mclean

Rafe’s bedroom feels cramped. It’s about the same size as your room, but with the way he fills the space as he walks ahead of you, it feels smaller.

And yours is much more organized. One side of his room is a disaster, sheets twisted, clothes scattered on the floor. The other side is a neater. The bed is made. His Kildare Island Surfboard Co. hat is tossed on the bedframe.

You shut the door behind you, the muffled thump of the party fading. You walk past Rafe and tilt your head towards the bed that’s made.

“Please tell me this one’s yours,” you say, even though you know it is.

“Yeah, it is,” he says amusedly. Every little dose of approval he gets from you feels too damn good.

You sit on the edge of Rafe’s bed, the mattress sinking beneath you as you take in just how tidy his side of the room is.

His desk is cleared, his laundry basket tucked into the corner. You pictured him as a typical rich guy, messy and careless, the type who didn’t bother to pick up after himself, so this throws you.

But it makes sense. He clearly puts effort into how he looks, so maybe it shouldn’t shock you that he cares about the space around him, too.

He sits next to you, watching you take it in. You’re wearing that blank look on your face again, studying his room, making it impossible for him to know what you’re thinking.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You look at him, your knee brushing his.

“Yeah,” you say. “Why?”

He hesitates. He needs to play it cool, but the longer he’s around you, the harder it is to keep up the charade.

“I never know what you’re thinking,” he confesses with a defeated chuckle.

Your knees are still touching, expensive denim on your bare skin. It’s like he’s always trying to figure you out. But you don’t want to be figured out. You want escape. You want him.

The buzz in your veins, the heat licking your stomach, the way he’s looking at you is all too tempting. So you lean in, letting the moment shift from emotional to physical, from complicated to simple.

He closes the space between you and you pick up right where you left off the other night, skipping the gentle pecks for deep kisses, carding your hands through his soft hair.

Rafe loosens at your touch, both of his hands suddenly on your cheeks, and as desire pools in your gut, reveling in his soft dominance, the way he holds you when he kisses you.

You don’t want to waste any time. You shift to turn just enough to stand and straddle him. He breathes a deep groan against your lips once he feels your weight on his lap, your legs framing his.

Rafe’s head is spinning. His hands drag up your bare legs, resting under your dress on your ass as your tongues meet. Your bodies hungrily press together and while he once felt irritation over how you act like you’re better than him, he can admit to himself that it feels true now, that he’s lucky that you want him.

He continues to gently squeeze your flesh, to dig his fingers into your skin just hard enough that it makes the ache between your legs nearly unbearable.

“Take your jeans off,” you whisper, perching up to your knees. His lips press against your collarbone as he shuffles beneath you, the hum of his zipper being pulled down coaxing you.

Once his pants are on the floor, you sit to press against his hard length, only his briefs and your panties between you. The sensation sends another rush of heat through you. You roll your hips just a little and he breathes a heavy, breathy, “Fuck.”

The way Rafe’s hand cups your face is firmer now, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you tight against him. You feel his urgency in the way he’s holding you and kissing you.

You want to go all the way, to ask him if he has a condom, but this is meant to be a game to keep him wanting more and never getting it. Instead, you shift to sit on his thigh, slowly starting to grind as you grip his shoulders.

You feel his smirk against your lips before he tilts his head back just a bit, gaze meeting yours, his eyes drunk with pleasure.

“You want to get off like this?” he murmurs, tightening his grip around your waist so you grind harder against him. The feeling of your wet heat through your panties is mindblowing, making him tense with need.

“Yes,” you breathe, finding relief in putting pressure where you’re so desperate for it. You whisper a soft, satisfied moan at the feeling of his hard thigh against you, fabric still in the way but not too much that you’re not finding pleasure.

Your kisses grow quick and sloppy and you lose the warmth of his hand cupping your jaw, but soon find it again on your shoulder, where he’s pulling down the strap of your dress.

Rafe lowers his head, leaving your cheek pressed up against his temple, as he pulls down the front of your dress. Slowly, he brings your bra down to your waist and expels an almost inaudible moan when he sees you.

You tense with pleasure when you feel his hot mouth close over your nipple, continuing to ride his thigh, your grip on his shoulders loosening as you start to come undone.

Rafe doesn’t want this to stop. He doesn’t want anything with you to stop. He can’t be the only one feeling this, that this is more than just attraction. He wants you in every way. And he wants to be the only one who gets to have you.

He rolls and flicks his tongue over the hard peak of your nipple, gently squeezing the soft flesh of your breasts, feeling you soak his thigh. Every sense of his is filled with you and he can’t get enough.

The pressure builds up and you toss your head back when your orgasm rolls through you, tensing and relaxing, every inch of your body numb with bliss. Rafe cups your face to lead you back to him, kissing you even though you’re too spent to kiss back, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks.

It happens like every other time. The comedown of pleasure with a guy you feel nothing for. It’s an incredible high and a deep, heavy low. Slowly, as you catch your breath, you start to readjust your clothes, pulling up your bra and fixing your dress.

Rafe’s hands rest on your hips as you remain in his lap, showing him you’re stopping this, maybe even leaving. His heart sinks. He kisses you, tries to keep you here, but you stand up, pulling down your dress.

“I’m thirsty,” you say with a tired laugh.

You meet his eyes, and you can see the disappointment. He’s not getting what he wants. You’ve seen that exact look on so many guys’ faces. When they realize you’re not giving them what they think they deserve.

“You don’t want to stay here?” he murmurs. You’re not sure if he means to continue this, or just to hang out with him, but you’re not the type to stick around.

“No,” you reply simply, adjusting the hem of your dress.

Rafe almost offers to go downstairs and get you a drink. To get you to stay. But the happiness he was feeling just seconds ago has been replaced with the sting of rejection. He can tell when he’s not wanted. When he’s been used.

His temper takes over, anger rushing over the hurt.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Go.”

It confirms everything you ever assumed about him. He’s just like all of them. Nice when he thinks he’ll get something. Cruel when he realizes he won’t.

And this is exactly why you stay unattached.

You leave Rafe’s bedroom, sure that if you never speak again, you still won the bet. Maybe you didn’t break his heart, but you definitely bruised his pride, and that’s enough for you.

・・・・・

“No fucking way,” Mac says when Rafe approaches him in the throws of the party in the living room minutes later. “I saw her coming down the stairs. You seal the deal?”

Rafe could lie. Admittedly, after you walked out of his room, he realized he has no idea what he’s doing. Whatever it is between you has gotten more complicated than he ever planned for.

He’s always hated how easily his emotions swallow him. This is his chance to prove something to himself. He’s not weak. He can stay in control. He can sleep with you and not let it mean anything.

“She’s a tease,” Rafe plays along, even though he’s not doing this because of the bet anymore. “I’ll get her.”

・・・・・

The front lawn of your sorority house is packed. Under the cloudy morning sky, you watch from your bedroom window as students from every chapter mingle at the philanthropic event your sorority is running, a pancake breakfast to raise money for a local charity.

You’re supposed to be downstairs, but when your phone buzzed in your pocket and you saw it was your mom returning the call you made to her yesterday, you slipped away just for five minutes.

It was to tell her the good news about a midterm you were anxious about. You did well. But your mom has been distracted since you started the conversation. You can tell by her one‑word answers.

“Are you busy or something?” you finally ask, a bite slipping into your tone.

“George had a stressful day yesterday,” she answers. “He got home late. I just want to make sure his breakfast is ready before he wakes up.”

You never fully bonded with your stepdad. He tried, but you didn’t. The resentment of your father’s betrayal hollowed you out, urging you to believe that a man will never stay.

It broke your mom. And she poured everything she had into the next relationship, as if loving George enough could erase the fact that your dad walked away.

With the phone pressed to your cheek, you feel anger clawing its way up your throat, tears burning behind your eyes.

You just wanted to share good news with your mom, but right now, she’s focused on someone else. And the lonely feeling that brings hurts.

・・・・・

Nobody pays attention when Rafe slips into your sorority house. The event in the front lawn is too chaotic for anyone to notice him.

Since last night, when you left him in his bedroom, you haven’t spoken. He didn’t see you outside and he needs to find you.

He knows he handled things wrong. And he can’t quit this. You’re too addictive to watch walk away.

He’s not doing this to win the bet anymore. He’s here to prove to himself that he can think like a man who doesn’t feel so much. That he can have a good time with the hottest girl he’s ever been with without getting attached.

He’s at your bedroom door, finding it easily after the night he carried your roommate over, and lifts his hand to knock.

“...can’t even listen to me for a minute?”

It’s your voice on the other side. Choked up.

“Okay. Yeah. Fine,” you eventually say, clipped and shaky.

You hang up and settle onto your bed, trying to center yourself. After you snapped at your mom that she wasn’t listening to you, she snapped right back that she was doing her best to focus on your conversation, and that’s when you began to tear up.

Then there’s a knock on your door. You assume it’s Jada or one of your sisters checking up on you. The last thing you expect is to pull the door open and find Rafe standing there.

You freeze. You’ve never cried in front of a guy you’re seeing. If that’s even what you’d call whatever this is with him. You figured after last night, the whole thing was over.

His forehead creases when he sees you, his gaze deepening.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low. He notices your phone in your hand, realizing you just hung up on whoever was making you cry.

There’s no point in lying. Your eyes are still wet.

“I’m great,” you mutter sarcastically, dabbing your cheeks, brushing away the last traces of your sorrow. “Why are you here?”

“For the pancakes,” he says to lighten the mood.

It’s such a stupid answer that despite yourself, your mouth twitches into a small smile.

“I’m serious. Why are you at my door?” you ask, simply confused why he hasn’t cut his losses. You don’t know why he’s sticking around after last night. Most guys would’ve bailed by now.

“To say sorry,” he says.

You put a hand on your hip. He’s here to grovel. It sends a satisfying spark through you. You always love a power trip, especially when it’s over a guy looking like he’s about to beg for another chance.

“I need to fix my makeup,” you say. “Come in if you want.”

Rafe steps inside, clicking the door shut behind him. He sits on your bed and you settle in front of your mirror and open your makeup bag. Your skin is still warm from crying, still a little tight around your eyes.

You feel the heat of his gaze. Knowing he’s seeing you vulnerable like this makes your stomach twist in discomfort. But you invited him in to show him how easily you shake things off. Then your body betrays you.

A quiet, involuntary post‑cry shudder ripples through you. A sharp pang digs itself into Rafe’s chest when he hears it.

“You don’t have to tell me what that was about,” he offers.

“I wasn’t going to,” you say, straightening your posture. “What did you hear?”

“That someone’s not listening to you.”

You let out a breathy scoff.

“Eavesdropping is rude.”

“I’m rude,” he replies with a shrug.

You have to laugh. His shoulders ease hearing it.

“I didn’t expect self‑awareness from you,” you say.

“Yeah? What’d you expect, then?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror.

“What happened last night,” you reply. “What every guy does when he realizes he’s not going to get what he wants from me.”

Rafe scratches the back of his neck, the regret sitting in his stomach.

“I’m sorry. Seriously.”

“Save it,” you respond, waving him off, truly indifferent to it anyway.

Rafe chews on the inside of his cheek. He can’t defend himself without admitting too much. He can’t tell you that last night didn’t piss him off – it hurt.

“I thought we’d hang out. And then you just… left,” he finally says. “I shouldn’t have acted like that. I…”

“Had a tantrum?” you say.

He tensely runs a hand through his hair.

“Is that why you’re always getting into fights?” you ask, thinking about what you’d seen on the island, the way he’d explode at the smallest thing.

Rafe stills for a moment. It’s good to hear that you’d noticed him back home. That he existed to you.

“Wait… you’ve been watching me?” he says amusedly.

You sigh, tipping your head back toward the ceiling with a groan.

“Your ego kills me,” you breathe.

He smirks and stares at you again as you continue to touch up your makeup, looking beautiful even with your eyes still a little puffy.

“I got mad because you’re confusing, alright?” he says. “You just ran out.”

You huff. You don’t believe him. The only thing you trust that comes out of his mouth is anything he says about his physical attraction to you.

“And I don’t get into fights anymore,” he adds.

It’s true. He hasn’t gotten into a single fight in a while, at least not here on campus. He still gets angry, because of course he does, but the distance from the island has done him good.

“Why’s that?” you ask, keeping your tone light, almost bored.

The more he talks, the more he opens up, the more material you’ll have later. Because you know now that you could still break his heart. You see the way he looks at you, the way he’s trying to apologize, the way he came here in the first place. His feelings are growing.

“Being here’s good for me,” he admits.

He looks out the window, jaw tight. You mull over his words. It doesn’t sound like it’s specifically here that’s good for him. It sounds like it’s anywhere that isn’t Kildare.

“You don’t like it back home?” you probe.

He breathes a humorless laugh. This pain is all too familiar. Life on the island was nothing but trying to outrun the truth that he was never wanted.

And the only way he ever learned to cope was by letting the anger take over, letting the chaos distract him from the feeling that he wasn’t enough.

“It’s because of shit with my family,” he finally replies. “I’m not what they want me to be.”

And like a wave, embarrassment that he just spilled so much to you crashes into him. This is what he hates about himself, the way everything sits right at the brim, always threatening to overflow. Somehow you’ve cracked him open.

Rafe’s defeated tone almost, almost makes you feel for him. You can relate more than he’ll ever know. Because on that phone call, your mom expected you to be fine with the fact that her husband comes first, and you don’t.

You turn around in your seat to finally look at him without the mirror between you. Rafe’s eyes are fixed on your floor now. You need to even the playing field. Make him think you’re opening up too, when you’re not.

“It was my mom on the phone,” you say. “She has a very particular idea of how I should act. It’s annoying. I get it.”

It’s a half‑truth, close enough to what he said to feel like you’re meeting him in the middle.

And he buys it. The way he looks at you, like he thinks this is some moment of shared understanding, confirms that he’s trusting you. He’s giving you pieces of himself without realizing it. And you can use every single one.

But right now, you realize you don’t want to.

What you once thought would feel satisfying suddenly doesn’t anymore. Every time you’ve hurt a guy in the past, it wasn’t intentional. You never set out to break anyone. But this time, you did, and it doesn’t feel good like you thought it would.

You don’t exactly like Rafe, but you don’t mind him. And if you go through with this, deliberately pulling him in just to tear him down, then what does that make you?

Whatever your reason, you’re still putting energy into a man. It’s not the same as your mother pouring herself into her husband, but it’s still a direction you don’t want to go into.

This started off as a little game of revenge to put Rafe in his place, maybe even to get payback on all the pain one particular man left in your heart. But you don’t see the point anymore.

“What does she want?” he asks, oblivious to the decision you’ve just made.

You lift a shoulder in a small shrug.

“For me to keep the peace,” you reply. “Don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t like to shut up when I’m mad.”

Rafe chuckles, relieved. He was convinced he blew it with you, but you’re not shutting him out.

“I like that about you,” he murmurs.

It’s the first thing Rafe has ever complimented you on that wasn’t about your appearance. And it’s about something you’ve always assumed people saw as a flaw. He talks about your short fuse like it’s good.

In the few minutes he’s been alone in here with him, you’ve seen a side of him you never have. And while you’ll never trust him, you can admit this is the most honest you’ve ever seen him be.

Your mind flickers back to the charter Olympics, to the way he made those guys who were bothering you leave you alone. You still don’t think that he did it out of sincerity, but the memory of him protecting you lingers right now.

And the way he’s looking at you now, with that same intensity he had then, only makes it harder to ignore the part of you that wonders what his intentions really are. That maybe you were wrong.

Not that it matters.

“We should go downstairs,” you say, pushing back your chair.

・・・・・

Later that day, Rafe pushes open the door to his bedroom, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s barely stepped inside when Cooper looks up from his laptop.

“Did you see the email?” he asks. Rafe drops his bag onto the floor with a thud.

“What email?”

His roommate turns the screen toward him. Rafe’s stomach sinks when he sees the subject line. Notice of Disciplinary Action.

“We’re on probation,” Cooper says. “We’re actually banned from partying. We could get suspended.”

“This is a joke,” he mutters with a chuckle.

“No, dude, it’s real,” Cooper confirms. “We’re off probation after four weeks if we follow the rules. Trey called a house meeting tonight.”

Rafe exhales, frustrated and confused.

・・・・・

The meeting starts with Trey, the frat president, standing at the front of the living room. He doesn’t bother hiding how pissed he is.

“We shouldn’t even be having this conversation,” he says, glaring around the room. “We just got warned and you geniuses still thought throwing that Halloween party was a good idea.”

He exhales sharply and reads off the email from the disciplinary committee.

“They’re serious,” he says afterwards. “They’ll be checking. Campus security will do random drive‑bys. If they see cars lined up or people outside or literally anything that looks like a party, we’re done. No one here can even risk being seen at other parties. I mean it.”

As the guys break into complaints, Rafe just sits there, growing more pissed off as the reality settles in. No parties means no distractions.

Eventually, he realizes that the conversations are going nowhere, and he stands and walks out into the night air without a destination in mind. He gets into his truck and sits there for a minute, hands on the wheel, jaw tight.

Then he pulls out his phone and taps on your name. Because right now, you’re the only person who makes him forget everything better than anything else ever has.

He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say when you pick up. He just needs to get out of his own head.

“Hello?” you answer.

“Hey,” he says. “You around?”

“I’m home,” you say. “And I’m in my pajamas, so the farthest I’m going is the porch.”

He smirks despite himself.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

・・・・・

When Rafe parks under the streetlamp in front of your sorority house, he sees you already sitting on the steps, arms wrapped around your knees. You look unbothered. Beautiful. Like usual.

He sits beside you on the porch, leaving just enough space to pretend he’s not desperate to touch you. For a few seconds, neither of you talk. Crickets sing. Cars pass.

“As peaceful as this is,” you say, picking up on his tension, “what the fuck happened?”

Rafe huffs a quiet, defeated laugh.

“We’re on probation,” he admits. “No parties or anything for a month. Everyone in the house is losing their minds.”

“Oh, wow,” you say. “No fun for a month?”

Rafe shrugs, eyes fixed on the street.

“Sitting around doing nothing drives me insane,” he admits.

“You could finally do those discussion boards you’ve been missing out on,” you say, nudging him with your shoulder. He breathes a laugh again. “You’re telling me you can’t survive thirty days?”

