cami

You had begged your godfather to let you take part in every aspect of the hockey business, whether it fell under PR and communications or had absolutely nothing to do with your degree, because you wanted to understand what happened beyond the screens, cameras and social media schedules. 

One thing you never managed to escape, however, was business dinners. The sort of events where the entire organization, from players and coaches to the people responsible for keeping everyone on the ice and in shape, could occupy an entire restaurant and spend the evening talking numbers, contracts, sponsorships, schedules and whatever else came up over several bottles of wine and increasingly empty plates. 

It was unpaid work, technically outside everyone’s hours. It meant dressing properly, smiling until your cheeks hurt, remembering names, shaking hands and listening carefully even when the conversation had nothing to do with you. 

You were always seated at the most important table because you were Coach Jensen’s goddaughter, giving him the perfect excuse to bring you along and offering you a front-row seat to the business you had been so determined to learn. 

He could talk hockey before breakfast and still have enough energy to rehearse speeches in his sleep, humming to himself first thing in the morning while pacing around the kitchen with a coffee in hand, already thinking three steps ahead. 

Tonight, you were surrounded by men in tailored suits whose titles carried enough weight to fill the room and women who looked every bit as formidable as the empires they represented, each conversation polished. 

The players were always placed a few tables away, close enough for you to hear them but far enough to keep business from bleeding into their usual chaos, and they always seemed to end up beside the same teammates, their table inevitably becoming the loudest in the restaurant. 

You caught fragments of genuine laughter between conversations, the clink of glasses and bursts of familiar teasing carrying across the room and you couldn't help feeling like you were missing out as you watched the minutes crawl by while waiting for your meal, which always seemed to take forever because business came first and dinner, drinks and everything else followed once the important conversations were out of the way. 

You briefly wondered whether joining them for a drink would make the evening easier, then quickly reconsidered with the uncomfortable reminder that Dean was somewhere near you and you already knew exactly what he could do to your composure while completely sober. Sex hadn't found its way into whatever unlabeled thing existed between you again, but you had started expecting it anyway, waiting for it with the unease of a bomb with no visible timer.

Dean laughed, leaning against Logan as Garrett continued telling some hilarious story you weren’t there to hear, his shoulders shaking with the last of his amusement while the noise of the table carried around you. His bright eyes found yours across the room and the grin on his face softened. You held his gaze for as long as your composure allowed, studying the slight narrowing of his eyes as he silently searched your expression for an answer to a question you weren't willing to decipher.

Your godfather laughed too, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you comfortably against his side, his broad grin making it painfully obvious how proud he was to have you there. “The best there is and I don't say that just because I raised her.” 

You gave a small, awkward chuckle, shoulders tightening beneath his arm as your eyes moved around the table, searching the faces around you for some clue about what you'd apparently missed while the conversation had moved along. A few people were watching you with polite interest, glasses paused halfway to mouths, while someone farther down the table gave an encouraging nod that only made your confusion worse. 

“Pitch your idea, kiddo,” he said, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before releasing you. “You'll explain it better than me.” 

You blinked, finally looking up at him. “My idea?” The words were quiet, and he frowned at your confusion, because you were usually the person at the table who caught every detail. “Yeah, what you talked to me about at dinner last week,” he reminded you, tilting his head slightly. “I told you it wasn't my decision, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” You sat up straighter, the realization finally clicking into place as your eyes flicked instinctively toward Dean, who had just picked his phone up from the table and lowered it discreetly into his lap. 

You shook your head, forcing yourself back into focus as your godfather gave you the floor. “Uh…” You glanced around the table, meeting each pair of eyes in turn and mentally counting how long you should hold their attention before moving on, trying to project sufficient confidence to convince them that you hadn't just been caught off guard. 

“Social media is more important to business development than you think it is. Hockey is the business and that business naturally slows down in the off-season, but a brand can survive those changes because we can adapt to the public's needs and build a relationship with them that doesn't disappear once the season does…Having an official business account for the team is great but it limits us. We should put money into growing something that's already essential to the campus community. The Fifth Line account could transition into something that serves both the business and the social side of the team.” You paused, gathering your thoughts as a few people around the table leaned in. 

“Right now, the sponsors the guys work with and their partnerships cater largely to a male audience. I think women are the backbone of any lasting creation and next season should focus on bringing them into the equation, their creativity, their passion and perspective. Some of the reputations hockey players have don't do the business any favors and I believe…I know, that our boys aren't like that, but not actively working for the cause means standing against it.” Your confidence grew as you spoke, your hands beginning to move with your words as the idea took shape beyond the notes you'd originally written. “Student interviews, podcasts, letting them be more than players should be what we focus on next. Letting people actually know who they're following.” 

You motioned toward the players' table, where the guys were still carrying on with their own conversation, completely unaware that they were being used as examples. “Tucker loves cooking…I'm sure he'd love to show some of the things they eat to stay in shape, maybe with one of the guys at a time while answering the questions people actually want to ask. Logan is a great mechanic. Garrett is all about taking care of people…you can count on him for anything.” You hesitated when you reached the final name, your eyes lifting and finding Dean already looking directly at you, his phone forgotten in his hand as his attention had been fixed on you since you'd started speaking. “And Dean…” You paused, the smallest crease appearing between your brows as you searched for something professional to say. “He's just…uh…hard to get rid of.”

The whole table broke into genuine laughter, the sound spreading warmly across the table as you swallowed hard, your heart beating so violently against your ribs that you briefly wondered if you might actually throw it up. 

You forced yourself to breathe through it, keeping your posture straight even as heat crept up your neck, and once the laughter settled enough for you to continue, you cleared your throat and pressed on. “My idea is shining a light on what ensures their balance, what makes them keep coming back to the rink. The more relatable and normal they remain, the more their success feels like something shared between them and the people supporting them. Let’s make their supporters part of the process.” 

Heads nodded around the table, a few murmurs of agreement following your words and although several people looked ready to applaud, they stopped themselves, knowing the noise would carry across the restaurant and interrupt the other dinners nearby. 

Instead, their attention shifted toward your godfather, who gave a firm, approving nod, his expression settling into the proud look you knew too well. One of the women spoke first, leaning across the table as she looked directly at you. She was one of the people who made things happen, the woman always somewhere at the forefront of Briar’s public image and there was a sharpness to her attention that made you sit a little straighter. “How soon could you have that structured? And with your main ideas fully conceptualized?” 

“By tomorrow morning, ma’am,” you assured, giving a firm nod. 

The work was nearly done, you could finish it overnight if necessary. At this point, you would have agreed to practically anything if it meant filling your free hours with something productive instead of sitting alone with your thoughts, replaying Dean's body, moans, and everything else happening behind the curtain. 

She smiled, satisfied and simply said, “You know where my office is,” waiting until you nodded before the table flowed naturally into another round of business, contracts and projections replacing your presentation as easily as if you'd never interrupted them. 

Only once your nerves finally calmed did you notice the notification glowing on your phone beside your plate, an email sitting in your personal inbox from none other than Dean. You lifted your eyes toward the players' table and found his seat empty. 

Keeping your expression neutral, you slipped your phone beneath the edge of the table, bringing it into your lap and tapped the notification open.

Subject: Urgent public relations matter.

I’ve received threats that will affect my career and very livelihood. Please help.

Big Dick Di Laurentis.

Despite the absurd signed name you were unfortunately becoming far too accustomed to, your mind immediately began racing through every possible interpretation of the word ‘threats’, your stomach tightening as you imagined whatever stupid situation Dean had managed to create now.

After the impromptu presentation you'd just pulled off, after finally getting people at the table to take your ideas seriously and potentially opening a door you'd been working toward for months, you couldn't let him of all people ruin the night for you. 

“Everything okay, kid?” Your godfather leaned toward you, lowering his voice so that only you could hear. His brows drew together in concern. 

You nearly jumped at the interruption, quickly locking your phone and slipping it beneath the table before nodding. “Just something I have to handle for work.” 

He glanced down at his watch, clearly unconvinced. “I'll see that you get that promotion, okay? I don't want you overworking yourself. You're supposed to enjoy tonight.” His words softened your anxiety, especially after the effort you'd just put into proving yourself but you forced a smile anyway and carefully pushed your chair back from the table. 

“It's just a quick call. I'll be right back, I promise.” You excused yourself before anyone could ask another question, slipping out of the main dining room and into the quieter hallway where the restaurant's warm chatter dulled behind the closed doors. 

You raised your phone, found Dean's number and pressed call before leaning your shoulder against the wall, one heel shifting restlessly against the polished floor as you waited. “C'mon... pick up,” you muttered under your breath, impatiently listening as the call continued to ring. 

Every few seconds, you leaned to the doors to glance back toward the dining room, checking whether Dean had returned to the table without you noticing, only to duck back out of sight when you found no trace of him. You were just about to pull the phone away from your ear when another ringtone suddenly echoed through the hallway, unfamiliar at first until you recognized the sound coming from somewhere farther down the corridor. 

Your head lifted, attention snapping toward the noise.

You walked farther down the hallway, stopping at each door and leaning in to listen, checking one after another until you reached the end and found only a single door left. 

You pushed it open cautiously and there he was, leaning against the counter with an infuriating grin already spread across his face. 

Fuck…You hated this part. 

He was dressed in a dark suit, tie included, his hair still perfectly styled despite the fact that he'd probably been wandering around the restaurant plotting his little stunt and the phone in his hand was still ringing. 

You stared at him for a second before pressing your own screen to end the call, then motioned toward the sign on the door with an incredulous lift of your brows. “I've never known you to wear a skirt.” You pointed toward the unmistakable women's restroom sign. “I'm pretty sure your kind is supposed to use the bushes outside.” 

He laughed under his breath, pushing away from the counter. “Our pisser is upstairs and it's not nearly as clean or fancy as this one, so maybe we should be using those bushes.” Before you could answer, he crossed the short distance between you, gently caught your wrist and pulled you inside, turning to shut the door before locking it with a quiet click. 

“What's so important that you had to lure me here with lies?” you asked, though the question barely survived before his arms settled around your waist over the fabric of your long dress, drawing you against him and catching your lips in a kiss. 

The warmth of him, the faint scent of cologne beneath the sharper restaurant air and the familiar pressure of his hands quickly made every argument you'd rehearsed disappear. 

“You respond faster to emails,” he murmured against your lips before kissing you again, deeper this time, his grin returning between breaths. 

You managed a quiet protest against his mouth, still trying to hold onto the reason you'd supposedly come. “You still haven't answered my question.” 

Instead of answering, he guided you backward toward the vanity while you let him, your heels clicking softly against the tiled floor until the edge of the counter met your ass. 

There was no point pretending this wasn't happening anymore, not when you'd already had a taste of whatever existed between you and had spent every day since wanting more.

He gave your lower lip a gentle bite before pulling back, his grin spreading as he watched your expression. “Well, I've noticed how hard it is for you to give me praise,” he said, clearly far too pleased with himself. “I know we've talked about keeping count of these...slipups we keep having, but I think we should focus on you and start seeing this as exposure therapy.” 

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “So the ‘threats’ are...” You shook your head, trying to piece together whatever ridiculous logic had brought him into a women's bathroom in the middle of a business dinner. “Celibacy and the lack of praise?” 

He nodded solemnly, though the amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth ruined any attempt at sincerity. “Amongst other things...” He lowered his head, suddenly adopting such an exaggerated look of sadness that you almost laughed. “Which I'd rather not talk about. Like I said, it affects my livelihood.” 

You grinned, folding your arms loosely as you looked him over. “I know you've become big on solutions, so hurry up with exposing those. I have to get back out there.”

“I prefer showing you,” he replied, leaning closer until his words brushed against your lips, his voice dropping into that softer register he knew made it harder for you to think. “I like living on the edge…and I especially like when you meet me there.”

He turned you carefully, the press of his palms guiding your hips until you faced the mirror above the vanity. The glass reflected the two of you in soft, golden light from the wall sconces, your glowy skin, the slight part of your lips, the way his dark suit looked immaculate against the more rumpled elegance of your dress as he began gathering the fabric in slow, measured handfuls, drawing the skirt upward in folds that whispered against your skin, baring the backs of your thighs and the curve of your hips until the soft material rested in a loose bunch at your waist.

His chest settled against your back, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric of your dress as his mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your ear, lingering there to make your breath catch. “The words I want to hear from your mouth can’t be degrading,” he murmured, the low vibration of his voice traveling through you. “No trial and error…or I won’t be letting you cum.”

You answered by shifting your weight, pressing back against the hard line of his clothed dick, watching in the mirror as your eyes met his. “You’re incapable of it,” you teased, keeping your voice sultry as your fingers curled against the edge of the vanity.

“You don’t want to question that, trust me.” His expression sharpened with amusement.

You bent forward to deepen the angle, letting your gaze flick left and right across the glass as if daring the reflection itself to look away.

His hands moved efficiently and the soft metallic slide of his belt followed and then the muted sound of fabric and the heat of his cock freed and rested against you. He eased your panties aside with two careful fingers, the pad of his thumb tracing once along the already slick folds, gathering the evidence of how ready you were. 

“You kept playing eye tag,” he added. “You should’ve known this was coming.” His other hand stroked himself in slow passes, the sound of skin against skin lost beneath the distant murmur of the restaurant beyond the locked door.

Your grin widened in the mirror. “Won’t be the only thing coming tonight.” 

He mirrored the expression, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And it’s entirely up to you…” He paused, “Think fast.”

The broad head of him pressed and parted, sliding forward in one continuous, measured thrust. The stretch was immediate and deep, your body tightening around the sudden fullness as he seated himself fully. 

A low, restrained groan left him while a softer, broken sound rose in your throat. He shushed you at once, the sound gentle but absolute, one hand tightening to hold your hip steady. Your eyes had gone half-lidded yet focused on the controlled tension in his jaw as he held still, letting you feel every inch of him inside you, letting the pulse of your walls flutter and adjust around the thick, unyielding size of him.

He leaned in until his breath warmed the shell of your ear anew, the words low. “I don’t want to keep messing up that lipstick of yours. Don’t make me gag you again.”

Dean withdrew in a single glide, the thick length of him sliding free until only the broad head remained nestled at your entrance, slick and gleaming. The sudden emptiness made your breath catch and the next thrust answered it, driving him deep again in one unbroken motion that forced a pathetic sound from you. Your face twisted in the mirror, brows drawn and lips parted as the stretch returned, fuller this time, pussy yielding and closing around him with every inch he reclaimed.

