EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE

CHAPTER FOUR ᝰ.ᐟ LATE NIGHT CALL

WARNINGS ᝰ.ᐟ alcohol mention, rafe being condescending and rude, bitterness toward women/ex-wife, power imbalance, slow burn tension. he’s kinda funny in a very petty manner

SUMMARY ᝰ.ᐟ when eli needs help with his literacy reflection, you expect to talk to the nanny — not rafe cameron himself. instead, he calls directly, leaning into his usual condescending, arrogant persona.

the first ring of your phone nearly makes you jump out of your skin. it’s late—too late for a parent to be calling—and you’re halfway convinced it’s a mistake. but then you see the name flashing across your screen: rafe cameron.

you hesitate. usually, any concerns about eli came through eli’s nanny, not directly from his father. in fact, rafe had made it very clear, in that condescending tone of his, that his time was “far too valuable to be trading pleasantries with teachers every other day.”

still, you answer. “mr. cameron?”

“ms. y/l/n.” his voice comes through smooth, low, and tired, but not without that usual bite. “good, you’re awake.”

you glance at the clock. “it’s almost eleven.”

“yeah, well.” you hear the faint clink of glass, the lazy drawl of a man who knows he should be asleep but isn’t. “my son’s still up. said he needed help with some project—something about reading logs or… whatever it is you people assign. figured you’d be the expert, sweetheart.”

your eyebrows shoot up. “it’s called a literacy reflection, and it was sent home two weeks ago. i gave very clear instructions in his folder—”

“right,” he cuts you off smoothly, a smirk audible in his voice. “the infamous folder. trust me, sweetheart, i’ve seen it. full of bright papers, stickers, all very… elementary. i don’t exactly keep tabs on what gets pulled out of eli’s backpack every afternoon.”

you bite your tongue. “perhaps you should.”

there’s a pause, then the faint sound of him chuckling. “careful. you almost sounded like my ex-wife just now.”

the words hang there, heavy and cutting.

you clear your throat, pushing past it. “if eli needs clarification, i’d be happy to walk him through it. usually the nanny helps, but—”

“the nanny’s off,” he interrupts again. “and apparently i’m the only one available. so you’ll have to walk me through it.”

you sit back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. “mr. cameron, with all due respect—”

“there it is.” he sounds almost smug, like he’s been waiting to hear that phrase. “you teachers love that line, don’t you? ‘with all due respect.’ as if it cushions the judgment.”

“i’m not judging,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

“sure you are,” he drawls. “i can hear it in your voice. you think i’m some negligent parent, too busy counting money to sit down with a second-grader and a stack of books.”

you don’t answer right away. because the truth is… he isn’t wrong.

you hear him shift, leather creaking faintly under his weight, and picture him leaning back in some massive chair, drink in hand, eyes half-lidded and amused at your silence.

“ms. y/l/n,” he says finally, voice dropping low, smug. “are you still there? or did i lose you to that little apartment of yours?”

your jaw tightens. “how would you know where i live?”

“please.” you can hear the smirk. “i make it my business to know. teachers aren’t exactly hard to track. one of eli’s little friends at school mentioned you live near the bus stop on ashland. modest place, right? cozy. bet you’ve got more books than furniture.”

heat rises in your face. “that’s—”

“cute,” he says simply. “very on brand for you.”

you exhale slowly through your nose, trying to center yourself. “are we going to talk about your son’s assignment, or are you going to keep criticizing my living situation?”

“can’t i do both?”

the worst part: you can hear the faint sound of his smirk stretching wider across the line.

“fine,” you snap, a little breathless, “let’s talk about the assignment then.”

“oh, please,” he scoffs, low and teasing. “don’t act like you actually enjoy this. teaching second grade at eleven at night, in your apartment lit by that sad little lamp of yours…” his tone drips condescension. “…i can hear it from here. i can practically smell the ramen you’ve been eating for dinner.”

you pause, blinking, “i made soup.”

“soup?” his voice rises, incredulous. “from a can, no doubt. or maybe just hot water and a sad little cube of… whatever passes for flavor in your world.”

your fingers tighten around your pen. “it’s homemade.”

“sure, sure,” he murmurs, mockingly placating, “homemade. of course it is. like everything else you do, perfectly modest. i bet the view from your window is exciting too — streetlights, the occasional stray cat. thrilling.”

“i can hear the smile in your voice,” you mutter, and for a second he actually laughs — soft, amused, entirely too confident.

