mmirx

“Why are you just standing here? We know you’re a loser, but stalking us, isn’t cute.”

Your face turns a bright shade of red, your fingers fumbling around as you try and make it to the counter of the restaurant you’re in.

“Can I please just pick up my food?” you mumble, trying to push forward, but a large hand stops you, gripping onto your upper arm a little too tight.

Someone scoffs. “No, I don’t think we’re in the mood to let you just go-”

The words die on the boys tongue, a gasp falling from your lips as he’s harshly yanked from you. Your wide eyes turn to find the last person you expected to see coming to defend you.

Ryan Atwood.

You’d met him once before, at a party whenever he’d first moved to the OC. He lived in one of the big houses in Pelican Cove, taken in by the Cohen family, Ryan had it made.

That is… if he could stay out of trouble, but right now… he’s getting himself into big trouble.

“Ryan, stop!” you shout, gripping the back of his white tank top, trying, but failing, to pull him back.

Ryan shrugs you off, tossing another punch into the jaw of the boy who’d gripped your upper arm, blood now pouring from his nose and mouth.

You pull at Ryan’s arm again, but he’s officially in a rage blackout.

Turning, you find Seth, standing and watching Ryan with wide eyes and slightly parted lips.

Seth was Ryan’s “brother”, but also the only person you’d seen Ryan fight like this for… until now.

Now, he’s fighting for you.

“Seth, do something!” you shout, your eyes pleading with him.

Seth stutters at first, but eventually shakes it off and grabs Ryan by the arm, pulling him back and saying, “Ry, come on, man! Dad’s going to freak if you get arrested again, stop!”

That seems to pull Ryan out of the rage he’d fallen into, his fist stopping mid-air. His chest heaves, nostrils flared as he turns his head to look at you. His blue eyes shine with regret, but also pity for you.

You hate that look.

The look of pity, you don’t ever want anyone to pity you.

Ryan drops the kid, his limp body hitting the ground with a thud that makes you cringe.

“Ryan..” you whisper, reaching out to touch his now raw and bleeding knuckles.

He flinches back, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans as his eyes stay locked on yours.

Your brow furrows, unsure of what was on his mind.

“Ry-”

“Don’t mention it, you just reminded me of Seth is all, I’d do it for anyone that needed it.” Ryan quickly interjects.

The sound of police sirens begin to blare outside of the restaurant, everyone inside staring at you, Ryan and Seth.

Seth’s eyes grow wider and he grabs Ryan’s wrist, yanking him towards the back door.

“Ryan, we gotta go man!”

Ryan doesn’t break eye contact with you, the look he was giving you confusing you all that much more.

“I’ll see you around.” Ryan rasps, finally breaking his eyes from yours.

“Yeah… I’ll see you.” you whisper back, watching as he runs out the back door with Seth hot on his heels.

As Ryan disappears out the back, you can’t help but fall into the booth beside you, your mind running rampant with thoughts.

Do you have feelings for Ryan? Does Ryan feel for you more than he lets on?

You’d met him at a party once. The two of you have exchanged a ‘Hey’ here or a ‘Bye’ there, but you’ve never really hung out together outside of that first night you’d ever met him.

So why did Ryan just do that for you? Knowing that his reputation doesn’t need anymore blemishes on it. Sandy has been urging him to do better. So why would Ryan risk so much to defend you?

A tap on your shoulder rips you from your thoughts, a police officer standing directly in front of you.

“Miss? Do you know who did this to him?” the cop asks, gesturing to the badly beaten boy behind them.

Your eyes flit to his limp form, chewing on your bottom lip as you debate being honest, or protecting Ryan.

Finally deciding, your eyes lock on the cops again as you say, “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t really see much around the crowd. I just heard the yelling, but that’s it.”

The police officers eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push it with you much more, moving on to question the next person.

You’re not sure why you lied, all you know is, you need to figure out how you feel about Ryan, but more importantly, how he truly feels about you.

Spare him some grace. It's Saturday, he's kids' free this weekend and has all the time in the world to relax, he made sure to leave everything arranged and tied up to not be bothered for just two days. And we already know what he's going to be doing: golfing.

That man loves it. He loves spending his time on the green grass, a beer on his hand and Topper talking his ear off about his wife. Yeah, he can't picture a better weekend.

Goddamn, he's old.

But the ritual starts with a couple of drinks still at the club house, they drink some whiskey while waiting for Kelce (that man is not married and doesn't have kids, why is he late to everything?), something sour and potent that gets them going on for the next few hours of golfing.

That's when he sees it.

When he sees you, more specifically.

It's not like he hasn't seen you at the country club before. You don't exactly love it but you step inside once in a while with your friends when you need to disconnect and you have nowhere else to go. Rafe usually just walks behind you, teases you a little bit to ruin your evening and then goes off and doesn't bother you again for the rest of the day. Just enough to get on your nerves and to give him his dosis of you he won't admit he needs.

He doesn't question where the hell are the kids, he couldn't be worried about that right now because what he's watching is definitely far more important.

You, at the outside tables, sitting down with a man he doesn't know (he expects to know everyone on the island) and just talking so much. What could you possibly be talking about? Are you on a date? Is this guy new? Did he just moved here?

He feels like he has seen the guy before, he doesn't know from where exactly. Maybe he's a tourist, they all look the same and maybe you got hooked with the man while he spends his days here.

But you wouldn't do that, play the summer love for two weeks before he takes off. I mean, you wouldn't. Right?

But for fuck's sake, apparently he doesn't know you anymore!

Because while Rafe's gripping his glass, he stopped hearing his friend talking a long time ago, this... nobody is showing you something on his phone. And you actually lean in, so fucking interested.

What the hell is that about?

"Man, give it a break." Topper said once he noticed where Rafe's eyes (and ears) had wandered off to.

"To what?" Rafe snaps, turning toward him with that particular frown— the one that settles deep, the one he wears whenever he realizes he’s surrounded by idiots. We all know which frown.

Topper doesn't say anything, just give him a knowing look. "What is your problem?" He groaned.

"Don't start." Rafe warned, not moving his eyes.

Topper rolled his eyes, they had this conversation more times that he can count. "Man, she's on a date." He said, not even bothering to actually pay attention to who you're with.

"She's not on a date." Rafe said again, eyes fixated on you.

"Well, it fucking looks like one." Topper snorted, taking another sip from his whiskey. Unbothered.

"I'm telling you, it's not." He clarified again. Could it also be self-convincing? Maybe, yeah.

Topper lets out an amused laugh. Is this guy for real? “Then what do you call that? A parent-teacher conference?” He makes sure to tease Rafe, he never gets the chance to do this. Rafe isn't in this position often, he's gotta take it.

Rafe finally looks at him, that sharp glare that’s supposed to shut people up but it clearly doesn't work with his friend. “You done?” He asked tiredly.

"Not even close." Topper chuckled.

Rafe looks at him, jaw tight, that kind of glare that should say everything— shut up before I lose it. But Topper’s used to this; he’s seen it too many times: Rafe spiraling at the sight of you just existing too close another man. All Topper wanted to avoid was a moody Rafe just because he saw you breathing near another human being that wasn't him. This was supposed to be a nice day.

Rafe doesn't have much time to think about it before Kelce arrives in a rush. He doesn't need much explanation; Topper raises his eyebrows to Kelce, nodding discreetly with his head to where you were at.

You still don't feel Rafe's eyes, which is something that he notices you do now. Maybe he stopped having that effect.

Kelce huffs out a quiet laugh and drops two heavy hands on Rafe’s shoulders, shaking him just enough to pull his eyes away from you. “Let’s go, man. I came here to golf." He said, leaning against Rafe after he downed his last bit of whiskey in one go as a distraction.

Rafe clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The burn of the alcohol doesn't do enough, shrugging off the other hands from him as he followed his friends outside. "The fuck you think I'm doing?" He muttered already with a different tone. Low, annoyed and just so goddamn irritated.

Jesus, this really can get on his nerves.

“Exactly,” Topper says dryly, pushing him forward. “C’mon.”

Not much was said about it after that, Rafe didn't want the situation to be mentioned. The moment Kelce makes the mistake of saying, “That looked cozy,” Rafe shoots him a look sharp enough to kill whatever was left of the conversation. He made it clear.

So they leave it there.

It didn't go any further. He didn't allowed himself to feel anything more. He wasn't going to ruin his weekend because of this (even tho it most definitely is). He’s not thinking about his ex-wife, or the stack of paperwork waiting for him on Monday, or the history test Olivia’s going to need help with.

He just needs to get laid.

-

It's been more than a week. Ten days of Rafe pretending he didn't see what he saw, that's stupid day at the country club, that guy. But he clearly did and he has a hard time forgetting it, he has a hard time forgetting you, in general.

And here he is now. He moved on, he has things to do. He can't just... stay thinking about you with that lowlife, whoever that might be.

But universe has a funny way of communicating, he was always so reluctant about signs in life.

But that's when he spots you. Here's coming out of a small estate office in the center of Outer Banks, sunglasses low on his nose as he checks his phone while walking next to a contractor, talking about one of the oceanfront builds. Always, so eloquent and multitasking like he has a little spectator meticulously reading every single second of life.

He's not performative but he does feel like he needs to cut the scene and ask for a break when he looks up and sees you again. His words just... die on the edge of his tongue, everything he might say suddenly seemed unimportant.

You’re across the street, outside that little café that smells like citrus fruits and sunscreen, sitting at one of the metal tables under an umbrella. The kind of place you always liked to go on a boring Sunday evening. The same guy from the club is there. Button-down, open laptop, coffee half-empty beside him and Rafe is now noticing a mustache resting above the man's lips.

A mustache?

You’re both leaning toward the screen, looking at something together. You’re not laughing, you got the focused look that often brought you headaches. Your mouth moves while your hand points something out on the screen, and he nods, typing whatever you're saying.

Something professional, probably. Something harmless.

But Rafe still feels that spark of irritation, right under his ribs, like an itch he can't reach to scratch. Even if it's not harmless he shouldn't care, and even if he does care, it's none of his business.

That is what always kicks him right on the ego, right on the balls and takes away all the pride he ever got on been a part of your life. But like the man he is supposed to be, he sucks it up and looks away.

...Yeah.

You don't believe that actually happened, right?

The contractor’s still talking —something about timelines, permits, whatever. He doesn't care right now— and Rafe mutters a distracted “yeah, sure” before crossing the street, not without murmuring something that resembled a quick goodbye.

He doesn’t have a plan. He’s just... walking.

By the time he’s close enough to see you properly, his heartbeat’s already faster than it should be because he feels like a teenager again. He stops by a parked truck, something tall enough that can actually cover him. He leans against the door like he’s checking his phone. From there, he can see you. He can almost hear.

Almost. If the universe didn't hate him as much as it does.

But the music coming from the café is too loud, the cars around the place and the people walking make it impossible for Rafe to actually get a single coherent word out of your conversation. He catches fragments— your voice, the man’s deeper one, the clack of the keyboard. He can’t make out the words, and that only makes it worse.

You're talking about something important, he knows it by the way you're gesticulating so much with your hands. He always loved it. You do it to indicate depth, flatness, character or lackness of it. Anything, you say it with your hands.

He pretends to adjust his sunglasses when he feel like someone might be paying attention to him.

What the fuck are you doing, Rafe? Stalking? He thinks.

The man laughs at something you said. And he can't help it, he knows this guy from somewhere. Was he someone you worked with? A parent from school he forgot about? Who the hell is this guy?

His laugh isn't flirty, he figures that much. It's easy, the one you naturally get out of people with a simple snap of your charming fingers.

You work in showbusiness, after all.

Rafe groans anyways. He's not going to hide what he really thinks to himself. "Asshole." He mutters.

He pushes off the truck and walks away before he can do something stupid, a new thing he learned how to do. Self-control. His footsteps are heavy on the concrete, echoing too loud in his head as he tries to turn off the sound of that man's laugh, the fact that you can charm someone so easily...

He doesn’t look back, he forces himself not to do it. He's already self-destructive as it is.

By the time he reaches his car, he’s already telling himself it didn’t mean anything. That you’re not his business. That you can talk to whoever you want. That his head isn't pounding because of this.

He’s fine.

He’s so fine.

But when he gets behind the wheel, he just sits there for a minute, he lingers— jaw tight, thumb tapping against the steering wheel. He scratches his jaw with a stiff hand, the nervous gesture he always carried around.

And he wants to ask. So badly. But he can't do that anymore.

So he drives off, dragging a heavy heart with chains around it.

-

But the real last drop of a full glass was when he saw you again— an exact week later.

Rafe’s sitting at the traffic light, one arm hanging lazily out the open window, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion in his eyes. The engine hums under his palm as he drums absentmindedly against the steering wheel. It’s been a long day— too long for what his mind has been lately. He’s been running on caffeine and muscle memory since morning: meetings, calls, pickup, drop-off. He just left Parker at his hockey practice like he does all Thursdays no matter who the kids are with and thought he’d use the couple hours of quiet to catch up on errands, maybe breathe for a second.

That's when he sees it.

Rafe doesn't know what these situations might mean but he knows he's done. He’s halfway through a yawn when his gaze shifts to the row of shops on his left, a movement out of boredom, just a casual glance until the breath catches in his throat.

There you are.

And he doesn't need to do a double check, his eyes are x-rays when it comes to you. He could recognize your figure, your hair, the colour of your goddamn aura from miles away.

At a fucking jewelry store.

And of course, of course, he’s there too. The same man.

For a second, Rafe forgets to breathe. His hand tightens around the steering wheel as he watches through the glass storefront. You’re standing side by side, close but not touching, and yet there’s something about it that feels intimate. Or perhaps everything feels intimate for Rafe when he hasn't been close to you in so long now.

You’re looking at the displays, expression soft but uncertain. He’s saying something— Rafe can tell by the way his hand moves, by how you look up at him and then back at the glass. You don't look so convinced, that soft frown that you sometimes tend to use like the most expensive accessory is decorating your face. You have that sharp, analyzing look in your eyes that reminded him of darker times.

He's right next to you. Watching with you, leaning when he points at something he wants to show you. Your eyes light up just a tiny bit. A tiny smile.

And his pulse kicks.

Is this man going to buy you something? Why else would you be at a jewelry store together? A ring? A necklace? Something that’ll rest against your skin where Rafe’s hands used to be?

He can’t think straight, the image alone has him already thinking of a million destructive scenarios where he ends up killing himself.

Well...

His mind spirals, feeding on every possibility like it’s poison he can’t stop drinking.

Maybe it’s for work. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Maybe he’s overreacting. And he's not going to get in a vicious cycle of thinking he shouldn't even be overreacting in the first place, because we all know he's going to do it anyways.

HONK!