He kept that unhurried rhythm, each withdrawal a slow drag that let you feel the ridge of him along every sensitive place inside, each return a deep, claiming press that seated him fully and held for a heartbeat before beginning again. You braced both hands on the cool marble of the vanity, fingers spread and arms locked, using the solid surface to keep yourself from folding forward under the steady force of him. 

Pleasure kept pulling your eyes shut, the heavy lids fighting the effort to stay open, yet every time they drifted he was quick to correct it.

His free hand left your hip to slide up, palm settling along the side of your throat, fingers and thumb framing your jaw with firm, inescapable pressure. He tilted your face until the mirror held you both completely and kept you there. The other hand remained at your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above the bone, anchoring you as he thrusted. 

You could feel everything in exquisite, overwhelming detail. The slick glide of him was continuous now, your body so wet that the soft, slick sound of each stroke filled the small space between you. His length moved through the gathered warmth with liquid ease, the broad head nudging against your cervix on every inward press, the thick shaft stretching you open and then letting the walls flutter and cling as he withdrew. 

Your essence coated him completely, you could feel it cooling slightly on the skin of your inner thighs where it had spilled, then warming again each time he sank back in. The friction was never rough, only a dense, sliding pressure that built continuously, the kind that made your legs tremble and your breath stutter into short, helpless whimpers you couldn’t quite swallow.

The mirror showed every reaction you couldn’t hide, from the way your mouth fell open around each silent moan and the way your arms shook against the countertop, to the way your body kept accepting him greedily.

He drove deeper still until the thick length of him reached a place that stripped away the last of your control. The next thrust forced a low, unguarded moan from within, the sound no longer something you could swallow or soften. Pleasure spilled past your lips in broken pieces of praise you hadn’t planned to offer so freely.

“God…you’re so fucking deep–”

Dean answered at once, a rough, involuntary groan torn from his chest as his hips snapped harder. Your fingers unsuccessfully dug into the cool marble of the countertop, knuckles lightening as you braced yourself against another thrust, slower on the withdrawal so you felt every inch of the thick cock dragging along the slick walls of you, then deeper again and more praise slipped free, breathless and half-formed.

“So thick…you feel so good inside me. Fill me just like that–”

He cursed under his breath, the sound low and pained and the rhythm intensified again. Each time your voice offered him something soft and filthy, he answered with a deeper groan, a muttered curse and a harder drive that made the counter edge dig into your front. Your pussy welcomed every return without resistance, walls fluttering and clinging to his length. The wetness had long since soaked through the lace of your panties and now trailed down the insides of your thighs in warm but quickly cooling streaks.

His hand left your hip and slid upward over the bunched fabric of your dress, palm settling over one breast, massaging thoroughly, thumb brushing across the tightened poking peak until a fresh shiver ran through you. He then drew you fully back against his chest and your spine arched naturally into the new position, the change in angle letting him sink even deeper while your body remained open and offered. 

“It wasn’t that hard, was it?” he murmured against the side of your neck before pressing open mouth kisses there.

You met his eyes in the glass through a hazy, pleasure-blurred gaze, a grin still managing to curve your mouth even as another moan spilled between the words. “Not harder than your dick.”

The teasing answer pulled another obscene sound from him. He bit down lightly on the slope of your shoulder, the sharp edge of his teeth a brief, bright contrast to the deep, rolling thrusts that never slowed. At the same time his free hand reached lower, catching the edge of your panties and drawing the damp fabric farther aside, giving himself more room, more access. The lace stretched taut over your ass, the cool air of the restroom kissed the newly bared flesh for only a second before he filled you again.

The pleasure climbed in slow, dense waves in an overwhelming presence, building low in your belly. The feeling pulled another unbroken string of praise from your lips, soft and breathless and increasingly desperate, the words no longer filtered through any caution or pride.

“You’ve always known it was yours, huh? Fuck, Dean…don’t stop, please don’t you fucking stop–”

Your breath caught hard on the next thrust and a loud, broken whimper escaped before you could soften it. One hand left the countertop and flattened against the cool glass of the mirror for balance, fingers spreading as if the reflection could steady you. The other stayed braced on the edge, holding your weight as your arms trembled through the push and pull.

He was no longer holding you against his chest and he watched as his length disappeared into your greedy pussy, exiting with an obscene sheen that coated him completely. You kept speaking, the words tumbling out in a breathless, repetitive loop as the pressure low in your belly tightened past the point of any remaining restraint.

“I’m gonna cum…Yes, fuck! Keep going, just like that…please, don’t stop, I’m so close. Ugh…baby, I’m gonna cum–”

He leaned in, one arm wrapping firmly around your waist so your body could meet his punishing thrusts. Your walls fluttered and clenched around the thick length of him in helpless waves.

“Let me leave you with a parting gift, yeah?” he asked, the words rough and pleading, stripped of every earlier arrogance.

You were already tipping over. The first wave of release rolled through you in a long, shuddering crest that started deep and radiated outward, your body seizing around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. You nodded once, sharply, eyes locked on his in the mirror as the pleasure overtook every other thought. He watched your mouth fall open and your arms shake against the counter and glass. 

His words broke on a groan. “Attagirl…keep coming like that for me. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His own climax followed, forehead dropping between your shoulderblades, the weight of him pressing you forward while his hips stuttered and lost their measured pace. Your walls continued to pulse and pull around him, drawing every thick pulse of his release deeper into your clenching cunt. His thrusts became short, involuntary rolls, the thick length of him throbbing hard inside you with each spurt as the sensation of being filled so completely pulled fresh, pathetically broken sounds from your throat. He kept moving through it with shallow, desperate strokes that dragged every last tremor from both of you, until his body finally gave out and he could no longer push forward.

You collapsed onto your forearms against the countertop, breath ragged, the cool marble a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating between your legs and the lingering throb of him still buried inside you. 

For a long moment neither of you moved. He eventually looked down, the sight of your body drawing a shaky breath from him. Carefully, he began to pull his length free, watching the way it twitched and throbbed as it left you, the mixed slick of both of you coating the shaft in a thick, shining layer, then he pushed back in once more, burying himself to the hilt again with a satisfied sound and stayed there, simply feeling the residual flutters of your walls around him.

“I’ve always known that mouth could do more than talk back and hit the wrong nerves,” he rasped, voice edged with lingering pleasure as he watched your reflection. His open palm landed in a firm, stinging smack against the curve of your ass, the sharp sound echoing softly off the tiles. 

The sudden contact pulled a fresh, involuntary whimper from your throat, body tightening around him in a final, helpless response. “Don’t get used to it,” you answered, breathless but unwilling to surrender the teasing defiance that had carried you through the entire encounter, even as the warmth lingering between you made the threat considerably less convincing.

You lifted your head to meet his eyes in the mirror, a small, sated smile curving your mouth while the last traces of tension slowly left your body. “Keep living on the edge and someone might just give you the final push.”

His lips curved knowingly, that earlier arrogance returning in a softer, more intimate form as his gaze stayed fixed on yours. “Bet you’d like doing the honors.”

“It’d be my pleasure, Dean.” You nodded firmly, the two of you still joined and in no rush of changing that.

You hoped tonight might’ve taught you how to pitch the most sanitized version of this to your godfather without inciting the rest of the players to start planning a eulogy for Dean’s funeral. 

If all else failed, maybe a public announcement around the dinner table could be the best way to soften the blow, preferably with carefully chosen words that would make the whole thing sound significantly less catastrophic than free-falling from the highest peak imaginable.

Taglist for this 'mini series': @almacaeruleum @bumbdlonde @sombrrlife @maikwasauski210 @hiiiannn @6000-fandoms @liafieldnotes-03

He knows how brave Rory’s trying to be now, too—the simplest explanation for the tears he’s scrubbing out of his eyes and his wobbly, pouty lip having nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with the fact he can’t see.

“Oh, yeah? I got you, baby,” Rafe mumbles to Rory, stopping mid-step to turn back, the chain against his bare chest catching the lamplight as he reaches into his nightstand for the emergency set.

The little guy cowers when another streak of lightning lights up the bedroom. “Thanks, buddy.” Rafe’s voice softens to his oldest when he takes Rory off Max’s hands.

You pull back the sheets a little and Rafe looks down at you lovingly as Rory snuggles into his arms.

“I got this, honey,” he whispers, the corner of his lips tipping into a sleepy smile when he looks down at you. “Get some sleep.”

Rafe hands Rory his glasses and he pushes them onto his little face clumsily before resting his head on his shoulder again, his shoulders falling as he takes a deep breath.

The two of them turn, walking toward the door as the room flickers with another lightning flash, Rafe holding his son a little tighter as the two of them step out into the hall.

Rory trembles in Rafe’s arms, buttoning his lips to hold back the tears his little pride won’t let fall, hiccuping as he inhales.

“You’re alright, buddy. You’re okay,” Rafe mumbles with his lips against his hair.

Rafe’s hand wraps around the banister, holding onto Rory as he goes down the stairs slowly. “I was having a bad dream,” Rory whispers.

“Then this happened?” Rafe asks gently as the storm rolls on. “That’s not fair.”

Rory’s lip pouts a little more in agreement and even though he doesn’t know where his daddy’s taking him, he knows he’ll be okay.

He blows out another breath as Rafe stands with him in the living room, the big bay windows stretching across the room.

“Storms are pretty cool,” Rafe adds, keeping his voice soft. “You wanna go outside?”

Rory doesn’t answer right away, the hold around his neck getting tighter. His head falls a little heavier on Rafe’s shoulder as he thinks it through.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Just goin’ to our spot, okay? No place scary,” he assures. He steps toward the door as the thunder sounds through the lower level.

“Okay, daddy.”

The summer night air is thick when Rafe steps onto the porch, warm and damp against his skin, carrying the smell of wet earth and salt off the ocean mixed with the metallic bite the air gets when lightning comes.

Rain spills steadily off the edge of the roof, hitting the grass, the storm turning everything beyond the porch into shades of deep emerald and navy every time the sky lights up.

Crickets chirp in the grass competing with the frogs from the marsh, and farther out, underneath all of it, Rafe can hear the low roll of the ocean.

He shifts Rory securely against his chest, running his free hand through his sleep-mussed hair as Rory lifts his head from Rafe’s shoulder just enough to look around.

His tiny nose scrunches a little, smelling the air, his thick glasses slipping slightly. Another flash stretches across the sky, bright enough to light up the yard for a second, Rory’s face finding that spot in the crook of Rafe’s neck that it always does.

The wooden porch creaks under Rafe’s feet as he carries him over to the oversized wooden chair, rocking already with the breeze.

He lowers himself into it, Rory curling naturally against his bare chest as Rafe stretches one long leg out in front of him, giving the chair a gentle push.

It rocks slowly beneath them, back and forth, back and forth, that same easy rhythm Rafe has used more nights than he could ever count when Rory was younger—and even though he’s still small heat builds behind Rafe’s eyes because it happens less and less.

Another low growl of thunder rolls over the house. He just keeps rocking, listening to the rain drum against the porch roof.

“You know,” Rafe murmurs, looking out across the dark yard, “you used to sit out here with me all the time.”

“Yeah?” Rory whispers.

“All the time,” Rafe says, turning slightly to look down at him, smiling when their eyes meet. “You were a baby. Little thing.” Rafe holds his hands up for emphasis, eyeing the space between.

A sleepy little smile pulls at Rory’s mouth.

“And your mama bought me this chair because she knew when you were sad, this is where we’d go. Rock you until you fell asleep right here on my chest.”

“That’s a good gift,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” he answers with a sigh and a grin, his southern accent a little more honeyed when he thinks about you. “She always gets it right.”

Lightning crackles long and wide across the sky, lighting up the choppy water as the waves swell.

Rafe takes a deep breath, feeling his son against his chest as his heart beats steady, Rory’s little head resting on him now. There’s weight now—that baby who was impossibly small is someone he has to work to carry now—but he’s still his baby.

“You had a bad dream?” he whispers. “You wanna talk about it?”

Rory shakes his head no, pressing his lips together as his eyes go wide, blinking away a few tears, but the truth comes out still. “Just mommy—was about mommy.”

“She get hurt?” Rafe asks softly.

He nods solemnly, a warm little tear slipping off his round cheek onto Rafe’s chest.

“I worry about mommy all the time,” Rafe whispers. “She’s special. We care about her. She’s the best mommy in the world.”

Rory nods again, blowing out a little sigh.

“It’s okay to worry, buddy. You saw your mommy. She was okay,” he breathes. “Nothing’s going to happen to her.”

He lets that sink in for a moment, trying his best to push through. “Okay, daddy.” His voice comes out pitifully small. He jumps slightly, body going rigid, so lost in thought he missed the lightning and only caught the boom. The sound, so loud it rumbles in Rafe’s chest too.

“Ya know, when I was gone last week mommy said you had a rough night—same thing. Storm, not dreams.”

Rory nods, recalling that too, biting nervously at his lip as his hand rests against Rafe’s chest, patting softly.

“I learned some pretty cool things. Wanna hear ‘em?” he asks.

“Yeah,” he answers, snuggling a little closer. A smile curls at the corner of Rafe’s mouth because he knew this was coming and he wanted to be ready—the research he’d done in his hotel room that night still on his mind.

He shifts Rory a little higher against his chest as he looks out over the yard toward the water. “Lightning is basically electricity. All those little pieces of ice and water movin’ around inside the clouds build up a charge until there’s too much of it, and then—” He lifts one big hand, snapping his fingers toward the dark sky. “Flash.”

“Lightning,” Rory whispers. His little brows pinch together as he thinks about it more. “And thunder?”

Rafe nods, his eyebrows pulling together. “Air gets hot, it gets big, and it makes that sound you keep hearin’. Doesn’t mean anything’s coming to get us. Just the air makin’ a whole lotta noise.”

“Like Max,” Rory mumbles without a beat and Rafe laughs, looking down at him with an eyebrow raised.

“That so?” Rafe asks through a chuckle.

“He makes a lotta noise,” he grumbles.

“That’s true.” Rafe smiles, nodding in agreement.

“Lightning and thunder go together,” Rory breathes.

“Every time,” Rafe hums. “Lightning just gets here first.”

“S’pretty neat,” Rory breathes. Rafe smiles, pressing his lips against the top of his hair.

