You’re standing by a sliding glass door, and while the crowded house is warm, the January cold still presses through the glass. It’s another house party in Figure Eight, and being back here reminds you that the island never really changes.

You lift your cup to your lips. No alcohol, since it’s better that you don’t drink right now. The pain that dug into you since the last time you saw Rafe hasn’t gone away, and getting drunk will just make it worse.

It’s been three weeks since you left his bedroom. Since the last words between you twisted everything you thought you understood about the two of you. The holidays came and went, and now it’s mere days before everyone here heads back to their colleges to start the spring semester.

You’ve spent so much time telling yourself Rafe didn’t even hurt you, that you were simply angry that he tricked you. But you’ve resigned yourself to the truth now.

At some point over the months you spent getting to know him, you did give him the power to hurt you. And he used it.

The worst part is you don’t even know how much of what he said was manipulation. Which parts were fake. If any parts were even real.

The party hums around you as your friends talk over the music. You haven’t told Ivy and Alayna about any of it. They asked about the bet and you said you gave up, that Rafe was too annoying for you to pretend to like him. They laughed it off.

Through the glass door, there’s a backyard bonfire in a stone pit, a group gathered around it. Rafe’s there, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.

He’s been drinking a lot. Even from here, you immediately noticed the way he keeps tilting his beer back, again and again.

It’s only been minutes since you and your friends drifted toward this corner of the house, relieved when you didn’t spot him inside. But then you glanced out the door.

The glass reflects your face back at you. You can’t believe how easy it is for you to look unaffected. Like nothing he did ever got to you. But then again, you’ve gotten very good at burying things where no one can see them.

You think about the last time you spoke to him, how he stammered and cried and told you he wanted to be with you. But even if that were true, this started because he saw you as a challenge. You were just a girl to fuck so he could brag about it to his friends.

At least you could tell that you really did hurt him when you told him it was all fake for you. You broke his heart, but what you never saw coming was that he’d break yours, too.

You force yourself to stop looking outside. You turn back toward your friends. You let yourself get pulled into their conversation, and for a few minutes, it works. Then Ivy’s eyes widen, her gaze toward the backyard. You turn.

A fight has broken out near the bonfire. And Rafe is on the ground, surrounded. You wait for someone to step in, but the guys not involved just watch. You stare, hoping someone will do something, but he’s getting pummeled.

And despite everything you’re feeling, the pang of fear is the loudest.

Impulsively, you set your drink down and push through the crowd inside the house. It’s easy to spot one of Rafe’s friends, Topper, leaning against the kitchen island. You’ve known him by sight for years.

You lean in close so he can hear you over the music.

“You need to help Rafe,” you say. “He’s in the backyard.”

Topper’s smile disappears and he shakes his head like he’s irritated, used to the fact that his friend is always stirring up trouble. He grabs two other guys and they head for the backyard. You follow, zipping up your hoodie the second the chill hits you.

His friends manage to get the group to back off, shouting and shoving. The crowd around him loosens.

Rafe is still on the grass, though. He’s curled on his side. His hair’s fallen into his face, and he’s breathing hard. He doesn’t even try to get up when his friends tell him to.

He doesn’t look like the man who once made you feel protected. Now it feels like you have to be the one to save him.

Worry digs into you. You step closer, leaning down.

“Rafe,” you say sharply. “Get up.”

Hearing your voice does something to him, even though the last time he saw you, you’d proven what people say about you is true.

“Get up,” you repeat.

Rafe lifts his head and his eyes finally land on you. From where he’s lying, you’re framed against the starry sky, the bonfire’s glow catching the edge of your face. You look unbelievably beautiful.

Your voice cuts through the ringing in his ears. He hates how nice it sounds. Hates that it still gets to him. Hates you.

But even with all that, this is the first time in a long time that he feels a semblance of steadiness. He forces himself onto his knees, swaying slightly.

Your eyes scan the massive yard, searching for somewhere you can take him that isn’t in full view of the crowd. Then you spot the poolhouse tucked behind the in‑ground pool. You hope it’s unlocked. And you hope your friends don’t see you doing this.

You don’t want Ivy or Alayna to catch you worrying about him. You don’t even know how you’d explain what you’ve done so far. You’re not sure you can.

“Let’s go,” you say firmly.

He tries to stand and nearly tips, so your hand finds his arm, steadying him.

The moment your fingers close around Rafe’s bicep, traitorous warmth buzzes under your skin. You despise him. You’ve told yourself that a hundred times. He hurt you. He made you feel stupid. You should want nothing to do with him.

But your body won’t listen. It’s unfair that it brings you comfort to touch him again.

The walk across the yard is long. Rafe’s breaths are ragged and he leans some of his weight into you and the voices fade the farther you get, replaced by the distant hum of ocean waves.

When you reach the poolhouse, you try the handle and thankfully, it turns. You push the door open and guide him inside. The space is dark and chilly and smells like chlorine. You flick on the light.

Rafe sinks down onto the closest couch, elbows on his knees, staring ahead with a blank expression. And now, you can see him clearly.

His bottom lip is split. He obviously got punched in the nose, too, because it’s covered in blood. His hands are trembling, and he keeps blinking as he stares ahead.

A drop of blood falls onto his thigh, soaking into his jeans, and you unzip your hoodie, shrugging it off even though the cold immediately sinks into your arms. You can’t believe your instinct is to choose his comfort over yours.

Rafe is dazed. Then he sees a bunched‑up cloth in front of his face. You’re standing over him, offering him something to press to his nose.

Past the blood, he can smell you on the fabric. Your expression is tight and unreadable. But he could never read you all that well. Obviously.

“Take it,” you state.

You’re helping him. After everything. It’s what he always wished for, someone to look after him after he loses it and gets hurt, but it’s ruined, because all he can remember is the cruel way you told him you could never feel anything for him.

He lifts a hand, takes your sweater from you, and presses it to his nose with a wince.

You watch him shaking, standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around yourself. You can’t make yourself move any closer. And you can’t make yourself leave either. What the hell is it about him that makes you act this way?

You’re curious and worried and angry. You try to piece together what happened, why he got ganged up on like that. Obviously he couldn’t fight back for once because of how drunk he is.

You teeter between caring and refusing to care, because as much as you tell yourself you’re done with him, walking out of this room while he’s shaking and bleeding feels impossible.

“Why are you even here?” Rafe mutters, not looking at you.

He’s been hanging on by a thread. The guys by the fire were already annoying him, laughing about how wasted he was. Normally he’d just tell them to shut up, but tonight he was drinking because he’s trying to forget you.

Rafe was already close to snapping. He made a comment to one of the guys about his parents just to piss him off, some gossip he heard a while ago. To get Rafe back, the asshole said something about his dad.

That’s what broke him. He swung. The other guy swung back, harder and with his friends backing him up.

You don’t know how to answer his question, because you have no idea why you’re here. You stay silent, staring, never having felt this before.

“They said something about my dad,” he says under his breath, trying to justify himself. His words are slurred. He’s too drunk to filter anything. “Bet he’s real proud.”

You still. You remember Rafe saying that he’s not what his family wants him to be. To know he lost it over a stupid comment about his dad makes it clear that that’s really something that gets to him.

Or maybe not. You don’t know anymore. Every memory you have of him feels poisoned, warped by the fact that he was lying to you through so much of it.

Rafe hates the silence, that you’re just standing there, that you shattered his heart.

“What? You’re thinking I deserve this, right?” he rasps, bringing the bunched up hoodie to his lap, looking down at the blood sinking into the fabric. He’s simply repeating what you told him. That he deserved to be fucked with, that he’s stupid.

Anger floods you so fast it’s dizzying. He’s actually feeling sorry for himself, after he got himself in this mess, after he admitted to trying to use you. The audacity almost makes you laugh.

“Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?” you say.

Rafe lets out a breath, your cold words slicing into him. And finally, he looks up at you.

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly, squinting, grimacing. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

That’s what makes you snap. You scoff and storm out, the door slamming shut behind you. You should’ve just left him on the cold ground.

Rafe doesn’t move. He keeps staring at the floor long after you’re gone, shoulders hunched, breath shaky, his nose and jaw pulsating with pain.

The silence presses in around him. All he can smell is blood now. Tears burn his eyes and he squeezes them shut.

・・・・・

You never get attached. Every fling you’ve had always stayed surface‑level. It wasn’t even a conscious effort; it was how you protected yourself from getting hurt.

But with Rafe, it’s like he broke you apart, like he lit a fire in you and doused it in fuel until you became someone you didn’t recognize.

And you had the same effect on him, because while he did lie to you when this started, there was no faking the meltdown he had. His voice cracked in a way that didn’t sound like him as he told you he regretted the bet, that you deserve better.

You hurt him, too. It doesn’t even feel satisfying, though.

