lola

there was not a single positive thing you could say about rafe cameron. asshole extraordinaire. the boy who’s been picking on you and making your life a living hell for as long as you can possibly remember. all the way from kindergarten to your senior year in high school, he’s been relentless. stealing your backpack and tipping the contents out in the middle of the corridor, classic. when you find peace at lunch time, he steals your tray, classic. catcalling and yelling at you with his cronies when you walk past in the halls, classic.

when you think you’ve managed to avoid him today you haven’t. he always finds a way to make your life miserable.

it used to just be name calling and hair pulling in the playground.

but now? now, his goal is to make you wish you were dead, clearly.

you sigh softly as you mull over the events of today. your knees pressing into your cream velvet stool.

1. rafe threw a rock hard apple at you.

2. rafe opened your locker and stole your lunch bag.

3. rafe called you a “miserable slut” whilst you walked past.

classics. playing some soft music, you stare into your vanity mirror and squeeze out the remaining water from your freshly washed hair. rafes probably having fun with his pals, plotting the next way to make me cry.. great, best look forward to tomorrow.. you think as you slip on your clean pajamas and apply a light body lotion to your skin, the light floral scent swarming your nose and pushing away the thoughts. you wander across your room to your double bed. the pale pink canopy wilting in the evening breeze currently drifting through the slightly ajar window. your plushies aligned perfectly on the side you don’t sleep, and the similar baby pink and cream blankets and throws that cover the sheets. the light rain taps against the window quietly, almost human like, begging to be let inside. turning off the various lamps that were casting a warm glow around your small room, you slip under the blankets and drift into safe sleep.

tap tap tap

you bolt upright, panting as you stare at your alarm clock on your bedside table.

02:01

it glares back at you. must’ve been a bad dream..

tap tap tap

just the rain.. it’s gotten heavier.. you groan as you lay back under the covers, tucking them under your chin.

tap tap tap

what the fu-

whispers.

“hello? who’s there?” you question. becoming more alert, you slip out of bed and scuttle towards your windows. two identical double-hung cream painted windows, currently covered with the same pale pink curtains your daddy used for your canopy. pulling the right window’s curtain back slowly, you sigh in relief. only for the tapping to start again.

tap tap tap

you drop the thin fabric, watching it float back into place from the evening breeze dancing through your other window. hastily stepping left to the other window and pulling back the curtain.

ta-

on the other side, rafe fucking cameron. his left hand raised and frozen, caught during his action of knocking at your window. his fingers adorned with his usual arrangement of gold rings. his knuckles, painted in a maroon. dried blood. his face? lip split, blood flowing freely into his mouth and down to his chin. his right eye, seems as if it’s been dipped in and out of an array of blue and purple paints. his bangs stick flat to his forehead, slick with rain. his what seems to be grey t-shirt, now practically black and plastered to his broad chest. and he’s smirking.

bastard!

you pull up the bottom half of you window, rain spilling onto your light oak floors, pooling like tears. “rafe?” heading tilting, you exclaim in confusion. “wh-what- it’s 2am!”

“i know- i know- just let me in goddamn it!” he hisses, glancing back at rest of your idyllic cul-de-sac in fear. the identical rainbow of houses wrapping around the weary asphalt road. the identical front porches, a rocking chair, a dog bed. the identical front gardens, a flower bed, a stray hose.

you hold out your hand, the harsh night rain pelting onto your skin. rafe grabs it, firm and solid as he clambers into your room.

shutting the window, you must admit the sight of him in your room is rather funny. this imposing, bloodied, muscular man stood in the midst of your bedroom. the same bedroom with plushies, makeup and frilly pastel lingerie scattered around.

shifting his weight slightly and wincing, rafe groans “look.. doll… i was hoping you’d patch me up?”

patch him up? that’s all? he hasn’t come to play some sick trick on you?

“is that all?” you mumble, terrified of what he has planned for you

he nods sharply. “oh..okay..” you murmur before practically running to your small en-suite to grab the first aid kit you keep in there.

scowering through the tiny cabinets that line one of the walls, you snatch the first aid kit and scamper back to rafe. rafe who is now sat on your bed. your pink bed.

letting out a small giggle at the sight, your hand smacks to your mouth in embarrassment.

“what’s funny doll?” rafe smirks, his lips curling softly at the edges, lifting his bloodied face in amusement.

“n-nothing..” you grumble as you hastily move to stand in front of him and you start attending to his various wounds.

a moment. two. three.

oh god this is horrible.. why you?!

“rafe?” you pause. “what happened? why are you here?”

he gaze flits up, meeting yours far too quickly. his ocean like pools of eyes flowing into your vision, consuming your mind.

“what happened?” you repeat softly, trying to break through his rough shell.

he scoffs, sharp. “nothing you should worry your pretty little head about doll. just boys being boys.”

“i mean-“ you question, growing bolder “why are you here?”

he sighs, clearly torn between telling you the truth and telling you lies. “look doll…” another sigh, his hand rakes down his face and his rings catch the dim glow of your fairy lights and lamps scattered around your room. “you-“ a sigh. “you were the only person i could come to.” he exhales sharply. twisting the signet ring on his index finger.

you scoff, sharp and dismissive. “no i wasn’t, you’ve come to play some sick prank on me. just get it over with rafe. please.” you retorted, leaving the room in silence. your manicured hands drift back to the horrible green first aid kit, laying open next to rafe’s thigh. reaching for some more gauze, his large hand engulfs yours.

“doll- please don’t think of me like that” rafe explains. his thumb starting to smooth your skin.

“like what?!” you snap and drop the gauze, tugging your hand out of his before turning your back on him and rummaging through your vanity. the bright white lights of the hollywood mirror shining in your eyes as you pull and rag open every draw possible. dying for a distraction. “think that you’re some bully? because you are rafe!” you pant, moving around your room. your feet connecting with the floorboards as you move swiftly, picking up stray clothes, panties and socks. shoving them into your wash basket before straightening your plushies that align your shelves. watching your with their black beaded eyes.

“doll!” he snaps. causing you to freeze and turn to him. “i’ll explain- but my eyebrow is still split..” he states reluctantly. you pad over to stand in front of him, legs unsteadily swaying as you gather the supplies and lean closer to him. holding your breath, your gentle hands working nimbly on his eyebrow. applying the gauze and tape steadily, despite the small pit of worry forming low within your stomach. you crouch slightly, making both of your eyes level. his ocean blue eyes pouring into your soul and drawing you in, like a fish on a hook. his calloused hands cradling the back of your neck, the immense heading overwhelming your senses. all you can feel is him. the coldness of each ring digging into your skin.

“doll..” he whispers, stroking the nape of your neck, fingers tangling and tugging in your hair, hauling you forwards until your lips crash together.

it’s not soft, nothing like you imagined your first kiss to be like. it’s all teeth and tongue. his teeth clashing against yours as he threatens to fuse himself with you. his tongue slipping past your agape mouth, exploring your mouth. his lips keep moving, his tongue sliding through your cheeks and teeth. it’s all passion, nothing soft, nothing gentle. it’s all rafe. all consuming. and before you know it, your tugged onto his lap. his hands roaming your curves, squeezing your ass whilst he tugs your hair. his hand trail up to your breasts, touching and kneading every inch of flesh on your body before he reaches them. suddenly, it’s all gone. all the heat, all the passion. his lips.

he’s stopped?

awkwardly blushing, you turn your head adverting your gaze. “oh god-“ you squeak, petrified. “i’m sorry! it was my first kiss and i..”

a rough hand in your jaw. his hand, snapping your head back in line with his.

“shut up.” he snaps before gesturing to the- oh fuck! that’s big!- the outline of his cock in his dark, rough denim blue jeans. still some blood splatted on in little drops every here and there but fuck.. that’s his dick?

you can feel the heat rushing to your face and tinging the tips of your ears pink.. “i.. i… i did that?” you mumble. your gaze looking at anywhere but his. looking past his shoulder, observing each of your plushies, looking at your nails, how the polish on your pinky has slightly chipped.

“look at me when i speak to you doll” he retorts, snatching your jaw in one rough hand again, his callouses a sharp contrast to your smooth skin. “you did that, and you’re going to sort it. understand?” his eyes locking on yours, searching for an answer.

“h-how..” you whisper, still trying to squirm away from him.

“suck me off on your knees in lingerie like a good pretty thing.” he grins wickedly, his dimples flashing in pure sadistic glee.

forcing your eyes shut as tightly as possible, trying to wake up from this some sort of dream or nightmare.

you can feel the wave of hot breath pass over your face as he scoffs and brings your face closer to his.

“i want you to choke on my cock doll.”

opening your eyes slowly, lushes fluttering weakly, like butterflies trapped in a cage. you stand. and start to work at taking off your pyjamas. peeling away your pale pink babydoll, you drop it in his lap as you stand there before him. in nothing but a matching bubblegum pink lace thong and identical lace bra.

“knees.” rafe commands, making a downwards movement with two fingers, before disregarding your babydoll behind him somewhere on the floor.

you drop to your knees and kneel as your eyes stayed glued to rafes movements. his belt buckle clinks as he slides it off and tosses it. the same with his dark denim jeans. and now all you can see is the angry red tip of his cock seeping with pre-cum as it peers out of his calvin klein’s. watching him sliding them down his muscular thighs and throw them onto your bed, you whine. thighs pressing together as you can’t help the wave of arousal that passes over you. parting your lips willingly, your tongue shoots out to the tip. lapping at the pre-cum like a kitten with milk. rafe shifts, pushing his hips up, forcing it into your mouth.

“do it fuckin’ properly yeah?” he threads his fingers into your locks once again at pushes your throat down. the warmth of your throat enclosing his veiny cock fully as you whine and gag.

“there we are huh.” a sharp laugh “fuck doll- i love this goddamn pretty mouth, so warm and soft..”

you blubber, gasp for air through your nose, beg to the gods above to keep your lungs working as you continue to choke around his thickness. tears streaming freely down your face, onto your neck and breasts. hollowing your cheeks, you attempt to at least try to bob your head up and down but fuck was it hard. fuck was his dick big. you can hear rafes moaning and profuse sounds floating out of his mouth get more excessive. until your head is suddenly pulled off him.

“‘m close..” rafe whines, as his hand wraps around the base of his angry cock an starts to pump up and down, up and down. you whine in unison, as you rest your cheek on his knee, rubbing it back and forwards. begging for more. “doll!-“ he moans as he strokes your damp hair and ropes of cum come shooting out of the head of his cock. dripping down your neck and onto your chest. “fuck.” he pants before pulling your onto his lap.

“is my little slut needy hm?” rafe asks, his head tilting to one side in mock concern before slipping off your tiny bra and ragging your panties down. pressing your fleshy thighs together in part need and part embarrassment, rafe scoffs and pries them open with both of his hands. “no hiding from me, i wanna see this little pussy, lay down.” he jerks his head in the direction of the rest of your bed, signalling for you to wait for him. you hum an agreement as you crawl from his lap onto your pink covers and bundles of blankets. you watch him closely as a wide smirk pulls against his face as he brings his eyes level to your still clamped shut thighs.

“ah ah, no hiding from me. what did i say doll? open.” he commands as he taps your thigh once.

immediately parting your thighs, you watch as his grin becomes bigger. you can see him inspecting over detail of your folds and nub, planning and plotting. “fuck doll..” he says with a low chuckle, “she’s so pretty and wet huh? and your damn hole is clenching on nothing… how about i change that hm?” he rumbles.

the word “change” shoots to your head. fuck! nodding over and over again, you let out a string of yeses and moans. pleading for his touch, his relief. feeling his fingers snake up your inner thigh and prod your glistening folds, you whine and buck your hips needily. “sh sh now doll, patience” he murmurs as you watch his tongue connect with your nub. letting out a shrill cry, his tongue plunges deeper into your hole. fuck he looked beautiful, his curtain bangs sweaty, dried blood crusting on his face and patches of tape and gauze laying dotted around his face.

You have to swallow your nerves when your eyes land upon Rafe. Delicious tanned skin, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead from a whole day of hard work. A grey tank top is clinging onto his upper body, black stains of oil adorned his forearms and surprisingly also the tips of his blond hair. His shoulders are also shiny, coated with sweat. One single cigarette is tucked behind his ear casually, and a slow, sticky smile spreads on his face when he sees your familiar, pretty face.

“Well, well, well,” Rafe’s voice is low and gruff, eyes raking over your figure, unconsciously taking one confident step toward you, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “If it isn’t my favourite girl. What’s the matter?” 

You miss the way Rafe’s eyes linger a second too long to admire the way your jeans are wrapped perfectly around your plump ass. You mean all business, turning toward your car. “I don’t know really,” you start, voice unsure and uncertain. “I was driving home and I don’t know— the engine was making this spluttery sound. And I didn’t know what to do, so I came here.”

You don’t notice the way you are rambling until you feel Rafe’s heavy gaze bore through you. A sharp chuckle escapes him at your distressed state. “Easy, baby,” he reassures you lowly. His speech is slurry, almost sleepy. The term of endearment shoots straight to your stomach. He says it so comfortably, so casually. It makes you wonder if he would call you that if you were his girl too. 

He moves swiftly toward his work bench, wiping his hands off with an evenly dirty rag that doesn’t do much, except for smearing the oil stains even more on his big hands. “Y’just needed my help, didn’t you?” Rafe flashes you a slow smile before opening your car door to pop the hood open. “I— I just didn’t know where to go.” You confess softly. 

“Let’s take a look then.” You don’t do anything to hide the faint blush on your cheeks. The way he moves, smiles, how the tendons in his forearms flex when he pushes open the hood. You’re lost in your fantasy about the man in front of you, you almost don’t hear him calling for you with that usual mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come here, baby. Want y’to look with me.” 

His warm hand clasps around your wrist when you’re close enough to pull you nearly into his chest. Without a word, he settles you in front of him, bending you over the hood of your car by pressing one hand to your lower back, the other caging you in on the other side. 

Rafe’s body covers you like a shield. He smells like gasoline, cigarettes and something soft, like fresh laundry. The man is also much taller than you, and you can feel it. The way the rugged lines of muscle scrape over your back every time he moves to check the cables. You also feel the thick ridge of his length poke into the plush of your ass, and you have to try your best not to squirm every time he pushes himself more into you. 

“You see this, sweetheart?” Rafe whispers, even though you’re alone. His mouth is so close to your ear, it feels as if he’s kissing your ear every time he speaks. He points to a random spot— you don’t completely follow, mind too hazy to focus on anything other than Rafe’s voice, his warm body behind yours. 

You nod silently. “Spark plug’s broken,” the blond tells you. You catch his stare as you turn your head around. “But I’m gonna fix it for you, yeah? Thirty minutes.” A filthy, knowing grin is plastered on his face as Rafe sees your breath hitch when you fully turn around. He makes no move to start working.

Your eyes are wide open. A broken spark plug? How did you not notice that? Rafe releases a slow breath at that cute expression on your even cuter face. You look like a damsel in distress. “‘S nothing bad, sweetheart. Just glad you came to me for help.” He hums gently, still with that wicked smile on his face, tilting your head up with his grease streaked fingers on your chin. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, yeah?”  

“How much do I owe you?” Your quiet voice cuts through the thick, hot, tension-ridden air. You look up at Rafe from under your lashes, your hand casually resting in the crook of his elbow. 

His gaze hardens— just for a moment. The thought alone of you paying him for something as easy as replacing your spark plugs has him annoyed. “You ain’t gonna pay for shit, princess.” Rafe tells you, voice achingly tender in comparison to his sharp glare. He emphasises his words by giving your chin a wiggle. “Y’think I’m gonna let my favourite customer pay?”

Rafe takes one step closer to you, which seems impossible because it looks like you two are glued onto each other. He shoots you that classic, filthy grin again before turning you back around, heavy hand pressing you down over the opened hood of your car. Instinctively, your back arches into a perfect curve, ass pressing into Rafe’s front.  

Tension simmers in the air upon the realisation what you’re doing. You’re both quiet for a moment. Your breath feels heavy in your lungs when he reaches down again, voice deep and low in your ear. 

“Besides, I know a better way for you to pay me back.”

But you’re bored out of your skull and your clit is throbbing like it has its own heartbeat.

You roll your hips, slow, deliberate, just enough to feel the drag of his piercing against your front wall. A soft, wet sound slips out, obscene in the quiet office.

Rafe’s pen stops moving. His jaw flexes. “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish, baby.”

“I’m not startin’ anything,” you whisper, all fake-innocent, grinding down again, harder this time. “Just stretchin’ my legs.”

He exhales through his nose. “You’re stretchin’ my patience is what you’re doin’.” The hand on your hip slides up under your cropped tank, thumb brushing the underside of your tit. “Been real good for me, sittin’ pretty on my dick like a good girl. Don’t ruin it now.”

You lean forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I’m so wet it's sticking to the hairs on your balls, rafe. Feel that?”

He groans, almost pained, and the pen clatters to the desk. “Fuckin’ christ.”

You do it again, a slow circle that makes his cock jerk inside you. “I’m bored,” you breathe. “and i wanna come. Been cockwarming you like a champ for half a goddamn hour. Gimme somethin’.”

Both his hands grip your ass now, spreading you wider, fingers digging bruises into the flesh he owns tonight. “You want somethin’, sweetbutt ?" voice like gravel dipped in honey. “Earn it.”

You start moving for real then—small, teasing rolls of your hips, lifting just enough to feel the thick head of him drag out before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt every time. The chair creaks under you both, wood protesting like it knows it’s about to get fucked through the floor.

Rafe’s head falls back against the leather, eyes half-mast, watching you through the smoke. “That’s it. Make it nasty.”

You brace your palms on his chest, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat under the kutte, and start a rhythm that’s pure torture: up until only the tip kisses your entrance, then slamming down hard enough your tits bounce. His breath stutters every time you bottom out.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Takin’ me like you were born on this dick. My pretty girl, huh? All the brothers think you’re still pass-around pussy, but you only open these legs for me now.”

You whimper, speeding up. Wet sounds fill the room, slick and filthy, your arousal coating his jeans, his balls, the cracked leather seat beneath.

Rafe’s hand snakes between you, thumb finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight cruel circles. “Come on, baby.... Wanna feel this greedy cunt milk me dry while I finish these numbers.”

You shatter with a choked cry, walls fluttering hard around him, soaking him even more. He curses, hips snapping up once, twice, and then he’s coming too, pulsing deep, filling you so full it leaks out around his base, mixing with your mess on his lap.

He doesn’t pull out. Just drags you down against his chest, kutte scratching your cheek, lips brushing your temple.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and fond. “Now sit still. Daddy’s almost done.”

‎

ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 final notes : it was with a heavy heart that I put "daddy" and "good girl" in the same sentence. I'm so sorry. (don't arrest me pls!!!)

taglist : @userhotd , @pittsick , @coochiemama3000 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎if you want to join my taglist click ( here ) !

‎ ‎ ‎© : first & second dividers , ctto ♥︎‎ ‌‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 2026 , ‎ ‎dolcefloral 𓂃　۪ ׄ

He finds his spot, always the same private room, tucked deep in the back. He orders a bottle of champagne, something expensive, something he’s hoping to share with you, and then he waits.

The second you pull back the curtain, his tension unspools. You feel his beautiful eyes on you—burning and hungry—like he flew out here for you and you alone.

When you reach him, his cocky veneer is already gone. It’s almost sinful, how fast he softens for you. His breath catches when you touch him, fingers twitching, desperate to reach for you but careful not to overstep.

“Hi, beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low enough to melt right through you. Before you can answer, his hands are already sliding around your waist. Rafe’s big, warm palms drawing you nearer. He pulls you in, slow and careful, savoring it.

His face dips close—so close you feel the whisper of his breath against your mouth, and you know if you leaned in even an inch, he’d kiss you. He wouldn’t even think twice. But you don’t, not yet.

Instead, you let him hold you, let him get drunk on it, the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips, the way your body curves into his.

He exhales against your temple, arms tightening just a little like he never wants to let go, and you know why. Because once he does, everything becomes transactional; a performance, dancing, teasing, touching without touching.

‘No hands, Rafe’… Those dreaded three words. Not until he’s broken for you. Not until his whole body aches with it, cock straining against his designer slacks, so desperate he’d give anything just for the privilege of feeling you again. But he loves it.

You dance for him and only him, moving in slow motions that have nothing to do with performance and everything to do with control. Every step, every glance is deliberate. Meant to bring him to the very edge and leave him there, trembling for you.

He watches you like a starving man, body rigid with restraint. His big hands grip the edges of the seat, white knuckling the armrests, every muscle in his big body pulled taut because you haven’t given him permission to touch you.

You trail your fingers over him—slow, featherlight touches over his broad chest, his powerful thighs, the thick muscles straining under his clothes.

Rafe’s body shudders when you skim the chain resting against his chest, the way his cock throbs when you lean in close enough to whisper, “Good boy.”

His breathing gets rougher, heavier, the longer you play with him. Little, broken noises start escaping him—soft whines, low desperate sounds that make you smile because you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

He’s begging without words. Begging with every tremble of his hands, every twitch of his hips, every desperate glance he throws your way—like maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally let him have you.

“You’re…” He breathes, eyes glassy, voice breaking, “…You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” The praise spills out of him helplessly thick. “I’ve been counting down the days… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want anything else, just—” He cuts himself off with a ragged inhale, desperate and breaking right in front of you. “Please, baby. Please let me take care of you.”

You smile wickedly, rewarding him for being so sweet, sliding into his lap, settling the weight of you right over the thick, aching cock straining against his pants.

You can feel him throb under you; hear the way he gasps at the contact holding his breath to keep those needy sounds inside. Still, you don’t let him touch.

You peel off his suit jacket, slipping it from his broad shoulders, revealing the strength of him inch by inch.

You take your time undressing yourself too, moving slowly, making a show of it, letting him suffer with how much he wants to reach for you. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, twitching, desperate, but he’s good. He’s so, so good.

You turn, grinding back against him, feeling the hard, desperate throb of him through his slacks. You take his big, trembling hands in yours, dragging them up your body, over your waist, up your ribs, to your bare breasts.

He groans—low and loud—pressing his big palms against you. You feel him moan against your shoulder; feel the way his whole body shudders under your touch.

He tucks himself into the curve of your neck, taking in your scent, breathing you in. His big hands knead you, twisting your nipples between his fingers, squeezing you tight.

You feel his lips drag along your skin, the man dying to kiss you but he knows better. He wouldn’t dare, not without permission. His need thrums through him, bleeding out in every broken breath and trembling of his fingers against your skin.

He groans, low and gruff, clutching you like he might fall apart without the feel of you under his hands. He buries his face in your neck, mouthing at your skin like he’s starving for a taste.

You start to move against him—slow and sinful—grinding your hips in lazy circles that drive him insane. He tries to stay still but his body betrays him, hips rocking slightly to meet your movements, his body quivering underneath you.

His cock throbs, pushing against the fine fabric separating you, the rough pads of his thumbs catching along the rhinestone straps on the hips of your panties. You can hear the starved sounds he’s trying to swallow—the mumbled praise as his lips ghost across your bare skin.

You lean in, dragging your mouth slow and hot along the line of his jaw, your breath feathering across his ear making him turn into you, urging him closer without physically pulling him in, your body like a magnet.

“Show me how you’d fuck me,” you whisper.

He grips your hips harder, guiding you, grinding you against the thick, pulsing length of him. Leading you to ride him exactly how he dreamed you would.

You can see him picturing it now—how it would feel to slide inside you. How you’d tighten around him, soak him, break for him.

“Just let me feel you. Please. Let me feel how wet you are on me,” he groans.

You trail your fingers down between your bodies, popping the button on his slacks with one flick, making him groan in anticipation.

You drag the zipper down next, feeling the thick, desperate heat. Rafe lifts his hips instinctively, helplessly—offering himself up. And fuck is he big, heavy and flush, leaking at the tip as his cock slaps against his stomach.

You slide your thong aside, feeling your own slickness coat your thighs, and lower yourself, not taking him inside, resting your soaked pussy against the thick, throbbing length of him.

He shudders so violently you feel it vibrate through both of you. “Please,” he rasps, voice shaking, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

You tease him, leaving his pleas unanswered, rolling your hips slow and steady, grinding your soaked pussy up and down the length of his cock, dragging you wet slick all over him.

He whimpers under you every time you pass over the sensitive head. You can feel how badly he’s holding back; how close he is to losing it without even being inside you. You lean down, sucking along his neck, dragging your teeth lightly across his pulse point.

“You’re so good for me,” you murmur against his skin. He chokes on a whimper, his hands trembling where they grip your hips. “You’re so pretty when you're desperate,” you breathe as you grind down a little harder, drawing another pathetic groan from deep in his chest.

“So big…” you murmur, almost to yourself, letting your fingers lightly trace his pulsing vein along the top as you lean closer, lips dusting over his ear. “Would you even fit inside me?”

“I want that more than anything,” he gasps. “Whatever you want. However you want it. Just—” He cuts off with a shuddering whimper, “—just the tip. Please. Please, baby.”

You stay poised above him, letting the moment stretch on, grinding against him again, letting him feel exactly how ready you are. You lift your hips, circling them just above where you would be if you sunk down on him and he knows it.

He grabs himself in his fist, lip tucked between his teeth, jerking himself a few times with his eyes locked on the place between your thighs he dreams about ruining.

You lower yourself, until the fat, leaking head of his cock slips inside. The stretch is brutal in the best possible way, your ears flooded with his gasps; his whole body locked up like he’s fighting the urge to fuck up into you.

His fingers dig into your hip, desperate to hold you there, and you do, watching as he fights for his life under you.

You roll your hips just once—slow and shallow—and a moan rips from his broad chest. “Is that all you wanted?” You tease and he shakes his head frantically because of it. You smile wickedly, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Tell me what you want, baby—”

“I want to be buried inside you,” he cuts you short and swallows hard. “Please. All the way. I need it. I need you.”

You lean in, mouth brushing his ear. “Why don’t you take it?” The second the words leave your mouth, he moves, frantic and desperate. Thrusting up into you so hard, it knocks the air out of your lungs—his thick cock stretching you so messy and wide it punches a gasp out of both of you.

You look down at him, your mouth parted, his control slipping for just a second. His beautiful eyes are glossy, chest rising as he reaches for a breath.

He doesn’t stop, thrusting up into you like he’s been waiting for this forever. Every sharp snap of his hips rocks you deeper, drives him further into you, until you swear you can feel him in your guts.

The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, tangled with his low moans and your breathless cries.

You’re gripping him now, fluttering around his cock with every hard thrust as your thighs start to shake. Your nails dig into his shoulders; into the solid muscle of his back.

You’re close. So close you can barely breathe and he feels it. Feels the way your body clutches at him, trying to pull him deeper, begging for it without words.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “So fucking good for me. Cum for me, please. Please.” His thumb finds your clit, pressing down, circling rough and fast, dragging you closer to the edge with every touch. “I need it, baby,” he begs.

You crash over the edge with a loud cry, your whole body clenching tight around him. Your pussy clamps down so hard he can barely compose himself, two rough thrusts til he’s spilling inside you, his cock throbbing with every pulse of his orgasm.

Rafe clutches you to him, burying his face against your neck, groaning your name as he empties himself inside. The heat of him floods through you, leaking out around where you’re still joined. He doesn’t stop moving right away, still grinding up into you in slow, shaky thrusts—like he needs to make sure you get all of it out, every last drop.

You let yourself melt into him as your ears ring in the aftershock of your orgasm, the club music outside the private room fading to nothing.

Finally, when he can breathe again, you feel him shift, pushing tender kisses along your shoulder, your throat, the curve of your jaw. Thankful with his touch like he can’t believe after all this time you let him have this.

You cup his jaw, tilting his face up to yours. You brush your thumb across his bottom lip, slow and sweet. He smiles; that sinful smile that tell you everything you could ever want to know and more but still you ask nonetheless, “how was that, baby?”

He chuckles dizzily, tossing his head back as a blush creeps across his cheeks. “So fucking good, pretty girl…”

He lets you go with a soft, reluctant groan, watching you like you just ripped his heart out and he’s thanking you for it.

Rafe straightens his suit as best he can, running his fingers through his hair as you fix his tie for him, smoothing it down with a little smile.

You can tell he doesn’t want to leave, not really. But he knows the rules, he knows he got to break them, and he wasn’t going to push it. You kiss his lips, soft and sweet, lingering in a way that lets him know this can’t be the last time. And for him, it won’t be. He disappears into the golden haze of the club without looking back.

You walk back to the table, your legs trembling still, opening the leather check holder. You look down at the tab; a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you see the charge for the private room and the time spent; the bottle of Louis Roederer you shared. Nothing more.

You could have charged him anything and he would’ve paid it, but you didn’t. He tucked next to the thick stack of cash—ten times what the night was worth—a room key, his phone number, and a note…

Catherine and Rafe Cameron used to live for throwing parties. Pre-kids? Their place was legendary. Loud music, questionable keg stands, outfits that barely counted as costumes. Post-kids? Those parties shifted into family events. Still legendary, just with way more pumpkin-shaped cookies and less tequila.

And no holiday hit harder in the Cameron household than Halloween.