“I thought so,” Rafe hums. “You can tell how far away the lightning is by how many seconds it takes to hear the thunder.”

Lightning splits through the clouds again, almost on cue. Rory perks up a little this time, his hand pulling away from Rafe’s chest to turn over with Rafe’s.

“We counting?” Rafe asks and Rory nods.

“One… two… three… four… five…” He lifts another little finger with every number as they count together, and the thunder comes.

“How far?” Rory asks curiously, but Rafe can hear how sleepy those two little words are.

“About a mile every five seconds,” he answers.

“That’s far,” Rory whispers, but when you’re little, anything that takes a whole hand to count feels like a lot. He looks toward the ocean again, more interested now than afraid.

They wait together, the chair rocking beneath them as the rain patters against the roof. Rory yawns, his dark lashes working to stay open now, his body a little heavier in Rafe’s arms.

“Gettin’ sleepy?” he mumbles.

“I’m not tired,” Rory insists, and a deep laugh rumbles in Rafe’s chest. A sleepy smile pulls at Rory’s lips, the little dimple in his cheek deepening before another yawn calls his bluff.

“Nah,” Rafe says through a yawn himself. “Me either.”

Another flash flickers through the clouds, Rory’s hand opening about two seconds later than it should have. “One…” he breathes. “Three.” The numbers whisper past his lips, skipping number two altogether.

His little hand curls shut completely and Rafe waits for the next number to come, whatever that might be, but it never does.

Thunder vibrates through the porch beneath them, but Rory doesn’t move.

Rafe looks down—his little face is pressed into him, lips parted with every soft breath, one cheek squished against Rafe’s skin.

Same round cheek against his chest, same little breaths warming his skin, only now there are long legs hanging over his lap where two tiny feet used to rest in the palm of his hand.

His glasses have gone crooked, one side sitting higher than the other. Rafe carefully slips them from Rory’s face and sets them on the wooden armrest.

And for a moment, he just looks at him.

Rafe settles deeper into the chair, one arm secure around Rory while his other hand rests behind his head. He pushes his foot against the porch boards, rocking them slowly. Back and forth.

The storm keeps moving farther out over the water, lightning flickering one nautical mile away, give or take. Rafe smiles because, yeah, he researched enough to know that much—something he never would’ve cared about before he had a little boy who made him want to know everything, just in case knowing it could make something a little less scary.

Rafe lowers his head, pressing a kiss to your son’s forehead, just like he always has when Rory’s eyes shut and the chair rocks.

“Love you, buddy.”

The backyard of Tannyhill stretched out in the deep blue of early night, the old oak trees casting long, soft shadows across the grass. Fireflies flickered low near the water’s edge, and the sound of waves was a steady, distant hush. You sat on the wide wooden bench that faced the open lawn, back against the armrest, legs stretched out. Rafe’s head rested heavy in your lap, one of his arms draped across your thighs, the other holding a half-smoked blunt between two fingers. The tip glowed orange every time he drew on it, then faded again.

Rafe was high this time. But not the type of high when he became all loud and restless with the unreleased energy—no, this time, it hit him deeper, relaxed all of the parts of his body, and made his head feel light and weirdly quiet except for the things he wasn’t sure how to say out loud. His shoulders dropped the usual tension they carried, the crease in between his brows eased a little bit, and his weight rested fully against you. 

Maybe it was just a you effect, he didn’t know. 

Rafe looked up at the sky full of tiny stars with glassy eyes, slow blinking as the drug started to settle deeply. You could feel the warmth of his head through your jeans, the heavy weight of him grounding you in a weird way. Every few moments he would shift or adjust himself, pressing his head a little deeper into you, as if he wanted to get closer and get something off his chest. 

You didn’t speak. You didn’t press with questions. And he appreciated your presence and support even in such a stupid way. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the blunt when he inhaled and the quiet rush of air when he exhaled. Smoke curled up past your face, sweet and earthy. You ran your fingers through his hair the way you always did when Rafe got like this—slow from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck and back again, then twirling the soft golden strands around your finger. His hair was still a little damp from the shower he’d taken earlier, and each time your nails softly scratched the skin, he made a low sound in his throat, almost a hum, and pressed his head a fraction closer against your leg.

Minutes passed. The light breeze felt perfect against your skin, the soft smell of Rafe’s weed and his grounding weight on your lap made you feel just a little bit sleepy. 

Then his voice out of nowhere, a little bit raspy and almost unsure, like he had been holding the words in his mouth all this time, bracing himself to speak. 

“My mom used to sit out here with me.”

Your fingers slowed down just a fraction—mostly out of surprise at the topic he had chosen. You never pushed about it, never asked about his family more than he wanted to offer, and felt like there was something that still hurt. 

He took another pull from the blunt, held it longer than usual, then let the smoke drift up toward the branches. His eyes darted quickly towards your face, just to see your reaction, maybe hoping to find you listening but equally fearing being an embarrassment. 

He found you looking down with a soft and relaxed expression on your face, not an ounce of annoyance or mock visible, making something in his head click in a weird way. 

“When I was little. Like seven… eight. She would bring blankets out here, and we would stay here as long as we could until mosquitos got really bad. She would point at the stars and tell me stories I barely remember now. But I remember the feeling of being here with her.” Rafe’s voice was quiet and careful, like he was testing how much he could manage to say and how much you would listen. 

“Sarah doesn’t remember any of that, she was too young when mum got sick. And dad…” He let out a short, humorless laugh, bringing the blunt closer to his mouth and taking another drag and holding it in until his lungs started to burn. “Every time I tried to talk about her, he got mad. I saw it in his face. In his eyes. He pushed me away and told me to never bring it up. Like she never existed, you know?” 

You kept stroking his hair, nodding softly to his words and feeling a slight lump in your throat. He was so young, and instead of comforting a child who had lost a mother at such an age, Ward pushed the knife deeper, ignoring the growing problem. 

Your free hand fell on Rafe’s chest, his heartbeat steady under your palm. 

Rafe turned the blunt between his fingers, watching the ash build.

“I know I'm too grown for this shit.” He muttered. “Supposed to be past this. Supposed to get my shit together and… I don’t know, be a man. But I can’t help it. It hurts. Sometimes it just hits me and I feel like I'm eight and I just want my mum back.”

Your eyes trailed the single tear that slipped away. It tracked down Rafe’s temple, disappearing into his hair. He went still for a second, like you caught him red-handed, then swiped at it with the back of his hand, too angry at himself. 

“Sorry.” He said, voice tighter now. “Didn’t mean to get all—”

“It’s okay.” You answered softly. Your fingers wiped gently at his face where another tear slipped free, moving back to run through his hair. “You don’t have to apologize for missing her, Rafe. Not to me.”

His throat bobbed, jaw tightened until it almost hurt. He refused to look at you for a few moments, taking a few more drags just to numb his mind and make it feel a bit less. But you shifted slightly under him, hands on his head so soft and light to keep him in a comfortable position, then looked down with a soft and sad smile. 

“You were a momma’s boy, huh?” 

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah— I was. Followed her everywhere. She spoiled the hell out of me, more than dad ever did.” He was quiet for a long time. The blunt burned lower. He took one last slow hit, then held it out to the side so the ash wouldn’t fall on you. When he spoke again, his voice was even quieter.

“She would’ve loved you.”

The words landed heavy. You felt your own chest tighten, fingers twitching against his chest when you were left speechless for a few long seconds. 

“She always said she could tell when someone was real.” He paused, looking you in the eyes. “You’re real. I can feel it whenever I'm with you.” 

You leaned down just enough to press your lips to his forehead, lingering there for a second. “We can talk about her whenever you want.” You murmured against his skin. “Any time. I don't mind at all. And I don’t want you to cary it alone anymore, okay?”

Rafe’s hand found yours where it rested on his chest. His fingers laced through yours and squeezed your hand softly just to let you know—he appreciated it. He held on to you tighter than usual. More intimate and real. 

The rest of the blunt almost burned out until the tiny bit was left in between his fingers. He pressed in against the metal part of the bench until the orange light died down and leaned back against you, but this time looking somewhere even farther away. He kept his eyes on the sky. 

“Her anniversary is coming up. Next week. The day she… you know.” He swallowed, his voice thick. “I usually go by myself and sit in front of the stone like an idiot as if she could see or hear me. But I was thinking that maybe you could come with me? If you want.” The question sounded almost shy in the way it was quiet and hesitant. It’s been only a few months since you got together. The best months Rafe could imagine—yes, but still, he wasn’t sure that you would be okay with this type of stuff so early on. And the last thing he wanted to do was to fuck it all up the first time he found someone he had real feelings for. 

You smiled before he could say anything else, maybe take his words back. “I’d like that.” Your hand tightened around his larger one, thumb brushing over the knuckles. “I’d really like to go with you, Rafe.” 

His chest fell down as if he were holding his breath, bracing himself for your answer. He stayed there silent for a few long seconds, and you gave him his time. Your fingers traced down the side of his face, then down his nose, seeing the way all worry and whatever anxiety was left vanished from his body. His face relaxed, turning until his cheek rested against your thigh, his eyes closed now. 

“Thanks.” Rafe whispered. Barely loud enough to hear.

You didn’t say anything back and just kept stroking his hair, holding his hand, both of you watching the stars shine across the dark sky above Tannyhill.

Another part had also pondered on that text from Ethan. It nagged your mind more than it should, making you think if you’d done something wrong or gone out of line on instinct. You hated that it still had that much power over you. After everything you’d done over the last few days, you’d thought you were finally getting better at separating yourself from the version of you that had existed beside Ethan. Yet, one message from him had you second-guessing every decision you’d made since leaving.

Perhaps that was what made it so difficult. You’d spent years learning how to read his moods, his silences, the slight changes in his tone, always searching for the part of yourself that needed fixing before he could point it out. And now, even when he wasn’t there, some part of you was still waiting for him to tell you that you’d done something wrong.

You stood barefoot against the balcony, coffee warming your palms as the sun climbed slowly over the Aegean, listening to the distant hum of boats below when Rafe came up from behind you. As he wrapped his arms around you, resting his head upon your shoulder, he murmured into your ear, “Didn’t expect t’see two views when I woke up this morning.” 

“Well aren’t we feeling romantic today, huh?”

“Just enjoyin’ it while I still have m’angel.” You knew it couldn’t have meant more than that, but it festered in your brain that he knew as well that this wouldn’t last. Part of you almost felt a bittersweet warmth that he’d maybe been dreading the end of your trip. 

As if on cue, Rafe’s phone lit up, showing Ward’s contact, making Rafe still. It’d been a while since he’d spoken to Ward since the last time he’d gotten his texts. You could sense the panic rising in Rafe, knowing that it’d make him even more anxious to speak to someone whose expectations and perception dictate who he let himself be. 

You turned to look at him with a hesitant expression while trying to disguise it as understanding. “Do you want me to stay?”

Rafe stared at the screen for a few seconds before swallowing hard, his jaw tightening. “Nah.” His voice came out quieter than usual. ”I’ll be fine.” You studied him for a second, trying to decide whether he actually meant it. The tension in his jaw told you enough.

“Okay.” You nodded, setting your coffee down. “I’m gonna head down to the market we saw the other day then. Give you some space.”

“You don’t gotta—”

“I know.” You gave him a small smile. “But I think you need it.” Before he could argue, you slipped past him, leaving Rafe alone with the phone that seemed to get heavier as it continued to vibrate. The second the hotel door clicked shut, Rafe pressed the green icon, lifting the phone to let out an onerous “Hey, Dad.” 

“Nice of you to finally pick up.” Even the deep gruff of his voice was enough to make Rafe roll his eyes as he looked downwards onto the street, seeing you walk along the sidewalk. Rafe huffed, “What do you want?”

“You wanna explain to me why you’re galavanting around Europe with that girl?”

Rafe felt his stomach drop; he hadn’t shared any pictures with Ward, which made him wonder how he’d found out. “What? How did—”

“You don’t think Sarah’s gonna show us those pictures you sent her?” Ward pressed. “She was in the corner of some, and I hadn’t realized that it was her until Wheezie noticed.” 

“Typical Sarah,” Rafe muttered. 

“This isn’t funny, Rafe.”

“I didn't say it was!”

“I’m trying to understand what the hell you think you’re doing.”

Rafe dragged a hand over his face. “I’m on vacation, Dad.”

“With her?” There was something about the way Ward said it that made Rafe’s shoulders stiffen. 

“You know what happened to her parents, right?” Ward asked, his voice quieter now, though somehow that made it worse. “They worked their whole lives to build something for her. Her father started that business from the ground up, her mother was right there beside him, and for a while, they actually had something respectable. I'm sure they were wonderful parents the way everyone said so. But being good people doesn't mean they knew what they were doing.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that none of it lasted.” Ward sighed through the phone. “The second they were gone, everything they’d spent their lives building started falling apart. The business disappeared, and she's this helpless person who’s been clinging onto the same guy who left her. She has absolutely nothing to offer you.”

Something about the way Ward talked about you made Rafe’s heart pound with both anger and defence. He’d finally gotten something good out of this mess, only for his father to dismiss it again. “Don't talk about her like that.” 

“I’m not saying she’s a bad person, Rafe. I’m saying you need to understand what you’re getting yourself involved in.” There was a brief pause before Ward continued, his tone becoming more pointed. “You think people in our circles aren’t paying attention to who a Cameron stands next to?”

Ward’s voice rasped through the speaker, heavy with the same calculated disappointment that always made Rafe feel eight years old again, a little kid with burning eyes and unable to speak. “There was this huge thing that her parents left behind a mountain of mismanaged debt, Rafe. Their business folded before the ink on their obituaries was even dry. It’s tragic, sure, I feel bad for the girl, but the reality is that she has nothing. No family name left, no assets, no leverage, nothing. Rafe, she has nothing that she could offer you, she even got left by her own fiancé.”

Rafe’s knuckles turned bone-white around the casing of his phone. “She’s not—she doesn't care about that stuff, Dad—”

“It doesn't matter what she cares about or whatever happened,” Ward cut in, sharp and uncompromising. “The town looks at her like she’s a lost cause, even if she’s doing well for herself. You attach the Cameron name to that kind of baggage—to a girl who brings absolutely nothing to the table—and it makes us look sloppy. It makes you look like you’re a charity case by association. Is that what you want? To look like you’re settling for the next best thing?”