“ah, now we’re talking,” he says, leaning back further in the leather chair you can almost feel under his weight. “you’re finally engaging with me. though, let’s be honest — your apartment couldn’t possibly contain all that charm.”

you roll your eyes, voice sharper now. “i’m not here to charm you, mr. cameron. eli’s literacy reflection—”

“right. eli. the project that supposedly can’t be completed without my divine guidance,” he interrupts, tone sarcastic, playful. “i can see why the nanny is off. she’d just coddle him, feed him ideas, pat him on the head. me? apparently, i’m the expert.”

“he needs help understanding the reflection questions,” you explain, ignoring the jab at your living space. “can we just—”

“fine, yes, yes,” he sighs, a little too dramatic. “read me the first one. enlighten me, ms. y/l/n. show me how your brain comprehends the needs of my son.”

your lips press into a thin line. “he’s asking about his favorite part of the book he read last week. i want him to answer in full sentences, not just say ‘i liked it’ and be done.”

“oh.” his voice lowers, mock-serious now. “so this is a character development exercise. fascinating.”

“exactly.” you grit your teeth. “and he struggles to expand on his ideas sometimes, so guiding him is—”

“tedious,” he finishes for you, the smirk audible, “i get it. yes. guiding children. the ultimate parental burden. somehow i survived my ex-wife and her endless book clubs and shopping sprees, and now i get to navigate a second-grader’s reflections. life is hard, isn’t it?”

your hand tightens on the phone. “mr. cameron—”

“don’t ‘mr. cameron’ me,” he snaps lightly, amused by his own bite. “i’m trying to help you help my son. don’t make me regret it. seriously. i could’ve been on the balcony, overlooking the city, sipping something smooth while thinking about mergers, acquisitions, billion-dollar decisions, instead of… this.”

you take a deep breath. “so we start with the first question: why did you like the book?”

he sighs, an exaggerated groan that makes you roll your eyes in frustration. “fine. eli, your teacher says you have to explain yourself in complete sentences. now, tell me—why did you like your book?”

a pause. you hear eli’s small, hesitant voice. “i liked it because george was funny, and he went to the zoo, and… um… the monkey was… curious?”

“curious,” rafe repeats flatly, like tasting a word he finds odd. “yes. george, curious. see, he’s learning adjectives now. probably learned them from his mother, right? or was that the nanny’s doing?”

“his mother isn’t here,” you snap, sharply, “so we’re focusing on him.”

“sure, sure,” rafe mutters, but you can hear the half-smirk returning. “just pointing out the obvious. i don’t like to lie about obvious facts. keeps life interesting.”

you grit your teeth. “let’s move on.”

and yet… he leans in — figuratively, across the phone line — listening to every answer, prodding just enough to challenge eli to elaborate. he doesn’t soften, doesn’t coddle, but he pushes, gently, cruelly, in that exact way that forces progress.

“hm,” he says after the third question. “so george went to the zoo. he saw animals. he learned stuff. and… you liked that?”

“yes, dad,” eli answers, a little more confident this time.

“curious little boy,” rafe mutters. “he probably inherited that from—” his voice cuts off, almost bitter, like thinking of his ex-wife is a flavor he can’t quite swallow. “never mind.”

you don’t comment, because you can hear it — the tension, the history, the bitterness dripping in that single clipped word. it’s enough to make your stomach flip, but also… intriguing.

he shifts, you imagine the glass in his hand tilting slightly, the faint clink of ice, the echo in that enormous mansion bedroom. “you know,” he continues, “it’s funny. you’re sitting there, in that little apartment, helping my son at midnight. i’m… well, i’m sitting in the best chair in the city, drinking something good, thinking about how little you understand how easy your life could be.”

“and yet you called me,” you point out, voice low but firm. “you could have asked the nanny. you could’ve handled it yourself.”

“ah,” he hums, slow, deliberate. “you noticed that? clever. yes, i could’ve handled it. but then i’d miss your little commentary, wouldn’t i? the sound of your voice explaining things like you’re some tiny oracle of literacy.”

you flush, trying not to react. “i’m not an oracle. i’m a teacher.”

“details, details,” he says, almost mockingly. “doesn’t change that you’re efficient. precise. and terrifyingly… principled.”

you bite your lip. “i’m just doing my job.”