A horn explodes behind him, shattering the stillness and bringing him back to the reality he should be in.

Rafe flinches, blinking hard as if waking up from a dream. The light’s been green for who knows how long. He mutters a curse, "Shit..." Shifts into drive, and pulls forward.

He doesn’t look again. He doesn’t have to and doesn't want to. The image is already seared into him— the way you stood in that golden light, the man beside you, the jewelry sparkling between you like the promise he’ll never make again.

He's afraid to look back, he always has been. Rafe always had the feeling that his life always looked better in the rearview, already too far away for him to go back into it. So, he doesn't look back, he keeps his head steady on the road in front of him.

But the picture pulses painfully at the back of his mind, that same wound that won't close and he was the one who caused it and the one to open it again and again.

So, if it's already open and bleeding, might as well make it sting. That's why he does the thing he hasn't done in years: go out in the middle of the week.

He stopped doing it even before being a father, he just got too tired for it but he has two irresponsible friends that can't manage their own lives, so the invitation that always ricochets with rejection is actually being taken today.

Fuck it, he needs a distraction.

He's already regretting it by the time he steps out of his car. He feels so old, surrounded by all these people he once was back when he was 21 and was fucking incoherent all the time. I mean, that's kind of the point of that age, but these scum are all past the age of twenty-five.

Maybe he was a young father but at least he was classy, goddamn.

Rafe doesn’t even remember whose place it is. Someone who's new money that probably won't last long if they keep betting in the casino but he couldn't care less. It's loud and forgettable.

There’s a drink in his hand, the third one maybe, but it’s not doing what it’s supposed to, the usual whiskey feels like a common enemy right now when nothing works. He’s trying —he’s been trying since the afternoon— but his head keeps going back to that café. To you.

The jewelry store, the guy, the way you guys were deciding about something together. And it was something important by the look in your eyes, he knows that much.

You were focused, with a mission, you were where you wanted.

He groans internally, takes another hard sip and tells himself to let it go.

“Rafe.”

He turns, slow. It’s a girl— blonde, familiar in the way every island girl is after enough parties, younger. He doesn't exactly know her. He hasn't slept with her, yet. By the many times they had met at parties over the past few months, she makes sure to know she wants it.

Rafe can't remember her name for the life of him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Cameron.” The girl says, tone light, voice already competing with the music.

“Yeah.” He mutters, not looking at her like he should if he wanted something. “Didn’t think I’d come.”

"But you're here." But she's confident. Something he likes. She's objectively pretty, not really his type but his type has been fluctuating the longer away from you he is. “You’ve been standing here for, like, twenty minutes,” She says, smiling up at him like that's going to do something. “You good?”

He nods, once and stiff. “Yeah.” He forces a smile, polite but empty.

“You don’t look it.”

She steps closer, close enough that he can smell the mix of her perfume and the ocean outside. Her hand finds his arm, and she leans in, all confidence and warmth. “You could at least pretend to be having fun.”

Rafe chuckles, trying to hurry the alcohol in his veins to have some actual effect on him. “I’m trying.” He concedes.

She laughs again, as if she knows him. She probably think she does. “Not hard enough.”

From across the room, Kelce catches the situation in between his eyes and he literally sighed in relief. Finally, he's back, he thinks. Listen, it's not like he thinks Rafe lost all his game and he knows he... has sex but he's definitely not what it used to be.

Not even what he used to be a year ago, he was a savage back then. Rafe would get with anything and anyone that was good enough just in order to get some.

Rafe hums a response again while he watches her. She leans in, not closer, just resting her comfortably on the bar they're talking at.

“So... you come here often?” She asks, teasing a little.

He huffs a laugh, an actual. He can't deny he's amused by the girl's attitude. “That line works better when I’m the one saying it.” He tilted his head as he looks down at the girl.

“Oh?” She grins. “Then say it.”

It's not a secret what people think of him here, apparently being an actual father is a turn on for some of these girls.

So, he should say it. He really should. Rafe hesitates a little bit, just a few seconds that said nothing for anyone else that wasn't him. It already revealed him too much.

She laughs— loud enough to show she wants him to notice. He does. He really does. He even shifts a little closer, lowering his voice the way he knows always works.

“You here alone?” He says instead.

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you… actually flirting with me right now?” Rafe knows he's a tough crowd, he's never been explicitly rude to any girl he flirts with but he's definitely strict sometimes. People like it, they keep coming up to him.

He takes another sip of his drink, it's not cold enough and the fact doesn't help. He's not cold enough for the situation, he shouldn't care. He should just do it. “Trying to,” He admits with a quick half-smile. "How’m I doing?”

She steps closer— just enough that he feels the heat of her body. “Honestly? You’re doing fine.”

He should enjoy this. This is exactly the kind of setup he usually takes advantage of: easy, simple, no strings. This is what he started doing after the divorce, nothing he has ever really enjoyed.

And this girl really wants him.

But... call him a simp, clingy, needy, whatever you want but this man really enjoyed going out to parties just to be completely glued to your side the entire night and then go home to be just as glued. That used to be his idea of having fun. He loved showing you off, knowing he had it so good that no one could come even close to what you two had. He did that shit for years.

Now, he has this... whatever this is.

She then starts talking, just the typical small talk that should get anyone hooked enough for a night of pleasure. But while she’s doing it, he catches himself drifting— replaying that stupid image from earlier, you leaning over some guy’s arm, smiling at something he showed you in the store. He doesn’t even remember the girl’s question until she touches his arm.

“You okay?” She asks gently.

Rafe snaps back, like the way he does when he drifts off in a meeting after a long day. “Yeah, sorry..." He cleared his throat. "Zoned out.”

The girl is obviously an expert, she sees the opportunity right in front of her and she takes it. He should appreciate the fact that she's doing all the work. “You wanna get out of here? We can—”

But he can't.

"No, sorry."

She blinks, staring up at him like he just slapped her across the face with a freezing hand. And his cold demeanor might as well match it. He's not there, he knows. He didn't even want to be here in the first place.

He just wanted to forget about you, about what he saw and about the fact he knows he won't get to be like that with you ever again. The fact is haunting, insisting and overwhelming. It gets him in the most inconvenient moments, maybe it's the purpose of it: make him feel uncomfortable, to regret what he did.

And he does.

Oh, he so does.

"You were literally just flirting with me—" The blonde girl, an expensive necklace hanging from her neck reminding him about what you could've gotten that evening with that man.

"Yeah, I know." Rafe groans, rubbing a hand on his temple as a sudden headache hits him all over like the memory of you.

You're in his system and he can't get you out.

He doesn't want to. He has to.

She scoffs, because he knows he has flirted with her on past occasions and it never got to anything. This seemed like this was the last time she was going to try. "You're unbelievable." The offended tone was almost too hard to ignore.

The word triggers him, he immediately thinks of you when she says it. You say the same thing about him. "Yeah," He gulps the rest of his whiskey with irritation, feeling the burn for the first time tonight and not because of the drink. "I get that a lot." He said annoyed.

"I thought—"

"I don't care." Rafe snaps at her, holding himself back from saying something that would make this poor girl actually regret talking to him. It's not her fault. He knows that much.

God, but it's not yours either.

He steps back, not even bothering to say anything else before starting his way out of the mansion. He was able to catch Topper's voice at the back of the room, but he didn't care. Rafe just waved him off and they both knew that leaving him alone was the best Topper could do.

Ugh, for fuck's sake.

-

Before he can actually think about it, it's already Sunday. Which means, the kids are getting picked up and he's getting them to his house. Rafe missed them, obviously, he always does. He also craves to have something to take care of besides himself this week, something that he actually cares about that'll distracts his mind.

He pulls into the driveway he used to drive into without a second thought before, now every time he's here it's just for the kids. It doesn't hurt anymore, not as much, he thinks. It's just... off. It does feel weird sometimes even tho it's been almost three years, he wants to believe things have gotten easier.

He does stay inside the car for a full cycle of ten seconds before sighing and getting out, opening the door and trying not slam it.

He's early by ten minutes, he got too anxious on his own house to actually wait. He just wanted to see you with his own eyes, allowed this time around and not just watch you from feet away by casualty and when he's not supposed to like a goddamn stalker.

He knocks the door and doesn't have to wait too much. He can already here Olivia's whining while she tries to gather her things on the last few minutes and Parker laughing and running inside the house.

You open the door and there he finds you, just as... you as ever. It feels different this time around. Rafe tries really hard not to call you downright gorgeous in his head, even tho you are.

"Hey." You say warmly, not as tense around him like he's used to. Is that guy making you feel like this? Calm? Easy?

"Hey." Rafe managed to say back, rougher than intended but he knows you don't care about it now.

He’s on your porch in a navy quarter-zip, smelling faintly like the cologne he only uses on Sundays because he is that psychotic. He may do it to make you notice changes in him but Rafe doesn't have that level of self-analysis. His hand sits heavy on the doorframe, not stepping inside, not crossing that line he used to step over without thinking.

He doesn’t come in, but his eyes…

God, his eyes wander.

They slide past your shoulder after taking a good look at you and not finding anything other than your usual beauty, flicking into the hallway, scanning for shadows, shoes, a jacket on a hook that he might not recognize.

He tells himself he’s not doing it. You can tell he absolutely is.

Your eyebrows lift and your standing changes the moment you noticed something. “Lost something?”

“No.” Rafe says too quickly for someone who's usually so self confident. “Just… checking if they’re ready.” He shrugs off.

You change your weight purposefully to block the view and his jaw clenches at the fact. Of course you noticed, of course he can't hide a thing from you. It annoys the hell out of him. He hates how obvious he is with you without even trying, you just disarm him immediately.

"They're not, obviously." You roll your eyes with a hidden affection at how obvious the routine with the twins might be. You lean against the doorframe and sigh.

He clears his throat, feeling under a microscope with you again. “So, uh... You had a busy weekend?” His tone is forcedly casual. Way too casual.

You pause mid blink and turn your focus on him. “Busy how?” Not too much yet.

He shrugs, playing the innocent part with his face as well as he takes another look inside the house before looking back at you. “You know. Just— busy.” He says like it’s not a big deal.

You stare at him, trying to decode which of his behavior patterns this might be so you can know what is he talking about. “What are you fishing for here?"

“I’m not fishing.” He frowned, so innocent.

“You are.”

“I’m— asking how your weekend was. That’s normal.” Rafe doesn't know how obvious he is when he is lying to you. He might be good, really good, for business with other people but he was never able to hide how he feels with you.

“Not for you..." You cross your arms over your chest.

He knows he can't hide it anymore and he knows he won't get a real answer out of you but he just has to ask. "I just— drove past the Marina the other day."

The Marina, the café he saw you at, he doesn't mention the jewelry store scene (even tho that's the most important one to him) because he feels like it might be too much.

Your expression drops into clear annoyance the second the word "Marina" leaves his mouth. And he almost wants to slap himself on the face.

Because he sees it and —God help him— he likes it.

He always likes when you get sharp. It means you care enough to react.

You fold your arms tighter over your chest, as if containing. "And?"

"And nothing." He says quickly, masking everything under a shrug again. "Just saw you."

"Okay...?"

"With someone."

Your jaw flexes, feeling touched on the wrong places by his questions. "My coworker." You're tense.

Rafe tilted his head, as if knowing you're full of bullshit. "Didn't know you had a coworkers now." He says, rather smug on the fact because you're a musical producer, you work with people, they're not coworkers.

"You know I have a job, right?" You snap, that feisty tone you always get in just seconds of interacting with him.

"I know that.” He says, starting to raise his voice then catching himself. "I just didn't... recognize him." He has met people you work with, even if he didn't, they're recognizable. That man wasn't.

"Because you never met him, Rafe."

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "Well, he was, uh... real close to you. That's all." He lets the real question be seen like the sun coming inside the house in an early morning, just small flickering till it's undeniable. He would usually be much more direct and a little aggressive about this, but he moves so carefully around you now.

You stare at him like he's made of pure stupidity.

He might be.

Your whole expression shifts again when you realize what he's actually asking, and you're surprised he's not actually just screaming at the mere idea of you being on a date. But the annoyance still creeps up your face and it's like your hands aren't enough to itch it.

"Oh, my god..." You mutter, dreading the next conversation and what he has been thinking about. "Here we go."

He immediately defended himself. "I didn't say anything."

You rolled your eyes, annoyed that he saw you in the first place. "You don't have to say it. I can see it all over your face."

Rafe tries a different angle, leaning on one shoulder, examining the wall like it's fascinating. As if a casual stance might actually help to crack the hard wall you always put between you.

"Just thought— looked like you were... busy." He shakes his head.

You blink slowly, tired of getting exposed and called out on anything you do around the island as if he isn't the same kind of guy. "Are you asking if I was on a date?" You ask bluntly.

He's not surprised by your question but it still stings. The idea of you on a date... Oh, God.

He shrugs again, tighter this time. "Didn't say that." His tone shifted to something more defensive, like he's on the verge of getting offended depending on your answer.

"You implied it.”

"Didn't imply anything."

"You hovered around the idea."

He scowls at your words. "I don't hover."

"Well, you're hovering right now." You scoff at him, indignated with his audacity of actually asking.

"I'm just fucking asking, is that so wrong?" Rafe is the one rolling his eyes now like he didn't start this conversation on his own, knowing what was going to come out of it.

You laugh under your breath, not amused by his ability to always throw you off despite of you being always the one coming out like the winner out of every conversation you two have. “You’re unbelievable.”

Oh, yeah.

He stays quiet for a second. But not too long, he's all over the intention of keep this going.

He lifts an eyebrow, finally meeting your gaze.

“And you’re mad.” He says like it's a fact.

You straight up, not giving him the chance to say something incorrect again. You don't allow him to tell you how you feel anymore. “I’m annoyed." You correct. “There’s a difference.”

He smirks— small, involuntary. But still, so fucking smug. He knows he gets under your skin. “I know.”

Why are you so nervous, tho?

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

Before either of you can add anything else, the kids come thundering back into the room, backpacks dragging. Screaming at each other. First, it was Parker yelling: “It wasn’t me!”

Olivia shrieks behind him as she makes her way outside. “Yes it was!” She said angrily with that princess tone Rafe sometimes is afraid she might break.

Rafe stops them before they can make their way into his car, raising a brow at them and making them take a break and breathe before they can go inside his car acting like that.

"You ready?" He says, already smirking at them.

"Yeah!" Olivia says excitedly, hanging on his hand because she hasn't seen him in a week.

“No, you’re not.” Rafe says automatically, pointing at Parker’s backwards hoodie. “Fix that.”

“I like it backwards!” The kid argues with him.

He rolls his eyes and puts the hoodie over Parker's face, gaining a look from you that is still half amused. He gets you like that. "Right." He murmured.