Rafe thought of how you looked under the sun, when he spun you around in water in his arms, and how bright you looked. So far removed from the way Ward was making you out to be. Except, the words circled his mind, blurring that image and instead, the familiar panic started bubbling up in Rafe’s throat, thick and suffocating. Ward’s words didn't just hurt; they tapped directly into the deepest, darkest fear Rafe carried since he was a kid: that his own judgment was inherently flawed. That every time he thought he was doing something right, he was actually just disappointing his father again.

He’d spent the last week letting his guard down; he’d let you see him soft, he’d even let himself believe that he could just be a guy on a trip with a girl he couldn't stop thinking about. But Ward’s voice was the cold water slamming him back into reality. The Camerons didn't do 'soft’; they ran the show. And right now, Ward was telling him that he was failing.

He needed to fix it; he had to fix it. If he didn't show Ward that he was smart and had control over this, Ward would look at him with that same dismissive pity that he always gave him. Rafe swallowed hard, his posture instantly shifting. He squared his shoulders, pulling his chin up as if Ward were standing right in front of him, the relaxed, easy demeanour from ten minutes ago evaporating entirely.

“I’m not—I’m not trying to bring her into the family, Dad,” Rafe spat out, his voice hardening, slipping back into that defensive, arrogant edge he used like armour. He forced a dry, hollow laugh that didn't reach his eyes. “Jesus, relax. You think I don't know what I'm doing?”

There was a pause on the other end, Ward waiting, testing the sudden shift in his son's tone. “Oh, is that so?” 

“Yeah, listen, I’ll come home and explain everything, but trust me,” Rafe glanced towards the direction you walked in, mouth already sour from what he was about to say. “She’s the last person I’d bring home.” He was spiralling inside, his chest aching with a violent split: a desperate urge to run down those stairs, pull you into his arms, and apologize for even letting those thoughts cross his mind, warring against his pathetic need to hear Ward say 'Good job, son.'

“Glad to hear your head is still on straight,” Ward said, the approving undertone sending a sickening rush of validation straight to Rafe’s brain. “You come home, you get your head straight, and you start thinking about what your future actually looks like.”

“Got it,” Rafe muttered. The line went dead, and within an instant, the warmth in his chest from earlier was completely gone, replaced by the familiar, bitter ice of his own insecurity. He knew it wasn’t fair for you, you’d gone through enough. Yet, for some reason, he couldn’t shake the way his father went from disappointed to approving, the first time Ward had been like it since the wedding was called off. 

Only to Rafe’s surprise, he felt a vibration in his hand. 

The patter of your sandals against the cobblestone accompanied the slight chatter of people all around you, the bargaining between vendors and their customers, kids begging their parents for a toy, giggles from girls on a grad trip as they took pictures on their digital cameras. It was comforting to be alone and in the company of strangers, everyone revelling in the stands against the white buildings. 

You’d come by a few days earlier with Rafe to get some souvenirs for his sisters, while you made sure to get something for Sage. Except even now, as you looked at the displays of handmade purses and replica buildings, the conversation you had with her kept replaying in your head when she brought up something you hadn’t realized. 

You: and after dinner, we went dancing in the square and he just eased into it so well?? i did not think Rafe of all people knew how to dance.

Sage: hmm you don’t say

You: …what? did I say something?

Sage: no, god no.

Sage: how do you feel? like emotionally? 

You: fine… better even… why? 

You: i’m so lost

Sage: you’re talking more about Rafe and have gone almost two weeks without mentioning Ethan. you haven’t even told me what you guys did to them!

You: i’m just updating you!!!

Sage: you’re smitten for Rafe, babes. I can feel you blushing from here. 

You rolled your eyes, smiling harder because she’d been right. You were blushing, but you hadn’t realized how much you’d internalized what she’d said

Sage was right, to some extent. You weren’t just smitten for Rafe, you might’ve crossed a line that you’d been hoping to avoid this entire time. You had fallen in love with him so quietly that you hadn’t even noticed your heart had stopped looking backward.

You were in love with Rafe. 

It felt too soon, especially for someone who’d gotten out of a relationship just weeks before, someone whose heart had been on someone else for years. But, would it be so wrong to feel that way for someone who made you love life more than you had before? Would it be so wrong to let yourself indulge in someone who brought out the real you? 

Even if he’d put a deadline on that love. 

It was as if every time your heartbeat began to pick up over the idea of him, the pain of its reality put it in a chokehold. You wanted to let yourself feel it, to surrender to the warmth that came whenever his name crossed your mind, but fear always found a way to pull you back. Because falling for Rafe meant risking the one thing you’d only just learned how to survive—losing someone you loved all over again. 

As your eyes trailed along one storefront to the next, something finally caught your eye, making you gravitate towards it. In a quaint little shop, hung at the front, was a white dress mimicking moonshine that seemed to shimmer as it reflected the sun’s light rays. It was elegant without trying too hard, feminine without feeling overly delicate, and somehow felt like something you would’ve never picked out for yourself.

For a moment, you simply stood there admiring it, imagining how it would look beneath the golden lights that night for dinner. As much as it was out of your comfort zone, it was hard to forget that almost everything was out of your comfort zone. With that, you reached out and grabbed the dress, its fabric soft against your fingers as it flowed between them effortlessly. As you admired it, you thought of all the times your mother had stood behind you in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of her dress you tried on and telling you that you looked beautiful. It didn’t help that you fell more in love with it when you tried on the dress, spinning in front of the mirror as you admired the way it swished. 

Until you heard your name being called by him.

Standing behind you was Ethan, who was looking at you through the reflection of the mirror. His face was still the same it’d always been, except for some reason, you couldn’t recognize him anymore. The same cheeks you’d caressed in your hands felt like a distant memory, or the eyes you once gazed into lovingly now looked more *foreign*. There was no ache you had in your chest once, no desperate urge to try and piece together why he’d chosen someone else, nothing. You simply stared at him, almost waiting for the person you used to know to appear again, yet the world kept moving—the music from somewhere outside drifting through the open doors, the shopkeeper folding clothes behind the counter, sunlight spilling across the tiled floor as though nothing had changed. 

For so long, you’d imagined seeing Ethan again would shatter whatever fragile peace you’d managed to build, that one glimpse of him would send you spiralling back into the person you’d been before. The idea of it terrified you, being someone who’d been left with nothing while he still had everything. But standing there, with the memory of Rafe still lingering somewhere in the back of your mind, it was like he was a stranger.

Somehow, you felt dizzy, as if the ground beneath you had shifted without warning. Ethan found you. This wasn’t supposed to happen, despite the text you’d gotten from him. Your eyes zeroed in on him through the mirror as you grimaced, “What do you want?” 

He looked taken aback by your tone, a stark contrast from how he used to remember the way you spoke with him. Before he could continue, you turned to face him. “How did you find me? Are you stalking me?”

“I could ask you the same thing, sweetheart.” You hated the way those words came out of his mouth, almost gagging at them. “You've been popping up everywhere I go.” Ethan took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Why are you with Rafe?”

You blinked, completely thrown off, a soft, disbelieving chuckle escaping your lips. “Huh?” Ethan scoffed, the bitter, familiar edge slipping into his tone that used to make your chest tighten with anxiety. “I saw the two of you on the Hike of the Gods back in Italy. You think I wouldn’t recognize you after being with you for eleven years? What the hell are you even doing with him?”

A cold weight settled in your stomach, but instead of shrinking back like you would’ve weeks ago, you held your ground, adjusting the white dress draped over your arm. “What I do and who I’m with is none of your business, Ethan. You gave up the right to ask me anything the second you walked away with Charlotte.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” Ethan insisted, taking another step into your space, his jaw clenching in that way that used to signal an argument you were meant to lose. “Rafe isn’t a good person. He’s unstable, unpredictable, and he’s only ever going to end up harming you. You’re out here thinking he’s some misunderstood hero, but he’s going to wreck you and leave you to the streets the second he gets bored.”

“That’s real rich coming from you; you don’t know a single thing about him,” you retaliated, your voice ringing with a steady tone that caught him off guard. “Rafe’s taught me more about myself and how to actually live life more than I’ve ever done with you. He has his own battles that you’ve been too ignorant to notice, yet you sit there calling him ‘unstable’, reducing everything he goes through to some cheap rumour. You don’t know him, Ethan, and I genuinely pity you that your head was too up your ass to try and get to know him better because he’s exactly nothing like you’d made him out to be.” 

Ethan’s face twisted as he shook his head, his pride visibly bruised by the confidence in your voice. “Sweetheart, you’re—”

“Not your sweetheart, haven’t been since you cheated on me.”

“You’re out of your mind. You think a guy like him gives a damn about you? I know you’re hurting because of me, but throwing away everything we had over some spiteful rebound is pathetic.” He shook his head, leaning in closer, his voice dropping into a quiet register, “You have to trust me on this, please. I’m the last living thing that reminds you of your parents, remember? How would they feel seeing you throw yourself away like this?”

The mention of your parents felt like a sudden, sharp ache against your ribs, but instead of pulling you under, it ignited a quiet fire deep in your chest. You looked back at him, your expression hardening into a calm, stone-cold state that made Ethan’s smirk falter. “You’re completely wrong,” you said softly. “I’m the last living thing that my parents have. You just happened to be there when I needed someone, but you haven’t done shit to prove anything.”

Before he could speak, the truth you’d buried for over a decade finally spilled over. “For eleven years, you trapped me in this tiny, suffocating little box of all these stupid constraints only because it was what you liked. Every habit, every choice, every single version of myself was curated just to fit into a mould you made. And I spent eleven years of my life convincing myself that it was good enough for me, just because I loved you.”

You took a slow step forward, watching his face closely as you swallowed the lump in your throat. It wasn’t like you couldn’t fight back for yourself, but doing this to Ethan of all people felt weird. “Do you even know what I really like, Ethan? Do you even know my favourite flavour of ice cream?”

“Don’t be ridiculous just because you got this new burst of confidence,” Ethan scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Vanilla. You always got vanilla.”

A quiet, humourless laugh escaped your chest. “It was never vanilla,” you confessed softly, the truth stinging like fresh air on a scar. “It was never vanilla, Ethan, that was your favourite flavour. But I never even got to remember what I liked before because I kept confining myself to what you liked because you made it sound like any other option was a personal attack to your sanity for it not being what you liked.”

You shook your head, the final thread tying you to him snapping cleanly in the quiet space of the shop. The nails digging into your palms were sure to leave small dents in them, evidence that you’d done what should’ve been done long before you’d lost yourself. “You know, I truly did believe what we had was love, but love isn’t forcing someone to shrink so they fit neatly beside you. Love is seeing someone exactly as they are and still choosing them, choosing to grow beside them rather than asking them to become someone else. But you never did that; you just loved having someone you could keep in a cage.”

For a second, Ethan just stood there, speechless. Your chest heaved from how much you’d spoken, but it didn’t feel heavy. In a way, it was like you’d finally done what you’d been waiting to do since that morning Rafe came by, but it was nothing like you’d ever expected from a confrontation like this. You could see how his ego had been bruised beyond repair as he realized he no longer held a single drop of power over you. His jaw tightened, his posture stiffening into a bitter but nonchalant stare.

“Fine, go be with your lover boy, but I know you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered, his eyes dragging over the white dress in your hands with a dismissive glance. “Just one last thing. That dress is washing you out.”

You looked at him one last time, taking in the appearance of the man you’d once loved. You knew this was the last time you’d see him; your heart pulsed as your intuition let the reality and closure settle in your body. 

“I couldn’t give two flying fucks about what you think, Ethan,” you said, your voice completely even as you showed complete indifference to his statement. “Goodbye.” He shook his head and turned, walking out of the store while you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding for so long. Ethan was officially gone, and you were officially free from the burden of him. 

And when the store clerk handed the dress once you’d bought it, you smiled as she said, “It’s in the right hands.”

The caller ID on the screen was a name Rafe knew well. A little too well. A sharp, sudden wave of nausea surged from the pit of his stomach straight up into his throat, so bitter he had to swallow hard to keep from gagging. He dragged a clammy palm over his face, swiped green, and shoved the phone to his ear.

“What do you want, Charlotte?”

He held his breath as she began, “Rafe?” Her voice hit his ear like warm honey—soft, sweet, and laced with that delicate, breathy cadence she always used when she wanted to soften him up, even as her usual underlying whine bled through the edges. “God, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve honestly been missing you so much.”

Rafe leaned his back hard against the hot stone railing, the bitter, tight-lipped sneer twitching at the corner of his mouth despite the tight, suffocating knot in his throat. He cleared his throat, trying to force his usual arrogant drawl. “Right. ‘M sure you do, Char.”

“I’m serious!” she pouted, her tone dropping to a helpless hum that used to make him feel like he was the only one who could fix things for her. “I know you wouldn’t believe me, but I mean it. Ethan is just… I mean, I love him, but he’s been absolute torture lately, Rafe. You have no idea. He’s trying to control every single thing I do. He literally put us on some weird, strict macro diet—like, who counts carbs in Greece? It’s completely ridiculous. He’s driving me insane!”

Rafe scoffed into the receiver, running a hand through his hair, his thumb digging hard into his temple. “Devastating, Char. Truly heart-wrenching stuff,” he deadpanned. “So why are you wastin’ m’time and calling me? You made your bed, you can deal with it.” 

“Oh, please,” Charlotte giggled softly, the sound airy and completely fake. “You really thought you were being slick? I know you’re here.” Rafe stilled, his hand that was wrapped around the railing squeezing tighter than before. She continued, “It wasn’t that hard to figure out after that whole ridiculous mix-up at the mud spa; I mean, who else would know that I hate mud? And then, of course, realizing you two practically stole every hotel booking right out from under us.”

“Booked with my money.” He reminded, annoyed at her dismissiveness. It was already bad enough for him that he’d had to get his ass chewed out by Ward, still reeling from how he’d been belittled to nothing to the point that he’d had to diminish the importance of your current relationship with him. She has nothing to offer you. The words echoed so loudly in his head that he’d give anything to make it stop. 

And then Charlotte took it a step further, her tone shifting seamlessly from sweet complaining to something far more patronizing, dripping with faux sympathy. “Y’know, Rafe, I’ve known her for years.” Rafe’s jaw tightened instantly, his knuckles turning white around the phone. “So?”