Rafe had gone all out this year with the exterior — skeletons climbing the house, fog machines, motion-activated witches that cackled so loud Maisie had screamed three times before remembering she helped put them there. Mason, now fifteen, thought he was too cool to care, but he’d still held the ladder for Rafe. Maisie was his actual ride-or-die in decorating, shrieking with excitement every time a new blow-up ghoul inflated.

Inside, Catherine had been on her Pinterest mom grind, hand-making every single treat. She pretended it was just for the neighborhood kids, but really? She loved outshining the store-bought bags the other moms handed out.

The charity Halloween gala for Cameron Development had been the night before — Catherine had organized it down to the last cobweb, and the whole family went as the Addams family. Rafe looked better in that striped suit than Gomez ever did. Catherine didn’t even look like herself wearing that long black dress and the black wig. Lara went as Wednesday, Mason said there was no way in hell he was dressing as Pugsley, so Brad did it. Catherine had managed to dress Mason as Lurch after long hours of arguing. And Maisie loved being Cousin Itt, she even went as far as spooking some of Rafe’s colleagues by saying the costume was made of real human hair.

But tonight was for them. For trick-or-treating, for costumes Catherine had hunted down weeks in advance. Mason, Anakin Skywalker. Bradley, Clark Kent — glasses, tie, superman t-shirt peeking out of his button up, the whole thing. Lara, Stella from Club Winx. And Maisie? Their nine-year-old chaos child stomped around in an inflatable dinosaur costume that hissed air the whole night. Catherine had laughed until she cried when she first zipped it up.

Now, back home, their haul was being redistributed. Lara dumped the chocolates she didn’t like onto Maisie’s lap while Mason scavenged for anything peanut butter. Bradley, already peeling off his tie, was laser-focused on one thing:

“So what movie are we watching for Horror Night?” he asked, ignoring Maisie’s dinosaur tail smacking him in the face.

Rafe, who had spent the afternoon swearing under his breath while reassembling the backyard projector screen, grinned. “Something scary.”

“No, we should watch a Christmas movie. On Halloween,” Bradley deadpanned.

“Nightmare on Christmas Eve?,” Rafe smirked, enjoying getting his son all riled up a little too much.

Catherine, leaning against the kitchen island with a glass of wine, hid her smile behind the rim. She couldn’t help but remember the thirty minutes of Brad reading instructions and Rafe failing to follow them, even though they did it every year. There was something ridiculously hot about Rafe all sweaty and determined with power tools, even if he pretended he didn’t need the manual.

But before they could settle into the horror lineup, Mason and Lara made their announcement.

“Uh, so, we got invited to Kyle’s Halloween party,” Mason said, carefully casual, like he wasn’t talking about the kind of senior rager where Catherine and Rafe once ended up high and skinny dipping.

Rafe immediately went still. “Absolutely not.”

“But, Dad!” Lara whined, already sensing the argument brewing.

“Nope,” Rafe said firmly, shaking his head. “I know exactly what goes on at Kyle’s house. And unless your mom and I are standing at the door chaperoning—”

“Dad,” Mason groaned, dragging out the word. “The whole team’s gonna be there, I can’t be the loser who isn’t.”

“Fine,” Rafe smirked, leaning back in his chair like he had just won. “You can go… if Bradley goes with you.”

Brad, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, froze. “No. Absolutely not.”

“There you go.” Rafe clapped his hands. “Problem solved.”

“Dad!” Lara shrieked.

“Rules are rules. Gotta have supervision.”

Catherine was trying so hard not to laugh at their faces. She stepped in before it turned into an actual fight, brushing her hand across Rafe’s shoulder. “Movie night first,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “We’ll negotiate the rest later.”

“Mom, seriously. It’s one party— besides, we are not reckless like you. Uncle Topp said you and Dad used to do all this illegal stuff… but there are kids around, so I won't give examples.”

The whole room went silent. Catherine’s head snapped toward Mason so fast he winced.

“Excuse me?” she said slowly. “Topper told you what?”

Mason held up his hands, already smirking. “Relax, Mom. He said you were the life of the party. Like… climbing onto tables, exotic dances, keg stands, stealing Dad's under the counter medication if you know what I mean—”

“Topper is dead,” Catherine muttered, glaring at Rafe like this is your friend, control him.

Rafe was trying not to laugh, shoulders shaking. “Hey, hey—don’t look at me. Topper’s the one corrupting our son, not me.”

Mason leaned back smugly, throwing the trump card on the table. “So if you got to do all that stuff, I don’t see the issue. You survived.”

“Oh, I more than survived,” Rafe teased, shooting Catherine a sideways grin. She elbowed him.

Before Catherine could launch into a you’re not your father, Mason speech, Lara slinked closer to Rafe, batting her lashes like she had played this game before, because she had.

“Daddy,” she sang sweetly, resting her head on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t really keep me from going, right? It’s just one party. And you always want me to have fun and make friends.”

Rafe froze. Catherine watched in real time as his resolve melted like butter in the microwave.

“Don’t you dare,” Catherine hissed at him.

Rafe looked torn, glancing between his wife and his daughter. “It’s… it’s just one party,” he mumbled weakly.

Lara perked up, instantly victorious. “Barely a party, more like a friendly gathering for Halloween.”

Catherine groaned, setting her wine glass down with a thud. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. You fold faster than Maisie’s dinosaur costume when the batteries die.”

“Not true,” Rafe said, even though Lara was already hugging his arm like she’d won the lottery.

Maisie, still waddling in her inflatable dino, let out a loud hiss of the air pump. “If they get to go to a party, then I get to have one too.”

Brad didn’t even look up from his candy sorting. “You’re nine.”

“And?” Maisie shot back.

“Guys, can we just watch a movie?” Bradley begged, exasperated.

But Catherine wasn’t done. She leaned closer to Rafe, whispering just loud enough for the kids to hear: “You cave for her, and I'm making the guest bed for you... for a week.”

That got him. Rafe immediately backpedaled, patting Lara’s knee. “On second thought, maybe next year.”

“DAD!” Lara shrieked.

Mason groaned into his hoodie. “Unbelievable. You guys are the lamest parents alive.”

Catherine smirked, satisfied, and took a sip of wine again. “And yet, somehow, you’ll all survive.”

Bradley tried to ease the tension as he placed his candy bag on the counter, “Okay, so we should watch Scream. It’s retro. Classic slasher.”

Catherine’s head snapped up. “Excuse me? Retro?”

Brad shrugged, not even looking up from his candies. “Well, yeah. It’s from the 90s.”

Catherine gasped, hand to her chest like he’d just stabbed her. “Bradley James Cameron, you take that back right now. Scream is not retro.”

Mason snorted into a Reese’s. “Mom, it’s literally older than all of us.”

“By that logic, I’m retro,” Catherine fired back, actually a little wounded. “Do I look retro to you?”

Rafe leaned on the counter, smirking. “Babe, you don’t look a day over twenty-one.”

She gave him a look that said nice try, Cameron, but it softened her pout.

Meanwhile, Lara had draped herself dramatically against the fridge. “Well, I’m not even in the mood for a movie anymore, so I don't care.”

That got Rafe’s attention. He turned toward her immediately, frowning. “What do you mean? It’s tradition, sweetheart.”

“I mean,” Lara sighed, already slipping into her practiced doe-eyed routine, “since I’m not allowed to go to that party…” She flicked her gaze at Rafe, all sweetness, waiting for the crack in his resolve. “I’ll just do my skincare and go to bed.”

Rafe’s heart cracked a little. He hated when one of the kids bowed out of family time — movie night was his favorite, when everyone was together. Catherine’s too. It was her soft spot. Watching the kids get along, even if it was just for a ninety-minute horror movie, made her feel like she was doing something right.

“C’mon, princess,” Rafe coaxed gently. “You’ll like it. You always yell the loudest when the jump scares hit.”

“I’m just… tired,” Lara said with a shrug, all innocence.

What no one noticed was the sly look she slid toward Mason. Mason caught it instantly. Got it. She was out. He was out. That party was happening.

Catherine, oblivious, clapped her hands together, trying to cut the tension before it grew. “Alright, pajamas. Everyone. Before you so much as touch a blanket outside, you’re changing. I’ll pop popcorn.” She glanced at Rafe. “And you—download Scream. Apparently, the retro option.”

Brad muttered, “I meant the movie, not you, mom” under his breath.

“Sure you did,” Catherine snapped, but there was no real bite.

Mason groaned, clutching his robes like it was a lifeline. “Do we have to change? These are basically pajamas.”

“No, they are not,” Catherine said instantly.

“Yes,” Rafe said at the same time, just to back her up.

Mason scowled. “It’s just… changing clothes is bad for... your skin.”

The entire kitchen went silent. Maisie blinked up at him through her dino suit. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Rafe narrowed his eyes.

“Yeah, Mason,” Brad added without missing a beat. “You sound like those flat-earthers.”

But Mason wasn’t budging. Catherine looked him up and down, already sensing he was up to something. “Upstairs. Now. Pajamas.”

Mason muttered something under his breath about tyranny, but he shuffled out anyway, Lara hot on his heels, already “too tired” to fight.

Rafe sighed, running a hand over his face. He hated it when Lara skipped out — hated it even more that Mason was already sulking too. Movie night just wasn’t the same without everyone.

“They'll come around,” Catherine said gently, sliding her hand across his back. “It’ll feel better once we’re all curled up outside.”

“Yeah,” Rafe said, though his eyes stayed on the staircase, hoping his kids would actually come around.

Thirty minutes later, the backyard had transformed into its own little theater. Maisie was already in her unicorn onesie pajamas, buried under what looked like every single blanket the house owned. She had a mountain of pillows propped around her like a throne, clutching her candy bucket as if anyone dared to steal from it. Bradley sat dutifully beside her, glasses slipping down his nose as he rattled off random facts about each piece of candy she unwrapped.

“Actually, did you know that Snickers was named after a horse?” Brad said, holding one up like he was giving a lecture.

Maisie giggled, smacking him with a pillow. “That’s so weird. Imagine naming chocolate after a horse.”

Meanwhile, Catherine stepped outside in her silk nightgown, a fluffy cardigan draped over her shoulders. She balanced two bowls of popcorn—caramel in one, butter in the other. Behind her came Rafe in his grey pajama bottoms and white t-shirt, looking smug as ever with the USB in hand like it was a trophy.

“Alright,” Catherine called, scanning the backyard. “Where’s Mason?”

Brad didn’t look up, casually shrugging. “In our room. Playing League. He said he didn’t feel like coming down yet.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, setting up the USB in the projector. “Of course he’s on that damn game. Every time I walk past his room, he’s screaming at strangers through a headset.”

Catherine frowned, shifting the popcorn bowls onto the side table. “He knows this is family night. If I have to go drag him out of that chair—”

“I’ll get him later,” Rafe promised, brushing her arm as he fussed with the projector. “If he misses the beginning, maybe it’ll teach him something.”

Neither of them noticed how Bradley’s jaw ticked, his eyes flicking down to Maisie’s candy pile. He didn’t like lying, but… he also wasn’t about to rat Mason and Lara out. Mason had slipped out the second Brad left their room, tossing out some half-baked excuse about needing “air.” Brad knew exactly where he was going.

And Lara? She was ten steps ahead of them all. By the time Mason padded into her bedroom, she already had an Uber waiting. Her bed was made to look like she was under the covers, her skincare bottles lined neatly on the dresser like evidence of her “night routine.” She’d even hung tomorrow’s outfit on the knob of her wardrobe door, just in case Catherine came snooping. Lara Cameron might have been twelve, but she was already playing the long game.

“Ready?” Mason whispered as he stepped in, costume still on.

Lara smirked, fixing her wings. “Born ready. Let’s go.”

Back in the backyard, Catherine settled onto the blanket nest beside Maisie and Brad, her cardigan tucked tightly around her. Rafe finally got the screen flickering to life, grinning as he flopped down beside her.

“See? Perfect setup,” he said proudly. “Best backyard theater in Figure Eight.”

Catherine’s brows were still furrowed. “It’ll only be perfect when Mason comes down to spend time with his family.”

Rafe kissed her temple, handing her the buttered popcorn. “Give him ten minutes. He’ll come crawling out once he smells this.”

Catherine sighed, leaning into him. She wanted to believe it. She wanted the picture-perfect movie night. Meanwhile, Lara and Mason slipped out the front door smug as ever. Lara had her little crossbody bag slung over her shoulder, phone in hand with the Uber tracking their ETA. Mason was jittery, bouncing on his heels.

“Relax,” Lara hissed as they tiptoed down the driveway. “Mom and Dad are glued to the movie. They’ll never notice.”

Mason shoved his hands in his Jedi-pants' pocket. “You better be right. If Mom catches us—”

“She won’t.” Lara shot him a grin, sliding into the backseat of the waiting car. “Trust me. I’m the brains.”

“Hey!” Mason protested, but climbed in after her anyway. The car pulled away, headlights disappearing down the street.

Back in the backyard, Catherine was completely oblivious, curled up in her blanket nest with a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap. Maisie had already fallen half-asleep against Bradley, the candy coma taking her out early. Rafe sat beside Catherine, one arm stretched lazily along the back of her chair, eyes on the glowing screen.

“Ugh,” Catherine muttered around a mouthful of popcorn. “Why is the killer always so hot?”

Rafe’s head whipped toward her, brows raised. “I’m sorry—what?”

She waved a hand dismissively, not looking at him. “Not the guy. The mask. It’s a whole… I don’t know, hot.”

“The mask?” Rafe repeated, incredulous. Then, a slow smirk spread across his face. “So let me get this straight… I should be worried about a piece of plastic with a ghost face on it?”

Catherine finally glanced at him, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t know. It works on Billy.”

Rafe leaned in closer, grin widening. “Good to know. Maybe I’ll get myself one of those masks. See if it works for me.”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the little laugh that slipped out. “You’d trip over your own feet in it.”

He smirked, gaze dropping to her lips. “Still worth a try.”

Onscreen, Ghostface lunged. Catherine jumped, nearly spilling her popcorn. Rafe chuckled low in his throat, tugging her closer.

Neither of them noticed the two empty bedrooms upstairs. Neither of them heard the Uber rolling away into the night.

The Uber dropped Mason and Lara two blocks away from Kyle’s house, the bass from the party rattling the street before they even turned the corner.

Mason shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though his heart was racing. “Okay, we don’t stay all night,” he said quickly. “We just show up, hang for a bit, and get back before they notice.”

Lara smirked, fixing her lip gloss in the reflection of a parked car. “Relax, Mason. We’ve got this. By the time Mom’s finished fussing over the popcorn bowls and Dad’s done quoting the movie, we’ll be back in bed.”

Outside, the party was chaos — strobe lights, Halloween decor, music so loud it felt like the floor was vibrating. Lara’s eyes lit up immediately. “Now this is a party.”

Mason grinned despite himself. “Uncle Topp would be proud.”

Back at the Cameron house, the backyard glow flickered across Catherine’s face as she reached for more popcorn. Ghostface was prowling onscreen, the tension thick, but Catherine’s thoughts drifted upstairs.

“Hey,” she nudged Rafe with her elbow, whispering. “Shouldn’t you check on Mason? He’s been up there for a while.”

Rafe waved her off without looking away from the screen, eyes wide with boyish excitement. “Babe, shh—this is the best part.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes. “Rafe, I get it, he’s probably yelling into a headset right now, but— You don’t think it’s weird he didn’t even grab popcorn?”

Rafe finally glanced at her, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Maybe he’s just sick of your constant nagging about eating popcorn in bed.”

“Excuse me? If it wasn't for me, he'd turn into a pig with those junk you sneak him— You think I don't know about it?” she whispered-shouted, swatting his chest.

But Rafe was already laughing quietly, pulling her closer under his arm. “Relax. He’ll come down. The kid can’t resist food.”

Catherine leaned back, still uneasy. Her gut told her something was off, but Ghostface lunged onscreen again and Rafe jumped like a teenager, muttering “holy shit” under his breath.

Catherine sighed, sinking back into the blanket pile. She’d let him have this one. For now.

Meanwhile, two of their kids were in the middle of the kind of party Catherine and Rafe had sworn they’d never let them near.

Kyle’s Halloween party was everything Mason and Lara hoped it would be. Packed house, music thumping so hard the windows rattled, sweaty kids in costumes grinding against each other, and way too much booze for how many parents thought their kids were at “sleepovers.”

Mason was already living his best life, standing in the kitchen with a red cup in hand, his Anakin Skywalker costume slightly askew from how many shots he’d already downed. A group of older girls had him surrounded, laughing at every dumb thing he said.

One girl, dressed in a one-piece devil bodysuit with horns that glittered in the strobe lights, cocked her head at him. “Are you supposed to be Vader’s son?”

Mason let his eyes travel over her, slow and shameless. He’d seen her around Kook Academy. Definitely a senior. Definitely out of his league. But Mason Cameron had never met a league he didn’t try to play in.

“Vader, actually,” he corrected with a lazy smirk. “Y’know… pre-dark side.”

She laughed, nudging her friend. “I don’t know, actually.”

“I can help with that,” Mason said smoothly, leaning in just enough to make her blush. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

Another girl — a blonde in angel wings — burst out laughing. “Zoe, you might wanna see the size of his lightsaber before you agree.”

The whole group howled. Mason just tipped back his shot of tequila, ignoring the way his stomach flipped. His dad would murder him if he knew. The one time Rafe caught him drinking a beer with his teammates, he’d nearly cleaned the yacht for a month. Mason didn’t even want to imagine what Rafe Cameron would say about tequila.

But that was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight? Tonight he was golden.

His phone buzzed. Lara.

Sibling 2: Water. Now.

Mason smirked, typing back.

Mase: What do I look like, your servant?

Another buzz.

Sibling 2: Mason. Don’t make me come find you.

He rolled his eyes but grabbed a bottle of water from the counter anyway. When he found her in the living room, she was dancing with a group of girls in matching costumes, the kind you pre-ordered. They were screaming the lyrics to whatever was blasting through the speakers, mascara already smudged from sweat.

“Your majesty,” Mason said dramatically, handing her the bottle with a mock bow. “As requested.”

“About time,” Lara said, snatching it. She cracked it open and took a long sip before grinning at him. “Wanna dance with us?”

Mason eyes her girlfriend to pick the prettiest, but he didn’t need convincing. Soon, they were both in the middle of the floor — Lara with her Winx-girl squad, Mason with the seniors who kept tugging him closer.

“C’mon, Skywalker!” someone yelled. “Keg stand time!”

Before Mason could argue, two football players hoisted him up by the legs. He tipped upside down, mouth pressed to the keg nozzle, the crowd cheering him on.

“Go! Go! Go!”

The room roared when he dropped down, wiping his mouth and stumbling forward with his arms thrown up like he’d just won the Super Bowl.

Zoe, the devil girl, leaned close, giggling. “Not bad, baby Vader.”

Mason smirked, feeling the burn in his throat. “Baby? I like the sound of that.”

Back on the other side of the room, Lara was shrieking with laughter as one of her friends shouted over the music: “Your brother’s gonna puke all over himself!”

Lara just shook her head, smiling into her drink. If only Dad could see him now. The bass shifted into some throwback pop song, and Lara suddenly gasped mid-dance. “Wait. Oh my God.”

Her friends froze, thinking something was wrong. “What?” one of them yelled over the music.

“We never got a picture in our Winx costumes!” Lara clutched the sleeves of her costume. “What was even the point if we don’t post?”

The girls screamed in agreement, scrambling for their phones. Lara, ever the leader, grabbed the nearest guy standing by the snack table. He was tall, already grinning, clearly thrilled to be chosen.

“Hey,” Lara said sweetly, shoving her phone into his hand. “Take a few of us, please?”

He eagerly took it. “Anything for Mason's sister.”

But Lara had already pulled her girls into formation — all glitter, wings, and teenage hormones. They posed with peace signs, fake kisses, hands on hips. The guy snapped a dozen.

“Okay, hold up,” Lara said, snatching her phone back before he could even offer it. She scrolled through with lightning speed, her friends crowding around her.

“Nope, I look weird in that one. Delete. Ooh, this one’s cute. Okay, these three — perfect.” She tapped them into her favorites and ignored the rest.

The guy leaned closer, still holding his own drink. “So, uh… you really Mason’s sister? ‘Cause, like, you don’t look alike. He’s a pretty boy, but you’re—”

“Thanks,” Lara cut him off without looking up, tucking her phone into her little bag. “Appreciate the pics.”

And just like that, she walked off, her girls squealing behind her.

“Oh my god, Lara, he was totally flirting with you,” one of the girls giggled.

Another nudged her. “And he was kinda cute!”

Lara glanced over her shoulder, catching the guy waving hopefully in her direction. She scrunched her nose. “Not my type.”

“Then what is your type?” one of her friends demanded.

“Not that,” Lara said simply, tossing her hair and diving back into the crowd.

Lara and her girls clustered in the corner of the dance floor, squealing as she tapped through the best three pictures. “Okay, no one post before me,” she ordered, wings glittering under the colored lights. “I have the aesthetic grid.”

The girls nodded obediently, and Lara uploaded a story — all of them smiling, arms thrown around each other in their fairy costumes with the caption “Club Winx🧚✨” and a glitter filter slapped on top. Once it was up, she locked her phone, tossed it in her little crossbody bag, and turned back to the DJ’s beat, hair flying as she screamed the lyrics with her friends.

Meanwhile, across the room, Mason leaned against the counter surrounded by a group of older girls — mostly seniors in skimpy devil and angel costumes. A half-empty shot glass dangled from his fingers.

“So, like…” one of them drawled, eyes narrowed as if testing him, “you’re actually Rafe Cameron’s kid?”

Mason smirked, cocky as hell. “Better. I’m the favorite son and favorite nephew’s favorite. Uncle Topp lets me do shit my dad would murder me for.” He puffed out his chest. “Weed, mostly. I can get you girls some if you want.”

They perked up immediately, laughing and leaning closer. “Uncle Top? That’s your plug?” one of them teased.

“More like my coach,” Mason grinned, ignoring the part where both he and Top had been royally busted when Catherine found he smoked weed. In Mason’s mind, that part of the story didn’t need to exist.

“God, you’re bad,” one girl giggled, sipping her drink.

Mason leaned in closer, flashing the same smirk Rafe once had at his age. “Sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it.”

Back at the Camerons’ house, the backyard air had turned crisp. Maisie was out cold in her little onesie, curled in her pillow fort. Rafe sighed, brushing her hair off her forehead before lifting her carefully into his arms.

“Alright, baby girl,” he whispered, carrying her inside. “Let’s get you to bed before you turn into a popsicle.”

Bradley barely looked up, too busy scrolling through the options on the screen. “We’re doing the second one. The first was good, but everyone knows the sequels are creepier.”

Rafe grunted his agreement as he disappeared inside. Catherine, left alone on the patio, wrapped her cardigan tighter and sat down. Her phone buzzed. A notification.

She frowned. It wasn’t her main account. It was the other one. The burner she kept strictly to follow her kids, knowing damn well they hid things from her. Lara especially was a master of it.

Catherine tapped it open. And sure enough, there it was: Lara’s freshly uploaded story. Glittery caption. Matching costumes. Party lights.

Her stomach dropped.

Rafe had just finished tucking Maisie into bed upstairs when he decided to poke his head into Mason’s room. Catherine had been muttering all night about him being glued to his computer, and maybe—just maybe—Rafe could bribe him down with leftover popcorn. He pushed the door open, already ready with some half-sarcastic line about “League of Legends ruining his brain.”

But the room was dark. Too dark.

The desk chair was empty, the monitor black. The bed was neatly made—like it hadn’t been touched all day. Rafe’s brows drew together, his stomach tightening as he flicked on the light.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered under his breath, scanning the room as if Mason might’ve somehow blended into the wallpaper. “This kid thinks he’s slick.”

He stormed out into the hallway, grumbling to himself, and stomped down to Lara’s room. If Mason had vanished, chances were he’d dragged his sister into it too. Rafe twisted the knob and pushed inside, prepared to catch both of them in the act.

Instead, he found Lara’s room in perfect order. Bed full, skincare bottles neatly lined on her dresser, outfit hanging on the wardrobe knob like she had planned for tomorrow already. The soft glow of her nightlight hummed in the corner.

Rafe stood in the doorway, scowling. “Damn, kid must’ve gone on his own,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. Mason was reckless, but Lara? Lara would’ve been harder to convince. No way she’d risk her parents' trust and go against their word.

With his jaw tight, he trudged down the stairs and back out to the backyard, muttering curses the whole way. “Thinks he’s so smart… sneaking out like I wouldn’t notice… little shit doesn’t even know how obvious he is.”

Catherine was perched on the blanket nest with Bradley still scrolling through the movie menu beside her. She looked up immediately when she heard Rafe’s heavy footsteps and the annoyed grunt he let out as he dropped back into his seat.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Rafe dragged a hand through his hair, glaring at nothing. “I went to check if Mason wanted some leftover popcorn. Guess what? Not in his room. Desk empty, bed made—like he planned this shit.” His tone was dark, the kind of voice he used when he was both furious and impressed.

Catherine arched a brow. “And Lara?”

“She’s asleep. At least one of them still listens,” Rafe grumbled. “But Mason—nah. He thinks I don’t know he’s at that damn party.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “Kid doesn’t realize I invented sneaking out for parties. I know every trick in the book.”

Catherine’s lips twitched—not from amusement, but from the bitter irony of it all. Slowly, she lifted her phone and turned it toward him, the screen glowing against the dark night. “You mean… this party?”

Rafe leaned forward. His eyes narrowed on the screen. Lara. In costume. Surrounded by her friends. Glittery caption. Party lights flashing in the background.

For a long moment, Rafe just stood there, jaw working, a muscle ticking in his cheek as if his whole face couldn’t decide if it wanted to be angry or offended.

Finally, he laughed, shaking his head, voice rough. “Nah. She’s asleep. I checked on her,” he argued, his tone almost pleading with himself as much as with Catherine. He needed that to be true. “My little girl wouldn’t go against my word like that.”

Catherine pushed off the blanket pile, her silk nightgown swishing as she stood up. “Did you?”

Rafe blinked at her, caught off guard, looking at her like she’d just accused him of murder. “I mean—yeah. She was under the covers. Her shit was everywhere, outfit for tomorrow picked, lamp turned on—”

Bradley, half-curled over the popcorn bowl, swallowed hard. His palms grew clammy. If they found out he’d covered for Mason… he was dead. He tried to keep his expression neutral, hoping their parents were too wound up to notice him shrinking into the pillows.

“Did you check under the covers?” Catherine pressed, voice sharp now as she started scrolling furiously on her phone. If Lara was stupid enough to post something, she’d find it. And if not? Well, Snapchat always told the truth.

Rafe gawked at her, looking almost scandalized. “Cath, have you heard of privacy? She’s a girl. I’m not about to go digging under her blanket like some kind of creep.”

Catherine rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. She brushed past him toward the house, still thumbing through her phone, the screen glow painting her face cold and determined. “You’re so dramatic,” she muttered under her breath. “Fuck. All her friends unadded me from Snap.”

Rafe trailed after her, brows furrowed. “Wait—you’re still using Snap?”

Bradley let out a tiny sigh of relief, head bowed, as he pulled his own phone from his pocket. Fingers flying, he opened the private sibling group chat:

Brad: Mom and Dad are onto you. Check your phones.

But Mason and Lara’s read receipts never popped up.

Catherine stormed down the hallway, her cardigan swinging behind her, snapping her gum with the kind of agitation only a mom in hunt mode could radiate. “Relax, Rafe. It’s not like I’m using it to cheat on you,” she scoffed, already switching apps. “It’s just handy. I can usually see where Lara and Mase are since they can’t stop themselves from showing off.”

Rafe raised both brows at her like she’d just confessed to a crime. “You’ve been on my ass for months about being ‘psychotic’ because I downloaded that tracking software onto Mason’s phone without telling him. And now?” His voice lifted, incredulous. “Now you’re saying it’s handy?”

Catherine didn’t even look at him, her nails clicking against the screen as she refreshed maps. “Don’t start with me, Rafe. I’ll deal with you later. Right now, I’m finding our kids before they end up drunk in some senior’s basement.”

Rafe shoved his hands onto his hips, muttering under his breath. “Unbelievable. I’m the crazy one, but you’re out here running FBI burner accounts and Snap locations…”

“Shut up,” Catherine snapped, eyes still locked on the screen. “I almost got her—hang on.”

Catherine’s thumb tapped the little map icon, and for a moment, triumph sparked in her chest. Then she groaned, loud and frustrated.

“Ugh, useless,” she muttered, shoving the phone toward Rafe like it had betrayed her. “Lara’s location hasn’t updated in two hours. It still shows her here. At the house.”

Rafe frowned. “Wait. Mason’s shows the same thing?”

“Yeah,” Catherine sighed, rolling her eyes. “It says both of them are at home. So either they’ve figured out how to cheat the system…” She glanced up, lips pressed thin. “…or they stopped bragging about everything.”

Across the yard, Bradley shifted nervously in his seat, the blue glow of his phone lighting up his guilty face. He had been texting non-stop.

Brad: Guys, answer.