Rafe finally looks at you. And he realizes that just by being with you, his chest isn’t as tight anymore. He feels better around you.

“I’m not good with being bored,” he says.

You stare at him for a moment. Maybe he’s not as shallow as you expected. Maybe he likes noise because it keeps him from thinking. Maybe there’s something he’s outrunning.

This is exactly the kind of conversation you stay far away from with a guy. This is stuff a girlfriend would deal with. And you’re not his girlfriend. You’re not here to fix him or soothe him or get pulled into whatever’s going on in his head.

You need to shift the mood and offer him some sort of comfort, without the vulnerability. Because while you don’t have any real feelings for Rafe, you can admit you don’t like seeing him tense.

You’ll let this fling play out. One of you will eventually get bored once it’s obvious this isn’t going anywhere. But you’re no longer trying to hurt him. You can’t bring yourself to be cruel to someone who isn’t the asshole you thought he was.

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back on your hands. “The girls keep talking about a beach day.”

He glances over, curious.

“And if you guys come to that,” you continue, “is it really that bad? It’s not a party. And it’s off campus.”

Rafe nods, his mouth curling into a smile, the rigidity in his posture easing.

“I’ll text you the details,” you say. “Come with drinks. And don’t bring everyone, okay?”

You push yourself to your feet, brushing off your hands.

“Wait,” Rafe says. He stands too, and because he’s a step lower on the porch, you end up almost eye‑level with him. Even from here, he’s still taller than you.

He looks at you with that intense focus you’ve seen so many times. And then, like always, he cups your face with both firmness and restraint when he kisses you.

For a second, the world goes quiet around him. The more he gets of you, the more he wants. Your lips are warm and soft and perfect and it hurts that you want to go back inside so soon after he arrived.

You pull back from the kiss first, like always. He stays where he is, stuck between hope and frustration, wishing you’d change your mind and just to sit here with him.

But you only offer a heartbreaking smile before you turn and leave him unable to stop wanting the one thing he can’t get enough of.

・・・・・

You’ve been at the beach for about an hour now, soaking in the early afternoon sun.

Everyone is sprawled out, a mix of your sorority sisters, girls from other houses, and a few guys they invited. Music hums from a speaker over the crashes of waves against the shore.

You’re sitting cross‑legged on your towel, gazing out at the lake. It’s beautiful, light blue contrasted against a wide stretch of beige sand, but it doesn’t compare to the ocean you grew up admiring. Even so, you can’t help enjoying the novelty of sitting on a beach in November.

A faraway voice makes you look toward the parking lot. You see a group of six guys, all in swim trunks and sunglasses, talking loudly and hauling a cooler.

Rafe is easy to pick out. He’s taller than the rest, wearing a white t-shirt over his swim shorts, looking better than everyone on this beach.

You’d sent him a location pin so he could find you. He drops the cooler into the sand and greets the guys already there with his usual confidence.

Rafe hates to see that there isn’t an open spot beside you, that you’re wedged between two of your friends. He chooses a place just across from you, sitting on the corner of a beach blanket.

He’s supposed to be keeping his feelings in check. But how can he when you look like that, sitting there wearing a bikini and an amused smirk that tightens his chest?

You pull at two sides of him, the part that craves to be wrapped up in you, to be deep inside of you, and another part that he tries to ignore. A part that wants to be needed.

“Hey,” he says to you over the surrounding conversations.

“Hey,” you reply. “You staying out of trouble?”

He gives a half‑smile and says, “Trying.”

It’s been a couple of days since you spoke on the porch, since he kissed you and you walked away. Since then, you’ve taken up his every thought, and it sucks having to pretend like you haven’t.

The group’s conversation shifts to the probation. As some of Rafe’s frat brothers whine about the punishment, you stretch out your legs, playfully nudging his knee with your toes. He looks at you, mirroring your smile.

A few weeks ago, you had to make yourself flirt with him. You had to think about the bet and tell yourself to play the part. Now you want to do it. The version of him you thought you hated has been erased, and he’s just another guy you’re having a fling with. Something fun that’ll burn out.

That’s always been the rush. Getting close enough to feel the spark, but never close enough to get burned.

You’ve known for a while now that Rafe really likes you. You can see it in the way he looks at you, in the way his attention keeps drifting back to you, no matter what’s happening around him. You know when a guy is in deep.

But he’s only enamored with a version of you. Guys fall for the cool, detached girl all the time. You never let them see the real you.

Rafe is no different. He probably thinks he’s getting close, but he’s not. You’re enjoying the temporary thrill, and if he stopped talking to you tomorrow, you’d shrug and move on.

Besides, you’re still pretty sure he’s putting up a front, too. Acting nicer than he really is. You know the routine that every guy does when he wants you.

Eventually, Rafe gently cups your ankle. You meet his eyes.

“Swim with me,” he says quietly. You nod.

He tugs his shirt off and you slip your hand into his, letting him pull you up. Jada smiles at you over the rim of her drink. You told her yesterday that you’re over the bet, that it feels wrong to keep playing this game.

She didn’t look surprised. She’s seen you go through enough flings to know exactly how this will go.

・・・・・

The sand shifts under your feet as the two of you approach the shore. When the water reaches your ankles, it’s cool enough to make you wince.

Rafe steps in ahead of you, the surface rippling around his calves as he looks ahead, giving you an opportunity to look at his bare, muscled back.

“It’s nothin’ like ours, huh?” he says.

You smirk to yourself, finding it funny that he’s thinking the same thing you did. And that he’s calling the island ours like it’s something you share, when all you did there was avoid each other.

He keeps his eyes on the horizon. While he seems to appreciate the beaches at home, he admitted to you that it’s better he’s not there. You always assumed he coasted through life with no concerns, but you know now that’s not entirely true.

You wade deeper into the water. It curls around your thighs and you let out another sharp exhale as you adjust to the temperature.

“Come on,” Rafe teases. “It’s not gonna bite you.”

You roll your eyes, familiar easy tension settling between you. When this whole thing started, he had to watch every word, rein in the way he normally teases because he wasn’t sure how to handle you. But now, he doesn’t have to do any of that. He can just be himself.

“This is a shock to my system, okay? I’ve been in the sun for a long time,” you flirt. “See how warm I am?”

You wrap your hand around his bicep. The warmth of your skin sinks into him, and you feel the subtle flex of hard muscle under your palm.

His eyes drop to where you’re holding him, then lift back to yours with an amused look. He likes the way you touch him. And that you chose to.

“Not really,” he replies. He dips his chin toward you. “Probably should feel more of you.”

He uses the excuse to tug you closer by the wrist. You laugh as your bodies meet, the water now at your hips, your shoulders nearly level with his chest. You stare up at him, and in the sun, the freckles on his face stand out, soft, scattered spots.

“Oh, yeah, you’re hot,” he rasps with a smirk as you press up against him. He thinks back to the other night, to the feeling of you grinding on his thigh, his mouth on you, your breathy moans.

“You’re not as smooth as you think you are,” you tease. Rafe’s grin widens.

“What? I’m just talking.”

The water sways around you both. You take a deep breath before finally sinking in to your shoulders, the cold rushing up your spine.

And, like always, your conversation drifts effortlessly. It’s nothing heavy or deep, but you get to know each other a little more, trading jokes in between.

・・・・・

Eventually, the quiet you and Rafe found in the water breaks as more of the group joins to swim. The sun keeps sinking, and by the time everyone wanders back to shore, it’s just about to touch the horizon.

Your section of the beach is a sprawl of towels, drinks, and snacks. Everyone’s stretched out in the sand, talking over each other as all your sorority sisters brag about winning silver in the charter Olympics.

Rafe sits beside you, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers while conversations blur around you.

He’s pissed off. He’s never claimed to be a good person. He knows exactly what he is. But loyalty means something, and if someone loved him, he’d never fuck them over, so when he spots his frat brother with some random girl that’s definitely not his girlfriend perched on his lap, frustration coils tightly in his gut.

Rafe’s seen the way his girlfriend dotes on him. And he can admit it made him jealous. Not because he likes her, but because he wants someone to care that much about him.

Seeing his frat brother throw that away makes his blood run hot. Why do some people get handed the kind of love Rafe would kill for, and treat it like it’s nothing?

You take a deep breath as you gaze out at the water. At first, Rafe looks like he’s just zoning out, but then you notice he’s been quiet for uncharacteristically long.

“What are you pouting about?” you tease.

He flicks his eyes toward the group, then lifts his chin in the direction of one of his frat brothers. The guy is laughing, a girl on his lap, her arms around his neck.

Rafe’s voice drops low.

“He’s got a girl,” he mutters with a shake of his head. He takes a slow sip of his drink, still watching the scene with a judgmental look.

You study his profile, trying to figure out if he’s genuinely bothered by his friend seemingly cheating or just saying what he thinks sounds good. But he actually seems angry. The guys you’ve known wouldn’t flinch at something like this.

“Why does it annoy you?” you ask.

“If you got someone, you don’t do that shit,” he mutters.

“Doesn’t every guy do that shit?” you chuckle.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, pulled from the memory of your dad leaving, emptying the house of his belongings, teaching you that men will always choose themselves.

Rafe looks at you, eyebrows pulling together like he can’t believe you’re excusing it.

“No,” he says. The conviction in his tone is hard and unexpected.

“I’m not saying it’s okay,” you reply with a laugh, trying to keep things light. “I’ve just seen it a million times.”

“Yeah, well, some guys actually give a shit about loyalty,” he responds.

The noise of the group swells around you again and you don’t say anything, letting the conversation slip away. It feels too deep.

You trail off into other topics, joking around, pretending you’re not preoccupied. But Rafe’s reaction lingers in your mind, even after you say your goodbyes later that afternoon.

(to be continued)

Rafe absentmindedly scrolls on his phone as his truck idles in front of your sorority house, the windows cracked to let the breeze in.

It’s been a couple of days since your kiss. He texted asking when he could see you, and earlier today, you told him to pick you up after ten p.m.

You step onto the front porch to see Rafe waiting in a black pickup truck. You’re sure it’s the same one you’ve seen him drive around the island. It’s loud and way too big. He probably chose it because he thinks it makes him look tough. Like the dirt bike you’ve seen him on.

Late nights are nothing new for you. You prefer to see guys after dark. It keeps things casual because then, they won’t try to impress you with expensive dates or big gestures. They get the wrong idea when they treat you like a girlfriend. They think that you owe them. And that’s the last thing you’d ever agree to.

When you slide into the passenger seat, Rafe looks you up and down, warmth creeping up the back of his neck.

“So,” you say, shutting the door and buckling in, “where do you want to take me so bad?”

He stares at you first, the words forming only after he’s had his fill. He wants to kiss you right now. He would if this wasn’t a game. He can’t look too eager.

“You said to surprise you,” he answers. He pulls away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console, inches away from your thigh.

・・・・・

Rafe drives off campus and toward the south end of town, the road curling upward into the hills. His truck’s headlights sweep over gravel as he turns into a pull‑off overlooking the city. Below, the lights glow in pockets of white.

He turns the truck to face the trail he drove in on and shuts it off, allowing the humming of crickets and ticking of the cooling engine to fill your ears.

A lookout point. How cliché. You’re not impressed, but you do appreciate the quiet up here. You won’t admit it out loud that it’s pretty. And that it’s definitely better than some restaurant or a random parking lot.

Without a word, Rafe drops out of the truck, the door thudding shut behind him. You exhale before climbing out after him. Of course he’d just walk off without saying anything. This man has no manners.

You meet him outside at the back of the truck, where he’s unlatching the tailgate. You step out, drifting a few paces toward the edge to study the view.

After throwing a blanket over the truck bed, Rafe follows you. When he looks at you gazing out below, he sees softness crossing your face. For a second, you almost look happy.

This whole thing might work. He came here to get the one thing he wants with you. Privacy.

“Nice, right?” he says. “We can sit in the back. I brought a blanket.”

“Just one?” you reply. “I’m shocked.”

He breathes out a low chuckle. You think about how many other girls he’s brought here. How many times he’s used this view to impress them. Rafe seems like the type who’d want to prove how much he can afford, yet he took you somewhere so lowkey.

You figure it’s because he wants to pick up where you left off the other night. But it’s not like you don’t want to be in private with him. This may all be a scheme to break his heart, but kissing him was nice. And you want to do more of it.

The manners he seemed to have forgotten come back as he cups your hand to help you up to the back of the pickup. You lean against the rear window, sinking into the comforter he spread out, pulling a corner of it over your lap.

Rafe lets out a soft grunt as he settles beside you, the side of his thigh pressed against yours as you take in the view together. Lights sparkle across the streets below, the night air smelling faintly of damp earth.

“What’d you do today?” he asks.

“I helped with prepping for that Olympics event,” you respond. “A bunch of us are volunteering.”

Rafe already knows the gist. The charter Olympics is some lame spirit thing for frats and sororities to compete in games. It’s a dry event. That was enough for him to decide he was skipping it, even with the talks he’s been hearing about his frat being at risk for probation.

“And that’s fun for you?” he asks.

You glance over at him, catching the teasing curve of his lips.

“Let me guess,” you retort. “You joined Greek life just for the parties?”

“Why else?”

You scoff, shaking your head. The more you learn about Rafe, the more you know that once this is over, you won’t miss it. He’s such a typical shallow guy.

“Why’d you join?” Rafe asks.

His eyes are softer, like he’s curious. He either actually wants to know or is doing a good job pretending to.

There’s no chance you’re admitting the real reason. Being in a sorority gives you the stability you never had growing up. Your friends are your chosen family, and joining gave you a place to belong.

But vulnerability, even faked, will pull him in faster. It’ll make him think he can earn deeper access to you. You’ll give him a very light version of the truth.

“I obviously like the parties,” you reply. “But I like the events, too. I can appreciate when things are structured. And predictable.”

Rafe just stares. Hearing the girl who’ll snap at anyone over nothing saying she wants structure doesn’t really register. It’s intriguing.

“What?” you laugh, tilting your head at him when he doesn’t look away.

“You don’t seem like you like predictable,” he admits.

“Well, I do,” you reply with a shrug, looking back out at the view again.

His jaw tenses. He wants you to care what he thinks, but you don’t. It’s like your attention is already full with everything else in your life and he’s trying to find space where there isn’t any.

“I’ll probably come to that, too,” he decides. “Some guys were saying we could be put on probation, so we gotta get more involved in things.”

“Seriously?” you say with a disbelieving laugh.

“Security showed up a few times ‘cause of noise complaints,” he says. “Apparently, you get enough warnings and the school steps in.”

You wince, but Rafe shrugs. He’s used to getting in trouble. When his world crumbled around him as a kid, he lost all control, and he’s been fighting to gain it back since. It turned him into a man who never had patience for being told what to do, who never cared for authority.

“I can tell you’re really torn up about it,” you say, sarcasm thick in your tone.

“It’s just annoying,” he admits. “Their rules don’t make sense. They just like having something to hold over us.”

Of course. The entitlement you always suspected in Rafe is alive and well. He believes that rules are optional for him, that consequences are something that should only happen to other people.

“You realize probation means none of those parties you care so much about, right?” you tease. “Seems like it’s all you care about, actually.”

Maybe it should piss him off that you think that’s all there is to him, but it’s a compliment. You’re wrong. He cares too much, feels too much, but if you think he’s this apathetic, that means he’s selling it.

“They’re just trying to scare us,” Rafe murmurs. “If we come to that Olympics thing and act like we care, we’ll be good.”

He readjusts his backwards hat, licking his lips before speaking again.

“Too bad we can’t be on the same team again, yeah?” he says, thinking back to your game of beer pong the other night.

You meet his eyes. You’re more aware of yourself now. The way you toyed with men used to be instinct, but now, with this bet on your mind, you can feel yourself doing it in real time.

It’s an art. Giving warmth in small doses. You realize that while you hate unpredictability, you love being the unpredictable one.

“It is too bad,” you play along. “I can’t believe we never talked before. We should’ve.”

Heat blossoms in Rafe’s chest, spreading to his limbs. It feels so good to hear you say that, and he’s not sure if it’s because of this bet he’s trying to win or if he really is looking for validation from you.

His eyes sweep over your features in the moonlight. It’s dizzying, watching you lean towards him, showing him that you want him.

You tilt your head just a little, taking your time with closing the distance, teasing him in a silent promise that he’ll get you for now, but if he messes up, he’ll lose you again.

He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous around a girl.

Rafe’s lips press on yours, as warm and soft as you remember them. Your eyes flutter shut as the tip of your nose brushes against his, and his hand cups your cheek just like it did the other night, guiding but gentle, as if he needs to ground himself.

When you part your lips, allowing his tongue to touch yours, he tastes impossibly good, better than you thought he would. He’s not forceful or rough like so many guys are. There’s no need to back away or tell him to slow down. He’s firm, but careful, almost gentle in a way you didn’t expect.

Rafe pulls you in closer. Your lips are so soft, your mouth hot as you breathe each other in. He realizes he revels in the way you taste, wanting more and more of it.

The deeper and longer your kisses grow, the more Rafe’s stomach tightens with need. He’s already so hard. His grip tightens on your cheek as he leads you to tilt your head back just slightly.

The cool air presses against your wet lips as he leaves languid kisses along your jaw, moving down the column of your throat. He presses his hot, open mouth on the most sensitive parts of your neck.

You bite your bottom lip as tingles cover every inch of your skin, your craving for him flooding your senses. His hand drags down to your thigh, and when you let out a breathy moan, his grip tightens. He skims higher, testing.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Rafe huskily murmurs against your skin as his palm lands over the curve of your ass. You respond by kissing him again, deeper this time. He squeezes your flesh over your jeans, and now, his kiss is even hotter.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as time bends in itself, the sounds of your tangled breaths and wet kisses consuming you. Eventually, slowly, his hand trails to your hip, the pad of his thumb brushing under your top.

You want him to move his hand higher. You want to crawl into his truck and let him peel your clothes off and touch you. And you would, if you were here for any other reason.

You pull back, taking in a soft breath, your foreheads brushing together.

“Can you take me home now?” you half-whisper.

Rafe straightens, his heavy lidded gaze trailing down your face.

