Life's Little Adventures

Your chest tightens the moment you spot Rafe across the frat house’s main floor.

He texted you the day after you abruptly got out of his truck two weeks ago, asking if he could see you. You never replied. You should’ve just texted him back, but it’s not fair that you’re the one feeling guilty when you clearly needed space.

But you’re over it now. And you want to be around him. You’ve never felt chemistry like you do with him, and it’s a shame that he couldn’t have just kept things uncomplicated.

His frat’s probation is done. That’s why you’re seeing him at a party for the first time in a while. This frat house is the largest on Greek Row and you’ve always joked that it’s made up of the loudest guys on campus.

Rafe is in the corner of the living room, surrounded by his friends. He looks happy. You’re glad. You never let a guy get close enough to make you think that way, but there’s more to him than what you’re used to.

He admitted to you that he knows the pain that comes from a parent walking away. And it tells you even more that he still answers his mom’s calls. He’s forgiving in a way you don’t understand. He’s softer in places you’ve hardened.

You’re on a weird middle ground now. Rafe’s absence doesn't break you, but seeing him again is nice. You’ve recentered yourself, got a grip on the feelings you thought you were developing for him, and with that out of your mind, you can admit you kind of miss him.

You want to get a moment away from the noise. It’s so loud here that you know it’s a matter of time before this frat is next on the probation list.

You tell your friends you’re going to the bathroom, then navigate through the crowded hallway, knowing there’s a chance you’ll lock eyes with Rafe as you pass him.

You wish he’d glance your way. You want things to get back to how they were with him, physical with no feelings involved. Maybe it’s a silly hope, but it’s one you have regardless.

As you squeeze past people, the music suddenly stops. Without the throb of bass, the smaller sounds of the party rush in, conversations fading into confused silence, your breath loud in your ears.

Then, a guy shouts, “Clear out!”

You’re not surprised. Of course this house is getting busted by security. You’ll need to go through the back door.

Everyone starts to scramble. You let yourself be swept up in the tide, pushed deeper into the house, figuring you can just follow the crowd.

But people are moving too slowly, so you follow a group of girls rushing through an interior door. More people shuffle in behind you into the laundry room, a mix of hushed voices, and the door swings shut.

Most are laughing through their whispers, drunk and loving the adventure, while you lean against the washing machine, not in the mood for this. You cross your arms, realizing there’s at least ten bodies crammed in here, and in the small, darkened room, you see him.

Rafe’s leaning back against the door. In the dimness, he still looks content, clearly tipsy and chuckling at something a friend just said, until his gaze sweeps the room. When he meets your eyes, his face falls just a fraction.

“Come on,” a guy snips frantically. “We gotta get out.”

You’re certain he’s an overeager freshman in this house’s frat. He scrambles onto a table, straining as he cranks open the narrow window at the top of the wall. He pushes out the screen and pulls himself onto the grass.

People follow, clearly finding a thrill in all of this, but you refuse to shove yourself through the window, especially after hearing a girl tell her friend behind her to watch out for the pointy bush.

As the room empties, Rafe remains at the end of the line. Normally, he’d vault through that window without a second thought, but he lingers, the pull you still have over him keeping him here.

He watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re just standing there, arms crossed, looking bored. He hesitates, like his sneakers are stuck to the tile, torn between the exit and the girl who rejected him.

You find Rafe’s eyes as the guy in front of him scrambles up onto the table. After a second of silence between you, you lift your shoulders in a shrug.

“I’m not drunk enough to do all that,” you explain to him, and hearing your voice again, especially with that familiar laugh behind it, keeps him from moving.

He doesn’t smirk like he usually does. Instead, his gaze is heavy, the corners of his mouth tight. He looks angry at you, and it leaves a sinking feeling in your chest.

“I think that’s a closet over there,” you say, gesturing toward the door on the other side of the room, saying it casually so he doesn’t think you’ll be offended if he doesn't take the veiled invitation.

“Rafe! Come on, man!” one of his friends calls from the other side.

His eyes stay on you as you pass by him to open the closet door and he shakes his head, looking back up to his friend.

“Just go,” he says.

Cooper hesitates for a second, but then sighs and leaves, the window open, the room quiet.

The sound of heavy footsteps and muffled radio chatter filters in from the hallway. You snag Rafe’s hand, your fingers curling around his. The adrenaline of almost being caught hits you now, and you’re sure it’s because Rafe chose to stay back with you.

“Hurry,” you whisper through a breathless laugh, pulling him into the small, dark closet and clicking the door shut.

