breaking your own rules. means you feel it too."

"feel what?"

"that this isn't casual anymore," he says, voice low. "that it hasn't been for a while."

your breath catches.

"you tried to leave," he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "but you're still here. still sittin’ in my bed. still wearing my clothes. still lookin’ at me like that."

"like what?"

"like you already decided," he says. "like you're staying."

you don't answer because you can't. his hand comes up to your neck, fingers settling against your throat. not squeezing, just there like a warning. his thumb traces your jawline while his other fingers rest against the side of your neck, feeling your pulse hammer beneath his touch. not gentle. testing.

the rule doesn't break. but it bends quietly, unmistakably, under the weight of the way he's looking at you now, like you're already written into him whether he likes it or not. the admission is still hanging between you like smoke. you reach for him before you can talk yourself out of it.

your hand comes up to his jaw, fingers settling there. his eyes flick to you instantly. sharp, dark, already decided. you lean up and kiss him, and the response immediate.

his grip on your neck tightens and he pulls you closer with a roughness that steals your breath. his mouth crashes against yours with no hesitation, no gentleness, just hunger and control. his lips move with bruising pressure, claiming rather than asking, and when you gasp he uses it, tongue sliding against yours.

his free hand grips your hip, pushing you back further on the bed. you're forced to follow the pressure of his grip, your body angling how he wants it. he guides you down until you're lying back against the mattress, his hand never leaving your throat. his fingers flex against your neck, a reminder as he settles over you, his body caging yours.

"you admitted it," he mutters against your mouth, voice rough and taunting.

"you don't wanna share," he continues, pulling back just enough to look at you, keeping your head tilted toward him, eyes dark and resolute. something has shifted in him. something that decided the second you confessed. "so don't."

he kisses you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and the taste of your own surrender. his mouth drags down your neck, biting hard enough to bruise, sucking marks into your skin that you won't be able to hide tomorrow. a sound escapes you, too loud, and his grip on your neck firms..

"quiet," he breathes against your ear, voice low and dangerous. his hand stays firm around your neck as his other hand slides beneath your shirt, shoving it up roughly. "you tried to leave," he murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe. "tried to walk out."

you nod against the pressure of his grip, heart hammering.

"but look at you," he continues, fingers hooking into your lace underwear and dragging it down your thighs. "in my bed. wearing my clothes. letting me touch you."

his hand finds your jaw forcing you to look at him. "you gonna stay quiet?"

you nod again, throat tight.

"good." he releases you and settles between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips as he positions you exactly where he wants you. "because if you don't, if they hear you, they're gonna know exactly what you are."

"rafe," you start, but he cuts you off.

"lie back," he says, and it's not a request.

somewhere in the distance, his father's voice carries faintly through the house.

rafe's mouth curves. "better be quiet."

"said you didn't wanna share," he murmurs, eyes locked on you as his hands grip your thighs, spreading you open. "now you're gonna understand why."

his mouth descends without warning. the first touch of his tongue makes you jolt, but his hands tighten on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you. there's no gentleness in it. just consumption. he licks a slow stripe through your folds, tongue flat, savoring you before circling your clit with focused pressure.

"oh fuck-" you gasp, hands shooting down to tangle in his hair.

"what'd i say?" he mutters against you, the vibration making you whimper into his palm. "you want 'em to hear? want my dad to come up here and find you like this?"

you shake your head frantically, eyes squeezed shut.

"then shut up and take it," he says, removing his hand only to grip your hip hard enough to bruise.

his tongue works you with ruthless precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit. when he sucks it into his mouth, you have to bite down on your own lip to keep from crying out. the wet sounds of his mouth on you seem impossibly loud in the quiet room.

rafe doesn't stop. two fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that makes your vision blur, stretching you open. the intrusion is sudden and intense and you soon have to press both hands over your mouth to muffle the sound that tears from your throat.

"that's it," he breathes, voice rough with satisfaction. "y'feel that?"

your hips buck against his mouth but his grip tightens, keeping you pinned, keeping you open. he works you with single-minded focus, tongue lapping like a man starved and fingers moving in tandem, dragging you higher with every stroke. when you try to close your legs he forces them wider, arms hooking beneath your thighs to pull you closer to his mouth.

you hear footsteps on the stairs and your eyes fly open, terror flooding through you.

rafe lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, fingers still working inside you. "don't move," he whispers. "don't make a sound."

you're shaking, heart thundering so hard you're sure he can feel it.

"you scared?" he asks quietly, adding a third finger, stretching you wider. the pressure makes you gasp into your palm, giving a nod of admission. "good." he lowers his mouth again, tongue flicking against your clit with brutal efficiency. the combination of his fingers curling inside you and his tongue working you is too much, the pressure building too fast, too intense. panic flares in your chest, not just from the fear of being caught but from how close you are, how he's taking you apart completely.

"wait," you gasp against your hand, trying to pull back, free hand pushing at his shoulders. he doesn't stop. his fingers curl harder, tongue moving faster. "i can't." your voice breaks into a whisper. "i need to. we need to stop."

"no, we don't,"

"rafe." you try again, but he cuts you off before you can finish the thought.

