joe was coming home today.

the thought alone made your chest feel warm and nervous all at once.

he’d been gone for weeks, bouncing from city to city across south america for shows. you’d watched every clip you could find online, every blurry fan video, every photo that popped up on social media. sometimes you’d pause them just to look at him for a second longer.

but watching him through a screen wasn’t the same. not even close.

you wandered back into the living room, glancing around again. the place smelled faintly like the candle you’d lit earlier, something warm and soft, vanilla and cedar, and you’d even changed the sheets because you knew how much he loved coming home to clean ones.

your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

your heart jumped when you saw his name.

Landed. On my way home now.

you smiled immediately, typing back before you could overthink it.

good. hurry.

three little dots appeared.

Miss you.

your smile softened.

miss you more.

after that there was nothing to do but wait.

which, unfortunately, was the hardest part.

you tried sitting on the couch. that lasted about thirty seconds before you stood again. you paced the apartment, straightening things that didn’t need straightening. at one point you caught your reflection in the hallway mirror and adjusted your hair for the third time.

“relax” you muttered to yourself.

still, your ears stayed tuned toward the door. minutes stretched. then finally-

the sound of keys outside the apartment.

your stomach flipped instantly.

the lock turned, the door opened, and there he was.

joe looked tired in the way someone only does after long travel. hair a little messy from a plane ride, jacket half slipping off one shoulder, a duffel bag hanging from one hand and a suitcase rolling behind him. but the second his eyes landed on you standing there in the hallway, everything about his face changed.

his whole expression softened.

“hey” he breathed.

you didn’t even realise you were moving until you were already crossing the room.

“hi.”

he barely got the door closed before his bags dropped heavily to the floor beside him. the suitcase tipped slightly when he let go of it, forgotten immediately as he stepped forward and pulled you into him.

his arms wrapped around your waist tightly, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on hard enough.

your arms went around his neck at the same time.

and suddenly you were both just there, holding each other.

his head dipped down into the crook of your neck, warm breath brushing your skin as he let out a long, quiet sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.

“god” he murmured.

his grip tightened slightly.

“i missed you.”

the words were soft, almost muffled against your neck.

you felt him press little kisses there wherever he could reach. your jaw, the side of your throat, your cheek. quick ones, gentle ones, like he couldn’t help himself.

you smiled immediately, squeezing him closer.

“i missed you too” you said softly.

he hummed quietly against your skin, one of his hands rubbing slow circles against your back now.

“so much” he added.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

another kiss. then another.

“tour was great,” he mumbled, voice warm and slightly scratchy from travel, “shows were great… crowd was insane… but-”

he paused just long enough to press another kiss beneath your ear.

“being away from you sucked.”

you laughed quietly at that.

“it sucked here too” you admitted.

he lifted his head slightly, though he didn’t let go of you. his chin rested lightly against your shoulder now.

“yeah?”

you nodded against him.

“the apartment was so boring without you.”

that made him smile, you could feel it against your skin before you even saw it.

“boring, huh?”

“very.”

he chuckled softly, the sound warm and tired and familiar. his hands stayed on your waist as he looked down at you properly now, eyes scanning your face like he was making sure you were really there.

like he needed to see every detail again.

“hi” he said again, softer this time.

“hi.”

for a second neither of you moved then he leaned down and kissed you. properly this time.

his hands tightened slightly at your waist as your arms stayed looped around his neck, pulling him just a little closer. the kiss was warm and familiar and slow, the kind that made your chest ache in the best way.

he made a small sound into it, something soft and pleased, before pulling back just enough to breathe.

“missed that” he murmured.

you laughed immediately, the sound light and happy.

“that specifically?”

“very specifically.”

he leaned in again, brushing one more quick kiss against your lips before resting his forehead against yours.

“home” he said quietly.

and the way he said it made it clear he wasn’t just talking about the apartment.

joe’s bags sat just inside the door where he’d dropped them. you eventually pulled away from him enough to glance down at them, smiling a little. the duffel looked heavy, and his suitcase had tipped sideways slightly against the wall.

“should probably bring those in” you said.

he groaned quietly but he still loosened his arms around you long enough to grab the duffel and roll the suitcase further into the apartment. you followed him, shutting the door properly and locking it while he kicked his shoes off near the entry.

the second he stepped fully into the apartment though, he paused.

you noticed it immediately.

he looked around slowly, taking everything in.

the living room was neat, the blankets folded nicely on the couch. the kitchen counters were spotless, dishes put away. the windows let in soft afternoon light, and the candle you’d lit earlier still burned gently on the coffee table.

he sniffed the air lightly.