Brad: Mom found Lara’s story.

Brad: They’re checking your locations. You’re screwed.

Brad: Mason, seriously, pick up your phone.

But neither of them was looking.

Because in someone else’s kitchen, under string lights and pounding bass, Mason was crushing beer pong with a cocky grin, an empty Solo cup in one hand and the ball in the other. Lara stood beside him, her glittery wings catching the light, pretending to sip from her cup before shoving it into Mason’s chest with a wrinkle of her nose.

“Ew, you can drink that,” she said flatly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Beer tastes like bread water.”

“Maybe try winning then,” Mason smirked, knocking the ball into the last cup on the other side. The crowd cheered, and Lara rolled her eyes, though she was smiling.

Back at the Cameron house, Catherine’s patience had snapped. She spun on her heel, jabbing a finger toward Rafe. “Enough of this. I don’t care if you'll have to drive across the island and drag them out by their costumes—go get my kids.”

Rafe’s whole body was taut with barely contained fury as Catherine snapped the order at him. His jaw worked, grinding teeth, but instead of arguing he pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb already swiping through apps until he landed on the one he wasn’t supposed to have—Mason’s tracker.

A blinking dot lit up the map, nowhere near the Cameron house. Rafe exhaled through his nose, sharp and hot. Got you, you little shit.

Without another word, he strode toward the hanger and grabbed his coat. He didn’t bother changing out of his pajama bottoms and white T-shirt. Catherine’s sharp voice followed him.

“Call me when you find them,” she demanded, arms crossed, cardigan pulled tight around her.

“Oh, I’ll find them,” Rafe muttered, shoving his arms through the sleeves. He still couldn’t believe Lara had done this—his little girl. Not Mason, he expected dumb stunts from Mason. But Lara? With her ballet flats and doe eyes? She’d played him like a violin. And the worst part? He was half impressed. The blanket decoy, the outfit hanging on the wardrobe knob—she’d set up her alibi like a mastermind. Lara wasn’t reckless—she was calculated. Too calculated.

Rafe yanked the door open, cold air rushing inside. “I’ll call,” he said over his shoulder, tone clipped. Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps pounding down the porch steps, the slam of the car door rattling the night.

Inside, Catherine turned back to the glow of the projector, where Bradley sat stiff as a board under his blanket pile. The opening credits of the next movie were rolling, popcorn untouched beside him. His hands twisted nervously in the hem of his hoodie, his face tight with a kind of guilt that screamed louder than the surround sound.

Catherine’s eyes narrowed. She moved closer, crossing her arms as she studied her younger son like a hawk. “Bradley.” Her voice was calm but carried the weight of someone who already knew the answer. “Did you know?”

Brad blinked at her, feigning innocence as he adjusted his glasses. “Know what?”

“That your brother and sister weren’t here,” Catherine pressed, tilting her head, eyes never leaving his face.

Brad cleared his throat, reaching for the remote like he was oh-so-invested in the movie. “Last I saw Mason, he was playing League of Legends.” He said it carefully, like rehearsed lines. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he shrugged. “Did you… check the bathrooms? Maybe he’s showering or something?”

Catherine’s brows rose, unimpressed. She lowered herself onto the edge of the blanket, leaning forward slightly, gaze sharp. “Mason doesn’t shower willingly.”

Brad swallowed hard, but forced a smirk. “Just saying. Could’ve happened.”

But Catherine saw the twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped nervously against his leg.

Catherine didn’t storm, didn’t raise her voice. She’d been a mom long enough to know subtlety worked better than rage, especially with Bradley. Instead, she eased down beside him, close enough that he stiffened under her weight. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his pillow, cutting off his escape route.

Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “You’re a smart kid, Bradley. Smarter than Larw, definitely smarter than Mason.” Her eyes narrowed on him as she tilted her head, studying him like he was a puzzle she just needed to solve. “So why don’t I believe you?”

Bradley kept his eyes glued to the screen where Ghostface was chasing some poor girl through a movie theater. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You don't believe me? W-Why? Mom... did I do something wrong? Is it because of school?” he muttered, soft, the kind of wounded whisper designed to sting.

Catherine frowned, shifting closer. “Bradley…”

“I didn’t do anything,” he rushed out, his voice cracking at the edges. His eyes glistened, and before she could stop herself, Catherine felt her chest tighten. He blinked rapidly, cheeks pink, and when he finally looked at her his gaze was so wide and wet that it was impossible not to see the scared little boy he used to be.

“I don’t like lying, Mom. Don't you know?” he whispered, his lip trembling just enough to sell it. “I just… I don’t want you and Dad mad at me too.”

And just like that, Catherine’s instincts wavered. She was sharp, organized, relentless when it came to her older two, but Bradley knew exactly which strings to pull. His honesty always seemed to come wrapped in innocence, like he was the victim of his siblings’ recklessness, not part of it.

Catherine sighed, leaning back just enough to give him space. Her eyes narrowed slightly—suspicion still lingering—but the guilt on his face, the sheen of tears on his lashes, it all softened her resolve. Maybe he hadn’t known. Maybe Mason and Lara had played him, too.

Brad sniffled, wiping at his eye with his sleeve. “Can we just… watch the movie?” he asked, voice small. “Please?”

Catherine pressed her lips together, torn between pressing harder and letting it go. In the end, she nodded. “Fine.” But her gut twisted—she wasn’t fully convinced.

Meanwhile, Rafe was a storm behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other drumming against it restlessly. His mind spun through every punishment he could throw at Mason: grounding him for a month, taking his phone, cutting his allowance. Hell, he’d even make him do yard work. But none of it felt heavy enough. Mason laughed through punishments like they were jokes.

Then it hit him—like a flicked switch in his brain. The cops. Not for real trouble, but enough to scare the hell out of him. Mason wanted to play adult? Fine. Let him see what adult consequences looked like.

Rafe smirked darkly, already picturing his son’s face when the blue-and-red lights hit the party. He’d let Mason sweat it out overnight at the station, maybe even let him stew in a holding cell until morning. A lesson in humility. Lara, though… his chest tightened. She didn’t belong in that scene. She was still his princess, no matter how well she played him. He could practically see her wide eyes and trembling hands. Maybe he’d go pick her up after a couple hours, let her think she’d barely escaped disaster. Mason? Mason could rot until dawn.

Decision made, he pulled his work phone from his pocket and, without hesitation, dialed. He gave Kyle’s address, his voice sharp but calm. “Underage drinking. Loud music. Looks like half the high school’s there. You’ll want to send someone quick.” Then he hung up, satisfaction curling through him.

As he pocketed the phone, headlights cut across the street ahead. Two kids stumbled along the sidewalk, laughing, one of them wearing the iconic Ghostface mask. Rafe slowed, rolling down his window, that smirk tugging at his mouth as Catherine’s voice echoed in his head: the mask is hot.

“Yo, Ghostface!” he called out.

The masked kid froze, turning toward him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, maybe a couple years younger than Rafe himself. He laughed nervously, probably thinking Rafe was some drunk dad about to make a joke.

But Rafe leaned forward, flipping his wallet open, sliding a crisp hundred-dollar bill free. “I want the mask,” he said simply, waving the bill. “ Don’t need change.”

The kid blinked, then his eyes went wide as he realized Rafe wasn’t joking. His buddy snorted with disbelief, muttering, “Bro, sell it, that’s a hundred bucks.”

And the whole time, Rafe just sat there smirking, imagining Catherine’s face when he walked back into their bedroom later, Ghostface mask in hand, the kids locked down, Maisie asleep, and Bradley with his white noise machine on.

Thirty minutes later, the music cut mid-song, lights still flashing, but the bass died with a horrible scratch at Kyle's house. Then a voice bellowed over the speakers:

“THE POLICE IS HERE! EVERYONE OUT! PARTY’S OVER!”

A wave of panic ripped through the crowd. Teens screamed, cups flew, people shoved toward the back doors and open windows. Lara’s friends clutched at her arms, tugging her toward the exit, but she dug her heels into the floor.

“Lara! We have to go!” one of them cried, wings bending in the rush.

“I’m not leaving without Mason!” Lara snapped, her eyes wild as she spun in place, scanning the sea of bodies.

Her friends groaned in frustration, but Lara had already let go. “Just text me when you get home,” she yelled, ignoring their shouts as she shoved through the chaos.

She grabbed at shoulders, shouting over the stampede. “Have you seen Mason? Anakin Skywalker costume—tall, blonde?”

Some kid in a skeleton mask shouted back, “Upstairs! Think he went with Anna!” before vanishing into the crowd.

Lara’s stomach dropped. Anna. She didn’t even want to know. She bolted for the staircase, dodging stragglers, her wings catching on the banister as she stumbled up the steps. She flung open door after door—bathroom, empty bedroom, closet—until finally, the third door swung wide.

There he was. Mason. On the edge of the bed, lips locked with a girl at least three years older, her devil costume practically falling off her.

“MASON!” Lara barked.

He jerked back, eyes wide, lipstick smeared across his mouth. “Jesus, Lara—”

“No time!” she cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Cops are here. The whole place is getting raided.”

Anna blinked, confused, smoothing her hair. Mason shot her an apologetic grin, then hopped off the bed, yanking his lightsaber prop off the floor. “You’re kidding.”

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Lara hissed.

They rushed into the hallway, Mason’s heart pounding in his ears louder from the alcohol. But as they hit the stairs, two uniformed officers were waiting.

“Hold it!” one barked.

“Shit,” Mason muttered, instinct flaring. He grabbed Lara’s hand. “Run!”

They bolted, Mason dragging her down the hall, but they didn’t even make it past the landing before two more cops cornered them. Strong hands caught Mason by the arm, jerking him back.

“Got one!”

“Let me go!” Mason snapped, twisting against the grip.

Lara stepped forward, hands raised, her voice frantic but trying to sound calm. “Wait, wait, it’s not what it looks like! We live down the street, we were just saying hi to our friends, and we were leaving anyway—”

The cop gave her a flat look. “Yeah, that’s what every kid here is saying.”

“It’s true!” Lara insisted, her doe eyes wide, practically glowing with fake innocence. “Our parents know we’re here.”

“I'll need your ID's.”

Beside her, Mason snorted under his breath. “Smooth, Lar. Real smooth.”

The older officer’s gaze narrowed on Mason, nostrils flaring. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” Mason shot back with a cocky smirk.

Wrong answer. The cop hauled out a breathalyzer and shoved it at him. “Blow.”

Mason froze. “Uh, why…”

“Now,” the cop barked.

Mason exhaled, glaring at Lara like this was somehow her fault, before blowing into the device. The beep was followed by a reading that made both officers exchange looks.

“Busted,” one muttered.

Before they knew it, Mason was being shoved toward the door, Lara caught in the sweep with him.

“Hey! She didn’t even drink!” Mason protested, his voice cracking as the cuffs clicked around his wrists.

“Quiet,” the officer ordered.

“Sir, please,” Lara tried again, her voice trembling now, panic creeping in despite her best performance. “You don’t understand—”

But the next thing they knew, they were being marched across the lawn, past the flashing red and blue lights, the whole neighborhood watching as kids scattered into the dark.

The door of the cop car slammed behind them, cold vinyl sticking to their costumes. Mason groaned, leaning his head back against the seat with a dramatic thud. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Lara hugged her arms tight across her chest, glaring at him. “This is all your fault.”

Mason smirked, despite everything. “Worth it.”

“Worth it?!” Lara screeched. “We’re literally in the back of a cop car!”

“Yeah,” Mason grinned, eyes still glassy from the drinks. “But tell me that wasn’t the best party of the year.”

Lara dropped her face into her hands, groaning. “Dad’s gonna kill us.”

If only they knew their Dad was on cloud nine as he got out of his car. Rafe stepped into the driveway, Ghostface mask dangling from his fingers, headlights from the street glinting off the glossy plastic. He paused, taking in the house—quiet, serene, the only light glowing upstairs in the master bedroom window. A slow smirk tugged at his lips. The kids were handled—at least for the night. Maisie was asleep, Brad tucked away in his own world, and Lara and Mason? Well, the cops had that covered. That left Catherine. Just Catherine.

He walked inside, boots heavy against the hardwood, coat still smelling like cold air. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out, glancing at the caller ID. The station. Perfect timing. He swiped to answer, masking his grin with the smooth, low tone of a man who knew how to lie through his teeth.

“Yeah?… my kids?” He dragged the word out, injecting the right note of disbelief. “Jesus Christ, are you serious?— No, no, I’m out of town right now for work. It’ll take me a minute to get there.” He bit back a laugh, eyes flicking around the living room as if he expected Catherine to overhear. “Yeah, I’ll come down soon. Thanks, officer.” He hung up, teeth flashing in a grin as he slid the phone into his coat pocket.

Rafe stalked toward the back, nudging open the sliding door to peer out at the yard. Empty. No Brad sneaking screen time. No curious eyes. Just the rustle of trees and the quiet hum of cicadas. Good. He tossed his coat on the hook, shook his head once, then took the stairs two at a time.

The mask went back over his face before he pushed the bedroom door open, plastic grinning in the soft lamplight. Catherine was perched against the pillows in her satin nightgown, legs curled, her eyes glued to her phone screen as her thumb flicked furiously. She didn’t even glance up.

“Brad,” she sighed, not missing a beat, “I told you I’m not mad at you. Just go to bed.”

The low chuckle slipped out of Rafe’s throat before he could stop it. He shut the door behind him, locked it with a soft click. Catherine’s head jerked up, brows knitting when she finally registered the mask.

“Rafe,” she exhaled, half relief, half irritation.

He didn’t say a word, just tugged his white tee over his head, muscles flexing under the lamplight. His stomach carved into ridges, shoulders broad, chest dusted in dark hair. He tilted his head, mask still on, waiting for her reaction.

Catherine sat up straighter, phone slipping from her hands. “Where are the kids?” she demanded.

He ripped the mask off in one sharp motion, annoyance flashing across his face. “That’s what you’re asking me right now?” He lifted the mask, gesturing down at himself like she was missing the point. “Christ, Cath. One time I try to do this—just one time—and you kill the mood.”

Her laugh bubbled out despite herself, brows pinching tight. “Rafe—our kids snuck out. I’m not going to play.” She dragged her eyes down his chest anyway, lips twitching. “I mean, you look hot, but—”

“Alright.” His tone shifted, low and dark, cutting her off as he mounted the mask back on. He took slow, heavy steps forward, each one sinking into the carpet. “We’re not gonna play then. Let’s watch a movie.” He tilted his head in that eerie Ghostface way, standing at the edge of the bed now, looming. “What’s your favorite horror movie?”

Catherine swallowed, laughter caught in her throat, her pulse thudding. “You’re insane,” she whispered, but she didn’t lean back—she leaned forward, nightgown slipping against her thighs as she searched his eyes through the mask.

He tilted the mask close, voice muffled, dark with heat. “That’s not an answer.”

Her lips parted, a teasing smirk tugging at her mouth as she finally played along. “Scream.”

Rafe’s chest shook with a quiet laugh, the mask dipping closer until the black mesh eyes were inches from her face. “Good choice,” he murmured. “Guess you already know who the killer is.”

“Do I?” Catherine shot back, her hand lifting—testing—her fingertips grazing the edge of the mask.

He caught her wrist mid-air, grip hot and firm, holding it between them. “Careful,” he warned, voice dripping with challenge. “You forget your place.”

Her smirk deepened. “Do I?”

At the police station. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cramped holding cells. The sour smell of disinfectant mixed with sweat and stale beer clung to the air. Mason slumped against the wall of his cell, legs sprawled out, head tipped back with a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He was drunk—beyond tipsy, full-on tequila-fueled boldness—and the cinderblock walls felt safer than the look he knew his father would give him if Rafe Cameron showed up here tonight.

Across from him, Zach, another boy from the party—senior, shaggy blond hair, still reeking of weed—sat cross-legged on the cot.

“So you play?” Zach asked, tossing the question out casually, like they weren’t sitting in a holding cell waiting for their parents.

Mason rubbed a hand over his face, chuckling. “Yeah, quarterback. Sophomore. Started varsity last season.”

Zach whistled low. “Not bad, little man. You got an arm?”

Mason grinned crookedly, leaning forward. “Strongest in the county. You’ll see when I take state.” His words slurred together, but the pride in his tone was loud.

Meanwhile, Lara was across the hall, gripping the bars of her cell like they were poison. Her glossy lips trembled as she glared at the officer behind the desk.

“Excuse me? Sir? Officer—whatever—you cannot keep me in here. This is ridiculous.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, disgust dripping off every syllable. “I want my phone call. Now.”

“Sit down,” the officer muttered, not even looking up from his paperwork.

“No, you don’t understand!” Lara’s voice pitched higher, panic threading through it. “I need to call my Aunt. She’s an attorney. She’s not gonna let this slide.” She lied, making sure it was loud enough that every officer in earshot could hear. She knew she couldn’t call her parents because she’d get in trouble, so Sarah was the next close thing.

Mason barked out a laugh from his cell, shaking his head. “Lara, sit your ass down. You sound like Maisie when she doesn’t get ice cream.”

“Shut up, Mason!” she snapped, spinning toward him, her voice echoing off the walls. Her eyes darted down at the thin bench in her cell, her nose wrinkling as she lifted the corner of the blanket with two fingers. “Oh my god—what is that? No. No, I can’t do this. I can’t stay in here.”

Zach leaned his head back, snorting at Mason. “Your sister’s kind of a trip, bro.”

Mason smirked, too out of it to care. “You have no idea. She’s the princess. Daddy’s girl. She thinks she’s above all this.” He gestured at the concrete walls, the iron bars, his words dragging with the weight of tequila. “Spoiled and annoying, but I love her, y'know? She's family, I don’t have a choice.”

Lara groaned, yanking at the bars again. “Oh my god, you’re impossible.” She turned back to the officer, her voice honeyed now, almost pleading. “Officer, please. If I could just make one call—to my aunt—it won’t even take a minute. She’ll take care of it. I promise.”

The officer sighed, finally lifting his gaze. “Sit down, young lady, before I add disorderly conduct to your charge.”

Her jaw dropped, eyes wide with outrage. “Charge? Are you kidding me?”

Mason snickered, kicking his foot lazily against the bars. “Better get comfy, Lara. Looks like we’re staying a while.”

Lara shot him a death glare, her nails tapping against the bars. “You’re such an idiot, Mason. Dad’s going to kill you.”

Mason smirked wider, eyes heavy, head falling back against the wall again. “Good thing I’m in here then, huh? Can’t kill me if I’m already locked up.”

Zach laughed, shaking his head. “Yo, you Camerons are wild.”

“Tell me about it,” Mason muttered, eyes fluttering shut, sinking deeper into the comfort of drunken oblivion.

Catherine’s thighs trembled, barely keeping her balance with just her knees digging into the mattress. Rafe held her up like she weighed nothing, one hand locked around her wrists, the other guiding her hips back onto him again and again. The blank ghostface mask stared back from the mirror, and she swore it made every pulse between her legs sharper, hotter.

“Fuck—look at you,” Rafe growled, slamming into her so hard her tits bounced with each thrust. His mask tilted, watching the way her body shuddered. “You like this? You like being ruined by a fuckin’ psycho in a mask?”

Her moan was half answer, half broken sob.

“Say it,” he demanded, landing a hard slap on her ass, the sting blooming across her skin. “Tell me you like it, Catherine.”

“I—I like it,” she gasped, her voice catching as another sharp thrust jolted her forward. Her chest hit the matress for a moment, nipples pebbled against the sheets before he yanked her back by her wrists.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarled. His palm cracked across her ass again, harder this time, watching the red bloom under his handprint. “Your little pussy’s dripping for me—so fuckin’ needy for Ghostface.”

She whimpered, thighs quaking as she tried to hold herself up, but he kept her steady, fucking her like she was weightless. Her reflection was obscene—hair sticking to her damp forehead, tits bouncing wildly with every brutal thrust, eyes glazed as she stared at herself.

“You see that?” Rafe’s voice was ragged now, the mask still grinning its hollow grin in the glass. “That’s my girl. My pretty wife who can’t stop clenching on me. Look at the way you’re falling apart. Look at how good you take it.”

Another sharp smack to her ass made her cry out, and he laughed darkly, grinding in deeper, almost lifting her clean off the bed. “Bet you’ll be thinking about this mask every time I touch you now, huh? Gonna make you beg me to wear it again.”

The cheap plastic mask had started to fog on the inside, his hot breath echoing back against his face with every ragged exhale. It only made his pace rougher, hips snapping forward like he was trying to break her in half. Catherine was a mess in front of the mirror, trembling thighs keeping her barely balanced, her arms pinned mercilessly behind her back.

The sight of that faceless mask looming over her in the reflection made her clench around him so hard she could barely breathe. It wasn’t Rafe’s face she saw—it was Ghostface bending her in half, pounding into her until her tits bounced against her chest like he owned every inch of her.

“Fuck, you’re sick,” Rafe panted, his voice muffled through the mask, sounding more unhinged for it. “Getting off on this— bent over like a whore for a killer.”

Her whimper cracked into a moan when his hand came down on her ass again, the sting sharp enough to make her buck forward.

“Don’t run from it,” he snarled, jerking her back into place. “Take it. Take it like my good little slut.”

Her knees slid an inch on the sheets, and she cried out, trying to steady herself, but he only drove in harder, lifting her hips higher until she was practically hanging in the air, wrists burning in his grip.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, sweat dripping down his temples beneath the suffocating plastic. His chest heaved, breath loud and heavy, the mask making it sound like some perverse monster breathing down her neck. “You fuckin’ love it. You love when I use you like this, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, I love it,” Catherine choked out, her eyes glued to the mirror. Her reflection was humiliating—makeup smudged, mouth slack, body jolting with every thrust—and she couldn’t look away.

“That’s my girl,” he growled, his voice wrecked. His hips smacked against her with brutal rhythm, each thrust punctuated by the obscene slap of skin on skin. “My good girl…my little wife. You’re perfect—fuck—you’re perfect for me.”

Her thighs shook harder, threatening to give out, but he held her up, forcing her to stay open for him. Another smack to her ass made her squeal, her whole body jerking as the sting blended with the ache between her legs.

“You’re dripping all over me,” he gritted, his pace vicious.

She let out a strangled moan, forehead pressing to the mirror as her body quaked. The mask’s blank eyes stared back at her, the white plastic shining with a sheen of sweat and fog from his breath, and it made her pulse pound even harder.

Rafe groaned behind it, breath ragged, almost animalistic now. “Shit—you’re gonna make me lose it. Keep lookin’ at yourself. Don’t you dare look away.”

The bed rocked beneath them, the whole room filled with the sound of flesh, of breath, of the mask squeaking slightly against his sweat-soaked skin.

Her arms gave out the second he released her wrists. Catherine collapsed forward, chest pressed to the mattress, face tilted toward the mirror. Through her lashes, she caught the reflection—her hair plastered to her damp cheeks, mouth slack, and behind her, the towering figure of Rafe still buried in her.

He groaned low, the sound muffled by the mask as he dragged his palm over her ass. Red handprints bloomed across her skin, raw from his spanking. He rubbed them like he was admiring his work, then shoved her hips forward a little, cock slipping free with a wet drag that made them both gasp. A string of slick clung between them, glistening in the dim light.

“Fuck…” he muttered, eyes glued to the way her ruined cunt throbbed, still gaping around nothing. For a second, the thought flickered—how easy it would be to shove into her asshole, take her completely, split her open until she cried. His cock twitched at the idea, but the sweat pooling under the mask made him growl in frustration, chest heaving like he was suffocating. Too hot. Too tight.

“That sweet ass'd have to wait, baby,” he rasped, giving her ass a sharp slap that sent her squealing into the mattress. “But you’d take it, wouldn’t you? You'd take anything I give you.”

Before she could answer, he pushed back into her pussy in one brutal thrust. Catherine whimpered, the sound breaking in her throat as her body clenched around him like she never wanted to let go.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, pounding into her harder now, the mask squeaking against his sweat-soaked skin with each ragged breath. His chest burned, lungs screaming, but he couldn’t stop. The suffocating heat of the plastic only pushed him closer to the edge.

Her whimpers grew louder, more desperate, and when he finally tore the mask off, Catherine’s head snapped up at the sight of him in the mirror. His short hair was a mess, sticking up with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, sweat dripping from his forehead to his jaw. His eyes—clear, unmasked—were locked on her.

“Shit, baby,” Rafe panted, fucking into her harder, the bed creaking under their weight. “Look at how you squeeze me just from seeing my face. You like that better than the mask, huh?”

Her walls clamped down on him so tight it knocked the breath out of his chest. He laughed, almost delirious, voice rough and wild. “Yeah, you do. My filthy little wife, all it takes is one look at me, and you’re ready to break.”

His pace turned brutal, relentless, his hips snapping into her ass so hard the sound cracked through the room. Catherine’s nails clawed at the sheets, her cries raw and needy, her whole body trembling like it couldn’t take another second.

“Fuck, Catherine—” Rafe’s voice dropped into a growl, his forehead damp with sweat as his eyes rolled back. “You’re milking me—shit—you’re gonna make me cum, baby…”

Her whimper hitched, high and broken, and that was it. He slammed deep and stayed there, cock pulsing as he spilled inside her, groaning loud enough to shake the walls. His hands grabbed her ass, spreading her open to watch it leak out around him, the mess dripping down her thighs.

“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his thumb through the cum already sliding out. He smeared it up over her swollen pussy lips, pushed it back in just to watch her shudder and cry out. “Look at this mess. My good wife…made for me. You’ll wear it for me, won’t you?”

Catherine nodded weakly, face pressed to the mattress, tears streaking down her cheeks as she whimpered at the overstimulation. Her cunt fluttered helplessly around his cock as he lazily pumped back into her, spreading the wet heat of his release deeper.

“Yeah,” Rafe muttered, still breathless, sweat dripping from his brow onto her back. He gave her one last sharp slap on her ass, watching the handprint bloom even brighter. “That’s my girl. Milk me, baby.”

Rafe didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried inside her, grinding his hips forward as if he could force his cum deeper. Each lazy thrust pushed more of his mess out, slicking her thighs, staining the sheets. When he finally did drag his cock free, it left her gaping, dripping, and he couldn’t resist slamming back into her again, chasing the wet sound it made when his release spilled out a second time.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, pulling back once more only to stuff her full again, filling her until it leaked around the base of his cock. “You’re so messy for me. My own little cum dump.”

Catherine whimpered into the sheets, her body quaking with every push. She couldn’t even tell if she was begging him to stop or begging for more—the words slurred together into soft cries of his name.

Rafe dragged his cock free, watching the thick spill of white slide out of her swollen cunt. He rubbed the head against her folds, smearing it in, groaning at the way she twitched. “Never seen anything prettier,” he muttered, slapping his cock lightly against her clit just to hear her squeal.

He pushed her hip, hauling her limp body onto her back, grabbed her ankle suddenly and pulling her close to spread her open in front of him. Her thighs trembled as he shoved them apart, one hand keeping her ankle pinned high, the other tracing down the slick mess between her legs.

“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes dark and wild. Her cunt was puffy, pink, dripping cum in obscene rivulets down her ass. He spat on it anyway, spit sliding over her folds and mixing with the mess already there. She gasped, head thrashing side to side.

“You don’t even need lube,” he said, voice low and mocking. He pressed two fingers inside without warning, then shoved a third in to the knuckle. Catherine’s back arched violently, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.

“Rafe—fuck—”

Her cunt squeezed around his fingers, so swollen and overstimulated she didn’t know if she was coming or crying. Her nails clawed at the sheets, legs shaking in the air.

“That’s it,” he rasped, curling his fingers deep, pumping them into her until her stomach clenched. “Cry my name.”

Her walls clamped down, fluttering so hard he could feel her break apart again, another orgasm tearing through her raw body. Tears streaked her cheeks as she sobbed his name, voice wrecked.

Rafe’s cock twitched at the sight, only half hard but straining as he wrapped his free hand around it. He stroked himself slow, groaning as his eyes stayed locked on her ruined, fluttering cunt stretched around his fingers.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pumping himself harder, eyes glazed with lust. “Just look at you. Don’t even know if it hurts or if it feels good, do you?” He slammed his fingers in deeper, thumb circling her clit until she screamed. “That’s my fuckin’ girl. Falling apart just for me.”

Her body bowed off the bed, thighs quaking, while Rafe stroked his cock faster, his eyes devouring every twitch, every cry, every tremor that ripped through her.

Rafe’s pace on her cunt grew merciless, three long fingers pistoning in and out until Catherine was writhing beneath him. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand working her open filled the room, and her head thrashed on the pillow, sweat gluing strands of hair to her flushed face. Her voice cracked, a broken cry of his name tearing free as she clenched around him and came again, her whole body shaking violently with the force of it.

Her slick drenched his hand, running down his wrist, and only made him groan harder. His cock throbbed in his other hand as he dragged it against the inside of her trembling thigh, smearing precum across her skin while he stroked himself rough and fast. His hips jerked with every tug, desperate groans spilling from his chest.

“Fuck, baby,” he panted, voice ragged, “you’re so wet for me—making a mess all over my hand.”