Rafe decides not to comment anything further on the previous conversation. He knows it over. “You need anything?” He asks, checking in.

“No.” You say softly now, pressing your lips in a kind smile. Forgetting. “All good.”

The two little kids walk down the driveway like two little ducks that are perfectly trained. They know not to mess with Rafe during pick ups, they're already stressing enough as it is, he just wants to make things easier for everyone.

He loads them into the car, buckles what they forget to buckle, checks twice like he has always done. It used to be out of control, now the action is out of protection. It's the way things change in silence.

Then he looks back at you.

You’re leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with that unreadable expression he’s been losing sleep over.

He doesn’t wave. He just holds your eyes for a single, unguarded beat.

“Text me." You remind him. You always say that.

“I will." He says— and surprisingly, it sounds like a promise.

He gets on the car, even tho you're not directly watching at him, he feels the need to play cool and avoid your eyes. He hasn't played cool with you since he was 16 years old, divorce does feel like a recession process in many situations.

He’s barely reached the end of the street when the silence settles. A strange, heavy silence, one of those that feel as if someone could still be listening. And the wild part is that he almost believes you might. Even from miles away, you’ve always had that talent of showing up in his mind exactly when he doesn’t want you to.

Two minutes pass before he speaks.

“Hey, guys…” He says casually, drumming his thumb against the steering wheel as if he’s just remembered something trivial.

“Yeah?” Double voices. Same tone. It still freaks him out. He has said the line don't do that to dad way too many times.

Rafe tries to walk around the question he actually wants to make like it's a minefield. He stops when he realizes how stupidly obvious he sounds. That’s exactly how they end up snitching. Accidentally, not knowing what they'll provoke because they're his perfect little angels. He cannot let that happen. "Does mom have, uh..." He takes a turn, thinking for a moment. "A new friend, or something...?"

"What kind of friend?" Parker immediately asks. Demanding.

Rafe bites the inside of his cheek to hide the smirk that wants to break loose. The apple really doesn't fall far from the tree, huh.

He knows Parker is like him in this sense. He's perceptive, he wants to know who or what bring something is out of the norm and does get a jealousy tendency from time to time. He does try to correct his own son but he's just a natural.

He shouldn't be proud. But he is. Just a little bit.

“I don’t know...” Rafe mumbles. “Like a friend friend.”

“Mommy has lots of friends." Olivia says matter-of-factly, brushing her Barbie’s hair with her tiny fingers, laser-focused on getting it perfect.

Rafe groans internally. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m aware.” He tries not to sound annoyed. Fails.

Olivia doesn’t notice because she can't actually be bothered. Parker does, of course he does.

He doesn't know what to say in other for the twins to not immediately clock into what the real question is. They're too smart for their own good and he only can blame you about it.

He tried again in a different angle, he aims for vague this time around. “But, like… lately. Have you seen her with someone new? Someone she’s been hanging out with more?”

He risks a glance in the rear-view mirror to look at his children. They’re thinking. Rafe hates when they think. They inherited your brain, the one that pieces puzzles together too fast, you're the only one to blame about this.

He rushes out before another suspicion can be let in. “Like, I don’t know, someone with a mustache.”

“A mustache?” Parker says, horrified at the idea. “Why would she hang out with a mustache?” Rafe makes sure that mustaches stay hated on his house. He will never fucking wear one.

Unless you ask him.

But you haven't. So he won't.

“Some people have mustaches.” Rafe mutters, trying to undo the work he has done for nine years about this.

“You don’t." Parker points out.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, satisfied with his son's words. “Exactly.”

He feels ridiculous. He shouldn’t even be doing this. He’s a grown man with actual responsibilities (his kids) and a business to run and a mortgage the size of a yacht. He should not be interrogating his own children like some kind of deranged investigator over facial hair just to find out who the hell were you having coffee with a couple of weeks ago.

But he’s been losing sleep over this for weeks.

Olivia taps her face softly before talking. “Mom talked to a man at the grocery store.” She remembered.

Rafe’s spine goes rigid. “What man?”

“He knocked over the cereal boxes where we were." She says, unimpressed like she has already seen the act too many times to actually think about it. “And he said sorry. And then he said he liked mom’s shoes.”

Rafe nearly groans. Complimenting your shoes should be a punishable offense.

Parker chimes in: “The shoes were ugly.”

“Hey." Rafe snaps, already sensitive about this conversation. He wants to get home. “Your mom has good taste.”

Both kids nod slowly, like they’re not sure why he suddenly became the defender of fashion.

A few moments pass by before Olivia talks again, always as the personification of light in a dark situation where the two men were clearly lost in. "Uncle Tony has a mustache." She says.

Rafe frowns. "Who the hell is Uncle Tony...?"

Olivia rolls her eyes, already so ahead of the conversation. "Auntie Lena's boyfriend, duh." She says like it's a fact.

That brings Rafe to silence, he stops at a red light and rested his arm on the open window, bringing his hand to scratch his jaw as he thinks about what Olivia said.

Tony, Tony, Tony...

Tony.

Holy shit, he does remember him. That's where he knows the guy from. Of course, of course. Your best friend's boyfriend, he hasn't seen him in so long, he already forgot.

He should really get a therapist by the amount of relief he got from figuring out the situation throughout his own daughter, it's almost pathetic and he wants to reprimand himself out loud because of it. A grown man having an internal meltdown solved by a nine-year-old’s casual comment.

"Right... Tony."

The twins move on instantly— talking about snacks, and whose turn it is with the iPad, and whether they can watch a movie tonight. Rafe answers automatically, but his brain is elsewhere, still duct-taping the panic that’s been cracking at him for weeks.

They arrive home ten minutes later, almost driving by the speed of light like something important is actually waiting for at the mansion. Once the two kids are safely inside, he takes a moment to himself.

He stays behind in the entryway, leaning back against the closed door as a shaky breath leaves him.

He’s ridiculous, he knows that much. But this is you, and nothing about you has ever been rational for him. He can't actually be embarrassed about his behavior right now.

He grabbed his phone and does the thing he never does: opens Instagram. There, laying like a dust covered shelf is his profile with a few posts in it. A few with his kids (he used to have one with you too, he removed it too many months later), one at the country club with his friends and just one of him in Miami a year ago.

That was it.

He doesn't use Instagram, he doesn't do social media at all.

But his fingers go professionally to the searcher on the app and he anxiously types down Lena's user, founds it, clicks on it and the weight on his shoulder that he has been carrying for weeks suddenly disappears.

There, the most recent post from yesterday, was a big ass chessy proposal that you would've hated at the local beach. The big engagement ring in the foreground, the 'surprise' photographer.

And a beautiful caption that calmed him down more than marijuana or any drug ever did:

'Forever 🤍.'

Of course.

And there is your comment, supporting your best friend and her fiancee who you obviously just helped plan this entire thing while Rafe was back at his house having a damn panic attack:

'So happy for my best girl🩷!'

He obviously clicks your profile, it wouldn't be Rafe if he didn't take the opportunity. Just for a minute. Just to confirm you’re fine... Just to torture himself, apparently.

You look good. Too good. Terribly so. So relaxed and in your element every time you post. He hates how much that affects him.

He drops his head back against the couch cushion and closes his eyes. The breath he lets out feels like it’s been locked in his ribs since that first sighting at the country club. He shouldn't feel as relieved as he feels but he does. And fuck whoever that says he shouldn't.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

Oh, my God… he’s finally fine.

There he is, standing in all his glory while typing on his phone. Office suit still on, but he keeps it open and makes sure that his tie is still well done. He knows how much you've always liked to see him all sharp. You tried not to look more than two seconds and hide behind your sunglasses.

You sighed at the sight and decided to think nothing of it while you clutched the purse in you shoulder, one that Rafe bought you years ago. Beautiful, designer, expensive. It's your favorite.

He looked up when he heard footsteps, he could recognize those heels anywhere. "Hey, baby." He said all too natural to his ex-wife and mother of his two kids. You, like this is just part of the routine gave half of a wave, clearly wanting to be out of this place as soon as possible.

"Hey." You said lazily and you kissed cheeks as a greeting, pushing your sunglasses up your head. You have told yourselves that this is way too engraved in your habits to take it out of them, so you don't waste your time on trying to be any different.

You're still annoyed, you haven't really been able to stand to be next to each other without sensing some form of irritation, but you're really trying your best here. You forced yourself to come here today because you know this is out of his usual events and you just can't wait to pick on him. The last time he picked up your kids you told them, on purpose, in front of them that you guys had a parents conference to attend to.

And he really couldn't say no when you put him in that position.

You sighed, brushing some expensive well done hair out of your face and gestured the school building. "Let's go." You walked inside the school with all the other parents, your heels clicking against the floor. Always so loud and demanding. He followed behind, eyes still on his phone as he walked next to you.

Typical.

You rolled your eyes and he didn't even have to look up to know that you did. He rolled his eyes too because after so long you do start getting similar with each other, he put his phone down, putting it in the pocket of his suit pants. And he adjusted his cufflinks, one of your gifts that you brought for him years ago when you were in Paris for work. They were gold (you wear gold, so he obviously started to do it as well), along with a delicate engraving.

You notice them. It's almost on purpose, the way you keep wearing each other's gifts around the other one without a single care. As if saying yes, your gift was good, the divorce won't change that.

He took a chance to look around, the last time he really been here was... probably when he graduated. I mean, he didn't even make it inside when it was your kids' first day of kindergarten (you know, emotional crying and all that bullshit), so it was a bit odd to be back. "No way they still have that fuck-ass water dispenser—" He noticed as he walked past.

You raised your eyebrows, unimpressed with his comment as you kept your walk fast, watching all the other parents also arriving at the meeting, some older couples and some people you didn't know. You felt some eyes on you. This was probably the first time at the school of you and Rafe walking together since the divorce. And if there's something about Outer Banks, people for sure like to talk.

"You look good." He commented under his breath. Not flirty, not really sweet either. Just... true, as if the fact that he noticed at all pisses him off.

But you rolled your eyes. "Save it." You scoffed, not taking him seriously anymore.

"Just sayin' how it is."

You groaned internally when you finally arrived the classroom where the meeting was being held. You stepped inside and stopped when Rafe stopped his walking on the door. "What?" You asked.

"Here? In the kids room?" He asked, already looking around the place.

Is he really so out of touch?

"Yes." You said like it was obvious. Because it was. "Where else is it gonna be?"

"I don't know, a place where they have chairs my ass actually fit into." He walked past you as he finally went inside, choosing the desk closest to the door in case he needed to escape at some point. But he knows you won't allow it. You had to laugh at that, the chuckle that escapes you admits just how right he was.

He grabs the back of one chair and pulls it back for you, offering you the place like he has always done. You gave him a stoic look and take the chair out of his hold and you sit yourself in it.

He sighs. "C'mon, honey. Can you cut me some slack?" He murmured. Words dripping with the right amount of charm (and sarcasm) to make you both nostalgic and enraged. "Been a long week."

He rolled his eyes and made a mental note on to count how many times he did it by the end of this goddamn circus.

"Ugh, tell me about it." You agreed with a groan as you rested your ching on top of your hand, looking around.

"What, full of idiots?"

"Full of them. Oh, my God—" You said in disbelief.

"Yeah, I bet."

He sat down, being obviously too big to fit into the kids' sized desk. Why is this meeting even happening here? This big ass school that has a very expensive tuition has an auditorium where these things can be held. Do they do it here because... it'll make you more empathetic? They think you'll think about how your kid feels in the same classroom? Or really they're just lazy people that only use the auditorium in especial occasions.

"Fucking kindergarten setup." He complained, uncomfortably moving in the tiny desk like a caged animal, knees spread too wide for the space (which you're definitely trying not to touch with yours). He was uncomfortable, so naturally, the arm that couldn't fit in place was stretched along the back of your chair. And you pretended you didn't feel the warmth emanating from him. Or his perfume.

You watched the classroom getting filled by other people, some other couples who came here together and you are sure that Rafe is wondering why the hell do they need both parents here, some other people who came here on their own: mothers who are married but their husband couldn't be here today (which was your case most of the time a few years ago), some who are divorced (now you're one of those) and the occasional one who shows up for their kid today for the first time.

That's Rafe.

Sure, he's pretty present (now) in any other thing that involved the kids but anything school related that required his presence was always a no for him. Until today.

There's a few people who you already know; from around the island, the country club and there's obviously those other high school sweethearts that are still married. One bitchy couple that graduated on your same class that never got the same attention you and Rafe did (because apparently they weren't relevant enough) and apparently they are still hung up on that by the way they're looking at you like they obviously just won.

Jesus, if only they knew what Rafe knows about them.

And then: "You cut your hair." He noticed.

You looked over your shoulder, back at him as you blinked slowly after what he said. "Just a few inches. Like always." You hummed, shrugging it off with indifference.

"Hm."

You nodded, with half of your mind already outside of the classroom and thinking about dinner. You looked around and your eyes ended up falling on him and the crooked collar of his shirt that you just noticed. You only gave him half a glance but it's enough to notice the imperfection. "You're over 30 years old and you still don't know how to dress?" You said while reaching out to accommodate what was looking wrong.

Rafe tried to ignore the shiver that went down his spine when you touched him and he pulled away, pretending this wasn't exactly what he wanted. "You always gotta be criticizing something or what—"

"If you knew how to dress I wouldn't have to—"

"Yeah, yeah."

At that moment, the young woman known as Ms Jones enters the classroom. A way too bright girl, who you're sure was genuinely a really sweet smile to see in the morning, but at 4 pm, at the end of the school day, you can see how she's pulling the strings to keep going. And you can't blame her, a parents conference wouldn't be your favorite activity at all.

"Good evening everyone, thank you so much for showing up today. We know you all have a tight schedule, so this is appreciated." She started, smile up to her eyes almost. Not all of us, Rafe thought as he looked at some people. "Today we're here to talk about the upcoming science fair next month, the end-of-year recital and class dynamics." She sighed softly and look down at her notes once again before continuing. "And by the end I'll go talk to each of you individually about your respective kid, just a few words so you can see how they are all doing—"

She wasn't even finished when you hear this agitating, unbearable voice. The same one you've dealt with for years while you were in high school. Eleanor.

"Excuse, Ms, hi—" She raised her hand, talking before even allowed. Hm, you could already sense the headache coming up. "My daughter practiced for hours for the starring and now it's suddenly a 'shared part'? How is that fair?"

You immediately tensed, frowning a little bit at the question because your daughter got the other part. She finally, finally dared to come out of her little cage and do something different because you know how much she's been struggling with opening up ever since the divorce happened.

And Rafe knew it as well, Olivia has been nothing but beaming ever since she got it. He felt the way you tensed underneath the touch of his fingers that had been slowly coming closer to touch your back.