“did you… clean?” he asked, sounding almost amused.

you crossed your arms a little defensively, though you were smiling.

“maybe.”

he turned toward you with this soft, melted expression on his face.

“it smells amazing in here.”

“that’s the candle.”

“no,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “it’s the clean.”

he walked further inside, dropping the duffel beside the couch and setting his suitcase upright near the wall. then he turned back toward you again, still looking around like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“you did all this today?”

you shrugged.

“you were coming home.”

that seemed to do something to him.

his shoulders softened completely, the tiredness from traveling still there but mixed with something warmer now.

“c’mere” he said quietly.

before you could even ask what he meant, he reached for your hand and gently tugged you toward the couch.

he sat down first, leaning back into the cushions with a long, content sigh, then he pulled you with him.

you let out a small surprised laugh when he guided you right onto his lap, your legs settling on either side of him as he wrapped his arms around your waist again.

“joe-”

but he was already pulling you close, tucking you against his chest. his chin rested on the top of your head as one of his hands came up to gently smooth your hair.

then he kissed the top of your head.

“this is nice” he murmured.

you relaxed against him immediately, your arms resting loosely around his middle.

“you’ve been home for like… five minutes.”

“best five minutes of the whole tour.”

you smiled into his shirt.

for a little while neither of you said anything.

the apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of traffic outside and the soft crackle of the candle wick. joe’s fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns against your back while you rested comfortably on top of him.

it felt peaceful. after weeks of distance and late night calls and different time zones, this moment felt almost unreal.

eventually though, joe shifted slightly beneath you.

“wait” he said suddenly.

you lifted your head a little.

“what?”

he fumbled around in the pocket of his jacket for a second before pulling out a small little cloth bag, the fabric slightly wrinkled from being stuffed in there during travel.

“almost forgot.”

he held it up between you.

“what’s that?” you asked.

“souvenirs.”

your eyes immediately lit up.

“joe.”

he laughed quietly at your reaction.

“i knew you’d say that.”

you sat up a little straighter on his lap as he loosened the little drawstring and tipped the contents gently into your hands.

inside were a few small things.

a tiny carved stone figure, a little coin that looked older than anything you’d seen in person before, a small woven bracelet with patterns stitched into it and a little piece of polished rock with faint markings carved along the edge.

you stared at them like he’d just handed you treasure.

“where did you get these?” you asked, already turning the coin over carefully between your fingers.

“different places,” he said. “there was this market near one of the venues… and then a shop near the hotel in chile… and the stone thing was from this museum gift shop.”

you looked up at him, eyes wide with excitement.

“joe, these are so cool.”

he watched your face while you examined everything, your attention bouncing between the items as you turned them over carefully.

and the look on his face softened even more.

“figured you’d like them” he said.

“i love them.”

you were still looking at the little carved figure when you felt his arms tighten around you again.

he pulled you closer, hugging you against his chest.

“worth it” he murmured quietly.

“what is?”

“carrying them around for three weeks.”

you laughed softly.

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“i wanted to.”

you leaned back slightly to look at him again, still holding the small souvenirs in your hands.

“thank you.”

he shrugged a little, but there was that soft smile again.

“every time i saw something like that i just kept thinking… ‘oh she’d like this.’”

your heart squeezed a little at that.

you carefully set the little items back into the bag before turning toward him again, wrapping your arms around his shoulders this time.

“you’re sweet.”

he huffed a quiet laugh.

“don’t spread that around.”

but he hugged you back tighter anyway, one of his hands pressing gently against your back.

for a moment he just held you there, his cheek resting lightly against your hair.

“tour was amazing,” he said after a second. “seriously. best crowds we’ve had in a while.”

you nodded.

“i saw some videos.”

“yeah?”

“you looked really happy.”

he was quiet for a second.

then his arms tightened around you again.

“i was,” he said. “i love touring.”

another small pause.

“but…”

you waited.

his thumb traced a slow line along your back.

“…i didn’t think anything could beat being here” he finished quietly.

you smiled against him and this time neither of you rushed to fill the silence again

———-

He hadn't thought about that summer in years. Not until tonight when you reached for his hand under the white tablecloth and squeezed it once, like you could feel it too. That old ache and quiet question in him that never quite left: Did it all still turn out wrong?

You smiled at Wheezie across the table. Told her she looked pretty. And Rafe felt something ease at the base of his neck, something old and tight and coiled.

He hadn’t thought about that summer in years. The one where she still wore floaties and called him “coach,” back when he thought maybe being good at taking care of her was the same thing as being good. Back before anyone expected anything else.