Catherine’s eyes were glassy, lashes heavy with tears, but her trembling hand reached down between her legs anyway. When he spilled against her thigh, hot spurts of cum marking her skin, she whimpered. “You’re wasting it,” she whispered hoarsely, voice cracked but sure. “You’re supposed to fill me, Ray.”

Her manicured fingers gathered his release where it dripped down her thigh, pushing it back inside her swollen, agape cunt. The sight nearly undid him again. Her eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as she moaned, shoving her fingers deep until she stretched herself wide, the cum coating every knuckle.

Rafe leaned back on his heels, chest heaving, watching her through half-lidded eyes. His whole body glistened with sweat, muscles taut and shining in the low light, his cock still half-hard and heavy in his hand. Every twitch of her body, every whimper from her lips, sent another pulse of heat down his spine.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he rasped, his voice somewhere between reverence and obsession. He stroked himself slowly now, savoring the sight of her cunt swallowing her own fingers, slick dripping down to the sheets. Catherine panted, her body spent, but still she pushed her hand deeper, arching her back in desperation, too far gone to stop even though she looked ready to collapse.

Rafe’s breath came in sharp, broken pants. He couldn’t resist anymore. He crawled forward, muscles rippling under the sheen of sweat, until his chest pressed against hers. Her nipples were hard and slick, rubbing against his skin as he captured her open mouth in a messy, heated kiss. Their teeth clashed, tongues tangling, her moans swallowed down by his lips.

His cock brushed her hand as she fingered herself, the thick weight of him dragging over her knuckles, smearing more of his cum across her skin. He groaned into her mouth at the contact, rutting forward just enough to let her feel how hard he still was.

“God, Cath,” he murmured against her lips, voice trembling with need, “you’re going to fucking kill me.”

Her fingers stuttered inside her, but he grabbed her wrist and shoved them deeper, making her arch with a sharp cry. He kissed her again, rough and desperate, his cock pressing against her soaked palm as if demanding attention. Every inch of her was wrecked, trembling, stretched and slick, but the sight of her falling apart like this only drove him further into madness.

Her trembling hand slid down his slick, hard length, guiding him where she needed him most. Their eyes locked in for a heartbeat—his wild, glassy and feral, hers blown wide with exhaustion and hunger—and then she pushed his cock into her swollen, dripping cunt.

They moaned in unison, the sound raw and desperate, like two people who’d been starving for years. Catherine’s back arched as she sank him inside, and her other hand trailed up the ridges of his abs, over his heaving chest, until it curled around the back of his neck. She tugged his sweaty hair hard, pulling his face closer, forcing him to look right into her ruined expression as he began to thrust.

Drool slipped from the corner of her lips, running down her chin, and Rafe groaned at the sight, his panting almost animalistic.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he rasped, his voice breaking with exhaustion and need, “look at you—fucking drooling for me, can’t even hold yourself together.”

Her moan shook through her, fingers yanking at his hair like she’d drown without him. He pushed deep, slow, every roll of his hips measured, dragging against her walls until she shuddered.

“You’re so fuckin’ good for me,” he whispered, praise slurring into filth as his mouth brushed her ear. “My perfect wife. My tight little wife. Always so ready for me to knock you up again, huh?”

“Yes,” Catherine whimpered, nails biting into his scalp. “Don’t waste it this time. Fill me, Rafe. Give me everything.”

He groaned, head tipping back for a moment, before he leaned over her again. His palm, pressed into the mattress beside her head for balance, suddenly slipped on the sweat-damp sheets, and his whole body collapsed onto her smaller frame.

The weight crushed her into the bed, his body heat smothering, his chest heavy on hers. Catherine gasped, teeth sinking into his shoulder as the pressure stole her breath. But she didn’t stop him. She arched into it, into him, her legs trembling as he kept rolling his hips deep, grinding his cock into her until the wet sounds filled the dark room.

“Fuck—bite me harder,” he growled, groaning when her teeth sank into his skin. “Mark me. Let everyone see who I belong to.”

Her nails dug into his back, dragging over his slick muscles, and he shivered at the sting.

“You like that, don’t you?” he panted into her ear, hips still pushing deep and slow. “Like being under me, crushed by me, bred by me.”

Her body answered before her lips did—tightening, fluttering, sucking him in like she couldn’t get enough.

“Rafe,” she cried, broken and desperate, “I love you—I love your cock, I love when you’re inside me—”

“Say it again,” he snarled, pushing so deep her body bowed under him. “Say it while I’m fucking you.”

“I love you—God, I love you, please, don’t stop—”

His mouth crashed onto hers, teeth and tongue and hunger, her drool smeared between them as their kiss turned sloppy and frantic. His cock dragged inside her with brutal, aching slowness, every inch sinking deep as if he were carving himself into her body.

“You’re mine,” he muttered against her lips, voice raw. “Always mine. My wife, my perfect little cum slut. Gonna fuckin’ breed you until you’re dripping for me for days.”

“Yes,” she moaned, tugging his hair so hard he groaned. “Fill me, Rafe—please, fill me again.”

His hips stuttered, his forehead pressed to hers, their sweaty bodies tangled and shaking. He couldn’t look away from her face—even ruined, even crying, even drooling—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And she was his. He still couldn't believe it. Even after all of these years,

"'M the luckiest husband alive."

Mason sat cross-legged on the floor of his shared cell, tossing a balled-up napkin toward the corner like it was a football. Zach leaned back against the wall, smirking.

“Man, this is nothin’,” Zach said, stretching his arms out. “Got tossed in here twice last year. One time for sneakin’ weed for Mr. Leeroy. Chill.”

Mason chuckled, though it came out sluggish and thick. “Yeah, no, I'm fine. Just another Tuesday,” he slurred, shaking his head. “Just another locker room, except, y’know, concrete walls and no showers.”

“Yeah, no coach yellin’ either,” Zach quipped.

“Exactly.” Mason let his head tip back, grinning lazily. “Coach would love this, though.”

Meanwhile, across the hall, Lara had both hands wrapped around the bars, glaring daggers at the nearest officer. Her glossy hair was mussed from running her fingers through it, and her nose wrinkled every time she glanced at the dingy cot in her cell.

“Excuse me!” she snapped. “You cannot keep me in here. I’m calling my aunt. Right now. I know my rights. You have to let me make a phone call.”

The officer didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “Sit down.”

“I’m not sitting down,” Lara fired back, her chin jutting out stubbornly. “Do you even know who my family is? My father is Rafe Cameron. He’ll have you fired before breakfast.”

Mason snorted, elbowing Zach. “She pulls the Dad card every time she doesn’t get what she wants.”

“Shut up, Mason!” Lara screeched, whipping her head toward him. “This isn’t funny!”

Zach laughed, shaking his head. “Your sister’s something, bro.”

“She’s dramatic,” Mason corrected, smirking. “Always has been. She cried once ‘cause Starbucks spelled her name wrong.”

“I did not!” Lara barked, turning back to the officer. “Officer, listen to me. I’m a minor. I have rights. And I demand my phone call.”

Finally, the officer sighed and glanced up, clearly fed up. “Relax, princess. We already called your father.”

The color drained from Lara’s face. Her hands slipped from the bars, her lips parting in horror. “You what?”

Her voice cracked, thin and fragile. “You what?”

For the first time in her twelve years, Lara cursed. “Oh, shit.”

Mason sat up straighter, his stomach twisting violently. “Wait, wait, wait.” His smirk fell. “You called my dad?”

The words were barely out before his body gave up on him. He leaned over to the side of the cell, retching hard, tequila and cheap beer splattering the concrete. Zach jumped back, cursing, while Mason groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Bro, gross,” Zach muttered, pulling his shirt up over his nose.

Across the hall, Lara’s face contorted, eyes watering as the stench hit her. “Oh my god, Mason! Are you kidding me?”

She pressed her hands to her nose, pacing frantically in her tiny cell. “Dad’s gonna—he’s gonna—” Her voice cracked again, tears stinging her eyes. She could see it: her father’s disappointed look, the way his jaw would clench when he realized his princess had lied to his face.

“He told me no,” Lara whispered, horrified. “He told me no and I—” Her throat bobbed, and she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against the cold metal bars.

Now she was trapped in a cell that reeked of vomit, her father on his way, and no amount of doe-eyed excuses would save her from this one.

The room still smelled like sex and sweat, the Ghostface mask glaring from its place on the nightstand like some mocking reminder of what they’d just done. Catherine lay sprawled beneath the sheets, her silk nightgown rucked up around her thighs, Rafe’s bare body pressed hard against her side. One of his hands was cupping her breast lazily through the thin fabric, the other tucked under his head as though the world was quiet and nothing was wrong.

Catherine shifted, her voice quiet but edged. “Rafe.”

He hummed, half-distracted, nuzzling the curve of her neck.

“Where are the kids? You have to tell me at some point.”

That snapped him out of his haze. His eyes flew open, brows jerking up like he’d just been doused with cold water. He blinked, stilled, then tried to bury his face against her skin again like maybe she’d let it go.

She didn’t.

“Don’t do that,” Catherine warned, her hand pushing at his chest. “Come on. Are they in their beds? Or did you drop them at Sarah’s because I wouldn’t be able to control my anger? I'm fine, I don’t have any anger in me anymore... Just tell me.”

His throat worked, a dry swallow, before he carefully pulled his hand from her chest and rolled away. He sat up at the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand down his face, voice so low she almost didn’t catch it. “They’re…at the police station.”

Catherine shot upright, her nightgown falling back into place as her eyes widened in shock. “Excuse me?”

Rafe stood, moving into the walk-in closet like a man retreating from a battlefield, reaching for a clean pair of boxers. Catherine followed, her bare feet silent against the hardwood but her voice sharp enough to cut through his back.

“You’re telling me—” She paused, disbelief coloring every word. “—that the cops took our kids and you didn’t think to mention it? Not before, not during—oh my god, Rafe.”

He stepped into his boxers, running both hands through his damp hair. Now that he thought about it, maybe letting the cops haul them off hadn’t been the smartest call. Not with Catherine finding out like this, not when her fury made the air between them vibrate.

“I was gonna fix it,” he muttered. “I’ll go get Lara.”

Catherine’s jaw dropped. “Lara?” Her voice pitched higher. “And Mason, right?”

“She’s a kid,” Rafe shot back, finally turning toward her. “She doesn’t belong in a damn holding cell. Mason—” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Mason could use a night there. Maybe then he’d learn to listen to me.”

Catherine’s face turned red, fury igniting her veins. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” She yanked one of her coats off the hanger beside her, sliding her arms into it with shaking hands. “Our son is fifteen, Rafe! He’s not some criminal—he’s a stupid teenager who snuck out to a party. You don’t leave him in a cell to ‘teach him a lesson.’”

Rafe stepped closer, trying to soften his tone, even leaning in to kiss her temple. “Cath, come on—”

She shoved him back, glaring. “Do not touch me right now.”

His jaw worked, frustration clawing at him. “You’re too soft on him. You always have been. That kid runs circles around you.”

“And you’re too fucking strict!” she snapped, shoving past him toward the closet door. “What’s next? Make him do time with murderers at county lockup? Maybe that’ll teach him respect?”

“Don’t be dramatic—”

“I’m going to pick up our kids,” she cut in, her voice like steel.

Rafe narrowed his eyes, confused, almost mocking. “What?”

She spun on him, coat half-zipped, eyes blazing. “To pick up Mason. Both of them. Because apparently one of us still has their head on straight.”

She stormed across the room, her nightgown clinging to her thighs, one strap slipped dangerously low on her shoulder. Rafe, still half-naked, yanked on a pair of sweats, his voice sharp.

“Baby, you are not walking out like that.” He grabbed a hoodie off the closet chair, pulling it over his head. “You’re in a damn nightgown. What are you gonna do, flash the whole precinct while you scream at cops?”

“I don’t care if I walk in naked!” Catherine snapped, her fingers digging into her coat zipper until it closed halfway. “My kids are sitting in a cell right now because his father thought it would be fun to play punishment games instead of parenting!”

“It wasn’t a game,” Rafe barked, stepping into her path. “I told you—I’ll get Lara. Mason can sweat it out for one night. Tomorrow after work, I’ll go pick him up.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Tomorrow? After work? Rafe, he’s a kid! He’s scared, and you’re just gonna let him rot?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. He shoved his feet into sneakers, tugging the laces with more force than necessary. “He’ll live. Better he’s in a cell than passed out in some stranger’s bed with a bottle in his hand.”

“Mason wouldn't— You are unbelievable.” Catherine’s voice cracked, equal parts rage and hurt. She spun toward the dresser, snatching her car keys.

Rafe lunged forward, catching her wrist. “Baby. Stop. You’re not thinking straight.”

She ripped her arm away. “The only one not thinking straight is you!”

Her bare legs carried her fast down the hall, the faintest hitch in her step betraying the ache between her thighs from the rough way he’d just had her. Rafe cursed under his breath, grabbed his wallet, and bolted after her.

“Catherine!” His voice boomed down the stairwell. “Don’t you walk out on me like this, baby!”

She ignored him, hitting the foyer in long strides, her hair a mess, her coat flaring around her. She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of shoes, wincing slightly as she bent, then stormed out the front door.

By the time Rafe hit the garage, she was already sliding into her car. He yanked the handle. Locked. He banged his palm against the window.

“Open the door.” His voice was sharp, commanding.

Catherine rolled it down an inch, eyes like fire. “Get out of my way, Rafe.”

“You’re not going dressed like that—”

“I said move!” She slammed the car into reverse.

“Fuck!” Rafe spat, stumbling back as her headlights washed over him. He sprinted to his own car, throwing himself into the driver’s seat, muttering curses under his breath. “Goddamn woman’s gonna kill me.”

Engines roared almost in sync as both cars shot down the quiet street. Catherine gripped the wheel so tightly her knuckles whitened, jaw clenched, heart pounding. Her phone lit up in the cup holder, vibrating against the plastic.

Rafe was calling.

She swore under her breath and hit decline.

The phone rang again. Decline. Again. Decline.

On the fourth try, she answered with a snarl. “What?”

“You better turn that car around,” Rafe’s voice thundered through the speaker. “Go home, Catherine. I swear to god, if you step foot in that station dressed like that—”

“Then what?” she shot back. “You gonna ground me too? Lock me in a fucking cell until I ‘learn a lesson’?”

“Don’t fucking joke,” he snapped. “This isn’t a game, Cath. You walk in there looking like you just rolled out of bed—looking like you just got fucked—and every cop in there’s gonna see—”

Her eyes flicked to the rearview, catching the glow of his headlights tailing her. “Maybe they’ll see a mother who gives a damn about her kids. Can you imagine that?”

He growled low, like she’d sucker punched him. “You think I don’t care? I care enough to make sure Mason doesn’t turn into a goddamn screw-up. You keep coddling him, he’ll never learn.”

“And you think throwing him in a cell makes you father of the year?” Catherine’s voice broke. “He’s our baby, Rafe. Our first. And you left him there.”

For a second, silence filled the line, just the sound of their engines humming down the dark road. Then he muttered, softer but no less raw, “You’re too soft. That boy’s gonna eat you alive.”

“Better that than him hating you,” she hissed, slamming the phone down into the passenger seat.

The two cars pulled into the police station lot at the same time, tires squealing. Catherine killed her engine, yanked the keys out, and threw open the door. She limped slightly as she stormed toward the entrance, coat flapping. Rafe pulled in beside her, slamming his door so hard the echo carried across the asphalt.

“Catherine!” he barked, striding after her. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”

But she didn’t turn, didn’t slow. All she saw was the glowing sign above the precinct doors, the thought of her kids sitting behind cold bars gnawing at her chest. And Rafe’s footsteps heavy behind her, his presence like a shadow, his fury trailing her every move.

The glass doors of the police station swung open with a violent shove as Catherine stormed in, coat pulled tight around her, bare legs flashing beneath it. The fluorescent lights were blinding after the dark drive, but she didn’t falter—her voice cut across the lobby like a blade.

“Mason and Larissa Cameron. I want to see my kids. Now.”

A desk officer looked up from his paperwork, blinking at the woman standing there in nothing but a coat and flats, her hair still mussed from the bedroom, eyes blazing.

“Ma’am—”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” Catherine snapped, stepping up to the counter and slapping her hand against it. “Two minors. Cameron. Mason and Lara Cameron. You put them in a cell like criminals, and I want to see them.”

Behind her, the glass doors hissed open again. Rafe walked in, slower, controlled, his presence filling the room as though he owned it. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on Catherine as though daring her to keep going.

“Catherine,” he said low, warning in his tone. “Calm down.”

She spun on him, eyes sharp. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down when you’re the reason they’re in here.”

That caught the officer’s attention. He sat up straighter. “Sir—do you have identification?”

Rafe plastered on his best poker face, pulling his wallet from his pocket and flipping it open. “Yeah. I’m their father.” He slid his license across the counter with a charm that came too easily, the kind that had always pissed Catherine off. “Got a call they were here. Just came back into town.”

“Back into town?” Catherine scoffed. “You’ve been here the whole damn time—”

“Cath.” His tone was sharp, cutting her off. “Not. Here.”

Her nostrils flared, but she turned back toward the officer. “Where are they? I want to see them.”

The officer looked between them, uncertain. “They’re minors, so—”

“Exactly,” Catherine cut in, leaning forward. “Which means keeping them locked up like this without notifying both their parents is illegal. Do you even know how old my daughter is? She’s twelve!”

“She’s fine,” Rafe muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Catherine rounded on him again. “Fine? She’s in a cell! She’s never even stayed after curfew before, and you think she’s fine?”

That earned her a few curious stares from officers across the lobby. Rafe’s teeth clenched. He stepped in close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “Drop your voice, Catherine. Right now.”

“I won’t,” she shot back, chin high, defiant.

The officer cleared his throat. “Ma’am, sir—if you’d like, I can bring them up front. But they’re still under processing—”

“Bring them. Now,” Catherine ordered, fire in her eyes.

The officer sighed and stood, disappearing through the secured door.

Rafe’s hand shot out, gripping Catherine’s wrist before she could slam her hand on the desk again. His fingers were firm but not cruel, his voice a quiet growl. “You need to get yourself under control. You’re walking in here with your hair all messed up, limping like I just—”

Her eyes widened, heat flooding her cheeks. “Shut up.”

He smirked, wicked and unbothered. “Everyone can see it, Cath.”

She yanked her wrist free, furious, whispering back through clenched teeth, “If they weren’t already judging us, they sure as hell are now.”

Before Rafe could answer, the side door buzzed open and two officers appeared—one holding Mason by the arm, the other steering Lara forward. Mason looked pale and sweaty, his shirt stained from where he’d thrown up, his eyes glassy. Lara’s chin was high, but her eyes darted anxiously to her mother.

“Mom!” Lara called, rushing forward, only to be stopped by the officer’s hand.

Catherine’s heart cracked in two. She stretched her arms out anyway, her voice trembling. “It’s okay, baby, I’m right here.”

Rafe’s expression hardened as he looked at Mason, who was struggling to stay upright. His voice came out like steel. “You better hope I don’t ground you until graduation.”

Catherine snapped her head toward him, fury in her gaze. “Not. One. Word.”

Mason groaned, clutching his stomach. “I’d rather go back in the cell.”

Lara rolled her eyes, though tears shimmered. “Can we please just go home?”

The tension in the station was unbearable, the officers watching with thinly veiled curiosity as the Camerons stood off against each other, every word crackling like static.

Rafe got handed paperwork. The fluorescent lights of the station still buzzed in Catherine’s head as she crouched in front of her kids while Rafe filled out the documents at the desk. Her coat had slipped off one shoulder, hair messy, but she didn’t care—her eyes were locked on Mason’s pale face.

“Mason, look at me,” she said, her voice firm but low. His eyelids drooped, and he swayed slightly against the wall. “How much did you drink?”

“Not… a lot,” Mason mumbled, his breath sour with alcohol. “Just some shots. And… beer. And—”

“Jesus Christ,” Catherine muttered, running her hand down her face. “You’re fifteen.”

“I’m fine,” Mason tried to grin, but it faltered. His stomach clenched, and he gagged before swallowing hard.

“You don’t look fine.” Catherine’s brows pinched together as she brushed sweaty strands of hair from his forehead. “You’re clammy. You could’ve gotten alcohol poisoning, Mason. Do you even understand that?”

Lara stood off to the side, her arms crossed, her fairy wings bent from the scuffle earlier. “Mom, don’t start. It's embarrassing enough.”

Catherine turned sharply to her. “Embarrassed is not the same as dead, Lara. He could’ve choked on his own vomit tonight.” Her voice cracked, and she sucked in a breath, forcing herself to steady. “You both could’ve gotten hurt. You lied to us. Do you have any idea how scared I was when I saw your story?”

Lara shifted guiltily, chewing on her lip, but stayed silent.

Behind them, Rafe slapped the pen down on the counter, muttering something under his breath as he straightened. The officer slid his ID back across the desk, and Rafe shoved it into his pocket before stalking toward them.

“Done,” he grunted. “Let’s go.”

Catherine stood, one hand on Mason’s back to steady him.

Outside, the night air was cool, sharp against their skin as they stepped into the parking lot. Rafe’s car was parked directly behind Catherine’s, and he tossed his keys in his hand.

“Get in my car,” he said firmly, opening the back door of his truck. “I’ll bring your mom’s car tomorrow.”

Catherine didn’t move. Her hand tightened protectively on Mason’s shoulder. “No,” she said flatly. “You should go book yourself a hotel room, Rafe. Come home tomorrow.”

Mason’s head snapped up despite his dizziness, eyes wide. “Wait—what?” He looked between them, realization dawning. His mother wasn’t screaming at him, wasn’t unleashing her usual lecture—because she was mad at his father. “Oh my God. You fucked up.”

“Shut up, Mason,” Lara hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him toward their mother’s car. “Don’t make it worse.”

“But—”

“Mason.” Lara’s tone cut sharper than Catherine’s ever did tonight. “Shut. Up.”

The kids slid into Catherine’s car without hesitation, Mason slumping against the window, Lara buckling her seatbelt with trembling hands. Rafe stood frozen by his truck, watching. The sting of it hit him hard—not even Lara, his girl, had chosen him. His chest tightened, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself toward his driver’s seat.

As Catherine started the car, Rafe’s headlights flicked on behind them. Her phone buzzed on the console. His name lit up the screen.

She ignored it.

In the backseat, Mason groaned. “Mom, we were gonna come home, I swear. We were literally about to leave when the cops showed up. I didn’t even know why they came.”

Catherine gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white. The words hovered on the tip of her tongue: your father was going to live you here. But she swallowed them back like poison. The kids didn’t need to know—not tonight, not when Mason was green in the face and Lara was still trembling.

“You were going to come home,” Catherine repeated, her tone sharp. “After lying to us. After sneaking out. After drinking yourself sick?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Mason insisted, voice cracking. “It’s not like I planned to—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Catherine snapped, finally glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “You planned every detail. You thought you were smarter than us. Do you even realize what you risked? What you put your sister through?”

Mason slumped in his seat, too drunk to muster much of an argument, but before he could even stammer out a defense, Lara straightened.

“It wasn’t just Mason,” she blurted, her voice trembling but strong. “It wasn’t. The sneaking out? That was my idea. I told him we could make it work.”

Catherine’s brows knit together, her jaw tightening. “So you both lied to me. You both risked yourselves like this?” Her tone wavered between fury and heartbreak, like she was pulling herself back from exploding. She sucked in a breath and shook her head. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Right now, I’m too mad, and if I start, I’ll break your hearts—and I don't want to do that tonight.”

Silence swallowed the car after that. Only Catherine’s ringtone broke through, again and again, Rafe’s name flashing across the screen. She ignored it every single time.

When they finally reached the house, Catherine killed the engine, her movements brisk. “Inside,” she hushed, holding the door open for Mason, who staggered slightly. Lara slipped past, head down, clutching her bag to her chest.

Rafe pulled in behind them, and he climbed out, his expression unreadable under the streetlight. Catherine didn’t look at him. She couldn’t—not right now.

Mason mumbled, “I’m going to my room,” already dragging himself toward the stairs.

“I’m showering and going to bed,” Lara added quickly, disappearing down the hallway before Catherine could respond.

That left Catherine walking in the kitchen, pulling open the cabinet for Tylenol, filling a glass of water with one hand. The hum of the fridge was the only sound until she felt Rafe’s presence at her back.

“Baby,” his voice was low, rough.

She spun, medicine bottle in hand, eyes flashing. “Don’t. Not right now.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked. “We need to talk. You act like I had bad intentions. I didn’t. I was trying to teach Mason a lesson. Lara too.”

“By leaving them in a cell?” Catherine’s voice shot higher, but she quickly lowered it, not wanting to wake Maisie or Bradley. “You were getting your dick wet while our kids were behind bars, Rafe. Do you even hear yourself?”

His nostrils flared. “I wasn’t—Jesus, Cath. That’s not what it was. I didn’t mean harm. Opposite of harm. They need to understand consequences. They sneak out, they drink underage? They need to feel how bad it can get.”

Catherine set the water down hard on the counter, the sound sharp. “They already felt it! They were terrified. They’ll remember this. But if you keep pushing like this—if you keep being the boogeyman instead of their dad—they’ll just find other ways to sneak out. They’ll hide it better. And then we won’t know where they are or who they’re with. And that’s more dangerous, Rafe.”

Her voice cracked, the fear beneath the anger finally spilling through. “We can ground them, we can lecture them, we can scare them with words. But leaving them there? Making them think we wouldn’t come?” She shook her head, chest heaving. “That’s not parenting. That’s abuse.”

Rafe’s shoulders slumped. For a second, he looked younger, like the boy who used to pick fights just to cover how lost he felt. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slow. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But I still think Mason should’ve stayed. Just for one night. He needs to know I’m not messing around.”

That was it. The last drop.

Catherine’s face hardened as she grabbed the Tylenol and water, her night gown swishing as she moved past him. “Guest bedroom,” she said coldly. “Until you realize how wrong you are, that’s where you’ll sleep.”

“Cath—”

“No.” Her voice was sharp, final. She didn’t even look at him as she marched down the hall, medicine in hand. Mason needed her. Rafe could sit in his stubbornness alone.

Rafe stayed rooted in the kitchen, staring at the empty space she left behind, the sound of her footsteps fading up the stairs. For the first time all night, the silence felt heavier than the fight.

Catherine padded quietly up the stairs, the glass of water steady in one hand, the Tylenol rattling in the other. Mason’s door was shut, but the faint sound of him moving around inside—drawers opening, clothes rustling—told her he hadn’t collapsed yet.

She pushed the door open without knocking. Bradley was asleep and Mason was half-sprawled on his bed, still in his Anakin costume pants, shirt long gone. His face was pale, hair stuck to his forehead. He looked up with a sheepish, drunken grin.

“Hey, Mom.”

Catherine’s heart twisted. “Don’t ‘hey Mom’ me.” She set the glass on his nightstand, then sat on the edge of his bed. “Sit up.”

He groaned. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will.” Her tone was firm, no room for negotiation. She pulled him up by the shoulder, tucking a pillow behind him. “Two pills. Swallow.”

Mason obeyed sluggishly, nearly spilling water down his chin. She wiped it with a napkin from his nightstand, sighing deeply.

“Do you feel sick again?”

“Maybe.”

She brushed his damp hair back. “If you throw up, you turn on your side, you understand? You don’t lie flat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, his eyes drooping.

Her expression softened despite herself. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’ll talk tomorrow. And Mason—” Her voice sharpened again. “I mean it. You scared me tonight. You scared me so badly I thought I’d be sick myself. You don’t get to do that to me again, okay?”

Mason mumbled something incoherent, but she knew he heard her. His head lolled back onto the pillow, already drifting. She lingered a moment longer, watching his chest rise and fall, making sure his color wasn’t fading. Only when she was certain he’d stay down did she push herself up and leave the room.

The hallway light caught her tired reflection in the glass frames on the wall. Her bare legs trembled faintly under her nightgown as she made her way toward the master bedroom.

She pushed open the door and slipped inside, rubbing at her temple. The soft glow of the lamp made everything look warmer, calmer than it felt. She wanted to crawl into bed, curl under the covers, and shut her eyes to the world.

But then she heard his footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Rafe.

The door creaked, and there he was—broad shoulders tense, jaw set, his eyes unreadable. He stepped in like he owned the space, like he wasn’t the reason her chest was still burning.

“Baby,” he started, his voice low.

She turned immediately, holding up her hand. “No. Don’t. I was serious about the guest room.”

He froze, frowning. “What?”

“I can’t look at you right now,” she said, her voice shaking, though she fought to steady it. “I’m mad at you, Rafe. Really mad. You crossed a line tonight.”

His brow furrowed deeper. “You want me to sleep down the hall like some stranger?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “I don’t want you in this bed. Not tonight.”

Rafe let out a bitter laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jesus, baby. You’re really gonna ice me out like this?”

She glared at him, arms crossing over her chest. “Yes. Because every time I close my eyes, I’ll see our kids faces in that cell. And then I’ll see yours, walking into our room with that stupid mask, like none of it mattered. Like our kids didn’t matter.”