The space is tiny, barely enough for two people to stand without touching. He stands directly across from you, and the fact that he followed you speaks louder than the silence between you. If he’s mad, he’s clearly not that mad.

You pull out your phone, the screen casting a blue glow as you reach up to tug at the light bulb string. It clicks, but the closet remains covered in darkness.

“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, letting the string drop. Your phone screen goes black and you pocket it.

Rafe doesn’t speak, unsure of what to say. It feels so damn good that you decided to touch him. It was an unexpected jolt to his system when your hand curled around his.

He stands in the darkness, his heart thudding against his ribs, breathing in the scent of your shampoo that fills the cramped space.

The silence stretches and the guilt you’ve been harboring rises up. You left him, after he’d opened up to you about his mom, and then never replied to him. It wasn’t your best moment.

“Sorry I didn’t text you back,” you say, your voice soft.

The apology undoes Rafe immediately. It’s like a weight has been taken off his shoulders, and the anger evaporates.

He spent the last two weeks bitter that you ghosted him, but the truth is, he was expecting you to force a feeling that wasn't there. You don’t want him, you’ve been clear about that, and wishing that you’d like him is the same thing as wishing that he didn’t like you.

Pointless.

At this moment, he remembers that last conversation, the way you spoke about your dad. For a girl who keeps people at arm's length, opening up meant something, and he knows he fucked up by texting you. It was overbearing. Too much.

He’s always too much.

“Nah,” he responds. “I should’ve left you alone.”

The tired honesty in Rafe’s deep voice makes you want to console him, and that impulse is proof of how he’s managed to become someone you care about.

He’s accountable, and he listens to you, even when it’s a rejection he doesn't want to hear. It makes it impossible to be cold with him like you are with every other guy.

You’ve never been this drawn to a man before. You can’t afford to trust him with your heart, but pretending the spark between you doesn’t exist feels unrealistic.

“Hey,” you say, deciding to be bold, “if you want to keep this… uncomplicated, we can.”

Rafe flexes his fingers at his sides. You’re suggesting to go back to touching each other like you used to, to do what your bodies so clearly want without feelings attached.

The prospect sparks fire through him. Agreeing to this feels reckless, self‑destructive, but it’s the only way he can have you. And he’ll take that over nothing at all.

“You miss me, huh?” he rasps, pushing away his thoughts, acting like the man he thinks he ought to be.

You smirk, relieved he’s joking with you again.

“Get over yourself,” you say with a soft chuckle.

It’s an overwhelming relief when his hands cradle your face, holding you like he used to. He ducks to kiss you, and your hands drag up his arms immediately, fingers interlacing around the back of his neck to bring him closer.

You hear the door to the laundry room open. Low voices follow. It’s security, most likely. If they decide to check the closet, they’ll find you in seconds.

But you stay where you are, holding Rafe and letting him hold you, your mouths opening together. Nothing’s more important than kissing him right now.

The voices retreat, and you’re in the clear again, and when Rafe’s tongue slips into your mouth, you accept him completely, tilting your head back so he can kiss you deeper. You feel his cock twitch against you, hardening, making your stomach curl with heat.

One of Rafe’s hands trails down your back, squeezing your ass, cupping under your thigh to bring your leg up to his hip. He shifts to press you against the door and his fingers dig into the back of your knee as he presses himself up against you just so you can see what you do to him.

You sigh into his mouth and he knows you’re getting wet for him, he remembers how good you tasted, he wants you more than anything right now.

He shifts to kiss your neck, and when you lean your head back against the door, it loosens out its frame behind you, causing you to nearly stumble back. In a fit of laughter, you catch yourself before falling into the empty laundry room. The door’s clearly not as sturdy as you both thought.

Rafe laughs with you as he holds you by the hips. You don’t need the help to stand, but that doesn’t stop him from touching you.

“So… maybe not here,” you half-whisper through your giggles.

He dips his head to kiss you again, simply because he can. His mind shuffles over the possibilities, wondering the best, quickest way he can get you in a bed will be, because if he finally gets to have you, he needs to be able to see you, to take his time.

“We have a party tomorrow,” he murmurs against your lips, knowing he’ll have his bedroom to himself then. “You should come.”

“I will,” you say with a smile, now aware of the buzzing in your pocket, sure your friends are calling to ask where you are.

・・・・・

Rafe hasn’t told his friends that the bet’s off. He realizes it when you walk into his frat’s house party the next night and Mac nudges him.

“Hey,” he grins. “Whatever happened with her? You owe me money, don’t you?”