It’s Sunday afternoon and you’re lying in bed in your sorority house bedroom. Your mind keeps going back to Friday night in Kildare. The way Rafe looked, bloodied and hurt. The way your instinct kicked in to help him.

You’d caught up with Ivy and Alayna at the party after leaving the poolhouse. And you lied. You told them that even though you don’t like Rafe, you just couldn’t stand there and watch him get hurt. No matter who it was, you’d help.

The guilt of lying has been eating away at you. But how can you possibly confess to making a fool of yourself for someone who disrespected you the way he did?

You got back to campus yesterday. You desperately want to pick up where you left off before Rafe. It’s like he knocked something loose in you and you can’t get it back into place.

You stare up at the ceiling, wired. You told your sorority sisters you were going to take a nap, exhausted from the trip back. But you haven’t slept. You’ve just been lying here, listening to the muffled voices drifting up from downstairs.

The loud rumble of an engine drifts in from outside and you push yourself up on your elbows to peek through the sheer curtain.

A black pickup rolls to a stop in front of the house. Rafe steps out, something bunched in his hand. You stay still, watching him.

Time drags by and then there’s a knock at your bedroom door. Your breath catches.

He can’t see you like this. You want to have the power here. Even after you helped him on Friday night, he still looked at you with so much hatred. Like you don’t give a shit about him. And it’s best that he thinks that.

You edge back toward the window to see Rafe walking away from the house, heading for his truck again. Relief finds you. It’s not him.

“Yeah?” you call, forcing your voice to sound normal.

Jada cracks the door open. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

You shake your head no.

“Rafe came by,” she says, stepping inside. “He dropped this off.”

She holds out your hoodie. The same one you’d pressed against his face in the poolhouse. The fabric is soft and clean now, scrubbed of every trace of him. You take it, thanking her.

“He looked rough,” Jada adds, watching you. You’re still, staring ahead as you hear his truck drive away. “You okay?”

A while ago, you’d told her you were done with the bet, that you’d keep seeing Rafe just for fun. Then, when things fizzled, you told her you got bored. You never said how you actually let your guard down for the first time.

You clutch the hoodie to your chest. And you don’t have it in you anymore to pretend.

“I liked him,” you say, the words thin. Your eyes well up before you can stop it.

Jada sits beside you immediately. You can see it in her face: she’s never seen you like this. You’re supposed to be the one who never cries over a boy.

“He had a bet with his friends that he could have sex with me,” you tell her. “That’s why he started this whole thing.”

“What?” Jada breathes, stunned. “Are you serious?”

“He cried when he admitted it,” you say, letting out a scoff. “And I couldn’t even feel bad for him. Like, what, you realized I was a person and now you’re sorry?”

Your breath catches. You look away.

“I told him that I was in it to break his heart. And he said I did.” You swallow hard. “I forgot about that bet with my friends a long time ago, but I said that just to hurt him back.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says softly. “What a mess.”

“I know.” You wipe your eyes, your breath shaky. “Why does it hurt so bad?”

Jada’s brows pull together, her expression warm and aching with sympathy. She reaches for your hand.

“It won’t forever,” she tells you. “I promise.”

You nod, even though you don’t believe it yet. You’d give anything to feel like yourself again. To feel like Rafe never touched a single part of you.

・・・・・

Rafe thought he wanted you to open the door. Once he got to the front step of your sorority house, though, he realized he couldn’t face you. He barely said a word when your roommate answered.

He held out the hoodie, muttered that it was yours, and went. He only returned it because he hates having something of yours lying around.

His hands are tight on the wheel. He turns off Greek Row. He doesn’t have a destination. He just needs to move to protect himself from drowning in his thoughts.

His stomach pinches in pain and he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. He imagines you in the passenger seat, teasing him as you go to get food together, and he hates that his mind goes there.

Friday night crashes back into him, the way you grabbed his arm and led him to the poolhouse. He thought you’d never speak to him again. He doesn’t know why you did it. And he can’t read into it, because it wasn’t that long ago that you looked at him like he was nothing.

How could you do that to him? He keeps replaying it, over and over, torturing himself. The way you sat in his bed, eyes cold, telling him it was all a bet for you, too.

Admittedly, before all that, it felt good that the girl who seems to hate every guy saw something in him. But now he knows you faked it all.

He tells himself he doesn't need you. But all he can think about is how easily you said you never liked him, that you never could, and how much it hurts to know you meant it.

・・・・・

Rafe sits in the lobby of the main lodge while his friends talk around him.

He didn’t want to come. He got out of the spring day trip for the past two years, but Trey was serious that everyone needed to show up after the whole probation bullshit.

And Rafe doesn’t care for orders, but he cares enough not to let the frat president make an example out of him. He refuses to look weak, to be cut out socially, to be even more isolated than he already feels.

Rafe’s been bracing to see you since the moment he stepped out onto the college-owned retreat center. The place is huge, a cluster of buildings that face a lake. It’s big, but not big enough that he can fully avoid you.

He rubs a hand over his face. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do if you come.

・・・・・

You’ve been excited for this all year. It’s one of your favorite parts of Greek life. This day trip is a long‑standing tradition. Every spring semester, every chapter is invited out for a Saturday of team‑building and fun.

But this year, you’ve spent the entire 45-minute drive wondering if Rafe will be here. You’re in the backseat of your sorority sister’s car, music blasting as you approach the retreat center.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. It’s the guy you met at a party earlier this week. You hated how, the entire time he talked, you kept comparing him to Rafe. He didn’t catch your humor, didn’t look at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world like Rafe used to.

Usually you can distract yourself with someone new. It won’t work this time.

・・・・・

The chapter leaders, made up of the frat and sorority presidents, welcome everyone in front of the main lodge. There are a lot of people here. With most members of all the chapters on campus, maybe a hundred students total. With so many people gathered, the air feels even hotter, sun beating down hard.

You spot him. Rafe is standing with his frat, that stupid hat sitting backwards on his head again. He’s too far away for you to see how much he’s healed since that fight he got into.

But you can tell he looks tired. He doesn’t want to be here. You’re not surprised. The last time you saw him was through your bedroom window a week ago. He looked just as tired then, like a light he once had is gone now.

And if you didn’t believe it in that moment, you do now. You really did break his heart. It’s painfully obvious.

He looks up. Your eyes meet through the crowd. For one second, it’s just you and him, standing on opposite sides of a crowd, pretending you’re strangers.

You’ll have to get used to that. You look away.

・・・・・

Fireflies drift over the grass in the warm night air. It’s the last stretch of the day, the lull after a big dinner. It’s tradition to end the day trip with a dip in the lake. You did it last year and you’re eager to do it again, to plunge into the water after a hot, tiring day.

Some cars in the lot are already gone, surely the chapter presidents. They know all about the swim, and they don’t forbid it, but they don’t encourage it. They just slip away once dinner ends, leaving the night to everyone else.

You walk with your sorority sisters to the trunk of the car to grab the towels you’d packed, then head back to the lake, hopeful you’ll be able to keep avoiding Rafe like you have been all day.

Rafe’s frat brothers talk over each other as they exit the dining hall, hyping up the lake jump, saying he skipped the last two years so he doesn’t get to bail on anything.

He didn’t even know about it until five minutes ago. He’s exhausted, though, and the idea that the day isn’t over yet annoys him.

He just wants to leave. Unfortunately, he got a ride with them, which means he’s stuck until they’re done splashing around like idiots. He tells them he’s not coming, so Mac tosses him the keys. They jog off toward the lake under the moonlight while Rafe stays behind.

He reaches the car and yanks open the door, thinking he can sit inside, but the moment he leans in, a wave of trapped heat slams into him. He ends up leaning against the side of the car instead and pulls out his phone to kill time.

From the lake, he can already hear the distant splash of someone jumping in, followed by cheers.

Minutes later, he hears footsteps on the gravel. He assumes it’s someone heading back to their car, someone else who decided not to jump. But the footsteps angle closer, weaving between the cars.

Then he glances up. It’s you. And you don’t notice him.

You’re heading for your sorority sister’s car, your phone tight in your hand. You’d forgotten to drop it off earlier, too rushed to think straight. Now you’re back to stash it in the car before heading back to the lake to finally jump in.

You reach the car, find the backseat handle, and pull. It’s locked. Your friend swore it wasn’t. You sigh and try the driver’s side next. Nothing.

Rafe is watching you, because like always, he can’t tear his eyes away. He’s angry. Embarrassed. Confused, because he still feels a pull towards you, and it’s the worst part of this whole thing.

You tug the handle again out of frustration. That’s what makes him speak.

“I think it’s locked,” he mocks you, words edged with annoyance.

The sound of Rafe’s voice hits you. You look up to see him slouched against a car parked at a diagonal, barely ten feet separating you.

And immediately, it’s effortless to be mean to him again. You’d let your guard down with him once, but before that, snapping at him was second nature. And you want to be that old version of yourself again.