You move first, scooting forward to get out of the bed of his truck. After you slip into the passenger seat, he sits behind the steering wheel. He shuffles awkwardly in his seat, undoubtedly trying to hide his arousal after making out with you.

His keys jingle, and his engine roars to life. But before he drives off, he looks at you.

“Everything good?” Rafe murmurs.

You nod, wanting to keep him invested without giving him much clarity at all.

“Yeah,” you say with a soft smile. “I just need to slow down.”

It’s a promise that’s more to come, a way to keep him on the hook without blowing him off. He looks ahead and you take in his profile, watch his Adam’s apple bob with a slow swallow as he puts his truck into drive.

You wanted to keep going, but you want to hurt him more.

・・・・・

The sun is already scorching, even though it’s only the first event of the chapter Olympics, music blasting from a portable speaker.

You’re standing in your chapter’s lane, waiting for the water‑balloon toss to start. Jada is a few feet away, rolling her shoulders to warm up. The rules are simple: toss the balloon, take a step back, last chapter standing wins.

Rafe ends up right beside the guy next to you. When he looks over and sees you, he grins, his dimples dipping into his cheeks. You return the smile.

Insecurity isn’t new for him. He hasn’t stopped replaying the other night in his head. The heated makeout session, the way you pulled away, the quiet car ride home.

It was almost a week ago, and you haven’t talked since, and it’s made him restless. He’d normally just text a girl in this situation, but he keeps needing to remind himself to play this carefully.

Now here you are, beautiful, smirking at him like you know you’ve been driving him insane.

The game starts. The guy between you and Rafe eventually misjudges his toss, the balloon slipping through his hands and exploding at his feet. He groans and steps back, and suddenly Rafe is closer. He leans in slightly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice barely threading through the noise from the speaker and people shouting and laughing all around you. “Did I totally fuck up the other night?”

He’s asking because he wants to win the bet. Mostly.

There’s another reason, one he hates admitting even to himself. He wants you to think good things about him. He wants your approval. And that feels really fucking embarrassing.

He’s not sure how to manipulate this anymore. The whole be forward but not desperate thing gets harder every time he sees you. His instincts keep pulling him in toward you, and it’s getting harder to pretend he’s above it.

He’s not the type to play coy when he wants a girl. He’s usually direct. And he wishes you’d want him just as bad as he wants you.

“No. I had fun,” you reply with a small smile, squinting in the sunlight.

You can see worry in the way his eyes dart away. And it feels like victory. Worry means he cares, and caring means he’s slipping. He’s starting to have feelings. You’re sure of it.

The next toss comes. Jada’s balloon slips right through her fingers and soaks her shoes when it pops. She screams out an angry groan so loud that it scares her neighbors. You burst into laughter.

Rafe finds himself smirking. Your laugh does something to him.

You step out of the lane, brushing past him. Your hand finds his bicep, warm and solid under your fingers, and he meets your eyes.

“Good luck,” you say.

You feel it, the charged pull between you, heavy and unignorable. Even with all the noise around you, the air between you feels louder than all of it.

Rafe’s gaze lingers when you let go.

・・・・・

You report for your volunteer shift at the snack table, ready for half an hour of collecting tickets and handing out whatever people want.

From under the tent, you catch sight of Rafe across the field, digging his heels into the dirt during a game of tug‑of‑war. He’s all muscle and it sends your mind straight back to the night in his truck.

The losing team is supposed to fall backward into a kiddie pool filled with cold water, and you find yourself hoping that Rafe’s side slips. You want to see the way his shirt would cling to him afterward, plastered to every line of him.

Your sexual chemistry is undeniable. He knows exactly how to touch you. But you’re here to give him what he deserves. And you know now that you’re at the point where you can toy with him.

Three guys wander towards the snack table together, interrupting your daydreams.

“What do you have?” a guy with sunglasses says.

You can tell by the way his eyes are trailing down your body that he’s checking you out. You don’t bother answering. You just tap the laminated sign hanging from the front of the table, showing that you’re offering popsicles, granola bars, and chips.

“If I get a popsicle,” he begins, “can I watch you eat it?”

His friends snort, elbowing each other like they’ve never heard anything funnier. You scowl and step to the side.

“Next,” you say to the girl who just approached behind them. You help her quickly, but the guys linger, still expecting service.

One of his friends steps forward and tries to hand you his ticket.

“Sorry,” he says. “It was a stupid joke. Can I just get some chips?”

You scoff and wave curtly to dismiss them.

“Wait for the next volunteer,” you tell them flatly.

“I was just having fun,” the one who made the comment to you says.

“By being a disgusting pig?” you mutter, your voice sharp.

They don't move. You cross your arms, staring daggers at them, furious that you’re stuck behind this table and that they refuse to leave.

Then, someone approaches. You look up.

After his team won tug‑of‑war, Rafe spotted you, noticed your hand lifted in an irritated gesture. Even from a distance, he recognized that pissed off look on your face.

He realizes a group of guys are hovering around your table, annoying you. He’s seen them before. They’re members of the rival frat his house is always competing with.

“You guys botherin’ her?” Rafe says, light but edged.

“Immensely,” you answer before they can speak. “They won’t leave.”

Normally, you hate when a man acts like you need rescuing. But right now you’re trapped. You can’t walk away from the table. And these guys won’t go away.

Rafe feels a flare of protectiveness burn in him when he sees just how angry you are, and how these assholes are trying to intimidate you. The rivalry between their houses makes his temper snap tighter.

“Go,” Rafe tells them, the sharpness in his voice unmistakable now.

“I want some food,” one of the guys mutters.

“You lost your chance,” you snap.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes like you’re the unreasonable one.

“You heard her,” Rafe says, daring him to push it. You don’t want to expect any good from him, but he’s standing with his broad shoulders squared, making it very clear whose side he’s on.

The guys finally leave, muttering as they stalk off. It’s just you and Rafe at the table now. You don’t want to believe he stepped in because he’s sincerely looking out for you. You can’t. But you’re still grateful because you had no escape and he just gave it to you.

“I’ll give you all the snacks you want,” you say in a show of appreciation.

Rafe huffs a small laugh, but his eyes stay on you.

“What’d they do?” he asks.

“They were gross,” you mutter. Admittedly, you’re tired of pretending the way men objectify you doesn’t get to you. “Like all guys, treating me like I’m only good for one thing. It’s so fucking degrading.”

Rafe is thrown by your honesty. You can tell. But when you’re this angry, you don’t care about putting up a front. Just like the night he spilled his drink on you, when you snapped at him with no inhibitions.

And that memory hits you now. Rafe asked if you were always so sensitive and it reminded you exactly why you don’t let yourself trust guys like him. Whatever he’s doing right now is a game. You have to keep your guard up where it always is.

“Want anything?” you ask, attempting to brush the thought away with humor, to continue to charm him. “Or I could keep ranting if you’re into it.”

“I’ll take one of those,” Rafe says with a small smile, pointing at the granola bars. Your eyes dip to his lips, reminded of how they felt on yours, before you hand him a bar. Your fingers brush his for half a second.

He steps back as he realizes someone is in line behind him. But he’s still staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. You break eye contact first. And he steps aside to let the next person through.

・・・・・

Later that night, you read Rafe’s text while standing in front of your mirror in your bedroom. Jada is in the bathroom, blasting music as she does her hair.

You coming tonight?

You check your reflection, smoothing your hands down the sides of your deep red mini‑dress. You’re dressed up for an ‘angels and demons’ theme party, your dress soft and skimpy, paired with a plastic headband of two red horns.

His frat shouldn’t be throwing their annual Halloween party tonight. They’re almost on probation, and everyone knows it by now. But that’s not your problem. If they want to risk getting shut down, that’s on them.

Probably, you type back, even though you’re fully planning to head over there.

Rafe has never been afraid to come on too strong with a girl. He either cares or he doesn’t. But tonight, sitting on the couch in the frat house living room, surrounded by his brothers, he feels different.

He keeps checking his phone, rereading your text.

Probably.

His friends are shouting over the music. Normally, he escapes into this loud chaos. He loves not having to think about anything. But you might be coming, and your attention feels different than anything else.

Rafe leans back, letting the music wash over him, pretending he’s relaxed even though he’s anything but.

・・・・・

The second you step into the frat house, the air is thick, too many bodies packed into one place. Music thumps through the floorboards, vibrating up your legs. Your friends pull you deeper inside, weaving through clusters of people.

Rafe stands near the kitchen doorway with his friends. His hair is pushed back instead of hidden under a hat, a little tousled. He didn’t bother with a real costume. Just a red polo and jeans, the bare minimum effort to dress on theme.

You look away before he can catch you staring and go further into the house, pretending you’re not aware of where he is in the room.

Eventually, while you’re dancing with your friends, you feel a hand graze the small of your back. You turn to see Rafe towering over you, close enough that you can smell his cologne under the haze of sweat. His eyes are on you like you’re the only person in the room.

“Who cares about probation, huh?” you say, motioning to the chaos around you. This party absolutely should not be happening.

“Aw, you worried about me?” Rafe replies, leaning in just enough that you feel his breath on your cheek.

“I’m losing sleep over it,” you deadpan.

He laughs under his breath and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t want to second guess himself with you, even though it’s all he does.

Suddenly, he’s aware of every guy in the room who’s staring at you in that tiny dress. The twist of possessiveness burns in him.

Rafe has no claim over you. But it feels like he does. Like he should.

You gaze up at him, at the way his hair falls slightly over his forehead.

“I like your hair like that,” you flirt.

His grin widens. It’s a full, toothy smile he tries to hide by ducking his head for a second.

“Could barely shower,” he says. “My arms are killing me from today.”

“Weak,” you tease.

“Hey,” he says, laughing. “I carried my team.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” you reply with a nod. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“You have a good time?”

“It’s fun to get competitive,” you say. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Just need a massage now.”

“Nice try,” you laugh.

He pauses for a moment to take in your bright smile, the sweet sound of your laugh.

“Who do you think won?” he asks.

“Us. Definitely.”

“You’re so sure,” he says with a squint.

“We can put money on it if you want to bet,” you say.

Rafe’s smile falters.

The goal was just to hook up with you. It was supposed to be a game. Now he’s standing in front of you, and you’re joking with him, and he’s having so much fun with you that he already misses you before you’re gone.

You’re not just some stuck-up princess. There’s more to you. He’s seen it. How funny you are. How sweet you can be. And today, when he saw that anger in you flare yet again, he realized it’s rooted in how much you have to protect yourself.

He knows what that’s like.

He wonders what’ll happen if he wants more than what he promised his friends. He’s definitely attracted to you. That part was never in question. But there’s something else now that makes the bet feel cheap.

It pisses him off that he’s doing what you vented to him about. He tried to convince himself that he could see you as just a girl to fuck around with. And he was an idiot to do that.

You study him, curious about what his sudden silence means. He’s looking at you like he always does, like he’s trying to read your mind.

But you don’t make it a habit to read between a guy’s lines. All you can feel is the heat of your need for him. The way he’s looking at you only makes it harder to ignore.

You’ll stick to the plan. You won’t go all the way. But you’ll do more.

“You want to show me your room?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Rafe licks his lips, nodding gently.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Come on.”

He leads you through the crowd, up the stairs, the noise fading behind you with every step. His palm covers yours, sending a hot current straight through you.

He opens the door to his bedroom. And you follow him inside.

(to be continued)

You were laughing at something Kelce said. Rafe hadn’t been listening, too busy tracking the way the June sun caught your hair, turning colours that probably had names that sounded like they belonged on paint chips. They were sprawled across the Thorntons’ perfectly manicured lawn like they were in some Ralph Lauren ad. Topper, Kelce, Ruthie, you, and Rafe. He’d shown up because Topper had texted him and what else was he supposed to do? Say no? Admit he’d rather be literally anywhere else than watching his best friend play house with his girlfriend of two years? Sitting at Tannyhill waiting for Ward to notice him long enough to be disappointed? At least here he could pretend he had friends; had a place; had something resembling a normal fucking life. 

But lately he couldn't stop cataloging the small things. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking; it was always the left side. How you always brought those homemade cookies to parties, the ones you always wrapped in the same blue cloth each time. The kind that actually tasted like they were baked in a home oven rather than in a commercial kitchen that used bleached flour and measured everything with no real meaning behind it. You used real butter and too much vanilla, and he supposed that was the imperfection that came from someone who actually gave a fuck. The little gold anklet you wore that caught the light when you moved. Stupid things. Things that shouldn't matter. Things he noticed anyway and filed them away into what started as a small nook in his brain and turned to an overpowering compartment. 

Two years. Christ.

“—and I told my Dad there’s no one behind me, what does it matter?”

“It matters because you could hit someone,” Ruthie said, barely looking up from her phone.

“I passed my driver’s test—”

“Then why are we talking about this?” Ruthie’s thumb moved across her screen, nails clicking. She was always bored, yet she always showed up. How much is there to do here?

Topper laughed, genuine, and shifted so you could lean back against his chest. You fit there like you’d measured for the space. His arms came around your waist, casual and propriety, the way someone would hold something they knew was theirs. Something nobody else would try to take. 

Rafe took a pull from his beer. It was warm and disgusting now. He was nursing the drink slowly given that Kelce’s parents were home. If he stopped focusing on drinking slowly, he’d be on his fifth by this point because Rafe had never learned moderation.

“Rafe, back me up,” Kelce said. “You’ve seen me drive—”

“You drive like shit,” Rafe said, and there was the stupid, perpetual edge in his voice he couldn’t smooth out. It always made the people around him shift uncomfortably and that reminded him why Ward always kept him at arm’s length. 

“Wait, what?”

Rafe shrugged. “You drive like shit,” he repeated, then picked at the label on his beer bottle, watching it tear in damp strips. “You almost hit a mailbox on Sea Breeze last week.”

“The mailbox was in my blind spot—”

“The stationary mailbox? The mailbox that couldn’t move was in your blind spot?”

You, Topper’s girlfriend—god, even in his head he couldn’t call you by your name, like saying it would make this whole thing more real—made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. It was soft and musical and Rafe briefly felt something crawl up his throat that was most likely disgust at the way he’d begun thinking. Your head was tipped back against Topper’s shoulder, face turned toward the sun. You looked like you were exactly where you wanted to be.

You probably were.

“I’m a great driver,” he said, but he was grinning now, playing it up. “You’re all just jealous of my Jeep.”

“We all have Jeeps,” Ruthie said, raising a brow.

“Yeah, but mine’s nicer.”

“It’s literally the same car,” Ruthie said, voice lowering towards the end like she couldn’t be bothered to argue. 

From inside the house, Mrs. Thornton appeared at the French doors, waving with enthusiasm Rafe was sure he’d perfected from Junior League training. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything. “Lunch is ready, kids! Hope you’re hungry—I made way too much pasta salad.”

“You’re a saint, Mrs. T,” Kelce called back.

“Oh, stop,” she said, but looked pleased. Her eyes lingered on you and Topper, together, appropriate, and exactly what a mother would want for her son. The look on her face was satisfaction. Pride, even. 

Rafe had seen that look before. On Rose’s face when Sarah did something worth bragging about at the club. On Ward’s face when he talked about Topper getting into Chapel Hill, about how good a kid he was, how he had his head on straight. Never on Ward’s face when he talked about Rafe. 

"Come on," Topper said, standing and pulling you up with him in one smooth motion. You stumbled slightly—the grass was uneven or maybe you'd been sitting too long—and he steadied you with a hand at your waist. He was laughing, and so were you, and your fingers were tangled together like they were stitched together. "Careful."

"I'm fine," you said, but you were smiling, and your fingers were still linked with his.

Rafe watched the stumble, the catch, the laugh. He watched the way Topper looked at you like steadying you was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd do it forever if you needed him to. And you looked up at Topper with this expression Rafe couldn't quite name. So unguarded and soft like this trust didn’t have to be earned was so uncomplicated, and the thought of earning it had never even occurred to you.

What the fuck would that be like? To look at someone and just—trust them? To not have to calculate every word, every move, every expression to make sure you didn't give too much away? For someone to look at Rafe, of all people, and feel that way?

Rafe stood too, brushed grass off his shorts. His hands were shaking slightly—not from the beer, barely half-finished—but from something else. Something that felt too much like anger but wasn't. Couldn't be. What did he have to be angry about? Topper was his best friend. You were Topper's girlfriend. This was how it was supposed to be.

You and Topper walked together, shoulders touching, your sundress—pink today, always some shade of soft—swishing around your knees. Your little gold anklet caught in the light. You looked like something out of a catalog selling a lifestyle Rafe’s family already had but somehow always felt a little out of reach. He was twenty and only just realizing that—truly—some things couldn’t be purchased in the same way Ward bought boats and houses and buildings. Some things you had to deserve. 

“You good?” Topper said, dropping back to walk beside Rafe.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, man. You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Topper laughed shortly. “No, you’re always talking shit. Quiet’s different.” His brows furrowed, concerned and probably genuine. Girls like you made boys like Topper genuine, made sure he didn’t want to be anything other than what he appeared to be. “Everything good with Ward?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine.”

“Cool. Cool. Just—you know you can always talk about stuff, right? If you need to.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Topper chuckled, shaking his head too. He had lost that quality of getting defensive and irritated too quickly when he started dating you. “Don’t know. But I mean it, yeah?” 

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” Topper clapped his shoulder, reassured, and jogged ahead to catch up with you. You’d stopped to wait for him, leaning against the doorframe, and when he reached you, you smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile you gave everyone else, it seemed more private. Just for him. For Topper. Rafe filed that away without meaning to, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when it was real.. 

Inside, Mrs. Thornton had set out enough food for thrice their number. Pasta salad, finger sandwiches and normal-sized sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies that looked homemade. The kind of spread that said she cared and wanted them to feel welcome and that this was a home where people were fed and happy and safe.

They loaded their plates and settled around the Thorntons’ dining room table. Real plates, cloth napkins, and a lunch with structure. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rafe’s house was never like this. Rose tried, sometimes. She’d set out cheese boards when Ward had important colleagues over, she arranged things the way magazines told her to. But Ward was always working. Sarah was always out. Wheezie was always watching TV in her room with the door closed. Rafe was usually too high to sit through a meal, or too angry, or just too something. The Camerons ate in shifts, quietly, or not at all.