"Well, ma'am, this is also elementary school," The teacher clarified more sternly, clearly prepared for people like this (or she already knows how Eleanor behaves). This is not a music orientated school, they don't focus on this. "All kids deserve their time to shine and to do their own thing." She was being as rational as she could be. "And Olivia really worked for her part as well, she deserves it too."

Eleanor scoffed, like she had better things to do and acted like she already won this case. "Her mom—"

"Her mom *what*?"

The room fell silent after Rafe's intervention. He was not letting anyone speak on your name like that, he was daring her to finish the sentence.

"She works in this—" She pointed out the fact of your profession.

"I didn't make my daughter audition for a school recital." You said indignated. Does people really this dense exist in real life or are you just hallucinating after such a long week?

"Oh, please." The woman rolled her eyes. The one time you asked Rafe to come to a conference just so he could also see how much of a shit show the whole thing was and how you were never wrong about this people. "Her daughter suddenly got a second position in a role that wasn't even shared to begin with and she happens to be a music producer. The show didn't even had two stars and now it does."

"She didn't make our daughter do anything, she didn't call anyone. Olivia auditioned like everyone else, are you fucking serious right now?" Rafe scoffed, almost going nonverbal at the implications this woman was making against a kid?

"Oh, you're one to talk, Cameron." Eleanor's husband, Michael, talked now.

"Excuse me?"

"It's the first time I see you at one of these." He gestured around the place to signal the situation they were in. "So, if I were you I would stay quiet if I don't know how this normally works." He said firmly, pretending to be democratic about this whole thing as if it actually counted for something other than just school merit that no one cared about.

"Yeah, Mike," Rafe said in that same tone that he used to call the guy in high school when they played in the same football team for years and he never really got to be a quarterback because of Rafe. Rafe used to be a little condescending just to make him boil.

"I'm actually working, y'know? That's why I don't have time to come to this bullshit and deal with people like you, y'know..." He shook his head, ignoring the daggers that you were sending at him through your eyes. "I'm a little busy actually providing for my kids. I mean, man's got three kids and you're still living off your daddy's money and your wife's reputation, huh?" He taunted, knowing he immediately touched a nerve.

Then Rafe leans back, arms crossed over his chest as he breathes out, too calm for your own liking.

"I didn't know a divorce was what would take you to lock in." Michael said again, with that snake tone that you always sensed around this kind of people.

You sensed Rafe shifting on the chair, the way he was moving to be the absolute same kind of man that he always was: a reactive one. He was always faster to take in action than in word.

You placed a hand on his arm and held him back shaking your head. Not worth it.

It's electric, massive. Even tho it's through clothes, even tho if you're not really touching him.

He goes still again, feeling incredibly bewildered by your touch again. Because, despite everything, the jokes, the flirting that goes around sometimes, you don't touch him like this anymore.

And he can't help but being absolutely shocked that you still manage to have such an effect on him. He doesn't dare to defy you and do the opposite of what you say now.

And he feels absolutely bitter because this man definitely touched a nerve. If there was something Rafe hated was the reminder of how they got to a divorce, how it was obviously his fault and how everyone around can tell how you definitely got away.

And Michael sees it, the subtle touch, the exchange of looks that a couple (or ex-couple) like you shouldn't even have anymore. But it lingers. "Still whipped, huh?"

Rafe takes a deep breath.

His eyes flick to Michael's hands, no ring tan line, but he's still wearing that same cheap-ass watch from graduation day— and then he looks back up with a smirk so sharp it could cut glass.

Rafe wishes he still had his ring tan line, he might as well get it tattooed so the mark permanently stays there. A reminder of what it had been.

He frowned and leaned against your touch in his arm like it was the only real thing he could rely on in a room full of assholes. "At least I'm not cheating on my wife—" He managed to say before being cut off by the teacher.

"Okay!" She interrupted. "I suggest that personal feuds are left outside the classroom during this meeting." She said, tense as a stretched elastic. It obviously isn't the same to deal with kids than with adults' tension, everything cuts deeper.

Rafe sighs and leans back in, settling on the tiny chair that he really wants to break right now. He looks down, your hand still on his arm like you're holding him with a leash, you might as well have.

Michael tensed after Rafe's words, it's not that what he said is exactly a secret but they like to believe he hides what he does in the country club pretty well. and Eleanor glance at each other with smug smiles. But leans forward in his chair, all too proud. "Speaking of cheating..."

And Rafe snaps from the moment, eyes darkening at the implication. "Hey." He warns. He knows all about what people say around the island since they separated and since Rafe really makes use of his singleness.

Rafe is not a cheater.

"Sir—" Ms Jones tried to stop the conversation.

Michael scoffs at him and does not let the conversation be interrupted by the teacher, knowing he made Rafe nervous on purpose —he really likes to be detestable— and looks over at you with that same condescending grin that you used to see in his high school days.

"How's your business, honey?" Eleanor asks now, voice dripping in sweet, fake sympathy. The petname on its own makes you want to throw up. "Still tryna' sell those tunes no one buys?"

You frowned at the and let out a sarcastic chuckle. Really? Of all people, she's the one that's going to tell you that right now? When she doesn't work, didn't go to college, didn't do anything other than staying on this island, hooked on her husband's arm while letting him cheat on her because she's also too busy cheating with her personal trainer.

And you're not usually one to answer and waste your time on people who don't matter but: "You mean the ones that got me a Billboard award last year...?" You asked with a smirk.

No need to explain more.

Rafe can't hide his damn proud smile. God, if he doesn't find this hot...

Even after the divorce, he kept the magazine with a picture of you at the ceremony, the one with you holding that award and smiling like a kid at Christmas.

Eleanor's smirk falters slightly when she realizes she just stepped in a pile of bullshit. But she still goes for it, looking for something to grab on to. Michael's smug expression falters a bit, because, yeah, he didn't expect that answer.

But he quickly covers up his wife with a scoff. "Yeah, yeah, we heard." Bullshit. They probably didn't even know about the goddamn Billboard Awards. "Must be real easy to get those awards when Daddy paid the record label to get you on the ballot."

Michael's always known it's a sore spot for you, being called Daddy's girl.

And you hear a few gasps the more the conversation progressed. You saw the young teacher's face, almost going pale when she saw that she can't be the one to control the situation. She's probably thanking that she decided to work with kids.

You laughed at that, rolling your eyes at how these people have never been smart enough to actually make something out of their lives or at least have proper encounters with other people, especially when they are the ones starting every altercation.

They have always been like this. Jealous, envious.

"Jeez, I wonder how he does it six feet on the ground." You said with a smirk to make him uncomfortable, you have talked about this topic way too much in therapy to not make a joke out of it. "At least my dead father does something, what has yours done, huh? Other than trying to hide you because you couldn't even work for him—" You barked back.

Rafe can't help it — he snorts loud, a rough, unfiltered laugh that cuts through the tension like a blade.

His head tilts toward you, blue eyes alight with something dangerously close to pride. Holy shit, he thinks. That fire in you —sharp, fearless— always hit him right in the chest. And yeah, maybe he misses it.

Michael goes red. "Excuse me?"

But you’re already moving forward in your seat, voice cool and smooth like velvet over steel.

“Think hard,” you say with a slow blink. “Does ‘bankruptcy,’ ‘embezzlement,’ and ‘community service for public indecency’ ring any bells? Or did Mommy wipe that part from the family photo album as well?”

A beat of silence.

Then—a few parents actually gasp.

Eleanor jerks like she’s been slapped and her husband looks ready to combust. Are they really that stupid to be the ones starting fights they can't even win? It's almost pathetic, really.

Rafe leans back now, arms crossed again, one leg bouncing under the desk because he’s still buzzing from how fast and clean you just shut it down.

You leaned forward, eyes steady and penetrating with the purpose of killing. "My daughter's staying on the recital and you hope I don't hear about this again." You didn't stutter, your voice didn't shake, you meant it.

"Are you threatening us?" The woman's voice went high pitched.

Everyone immediately started making noise as the young lady who was in charge of this meeting started talking again, decided to put an end on this. "No, no one—"

"I am—" Rafe said clearly in the middle of all the hubbub.

"No one's threatening anyone, okay?" Ms Jones interrupted, finally successful in her attempts as the four of you decided to step back. "Can we continue? We're here to talk about the kids, not to start a fight over things that are nobody's business."

Rafe, resting his arm on the desk and his chin on top of his hand, murmured: "That's what I'm saying."

You rolled your eyes and sighed, leaning back again as you crossed your arms over your chest.

Rafe glances at you over his shoulder, not hiding the smile with the immense amount of pride that he's having right now. You've never been one to get into unnecessary feuds with anyone (Rafe has, all the time), so the fact that he gets to see you get out of that structure of grace, respect and elegance by giving such answers... Yeah, he can't hide his reaction. You need to talk back more often for sure (you normally do, you talk back to him...).

He taught you well.

by the time he sees you at the country club, he’s convinced himself that what the two of you need is time together. if things feel weird, then all he has to do is make them feel normal again. it’s the kind of logic that makes perfect sense inside his own head and literally nowhere else.

the afternoon sun hangs low over the golf course as people move in and out of the clubhouse. you’re standing near the outdoor counter waiting for a drink you’d ordered, one hand resting against the strap of your bag while you scroll absentmindedly through your phone. from across the patio, rafe spots you immediately.

without hesitation, he changes direction. you don’t even notice him until he’s really close. when you glance up, surprise flashes across your face for half a second before settling into something softer.

“hey.” it’s just a hey, and for some reason, it already annoys him.

“hey,” he says back. “what’re— what’re you doing?”

you glance toward the counter. “waiting for my drink.”

“then what?”

the question earns a small look from you, but you smile like it’s obvious, “then i’m leaving, babe. i’ve gotta go. i told you i’d be out with friends today.”

his jaw tightens slightly as you suppress your smile. it’s not even because it’s funny. you can just already know where this conversation is heading.

there’s a beat of silence before he exhales through his nose. “you’ve got a lot of friends all of a sudden.”

you raise an eyebrow, “i’ve always had friends.”

he immediately realizes how that sounded, unfortunately, not before the words are already out there, but you don’t argue with him over it. don't get defensive. you choose to let the comment sit there until the awkwardness belongs entirely to him.

“look,” he says, shifting his weight. “we should do something.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“later. tonight. whatever.”

your expression remains unchanged. “i already have plans.”

“cancel them.” the response comes so naturally he doesn’t even think about it.

you stare at him for a second. something about your expression makes him realize he’s done it again - in the expectation that you’ll immediately rearrange yourself around whatever he wants.

your drink is placed on the counter beside you before either of you says anything else.

you reach for it. “sorry, i can’t tonight. i already made plans.”

“your friends again?”

“no.” you shake your head lightly. “my family’s doing something, and on friday too.”

for a second, he just stares at you. he doesn’t know why that answer bothers him as much as it does. maybe because it catches him off guard, that somewhere along the way he’d convinced himself the only reason you weren’t around was because you were deliberately staying busy because you were upset or something.

“what, like dinner?” he asks.

you shrug. “yeah, something like that. i just haven’t spent much time with them lately, so.”

it’s vague, but not dismissive. you’re answering him, same as you’ve been doing all week - just giving him enough information that he can’t accuse you of shutting him out, but not volunteering anything extra either.

a month ago, you would’ve told him three days in advance, probably would’ve asked if he wanted to come.

the realization lands heavily in his chest. “okay. so you’re busy all night tonight?”

“probably.”

another silence settles, but you don’t seem uncomfortable inside it. you shift your drink into your other hand and glance toward the parking lot where a familiar SUV has just pulled into one of the spaces.

even from this distance, you immediately recognize it. your expression softens almost instantly. “i asked them to pick me up.”

he follows your gaze as a man steps out from the driver’s side, your father. your mother climbs out from the passenger side a second later while your siblings in the backseat leans forward, waving through the window after spotting you near the clubhouse.

before rafe can stop himself, his eyes flick back toward you. you’re smiling at them. while he’d spent days sitting in his room staring at his phone, waiting for your attention to come back, you’d simply gone back to living your life. but of course, why wouldn’t you?

“i should go,” you say.

he opens his mouth, ready to say something, but he isn’t entirely sure what, like don’t go. come with me instead. what about tomorrow? something, anything, but none of it sounds right.

so all he manages is a stiff nod. “alright, i’ll see you.”

you offer him a small smile. “i’ll see you.”

the entire drive home, he keeps replaying the interaction in his head, picking apart pieces of it. nothing about the conversation was bad. if anything, it was frustratingly normal.

he spends the rest of the evening trying to distract himself from it. he throws himself into whatever’s in front of him, whether it’s helping move something down at the dock, sitting through a conversation he barely listens to, or aimlessly scrolling through his phone while the television drones somewhere in the background.

for days after the argument, he’d assumed the distance came from sadness. then, when the sadness seemed to fade, he’d convinced himself it was just stubbornness. now he isn’t so sure it’s either of those things anymore. sadness still reaches for people and anger still demands something from them.

he wakes up and instinctively checks his phone before remembering there probably won’t be anything waiting for him, again. every little thing seems to lead back to the same uncomfortable conclusion. somewhere along the way, he’d become used to being a priority without ever having to earn it.

the memory of the party comes back more often now. before, whenever he thought about that night, his focus stayed on the argument itself, then on the smaller details instead. he remembers your smile disappeared in the moment, the look on your face after he said it what he said, you knew you genuinely didn’t understood what you’d done wrong.

the more distance he gets from it, the harder it becomes to justify what happened. he’d spent so much time convincing himself that you were too attached and too involved in every part of his life that he’d never stopped to consider why. you weren't demanding things from him. you weren't

one night, he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed with your message thread open again.

he doesn’t even remember opening it. one second he’s scrolling through something else, and the next he’s staring at months of conversations stretching up the screen.

for the first time, embarrassment starts creeping in alongside everything else. it’s not the embarrassment of being ignored, but the embarrassment of realizing he’s been trying to skip straight to the part where things go back to normal without actually addressing the reason they changed in the first place.

he’s asked where you’ve been, who you’ve been with, what you’ve been up to. he’d focused so heavily on restoring access to you that he’d never once stopped to acknowledge the thing that pushed you away. and once he notices it, he can’t stop noticing it.

the thought follows him long after midnight.

he leans back against his bed’s headboard and stares at the ceiling, one hand resting across his stomach while the events of the past couple weeks continue looping through his head. eventually, a frustrated laugh escapes him, because the answer feels so obvious now that he almost wants to be annoyed with himself.

the next morning, you don’t expect to see him.

the weather’s nice, people move in and out of storefronts, golf carts weave lazily down the street. you’re standing outside a small shop near the marina, waiting for a bag someone inside is still putting together for you, when a truck pulls into a nearby parking spot.

you recognize it immediately. rafe steps out and spots you, but for a second, neither of you moves, and then he starts walking over.

you watch him approach, noticing almost immediately that something feels different. like he’s still rafe, shoving his hands into his pockets halfway through crossing the sidewalk, but there’s something less impatient about him today. he seem less reactive than as of late.

he stops in front of you. “hey.”