"you tried to leave," he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you, mouth glistening with your slick. "walked right to that door like you were done with this. with me. remember?"

"i didn't mean—" you start, but his free hand comes up to grip your hip, holding you down when you try to shift away.

"yeah, you did," he interrupts, voice hard. "got scared of yourself and tried to run." his fingers don't stop working inside you, thumb pressing against your clit now, and the pressure makes it impossible to think clearly. "now i have to show you," he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "look at what you're letting me do."

you shake your head, throat tight. "i can't."

"you can." his voice drops lower, meaner. "so fucking desperate for this, you don't even care anymore, do you?" heat floods your face, shame and arousal twisting together until you can't tell them apart. rafe's eyes don't leave yours as he adds pressure, stretching you wider. "say it," he repeats. "you need it, don't you."

"you're," you try to find the words, try to hold onto something. "you're being—"

"mean?" he finishes, mouth curving into something sharp. "i'm honest, unlike you." his fingers curl hard and your back arches involuntarily. you have to bite down on your knuckles to keep from crying out. the pressure is too much, coiling too tight. working you with brutal efficiency. "can't even stop now, can you. you’re just as fucked as i am."

"oh god," you gasp finally, the words torn from you, muffled against your hand. "fuck—"

the orgasm hits like a breaking wave, violent and inescapable. your body clenches hard around his fingers as you come, the sound ripping from your throat muffled by your hand pressed tight over your mouth. he doesn't stop. he draws it out, tongue working you through every aftershock, fingers still moving inside you until you're shaking and oversensitive and trying to pull away, until the last tremor fades, until you're boneless and gasping for air.

only then does he ease back, dragging his tongue slowly through your folds one last time, collecting everything with a low satisfied groan that makes your stomach clench. he crawls back up your body, grip strong on your jaw as he forces your mouth to his. he makes you taste yourself on his tongue, makes you feel what wanting him tastes like. when he pulls back his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, mouth wet and swollen.

"knew you weren't goin' anywhere," he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb tracing your bottom lip. he presses inside briefly before he kisses you again, harder, meaner, making sure you understand exactly what you've done. "tried to tell me this went too far. but you didn't mean it. just got scared of how much you want it." he says quietly, almost conversational.

you can't answer. can't deny it. "thought so."

————

when you wake up, it doesn't feel wrong at first. it's almost hard to bring yourself back to full awareness after the sleep you'd just had. the first thing you register is light. the thin, pale morning sun slipping through the edge of the curtains, striping the wall, the floor, the side of the bed. the second thing is weight. your limbs feel heavy, loose in a way that makes it hard to tell where you end and the mattress begins. there's a dull ache behind your eyes, not painful yet, just there. waiting.

you blink and turn your head. rafe's room.

the realization lands soft at first, then all at once. the bed beneath you isn't yours. the sheets smell like him. your clothes are all wrong too, his shirt is twisted around your waist, collar loose against your collarbone.

you sit up too fast. the room tilts and your stomach drops. a phone is on the nightstand. not yours. his. yours is face down beside it. you grab it, thumb clumsy as you unlock the screen, and the time hits you like a slap.

"shit," you breathe, already scrambling, legs tangling in the sheets as panic surges up your throat. your heart starts racing before your feet even hit the floor. "fuck, i'm gonna be late."

"relax."

his voice cuts in easy, unbothered. rafe is already up and dressed, calm in a way that feels almost insulting. jeans, clean shirt, hair still damp like he showered while you slept. he's leaning back against the dresser, arms crossed loosely, watching you pace like it's interesting, almost fond.

"you're fine," he says, like it's obvious. "you've got time."

"no, i don't," you snap, dragging a hand through your hair, already spiraling. "what the fuck, rafe! you didn't wake me up? i can't go to work like this.”

"hey." his tone sharpens just enough to get your attention and you stop pacing without meaning to. "you're fine."

he pushes off the dresser and crosses the room in a few long steps, holding out a hoodie worn soft, heavier than it looks.

"put it on," he says. "you're good."

you take it, hands shaking just a little as you tug it over your head, then put on the pants you’d worn the night before, nerves buzzing. "this is your fault," you mutter. "you let me sleep."

he huffs a quiet laugh. "you passed out. what was i supposed to do?"

you glare at him, tugging the sleeves down. "you could've woken me up? jackass."

"nah," he says easily. "you needed it."

you scoff, grabbing your bag and shaking your head. "i hate you."

"no, you don't," he replies, moving toward the door. "you take the back stairs. stay left of the hedges and don't go near the pool." you follow him, heart still racing, nerves buzzing again as reality creeps back in. right before the patio door, you hesitate, and he glances back at you with that infuriating calm. "you're not coming?" you ask quietly, like part of you already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway.

he lets out a low laugh under his breath and shakes his head, like the idea is almost funny. "you serious?" you swallow, trying to find the words. "i just..." but he cuts you off, not unkindly but with the weight of certainty behind it. "imagine how that looks," he says. "you and me walkin' out together? at this hour?" he opens the door for you, stepping back, and his voice drops into something steady and certain. "you'll be fine."

you nod, even though your stomach twists. you slip outside, the morning air cool against your skin, the world already awake and moving without you. you don't look back right away, but you can feel him watching you as you go, standing in the doorway with his eyes locked on your back until you disappear around the corner. the house looms behind you, pale in the early light, windows still dark except for one on the second floor. you keep your head down, hoodie pulled tight around your ribs, shoes soft against the grass. every step feels exposed, like the morning itself is watching.