“Really?” you scoff sarcastically, turning away. “Asshole.”

Rafe’s jaw firms, the sting of anger and hurt and betrayal rushing through him.

“I’m the asshole?” he replies.

You stop in your tracks, blood boiling. And you can’t let any of your heartbreak show. He lied to you, humiliated you, was so mean to you when you helped him at that party, and now he’s acting like he’s blameless.

You turn and glare at him, arms crossed, the words sitting on your tongue. You’re just close enough that you can see the tight line of his jaw in the moonlight.

“You think you’re totally innocent here?” you mutter, taking a step forward, heart pounding.

Rafe looks away and scoffs. What he did doesn’t compare. It doesn’t even come close. He came clean. And he never set out to hurt someone. You did.

“I’m better than you,” he mutters.

“Sure,” you huff. “Starting a bet with your friends that you can trick a girl into fucking you is what a really good person does.”

He grimaces. He knows how it must’ve sounded, like he was just another asshole who wanted you for only one thing. You’d told him how men make you feel that way, and while nothing you shared with him was real, he knows the anger you felt when you told him that was.

“It’s not like that,” he mutters. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

You scoff, the sound of splashing and laughter carrying from the lake. You can’t help thinking how different things would be if you’d never let him in. You could be out there in the water, light and unbothered, instead of standing here with this weight pressing on your heart.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” you reply.

Rafe adjusts his hat as if it’ll steady him. He’s thrown by how merciless you sound, how easily you can cut him down when he’s trying to explain himself.

“Come on,” he says. In the back of his mind, he hears every rumor he ever absorbed about you, about the girl who treats guys like they’re disposable. “You know what people say about you.”

“Right. They say I’m a bitch, so–”

“They say that you don’t even have feelings,” he cuts in, fast and sharp.

It stings. You thought it’s what you wanted, for people to think that you don’t get hurt. That you can’t. But hearing him say it, like it’s the truth, makes you realize how much of yourself you’ve hidden.

Silence settles between you. Rafe’s expression shifts, pain flickering through it.

He thinks about everything you’ve been through together, everything people say about you, and how not that long ago, he thought that none of it matched the girl standing in front of him.

You’d told him to stop bothering you. But if you’re letting him bother you right now, if you’re still here, still talking, still glaring at him like he’s actually getting to you, then maybe a part of you cares.

“I’ve never been a guy who can just mess around,” he admits, realizing how weak it makes him sound, but needing to get it out nonetheless. “But I thought I could with you because I didn’t think it’d mean anything to you. And I was right.”

He says it hoping you’ll refute it.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” you tersely say instead.

Then, your eyes flick down. He hates the way you go quiet, the way you slip somewhere he can’t follow. You do this. You shut down without warning.

“When were you going to tell me?” Rafe asks, voice tight. He needs to know how long you would’ve kept stringing him along.

You remember how fast everything collapsed when he told you about the bet, when you told him it was a bet for you, too. And as your gaze remains on his chest, simply to avoid eye contact, you hate that you also remember how good it felt to be pressed against him, to feel his heartbeat, to hear his breath.

“When I felt like it,” you say simply.

It’s too much. The whole conversation, the way he’s looking at you. You turn, your phone still in your hand, planning to hide it somewhere in your clothes and hope you can find it again after the cold plunge you desperately need.

Rafe’s heart picks up when you start to walk away.

This can’t be where the conversation ends. There’s a part of him that always wants clarity, always wants the truth spelled out, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. He can’t stand loose ends, and you’ve become the biggest one in his life.

He moves before he even thinks about it.

Rafe rounds you in a few quick strides, cutting off your path. He steps into your space, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. He’s inches from you when he speaks.

“Why’d you help me the other night?” he asks, because it hurts not knowing anymore.

Now that he’s close enough, you can see the still‑healing bruise at the bridge of his nose. It reminds you of the jolt of panic that shot through you when you saw him on the ground at that party back home. And it’s a quiet accusation of how much you care about him.

“I wish I didn’t,” you mutter. “You were such a dick.”

You step to the side, but Rafe blocks you and sternly says your name. Just like the night at the beach when this all started, when he tried to apologize for spilling his drink on you, when you told him to fuck off and you wish he’d listened.

“Move,” you say sharply. But he won’t. He can’t believe that he actually had an effect on you that night. Or ever.

And the possibility that you bluffed about your bet rattles him now. The way you said it that night was almost too perfect to be made up on the spot, but he so badly wants you to tell him you were lying.

“Was there really a bet?” he says.

You sigh. It hurts, knowing you’d once agreed to something so cruel, knowing he’s asking you if you ever saw him as more than just a game, knowing that he started this whole thing with bad intentions, too.

“Was there?” he presses.

You look down at the gravel. And you don’t know what possesses you to be honest, whether it’s the bruise on his nose, or how close he is, or how he said your name. Or maybe it’s simply because you’re tired of pretending.

“At first,” you relent.

“At first?” he echoes.

“I decided to forget about it.”

“When?” he asks.

“That day you came to my room after I got off the phone with my mom,” you tell him. You look up at him again, and the eye contact is both hard and relieving, slicing through the distance you’ve put between you. “I felt guilty about it because I thought I was wrong about you. I thought I saw good in you.”

You see the impact of your words in the way Rafe’s brows pull tight. Your instinct is to be spiteful, to hurt him the way he hurt you.

Rafe remembers that day in your room so clearly. It was a long time ago. You forgot about the bet, and you still wanted to keep him around, even though you’d been clear it wasn’t for a relationship.

You being the person who saw something in him felt better than anything else. It felt like proof that he could be someone good. Someone better. And then he showed you that he can’t be trusted.

“Got it,” he says, clipped, his voice low. He didn’t think he mattered enough to hurt you, but it’s obvious that you’re already checked out and done with him.

The defeated way Rafe says it makes it clear to you that he’s given up. You swallow hard. You know that if you tried to step away now, he’d let you.

“You think I don’t have feelings?” you scoff, the accusation still pressing on your chest. “You don’t know me at all.”

Nobody knows you. And with him this close again, the fear flares that he’ll see you for who you actually are, and he’ll realize you’re not someone worth putting time into.

“I tried to,” Rafe murmurs, his voice coming out sharper than he means it to be.

You think about how he apologized to you, cried over you, told you he wanted more than whatever the two of you had. And then you called him stupid, told him you never liked him, to dig the knife in deeper.

Loss, guilt, and betrayal crash together in your chest, a vicious pressure that won’t ease up.

You’re just two people who never expected to like each other. Something between you ran deeper than either of you meant it to, but you don’t have it in you to try with him. Not after he lied. Not after you lied, too.

“I regret it, too, okay? I… actually liked you,” you admit. Your lips press together, your body heavy with pain. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. I told you this is over and I meant it.”

Rafe gets it now. Even though you felt something, he sees that this was never going to work. Because you don’t want it to.

He purses his lips, offers a curt nod, and steps aside to let you pass. He gets a dose of you, and it sticks with him like it always does, like it always will. But he knows he can’t get any more.

You walk past him. You’re not built for wanting someone, for letting them want you back. And as you pace towards the lake under the night sky, hearing crickets chirping and people splashing, an unexpected relief settles in your heart.

Because for once, you didn’t hide or pretend you were above anything. You showed Rafe that this hurt you, too. It’s an honest kind of victory, and it’s so much lighter than the forced pride you’ve been carrying.

Laying everything out feels good. Clean. And now you can focus on trying to put it all behind you.

(to be continued) (next part is the last)

Your chest tightens the moment you spot Rafe across the frat house’s main floor.

He texted you the day after you abruptly got out of his truck two weeks ago, asking if he could see you. You never replied. You should’ve just texted him back, but it’s not fair that you’re the one feeling guilty when you clearly needed space.

But you’re over it now. And you want to be around him. You’ve never felt chemistry like you do with him, and it’s a shame that he couldn’t have just kept things uncomplicated.

His frat’s probation is done. That’s why you’re seeing him at a party for the first time in a while. This frat house is the largest on Greek Row and you’ve always joked that it’s made up of the loudest guys on campus.

Rafe is in the corner of the living room, surrounded by his friends. He looks happy. You’re glad. You never let a guy get close enough to make you think that way, but there’s more to him than what you’re used to.

He admitted to you that he knows the pain that comes from a parent walking away. And it tells you even more that he still answers his mom’s calls. He’s forgiving in a way you don’t understand. He’s softer in places you’ve hardened.

You’re on a weird middle ground now. Rafe’s absence doesn't break you, but seeing him again is nice. You’ve recentered yourself, got a grip on the feelings you thought you were developing for him, and with that out of your mind, you can admit you kind of miss him.

You want to get a moment away from the noise. It’s so loud here that you know it’s a matter of time before this frat is next on the probation list.

You tell your friends you’re going to the bathroom, then navigate through the crowded hallway, knowing there’s a chance you’ll lock eyes with Rafe as you pass him.