“Maybe not,” Cooper adds. “He stayed back with her last night, remember? Maybe they fucked in that laundry room.”

Mac laughs. Rafe doesn’t.

It’s been over two months since the night on that front porch, when Rafe watched you walk away down Greek Row, irritated with how perfect and unattainable you always were, and placed that bet.

His jaw tightens. He hasn’t told his friends it stopped being a joke the second he got to know you. That the idea of reducing you to some stupid dare makes him feel sick now.

He just wants the conversation to die. And it does when you walk up to him, gently squeezing his forearm.

“Do you guys ever learn your lesson?” you tease, looking up at him through widened, pretty eyes. “This party has to be the rowdiest one you’ve ever had.”

The house is packed, as if the frat is making up for the weeks they weren’t allowed to throw a party. Before Rafe answers, two of his buddies turn away to laugh. You’re sure they didn’t hear what you said, so clearly something about you simply being here is hilarious to them.

Rafe watches your brows pull together, that small crease forming between them. He hates to see that angry, uncomfortable look on you.

“What the fuck’s so funny?” you mutter to him.

“It’s not about you,” he lies. “They’re just assholes.”

You brush it off. For a long time, you assumed Rafe cared only about what his friends thought, but his passing insult makes you reconsider that he’s not just a guy who always plays along with their bullshit.

“I like when you’re honest,” you reply. “Let’s get me a drink.”

It hits him hard. Honest. You tug him deeper into the crowd, and he follows.

This whole thing between you has been a mess of half‑truths from the start. He’d approached you with the wrong intentions, with something to prove. But then you surprised him. You were nothing like he thought you were.

He watches the back of your head as you weave through the party, your hand brushing his. Does he need to tell you? Would it change anything? Would it ruin everything?

The truth feels too big to say, but too wrong to keep. He tries to stifle it, but he can’t – he has a conscience and it eats him alive.

You both stop at the keg, the noise of the party swelling around you. You’re reaching for a cup when you glance up at Rafe, at the clear blue eyes always trained on you, at the adorable way his hair falls.

“So,” you say lightly, “you survived probation.”

“Barely,” he says with a small laugh. “You girls never get in trouble, huh?”

“We’re just great at not getting caught,” you reply.

He smirks, and as your eyes flicker down to his smile, you realize now just how much your mood has lifted since you started talking to him a minute ago. With Rafe, you don’t feel like you have to perform.

“It’s good to hang out with you again,” you add, and you don’t hide the sincerity in your voice. You mean it.

Rafe’s eyes dart away. The guilt sits in his chest, another reminder of the bet. Hearing you say that would normally make him feel amazing, but it only makes it worse.

You’re confused by his tension, following his gaze behind your shoulder. You spot a couple kissing by the stairs.

“What, does he have a girlfriend, too?” you murmur. Rafe realizes you’re referring to his frat brother blatantly cheating at the beach. You think he’s irritated by the same thing now. He’ll let you believe it.

Then, you recognize him. It’s the guy from the gym, the one Rafe snapped at for staring at you, wearing the same frat insignia on his shirt. He threatened his own frat brother for you.

Rafe’s really not desperate for his friends’ approval like you thought he was.

You turn around and look up at him again. His face is tight in contemplation. He can’t hide anything in his expression.

You fill your cup at the keg, the sound of the tap rushing loud. He still looks upset.

“It’s messed up,” you say with a sigh. “That’s why I won’t give anyone the chance to do it to me.”

The words come out easily. You’re not usually this open, but Rafe makes you feel like you don’t have to keep a front up. It’s because you’ve already agreed to keep things casual, to be friends with benefits.

You feel more relaxed around him than you have with any guy in a long time. For once, you’re not trying to win anything or protect yourself.

It’s sitting on Rafe’s tongue. But he can’t say I wouldn’t do it to you. This arrangement between you has no strings, so it’s just another thing he swallows down.

“Hey,” you say, noticing the faraway look in his eyes. “You okay?”

He could tell you right now. He could get it over with. He could ruin everything. Or he could keep it buried and pretend this is simple, the way you both agreed it would be.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Just thinking.”

“You can do that?” you tease.

Rafe chuckles and nudges your shoulder, but it’s barely a touch, so light it doesn’t even move you. It’s strange, knowing how strong he is, how easily he could shove someone twice your size, yet with you, he’s gentle.

You’re relieved things are back to normal between you. Rafe wanted something real with you at some point and he seems to have pulled that back, and that’s for the best. Because whatever he thought he liked doesn’t exist. He doesn’t know you. Not the real you.