Ward poured himself another glass of wine and said, “Still can’t believe they let you back in here after that mess at the bar. Guess it helps to have friends in real estate.”

It landed like nothing. Barely a wrinkle in the tablecloth of conversation. No one paused. No one flinched. Except Rafe. Slightly.

You turned toward him, just barely. “What mess?”

His jaw flexed. “It was years ago.”

You waited, softly. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer, but his fork scraped the plate a little harder than before. Across from you, Wheezie was suddenly very interested in her water glass.

Ward went on, still smiling. “You know what the real problem was? Not the broken nose, not the broken window. It was that smug little look on your face, like you thought you were entitled to break things. That’s what scared people.” He laughed like it was funny now.

You felt Rafe’s hand stiffen under yours. Just enough to know it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. And maybe not the worst thing that had ever been said to him.

Ward finally turned his attention to you, shifting in his seat with the posture of someone who believed charm was a currency and he’d never once been denied a loan. “So. You’re the reason he came back for the weekend.”

You smiled, polite. “He said his sister had a swim meet.”

Wheezie didn’t look up from her water glass.

Ward hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Right. And you go to Duke, too?"

“I do,” you said, not unkindly.

“Duke,” Ward repeated, as if the word tasted good in his mouth. “God, finally. Someone at this table who might actually graduate with honors.”

It was delivered like a compliment. Rafe, across from him, didn’t react. You felt his hand go cool.

“English major,” you added, hoping to pivot the conversation somewhere easier. “And art history minor.”

Ward gave a short laugh, turned to Rose. “Well, she’ll at least know what to hang on the walls.”

Rose smiled thinly. “We could use some taste around here.”

“I like her,” Ward said then, like you weren’t sitting right there. Like he was sealing something. “She’s composed. Level-headed. You could learn from that, Rafe.”

Still no response.

You turned slightly in your chair, your thigh brushing against Rafe’s under the table. His jaw was tight. Not clenched. Contained. His water glass was half full, untouched.

Ward leaned back, gesturing broadly with his wine. “You know, I had my doubts. Kid goes off to school, I think—finally. Fresh start. Clean slate. Then I hear you’ve got a girl. First thought? Poor thing.”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if he expected a laugh.

“But I’ve got to say,” Ward continued, “he did alright. Even if he’s still figuring out what not to set on fire.”

That got a small sound out of Rafe—something between a scoff and a breath. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

“You done?” he said.

Ward smiled. “Just catching up.”

You looked at Rafe then, watching him carefully. There was something simmering just behind his stillness, like a held breath too long underwater. You’d never seen him like this. Not quite. He’d told you bits about growing up here—never whole stories, just outlines. His past, you were starting to realize, was shaped more by what he didn’t say.

The first time you stayed over, it wasn’t planned. You’d come over to study, except Rafe had gotten bored halfway through your flashcards and started tossing pens at your notebook. Then you fell asleep on top of him mid-sentence—mouth slightly open, legs tangled in the blanket he swore he didn’t use but always had on his bed. When you woke up hours later, still groggy and confused, you found him lying stiff as a board next to you, arms folded behind his head like he didn’t know what to do with the rest of his body. “You drool,” he said, deadpan, staring at the ceiling. “You hog the blanket,” you replied, voice scratchy. “I gave you my blanket,” he said. “Which is basically a declaration of love. Don’t make it weird.” You blinked at him. He still hadn’t looked at you. Then, after a beat: “You can stay, by the way. I mean. If you want. Not forever, obviously. Jesus.” You smiled, rolled onto your side to face him. “Are you nervous?” “Me? No,” he scoffed, finally glancing at you. “You’re the one who clung to me like a koala all night. Hope you didn’t imprint.” But later, when you drifted back to sleep, you felt him shift closer. A hand on your hip. His voice was low, almost a whisper: “I don’t snore, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

You weren’t.

You were sitting on his floor, cross-legged in his boxers and your own hoodie, eating cereal out of a measuring cup because all of his bowls were “in the sink,” which actually meant on his desk, under three empty Gatorade bottles and a protein bar wrapper.

“Why do you have three forks and one spoon?” you asked, holding the spoon like it was evidence in a trial.

“Because people don’t steal forks at parties,” he said, flopped out on his bed like he hadn’t moved in an hour. “Spoons, though. Everyone wants a spoon. It’s the intimacy of it.”

You looked up. “Did you just say spoons are intimate?”

He smirked. “Yeah. Think about it. Forks are aggressive. You stab with a fork. You cradle with a spoon. One’s for violence, one’s for trust.”

You stared at him. “You’re actually insane.”