You wish he’d glance your way. You want things to get back to how they were with him, physical with no feelings involved. Maybe it’s a silly hope, but it’s one you have regardless.

As you squeeze past people, the music suddenly stops. Without the throb of bass, the smaller sounds of the party rush in, conversations fading into confused silence, your breath loud in your ears.

Then, a guy shouts, “Clear out!”

You’re not surprised. Of course this house is getting busted by security. You’ll need to go through the back door.

Everyone starts to scramble. You let yourself be swept up in the tide, pushed deeper into the house, figuring you can just follow the crowd.

But people are moving too slowly, so you follow a group of girls rushing through an interior door. More people shuffle in behind you into the laundry room, a mix of hushed voices, and the door swings shut.

Most are laughing through their whispers, drunk and loving the adventure, while you lean against the washing machine, not in the mood for this. You cross your arms, realizing there’s at least ten bodies crammed in here, and in the small, darkened room, you see him.

Rafe’s leaning back against the door. In the dimness, he still looks content, clearly tipsy and chuckling at something a friend just said, until his gaze sweeps the room. When he meets your eyes, his face falls just a fraction.

“Come on,” a guy snips frantically. “We gotta get out.”

You’re certain he’s an overeager freshman in this house’s frat. He scrambles onto a table, straining as he cranks open the narrow window at the top of the wall. He pushes out the screen and pulls himself onto the grass.

People follow, clearly finding a thrill in all of this, but you refuse to shove yourself through the window, especially after hearing a girl tell her friend behind her to watch out for the pointy bush.

As the room empties, Rafe remains at the end of the line. Normally, he’d vault through that window without a second thought, but he lingers, the pull you still have over him keeping him here.

He watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re just standing there, arms crossed, looking bored. He hesitates, like his sneakers are stuck to the tile, torn between the exit and the girl who rejected him.

You find Rafe’s eyes as the guy in front of him scrambles up onto the table. After a second of silence between you, you lift your shoulders in a shrug.

“I’m not drunk enough to do all that,” you explain to him, and hearing your voice again, especially with that familiar laugh behind it, keeps him from moving.

He doesn’t smirk like he usually does. Instead, his gaze is heavy, the corners of his mouth tight. He looks angry at you, and it leaves a sinking feeling in your chest.

“I think that’s a closet over there,” you say, gesturing toward the door on the other side of the room, saying it casually so he doesn’t think you’ll be offended if he doesn't take the veiled invitation.

“Rafe! Come on, man!” one of his friends calls from the other side.

His eyes stay on you as you pass by him to open the closet door and he shakes his head, looking back up to his friend.

“Just go,” he says.

Cooper hesitates for a second, but then sighs and leaves, the window open, the room quiet.

The sound of heavy footsteps and muffled radio chatter filters in from the hallway. You snag Rafe’s hand, your fingers curling around his. The adrenaline of almost being caught hits you now, and you’re sure it’s because Rafe chose to stay back with you.

“Hurry,” you whisper through a breathless laugh, pulling him into the small, dark closet and clicking the door shut.

The space is tiny, barely enough for two people to stand without touching. He stands directly across from you, and the fact that he followed you speaks louder than the silence between you. If he’s mad, he’s clearly not that mad.

You pull out your phone, the screen casting a blue glow as you reach up to tug at the light bulb string. It clicks, but the closet remains covered in darkness.

“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, letting the string drop. Your phone screen goes black and you pocket it.

Rafe doesn’t speak, unsure of what to say. It feels so damn good that you decided to touch him. It was an unexpected jolt to his system when your hand curled around his.

He stands in the darkness, his heart thudding against his ribs, breathing in the scent of your shampoo that fills the cramped space.

The silence stretches and the guilt you’ve been harboring rises up. You left him, after he’d opened up to you about his mom, and then never replied to him. It wasn’t your best moment.

“Sorry I didn’t text you back,” you say, your voice soft.

The apology undoes Rafe immediately. It’s like a weight has been taken off his shoulders, and the anger evaporates.

He spent the last two weeks bitter that you ghosted him, but the truth is, he was expecting you to force a feeling that wasn't there. You don’t want him, you’ve been clear about that, and wishing that you’d like him is the same thing as wishing that he didn’t like you.

Pointless.

At this moment, he remembers that last conversation, the way you spoke about your dad. For a girl who keeps people at arm's length, opening up meant something, and he knows he fucked up by texting you. It was overbearing. Too much.

He’s always too much.

“Nah,” he responds. “I should’ve left you alone.”

The tired honesty in Rafe’s deep voice makes you want to console him, and that impulse is proof of how he’s managed to become someone you care about.

He’s accountable, and he listens to you, even when it’s a rejection he doesn't want to hear. It makes it impossible to be cold with him like you are with every other guy.

You’ve never been this drawn to a man before. You can’t afford to trust him with your heart, but pretending the spark between you doesn’t exist feels unrealistic.

“Hey,” you say, deciding to be bold, “if you want to keep this… uncomplicated, we can.”

Rafe flexes his fingers at his sides. You’re suggesting to go back to touching each other like you used to, to do what your bodies so clearly want without feelings attached.

The prospect sparks fire through him. Agreeing to this feels reckless, self‑destructive, but it’s the only way he can have you. And he’ll take that over nothing at all.

“You miss me, huh?” he rasps, pushing away his thoughts, acting like the man he thinks he ought to be.

You smirk, relieved he’s joking with you again.

“Get over yourself,” you say with a soft chuckle.

It’s an overwhelming relief when his hands cradle your face, holding you like he used to. He ducks to kiss you, and your hands drag up his arms immediately, fingers interlacing around the back of his neck to bring him closer.

You hear the door to the laundry room open. Low voices follow. It’s security, most likely. If they decide to check the closet, they’ll find you in seconds.

But you stay where you are, holding Rafe and letting him hold you, your mouths opening together. Nothing’s more important than kissing him right now.

The voices retreat, and you’re in the clear again, and when Rafe’s tongue slips into your mouth, you accept him completely, tilting your head back so he can kiss you deeper. You feel his cock twitch against you, hardening, making your stomach curl with heat.

One of Rafe’s hands trails down your back, squeezing your ass, cupping under your thigh to bring your leg up to his hip. He shifts to press you against the door and his fingers dig into the back of your knee as he presses himself up against you just so you can see what you do to him.

You sigh into his mouth and he knows you’re getting wet for him, he remembers how good you tasted, he wants you more than anything right now.

He shifts to kiss your neck, and when you lean your head back against the door, it loosens out its frame behind you, causing you to nearly stumble back. In a fit of laughter, you catch yourself before falling into the empty laundry room. The door’s clearly not as sturdy as you both thought.

Rafe laughs with you as he holds you by the hips. You don’t need the help to stand, but that doesn’t stop him from touching you.

“So… maybe not here,” you half-whisper through your giggles.

He dips his head to kiss you again, simply because he can. His mind shuffles over the possibilities, wondering the best, quickest way he can get you in a bed will be, because if he finally gets to have you, he needs to be able to see you, to take his time.

“We have a party tomorrow,” he murmurs against your lips, knowing he’ll have his bedroom to himself then. “You should come.”

“I will,” you say with a smile, now aware of the buzzing in your pocket, sure your friends are calling to ask where you are.

・・・・・

Rafe hasn’t told his friends that the bet’s off. He realizes it when you walk into his frat’s house party the next night and Mac nudges him.

“Hey,” he grins. “Whatever happened with her? You owe me money, don’t you?”

“Maybe not,” Cooper adds. “He stayed back with her last night, remember? Maybe they fucked in that laundry room.”

Mac laughs. Rafe doesn’t.

It’s been over two months since the night on that front porch, when Rafe watched you walk away down Greek Row, irritated with how perfect and unattainable you always were, and placed that bet.

His jaw tightens. He hasn’t told his friends it stopped being a joke the second he got to know you. That the idea of reducing you to some stupid dare makes him feel sick now.

He just wants the conversation to die. And it does when you walk up to him, gently squeezing his forearm.

“Do you guys ever learn your lesson?” you tease, looking up at him through widened, pretty eyes. “This party has to be the rowdiest one you’ve ever had.”

The house is packed, as if the frat is making up for the weeks they weren’t allowed to throw a party. Before Rafe answers, two of his buddies turn away to laugh. You’re sure they didn’t hear what you said, so clearly something about you simply being here is hilarious to them.

Rafe watches your brows pull together, that small crease forming between them. He hates to see that angry, uncomfortable look on you.

“What the fuck’s so funny?” you mutter to him.

“It’s not about you,” he lies. “They’re just assholes.”

You brush it off. For a long time, you assumed Rafe cared only about what his friends thought, but his passing insult makes you reconsider that he’s not just a guy who always plays along with their bullshit.

“I like when you’re honest,” you reply. “Let’s get me a drink.”