“So,” Mrs. Thornton said, perching on the edge of the chair with her own plate, “what are you kids up to this summer? Besides laying around my backyard like a bunch of lazy seals.”

“Mom,” Topper said.

“What? You are.”

“Not much,” Kelce said seriously. “It’s important we don’t get burned out too early.”

“Burnt out of what?” Ruthie asked.

“Of… summer. Having fun.” 

“You can’t get burnt out of summer. It’s not a race—”

“Everything’s a race—”

Rafe tuned them out. He was watching you, sitting across from him, carefully spreading mayo on your sandwich. You had this way of doing things, and even making a sandwich required your complete attention. Or maybe Rafe was just imagining things? Your nails were painted the same pink as your dress. You wore a little gold necklace with your initial on it; it was delicate enough that Rafe hadn’t noticed until now. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate.

"What about you, sweetheart?" Mrs. Thornton asked, and it took Rafe a second to realize she was talking to you. "Any fun plans?"

"Oh, just the usual. Volunteering at the library on Tuesdays. Hanging out with friends. There's that charity thing at the club next week—"

"The children's hospital benefit," Mrs. Thornton said, nodding. "Your mother mentioned you're on the planning committee."

"Just helping where I can."

"She's being modest," Topper said, squeezing her hand where it rested on the table. "She basically organized the whole thing."

"I didn't—there's a whole committee—" Rafe watched the fluster creep into your cheeks. 

"You made all those decorations yourself," Topper insisted. He looked at his mother and said, "She stayed up until like 2 AM cutting out paper flowers."

"They're for a good cause," you said, and there was something in your voice that sounded firm. Like you needed them to know you weren’t doing it for praise and that the doing itself was enough. 

Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. It was good. Everything in this house was good. That was the problem.

"That's wonderful, honey," Mrs. Thornton said warmly. "We need more young people who actually care about giving back. Don't we, Topper?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Rafe, what about you? Are you helping with the benefit?"

Every eye at the table turned to him. He swallowed his bite of sandwich and took his time with it, feeling the bread stick to his throat. "Haven't really thought about it."

"You should come," you said, offering. Your eyes met his across the table and Rafe’s gaze involuntarily froze on you. Something uncomfortable and scalding set in his ribs. "We could use the help. It's next Saturday, six to nine."

"I might be busy."

"Doing what?" Kelce asked, taking a bite of his pasta salad. 

"Stuff."

"Stuff," Ruthie repeated flatly, one eyebrow raised.

"Come on, man," Topper said. "It'll be fun. Open bar for the parents, which means nobody's paying attention to what we're doing—"

"It's for charity," you said, shrugging slightly like you weren’t sure if it was your place or not.

"It can be for charity and fun. Multitasking." Topper grinned slightly, shameless, and you rolled your eyes but you were smiling. You were always fucking smiling.

Rafe watched. The easy back-and-forth, the way you’d developed your own rhythm after two years together. The way you let Topper be annoying and he let her be serious and somehow it worked. Somehow you’d figured out how to be two people who actually liked each other.

"I'll think about it," Rafe said, even though he wouldn't.

"That's a yes," Kelce decided.

"That's a 'I'll think about it.'"

"On Figure Eight, 'I'll think about it' means yes. It's like when your mom says 'we'll see'—also yes."

"Sometimes 'we'll see' means no," you said quietly.

"Only if you've been bad," Mrs. Thornton said, reaching over and patting your hand gently. "Which I'm sure you never were."

You smiled down at your plate. "I had my moments."

Rafe tried to imagine you having ‘moments.’ He couldn't quite picture it. You seemed like the kind of kid who'd colored inside the lines and done your homework without being asked and never talked back. The kind teachers loved, parents bragged about, boys brought home to meet their families.

You were the kind of girl Ward would approve of.

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Rafe shoved it away, took another bite of sandwich. Fuck. He knew that Ward would approve, because when Ward had seen you with Topper, he’d said to Rafe, “Now that’s a nice girl. Why can’t you find someone like that?

They ate and talked, but it was mostly Kelce and Ruthie bickering, you and Topper sharing food off each other's plates like you’d been married for twenty years, Mrs. Thornton interjecting with questions and comments that kept the conversation moving. It was painfully normal and painfully nice.

Rafe's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it under the table: Barry asking where he was, if he was coming by today. Three texts, actually, each more impatient than the last. 

He should go. Should make an excuse and get out of here and go pick up what he needed to take the edge off this feeling, this crawling, itching feeling that said something was wrong, that he was in the wrong place, that everyone here was playing a game where they knew how to navigate and he didn’t.

But Topper was laughing at something you had said, and Mrs. Thornton was offering seconds, and Kelce was stealing a cookie before he'd finished his sandwich, and for a second—just a second—Rafe let himself imagine this was his life. That he was the one with the uncomplicated girlfriend and the mother who gave a shit and the kind of problems that could be solved by showing up to a charity event.

The phone buzzed in his hand again. bro?? He locked it and pushed it into his pocket. 

"Rafe?" you said. He realized you’d asked him something—were still asking him something—and everyone was sitting around him waiting for his response again. 

He swallowed nothing. "What?"

"I asked if you wanted more pasta salad. You've barely eaten."

You were looking at him with those eyes he’d memorised, head tilted slightly, concerned in that soft way you had. Not pitying—you were too careful for that—just genuinely wondering if he was okay. Like you cared and like you actually gave a shit whether or not he ate lunch.

"I'm good," he said.

"You sure? Mrs. Thornton made a lot—"

"I said I'm good. Stop asking.” 

It came out harsher than he’d meant. You blinked, drew back just half an inch, and Topper’s arm came around your shoulders automatically, protective like Rafe was a predator and you were his next meal. 

“Dude,” Topper said.

“What?”

“She’s just trying to be nice.”

“I know.” His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. “I’m good. That’s all I said.”

The table went silent. Mrs. Thornton cleared her throat, Ruthie studied her phone, and Kelce suddenly found his sandwich fascinating. You were looking at him from the corner of your eye with what he assumed was hurt or concern. Your hand moved to your necklace and twirled the initial around once, then back around twice. 

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at you. “Sorry,” he said, eyes meeting yours, almost shamefully. “Didn’t mean to—sorry.”

Your eyes widened slightly. Maybe you were surprised he’d apologized at all. He didn’t blame you. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, gently, which somehow made him feel worse. Were you that forgiving with Topper, too? Would you forgive Rafe that quickly if you were his, because he knew he’d fuck up a lot. “I didn’t mean to push.” 

“You weren’t.”

𖦹

Rafe almost didn’t go. He had his truck pointed towards Barry’s and everything with his cash in pocket and the familiar itch under his skin that said he needed something to take the edge off Ward’s recent disappointment (this morning delivered over breakfast like a side of shitty cold eggs  (“I assume you’re not going to the L/N’s charity event tonight”)) But then he’d driven past the country club on his way and seen the parking lot filling up with cars that cost more than people’s houses (Range Rovers, Mercedes, that asshole Jenkins’s new Porsche) and something in him—maybe it was boredom, maybe spite, or just the kind of restless energy that came from doing too much coke the night before and not enough today—made him turn in. 

He told himself it was to prove Ward wrong. And also because Topper had texted him three times, ever the supportive boyfriend. Or because he had nothing better to do on a Saturday night in June when the whole island felt like it was suffocating under humidity.

He did not tell himself it had anything to do with you. 

The country club itself looked like someone had thrown up pastels all over it. Pink and yellow streamers twisted around the columns, balloons clustered by the entrance in a way that was almost scary, and those fucking paper flowers—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—strung up everywhere, the ones Topper had mentioned you stayed up until 2 AM making, which Rafe had filed away without meaning to because apparently his brain was keeping track of shit like that now. 

He was adjusting his shirt—had put on something with buttons for once, though he’d left the top two undone because he wasn’t a complete fucking sellout—when he saw you. 

You were outside the main entrance with a clipboard, which was so perfectly on-brand it almost made him laugh. Your hair was pulled back in something already falling apart, little pieces sticking to your neck in the heat. You wore a lavender dress that hit just above your knee and clung in ways that made Rafe’s mouth go dry. It was fitted enough that he could see the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and the line of your legs. 

You were talking to two guys in catering uniforms, gesturing with your free hand—sharp and short moments that weren’t like you—and even from across the parking lot Rafe could see you were stressed. He could see it in the set of your shoulders and the way you kept pushing those loose pieces of hair out of your face and the rigid way you were holding the clipboard. 

You looked like you could use a drink. Or a Xanax. Or someone to tell you it was fine. Or maybe just someone who could fuck the tension out of you until you remembered how to breathe normally. 

Not that he was volunteering. His hand tightened on the steering wheel. Except he was apparently walking toward you instead of toward Barry’s, so maybe he was.

“—by five-thirty at least,” you were saying as he got closer, voice strained but still disgustingly polite. “That’s what we were told. So I’m not sure why—”

One of the catering guys—older, maybe forty, with a mustache—cut you off with something that Rafe didn’t catch but could guess from the gesture; you were just a kid to him with a shit-ton of money playing event planner (in other words: absolutely nothing to take seriously). 

“I understand that,” you said, and there was a barely perceptible edge to your pageant voice now. “But we have a hundred-and-fifty people arriving in forty-five minutes and we don’t have—” You stopped, closed your eyes briefly, took a breath, and when you opened them you looked steadier, as though you’d shoved everything messy into whatever box you kept it in. 

Rafe felt something uncomfortable watching you pull yourself together in real time. 

“Okay. Can you at least tell me when—”

“Problem?” Rafe said.

You turned, surprised. You blinked at him like you couldn’t quite place why he was there, which was fair because he wasn’t supposed to be there. 

“Rafe,” you said, and he liked the way his name sounded in your voice. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“I wasn’t, either,” he said honestly, and your mouth twitched like you found it funny. He looked at the catering guys, who were both studiously avoiding eye contact now that someone else was there. “You having problems?”

“No, there’s just been a miscommunication about the time.”

“So, yes.”

“Rafe—” you said, slightly flustered at his presence and the situation. 

“What’s the problem?” The catering guys looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

“No problem, man,” one of them said. “We’re just waiting on—”

“Half the equipment is missing,” you cut in, and yeah, there was definitely an edge now. You were pissed now. Trying very hard not to show it, but pissed. “The tables are wrong, the setup’s behind schedule, and nobody mentioned it until thirty minutes ago.”

“So fix it.” Rafe shrugged.

You looked at him. “I’m trying to fix it.”

“Try harder.”

The catering guys looked between them like they were watching a tennis match. You opened your mouth—to tell him to fuck off, maybe, which was very unlikely but would’ve been incredibly hot—then closed it. Then looked down at your clipboard, back at the guys, then Rafe.

“Can you give us a minute?” The catering guys couldn’t leave fast enough.

When they were gone, you turned to Rafe fully and stepped closer, close enough to smell your floral perfume that probably cost more than his expensive coke habit, he got a better look at you up close. The dress was even better at this distance; thin straps, sweetheart neckline, the kind of thing that was technically modest but didn't feel that way when you were looking at it. Or when he was looking at it. At you. 

You weren't wearing much makeup, just enough to look polished, and there was a small stain on the hem of the dress that you probably didn't know about yet. It was probably coffee or those tiny chocolates they served at these things. You’d be horrified if you noticed, so Rafe kept the stain to himself. You looked stressed and like you'd been running around in heels for too long, which you had, judging by the way you kept shifting your weight.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

"You invited me."

"That—I didn't think you'd actually come. You said you’d think about it.”

“Thought about it,” he said. “Decided to show. Here I am.”

“Why?” Your eyebrows knitted together, like you were sure he had an ulterior motive like ransacking the entire place as soon as guests began walking in.

"Guess I'm full of surprises." He pulled out his cigarettes, offered you one out of habit more than any expectation. You shook your head, predictably. He shrugged. "So what's actually wrong?"

"I just told you—"

"What's the actual problem?"

You stared at him for a second, and Rafe watched you recalculate. Decide whether to bother explaining or just tell him to leave. He could see it happening behind your eyes, the cost-benefit analysis, the weighing of options.

"The DJ canceled," you said finally. "Last minute. And the tables they sent are the wrong size, which means we have to completely rearrange the layout, which means the floor plan I spent three weeks on is useless, and everything else has to shift, and the photographer's going to be here in thirty minutes and we're supposed to start in forty-five and I still have to check on the auction setup and make sure the kitchen has everything they need and—" You stopped, pressed your fingers to your temple. "Sorry. You don't care about any of this."

"Not really,," Rafe agreed. "But this seems like it'd be bad for the sick kids or whatever."

You almost smiled at that. Almost. "Very compassionate."

"I try." He lit his cigarette, took a drag, buying him a second to think. "You got a backup DJ?"

"My phone and a speaker from 2015."

"That'll work."

"It won't—"

"Nobody's here for the music. They're here for the open bar and the tax write-off. You could play the same song all night as long as the drinks keep coming and nobody would notice."

"That's very sad."

"Doesn't make it wrong."

You looked at him like you were trying to figure out if he was fucking with you or actually trying to help. Rafe wasn't entirely sure himself. "The tables—"

"I'll move them."

"You don't have to—"

"Jesus,” he breathed out, letting some annoyance creep in because you were exhausting and Rafe couldn’t keep playing at this for much longer. This would’ve been his one good deed of the year. “You want help or not?"

That made you stop. Blink. "You're offering to help."

"Don't make it weird."

"It's already weird. You hate events like this. You’ve said that.”

Had he? Yeah. Probably. At the club, or at one of Top’s things, or somewhere else where you’d been in earshot and he’d been running his mouth. 

Well, you’d been listening. Something about that—about you paying attention to what he said, filing it away the way he filed away everything about you—made his chest feel tight. 

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." He took another drag, watched you process this. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Or keep going crazy. Your call."

You bit your lip—nervous habit, probably, or maybe just the lip gloss was bothering you—and Rafe's eyes caught on it. On your mouth. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip and the little indent it left when you released it. He wondered if you did that during sex. If Topper had ever noticed. If—

Stop.

"Okay," you said, and Rafe refocused, eyebrows moving slightly up. "Okay. The tables need to go along the back wall, but first we have to move everything that's already there, and then rearrange the chairs, and—"

"Got it."

"I didn't finish—"

"Don't need you to. Tables go there, chairs go somewhere else, I can figure it out."

"Are you always this—"

"Helpful? Yeah,” he said sarcastically.

You shook your head, but you were almost smiling again, and Rafe decided that was worth more than whatever he would've gotten from Barry anyway. He didn’t feel completely useless. "Come on. I'll show you."

He followed you inside, where the situation was exactly as much of a shitshow as you'd described. Tables stacked wrong, chairs everywhere, decorations half-hung. The guys who were supposed to be setting up looked like they'd collectively given up on life. Rafe could relate.

"Okay," you said, clipboard up, and Rafe noticed your nails were painted the same color as your dress. Coordinated. Everything about you was coordinated and deliberate and probably planned three weeks in advance. "So we need to—"

"I got it," Rafe said, because you were about to go into a detailed explanation complete with diagrams and he could see the basic problem from here. Tables needed to go there, chairs were in the way, move the chairs, move the tables. Easy.

He grabbed a stack of chairs. Started hauling them to the side.

They were heavier than they looked—real wood, not the cheap plastic shit—and by the third trip he'd worked up a sweat. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Could feel you watching him from across the room where you were directing someone else, and when he glanced over he caught your eyes on him. Specifically, his arms, on the way his biceps flexed under his shirt sleeves as he carried the chairs. You looked away quickly when you realized he’d caught you, face flushing.

Interesting.

Rafe smiled to himself, guilty but satisfied, and moved another stack of chairs. Then another. Fell into a rhythm of lifting, carrying, setting down, repeat. Simple. Clear.

"You're really good at that," you said from somewhere behind him. 

He turned. You were closer than he'd expected, making him straighten his back too quickly.

"At moving chairs?" Rafe asked, setting them down because holding them with you being this close felt awkward. 

"At just doing things." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It immediately fell back out. "I would've spent twenty minutes thinking about how to move them.”

"Sometimes you just gotta move the fucking chairs." Rafe said simply.

You laughed, surprised.

You were standing close enough now that Rafe could see the mascara was slightly smudged under your left eye. Could see a small scar on your collarbone he'd never noticed before. Maybe from childhood. 

You were watching him too, your eyes tracking over his face, his shoulders, down to where his shirt was sticking to his chest.

"You got something—" He reached out without thinking, thumb brushing under your eye where the mascara had smudged.

You went very still. "What are you—"

"Mascara. Hold still." He wiped it away, the pad of his thumb against your skin, and felt you inhale sharply. Your eyes were locked on his, pupils dilating, and for a second neither of you moved. He was close enough to see the texture of your lip gloss and count your eyelashes if he wanted to. Close enough to kiss you. 

Then you stepped back. "Thanks."

"Mhm."

You touched your face where his thumb had been unconsciously, your hands slightly shaking. 

"I should—" You gestured vaguely toward the rest of the room. "There's still so much to—"

"Go. I got this."

You hesitated, then nodded and disappeared to handle something else. Rafe stood there for a second, thumb tingling where he'd touched your face, then went back to moving chairs because that was easier than thinking about why he'd touched you in the first place.

Tables next. Heavier, but he'd rather work alone than try to coordinate with the setup guys who all looked like they'd never seen a table before. He got the first one moved, then the second, then—

"Jesus, Cameron, you trying to give yourself a hernia?"

Kelce's voice. Rafe looked up to see him standing in the doorway with Ruthie, both of them dressed like they were here for the event rather than the setup.

"Should you be doing this?" Kelce asked, gesturing at the tables. “Like actually. Isn’t this what we pay people for?”

"They were being useless,” Rafe said. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

"Yeah, usually not you." Kelce looked genuinely confused now.

"Fuck off."

"No, seriously." Ruthie came closer, studying him like he was a science experiment. "Where's Rafe? What'd you do with him?"

"I can help without it being a whole thing—"

"It's definitely a thing," Kelce said, grinning. "You hate events like this."

"I hate most things. Doesn't mean I can't move a table." Rafe moved another one into place, wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. "You gonna stand there all day or help?"

"I’m here for moral support," Ruthie said, examining her nails. 

"Useless, got it."