“ah, yes. your job. noble, quiet, in a cramped little apartment. mine? juggling empires, ex-wives, my son, and apparently… your endless patience.”

he pauses. you can almost hear him sipping the drink now, letting the ice settle. “i could hang up anytime,” he murmurs, “but i’m not. because you intrigue me. and, apparently, eli does too.”

you grip the phone, exhale, and try to focus. “we still need to finish the reflection.”

“yes, yes,” he hums, mock-serious, leaning back, smirk audible. “let’s continue this epic saga of a second grader’s thoughts.”

“all right,” you say, trying to steady your voice, “next question: what did you learn from the story?”

eli hesitates, and rafe interjects before you can guide him. “hm? tell me, little man. what pearls of wisdom did george impart upon you?”

“he learned to share with his friends,” eli mumbles, quiet but firmer than before.

“ah, sharing,” rafe echoes, almost tasting the word. “so he’s learning cooperation, teamwork… hmm. sounds suspiciously like my ex-wife taught him that lesson too, doesn’t it? except she did it in a more… tedious, long-winded way.”

you bite back a sharp retort, focusing on eli. “just repeat the sentence fully, please.”

“why are you so strict?” eli asks, frowning.

“because your father insists,” you answer lightly, trying to keep the tone playful but firm.

“ah, yes. strictness. that old chestnut,” rafe mutters. “i come from a long line of people who know that rules exist for a reason. unlike some… well, never mind.”

eli giggles softly, and you hear rafe’s smirk through the phone. “yes, there it is. laughter. precious. i suppose it makes all this tedious guidance worthwhile.”

“mr. cameron,” you say, voice tight, “please focus. it’s just a reading reflection.”

“focus? right,” he hums, mock annoyance heavy in his words. “i’m focusing. very… seriously. nothing distracts me more than the sound of your little voice scolding me. truly, the epitome of discipline.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re impossible.”

“impossible? why, thank you,” he replies dryly, and you swear you can hear the chuckle, slow and deliberate. “i do try, sweetheart. honestly, someone has to balance the chaos. otherwise, eli would run wild, and the world would crumble under unchecked second-grade energy.”

“he’s a child, not a dictator,” you snap, exasperated.

“child, dictator—semantics,” rafe drawls. “i prefer efficiency. learning. structure. all that tedious adult nonsense.”

eli sighs. “i don’t like tedious stuff.”

“hm,” rafe murmurs, low and deliberate. “neither do i, son. neither do i. which is why i’ve spent decades building a life that avoids it whenever possible. unlike some, sitting in a cramped apartment at midnight, grading papers by lamplight.”

your cheeks flush, and you bite your lip. “you’re condescending.”

“true,” he admits easily, smugly, sipping from the glass. “i am. but consider it… honest condescension. truth, wrapped in a velvet glove of charm. see, that’s where you differ from the rest of your kind. you listen. you push back, but you… stay engaged. admirable, really.”

eli giggles again. “dad’s funny.”

“hm, i am,” rafe agrees, smirk audible. “funny, devastatingly intelligent, occasionally bitter from failed relationships. all rolled into one complex package. your mother’s influence aside, i’d say your genetics are… promising.”

“mr. cameron!” you hiss softly, trying not to laugh despite yourself.

“what? it’s true,” he murmurs, low and teasing. “you can hear it in every word i say. efficient, precise, principled, and now… apparently, entertained by this little midnight escapade.”

you let out a breath, exasperated but secretly aware of the pull of his voice, the way he’s leaning back, the faint clink of his ice echoing in your imagination. “we’re still not finished.”

“no, we’re not,” he hums, voice dropping. “but let’s pause for a second. you, in your apartment, juggling papers and late-night soup. me, in my palace, bourbon in hand, listening to you. tell me again why this is so… unequal?”

“it’s not about inequality,” you say, trying to sound firm. “it’s about… teaching a child responsibility.”

“hm,” he murmurs. “responsibility. yes. and yet, here we are, and i’m enjoying every second of it. funny how that works, isn’t it?”

you bite your lip. “you’re impossible.”

“perhaps,” he admits, voice smooth, deliberate. “but you’re engaged. and intrigued. don’t deny it, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply, exhale slowly. “let’s finish the reflection.”

“of course,” he murmurs, almost reluctantly. “but just know, every word you say, every sigh, every correction—it’s… memorable. yes, memorable. and that, my dear, is why i keep this call going long past any rational hour.”