"hey."

the word stops you cold. sofia stands directly in your path, positioned between you and the exit like she planned it. coffee mug in hand, posture relaxed but deliberate. she's blocking you without making it obvious, forcing you to either stop or walk around her. you stop. she looks perfect—hair smooth, makeup light, dressed like someone who belongs here. her eyes move over you with surgical precision, cataloging every detail. the hoodie. the bare legs. the sleep crease still visible on your cheek.

"didn't expect to see you this early," she says, tone pleasant but smile sharp. "long night? you look exhausted," the implication hangs in the air between you, unmistakable. your pulse kicks hard against your ribs, and you manage to say you've got work, but the words come out thin. “maybe, i guess? i’ve just been… busy. hard to catch up on sleep.” you rush through your explanation, and she listens, taking a slow sip of coffee, eyes never leaving yours. she hums like she's considering that.

your throat tightens and the silence stretches too long. her smile sharpens at the edges like she’s sensing blood in the water. "that rafe's hoodie?" the question lands like a slap. direct, pointed, no pretense of politeness anymore. heat floods your face. your fingers curl tight around your bag strap, searching for something to say, anything that sounds believable, but your mind goes blank under her scrutiny.

"hey." rafe's voice cuts through the tension, low and controlled. thank god. he appears from the side path, moving into the space with calmness. he doesn't touch you, doesn't stand too close, but his presence shifts everything. his jaw is tight. his eyes lock on sofia first, then flick to you like he’s checking, assessing, before returning to her. "my dad's looking for you," he says evenly. "needs you before he leaves."

sofia doesn't move. her gaze slides from rafe to you, then back to rafe, calculating, measuring the distance between you, the way he positioned himself, the protective edge in his voice. "he didn't mention anything to me," she says slowly, testing him. rafe's tone doesn't shift, but there's steel underneath when he replies. "well, he's mentioning it now." sofia's smile returns, colder this time. "interesting." she takes another sip of coffee, eyes still moving between you both, studying, reading the dynamic like she's solving a puzzle.

she holds his gaze for a long moment, then looks back at you, and her smile sharpens slightly something that makes your skin crawl. "you know, it'd be a shame if the wrong person started asking questions.” the threat is clear, unmistakable, no context needed. your heart hammers so hard you're sure she can hear it.

rafe's hand flexes at his side, jaw working. sofia takes a step back, finally clearing the path, but her eyes stay locked on you with predatory satisfaction. "be careful," she says, and it sounds like a warning wrapped in concern.

she turns and walks toward the house, unhurried, confident. as she passes, rafe's hand comes to rest briefly at your back, just for a second, grounding you, before he pulls it away. "go," he murmurs under his breath, voice tight. "i'll handle it." you don't look back because you don't trust yourself to. you just move, steps quickening until the house is behind you and the air feels less suffocating, replaced with soft morning breeze and the smell of sea salt.

you go straight to the dock.

you don't slow down or detour. you throw yourself into work like it's something physical you can outrun. tying lines. wiping surfaces. hauling equipment back and forth until your shoulders burn and your palms sting.

people talk to you. you answer automatically. you smile when it's expected. you laugh once at something a coworker says and immediately feel strange about it, like the sound didn't belong to you. you don't see rafe. not once.

with every passing hour, the anxiety tightens. sofia's eyes. the way rafe stepped in. the way he told you he'd handle it and then vanished. you replay the morning over and over, searching for cracks you might have missed, wondering what was said after you left.

mid-afternoon, you catch sight of them in the distance. rafe and sofia stand near the far end of the dock. too far away to hear anything. rafe's posture is rigid, jaw tight, one hand flexing at his side like he's holding something back. he looks pissed. sofia faces him, head tilted, arms crossed like she's probing.

you can't hear a word which somehow makes it a million times worse. you turn back to your work, but your hands feel clumsy now. your focus keeps slipping, dragged back to the image of them until you force yourself to look away.

by the time your shift ends, you're exhausted in a way that isn't just physical, but also completely and utterly mentally wrung out. your body sore, your head heavy with everything you didn't say.

you meet kie and the guys at the chateau later. the noise hits first when you arrive. the music, the laughter, the overlapping voices, the easy chaos. it's jarring after the long day, but then something loosens, and you finally let yourself sink into it. laughter comes easier than you expect. you crack jokes and relax into familiar rhythm.

everything feels almost normal, but there's this quiet ache you can't shake. you keep thinking about rafe. about how he didn't walk you out, the way he still showed up exactly when it mattered, the hand at your back, the calm definitive tone in his voice.

by the end of the night, as the laughter fades and the air cools, you realize the want has changed shape. it's heavier now. denser. and you don't know if it's because something shifted or because you finally stopped pretending it hadn't already.

-

☆ the quiet between us: masterlist ☆