“hey.” you glance toward the shop window.

he notices. “you busy?”

the question almost makes you smile. “my parents wanted to go out on the boat today, remember?”

he nods once. for a moment, it seems like he’s about to fall into the same pattern as before to ask how long you’ll be gone for or if the plans are gonna take over the entire day. you can practically see the questions forming behind his eyes.

instead, he exhales slowly, and lets them go, which surprises you. “okay.”

another pause settles between you. as a group of tourists walk past, you realize he’s actually nervous. at least not visibly, but you’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s uncomfortable.

your expression softens slightly, “what’s up?”

rafe looks away first, and that surprises you too. he drags a hand across the back of his neck. “been thinking about that night, and before you say anything—” he starts, then immediately stops himself with a frustrated shake of his head. “actually, no. never mind.”

you tilt your head slightly, but still don’t say anything. the conversation goes quiet as a worker approaches you, handing you a bag. you thank her, nodding politely and wishing them well before you turn away, fiddling with the handles of the bag while lingering long enough to let rafe know you’re still listening.

“i was already in a bad mood,” he tries again. you stay quiet and watch him carefully. “i was irritated, stressed, whatever. but that wasn’t your problem, i know. you weren’t doing anything wrong. you weren’t bothering me, and you weren’t being clingy.”

frustration flickers across his expression after saying it, just only with himself for needing to say it out loud in the first place.

“i just . . i took everything out on you because you were standing there. i guess. and then i did it in front of everybody.” there’s no excuse attached to it.

you study him for a moment before speaking. “why?”

his eyebrows pull together. “what?”

“why did it bother you so much?”

the question catches him off guard. you can see it happen. it’s easier to apologize for the outcome than it is to examine the reason.

“i don’t know.”

you raise an eyebrow, waiting.

he lets out another quiet laugh. “okay, that’s not true.” his gaze drops briefly toward the pavement before returning to yours. “i think i just got used to it.”

“used to what?”

“you.”

you furrow your brows in confusion.

“you’ve always been there, calling me, checking on me, all that. i started acting like it was annoying when really . .” he shakes his head once. “i don’t know. i just stopped appreciating it.”

people continue moving around the marina while a boat horn sounds somewhere behind you. the tension that’s been sitting between you for weeks finally feels different.

you look at him for another second before your expression softens almost imperceptibly. you ask quietly, “so when i stopped?”

rafe’s eyes meet yours. “hated it.”

you hum with a nod, looking away. he doesn’t try to explain himself again, but he stands there looking at you, waiting.

you don’t realize it, but you’re currently holding all the power in the conversation. he’d finally handed you something honest, and now he has absolutely no idea what you’re going to do with it.

your eyes narrow thoughtfully, and rafe swears he feels his stomach twist. the corners of your mouth don’t even move that suddenly rafe finds himself wondering if he somehow managed to make things worse.

a couple weeks ago he would’ve literally rather had to swallow glass than stand in public talking about his feelings, even if people aren’t even close enough right now to hear you two. but still, you’re standing on a marina sidewalk with people walking past every few seconds.

“i mean it, y/n.” your eyebrows lift slightly at his low voice. “i shouldn’t have said any of that, especially not like that. you didn’t deserve it. and i’m sorry.”

the apology hangs there. for a moment, neither of you says anything. you can see how awful he’s been feeling. you sensed it the moment he kept messaging you. he doesn’t even know sarah overheard rafe topper and kelce about her that one time and told y/n about it.

you smile. it’s small at first, but it’s enough for something in rafe’s expression to immediately soften. all week he’s been bracing for resistance or disappointment. instead, you’re smiling.

you shake your head lightly before glancing past him toward the docks. “c’mon,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you turn before he can ask what you mean, already beginning to walk away from him, and for half a second rafe simply stands there watching you go. then he notices your arm moving behind your back.

your hand’s open, waiting.

the sight nearly makes him smile, because apparently after everything, after a week of driving himself insane and rereading text messages and checking your location like a lunatic, this is how you choose to tell him he’s forgiven. he’s been forgiven, you’ve just been waiting for him to admit how much of a dick he’d been that night.

you don’t even look back so you can keep walking, fully expecting him to be there. rafe reaches for your hand immediately. there isn’t even a second of hesitation.

his fingers close around yours, and the relief that hits him is so sudden it almost catches him off guard. he shortens his stride as he catches up beside you, careful not to tug your arm as he brings your hand toward his mouth and presses a quick kiss against your knuckles.

only then do you finally look at him, and the second he sees your face, he lets out a quiet huff of laughter because you’re grinning. you’ve apparently been waiting for him to catch up.

his thumb brushes across the back of your hand, then gives your hand a gentle pull, reeling you slightly closer until you’re forced to stumble half a step toward him with a laugh. before you can say anything, he’s already leaning down, pressing a brief kiss against your lips, and the second he pulls away he follows it with another against your temple.

you roll your eyes, but he immediately does it again.

“rafe.”

“what?” he sounds entirely too pleased with himself, you can hear it, which is exactly why your smile refuses to leave.

by the time you reach the docks, he’s hovering close behind you, both hands settled comfortably at your waist while the two of you walk. every so often he leans down to press another absent-minded kiss somewhere he can reach, to your temple, the side of your head, the back of your hair.

your family’s boat comes into view a few moments later where your parents are already waiting. the second they spot you, your mother lifts a hand in greeting. you wave back.

“can rafe come?” you call out to them.

your father looks from you to him, then immediately smiles, nodding big, just once, maybe twice if you didn’t catch the first one. “of course.” the answer comes so quickly it makes you smile.

beside you, rafe’s grip tightens slightly against your waist. he’s walking beside you, and this time, when you reach for him, he has no intention of letting go.

“you’ve been looking for me all night.”

confusion settles over you immediately because the accusation feels so strange. of course you’ve been looking for him. he’s your boyfriend. he literally picked you up so you could be here tonight.

the idea that he’d be annoyed by that doesn’t even occur to you until you catch the way topper’s attention shifts between the two of you, along with the subtle quieting of the conversation around him.

“i mean, i was just trying to find you,” you tell him.

rafe smiles and runs his palm across his buzzed head, looking every bit as frustrated as he has all evening. except now, instead of whatever has been bothering him all day, all of that frustration seems to have landed squarely on your shoulders.

“no, that’s exactly what i’m talking about,” he says, “you’re always trying to find me.”

your stomach sinks. people are listening now, you know they are.

you can see it in the way conversations nearby begin to slow, or the way somebody glances over their shoulder before quickly looking away.

somehow none of that feels as important as the expression on rafe’s face, though. while everyone else fades into the background, your attention stays fixed entirely on him, searching for some indication that he’s going to stop, realize what he’s saying, and walk it back.

instead, he keeps going.

“you’re always texting me, always asking where i am, always asking what i’m doing,” he says, throwing one hand out in exasperation. “you don’t have to be attached to me every second of the day.”

your entire body gives a small involuntary flinch, not because he moves toward you or because you’re scared of him, but because hearing something like that from the person whose opinion matters most to you feels a little like missing a step in the dark.

you stare at him. that’s all you can do.

suddenly you’re replaying every interaction you’ve had over the past few months, wondering which part of it annoyed him this much.

was it the good morning texts? the calls? asking if he’d made it home safely after disappearing for hours? was it showing up when he asked you to? sitting beside him when he was in a bad mood? listening to him complain about his father, his life, his problems, and everything else? none of it had ever felt excessive to you. it had just felt like a relationship.

for the first time since you’ve known him, rafe seems to realize how bad what he said actually sounded, but just for a split second. the anger on his face falters slightly, uncertainty slipping through the cracks, but by then the damage is already done.

there are too many people standing around, too many eyes watching, and too much pride keeping either of you from pretending the moment never happened.

the lump in your throat makes it difficult to speak. still, you manage.

“okay.” the word comes out quiet enough that he almost doesn’t hear it. you don’t argue or try to defend yourself.

you simply nod once, forcing yourself to hold his gaze for another second before looking away, and somehow that hurts him far more than any argument probably would have. because for the first time all night, you’re not trying to reach him anymore.

the drive home that night is quieter than rafe expected, not because of what happened earlier. if anything, he almost wishes you were arguing back to him. arguments are familiar territory. he knows how to handle yelling and angry words and people fighting back.

what he doesn’t know how to handle is silence. after your small, quiet okay at the party, you never bring it up again.

you don’t ask him why he said it. you don’t just tell him he embarrassed you. you don’t even demand an apology or make him explain himself. you simply retreat into yourself, staring out the passenger window. a few times he glances over, almost expecting you to say something, but you never do.

eventually his grip tightens around the steering wheel as irritation replaces the guilt. if you’re upset, then be upset. if you’re angry, then say something. instead, you just sit there, and by the time he drops you off, he’s convinced himself the entire thing wasn’t nearly as bad as it felt.

the next morning feels strangely peaceful.

his phone isn’t lighting up every few hours. there isn’t a text waiting for him when he wakes up or a notification asking if he slept well, if he’s busy today, or if he wants to do something later.

at first, he barely notices. if anything, a part of him feels relieved.

isn't this what he wanted? space? room to breathe?

for the first couple of days, that’s exactly how he frames it in his head. he spends his time doing whatever he wants, going wherever he wants, and never once has to answer a question about where he’s been. every now and then he catches himself expecting a text to come through, but when it doesn’t, he simply tosses his phone aside and moves on.

it isn’t until the third day that the silence starts feeling less like freedom and more like something missing, because it isn’t just the texts. it’s everything.

it’s the fact that you don’t stop by tannyhill after being nearby, or that he doesn’t hear your name from rose asking if you’re coming over, or ward wondering if you’re joining them for dinner.

somehow you’d become woven into the routine of his life so gradually that he never noticed it happening, and now every missing piece sticks out.

he keeps expecting things to go back to normal on their own, and keeps expecting you to call first like you always do. he just keeps expecting you to show up, but each day passes exactly like the one before it.

then a week goes by. by that point, he’s checking his phone more than he’d ever admit out loud.

not texting you. he’s not that desperate. at least that’s what he tells himself. he’s just looking, just seeing if maybe you posted something, or if maybe you called while he wasn’t paying attention.

just seeing if maybe—

nothing.

which is why your name slips out so casually one afternoon that even he doesn’t realize he’s asking about you until it’s too late.

he’s sitting with topper and kelce outside the country club, all three of them halfway through a conversation that started about boats and somehow turned into making fun of one of the kook guys they know. laughter circles the table, and for a few minutes rafe almost forgets about the irritating little knot that’s been sitting in his chest all week.

then he reaches for his drink and says, “where’s y/n been?”

the laughter dies immediately. kelce blinks and topper looks up. for a second neither of them answers, because of all people, why would they know?

“what?” kelce asks.

rafe grins like he doesn’t understand. “what do you mean ‘what’?”

“you just asked where y/n’s been.”

“yeah.”

another pause. topper and kelce exchange a glance.

rafe immediately notices, and immediately hates it. “what?” he asks.

“nothing,” topper says.

“then answer the question.”

topper leans back slightly. “i don’t know. i think she was down at the wreck yesterday.”

rafe’s eyes narrow. “the wreck?”

“yeah.”

“with who?”

kelce lets out a short laugh. “how are we supposed to know?”

rafe ignores him, his attention staying fixed on topper.

topper shrugs. “some friends, i guess.”

“what friends?”

this time both of them stare at him, and rafe doesn’t understand why. the questions seem perfectly reasonable.

he’s your boyfriend, or at least he thinks he still is.

asking where you are shouldn’t feel weird, and asking who you’ve been spending time with shouldn’t earn him these looks. at least this is what he thinks in his own head.

“i don’t know, man,” topper says slowly. “i just heard she was there.”

rafe’s jaw tightens, “like, all day?”

“i guess.”

“she was there the day before too, then,” kelce adds. “pretty sure i saw her when i was driving through.”

that piece of information settles uncomfortably in rafe’s chest. so for the last two days, while he’s been sitting around waiting for some sign of life from you, you’ve apparently been out enjoying yourself.

the realization annoys him far more than it should. he tells himself it’s because it’s weird. maybe ‘cause it’s different. after months of knowing exactly where you are and what you’re doing, the sudden lack of information feels unfamiliar.

deep down, though, he knows that’s not the reason. the real reason is that he’d expected you to be upset and miss him. instead, every report he’s hearing now makes it sound like you’re doing perfectly fine without him.

that night, the thought follows him home, and then into his bedroom, and then into the early hours of the morning.

he ends up sprawled across his bed with one arm behind his head and his phone balanced against his chest, staring at the ceiling. every few minutes he unlocks his screen or checks the time. he finds himself opening the same apps for absolutely no reason before locking the phone again.

but eventually he gives up pretending. his thumb presses against your contact. he stares at your contact photo and the message thread that’s been dead for over a week. then he backs out, opens your location instead. the map loads.

you’re not home. his foot starts bouncing immediately. he tells himself he doesn’t care, he’s obviously only looking because he’s curious. right? because it’d be weird not to wonder. because—

you’re at the movies.

the realization irritates him instantly. movies with who? how many people are there with you? when did that plan even get made? how come he didn’t know about it?

his thumb pinches the screen, zooming in on the little circle as if the answer might magically appear if he looks hard enough, but he knows it doesn’t. all it tells him is that you’re somewhere having fun. somewhere that isn’t with him.

every bit of these thoughts trace back to one stupid night and one stupid argument that he can’t stop replaying no matter how badly he wants to. because the more he thinks about it, the more details come back - the way you’d looked at him and didn’t argue. you’d just looked hurt.

rafe shifts against the headboard. your location is still pulled up on his screen, somewhere near the beach tonight, probably with friends.

his jaw tightens, loosens, then tightens again. it almost makes him angry. reaching out means admitting something, that he was wrong and that he misses hearing from you.

eventually, the silence wins. or maybe it loses. he isn’t sure anymore. all he knows is that his thumb finally presses against the keyboard.

he starts typing something longer before deleting it immediately, starts again, then deletes that too. nothing sounds right. in the end, he settles on the only thing he can manage.

rafe stares at the message for a second before he finally hits send. the delivered notification appears almost instantly, and for the first time in weeks, the waiting belongs to him.