“all right,” you say, forcing a steadying breath, “final question: what’s one thing you’d do differently if you were george?”

eli thinks for a moment. “i’d… share more. and maybe tell the monkey it’s okay to be curious.”

“hm,” rafe murmurs, almost approvingly. “curiosity. bold, daring, slightly reckless. good lesson. your son has a good head on his shoulders, i’ll give him that. better than some… well, never mind.”

you sigh, tension in your chest easing slightly. “there. we’re done. reflection complete.”

“done?” he echoes, tone both amused and reluctant. “already? just when things were getting interesting. when i was finally hearing your voice scold me, tease me, correct me… and now it’s over?”

“yes,” you say firmly, hiding a small smile. “eli’s done. and so should you.”

“hm,” he hums, leaning back with a sigh you can practically feel. “very well. but, just so you know, this little midnight escapade has… lingered. not unpleasantly. curious, isn’t it, how quickly a teacher’s voice can worm its way into one’s… thoughts.”

you bite your lip, cheeks warming. “mr. cameron…”

“don’t,” he interrupts, low, smirk evident in his voice. “call me that. it’s late. i’ll allow your annoyance to linger a little longer instead. consider it my gift.”

eli’s small voice pipes up, sleepier now, “goodnight, dad.”

“goodnight, son,” rafe replies softly, and for a fraction of a second, you hear something warmer, something beneath the carefully constructed arrogance and bitterness. then the smirk returns. “and goodnight, ms. y/l/n. try not to burn your apartment down with all that late-night work. wouldn’t want your heroic little lamp to go up in flames.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “i’ll survive. goodnight, mr. cameron.”

“hm,” he hums one last time, a contented, lazy sound. “goodnight.”

and then the line clicks, leaving you with silence, the faint echo of his voice lingering in your mind. you sink back into your chair, exhale slowly, and can’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. he’s impossible, infuriating, condescending… and yet somehow, undeniably memorable.

you glance at the clock. nearly midnight. your apartment feels smaller somehow, cozier, filled with the echo of a voice that shouldn’t matter as much as it does. and for the first time that evening, you allow yourself to admit… that you’re looking forward to the next time he calls.

john price x fem!reader | outlaw/cowboy and preachers daughter | read on ao3 | pinterest board

All your life, you have known nothing but the Word of God and your father's short temper. Every day, you are forced to turn the other cheek for each minor mistake you make within your father's gaze; the old wounds hardly have time to heal before he gives you new ones. Yet, as a devout follower to God and your father, you have no one else to turn to. When the owner of the saloon tells you about some strangers lurking around town, you decide to take your chances with these wayward men in the hopes that they'll save you. But they are dangerous, conniving bandits; a fact you learn a little too late. You should have known that sheep who stray too far from the flock are at the mercy of the wolves. Better sharpen those teeth of yours, little lamb.

a/n: please heed the warnings on each chapter; overall; religious trauma; domestic abuse; reader is christian; western!au;

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen

extras:

moodboard made by @syoddeye john and lamb by @daostar

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

a cart girl flirting with scc!rafe

warnings: martial angst, flirting, sexual joke

you shouldn’t be watching him.

you’re supposed to be reading your book, legs curled in a sunny lounge chair, heart rate steady, drink sweating gently beside you.

you’re not supposed to be watching your husband—

but you are.

he’s on the course.

button-down open at the throat, forearms taut as he leans over a club. laughing at something his friend says. god, even from here he looks so confident. easy. like he belongs here.

and then she pulls up.

a bright little golf cart. pink visor. glossy lips.

just another cart girl who looks like she walked out of a catalog for tan lines and college break.

she leans against the edge of the cart and starts talking to him.

you can’t hear what she says.

but you see him smirk.

you see him nod.

you see her flip her hair.

you know that look.

because he used to give it to you.

and now, all you can do is sit there, the hem of your sundress damp where you dipped your legs in the pool, wondering if she knows.

if she sees the ring.

if she cares.

you’re not mad at him—not exactly.

he hasn’t done anything wrong.

he hasn’t even looked at her that way.

but you’re suddenly so aware of how young you were when he married you.

how many people still think you were just some girl he liked the look of.

how you’re still playing house in a body that’s changed—twice.

in a skin that sometimes feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore.

you think about the little things you’ve given up.

the jobs you never took.

the late-night crying on the bathroom floor.

the meals. the folding. the appointments. the wiped noses. the soft “i love you”s whispered into his shirt at 3 a.m. when the baby wouldn’t sleep.

you think about all of it.

and still—part of you wonders if it's enough.

because what if one day it isn’t?

what if one day he wants to feel young again, too?

what if one day a girl like that flirts with him—and he lets her?

you’re still staring at them when you hear someone clear their throat beside you.

you glance up. and there he is.

rafe.

hands on his hips, looking down at you, brow slightly raised.