“I just... I worry about you, honey,” Charlotte murmured, sounding so terribly kind, like she was stroking his hair. “I mean, her? I know you’re just trying to have a good time, but... she’s just so different from us, Rafey. She’s nice, I’ll give her that. But she’s just a shell of a human; she really doesn’t have the same background as us, and she’ll never be able to give you the life you deserve.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Charlotte,” Rafe snapped. “You don’t know a single thing ‘bout her, alright? So don’t speak on it.” The thought of you hit Rafe like a physical punch straight to the sternum. For two weeks straight, you had done something nobody in his entire life had ever managed to do: you made the constant, deafening noise in his head just stop. 

With you, he didn't have to be put on the act he’d become accustomed to; he didn't have to prove his worth. You had seen his jagged edges, and yet stayed anyway. You made him feel light, you made him feel free. But to listen to Charlotte tear you down while Ward’s voice screamed in his ears, a suffocating, unbearable guilt began clamping down on his chest like an iron band. His heart slammed a panicked, erratic rhythm against his ribs. 

“I’m just stating the obvious!” Charlotte cooed softly, completely unbothered by his outburst. “She’s not bad, okay? But you and I both know that your dad’s going to notice, she wouldn’t be able to deal with it. You’re a Cameron. You need someone who actually fits into your life. Someone who makes you look good.” 

Rafe swallowed hard, a dry, bitter taste coating his tongue because he knew she was right. By now, the urge to throw his phone off the balcony, run down the stairs, and find you so he could avoid having to deal with the pathetic fear of disappointing Ward again. 

“Look,” Charlotte whispered, her voice dropping into an intimate, persuasive purr that cut straight through his lingering resistance. “Why are we doing this to ourselves? Why are we playing babysitter to people who don't belong with us? We both know this is stupid. Let's just drop them.” 

Rafe couldn't breathe. His pulse roared in his ears, hot and suffocating as he retaliated. “You began this mess, Charlotte. There’s no way you can just—”

“I can easily convince Ethan to go back home tomorrow because ‘my dad needs help’—he’ll jump at the excuse,” Charlotte urged softly. “And then we can just meet up, just you and me. The way it was supposed to be before all this mess started.”

Rafe went dead silent, his throat so tight it felt raw. In his head, the images collided in a sickening wreck: you, standing in the sun, giving him the sanctuary he never knew he needed. On the other hand, though she’d betrayed him, Charlotte was a golden shield and the exact move that would make Ward clap him on the shoulder. 

As he turned to look inside the room, the glimpses of his things next to yours, your dress sitting atop his jacket while the pillows were put against each other, that you were obviously sleeping entangled together, made his stomach turn completely inside out. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, but with a sigh, he did anyway. 

“So, tomorrow?” Rafe heard himself say, his voice flat, hollowed out of all the warmth it had held an hour ago.

“Tomorrow,” Charlotte confirmed, her satisfaction practically radiating through the speaker. “I’ll handle Ethan tonight. You just be ready.” 

“We’ll see.” Rafe stared blankly at nothing in particular, his hand trembling as he lowered the phone as the line went dead. His skin felt instantly clammy, the warm Greek breeze suddenly feeling like ice against the back of his neck. The guilt hit him like a wall of bricks falling down, a tight iron band clamping down on his lungs until he couldn't pull in a single full breath. His pulse roared in his ears, hot and suffocating. He’d let Ward’s voice slice right back through his skull, tapping into that pathetic, desperate part of him that would rip out his own heart if it meant hearing his father say he was proud.

The doors opened, but he couldn’t look straight at you as you smiled at him. Instead, choked with a raw, agonizing burn of guilt he couldn't escape, Rafe took a slow step backward into the dark shadows of the hotel suite, hiding from the light before you could see what he had just done.

“Hey, you okay?” You asked cautiously as you approached him. It was hard to read his face; part of you felt dread bubbling deep inside of you as you braced the possibility of him lashing out at you again. Rafe, who’d felt the guilt in his chest, put everything aside as he put on a soft smile at the sight of you.

“Yeah, angel, don’t worry about it.”

The golden glow of dusk was slipping through the terrace doors when you stepped out of the bathroom, smoothing down the front of the white dress. It clung softly to your waist before flowing out like liquid starlight, the delicate fabric catching the low evening light just as you’d pictured in the shop. You reached back to adjust the thin strap, checking your reflection one last time, feeling a quiet flutter of warmth in your chest. For the first time in years, you felt beautiful in a new way, unlike all the other times. 

Rafe was standing near the edge of the bed, buttoning up his shirt, his back turned to you. But as the soft rustle of your dress filled the room, he turned and completely froze. The breath caught hard in his throat, his hands stopping mid-button against his chest. His eyes widened, dragging slowly down the length of the shimmering white fabric, taking in the way it hugged your waist, the bare expanse of your shoulders, the golden glow of your skin beneath the warm room lights.

For a second, the entire world seemed to stop spinning.

Internally, Rafe felt like the wind had been knocked right out of his lungs. A wave of pure awe washed over him, immediately followed by that familiar, sickening knife of guilt plunging straight into his chest. You looked like an absolute dream, so radiant and gorgeous that it made his ribs ache. However, the knowledge of what he had agreed to earlier with Charlotte, the cold betrayal waiting for you tomorrow, made his stomach twist into a hard, painful knot.

“Rafe?” you murmured softly, a small, tentative smile touching your lips as you shifted under his intense, unmoving stare. “Is it okay? I know it’s a little much for dinner but—”

“Don’t, just… don’t,” Rafe cut in instantly, his voice raspy and thick from how awestruck he was as he took a step toward you. He closed the distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, reverently, he reached out, his long, warm fingers gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb resting along your jawline. His touch was warm, slightly trembling against your skin, making your pulse jump in your throat. 

“You’re... Jesus, you’re breathtaking,” he breathed, his voice dropping into a quiet, raw murmur that sent a shiver straight down your spine. He leaned down, resting his forehead lightly against yours, inhaling the soft scent of sweet vanilla lingering on your skin. “You’re like an angel sent on Earth. Shit, I mean, I don’t even know what I did to deserve you?” 

Your heart swelled five times more that it almost hurt, your hands naturally rising to rest against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thudding of his heart beneath your palms. You looked up into his eyes, seeing a shadowed intensity there that made your breath catch, assuming it was just the depth of his feelings for you.

After dinner, instead of heading back to the hotel, Rafe guided you up a narrow stone path leading toward a quiet lookout point high above the cliffside. The night air, warm and scented with a combination of salt water and blooming jasmine, accompanied the dark sea that stretched out endlessly beneath a blanket of stars. It was hard to tell where the sea stopped and where the sky began, which made you softly smirk at the thought of how you couldn’t tell where your friendship with Rafe stopped and where this all began. You both leaned against the low stone wall, watching the lights of boats shimmering on the water like fallen constellations, feeling completely at peace. 

Rafe stood right beside you, his arm brushed against yours. Internally, his mind was a storm. Every time he looked at you, the guilt clawed deeper at his throat, a suffocating weight settling on his conscience. It pained him that he had to give this up, especially when it all felt like it was meant to be, as if there were a blaring bulletin board in his heart telling him that you were becoming something more. The bracelet in his pocket felt heavy for the entire evening as Rafe waited for the right moment to give it to you. He reached into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the small velvet pouch.

“Hey,” Rafe murmured, his voice breaking the comfortable silence that settled amongst the quietness of the night. You turned to look at him, the warm sea breeze lifting a few strands of your hair. Rafe pulled his hand from his pocket, holding out a delicate silver bracelet with a coral branch woven into it as it caught the starlight.

Your eyes widened softly, a breath catching in your throat. “What…”

“I... I saw it the other day when we were in Italy,” he said, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, his arrogant armour completely stripped away, leaving whatever vulnerability he had left in him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to again after. Rafe took your wrist gently, his fingers warm against your cool skin. “Thought of you when I got it. I know it’s not some Swarovski-level piece of jewelry or anything, but I couldn’t help myself.”

He looked up, meeting your gaze that made your knees feel weak. “You deserve so much, angel. You deserve every good, beautiful thing this world has to offer. You deserve to be given the sun, the moon, and everything in between.” 

Your chest throbbed with a warmth that wrapped around your heart like a blanket. It wasn’t long until you felt a prickling feeling in your eyes, tears welling in the corner of your eyes when you looked down at his shaking hand holding yours, then back up at his eyes, seeing all his hidden pain and the gentle sweetness he reserved only for you.

“Rafe,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached up, placing your hand over his jawline, feeling the stubble against your palm. “I wish you knew how much you’ve done for me. I can’t put it into words, but if you hadn’t shown me that I could be my own person, I don’t think I’d be where I am. 

Rafe’s throat worked as he swallowed, his jaw tightening as he fought back the violent surge of emotion rising in his chest. With trembling, tender hands, he carefully unclasped the silver bracelet and wrapped it around your wrist, securing the tiny latch. The cool metal rested against your pulse point, but all you could feel was the searing heat of his fingers lingering against your skin.

“And I want you to know something,” you continued, holding his gaze with an unwavering, fierce devotion that made his heart shatter and rebuild itself all at once. “It might not have always been this way for you, but you will always, always have me in your corner, rooting for whatever you choose to do.” 

You paused, taking a slow, deep breath as you confessed, “I love you, Rafe. More than you know.”

The words hung in the night air between you, heavy and profound. A sharp, agonizing pang of pure love and crushing guilt ripped through Rafe’s entire body, his breath hitching audibly. He looked at you like you were his salvation, his eyes glossing over with emotion. Before you could say another word, Rafe stepped closer, sliding his hands up into your hair, cupping the back of your head as his other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

And then his lips met yours.

It hadn’t been fast or desperate like the time before; the kiss was agonizingly slow, as he moved his lips against yours. Rafe drank you in like a dying man finally reaching water, his mouth moving over yours with a gentle, possessive reverence that made your entire body melt against him. He kissed you with everything he had, pouring all his devotion, his unspoken apologies, and his raw, overwhelming love into the seam of your lips.

A soft, breathless sigh escaped your throat, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer as you parted your lips, letting him taste you completely. The heat of his mouth, the scent of his cologne mixed with the ocean air, the firm, protective pressure of his body holding you safe against the ledge—it sent a dizzying rush of euphoria straight through every vein in your body. You felt your heart surrender entirely, falling deeper, faster, and more irrevocably in love with him than you ever thought possible.

Rafe deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling softly with yours, his hand pressing into the small of your back, holding you as if you were the only solid thing keeping him anchored to the earth. There was no space left between you, his thumb dragging up the bare skin of your spine and sending a violent electric shiver straight down your legs.

A soft, helpless whimper broke against his lips, and the sound alone snapped any remaining strings that kept Rafe’s restraint together. His tongue slid past your parted lips, tasting you, which led you to cling to his broad shoulders. 

"Fuck, angel," Rafe rasped against your mouth, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his ocean-blue eyes dark and blown wide in the night’s hues. His chest rose and fell heavily against yours, his pulse hammering against his throat like a trapped bird. "If we stay out here another second..."

"Take me back," you breathed, not even letting him finish the sentence. Your hand rested over his chest, feeling the frantic, erratic rhythm of his heart beneath the thin linen of his shirt. "Rafe, please. Take me back."

Rafe didn't say another word and just grabbed your hand, his long fingers intertwining tightly with yours, the cool metal of the silver bracelet pressing flush against your pulse point as he led you down the winding stone path.

The seconds between the keycard beeping and the heavy door clicking shut felt like hours as the countdown to what you’d been waiting for. The walk back to the suite was a blur of anticipation and a test of impatience itself. Every shadowed alleyway felt like a temptation; twice, Rafe pulled you into the quiet dark between two white-washed buildings, pressing his mouth to yours in desperate, heavy kisses that left you both breathless before dragging you onward.

Rafe didn’t bother turning on the lights; he couldn’t when you looked like a goddess in the moonlight’s rays. Before you could take a full step onto the cool tile of the foyer, his hands were on your hips, lifting you effortlessly as he backed you hard against the closed door. You let out a soft gasp, wrapping your legs instinctively around his waist, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his mouth slammed back onto yours with a feverish, unbearable intensity.

The guilt clawing at his chest didn't disappear—instead, it transformed into an overwhelming, agonizing need to worship every single inch of you while he still could. He kissed your jaw, your throat, the delicate dip of your collarbone, his hands trembling as they found the zipper at the back of your white dress, pulling it down inch by slow inch.

"Tell me you're mine," Rafe pleaded against the skin of your neck, his voice rough, broken. "Just say it, angel. Please."

"I'm yours," you whispered against his cheek, arching into his heat, completely lost in him. "Always yours, Rafe."

That alone was his undoing. A raw, ragged sound tore through his chest, something that was between a moan and a huff. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your damp skin as he fought for control over his own greediness so he could savour this. He set you down gently, your feet barely touching the cool tile before he was guiding you, walking you backward through the sprawling dark suite. The moonlight painted silver paths across the floor, illuminating the way. 

Rafe stopped you just before the massive windows of the hotel room, the entire coastline of Athens shimmering under the moon like a string of diamonds. He reached up, his fingers tracing the strap of your dress, pushing it slowly, reverently, off your shoulder. The silk whispered against your skin, a cool, liquid caress that sent a shiver through you. His gaze was molten, intense, as if he were committing the sight to memory.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent hum. "Standing there with the whole world behind you, and all I can see is you. My god, angel, you've ruined everything else for me." He pushed the other strap down, and the dress pooled at your feet, leaving you bathed in silver light. You felt exposed, but under his adoring stare, it felt like being crowned. He didn't touch you yet, just looked, his hands fisting at his sides as if to stop himself from grabbing you too fast. "Perfect. Every single part of you is so fuckin’ perfect."

Rafe closed the remaining distance between you both, but his touch was unexpectedly gentle. His palms flattened against your ribcage, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there when he leaned in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss on your shoulder. He took his time, a slow, deliberate exploration with his lips. He kissed his way across your collarbones, up the column of your throat, his tongue darting out to taste the rapid pulse beating beneath your jaw. You tilted your head back, a soft sigh escaping you as your hands came up to tangle in his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers.

"Always feel so good," he murmured into your skin, his hands moving slowly, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips. "So soft, got me dreaming about touching you like this all the time." He cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, which pebbled instantly at his touch. A jolt of pure pleasure shot straight through you, and you arched into his hands and let out a whispered sigh, a silent plea for more. "That's it, angel. Let me feel you. Let me take care of you."