‘ are you busy? ’

and just seconds later, your read receipts pick up below his message.

ward practically lives in meetings with specialists during those final days. every conversation seems to end with him asking some version of the same question, wanting a timeline, wanting certainty, wanting someone to tell him exactly when his son will return to normal.

nobody gives him the answer he’s looking for because nobody can. the neurologist repeats himself enough times that even you could probably recite the speech by memory now, explaining that recovery isn’f linear and memories can return in fragments, all at once, or not at all.

ward never looks satisfied after those conversations, but he still nods and shakes hands and thanks them anyway because frustration doesn’t change the reality sitting in room 3-12.

sarah settles into a routine alongside you without either of you discussing it. she brings coffee more often than not, sometimes for herself and sometimes for you, and eventually neither of you acknowledge how unusual that would’ve felt a month ago.

there are still awkward silences, or moments where old history hangs between the two of you, but they aren’t as strong as they used to be. every once in a while you’ll catch her watching rafe through the window in the door with an expression that makes her look younger than she is. those moments remind you that no matter how complicated everything feels for you, he’s still her brother.

the morning he’s discharged arrives with surprisingly little fanfare. there isn’t some grand announcement or emotional speech from a doctor standing at the foot of his bed. instead, a nurse wheels in paperwork while another explains medication schedules, and suddenly everyone is discussing practical things like follow-up appointments and physical restrictions.

it feels ridiculous how ordinary it is considering the last week has altered the course of multiple lives. you stand near the window listening to conversations happen around you and wonder if anyone else feels the same strange disconnect, like reality is moving much too quickly for something this complicated.

rafe is in an annoyingly good mood about the entire thing. he spends most of the morning teasing nurses, making comments that earn reluctant smiles, and acting like he’s being released from prison instead of a hospital.

every now and then his gaze finds you across the room, and each time it does, that warmth settles into his expression so naturally that it makes your chest ache.

there was a time when being looked at that way felt as effortless as breathing. now every glance feels like standing too close to a fire you promised yourself you wouldn’t touch again.

you’re busy pretending to read a discharge packet when you feel someone stop beside your chair. before you even look up, you already know who it is because nobody else in this room moves like that.

his shoulder brushes yours lightly as he leans over to glance at the papers in your lap, and the scent of hospital soap follows him despite the fact that it somehow still smells distinctly like rafe. when you finally lift your head, you find him smiling down at you.

“you know,” he says, hooking a thumb toward the hallway, “i’m starting to think they just wanted to keep me here for entertainment.”

you huff a laugh despite yourself and shake your head. “yeah, i’m sure the entire nursing staff is gonna miss you terribly.”

“they will.” his grin widens without hesitation. “‘m kind of unforgettable, you know?”

you roll your eyes, but the gesture feels weaker than intended because for a second, just a second, it sounds exactly like the version of him you used to know.

not the version shaped by years of arguments and disappointments, but the one from before all of that, who used to make you laugh when you were trying very hard not to.

the realization hits hard enough that you immediately look back down at the papers in your lap. because that’s the problem.

the longer this goes on, the easier it becomes to forget that this version of rafe only exists because he doesn’t remember what came after.

the actual discharge takes longer than anyone expects. nurses stop by with final instructions, prescriptions are reviewed twice because ward insists on asking questions nobody else thinks to ask, and somewhere in the middle of it all, sarah ends up carrying half the paperwork because nobody can figure out where anything is supposed to go.

by the time you’re finally making your way through the hospital lobby, the afternoon sun is spilling through the glass entrance.

rafe seems determined to enjoy every second of his freedom.

he walks slower than usual because of his ribs, but not slow enough to stop him from talking. most of his comments are directed toward whoever happens to be closest, bouncing between sarah, wheezie, you, and occasionally some poor nurse trying to leave for lunch.

every now and then he reaches for your elbow or brushes your shoulder without thinking, little habits that used to feel normal enough you would’ve never noticed them.

outside, the warm air immediately replaces the sterile scent of the hospital. cars are scattered across the parking lot in neat rows, sunlight reflecting off windshields hard enough to make you squint.

you spot your car exactly where you left it earlier that morning, tucked several spaces away from ward's suv. for a brief moment, relief settles in your chest because this is the end of your responsibility for today. rafe is discharged, he’s healthy enough to leave, and soon he’ll be heading home with his family while you finally return to your own apartment and whatever version of normal still exists, until the next time sarah will call you, probably.

then rafe reaches into his pockets, and you watch him pat his pants down for what you’re assuming are his keys, not realizing it was for a specific reason.

“do i have your keys? no— where’re your keys? let’s go.”

your stomach drops before he even looks at you. he assumes he’s riding with you and not his family?

his expression remains relaxed, completely unaware of the panic beginning to spread through everyone standing around him.

“babe, where’d you park?” he asks.

you blink. “what?”

his eyebrows lift like you’ve asked a ridiculous question. “your car.” he gestures toward the lot. “where is it?”

silence follows immediately, the kind where nobody knows who's supposed to answer first. you can practically feel ward stiffen beside you, but rafe notices none of it. he’s too busy scanning the rows of vehicles.

when you reluctantly point toward your car, he nods once, satisfied.

“oh, yeah. there it is.”

his hand brushes the small of your back before dropping away again, and it makes your chest tighten. “c’mon,” he says. “let’s get outta here.”

ward’s jaw sets so hard you’re surprised his teeth survive it. rose looks away immediately, rubbing her temple like she’s already developing a headache. wheezie suddenly becomes very very interested in all the cracks running through the pavement, while sarah’s expression slowly falls before your eyes.

because of course that’s what he assumes. why wouldn’t he?

you haven’t given him a single reason not to. you’re still his girlfriend, you’re still the person waiting beside his hospital bed every morning, which means . . .

you still live together, too.

from his perspective, this is the most normal thing in the world.

“actually,” ward starts carefully, “i was thinking—”

“dad.” rafe looks genuinely confused. “i wanna go to my bed for today. can i do that?”

he asks in a sarcastic way a son can ask his dad, because of course he can. he didn’t need ward’s permission at this point in his life. everywhere you were, his family knew that naturally he was going to be there too.

ward opens his mouth, then closes it. he opens it again, and you watch him wage an entire war behind his eyes.

every instinct is telling him to put his son in the suv and drive him home himself, that letting you spend an hour alone with rafe is a terrible idea. unfortunately, every doctor involved in this situation has spent the last week explaining exactly why challenging rafe’s reality isn’t worth the risk.

rafe’s gaze shifts between all of you, and for the first time, uncertainty begins creeping into his expression.

“okay, what’s goin’ on?” he asks.

your heart immediately sinks, because this is exactly what everyone has been trying to avoid: any suspicion, or questions, or doubt.

the neurologist warned all of you that once his brain starts recognizing contradictions, there is no way to predict where those thoughts might lead.

before ward can make things worse, you force a smile onto your face. “nothing is going on.” the words taste strange.

rafe studies you for a second longer, then slowly relaxes. “okay . . .” he says.

another silence settles over the group, and this one somehow worse than the first.

finally, ward exhales through his nose, defeated. “fine,” he mutters, but the word clearly causes him physical pain. “you can drive him.”

for a second, you aren’t sure which person looks more surprised - you or ward himself.

for a second, nobody moves. the parking lot buzzes, car doors slamming somewhere in the distance and tires crunching over pavement, yet the small circle surrounding rafe just feels so completely disconnected from it.

ward’s agreement feels so awkward, unwanted by almost everyone involved. you certainly don’t want it, and judging by the expression currently frozen on his face, neither does he.

rafe, unfortunately, looks pleased. “see, dad?” he says, glancing between you and his father. “i’ll just see you when i’ll see you.”

you immediately look away before he can catch whatever expression nearly slips across your face. because to him, this interaction probably seemed ridiculous from the start.

he has no idea that every interaction since waking up has become an act for everyone around him. he just sees his family acting weird and his girlfriend looking more exhausted than usual.

your stomach twists. if only it were that simple.

the walk toward your car feels much longer than it should. you can hear ward’s footsteps lingering behind for several moments before eventually turning away. when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already heading toward the suv with rose beside him. sarah offers you a look that falls somewhere between sympathy and apology before climbing into the backseat seat. as you unlock your car, wheezie gives you a small wave.

none of them seem eager to rescue you. traitors. the thought arrives so suddenly that you almost laugh.

rafe opens your passenger door before you can reach it, and the gesture catches you off guard. he used to do things like this without thinking.

he waits expectantly as you stare at the open door, then at him, then at the open door again. “thanks,” you manage.

his smile appears instantly. “you’re welcome.”

you slide into the driver’s seat before your thoughts can wander anywhere else. the interior of the car feels smaller than usual once he climbs in beside you. the door shuts, and now suddenly it’s just the two of you.

you grip the steering wheel harder than necessary as silence stretches until eventually he speaks. “you nervous or somethin’?”

you nearly laugh, but not because it’s funny. because if you don’t laugh, you swear you might scream.

“why would i be nervous?”

“i dunno.” he shrugs carefully, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at his ribs. “been weird all week.”

your fingers tighten around the steering wheel. outside, ward’s suv starts backing out of its parking space, thankfully, finally. something to focus on.

“yeah, i think getting into a near-fatal accident might make anybody weird.”

“i wasn’t talking about me.”

of course he wasn’t. you should’ve known better. heat creeps into your face immediately but you keep your eyes fixed on the windshield. he studies you openly from the passenger seat, you can feel the attention.

“you’ve barely looked at me.”

“i’ve looked at you.”

“not really.”

you start the engine, the vibration settlint beneath your feet. genuinely anything to avoid this conversation, anything.

“seatbelt.” the command slips out before you can stop it.

he stares at you, then laughs. “seriously?”

you look at him, doubling down with a nod. “seatbelt, rafe.”

his grin widens. “yes, ma’am.”

you hate that your mouth immediately twitches, but you hate it even more when he notices. because of course he notices, he always notices.

he clicks the seatbelt into place and leans back against the seat and the moment passes. you pull out of the parking lot behind ward’s suv.

for several minutes, neither of you says anything. the road unwinds ahead in long stretches of asphalt, sunlight flashing between trees as traffic drifts around you. you focus on driving and try very hard not to think about the person sitting beside you. unfortunately, rafe has never made avoiding him particularly easy.

“hey.”

you glance at him briefly. “what?”

he shifts carefully in his seat, one hand resting against his ribs. “when the crash happened . . where was i even going?”

your stomach tightens so fast it almost hurts. for a second, all you can think is that you have no idea. you don’t know where he was going, who he was with, what he was doing, or why he was on the road that night.

you keep your eyes forward, forcing your voice to stay even. “i don’t know,” you say.

he furrows his brows. “you don’t?”

you hesitate for the briefest second before the lie forms itself. “i . . was asleep when you left.” the words come out smoother than they should. you’re praying it’s believable.

during your relationship, there were plenty of nights where one of you fell asleep first while the other stayed up too late doing something pointless. maybe that’s why the lie feels weird in a way, because it sounds like something that could’ve been true once.

rafe nods slowly, accepting it without argument. “oh,” he murmurs. “no wonder then.”

his gaze drifts back toward the windshield, but he doesn’t stop thinking about it. you can see it in the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way his fingers tap absently against his knee. he’s trying to reach for something his brain won’t give him.

“i don’t remember leavin’,” he says after a moment. “or why i was going out.”

you swallow hard. you make a mental note right then to ask sarah later. or ward, if you have to. somebody has to know where he was headed that night, and if he keeps asking questions, you can’t keep answering “i don’t know” forever without sounding suspicious.

then, quietly, he asks, “why weren’t you there when i woke up?”

oh. you’d almost forgotten that part. because from your perspective, you got a frantic text from them out of nowhere, threw on clothes, contemplated in the mirror whether or not this was a bad idea, drove across town, and rushed through a hospital. from his perspective, he woke up in pain and confusion with his family already there, but not you.

and because he still thinks you’re his girlfriend, of course that would stand out to him.

you force yourself to answer calmly. “i didn’t know about the accident until after,” you say. “sarah called me as soon as she could. i had to drive over, and it took me a while to find your room.”

he’s quiet for a moment. you risk a glance over and find him watching you, but you can tell he’s not suspicious, but mid-thought.

“must’ve scared you,” he says softly. the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard.

and before you can think too hard about it, the response slips out. “i mean, i wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

the words hang between you for half a second, then his mouth twitches. “thrilled?” he repeats. you keep your attention on the road, but you can already hear the amusement creeping into his voice. “that’s the word you’re going with?”

you shrug one shoulder. “believe it or not, getting messaged that you wrapped your car around a tree wasn’t exactly the highlight of my week.” a laugh escapes him again. “hey, and i’m trying to be polite. you did wrap your car around a tree.”

“that’s polite?”

“for me?” you glance at him briefly before returning your eyes to the road, nodding. “for sure.”

his grin widens immediately, and you’re suddenly aware of the fact that you answered him without thinking. the sarcasm had slipped out automatically. it sounded too comfortable.

rafe settles deeper into his seat, looking entirely pleased with himself. “there you are.”

your stomach drops. you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “what do you mean?”

he shrugs. “i said you’ve been weird all week. that just sounded more like you.”

for a second, you don’t know what to say, because the worst part is that he’s right. and the even worse part is how quickly he noticed.

the rest of the drive passes with both conversation and silence sometimes. rafe points out boats whenever the road carries you close enough to the water, comments on restaurants he wants to go back to, and asks about people you haven’t spoken to in years because he still thinks they’re part of your everyday lives.

some questions are easy enough to dodge, while others leave you staring at the road a second longer than necessary while you search for something harmless to say. by the time ward’s suv turns onto a different road and disappears from view, you’re already exhausted.

now the rules aren’t technically rules. nobody hands you a pamphlet or makes you sign paperwork promising you’ll follow instructions. but after hearing the neurologist repeat the same warnings every day for nearly a week, they might as well be carved into the inside of your skull.

don’t force memories.

don’t aggressively correct him.

don’t overwhelm him.

don’t shock him.

let his brain make connections naturally.

it all sounds reasonable sitting inside a hospital surrounded by doctors who explain it with diagrams and medical terminology and little smiles. but it becomes significantly less simple when your ex-boyfriend believes he still lives with you and is currently sitting in your passenger seat asking what you guys should have for dinner.

you haven’t actually thought about dinner. or tomorrow. or the day after that.

every plan you’ve made this week has slowly dissolved the moment your phone rang and sarah told you rafe had been in an accident. some of them were small things that didn’t matter much, like coffee dates and errands and nights spent doing absolutely nothing. others mattered more. there are texts sitting unanswered in your phone from friends asking if you’re still available for some things.

none of them know what to do with an explanation like this, and truthfully, neither do you. you don’t blame rafe for any of it though. he didn’t ask for this, you’re sure. he didn’t choose this.

sometimes you catch yourself looking at him and wondering if ignorance really is bliss, because at least one of you doesn’t have to spend every waking second worrying about what happens when reality finally catches up.

the apartment building appears sooner than you’d like. your stomach sinks the second you pull into your parking spot.

until now, you’ve spent so much energy worrying about what comes out of your mouth that you completely forgot there are physical reminders everywhere that your relationship ended.

you park and kill the engine.

rafe glances out the windshield before looking back toward the building, completely relaxed. meanwhile, your thoughts are racing through every room inside the apartment. all you can remember in the moment is that the dining table isn’t even in the same place anymore and that half the artwork hanging on the walls wasn’t there when he last remembers living there.

you slowly unbuckle your seatbelt as your heart drops further.

his stuff. none of his stuff is there. maybe some sweaters you kept from him in some corner of your closest but that’s it.

not even a single jacket hanging by the door, or a pair of shoes beside the entryway, especially not a toothbrush sitting next to yours in the bathroom. there won’t be a drawer filled with his clothes, or his stupid collection of trucker hats that somehow multiplied every few months.

nothing, because he moved out. you packed everything for him and had him move back to his family’s house.