He rolled over, arm dangling off the side of the bed, eyes half-lidded and lazy. “Tell that to the spoon you’re using right now, thief.”

You tossed a pillow at his head. He caught it midair—smug—and then, in the most casual voice possible, said, “You look good like that, by the way.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

He shrugged. “Wearing my boxers. Eating cereal. Ruining my cutlery system.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you looked back down at your cereal like it wasn’t the best thing anyone had ever said to you.

A second later, he added, quieter, not looking at you. “You could keep some stuff here, if you wanted.” Then, louder, he continued, “Not like—drawers. But, like. A toothbrush. Or whatever.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just smiled into your spoon. Cradling it.

It started when you offered to make him a playlist. Just something to listen to while he studied—mostly as a joke, because you’d caught him using the “Beast Mode: Workout 2019” Spotify default for everything from walking to brushing his teeth.

“I don’t trust other people’s music taste,” he said, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.

“Even mine?” you asked, dramatically wounded.

He shrugged. “You like sad girl shit.”

You crawled into his lap and draped yourself across him like a human protest sign. “Sad girl shit has range, thank you.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t push you off. Just rested his hand on the back of your thigh and mumbled, “Fine. One playlist. But if there’s a single ukulele song on it, I’m blocking your number.”

You made it later that night, half serious. Some of your favorites. Some songs you thought he might secretly like if no one was watching. You sent it with no caption.

He didn’t say anything about it.

Not the next day. Not the one after.

Then, a week later, you borrowed his headphones to take a phone call—and when you opened Spotify, your playlist was at the top of his “Recently Played.” The last track was halfway through.

You smiled. Just a little.

But when you looked up at him—Rafe, slouched on the couch, pretending not to notice—there was something in his posture that caught you. Something tense, almost embarrassed. Like he was afraid of what it meant to be known.

“I didn’t save it,” he said quickly. “Just clicked it by accident.”

You didn’t tease. Just nodded and said, “Cool.”

Because what you didn’t know—what he wouldn’t say—was that no one had ever made him anything before. Not without expecting something back. Not just because they thought he’d like it.

He’d listened to it three times. All the way through. Alone. With the volume low. Like it was something fragile.

Back in his room, he didn’t turn on the light. Just sat on the edge of the bed and untied his shoes like it was any other night, like his father hadn’t spent the last hour gutting him with compliments sharp enough to bruise. His jaw was tight. Not clenched in anger—set, like he was bracing for something. You didn’t speak. Just stood in the doorway, the scent of his old cologne hanging in the still air, like it had nowhere else to go.

He kicked one shoe off, then the other, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was trying to wring the tension out of his own fingers. His eyes didn’t meet yours. Not once. It was like being shut out of a house that had once let you in. You walked in slowly. Sat beside him. Close, but not touching.

“Say it,” he said suddenly, voice flat. “Whatever it is you’ve been holding in since dinner.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I wasn’t—”

He laughed, sharp and humorless. “C’mon. You think I didn’t see your face every time he opened his mouth?”

“I just—” you tried, but he cut you off with a shake of his head, like he didn’t want to hear whatever soft thing you were about to say.

“Don’t try to fix it,” he muttered. “Seriously. Don’t—don't do the whole ‘they were wrong about you’ thing. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

That landed. Not because he said it harshly. But because he said it like a fact. Like he needed it to be true.

You sat still. Silent. Felt the breath stall in your chest.

“I know how they see me,” Rafe said, staring at the floor. “I don’t need you to pretend it’s different.”

You wanted to reach for him. But something in the way he was holding himself—tight, coiled, like a pulled wire—warned you not to. Not yet.

And then, quieter, he said, “You’re not gonna be the exception.”

He said it like a fact he’d had to learn the hard way, like it would save you both time if you just nodded and left now.

You didn’t.

You sat with it. Not like you were absorbing the blow, but like you were letting it pass right through you. Then you said, almost conversationally, “You left your toothbrush in my shower caddy. I was gonna pretend it was gross, but it’s not. I kind of like it.”

Rafe didn’t move. But something shifted. Just slightly. A pause that felt like a flinch he caught in time.

You went on, still calm. “Also, I stole your hoodie. The green one. The ugly one. I wore it to the dining hall and someone asked if I’d lost a bet."

You continued, “They said ‘Cameron? Like Rafe Cameron?’ And I said ‘Yeah.’ Just like that. No panic. No apology.”

Still nothing from him. But he was listening now. Really listening. You could feel it.

“And this girl—Ava, I think—she just nodded. Said ‘huh.’ Like it made sense. Like you made sense.”

You looked at him then. Not soft. Not pleading. Just real.