You found yourself being guided backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed, where you were lowered down onto the crisp sheets, his body following and blanketing you with his weight. He propped himself up on an elbow, his free hand resuming its worshipful exploration. He traced the line of your panties, his knuckles brushing against the damp fabric, and you whimpered, lifting your hips instinctively.

“Rafe,” you huffed out of need. Even if it wasn’t rough like the last time he’d had sex with you, his touches still had you in a chokehold grip and fiending for more. "Shhh, I've got you," he soothed, hooking his fingers into the lace and tugging it down your legs torturously slowly. He tossed them aside, his eyes darkening as he settled between your thighs. He looked up at you from beneath his lashes, a raw, vulnerable look in his eyes. "Can I taste you, angel? Please? I need to."

You could only manage a breathless nod, your voice stolen by the overwhelming emotion and anticipation swimming in your veins. Rafe lowered his head, and the first touch of his tongue against your most sensitive flesh was pure, unadulterated bliss. It wasn't rushed or demanding; just a slow lick that had your toes curling into the sheets. He groaned against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you.

"Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined," he rasped, before settling in to worship you with his mouth. He was relentless and patient, using his lips and tongue to learn every part of you, to find every spot that made you gasp and tremble. He paid attention to every hitch in your breath, every moan that fell from your lips, learning your body in a new way as if it were a sacred text. The guilt, the chaos of his world outside of the room, it all dissolved. There was only this—him, you, and the moonlight.

Soon enough, Rafe slid one finger inside you, then another, his mouth never ceasing its delicious torture. He curled them just so, and you cried out, your back bowing off the bed as a white-hot pleasure coiled deep in your belly. "That's it, angel," he praised, his voice muffled against you. "So responsive for me. You're taking my fingers so well.”

“I- I can’t hold it anymore. ‘M gonna cum.” You moaned out, unable to keep the coil intact any longer. The way your body gripped his fingers, making you feel him against your plush walls, felt exhilarating, which only edged him on more as his erection pressed against the fabric of his pants. With Rafe’s mouth still on you, he mumbled against your skin, “Come on, baby, let go for me. Let me feel you fall apart."

His words were as potent as his touch. The coil inside you snapped, and pleasure, sharp and all-consuming, washed over you in waves. You cried out his name, your body trembling violently as he worked you through it, his movements gentling as you came down from your high. He kissed his way back up your body, his lips soft and reassuring against your quivering stomach, your breasts, your neck.

Rafe settled over you, his forearms framing your head as he looked down at you. His face was a mask of emotions— love, lust, and tenderness all warring for dominance. He kissed you, and you could taste yourself on his lips along with the aftertaste of the honey from dessert, a heady, intimate flavor that made your heart ache.

"You're so beautiful when you cum," he whispered against your mouth. "So fucking beautiful." He was still fully dressed, the rough fabric of his jeans pressing against your oversensitive skin. You reached down, your hands fumbling with his belt, but he caught your wrists, pinning them gently above your head.

"No," he said softly. "Tonight is about you. Just let me love you the way you deserve." He kicked off his jeans and boxers, and when he settled back between your legs, you could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against you. He took himself in his hand, running the head through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness as he twitched against you. He watched your face the entire time, his eyes locked on yours as you took in the lewd sight beneath you. 

"Are you ready for me, angel?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "I need to be inside you. I need to feel all of you." 

“Yes, Rafe,” you breathed, wrapping your legs around his and pulling him in closer.

He shifted, rolling you both until he was hovering above you, his forearms framing your head as he settled between your thighs. The moonlight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the desperate adoration in his eyes. This was different—slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your soul.

“Just like this, good girl," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I wan’ to see your face. I need to see you."

He guided himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, and pushed into you with one slow, deep thrust. The feeling was overwhelming, a perfect, full stretch that stole the air from your lungs. He stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his ragged breath mingling with yours. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, a wild, frantic beat that mirrored your own.

"Feel that?" he murmured, rocking his hips slightly. "Feel how perfectly you take me? Like you were made for me." He began to move, his strokes long and impossibly slow. There was no rush, only a deep, rhythmic connection that built a pleasure so intense it was almost painful. 

Rafe kissed you constantly, between praises, his lips never straying far from yours. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and he hit a spot inside you that made you see stars. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as the pleasure intensified. You let yourself enjoy it, relishing in the tenderness that felt so different from before, as though Rafe was trying to erase every inch of distance between you.

"Right there?" he asked, a smug, knowing grin on his face. He did it again, and again, his rhythm never faltering. You couldn’t answer him with how consumed you were with pleasure, only letting out a delicate whimper and half of a nod. Rafe pressed you though, needing to hear your voice as he continued to thrust into you. “Answer me, angel. Am I gettin’ it right?”

With all the energy you could muster up inside of you, you hummed, “Yes, right there. Fuck.”

“Always gonna love me, right angel?” Even in the heat of the moment, he was scared to lose you. His heart pained that he’d let the thought out, yet your response made him calm down. 

 “Always.” 

"There it is. I feel you, baby. Feel you getting tighter for me. Never wanna forget the way you feel ‘round me,” Rafe let out a groan. “ Look at me, ‘kay? Keep your eyes on me when you cum." Rafe reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure. That was all it took. 

The pleasure crested again, this time a tidal wave that pulled you under. You cried out his name as your inner walls clenched around him, and with a final, deep thrust, he followed you over the edge, burying his face in your neck as he spilled himself inside you, a long, shuddering groan escaping his lips.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure. You lay there for a long time, tangled together in the moonlight, your heartbeats slowly returning to normal. He rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were draped across his chest, his hand stroking your hair.

"I meant it," he said softly, his voice thick with a satisfied exhaustion. "Every word. You're mine, angel. Always and forever."

Your mind raced with love along with the slightest hint of uncertainty as you packed your bags in preparation for the last bit of the trip. On one hand, you’d come to terms with your feelings about Rafe, and he’d received it better than you’d anticipated. However, it was hard to shake off the subtle shift in Rafe’s demeanour since his call with Ward this morning, acting even more affectionate with you than he’d ever been with anyone before. Every touch he’d placed on your body felt like he was trying to engrave it into his senses so that he wouldn’t forget, like you would vanish soon. 

Rafe, who’d been in the shower after bathing you, kept his head down as the water trickled down his back. Yet, his head was hung in shame more than any other reason. He had to tell you now, otherwise, he knew he’d hurt you more if you’d found out any other way. But a part of him wasn’t ready to let you go. With a deep breath, he walked out with a neutral face, his jaw already locked. 

He called your name in a different tone, throwing you off, “Hey uh, can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” You tried to mask your confusion with a soft smile, hoping that the optimism would pay off. “What’s up?”

“I um… Angel, look,” Rafe wasn’t sure how to start the conversation and lay it on you without hurting you. His hands already felt clammy even though they were still wet from the warm shower just minutes before. “I think we need to cut the trip short.” 

You froze, the soft fabric of the shirt you were folding dropping from your hands onto the open suitcase beneath you. A small, confused laugh escaped your lips as you looked up at him, still floating in that lingering, soft haze from last night. The warmth of his touch felt like it was still embedded in your skin, the silver bracelet resting coolly against your wrist.

“Cut it short?” you asked softly, searching his face for any sign of a joke. “What do you mean, Rafe? We still have three days left; is there something you don’t want to do?” 

Rafe couldn’t look at you, despite how much it made his heart warm and his mind go to mush when he saw you currently wearing his button-up linen from earlier. He kept his eyes fixed on the cool tiles beneath his feet, his hands jittering from the restlessness stirring beneath his skin. Drops of water still clung to his chest from the shower, catching the light streaming through the shades of the room’s lamps, but his skin looked pale, almost gray. Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt heavy, like inhaling dust.

“Charlotte called me today,” he said, his voice flat and hollow, completely stripped of the warmth that had filled the room only hours ago. “She... she wants to make things work. She wants me back because she’s not happy.” The room went dead quiet. The distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against the cliffside faded into a low, suffocating hum as his words settled between you. It felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs, as the world seemed to spin beneath you. The quiet, sacred space you had spent the last two weeks building with him—the safety, the trust, the feeling of finally being seen—shattered into a thousand jagged pieces in a single second. 

Your worst fear had come true, and it’d been done by the one person you were the most scared of getting it done by. 

“Charlotte?” Your voice cracked, the name tasting like battery acid on your tongue as a sharp, agonizing ache bloomed behind your ribs. “Rafe, what are you talking about? She doesn’t care about you, you know that! Don’t you remember how she barely made you feel anything whenever you guys were together? Rafe, she literally cheated on you before your wedding. As nice as she was, it was all a façade, and you know that too. She doesn't love you, she just uses you so she has someone to drag around to fit her stupid image!”

You took a step toward him, your hands trembling as you reached out, desperate to touch him, desperate to find the man who had held you so reverently in the dark. “Please, just listen to me. She does so much more harm to you than good—”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Rafe cut in sharply, his voice rising as he flinched away from your hand like your touch burned him. His palms were on fire at this point, a bitter, nauseating panic clawing its way up his throat because hearing you speak the brutal truth made the guilt in his chest burn ten times hotter. A truth that he knew deep down as well. 

“Right, of course I don’t.” A bitter, heartbroken laugh escaped your throat, tears stinging the back of your eyes as the horrific reality began to sink in. “Oh my god, Ethan really was right about you. He warned me, and you’re doing the exact same thing he said you’d do.”

At the mention of his name, something dark and volatile snapped inside Rafe. His head whipped up, his ocean-blue eyes darkening with a sudden, dangerous fury. “Ethan?” he spat, his bare chest heaving as he took a heavy step into your space. “Why the fuck were you talking to Ethan?”

“Because he found out we were here!” you yelled back, the tears spilling over your lashes and burning down your cheeks. “He saw us in Italy on the Hike of the Gods, and he followed me to the street market in the morning while you were on the phone with your dad! He came up to me to tell me that I was making a mistake, that you were just going to wreck me the second you got bored—and I stood there and defended you, Rafe! I looked him in the eye and told him he didn’t know a single damn thing about you!”

Rafe stood frozen, his throat tight, his mind reeling as your words hit him in the heart. He’d barely defended you against Charlotte, now leaving you for her, but you had done it for him without thinking twice, vouching for the person he was. 

“But this isn’t even about Charlotte or Ethan, is it?” you whispered, your voice breaking into a ragged, painful sob as you looked at him with complete, agonizing clarity. “This is about your dad. You’re running back to Charlotte because she meets Ward’s expectations; she’s safe for your image. But I’m not.”

Rafe wanted to interject, but he couldn’t get the words to come out. Your eyes, now rimmed red as warm tears streaked your cheeks with their path. “You’re going right back into your codependency with her just to please him! Rafe, you’re stuffing yourself right back into a box, shrinking yourself down into someone you’re not, just to get his approval! You don’t have to do that.” 

Every single word sliced straight into Rafe’s deepest, most shameful wounds. He felt completely stripped bare, exposed, and small. The sickening realization that you were right—that he was sacrificing the only real, unselfish love he’d ever felt just to be Ward’s good little boy—sent a wave of defensive, ugly poison coursing through his veins. He wanted to hurt you the way he was hurting inside; he wanted to destroy the mirror you were holding up to his face, just so that you could understand him. 

Rafe stepped closer, his jaw setting into a cold, cruel sneer that made him look like a complete stranger. “At least I’m doing it to myself,” he said, his voice dripping with venom, “and I haven’t let people push me into a box for eleven years like you. The worst part is, you let them because you have nothing left.”

The world stopped, and the silence that followed was deafening itself. 

It was as if he’d reached into your chest and ripped your heart out with his bare hands. The air left your lungs completely. You stared at him, your eyes wide with pure shock and devastation, watching the man who had promised you that you deserved the sun and moon hours before turn around and use your deepest trauma as a weapon to destroy you. All this after he’d constantly reminded you otherwise. 

You didn’t scream nor argue. The drained out of you instantly, leaving only a cold, hollow numbness in your veins. The ghost of you felt your head nod in sarcastic acceptance, realizing that you’d been wrong to come on this trip at all. It watched your skeleton move through the room, every muscle aching as you sniffled. Without another word, you turned back to the bed, and with shaking, numb hands, you shoved the rest of your clothes into your bag, zipping it shut with a harsh, final drag that echoed in the quiet room.

Rafe watched you in silence, his jaw set, his chest heaving, desperately trying to convince himself that he didn't care. Telling himself this was what his father needed from him. You pulled the strap of your bag over your shoulder, walking past him without offering a single backward glance, and slammed the hotel suite door behind you. The heavy click of the lock echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Seconds later, it hit him over what he’d done. 

Rafe stared at the solid wood of the door when his breath hitched in his throat. The sudden rush of anger evaporated in a single second, leaving behind a cold, paralyzing terror that flooded his entire body. The image of your tear-stained face, the utter heartbreak in your eyes when he delivered the last blow, flashed across his mind. His chest pained, the feeling of pins pricking it while it simultaneously was being squeezed until it popped. He didn’t want it to end like this, even if he needed to go back to her. Not with you in pain, especially if he was the one who’d put you in that state.

“No, no, no...” Rafe stumbled backward, ripping the damp towel off his waist with trembling, frantic hands. He grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants off the floor, shoving his legs into them, not even bothering to find a shirt or shoes. He threw the heavy suite door open and sprinted down the hallway, his bare feet slapping hard against the cool marble tiles. He took the stairs three at a time, his chest heaving, his throat raw as he practically threw himself through the glass doors of the lobby and out onto the street.

“Hey!” Rafe choked out, bursting into the void of the night as he whipped his head around. He stood on the empty cobblestones, his bare chest exposed, his damp hair wild, his ocean-blue eyes frantically scanning the few people coming back from a night out. 

Hey!” he shouted again, his voice cracking into a desperate, pathetic plea as he spun in circles. “Wait! Angel, please!” The street moved on around him. The night echoed the breeze, the ocean shimmered in the distance beneath the glare of the moon. The chill settled on his bare shoulders, but inside, Rafe was freezing to death.

He looked down every narrow alleyway, searching desperately for the flash of someone with his linen shirt on, for the silver bracelet on your wrist, for the one person who had made him feel human for the first time in his life.

You were gone. 

Rafe stood frozen in the middle of the crowded street as the brutal, crushing reality slammed into his chest. His knees buckled slightly, a heavy, agonizing sob tearing through his throat as he dragged both hands over his face, pressing his palms hard into his eyes to avoid any tears coming out.