But Kelce did grab one end of the next table, and together they got the rest moved in half the time. Ruthie mostly watched from a chair she'd pulled over, occasionally offering commentary that ranged from unhelpful to actively detrimental, but whatever. At least it was entertaining.

And Rafe could keep half an eye on you as you moved through the space, fixing things, directing people, climbing onto a chair in your dress and heels to adjust a banner that someone had hung crooked. He watched you wobble slightly and had to physically stop himself from crossing the room to steady you. You were fine. You got it fixed and climbed down and immediately moved on to the next thing.

“Dude,” Kelce said quietly so Ruthie couldn’t hear. “You’re staring.”

“Shut up.”

“Like, really, obviously staring.”

𖦹

You’d been to enough Figure Eight parties to know the entire song-and-dance. Ruthie would alcohol that could feed Figure Eight and The Cut, but three times over; people would set up a station to play very wrong, ruleless beer pong; someone would get in a fight; someone would call the cops and Ruthie would socially exile them for the next six months or until she conveniently forgot about it. Tonight was tracking perfectly to schedule: the handles were half-finished by eleven, there were red Solo cups floating in the pool, and you’d watched two guys argue about whether a bounce shot counted as a double for the past ten minutes even though there was literally no one keeping track. 

You were nursing the same drink you’d picked up off the counter half-an-hour ago. The Truly can—Wild Berry, the only flavour that had been left by the time you arrived—was getting warm in your hand, condensation making the label peel in little strips. You kept picking at it without thinking, rolling little soggy pieces of tissue and dropping them into the can where you imagined they floated like dead flies. Topper was in the middle of some story about golf. Something about his swing, the ninth hole at the club, and his dad’s advice; you’d stopped tracking the details about seven minutes in. The thing about dating Topper was that all his stories had the same shape to them; something happened, his dad had an opinion about it, and he agreed or planned to prove it wrong. The details changed—golf, school, Jeep—but the shape, as a whole, was identical. You’d memorized the blueprint. 

You were good at this, at least. You nodded at the right moments, you made small affirming noises, and laughed when his voice lifted in that way that indicated something was funny. You could do it in your sleep at this point. You were worried that you had been, that you’d actually been asleep for months and it had gone unnoticed because you were always nodding at the perfect times.

“—he won’t listen. He’s convinced it’s my follow-through—” Topper took a pull from his beer, gestured with the bottle, nearly hit Kelce in the face. “Babe, you’re not listening.”

You blinked, refocusing. “I am.”

“What did I just say?”

“Something about your follow-through.”

“Before that.”

You didn’t know. You were watching Ruthie across the room, the way she was laughing at something with her head thrown back, completely unselfconscious, and not worried if her laugh was too loud or fake or if the angle made her head look wrong. She was just laughing. When was the last time you laughed like that? You didn’t know. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, touching Topper’s arms lightly, apologetically. It was the kind of touch you’d learned said that you were there, you cared, and that you were paying attention now. “I’m just so tired. The week was long.”

“You feeling okay?” He shifted immediately to boyfriend-mode, which was sweet, and was one of the first things you’d learned to love about him in the first place. He cared. He worried. He made sure you’d eaten, had water. Most times it felt like being cared for. “We can leave if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. Keep telling your story.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

He kissed your temple—quick, casual, and the kind of kiss that marked you as his in public—and turned to Kelce, picking the story back up from wherever you’d lost the thread. You took a sip of your drink; it was warm and disgusting, but drinking gave you something to do with your hands. 

You loved Topper. You did. You loved him the way you loved Outer Banks summers and Sunday dinners at the club and the worn-in comfort of your childhood bedroom that looked like it belonged to a 30-year-old woman with very specific specifications for her interior design. You loved him in a way that felt familiar, safe, and exactly what was supposed to be.

He was kind and reliable and everyone loved him and your mother almost cried—shed a tear—when you’d brought him home for dinner junior year. He was exactly the kind of boy you were supposed to end up with. Figure Eight royalty, good family, going places. He talked about the future like it was something you’d built together brick-by-brick: UNC next fall, he’d major in finance, you’d major in something you hadn’t decided, but everyone assumed something that involved helping people because that’s what you were good at. After graduation, you’d move back here, get a place on the water, start planning a wedding. His mother already showed you the venue book. Twice. 

It was perfect. All perfect.

“I’m getting another drink,” you said, even though you weren’t. 

“Want me to come?” Topper asked, turning back to you, ready to follow. 

“No, I’m good. Keep talking. I’ll be right back.” 

He nodded, already turning back to Kelce. You could’ve said you were going to the moon for a second and he would’ve believed it.

You pushed through the crowd of Figure Eight kids, mostly. They were all people you’d known since elementary school, plus randoms from The Cut who’d heard about the party and showed up anyway because Ruthie didn’t check who walked through the door. The house was too hot, too loud, the bass from whatever song made the windows rattle in their frames. Someone had spilled beer on the hardwood that nobody bothered to clean it up, and your sandals kept sticking to it slightly with each step. 

You dumped your drink in the sink in the kitchen and grabbed a red solo cup that you filled up with water from the fridge dispenser. You drank half of it standing there, forehead pressed to the cool stainless steel. When you turned around, Maddie was there, drunk, hanging on your shoulder.

“Oh my god, you look so cute tonight,” she said. “Is that new?”

“No, I’ve had it—”

“I love it. We should go shopping next week. There’s a new collection at that place on the Mainland. The one with the dresses? You look so good in dresses. You should wear dresses more.”

“Sure,” you said, the word noncommittal, because the thought of stores with fluorescent lighting and their helpful salespeople and their pleasure to find things that fit you right made you want to crawl out of your skin.

“How are you and Top? You guys are so cute. Like actually. I was telling Cas the other day, you’re like the perfect couple.”

“We’re good. Thanks—”

“Are you guys thinking of schools together? Because I heard he got into Chapel Hill early and you’re obviously going to get in. You’re so smart—”

“Hopefully.” You smiled tightly; you hadn’t finished your applications yet, every time you sat down to work on your essays you ended up staring at the blank screen until your eyes hurt.

“You will. And then you’ll get married and have the cutest babies—”

“Madi—”

“What? You would! Could you imagine? Little Topper running around—”

You excused yourself before she could finish the thought, pushed back into the main room where the party was getting louder, messier, more of what was always going to become. Someone had turned up the music. Someone else was doing a keg stand in the corner and people were counting—”Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen”—and you felt tired. So tired. 

You found Topper right where you’d left him. Still talking to Kelce. Still gesturing with his beer. You slid back under his arms like you were supposed to and he kissed the top of your head without pausing his sentence and you realized—for the hundredth time—this is your life now, and this is it. The thought should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

“You okay?” Topper asking, looking down at you with those eyes that were genuinely so concerned that it made you feel guilty for not being okay. “You look weird.” 

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? Because we can really leave if—”

“I’m fine.” It came out harsher than you’d intended. His face did a combination of something complicated (hurt, confused, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong). “Sorry, I’m just—it’s hot in here.”

“Let’s go outside then.”

“No, you’re talking to Kelce—”

“Don’t care. Come on.” He was already steering you towards the back doors, hand on your lower back, and you let him because that was easier than arguing. Outside the air was cooler but not by much, humid and thick with that almost-rain feeling. The pool was glowing blue, and there were people in it even though nobody had suits on, just jumping in with their clothes because that’s what you did at Ruthie’s. 

“Better?” Topper asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been kind of off all week.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m just—” His lips flattened, like he was trying to find the right words for a moment. “Are you stressed about your school stuff? Your mom?”

“A little.”

“It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna get in everywhere you apply. You’re so fucking smart.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. “And we’ll be together. That’s what matters, right?”

“Right.”

“UNC is gonna be perfect. We can get an apartment off campus junior year. Somewhere with two bedrooms so your parents don’t freak out but we both know—” He laughed, squeezed you tighter, and his hands moved from your waist to hips, pulling you further back against him. “It’s gonna be so good, babe. I can’t wait.”

You could hear it in his voice, he meant it all. 

You could feel him getting hard against your back. Of course. Topper had a one-track mind at parties. A few beers in, and suddenly everything translated to being foreplay. Your hand in his. You laughing at his jokes. Existing in his orbit. All of it translated, in his mind, to we should have sex now.

His lips found your neck, kissing that spot below your ear that he’d decided early on was your spot, even though you’d never actually told him it did anything for you. It was fine. It didn’t not work. It just—it was fine. Which was the saddest way you could describe your boyfriend’s touch. Fine, really? Not electric or the kind that made you forget your own name. You were so tired of just fine, but you were also not courageous enough to admit that. 

“Baby—” you started, but his hand was already sliding under the hem of your tank top, thumb brushing the underside of your bra.

“Ruthie’s got that pool house,” he murmured against your back. “Nobody’s in there. We could—”

“There’s like seventy people here, Top.”

“So? That’s never stopped us before.” He turned you around, and his eyes had that look he conveniently gets when he wants something. “Come on, it’s been like a week.”

Had it been a week? You tried to remember the last time. Lask weekend, maybe. At his house, in his bed, with the door locked and the lights off because you always asked for the lights off even though he always wanted to see you. It had been fine. Good, even. Topper was considerate in bed, always asking if you were okay, if this felt good, if that made you finish even though sometimes you faked it just to move it along. Sometimes your brain wouldn’t turn off long enough to get there and it was easier to pretend.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I’m kind of tired.” 

“I’ll do all the work.” He grinned, hands sliding down to your ass now, pulling you closer. “Come on, I’ve been thinking about you all week.” 

You smiled, even though that only made you feel tired. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” His whole face lit up. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

He grabbed your hand, started pulling you toward the pool house, and you followed because what else were you going to do? Explain that you didn’t want to but couldn’t articulate why?

The pool house was unlocked, dark, smelling like chlorine and the musty scent of furniture that spent too much time in humidity. Topper flicked on the lamp in the corner—dim, throwing everything into shadow—and pulled you to the couch.

He kissed you immediately, hands everywhere, enthusiastic in that golden retriever way he had about everything. You kissed back, let your hands go to his hair, his shoulders, the places you knew he liked. This was familiar. Routine. Two years of practice. You knew exactly how he liked to be touched and the sounds he made when you did it right. There was a rhythm and choreography to it.

He pulled you down onto the couch, climbed over you, and his mouth moved to your neck. Started kissing, then sucking, and you knew he was leaving marks. He always left marks when he was drunk, got possessive in this puppyish way that should've been endearing. His hand slid up your shirt, palm hot against your ribs, and he was grinding against you now, hard through his shorts.

"God, you're so hot," he murmured against your collarbone, kissing lower. "I love you so much."

“I love you too.”

He sucked harder at the spot where your neck met your shoulder—definitely leaving a mark there, you’d have to cover it tomorrow—and his hand was working the button of your shorts when his phone started to ring. He ignored it. Kept kissing. The phone stopped, then immediately started again.

“Babe—” you said.

“It’s fine. Just—” 

It rang again.

“Topper, just check it.”

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, pulled back, fumbled for his phone in his pocket and squinted at the screen. “It’s my dad. Again.” He sat up, ran a hand through his hair like his dad could see him through the phone. “Shit. He called earlier and I—hold on. I’ll just.”

He answered it. “Hey, Dad… Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s loud here… What? No, I can—” He stood up, walked to the door, and you could hear his dad’s voice on the other end, irritated and tiny. “I know. I’ll call him first thing tomorrow… Yeah… Okay… Yeah, she’s with me… Okay…”

You sat up, buttoned your shorts back up, and tried to fix your hair. Your neck felt hot where he’d been sucking, and when you touched it, your fingers came slightly damp. Great. That would be purple by morning.

Topper hung up, turned back to you, and his face had a guilty look. “I’m sorry, babe. My dad’s pissed about—there’s this thing with the club. I was supposed to call someone back—” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I gotta call this guy really quick. Five minutes, I swear.”

This happened a lot. Topper’s father calling, needing something, and Topper drowning in everything to handle it. You understood it and resented it in equal measure.

“It’s okay.”

“You sure? Because I can—”

“No, it’s okay. Make your call. I’ll just meet you back outside.”

“You’re the best.” He kissed you quickly, already distracted and mentally somewhere else entirely. “Five minutes. Then we can—” He gestured vaguely at the couch with a tip of his head. “—continue?”

“Sure.”

Outside, you noticed a crowd dispersing and before you could try to make sense of it, Ruthie’s palm grabbed your shoulder and pulled you aside.

“This is the third fight he’s started this month,” she said, sentence coming out quickly like she was in the throes of stress.

“Who?”

“Rafe.” 

You swallowed quickly, shaking your head. “Is he okay?”

“What? Rafe? He’s fine. He’s always doing this shit.” But she was frowning, scanning the crowd. “Where’d he go?”

“Maybe inside?”

“Great. He’s probably bleeding all over my mom’s white couch.” She sighed, then looked at you. “Can you go check on him?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. He’s Top’s best friend. And you’re like, good at the whole—” She gestured vaguely. “Thing.”

“I really don’t think—”

‘Please? I need to find the guy he beat up and make sure he isn’t going to make it a big deal. Rafe’s probably in one of the rooms. Just make sure he’s not dying or bleeding anywhere that isn’t expensive or visible.”

Given that Ruthie lived in an open-space concept house with nothing that cost less than four figures and very few doors to hide behind, that narrowed the list down to the bathrooms and maybe her dad’s office. The latter goes with the assumption that Rafe had the good sense to pick a room with wood or tile instead of white linen and glass.

She was already walking away before you could argue with her. You could find Topper, tell him what happened, and let him deal with his best friend. That’s what you should do. That’s what made sense. But your boyfriend was on the phone with his dad; Ruthie had asked you, and something about the situation made your chest twist uncomfortably.

𖦹

Rafe needed to get laid. Or high. Or hit something until his knuckles split. Twenty years of his life had taught him that when there isn’t one thing wreaking havoc over his life, he hyperfixated on the impossible. Self-sabotage, probably. The impossible being, currently, his best friend’s girlfriend the image that had been burned into his retinas and showed no signs of stopping no matter how much cocaine he shoved up his nose or how many drinks he threw back or how many times he told him he was just being a fucking idiot. 

So, he picked a fight. With who? Didn’t matter. Some guy. A random fucking guy who had the misfortune of existing in Rafe’s vicinity at the exact moment Rafe had watched you disappear into Ruthie’s pool house with Topper, watched the door close behind you both, and felt something ugly and acidic rise up in his throat that tasted like very cheap vodka because he’d spent two years wanting something he couldn’t have. Two fucking years of seeing Topper touch you like it was easy, like you were some cosmic lottery he’d won just by being himself. 

Now he was sitting on the closed toilet in Ruthie’s upstairs bathroom with blood drying on his knuckles and his face throbbing and the bass from downstairs making the floor vibrate under his feet, trying very hard not to think about what you and Topper had been doing in the pool house. The bleeding had mostly stopped. His right eye was going to swell shut by morning. His lip was split. Could've been worse. Had been worse, plenty of times. This was manageable. He was trying and failing, because his brain—traitorous, obsessive, completely fucked—kept supplying images; Topper’s hands on your waist, your hips, your head tipped back, the sounds you probably made, whether you’d let him keep the lights on, whether you were any good at it or whether you just laid there perfect and pretty while—

The door opened, and his eyes snapped up and there you were, standing in the doorway like a fucking hallucination, like something his substance-soaked brain had conjured because it hated him, too. You were backlit by the hall light in a way that should’ve been corny but wasn’t. You looked real solid there. Rafe thought there was no fucking way this was happening. 

“Get out,” he said.

You didn’t get out, and Rafe was mad at the world because this was probably the first fucking time you didn’t do what someone else asked of you. Of course you chose right now, when Rafe was barely holding himself together, to stop being obedient. 

You stepped inside instead, and the bathroom suddenly felt about three sizes too small, and Rafe could smell you, that perfume you wore, floral and clean and so aggressively innocent it made him want to break something. He could smell it all over the metallic tang of blood and the chemical burn of Ruthie’s fancy hand soap and his own sweat. 

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“Yeah, no shit.” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant, but what-fucking-ever. Harsh was good, and that would make you leave. “Where’s Topper?”

“On the phone with his dad.”

Right. Topper. Your boyfriend, the guy whose hands had been all over you. The guy who got to touch you whenever he wanted because you were his, officially his, had been for two years while Rafe stood on the sidelines watching and acting like he didn’t care.

“Cool. Go wait for him somewhere else.”

“Ruthie asked me to check on you.”

Obviously she fucking did. Of course Ruthie—who’d watched Rafe watch you for two years, who’d made pointed comments Rafe had ignored, who definitely knew more than she should—would send you up here like a deer to slaughter. She would put you in a room alone with him when he was high and drunk and had just beaten someone bloody because he couldn’t handle himself in his body like a normal person. 

“Mm, you checked. I’m fine. Door’s right there.”

But you were closing the door instead behind you. Locking it. The lock was so obscenely loud that Rafe’s body went rigid and his head snapped in your direction. Every muscle in his body tensed and coiled. You’d locked yourself alone in a bathroom with him. What were you thinking?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You need help.”

“What I need is for you to leave.”

“Rafe—”

“No, I’m serious. Get the fuck out.” He stood up too fast, the room tilted, and he had to brace one hand against the wall while his vision did something complex and unstable. Everything went bright and sparkly around the edges the way it did when he mixed uppers and downers; his body was in a constant state of figuring out whether he should be flying or crashing. The coke was hitting him all weird, and that probably meant he had to do a bump in less than five minutes, mixing with vodka in ways that made everything bright and too close. He probably looked like shit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

Because Topper probably had just fucked you. Because Rafe could still see that middle-school-hookup-hickey on your neck, all red and obvious and making him want to punch a hole through Ruthie’s bathroom mirror. Because you were standing there looking at him with genuine concern on your face like Rafe was someone worth for you to worry about, like you hadn’t spent the last hour with your boyfriend, like you had any business being so close to him when Rafe was barely holding onto his self-control with both hands, bloody and beat-up.

“Because I’m telling you to.”

You were already kneeling down though, opening the cabinet under Ruthie’s sink, and Rafe watched your ass in those jean shorts and thought that this was hell. This was actual hell and he was in it.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice coming out gruff. “I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”

“Your face is bleeding.”

“Really.”