His jaw worked, his mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but then he exhaled through his nose instead. He didn’t move toward the bed, but he didn’t back away either. His eyes softened just a fraction.

“Then I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said finally, his tone resolute.

Catherine blinked. “Rafe, no.”

“If you don’t want me in the bed, fine. I’ll take the floor. But I’m not leaving this room.”

“Rafe—”

“I’m not,” he cut her off, already pulling a pillow from the bed. He dropped it onto the rug, yanked a blanket from the foot of the mattress, and spread it out with a stubbornness only he could pull off. “You’re mad at me. I get it. You don’t want me near you right now. But I’m not leaving you alone. Ever.”

She stared at him, torn between anger and heartbreak. He looked ridiculous—this six-foot-something man, folding himself down onto the rug like a guilty teenager. But he also looked… sincere. Like he couldn’t stomach sleeping behind a closed door while she was in here, furious and hurt.

“Rafe, this is insane,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’ll wake up sore. And it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want you near me.”

“Good thing the floor’s not near you, then,” he shot back, meeting her eyes with a faint, crooked smirk. But it didn’t reach his eyes. He laid back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll be right here when you stop being mad. However long that takes.”

Her throat tightened, but she turned away, slipping under the covers without another word. She switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Silence stretched between them, heavy, raw. Catherine lay rigid on her side of the bed, listening to his steady breaths from the floor.

In a long time, the space between them felt like a canyon.

Neither of them slept that night.

Catherine tossed and turned, her body restless beneath the sheets, every muscle wound tight from the night’s chaos. Every so often, she slipped out of bed, bare feet padding quietly across the hallway to Mason’s room. Each time she pushed the door open, she expected to find him choking, pale and unresponsive. But every time, Mason was sleeping peacefully, his messy hair splayed across the pillow, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. She would linger by the door for a minute, her heart aching with relief, then creep back to her own room.

And every time Catherine stirred, Rafe stirred too. From the floor where he lay stretched out awkwardly on a blanket, his voice would slip out into the darkness.

“Cath… I’m sorry.”

She never answered. Sometimes she pretended she hadn’t heard him. Sometimes she pulled the pillow over her head. But she always heard it—the raw edge in his voice, the way guilt clung to every word.

Lying there in the dark, Rafe’s thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. He thought of Ward. How his father had cut him off when Catherine got pregnant the first time. How Ward never called, never visited, as if Rafe was no longer his son. He thought about all the nights he sat in that house, seething, watching Ward play the role of the perfect father to Sarah and Wheezie while pretending Rafe didn’t exist.

The bitter sting of that rejection had never really left him. And now, staring at the ceiling, listening to Catherine shift restlessly above him, he realized he was in danger of becoming the same kind of father he swore he’d never be. Mason didn’t need punishment that left scars—he needed a father who showed up. Who loved him even when he screwed up. Rafe hated himself for even considering leaving his son in that cell.

By the time Catherine finally drifted into a shallow sleep in the early morning hours, Rafe was still wide awake, staring into the gray light creeping through the curtains.

When dawn broke, he quietly stood, rolling his sore shoulders from a night on the hard floor. He pulled on sweatpants and a shirt, then left the room without waking Catherine.

The first door he opened was Lara’s. She was already awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes flicked up guiltily when she saw him.

“Dad, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “About sneaking out. About lying.”

Rafe’s chest softened. He stepped inside, kneeling down to her level. “It’s okay, baby,” he said simply. “But you can’t do that again. You hear me?”

She nodded quickly. “It won’t happen again. I promise you, Dad. I just wanted to have fun with my friends, I didn’t know that would happen. And Mom—” Her little voice wavered. Then, almost shyly: “Why’s Mom so mad at you?”

Rafe hesitated, his mouth opening, then shutting again. He couldn’t tell her the truth—not when Catherine had made it clear last night that she didn’t want the kids caught in the middle. So instead, he reached over and brushed Lara’s hair. “Don’t worry about that. Just get ready for school, okay?”

Next, he went to Mason’s room. The smell hit him immediately—acidic, sour. Mason was hunched over, clutching the edge of his desk while he retched into a bin beneath it. Bradley was still in bed, groaning and covering his head with a pillow.

“Ugh, Mason, that’s disgusting!” Bradley grumbled. “You’re literally gonna kill me with that smell.”

“Shut up,” Mason muttered weakly, spitting into the bin.

Rafe stepped forward, crouching beside him. “Shit, Mase,” he said slowly, “How much did you have to drink?”

Mason froze mid-breath, lifting his head to glance at his father, eyes bloodshot and wary.

“Fuck, Mase. I’m sorry… I should’ve come picked you up sooner, maybe not call the cops on you,” Rafe continued, tone firm. “Because you’re my son. And I don’t ever want you to feel like I don’t care. But you can’t keep screwing up like this, Mason. You’re smarter than that.”

Mason wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shame flickering across his face. His brain was so smushed, he didn’t even realize the information he got— Brad did, but he didn’t want to stir more drama.

Rafe sighed and shifted his weight. “Here’s what you do: water, lots of it. Small sips. Stay away from greasy food until later. And Mason—never mix alcohol. That’s the fastest way to end up in the hospital.”

Mason groaned, flopping back into his chair. “Noted.”

“Now get yourself cleaned up and ready for school,” Rafe said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before standing.

That morning, Rafe took over the kitchen. Catherine was still asleep, so he set himself to work with the frying pan, cracking eggs into bowls and whisking like a man on a mission. He was never the cook in the family, but he figured he could at least try. The result was… questionable. Bits of shell crunched under his fork when he tasted his own portion, but it was edible enough.

He gathered the kids at the table. Maisie immediately pushed her plate away and let the omelet slide onto the floor with a deliberate clatter. “Oops.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Pick it up, baby girl.”

“No,” Maisie sing-songed, swinging her legs.

Bradley sighed dramatically, took a bite of his, and said with his mouth full, “It’s really good, Dad.” It wasn’t. His was drenched in salt.

Mason didn’t hesitate—he polished off his own plate, then snagged Lara’s when she nudged it toward him.

“I don’t have an appetite,” Lara murmured, guilt written all over her face.

Rafe let it slide, though it stung more than he admitted.

Once the kids were settled, he plated the last omelet, poured Catherine a cup of coffee, and balanced it carefully on a tray.

Upstairs, the master bedroom was still dim, Catherine curled beneath the blankets, her face buried in the pillow. He set the tray down on the nightstand and leaned over her gently, brushing a hand across her hair.

“Baby,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

She stirred, her eyes blinking open, confusion softening into wary recognition when she saw him.

Rafe held out the coffee first, then gestured to the plate. “I made breakfast. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.” He paused, his throat tight. “And I’m sorry. For all of it. For last night. For forgetting what matters.”

His voice cracked slightly, the weight of his guilt breaking through. “I was wrong, Cath. I know that now.”

Catherine rubbed at her eyes, her voice rough with sleep. “What time is it? Are the kids ready for school?”

She swung her legs off the bed, but Rafe reached out quickly, pressing a hand to her knee. “They’re up,” he said firmly. “They’re eating. Just… stay put for a minute.”

Her brows arched, her lips pressing into a line. He picked up the plate again and held it out until she reluctantly took it.

“I’m not taking you back into bed just because you cracked an egg,” Catherine muttered, balancing the plate on her lap. She forked a piece of omelet, biting into it. To her surprise, it was… actually decent. No crunch, no overwhelming salt. Perfectly edible.

Rafe chuckled when her expression softened. “See? I knew I’d win you over. The path to the heart is though the stomach of some shit.”

Her glare warned him not to push it, and he sobered, leaning his elbows onto his knees as he sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on her.

“Cath,” he said quietly. “I was wrong.”

She looked at him, fork pausing midair.

“I thought… I thought if Mason spent one night in that cell, it would wake him up. That maybe he’d learn faster if it scared him straight. But all it did was make me the kind of father I promised I’d never be.” His voice cracked, his jaw tightening as he forced the words out. “I hated Ward for what he did to us. For treating me like I was disposable. And I almost turned around and did the same thing to my own son.”

Catherine’s fork clinked against the plate as she set it down on her lap, eyes trained on him.

“I can’t let him feel the way I felt,” Rafe continued, his hands dragging down his face before resting in his lap. “Alone. Unwanted. Like his mistakes made him unworthy of love. I can’t do that to him. Not Mason. Not any of them.”

Catherine’s throat tightened, but she stayed silent, studying him.

Rafe exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I’m sorry I put my pride before our kids. And I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to fight me instead of lean on me.” He lifted his eyes to hers, raw and vulnerable. “You were right, Cath. About all of it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I can be better than last night.”

He reached over, gently resting a hand on her thigh. “I love you. I love them. And I don’t ever want to be the reason you can’t look at me the way you used to.”

Catherine swallowed, her fingers tightening around the plate. She wanted to stay mad—God, she really did—but the way he was looking at her made her heart ache. That same boyish vulnerability she’d fallen in love with years ago, shining through all the stubbornness and mistakes.

Finally, she let out a sigh and set the plate aside on the nightstand. “You’re an idiot,” she murmured, voice low and a little shaky.

Rafe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “I know.”

“And reckless. And stubborn. And you make me want to pull my hair out at least twice a day.” She shook her head, but her eyes softened as she leaned toward him. “But you’re mine. And I know you love them, Rafe. Even when you mess up, I know.”

He shifted closer, his forehead pressing against hers, his hand curling up to cup her jaw. “I’ll do better. For you. For them. I swear it.”

Catherine’s breath caught, her hand sliding over his bare shoulder, warm and solid beneath her palm. “You already are better than him, you know,” she whispered. “You’re not Ward. You never will be.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes shutting tight for a moment before he kissed her—gentle this time, nothing like the hungry desperation from last night. Just soft, grounding, full of the promise he was trying to make her believe.

When they broke apart, Catherine smiled faintly, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone. “If you think an omelet fixes everything, you’re wrong.”

He chuckled, low and relieved. “Guess I’ll just have to keep cooking then.”

Her laugh was quiet, tired but genuine, and she tugged him closer until his head rested against her chest. “You drive me crazy,” she whispered into his hair, “but I love you. And I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

Rafe wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her tight, as if letting go would undo everything. “I love you too, Cath. Always.”

“And you said some big-wigs are gonna be there?”

“Deep pockets,” you whisper, a half-smile playing on your lips.

“That’s got you excited,” he murmurs as his hand creeps up your thigh—“FUCK!” He screams, and you laugh cruelly as you stop him in his tracks, stamping your cigarette out on the back of his hand.

“Goddamnit, baby,” he grumbles as he puts his hand up to his lips, soothing the burn with his mouth. “—Lucky I like you mean.”

You don’t answer, just roll your eyes and laugh, letting your mind recalibrate on the shit that matters—the kinda shit that’ll get you out of The Cut and into a fancy-ass place like this. Maybe some deep pockets of your own.

Rafe Cameron… Trent has no idea. Sure he’s seen the movies but he doesn’t know the man behind the lens—the one who turns every girl that steps in front of it into something immortal. A sex symbol.

But you do.

“Jesus,” Trent mutters as the first mansion comes into view. “Look at this fuckin’ place.”

You look and you see exactly what you’ve been chasing…

The house glows against the dark night, pillars stretching toward the stars, every window alive with people.

A parade of luxury cars lines the curb; bass leaking through the walls as couples trickle in.

“Well fuck me,” Trent breathes, blowing a low whistle as he throws it in park, killing the engine. He leans back as he drums his fingers on the wheel. “So this is it huh? Big sex circus.”

“Somethin’ like that,” you hum.

“So,” he says again, trying to come off nonchalant, but he's far too predictable.

“Trent. We're at this party to fuck other people. If I wanted to fuck you tonight, I’d’ve just stayed home, understood?”

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he huffs at your bluntness.

“Just being honest. This is on you as much as me. There are women in there with deeper pockets than half the men. Work your magic, Trent. Use that big dick for somethin’ useful for once.”

His knuckles flex white on the steering wheel as another car glides past—foreign and expensive—glowing under the streetlights.

“Just don’t want you forgettin’ who brought you here when the drinks start flowin’ and everybody starts gettin’ ideas—”

“Relax. The one who gets sloppy at open bars is you. And I want these men to get ideas… I want them to see my potential—get us out of that shithole for good.

“For good? We just moved here, and you already wanna leave? You already want more?”

“I always want more.”

He shifts in his seat, voice roughening. “I just don’t like the idea of seein’ some rich prick gettin’ hands on what’s mine.”

“Then drop me off or close your fuckin’ eyes, Trent.”

He stares for a second, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to argue. In the end he just exhales hard through his nose, shakes his head muttering, “You’re somethin’ else, baby.”

You tilt the visor down, catching your reflection through his grimy mirror. Lipstick perfect. Hair wild in just the right way. You fix your cleavage, watching yourself smirk. “I know.”

You step out of the car as you fuss with the hem of your robe, heels gritting into the stone drive.

“So whose place is this again?” Trent asks as he steps around the car, his hand finding your lower back.

“Kelce Williams,” you breathe. “From the club.”

“Huh?” He hums as a couple breezes past you up the steps—her satin robe fluttering in the North Carolina wind, lingerie on full display when the big door swings open.

“We gonna get fired after this?” He asks weakly. “We just started—”

“Why’re you actin’ like a pussy huh?”

“Fuck you,” he chuckles but it’s thin.

“M’not gettin’ fired, Trent. You, maybe…” You mumble, adjusting your strap. “Not me. I got invited.”

“By who?” He cuts in sharp, jealousy flaring.

“It doesn’t matter, Trent,” you hiss, stomping up a few steps.

“It does fuckin’ matter,” he snaps, grabbing your arm. You rip free before his fingers even tighten.

“I don’t know, alright?” You bite out. “Got the invite slipped in with my tip. One of these rich fucks wants me here—and I’m gonna get them to invest in us. We need money to make a porn worth watchin’.”

He’s still stuck, staring at you like the thought of someone wanting you burns a hole in his chest.

“We’re at a swingers party… Again, for the second fucking time, why would I come here and fuck you? Why? What did you expect to happen, huh? You were gonna lay me out on the kitchen table and give ‘em a free show? No.”

“It’s just—”

“You think we’re at this Kook party by mistake, Trent?” You jab a finger toward the mansion. “You think they just wanted a bartender and a line cook who thinks a rare steak means it’s hard to find fuck them? You think we belong here?” You laugh, sharp and humorless. “Be serious.”

His eyes glass over, soft, stupid.

“Baby, c’mon. You’re bein’ mean.”

“What happened to likin’ me mean. You wanna be a little bitch now?”

“Hey. You can’t talk to me like that—”

“But I am,” you cut in. “And we both know I can. And, I will. You better pull it together or stop breathin’ my fuckin’ air, Trent.”

His eyebrows furrow as he pushes out a weak breath.

“You gonna cry right now?” You ask as you tilt your head mockingly.

“No,” he mumbles, looking away to hide the obvious.

You suck your teeth and nod, letting your anger lessen to a simmer for the second. “I’m yours Trent. Is that what you wanna hear?” You whisper, and with those two little words his troubles seemingly melt away.

“I mean… yeah, baby. That’s all I wanted.”

“Well you got it.” His chest puffs out, standing a little taller, the pageantry of the man making you cringe after all that. “You look fuckin’ stupid right now.”

“M’sorry, baby.”

“You better lock the fuck in,” you whisper, and he nods like a puppy. “‘Cause I love you… but I’ll kill you if you ruin this for me.”

He lets out a short, nervous chuckle because he can’t tell if you’re joking or threatening—can’t tell if that smile means safety or danger.

“Be a gentleman and open the fuckin’ door—” Trent fumbles for the handle as your words leave your lips, his clammy hand slick against the brass.

The house opens up around the two of you.

You take it all in… the air, heavy and clouded with perfume and sex. The marble foyer, spilling into the living room—high ceilings and custom crystal lighting—gold accents dripping off every edge.

Couples glide past you, Halloween masks hiding faces just enough to disguise the shame of being bent over a leather couch for everyone to see.

Bodies are sprawled across every surface—the tennis pro laid out on the cool marble counter, the president of the yacht club between her thighs.

A bottle of champagne pops and music pounds, swelling through the speakers, drowning out moans and laughter, and the sound of skin slapping skin.

You drift through it all like you’ve been here a thousand times, Trent trailing behind you like a shadow as your eyes sweep the crowd, hunting for Rafe.

“Where is he?” You catch the words as you slide into earshot of a conversation between Topper and Ruthie—Island Club royalty.

He crosses his arms over his bare chest, nothing on his body but a pair of red boxer shorts and blood red devil horns, Ruthie’s wrapped in lace and wine-heightened confidence.

“Who?” Topper asks, lifting his whiskey to his mouth, scanning the room through his red mask.

“The guys, babe—Kelce… Rafe,” she says casually like she doesn’t care but you can hear it—the way her voice dips when she says his name, the way her eyes follow the stairs where she assumes he is. She knows exactly who the fuck she’s looking for.

“Kelce’s probably by the pool… Rafe’s upstairs somewhere—why?” He asks, genuinely curious. Idiot.

You peel your eyes off them before they notice you staring, walking toward the wet bar, stealing a bottle of Dom Pérignon out of the ice bath without a second thought, heading toward the spiral staircase before Ruthie can beat you to it—“Where ya goin’, baby?” Trent follows behind you, wrapping his arm around your waist, steering you back to him.

“Her,” you order, pointing across the way as a woman stares him down. “Bet you didn’t even notice—”

“Did too—”

“I don’t fucking care.” You stop him with a smile as you tap him on the chest, using your last rough touch to shove him in her direction.

You turn on your heels, looking back where Ruthie and Topper were standing, watching Topper pour himself another glass of brown liquor, Ruthie nowhere in sight.

Your fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle so tight it might pop. The glass sweats in your palm as you hold yourself back from taking the stairs two-by-two.

You step upstairs and everything dims—just enough light through the cracked doors to reveal flashes of skin—legs knotted, mouths drawn open, shadows pressed tight against shadows.

The music below still thumps but it’s muffled, swallowed by the thick hallway walls and the moans bleeding through doors.

“Stupid cunt…” You cuss under your breath as you catch sight of her.

Her robe’s untied, slung low on her shoulder, hair spilling down her back—bunny ears perched on her head like a crown. You slow, watching her from the shadows as she taps a manicured nail against the door, that nervous little tick that only comes from wanting someone she knows she shouldn’t touch.

“Rafey?” She calls softly, voice syrupy-sweet, and laced with a generational, practiced innocence that’s been passed down from whore to whore. The kind of sound that turns your stomach… Like nails on a goddamn chalkboard.

No answer.

Ruthie glances over her shoulder for a split second and her eyes catch yours.

There’s a flicker of surprise; guilt even, recognizing you from the bar, clearly thinking about all the assumptions you’re making about her standing outside of that door, calling for her boyfriend’s best friend, dressed like that. But she masks it well, lifting her champagne to her lips and pretending she doesn’t see you.

Ruthie knocks louder, more hurried than before, her voice cracking around the edges as she calls for Rafe and not Rafey… Growing impatient by the second. “C’mon—”

“—Don’t even think about it.”

Ruthie flinches at your words, like she didn’t think you’d actually say something. But just like before, she plays it off, eyes slicing to yours.

“The help made it upstairs?” She asks as you take a step closer.

“You need to leave.”

Her laugh is delicate and condescending, making your blood boil. “You gonna make me?”

“—Yeah,” you cut in fast. “Don’t make me.”

“M’so scared,” she mocks you, turning her body back to the door. “He’s expecting me—”

“No he’s not,” you take your turn being wicked, stepping a little too close for her comfort. “Kinda guy like that doesn’t want a bitch like you—”

“Excuse me?” She whips around and the second she does you catch a fistful of hair, yanking her back, Ruthie’s shrieks echoing through the hall.

“Get. Off. Me,” she snarls and struggles as you tear her back, her kitten heels clawing into the floor. You shove her down the hall and release her stumbling to the ground.

For a second she just stares back up at you shocked and panting, makeup smeared across her face.

“Stay down, bitch,” you bark and as soon as the words leave your lips she lunges. You hit the ground with a thud, wind knocking out of your chest. The two of you roll, kick and scratch, hair tangling in sweaty fists.

She lands a punch that rings through your ears—just the sound of your heart and the pump of your blood thumping through your head.

You stagger, grabbing the wall and the nearest thing by the neck, cracking the bottle against the doorframe. Glass fractures with a wet snap, champagne fizzing and sloshing up from the floorboards as jagged edges catch the light.

Your hand punches forward—punishing and final—stabbing the broken end of the Dom Pérignon into her stomach like a knife.

Ruthie stumbles back, hands flying to her belly. Her eyes harden, more annoyed than afraid—then confusion follows as blood blooms across the white lace on her ribs spreading fast.

You let the broken neck of the bottle slip from your fingers, hitting the floor with a clink. Ruthie’s legs give out, the bitch falling to her knees in front of you as your chest heaves, knuckles wet with blood.

You stand in it, pulse screaming in your ears, watching the blood crawl out.

The doorknob turns. Light slices through the dark; a tall shadow darkens it a moment later.

You turn on your heels and he’s there—shirt unbuttoned halfway, cigarette loose between his lips.

He pushes the door the rest of the way open, leaning into the frame. The light spills around him, catching the sharp edge of his jaw and the lazy rise of his chest.

His stare drifts slowly across the scene: Ruthie crumpled in lace and satin, the floor slicked and swirled with spilled champagne and blood.

All at once you’re aware of yourself. The slip of your bra strap. The claw marks. The blood on your body. Still, you lift your chin and your mouth curves.

He smiles back with a bright flicker behind his eyes like he’s holding a secret.

“Well, shit.” His voice is low and smooth, graveled with smoke. “Guess I don’t need to ask who screamed.” He pauses for a moment, pinching the dart between his fingers, taking a deep drag and a slow, thoughtful exhale. “What’d she do to you, huh?”

“She…” The word scrapes up your throat. “She got in my way.”

He hums, deep and approving. His gaze slides down your body—the split hem of your robe, the blood streaking your thigh. You run your tongue along your bottom lip, catching a little more.

“M’sure she had it comin’.”

Your lips curl at that, small and sharp.

He nods toward the shadows behind him. “C’mon, angel… Careful of the mess.” He extends his hand and you hesitate for a breath before taking it. Rafe leads you over the blood like a gentleman leading a lady over a rain puddle… like a man. The two of you fall into the dark room; Rafe, closing the door behind you.

Inside the air thickens. The room breathes opulence—heavy curtains, a four-poster California King bed dressed in black silk, mirrors angled to catch everything. A tripod waits near the bed, the red light blinking like a heartbeat.

“What’s your name?” He asks finally.

You tell him.

He repeats it softly, tasting it. A grin curls at the corner of his mouth as that secret comes to light. “I knew I’d seen you before,” he drawls. “Recognized you the second I saw you behind that bar at the Island Club. Told Kelce to slip an invite in your tip book just in case.”

“Just in case?”

“Mhmm,” his hum deepens. “Never thought I’d actually get lucky enough to get you here.”

Your heart starts to race, nerves rising for the first time all night.

“I’ve seen your movie,” he draws a breath as he pops a bottle of champagne, pouring the two of you a glass, handing one to you.

You take it off his hands, trying to level your voice. “You have?”

He nods once, eyes still roaming. “Cheerleader and the Quarterback, right?” A faint smirk plays on his lips. “You were good, sweetheart. Real good. The lighting was shit, the sound worse—but you…” His focus trails down your throat, to the pulse fluttering there. “You were stunning.”

“I can’t believe you watched that?”

“Yeah… Neither could I, until I saw you,” he says simply, as if it was obvious. “It’s the only reason I recognized you.”

“Wow,” you giggle, your voice soft and sweet—genuine… one you don’t even recognize yourself. “I—I’ve watched yours too. All of ‘em. Your movies… they’re different.” You glance at the tripod then back to him. “They’re not just porn, you know? Dark. Real. Human.”

Rafe doesn’t move… he doesn’t blink. His blue eyes stay fixed on you, unflinching as if he’s hearing his own thoughts echoed back in your voice.

“They make me feel something. I think that’s what I want—to make people feel something too.”

He studies you for a long moment, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

“And you did that,” he says quietly, eyes flicking toward the door. “For me?”

Your mouth curls, the ghost of a smile spreading slow. “I’d do anything to be famous.”

Rafe’s grin sharpens, small and delighted. “And you wanna be in my movies?”

You nod before you can even think. “Yes.”

“Mmm…” He hums as he steps a little closer. “You come here with anyone tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Boyfriend?”

You hesitate, the word throwing you off guard as it usually does. “He thinks so.”

That earns you the smallest twitch of a grin. “You don’t love him do you?”

“No.”

“Perfect.” Rafe shifts the cigarette to his other hand as his pretty eyes cut over your face. “He a porn star too?”

“He was in that movie with me—yeah.”

He breathes out a laugh, his eyebrows lifting with a cruel amusement. “Yeah so he’s not.” The snicker that leaves his lips is low and mean, smoke curling out of it. “He ruined that movie for you, you know that?”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

“You were the only good thing about that film,” he says with conviction. “Really fuckin’ good, actually. And I’m gonna do you a favor, sweetheart.”

Your brows draw in in confusion as he walks around you, gauging your reaction.

“I’m gonna fix what he broke. Gonna show people what you can actually do. You gonna let me do that for you?”

“Yes,” you answer fast.

“Yeah… Figured you would.”

He lingers as he brushes your hair off your neck, moving closer. “I think I’ve got the perfect role for you.”

“You do,” you whisper as you turn your cheek to face him.

“It’s dark, baby. Real dark—”

“I don’t care.”

“Mhmm… That’s what makes you perfect.”

The camera flashes in the corner still, catching your eye, making you stand a little straighter, and he chuckles like he’s proud of it. “Don’t let that bother you okay? I record everything. Just in case I forget how things started... So, you in?”

“Of course,” you breathe and you hear him sigh, the warmth of his breath fanning along your neck.

“Tomorrow I’ll call. Tell him I got a part for him.”

“Him?” You ask curiously.

“Trent… He’ll come—idiots always do when you say ‘starring role.’” He says it like a director giving stage notes, calm while your pulse climbs. “We’ll have an initial meeting first—somethin’ simple. I’ll tell him to bring his girl, make it all look legit. Next day, we shoot. I’ll plant cameras everywhere—found footage style. We get the build-up, the nervous drive, the ‘big break’ illusion while the cameras catch it all. Then, I’ll take it all away from him… for good.” He lifts his shoulders, lets the rest hang there like a promise. “We make art.”

“For good?” Those two vague words hang in the air, but you know what he means…

“Told you, I'll fix what's broken. Some things are just better gone—”

“Gone for good.”

“You got it, baby,” he hums.

“You’re gonna kill him?”

“He’s got no family, right?” Rafe asks, and you shake your head no. “Cleaner that way.” He watches your mouth, not your eyes. “You care?”

“No,” you respond without a waver in your voice—level and firm.

“Good. It’s better that way. Real blood reads better on camera.” He presses his thumb to the skin at your throat, smudging the blood. “You already got the look. Now you just need direction… You give me the performance of a lifetime. You’re the hopeful one—the girl who thinks she’s getting her break. You’ll fight. You’ll claw. You’ll stare into that lens like it’s the only thing keeping you alive and you’ll make them all believe it’s real. When I yell ‘cut,’ the audience will see the reveal—you were in on it. They’ll say we fooled them. They’ll call it a twist.”

He watches you like he’s already shot the scene and knows exactly how it will land.

Your mouth twists into a smile he wasn’t sure he’d ever get. “Then what?” You whisper, and he can hear the sin in your voice.

“I think you know,” he rasps. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“You and me.”

“That’s exactly what I had in mind, baby. Bend you over in front of the camera… Let ‘em know who you belong to.”

“Holy shit,” you whisper, fighting off a smile.

“—And when they ask where Trent is? We’ll say he died and they’ll laugh with us. They’ll think we were being cheeky. They won’t know the difference.”

“That’s fucking evil,” you whisper, biting your lip as your eyes twinkle.

“I know… So, m’gonna ask you again, you in?” You look up at him; the slight space between you, as his attention lifts from your lips to your eyes.

“I’m in.”

He cups your face with a finger, gentle in a way that makes your knees weak. “I saw you in one movie. I saw you once across the country club, and it stuck. I don’t usually take risks, but you… you got that X-factor. That thing that sticks when the screen goes dark… I’m gonna make you a star.”

A little squeal squeaks past your lips and he huffs a laugh like he can’t believe it himself—like he can’t believe you’re real.

“It’ll be my first time on camera…” He lets it slip between his teeth, his big arm wrapping around your waist as his rough thumb rubbing your bare hip. “You gonna show me the ropes?”

You smile, feeling the same butterflies from before swirling again. “You sure you can take direction, Mr. Cameron?”

“Mr. Cameron?” He huffs out a breath, amused, stepping chest to chest with you; heat rolling off his body. “Yes… When it’s from someone worth listenin’ to.”

You tilt your chin up to his, and he licks his lips, tugging at your satin robe, letting it fall to your feet. “Good… Because I take my job seriously,” you breathe.

Rafe’s hand finds your jaw, thumb grazing your lip as he pops open the clasp of your bra with a single hand. “You’re good at it too.”