“you good?”

he must’ve come off the course early. he’s sweating, shirt stuck to his back, jaw clenched like he already knows you’ve seen too much.

you try to nod. try to smile. but your lips are trembling.

“yeah,” you whisper. “just—thinking.”

he sits. slides onto the lounger beside you, way too big for the space, his knee bumping yours as he leans over and brushes your cheek.

“don’t,” he says simply.

“don’t what?”

“don’t think so hard.”

he takes your chin in his hand, tilts your face to look at him. and there’s something so firm in his eyes. so sharp.

“that girl? she was asking if we needed water. that’s it.”

you blink.

“but she was—”

“yeah,” he cuts in gently. “she was. and if i was twenty-three again? i probably would’ve flirted back. maybe even gotten her number.”

he shrugs, smiling faintly.

“but i’m not. i’m married. i’ve got a wife in a dress i picked out last week. with our baby’s spit-up on her shoulder. who still blushes when i kiss her. and who i’d pick over every goddamn girl on this planet.”

you look at him, eyes glassy.

“even when i’m not her anymore?”

his brows crease.

“baby,” he breathes. “you’re more her now than you’ve ever been.”

and before you can say anything—he leans in and kisses you.

full. certain. warm.

and just loud enough that the cart girl driving away can see exactly who he belongs to.

and later, when you're packing up your book and towels, he throws an arm around you and murmurs, half-teasing, half-serious:

“next time you get jealous, just tell me. i’ll fuck you in the cart.”

you laugh.

and maybe—just maybe—you believe him.

WARNINGS — invasion of privacy, diary-reading without consent, possessive male POV, inner obsession, implied virginity, age gap dynamics, inappropriate fantasies, minor delusion/grooming-adjacent thoughts, manipulation (anything italicized is what’s written in the diary!)

You didn’t even realize you’d dropped it.

That’s the funniest part. Funniest to him, at least.

You were walking too fast across the courtyard. Flustered again. Maybe it was because Rafe had called you sweetheart with that slow drawl, lingering on the “s,” right in front of three privates. You stammered through a hello, eyes darting everywhere but him, clutching your bag like a shield.

He watched you walk off.

And then he saw it — a slim pink notebook, barely thicker than a pamphlet, slipped from your tote and dropped behind you like a breadcrumb.

You didn’t hear it. Didn’t turn around.

Just kept walking.

So now it’s his.

He finds it ten seconds later, thumb brushing the soft cover like it might burn. You’d doodled a little sun in the corner. One of the loops is dotted with a heart. The name you wrote inside?

First name only. Bubbly handwriting. Like a schoolgirl.

He flips to the first page and grins.

“Summer Goals ☀️💕”

— swim more

— read 5 books

— learn how to french braid my hair

— kiss someone (REAL kiss!)

— fall in love

— try wine or beer!

— say no without feeling bad

— be brave

Rafe lets out a low breath. One part humor. One part something else.

God, you’re even softer than he thought.

You want to fall in love. Kiss someone. Try wine or beer.

He wonders if you think all those things will happen in one night. If you still believe in movie endings and fireworks and a guy showing up with flowers.

You’re doomed.

He flips further.

You’ve used it like a diary. You don’t date the pages. Just talk to yourself. Or maybe talk to someone. The kind of someone you wish existed. The kind of man who listens. The kind of man who stays.

“Saw him again today.

He called me sweetheart. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

He looks at me like he knows things I don’t. It makes me feel dumb. But also kind of… not dumb? Like I want to know what he knows?”

Rafe shifts on the bench.

His grip tightens.

You’re writing about him.

Not a crush. Not a passing observation. You feel something. He’s getting in your head already and you don’t even know it.

You’re still so fucking clueless.

He turns the page.

“My dad would kill me. If he knew what I was thinking…

It’s not even bad! I just. I don’t know.

I want someone to touch me.

Not like that!! I mean. Okay maybe like that. But not gross. Like… soft. Gentle.

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted.”

He leans back against the wall. The notebook drops into his lap.

It takes a full sixty seconds before he even breathes.