Even though you’re being more direct with him than usual, it’s still a version of you. No one gets the full thing. It makes you feel like you’re always lying, at least a little bit.

Rafe notices you drift, your thoughts pulling you somewhere he can’t follow. You’d shared an ugly truth, admitted your dad cheated on your mom and left you both, so no wonder you hate this topic. He still feels like a dick for trying to make you talk about it the other night.

He clears his throat.

“You goin’ home for the break?” he asks. It’s nearing the middle of December, which means campus is thinning out, everyone scattering for winter break.

You nod, grateful for the shift in topic. It’s like he sensed you’re about to shut down. He definitely learned that he has to steer things around for you the hard way.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t really like being at home all the time, but I love seeing my friends.”

He gets it. When a family loses someone, the gap never closes. Life keeps moving, but the empty space stays. He’s sure your home feels as cold as his.

“I don’t like either,” he says.

You offer a sardonic chuckle.

“I guess that explains all the fights?” you ask.

Rafe shrugs. Here, he still has surface-level friendships with guys who occasionally piss him off, but it’s just less intense. Either way, he has to put on a persona no matter what. He’s always had to act tough and overcompensate for how soft he really is.

“I’ve heard you even scrap with the guys from the Cut,” you add, trying to avoid sounding accusatory. Admittedly, you’ve grown curious about that part of his life, the part you’ve always witnessed but know barely anything about.

Rafe looks down at his beer. Those fights weren’t about territory or reputation or any of the excuses he used to throw around. It was about the way anger controls him. About feeling bigger, when his whole life, he’s felt small. Pogues were always easy targets.

“I’m not proud of it,” he admits. “I’m trying to be better.”

His words make you realize you’re not exactly proud of yourself, either. You’ve spent years dragging guys along, dropping them the second they wanted something real. Playing with their feelings. Putting yourself first.

Rafe wants to be better. You’ve never really done that. It makes you wonder if you’d ever want to be any different, if there’s a guy out there worth that.

You love your friends, but a deeper kind of connection, something romantic, demands an open heart. It’s not safe. But maybe you could give it a try.

You shake the thought away, nearly cringing, refusing to think about it any longer. You’re with Rafe for fun. That’s it.

“Well, you didn’t start a fight at the gym the other day, so that’s progress,” you respond, shifting the mood again. “I can admit you were a good personal trainer, by the way. A little handsy, though.”

He laughs, thinking back to how he’d stood behind you, palms cupping your elbows as he led you through a free weight set, touching you as much as he possibly could.

“I’m handsy?” he replies. “You’re always touchin’ me.”

“Oh, you want me to stop?” you challenge.

He tilts his head, eyes dragging down your face, his bottom lip trapped behind white teeth. The charge between you is still burning hot, and with the way he’s looking at you, you can tell he’s just as hungry for you as you are for him.

You like this part. Lust. It’s easy.

You nod, a quiet way to tell him you want to go upstairs. He puts his drink down, you do the same, and you slip away together.

・・・・・

As soon as his bedroom door shuts behind you, Rafe pushes you up against it, lips locked on yours like he couldn’t wait another second to kiss you.

Every inch of your body loosens as he holds you, breathing him in, the mix of cologne and detergent and musk that makes him him, the taste of beer and heat on his tongue. Your fingers lace into his soft hair, tugging gently as your core heats.

His hands cradle your jaw as he pulls you closer to him, guiding you to his bed, settling onto his back so you can hover over him. He shifts to grip your hips, tugging down so you’ll put on your weight on him as you continue to taste each other, kissing in a perfect, unique rhythm that only the two of you have.

Rafe is completely here physically, but mentally, he’s halfway out. I like when you’re honest. Your words from just minutes ago won’t leave his mind, rattling around, stabbing at his conscience.

“You have something?” you breathe against his lips, figuring if he doesn’t have a condom, you can surely find one somewhere in this house.

Rafe nods, but, fuck, the heat in his muscles is fading, shame flooding into every crevice of his being. It’s embarrassing that he can’t even stay hard.

The guilt from lying to you, that he’s been lying to you since the beginning, claws into his heart so sharply that he knows he can’t do this.

Even though it’s purely physical for you, it’s not for him, and because he wants so much more with you, because this all started with a lie, he can’t go through with it. He can’t live with himself, tricking you.

Your brows furrow in confusion when you realize Rafe is slowly pushing you away. Your lips part in a quiet smack as you sit up, studying his face for an answer.

“I need to - I need to say something,” he says, his voice low.