His fingers slide up, threading through your hair, pulling you in until your lips press against his, taking your air with it.

He groans against your mouth as your bare breasts press against his chest; nipples tight, pussy wet, the only clothes still left between you just a pair of black boxers and your spike heels.

The back of your knees hit the bed, silk sheets cool against your skin. You fall together in a tangle of breath and motion, the camera catching every unscripted second.

“Goddamn,” he exhales, voice hoarse as he leans back, taking in the view, head tilting, pupils blown wide. “These might be too pretty to take off,” he mumbles, hooking a finger around the delicate band of your panties, snapping it against your skin, making you gasp. “But then again…” His voice drops, “pussy’s too pretty not to show.”

The sheets are cool; your skin fever-hot as he drags the lace down your thighs. Rafe’s eyes trail up your legs like a slow camera pan, taking it all in.

One big hand reaches out, his shoulders roll as he adjusts the camera, veins rising across the backs of his hands; forearms carved tight beneath tan skin.

“Fucking born for it,” he exhales, smile curling as he turns back to you.

His lips skim your inner thigh—heat and stubble scratching along your soft skin, making your pussy ache.

Rafe’s hair falls forward, sandy and damp from sweat, brushing your thigh each time his eyes flick up at you. His lids fall heavy as he inhales your scent, tongue moving slower as he gets closer.

He dips in, kissing your clit, humming the words over your sex. “You’ll give me everything won’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, desperate for more of him, finger threading in his hair to pull him closer.

“Good fuckin’ girl—” His mouth seals over your clit, hot and hungry and your hips buck before you can stop them. Rafe’s groan vibrates through you, tongue flicking, teeth grazing, sucking until you’re clawing at the sheets.

The sound of it fills the room, layered over the faint bass bleeding through the walls.

His shoulders roll between your knees, muscles tight. You can feel the tremor of his breath against you, the wet shine of his mouth catching the light when he looks up.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny, voice hungry still. “You’re mine now, yeah? Not his. Mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp, thighs trembling.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours, Rafe.”

“Selfish with the casting, princess. Have to get rid of him,” he growls into your cunt.

His hand slips between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you, curling deep. You gasp, clutching at his shoulders as he pumps them at the perfect pace.

“You gonna be fine without him?” He asks, and you can feel his smile twist against your pussy.

“Fuuucck,” you moan, back arching off the mattress, eyes rolling back in your head. “Who?” You cry; the words barely pressing past your lips.

Rafe lets out a rough sound as he grinds his hard cock against your thigh through his cotton boxers, a wet patch spreading where he’s leaking against the fabric. “Who? You already forgot you had a boyfriend huh?” He asks as he sucks down on your bud, releasing it with a pop. “That’s my girl.”

His hands hook under your thighs, forcing you to take every desperate lick. You’re crying out, the sound breaking, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as he pushes you over the edge.

You cum hard, legs shaking, back arching off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, sucking until you’re a whimpering mess, burying his face deeper like he’s trying to drown.

Rafe pulls his fingers out slowly, slick shining down his knuckles. He brings them to his mouth, eyes locked on you as he sucks them clean, moaning around his thick digits.

Finally he drags himself up your body, crashing his mouth to yours, making you taste yourself on his lips. His hand works up your throat, thumb slipping past your lips, pressing down on your tongue until you moan.

He spits into your mouth, wet and heavy. “Swallow that shit,” he growls, but you already are as he shoves his boxers down. “Atta girl.”

He fists his cock, thick and flushed, then guides your trembling hand to stoke. The heat of him throbs in your palm, heavy and solid.

“You’re moving in. You’ll never need to make movies with anyone else. You understand? You’re mine. Say it,” he demands, until you look up at him through your lashes, the thick tip of his dick teasing your entrance.

“I’m yours, Rafe. All yours.”

You gasp, your whole body clenching around him as he pushes deep, bottoming you out. Your mouth hangs open; filled so full, your pussy squeezing him, making him curse out a breath as his forehead drops to yours, biceps flexing tight. “Feels even better than I thought you would—unreal, baby.”

He grits his teeth and pulls back, thrusting harder this time. The satin tightens beneath your skin, tits bouncing with each rough thrust.

The deep grooves of his stomach gleam with sweat; every thrust pulling a shiver deep through you as his gold chain swings between you.

He fucks you like a porn star—like he’s getting paid for every stroke. He kisses you like a lover, the both of you moaning into it, sloppy and wild. His lips are plush, bitten pink; a line of spit glinting when he breaks away.

His fingers dig into your waist, knees driving into the mattress, hips slamming harder each time.

You scream his name and he moans yours, burying himself to the hilt, as you flutter around his cock, milking him as he pulses inside you, cumming long and hot.

“Holy shit,” he groans. “Christ, that was—you… Oh my god you were incredible.” He’s breathless and so are you. Your body riding an indescribable high, buzzed off the moment, the sex just icing on the cake.

He throws his head back, stalled in place, hands on your body with his abs tight. Your fingers reach for him, sliding down his stomach, looking at the place you connect; wet and glistening.

“That was so good,” you whisper and his lips tilt, looking down at you again. “… virgin.”

Rafe’s mouth twitches into a grin, slow and smug. “A virgin, huh?”

“First time on this side of the camera.”

“Did it feel like I was?” He asks as he reaches toward you, dragging a thumb beneath your eye, wiping away the tears of pleasure still clinging to your cheek to prove a point.

You hum, pretending to think.

“Oh fuck off,” he chuckles, stretching his arm off the bed to drag a fresh cigarette from the pack. He takes a slow drag, the glow painting his smirk, then passes it to you, chuckling as you take a shaky drag.

“Felt like a fucking dream, Mr. Cameron,” you exhale as smoke pours from your lips.

He chuckles low, leaning over you, kissing the corner of your mouth, voice soft against your skin. “I’m gonna make you a star—” A scream pierces the hall. Not lust. Not laughter. Pure terror on the other side of the door.

Your eyes widen, head falling to the side but he grabs your cheeks, guiding you back to him. “You nervous about that?” He asks softly.

He waits for your response… A test to see if you’re all talk. Or if you’re really willing to follow-through. You shake your head no.

“Good… ‘Cause we got no idea what happened,” his lips tug upward, reaching for the shelf beside the bed, pulling the half-empty bottle of champagne off the top, taking a long drink straight from the neck; cigarette still burning between two fingers.

“We got champagne…” He mutters as he eyes the label on the side. “Damn good shit too. Don’t know what happened to hers.”

You shake your head and smile, the smoke from his cigarette curling a lazy halo above you.

“Sorry about Topper’s girlfriend,” you pout, but he knows you’re bluffing.

Rafe snorts, a real laugh breaking through his chest as he sets the bottle down. “She was cheatin’ on Top with Kelce, baby. Told you she had it comin’.”

Outside, the house keeps screaming, feet pounding outside the door.

Rafe pulls out slowly, savoring the drag, cock glistening with cum. He plucks the cigarette from your mouth, tucking it back between his teeth as he spreads your thighs wide with his big hands.

His eyes drink in the mess; the way his cum leaks out of you, shining against your pussy. He shifts the camera off the tripod and angles it down, making sure it catches every detail, blowing smoke, the heat of it kissing your slit, making goosebumps erupt on your soft skin. You shiver, humming a small laugh, fucked-out and glowing.

“Ugh, shit… That’s the shot, baby,” he croons, shutting the camera off just as fists pound the door, sobbing if you’re okay.

Rafe leans down, pressing his mouth to yours, unhurried and tender.

Outside, sirens flash red against the curtains—the same color as the camera light when it started.

“My little star.”

part 1

Rafe was ninety nine percent sure all he'd been wanting since he hit puberty was his dad's approval.  

It sounded real fucking pathetic when he put it in plain words—a desperate little boy still begging for scraps of attention at the dinner table. But it was the truth. Everything he’d ever done, every move he made, every deal, every fight, every lie—he had Ward Cameron’s shadow standing over his shoulder.  

It has never been enough. 

Ward always looked at him like he was waiting for him to mess up. 

To him, Rafe was proof of a genetic mistake. Sarah could do no wrong, Wheezie was still young enough to be salvageable, and Rafe? He was the one who screwed the pooch every time. Okay, and he did—he could admit that to himself. But he never meant to.  

He was trying to be better, always trying. 

Then there was you. 

The perfect daughter of his dad’s perfect best friend. The girl who floated into their lives every summer, an angel, shining halo and all. Ward ate that shit up—your polite little smiles, your "thank you, Mr. Cameron," your perfect posture at the dinner table.

Meanwhile, if anything went sideways? If something broke, if a fight was brewing—Rafe. It was always Rafe. Even when it wasn’t, especially when it wasn’t. 

At some point, you didn't have to point the finger or say it out loud. Everyone assumed Rafe was the problem.

When Ward called him into the study tonight with that fake fatherly tone he used when he wanted something, Rafe didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t ask.  

"Yes, sir," before he even knew what the favor was. If Ward wanted him at a meeting, Rafe would sit there with a pen and paper, the world’s most eager intern. If Ward wanted him to pitch, Rafe would fucking sell ice to a polar bear. This was the chance. 

"We’ve got an important meeting next week. Investors flying in from Charlotte. They want to hear from the next generation, not the old men running the show." 

Your dad chuckled from the leather chair across the room, swirling his glass. "That’s where you come in, son. It’s a big opportunity. Fresh blood. A Cameron face at the table—" he tipped the rim of the glass toward Ward, "—and not Sarah this time." 

Rafe’s chest went tight, but he nodded anyway. "Of course. I’ll be there." 

Ward leaned forward, steepling his hands. 

"This is important, Rafe. We’re talking major accounts, potential expansion. You’ll sit in, observe, speak if the timing’s right. You keep your head down, you learn, and you don’t—" his eyes sharpened, the smile dropping, "—you don’t fuck it up. Got it?" 

Rafe swallowed, embarrassment burning up the back of his neck. "Yes, sir. I won’t." 

"Good." Ward sat back, satisfied, the matter already settled. "I knew you’d step up. Next Friday, 9am sharp at the Hilton downtown." 

Next Friday. 

Wasn't that...Shit. Next Friday—it was the date. The one he’d already promised you. Rafe was supposed to be on the ferry with you, to sit across from your estranged mom and give you that look—don’t fall for it. 

"That work for you, Rafe?" your dad asked casually, sipping his drink. 

"Yeah. Yeah, that works." His voice didn’t crack—he was proud of that. Inside, though? Fuck. 

He could see your face when he bailed; your mouth would press thin, your eyes would harden, and you’d pretend you weren’t hurt. He’d promised. He’d fucking promised. 

But Ward was watching him, and Rafe swore he caught something like approval flicker across his dad’s face. He needed that. 

He nodded again, tighter this time. "I’ll be there." 

The second the study door shut behind him, Rafe’s chest was a war zone. Head buzzing, adrenaline running high from Ward’s proposition. He should’ve been riding the wave, basking in it, but all he could think about was your friday. 

How the fuck was he supposed to tell you? 

Then again... 

So what if he bailed? You’d fucked him over for years. Summers spent watching you get away with murder while he took the blame. You never minded when he was the villain. You never corrected anyone when Ward’s disappointment zeroed in on him. 

It didn't matter that you'd grown...closer now. It was just sex or not even, everything but. 

You’d been calmer. When you looked at him, it wasn’t drowned in satisfaction or that mean man-eating smirk—Rafe hated how much that shit got under his skin. He caught himself waiting for your texts, your stupid late-night knocks on his door, you curled into him after, and muttering crazy nothings, and how his chest didn’t feel so hollow when your eyes were only for him. 

He wasn’t supposed to care, but against all odds, he did. Against all those years of little-miss-perfect ruining his life, he’d grown to care. 

He was supposed to look you in the eye and tell you he was bailing. You’d made his life hell for years, and he’d survived it. You’d left him alone on the ashes of your perfection more times than he could count. Wasn’t this what you deserved? One promise broken, weighed against a lifetime of you watching him burn? 

He had to believe that. If he didn’t, then the truth was uglier: he wanted his dad’s approval more than he wanted to keep yours. 

Rafe went up to your bedroom, watching you fuss with your dresser. You didn’t notice him, humming under your breath, mountains of hair falling into your face. He almost turned around, pretended he forgot what he came here for. 

The lamplight pooled around you in a way that made no sense, turning your skin to something unreal. Ethereal, something that shouldn’t exist outside of paintings. 

Then your eyes flicked up, catching him through the mirror. And you smiled. Fuck. He’d never admit it, but he loved it when you aimed it at him instead of anyone else. Made him feel like he wasn’t completely irredeemable. 

He was about to ruin it. 

“Hi." 

“Hey." 

You turned on the stool and padded over to him, dragging him inside by the front of his shirt before he could think twice about bolting. Your arms looped around his thick neck, your perfume burning straight through his chest. 

He should’ve kissed you. That was how it usually went: quick, hot, a distraction. You tilted your head back to look at him, when you caught the look in his eyes. 

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked, voice dipped in suspicion. 

So many years spent together meant that you could read him easy. 

“I can’t go Friday.”. 

“…What?” 

“I can’t go Friday,” Rafe repeated, lower. 

“Ohhh,” You nodded, a mock-understanding lilt around the word. “Funny.” 

“I’m not joking.” 

"What?" The warmth drained out of your face, lips collapsing like he’d slapped it off. Your arms slipped from his neck, falling away completely. You stared at him, speechless, "Why not?" 

There was still a ghost of your hands on his neck, and the smell of your perfume stuck to his shirt. He should’ve lied, said he was sick, claiming something had come up, but it was anything but the truth.  

Your eyes narrowed in disdain. “You promised me. Don’t fucking tell me you’re bailing because you forgot.” 

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharp. “It’s important. I have to—” 

“Important?” Your voice was pitching higher. “And meeting my mom for the first time in years? That’s not important?" 

“I know,” Rafe snapped, louder than he meant to. He scrubbed at his jaw, “I know what I said, but this is...I can’t—” 

Rafe’s jaw clenched. He’d known this was coming, but still, it hit like a gut punch. “It’s not—” 

“Don’t pull that shit. You’re the one who looked me in the eye and promised.” 

Rafe’s eyes were darting anywhere but yours. “I didn’t know then what I know now.” 

You clapped ironically. “That’s fucking rich. You found something better to do? A party? Blow? Some new way to play the disappointment?” 

His head snapped toward you, face twisted. “It’s not like that.” 

“Then what’s it like?” You bit out, stepping closer. “All I hear is you bailing. I asked you!" 

Your voice cracked on the last word. Rafe flinched; he always did when you showed your human side, even a little. Knowing you, asking him, begging really, had been a blow to your pride. 

“I wouldn’t blow this off if it wasn’t serious.” 

“Then tell me why,” you demanded. 

His throat bobbed as he looked away. 

You scoffed, bitter. “I should’ve known better than to count on you. I mean, that’s on me, right? Thinking you’d finally—” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips tight. 

Rafe’s chest heaved, “Don’t fucking start. 

“I can't point out the obvious? That I’m a fucking idiot for thinking you could show up once in your life?” 

Something ugly grew in his chest, the old resentment making a strong appearance. He stepped toward you, voice rising. “You don’t get to stand there and act like I’ve never—” 

“Never what?” you cut in, your laugh sharp and shaky. “Never cared? Newsflash, Rafe, you’ve made a career out of letting people down. Why would I be different?” 

His teeth ground together, temples throbbing. 

“I wouldn’t drop out if it wasn’t important!” Rafe’s chest was heaving, the vein in his neck standing out. 

You blinked at him, fury burning up through your throat until it tasted bitter on your tongue. “Of course it’s important. Why would you fucking care about me, right? Why would what I need ever matter?” 

"Yeah, why the fuck would I?!” The words ripped out of him, “Do you think you deserve it? You think you deserve me dropping everything for you, just because you want me there?” 

Your lips parted, stung, and before you could speak, Rafe barreled on, fed up with how you talked down at him. 

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you shit. Get off your fucking high horse. I'm not going to bow down and worship at your feet just because everyone else has." 

You stared at him, eyes wide. Rafe knew it was one thing for him to bail, but to say that—he knew he was waking up the slick monster inside you. 

Rafe had seen you mad before, snapping, stomping, and throwing things when you were younger. This wasn’t noise and tantrums.  

Your lip curled, disdain tugging at the corner, holding back something worse. Your eyes, normally so bright, so alive, went dark—ten shades deeper than they had any right to be. 

Your face flattened, wiped clean, no trace of the girl who had smiled at him in the mirror two minutes ago. Poker face. Impenetrable. You weren’t looking at him anymore; you were looking through him, past him, he wasn’t worth seeing. 

This wasn't you, the one everyone else worshipped because they’d never seen this. This hollow-eyed dismissal was worse than Ward’s stare, worse than Sarah’s smug smirks when they were teens. 

“Don’t do that,” Rafe boderline begged. 

You walked back to your dresser, that halo of lamplight painting you gold again, but you weren’t glowing anymore, you were untouchable, a statue in some museum he’d never be allowed into. 

“God forbid anyone expect anything from you. Poor baby. Poor little boy. Pray tell, is this because daddy asked for a favor?" 

Rafe felt his stomach drop so fast it was like free falling, you must've felt it, because your lips formed into a grin, canine teeth flashing. You tilted your head a fraction, hair sliding off your shoulder. 

He wondered if this was what fishermen in those old Outer Banks tales felt before being lured into the deep waters by the so-called sirens—knowing they were about to drown, unable to turn back. 

“That's it, isn’t it?” Your voice was silk. “Ward asked you to do something.” 

When he didn’t answer fast enough, you laughed under your breath. 

“Let me guess—he called you son for the first time in a month, and you folded like a cheap chair.” 

“Shut up." 

You prowled closer, “Did it feel good? Finally getting a pat on the head from daddy? Did your heart skip when you thought this time, he’d be proud?” 

Rafe’s nails bit crescents into his palms. He wanted to tell you to fuck off, make you stop. Every word from your tongue was true, and that made him feel ten times worse. 

He despised how small it made him feel, how small you made him feel when you spoke like this. 

“Is that what it takes? One word from him and you roll over, belly up? 

"Don't." 

“Don’t spell out what you can’t even admit to yourself?” you whispered, venom dripping, that cruel grin carved into your face. 

“Shut your fucking mouth.” His voice was a growl. 

You chuckled right in his face. “There it is. The dog comes out when someone touches the leash.” 

Rafe surged forward, crowding you back a step. “You don’t know a fucking thing about me.” 

"I know everything about you.” Your eyes lit up, hungry. “You’re weak. You’ll crawl, you’ll give up anything for the chance he might look at you and not see a failure.” 

Rafe’s hand slammed against the dresser beside your head, rattling the perfume bottles. His teeth bared.  

“You think you’re any better? Huh? You’ve been spoiled your whole fucking life, never had to fight for a fucking thing, and you think you can stand there and talk down to me?” 

You had a feral snarl that looked too pretty to be human.  

“I’m not pathetic enough to keep begging someone who’s never going to love me.” 

That was fucking right coming from you, giving the circumstances. 

Rafe clicked his tongue, “Is that right? Why did you reply to her letters then? Her calls? Set up a fucking date? Begged me to come? That’s not scraps?” 

“That’s not the same." You sneered at him. 

“Is that why you beg for my attention? Why you throw yourself at me in hopes that I’ll finally take pity and fuck you once and for all?” 

Your head snapped toward him, eyes blazing, Rafe continued, aiming for the soft tissue. “You're the same as me. You long for it, for her. For me. For somebody to pick you and mean it.” 

Your throat worked, words caught between a sob and a hiss.  

"I'm nothing like you." 

Rafe’s chest heaved like an animal’s, the vein in his neck standing out, eyes blown wide. It wasn’t even a fight anymore; it was two wounded things circling, tearing at each other because that was safer than saying the truth out loud. 

“No, you’re worse.” His face was inches from yours, “You walk around like you’re not as desperate as the rest of us. Little Miss Perfect, queen of the fucking pity party.” 

“You're a fucking—” 

“No, you don’t get to stand there and say you’re nothing like me. Not after the nights you banged on my door because no one else would have you. You begged for me. Don’t you fucking dare forget that.” 

You shoved him then, palms flat against his chest. 

Rafe staggered back a step, caught off guard. His head whipped back toward you, hair falling into his eyes. 

“Yeah?” you hissed, stepping into the space you’d created. “And you still opened the door every single time. Who’s pathetic now?” Your hand shot out again, pushing him harder, perfume bottles clattering to the floor. “Say it again,” you dared, voice shaking with rage. 

“Little Miss Perfect,” Rafe spat, chest heaving. 

The two of you were nose to nose now, breathing like you’d run a mile. Two wild things, neither willing to break first. Your hands were balled into fists, itching to claw his fucking face, he was sure of. 

“Go on,” he panted, “say it again. Tell me how I’m worthless. How you’re so much better.” 

Your mouth was probably filled with copper and fire and he could see it then, you hated him right now. 

Then his hand was lost in your hair, yanking, and your mouth was colliding with his. His teeth caught your lip, yours scraped against his, and both of you tasted blood. His tongue forced its way in like he could win the fight that way, and you bit down harshly to prove he couldn’t. 

Your hands dragged down the expensive cotton of his shirt, wanting to peel him open, see if his insides were just as ugly as his words. He grunted into your mouth, lapping at all you gave him.  

Rafe knew how wrong it was. It didn't stop him. 

The kiss turned vicious, lips splitting under teeth, but neither of you stopped. When you yanked at his shirt, buttons popped, scattering across the floor and he shoved you back against the dresser, the remaining bottles toppling over. His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, sucking and swirling bruises, claims he had no right to make. You gasped, arching into him despite yourself, and that tiny sound undid him. 

Wrong, his brain screamed. This was wrong. He should’ve been better than this, walked out the second your eyes went dark. But you've always been his worst addiction. Your dainty hands were tugging at his belt, clumsy, frantic, beyond doubt hating yourself for wanting it as much as he did. Rafe cursed into your skin, helping you, shoving his jeans out of the way before his fingers were creeping under your sleeping dress, yanking your underwear aside. 

His eyes mistakenly lifted to meet yours. And fuck, even like this, your face flushed with fury, he thought you were devastating. 

Rafe dragged the blunt head of his cock along your pussy, catching on your puffy, dripping entrance. The sound that left you was bitten back between clenched teeth, but he felt it. 

His forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading already. He was breathing hard through his nose. He couldn’t fucking believe it was happening—after all the venom, all the words he couldn’t take back. 

He'd tried to be the better man, but was there even a point to do so when it came to you? 

Rafe kept the same pace, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, smearing your wetness across his cockhead. He was dragging it up over your clit before pulling back, barely brushing the swollen nub. He lazily traced himself against your dripping cunt, just shy of pushing in, watching the way your body responded even though your lips pressed tight in a grimace. 

He nudged your entrance with the blunt head, your nails splintering wood. “Go on. Tell me to stop.” 

You lifted your chin in defiance, “Can’t even take what you want without asking me first.” 

His hips snapped forward, a controlled push, burying the tip inside you as both of you greedily gasped into each other’s mouths. Your hand flew up, latching on to his bicep to keep from sliding back against the dresser. His hands clamped on your hips, pulling you against him, dragging you over and over along the curve of his length before each shallow retreat. 

Rafe's forehead rested against yours, teeth scraping your temple as he thrust lazily, torturing himself by not going faster, letting every inch of contact linger, feeling you drip for him. 

Your hips bucked against him, matching his rhythm as he growled into your mouth. You curved up against him, pressing your chest to his, upper legs quivering as you sank even deeper, throwing one of them over his forearm. 

Rafe’s eyes flicked down, taking in the full view, and his chest tightened. Fuckkkk, of course—it was fucking pretty. He couldn’t stop staring, mesmerized by how perfectly you took him. 

Your nails carved lines down his back. “I hate you.” 

“Say it again.” 

“I. Hate. You.” 

“Liar.” 

He dragged himself out, along your cunt again, diving into the mess, relishing in how it clung to him so doatingly, coating him in you. His hand gripped your hip, thumb foudling against the sensitive crease where thigh met ass, feeling how you clenched around him even when your teeth were sunk into his jaw. He marveled at how your muscles nuzzled in his, how your chest heaved, how your scent wrapped around him like a chain he never wanted broken. 

Rafe sank into you again, a smidge fraction, enough to fill that burning warmth. He was in no rush, addicted to watching you. He was completely fucking mesmerized, amazed at how good it felt, how much he wanted to lose himself in you, how wrong it was, and how he didn’t care. 

He didn’t stop; if anything, he pushed harder, angle changing, ramming that sensitive head of his cock along your spot, over and over, never-ending. Rafe grabbed your hair again, tugging your head back, so you were staring up at him, exposing your throat as you hissed at the sting, only driving you wilder. Neither of you broke contact. His pupils were blown, ravenous, and you mirrored him, sweat slicking your skin. 

Every shallow retreat and deep launch made your eyes water. Rafe’s hands roamed, pulling your hair, gripping your ass, slapping your thighs, holding you in place while his cock buried itself into you, again and again, over and over. 

He pinned your wrists above your head with one arm, holding you in place, the other gripping your hip, pounding into you with insistence.  

Your lashes flickered, and when he glanced at your face, he saw it—wet streaks running down your cheeks, your lips pressed tight, but your quivering. He knew better, you weren’t trapped. He was. 

He hated you for making him feel that, hated himself more for still wanting you even as you broke in his hands. Your head thunked back against the mirror behind the dresser, your reflection fractured and doubled in the glass. Two monsters staring back at you. 

Your eyes snapped up to his, wet and furious, your mouth wobbling out the only argument you had left. “Pathetic.” 

Rafe’s hand shot from your hip to your cheeks, forcing your head back so he could stare at you properly while he split you open. 

His thrusts turned brutal, your cries filling the room, pleasure and defiance fighting for the winning title. Rafe wallowed it with another vicious kiss while one of your legs hooked higher around his waist, opening yourself wider, daring him to break you completely. A labored sound ripped from a man who hated himself for how much he wanted it. 

“Finally got what you wanted, huh?” His words were ragged, mean. “Little Miss Perfect, begging for the fuckin’ fuck-up to split her open.” 

You spilled a cracked gasp, and he engulfed it with his teeth, snickering, forcing you to take him to the hilt. 

“Don’t act like you haven’t been dreaming about this for years,” he panted, keeping your head back against the mirror. “You wanted it. You wanted me.” 

You croaked back through gritted teeth, “Fuck you—” It broke halfway, the pitch too high as he angled his hips and ripped a whine straight out of your chest. 

“Yeah, fuck me,” he sneered, driving harder. 

You shook your head stubbornly, pain blooming where you dragged your nails, but Rafe only grunted, chasing the fight and the way you clenched tighter. 

His forehead crashed to yours, eyes wild and unblinking, while his hand slid down between your bodies. His rough fingertips found your clit, with fast circles that made your cunt spasm immediately. 

A gasp tore out of you, desperate and unwilling as Rafe’s mouth contorted into a cruel grin. “That’s what I fucking wanted.” 

You tried to twist your face away, but he caught your cheeks, forcing your eyes back on him. “Don’t look away now. You wanted this, remember?” He was grinding cruelly against your clit, keeping you pinned between his cock and his hand. “All those years chasing me around, knocking on my door—this is what you were begging for. Feel that? That’s me making you cum again." 

Your body swayed, thighs shaking like pathetic leaves as the dresser groaned under the weight of Rafe’s relentless tempo. His thumb was merciless, sliding you higher and higher until your mouth went slack. His thrusts slowed to let you feel every inch of him grinding deep, but his fingers never relented. 

Your teeth snapped shut, a broken whimper spilling through them, and Rafe’s laugh was harsh in your ear.  

“Don’t hold back. You’re not fooling anyone.” 

He felt you lock around him, the quavering ran up your limbs before you made a sound. He’d been chasing it—a hunter dragging a kill back to shore—and then suddenly it was there, breaking out of you in a wail against his throat. Your eyes found his as you shattered, instead of looking away like he expected, you kissed him. 

Not the vicious, teeth-and-blood kisses from before, your breath spilling into him as your whole body spasmed around his cock. 

His fingers remained pitiless on your clit, while his cock was still pounding into you, your mouth went gentle on his. The sound you made as you came, he felt it in his teeth, in the pit of his stomach, in places he didn’t know were still alive. 

Your eyes, usually so bright and taunting, went dark and faraway. It wasn’t submission; it was something worse, you were already gone, already leaving him behind even as you came on him. 

“Don’t do that,” His hips stuttered, pattern gone, trying to fuck through the panic in his heart. 

You came again anyway, body jerking, mouth still moving on his, and the noise you made punched through all his fucking common sense. Rafe’s hand slipped from your throat to the back of your neck, itching you closer, muffling the sound. He didn’t realize he was muttering “fuck, fuck, fuck” into your mouth, not in anger anymore but in need. 

Then it was happening to him—no control, a hot mind mind-blowing rush exploding up his spine. He buried himself to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, eyes clenched shut, hissing as he emptied himself inside you. The kiss deepened as he spurt all he had, swallowing the broken hums you gave him like he could keep them. 

He could pretend it wasn’t another fight. You couldn't. 