He knew that he had to accept that he’d made his decision, standing alone as the morning of his reunion with Charlotte was coming soon. 

That night, as you lay alone in bed in a hotel room that just happened to be available, you heaved your chest as you cried, mourning the loss of a love you’d barely had but yearned for so desperately.

dividers: @cursed-carmine @saradika-graphics

One After

Logan bends over and laughs so hard he almost throws up. Dean flattens his mouth into a scowl.

"They're calling it Blowjob Gate," Logan wheezes. Tucker snickers and high fives him. "A national crisis."

"I fucking hate both of you," Dean replies sweetly. "Where's Garrett?"

Logan wipes his eyes, still coughing enough that Dean takes a quick look around the backyard to locate any equipment he can ream at his head.

"Oh." Logan suddenly sobers after a moment. "He's in the garage."

"Okay." Dean thinks he may be missing a point. "And why does that make you look guilty?"

"We're, ah, going across the street to mount a TV. She said it was an emergency."

"What the fuck?" Dean wonders if he's allowed to feel offended. "Why didn't she ask me?"

Tucker stops pulling from his Gatorade to shoot Dean a disbelieving frown. "Probably because she's afraid to hear slurping every time she calls you."

Dean ignores that. "I can mount a TV."

Logan and Tucker share another sneaky glance.

"I don't just mount women, you dicks," Dean stresses when he catches the mischievous glint in their eyes.

Tucker is the first to break. Dean flashes them both his middle finger and stalks around the side of the house until he finds Garrett exactly where Logan said he would be.

Garrett doesn't look up from the toolbox. "Hey, D."

"You know I can mount a TV, right?"

Garrett furrows his eyebrows at Dean. "Yeah, man, I know you can mount a TV."

"Great, so why didn't she ask me to?"

Garrett thinks about Hannah and how she regulates him so much he rarely gets these sort of hot flashes anymore, but he understands enough about why Dean might be seething.

Garrett nods placatingly. "I see." A smirk spasms its way onto his face.

Dean throws his hands into the air. "What the hell is everyone's problem today?"

"You want to mount her a TV?" Garrett shrugs. "Go ahead. Logan and I can hang back."

"It's the principle," Dean affirms, steamrolling past his best friend's appeasement. "You call me, I'm busy, I still manage to get sugar over to your house, but now I'm not good enough or helpful enough to install something so basic? Does she think I'm a moron?"

Garrett is still smiling, not saying anything, and it's downright displacing.

"Whatever." Dean huffs. "Where's the drill bits?"

You are absolutely not expecting blonde hair when it knocks impatiently half an hour later.

"You said this was an emergency," he grumbles in lieu of a greeting, emotionless. "Do you have the mount, or do I need to buy that, too?"

"It's girls' night," you explain pathetically.

Dean struggles to not roll his eyes in your face. "How is that an emergency?"

You step back when he enters over the threshold and starts moving towards the living room like he's studied the floorplans online. He locates the mount you did indeed already purchase, but it's propped up against a bunch of unhung girlish streamers that bleed pink and deposit glitter everywhere.

You try to smile; it might come out like a grimace. "Because I'm throwing a Love Island watch party, and we can't watch it if there's no TV?"

Dean glares at you in disbelief.

When you add, "And I made a themed dinner menu," quietly followed by, "I invited Hannah because I thought Garrett was going to be the one helping," Dean clenches his jaw so tight his eyes twitch.

"You should've called me."

"Oh." You frown. "I didn't think you would want to be bothered."

Dean despises that statement more than having his orgasm interrupted. "Well, I'm not bothered."

"Okay," you murmur, shy.

"Okay," he says, final.

You look to where he's unpacking various items you wouldn't be able to label with a gun to your head. His hands, massive and veiny, make everything else look so small.

So you can't entirely blame just yourself when your brain short-circuits and you ask, "Do you want some lemonade while you work?"

Dean pauses for a moment, a bolt trapped inbetween his teeth. "Sure," he says slowly. "That'd be nice."

Dean mounts your TV shirtless that day, sweat dripping down his back in a suggestive way that makes you want to lick something else off of him. You walk into the wall and stub your toe at some point, distracted. Later, you will whisper this to Hannah and gulp down your tropical cocktail while she asks what he smelled like and what his hands looked like to you and if you'll text him next time.

You will answer with: faintly of cedar cologne and something coconut - maybe deodorant - and then citrus later in the afternoon; strong and in control, clearly experienced with more than just home projects; and maybe, if he'll answer.

Unfortunately, the alcohol doesn't flush him out of your system.

-

Two After

Dean hears your scream before anyone else. He nearly topples over Tucker getting to the front door.

"Dean!" Logan calls after him, paces behind. "Don't be an idiot!"

Dean stumbles through your front door, which is already unlocked, a fact that both freezes his lungs with fear and also makes him angry enough to scold you about the importance of neighborhood safety later, when you are presumably fine.

He calls your name, elongating his stride when he doesn't see you anywhere on the bottom floor. He takes two stairs at a time, rounding the corner with zero weapons and zero conception of what is happening or who is in your house - only deeply troubled and enraged by a singular shriek.

He finds you and your roommates huddled outside a closed door; something within him collapses so suddenly when he sees all of you standing upright. He delicately pushes the three of you back, enclosing one hand around the doorknob and pulling tight like it might prevent whoever is on the other side from getting out, the other coming up to your face.

Logan pulls up the rear, breathing heavy. "You fast motherfucker," he pants.

You start to say something, but nothing will come out.

"What, honey?" Dean urges.

You're not sure which one of you he's asking, but all of you sort of melt anyway.

"Snake," one of your roommates whisper when you can't, "from the ceiling."

Logan straightens to his full height. "What?"

Dean just finds himself sagging forward with relief, temporarily curling his fingers against your face where he was seconds away from squeezing until they bit hard enough into your skin that you spoke.

"A snake fell from the vent when I was getting ready to shower," you whisper miserably, shuffling closer to Dean as if he's the sole proprietor of comfort in this household.

Finally past his fog, Dean's eyes snap down to where you are only covered in a flimsy towel. Another snake roars to life.

Annoying, but he can work with that. It's better than the alternative that had him sprinting over here.

"Okay," he murmurs, allowing himself one last touch of your cheek before he pulls away completely. "Jesus, fuck. But okay."

Logan puts both of his hands on top of his head, still panting. "What do we do?"

Dean tries to hide his satisfaction when you idle closer again despite him pulling away. He takes his hand off the doorknob and settles it against your lower back instead, hoping to center you, which seems braver than taking on a reptile himself. He sears you through the towel by touch alone.

He looks at you and your friends. His fingers catch against where they're soothing strokes against your hip.

"Come back to ours," he offers kindly, and your eyebrows shoot up. "We'll order pizza. We'll call animal control. We'll burn your whole house down after."

Your roommates laugh, completely dissolved of stress when him and Logan are around. You can't help but agree, even if it also plagues you with envy for a blink before it's gone.

Dean dips his chin down to you. "No more screaming," he says quietly, only to you. "Kind of broke my fucking heart for a second."

You hold the towel tighter around you. "It was an emergency."

-

Three After

It's an uncharacteristically hot, sweaty late September afternoon, and you can't sit still. Your bedsheets start sticking to you like a second skin.

You let out a frustrated grunt and kick your legs out further. The hum of your vibrator pulses where it's shoved firmly between your lips, motoring strongly and yet still not enough to replace the blonde head you keep envisioning between your thighs.

When your hips meet the humid air at the thought of him digging his fingers into the soft skin there, the vibrator gives one last lackluster push, stalls, and then flat out dies.

"Fuck," you whimper. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

You reach into your bedside drawer to find nothing but unused condoms. You slide your panties back up unsteady legs and tiptoe to the hallway, checking to make sure your roommates are still gone. You rush down the stairs, frenzied and unsatisfied, opening and closing drawers you didn't know existed but must surely have batteries.

There are none.

You consider removing the ones in the remote for the TV Dean mounted only a few weeks ago, but then you get caught on his name in your head, and the flash that rocks through you is worse than the last. You press your legs together and stifle a moan.

Before you realize what you're doing, you're fumbling with your keyboard.

Hi, you type. Emergency. Do you have any AAA batteries?

In the other house, Dean sets the weights he was lifting back onto the bench. His mouth twitches at your name and the DO NOT ENTER sign emoji.

hi :), he types, then deletes, then retypes. hey. how many do you need?

You could cry. Two, please. I can come pick them up.

Dean has already made his way down to the kitchen by the time your text comes in. He's responding with two batteries in his other hand, already out the door and crossing the street without looking both ways, about to send a text that he'll bring them to you. Muscle memory kicks in - he shoulders through your front door without knocking because, surely, you're in the midst of breaking something important and he really should intervene for everyone's sake.

When his head comes up, his thumb is on the send button, and you're standing in the middle of the house in only a white shirt and small panties he can clearly see beneath, phone in one hand, a bright pink dildo in the other.

Dean's phone falls from his fingers and clambers to the floor. You remain stuck in place.

He should say sorry - he means to. He does feel awful about infringing on your privacy. He feels less of that when your traitorous body swoons at his presence and hardens your nipples. His mouth snaps shut when he notices.

"Don't," you breathe. You barely move your jaw to speak like that'll help any of this be less real. "Please... do not."

Dean doesn't know what he is or is not doing. Dean doesn't know what day it is. Dean now only knows the form you take when you're so horny it might kill you, and perhaps finally what your favorite color is.

The batteries feel much heavier in his hand than they did before. "Are these..." he tries. "Oh, fuck."

You stammer, "It's - well - yes - also - no -"

Each word is punctuated by a step Dean takes closer to you. Both of you are acutely aware that you don't retreat. You may actually lead yourself to him first, because how else would you find yourselves in the living room with the back of your knees folding into the couch while he stands above you?

He silently takes in your frazzled hair, heaving chest, and perspired skin. He stores all of it into long-term memory for a rainy day. He keeps looking down at your full breasts that are pointing directly at him in a way that is not subtle at all, and he opens his mouth to start apologizing again.

You drop each object into the couch and fist the locks at the back of his neck, pulling him down into you. His own hands land unceremoniously on either side of you before he rediscovers the control panel to his functioning and slides one hand against your back beneath your shirt.

You mewl something into his mouth. He curses another word into yours.

You are sloppy, a little uncoordinated, and he does not mind one bit. He meets every impatient thrust of your tongue with his own, pulling back on the fabric of your shirt when he needs to catch his breath and think clearly.

"Slow down," he rumbles. He deserves a peace prize for composing himself enough to be an adult when he wants to stay suctioned to your mouth forever. "Wait a minute. Let's talk about this."

"No," you plead against his lips, catching him at his cupid's bow and each corner and chin. "I need..."

Dean grips your lower jaw in his other hand and stops your fussing. He bites back a groan when you jut yourself against his clothed knee.

"What do you need, baby?" he rasps.

"Fuck," you whimper beneath his palm when your hips grind against him again, and that's enough of an answer.

He looks away for the one moment he needs to unscrew the bottom of your vibrator and impatiently shakes the dead batteries out. You might save them forever - knowing they are what got you into this predicament - if he doesn't get to them first.

Dean tightens his fingers imperceptibly against your face when the fresh set is in. "This what you need? Were you fucking yourself before I got here?"

You nod dumbly.

"Yeah?" He presses his forehead to yours and lets out a low chuckle he's not sure is real, especially if he's caught in some daydream and still truly back at his own house. "You got frustrated and had to call me over, didn't you, hmm? Wanted me to find you all needy like this and help fuck it out of you?"

You nod once more. Your pussy gets wetter; he feels the heat of it against his leg.

Dean doesn't break eye contact with you when he flicks the machine back to life and barely drags it against the outside of your thigh. "This okay?"

You know he won't accept a nod this time, so you whisper, "Yes."

"Your roommates home?"

"No. Please."

Dean's stare darkens. The tip of the dildo gets closer to where you desperately want him instead. He steadily moves a strand of hair away from your face at the same moment he fixes the pulse at the apex of your thighs. He carefully adjusts himself against the couch, still hovering above you, not quite allowing anything to touch you yet.

You hook an ankle at the small of his back. He bites the tip of your nose. Every atom charges between you when the first vibration finds your covered sex.

Dean holds it there, watching in quiet wonder as you slouch against the back of the couch and widen your knees for him. He pushes further into the space and crowds you, dropping his mouth to your throat.

He looks down and struggles to breathe as the silicone is drawn into your cunt, your smaller hand pulling back on your panties to create a naked space. Your other stills against his chest, steadying the rest of you. He needs something to ground himself too, so he finds the crease above your waist with the hand that doesn't begin twisting the toy.

Your eyes go wide, an attempt of his name flying past your lips. You can only pay attention to his breath against your ear and the way his strong wrist contracts with every turn. The white-hot flame stokes itself inside your tummy. You physically push down on it.

Dean catches the movement. "Fuck," he growls. "Yeah, baby, just like that. You feel it deep there?"

You nod frantically, still stupid. Dean takes quiet pride in that but does not goad you with it. You may finally find a sentence or two when you notice him start to slide to the floor, his hand connecting you still.

“What are you doing?” you stutter.

Dean shushes you against your swollen clit. He licks a broad stroke from the bud down however far he can get until he tastes your leftover juice on the tail end of the pink that is almost completely inside of you. He relaxes his grip at the bottom of the toy, but then twists up once more, stretching you full.

Both of your hands fly to the top of his head, your own falling against the furniture roughly enough that you wince. Dean would have padded the force with his hand if he wasn’t busy lapping at you like it’s his job.

It’s either that or he might die if he stops.

You feel his stubble everywhere. His spit mixes in with your own slick, which is now pebbling down your thighs and into the upholstery, something you deem a later problem as the dildo taps against your g-spot each time he fucks you with it.

And every time he speaks, rough and sure against your clit, you vibrate there, too.

“That’s it,” he keeps cooing. “So fuckin’ wet, it’s all I can hear. You gonna come for me? Come all on my tongue, sweet girl. Use me.”

You clench and he notices. He looks up at you, eyelashes unfairly long, lips sodden. "You like that," he identifies softly. "Making up emergencies just to get me over here and work you open."

He doesn't wait for your wrecked answer - he latches his mouth onto you once more. You do as you're told; you use him, and then you come at the very moment he clicks to one speed higher on the vibrator and lightly grazes his teeth against your clit.