You ignored him, and pulled out Ruthie’s first aid kit. It was the expensive kind that came in a hard plastic case with actual organization inside, not just a jumble of Band-Aids and expired Advil, and stood up with it tucked under your arm. You wet a washcloth at the sink—one of Ruthie’s monogrammed hand towels—wrung it out, and looked back at him. You met his eyes for just a second, long enough for Rafe to catch the stubborn determination on your face. 

And then—holy fuck—you stepped between his legs.

Just fucking stepped right between his legs like that was a normal place to be, like you had any fucking idea what that did to him. You, standing right between his legs, so close that if she shifted about two inches forward, you’d be pressed right to him. His jaw clenched tight. 

You didn't know. Of course you didn't. Because you thought Rafe hated you. Thought he'd been an asshole to you for two years because he didn't like you, not because liking you was the problem, had always been the problem, would continue to be the problem until Rafe died or moved to another country or developed severe amnesia.

"Sit down," you said. Soft. Like you were talking to a scared animal.

He should say no. Should physically remove you from the bathroom. Should do literally anything other than what he did, which was sink back down onto that toilet seat like his legs stopped working. He even let you step closer, close enough that your knees bumped his, close enough that he could see the freckles scattered across your shoulders like someone had flicked a paintbrush at you.

"This might sting," you said, and reached up to touch his face.

Your fingers made contact with the cut above his eyebrow—gently, so fucking gently—and Rafe's entire nervous system went haywire. Every nerve ending firing at once. Every muscle in his body locking up trying to keep still, keep from grabbing you, keep from doing something catastrophically stupid that he couldn’t take back. He felt like he’d forgot how to breathe. Your touch felt branded, like every place your skin met his was burning.

Nothing about this was sexual. That was the fucked up part. Yeah, there was the fact that Rafe's brain had a one-track mind when it came to you and that track involved significantly less clothing than you were currently wearing, but this was worse. This was your hand on his face, gentle and careful like he was worth being gentle with. Like he was something other than Ward Cameron's greatest disappointment and the guy who got too fucked up at parties and picked fights for no reason.

"Sorry," you murmured when he flinched. "I'm trying to be gentle."

Rafe let out something between a laugh and a choke at how oblivious you were. “Yeah, that—” He swallowed, cleared his throat, then tried again. “I know.”

Stop talking. Seriously, stop talking.

His hands were gripping his thighs. He was gripping them hard enough to hurt, hard enough his knuckles—already fucked from the fight—were screaming at him. But it was either grip his thighs or grab you, and grabbing you was not an option. Grabbing you was the opposite of an option.

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice came out tight and strained. Nothing normal.

“I know,” you said quietly.

“Then why are you?”

You dabbed at the cut again, concentration evident in the way that you were biting your bottom lip. “Because you’re hurt,” you said like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

Was that reason enough for you to do this? “So?”

“So, someone should help.”

“And it had to be you?”

“Ruthie asked—”

“Ruthie’s not here.” His fingers were going numb now from how hard he was gripping his legs. “It’s just us. You can leave. I don’t think Ruthie meant you had to do all of this.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Because you were Topper’s, and Topper was Rafe’s best friend, one of his only real friends, if Rafe was being honest, the only person besides Kelce and Sarah who didn’t see Ward’s DNA walking around making the wrong choices. Because twenty minutes ago you’d been in a pool house with Topper doing things Rafe had no right to think about, and now you were touching Rafe’s face with fingers that probably still smelled like Topper’s cologne. Because if you didn’t leave right now, Rafe was going to do something unforgivable.

He opened his mouth to say some version of that—to say anything that would make you leave—when you spoke first.

“Because you don’t like me, right?” you said quietly after a moment, and Rafe’s brain stuttered to a complete stop.

“Huh?”

“You don’t like me. You never have.” You weren’t looking into his eyes anymore—and Rafe realized he missed having your eyes on him—and were focusing very intently on the washcloth. “Since I started dating Topper, you’ve been—you act like I’m annoying you all the time.”

Rafe stared at you. At your face, all concentration and hurt poorly hidden, and felt something in his chest twist sideways. You couldn’t meet his eyes, like you were embarrassed to have said it out loud.

You thought he didn't like you. You actually, genuinely thought that the reason Rafe had been cold and dismissive and sometimes cruel was because he didn't like you. Not because he'd spent two years watching you be Topper's perfect girlfriend and wanting you so badly it made him physically ill. You didn’t think it was because every time you smiled at him or laughed at something he said or looked at him like you were looking at him right now, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to cross whatever line existed between being Topper's best friend and being the asshole who wanted his girlfriend. You had zero idea liking you was so much worse than not liking you that Rafe had chosen cruelty as the easier option. If you were anybody else, Rafe would’ve been irked at how much having one person dislike you hurt you. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," he managed.

“Don’t I?” You pulled back slightly, met his eyes. “Because I’ve spent two years trying to be nice to you and you act like I’m—I don’t know. Like I’m a problem.”

"Maybe you are."

You flinched. Good. Flinching meant distance meant you'd leave meant Rafe could get his head straight and stop thinking about all of this. You put an inch of space between the two of you. Good. Except it also made him feel like the piece of shit he was and suddenly, he wanted to apologize, take it back, and explain.

“I’m trying to help you,” you said, and there was an edge to your voice now. Your hurt was bleeding into anger. “The least you can do is not be an asshole about it.”

“Nobody asked you to help.”

“Ruthie—”

“Fuck Ruthie.” Rafe leaned back against the wall, putting more distance between his face and your hands because if you touched him again he was going to lose it. “I don’t need your help. Don’t want it. So you can go back to your boyfriend—” He paused at the word to make sure you could feel the weight of it, even though he knew your intentions were all innocent, “—and your best friend and tell them I’m fine.”

You were still standing there, between his legs, and close enough that Rafe could see the way your pulse was jumping in your throat right below that hickey Topper left like a fucking brand. Like he pre-anticipated all of this, and wanted to plaster a reminder on your body to remind Rafe whose you were.

“Fine.” Your voice had gone flat. “Bleed, then. I don’t care.” But you said it while standing between his legs without moving, your hands still hovering over him like you were fighting the exact same battle he was: stay or go, touch or don’t touch. 

Someone pounded on the door. Hard. Three times in rapid succession. You jumped—actually jumped, startled—and stumbled slightly backward, and Rafe’s hands moved before the circuits in his brain caught up. They shot out and caught your hips, steadying you, pulling you back between his legs where you’d been standing. 

His hands were on your bare skin. He pushed down the groan forming in his throat.

“Yo. Yo. Someone in there?” A guy’s voice, drunk and completely impatient. 

Rafe’s hands were on your hips. On your bare skin where your tank top had ridden up slightly. His fingers were spread, wide, thumbs pressing just above your hip bones, and he could feel you breathing fast—with your whole body—underneath his palms. This was the first time he’d touched you—he thought—skin-to-skin, and it felt like every bad decision he’d made in his life had led him to this one final straw.

“Occupied,” he called out. His voice came out steadier than it should’ve. 

“How long you gonna be, man? I gotta piss—”

“As long as I fucking wanna be.”

“Dude, come on—”

“There’s a fuckin’ bathroom downstairs. Use that one.”

The guy on the other side muttered, groaned, and they heard the footsteps retreat down the hall. Silence. Rafe’s hands were still on your hips. Neither of you were moving. Rafe could feel your pulse underneath his thumbs, he could feel it racing, jackrabbit-fast, and his own wasn’t much better. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, the softness of it, the way you fit perfectly under his hands like you’d been designed for them.

This was bad. This was so, so bad. He should let go. He should move his hands back to his thighs where they belonged. He should laugh it off and put distance between you to pretend his hands weren’t burning where they touched you. 

“Rafe,” you said quietly, almost breathless.

“Yeah?” he said quickly.

“Your hands.”

“You’re good,” he said, and his thumbs moved fractionally, just a tiny shaft to see if you’d pull away. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice on the edge of concern.

He tilted his head to look down, and he could feel your body jerking slightly as his hair brushed against your torso. “Just—give it a second.”

A second for what? Why were you giving him a second? You weren’t pulling away, and you weren’t telling him to let go. You were just standing there, looking down at him with your eyes too wide and lips parted slightly and that hickey on your neck that Rafe wanted to cover with his mouth, wanted to replace with his own mark, wanted—

Rafe’s thumb moved just slightly. A small circle against your hip bones. He tilted his head up slightly to meet your eyes, watching your face to see if you’d pull away, if you’d slap him, if you’d do anything to stop him before it became something neither of you could take back. He had to see if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. 

You inhaled sharply but you didn’t pull away. 

“What are you doing, Rafe?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay,” you said, but your voice was unsure.

His thumb kept moving. Small circles. Hypnotic. He could feel the exact moment you stopped breathing normally. Your body tensed underneath his hands. Your hands had come up at some point, were hoving near his shoulders like you weren’t sure what to do with them, like you wanted to touch him but didn’t know if you were allowed. 

And that—that fucking uncertainty, that unnamed want—that was going to be Rafe’s undoing.

Because he could keep his hands on your hips and pretend it was nothing. He could tell himself he was just steadying you, just making sure you didn’t lose your balance. But if your hands touched him—if you made the choice to touch him back—then this becomes something else. It would become something mutual. Something that couldn’t be explained away by the cocaine or the alcohol or the general fucked-upness of the night. It would become a choice and it would be your choice. 

Your fingers brushed his shoulders lightly and tentatively. Rafe’s breath stopped short, and the realization that you were indulging him hit him like a fucking brick. If he didn’t let go right now—right this second—he was going to kiss you. Your fingers pressed slightly harder against his shoulders.

And Rafe let you go.

He dropped his hands like your skin had burned him. He pushed himself up the toilet so fast his vision swam, the bathroom tilting sideways in that way that said he’d moved too quick, that the drugs were still very much in his system. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the wall. He put three feet of space between you and him in the span of three seconds. 

“You gotta leave,” he said. His voice came out all wrong. Too rough, too raw, like he’d swallowed glass.

You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Your hands were still raised slightly, frozen in the air where they’d been about to touch him. He wanted to tell you to put your hands down, but he also wanted to grab them and pull you closer. Your face was doing something Rafe couldn’t look at, because your confusion was bleeding into hurt once again. 

“What—” you started.

“Just go.”

“But you—”

“Go.” He couldn’t look at you right now. He looked at the wall instead. He focused on the expensive floral wallpaper that probably cost half the price of the house as a whole. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Topper’s probably looking for you.”

“He’s on the phone—”

“He’ll be off the phone soon. And he’s gonna wanna know where you are.” Rafe made himself look at you, and he made himself see the confusion on your face, the way you’d wrapped your arms around yourself like you were cold even though Ruthie’s bathroom was stuffy and warm. He tipped his chin in your direction, feigning as much carelessness as he could. “What are you gonna tell him?”

You blinked. “What?”

“When he asks where you were. What’re you gonna say?”

“I’ll—I’ll tell him I was checking on you. Because Ruthie asked me to?”

“That’s it?” He heard himself push; he was being cruel again because that was safer than being honest.

“That’s it, yeah. Yeah.” But your voice wavered slightly on the words. “That’s all that happened.” He could hear the uncertainty in your words, like you were trying to convince yourself.

“Good. Tell him that.” 

You were still standing there, still looking at him with those eyes that saw too fucking much, and Rafe could see you trying to working through it, trying to figure out what had just happened, what it meant that his hands had been you, that his hands had been moving in circles against your skin, that maybe for a minute there something had shifted between you that couldn’t be unshifted.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question hit Rafe in the chest all wrong. You thought you’d done something wrong, like any of this was your fault. Like you’d been the one to grab on, to hold too long, to move your thumbs in ways that had nothing to do with steadying and everything to do with wanting. 

“No,” he said, having to push the word out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then—”

“Because I’m high.” His voice came out flat now, matter-of-fact. He’d found his voice again, the one that made everything sound meaningless. The lie was easier when he didn’t look at you, he realized. “I’m high and drunk and not thinking straight. That’s all this is.”

“Okay.”

Maybe it did make sense to you; you wanted it to be that simple. If 1+1=2, then high+drunk=temporary insanity. Nothing more complicated than chemistry and bad decisions.

𖦹

A week had passed since the party at Ruthie’s, and you’d gotten very good at pretending nothing had happened. You’d seen Rafe twice—once at the country club when your families had overlapping dinner reservations, once at Topper’s house when you’d shown up and he’d been leaving—and you’d smiled politely, said hello, and acted like everything was completely normal. Both times, he’d barely looked at you. He nodded in your general direction, mumbled something that might’ve been a greeting. And left as quickly as possible.

Which was fine. Good, even. Exactly what was meant to happen. Except you couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on your hips, the way his thumbs had moved in small circles. About the look on his face when he’d let go, like he’d done something he couldn’t take back. You wished you could try talking to Ruthie about it, but you also knew that if you slipped on the wrong word or revealed the tiniest detail, she’d catch onto it like a vulture and somehow figure out exactly what happened. 

And now you were at Sunday brunch with Topper and both set of parents, and your mother kept looking at you like she could tell something was wrong. Topper kept reaching for your hand under the table, and all you wanted was to be literally anywhere else.

“—so, we’re thinking late April for the engagement party,” Topper’s mom was saying. She had her phone out, scrolling through her calendar with one hand while cutting eggs Benedict with another. “That gives us plenty of time to plan something before you two leave for school.”

You looked up from your untouched fruit salad. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The engagement party, hon.” Mrs. Thornton smiled at you warmly. “Nothing official, of course. You’ll do the actual engagement after graduation, I’m sure. But we thought it’d be nice for both of you to have a celebration before you head to Chapel Hill. Really cement things.”

Your mother made an approving sound. “That’s a lovely idea, Cynthia.”

“I just think it’s important to acknowledge these milestones,” she continued. “Topper and—” She said your name like it was already hyphenated with his. “—they’re so good together. And with our families being so close together, it just makes sense to start planning now.” 

“Mom,” Topper said, and there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “We haven’t even—I mean, we’ve talked about it, but—”

“Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m not trying to rush anything. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about the timeline.” She looked at you expectantly. “You are planning on going to Chapel Hill, aren’t you?”

Four sets of eyes turned to you. Topper's parents. Your parents. Topper himself, looking hopeful and nervous and so certain that the answer would be yes because of course it would be yes, why wouldn't it be yes?

“I haven’t decided yet,” you said.

Everyone went very still. 

"What do you mean you haven't decided?" your mother asked. Her voice was light but there was an edge to it. "Your applications were due weeks ago."

"I applied to other schools too."

"Yes, but—" Your mother set down her fork with a soft clink. "We've discussed this. Chapel Hill makes the most sense. It's a good school, it's close enough to visit, and—" She glanced at Topper. "—well. It makes sense for other reasons too."

“I know what reasons you mean, Mom.”

You could feel Topper’s hands tighten around yours under the table. You could feel the anxiety radiating off him even though his face stayed neutral. “Babe,” he said quietly. “I thought we talked about this.”

“We did talk about it.”

“And I thought—” He stopped. Started again. “You said you were fine with Chapel Hill.”

"I said I'd think about it."

"That's not—" He stopped again. Glanced at his parents, at yours, clearly not wanting to have this conversation in front of an audience. "That's not what it sounded like."

"Maybe you heard what you wanted to hear."

That came out sharper than you'd meant. Topper's face did something complicated. His hurt bled into frustration bled into confusion. Your mother made a small sound of disapproval. Mrs. Thornton looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should.

𖦹

You were drunk. Not falling-down drunk, not blacking-out drunk, but drunk enough that the bonfire had halos around it and the sand felt unsteady under your feet and when Topper talked it took you both an extra second to process what he was saying. Topper was drunker. He had been drinking since before he’d picked you up, had kept drinking in the Jeep on the way there, had been working his way through a twelve-pack since you’d arrived at the beach an hour ago. His movements kept getting looser and more expansive, and he’d told the same story about the golf tournament twice in the past twenty minutes.

You were sitting in the sand near the bonfire, backs against a piece of driftwood, Topper’s arm heavy on your shoulders. The party was in full-swing around you. Sixty kids scattered across the beach, music thumping from someone else’s truck, the ocean dark and loud behind all of it. Someone was taking shots. Someone was throwing up behind the dunes. Madi was making out with some guy from The Cut. It was all normal. 

"I don't get why you're being so weird about this," Topper was saying. Or had been saying. You'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere around your third drink. "It's not a big deal."

“What’s not a big deal?” 

“Chapel Hill,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re acting like—it’s all this huge thing. It’s just college.”

Oh. This again. The conversation from brunch wasn’t over despite both of you pretending it was for the past eight hours.

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?”

“This. The college thing. I’m really tired of talking about it.”

“Well, I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on with you.” Topper’s arm over your shoulder tightened. Insistent. “You’ve been weird for like a week.”

“I haven’t been weird.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause it feels like you’re mad at me.”

"I'm not mad, Top. I'm just—" You stopped. Tried to find words through the alcohol fog. "I'm just trying to figure stuff out."

"What stuff?"

"School stuff. Future stuff."

"Our future?"

"My future."

“Same thing.” He said that, too, like it was obvious. There was no version of future that didn’t have you and him together. “Right?”

You took another sip from the drink in your hands. Was it? It couldn’t be the same thing. You were a person separate from him, separate from “you and Topper,” separate from everyone else’s plans. You did exist outside your relationship, right?

“Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” He pulled his arms away from your shoulders. “What does that mean? We talked about this. We made plans.”

"You made plans. And I just—I went along with them because everyone was so happy about it and I didn't want to—" You gestured vaguely. "I didn't want to ruin it."

Topper stared at you. "Ruin what?"

"This. Us. The whole—" You stopped again. Nothing was coming out right. "Everyone's so sure about everything. You're sure, my parents are sure, your parents are sure. And I'm just—I'm not."

"Sure about what? About me?"

"About everything."

"That's not—" He stood up suddenly, swayed slightly, caught himself. "That's not an answer. Do you want to be with me or not?"

"I do—"

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is I don't know if I want everything else that comes with it! The engagement party planning, the apartment hunting, the whole—" You stood up too, because this conversation felt wrong sitting down. "Everyone treating us like we're already married when we're nineteen."

"So you don't want to marry me."

"I didn't say that—"

"That's what it sounds like."

"That's not—Topper, you're not listening—"

"I am listening. You're saying you don't know if you want a future with me."