It hits him hard. Honest. You tug him deeper into the crowd, and he follows.

This whole thing between you has been a mess of half‑truths from the start. He’d approached you with the wrong intentions, with something to prove. But then you surprised him. You were nothing like he thought you were.

He watches the back of your head as you weave through the party, your hand brushing his. Does he need to tell you? Would it change anything? Would it ruin everything?

The truth feels too big to say, but too wrong to keep. He tries to stifle it, but he can’t – he has a conscience and it eats him alive.

You both stop at the keg, the noise of the party swelling around you. You’re reaching for a cup when you glance up at Rafe, at the clear blue eyes always trained on you, at the adorable way his hair falls.

“So,” you say lightly, “you survived probation.”

“Barely,” he says with a small laugh. “You girls never get in trouble, huh?”

“We’re just great at not getting caught,” you reply.

He smirks, and as your eyes flicker down to his smile, you realize now just how much your mood has lifted since you started talking to him a minute ago. With Rafe, you don’t feel like you have to perform.

“It’s good to hang out with you again,” you add, and you don’t hide the sincerity in your voice. You mean it.

Rafe’s eyes dart away. The guilt sits in his chest, another reminder of the bet. Hearing you say that would normally make him feel amazing, but it only makes it worse.

You’re confused by his tension, following his gaze behind your shoulder. You spot a couple kissing by the stairs.

“What, does he have a girlfriend, too?” you murmur. Rafe realizes you’re referring to his frat brother blatantly cheating at the beach. You think he’s irritated by the same thing now. He’ll let you believe it.

Then, you recognize him. It’s the guy from the gym, the one Rafe snapped at for staring at you, wearing the same frat insignia on his shirt. He threatened his own frat brother for you.

Rafe’s really not desperate for his friends’ approval like you thought he was.

You turn around and look up at him again. His face is tight in contemplation. He can’t hide anything in his expression.

You fill your cup at the keg, the sound of the tap rushing loud. He still looks upset.

“It’s messed up,” you say with a sigh. “That’s why I won’t give anyone the chance to do it to me.”

The words come out easily. You’re not usually this open, but Rafe makes you feel like you don’t have to keep a front up. It’s because you’ve already agreed to keep things casual, to be friends with benefits.

You feel more relaxed around him than you have with any guy in a long time. For once, you’re not trying to win anything or protect yourself.

It’s sitting on Rafe’s tongue. But he can’t say I wouldn’t do it to you. This arrangement between you has no strings, so it’s just another thing he swallows down.

“Hey,” you say, noticing the faraway look in his eyes. “You okay?”

He could tell you right now. He could get it over with. He could ruin everything. Or he could keep it buried and pretend this is simple, the way you both agreed it would be.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Just thinking.”

“You can do that?” you tease.

Rafe chuckles and nudges your shoulder, but it’s barely a touch, so light it doesn’t even move you. It’s strange, knowing how strong he is, how easily he could shove someone twice your size, yet with you, he’s gentle.

You’re relieved things are back to normal between you. Rafe wanted something real with you at some point and he seems to have pulled that back, and that’s for the best. Because whatever he thought he liked doesn’t exist. He doesn’t know you. Not the real you.

Even though you’re being more direct with him than usual, it’s still a version of you. No one gets the full thing. It makes you feel like you’re always lying, at least a little bit.

Rafe notices you drift, your thoughts pulling you somewhere he can’t follow. You’d shared an ugly truth, admitted your dad cheated on your mom and left you both, so no wonder you hate this topic. He still feels like a dick for trying to make you talk about it the other night.

He clears his throat.

“You goin’ home for the break?” he asks. It’s nearing the middle of December, which means campus is thinning out, everyone scattering for winter break.

You nod, grateful for the shift in topic. It’s like he sensed you’re about to shut down. He definitely learned that he has to steer things around for you the hard way.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t really like being at home all the time, but I love seeing my friends.”

He gets it. When a family loses someone, the gap never closes. Life keeps moving, but the empty space stays. He’s sure your home feels as cold as his.

“I don’t like either,” he says.

You offer a sardonic chuckle.

“I guess that explains all the fights?” you ask.

Rafe shrugs. Here, he still has surface-level friendships with guys who occasionally piss him off, but it’s just less intense. Either way, he has to put on a persona no matter what. He’s always had to act tough and overcompensate for how soft he really is.

“I’ve heard you even scrap with the guys from the Cut,” you add, trying to avoid sounding accusatory. Admittedly, you’ve grown curious about that part of his life, the part you’ve always witnessed but know barely anything about.

Rafe looks down at his beer. Those fights weren’t about territory or reputation or any of the excuses he used to throw around. It was about the way anger controls him. About feeling bigger, when his whole life, he’s felt small. Pogues were always easy targets.

“I’m not proud of it,” he admits. “I’m trying to be better.”

His words make you realize you’re not exactly proud of yourself, either. You’ve spent years dragging guys along, dropping them the second they wanted something real. Playing with their feelings. Putting yourself first.

Rafe wants to be better. You’ve never really done that. It makes you wonder if you’d ever want to be any different, if there’s a guy out there worth that.

You love your friends, but a deeper kind of connection, something romantic, demands an open heart. It’s not safe. But maybe you could give it a try.

You shake the thought away, nearly cringing, refusing to think about it any longer. You’re with Rafe for fun. That’s it.

“Well, you didn’t start a fight at the gym the other day, so that’s progress,” you respond, shifting the mood again. “I can admit you were a good personal trainer, by the way. A little handsy, though.”

He laughs, thinking back to how he’d stood behind you, palms cupping your elbows as he led you through a free weight set, touching you as much as he possibly could.

“I’m handsy?” he replies. “You’re always touchin’ me.”

“Oh, you want me to stop?” you challenge.

He tilts his head, eyes dragging down your face, his bottom lip trapped behind white teeth. The charge between you is still burning hot, and with the way he’s looking at you, you can tell he’s just as hungry for you as you are for him.

You like this part. Lust. It’s easy.

You nod, a quiet way to tell him you want to go upstairs. He puts his drink down, you do the same, and you slip away together.

・・・・・

As soon as his bedroom door shuts behind you, Rafe pushes you up against it, lips locked on yours like he couldn’t wait another second to kiss you.

Every inch of your body loosens as he holds you, breathing him in, the mix of cologne and detergent and musk that makes him him, the taste of beer and heat on his tongue. Your fingers lace into his soft hair, tugging gently as your core heats.

His hands cradle your jaw as he pulls you closer to him, guiding you to his bed, settling onto his back so you can hover over him. He shifts to grip your hips, tugging down so you’ll put on your weight on him as you continue to taste each other, kissing in a perfect, unique rhythm that only the two of you have.

Rafe is completely here physically, but mentally, he’s halfway out. I like when you’re honest. Your words from just minutes ago won’t leave his mind, rattling around, stabbing at his conscience.

“You have something?” you breathe against his lips, figuring if he doesn’t have a condom, you can surely find one somewhere in this house.

Rafe nods, but, fuck, the heat in his muscles is fading, shame flooding into every crevice of his being. It’s embarrassing that he can’t even stay hard.

The guilt from lying to you, that he’s been lying to you since the beginning, claws into his heart so sharply that he knows he can’t do this.

Even though it’s purely physical for you, it’s not for him, and because he wants so much more with you, because this all started with a lie, he can’t go through with it. He can’t live with himself, tricking you.

Your brows furrow in confusion when you realize Rafe is slowly pushing you away. Your lips part in a quiet smack as you sit up, studying his face for an answer.

“I need to - I need to say something,” he says, his voice low.

You stiffen, shifting up off of him to sit on the corner of his bed, watching him shuffle to sit, too. You swallow hard. Maybe he’s lost his attraction for you. Maybe he doesn’t like you anymore.

Damn it. Why did your mind go there, and why did the thought hurt so bad? Your heart starts to race, the reality sinking in. You like him. More than you should. Way more than you should.

It’s good he stopped this. You should leave.

“We don’t have to do anything," you tell him, looking away.

“I want to,” he murmurs. “It’s…”

Rafe turns, his long legs swinging off the side of his bed, his broad back to you as he rakes his hand through his hair.

“What?” you ask, studying his wide shoulders, the freckles scattered across the back of his neck.

Rafe is sure this is it. He knows enough about you to be sure you won’t forgive him for this. It’s so easy for you to detach, and he barely even has you at all right now.

He’ll say this, and he’ll lose you, and it’s all because of the man he was when this started. The man he’ll always be. Weak and soft and doomed to feel too much.

“You know I like you, right?” he begins. “I want more than just… this.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears. So, he does still have feelings. It’s a relief. And it’s scary that it’s a relief. Last time he told you he had feelings for you, you felt yourself retreat. This time, you want to reach out and touch him.

But you’ve never done that before. You’ve never been given a chance to be vulnerable with a man and actually taken it.