Dean helps you through it, crooning things that are part approving and sympathetic, another half condescending and ribbing. You let it all float over you until your skin is cool and your brain isn't as loud as it was before he walked into your mess.

The vibrator slows, still inside of you, and Dean edges it out slowly until it comes back glossy. He falls back onto his haunches, stares at it in his hand, and doesn't react to anything at all until you brush your fingers through the hair at his forehead and start laughing.

It's a breathy thing, sweet and marginally uncertain. It makes Dean smile until his cheeks hurt, and then you're both laughing, him holding your vibrator, you delicately brushing your thumb against his skin like you might want to remember the feeling forever.

It's oddly domestic. It's ruined when your phone, which had fallen beneath you into the cracks of the cushion, buzzes from a text that certainly has not been sent from Dean.

But from a Connor, Dean sees when the screen flashes bright in the median, reading: I'll pick you up at 8 tomorrow. ;)

It's not a difficult message to pick apart while you lay there, partially naked, Dean's throat now bobbing with something green and ugly.

"Dean," you start quietly. Your legs close as you sit up, your shirt covering enough of you that he can finally look away, breaking himself from the spell.

"Right," he drawls instead of acknowledging you. Something insecure ticks at him for the first time in a long time, and he's mean before he can filter himself. "You only come running when you need something from me."

"No," you emphatically interject. "It's not like that. I was thinking about you all day. Please believe me, I -"

He nods sharply enough that you stop speaking. He stands to his full height. He can hardly look at you when he bites out, "Next time you need a favor, call Logan. Call Garrett. Call Tucker. Call Connor. Don't fucking call me."

He picks his phone up from where he left it on the floor and leaves without looking back.

He doesn’t come out of his room for dinner that night.

-

Four After (& an actual emergency)

Dean has been watching the clock on his laptop for the last hour and a half, getting absolutely nowhere with the essay that's due Monday morning. Even if the pre-law jargon isn't funneling correctly into his brain, he knows he's not an absolute idiot; he knows the procrastination has everything to do with your date tonight. He can't stop thinking about it.

He wonders what you're wearing. He wonders if your lips are that soft shade of strawberry. He wonders if you smell faintly like vanilla custard or tart raspberries today. He wonders if you're nervously wringing your hands in front of you, decides he hates thinking about you feeling anything other than joy, and then wonders if your hands are elsewhere, but preferably not on the asshole sitting across from you. He wonders what will happen to him and life itself if he finds out you kissed someone else. He then wonders if your kiss will be different than the one you gave him, whether better or worse.

He wonders what noises you will make for someone who is not him.

He backspaces on an entire paragraph that ends up straying from high-frequency trading practices to threats of bodily harm.

He might fall asleep at some point, tangled in his headphones at his desk, hands in fists. He's really not sure. All he knows is that a familiar vibration - one that is now different from all his other contacts - yanks him out of it when the clock reads 11:32PM.

Dean will never, ever forget the little hitch your lungs make when he answers.

"Dean?" you whisper before he's even said anything. "Can you come pick me up, please? I'm at Malone's. My phone is about to die, and - I really want to go home."

Your breath catches on the last word. That's when he hears the tears. That's when everything goes red.

His fingers are already closing around his keys, voice deathly quiet. "Are you safe?"

There are so many other questions he wants to ask (what did he do, which hand, where does he live?), but that one comes out quicker than the rest.

You grip your own phone tighter in your hand, back pressed against one of the stall doors. "Yes. I think."

Dean would curse if he wasn't handling a fragile situation. "You think?"

The leather interior is cool beneath his legs. He guns his car into start without releasing the call wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

Chin quivering, you nod even though he can't see you. "I'm - in the bathroom."

"Good girl," comes out gently before he can stop it. You both hold your breath on either end of the line. "Stay there. Don't come out for anyone, not even if your phone dies, okay? I'll come get you."

You pull your phone away from your wet face to see the low battery warning. All you can manage is, "Dean, I'm - I'm really sorry for calling."

His eyebrows pull low while he maneuvers throughout the dark streets. "Why are you sorry?" he demands, but it's not angry as much as it is panicked. "You did the right thing by calling me. I'll always come fix it, baby. Just -"

The call drops.

Dean lets go of the bellow he's been holding in since he saw your name flash on his screen. "Dammit!”

He jerks his wheel into the bar's parking lot like an actual emergency vehicle would, barely twisting his keys out of the ignition by the time he's haphazardly parked across three spots ten minutes later.

Once he storms in, he almost stops and asks the general vicinity which one of them made you cry, but he spots the smugness on one particular face so quickly he just about snaps his neck.

He flexes his fingers once, so restrained he might be proud of himself later. "What the fuck did you do to her?"

The prick just shrugs once and looks at Dean over the top of his beer bottle. "Who, the frigid bitch?"

Dean goes still. Conversations halt around him. Stools scrape into action to get a better look. Another him would fidget in agitation; all he can think about is you crying, alone, hiding somewhere he isn't already. He straightens slowly.

"Do not mistake me walking away as letting that go," he warns, jaw tight.

Before he can decipher the look that flashes across the other man's face or even let his body win the fight against his brain, he turns to the direction of the bathroom.

Two other girls are blocking the entrance, but shuffle out of his way when he approaches with enough stiffness in his shoulders that he screams everything but sexually deviant.

He spots your Mary Janes in the crack of one of the doors. If this wasn't an emergency, he would snark about how impractical of a shoe that is for a sticky bar just to get a reaction out of you.

Alternatively, he murmurs your name and raps his knuckles against the chipping paint. He practices patience. He gets the wind knocked out of him once you fumble the clasp open and all but throw yourself into his arms.

They find your upper body instantly, hauling you against him as tightly as you fall into him. One of his big hands go up to cup the back of your head, muffling your snivels into his chest.

"Okay," he murmurs, more to himself than to you at first. Then, softer, "Hey. I'm here. You're okay."

Your fingers shake where they clutch his shirt; he calculates that as another punch in the mouth, or dick, or throat, or wherever he can get to first when he walks out of here with you safely in tow.

"What happened, sweetheart?" he asks carefully, protectively turning you at an angle when someone else walks in and tries getting past. He hides your face from anyone else.

"So stupid," you croak, and he makes a small sound at that because it absolutely is not. "He was just - just a little handsy, and didn't like it when I moved my legs, and then - and then made a comment about being my ride and leaving me here if I wasn't going to - to - put out.”

Dean's fingers close around the base of your neck. He can't speak for a moment, swallowing past his rage.

Which is fine, because then you admit in the tiniest of whispers, something so real and hushed against him, "And I just wanted you."

Dean finally closes his eyes against the top of your head, letting most of the anger disappear in one final exhale.

"Good," is all he says back.

When you pull away from him a few moments after he's splayed open his whole heart with just one word, he sweeps both of his thumbs at the drying bits of mascara underneath your eyes. You smile weakly at him while he traces the rest of you with his gaze like he's looking for anything else to be out of place. He fixes a part of your sleeve that slouches too far off your shoulder.

"Let's get you home," he murmurs. He's not sure if he means his place or yours, but it's sure as hell not here. "You gonna be okay if we go out there?"

You wrinkle your nose, maybe to stop a fresh wave of tears. Dean lets you take another minute to gather yourself until you're nodding and interlacing your fingers with his.

Dean composes himself, too, and then he starts out of the bathroom with you positioned behind him, your hands linked and unbreakable. He keeps his stare straight ahead while you count the divots in the old floor. No one breathes too loudly as you pass. No one says anything. You're not sure if Connor is still there because you don't look above the way Dean's shoulder blades furiously contract with each step ahead of you, but Dean keeps track of him the whole time.

When you're close enough to the exit, he maneuvers you in front of him by the tangle of your hands. He blocks the view behind him with his broad body when you come to a stop. He takes his car keys out of his pocket and releases your fingers to fold them into your palm, dipping down slightly to your height.

"Do me a favor," he whispers, forcing a smile he hopes is comforting and warm. "Go sit in my car. Turn on whatever station you want. Don't unlock it 'til I come get you."

Dean smooths the frown that appears between your eyebrows with his mouth. Your protest ends there. You nod, squeezing his fingers hard enough with a silent threat that they better be in tact when he comes back to you. He fights a grin.

Dean waits until the doors close fully behind you. He doesn't move until he hears the unmistakable beep of his car unlocking through the dirty glass. And then, with the awareness of a predator stalking its prey or possibly just an incredibly pissed off hockey player who can skate backwards and find his target any time of day, he whirls and connects his fist with Connor's jaw.

The bartenders, some theater girls who have always been nice to you, look away and pretend they never see the first punch - or the following two - land.

He's rubbing his mouth with his thumb, chuckling darkly to himself, completely unharmed and totally in one piece, when he finds you in the dark.

You unlock the car for him. He slides into the driver's seat and takes one good look at you, your face a little less crumpling now. He leans over the console and presses the tenderest of kisses against your cheek, right below your last tear's streak.

"I'm sorry," you repeat while he stays there, attached to you. "I'm so sorry. About yesterday. About tonight. You're not - I don't see you as just a fixer, Dean, I promise."

Dean nods lightly against where his stubble scratches your jaw. You sniffle and turn into him better, nudging your nose unsurely against his.

"I know," he murmurs. "But if we're both being honest, you did use me for an actual emergency tonight, and I'm not mad at you, baby."

"You're not mad?"

"Not mad." He brushes his lips against your temple. “It’s nice, to be needed.”

Your heart flutters. "Wanted," you correct quietly.

"Right." Dean smiles properly now, knowing you're telling the truth with your entire being. "Wanted... and needed. You're fucking terrifying when your batteries run out."

You wipe at your eyes despite your own laugh. He places his forearm along the back of your seat, reversing his car from the terrible park job and the one guy he wouldn't mind getting suspended - or arrested - for.

"Tomorrow," he supplies carefully when you're back on the main road, "we'll talk about it more."

With one hand on the wheel, he leaves his other balanced open, hoping you'll take it into your lap.

You do, and all of Dean's doubt fades away.

You want him. You need him. He considers it all a win.

dean's shirtless body stretches out over the hardwood, sweat dampening his hairline as it beads on his forehead. god, what a guy. even in a criminal heatwave, he still manages to give you butterflies. or rather, evil, evil pigeons. butterflies are too poetic and undeserved for dean di laurentis.

"fuck," dean groans. "should've left while we could've."

you huff at your boyfriend's whining. "well, you're the genius who said let's stay and cuddle. cuddle, dean. in this weather."

dean turns to lie on his side, beaming at you with a smug smile that reaches his eyes. "you loved it."

"maybe, if the entire house hadn't turned into a damn furnace." your eyes fondly roll, and you turn your back to dean.

despite your coy antics, dean pulls himself tight up against you, arms coiling around your body. "you loved it."

having his skin against you like this is pure masochism. what happened to beating the heat? this guy's fanning the fucking flames. but you aren't planning on moving—not when you can feel his heart beating so earnestly, its rhythm quickening the longer you stay quiet.

in response to your stubborn—thoughtful pause, dean buries his head in the curve of your neck. if you weren't already on fire, you definitely are now—literally and figuratively. his warm breath against your neck while he waits for your response is making your throat tighten. no matter how much you got off on teasing and joking around with dean, whenever he does soft, unguarded shit like this, you can't help the urge to spoil him. even if he doesn't necessarily deserve it.

"baby," dean plants a kiss on your neck. "you know i'm right."

you might die from how that sickeningly smooth cadence of his sounds when it's muffled against your skin.

"…shut up, di laurentis." you mumble. it's taking an army's worth of rationality to not pounce on him this instant.

as if purely to defy your expectations, dean doesn't bite back. instead, he shifts just enough to look at you. and he knows what he's doing when he stares at you with those love-ridden hazy blue eyes.

taking in the effect he has on you, a look of pride clouds dean's expression.

"you love me." he hums. quiet, yet boastful—like he's won something.

and even quieter—since you can't find the energy to be sarcastic—you admit, "fuck, i love you."

over the quiet rumble of the ineffective ac, you can hear dean snicker.

"i love you more."

that's the kind of man he is, isn't it? not i love you too, but i love you more.

you can't discern whether it's an instinctive comment driven by his competitive nature, or a deliberate calculation meant to make your heart skip a beat. regardless, your heart does skip a beat.

but dean di laurentis isn't the only competitive person in this relationship.

"i love you the most." the words come out like a provocation rather than a sincere declaration. the boyish grin on dean's face proves he knows it's entirely both.

before you can process it, heated kisses pepper their way from your neck up to your face. your nape, lips, cheeks—wherever dean can reach without moving either of you. in between each loving kiss, dean breathlessly mutters, "love ya more than y'know. so much." among other sweet nothings. left with no other choice, you cup your hands around his face and guide his lips to yours.

it's a bit clumsy—loving, but clumsy. the heat has definitely gotten to the both of you. but the sheer tenderness of the kiss is something rare in comparison to the usual desperate, needy, carnal kisses you share with dean. it's nice.

your hands travel to the hair at his nape, fingers threading tightly through the blonde strands. the two of you are now face-to-face, legs tangled together and hands palming the other's body—seeking warmth even in the summer swelter. dean's visibly more relaxed now, too, his shoulders slack and body like putty against yours. one of the many, many things you love about him happens to be how much he melts and lets himself go in response to physical touch. after his home games, you always wait for dean by the doors of the stadium. and the moment you open your arms for him, he practically flies into you, warm and sappy as ever.

noticing your mind drifting elsewhere, dean nips playfully at your bottom lip. "'m over here." he murmurs between breaths.

his lips instinctively part, expecting more—craving more. but you don't give him what he wants. because dean loves you. so much that he lets his guard down the second your eyes meet his—the moment he feels your touch—even at the mere thought of you.

"you love me." you declare. maybe you're acting cocky, but dean loves that. fuck, he loves you. that isn't something either of you say often. not like this.

and maybe dean realizes that too, because instead of matching your energy, he averts his eyes and feigns obliviousness.

"dunno what you're talking about."

he isn't blushing. there's no way he's blushing. it's just really, really hot.

"di laurentis." a quiet, playful warning.

his head drops low, forehead nuzzling against your shoulder—a total display of defeat. you've won.

"yeah. i love you."

off campus debut fic & same goes for dean! buncha firsts over here man. more dean soon & reqs are open asf for him since it gives me a valid excuse to skip out on my other projects (n im dean pilled rn). much love dudes