“I don’t need a version of you that other people approve of,” you said. “I just need the one who texts me pictures of raccoons at 2 a.m. and refuses to admit he has a skincare routine.”

The silence that came after was almost holy.

“I only do the toner because you said I looked tired.”

You smiled.

And for a second, you thought that would be it. The soft edge of humor, the space to breathe. But then he leaned forward again, rubbed both hands over his face like he could blur the night out of existence, and said—too fast, too quiet—

“I was fucking terrified to bring you here.”

You froze.

“I didn’t say it,” he went on, like the words were pushing themselves out now that they’d started. “I tried to act normal, I tried to play it cool—like this was just... whatever. But the second we crossed that bridge, I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That it was a mistake,” he said, without hesitation. “Not because of you. Because of me. Because I know what people here remember. And you—you’re gonna see it. One of these days. You’re gonna run into someone at the store or the gas station or the fucking yacht club, and they’re gonna look at you like they feel sorry for you. Like you don’t know who you’re with.”

He laughed, but it came out sharp and sick. A knife, not a joke.

“We’ve got two more nights here,” he said, voice thinner now. “That’s plenty of time. Plenty of time for someone to say something. For you to hear something. And then...” He trailed off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

“And then what?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor, jaw tight, like he was waiting for the version of you that walked out.

Like he was already trying to forgive you for it.

"Then what, Rafe?" you pressed. "Then I'll leave?"

He exhaled, slow and uneven, like the question itself hurt more than the answer. His hand dragged across his knee. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” he said finally. Voice low. Unsteady in that dangerous way—like it was trying too hard to be calm. “That’s the thing.”

He leaned back, spine hitting the wall behind the bed with a soft thud.

“You think I don’t know how this works? You show up here, and everyone sees you and thinks, God, she doesn’t know what he’s done. And maybe you don’t. Not really. You’ve heard pieces, maybe. Hints. But not the shit that sticks.”

You didn’t speak. Let him go on.

“I’m not stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “I know the kind of person people think I am. I was that person. That version of me—he didn’t care who he fucked over, who he scared, who he broke. I hurt people just to feel something. Sometimes just to prove I could.”

He paused. Swallowed hard. His voice cracked, barely. “And if I didn’t have you... I’d probably still be doing it.”

That landed. Sharp and heavy.

You felt it in your chest, in your throat. That kind of quiet honesty that didn’t come with redemption, just... regret.

“I brought you here,” he said, finally looking at you. “And now I’m just waiting for someone to hand you a reason to hate me. Like it’s inevitable. Like it’s already written.”

And the way he said it—flat, matter-of-fact—made your stomach twist. Because he didn’t sound afraid of losing you. He sounded like he already had.

"You are the only good thing I've had, and it has lasted while I wasn't here. I brought you here, and now I keep wishing I hadn't. Not because I don't want you with me. But because I do. And I think that might be the worst thing."

You didn’t touch him at first. You just sat there, letting his words settle in the dark like dust, like ash. And then, softly, almost like you were scared of startling him.

“Okay,” you said.

His head turned toward you, barely. Confused. Cautious. Like he was waiting for the rest of the sentence to fall apart.

But you just said it again. “Okay.”

“I’m still here. I’m tired and full of shitty risotto and mildly traumatized, but I’m here.”

He gave a breath of something that might’ve been a laugh. Or a warning. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” you said. “I don’t. I wasn’t here for the worst of it. I don’t know what you’ve done, who you were, what people will say to me at the gas station or the grocery store or wherever else they sell recycled grudges in this town.”

You leaned in, a little closer. Not pressing. Just available.

“But I know you now. I know the way you make sure I always walk on the inside of the sidewalk. I know you refuse to admit you have a favorite mug but always give me the same one when I stay over. I know that you don’t sleep until I do. And I know that when you’re scared, you get mean. Not because you want to hurt someone. But because you’d rather be hated on purpose than loved on accident.”

That was what broke him.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a breath that caught. A blink that lasted too long. A hand that went up like he might cover his face, but stopped midway and curled instead into the fabric of your sleeve.

“I don’t want to lose this,” he said, and it came out strangled. Raw. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You might,” he said. “You might find out something and—fuck, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Rafe,” you said, so gently it almost hurt, “you’ve already told me the worst thing.”

“What?”

“That you don’t believe anyone could love you and stay.”

And that—that—was when he finally let it go.

His shoulders sagged, and he turned into you like he didn’t mean to. Like his body moved before his mind caught up. You pulled him in, arms around his neck, his face buried against your collarbone, his breath shuddering like it couldn’t find its rhythm.