Rafe rubs his hand over his jaw, hating that there’s a flicker of hope in his chest that that wasn’t the last time you kissed him. But once he tells you this, he’s sure it will be. Unless, maybe, you see something in him worth keeping.

“That night that I, uh… spilled my drink on you…” he says.

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” you ask in a thin voice he hasn’t heard before. He turns to meet your gaze, realizing he’d do anything you asked of him.

You’re right. He should look you in the eye when he tells you this.

“It was so fucking stupid,” he tells you. “After you left, my friends… those guys downstairs, we started a bet that I could hook up with you.”

The burning in his eyes fills him with humiliation. He’s about to cry in front of you. He didn’t think this would happen, but it’s overwhelming. The guilt. The love.

“I swear, I… I know what a dick I was to do it,” he stammers, voice starting to weaken. “I regret it. I’m sorry. I don’t - I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t care about the bet. But you deserve to know. You deserve better.”

You stare at Rafe, his eyes glossing over, his nostrils flaring as he tries to swallow down his tears.

You’re dumbfounded, your lips just barely parted. It stings. It stings so deeply. This is the kind of pain a person can only give you if you let them in. If you trusted them.

He did it. He broke through your wall, reached a hidden part of you, all to prove what you suspected of him from the start. That he’s a liar. A user. A selfish asshole who saw you as someone to have sex with, and nothing more.

That’s surely what his friends were cracking up about downstairs. You were right. They were laughing at you.

You’re furious. Shocked. And slowly losing your composure. But you’re good at smothering your feelings, wearing a mask, and you know what’ll hurt Rafe most now is if you’re completely indifferent. Unfeeling.

You never thought about telling him about the bet, simply because it was a thing of the past. Inconsequential. You started this off wanting to break his heart, and then thought you saw good in him, and you completely forgot about the plan.

But now, it’s back in your mind, and you’re going through with it.

“I knew you were like every other guy,” you reply, flat and cold and spiteful. “I just didn’t know it was a bet. I can’t even be mad at you, though. This was a bet for me, too.”

Rafe grimaces, confusion swimming in his glazed eyes.

“You can ask my friends if you don’t believe me,” you say. “Once you started following me around like a lost dog, we had the idea to fuck with you. They challenged me to break your heart. Because obviously, you deserve it.”

Rafe’s eyes frantically search your face, his face pinched.

“You’re lying,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Ask them,” you reply. “Or don’t. I really don’t care.”

You shift to stand up, desperate to leave, to be in private so your body can react the way it needs to.

“I’m over this,” you mutter. “Don’t bother me anymore.”

Your throat is thick, your chest heavy. And you stop at the door with your back to him, you’re determined to dig into him as painfully as you can before you cut him off completely. You’ll deal with the ache in your heart later.

“I don’t know if you believe your own bullshit about how you want to be a better person,” you murmur, “but if you do, you’re even stupider than I thought. I could never like you for real.”

Rafe hears the doorknob twist. You wanted to break his heart. You did it. It’s in a million fucking pieces right now, his pride torn up in front of him.

He can see where you get your reputation from.

“Let ‘em know you did it,” he mutters to your back.

You don’t even turn around at the confirmation, at his confession that you broke his heart. You only shut the door behind you.

next >

The sorority house is quiet. After your day at the beach, most of the girls, including your roommate, left to go to a party on the other side of campus. You were too tired to tag along.

You slip into bed after a long shower, wearing nothing but underwear and a soft, oversized t-shirt. The quiet room is dim with the glow of your desk lamp. Your body is sleepy, heavy after a day of soaking in the sun, but your mind isn’t ready to shut down.

You know Rafe isn’t out tonight on account of his frat’s probation. He’s probably bored in his room, just like you. And you want to have some fun.

Seeing him shirtless all day today, feeling his skin on yours stoked a fire in you. It made you want to slip away with him somewhere and give into the pull you both feel for each other.

You text him to come over. You’re not surprised when he quickly texts back that he will.

・・・・・

When you open the front door with a sweet, relaxed smile and an offer to hug, Rafe feels like he’s in heaven. You never text first. Maybe you’re starting to feel something for him, too.

He ducks down to wrap his arms around you, squeezing gently, reveling in the smell of soap on your neck.

He was kidding himself when he thought this would be the way to get a hold of his emotions. He’s falling off the deep end, and all he can do now is hope you are, too.

The bet is a distant, stupid memory. He doesn’t want to just hook up with you and be done with it. He wants to have something with you and he can only hope you want the same.

You land back down on your heels after getting up on your tip-toes to hug him, swinging the door closed behind him.

“You burned a little,” you say, gently poking the pink tinge at the top of his cheek.

Rafe winces dramatically as if you hurt him, earning a laugh from you. Endeared, he can’t stop himself from kissing your forehead before you turn to guide him up the stairs.

Just like the first night he was here, he watches the shape of your legs as he trails you, his gut already coiling with the anticipation of feeling them wrap around him.

Being next to you all day with no opportunity to kiss you was its own class of torture, and now, the baggy t-shirt you’ve draped over your body just barely covers your ass, making him hard before he’s even in your bedroom.

The door clicks closed behind him as you sit on your bed, leaving space for him.

“Everyone went out?” Rafe asks, the stillness in the house making him unsure whether anyone else is even here.

“Not everyone,” you reply. “But most.”

You remember what he said about hating boredom. It’s the first weekend into his frat’s probation and he’s already restless to party.

“Today was fun,” he says, taking a seat at the foot of your bed.

“You’re welcome for the invitation," you reply with a squint.

“Did I not say thank you?”

“No, but I’m used to you not having manners.”

He grins, dimples cutting deep, and it’s almost starting to irritate you how charming his smile is, your lamp’s light casting shadows over the planes of his face.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice low. And he means it. You’re prickly at times, but how could anyone call you a bitch? You invited him today to give him a loophole out of his frat’s probation, to give him fun. You have a heart, no matter how much you try to hide it.

You smirk, eyes on his. The tension sinking between you is getting heavier with every passing second. The attraction that sits deep in your stomach is hotter than you expected.

You realize it’s because he doesn’t touch you the way you thought he would. He’s firm, but never aggressive or selfish. Every taste he’s given you of his touch has left you hungry for more. It’s like he knows what you want without having to ask.

Rafe leans in, cupping your face like he doesn’t want you looking at anything but him. The tension cracks when your lips finally meet, and you can feel it, how badly you’ve both wanted each other all day.

You drag your hands up his arms, skimming over his hot skin to the cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him towards you. When you guide him to lie over top of you, you feel how hard he is, how his body is begging for yours.

Rafe doesn’t sink onto you completely, but the weight he does put on you is heavy in the best way. The sounds of your slow, wet kisses fill your ears as he gently grinds against your middle, biting your bottom lip just once, enough to make you impatiently writhe against him.

Slowly, you slip your fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, guiding it off his body, tossing it to your floor. His chest is warm and firm against you as his mouth finds yours again.

Moments later, he drags your shirt up, pulling it off over your head, exhaling sharply once he sees you’re braless. He kisses you harder, until eventually, he shifts, and his fingers press between your legs, slowly, torturously.

Your breath hitches at the touch, at how wet you are already.

And he wants it so bad. So bad that it aches. But he knows he barely scraped by with your forgiveness after he snapped at you for walking out of his room the other night, and he can’t do it again. He can’t risk losing you.

“Hey,” he rasps against your lips.

“Hmm?” your voice comes out weak.

“I’m not going to do what I did last time,” he says. “Whenever you want to stop, just… say it.”

You nod, pulling him in to kiss you again. The softness in Rafe’s voice is teetering toward romance, and you have no interest in letting it go there. Truthfully, even if he is an asshole about whatever you end up doing tonight, you’re not attached enough for it to sting.

You spread your legs wider, finding pure bliss in the pressure of his hand on you, only your thin panties keeping him from having full contact. You lose yourself in the way he’s trailing his fingers up and down, steady and firm as his tongue sinks into your mouth.

He pulls back, forehead on yours, and whispers as he gently taps his fingertips against your heat, “You want my mouth here, baby?”

Every muscle in you twists, throbbing.

“Yes,” you sigh in relief.

He shifts lower to settle between your thighs and places a languid kiss over your panties, coaxing a slow moan from you. He drags the fabric down your hips, your legs, your ankles, letting them bunch at the end of your bed, before he sinks onto his elbows with his head between your legs.

Rafe’s heart is pounding in his ears when he sees you bare, up close, glistening and so fucking perfect. His thumbs skim over your folds as he gently spreads you apart so he can see every part of you.

He’s in deep and he knows it, because all he wants to do is please you. Even though his cock is so hard that it’s aching, making you come is all that matters to him right now.

His eyes drag up to your face. You watch him stare up at you like he always does, skin tingling with desire. With anticipation. You shudder as his hot, wet mouth finally meets your core.