"I'm saying I don't know what I want for my own future! Period! Not just the part with you in it—the whole thing!" Your voice was getting louder. A few people nearby were starting to look over. "I don't know what I want to study or where I want to go or who I want to be. And everyone keeps acting like those are already answered questions and they're not. Not for me."

Topper ran both hands through his hair. "Okay. Okay. So you need time to figure it out. That's—I can give you time."

"It's not just time—"

"Then what is it? Just tell me what you need and I'll—I'll do it. Whatever you need."

"I need space." The words came out before you could stop them. "I need room to think without everyone—without you—asking me what I've decided every five seconds." 

The second the words came out, you wanted to take them back. You did mean them, but you could see what they did to Topper’s face.

His face did something awful and twisted. Like you'd physically hit him. "Space."

"Not—I don't mean—" You stopped. The vodka was making everything harder. "I just mean I need to figure this out on my own. Without everyone weighing in."

"Everyone meaning me."

"Everyone meaning everyone. My parents, your parents, you—"

"So you want to break up."

"That's not what I said—"

"That's what space means."

"No it's not—"

"Then what does it mean?" He was angry now, genuinely angry. Topper never got angry. "Because from where I'm standing it sounds like you want to break up but you don't want to say it."

"I don't want to break up!" You were yelling now. "I love you! I just—I need time to figure out what I want that's not about us. That's just about me."

"But I'm part of your life. We're—we're together. You can't just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You know what? Fine. You want space? You got it."

“I love you,” you said, because that was meant to be grounding. That was supposed to fix things. Love was supposed to be the answer to it all, wasn’t it? And you needed him to hear that. You needed him to understand that this wasn’t about not loving him. “I love you. Isn’t that what matters?”

Topper looked at you for a long moment, and his face was doing something you'd never seen before. He looked hurt and frustrated and something that looked almost like resignation. "I don't know anymore," he said quietly. "Maybe it should be enough. But right now it just—it doesn't feel like it is."

His words hit you like a physical blow. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. 

“I need a break,” Topper said. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He sounded like he was just tired. “Not from you. Just from this. This conversation and this night. I—I can’t do this right now.”

"Okay," you said quietly.

"I'm gonna stay here. At the party. But you should go home." He looked at you, and there was something almost gentle in his expression despite everything. "You look exhausted, babe. You should go home."

"I can stay—"

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think both of us need to cool off. Think about shit. And we can’t if we’re both here drunk and—” He gestured vaguely between you two. “—doing this.”

“How am I supposed to get home?” you asked, because he had drove you and apparently he was insistent on being the one that stayed at the party.

“I’ll figure it out. Just—give me a second.” He turned his back to you, looking around the area. “There.” He pointed. “Rafe’s here. He’ll drive you.”

Your stomach dropped. “He doesn’t have to—” Your voice came out wrong, high and panicked. Topper didn’t notice. 

“He can drive. He’ll drop you off.” Topper was already walking toward Rafe standing at the bonfire. “Yo! Rafe.”

Rafe looked up to see Topper, then you standing a foot behind him. 

“What’s up?” he called back.

“Do me a favour?” Topper reached him and put a hand on his shoulder. You followed him close behind, hesitant of your steps. “Can you give her a ride home?”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to you, an eyebrow raised, then moved back to Topper. “Something wrong with your car?”

"Nah. I just—we had a thing. She needs to go home and I'm staying here and I don't want her to drive." Topper's voice was still doing that too-casual thing, that trying-to-hold-it-together thing. "You're good to drive, right?"

"Yeah." It came out too quickly.

"So can you take her? Please?"

Rafe looked at you again and held your gaze for a beat too long. Or maybe you were imagining that?

"Yeah. Sure. No problem." He shrugged.

"Thanks, man. I owe you." Topper turned back to you, and his face softened slightly. "Get home safe, okay? We'll talk tomorrow. When we're both—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—not like this."

"Okay," you said.

"And I do love you. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." He kissed your forehead—quick, careful, almost formal. "Text me when you get home."

And then he walked back toward the bonfire, toward Kelce and the others, and left you standing there with Rafe.

The silence stretched out. You could hear the ocean, the music, people laughing somewhere down the beach. Could feel Rafe not looking at you, determinedly staring at something over your shoulder.

"You don't have to—" you started.

"My truck's in the lot," Rafe said, cutting you off. His voice was flat. Careful. "You ready to go or do you need to say goodbye to people?"

"I'm ready."

"Okay."

He started walking and you followed, and the distance between you felt like miles even though you were only a few feet apart. Neither of you said anything as you crossed the beach, as you climbed the short path up to the parking lot, as you reached his truck.

He unlocked it. You got in. He got in. Started the engine. He quickly pulled out of the lot and onto the main road.

The silence in the truck was suffocating. You could hear your own breathing, could hear the road under the tires, could hear the distant thump of the bonfire music fading behind you. Could feel Rafe's presence next to you like a physical thing; it was too close and too far away at the same time.

“Thanks for doing this,” you said finally.

“It’s fine.”

You watched streetlights pass through the windshield, painting the cab of the truck in alternating light and shadow. Rafe's hands on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. Everything about his body language screaming that he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, didn't want to be alone in a truck with you.

Which was fair. You'd both been doing a good job of avoiding each other all week. And now here you were, trapped together, and the air between you felt electric and dangerous and wrong.

“You guys good?”

“Yup.”

Your throat went tight. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to breathe evenly and tried to think about what on earth had just happened. The fight. Topper’s face. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t anymore either. Your eyes were burning; you blinked and felt the wetness on your lashes. Great. Perfect. You were crying now; drunk-crying in Rafe Cameron’s truck after fighting with your boyfriend who you loved but maybe didn’t love enough or maybe loved in the wrong way completely. You didn’t even know anymore.

A tear slid down your cheek, and then another. You tried to wipe them away quickly but they kept coming, and your breath was hitching in that embarrassing way that meant you were about to properly cry, and you turned your face more toward the window so Rafe wouldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said, his voice was flat and careful at the same time. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine,” you said, but your voice cracked on the words.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“I can see you crying.”

“I’m fine. I’m just—” You wiped at your face again. “Drunk. Just drunk. It’s stupid.”

Rafe remained silent and kept driving. His jaw was doing that thing it did, and his hands stayed on the wheel, and you thought maybe he was just going to ignore it and drive you home in silence while you cried quietly in the passenger seat like some pathetic drunk girl who couldn’t keep her relationship in check. 

But then the truck slowed and his turn signal clicked on. He took a right down a side road you couldn’t place in your haziness, one of those residential streets that branched off the main drag, lined with scrub pine and chain-link fences and houses set back from the road. It was dark and quiet and empty. He put the truck in park and cut the engine. 

You could hear every single thing now; you could hear your breathing, still hitching and uneven, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant sound of the ocean even though you were blocks away from the beach. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, and your words came out shaky. “I didn’t mean for this to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—I’m fine. Really. You can just take me home. I’m sorry.”

Rafe let you talk without interrupting.

“I’m just drunk,” you continued, because in your mind stopping would mean actually feeling and sitting in the silence and acknowledging what had just happened with Topper and what was just happening in the truck. “And I got into this argument with Topper, but it’s fine. We’re fine. We fight sometimes. It’s normal. I love him. I do—”

Your voice cracked again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming anyway.

“He's such a good person. And he loves me and he's never done anything wrong and I love him but sometimes I feel like I can't breathe around him and I don't know if that's normal or if that means something's wrong with me or if I’m just crazy—"

You were rambling. You knew you were rambling. But you couldn't stop. The vodka and the tears and the week of avoiding thinking about any of this had cracked something open and now it was all spilling out in Rafe Cameron's truck and you couldn't make it stop.

Rafe still hadn't said anything. Was just sitting there listening. Which was unusual. Rafe didn't listen. Rafe interrupted, Rafe made snide comments, Rafe left the room when conversations got uncomfortable. But he was just sitting there. Letting you empty it all out.

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I shouldn’t be saying this. You’re—you’re his best friend. I shouldn’t be—”

“I don’t think you’re being crazy,” Rafe said, almost shrugging. 

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Anyone would feel like that. He doesn’t wanna deal with shit he doesn’t wanna hear. It’s about him, not you.”

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m not trying to make him the bad guy.”

Rafe let out a short laugh. “I know.”

“He’s not. He’s good. He’s—”

“I know he is.”

“Then why—”

“‘Cause good doesn’t mean he’s right,” he said. 

You felt your breath hitch slightly and felt more tears coming. You hugged yourself without realizing it. You wrapped your arms around your middle like if you could just hold yourself together physically, you can keep it together mentally.

Rafe’s hand left the steering wheel and settled on your thigh assuredly. Not brushing the hem of your shorts, but close. His hand was close enough that you could feel the heat of his palm through the denim. His fingers spread, thumb, resting at the edge where the fabric ended and your bare skin began. Suddenly you thought that the shorts were too short, too much leg showing, too much everything. You should tell him to move his hand. 

“Are you okay?” he asked again, but you had a feeling he didn’t mean your situation with Topper as much as the situation with your bodies touching.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. 

“Good.”

Rafe didn’t know what he could blame his actions on. He didn’t have a reason in Ruthie’s bathroom, but now, he had no reason. None. You were crying to him about Topper; he wasn’t catching all your words because you were rambling more than talking, but he could’ve sworn you mentioned the word love and loving Topper about three times throughout your entire monologue. But was it his fault when you turned to meet his eyes—was it his fault when you looked at him like that?

Because you did. Because you looked like everything he'd been trying not to think about for two years, everything he'd been mean about and cruel about and dismissive about because acknowledging it would mean admitting that Topper's girlfriend was the prettiest girl Rafe had ever seen and also the one girl on this entire fucking island he couldn't have.

Your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, mascara smudged underneath that should’ve been messy but only made him think you were letting him see something more real and something nobody else got to see. Your cheeks were flushed from crying and probably the alcohol, that pink spread down your neck to your collarbone, and Rafe’s eyes followed it without permission. He cataloged and memorized it. Your lips were glossy; it was probably the lipgloss you always wore that Rafe had watched you apply about a hundred times at parties, that you reapplied obsessively like it was a nervous habit. It was now smudged at the corner from where you’d been crying and wiping your face and Rafe wanted to fix it.

Or ruin it more. He hadn’t decided. Both maybe. Fix it by ruining it. Ruining it by touching it.

Your hair was falling out of whatever you’d done to it earlier and you looked vulnerable in a way that made Rafe’s chest twist uncomfortably because he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He shouldn’t be cataloging the way your tank top had rode up slightly when you’d turned toward him, showing a strip of your skin that was rising and falling too fast. He shouldn’t be noticing that your breath was still uneven, and your chest was rising and falling too fast, and the strap of your bra was visible under your top (white, lace-edged), and Jesus Christ, he needed to fucking stop. But his hand stayed exactly where it was. 

But Rafe couldn’t stop because you were looking at him in a way he couldn’t name. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew you were looking at him with those eyes—red and wet and too wide—and your lips were parted slightly and you weren’t pulling away from his hand on your thigh and this was so fucking dangerous.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” he said through a rough chuckle.

Your throat moved when you swallowed. “Like what?”

Like you want me to kiss you. Like you’ve forgotten Topper exists. Like I’m not the worst possible person you could be alone with right now.

“You know.”

And he knew you knew. It was evident in the way your breath caught, the way your eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. He could tell in the way you didn’t pull away when his thumb moved against your thigh. He should move his hand. He should drive his truck and take you home and never be alone with you ever, ever again. He should do literally anything other than sitting here in the dark with his hand on your thigh thinking how easy it would be to slide it higher, to find out if your skin was as soft as it looked, to make you make a sound that wasn’t crying.

But you were still looking at him and not pulling away. You were sitting there with your lips parted and eyes glassy and that fucking lip gloss catching the light from the streetlamp and Rafe’s brain had officially short-circuited.

This was Topper’s girl. Topper’s perfect girlfriend who baked fucking cookies and volunteered and lead charity events and smiled at everyone. She was soft and sweet, everything Rafe wasn’t. And now you were here, in Rafe’s truck, looking at Rafe like that, and Rafe was only human. He was only twenty and fucked up and good at making horrible decisions. 

His hand moved again higher this time. Just enough to feel where denim ended and skin began. It was enough to make you inhale sharply.

“Rafe,” you said. You only said his name, and he was sure he’d heard you say it about a hundred times before, but the way you said it breathy and uncertain made every rational thought in Rafe disappear. Not stop. Not don’t. Just his name.

“I know,” he said. “We can’t. I know this is—” He stopped. His hand involuntarily tightened on your thigh. “I know.” He took in a sharp breath. “You’re crying. And you’re looking at me like that. And you’re—” He shook his head. “Fuck.”

You only looked at Rafe and he watched you try to figure out what to say, how to respond, what any of this meant.

“Rafe,” you whispered finally. “We can’t.”

“Iknow.” The words came out quickly. “I know all of it. I should move my hand and drive you home and never be alone with you again.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna.”

The words hung there. Too honest. Too raw. Rafe watched you process them, watched your face do something complicated, watched you bite your bottom lip—that nervous thing you did—and his eyes locked on your mouth.

On that lip gloss. On the way your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. On the little indent it left when you released it.

God, he wanted to kiss you. Wanted it so badly he could barely think straight. Wanted to know if you tasted like strawberries or if that was just the gloss. Wanted to know if you'd kiss him back or push him away. Wanted to know if you'd been thinking about him the way he'd been thinking about you.

Wanted to know if that moment in Ruthie's bathroom had meant something or if he'd imagined the way your breath had caught when his hands were on your hips.

“We’re gonna regret this,” you said quietly.

Oh, Rafe wasn’t sure about that part. Rafe's thumb moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Drawing a circle against your skin right where your shorts ended, right where he could feel how warm you were, how soft.

"Rafe," you breathed.

His voice came out low. Rough. "Tell me to move my hand and drive you home and I will."

“You should—”

“Not what I asked.” His eyes locked on yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rafe watched you struggle with it and watched you try to find the words, try to be good, try to do the right thing.

"I can't," you whispered finally.

And that was all Rafe needed. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. He wanted to give you time to say no, he almost needed you to say no. He wanted to give you time to remember you had a boyfriend because the time he got (two years) was enough to make him not care about your boyfriend being his best friend. You didn't pull away. 

You weren’t even breathing. He could tell because his chest had stopped moving and you’d gone completely still under his hand like a deer that didn’t know whether to run or stay.

You only sat there frozen as Rafe closed the distance between you, as his free hand came up to cup your face, as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone right where the mascara was smudged.

"Last chance," he murmured. His lips were an inch from yours. Less. "Tell me no and I'll stop." His thumb traced your cheek once, and then again. He wanted to give you time. He wanted to give you an out.

Your eyes were huge and locked on his. Rafe could see you warring with yourself and he could’ve sworn he saw the moment you made the decision, the moment you stopped fighting it.

"I don't want you to stop," you whispered.

Good. He kissed you, slow at first. Like he was testing, giving you one more second to change your mind. His hand rested on your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone because he couldn’t stop touching you. His other hand tightened on your thigh. You made a small sound, maybe it was surprise, but he hoped it was want. Your body turned further toward him, and his fingers rested between the skin of your thighs, warm and soft and fuck.

Then you kissed him back, and something horrible in Rafe snapped. His lips worked harder and his hand slid from your face into your hair—fisting it, tangling in it—tilting your head back to get a better angle, so he could kiss you better, the way he’d been thinking about for two years. You made a small, surprised sound, and Rafe swallowed it whole. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “We’re so fucked.” 

Your hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric and pulling him closer even though there was nowhere closer to go in the cab of his truck. The center console dug into his ribs but he didn’t care. He would’ve climbed over it if he could.

“Rafe—” you gasped when his lips moved to your neck. 

“Hm?” His teeth grazed your pulse point. 

“Rafe,” you said again, voice breathy and all perfect.

He hummed against your skin. “Yeah, baby?”

You shivered against him. 

“I’m sorry.” Your hands went up his back and landed on his neck, nails softly grazing against the skin under his hair. The touch was so light it almost hurt Rafe, as though you weren’t allowed. 

“Don’t.” Rafe’s lips met the corner of your jaw before he pulled back just enough to look at you. He rested his forehead against yours, breath uneven, and his hands stayed in your hair, fingers still tangled like he’d forgotten how to let go. Maybe if he held on long enough, this moment wouldn’t end and tomorrow would never come. “Don’t apologize to me. That’s not what this is.”

Your hands stilled on his neck, and the barely-there touch made all hairs on his body rise. 

“What is it?” you asked softly.

Rafe laughed once, but all humor was devoid. What was it? Fuck if he knew. A really, really good mistake. He’d wanted this so long that it didn’t even feel real now that it was happening. His thumb slid along your jaw, tilting your face back toward him so you had no choice but to meet his eyes again. “You’re upset.”

He leaned back and in, kissed you again. It was shorter this time, firmer than before, like he was reminding himself what it felt like rather than losing himself in it; he would likely never have you in this position ever again. So he memorized it, your taste and the way your mouth fit against his and the sounds you made. 

When he pulled away, his hand slid back down to your thigh, thumb pressing there, grounding both of you.

“You gotta breathe,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re one to talk.” Rafe liked your voice too much.

“Hey,” he said, voice now slightly playful. “I’m not the one crying.” He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond. “You okay?”

You nodded. 

“Good,” he said, and forced himself to pull away. Your hands stayed on his neck—fingers still curled there, warm—and he had to physically remove it. He took your wrist and gently guided your hand back to your own lap. “Because if we keep going like that, I really can’t take this back.”

He forced himself to start the truck because he wasn’t sure how true his words rang. His body felt like it was boiling about twenty emotions together at once; how could you take this back? He’d made you cross a line. He’d pulled you across it, really. The engine turned over. The headlights cut through the dark. Rafe put his truck in drive because if he sat there one more second looking at you with your swollen lips and smudged mascara and his fingerprints still visible in your hair, he was going to do something even more unforgivable than what he'd already done.

The drive to your house was silent. It was heavy and loaded with every single thing that had just happened and couldn’t happen again. Rafe kept both his hands on the wheel this time because he couldn’t trust himself to do anything else. 