Your hands were shaking when you shoved at his chest, his weight was still inside you, holding you pinned, but it made his eyes snap openin drad. 

“Get off me." 

His brain was buzzing, his body exploding with aftershocks, but your tears caught him off guard. He stumbled back a step, cock slipping free of you, leaving both of you a mess. He would've laughed if it wasn't serious. 

You pulled the hem of your dress down, chest heaving scarily fast, tears streaking your cheeks as you turned away from him. 

“Leave.” 

He blinked at you, lips parted, breathless. “What—” 

“Leave, Rafe.” Your shoulders seemed to be shaking, you refused to look at him, arms crossed around yourself. 

He fiddled a hand through his mess of hair, guilt and confusion ramming into his soul. “Hey—hey, wait. We should… we should talk about this.” 

You spun on him, eyes red as he’d never seen before. “There’s nothing to talk about!” 

He flinched, but you weren’t done. 

You were staring at the floor, hair in your face, “I got what I wanted, right?” 

He could hear himself fifteen minutes ago — Don’t have to explain myself to you. Don’t owe you shit. It had been an instinct, a reflex.  

He had seen you angry before, he liked it, in a sick way — the stomping, the shouting, the way you still had light in your eyes. This wasn’t that. 

This was the same look he’d seen in the mirror after Ward was done with him. 

He ran a hand over his face, fingers trembling as he reached for you. 

“I didn’t—” He stopped. Because what? He didn’t mean it? He did mean it. He’d meant every word. 

Your shoulders shook harder. “You don’t get it, do you?” 

He didn’t, that was the worst part. 

Rafe had seen the crush; you hovered around him summers past. 

You’d never been subtle. And yeah, this summer, he knew you wanted him. That much was obvious. 

This broken look in your eyes—didn't look like the aftermath of some stupid crush. This wasn’t you being pissed. He knew he could piss you off, make you slam doors, throw barbs. 

He hadn’t known he could hurt you like that.  

You turned away, rushing to grab your jacket, seemingly desperate to get out before he spewed more nonsense. He wanted to stop you, say something that would make sense of this, but there was nothing left to stand on.

He took a step forward, before the guilt in his gut said maybe don’t. “Just—wait a second, okay?”

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand you.

When you brushed past him, your shoulder caught his, Rafe almost held you back, but your voice stopped him cold.

Your eyes were swollen, your pretty face flat, like you'd run out of emotion entirely. “Don’t touch me.”

Rafe looked down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. 

“Get out."

He hesitated, the words he wanted to say crowding behind his teeth.

I didn’t know. What good would that do? He’d already proven he didn’t deserve it.

He nodded, barely as he backed toward the door, eyes never leaving your figure, waiting for you to glance up. You didn’t.

The door shut behind him.

Rafe stood there for a long time, hand still on the knob, staring at nothing. He’d thought he knew what being hated by the people he cared about felt like. He was wrong.

your boyfriend didn’t sit down with you though. he stayed standing, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders stiff. he’d spent days putting this together, making sure every single thing looked perfect for this special moment. his blue eyes flickered to yours then, taking one last breath before dropping to one knee.

you just blinked, then laughed, half in disbelief, and half nervous. “no. shut up, rafe—you’re not—” you shook your head, heart tripping over itself. “this is a joke? right? you’re not seriously proposing, are you?”

but then you saw it. his hands were trembling. his jaw clenched, eyes glassy, fighting to keep himself together. He was quick to pull out a little silky box, struggling to open it for a second due to his shaky fingers.

and when he opened the box, the marquise shaped diamond ring sparkled uncontrollably in the last rays of sunshine, but you barely noticed it. all you could see was him.

“y/n y/l/n,” he rasped, voice unsteady. “i’m so fucking serious right now, and holy shit im extremely nervous. i love you. i love you so much. you—god, you drive me crazy, and you make me laugh when i don’t want to, and you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to be this soft for. i don’t care if we’re too young, or if we’re arguing half the time about the dumbest things. i don’t care about any of it. i want you. always. so please..do you want to be my wife?”

your breath hitched, eyes stinging before you could stop the tears from falling down your cheeks. he looked so vulnerable, so unlike the rafe the world knew. and it shattered something in your chest.

“rafe…” you whispered, glossy lips trembling. immediate panic flashed in his eyes. he rushed to fill the silence, feeling desperate. “if you don’t want this yet, it’s okay—i just.. i couldn’t hold it in anymore, i had to—”

“oh shut up.” your voice cracked as you surged forward, practically knocking him into the sand as you kissed him desperately, tears slipping down your cheeks. “of course i wanna be your wife, silly.”

a strangled laugh broke from his chest, relief flooding through him so violently he thought he might collapse. with shaking hands, he slid the ring onto your finger, staring at it like he couldn’t believe it was real.

you sniffled, patting your eyes dry, then laughed through your tears. “ughh, look what you did. my makeup’s ruined.” rafe chuckled, wiping over your cheeks. “you still look perfect,” he cupped your face, and kissed you again. this time it was slow, tender.

you just clutched your fiancé’s shirt and thought about how you almost ruined this beautiful moment with your jokes, but now none of it mattered. because now, he was yours forever.

You hadn't been in Lily's office in months.

You sat stiffly on the chair across from her desk, the same one you’d been scolded in a dozen times before, except this time your stomach nearly squashed against it and there was no hiding it.

The second you walked through her office door, her gaze dropped to your stomach. You’d seen it, the widening of her eyes before she controlled it under that professional stare. You’d spotted that small intake of breath, the movement in her eyes, the holy shit forming behind them.

Rafe was beside you, tapping his knee hard enough to shake the floor while Lily’s incredulous gaze flicked between you both, waiting.

“Well?” she finally said, “Somebody want to tell me what's going on? Because last time I checked, you two were broken up, and this dumbass—” she jabbed a manicured finger in Rafe’s direction, “—was dating Sofia.”

Rafe flinched but didn’t argue. You opened your mouth, then shut it again. What could you possibly say that didn’t sound like a fucking disaster?

Her eyes narrowed, voice flattening. “And now Ruthie Rutherford’s running her mouth to the Islander about you being pregnant?”

Rafe’s hand twitched; you thought he might reach for yours, but he stopped short, curling his fingers into his jeans instead. You hadn’t thought this far ahead, past the Pogues’ living room, where they’d traded mango slices for banana bread and laughter. Not past Sarah’s steady hand at your back.

Friends—done. Family—barely existing, but done. You hadn’t even let yourself think about it. Outside that small circle, you’d assumed there’d be nothing to say, right?

For months, you drove yourself insane with the certainty that the baby wouldn’t make it anyway, that your body would give out first.

You’d braced for it so hard that you hadn’t let yourself imagine a world where you’d need to explain any of this to anyone else. But the baby didn’t die yet. It was still here, heartbeat strong, tiny limbs stretching, reminding you that you hadn’t prepared for this part.

Now Lily was staring you down like you were already guilty. And Rafe was next to you—Rafe, who’d known for a month now, who hadn’t bolted, who kept showing up with heating pads and dumb snacks and a steadiness you didn’t want to admit you’d missed. He wasn’t the boy who’d ruined you at parties. Sometimes—god help you—he was starting to look like the boy you’d fallen for when you were sixteen.

It was a mess.

The last time you’d sat in this office with Rafe by your side, you'd both been nineteen, cheeks burning while Lily held up a grainy tabloid printout. You and Rafe, all teeth and hands and not enough clothes on the back steps of somebody’s yacht.

She’d called it “a public suicide,” you’d called it “being young,” and Rafe had gloated the whole time, squeezing your thigh. You’d left that office sweaty, ashamed, and still holding on to his hand, pretending the world couldn’t touch you if you had him.

It was starkly different now.

“I…” You faltered, throat dry.

Lily raised her brows. “Spit it out.”

"Watch your tone."

Your attention darted sideways to Rafe as he spoke. You closed your eyes for a second, wanting to strangle him for saying it out loud, while another half of you wanted to…thank him...in ways you should not be thinking about right now.

At all.

A year ago, you would've told Lily to fuck off with the patronizing tone. You’d done it before, you two being close enough that she’d taken it in stride. But you weren’t that version of yourself. You felt fragile, so all you could do was swallow the retort scorching your tongue.

Lily’s eyes flicked up to Rafe's, unimpressed. “Excuse me?”

“She doesn’t need you snapping at her.” His knee had stilled now, shoulders squared. "Don’t talk to her like she’s an intern."

Lily looked between the two of you again, less incredulous, more calculating.

“You're right” She apologized, bottom lip jutting out. “I'm sorry sweetheart, it's a lot to process here."

She never apologized unless she meant to.

You nodded once, unsure what to do with the sudden quiet. Your pulse was still pounding, your stomach rolling from nerves, from hormones, from the absurdity of sitting here like this—with him, with her.

You pressed your palms against your thighs, “Yeah. I’m pregnant.”

Lily’s mouth tightened; she already knew, but wanted to hear you say it out loud. “And is it his?”

Her gaze snapped to Rafe again, who sat up straighter, blue eyes hardening.

“Yeah,” he said before you could answer. His voice was low, steady. “It’s mine.”

She sighed and folded her hands. “Okay, I'm not asking how we got here, none of my business, I get it. Now, let’s get practical. Do you want to confirm? Deny? Ignore? Because it’s out there now." The outside world. The whispers and headlines. You’d thought about keeping food down, not fainting in the shower, and iron infusions that left your arms mottled in bruises.

You didn't want strangers knowing. All the months of not letting yourself imagine this moment—it was here now, and you had nothing prepared. No script. No clever way out.

Your eyes flew to Rafe in need of help. For once, he wasn’t bouncing his knee or ready to bulldoze his way through the silence.

"It's your call. I'll do whatever you want."

You’d expected him to take over, decide, and handle it like he always did when things got overly messy.

Lily arched a brow, studying the exchange. “You’re leaving this up to her?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “It's her body, her rules."

You despised how much you wanted to crawl inside that safety, even though you knew it didn’t erase the outcome of your decision.

"Keep it clean, short, professional. No drama. We can work with that.”

Professional.

There was nothing professional about this—nights in the ER, a boy who used to make you cry now folding ultrasound photos into his pockets like they were holy. But you nodded anyway, because it was the only answer you could give.

“I…” Your voice wavered, thin and papery. “I want it to be mine, not a gossip headline. Just—mine.”

Lily didn’t seem to have a quip ready. She studied you, pen hovering over her notepad, squinting, starting to connect dots.

“You’re being awfully quiet for someone who usually argues with me over everything.” Her tone had turned more probing. “Is there more to this?”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

You’d sparred with her enough times to know she’d respect you for it, but you weren’t in fighting shape.

She tilted her chin. “You’re pale. You look like you can barely stay upright in that chair. And the way he—” she jerked her pen toward Rafe, “—jumped down my throat? What aren’t you telling me?”

You glanced at Rafe, who was already watching you, he’d been waiting for this to happen.

“I’ve… been doing treatment. Severe anemia. It’s… complicated. Risky.” You forced the words out, even though they tasted like iron themselves. “The baby and I—we’re both… at risk.”

The pen clattered to her desk. Lil’s mouth parted, a genuine flash of horror softening the steel in her face. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I didn’t want—”

“Sweetheart, I would never make you sit here and talk statements and PR if I knew your health was on the line!” She rubbed her temples, “Are you okay?! Right now. Don’t give me a rehearsed answer.”

You hadn’t expected this much concern—not from someone you hardly talked to nowadays. More of a scolding.

“I’m… managing,” you admitted quietly. “It’s getting better. Slowly.”

Beside you, Rafe moved his hand brushing against the back of your chair, not quite touching you but close enough to feel it.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. Nothing.” She raised a hand before you could argue. “We don’t put out a statement, we don’t confirm or deny. Not until you are ready, not until I know you’re stable. Ruthie Rutherford and her gossip can rot.”

You wet your lips. “How did Ruthie even find out?”

“Isn’t she dating Topper? Wouldn’t she hear it from him?”

“No. Not anymore.”

Lily’s brows shot up. “Really? When did that happen?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “A while ago. He’s… he’s seeing someone else now.”

“Who?”

You hesitated, then said it anyway. “Sofia."

Lily’s gaze flicked from you to Rafe and back again. Her lips parted slowly, a disbelieving laugh slipping out.

“Oh. Wow.” She set her pen down, needing both hands free to process. “So we’ve got Ruthie running her mouth because Topper left her. Topper with Sofia, you two sitting here with a baby on the way—wow."

You dragged your hands down your face, “I know Topper would never tell her. He knows I’d never forgive him if he did.”

“So you’re saying—”

“He didn’t.” Your voice was firmer this time. "He's sprinting in the opposite direction of that psycho."

Rafe snorted, a short laugh breaking through. “Topper’s not trying to get shanked in his sleep.”

“Exactly.” You jabbed a finger toward Rafe without looking at him, heart thumping. “So if Ruthie knows, she's got another source.”

Lily tilted her head, lips pursed, already sketching a flow chart of betrayal in her head. “Which means either someone overheard something, or someone saw something they shouldn’t have.”

You felt weirdly exposed, like even the walls weren’t safe. Rafe, though—he’d gone still beside you.

You glanced at him, uneasy. “What?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, piecing together something he didn’t want to say out loud. Then, finally, he did.

“Isn’t her aunt the new hospital director?”

Your breath caught. “What?”

You’d been so cut off from the elite world, deliberately forming a safe distance, keeping your secrets safe, that you hadn’t heard the whispers, or if you had, they slid past you, noise you’d trained yourself to ignore.

If Ruthie Rutherford knew, then you hadn’t been as careful as you thought.

Lily's lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“What does that mean?”

You’d been so focused on keeping your circle small, on ducking cameras and pretending the world outside the Pogues’ house didn’t exist, that you hadn’t thought about this.

Hospitals. Directors. Nepotism.

Rafe leaned forward.

“You’ve been in and out of that place for months. Records, appointments, the infusion clinic. You think gossip doesn’t leak when someone wants it to?”

Lily's brows shot up, “If medical information about a high-profile patient is getting out, hat’s not gossip. That’s a lawsuit.”

Your skin went cold. All those hours in the hospital—bruised arms, thin blankets, machines beeping—and now the idea that someone had been watching, whispering, carrying pieces of you out into the world? You were going to be sick.

If Rafe was right—if someone at the hospital had let something slip...Small towns made everything messy. One whisper in the wrong break room, one family dinner with a glass of wine, and suddenly it wasn't private anymore.

Rafe’s head turned sharply toward you. He must’ve seen it, how you froze, fingers white-knuckled. His hand hovered, then landed on the arm of your chair.

“Hey,” he said softly, a grit under the gentleness. “It’s okay. We’re gonna take care of it, yeah?”

“Rafe—” you managed, but it cracked halfway through.

His blue eyes were locked on yours, "Don't worry about it."

Lily let out a sound between a scoff and a chuckle, shaking her head. “Okay, hold up. Time out.” She pointed her pen between the two of you. “I know I said I was gonna mind my business, but when exactly did you two get back together?”

“We’re not!"

Her brows shot up at the sound of both your voices, eyes bright with disbelief, gleeful.

“Please. I’m not blind. This is not ex behavior.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked for the millionth time, but he didn’t say anything.

Your voice came out as a squeak. “We’re not together. That’s not what this is.”

“Mmhm.” Lily leaned back too, unconvinced, a smirk tugging at her glossed mouth. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue. What exactly was this? Rafe’s hand had only just left your chair, but your skin still fucking ached where his fingers had touched.

Before you could sort yourself out, Lily spoke again and you really wished she hadn't.

“You know what? I wouldn’t blame you. My sister’s hormones were crazyyyy when she was pregnant. My poor brother-in-law couldn’t get out of bed for a month straight.”

Heat flooded your face, mortification hitting like a bullet train.

Lily didn’t know that lately, your dreams had been filled with Rafe. Not sweet, innocent dreams either, but the kind that made you wake up breathless, which you blamed on hormones you couldn’t control.

You force out a weak laugh. “That’s different.”

Rafe’s head tilted toward you, he’d picked up on something you hadn’t meant to give away. You shoved your pen into your notebook, scribbling nonsense to have somewhere to look that wasn’t his eyes.

Your brain betrayed you, dragged you straight back to the dream. Rafe’s stubble along your throat. It had been so real you’d woken up sweaty, sheets around your legs, heart pounding like you’d actually done it.

You pressed harder with the pen, ink blotting the paper. Stop. Don’t think about that. Don’t even look at him.

“—anyway, you do what you gotta do,” Lily was saying, completely oblivious to the war happening in your head. She flicked her pen like a conductor’s baton, lips curved in a knowing smirk. “Rest, eat, scream into a pillow, whatever. I don’t judge. And when you’re finally ready to talk to the press, let me know. Until then…” her eyes darted between you and Rafe, “…do whatever it is you two do.”

Your pulse jumped. We don’t do anything. We’re not doing anything.

Fuck, get a grip. It’s hormones, that’s all it is. Months and months without being fucked, no wonder you’re sensitive. No wonder you can’t sit through a meeting without your brain shutting down the second he laughs, or looks at you, or—

You swallowed hard, dragging your eyes back to Lily, desperate for a distraction. You’ve been starving, and now every dream is Rafe—every look, every moving muscle under that perfect fucking shirt, every stupid smirk. No wonder you’re losing it.

You should’ve been furious about Ruthie, about her aunt running her mouth, about your medical life being sold around like cheap gossip. Instead, the anger was muffled; all you could think about was how good Rafe looked today.

Your pen scratched fast across the page, trying to bury the thought before it burned through your skull.

Across from you, Lily clapped her notebook shut, satisfied.

“Alright. That’s my plan. And yours is simple—rest. Do whatever you want.” She winked, then stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be in touch. I got a meeting across town, make yourselves comfortable!"

The door clicked behind her.

You didn’t dare look at him.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?”

“What was what?”

"You almost burned a hole through that paper.”

If you didn’t know better, if you were still that insane teenager sneaking around his truck bed, you’d let him bend you over this office desk right now and figure out excuses later.

You moved in your seat, pulse tripping over itself. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on you. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

You forced a shaky laugh, hoping it would cover the truth.

“That I'm gonna ruin Ruthie's life."

“Right."

You made the mistake of glancing up. His eyes were locked on you, probably seeing right through the mess of denial and hormones and heat in your brain.

What were you supposed to say? That Lily’s joke about hormones made you picture him pinning you against the door? That every nerve in your body was begging for something reckless, something that would ruin you both all over again?

“Drop it. I wanna go home."

“Home,” he repeated, “Funny. Thought you meant our home, the way you’ve been looking at me all day.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Rafe—”

“I'm joking."

"You're not funny."

He stretched his arms out along the chair, baiting you on purpose.

Your eyes betrayed you. They dipped, slow as molasses, down the hard curve of his biceps; the fabric straining against him when he flexed.

“Also not blind.” His eyes flicked down briefly, shameless, before returning to yours.

Don’t rise to it.

Don’t give him the satisfaction. One brow quirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You done?”

You snapped your gaze back to his face, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Didn’t say anything.” His voice sounded amused, raspy enough to curl straight into your panties.

“Your face said plenty.”

The million-dollar shit eating smirk broke free then, full-blown, and shit, you'd missed seeing it.

“Didn’t know you still looked at me like that.”

“I don’t."

Rafe pushed himself up first, while you shoved your notebook into your bag, avoiding his eyes because the smug tilt of his mouth was already burned into your brain.

He waited by the door, hand on the handle, giving you enough space to pass first. Gentleman or menace—you couldn’t decide.

You meant to breeze past him without so much as a glance, but then his palm landed at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway.

Son of a bitch.

Images slammed into you, his hand sliding lower, gripping, shoving you up against the door instead of holding it.

Fuck.

You almost tripped over the threshold, knees wobbling like you’d forgotten how to walk. All because his fingers had brushed your spine. You forced your eyes straight ahead, not at the veins flexing in his forearm.

You needed him to move his fucking hand. Your thighs clenched tight as you strode faster. You weren’t breathing right with his hand burning into your skin like that.

It was a casual touch, meant nothing. Yet, you picked up the pace, storming down the hall, praying the speed was going to keep him out of your head. It didn’t.

“Slow down,” He scolded.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice had an edge to it; it sounded like a warning even though it was worry. His hand pressed firmer against your spine, easing you down the hall like you were made of glass.“You don’t need to be rushing around.”

You rolled your eyes, “I can walk, Rafe.”

You weren’t a fragile doll by any means, or a patient that needed constant babysitting. But shit—part of you wanted to bask in it anyway. He angled himself in front of you, and it enamored you, how natural it seemed for him.

“Rafe—”

“Don’t argue with me about this. You were texting me about your swollen feet this morning."

Why did he have to remember every stupid thing you’d texted him?

My feet look like water balloons. Is it normal if I want lemon popsicles at 3 a.m.? Do heating pads explode if you fall asleep on them? Hypothetically.

You wanted to bury yourself six feet under.

No wonder he was looking at you like he knew every inch of your life, you kept giving him the play-by-play. You should’ve stopped weeks ago, but every time something happened, new cravings, doctor’s update, every ridiculous symptom—you found yourself typing his name before you even thought about it. Your body remembered who it was supposed to tell before your brain could call you out.

Rafe never ignored you, no matter what time it was. He always texted back, sometimes in full sentences, with just “k, I’m on my way” before showing up at your door like it was his job. You weren’t together by any means, and still, you were treating him like he was yours.

“I was updating you,” You grumbled.

“Updating me?” He gave you a look, "If you want a foot massage, all you gotta do is ask."

“A foot massage?” You scoffed, because what the fuck else were you supposed to do except laugh it off. He didn’t laugh, head tilted, eyes dipping down your body, seeing straight through the layers of cotton and denim.

“Yeah. Or whatever else you need.”

Your heart slammed so hard it rattled your ribs.

“Rafe.”

“What?” He murmured. “I’m serious. You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? In there, just now—you couldn’t keep your pen on the page without shaking.”

God. He’d seen that?

“Get over yourself. You’re imagining things,” You tried to throw it under a bus, desperate.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound curling down your being.

“No, baby. I’m not.”

You stumbled again, catching yourself against the wall, and his hand came up instantly, steadying your hip. Big, warm.

You stared at him in awe, chest rising. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, yours flicked to his. Every bone in your body screamed at you to let it happen, but your brain snatched you back.

“Don’t—” Your chest heaved once. “Don’t call me that.”

Rafe's brows furrowed. “What?”

He didn't realize he said it.

“‘Baby.’” The word burned your tongue. “Keep the nicknames to yourself.”

“I’ve called you that since we were sixteen."

“We’re not sixteen anymore.” You gritted the words out, even though your body was still buzzing from his hand on your hip.

His tongue darted over his teeth, biting down on all the things he wanted to say. “Sorry," Rafe stepped back, gave you space like he thought you needed it, "Didn't mean to upset you."

You’d drawn a line, and he’d listened. But the look on his face, you wished you hadn’t looked.

His mouth pressed tight, his hand flexed once at his side, hating being empty. His eyes… they didn’t glare or burn like they usually did when you pushed him off when you were younger. They just fell.

Rafe Cameron, undone by a word.

He deserved it. He was the one who’d left you to figure this whole mess out, who got to swoop in when it suited him, acting like you still belonged to him. He didn’t get to keep the soft parts, too.

Rafe didn’t bolt down the hall the way you expected. He stayed right there, a half step behind you, his shadow matching yours as you walked. Close enough that if you stumbled he’d catch you.

It was comforting, an instinct for him. Even gutted, rejected, his first thought was still to protect you.

The drive was soundless in that brittle sense that comes after someone drops a bomb.

Rafe’s truck—old engine, new tires—windows down enough for the air to wedge itself between two bodies that wanted to say a thousand things and none at the same time.

You stared out at the passing houses, pretending the trees mattered. Rafe kept stealing glances, checking you for cuts. Every time he opened his mouth, you braced for impact. Why exactly, you weren’t sure.

For a second you almost believed the comfort of it, then he did that thing he always did, tried to wedge normalcy into messy scenes.

“How about I cook for you tonight?” he asked, casual as a man asking for the aux cable.

You laughed out loud.

“Since when do you cook?” You let the sarcasm lace the words. “You think I can’t do it myself?”

“What? No—” his head whipped toward you, then back at the road, panic rising his voice. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t sayin’ you couldn’t do it. I know you can take care of yourself.”

You crossed your arms, watching the headlights in the oncoming lane. “Sure."

“No, no, I—I thought maybe you’d want a break. You’ve been running yourself into the ground, and I figured…” His voice trailed.

“Figured what?” You pushed.

He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Figured I could do one fuckin’ thing right, that’s all. Y’know? Be useful.”

You shifted, chewing your lip, not ready to soften yet, "I don't think we should spend this much time together."

You’d rehearsed that sentence a hundred times and finally found the tone you needed.

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

You should be ruthless. The version that remembers the nights he wasn’t there, the weekends you sat in waiting rooms, and no one holding your hand. The other part—fatter, softer, stupid—thinks about how he remembers the precise time you text him about lemon popsicles and shows up with them at midnight.

That part still loves him.

Fuck, it still loves him.

“It’s dinner. Let me do this for you. I don’t expect shit, okay? I just wanna cook for you.”

If he was cruel, it was easier to hate him, but when he was like this, your Rafe, it tore straight through the defenses you had. He spit it out like it wasn't the most domestic thing he could’ve said after weeks of you two pretending things weren't fucking weird.

You cleared your throat, trying again.

“That’s not… You don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” He laughed under his breath, a failed attempted at not trying to sound nervous. “I cook, you eat. Simple.”

The car slowed as he turned onto your street. You felt weird.

“You want me to walk you in?”

Your fingers were already on the door handle. “No. It’s late.”

You could sense his eyes trying to pin you down, read what you were not saying. You nearly caved, almost told him to come inside, and admitted you didn't want to be alone.

You pride won.

“Goodnight, Rafe.”

You shut the door before he could say it back, forcing yourself not to look back as you walked up to the gate. Your fingers shook as you nearly botched the code; the beep sounded too loud tonight.

You knew that Rafe could probably see it from the car, which made every movement feel clumsy. Finally, the lock clicked open, you slipped inside, the gate shut behind you.

You didn't turn around.

Hours later, you were still awake like a fucking idiot, curled under a blanket, a gift from Rafe, phone in your hand, hovering over his contact.

He looked so hopeful when he asked. 

I just wanna cook for you.

You yearned for him in your kitchen, barefoot, making something decent only to watch you eat. You wanted his hands on you, his laugh filling up the empty room.

Instead, you were restless once again, in sheets that felt cold, your body betraying you with every shiver. The fucking stupid TV wouldn't shut up about love. Every channel was a couple kissing in the rain, or slow dancing in kitchens, or falling into bed.

It was probably the hormones; they had been wrecking you lately.

You rolled onto your back, your belly protested, and your hand drops to it instinctively, stroking as if to soothe both of you.

The blanket slipped down, pooling at your hips. It made you feel exposed, betraying you with cravings that had nothing to do with food. Your phone was still clutched in your other hand, Rafe’s name daring you to press call. He’d pick up—he always did when it was you.

Then what? You asked him to come over like a fucking idiot? Let him see you like this—desperate, shaking from need that’s got nothing to do with the dumb movie on screen?

Your brain kept pulling up old snapshots: the night in his car, windows fogged, his fingers inside you while you tried to muffle your moans in his shoulder. Or that time you snuck him into your house after MidSummer and he swore we’d “keep it quiet” but ended up fucking you into the shower's wall so good you couldn’t walk straight the next day at brunch.

You flip the phone face down on the blanket, praying that it would kill the temptation. It didn't.

Your body was unsatisfied; every position wrong, every thought worse. Your pulse wouldn't slow down, your thighs wouldn't stay still. Your whole body was demanding, and the worst part was that your weak heart, traitorous, was reaching for him.

You stared at the ceiling until shadows morphed into patterns that looked like his face. Your brain had decided to torment you with reruns, one of those flashbacks, like Raven Baxter rolling her eyes back before falling headfirst into some memory.

You were back there.

The dock was quiet, only the creak of ropes and the sound of your heels as you made your way up, his boat glowing faintly with the light he always left on for you. You could feel the brush of humid air against your bare arms, the cling of that midnight-blue dress to your skin.

Custom-fitted, Rafe had said, smirking when you twirled for him earlier that night. He hadn't bothered to care about dinner. He handed you a glass of champagne, kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat until you were giggling and swatting him away, reminding him you hadn’t even sat down yet.

Rafe had dragged you down the short steps into the cabin, laughing against your lips when you tripped in your heels.

“Easy,” he’d teased.

He had you against the cabin wall in minutes, lips crushing yours, hands squeezing down your sides until they reached the hem of your dress.

He'd groaned, dragging it up your thighs inch by inch. The sound you made when his palm slid between your legs would've been embarassing if you didn't love him with your entire being, but you did. He was cupping you through your pretty white lace that was already damp.

The zipper was torture, his knuckles grazing every inch of your spine as he tugged it down. The dress slipped off your shoulders, it couldn’t wait to pool at your feet.