The taste of you makes every part of his body ache with hunger, like no matter how much he gets, he’ll always be starving for you.

He doesn’t waste any time teasing you. He gives you what you want, starts to lick and suck, the sounds of your staggered breathing and moisture filling your bedroom. His tongue trails over every bit of you, wriggling over your clit, and when you feel his tongue nudge inside, he groans and you breathe out his name, drunk off the pleasure.

Rafe’s hands dig into your thighs as you pulse around his tongue and fill him with your scent, your taste, everything that makes him so damn lost for you. And he knows now, entirely, that he was an idiot for thinking he could do anything with you without getting attached.

As he continues to lap at you, his nose brushes against your slick clit, making you thread your fingers through his hair and gently pull. No matter how much you writhe, he keeps his mouth hard on you, refusing to lose contact.

It takes almost no time. You press against him as your orgasm crashes into you, every nerve ending pinching with bliss as you come on his tongue. He sucks your clit until you breathe an overstimulated whine, placing a hand on his cheek so he’ll give you a break.

Rafe shifts up to meet your lips again, hovering over you as he lets you see how good you taste. He’s savoring this, covering your mouth with his, breathing you in and unable to believe that just a few weeks ago, you were always around, yet a complete stranger.

He can’t believe what he’s been missing out on. It’s like the world narrows in on him, on both of you in this moment. It feels right to be here with you, in your bed, his lips on yours. He could only do this, feel this with a girl he genuinely likes.

Your body is still buzzing from the rush he’s given you as you trade slow kisses. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this type of chemistry with a guy before. You want more. Maybe you’ll even become friends with benefits if it’s as good as you think it will be.

You shift to touch him over his shorts, feeling him exhale against your mouth as you cup his thick shaft. He gently jerks against your hand, grinding over you. He’s so hard, so big, that your heart skips in anticipation of feeling him stretch you, fill you.

You move to the button of his jeans, expecting him to help you take them off, but then he pulls back, ending the kiss.

Rafe stares down at you, at the blissed out expression on your pretty face, and he can’t do it. Although every part of him, every muscle, every goddamn vein is hot with his desire for you, he can’t separate his feelings. They’re a part of his core, too permanent to untangle, and as much as he tells himself to get a grip, he can’t.

His emotions control him, not the other way around. He’s lost in you now. And if he’s going to do this, he needs to tell you the truth.

“I really like you,” he half-whispers.

And then he feels it, the way you stiffen. You lift your hand off of him, shifting up a little.

“Am I not supposed to say that?” Rafe teases, trying to pretend your reaction isn’t hurting him, that he doesn’t regret telling you. Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?

You sit up, finding your t-shirt to cover your bare chest, the mood in the room completely shifted now. You look over your shoulder at him. You were hoping to do more tonight, but you can’t. Not when he’s talking to you like this means something.

You need to tell him you aren’t looking for this. For feelings. For a boyfriend. You may have wanted to hurt him at some point, but now, you won’t. You can’t.

Rafe traps his bottom lip under his teeth for a second, eyes searching like he can find an answer in your face if he looks hard enough.

“Were you serious today?” he asks before you can reply. “When you said every guy does it?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Rafe hangs onto your words. It’s obvious that the things you say stay with him, circle his mind. He almost seems worried about you thinking every guy cheats.

“It was a joke,” you reply.

He sits up, leaning against the wall, close enough that you can feel his breath on your shoulder.

“Why are we talking about this?” you say, tense from the sudden shift in atmosphere.

“I wanna know,” he replies.

It feels crazy that you once thought he was just another careless asshole. Rafe has an intensity to him that you’ve never seen in a man before. A passion that nobody can fake. But you can’t reciprocate it.

“We don’t need to get all serious," you say with an awkward laugh. While you’ve had to tell guys this before, for some reason, doing it feels really hard this time. “This thing between us is just… fun, okay?”

Rafe shakes his head just slightly, unable to understand why. He likes you, more than he ever meant to, and he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that you want to keep him at a distance.

Now that he’s actually spent time with you, he’s sure there’s a deeper reason for why you have the reputation that you cycle through guys and never stick around. It bothers him that he doesn’t know what that reason is.

He wants to understand the girl sitting in front of him. He can’t help wondering what pushed you into being like this. If some guy stepped out on you, then he was an idiot.

“Did it happen to you?” he asks.

He’s clearly still stuck on the whole cheating thing. Why can’t he just take no for an answer?

“Rafe…” you huff in frustration.

“Did it?”

“I’m not talking about this,” you snip, your tone sharp.

Questions circle Rafe’s mind. But he doesn’t ask them.

He still has his pride. It’s obvious that you’re only into him for sex, and that you’ve seen enough of him to know that you don’t consider him worth more.

It’s jarring to go from such heated lust to this cold tension within a minute. He hates this about himself. How he speaks before he thinks. How he can’t just keep doing this with you and convince himself that how he feels doesn’t matter.

“Should I go?” he finally asks, half-hurt, half-frustrated.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you say flatly.

He shifts to stand up and finds his shirt on the floor. You watch the fabric fall down his taut back, a strange mix of sympathy and rejection settling in your heart.

He checks his pockets for his things and sets out to leave. But he stops halfway, lingering in the middle of your bedroom for a second, as if he’s trying to figure out if he should say something.

But he doesn’t. You stare at him. He doesn’t look back.

The door shuts behind him, leaving you sitting up in your bed, your top pressed against your chest, your heart pounding. This time, he’s the one who stopped things from going any further, and it’s clearly because you refused to open up to him.

Rafe is not who you thought he was. You’ve witnessed his temper, his impatience, his spite, but there’s a tenderness to him that you never saw coming. All things that you’re sure some other girl would want. Not you.

This is probably the end of your fling. And it’s okay. It’s familiar and comforting and right to say goodbye before things get too messy.

・・・・・

Rafe’s heart is racing. And it won’t stop. It’s always like this after his mom calls.

It’s a rainy Sunday morning, a week since he saw you last. And he can’t stop thinking about you. Since that night, every time his phone has buzzed, his body has flooded with anticipation, hopeful that it was you, just to be let down.

He was about to leave for the on-campus gym when his phone started buzzing in his pocket and once again, he wanted it to be you. But it was his mother, and now he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at his phone.

He never knows when she’ll reach out, and every time, it gives him whiplash. It was a quick conversation, a surface-level check-in, but that’s always enough to throw him. She talks to him like he’s an old friend, not his son, not one of the kids she left behind.

Maybe it’s self-sabotage. Or an ill-fated belief that he can prove to you that he’s someone worth keeping around. All he knows for sure is that he misses you, so he texts you that he’s going to the gym if you want to come.

You respond that he can pick you up in fifteen.

・・・・・

You watch Rafe’s truck pull up from your bedroom window.

You figure he made peace with the fact that you want to keep your relationship strictly physical. Some guys can’t, acting like they’re entitled to you because they caught feelings, and you always cut them off when things get to this point.

You decided to accept Rafe’s invitation, though, because you really enjoy being around him. There’s something so effortless about it. You couldn’t have been clearer that you don’t want anything serious, so you’re optimistic he’s back in your life because he got his emotions in check.

Rafe’s eyes meet yours when you open the passenger-side door. Despite every twisted up way you’ve made him feel, his lips curl into a smile. You have that effect.

“Taking me to the gym isn’t some excuse you’re going to use to improve my form, is it?” you say, climbing into his seat. Light raindrops sink into the thin material of your gym clothes as you toss your duffel bag to the back.

Rafe smirks as you shut the door. He’s so glad you agreed to meet him. You lift his mood in seconds, clear the murkiness in his head, move past the tension from the last time you spoke like it wasn’t ever even there.

“If you’re doing things wrong, then I gotta help,” he replies.

“Bye,” you sigh jokingly, reaching to open the door again, but he drives off before you can. You playfully nudge him, and he glances over at you with another smirk, eyes flickering over your beautiful features.

You grin, then your eyes trail down his big arms, the way his t-shirt clings to his taut body. It’s ridiculous, the pull he has on you. The memory of last weekend rushes in, the feeling of his mouth between your legs, the desire to do it all again, and more.

“You go there a lot?” you tease. It’s obvious that he does.

“You can’t tell?” Rafe says, reaching for your hand to put it on his flexed bicep.

“You’re so annoying,” you say, pulling away. He laughs. He loves your sharp teasing, the way you show your humor by giving him shit.

It’s a part of you, one of the layers he doesn’t fully know, and that’s what keeps dragging his mind to the last time he saw you, to how cold and closed off you suddenly became when he tried to actually get to know you.

He told himself to stop trying to break through your wall, but here he is, with you again, silently hoping he can.

・・・・・

An hour later, you’re downing water as you pace towards the gym’s entrance, still a little breathless from the workout as music pulses from the ceiling speakers, weights clanking around you.