You sat with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring out the passenger window, and Rafe couldn't tell if you were crying again or just thinking. Either way, he didn't ask. He didn't know what he'd say if you were. He’d have to acknowledge what he’d just done if he asked. 

Your street appeared too quickly. The familiar houses, the broken streetlight, your driveway with your parents' cars parked in it. All the normal pieces of your normal life that had nothing to do with what had just happened in Rafe's truck on some random side street.

“I should—” you started.

“Yup.”

You reached for the door handle. Stopped. Your hand just rested there on the metal, not pulling, not opening. “This didn’t happen?” 

“Okay.” He kept his eyes on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling a hundred times smaller. “Didn’t happen.”

“We can’t—this can’t happen again.” 

“I know that. So go inside.” His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Text Topper. Tell him you got home safe. Forget about this.”

“Will you forget about it?” 

No. Absolutely fucking not. He’d probably remember this for the rest of his life; he’d remember the way you tasted, the sound you made, the way you’d kissed him back. He’d remember all of it and it’d torture him everytime he saw you with Topper, every single fucking time he had to pretend this never happened, every time he had to be Topper’s best friend and not the guy who’d kissed his girlfriend in a parked truck after she cried. 

“Yeah,” Rafe said, nodding. “I’ll forget about it.” For some reason, the lie tasted worse on his tongue than the truth would’ve.

You stared at him for a long moment before opening the door. You climbed out onto the sidewalk, and Rafe watched you smooth down your shorts, fix your hair, try to put yourself back together into the girl you'd been before you got in his truck. You leaned in before closing the door. “Thank you,” you said. “For the ride and listening and—” You stopped yourself. “Just thank you.”

Rafe nodded once, sharply. You turned away from him and went inside. He sat there for a long time. Staring at your dark house. Trying to process what he'd just done. Trying to figure out how he was supposed to look Topper in the face tomorrow knowing that he'd had his hands in your hair and his mouth on yours and you'd kissed him back.

His phone buzzed.

Topper: she get home okay?

Rafe stared at the text. His best friend's name on the screen. At the trust implicit in that question, the assumption that Rafe had done exactly what he'd been asked to do and nothing more.

yeah, he typed back. got her home safe.

you’re on the floor in front of him and not because he told you to be. because this is where you end up when he comes back like this. broken hands. unfocused eyes. that hollow, distant gaze that means he’s already halfway gone again.

there’s a bowl of water by your knee, gone faintly pinkish; you press the cotton to his knuckles: gentle, precise, the way you have learned to be. you don’t ask questions, you know better by now

his eyes drift over you without even settling, just like he’s looking through glass. and you wonder, not for the first time, if this is how he sees you too–something useful that doesn’t demand to be noticed.

you finish cleaning his knuckles when you suddenly stop, your fingers hovering,unsure what to do next. there’s always a small, fragile space where you could ask him to stay,to choose…to name whatever this is. you never take it

because you already know how this ends: you nodding, him pulling you in his lap, with the relief of not being rejected outright.

so yes, loving rafe, has taught you that sometimes survival looks like silence.

when he finally looks at you, eyes glassy and unreadable, his hands find your waist. not rough but not gentle, just enough to claim. he pulls you up besides him and you go, so easily, folding into his side like you’ve practiced this shape for years

his heartbeat is fast against your ear. still, you count it; counting feels like control, like you still get him. like you ever did.

three years of this and you still don’t know what to call yourself. not his girlfriend, not nothing tho, just something that belongs to him when he needs it.

you start thinking about the way he introduces you–if he introduces you at all– about the pause before he speaks, about the words he chooses because they cost him nothing. “you’re my girl” like that should be enough to keep you there

truth is, you’ve bent yourself–without him asking–into something easy to hold, something that doesn’t want change or improvement. you’ve lied to yourself that love doesn’t need a name, doesn’t need daylight, doesn’t need witnesses. doesn’t need proof… but lying here you realize that you’ve done everything for him that doesn’t require him to do anything back. you close your eyes and stay still, afraid that if you move even a little he will realize you’re there and perhaps leave. and him leaving and realizing that you are you would hurt more than being alone

five months later and the ache hasn’t softened, but its quiet inside you now. you broke it off with rafe after that night. not dramatically, not in a final, cinematic confession that would be with him forever–you just told him you were done.

he said your name once like it was supposed to change something, to pull you back. it didn’t. you left him and didn’t talk to him after that. not even when he texted a vague “you okay?”, not when he called late at night.

that felt like watching someone else do something brave in a movie. and you didn’t exactly get better but, at least your not a stupid bitch anymore.

you go to work now, ou come home. you make dinner for one and eat it standing up half the time because sitting down reminds you too much of shared space. you sleep on one side of the bed even though there’s no reason to anymore. habits outlive people.

some nights you lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying that last conversation—not because you regret it, but because you keep waiting for the part where it suddenly hurts less it never does.

your friend say you’re doing better. they say it like it’s a fact, like they can measure healing by how often you go out or how rarely you bring him up. they say you look lighter. freer. they say they’re proud of you for finally choosing yourself.

you smile, ou nod. you don’t tell them that choosing yourself doesn’t feel like winning—it feels like surviving a shipwreck and washing up on shore alone, shaking, staring out at the water where everything you loved sank.

you don’t miss the chaos. you don’t miss the way your stomach used to twist every time your phone buzzed. you don’t miss the nights you spent cleaning blood off his hands or waiting for the sound of his car in the driveway or wondering if this time he’d gone too far to come back. you don’t miss the way your love felt like a resource he could drain endlessly without ever asking how much you had left.

but you miss him in ways that don’t make sense. you miss the version of him that only existed in small, private moments—the one who laughed softly into your neck, who let his guard down just enough to feel human, who looked at you like you were the only steady thing in a world that scared him. you miss the intimacy of being needed, even when that need was built on something broken.

you hate yourself a little for that. five months later, you still catch yourself translating your life into a language he would understand.

you still think he’d like this song when it comes on the radio. still instinctively glance at your phone when something goes wrong, wanting to tell him before you remember he’s no longer someone you can lean on. still wonder, sometimes, if he ever realized what he lost—or if losing you felt like just another inconvenience in a life full of them.

there are nights you dream about him.

not dramatic dreams. not fights or reconciliations or grand gestures. just ordinary ones. you’re sitting together on a couch. you’re brushing your teeth side by side. he says your name. you wake up with your heart pounding, grief settling in your throat before your eyes even open.

you don’t cry like you used to.

the tears dried up somewhere along the way, replaced by a constant pressure that never quite lifts. it’s not the devastation of heartbreak anymore—it’s like carrying a weight you’ve learned not to talk about because no one wants to hear how long it’s been.

five months feels like too long to still be hurting this much.

you replay that last night often—the way you knelt in front of him, the way you cleaned his hands, the way you folded yourself into him like you belonged there. you see yourself now and feel a complicated mix of tenderness and anger.

you want to reach back through time and shake yourself. ou want to tell her she deserved more. you want to tell her that love shouldn’t feel like erasing yourself slowly and calling it devotion.

but you also understand her. she loved him in the only way she knew how. fully. recklessly. without a safety net. she believed that if she gave enough, if she stayed long enough, if she proved herself indispensable, eventually he would choose her.

that belief doesn’t disappear overnight. it lingers. it asks dangerous questions when you’re lonely.

what if you left too soon? what if he was finally going to change? what if you were the problem for wanting more?

you’re learning how to argue back.imperfectly. some days you win. some days you don’t.

five months later, you’ve started noticing the space where he used to be. it’s uncomfortable, but it’s yours now. you make decisions without checking how they’ll affect him. you say no without explaining yourself. you let yourself want things again—small things at first. a quiet morning. a stable night. a relationship that doesn’t feel like a test you keep failing.

you’re still lonely. loneliness is honest about what it is. it doesn’t pretend to be love.

sometimes you wonder what he tells people now. if he tells them you left. if he says it was mutual. if he shrugs and says it just didn’t work out.

you wonder if he ever tells the truth—that there was someone who loved him deeply and left because loving him was slowly killing her

five months later, you’re not healed. but you’re awake; you’re no longer waiting for him to choose you, you’re no longer shrinking yourself to fit inside someone else’s chaos, you’re no longer confusing endurance with love.

ome nights, that feels like freedom. other nights, it feels like grief with better posture.

you stand in your small kitchen, late at night, washing a single glass. the water runs too hot. the window is cracked open and the city hums outside, indifferent and alive. you catch your reflection in the dark glass—tired eyes, steadier hands, a face that looks older in a way that feels earned.

you think about how much you gave. how much it cost you, how brave it was to finally stop.

you didn’t get better. but you got out.

months after you left, the loneliness finally finds him.

not all at once. it doesn’t hit him the way consequences usually do—loud, explosive, undeniable. it settles into him slowly, like damp creeping into walls he swore were solid. two months after you’re gone, something in his life goes wrong in a way that should be familiar, and for the first time, there is no you to absorb the impact.

that’s when it starts.

it’s a thursday. nothing special about it. the kind of day that used to end with him at your place without planning to be there. the kind of night where he’d show up unannounced, knuckles split or head buzzing or chest too tight to breathe, and you’d open the door like you were waiting—even when you weren’t.

only now, there’s no door to knock on. he’s sitting alone in his truck, engine still running, phone in his hand. he doesn’t know why he drove to your old street. muscle memory, maybe. instinct. some part of him still expecting the world to arrange itself the way it always did.

your building looks different without you in it. that realization hits harder than he expects.

he scrolls through his phone without really seeing anything. your name is still there. he never deleted it. never blocked you. he told himself he wasn’t ready, that it didn’t mean anything, that you’d talk again when things cooled off.

but things didn’t cool off, they hollowed out.

he thinks about calling you. the thought comes easily. it always has. you were the easiest thing in his life. the one person who never made him explain himself, never demanded clarity he didn’t have, never asked him to be better—just present.

he doesn’t call. for the first time, it isn’t because he’s distracted or high or angry. it’s because he’s afraid you won’t answer.

that fear is new. it lodges itself somewhere deep, and it stays.

two months after you leave, he starts waking up alone in a way that feels wrong. not empty—wrong. like something is missing that was supposed to be there. he rolls over out of habit, arm reaching for warmth, for the familiar weight of you tucked into his side, quiet and patient and real.

the bed stays cold. he tells himself it’s fine. tells himself he wanted space. tells himself he never asked you to stay as long as you did. tells himself he never promised anything.

but the silence doesn’t care about logic.

the silence is brutal. it doesn’t fight him. it doesn’t scream. it just exists, unmovable, a constant reminder that someone used to be there and isn’t anymore.

you used to soften the edges of his life without him noticing. now every edge is sharp.

he starts noticing small things first. the way the apartment stays messy longer because no one quietly cleans around him. the way food goes bad in the fridge because no one thinks ahead.

the way his hands ache after a fight and there’s no bowl of warm water waiting.

he tells himself he misses convenience, it takes longer to admit he misses care.

three months in, he relapses harder. not because of you—but without you, there’s nothing buffering the fall. no soft place to land. no one sitting on the floor in front of him, steady and calm, reminding him that he’s still human even when he hates himself.

he wakes up one morning with dried blood on his knuckles and no memory of how it got there and for the first time, there’s no one to clean it.

he stares at his hands longer than necessary. something twists in his chest. something close to panic

you used to make this part easier. that thought scares him more than the pain.

four months after you leave, he starts thinking about the question. not the one you asked out loud—but the one you never got an answer to.

it surfaces late at night, when the distractions wear thin and he’s left alone with his thoughts. when he’s sober enough to feel but too tired to run

why wasn’t she enough?

he hates that question because it implies fault. because it suggests he had a choice and made the wrong one. because it drags something uncomfortably close to accountabilit

so he reframes it. why did she need more?

that version feels safer. easier. familiar..but it doesn’t stick

because underneath it, quieter but more persistent, is the one he can’t shake: why wouldn’t i do it for her?

he remembers the way you looked at him sometimes—not angry, not demanding, just… waiting. like you were standing in front of a door you’d been knocking on for years, hoping one day he’d open it without you having to ask.

he remembers how gently you asked. how carefully. how you made wanting more sound like an apology.

that memory makes his chest tighten in a way substances can’t numb.

five months after you leave, he realizes something that devastates him in its simplicity: you didn’t leave because you stopped loving him. you left because you loved him enough to stop disappearing for him.

that realization lands heavy, bone-deep. it doesn’t fade. it becomes part of him.

he thinks about all the moments he brushed past your needs because they made him uncomfortable. all the times he told himself labels didn’t matter because they mattered to you, not him. all the ways he took your patience as proof you’d never go anywhere.

he remembers saying you’re my girl like it was a gift. he understands now how small that must have felt.

meanwhile, you’re still learning how to live in the aftermath.

six months in, the grief has texture. layers. it shows up differently depending on the day. some mornings you wake up and forget him for a full minute, and that minute feels like progress and betrayal all at once.

some nights you miss him so sharply it steals your breath.

but even then—even in the missing—you notice something else. you don’t feel humiliated anymore, you don’t feel like you’re waiting to be chosen. you don’t feel like love is something you have to earn by enduring.

that matters. you still think about him, but the thoughts have changed shape. they’re less desperate, less pleading. more reflective. more honest.

you see the relationship now with clarity you didn’t have inside it. you see how much emotional labor you carried. how much you excused. how much you convinced yourself was normal because you wanted it to be lov

some days, you feel angry for the first time. not explosive anger—clean anger. the kind that says i deserved better and doesn’t immediately apologize for it.

you wonder sometimes if he’s realized it yet, f he’s felt the absence the way you did while you were still ther, if the silence has taught him anything.

that’s the difference now. he sits with the questions, you sit with the answers.

and somewhere in that distance—wide, painful, irreversible—you both finally understand what the other meant.

only one of you had the courage to leave when understanding arrived

so now… a year later, you run into him by accident. your laughing when you see him, that’s the part that will haunt you later.

you’re standing outside a coffee shop you go to too often, your boyfriend inside paying, arguing with the barista about oat milk versus almond milk. and then you look up.

rafe is across the street. for a second, your brain refuses to place him. not because you’ve forgotten his face, but because the version of him standing there doesn’t match the one you’ve carried in your head for a year. this rafe looks thinner. not in a good way. his shoulders slope forward like gravity finally won. his hair is longer, messier, like he stopped caring how it looks—or stopped believing it mattered.

he looks… emptied out. when his eyes find yours, something in him breaks so subtly you almost miss it. almost.

the world narrows to that moment. the traffic noise dulls. the city blurs. it feels like stepping through a membrane you didn’t realize was still there—thin, fragile, separating who you were from who you are now.

he doesn’t smile, he just stares.

the look on his face is not anger. not resentment. not even shock. it’s devastation in its purest form—quiet, stunned,. like he’s just realized the fire burned the house down and there’s nothing left to search through.

you feel it in your chest, sharp and immediate.

not longing: recognition. this is what he looks like without you.

he starts to walk toward you without thinking, like his body remembers before his mind can interfere. each step looks heavy, uncertain, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

you don’t move–your heart is pounding, but your feet stay planted. you tell yourself you’re allowed to exist here. that you don’t owe him disappearance.

“hey,” he says when he reaches you. his voice is rougher than you remember. worn down. like it’s been scraped against too many nights alone.

“hey,” you answer. it feels strange saying it. familiar and foreign at the same time. like trying on a name you used to answer to.

up close, it’s worse. the lines around his eyes are deeper. his gaze is restless, searching your face like he’s trying to read a story he knows he missed chapters of. his hands hang uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they don’t know what they’re supposed to do anymore.

he looks at you like you’re real proof of something he’s been denying for months “you—” he starts, then stops.

he swallows. nods to himself. tries again “you look… good.”

you do. that’s the cruelest part. you’re healthier. steadier. there’s color in your face. you’re not holding yourself like you’re bracing for impact. you’re not folded inward, not apologizing with your posture

you got free.

“thanks,” you say softly. there’s a pause. a thick, awkward stretch of air where a thousand things could be said and none of them feel survivable.

his eyes flick past you then, distracted, and land on your boyfriend stepping back outside.

your boyfriend slides easily into your space, hand settling at the small of your back. casual. unthinking. protective without being possessive. he presses a quick kiss to your temple before handing you your drink.

rafe watches the entire thing like it’s happening underwater. slow. distorted in a way he can’t stop.

“sorry,” your boyfriend says to you, smiling. “they were out of—” he trails off when he notices rafe. polite confusion crossing his face. “oh. hey.”

you turn slightly, the movement instinctive, your body angling toward the life you have now “this is rafe,” you say.

you don’t say we used to anything, you don’t say he was anything. you just say his name.

“i’m—” your boyfriend starts, then offers a hand. “nice to meet you.”

rafe stares at the hand like it’s an insult then he looks back at you..really looks.

and something in his eyes finally collapses. understanding floods his face—too late, irreversible. this is what the year has done. this is the consequence he couldn’t feel until it had a shape. until it was standing in front of him, alive, loved, belonging to someone else.

“your—” his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. “your boyfriend?”

you nod once. that single motion seems to take the last of the air out of his lungs.

he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. it’s the sound of someone realizing the door didn’t just close—it locked “yeah,” he says, mostly to himself. “of course.”

your boyfriend squeezes your hand, sensing the shift even if he doesn’t understand it. “we should head out,” he murmurs to you. not jealous. just aware.

you hesitate just for a second, long enough to see rafe’s eyes flicker with something desperate and hopeful all at once.

long enough to remember the nights you spent waiting for him to choose you.

he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something important, something final, something that might change everything.

you don’t know what it is, you don’t know if you’re strong enough to hear it.

and the way he’s looking at you—tired, hollow, devastated, like he’s staring at the ghost of the only thing that ever made him feel human—you realize with a sick, sinking certainty: this meeting means more to him than it ever should have.

and you don’t yet know whether walking away now will save you—or destroy him.

tags @rafesbabygirlxx @prettytheyswag @pittsick @rottenstyx @aliluvssyou @fiercescourgesanctuary @ijustwanttoreadlols @drewluvvr @maybankslover @qversazex @daddyrafeslittleslut @rosetintmworld @icebearcucumber @littlelamy @imliterallysocoolfr @l0v31e @beabogsims @ficslandia @vanessa-rafesgirl @sydneysslove @fleintur to get tagged