“you okay?” the sound of his voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

you glance over and realize he’s watching you again, concerned.

“yeah,” you answer quickly.

his eyebrows pull together slightly. “you sure?”

“i’m sure.” the lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

he studies you for another second before eventually nodding. outside, the afternoon air feels warmer than it did at the hospital. you make your way toward the staircase, keys already in your hand. rafe follows beside you without hesitation.

the walk up the stairs is mercifully short. you spend all of it contemplating whether or not to text sarah that eventually the lying will become too much for you that you’ll want to quit this, but without knowing the risks of what could happen if you did that is what makes you afraid.

meanwhile rafe looks tired beside you, which isn’t surprising after everything his body has been through, but otherwise remarkably normal. if someone walked out and saw you two right now, they would probably assume you were a couple returning from a long day, because that’s exactly what you’re pretending to be.

you approach your front door while rafe is saying something about one of the restaurants near the marina. after unlocking and opening the door, you step inside first.

the scent of your apartment greets you immediately, carrying traces of laundry detergent, whatever candle you burned last night, and something faintly citrus lingering from the cleaning spray you used earlier that week.

behind you, the door clicks shut. you slip your keys onto the small table near the entrance and shrug off your jacket, trying to act natural despite the uncomfortable awareness prickling across your skin. for a few seconds, neither of you says anything. the silence isn't awkward exactly, but it feels unusually observant. eventually, curiosity gets the better of you and you glance over your shoulder.

rafe hasn’t moved very far from the doorway. he’s standing several feet inside the apartment with his hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his pants, his attention fixed somewhere beyond you. there isn’t any alarm in his expression, nor any suspicion.

his gaze drifts slowly around the room, taking in one thing after another while he silently compares memory against reality. “when’d you move that?”

you follow his line of sight automatically, and it takes you a second to realize he’s talking about a sofa chair, and still, you play dumb. “um, move what?”

“the chair.” he even gestures vaguely toward it. “it used to be over there.”

your eyes flick between the chair and the area he’s indicating. embarrassingly enough, you can’t immediately remember if he’s right. you’ve lived here so long that most changes happened gradually until the current layout simply became normal.

whatever arrangement he’s remembering belongs to a version of this apartment that hasn’t existed for literal years. like you’re pretty sure you moved a lot of stuff after the breakup because you were having an emotional breakdown one night.

“oh, i don’t know,” you admit. “at some point.”

a grin pulls briefly at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, that’s specific.”

“you asked.”

“and you answered absolutely nothing.”

despite yourself, you feel your eyes roll. rafe catches it immediately, but instead of saying anything, something brightens in the look on his face.

he begins wandering farther into the apartment, moving carefully thanks to his ribs but still unable to sit still for very long. his attention drifts toward the bookshelf next, lingering there before shifting to a framed print hanging near the hallway. you trail after him without meaning to, watching as he takes everything in.

“that wasn’t there, was it?” he murmurs to himself, though you can tell he’s talking about the frame. you grimace and turn away slowly.

each change earns little more than a comment or a passing observation before he moves on to the next thing, accepting every explanation you give him without hesitation, if you even give him one.

eventually, his attention settles on you again. “did you redecorate?”

you think about your answer before shrugging one shoulder, “yeah, sort of.”

“sort of?”

you sigh dramatically to play the part of the anxious girlfriend, preparing the first excuse that comes to mind. “yeah, i got stressed.”

his eyebrows lift. “and that resulted in feng shui?”

you’re almost grateful you haven’t changed much since you two have broken up, but still you can’t help but worry about what he does remember from the relationship three years ago, if any of this still holds up. anything that might have changed too much will get a question, you’re sure, but you know that you can’t keep lying forever. at some point you’re worried the lies will clash.

you gesture vaguely around the apartment. “yep! you know how sometimes people get bangs or dye their hair after a breakdown?”

his mouth twitches. “yeah.”

“yeah well, i move furniture.”

he furrows his eyebrows with a smile, then he laughs. you know he won’t question it ‘cause you swear you’ve it before when you two were together. it was honestly better than drinking or drastically changing your appearance - plus you found a twenty dollar bill laid behind something, in dust . . so all that’s saying is that you should do it more often.

he continues wandering through the apartment, and that’s when another thought suddenly crashes into your head. text sarah, text sarah.

because while you’ve been worrying about framed artwork and furniture layouts, you’ve briefly overlooked the much bigger problem sitting right in front of you. sooner or later, he’s going to expect evidence - in clothes or shoes - that he lives here. and there’s nothing.

yet.

you linger several steps behind him, pretending to watch whatever has captured his attention while carefully pulling your phone from your pocket. the second the screen lights up, your thumbs are already moving.

where is all his stuff???

the message sends before you can rethink it, and for a moment, nothing happens, then the typing bubble appears immediately.

you are serious

i forgot

your eyes close briefly. of course sarah hadn’t thought about it either. neither of you have exactly been planning for this.

give me like 30 mins

i’ll grab clothes and whatever else

just dont let him notice

you glance up automatically. rafe has wandered toward the living room window now, peering outside at the parking lot below. from where you’re standing, he looks completely at ease like he has absolutely no reason to think anything is wrong.

your attention returns to the screen.

how am i supposed to do that

another bubble appears.

figure something out

please

i’ll be quick

and dont let him see me

if he sees me bringing his stuff he’ll know something’s going on

you stare at the message. she isn’t wrong. the image immediately forms in your mind: rafe opening the front door, sarah standing there holding a box full of clothes he thinks are already inside the apartment. yeah, no.

you immediately type back.

oh okay great

love that for me

the response arrives almost instantly.

good luck

before you can decide whether you appreciate the encouragement or want to throw your phone across the room, another text follows.

seriously tho

30 mins

distract him

you let out a slow breath through your nose. it’s easy for her to say. she gets to pack boxes while you get to play pretend with your ex-boyfriend. no, you can’t think like that.

you send a quick thumbs up before locking the screen and sliding the phone back into your pocket.

thirty minutes. yeah, you can survive thirty minutes. maybe. the thought has barely finished forming before you look up, and immediately regret it. your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical. somewhere during your conversation with sarah, rafe kept moving. and of all the places he could’ve wandered toward, he somehow managed to find one of the places you’d been hoping he’d avoid: the hallway closet.

any closet makes you nervous. you stop walking, and for a second, you genuinely consider pretending you don’t see him. like maybe if you stand perfectly still, he’ll magically lose interest and move on.

unfortunately, life has never worked that way.

rafe stands in front of the open closet, one hand resting against the doorframe while he studies the contents inside. from where you are, you can already see the problem. there are coats hanging inside and shoes that line neatly along the bottom shelf. storage bins are stacked near the back.

every single item belongs to you. there isn’t a single thing in there that’s his. you’re just praying you kept some of his stuff after the breakup that maybe are in there? hoping. you feel like you did keep some things.

your pulse begins climbing immediately because he looks confused. you can tell he noticed something doesn’t make sense to him. it’s the kind of scenario doctors specifically warned everyone about.

slowly, he turns around and his gaze finds yours almost instantly. “where’s my stuff?”

your heart sinks. because for the first time since this entire thing began, you genuinely don’t think you can just lie your way out of this one.

monitors beep in rhythm with his pulse. it’s too bright in here, too sterile. you keep your arms folded tight against yourself like it might keep everything else from spilling out.

he twitches once and shifts slightly. even bruised and half asleep, he looks like trouble.

you tried to leave last night. you slipped past sarah, rose, ward, and wheezie as they whispered, careful not to wake him up. meanwhile you tried to move quietly enough that your sneakers wouldn’t squeak on the tile. you made it as far as the door before you heard your name. it was enough to stop you cold.

he shouldn’t have been awake at all. but somehow he was, and his eyes opened just enough to find you. everyone else turned to stare. and that was it. you were stuck.

you didn’t argue when they asked you to stay. didn’t really have it in you to fight them. you just nodded slowly, like your brain was filled with static. they told you it’d only be for the night, that he’d sleep, that the doctors needed to keep an eye on him and run more tests in the morning. so you stayed.

morning comes through eventually. you sit in the chair beside his bed, arms crossed, chin balanced on your hand. your phone glows dimly in your lap. it’s a text from sarah: you don’t have to be there. we’ll figure it out.

but you can’t leave. not yet. not until someone tells you what any of this means.

he’s hooked to fluids, meds dripping steadily into his arm. his skin looks washed-out against the sheets, a sharp contrast to the bruises scattered across him. one’s blooming deep purple along his jaw, another faint yellow on his collarbone. he doesn’t look like the rafe you remember, the one who stormed out of your life with a suitcase, chasing whatever the hell came next. this version of him looks softer, quieter, and too still.

for some reason, it’s unsettling.

the neurologist comes in sometime midmorning, clipboard in hand. you only catch pieces of what he says, like ct, mri, cognitive recall. his short-term memory is functional, they say. he knows where he is. he knows who he is.

but his recent long-term memory? the last three, maybe four years, is gone. at least for now.

you watch as he blinks slowly when they ask him the date, confusion tightening the corners of his eyes. his hand curls against the blanket. he looks small for once, but you try not to stare too long. or to feel anything at all.

but you can’t stop thinking about how, out of everyone in his life, you’re the one he remembered.

later that morning, there’s a family meeting. you’re half-awake when ward asks if you’ll join. you don’t argue. you just stand, stretching the stiffness out of your back, every muscle aching from the hours you spent folded in that chair.

sarah’s the first face you notice when you step into the hallway. she’s holding two coffees, one already half-empty, the other extended toward you. for a second, you just blink at it, unsure if it’s really meant for you. but she gives a small smile.

you take it. your fingers brush hers, and she says softly, “figured you’d need it after staying here all night.”

it’s the first time in a long time she’s done something like that for you. it’s small, but it’s something. and honestly, you do need the caffeine. the hospital chairs are torture devices disguised as furniture, and you’ve barely slept since the nurse woke you at four to check rafe’s vitals.

the doctor arrives a few minutes later, the same one from this morning. he asks to speak privately in the hallway, and you all move there together: ward, rose, sarah, wheezie, and you.

he starts explaining things you only half-hear at first. they’re just medical words, fragments of phrases like localized trauma and episodic recall. it’s only when he switches to plain english that everything clicks.

“we have to be careful,” he says. “forcing too many memories too soon could cause confusion, emotional distress . . . even aggression, depending on how his brain interprets the gaps.”

the hallway goes silent. ward folds his arms, jaw tight. “so what—you’re saying we have to lie to him?”

“not lie, just . . .” the doctor pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. his gaze drifts off for a second, settling back on all of you, “don’t contradict him until his mind stabilizes.”

there’s a long beat. you can feel everyone’s eyes shift between each other. sarah’s the one who finally asks, “and how long is that supposed to take?”

the doctor exhales. “it’s hard to say. the brain heals at its own pace. but . . . at least a few weeks. maybe more. just to be certain.”

you don’t even realize you’re gripping your coffee until your fingers ache. the paper cup crinkles under your palm, the coffee long gone cold.

a few weeks.

your heart sinks. a few weeks of pretending and being the one name he remembers and believing the lie that you still belong to him.

you try to piece things together in your head, just how you managed to end up back here, standing in this hallway with all of them again. your pulse is still loud in your ears from what the doctor said. don’t contradict him. a few weeks. maybe more.

rose exhales sharply, the sound more like a scoff than a sigh, and mutters something under her breath before striding down the hall. her heels click against the tile, wheezie trailing behind, barely keeping up. they disappear around the corner without a word.

you shift your weight from one foot to the other. the air feels too thin now that it’s just you, sarah, and ward. sarah glances at the door, her brows pulled tight.

“i’m gonna go in with the doctor,” she whispers to ward, like she’s asking permission.

he doesn’t answer right away, but gives a small nod, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. sarah squeezes your arm gently on her way past, disappearing back inside the room where rafe is. the door closes behind her with a soft click that leaves the hallway even quieter than before.

ward stays outside. his hands settle on his hips. he looks like he’s been holding his breath since all this started. you can feel his eyes on you before you even turn around, and when you do, it’s slow, hesitant.

he doesn’t say your name, doesn’t give you the chance to brace yourself. “we’re doing this because it’s what the doctor says,” he tells you flatly. “not because i want you near my son again.”

the words hit harder than you expect. you blink at him, and for a second, you feel like you’re sixteen again, getting scolded by someone else’s father for something you didn’t even do wrong.

he sighs through his nose, still not looking at you directly. “rafe trusts you more than anyone right now,” he continues, his voice lowers but it doesn’t get softer. “so you have to play along. if you have any care left in your heart for him, you’ll do what’s best for his recovery.”

you feel something in you bristle, that kind that builds slow and steady. “of course i care about rafe,” you start, the words catching somewhere in your throat, but he waves you off before you can finish.

“just—” he gestures vaguely, like he can’t even stand to argue. “don’t . . . give him any reason to get worked up.”

you stare at him. the man in front of you feels like a stranger, and it hurts, how easy it seems for him to look at you like you’re the problem.

you draw a quiet breath, your chest tight. “don’t worry. i’m doing this for rafe,” you tell him finally, “not for you.”

his expression doesn’t change, but his jaw ticks slightly. you don’t wait for him to say anything back. you step past him, shoulder brushing his as you go, and push the hospital door open again. the air inside smells like antiseptic, but you’d rather face that than the way he’s looking at you. the door shuts behind you before he can respond.

you sit in the chair by the window after sarah steps out, your fingers tracing the rim of the paper cup she left behind. the coffee’s gone cold by now, but you keep holding it anyway. it gives your hands something to do.

it’s quiet. you’re half expecting a nurse to walk in again, maybe a family member to swap places with you. you’re not expecting his voice.