You’ve never even been touched. Not really.

You’re writing about your own fantasies like they’re foreign concepts. You don’t even know how it works. You’re scared of it. Confused. Hoping someone will take the guesswork out of it.

And Rafe? He’d do it without a fucking second thought.

But not soft. Not gentle.

He wants you ruined.

Wants you to forget every boy you ever dreamed about because he made you come harder than any of them ever could.

He wants to be your first. And only.

The next page pushes it further.

“I think he’s older. He must be. He looks like he’s seen a lot.

But I like that. I think I want that. Someone who can take care of me. Who already knows what he’s doing.

Someone who knows how to tell me what to do.”

He closes the notebook, fast. Like it’ll melt his palms if he doesn’t.

This isn’t about teasing anymore.

This isn’t even about baiting you.

This is about possession.

You already want the thing he planned to take.

He slides the book into his pocket. He’ll return it. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe after he reads it again.

Maybe after he’s jacked off to the words “tell me what to do” while moaning your name into his fist.

You knock on his office door the next morning.

He’s not surprised. You’re flustered. Lip bitten. Crimson on your cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, opening the door wider. “You look like you lost a puppy.”

You blink up at him, embarrassed. “I—I think I dropped my notebook yesterday. I was just wondering if…”

“Notebook, huh?”

He moves slowly to the desk. Opens a drawer.

Pulls it out with a casual shrug.

“This one?”

Your eyes light up. You nod, stepping forward to take it—but he doesn’t let go.

He watches you.

Tilts his head. Then slowly, very deliberately, presses it into your hands. His fingers brush your wrists.

“You should be more careful with your private thoughts, sweetheart,” he says low. “Never know who might be reading.”

You freeze.

He smiles.

And then he walks away.

You flip through it later. Nothing’s changed. Nothing missing.

But somehow… something feels different.

You can’t explain it.

The pages feel heavier. The air between your fingers charged. You catch yourself wondering—just for a second—if he meant something else. If he read—

No. No, he wouldn’t.

Would he?

That night, Rafe sits outside on the barrack steps.

His boots are dusty. His knuckles bruised. He smells like gasoline and aftershave and heat.

And he’s smiling.

Because you’re so, so clueless.

And he’s so, so patient.

But not for much longer.

WARNINGS — terminal illness, death, grief, blood, miscarriage, emotional abandonment, it’s very very sad!! also probably one of the best fics i’ve written

you wake with a lightness you haven’t felt in months, like your body’s decided to let go of the weight it’s carried—the blood, the pain, the ache of being unseen. the morning’s soft, sunlight spilling through the glass walls, warm and golden, like it’s promising something you can’t name. your breath’s shallow, a quiet sip of air, and your hands tremble, coral nails chipped to nothing, the color rafe loved when you were his to notice. you don’t mind the shaking anymore. it’s part of you now, like the cough, like the blood, like the love you gave to a man who’s only just learning your name.

you sit up, slow, the bed creaking under you, and catch your reflection in the mirror across the room. you’re pale, hollowed out, but there’s a calm in your eyes, like you’ve made peace with the fading. rafe’s asleep in the chair by the bed, his head tilted back, his hands loose, a book of poems open on his lap. he’s been there all night, like he has for days, bringing tea you can’t drink, reading words you barely hear, trying to love you now that you’re slipping away. you don’t wake him. you don’t have the heart to see his eyes, red and raw, begging for time you can’t give.

you stand, your legs unsteady, like they’re learning to walk again, and move to the closet. the silk robe’s there, folded neat, its tag dangling like a reminder of all the times you wore it for him, hoping he’d look. you slip it on, the fabric cool against your skin, soft as a whisper, and tie it loose, the tag brushing your wrist. it’s not for him today. it’s for you, for the garden, for the last day you’ll feel the sun. you don’t cough, not yet, but you feel it waiting, a shadow in your chest, patient, like it knows you’re almost done.

you walk downstairs, your bare feet quiet on the marble, the mansion too big, too empty, its glass walls reflecting a life you don’t fit in anymore. the swan-shaped perfume bottles sit on the hall table, dusty, their glass necks catching the light. you don’t touch them. you think of the letters, locked in the safe, the ones you wrote for rafe, for lily, for the woman who might come after. you think of the baby shoes, hidden in the box labeled winter coats, blue as the forget-me-nots you planted when you still believed in tomorrows. you think of henry, the chauffeur, his voice soft: you carry too much alone. you smile, faint, because you’re not alone today, not with the garden waiting, not with the sun calling you home.