You stiffen, shifting up off of him to sit on the corner of his bed, watching him shuffle to sit, too. You swallow hard. Maybe he’s lost his attraction for you. Maybe he doesn’t like you anymore.

Damn it. Why did your mind go there, and why did the thought hurt so bad? Your heart starts to race, the reality sinking in. You like him. More than you should. Way more than you should.

It’s good he stopped this. You should leave.

“We don’t have to do anything," you tell him, looking away.

“I want to,” he murmurs. “It’s…”

Rafe turns, his long legs swinging off the side of his bed, his broad back to you as he rakes his hand through his hair.

“What?” you ask, studying his wide shoulders, the freckles scattered across the back of his neck.

Rafe is sure this is it. He knows enough about you to be sure you won’t forgive him for this. It’s so easy for you to detach, and he barely even has you at all right now.

He’ll say this, and he’ll lose you, and it’s all because of the man he was when this started. The man he’ll always be. Weak and soft and doomed to feel too much.

“You know I like you, right?” he begins. “I want more than just… this.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears. So, he does still have feelings. It’s a relief. And it’s scary that it’s a relief. Last time he told you he had feelings for you, you felt yourself retreat. This time, you want to reach out and touch him.

But you’ve never done that before. You’ve never been given a chance to be vulnerable with a man and actually taken it.

Rafe rubs his hand over his jaw, hating that there’s a flicker of hope in his chest that that wasn’t the last time you kissed him. But once he tells you this, he’s sure it will be. Unless, maybe, you see something in him worth keeping.

“That night that I, uh… spilled my drink on you…” he says.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” you ask in a thin voice he hasn’t heard before. He turns to meet your gaze, realizing he’d do anything you asked of him.

You’re right. He should look you in the eye when he tells you this.

“It was so fucking stupid,” he tells you. “After you left, my friends… those guys downstairs, we started a bet that I could hook up with you.”

The burning in his eyes fills him with humiliation. He’s about to cry in front of you. He didn’t think this would happen, but it’s overwhelming. The guilt. The love.

“I swear, I… I know what a dick I was to do it,” he stammers, voice starting to weaken. “I regret it. I’m sorry. I don’t - I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t care about the bet. But you deserve to know. You deserve better.”

You stare at Rafe, his eyes glossing over, his nostrils flaring as he tries to swallow down his tears.

You’re dumbfounded, your lips just barely parted. It stings. It stings so deeply. This is the kind of pain a person can only give you if you let them in. If you trusted them.

He did it. He broke through your wall, reached a hidden part of you, all to prove what you suspected of him from the start. That he’s a liar. A user. A selfish asshole who saw you as someone to have sex with, and nothing more.

That’s surely what his friends were cracking up about downstairs. You were right. They were laughing at you.

You’re furious. Shocked. And slowly losing your composure. But you’re good at smothering your feelings, wearing a mask, and you know what’ll hurt Rafe most now is if you’re completely indifferent. Unfeeling.

You never thought about telling him about the bet, simply because it was a thing of the past. Inconsequential. You started this off wanting to break his heart, and then thought you saw good in him, and you completely forgot about the plan.

But now, it’s back in your mind, and you’re going through with it.

“I knew you were like every other guy,” you reply, flat and cold and spiteful. “I just didn’t know it was a bet. I can’t even be mad at you, though. This was a bet for me, too.”

Rafe grimaces, confusion swimming in his glazed eyes.

“You can ask my friends if you don’t believe me,” you say. “Once you started following me around like a lost dog, we had the idea to fuck with you. They challenged me to break your heart. Because obviously, you deserve it.”

Rafe’s eyes frantically search your face, his face pinched.

“You’re lying,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Ask them,” you reply. “Or don’t. I really don’t care.”

You shift to stand up, desperate to leave, to be in private so your body can react the way it needs to.

“I’m over this,” you mutter. “Don’t bother me anymore.”

Your throat is thick, your chest heavy. And you stop at the door with your back to him, you’re determined to dig into him as painfully as you can before you cut him off completely. You’ll deal with the ache in your heart later.

“I don’t know if you believe your own bullshit about how you want to be a better person,” you murmur, “but if you do, you’re even stupider than I thought. I could never like you for real.”

Rafe hears the doorknob twist. You wanted to break his heart. You did it. It’s in a million fucking pieces right now, his pride torn up in front of him.

He can see where you get your reputation from.

“Let ‘em know you did it,” he mutters to your back.

You don’t even turn around at the confirmation, at his confession that you broke his heart. You only shut the door behind you.

(to be continued)