“you look pretty this morning.”

your head snaps up before you can stop it. he’s watching you, that familiar little half-smile pulling at his mouth. his voice is softer than it used to be. it’s still warm, still heavy with that same confidence that always made it hard to tell when he was being serious.

he pauses for a second, eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s noticing something new. “just . . . a little maturer than i remember.”

you force a small laugh to be polite. “yeah, well, time does that.”

he chuckles under his breath, like you just told him a secret. and for a moment, it almost feels like old times. almost.

he keeps talking, asking if you’ve been taking care of yourself, if work’s been good. he doesn’t sound unsure. he just sounds like someone who forgot everything.

you can feel the family’s eyes on you. ward by the doorway, rose beside him pretending not to stare, even wheezie pretending to scroll through her phone while watching from her chair. it’s suffocating, the way they’re studying every move you make, waiting for you to slip, to say something that breaks whatever fragile illusion they’re trying to keep him in, but you’re not stupid.

you want to look away and say don’t look at me like that, but instead you just smile. you keep your voice calm. “you should rest,” you say finally, reaching for the safest thing you can. “the doctor said you still need it.”

he grins like he’s humoring you. “you always worry so much.”

and that right there hits harder than it should. because once, that was true. once, it was something he loved about you.

you’re staring at the monitor beside his bed, pretending to be interested in the pulse of his heartbeat, just anything but his eyes. but he doesn’t let silence stay for long.

“you alright?” his voice is lower this time, like he’s testing the air between you.

you hum, not quite an answer. “yeah, fine.”

“doesn’t look like it.”

you glance up, and he’s already watching you, head tilted slightly and eyes narrowed.

“i’m okay,” you repeat, and it’s almost convincing.

he keeps looking though like he doesn’t buy it. “did we get in a fight or somethin’?” he asks finally, half teasing but with a trace of real confusion that knots your stomach.

you blink, the words catching you off guard. okay, at least he’s aware he forgot something, guess not how far back. “something like that,” you say after a long pause.

he nods slowly, eyes trailing to the blanket on his lap, then back to you. “figures,” he mutters. “i probably said something stupid.”

you let out a small laugh before you can stop it. “you usually do.”

“yeah?” he leans his head back against the pillow, grin deepening. “then i guess this isn’t new.” there’s a beat, and then quieter, “sorry, though. whatever it was.”

you freeze for a moment. he doesn’t sound soft or sentimental. if anything, his tone’s offhand, lazy, like he’s not used to saying sorry but knows he should. and somehow that feels more real than any apology you’ve gotten in a long time.

“it’s fine,” you tell him, though it doesn’t sound like you believe it.

he raises an eyebrow, eyes still on you. “doesn’t seem fine.”

“it is,” you say again.

he scoffs softly under his breath, looking at you like he’s seeing straight through since you walked in. “you forget i know you, right?”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t. you just look away. still, you can’t help the small smile that slips out. it’s weird, it’s wrong, but it’s . . . nice. to see him like this again, like before.

he shifts slightly, careful of the iv in his arm, eyes still on you. “guess i’ll just have to make it up t’you when they let me out of here, yeah?” he says.

you don’t answer. you just nod once, staring down at your hands again.

rafe’s still half-reclined, the hospital pillows stacked behind him, one arm bent behind his head like he’s trying to look casual despite the bandages peeking from under the edge of his gown.

he tilts his chin toward you, eyes sweeping lazily down your face. “c’mere,” he says quietly.

you hesitate, frozen for a second, scanning his expression for any sign of what he wants. maybe he just wants to fix something, right? like straighten your shirt, brush a stray hair away. something simple.

but when you step closer, his fingers graze your arm slowly. the touch sends a tremor through you before you can stop it. his fingertips trail along your forearm, tracing an old path he’s sure he’s walked before. then his hand curls around your upper arm, pulling you in just slightly. close enough that his breath touches your cheek.

your body stiffens. you see the shift in his gaze, the way he looks at your mouth before anything else. he’s trying to kiss you.

you act without thinking. before he can lean forward, you reach for him, looping your arm around his shoulders and pressing him gently against you. a hug.

his breath catches for a moment, confused maybe, but he settles. you can feel the weight of him ease as he lets his head drop against your chest.

you press your palm to the back of his head, careful not to touch the stitches hidden in his hair, and your thumb brushes against the soft edge of a bandage. his skin is warm through the gown. his heartbeat thumps against your ribs.

your cheek rests against his hair. for a second, it almost feels right. something in you wants to stay there, just for a little longer. then you pull back before it can turn into anything else.

he blinks at you, dazed but not disappointed. maybe a little confused, but too worn out to ask. you smooth the sleeve of his gown, mutter something about him needing rest. he nods, leans back again, eyes drifting shut.

you take the chance to step away and breathe. none of this can possibly be real right now.

you leave the room quietly, and for the first time since walking into this hospital, you realize you’re shaking. it’s not because you were scared. but because for one small, stupid moment, you almost forgot he doesn’t love you anymore.

you glance at his family for some kind of acknowledgment, guidance, or support, but there’s nothing. they’re silent at first. and before you can even react, sarah speaks up.

“y/n,” she says, “rafe was in a car accident.”

your stomach knots. you take a shallow breath, trying to steady yourself. “a . . . car accident?” you manage unsure if you even want to hear more.

“yeah,” she continues, hesitating, glancing at rafe before looking back at you. “thankfully, mostly his stupid head got hurt.”

you blink. “mostly his head?” mostly? mostly? you swallow hard, your throat dry.

“yeah,” sarah says, like she’s trying to shrug it off, like that somehow makes it better. “but he lost a lot of memory, apparently. but doctors don’t know how much will come back.”

you stare. your arms tighten across your chest. you still don’t understand why you’re here. how much of his memory could he have possibly lost?

his eyes are on you, calm. too calm. he doesn’t fidget or flinch. he just sits there, waiting.

“rafe,” sarah says, voice softer now, “tell y/n what you do remember.”

he shrugs, casual, as if he doesn’t understand why they keep checking. “i’m rafe cameron,” he says slowly, like he’s introducing himself for the first time. your chest tightens already.

he nods toward sarah. “i’m your brother,” then toward ward, “and your son.”

he lifts his shoulders just enough. “i live in the outerbanks . . . i’m twenty . . . and . . . i don’t know.” he pauses, lets the words hover, then lets them land. “y/n’s my girlfriend.”

it takes a beat for your brain to process.

then another.

and another.

your hands curl around your arms again instinctively. horror crawls up your spine, disbelief prickles your skin. the years, the distance, the life you built apart from him, all of it, hangs suspended in a moment you didn’t see coming.

from behind you, sarah murmurs, quietly, almost like she’s afraid you won’t hear, but she knows you do. “his memory of the last few years, just gone. doctors don’t know if it’ll come back. as for now . . . he still thinks you’re together. he’s still mentally twenty.”

you blink, hard. your chest rises and falls unevenly. your brain refuses to catch up.

you glance down at him, taking in the bruises along his jaw and collarbone, the tired weight in his eyes. they’re fucking with you, right?

the family around him remains rigid, silent. ward’s jaw is tight, sarah still lingers behind you, her expression taut with worry and frustration, aware that you’re the one person he wants here, the one person he’ll listen to. it’s not even them, it’s just you.

rafe shifts slightly in the bed, letting his gaze sweep over you.

you take a slow, steadying breath, feeling the weight of all eyes on you. for a long moment, you just stand there, staring at him, your mind racing faster than your heart. then, finally, you pivot, shifting your gaze to sarah.

“can i talk to you in private?” your voice is calm, but a tiny twitch at the corner of your eye betrays everything.

sarah hesitates, glancing back at rafe, but then nods. “yeah . . . fine,” she murmurs.

you guide her toward the door, careful with each step, and close it gently behind you.

from the bed, rafe tilts his head, watching the two of you disappear. his gaze lingers on sarah’s reluctant movements and your deliberate steps, noting the way your body tenses, then relaxes slightly once the door clicks shut.

the room falls into silence again, but it’s not the same stillness as before. he studies them all carefully, lips tugging into the smallest, amused curve. he knows something is happening outside, something directed at him, something completely out of his control. yet he can’t hear it, not even a word, and that makes it somehow better.

his eyes wander to the window, seeing the two of you hash it out in the hallway. you flare your arms, sarah throws her hands up. your voices are muffled, but the gestures are perfect. it’s like a silent cartoon with the exaggerated motions, stomping feet, sudden turns. sarah shakes her head dramatically. you point at her chest, then to him, then back at her.

he can’t hear a word, but he can see everything. and somehow, it’s hilarious. he allows himself a quiet smirk, tilting his head like he’s watching a private performance meant to entertain him.

even here, in the hospital, bruised and battered, he can’t help but find it funny. he settles back against the pillows, watching, and as the minutes stretch on, he realizes no matter what he feels, or what people are telling him, he wants you here, and only you.

ward crosses his arms, sighing, and shakes his head. rose pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s just witnessed something tragic.

through the glass, he just watches you gesturing, sarah fuming, both of you locked in silent war. and this idiot thinks, still thinking this is three years in the past, that this is just his girls playing around.

did we peep him thinking his phone is fucking w him cause he thought apple just disconnected both of their locations, not knowing they literally unshared them years ago😭😭

after the first couple dozen calls, they became less frequent until they shrank down to zero. you weren’t going to pick up. he knew that, but some small part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d hear the line click and your breathing on the other end.

he missed you, so much, and it was his fault you were gone.

———————————————————————————————

2 months ago.

you stare at the string of texts - as if your glare could alter reality.

made those cupcakes you love, can’t wait to see you! really missed you today ☹️

i missed you more, pretty girl. I’ll be home soon.❤️

part of you had just been waiting for it to happen again. another night - some baked good getting staler by the minute propped up on a pretty plate, awaiting Clark’s arrival. the frosting on the cupcakes looked sadder each hour that passed where Clark didn’t walk through the door. you knew where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing.

you can’t get mad at him for doing his job. it’s who he’s with, and when that person happens to need him, that bothers you. you’ll never get used to the feeling of your stomach dropping when you check find my friends, and their locations are directly next to one another at the office.

you think you’re numb to the situation. that it shouldn’t be a suprise anymore. you don’t cry - yet. all you do is sigh, pick yourself up, and crawl into bed. tears fall, but not for him, for you.

———————————————————————————————

The last text he sent was at 7:30. you asking where he was sent at 8:00. It’s almost midnight when you hear the front door creak open. you don’t get up to greet him. instead you close your eyes, resuming your curled up on your side position under the sheets.

when your bedroom door pries open, you still don’t open your eyes. you hear him pad across the hardwood, landing on his side of the bed.

he peels back the covers, gently crawling into the bed next to you. you feel the weight in the bed shift, but don’t move a muscle. he leans over, kissing your exposed shoulder and down your bicep. you softly stir on instinct, halting your movements as quickly as they started.

“‘m so sorry, baby,” he whispers between pecks. “caught up at work again - perry has been on us this week.” he attempts to joke.

you don’t roll over, you don’t shift, you only softly reply, “i can’t keep coming in second.”

his brow furrows, pulling back. “what do you mean, honey?”

“Were you with Lois?”

the silence is deafening. and it’s all you need to hear. it’s a moment before he speaks up again.

“yeah, uh - i was. why?”

“i don’t think we should see each other anymore.” you mutter, voice hoarse - evidence of the sobs that wrecked you not even an hour prior.

time stops for clark. a tear you didn’t realize had been forming slides across the bridge of your nose.

“what?” his voice is no longer a whisper. “why? baby-“ his hand is on your arm, prompting you to turn to him, but you don’t. not looking at him makes it easier. you can’t cave, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. letting him do it to you. he pauses, pieces falling into place in his mind. “because- cause of Lois? baby, we were working, I promise-“

“I know,” you interrupt. “your work is important to you. you should focus on that.”

“no, baby - no. stop it,” he’s lightly shaking your arm, begging you to just look at him. “baby - can you just look at me? please?” nothing.

“Lois, too - you can have the best of both worlds without worrying about how to make time for me.”

he’s panicking now. you’re right next to him, but he can physically feel you slipping further and further away. he’s trying to grab you, pull you back in, but your slipping through his fingers like sand.

“honey, what are you even saying? i love you, more than anything, you’re the most important thing to me.”

“it doesn’t feel like it.”

“then I’ll do better. you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m so sorry for making you feel like you weren’t. I love you so much, don’t wanna lose you,” his voice is breaking. you fight every urge to turn around and comfort him.

“you started losing me the first time you didn’t show.”

he thinks he’s going to be sick. your words hit him like a punch to the gut. all those missed dates, all those late nights - they come flooding back to him. he can just see you, alone in the apartment, glancing at the door every few minutes for him to come in, and it never happens. how could he do this? what has he done? is he losing you forever? all these thoughts are running through his head - all he knows for sure is it is no one’s fault but his.

before he can say anything, before he can keep begging for you to listen to him, that he loves you, that he’d never intentionally make you feel like less than you are to him, you speak up once more, with a finality in your voice that breaks his heart into even smaller pieces than it already had.

“leave your key in the morning. goodnight, clark.”

he lies awake that night, listening to your breathing, unsure if he’ll ever fall asleep to that lullaby again. in the morning, with tears in his eyes and a heavy heart, he slips out the door. you choke on sobs when you hear the door close on your lives together.

———————————————————————————————

present day.

you shouldn’t call him. you owe yourself that. yet you can’t ignore the pull you feel towards him when something goes wrong - after the day you had, you yearn for just a glimpse of the comfort he always gave you before. fuck it.

the tone only drones once before it clicks, and Clark’s voice comes through the speaker.

“hello?”

“hey,” you breathe. there’s a beat where neither of you speak, silence killing you softly. “I, um- sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you - I just didn’t know who else to call,” he hears you sniffle on the end of the line, perking up as alarms sound in his mind.

“no, swee-,” he stops himself before he can fully call you sweetheart. he bites his lip prevent him from further embarrassment. he can’t call you that anymore, but it was once so natural. like instinct. you catch it too, more warmth growing in your tummy at the slip up than you’d like. “no. y’re not bothering me. ever. what’s going on?”

“can you just- can you come here?” you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for an impact that wouldn’t possibly come. he would come. any time you call, he’d come - no questions asked.

he’s caught off guard, making few sputtered starts of sentences. he manages to set himself straight, speaking an eager (but not too eager), “of course i can. im wrapping up in the office, be there in 15?”

“yeah, no rush. thank you, clarkie.”

he smiles at the nickname. “always. whenever you need me.”

he was going to fix this - with hopes that he’d never have to hear your voicemail again.

———————————————————————————————