the garden’s outside, tucked against the glass, a small rebellion against the mansion’s cold lines. the lilies are gone, their stems brittle, but a few forget-me-nots cling to life, their blue petals trembling in the breeze. you kneel, the dirt soft under your knees, the robe pooling around you like water. you’ve brought a single flower, a lily bulb you saved from last spring, when you lost her, when you named her lily and buried your grief in a box. you dig with your hands, the soil cool, forgiving, and plant it deep, patting the earth like you’re tucking it in. “grow,” you whisper, your voice barely there, “even if i’m not here to see.”

you sit back, your breath short, and feel the sun on your face, warm, like a hand you’ve missed. you cough, soft, into the robe’s sleeve, and see the blood, a faint smear, like a petal crushed. you don’t hide it. you let it stay, a mark of the life you’ve lived, the pain you’ve carried. you think of rafe, upstairs, reading poems he thinks you love, trying to remember the woman he didn’t see. you think of the voicemail, stage four, the moment his world stopped, when yours had already crumbled. you think of lily, the flutter you felt, the shoes you hid, the secret you kept because he wasn’t there.

you pull a small notebook from the robe’s pocket, a pen tucked inside, and write one last letter, your hand shaky, the ink smudging where your fingers falter. you forget words sometimes, but not today, not now, when the sun’s warm and the garden’s quiet.

rafe,

this is the last one. i’m in the garden, with the lilies and the forget-me-nots, and the sun’s on my face, and i’m not scared anymore. i wish i could’ve told you sooner, about the blood, about lily, about the way i loved you even when you didn’t look. i don’t blame you. you were chasing something, and i was trying to be enough. i wasn’t. that’s okay. i planted a lily today, for her, for me, for the us we might’ve been. it’s in the garden, by the bench. water it sometimes, if you can. the robe’s on me now, the one you bought, and it’s soft, like i always wanted to be for you. don’t be sad too long. find someone who makes you laugh, who wears the swan perfume, who fills the house with noise. i loved you, rafe, through the blood, through the silence, through the end. i’m sorry i didn’t say goodbye. it would’ve hurt too much.

yours, me

you tear the page out, fold it small, and tuck it into the robe’s pocket, with a pressed forget-me-not from the garden, its petals fragile but whole. you’ll leave it for him, somewhere he’ll find it, maybe on the bench, maybe in the safe with the others. you don’t know if he’ll read it, if he’ll cry, if he’ll plant the lily like you asked. you hope he will, but you’re too tired to hope for long.

you lie down, the grass cool beneath you, the sun warm above, and stretch out, the robe spread like wings. the earth’s soft, like it’s holding you, and you close your eyes, your breath slow, like a tide going out. you think of the apartment, years ago, when rafe kissed your mouth, when love was a song you both knew. you think of lily, the shoes, the box, the name you gave her in the dark. you think of the letters, the safe, the future wife you wrote to, the one who might make him see. you think of henry, his words, you carry too much alone, and feel lighter, like you’ve set it down, like the garden’s carrying it now.

you don’t say goodbye. you don’t call for rafe, don’t wake him, don’t leave a note by the bed. it would hurt too much, to see his eyes, to hear his voice break, to know he’s finally looking when you’re already gone. you let the sun wrap you, the breeze sing you soft, the earth hold you close. you cough, once, faint, and feel the blood, warm on your lips, but you don’t wipe it away. it’s part of you, like the robe, like the lily, like the love you gave.

you drift, your heart a quiet hum, your breath a whisper. you see the garden in your mind, blooming, lilies and forget-me-nots bright under a sky you can’t reach. you see rafe, reading your letter, planting the flower, learning to live with your absence. you see lily, a flicker of light, waiting somewhere you’re going. you smile, real, not the one you practiced, and let go, the sun warm, the earth soft, the world fading like a dream. you fall asleep, for the last time, and don’t wake up.

rafe finds you later, when the sun’s lower, when the garden’s quiet. he calls your name, soft, then louder, his voice breaking when he sees you, still, the robe bright, the blood on your lips. he kneels, his hands shaking, and touches your face, cold now, like the glass walls he built. he finds the letter, the flower, and reads it, his tears falling on the page, smudging the ink you left. he sits there, holding you, until the stars come out, and the garden holds you both, one last time.