You and Rafe spent the whole time making jokes, playfully competing through sets, touching each other wherever you could, catching each other looking. You’re happy you came.

Your legs burn from the squats you finished off with, and as you turn to make a joke about needing him to help you stretch, you realize Rafe isn’t walking behind you anymore.

You spot him across the gym, posture rigid as he talks to some guy by the benches. His hands flex at his sides, and for a second, you think he’s about to swing.

The other guy is already backing up a step, looking intimidated. It’s just like the Rafe you always saw back in Kildare.

But then he looks up, catching your eyes, and shakes his head in frustration, like he’s snapping himself back into reality. You watch as he approaches you with long strides, his jaw slowly losing its tension.

“What was that?” you ask.

He exhales, a sheen of sweat over his face, and replies, “Nothing.”

・・・・・

After a quick body shower, you find Rafe by the front doors, already waiting with his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets.

You walk out of the gym together into the humid air. The rain has stopped now, puddles scattered across the parking lot. Your sneakers squeak across the pavement as you walk to his truck.

You can feel the tension rushing through Rafe, and it surprises you that you care. You’re not the type to want to dig into what’s going on in a guy’s head, but this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself wanting to know with him.

“I thought you were about to break your streak,” you say once you both settle in the truck.

“What?” he asks, looking up at you.

“I don’t fight anymore,” you say, mimicking him in an effort to keep things light. His dimples deepen a little, and you like that you’ve made him smile.

You won’t ask more, although you want to know if he’s okay the same way you would with a friend, because that’s sort of what he is now.

The second Rafe saw the guy at the gym staring at you as you walked past, the way his eyes dragged over you, he snapped. The protective instinct he has for you that only burned hotter once he remembered he’s not allowed to feel it. You’re not his.

He hated seeing you get leered at, but he hated the reminder that he has no right to be mad about it even more. He had to say something, tell him to stop looking at you, threaten him just to feel some power.

“He was lookin’ at you,” he finally relents, his voice low. He exhales hard, frustrated that his filter always dissolves around you.

Your forehead creases. You shouldn’t enjoy his jealousy. But you kind of do.

“That’s why you got so pissed off?” you say with a dismissive laugh. “You look at me the same way.”

Rafe shakes his head, brief but resolute. You’re cheapening what he feels for you. And it’s a stab in the back.

“I don’t,” he replies.

Again, things have shifted between you within seconds. He means that he looks at you as more. There’s no misunderstanding that. You don’t know what to say. If you can even say anything.

You pull your seatbelt over your body, buckling it in place, frustration rising that he’s not doing the same.

You don’t want to sit here and talk about anything serious. Honestly, it’s scary. You don’t think you should see Rafe anymore because something in you is cracking and you need to keep your distance so you can seal it up again.

He obviously hasn’t reigned in his feelings for you, and you don’t want to deal with that.

“Let’s go,” you murmur.

Rafe shoves his damp hair back from his forehead. You both started this with your walls up, but along the line, he let his guard crumble while you never did. Because you clearly expect the worst from him.

“You really think every guy is the same, don’t you?” he finally mutters.

You look through the passenger window at the car parked next to you. If he wants an answer this bad, he can have it.

“Absolutely,” you reply, simply and honestly.

Rafe’s eyes flick over at you, but you’re looking away, profile silhouetted against the glass. For the first time, he feels the real distance between you.

He’s never had great self-control, and here he is again, a victim to his emotions, drowning in the silence of a girl who finally gave him the truth he asked for, only to realize he has no idea what to do now.

It doesn’t make sense. You have such a good time together. This would be so easy. Why are you so committed to keeping him at a distance?

“I don’t get it,” he says.

“You don’t have to.”

His blood boils. He hates how effortless it is for you to decide the conversation is over while he’s ready to tear himself open for you.

“You’re so…” he sighs bitingly.

You finally turn, your gaze snapping to his. Your eyes are narrowed, daring him to finish that sentence.

“So what?” you snap.

You’re expecting what you’ve heard before. That you’re cold. Impossible. A bitch.

He stares, regretting letting his temper snap, regretting letting himself care.

“What?” you repeat. “Should I walk home?”

The words cut Rafe deep.

This is a reminder of what he learned at ten years old when his mom left, that there’s something unlovable, something too much about him. And right now, with how easily you’re shutting him out, you’re proving it.

He thought seeing you would make things better. It didn’t.

“I shouldn’t have texted you today,” he says.

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” you reply.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, reach for the handle, and push open the door, the thick air rushing in. It’s a twenty-minute walk across campus to your sorority house. You’re tired, but you can make it.

Before you can swing your legs out, his hand is on yours, his grip firm.

“No, I mean…” Rafe exhales. He’s desperate. He needs you to stay, even if it means admitting why he’s so scattered. “I’m just on edge, alright? My mom called me this morning and it always fucks with my head.”

The anger sitting in your chest melts a little. Usually, when men share their feelings like this, it’s a manipulative way to get sympathy or a dump of emotional labor that you have to clean up. But the way Rafe said it felt different.

You relent, pulling the door shut with a thud. You turn to look at him again and the urge to protect yourself softens. Because while you’re mad and confused and admittedly kind of afraid of what you’re feeling right now, you want to know.

“Why?” you ask, still a bit of a bite to your tone.

“I never know when she’s going to call,” he admits. “And I don’t - I don’t want to answer, but I always do, and then it just pisses me off the rest of the day.”

Your brows furrow as the questions start to stack up. The curiosity is a tug in your chest.

“What’s… the deal with her?” you ask.

Rafe’s eyes drift down. He turns on the engine. The truck rumbles to life, giving him a distraction to hide behind. It’s stupid; he’s the one who started this conversation, and now he’s getting nervous.

He stares through the windshield, focuses on anything other than the girl sitting inches away from him.

“She left when I was a kid,” he admits. “And it always makes me act like an asshole after she calls because I never see it coming. My bad, alright?”

The air leaves your lungs for a moment. It’s odd to hear an apology from a man you once thought didn’t know what accountability even is, but the real shock is the familiarity of that hollowness in his voice.

It’s the hole only abandonment can leave. It’s the same one your father carved in you.

You keep your eyes fixed on the dashboard.

“Then don’t answer her calls,” you respond.

Rafe’s lips flatten together. It’s such a you thing to say. Don’t deal with the problem.

His dad didn’t care to hide the truth. He’d told Rafe that his mother wasn't going to fight for custody. She only said that she’d keep in touch, as if she was saying goodbye to an old friend instead of the family she decided she didn’t want anymore.

That rejection is a permanent part of him. He’s been angry since. He hates her for quitting, for not sticking to her responsibilities, for being immature, for not loving him and his sisters enough.

She simply didn’t want to be a mother anymore. But he answers her sporadic calls because she is. He’s trapped, hating the woman he can’t bring himself to cut out.

“That’s not me,” he replies.

You meet his eyes again. Usually, the story of your dad is something you only share with friends who have earned your trust. But looking at the hurt etched into Rafe's face, it feels wrong to let him sit there thinking he’s alone with this gut-wrenching feeling.

The words are pushing against your teeth, demanding to be shared, demanding to help him.

“My dad left, too,” you reply. “And if he tried to call me, I’d block him. People who can do something like that to their own kid never change. And they don’t deserve access to the people they hurt.”

It crashes into Rafe, cold and sudden. He’s not angry anymore. Not at all.

There’s a hard sting of sadness for you buried in him now. He finally understands it. Understands you.

And deep below, there’s also a flicker of relief. You told him. He felt like he was screaming at a wall, and now he’s not anymore.

He looks at you with a softened, searching intensity, his heart pounding.

“Really?” is all he can say, because he thinks saying he’s sorry would only offend you.

“He was a selfish cheater,” you say with a shrug. “He did whatever the fuck he wanted to do without thinking about anyone but himself.”

He grimaces. You’d once told him you like structure and it makes sense because if you felt the same pain he did, of someone who’s supposed to love you leaving, it means you never had predictability.

You expect the worst from everyone, because then you never have to watch them fuck you over.

“I know I’m guarded. I hate being treated like it’s a problem.” You sigh, shake your head. “And I think you want more from me and I can’t give it to you, okay?”

Rafe just sits there, the engine idling, his gaze fixed on you with a newfound clarity.

Regret washes over you. You’ve said too much. It’s almost laughable how this all started as a stupid bet, and now you feel like you’ve ripped open a wound for him. And his silence is making it worse.

“I’m walking home,” you say. You reach for the handle, your movements hurried. You need a clean break.

Usually, you cut contact with a guy because you can feel him falling, and you have no intention of letting things get any deeper. But as you step out into the humidity, you can tell that you aren't just running because of Rafe’s feelings. You’re running because of yours.

Somewhere between the weeks of getting to know him, of discovering the depth in him between silly jokes and easy conversations and effortless chemistry, it’s obvious now. He’s almost found a way into your heart.

And you can’t let it go any further than that.

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