Rafe's mouth followed, lips and teeth and tongue tracing what the fabric left bare. He worshipped you—collarbone, breast, sucking a bruise just above your bra. You whined when his teeth grazed your nipple through the thin lace, arching into his mouth.

By the time he reached his knees, you were already shaking.

He’d pushed your panties aside with one thick finger, sliding it over your slickness, groaning at the mess he found, eyes flicking up to meet yours as his tongue replaced his finger.

You could still feel it. The way he mouthed into you like he had all the time in the world, dragging his tongue until your hands clutched the rail above your head for balance. The boat rocked, the water slapped against the hull, you swore it all moved with him.

Your thighs had clamped around his head, the sinful sound of his name torn from your lips when he pushed two fingers inside, you’d come hard easily, stars exploding behind your eyelids.

And then—because Rafe was never satisfied with just that—he was crawling over you, pressing you down into the mattress below deck, dragging the condom from his wallet with shaking hands.

You remembered the strain of his biceps as he braced himself, the way he muttered “fuck, I need you”

When Rafe sank into you, the world stopped. His forehead fell against yours, his breath ragged, his lips shaping your name over and over.

“You’re mine,” he’d reminded you, thrusts unhurried and deep, carving his shape into you. “Always mine.”

You’d believed him. Every word.

He drove into you like he had nowhere else to be, hips snapping until you were clawing at his back, crying out his name.

The flashback didn’t stop there.

You could feel how hot his skin had been against yours, the slide of sweat at his temple as he drove into you, sometimes slow and deep, rolling his hips until you sobbed into his shoulder, then fast and relentless, pounding into you so hard the mattress groaned beneath.

Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, and the grind of his pelvis against your clit made your vision turn white. He whispered filth into your ear, broken in ways you were used to:

“Look at you. Taking me so good.” “Gonna cum for me again, huh? Can feel it—fuck—so tight.”

You’d answered, again and again. Pleading, clawing, crying out his name, confessing it to the ocean itself.

The memory pulled you deeper: the scrape of his teeth down your throat, the sting of his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open and still for him. The way he’d tilted your hips just so.

When you came the second time, it tore through you so violently you thought you might never breathe again. And still Rafe didn’t stop, driving into you with his own ragged groans.

Your eyes flew open.

The ceiling was your bedroom’s, not the boat’s. The sheets weren’t tangled with his limbs, only twisted around your legs from hours of tossing. Your hand slipped down against the swell of your stomach.

You weren’t that girl anymore, the one in blue silk, giving herself to him relentlessly.

You were stretched, every curve reshaped by the baby under your palm. Would he still worship you like that? Would his hands still bruise your hips or would his eyes catch on your belly, linger on the stretch marks, and remember who you used to be instead?

The doubt festered. Your thighs pressed together, restless for friction that never came. You rolled to your side, but your belly pressed into your ribs. Rolled to your back, but the weight made it hard to breathe. Every position was wrong.

You reached for your phone again without thinking, screen lighting your face in the dark.

What would you say? That you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he fucked you that night, how your body was on fire remembering it? That you needed him, right now, to prove he still wanted you, still saw you the way he used to?

You dropped the phone onto the pillow beside you and covered your face with your hand, forcing yourself to breathe. It didn’t help. His ghost was everywhere—in your head, in your sheets, in the ache between your thighs that wouldn’t go away.

You hated him. You missed him. You wanted him.

a loud knock echoed through the many walls of tannyhill and rafe wandered to the top of the staircase as sarah barged past him, squealing louder than necessary.

he rolled his eyes, muttering to himself, "fuckin' girls, man"

sarah pulled open the door and practically dragged you inside, crushing you in one of her deadly hugs.

rafe's eyes narrowed as he leaned over the railing, trying to get a better look at you.

sarah finally let up, taking your bag and finding a place for it in a different room.

and that's when rafe could finally see you properly.

his throat felt dry as his eyes greedily ran over the length of your body ── it had been years since the two of you last saw each other, and you had changed in so many different ways.

"fuck", he murmured, his eyes lingering on your tits that were pushed against the little top you were wearing.

living on the island meant bikini tops became the new normal, the heat being too much for anything more than that.

his eyes caught yours and he watched the soft flutter of your lashes when you realised who you were looking at.

rafe knew all about the little crush that you had on him when you were growing up, he was just never interested in acting on it.

until now that is, because he really did not remember you looking like that.

you looked away from him, focusing on the blonde best friend that had returned and was chatting your ear off.

he kept his steady gaze entirely on you ── the way in which you talked, the way you bit down on your lip when you found something ridiculous or funny.

all he could think about was those lips wrapped around him, sucking him dry.

rafe cursed as he roughly palmed his cock through his jeans, rock hard at just the sight and thought of you.

"rafe, stop being ignorant. come say hi to y/n", sarah yelled from her place in the entryway.

you decided then to join in, "yeah, cameron. i don't bite"

the two of them giggled once again and he heard a "you so do bite" from sarah.

"for fuck sake" he grumbled, "i'll be down in a sec. go on and talk about shoes or i don't fuckin' know... whatever it is that chicks like you talk about"

he missed whatever their response was because he was racing back to his room, slamming the door behind him. rafe's legs felt unsteady underneath him as he leaned back against the door, his heavy breathing filling the room.

he fumbled with the metal buckle on his jeans, wasting no time in practically yanking them down his legs along with his boxer shorts.

rafe groaned loudly in blissful relief as he wrapped his warm hand around his painfully hard cock. his breathing only getting heavier, picturing your soft tits pouring out of your tight little top.

he quickened his pace and placed his other hand against the wall for support.

your muffled giggles and squeals floated underneath the door and that was all it took for him ── rafe choked out a broken moan as he came fast and hard, blinding pleasure washing over him.

his chest heaved up and down rapidly as he milked his cock dry, eyes flickering down to the white sticky mess he had now created.

"ugh, oh my god rafe. where have you ran off to now?" sarah yelled, presumably standing at the bottom of the staircase, hand on hip.

he mumbled a string of curse words, stumbling around the room to find something to clean up with.

"jesus christ, i'm coming just give me a fuckin' sec" he yelled back, being able to hear sarah's pissy huff from a whole different floor.

and coming he was.

You were a very, very smart girl, quite literally a bridge between genius and evil.  

You prided yourself on being clever, ever so patient, the one who pulled strings instead of being tangled in them like a fucking stupid fly, playing the long game.  

You learned long ago (matter of fact, you were born with it) how to bend people without breaking them, how to tease your way into exactly what you wanted. You were so, so good at it. 

So how the fuck had you been dumb enough to pick up that letter?

A letter you hadn’t known how it made its way to Tannyhill, where you spent you summers curled up in Cameron luxury. It was a miracle it came when your dad and Ward were away, because it would've gotten you sent to the other side of the world, in the blink of an eye. 

A letter from your estranged mother, of all people. You should’ve tossed it in the fire with the rest of the junk and laughed at the poor attempt of contact after all these years. But you’d opened it, read it, let it fester in the back of your mind like a leach.  

One stupid piece of paper. 

Then you’d been even stupider—answering your mother’s calls, entertaining them, letting that tiny curiosity you hated to admit to creep in. Curiosity was your real flaw, not rage or arrogance; you were tempted to know what she wanted, what she thought she could take from you after all this time. 

And Rafe, you'd actually told him about it.  

One of the first times in years you'd let yourself be honest with him, not bearing him with your usual lies, the pretty distractions you spun for fun. You'd told him, and of course, he'd threatened you, using it like a chain —a great excuse to pull the leash tighter.

Not that you'd taken it personally...it was fun? Watching him finally do something about the torment you'd been putting him through. The fire in his eyes was delicious to watch, wasn't it? Getting under his skin was perhaps your favorite vice, transforming his anger into obsession, until he couldn’t tell if he wanted to kill you or keep you caged forever. 

But that addiction made you reckless, which then led you to agree to meet your mother. A date, the dumbest thing you could possibly do. 

Your clever little mind, the one that always thought three steps ahead, couldn’t stop spinning in circles now. What if your mom sent another letter? Your father had been back for weeks now, Ward too. What if a fresh envelope ended up in the wrong hands? What if Ward picked it up before you did, skimmed it with that businessman’s smile, and then handed it off to your father? 

It made you sick thinking about it. 

You'd been careful, deleting calls, erasing logs. But what if your dad went through your phone bill like he sometimes did, that random number popping out at him? What if he called it himself? He hated that woman with a venom that made your own bitterness look like affection. He’d burn the whole world down before he let that woman crawl back into the picture. 

Here you were, pacing in your guest room, chewing your lip raw, scared like a little kid caught sneaking out. You needed leverage, a shield, moral support and you knew where to find it. 

Rafe. 

You slipped out of your room, padded down the hallway, and didn’t bother knocking before letting yourself into his. He was slouched in his chair, headset on, eyes glued to the screen, barking something into the mic. His voice was aggressive, cocky—he was so fucking insufferable when he played. 

“Rafey!” You called, shutting the door behind you. 

Nothing. 

You tried again, “Rafe.” 

He shoved his headset half off, glaring your way.  

“What?” he muttered, distracted, already turning back to the game. 

Bored Rafe was worse than cruel Rafe, worse than obsessive Rafe.

Bored Rafe looked through you like you were anyone, and you weren’t anyone.  Irritation prickled under your skin. That was all you got? You, walking into his room in a tank top and booty shorts, and he barely looked? 

You locked the door, walked to the other side of the room, and without hesitation reached down and yanked the plug from the tower, his screen went black instantly. 

Rafe's face lit up, the sound of his voice climbing into that whining pitch made you giddy.

“What the fuck—” He shot up in his chair, twisting around to kill you. 

You stood over him, that siren streak he liked never left you, not even when you were panicking. If anything, it made you meaner or softer, a walking contradiction. 

“You were losing anyway,” You drawled, “I need to talk to you." 

“What the fuck, are you serious?” Rafe shoved his headset off, “Do you even know how long that match was—? I was carrying those fuckers, I swear to God, I’m gonna get dropped in rank ‘cause you—” 

He gestured at you like you were the problem. Mind you, he was a grown man throwing a fit over pixels. His voice pitched higher, pure whining. 

You blinked at him, unimpressed. This was the same guy who had you clawing at his head, moaning his name until your throat was sore? That had his cock down your throat? This idiot, red-faced and pouting over his video game? 

You thought, not for the first time, you’d picked him precisely because he was both. Rage and ridiculousness, predator and idiot, nobody else could hold both sides without dropping one. 

“Oh my God. I can’t believe this is the same guy that’s gotten me off.” 

Rafe froze mid-rant, his mouth open, scowl deepened.

“Don’t—don’t say shit like that when you ruined my game.” 

“I have a real-life problem. And you’re crying about your gunfight.” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You couldn’t wait—five minutes?” 

“I could’ve,” You admitted sweetly, “but then I remembered I don’t have to." 

His eyes snapped to yours, a look that would’ve sent anyone else stumbling back, never you though. 

"What do you want?" 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“That’s new.”  

Talking wasn’t usually your thing, not in the middle of all this between you. Not when you could climb onto his bed and into his lap and steal his sanity with your mouth. 

"Again, what do you want?" 

You glanced at the door, then back at him, “A favor,” you murmured, voice low, knowing the walls had ears. You didn’t know if anyone was home—your father, Ward—but better safe than sorry. 

Rafe leaned back in his chair, still sulking. His eyes narrowed, flicking from the locked door to the way you edged closer, conspiratorial. 

“A favor,” he repeated, dragging the words. “Should I be scared?” 

“Probably.” 

Rafe’s grin was crooked, “See, when you say shit like that… makes me think you’ve done something stupid.” 

“Not stupid,” you whispered, more to convince yourself than him. “Okay, maybe a little stupid." 

Something in your tone must’ve tipped him off, he sat up straighter, the lazy slump gone. His eyes sharpened, scanning you the way he did when he thought you were hiding something.  

Which, to be fair, was most of the time. 

“You’re serious,” he said, the attitude from earlier dropping out of his voice. 

You hated that he could tell. Your posture was nervous, which he very rarely got to see—that got him more alert than any kiss ever could. 

You leaned closer, resting one hand on his desk, keeping your voice low, “I need you to come with me...somewhere." 

Rafe’s brows drew together, tension pulling across his shoulders. “Come with you where?” 

You licked your lips, the confession sour in your mouth.  

“To meet my mom.” 

For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t glaring, simply staring, trying to pick which words to spit out first. 

Finally: “What have you done?" 

You were going to keep it safe with sarcasm and the old games you two knew too well. 

"You're scared I'll get tired of your shit and tell your dad about it? So you can throw me under the bus with you in case he finds out?" 

You sneered at him, accustomed to his overreacting and defensiveness. 

“Don’t be an ass. I…I don’t know if I should go alone.” 

Rafe’s pulse thudded in his throat. 

He should deflect some more and sneer, crack a cruel joke about you only coming to him when you wanted something. He should remind you that you’d left him hanging a hundred times before, that he wasn’t your safety net. He couldn’t stop thinking—you came to him again. You could’ve kept this to yourself, and you didn’t. 

“Yeah?” Rafe forced out. 

You gave him a death stare. “Don’t push it.” 

Rafe tried for casual. “So what, you want me to hold your hand? 

He knew he'd have to squeeze it out of you again. Honesty didn't come easily to sirens like you, did it? It was weird enough that this was happening again within such a short amount of time.  

A miracle, really. 

“That’s not—” You started, but he cut in. 

"But it is." 

You shook your head, "I'm not fucking around." 

"But you look much prettier begging. Plus, you still own me for that shit you pulled at The Country Club." 

“Oh my God,” you snapped, “You’re still whining about that?" 

"You made it look like we—” 

“Like we what?” You pinched the bridge of your nose in annoyance. "Like you eat out of my hand every time I decide to be generous with you? Please. If Sofia couldn’t keep her drooling eyes off you for five fucking seconds. That’s not my problem.” 

The way you said her name—like it was dirt under your nail—made his smirk widen. 

“Leave her out of it." 

Your laugh was incredulous.

“Oh, wow. You’re defending her?” You leaned forward, lips curling. “The girl who follows you around like a kicked puppy, staring at you like you’re the second coming, when really you’re…” You gestured at him—disheveled, game still dead on the monitor. "This. She’s pathetic." 

The way your bottom lip unscouciously stuck out coaxed him to flick it with his finger.

“She’s not pathetic. She's a nice girl, yeah? Leave her out of your sick games." 

"My sick games?" Your eyes widened, insult dripping off every inch of you. “Are you—are you joking?” Your voice came out prissy as fuck. “You’re defending that boring, pressed little nobody to me?” You stood, arms crossed, you couldn’t sit still with how utterly offended you were. “I cannot believe this." 

Rafe couldn’t help it—the corner of his mouth tugged up. 

“Is it funny?” You demanded. "The fact that you can even say her name to me right now—” You prodded a finger into his chest, hard, “—is insulting.” 

"Done with your jealousy tantrum?" 

“I’m not fucking jealous. Shut the fuck up.” 

“You’re not jealous,” His hand slid up the curve of your hip, arrogantly.

“Don’t touch me,” You spat out, the feel of him under your tank top making you dizzy. You hoped to sound disgusted, above it. Mostly, you looked like a toddler who hadn’t gotten her ice cream and was very dramatic about it. 

Rafe's chuckle made his thumb press a fraction harder. You shoved at his chest with both hands, trying to slap his fingers away.  

“Get your hands off me." 

He let go and placed both of his hands flat on the desk beside your knees instead—provocation disguised as restraint. “Weirdly adorable of you to sound like a spoiled little princess who didn’t get the pony she asked daddy for.” 

You swatted at him again, fingers clumsy and petulant.  

“I am not adorable.” Your slap landed across the back of his hand; it stung in a way that made your chest hum. It was ridiculous.  

Rafe didn’t flinch, instead hunching forward until his forehead almost brushed yours. 

“I’ll go.”  

"Huh?" 

You'd been five kinds of furious for a solid five minutes and lost sight of the real reason you dragged your ass into his den. The slight color in your cheeks fades into a colder worry. You inhale, hating being scattered, hating making mistakes more. 

He arched an eyebrow, amusement fading to something that resembled concern. "To meet your mom. Isn't that what you wanted?"  

Rafe tried to make it sound like a bargain; he was giving you something with a roll of his eyes and zero feelings attached. It didn’t work. 

You let out this sound, surprised, relieved. “You will?” 

“You asked me.”

He sat up straighter, spine suddenly aware of yours a breath away. The attempt at humour was flat; he didn’t have the heart to follow it with another one of his usual jabs. 

“It's on the morning of the tenth. She wants to meet on the mainland, at some café she used to go to." 

It always confused you—this rhythm you and Rafe fell into. When you were younger, it had been explosive, ugly fights every single day, his temper detonating the second you looked at him too long. You’d get off on it. Nobody else could set his temper off like you did, and you wore that crown proudly. 

Now, though, it was different. Older. Stranger. You could still easily bait him into fury, but just as quickly, both of you would be eerily calm. You sometimes wondered if that was what made you so addicted to him. 

You scooted forward without thinking. Your hand landed on his forearm, thumb tracing a pattern. He didn’t pull away; instead, his hand hovered, then dropped to the desk within your reach — not touching you back, but not abandoning the space either. 

“You look nervous." 

“I don't." Don’t get soft, an internal reprimand in the tone you used when rehearsing lies. 

"At least you're not crying and begging for my fingers this time." 

"Please. You were very into the whole rescue routine, sort of possessive. It suited you.” 

He flushed, annoyed and pleased. 

“You can deflect—" 

You gasped, interrupting. "Big words for Rafey!" 

"But I know you’re thinking of all the ways it could go wrong,” Rafe snickered, redirecting the conversation. “You’re thinking about your dad finding a call log, the mail tray—” 

“Stop enumerating my insecurities,” You gritted out, feeling that familiar sick pleasure that came with being seen by him. “I can list a dozen worse things.” 

“Do it then.” 

“That’s not the point.” You pressed your palms flat to the wood, “I don’t want to go into this with nothing. I don’t want her to trick me or guilt me. I don’t want any of them thinking they can—”  

The list was endless when you let it get that far. 

“You want leverage,” he said simply. 

“Yeah. Leverage. And a witness.” 

"Is that what you're calling me now?" 

"Why? You don't like it?" 

Rafe reached out with both hands and didn’t touch anything obvious, only laid them flat between each of your thighs, palms down.

"You're being too vague again. It's creepin' me out." 

His eyes tracked every motion you made, fingers fidgeted at your thighs, and the subtle bite of your lower lip from nerves. God, he thought, you looked… perfect. 

Your eyes darted to the floor before flicking back up at him, "Okay, I feel a little funky."

“You mean scared?” It sounded unbelievable in his head. 

"That's the word, yes." 

“So—” He swallowed. “You want me there. For…support."

Rafe made a neat list in his mind, ticking off achievements on a gaming quest log. This had to be one of them.

“Yeah.”

"Really?" You nodded imperceptibly, lips pressed together, cheeks blooming, eyes on his.

"This feels weird." 

His brow furrowed, cocking his head. “Weird? What the fuck feels weird?” 

"You being nice. To me.” 

Rafe scoffed, throwing his head back a little, failing to hide the redness climbing his chest. “Because you're just a fucking’ ray of sunshine all the time, huh?” 

You nearly pouted, fingernail tapping against the wood.

"In my defense. I apologized." 

He snorted, a dry, amused sound, shaking his head.

“Apologized? For the years you fucked me over? I don't think you did." 

Your lips pressed into a thin line, "Believe it or not, I don’t get on my knees for anyone, Rafe. Suck them off while I’m at it?” 

There was a tenderness under all the sarcasm that didn’t demand announcement. Rafe’s eyes darkened at your words, his hands flattening harder against your thighs.

“You’re so full of shit,” He mumbled, his mouth hovering a breath away from yours. “Act like you’ve never been on your knees for cock before." 

“That was different.” 

“Different how?” His voice was low, thumb dragging circles on your bare skin, “’Cause it wasn't me?" 

"Thought you didn't want to know how I learned to deep-throat, huh?" 

Rafe’s nostrils flared, he didn’t like that at all. 

You lifted your chin in defiance, even with your pulse lightning in your throat. “What?" 

“You really like poking the fucking bear, don’t you?”

You liked watching him foam at the mouth; it made you feel powerful. His hands slid higher, burning into your skin. He leaned in, close enough that if you blinked wrong, you’d taste him. 

“Tell me their names." 

Your heart spiked. “What?” 

“Names,” he repeated, slower, savoring it. “Whoever you got on your knees for. I want you to say them.” 

He knew exactly where to dig, didn’t he? 

You giggled. "Why? So you can hunt them down?" 

“Maybe." 

You were suddenly hyperaware of his hands, of the distance—or lack of it—between you.

“You don’t want their names.” 

The lie tasted like sugar on your tongue, but it made his pupils flare, made his chest skyroat. You slid your hand up the inside of his arm, trailing the vein until they landed at his throat, featherlight. 

“I do.” 

“No, you don’t." 

His eyes were molten, a glittering thing. “Don’t tell me what I want.” 

“Mm.” You pursed your lips, the secret sweet on your tongue. “Some things you keep for yourself.” 

"Were they any good?"  

You let your lashes drop, the space between his question and your answer stretched with the sole purpose of testing his patience. 

“Some were okay,” You hummed. “None of them were you, though." 

Rafe rolled his eyes at you in the way he always did when you hit a nerve. But even the roll couldn’t hide his eyes, the glaring blue, a summer sky shoved through a magnifying glass.  

"You're so full of shit." 

You leaned in so close his breath ruffled the hair at your temple. 

“If I wanted another cock in my mouth, I could have one in twenty minutes. Ten, if I felt like being generous.”

“Say that shit again.”

Your lips parted, a titter threading out of you. “See? Possessive."

“That’s the funniest shit I’ve ever heard. You—” he pressed his thumb against the skin of your thigh, forcing your legs wider around his waist, “—would be climbing the fucking walls without me. Don’t act like you wouldn’t.”

“You need me to stroke your ego, baby? You’re the biggest in every way that matters, anyways.” It wasn’t crude, especially compared to the type of shit you usually spew out. 

Rafe shoved a thumb under your chin, smugness radiating off of him. “'Course I fucking am." 

“Hmmm,” You dragged it out like a tune, knowing it would get under his skin. Fingertips idly tracing a careless pattern on his wrist as you added, “But I never had you inside me, so I can’t be one thousand percent sure…”

You sighed—mock-sad, a little siren-lilted—the cruelest thing the world had ever done to you. 

Rafe tried to be brusque. “That's the saddest excuse for a complaint I’ve ever heard.” 

His mouth devoured yours before you could taunt him further, hands diving into your shorts, the desk biting into your thighs as he pressed you back against it. His thumb dragged across your cheek until you mewled into his mouth, the sound needy. 

Your body went molten against him, but your mind reminded you of what you’d been trying to get from him for years. All those summers, all those nights you’d prodded, dared him to cross the line, and he never did. He’d let you rile him up until you were both ready to bleed, but he always stopped before the point of no return.

Was that why you kept coming back? Never dragged your hookups here, into this house, either. It was his, and it was yours too in a twisted way. Four walls that had held your screaming matches, your secrets, your ridiculous half-truths at two in the morning.

You respected the space too much to let some random ruin it.

“That’s better,” He rasped against your lips.

“See, I’m a great fuckin' kisser. How come you never asked how I learned to roll my tongue?" 

Rafe froze, mid-smirk. “Huh?” 

You shrugged, “Guess you never thought to check.” 

He gaped at you for a second more, "You know how to eat pussy?" 

A sly little grin unfurling on your pretty face. “Maybe I do.”

“Bullshit.”

“Mm.” You hummed, dragging the sound out, enjoying how his pupils flared. “I don't know. Do I?" You broke off with a snicker, lips swollen. “Stop being nosy. It's a terrible trait, makes you uglier." 

That earned you another bruising kiss, his tongue sliding against yours until you melted against him. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth.

"You scared all my exes away, you fucking psycho. Did you want them for yourself?" 

You grimaced in annoyance as he mentioned his ex-girlfriends and flings. Dirt in your way, none of them were worth remembering, your brain supplied, deliciously mercenary. None of them were good enough for Rafe, let alone you. They were warm bodies filling a chair while real things waited in the wings.

"I did not! They weren't cute; that was on you. Every time you tried to stick your dick in some knockoff debutante, she’d ghost you before week two." 

“Because you—” Rafe shook his head, all but laughing. “You were fucking rabid about it. I didn’t have to tell you, you’d sniff ‘em out, look at them once, and suddenly they were blocking my number.” 

“You kept letting me!"

Rafe’s eyes followed the trace of your nail, not denying it. Rafe Cameron, self-proclaimed king of denial, master of never admitting shit, knew you were right. He caught your hand, held it up between you, and turned it to examine your polish. 

You narrowed your eyes, trying to disguise the way your pulse betrayed you. “So you admit it.”

“I like this color,” he muttered thoughtfully, eyes moving back to yours as he purposely ignored your verdict. “Red’s still the one.” 

Your lips curved in a knowing smile, it softened at the corners as if you were about to kiss him instead of gutting him. Your lashes dipped low, the glint in your eyes still giving you away — that wicked shimmer when you were playing houses.

“Why—did it make you feel safe, the way it curled around your cock?” You asked, voice dipped in honey. 

Rafe’s breath hitched. "Nothing about you has ever been safe." 

"How romantic, Rafey." 

“You don’t know what that fucking word means.” 

"Okay, ouch." 

His teeth scraped your mouth, his tongue slid against yours as you gasped into him, hands finding home in the collar of his shirt. 

“You’re so fucking greedy," he growled against your mouth, pressing you harder into the desk. 

"Me? Look at yourself!" 

That was all the invitation he needed to slide his hands higher, until he was kneading your ass with no regard for personal space. You moaned against his lips, grinding forward as your fingers, as per usual, ended up in his hair. 

His hands didn’t stay put for very long. One shoved up under your tank top, fingers spreading wide before venturing higher, squeezing your tits through the flimsy fabric. Your tank top was twisted up, your shorts rucked high on your hips from the way he was pawing at you, manhandling you against his cock straining against his sweats.

He dragged his mouth over your jaw, down to your throat, one hand tangled in your hair while the other cupped your breast, squeezing, rolling until you were gasping and shoving closer. 

“You're gonna m-make me cum,” he groaned against your skin, grinding up into you.  

"In your pants? That’s so—so pre-adolescent of you, Rafey.” Your voice dripped with mockery.

Rafe latched onto your throat, sucking a bruise into your skin while one of his hands shoved your tank top even higher as you tried to keep the upper hand, but your body betrayed you, mouth falling open.

He dragged his lips back up to your ear, merciless.

“You keep running that mouth."

His voice was muffled against your throat, teeth still sinking. You pulled his mouth back to yours, both of you frantic, needy, as if you had been deprived of him. Rafe's thumb was circling your nipple until you mewled into his mouth. The other dragged back down to palm your ass, pushing you harder against the veryyyyyy thick line of him.

Each noise you made had him rutting into you like a teenager about to bust. 

“Rafe?”

Wheezie’s voice floated up the stairs, way too close. A knock rattled against his door. Fuck.

“Dad says dinner’s ready." 

Instinct pushed words up your throat, close to answering, when Rafe’s palm slapped over your mouth. His glare burned down at you while you muffled a squeak against his hand.

He leaned in as he clicked his tongue in annoyance.  

"Don’t.” 

Wheezie knocked again, “Rafe? You hear me? Dinner!” 

You whined something defiant against his palm, and he squeezed your cheeks until your lips puckered, daring you to try. 

“I heard you,” Rafe snapped toward the door, voice pitched sharp. “I’ll be down in a minute, Jesus.” 

When Wheezie’s footsteps padded away, the floorboards groaned under her retreat. Only when he was sure she was gone did Rafe drag his hand off your mouth, unsure you deserved the freedom. 

You licked your lips deliberately, "What are we 15? She knows I'm here." 

Rafe's nostrils flared like a cartoon. “Why would she know what?" He prodded a finger at your sternum—an accusation, and you jabbed it right back with a scoff. 

“She knows you're obsessed with me. Plus, I've been sneaking out since before she could speak properly." 

He scowled, trying to make it mean, “Snucking into everyone's pants, apparently." 

You smacked his chest, hard enough to make him stumble, "Slut shaming isn't cute." 

Rafe grunted, catching your wrist, he didn’t squeeze the way he normally did. 

"Are you sure you want to meet her?" His voice was quieter now. 

You exhaled slowly. “I told you. I do." 

His thumb brushed against your wrist, he wasn’t even aware of it.  

"You know your dad will kill us if he finds out, right?" 

“Yeah." 

“Hey.” His free hand came up, not to choke or shove, but to cup your cheek. “If you don’t want to go, we don’t fucking go. Simple.” 

“I already—” 

“I don’t care what you already did,” He interrupted, firm. “I don’t care if she wrote you ten more letters or camped outside the gate. You don’t wanna see her? Then she doesn’t exist. You hear me?” 

You wished it were that easy to erase her. 

“You’re a smart girl,” he murmured, “Too smart to let her fuck with your head.” 

You grin then, "That's why I asked for help." 

"Insane work coming from you." 

You huffed, shoving at his chest again, “Don’t make me regret it.”